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muiitoloko · 10 months ago

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Hello❤️ could you please write some Harry Hart x reader where reader has a deadly illness or something like that and doesn't know how to tell him please❤️

You don't have to though! Don't feel pressured❤️

Title: "Fight for me"

Summary: You fight for him.

Pairing: Harry Hart × Reader

Warnings: Angst, mention of death.

Author's Notes: Thank you kindly for nudging me back into Harry Hart's world! Gotta admit, I've been feeling a bit nostalgic about our old pal Harry. Those first fanfics with him? Whew, they were like the training wheels for my writing journey! But hey, even though I've come a long way, there's always room for improvement, am I right? 📝🚀

As the days passed, you found yourself grappling with the weight of the secret you carried, the knowledge of your impending demise lurking in the shadows of your mind. Deep down, you knew you had to tell Harry eventually. He was your friend, your confidant, someone you trusted with your life. But the fear of how he would react, of the pain it would cause him, held you back.

You and Harry had been through so much together, bonded by the trials and tribulations of life as Kingsman agents. You had faced danger head-on, stared death in the face more times than you could count, but this was different. This was a battle you couldn't fight with fists or gadgets. This was a battle against time, against an enemy you couldn't see or touch.

It had all started on a mission, just like any other. Some evil idiot with grandiose plans of spreading a new type of deadly virus in New York through the water supply. You and Harry were sent in to eliminate the threat, to neutralize the danger before it could spread. And you had succeeded, taking down the man responsible for the virus with precision and skill.

But what you hadn't anticipated was the insidious nature of the virus itself, its ability to infect even the most cautious of agents. Hours after the mission had ended, after the adrenaline had faded and the dust had settled, you received the devastating news. You had contracted the virus, a death sentence lurking in your bloodstream, waiting to claim you.

In the weeks that followed, you tried to carry on as if nothing had changed, as if the specter of death looming over you was nothing more than a distant shadow. You continued to report for duty, to fulfill your obligations as a Kingsman agent, all the while hiding the truth from those closest to you.

Only a select few knew of your condition, the Kingsman doctors who had been tirelessly working to find a cure, along with Arthur and Merlin, your closest allies within the organization. They had sworn to secrecy, to keep your condition hidden from the rest of the world, to spare you the scrutiny and pity that would surely follow if the truth were to come to light.

But despite their best efforts, you couldn't shake the feeling of isolation that gnawed at the edges of your consciousness, the fear of facing your fate alone. And so, you continued to push yourself, to throw yourself into your work with a fervor born out of desperation.

Each day brought new challenges, new obstacles to overcome, but you refused to let it break you. You were a Kingsman, damn it, and you would face death with the same courage and determination that had defined you as an agent.

As the days turned into weeks, the black lines on your body began to appear, starting on your stomach and seeming to grow more pronounced with each passing day. Concerned, you made your way to the medical area of Kingsman to find out about it, showing the lines on your belly to Doctor Sarah, one of the organization's trusted physicians.

Dr. Sarah wasted no time assessing the situation, immediately ordering blood tests to better analyze the mysterious phenomenon. As she prepared to draw blood for the tests, she asked if you were experiencing any symptoms. With a sigh, you nodded, feeling a heaviness settle in your chest as you began to roll up the sleeve of your Kingsman suit, revealing your forearm.

"I've been feeling more tired than usual," you admitted, wincing slightly as Doctor Sarah tied a band around your arm to prepare for the needle. "And it seems like everything I put in my stomach is being repelled. I can hardly eat, and even walking has become painful."

Before Doctor Sarah could respond, there was a knock on the door, and Harry entered the room, concern etched on his features. Doctor Sarah scolded him gently for not waiting for someone, but allowed him to come in before she resumed her task of drawing blood.

"Kay, what are you doing here again?" Harry questioned, his voice filled with genuine concern as he focused his attention on you. "This is the third time this week you've been to the medical area."

You ignored his inquiry, your gaze fixed on Doctor Sarah as she finished taking your blood. With a smile, you thanked her and straightened your shirt, grabbing your suit jacket from one of the nearby chairs.

Turning to face Harry, you feigned ignorance. "I don't know what you're talking about," you replied, your tone carefully neutral as you made your way towards the door.

But Harry wasn't fooled, his brow furrowing in frustration as he followed closely behind you. "Kay, don't do this," he pleaded, his voice soft but firm. "You're avoiding me, and I don't know why. Please, talk to me."

Feeling Harry's presence at your side, you hesitated for just a moment, the weight of your secret bearing down on you like a leaden cloak. But with a deep breath, you continued on your way, your steps quickening as you made your escape from the medical area.

"I'm not avoiding you, Galahad," you replied, your voice strained with the effort of maintaining your composure. "I've just been... busy the last few days."

But Harry wasn't about to let you off the hook that easily, his determination evident in the way he matched your pace, his eyes boring into yours with unwavering intensity.

"Kay, I know you're hiding something from me," he insisted, his voice soft but firm. "And I'm not going to let it go until you tell me what's going on."

You stopped in your tracks, the weight of Harry's words hitting you like a ton of bricks. With a heavy sigh, you turned to face him, steeling yourself for the confession you were about to make.

"You're right, Harry," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper as you met his gaze. "I've been hiding something from you for a while now, and... it's time to tell you."

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes searching yours for any sign of what you were about to reveal. But he certainly didn't expect what came next.

"I like you, Harry," you blurted out, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them. "I'm... in love with you."

The confession hung heavy in the air between you, the weight of it pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket. It wasn't a complete lie - you had harbored feelings for Harry for some time now, feelings you had kept buried deep within your heart for fear of rejection.

But now, faced with the prospect of your own mortality, you couldn't bear to keep the truth hidden any longer. And so, you had made a deliberate choice to reveal your feelings to Harry, knowing that it would provide a plausible explanation for your recent behavior and, more importantly, that it would drive him away.

Harry's eyes widened in shock at your confession, his features frozen in disbelief as he processed your words. For a moment, the silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken emotions and unvoiced fears.

But then, with a sigh, Harry reached out and took your hand in his, his touch gentle and reassuring. "Kay," he murmured, his voice filled with a mixture of sadness and regret, "I had no idea... I'm sorry."

You shook your head, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Don't be," you replied, your voice tinged with resignation. "I knew you would never feel the same way, Harry. You're a Kingsman through and through, and I... I'm just a friend."

With those words, you pulled away from Harry's touch, your heart heavy with the weight of unrequited love. Turning on your heel, you walked away, leaving Harry standing alone in the hallway, his gaze following your retreating figure with a mixture of regret and longing.

But deep down, you knew it was for the best. You couldn't bear to burden Harry with the knowledge of your impending demise, couldn't bear to watch him suffer as you wasted away before his eyes. And so, you had made a deliberate choice to push him away, to spare him the pain of losing someone he cared about.

As you disappeared around the corner, tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You were a Kingsman, damn it, and you would face your fate with the same courage and determination that had defined you as an agent.

As the weeks passed and your condition worsened, you found yourself confined to your bed at home, the pain in your stomach becoming unbearable. You lay there, feeling weak and helpless, unable to get up or eat anything of substance. The black lines that had started on your stomach now snaked their way up toward your neck, a grim reminder of the disease ravaging your body.

You had been in bed for two weeks now, having left the Kingsman hospital wing after receiving the devastating news that there may not be a cure for you. Unable to bear the pitying looks from those around you, you had made the difficult decision to come home, to spend your final days in the comfort of your own bed.

Merlin called you practically every day, his concern palpable even through the phone. But you couldn't bring yourself to answer, having told him that you would only reach out when you felt that your time was near, so he could take care of your final arrangements.

Alone and in pain, you lay in bed, the weight of your impending death pressing down on you like a leaden cloak. The days stretched on, blending into one another as you drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain in your stomach a constant reminder of your mortality.

But amidst the pain and despair, there were moments of fleeting clarity, moments when you allowed yourself to reflect on the life you had lived. Memories of missions and adventures with Harry and Merlin filled your mind, bringing a bittersweet smile to your lips as you reminisced about the good times you had shared.

