#he’s exercising his free speech

[running-with-kn1ves]

Fitness Trainer

A/N: I blended some french terms of endearment with English don't come for me. But is Antoine really French, or is he feigning this way to get closer to you? (Had a fem idea for this too)

Synopsis: Another day at the gym, your personalized trainer is helping you out a lot more intimately than he would with most clients.

TW: Creep gym trainer, yandere themes, mentions of future stalking/imagined groping, sensual content

And up... and down, just like that."

The squeeze on your hips kept you stable, even with your fingers shaking, mouth agape as hot breath was sucked in, and out. 

"One more, you can do one more for me."

"I can't..." you huffed, thighs quaking as the barbell on your shoulders made you ache. 

"Yes you can. C'mon sweetheart, we'll do it together."

He gripped the barbell beside where your sweating hands were, chest flush against your back as his feet entrapped the outside of your own. 

“Do it with me now,” He pulled the weight lower, forcing you to squat despite the agony in your ankles and tailbone. “Push through it, baby.”

The sweet name just slipped out, breathy against your ear as his hot exhales slowed compared to your huffs. It almost made you slip.

You could feel the muscles in your wrists shaking, vision going blurry as sweat drips into your eyes. One of his hands leaves the barbell to grip your hip, forcing you back into a standing position as your knees nearly give out. 

You rise slowly back up with the barbell in your hands, nearly groaning in pain at the strain. You finally lift your arms to your chest, finishing the rep with a strained frown as your personal trainer forces the weight off of your arms. His taller stature makes it easy to put the barbell back on the rack in front of you. 

You feel as if you could collapse, an hour and a half of intense training brought upon by your own determination leaving you exhausted and a little discouraged. You thought you could do more, push yourself harder-- but at the end of the day, the amount of reps your body would let you do, was it. You’d crack if you tried to go even further, end up tearing something or worse. 

Your trainer could tell; the way you sweat, your eyebrows furrowed as you kept that hard, strained look with each motion he made you do. 

“I hate to say it, but you’re done for today.” 

You look up at him from your place on the ground, water bottle hanging from your grip as you try to catch your breath. 

Antoine had only worked with you for a couple weeks now, what started as once a week now thrice, if you had the time after work of course. But somehow, he always enticed you to come back. 

His body, which should’ve been motivation, was more or less disheartening-- rippling muscles and bulging quads peeking beneath his tight ‘TRAINER’ black tee and athletic shorts as the perfect ensemble. 

He was so sweet, so encouraging and upsettingly positive. Always filling up your water bottle, saying how he’s always admiring the growth of muscle definition in your back, giving you light touches to show which area of your body that a machine might work out. He even offered post-exercise massages to make sure you didn’t get sore after each session, free of cost as a perk of joining the gym’s ‘premium membership’, an idea he sold you on. That, along with the complementary protein shakes made that were hi “specialty.”

You knew it was his job to hook you in, but who could say no to that sweet meathead’s face? Which is why you were here, on a late saturday afternoon, in this nearly empty gym with him that he convinced you to love. 

You couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, even if he was the one persuading you, offering to use his time off to come in and help train you.

“Feelin’ sore?” Antoine bends down next to you, offering a small towel from his pocket. The twinge of accent in his speech makes him sound funny, dry lips parted as he looks you over. “You went harder than usual today.” 

“Yeah,” You let out after a gulp of water. “Definitely gonna feel this later tonight; ha, maybe I’ll actually take you up on one of those massages.” 

You point with your water bottle, grinning tiredly as Antoine’s eyes seem to shine. He licks his lips to hide a giddy grin. 

“Of course-- definitely, I’d be more than happy to. These hands can work magic you wouldn’t believe.”

Antoine shuffles behind you, pulling at your shoulders to make you sit up straight. 

“Wha- you mean right now? I’m all, sticky.” 

“Now’s the best time, your muscles are just coming down from the effort they’ve exerted. Best to prevent any aches and pains as soon as possible rather than waiting.” 

He begins gentle rubs against the base of your neck; vast, warm fingers grace your collar with a softness you hadn’t expected. Usually when people try to massage your shoulders they’re too harsh, too grippy; but Antoine was rhythmic, pushing into your back with his palms as he made his way down to your shoulder blades. 

“But considering you’ve pushed so hard, I don’t want to see you back here for a couple of days.” Antoine insisted.

“Awe, you want me outa here that badly?” You joked, laying your head forward as Antoine’s fingers made their way to the back of your neck, running pressed thumbs down from your hairline. “I see how it is, prefer your other clients over me.” 

It felt sort of weird, having him massage you so deeply on the gym floor out in the open. But the only person here in the middle of the afternoon was an older woman, paying more attention to her cellphone on the treadmill than anything you two were doing. 

Antoine shook your shoulders. 

“Don’t say that, now!” He leaned his head over next to yours from behind, getting so close your nose almost brushed against his cheek. “It’s not funny; I hope you don’t see me that way.”

“It’s just a joke,” You titter, running your handtowel down the front of your shirt.

“I never understand your jokes.” He sighs, hands moving down to your tailbone. He lifts the bottom of your shirt sticking to your skin, digging his hands against the soft flesh. 

“Woah, hey,” You turn to look at him, but his head is down, looking at his fingers. 

“I have to get to your hips, you can’t do so many squats without release. And at the rate you were going to day… well, you see what I mean.”

The bottom of your tanktop covers his knuckles as he pulls and kneads the skin of your lower back. 

“O-okay.. I guess..” 

He’s not usually so insistent, but he seems so genuine about it-- and, he’s the trainer, shouldn’t they know best? 

He begins with little strokes to your skin, almost caressing. You grow anxious until his thumbs push deep lines into your flesh. 

“Does that feel a little better, Mon cœur? Less pain?” He asks up close, staring at your heated and perspiring cheeks. 

You’re awed by how good it actually feels, the tension melting away with each push of his knuckles into your skin, and grip of his hands around your waist as each of his thumbs digs into your sides. 

“Yeah… feels a lot better..” 

“You can rest your head on my shoulder, don’t be embarrassed, sweetheart.”

You do as he says, arching your back with your head against his shoulder. He had easier access into your back, working his hands up beneath your shirt to reach your mid abdomen.

The deeper Antoine kneaded, the farther he grew up your back, the more… audible, his groans became. Each dip was another breathy moan into your ear. It was fine at first, just the sounds of his work; and then, it became almost, uncomfortably sensual. 

“Just like that...” He mumbled, giving a deep hum.

With your neck so close, his nose dips against your jaw to sneak a sharp inhale of your scent. It was heightened from your hour of strenuous work, a smell he couldn’t get enough of. 

But you jumped forward before he could nuzzle as deep against you as he wished. 

“Uh! Thanks, I feel a lot better now. Really… got all the kinks out.” 

You clutch your towel, facing your trainer to prevent him from working his “magic fingers” again. 

“Of course. And that’s just a taste, a fully body massage would leave the workout you just completed to drain away, as if it was just a dream.” He wiggles his hands with a sheepish grin, one so simple and sincere your guard fell again.

Sure, guys at the gym could be creeps, but he was your trainer, eyes kind and a little foreignly clueless, who only wanted to see you thrive; he’d never try something with you, his client. 

“Yeah, maybe next time. But now, I need to shower and get this stink off of me.” You bring yourself to your feet, all wobbly and achy-galore. Even with Antoine’s work on your shoulders, you can feel your back beginning to seize up. It’s gonna be hard to bend down for a while. 

Offering a hand to Antoine still on the rubbery gym floor, he takes it with a slight ease. He doesn’t use the weight in his hand to get up, knowing he’d just drag you back down to the floor if he did. 

“Thanks again-- I mean, I know it’s your job but--” 

“Don’t thank me; it’s always a treat to have you here, my cherie. I’d train you for free, you know!” 

You laugh, flattered at the idea. If you were a bit more forward, you’d ask him for that little perk. Hey, paying for his service certainly wasn’t cheap!

Making your way to the bathroom, you thank your lucky stars the hard part’s over. Too bad you can’t look at Antoine’s pretty face anymore, though. 

Antoine on the other hand, follows your stumbling body with his eyes, watching as you disappear behind the water fountain and bathroom door. 

His eyes jut back and forth between the machines and front door for witnesses, seeing none before snatching up your forgotten towel. How’d you never notice they didn’t just give these things out? 

He’d brought the cute handkerchief from home, wanting to appear the most of a gentleman. And, in the hopes that you’d use it every and anywhere. 

Oh, he thrived off that scent, pushing the white damp cloth heavy against his nose. It smelled even more potent of you, moreso than the few inches away of sniffs he usually got. 

His tongue just barely brushed against it, writhing in ecstasy from how it still held the stickiness of your sweat. You didn’t know how intoxicating it was to him, watching each bead of sweat leave your neck, the dip of your back when he got the chance to help hold that barbell with you… it was almost maddening, how strictly he had to restrain himself from lapping at your hot skin and running his hands beneath your gymwear. 

 No, he had to save this for later. What would his manager think if he saw him acting so ferally? 

Besides, there were more important matters to attend to. Such as, taking out the bathroom trash, a simple excuse to slide his manager for the opportunity to watch you shower. 

Who knew working here would have such great advantages in getting close to you. 

#gym trainer yandere #fitness trainer yandere #yandere #x reader #reader insert #yandere x reader #self insert #male yandere #writing #reader inserts #yandere stories #yandere aesthetic #yandere imagines #yandere oc x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere writing #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #yanderecore #yandere male #creep yandere #yandere boy #yandere boyfriend #gym yandere #yandere community #yandere blog #yandere thoughts #soft yandere #fiction #yandere fiction

[charliemwrites]

The long-awaited part 2 for ragdoll!reader.

I’ll be honest, I never intended for there to be another part, so I hope this is alright! I might add more in the future if the worms demand it, but for now let’s consider this the last part. Sorry!

If Price had any optimism that Ragdoll’s reaction to Konig was just a fluke - or perhaps some sort of initial, fleeting interest - he’s quickly proven wrong.

She’s utterly infatuated with him.

Constantly pressing herself close, rubbing her cheek against him and his clothes, bumping her head against his. She chirps and chitters and purrs at him, pupils blown out. Never seems bothered that he has trouble verbally responding; or seems to, though Johnny mentions they might be communicating at a frequency only cat-hybrids can hear.

Price has the briefest notion of keeping them separated. After all, Konig is a big combat placement that doesn’t seem much indulgent of his non-violent instincts. More human than cat - a complete opposite to their sweet companion kitty. It seems inevitable that something goes wrong and someone - likely the 141’s precious girl - gets injured. So naturally they try to keep the hybrids apart.

Try to coordinate schedules to keep her and Konig from passing each other, ending up in the same rooms or at the mess hall together.

It’s futile.

For one, she may be the sweetest little thing around, but she’s still a cat (or cat-hybrid anyway). There’s really no stopping her from going somewhere, especially on a base she’s had free run of for over a year already. Closed doors are blasphemy, and locks are a personal attack against her.

For two, her only job is to be a companion. She is not beholden to most military protocols like rank, SOPs, schedules, or duty. Meaning that, while she usually keeps to the 141’s routines out of desire to be with them, there’s nothing forcing her to follow along. Even as an emotional support placement, she isn’t required to be around them at any time; she always just wants to be. It’s why she’s so good at it.

And finally, mostly importantly here, there’s really just no telling her “no.”

Not with those big eyes that get so watery so fast. That sad curve to her mouth. The fucking mournful cries when she’s been denied and she doesn’t understand why - nor does anyone really have a good reason.

(“He’s twice your size” is apparently not a good reason. Neither is “he could crush your skull in one hand.”)

Worse still, it’s not even that she’s misbehaving as a reason to keep them separated.

While she does present more cat than human in a lot of ways, she understands English perfectly. She can read and even write if needed. Vocalizing human speech is beyond rare, but she has once or twice.

So she knows the hard and fast rules. Understands that she can’t interrupt drills or exercises. That there are regulations for the range should she ever venture out there. That she has to be quiet during briefings. And she does all of this - just while also being as close to Konig as possible.

She sits in the grass or on a perch watching the boys run and call to each other. And as soon as they’re done, she’s up and flitting to his side, head tilting this way and that. She shifts into her full-cat form during briefing to sit on his lap. Even follows him out to the range, lying in the grass next to him with tail swishing and headphones on, while he fires the rifle.

Never mind any free time.

Members of both their teams keep finding them cuddled up together all over the place. In the rec room on a couch, in patches of sun beneath windows, in the grass by the running tracks, even in Konig’s room on base. Most often with Ragdoll lying on him, plumed tail curled around his arm or leg while he rubs her back or ears.

Sometimes they hear him talking to her, low and quiet. She meows back on occasion, but he doesn’t seem to mind the lack of verbal response while he rambles.

And the first time anyone sees them wrestle is nerve-wracking. They hardly make a sound the entire time, rolling around on the floor in a tangle of limbs and fluffy tails. Konig always lets her win - even laughs when she gets her sharp little teeth in his arm. (It’s the first anyone on his team has heard him laugh like that and they’re a bit startled.) The entire 141 pretends not to be on high alert - except Johnny, who watches with ears perked, eyes darting between the two cats.

Price doesn’t know what to make of it. Of course he’s not upset that she’s connected with another hybrid. Johnny is usually the only one on base, and while they’re close, Price knows it probably isn’t the same as her own species.

That she’s so… preoccupied with Konig is, well.

“Is she… ya know…?” Gaz asks at one point.

When Price arches an eyebrow, he makes a vague, nonsensical gesture.

“In heat,” Gaz mumbles awkwardly.

“Shouldn’t be,” Price answers. “She has an implant.”

A hormone implant keeps a hybrid from going into mating cycles or getting pregnant - but it doesn’t stop them from bonding.

Kate is the one to bring up the possibility after speaking to her sister in law. Ragdoll spent time around other cat-hybrids before she was placed with the 141, but never reacted to them like she does to Konig.

It’s confirmed when TF-141 and the KorTac squad deploy for their mission. Ragdoll is near inconsolable. Not actively crying (most of the time) but lethargic and sad, with low appetite and lots of big, long sighs. Her ears never perk more than half-mast for the month they’re gone. Even taking her off-base back to Kate’s sister-in-law for a little while doesn’t seem to help.

The day they come back, she’s the most lively anyone’s seen in a month. Bounces between her four team members incessantly, checking that they’re okay, making little noises in the back of her throat. They happily drop kisses on her head, let her nuzzle up beneath their chins, hug her close. Rub at her ears and squish up her cheeks. Price even picks her up, rubbing his bristly cheek against her temple.

Then Konig steps out.

She wiggles, making a nervous, upset noise. Price sets her down and she bolts into Konig’s arms, crying loudly and pawing at his hood. And to everyone’s shock, he lifts it enough for her to wriggle under with him.

If there was any question that he felt the same way - it’s answered.

#cod #thoughts™️ #my writing #fanfiction #ragdoll!reader #siberian mix!konig

[queenie-avenue]

Charming Demon Belle!

—> he expresses interest in you.

⤻ reader is female, reader's race/animal theme is not specified, reader is a bit insecure, alastor is a semi-sweetheart in this one, fluff, no canon-typical violence, dancing but it's not jazz *gasp*

notes: this fic was honestly a bit rushed, but i do really love alastor as a character and really wanted to write a fic for him but i currently do not have the time to invest in one idea i have for a longform fic so here's something small. feel free to post asks for alastor, or any other hazbin character, i would love to write your ideas!

💌 ⤻ archives.

You had been at the Hotel for a few months now, working on those trust exercises that Charlie persuaded — forced — you to join in. You loved the girl, but you found her methods to be a bit too idealistic at times. Especially since during your time as a human, you saw just how cruel life could actually be.

Still, you joined in because you came to love the girl. You came to love the rest of the staff and visitors too.

Whenever you came back to the Hotel after a long day of doing whatever, there Husker was with your favourite cocktail or Angel would be there to crack his stupid jokes and innuendos that would always make you huff out a laugh no matter how tired you were. Vaggie was a fun person to be around. There was quite a bit of anger in her, but you couldn't help but like how assertive she could be. You honestly admired her for being such a strong woman, something you thought you could never be. Charlie was just a ray of sunshine and though Nifty was weird, you found her almost endearing, just like Sir Pentious and his nerdy displays.

There was one person you could never calm yourself around though and it was the host of the Hotel.

Alastor, the Radio Demon.

Perhaps it was his reputation that made you feel so uncomfortable around him, but you refrained from speaking to him as much as you could. Those eyes and that never-ending smile seemed to follow you wherever you went, though, and you found that wherever you went, he was there just waiting.

✧ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✧

The Hotel was practically empty by the time afternoon hit. Husk was out getting more things for the bar alongside Nifty, who needed to buy more materials for cleaning. Angel Dust was at work. Charlie and Vaggie seemed to be on a date, of some sorts, encouraged by you as they seemed to be rather stressed these few days because of the upcoming Extermination.

As for Alastor... probably up in his radio tower.

And for you? You were lounging on the couch in the lobby of the hotel, scrolling through various television channels and hoping to find one that would entertain you for long enough.

"Hello, my dear!" The static-filled voice almost made you fall off the couch as you looked up to see the Radio Demon standing over you. "What are you doing?" Alastor inquired, looking at you before his gaze shifted to the TV in front of you, his eyes narrowing in what appeared to be annoyance. "Oh, you're watching a picture box, how quaint." He attempted to remain cordial in his speech, but it was clear he wanted to wreck that television.

He reached for the remote and pressed a few buttons. "What are you doing?" This time, it was your turn to question him.

"Turning off this pesky little thing, dear! You know, too much of this," he pointed his cane at the TV, "rots your brain!" He chuckled as he finally pressed the correct button to turn it off.

"You should get off the couch and get some exercise. Today is far too nice of a day to be wasted on such idle activities." He grinned wider as he his clawed hands grabbed yours and dragged you up.

"H-hey!" You yelled, shocked by the sudden touch. Despite the fact Alastor hated someone invading his personal space, he seemed to love to invade others.

"I know you don't like to exercise, so I have come up with a rather fun activity for us to partake in." Your eyes widened at his words. What in Hell's name did he mean by that? You had seen what Alastor viewed as 'fun' and you were now worried. He snapped his fingers as he dragged you to the middle of the lobby, a radio materialising on the bar desk as it began to loudly play some jazz music. "Some dancing ought to do the trick." He smiled.

