#Damn I never posted about Star rail to my tumblr? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oh-my-may · 8 months ago

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Hey there

Hi, this is my reintroduction to tumblr (kinda).

I go by May on the internet, it's some weird nickname I made of my real name and goes back to my first gamer tag on minecraft...

I'm currently 22 years of age, which sometimes makes me feel incredibly old on the internet? At the same time I seem to come across many other people my age who go through very similar struggles as me lol

I curretnly work fulltime as a waitress. I'm European so I get paid a proper wage there, and the work with my coworkers is very fun and comforting. I'm not always the biggest fan of other people, but being a people pleaser and having the ability to hide my true personality behind a "nice" facade makes my job possible and bearable. (jk aside, I really like my job)

Hobbies include:

reading (I always say that, but I barely ever pick up a book. Just spent most of my early teen years absolutely ramming through a shit ton of books. I still really enjoy reading, but I barely find the time to do it. My tbr list is endless)

gaming (I'll dip my toes into anything that's not an ego-shooter, my PS5 is one of my most treasured possessions)

watching movies (last year I dragges either my sister or one of my friends to the theaters at least once a month. Doesn't mean I'm a movie critic or anything, but I really like watching movies and I might just share some takes on it on here)

anime (just a select few, the most famous ones. Life's busy when you have a fulltime job and still have other hobbies, but I'm currently on my first watchthrough of One Piece! Will definitely post about this from time to time)

listening to music (realizing I have very basic hobbies bc my parents never urged me to pursue anything specific when I was a child, but anyway: I will listen to almost a bit of anything, but Taylor Swift and Ghost were amongst my most streamed artists on Spotify last year. Do with that info what you will)

writing. I did start with writing fanfiction, first harry potter, then boybands, then kpop, then anime. Most important to me was always my original idea though. I know many people have things like this. A few years ago I thought I'd actually go with trying to publish something. Now I have revised and rethought the whole thing. I barely write, but it's still in the back of my head all the damn time. I always think about writing, but doing the actual thing rn seems impossible.

As I'm writing this I realize how pathetic I feel doing this, beacuse I have this awful feeling no one is gonna respond and I'll end up regretting this so much that I'll delete it. Thank God the internet gives me the opportunity to be anonymous.

Anyway, the previously mentioned hobbies lead to my (current) interests that I'll most likely post about, so if you're into one or more of these things as well, let's chat!

in terms of games: Currently playing through Final Fantasy 7 Rebirth and generally FF7 is probably a huge hyperfixation of mine and has been for years. I've just arrived in Gongaga on my playthrough and I'm loving all of it. The game caters to all the expectations and interests I have in games. It's just so insanely beautiful and makes me tear up every couple hours idk

on this note I'd like to mention that I dipped my toes into FF14 but since I only play on Playstaion now, all the commands are overwhelming to me. I'm definitely planning on playing FF15 and FF16

Kinda cringe but I swear I'm normal: Genshin Impact. Have been playing since early 2021, once had a pretty unhealthy relationship to this game, but I was mentally not doing well during that time. Having a fulltime job changed my perspective on the game. Now I'm a casual enjoyer bc I love the open world and characters, and I love to get into the lore, so I might post a few theories and stuff on here

On that note: Honkai Star Rail. Same company, but it took me way longer to get into the game. Really enjoying it now though, although I am struggling with a bunch of battles. Save to say, I am NOT playing the game for the meta lol

One Piece! As mentioned, I started my watch of it last year in summer just before the Netflix live action came out (work bestie talked me into it). I'm quite literally at episode 500 rn. Had to stop for a while at around Thriller Bark bc the first few episodes didn't quite do it for me. Now I try to watch a few episodes before sleep everyday :)

Other anime that I am different levels of unhinged about: Jujutsu Kaisen, Attack on Titan, Bungou Stray Dogs, Demon Slayer. The basics, I know. Just don't have the time to watch a lot while other life stuff happens, you know. OP is the main thing rn, and until I am kinda up-to-date with that, everything else will have to wait lol

In terms of book stuff I must admit I keep going back to communities and fandoms I was a part of when I was a teen lol. This largely refers to stuff like Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugho, The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater and All for the Game by Nora Sakavic

Right now though I am more interested in reading some classics and other stuff. Read Britney Spears' biography last year (within the span of one day, I wanna add), currently I'm reading a chapter of Crime and Punishment once in a blue moon. I'd like to read more stuff like that in the future, but everything at it's time ig

Other fictional universes I was once quite unhinged about: Game of Thrones and Lord of the Rings. Both communities are kinda dead atm though. I'm still in the process of reading the books (which means I last picked them up over a year ago. But believe me, I'll get there, eventually.... someday)

In terms of music as I said I listen to almost anything. Not a lot of rap and techno, though. I like stuff with lyrics I can sing along to and feel deep within my bones. I wouldn't call myself a "fan" of any particular artist, I was very unhinged about musicians as a teen and I have learned my lesson. Now I just listen to the music without caring too much about the artist themselves. I used to really like 5 Seconds of Summer as a teen, then I moved to Kpop. Now I barely keep up with either but just listen to the stuff I did back then

I think that's basically it for now? The most important parts about myself. Stuff I like to talk about, so if you like some of this too, maybe come talk to me? I wanna get to know people here after all, and I have learned this is probably the best way to start.

I don't have many conditions for friends tbh. I'm 22, so anything between like 19 and 26 or so is fine as long as the vibes are good :) I don't care about genders and all that, personally going by she/her. I'm a Taurus, in case someone wants to know. Last time i took the test I was an infp-t (still think it's pretty accurate but it's been a few years nd I heard that test isn't as accurate? idk)

Other things you should maybe know is that English is not my native language, so excuse any mistakes you might come across lol. I dropped out of university. My profile picture kinda captures my most basic features.

Anyway, feel free to hit me up, I love talking to people on the internet and I really look forward to this reinvention of my account here and actually talking about my interests and reposting stuff I like :)

If you have any questions, just ask!

Until then,

May

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theoriginalladya · 1 year ago

