#which is GREAT for me who was once so brutally cruel instinctively | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

biggest-stupidhead · 3 years

Note

Hey:) can i request some Levi fluff after chapter 139?

Thanks!

AN: ahhhh I honestly love writing Levi post war

Summary: Levi's recovery is difficult, but you're with him every step of the way.

Word Count: 1.1K

Warnings: hospital, 139 SPOILERS, mentions of injuries, let me know if I missed anything!

_____________

Levi had never imagined a life without a fight around each corner. From the moment he was born he had to claw and kick his way through his childhood. During his young adult life, he secured a name for himself, the fighting continued, but it wasn't as brutal. Or at least for him it wasn't. Then during his mid twenties and into his thirties he became a soldier. It was rather fitting, it was almost as if the universe kicked him back down those steps that he had been desperately dragging himself up, sending him spiraling back into that darkness.

But being a soldier wasn't all that bad. He met some great people, some with promising young minds, with appetites that were ravenous, some with rage that they could not seem to contain. He would never admit it to their face, well unless he was extremely drunk or on his death bed that is, but he cherished them all dearly.

So as he sat numbly in the hospital bed, miles and miles away from where he had started and feeling so very lonely. The kids came to visit of course, Gabi and Falco bringing sweets and new tins of tea. Armin dropping off newspapers, Connie and Jean coming to tell him new stories and remind him of the old. Even Mikasa came, he thought he enjoyed her visits the most, she would simply tidy his room and leave new flowers once a week. Some days she would sit at his bedside and just enjoy his company.

There were some people that would come to visit who would sour his mood with just the sight of them. It wasn't that he hated them, but rather he wished to leave them in the past as he had so many before them. Pieck would come with Gabby and Falco somedays, Levi assumed it was purely because she had escorted them there as they had no friendship.

Once, Reiner had tagged along with Jean and Connie. He had only poked his head in before retreating promptly. But the worst visit of all was when Armin had the audacity to bring Annie. The blonde boy had set the newspaper on the nightstand and taken his usual seat by Levi's bedside while Annie stood awkwardly by the doorway.

"Come to make amends?" Levi had rasped, his grey eye trained on the young woman.

"I cannot." She said, her usual mask had slipped, revealing the face of a sad little girl. He would've felt bad for her if he hadn't known what she had done, who she had killed.

"Hm." He had simply hummed not interested in what she had to say.

___

As he recovered from his injuries he met knew people. Doctors and nurses all coming and going with trays of food, and medicine. But he came to appreciate a certain young woman. You had been there from the start when Armin and Jean had hauled him into one of the hospital tents erected during the state of emergency.

His first memory of you was your hands, they were warm against his icy skin. He had looked up at you through blurry eyes as you ran your hands over his knee. Your words had been distorted and impossible to make out, but he remembered how it seemed to act as a salve, smoothing over his pain.

When he woke up from his stupor you had been there, fingers pressed to his throat. Instinctively he had swatted your hand away, and you had seemed surprised, but not offended.

"I'm trying to check your pulse captain." You explained, slowly moving to resume your ministrations.

"I'm fine." He had struggled to form the words after not speaking for days, and you had smiled softly at him.

"And I'm glad that you are, but I have to check." Levi let you, or rather he didn't have the strength to swat your hand away again.

He thought that he looked forward to seeing his cadets, and of course he did. But he couldn't compare seeing them to seeing you. When you walked in the room he perked up, eager to see you and soothed by your presence. You would sweep into the room and take his vitals, your calloused hands smoothing over his injured legs or lifting the bandages around his head. Not once had you flinched when you saw the deep gashes that had been carved into his once smooth flesh. Not once did you comment on the way he shakily stood, or how he needed you to hold him steady the first few times.

You wouldn't take shit from him either. On his bad days when he would snap viciously at you, words so cruel even he regretted uttering them. You would hardly flinch, countering his sharp tongue with words of encouragement. A small part of him wanted to test your limits, how long until you gave up on him? Left him in this bare room to rot alone.

But he soon found that your patience knew no boundaries. You remained by his side through all the difficult months of recovery, all the way up until it was time for him to be discharged. Onyankopon had came to get him along with Gabi and Falco, he stood with a wheelchair gripped in his hands, the two kids on either side of him with big smiles. You stood at Levi's side, hand on his shoulder as he swung his legs out from under the covers.

"How exciting is this?" It was one of the only times Levi caught that positivity you normally slipped into your tone wavering. Could it be that you were sad to see him go? How could you be when all he had ever done to you was be a bitter old man?

"Not very." Levi said dully as you took his hands and helped him pull himself onto his feet.

"You get to go explore the city, maybe open that tea shop?" Levi's eyes widened in surprise, so you had been paying attention when the kids would beg for him to open a cafe. But that also meant you might have been listening to their other conversations, which both scared him and brought him a sliver of joy.

"If I do....will you be my first customer?" He asked rather boldly and he heard the kids both gasp. Your cheeks flushed a rose color and you helped him limp over to the wheel chair.

"Of course I'll be there." You words were hushed and heavy with emotion, apparently he had meant just as much to you as you had to him all of this time.

"I'd like that." He said as you eased him into his wheel chair. Onyankopon smiled widely at you and tipped the brim of his hat. Gabi and Falco both waved at you as they turned to leave the room, you watched with a fond gaze as the group left.

You hoped he would open that shop and you would be his first and favorite customer.

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supersilversleuth · 3 years

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Your Words Aren’t Real (So Why Do They Hurt So Much?) by SuperSilverSpy

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Fandoms: DCU, DCU (Comics), Batman - All Media Types Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Dick Grayson & Batfamily members, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Stephanie Brown, Dick Grayson & Tim Drake, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown, Tim Drake, Hurt Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson-centric, Dick Grayson Whump, Whump, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, I seem to be doing a lot of that these days…, Whumptober 2021, Mind Control, fear toxin, Hallucinations, anyway, Angst, SuperSilverSpy, SilverGrayson, SilverWhump, Taunting, Insults, ”who did this to you?”

Summary:

“Sometimes I wish you were my father, but I know you could never be. Bruce will always be my real father. You were just an inadequate stand-in.”

Dick choked, barely noticing the swift kick to his ribs before he was already stumbling back, ducking around Steph’s fist as he fought to regain his balance.

“You were a terrible brother,” said the voices of Jason and Tim. “All you ever did with me was make mistakes.”

OR Mind Control with a heaping of Angst

No. 3 - STICKS AND STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT… taunting | insults | “Who did this to you?”

Series:

Part 3 of 2021 Most Whumperful Time of the Year - Dick Grayson-centric

Language: English Words: 1,645 Chapters: 1/1

Nightwing awoke in a warehouse, surrounded by Batman, Red Hood, Robin, Spoiler, and Red Robin. They were all passed out on the ground, strange devices wrapped around their heads. They seemed relatively unharmed, not a bruise or laceration or twisted limb in sight. He sighed in relief.

Looking around, Dick noted the absence of visible hostiles. He turned to Robin, who was closest to him and inspected the device around boy’s head; whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. He felt along the smooth metal, searching (or feeling) for a way to remove it.

A moment later, several ding! sounds echoed in the warehouse, emitting from the head devices. Damian’s eyes opened, glowing a vibrant yellow. Dick backed up as the rest of his family began to rise around him. He knew mind control when he saw it, though that didn’t stop him from asking, “Uh…guys? You still in there?”

Their faces remained expressionless as they turned threateningly towards him.

“Guess not,” he answered himself. “Looks like it’s just another exciting day in the life of the great and eternally stressed out Nightwing.”

He’d probably have to come up with yet another insightful and compelling speech to snap them out of it, par for the course for him at this point. Oh but how he wished it wasn’t. Every single time somebody in his family got brainwashed, or mind-controlled, or possessed (all of which happened way more often than it should), he was pretty much always the one to talk them down, or get beaten up and nearly killed for his efforts. It had reached a point where he wondered if Bruce was actively trying to get one of Dick’s siblings to accidentally kill him.

Well, at least one thing was different this time—he was facing off against five family members at once, instead of one, or two, or his entire f***ing team. But that was a story for another day.

Maybe, he could actually fight close to his full capability against them, without too much fear of hurting them. He didn’t have to knock them out or sedate them after all, he just needed to damage those device things around their heads.

Hood lunged at him first, guns drawn. Dick dodged, wrenching one of the man’s guns away with a grunt. He threw it across the room, knowing it did nothing for him in close quarters combat wherein he was attempting not to hurt, kill, or maim any of his would-be killers. There was no time for him to contemplate Jason’s likely reaction to the discovery of his ruined gun that would surely come later. Batman was already springing into action, fists swinging through the air in an unnaturally aimed-to-kill way.

Dick flipped around, dodging attacks from the two. He needed to bide his time, wait for the right opportunity to strike. He tried to electrocute them to short-circuit their metal head-band device things, but it didn’t really seem to do anything. He did, however, manage to get in a good hit to Jason’s head, which disoriented the man—and likely the person in control of him. Bruce went down next, Dick slipping the man’s belt out from around his waist in a move no one else in the world knew, and throwing a flash bomb in his face.

Pocketting what he could from the belt before tossing that too away (the emergency beacon didn’t work), he turned to face his new opponents. Spoiler and Robin, the short little duo wreaking havoc to his right, with Bruce and Jason getting back up on his left.

Whoever was controlling his family wasn’t the best at it, though forcing them to attempt murder against their own instincts was a feat in itself.

“You failed me,” said two very familiar voices in unison. It was Bruce and Damian.

Dick was so startled he almost didn’t manage to dodge the sneak attack Red Robin was attempting from behind.

“You failed the mission, our mission, you’ve failed the family I’ve given you, and the city I put in your responsibility.” It was just Bruce now, speaking blankly, words flowing out with no restraint.

Dick swallowed, but forced himself to ignore the man, ignore the words. It was probably just a program to detect negative emotion associated with thoughts of Nightwing and force the mind-controlled victim to...to say the thoughts out loud. Logically, he knew this.

Logic couldn’t prepare him for what came next.

“Sometimes I wish you were my father, but I know you could never be. Bruce will always be my real father. You were just an inadequate stand-in.”

Dick choked, barely noticing the swift kick to his ribs before he was already stumbling back, ducking around Steph’s fist as he fought to regain his balance.

“You were a terrible brother,” said the voices of Jason and Tim. “All you ever did with me was make mistakes.”

His vision had blurred at some point in time, he wasn’t sure when. A fist slammed into his jaw, a bow staff swiped at his feet. Purple flashed in the corner of his vision as his wrist was brutally snapped. Dick opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“They say never meet your heroes. I guess they were right then, hmmm? Except you were never my hero, and yet you still managed to disappoint me anyway.” Steph’s tone was sharp and biting as she jammed a shuriken into his shoulder.

Dick pushed her away, doing a messy backflip to land on Bruce, using what little momentum he had to push off towards Jason, tackling him for the umpteenth time.

“You were unfit to be a mentor, just look at you now. And the students become the masters…” said the scathing voices of Dami, Steph, and Tim. Laughter echoed in his ears, sounding cruelly amused. No, this wasn’t them, they would never say such things…

“Oh it’s all true,” said a voice from behind him, Jay’s voice. “What is it, Goldie, can’t handle the pressure?”

Dick tried in vain to block the voices out, focusing just long enough to knock the device around Tim’s head askew.

The boy fell to the ground, reality mixing with fantasy as Tim’s eyes looked up at him, cold and lifeless, as blood pooled around Tim’s twisted body, as if he’d fallen… Corpse-pale lips parted, harsh words spilling out onto unforgiving ground, “You think I’m just like you, but you’re wrong. I’m better. You couldn’t beat me if you tried. I’m too pure, somehow untainted by your doomed soul, even after all this time.”

Crazed laughter echoed in Dick’s ears, even as he blinked and saw Tim as he actually was, lying unconscious—and alive, on the ground.

“Look at that, failing to protect those you love most? You’re worthless to them, and to me. I should never have taken you in.” The words were growled in a familiar deep register, and yet...the tone was unusually cruel—

Dick found himself sprawled on the ground, back still smarting from where he’d been kicked. He struggled to his good hand and knees, only to hear the sound of a gun cocking. He looked up. Jason stood above him, Steph and Damian on either side.

“Tt, Grayson, always so pathetic.” For a moment, Dami seemed to be wearing an older version of his uniform, from when he was still Dick’s Robin…

Steph tossed her hair back, giggling, and Dick saw her in a different costume, that of Robin, and then it changed to Batgirl. Gah, he was so confused.

She wasn’t. “You’re not going to make it this time around. How does it feel knowing we’d all be glad? You’ve hurt us more than helped us, Dick. It’s time you’ve faced that fact.”

Jason smirked down at him. “Any last words? We all know you don’t deserve them, but, well,” he smirked, “I’m feeling charitable today.”

Dick lunged upward, body tensed as if to tackle, arms outstretched as if to hug. Dick himself wasn’t quite sure what it was meant to be, what he wanted anymore…

Bang!

The gun went off, bullet burying itself in Dick’s side.

Three pairs of feet began to kick at his prone body from all sides. He curled in on himself, clutching desperately at the bullet wound, mind hazy with blood loss and something...else… A scraping noise, close to his ear. Dick barely registered it through the pain of the systematic blows raining down. Another pair of feet entered his vision, Bruce’s Batman boots. Dick panicked, using one hand to staunch the blood flow while the other went to his neck, to where he instinctively knew the real problem was. There was a device, attached to his neck, like a mini version of what the others had, but missing a few parts. He yanked it off, and immediately, he heard the thumps of his hopefully just unconscious family members falling to the ground.

Dick squinted at the device, as he felt himself joining them in the land of darkness. A familiar scarecrow label stared back at him, Jervis Tetch craftsmanship was practically written all over the thing as well…

—

Jason woke, groggy and disoriented. He found himself amongst other bats, all lying on the floor in a circle like some kind of crazy sorcerer spell gone wrong. The others were slowly waking, blinking and shaking their heads as if to clear the fog away. And in the middle of it all, at the center of their little coming-back-to-the-land-of-the-living circle, lay Dick Grayson, covered in blood, close to passing out.

The guy was nearly unrecognizable, but Jason would recognize that ridiculous hairstyle anywhere. Scrambling over to his brother’s side, Jason ignored the way the room spun, placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder and looking down at the man, brow pinched in concern.

“Dickie?” he asked, “Who did this to you?”

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septembersghost · 3 years

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you say you love almost everyone and that's so nice to me since there is a TON of hate and negativity from feuding sides in this fandom against the boys and i find that depressing ): but it also makes me wanna know...who DON'T you love?

my scrap of advice regarding the vitriol, since I was once badly affected by it and found it damaging to my relationship with the show at certain points (cruel negativity =/= constructive discussion/thoughtful criticism, of course, I have plenty of that myself, but there’s definitely some really unpleasant stuff out there that is simply toxic for the sake of it) - people have strong opinions and you, friend, are allowed to ignore them! I admit it is far easier said than done, I am NOT good at doing this when I see hate directed at Dean, but I have gotten a lot better at not focusing constantly on things that make me so upset and bitter that I start to resent characters, and that has really helped me. another thoughtful person mentioned yesterday how it can be useful to try to see various perspectives in the story, even if you do not agree with them (this is where there’s a difference between sympathy and empathy - I find I feel the former a lot for various characters, whereas Dean gets the depth of the latter, but both are types of care). find your safe, good space, and don’t let anyone take it from you. <3

who don’t I love? hmmm. one shall not be named, but if you know, you know. (this is not S or C.)

the D*bb era was NOT good to supporting characters, even ones I love, and had trouble utilizing/handling them well, but there are still many that I have a lot of fondness for.

Lucifer, particularly Lucifer played by M*rk P, should never have appeared again after Swan Song. (if we had to have Sam’s hell hallucinations, they needed to figure out some other way to frame them, because it doesn’t even make sense that he sees Lucifer in Nick’s vessel. it would have been much more horrific if he had seen HIMSELF as possessed by Lucifer, but I get why that would have been difficult to film.) it stole a large portion of his power and effectiveness, and the archangels’ presence kept getting more and more reduced and diluted overall. the fact that we had to deal with him literally down to the wire in 15x19 (and I liked many aspects of Inherit the Earth)...mind-boggling. (we also didn’t need Nick’s storyline? who asked.)

Metatron? I just cannot stand him? laying aside the fact that he brutally murdered Dean in a way I found actively traumatic (yeah! I was indeed messed up about one of his deaths long before 15x20. 9x23 actually gave me nightmares at the time, and that was the WORST hiatus because I was so horrified that I considered quitting, which is the one time that ever seriously happened, although, looking back, maybe that was the smarter instinct...? tuning in to 10x01 and feeling extreme trepidation was not fun, but then demon!Dean was like, “heyyyyy girl, I’m charming and more naughty and unhinged than actively evil and you will actually want to have fun and unleash me!” and I was like...damn, okay, I guess. love my boy, whatever he is! /rambling) the concept of Metatron is interesting and could’ve added some great elements to the narrative (they tried), but he creeped me out and I cannot stand the way they characterized him. (I feel bad because it makes me want to tear Curtis Armstrong’s head off when he shows up in anything else, which I recognize is an unfair reaction!)

Amelia is maybe the one lady (possibly Toni too? idk I barely remember her existence. Naomi’s not my fave by a long-shot, but Amanda Tapping handled the portrayal well) I find nothing worth defending about, it’s not even hate at all, she just is so boring and straight out of a bad soap (it’s JARRING, yes, our show did indulge in all its glamour and its trauma and its fucking melodrama, but she’s from some other genre. it probably doesn’t help that I resent that storyline in S8, and she and Sam have black hole negative chemistry. I do hate the bright filter they used on her scenes).

Chuck as soon as he became a megalomaniacal villain and broke the logic and rules of the entire narrative. again, I understand what they were aiming for, the idea of God as a villain and wresting back your own agency/control/freedom is one that I am deeply drawn towards, I think it’s an important idea, I love the philosophical and gnostic aspects of what they were tackling. I didn’t even mind it when we found out he was God (it had been theorized for so long!), but then the way it was addressed at the very end damaged a lot of key pieces and it forces us to ignore that to even allow the rest of the story to retain its cohesion.

It’s a very small list in a vast world of characters beyond our mains, though! There are even one-off characters who I happily stan. It hurts me that so many of them suffered (SPN doesn’t discriminate on its pain and torment, unfortunately, and no one is more evidence of that than Dean himself now, but when you think about what any of them went through...), but I enjoy more of them than not!

#anonymous #letterbox #spn for ts

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wxldchxld · 3 years

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[ What is Beck's worst fear as an adult? Does her magic react to her fears and instincts or is it all purposeful? How does Beck feel about other magic users?

In our verse, where does Beck run off to from time to time when life in the Tower and the city in general gets to be too much? What is Beck's honest opinion of Nat's job? What could Nat do to make her leave, and why does Beck want to stay, aside from them being soulmates (if there is a reason at all)? ]

What is Beck's worst fear as an adult?