"Um, Alastor." You peeped, "I'm glad you want to do an... activity with me. But I don't know how to dance. Let alone dance for some jazz music." You grinned awkwardly up at him as he looked down at you and tutted his lips.

"Ah, no worries." He grinned as he snapped his fingers again, causing the music on the radio to shift from jazz to classical. "We can start slow, of course. I could never force a lady to do something she didn't like." Well, that was ironic, considering what he was doing now.

"Hold on." He grinned as he grabbed your waist, using his other hand to guide yours to his shoulders. Without being able to respond, he dragged you across the floor.

"One, and a two. One and a two." He demonstrated how his feet moved about the floor, forcing you to follow against his steps as he swirled you about the hall. "See, you're already getting a hang of it." You couldn't help but smile at his words.

"Heh, yeah I guess I am." You grew more relaxed as you looked up at Alastor and his toothy grin and ash face.

He grinned wider. "I'm so glad that you are starting to feel comfortable around me, my darling." He expressed as he spun you around. "I was simply so hurt when I saw you interacting with the others but not me." He pulled you closer to his chest, "Might I ask why?" Alastor asked, the static filter on his voice disappearing slightly to reveal his human voice.

"I guess we just have personality clashes?" You tried to lie, not wanting to admit that you were intimidated and scared witless thanks to this demon, especially with the way he stalked you in the shadows at times.

"Haha!" He laughed comically. "My, what an intriguing assumption, my dear Belle!" He exclaimed as he spun you around and dipped you down. "I think we have more in common than you think."

"Like what?" You gasped out as he held you down, your hair brushing against the floor as you gazed up at him.

"Well, we're both sinners."

You deadpanned at his explanation. "That's it?"

"Well, there's certainly more, but why not leave it up for us to discover?" He suggested with a grin before pulling you up, slamming your face into his chest. Alastor gripped your chin in his sharp hands, his smile growing more sinister.

"I would certainly love to know more about you." His smile grew brighter, his eyes glimmering with a hint of intrigue and desire.

Shit, somehow that was the only thought running through your mind.

#hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #radio demon #alastor the radio demon #alastor #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel fic #alastor fic #alastor x female reader

[lostinforestbound]

Hello There ! 👋😊

Tw : slight Dune spoiler, since the book is rather old.

Could you write Zevlor Headcanons about his Tav!love interest being someone with such passion and determination to change the world, that they may sometimes scare people off, please ? ( if you know those work of fiction, I'm talking about someone similar to Eren Jeager in SNK, Anakin Skywalker in Star wars, or Paul Atreides in Dune ) 👀

Smooches ! ☺️

Oh wow this was definitely a brain exercise for me! I did my best, so I hope this is what you were looking for! Thank you so much for your patience!

Zevlor with a Passionate Tav

Zevlor is a leader. A Hellrider, a Paladin; he has led many people in his prime. Seeing other leaders is not something new to him, as he's seen many.

But something about Tav is very different. It's honestly part of why he fell for them.

Not only are they ambitious, they are passionate. He admires their resolve, but he notices how nervous others get around them.

They're so strongly convicted that they scare others around them. Never him, though. Gods, never him.

He always asks what keeps them going. Their motivations, their dreams, how believe they're in the right; it's all so fascinating for him.

It makes him wonder why they chose him; an Oathbreaker. Shouldn't they hate someone like him?

Although they work together, he honestly leaves most of the leading to them. They make amazing speeches and inspire many people like them, including himself.

Whenever he doubts himself about his resolve, Tav is always there to lift him up. They will hug him from behind and tell him he's doing everything right, in their eyes.

He would do anything they say. It's not in a pathetic way; he just trusts them so much. With his love, life, and soul.

Every day he still wonders how he managed to get their attention, when he's so dull compared to them. He never asks, so he'll never know.

Writing Blurb

They're speaking. A speech, one made up on the spot as terror rushes through the streets of Baldur's gate. A speech, one that has everyone absolutely enthralled, including Zevlor.

He's never seen them stand so tall, so brightly illuminated by the reddening sky. There's hope being lost as more destruction erupts, but they have become a beacon. Everyone has never looked more alive, even with the world's end at their doorstep. Some even looked scared, but were determined to fight this Netherbrain at their sole command.

At the end of their final sentence, voices cry out and cheer, almost startling him out of his thoughts. Everything became more real in that moment; they're about to go fight the brain, but he can't go with them. Not until they call. His Hellriders are ready for anything.

When they finally approach him, he notices how their smile disappears, letting him know their true feelings. They believe they can pull this off, no doubt about it, but they worry about him of all people.

He presses their forehead against theirs, minding the horns, and he cups their face with a free hand. "We will be fine, my love. You should worry about yourself."

Their grin returns immediately as he speaks, and his heart can't help but flutter. How did he get so lucky, to have someone that has such a determined, beautiful smile?

"I have nothing to worry about, then." They state, placing their hand over his.

Usually, he would argue lightly. They should be more worried about themselves; they're not invincible. He wishes they were, most days. Then he would never have to fear them getting hurt. But now is not the time, they all have a catastrophic brain to fight. They need all their heads in the game to win.

He sighs in resignation but returns their smile. "Do not be reckless, and do not be stupid."

"I won't."

They gently pull him in for a long kiss. It's gentle, as if they're savoring it, in case they won't see each other after; in case it is the last one.

It won't be, but they never know.

#forest-writes #zevlor #bg3 zevlor #zevlor x reader #zevlor x tav

[euovennia]

the archer | könig

so sorry to keep you all waiting (especially the anon who requested this), i got a bit too invested and this ended up being just over 8k words...whoops. anyway, it's finally here and i'm excited for you all to read it! thank you for requesting, and as always, i hope you enjoy <3 (also thank you for getting this blog to over 1,000 followers, that's insane!!! thank you so much!!!)

pairing: könig x fem!reader

warnings: angst, könig being a little toxic, brief mention of injuries, discussion about the insufferable behavior of dolphins

summary: the difficult journey of loving a man who doesn't think he's worthy of love (based on this request)

Combat, I’m ready for combat

I say I don’t want that, but what if I do?

‘Cause cruelty wins in the movies

I’ve got a hundred thrown-out speeches I almost said to you

König rises from his makeshift bed on the floor with a sharp gasp as his left hand raises itself from his side to rest upon his heart that seemed to be beating too fast and too slow all at once. His eyes briefly fall onto the sleeping faces of his fellow comrades as he lets out a few shaky breaths in an attempt to calm himself down from the unfortunate dream he’d stirred awake from. After a few moments of half-assed breathing exercises and clenching and unclenching the hand that wasn’t resting upon his chest, he can almost feel his body become lighter as his panic slowly begins to fizzle out into something calmer. Even so, he can’t help but notice the small spike of dread that tugs at his heartstrings when the image of you settles into his mind. The feeling is illogical, that much he knows, but as his gaze drifts over to the door of the master bedroom in the safe house the team was currently occupying, he can’t seem to stop his mind from spiraling. Once ensuring his infamous black hood is properly secured over his face, he quietly rises to his feet before stalking off toward the door of the master bedroom and opening it. He gives the room a quick glance before fully stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. His eyes trail along the rundown walls of the room before eventually landing on your figure that’s sitting on the cushioned seats of the window nook as you peer into the darkness of the night, gun propped up by your side along with a small leather bound journal with the accompanying pen being expertly twirled around your nimble fingers. Not wanting to stare any longer in an effort to avoid coming across as creepy, he begins walking closer in your direction before stopping just a few feet shy of you.

You don’t spare him a glance as you begin to speak, “You’re up late.”

He shrugs, “Bad dream.”

You offer him a small hum before tearing your gaze away from the window and give the open spot beside you a few pats. He eyes you for a few moments before stepping forward and taking a seat beside you, body stiff and face expressionless. Not that you’d be able to tell the difference anyway.

You lean against the wall as you nudge his thigh with your boot causing the muscle to twitch. You pretend not to notice.

“What was your dream about?”

His lips settle into a small frown before responding, “It’s not important.”

He rips his gaze away from you in favor of staring at the floorboards and he misses the way you roll your eyes in exasperation.

“So you just like being in here with me then?”

Yes.

He shakes his head, “No. Just wanted to check on you, make sure you didn’t fall asleep.”

A huff of laughter escapes you, “That was one time–”

He interrupts you, “One time too many, I’m afraid.”

You raise your hands in defense before continuing, “Well…You’ve checked on me and now you know I’m not asleep. You’re free to leave now, König.”

He clenches his fists once more upon hearing his callsign fall from your lips. Surely you know what you do to him, right?

“I’d rather not.”

You quirk a brow up, “Why not?”

He keeps his gaze steady on the ground, “I’m not tired.”

Him not being tired is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. At least, it would’ve been if he hadn't let a massive yawn slip past his lips the moment he told the small fib.

“Not tired, hm?”

He can’t help but feel thankful for the hood that’s currently draped over his head, less opportunity for you to see the blush that dusts across his face as he tries to ignore the way your eyes pierce into him.

Upon receiving no response you sit up straighter, “Is this about your dream?”

The way he seems to close in on himself tells you everything. Your lips pull into a small frown as you fidget with your hands, willing yourself to say something.

“I’m afraid of dolphins,” You blurt out.

Your expression morphs into one of mild embarrassment as his eyes snap over to you, a curious glint shining back at you.

It’s hard to miss the incredulity in his tone as he speaks, “What?”

You firmly plant your hands against your knees as you continue, “Dolphins scare me.”

A small smile tugs at the edge of his lips, “Wait till you hear about sharks.”

“I’m actually not afraid of sharks.”

His eyes widened in surprise, “Really? How’d you manage that?”

You let out a small exhale, “I’ve done a fair bit of research into sharks and dolphins over the years, and I’ve found that dolphins are infinitely more terrifying than sharks.”

He straightens out his back, intrigued as he motions for you to continue with a wave of his hand.

“Dolphins are really horny–”

He can’t hold back the small bout of laughter that falls from his lips, “That’s why you’re scared of them?”

You frantically shake your head as you try to fight back a smile, “No it’s not ‘cause of that, you didn’t let me finish!”

“Well then you better hurry or else I’m gonna think you’re scared of dolphins cause they like sex.”

You ignore the heat that spreads through your cheeks as you continue, “It’s their horniness that makes them scary. Male dolphins have a high sex drive, and sometimes it makes them a bit…aggressive in their approach for sex.”

König nods his head in understanding at your words before you continue speaking, “They’ve been known to murder their own offspring so they can immediately be ready for another pregnancy. Hell, sometimes they’ll even go around murdering other aquatic animals and their babies just for fun!”

König’s eyes widen at your statement, “Really?”

You nod, “Yes! Sometimes they get so bored that they’ll start going around killing other animals just to have some fun. They always make it so brutal too.”

He cringes, “Didn’t think they did all that. I always thought they were cute.”

You scrunch your nose in distaste, “Absolutely not. Besides, I’m not alone in my fear of dolphins. Sharks are actually quite scared of them too. They’ve even been known to check their surroundings to make sure there aren’t any dolphins around before they sleep because dolphins will actually hunt them if food’s been scarce.”

König leans against the wall behind him, “That’s heavy.”

“It is, isn’t it? Dolphins are jerks.”

He nods in agreement, “Dolphins are jerks.”

A comfortable silence pervades the room as you take a few moments to peer out through the window as his mind steadily falls back into the throes of his all too familiar dream. A grimace comes to rest upon his face as his mind begins to wander off from the anti-dolphin rhetoric newly placed in his head by you in favor of staring at his hands, the same hands that have delivered death to dozens of enemy soldiers who were up to no good.

At least that’s what he tells himself as he continues to stare down at his hands, but after a few moments, he can’t help but notice the heaviness that begins to weigh down on his chest.

They were all bad people up to no good…right?

He lets out an exasperated sigh causing you to turn your attention back on the large man beside you.

“What’s on your mind, König?”

He nearly cries in frustration. How could he resist telling you anything when you call his name so sweetly? He plants his hands on his thighs as he keeps his gaze steady on the floor.

“Do you think we’re good people?”

Your brows scrunch together in confusion as your head tilts to the side.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean–”

He lets out a small sigh as he attempts to gather his thoughts together.

“–With the things we do…Our job. Do you think we’re good people?”

The confusion on your face smoothes out.

“I think so. We’re helping the world, aren’t we?”

König breaks his focus from the floor to look up at you.

“Is it really that simple though? Are we really able to write off all the horrible things we’ve done to other people just because we help another group of people? Do we have that authority?”

As his small line of questioning comes to a close, your eyes settle on your rifle that’s pressed up against the wall beside you. You let out a small breath of air as you start to speak.

“Well, when you put it like that, maybe we aren't such good people.”

His gaze falters.

“But I don’t think we’re bad people either.”

The question tumbles from his lips before he can do anything to stop it, “Do you think I’m a good person?”

He watches as your eyes glaze over with something he’s not quite able to distinguish, something soft.

“I think you’re a good person,” You quietly admit before turning the question back on him, “Do you think you’re a good person?”

He fights off the urge to gnaw on his bottom lip.

“I try to be.”

You offer him a gentle smile, “Then that’s all that matters.”

He seems to think about your words for a few moments before giving you a slow nod.

“That’s all that matters,” He affirms.

You reach over and grab onto his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before pulling away and turning your focus back onto the window. He looks down at that same hand, a familiar warmth he found could only be provided by you as he tries to slow the way his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. He takes in a few deep breaths before looking back up at you and admiring the way the moonlight seems to caress your features. He presses his lips together in a thin line as he recalls the countless speeches he’d scrawled on random pieces of paper neatly tucked away in his desk drawer at his apartment. With you vigilantly keeping watch beside him, he can’t help but wonder if one day he’ll ever let you read them.

Easy they come, easy they go

I jump from the train, I ride off alone

I never grew up, it’s getting so old

Help me hold onto you

“Please say something,” You practically beg as you stare up at König who seems to have frozen in place.

Despite the overwhelming urge he has to lift the hood up off his face, place his large hands on your cheeks, and pull you toward him in a loving kiss, he finds that he can’t bring himself to do such a thing.

Everything just feels so wrong. The once soft and warm glow from the lights above the two of you fill his very being dread as they seem to cast a daunting shadow over your figure he swears hadn’t previously been there. The bright white walls of the building seem to fade into a dismal shade of grey as his eyes catch onto the multiple cracks and stains that litter them; had the walls always looked this miserable? He can practically feel his skin go up in flames as he becomes all too aware of the clothes he’s wearing. He had dressed himself in some of his most comfortable clothes, so why did they suddenly feel so tight and suffocating as they clung to his body?

And you.

When did your soft and loving eyes turn into two cesspools of unbridled fear and anxiety? Where have your kind eyes gone? Why are you looking at him like that? Is it because he hasn’t said anything since you’d pulled him aside and put all your cards on the table? Is it because you told him you had fallen in love with him and he didn’t even have the decency to utter a single word in response? Do you hate him for it?

With every second that ticks by, he can feel his composure slipping away as he feels your stare melt into him. It’s become far too much to handle far too quickly. He needs to get away. Get away from the walls that he can just feel closing in on him. Get away from the floor that he practically begs to swallow him whole. Get away from the one who haphazardly ripped his carefully crafted walls down and forced him to feel so exposed and turn into such a pitiful disaster.

He needs to get away from you.

And so without even bothering to spare you a glance, he quickly maneuvers around your body and walks away from the conversation in hopes of finding refuge somewhere else. Anywhere but here. Anywhere away from you.

He doesn’t.

I’ve been the archer

I’ve been the prey

Who could ever leave me, darling?

But who could stay?

The past two weeks had been nothing short of miserable, courtesy of König. Ever since he’d left you stranded in that godforsaken hallway, you’d made it your personal mission to track him down in even the most bizarre places around base. In fact, you can distinctly remember how he’d nearly fallen off the roof of a building he’d climbed on top of after you came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder with no warning. Even after you’d grabbed onto his arm and helped him regain his footing, he merely ripped his arm away from you before climbing back down the building, but not before glaring down at you with his eyes narrowed in a look of contempt. It would’ve hurt more if you hadn’t already become used to it.

Despite his unbothered exterior that only became bothered when you were around, he wasn’t faring any better. If he wasn’t forced into seeing the look of anguish that flooded your irises every time he turned away from you, he was forced to see it in his memory as he recalled the way he selfishly left you to pick up the pieces of the heart he shattered when he made the decision to leave you all alone in that hallway. The same hallway that he now has to practically run through in a feeble attempt to fend off the sinking feeling that festers deep within his very being.

By no means was he proud of the way he was treating you, he despised it. Truth be told, he wanted nothing more than to sweep you up into his arms and guard you with his life but he couldn’t bring himself to do such a thing. No, not with the line of work the two of you had found yourselves in. Not when you were forced to tread the line of death every couple of weeks to fulfill a mission that, ultimately, would be forgotten about in just a few months time, if even that.

He’d seen the strain put on relationships as a result of the job in the form of the various failed romances his fellow soldiers had pursued. Lack of communication, not living up to your partner’s expectations, and the all too common issue of infidelity. While each was unfortunate, there was one thing that he himself could barely wrap his head around; the death of your significant other. He played witness to the way the surviving half of the relationship always seemed to crumble in on themselves as the dreaded news fell onto them far too many times. He knew it was a special kind of pain, one he doubted he’d ever recover from if it was him on the receiving end of such a tumultuous life event. He knew it was silly in a way. How can one be a soldier and not be comfortable with death? He’s not quite sure himself, but he simply chooses to ignore it. The day he feels comfortable with death is the day he officially loses himself.

The thought almost makes him chuckle.

Lose myself, he thinks, Haven’t I done that already?

He lays on his back as he stares up at the ceiling, hood pulled off his head and discarded on the small end table beside his bed. He remains silent as his mind thinks back to the conversation you had with him months ago.

“Do you think I’m a good person?”

“I think you’re a good person…Do you think you’re a good person?”

“I try to be.”