But as the days wore on and your strength waned, those moments became few and far between, replaced by a sense of resignation and acceptance. You knew that your time was running out, that soon you would be nothing more than a memory, a footnote in the history of Kingsman.

And so, you lay there, isolated and alone, the black lines creeping ever closer to your neck as you waited for the inevitable end. But even in your darkest moments, you refused to give up hope, clinging to the belief that somehow, someway, you would find peace in the end.

Today was another day like the others. You curled up in bed, the pain in your stomach a constant companion as you ignored the persistent ringing of the doorbell at your house. Whoever it was could leave; you just wanted to be left alone to wallow in your misery.

As the doorbell finally stopped ringing, you let out a sigh of relief, grateful for the temporary reprieve. But just as you began to drift back into the numbing embrace of sleep, there was a knock on your balcony door, startling you out of your reverie.

You sat up, a mixture of irritation and confusion clouding your thoughts as you made your way to the balcony. What the hell was Harry doing there? You opened the door, the cool breeze of the evening washing over you as you faced him, a frown marring your features.

"What are you doing here, Galahad?" you questioned, your voice tinged with annoyance as you met his gaze.

Harry waved a paper in front of your face, his expression a mixture of sadness and anger as he demanded to know why you kept it from him. Confused, you glanced down at the paper, your heart sinking as you realized what it was.

It was an exam paper, a paper from one of your recent medical exams, detailing your morbid condition in stark black and white. You felt a lump form in your throat as you tried to find the words to explain yourself, to make Harry understand why you had kept it from him for so long.

But before you could speak, Harry's voice cut through the silence like a knife, his words laced with pain and betrayal. "Kay, why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, his brown eyes searching yours for any sign of an answer.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat, choked off by the weight of your guilt and shame. You had never seen Harry look so sad, so angry, and it tore at your heartstrings to know that you were the cause of his pain.

"I... I didn't want to burden you, Harry," you finally managed to choke out, your voice thick with anguish as you met his gaze. "I thought it would be easier if you didn't know, if I just... faded away quietly."

But Harry wasn't having any of it, his frustration evident in the way he shook his head, his eyes blazing with emotion. "You idiot," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached out and pulled you into a tight embrace. "Do you really think I would have let you face this alone? That I wouldn't have been there for you every step of the way?"

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you buried your face in Harry's chest, his words washing over you like a balm to your wounded soul. In that moment, you realized just how much you had underestimated his love and devotion, how much you had underestimated the strength of your bond as friends and comrades.

"I'm sorry, Harry," you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest as you clung to him like a lifeline. "I'm so sorry for keeping this from you, for shutting you out when I needed you the most."

Harry ignores your excuses and pulls away to look at you, his determination evident in the firm set of his jaw and the steely resolve in his eyes. He promises you that he will find a cure, that he will search the whole world if he has to, to ensure your well-being. But you shake your head, your gaze filled with resignation as you admit the harsh truth.

"There is no cure, Harry," you whisper, your voice barely above a hoarse whisper as you meet his gaze. "The only person who could even produce a cure is the creator of the virus himself. And... I killed him."

Harry's expression softens with understanding, his brow furrowing in concern as he processes your words. For a moment, he is at a loss for words, the weight of your confession hanging heavy in the air between you.

But before he can respond, you feel a sharp pain rip through your abdomen, doubling you over in agony. Harry's eyes widen in alarm as he rushes to your side, his hands gentle as he helps you to lie down on the bed.

You try to protest, to reassure him that you'll be fine on your own, but Harry scolds you, his voice filled with frustration and concern. "Stop pushing me away, Kay," he insists, his eyes blazing with emotion as he meets your gaze. "Just stop. You don't have to go through this alone."

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak as you meet Harry's gaze. "I'm sorry, Harry," you whisper, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "I didn't want to burden you with this. I thought... it would be easier if you didn't know."

But Harry shakes his head, his expression softening as he reaches out to brush a stray tear from your cheek. "How dare you even lie to me like that?" he murmurs, his voice laced with pain and betrayal. "Is that why you said you were in love with me? To keep me away?"

You don't have the strength to protest, to explain yourself, so you let him believe that his confession was nothing more than a lie. Harry continues, his voice filled with regret as he admits his own shortcomings.

"I don't want to lose you, Kay," Harry murmurs, his voice filled with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. "It hurt when you walked away from me, avoided me for so long. And when you lied and said you loved me... a part of me liked it, knowing this. I don't understand why, Kay. I've never known how to deal with feelings, and so I moved even further away from you, allowed it, thinking you would overcome your feelings for me."

You meet Harry's gaze, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggle to find the right words to respond. "Harry, I..." you begin, but before you can finish, he cuts you off with a gentle touch, his lips brushing against your forehead in a tender caress.

"Don't," he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. "Don't say anything, Kay. Just let me be here for you, please."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you nod, unable to find the strength to argue with him. In that moment, all you can do is surrender to the overwhelming tide of emotions that threatens to consume you, to let Harry's presence wash over you like a soothing balm.

And then, without warning, Harry's lips find yours in a soft, tentative kiss, sending shockwaves of electricity coursing through your veins. It's not the first time you've kissed him - on missions, it's common to pretend to be a couple to maintain cover - but this kiss feels different, somehow. It's filled with a depth of feeling that you've never experienced before, a silent declaration of Harry's love and devotion that transcends words.

For a moment, you're lost in the sweetness of the kiss, the warmth of Harry's embrace enveloping you like a protective cocoon. But as the kiss deepens, passion igniting between you with an intensity that takes your breath away, you can't help but feel a pang of guilt gnawing at the edges of your consciousness.

Harry loves you, he's confessed as much, but you can't bring yourself to believe it. It's just pity talking, you tell yourself, his concern for you clouding his judgment. But as Harry pulls away, his eyes blazing with an emotion that leaves you breathless, you can't deny the truth any longer.

"Kay," he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion as he cups your face in his hands, his gaze searching yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. "I love you, more than anything in this world. Please, let me be here for you. Let me show you how much you mean to me."

You shake your head, tears streaming down your cheeks as you try to push him away. "No, Harry," you choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. "You don't love me. It's just pity, I know it is. You're just feeling sorry for me."

But Harry's expression softens, his eyes filling with a tenderness that steals your breath away. "Kay, look at me," he murmurs, his voice gentle but firm. "I love you, with every fiber of my being. And I will do whatever it takes to prove it to you, to show you that you are not alone."

As he protests, his voice filled with desperation and determination, you feel a surge of conflicting emotions washing over you like a tidal wave. On one hand, you want to believe him, to trust in his unwavering resolve to find a cure and save you from the clutches of death. But on the other hand, you can't shake the overwhelming sense of despair that threatens to consume you, the knowledge of your impending demise looming over you like a dark cloud.

But Harry refuses to let you wallow in self-pity, his hands gentle but firm as he holds your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Kay, look at me," he insists, his voice hoarse with emotion. "You can't give up, not now. I refuse to let you surrender to this disease without a fight."

You try to turn away, to avoid his penetrating gaze, but Harry's grip on your face tightens, his brown eyes blazing with an intensity that leaves you breathless. "Even if it's too late," you protest, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggle to find the words to explain yourself. "Even if there's no hope left... I can't keep fighting, Harry. I'm tired, so tired."

But Harry shakes his head, his expression filled with a steely resolve that takes your breath away. "Then let me fight for you," he murmurs, his voice filled with determination. "I swear, Kay, I will find a cure, no matter what it takes. Even if I have to go to hell itself and resurrect that bastard who created this virus, I will not rest until you are safe."

You want to believe him, to trust in his promise to save you from the jaws of death. But deep down, you know that the odds are stacked against you, that the virus coursing through your veins is a formidable enemy that cannot be defeated with mere words and promises.

And yet, as you meet Harry's gaze, the flicker of hope in his eyes reignites something deep within you, a spark of defiance that refuses to be extinguished. "Please, Kay," he pleads, his voice soft but urgent. "Fight, if not for yourself, then for me. Resist, for me. I can't bear to lose you, not like this."