I’d say it’s a toss up? Beck has two major driving fears.

The first is very straight forward and that’s that she is terrified of losing a familiar again. The pain she suffered witnessing Dawnbreaker’s death is the worst she’s ever felt, and she genuinely doesn’t believe she would survive the death of another familiar.

The second is living her life in a cage or under anyone’s thumb. Beck spent half her life being controlled and locked up, desperately fighting to be herself while being brutally punished for it. So one day she learned to unlock doors and break binding spells, she learned to run, and in running she found freedom. It didn’t matter if that meant an empty stomach or a night out in the rain. And one of her greatest fears is having that taken away from her.

There’s a very finite amount of time Beck will tolerate people locking her up (like I have verses where she’s been arrested for certain periods of time). But eventually she’ll lose control of herself and find a way to escape. If she can’t escape... things will get bloody. Even toward people she knows and loves.

Does her magic react to her fears and instincts or is it all purposeful?

Her magic is very emotion and intuition based, so yes, it can happen involuntary. In a dangerous situation her effort is spent restraining herself and using her magic strategically, not in mustering up the spells themselves. As a feral witch (aka an incarnation of the Earth/Nature spirit my witches come from) the power will always come, but sometimes the control doesn’t.

I will say generally Beck is very in control of her magic in her human form. The worst you might get is like, if you startle her she might shift without thinking and then be like “oh shit sorry” or like, if you have animals around, they will naturally listen to her emotions and heed them. So you might have a trusty dog that you’ve kept for years and all the sudden he’s snapping a hand off because he is sensing her fear/anger/etc.

In other forms it is harder for Beck to control herself, therefore it’s harder for her to control her magic. And how in control she is in depends on the form. As a fox or a cougar, she can maintain the same level of control as a human, but as a horse, despite mastering the form as a little girl, she’s still very much at the mercy of her emotions. It’s kind of a running joke that you don’t jump on Beck as a horse because she will take off running, and then her magic will respond naturally, making her run impossibly fast and for way longer than a horse should. So it really depends.

How does Beck feel about other magic users?

Depends on the species and the kind of magic they’re using. Other witches are usually pretty ok with Beck, even if they aren’t the same kind of witch she comes from. From there things can get rocky. She tends to get on well with gnomes and trolls she comes across. Once she had a dalliance with a mermaid. Werewolves it really depends on the kind. Vampires are usually something she stays far away from unless they’re the sort that don’t eat people.

In like Marvel where the MCU is trying to say Wanda is an actual witch I would say Beck would be pretty ok with the premise of a witch being artificially made by an infinity stone, even if she doesn’t know what that is. But in reality she’d probably give a HARD side eye to Wanda because of the choices she’s made with that magic. Whether or not she could get past her own worries and moral qualms with mind control is---questionable.

What I will say is people like Thor or Loki in the MCU that pull that “magic is actually just like science” bullshit are not ok with Beck. Because she practices magic that is not at all like science. It cannot be wielded by anyone who learns spells or comes to an understanding of it. Witches are born or they’re made by other witches, and my magic system is VERY different from Marvel. While I’m happy to allow it to coexist with my lore system, I will not go with Marvel canon when it comes to magic because frankly it’s a mess. So I just have Beck be like “no you’re stupid and you don’t understand actual magic.”

In our verse, where does Beck run off to from time to time when life in the Tower and the city in general gets to be too much?

Ooof Nat might not love this answer. So I imagine at nights since Grani can’t/won’t be dragged into a city with her, Beck travels through the spirit realm and materializes wherever Grani is as a horse and they spend the night running around and being feral horses. It’s probably the only time she gets to really spend with him, which is a major strain on her in general because witches can’t indefinitely be away from their familiars it causes them pain. So it’s a good compromise.

But especially while they’re living in the tower Beck will probably take long trips. Like if Nat goes somewhere undercover or something and when this happens Beck will go---anywhere? You really can’t know. She disappears into the woods or the canyons or prairies or sometimes even travels north to run along the polar ice of the arctic as a snow white bear. She’ll travel to places on the Earth the non-magical folks aren’t even aware of, places hidden from maps and outside eyes since the dawn of civilization.

If we’re talking about like short breaks like “Jesus this place is too much and I need to breathe” she’ll probably turn into a hawk and fly out of the city to whatever wide open space and clean air she can find. Once her mother is no longer a threat (Idk if they’ll still be in the tower or not) she may go see her grandmother or Cora or visit one of her friends. Dori and Frankie both live in NYC itself, and so does Harper (they’ll probably be good friends by that time), and Jari lives just outside of NYC so like, visiting them and being with people who are like minded would really help.

What is Beck's honest opinion of Nat's job?

sdfgdsfgsdfg Don’t tell Nat but she thinks it’s dumb. She doesn’t get why anyone wants to risk their lives for mortals that don’t give 2 shits whether they live or die. She doesn’t trust SHIELD, she barely likes any of the Avengers, and she’d be very relieved and happy if Nat all told them to go fuck themselves and moved away with her to a farm in Montana.

Like, even if someone were to be like “well by helping protect the world she’s also protecting you” Beck would just be like “I don’t think I’d care much about dying because I’d be too dead to be bothered, but I do think being forced to live every day without the woman I loved knowing she died a horrific death of self sacrifice for people I don’t think matter would rot me away on the inside so...”

What could Nat do to make her leave?

Hmmmmm. Beck’s pretty determined to stay... But like, Beck really struggles tbh. Nat isn’t great at giving her the validation she so desperately needs from a partner. And that’s because of her own trauma, so once Beck knows that she tries to be more forgiving. But it is emotionally very hard on her to not feel like Nat is as into her as she is into Nat. I don’t know if that’s enough to make her leave.

Over all I don’t think Nat would ever say something so intentionally cruel to make Beck pack her bags and go for good, but over the years if Nat never starts to open up and reciprocate the kind of affection Beck needs she may eventually leave for someone willing to give her that (which, I’m sorry, it would probably be Harper), or also a little more likely, Beck might just go feral. Which is essentially her death. Because I feel like if she felt like even her soul mate couldn’t love her that she would truly believe she had no place with people and it would be easy just to wander off into the forest and merge with the spirit she came from. Which is, essentially the death of the individual of Beck, even if technically she lives on.

Why does Beck want to stay, aside from them being soulmates (if there is a reason at all)?

But all of that is near impossible based off of what we’ve discussed and how Nat has reacted thus far.

Nat’s big selling point is that she has no interest of taming Beck or making her behave a certain way. Her whole life has been a series of “no” and “stop” and “why can’t you just be this way.” And I think especially once Nat knows that, she will empathize personally because of all she’s been through. So while she’ll probably be like “please stop chewing up Tony’s stuff and stealing everything that isn’t nailed down” I don’t think she’s going to ever really try to like, seriously try to change Beck.

Another thing Nat has going for her is that, believe it or not, I actually think they have a lot in common? Maybe not on the face of it, but as far as like, suffering trauma as children and feeling estranged from people/displaced. I feel like they both enjoy nature and (tho Idk for certain about Nat) traveling.

It’s going to take a lot of work and compromise for them to work, and Beck knows that. I feel like the biggest reason she stays is because she believes and wants for it to work between them.

#bokketo

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hajimes-erect-ahoge · 4 years

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Postmortem- Chapter 12

Kokichi faces an unexpected proposal and has some alone time on the roof.

ao3 Ouma’s visits to the dining hall for breakfast had been quite sporadic these past few days, similar to his attendance to group therapy. But ever since the hospital staff made the announcement that they would have to move out soon, Ouma avoided the others like the plague. In reality, this course of action made as little sense as possible given the fact that he needed to find a roommate, but Ouma didn’t really care. They would probably just stick him with whoever, leaving him to suffer the consequences of his laziness.

Clutching his stomach, Ouma tried to quell the loud rumbling noise that came from it. Maybe just one trip to the dining hall wouldn’t hurt…

How bad could it be?