The memory is almost enough to make him start ripping his hair out with his bare hands. You saw him struggling with himself, with his morality, and you, perhaps one of the kindest souls he’s ever come to know, reached out and placated him with your loving gaze and gentle reassurance. You offered him a guiding light of hope in his moment of darkness. And how had he repaid you? By becoming the cold and callous monster he had always thought himself to be? By taking all of his worst fears and projecting them onto you? How can you claim him as a good person when it seems he’s indifferent to the way his recent mean streak affects you so deeply? He can’t help but wonder what you think of him now. Do you resent him for treating you so poorly? Do you wish you could take back your previous judgment of him? The thought of you regretting the words that once brought him great comfort is almost too much to bear, but he knows he can’t blame you if you do.

His bout of self-loathing is broken by the abrupt sound of his door slamming open. He quickly sits up in his bed, eyes wide with alarm and body stiff with anxiety. He can feel his heart begin to beat out of his chest before his eyes land on you standing in his doorway, jaw slack and face painted with nerves. He’s almost tempted to ask why you’re staring at him that way until he feels the slightest breeze brush against his face, his bare face that you’re now gawking at. He tears his eyes away from your frozen figure before landing on the hood sitting on his bedside table, taunting him.

“König…I’m so s–”

The meek sound of your voice pushes him over the edge and before he can stop himself he abruptly stands up from his place on the bed before staring down at you with a fire in his eyes.

“Get. Out,” He practically seethes.

You back up from him by a few inches as you try not to stumble over your next words, “I didn’t mean to…I didn’t–”

Your weak attempt at explaining yourself is cut off by his cruel tone, one you’d quickly realized was specially reserved for those he didn’t trust; enemies.

“What don’t you understand? I don’t want you here, you’re not welcome.”

You try your best to not let his words affect you so much, but what else are you supposed to do when the man you love doesn’t want you?

“König please, no. I just,” You take in a shaky breath as you blink away the small line of tears that well up in your eyes, “I just wanted to talk. To hear your voice. I miss you.”

A part of you expects him to soften up, to look down at you and wrap his arms around you as he whispers an endless stream of apologies in your ear. What he does instead nearly crushes you.

“I don’t care.”

It’s as if the Earth stops spinning on its axis as his words sink in. This time you don’t bother to blink away the tears that blur your vision, you let them cascade down your cheeks. It’s embarrassing. You can’t help but feel like a fool. How could you ever expect someone as wonderful as him to love someone like you? The pain in your chest is too much. You find you can’t bring yourself to spare him another glance as you turn around on your heel and hurry out of his room, one hand firmly placed on your chest as if to stop the hurt that consumes you while your other hand wipes away the tears that are freely falling down your face. You don’t bother stopping when the concern of your fellow teammates falls onto your ears. It hurts too much.

With his eyes locked on the empty space in his doorway you occupied just a few moments ago, he takes a few steps forward and shuts the door before taking a seat on the edge of his bed. He stares numbly at the wooden floorboards pressed against his socked feet before he catches a glimpse of his hood out the corner of his eye. He reaches forward and grabs onto it, mindlessly toying with the edges of the fabric.

He had finally shown you the monster.

Dark side, I search for your dark side

But what if I’m all right, right, right, right here?

And I cut off my nose just to spite my face

Then hate my reflection for years and years

After the last disastrous encounter you had with König, you quickly decided it was best for you to keep your distance. The days of you actively seeking him out in hopes of smoothing things over were long gone and you instead filled up your newfound free time by busying yourself with various tasks around base all the while, unbeknownst to you, König had his eyes locked onto you. Granted, it’s not something he’s proud of. How could he be after he practically banished you from all aspects of his life? It wasn’t his place. Even so, he couldn’t help the way his eyes subconsciously seemed to seek out your presence in every room he stepped in. A part of him told him it was because he wanted to know which area of the room to avoid, but a bigger part of him knew it was because he missed you.

Hypocritical bastard, he chastises himself, You brought this on yourself.

And despite knowing that to be fact, he still can’t seem to rip his eyes away from you. It’s a habit that brings him both shame and comfort. Shame because it’s a harsh reminder of the one he deprived himself of, but comfort in knowing you were still kind and gracious as ever despite his insensitive behavior. It’s a blessing and a curse for it was the kindness you extended to him with no hesitation that first made his heart flutter. Your good-hearted nature and willingness to put in the time and effort to become his friend is something he holds very near and dear to his heart, it was one of the many reasons he fell so hopelessly in love with you. The way your eyes would sparkle as you’d wait for him to gather his thoughts, not once showing an ounce of annoyance or even a glimmer of impatience as you hung onto every word and syllable that fell from his mouth, he couldn’t help but feel grateful. Grateful that someone was so determined, so willing to become his friend that they’d suffer through the short and sometimes frequent bouts of silence as he tried to verbalize all his thoughts and opinions. It didn’t help that you were so gorgeous.

But now as he sits alone in the corner of the mess hall, tray filled with perhaps some of the most unappetizing food available on the planet, he fears that it was all for nothing. All the energy you’d spent solely on trying to understand him, now worthless as you purposefully avoid his gaze despite the goosebumps that rise along your skin. He tells himself it’s for the better, that eventually, you’d leave him. Whether it be by the unforgiving hands of war or the desire to go out and find someone new, someone better. The thought of you moving on from him like that hurt more than he’d ever care to admit.

But seeing the way you welcome a few other soldiers to your table with your signature grin, he couldn’t fight off the small smile that tugged at the edge of his lips. He watches as you fall into easy conversation with the unfamiliar men and women, each of their faces sporting an effortless smile as you do seemingly everything in your power to make them as comfortable as possible around you. You’ve always been sweet like that.

And despite the way his heart warms seeing you fall back into your natural habits, a small stab of pain makes itself apparent in his chest as he comes to the stark realization that you’re too good for him, too pure. The sudden awareness of this is almost enough to make him sick to his stomach. How can he allow himself to taint such a bright, shining light in favor of lighting up his own dark and lonely path? Truth is, he couldn’t. Not when it was you. If anything, he’d rather you ignore his looming presence for all eternity if it meant you got to remain bright and shiny. He could brave the torrential storm that was his mind on his own, as long as you were safe and happy.

With this in mind, he picks up his half eaten tray of food and dumps it in the trash bins before walking toward the exit of the mess hall. He allows himself one last glance of your smiling face as you animatedly talk about god knows what. He’d hate himself for this later when he’s alone and overthinking in the comfort of his own room, but for now, he lets your bright smile engrave itself into his memory.

I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost

The room is one fire, invisible smoke

And all of my heroes die all alone

Help me hold onto you

It wasn’t uncommon for members of the team to be hand-picked for a mission, especially if the mission presented itself to be relatively simple. So when he heard just over a week ago that you departed base along with a few other soldiers he’d seen around base, he didn’t really give it much thought. Of course there was a small pool of worry that bubbled up in his stomach, but by this point he’d worked with you on the field so much that there wasn’t a shred of doubt in terms of your capability to get the mission completed. Rarely was there ever a time where you came back from a mission with anything more than a couple bumps and bruises, it was standard.

But the moment he walked into the common room only to be met with the somber expressions of his teammates one afternoon, he knew something had gone wrong. He anxiously listened as one of the men occupying the room explained that the mission you and a few others had gone on to retrieve valuable intel about a newly formed terrorist group had actually turned out to be a ruse to get you in their line of fire so they could eliminate you. It felt as if the world had come crashing down so as soon as he was made aware of what hospital you were being treated at, he didn’t hesitate to turn around and make his way over to you as quickly as possible.

As if the pure horror of the situation wasn’t bad enough already, the ache that spread throughout his body was only amplified when he finally arrived at the hospital just to be told you were currently in surgery. As much as he wanted to go to the surgical floor and rip apart every room until he found you, he forced himself to stay in check before resigning himself to a chair that was far too small for him to get comfortable in. He didn’t mind, however, he’d happily sit on a pile of nails if it meant getting the chance to see you once more.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting on the chair in the stuffy waiting room looking desperate and forlorn, all he seemed to be able to focus on at the moment was the nervous twitch of his hands every few minutes. A few of the other members from the team have since joined him in the waiting room, each busying themselves by tapping and swiping away at their phones. He didn’t think to bring his, he was too busy worrying about you.

After what felt like an unreasonably long time, König’s attention broke at the sound of your last name being called out. He quickly shot up without his chair and made his way over to the surgeon who was still clad in their scrubs with a disposable mask hung around their neck.

“Her injuries were rather significant so it was touch and go for a while, but she managed to pull through,” The man announced with a reassuring smile.

König didn’t even have to think about his reply, “So what happens now?”

The doctor glanced down at his watch before responding, “She’s due to wake up in a few minutes. She’s still coming down from the anesthesia so she’ll be a bit out of it, but that shouldn’t last longer than an hour, maybe even a bit less than that. A nurse will come out shortly and she’ll be able to take you to see her.”

He nods, “Thank you.”

The surgeon offers him a small smile before walking away leaving König to bask in his own thoughts. All of the hurt, anger, and dread that made itself at home in the depths of his being seemed to melt away at the prospect of him soon being able to see you, alive and breathing. The pure relief that washed over him was almost enough to forget about his piss poor treatment of you.

He’s startled by a gentle tap on his shoulder. He looks in the direction of where the timid touch had come from and he comes face to face with a woman dressed in dark purple scrubs and a caring smile on her face.

“Are you ready to see her?”

He simply nods.

The walk to your room is quiet as it is short. It makes him feel uneasy. Even in your loopy state, what would your reaction be to seeing him? Would you be happy, or would you rightfully scorn him into oblivion with a sharp glare and words dipped in poison? He couldn’t say, and it shook him to his core.

He offers the polite nurse a small nod of his head before stepping into the harshly lit room, his mind going blank as soon as he lays his eyes on you. His eyes roam over your body. From the bruises that blossom across your soft skin, the cuts that falsely state their claim over your body, the superficial burn markings that run up and down your arms, all the way to the wad of gauze firmly taped to your chest underneath your hospital gown. He can’t help but recall the words of the soldiers who sat patiently beside him in the waiting room.

“Just a couple more inches to the left and the bullet woulda nicked her heart.”

The thought of it makes him cringe. He grabs onto a chair and gingerly pulls it up to your bedside before taking a seat. His eyes slowly rake up your body as he takes in your various injuries before his gaze settles on your face. In spite of the cuts and bruises present, he can’t help but the way his heart all but flutters. He studies the curves of your face, a familiar warmth that only you could bestow upon him spreading to every corner of his body. He brings a careful hand up to the slope of your jaw and he allows his fingers to gently trail along the soft skin before eventually stopping just beneath the delicate skin of your lips. His fingers gently caress the outer corner of your lips before quickly yanking them back when you begin to stir, a soft groan of pain voiced into the air. He watches with great interest as your eyes begin to flutter open before settling onto him.

You stare at him for a moment almost in disbelief before calling out to him, “König?”

His hand quickly finds its place in yours, “I’m here.”

Your hand grips his tighter as your mind remains hazy, “Will you stay?”

The hand that wasn’t latched in yours finds its way back up to your face as he rests it carefully across your cheek, “Just until you fall asleep again, maus.”

You can’t find it in yourself to dissect his words as you offer him a simple smile. A smile that refuses to leave his mind even as he disconnects himself from you once more after you’ve fallen asleep. A smile he’ll hold onto until the end of time.

‘Cause they see right through me

They see right through me

They see right through

Can you see right through me?

They see right through

They see right through me

I see right through me

I see right through me

Despite it only being your second day back on base after spending the previous five days cooped up in your overly sterile hospital room, the team received an urgent mission, a mission that required the assistance of nearly everyone on the team. Word of this mission spread through the team like wildfire before eventually reaching you. While you were a bit disheartened that the friends who had become more like family to you weren’t able to be around for your recovery, you didn’t mind. The job comes first and you were fine with it.

Your commanding officer however, wasn’t. It was bad enough that you were out of commission due to his misjudgement of a mission, but he felt it was even worse to leave you stranded when you needed them most. As a result, he had gone up to König with the special request of having him stay back on base to help take care of you. He didn’t have it in his heart to say no.

So here you were, sitting in an awkward silence with König over some takeout he’d gotten you both for dinner. He had his hood pulled up just enough to reveal his mouth so he could eat. When you caught sight of this, you nearly opened your mouth to suggest he take it off completely, but your voice died in your throat as soon as you remembered what happened the last time you saw him without his black hood. Disheartened by the memory, you pack up the last bit of food and push it away from you. He looks up at you with an inquisitive stare that makes you feel smaller than normal.

You clear your throat, “I’m going to change my bandages.”

He eyes you down for a few moments longer before nodding his head. You can barely hold back a sigh of relief the moment his piercing gaze removes itself from your body and instead focuses itself on his food. Pulling yourself up from your seat, you begin making your way over to the bathroom. Once inside, you close the door behind you before pulling out the bag filled with all of the ointments, gauze, and bandages you’d received from your stay at the hospital. You worked diligently as your hands worked on providing much needed aid to the various wounds scattered around your body. After dropping the roll of gauze too many times to count and contorting your body to reach wounds that were particularly tricky to reach, you felt yourself beam with contentment as you found you were nearly done. There was only one more wound to dress up. Unfortunately, it was on your back. Already knowing that you wouldn’t be able to reach it on your own, you swallowed your pride as you reached for the doorknob and slowly pulled it open.

Praying he was still within hearing range, you called out, “König?”

The silence that spread through the room was thick with unease as you waited for a response in the form of something, anything. Thankfully it came in the form of König’s boots creaking against the wooden flooring of the building before he eventually reached you, his head tilted to the side in a questioning manner.

“I need help changing my bandage,” You sucked in a sharp breath, “It’s on my back, I can’t reach it.”

He eyes you for a few moments longer before nodding and you take a step back as you allow him to push open the door of the bathroom. You face your body toward the mirror and watch in the reflection as his hands seem to twitch the moment he realized he’d have to pull your shirt up.

He swallows, “May I?”

You try to fend off the burning sensation that begins to build in your cheeks, “Please.”

You hear him take in a small, shaky breath before his fingers grab onto the thin fabric of your t-shirt before he lifts it up, just enough to reveal the old bandage currently covering your wound. You feel his fingers on the bare skin of your lower back as he reaches forward and begins to delicately peel off the gauze taped to your back. You try your best to not think about having his hands roam all over your body. It doesn’t work. You can feel your heart rate pick up as he reaches an arm around your waist to grab onto an antiseptic wipe.

You look down at his hand as he holds it out to you, “Can you open it?”

You nod as you raise your hand to take the packet from his hand, your fingers brushing against each other’s, “Sure.”

You make quick work of ripping the packet open with your hands before looking up into the mirror, your heart nearly coming to a full stop as you see him with his gaze already fixated on you.

You can’t stop the words from tumbling out of your mouth, “Do you hate me?”

He reaches forward and grabs the packet from your fingers, his hand resting over yours for a moment longer than necessary before pulling it away from you completely. For a moment you fear he won’t reply, but his response comes in the form of five soft spoken words.

“I could never hate you.”

All the king’s horses, all the king’s men

Couldn’t put me together again

‘Cause all of my enemies started out friends

Help me hold onto you

After two weeks, the team finally arrived back from their mission. It was a joyous occasion being able to see the faces of your little family again, but you had quickly come to notice that the room was short of one member.

König.

It didn’t come to you as a huge surprise. You figured that once the team came back he wouldn’t hesitate to start ignoring you again, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. And as much as you wanted to ignore the situation entirely, you couldn’t help but feel betrayed. König, your once dear and soft-spoken friend, had turned into someone else entirely in the blink of an eye. The quiet, late night conversations you sought each other out for completely meaningless as he proudly voiced out the disgust he had for you. Your knowledge of all his likes and dislikes, the silly inside jokes you shared, as well as his deepest secrets now laid stagnant in your mind never to be utilized again. And for what? Because he couldn’t bear the thought of you anymore? Because he didn’t want to see you? It made you fall into a pit of anger and self-pity all at once and you needed answers. Maybe that’s why you’re standing outside his door at two am, fist balled up as you incessantly knock at his door.

You air out a small sigh of annoyance, “I can see the light from your lamp under the door. Open up.”

Ready to start rapping your knuckles against the wooden door once more, you begin to raise your fist but stop when you can hear some rustling on the other side of the door. You lower your fist to your side and wait with a stoic expression on your face before you can hear the click of the lock being undone. The door slowly opens and you’re soon met with the hooded figure of König. You don’t give him a chance to speak before your hands are firmly placed against his abdomen and you begin to push him back much to his bewilderment. Satisfied with his new placement in the room, you quickly lean back and lock the door before turning to face him with a heated glare with your arms crossed over your chest. Once his surprise has set aside he opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to the punch.

“What did I do wrong?”

He already knows what you’re referring to by those five simple words, but he can’t bring himself to talk about it. He refuses to. Ready to try and disarm you with carefully picked words, he takes a few steps toward you and reaches a timid hand out to you. Unfortunately for him, you swat it away.

“No, you don’t get to touch me. Not when you’ve treated me as badly as you have the past few weeks.”

He feels his heart sink to his stomach, but still decides to try and feign confusion.

“What do you–”

Your groan of frustration is enough to make him stop his sentence midway.

You heave in a sigh as you look up at him, “Don’t do that.”

He stares down at you in confusion.

“That thing you do. The one where you act like you don’t know what the other person’s talking about so you can save yourself from having an uncomfortable conversation. I know that’s what you’re doing and I need you to stop.”

He should’ve known he wouldn’t have been able to slip something as juvenile as that past you.

“Okay,” He concedes, “Okay.”

You release a sigh of relief at his willingness to cooperate, hopefully this would end better than you originally planned.

“Look, I know I disgust you, and that’s fine. I already know there’s–”

König steps forward, “You don’t disgust me.”

You halt all your movements as you look up at him, “What?”

“I said you don’t disgust me.”

You scoff, “What, so you just go around treating all your friends like shit then? Is that it?”

Even with the hood, it doesn’t take much to know that he’s frowning.

“I didn’t–”

You can feel yourself inching closer toward the edge as you point an accusing finger up at him, “Don’t say you didn’t mean it. Don’t you fucking dare.”

He feels the words die out in his throat as the sinking feeling in his stomach worsens.

You resign your hand to rest by your side as you speak, “You know, it’s one thing to feel awkward and leave a conversation because you don’t know what to say, but it’s a whole other thing to leave the conversation and then start treating that person like a pile of shit afterwards.”