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as you struggle to find the strength to carry on, to fight against the relentless tide of despair that threatens to drag you under. But as you look into Harry's eyes, filled with a love and devotion that transcends words, you realize that you can't give up, not now, not ever.

With a deep breath, you nod, a silent vow passing between you and Harry in that fleeting moment. "I'll fight," you whisper, your voice barely above a hoarse whisper as you meet his gaze. "For you, Harry. I'll fight until my last breath, if that's what it takes."

And as Harry pulls you into his arms, his embrace a lifeline in the storm of uncertainty that surrounds you, you cling to him like a drowning man clutching at a life raft. In that moment, you know that no matter what the future may hold, as long as you have Harry by your side, you can face anything, even death itself.

#harry hart #kingsman #harry hart x reader #merlin #galahad #kay #colin firth #colin firth x reader

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softsky-daily · 1 year ago

Text

12/18/2023

If you squint really hard you can see the white speck that is the moon.

Positive thing: I actually finished another book within the day, and I made more yummy fried rice.

The book wasn't that good, but still, it's been a very long time since I've just read through books daily like this. I honestly think it might've been high school when I last read so often. College really kept me too busy and my brain too evaporated to focus on recreational reading so it's nice to get back to it.

I was reading in the middle of work since I had finished literally all the tasks I could think of within like 2 hours and my coworker somehow got me to do all the heavy lifting for some books she wanted to move today. I think I'm mostly annoyed because I just can't understand what she's thinking. It's one thing to be given a task by our boss and she's asking for help, I don't mind that so much since I can understand why she's doing it, but as far as I could tell (and after I questioned her and got a response like "I just feel like they'll want us to move it so let's do it before they ask") there was no reason for us to move them now. I hate doing things for no reason and I especially hate doing things for no reason that someone else roped me into doing for them. Waste my time in a way that's logical or fun at least but if it's completely busy work that you want to do but make me do then get outta here.

Ok I just deleted a whole other paragraph complaining about my coworker and now you're seeing this instead. You've been spared a very long and salty ramble.

Anyway, switching gears so I stop getting re-upset about my coworker, I legit still haven't stopped thinking about 逃げ恥. I've tried to keep quieter about it mostly because the level at which I love it so much is embarrassing to admit but also there's hardly an English audience for it? Which makes sense, but I can't even find gifs or whatever of it on Tumblr and I thought they liked dramas on here. It was a huge phenomenon in Japan, so I've mostly been lurking around random Japanese blogs trying to get my fix on the meta response to the show.

I think if I had to put into words the specific things that make it hit for me specifically I'd list it out like this:

The main female lead literally has a grad degree in clinical psychology so she's me fr. Also I think she's really pretty

The main male lead is respectful and grows so much throughout the show it reminds me of how Tumblr people go crazy for that guy in Pride and Prejudice because he cleans up his act. I also think he's really pretty

A lot of the show is actually a social commentary, which I find fascinating especially from a Japanese context

The romantic shenanigans are so good because they're based on playing with social hierarchies which to me is the coolest way to explore relationship dynamics of any kind

It feels comfortable through the very end, with nothing feeling overly contrived or like they were miscommunicating for no reason

Alright I'll stop myself there or this post will be longer than it already is. I gotta get to work tomorrow good night

#skyposting #thoughtposting

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childrenofthenightt · 4 years ago

Text

That’s The Way

Pairing: Jimmy Page x Reader

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: none, this is kind of an introductory/fluff chapter if you will :)

Story summary: Y/N Y/L/N, an ordinary seventeen-year-old girl, gets pulled into the world of rock and roll on a fateful night at the Marquee Club in London when she experiences the musical phenomenon of the Five Live Yardbirds. She grows up fast, navigating her way through the downfall of The Yardbirds, the legendary skyrocket of Led Zeppelin, era-defining decadence instigated by the ‘60s and ‘70s mindset of free love and personal gratification, and finding the courage to express how she fell deeply in love with one of modern music’s greatest guitarists.

Author’s notes (from Molly of rebel-without-a-zeppelin): Hi everyone! A little disclaimer on my part: this is the first story I’ve ever shared for public consumption. I’ve been toying with this idea in my mind for a very long time now, and I’ve finally mustered up the courage to share it with you all. I hope you like it. I am incredibly honored to collaborate with Syd on this project; this is truly our baby, as it has a very long, detailed, intricate plot, so saddle up for lots (and lots) of drama! This is also a sloooowwwww burn, like really, really slow lol. Over the course of the story, please feel free to send me your theories and comments; I would absolutely love to read them. Please enjoy, and happy reading!

---------

3 May 1965

The sound of a car horn beeped incessantly from the front of Y/N’s house. Dropping her backpack down on her bedroom floor with an annoyed huff, she sprinted down the steps. She never did get enough time to prepare, and it was no different today. With her friend Carolyn in tow, Y/N made a beeline for the front door, the click-clack of her Oxford shoes pounding across the hardwood floor. Y/N’s mum, who nonchalantly strolled out of the laundry room with an armful of freshly washed and folded bath towels, leant against the doorframe.

“Now remember Y/N: no drinking, no drugs, no sex. No going home with strange musician guys, nor are you allowed to go to their hotel,” her mum instructed calmly, knowing she’d receive an eye roll from the girl. Her stern expression at home on her gracefully-aged face, the girls receive the speech they get every time they go out. “You too, C. Even though I’m not your mother, I still worry about your safety.”

Both Y/N’s mum and dad had a very protective instinct over their eldest daughter, just like their other three children. Even at Y/N’s healthy age of seventeen, she longed for the freedom and trust that her older brother had gained at her age.

“Thank you, Mrs. Y/L/N,” Carolyn replied with a little laugh.

“Mum! This is literally the fourth time I’ve been to a Yardbirds gig, and nothing bad has happened,” Y/N huffed. Her mum raised her eyebrows.

Lillian, Y/N’s little sister, walked into the foyer and surprised Y/N with a big, tight hug around her waist. Y/N gasped at the sudden contact, but chuckled when she realized it was her younger sister, and reciprocated the hug.

“I don’t want you getting hurt, Y/N. Boys are icky. And stupid!” Lillian said in a whiny voice, her face muffled by being buried in Y/N’s stomach.

Y/N ruffled her sister’s muss of dirty blonde waves affectionately, rubbing her back to soothe her worries. “I promise, I will come back perfectly fine! I won’t let any boys mess with me, Lil,” Y/N said with a smile, “And when I come back, I’ll tell you everything that happened.”

Lillian gazed up at Y/N with a similar smile, her small teeth shining a bright, pearly white and her chin resting on the taller girl’s stomach. “Okay,” she said, content, before releasing from Y/N with a stuffed animal tucked under her arm.

“Where’s Charlie?” Y/N asked, hoping she could say goodbye to her younger brother before she left.

“I think he’s riding around the neighborhood on his bike with his friends,” Y/N’s mum replied with a shrug. Y/N felt a little disappointed, but she figured she’d talk to him tomorrow at breakfast about her night out.

Thomas, Y/N’s older brother, continued to honk the horn rather obnoxiously, growing quite impatient. It’s a wonder the neighbors weren’t at arms, knocking on their door. He was forced by his parents to be Y/N and Carolyn’s chauffeur to the Marquee Club in London.

“We have to go, or else Tommy will have my head,” Y/N said as she started to open the front door.

“Wait!” her mum said, sloppily placing the towels down on a nearby counter to dash to the door and give Y/N a hug and a kiss on the head goodbye. Finally pulling away her weathered hands flew to Y/N’s shoulders, and gripping them firmly, she continued, “Be good. Love you.”

“I know, I will. Love you too,” Y/N smiled, before dashing down the steps and to the passenger seat of the car. Carolyn was in quick pursuit, following her to the car and taking a seat in the back.

“It’s about time,” Tommy huffed impatiently, tapping his fingertips on the top of the steering wheel as he put the transmission into drive.

“Sorry. Mum was giving me and C a safety brief,” Y/N replied apologetically.

“Why are you two still in school uniforms?” he snorted, shifting to look over at the girls; their studious appearance of white oxford shirts, sweater vests, plaid kilts, white knee socks, and smart oxford shoes would be quite out of place among the audience at the show.