Peeling the sheets from off of himself, Ouma climbed off his bed and left the room, heading to the dining hall.

~~~~~~~~~~

“So you two are rooming together” Harukawa asked, her question directed at the two males sitting across from her.

“Yup! Me and Shuichi are best buds, so of course we would room together!” Momota grinned, turning to Saihara. “What about you?”

“I’m rooming with Akamatsu. She offered to room with me, so I…” She looked up to notice Momota beaming at her childishly. “...What?”

“Nothin’! It’s just…” Harukawa stared at him flatly, a casual death threat waiting on her lips. “Since when are you and Akamatsu friends?”

She gave him a death glare, leading Saihara to interject.

“I think what Momota-kun is trying to say is that…” He glanced at Harukawa briefly, deciding it would be better to avoid her glowering eyes. “It’s really great that you and Akamatsu-san are friends, although it is a bit… unexpected.”

“Unexpected?” She raised an eyebrow at Saihara curiously.

“Yeah! I mean, you two are just so different! Akamatsu is so bright and happy, and you’re so, uh…” Momota drifted off, fearing a threat from Harukawa.

Much to Momota’s, as well as Saihara’s, surprise, Harukawa chuckled ever so faintly, a tiny smile gracing her lips.

“Yeah, I guess we are kind of different.” Her eyes drifted towards Akamatsu, who was chattering away with Amami at the other end of the table.

The door to the dining hall swung open, allowing Ouma to enter. Noticing this, Saihara gently nudged Momota, subtly gesturing towards Ouma. Momota nodded, understanding their silent conversation.

“Hey, Ouma! Got a sec’?” Momota waved to him in hopes of grabbing his attention. Ouma looked over at Momota and, albeit hesitantly, made his way over.

“Shuichi, Maki Roll!” Momota looked at each of them while he said their name for emphasis. “Big news! Ouma here is one of my sidekicks now, so-”

“I’m leaving.” Ouma immediately turned to walk away, but froze in place once he heard Saihara’s voice.

“Wait, Ouma-kun!” Saihara exclaimed, startling the others.

Ouma faced the trio once more, avoiding Harukawa’s piercing gaze.

“We, uh…” Saihara stuttered, tripping over his words. His eyes darted between Ouma and the ground as he fiddled with his fingers nervously. “We- Momota-kun and I- were wondering if, um…”

“Wanna room with us?” Momota cut him off, getting straight to the point.

Ouma raised an eyebrow, perplexed. Was this really happening? Not only was someone asking to live with him but… Momota and Saihara? After all they’ve been through together, they actually wanted to live with him? He could hardly believe it.

“...What?” Ouma asked cautiously, half expecting it all to be some cruel joke.

“Yeah, well…” Momota rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly, “We kinda got off on the wrong foot during the killing game, and sure you’re a pain in the ass but-”

“Is this going somewhere, or are you just gonna keep insulting me?” Ouma quipped, still suspicious.

“I’m getting there!” Momota shouted, exasperated. “Like I was saying… I think we could learn to tolerate each other now that the killing game is over… especially since you’re one of my sidekicks now!” He grinned, to which Ouma gave a look of disgust. “Plus, Shuichi seemed pretty excited about this whole thing, considering it was his idea!”

“Momota-kun!” Saihara protested, his face flushed. Being the center of attention once more, Saihara cleared his throat. “Um… I agree with what Momota-kun said…” He paused suddenly, waving his hands frantically with wide eyes. “Not about you being a pain, though! Just about the rest!”

Almost as if on cue, both Momota and Ouma burst out laughing. Even Harukawa gave a faint smile at their antics.

Once their laughter died down, Ouma spoke, finally answering their question. “Fiiiine! But only for my beloved Saihara-chan, not for stinky Momota-chan!” He crossed his arms, fake pouting. “Now are we done here?” He tapped his foot impatiently.

Momota and Saihara paused for a moment, both of them taken aback, before smiling ear to ear.

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s great!” Momota beamed at him, sharing an excited look with Saihara.

When they both looked back towards him, Ouma was already walking out of the dining hall despite not even eating anything.

“Ah, Ouma-kun! Don’t forget to fill out your discharge form!” Saihara shouted, hoping that Ouma would still hear him.

Ouma gave Saihara a small wave of his hand, not even bothering to turn around.

If Momota saw how happy he was right now, he would never hear the end of it.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ouma rounded the corner stealthily, darting down the hall before anyone could see him. He arrived at a dead end in which there were two doors, one of which was a broom closet, and the other of which led to the roof. At least, that’s what the label on the door said.

Gripping the handle of the doorknob, Ouma froze, hearing a familiar metal clanking that could belong to none other than Kiibo. Not wanting to get caught, Ouma quickly opened the door and dashed up the stairs to the roof.

The cool air of the outdoors felt exceptionally refreshing on Ouma’s skin, it having been way too long since he was allowed outdoors. It was eerily quiet, the dark of the night having descended upon the hospital in full force. He basked in it, a newfound peace rushing over him.

The stars weren’t particularly notable, only a few of them being visible and not too bright. Compared to the academy, this sky was nowhere near as beautiful, but he supposed there was some hidden beauty in the realness of this sky.

He looked down from the sky and ahead of him instead, counting the dozens of rooftops that were visible. They must be in a pretty busy area, he thought.

Ouma walked to the edge of the roof, sitting himself down and allowing his legs to dangle off the roof. Only now did he realize how high up he was, far away from the desolate sidewalk on which pedestrians roamed during the daytime.

He tipped his head backwards, releasing all tension from his body as he thought back to today’s events.

Hours had passed since the encounter in the dining hall, after which Ouma headed straight to his room to fill out his discharge forms. It was a tedious job, but it passed quickly due to him being in a particularly good mood.

This, of course, had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that it was Saihara who wanted him to room with them. Nope, not at all.

But now that he was by himself again, his overthinking got the better of him and the negatives of the situation came to light.

First of all, living with Momota and Saihara meant he would be living with the two people who most likely pitied him the most for sacrificing himself during the killing game. As much as he hated to admit it, he was close to Momota, as well as Saihara, but being closer to them only caused them to grow more sympathetic towards him. Though it was true that nearly everyone pitied him to some extent, it was notably worse with these two.

Momota and his gung-ho attitude that felt the need to save everyone would no doubt view him as nothing but a tragic hero who offed himself for the better of the group, while Saihara, despite growing so close to him and even earning just a bit of his trust, still looked at him with sympathetic eyes, like he was some poor, defenseless little boy who he could’ve saved if he figured out the truth earlier, someone who couldn’t take care of himself.

The truth was, Ouma could do more than take care of himself. He had lived on the streets by himself for years, roaming around with his found family and enjoying life to its fullest. He had no one to take care of him or baby him- he was treated as an equal, maybe even more than that, him having been their leader and all. Kokichi Ouma did not need to rely on anyone to save him.

...But that’s a lie, isn’t it?

His organization, his family, his whole entire past… All of it was fabricated for the sake of making him an interesting character for the killing game. Not to mention the fact that his memories of before the game were completely erased, never to be recovered ever again. All he had was the memories implanted into him, nothing but a fake, mocking charade glued to his brain that would haunt him forever.

Even if he was presented with the opportunity to meet his past self, he wouldn’t take it. What kind of sick, twisted being would actually want to participate in something as brutal as a killing game? The thought made him want to puke.

All of his fabricated memories and personality traits clung tightly to him, like a noose pulling on his neck. He was burdened with trust issues due to a past that wasn’t even real, and now he would be a burden to Momota and Saihara who dared to even get close to him.

A strong gust of wind blew over him, causing Ouma to instinctively tighten his grip on the ledge of the roof. His legs swayed, and it occurred to him just how easy it would be to jump off the roof and end his pitiful life right there and then. All it would take would be one push, one measly little step in that direction, one-

Clank!

Ouma felt his whole body jerk, his torso turning so that he could see behind him. The door leading out to the roof was ajar, and was slowly pushed open by a dark figure that he belatedly registered to be Saihara.

They stared at each other for a moment, trying to make out each other’s expressions more than anything, before who was presumably Saihara came forward.

Ouma opened his mouth to speak, but Saihara beat him to it.

“Kiibo told me you were up here.” Saihara admitted.

Ouma clicked his tongue in annoyance.

That damn automaton…

It’s not that he didn’t want to see Saihara, it was just that he wasn’t fond of having his alone time interrupted like this, especially when he was contemplating suicide so casually.

Saihara had nearly a million questions at the edge of his tongue, but the only one that came out was…

“Why are you so close to the edge?”

Ouma blinked, his face expressionless. His features quickly morphed into those of mischief, his signature devious grin having returned.

“Is my beloved Saihara-chan worried about me? Aww, how sweet!” He whirled himself around so that his back was facing the ledge, now facing Saihara. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m gonna be attempting suicide again anytime soon, so it looks like you’re stuck with me!”

“Unfortunately?” Saihara sat down next to Ouma, turning himself to face the same direction as him. “You say that like I wouldn’t miss you.”

“Hm, really?” Ouma tilted his head in mock thought, “I don’t recall you ever missing me the first time I died.”

“Ouma-kun, that’s not-”

“But I don’t blame you!” Ouma chirped, seemingly unbothered talking about his own demise. “I set it up to be that way, ya know! Lying all the time and being a massive jerk… All of it was to make sure no one would miss me! And it worked!”

Those last few words came out a bit panicked, like Ouma was regretting every single word he was saying. Why was he talking so much? What happened to the Ouma during the killing game that revealed so little about his true self? There was just something about Saihara that made him as transparent and fragile as a shard of glass, to be handled delicately or else he would splinter into a million pieces, never to be pieced together ever again. Saihara could try all he wanted to, but once broken, much like trust, a piece of glass can never be perfectly repaired, And right now, Ouma was trusting him.

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.” Saihara was being gentle as ever, his voice grounding Ouma.

Saihara was completely right and Ouma hated it. There he was again, reading him like a book without his permission.

“Maybe we just didn’t understand you at the time. Everything you did was so complex and thought out that it was hard to see, but you really are the most selfless person I have ever met.” Saihara’s gaze had hardened, determined.

Ouma didn’t speak. Instead, he rested his chin on his knees, which he pulled in close to his chest.

It was then that Saihara realized how beautiful Ouma looked in the moonlight, his soft features being illuminated ever so subtly. His typically hard to read gaze was softened, and he looked so small while hugging his body so close to himself like that. He couldn’t help but display his affections for Ouma, reaching over and grabbing his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Though his gaze remained far away, Saihara felt that Ouma was anything but as the smaller boy rested his head on Saihara’s shoulder, nestling into him. They remained like this for a while, simply basking in each other’s presence and enjoying the peace and quiet that came with being on the rooftop alone.

They may have been alone, but at least they had each other.

An immeasurable amount of time passed before Saihara spoke up, suddenly remembering that they were still so close to the edge of the roof.

“Uh, we should probably…” Saihara stood up, and Ouma could’ve sworn that he was blushing.

Ouma stood up as well, expecting the two of them to walk inside, but Saihara just stood there, looking at him intently.

“You know I would miss you if you were gone, right?”

Ouma’s mind scrambled for a response, but before he could think of one he felt a soft hand tucking his hair behind his ear, lingering by the side of his head far too shortly. He looked up at Saihara to find him smiling at him softly, so much affection hidden behind one expression. Ouma smiled back, not caring that he felt his own face heating up.

“Let’s go inside, okay?” Saihara asked, his smile not fading away in the slightest.

Ouma nodded, following Saihara inside.

It was silent, but it was a comfortable silence. Feeling Saihara’s body heat radiating next to him, Ouma was as content as he possibly could be at that moment.

It was well into the night, each of them deciding that it would be best to return to their own rooms for the time being. He didn’t know if it was physical or mental in origin, but Ouma felt himself exhausted, collapsing onto his bed nearly seconds after he settled himself under the covers.

Saihara did the same.

The one thing they had in common was that they were both smiling, thinking of the other as they drifted off to sleep.

#my writing #postmortem #danganronpa #danganronpa v3 #kokichi ouma #kokichi oma #shuichi saihara #kaito momota #maki harukawa #kaede akamatsu #rantaro amami #saiouma #oumasai #momoharu #harumomo #kaimaki #amamatsu

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wu-sisyphus-gang · 4 years

Text

Motion Sickness 60.2 Welcome Home

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I walked into my house. Our house. My house. The house in which I lived with my future wives. That house. The outside had a loop before the garage of red gravel and a long gravel driveway. There was a column of trees as a windbreaker off to the east side of the house. The building was two stories and had red stone by the base cobbled together before red-brown wood planks and tall glass windows.

Over the double door front entrance was an arcing roof and great glass windows. The master had large windows by the head of the bed and in the bathroom. There was a patch with a patio at the front entrance and a hanging balcony patio out back.

At once it was very different to and similar to the house I thought I grew up in. It had a lot of rooms. It was very tall. The kitchen and family room and atrium were large with hanging chandeliers in the atrium. But the color scheme was different from the white house I recalled. They both had tall windows but the overall floor plan was different. Too different to say that they were similar in any way. I also wasn't sure which room my mother slept in in that tall white house. I couldn't remember where the master was. Maybe it hadn't been anywhere at all.

I moved from the garage through the laundry room. To my left was the master and two bedrooms. To my right was the dining room and kitchen and past that was the family room, atrium, and stairs leading up to the other rooms where the kids would one day reside. Past even that was the office annex.

Ruby was in the kitchen baking cookies. She was wearing a pair of shorts and one of my hoodies. At a guess I would say that was all she was wearing with no bra but probably panties. Bras were, I had learned, uncomfortable. They were the fist casualty whenever either of my ladies arrived at home. Which I was fine with. The less clothes they wanted to wear, the better.

"How was work?" Ruby asked. She popped a ball of cookie dough into her mouth and marched around the kitchen island to the fridge and found the eggs. She shut the fridge behind her and danced back around to her dough.

I walked slowly in her direction. Like she was a gazelle I was afraid would get spooked. I stalked up on her slowly and steadily.

"Well?" She demanded. "Don't ignore me!"

"Work was fine. I worked one on one with this girl who has a precognitive semblance. She has some blind spots I'm worried will get her killed."

"Don't be so negative. I'm sure she does fine."

"She got both her legs broken by the gravity manipulator serial killer."

"Dark," Ruby granted. I came up behind her.

I grabbed her by the sides all at once and started tickling her fiercely by poking the places around her ribs.

"Jaune!" She giggled. "Jaune! Stop!"

I didn't. I picked her up into the air so her feet kicked as I thrashed her mercilessly. She couldn't stop laughing as I poked her over and over. I priced just beneath her ribs and she bent and cackled in a delicious laugh.

"Jaune! I mean it!"

I didn't let up. I held her in the air and tickled her until she was pink and panting and only then did I set her down but I kept my arms wrapped around her waist as I held her from behind. She breathed hard and a few last laughs escaped her as I just held her close to me. She turned around grinning up at me with the glow of her laugh around her face. Her short hair was covering her eyes a little when her bangs got all messed up.

I could tell she really wasn't wearing a bra. I knew it! And she was doing just to tease me! "Pfft." She blew her hair out of her face and I kissed down along her neck. She shivered in my arms and leaned on the countertop near the stove. I pushing her until her elbows were down and her butt was out and she looked so delicious with her legs spread apart ever so slightly. "Jaune…" she whined as I sucked between her jawline and her ear. She leaned into my touch. I took my right hand and found her waistline. I teased with her pants and the place above her womanhood and below her hard abdominals.

"You should be on this countertop," I whispered.

"W-why's that?" She breathed.

"It's where the snacks belong. And you, sweetheart, are a full meal. I'm about this close to eating you."

"I'm making cookies…" she whined and tried to shrug away from my kisses. But I knew I was turning her on. I could see her pokies through my hoodie. "Jaune…"

"Play hard to get all you like," I hummed. "You ought to be ashamed of how you tease me."

"I'm not teasing you on purpose!"

"Hard to prove," I countered.

"Well I'm not!"

"Sure you're not. My hoodie with nothing on underneath and those tight little shorts. And you just prance and dance around the kitchen without a thought in your pretty little head of what you're doing to me. Is that right?"

"We-well… when you put it like that…"

"When I describe the situation?"

"I'm just in comfortable clothes baking cookies. And brownies. And cookies in the brownie batter."

"Delicious," I hummed as I sucked on her neck and tasted her sugary cinnamon flavor. Just a hint of fresh flowers and something sweet.

"Cookie-brownies are good…"

"Sweetheart I'm talkin' about you. Your aura is so sugary. It tastes good going down. And when I feel you against me it just smells so right."

"Your aura feels nice wrapped around me…" she sighed back into my kisses.

"I think you like it. This sick power you have over me. You like drawing me out and making me hungry for you. You do, don't you? You love that I can't keep my hands to myself."

"Y-y-you say that now…" she stuttered as I nibled on her earlobe. "We'll see if you still feel that way when I'm pregnant with your baby."

"I can't imagine I'll want to hold you down and make love to you then. But we'll see what happens to my protective instincts when you start bringing my sons and daughters into this world."

She shivered in my arms again.

"You're going to be a loving, doting father," she purred as I kissed the back of her neck and the apex of her head.

"We'll see," I disagreed in part.

"You're already a good husband. Or good husband material. I'm not Ruby Arc yet. Neither is Weiss 'Weiss Arc.' But you're already sweet and you want to take care of me."

"You don't need me to take care of you…" I trailed.

"But I will. And so will Weiss. She wants your babies too. We'll fill up this whole house with them. What will you do then?"

"I'll run the fuck away. You want four and Weiss wants two."

"You will not you big liar. You're such a liar! You've never run from any responsibility. Even responsibilities nobody asked you to take up." I stepped back and away from her. She stepped with me and took my arms and made me wrap her up. She turned and looked at me with a gleam in her silver eyes. "And I'm asking you to take responsibility. Isn't that right?"

I shuffled uncomfortable but she just leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed me on the nose.

"You'll take care of me. Won't you? Jaune?"

"You're not giving me much of a choice…"

"No. I suppose I'm not." She started backing me up with her eyes glowing under her red and black hair. "Maybe Weiss was right. Are we cruel to you? Oh how rude of you to bring your thoughts into our bedroom."

"It's not condescending to be so scared I might hurt you," I defended myself. She kept backing me with her raw honesty and emotion.

"You can't hurt me. You silly, silly man," she informed me raw. My back pressed against a tan wall near the door to the garage. She leaned forward at me where I was pressed against the wall. "You're so scared. It doesn't have to be that way, you know."

"It sort of does. It keeps me in check." I glanced away from her but there wasn't any real escape when she wrapped her arms around my stomach and rested her chin on my chest to look up at me.

"Why so scared?" She pressed.

"The usual suspects," I sighed. Salem and Merlot. I brought a hand up and stroked through her hair. "Plus you want my kids and I'm schizoaffective. That can be genetic."

"I demand that you be optimistic regarding our babies," she ordered. "None of this sad talk about them. None of this negativity. They are our babies. They'll be fine. We will make sure that they are fine. I'm sure that if Salem does something, you'll take plenty of action."

"What if it's not enough…" I protested.

"It will be enough. You'll see. You'll take care of us. You'll take care of me," she brutalized me with a tiny, adorable voice. I couldn't say 'no' to her. I just couldn't. I never could. She just looked up at me with those big silver eyes and got whatever she wanted.

"You are cruel to me. You put me in a terrible position. You strip me of my freedom and make me love you for it." I stroked her pretty red and black hair and she pushed her head into the motion like a kitten. She was boxing me with kid gloves on and she was winning.

"I love you," she purred up at me. I swallowed hard. "I love you and I want a big family with you. And I want you to take care of me like I know you can. I want you to take care of our babies like I know you can. I'm proud of you. What you do isn't easy and you've done it all with me at your heart. What can I say besides I love you and thank you and I'm proud of you?" She glowed up at me. I looked away. She reached and cupped my cheek and made me look down at her. She still had her eyes closed. "I can't wait until I'm married to you and we can start trying," she pushed on relentlessly. "We can put all this pent up hunger you have for me to good use." I breathed out shakily. She must have felt it with how she was cupping my face in her hands. I bent low and kissed her. She wrapped her hands around my neck and pulled me down into her. She brought my head forward in the cradle of her arms as I held her lower lip between both of mine. She hummed into my mouth contentedly.

A timer went off and I made to pull back but she whined. "Kiss me," she pleaded. "Let me worry about the cookies."

I kissed her again and I slid my tongue forward into her mouth. She gently sucked on it and I groaned which made her smirk around my tongue. My hands came forward and grabbed her by the hips. I pulled her in close to me so she pressed against me tightly from pelvis to chest. She pulled back and wiggled her head to maneuver hair out of her face. I reached up and stroked her crimson locks out of her face and she beamed up at me. Then she turned and walked away in those little shorts and just my hoodie on top. And boy I hated to see her leave but I loved to watch her go.