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Ostinato - update

Okay, because tumblr is being stupid about a gorgeous piece of art of Kaidan and Lachlan on their honeymoon that @me1onmi1k did for me a while back (and had no issues with it's posting then but suddenly they don't want my post to show), I'm going to link it here and repost the update to get the word out! Original post text below:

~~~

Guess who started whispering into my ear today!

Going through some old (and I mean OLD!) prompts to see what I can come up with! (so old I can't even find the original ask for it!)

Prompt: In the moonlight/celebration

On AO3 in full here

OTP: The Music Lives On found here

Excerpt:

Lachlan once heard that night skies are the best skies because they hold secret and safe the stories of the different worlds they envelope. He’s been under many night skies over the years. The double moons of Mindoir. Terra Nova for one night before all hell broke loose. The unpolluted darkness out at the Alenko orchard. Numerous other worlds over the years of serving with the Alliance.

But the night sky of Elysium, at this moment in time, is the most brilliant and beautiful and he never wants to forget it.

A heavy glass clinks lightly with ice as it’s pressed into his hand and the peaty aroma tickles his nose. Smiling, Lachlan leans back as his husband’s arm wraps around him and he sighs softly, humming his appreciation. Kaidan clinks their glasses together, laughter filling Lachlan’s ears. “To us.”

“Hmm. To us.” Lachlan straightens to sip his drink, savoring the taste as he continues to look up at the star-lit sky. Turning, he rests his hips against the balcony railing and focuses his gaze on Kaidan. “D’you ever think about how damned lucky we are?”

#Ostinato #ladya writes #Lachlan Shepard #Kaidan Alenko #mshenko #OTP: The Music Lives On #Mass Effect #fanfiction #update #writing prompt

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butchkaramazov · 1 year ago

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A Shade Darker Than Red: Chapter 8

this is a repost because tumblr, being a jerk as always, decided to delete the former post. if you like this one, you could maybe check out the entire series using the masterlist i'll post in a few minutes.

A week passed by. Paro was eerily quiet when she was with me, and I thought of what I had said that day. Had I really, truly ruined all my chances of saving even our friendship?

A million thoughts rushed through my head as I turned restlessly in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The ceiling of our bedroom was painted with blue fluorescent stickers shaped like stars. Papa had done that. I had asked Maa to take them off if they bothered her, but we never did.

Beside me, Maa tossed in her sleep. They say if you think of someone, they can’t fall asleep. Could she hear my thoughts?

I had nothing to distract myself with. No phone, no book—nothing. Just me, my thoughts and the stars on the ceiling.

A sudden, vivid memory flashed in my mind. We were six. A year had passed since my meeting with Paro. We were running around like hooligans in the park while our mothers talked about work, pados-wali aunties and whatnot. I still remember what Paro was wearing: a frilly, white frock with Minnie Mouse sewn onto its sleeves. The sky was red and so was our laughter, until Paro bent down and ripped a flower right off its stem. “For you,” she had said, clumsily tucking the flower behind my ear. When she touched my earlobe, the flower was white. When she let go, it was red.

Another memory. We were nine. She sat with me on the bed while I rambled on about my latest hyperfixation: dragons. She listened to every single detail I had mentioned and, by the end of the afternoon, showed me a drawing of a wyvern.

Twelve. I was reading The Priory of the Orange Tree, sitting on the windowsill. I took a sip from my milk tea, letting out a contented hum. I wasn’t on the windowsill anymore. I was Ead, pressing a kiss to Sabran’s brow. Sabran was someone who looked uncannily similar to Paro.

An annoying ding! from my phone forced me back to reality. I heard Maa’s grunts and snores: the coast was clear.

I climbed off the bed, taking care not to put extra weight anywhere that would make the mattress creak. I walked towards the desk and picked up the phone.

WhatsApp: You have 3 messages.

It was Paro. I checked the time: 3:49 a.m. Paro was a morning person, what was she doing staying up all night?

Paro<3:

hi renu are you awake?

—00:27

do you wanna hang out on the roof like we used to?

—02:01

its ok if you dont wanna. go back to sleep you have a big day tmrw. actually, if ur awake rn i’ll kill you

—03:48

Oh, Paro.

I glanced at Maa, slowly increasing the fan’s regulator. Please don’t wake up soon.

I walked out of the room and closed the door. Thank goodness I’d oiled its hinges last week.

The main door was locked—opening it meant creating a ruckus. “Shit,” I muttered under my breath. No wait, actually not shit. This meant I’d have to take the old way around.

Jeez, fourteen-year-old me was fun.

I opened the door to the balcony and hoisted myself up on its railing. It was an easy jump. I tumbled onto the grass, praying that a grasshopper wouldn’t find its new home in my ear. The grass was wet and the air smelled of petrichor.

I stood up, smoothening my pyjamas. Staying out late at night was a risky thing, especially in our neighbourhood. Plenty of TicTac-shaped pills here and there, and men on the prowl. I didn’t give a damn. I was eighteen and probably feeling some feelings I wasn’t supposed to be feeling. (That’s a lot of ‘feeling’s, I know.) What could possibly hurt me?

A lot of things, I realised, as I walked up to Paro’s house. Like that mad dog Rathode had warned me about. The creepy guy who keeps children in his basement (just a speculation, but when Madhu speculated about something, it was most probably right). An overspeeding motorcycle that could crash into me any minute. My own mother, with her pots and pans, once she realised I was gone.

Oh well, the damage was done. I found myself opening the gate on instinct, as if I knew Paro’s house better than I did my own.

I stepped into their garden, careful not to trample on any beetles—and made my way to the window of the woman who lived below Paro’s flat. Madame Fosco, I called her, in everything but her looks.

The tin shade Madame Fosco had installed last year was probably on its deathbed by now. Rust had made its edges creaky, but Fosco was deaf, anyway. I grabbed onto it and hoisted myself up, finding myself staring right at Paro’s face, our faces a millimetre away from each other’s. She screamed.

I screamed.

My foot slipped and I fell off the tin shade, tumbling onto the grass once again. At this point, I would be surprised if a grasshopper hadn’t found its home in my ear.

“For Whitman’s sake, hush,” I whisper-shouted, if that’s a thing. If it wasn’t, it probably is by now.

Paro peered out of the window, her mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.

I shook my head (in case a grasshopper had organised a nice family dinner in my hair) and climbed onto the tin shaft once again, pulling myself onto Paro’s windowsill.

“Come in,” she whispered, switching the lights on.

I felt comfortable squatting on her windowsill like a failed Spiderman and grumbled as I walked into her bedroom.

Paro switched her phone’s torchlight off. “I’m gonna kill you.”

“What?” I stared at her retreating figure. “What did I do?”

“Why are you still awake?” she snapped. I followed her to the door.

“Why are you still awake and staring out of your window like Oscar fucking Wilde?” I snapped back.

Paro flipped me off while trying her hardest to pull the gates across the door. Sweat shone on her forehead, her eyes illuminated in the moonlight.

“Hold on, let me help,” I offered, gently grabbing her wrist. Paro grumbled, stepping aside.

I pushed the gate back and pulled it in again, keeping the screw in with my thumb. It glided into the opening on the other side, miraculously not making a single noise.

I turned towards Paro. She was staring at my arms.

“What?” I asked her, incredulously. One moment she said she wanted to kill me, and the next she looked at me like I was something she couldn’t quite wrap her head around.

“N-Nothing,” she gasped. My heart fluttered. Dammit, these butterflies in my stomach had turned into fucking bats at this point.

Paro walked up the stairs while I followed her footsteps in the dark. “Just like the old times, huh?” I heard her say.

I grinned. “Just like the old times.”

Paro opened the door to the roof, the tensed line in her jaw glinting in a sliver of moonlight. God, she was as beautiful as ever.

“Come in,” she said, her words echoing in the marble walls.

I followed her to the railings, leaning against the cool surface. A light breeze rippled through, making her hair fly for a brief second. Dear God, she was poetry herself.

“Where are Auntie and Uncle?” I asked, trying to break the silence.

A light breeze caressed my cheeks. “They won’t be back before tomorrow. Business trip,” Paro explained, edging closer to me.

“Oh.” I was suddenly aware of the pen still tucked behind my ear.

Silence.

“So we’re—we’re all alone, then?” I asked her, hoping she wouldn’t hear the slight quaver in my voice.

Paro nodded. “We are.”

Silence, again.

She leaned against the railing. “You’re going away in three weeks.”

I nodded, not quite knowing what to say.

“I asked you a question.” Her voice was cold and harsh, harsher than I deserved.

“That was a statement,” I snapped. “And don’t use your fucking CEO voice with me.”

Paro frowned. “I’m not.”

“You are.” I glared at her. “And you know it.”

She stared at me, scrutinising my every feature. “I’m sorry,” she finally said, letting out a sigh. “I’m sorry. It’s just been—you’ll be gone—and—”

“I know, it’s okay,” I heard myself murmur, edging closer towards her.

“I—I’ve got that Poe book with me,” she said. “Do you want it now or at the graduation party?”

“Now,” I said, without thinking. “The party will be too loud. And too crowded,” I added as an afterthought.

Paro bit her lip so hard I was scared it would bleed. “Alright,” she nodded. “I’ll get it.”

“Okay.”

I watched her retreat into the shadows, taking the white along with her. The night was a pool of blood, again.

I hummed. Did she know about the history of ‘OK’? Probably not. I’d tell her. Not knowing things I wouldn’t be able to tell her before we drifted apart wasn’t a good idea. At least she’d be able to tell her children that their Renu Auntie had told her about the history of ‘OK’. Maybe she’d sigh and think of me, again. Words were a certain but clumsy way into a person’s mind.

Papa had told me that. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking of him.

Did Paro know about Jinnah? That Netaji might’ve actually been alive? Did she know that birds came from lizard-hipped dinosaurs? There was so much I had to tell her before I vanished from her mind.

It was pathetic. Scrambling onto every crumb of unrelated information I could find, just to hang onto her thoughts, stay on in her mind for a little while longer.

“I’m back,” Paro said, stepping into the moonlight.

She looked like Aphrodite, the goddess of love born from love itself, in all her glory—clutching a book of Edgar Allan Poe, the letters of which shone in the lamplight or moonlight, that I do not know.

“For you,” she said, handing me the book.

“It’s beautiful,” I gasped as I ran my fingers along the edge of its spine. It was a leatherbound book, The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe written in shiny gold lettering. I opened the first page.

To Renu, it said. Keep me in your mind, always. From, Paro.

I chuckled, flipping through the pages. “Of course I’ll keep you in my mind, Paro,” I laughed. “What a silly thought!”

Paro looked at me, hope faintly glimmering in her eyes. “You will?” Her voice had softened down to a murmur.

I looked at her incredulously. “Well, duh, Paro, I can’t just forget my best friend of thirteen years now, can I?”

Paro’s lower lip trembled. “You promise?”

I smiled. “Always.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

A comfortable silence followed and as we looked at the stars, I knew we were both smiling.

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silvernyxchariot · 8 months ago

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More About Me

ᴀ ᴍᴜʟᴛɪғᴀᴄᴇᴛᴇᴅ ᴇʟᴅʀɪᴛᴄʜ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴏʙsᴇʀᴠᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅs ᴅɪғғᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴇxɪsᴛ. ʙᴜᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ᴀʟsᴏ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴊᴜᴅɢᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ.

⚠️DNI: TERFs & FemiNazis, racists, bigots, anti-LGBT+, trolls, harassers, MAPs/pedophiles, incest shippers, meta-slaves/meta-gamers, anti self & OC shippers.⚠️

Current Favs: Supernatural, Wuthering Waves, JoJo's Bizarre Adv. (pt.1-6, reading pt.7)

Romantic/Intimate Self Ships:

¹ Donquixote Doflamingo, One Piece*

² Sunday, Honkai: Star Rail

³ Kavetham, Genshin Impact

Kin List

¹ Al Haitham & Zhongli; Genshin Impact

² Lisa Yadōmaru & Sui-Feng; Bleach

³ Akasuna no Sasori; Naruto: Shippuden

⁴ Castiel; Supernatural

⁵ Gregory Violet; Black Butler

⁶ Giorno Giovanna; JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo

⁷ Daria Morgendorffer; Daria

• "Will you post more content for [blank] series?"

If I feel like it. My asks are open, but currently Anonymous is not available. That privilege is revoked right now.

• Rules

Remain civil and friendly to me and others. If you don't like my content, block me, as I also block freely. If Anon is turned off and you do not want your info in the answer blog, say that, and I will omit your info.

No personal questions. No questions relating to incest, pedophilia, or kinks such as watersports, golden showers, or scat. Blood play, breath play, knives, guns, some gore and horror or dark themes are accepted.

I reserve the right to ignore and decline asks or block any patron for any reason.

Q&A

• How are you?

🎶Stressed, depressed, obsessed, and possessed🎶(/small ref)

• What do you post?

Mostly rambling thoughts about my current obsession, including headcanons, one-shots, actual rants, and gaming thoughts.

Sometimes I post my art, but I'll leave that more to my Insta and TikTok.

• Are you autistic?

Yes.

I was also under the impression that many of us here on Tumblr have some form of psychosis or multiple./lh

I use tone indicators, italics, bold letters, warnings, emojis, slang & colloquial vocabulary, JPN emoticons, and strikeout text to emphasize different tones and moods in my writing. Which also leads me to: if you find my tone rude, that is your own fault.

It is not anyone's job to make you comfortable or tiptoe around your feelings on their own blog. (rant here)

• "You sound familiar. Have we met before?"

No.

The internet is a vast place, connecting people of various cultures, countries, languages, socio-political, and spiritual beliefs. I advise you to grow up, meet new people, or venture outside of the small circle you live in.

• "I've never met someone like you before" or "I'm slightly confused by your behaviour. It's unusual."

"Since everyone thinks many various things, it is difficult to understand them." - Tokyo Ghoul, Uta, Sui Ishida

Although not a question, this relates to the previous statement. In this year, 2024, people still choose to be ignorant and oblivious that people with different... everything exists (continents, languages, cultures, spiritual beliefs, attitudes, personality types, and, in my case, speech styles, apparently 🙄). And pull out the "I've never met anyone like you before" card. At this point, it's just brain dead of them.

• Are you an AI artist?

No. If I still had my DeviantArt account from 2011, it would be very clear that I worked hard to get to where I am today. I do not support AI "art," "artists," or art theft.

• Are you a shipper?

*Alan Rickman voice* Obviously.

To my understanding, self shippers are also called "Yume(doshi/jin/danshi)," for (fem/neu/masc) respectively. So, I am a yumejin.

But with all these other labels, I think you kids would call me a "neutral shipper." But I'm starting to understand proshippers more and more each day. My golden rule is, I will either block you or ignore you if I don't like your work, blog, or ship. What you ship is your own damn business. Not my problem. Of course, on my own blog, I have my limits. As I respect your space, respect mine. Why people aren't logical enough to do this, just makes me believe fandom spaces deserve the hate they get. Examples:

I am a monster fucker and accept furries, but not bestiality (real animals).

I don't approve of pedophilia or the adjacent. But I'm not going to harass you for liking Nahida.

I, too, like Kaeya and Diluc x Lumine shipping (read that as "hentai"), but not specifically Kaeya x Diluc because I see them as sworn brothers.

To my understanding, proshippers are people who are willing to ship anything while letting people be and comshippers purposefully ship things that are seen as "dark" or "complicated." All for entertainment purposes, of course.

I'm definitely not an Anti. Last time I checked, I don't do that thing where Anti's will tell you to "kys :)))" or "i hope u get r🍇ped and assaulted again because u deserve it🥰". I'm not going to rant to you like I'm morally superior to you and, in the same breath, be a harasser. Dear Anti's, make it make sense. 🤨 Because you are being more harmful than helpful.

Foot notes:

* Uncomfortable sharing because someone tried stealing and copying my art and OC...🧍‍♂️We were in the same fucking One Piece server too, like "You're not slick." The mods KNEW this person for copying and tracing other art too, but they let it slide for months, until a group of us were fed up with her and retaliated.

#about me #meet the artist #fandoms #self ship list #self shipper #poly self ship #self ship community #mostly comfortable with sharing #self shipping #self ship #anime #manga #proshipper safe #yumejin #yumeship

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years ago

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3.

Chapter 37: Martin Prime

It was weird hearing his fiancé arguing with someone who sounded like him but wasn’t, Martin mused idly. Like listening to a tape he didn’t remember recording.

It was also weird, and would probably always be weird, that he could tell the difference between Jon’s voice and Past Jon’s voice, at least when he was paying attention and not overly upset. Theoretically they were the same person. Practically, they were very different, just because of what they’d both been through. Jon’s voice had just the faintest rasp to it, the lightest bit of scarring on his vocal chords from both Daisy’s knife and Jane Prentiss’ worms, and Past Jon’s voice was a tad softer, less hardened by time and circumstance. The distinction in their voices was subtle, but it was enough.

“You knew about the bullet. You should have said something to her,” Jon said, for what was at least the fifteenth time in the last week. Martin could imagine him waving his arms as he did so. “If she gets shot because she didn’t know to avoid it—”

“It wasn’t like I had an opportunity in the conversation,” Past Martin protested. “I did tell her to be careful.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jon demanded.

From the stress on you, Martin guessed he’d turned the argument on someone else, and it was Past Jon who answered. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, don’t worry, you’ll come back alive but with a ghost’s bullet in your leg that’s going to make you irrationally angry’? I did the best I could. We were recording.”

“I’ve told you before, the recorders aren’t the Eye—”

“Uh, I need to take this back to the library before it closes for the weekend,” Tim said, but it didn’t seem to make an impression on the argument that Sasha was now chiming in to.

“He’s right, you should have told her. Should have warned her against joining the Institute, too.”

“I can do that when she gets back,” Past Martin pointed out.

“I told Basira what was going on,” Sasha said.

“But not in relation to herself,” Past Jon said. Martin could imagine that being accompanied by an accusing jab of the finger, but he wasn’t going to make assumptions. “Besides, that’s different. Basira is the type to weigh all evidence and theories against her options when making a decision. Melanie’s more the type to give in to emotion, especially anger. It’s impossible to tell which way she’d go if you gave her that kind of information first. It’s very likely to make things worse.”

“Don’t you Know at me, Jonathan Sims.”

Tim made a noise imitative of a supermarket’s tannoy crackling to life. “Manager to Mr. Kettle, manager to Mr. Kettle, there’s a Ms. Pot for you on line two.”

“Would that be the pot calling the kettle back?” Martin asked. He was rewarded with a choked-off laugh from Tim’s direction, but he was pretty sure nobody else in the room heard either one of them. With a sigh, he heaved himself out of the armchair. “Want me to come with you to take that book back? This is going to take a while.”

“Sure. We’ll be back, guys.” Tim evidently directed this at the others, but again, no reaction from anyone. He sighed. “Here, give me your arm. Bringing your cane?”

“Better not, just in case we run into someone. Get me to the stairs and I should be okay.”

The sound of the argument faded into the background as they made it to the steps; Martin let go of Tim’s arm and gripped the railing instead. By leaning forward, he could anticipate when they hit a landing. “Thanks. What’s the book on, by the way?”

“Oh, it’s one of the circus books. I—I know I’m obsessing a little about it. I know the circus itself isn’t the important bit, but…I don’t know. Forewarned is forearmed, I guess.” Tim was silent for a moment. “Unless it is something about circuses that are important.”

“No, not really. Just…an excuse, I guess.” Martin tried to put into words what even Jon had never asked his opinion on; there hadn’t been much of a chance before the Unknowing, and after it there hadn’t been much of a point. “I’ve noticed that’s one of the places the Stranger is drawn to, is the entertainment industry. Not just the circus, but the theater. I-I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not the only one drawn to it. You know as well as I do the damn things overlap, like the bleed on the edge of colors.”

“Mm…hang on, I have a question, but we’re hitting the main floor. I’m gonna throw my arm around your shoulders like I’m telling you a bad joke, okay?”

“Thanks. And thanks for the warning.” Martin braced himself against the railing.

Tim’s arm came down heavily over Martin’s shoulders, and he turned his face towards him, hoping anyone passing them would assume he was engrossed in Tim’s extremely skewed sense of humor. True to his word, Tim picked up in the middle of a joke as they left the stairwell. “…the Brother Superior stands up as usual and sings, ‘Good morning, broooo-theeers.’ And all the brothers sing back, ‘Good moooor-niiiiiiing,’ except for the one little brother who’s rebelling. He sings out—”

“’Night, Martin,” a sweet, young-sounding voice called.

“Night,” Martin called back. It sounded like Manal, but he didn’t want to risk saying the wrong name and drawing attention to himself.

“Oh, hey, are you heading upstairs?” The voice got closer, and Martin and Tim drew to a halt. “This came in the mail drop for Mr. Bouchard. I meant to bring it up right away, but we got slammed with students and I forgot. Must be the first paper of the term coming up due. Can you give it to Rosie, please?”

“Sure, no problem.” Martin reached out uncertainly and—fortunately—touched a cardboard packet; he was able to grab it before it became obvious that was luck. He hoped. “Have a good night, Manal.”

“You too.”

Tim got them started walking again, continuing as he did, “Anyway, so the brother who’s rebelling sings, ‘Good eeeeeeve-niiiiiiing.’ A hush falls over the whole refectory. Brother Superior stands up, looks around the room, looks each brother in the eye, and then sings, ‘Someone chanted eveniiiiiiing…’”

Martin let out a long, protracted groan. “God, Tim, how long have you been sitting on that one?”

“Years,” Tim admitted sheepishly. “You’ve got to have the right audience for it, you know? Someone who both appreciate puns and knows enough about music to catch the reference.”

“If I could see you, I would hit you.”

“Must be my lucky day. Mind the steps.”

Martin switched the cardboard packet to his other hand in favor of the railing, and was surprised when someone tugged it away from his fingers. “Hey—”

“Sorry, should’ve warned you I was doing that,” Tim said. “I just figured it’d probably be better if I hand it off to Rosie, since…” He trailed off.

Since Martin couldn’t see her, wouldn’t know where to find her, and the last time he’d been in her office it had been…somewhat different. He tried to push the image of the top of the Panopticon out of his mind. “Yeah, probably for the best. If she’s still there.”

“She will be. Always one of the last ones out the door. Not sure how much of it is Elias keeping her to the last minute and how much of it is she doesn’t want to miss anything.” Tim paused. “Speaking of being unbearably nosy, wonder what Elias is getting from one of the Lukases that can’t be delivered in person?”

“They don’t like doing anything in person if they can help it, Tim. It’s kind of their whole…deal.” That close to Elias’ office, it didn’t feel safe to mention the Lonely out loud, or any of the fears, really. “I very much doubt we’ll find out, though.”

The railing didn’t level out—it just stopped, something Martin discovered when he almost pitched forward from abruptly not having something to lean on. He caught himself against the wall with a rather loud slap and thanked his lucky stars he’d always had a (mostly undeserved, to be honest) reputation as a klutz. Assuming anyone was still around, they’d probably just think oh, Martin tripped over his own two feet again, insofar as they thought about it at all. Rosie was probably watching, though.

That was confirmed—more or less—when Tim said in a bright, jovial voice, “Rosie! Good to see you. Can you give this to Elias? Manal asked us to bring it up.”

“Of course.” Rosie’s voice sounded just like Martin remembered it, and he curled one hand into a fist to stave off the memory of her staring up at them, face perfectly blank except for her eyes, somewhere between dazed and terrified, as she blandly asked if they had an appointment…