He remains quiet so you take that as your cue to continue.

“I knew going into it that telling you how I felt might cause some problems, but I didn’t think you’d hate me for it. For god's sake, König, if you really didn’t feel the same you could’ve just said so. You didn’t have to walk away and stop being my friend,” You let out a shaky breath, “Is it really so bad to be loved by me? Is the idea of it so disgusting that you can’t handle being around me anymore? Is that it? Because if it is, you should’ve let me know a long time ago rather than let me roam around following you like an idiot,” Your hands begin to shake as you avert your gaze away from him, “God I…I wish you just told me you didn’t love me back.”

As the last few words of your overdue rant fall from your lips, he takes a closer look at your face and he finds he almost regrets doing so. The quiver of your lip accompanied by the tears that threaten to spill over breaks his heart. He briefly wonders if this is what you felt like the entire time.

He gulps before taking a few hesitant steps toward your distraught figure. Once close enough, he reaches his arms out and gently places them on your shoulders for a few moments before slowly bringing you closer to his body and wrapping you up in a hug. Throwing all caution to the wind, you merely cling onto him and bury your face in his chest as the tears finally spill over. He holds you tenderly, his hands running up and down the curve of your back in an attempt to soothe you. You remain in his arms for more than a few minutes before eventually pulling back with his arms still wrapped tightly around you. You bring a careful hand up to his head, your fingers ghosting the edge of his hood.

“Your face…I need to see your face,” You all but plead.

Who is he to deny you of him any longer?

He gives you a small nod before bending down a bit allowing you to get a better grip on the black cloth. Slowly, you begin to peel it away from his face and the moment your eyes take him in for all that he is, you’re grateful that he’s holding onto as tight as he is. You don’t even realize as the fabric slips from your hands and falls to the floor, far too enamored by the freckles that dot his pale face and the wisps of hair that frame his face. You slowly reach up and rest a hand on his cheek as your eyes slowly roam across his face, taking in every detail of him.

“You’re gorgeous,” You whisper.

You feel honored to stand witness to the way his face grows hot under your hand as a prominent blush works its way onto his cheeks. He stares down at you, lips pulled into a small frown before he speaks in a quiet voice.

“I’m sorry, maus.”

You can’t help but ask, “Why’d you do it?”

He allows a hand to drop from your waist and move up to yours, his first and middle finger finding its place on your pulse.

“I can’t love you,” He pulls you closer to him, “Just to end up losing you. I don’t think I’d ever recover.”

Your hand slowly falls from his cheek in favor of trailing your fingers along his jaw, “You wouldn’t lose me.”

“I lose everyone eventually.”

Your fingers make their way to the outer line of his lips, “I’m scared of losing you too, König, but the idea of losing you knowing I never got the chance to love you scares me even more.”

His breath hitches, “You deserve better.”

You shake your head, “I deserve you. I want you.”

His body freezes, he can barely think.

You move your fingers away from his lips in favor of wrapping them up in his hair as you speak once more, “I want you to want me.”

He gulps, “I’ve always wanted you.”

“Then show me.”

Upon receiving your reassurance, he surges forward and connects his lips with yours in a sweet kiss.

I’ve been the archer

I’ve been the prey

Who could ever leave me, darling?

But who could stay?

(I see right through me, I see right through me)

Who could stay?

Who could stay?

Who could stay?

You could stay

You could stay

taglist: @merakiaes @kaauyyq2

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #cod #mw2 #mw2 2022 #cod mw2 fanfic #cod mw2 imagine #könig mw2 #könig x reader #könig #könig x y/n #konig x reader #konig #not sure what other tags to add tbh #angsty #idk #:)

[nesiacha]

The difference in treatment between the Indulgents and the Cordeliers or Hébertistes

I have an opinion that will seem unpopular, no worries I am open to any criticism or to being corrected in the event of an error so do not hesitate to correct me. I have much more sympathy for the Hébertist faction, the exaggerators or the Cordeliers than that of Danton's Indulgents. Indeed if we exclude the Hebert case who is an indefensible man, mediocre in my eyes (I don't think I need to explain why) this is not the case for so many others. I mean Ronsin was a competent and honest administrator. Despite his mysoginism (horribly reprehensible, just look at the speech he gave concerning the execution of Gouges and Manon Roland) Chaumette could be as competent as procureur syndicale de Paris and had also generous ideas (such as banning whipping in schools, equalization of funeral rites for all, protective measures for the elderly and hospitalized). One of the most impressive cases is Momoro. Even the historian Mathiez, who nevertheless has little sympathy for the revolutionaries who were against the Committee of Public Safety in the spring of 1794, had practically nothing but praise for Momoro. He voluntarily lived in poverty and when he was tried he said he had given everything for the revolution. It was true in my eyes. Of course I understand in a certain way the repression exercised by the Committee of Public Safety (more precisely the Convention since an arrest cannot be made without its agreement, it is not a dictatorship either) when Cordeliers wanted to launch a new insurrection against the Convention ( like Momoro for example). The fact of wanting to persecute the priests did not help, not to mention the fact that they wanted stronger repression of the enemies at the risk of making the Revolution even harsher. But when we analyze, I can understand where come frome their anger. Their hatred about religion was due to the fact that not long ago, a lot of religious fanatics infantilized the people, constantly made prohibitions against them (we must NEVER accept infantilization or loss of free will for religious reasons) and atrocious repressions without counting the their wealth that they monopolized (in terms of absurd repression there is nothing but to see the Calas affair, or that of the case of Chevalier de la Barre etc…), even if there were a lot of priest and believers weren't like that . Although the Cordeliers were wrong to respond to religious intolerance by intolerance, I can agree. The same goes for the Terror. At that time France was threatened by enemies from within and without and quite a few of their enemies carried out atrocious tortures (although rotten people like Fouché, Carrier, were not to be outdone in atrocities to the point that the Committee of Public Safety recalled them immediately). Prices were increasing because of the war, so without excusing them once again I can understand their minds when they demanded ever greater repression of the Terror (even if once again it was a serious error ,a mistake and even a fault).

Let's compare to the indulgent (or Dantonists) who are caught up in financial scandals (according to for a lot of historians like Jean Marc Schiappa). Danton moved only because of the financial scandals which were beginning to erupt and did not dare to attack head-on in this period of factional clashes, he let his friends do so. Moreover, according to certain historians like Decaux if I am not mistaken, he only came back against the Hebertists because they attacked them (and they did not only have them as enemies). He is not a clean character. Let's not talk about Fabre d'Eglantine. For Desmoulins I have an unpopular opinion of him. I find him very overrated and no matter how much I tried to appreciate his historical figure (by reading the very good biography of Leuwers or the book by Joseph Andras) I cannot. I don't think that despite the fact that he is very cultured, a man who rightly think that women must have the right of vote and even a republican before his time, he is not capable of assuming an important position unlike Saint Just or Ronsin who he made fun of. And worst of all I find him hypocritical, he who demanded clemency applauded the execution of the Hebertists following a parody of justice (yes I like the Montagnards of this period but this kind of thing should never be tolerated) . He didn't say anything when the wives of Momoro and Hebert were arrested which was very serious (afterwards I don't know well if they were arrested at the same time as Lucile Desmoulins), but he didn't realize that it was going well back in his face.

The Dantonists were irresponsible in my eyes. I completely agree that it was necessary to examine each prisoner on a case-by-case basis because there were surely a large number who had nothing to do there by creating as many commissions as possible as quickly as possible and getting down to business. job right away because prison is a horrible place, even more so for innocent people. But releasing everyone without distinction immediately would have been dangerous because there were also dangerous counter-revolutionaries or spies. I mean have they forgotten that the fall of Toulon to the English was due to betrayal? The betrayal of Dumouriez, the assassinations of some deputies, etc… Where did this idea of making peace with foreign armies still occupying France come from when the French army was beginning to be victorious? Opposing a war of conquest I completely agree, but allowing one's own territory to be annexed is something else. And how dangerous would it be to leave corrupt people like Danton in power. Sooner or later, he could perhaps have given in to blackmail in view of the evidence of corruption that contemporaries have today, which would have been very dangerous for France. As a result, I never understood why the “good” indulgent ones were portrayed against the “bad” Cordeliers and Hébertists. Whatever happens for all these factions, no matter my great admiration for revolutionaries like Le Bas, Saint Just, Couthon, the fact that I am sorry like many people that Robespierre is demonized, the fact that they allowed a parody of justice against these factions is an unforgivable fault and to have allowed the execution of Marie Françoise Goupil and Lucile Desmoulins among others to consolidate this parody of justice is unacceptable. Even if I understand their states of mind because they could not afford to lose especially in this period against these different factions and contrary to what the Thermidorians put forward, the majority of the Convention was just as guilty as them, there is no excuse for this kind of behavior. Did Saint Just realize this when he said that the Revolution was frozen (even he spoke more about the consequences of this repression and that the revolution is weakened on this point) ? It would later fall on them and Elisabeth Le Bas was threatened with being guillotined for having been Le Bas' wife (some wanted to force her into a marriage with one of the Termidorians). If they had not allowed the fate of Goupil or Lucile Desmoulins earlier perhaps it would have been more difficult for the Thermidorians to threaten her. For more information in the form of a movie , I invite you to see" Saint Just ou la Force des Choses" and " la Camera explore le temps Danton, la terreur et la vertue" in English sub. These are good movies about this period.

And you what do you think ?

#french revolution #Terror #georges danton #Camille Desmoulins #Ronsin #Momoro #Cordeliers #Indulgents #History #saint just #couthon #robespierre #lucile desmoulins #Hebert #Chaumette #joseph fouché #Carrier

[attorney-ramblings]

Okay, I have a fic concept living rent free in my head.

Miles has been helping Phoenix deal with the aftermath of his disbarment since the beginning, he pulled every string and called in every favor he could, and still nothing could be done.

He tried to assure Wright that things would work out eventually, that they would prove he’d been tricked. Wright had adamantly refused to have Trucy testify on his behalf, to lay the blame on her. Miles disagreed with the decision but didn’t push him on it, she was only a child after all.

As time passes, Phoenix struggles to make ends meet. He needs to go out and get a job but he can’t just leave Trucy alone in the apartment for his long hours. Upon hearing this, Miles reluctantly offered to watch her. He had not intended it to become a regular occurrence.

Yet here he was, slowly coming to adore the sweet and spirited girl. She was well behaved, and all around delightful. Of course she was a child still and sometimes he found her getting herself into trouble around the Prosecutor’s Office, however he’d never needed to scold her about something more than once.

He was careful about where he took her, often avoiding having her ever come near a crime scene. Whenever he had to go out investigating he would have Detective Gumshoe watch her for the hour or so he needed to get what was necessary.

Other than those times the girl was right by her side at all times, she asked a lot of questions when they were alone, about what was happening in the case. It was an interesting exercise for him, trying to explain the case to a child, he spared her any of the more gruesome details of course. He wouldn’t be held responsible for traumatizing her.

However, trying to explain the complex motivations of the human psyche for crime in a easily digestible manner had actually been a relatively helpful exercise.

Other times when talking to witnesses, she was mostly quiet, but sometimes she even landed up being helpful. Sometimes noticing speech patterns and little ticks that he would’ve otherwise overlooked. She was also amazingly emotionally intelligent, she covered for an area he was weak in, comforting others.

He had more than once, left the room for a moment to grab something just to come back and find her sitting next to a witness, them tearing up and suddenly ready to talk.

It was honestly incredible to him, and he found himself hopelessly enamored by this precious little girl. Phoenix often complained about how he spoiled her rotten, but he frankly couldn’t care less. It was payment for helping him with his work.

It was a few months after this pattern had started, and Trucy was skipping along behind him as usual. He needed to speak to a detective, so he was down at the station. A particularly peculiar case had just been set into motion and he needed more information.

Trucy wasn’t the type to wander off on her own, that had been a strict rule he’d implemented when he’d started bringing her with him places. She’d always been good about it, only ever getting lost in the madness once.

When he looked around and saw she was nowhere to be seen, he panicked. They were in a police station, surely she was safe, she had to be.

Except, often Police stations are filled with nearly as many criminals as officers, who knew what might happen if one broke out of their handcuffs.

It didn’t take him terribly long to find her thankfully, he heard crying in the distance, when he followed the sound, it seemed to be the voice of a child. Down a hallway and into a conference room, that was when he finally caught sight of her again.

Miles nearly shouted, he was sorely tempted to scold her for scaring him like that. However the moment he processed what he was looking at, the words died on his lips.

Trucy was sitting next to another little girl, she seemed slightly older than her, but only by a year or two. She wore her bright auburn hair in a side pony and she was sobbing, hysterically panicking.

Miles was all too familiar with that particular kind of terror, he made eye contact with the officer in the room and gestured for them to come closer.

“Prosecutor Edgeworth, I was a little worried when I saw your girl walk in here alone, everything alright?” The officer asked, she was a middle aged woman who mostly worked filing and desk jobs. She was always in the precinct, so she often saw them here.

He nodded curtly, “She walked off on her own while I was taking care of something, I’ll have a talk with her. I’m just glad she didn’t leave the station.” He looked back over to the two girls, Trucy was hugging her from the seat beside the the auburn haired girl. Trucy had given the girl her cape to wrap around her for comfort, and she was clutching it tightly and mumbling to herself softly.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “She always seems to know when someone’s upset, makes it hard to be angry with her.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall for a moment. “Who’s the other girl?”

“Athena Cykes, the daughter of that astronaut that got murdered by the prosecutor. Surely you’ve heard about it… we don’t really know what to do with her. She has distant relatives from Europe we’re attempting to contact, but there’s some sort of hang up in the communications. It’s taking longer that we expected it to.” She sighed. “She’ll probably have to stay at the precinct tonight, I already offered to keep an eye on her. Poor thing.”

Miles did know the case, in fact it was the one he had just been assigned. Prosecutor Simon Blackquill confessed to the murder of Metis Cykes, the girl being the daughter of the victim.

Trucy finally seemed to realize his presence there and jumped in her seat, she scampered over to him and hugged his leg. “Uncle Miles! I’m sorry, I know you don’t like it when I run off, you just looked busy and I wanted to help her…”. She spoke softly for a child, clearly trying to be mindful of the young Miss Cykes.

“Miss, is ‘Thena really going to have to stay here overnight?” She asked the officer, looking deeply concerned.

“Sorry Lil Missy, that’s the way it has to be. She hasn’t got anywhere else to stay. Protocol would have us looking after her until she’s either put under the care of extended family or the foster system.” She explained, and Trucy glanced over her shoulder at the girl again. She had quieted down a little after Trucy gave her cape to the girl. When her gaze returned to Miles there were tears in her eyes.

“It’s so loud here though! ‘Thena has really sensitive ears, she usually wears these headphones when she goes out in public that her momma made for her. If she doesn’t then she gets overwhelmed really easily, and she doesn’t have them! She doesn’t even go to school at all because of it, even with the headphones.” Trucy had her fists at her sides and her mouth pressed in a determined line, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She can’t stay here Uncle Miles!”

The officer blinked, “She told you all that?”

Trucy nodded emphatically. It didn’t surprise Miles in the least… he looked over to the quiet trembling girl. He couldn’t help but see himself in her, traumatized, alone, having all of his decisions made for him by adults he didn’t know or trust. If what Trucy was saying is true, then.

He sighed.

“Trucy, stay with her. I’m going to see what I can do.”

#ace attorney #trucy gramarye #ace attorney trucy #trucy wright #trucy enigmar #aa trucy #phoenix and trucy #miles and Trucy #miles edgeworth #phoenix wright #wrightworth #dadworth #athena cykes #simon blackquill #gyatuken saiban #narumitsu #naruhodo minuki #mitsurugi reiji #apollo justice

[mariacallous]

One of the section leaders for my computer-science class, Hamza El Boudali, believes that President Joe Biden should be killed. “I’m not calling for a civilian to do it, but I think a military should,” the 23-year-old Stanford University student told a small group of protesters last month. “I’d be happy if Biden was dead.” He thinks that Stanford is complicit in what he calls the genocide of Palestinians, and that Biden is not only complicit but responsible for it. “I’m not calling for a vigilante to do it,” he later clarified, “but I’m saying he is guilty of mass murder and should be treated in the same way that a terrorist with darker skin would be (and we all know terrorists with dark skin are typically bombed and drone striked by American planes).” El Boudali has also said that he believes that Hamas’s October 7 attack was a justifiable act of resistance, and that he would actually prefer Hamas rule America in place of its current government (though he clarified later that he “doesn’t mean Hamas is perfect”). When you ask him what his cause is, he answers: “Peace.”

I switched to a different computer-science section.

Israel is 7,500 miles away from Stanford’s campus, where I am a sophomore. But the Hamas invasion and the Israeli counterinvasion have fractured my university, a place typically less focused on geopolitics than on venture-capital funding for the latest dorm-based tech start-up. Few students would call for Biden’s head—I think—but many of the same young people who say they want peace in Gaza don’t seem to realize that they are in fact advocating for violence. Extremism has swept through classrooms and dorms, and it is becoming normal for students to be harassed and intimidated for their faith, heritage, or appearance—they have been called perpetrators of genocide for wearing kippahs, and accused of supporting terrorism for wearing keffiyehs. The extremism and anti-Semitism at Ivy League universities on the East Coast have attracted so much media and congressional attention that two Ivy presidents have lost their jobs. But few people seem to have noticed the culture war that has taken over our California campus.

For four months, two rival groups of protesters, separated by a narrow bike path, faced off on Stanford’s palm-covered grounds. The “Sit-In to Stop Genocide” encampment was erected by students in mid-October, even before Israeli troops had crossed into Gaza, to demand that the university divest from Israel and condemn its behavior. Posters were hung equating Hamas with Ukraine and Nelson Mandela. Across from the sit-in, a rival group of pro-Israel students eventually set up the “Blue and White Tent” to provide, as one activist put it, a “safe space” to “be a proud Jew on campus.” Soon it became the center of its own cluster of tents, with photos of Hamas’s victims sitting opposite the rubble-ridden images of Gaza and a long (and incomplete) list of the names of slain Palestinians displayed by the students at the sit-in.