"You should change out of your hunting clothes. Before Weiss makes you," she informed me as she pulled a tray of cookies out of the oven. I sighed.

"I like my hunting clothes…"

"But you know Weiss is going to make you. So why wait for her to? Change. Pretty please?"

"If you asked me to shoot myself and said 'pretty please' like that I would have to do it."

"Pretty please stop talking about shooting yourself," she fired in a harsher tone.

"You know what?" I demanded slightly exasperatedly.

"What's that?" She asked. She picked at a gooey cookie on the sheet and whined when it fell apart. She sounded genuinely curious about where I was going to take this. She sounded like a sweetheart.

I didn't have anything. She was too adorable. She made me at once feel like a man and on that same hand made me feel defenseless. What was I gonna do? She had so firmly by the dick that I couldn't get away and I didn't really want to. She could finish me or she could finish me. I groaned and rubbed my face.

"Do I drive you a little nuts?" She wondered. "How do you tolerate me?"

"You're gorgeous and sexy and that's fine and all but your personality is so fuckin' on point that you can do whatever you want to me and I would thank you for it," I informed her grimacing all the while. "You brutalize me with your cuteness. Just fuckin' blow me away. End me. Finish me the fuck off."

"But I don't want to," she shot me in the heart. It was devastating. She picked at her cookie and whined when she burned herself. She liked chocolate off her fingers and got some on her lips.

I took long fuckin' steps in her direction and picked her up and set her on the counter. Then I pulled her in and kissed the chocolate off her face nice and slowly and sucking on her lips all the while. She moaned and wrapped her legs around me and her arms around my neck. She crossed her feet behind me to pull my in closer and I grabbed her by the shorts so that our pelvises met.

"You absolute sadist!" I gasped. "Do you have any idea what you do to me? Do you care at all about how crazy you make me? Do you even notice or do I look like a bug on your windshield?" I slid my hand under the hoodie she was wearing and up her stomach. She moaned and gasped against my lips.

"It's not my fault…" she whined and I throbbed for her. I twitched in my pants at her words. Gods above, she made me ache in a way that was all too pleasant and all too painful. I wanted to rip her to pieces and spread her apart and split her open.

"You're comin' with me." I decided. I picked her up and started carrying her to the master.

"But my cookies..."

"They'll be cool and ready and waiting when I'm done givin' you what you deserve."

"What do I deserve?" She wondered.

"I'll show you. I'm about to give it to you so you'll just have to wait and see."

#Jaune Arc #Weiss Schnee #Ruby Rose #Lancaster #Whiteknight #war of the roses #whiterose #jaune arc x weiss schnee x ruby rose #jaune arc x ruby rose #jaune arc x weiss schnee #weiss schnee x ruby rose #motion sickness #fanfic

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lambourngb · 4 years

Text

My brain is still a messed up bowl of depression and anxiety soup. However, I’m trying to get back into writing so I can finish Last Year’s Wishes. And hey, thank you everyone for reblogging my dumb not-fic this morning, that was sweet.

Anyway @tasyfa gave me some suggestions on re-igniting the fires of creativity- like re-reading the story, putting on the right playlist, thinking mindfully about the next step in the story.

I spent the morning re-reading, and it felt a bit weird. Like I know I wrote it, but wow it feels like a million years ago... bits that I love and can’t believe came out of my brain:

From Chapter 8- I loved writing stoned Alex.

The sounds of Michael moving about the cabin, the thunk of discarded boots on the wooden floors, the soft close of a door and the start of the shower all made for a soothing background noise that Alex drifted in peacefully. He shut his eyes for a moment, only to find himself awake to the strong scent of food again.

Michael sat a plate on the coffee table in front of him. Dinner was a pair of hot dogs slathered with relish and mustard, with baked beans spilling around it. He placed a can of soda next to it, sweeping away the now-warm beer bottle from his reach. “You awake enough to eat?”

“Yeah, I'm starved.” Alex rubbed the drug fatigue from his face, and reached toward his hip for the melting bag of ice only to encounter a fresh pack with his fingertips. Michael had thoughtfully changed out the ice and prepared him dinner, all after working a full day at Sanders's. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you do all this after working.”

Michael cracked open a bottle of beer, and settled back in the chair with an amused look. His own plate of food balanced on his thighs. The shower’s effects were present, the damp curls mussed and in intact locks around his face, and his grease-marked clothes exchanged for a simple sweatpants and t-shirt. “You make a terrible wife, Alex, not having a hot meal ready at the end of the day for your hard-working man.”

“Haven’t had a lot of practice.” Alex bit into the hot dog, noting to himself that Michael prepared it just the way he liked it with no ketchup to be seen.

“No? You never played house like this before with a boyfriend? I mean, once you could legally.”

“Can’t play house if you've never had a boyfriend.”

Michael paused, holding his beer to his lips in surprise. “What, never?”

It was flattering that Michael appeared so shocked by the idea. Alex chewed with deliberate consideration. “Depends, are you counting yourself?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Then never.”

***

From Chapter 12:

Michael swallowed hard, twin wet tracks of tears shining on his cheeks. “That family tree, the evil doesn’t branch out much, does it? Direct line to your dad.”

“I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t,” he cut Alex off brutally. “Don’t apologize. You’re not the one who put her in that cage. That was what, your great-grandfather Harlan? And you’re not the one who gave her that fucked up exam, that was just your granddaddy. And you’re not the one who killed her. That was just daddy dearest-” Michael choked harshly, as a sob caught in his throat. “Or me, depending on how you look at it. So don’t apologize, Alex. It wasn’t you.”

“No, just everyone I’m related to,” Alex replied bleakly, taking a seat next to Michael. He reached out to rest a hand on Michael’s leg cautiously. “I'm sorry that you saw that. I was… I was looking for footage of her where she was... where she was just in her cell. Not okay, but not being hurt.”

Michael tipped his head to the side, to meet Alex’s gaze finally. “Did you find any?”

Mutely Alex shook his head, as his own eyes welled up.

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

His heart breaking at the amount of pain and hopelessness on Michael’s face pushed him to keep going, “It’s early though. I… I've only been able to crack two out of twelve of the drives. That one’s part of one that documents procedures. There might be others that are just surveillance.”

“Mmmm. So I can watch her pace in a glass cage, instead of being sexually assaulted. Cold fucking comfort, Alex.” Michael’s voice broke on the word assaulted, before it turned hard and angry. “When were you going to tell me you had these? When you found some nonexistent footage of her not being tortured?”

“I was going to tell you, I was,” Alex defended weakly. The justification for waiting for the correct time was just as Kyle predicted, feeble and without weight. This was the fruit of his cowardice. “It’s horrible, I know. I was trying to spare you the visuals.”

“I need you to stop doing that. You can’t keep trying to control shit by holding onto information and then saying it’s to protect me. I have a right to make my own damn decisions. She was my mother!” Michael ended his ragged speech with a harsh cry. He wrapped his left hand into a fist, pulling tight on the black wrap on his knuckles.

Immediately Alex tensed, as he wiped at an escaped tear. His brain, formed and shaped by his experiences with his father, went into high alert. Michael, with his own trauma-shaped instincts, caught his flinch instantly and exploded upward from his seat and away from Alex to place several feet between them in the close confines of the bunker.

“For fuck’s sake,” Michael shook his head, wounded as he fisted the curls back from his eyes. “I will never, fucking never, lay on a hand on you.”

More tears spilled from Alex’s eyes, as he took a deep breath to lock down his feelings. He was really messing this up with Michael, not that the reveal was ever going to go smoothly. The progress that they had made in the last few weeks was vanishing right before his eyes, and he felt helpless to stop it.

Trying for calm and conciliatory, he replied lowly, “I know. I know you wouldn't. We've never done that to each other.”

“Right. Never.” Michael kept to the other side of the room. He dropped his hands flat against his side, keeping them in view. His face was red, struggling to hold back his devastation at Alex’s response, merely compounding the grief triggered by the video. “I'm pissed and I can barely look at you right now because you kept this from me, but that. That’s not me, that’s not us.”

“I know, Michael.” Alex took another deep breath, and wiped at his face with his sleeve. Gradually he felt his pulse starting to slow, with the soft embrace of an upcoming adrenaline crash threatening at the edges. “Just... tell me what you need?”

“I don’t know. Short of a time machine, where I can rescue my mom, there's nothing. She’s dead. She lived a long, miserable life here. How ...how old was that clip?”

***

From Chapter 14

“Well, it’s like you said, I’m the expert in leaving.” He twisted his lips in a semblance of a smile, “I had just learned you had slept with my best friend and you were working on a way to leave orbit, how else was I supposed to react?”

“I don’t know, I guess I didn’t really think you’d care,” Michael paused, shrugging carelessly, “about either of those things.”

“Now we’re back to the ways in which I’ve fucked up with you.” Alex braved a hand on Michael’s arm. “I care about both of those things. I'm trying to come to terms with you moving on from me and that’s not going great, okay? This limbo we’re in, it hurts, but it’s nothing compared to what you leaving the planet will do to me.”

Michael blinked a few times forcefully as his eyes started to glisten. “Really?”

Alex tightened his grip on Michael’s arm, as he dug down for the words. He knew this was usually the point where he backed off and let things be understood instead of implicitly being said. The second, third, and fourth chances to get this right kept slipping away from him.

It would be stupid to waste another moment.

“It would kill me, Michael. I know I left in the past, with deployments and training rotations, but I was always going to come back. Even after the IED hit, I pulled a belt off my dead friend and killed my right foot just so I could live long enough to come back to you.” Alex swallowed hard, forcing the grief back down his throat. “I was prepared to hack the DMV once my assignment to Roswell was over just to track you down. But I can’t hack a spaceship, so I kept the piece from you. I’m sorry.”

A tear finally streaked down Michael’s face as he let go of the console and turned to put his arms around Alex. “God you’re such a fucking asshole.”

The sentiment was in direct opposition to the tight embrace Michael pulled him into, before he leaned back to meet Alex’s eyes. His hands trailed from Alex’s waist and glided up to cup his jaw, holding his face close, so he tipped his forehead against Alex’s. “Such a fucking asshole,” Michael repeated wetly.

“Does that mean you forgive me?” Alex ventured tentatively, soaking in his touch greedily.

****

From chapter 17:

“Yes, and no,” he admitted quietly, his fingers fidgeted with the discarded beer cap. “I want to talk to my best friend about my boy problems but he’s also your boy problem so that makes it hard.”

“Pretend he isn’t then,” Maria urged softly. “Can you do that? ‘Cause I miss you, Alex. There’s nothing I want more than to talk to my best friend about dumb boys again.”

Alex had had a lot of experience pretending it wasn’t Michael Guerin he was twisted up over and then seeking out the counsel of Maria in return. It wasn’t that much of a stretch when he thought about it. Over ten years of discussions about feeling he wasn’t saying the right thing, or being too scared to act on his impulses, and she had patiently held his hand through it all without once knowing the identity. Steady, supportive, and always with a wicked twist of humor to remind him just what a catch she thought he was.

When he was a teenager trying to fall asleep through the various dull aches that came from disappointing his father, he used to press his bruised face into his pillow and pray for two things. To not be Jesse Manes’s son, or if he had to be that, then at least let him fall in love with Maria Deluca.

God was cruel enough to keep him under Jesse’s roof and to leave his desires unchanged.

While his love for Maria skipped over the romantic track, nonetheless it still flowed strongly over the years. Scattered around the loft were various gifts that Alex had sent to her during his time away from Roswell. A wall tapestry he had picked up in Kabul hung from one wall. A pipe and ashtray set from an Istanbul market sat next to a wooden cigar box where Alex knew Maria kept her weed. A bright blue glazed bowl painted in the geometric designs of peacock feathers rested on a side table. It had been a gift from a thankful Yazidi father after his unit evacuated his daughters to a UN camp safely. He had meticulously packed and padded the bowl to ship to Maria two weeks prior to the IED. With the typical international shipping delays, he had already transferred from Landstuhl to Walter Reed by the time Maria had received it.

He held onto that connection, pushing down the lingering question of where Michael spent the night in the close confines of the loft. Certainly not on this small couch.

“Alright, deal.” Alex licked his lower lip in thought. “So there’s this guy, and we have some pretty heavy history together. We’re trying to be friends and like figure out who we are to each other outside of-” he broke off, glancing toward her bedroom alcove nervously before finishing, “outside of the bedroom.”

Maria followed his glance without comment, before taking another sip from her bottle. “That sounds like a healthy and adult decision, Alex. Can I take the credit for browbeating you over the years or do I have to share it with your therapist?”

“Depends, Maria, do you want to take credit for my complete failure here? ‘Cause for whatever reason I keep fucking it up.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Alex raised his eyebrow skeptically, “Do you?”

“Yeah, you’re right, I forgot what a disaster you are,” Maria teased gently. “I mean you have a good job, you have amazing friends if I do say so myself, you’re the kindest person I know. And your face isn’t half bad either. So you have a few walls to climb, who doesn’t? Alex, you are worth the effort here.”

“He hates my job, and he really hates that I signed a new contract.” Alex tipped his bottle to finish the last swallows. Dully he looked down at the bottle cap pressed tightly between his fingertips, “My walls are pretty high, here. I either hold back on him, or I get scared and push him away, which means I’m either pissing him off or hurting his feelings. It’s no wonder he wants-” He stopped, leaving the rest of the thought unfinished.

“Being afraid of being hurt or rejected is normal. Life has taught you a lot of reasons why you need to protect yourself and if you’d share that with him, I’m sure he would understand.” She reached up to touch her necklace absently, before sighing. “I admit, I wasn’t thrilled when he told me you re-upped.”

“Not you too, Maria.”

“You were so close to being out-”

“I can’t leave until the job is done-”

“Please, that’s the kind of thinking that has kept us in Afghanistan for twenty years.”

A beat passed between them before Alex cracked a disbelieving smile at her sarcastic reply. “Did you just compare me to Donald Rumsfeld?”

Maria covered her mouth, as she started to laugh with him. “I mean, maybe? You have much better hair though, or at least you did. There’s only so much product can do to fix that boring flat top.”

“Thanks,” Alex replied drily, as he reached upward to his hair out of reflex. Maria giggled as he belatedly brought his hand away from his head. “My ego is safe with you around.”

“See? You need me around, you’d be lost without me.” Her smile widened with fondness, the old comfort of teasing each other over having high maintenance hair habits settling in naturally. This time, her words landed awkwardly into the air and her smile slowly dropped away. Her eyes grew bright and glassy in the warm light from the two floor lamps. The atmosphere between them changed again, as the unsaid pressed against them impatiently, nagging for their attention.

Alex dropped his eyes to the floor again. The words in his throat were tangled, as he wished one more time that he didn’t feel like this with Maria. He was caught in the rough current of feeling jealous and angry while being tossed against his ever-present pillars of self-loathing.

“What are we going to do?” Maria asked forwardly. She was braver than him like usual. “Are we ever going to get past this? I mean, I can pretend some more if you want-”

“God, that’s all I do these days, pretend, so maybe it’s best if we don’t.” He licked his lower lip, registering the dry chapped feeling from his nervous chewing. “I pretend with Michael, I pretend at work, and I don’t want to have to pretend with you, Maria.”

“I don’t think you’re pretending with Michael,” she pointed out, in a no-nonsense tone. Her eyes lost their sharp focus as her face reflected the changeover from friendly observation to a psychic read. “Unless you’re pretending that friendship is going to be enough for you. You love him and you’re not getting over him, and you’re sabotaging yourself with him because you’re afraid. You’re afraid that friendship is enough for him.”

The air in the room felt thin to Alex. He closed his eyes, and placed his hand on his chest to count the rapid beat of his pulse. The black spots in his eyes swam in front of him, and he blinked several times to clear his vision. “I thought he had already made his choice. But then living together, pretending that we never broke up- It’s complicated now. Messy. And I’m afraid if I really ask, he’ll tell me the same thing he did before, that love isn’t enough. That it’s too much baggage to get past and he won’t choose me.”

****

From chapter 19:

Michael closed his eyes, as a tear slipped down his cheek and turned his face into Alex’s touch, as he whispered roughly, “Losing her, my mom like that, I didn’t want to be known by anyone. Not by Max, and not by you.” He lifted his face away, his eyes still wet as his smile wobbled, “That’s why you found me at the Wild Pony.”

“I figured,” Alex replied, his throat tight.

“I know now that I hurt you by doing that. It’s a fucking weak excuse to tell you that I really didn’t think you would care. ‘Cause it doesn’t change the fact you did.”

“Michael.” He started to tell him that it was fine. That he understood. Except on one level, as much as they had laid out the pain and wounds that had been exchanged between them, some targeted, some merely shrapnel from outside forces, there was the unavoidable fact that it wasn’t fine. Discarding the emotions of it, which he was never going to find comfort with, Alex fell into the cold facts of what happened. “I wasn’t what you needed then, or wanted. And that’s okay. You are allowed to make that choice for yourself. You went through something unimaginably terrible, how could I begrudge you for turning to someone who made that a little better for you?”

The hurt miserable laugh that escaped from Michael as he pressed his lips against Alex’s palm in a kiss, sent a chill down Alex’s spine.

“You were exactly what I needed after Caulfield, Alex. You make everything, fucking everything, in my miserable life better. This whole month, every minute of it, you made me feel whole. I can take a full breath because of you. I am okay, and that’s so much more than I deserve to be. And I tried to fight it, especially early on when I was a dick to you, but as it turns out, hurting you so I could make myself miserable isn’t worth it.”

Alex was frozen, his hand still against Michael’s face as he worked to understand just what he had said. The first three thoughts circled back to Michael still being drunk, or perhaps this was delayed gratitude for helping keep them safe from the police investigation. For all that Michael spoke of not feeling like he deserved to feel okay, it was shockingly clear in Alex’s mind he shared that same sentiment. Their broken pieces were shattered on the same fault lines, not necessarily the mirror opposite that would fit together in the same way.

Michael kissed his thumb softly, looking up at him, “I can see by your face you are having a hard time believing me. If you let me do this, open up the bond print, you’ll get it. You’ll see that as nice as Maria is, she doesn’t have nearly the power you do. You’ll feel what I feel. Um, just what I feel, if you’re worried about your privacy. This is a one-way street.”

There was a brief moment of disappointment for Alex hearing that, but the lure of Michael’s offer was too strong to deny. “Okay. Do it.”

“Yeah?” Michael smiled brilliantly as he sat in bed, and gently pressed Alex back on the mattress. He spread his palm flat on Alex’s chest, directly over his heart, its beat strong and quick beneath the touch. Michael’s eyes flickered down at his hand and then to Alex’s tense gaze, his lips quirking with shy pleasure at what was about to happen. “Merry Christmas.”

Michael’s hand didn’t change in temperature, even as a red glow started to build in his palm. It was reminiscent of how his mother had communicated in those last doomed moments at Caulfield. And like that too-short interval from before, there was no pain on Michael’s face, just rapturous joy.

Alex stored that snap shot of Michael’s face, looking so unbelievably happy, away in the place he hoarded his good memories.

It was the last clear thought he had.

Oh. It was a lot.

His therapist had warned him a long time ago that trauma had changed his brain patterns forever. It wasn’t just psych jargon to understand that his electrical pathways of experiencing pleasure and joy were forever altered after his childhood. His doctor had argued to him that comparative MRIs would prove it. The therapeutic homework of practicing pleasure and reacquainting his body to positive feelings had been taken with a dose of skepticism. Michael had always made him feel okay in receiving and giving pleasure, but later Alex realized it wasn’t necessarily the comfort of sex that was the issue, it was happiness.

Michael loved him.

It washed all over his mind, like standing under a waterfall. The torrential press of love, joy, peace beat down on the brittle feelings of shame, of self-hatred, of feeling like Alex had been made wrong in some way right from the start, after all, why didn’t his father love him?

Michael loved him.

Water was the most destructive and most transformative force on earth. It was relentless. It sought out cracks, pouring into the hollows while it filled the caverns. Once inside, if needed, it could freeze and expand, to break down defenses, until the path was clear. It nurtured with the same unstoppable power, feeding the roots, nourishing the parched throats, cleansing the wounds and washing away the filth.

Michael loved him.

It was infinite. It was one thing to know it intellectually, after all, Michael had said it once to him, present tense and all. This connection made Alex feel ashamed, because now he knew he had never really believed it. It wasn’t Michael’s fault though; the core truth was Alex had made it 28 years believing he was the issue, that he was unlovable. Any words that Michael had said, Alex had dismissed as something shallow, or perhaps the result of a trick.

The connection battered at that belief until Alex had to discard it as false.

****

From chapter 21

There was a moment when he thought Michael would break away, he could feel Michael take a deep breath, his chest heaving in effort before he tipped forward into Alex’s body, a mirror of Alex’s earlier collapse. He caught Micheal’s weight easily, and held him securely.

“I really want to scream right now, just so you know,” Michael warned with a low voice in Alex’s ear. “I don’t want to be mad at you, but I’m fuckin’ mad.”

“You can be mad at me,” Alex offered weakly, keeping his arms around Michael.