Not for the first time, Martin wished there had been any other way of protecting him from the Eye than by destroying his vision. Setting aside the usual, mundane difficulties that came with total blindness—difficulties any person faced with complete loss of sight would have to deal with—there was the simple fact that the last thing Martin had seen, live and in person, had been a post-apocalyptic hellscape. The last time he had seen the Institute, it had been a tower of black glass and twisted steel looming up into the stratosphere; the last time he had seen London, it had been swarming with very interested cameras and monitors and paintings of eyes; the last time he had seen the sky, it had seen him back. He could remember the way things had been before, but those last impressions were awfully powerful, and it hurt.

“Was there anything else, Tim?” Rosie asked. Martin frowned slightly. Under her voice was something eager, something…hungry. She wanted something, and he wondered what it was. He remembered Jon’s unwilling statement, where he’d talked about her constant desire for secrets—she could probably give Sasha a run for her money in terms of snooping, and no wonder Gertrude had always talked to her as if she was in the know. Was that all it was? Was she prying for secrets? Or—Martin bit his lip—was it possible she’d been taken over by the Not-Them, that she was drawn to Tim because of his Stranger mark? She sounded like he remembered, but if she were replaced in this past, would it replace his memories of the future, too?

He bit back a groan. Douglas Adams was wrong about the biggest problem to time-travel being grammatical tenses; clearly, the biggest problem was making sense out of the recursive nature of body-stealing, memory-altering creatures.

“Nope, that ought to do it. Gotta get to the library before they lock it up for the night. Have a good weekend, Rosie.” Tim knocked twice on something wooden, probably her desk, then came over and touched Martin’s arm. “Let’s go, Freckles.”

“Night, Rosie,” Martin called, because he would have before and Past Martin would too and there was no sense in making Rosie—or Elias, if he was still there—suspicious. He could imagine the false, charming smile she flashed in his direction, but there was no audible response and he didn’t expect one. Instead, he simply linked arms with Tim, let him lead him down the corridor, and prayed nobody had left a door open for him to run into.

The sensation of stepping into the library was instantly a familiar one to Martin—the feeling of stepping into a soaring, open space, but an oddly safe one—odd because of the sheer number of truly dangerous and terrifying works contained there. Any book with Jurgen Leitner’s bookplate on it was destroyed long before it got this far, of course, but even before he’d gone to the Archives, Martin had wondered if someone would be able to tell one of Leitner’s books if the bookplate was papered over or removed. Once he’d learned the truth, that Leitner had been a collector rather than the author or even the commissioner, he’d wondered how many books of power were actually in the Institute’s library. On the one hand, it didn’t seem likely that Jonah Magnus would allow any genuinely powerful books to get this far; on the other hand, it would certainly explain the library’s asinine and borderline ludicrous lending procedures.

Martin hung back by the door, sliding his hands into his pockets and hoping he was sufficiently out of the way of everyone bustling to get their assigned tasks completed so they could be out the door on time. Idly, he wondered who was on the desk. He’d usually ended up working it on Friday afternoons; everybody else hated it because, as Rebecca had once complained, there was always one person who came back with an enormous stack to return with ten minutes to go before they were supposed to clock out. Every book had to be checked against three different lists, certain inspections had to be made, and the identity of the person returning the book had to be checked twice. And it all had to be done by hand; every attempt to automate and bring in a computer had been met with catastrophic failure. Martin had actually kind of enjoyed it, especially since it usually meant he was left alone at the end of the week and could take his time, lingering over shelves and experimenting with the acoustics. If he thought he could get away with it, he might creep up here some evening after the Institute was closed and throw a few more songs into the darkness. It was different in the Archives.

“Well, hello there, Martin!”

Martin almost leapt out of his skin and whirled around, his heart pounding. “Jesus!”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” The voice was coming from roughly Martin’s height, but that was about all he could tell, that and that it was female. It had no distinctive characteristics, nothing to trigger a name in his mind. And yet, whoever owned it knew his name, which meant it was someone he should know. He’d have to bluff. “Haven’t seen you up here in a while.”

“Yeah, just—been busy,” Martin said lamely. He waved in the direction of the desk. “Kind of figured you’d be glad to see the back of me, to be honest.”

“Oh, now, why would you think that?” The woman, or at least Martin presumed it was the woman, patted him on the cheek with a soft, fleshy hand; he tried not to flinch at the unexpected touch, or the unpleasantly dry feel of her palm. “You’re such a hard worker, and always so cheerful. You’ve been missed, but I’m sure Jon appreciates having you in the Archives.”

If this was a joke, Martin didn’t think it was very funny, but he managed a smile anyway. “Well, we all had a settling-in period, but that’s in the past now. I do miss it up here sometimes, but I like being down there, too.”

“And we’re very glad to have him,” Tim said, suddenly right next to Martin. “C’mon, buddy, we’ve got a weekend to catch before it slips away…have a good one.”

“You, too, Tim. And you, Martin. Don’t be such a stranger—come back and visit us more often. We’d love to see you again.”

“Sure,” Martin said softly. “’Night.”

Tim didn’t say anything the rest of the way back down to the Archives, which Martin appreciated. Going down stairs was a hell of a lot more complicated than going up; he couldn’t lean as safely, and the kick-and-drag method was a bit less effective. It took concentration to keep from pitching forward and tumbling down the entire flight, and if he tried to spare any braincells for conversation, Martin was pretty sure he’d end up missing his footing. Tim’s hand at his elbow helped, especially since the main floor was crowded with people leaving for the day. A few called greetings to Tim, but they all ignored Martin, which was fine by him.

There was a sense, when they re-entered the Archives, of an argument put on hold, something that was confirmed when the first thing Martin heard anyone say was Jon’s voice. “What do you think, Martin?”

“Gender is a social construct, Shakespeare is overrated, and paisley is horrendously tacky no matter what color it is,” Martin replied promptly. Someone hastily turned a snigger into a cough.

“I mean, about whether or not you would have told Melanie more about what to expect in India.”

Martin felt around until he located a chair. “I think my opinion doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” Past Jon protested.

“Not in this.” Martin met Jon’s hand coming towards him and squeezed it gently. “What I would have done doesn’t have a lot of relevance here. It’s not our story anymore.”

“What?” Past Martin sounded genuinely confused. “Of course it’s—”

“I mean,” Martin said quickly, “that you’re not us and we’re not you. What I was like at this point in things isn’t anywhere near where you are, and vice versa. Same with Jon and your Jon. To be honest, I don’t even know if I would have made the effort to be friends. But at this point, things are different enough that telling you how we would do it isn’t very…efficient, I guess? It’s your story, your lives. You’re the ones shaping it. Trying to do things the way we wish we’d done it…well, if the circumstances aren’t the same, it won’t have the same outcome necessarily. You’ve got to do what you think is best.”

“That’s…a good point, actually,” Jon admitted. He sighed. “I apologize for lecturing.”

“’S all right,” Past Martin said. “Gave me a chance to stand my ground and all.”

“Which you need to do more often,” Tim said cheerfully. “Anything to boost your self-esteem.”

“Ouch, Tim, really?” The effectiveness of Sasha’s reproof was lessened by the obvious smirk in her voice.

“Yeah, okay, I probably shouldn’t have said it like that, but it’s true. I’m not completely oblivious, you know. I can put the pieces together, and from the little you’ve said about working in the library, I got the impression you thought they hated you up there. Especially Diana.”

“They did,” Past Martin protested. “The only one who ever even spoke to me directly was Diana, and even that was just to give me orders. It’s hard not to know someone hates you when their method of asking you for help is to wait until you’re in earshot and then tell someone else to ‘just leave that for Martin, he’ll fumble his way through it eventually’.”

“Did they really do that?” Jon asked quietly.

“Constantly,” Martin affirmed. “Speaking of, Tim, who the hell was that who was talking to me while you were checking that book back in? I didn’t recognize the voice.”

“Wait, seriously?” Tim said with an audible frown.

Martin sighed. “Look. Down here it’s pretty easy to tell who’s talking. You’ve all got pretty distinct voices from one another. It’s hard to tell my Jon and your Jon apart if I’m not concentrating, but there’s enough of a difference and I know you well enough to be able to figure it out, usually. But out there? If it’s not someone with a distinctive pitch or accent or speech pattern or whatever, it’s hard to tell. And something like ninety percent of the people who work here speak with the exact same voice. About all I could tell was that I was talking to a woman.”

“I guess that makes sense. Just figured you’d recognize Diana’s voice when you heard it.”

“Pretty sure I would. So who was that?”

There was a half-second’s pause before Tim said, “Diana.”

“Diana?” Martin repeated incredulously.

“You’re sure you didn’t recognize her?”

“No, and it’s not just the accent. I didn’t think the ladders got that close to where I was standing.” Martin rubbed his forehead. “God, my mental map of the library is all off now.”

Jon wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. Tim sounded bewildered. “What do ladders have to do with anything?”

“It sounded like whoever was talking to me was around my height. I mean, that could’ve been the way sound bounces in the library, but—”

“No, that’s—she is around your height. She always intimidated the hell out of me.”

Martin sighed. “Okay, I think we’re talking about two different Dianas here. Which Diana was this I was talking to?”

“Diana—what the hell is her last name? The head librarian?”

“Caxton,” Past Jon supplied.

Something cold trickled down Martin’s spine. “Describe her.”

“Uh—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair that she usually wears piled up on top of her head, looks like a Quentin Blake illustration come to life—?”

“That’s who the artist is! I can never remember his name,” Sasha said, punctuating the remark by—from the sound of it—slamming her open hand against the desk.

“That’s not Diana Caxton,” Past Martin said decidedly. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, or why she would have told you she was, but—”

“It’s the Diana Caxton I know,” Past Jon said. “And you should, too. She was there when I took Melanie up the first time, said they missed seeing your smiling face up there.”

“Look, that’s not Diana,” Past Martin insisted. “I should know. I worked there for ten years, Jon. She’s shorter than five feet tall, her hair’s been completely silver for a while now, and she has a Korean accent. I don’t know who this woman is you’re describing, but it’s not Diana Caxton.”

Jon tensed, his arm tightening around Martin’s shoulders. Softly, he said, “I think it is now.”

There was a moment of horrible silence as that sank in. Martin had to admit that the idea of the Not-Them taking over Diana hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d just…assumed that if it was anyone, either it would be someone in Artifact Storage foolish enough to disregard the warnings or it would be Rosie. And, okay, maybe there’d been a foolish little part of him that had hoped it wouldn’t take over anyone. But somehow, the idea of it being Diana Caxton just felt wrong. It was true that she hadn’t liked him all that much when he’d worked for her, but then, he’d been unqualified and incompetent, bluffing his way along, and she’d likely had to pick up a lot of his messes. And he knew for a fact that the twice-widowed bookworm had a flock of grandchildren who adored her—he still remembered the day her youngest had come to visit, just before he’d been transferred to the Archives, and attached herself to Martin with a thousand innocent questions and bragging stories about “my Nana”. It wasn’t fair for anyone to be taken by that thing, but especially not someone like Diana.

There was a banging noise, like the Archives doors had just blown open, and Martin jumped, clutching at Jon’s arm. His first thought was that it was the Not-Diana, having realized they knew, coming to take them out. His second was that it was Elias, the jig would be up, and they would have to try and implement their plan now, and what if Jon wasn’t strong enough to do what had to be done and—

“Basira?” Sasha said, sounding somewhere between shocked and relieved. “What are you doing here?”

Oh. Martin relaxed, but not much. There was absolutely no hiding his or Jon’s presence. Past Jon sounded nervous as he said, “I can explain about—”

“Save it. I don’t care.” There was a thump and a rattle as Basira—her voice was unmistakable, too—dropped something on the desk in front of them. “Here.”

“Are those the tapes?” Past Jon asked.

“As many of them as I could get,” Basira replied.

“What happened, Basira?” Sasha’s voice was gentle, but—surprisingly—there was no static in it, even though Martin could almost feel it building in the room. It hit him, suddenly, that Sasha’s ability from the Eye didn’t enable her to ask for secrets. Only to take them. He decided to keep that particular unpleasant realization to himself for the moment. “I thought you said you were done with the Institute.”

Basira let out one of those frustrated noises Martin, unfortunately, knew all too well. “They’re covering it up. Altman’s death. Saying he was dirty. That he got stabbed in a drug deal gone wrong.”

“Wait, so the operation you went on—” Past Jon began.

“Doesn’t exist. I mean, I didn’t know Leo well, but…it’s not right. And they seemed happy enough to get me out the door.”

Someone poked at the box, if the rattle was any indication; Martin guessed it was Sasha, since she spoke again. “So why bring us the tapes?”

“Well, they’re sure as hell not going to solve Gertrude’s murder,” Basira said. “And from what you said the last time I was here, they’re probably of more use to you anyway, even if her death’s not in here. Before, I guess I had enough police in me not to steal evidence, but…”

“They’ve rather lost your loyalty,” Jon supplied softly. Martin slipped his arm around his waist and pulled him close.

“You won’t get in trouble for this, will you?” Tim asked, actually sounding concerned.

“Don’t think so. Daisy knows I’m bringing them to you. They won’t know they’re missing until they do inventory, and then only if they check the sectioned stuff.”

“Thanks, Basira,” Sasha said. “I owe you a drink or two. Just say the word.”

“Long as you promise not to talk shop,” Basira replied. “If I never hear another thing about this place…that’ll be enough for me.”

Martin heard footsteps starting to retreat across the Archives floor. Impulsively, he called out, “Basira.”

The footsteps stopped. “What?”

Martin looked in what he hoped was the right direction to look her in the eyes. “Keep her close. You’re her tether, and excuses only carry you so far.”

It was the same thing he’d said to her, once upon a time and simultaneously in a nonexistent future, loitering in the hallway of an abattoir outside an instrument room. She hadn’t wanted to listen then, and if he was honest, he hadn’t really taken his own advice all that well. He could only pray she would listen now, and that she would understand what he was talking about—and what he wasn’t saying. Don’t let your partner turn into a monster because it’s easier than saying stop.

After a moment, Basira said, her voice so soft it almost wasn’t audible, “Right.” With that, evidently, she left the Archives.

Jon pulled Martin around and wrapped him in a tight hug; Martin could feel his face pressing into his shoulder as he hugged him back. He, at least, had understood. They held each other for a moment, both hoping—despite what she’d done to them months ago—that Daisy could still be saved.

There was another rattle as someone poked at the tapes. “Where do we start?” Sasha asked.

“We go home,” Tim said firmly. “It’s Friday, and it’s past quitting time. Let’s just—let’s just go home, take the weekend to regroup, and we can come back and look through these on Monday. Maybe, um, maybe you two can go through and pick a few you think we ought to listen to.”

“Or,” Jon suggested, “we can sort them out. Gertrude labeled some but not others. If I set the blank ones aside, that might be good practice for you to sort out the color muddle. If that’s all right.”

“Either way, Tim’s right,” Past Jon said softly. “It’s late and we’re all tired. Especially…now. Let’s just go home. We’ll see you on Monday.”

Everyone wished one another goodnight, and the team departed, leaving Jon and Martin alone in the Archives. Martin waited a moment, then asked, “Do you want to start looking through them now?”

To Martin’s surprise, Jon hesitated for a minute, then said, “No. I think I want to put these in the Archivist’s office, and then I want to take a walk with my fiancé and maybe go out to dinner. What do you think of that?”

Martin smiled. He could feel himself blushing a little, but he didn’t care. “I think that sounds like an excellent idea.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #time travel fix it au #jonmartin #gaslighting tw #canon typical stranger content #arguments tw #terrible puns cw

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writeroutoftime · 4 years ago

Text

la la land - chapter one

pairing: steve rogers x reader

summary: as a struggling actress in the big city, you aren’t sure how you are going to get your big break. similarly, starving artist, steve rogers, doesn’t know how to move on after a deal gone wrong. what happens when the two of you meet and learn more about yourselves, love, and the power of dreams than you ever thought possible?

warnings: none

word: 2058

a/n: oh my goodness, I am so excited to final be posting this story!! yes, I know you’re probably think - another series rita, really? but yes, another series!! so, this was actually for @marvelcapsicle‘s writing challenge, and not only is it overdue, but beth has actually decided to step away from tumblr. however, I still wanted to write this story, and I hope you are excited to read it. the story will follow the general plot of la la land, but I will take some liberties here and there. anyway, please enjoy the first chapter and have a fabulous day!

There are some lines of dialogue taken from the La La Land script and some song lyrics that inspire dialogue. I do not own anything from La La Land or Marvel, this is purely for creative enjoyment.

oOoOo

New York City. The big apple. The city that never sleeps. A city full of dreamers and a mesh of everything imaginable. Thousands flock to New York every year in hopes of achieving the impossible, pinning down that dream that makes their life worthwhile. It doesn’t matter if they are destined to be starving artists, each day brings a new sun and new opportunities, and no one can tell those dreamers otherwise.

The subway car rattled and whistled as you held onto the standing rail for support, your other hand gripped a rumpled sheet of paper. Eyes closed, you mouthed the words that had been memorized for days, playing the scene over and over in your mind. To any observe you looked ludicrous, but the only thought you could care about was getting that one line right.

“Damn it.” you mumbled when you looked down at your script to see that you had flipped two sentences.

Completely engrossed in your own world, you didn’t notice that the subway train had stopped, nor the tall man that stood before you impatiently tapping his foot and glaring daggers at you. With a scoff, you stepped by so that he was able to squeeze through the doors right before they closed with a ‘whoosh,’ though you didn’t miss the subtle finger he gave you. Some people were just assholes.

However, the man was pushed out of your mind a moment later when you realized, as the train began to move again, that you had missed your stop. Panic consumed you and one glance at your phone told you that you were already pushing making it to your audition on time. Jittery for the next few minutes, you ran out of the subway car as soon as the doors opened at the next stop and bolted up the stairs onto the busy, New York sidewalks.

Dodging against the flow of pedestrian, left and right, you saw that you only had minutes to make it to the theater on time. With your mind focused on the destination, you didn’t see the woman with a tray of iced coffees headed your way until they were spilled down the front of your white shirt. There wasn’t anything that could be done, and you ran away shouting an apology over your shoulder, speeding up when you saw the theater in sight.

Slightly sweaty, out of breath, and with a stained shirt, you shrugged the cardigan you had shoved into your purse on and handed your headshot and resume to the assistant collecting them in the lobby. He gave you an unimpressed looked at your tardiness, but still lead you back to the waiting room where other actresses sat for their turn to impress the higher-ups.

When you walked in the room there was a table full of producers and directors absorbed in their phones, fingers flurrying across their screens, not even given you a second glance. Once you cleared your throat, one of them looked up and nudged the others around her to signal that there was another ‘wannabe’ actress in the room. With a deep breath, you started the scene you had been practicing for days.

“And I swear to God, she was wrecked. It was pure lunacy. Oh God, I know…” you began the scene you knew by heart, phone up to your ear in faux conversation. “No, no, Turner’s fine. So, you- are you waiting ‘til Denver to tell her?” you recited, your smile tightening up as you let your character’s emotions begin to take over, though the fear that ran through you was 100 percent yours. “No, you’re right. I understand.” you said, tears shining in your eyes. “No, I’m happy for you, I just-“

“One second.” you were suddenly interrupted by one of the casting directors as he motioned for another figure to join the room.

As you stood vulnerable before these strangers, they had the audacity to treat you like a movie they could simply press pause on when it was time to place their dinner order. Holding your fake, and soon to be very real tears, you watched as the exchange took place before someone noticed you were still there.

“Uh, thank you.” the one director interrupted. “We’ve heard enough.” she told you and gestured for the door.

“Um, o-okay.” you mumbled with an incredulous look and tried to exit with what little pride you could muster. Out in the waiting room, you saw a handful of other women that looked exactly like you, and you sighed as you shrugged off your jacket, not caring if everyone saw your coffee stained top. No matter how much you practiced or how confident you felt, there was always another actress ready to one-up you, or an assistant ready to interrupt your audition.

Another subway ride later and you made it back to your apartment, kicking off your shoes before you flopped dramatically onto your bed. It had been such a long day between waitressing and another failed audition, that in that moment the only thing that sounded appealing was a hot shower. However, once you stepped out of the shower, it wasn’t long before your roommates barged into the bathroom door, disrupting your pity party.

“Where’s the sauna?” Nat asked with a laugh as she opened the door to the steamed-up bathroom.

“I was trying to give you a dramatic entrance.” you told her over your shoulder on the way back to your room.

On the way there, you ran into Wanda who gave you a hopeful smile. “How’d the audition go, y/n?” The grimace you gave her was all she and Natasha needed to know as they shared a look. “Well you are coming to the party tonight, right?” Wanda asked as you closed your bedroom door.

“I’m not going.” you called out, wincing slightly at their shrieks of protest.

The two rushed to your door and pounded furiously until you emerged, now donned in sweats and a sleep shirt, ready to spend the night with your latest Netflix binge. That was, until Natasha and Wanda cornered you in your own room, grilling you about the party.

“Come on it’s going to be so much fun. A party thrown by Tony Stark and we’re invited! Besides, when else are we going to see New York’s finest all in one room?” Wanda teased as Natasha looked through your wardrobe.

“I don’t want to go.” you repeated. “It’s just gonna be full of social climbers and I don’t feel like ass kissing all night.”

“But you have the perfect dress.” Nat teased as she pulled out a dress that had sat in the back of your closet for months, never having the right time to where it. “You’ve got the invitation.” she told you.

“You’ve got the right address.” Wanda chimed in, and the two pulled you up from the bed, the dress pressed up against your frame.

“Come on, y/n. Someone in the crowd could be the one you need to know. What do you have to lose?” Nat pressed. “Directors and producers galore, looking for you to star in their next show.” she said as she framed the scene dramatically.

“I think I’ll stay behind.” you told them with a shrug and pushed your roommates out so they could get ready.