Some days the dueling encampments would host only a few people each, but on a sunny weekday afternoon, there could be dozens. Most of the time, the groups tolerated each other. But not always. Students on both sides were reportedly spit on and yelled at, and had their belongings destroyed. (The perpetrators in many cases seemed to be adults who weren’t affiliated with Stanford, a security guard told me.) The university put in place round-the-clock security, but when something actually happened, no one quite knew what to do.

Stanford has a policy barring overnight camping, but for months didn’t enforce it, “out of a desire to support the peaceful expression of free speech in the ways that students choose to exercise that expression”—and, the administration told alumni, because the university feared that confronting the students would only make the conflict worse. When the school finally said the tents had to go last month, enormous protests against the university administration, and against Israel, followed.

“We don’t want no two states! We want all of ’48!” students chanted, a slogan advocating that Israel be dismantled and replaced by a single Arab nation. Palestinian flags flew alongside bright “Welcome!” banners left over from new-student orientation. A young woman gave a speech that seemed to capture the sense of urgency and power that so many students here feel. “We are Stanford University!” she shouted. “We control things!”

“We’ve had protests in the past,” Richard Saller, the university’s interim president, told me in November—about the environment, and apartheid, and Vietnam. But they didn’t pit “students against each other” the way that this conflict has.

I’ve spoken with Saller, a scholar of Roman history, a few times over the past six months in my capacity as a student journalist. We first met in September, a few weeks into his tenure. His predecessor, Marc Tessier-Lavigne, had resigned as president after my reporting for The Stanford Daily exposed misconduct in his academic research. (Tessier-Lavigne had failed to retract papers with faked data over the course of 20 years. In his resignation statement, he denied allegations of fraud and misconduct; a Stanford investigation determined that he had not personally manipulated data or ordered any manipulation but that he had repeatedly “failed to decisively and forthrightly correct mistakes” from his lab.)

In that first conversation, Saller told me that everyone was “eager to move on” from the Tessier-Lavigne scandal. He was cheerful and upbeat. He knew he wasn’t staying in the job long; he hadn’t even bothered to move into the recently vacated presidential manor. In any case, campus, at that time, was serene. Then, a week later, came October 7.

The attack was as clear a litmus test as one could imagine for the Middle East conflict. Hamas insurgents raided homes and a music festival with the goal of slaughtering as many civilians as possible. Some victims were raped and mutilated, several independent investigations found. Hundreds of hostages were taken into Gaza and many have been tortured.

This, of course, was bad. Saying this was bad does not negate or marginalize the abuses and suffering Palestinians have experienced in Gaza and elsewhere. Everyone, of every ideology, should be able to say that this was bad. But much of this campus failed that simple test.

Two days after the deadliest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust, Stanford released milquetoast statements marking the “moment of intense emotion” and declaring “deep concern” over “the crisis in Israel and Palestine.” The official statements did not use the words Hamas or violence.

The absence of a clear institutional response led some teachers to take matters into their own hands. During a mandatory freshman seminar on October 10, a lecturer named Ameer Loggins tossed out his lesson plan to tell students that the actions of the Palestinian “military force” had been justified, that Israelis were colonizers, and that the Holocaust had been overemphasized, according to interviews I conducted with students in the class. Loggins then asked the Jewish students to identify themselves. He instructed one of them to “stand up, face the window, and he kind of kicked away his chair,” a witness told me. Loggins described this as an effort to demonstrate Israel’s treatment of Palestinians. (Loggins did not reply to a request for comment; a spokesperson for Stanford said that there were “different recollections of the details regarding what happened” in the class.)

“We’re only in our third week of college, and we’re afraid to be here,” three students in the class wrote in an email that night to administrators. “This isn’t what Stanford was supposed to be.” The class Loggins taught is called COLLEGE, short for “Civic, Liberal, and Global Education,” and it is billed as an effort to develop “the skills that empower and enable us to live together.”

Loggins was suspended from teaching duties and an investigation was opened; this angered pro-Palestine activists, who organized a petition that garnered more than 1,700 signatures contesting the suspension. A pamphlet from the petitioners argued that Loggins’s behavior had not been out of bounds.

The day after the class, Stanford put out a statement written by Saller and Jenny Martinez, the university provost, more forcefully condemning the Hamas attack. Immediately, this new statement generated backlash.

Pro-Palestine activists complained about it during an event held the same day, the first of several “teach-ins” about the conflict. Students gathered in one of Stanford’s dorms to “bear witness to the struggles of decolonization.” The grievances and pain shared by Palestinian students were real. They told of discrimination and violence, of frightened family members subjected to harsh conditions. But the most raucous reaction from the crowd was in response to a young woman who said, “You ask us, do we condemn Hamas? Fuck you!” She added that she was “so proud of my resistance.”

David Palumbo-Liu, a professor of comparative literature with a focus on postcolonial studies, also spoke at the teach-in, explaining to the crowd that “European settlers” had come to “replace” Palestine’s “native population.”

Palumbo-Liu is known as an intelligent and supportive professor, and is popular among students, who call him by his initials, DPL. I wanted to ask him about his involvement in the teach-in, so we met one day in a café a few hundred feet away from the tents. I asked if he could elaborate on what he’d said at the event about Palestine’s native population. He was happy to expand: This was “one of those discussions that could go on forever. Like, who is actually native? At what point does nativism lapse, right? Well, you haven’t been native for X number of years, so …” In the end, he said, “you have two people who both feel they have a claim to the land,” and “they have to live together. Both sides have to cede something.”

The struggle at Stanford, he told me, “is to find a way in which open discussions can be had that allow people to disagree.” It’s true that Stanford has utterly failed in its efforts to encourage productive dialogue. But I still found it hard to reconcile DPL’s words with his public statements on Israel, which he’d recently said on Facebook should be “the most hated nation in the world.” He also wrote: “When Zionists say they don’t feel ‘safe’ on campus, I’ve come to see that as they no longer feel immune to criticism of Israel.” He continued: “Well as the saying goes, get used to it.”

Zionists, and indeed Jewish students of all political beliefs, have been given good reason to fear for their safety. They’ve been followed, harassed, and called derogatory racial epithets. At least one was told he was a “dirty Jew.” At least twice, mezuzahs have been ripped from students’ doors, and swastikas have been drawn in dorms. Arab and Muslim students also face alarming threats. The computer-science section leader, El Boudali, a pro-Palestine activist, told me he felt “safe personally,” but knew others who did not: “Some people have reported feeling like they’re followed, especially women who wear the hijab.”

In a remarkably short period of time, aggression and abuse have become commonplace, an accepted part of campus activism. In January, Jewish students organized an event dedicated to ameliorating anti-Semitism. It marked one of Saller’s first public appearances in the new year. Its topic seemed uncontroversial, and I thought it would generate little backlash.

Protests began before the panel discussion even started, with activists lining the stairs leading to the auditorium. During the event they drowned out the panelists, one of whom was Israel’s special envoy for combating anti-Semitism, by demanding a cease-fire. After participants began cycling out into the dark, things got ugly.

Activists, their faces covered by keffiyehs or medical masks, confronted attendees. “Go back to Brooklyn!” a young woman shouted at Jewish students. One protester, who emerged as the leader of the group, said that she and her compatriots would “take all of your places and ensure Israel falls.” She told attendees to get “off our fucking campus” and launched into conspiracy theories about Jews being involved in “child trafficking.” As a rabbi tried to leave the event, protesters pursued him, chanting, “There is only one solution! Intifada revolution!”

At one point, some members of the group turned on a few Stanford employees, including another rabbi, an imam, and a chaplain, telling them, “We know your names and we know where you work.” The ringleader added: “And we’ll soon find out where you live.” The religious leaders formed a protective barrier in front of the Jewish students. The rabbi and the imam appeared to be crying.

Saller avoided the protest by leaving through another door. Early that morning, his private residence had been vandalized. Protesters frequently tell him he “can’t hide” and shout him down. “We charge you with genocide!” they chant, demanding that Stanford divest from Israel. (When asked whether Stanford actually invested in Israel, a spokesperson replied that, beyond small exposures from passive funds that track indexes such as the S&P 500, the university’s endowment “has no direct holdings in Israeli companies, or direct holdings in defense contractors.”)

When the university finally said the protest tents had to be removed, students responded by accusing Saller of suppressing their right to free speech. This is probably the last charge he expected to face. Saller once served as provost at the University of Chicago, which is known for holding itself to a position of strict institutional neutrality so that its students can freely explore ideas for themselves. Saller has a lifelong belief in First Amendment rights. But that conviction in impartial college governance does not align with Stanford’s behavior in recent years. Despite the fact that many students seemed largely uninterested in the headlines before this year, Stanford’s administrative leadership has often taken positions on political issues and events, such as the Paris climate conference and the murder of George Floyd. After Russia invaded Ukraine, Stanford’s Hoover Tower was lit up in blue and yellow, and the school released a statement in solidarity.

When we first met, a week before October 7, I asked Saller about this. Did Stanford have a moral duty to denounce the war in Ukraine, for example, or the ethnic cleansing of Uyghur Muslims in China? “On international political issues, no,” he said. “That’s not a responsibility for the university as a whole, as an institution.”

But when Saller tried to apply his convictions on neutrality for the first time as president, dozens of faculty members condemned the response, many pro-Israel alumni were outraged, donors had private discussions about pulling funding, and an Israeli university sent an open letter to Saller and Martinez saying, “Stanford’s administration has failed us.” The initial statement had tried to make clear that the school’s policy was not Israel-specific: It noted that the university would not take a position on the turmoil in Nagorno-Karabakh (where Armenians are undergoing ethnic cleansing) either. But the message didn’t get through.

Saller had to beat an awkward retreat or risk the exact sort of public humiliation that he, as caretaker president, had presumably been hired to avoid. He came up with a compromise that landed somewhere in the middle: an unequivocal condemnation of Hamas’s “intolerable atrocities” paired with a statement making clear that Stanford would commit to institutional neutrality going forward.

“The events in Israel and Gaza this week have affected and engaged large numbers of students on our campus in ways that many other events have not,” the statement read. “This is why we feel compelled to both address the impact of these events on our campus and to explain why our general policy of not issuing statements about news events not directly connected to campus has limited the breadth of our comments thus far, and why you should not expect frequent commentary from us in the future.”

I asked Saller why he had changed tack on Israel and not on Nagorno-Karabakh. “We don’t feel as if we should be making statements on every war crime and atrocity,” he told me. This felt like a statement in and of itself.

In making such decisions, Saller works closely with Martinez, Stanford’s provost. I happened to interview her, too, a few days before October 7, not long after she’d been appointed. When I asked about her hopes for the job, she said that a “priority is ensuring an environment in which free speech and academic freedom are preserved.”

We talked about the so-called Leonard Law—a provision unique to California that requires private universities to be governed by the same First Amendment protections as public ones. This restricts what Stanford can do in terms of penalizing speech, putting it in a stricter bind than Harvard, the University of Pennsylvania, or any of the other elite private institutions that have more latitude to set the standards for their campus (whether or not they have done so).

So I was surprised when, in December, the university announced that abstract calls for genocide “clearly violate Stanford’s Fundamental Standard, the code of conduct for all students at the university.” The statement was a response to the outrage following the congressional testimony of three university presidents—outrage that eventually led to the resignation of two of them, Harvard’s Claudine Gay and Penn’s Liz Magill. Gay and Magill, who had both previously held positions at Stanford, did not commit to punishing calls for the genocide of Jews.

Experts told me that Stanford’s policy is impossible to enforce—and Saller himself acknowledged as much in our March interview.

“Liz Magill is a good friend,” Saller told me, adding, “Having watched what happened at Harvard and Penn, it seemed prudent” to publicly state that Stanford rejected calls for genocide. But saying that those calls violate the code of conduct “is not the same thing as to say that we could actually punish it.”

Stanford’s leaders seem to be trying their best while adapting to the situation in real time. But the muddled messaging has created a policy of neutrality that does not feel neutral at all.

When we met back in November, I tried to get Saller to open up about his experience running an institution in turmoil. What’s it like to know that so many students seem to believe that he—a mild-mannered 71-year-old classicist who swing-dances with his anthropologist wife—is a warmonger? Saller was more candid than I expected—perhaps more candid than any prominent university president has been yet. We sat in the same conference room as we had in September. The weather hadn’t really changed. Yet I felt like I was sitting in front of a different person. He was hunched over and looked exhausted, and his voice broke when he talked about the loss of life in Gaza and Israel and “the fact that we’re caught up in it.” A capable administrator with decades of experience, Saller seemed almost at a loss. “It’s been a kind of roller coaster, to be honest.”

He said he hadn’t anticipated the deluge of the emails “blaming me for lack of moral courage.” Anything the university says seems bound to be wrong: “If I say that our position is that we grieve over the loss of innocent lives, that in itself will draw some hostile reactions.”

“I find that really difficult to navigate,” he said with a sigh.

By March, it seemed that his views had solidified. He said he knew he was “a target,” but he was not going to be pushed into issuing any more statements. The continuing crisis seems to have granted him new insight. “I am certain that whatever I say will not have any material effect on the war in Gaza.” It’s hard to argue with that.

People tend to blame the campus wars on two villains: dithering administrators and radical student activists. But colleges have always had dithering administrators and radical student activists. To my mind, it’s the average students who have changed.

Elite universities attract a certain kind of student: the overachieving striver who has won all the right accolades for all the right activities. Is it such a surprise that the kids who are trained in the constant pursuit of perfect scores think they have to look at the world like a series of multiple-choice questions, with clearly right or wrong answers? Or that they think they can gamify a political cause in the same way they ace a standardized test?

Everyone knows that the only reliable way to get into a school like Stanford is to be really good at looking really good. Now that they’re here, students know that one easy way to keep looking good is to side with the majority of protesters, and condemn Israel.

It’s not that there isn’t real anger and anxiety over what is happening in Gaza—there is, and justifiably so. I know that among the protesters are many people who are deeply connected to this issue. But they are not the majority. What really activates the crowds now seems less a principled devotion to Palestine or to pacifism than a desire for collective action, to fit in by embracing the fashionable cause of the moment—as if a centuries-old conflict in which both sides have stolen and killed could ever be a simple matter of right and wrong. In their haste to exhibit moral righteousness, many of the least informed protesters end up being the loudest and most uncompromising.

Today’s students grew up in the Trump era, in which violent rhetoric has become a normal part of political discourse and activism is as easy as reposting an infographic. Many young people have come to feel that being angry is enough to foment change. Furious at the world’s injustices and desperate for a simple way to express that fury, they don’t seem interested in any form of engagement more nuanced than backing a pure protagonist and denouncing an evil enemy. They don’t, always, seem that concerned with the truth.

At the protest last month to prevent the removal of the sit-in, an activist in a pink Women’s March “pussy hat” shouted that no rape was committed by Hamas on October 7. “There hasn’t been proof of these rape accusations,” a student told me in a separate conversation, criticizing the Blue and White Tent for spreading what he considered to be misinformation about sexual violence. (In March, a United Nations report found “reasonable grounds to believe that conflict-related sexual violence,” including “rape and gang rape,” occurred in multiple locations on October 7, as well as “clear and convincing information” on the “rape and sexualized torture” of hostages.) “The level of propaganda” surrounding Hamas, he told me, “is just unbelievable.”

The real story at Stanford is not about the malicious actors who endorse sexual assault and murder as forms of resistance, but about those who passively enable them because they believe their side can do no wrong. You don’t have to understand what you’re arguing for in order to argue for it. You don’t have to be able to name the river or the sea under discussion to chant “From the river to the sea.” This kind of obliviousness explains how one of my friends, a gay activist, can justify Hamas’s actions, even though it would have the two of us—an outspoken queer person and a Jewish reporter—killed in a heartbeat. A similar mentality can exist on the other side: I have heard students insist on the absolute righteousness of Israel yet seem uninterested in learning anything about what life is like in Gaza.

I’m familiar with the pull of achievement culture—after all, I’m a product of the same system. I fell in love with Stanford as a 7-year-old, lying on the floor of an East Coast library and picturing all the cool technology those West Coast geniuses were dreaming up. I cried when I was accepted; I spent the next few months scrolling through the course catalog, giddy with anticipation. I wanted to learn everything.

I learned more than I expected. Within my first week here, someone asked me: “Why are all Jews so rich?” In 2016, when Stanford’s undergraduate senate had debated a resolution against anti-Semitism, one of its members argued that the idea of “Jews controlling the media, economy, government, and other societal institutions” represented “a very valid discussion.” (He apologized, and the resolution passed.) In my dorm last year, a student discussed being Jewish and awoke the next day to swastikas and a portrait of Hitler affixed to his door.

I grew up secularly, with no strong affiliation to Jewish culture. When I found out as a teenager that some of my ancestors had hidden their identity from their children and that dozens of my relatives had died in the Holocaust (something no living member of my family had known), I felt the barest tremor of identity. After I saw so many people I know cheering after October 7, I felt something stronger stir. I know others have experienced something similar. Even a professor texted me to say that she felt Jewish in a way she never had before.

But my frustration with the conflict on campus has little to do with my own identity. Across the many conversations and hours of formal interviews I conducted for this article, I’ve encountered a persistent anti-intellectual streak. I’ve watched many of my classmates treat death so cavalierly that they can protest as a pregame to a party. Indeed, two parties at Stanford were reported to the university this fall for allegedly making people say “Fuck Israel” or “Free Palestine” to get in the door. A spokesperson for the university said it was “unable to confirm the facts of what occurred,” but that it had “met with students involved in both parties to make clear that Stanford’s nondiscrimination policy applies to parties.” As a friend emailed me not long ago: “A place that was supposed to be a sanctuary from such unreason has become a factory for it.”

Readers may be tempted to discount the conduct displayed at Stanford. After all, the thinking goes, these are privileged kids doing what they always do: embracing faux-radicalism in college before taking jobs in fintech or consulting. These students, some might say, aren’t representative of America.

And yet they are representative of something: of the conduct many of the most accomplished students in my generation have accepted as tolerable, and what that means for the future of our country. I admire activism. We need people willing to protest what they see as wrong and take on entrenched systems of repression. But we also need to read, learn, discuss, accept the existence of nuance, embrace diversity of thought, and hold our own allies to high standards. More than ever, we need universities to teach young people how to do all of this.