“I really can’t, Alex,” Michael huffed a humorless laugh, “you tried to pick a fight five minutes ago about Maria, and I saw your face when you got here, you were totally white. You didn’t expect this reveal to go well, did you?”

Alex hummed a little in his throat, acknowledging Michael’s point without argument. He thought about the file that had his father’s request for testing when he was a child and locked down his feelings on it to deal with later. “It’s not all terrible news to report though. If the pod responds to intent, then we should have Liz and I guess Kyle, meet us at the cave so we can see what it might be doing to Max in the meantime. See if there’s any readings we can gather.”

Michael moved his warm hands up to cup Alex’s face, the fabric wrap on his left hand rasping lightly as he gently moved Alex back to meet his eyes. “I’m sure Liz was thinkin’ about saving Max, but he’s not the only one in a pod. What were you thinkin’ when you put your dad in there?”

“Honestly?”

“Uh yeah, of course.”

Alex smiled grimly, “I was thinking how good it felt to choke him out and finally win a fight. I was thinking he got to see my face as darkness took him, the way I used to see his face when I was a kid. And I hoped he was scared. I hoped he felt small and powerless.”

“God, I hope so too. I hope the pod is making him relive that non-stop,” Michael breathed fiercely as he tightened his hold on Alex for a moment, then he leaned in to capture his lips in a deep, hungry kiss. Alex opened under his mouth easily, surrendering to Michael as he backed him against the parked Bronco. He pushed his fingers into Alex’s short hair, pressing against Alex’s body as Alex’s tongue stroked firmly against his.

The warning burn in Alex’s lungs was the only thing that brought the kiss to an end, as he sucked in a gulp of air, the taste of Michael and a hint of beer still on his lips. “As much as I want to continue that, um, you should finish up here so we can make a plan with Liz and Kyle.”

“You’re lucky my trailer is at the cabin, otherwise you and me and a horizontal surface-”

****

Also from chapter 21

The warmth of Michael scooted up against his back as his arms snaked around Alex’s chest. He pressed his lips against Alex’s neck and offered softly in his ear, “Listen, if this is…. If this is something in your head, I can help with that. If you want.”

Anticipation and pleasure lit up briefly through the agony as Alex followed the train of thought to Michael’s offer and remembered Christmas Eve. It was beyond tempting but being back on active duty made that an impossibility. With regret, he shook his head, “No bond print, too risky.”

“Nah, not that, but I could go inside your mind, and um, persuade you that what you’re feeling isn’t real.”

“Oh,” Alex breathed. Michael inside his head, seeing his thoughts, seeing just how messed up Alex was, not that he couldn’t already guess it from the outside. The cramping seemed to intensify as he debated, from what felt like a stabbing feeling from the ball of his foot, to a deep burn into the arch of his instep, traveling up his right leg. “Yeah, okay, do it.”

Michael licked his lips at the acceptance and took a deep breath. He shifted in bed again until Alex faced him. He brought his palm up, to cup Alex’s cheek gently, meeting his eyes. Alex blinked heavily at the touch, tears from the pain slipping down his face as Michael brushed the wetness away with his thumb with love.

Then.

Then it was warm and bright. Michael was the joy of a perfectly played note, the pitch and harmony of Alex’s favorite song, slipping into his mind to curl around him. The percussion of matched heart beats, thundering in time together. The vibration of strings, dancing across two keys, one high and soprano, one low and deep.

That was Michael in Alex’s mind.

Alex though, Alex was a crumpled ball of paper. The painstaking drawing, scratched out in eraser marks and errant ink blots. The brush strokes of a self-portrait imperfectly translated from three dimensions to a flat disappointing two. Discarded and tightly balled up, waiting to be tossed into the trash.

Then.

Teasing at the edges, Michael picked at and pulled at the scrapped drawing, the furrowed shell of Alex. With infinite care, he worked to flatten out the wrinkles and to smooth the creases. This wasn’t a failed attempt; this was a work of art, worthy of being framed. He laid out love, ironing out the perceived imperfections, until the crushed bits, and worn notches were treasured marks of strength and experience. These weren’t deficiencies to reject, or blemishes to trash but well tested symbols of armor worthy of protection.

Then.

Alex blinked again, and swallowed down the sob pressing at the edges of his throat waiting to erupt as the pain was gone. Inside his head, every small scrape and cut was calm and soothed. Michael had wrung the tension from his mind and body, leaving him loose and shapeless.

“Better?” Michael asked, his hand still on Alex’s face.

“Yeah, much.” Alex licked his lower lip, his mouth dry. “Is that, is that really how you see me?”

An enraptured look slipped over Michael’s face as his eyes grew dark, “You are a work of art, Alex. You’re beautifully made, inside and out. I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”

Blushing, he had to look away, unable to meet the intensity in Michael’s gaze. “I think you’re crazy.”

“You’re the crazy one for not seeing it, but I know why you can’t believe me.” Michael’s expression saddened as he turned to catch Alex’s eyes, “He is wrong about you. He was wrong when you were a kid, and he’s wrong now.”

“Ah, you saw it. What my dad wanted to do.” Alex pressed his lips together tightly, and sighed.

“Yeah, I saw it.” Tension grew in Michael’s grip, as he moved his hand down Alex’s shoulder to his chest, pressing his hand against the rising beat of Alex’s heart. “He is a monster, and it’s his loss that he could find anything in you that was deserving of hate, but sweetheart,” Michael’s voice broke briefly, “it breaks my heart that you might agree with him on any level. Your body, the way you love, how you love, it’s all part of what makes you, you.” He paused, before finishing with a thick voice, “And I love you. You should love you too.”

“I’m trying, Michael,” Alex leaned in to kiss his lips gently, “I’m trying really hard to do that.” He let Michael deepen the kiss, sighing at the care Michael used in touching him, like he was that precious work of art he’d glimpsed in Michael’s thoughts.

“Don’t be ashamed of this,” Michael whispered, his mouth hovering over Alex’s.

Alex shook his head, and leaned up to trade another kiss, “I’m not, not anymore. Well, not most days. I’m working on it.”

Michael smiled in response at Alex’s honesty, “Good, anytime you need a reminder, let me know. We can fight those demons together, darlin’. Speaking of, how’s the pain?”

Stretching his right leg out, he rubbed his stump against Michael’s leg, and sighed in relief at the motion. “Gone.”

****

All self-indulgent clips.

#personal stuff #the writing process is tough #just reminding myself that I can do this #self-promotion sorry #oh hello imposter syndrome nice to see you #wip whine #ignore this as I give myself a pep talk

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goldenornstein · 4 years

Text

SONGS TO WRITE MY MUSE !!

001 : CARRY ON WAYWARD SON by Neoni (cover)

Carry on my wayward son For there'll be peace when you are done Carry on, you will always remember Carry on, nothing equals the splendor Now your life's no longer empty Surely heaven waits for you

Reminiscent of Ornstein’s painfully idealised image of his mother; a memory associated with his own unforgiving determination to strive. To live. A never-ending journey. A permanent fight. Oh, but she would be so proud of him... or so he likes to think.

002 : HYAKKIN (Mezame no Hakobune) by Kenji Kawai

A storm, a rolling thunder Dark clouds in the sky Now, at this night of awe It is time to depart from the past

The war against the Everlasting Dragons was never the seamless, painless, overwhelming victory the Gods would later use as their proof of divine might and main source of political power. This was a fight that took so many lives, required so many sacrifices, it seemed dragons could never be defeated... not even by the power of the Light.

For Ornstein, the war is an experience that changes him in every possible way. Fighting means not only strengthening his body, but also his mind and soul. The great Arts used by the God of War’s Dragonslayers cannot be replicated, for one needs to develop a deeper understanding of the world itself; of the Flame, in order to harness its true power.

003 : RIP & TEAR by Mick Gordon.

There is a reason why he earned the epithet of Lion Knight. The God of War’s Chosen One; his First Knight, should be no less than a devastating force in battle. For all Ornstein’s exquisite skill and finesse, the way in which he spills his enemies’ blood is relentless and brutal.

004 : IBUKI by Yoshida Kyōdai

Yet there is also a place for joy and true beauty in his heart --- well-hidden, like a treasure reserved only to himself.

005 : GOD’S GONNA CUT YOU DOWN by Blues Saraceno (cover)

You can run on for a long time Run on for a long time Sooner or later, God'll cut you down

Anyone opposing the Gods will perish, sooner or later. Yet those who pose a real threat; corrupting their nations and inciting rebellion against Anor Londo’s absolute power, they will face utter annihilation at the hands of Lord Gwyn’s Champion.

006 : BLINDING CONTROL by Halsey + the Machine (Mashup of Blinding by Florence + the Machine, and Control by Halsey)

I can't help this awful energy God damn right, you should be scared of me Who is in control?

An even less gentle version of this song. The Dragon Slayer commands respect, instilling awe and dread. Yet there's always a sense of painful fragility to him... perfectly concealed under a stoic facade.

007 : GOTTA KNOCK A LITTLE HARDER by The Seatbelts.

Happiness is just a word to me And it might've meant a thing or two If I had known the difference

Closing his heart to everything and everyone, focusing solely on duty and what seemed lofty ideals, finally takes its toll on him. Anor Londo still endures, holding onto the Lord's ultimate sacrifice. However, the shadow of a doubt threatens Ornstein’s heart --- and he starts realising, slow and reluctant, he’s built his own cage.

008 : STAY ALIVE by Hidden Citizens

Should the lion say his grace When he takes his mark? I do what I need to What I have to To survive Well, you can try To be civilized But I'm gonna stay alive Yeah, I’m gonna stay alive

Ornstein’s survival instinct is ferocious. Implacable. He’s learned to turn it into ruthless determination and cruel pragmatism. Now, he’ll use it to overcome his own endless sorrow, guilt and bitter regret, and thus make a most difficult decision. He returns Lord Soul Shard and knightly Leo Ring to the Dark Sun, choosing to keep only his armour and weapon; gifts not from the Father, but the Son. Once he’s out of Anor Londo, he’s ready to face the hostile agony of the world, completely on his own. A lion clad in gold is still a lion.

009 : SUNLIGHT by Hozier.

But whose heart would not take flight Betray the moon as acolyte On first and fierce affirming sight of Sunlight, sunlight, sunlight!

I had been lost to you, sunlight

The last place where Sunlight exists. Truly so. A sanctuary for his ancient enemies; the dragons. The abode of his lost first Lord. No. Of his first and only companion. It was a long and difficult journey, leading to a bitter-sweet reunion. Nothing between them has ever been easy... yet it seems some bonds are stronger than betrayal and resentment.

010 : BLUE by the Seatbelts

Asked myself what it's all for You know the funny thing about it I couldn't answer No I couldn't answer

Feels so free Gotta be free Please

A requiem. Yet it’s not a bad end. Despite pain and exhaustion, Ornstein realises the past doesn’t feel like such a burden. He finally comes to terms with his own life --- the good and the bad. Thus, he accepts death as a consequence of his own actions. Death will be both; a price to pay and definite relief. And none of it haunts him. Not anymore.

At the end of his journey there was nothing but an empty space, a vast land with emptiness. And he finally understood that the journey was himself, his life and how he had lived.

tagged by : @mageshot

tagging : Y’all!!!! Do this, my guys, it’s super fun!

#less difficult than i thought it'd be #but yeah #i'm pleased with this one #following a chronological order through ornstein's life #lots of japanese music i guess #i wasnt gonna incude sunlight but then.... how could i not #THE STUFF OF LEGENDS // headcanon #kinda hcing here given the descriptions #song and wine // music

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kattegat-kittycat · 5 years

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Fates Entwined, part III: Who Are You When Nobody Is Watching

Part III of Fates Entwined.

Part I

Part II

After your former clan was brutally murdered, you agree to an arranged marriage with Ivar to keep your social status. You may not always see eye to eye and sometimes even find yourself on different sides of one war or the other, but somehow you can never escape each other no matter how much you try to forget, deny and run. Somehow you always end up in each other’s faces. Sometimes quite literally.

AN: So, I had to finish another writing assignment, so I wasn’t able to post this earlier. I am sorry that my posting rhythm is all messed up, I thought I’d be able to post once a week or so, but turns out, life gets in the way of these plans more often than not. Thanks for your patience, though :)

Oh, and @youbloodymadgenius you are the first person to ask me to tag you. Thank you so much for bearing with me (and sorry for taking so long) <3

The highest highs and the lowest lows I'll face the life in it's cruel way We shall never give in the pain I'm drowning into your eyes I'm drowning into you

Entwine - Lost Within

As official as the ceremony had been, the banquet afterwards was lively, bordering on rowdy, happy, but all in all friendly. I had to sit at Ivar’s side for most of the festivities, for the well-wishes and the shaking hands, even though all I wanted was to get Aslaug and talk to her, just the two of us. Something had happened and she probably knew what it was. I had never been a seer like her, I did not know how to read my vision or what to make of it, only that it scared me a lot. I had, however, always trusted my gut instinct and that told me that we had set something in motion that was bigger than we were. Once again, my eyes searched the crowd for the tall and slender figure of hers, but when I met her eyes, I could see almost the same uncertainty on her face, she had probably seen on mine. I could not wait any longer; I rested my hand on Ivar’s arm and waited for him to turn his attention to me. His head turned almost instantly as if my hand had burned his skin, but when he saw me, he relaxed a little.

“What is it, my princess?” he asked, smiling sardonically.

“I’ll be over and talk to your mother for a moment, if that is alright?” I tried to make it sound like a question, to keep up appearances in public. Our eyes met and he could see that I had not asked his permission. He tilted his head and his smile became overboarding. “Of course you may go and talk to my mother, I am sure she will tell you everything you need to know for our wedding night.”

I cocked an eyebrow, but he just grinned, so I left it at that and hurried over to my new mother-in-law. I grabbed her by the arm and quickly got her to move with me into a corner where only few could see us, but no one would hear us.

“Y/N, do you like the festivities?” she asked in a high-pitched voice that betrayed her nerves.

I gave a nod. Still had to be polite, right? “Yes, the food is delicious and it is nice to see the men unwind. There will be battles to be fought soon enough. I hear Björn plans on going to the Mediterranean.”

“Yes, yes he is and Hvitserk will go with him. Ubbe and Sigurd, too.”

“So, Ivar will stay here in Kattegat?”

She gave a curt nod.

I took another look around, to make sure no one was near us. “Queen Aslaug, I know you are a talented seer, so please tell me, why do I have the feeling that this marriage set something in motion? Something deep and dark and blood thirsty?”

Suddenly, she looked scared. “So you feel it, too?”

I gave a nod. “I had a vision of some sorts during the ceremony. What was that all about?”

A small sob escaped her and she pulled me closer by the sleeve of my dress.

“I had a vision as well. A vision of your possible futures. But also a vision of a burning Kattegat. A burning world, in which war raged in Kattegat and Ivar had killed his brother and he was fighting his other brothers. But I also saw you. The calm in the center of the storm. He will bring on hell on earth for our people if we cannot get him off that path and I don’t know how. But I know you can.”

I was angry inside, I wanted to scream, but to what avail? So I only swallowed against the scream building up in my throat and it became a fierce whisper:

“So you thought you could get me married to him and that would solve the end of the world as we know it?”

“Yes. And I am sorry. Your mother was a wise woman, and a strong fighter. And I know she passed these traits on to you. If anyone can safe him, it is you. Please”, she took my hands in hers, “Please take care of my little Ivar. Make sure, he can find his greatness, but lose his cruelty.”

I sighed. Only now did I realise, I had tears in my eyes. “It might have been helpful, had you told me before we got married.”

“You would not have consented to this marriage had I told you. And while I am deeply sorry that you will have to deal with this, I do not regret getting you into this. This is your place in this world. This is your fate.”

I grabbed her wrist and twisted it painfully. “That was not yours to decide!”

She looked at me and sighed. “I know. But I had to safe my son. And that meant binding your life to his, so I did. You felt it yourself, this bond is blessed and protected by the Gods themselves. There is no going back.”

I bit my lip to let the pain distract me from my anger. Then I bowed my head before her. She was the seer and the queen after all. I might not have agreed to this had I known the truth of her intentions, but the spider had woven her net well. There was no escaping it now, I knew that she was right.

I returned to Ivar’s side and he looked at me, almost bored. I was happy enough turning to his brothers to talk. I thought it might come in handy to gather as much intel on my husband as possible. But as it turned out, they weren’t able to tell me much about Ragnar’s youngest son. He seemed to be a riddle wrapped in a mystery. Ambitious to the core and always staying one step ahead of everybody by not revealing too much about himself or his intentions. He was a brilliant strategist, even in civil life, but he trusted no one.

Suddenly, he decided it was time for us to go to bed and he unceremoniously made me get up.

“I am almost sorry that I won’t be able to carry you over the threshold, my dear, sweet princess.” He chuckled, as he crawled across the ground beside me. Gone were the men who had carried him. Way too drunk for the task as well. It was just the two of us, out in the village ways.

I looked down into his face as he looked up and grinned. “Should I carry you instead?” I suggested.

He stopped promptly and his eyes were suddenly ablaze. “Don’t you dare!” He spat. Then went on a little lighter: “Anyway, you are not strong enough to carry me.”

I cocked my head in utter disbelief. “You should not have said that, Boneless!” I growled, because this had been a challenge if there ever was one. I stooped to the ground and took hold of one arm and one leg, but Ivar fought me off. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me down into the dirt with him, then he tried to wrestle me beneath him. I fought with all my might, but Ivar had more experience on his side down here. Suddenly, we heard someone laugh. The two of us turned around and saw Björn, holding his belly and laughing hard.

“You…you two should see yourselves! I do not question Aslaug’s decision for a single moment. You two are made for each other!”

I used Ivar’s surprise to my benefit, jumped to my feet and again grabbed him by his arm and his ankle to heave him onto my shoulders. He was heavier than I had anticipated, but I was stronger than he thought.

“Let me down, wife!” he spat violently, but didn’t struggle too much. I turned to Björn and bid him farewell and when Ivar had completely settled down, I started to make my way to the family home and his room, followed by the chuckling of my husband’s brother.

“Well, Floki’s piggy back rides are far more comfortable, but this is still nicer than crawling through the dirt.” He chuckled.

“And you can tell them that I carry you on my hands and share your burden.”

I heard the grin in his voice when he said: “You are indecent, don’t know your place and you are inobedient. I like that about you. You have a certain spark to you.”

I didn’t really respond, because we had reached the house. “Well, Ivar, this is it, the magic moment where I carry you over the threshold.”

He gave me a slap on the back, missing my arse by milimeters. I just shook my head.

“You are so headstrong. Do you want us both to crawl across it?”

He sighed dramatically and I knew that I had won. I steppped through the doorway and entered the longhouse. This was it. The last time I had entered this house, I was an orphan without a family or a home. Now I was the wife of Ivar Ragnarsson. How quickly the tables had turned.

“Don’t you have a cynical comment to make, dear husband?” I asked, as Ivar was uncharacteristically quiet.

“I just thought how strange it is that I left this house a bachelor and came back a husband.”

I hummed in agreement and we both were quiet for a moment. Then I shook off the odd pull I felt in my stomach and made my way over to the partition that was Ivar’s space. Once there, I let him down onto the bed more softly than I myself had expected. When I took a step back, Ivar looked at me in silent wonder. I smiled at him. A little insecure, slightly hopeful, but terribly unsure of what to do. Then I saw the bowl filled with warm water and the wash cloth beside it. My eyes wandered from that to Ivar’s face, which was dusty and and partly grimy after we had wrestled in the dirt. I took the few steps to get the bowl, then went back over to Ivar on the bed. Once there, I dipped the cloth into the warm water and wrung it out.

“May I?” I asked before touching his face. Again there was this slight insecurity in his eyes and he looked so much younger like that. He looked up to me, mouth slightly agape and as I touched the soft material to his face, he closed his eyes. I washed the grime off of his forehead and chin, his cheeks and also his ears. When I had reached his neck, I started opening his shirt. Again, I searched for his eyes and found them in silent agreement. I loosened the shirt, then pulled it over his head, marvelling at his finely chiseled, muscular torso and arms. But I didn’t give myself the time to get lost in the sight. Instead I went to work almost immediately. Now kneeling in front of him, I washed his chest and stomach, his shoulders and felt him sigh slightly. Then I continued with his arms down to his fingertips and cleaned every single finger. I looked at his big hands in my small ones, his thick fingers between my slender, long fingers. We were different, but we were the same in many respects, both not knowing where this might lead us. Before I even reached for his legs, he stopped me. He held my hands tight in his and looked away. Then he pulled me closer to him. His hand went to my face and held my chin. He gently tilted it up and gestured to me to get up from my knees. I did as he showed, as he guided me to sit on a small stool in front of him. He then took the wash cloth from my hands, dipped it into the water and administered the same care and attention to me, I had given to him. His fingers were a little clumsy at times, but he made up for that with enthusiasm. Even though he made me take off my dress, he let me keep on my undergarments. I wasn’t entirely sure if it was for my being comfortable or because he was slightly nervous.

He made me turn around to face him after he was done with my upper back and my eyes met his. We looked at each other in a surprisingly comfortable silence. Then he smiled a small smile.

“This marriage will either be the best or the worst thing that ever happened to me. But right now, I am happy to have you here.” He then said.

I shrugged. “I don’t deal in absolutes. It could be both, the best and the worst, at the same time.”

“I like your way of looking at the world.” He chuckled.

“You say that now, but get back to me on this in a year.”

“Ah, my wife. Always an argument, always something to say, always something to add. You don’t make life easy on yourself, do you?”