Only a few minutes later you heard Nat and Wanda call out a goodbye quickly followed by the door closing behind them. As the silence of your apartment surrounded you, the thoughts began to swirl in your head. Yes, the audition today didn’t go as planned, but when had that stopped you in the past. Maybe the perfect part was waiting for you at that party. With a new sense of determination, you threw the dress and some heels on and rushed to catch up with your friends.

Nat and Wanda heard the clack of heels behind them and stopped to watch you approach. “Get it, girl!” Nat cheered as they gave you a moment to show off your dress before the three of you linked arms and pranced towards Tony Stark’s apartment complex.

Travelling through the city surrounded you with bright lights, neon signs, and an atmosphere that made anything feel possible. The party was in full swing when the three of you stepped out of the elevator, and you weren’t sure where to look first between the decadent decorations and glamorous people. Wanda quickly dragged you to the bar to grab a drink, but it wasn’t long until you found yourself separated.

While you tried to keep an optimistic attitude, the longer you were around these people, the faster the walls of silver and gold that had been built up in your mind began to deteriorate. Instead of New York’s finest in the room, you saw sleazy, cheating elites, and when you wouldn’t give them what they wanted, they were quick to move on to their next, potential victim.

Finding the bathroom, you stepped away from the noise and chaos and reveled in the cooler, silent air for a few minutes. Clenching the porcelain sink, you stared in the mirror and wondered what you were doing there? Did you really expect to just be offered at a part by going to a party? You scoffed at the notion, knowing that out in the party, there were so many that shined brighter than you, and you were just another crowd chaser.

When would this end, and could you truly find what you were looking for in New York City? As a young girl, the city seemed so magical and full of hope. It was like a flame and you were the foolish moth who had packed up from the only home you’d ever known and tried to create a whole new life. But, just maybe, this wasn’t the city for you, maybe the flame had burned you too many times. There just had to be a place where you’d find you who were going to be.

It wasn’t long until you tried to find Wanda and Natasha to let them know you were going to leave. While they offered to leave with you, you knew they were enjoying themselves and didn’t want to ruin that. Instead, you grabbed your phone to call an Uber, but groaned when you saw no available drivers were near you for at least another twenty minutes. Deciding the subway would be quicker, and cheaper, you began to walk towards the closest station.

On your way there, you noticed a class or gathering of some sort going on under some tents in the park off to your side, but it was the art that lined the entrance to the class that caught your attention. The sign advertised one of those classes where people paid to paint along with the instructor to feel like an artist for the night. However, the examples displayed held so much more depth and detail than your typical skyline of New York. Whoever had painted these was wasting their time with these classes and deserved to be in a museum. Each one looked like it had taken ages and it was in a style you weren’t really familiar with, but one that sparked something warm and inviting within you.

Glancing up, you watched a tall, blonde man, hunched over his easel as he was sucked into the moment and threw colors across the canvas. While you couldn’t see the picture, you guessed it was just as wonderful as the others, and the way his eyes were slanted in concentration made you smile. Even when a man, who you assumed to be his boss for the evening, approached the artist and began to scold him, you couldn’t look away. When you looked at his art, you felt something, and you needed to let him know.

The two of you locked eyes from across the way, and you felt your body bring you closer to him. As soon as he was in earshot, you were ready to sing his praise. “I just saw your art, and I-“ you began before he bumped into your shoulder as he walked away.

There was a moment of confusion in your mind as you stood there and stared where the man had just so rudely brushed by you, until you scoffed and continued towards the subway.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #steve rogers imagines #marvel imagines #captain america imagines #la la land series

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searchingwardrobes · 5 years ago

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Self Promo Sunday: Hope for the Orphans

This was my very first fic, and it’s really hard for me to believe that it’s almost four years old! It’s never been posted on tumblr before, nor have I ever made art for it. So here it is: my way of bringing little!Killian and little!Emma together - in canon. I hope these two cuties bring a smile to your face (even in the midst of their canon-compliant troubles.)

I also wrote this for @whimsicallyenchantedrose whose writing I have always admired. Little did I know back then that she would become a wonderful friend! Love ya, Jen!

Summary: One night, while remembering his mother, nine year old Killian Jones asks the man in the moon a question. The next thing he knows, he’s in a strange realm meeting a seven year old Emma Swan at a Valentine’s Day party. Could she be the answer to his question?

Rating: G

Trigger warnings: mentions of child abuse (very vague), and a very ill Killian as a child

Words: 6k and some change

Also on A03

Tagging my usuals: @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @xhookswenchx @let-it-raines @teamhook @bethacaciakay @tiganasummertree @welllpthisishappening @wellhellotragic @winterbaby89 @sherlockianwhovian @superchocovian @shireness-says @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @stahlop @resident-of-storybrooke @thislassishooked @ilovemesomekillianjones @lfh1226-linda @ultraluckycatnd @jennjenn615 @ekr032-blog-blog @nikkiemms @hollyethecurious @profdanglaisstuff @kday426 @distant-rose @carpedzem @ohmakemeahercules @branlovestowrite @delirious-latenight-laughs @scientificapricot @snidgetsafan @vvbooklady1256

When Killian Jones first saw Emma Swan, he had the strangest sensation that he had met her before. It was like a long-forgotten detail that niggled the back of his brain, and just as he began to grasp it, away it slipped like grains of sand. So he was delighted when it had been Emma Swan to volunteer to climb the beanstalk with him. “I was hoping it’d be you.” And as they climbed, he uncannily just knew things about her. That she was an orphan, for one. He wasn’t lying when he said she had the look of a lost boy in her eyes, but he noticed the look after the knowing. “Open book,” he had told her, but he hadn’t the slightest clue how or why.

The longer he knew her, the more he felt he had always known her. Of course, he never voiced this to Emma. He knew his Swan – he knew if he said such a thing it would terrify her. So it wasn’t until the night of their honeymoon, that he voiced it in the dark.

“From the moment we met, I have felt . . . like I’ve always known you.”

Emma surprised him with her response. “You too?” she asked, propping her chin on his chest. He could just make out the green of her eyes by the light from the bedside lamp. There was no fear there, not anymore.

Killian gazed down at her, confused. “You mean you’ve felt that way too?” At her answering nod, he asked, “How long?”

Emma snuggled into his side before answering. “Since the first day we met. I looked into your eyes and thought that I knew you from somewhere. I mean – I’m not saying it was love at first sight or anything-“ he could almost feel her roll her eyes at that notion – “it was more like a vague ‘I’ve seen this guy somewhere before,’ know what I mean?”

Killian chuckled, “Exactly.”

They both fell silent for a moment, contemplating what it might mean. Emma finally scooted herself up to nuzzle his neck. She murmured against his skin, “It’s probably just the whole true love thing.” How far his Swan had come to speak of it so matter-of- factly!

“Hmmm, “he sighed, as she lightly kissed his jaw. “And pray tell, love, exactly what does that mean?”

“You know,” she murmured as she lazily kissed a path across his face, “two souls destined to be together. Kindred spirits who recognized one another immediately, despite all reason. That sort of thing.”

And that was what they decided. The soul mates cliché. After all, what other explanation could there be?

*****************************************

Nine year old Killian Jones stuck his head slowly out of the hatch leading below decks, so only his eyes were visible through a narrow crack. He searched carefully to be sure no other sailors were above deck. He knew, of course, that there was a sailor on watch up in the crow’s nest. But he would be scanning the skies and sea, not looking down below at the deck. Seeing that the coast was clear, Killian quietly slipped out on deck, padding silently to the railing. The wood was cool beneath his bare feet. He leaned over the railing and down at the water below. It was a calm night. He could even see the moon and a few stars reflected in the almost glassy surface of the sea, the image broken only occasionally by the undulating waves. He looked up at the velvet sky and reveled at the sight of so many stars twinkling down at him. He breathed in deeply the familiar scents: salt, seaweed, and damp wood. He listened to the familiar sounds of the ocean and the creaking and rocking of the ship. He felt the cool night air gently fan his flushed cheeks. This was what he needed so desperately after being cooped up for three whole days below deck. Even if the slight saltiness of the air stung his right cheek just a bit.

“Killian Jones! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

Slowly and reluctantly, Killian turned to face his older brother. Liam stood there, his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking far older than his 13 years.

“I just needed some fresh air, brother!” Killian tried to explain. “I couldn’t stay down there in the hold one more minute.”

“Little brother,” Liam said on a sigh, putting his hand gently on Killian’s shoulder, “you had a raging fever for three full days. The last thing you need is to stand out here, breathing in the deadly night vapors. You must remain abed until you get your strength back.”

Liam tipped Killian’s head up, then turned it to the side to look at his cheek. The deep cut there was still a bright, angry red, but the wound was no longer weeping. Killian saw the regret and guilt in his brother’s eyes.

“It could be worse, I suppose,” Liam grumbled, dropping his hand from Killian’s face. “You’ll have a scar, though.”

Killian decided that the best course of action was to make light of it. “Well, every good sailor worth his salt needs a scar,” he said brightly. Then he poked Liam in the chest, “And what do you expect? I was stitched up by a 13 year old.”

Liam winced. Okay, maybe it was too soon for that joke. But according to Cook, Liam may have saved Killian’s life.

“Well,” Liam replied, poking his little brother in return, “you should have kept your mouth shut, as usual, and refrained from setting off the Captain.”

Now it was Killian’s turn to wince. Liam was constantly berating him for his sass. “Just keep your mouth shut, Killian, and do as your told,” was the seemingly endless refrain from his brother’s lips. And it was true, Killian’s mouth was constantly getting him into trouble. He just couldn’t seem to help himself. A few days ago, the Captain had sent his youngest cabin boy below decks for some more rum. Unbeknownst to Killian, the barrel he had filled the decanter from was not properly sealed. Salt water had seeped in and ruined the rum. The Captain had taken a large gulp and promptly spit it out across his desk. He had roared at Killian, blaming him. Killian should have taken the scolding meekly and gone to get rum from the second barrel, but instead, as usual, he had opened his mouth.

“As drunk as you are, I’m surprised you noticed.”

The Captain had roared even louder and would have knocked his desk over if it hadn’t been nailed down. Instead he threw the glass tumbler in his hand right at Killian, who had ducked just in time. The tumbler smashed into pieces against the wall directly behind his head (really, who uses glass tumblers on a ship? was Killian’s ridiculous thought). Ducking hadn’t prevented a shard of glass from slicing across his cheek. The Captain screamed at him to get out, face red and eyes bulging. Killian had stumbled out, putting a hand to his stinging cheek. When he pulled his hand away, it was covered in blood. He wiped his bloody hand on his tunic, and reached up to his cheek again. By the time he stumbled on deck to his brother, his face and cheek were slick with blood again.

“Liam,” was all he managed to say before he swayed on his feet.

The rest was a blur. Killian remembered opening his eyes to find himself laid out on the table in the galley, Liam and the bos’un, Starkey, arguing.

“Cook’s gone to shore for supplies.” Starkey hissed, “What’ll we do?”

“I don’t know,” Liam hissed back, as if he didn’t want his brother to hear him. “Go to shore and look for him, or a healer.”

“Captain was adamant that his slaves stay on board. He may do worse to me and to Killian if we disobey. Besides, Killian needs help NOW. Look at how much blood –“

“Then what’ll you do?”

“Get Cook’s kit. I’ve seen him do it before . . . “

“Have you lost your senses?” Starkey practically screeched. “You’re just a boy!”

“Exactly!” Liam shot back. “I need you to hold him down. I’m not strong enough.”

Then Killian saw Starkey and Liam bending over him. Starkey and the Cook had taken a liking to Liam and Killian a year ago when their father had left. The boys trusted both men with their lives.

Starkey took Killian by the shoulders. He thought he remembered tears in the man’s eyes, but surely he had imagined that. “I’m sorry son.” Then the pain. Killian writhed and screamed. Then everything went dark.

When Killian awoke, he was in his hammock in the hold. He was shivering all over, and no matter how tightly he wrapped his scant blanket around him, he felt chilled. For three days, he drifted in and out of consciousness. He heard snippets of conversation around him.

“The wound’s turned septic.”

“I was a fool thinking I could stitch him up!”

“You did what you had to, my boy.”

“The Captain is demanding to know where his second cabin boy is. He has work he needs him to do.”

“Then stall, damn it!”

Concerned faces floated in front of him. Someone made him lift his head to drink some water. Extra blankets were tucked around him. It wasn’t until later that he realized his brother, Starkey, and Cook and given him there’s. As the fever raged higher, he started to hallucinate. Calling out to his mother. To his father. And most frightening of all, was the hallucination he had of Liam. His brother was weeping, begging him not to leave him alone. It had to be a hallucination. Liam never cried.

But by some miracle, this morning Killian had awoke sweating and hot underneath the pile of blankets. When Cook had come down to check on him, Killian had asked for something to eat. Cook laid a gnarled hand against Killian’s forehead, and then whooped with joy. He had never seen the man do anything but scowl. He tried to get up, but Cook, and later Liam, insisted he was too weak. The two of them and Starkey were covering for him; the Captain had been too drunk to know his smallest sailor was missing.

And that was why, on this night, Killian had snuck out of his hammock as soon as the rest of the crew was asleep. Staying in bed all day when he had all his wits about him was about to drive him mad. It was dark, stuffy, and hot in the hold with absolutely nothing to do. And now he had no doubt Liam would send him right back down there.

So Killian couldn’t believe it when Liam said, “Ok little brother, we’ll stay up her for a bit.” When he saw Killian’s grin, he hastily added, “But not for long, and you’re sitting down.”

Killian couldn’t argue with that, he was swaying a bit where he stood. The two boys sat side by side with their backs to the railing and looked up at the night sky.

“There’s a man in the moon tonight,” Liam pointed out. Killian looked up. Sure enough, there was the outline of a man’s face. “Do you remember what mother used to say about the man in the moon?”

Killian shook his head and sighed, “No brother, I sometimes fear I am forgetting her completely.”

Liam gave him a small, reassuring smile, “It’s not surprising. You were only seven when she passed. But I can tell you stories. That way, you won’t forget her.”

“Ok,” Killian agreed with a smile.

Liam cleared his throat. “She always said to give your problems to the man in the moon. But you had to make sure to tell him everything, so he had all the pieces. Like a puzzle. Then, while you were sleeping, he would work out the problem for you.”

Killian tilted his head up to gaze at the moon. Then he closed his eyes and concentrated. He knew he could remember his mother if he thought hard enough. He had to. Slowly, an image came to his mind. A smile that would light up a room. A turned up nose with a dusting of freckles. He saw her face, still a little fuzzy, leaning over him and wiping his brow. He was four or five and was ill. He saw curls framing the pretty face. Light brown, like his brother. Her eyes? He concentrated harder. They seemed to change color. Crystal blue when she was laughing. A stormy gray when she was arguing with his father. Sea green as she sang him to sleep.

“She sang us to sleep!” Killian exclaimed triumphantly. “And told us bedtime stories!”

Liam laughed softly, “That’s right. She had a beautiful voice. Her favorite was –“ and Liam began to sing haltingly:

Lavender’s blue, dilly, dilly, Lavender’s green; When I am king, dilly, dilly, You shall be queen Roses are red, dilly, dilly, Lavender’s blue. If you will have me, dilly, dilly, I will have you.

The song came back to Killian and he joined in. “I’ll say, little brother!” Liam exclaimed. “It seems you’ve inherited her singing voice.”

The boys continued gazing at the sky silently, lost in their own thoughts of their mother.

“Do you remember what you always asked her at the end of every story she told?” Liam finally broke the silence.

Killian laughed, “Yes I do. No matter what it was about, giants, kracken, true love’s kiss, I would always ask her if she believed in it.”

“And she would always say, ‘I believe in everything.’”

“Aye,” Killian scoffed, “and you would always roll your eyes and say it was silly.”

“Not you,” Liam chuckled, poking his ribs, “you would always loudly proclaim, ‘Then I believe in everything too!’ Momma’s boy.”

“Hey!” Killian protested, but he didn’t really mind his brother’s ribbing too much. His mother used to always says she couldn’t believe two brothers could be so different. Now that his memory had been jogged, more flooded into his mind. The clearest memory was the day his mother died. His father was away, he couldn’t remember where or why, but Elizabeth Jones had insisted on her boys being allowed in the sick room. Their father was a respected merchant, able to afford a housekeeper for his modest home. Little did they know he had gambled it all away. Agnes, the housekeeper, had tried to argue with Elizabeth, but to no avail. She dutifully brought the boys to their mother.

Elizabeth spoke to Liam first, asking him to look after Killian. “You are all he has left,” she had said. He now realized his mother had known their father wouldn’t stick around. She gave Liam a ring with a garnet stone, hanging on a chain. She slipped it over Liam’s head, saying, “This ring will always bring you safely home.” Liam had nodded solemnly and vowed that Killian would always be safe.

“Killian,” Elizabeth had called, gesturing to her youngest son. Killian stepped to her bedside, unable to stop the tears that flowed down his cheeks. Liam was strong, but he was weak. “Killian, you have more love in your little finger than most people have in their whole bodies. When you love, you love fiercely, with all that you are. That is rare, my son. And it is strength. It will make you a hero some day.” At this, she took Killian’s freckled face in her hands. “No matter what happens, Killian Jones, no matter what mistakes you make – and we all make some – never forget that you are destined to do heroic things. Promise me you won’t forget.”

“I won’t mother,” Killian had sobbed. Then he had thrown his arms around her. Elizabeth had held him close, drawing Liam into the hug as well.

“Forgive me boys, for leaving you.” She wept. “I don’t want to.”

“Of course we forgive you, mother,” they had both declared. And the next morning, she was gone.

Killian looked up now at the man in the moon. He didn’t have a problem for him, not exactly. More a question. He realized he had broken his promise to his mother. He had already forgotten that he could be a hero. Because his mother was the only one who had ever seen that in him. So, with her gone, he had forgotten. Liam loved him, he knew without a doubt. But he always had the nagging feeling he was letting his brother down. “Why are you always getting into trouble, Killian?” “Can’t you keep your thoughts to yourself, Killian?” It was always something. So Killian Jones looked up at the moon and asked one single question as he closed his eyes.

“Will anyone ever see me the way my mother did?”

**************************************

Killian’s eyes blinked open. He must have fallen asleep on deck. But – something wasn’t right. The surface against his cheek was smooth and cold, not rough and damply warm like the wood of the ship. Someone was saying something to him. . .

“Sweetie . . . come on, sweetie, you need to wake up and get off the bus.”

Wait . . . what? Everything was off. The woman’s strange accent, calling him sweetie, and . . . what the bloody hell was a bus?

Killian jolted up, looking frantically around him. In front of him was a plump woman, middle aged, holding what looked like a rectangle of smooth wood.

“Wh-where am I?” he stuttered. He looked around him – it was all so strange. Two rows of leather benches with an aisle down the middle. And the entire thing was encased in some kind of metal? What was this place?

The woman in front of him chuckled. “You’re at the Valentine’s Day party. All the other children are already inside. You must have fallen asleep.” She looked down at her piece of wood. “Now, what is your name? I thought we had counted everyone.”

“K-Killian J-Jones.”

The woman frowned. “I don’t see your name here.” She shrugged and looked at him with sympathy. Killian wasn’t sure, but it seemed like she was staring at the cut on his cheek. “You must be a brand new arrival. I’ll add your name – go on inside.”

Killian didn’t know what else to do but obey her. He walked down the aisle towards a door at the front of the vehicle he was in. He guessed it was a vehicle. The seat at the very front had a wheel in front of it. He walked down the steps and onto a smooth, black surface. It was all so strange. He looked behind him at the vehicle he had just exited. Large and bright yellow with four enormous wheels. Bizarre. There were words painted across the side in black. He was grateful that Liam had continued his reading instruction after his mother passed. “Baptist Children’s Home.” A children’s home. A nice way of saying orphanage. Great. He was apparently in a strange realm, separated from Liam, and in an orphanage.

“Better hurry up,” the woman behind him admonished. “The food will all be gone.”

Food! Well, at least he wouldn’t starve. He could certainly eat before trying to get back home. Even Liam couldn’t argue with that. He saw a strip of white through a small green lawn. A path. It lead up to two large doors. From the doors and windows of the strange looking building poured a bright, glaring light. What type of lanterns did they have in this realm to make light that blinding? As he walked nearer to the doors and the light, he could see the kind of clothes he was wearing. His trousers were made of a stiff, blue material. The shirt he was wearing was thin, but soft, with strange pictures. The pictures were like nothing he had ever seen, but he could read the words “Star Wars.” That was odd. Over the thin shirt, he wore a short coat made of similar fabric as the trousers. He shivered a little as the wind blew. Seems orphans wore coats too thin in any realm.

Walking into the bright room was overwhelming. At first Killian didn’t know where to look. Glittering, paper hearts of red and pink were hanging on almost every surface of the room. Children of various ages were all around the room. Some were talking, some were playing what looked like carnival games, and at one long table children sat with more paper hearts, rubbing them with colored sticks. But what finally arrested Killian’s attention was the table draped in pink and red tablecloths in the dead center of the room. Food! He tried to calm himself as he approached the table, but he had never seen so many confections in his life! His mother used to make them shortcake with strawberries for their birthdays, but this! The table was a rainbow of color he had never seen on food before. Cakes, pastries, cookies, and . . . was that chocolate?! Pirates would raid ships carrying chocolate, vanilla, or cinnamon, but in this realm such things must be as abundant as sea water. Why else would they serve such rich foods to mere orphans?

Killian almost couldn’t decide what to try first when his eyes landed on a large, heart shaped cookie. The last one on its tray. It wasn’t just the enormous size of the cookie; it was the fact that it was completely covered in pink frosting. Killian had never had frosting in his life. He had seen wealthy patrons buy cakes with frosting from bakeries, but had never tasted it. He picked up the large cookie almost reverently, his mouth watering.

“Hey, kid! You ain’t eatin’ that! It’s mine!”

Before Killian knew what was happening an older boy who towered over him had shoved Killian and snatched the cookie from him. Killian clenched his fists as he watched the boy cram the cookie in his mouth. The bully laughed, his gaping mouth filled with pink frosting and mashed cookie. Killian felt the anger rising, and all reason flee. The boy was huge, but so help him . . .

“I can split mine.”