For so long, Stanford’s physical standoff seemed intractable. Then, in early February, a storm swept in, and the natural world dictated its own conclusion.

Heavy rains flooded campus. For hours, the students battled to save their tents. The sit-in activists used sandbags and anything else they could find to hold back the water—at one point, David Palumbo-Liu, the professor, told me he stood in the lashing downpour to anchor one of the sit-in’s tents with his own body. When the storm hit, many of the Jewish activists had been attending a discussion on anti-Semitism. They raced back and struggled to salvage the Blue and White Tent, but it was too late—the wind had ripped it out of the ground.

The next day, the weary Jewish protesters returned to discover that their space had been taken.

A new collection of tents had been set up by El Boudali, the pro-Palestine activist, and a dozen friends. He said they were there to protest Islamophobia and to teach about Islam and jihad, and that they were a separate entity from the Sit-In to Stop Genocide, though I observed students cycling between the tents. Palestinian flags now flew from the bookstore to the quad.

Administrators told me they’d quickly informed El Boudali and his allies that the space had been reserved by the Jewish advocates, and offered to help move them to a different location. But the protesters told me they had no intention of going. (El Boudali later said that they did not take over the entire space, and would have been “happy to exist side by side, but they wanted to kick us off entirely from that lawn.”)

When it was clear that the area where they’d set up their tents would not be ceded back to the pro-Israel group willingly, Stanford changed course and decided to clear everyone out in one fell swoop. On February 8, school officials ordered all students to vacate the plaza overnight. The university was finally going to enforce its rule prohibiting people from sleeping outside on campus and requiring the removal of belongings from the plaza between 8 p.m. and 8 a.m. The order cited the danger posed by the storm as a justification for changing course and, probably hoping to avoid allegations of bias, described the decision as “viewpoint-neutral.”

That didn’t work.

About a week of protests, led by the sit-in organizers, followed. Chants were chanted. More demands for a “river to the sea” solution to the Israel problem were made. A friend boasted to me about her willingness to be arrested. Stanford sent a handful of staff members, who stood near balloons left over from an event earlier in the day. They were there, one of them told me, to “make students feel supported and safe.”

In the end, Saller and Martinez agreed to talk with the leaders of the sit-in about their demands to divest the university and condemn Israel, under the proviso that the activists comply with Stanford’s anti-camping guidelines “regardless of the outcome of discussions.” Eight days after they were first instructed to leave, 120 days after setting up camp, the sit-in protesters slept in their own beds. In defiance of the university’s instructions, they left behind their tents. But sometime in the very early hours of the morning, law-enforcement officers confiscated the structures. The area was cordoned off without any violence and the plaza filled once more with electric skateboards and farmers’ markets.

The conflict continues in its own way. Saller was just shouted down by protesters chanting “No peace on stolen land” at a Family Weekend event, and protesters later displayed an effigy of him covered in blood. Students still feel tense; Saller still seems worried. He told me that the university is planning to change all manner of things—residential-assistant training, new-student orientation, even the acceptance letters that students receive—in hopes of fostering a culture of greater tolerance. But no campus edict or panel discussion can address a problem that is so much bigger than our university.

At one rally last fall, a speaker expressed disillusionment about the power of “peaceful resistance” on college campuses. “What is there left to do but to take up arms?” The crowd cheered as he said Israel must be destroyed. But what would happen to its citizens? I’d prefer to believe that most protesters chanting “Palestine is Arab” and shouting that we must “smash the Zionist settler state” don’t actually think Jews should be killed en masse. But can one truly be so ignorant as to advocate widespread violence in the name of peace?

When the world is rendered in black-and-white—portrayed as a simple fight between colonizer and colonized—the answer is yes. Solutions, by this logic, are absolute: Israel or Palestine, nothing in between. Either you support liberation of the oppressed or you support genocide. Either Stanford is all good or all bad; all in favor of free speech or all authoritarian; all anti-Semitic or all Islamophobic.

At January’s anti-anti-Semitism event, I watched an exchange between a Jewish attendee and a protester from a few feet away. “Are you pro-Palestine?” the protester asked.

“Yes,” the attendee responded, and he went on to describe his disgust with the human-rights abuses Palestinians have faced for years.

“But are you a Zionist?”

“Yes.”

“Then we are enemies.”

[xreaderbooks]

The Shadows of Our Love |12|

Chapter 12 | In the Shadow of Detention

Pair: Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Summary: After the events at the recent Crossed Wands match, Y/n and Sebastian are required to serve their time in detention.

Warnings: language (?), jealousy, mentions of violence

Word Count: 4.3k

Wattpad | Ao3 | Playlist

a/n: I listened to 'salamander eyes' from the fantastic beasts playlist for the last conversation in the common room which really added to the feelings i had while writing it. comment or message me to be tagged in future parts :)

Chapter 11 - Series Masterlist - Navi - Chapter 13

“The behavior displayed by you this evening, Ms. L/n, was indecorous.” Sharp began his speech, “This unsanctioned dueling club you children believe to be secretive, as it happens, is not. The faculty is well aware of the illicit activities being held and while we may turn a blind eye to the extracurricular activity; to be informed of a physical altercation and that there was bloodshed-”

You couldn’t help the sly smirk that happened upon your face, highly unintentional, your facial features didn’t comprehend the lecture you were getting from your professor who- frighteningly enough- was an ex-Auror.

“I’m glad you are amused, Ms. L/n because you are stripped of your Hogsmeade privileges,” His eyes zeroed in on you, “And every Saturday for the rest of the semester you will be in the detention room executing the tasks given to you.”

Your jaw dropped, and you glance at Garreth whose hand is shyly raised. Seeing him reminded you- there went your Hogsmeade group dates.

“Mr. Weasley,” Professor Sharp acknowledges the boy who is fraught at his declaration.

Garreth gulps, “Sir, surely the punishment isn’t meant for all of us.” Traitor, you thought.

Professor Sharps turns his attention to the rest of your classmates, he had you all standing in a row, with you in the middle- the main culprit. Sebastian to your left and Poppy to the left of him, Natty to your right and Garreth to hers, Nellie at the end.

“As for Mr. Weasley, Ms. Onai, Oggspire, and Sweeting, you are all to serve detention on Saturday. You will still be able to attend the Samhain feast, unlike Ms. L/n who will be allowed to have her first two meals and will be serving her detention for the entirety of the day.” He gives you a pointed look. “That is all, the four of you are dismissed.”

Natty squeezes your hand goodbye as she walks away without a word, surely her mother would not be happy with her. Nellie, Garreth, and Poppy all give you winces and sympathetic glances as they leave.

Now you were piqued, your once free Saturdays were now taken up with one more thing that you did not need to be busy with, permission to go to Hogsmeade was gone- when you were already banned from leaving school grounds for anything else- how exactly were you going to put an end to the Death Reapers or at least stop them from taking any more people, when you were on lockdown. To top it off, the Samhain feast was off the table, you didn’t get to enjoy it last year because you were out helping Sebastian at a time when you and he weren’t even on good terms.

You risked Sharp’s wrath to ask, “Excuse me, Professor, but what about him?” You send your thumb in the direction of the brunet next to you.

“Surely, sir, I am the victim here,” Sebastian tries to manipulate. Thankfully, your favorite teacher- despite the circumstances- was not convinced.

“Surely, Mr. Sallow, you are not.” You can almost see the glint in the man's eyes as he says, “You are to join, L/n, every Saturday in a place you are not unfamiliar with. Do not think that I am not aware of the warring tension you both share in classes, particularly in Professor Hecat’s class. We are tired, and so as an exercise, you will be partnered in each task that is given.”

As if you didn’t see him everywhere you exhaled. He was going to hate you even more than he already does, and you were going to replay the memory of your fists in his face every five minutes to keep your sanity. Being near each other every other second of the day will drive you both mad.

You and Sallow were going to tear each other apart.

~~~

You stabbed at your plate of breakfast for the fourth time making the fork scrape against the plate making those around you grimace.

This morning you received an owl instructing you that you will report to Madame Scribner for your assignment today. The chatter of excitement around you makes your mood worsen, everyone will be having a grand time in the village with their friends and ending the night with the feast while you’d be in the library.

“Chin up, Y/n/n, It won't be so bad. Sallow’s known to make his detentions lively.” Garreth slides into the bench across from you. You were in a sour mood this morning, barely getting any sleep with the dread that when you woke up it wouldn’t be an exciting day at all, you couldn’t help but pout.

“Not bloody likely,” You drop the fork and push the plate away, it disapparated into thin air. You let your head fall onto your forearm that was on the table, staring at your lap. “You lucky little wanker, you only get one-half day of detention and you’re paired up with Nellie.”

“And?”

“And that’s hardly a punishment at all!” You throw your hands up half in the air with exasperation.

“Who told you to go all mental on Sebastian,” Garreth chided.

You inhaled sharply, Garreth was getting close to being on the list of people on your bad side for today, “He deserved it and you bloody well know it.”

Garreth raises his hands in surrender, “Save your hostility for your true enemies and not your caring friend who’s trying to make you feel better.”

That didn’t help his case, you sent daggers through your eyes, and with that, he eased his way up from the Slytherin table and scurried away from you before you turned him into a flubberworm.

Ominis finds you leaving the great hall and makes a beeline toward where his wand leads him, “Mind if I escort you to your cell?”

You chuckle darkly, “Keep to your family fortune Ominis, jesting is not your forte.”

“I only wanted to warn you about Sebastian,” He walks at a leisurely pace, you held no complaints knowing you wanted to stall your sentence as long as possible. You both went down the steps and out to the courtyard where you caught a glimpse of the cool autumn weather that you no longer have the privilege of enjoying in Hogsmeade.

“I can imagine he’s feeling vengeful right about now.”

He halted and faced you, “You know him, he’s-”

“A complete tosser?” You knew you were being excessively rude with the interruptions and insults, however, you could not bring yourself to care with your overwhelming annoyance.

“Sensitive, Y/n, he’s sensitive.” Ominis sighed, “He has his issues but he feels, deeply. Lets his anger get the best of him so often you forget that.”

Sensitive was not a word you would use to describe Sebastian, as emotional as he can get with the people he cares about, it was obvious that you were not one of them. ‘Sensitive’ was the word he wanted to use to tell you that he was going through something else. It feels like lately everyone was giving you justifications for Sebastian's actions and it didn’t make you feel any better. You didn't feel the need to hold back on him if he wasn't holding back on you. 

~~~

Madame Scribner informed you to meet her in front of the fireplace, she wasn’t present when you arrived, only the exact broad-shouldered lad you were cross with, leaning against the mantle twirling his wand.

“Aren’t you looking a little worse for wear,” Sebastian comments on your tired appearance. You took in his casual attire that was purposely disheveled and his face, you didn’t hold back the smile that graced your lips at the sight of him.

“Speak for yourself,” You didn’t need to motion for his bruised left eye and his swollen nose (that to your dismay only made him appear more rugged). “Did I do that? Looks like a herd of cattle stomped all over you.”

“Oh, this?” He pointed to his eye, “I wear this with pride.”

You quirked your brow in question, “And why is that?”

“I faced the great Y/n L/n and lived to tell the tale,” He wore a smug expression that made you want to rewind to yesterday and just strangle him.

“I’ll be sure not to hold back next time.”

“That is quite enough out of the pair of you.” Said the head librarian, Madame Scribner, a short stout woman who was of the more strict staff members of Hogwarts, had rounded a corner of a two-tier bookshelf. “Mr. Sallow, Ms. L/n, Professor Sharp has led you both into my care for the day and I shall have you both working with order. I have much to do and I’ve assigned you enough work, you should not have the time to bicker.”

“Now,” She waved as she began to walk. You and Sebastian followed the click of her heels to the second floor. “Your wands, if you may.” She held out her hand for the both of you to hand your only form of defense, you reluctantly turned yours in. “You are to sort scattered books onto their shelves, without magic. I've lifted the enchantments on the stacks so you will have no assistance. There are plenty of piles to keep you busy and should anyone need help, I trust that Mr. Sallow is well-versed within these walls.”

She pocketed both of your wands, both hands entwined in front of her, you can certainly say that you were intimidated by her sternness.

“I’ll be sure that all will be to your satisfaction, Madame Scribner,” Sebastian tells her, though, by her unimpressed stare, you could tell that she did not, in fact, trust him at all. She fixes her gaze on you as if expecting you to be the lead example.

You were sure to keep any reservations you had about working with Sebastian to yourself and manifested yourself to seem competent, if only so that she wouldn’t feel the need to check up on you or Sebastian. You would scurry away as quickly and as far away from Sallow as you could, when you did, you didn’t need the librarian to report you to Professor Sharp.

As soon as she felt satisfied with the lack of argument, she was off, leaving you, Sebastian, and stacks on stacks of books to sort. “Up for a little wager?” He spoke, fingering through the books.

You began to wonder if this was the fun Garreth spoke of.

“If I say that I'm in no mood for games?”

He shrugged, “I suppose that means we’re forced to work beside each other in agonizing silence so as not to disturb the many students in this acute learning environment.”

The library was empty, save for a handful of students that were either doing homework or studying. The sarcasm ran deep in his voice, it made you snort in an unladylike manner that had your hand flying to cover your face, solely on the fact that you didn’t want to laugh at any of his attempts at humor.

“Or,” He dared a step closer to tempt you, “We can work together without actually working together.”

“Please do be more vague,” Beginning to feel put out by his intimations.

“How about, the last person to finish sorting their books has to help the winner with the next assignment, pick up more of a load next time?”

“Working smarter not harder, I see.” It was a perfect solution, you didn’t have to be near each other, no bickering- no problem. The work will be done quicker this way.

“Always.”

“Fine,” You agreed.

And so the work began, Sebastian strolled over to the other side of the second floor. You started at the stained glass window section to the right of the spiral stairs. It was tedious work but you managed to gather all the books left on tables, the piles at the ends of the stacks, the ones left on the floor, and organized them into their separate sections to make it easier to sort them in their aisle.

That took two hours by how many there were, and as you stuffed them into their shelves you noticed how many of them were placed in the wrong section. So you gathered all the misplaced texts and added them to their appropriate pile, another hour passed.

As you made your last pile of books into sections on one of the large tables you noticed one that wasn’t included in the piles Madame Scribner had given you and Sebastian. It was an ancient looking one that didn’t look like it was supposed to be on the public side of the library. The book was black and the spine had intricate swirls which looked as if it was supposed to shape into skulls.

It was a book on the Dark Arts. You flipped through the pages, curious about what particular subject of dark magic it held; there were chapters and chapters of relics.

“Need any help?”

You were lost reading the pages from the book, Was Sebastian creeping around the restricted section again? If so, then why? And why would he read this so openly, surely he would have snuck it back into his dorm. 

You would have seen if he was in your area, you flinch and shut the book quickly, feeling caught. “No,” You blushed and recalled the question. “No, I’m alright, thank you.”

The bright-eyed Hufflepuff boys' eyes flickered to your tight clutch on the dusty old book, “Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind easing the load.”

“Trust me, I wouldn’t either but I wouldn’t want to be caught by Madame Scribner, if anything I should be working with my assigned partner.” You continue your work, settling the books on their appropriate shelf. “Serving my time and all that.”

“Oh,” He searched around the area you both were standing. “Sebastian Sallow, is it? I saw you with him earlier.”

You nodded, lifting a heavy stack of books, and moved with them to the right section, you didn’t want to do two separate trips to carry books. You almost tripped over your feet, with a huff you grabbed a chair, balanced on the seat tiptoeing to reach the upper tier of the shelf.

Vaugh took pity on you, grabbed the book you were struggling with, and easily tucked it in with the rest. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” He winked waving his wand, his magic levitating one of the piles and sending them off to where they belong.

“Thanks,” You lifted the next pile to move on to the other side of the shelf- the next aisle.

“Where is he, anyhow?”

As if summoning the devil himself, Sebastian appeared from the exact place you were headed, “He’s right here.” To your surprise, he grabbed six of the twelve books you had in your arms.

“You can bugger off now, Vincent.” Sebastian purposefully said Vaughn's name incorrectly. You didn’t appreciate how rude he was being to the boy who had been nothing but helpful.

Vaughn shrugged and smiled at you, “Give me a shout if you need anything.”

Sebastian glared as the boy walked away, his features were full of distaste, “One can’t ever seem to be rid of him.”

You readjust your grip on the books that were now less heavy thanks to Sebastian, you set them down on the desk in front of the shelf before placing them in empty slots in alphabetical order of surname. “He’s not bothering anyone, he was just trying to be helpful.”

“I find him bothersome,” He copies your movements, he was already done with his work. You were suspicious as to how but then remembered that he had years of being in this library, especially with his coming here in his spare time, you’ve only been here for a school year and a few months.

He eyed the last book laid on the table, you had purposefully placed it on the bottom of the stack and snatched it as you saw him reaching for it. “You find the air around you to be bothersome.”

“Oh darling, you couldn’t be more wrong, you see I love breathing- and not to mention the fact that oxygen is transparent, something he is so obviously not.”

The pet name made your heart flutter despite the obvious sarcasm he spoke it with, but his cryptic words puzzled you.

He tilted his head at the way you clutched the book to your chest, “Taking a page out of my book, are we?”

“I can’t say I know what you mean,” You looked at the book front and back as if you weren’t reading its pages just minutes ago.

“Dangerous topic that one.”

“Is this one you’ve read?” In your search for a cure… you wanted to say. He met your eye and was blown back by the questions in them.

He took a step in your direction and slipped the book out of your hands swiftly, opening it up, flipping through the pages with his thumb so it made an arch then shutting it. “It goes deep into the Dark Arts, but you already knew that.”

“Musn’t let Scribner catch you with that,” He set the book down on the desk more in your direction.

“I’m not keeping it, I found it here.” You pointed to the opposite end of the table you both were standing by.

“It’s alright if you’re curious,” He arched a brow, “I wouldn’t blame you, I mean look at who you’re talking to.”

“Ah yes,” You exaggerate your remembrance. “Forgive me, Sebastian ‘Master of the Dark Arts’ Sallow.”

His expression darkened covering his former amusement at his catching you with a forbidden book. Sebastian recovered his mask with a light tone, “Calling me a Master is a flattery I did not expect to receive from you today.”