“Life is rarely kind or easy. At least it hasn’t been on me. And I like to laugh and jest all in good fun. I like being honest and not having to hide things or myself. This is me. But who are you, Ivar?”

“I am the son of Ragnar Lothbrok. I am the Boneless. But I am also a viking, one day I will conquer foreign lands and fight my way to Valhalla.”

“Yes, but besides that? Who are you when nobody is watching? What do you enjoy for yourself?”

He looked at me with a blank expression. I had felt for a while now that planning his future as a viking and becoming a legend had been the only thing he ever did and entertained, but then his schoulders released a little and he smiled.

“I like to help Floki. I don’t really help him, but I do small stuff. Keep him company, when he is lonely. I love listening to his tales, his wild ideas, the stories he has to tell. The things he told me about my father, when he was a young man.”

“Oh, that’s good. What else?”

“I like stories. Listening to tales and sagas. Hear about famous battles, strategies used. They are like little riddles waiting to be solved. What was the important factor in one side’s success and the other’s loss? What could have turned the tides? Could there have been a better defense strategy? Would it have ended in total annihilation had they used another strategy? I like these things, thinking up scenarios and their consequences.” He looked into the distance, thinking about something. Then he shook his head and smiled sheepishly.

“We should get to bed, get some sleep. I don’t believe you got much sleep last night, either.” He suggested.

I chuckled. “Yeah, no. That sounds like a good idea.”

And it was. Lying in the dark, next to each other, didn’t feel as awkward and outlandish as the thought had at first. At some point, I felt Ivar’s hand feeling around for mine. When he found it, he entangled our fingers and slowly, we drifted off to sleep.

#vikings #ivar the boneless #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #ivar ragnarsson x reader #vikings fanfiction #stories from kattegat #fates entwined #history vikings #ivar fanfic #ivar imagine

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meetthetank · 4 years

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Cruciamen Chapter 3: The Witch’s Cave

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/M, Other Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game) Relationships: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata), A2/A4 (NieR: Automata) Characters: 2B (NieR: Automata), 9S (NieR: Automata), A2 (NieR: Automata), A4 (NieR: Automata), Emil (NieR: Automata), Kaine Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, genre typical violence, On the Run, Monster of the Week, 9S is a half demon, 2B and A2 are shapeshifter Dragons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut in the future, inaccurate depictions of medical procedures, Fantasy Biology, A2 is Nonbinary

A2 had no idea how they fell asleep in the back of a carriage on a bumpy dirt road. Maybe Emil’s voice really did put them to sleep, because he was still chatting away to the horse when they woke up. Judging by the sun bearing down on them, it was about midday. They knick a wide brimmed straw hat from one of the piles of goods in the cart with them to mitigate some of the light. It’s serviceable, but they still shift so that they’re looking away from the sun.

In the time that they were asleep, Emil must have pushed his horse hard. The vast expanse of sand and arid savannah are replaced by great towering mesas and breathtaking canyons. Bands of clay and stone of varying colors tell the story of the earth itself and conceal its ancient secrets. Growing up in a lush forest, A2 only heard about these kinds of landscapes in fantastical stories told to them as a cub, and now they were in the middle of a legend themselves.

Emil guides Halua and the cart down a narrow canyon path. One side is a horrifying sheer drop into the river below, the other a vertical wall of rock. A2 braces their arms against the crates each time the cart wobbles or bumps over a rock. They want to shout at Emil to be more careful, but terror seizes their words in their throat. Somewhere in the back of their mind they find it funny that they regularly face off against horrors from another dimension, but a drop they could easily mitigate by flying terrifies them.

“You not a fan of heights?” Emil asks, looking back at them.

Gods, was this kid psychic?!

“I’m fine,” A2 snaps, shuffling back down into their makeshift nest. “We almost to your friend’s place?”

“Sure are!” he says, excitement clear in his voice. “Her house is just at the bottom of the canyon. We should be there in a few minutes.”

A2 scowls. Someone who lives in a place surrounded by walls of earth far from civilization of any kind always has something to hide, and someone with something to hide isn’t trustworthy. At least Emil wears his intentions on his sleeves, but this new person hasn’t even been named or described beyond Emil claiming that she’s his friend. The disarming quality of Emil could all be a setup.

They grip the hilt of their sword as soon as the cart comes to a stop.

Somehow, in an area that sees little to no rainfall, a grove of trees and lush grass grows at the bottom of this canyon. Maybe the constant water from the river and shade from oppressive sun makes living more manageable for plant life. Or maybe… It’s something else.

“I’ll be right back!” Emil announces. “I’m going to let her know she has company besides me. She’s not keen on strangers without warning.”

Then why bring me out here at all?! A2 thinks and grips their sword even tighter.

Emil hops out of the cart, gives Halua a pat on the snout, and strides into the grove with confidence. The crueler side of A2 wants Emil to turn and run screaming out of the trees just to prove their own paranoia right, but they can’t bring themself to wish harm on the kid. Not yet anyway.

Never one to sit idle (and never one to sit idle next to a horse of all things) A2 meanders off to a small pond nearby. It looks to be the end of the canyon river’s offshoot and probably contributes to the strange plant growth in the area. Murky, scummy water like this yields little to no hidden snacks in A2’s experience, but every so often they’ll find a large fish ruling the pond. They crouch in the mud and watch the water’s surface for the little shadows of insects or other water-dwelling critters. A few tiny mosquitoes and flies buzz around the stagnant water’s surface, but aside from those not much lives in the pond.

A large shadow darts across the scum-covered pond. A2’s hand shoots out on instinct, their claws primed and ready to tear through the flesh of an unsuspecting fish. Instead, their hand sinks into wet clay. They grunt in dismay, but the desperate wiggling of a terrified grub catches their attention. They curl their fingers with lighting speed and yank their arm back to examine their prize. The grub is about the size of their thumb and thrashes around with surprising vigor. Its slimy, mud-covered body is gulped down without a second thought. Grubs aren’t the tastiest, but it suffices.

Another shadow passes over A2 and the pond. Their eyes dart across the surface of the water, the instincts of a predator taking over. They watch for the smallest movements, any sign of life within the pond. Again, nothing stirs. Even the flies are gone.

A chill runs down their spine. The feathers beneath their hair stand on end. Someone is nearby. Someone is watching them.

The unnatural rustling of leaves makes A2 leap to their feet; just in time to see a boulder the size of Halua hurtling towards them. They dive out of the way as the rock slams into the pond, sending stagnant water flying out in all directions. A2 grabs their sword from the back of Emil’s cart as quick as they can as Halua snorts and paws at the dirt nervously.

A second boulder crashes to the ground next to them. This time A2 sees their assailant step out from the shadows to take advantage of their weakness. A woman, lanky and covered head to toe in filthy yellowed bandages, squares her shoulders at A2. A loose sky blue robe barely covers her body as it billows gently in the wind. In her hands she grips two identical black swords that curve wickedly, their jagged teeth glinting in the sunlight. Despite the size of their sword, A2 suddenly feels wildly outmatched in terms of raw weaponry. How have they never thought of carving teeth into this mass of iron before?

“Who are you?” the stranger asks in a calm yet clearly threatening voice. “What are you doing at my home?”

A2 opens their mouth to explain, but the woman looks at the agitated Halua and Emil’s cart. Her eyes widen when she realizes that Emil is nowhere to be seen.

“What have you done with him?!” she bellows, shifting into a crouching battle stance.

A2 hoists their own sword up, pointing it at the bandaged woman. “Nothing. He brought me here.”

She looks down at them, a sneer twisting her sharp features. “Bullshit,” she spits. “What the fuck did you do to him?!”

Before A2 can begin to explain anything, the woman leaps into a brutal attack. She soars into the air and brings down both swords on the spot where A2 once stood. If they hadn’t moved, their head would have been crushed under the weight that splits the earth they stood on. A2 retaliates with a mighty swing of their own, but the cumbersome weight of the blade makes their effort slow. The woman easily backs out of the iron blade’s reach, then shifts her balance to strike at A2’s legs with her twin swords. Her first swing barely misses but the second sword’s teeth dig into the meat of their calf. On instinct, A2 jerks away from the pain, but the sudden movements cause more of their muscles to be shredded by the cruel iron.

A2 snarls and slams their first into the woman’s jaw with enough force to push her back a few inches. They shove the pommel of their sword into her gut, making her gasp as the wind is knocked out of her. With their free hand they reach for the woman’s hair to bash her head in with their own skull, but she throws her palm into A2’s throat. They force themself not to cough or gag, but they can’t stop the spit and wheeze that escapes their mouth.

The woman throws herself and her swords at A2, not letting them have any time to regain their breath. They throw up their iron sword, using its immense size as a shield to buy themself a moment to recover. Again, the woman hops backwards to prepare another assault, but this time A2 is ready. As she bolts forward, twin blades primed to strike, A2 tucks their head low and rushes into the woman, dragging the heavy blade behind them. Just before the clash, A2 channels all their strength into a powerful overhead swing. The burns on their chest and gash in their leg scream in pain at the initial exertion, but once the blade reaches its peak, gravity brings it down. The woman nimbly dodges to the side, which A2 expects. They swing their sword in the direction she moved, forcing her to back out of the blade’s massive reach.

“Stop!!” A voice calls out from the sidelines of the fight, “Kaine! A2! Stop fighting!”

A2 makes the mistake of looking over at Emil waving his arms to get their attention. The moment they drop their guard, the woman, apparently named Kaine, rushes at A2 with blinding speed. Reacting as fast as they can, A2 lays their blade flat on the ground and waits until Kaine makes the mistake of stepping on it. The moment her foot hits just beyond the tip (and the moment before her swords cut into the bruised flesh of their throat) A2 yanks the blade skyward. Kaine’s body flies upward, reaching an impressive height before crashing back to the earth with a few choice expletives. At great pain to themself, A2 corrects the sword’s upward momentum to slam it back down on Kaine, crushing her beneath the flat of the blade.

“A2!” Emil screams, “Please stop!!”

Both fighters ignore the boy’s pleas. Kaine spits at A2, who points the tip of their sword at her jugular. All they have to do is stab and the fight will be over. Suddenly Kaine’s arm shifts, and in an instant A2’s eyes and nose are filled with stinging dirt. They stumble backwards, quickly trying to dig the tiny stones out of their face before Kaine can recover, but it’s too late. A2 blindly cowers behind their sword as Kaine repeatedly slams against it. They may be strong, but a continued assault like this will break their guard. The most they can do in the few seconds they have is blink away the dirt in their eyes and wait for an opening.

“Kaine! No!!”

A2 strains their body to jump backward out of range of Kaine’s swords while still keeping her in their range. Having seen each other’s brute strength, the clash devolves into one person trying to bait the other into revealing an opening to strike a single fatal blow. All A2 has to do is hit her once. Their blade is about the size of her body; one good strike is all it would take to break a few of her bones. However, Kaine aims for A2’s chest and legs, large targets that would cripple or kill them. Both focus entirely on the other, deaf to all but the blood thundering in their ears. For A2, their dance of brutality can only last as long as their body does. Their injuries make their movements slow and sluggish as they fight against two opponents, Kaine and the pain of untreated wounds.

Kaine shows no signs of slowing down as they rush in close after A2 misses another crushing overhead strike. They brace themself for what might be the final assault-

“ENOUGH!!” Emil shouts, his voice booming with unexpected power.

In a flash of movement the boy in bandages appears between A2 and Kaine, his arms outstretched, palms facing either combatant. A great blast of invisible force slams into them like a solid wall and sends both them and Kaine flying back several feet. A2 crashes to the ground, their sword flying uselessly away from them. They shake off the twisted feeling in their gut and stare at Emil, mouth agape.

What the hell is this kid?!

“Kaine!” Emil yells. “Would you just listen to me?!”

Kaine sits up and grumbles to herself. “Urh… Fuck’s sake, Emil. That hurts…”

“I brought A2 here,” he says, helping them to their feet first. “I found her-”

“Not a girl,” A2 interrupts.

“-In town this morning passed out by the well.”

Kaine scoffs as Emil offers his thin hand to her. “You’ve got to stop bringing wounded vagrants back here just ‘cause they tell you a shitty sob story.”

“She-... A2 wouldn’t let me help them for free. They can work off their debt in exchange for medicine and a place to rest.”

A2 watches in silence as Emil speaks for them. Typically A2 would rather speak for themself but they’d rather not risk saying the wrong thing in front of either Kaine or Emil. Before the fight their attitude might have been different, but now with all these new injuries, keeping their mouth shut is the better option.

Kaine glares at them over Emil’s shoulder, her dark eyes scrutinizing their ragged appearance and battle-scarred body. “...Fine. They can work.”

Emil sighs in relief and slips right back into his chatty habits. He all but bounces around his friend as she walks towards the entrance to her cave, regaling her with how he came across A2 and his other adventures. A2 stands in place, mesmerized by how these two wildly different people could get along so well.

Kaine looks back at them, a bored expression on her face. “Are you coming? Or are you just gonna stand outside all day?”

They nod, grab their sword, and follow her without another word.

The interior of the cave is about what A2 expects. A dank, winding path carved into the earth, lit only by a few torches burnt to embers. Several species of cave-dwelling plants are hung in pots that dangle beneath stalactites dripping a constant supply of water. As soon as A2 begins to suspect Kaine to be an insane cave hermit, they round a corner and enter a sunlit hole in the ground covered with lush vegetation and complete with a small hut made of chunks of wood. Animal skins sit in the sun, stretched out on tanning racks next to discarded crates of odd treasures A2 has no name for. Some of them look like outdated tools, others are strange gemstones or rocks. There’s even a statue of a forgotten god or two in the garbage.

Kaine fiddles with the locks on the hut’s door. Most of them are simple metal locks, but some of them have intricate runes that glow a bright purple when she waves her hand over them. A2 hopes all this security is only a desire to be left alone and not an attempt to hide something sinister. Then again, if it were the latter, A2 would be dead before they saw the hut.

The hut’s interior is cluttered with even more garbage. There’s barely enough room for the three of them to walk around. Kaine takes them through the kitchen first, and A2 is assaulted by the strong scents of spices and preservatives. Countless bundles of dried plants and meats hang by the window above jars of… things… stewing in opaque yellow liquids. Eyes, lizard feet, tongues and organs, even whole newts sit in a strange method of organization. Even more curious than this are the beautiful white flowers that glow in the dim light. They reach out to touch one, their finger brushing one of the petals, which stops glowing in response only to resume the moment they remove their touch.

“You can sleep in here,” Kaine says, pointing to a small room with only a cot against the wall. “Go ahead and settle in. I gotta talk to Emil for a second.”

A2 shuffles into the room, trying to keep their sword out of the way of Kaine and Emil. Only once the door shuts behind the two does A2 relax at all. They can’t place it now, but something about those two seems off. Their smell is wrong, not like anything they’ve smelled before. In fact, the whole hut smells the same, like the old books that sat with yellowing pages. Or like a pile of salt. Or perhaps both. Emil at least had the decency to try to cover it with herbs and spices, but Kaine seems the type to not take care of herself if she doesn’t have company.

They look at another discarded leather-bound book, its pages worn far past yellow and into brown.

Old, A2 realizes. They smell old.

#nier atuomata #nier fanfiction #fantasy au #fanfiction #A2 #Emil #kaine nier #Tanks fics

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chiseler · 4 years

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PHILIPPE SOUPAULT – MARLENE DIETRICH: “La Femme du Soir”

Like something out of a dream, the rise of Marlene Dietrich has been one of the most surprising, the most dazzling, of adventures. Barely a year ago, this young actress from Berlin was totally unknown, and now she is the most desired woman on earth. All men covet her; ardently, they wish to touch her, to breathe in her perfume. Many dream of her at night, and a few, it is said, despairing over the fact that they could never hope to approach her, preferred to put their lives to an end. This is the miracle of the almighty cinema.

Heinrich Mann, the great German novelist who wrote the screenplay for The Blue Angel – the realist film which has had such a successful run over the last six months, in its dual French and German sound versions – told me during his last visit to Paris that Marlene Dietrich had nothing but a mediocre success in the Berlin theater, where she was stubbornly made to play high society women or snobs. One day, in search of the stars for his film, Sternberg saw her on stage. She was pushed into the background, out of the spotlight, in spite of her undeniable beauty. He tried her out for the role of Lola-Lola and she was nothing short of exemplary. A sign from destiny, and her prodigious career took off.

Lost in the crowd of the theater and ignored by the papers, one imagines that a young actress in Berlin could never hope, even in her wildest of dreams, to ascend so rapidly to universal recognition. First of all, we should praise the great director Joseph von Sternberg for spotting this woman at a glance, and, with a gesture worthy of a god, for creating the Eve of 1930.

Audiences weren’t mistaken when they greeted Marlene Dietrich with roaring applause. They instantly recognized that she was not only a young, beautiful, and gracious woman, but that she was the dazzling symbol of an unseen world. It is difficult, if not to say impossible, to understand the hidden, underlying reasons which cause the “type” of woman to change roughly every twenty years. It’s clear that eternal beauty only attracts a small minority. What really gives men a start is what the Americans have tried to define as sex appeal. Yet there are many nuances to attraction, and one mustn’t lose sight of that je ne sais quoi which turns a woman into an idol. The examples are countless. In my opinion, the reason for Marlene Dietrich’s incredible and undeniable rise to success is primarily that she is the most poignant representation of the Woman of 1930. More than any other movie star, she is able to personify the more or less avowed anxieties of the men of our time; she has a frank, enchanting simplicity that offers a response to the sexual problems that we now dare to address.

Marlene Dietrich had the instinctive genius to abandon the typical mannerisms of out-of-date coquetterie in favor of a purely feminine attitude that corresponds with precision to the desires that we hesitate to avow. She has put Célimène to her death and rendered the conventions that govern contact between men and women obsolete.

Yet this attitude alone is not enough to explain the strange power that this woman exerts upon the masses. Despite her radiant beauty, Marlene Dietrich also expresses the desperation of what one might call the romanticism of the day. Her voice is not beautiful, but it is one of the most moving voices to be heard. It is what reveals her entire personality and what brings out the tragic nature that we definitively associate with her femininity. We then realize that what we are truly drawn to is her intense disillusionment. She expresses this intuition of the end of what we call a civilization; she translates our anxiety at knowing that an era, our era, is coming to a close.

The secret of Marlene Dietrich is not difficult to perceive: it resides entirely in that desperate outburst that she lets loose in life and in song. We approach her, called forth by this listless and definitive offering to a world that she no longer believes in. Her means of seduction, at once brutal and refined, are so apparent, so powerful, because the atmosphere that she envelops us in is teeming with despair.

Lastly, one must point out that Marlene Dietrich is not like the other actresses that we have loved. Notice how she’s turned us away from many stars by means of opposition. She’s made us realize just how dull and conventional most of them really are. By some mysterious stroke of luck, Marlene Dietrich seems to have been stripped of all feminine weakness at birth. More or less voluntarily, she has shunned those womanly affectations that can often be so irritating. She shows her legs and thighs, or lets us get a hint of her sex, because she knows that that is precisely what we want to see. She doesn’t want to leave us waiting; she prefers to let us know that she is beautiful and desirable, that she’s a woman. She doesn’t flaunt her desire, but expresses it with a naiveté that the coquettes would find horrifying.

We don’t know what the future holds in store for this woman. Perhaps her sudden rise to glory will be short lived; perhaps, on the altar built for her by the desire of men, another will take her place. If there is one thing that she can be sure of, it is that her name will remain a milestone in the eternal history of womankind. She has been able to represent such a deeply human figure precisely because she has been so entirely feminine.

We can however fear that her suggestiveness will inevitably be abused. Her easygoing attitude will be callously underlined, and this attitude, which was once so natural, will become cruel. She will become, like so many others, a femme fatale, when in reality she has been nothing but an expression of fatality itself.

In her next film, Morocco, to be released by Paramount as Cœurs brûlés for an exclusive run in Paris, we find that her character is nicely put to blame. She is made to lose that natural quality which made her seem so close to us… She will surely acquire much talent, while at present she simply has genius.

What’s the use in complaining? In all probability, upon coming in contact with life and art, it is necessary for the most miraculously gifted of beings to lose that which constituted their real power. Like so many others before her, Marlene Dietrich will play Marlene Dietrich. Even if there has never been a woman who better merited being called a “star.” What seduces us in these celestial bodies is, above all, the mystery that separates them from us. Because she will live a long life, because she will appear in any number of films, Marlene Dietrich will move closer and closer to us. We will come to know her better, and her presence will have less troubling of an effect upon us.

