#i still. feel like this is the closest he's ever come to implying a religion... so! headcanon accepted is all
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On the Disconnect Between ATLA and LOK: Or Why Reactionary Centrism Ruins Everything
I’ve made it no secret that I’m no fan of LOK’s writing for a number of reasons. But today I want to focus on only one issue: its politics.
I am baffled as to why LOK is seen as being the more “woke” story. Just because the protagonist is a buff brown woman with a female love interest (only implied until the comics, really)? This is such an incredibly shallow reading focusing only on aesthetics and ignores the actual content and philosophies LOK espouses.
But let’s not get into religion, iconography, the effects of colonialism and westernization etc, or we’ll be here forever.
Instead let’s just focus on the politics.
The Forge
Part of the disconnect between ATLA and LOK are the cultural conditions in the USA when both were made. The forge from whence they came was quite different.
Avatar: The Last Airbender
ATLA criticized imperialism.
If this show had been made during the height of Manifest Destiny, or during our super fun times illegally annexing territories (like Hawaii), it would’ve likely struggled to tell its story as well as it did. It would’ve been far more controversial and likely would’ve needed to take a more “centrist” approach, making it seem like imperialism isn’t “all that bad”.
It might have even come out and said that it isn’t imperialism itself that is the problem, but that Sozin to Ozai were big mean dictators that did it the wrong way!
But because ATLA came out in the 2000s—during a time in which the world had widely come around to thinking imperialism is kinda some super villain schtick—it was easy for the story to focus on the perspective of the victims of such campaigns and tell it from this point of view.
We don’t get long segments of feeling sorry for Ozai, now do we? The closest we get is Azula, who herself serves as a victim of this war that has consumed her childhood and deprived her of a safe, loving environment in which to grow and develop, instead having been groomed into a living weapon for her father and nation’s war machine.
So now let’s compare this to LOK.
The Legend of Korra
What does the first season of LOK cover? Collectivism, social activism, civil disobedience escalating to acts of violent defiance against the state.
What was going on in the USA in 2012 when LOK came out?
Occupy Wallstreet.
Socialism vs capitalism, the 99% versus the 1%, civil rights and equality; these are all issues we are still grappling with today. They’re highly politicized and divisive. There is no universal agreement about them.
And so LOK had no “safe” villain or “evil” ideology to combat. Instead it had a complicated and widely divisive topic to tackle that was contentious then and continues to be today.
As a result? Too much time is wasted equivocating.
Both Sides Are The Same! (But Not Really)
We get some soft worldbuilding early on in Book 1 of LOK showing how the infrastructure of this city is built to benefit benders and box out non-benders, but this is never given real focus. We SEE how the trains and police are dominated by earth/metal benders, we SEE how factory jobs employ lightning benders, while non-benders live in the slums which subject them to violence. But none of this is ever the focus or the point.
Almost as if the show is afraid to make a real critique from the perspective of the working class or an oppressed minority group.
Instead the story quickly falls off a cliffside as every tired old pejorative thrown at communists is recycled for Amon.
His sympathetic backstory is a complete fabrication meant to hide that he is actually part of the oppressor class.
They pretend to be the powerless oppressed group, and yet have the funding of the richest industrialist in the city?
The rich industrialist is a member of this supposedly oppressed class but really he’s just a secret villain looking to change the world for his own personal reasons and not to protect his fellow nonbenders (these same accusations are thrown at Jewish people re: Marxism).
There are no sincere attempts to communicate their grievances sympathetically or build a coalition or garner public support. Instead The Equalists only use violence, fear, and other oppressive silencing tactics.
The desire to make everyone equal by “stealing” people’s individuality. (The old “make everyone equal heights by cutting tall people’s legs down” chestnut).
And more!
This is kinda bonkers propaganda if you’re looking at it from a left-wing perspective, right?
And it seems weirdly incoherent if you’re trying to look at it from a right-wing perspective, especially with Tarrlok standing in as the villain “on the other side”.
But it makes PERFECT sense as an enlightened centrist horseshoe-theory piece that can’t commit to either side and has to warp and undermine its own story to fit a “both sides are wrong” message. Heck, it’s so heavy handed it even made Amon and Tarrlok brothers!
This is the problem that plagues all of LOK.
Look at the other villains too!
Amon: Civil Rights Activist or Bad Faith Opportunist?
Amon
Pretends to be: A civil rights activist for an oppressed minority group.
Is actually: A bad faith actor whipping up a small or non-issue into a much bigger one and convincing people to turn on each other for his own personal gain/revenge. Once defeated, the problem disappears.
Electing a non-bender somehow makes everyone happy and the problem is never addressed again. Just like electing Obama ended racism! Oh wait…
Unalaq: Spiritual Environmentalist or Environmental Satanist?
Unalaq
Pretends to be: A spiritualist concerned about the environment and the spirits. Basically Al Gore meets Tenzin Gyatso but willing to start a civil war over it.
Is actually: An occultist weirdo who wants to fuse with LITERALLY SATAN and usher in 10,000 years of darkness or something, and willing to start a war over it.
In an attempt to make a spiritual foil for Korra, who struggled with the spiritual parts of being the Avatar, the story took a weird turn and made a choice widely regarded as “fanfiction on crack” by having Unalaq aspire to become “The Dark Avatar”.
But it’s okay, you see, because while Unalaq’s criticisms of waning spirituality and lack of protection of holy sites could be seen as a knock against environmentalism, by the end Korra recognizes that Unalaq had a point and that the spirit portals should be left open.
So why exactly did Unalaq want to be the Dark Avatar and usher in an era of darkness? How was that supposed to resolve the problem he presented and Korra ended up agreeing with?
It doesn’t, and once again we are left with a contradictory centrist message of “protecting the environment is good but you should be suspicious of anyone that actually advocates for it”.
Also thanks for demystifying the origin of the Avatar and ruining the original lore for where bending came from with your Prometheus/Christian allegory. Ugh.
Zaheer: Spiritual Guru Fighting Against Modernity or A Charismatic Dummy Who Learned Everything About Anarchy From a Prager U Coloring Book
Zaheer
Pretends to be: An anarchist seeking to bring down oppressive regimes, therefor resetting the world to a more egalitarian time
Is actually: An idiot who doesn’t even know the difference between an ancom and an ancap and has no coherent ideology. He just wants chaos, I guess, which isn’t whah anarchy or anything is about.
Perhaps realizing they messed up so badly with Unalaq that even the creators were unhappy with the results, they attempted the spiritual foil idea again with Zaheer.
This time they actually had a writing staff which makes this season the agreed upon best of LOK.
But the tip-toeing around making any actual criticisms and falling back on the “both sides are bad” cop-out are only exacerbated by how uninformed and nonsensical Zaheer’s actions are. Not unlike Amon, he takes none of the steps an actual activist would take. He never even speaks to the people of Ba Sing Se to find out what they need or want. He just kills their leader, announces it, refuses to elaborate, then bounces and lets the city tear itself apart in the power vacuum.
It’s an entertaining spectacle! Just like his later torture of Korra is visceral. But none of it has any real substance to support it and so the horrific acts he commits feel like senseless edgelord tantrums.
Even Bolin knows it. Once Zaheer is defeated, Bolin shoves a sock in his mouth, therefor cementing Bolin as my favorite of the Krew for all time.
Kuvira: Literal Nazi or Literal Nazi but she didn’t mean it!
Kuvira
Pretends to be: A fascist, putting people in labor camps and uses the equivalent of an atom bomb to crush her enemies under heel in the name of unifying the continent under her control.
Is actually: All of those things but she had good intentions! She just went too far! Give her a slap on the wrists because her and Korra aren’t so different, you see!
Perhaps the most bizarre writing choice was to make the fascist the only truly sympathetic villain of this series. The reasons become quite clear, however, when we recognize one thing.
Yes, she’s styled after the Nazis.
Yes, her actions in modern day are more reminiscent of Russia.
But who is the only nation to have ever used a weapon of mass destruction on the level of the atom bomb? The USA.
And here is where the unwillingness to make a bold criticism or take a hard controversial stance is the most apparent.
Kuvira acts like a fascist and has a lot of Nazi-vibes, but she is also a grim reminder of the USA’s own imperial history. Of our flippant use of a horrifying technology that still continues to have consequences for the descendants of the victims even today. It is one of the worst violations of human rights and decency in history. And the USA is the only nation to have ever actually used one.
So if you ever feel it’s weird that Kuvira was arguably the worst of the villains but got off with only house arrest and a happy ending with hugs from her family? You’re not alone. Kuvira has to be “not that bad” or else you’re critiquing the USA itself. And that is a level of controversy this franchise doesn’t seem interested in dipping it’s toes into.
It’s the reason they equivocate and justify by having the Earth Prince step down and choose democracy. This isn’t an East Asian ideal. This wouldn’t have been a popular or virtuous choice in that time period. Many would’ve regarded it as tyranny of the majority, or a disorganized chaos without a consistent central authority.
It’s only seen as the perfect solution in the Democratic West. So you see, it’s not so bad, because at least we have democracy! We aren’t as bad as Kuvira who really isn’t all that bad either! Or so the narrative tries to apologize for itself.
And this is even more apparent with everyone’s problematic fav!
Varrick: How Elon Musk Wants Us To View Him vs What Elon Musk Wishes He Was
Varrick!
Is presented as: A quirky, funny, Tony Stark-esque genius who made a mistake and deserves a redemption!
Is actually: A war-profiteer willing to escalate tensions and shed the blood of his own people with no remorse to make money. Also he builds the equivalent of the atom bomb for Kuvira and her allegorical Nazis. But he gets a happy ending with a weirdly westernized wedding anyway!
Isn’t it telling that the villain who is written to be the most loveable and sympathetic is, in fact, the capitalist industrialist?
And not like that yucky evil industrialist Hiroshi Sato funding the Equalists and their civil rights movement.
No, no! Varrick is the good kind of industrialist! The kind that is non-political and mostly cares about money and inventions! After all, he only built a weapon of mass destruction for the Nazis, not the civil rights protestors!
Which brings us to…
Our Civilized Poverty vs their Savage Poverty!
And hey, that’s fair because look at the differences between Republic City and Ba Sing Se!
Sure, both had destitute populations starving and without proper shelter due to the disconnected elite leaders who didn’t care about their plight.
But the homeless people of Republic City are presented as jolly and helpful and never state a single grievance even as they live in a tent city underground! Everyone knows that democratic poverty is better! Therefor Sato was totally unjustified in funding an equality movement!
The poor people of BSS, on the other hand, are victims of that mean old non-democratic Earth Queen and later of the power vacuum left by her assassination, therefor their plight is ACTUALLY horrific. Kuvira may have been bad but she and Varrick are justified because of the unAmerican conditions!
Looking at it this way, so many of LOK’s problems fall into place. It perhaps serves as lesson in not tackling complex problems with the intention of a clean solution unless you’re willing to take a controversial stance and stick to your convictions.
I don’t think the creators intended to make a libertarian criticism of every social movement and apologia for capitalism and fascism. It’s just a sad reflection of what is and isn’t controversial in our current society. Divorced from actual morality or perspective.
What a waste.
This Post Brought To You By: Viewers Like You! (or: Check out this thing I made)
All that said, if you want a well-written and more adult take on the ATLA universe, check out the Kyoshi and Yangchen novels! F. C. Yee doesn’t pull any punches and perfectly balanced the darker, more visceral elements an adult story can have, with expert worldbuilding and humanized characters that feel believable even when they’re in fantastical situations.
Or if you want more ATLA instead, kindly check out @book4air: A project creating a pseudo Book 4 using both the official comics and original materials, fully dubbed, orchestrated, and partially animated by industry pros who happen to be fans!
Some comics are getting rewrites too, so whether you love the comics and want a fresh take, or hate the comics and want a change, we are doing our best to make this accessible for everyone including people with disabilities who may not be able to enjoy the originals.
Check out our first episode here!
If you can afford to, consider supporting us on Patreon! Every episode is expensive to produce and we are a bunch of broke artists. Some which don’t even have consistent or reliable housing. Any little bit helps.
If you can’t, no worries! You can still help by spreading the word so our videos can overcome the YouTube algorithm.
With all my love for this franchise and its fandom, I hope you all continue to enjoy your favs regardless of my criticisms.
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A Man-Made American God: Bo Burnham’s "Bezos" Tetralogy as an Analogy for Religion
(Left: Lex Luthor, Superman’s arch enemy. Right: Jeffery Bezos, former CEO of Amazon.)
Jeffery Preston Bezos, Executive Chairman of Amazon, is the closest we will ever get to having a real life Lex Luthor. A man with more money than a human being could ever need and someone so known for callous disregard for working class people (and human life in general) that he may as well be a real life comic book supervillain. Since he is indeed a real guy, one can only hold out hope that Superman is also real. Though in the world of Amazon Prime original shows The Boys and Invincible (now streaming!), Superman is shown to be the bad guy.
Regardless, in real life we have Lex Luthor, but Superman has yet to show himself... but at least we have Bo Burnham.
In March 2020, much like the rest of the world, Burnham went into lockdown, being confined to his California home for months on end due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Unlike the rest of us, Burnham came out of that quarantine with a Netflix special, 2021′s Inside, that has gone on to enjoy immense success and critical praise. Due to the special's wide array of topics, some have found it hard to call it a straightforward comedy special. Hell, some people (myself included) have found difficulty labeling it as any one thing. Inside contains multitudes: comedy, drama, documentary, theater, music, stand-up, meta-commentary, a psychological character study, and tinges of postmodernism. Have a look around and take your pick at what Inside is. There’s no need to panic, this isn’t a test.
In addition to containing many structural elements, Inside also boasts a healthy variety of comedic song topics, from the aggravations involved with FaceTiming with your mom, to a sock hand puppet (appropriately named "Socko") giving vital lessons on how the world works, to the wonders of sexting and the despair that comes with turning 30 years old (a milestone birthday Burnham celebrated during the quarantine). With Inside, Burnham somehow finds a way to cover all of the things that people probably experienced or thought about during the pandemic-era, all without ever using words related to "COVID-19" or "Pandemic." However, one man in particular gets two songs dedicated to him in the special ("Bezos I" and "Bezos II"), and another two ("Bezos III" and "Bezos IV") that saw the light of day later when Burnham released Inside: The Outtakes, commemorating the one year anniversary of Inside's release. That man is:
Jeffery Preston Bezos.
In the context of where these songs appear in the special, “Bezos I” is just another short comedy number sandwiched between a short lament about how much being an unpaid intern sucks and a song where Bo worries that sexting his girlfriend a ferris wheel emoji will somehow imply that he thinks her vagina is as big as one. “Bezos II” has the tougher job of being the song that has to provide a comedic breather after the dread and darkness found in the songs "Welcome to the Internet" and "That Funny Feeling." Hell, "Bezos II" is the final song one could classify as funny, seeing as "That Funny Feeling," "All Eyes on Me," "Goodbye," and "Any Day Now" are anything but outright funny. "Bezos III" and "Bezos IV" exist only as outtakes so it's questionable if they were written before or after the two Bezos songs that made it into Inside proper. Still, four songs about Amazon’s (in)famous founder, even if three of them are under a minute in length (“Bezos III” breaks this by being 1:25) is an interesting and rather overlooked part of the music Burnham both included and excluded from his special. What does the Bezos Tetralogy become when all four songs are combined and listened to in sequence?
They become a short suite where each part works together to transform Jeff Bezos and his rise to power into an analogy for the development and collapse of a religion. There is more to Burnham’s four “Bezos” songs than meets the eye. Let’s explore.
Bezos I: From “Humble Beginnings”
“Bezos I” begins the tetralogy with satire at its finest. Burnham sings the song from the point of view of someone who praises ol' Jeffery as a "self-made" man. The story begins simply with "CEO, entrepreneur / Born in 1964 / Jeffrey / Jeffrey Bezos." There are no lies yet. All of those are true statements.
The lines after are entirely fictional. Burnham (as well as a good chunk of his audience) knows this.
"Come on, Jeffrey, you can do it / Pave the way, put your back into it" is an obvious nod to the standard American Dream mantra. Hoist yourself by your bootstraps, work real hard, and anybody can strike it rich in this country. That's one form of the famous saying. The obvious joke is that Bezos didn't have to "put his back into it" at all. When he started Amazon in 1995, his mother and stepfather invested $245,573 in the company. See? You too can be just like Bezos! (You know, just make sure you have parents that are well off and have close to $250,000 laying around). So maybe he had a little help. That kind of money is still "coming up from nothing"... right?
The next lines are where things get really interesting.
"Tell us why / Show us how / Look at where you came from / Look at you now." One can interpret Burnham's lines as disciples asking a spiritual leader to guide them to the plateau Bezos stands upon. Another skeevy American mantra, this time one that is commonly found in lazily written self-help books and budding entrepreneurs treat as gospel: "I did it! You can do it too!" If Bezos can become richer than God through one company, one great idea, surely I can do it too! Surely he must know some secret that I don't! So tell us why, Jeff! Show us how, Jeff! If we follow in Bezos' steps, surely he will lead us to the answers! Keep believing in him and I'm sure he will! Just don't ask him for any bathroom breaks.
The final verse celebrates Bezos, considering him to be the best of the best, a man carved from a different stone. It goes like this:
"Zuckerberg and Gates and Buffett
Amateurs can fucking suck it
Fuck their wives, drink their blood
Come on, Jeff, get 'em”
Burnham sings these lines like a deranged sports fan rooting for their favorite team to win a championship, as if rooting for one specific billionaire is any different or better than rooting for Jeffrey. It isn't hard to change the lyrics of this song and replace "Jeffery Bezos" with "William Gates" or "Warren Buffett." Nobody mentioned here is worth celebrating this intensely.
"Bezos I," both in this context and on its own, is basically a high quality shitpost... and it's fantastic. Burnham hilariously captures the idiocy of the now all-too-common trend of chuds engaging in billionaire-as-hero worship, coming to the defense of billionaires such as Bezos and Zuckerberg whenever they’re under attack in Twitter threads. It's a hilarious song because it's an exuberant synth-pop banger that takes the complete piss out of a man they admire way too much. It resonated with the audiences that saw its satirical nature, one of those audiences being Tik Tok. When Bezos blasted off into space for ten minutes in July 2021, streams of "Bezos I" and "Bezos II" jumped 21% in a single day. "To the moon!" as budding entrepreneurs and smooth-brained crypto bros say.
To the ones that don't recognize the satire and view it at face-value, "Bezos I" becomes an anthem to a man who perfectly reflects the goals, values, and beliefs of the group of people that idolize him. Burnham, even when done satirically, provides a voice to those who wish to celebrate Bezos' success and what they see as the man's admirable qualities. To the ones who see Bezos as a symbol of what we are all supposed to do and how one goes about doing that so damn well, he must be the thing to aspire to. He must be a role model. He must be... a god among men.
Bezos II: Congratulations!
"Bezos II" is a lot simpler in structure than the previous part. Musically, it still retains the synth-pop sound of "Bezos I," but now the lyrical content has been thrown out the window completely. Perhaps it's due to where "Bezos II" appears within the special (sandwiched between the lyrically intense songs "Welcome to the Internet" and "That Funny Feeling") or because Burnham by this point has nothing else to say about him that wasn’t already covered the first time. Lyrically, there are only four unique lines besides "Jeffery Bezos": "Uh," "You did it," "Congratulations," and "Ow."
Because there isn't much said, it's easy to look at "Bezos II" as simply a comedic and fun song, due in part by both the jubilant celebration of the blaring synth lines and by the fact that Burnham appears as a man in a ghillie suit singing the name “Jeffery Bezos” over and over again while alone in his home.
(The quarantine hit everybody in different ways...)
Despite the absurdity of the visual component, there is still something worth taking note of in the song: the sarcastic manner in which Burnham says both "You did it" and "Congratulations." Again, because the only other words in the song are "Jeffery Bezos," it's difficult to know just what exactly Burnham is congratulating him for. It could be any number of things. One obvious hypothesis could be that Bunrham is "congratulating" Bezos on the fact that between March 2020 and May 2022, Bezos saw his wealth rise from $113 billion to close to $185 billion. Another hypothesis could be that Burnham is "congratulating" him for doing what he wanted him to do in "Bezos I." He paved the way! He put his back into it! He fucked wives and drank their blood! This calls for a celebration! Though it's a celebration tinged with sarcasm. Burnham, by the point in the special where "Bezos II" appears, is far removed from a standard comedy special. Burnham sings the song with extreme sarcasm because it's the only coping mechanism left in order to deal with the fact that there's at least one single man in the United States who has more money than several small nations combined.
Now, when following the established thread of a man being turned into a god, if "Bezos I" is a song about an "ordinary" man making it big and becoming idolized, "Bezos II" is the point where it has gone past mere idolization. The idolized man is now a god in the eyes of the devout followers of Bezos. "Bezos II" is a song that celebrates the god's success. He did it! In a way, we gave him that power and he has transformed the world with it (through the wonders of Amazon). We are congratulating him for achieving what us mere peons could only dream of. He did it! So, once one reaches godhood and enjoys the power and the adoration that comes with that title, the question becomes, where do we go from here? What happens next?
Bezos III: A Hymn to the Old God
"Bezos III," the opening to the outtakes of Inside, is a Gregorian chant that speaks only one name: "Jeffery Bezos." It is the coldest and darkest sounding of all four "Bezos" songs, but retains humor by the ridiculousness of a chant based around Amazon’s founder. It sounds like a hymn to an old god that no one truly understands anymore. How did they get their power? Who gave it to them? How long have they been worshipped? Where did all of these followers come from? Why do they continue to worship this figure? The answers are hard to come by, for Bezos is a god that came to prominence in a now-forgotten time (pre-pandemic, as far as Inside is concerned). To the devout, respect and admiration towards this old god feels like common knowledge, to the point that if anything contradicts this then it's the fault of the non-believers who simply haven't been enlightened. Respect and admiration for Bezos, his entire legacy, everything he's created from "nothing," has mutated into something that doesn't stand to reason and doesn't need to; it's simply powered by faith.
Just like how Bo Burnham returns to the Inside house at the beginning of the outtakes, we return to the realm of Bezos. In real-time, a lot had changed in the year between Inside's release and the release of the outtakes. In that year, Bezos made more money than one would know what to do with in a hundred lifetimes, he traveled to space for a brief moment, and has continued enjoying his seat on the throne of the Amazon Empire. The rest of us have suffered for it.
"Bezos III" is the only song on both Inside and the outtakes that segues into another song. That song is "The Future," which isn't part of the tetralogy, but it is a good pairing that still makes sense thematically if one follows the thread of Bezos being viewed as a god. The hymn to the old god leads us directly into a lament of the future that Bezos had a hand in creating. A future with massive income inequality, worker’s rights becoming non-existent (especially in Amazon warehouses), books on getting better being hand-delivered by drones, and a general depression and confusion over how to continue facing day-to-day life in a world that keeps constantly reminding people things are only going to get worse before they get better. In a way, "The Future" sounds just as cold and empty as the echoes and chants found in "Bezos III," reflecting the overall darkness and pessimism found among the people who are utterly lost and wish to reject and revolt against the world that the modern American god had a hand in creating; to reject and revolt the ones that gave that god the power in the first place and continue to worship him. The old world is sadly dead and gone, and having to adjust to the new world has taken its toll on many.
But luckily, not all gods are blessed. Some of them don't get to be worshipped forever. This country has worshipped its Lex Luthor for a while now, but maybe it's still worth it to hold onto hope and wait for Superman a little while longer.
Bezos IV: Give Me That Old Time Religion
"Bezos IV," the final song in the tetralogy, plays with a change in style again. There's no synth-pop to be found, nor is this song a Gregorian chant. No, "Bezos IV" chooses a 50s doo wop style for the finale. The antiquated genre of doo wop is appropriate, as the song feels like a fight against the waning relevance and popularity of the old values that turned Bezos into a god. "I'm sticking with Jeffrey," Burnham sings. Why? A romantic answer: "I get a feeling when I look in his eyes." Burnham then asks, "Do you need 180 billion different reasons why?" A not-so-subtle joke about Bezos’ net worth at the time of the song's recording, but also a question that reeks of being trapped in a by-gone era. "Bezos IV" is a bit sad when looking at it through this narrative thread. It's a blunt, silly, and stubborn refusal to move on, to change with a world that has abandoned Bezos' values and has rejected all that he is. A god like Bezos can't be worshipped in a time when the phrase "Eat the rich" has re-entered the general lexicon. A god like Bezos can't be worshipped in a time when absolute hatred for the upper class and the wealthy elite has reached a new fever pitch. Bezos, Zuckerberg, Gates, Buffett, none of these men are popular figures and worth admiring right now in a country where the people below them have to struggle to decide whether they have enough money to comfortably order their next meal or try and save up a little more and just starve for the rest of today. The remaining followers of Bezos found in "Bezos IV" are electing to stay in the past; comfortable with conservatism and comfortable with worship towards a demonstrably false idol.
Conclusion: Waitin’ For a Superman
Bo Burnham's Bezos Tetralogy, when the songs are separated and scattered, are four incredibly silly nonsense songs about Amazon founder Jeff Bezos. However, once they're all combined, the four songs become an analogy for the development and collapse of a religion, with Bezos serving as said religion's god. Each song has a different degree of ridiculousness, but like any great work of comedic art, it’s through that ridiculousness that one is able to observe something poignant in what it’s satirizing. Burnham took the now-too-common sight of seeing people defend billionaires like Bezos online, particularly Twitter. No matter what heinous, out of touch thing someone like Bezos or Elon Musk do, a good number of their devotees will be there to defend them, for reasons that defy any logic or reason. But when one has such an unbreakable faith in something, even faith in the worst that America has to offer, logic and reason are completely abandoned. Burnham’s special spent a good deal of time observing the world and trying to make sense of what was happening from March 2020 to May 2021 he asks a question in “Comedy” that many asked: “What the fuck is going on?” Of the many things Burnham observed, Bezos and his cult of strange, devout fans who are quick to idolize him was one of those things.
Ultimately, Burnham decided to make several cuts to Inside and kept only the first two Bezos songs, but their inclusion was enough to show that Bezos had been on his radar and that there was something about him that was worth commenting on. That, or Burnham just came up with stupid, silly songs about Jeffery Bezos because he thought it would be funny. After all, this is the same goofball who once went on a Kanye-esque rant about how difficult it is to fit your hand inside a Pringles can. Quoth Burnham: “Art is a lie, nothing is real.”
The outtakes album for Inside ends with a piano ballad called "The Chicken," a beautiful song that gives a genuine and philosophical answer to a stupid joke seemingly older than time itself: "Why did the chicken cross the road?" Burnham's song has the titular chicken serve as a stand-in for a sad woman who wishes to break the life she has been confined to and seeks to run away to "the life of brighter days, a width of road away." Burnham sings that in order to get there, the chicken must first cross the road. The chicken's story ends with these two verses:
"The road is gigantic, the chicken is little
She moves ahead left-right-left, right-left-right
All of a sudden, she stops in the middle
Frozen in place by a pair of headlights
It's anyone's guess what then happened next
But most think she died
But I think we ought to believe that she got to
The other side
So that's why she did it"
Burnham's final song for the outtakes of Inside sends an important message: that perspective is important and that perhaps one method for bringing brighter days is to simply put forth the effort to try and believe that the chicken made it to the other side instead of having her dreams snuffed out by being hit by a car. It's a simple, yet beautiful message for a time where people are, now more than ever, bombarded with nothing but bad news and despair. To circle back to the Bezos Tetralogy, since a real life Lex Luthor continues to enjoy being richer than everyone else (except Elon Musk, who has surpassed Bezos in terms of net worth at the time of this writing) perhaps one thing that can get us through the day is to believe that if there is a real life Lex Luthor walking among us, then perhaps that means a Superman will come in some form and finally beat that bald-headed jackass. Maybe it's naïve to think a man-made god could ever be defeated, but history has shown that all empires eventually turn back into sand, and decades of comic books have shown that eventually Superman always finds a way to save the day in the end. Much like believing that the chicken made it to the other side of the road, I think we ought to believe that the Bezos' of the world will one day finally be defeated. It isn't much, and perhaps it’s foolishly optimistic, but it’s better than just sitting around and just waiting for the end.
In the words of the Flaming Lips: "Tell everybody / Waitin' for Superman / That they should try to hold on best they can.”
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Dove
Part 2 of 2 of The Locked Door Series
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 19.7K i apologize for NOTHING
Warnings: DUBCON ELEMENTS, SMUUUUUUT, religion kink, virgin kink, authority kink, degradation kink, praise kink, age gap, ohhhhh the list goes on y’all been here long enough
A/N: I have nothing to say for myself this time im sorry
***
Obi-Wan feels like he’s going to be sick.
Dinner in the grand hall was difficult enough, forking down mouthfuls of expensive food he’s sure was absolutely marvelous, if he could’ve tasted it. The s’Ziscari clearly splurged on the celebrations—expensive food, expensive decor, expensive everything, down to the silk napkin he studied and fiddled with under the table as he awkwardly waited for you to finish your plate.
He felt uncomfortable, absolutely. He’s felt uncomfortable ever since he shuffled into this blasted, Maker forsaken robe not long after he left your quarters earlier.