“It’s simply a fact, I suppose. You must know all there is about Dark magic.”

Sebastian lifted a brow at your insinuation, “So what if I do?”

“You might know if there is a spell, an enchantment of sorts to enhance your magic.” You hoped he wouldn’t ask any questions about what you wanted to know, you should have known better.

“The great Y/n L/n wants to enhance her magic?” His voice echoed in the near-empty library from how loud he was. You put a hand over his mouth and a finger to your lips, and your eyes widened in a warning.

You released him at the realization of how intrusively close you got to him, “I want to know if it would be possible for wizards to do it, in theory.”

“In theory, if certain wizards were participating in the Dark Arts that in itself would be able to ‘enhance their magic’, was that the answer you were looking for?.” He held your gaze with an inquisitive stare, he wanted to ask but asking would cross over the line of being friends. “May I ask the reason behind your sudden interest in the subject?” His curiosity got the better of him.

“You just did,” You took the book from the desk. “I do not plan to share any of my thoughts with you of all people.”

Sebastian tutted, “And we were getting on so well.”

“If we must be in each other's company, we should endeavor to be as plain and straightforward with each other as possible.”

“As you are being now?” He smirks.

“If you didn’t make it a habit to be a nosy parker, it would be easier.” You glance at his side of the library and back at him, changing the subject. “You win.”

“I do, though I wouldn’t say it was fair, I had an advantage.”

You wished he would just take the win and get on with his gloating, you would have to go through with your end of the deal next Saturday anyhow. “Yes, and I had help, we’ll call it even.”

His lips quirked in annoyance, “Right.” He took the book from you once more, “I’ll return this to its rightful place before Scribner ever notices it’s gone.” Sebastian stalked off before you could protest.

~~~

“May I walk you to your common room?” Vaughn stands by the mermaid fountain as if he were waiting for you. It was well past the hour of the Samhain feast and you were planning on going down to the kitchens to beg the house elves for food. He had his arm open for you to hook your arm to his, and so you did, with his kindness earlier it felt rude to not accept.

You were tired from running back and forth, doing all kinds of errands for Madame Scribner, once you were done sorting books she had you and Sebastian busy work. With what you did today, you didn’t have to miss the feast, you realized that that was the point of the punishment.

You and Sebastian were forced to sit by each other during lunch, and not allowed to talk to anyone else, which felt childish but this was a part of the ‘bonding’ exercise so that there are no other altercations as there was last night.

Sebastian was frustratingly well-behaved around you after your conversation about the book, with no back-handed remarks or comments that made you want to hex him. He was decently pleasant while you, on the other hand, were the one to avoid him in his every attempt to talk to you even if it was a question on what Scribner had assigned you to do. You were convinced he simply enjoyed watching you squirm as he neared you.

You were surprised by how normal it felt to be walking with a boy whom you barely knew in complete silence, not feeling at all odd.

“How was the feast?” You felt the silence growing.

“It went well, I don’t know you well enough but I believe you would have enjoyed it.” He then began to describe the food that was served, the desultory speech Professor Sharp had made at the beginning, and how the ghosts that haunted the halls popped out of the student's food to give them a scare.

A pang of jealousy hit your heart, you wished you would have been there to enjoy it, “I feel I would have as well.”

For the rest of the walk to the Slytherin common room, the halls were quiet as he talked to you about his day and asked you about yours. He was patient with your responses and didn’t force any topics you weren’t comfortable with. The conversation was pleasant and without expectation, something you felt you had lacked recently and were glad of the change.

“As I’ve said, I am aware that we are not well acquainted, but I would like to” He stuttered a little as he spoke. “Be acquainted with you- as friends.”

You both stopped in front of the stone wall entrance of your common room, you let your arm fall from his, and you giggled at his nervousness “We can be friends.”

“Perfect,” He grinned.

“Well then,” Vaughn lifted your right hand and bowed midway, placing a kiss on your knuckles. Without warning your mind wandered to your half-dead state from weeks ago, when unidentified lips brushed the back of your hand, it wasn’t Vaughn but the same gesture made your heart flutter. “I bid thee goodnight, dear Y/n.”

“Goodnight,” You whispered back. You watched him walk up the grand steps at the same time Sebastian was walking down. Vaughn gave him a friendly wave, which he ignored. You rolled your eyes at his discourteousness and spoke the password to the wall, causing the snake to slither into an arch.

You walk through the entrance, not daring to look back as you hear Sebastian's footsteps come from behind you. They were fast-paced and loud, you didn’t stop until you reached the bottom.

You turned to face him last minute almost getting a face full of his chest, you didn’t let the sudden shock at how close he was, show on your face. “Yes?”

“Dear, Y/n?” He mocked Vaughn.

You guffawed, “Words I never thought would come out of your mouth.”

You loosened the laces of your boots and slipped them off, it made you lose a couple of inches of your height. “What is the problem now, Sebastian?” You sit on the couch in front of the fireplace closest to the girl’s dormitory.

“There is no problem,” The tightness in his voice said otherwise. “Only wondering when exactly you became best mates with the new sixth year.”

“Just now actually,” You didn’t care for his tone but you were too exhausted to put up much of a fight. “There’s nothing wrong with befriending a new student, you would know. As a matter of fact, you might even say he’s my new charge.”

Daggers shot from his eyes, “You think you’re real clever, don’t you?”

You had quite enough of this, you sighed as you pushed yourself off the plush seating. “I don’t think I’m clever, darling, I just am.” You emphasized the name he off-handedly called you earlier. “Last I recalled you weren’t supposed to care who I spend my time with.”

“I don’t,” He hissed and hesitated before mentioning “He appears everywhere you are.”

“Something you and he have in common.”

“Although you and I are often in the same area, I can assure you that it is not intentional, and I do not stalk as he does.” The tension in your argument had dissolved as you let out an exasperated laugh at the memories of Sebastian indeed stalking across Hogwarts grounds, though not in the way he intended the word for Vaughn.

“You should see the way you, the ghosts as my witness.”

He lets out a breath, “I’ve had enough of ghosts, thank you.”

You remember Peeves following you and Sebastian into the depths of the restricted section, right as you both were about to enter the Athenaeum when Sebastian took the punishment of detention for the both of you. Pesky Peeves, you thought.

“As have I,” You took your boots from the floor and a step back in the direction of the girl’s dormitory, “If we’re all settled then.”

Sebastian nodded, “Yes.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” He responded in a tight tone, the collar of his shirt seemed to be choking him from his neck.

You stifled a smile as he stalked away to the boy’s side of the common room.

~~~

Chapter 13

taglist:

@vanivivs - @aqueennia - @wt-fxck - @therealppboy - @boysmedia- @stuffyownswrld - @maddsinthemoon - @dreamshot - @lostgirl-28 - @scrambled-eggs-y

#sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow/reader #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow imagine #sebastian sallow hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow fanfiction #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow headcanon #hogwarts legacy mc #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy #sebastian x mc #sebastian sallow fic #hogwarts legacy ominis #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #the shadows of our love #the shadows of our love xreaderbooks #hogwarts legacy imagine #light angst #jealousy

[chalkrevelations]

Y’ALL. LISTEN.

Pete hands Vegas that rope to bind him in Ep 12 and then offers up his wrists, but here’s the thing, GOD, the thing that is making me feral again, as I go back and re-watch the show: Pete is absolutely perfectly capable of getting out of that rope, no matter Vegas’s intentions. We see this in Ep TWO, when Pete’s right beside Porsche - so we don’t miss him, even before we (technically) know how important Pete is to the narrative - during the training exercise in which they’re supposed to get out of rope bonds (which look a shit-ton like the rope that Pete hands to Vegas later in the safehouse) while underwater in the pool at the main family compound. We hear an entire big lecture just before they’re all shoved into the deep end (lit. and fig.) about how “Just so you all know, if you are captured, taken hostage, you have less than three minutes to untie yourselves. Make the minutes count.” We see Pete prepping himself for maximum bodyguard performance during this little speech, rolling his neck and shoulders to make sure he’s ready. He’s the first one Chan pushes into the pool. Not only does he get out of those ropes almost immediately, even underwater - he’s one of, if not the first person out of his ropes and breaking the surface, as we also watch Porsche struggle at the bottom of the pool - but he manages to position himself to float up, near the water’s surface, as he works to free himself, so that he’s right there at the top of the water to break out, immediately up into the air, once he gets his bonds off. He not only can do this, he’s fucking good at it.

I went back to Ep 12 after that. Vegas initiates what ultimately becomes their sex scene at 27:30 by reaching out, grabbing the front plackets of the shirt Pete’s wearing, and pulling him closer. Three minutes later, at 30:30, Vegas initiates the final kiss of their sex scene, just before he pulls out and rolls off of Pete to lie beside him.

Those three minutes that we get counted, all right, and Pete did NOTHING to untie himself, to extricate himself from this situation he found himself in. This was a deliberate choice he made, not just at the beginning, when he handed Vegas that rope, but consistently, constantly, every single second when he chose to remain bound and to offer himself up for 1) whatever Vegas wanted to do and 2) the intimacy of that encounter. At no point was he able to fall back on, “well, I’ve made my decision and now I’ll have to live with it, what can I do?” Every. single. second. was freely given.

Y’all. I’m chewing glass again.

And then I compare that constant, consistent gift of his consent - in the bonds that he could escape at any time, with nothing but his clever fingers and his trained self-sufficiency - to the handcuff, which he needs a tool for - if not the key, something he can pick it with - and I want to cry again.

(And then I think about those goddam bolt cutters that Vegas left lying around, clearly within reach at every point in time post-pill, and I want to chew glass again. They’re such a beautiful disaster, and I love them so much.)

(ETA: Follow-up post on the gd bolt cutters is located here.)

#ANYWAY #pete phongsakorn #vegas theerapanyakul #vegaspete #kinnporsche #how we feeling vegaspete nation? #don't think some iteration of this isn't going into the arranged marriage fic #SOMEHOW

[sparkles-and-trash]

hawks focused with some dabihawks, light smut towards the end ~

Hawks doesn’t think of his body as anything but a tool.

A means to an end. Nothing but a vessel, a character to move around so he can do what he needs to do.

Ever since his handlers started pushing him towards modeling, he realized there was something about it other people found aesthetically pleasing, which he understood, to a degree, but it wasn’t something he focused on.

When he saw beauty in other people, he tended to see it in their faces and not their bodies.

So when he takes care of his body, he does it for their sake.

The photographers, the editors, the fans.

It’s an extra step in the routine to keep the machinery that is his body as useful as possible, nothing more.

Then, at some point, he’s suddenly free and with it, so is his body.

He’s not sure what to do with that.

At first he’s helpless, he either runs the same hard routine as always, or he totally slacks off and doesn’t care for himself at all.

There is no balance.

That’s where Dabi comes in.

Living with Dabi is interesting in many ways, including the way he keeps himself alive.

While his body is finally allowed to heal a bit more than he has before, there is still a lot to keep track of.

The ex-villain has a long routine to care for his skin, making sure it doesn’t get infected, but also to make it feel better.

That’s the part Hawks struggles with relating to.

Doing things to your body just to be kind to it.

But he wants to try, he really does, and watching Dabi inspired him.

It starts simple, with Dabi casually teaching him about intuitive eating, and finding a balance between indulging and giving into your cravings now and then.

Something similar happens with things like skincare and exercise, and it’s like opening up a whole new world.

And that’s before he discovers how much pleasure his body’s been hiding from him.

It starts innocently enough, with Dabi offering to fix up his wings after a windy day.

It’s the most amazing feeling ever, the firm and soft way Dabi’s taking care of one of his most intimate bodyparts.

Then when Hawks is half asleep on the couch, Dabi starts running his hands trough his hair, and another world opens up for him.

Honestly who knew that bodies could feel so amazing?

The feeling of just allowing your body to rest, to eat something REALLY good right when you want it, to have someone you trust touch you in such an intimate way…

Speaking of.

Listen, Hawks isn’t oblivious. He did some prettt risqué model shoots in his day.

Not that he ever saw them as more than a job, but he’s been told others didn’t feel the same way, to put in mildly.

But the first time he kisses Dabi, he feels totally unprepared.

It’s like his whole body, mind and soul is lit on fire in the best possible way.

He can actually FEEL his heart bursting, which he always just thought was a figure of speech.

He expects it to feel good when Dabi touched him, and of course it does, it feels fucking amazing, but somehow touching Dabi back, making him feel good and being able to read the proof on hos face?

Oh, it’s fucking magical.

And when he’s finally using his body, all of it, to connect with this person he loves so much he aches, to make himself feel good, to make Dabi feel good, it’s almost too much.

It’s everything, it’s all consuming and overwhelming in the best way.

Every movement he makes makes Dabi moan and hold onto him tighter, and the mix of his own pleasure and Dabi’s responses is making Hawks’ hips stutter and his wings flap as he whines and whimpers trough it all, feeling like he’s gonna explode any minute.

When they’re done, just lying there, touching, close in both mind and spirit, Hawks finds himself fully grasp the concept of not just having a body, but caring, appreciating and loving it for the very first time.

#dabihawks #Hawks #Keigo takami #Dabi #touya todoroki #Dabi x Hawks #Hawks x Dabi #touya x keigo #keigo x touya #mha #bnha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

[mudwerks]

(via AZ panel votes to ban Satan displays from public property)

Arizona’s legislature is STILL a bunch of anti-constitution religious nuts:

PHOENIX — Calling Satan “an explicit enemy of God,’’ a state senator is pushing to keep displays of him, by any name, off of public property.

Just Satan. Christmas trees and menorahs would still be allowed.

”It is a desecration of our public property in the United States of America and in the state of Arizona for a satanic display, memorial, altar, etc., to be on public property,’’ said Sen. Jake Hoffman, a Queen Creek Republican.

He pushed the measure through the Senate Government Committee Wednesday on a 5-1 party-line vote.

All that drew questions.

”It is because it’s insulting to your religion?’’ asked Sen. Juan Mendez, D-Tempe.

Hoffman said that’s not his motive.

The legal issue goes beyond that.

The Satanic Temple has been recognized by the Internal Revenue Service as a religion and entitled to the same charitable status as any other.

“I am genuinely impressed that in only 25 words this bill seems to violate three separate clauses of the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution,’’ testified Micah Mangione, an individual who showed up to testify against the bill.

These, he said, are prohibiting the government from establishing a religion, barring government interference with the free exercise of religion, and guaranteeing the right to free speech. He warned the Republicans there are implications for their support of SB 1279.

”If you can go after the Satanic Temple, which is a religion, what about paganism next?’’ Mangione asked. “What about Judaism next? How about Islam? How about LDS?’’

What the legislation does is declare that only Christian values matter, he said.

Hoffman said he doesn’t see it that way.

”It is legally and constitutionally suspect to argue that Satan, someone who is universally known to be an explicit enemy of God, is somehow a religion,’’ he said. “That is an absolutely ludicrous statement to make.’’

Another individual testifying against the bill, Tonia Francis, told Hoffman what he is proposing interferes with her First Amendment rights.

Hoffman disagreed, saying she remains free to practice whatever she wants — just as long as nothing is erected on public property. Any arguments beyond that are off base, he said.

”So you think that it’s both legally and constitutionally OK to argue that Satan … who is universally known to be explicitly the enemy of God, antithetical to God, you think that’s targeting your religion?’’ Hoffman asked.

”Universally known to you?’’ Francis asked.

”To, literally, everyone,’’ Hoffman responded. “That’s not a point that’s debatable. Would you not say that Satan is the enemy of God?

”No,’’ Francis said.

Hoffman called her testimony “disingenuous.’’

Mendez called the legislation “a straight-up attack on the rights of people and religion.’’

Hoffman can’t even imagine that other people don’t believe in his chosen religion’s world view. 

And he’s an elected legislator?!?!

#politics #AZ #legislature #trying to remove freedom of religion from AZ

[nhlclover]

lean on me | cole caufield

summary: your anxiety makes an appearance at an ill-timed moment

request: yes / no

warnings: social anxiety, panic attack, mentions of throwing up

a/n: this went through so many rewrites lol i wanted this one to be perfect. love getting to write for my fav boy though.

word count: 1.03k

From the moment I woke up in the normally comforting grasp of Cole’s arms, I could feel the bubble of anxiety beginning to form inside my chest.

A couple of months ago Cole, my boyfriend, had won an award from the Montreal Canadiens and tonight he was going to be accepting the award at this gala organized by the team. Of course, I was so excited for Cole. He deserved the award so much considering the effort he had put in this season. But I had also been dreading this day for so long.

Social anxiety is, unfortunately, something you can’t control. If I could choose to not be anxious today, I wouldn’t be. I would let today be worry free so the event could go well. But, since I can’t control it, I found myself dressed to the nines, however with extremely sweaty palms and an ever-present sense of impending doom. Cole exits the bathroom where he was doing last-minute touchups, joining me in the front hall.

He looked good but even his well-fitting suit couldn’t completely distract me as it normally would. “You look so good babe.” I say.

“You look phenomenal.” He smiles, pressing a kiss on my lips. “Are you feeling good?”

Cole has known about my anxiety ever since we started dating. He was so understanding of it and always encouraged me to take my time whenever it would flare up.

“Yeah.” I tell him.

He looks unsure but I brush him off before he asks me again. “I’m okay, babe. Don’t worry. Today’s about you.” I say, putting my hands on his upper arms, and giving him a reassuring squeeze.

Cole sighs. “Alright. Are you ready to go?”

I nod, taking his hand as we walk out to the awaiting uber, climbing into the backseat. We drive to the arena, Cole's hand on my knee the whole drive which was the only thing keeping me from bouncing it. I instead focused my fidgeting to my hands, picking at my nail beds.

We pull up outside, lines of fans outside to see the players. Cole gives my knee a final squeeze before getting out. I breathe in deeply, stepping out to the calls of my boyfriends' name. Cole signs a few autographs while I stand back, waiting by the entrance.

He joins me seconds later, placing a hand on the small of my back, guiding me into the arena. He says a quick ‘hello’ to a couple of people along the way while I stay quiet by his side.