“No time to change, just like usual,” she replied, turning on the radio, soft melodies pouring out at a low volume.

The three drove in silence, except for the sound of the radio playing, until Carolyn had dozed off on the somewhat lengthy car ride. Occasional small talk between Y/N and her brother permeated the quiet that fell over the group, but it picked up when they were only a few blocks away from the venue.

“You gotta stay safe in there, Y/N,” Tommy said, looking straight ahead. His teeth clamped down sharply on his bottom lip: a dead giveaway to the nerves he must have been feeling.

“I know, Dad,” Y/N joked, punching him lightly across the shoulder. Her bright smile wavered and fell when she saw his grim expression.

“I’m serious, you know. I don’t want my sister being pestered by some wankers in a blues band.”

Y/N smirked at her brother’s sudden defensive behavior. “I can take care of myself. Trust me. This isn’t my first rodeo. You should’ve seen the first Yardbirds gig we went to. Utter chaos...” The tilt of her lips signalled that she was joking, and Tommy huffed out a laugh.

Carolyn, stretching with a grunt, had miraculously woken up just as Tommy pulled up to the front door of the Marquee. Glancing at the venue with awe dancing in their eyes, Y/N and Carolyn disembarked from the car, walking closer with the façade of calmness and competency.

“I’ll be back later to pick you girls up. Have fun, but not too much fun,” Tommy rolled his window down as he said this, winking playfully.

Y/N waved to her brother as Carolyn thanked him graciously for the ride. Arms linked, Y/N and Carolyn entered the famous Marquee. Nervousness and anticipation began to pool Y/N’s stomach as she was greeted by the decadent atmosphere of the club: the smell of smoke, alcohol, and sweat hung in the air as her eyes were flashed by many people mingling about, dressed in typical mod clothing. Y/N and her friend looked at each other, feeling like aliens in their intelligent dress. They tactfully made their way through the crowd as they found their way to their usual spot, a small leather-upholstered booth set against the wall near the stage.

“Today might be the day, Y/N,” Carolyn said as they settled into their seats.

“I don’t know,” she replied, smoothing out her skirt, “the idea of that is both scary and exciting to me at the same time. We’ll just roll with the punches, I guess.”

“Which Yardbird do you have your eye on?”

Y/N smirked as she thought for a moment. “Hmm...I’m not sure. I guess they’re all pretty cute in their own way. What about you?”

“Yes, I agree. But I must admit, I do have a very soft spot for Chris Dreja.”

“I’ll pray for ya, C,” Y/N chuckled.

~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, backstage, five live Yardbirds were performing some pre-show rituals in the hopes of easing the preliminary anxiousness. Jeff, Keith, and Jim were peeking out the little sliver of curtain that allowed them to see their gathering audience.

“Look! It’s those two schoolgirls again!” Jeff pointed to the two teenage girls in school uniforms, chatting in their booth waiting for the show to begin. They were huddled together in conversation, legs daintily crossed as their faint giggles floated over to them. Jim couldn’t help but smile at the sound, though he recovered quickly, not wanting his bandmates to get any ideas.

“What’s wrong with that? They must like us,” Keith replied.

“I think they’re both really pretty, especially the one with the Y/H/C hair,” Jim pointed out, trying to be as subtle as possible.

“Yeah, maybe we should invite them backstage after the show… have a nice little chat,” Jeff winked at the singer and the drummer cheekily.

After taking a final glance at the two conversing girls, the three returned to the backstage area where Paul and Chris were. Jeff immediately enlisted Giorgio, their manager, to complete the agreed-upon mission. Jeff loosely draped an arm around Giorgio’s shoulder before bestowing the request as politely as possible. Not trying to be suspiciously polite, of course, because everyone in the band and its entourage were firsthand witnesses of Jeff’s temper and stubbornness. Yikes.

“Okay, I’m going to need you to do me a favor,” Jeff said to Giorgio with a mischievous smile.

Giorgio rolled his eyes, knowing this “favor” would have to do with scouting girls from the audience. “What d’ya need, Jeff?” he sighed exhaustedly.

“Don’t complain, please,” Jeff deadpanned. “There are two pretty birds in the audience, wearing their school uniforms. They’ve been coming to our shows for a little bit now, and they seem nice—”

“You want me to bring them backstage after the show?” Giorgio interrupted, somehow telepathically knowing, by routine, what the guitarist’s request would be.

“You finish that sentence like you know what I’m about to say.”

“That’s because I do, Mr. Beck,” Giorgio retorted sarcastically, “this happens a lot more often than you think it does.”

“Whatever,” Jeff grumbled moodily, knowing he was right, before walking back to the group of musicians in preparation.

~~~~~~~~

Y/N and Carolyn continued to gossip happily about what was happening at school, not a care in the world. They felt the stares of older men in the club, who silently disapproved of their knee socks being scrunched by their ankles, because that wasn’t the “proper” thing to do. But they didn’t care. Who are they to judge?

Every teacher scolded girls at school who did the same thing, because they didn’t want their long legs to be “tempting” or “distracting” any boys. A bloody nuisance, is what it is.

The girls were snapped from their thoughts by the sound of a heavy guitar tone being blasted through the speakers in an opening riff. Their eyes were stapled, almost transfixed to the stage as they took in the five sharply-dressed men in front of them, singing their songs and playing their instruments.

As much as Carolyn enjoyed The Yardbirds and music in general, Y/N had a rather deep connection to it, odd enough as it was. She could play the piano fairly well, so she understood where these musicians were coming from cognitively and creatively. From what she’d read in magazines about current popular musicians, like The Yardbirds for example, she liked the same music they did. Y/N understood dynamics, tempo, tone, key, and musical notation, just like they did. Perhaps she’d be able to get into an intelligent musical conversation with at least one of them one day.

Two straight hours of hits, obscure songs, and blues covers from The Yardbirds’ catalogue were played for the Marquee Club patrons, hypnotizing its drunk and high onlookers with polished musicality and instrumentation.

As the final song concluded, both Y/N and Carolyn, unbeknownst to the other, felt a sinking feeling of disappointment that fell like a pit in their stomachs. They wouldn’t have the chance to meet the band. No one from the entity had approached them yet, and momentarily the five live Yardbirds would be exiting the stage for the night.

After they said their goodbyes and thanks to the crowd, they disappeared behind the curtain. The main lights of the club brightened to signal that the show was over, as the voices of all the patrons raised in rave of the spectacular show they had just witnessed.

Discouraged, but still in light spirits at what they had just seen, Y/N and Carolyn stood up from their seat and headed for the front door. Y/N expected her brother to be waiting in front; it was late, so might as well not make him wait longer than he needs to.

Y/N and Carolyn were merely a few feet from the door when Y/N felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. Turning around to see a man with a dark beard already baring a jovial tight-lipped grin at her, the girl was quite surprised, maybe a little weirded out, but she reciprocated the gesture as genuinely as she could.

“Hello sir, what can we do for you?” Y/N greeted, discreetly nudging Carolyn to help her out and become a united front with her in front of this stranger.

“Good evening ladies, I was sent by Mr. Jeff Beck to offer you an invitation backstage to hang out with the band.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped and her face broke out into an obvious mad blush, much to her dismay. She was internally screaming. The Jeff Beck had spotted them in the crowd?! This had to be a dream. Wait, this could be a complete drunken buffoon trying to trick them. Y/N remembered what her mother had said, and took the proper precautionary measure.

Y/N smiled in the most composed way she could. “Thank you for such a gracious invitation! Could I ask your name, if you don’t mind?”

“Giorgio Gomelsky, manager of The Yardbirds,” he replied, in a seemingly proud manner.

Okay, this was real. Y/N knew that Giorgio was definitely the manager’s name. She turned to Carolyn, who looked just as excited as she was.

“What are your names, dears?” Giorgio asked, pulling them out of their daze of what seemed like a fake reality.

“I’m Carolyn, and this is my friend Y/N,” Carolyn piped up, excited that she finally got an opportunity to speak to someone close to The Yardbirds.

She internally agreed to let Y/N handle the “diplomacy” part of the introduction, knowing that she was best at that. Carolyn knew her friend was quite shy, so she knew to step in when Y/N was starting to feel anxious. She noticed Y/N starting to fiddle with her fingers while talking to Giorgio in the most collected way she could muster; as excited as Y/N was, Carolyn knew she was growing very nervous.

“Well, it is certainly lovely to meet you both. So, what do you say? Would you like to meet the lads?”

After one final glance of excited mutual agreement, Carolyn replied, “Yes, we’d love to.”

Giorgio led the pair of girls back the way they came, through a sea of inebriated people, but this time through the backstage door. Y/N made an appoint to walk behind Carolyn, in an attempt to collect and relax herself. She was starting to sweat a little, her stomach doing flips and her hands becoming cold and clammy.