Not black, no. Not like yours. Not like what appears to be an overwhelmingly vast majority of the people he’s encountered so far this dreadful evening.
No, his robes are blue.
A strong, eye-catching royal blue, covering his body in waves of fabric—softer than anything he’s ever worn before and leaving him feeling incredibly exposed. The far more practical robes he traded for these atrocious garments are made of a thick, scratchy wool, a testament to the Jedi’s philosophical rejection of fine or expensive materials. And, against all logic—to somehow make matters even worse, the sash tying this uncomfortable piece of attire closed has no place to clip his saber, unlike the leather belt he usually wears. As a consequence, he’s left simply carrying it around by his side.
Granted, for some unknown reason, his robes are still far thicker and longer and more protective than the… stars, the ultra-thin black silk wrapped around your body, but Obi-Wan is so self-conscious about his appearance that he’s not even allowing himself to look at you. Obviously that doesn’t stop him from refusing to leave your side the entire night, and he finds himself rather grateful that only a very few number of s’Ziscari are fluent in Basic, if only to provide him with a valid excuse to socially detach.
Of the very few people he’s noticed wearing robes resembling his, they’re all far younger than him—much closer to your age than Obi-Wan’s, and stars, everything about this celebration is unbelievably unnerving to him—including, if not most of all, your response to it. One of the reasons he knows the food was grand, apart from the immaculate plating and lavish dinnerware of course, is because you momentarily excused yourself from the seat next to him to dish yourself out a second helping.
Even now, even in the skybox seats of this distressingly packed arena, Obi-Wan struggles to keep down what little food he could eat while you stand tall next to him and seem completely unbothered by the situation—and by the Maker, it bothers him. He isn’t used to this. He’s used to you being the emotionally turbulent one, the one whom he has to pacify, and it twists his stomach with the way the roles have suddenly found themselves reversed.
“I think the blue looks nice, by the way,” you lean sideways to mention casually to him, and he knows. He knows you’re just jesting, just trying to lighten the mood, but he feels the bile rising up his throat at the fact that you even commented on it aloud. “Fitting. Matches your saber. Your face, though.” The smallest hint of a smile tugs at your cheeks. “It’s beginning to match the color of mine.”
“Thank you for that, young one; your sense of humor is positively delightful,” Obi-Wan gripes, clutching the metal hilt tightly in front of him with both hands while he gazes out at the stadium before him, bustling with black hooded figures and a rare flash of blue. It does not escape his notice that in complete contrast, your arms are loosely meeting behind your back, your saber dangling in one hand while the other lazily holds your wrist. Your body is… open. Draped in garments somehow equally as opaque as they are revealing, presented to the wide panoramic view of the audience and stage with no qualms whatsoever.
“Wonder who I got it from,” you ponder with a tilt of your head, and… fair point. “How long is this thing supposed to last anyways?”
“Stars—‘this thing’ can’t get over with soon enough,” Obi-Wan grumbles, his eyes anxiously flicking down at the empty stage in the center of the audience. He’s struggling with butterflies and nausea like he himself is meant to have a starring role in this debauchery. “They’ll have… acts. Plural.”
“Heavens,” you sigh under your breath, and oh yes. He agrees.
He’s also painfully aware that he should be using this free time to continue contemplating his decision about… matters concerning later this evening with you, but he’s already feeling massively overwhelmed as it is. Right now, it’s all he can do to just breathe and attempt to face one trial at a time.
But then, as if the Maker is feeling just particularly malicious this evening, Obi-Wan’s stomach drops when something quiet flashes in the Force and the roar of the enormous crowd instantly falls to dead silence. The ominous sign rockets through him and while a Jedi should not know fear, this might be the closest he’s ever felt to truly terrified.
“Ooh, dramatic,” you whisper, but regardless of your laissez-faire attitude, his heart is positively pounding as he watches the figures of robed Force sensitives slowly file out onto the stage, and everything inside him lurches at the realization that—
They’re all wearing blue. Every single one of them is clothed in fabric that matches his current attire, the one that made him feel like a blot on the landscape the entire dinner and subsequent mass pilgrimage to the arena. A bright splash of color in the midst of an almost inescapably giant ring of black.
You’ve stopped talking. Truly, he has no idea if that’s a good or bad thing, not right now. The Force sensitives join hands and create a ring in the center of the stage while every single person in the arena sits in perfect silence, and Obi-Wan feels dizzy. He’s not getting enough air right now, but he doesn’t even want to breathe too loudly and somehow draw even more attention to himself.
Two of the blue robes break off from their fellow acolytes and meet in the middle of the circle, and to simply avoid having a heart attack, Obi-Wan very purposefully chooses to ignore—like he’s done multiple times this evening—the subtle flicker of curiosity he experiences at the significance of the color blue and what it symbolizes to the s’Ziscari. He can’t even bear to watch the way the two of them slowly lean in and allow their lips to touch from under their hoods.
Maker, if he turned his saber on and stabbed himself with it, could he convince you it was an accident? Probably not—no, definitely not, what a stupid thought to have—
“How does she wipe?” He hears your voice whisper, and Obi-Wan’s facial expression immediately screws up in confusion.
He turns to you, his tone equally hushed but the bewilderment sharpening his consonants. “How does who what—?”
Only—you’re not even looking at the scene unfolding in front of you. Your expression is just as confused as his is, but instead of looking down, your chin is lifted and you’re staring directly across the arena at the viewing booth opposite to yours. He still has no idea what you’re talking about though, not until he follows your line of sight and sees the way s’Zerthia has her jaw propped up in her hands on her throne, looking bored as usual, and how the length of her newly manicured fingernails curves halfway up her scalp from this angle.
“That’s dangerous,” you remark quietly. “They’re like talons. Gaudy little weapons she always has attached to her that she decorates, makes them seem less vicious than they actually are. I see them. I certainly don’t envy whoever she picks tonight to—”
You cut yourself off with a bit lip smile and turn your face away from him, and Obi-Wan is almost mystified by how casual you’re able to be about this.
“Whomever she picks to…?” He trails off with a sigh. “Do I… Do I want to know?”
“Never mind,” you tell him quickly, lifting your chin once more while still clearly trying not to laugh. You’re trying not to laugh, while… while that is happening in the center of the audience. “It was, uh… tasteless.”
He blinks, wondering what that could possibly mean. Everything about this is tasteless, the entire thing is just an absolute nightmare coming to life.
Though, after a moment of silence, Obi-Wan soon realizes he much prefers it when you fill the void.
“Members of the Royal Court take turns doing it for her,” he eventually replies, decidedly looking anywhere but where the man is slipping the blue robe from the woman’s body. It takes you a second to register to what exactly he’s referring, but when you finally do, you snort. It’s too loud. A few heads closest to your isolated seats turn as Obi-Wan very quickly thrusts his elbow into your ribs. “Quit being disrespectful,” he hisses under his breath.
“You just—!” You quickly clamp your mouth shut and face forward again, trying not to smile in an appalled sort of way. But then—“Oh,” you blurt, not loud enough for anyone else to hear in this open setting but still loud enough for him to glance around and be slightly anxious about it. “Oh. Wow. I wasn’t… expecting…”
Obi-Wan’s eyes automatically flick down to the couple, only just long enough to catch a quick glimpse of stark nudity in the center of the arena before his gaze immediately bounces back up again and focuses on the incredibly interesting steel beam currently propping up the Queen’s viewing box, clearing his throat. “I… did warn you.”
“Well, yeah, I expected them to…” Your hushed voice trails off and you stay quiet for too long, too long to imply you’re still formulating an end to your thought. You’re distracted by something, but then you appear to snap back to your senses and immediately clear your throat. “I just wasn’t expecting… the, uh. The… positioning.”
He says nothing in response. It… it doesn’t give him great comfort, wondering how you could possibly know enough about this type of profanity to have expected a different sort of positioning. The stark contrast between the color of his ceremonial robes and yours still remains completely unspoken, but it quietly pulls at the back of his mind nonetheless.
“What about it?” Obi-Wan immediately hears himself prompt and oh, no, this is completely inappropriate. Not only should he not be encouraging this kind of talk with you, but he also shouldn’t feel so… so negative, not about something so personal to you and something that’s certainly none of his business. Regardless, he… still has this buried, unexplainable desire to know the truth about it. Regardless of the indirect way he’s attempting to go about it, he wants to know the truth about whether or not you broke your oath, and while he recognizes it’s completely improper of him, the urge is still strong enough to manifest itself using his vocal cords.
“Oh, I don’t know, it’s just… It’s…” He doesn’t even have a visual reference for what you’re attempting to find the words to describe. He doesn’t want to. He just wants to know what you think about it. “…Bold,” you finally settle on.
Bold. It’s bold. Perhaps Obi-Wan wouldn’t be analyzing your verbal responses so closely if he had something more interesting to look at besides the general coliseum-like structure of the large outdoor stadium, but there’s a certain horizon he just won’t let his eyes dip below right now and unfortunately for him, being so high up above the crowd, the upper hemisphere of his visual field remains relatively dull.
“Who would've thought,” he eventually sighs, blinking up at the star-splattered sky now and attempting to see if he can use the Force to break off a piece of a satellite and have it impale him in a tragic accident. “Considering the s’Ziscari are such a conservative bunch.”
His eyes soon wander back to s’Zerthia, and—Obi-Wan startles to find her staring directly at him with a thin eyebrow dangerously quirked. She motions two long fingers in a V shape at her eyes and then points down towards the stage, her expression expectant and waiting.
Obi-Wan’s teeth hurt at how hard he clenches them together, his jaw flexing but the thick blanket of his beard doing well to conceal it. She’s playing with him, he realizes; he can see the hidden smile on her lips all the way from here.
Maker, maybe she’s right. Maybe he’s—maybe he’s being ridiculous about this. This is fine. This is fine. His stomach feels like it’s all his food might come up at any second, but he’ll do it, he’ll look. He can at least just look, right?
His gaze slowly begins lowering, trying to take in just a few things at a time so as not to overstimulate himself. Thousands of s’Ziscari lining the seats of the arena, almost every single one of them dressed in black. Lower still—the platform leading up to the stage. A perimeter of blue figures now sitting down in a circle and then, at its center, a… a naked man and woman.
Obi-Wan’s heart pounds as he struggles to comprehend the sight, never having laid eyes on a nude woman before. She’s on her elbows and knees, forehead lowered and resting against the floor, and the man kneels behind her, one hand holding her hips and the other wrapping around his—
Stars, Obi-Wan wants to end it all. Right here. His aim will be true.
But then… oh, no, he’s an idiot. He’s a complete dullard, because he forgot. Consumed by his own sheer anxiety and unease, Obi-Wan stupidly forgot an extremely crucial detail of the incredibly little he’s been told about the Sh’inzith.
—the projecting.
All at once, he’s nearly knocked over by the strength of the two Force sensitives at the center of the arena as they deliberately cast their minds out across the entire audience, presenting every sensation and fleeting thought they’re experiencing in all its intensity. Obi-Wan immediately works to reinforce his mental shields as soon as he feels the shockwave about to hit, but there’s thousands of Force sensitives present—all of them congregated into one relatively small area, all of them tuning into the same two signatures and then suddenly… amplifying them back until it’s impossible for him to shut out.
“Oh, uh—” he just manages to hear you mutter through the whirlwind, just the slightest hint of panic in your voice peaking through the symphony of whispered thoughts and pulsing sensations coming from the stage, “—that isn’t good—”
Obi-Wan abruptly stumbles backwards and gasps at the awful, wretched feeling of something brunt pressing up hard against somewhere elusive, somewhere he’s never felt before towards the lower part of his body, and his mind fights viciously against it as he feels you spin around and reach out for his rapidly retreating figure.
“Wait, no—it’s okay, M-Master, it’s okay, it’s—” your voice cuts off and your hands suddenly fist into the robes at his chest, your forehead dropping to his shoulder against the sharp sting just continuing to push and push and push, “—i-it’s okay, it’s oka—”
He trips over his feet in the chaos and falls back on complete instinct and you’re so tightly attached to him that you’re yanked forwards with the momentum, the two of you plunging to the ground in a clumsy heap of grunts and tangled limbs. Obi-Wan immediately starts crawling backwards across the floor underneath you, still trying to escape the horrible, inescapable sensation digging into a part of his body that doesn’t seem to exist, but it’s like you’re of the same mind—you’re scrambling forwards in the same direction trying to get away from the same thing, frantically attempting to calm him and simultaneously deal with the agony yourself, and then suddenly—
Oh—oh, Maker—
Suddenly something gives and surges in, and then Obi-Wan gasps—his elbows buckling under him and as the both of you drop down onto the floor because stars, it’s nearly blinding with impression. Not only the aching, hard fullness stretching sharp and deep somewhere in his lower abdomen—but now a new sensation. A tight, wet silk he feels swallowing him between his legs, concentrated on a part of his body that… does exist, a body part that’s currently pressed up right between your spread thighs.
“Fuck,” you moan hot against his throat, trying to find somewhere to brace yourself next to his shoulders and push yourself up off him, and he tries—Maker, he tries so hard not to, but his hands shoot out to grab your hips before he even knows what he’s doing and then he’s dragging his lower body up into yours on instinct alone, clamping his eyes shut and groaning out a desperate sound he’s never heard himself make before as his head drops against the floor.
It’s staggering. It hurts. He can't even hear your muffled noises anymore, not over the roaring encompassing his mind and body. All he knows is that your hips quickly jerk back and grind down into his in response, sending Obi-Wan reeling while you bury your twisted cry of pleasure and pain into his neck.
The sound of it breaks through everything else.
Obi-Wan’s hands shake violently as they suddenly release you and then frantically shove at your shoulders, trying to push you off without hurting you. He can’t think, he can’t see, he needs to leave—
“Get away,” he rasps desperately up at the sky, blinking his eyes wide but somehow not seeing anything in front of him but blackness. “St-stars, get away from me—”
Suddenly you’re flipping off his body and onto your back next to him, too quick for it to be a mechanical movement alone, and he doesn’t even have the space in his mind nor the processing capacity to figure out if he Force pushed you off him or if it was you who did it to yourself. He just clambers to his feet and stumbles away in a terrified, graceless retreat, bent in half, limping and gasping and fighting for every step he takes.
***
Your Master was right to leave as soon as possible, you think. You were wrong to linger here for just a second to try and gain your bearings, because the more you work to grasp and attempt to organize them, the more mindless and disorienting they become.
You eventually have to heave over and drag yourself after him.
The further away you get from the arena, the easier it becomes to block the projection, but Maker, it’s exhausting. You’re resigned to start out with a crawl—one of those Jedi Core crawls you haven’t had to do since the Academy but this one exponentially slower, forehead dropped down and eyes closed, just focusing on alternating shifting your elbows and your knees forwards and dedicating the rest of your mental energy to just isolating your mind from the debilitating assault.
Consulars don’t usually see much of war—you tend to do absolutely everything in your power to avoid it. It’s the Guardians who experience the horrors of combat most often, who deal with ambushes and onslaughts from enemies of the Republic. But Maker above, every merciless thrust into that poor little virgin at the center of the arena is like a blaster shooting directly at you, but then couple it with the thousands of reflections and ricochets in robes lining the bleachers? You’re in the trenches of a deadly battle you had no idea was even about to break out and you have no weapon of defense besides retreat.
When you finally get far enough away to be able to push yourself upright as much as possible and continue staggering back to the palace on two feet, you have no concept for how long it’s been. You can still feel the projection vibrating and clawing sharply at the edges of your consciousness, but at least the majority of your thoughts are your own now, and it gradually becomes easier and easier to focus and speed up to a clumsy run.
Though, no matter how successful you eventually are at muffling the vibrant sensations and thoughts of the two Force sensitives behind you—when they cum, you stumble down to your knees again and have to bite the back of your fist to keep from screaming.
Maker, it takes you a minute to recover. You don’t even cum, you just feel it—the burst of energy from the Force in every direction, the violent explosion from the stadium that feels like it should fracture the ground beneath you.
You’re able to get up after a moment, if only because they decide to take mercy and finally cut off the projection. You know that it’s a temporary relief, that they’ll likely be at this all night, but you hope the palace will be far enough away from the arena to block out the sensations completely. You wonder if Master Kenobi felt that through the Force or whether he was too determined to block it out that he was able to simply ignore the nuclear missile that just detonated less than a few miles away from him.
You force yourself forwards and you want to hurry, you do—but strangely, in your wild state of exhaustion, stark reality is almost as debilitating as swimming through that endless madness was. It’s quiet around you but the noise of still air pulses deafeningly in your eardrums after breaking free from such a thick mental filter separating you from your surroundings. You still have your lightsaber clutched in your hand, Maker rejoice, and your thin robes are skewed awkwardly across your body, but you eventually find your way to the doors of the palace.
Though, trying to navigate the empty halls back to your Master’s chambers takes you longer than it should. His signature is cloaked spectacularly, concealed to a mere speck you wouldn’t even know was there if you weren’t so closely acquainted with it for more than a decade. You follow the flickering pixel of blue light through the obstacle ridden darkness, adjusting the front of your robes with one trembling hand while you wipe your brow with the other, closing your eyes and doing your best to take deep breaths. He’ll be spiraling right now. He’ll need a boulder to cling to in this tsunami, solid ground to stand on while the stars are falling out of the sky.
You… find him in your quarters instead.
The door is open and his handsome profile is to you, the thick fabric stretching over his broad shoulders now an agreeable light cream, familiar and telling of his intentions. His hands are moving. Setting something down on your bed—your robes, you soon realize. He’s laying out your Jedi robes neatly for you across the fur blanketing the large mattress.
Master Kenobi begins speaking as soon as you step foot into the room, the tone of his voice very clearly impatient after having waited for you for so long.
“Change out of those ridiculous garments,” he tells you hastily, neatly laying out your leather belt across your dark tunic without even turning his head to look at you properly. “We must leave. Quickly. Also—tell me you didn’t forget your saber at the arena, because if so, I’m afraid it’s lost to us forever now. Ilum is only three days from here, perhaps we can stop there on the way back to Coruscant to find you another kyber cryst—”
You drop the hilt of your lightsaber on the floor and step forward, cautiously reaching out for his figure as he continues to ramble. “Master, I—”
Your hand is thrown to the side with a subtle flick of his wrist and you instantly jerk to an abrupt halt, holding your palms out in front of you and keeping completely still while he spins around, his jaw slack and staring at you wide-eyed. He takes a few steps away from you in shock.
“I’m sorry—” he immediately gasps, reaching out towards you even though the rest of his body is still desperately evading yours. “Stars, I’m so sorry—that was just… That was excruciating, young one. Why would anyone ever willingly—?”
“It—it doesn’t always—” you cut yourself off just in time, clamping your jaw shut before you can finish your sentence.
“We must leave,” he says once more as he turns back to your mattress, not appearing to hear you at all and shaking his head, far too frantic to sound like he’s just reminding you alone. “We can’t do that. I can’t do that—”
“It doesn’t always have to be—” Maker, what is wrong with you? Your heart kicks up in your chest and somehow stutters to a halt at the same time. It’s the lingering effects of the assault your mind just experienced coupled with your desperate urge to console him that’s making you so utterly careless, you realize, it’s making your tongue loose.
“Stars, what do you mean?” Master Kenobi finally snaps, and your blood runs ice cold. “How do you know that?”
It takes the sum of all your years of training to keep the raging hurricane of emotion from showing in any capacity. You feel like he’s holding his saber to your neck with how dangerously little you’re even allowing yourself to breathe right now, how utterly and completely still you’re holding yourself in front of him.
Lie, a little voice in your mind supplies quietly, the little voice you keep locked inside an impenetrable box of everything you are but have never been allowed to confront, haven’t been allowed to openly think just in case someone is listening too closely. Lie. Lie, right now. Your silence is giving you away.
Only—you can’t. You shouldn’t. It’s not fair to keep this from him, not when you’re asking him to do something so structurally compromising to his belief system. If… if you tell him the truth, perhaps he won’t judge you too harshly. Perhaps he’ll feel… reassured, knowing he’s certainly not the first Jedi to break a sacred vow when he felt times were desperate enough.
Besides. This might be the only secret that could potentially get you kicked out of the Order, but… it still isn’t your worst one.
“Because.” The word is out of your mouth before you can rethink it, barely above a whisper. “I… know.”
He doesn’t respond, and no.
No, you were wrong. You were wrong to tell him the truth, and the look on his face immediately shoots panic through your whole body.
He doesn’t look reassured.
He looks… alienated.
“‘It doesn’t always?’” Your Master eventually repeats back to you, and fuck—the implication is instantly clear. The implication is made so clear from the sharpness in his tone, the hard edge to it as he rounds out the vowels in the last word that makes your heart twist and throb in your ribcage. He might as well have just asked you how many times you must’ve violated your code of honor to know the difference.
“It’s not.” You clear your throat and flick your gaze up to the ceiling, feeling like he’s using the Force to squeeze your chest in on itself. “That was the absolute worst possible sensation that can be felt during… It’s—it’s not like that. It won’t… be like that. Not.” Are there tears coming to your eyes? “Not… with me.”
Utter quiet. So quiet that if you really concentrate, you can hear the distant sounds of the arena continuing on with the Ritual without you. You bite hard at your lip and wait for him to say something, anything. Yell at you, tell you how disgusted he is, banish you from the Order.
Instead, Master Kenobi quite suddenly… deflates. He sighs—not a heavy, exhausted one, but a soft one. A quiet, accepting sort of sound.
He slowly lowers himself to the edge of the mattress and closes his eyes, running both hands through his hair, and it’s just enough to give you pause. You glance over at him, trying not to let tears fall beyond the plateau of your lower lids with the frantic downward movement of your eyes, and you’re only just barely successful at it.
“It’s alright,” he says gently. “It’s… it’s alright, young one. I… suppose I am in no place to judge. Quite… quite literally,” he murmurs, gesturing to the space around him with a lazy wave of his hand. Maker, his figure is too watery and unfocused to make out his facial expressions, but you don’t want to blink to clear your vision just in case a sudden downpour escapes. “It’s none of my business and I shouldn’t have asked. You’re… not my Padawan anymore. I should have no reason to… even care at all, really.”
There’s something that feels… major in that, something monumental yet incredibly well hidden, but you’re still too full of blind panic to interpret it further. Your breathing is shaky and you wonder, quite stupidly and not for the first time in your life, if it’s somehow possible to use the Force to evaporate the water in your eyes before it turns into tears.
“I am certain it took place in your younger years, a long time ago,” he continues calmly when you don’t immediately say anything. “You did always have a… a rather unconventional relationship with the rules.”
Your only response is a quick jerk of a nod. Yes.
“Yes,” you immediately agree, hoping your tone sounds convincing enough through the lingering tremors. “It was… a long time ago. I’ve changed, since then. Grown up in many ways.”
It’s his turn to nod, and you manage to calm down just slightly. You’re still breathing too hard and you’re a bit too braced, too much of a stance to truly feel like relief, but your heart rate is beginning to settle back into a somewhat acceptable rhythm.
Master Kenobi looks over at you, and he says absolutely nothing about the traces of water still glistening along your eyelashes. He just smiles softly and pats the space next to him.
You cautiously make your way over to him after a moment, feeling more unsure now than you’ve felt this entire mission. You leave at least a half a foot of space separating the two of you once you carefully sit yourself down on the mattress, and you can’t even look in his general direction. You just focus on the long, draping sleeves of your black robe as you look down at your hands and wait for him to speak first.
“Sometimes,” he eventually sighs. “Sometimes I… feel like you’re the person I know best in the entire galaxy, you know. I’ve… I’ve known you far longer than I ever knew my own Master, young one. I picked you out of thousands, and I’d do it thousands of times again. Sometimes—especially since the day of your accolade and subsequent absence, I feel like I can know exactly what you’re thinking, even from across an entire star system. And yet somehow, you… always surprise me. Even after all these years, I am just. Consistently surprised by you.”
You don’t know how to take that. You just sit there in a guilty silence, still unable to turn your head or offer any sort of response.
“I chose you as a Padawan because you surprised me, you know,” he reminds you quietly. “I had certain expectations for you, and you did not meet those expectations. Instead, you presented an alternative I’d never before considered, an alternative that forced me to reevaluate you—and by extension, myself—far beyond what I had previously. That is not a bad thing. It has never been a bad thing. As is made blatantly obvious by the fact that I’m the one currently standing in the way of saving lives, and you’re…not.”
Maker, this is thin ice. You don’t know what to say that’ll express hesitant agreement with his sentiment without making it sound like you’re not apologetic for breaking your oath. You’re… well, you’re not, not really. His response itself is causing you to feel far more turmoil than any legitimate regret for your actions.
“It was—” On instinct, you almost say it was a mistake regardless of the conflicts you’re just so happening to encounter on this mission, but something stops you. You suddenly remember your place here, your goal. To save the galaxy from the Separatists’ reign. And, by extension… sleep with your Master. You can’t call it a mistake if you’re going to ultimately try to convince him to do the same thing. So instead, you scramble to finish your sentence with a different thought, knowing his full attention is pinned to you right now. “…A long time ago,” is all your exhausted mind is able to come up with.
“Yes,” he gives you a small, companionable smile. “It’s alright. Your prior lapse—or, well… lapses in judgement… will forever be safe with me.”
And still, you don’t feel relief. Not when Master Kenobi very quickly appears to look uncertain.
“I… apologize,” he offers after a moment, “if. If I ever made you feel like… like you could not confide in me about any struggles or… or urges you may have been experienc—”
“Maker,” you suddenly interrupt with a frantic wave of your hands, everything cringing inside you, “Maker, we don’t have to do this. None of it, it’s okay. Know what? Let’s just go home—screw the galaxy, I don’t care, just stop talking.”
He snaps his eyes over to you, a sudden bark of laughter escaping him before the rest of his face even seems to register something was funny.
It evolves. Eventually he’s covering his face and stifling ridiculous little snorts behind his hands, trying to apologize in between the chuckles but laughing even harder. It’s almost like… just a form of pure stress relief for him. So far beyond traumatized that it’s revealing itself in a slightly hysterical way, even if what you said wasn’t hysterical at all.
“Now you have a mere glimpse into what my experience has been like today,” he finally tells you with a sparkling grin once he composes himself, lifting his chin as he looks at you and scratching his beard with a quiet flicking sound. “Shall I keep going? If this mission has taught me anything, it’s that no matter what, things can always get worse.”
“They don’t have to.” You say it without thinking, the gentle reprieve caused by his laughter flowing through you in waves and making you throw caution to the wind. The four words serve to shut him up quite quickly however, even though it was the opposite of your intent, and your smile drops. Maker, just freely conversing with him about these things is navigating a minefield for his mental state.
“You… you say that, and yet even—” Master Kenobi eventually responds, cutting himself off with a cough. “Even the things I’ve heard are meant to feel… pleasant, were just.” He shakes his head and blinks his crystal blue eyes over at you. “By all accounts. Agony.”
“I know,” you nod. “I know. Projecting that specific situation was… sadistic of them. A distortion of the truth. Probably rooted in deep tradition, but also a great scare tactic if I ever saw one, playing with us by presenting the absolute worst of it before anything else. It won’t hurt. At all. I promise. In fact—I-I can make it feel—”
Maker, you don’t even finish your sentence, but you must think the general idea loud enough for him to understand. You don’t actually have a specific word in mind—good, great, amazing, euphoric?—and yet, something quiet settles over you two at the silent implication, the mere whisper of the possibility of you pleasuring him.
And him… allowing it.
“Master, I—”
“Don’t,” he quickly tells you. “Don’t call—You don’t have to… call me that. Just for right now, it’s. I don’t—” he takes a breath that sounds shakier than it looks, and then he paints an easy, fake smile on his face following the exhale. You recognize that smile anywhere, though. While you’ve never seen him wear it before, it’s the smile that politicians make when they’re about to present a lesser truth to you, a smile shown to you in negotiations all the time that signifies something… hidden. He’s hiding something, something important, and you have no idea what it could possibly be. “I don’t feel like I even deserve to be called that right now, young one. Perhaps you should be the Master, and I the learner.”
“Ah yes, the circle is now complete,” you can’t help but jest in return, wanting to keep the tone light even though the subject matter is heavy. “Is now when we trade lightsabers?”
“Indeed,” he smiles, this time more sincere, and… you can’t pinpoint when exactly it happened, but it appears you’re physically closer to each other now than you were when you first sat down.
“Do they, uh… actually expect us to…” You clear your throat and wave a hand around, “…Project the entire time like that?”
Master Kenobi quickly shakes his head. “No. s’Zer—Queen s’Zerthia informed me that. Ah. For us, projection will only be necessary during the… well, she called it the ‘closing ceremonies.’”
Your eyebrows shoot up and you nod. “I… see.”
It’s like you can physically feel his body start to break out into a cold sweat next to you at the sudden… realness of it all, the realization that it has to be getting late. Close to midnight, if you’re not already pushing it. It’s come time to make a final decision, you both know it. You want to console him, offer him some kind of solace or reprieve, but stars, you just don’t know how, not when you’re this much of a mess about this, too, but for entirely different reasons. You don’t have a single clue how to make him feel better about any of this.