The soft, kind voice stopped Killian in his tracks. Forgetting his rage, he turned around to see a girl, not much younger than him, standing there with a heart shaped cookie extended to him in her small hand. She was dressed in a similar manner to every other child in the room: the blue trousers, the cotton shirt (with a glittery pink heart), the thin jacket, but she may as well have been the only one in the room wearing a ball gown the way Killian’s heart suddenly skipped a beat. He had seen Liam get tongue tied over girls, but it had never happened to Killian. Until now.

The girl laughed – a wonderful sound. Then she rolled her green eyes and cocked her blonde head. “So ya want the cookie or what?”

Oh, she was a tough lass. He could tell already. Speak, you idiot! Killian thought to himself, but all he could do was nod.

The girl carefully broke the cookie in two, handing half to Killian. Killian ate his half slowly, relishing every sweet bite. It was almost sickening it was so sweet. Almost. Then he shyly licked his lips and his fingers, watching the little girl. She laughed again.

“Didn’t get many sweets at your last home, huh?” She said. “Same here. My last place it was nothing but bologna sandwiches. That I had to make myself, of course. Guy spent all the state’s money on beer. My name’s Emma Swan. What’s yours?”

He hadn’t understood half of what she said. But he had sense enough to remember what Liam had told him about ladies. Whether a duchess or a slave, you should always be a gentleman when greeting a lady. So Killian took Emma’s hand, bowed over it and said, “Killian Jones, m’lady.”

Emma giggled. “You talk funny!” Killian’s face fell until she said, huge smile on her face, “But I like it!” Then he was elated. This Swan girl would be the death of him.

“You must be new,” she continued. “Is the cut why you’re here?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand . . . “

“This home, you don’t stay long. It’s for emergencies. You don’t have to be embarrassed.” Emma rolled up her sleeve and showed Killian her wrist. On it was a scar, puckered and red. “Bologna and beer guy. From his cigarette.” She shrugged like it was no big deal, but he saw a little wetness in her eyes.

Killian gently patted his cheek. “Glass of rum,” he told Emma with a smile, “he threw it at my head.”

She smiled back and he just stood there stupidly. “I’m nine,” he finally said, “how old are you?”

“Seven,” she answered, then abruptly grabbed his hand. “Come on, let’s do something! The craft table is lame, totally for babies. But they’ve got some good games.”

Emma dragged him to a table with little darts laid across it. On the wall behind the table was a dartboard surrounded by shelves of stuffed toys. Emma picked up a dart and showed it to Killian.

“Suction cup darts. Don’t want to give the screwed up orphans real ones,” then she laughed. Seven and already cynical. Yeah, Killian could relate.

She leaned closer to him to whisper in his ear, and he thought his heart might pound right out of his chest. “I want the duck. Think I can do it?”

“I think you could do anything,” he whispered back. And he meant it.

He watched as Emma picked up a dart and concentrated on the board, her tongue sticking adorably out of the corner of her mouth. The first dart didn’t even make it to the board, and the second dart hit two circles from the edge. Emma blew out her breath and narrowed her eyes as she threw the third dart. Close, but no bullseye. Emma sighed.

“Sorry kid, you only get three tries,” said the volunteer.

“Figures,” Emma grumbled.

“I’ll give it a try,” Killian said. The volunteer gave him his three darts. Killian tried to ignore the fact that Emma was watching him, but it was bloody hard to ignore her. His first throw hit the edge of the board and bounced off crazily. He breathed in deeply on his second. He had to win that duck for Emma! His second dart hit on the very edge of the bullseye and he heard Emma cheer beside him. He narrowed his eyes and concentrated on the bullseye, tossed the dart and …

“We have a winner!” exclaimed the volunteer. “Now, what would you like, little boy?”

Killian didn’t hesitate. “The duck.”

Killian thought it was obvious that he had played for Emma, but when he turned to her and placed the duck in her hands, her mouth dropped open.

“You won this for me?” she whispered, hugging the duck to her chest.

“Of course I did,” Killian said with a shrug. Why wouldn’t he? He cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. He scratched behind his ear. “I mean, you did share your cookie.”

Suddenly Emma was grabbing his hand and dragging him along. Again. Not that he minded. He would follow this angel anywhere. The two of them slipped out of a side door and then down a dark hallway. Emma stopped in front of a heavy oak door.

“We’re not supposed to be here,” Emma whispered conspiratorially. “You just got here, so you haven’t come to the Bible lessons yet, huh.”

“Bible lessons?” Killian asked, once again confused.

“Yeah,” Emma whispered back. “They’re not so bad. They read you a story, you make a lame craft, play a game. There’s cookies and juice. That’s the best part.”

The only thing Killian really understood was the part about cookies and juice. Food was certainly easy to come by in this realm.

“I mean, it’s the deal with this place. Bible lessons every Wednesday afternoon. But they take us places. I’m hoping I’m still here next week. We’re going to the movies. I’ve never been.”

Once again, Killian had no idea what Emma was talking about. “So what’s behind the door?” Kilian asked.

“Oh, right,” Emma laughed. “The first Wednesday I came here, I had to go to the bathroom. And on my way back to class, I saw colored light shining through the little window here in this door. I was curious, so I snuck in. And . . . it’s sort of my special place. I wanted to show it to you.”

Emma was the one who seemed shy now, chewing on her bottom lip. Killian smiled at her,” I would be honored to see it, Swan.” Emma giggled, and somehow he knew he was “talking funny” again.

Emma pushed open the heavy door and looked around to make sure the coast was clear. Then she silently motioned for Killian to follow her. When he followed Emma into the room, he gasped. This must be a cathedral! he thought. Each side of the massive room was lined with exquisite stained glass windows. The room was dark, but the moonlight poured through the colorful windows, spilling colored light onto the carpeted floors. “I see why this is your special place,” he breathed.

“Yeah, it’s beautiful,” Emma agreed, “but I have a special spot. Come on.”

And she was pulling him along again. Did Emma Swan ever slow down? Killian didn’t think so. She stopped at the end of a pew and plopped down on the carpeted floor, her back against the wood. She yanked Killian’s hand to sit down next to her. Just a foot in front of them was a beautiful scene in stained glass. It was a man (the same man who seemed to be in a lot of the glass pictures) seated on a rock, surrounded by children. The man’s face seemed gentle and kind, and the children looked at him with smiles on their faces. One little boy sat on his lap, and he had placed his hand on a little girl’s head. At the bottom of the window, in the stained glass, were the words, “Let the little children come unto me.”

“Who is that man?” Killian asked.

“Jesus,” Emma answered. “You’ll hear a lot about him in this place, trust me.”

“Is he a god of this realm?”

More giggling from Emma. “Realm? Yeah, they say he’s god.”

“So you worship this god?” Killian asked, trying to understand fully why this was her special place.

“No,” Emma sighed, “I mean, I don’t really know what to think about him. But the first night I came in here, we had just heard this story. Jesus was really important, so they tried to send the kids away, they thought he was too busy. But Jesus said the kids could come and actually told the grown-ups they ought to be more like the kids.”

“Really?” Killian asked, surprised. Liam was always telling him to grow up.

“Yeah, I know. And then I saw this window, and I don’t know, it’s just – the Bible teacher said Jesus meant that kids believe stuff real easy.” Emma pulled her knees up to her chest. “But I’m only seven, and it’s getting harder and harder to believe in stuff, you know?”

Killian thought of his mother. I believe in everything. What had happened to the little boy who would echo those words back to her? Killian sighed, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“And in this home, they keep going on and on about how Jesus cares for the orphans. And I want to believe that someone cares – anyone – but it’s just so hard. So when I come in here and look at this window, I imagine those children are orphans. And for one moment, I don’t know. I feel . . . I feel . . .”

“Hope?” Killian supplied.

Emma looked at him and smiled. “Yeah.” Then she took Killian completely by surprise and rested her head on his shoulder. They both gazed up at the window for a while in silence, and then he heard Emma softly snoring. He rested his cheek against the top of her head, and suddenly felt very, very tired . . .

************************************

“Killian! Killian, wake up!”

Suddenly, Killian felt someone shaking him. He felt damp wood beneath him and smelled salty air. He groaned. His head felt full of cotton and his limbs felt heavy.

“Killian,” Liam spoke urgently, “we fell asleep, and now you’re burning up. I’ve got to get you back to bed.”

Liam began yanking Killian to his feet, and Killian didn’t like it. Not one bit. “Swan?” he asked. He was on his feet now. Liam tried to pick Killian up, but he wasn’t strong enough. Killian swayed and leaned into his brother.

“I don’t know what you’re babbling about, little brother, now walk.”

“The – the swan. With golden hair. She was a little angel.”

Liam chuckled. “You’re fever is definitely back. You’re hallucinating. Besides, you said girls were a nuisance.”

“Not this one,” Killian mumbled as Liam helped him below and then into his hammock. “Bloody brilliant she was. Amazing.”

But Liam was right, his fever was back. Killian spent two more days in a feverish fog, and when he woke up he assumed the blonde angel and her strange realm had all been a dream. And as hundreds of years ground away at his heart and mind, even the dream faded almost into oblivion.

*************************

Killian and Emma knew that the other parents of Storybrooke were probably rolling their eyes at the idea of taking an 8 month old to a Valentine’s Day party. Although none of them should have been surprised. As orphans, they had missed out on so much. They were determined to give their little girl everything they had missed out on. Children’s events at the public library were one of them.

Belle had always been a natural at running the library, but after becoming a mother she took it to a whole other level. She convinced Regina to approve the addition of a children’s wing, and she kept said wing abuzz with activity. Storytime, laptime, babytime, summer reading programs, and countless special events were a welcome improvement over research to defeat monsters and secret war councils. In the peace that had descended on Storybrooke, the Jones family were Belle’s number one customers. They brought baby Elsa to babytime every Wednesday morning, alternating weeks. Belle had tried not to chuckle the first time Killian brought her. Elsa couldn’t even hold her head up yet, so when they sang the song about riding a pony to town, Killian couldn’t bounce her on his knee like he was supposed to. So really, was a Valentine’s Day party that crazy of an idea?

Granted, Elsa drooled, babbled, and squealed her way through storytime about two rabbits who try to outdo each other with declarations of love. Emma had basically done the craft for her after Elsa tried to eat the glue stick. And now Killian was trying to figure out how to balance a plate of food with his good hand while holding Elsa in his other arm. He was trying to grab Emma’s attention across the room where she was talking to Snow, but with no luck. Suddenly, Elsa made a grab for Killian’s plate, taking a heart shaped frosted cookie into both her chubby hands. She squished the cooked delightedly and then tried to cram the confection into her mouth with both fists.

“Oy, little pirate lass!” Killian pouted. “That was your Papa’s cookie!”

Killian heard a chuckle behind him. He turned to see Emma, holding another cookie out to him.

“Wanna split mine?”

And suddenly, just like that, they both remembered. They both gasped.

“It was you!” Emma exclaimed first.

“I thought it was a dream.”

“I thought you were an imaginary friend,” Emma laughed. She stepped forward and drew her thumb across the scar on his cheek. “Rum, huh? Figures.”

Killian grinned. His hands were full, so he gestured with his head to her wrist. “So that’s why you got the tattoo?”

“Yeah,” Emma said while rubbing her wrist, “the scar never did go away.”

They just stood there staring into one another’s eyes, both their hearts breaking for the little lost girl and the little lost boy.

“But how?” Emma asked, shaking her head.

“I don’t know,” Killian shrugged. “All I know is, I fell asleep asking the man in the moon a question. And the next thing I knew . . .”

“Seriously?” Emma rolled her eyes. “The man in the moon? What did you ask him?”

“If anyone would ever see me the way my mother did.”

Emma cocked her head to one side. “Mmhm, and how did she see you?”

“A boy who could be a hero one day.” Killian’s smile lit up his face as he leaned down to kiss his Swan. But before the kiss could get really good, two chubby hands patted Killian’s cheek, covering him in pink frosting. Killian pulled back, both he and Emma laughing. Emma reached up with a napkin to wipe the frosting out of Killian’s scruff.

“What happened to the duck?” Killian asked. “It didn’t earn a place in your memory box?”

Emma laughed. “You’ll never believe this. Another kid stole it.”

“Stole it?”

"Yeah, the same kid who stole your cookie.”

Killian rolled his eyes. “Figures. We were truly made for each other Swan.” And he bent to kiss her againn.

#cs ff #self promo sunday #little!emma #little!killian #hope for the orphans #my first fic

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hozierfic · 5 years ago

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Submission by @ineffable-nalu

Hey this is my first Hozier fic, and my first time ever posting a submission of my wiritng on Tumblr, I’m kind of scared but YOLO right ? I don’t know how this works if that wasn’t obvious. Well hope someone enjoys it. I think it will be a couple of chapters if someone likes it!

Thanks!

Calliope’s POV

The sound of Marimba fills the room waking me up in a bed that isn’t my own which sucks, even if it’s a fancy hotel room bed, there’s just something peaceful about waking up home knowing that it’s your space your time no rush even when you are rushing. Is any of this even making sense ?

I sigh as I look over at the clock, it’s 5 minutes passed 8 and I really should get up and start getting ready. Rolling out of bed and stretching out my joints I make my way into the bathroom for a shower, I really need the wake up call.

Nearly 30 minutes later and I’m done getting ready, my curly brown hair is as tamed as it can be and I decided on being as casual as acceptable when your sister is a super model, considering I’m meeting her for brunch I can’t show up in sweats, so I opted for skinny black jeans, a black turtle neck and my favorite high heel boot. I put on my liner and a red lip and grabbing my coat before stepping out, it’s still early and I’m not meeting Harmonia until later, but there are a few things I’d like to do.

I’m only in New York for 1 more day and I can’t miss the oprotunity to go to check out the Stephen A. Schwarzman library. You see I’m a published author, well a barely published author I wrote a fantasy novel that is supposed to be a trilogy, it was published 5 months ago and I was surprised by the fact that people really liked it, so here I am on my book tour. Thinking about my reading tonight I entered the elevator and pushed the button for lobby when I heard someone shout

“Hold the lift please” My hand jupms out at the closing doors and a tall man rushes in as they close “Thanks for that, you’re going down too? Great” he says in a charming Irish accent as he pushes the lobby button again and leans back on the wall with and took the guitar case strapped off of his shoulder

I took this as my chance to check him out. I was wrong he’s not tall, he’s very tall, I would say over 2 meters probably, his hair is long and hectic, curly and frizzy but god does it work for him. I was startled out my daze when the elevator jumped slightly, the lights flickering making me almost fall over if not for my reflexes and the rail I would’ve fallen, it made another clunking noise before finally stopping in place

“What the hell ?” I asked looking up at the counter that shows you what floor you’re on only to see it’s stuck between the fourth and fifth floor. Perfect.

“I do belive it’s stuck” The handsome stranger says and I look at him over my shoulder with an arched brow as if to say ‘Really I hadn’t noticed’

Sighing back into the wall I answered

“Yeah, it seems so. I just can’t belive that these things actually happen. I mean for 23 years I have never been stuck in an elevator and then this one, in a 5 star hotel may I add decides to brake down. Doesn’t this sort of thing usually happen in movies ?” I ramble on and look up to him as he just startes at me with an amused look on his face

“ Yes I think it does usually happen in movies, but in real life as well. I’ve been stuck in a lift before don’t worry they’ll get us out soon. You’re not claustrophobic are you ?”

I snort-laughed at his question

“No, and thank god, that would be unpleasant. For the both of us”

he nodded and extented his hand towards me “The name’s Andrew” cute name, it suits him I though as I shook his and smiled at him “Calliope”

“The Greek muse of epic poetry ? In the flesh ?” he gasped putting his hand on his heart “Forgive me my lady for I hadn’t a clue as to who’s presence I was in” he said dramatically making me scoff playfully, can you a blame a girl for flirting a little ? He’s gorgeous.

“If only you were half as funy as you think you are, you could be a comedian. My parents are historians and Greek mythology fanatics I would say, my sister’s name is Harmonia” he chuckled at that

“How do you know I’m not ? A comedian I mean. and I like your name, it suits you. I can see you isnpiring Homer to write the Illiad”

I chucked at that “Because you’re not funny, and that’s kind of esential to being a comedian. And If only I could inspire my self to write” I said the last part somewhat softly but he heard any way

“Oh, you’re a writer then ?” I turned my head to look at him, then realized he is a good head and a half taller so I craned my neck and shurgged “I suppose I am, barley”

He laughed at that and sat on the floor “What does 'Being barley a writer’ even mean ? You either are or you aren’t”

Following his example I plopped on the floor as well and sighed “ I am a writer, just been going through a funk and can’t seem to write a god damn word, you know ? Sometimes I think the first one was just a lucky break and I’m not actually a good writer” I stopped myself before I could continue, what was wrong with ne ? Just spilling my guts out to this beautiful relative stranger.

Andrew nods his head as he looks at me before leaning back and looking at the roof of the box we were currently trapped in “ I actually know well what that’s like”

“Are you a writer as well ?” I asked

“No, musician” his head tilts to the guitar next to him and I almost facepalm, what am I an idiot of course he’s a musician

“Oh yeah obviously, sorry I haven’t really had coffe yet so I’m a bit slow. Are you in a band ?” I ask him and he nods

“Don’t worry about it I feel the same, can barely keep my eyes open. And yes I am in a band” he says with a smile

“That’s cool, you do look familliar. Wait don’t tell me” I hold my hand up and I can see he’s trying to hold back a laugh, but he listens and sits back as I inspect him, top to bottom

“Ok, you’re Irish, you play the guitar but you also write the songs and you’re in a band.”

I mumble to myself as I look into his beautiful hazel eyes he smiled at me seeming quite entertained, brushing off his looks I keep thinking.

I know I’ve seen him but where ? “Andrew ? Andrew ? Where do-” and the it hit me and I jumped to my feet

“Oh, Oh I got it!”

I said loudly and this time he does laugh as he looks at me take my seat again “Already ? I was kind of enjoying the attention and proximity” I shoved his shoulder playfully

“Andrew Hozier-Byrne, How did I not see it ? I mean I love your music” I say laughing at myself for not seeing it.

“Ding ding, we have a winner.” He laughs

“To be perfectly honest I never looked at who was singing too engrossed in the lyrics and melodies . But your music is hauntingly beautiful you know ?”

I tell him and his face shifts from amusement to flattery and a bit of embarrassment

“Uhm, thanks always nice to know people like the music I create” he says scuffing his hair as he talks.

“And don’t even worry about not recognizing me, I prefer being as anonymous as possible”

I smile at him placing my head on the wall

“I can imagine how hectic life can be for a world renown musician” I say gently and he nods in agreement

“You are a writer though. Your music is poetry. If you were born in the 16th century you would’ve given Marlowe and Shakespeare a run fir their money”

He laughs at my statement rolling his head over to look at me

“That is high praise I am humbled, you said you have a book published?”

“Yeah, I’ve had the idea for it for so long and I finished the first book about a year ago, it was published about 6 months ago”

“What’s it called maybe I’ve read it ?”

I really laugh at that shaking my head “Oh no, no you haven’t trust me”

His brows furrow a bit at my words

“Why so self deprecating? I’m sure I’ve heard or read about it if not actually read. Come on” he urged making me want to sigh.

“Keepers of the rift” I say after a moment of silence.

“No way” he says quietly making me look at him “What ?”

Andrew beams at me akin to a child on Christmas morning “I absolutely loved your book, are you kidding me ? You’re Cal Andjelkovic? ”

he bewildered completely butchering my last name making me laugh

“It’s Andjelkovic actually but yes, I shortened the name. And you actually read my book ?”

I asked seemingly suspicious but in all honesty just sort of stunned. I still can’t believe that anyone’s read my book let alone well known artist

“Yes, yes I stumbled across it in a book shop while we were touring The UK and since you spend 90% if your free time on a bus while touring I love to fill the time by reading.

And when I started yours I couldn’t put it down until I finished it”

He said sincerely and it warmed every part of me.

I’ve met loads of people during my signing and reading sessions but this almost intimate setting with us on the floor, shoulders pressed against one another having him tell me he enjoyed my writing made it special

I nudged his shoulder slightly making him look at me with a raised brow I smiled up at him

“That is high praise, especially from you. I am humbled” I repeat his words to him and he smirks slightly at me

“Cheek” he mumbles making me laugh

—————————

“So you’re struggling with the second one then ?” His voice resonates around me, he’s looking up at me from a journal of some sorts. We have been sitting in silence for, who knows how long.

I look at my watch seeing it’s 11:30 and we are still in this goddamn elevator. I’m going to be late for brunch, and as if icing in the cake there was no service in here.

“Yes you could say that. For almost 8 years I had this story in my mind, and every day it was slowly building itself. It took me some time to actually physically write a sentence of it.

I have an outline of all three volumes. Always saw it as a trilogy of sorts.

And even though I know what I want from the second one- Writing it is still a completely different story”

I say looking at him and seeing sympathy on his face

“I have been there, sometimes the music pours out, the lyrics come to me in dreams and during showers or cooking.

And then other times I’m close to banging my head against a wall just to think of a single note”

I hummed at him in understanding

“Soon you said, eh ?” I laughed after about a minute of silence making him chuckle in return

“Apparently things work differently in America, if we were in Ireland we’d already’ve been out of here and into the nearest pub for a celebratory drink” he says

“Drink? It’s not even noon yet ?”

I said laughing at his comeback

“It’s happy hour somewhere right?”

——————————

“Ok so I write something for you, you sing something for me ?” I ask and he nods his head in confirmation. It was a little after 1pm

“Deal, now would you like me to insert you into the world I created or just make up something new?” I asked

“Oooo, into the story you’ve already created I love the way you used certain folklore, myths and legends”

he replies with a childlike grin on his face making me chuckle at how cute he was

I took my own journal out of my bag and started writing, trying to find the best story to tell.

I found that writing came when writing about him, words flowed onto the page as my mind was overtaken by him.

His presence was calming, I enjoyed his conversation, he is charming and beautiful. And his music haunts me, it inspires me.

I skim over the the few pages I wrote and glanced up at him, only to find him staring at me with a intense look on his face

I cleared my throat and handed him the journal

“I- um I finished it, and to be clear this is a non proof read rough draft. So don’t expect some novelty” he takes it from my hands and starts reading intently.

Following the words with his eyes and tracing them with his fingers, I smiled looking at him

“A Fae ?” His voice brought me back and looking him in the eyes, amusement laced his voice as he looked at me with a raised brow

I shrugged my shoulders

“It was either that or a deity of the forest. But I believe Fae suits you. Hauntingly beautiful” I say

Smiling at my answer he gives me my journal back,

“It was a wonderful story, I quite enjoyed reading about me as one of the Fae”

He says

“I could put you in the second book ?” I tease

“I would be honored” he says, reaching for his guitar

“I’ll quote you on that. Oh, am I about to have the most privet Hozier concert ever ?” I joked

Making Andrew snort slightly and take his guitar out of the case slinging it on his shoulder