~~~~~~~~

“Our guests should be arriving any minute now,” Jeff said as he was placing his guitar back in its case.

Chris was standing and chatting with Paul in a corner when he turned around in surprise at the news. “Guests? What guests?”

“We had Giorgio invite two girls from the audience to come back here,” Jim replied, walking over to sit down in a metal folding chair.

“And why weren't we made aware of this?” Paul asked, as he walked to get another metal folding chair to place near Jim.

“It was their idea,” Keith replied, pointing two fingers between Jeff and Jim. Paul and Chris just nodded in recognition.

“I didn’t hear you disagree, Relf,” Jeff clapped back. He then told Chris and Keith to get some chairs for themselves and the two girls that would be walking through the door at any second.

Before Keith could respond, a couple knocks resounded in the room, signalling the arrival of the guests. Jacket lapels and ties were quickly straightened, even though each person was still glazed with quickly-drying sweat from the show they had just played, before the room fell unnaturally quiet as Giorgio opened the rather squeaky door.

The initial tension in the room that lasted a split second could be cut with a knife. Y/N felt her heart pounding in her chest, a cold sweat already running down her back, as five pairs of eyes landed on her, Carolyn, and Giorgio, warm smiles following suit.

She felt like internally combusting.

“Boys, this is Y/N,” Giorgio broke the momentary silence by introducing her, “and Carolyn.” Y/N smiled shyly and sent them a little wave, a dusty shade of pink seeping its way to her cheeks. Carolyn’s greeting was much more exuberant than Y/N’s, as she took the initiative to go over and shake all of their hands amiably. Y/N realized she had to follow her friend in order to make a good first impression.

Knowing that the boys wanted to spend time with the girls without being chaperoned, Giorgio left the room to attend to other business affairs.

Upon first glance, Y/N was the most beautiful girl that four of the five Yardbirds had ever seen. Perfect features, long legs, a calm, gentle, sweet demeanor… Just an absolutely angelic young woman; a vision.

Jeff had obviously recognized her beauty, from seeing her at multiple shows, but he thought she was way out of his league. He decided to focus on getting her to laugh and relax around them, because he noticed just how nervous she looked. She was turning pale right in front of his very eyes! Paul and Chris began to internally question themselves, how have I not seen this girl before? She is so gorgeous! Jim had been glancing at her sporadically throughout the show, soaking up her faraway presence. He noticed how her eyes glistened in childlike wonder as she watched them do what they did best: perform the Chicago blues.

“Well, it is very nice to meet you both,” Keith replied enthusiastically. “I’m Keith,” he alluded to himself, then pointing to the other members of the group while giving their names, “and this is Chris, Paul, Jeff, and Jim.”

“I mean, we know who you guys are, but it’s so lovely to finally meet you,” Carolyn replied. Y/N nodded in agreement.

“Come and sit down! Make yourselves comfortable. We don’t bite,” Jeff joked, motioning to the open chairs. The girls smiled and accepted his invitation, Y/N taking a seat between Jeff Beck and Jim McCarty, while Carolyn took a seat between Keith Relf and Chris Dreja. The chairs were arranged in a circular formation, so each person could talk to the other with ease.

“Tell us about yourselves!” Paul initiated, “I think Y/N should go first though, because you haven’t said too much yet,” he laughed at the last part. Y/N giggled (a little too idiotically for her own liking), but she felt herself become starstruck at how her name sounded coming from one of their voices.

Y/N clenched her cold, clammy hands in her lap as a method to ease her anxiety before starting with a smile. “Well, I’m from Saint Albans. This is our fourth time, I believe, coming to see a Yardbirds gig. Carolyn and I came to see you with Eric Clapton once, and then this is the third time with Jeff.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic! I guess I see where your favor lies in terms of guitarists,” Jeff responded playfully.

“I guess you’re right,” Y/N laughed, “I will admit that I love what you’ve done with the body of work. Clapton was a blues purist, which I respect, and he’s great, but I think your playing is much more interesting and unorthodox.”

Paul, Jim, and Jeff all raised their eyebrows at Y/N’s comment. They were impressed with how she understood their musicality.

“Are you a musician?” Jim asked Y/N.

“Not in your sense of the word,” Y/N chuckled, “But I’ve been playing the piano for most of my life, so I understand music. Probably more than your average female audience member,” she added with a grin.

“That’s so cool! Are you classically trained, or is it just a hobby?”

“Classically trained,” Y/N admitted to Jim shyly.

“Oh wow, so you’re the real deal,” Jeff added.

“I’m not a professional, so I’d say no,” Y/N laughed.

“You probably know more about music than all five of us combined!” Paul said.

“Well, I know that you know much more about the blues than me!” Y/N answered playfully.

“Okay, I’ll give you that,” Paul smiled at Y/N. She cursed herself in her mind for feeling weak at Paul’s simple sentiment, but tried to keep her composure as best she could.

The four of them, especially Jeff and Y/N, began to bond over their love for different musicians. Y/N expressed her love for Chet Atkins and his fingerpicking style, Scotty Moore’s lively soloing style, and Robert Johnson’s slide technique and open tunings, rendering the three men shocked at her knowledge on the subject. Y/N loved how easily Jeff could make her laugh, and how interested Paul and Jim were at whatever she had to say, significant or insignificant. Chris Dreja, who was in a little group with Keith and Carolyn, occasionally spaced out of his conversation to hear what Y/N had to say.

They bonded for about an hour and a half about everything and nothing, until Y/N abruptly realized that Tommy was probably waiting for a while outside for her and her friend. She apologized to the band profusely for such a sudden departure as she and Carolyn walked towards the door.

“Say you’ll come visit us again after the show?” Jeff called to Y/N as she turned towards him in the doorframe.

“Absolutely,” she smiled brightly.

---------

Thanks so much, hope you enjoy!!

Taglist: @y0uth--anasia @reincarnated70sbaby

#jimmy page #led zeppelin #that’s the way #jimmy page fanfic #jimmy page fanfiction #jimmy page x reader #led zeppelin fanfic #classic rock fanfic

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brandyovereager · 5 years ago

Text

The Phoenix Effect - pt. 4

I had a lot of fun writing Rowan’s POV for this and I may have gotten a bit carried away...but I love Rowaelin! <3 :)

On ao3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22195906/chapters/58766644#workskin

Summary: Rowan is in Rifthold with Dorian when a strange phenomenon sweeps the land. Those once dead are popping up alive. Everyday, more and more are Reborn. One day Rowan encounters a Reborn young man who refuses to give his name, only asking to know the whereabouts of Celaena Sardothein.

As helpful as the Fae king had been so far, and as much as he could be trusted with his discretion, visiting the Keep was something Sam had to do alone. This was his revenge, and he needed to be the one to carry it out.

“I’ll do what I need to and meet you at the castle gates by dusk if I haven’t gotten the information I need.” Hopefully the scum left at the Keep could tell him the full story of Celaena’s fate, but if not he would still need the Rowan’s help.

“Absolutely not.” Sam was taken aback.

“Excuse me?” This was the first time the Fae had outright denied him the discretion he asked for.

“No way are you going to do whatever it is you think you need to do alone. I’m coming with you.” Sam hadn’t expected that.

“I can handle myself.” He’d spent years at the Keep, he knew the terrain and the people like second nature.