“I just,” you rush before you lose the nerve, “I want you to know that—e-even if you feel like you’re somehow alone in this, you’re not. Okay? I’m… I’m really nervous, too. I don’t… I don’t actually know what to do at all right now. I don’t know whether to respect your apprehension or tell you it’s unfounded. I don’t know if I should remind you what’s at stake here or whether I should avoid mentioning it at all costs. I have no idea what position I should take, but I’ll—I’ll take whichever one you want me to.”
And it’s odd, because when you first launched into your confession, Master Kenobi gradually began to look more and more relieved, but at a certain point, something just goes horribly wrong. You don’t know what you said, but whatever it was, it seems to rocket through your Master and suddenly his breathing stutters.
For a moment, you think he’s going to reach back, yank your neatly folded Jedi robes up from the mattress and push the dark fabric into your hands. Tell you he’ll meet you at the docking bay posthaste, tell you not to linger, tell you that the mission was a failure. But then—
“Before,” he suddenly says, the word almost startling you with how abrupt it comes out sounding. Almost like he wasn’t quite expecting himself to say it either. “Earlier today, you asked… you asked if there was anything you could do to… make this easier.”
“Yes,” you prompt immediately. He won’t look at you, and for some reason your heart begins beating faster and the inside of your thighs are getting warm.
“I… I’m not sure I’ll be able to go through with this,” he admits with a whisper, his voice sounding so quietly reluctant, like he doesn’t want to say the words aloud but is forcing himself to. “But… the Council put you in charge of negotiations.”
Your eyebrows furrow, trying to understand his implication. What does that have to do with anything? Is he saying that you’re supposed to be in charge, and therefore he’s defaulting to you? “I’m not sure I—”
“The Galactic Republic…” Master Kenobi enunciates very, very pointedly, still unable to look at you, “…put you in charge of negotiations.”
Specifying—or in this case, generalizing—doesn’t help much. “I’m still not—”
“Maker, for—for the good of the Republic, young one,” he presses under his breath and finally flicks his gaze up to meet yours, sounding urgent and torn in equal parts. “Negotiate.”
Stars, negotiate with who? With—with him? For the good of the…? Is he asking you to somehow reason with him beyond what you’ve attempted to do already, or persuade him to do what’s right for—?
Maker—Master Kenobi is asking you to seduce him.
Shock paints your expression blank and his eyes instantly evade yours once more. You have to sit there for just a second and double-check that you’re not dreaming. None of this seems real. All of it seems like an incredibly elaborate illusion of the Force, ever since you first laid eyes on him at the start of this mission. You know you missed him but stars, did you truly miss him this terribly? Your longing must rival something fierce to unconsciously conjure this wild of a scenario. Is he actually here right now? Have you been speaking to a ghost? Are you actually here right now? Are you going to wake up any second and remember he’s thousands of lightyears away and has been for years, risking his life on the front lines of galactic war while you’re left to play politics and negotiate treaties behind the scenes?
These thoughts aren’t safe to have in normal interactions with him, but nothing about this situation is normal, and while you know Master Kenobi has years of experience reading your signature, he most likely won’t be able to gauge the specific details of your thoughts when you can sense how intensely he’s focused on guarding his own chaotic mind from you.
So you let yourself think. If only for a second, you sit next to him and allow yourself to just… think about him. About how much you care for him, how desperately you ache for him—you let all these improper longings finally have their moment with you. You let yourself confront it, crack the lid of the hidden box tucked away behind your consciousness and brave it, because if there was ever a moment to do so, it’s right now.
Your heart starts slamming up against your ribcage and your hands feel like they’re tingling. He wants you to convince him to have sex with you. He’s asking you to corrupt him. He wants you to negotiate the galaxy’s survival with the last man standing in the way of its prosperity—a good man with strong, immovable morals, a man who understands the consequences that follow integrity around and won’t be easy to tempt.
“This was a bad idea,” suddenly comes Master Kenobi’s voice, quickly backpedaling after too long of a silence. “I shouldn’t have said that. Forget I said that, we should just g—”
“Would you like to meditate?” You immediately ask him on a complete whim, shuffling back towards the middle of the mattress for the second time today. You’re careful to make sure he doesn’t see you carelessly flick your neat robes to the floor with the Force, clearing the top of the large mattress. “Let’s meditate.”
“Stars,” he breathes, shyly his head turning to follow you, “I’d love nothing more, but there truly just isn’t any time—”
You find it easier than you thought it’d be to pull a playful face at him, crossing your legs and straightening your spine. “Please, you’re a Guardian. You blue sabers practically invented battle meditation, did you not?”
He looks skeptical for a moment, as he has a valid right to be. “Is this a battle?” He eventually asks over his shoulder.
You say nothing in response to that, instead using the Force with a flex of your finger to tug at the loose cream fabric of his robe at his elbow. “Come on, it’ll do us good.”
He looks conflicted for a second, but then ultimately decides to humor you. “Alright,” Master Kenobi finally agrees, turning around and crawling towards you on the mattress, and you’re just quick enough to stamp down a flicker of arousal at the mere sight of it. “It won’t hurt.”
“Of course it won’t,” you agree with just a bit too much air in your voice, but he doesn’t seem to notice it. He just seats himself directly in front of you, facing you, crossing his legs close enough to yours that your knees barely touch, and—
—Maker, he’s lovely.
You purposefully let yourself think it as his eyes slowly fall closed and he takes a deep breath, beginning to tame the wild tempest of his mind. You let the word flitter around your thoughts without instantly repressing it like you always do, and just the mere act of allowing yourself to acknowledge the truth is freeing. He’s lovely. He’s lovely. You could scream it.
Your eyes trail down the lines of his ever softening, tranquil expression, not even bothering to pretend to meditate for his benefit this time. Your gaze roams shamelessly across his face, the way his hair is combed back away from it. The sandy, masculine beard leading down to the thick column of his throat, the broad lines of his shoulders draped in pale fabric, the way his chest slowly moves as he breathes. Lovely. Lovely.
And then you go… lower.
His abdomen is stretched long with how upright he’s sitting, his flawless meditation posture. His thighs are spread wide in this position, pants stretched tight into an elusive drum over his crotch and preventing you from truly seeing anything—but stars is it a thrill even just letting yourself look.
Especially knowing that the more his mind works to compose itself, the easier it’ll be for him to hear you.
You keep thinking, growing bolder the more you’re left alone with this box wide open. You think about how lithe and strong his body is, how it would feel under your hands. You think about all the different things you want to show him, all the… the mind shattering pleasure you can give him if he’ll allow y—
Master Kenobi says your name without opening his eyes.
It doesn’t sound the way you expect, though you don’t really know what you expected it to sound like. A sharp, frustrated bark? An exasperated, pleading attempt to get you to stop?
No—none of those. It’s a quiet, low growl of a sound, and the clear warning in it absolutely burns a hole through you like he picked up his lightsaber and used it instead.
You take practiced breaths, trying to calm yourself down. Stars, he just said your name, he’s said it so many times before, and yet hearing it in his mouth with that tone in this context feels like he just strapped rockets to your ankles and told you to stay put. You’re impatient. You’re turning yourself on, working yourself up, trying to get to where you can actually make a move on him after dedicating so many years to desperately repressing the longing to do so. Once he told you to negotiate this deal with him, however, it’s as if every ounce of the impeccable self control you’ve practiced so spectacularly throughout most of your life slowly started to unravel.
Reaching out tentatively so as not to startle him, you wrap both of your palms around the bend of his knees and squeeze gently. Master Kenobi displays no physical signs of—well, anything really, keeping his body completely rigid under your hands with no noticeable alterations in his breathing pattern. Biting your lip, you begin to slowly rotate your thumbs, making sure to keep your movements slow and perfectly symmetrical. Complete relaxation is your ultimate goal here—coaxing your Master into a serene state where physical contact is desired, not obligatory. He's so uncomfortable with the concept of intimacy in and of itself though, from the way his eyebrows start to furrow and his spine begins gradually tilting back and away from you, it's almost as if your ministrations are dampening rather than fueling.
“Relax,” you murmur, and stars, even though you make it sound quiet and gentle, it’s like the melodic lull of your voice appears to startle him more than if you’d just spoken normally. Maker—it’s counterintuitive; how are you supposed to turn someone on when the mere state of being turned on turns them off? “Relax with me, it’s okay—”
“But I just can't, young one,” he suddenly implores, his voice pressed up tight in his throat, his cerulean eyes popping open in frustration and something else—an honest, heartfelt emotion that's strikingly less familiar to you, even after years spent by his side: deep, hot, stomach-wrenching guilt. You watch your Master’s palms run the length of his thighs; back and forth, back and forth—almost like a nervous tick, you think—and it’s oddly endearing, if not increasingly concerning. “I just can't, this is all so wrong. Don't you understand? E-Even if the Council did provide a—well, a rather admittedly ineluctable blessing for this downright ludicrous endeavor, i-it’s… I don't…” He takes a deep breath, and visually, it looks like he's attempting to collect his thoughts and composure, but you know your Master all too well. You know what he's really doing, and at this point, it's almost… frustrating.
“What are you so afraid of?” You clutch his knees and whisper quietly, interrupting him before he can verbalize whatever perfectly logical reason he's trying to formulate as to why you both should leave the planet immediately, what he's going to say to the Council if they ever inquire as to why negotiations ultimately failed. He jerks his head up sharply to look at you.
“The Jedi fear nothing,” is his automatic response, though his previously intense gaze strays slightly from yours after a second of too much eye contact. “Fear is the path to the Dark Side, you know this.”
“And yet you are afraid,” you remark calmly, studying the way he’s turned his face away from you completely now, how you can still see his jaw clench under the thick beard with his profile shown to you like this. “I—I’m trying to understand, Master, but I—I don’t. Even if this mission were half as important as it is, your loyalty to the Order would follow you right into an early grave. But this?” You remove a palm from his knee to gesture between the two of you, the mattress beneath the both of you, “fulfilling this mission and these terms to save the entire galaxy is too ‘downright ludicrous’ for the Great Negotiator? I don’t believe it. Tell me what you’re really afraid of.”
Only, he’s suddenly moving—away from you. Turning and planting his palms to fur, beginning to climb to the edge of the bed and sweep his legs around under him, and your voice has an unintentional edge to it when you address his back.
“Do you know how many lives over I owe you?” You ask, and he jerks to an abrupt halt, feet just shy of stepping on the floor. “Do you have any idea the stockpile of mortal gratitude you’ve amassed from me? How many times you’ve risked your death to save me from mine over the years—can you count them? I have. I know my debt to you, I know the weight of my life piled on top of itself over and over again. I remember each and every one of them like they happened yesterday, and not once did you hesitate even slightly, let alone the way you’ve hesitated today.”
”And?” Master Kenobi quite suddenly snaps over his shoulder as he grips the edge of the mattress, sounding sharp but not necessarily directed towards you. “What is your point?”
“My point is that if you’d so readily trade your death time and time again to prevent that of even one other person, let alone a difficult Padawan who caused the Order nothing but grief for years, then what is it that makes the deaths of trillions—” you nearly say preferable to bedding me before you realize how incredibly harsh that would sound, but something about the way he seems to tense his shoulders and curl inwards implies he was following the general cadence of your agitated signature more than the specific content of your words.
He says absolutely nothing, but he doesn’t move to drop his feet to the floor, either. If only you could punch a proverbial hole through his practically indestructible mental barriers, you'd see the real reason he's so flustered, why he's purposely attempting to deceive you. Unfortunately for you though, they feel like they're made of triple-reinforced beskar, a countermeasure gradually increasing in strength the more you try to probe.
But then—all at once, something clicks. Something… fundamental. An understanding.
Your Master is a gifted negotiator, yes. But more than that.
He wields a blue saber. Not a green one.
He’s a Guardian. A warrior. He fights. It’s something that has never truly been part of your nature, no matter how much you struggled with it over the years—but it is a part of his, no matter how exceptionally he’s been able to mask it for even longer.
So, all at once, you stop pushing. Your signature abruptly pulls away from him, gives him room to breathe and simply hovers within your own personal space, unassuming and careful not to disturb him. You see your Master lift his chin and straighten his spine slightly, immediately noticing your absence and the constant pressure you’d been applying, and you honestly can’t tell if he relaxes or tenses up even more because of it.
Finally, when you feel like it’s been long enough, you slowly reach out and gently place your hand on his arm. This time, there’s no underlying motivation attached, no inherent desire for him to fulfill any sort of obligation. Just a warm, companionable gesture to reinforce the simple knowledge that you’re both in this together, for better or worse.
Please tell me, Obi-Wan, you quietly whisper to him through the Force, allowing your tone and energy to transfer through your open palm and into his troubled spirit as softly and gently as you possibly can—a caress more than anything even close to a sentence or inquiry. Your usage of his first name is entirely unprecedented however, and your Master sucks in a sharp breath in response.
I don't… But then the subconscious, half-formed thought fades away almost as quickly as it’s offered to you from behind the solid, unyielding fortress of his mind. “W-what are you doing?”
You bite your lip, wondering how honest you should be with him right now. Though, you suppose, if you truly want him to confide in you, you should at least meet him halfway.
“You’re the locked door,” you finally settle on. “This is me knocking.”
Obi-Wan turns around and blinks at you, looking for all the stars in this galaxy like that was quite possibly the last thing he expected you to say. You can see the frantic thoughts pass through his eyes almost as if the clear blue was completely transparent, likely remembering all the times you’ve leaned on him for guidance, listened intently and learned from his wisdom and experience. And now you’re a fully grown woman patiently offering him your ear, wondering if you’ve earned enough of his trust for him to do the same.
“I’m afraid I’ll form an attachment to you.” The words tumble from his mouth even though his body all but whips away from you in the process. “It’s unreasonable for the Council to expect this from me. From us. I’m afraid our relationship will forever be tarnished from this, that neither of us will ever be able to go back to the way things were before. I’m afraid that regardless of whatever decision I make, I won’t be able to carry the guilt on my conscience and continue to call myself a Jedi and Guardian of the Republic. But mostly, I just—I-I—”
Your heart is pounding as Obi-Wan buries his face into his hands and his muffled voice groans raggedly, “—I’m afraid I’ll like it. I’m afraid I’ll want it again, and again. I’m afraid it’ll follow me back to Coruscant, that I’ll save the galaxy but spend the rest of my days aching for something I’ll never be able to keep, and that’s petrifying. Desire, passion, selfishness, possession; all of them lead to Darkness, and I can—I can feel it right now. Your soul is so gentle, so peaceful, and yet you… you inspire such Darkness in me, dove.”
Maker, you’re trying so hard. So hard to keep your legs from clenching together at the utter desperation in his tone, how his breathing has picked up now that the words have ripped themselves out of his throat, like the whole thing was physical agony even just to say. You have to take a second. You’ve been so patient this entire time, but stars—this one makes you need a moment. You’re so glad his eyes are clamped shut behind his fingers right now because yours lose focus trying to mask the absolutely debilitating wave of arousal that sinks down hot through your stomach.
Even when you regain the ability to speak, the ability to form a safe and proper response to the bombshell he just dropped on you completely evades you.
You purposefully don't say that you're already helplessly attached to him, that the colors of the galaxy somehow lost their brilliance the day you graduated to Knight, the day you left his side. You don't say that you want this so badly you can feel it in your neck, that it would probably break you in half if he said no to this now. Though it's the honest-to-Maker truth, you know discovering this information will only cause your Master to further distance himself from you, and somehow that thought alone is a million times worse than being denied the opportunity to be this close to him. Even… even if what you end up sharing is more emotional than physical.
So you take a deep breath to center yourself, and choose your words very carefully.
“A compromise, then.”
Obi-Wan suddenly raises his head, turning around to look at you and blinking twice. “A what?”
“You told me to negotiate. What do we do as negotiators, hm?” You raise an eyebrow, giving him a gentle smile and trying not to curl your fingers into the fur underneath you with how hard it is to conceal your burning arousal. Do it for him. Do it for your Master, you’re in l—you… care about him, and you care about the things he cares about, even if doing so feels like it’ll rip you apart. “We compromise. Yes? So, let’s find one.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t see h—”
“If you were to…” You cut him off and look down, trying to find the most delicate way to phrase this. “If you were to… find other means to bring yourself to completion, would you be able to convince anyone listening that I was the one doing it?”
Obi-Wan doesn’t even blink this time. He just stares at you, holding himself like a statue in front of you. Finally, he seems to find himself. “I… I don’t—I don’t know if I can.”
“You’re stronger in the Force than anyone on this planet, Master,” you encourage softly, placing a hand back on his arm and squeezing this time. “I’ve felt it.”
“N-No,�� he practically hiccups. “No, I mean I-I… I don’t know if… if I can.”
Your eyebrows narrow, a mixture of confusion and concern coloring your expression. “If you can…?”
He looks back at you almost desperately, his eyes practically begging you to figure it out so he doesn’t have to say it. Finally, Obi-Wan sighs, seeming to collapse in on himself with its intensity. “I—I’ve never… purposefully reached completion before,” he admits. “I’m—I’m not sure how to.”
Your eyes widen, wanting to kick yourself for making assumptions. Of course. Of course he’d follow his oath to its strictest interpretation, why would you ever think otherwise? “Oh, y-yes, of course not,” you stutter, sounding incredibly stupid and perfectly mirroring the embarrassed flush also painting your Master’s cheeks, “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“It’s alright,” he holds up a hand. “We simply… view such things differently. So long as you do not pass judgment, then neither shall I.”
You nod and look down at your hands, wondering how else you can attempt to tackle this predicament. “What if I…” You blink slowly, almost wanting to keep your eyes closed in case he’s offended by the idea but figuring you should have them open to read his responses. “What if I… don’t touch you?”
Now he just looks confused. “I’m sorry?”
You blush and clear your throat, obviously phrasing this wrong. “If you can modify the context of your projection, then I can… get you there. Without touching you.”
“How could you accomplish such a thing without tou—” Obi-Wan immediately cuts himself off when you lift your hand and close your eyes.
His thigh. The right one—you focus on it. There. Right above the bend of his knee folding over the edge of the mattress, you concentrate all the energy from your fingertips and reach out, connecting the two together. And then you take a deep breath and begin to draw your attention slowly upwards.
Your Master’s breath catches in his throat as you use the Force to delicately trail further up his leg, not laying a single hand on him as his muscles start to visibly tighten and quiver.
“Young one, I—” His breathing stutters when you keep your hand raised but let your head tilt and drop down towards your shoulder with your energy, slinking down the inside of his thigh like water and getting dangerously close to his— “Stars, hang on—”
You blink your eyes open at him and continue concentrating right there, letting your focus melt warm and thick along the muscle and squeeze it—
“Maker—” Obi-Wan gasps and drops his head back, his legs nearly spasming apart. “Maker, hang on, I…”
“Do you…” You breathe tightly, flicking your eyes down to the way he’s fisting the fur under his hands and subconsciously flexing his hips up just the slightest bit. Even though the Force, his body feels good. Strong, sturdy, and braced tight under your attention. “Do you want me to keep doing this? I can… go higher.”
“You can…? The—the Force isn’t—” Obi-Wan groans, his eyes clamping shut, “—isn’t meant to be used in such… in such… If I’m to break my oath, young one, it needn’t be so… so blasphemous—”
Trying to conceal the hot sparks of arousal deep in your stomach, you simply allow your metaphysical hand to continue resting right at the juncture of his hip and thigh, waiting for a real answer. You bite your lip and wait for him to tell you to either cut it out or to keep going. He doesn’t even have to say it out loud if he doesn’t want to—he can just slide it under the impassable door still separating him from you, the door you’re eventually going to get him to unlock himself.
His back is to you, so you can only see a bit of his face from this angle, but you can hear him loud and clear when he opens his mouth and whispers to you, barely louder than a breath. “Go higher.”
Adrenaline rockets through your veins and slowly, your fingers curl in thin air while your gentle energy wraps itself around his cock.
Both of Obi-Wan’s hands instantly fly up to his face and he releases a tight, longing whimper into his palms, and you feel almost as desperate as he sounds. You can sense the ghost of his thickness in your hand, and the way he’s already throbbing for it is like pure spice to you.
You can’t stop your crossed legs from shuffling and rotating your body to face his hunched spine more directly, just taking a second and allowing him to adjust to the sensation of you just holding him between his legs like this. Your fingers rest gently along his pulsing skin while he hides from you, and if only to get a little bit more of a reaction for your own sake, your thumb just barely angles to delicately brush up under his frenulum.
Obi-Wan shudders and makes a choking noise behind his palms, and oh good Maker, you really want to see his face. You know it’ll probably never happen unless you take your own initiative, but you also don’t want to overstep and snap him out of this blissful reverie. Still, something compels you to be so gentle about it that he hopefully won’t even notice.
You start to slowly work the length of him and squeeze his cock a bit more firmly, but a tendril of your energy slowly slithers upwards, so quiet and full of caution that it hardly even counts. Very carefully, you start to flatten the lifeforce from your other palm over his stomach and trail it up, gradually urging him to stretch his slouched figure upright and then eventually start to tip backwards, never once letting your focus on his throbbing erection falter.
Your courageous efforts bestow prosperous rewards. Obi-Wan’s hands drag down the length of his face and he makes it almost too easy to keep pressing him back—back back back until his muscles give up what little fight they were putting up against it and his shoulders are dropping down to the mattress, his head falling into your lap.
“There we go,” you whisper under your breath, just loud enough to softly encourage him if he’s listening but avoiding a break in his focus if he’s not. “That’s not so bad.”
“It isn’t,” Obi-Wan gasps up at you, his eyes tightly closed but his jaw slack and his handsome features screwed up in rapture. “Oh, no, it’s… it’s really… rea—good.”
You bite your lip and your cunt flexes hard between your legs without your permission, feeling so empty. If you’re being honest, only touching him through the Force causes your hand to become increasingly bold, also feeling too empty. Obi-Wan’s head rolls to the side and he pants hot air against the thin black fabric covering your thighs as you tighten your hold around him just slightly and start to move up and down his cock in earnest.
“Fuck,” he whispers, the dirty word and rasp in his voice contrasting brilliantly with the proper Coruscanti accent and the crisp enunciation behind it. “Fuck, this feels so good, I—”
His fingers grab at the fur covering the mattress top and pull at it, his adam’s apple bobbing sharp along the arching column of his throat as he groans and twists his head around in your lap. He confesses it like it’s so wrong, but it can’t be wrong when he fits so perfectly in your hand? How can this be wrong when it’s the only pleasure you can possibly give him that’s anywhere near close enough to match the way you feel when he’s around? Even then, it’s but a fraction.
Your gaze flickers briefly from his face to check your progress with his body, and—stars, there’s a startling wet spot staining the front of his pale trousers, his cock tenting up shameless and needy for you to ache and throb just as desperately for in return. Fuck, he deserves this, he deserves more—
“I can—I can make it better—” you can’t help but gasp, your eyebrows slanting upwards with need. “Oh fuck, I can make it so much better than this for you, Obi-Wan—”
“You…?” He blinks his stormy eyes open and sounds like he’s about to explode. “This can be—” he chokes out, “—better?”
You can’t stop yourself. Your pussy is clamped up so tight between your legs and Maker, you want to reward him for being so good to you, give him true adoration instead of phantom touches. You don’t think before you’re moving out from under him and slinking down onto the floor, slipping in between his spread thighs. You use the Force with a bend of your finger to tug his pants down just enough, just enough to let the swollen tip of his cock peak through the waistband, and then your head is dropping into his lap as you let it slide into your hot mouth.
Obi-Wan lifts his head and snarls at you—and something across the room shatters as you widen your throat for him and slowly sink down his length, curling your finger to stretch his hemline further as you go. His fingers aren’t gentle when they fist into your hair and neither is the way he immediately twists it sideways, feeling like he’s trying to pull you off and shove you down on him at the same time.
You’re stuck between going as slow as you physically can to drag this out and giving him the best oral you’ve ever given to make him dream about this for the rest of his life. You want him to want this as badly as you have for so many years. You want him to fall into this Darkness with you, to crave you and what you can give to him so much that he’ll never want to leave you again.
So you make it wet. You make it soft and slow and wet, switching between sucking gently at the tip and swirling your tongue around it, and then inching his length down your throat and swallowing around the thick girth of it once you can’t fit anymore in your mouth. Obi-Wan is just an absolute mess about it—he can’t sit still, he’s tugging uselessly on your hair, whimpering out his bliss into the quiet room while you close your eyes and ignore his squirming, just taking your sweet time enjoying him and the way he feels.
He tastes exquisite. Maybe it’s just because all your broken, stupid brain can think right now is slightly varying forms of my Master’s cock is in my mouth and it’s fucking leaking while you slowly nurse from it with your tongue, but stars—he tastes exquisite.
He’s swollen. Throbbing. Aching for you. Releasing precum from the tip like his body is producing way too much of it after decades of neglect and just needs to get it all out at once. Shifting and writhing underneath you but managing to never move his hips or cock a single inch away from the soft attention you’re giving him. You can feel his smooth skin pulse against your tongue as you continue your lazy pleasuring, finally giving him what you’ve both been denied for so long and steadily swallowing down the spoils of your endeavors.
“—Wait, wait, Maker—stop,” you faintly hear gasped from above you not long after you even begin, and it takes the sum of all your efforts to unlodge his throbbing cock from your throat and pull away from him.
“I’m sorry,” you exhale automatically, trying not to slur your words as a bit of drool slides down your chin. “I’m s’sorry, Obi, I should’ve asked before I—”
“Something’s… n-not right,” Obi-Wan interrupts you and lifts himself up to his elbows, his abdominal muscles heaving and a wild, frenzied look in his startlingly bright eyes. “My stomach was—I-I felt—”
Heat blooms through you along with a realization, and your eyelids begin to droop slightly at just how sexy it is—the fact that this man, this fully grown, red-blooded, warrior of a man is currently teetering on the precipice of his very first ever orgasm, and you’re the only one with the power to give it to him.
You shuffle backwards slightly, grabbing hold of his thighs and squeezing to get his attention. “Hey. It’s okay, relax.”
Obi-Wan nods his head vigorously down at you, the exact opposite of relaxed.
“Listen to me,” you urge quietly, trying to ignore the sight of his thick, swollen cock twitching restlessly against his abdomen, precum still steadily dribbling at the tip. Is your mouth watering? “This is it. You’ll need to start projecting when you’re ready. It’ll be tricky, but not impossible. You’ll just have to imagine you’re inside me when it happens.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head vigorously from side to side, vehemently opposed.
“No, I don’t—” He croaks, “—I don’t know what it’s like, I won’t be able to—”
“Doesn’t my mouth feel similar at least?” You ask, looking down at his cock once more.
“I-I—” Obi-Wan sputters, “I don’t know, young one—you tell me!”
Okay, well. He… makes a valid point.
You settle back on your knees even further, gazing at your Master thoughtfully. His chest continues to rise and fall with heavy breaths, a thin sheen of sweat coating his temples and a mild flush high in his cheeks, but his eyes have regained a bit of their focus. “You can just try to imagine the, uh,” you try, your cunt nearly convulsing with burning need at the mere sight of him, “the same positioning and sensation from… earlier?”
“Alright, I can…” Obi-Wan nods, though his hands are shaking. “I’ll do the best I…”
You can’t help but lean forward to press a soft, encouraging kiss to his thigh, and he jerks under your touch. You try it again, receiving the same result, and it makes you pause for just a minute longer.
“I’m nervous,” he blurts unceremoniously after a moment of stillness, as if you hadn’t noticed. “Oh stars, I’m nervous, I—”
“Obi-Wan,” you let your voice lull, your hands squeezing gently around the bend of his knees once more. “Calm down. Clear your mind.”
He hiccups and you wait. You wait with your mouth a few inches away from his cock, waiting for his breathing to slow and for him to follow your lead.
Can you hear me? You murmur through the Force, and he quickly whimpers and nods. Focus your thoughts.
You gently kiss at his tensing thighs once again, and he doesn’t flinch away from you this time. His breathing slows into a calmer, steadier rhythm, letting you trail your lips gently along the curve of his leg.
Will you let me try something? You ask after a moment, opening your mouth just the slightest bit to brush your tongue out and taste his skin.
“Y-Yes,” Obi-Wan says quietly, his breath stuttering through the word.
And—perhaps you shouldn’t have, but you give him something; a suggestion, more than anything else. You give him a… visual. A reference to guide his mind through the Force.
You, still in your black robe, slowly standing up from between his legs. Widening your stance to straddle his lap, pull you robes up just enough, and then adjust your hips just slightly over the head of his cock.
Obi-Wan inhales sharply at the vision, his eyes clamping tightly shut against it in vain. He can close his eyes, turn away, hide his face all he wants—he can’t escape the way your body looks as it slowly begins to sink down on his.
At the exact same time, you lower your mouth around his cock once more, and you try to make it as close to the sensation as possible. You don’t even move your tongue, you simply lift your soft palate and close your lips around his girth, beginning to carefully bob up and down along his length in time to the image you’re conjuring of you riding him.
Only, you already feel his balls tightening up and his body starting to go rigid with tension once again, and you can sense him still wanting to resist his approaching orgasm. It’s okay, Master, you encourage quietly through the vision, it’s okay, just let it come easy.