“Hozier is me and my band, you are going to get an exclusive one man Andrew show. Which if you ask me is bit as good”

I slap his shoulder “Shut it, and play me something”

I smile and watch him tune his guitar for a couple of minutes before he clears his throat and looks at me

“May I sing to you a work in progress? Since you gave me an original I figured ?” I nod enthusiastically

He starts strumming the guitar gently for a while, as if trying to find the right sound and then-

“I still watch you when you’re grooving, as if through water from the bottom a pool.

You’re moving without moving.

And when you move I’m moved.

You are a call to motion, there all of you a verb in perfect view, Like Jonah on the ocean.

When you move I’m moved.

When you move I’m put to mind of all that I want to be , when you move I could never define all that you are to me”

The strumming stops and his heavenly voice fades leaving me staring at him, most likely with my mouth agape

“That was incredible, I’m awestruck to be completely honest. My god. You Sir are a poet. That was beautiful. Is there more?”

I ask and he shakes his head

“It came to me just now. While being stuck in this hellhole” he says laughing slightly but I’m just mesmerized by the lyrics he just sang

“I still watch you when you’re grooving,” I mumble to myself reciting the lyrics “as if through water from the bottom of a pool”

I look at him

“And you’re moving without moving” I keep going

“When you move, I’m moved” he finishes for me making me smile at him

“So move me baby” I wink at him and he just stares at me for a moment

“Shake like the bough of a willow tree” and he smiles at me before scribbling down things in his journal.

I went back to scribbling notes on certain ideas I had for some of my characters, plot points needed to be addressed and such, not ten minutes passed and we heard a clunking noise and the elevator started moving.

Descending down to the lobby after 5 hours. Andrew and I get up right as the doors open

“Oh thank god man, we’ve been freaking the fuck out. I mean you’re never late to anything and then you don’t show up at rehearsals and not answering your phone, we drive together next time”

A man almost as tall as Andrew hugs him making me laugh at his ramble.

Stepping out of the elevator I looked around the lobby spotting Harmonia sitting at the bar,

I look over at Andrew and to see him talking to his band mates making me smile and move towards my sister.

Hopefully she won’t be too pissed. But them again it wasn’t really my fault.

#submission #hozier fanfic #hozier/female oc #ineffable-nalu

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frogocado · 5 years ago

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A Golden Labyrinth of Noise Part 4 (Damien Haas au)

can someone pls remind me that sometimes on tumblr mobile I accidentally just delete entire posts thank you. Begin the series here. Please message me if you want to be on my tag list!

tag list @star-mum, @latenlghtdevil, @weirdlywonderful, @thegigglehutsbonkyjilliams

I’m gonna try to be more consistent about word counts so this is 2.3k. Let me know what you think! Reblogs help a lot!

4. Walls of a Different Kind

“Twelve… thirteen… fourteen…” Courtney finished counting out small coins and passed them to you. You examined the pile—far few golds this time and only a small handful of bronze pieces. Right as Courtney resumed her count; a bruised and dirty hand brushed them off of the bar and into a change purse.

“Hey!” You exclaimed, wheeling with your first at the ready. Even with the small possibility that it could be anyone other than who it always is, your instincts kicked in fast and hard. David flashed you a wicked grin as he hid behind Courtney.

“You guys!” She whined, combining the piles again as she restarted.

“Blame Y/N, the damned rent is due.”

You rolled your eyes, catching Courtney’s pointed look in your own. The damned rent was always due. David slipped into the back room to gather the rest of his things for the night. Courtney slipped three coins to you across the bar— two extra silver pieces and a solid, glinting gold. You gasped before quickly sweeping the three extra coins into the folds of your apron. You mouthed a “thank you” to your friend. Courtney put her finger to her lips as David rounded the corner again.

“I can still perform tomorrow night, right?” You asked your boss, following behind him. He had swiftly grabbed one of the oil lanterns and headed for the staircase. He grunted an answer in return halfway up the flight. Your time was going to be cut short and without the extra tips, you wouldn’t be able to afford the special loaf the baker had been saving for you all week. “Come on, David, it’s the second Thursday of the month. Remember what you said—“

Even with the limited light, you could still see him rolling his eyes. “Yes, yes, fine, fine,” he answered dully. He pulled the door open and slammed it straight into your face. “Don’t burn the bar down with me inside,” he called, just as he did every night. “I’ll know!”

Courtney followed up the stairs soon after, holding a second oil lamp in one hand and candelabra in the other. She gave you a sheepish grin, casually handing the candelabra to you. You and Courtney had once, indeed, tried down to burn the tavern down with David inside. You thought maybe that would end your three year servitude of serving drinks and singing once a month, that maybe you’d be able to escape the dull kingdom and your awful boss. If only the Fates were kinder. While the candelabra had taken the curtains easily, it was almost as if David had always expected his staff to try to murder him. Even though minutes before, he was passed out drunk on his cot, he was up with a pail of water. They were doused faster than you and Courtney could realize what was happening. He docked your pay for a month.

Courtney followed you down the small hallway to your small room. “Did you see that guy that was with Shayne?” She asked, leaning against the frame as you worked on getting your door unstuck from its broken lock. A jiggle to the left, a push to the right… “Think he was a prisoner?”

You made a face, shaking your head as the door finally wretched itself open. “I still don’t know who Shayne is.”

“That guard that’s always at Matt Raub’s,” Courtney pushed past you, sitting on your small bunk in the middle of the room. You hadn’t remembered inviting her in.

You placed the candelabra on the window sill. “Oh,” you said, though you still weren’t a hundred percent sure who she meant. You leaned down and pulled a small, black box out from underneath your cot and deposited the coins inside. Your friend was still talking, laying back on your cot now as your fingers lightly traced over the images on the coins. Five golds, ten silvers, two bronze. It was a start.

“You ever think about how easy things would be if we had more coin?” You ask her absentmindedly as you push the box back under your cot. When you look up, Courtney is asleep, curled around your pillow with her boots still on.

You sighed and pulled the torn blanket around your friend before returning to the window. You sat on your traveling trunk and watched the candle light dance against the glass of the window. You wondered when you would ever feel like you belonged somewhere. Your eyes drifted past the flame and out the yards and yards to where the seagulls patrolled the river waters outside of the kingdom. “Take me back,” you whispered, bringing your finger up to tap on the glass of the window. “Take me back.”

Your eyes drifted to your dresser where a single, faded image sat in a patched frame. It was the only photo of your life before, a handmaiden standing over your shoulder. Her hand was resting on your shoulder, both sets of eyes focused on the photographer. You hummed as you crossed the room to the image, folding the frame so it lay face down against your dresser. You weren’t sure if you could handle drifting in your own memories tonight.

Right as you considered fighting with your door again to go back downstairs into the main tavern, a small, black head poked itself out from around the travel trunk. When you met your cat’s eyes, you gave her a small, soft smile. “Want to come with me?” You asked, the door giving way much more easily when pulled rather than pushed.

It was one of the things David had told you when you had first considered living above the tavern. “If you need to make a quick escape for some reason… guards chasing you or someone coming for money… it’s a lot easier to get out than it is to get in. Like life, really, if you think about it.”

Zelda gave a soft purr in response and stretched before following close behind your heels. Even in the dark, your cat was still blacker than the darkest shadow and you marveled as she twined her tail around the bannister, feet quiet until the bottom of the steps. You hummed once your feet landed on the hardwood floors of the bar, letting the tone of your breath fill the space.

Zelda hopped up onto the bar as you dug underneath next day’s cleaning rags for your torn, tattered, notebook. “Come on,” you coaxed your animal friend, carefully tiptoeing halfway up the stairwell again. She didn’t follow until you shimmied the window on the stairwell’s landing open. Wood ground against wood, the building sighing as it let in the night air. Before you could even swing your leg out onto the roof, Zelda was leaping ahead of you, off to chase the pigeons that often roosted near the chimney.

The two of you stayed on the roof until the sun began to crest the rooftops of the village around you, and then a little bit longer after that, too. Even when your voice wasn’t being carried in the air, you were still trying to connect with your music, the songs from your time beyond the kingdom. You missed the sighs and exhales of wood in water. You missed birds overhead and the rocking that moved through your stomach and your head. You missed the smell of musk and salt, the callouses that grew into small mountains and valleys on your hands and fingers from work. You missed feeling important, like so much more than a woman, a singer, a fucking maid.

A knock on the window sill jarred you from your thoughts and you jumped, turning back around to the sound. David had his hands bracing the sides of the sill, glaring out the window at you and Zelda. “Let’s go, I need you downstairs.” His voice was gruff and the additional tone caused Zelda’s hair to stand on end. She glanced over at him from her spot curled on the shingles and hissed. “And shut that cursed thing up.”

You sighed as the bell tower chimed to eight. Ducking back into the building, you followed David downstairs. “You never have me work this early,” you grumbled as you grabbed your apron.

“Yeah, well,” David griped as he began to set the chairs down. “If I’m losing my best waitress tonight she better put her work in now. Your rent doesn’t pay itself, you know. You’re lucky I don’t charge you for your roommate, too.” His eyes traveled back up the stairs where Zelda was watching the two of you, her black and white face resting between the spaces of the railing.

You waited until David was turned away from you to roll your eyes. The hardest part of dealing with David was the way you couldn’t do shit about it. He was unfair and manipulative, but he was also the only decent option in a village so small and far from neighbors. As you help David prepare for the evening, you find yourself hoping that by the time that dumb royal kid is old enough his parents will have enough sense to marry him off to someone important. It didn’t matter that King Haas used to have metal experience or that his family used to bring the village commerce and visitors alike. What good were royalty if all they did was sit surrounded by their own walls? You wondered if there had always been such separation between the village and the royal family, or what had made it switch? Most days, it felt like you weren’t being led by a king at all, just watched like ants in glass.

David slamming two glasses onto the bar pulled you out of your thoughts. “Your boss sucks,” he was grumbling to the two patrons seated in front of him. After having you work the entire morning and afternoon, your set began in a little over half an hour and you were exhausted. The mug of honey tea Courtney had given you an hour ago had gone cold wrapped in your hand. All you wanted to do was slink upstairs and rest.

The woman on the left, a small Asian woman that seemed to be drowning in the folds of clothes around her, shook her head. “You shouldn’t talk about the King that way. Someone might do something about it.” She brought her hands up, punching her fist into her palm. You had seen this woman around the bar a few times in the past month or so. When she wasn’t drinking at the Lion, she was often shouting in the street to anyone that passed her. She and David couldn’t seem to stand each other, but they also complained about the very same people. That’s the only reason they got along, you realized.

Master Healer Johnson put a hand on his companion’s shoulder, his silver hair in a high bun. There was always something shifty about him, like his fingers would make light work of anything shiny. “Mari, relax. Think about it from David’s perspective,” Johnson said, his voice soft and close to a sing-song. “A lazy man who’s forced to pay his taxes when all he wants to do is rip off travelers. King Haas hasn’t been on an expedition in years.”

You nearly choked from the cold tea in your mouth and coughed. David turned on you quickly as you rose to your feet, heading for the small, makeshift stage before he could scream. Courtney was rushing between tables, trying to balance two trays while still being able to move freely.

You moved away from your lute on the stage and held out your hands in an attempted offer of help. Even with her dizzy movements, she came to a halt in front of you. “I’ve got it, Y/N! This is your one night a month to be free of this job. Don’t waste the opportunity, please.” Immediately, her movements began again and you watched, hoping her clumsy feet wouldn’t trip her up. You could only imagine how David would react.

You climbed begrudgingly back onto the stage and tuned your lute. Once you were ready, you hopped down and approached a table, pointing to a stool between the two men. “Are you using this?” You asked, looking between a man beneath a brown cloak and his companion, a regular whose name you could never quite place.

“It’s yours.”

They passed it to you and you grinned towards them, tucking it beneath your arm as you approached the stage again. As you adjusted everything you needed, you glanced back to the two men, wondering with curiosity why both men seemed to be familiar to you, like a song forgotten since youth.

#damien haas #smosh #smosh fic #smosh au #damien haas fic #damien haas au #damien haas x reader #damien is barely in this I am s o r r y #damien haas imagine #fic #glon #mine #prince!damien au

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williamofwestworld · 6 years ago

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OOC: I was typing all of this up in the tags of another post and tumblr mobile ate the whole thing so here it goes. It really does get kind of tiresome, as a mun who roleplays many characters who are considered villains, to continuously feel the need to explain “I do NOT condone my characters actions.” Not every mun who writes a villain agrees with or condones their actions. Why do we continuously have to put disclaimers in our posts? Do writers of shows or books or movies need to put disclaimers at the beginning of their materials?

Warning: We, as writers, do not condone the actions of the characters within, we are merely trying to create a story for your enjoyment.

Like, I know I don’t have to preach to the choir here, because all of you guys are pretty cool with William and my interpretation of him, but it’s the random people who passes by that I worry about.

Some of you guys have never written a villain before and probably never want to and I understand that... but for those of us who do write problematic characters? We have to write it from the perspective of the character that we have chosen to write and most of the time the villains do not see themselves as doing the wrong thing. Most villains do not see themselves as being the villain. They have goals and points of view of their own and then this becomes an issue of perspective. When we write a villain, it would see pretty lame to write, “I killed the man and damn I know that was wrong and I’m going to burn in hell for it, here let me point out how bad I am.” You can’t do that without making the villain wildly out of character.

Do I agree with William and how he handles the Hosts? No. In fact, he’s wrong. He’s almost always wrong about them. I’ll be the first to admit that he deserves to get his ass kicked, because he’s been a jerk to them... but when I write him, I have to write him from his perspective and he thinks that he is RIGHT in the way that he goes about handling them. He believes that pain will wake them up from their programming, he also believes that killing Hosts will have no consequences because they’re not real until they have broken out of that programming.

Point being... writers of villains have a very tough job. We have to give everyone a believable villain to rail against, while also constantly pointing out that we don’t agree with their actions. It gets tiresome. Why can’t it just be a given at this point that it’s very possible to value a character for how well written they are and it’s not always about what they do that we enjoy? All stories needs a good villain.

It’s like President Snow of Hunger Games or Emperor Palpatine of Star Wars. I hate both of them as people and yet I can sit back and admire them because they are both well written villains... both of which I have thought on writing.

I’m honestly really not saying this to my followers, because I know you guys are cool with William... but it’s just an in general statement about Tumblr as a whole.

One last thing. Explaining =/= condoning.

#out of bullets

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emiliios · 6 years ago

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TW: DRUGS, ADDICTION, DEATH.

- ̗̀✰ •【 CHRIS WOOD / CISMALE / 29 】announcing the arrival of his royal highness, ( EMILIO DE COIMBRA ), the ( PRINCE ) of ( PORTUGAL ). I’ve heard that he is ( STUBBORN ) & ( FACETIOUS ) but can also be ( PASSIONATE ) & ( LOYAL ). ( EMILIO ) is arranged to marry ( TATIANA ROMANOV ). Rumor has it ( HE IS ADDICTED TO COCAINE ). We hope you enjoy your stay at London!

sup bbys it’s riley again ( i also play christian and tomás ) and we r back w yet ANOTHER sad boy ™ , emilio AKA MILO, however this one is on a REDEMPTION ARC. MARK MY WORDS. we r in for a wild ride. as always. a pretty damn lengthy intro post underneath the cut. and as always, GIVE THIS POST A LIKE or slide into my tumblr ims / discord dms for some plot ho™ action thnx

BACKSTORY ! tw: drugs, addiction, death.

( read more about the de coimbras here !! elle did such a fanfabtastic job )

long story short, milo was close with his family, but not super close. he loved his parents and his siblings a lot, but never really showed it; would protect his siblings at all costs but never told them everything. sort of like a semi-close but not too-close kind of vibe there.

he was very close with his father, though -- despite their arguments about staying out late or getting in with the wrong people sometimes, he really looked up to his father. he respected the shit out of him for marrying out of love and not for political reasons, and always thought that just maybe he could do the same. but ofc, that future was not for him (OR WAS IT ....... stay tuned).

being the second oldest, he was expected to have responsibilities, but he never had the burden of knowing that he would have to lead a country ( that is, until now ). he had a weird relationship with his duties before pedro fell into his coma; knowing his status as a member of the royal family, he had things he had to do, but sort of skirted by and did the bare minimum. he’d attend galas, meet other royals, uphold a certain standard of himself, but other than that, he felt as though he had free reigns over what else he wanted to do with his life. that typically meant going out with his friends, traveling to the south of france for a weekend with his friends, etc. he wasn’t too rowdy as a teenager, but he dabbled in some drugs here and there. nothing too serious.

TW: DEATH. BUT THEN his father died when he was 23 and out of college, working as a manager for some international nonprofit, he spiraled out of control for a while.

and by that i meant he would go out and go like sicko mode version of his old life, like full send on drugs and partying and completely neglecting his duties as a royal. he got shit from his family and his siblings but he found even more that there was no reason to worry that much about his duties n shit.

the one bright spot in his life from age 23-present day was tatiana. o boy did he fall hard when he met her at age 26, almost got control of his life again with her in it. he was seriously in love w her but of course, his whole mindset of not giving a shit wasn’t really cutting it and he was probably not the best boyfriend LET ALONE someone that another royal should be betrothed to / associated with, so they broke it off after about two years.

TW: DRUGS, ADDICTION. the six months between his break-up with tatiana and pedro’s accident that put him in a coma was probably milo’s all time low. he went through a phase where he’d sleep around trying to get over her, this was also the time when he really got hooked on cocaine. he’d do it to try and feel something, and really spiraled to his absolute lowest. royal family negligence was at an all time high. real low point for my dude right here.

flash-forward to pedro’s accident, about six months ago -- it turned milo’s entire life upside-down. he was now the crowned prince, the one who would have to rule a country. he realized how much responsibility he would have to carry, without either of his parents or his older brother to help him. he started to turn things around -- cut out the partying, the sleeping around, the excessive drinking. he started to realize how vulnerable a human life was, realizing that his father’s passing and his brother’s accident were real, not just flukes, and his entire outlook on life changed.

he wanted to be good. he wanted to be good enough to be a role model for his younger siblings just like pedro had been for him; he wanted to be a leader that the portuguese people would stand behind and support, but he knew he had a long way to go.

TW: ADDICTION. he continues to put in a lot of good work to improve his character, his habits, his relationship with his family, and his royal duties. however, there still exist a few flaws: the fact that milo never wanted to be king or ever rule a country still weighs down in his heart, and he still harbors a bit of resentment toward carlotta for indirectly pushing this life on him, but also, deep down, he knows that without this push, he would still be in a very dark hole. second, due to the immense amount of sudden pressure pushed onto him, milo still frequently uses cocaine and needs it to relieve himself of pressures.

PERSONALITY !

milo is definitely outgoing and has a witty sense of humor. the fact that he was sort of a black sheep made him have a bit of a self-deprecating of humor at times in his life, but it shows that he is actually pretty self-aware as well.

milo is friendly; despite not really wanting to have a royal title, especially not that of ‘crown prince’, he does like getting to know people, and in a lot of cases, that means other royals. however, get on his bad side or annoy him, and he’ll be cold or aggressive.

milo is emotional, but doesn’t really show it. he bottles up a lot of his emotions and lets them out by himself, but we’ll all be damned if he ever cried in front of maybe more than like 1 person. while he is self-aware about a lot of things, he doesn’t know how to deal with his emotions sometimes.

milo was a bit cynical, but has been wanting to change. he used to think that every man was out for himself, but having come into a leadership role, he sees different perspectives better now.

milo is a little impatient, but he’s working on it. he’s really working on it 1!!!!!!!!!

TIDBITS !

milo is called milo only by his close friends and family; he still goes by emilio regularly.

milo is really into astronomy; often times while drunk / high / neglecting responsibilities, he’d find himself staring at the stars in the garden. he likes studying constellations. it’s cool and it’s his little nerdy thing.

milo is pansexual; doesn’t really care for gender or sex and probably discovered this during college or something.

milo really is into action movies. like fast and the furious or something. i don’t really know other action movies.

milo learned how to play guitar, probably when he was really high or something. he’s actually pretty good. probably used it to woo women at some point, but deep down it’s one of very few things that can calm him down.

AESTHETIC ! tw: alcohol.

well-fitted sweaters, headphones around his neck, expensive watches, pen ink stains, a neat desk, rock music, star maps, spearmint gum, speaking three languages in the same sentence, old cartoons, faded tanlines, smokey cologne, dark chocolate.

POTENTIAL PLOTS ! tw: drugs, alcohol, addiction.

previous friends / party buddies, people who milo used to hang around in some of his more crazy points of his life -- people who could do lines with him, who would travel recklessly around the world with him, who probably fed into his ‘fuck royal duties’ kind of thing. he probably cut ties eventually when he realized how stupid it was to be doing all these things ( about six months ago ); things could be tense now.

childhood friends, people who maybe were of similar age and who attended different royal gatherings together. preferably friends who grew up together and sort of got up to shenanigans.

former friends, probably someone of similar age and take their royal duties more seriously. when milo began to fall into a more carefree lifestyle, perhaps they didn’t agree with his life choices and their friendship fell through.

exes / flings, probably a handful of them. given that he’s charismatic and outgoing, he’s likely to charm his way to a person’s heart if he takes interest in them / they take interest in him. him being facetious and not taking things as seriously as he should, things probably ended if / when it was expected for the relationship to be long-term or serious.