We finally enter the playing surface, the ice replaced by flooring with nicely decorated tables placed around. A large stage was set up at the front of all the tables. That was where Cole would be accepting his award and making his speech later. Most likely mentioning me. At the thought of that, I felt my face heat up. I felt like I could hear my blood pumping in my ears, the pounding deafening. I felt like I was going to hurl.

“Hey babe, where’s the bathroom?” I ask Cole, putting on my best mask of normalcy.

Cole has a skeptical look on his face. “Um, go through the bench, there should be the player's bathroom there.”

I place a kiss on his cheek before hurrying off down the tunnel, following the signs to the bathroom. I enter, checking under the stalls to make sure I was alone, before locking myself in the last one.

My chest tightened and my breathing became rapid. I tried to slow it down by doing breathing exercises I learned online, but to no avail. Under any circumstances, I would probably be freezing being next to the ice in a short dress but my entire body felt like it was on fire. The floor feels like it’s been replaced by a trampoline as my legs go wobbly. Sufficiently overwhelmed, tears begin to spill from my eyes.

The sound of the bathroom door creaking open made me go still, stopping my pacing around the small stall. “Babe?” I hear Cole’s voice echo.

I unlock the stall door and step out. His face is laced with concern when he sees me, my beet-red face and my shoulders and chest covered in red splotches, a common symptom of my anxiety, tears streaming down my cheeks. He rushes to my side, takes my hand and walks me to the wall behind the door. He encourages me to sit down, joining me as I do so and not letting go of my hand. The tiled wall is cool as I press my back to it.

“So, the last roadie when we were in Chicago, Joel was on some sort of pranking streak.” Cole says and I know exactly what he’s doing. Anytime I get a panic attack, Cole tries to distract me by telling me a story. He proceeded to tell me a story about how Joel pranked him in Chicago by taping the blades of his skates and filling his skates with ice.

By the end of his story, my chest is less tight and my heart rate had decreased to a normal rate.

“How do you feel?” Cole asks me.

“Better.” I breathe out. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He says softly, bringing my knuckles up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to them. “How about we go home and order some food and take a bath or something.”

“No babe, we can’t go, you have to accept this award.” I say, going to stand up only to be sat back down by Cole.

“Are you kidding me? I didn’t really want to come either.” He tells me, surprising me a little. “Don’t get me wrong I’m so grateful that I won this award but you know how awkward I get when things are all about me. Especially when I have to make speeches. Remember my cousins' wedding?”

I giggle as I remember Cole’s impromptu speech at his cousins' wedding that was just an absolute disaster and resulted in endless taunting from his brother the rest of the evening.

“Come on, I know how we can slip out.” He says, getting up and helping me to my feet.

#cole caufield #cole caufield imagine #cole caufield x reader #nhl #nhl imagine #hockey #montreal canadiens #habs #luvzegras

[distantdoll]

König Headcanons

I...recently brought MW2 in the January sales and I have no words for how quickly I got attached to this man. I thought I would give this headcanon thing a go, since my thoughts on him differ slightly from others. They are all SFW (for now), feel free to agree, disagree or tell me why I’m wrong. 

⦁ He has a bunch of scars scattered all over his lower face and neck, most of them are small and barely visible but one of them is deep and jagged and spans a sizeable portion of his jawline. They were all acquired via stray shrapnel, from his time as a incursion specialist in the Kommando Spezialkräfte.

⦁ He has long, shoulder length hair. He accidently let it grow out once when he was a teenager, he was having a particularly bad time with his anxiety in that period of his life and the idea of being trapped and forced into conversation with strangers as they were cutting his hair was too much at the time. He started to let it grow long again around the same time he joined KorTac. ⦁ He doesn't wear the hood all the time, only for missions or training exercises. Not only does the heat make his scars itch but he's trusting the other operatives to have his back and to keep him alive, trusting them with his face seems like a given in light of that. If he is having a bad day with his anxiety, he will let his hair fan out over his face and act as a makeshift cover.

⦁ He's a natural fidgeter, from nerves as well as having too much energy and can often be seen biting his lips, grinding his teeth and tonguing some of the scarring through his cheeks.

⦁ His anxiety is always present, peaking and receding throughout the day but it tends to leave him with awkward speech patterns. Generally he talks in a slightly jittery, rapid fire pace because if he doesn't get out the words as fast as possible, he's going to end up not talking at all but if his anxiety is particularly bad, he will go completely non-verbal and this combined with his intimidating size and habit of grinding his teeth has lead some of the other operatives to assume he is a bit stand-offish.

⦁ He has a huge sweet tooth but doesn't indulge too often, having fond memories for vanillekipferl especially. His Mama isn't a very good cook and he has eaten more dubiously cooked meat that is somehow both burnt and raw than you can imagine but whenever he had a hard day at school or he just needed cheering up, he could always count on finding some crescent shaped cookies baking in the oven.

⦁ He's one of the younger KorTac operatives, between 27-30 years old.

⦁ After years of feeling small and insignificant due to the bullying he received, he enjoys being much bigger and stronger than most people. He doesn't like unsettling the other operatives or anyone he cares about but the people he's against? He loves seeing the stunned look in their eyes, the tremor of their hands and just how easily he can manhandle their bodies. 

#könig #konig #konig mw2 #könig mw2 #könig headcanons #konig headcanons #konig x reader #könig x reader #konig call of duty #könig call of duty #kortac #call of duty: modern warfare ii

[aguacerotropical]

The Count de Saint Germain as Paracelsus (or His Corrupted Foil), and King Basilio

There's a theory floating around that I've mentioned before, and that I did not come up with but can't remember who did, about The Shapeless One being (literally or figuratively) a corrupted Paracelsus. Well, his outfit always reminded me of something, and I just realized it's a magician's outfit complete with a wand (that has stars at the end).

Again, the direct reference is the weird eccentric alchemist, musician, magician, obscurantist and probable conman the Count de Saint Germain, but the possibility of a secondary reference is interesting. At the very least, it might be playing as a foil to the creator of Babel.

The idea of him as a magician is also kind of cool when you take into account the Marquis Machina's speech to Ruthven after the Gevaudan Arc. She/he/they also recalls magic, and possibly shows how alike they are.

I also mentioned this over two years ago when I first watched the anime, but the fact that The Shapeless One wears a broken watch indicates (to me) that he's a creature out of time itself. Could simply be that he's the oldest vampire in history, except maybe for the Faustina or Luna themselves, or that he's something more than just vampire. Like Paracelsus himself.

(or a corrupted analogue to him.)

Is there a third (?!) reference to King Basilio in Life is a Dream?

And finally, almost forgot this, but I've always said that his speech about "dreams are only dreams, inevitably there will come a time when you have to wake up and face reality" from chapter 55 sounds suspiciously like Pedro Calderón de la Barca's well known "Life is a Dream" play with its famous verse:

What is life? 'Tis but a madness. What is life? A thing that seems, A mirage that falsely gleams, Phantom joy, delusive rest, Since is life a dream at best, And even dreams themselves are dreams

I don't really want to get into the full possibilities of that reference, particularly with the idea of free will vs predestination that also smoulders in the back of Vanitas no Carte's storyline. I think that deserves it's own essay (and a personal reread of the play).

But lets talk about it superficially. The play's summary goes like this: The protagonist Segismundo's father King Basilio is obsessed with science and astrology. The stars predict his son will be a tyrant, so he locks him in a tower and runs a kind of natural experiment to see if he will turn the tyrant that the stars predict when he's set free. Or if he can exercise free will and become a good king. If he's a tyrant, he locks him back up and convinces him the whole thing was a dream. There's also crossdressing. It's a fun read.

Anyways, it reminds me of The Shapeless One's experiments on Louis. He locked him up in a castle at a mythical region of France, Averoigne, to see if he would become a curse-bearer, as was his (supposedly) destiny due to being born as a twin. Or if he had the free will to break free. Obviously Louis, unlike Segismundo, lost and died. (Or maybe he's locked somewhere else, I know there's some Louis de Sade is Alive Truthers out there!). I could talk about his machinations on Mikhail and Noé as well, but this is long enough.

Astolfo also appears as a character in the play, but Calderón de la Barca lifts him from the same source material Mochijun does in La Chanson de Roland. Not sure if dear Pedro gets it directly from that epic poem or one of its derivative works though, and I'm not curious enough on that to research it.

So I can't draw a direct reference, but it would be strange that someone as well-read on classic European lit like Mochijun wouldn't know of Pedro Calderón de la Barca, probably the most famous Spanish Golden Age writer, and his version of Astolfo.

#i wonder if the whole dreams are only dreams speech is as familiar to english-speakers as spanish-speakers #spanish is a fun language sometimes because a lot of turns of phrases are linked to old Spanish Golden Age works #some of it from Lope de Vega or Calderón de la Barca. Thats what my scholarly friend says anyways #the case study of vanitas #vanitas no carte #the shapeless one #the count de saint germain #vnc #vnc meta #vnc references

[gwaedhannen]

End of Year Fic Recs

Recommend up to 5 series or multi-chapter fics from 2023 that everyone should read (multi-year WIPs count, if the last update was in 2023).

Recommend up to 5 single chapter fics/one-shots (long or short) from 2023 that everyone should read.

Recommend up to 5 fics NOT from 2023 that everyone should read (oldies but goodies).

Recommend up to 5 of your own fics (completed or WIP) from 2023 that everyone should read.

Open tag courtesy of @grey-gazania. No-pressure tagging everyone here and anyone else who wants to participate.

All Tolkien stuff. Mind the tags on AO3. Nothing Explicit but some Mature.

5 series/multichapter fics:

1. sir, take it easy by @exercise-of-trust (Maglor, Finrod, Celegorm, Maglor/Maglor's Wife)

“I thought you were adamant that no music was bad. And what would do you suggest, that we go back to Ráincë’s parallels in fifth, or Ambalincë’s discant exercises in fourth? Those were old before either of us were born, and you know it.” “I am not saying it is bad. I am saying that to me it sounds like all the fiends of Morgoth, but worse, because the fiends of Morgoth were not taking a clausula I wrote for my parents’ anniversary and mangling it. However, as its inclusion in this anthology shows, there are other people who like it, and while I do not understand it, I am not about to give up my Neldor or my Palecéva because the wind of scholarly opinion has blown against them from time to time.”

2. Spun by Grace by SpaceWall (Galadriel, Lúthien, Maeglin)

“Did you see them? The kinslayers who took your Nana? Who tried to take you?” “Ada says I did, but I don’t remember them. I don’t remember anything, except Nana screaming.” “Did your Ada say anything after? Aside from telling you to hide and stay safe.” The child nodded, bravely, and said in as clear a voice as he could manage. “He said they took Nana because she was bad. He said she was a kinslayer like them, and I had kinslayer blood in me, and they’d take me too if I wasn’t good.”

3. An Oral History of Dying in the Dagor Bragollach by Beleriand Death Trip (too many characters to list)

Please note that all participants were recently rehoused, but not extremely recently (this is regarded as unethical in our field). They have all had the opportunity to reflect on historical events after their death, both during their stay in the Halls and after being rehoused. We do not regard this as “contamination” of their recollection for our purposes, but rather as part of the normal process of narrative formation.

4. Foresight by @aotearoa20 (Fëanor and sons)

“He’s so small,” he said, not softly, “Such a beautiful baby.” “I know. He’s mine.” Fëanáro glared, he dared not do anything else. “You should appreciate it while it lasts,” when he smiled and the scar on his lip twisted strangely, “He’ll not be either for long.”

5. The Hazards of Love by @aipilosse (Finrod/Amarië, Anairë, Findis, Elwing)

Excerpt from The Empty House by Vatharwë Lelyindë held herself straight and tall, undaunted by Helluinon’s greater height. “You, my Lord, are free to live as you would, but others bear chains you cannot see. You speak of oaths and bonds, and yet you must see that when an oath comes in conflict, it is yours that is always the greater, and the other party must always acquiesce. So it is with me, so was it with your mother, your younger brother, and even your dearest friend!

5 single-chapter fics/one-shots:

Raised by Wolves by @warrioreowynofrohan (Elrond, Elros, Gil-Galad, Maglor, Maedhros)

“I hate him, and I do not hate him. Or, I do not hate him for cruelties. I hate him for kindnesses.”

2. The Hope of Love: Eärendil and Elwing as Symbols of Romance in Popular Culture by @imakemywings (Elwing/Eärendil)

Capping off these mesmerizing performances is Elwing’s final speech to the Teleri of Aman, a moment so fascinating that it has become the basis of many other dramatic confrontations throughout popular media. Almost anyone will recognize the line “I plead my hope,” or even its more extended version “Oh ye of foreign shores, I plead my hope. Let my home not be crushed ‘neath the boot of Bauglir,” even with no familiarity with the film. The passion of Torthoriel’s performance here has brought many a moviegoer to tears and captures a moment few had before bothered with—Elwing’s part in gaining the aid of Aman.

3. the bones of small contention by @quixoticanarchy (Celegorm, Oromë)

“You see, evil haunts a hungry man. If he eats his fill, he is called immoral; if he refuses, he will starve honorably. But free is the man who realizes that there is no satiety to be had, and equally there is no reward waiting in starvation. If my end shall be evil regardless, then my deeds matter not. I may eat as I please, and in that transgression, I find some shadow of liberation. A kind of laughter, almost - a light and wild feeling, like the moment after releasing an arrow, or the moment after the plunge off a cliff. You would not understand.”

4. all the daughters of my father's house (and all the brothers too) by Chestnut_pod (Fin-Galad)

These are the things ladies are, in the songs that are told of Finduilas and Niënor, her mirror: Love. Beauty. Laughter. Inconstance. Haunting. Sorrow. Screaming. Silence. In fact, the tales are not told of them. They are merely there. Many songs are written of Gil-Galad. Centuries after his death, Hobbit-children learn to sing of him.

5. Fire From The Ashes by @herenortherenearnorfar (Nienna, a Balrog)

“There is a terrible pain to conciousness,” Nienna acknowledges. She has not yet let go. “I just want to be an instrument.” Coals glow bright for a moment in the wind and then fade. “I was made to remake worlds, not feel this guilt.”

5 oldies but goodies (fair warning these are all liable to make you cry):

1. The legacy of a failure by from_the_wood (Frodo, Merry's Granddaughter, Merry, Pippin, Sam)

That's the thing with despair: it wants to erase everything, all of you, all that had been, or could have been - kind word, memory, hope for the future - but it cannot do so. It cannot. It should not.

2. An Oral History of the End of Innocence by @ceescedasticity (House of Olwë, Galadriel)

I think Hawser Road probably had the highest proportion of… Noldor swung their swords at a moving group and hit Noldor. Lindar shot arrows into crowds and hit Lindar. Noldor tried to ride down Lindar and also rode down Noldor. Lindar trying to get away trampled Lindar. Torches everywhere — I have never been so grateful the city is mostly stone, but wagons set on fire, sheds and stalls and barrels set on fire, there were some wooden additions… Panicked horses. Panicked cows, of all things, who brings cows when you're fleeing the gods to fight another god. There was so much screaming.

3. The One With All The Birds by @clothonono (Elwing/Eärendil, Elrond, Nerdanel, Sons of Fëanor)

What was her desire? "I desire my father, given back to me again," she said. "And my mother, and my brothers too. And my people, and my home, and all the years of my children's lives. Can the Lords of the West grant me this?" No one answered. Everyone knew the answer. "Equally I might desire that my enemy be punished. Let him go to the Halls of Mandos, whence none escape. Let me know that he is prisoned, so that I may gladly walk free." Is this your desire? "No," said Elwing. "I already told you my desire. Let justice be done. There is no vengeance that will satisfy me; there is no redress that can restore to me my father, my mother, my brothers, my home, and my children. There is nothing I want that he or you can give to me."

4. To Love What Is Mortal by @astridbecks (Lúthien/Thuringwethil)

Splintering pain as she was torn apart, yet as she parted beneath the hands of Lúthien there was a curious want mingled with the agony – strip me of this darkness, lay bare my soul, remake me – break me – and she had known pain before, had always known pain, but this was new and different and somehow right. (hurt me, because I deserve it. break me and make me as clean as you.)

5. woman into bird by @arrivisting (Elwing/Eärendil, Idril, Tuor, Elrond, Elros)

This is the best gift parents doomed to die can give their half-elven children, after all: to spare them the sight of their ends.

5 of mine from 2023:

1. Kill the Flame (Galadriel, the whole 3rd Finwean generation)

For Angrod, laughing at everything and everyone. You were an ass but you were our ass. You taught me patience, however little you meant to! For Aegnor, firebrand of our family. You saved me when the cold of the Ice tore into my heart. From you, I learned when to burn, and when to smoulder. For Finrod, dearest brother. What can I say? What words would suffice? Your ring’s bearer is worthy of his ancestors. I miss you. I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you.

2. The Myth Hanging Heavy Over You (Elrond & Elwing)

He sends radiant wings, dark hair streaked with silver, a queen’s pride, laughter among the waves, lembas, handkerchiefs. He receives home, with such ardentness that he weeps for a week.

3. Sorrow Beyond Words, Collected Testimony of the War of Wrath (Finarfin, Lalwen)

The Valar said that he could no longer twist elves into orcs even by the time of his first imprisonment, but from the conditions there, from the bodies we pulled out…I don’t think he cared. Every torture, every debasement, every abomination against the Eruchîn that could be imagined. For each we thought might survive if we got them to the surface, there were five who wouldn’t, and ten corpses.

4. Shall we look at the moon, my little loon? (Aerin, Aerin's mother)

Aerin stands in her mother’s dress before the looking glass, eyes unseeing. Hitheth adorns her with the jewelry which will be her dowry, the only riches of her house, the last gift of the elves who vanished into the mists as if they never were.

5. Still-untitled "What if Fëanor took the Helcaraxë" AU (Círdan, Thingol (for now))

It's still Y.T. 1497. Morgoth hasn't had centuries to innovate his siege technology, but Círdan's cities also haven't been rebuilt with Noldor walls. The Grey Annals says Fëanáro's host arrives some seven solar years after Melian raises the Girdle. (Yes if we go by the usual "1 tree year = 9.582 solar years" then it could've been upwards of 25 solar years since the Darkening in 1495 before the landing at Losgar.) (I hate Tolkien's timelines sometimes.)

#fic recs #silmarillion #tolkien #stormthinken