“I—I’m not—” he shakes his head back and forth against the bed frantically, his breathing getting shallower and almost immediately picking back up to where it was before you stopped. “I d-don’t want—”
Stop fighting, you tell him, continuing to mimic the sensation of him thrusting into your aching, neglected cunt with slow and steady movements of your throat. Don’t run from it, let it take you.
He grits your name tightly in response and subconsciously begins to rock his hips up to match your unhurried pace, his ragged breathing gasping out into the quiet room and gradually increasing in volume and desperation the longer he stubbornly tries to hold out against it.
You know not strong enough to use the Force to coax it out of him. You can’t alter your technique and break the illusion, either. So you have to resort to desperate measures.
There’s enough remaining wherewithal to your mind that prevents you from permanently damaging his clothing when you tear his robes open with the Force and allow the metaphysical image of yourself to rip them apart with your hands. Obi-Wan gasps when both versions of you reach up his bare torso at the same time and dig your nails into his chest.
Master—you demand, taking his cock down your throat as far as you can go and then clawing hard down his stomach—cum.
And thank everything good and right in the universe that he remembers at the very last second to start projecting, because being this close to someone as strong in the Force as Obi-Wan when he finally succumbs to his first taste of the Dark Side is just a fucking atomic missile straight to your nervous system.
It’s all you can do to just remember to keep swallowing.
The projection he casts out through the shockwave is utterly flawless—brilliantly composed, looking and feeling so authentic and overwhelming even from this distance that there should be no issue at all convincing any s’Ziscari in the wide vicinity who are tuning in right now.
Except—then you hear it. Through the roaring pleasure of his thoughts, a flicker of his subconscious he’s unable to mask through the mind blowing bliss.
Is she…? Maker above, she’s drinking it—
A ragged groan tears through the silence of the room, his cock pulsing spectacularly on your tongue. He just keeps cumming, and cumming, and so you just have to keep swallowing, and swallowing. You suppose you should’ve expected this from a fully grown man who lived a life of celibacy, but what would typically be a rather short moment with anyone else subsequently goes on long enough to where Obi-Wan is actually able to lazily raise his head up from the mattress and simply watch you continue to swallow his load, dazed and reverent in his stare, glassy blue eyes trained on the hypnotic movements your jaw and throat make around him. The remaining traces of whatever visual he attempted to maintain immediately flicker out of existence, replaced instead by the sight of your mouth around his cock, diligently taking down each rope of cum he gives you.
When he finally stops throbbing, you reluctantly let his cock fall from your mouth and slowly stand up as the botched projection fizzles out completely. His gaze eventually follows the movement like he’s on a five second delay.
“So, uh…” Your voice is hoarse. “We… need to have sex.”
“Alright,” he agrees dreamily, his eyes lazily dragging down your body. “Alright, we can have… I… Wait, what?”
“You, uh. I know it wasn’t intentional, but you might’ve, uh…” You shuffle awkwardly from side to side, wondering why you’ve chosen now of all moments to become shy with him. You’re literally still savoring the taste of his release in your mouth. “You might’ve accidentally projected a very specific thought towards the end there and let everyone know that we weren’t actually doing what we’re technically supposed to be doing.”
“What did… what did I think?” The question would likely be nonsense in literally any other situation, but you understand. And truthfully, for the life of you, you can’t find it within yourself to feel even a little bit mad about it, not when it means you can continue doing this together. You can’t even conjure up a single shred of disappointment in his failure, it’d just be a lie.
“Doesn’t matter,” you assure him, your heart continuing to pound. You know you should make your next move now while he’s still so loopy, the post-orgasm bliss causing his signature to vibrate with pulsing endorphins as he blinks up at you slowly from the bed. “Though we won’t be able to do it for a little bit, just uh. Just for general… anatomical reasons. But that should’ve at least counted for… initiating the Ritual, so I don’t think we have to worry about time anymore.”
Obi-Wan just stares at you, his Force signature feeling more serene and spaced out than you’ve ever sensed before. Oh Maker, how you wish you felt the same. You swallow thickly, still tasting his hard orgasm on your tongue, and then try not to clamp your thighs together with how embarrassingly turned on you are. Anyone with any experience whatsoever would know exactly what you’re going through with just a mere glance—you’re biting your lip with your entire body is subtly crumpled in towards your swollen, neglected pussy—and your Master has been watching you struggle through it this entire time.
“Are you alright?” He asks dumbly, finally managing to at least push himself upright, still completely unaware or unconcerned at his softening cock on full display for you and your starving libido. “You’re… shaking.”
“I—won’t die,” is the only serious assurance you can make to both him and yourself right now that’ll ease your suffering the smallest bit. The last thing you want right now is to come on too strong and snap him back to his senses, bringing everything back to square one. “Just, uh… r-really worked—worked up. Trying to just. C-Cool it?”
Your fingers flex at your sides because no matter what you try, you just can’t stop thinking about his. They’re right there. They’re so close, so strong and thick and—
“Aren’t you…” He trails off, letting his head tilt and then drop to his shoulder with a combination of confusion and exhaustion. “Aren’t you going to…?”
“To what?” You prompt shortly, your hands suddenly clenching into fists to deal with another violent wave of arousal at how unbelievably drunk he still looks. Maker, you did that. That’s all you.
“s’Zerthia said all—” Obi-Wan murmurs, blinking long lashes lazily up at you, “—all Jedi must… participate.”
Fuck. Just hearing him provide you an excuse to give into the boiling arousal causes you to suddenly break out into a sweat. You don’t know if he wants you to get yourself off or if he’s indirectly implying he wants to help, but you’re so far beyond desperate that you jump at the chance as soon as he so much as hints at the opportunity.
Very slowly, you move forward and lift one trembling knee to brace next to his thigh on the mattress, and then carefully swing your other leg over his lap, lowering yourself into a straddle in the same exact position he attempted to project earlier. You’re so unbelievably cautious about his cock, making sure you don’t accidentally touch it and jolt him awake. Instead of your newfound proximity scaring him away like you feared though, he stays so… docile. Still so relaxed from his very first orgasm that he even rests his large palms over the thin fabric covering your thighs, letting the loose silk drape and fold over his hands as he drags them up and down.
His eyes follow your trembling fingers as you work at the knot tying the material around your body, your cunt throbbing between your legs at how he’s just… staring. His eyelids are dipped slightly, breathing so calm and slouched under you, pliant and waiting.
The thin fabric slowly parts only enough to reveal the valley between your bare chest to him, and you watch his eyes fall down the thin strip of skin and catch on the dark line of your panties riding low on your hips. Maker, you can’t help but remember his terror at even glimpsing the two acolytes taking off their robes earlier—the way his eyes bounced around and how his cheeks lost whatever color they had left to them as soon as he finally made himself look. Now, though. Now he can’t seem to drag his eyes away from the soft flesh of your tummy, the way your nipples are still covered by the thin fabric of your slightly parted robe but are impossible to miss while your breasts subtly move with your breathing.
You gently call one of his wrists to your hand with the Force and Obi-Wan is either mentally or physically too weak to resist your will. He allows you to catch his hand and slowly lead it downwards with both of your smaller ones to the part of your body that’s longed for his attention for years, though now it’s absolutely weeping for it.
You don’t want to scare him. You don’t want to scare him. Oh Maker, you need him to be brave for you right now, or at least just continue to be stupefied. You can work with stupefied, but you cannot work with panic, especially when you feel your own wanting to rise up the more you drag this out.
When the tips of his fingers brush against the waistband of your panties, Obi-Wan’s hand pushes under it without your guidance.
You’re throbbing. It’s been years in the making. Unable to stop the way your thighs contract and you lift your hips against his palm as it steadily curves down the slope of your soft curls, the sight of the finish line so within reach makes you reckless and too quick. You can’t help it. When he gets hesitant and eventually slows down to a halt right above your slit, you don’t even think before you’re suddenly giving his wrist an abrupt shove with the Force, pulling his hand down before he’s ready and forcing his middle finger deep through the soaking cleft of your pussy.
Your shameless moan of his name comes out sounding so grateful—you pour everything you have into it and sag into Obi-Wan’s chest at the feeling, but he startles and all but rips his hand out of your underwear before you can stop him. He was a hair’s breadth from touching your clit and the denial of it—the sudden turnaround from your goal is just so massively overwhelming that tears suddenly spring to your eyes.
You can just barely make out the sight of him staring down at his trembling hand between the two of you, your slick shining wet and hot along the length of his finger.
“Stars,” he rasps, blinking his wide, sapphire gaze up to yours—and then he quite suddenly looks alarmed. “Did I—Did I hurt you?” Obi-Wan gasps, his energy beginning to outright seize with distress while you blink rapidly and try not to crumble on his lap.
“No—I’m sorry, it’s just—I’m just… oh, fuck, I n-need it,” you stammer. “Oh fuck, I need it Master, I’m so sorry—I’m trying to be calm but—”
“What is it, little dove?” He urges, reaching his hand up to your face and flicking his eyes back and forth between yours, sounding almost as panicked as you do from your desperation. “What do you need?”
“Oh stars, Obi-Wan, I need you to just—” You can’t fit anything into words, a tear finally making its way down your cheek when you clamp your eyes shut in frustration. You just need him to understand, to give you what you’ve been craving for so long—but when you blink your eyes back open, his troubled expression has suddenly resolved itself.
Your Master’s hands immediately grab tight to your hips and twist you around, easily tossing you back up onto the mattress. The jostle of bouncing back into the soft fur startles you, but not nearly as much as when he climbs over your body and braces an elbow next to your head, gently placing the tips of his fingers to your temple.
He pushes carefully but firmly against your natural mental barriers, flexing the energy shields inwards gently enough to not hurt you but with enough force to let you know he’s entirely capable of breaking through should you refuse to let him in.
So you do. You let him in without a single thought, never mind a second one. Obi-Wan gasps as your shields all but collapse for him that easily, and then he’s finally breaching the surface of your thoughts.
“Oh—Maker above, little one,” he grits almost immediately, his forehead dropping to your shoulder and his other hand wrapping tight around your arm as he struggles to acclimate to the blinding distress you’re experiencing. “Collect—” he groans as your cunt clamps down at the rasp of his broken voice, “—collect yourself. I can’t—can’t think—”
Oh, no, it’s too much. It’s way too much, even just having him inside your head without being able to read him in return—it’s too much for you. You start hyperventilating and instead of wanting him out, you just want to drown out the sensation of everything else. The endlessly pulsing, aching throb between your legs that you’ve been dealing with for so long, the way you can feel his cock dragging against your tummy from this angle and how much you already want it in your mouth again, the way your nipples are so hard right now that even this soft fabric feels so rough and sharp against—
Your robe suddenly rips itself off your chest, and you whimper up at the ceiling as you dig your fingers into thick fur and writhe under him, almost completely naked and just desperate for him to do something, to at least just use his hands or his mouth to make you feel bet—
Obi-Wan’s head drops and his blazing mouth opens hot around your nipple, his tongue rolling soft and slick up under the hard bud.
You choke out the first part of his name and you barely even have a flicker of a thought—a brief flash of a rabid, baser desire you’re not even able to consciously recognize before you feel his jaw opening and his teeth closing gently around it, biting down just hard enough to make you spasm bright and urgent between your legs. “Oh, fuck—”
As soon as you feel the pleasure and twisting ache spark deep in your core, Obi-Wan flutters his eyes shut and wedges his hand back into your panties, humming low in his throat when your legs jerk apart for him.
This time, your clit is the very first thing he touches.
He zeroes in on it. The tip of his finger starts to rub it exactly how you’d do it to yourself, exactly the right angle and speed and pressure that your body suddenly feels massively overheated and dizzy from it. It blindsides you. It makes sense he’d be able to do this, after all, but for some reason, the whole thing just absolutely blindsides you.
“Maker,” you whimper at the ceiling, soft and pitched high in your throat, eyes rolling back when Obi-Wan gently bites down on your nipple again and continues to work to relieve you even as every muscle in your body feels like it’s tightening up.
“Stars—” he whispers when he pulls away, “This—this feels incredible, Padawan.”
You moan and roll your hips against his hand, on cloud nine at just how he’s slowly allowing himself to become filthier with you, to lower himself in all his righteous beliefs and descend into delicious sin with you, and—
—wait, did he just…?
Your cunt clamps down hard with realization as he continues massaging your clit better than you’ve ever even done it yourself. Maker, it shouldn’t turn you on so much but it does, hearing that word in this context. Padawan. Padawan, holding her legs open while her Master explores her pussy. Padawan, moaning desperately as her orgasm buzzes deep down inside with a rising, threatening resonance. Padawan, Padawan, Padawan—
“Oh, you liked that,” Obi-Wan remarks tightly, taking a second to tug on your clit. You nearly start to cry again, your insides pulling up and going rigid at the sensation. “I heard it, little one. You like it when I call you that?”
“Oh I like it when you do f-fucking anything,” you choke out helplessly, your words starting to slur together. “Oh fuck, you’re so amazing, you’re so good at everything, you’re the best Jedi in the whole entire galaxy Master, you’re so much better th—”
“My, you’re agreeable like this, aren’t you?” Obi-Wan grits, his touches growing stronger and quicker and rocketing you straight to the edge of madness. “Shall I take that to heart, my darling little Padawan? Or did you say such flattering things to the oth—”
“Wait!” You suddenly exclaim, desperately trying to push his hands away. “Oh, nonononono—wait, wait, wait, I—I-I’m about to cum—I need to—”
His hand yanks itself out of your underwear once more and you take giant, gasping breaths and try to compose yourself at least somewhat, but then your Master is quickly scrambling down your body and using the Force to rip your panties down your hips—
“Obi-Wan, wait—” you choke out, “that isn’t—you don’t… h-have to…”
He looks up at you, dark brows furrowed in confusion.
“I’ll be able to—y-you don’t—” You have to take a few gasping breaths and remember how to speak Basic. “I used my mouth on you before because I… I wanted to. If—If you don’t want to do that, you don’t have to. It’s not… oh fucking stars above, it’s not n-necessary.”
“Are you telling me this because you don’t want me to?” He immediately asks, though you both already clearly know the answer to that considering how exposed your wild thoughts are to him right now.
“Ah, no I, uh… I just.” You try to clear the thickness from your throat and you feel your body tremble while you focus as much effort as possible into trying to explain. “I just want to be sure I’m not taking advantage of you, that’s all, I—I want you to know the truth about these things. It’s not… necessary, b-but.”
“But.” He repeats the word meaningfully as he glances back down at your weeping cunt, nodding slowly to himself.
And then your Master leans in, flutters his eyes shut, and slides his warm tongue deep into the seam of your pussy with absolutely no hesitation whatsoever.
“Obi—Wan—!?” You gasp, somewhere between a squeak and a squeal, your entire upper body launching upwards around his head as your clit is immediately enveloped into a slick, dexterous furnace.
Hold still, you hear his voice warn through the Force, sounding so much closer than you’ve ever heard him before. Whether that can be attributed to the fact that the command came directly from wherever he is inside your head or whether it’s simply because his tongue is now tracing gentle circles around your clit as you whimper pitifully into the quiet of the dimly lit room, you’re not sure. All you know is that his mouth feels like velvet between your legs and his beard is scraping across your thighs and your fingers have buried themselves in his hair without your conscious permission.
Hold still, young one, he urges once more, but you just close your eyes and moan shamelessly at it this time, opening your legs wider for him. His voice, it’s… it’s maddening like this, coming directly from your own thoughts. Deep, precise, somehow sounding so true, so much clearer and full-bodied without your pesky ears in the way. Your hips are subconsciously rolling slowly against the lower half of his face when Obi-Wan apparently decides he’s had enough.
An invisible energy wraps around each of your individual limbs and snaps them against the mattress without any warning. You whimper high in your throat, arms and legs held so firmly against the bed with the Force that your internal struggles aren’t able to be translated outwardly; he doesn’t allow your body a single centimeter to move under him, no matter how hard you fight it. Which means you have to lay there and just take the way Obi-Wan’s hot mouth continues to lick and kiss at your clit slowly, taking all the time in the universe to properly explore you between the legs he’s forced apart.
“Obi—” you croak breathlessly at the ceiling, feeling a familiar heat start to burn hot and tight through your core, “Obi, I—I have to p-project—before I—ah!—before you—before you ma-make me cu—ugh, f-fuck—I have t-to—”
Then project, he encourages simply, gently fluttering his tongue over your clit. You gasp and he hums, murmuring through the Force once more to you. We’re not hiding anymore. They’ll all know I’m using my mouth on you like this. It’s alright. Let them know.
You realize you’re going to cum the second you hear your Master’s voice say the words using my mouth on you like this while he slowly sucks on your clit, and you barely have enough wherewithal to gulp in a giant breath and begin projecting your signature as far across the palace and surrounding city as physically possible before your body shatters hot into searing euphoria under him.
Obi-Wan groans deep in his throat and holds you perfectly still under him as you cum with a ragged, hoarse wail of his name, giant waves of white hot bliss beginning to radiate through the Force from you with spectacular power. The contractions are so much more pronounced when it’s one of the only sets of muscles in your body he’s granted permission to move. It’s like everything is concentrated and multiplied there because of it. You can feel each individual spasm your floor muscles make as they convulse against his tongue, how each blazing shot of ecstasy that shatters through your body wrings more and more wetness from your cunt into your Master’s mouth.
Never. Ever ever ever. Has anyone done something so mind blowingly sexy to you. Nobody. Ever. He’s a virgin, you frantically remember as Obi-Wan purrs softly into the folds of your pussy while it cums all over him.
Your thoughts, young one, you can just barely make out his voice remind you gently, just as gently as he sucks on your clit through the aftershocks, somehow sounding even more aroused than he did before.
After allowing your projection to flicker out of existence with a putter, you’re completely dazed. Incapable of moving regardless of the way he keeps you pinned with the Force long after he pulls away, slowly moves back up your body and waits while you work to regain your bearings. You don’t even want to open your eyes right now, knowing he’s looking down at your peaceful expression while you work to catch your breath. You’re too stupid with pleasure you almost don’t even process the soft touch of something against your lips.
You’re lovely.
The thought is so quiet you don’t even recognize it isn’t your own. Not until he keeps pressing his lips to yours so sweetly, not knowing to do anything else when your mind is too fractured with ecstasy to unconsciously act as his compass like before. Everything is innocent and gentle and not reminiscent of the fact that the robes you’re both wearing are wide open and your mouths tasted of each other even before he kissed you.
Instead of melting into the soft touches, though, they just start to burn you alive, the thick fog of your orgasm clearing more and more with each gentle press of his lips and your need for him steadily growing. He’s kissing you. Master Kenobi is kissing you for a few precious, heart stopping seconds at a time before pulling away, pausing to look at your face each time to make sure your eyes are still closed, before leaning down and carefully pressing his lips to yours again.
The only part you can’t stand is that he won’t even let you move your jaw to kiss him back.
Kiss me, Obi-Wan, you urge desperately through the Force, not wanting to interrupt to speak.
“I am, little one,” he replies between kisses, and the sincerity in his tone tells you he’s not purposefully teasing you. No, this is him kissing you, genuinely, the only way he knows how to.
Let me— you start to struggle in earnest against his hold on you, —please, let me—
The warm breath from his nose puffs softly against your cheek with a quiet little sound from far back in his throat, and then you suddenly gain the ability to move from the neck up.
You immediately part his lips with yours and Obi-Wan pulls back just the slightest bit in response, but your neck lifts up to compensate as you lick deep into his warm mouth. He gasps at the foreign sensation and loses his concentration for a split second, enough for you to break free of it completely. Your hands quickly fly up to cradle his face as soon as they can move and your fingers hook around the thick beard blanketing his sharp jawline, urging him back down into you.
Your legs come up to wrap around his lower back and he sags against your strong will with a needy groan, dropping down closer and obediently keeping his mouth open for you to taste. As soon as he presses his body into yours, his cock strains and drags against your lower stomach, already throbbing hot and leaking precum along the soft hills of your skin.
Maker, you want it but somehow you… you don’t. You just want to savor tonight as long as you physically can, keep holding him and kissing him like this for another few hours at least before you try to take his cock, but he’s unintentionally grinding it against you while his tongue shyly dances with yours, needy and already raring to go in his own timid way.
Do you want it, Master? You finally murmur to him, running your fingers through his hair and gently biting his bottom lip, scooting your hips up to let him rub himself against something better than your tummy. You feel… ready.
The only response you get from him is a shuddering, helpless moan into your mouth and you hold him tighter to you, grinding your still sensitive cunt up against his cock while he pulls hard at the soft fur next to your head. Your feel your soaking pussy lips part around the solid curve of his length and gradually coat the underside of him in slick with every gentle circle and roll your hips make, and Obi-Wan finally pulls away from your mouth to drop his forehead to your neck.
“Yes, I—” he moans into you skin, “Oh stars, I want it.”
With a gentle wave of your hand, you use the Force to drop his hips down to the proper angle and tilt the head of his cock to line him up perfectly.
And now this is the part you don’t want to rush. This is when you take Obi-Wan Kenobi’s virginity. You’ll savor just being able to remember this for the rest of your fucking life. You’ll see him in Council meetings years from now and be reminded that you’re the only person in the galaxy to know the thickness of him as he rests heavy up against your entrance, the way his voice presses deliciously tight in his throat as he gasps out into the quiet room. You’re the only one who will know that sound, that sound is yours, that sound belongs to—
“Padawan,” he grits, hips stuttering into you while you wrap your arms around his shoulders, “your thoughts—”
You groan up at the ceiling and your pussy tightens at the reminder that he can still hear you, but your body is just too bold and desperate for it. Your thoughts begin to flare bright, growing more possessive by the second, and you can’t even wait for him this time. Every single muscle in Obi-Wan’s body goes rigid when you tighten your grip around him and roll your hips up into his cock, letting it break you open nice and slow.
It stretches you wide with a deliciously sharp fullness and pleasure rips through you as Obi-Wan instinctively tries to lift off you and away from it, but you’re clinging too tightly to him. Your whole body hovers off the mattress to stay with him.
“You said—” he gasps, “—it wouldn’t h-hurt—oh—”
“It doesn’t,” you groan, continuing to tighten your legs and hoist yourself up, lifting your hips to take his cock deeper inside you. “Oh, Maker, it feels so fucking good, Obi—feel it—”
His elbows shake where they’re locked and braced against the mattress but he drops his head and holds strong like this while you work your muscles to take him as far as you can from this shameful angle. Your body feels like it’s on fire while you desperately cling to him and the length of your robe brushes against the mattress while you just keep trying to get him deeper inside you—
Suddenly something grabs hard at your hips and tries shoves you downwards and off his cock, but you want it too badly. You summon the hidden strength of your energy and then channel it into your legs where they’re hooked around the curve of his lower back.
Obi-Wan chokes at the unexpected resistance and his elbows buckle, dropping you both down to his forearms with a jolt, but you’re too busy mentally clashing with each other for it. The result is… well, it’s maddening.
Every time your pussy is able to swallow him more than halfway, you pull back and let his energy shove you down his length—but then dig back in right before you drop completely and use the Force to bend your legs and fight the uphill battle to his cock once more. Your Master gasps, beads of sweat gathering at his temples while you fight him with every ragged breath in your body to keep fucking him.
Except—he’s the fighter. And you should’ve known.
You’re no match for the sudden blast of energy from him, easily hinging your legs apart from around his back and then ripping you down off his cock with a wet sound, bouncing back down into the mattress once more.
In order to stop the desperate tears of defeat from coming to your eyes, you immediately clamp them shut and twist your face away from Obi-Wan’s, but he makes a low growl and uses the same ferocious royal blue energy to keep your knees pinned open and wide against the bed.
And then drops his hips and rocks back into you, giving you those last few precious inches of his thickness you weren’t able to get at before. It hits sharp nirvana up inside you with his thighs pressed tight to your hips like this. His name rips itself from your throat while Obi-Wan clenches his jaw and starts to lose himself in the pleasure, holding you down into the bed with the Force while he allows your desperation to guide him to the perfect angle and speed to sate you.
He’s so gifted, so strong in the Force, he’s able to use your mind as his anchor and give you pleasure beyond anything you’ve ever experienced. And in return, you want to do the same to him. You want to read his thoughts, instantly be able to give him everything he never knew he needed—
“You do,” your Master chokes out, “darling, you already—”
Everything inside you surges up at the admission, aching that much harder to hear him, to hear everything the way he can hear you. The tips of your fingers find his temple, slick with sweat, and you press just hard enough to tell him your intent.
“Let me in,” you whisper, wicked arousal swirling tight in your lower muscles as they start to bear down on his cock.
“I—I can’t—” Obi-Wan gasps breathlessly, “I can’t—”
“Open—open the door, Master,” you beg, “please, open th—”
“Fuck,” he cuts you off, his voice rising in pitch while his his hips snap just a little harder against yours and his rhythm falters, “—It’s too good, Padaw—I’m going t-to—stars, are you—are you r-ready?”
Some terrifying, swirling darkness manifests itself deep in your thoughts. It rises up, part of the desperate, hidden subconscious that you’re typically capable of stifling. No, it says, don’t let this be over. Not yet. You don’t want to go to sleep alone, wake up and remember you’ll never have this again. You need there to be a next time, and a time after it.
You try your hardest to push the longing downwards when you recognize it, but your Master is too quick, too talented to deceive when he’s this close to you. He easily plucks it from your mind and expands it, enlarges the chaotic string of thoughts until you feel them pulsing at the edges of your consciousness.
And then Obi-Wan sees it all, immediately playing out in your memories as you helplessly watch on. Every desire you buried for him unearthed, every whimper you stifled with the back of your hand when you touched yourself at night and thought of him amplified. The years of repression, the blind hope that simply ignoring it would make it go away. How hard you worked to deaden the burst of affection that radiated through the Force when you finally saw him after two years apart. The circumstances behind the night you lost your virginity—not a long time ago, as he suggested before, but only just last year. So desperate in your loneliness and longing for his presence that you began routinely sneaking around and fucking other Knights—Guardians with blue sabers whose souls were just marginally close enough to Obi-Wan’s, and you thought of him the whole time. Every time.
But, perhaps, worst of all. The… fantasies.
He sees himself dropping to his knees and congratulating you for passing your trials by burying his tongue inside your warmth and telling you how proud of you he is. He sees you opening his trousers and slowly licking his cock while he meditates, trying to get him to break his concentration. He watches the two of you fucking in every conceivable position, how incredibly ready you always are to take him when he needs it. Most importantly, he recognizes your inherent, blazing desire to drag this out as long as physically possible, to permanently brand every moment in your memory to get you through his impending absence.
And then… then Obi-Wan does something unexpected. Something incredibly uncharacteristic.
You watch as he morphs the fantasies right before your eyes. He's still on his knees with his head between your legs, but now he’s telling you how proud he is of you for negotiating the mysterious, confidential deal that ended the Clone Wars. You’re licking his cock as the ship autopilots itself through the week-long journey back to Coruscant from s’Ziscari, letting him slowly cum in your mouth as he sprawls lazily in the captain’s chair. He’s taking you against the wall of your quarters after a mindless and dull Council meeting; you’re riding him quietly in his bed after lights-out at the temple; he’s rubbing your clit while he sits behind you and advises you on matters concerning your own Padawan you’ll be choosing sometime soon, two fingers deep and squeezing a bared nipple when he whispers in your ear how much he absolutely adores you.
Thoughts that aren’t your own begin to fill the empty spaces of your mind, a lovely pale blue tenor to harmonize gorgeously with the soft green alto of your own consciousness. The resulting color of your combined energies fills your soul with Light, a stunning turquoise of a color you’ve never loved more, one you wish you could live in for the rest of your life.
For every debased thought of yours he sees, he shows you one even more revealing. The way he used to dream of you at night, especially after a close battle where many Jedi and Clones fell, and then he’d wake up in a cold sweat with an erection pulsing feverish and so terribly shameful between his legs. How he tried to shove a pillow down there once to somehow relieve himself of the aching hardness, and then had to rip it away and launch it across the room with the Force when he realized he’d been dragging himself against it and thinking of you.
“I’m gonna—cum—” your voice scrapes across your throat, and you can already sense him throwing his beautiful consciousness out like a net. You match him with what little mental strength you have remaining, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your ankles around his lower back and pulling him down into you.
Obi-Wan’s energy keeps swirling a brilliant aquamarine with yours, presenting his every subconscious thought to you, one right after another, so quick you can barely keep up. How he’ll always be with you, no matter what. How the Maker himself won’t be able to drag him away from you now. How quiet jealousy still tugs at his heart just thinking about the fact that you broke your oath—before you both could do it together.
Everything swells up inside you and you scream when it finally crashes over, your blended signatures sealing themselves together permanently and then detonating in a debilitating shockwave that ripples the air around you. You’re blinded and deafened by its vivid energy, powerful and dazzling every shade between blue and green and Light and Dark, all balanced perfectly together.
You lay there in the gentle afterglow afterwards and feel your pussy still clamping tight to him, pulsing in random intervals while Obi-Wan slouches into you and every muscle in his body trembles with the comedown. Everything is right. Everything in you sparkles.
“Stars, Obi,” you start chuckling up at the ceiling, the sheer joy overwhelming you and bringing tears to your eyes. “Stars, did we just—”
“We just won the Clone Wars, my dear,” he slurs into the crook of your neck while his cock still throbs inside you, and you can feel the exhaustion creeping up his spine, every single thought in his mind completely dead at the moment.