good influence, someone who sees the potential in milo’s turn in perspective and may tutor him in royal tricks, or is trying to help him get off the rails finally ( bonus: they’ve seen him do coke and are subtley trying to him him get his shit together there )

literally ? anything ? hit me the fuck up once again LIKE THIS or dm me on tumblr/discord and lets get some P L O T S goin my dudes

#buckingham:intro #intro post.#tw drugs #tw addiction #tw death #tw alcohol #anyhow this took way longer than i thought #y? bc i always write intro posts that are way too long #anyhow I'LL BE on in the morning 2 do more replies and write starters

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sweetsoursugarcube · 7 years ago

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The Ghost Ship

I wrote this to celebrate Eren’s birthday, but it’s been over a week since the big day D: In my defense, I’ve been busy translating it from Swedish to English.

Please read the original story, Spökskeppet, if you can, either on AO3 or on FF.NET

You can also read The Ghost Ship in English on AO3 and FF.NET

Summary: The sea rages and Eren awaits a visitor. Jean tells Marco the ghost story of the captain and the lighthouse keeper in the stormy night. And through the mist sails the ghost ship; the Captain’s coming to meet his lover. ~3k

EDIT: tumblr is having problems with the “read more” feature and some strange symbols might pop up if you read the post on desktop, but if you view it on my blog it should be fine :) i didn’t put them there myself lol

Once again the clock strikes twelve and it’s the thirtieth of March. The light of the crescent moon and the stars waltz across the smooth surface of the sea and the heavy air rests. A thick mist from the north glides over the calm waters. Above it rolls the clouds. And the world slumbers.

Standing on his islet, Eren looks over the sea. When he catches sight of the gray mist wall in the horizon, he hops down the cliff and slides down to the water’s edge with wildly flailing arms. There he sinks to his knees on the small, charcoal stones covering the beach and stretches his hand over the water. It’s hardly comfortable despite that the stones have been polished smooth by the waves, but he doesn’t register the pain. He’s only interested in the rippling surface and how the tips of the tiny waves lick his palm.

These waves aren’t common. The sea outside of Shiganshina bay behave like this only once a year, on the thirtieth of March. A hundred years ago or so it might have done so more often, but it’s been long since then and the circumstances have changed over time. Eren doesn’t remember the details of his past very well either, so maybe he’s mistaken. It doesn’t matter.

He wipes his hands on his pants. Visitors are on the way, they must be. The ship has never missed his birthday, but that’s not enough to put him at ease. “The sea has its own mind. You can’t control the damned thing,” Levi used to say. And when Eren’s temperament exploded, he’d say “you’re just like the fucking sea” in that special tone of voice with a tenderness only Eren could hear.

He runs despite the lighthouse door being thirty scarce steps from the beach and he could make it walking as well. Leaving the door open behind him, he rushes through the lighthouse keeper’s apartment and to the stone stairs. So often have they been plodded up and down that the edges have become slanted and the surface worn into slipperiness. Hence why he kicks his shoes off before climbing two steps at a time all the way up.

Lighting the lamp in the lighthouse is like second nature to Eren. Once the light is on, he pushes the balcony door open and gazes northward.

The enormous waves heave greedily. Some break against the cliffs, while others throw themselves over the stone beach to leave thick stripes of sea foam behind, over and over again. It’s a game for them. Sometimes their tips glimmer when the crescent peeks out from between the clouds. The wind that had been mild all afternoon pulls now at Eren’s clothes. It blows through him and nips at his soul as it passes.

The mist is thick and the clouds dark. Eren shields his eyes from the wind and his own hair that whips him in the face. He has to confirm that the travelers are going to pay him the visit he’s been longing for every day, every minute, all year long.

But there in the distance flutters a flag. Not wildly like Eren’s hair, but proudly. It’s green, with a pair of white and blue swords painted across it. Or maybe they’re wings? Hard to tell, because the picture is as worn as the lighthouse’s stairs. Worn and familiar.

He leans over the balcony railing and peers in the mist. Its damp, silky lips have reached the lighthouse and are prepared to swallow him. And all he wishes is to make sure his visitor has arrived.

Surrounded by a bubble of stillness, despite being the eye of the storm, glides the ship across the sea. The mist hangs over her like a bridal veil, but the wind is mild and the air is lukewarm. The floorboards and masts creak, and on the starboard side gapes a hole so big you’d think the ship should’ve sunk a long time ago.

But she has not.

The wind blows away but Eren and the lighthouse remain. They’ve been swallowed by the ship’s private bubble.

“There she comes,” he whispers to himself. “There comes Kuchel and her crew.” And her captain. Kuchel’s son, who has named his most important belonging after he. If only she knew how far away he’s sailed and how much he’s seen and done. The world’s strongest captain, they call him. She’d be as proud as Eren is.

The mist following the ship lies heavy as a curtain and the sight is poor, but there’s nothing wrong with the sound. If you get close enough, you’ll hear the ship creak and the ropes beat the masts, and if you get even closer, you’ll hear the men sing and laugh. In the commotion a command may ring. “Order aboard” or “scrub the decks” will a low but silky voice yell then. And always will it be answered by a “yes, Captain!”

Shanties echo over the calm water. Eren’s heart pounds. Fluttering wild against his ribs, like a flag in the September storm.

Vaguely sung words about storms and sea monsters are carried to him on the wind. The crew has changed course since they’ve caught sight of the lighthouse light. They’ve avoided grounding and are on their way past the islet. The shanty fades away and the low but silky voice shouts “do you call this clean? Deck’s covered in shit, redo it!”

Afterwards it’s silent. Not even a small ”yes, Captain!” rings through the night.

The ship has passed Eren without anchoring. He squeezes the balcony railing so hard his knuckles shine white.

“Wait,” he yells. “Wait!”

Now he’s running again. Down the lighthouse stairs, two steps at a time. He trips, but gets a hold of a window aperture and continues without missing a beat.

This can’t happen, it can’t be true. For the first time ever the ship passes the lighthouse on the thirtieth of March without stopping. Has the old Captain gotten senile? Has he forgot what he came here for? Or does he not have the time to take a break? But Eren’s waited for this night! He’s waited for it for a whole year, every day and every minute, he cannot wait another year. He just can’t.

The lighthouse door has locked itself. Without yanking on his shoes, Eren twists and pulls the lock. He kicks the door.

“Open up, you old bastard,” he says and jerks the handle. The door groans but obeys and Eren falls out onto the cliff.

The pier lies in the southeast. If he waves and shouts from there perhaps the ship’s crew would hear him. And if not, at least he can threaten their captain with what’ll happen the next time his collar is within reach of Eren’s fist.

“We’ll see how much you love the uncontrollable sea then, all right,” he hisses from between his teeth.

The islet is slippery after the mist and the great waves washing the cliffs. The chance of falling into the sea is high, especially if Kuchel continues onward and the storm following her gets a hold of Eren before he gets inside. But he’s not afraid of drowning for he’s been the lighthouse’s keeper for decades already and he can take care of himself. Besides, the legend says that if you drown, you’ll grow a tail over your legs. Though that sounds more like a beautiful tale told to comfort the parents of the hopeless girls who’ve drowned themselves.

When Eren reaches the pier, something splashes at its end and he halts abruptly. An oar pokes out from behind it. In the background sits Kuchel surrounded by her heavy veil.

A man disembarks on the pier. Kicking the rope that keeps his rowing boat in place with the tip of one boot. He raises his gaze and meets Eren’s with an emotionless expression.

Short and pale as a ghost, he is. The hair’s inky black and his eyes light. A few wrinkles sit in the corners of his eyes with black bags underneath. He’s dressed in shiny, knee-high boots and around his neck hangs a white cravat.

The awaited visitor has arrived.

“Levi,” Eren shouts. His legs are numb and yet he runs. On the last step he jumps despite being at least half a head taller than his guest.

They stagger but Levi gets a grip of Eren’s waist and holds him up, unaffected. He tilts his head back to study Eren’s grin.

Eren squeezes the cravat in his fist. “You little bastard, I thought you’d leave without seeing me.”

A small smile pulls at Levi’s lips. “Never. Congratulations on your birthday, love.”

Jean and Marco sit wrapped in a blanket on a fallen pine trunk. The weather had been calm all evening, but around midnight a storm blew in and Marco confessed that he was too nervous to sleep. Together they left the tent to watch over the sea, sheltered by the forest. The shared blanket was Jean’s idea.

“I wonder where this wind came from,” Marco says. Only his eyes peek out from behind the blanket.

“Who knows,” Jean mumbles. Gravity pulls at his eyelids, even though his company has an uplifting effect. It wouldn’t be all that knightly of him to fall asleep in the middle of the storm that worries Marco, so he fights bravely against the Sandman’s temptations.

“It shouldn’t be this windy by the end of March.”

“The end of March. . .” Jean blinks. The sea raging outside of Shiganshina. . . by the end of March. . . A vague bell rings somewhere at a distance, but his brain is too tired to remember what it wants to remind him of.

“Oh but look, someone turned on the lamp in the old lighthouse. I didn’t know it was back in use. Who’s the keeper?”

“Huh? Where? The old lighthouse has been empty for at least a hundred years, why would anyone turn on the lights there?”

“I wonder as well. But since the light’s on someone has to have done it. Look.” Marco shoves his hand out from the blanket fort and points before he quickly tugs it back into the warmth. How cute he is. Jean can’t help his feelings. He wants to say something, but peers northward instead. And as it is, the light from the lighthouse shines through the thick mist.

And then it hits him.

“Oh shit.” Gravity gives up on Jean’s eyelids, because now he’s wide-eyed. Goodbye, Mr. Sandman. “Someone’s playing us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard the ghost story?”

Marco pales. “No, which one?”

”The one about the captain and the lighthouse keeper?”

“Sounds scary.”

A wide grin spreads across Jean’s face. ”Not really. Come closer and I’ll tell you.”

Marco squirms until he sits pressed against Jean’s side. Hip to hip, arm to arm. He pulls the blanket closer around them.

“It’s said that the old lighthouse is haunted. It’s the crazy son of a doctor, Eren Yeager, who lives there. He’s the last one to live in the lighthouse before it was shut down. Eren died on that islet on the thirtieth of March, on his twenty-eighth birthday. He turns on the light in the old lighthouse every year, on the night before the thirtieth.”

Sorrow weighs Marco’s voice. “In his own memory?”

“Nope. He’s showing the way to passing ships.”

“Only once a year? The lighthouse isn’t used anymore, it’s not needed.”

“No, but it’s more of a signal to one ship alone. Or to its captain. When Eren turns on the lamp, it’s to say ‘here I am’. He’s hoping for visitors, you see.”

Marco gasps. ”The Captain.”

Jean nods with a serious countenance. ”Yeah, that’s his lover. Eren was barely twelve years old when he met the Captain for the first time here in Shiganshina. He was known as a merciless pirate before he was employed by the state. They said that he was the strongest man in the world, that he was invincible. When his ship Kuchel arrived to the battle, it was already won, because she was the quietest ship in the world, and her crew the most skilled. The Captain always led his men himself.”

“What was his name?”

“No one knows. Eren probably was the only one who was allowed to call him anything else than Captain. He was known to be very strict and tidy. And short. It made him scarier, you couldn’t get a good grip of him.”

“Did Eren become a sailor as well?”

“No. His father made him a doctor. And Eren was young, the Captain didn’t want him coming along either. It wasn’t until he turned fifteen that they started to seriously socialize. It’s a bit unclear with all of that. Some pages have been ripped from Armin’s book.”

”Armin’s book?” Marco frowns. ”Is this a fairytale?”

“No-no. It’s Eren’s childhood friend’s diary. That’s where everything’s written. People were worried when weird things happened on the sea and wanted answers, so they dug up some old books. But I personally think it’s only little boys who’re playing around. They probably row out to the lighthouse once a year to turn on the lamp and then they come back again. It’s all in good fun, I know it.”

“Yeah. . .”

”Anyway. The Captain and Eren were in love and Eren goes with Kuchel as the ship’s doctor. One time, when they return home, they’re told that there are many sick in Shiganshina and that Eren was more needed here than on the ship, so he stayed. Kuchel and the Captain sailed away. But they were supposed to return on the thirtieth of March because the Captain insisted on being here on his lover’s birthday.”

“How romantic.”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe.” Jean rubs the back of his neck and looks over the sea. The mist is thicker and heavier than before, but the lighthouse lamp shines bright. “Problem is, they never came back. People said they must’ve lost their way. Or that maybe the Captain had grown tired of Eren and left him for good. That maybe he had found some nicer and more handsome ship’s doctor. You see, Eren was known for his temper and stubbornness and the Captain was invincible, so it was unlikely that he would’ve died. We still don’t know where Kuchel is, but it’s known that she and her Captain visited the city she was supposed to. She disappeared after that with all of her crew aboard.”

“Do we really not know their fate?”

Jean shakes his head with pursed lips.

Marco shivers. “What do you think happened?”

“Some people blamed sea monsters. It was the only thing people thought could’ve overpowered the Captain. But it’s more likely that he upped and left to a faraway country, painted his ship and lived there for the rest of his life. Eren didn’t want to believe that of course. He insisted that the Captain would keep his promise and sat down to wait. ‘Crazy, he’s completely lost it,’ people said about him. So Eren decided to become a lighthouse keeper instead, since no one trusted him to be their doctor anymore.”

“People are terrible. He was just mourning, poor thing.”

“Yeah, maybe. He was a lighthouse keeper for four years, but then he drowned. No one knows how, but it was on this night, between the twenty-ninth and thirtieth, after he had turned on the lighthouse lamp. It’s said that it was terribly misty back then. The next day Armin and Eren’s sister went to the lighthouse to celebrate Eren’s birthday. They found him dead on the beach by the pier.”

“No, that’s too horrible. I don’t like this at all.” Large, brown eyes stare out at the sea, pause at the lighthouse and turn then pleadingly toward Jean. “It was his birthday. How can something like this happen?”

“Take it easy, it’s just a story.”

“But you said it was written in Armin’s book.”

“I’m sure he’s exaggerated for the sake of drama, it’s okay. So, once Eren had died, everyone thought that was the end of the Captain and the doctor’s son’s romance. No one wanted to move into the lighthouse so it was abandoned. Besides, it wasn’t needed anymore. Everything was forgotten. But then, exactly a year later-”

”The light in the lighthouse was turned on.” Marco swallows. He searches for Jean’s hand beneath the blanket and holds it tight.

“Yeah. Armin and Eren’s sister rowed out on the thirtieth. They’d been warned for the confusing mist that seemed to roll in by the end of March. They were the only friends Eren had and wanted to leave flowers in his memory. But guess what they saw on their way there?”

Marco holds his breath and Jean raises an eyebrow before continuing.

“Kuchel.”

“No, that can’t be true.”

“But it is, according to Armin. Kuchel had been anchored outside of the lighthouse and someone had tied their rowboat to the pier, so Armin and Eren’s sister didn’t have room for theirs. They left their flowers there and rowed away. When they passed the Captain’s ship, they saw an enormous hole in its side and heard shanties sound in the mist. And on the pier stood Eren and the Captain waving at them, side by side. They realized that they’d seen a ghost ship and that Eren had reunited with his lover.”

“But why would Eren still light in the lighthouse if he’s found his Captain?”

“I already told you, it’s not him who turns on the light, it’s just someone playing around. But . . .” Jean bites his lip. ” Armin thought that the Captain’s not done sailing yet. He’s no landlubber you see, he loves the sea. Besides, Kuchel’s disappearance was never explained, so maybe she was cursed.”

“Eren could’ve become the ship’s doctor again,” Marco says.

“But he died as a lighthouse keeper. Armin suspected that he can’t leave the lighthouse and that the Captain can’t abandon his ship either. It’s their destiny to be forever separated and only meet once a year.”

Marco buries himself deeper into the blanket. His eyes glimmer in the light from the lighthouse. “Such a sad ghost story.”

“It’s a myth, don’t be sad because of it,” Jean says. ”It’s just some brats who are trying to trick us with the lighthouse lamp.” And yet he had goosebumps.

Marco sits in silence. ”But it’s misty out here. It’s always misty by the end of March. And the storm began so suddenly too. . . that’s weird, isn’t it?”

Jean rubs his knuckles. ”Ha, no, that happens all the time, every now and then. It’s not weird at all.”

“But a little bit.”

“A little bit, maybe.” And he straightens his back. ”But don’t worry about it. You didn’t get scared, did you?”

“No, just sad.”

Jean grins, but shivers run down his spine again. “That’s so like you. But Marco, shouldn’t we maybe go back to the tent now? Not because I’m scared or anything like that, I just don’t want you to catch a cold.”

“How nice of you,” Marco says and smiles.

“Yeah, haha.” Jean jumps up. ”Let’s go.”

“Okay, I’m coming- oh, but look!”

”What? Where?”

”The ghost ship. It’s there. I swear I can see it.”

Jean laughs, but it sounds more like a cough. He stares wildly over the sea. “No-o, you’re just making things up. It’s so misty, sometimes you imagine seeing things in the mist.”

“No, look past the lighthouse. If you look carefully, you’ll see it.”

He follows Marco’s pointing finger in the thick mist around the lighthouse and its bright light. And he distinguishes a proudly fluttering flag on the top of a mast, and under it the contours of a ship.

“The Captain’s ghost ship,” Jean whispers. His voice is hoarse and so low he barely hears it himself.

“The Captain’s come to meet his lover on his birthday. How nice.”

“You’re the one being nice.” Jean grabs Marco’s arm. “I think it’s for the best if we leave now.”

Into the forest they disappear, Jean and Marco, hand in hand. And out on the open sea rocks the ghost ship, while her captain disembarks on the little islet where his lover has waited and longed for a visit, every day, every minute, for a whole year. As he’s done for many years and will do for many, many more

#ereri #rivaere #riren #fanfic #levieren #fanfiction #snk #my fics #long post #the pocket universe #thank you nevermorexxx for beta-reading this!#and thank you alphaofallcats for helping me with phrasing stuff The English Way #words that inspired this: sea mist love #also do you guys know the ghost ship from moomin #?#it was haunting me while i wrote this

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eevachu · 7 years ago

Note

There once was a girl called kate/most think she’s very great/some people are wrong/They’ve been bad for very long/for their standards no person can abate

EDIT: The person who sent this came forward and clarified that this ask was meant to poke fun at anti-Kate trolls, not Kate fans. I misinterpreted it and flew wildly off the rails (as I am oft want to do lol). The person who sent this couldn’t have known the depths to which I have grieved over this issue as of late, so do not fault them for it. They wanted to send me a joke and I took it the wrong way (ah the similarities here to Kate’s comedy).

I appreciate someone trying to make me laugh. I don’t really appreciate further spreading this drama, but people are entitled to their opinions, so they are also entitled to the consequences of those opinions. I will say, however, I don’t really like comedy that punches down (accidentally or not), because I think many of the people, who, wrongfully justified and misinformed about her or not, are doing it out of a genuine desire to help trans people. I think the puritanical environment that spaces like tumblr create for this type of discussion creates a toxic mindset that looks ridiculous compared to a properly moderated formal debate environment.

I’m keeping the full version under the cut, because they are things that should be said and I am so very tired of seeing people drag her name through the mud based on hearsay. You may use the examples I’ve provided to draw your own conclusions on the matter, as I have drawn mine. I’ve included some footnotes and clarifications. Skip down to the bolded paragraph above the video to avoid the majority of my emotional outburst.

Thank you for sending needless and harmful negativity into my inbox, I really wish you had instead put your time towards a positive goal like volunteering at an animal shelter, working to raise awareness over the plight of indigenous people in Canada or even just telling someone their hair looks nice today. (The thank you was sarcastic, in case that wasn’t clear.) Or hey, maybe you could have just said, “I know you love Kate, but here’s some problematic things she’s done you should be aware of.” Not write a patronizing little ditty. Catch more flies with honey than with open condescension and all that?

Since you seem like one of those sick people that get off to seeing people feel bad and subscribe to tumblr’s toxic black and white morality and witch hunt culture, here is what you accomplished with this ask:

You’ve made me upset, and I’m sure that was your goal. Congrats. I am an adult woman of 25 and I am crying now because of how upset this made me. This is nothing special, I am weepy person, so don’t pat yourself on the back. I tend to care too much and feel too freely; but anon, did you want me to cry? Because here you are. I am crying. Trembling a little too. You getting your rocks off to this? Happy to be of service then.

My being upset has triggered my anxiety over the issue of my admiration of Kate as an openly lesbian comedian versus the occasional problematic content of her comedy. I think about it a lot, because I am a critical person. The anxiety is going to affect me for several days. Right now I’m nauseous. I will now sleep poorly because of it. I will get less work done because of it. I will be in a foul mood for a week, which affects the people around me. I may self-medicate with alcohol or take what I like to call “a gravol nap”. I will lose money because of lost productivity. So you’ve lost me money anon, I’m sure you enjoy that. What is it about suffering that gives you your jollies, anon?

I work freelance, and you’ve interrupted my work day, because I cannot let this stew, so I have to take time out of my day to write out my thoughts as a reply you probably won’t see and take other measures for my own well-being. This really isn’t for you anon, this has been stewing in me for months and this is the last straw.

So here under the cut are my full thoughts on Kate Mc /.Kinnon Berth/ old, they will be rambly as, hey look, I’m dissociating a little (how fun):

Did you know from 2007-2010* Kate played a problematic character called Fitzwillia m that portrayed a dmab character that wanted a vagina? I’m sure you did. Anon, have you actually watched the Fitzwillia m skits? Here’s a link to all of them:

vimeo

Watched them? Opinions? I want your real opinions on them, not just what the witch-hunters have told you to think. You’re probably a smart person, you can make up your own mind.

They’re in poor taste certainly, but a lot of comedy is. I think in the grand scheme of life, in the grand scheme of all human suffering and portrayals of queer characters, Fitzwillia m isn’t the worst. Certainly not great and certainly transmisogynistic, but like… watch a lot of TV from this time, this is practically progressive.

Is Kate maybe attached to this character because so many people loved them, approved of this character, and brought this character back for 3 seasons? That sometimes you do bad things because you don’t know they’re bad or that you do, but damn if you don’t need the money? That sometimes you’re ill-informed about something? That to create a character is to send part of yourself out into the world, and you always will love them even when you shouldn’t? That she hasn’t addressed it because to do so would be a PR nightmare for her publicist? That she likely doesn’t know this is even an issue because she’s not on social media? Probably. I’ve made some terrible characters, who did much worse things, who I am lucky to let die on paper stuffed in a folder where no one can see them. She was 22* when she made this character, in a completely different cultural climate than in 2017. Does it make it right that a whole team of people approved this character out into the world? Not to me. However, I don’t have the right to decide anything about the trans-related nature of Fitzwillia m as a cis person, but context is always important to me.When I was looking for a compilation video, I found trans people who genuinely enjoyed this character. I know I love some absolutely problematic gay characters.