“I don’t know what sort of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into but I can tell it’s with some very bad people. You need to be smart about this. I might not be necessary, but I certainly wouldn’t be detrimental. You could use someone to watch your back, after all, I’m assuming these people are the reason you died in the first place.”

Sam had to admit he was right about that.

“You can come with me, but you stay outside. I will go in and take care of my business alone. You’ll stand guard and wait for my signal if something goes wrong.”

Rowan’s response was a simple nod. Good. The Fae would be nearby if things to a turn for the worst, but this was a conversation Rowan had no part of. As curious as the King of Terrasen’s past seemed, Sam didn’t want to bring him into this. A royal had no place in the murdering of three well-known assassins to avenge the death of another well-known assassin.

————

The further they walked, the more certain Rowan became that this kid was in some deep shit.

They were trekking through the city, side-by-side, and in silence. Rowan observed the young man carefully as they maneuvered through the crowds, in part to make sure they didn’t get separated, but also out of curiosity.

The young man was slender, but not in a way that put him at a disadvantage. On the contrary, he was lithe and nimble. He could slip easily through the crowd practically undetected, quite the opposite of Rowan’s method—simply be hulking and angry-looking and people move out of your way. The young man was not scrawny or weak. He was probably made of lean and compact muscle underneath his clothing.

He reminded Rowan of Aelin, and wasn’t that just a heart-wrenching thought—soon, they’d be back together soon. His delicate movements were similar to that of the former assassin’s—perhaps that was how this young man got himself mixed up in underhanded dealings. Rowan could easily picture the boy as a thief or an assassin, silent but dangerous.

“So Aelin Galathynius is alive?” The young man’s question made Rowan crook the edge of his mouth up in a secret smile.

“Yes, Terrasen’s true queen is alive and well, just as she will be for many years to come.” Rowan was sure of that. If her sheer power and immortal grace alone wasn’t enough, Rowan would lay down his own life to keep her breathing.

“What’s she like?” Whether these questions were simply small talk or the young man was trying to figure Rowan out, the Fae did not care. He would gladly praise his love to anyone who would listen.

“Fierce, determined, relentless,” Rowan smirked slightly as he continued, “stubborn, arrogant, hotheaded,” his face softened, “immensely beautiful, loyal to kingdom and kin, passionate as her fire,” he would forever be in awe of her, “and powerful beyond legend.” The young man was now analyzing his face closely.

“You two married for love, yes? It was not arranged?” Rowan couldn’t help but chuckle at the question.

“I bring her absolutely no political advantage as a husband. My status as a Prince was nothing but an empty title. I had no money or land, and she had far better options in that aspect, but that didn’t matter to Aelin. We are mates, simple as that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about Fae, but your kind mate for life, yes?”

“In a sense, yes. When a Fae meets their true mate, there is an undeniable connection. Mates are tied to one another in a bond far greater than the mortal concept of marriage. The mortal world would see our marriage as a poor move for Terrasen, but such things are insignificant in the face of a mating bond.”

“I thought you were kind of odd for a king.” Rowan laughed at the kid’s observation.

He was more husband than king. Aelin was a wonderful queen, and did not need a consort to make decisions for her. What she needed was his love and fealty. He supported his mate emotionally as she bore the mantle of queen. He was blood-sworn to her, and he would do whatever she asked of him—hence his presence in Rifthold.

The two walked on, further and further, and with every turn Rowan felt the pit of his stomach sink deeper. He didn’t know how close they were to their destination, but the area was sickeningly familiar. Rowan hadn’t spent too much time in Rifthold before, especially not in any one area, but he knew this place. They were near the Assassin’s Keep.

His observation was proven true as the young man turned down a street and then stopped in front of a familiar building.

It might just be that his earlier deduction was correct. However, this young man and Aelin moved so similarly not just because they were both trained assassins, but because they were trained by the same man.

Rowan had a horrible feeling about this.

————

Sam hadn’t seen the doors to the Keep since he left with Celaena. Arobynn and his lackeys had likely taken him here to be tortured and killed, but he’d had a blindfold on the whole time.

The place was just as dark and terrible as always. Why make a building full of professional murderers look inviting? From the information Sam had found in the Hall of Records, Arobynn was no longer there, but he still felt no great desire to enter.

He glanced over to his Fae companion, who was staring at the building with an odd look on his face.

“Stay out here. I could be a while, but don’t come in unless I call for you.” For a monarch, Rowan accepted the outright order quite well, and Sam once again wondered about the story behind the King of Terrasen.

The Keep was cold inside, just as it had always been. Celaena had always used it as an excuse to buy the most expensive blankets and other finery to keep warm, but Sam had always had a deep chill through him whenever he was here.

He found Tern first. The man was sloppy, always had been, and it was easy to catch him off guard. With hardly any effort he had the other assassin subdued and tied to his own chair, Sam moved to stand in front of him. The moment Tern finally saw his face a look of shock appeared before quickly being replaced with anger.

“I heard a bunch of dead ones were popping up, some god’s gotta be off it if they picked you.”

“I’m aware you prefer me dead, you did help kill me after all.” Sam was, in fact, still a little bitter about that.

“Is that what you’re here for, revenge? You’ve come to kill me for killing you?” Tern’s teeth were bared in a sneer.

“I am enjoying the feeling of you tied up and at my mercy—and it may come to that later—but no, I’m here for information.”

“You want to know who ordered the hit on you? I thought it was pretty obvious it was Arobynn, but maybe you’d like my confirmation?” This buffoon was quickly exhausting his patience.

“No, that was obvious. I knew even then that it was him. I need you to tell me what happened to Celaena. Why was she sent to Endovier, and where is Arobynn?” Tern’s mouth curled into a sinister smile.

“You do not know?” Sam was growing tired of tedious conversation. Tern was acting quite proud for knowing something Sam did not.

“Obviously not, so tell me. What happened between the both of them after I was killed?” What did he do to Celaena?

“I take it these questions mean you have not heard whispers around Rifthold about the assassin or her master? I’m sure you have deduced what that means.” Sam briefly sacrificed his sharp focus to roll his eyes in annoyance.

“Neither is in the city, yes, but why?” Tern’s answers were sounding a lot more like questions.

“Arobynn Hammel is dead. He was murdered in his sleep two years ago, most likely by that brunette whore he kept company with.” So Arobynn was dead, but Celaena had not killed him. Celaena had never gotten to enact her vengeance on the cruel man.

“If he only died two years ago, then he would have been alive to see Celaena’s capture. Why didn’t he save her? Was it his fault?” Why would Arobynn give up his star assassin to the King?

“Yes, he set her up to be arrested. He baited her with your murder, knew she would come for revenge, and arranged for Adarlan’s Guard to be waiting for her. He was angry about her trying to run off with you, thought he’d teach her a lesson, starting with your death.” Sam’s blood was boiling with his strong emotions, one of which being immense rage.

“So I was a pawn, killed so Arobynn could reprimand his precious protege? It was better for her to meet a slow, torturous death than for the two of us to leave the Guild?” It was horrible, pure hatred and cruelty. Why could they not be happy?

“It’s your own fault for thinking you could. Nobody gets out of here. The life of an assassin follows you wherever you go, and you two had to learn that the hard way.” Not for the first time, Sam imagined how their story could have ended had they not both belonged Arobynn Hammel. If they had been born average children in Rifthold, would anyone have gone to such lengths to prevent their happiness?

“Arobynn is lucky he’s already dead, the bastard deserved far worse than a slit throat for his sins, but perhaps I can make do with you and your cronies.” Sam felt a sadistic smirk appear on his lips and slowly stalked closer to his prey. “How much did you know beforehand of his plan for her? Did you help him set the trap?” Tern began to shake slightly and struggle harder against his restraints.

“Hey now, I was just a henchman—an ignorant henchman at that. Arobynn didn’t tell us anything but what we specifically needed to do, and only right before we needed to do it. He didn’t trust us with anything that sensitive.” It was an empty excuse, really, not enough for Sam to spare him.

“You still did it, though, and I bet you were happy to. The three of you held no great love for Celaena Sardothein. I’m sure business only got better.”