Even dreams must slowly drift apart in order for new illusions to go on moving us.

Published in Bravo (April 1931)

Translated by Noah Teichner

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nobodies-png · 5 years

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Hello!! Absolutely love your work ❤️ How do you think Riku and Sora would handle a zombie apocalypse??

Glad you like it, nonnie ! I went with a more Modern-Zombie AU here ! It’s pretty angsty c a u s e , y’kn ow, zombie aus are always s a d

Sora :

Out of the two, he’s the most reluctant to harm zombies - specially if we’re talking about someone he personally knew. It’s gonna take him a long time and training to get used to the thought of h a v i n g to kill to survive. Nightmares would plague his mind each night, while he tries to convince himself that he’s putting them out of their misery. Even though he despises firearms, he’d bring himself to learn how to use one - just so he can take down zombies quickly, instead of using more brutal weapons like in movies and videogames. Sora c o u l d use them though, he has the strength, but not the will.

His first instinct is to make sure his loved ones are safe. He might get a bit too ahead of himself and do some reckless stunts on impulse, but Sora is d e s p e r a te to know that his family and friends are okay. They’re his number one priority. No t h i n g else matters. Without them, he’d be lost and completely numb. If he found out that all of them either died or were turned, Sora would just go into a murderours rampage - forgetting all logic and reason and killing just to get it out of his system. Until there’s no zombies left or until he becomes their next meal.

If only Kairi and Riku were okay, Sora would n e v e r let anything happen to them. It doesn’t matter to him if Kairi and Riku are capable of protecting themselves, he isn’t ready to lose them again or risk the posibility of them getting hurt - he’d become obsessed with the idea of keeping everyone safe, even if it means dying in the process. It’s definitely unhealthy and heartbreaking to see.

The world might’ve turned into a much darker and cruel place, but Sora would retain that sense of warmth he always had - welcoming everyone into his group and teaching them to stay together and united no matter what. He’d end up creating a safe haven after recovering and cleaning out an entire city. A lot of people would follow him, but of course, some others would take advantage of his neverending kindness.

Due to his young age and attitude, he’d be seen as naive - but trust me, he’s not that dense. Sora is aware of all the second and third and even fourth chances he’s given to people who didn’t deserve them - but he’s too tired to get involved into fights. So instead, he tries to be as peaceful and fair as possible. If you fuck up that’s okay, you’ll be forgiven as long as you own up to your mistakes.

Don’t e v e r bring up the subject of a “cure” around him. All these years of doing what’s needed to survive have taken a toll on him - he’s had to separate lovers, tear apart families, mothers with their children, siblings, friends. He’s seen so many people die and so many continue on leaving every day, Sora doesn’t f e e l like he deserves to know anything about a cure. He was late for all these people, what would a cure do to all of them ? To all the people that were left behind ? Like, don’t get him wrong. Hope for salvation is always great news, but he would never set a foot outside to fight for said hope. He’s not the hero he used to be and he’s perfectly content with carrying on his duties in his little community.

Riku :

Riku doesn’t have a problem killing zombies. Okay, maybe he does at first - but it’s mostly the fear what holds him back. While he might have potential, he’s still just a kid facing an entirely new and dangerous world by himself. But as soon as he sheds away those last traces of empathy and sympathy away and learns that zombies aren’t and will never be who they used to, he’d have no problem in getting rid of them. If necessary. Long distance weapons are preferred, but he’d use anything that he can get his hands on.

Riku would try to figure out if his loved ones are okay too - but only after making sure he’s in condition to do so. Like, what help can he be if he just rushes out unarmed ? Friends and family are also everything to him, but unlike Sora who n e e d s their presence to be strong, Riku i s strong for the sake of everyone he wishes to protect. To support them like they’ve supported him in moments of need. If he found out that everyone he cares about is dead or turned into a zombie, Riku would insist on proving them wrong - his friends taught him to keep on believing and moving on no matter what, so if his heart tells him they’re alive, then sorry Janet, but they a r e. In the end, he’d blind himself with false ideas of hope to force himself to keep pushing foward.

If everyone were okay, though, then he’d be extremely relieved and would do his best to ensure their survival and safety. But if rumours about a possible cure started spreading around, Riku would gladly drop everything and set out to help finding it. Sure, everything might be dandy now, but he n e e d s to be one step ahead and think of the future - wouldn’t it be better if the world was safe once again ? Unlike Sora, he doesn’t want the deaths of all those victims to be in vain or sit around doing nothing, seeing more and more people die.

Chances are he’ll venture into the world by himself after having a big argument with Sora - but like the stubborn mules they are, neither of them is willing to come to an agreement so Riku sets off to find a cure as soon as he can, leaving no trace and no possibility of following. Cause he k n o w s that sooner or later, Kairi and Sora would most likely end up trying to find him. Probably ends up being followed by a stray animal instead, like a dog or a cat that he’ll name Pluto.

Riku would gain a reputation among other camps and groups as a solitary wanderer, which means a lot of encounters along the way - both good and bad. He’d send the friends he made back towards Sora’s camp, to both help and to let them know that he’s still out there kicking ass. At some point, he’ll probably end up killing another human being in self defense, but at this point Riku’s completely numb to the death and misery around him.

And even if it did affect him, Riku would never go back on his promise to find a cure. This is something he feels like he h a s to do - not for money, fame or to prove anything. Just for his friends, family and a chance to live another day next to them, without fear of being devoured at any time. Man, I meant to end this on a bittersweet / happy note, but now i’m thinking of Riku finding a cure and going back home, expecting Sora and Kairi to welcome him with open arms only to find that either one or both have died or turned into zombies. Whatever you do, don’t think aBOUT THAT SAD OUTCOME -

#kh headcanons #zombie AU #sora #riku #Anonymous

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rydain · 5 years

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Author's Notes from a Modern Brutale - Liberties of Adaptation

Tip of the iceberg canons are fun as hell for me to write for because they allow for such freedom of personal influence in sorting out their unstated specifics. I prefer to go more interpretative than compliant, building on the broad strokes of personality and chemistry and setting that strike me the most - bringing in the particulars that fit my greater vision, shrugging off those that don't, and giving a good yank to the author's strings as needed. As the Chips Fall toward their finale, I figured it would be fun to look back on some particulars of development for the cast and the manor that brought them all together.

Here there be spoilers, both for my series and The Sexy Brutale, if you wish to settle in for a long look behind the curtain.

Tequila

The glass shattering siren from modest means is drawn along the lines of a Deep Southern belle or a Texan pageant queen. Her roots wound up a ways north for me, though far enough in Appalachian coal country to be within that cultural ballpark, thanks to My Old Kentucky Home - just too perfect a song for the hope and homesickness of leaving town and country behind for such a foreign world of glamour. Kentucky's patchwork of dry counties also has special relevance to a particular paint can banging uncle I saw fit to imagine as an ace moonshiner.

I wrote Tequila as a rising star rather than an established one to explore the challenges of fitting into that new world - the polish of fashion and posture and speech and presence, the countless social norms learned on the fly but perhaps never fully internalized. The sense of impostor syndrome thus resulting, the conflict between pride in what she had earned for herself and the fear that she was only this far ahead because of Lucas - and that without him, she would only go right back to where she was. I made the two of them official beyond the canonical winking and nudging because she seemed too well stuck on him for an unrequited crush. This also got her across the pond early in her career for the challenges of culture shock and self-doubt outlined above.

Willow

Canonically a purveyor of curiosities and wrangler of eldritch horror, Willow was a tough one to develop within my idea of modern heightened reality. With her creation of charms and a mention of voodoo, I reimagined her as a consultant and adviser with deep family roots in the faith, and her second sight as an instinctive bent toward conversation that amounts to effective cold reading. This involves communication with spirits who Willow would have a literal sense of speaking to - especially Baron Samedi, lwa of death brought to mind by her skull motif, who can assist with the transitions of loss experienced by Tequila and others at the Brutale, and is very much the type to get handsy with lovely ladies.

Willow established her career in New Orleans' French Quarter near the voodoo shops of Rue Royal, inheriting a small townhouse from a beloved aunt who mentored her in such traditions. Word of mouth and within walking distance, her ecosystem supports a frugal lifestyle based on folkways and homesteading skills learned growing up in the bayou - which, along with an understated modest aesthetic, gives Willow a sense of having stepped out of time. This is a point of compatibility with Tequila and her focus on the classic jazz age and the Great American Songbook, modern music along similar lines, and subtly updated vintage style to complete her timeless presence. More fundamentally, both of them work with the emotional texture of everyday lives - stories that Tequila embodies onstage and Willow seeks in her clients with a guiding hand toward a rewrite.

Greyson

I gave Mr. Yolo Swaggins a hand up toward reformation catalyzed by the shock of a prison sentence he subconsciously courted to kick his own arse toward a clean break. This made for a focus on conflicts of the legitimacy Greyson wants so badly to earn. As a professional, he needs to work with difficult types like Thanos, who values traditional university education and thinks his secrets to be well beyond what he sees as inferior intellect, and Clay, who Greyson could bond with over a rude sense of humor and understanding of each other's cynicism - in turn, sharing respect and eventual friendship rather than begrudging acceptance for Redd's sake. Greyson continues to wrestle with temptations of larceny and proving himself to be beyond them, ultimately rejecting the torment and manipulation of a treasure hunt - Lucas' cruel generosity of playing to others' vices for his own amusement. Which Redd plays his own part in, saving Greyson in the psychological sense rather than physically hauling him out of trouble - helping to reinforce the stability Greyson is already working to develop, and that he gravitates toward Redd to share in.

Greyson's considerable ego - once a force behind the more elaborate and higher risk schemes he took part in - is now fed by his infiltration and analysis of locks and safes and security systems, his determination to be better than the epithets granted by his criminal record and prove his naysayers wrong with a glorious display of upright professional competence. Of course he's not above ripping off some scam or another, but Clay does appreciate the unofficial backup.

Redd

By way of this adorable cartoon and followup ask from @frayed-symphony , Redd likes to read. I extrapolated this into university study of literature and a keen sense of wordplay including all the best worst sorts of puns - an embrace of his awkward streak implied by those untucked shirttails and the Old Habits dance lyrics fail. He works through dense classics with the analytical focus of his piano playing, and he gravitates toward biographies and memoirs of infamous figures who lived much larger lives than his Good Boy nature and risk aversion would ever allow. This fascination also influences his attraction to Greyson and his intrigue of Lucas' employ and the Brutale itself, which Redd feels some desire to properly belong to beyond his initial goal of performing piano. Lucas takes a certain interest in Redd as well, wondering what hidden fatal flaw must reside in someone so upright and considered. Redd doesn't have anything nearly as spectacular as the likes of Greyson. Rather, there are natural disadvantages to his polite reserve - hesitation to go after various personal and professional goals, struggle to provide emotional support to Tequila out of discomfort with that messy and potentially prying sort of talk. Redd needs to learn from someone like Willow, with her well developed emotional intelligence, that he's overthinking the matter like so many others.

Redd plays a strong supporting role throughout my work. Favorite characters tend to do that, and he strikes me as a backbone of the Brutale anyhow - a highly capable, dependable, and well liked linchpin of the casino and music hall. His performance career had a good nudge from Greyson, who convinced Redd that he deserved to take the spotlight instead of feeling that it would be unseemly to ask - seizing a chance as he saw it rather than enduring in silence with that stoicism so clear in his game counterpart's somber expression.

The Rockridge bros lift because of shameless personal bias, because Redd needs to get his cage bending strength somewhere, and because I love the imagined contrast of their training - Redd lifting with meditative focus, Clay forcing himself through the most brutal of circuits because it's not a real workout until he's cursing in a lake of sweat. GO HAM OR GO HOME

Clay

With his responsibilities as head of security and care for Trinity beyond their good-natured trolling, Clay came off as a lovable roughneck rather than someone far more abrasive. He and Redd were implied to run the casino together on various occasions, so I imagined that he shared a close bond, mutual protectiveness, and a measured share of bickering with his much gentler brother. Clay is perceptive about scams and the people apt to run them and just as myopic about Redd's romantic proclivities because whatever happens in the flat - and not very often for either of them - tends to occur when they're on opposite shifts. Redd has good reason to know that Clay is accepting - and he is, beyond his initial frustration that of all the blokes in the world, why did it have to be a flashy, arrogant ex-con strutting around on every last one of his nerves? - but he also thinks it would be something he'd feel a need to explain, which of course he can't. This all let me play that eventual talk for laughs and brotherly bonding with just a fun fleeting touch of embarrassment.

Clay has an intense nature and a self-punishing, self-destructive streak that fueled both his prize fighting career and alcoholism. Despite being the older of the two, he long since felt that he lived in Redd's quiet academic shadow, which caused him to give up on himself in various ways that he regrets. Trinity helps Clay to see his life, lumps and bumps and all, as experiences that tested him and left him better for the wear.

Trinity

Trinity first tried sculpting out of stubbornness to prove herself so capable, especially as her overprotective parents thought it would be nigh impossible. She took off well enough that her well off family willingly supported the study of working with expensive materials, the extra tutelage required to do so by touch, and her life in general until her work became steady enough to rely on. Annoyed at the fussy mores of her stuffier relations and the wealthy sorts who commission her, Trinity finds Clay's blunt and unfiltered nature refreshing. Her part time assistant, who helps with tasks beyond the capabilities of touch or muscle memory or adaptive technology, has a sense of down to earth polish and similar head for eloquent vulgarity.

After her in-game rescue, Trinity encourages an already trolleyed Clay to do shots. Rather than think she was bringing him down, unwittingly or otherwise, I see her as a hedonist who overestimates others' ability to compartmentalize. It's just a party - what's the harm in a bit of excess? Rather than feed Clay's alcoholism, Trinity helps him out of it - genuinely appreciating him just as he is, which inspires him to appreciate himself just the same.

Canonically, Trinity and Tequila are stepsisters in some official sense of the term. In my AU, this particular connection would have been difficult to make naturally because they grew up so differently, separated by an ocean and levels of financial means. In the game, the stepsister relationship implies a closeness between the two, gives Lucas a means of introduction to Tequila after admiring her from afar, and piles on the horror when Trinity finds Tequila's body in the laundry chute. The same sort of closeness arises, with found sisterly implications and all, as Tequila is adopted into Trinity's circles by way of her friendship with Redd. Tequila meets Lucas through the posh New Orleans parties she is hired to sing at and thus needs no other connection to him.

Lucas

So here we are in this hopeful world of competence and agency and self-actualization. And then there's Lucas - who I couldn't stand to leave as enough of a knobhead to not only pull an insurance fraud scam in the first place, but contrive it into a flagrant courting of disaster that I don't see myself ever forgiving his canon incarnation for. Then perhaps a magnificent trash fire as opposed to a dumpster inferno, so let's have at him, shall we?

My Brutale can be saved and is heavily implied to be. For that, I planted some seeds of Lucas' sense and a slow trend toward dialing back the worst of himself. He shows a capacity for analytic thought in his artistic patronage, biting poetic wit, and often successful divining of others' deepest desires. He keeps a modest office and cultivates a friendship with Willow, first seen as a quaint curiosity and soon respected for her straightforward insight and steadfast way of pitting such against his own. Lucas wants to do better on some level, but is welded to his identity as a master of ceremonies and peddler of overindulgence, as a grandiose gambler who very much meant to make a bad bet or three because he wound up with a better one eventually and a good story in the bargain. He gravitates toward people with stories of their own, and who have vices he finds amusing to play with, or who fascinate him - and perhaps somewhat frustrate him - because he can't figure out their downfall.

Lucas' issues are more of psychology than cash flow, and able to be turned around before his ledgers go fatally red. Before the worst can happen, other personal losses show Lucas the need to put real work into himself and his dealings - to fight his compulsions toward high risk propositions and assorted impractical excess, to face his failures of neglect and mitigate their fallout.

Eleanor

In the game, Eleanor is an archetype of purity whose forgiveness is meant to redeem Lucas in the player's eyes. I meant to parlay her cheeky macabre quirks into an endearingly oddball artist with an anthropomorphic sense of humor and a larger than life sense of whimsy, fundamentally compatible with Lucas and apt to help him toward his senses. Eleanor is as intrigued by the Brutale's legends as Tequila is tired of their absurdity, breezy and casually polished as Tequila struggles to play the lady of the manor in structured couture. They meet on neutral terms to be naturally contrasted but not cruelly so, and very much without tired tropes of romantic rivalry.

Lafcadio

A symbol of repentance for sins, canonically a separate character as per the origin comic, which made me very happy because he's interesting to envision as an actual person beyond some idealized facet of Lucas’ personality. In my take, Lucas admired Lafcadio's ability to walk away from the Brutale as it was dragging him down. They both preferred to tell the story as the spectacular bet from the comic - a fateful game of roulette - that Lafcadio arguably came out on top of by ditching this liability. This echoes the theme of rock bottom arse kick that my Greyson gets well ahead of time, and canon Lucas doesn't until it's far too late.

Lafcadio and Willow both intrigue Lucas with the depth of their respective faiths. They bond over their insights into their host and desire to inspire him toward better, though Willow is limited by never having seen the Brutale in its prior incarnation, or Lucas at his worst. In my narrative, Willow works behind the scenes by helping people unearth their own deeper truths and provide emotional support to others, mirroring Lafcadio's role in the game - though he will go on, offscreen as this might be, to likewise mirror the Willownage of Lucas that needs to continue.

The Sexy Brutale

Loath to commit the British equivalent of dropping a small city of a warehouse store on top of Tequila's old trailer in Closplint, Kentucky, I researched stately homes for inspiration toward location and overall aesthetic. I later learned I could have handwaved one within brief vague driving distance of any city, and perhaps in the city itself. Still I'm most confident in my sense of veracity when I can point to a spot on a map to rebrand. In this case, Somerleyton Hall, within train commuting and day trip distances of various points of interest, and with an appealing style and a clock tower that sealed the deal. As did its 19th century transformation by a private entrepreneur - which, in my alternate reality, would have been supervised by a master builder named Gorecki, whose descendants continued on with his upgrades and maintenance of the manor. Its adjusted name is Somerthwaite after the meadow surrounding it, thanks to a jaunt down the rabbit hole of Anglo-Saxon geographic nomenclature to ensure I wasn't trying to bollocks the manor on the edge of an active volcano.

British manor houses are so varied and eclectic that a place like the Brutale seems more matter of course than bombastic fantasy. Casinos in the UK were all private clubs until recently and can certainly carry on as such, and any property can house the owner's particular interests. To balance homage with my sense of historic floor plans, I kept the common areas of interest with some remodeling - great hall, casino, theater, music hall and practice rooms, library, conservatory, gardens - and closed off the south end of the west wing as Lucas' private quarters. The basement is for utilities and storage, the uppermost floor for guest rooms both rented and bespoke for close friends of Lucas.

#the sexy brutale #as the chips fall #tequila belle #willow blue #greyson grayson #redd rockridge #clay rockridge #trinity carrington #lucas bondes #eleanor sixpence #lafcadio boone #writing #meta

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phosphorescent-naidheachd · 6 years

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Evaluating Sansa’s Betrayal in AGOT

@ John Hodgman, I cordially invite you to fight me over these comments in your 2016 intro to A Game of Thrones: The Illustrated Edition: “After all, it’s Sansa’s escapist addiction to the old tales and the romantic pablum of Florian and Jonquil that fuels her great, catastrophic betrayal of the actual humans around her.”

Although I’m a huge Sansa fan, I’m not one of those people who believes that she bears no culpability for the consequences of having told Cersei about her father’s intention to take them away from King’s Landing. BUT. To call her actions not merely a betrayal or even a catastrophic betrayal, but a “great, catastrophic betrayal” is utter bullshit, and by focusing solely on Sansa’s “escapist addiction” to romances, you’re flattening the factors behind her (admittedly poor) decision to trust Cersei, and indeed the factors behind her willingness to buy into those romantic songs in the first place. I understand the point you’re making, but I also think you’re rather overstating it.