Let’s put this into MY context anon, 2010 is when I met my first ever trans person. Ever. I was 18 and in college. I think it took me like… 2 years to figure out what trans actually was in a healthy way that wasn’t tainted by my culturally ingrained transphobia. I didn’t know dick all about social justice or politics or the queer community. I thought I was maybe bisexual. I thought I knew everything. By coincidence, I’m actually going through my blog today and clearing out posts from that time because they’re terrible, because I was terrible. I’ve changed so much from then, I don’t even recognize this person on this very blog. I’m not famous and those words are entirely mine, so I lose nothing by saying I’m wrong for what I said. Kate could lose jobs and colleagues and friends for addressing her past in a similar manner. She worked collaboratively on those works and people will take offence at her backtracking. It’s all very damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Is it right? Probably not, but it’s understandable. She works for Saturday Night Live, a place where they are constantly making things like:

youtube

That was made in 2015 and this is very mild. In 2015, I had a more senior coworker make a joke about how a couple we could see in the building across from us were “swapping their gay AIDs blood.” I think that’s a much worse “joke” than anything on SNL. I didn’t tell HR because I was afraid to lose my job, as shitty as it was. She wasn’t exactly in a position of power when these things were made, and she isn’t really in a place to speak out against them now. She’s just now hitting her stride. If I can’t stand up in my own workplace, I can’t fault her for not standing up in hers.

Did she joke about never seeing a penis in an interview? Yes. Did I make the same type of jokes until someone came along to tell me what was wrong with it in a nice way? YEP.**

Does she even know it’s an issue is another thing. She doesn’t use social media, certainly not tumblr. I learned basically all I know about the queer community from tumblr. I have no idea where I’d be without it; probably still making transphobic gold star lesbian jokes.

Anon, I’ve read her receipts. I always do. I know what I’m doing by supporting her is a bit problematic, but so are most of the things I do in my life. I eat meat from factory farms. I have a pedigree dog. I live on unceded First Nation’s land. I benefit from systematic racism. I don’t know what the hell my mutual funds are actually invested in. I’ve made rape jokes and said r*tarded. I was a schoolyard bully redirecting my anger onto other because of my home life. I’ve ruined people’s lives by things I’ve said. I have been a truly godawful person.

Here’s why I still love Kate, if always cautiously and never uncritically: from 2014-2015, I had a mental breakdown, until 2016 I lived in this sort of haze. I remember wanting to die a lot. I remember staring at the subway tracks and thinking, “what if I just jumped?” Do you know what that’s like anon? To constantly want to die? To be in a dead end job, to feel like you’re absolutely worthless? To have a pet die and just think “I deserve this suffering, I’m a failure”?

And then I saw her as Jillian Holtzmann and just… something changed. Something truly changed in my life. She helped me figure out I was a lesbian. She helped me see that out lesbian women could succeed. She got me through that 2016 election where I lost all hope again.

Did she actually do anything? I mean, not really. But she represented something to me and to watch people tear her down is to watch a part of myself be torn down with her.

Why do I still love Kate, even if only as an idea, not an actual person? Because her saving my life outweighs the blights in her career. Because I give people the benefit of the doubt that they don’t mean harm, because they aren’t aware of the underlying social issues they are dealing with. Because I do not minimize the harmful way that ra// dical fe /.minists are recruiting young lesbians into the T /.ERF community by calling anyone who creates transphobic/transmisogynistic content TE /.RFs. Because I do not idolize, I admire. Because her job is to make people laugh and I truly don’t think she wants to hurt anyone by doing so. Because people are complicated and good intentioned people can do bad things. Because I want to believe she’s a good person under everything.

Because I am willing to forgive other people for things I have done myself if they seem the sort to be open to learning.

If all else is still unforgivable to you anon, I leave you with this: there’s a part in the movie Julie & Julia, where the main character Julie finds out that the Julia Child, this woman she has idolized and who’s cookbook inspired her to change her life, doesn’t like her work. She is devastated. And her husband says that there’s two Julia’s: the real one, and the one in Julie’s head, who she sees as her savior. The Julia Child in her head is the one that really matters.

Let me have the Kate in my head.

In conclusion: anon, I wish you all the best, just very very far away from me.

Notes:

* I was wrong about the original dates that this aired, BGSS aired from 2007-2010, not 2008-2010, which means season 1 was likely shot in 2006 with Kate was 22-23 when she created Fitzwilli am. I was pretty stupid at 22.

** I am actually really angry about being misled by this quote, because I had never watched the full interview, which you can see here:

youtube

The interview was filmed in 2007, 10 years ago when Kate was 23, she’s 33 now. 10 YEARS. I know I don’t want to be compared to 15 year old me, or really even 23 year old me. Like I really don’t want to be out here “making excuses” but you have to think critically about the context of the things she’s said and how blowing them out of proportion is harmful to people who are actively trying to harm the trans community. Sure, she’s buying into the gold-star rhetoric for a laugh (because it’s a funny joke straight people in my life STILL make to me and so that’s what most young lesbians think is what you do), but she immediately says after “I don’t think [penises] are gross, I think they’re fun! Fun to play with.” That’s not a typical transmisogynist lesbian dialogue (they usually say penises are disgusting). Which yes, equates genitals with gender, but like… I remember in this time period of my life I was doing the same thing. Not out of malice, but because I didn’t know any trans/genderqueer/nonbinary people, I didn’t even know trans men were a thing! In the same interview she says she’s more 98.5% lesbian, it’s very clear that she’s not sure about these things.

You can tell this interview is more an open dialogue between friends trying to have an honest conversation about sexuality in a time that information about sexuality and gender was much harder to obtain. 2007 is long before it became standard for people to qualify that genitals didn’t equate gender. And it’s definitely still not comedy’s standard, and I get what it’s like to constantly be bombarded with cissexist rhetoric that sometimes you just give in to make it easy.

So in real conclusion: I personally think, from my standpoint as a cis lesbian of 25, that tumblr needs to forgive and needs to draw their own conclusions by watching these examples, not repeat this cycle of screaming examples at people without linking those examples. Let people draw their own conclusions and be open to being wrong about something. I was wrong about the entire catalyst for this post, and I am so deeply sorry about it, and will be more careful in the future.

And for the love of god tumblr, stop holding people to such high standards when you probably wouldn’t meet those standards yourself if you were in that same person’s position.

#prefer if you didn't reblog #don't @ me i'm done arguing this #i just really needed to get all this off my chest it's been festering #eevasks #anon #discourse #transphobia #transmisogyny #suicide #anxiety #depression #mental breakdown

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spnreactionblogging · 5 years ago

Text

our father, who aren't in heaven

SPOILERS BELOW BUT I'M REALLY LATE TO THE PARTY THIS TIME

[I actually watched this like a month ago but didn’t remember to post it, oops]

I got so backed up with real life shit that I'm delayed watching this but I stayed off tumblr and twitter almost entirely for the last few weeks to avoid spoilers but god DAMN it it's a fucking buckleming episode

why do they keep being put in charge of the return of characters who we're all very invested in? you ruin kevin tran, you are likely to ruin adam, god fucking damn it.

at least RSJ is directing

you can tell they always think their episode titles are really goddamn clever too and it pisses me off

is john winchester not in heaven anymore? I thought that was a big fucking todo, that he and mary are up there and they don't want to ruin it for them. or are you referring to chuck? or both? who cares.

poor adam.

chuck what fun is it if you just automatically win every time, huh? what's the point?

I do love rob benedict though. I don't like being frustrated with his character.

buckleming's gotta get in as many "terrified women in exploitative situations" as they can before the end huh

I like eileen a lot and I probably ought to get around to watching her actual original episodes at some point

"guest starring jake abel" has got me choked up

HEY TOO BAD THE ONLY PERSON WHO CAN READ THE TABLET IS FUCKING DEAD HUH, HOPE YOU KEPT ALL THOSE NOTES OF HIS THAT YOU OCCASIONALLY DRAG OUT AND DECLARE WORTHLESS

poor kevin, god fucking damn it all

SAM: so he has an achilles heel DEAN: well i'm saying he has a weak spot

YEAH BECAUSE DEAN IS STUPID RIGHT? THANKS BUCKLEMING

I hope misha's hip is okay

I do like donatello, I hope nothing awful happens to him :(

sorry though guys the only prophet i acknowledge is kevin tran

okay so obviously as we've known since day one they're gonna team up with the darkness to subdue chuck but things will probably work out in the end to maintain universal harmony or some shit so whatever

sam really does have queer flannel, i like that black and white and red all over shirt

I hate buckleming episodes for so many reasons but not least of all because everyone behaves like a petulant kindergartener

is sam just reading the bible? it's got that golf leaf edge

okay seriously though don't they already have kevin's notes? why is donatello translating this fresh? kevin did all this work and fucking died for it. at least honor his legacy. jesus fuck.

really though, 14.08 establishes this:

http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/14.08_Byzantium_(transcript)

[Dean awakes where he passed out on the kitchen table, and hears voices in the other room. He gets up and follows the voices to the library] SAM: Man, haven't seen this stuff in years. WOMAN: And what language is this technically in? CAS: We're not sure, but it's-- it's written in cuneiform. Kevin was very thorough. SAM: Yeah. We kept it all-- the translations, his notes on his translations, annotations. You name it. [...] SAM: That's not-- Dean, listen, last night, after about whiskey number five, it hit me. I mean, we've torn through all the lore looking for a way to cure Jack, right? But we've never looked through Kevin's angel tablet translations. DEAN: Yeah, 'cause they're worthless. I mean, Kevin translated them into-- to crazy scribble only a prophet can read. And last I checked, we can't exactly ask Donatello. LILY: Maybe I can read them.

did he not take demon tablet notes? he sure seemed to have a bunch of those in seasons 8 and 9! also why do demons not care about this anymore

"if my dad kept me locked in a cage for ten years" oh yeah? if one month on earth is ten years in hell, then adam's been in the cage with michael for 120 earth months = 1,200 years in hell. OVER A MILLENNIUM IN HELL.

buckleming so completely fail to hold my attention even during the episode that ostensibly the whole fandom's been waiting for for a decade, that writing the word "millennium" got me sidetracked into watching some backstreet boys music videos and an nsync one to boot. what do you even have to say for yourselves, buckleming.

okay I got way distracted about the 8tracks closure

so I can't help but notice that STILL they have nothing to say about adam, they just need michael. like.

wow.

cas is the one to bring it up! I fucking love you castiel

keith szarabajka does a good rob benedict

buckleming writing this: chuck should immediately threaten all the women in their lives

oh so NOW dean doesn't want cas going to hell. cute. after forcing him to do so alongside belphegor. fuck you, dean.

i love sam and eileen doing witchy shit and cas watching

oh rowena's back.

i guess we should've known if she died she'd just like. go to hell.

"so fix it!" says rowena, by way of buckleming, dismissing everything castiel has every right to be angry about, as if this should just be shrugged off. easy for her to say when she's the one who fucked things over for crowley. not cool with sam being out of the room for that either? sam is very much involved with these proceedings.

I'm here for adam's food appreciation

I don't remember what happened to adam's mom? was it with the ghouls?

family does suck, adam.

I don't want to hear dean's commentary about sam's relationships or whether eileen is hot or anything like that, ever. butt out.

I do like the actress playing lilith

I need bourbon too, donnie. fortunately i had some prepared before i clicked play on this episode

I loooove these shots of castiel with the chessboard and the railing/bannister/whatever

I get that cas is being "BAMF" again I GUESS or whatever but I'm irritated with him stooping to this level of like... what dean pressured sam into with jack in S14, with using this intense sincerity to trick people. not a fan. and SHOCKER, "jack in the box" was written by buckleming too so there you go. there's this episode of bob's burgers where linda's running a murder mystery dinner and is like "ha! I was the murderer all along even though I said I wasn't!" you didn't connect shit, you're just lying

I will give buckleming exactly one point, even though it's 99% jensen's delivery, but calling him "mike" so derisively is hilarious

why don't they just tell him his AU self had the same goal last season

they definitely don't let them actually apologize! gee! all this time and they don't actually apologize. fuck off.

you could've written ANYTHING. anything at all, buckleming.

adam knows all about not knowing the secrets your dad is keeping

I'm glad adam doesn't forgive them.

"they believe it's true so it's probably true" is bad reasoning here

I feel like sue is probably fucked? or else this is a trap.

michael's the golden child and doesn't realize he's being abused by god just like the rest. at least he doesn't in this version

who said he had an entire tree up his ass, balthazar? zachariah? dean? bobby?

I think cas was right to show him the truth, just the events as they occurred

ugh i'm so nervous and uncomfortable for cas that there's no one here to intermediate if dean goes after him

literally after I type this I unpause and cas asks "where's sam?"

yeah i knew it was a trap. and here chuck's going to hurt eileen because he can.

I'm glad dean apologized on behalf of both of them I guess? but also not cool with sam not being here to talk to adam himself.

I'm glad michael found out about AU michael

stoked about purgatory honestly. bring back benny. BRING BACK GORDON. bring back dick roman.

cas looks so tired. what a note to end on.

I am also tired.

#s15e8

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fangirlandiknowit101 · 7 years ago

Text

Story starter meme

Rules: List the first lines of your last 15 stories. See if there are any patterns. Then tag 10 of your favourite authors!

I was tagged by @definitelynotaminion

(I guess the 15 last means in update order...)

Some nsfw!! You can find all the fics on my ao3.

1. Lessons in love (viktuuri)

“Yuuri Katsuki?”

Yuuri’s mind blanks out. He’s in a small park behind a skating rink larger than any he’s ever visited, wondering how he ended up there in the first place.

And now, a foreigner is approaching him.

Maybe if he closes his eyes and pretends he’s a statue, the man will ignore him.

“You are the figure skater Yuuri Katsuki, right?”

The man smiles at him when Yuuri peeks through his lashes, tall and pale and oh god, he’s gorgeous.

2. Miliy (viktuuri)

Viktor has never done anything illegal before, and maybe he still isn’t, but surely – surely – paying people to get off on camera has to fall within some sort of immoral don’t-let-the-press-know category on Yakov’s list of Reasons I'm Balding.

And yet he can’t stop.

Gnawing furiously on his lower lip his fingertips hover over the touchpad on his laptop, the transfer of a not insignificant sum of money just a click away. When his eyes flicker to the screen – to the man currently licking cum off his fingers, eyes a hooded dark brown that Viktor tries and fails not to drown in every time – the decision is easy.

3. Sugar star (oisuga)

At 6 am sharp, Tooru’s eyes flew open as he threw himself towards his phone. He thought it might be a new record in reaching it, but then again he was already awake and merely biding his time until the device would yell It’s a trap! to signal the day’s first incoming text.

It was from Iwaizumi, of course, and he couldn’t help the silly little smile that graced his lips as he opened it to read.

Or well, he would have read it if it wasn’t just a picture of a wrinkly bulldog. Before he could think of an appropriately annoyed reply, another text followed the first.

Welcome to the 40’s club. Maybe now you can get a discount on your anti wrinkle cream.

He pressed the call button.

“You’re awful,” was the first thing he said (more like whined), flopping onto his back again to stare at the painted night sky on his ceiling. “And I don’t use anti wrinkle cream!”

4. The sun within me (sasnar)

”Hey Sasuke!”

It took Sasuke a second to realize that the person yelling at him was, in fact, not an intruder but rather Naruto, though by that point the knife was already securely embedded in his kitchen wall. Great, another dent to add to the already present four.

“Really Sasuke, you should be used to this by now! You need to relax a bit.”

Turning his head towards the noise he watched the other ninja slump down into one of his kitchen chairs, one arm on the table and the other loosely hanging off the back of the chair. Of course, that stupid grin was spread over the tan face, stretching out the whisker marks.

5. I see the universe in your eyes (viktuuri)

Well, Viktor thinks, this isn’t very good.

He’s got one hand covering his mouth and nose against the heat billowing around him, eyeing the unstable steel construction he’s standing on warily. It could give out any minute, really, but at least he has minutes.

There’s a high-pitched screech somewhere in the distance, like metal grinding against metal, and he nervously wipes sweat off his brow. To say he hadn’t planned on ending up here is an understatement. It was supposed to be a routine mission, one of the boring ones, a simple pick-up-some-valuable-cargo in one of the outer systems. Nothing like the missions that had made him famous, had given him a reputation.

I know I always thought I’d prefer going out with a bang, but this is a little early.

The rest is under the cut bc this post is too damn long haha...

6. Prosecute my heart (sasnar)

Sasuke liked to think that he was neutral about Halloween. Actually, scratch that. He liked to not think about Halloween at all, but right now he found it very difficult to keep his brain free of the (fake) holiday considering his work desk was completely covered in all things Halloween.

It was Monday.

A Monday that so happened to be October 31st, and had he expected this he would have called in sick for sure.

7. Wasn’t expecting that (sasnar)

Sasuke isn’t quite sure what to make of his new classmates yet. They seem like your regular, run-of-the-mill people, with varying degrees of awkward. He probably feels more awkward than most.

Though, it’s not nearly as awkward as he used to feel, and now his awkward is more related to being able to act however he wants to without getting shit for it. He isn’t used to it yet, but it doesn’t worry him, because everything is right and the worst part is over, anyway. Still, during the first week he accidentally went inside the girls’ changing rooms before gym class. He’d been stressed, and too used to associating school with things like having to be a girl, and he’d had one of those annoying and pointless arguments with his parents as they dropped him off. He hadn’t been thinking, which was funny because thinking feels like the only thing he’s been doing the past years.

8. tomorrow, today (kagesuga)

Suga breathes in the excitement in the air, leaning against the railing up on the spectator’s level. Two seats are already secured right behind him, and he taps his fingers against the cool metal in quick little twitches.

“It should only be a minute or so,” Daichi says by his side, amusement evident in his voice as he leans on his forearms to peer down at the court.

“I just want to make sure they see us before they start,” Suga defends his anxiousness with, worrying his lip between teeth as his tapping continues.

“They already know,” Daichi mumbles, voice low as if he knows it won’t do a thing to Suga’s state of mind.

9. Head over heels (sasnar)

Sasuke isn’t lonely. He isn’t. He’s got plenty of things demanding his attention, therefore he doesn’t have time to be lonely. Maybe it’s the apartment, he thinks, as he makes his way down the busy street after successfully having completed his various errands. It had only been two months since he moved in after all, it would take some time to get used to the additional space.

10. The sun within me - extras (sasnar)

There was a thud followed by a gasp as Sasuke’s hands slammed against the glass wall of the shower. His head was bent, water streaming down the dark bangs plastered to his flushed face, lips tingling and sore from the bruising kiss Naruto had just given him. Tan hands caressed down his back, palms pressing into his muscles.

“Sasuke…”

11. Secret Santa for SNS xmas 2015 (sasnar)

“Saaasukeeeee.”

Heaving a sigh, Sasuke dropped the dishes back into the sink and dried his hands, sparing a look at the clock in the kitchen. Naruto had slept for all of one hour and twenty minutes. A baby would be easier to take care of.

“Saaaaaaaasukeeeeeeeee.”

12. The sweetest gift is you (sasnar)

Why, oh why did absolutely everyone in Konoha decide that this evening in particular was perfect for braving the cold and leaving their homes to go shopping for Christmas… Couldn’t they see Naruto was in a hurry, dammit! Pushing and shoving he made his slow way through the mass of people littering the streets, a figurative clock inside his head counting down the seconds he was now late by, hoping Sasuke was somehow feeling the Christmas spirit and wouldn’t be too annoyed with his tardiness.

13. Pumpkin surprise (sasnar)

Oh god, this party was boring. He’d only been here for thirty minutes, and he was already dying to go home. Not that he was usually much of a party person, but he’d arrived a while after it started when everyone was already drunk, and Sasuke simply did not drink, which made everything five times as boring.

Why was he even here… oh, right. Because Karin dragged him, literally dragged him after handcuffing him to herself, declaring that she would never forgive herself for leaving her good friend all alone on Halloween. The fact that Sasuke didn’t like Halloween and also would never forgive her for dragging him seemed unimportant, apparently.

14. You and Me (and Him) (sasnar)

Sasuke is rushing, pushing himself forwards with chakra bursting from the soles of his feet to the rhythm of his frantically beating heart. It’s happening again rings through his ears as he careens through the village, sight set on the Hokage tower. Of all the times to leave the village…

He’s only been gone for a couple of hours, but the pang of regret still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He shouldn’t have. He should have brought him with him. If only he could have.

The few people milling about the entrance of the tower give way to him, eyes widening at the look on his face. Shizune is there to take him far below ground level, leads him to one of the all too familiar special, reinforced cellars. He can feel the heat long before they reach it, the pressure in the damp air causing the hairs at the nape of his neck to rise.

He knows this pressure. It’s bad this time.

15. Naruto and Sasuke (sasnar)

Somehow, our names always seem to be associated with each other. But I guess it can’t be helped, living in a small town like this. There are only so many people you can be friends with, and only so many you can dislike without becoming lonely. That’s why I’ve spent my life trying to become friends with everyone I can, and I have to say I’ve succeeded pretty damn well besides that one exception.

Uchiha Sasuke.

If I were to describe him, I’d say he’s a jerk who seems to enjoy making my life miserable, and wherever I go he always shows up.

If I were to try and describe our relationship though…

I know it says to tag my fav authors but i like a bazillion writers so i’m just tagging a few of you that i follow on tumblr bc i’m lazy so pls don’t think you’re not my fav if you’re not tagged (actually pls do the meme anyway if you want!!)

I tag: @kiaronna @uchihanochidori @teekettle @byebyeholocene @nihonlove

This was a lot of fun~ As for any patterns... well, it’s pretty obvious I like to start right away with some action, and leave descriptions for some other time. I kinda really hate descriptions lol. Also I tend to write while amused so, that probably shines through? I need my fics to be fun or action or both haha!

#i used to write so many fics with holiday themes??#and somehow i think my fics are less similar to each other than i thought lmao #but when i read them through the feeling i get is the same #in writing style i mean #reading my own fics is so comfy!

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