“That may be true, but you still don’t want to kill me.” It was laughable, and Sam let out a short guffaw at Tern’s statement.

“Why not? What more could I need from you? You’ve answered my questions, and given me greatly displeasing answers. I should take your life as vengeance for Celaena’s.” It’s what he’d come here intending to do, anyway.

“What if I told you that Celaena didn’t die in Endovier?” Sam froze. “I can tell you how she got out and where she went, just leave me here alive.” Tern knew he had him with that, and began to look smug again. Ordinarily, Sam would have swiftly wiped the look from Tern’s face, but he was entirely fixated on what the assassin just revealed.

“You have my attention.”

@rowaelinforeverworld @flowersinvegas @aelin-queen-of-terrasen @camixd93

Message me or reply to be tagged (or just to let me know what you think)!

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sergeanttpoliteness · 6 years ago

Text

➹teenage vows➹(peter b. parker x fem!reader)

Requested by anon➝ hi!! is it alright to request some peter b parker x fem!reader confession/proposal scene? tysm ❤❤

It’s time Peter caught up to some promises he made long ago. Like, embarrassingly long ago.

word count: 6k

a/n: hello! hope whoever’s reading this is having a good day bc u deserve it. just a heads up, but i think i’m gonna post a lot slower bc school starts tomorrow (pls kill me) and i gotta work hard if i want to get in a good college, y’know. gross. but anyway, i hope whoever requested it likes it! i had so much fun writing it and it’s rlly sweet and short, my heart is warm. i promise i’ll be uploading part 2 of one make out session next, idk when but i’m working on it (: enjoy!

It was moments like these— the ones where you flashed him teary smile, and reassured him that you didn't mind him leaving you for the night to go and save the city desperate for his protection— that Peter desired to pause the outside world just so it could be you and you only; no agonizing battles, no villains tearing him to pieces, no delinquents threatening the safety of others when they could barely even withstand a punch. Because just as much as everyone else, you needed him; and as guilty as it made him feel, he pondered the possibility of putting away the mantle of the Spiderling for a single night as he perched on the window sill hesitating, wearing his suit, his mask not fully on yet. But you both knew no such thing was an option whilst the news played loudly in the background, the piercing wails of the police sirens multiplying with each passing moment. You simply grasped the fabric and covered his face, smirking as you slowly walked away from the aperture. "Go save some civilians, Spider-Boy." You couldn't see it, but he grinned behind his disguise, for that nickname which would've bothered him if it'd come from someone else's mouth had set his heart ablaze ever since you two were just some kids; and the flare persisted, even as fervent bodies molded into jaded souls, beaten down by the colossal waves of changes and cataclysms that collided into you one after another.

That day you'd been victim of too many tides.

The evening that unfolded wasn't the one Peter planned. Not at all. Life was anything but a fairy tale; his surely wasn't close to being one, but he'd conjure that magic— transform reality into a children's book with your arms around his neck, his around your waist, your lips close, a soft amorous graze, your living room as the ballroom as you two gently swayed until the clock struck midnight. He'd plotted all the details, from the scent of the candles to every compliment he'd utter. Perhaps he worried too much, but it's what your love demanded, what you deserved, a happily ever after, and he'd oblige the heavens to bring you just that. More calamities were what the cosmos had in mind for you and Peter, though, a sour reality-shattering reminder of how nonsensical wasting time in dreaming of that fairy story was.

The first blow hit you (quite literally) just minutes after you woke up, and Peter accidentally knocked a cupboard into your nose. 'How was your morning?' Your coworker asked, the steaming vapor of her coffee clouding her glasses. You went cross-eyed as you glanced down at the gauze on your nose, briefly recalling the previous events— gushing blood, too much for your liking, maybe a broken nose, who knows, and a string of Peter's apologies flying at you at the speed of light as he placed the bandage over your wound. You wore a tight-lipped smile and shrugged while you were unabashedly dishonest— 'oh, you know, same old'. Yeah, because your boyfriend unintentionally breaking your nose (it's not broken, you insisted) was a normal thing, right? Then came the second slap to your face as a revelation; remembrance dawned upon you, your speeding brain screeching to a halt, and you sighed into your hands. It was you and Peter's two year anniversary.

The man spent the entirety of his work blasting himself; it hadn't slipped his memory, unlike you (which was a surprise, seeing how your enthusiasm the day prior could easily be compared to a child's in a candy store), but after his imbecility and shame, how could he not forget to kiss your forehead and bring you breakfast to your bed as a sweet morning surprise the same way you did last year? It didn't stop there— oh, no, it did not— for then came the third inconvenience of the day: goddamn Jameson went on another rant about him— or well, Spider-Man; not a phenomenon, really, you get used to it, but it was at the worst time possible. He timed it: fifteen whole minutes of his booming voice and curses, 'more pictures of the menace!' or whatever, as if Peter didn't already feel ludicrous enough while taking pictures of himself, or the twenty pictures scattered across his boss' desk were a meager effort. An unwanted setback, although he arrived back home nevertheless, scurrying to your bedroom and clumsily removing his clothes along the way. Suit? Check. Clean-shaven face? Check. That one fragrance which turned you on? Check that, too. Roses?

"Ah, shit." He muttered as he took the cooking pot from the cabinet. Roses. Stupid Jameson and his obsession with Spidey— he forgot to stop by the flower shop. It was alright, though, he could deal with it; no flowers? No problem. Just... the food needed to be good, restaurant-type of cuisine, and taking in mind he wasn't a terrific cook, it'd be quite the challenge. Peter lit the lighter, his hand on the stove's knob, prepared to ignite the burner, but he swore it'd suddenly come to life and taunted him, laughed at his upcoming defeat. He narrowed his eyes at the object, somewhat intimidated, when the front door slammed open. He peered up at the clock hanging on the wall. You were back ahead of time, a lot earlier than he'd anticipated; he didn't even have all the ingredients out yet. He alleviated the clutching in his chest with a deep breath before rushing over to the small portable stereo (you two really needed an upgrade), his finger pressing down on a button. He was satisfied with the soft tunes from the random jazz station and scratched the back of his neck as he went to greet you.

"Hey! You're... early." Saying that your appearance was rough would've been uncalled for, but your scowl and glossy eyes kindled that concern in the pit of his stomach. It was another punch, one that caught him off guard as he frowned and immediately wrapped his arms around you. "Hey, what's wrong?" His worry evoked a pang of guilt in you, and you thought about pulling away, but you couldn't, instead digging your nose deeper into the crook of his neck.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, I just..." You reassured, your tense shoulders relaxing since God, you could breathe in that cologne of his, and he smelled so good. "You look hot."

You sensed his breath catch in his throat before he chuckled, rubbing the small of your back. "I'm glad you think that, but let's talk about you, alright?" You lifted your head to meet his gaze, smiling weakly when he placed a careful kiss on your temple. You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head.

"I got a speeding ticket. Two hundred."

Fifth strike.

He blinked, processing your confession, his eyes slowly growing big. "Two hundred?!" You were expecting it; it was a normal reaction, yet you squirmed, flailing your hands as you attempted to explain yourself.

"I'm sorry—"

"Why? How?"

"I'm sorry," You repeated, your hands on top of your head. "I'm so stupid. I can't believe I'm so dumb, and we were saving for the trip but I just fucking ruined it. You deserve a vacation, Pete, I'm so sorry I'm like this." You spoke fast, pulling at your hair with frustration as you walked back and forth in front of him.

"Y/N..." He sighed, upset, of course, but forgiving. "Don't be so hard on yourself. It was just a mistake and we'll get through it, okay?" Your pacing ceased, skepticism crossing your face. "Yeah! The vacation can wait just for a bit. It'll be even more rewarding, anyway." He said with a beam, cupping your cheeks. You didn't know where the rare optimism came from, but you laughed at your lover, the remorse fortifying because you truly did not deserve the tolerance. On the spur of the moment, your fingers threaded through his hair and you pulled him in, urgent lips against his own soft ones. He couldn't help the subtle moan he emitted, dazed by your sudden lust as you spilled all your fervor and hunger into him; all emotion drained from every one of your cells, your fist gripping his jacket, tugging him as close to you as possible, bodies flush together, wrinkling the formerly smooth fabric, yet it wasn't enough.