“How long do you… do you think it’ll take before it’s over?” You ask quietly, brushing your fingers through his hair. Obi-Wan groans and buries his face deeper into your neck.
“Few months, maybe. Time for s’Ziscari…”
He stays like that for just a second, and you press your nose to him and breathe him in, marveling at how utterly gorgeous his signature is right now. Clear blue with the lightest touch of teal, rippling like quiet water in a crystal calm riverbed.
Lovely.
You keep softly playing with the hair at his nape, and then quickly wrap your arms around him when he goes to try to brace his forearms next to your shoulders and lift up just the slightest bit.
“Wait, don’t—it’s—” You bite your lip and feel him sink back down into your body without another word, clearly having only attempted it for appearances. “This is good, let’s just… stay for a second.”
He doesn’t respond, he doesn’t even move, and—a few months, you think. A few months of his absence, of wondering where he is but never being able to ask. It burdens your heart, but you understand it’s necessary.
The Council may… grant me a position with a more permanent location after this mission, he responds quietly to your dip in the Force after a moment, too tired to even talk anymore and exhaustion weaving his every thought. On Coruscant.
Your heart pangs with sudden hope, and you know he can feel it. “They would do that?”
I could ask to oversee the s’Ziscari’s assimilation into our ranks, he offers alongside a stifled yawn into your collarbone.
He’d… request that? To be closer to you? But why?
He doesn’t hesitate before offering the words to you simply, not even considering them before they’re the only thought in his mind. Because I care for you more than there are stars in the sky. I always have.
Lovely.
No, no, not even, that’s just. Love. By itself.
“Yes,” Obi-Wan murmurs softly into your neck, and your soul feels like it grows wings.
You both lay there in silence for a long time after that, and it takes you even longer to realize he hasn’t succumbed to sleep yet, even as the aching fatigue weighs heavy on his back. He’s resisting it, keeping his eyes purposefully open against your neck while yours are blissfully shut.
“Master,” you eventually whisper up at the ceiling, and his cock twitches inside you. Oh stars, you’ll have to remember that. “Go to sleep.”
I have one more confession. The thoughts are slurred and distorted, barely conscious as he desperately tries to outlast the sleep trying to pull him under. I didn’t even want to mention it before because I didn’t know how this was all going to go, but… He blinks slowly against your neck even as his eyes droop, only just a few seconds from passing out with exertion. The Sh’inzith lasts six days, dove.
Your eyes pop open in shock just as his finally fall shut, and Obi-Wan stops fighting.
#WE OUT HERE#obi-wan kenobi x you#Obi-wan Kenobi X Reader#obi-wan X reader#obi-wan x you#smut#fanfic#no-droids
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[ kinktober day 1 — shameless. ]
yandere! snapped! leviathan x f! reader.
scenario.
summary. levi’s got a nasty penchant for jealousy. marking you in front of his brothers is off the table… but camming isn’t.
— word count: 1445.
— prompts: marking/creampie + porn/camming.
— warnings: n/sfw (noncon, exhibitionism, hemipenis, begging), implied blackmail.
— art credit: @_ivutyozo_.
kinktober masterlist.
Eyes pin to the screen like it’s religion; his mind is filled with you.
Every breath his lungs inhale, every touch his fingers find, every sight his eyes attend—he only knows of you. Wants to know every part of you—to know every twitch, every moan, every sound you'll make beneath him. Like a loyal disciple at the altar, he wants to burn the image of your face behind his eyelids, wants to sear the touch of your skin onto his hands, wants to brand your existence into his skin. He wants you, he needs you—he’ll have you.
And he wants everyone to know.
Fifteen.
The you before him is unfamiliar even in his wildest dreams—this is the first time he’s seen you so bare, so exposed, your body naked and pressed flushed against his chest. Warm thighs press one breast flat against your rib cage, and he hungrily prods the other away to rest his sweaty hand against your nipple, rubs the sensitive bud between his thumb and index, and admires the way you twitch at his touch. You’re dead silent—biting back shameful moans and ugly tears; he’d prefer hearing you cry out his name over and over, but he doesn’t hold that desire to you. His eyes are still pinned to the screen and he can see the fear in your eyes—the adoration in his.
Twenty.
His viewers see the same thing he does, but they don’t know you. They just see another pretty face, another pretty hole getting stuffed, but they don’t see you. He’s not like them, he promises, swears. They don’t see the you he sees—they don’t get to touch, or smell, or kiss you. They don’t love you, they don’t get to love you—the closest they’re offered is the image of your tear-stained face on the screen, their disgusting hands jerking off their cocks as they fantasize about fucking you themselves.
Disgusting—but he can’t blame them. Normally, he’s not one to show you off like this—wouldn’t want anyone seeing you like this, but the thought of randoms jerking themselves off to you as he stuffs your cunt silly makes him drunk with desire. They can’t have you—and he can’t feel envious. He was in their position not too long ago, rubbing one out once or twice or thrice a day to the thought of your body against his and the thought of your little cunt stuffed tight. He doesn’t have to fantasize anymore. You’re in his arms right now—the reality of it all is shown on the screen and neither of you can’t look away.
You’re finally his.
All that’s left is for you to—
“Say it...” He chastises, chants, orders in a tone that’s hardly commanding—and you flinch. “[Name], say it, say it. Please say it.” Devilish eyes travel along the screen, admires the twitch of your thighs pressed against your stomach, admires the slick on your folds as his cock bottoms out in your cunt. “Say it—I’ll do anything to hear you say it.”
If you’re his religion, those words are his prayer. Say it, say it, say it—say it for everyone to hear.
Your mouth stays closed.
Hips snap into yours hard and force you backward into his bare chest. His cock easily slips in and out of your wet cunt, the tips of his cocks rough against taut inner walls. The stretch of his penises still make your hips jerk upward for escape, but his fingernails dig into your flesh to keep you anchored against his waist. The gasp of pain on your lips hardly has time to manifest into little more than a whimper, and in your delirium, your eyes wander back to the screen. You see your hair disheveled, eyes wide like prey before a predator—and you see the numbers rising.
Fifty.
Red—the red number how many people are watching you be violated. The red signifying that the viewer count keeps going up, up, up. The red signifying proof—proof you’ve never felt so low in your life.
“L-Levi, please... t-they’re watching, they can see us, I—” The words are sandpaper against your throat; the pleas on your lips are a prayer he blissfully ignores. Terrified to glance over your shoulder, your eyes flash to meet his through the screen just in time to witness sharp canines sinking into the delicate, thin flesh of your neck. He’s gentle, gentler than you expected, but the thrill of being watched by real people eggs him on; he suckles and nips into your skin without warning, never once looking away from the screen. You whimper and whine against his chest, finding the feeling of his fingers pinching your nipples wrong.
“No...” He breathes in your skin and hoists your ass closer to his hips. Pain shoots through your nearly-numbed legs at the sudden repositioning, and your body tenses. “Don’t care, let them watch... just lemme hear you.” A hand rests against your labia and collects slick against his fingers. You inhale sharply, watching him give your clit a quick pinch before bringing his spoils to your face. “You’re so wet. You’re wet for me.” He reveres, peering past your hair to admire the sight of your cum coating his fingers.
You can’t look any longer.
“Please...” His chin dips against your neck and drool trickles onto your shoulder, frigid against heated skin. He kisses the area between your jaw and ear and asks you again. “Say it for me, only me.” Eyes flicker to the screen, pretends the people watching are his brothers, pretends he’s won. “Say you belong to me.”
You’re in a daze. You don’t want to do it, don’t want to do this. And you get it in your head that if just you say it, just say that you belong to him, it’ll be over. It’ll all be over—he’ll turn off the camera and delete the video. He’ll say he didn’t mean it, he’ll say he’ll do anything to make it up to you. And you’ll forgive him—and it’ll be normal again.
So you say it.
“’m...yours, Levi.” You gasp. You tear your eyes from the screen, and your head lulls to the side in defeat. It’s over, you’ll wake up. Everything will be the same—“I’m yours, only yours! Only wanna be yours—nn!”
Luminescent cum coats his stiff cock, mixes with the white of your cum, and he stills, watches them mix together and drip from deep in your cunt. The sick clap of skin against skin is gone and silence settles over the room like smog. You don’t look up, don’t make a sound—the camera’s still on and you don’t wanna face it. He’ll turn it off, turn it off soon, turn it off and forget about it and everything’ll be okay again.
You didn’t expect him to laugh.
It’s uncontrollable, the way his giggles turn from lighthearted to insane. The pit in your stomach swells and bursts—you can taste blood and bile against your throat. His nose buries itself in the apex of your shoulder, revels in the scent of your sweat and shampoo; his laughter vibrates in your stomach and you want to puke.
He’s still looking at the camera, still reveling in the afterglow.
One hundred fifty.
One hundred fifty people watched you get fucked live—watched you get held down and creampied. One hundred fifty people watched you and didn’t help.
This must be a sick dream.
But you can’t deny it. He owns you, he owns you now—the proof’s right there in your cunt, right there on video, right there for everyone to see. He doesn’t have to mark you in front of his brothers—it wouldn’t come close to the thrill of claiming you as his in front of this many people. Your body’s coated with proof, with sweat and tears and cum smattered across your stomach and thighs.
“I love you.” Lips press against the curve of your neck, uttering praise and adorations. You don’t have the energy to shove him away. He scoops the mixed cum from your thighs and spreads it across your skin, loves seeing it cover more and more of your person. “So happy,” he mumbles into your skin. “Love you so much.” He sighs in bliss and stares back at the screen. You’re still not looking at him, but he doesn’t mind. He’s used to seeing you look at other men—at his brothers.
But that’s changed. You fucked him and he’s got it on video, a precaution if you ever turn around and say you don’t feel anything for him. There’s no ‘you and his brothers’—only you and him. He’ll never forget this moment—he’ll always remember this moment.
He made sure of it.
dear-yandere 2019-2020, all rights reserved.
#yandere leviathan x reader#yandere levi x reader#levi x reader#yandere leviathan#obey me leviathan#yandere obey me!#yandere obey me#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere#yandere scenario#yandere imagines#tw noncon#kinktober20#*scenario#*scenarios#tw not sfw
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Things I noticed
You gain support points with Claude if you ask him if he wants Rhea dead and he is deeply suspicious of her throughout the entire game, but in every route it’s always his men who locate her and he ends up being the lord (if you consider 3H as having a lord trio and don’t see Seteth as a lord) closest to Rhea by the end of the game. Edelgard says that her war is against Rhea and the Church and their tyranny, but in every route she invades every nation in pursuit of conquest and in 3/4 routes she holds Rhea captive for five years and still continues with her war regardless.
Claude collecting every scrap of information regarding the Church, until one source proves itself to be evil and he then cuts it off and reconsiders his goals. Edelgard saying that if she knew that Remire would happen she’d have tried to stop it but making no attempt to stop TWS from everything else she knew they were going to do (and already showing she’s willing to actively help them such as with Flayn)
Claude saying he wants to be supreme ruler of Fodlan but never having a hand in Fodlan’s rule in any route and always leaving it to his friends, even leaving before Byleth’s coronation as revealed in his S support. Edelgard saying she’ll hand the Empire off to someone else but only ever does so in her later years and will rule for her entire life if cured of her Crests
Claude saying he only does things to benefit himself, but then showcasing selflessness/deep compassion towards others to no benefit to him (acting as a shield for Derdriu in AM/CF, telling his men to retreat if things are dangerous and to not fight on, Raphael pleading with Claude to look after his sister if he dies at AM Gronder and Claude promising him he would, mourning being unable to save Ignatz at AM Gronder, opening up about personal trauma with Marianne to make her feel better, not pushing Flayn after Remire despite suspecting her of hiding something, asking if Raphael wants to be sure he doesn’t want to go back to his family and instead be stationed at Mryddin). Edelgard saying she cares for the people and that her war is to help end their suffering, but then showcasing carelessness/apathy regarding their wellbeing (begrudging people as weak for relying on others to help them, thinking religious people lack strength of character/resolve, letting her people starve, letting Arundel conscript them under threat of death, setting her men on fire to gain an edge in one battle, referring to people who die due to her war as sacrifices multiple times)
Claude unifying Fodlan under an entirely new name (United Kingdom of Fodlan) and acknowledging that trying to force Faerghus and Adrestia to bend to Alliance culture and its lords’ whims would likely start more war. Edelgard unifying Fodlan back under Adrestia (as she puts it, under its rightful place), with Faerghus, the Church, and Leicester “vanishing from the people’s memories” (adding Leicester due to Edelgard stepping on their flag as well as Faerghus’ when the narration says this), heavily implying she forcefully erased their cultures.
Claude hiding that he went to Almyran soldiers to help with Merceus but then admitting to recognizing he felt the need to hide it from them due to Almyra and Leicester’s bad relations and then revealing his long held, deeply personal dream to his friends, trusting them to believe in him and his dream and believing that this action was a step towards making that dream come true (if Lorenz is dead at this point, Judith replies that people probably understand but that it’ll take time time to accept what Claude says, to which he has no objection). Edelgard hiding that Arianrhod was bombed by TWS and then putting the blame on the Church instead of admitting to her friends that some of their allies aren’t really on their side, showing a lack of trust despite everything the BE students stand through with her
Claude initially seeing Byleth as a means to further his goals but by the end of pre ts admitting to seeing you as an equal, with Claude being the only lord Byleth reveals to having Sothis reside in their mind in the meantime (Dimitri and Edelgard receive “The Goddess gifted me her power” instead). Edelgard only ever admitting to seeing you as an equal in her S support, as well as a scene in CF where Edelgard wants to tell you of your connection to Sothis which showcases that Byleth at no point told her that themself and that she had to find it out on her own
Claude not personally liking religion but acknowledging its importance to many people and the Church remaining an important facet of Fodlan life. Edelgard actively detesting religion to the point of persecuting and exiling people of the Seiros faith from Adrestia and with the Church only standing in few of her endings and always under her supervision
Claude being willing to retreat to save his life and fight for his dream another way another day (unless, interestingly, he’s guarding Derdriu in CF, in which case you must spare him in order for him to live instead of him retreating before it got that bad). Edelgard thinking not being willing to die for your cause means you never really believed it to begin with exemplified by her refusing to accept Dimitri’s offering of peace in AM
That’s it lol, saw a few posts detailing how Claude and Edelgard foil each other and when I thought on it they really do contrast each other immensely
#anti edelgard#Anti-edelgard#just to be safe#Edelgard discourse#Edelgard critical#feel free to add more or disagree with any of the points if you want
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he xuan & sita’s first meeting
silly little TGCF intro fic! screams. this is so embarrassing <3
“Are you a god?” Sitara whispered to the man in front of him. The answer didn’t matter. The halls were empty enough that each word, each syllable, bounced off the floors and walls as a reminder of the difference between him and immortality.
“No,” the man murmured, stepping forward. His aura suffocated even the space between them, but there was nothing else that could ever have penetrated those walls, nothing ever more than him. “I’m something worse.”
tags: religion (hinduism), implied transphobia, death (drowning), grief, awkward first encounters, and the Mortifying Ordeal Of Being Known
Sitara Acharya left India for a variety of reasons as a teeanger. Many people would say cowardice, mostly, inspired by an ugly and stagnant future. He was privileged enough to have been born of the highest caste, of scholars and doctors and priests, but the stars still punished him enough to let him have been born impure.
His type of people were not blessed by the gods. This relationship to the divinities was tenuous in those now ancient societies, and it was easy to see the shame that seeped into his family when they found out what he was. He didn’t need to shave his head into a sikha for it to be known. He was defiant enough, and the other Brahmin families whispered his name in the same way feet whispered across the floor when in dance for the gods.
So, he fled.
His story then became more visible to those that now know him. He travelled to a land where no one would recognize him, where his gods would linger, but not stay. The outskirts of a small fishing village near the south seas welcomed him the way they would welcome any other working set of hands - with nods and curiosity. His hair wasn’t a question, as it wasn’t choppy from being grown out, but rather curly and thick, shining under the sunlight, and his work allowed him to be as much of a man as he wanted to be.
The first word that Sitara learned in this new kingdom of his was the word for tea, of course, because he found that the similarities between these words allowed for him to slowly repeat it back and forth between him and the rest of the villagers in a giddy sort of glee. Sita was greedy for a sense of belonging somewhere, and the rest of his tea leaves and spices from home were brewed of dozens of mouths, quickly leaving him to plant the seeds that he took with him before his journey. As the warm spices of his chai rolled down the throats of the villagers, a new sort of laughter bubbled up between them, a new language imprinting on his mind. This was home.
So, when the storm came he had already become a fine young adult.
Sitara would go on fishing trips with the other village men quite often by this point, and the sea loved storms the way meat loves salt. He had learned from the elders of the village how to taste the sea on his lips, feel the electricity of lightning through the hair on his arms before it would come and greet the vast expanses of water like old lovers. Back home, the flashes of lightning would be comforting, a game, even. But the story did not hold the same among such tall and dark waves.
It only made it odd when Sitara, his friends half-drowned, entered a quiet sea. The water was still inky black, the boat treading heavily until Sitara had laid his friends to rest underneath the deck. The boat was slowly breaking apart, and Sitara could not wake his friends.
-
The lake at the centre of the dead island was all black and no warmth. In the middle of an empty clearing, it looked more like a mirror than it did a body of water, as little ghastly and ghoulish creatures danced within its reflection, nowhere on the surface. Sitara looked at his reflection, his hair made coarse and thick by the salt of the sea, his clothes a stiff type of dry. He found out quickly that, contrary to his original thoughts, this lake was not made of glass, but rather cold, cold water when his fingers parted the surface.
That was how he found himself at the manor.
Sita had never found himself in a place that looked so unlived-in before he found himself here. Grand and dustless, his footsteps echoed across the dark marble like a warning, the walls and flooring sucking up what little light any torches managed to provide like hungry little creatures. Truth be told, Sita did well to ignore the dancing shadows - his mind, at the time, was preoccupied, full of grief. More than his own loss of his friends, how does he break it to the others that their husbands, sons, fathers, brothers, lovers - they are dead? The complexity of such relationships boggled and confounded him, for he forgot what it meant to have a family. He only wished that the tea and food that he brought to his mourning friends would not be stained with the taste of grief in the future.
So, with such thoughts, it made sense that Sita had not yet noticed the man walking before him. His breath caught when he did, though, when he almost ran into him and finally felt the cold, pressing aura of his presence. With pale and washed-out skin, deep brows and hair so straight that it could have been pressed, the man looked like all of his warmth had been sapped out by the darkness of this place. Sita was almost moved to tears, seeing such a beautiful person.
Sita spoke, his voice slow and careful. These treacherous feet of his had carried him into this man’s home and refused to stay still, as well.
You are so beautiful, he thought, and the man said something that Sitara could not catch even if he was thrown the words.
“Are you a god?” Sitara whispered to the man in front of him. The answer didn’t matter. The halls were empty enough that each word, each syllable, bounced off the floors and walls as a reminder of the difference between him and immortality.
“No,” the man murmured, stepping forward. His aura suffocated even the space between them, but there was nothing else that could ever have penetrated those walls, nothing ever more than him. “I’m something worse.”
Sitara didn’t want to touch him to see if his fingers were to pass through, he wanted to touch him because something in that voice of his sounded hollow. His feet, in betrayal, stepped forward as well. The sounds were lonely. “May I ask you a question, then?”
Sita’s voice was steady, but his eyes searched everywhere on the man’s face, unable to meet such beautiful eyes. That was always something that Sita struggled with, but he could not tell if the man cared or not. “You may,” he said.
“Is there a proper way to deal with loss? How do you do it?”
This caught him by surprise, Sitara thought, because he saw a little flash of an indecipherable emotion on his face, all eyes. Oh, dear - that wasn’t what the man was expecting, maybe, and his feet shifted under him, looking past Sita, then right through him. “That… is your question?”
“Oh!” Sita caught himself, and with an embarrassed little smile, he looked away. He could never keep his composure under such gazes. His parents always found it disgraceful that he would smile at the awkwardness of death, though it was never his choice to. It was more so the intimacy of sharing loss that flustered him. “Well, um… yes, I guess it is. It probably isn’t the best either, seeing as I’ve just barged into your home without your permission, and just to ask you odd questions, as well…”
“You have?” The man asked, and there was some odd little emotion that was stealing away at his features when Sita looked back at him. “Well, no,” Sita answered. “I’m here to look for wood for my boat. Which… isn’t in your house… hmm.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Sita felt painfully human in front of this man, so much so that he could barely look at him looking at him. He could feel it when the man’s gaze broke from his eyes and moved to the rest of his face, and then his hair, his neck, his hands. When he had drunk in enough of Sita’s appearance, he moved to walk away into the darkness of manor’s corridors, even more looming than its foyer. Sita followed a few metres behind, but such a distance betrayed him when he got lost.
Not lost, though. The door closest to him held a small boat made of dark wood, smooth like it was crafted with the yearning type of love. The man must have been some sort of divinity, as well, because the transportation array set up next to the boat guided Sita straight to the beach where the bodies of his friends lay. He took them with him when he went home.
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My Ranking of Every Hercule Flambeau Episode (S01-S08)
There are some spoilers for S7 and S8, but they are fairly vague and pretty much the sort of thing that you might see on the official press release. So not true spoilers as such. Also this is totally subjective and the result of my own personal biases. It’s also behind the cut because it’s looooonnng.
8. The Two Deaths of Hercule Flambeau (s06e10)--
So, this episode is *fine*. It’s hardly the worst episode of the show, but it’s easily the weakest of the Flamby eps, despite their being a few isolated moments I enjoy. (Hercule getting a long overdue bedroom scene for one :P)
My main gripe is with this episode is the uneven way Lisandra Flambeau is written. The script seems to flip-flop over whether we are supposed to find her sympathetic or not. On one hand, many scenes imply that she genuinely loves Hercule despite them having a shotgun marriage after only a few days of knowing each other. On the other hand, she does not hesitate for a minute before poisoning an innocent (Fr. B) for no other reason than to hurt Flamby, which makes her lose a lot of sympathy points.
And as a result, it seems to make Flambeau seem like more of arse than normal for betraying her, while somehow also absolving him of responsibility for doing so, because she turns around and does *THAT.*
And ngl, it does make me a little uncomfortable that while the character of Lisandra (as an Italian) is possibly not meant to be interpreted as a POC, the actress portraying her definitely is. (Sara Martins is of Afro-Portuguese descent). Which makes the uneven characterization (and underwritten-ness) seem even more glaring, especially when compared to that of the other (white) women in Flambeau’s life (his first love Rebecca and his daughter Marianne, arguably Lady Felicia as well). It just leaves a bad taste in my mouth even if in all likelihood, the part wasn’t written with Sara Martins in mind.
I think a much more interesting approach to Lisandra would be to have intending to betray Flambeau all along. Maybe she had her own agenda for seducing Flamby, meanwhile he thinks he’s the one using her for his plan. Maybe she does develop some feelings for him along the way, but it only makes her hesitate for a moment before going ahead with her original plan. That way, she keeps her agency and isn’t reduced to the “woman scorned” stereotype while also leaving the writers free to ship Flamby with others in the future without seemingly endorsing guilt-free adultery .
Other random note: I can’t take parts of this episode seriously because the “Crown of Lombardy” is very obviously Guinevere’s crown from BBC Merlin with no attempt to alter or disguise it.
7. The Daughter of Autolycus (s04e05)--
Not gonna lie, I am not really a fan of “character has long lost relative that we’ve never heard of until now” plots. And that goes double when said long-lost relative is a child or sibling. As such my low ranking of this episode is partly due to unconscious personal biases against that trope.
That being said, if we had to get a long-lost relative that we’ve never heard of until now plot, I’m so glad we got Marianne--even if it takes her another episode to really live up to her potential.
I have to knock off a few more points for Nero Hound as a villain. For one thing, he was played by Nancy Carroll’s real-life hubby, but they didn’t let let him interact with Lady F at all. Such a *waste.* Also Nero Hound is far too similar a name to Nero Wolfe, and I’ve definitely confused them on more than one occasion). He’s also rather generic in my opinion, even compared to some of Flambeau’s other “generic mobster” rivals/associates like the ones in S8.
However, there are some moments in this episode I genuinely like--particularly the theft “imagine spot” and Flambeau’s bishop disguise in general. Plus, the scenes where Flambeau and Marianne appear together are excellent, as are the hints that Marianne will become a redemptive trigger in Flambeau’s life.
6. The Judgement of Man (s03e10)--
Again, the low ranking of this one may be due to personal biases. In this case, I’m still low-key bitter--five years later-- at the BBC marketing department for baiting me with the idea of Flambeau actually interacting with the rest of the squad (esp romantic tiems with Lady F) and then giving me the absolute minimum of Felicia/Flambeau flirting and no Flambeau/Sid and Flambeau/Mrs. M interaction.
But there are other reasons why this is in my bottom 3 Flambeau episodes.
Honestly, I feel like an equally compelling episode about the Vatican’s complicity in Nazi art theft could’ve been made without having to insert Flambeau in it. I mean I suppose it does make sense to have the art thief character in the art episode, but still I feel like both Flambeau backstory and important historical lesson about Nazis, the Church, and Jewish art suffer from being crammed into the same episode.
That being said, Mrs. McCarthy’s duchess disguise in this episode cleared my skin, watered my crops, etc, which is why I’ve ranked it higher than the previous two.
5. The Folly of Jephthah (s08e05)
It loses a few points because I got very exited about the idea of Marianne becoming Bunty’s thief gf cool new friend, and yet in the episode itself, they only shared one scene and didn’t really interact much in it. That being said, I did like like that Bunty and Mrs. M had a bigger role in this episode than the squad usually gets in Flambeau episodes.
Overall, I feel this episode works a lot better than most of the other “backstory-heavy” Flambeau episodes, because we’ve already gotten the Marianne-related exposition out of the way and can focus more on allowing her character, Flambeau’s and their relationship with each other to develop.
I’m also a bit smug in that I predicted (or at least hoped for) this exact character arc for Marianne within a few weeks of “The Daughter of Autocylus” airing and that my hopes came to fruition so beautifully.
It doesn’t particularly impact the ranking too much, but I do feel like this episode deserves a special shout out, because it has established a (hopefully-continuing!) pattern of Father Brown calling Flamby almost exclusively by his first name, which is a major significant step in their bromance and deserves recognition as such.
4. The Blue Cross (s01e10)--
As someone who was first exposed to Father Brown through reading the stories for a college course, I always find it especially interesting to look at the episodes that were adapted from Chesterton.
This episode is neither the most faithful book-to-show adaptation (which is probably “The Three Tools of Death”) nor is it the best (imo “The Sign of the Broken Sword’) , but it is arguably the most significant. “The Blue Cross” was the first ever Fr. Brown story and is probably the most well-known. It’s also the first real look we get at the character of Flambeau, who (in the stories and arguably the show as well) is probably the closest thing we get to a clear character arc.
The show keeps some of the important elements of the short story: Flambeau’s clergyman disguise, the switching of the packages. But it also has the challenging task of upping the relatively low stakes of the story, as well as introducing a major recurring character that resembles his book counterpart but remains distinct enough to justify the fairly different direction show canon is taking him.
The show does this reasonably well--if not particularly imaginatively. I do enjoy some of the touches (I’ve written an entire meta before about Flamby’s reading material on the train and how it relates to his character)--particularly the show’s choice to have Flambeau fixated on religious art specifically (RIP for Flambeau’s Dairy Company though. It will always live in my heart).
Unfortunately in the adaptation, loses a few points for not really using the show-original characters particularly effectively. It loses still more for Flambeau’s characterization in this episode . He comes across as much more serious and menacing in this episode than in all the others. It works okay when we consider this as a standalone episode but provides some glaring Early Installment Weirdness when we compare it to other episodes.
3. The Penitent Man (s05e15)--
So as the rest of this list will testify, I have strong preference for the “fun” Flambeau episodes over the more series ones. This is the exception that proves the rule--the serious, cerebral, melancholy episode that simply “works” for me in the way that some of the others have not.
A lot of it is due to the more-intense-than-usual Flambeau character focus that goes into this. Sure, we’ve met his (presumably ex-by-now) wife, his daughter, and his first love by this point, but all of those episodes focused primarily on Flambeau as an extension of the relationships with others. (”The Judgement of Man” in particular is far more Rebecca’s story than Hercule’s.)
Whereas this episode is very definitively focused on Flambeau himself and allows more nuanced exploration of two of the most defining facets of Flambeau’s character: (1) his fascination with religion--and spiritual salvation in particular-- as something he seems to resist and crave in near equal measure (2) his almost masochistic streak of recklessness.
Even though Flambeau’s supposed “piety” is revealed to be all part of his heist plan, there are strong hints that his desire for redemption and atonement are at least somewhat genuine, even if he is not ready to pursue them just yet.
Off topic, but a few random things of note in this episode: this episode all-but-confirms bi!Flambeau, wet!Flambeau at the end is extremely relevant to my interests, Father Brown attempts to smuggle Flamby a lock pick from the beginning and has the audacity to say “ I only use it when I get locked out of the presbytery.”
Also, it has this iconic exchange:
Goodfellow: What is that awful smell?