Let’s break this claim down piece by piece, shall we?

1. Sansa’s “escapist addiction” to romances

There’s no denying that Sansa loves romantic tales and ballads, nor that---thanks to a sheltered childhood---she mistakenly believes them to be unalloyed truth. However, look at the context of her upbringing. Sansa has been raised in a patriarchal society that encourages her to believe in these songs, largely because they reinforce existing social roles and make her easier to control. Moreover, it’s clear that as of the beginning of AGOT, no authority figure has seriously tried to teach Sansa otherwise. I don’t believe this was done maliciously---I think that her parents and Septa Mordane don’t want to disillusion her quite yet, and assume that there’s still plenty of time left to teach her the realities of the world before she leaves Winterfell. (And if it weren’t for the death of Jon Arryn, they might even have been right! Though I also think there’s an element of self-delusion at work in this line of thinking, as I’ll get into later in #2.) I also get the sense that Sansa sometimes slips through the cracks a bit because she isn’t a ‘problem child’; Sansa is far from perfect, but she’s generally well-behaved and she naturally fits into the idealized Westerosi conception of a noblewoman. The gaps in her education and emotional maturity aren’t as immediately glaringly obvious as, say, Arya’s are, and that makes it easy for a busy adult to put those gaps on a back burner to deal with some nebulous time ‘later’. (Arya slips through the cracks too, but it’s a different set of cracks, if that makes any sense. Despite their differences, both Sansa and Arya are failed by prescribed Westerosi gender roles, but that’s a discussion for another day.)

Also, anyone who is reading ASOIAF for pleasure doesn’t really have a foot to stand on regarding enjoying escapist fantasies, IMO. The world of ASOIAF may be “brutal”, as you say, but that doesn’t mean visiting it isn’t a form of escapism. Fiction of any form is inherently escapist, even as it often acts as a mirror that forces us to confront aspects of our own reality. (I don’t know if I’d entirely agree that GRRM has “captured the authentic meanness of the medieval world” either, by the way---he notoriously makes certain aspects of life in Westeros worse than they were in RL medieval Europe---but that’s also a conversation for another day.)

To be certain, Sansa internalizes fictional narratives more than your average reader of the series, but that’s partially because, at least on a surface level, her life easily could become one that belongs in the songs she loves. For instance, long before King Robert suggests betrothing Sansa to Joffrey, it’s not wholly in the realm of fantasy for her to dream of marrying a prince; considering her position in life, it’s a solid potential actuality. (Once again, more on this later in #2.) Sansa doesn’t fully understand what being part of a song would mean for her---that is to say, high romance generally necessitates high tragedy---nor does she fully appreciate the responsibilities and costs associated with becoming royalty, but considering she’s eleven/twelve years old in AGOT? That’s perfectly normal for a noble girl her age, even within the context of the universe of ASOIAF. (Are there exceptions to this? Absolutely. But that’s what they are: exceptions.) Just look at Alla and Elinor and Megga Tyrell!

Furthermore, while there’s an element of escapism to Sansa’s love of songs---when we first meet her, Sansa can’t wait to go South and have her ‘real’ life begin---I would argue that Sansa doesn’t actively indulge in much escapism or self-delusion until after the Baratheons arrive at Winterfell. Even after seeing Joffrey’s cruelty at Ruby Ford, she forces herself---and him---into the narratives that she loves and has been implicitly taught that she should emulate right up to the point where denial becomes impossible (i.e. her father’s execution). This is because one of Sansa’s innate survival/coping mechanisms is her ability to lie to herself as much as to others; we see this most clearly in AGOT and in AFFC.* So when the events at the Ruby Ford occur in AGOT, Sansa’s initial instinct is to ‘forget’ what actually happened. (This is aided by the fact that Joffrey had been plying her with wine---far more, we’re explicitly told, than she’s ever been allowed to drink before.) It isn’t just that she doesn’t want her golden prince and fairytale future to have been a lie---though that’s certainly a key motivator!---or callousness towards a peasant boy or frustration with her sister’s refusal to play according to societal rules (though these are both certainly present), but it’s also that she’s being questioned about events in front of an audience... in front of individuals with tremendous power over her, both because they’re royalty and because they’re her future family members.

As Sansa has undoubtedly been taught, once a woman is married, her first loyalty must be to her husband and his family over the family of her birth. And while it’s true that betrothed is not the same thing as married, betrothals seem to be taken relatively seriously in Westeros. You can certainly argue that had Eddard Stark been aware of Joffrey’s true nature earlier, he would have broken the betrothal, but A. Sansa has no way to know that, B. breaking a betrothal is much easier said than done when dealing with royalty, especially when you’re going to be in close quarters with them for the foreseeable future, and C. as we’ll realize later, Ned is perfectly willing to let the (pretense of a?) betrothal stand if it will allow him to further investigate Jon Arryn’s death. What happened on the banks of the Trident was terrifying, it happened quickly, Sansa was tipsy, and if she speaks out one way or the other she’ll have to make a choice between her sister or the man who is going to be her husband... with deeply unpleasant consequences for herself (and likely Arya as well) regardless of which version of events she chooses to support. With all of this in mind, it’s easy enough for her to convince herself that it’s all a blur. So while Sansa’s (likely subconscious) decision to ‘forget’ what happened on the banks of the Trident isn’t admirable, it is understandable.

Ultimately, it isn’t Sansa’s fascination with romantic songs that fuels her poor decisions so much as it is the society that encourages her to believe in them. If notions like ‘baseborn < trueborn’, ‘outer beauty = inner goodness’, and ‘proper behavior = rewards’ weren’t given weight in real life---even if only on the surface---it would be much harder for her to cling to the version of reality that the songs are peddling.

Once again, none of this is to say that Sansa lacks all culpability for her actions due to her socialization. Sansa’s decisions are her own. My point is merely that her “escapist addiction” to romances isn’t the true root of the problem... it’s the society that created and perpetuated those songs to begin with.

*In AFFC, Sansa has consciously begun the process of being Alayne all the time as per Littlefinger’s words. (How well she’ll succeed in this---at least in the short term---is impossible to predict until we get TWOW.) She also has subconsciously transformed the memory of her encounter with Sandor Clegane during the traumatic Battle of Blackwater Bay into one that fits better in one of her beloved romances; in this altered memory, rather than threaten her in a sexually-tinged manner while holding a dagger to her throat, Sandor merely steals a kiss and a song.

Note that Sansa began this subconscious transformation of her memory in ASOS by adding in a kiss and taking away the dagger: “He'd come to her the night of the battle stinking of wine and blood. He kissed me and threatened to kill me, and made me sing him a song”. By the time AFFC has rolled around, however, she has seemingly eliminated the memory of his threats altogether, while still keeping in the kiss and using language vaguely reminiscent of a wedding’s cloaking and bedding: “She could still remember how it felt, when his cruel mouth pressed down on her own. He had come to Sansa in the darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak”.

2. Sansa’s betrayal of her family in King’s Landing

Sansa and Arya are both criminally unprepared for life at court in AGOT. This is somewhat excusable in that if Jon Arryn hadn’t died, they wouldn’t have needed to be prepared yet. However, anyone with a particle of political sense could have seen that there was a solid 90% possibility of Sansa becoming betrothed to Joffrey someday. There just aren’t that many daughters from the Great Houses of the right age in the Seven Kingdoms at this point in time. Add in the fact that the current king considers Eddard Stark his brother and was once betrothed to a Stark himself, and the likelihood of Sansa being chosen doubles or even triples.

So why haven’t Sansa’s parents and septa furthered her political education beyond knowing her sigils and courtesies? (Both of which are certainly important, but there’s only so far Sansa can go on them alone.) Sansa’s a tad young for a betrothal, but she’s not so young that her parents shouldn’t be making plans in that direction... Catelyn, after all, wasn’t much older than AGOT!Sansa when she was first betrothed to Brandon Stark. And even if they haven’t started making plans for Sansa, it’s very odd that Robb, the heir, is still unbetrothed at fourteen/fifteen.

The real reason, of course, is the Doylist one: GRRM needed to write it that way for the plot to work, just as he needed both Stark girls to be poorly chaperoned and without a proper retinue of ladies-in-waiting. From a Watsonian perspective, however, the primary answer is that both of the Stark parents---but particularly Ned---are suffering from PTSD from the events surrounding Robert’s Rebellion and subconsciously don’t want to teach their children these things or to plan too far ahead into their futures; to do so would mean acknowledging that their children are growing up and will eventually have to leave their circle of protection. This is especially true for their treatment of Sansa and Arya, since according to chivalric sexism, noble girls are ‘innocent’ and in need of protection longer than their male counterparts. Ned Stark in particular seems to feel the urge to shelter and indulge Sansa and Arya, likely due to the trauma of having watched his 16-year-old sister’s death. Besides, there’s always something more immediately urgent, which makes it easy for both parents to procrastinate. This isn’t to say that the Starks didn’t impart valuable lessons to their children, but at the end of the day, they still neglected certain key areas of their children’s education.

Unfortunately, not only are the Stark children unprepared for court politics, but no adult takes any steps to fix this problem once they know that the King is riding to Winterfell. No ‘onscreen’ steps are taken to prepare the Stark girls after Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey is fixed, nor while traveling on the King’s Road, nor even during their time at King’s Landing. In fact, the closest we see to Sansa getting an education on what ruling might mean is when her septa takes her to watch her father acting as Hand in the throne room, and he is less than pleased about it: “He caught a glimpse of Septa Mordane in the gallery, with his daughter Sansa beside her. Ned felt a flash of anger; this was no place for a girl. But the septa could not have known that today's court would be anything but the usual tedious business of hearing petitions, settling disputes between rival holdfasts, and adjudicating the placement of boundary stones”. On one hand, Ned does have a point in wanting to protect his eleven-year-old daughter from hearing about the Mountain’s deeds; talk about nightmare fuel! On the other hand, he can’t protect her forever, and he brought a seven-year-old boy to watch an execution; there’s clearly a bit of a gender-based double-standard going on here.

Instead, the girls are poorly chaperoned by a single elderly septa, which is just begging for trouble... and trouble indeed arrives, starting with the events on the banks of the Ruby Ford. If Arya had been properly chaperoned, she never would have been able to run off to play with Mycah (the butcher’s boy), and if Sansa had been properly chaperoned, she wouldn’t have been placed in a position where she was the sole eyewitness to the incident with Joffrey, Arya, and Mycah. But that’s just one incident, you say? Don’t worry, there are plenty of others, the clearest one being the time that Septa Mordane gets drunk and falls asleep at a feast, leaving Sansa entirely at the mercy of Joffrey, Sandor, and anyone else who might walk by.

Moreover, Ned knows that the Lannisters aren’t trustworthy. He knows that something is rotten in King’s Landing. Arya gets a very vague warning (“We have come to a dark dangerous place, child. This is not Winterfell. We have enemies who mean us ill. We cannot fight a war among ourselves”) from him, but Sansa doesn’t even get that. I’m not saying that he necessarily should have told Sansa about his investigation, mind you---that’s a large burden to place on any child, AGOT!Sansa is not good at intentional deception yet, and she likely wouldn’t have initially believed him anyway. This doesn’t change the fact that Ned should have told her something to help prepare her for the very real dangers of King’s Landing. He should have known better than to believe that keeping Sansa ignorant would keep her safe; just look at the brutal murders of Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen for a start...

Yes, the Queen and Prince are directly responsible for Lady’s death, and yes the king is indirectly responsible for not stopping it, but once again: Sansa is a preteen girl. Of course she doesn’t want to believe that the family she’s going to marry into is truly at fault for the loss of her direwolf or that all of her long-held dreams are just illusions. It’s easy as a reader to say that that event and the murder of Mycah should have been warning enough for Sansa, but from Sansa’s perspective it’s not nearly so clear, especially since Joffrey framed his torture of Mycah as traditional courtly behavior (i.e. ‘defending’ Arya, who is a highborn maiden and the sister of his betrothed). For one thing, Sansa doesn’t have all the clues we as readers do to let us know that the Baratheon-Lannisters are Bad News(TM). (In fact, unlike the rest of the Stark children, Sansa has no notion that there might be serious enmity between the houses of Lannister and Stark---as opposed to just between Jaime Lannister and her father---until it’s too late.) For another, while her father might have protested Lady’s execution, he still went along with it in the end without much of a fight, so it’s not as though the royal family are the only ones to have ‘betrayed’ her. Besides, her father is still friends with Robert and she’s still betrothed to Joffrey... that wouldn’t be the case if the royal family was untrustworthy or cruel, would it? Of course not.

When Ned tells the girls that they’re leaving King’s Landing, he never actually explains why and he refuses to let them so much as say goodbye to anyone. It’s only natural that Sansa is confused and upset by this! From her perspective, this drastic action came out of nowhere. She certainly doesn’t understand that going to Cersei is dangerous or a betrayal. She sees it as ‘my father’s being unreasonable, so I’m going to go to my mother(in-law-to-be) and ask her to talk some sense into him and fix everything’.

While Cersei was the one to push for Lady’s death, Sansa has otherwise only ever gotten a sympathetic impression of Cersei; when around Sansa, Cersei has appeared solely as a courteous queen and the dignified victim of her husband’s drunken abuse. If Sansa wants to stay in King’s Landing, who else can she go to? Her father refuses to listen to her protestations or to explain anything to her, her septa only says that she shouldn’t question her father, and most of her other acquaintances don’t have any sway over her father’s decisions. That only leaves the Royal family, but Sansa finds King Robert too intimidating to approach alone. (“The king could command Father to let her stay in King's Landing and marry Prince Joffrey, Sansa knew he could, but the king had always frightened her. He was loud and rough-voiced and drunk as often as not, and he would probably have just sent her back to Lord Eddard, if they even let her see him.”) And although Sansa believes herself in love with her “gallant prince” Joffrey, she seems to find him intimidating too, if this quote of hers from a feast is any indication: “Sansa looked at him and trembled, afraid that he might ignore her or, worse, turn hateful again”. Ultimately, that leaves Cersei as Sansa’s only real choice.

Sansa is short-sighted and selfish when she tells Cersei what little she knows of her father’s plans, but she isn’t actively trying to choose sides in a war, let alone betray anyone. She’s a preteen who just wants her life to go back to what it’s ‘supposed’ to be according to what she’s been taught; what, up until now, it more or less has been. Right now, the worst thing she can imagine happening is what’s already happening---her father forcing her away from the glittering court, from her beloved Joffrey, and from her future as Queen. She knows her father will be angry with her for disobeying him, but it will all work out for the best this way, right?

3. How “great” and “catastrophic” Sansa’s betrayal actually was

Finally, let’s tackle the “great, catastrophic” part of Sansa’s betrayal. When Sansa goes to Cersei, she’s largely only confirming what Cersei already knew. And how did Cersei know this information? Because Eddard Stark himself told her as part of his warning. (In fact, if we go by the calculations by the brilliant people who put this exhaustive ASOIAF spreadsheet together, there were 3-4 days in between when Ned confronted Cersei and when Sansa went to her.) The only new information Sansa provided Cersei with was that her father wanted to get herself and Arya away--something that Cersei had likely already surmised--as well as the date, time, and location for that departure, thus giving Cersei a more complete and specific understanding of Ned’s plans.

In practical terms, this means that the primary consequence of Sansa informing Cersei was to negate Ned’s ability to get Sansa, Arya, and other members of the Stark household safely out of King’s Landing before shit started to go down. (Of course, keep in mind that even if Sansa hadn’t gone to Cersei, the success of that plan wasn’t a forgone conclusion.) Now don’t get me wrong, if Ned’s plan to get his household out of the city had worked, that would have been a tremendous improvement over what happened in the original canon timeline, not only for Sansa and Arya, but also for the many innocent Stark retainers who were killed by guards at the Red Keep and for poor Jeyne Poole. That said, it wouldn’t necessarily have changed all of the catastrophic things that happened to the Stark family as a whole. Chances are good that Ned still would have been executed for his ‘treason’ or been quietly offed in his cell. And once Ned was killed, the North’s involvement in the war became pretty much inevitable. Any consequences beyond that are difficult to accurately predict due to the butterfly effect, but I highly doubt the Starks’ lives would have been all rainbows and butterflies. There’s a war ahead, and their enemies include people like Petyr Baelish, Tywin Lannister, and---unless they end up allying with (f)Aegon in this AU---eventually Varys and Illyrio Mopatis. The remaining Starks’ lives probably would have been less traumatic than in canon, but that’s not exactly a high bar to clear, y’know?

Conclusion:

What happens to the Starks in ASOIAF in general and in AGOT in particular is catastrophic... but Sansa’s actions in AGOT are not the primary cause. Petyr Baelish, Lysa Arryn, the Lannisters, the Boltons, the Freys, Varys... even Ned and Catelyn Stark themselves are more immediately at fault for what befalls the Stark family than Sansa. (Which isn’t to say that all of the above parties are even remotely equally culpable!)

One of Sansa’s tragedies is that she embodies and does everything her society has told her she ought to be and do as a Westerosi noblewoman and she still gets screwed over. Everyone gets screwed over by the Westerosi patriarchy, highborn and low, man and woman; even girls who naturally fit into the mold of Westerosi womanhood and possess almost every possible societal advantage aren’t safe. As many of our protagonists of ASOIAF learn, following the chivalric rules of the songs will aid you to a certain degree, but it will only protect you as long as everyone else is playing by those rules too; and, as Petyr Baelish warns Sansa---though admittedly not without external motives---“life is not a song”.

That said, a portion of the ASOIAF fanbase has misunderstood part of the point of this series. Yes, unalloyed belief in the romantic songs is stupid and will only lead to self-delusion and disaster and heartbreak, but that doesn’t mean that we should discount the songs altogether either. Don’t get me wrong: many of the messages propagated by Sansa’s songs are bullshit. The good are not always beautiful, and the beautiful are not always good. Most people aren’t entirely ‘good’ or ‘bad’. ‘Moral’ choices are not always rewarded and ‘immoral’ choices are not always punished. In fact, there isn’t always a clearcut ‘right’ moral decision available, just different gradients of bad ones. Heroism isn’t always sallying forth with a sword, and sallying forth with a sword is not always heroism. A person’s social status or adherence to social ideals is no indicator of their quality as a person. And so on.

However, it is in romantic songs like the ones that Sansa so loves that we also find ideals worth striving towards... ideals like selfless love, loyalty, justice, kindness, duty, and mercy. Just because those ideals may not reflect reality or may be warped by an imperfect society is no excuse not to try to make them reality when and where we can, whether we are successful in it or not. In fact, it is because reality does not always reflect or reward these ideals that they are so important. Without hope for something better and a willingness to work towards it, we’re left with a world filled with only Tywin Lannisters, Petyr Baelishes, Cersei Lannisters, and Gregor Cleganes... and that would be a sad world indeed.

When Sandor Clegane says the following to Sansa in ACOK, we aren’t supposed to agree with him: “There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can't protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don't ever believe any different". The truth lies somewhere in between the brutality of so much of the world and the perfection of the songs. Most knights may not be ‘true’ knights and the ‘truest' of knights may not be actual knights at all, but that doesn’t mean that the concept is without value. That doesn’t mean that the purpose of ‘true’ knights is worthless. You shouldn’t count on being saved by the actions a ‘true’ knight or by acting like a ‘true’ lady, but you should evince the best qualities of those roles yourself.

ASOIAF is absolutely about death and betrayal and despair, but it’s also about love and loyalty and hope. It’s about existential romanticism and existential triumph. It’s about looking the abyss in the eye, but refusing to let yourself become it.

I think you understand this, at least in part, because you yourself say in the introduction that “This [the fact that so many of the characters suffer, often pointlessly, and fail] may sound very bleak and cynical, but it ends up being the glory of the novel. Because it makes the triumphs, when they come, more earned, human, and exciting. It reminds us of and honors our own victories, helps us make sense of our own reversals, and warns us against our vanities.”

A Game of Thrones may not be “very kind to fantasy”, but I would argue that GRRM is quite fond of fantasy; he just wants us to remember that neither the trappings of high fantasy (crowns, tourneys, magic, wars, etc.) nor true heroism ever come without a cost.

In conclusion: I understand where you’re coming from, and I understand that you didn’t have the necessary amount of space in your introduction to go into this level of detail, but... (ง'̀-'́)ง

#am i overreacting here due to YEARS of fans saying that sansa is The Worst Ever(TM) for making this mistake? quite possibly lol #but this is a meta that's been percolating in my head for quite a while & was going to be written even before i read hodgman's intro #sansa stark #asoiaf meta #sansa stark meta #a game of thrones meta #asoiaf #a game of thrones #meta #asoiaf women #things done by phos #long post #team sansa #cersei lannister #eddard stark #arya stark #septa mordane #joffrey baratheon #sandor clegane

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