Father Brown (covered in sewage): It’s me
2. The Honorable Thief (S07e10)-- So nearly all of the Flambeau-centered episodes from S3 on have been a little preoccupied with filling in some of the gaps in Flambeau’s backstory, which is *fine*, but honestly, I feel like in doing so, they’ve really lost sight of why we fell in love with the character in the first place.
He’s vibrant and clever and funny and over-the-top. But most importantly, Flambeau is a lot of fun. Therefore, it follows that episodes that feature him should be a lot of fun too.
And well... they are all fun in some way, but they aren’t as fun as they really could be. John Light is insanely charismatic, but charisma can only go so far when the episode in question is a downer.
Fortunately, this episode is the furthest thing from a downer imaginable. It’s absolutely delightful from start to finish. The plot is serious enough to keep things engaging, but also light enough to keep us from getting too distracted by angst.
I’m also incredibly biased in favor of this episode, because it finally gave me the Felicia/Flambeau ship tease I’d been passionately hoping for (if not really expecting to get after “The Judgement of Man” disappointed me). But it was so much and so good, and I wasn’t ready for it.
In a broader sense though, this episode really delivered with Flambeau/squad interaction in general--which was a key component that has been missing from most of the other episodes. And the Father Brown & Flambeau interactions were also has heartwarming and funny as they always are.
If I have one tiny little gripe with the episode, it’s that Daniel is not Sid. He has enough broad similarities with Sid that I can’t help but wonder if the episode was originally written with Sid and then hastily re-written when Alex Price couldn’t return. That being said, he was a likable enough guest character in his own right, and I wouldn’t mind seeing him again.
1. The Mysteries of the Rosary (S02e05)-- Perfection. Not only is this THE definitive Flambeau episode, but is also one of the best episodes of the show overall. It has everything: the birth of bearded Flamby, bromantic road trips, a treasure hunt, great guest turns from Anton Lesser and Sylvestra Le Touzel.
I think part of the reason this episode resonates so strongly with me is that it’s really the first proper sense that we get of Show!Flambeau as a character. Sure we officially met him in “The Blue Cross,” but considering he didn’t show up until halfway through the episode and was in disguise for most of it, we didn’t really get much of a sense of who he is.
This episode changes all that and sets Flambeau up as the character we will know and love for the rest of the series--charming, urbane, funny, passionate, a carefree carpe diem exterior masking (or overcompensating for?) a sense of uncertainty and conflictedness.
Somewhat off topic, but as great an episode as this is for Flambeau’s character, it is nearly as wonderful for both Sid and Father Brown’s characters. We get to see Sid’s ease with Father Brown, the casual camraderie that the two of them have--as well as Sid’s protectiveness (and jealousy) when Flambeau decides to gatecrash their bromantic road trip.
Honestly, there are so many things that are great about this episode that I don’t think I could possibly list them--but one little detail that really struck my the last time I watched was that the first proper glimpse we see of Flambeau in this episode (we see him in shadow in a flashback before) involves him saving Father Brown’s life. Whereas the last proper glimpse we see of Flambeau is after Father Brown has saved Flambeau’s life. Thematic reversals. Cinematic parallels. We love to see it.
#father brown#bbc father brown#hercule flambeau#the adhd hitting hard; this was in my drafts for well over a year#that's right another flamby episode aired and had to be added before i finally finished it#that being said i really enjoyed it#let me know if you want me to rank more things#like i don't think i could rank every episode; but perhaps every episode in a given season#or the seasons themselves#or the top 5 best or worst episodes--either in general or for a particular character#meta#misc#one of these days i'm gonna go full feral english major and write a giant character analysis on book flamby vs show flamby#and all the interesting adaptational implications and nuanced writing choice of#mon petit gallique merde
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Do you have any hcs on Fiona Gilman and her interactions with the other survivors?
Ghost here! Oh I absolutely do. Fiona is the survivor I play most often after Aesop and I love her! Not just her skill, I also find her backstory very intriguing and have spent a lot of time talking to Greed about it, as is our way.
Okay so... First a warning or two:
1. This contains some spoilers for her deduction lines and birthday letter, so skip this one if you don't want to see that.
2. I'll freely admit that I love to push everything in a horror direction and this does of course also apply to the mega-evolved kiter herself.
Getting that out of the way...
I think it's clear that Fiona knew about and implied to have been drawn to Lakeside Village, where there was a cult religion worshiping a lake deity that was probably Hasur. We know the villagers sacrificed "livestock" to the their god by throwing them into the lake in exchange for their prayers being answered. We know Fiona was drawn to seek out occult mysteries, and that she has a philosophy of following where her gods lead her, taking the actions she believes they call on her to take. We also know the village is now abandoned, and letters later sent to villagers (see the Dancer's recent birthday letter) weren't answered. We also know that Fiona gained some pretty impressive magical powers at some point, ones she didn't have growing up.
So, Fiona went to the village, either believing herself drawn there or because of what she'd heard about the lake cult, or both. I think she, a very attractive and definitely driven if not also somewhat cunning young woman, was able to join the cult and become close to or even join its secretive inner circle, the one in charge of the actual summoning and sacrifices.
And Ms. Fiona Gilman had a very big wish she wanted granted, a deep prayer she had no doubt been holding close most of her life.
I think Fiona wanted to be special. Powerful. Part of the magical world. And she wanted to be follow the call of her gods, to be able to pass through the solid reality of this world into the spiritual one she always wanted but never had access to as a child.
And I think she that she got her wish. And that she sacrificed the entire population of Lakeside Village to the lake and to Hasur to get it. Consider that the villagers were asking for small things, and paying in blood sacrifice and the slaughter of livestock for even that. And who and what Fiona became is very much not the anxious, unhappy, and apparently seeming unexceptional person she was implied to have been before breaking away from her mother.
If you consider the survivor's abilities separate from how they're balanced by the game mechanics, Fiona is one of the most powerful of the survivors, if not the most powerful. Along with Patricia and Eli, she had actual magical abilities before coming to the manor*. And because of my take on her, I think that like Aesop, she'd killed enough people that she could have been (and might still one day be) a hunter instead of a survivor... but that’s a post for another day.
So! That's my HC for her backstory. You also asked about her interactions with the others.
First off, while I obviously think she's a sort of amoral-evil person on a grand scale, I think Fiona is probably perfectly nice and even quite charismatic on an individual basis. Kind of weird still, because she's the priestess of a cult, but charming and easy to get along with in spite of this. And while I do think Fiona is capable of being manipulative to get what she wants, I also think she doesn't think of her actions as evil or intentionally do harm. Even her drowning a whole village of people in a lake could have been framed, for her, as following her god's commands. Maybe she thought that after so many sacrifices, Hastur wouldn't be bound to the lake anymore, and she might even have been right about that.
(Btw this, in my mind, is one of the most dangerous types of person when they're amoral. Someone so very likable is also so much harder to criticize, to question, or even to think ill of.)
So, I think the survivors get along with her fine for the most part. I don't think any of them know about what she did (with maybe one exception), and that they take her at face value as another member of their strange, unwilling team.
Now... She's casually friendly with pretty much all the survivors, with a few exceptions, but that she might not have any very close connections at the manor. I think she has a mean-girls style friendship with Vera, and that’s her closest friend. Also she and Patricia have long, technical conversations about magic from time to time, but Patricia is deeply uninterested in getting cursed more/again and steers clear of whatever it is the Priestess is up to spiritually. Any of the survivors who are attracted to pretty ladies and susceptible to getting crushes probably do have mild to moderate crushes on her (Kevin, Vera, Freddy, Martha, Emily, William, Emma, and certainly others although I haven't thought through it too much). Also, for some reason I headcanon that Luca specifically Just Thinks She's Neat, because she has a fascinating ability that challenges his view of a scientific reality, and because they're both feral and he can vibe with that.
Aesop is completely, almost hilariously immune to her charisma and views her neutrally- a competent coworker with a hang up on one of the hunters that's really not his place to comment on.
On the other hand, I think Emily and Martha don't think much of her intelligence due to her spirituality/gods, and Emma just quietly doesn't get closely involved with Fiona outside of matches because she while she may be unhinged she has good instincts. Poor Andrew is absolutely terrified of her like the good Catholic boy he is. And she does unnerve a few of the other survivors but not in a way that they can quite put their finger on, so they dismiss it.
And then there's Eli. I've understood Eli's backstory to imply that he's from the Roman Empire, so way further back in the timeline than most of the others, who were take from eras closer to the World Wars. And Eli is linked to Fiona, but we don't know how. They have similar eye themes (Fiona's keys/portals have eyes on them and Eli's blindfold/owl are related to sight), but they can't have know each other when they were alive, and we don't hear anything about the lake cult being involved in Eli’s life or his future seeing. Fiona is implied to have served and still be following Hastur, but the same can't be said for Eli as far as I know.
I don't think Eli dislikes Fiona. They might even be friends in a way, or sort of colleagues. Certainly there aren't many other people they can talk to about magic, and they do share some kind of connection from outside the manor. But I think Eli has very mixed feeling about her, partly because he knows that mystical powers come with costs.
And I have a specific, wildly extrapolated headcanon about them. I don't think Eli was part of a cult dedicated to Hastur that existed long before Fiona was ever born. I think his own powers were given to him, in part, to stop things like what Fiona did in Lakeside Village from ever happening. To contain gods of chaos and protect the balance of the world. He might even have had visions of what happened, either with the Lakeside cult or with the manor games or both, and if so he just wasn't able to stop it, being too far away in time until he was pulled into the timeless pocket dimension the manor apparently exists in. (How interesting then for him to become trapped with living proof that what he saw and would have tired to prevent had already come to pass?)
Anyway! Those are my headcanons for Fiona, or what I have time to write down tonight.
Closing thoughts:
-I did also find another little bit of interesting trivia: part of Eli's Chinese name originally translated to Gilman. We also know reincarnation is a theme for him. Who knows what the manor game is about, after all?
-I also think it's EXTREMELY funny that Fiona claims to have not come to the manor after being called by a letter, but instead to have followed "a spirit" or one of her gods to the manor. Because if it's at all true, Ms. Gilman *broke into the manor*, either at the behest of her god (Hastur) or because she was following him. She broke in. Can she get out out? Does she just not want to? I have questions!!! Ms. Gilman what is your deal!!)
*(Servais, honey, I appreciate you, but we don't know if you had real magic or just excellent illusionism skills before the manor; I also think it's safe to say that Mike's juggling wasn't magical until the manor got ahold of him either, and so on with Vera, Aesop, etc.)
#identity v#fiona gilman#identity v headcanon#long post#coffin#sorry this took a few days to answer#hope you enjoy my ramblings about my murderous crystal hippie headcanons for fiona#Anonymous
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Hey Lavi, I never got around to reading Dante, but I studied Renaissance Florence and I saw someone in that long post mention that Dante seemed to have it in for Florence? Why is that, or was that a misreading? All I can recall of Florence’s flaws for the time were it’s reputation for gay guys and prostitutes (IIRC the German word for homosexual is derived from Florence :P)
ba… er, it’s not that he had it on florence, but like, people in that post (the not italian ones) have 100% Missed The Point, so I’ll go at it from the beginning. so, quote in question (I suppose):
he and his idol/mancrush, the famous poet Virgil, journey through Hell on behalf of his dead girlfriend and everyone who he didn’t like was there and suffered punishment for all eternity and then he blames three whole popes and the entire fucking city of Florence, Italy for the shitty state of the Church and over seven hundred years later it’s played a major influence in Western culture
now, never mind that ‘it’s played’ is dumb af because ITALIAN LANGUAGE WOULDN’T EXIST WITHOUT DANTE so it’s not played for shit, but like I’ll try to not touch all the other subjects regardless of how much my eyes are bleeding just reading this sentence.
the point is that he was permanently exiled from florence because of his political stances in which the church took part and that happened before the reinassance, which is like… long and complicate so I’m gonna make it very short and simplified sorry everyone but it’s not a thing you can dissect on tumblr properly. so, list:
florence at the end of the 13th century was a republic in the context of the rivalrly between guelfs and ghibellines, pls refer to that link for specific info but basically most of the politics in italy at that point where ‘there’s a bunch of separate small republics/states fighting each other and people tend to either stand with the pope [guelfs] or the emperor of the sacred roman empire [ghibellines]’, and in florence there had been a war in between the two factions that ended with the ghibellines being sent away from the city around 1289 if I’m not getting the year wrong, dante was a guelf and a nobleman and was directly involved in the city’s politics from then onwards until the aforementioned exile;
after then there was a further split in between the guelf faction ie one wanted the pope to be less involved and the other was more with sticking with him, and dante was in the first one;
now this is the point where I should tell you that the pope was boniface viii ie someone who has since then (and during that time) been wildly recognized as one of the worst people who ever had that job ever and whose papacy can be summed up in ‘trying to have both spiritual and temporal power in each single possible way in italy and outside it’ - pls read the entire article and get to the part where he had an entire feud with philip the ivth of france and ended with him getting slapped in the face in anagni -, and who dante saw as someone who had corrupted the catholic church and was fully not doing what his job entailed ie shepherding souls and not being an emperor;
tldr the white vs black guelfs feud ended up with the black guelfs winning and exiling the whites among which dante who therefore ended up exiled from his hometown for the entirety of his life later;
now the thing that those people don’t get is that to dante/people in his situation being involved in their hometown’s politics especially when being a public figure and so on was most of their life and they had an attachment to their city that was similar to what you’d have for your country since back in the day italy was barely a cultural unit and not a political one, like fighting for your city it wasn’t the same as fighting for your *hometown*, it was the same as your COUNTRY, which means that in his context being exiled from there meant leaving the country he was born in/that he loved/felt like he 100% belonged to and never come back, not just leaving one town and going to another. like, if someone told me I couldn’t ever go back to rome in my entire life but I could stay in naples I’d still be in the same country and as I’m italian first and everything else later I’d suffer but who cares, if someone said you have to leave italy and you can never come back I’d suffer a thousand times more because italy is my damned country and the place I was born in and in whose culture I partake/that I feel at home in, that was what it meant leaving florence to him;
now, his problem wasn’t with florence, his problem was with the people who threw him out and the system which allowed it and the catholic church which instead of worrying about religion worried about politics and mingling with them, which by the way is *exactly what the catholic church does here in italy to this day no more no less*, from then on nothing has changed, and he didn’t blame FLORENCE for the shitty state of the church as OP says, HE BLAMED THE CHURCH FOR THE SHITTY STATE OF FLORENCE AND THE ENTIRE COUNTRY, and guess what it’s been seven hundred years and counting and exactly nothing has changed, which means OP’s point even more dumb because dante saying that then and nothing having changed now should witness to the fact that he was only speaking sense;
like: dante had it in with corrupt popes who turned the church into a temporal power rather than stick with the spiritual because he thought that the temporal power didn’t belong to it, which is like… the principle of separation between state and church on which each single post-american revolution constitution has been founded on sure as hell he didn’t have it in for florence when he missed it for his entire life and wanted to go back more than anything and he couldn’t because he was exiled;
now, another thing that OP doesn’t get because lmao what is context: to catholics, the pope is technically infallible. like, if you’re a catholic You Cannot Criticize The Pope, period, so the fact that dante alighieri, A Catholic In The Middle Ages, puts not just one pope in HELL but more than one in a book/poem that he wants to sell as a revolutionary work (which he wanted to do or he wouldn’t have had vergil walking him through hell) is like… a level of disruptive revolutionary literary BDE that these people can’t even conceive, because it implied saying that the head of the church was wrong and calling him out of it. which, again, for a catholic, is basically the highest BDE level in existence. and guess what, Dante Was A Catholic But Not A Bigoted One As Much As These People ThinK;
also, never mind that the people he put in hell were also people he LIKED and most of the sympathetic characters are there, but tumblr doesn’t know that he put in purgatory manfred, the not legitimate son of frederick the second, who was excommunicated by the church, which I should hope anyone can guess the meaning of - like, excommunication is The Worst Thing The Church Can Do When It Comes To Catholics -, and he still put him in a position where he could be redeemed because he repented on his deathbed (according to dante’s rendition anyway), which means that he said someone the church had expelled for good from its ranks could still be redeemed and eventually go to heaven, which was basically telling them fuck you. same BDE.
now, that is the entire point of THAT SPECIFIC THING RE FLORENCE, but I’d like to state that the way I put it is the 0,5% of the entire problem which I can’t possibly summarize because in that book he comments on the status of things in the entire goddamned nation even if it wasn’t a nation politically at that point while mixing it with his philosophy treatise and his own search to have his faith and political ideals coexist while also discussing courtly poetry and changing his language based on the needs while using the same poetric meter that he invented/came up with and no one else could manage to use again after because it was too complicated, and while he does that he gives you a summary of the entirety of greek mythology figures that he incorporated in his work, a summary of the status of things in discussions of medieval theology and philosophy and on top of that there’s some expressions which are now staples of the italian language like we use them commonly and 80% of the time ppl don’t even know he came up with them.
and that still is a badly put summary of 20% of the basic things you find in the divine comedy as a whole because there’s more than that and there’s a reason why here in high school you study it for three years one cantica per year and it’s not even enough to barely scratch the surface. and that’s why those posts give me a damn aneurysm, because if you say that ^^^^^ above is fanfic sorry but I see red.
also sorry for going off like this but you went and pointed out the one thing that irked me most about that OP but I also didn’t want to reply directly because this discussion has given me metaphorical ulcers in the past plus gave me three days of feeling really fucking down (I don’t wanna use trigger but it was the closest thing I came to that in my entire life) and I’m done engaging with people who wouldn’t want to listen but eh. XDDDDD anyway sorry for the rant I hope it was exhaustive. XD
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and they cried holy holy holy
its very hard existing in a world that doesnt love you
fic focused on the affects of the religious south via larrys childhood + internalized homophobia now. tw for religious trauma, homophobia, the q slur, implied child abuse, self harm, implied suicide. separated into 6 parts.
all of these things are pretty normal for the time/context/situation i promise i didnt go ape shit on him ctvgbhn
im gay. some things were minorly edited because of my own experiences. all conversations are inspired heavily by convos ive had.
ONE
“Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.” The pastor had told him. “Queers go to hell. It is the will of God.” Larry’s mother elbowed him, a way of saying this included him. “Join me in prayer so the sinners may reach Salvation and Repentance.” He raised his arms, framing the holy cross behind him. “Peace be with you.”
“And also with you.” All stood. Except Larry.
“God is Good.” He said.
“All the time.” All prayed. Except Larry. His father glared at him. He could feel the eyes of everyone around him- even if they weren’t looking- he knew what they thought of him. He wished he was good and pure. He wanted nothing more than to be loved by God like everyone else was.
But he was just a sinner. A blemish on the tapestry of God’s vision.
None of that was true, of course, but as an 11 year old in the deep south in 1935- he had no choice but to believe.
“Larry.” His father whispered angrily. “Stand. Up. Now.”
“I don’t wanna.” Larry whispered back. He didn’t. He was tired. Ever since his parents found out about his preference for boys they had woken him up early almost every morning to pray- to be reminded of his damnation- to go to church and be told over and over again he was unnatural. He was so tired.
“Larry. If you don’t stand right now- You’ll be choosing a switch when we get home.”
“I’m tired-” He kicked his feet.
“Lawrence Michael Trainor.” His mother hissed. “You’re embarrassing us.” Larry could hear a waver in her voice.
“-in God’s name, amen.” The pastor finished.
“Amen.”
“You are dismissed.”
“Bless you, father.” someone behind Larry said. He couldn’t see very well through his own tears. He couldn’t help but feel like it was all his fault.
Now was, in Larry’s opinion, one of the worst parts of church. His parents beelined to Benjamin Quincy’s- probably to tell them to keep their son away from him. Again. Larry could already hear them berating Ben’s poor father- accusing them of turning their sweet son to the Devil and a path of damnation.
This was almost 90 years ago, but Larry could remember it like it was yesterday. He’d never admit it- but sometimes he still felt like that scared boy praying for a salvation that’ll never come.
Chief had bought him a bible, when he first moved into the manor, thinking it would remind him of home. He didn’t know, of course, the kind of history Larry had with religion- but it was enough to release the spirit on a rampage. Chief thought that was interesting. Larry thought it was a headache- literally and metaphorically.
He actually wasn’t sure where it was now, actually. It had disappeared mysteriously years ago- after he had given Rita a vague idea of how his childhood was.
He never looked for it.
It wasn’t until the patrol had to go into a church that Larry really thought about this again. Ordinarily he pretends it never happened- that he never had a childhood at all. It was easier than having to face it. He forgot why, exactly, they were there- but-
“Larry?” Cliff turned back, already halfway through the doors. Larry had stopped about ten feet off- Jane near him. “You coming?”
“Ah.” was all he could say in reply. This looked like his old one. His lungs felt like they were full of water. Jane tilted her head at him. She had a reason to hate this place- not to say he probably didn’t have one too- but she had definitely never heard about this before. “I.”
“We have two people against this stuff, now?” Cliff. He meant well, but he was about as sensitive as a brick. “What happened to you?”
Larry said nothing. Jane stepped up. “He doesn’t have to tell you. Just- go without us.” Cliff did the closest thing to a shrug he could do and left. Larry wanted to thank Jane- in his own quiet way- but he was a little overwhelmed for that. God. He could still hear the pastors words stinging his heart. He felt Jane’s eyes on him.
Repent, old sinner. Repent and be redeemed.
“Fuck.” Larry turned and walked away. “Fuck!”
“I guess the church screwed both of us over.” Jane crossed her arms. Larry only sighed.
“It screws everyone over. Whether they realize it or not.”
“Hm.” Jane agreed. “It’s a fucked up institution.” Larry’s chest glowed gently.
“God. I want to go back to the manor.” He placed a hand on his chest, trying to soothe the spirit. “Take a nap.”
“Me too.” Jane leaned against a wall.
They stood in silence, before Larry spoke again.
“The church by my house looked like this. Growing up.” He glanced back at it for a moment. “God. I hated that place.”
Jane watched him for a moment. They were the two most closed off people in the manor- this was literally the most he had ever said about himself to her.
“Boring?”
“I guess.” Larry did not say it was because they hated him. He did not say that the priest told him he deserved damnation. He did not say that he still had nightmares about it. “I was. Not well liked, I guess.”
“Oh.” Jane did not share her own trauma related to it. She couldn’t. She didn’t want to. “Are you still…?”
“God, no. I’m not a fan of- any of it, really. I don’t know.” He tries to tell her without really saying anything at all. “They. Really. Don’t like the kind of person I am. Is all.”
“Me neither.” She nodded. This conversation was so. Fucking. Awkward. But it was still the most they had talked in a long time. “Bad church experiences club.”
Larry chuckled. “Bad church experiences club.”
TWO
Larry was in class. Thirteen years old and already fully aware of his fate. Homosexuality is an abomination, he knew. God does not make mistakes, he knew.
So why is he cursed with these feelings?
“God created all creatures in the Beginning-” his teacher was explaining in the background. Larry had heard this story a million times- both in and out of church. He was daydreaming about the boy who sat in front of him- he had the bluest eyes, and- no.
No.
Larry couldn’t think like that. That was a sin. He mentally scolded himself for letting his guard down. He had to have a wife. A family- or suffer for all eternity.
“God is love,” said his teacher.
It doesn’t feel much like love to Larry.
-
He regretted doing this. Larry found himself standing in front of the team- during Cliff’s sudden group therapy session and subsequent freakout.
“Well.” He started, but paused. God. God. God. Why did he think he could do this? Why did he think it would be a good idea to come out? To let the only people he ever felt like he could trust learn his ugly, terrible truth and scorn him just as his own family did?
“I’m-”
“GAY!” Cliff interrupted suddenly. Larry froze. Oh god. Oh god. They knew. They KNEW. How did they know? No. Fuck. He was reading too far into this. Unless he wasn’t. The others protested Cliff’s outburst.
“Okay! I just thought Larry was about to come out- and it would’ve been so healing for him!”
Larry is thankful for the bandages covering his tears.
"I think all I wanted to say was...it gets lonely, not touching anyone for 60 years. the last person I ever touched was John Bowers. I- I loved him. and I drove him away." Larry hoped that was vague enough. God. He could see it now- remembering how his parents reacted when they figured it out for themselves- how the church had reacted- how the other boys had reacted- how he had joined the army in an effort to make himself more masculine, more straight- he couldn’t help but think about all the possible ways he could kill himself right here right now.
“I knew it.” Cliff stood. Larry panicked. “I just want you to know that you’re loved- and accepted-” He hugged Larry, and Larry didn’t know what to do.
He’d never been offered acceptance before. How do you react to that?
“I’m not done.” He snapped. It was the best he knew how to do.
“I’m only sharing this because it’s the thing Mr. Nobody shoved in my face.” A clarification he knew this was immoral. He knew he was wrong. “What’s left, of my face.”
Pause.
“That was a joke. God- these bandages are the death of all nuance.” He failed to lighten the mood. He could feel everyone’s judgement, burning his skin like the fire did so many years ago. “Look. If Mr. Nobody’s goal is to torture me, well- I’ve been doing his work for him. Whipping myself in a- a prison of my own making.” Fuck. That sounded kind of cliche.”And wh- what if I trusted John, what if I’d been more brave- and guess what? I’m sick of it! I’m not just hurting myself- I’m hurting this thing inside of me and it’s hurting me back, endlessly, until there’s so much self-loathing I can barely breathe.” He’s trying so, so hard not to break down. He returns to his spot on the couch and slumps, already tuned out and waiting for his inevitable punishment.
He’s only greeted with Rita’s hand on his back, a small comfort, but a welcome one nonetheless.
THREE
The last time Larry was in love was with John. It was, admittedly, most of what he thought about, these days- but it was the only time he could ever exist in peace around another person. Even if John was a little too open for Larry’s comfort, he was comfortable in his own skin during the rare times they could sneak a moment together.
He missed John so, so much. Not only because he loved him- though that was a big part- but because he missed feeling safe. He missed feeling loved. He missed feeling anything at all.
-
“So. You’re gay?” Cliff had asked, one morning.
“Yes.” Larry answered, a little too shortly.
“Aren’t you from- like- the 30s?”
“Yes.” Larry said again, knowing full well what question was going to come next.
“Did your parents-” Cliff paused, trying to find the words. “Take it well? How did you- do that? Back then?”
Larry didn’t answer, at first. He actually had no idea what Cliff was referring to. “What?”
“Y’know- you said you had a boyfriend? John? How did you hide it? Since homosexuality was, like- illegal.”
Larry considers losing it. “They. Did not take it well.” He started, failing to mention how most parents in the day had a habit of ‘beating the queer’ out of their children. “We hid it with difficulty. I mean- we risked getting murdered- or worse, if we were caught.”
“Damn.” Cliff said. “That’s rough.”
“Yeah.” Larry sighed. He hated this conversation so much. “I married a girl I knew right out of high school- that was normal, back then- but I guess I thought if I just forced myself into it I’d turn straight, or something?”
“Did it work?”
“No. I cheated on her for years with other men and ruined my family.”
“Oh.” Cliff feels so awkward. “I mean- I did that too. Cheated on my wife. But I didn’t have a good reason for it. Like you did.”
“Cliff, I didn’t have a good reason. I don’t know what you mean by that.”
“Sure you did! I mean- cheating at all is a dick move, no matter what- but, like, you’re gay. And you got forced to marry a woman so you wouldn’t die.”
“Cliff-”
“And gay marriage is legal now! So- like- it got better! Gay rights!”
“It’s legal?”
“Yeah! In 2015- thought we celebrated it! But then you wouldn’t leave your room because you were sad about something again, and then Jane-”
“It’s legal now.” Larry said again, not listening to anything Cliff was saying. “Holy shit.”
“-Then Hammerhead threw me across a room and Chief had to wire my legs back on.”
“I hated myself so fucking much for- so long-” Larry’s face is unreadable to Cliff. “The number of times I considered killing myself because I thought there was no other option- and it’s been legal for almost five years. And I didn’t know about it.”
“How did you find out you were. You know?” Cliff asked, trying to avoid talking about Larry’s apparent suicidal tendencies.
“What?”
“How did you know you were gay?”
“Oh. I mean- when I was a kid it was pretty watered down- but I never liked the idea of having a wife or a girlfriend like everyone expected me to. In middle school, though? The boy’s locker room was definitely an eye-opener- and in my twenties I-” Larry was not going to finish that sentence. Cliff hadn’t unlocked that part of his backstory yet. “God. I tried to repress it for so long, though. It’s really weird, having other people know.” Larry’s chest glowed gently.
“It’s okay, now. There’s even gay hookup apps, and stuff. I bet Vic could help you set one up.”
Larry shrunk into his coat. He could barely handle seeing a man in shorts, the other day. He really didn’t think he was ready for this. “Cliff. I’m not. I can’t do this.”
“Why not? You’re free to be yourself!”
“Cliff. It’s been ingrained in me since I was a kid that being gay was some- awful, horrible thing. This- acceptance? It’s too new to me. I’m not ready to embrace it. I can’t.” I can’t go to hell, was what Larry was thinking. I can’t do that. “Ninety years of- of repression- and self hatred- and hiding- and all of that, I can’t just- bounce back, Cliff. I need time to think about this.”
“Do that! You can talk to me, if you need to, Larry!”
“Maybe I will.”
FOUR
Larry was 16 when he hurt himself for the first time. It wasn’t on purpose- he was trying to whittle a little plane in class when he sliced his thumb- but he never really stopped. He felt like he deserved it- maybe the sins he held would leave his body, dripping like blood down his arms.
Or maybe he just wanted to feel something other than shame.
Either way- it was the one thing he could feel totally in control of. Something that finally felt justified. Unlike his unwavering attraction toward the other boys in his classes- like the now-constant disdain of his parents- unlike the smile his first kiss gave him before they left each other behind.
His parents never actually knew about this habit, but Larry convinced himself they did.He told himself this was what they really wanted- between the constant threats of going to hell, or the reminders he’s ruining their perfect family- maybe they did just want him to hurt.
Suicide, back then, was almost unthinkable.
Nowadays, Larry considers it often.
-
Rita noticed something was- more off than usual. Larry had always been a melancholic person, but even Cliff had realized Larry not leaving his room for three days wasn’t normal. She eventually took it upon herself to drag him out of whatever slump he had gotten himself into, again- whether he liked it or not.
“Larry?” She called through his doors. Sound didn’t travel well through all that- but she was very good at being heard when she wanted to be. “Larry!”
Larry did not answer. He was bandaged, luckily, as he knew Rita would inevitably come storming in, but he didn’t want her to see the blood seeping through. He had relapsed, again, though he had nobody left to report it to with the Chief gone. That was for the best, he thought.
“LARRY!” Rita knocked on the door. “I’m coming in there!”
Larry groaned. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t stopping her. He could easily just say it would be too dangerous, or-
He could hear the decontamination chamber hiss. Fuck. He had to clean himself up fast.
“Can you- wait just a-” Too late. Rita entered, concerned. “Fuck.”
“Ah.’ Rita started, but paused, seeing Larry’s red bandages. “Larry. What were you doing in here?” Larry kicked the pocketknife he dropped under his dresser.
“Nothing.”
“Larry. You’re a terrible liar and I just watched you hide something. What did you do?”
Larry shifted his weight nervously. Everyone else he was positive wouldn’t care too much about this- though, of course, that wasn’t even remotely true- but Rita?
“I.” Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. How is he supposed to tell her he was just cutting up his own arms in an attempt to feel better about himself? To punish himself for being gay? How do you say that casually? “I was.”
“You were?” In truth, Rita already had an idea what he was doing. She just needed him to admit he needed help.
Larry avoided eye contact, though that was invisible to Rita through his goggles. “I was. Dealing with. Things.” He can feel the dams breaking. He really, really does not want to cry to Rita right now.
“Dealing with what?” Come on, Larry.
“Shit.” was all he could get out before he started sobbing. Rita sighed and put her hand on his back, like she always did when he has a hard time.
This was not the first time she’s seen him at his lowest, and she knew it wouldn’t be her last. It used to be a mystery to her- she always knew he was hiding something important about himself, but what it was, exactly, she couldn’t guess. Now that he came out, though, she had a whole new perspective on it all.
This explained a lot, actually. She had thrown away the bible Chief had gifted him, because she knew he did not like the church, though she didn’t understand why until now. He had always avoided talking about relationships at all, and would shut down when asked about his past. Larry didn’t know that she knew about the times he would hobble gingerly toward Chief’s lab, blood dripping from his limbs and the burden of being a sinner on his mind.
Larry was especially bitter toward the spirit, after those nights. Now Rita knew how he was so sure it won’t let him die.
“It’s okay, Larry.” was all she could think to say. “You’re safe, now.” He couldn’t answer past pulling her into a hug. Rita was pretty sure he was getting blood on her dress- but she didn’t mind. “I’d offer to patch you up, but I think you have enough bandages.”
Larry couldn’t help but laugh slightly at that. “God, Rita. I’m sorry. I hate to involve you in my own shit-”
“Larry. You’re my best friend and I care about you, even if you don’t care about you.”
“I know. I just- I should be over this already. I haven’t been to church in over sixty years- my parents have been dead for seventy- John’s already moved on- I just- goddammit, Rita. I’m lonely.” He pulls away to sit on his bed, head in his hands. “I haven’t touched another man in- god knows how long- and all I can think about is how wanting to is in itself a fucking abomination-”
“No.” Rita interrupted. “I’m not allowing that kind of negativity! It is not an abomination and you know it.” Larry only looked at her. “Now continue.”
“Uh. Okay. I miss- god, it sounds so stupid, but- I really miss-” He struggles to find the words. “Kissing men?”
Rita only nodded.
“I didn’t have the chance to- very often- but- god, Rita. There was this club- near one of my posts at the military. Before I met John. It wasn’t officially anything, but it was already a pretty established gay club. But, you know- it was more of a secret.”
“There was one of those near my apartment, you know.” Larry nodded.
“They were usually old speakeasies. But there was this man there- he was- he was really something, Rita. He was a regular, I think. Really tall.” Larry sighed wistfully. Rita smiled at him. She liked seeing him like that. Happy- or at least as close to happiness as she’d seen him get. “We spent… a lot of time together. Mostly in motel rooms.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t remember. It was so long ago. I miss him anyway, though. Even if it was just a fling.”
“I understand.” Rita said, simply. “Have you considered- getting out there, again?”
“What, like dating? Cliff suggested it to me, but- I thought he was too enthusiastic about it. I don’t know.” It scared him, to be honest.
“I’m sure there are other gay metahumans.” Rita assured him. “With a tolerance for radiation.”
“It’s not them I’m worried about.”
“What, then?”
“How can someone love me when I can’t?” Larry was emotionless through the bandages, but Rita thought she could hear a frown. “I hate myself so. Fucking. Much, Rita. I can’t kill myself no matter how much I try- but what good is someone who’s only alive because something else is forcing them to be? Who would want that kind of baggage, Rita? Not even the fucking spirit can handle it, and it’s the thing keeping me this way.” His chest glowed.
“The first step is realizing you have a problem.”
“I realize I have a problem, Rita. I realized it when I was seven years old, thinking about some boy in my math class. I realized it every-goddamn-day when my own mother would cry and tell me she wished I’d never been born- that no matter what I did she would always love God more than me.” His voice wavered. “I realized it in church, and in school, and at home- every time the newspapers would come in with more horror stories about gay men found dead- every time a kid got the shit beat out of him by his own parents. It’s nobody’s fault but my own, Rita.” He huffed, and Rita faltered. She had never seen this from him before. “God-fucking-dammit! If I could’ve just been a normal person- for once in my goddamn life- god. Oh my god.” He stopped.
“Larry?”
“I fucking died, didn’t I?” He stood suddenly. “I died in that fucking plane crash and this is hell. I can’t die. I can’t touch anyone. I’m stuck wallowing in my own self-loathing like a fucking-”
“Larry.” Rita said again, firmly.
“And I deserve all of it! I destroyed everyone I ever loved! Just because I’m not attracted to women? Big fucking deal! I should’ve just sucked it up. I’m a fucking coward! I should’ve killed myself when I was twenty like I planned! But no. I was too scared. Fuck this! I-”
“Larry!” Rita half-yelled, stopping Larry mid sentence. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you are not helping yourself. Stop having a pity-party and listen to me.”
Larry didn’t answer. He was breathing shakily. Rita could tell he was likely crying under there again.
“There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing!” She held up her hands. “I’m sorry you were told there was, but they were blatantly wrong. All of them. Liars.” She paused to watch him. He was standing as still as a statue, watching her silently. She hoped that meant he was listening. “I know it’s been ingrained into you. But you need to leave it behind. Stop dragging it with you. It will only hurt more. You’re accepted here, Larry. Nobody would even consider hurting you over something as simple as your sexuality. You don’t need to carry that weight anymore.”
Larry sighed. “I’m sorry, Rita. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
“It’s okay, Larry. I can’t imagine what you could be going through- but I offer my support, nonetheless.”
“I.” He paused. “Thank you.”
FIVE
When Larry was in the ant farm, he did not fear the torture. He knew he had it coming, anyway. It was God’s Will.
“You transferred a lot, Larry.” Forsythe would say, through the glass. “You were running from something. I intend to find out what.”
“I wasn’t running from anything.” Larry would say, over and over again.
The truth was Larry was running. Every time he thought his secret would be compromised he ran. Every time a fling ended or a boyfriend left or any of his army friends even joked about him being gay- he ran.
Now he faced the consequences for his actions, and he understood.
-
“Larry.” Chief said, bringing him back to attention. “What’s troubling you?”
This was before it all went downhill. Before Larry would come out. Before Mr. Nobody would remind him of every mistake he’d ever made. Before everything.
“Nothing. Just- remembering, is all.” Larry answered, quietly. “Before the accident.”
“Before the accident?” Chief knew it wasn’t really an accident. Larry did not. “Are you ready to talk about it?”
“No.” Larry said, quickly. Chief already knew there was something about him and John. He couldn’t risk him figuring that out. “No. The past is- it’s already happened. It doesn't matter.”
“Oh, but it does, Larry.” Chief answered, in his usual way. “The past may not define us as much as the future, but it still needs to be learned from.” Larry sighed. He had heard this so many times.
“I did learn from it, Chief.” He learned very, very well. “It just sucks.”
“Is this about your friendship with John?” Larry froze. “I know you two were very… close.”
“We weren’t. I don’t want to talk about him.” He shrunk into his coat. Chief raised an eyebrow.
“You never want to talk about him, Larry. It’s not healthy.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s probably dead, now.”
“Do you miss him?” Chief tilted his head. He knew there had to be a way to get through Larry’s shell. If he was to be a hero, like Niles intended, he had to face this head-on.
Larry took a moment before answering, assessing the risks. Was it too obvious to say yes?
“...I do.” He paused. “A. Bit.”
Chief nodded. He was getting closer. “Quite a bit, you would say?”
It was Larry’s turn to nod, adrenaline flaring up hot in his chest. “We were friends. That’s it.”
“I wasn’t implying anything else.” Larry breathed in slightly. Chief could tell he was getting anxious. “Though- we both know- you two were… a bit more than friends, yes?”
“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t want to do this anymore.” Larry glanced around, starting to panic. “Whoever told you that, Chief- I- it’s not true. I didn’t even like him!” That was a bold lie. “I mean- if anybody was cheating- I mean- Sheryl and I were strained by the end of it-” He’s grasping for straws.
“Larry. We both know Sheryl was-” Chief was interrupted by a flash of light and Larry’s head slamming on the table. The spirit stood through the table, eyeing Chief down. He couldn’t tell how it was feeling- but judging from how agitated Larry had been beforehand, he didn’t think it was happy with him. No matter.
“There you are.” He started, but the spirit shook its head. “No? You don’t want to talk to me?” It shook its head again and held up a hand. “Oh. Who taught you the middle finger?” It tilted its head. Chief could feel it glaring daggers at him. “I’m sorry I hurt you. It’s important that Captain Trainor learn to-” The spirit had enough of that. It flew in a small circle around Chief, shorting out the lone light in the room. A threat. It knew Chief knew what it was capable of.
Larry awoke suddenly to Chief watching him. He must’ve needed the spirit for something- he doesn’t really know about John. He sighed, instinctively rubbing his goggles.
“That was… unintentional. I apologize, Larry.” Larry looked at him. What the fuck was he after? “Now- John-”
“No. Fuck, Niles. I’m not doing this.” Larry stood. “I’m not reliving my mistakes for you. I’m going to take a nap.”
“Larry. We both know it wasn’t a mistake.” Chief held out his hands. “You cheated on your wife. You hid. Why?”
“I did not cheat on Sheryl. I did not hide. Niles. I don’t know what you want from me, but I’m not going to-” He paused. “I’m not going to do this. I cared about her.” That, at least, was not a lie. “I loved her.” That was. “It’s over, now. I’m paying for what I did- who I was. Just- let that be.”
“Who were you, though?”
“I was a sinner, Chief.” Larry left.
SIX x3
“Sheryl.” Larry had said, so long ago. She looked over, glowing in the moon, her hair slightly in her face.
He felt no attraction whatsoever for her.
He tried to force himself to, anyway. It was sinful. He had to do this.
“I have something to tell you.”
“Yeah?” She smiled. She was his friend. He chose her only because she was the only girl he felt he could at least live with.
God. He felt sick. He knew this would hurt her, too. He didn’t want this.
“I love you.” Lying is a sin, too. A lesser of two evils, he had decided. Anything to avoid burning in hell. Anything. Just like his parents had told him. Just like the ministers said.
“Larry!” She had laughed. He felt like throwing up.
Outwardly, Larry had been untouched. Untainted by tragedy and self-hatred.
Inwardly, he had become a flaming wreck long before that crash.
-
“Vic.” Larry stood in the doorway, nervously. “Hey.”
“Hey, Larry.” Vic turned to give him a wave. “What’s up?”
“Well. I. Uh.” Larry paused. This was terrifying. “You know- computers and stuff, right?”
“Uh- yeah! What do you need?” Vic looks at him for a moment. He really didn’t mind helping everyone with modern technology! He just never really realized how old everyone was until he was explaining to Larry how color TVs worked- or that cocaine was not a viable medicine anymore to Rita.
“I. Want to meet people.” He held up his phone. “I don’t. Know how.”
“Oh. Where did you get that phone?”
“Rita said I could borrow it.”
“...Okay. What do you want me to do?” Vic hasn’t dated since he was in high school. What was Larry expecting from him?
“Cliff said there are apps for it. For men. Meeting. Other. Men.” Larry is gritting his teeth. “You know computers. I want to. Download one.”
“Oh. Oh! I can help you with that. To an extent.” Vic clarified. “I’ll only help you set up and show you how to use it- the chatting is up to you.”
“Okay.” Larry handed him the phone.
“What are you after? There’s apps for metahumans, and gay people- I’m pretty sure there’s one for veterans-”
“Well. I guess I’d need. The metahuman one. Since they’d need. Some kind of.” He held up his hands. “Immunity.”
“Right.” Vic did not like that implication. “Does Rita know you want to hook up with guys through her phone?”
“Yes. She helped me prepare for this conversation.” Larry shuffled his feet nervously. “It. Did not work. Still awkward.”
“You two are close. Okay- so I downloaded an app called Metameet- it’s mainly for metahumans but there’s an option for gay members. You’re- what, 95? So I already set your username as larrytrainor. That’s usually what- people around your age do.”
“I’m 92. Though the accident was when I was 30-something.”
“Okay. I’ll put that as your age. And. Probably mention that you’re immortal.”
“No. Wait.” Larry put his hand on Vic’s shoulder. “Don’t put that I’m gay. Please.”
“Larry, it’ll say you’re a man seeking a man either way.”
“I know. I just- I can’t be gay. I can’t.” He nearly gagged on the word both times. Vic only looked at him.
“...Okay.” He hit the backspace button. “What’s your problem with it?”
Larry froze. Over the past month he’s had to explain this- five times? “Uh. I.” Fuck. Fuck! He doesn’t deserve this. “It’s just not allowed. I’m not- I’m not supposed to be- into men.”
“You know that’s not true, right?” Vic gave him a confused look. “You… are allowed to be gay, Larry.”
“It’s not like that. I-” He breathed in. “I guess you’re a little too young to really get it.”
“Try me.”
“In the 30s and 40s when I was a kid- it wasn’t- legal. To like. Others. Of the same sex.”
“Yeah?”
“Everyone was really religious, too. So. As hard as I tried to hide it- my parents eventually figured it out. I was 11. After that it just-” He paused. Vic nodded.
“Oh. We learned about that in history in high school.”
“Yeah. It was pretty common for parents to try and beat it out of us.” He paused. “Didn’t work.”
“I’m sorry about that.” Vic started-
“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter, now.”
“Okay.” A pause. “I’m going to put ‘radiation immunity’ as a must.”
“That’s a good idea.” Another pause.
“Can I ask…?”
“Ask what?”
“How did you meet him?”
Larry went silent for a minute, and Vic was scared he made him sad again, somehow.
“We were in the same squadron.” He started slowly, remembering. “He wasn’t my first, honestly- but he was the- he was the one I really loved. I- honestly? If it wasn’t- literally illegal- and I was already married- I probably would have-” He stopped. He never said that out loud.
“That’s. That’s rough, Larry.” He stopped to think. “You can do that now, you know.”
“Yeah. I think- I think that’s why I’m doing this.” A pause.
“I think I’m ready to live the way I always wanted to.”
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Night of the Living Dead (1968)
“They’re coming to get you, Barbra.”
When the bodies of the recently deceased begin coming back to life to try and kill and eat the living, a group of strangers take refuge inside an empty rural home.
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Fright: 1.7 / 5 Barbras
For me the most unsettling moments of fright are near the beginning when the attacks first start occurring. Sure, packs of the undead banging on your door is a creepy idea, but the potential for some stranger to suddenly attack you is just so much more real.
I feel like this was probably a very frightening movie when it came out, but time has dulled its blade a bit. For devotees of the genre Night of the Living Dead probably doesn’t even cause a blip on their fear radar. But for less desensitized viewers I think it probably walks a nice line between being spooky enough to creep you out a little, but tame and dated enough that it won’t keep you up all night.
It’s easy to look back on this one and not remember any big scares. But that’s probably just because the movie isn’t really into big scares. It prefers to charge the atmosphere of a scene with spooky tension. Who will live? Who will die? What’s going to happen next?
Gore: 2.3 / 5 Butcher Counter Scraps
This one is tough to measure. Old school gore gore rarely measures up to modern standards, and the whole movie is in black & white (which always makes things seem a little less visceral to me). So by modern zombie movie standards this one is pretty tame.
On one hand there certainly is a bit of gore, but on the other hand it is generally used to suggest that something rather gruesome occurred instead of actually showing it happening.
For instance, they never show anyone getting bit or pulled apart or anything like that. But they do imply that such things have happened and then show the ghouls eating “human flesh.” Yet it’s pretty obvious to an adult viewer that the actors are just creepily munching on a prop arm or some meaty bit acquired from a butcher shop.
There’s also a couple of quick shots of a slightly decomposed skull.
For the most part the only gruesome things you actually see being done to people are things like getting shot or stabbed.
Jump Scares: Very few
There are a couple of potential startle moments, but they are a bit tame by today’s standards. I didn’t notice any really aggressive jump scares to speak of.
Review:
Night of the Living Dead is a film that goes beyond the confines of its spooky premise to work as a powerful metaphor for its time. While its depiction of women is unfortunately quite bland, the way it deals with race is incredibly interesting. It’s a movie that delights in creating tension more so than going for aggressive scares. While certainly tame compared to modern zombie films, it remains a really fun movie that establishes the heart of a Romero-style zombie movie: a group of survivors who are forced to question whether the real terror is being alone outside with the zombies or inside together with the other survivors.
Thoughts:
Ah, Night of the Living Dead, one of those cinematic classics that everyone has at least heard of even if they’ve never seen.
Is it just me or is anyone else always wary of “classics?” So many of them turn out to be quite boring, or dated, or—worst of all—problematic. And sure, they might have made a big impact on the field, but that doesn’t mean they’re inherently great art, especially decades down the line.
And yet sometimes you’ll watch a so-called Classic and you totally get it.
Oh! Yes, this is why everyone keeps talking about this one.
One of my favorite things about the Horror genre is that so much of it is built up from a foundation of independent works and passion projects. And so much about what makes this movie a classic is because it was made by a bunch of film nerds who just wanted to make a movie. The only limitation placed on them was the scope of their imagination and the confines of their budget.
And that is exactly what allowed it to work outside the usual studio box and synthesize something new.
Here is a movie that has lots of gore (unusual for the time), was shot in black and white (also quite unusual for the time), and it cast a handsome black man as the main character and definitive hero of the movie (very unusual for the time).
Now keep in mind that movie was made in late 1960s America! A time where institutionalized racism was clashing against the force of a powerfully determined and ever-growing civil rights movement. To see a black man being portrayed as the hero—let alone one who heroically fights against white bodies—was almost unheard of in the cinematic pop-culture of the time.
Romero has said that his script hadn’t called for a black man to be cast in the role of Ben, but Duane Jones was chosen for the role simply because his audition had been the best. And while it’s easy to believe that Duane Jones aced that audition (because he’s friggin’ phenomenal in this movie), it’s hard to imagine that they would have even considered casting a white dude in the role. If they had gone that route it would have fundamentally changed the nature of the story (which is just a nice way of saying that it would have ruined everything).
But luckily for us the creators were open-minded enough to cast the role without race in mind. And because of that Night of the Living Dead was able to (inadvertently) tap into the energy of its time. It’s charged with this backlash against American racism. Ben is literally surrounded by white people that want him dead. They either want to ignore his humanity and simply consume him, like the hordes of ghouls do, or they want him dead for threatening the status quo (like Mr. Cooper does inside the house). And in spite of everything he still sticks his neck out to protect the people around him.
In spite of how well it’s held up over the years, for a modern audience one part hasn’t aged especially well: its depictions of women. Now don’t get me wrong, it never goes for the overt sexism that many horror movies manage to. And yet its female characters still manage to be the most bland characters in the film.
The lack of depth is on full display in their depiction of the film leading lady: Barbra. She starts out well enough, but for the vast, vast majority of the movie she is reduced to a hollow character. She is near catatonic most of the time and even when she’s lucid she tends to just ramble on, only partially aware of reality.
If that wasn’t bad enough there are only 3 other women in the movie and their characters almost never step outside the frameworks of The Wife, The Girlfriend, and The Daughter. All the female characters seem to exist only to add depth to the male characters who are the actual movers and shakers of the movie.
(Although in her defense I will say that Mrs. Cooper’s occasional scathing remark to her idiot husband are highly enjoyable.)
The first time I saw this film was in high school and I had heard it hyped up so much that I ended up thinking it was all a bit silly when I first saw it. While I’m sure it was more shocking to see during its time, by today’s standards it is a rather quiet movie. But when I ended up giving it another try, I found that the quietness is one of my favorite things about it.
One of the little details I love is how they use cricket sounds throughout the movie. In spite of all the horror and death we witness, nature continues unabated. It’s as if to say the world doesn’t care about these people’s situation. That little sound that evokes quiet peaceful summer nights is twisted here and it adds this brilliant extra layer of creepiness.
One of the things I’ve always loved about Romero’s zombie movies is that they are always focused on the survivors, not the zombies. The ghouls are slow and stumbling, their only real threat is if they catch you unaware or you let them overpower you with their numbers. The real source of danger is always shown to be the people you’re locked up with.
After all, in these modern times what is more frightening: the masses pounding on your gates or the people you find yourself locked in with?
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Content warnings: I didn’t notice anything particularly triggering in this one, but let me know if I missed something!
After-credits Scene?: None.
—————————————
Directed by: George A. Romero
Written by: John Russo & George Romero
Country of Origin: USA
Language: English
Setting: Butler County, Pennsylvania, USA
Sequel: Dawn of the Dead (1978)
If you liked this you might also like: Dawn of the Dead (1978), Day of the Dead (1985), The Last Man on Earth (1964), Shaun of the Dead (2004)
—————————————
Context Corner:
Night of the Living Dead may be the great grand-daddy of the modern zombie movie, but many might not know that plenty of zombie movies existed long before it was ever made. The first zombie movie being the 1932 film White Zombie starring Bela Lugosi as an evil witch doctor named Murder Legendre [100% serious. That really was his name].
However, these original zombie movies were very different things from what we consider zombies today. These pre-NotLD films were generally based around second-hand ideas of zombies as seen in Haitian folklore (and misattributed to the religion of voodoo). They featured dead bodies that were reanimated as mindless tools of their master or living people put into a zombie-like trance, not autonomous creatures on the hunt for living flesh.
The closest precursor to Romero’s vision of zombies was seen in the fantastic film The Last Man on Earth, a 1964 picture starring Vincent Price and based on the novel I Am Legend by Richard Matheson. There a plague sweeps across the country and the infected dead return to life as a type of vampire-esque zombies.
Fun Fact: In spite of its influence on the zombie genre the word “zombie” is never used in Night of the Living Dead. The undead are referred to only as “ghouls.”
—————————————
“So long as this situation remains, government spokesmen warn that dead bodies will continue to be transformed into the flesh-eating ghouls. All persons who die during this crisis, from whatever cause, will come back to life to seek human victims.”
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Just a little TED talk
Last school year in the spring my English teacher presented our class with a challenge: Create a TED talk about something you’re passionate about. It seems easy, right? Well. For me, it wasn't. I knew immediately that I wanted to talk about the issues LGBT youth face, but I didn't know how. I’ve gotten so much hate for my orientation and identity that, even with the things I’m publically out and proud with, I live in constant fear of ridicule and hate. Let me tell you, this is no way to live. Eventually, though, I figured it out. Religion. I just knew my TED talk project had to involve religion.
At the time my mother was using religion against me in many ways and shaming me for my choices. I was facing a lot of subtle hates at school and I just knew I wasn't the only one. The more I thought about it though, the more I realized that, at least with the kids my age, it was mostly because they simply didn't know! So just like that, I had my topic - my purpose. Educate the other youth of my school and motivate them to do better, and stand up against hate of all kinds.
Don't get me wrong, I was still scared out of my mind. I’d been called out in that very class a few times for my LGBT involvement, but somehow this desire, this need to make the world a better place for other LGBT youth took over, even if it was in the smallest way. The words to my script just... flowed out of me. I knew what I needed to say and how to say it. At first, I wasn't even planning on using my own experiences, but without them, the talk felt empty - like I was speaking from a detached point of view.
Soon enough, the day came to submit our talks via video, but for me that just... Didn't feel right. For some reason, I felt like my teacher needed to hear it in person. So I asked if instead, I could come present to her directly before school. She said yes, so two days later I did. I showed up to school early on the day of a funeral for the man who had appointed himself my grandpa the moment he found out the way one of my others treated me.
I literally gave my talk in funeral clothes.
by the end, my teacher was crying. The tears weren't just in her eyes the way some teachers get during certain presentations, but actually falling down her cheeks.
I hadn't realized how powerful my message could be yet, and had actually recently started to doubt it due to the reactions of a few strangers when I practiced giving it to my friends on a train. She said I should still make a video, post it to youtube or something. I considered it, really I did. but doubtful thoughts started to creep into my mind. Was it really a message people needed to hear? Was I the right one to give it?
I hit a really rough patch of my life, and I went to a really dark place. Most days I’m still there. Floating scared and lonely in the dark. I’d found out the world could be even darker than I’d ever thought possible and lost all hope of finding a light. The only reason I didn't end it all was that there were two people I knew it would crush. My best friend in the entire world who told me daily I wasn't allowed to leave them like that, and my significant other.
I have a story. I’ve considered writing about it, but it's dark and lonely. Full of pain no one ever had the courage to see. I finally came forward about it. Literally begged for help. No one who could help listened. No one listened could help.
”Where’s your proof?”
That’s the question they always ask.
That’s the question that always sends me back to the dark place.
So, I never felt the motivation to go forward with it. Get my talk out there into the world. I lost track of the light beside the glowing individual that, once in a while, was able to grab my hand and drag me to it like a horse to water. They still have to do that to be honest.
They’re there though. They haven't left. Haven't asked for proof. Took my words as enough.
They helped me find other people too, little lights in my life who I know are just as bright in the world, who I love dearly even if they don't break my darkness apart in the same way.
I don't really know why I’m going on like this. Like I said with the talk, sometimes the words just come and before I know it I’ve regurgitated pages of them. Often having to delete paragraphs and paragraphs, most of which I feel are just as important to my point. I did that here too. You probably can't tell.
Point is, yesterday I saw something that led me to a little trail of light. Gave me a little trickle of hope...
Graffiti in a bathroom stall.
It’s unclear what came first, or second or third or fourth even, but it is clear what the little conversation was. I took a picture of it, weird I know, but it really struck me. Someone at one point wrote something about “fags.” I’m not sure what, it's partially scribbled over. But around that? Several messages in different handwritings defending the LGBT community. One of them stating, “Wow, Imagine still being homophobic in 2019,” another “You lookin like a clown.” Seeing these silly words marked into the stall I nearly cried. It gave me a light to hang to, weirdly enough, even if it only lasted until I once again reached home and thus my biggest tormentor.
Then, tonight, when I was looking at pictures on my phone, looking for a light to save me from the dark place for just a small while, I saw the picture. I scrolled through youtube and saw “In a heartbeat” recommended to watch again.
I was struck once again and felt a need to get my words out there too. To let someone, anyone, know that they aren't alone.
Give someone that trickle of light.
So, without further ado... the script to my TED talk:
Man, I wish homophobia was a real thing…. Like, obviously the thing the word is used to represent is there - the blatant hate and discrimination towards the LGBT community - but phobia implies a fear. For example, the fear of heights (acrophobia) the fear of spiders (arachnophobia) or the fear of snakes (ophidiophobia). Can you imagine if people went around saying things like “blackphobia” and “womanphobia” instead of racist and sexist? Absolute chaos would ensue. People would have a meltdown. This is because, in this modern-day, people know that these things aren’t fear, they are an intolerance. So, by using the word “homophobia” it gives people the ability to rationalize their hate in the name of being afraid. as religions do.
This is what we, as the up and coming generation, need to change. We can help get rid of this hate and discrimination by referring to it as such. By calling it as it is - intolerance.
One extreme example of an organization that uses fear as a guise for their discrimination is the Westboro Baptist Church. They’re so hateful they’ve become somewhat of a joke to many in the LGBT community. *miles* Their website is literally “godhatesfags.com” and when any person dares to say this may be hateful, the church replies by simply saying “Gospel preaching is not hate.” Can you see where I’m going with this?
No, not every religion is as blatantly hateful as this one, their hate is often more subtle - at least to people it’s not directed towards. Living in Utah as an out pansexual teen I’ve been on the receiving end of this hate, even from some of my closest friends. And this isn’t their fault! They’ve been raised in such a way they don’t even realize they’re doing it. Most people are blissfully unaware of the ways LGBT youth are discriminated against every single day, so let me explain.
One of my best friends, who I will keep anonymous, said one of the most hateful things I’ve ever taken to heart just this last fall. We were skipping a church class and sitting outside when we somehow stumbled onto the topic of marriage. I mentioned that it didn’t seem fair that LGBT people couldn’t get married in the temple. Her response was “Well, I think it shouldn’t be allowed. Gay people are fine, but forcing us to allow them to marry in the temple takes away our freedom of religion.”
And, I guess that’s what everyone is so afraid of. Their rights and freedoms being taken away in exchange for ours. But as a wise person once said, “More rights for me doesn’t mean less rights for you! It’s not pie!”
I ask you to think real quickly - excuse my language - how many times has someone told you to “Burn in hell” or told you that if you don’t change your ways it’s unavoidable. I’ll give you a second to count. _______________. Now, you probably only used one hand right?
I ran out of hands to count on within a week of coming out - and I only counted people, not the number of times. To this day I get told this phrase or some variation at least once a week.
Now, let me talk about school and bullying. I have a very specific story with this, but rest fully assured it’s not even close to being the only one, or the worst one. Just a couple weeks ago I was walking through the hall and got stopped by some kid I don’t even know, just so he could call me a “faggie.” I don’t know if you know the history of the word “fag,” but basically when the whole thing with witches trials was going on, people also burned LGBT people. However, they didn’t think them “worthy” to be burned on the stake, so they threw them in with the leftover broken sticks known as “fags.” So, as you can imagine, being called that is quite hurtful. I went right to one of my friends and explained what happened, and they misheard and thought I said the kid called me “fattie.” They immediately freaked and explained that I wasn’t fat, that the kid was stupid, etc. etc. When I explained that he had, in fact, insulted me for being gay and not for being fat her attitude completely changed. She basically shrugged me off and told me not to be dramatic.
That’s what everyone does, isn’t it? If it’s something we know a person shouldn’t be bullied for - like hair color, how fat or skinny they are, their acne - the bully is reprimanded. As they should be. But when a student goes to complain about bullying or exclusion over being gay or trans, adults often respond with “Well, have you tried…. Not being gay?” I was literally called an abomination in front of a teacher…. And they did nothing!
Now, if my stories alone don’t convince you that this is a real problem let me show you the facts of suicide. According to Utah Health Officials, quote “Among Utah youth aged 10-17 who died by suicide during 2011-2015 with circumstantial data...Of the 40 cases that included information on the decedent's sexual orientation, 15% were identified as sexual minorities.” Close quote. That isn’t even counting how many were closeted, or Trans. Then besides that, this research on suicide and the causes is hard to conduct, because, simply put, the dead can’t speak for themselves. “if the rate isn't zero we have work to do”
A study at the University of Georgia about a year ago showed that 70% of LGBT Mormons met the criteria for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Yeah. From a church that supposedly promotes love. “we are inflicting trauma on out queer youth by asking and requiring them to go to church”
Now, to fix this problem, nothing huge or drastic even has to happen, at least for the first few steps. And I’m definitely not saying to stop believing in your church. religion is wonderful. I'm just asking you to follow a little less blindly. Like I said, we are the up and coming generation! We have the power to change the world in the palm of our hands! We often just don’t realize it because the people in power in this world tend to take all the control they can, and we just let them! So, let’s take it back. Let’s take that power and use it. Start by simply paying attention to what you say. Don’t rationalize something hateful that you say, either out loud or in your head, by using religion as your excuse. And, if you hear someone else saying something hateful, step in. Do you know how many lives could actually be saved if all of us just made an effort to watch our words?
#lgbt#lgbt rights#lgbt youth#hope#hope speaks#love#love is love#hate#fear#hate vs fear#my words#words#the power of words#ted talk#ted talks#education#information#my story#power#project#light#light the world#season of giving#season of hope#season of love#religion#word vomit#give love not hate#never give up#life
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regulus- 1, 3, 9, 20, 21, 24, 30, 37, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45
Does your character have siblings or family members in their age group? Which one are they closest with?
he and sirius were very close when they were younger, and regulus idolized his older brother, but as they grew up, they grew apart. beliefs varied, differences became prevalent, and then sirius left him to fend for himself. once sirius was gone, regulus grew closer to his cousin evan, who although was not as outspoken about his views as the other black cousins, understood the pressure that regulus was going through. he also found some support in rabastan lestrange, who was older and very quiet but loyal nonetheless. in the long run, evan and rabastan were the closest thing to friends that he had, and even as regulus’s belief in voldemort’s claim began to dissipate, they remained tight knit, more so because evan had always had his doubts although for different reasons and rabastan was much more focused on what he got out of the gig rather than what the goal was.
What is/was your character’s relationship with their father like?
regulus’s relationship with his father had always been hot and cold. he was a mama’s boy for the most part, but he did see his father as noble if nothing else. he didn’t particularly hate him, but due to his mother’s views, he tended to see his father as weaker than the rest of the family, with less of a spine. nevertheless, they did have decent moments in one another’s company, and orion was attentive if nothing else. but regulus would always hold some regret about how both of his parents treated sirius.
Is your character’s current socioeconomic status different than it was when they were growing up?
in his main verse, no. he lives and dies a rich heir to the house of black. in his au verse where he fakes his death and lives, it definitely does differ. while he saved up quite a bit of gold, siphoning a good amount from his mother throughout his school years and beyond, he is no longer living in the excessive comforts provided to an heir. once his mother dies, more of that comfort is stripped from him, and he finds himself making a modest living. be that as it may, he would say he’s more happy away from the pressures of wealth and prestige.
In what ways does your character compare themselves to others? Do they do this for the sake of self-validation, or self-criticism?
in regards to people such as sirius, bellatrix, rodolphus, mulciber etc., it is definitely in the name self criticism. he doesn’t see himself as strong as he sees them. he doesn’t believe he will ever have the command that rod does or the brutality that mulciber wields or the courage that his brother has. and in some aspects, that weakens him because he lives in a society where you literally do nothing but compare yourselves to others in a light that screams validation, and here he is being self deprecating. he simply doesn’t have the will to be anything like any of them. he isn’t his brother, and he isn’t his cousins/ allies/ etc. he is cut from a different cloth altogether, and it’s difficult to admit that to himself when he’s trying so very hard to fit in. in matters of self-validation however, that always comes at the expense of muggles and muggleborns and anyone of tainted blood.
If something tragic or negative happens to your character, do they believe they may have caused or deserved it, or are they quick to blame others?
regulus is always quick to blame someone else for any mishaps or hardships. he doesn’t believe himself to deserve any sort of blame or responsibility for so many things, blaming it either on his age or his upbringing or the people around him directly. trust though, if something is another person’s fault, he will make sure they know it several times over, and if it is ever his fault, he always has a scapegoat lined up. many times, he even expects it. for a long time, sirius was the scapegoat, and that was at the elder’s insistence. sirius was constantly taking the blame for things he didn’t do if only to spare regulus, and regulus grew into the habit of just passing it off to other people. quiet as he is, he is quite strategic, and it was easy for him to find someone to utilize.
How quick is your character to trust someone else?
he doesn’t much trust anyone. it took him years to trust evan, and they practically grew up together. he still doesn’t completely trust bella, and he would never entrust anyone else with his secrets. he does, to the greatest extent he is capable, trust narcissa, evan, rodolphus, and rabastan though because he believes them to be noble in that regard. he knows what kind of people they are, and he’s a good judge of character. they are probably the only ones he ever trusted, especially after sirius’s betrayal.
What does your character find repulsive or disgusting?
other than muggleborns, he doesn’t like double standards. he likes things to be uniform and immovable. he hates exceptions, and he is wary of the halfbloods allowed to in the midst of his society. he is very protective of his legacy, and he despises anything that would imply otherwise, meaning he doesn’t make exceptions. in the end, not even voldemort remained one.
Is your character more concerned with defending their honor, or protecting their status?
in the beginning, regulus only cared about his status. he went along with joining the death eaters and taking his mark young because he wanted to solidify his place among the elite whilst also pledging his allegiance to a unified cause. of course, he learned a lot of damning information about his leader and realized that the movement was nothing he thought it to be. in the end, he decided that defending his honor was much more important, and although it may have costed him his life, he could say that he rose up against hypocrisy and maintained who he was to the end. he only cared for his family, and he if he could protect them as well as remain true to himself and his beliefs, he was content.
How does your character treat people in service jobs?
it would depend on the person really. he’s good to his house elf because he knows his house elf will be good to him in return. but most people, he sees as one of two things, players or possessions. they are either ally or foe, of they are something to be utilized. he knows that sometimes being kind will get him further than being mean, and so he adjusts as necessary.
Does your character feel that they deserve to have what they want, whether it be material or abstract, or do they feel they must earn it first?
regulus definitely believes he deserves everything under the sun and then the sun itself. he thinks that simply by being who he is, he has earned everything worth earning, and it should be handed over to him on instinct.
Has your character ever had a parental figure who was not related to them?
rodolphus is definitely someone that regulus looked up to early on. what with rod being substantially older, a hell of a lot wiser, and very protective of his family —both by blood and by law— it was easy for regulus to create a bond with him. although rod was known to be callous and cold, he took regulus under his wing early on, understanding that he was an integral part of their family but also knowing that regulus was a lot like rabastan in the way that they had both been overshadowed at a young age. the difference was that now regulus had been shoved to the front of the line with little guidance and a lot of unease. regulus always looked up to him, and regulus trusts him although in a way that differs from how he trusts evan or narcissa. he would never share his deepest fears with rodolphus, and he would never speak ill of the dark lord in his presence, but he loves the man and knows that he would never lead regulus astray. he’s blatantly honest, and regulus could always appreciate it, but he also knew that rod was one of voldemort’s most trusted, and he idolized his ability to become so.
Has your character ever had a dependent figure who was not related to them?
unless you count barty when he drinks too damn much then no, no he has not.
How easy or difficult is it for your character to say “I love you?” Can they say it without meaning it?
regulus has probably never uttered the words to anyone but his mother, and even that is few and far between. he doesn’t care much for words. if he loves you, you will know, and he will never have to tell you. if you need to hear him say it, he probably doesn’t love you at all.
What does your character believe will happen to them after they die? Does this belief scare them?
regulus doesn’t believe in any sort of afterlife or reincarnation or anything like that. he doesn’t quite believe in much of anything as far as religion goes either, so he just believes that people are returned to the dirt and that’s that. he isn’t eager to find out, but he wouldn’t say that he was afraid. sure, when he first joins the death eaters, he does have a bit of fear about it. he’s a kid thrust into an army with a cause that he’s expected to die for, and so yeah, that stirs some terror, but it doesn’t last long. he isn’t afraid to die. he’s just afraid of wasting his life on something that did not deserve that sacrifice.
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Bi, Bi, Bi: Bisexual Invisibility in the Philippines
by Jessica Alviz
History and Background
Bi Flags at the NYC Pride March from Medium
In this more progressive world, people are increasingly letting go of traditionalist views and accepting that the world is not in black and white: Caucasians are no longer deemed as the superior race, it is now relatively acceptable for boys to wear skirts and makeup, and girls who like girls and boys who like boys? Completely normal. However, the world isn’t as pleasant for those who like both. Until today, bisexual erasure and invisibility remains a problem. Bisexual erasure is when “the existence or legitimacy of bisexuality (either in general or in regard to an individual) is questioned or denied outright” (GLAAD, 2014). Bisexuals have described their experience as being neither here nor there, as they are attracted to more than one gender. Others—whether they are heterosexual or from the LGBTQ+ community themselves—have thought that bisexuals are either not straight enough to be gay, or not gay enough to be straight. A bisexual has narrated about this cognitive dissonance in Bisexual Blues (Hase, 2005) stating that she finds it easier to define her sexuality through the people that she dates, and because she is dating a man, she feels as if she does not belong in the LGBTQ+ community, because she is deemed as “straight.” She mentioned that she “feels as though she has to exchange an entire community to be with one person.” Furthermore, bisexuality is commonly described as a “phase” for people before fully discovering that they are actually either gay or lesbian (San Francisco Human Rights Commission, 2011). Some even believe that bisexuals are actually just heterosexuals who are experimenting with their sexuality (Serano, 2010).
The marginalization of bisexuals within the LGBTQ+ community is not new: during the first LGBTQ+ movements, bisexuals were excluded because they were being accused of “reinforcing the gender binary” (Serano, 2010). Serano states that this discrimination is not surprising. Because bisexuals can be attracted to the opposite gender, homosexuals find the existence of bisexuals threatening to their own identity. This is due to the heteronormative notion of homosexuality being phase and the notion that homosexuals can become straight if they try. This also explains why bisexuals are accepted only conditionally in the LGBTQ+ community. For instance, if a bisexual man is in a relationship with another man, he is included in the community. However, once that bisexual man dates a woman, especially if this woman is cisgender (identifies as the gender they were assigned to at birth), the man would be ostracized and marginalized.
Philippine Context
Although the LGBTQ+ community is slowly getting more recognition in the country, bisexuals remain invisible. This is most probably due to the following reasons: first, majority of Filipinos hold traditional and conservative views rooted in the teachings of the Catholic Church. Second, the Philippines has its own cultural perceptions about the LGBTQ+ community.
Homophobia is not as widespread or intense as one would expect of a predominantly Catholic country. However, Christian views on homosexuality remain almost adamant. After all, in theory, Catholics believe that following the Church’s teachings is key to being a good member of their religion, and the Church portrays homosexuality as something immoral. Sharing the Bible’s heteronormative outlook and existing gender order, the Church views homosexuality as an ethical concern, a medical condition, and/or a sexual misidentity (Joaquin, 2014). Though homosexuals are not outright excommunicated from the Church, they are discouraged from acting on their homosexual desires. Homosexuality is treated as something that needs to be corrected or cured, and the Church uses prayers, sacraments, celibacy, and guilt in order to “fix” a person’s homosexuality. And because bisexuality, in simplest terms, can be understood as being straight and gay at the same time, of course believers of the Catholic Church would urge bisexuals to “turn” heterosexual.
Vice Ganda from ABS-CBN
With the Church’s dominant ideologies of heteronormativity, as well as the Western dichotomous view on gender and sexuality brought about by the Spaniards (de Jong, 2017), there is a good amount of cultural shame linked to being homosexual in the Philippines. In the first place, there are no Filipino terms for “sexuality,” nor categories for sexual orientation (Ceperiano, Santos Jr., Alonzo, & Ofreneo, 2016). There are only street words--which might even be considered as derogatory--to describe such categories, because homosexuality is not talked about at all (Joaquin, 2014). Furthermore, the concepts of sexuality and gender are merged. While the Westerners’ concept of a gay man is a man who is sexually attracted to other men, it is not quite the same for Filipinos. In the Philippines, the closest local term for “gay” is bakla, which is an effeminate man attracted to other men (de Jong, 2017). The bakla is even often described as “having a woman’s heart stuck in a man’s body,” a representation much closer to the Western concept of a transgender rather than a gay man. The concept of bakla is also heavily attached to certain stereotypes, most of which come from mainstream media (Justiniani & Sierras, 2015). Typically, the bakla is portrayed as a man who dresses and acts like a woman, a flamboyant and theatrical man, or comic relief. This entertainment factor of a bakla--seen also in the most prominent bakla figure in the Philippines, comedian Vice Ganda--is perhaps one of the reasons why they are tolerated in the society.
The Philippine concept of a lesbian is also mixed with gender expression. The local term for this is tomboy, which, from the name itself, is also attached to the image of a masculine woman (Tiempo, n.d.). A tomboy is characterized by being boyish, tough, and manly, with cross-dressing as a major feature of their personality. Compared to the bakla, they are not as present in Philippine media.
Butch (Masculine Lesbian) and Femme (Feminine Lesbian) Wedding Picture from Pinterest
Given these, the only Philippine concepts for gays and lesbians are stereotypes. Once they act outside of these societal expectations, they are not considered socially acceptable. This is also possibly due to the heteronormative beliefs that the country has. Heteronormativity is the concept in which heterosexuality is the norm and homosexuality is deviant (Joaquin, 2014). To justify homosexual relationships, the Philippines has attached gender to sexuality. This enables homosexual relationships to fit into a heteronormative standard: because the bakla is effeminate, and the tomboy is masculine, the concept of a man and a woman in a relationship still exists if the bakla or tomboy’s partner is of the opposite gender expression.
Since Philippine homosexuals are subjected to this stereotyping, it is only natural for those that lie in between the homo-hetero spectrum to be the same. The Philippines already has misconceptions about homosexuals themselves--what more for bisexuals, those who love both? They have no concept of this at all, evident in how there is general confusion about who Filipinos perceive as bisexual (Tan, 1996). Sometimes, gay men identify as bisexual even though they are only attracted to men to indicate that they are the “straight-acting” type of gay. Bisexuality is not a concept written into Filipino language and culture. An example of bi-invisibility is in the following passage:
Sam (24 years old, F): Sam’s mother, upon hearing about how her boyfriend sexually abused Sam, told Sam that her boyfriend would not harass a “lesbian” like Sam even though Sam explicitly came out to her as bisexual. Sam’s friends also ask her questions like “Why can’t [you] just date a guy” and “Why can’t [you] just date a girl?” (International Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Commission, 2015), implying that they only consider “lesbian” and “straight” as the legitimate sexual orientations.
There is also a lack of research about bisexuals in the Philippines, as seen in how there is a lack of data and respondents in interviews (Rainbow Rights Project, 2014). Available research is primarily about gays or lesbians. To make up for the lack of available research, short interviews were conducted with teenage Filipino bisexuals. The questions in the interview mainly focused on perceptions about being bisexual, bisexual acceptance, and bisexual visibility.
Several of the respondents mentioned that there have been times when their bisexuality was accused of being a phase, or otherwise an illegitimate sexuality. A participant said that when she came out to her peers, they did not believe her at first, as she had only ever talked about her male crushes around them. They even accused her of only calling herself bisexual for the sake of being trendy, as she mentioned her sexuality when “coming out videos” were popular. Another participant, who came from an all-girls high school, mentioned that when she talked about her female crushes, her friends would merely laugh along but insist that it was merely a phase and that she would become more attracted to men in college.
A respondent mentioned that due to the notion of bisexuality being a phase, she herself found it difficult to accept her sexuality:
My acceptance of my bisexuality was difficult because I feared it would mean that my identity up until that point would be rendered invalid. So in the past, when people were doubtful about my sexuality, it was because people didn’t think I was gay, and it made me very conflicted because I had a feeling they were somewhat right. Deep inside, I still feel like it’s a bit of a loss that I accepted being bisexual, and that currently I’m dating a guy. But I always tell myself that my sexuality is a part of a spectrum, and that I don’t have to prove myself to anyone. I understand my sexuality, and that is enough.
Again, it can be seen that there is cognitive dissonance: this bisexual is defining her sexuality through external factors, i.e. the person that she is currently attracted to at the time. There is confusion because of the false sexuality binary that was socially constructed by people, leading them to believe that one can only either be gay or straight.
As for the visibility of bisexuality in general, the respondents agree that it is not acknowledged much. One respondent mentioned that most people are skeptical about bisexuality, often saying that it is not a legitimate sexual orientation and that bisexuals are merely “confused” about their “real” sexuality. Another participant said that she feels that bisexuals are not represented enough in media--the LGBTQ+ community in general is underrepresented, but she mentions that compared to the more “definite” sexualities of gays and lesbians, bisexuals are barely seen on television and film. A third respondent lamented the extreme underrepresentation of bisexuals. She said that even in a school as liberal as the University of the Philippines, being heterosexual is the norm (it is a co-ed school after all). She also mentioned the situation of the LGBTQ+ people: “If people are gay, they either represent a spectacle or the movement. There’s no in-between region for bisexual people, we’re not defined by a certain institution [and] not even by a stereotype.”
The participants had differing views about the situation of bisexuals in the Philippines. When asked if bisexuality is accepted or at least acknowledged in the Philippines, a respondent mentioned that it is acknowledged but not accepted. She blames on the patriarchal and traditionalist values that majority of the country hold. Another participant agreed with this, saying that it is not accepted, though she says this is mostly due to Catholicism. She also said that it is mostly the older generations that do not tolerate it; most of the youth are more accepting towards bisexuality, which she correlates with awareness gained from social media as well as general open-mindedness. A third also shares this sentiment, saying that acceptance of the LGBTQ+ community in general is conditional: “ I have noticed the trend wherein we need to be beneficial for straight people for them to accept us. Our LGBT members to compensate more by being funny or being the fun friend.” This is in line with the aforementioned “entertainment factor” that is promoted by Vice Ganda.
One participant, however, says that bisexuality is not acknowledged at all: bisexuality is hardly a topic even in gay organizations, and bisexual representation in pride marches is minimal. She says that in general, people are unable to comprehend bisexuality, as they believe that it is merely a sexuality used as a label for justifying promiscuity. Another respondent echoes this:
Bisexuality is not entirely accepted. In my opinion, many don’t even understand what it means. The culture in the Philippines towards LGBTQ+ is more tolerant than accepting, and this leads to ignorance or apathy towards the community. Here, mostly gays and lesbians are the emphasized and known orientations, and this selective knowledge begets ignorance towards the feelings towards bisexuals, which may affect one’s perceptions about validity.
youtube
Bi the way, we exist | Viet Vu from Youtube
Conclusion
The fight is not quite over yet. Despite the LGBTQ+ community's growing acceptance, they remain marginalized in society, having to fit into the expectations that Philippine culture imposes on them. Furthermore, with only the recognition and focus on gays and lesbians, the “singular” sexual orientations, other sexual preferences are left in the dark, particularly bisexuality.
Because of the heteronormative and dichotomous view on gender and sexuality, bisexuality is, if not ignored, misunderstood. It is not seen as a valid sexual orientation and is typically accused of being an excuse for promiscuity, a confused sexuality, or the stepping stone to being “fully gay.” The Philippines still has a long way to go before everyone becomes truly free. I am unsure if will be around to see it, but as someone who also loves regardless of gender, I will gladly join the fight.
References
de Jong, A. (2017, February 15). Bakla. The creation of a Philippine gay-identity. Retrieved from https://www.academia.edu/5155866/Bakla._The_creation_of_a_Philippine_gay-identity.
GLAAD. (2014, September 19). Erasure of Bisexuality. Retrieved from GLAAD: https://www.glaad.org/bisexual/bierasure
Hase, M. (2005, November-December). Bisexual Blues. Off Our Backs, pp. 18-19.
Joaquin, A. (2014). Carrying the Cross: Being Gay , Catholic , and Filipino. Sociology and Anthropology Student Union Undergraduate Journal. 1 (2014). 17-28. Retrieved from http://summit.sfu.ca/item/15203.
Justiniani, B., & Sierras, N. (2015, August 13). Has love really won? Retrieved from The Lasallian: http://thelasallian.com/2015/08/13/has-love-really-won/.
Serano, J. (2010, October 9). Bisexuality does not reinforce the gender binary. Retrieved from The Scavenger: http://www.thescavenger.net/sex-gender-sexual-diversity/glb-diversity/467-bisexuality-does-not-reinforce-the-gender-binary-39675.html.
San Francisco Human Rights Commission. (2011, March). Bisexual Invisibility: Impacts and Recommendations. Retrieved from San Francisco Human Rights: https://sf-hrc.org/Modules/ShowDocument.aspx?documentid=989
Tiempo, J.M. (n.d.) Descriptive analysis on the portrayal of gays and lesbians in Filipino films since 1985-2015. Retrieved from https://www.academia.edu/29636048/Descriptive_analysis_on_the_portrayal_of_gays_and_lesbians_in_Filipino_films_since_1985-2015.
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15/06/2017, 11:00pm.
So because it’s pride month and it’s literally everywhere (which is beautiful and I love it) I guess it has hit me harder than ever.
I think I was around 16 or 17 the first time I considered I might be not straight. I’m not very good at feelings though so I’ve never really had a crush on anyone, but I do remember watching some girls and thinking they were beautiful.
Back then, I didn’t really think anything about it. I’ve been raised in a catholic atmosphere. My parents and most of my family are catholics, I went to three different catholic schools and I even won a catholic scholarship to study in a catholic university. My parents are overprotective and though I love my grandparents, they weren’t really open minded so I can’t really blame my parents for the way they think. They were raised that way and both grew up in small towns where new and different thoughts were bizarre. I don’t share their opinions but I don’t blame them either.
Like I said, I was raised in that environment. It wasn’t until I finally moved from the town to the city that I began to think about my sexuality. Even though my parents never really told me or my siblings that being not straight was wrong, as far as I remember, they’ve been implying it for years. So when I turned 16-17 and began to notice things about girls that I was supposed to notice on guys, it freaked me out a little. It wasn’t because I was scared of being a lesbian or something other than straight, it was more the fact that I just knew my parents wouldn’t take it well.
So I decided to hide it. Like I said, I’m not good with feelings, so it wasn’t really that hard for me to hide it. I don’t get attached to people easily so it’s not like I had to sacrifice a crush or a potential relationship or anything. Instead, I just pretended that I didn’t find anyone attractive, regardless of their gender.
When I turned 16 I moved to an all girl high school (catholic, again) and I was so angry that I got enrolled there that I didn’t even try to make friends. I was pretty shit the first year if I’m being honest. I made friends my last year though. And up to this day, they’re still my closest friends. Even though I was there for two years, I didn’t really get a crush on anyone, so I thought that maybe it was just me being complicated and decided to ignore it again.
When I went to college though, things changed. I’m not really sure why, but for some reason I started to think about it again. It scared me so I decided to just ignore it and let it go. I was not dating anyone so there wasn’t really a reason to overthink it. These last two years though I have been thinking about it non stop and if I’m being honest it’s driving me insane.
I don’t have a problem with liking girls. I have, in fact, accepted it a long time ago. It wasn’t really a problem to me. I’ve always thought of people as people regardless of the way I was raised. It might be cause I spend most of my free time on the internet because I know for sure my siblings don’t share my views on lots of things. I don’t know, but I’ve never seen people as other than people, regardless of their race, sex, color, religion or anything. I just don’t care. So I didn’t have a problem with liking girls.
My parents though, that’s a completely different story. If it weren’t for the fact that I just know they wouldn’t approve of my liking girls I wouldn’t even be having this crisis. I remember reading “ those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind ” once, but the truth is, it’s not like that for me. I love my parents more than anything in this world and I just know they wouldn’t accept it. And honestly, the mere thought of losing them is enough to drive me completely insane.
Which is ridiculous, because I’m 23 and I can’t talk to my parents about something that is so important for me. The only people who know are my best friend (who was completely supportive, like I knew she’d be) and another friend I met a few years ago on twitter and who was equally supportive and amazing. Their support means everything to me because when I’m having a crisis I know I can count on them and I know they’ll make it better.
It makes me so sad that I can’t talk to my parents though. My dad is an amazing father, but he would never accept something like that. I just know he wouldn’t. I have enough reasons to know he wouldn’t. And my mom is like my other half. She is my mom and my friend and my sister and my everything, but I know I can’t tell her either. And it sucks.
It’s so hard for me that I can’t talk about this with the two most important people in my life. And it’s not like I’d rub it on their faces either. I just wish they knew. You have no idea how many times I’ve wished they knew. Every time there’s a slight mention of homosexuality I literally tense up because even though I know they don’t know, I feel like if I open my mouth, they’ll know. And the thought of them knowing scares me to death. I know they wouldn’t stop talking to me, I know they wouldn’t disown me or kick me out, but to think that they would stop looking at me the way they do now is enough to destroy me. They’ve always told me how proud they are of me for being such a good student and such a good girl and such a good daughter, and the thought of losing all of that for something like this, something that I can’t change about myself, something that shouldn’t matter to them but does because of the way they were raised, it kills me. I don’t want them to look at me and feel pity or regret or guilt. I’m not strong enough to deal with that. I’ll never be strong enough to lose my parents like that.
And it scares me because I know that if someday, for some sick joke of destiny, I fall in love with a girl, I’ll have to take a decision and either way it’s going to hurt like hell. And it sucks because as long as they don’t know, I’ll keep hearing their homophobic crap every time the matter comes up and I will feel like shit and it will shatter me but I will not have the strength to speak up because I’ll be scared that they’ll know and it sucks. It sucks so much. I feel trapped inside myself and it’s driving me mad because I can’t stop thinking about it and the more I think the more I crumble and it’s making me feel so damn hopeless.
I don’t want to lose my parents but I feel like I’m losing myself instead.
It sucks.
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