His hand sneaked inside your shirt, riding up your back; but he paused and groaned, breaking apart from your blissful mouth. "After dinner, but right now I need you to help me because I haven't even gotten started with the food yet." He panted, abstaining from flinging all his cares far away and caving into your luring warmth to please you. Your mouth curved into a smile and you rolled your eyes, pushing him toward the kitchen.

He immediately got back to work, filling the large pot with water, but you stopped at the entrance and glanced down at your outfit. "I should get changed, shouldn't I?"

Peter turned around, shamelessly eyeing your body with desire. "You look perfect." You snorted.

"Peter, you're wearing a suit and I'm still in my work clothes."

"Maybe I... overdid it a bit?" He admitted with a bashful twitch of his lips. He took off his suit jacket, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows while you stole his discarded coat. He didn't notice until you put it on, quirking a brow. "You playing dress up or what?"

"This is it. This is what I'm gonna wear." You declared, raising your arms to show off your glorious look."

Peter bit his lip, a grin breaking out across his face, staring at you as if you were a divine entity, the physical proof of the existence of the heavens above as you straightened the creases. "You look silly." Adorable, he corrected himself internally.

"Nuh-uh, sir, I look hot." You scoffed, although you didn't look silly nor hot, but rather like a little kid who went through an exploration in his father's closet. You'd made up your mind, though; sacrificing a good-looking outfit sounded thousands of times better than actually making the effort to appear decent. You finished your five-second fashion exhibition before a full-blown runway commenced when your stomach rumbled, and summoned your inner chef, standing beside Peter. "You deal with the pasta, I'm gonna pick the salad because there's no way to mess that up."

"I'm the fuck-up, so shouldn't it be the other way around?" He muttered, and as if on cue, he almost spilled the dry pasta noodles all over the counter after miscalculating his strength and tore the bag open. His eyes drifted to you, and just like he predicted, you sported a judgmental expression. "I've got it."

"I dunno, I feel like if I give you a knife you're gonna somehow accidentally stab me." You chuckled, gesturing to the knife in your grasp. His face twisted with remorse. "I'm not feeling so lucky today."

"How's, uh, how's your nose doing?" He questioned, fault gnawing on him. It was the third time the man asked you, the first one being before you left for work, and the remaining a phone call and message during your shift. You, indubitably, told him everything was splendid, as if you didn't almost cry from the pain right after you waved goodbye to him and closed your front door.

"It's okay," You shrugged, despite the sting in the bridge of your nose. "Yeah, you know, it doesn't really hurt. Okay, no, that's a lie— it hurts a bit, but it's not something I can't handle."

"I'm so, so sorry I broke your nose. That was a really dick move."

"It's not broken!" You corrected him, pointing your finger at him. "It's fine. Don't worry, it just looks broken."

"If it looks broken, then it's broken."

"Since when are you a doctor?"

The corner of his lips tugged upwards as he added the pasta to the boiling water. "Y/N, getting my nose broken is my second job."

"Okay, whatever. I've heard the word 'broken' enough times today." You giggled, but then nibbled on your cheek while you began to slice a tomato. "Hey, I need to tell you something."

He swallowed, his throat all of a sudden dry. He opened his mouth to speak, but the abrupt ringing of his phone drove his attention to the device. "Hold on," He took it out of his pocket, his brows knitting together as he checked the screen. Your chest tightened after you sneaked a glimpse of the caller ID. "MJ? Hi!" He greeted, his voice way too cheery and his gaze still on you.

Your chopping came to a halt and you settled the knife on the cutting board. Her voice was clear, audible, yet you couldn't properly distinguish any of her words. Peter hummed as you held onto the counter, your knuckles turning white when his features broke out into a wide grin. "That's great! See, I told you you'd get through it."

Get through it, you reiterated in your head, the sixth wave crashing into your hot-blooded body.

"Yeah... yeah. You too. Night." He finally hung up, and your hand found itself on your hip.

"MJ?" You inquired, your eyebrows raised. He resumed his cooking, his phone forgotten on the countertop and you shot daggers at it.

"Yeah, she just wanted to tell me something."

"Tell you something?"

A crease appeared between his eyebrows and he looked at you sideways, confused. "A problem she fixed."

"Huh. I see." You grumbled, your brows scrunched together. Peter turned to face you, folding his arms across his chest.

"What?"

You met his stare. "What?"

"You're annoyed. I can tell."

"I'm not annoyed." You countered, squinting.

"Yeah, you are, 'cause you're doing that thing with your eyebrows—" He waved his hand, motioning toward your face. You mirrored his stance, doing exactly what he pointed out. "They get really expressive when you're mad."

"Suddenly, there's something wrong with my eyebrows?" You knew you were reaching, but the irritation dominated your mouth. Peter stammered in disbelief, briskly shaking his head.

"What?! Y/N, I did not say that at all."

You leaned against the kitchen counter, your lips tight until you were talking again. "You know, I just think it's kinda weird."

Peter looked heavenward, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Oh, here we go." He took in a deep breath, peeved. "What?"

"How you and Mary Jane have been calling each other so much lately." You mumbled, hugging yourself.

"What about it?"

Now you were the incredulous one. "What about it? Peter, it's weird."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time, but explain why." He said, exasperated.

Your jaw tightened and you picked up the knife before restarting with the slashing of the food, your hold of the tool harsh. "I don't really need to explain myself."

"Well, I want you to!"

"Alright, you want to know why it's weird? You want me to tell you?" Your tone grew louder.

"Yes, please! Go on!" Peter nodded, voice equally as bitter. You scraped the sliced tomatoes off of the cutting board with the knife, careless about where they landed, and clutched a second vegetable.

"She's your ex." You hissed. He had to momentarily walk away, although not too far considering the restricted place. He rubbed his face, holding up two fingers with his other hand.

"That was two years ago. Almost three."

"Your ex-wife!"

"I know what she is, Y/N, but there's no need to be worried. There's a reason why it didn't work out."

"It's kinda hard not to worry when she's calling you all the time, apparently telling you about all the problems in her life and who knows what else. I bet you call her to complain about me, or something." You poked his chest with a pickle.

He pushed the cucumber away with his finger, laughing. "Oh my god, you're being so ridiculous right now."

"I'm allowed to be ridiculous right now!" You shouted, slamming the green edible on the piece of wood.

"We're just friends! I can't even believe I have to say this!"

You shot him a sneer. "How can you just be friends with your ex?"

"Well, that's what we were after we broke up the first time, no?" He claimed, his forehead creased. You grew quiet and weakly dug the blade into the cucumber.

"That's different, I was your best friend. I am your best friend." You whispered, but he wasn't taking it.

He tilted his head back, his eyes closed. "It's really not different."

"It is!" You persisted, "We were kids, and I was friends with Gwen, so obviously it's not like I even thought about trying something."

"You think MJ is trying something?"

You blinked furiously, lifting one shoulder. "You know we never got along that well!"

Peter took a step closer to you, holding himself up with his hand on the counter. "She wouldn't ever do that, Y/N, no matter how bad things are between you two." You rolled your eyes.

"How would you know?"

God, you truly were driving him crazy. He began to tap his foot, groaning. "How would I know? How would I know? We were together for sixteen years, I know a lot more than you do!"

"Sixteen years, no way there still wouldn't be some sort of feelings." You lowly told yourself, but he still listened. He squeezed his hands closed and his view landed on the bundle of bananas inside a basket. He ripped one, peeling it open and taking a large bite, his infuriation pushing him to stress-eat. You heard him exclaim, as if he'd managed to remember an idea long repressed.

"What about that one guy you're always talking with? Thomas, was it?" He began, his mouth full. You whispered 'oh my god' as he swallowed before continuing. "You two dated, didn't you?"

You placed your hand on your chest, unbelieving that he decided to complain about the most insignificant guy in your relationship. "Peter, he's my coworker."

"Well, it's kinda hard not to worry!" He mocked you, flailing his arm.

"Fucking hell."

"He's all attractive and shit, with his eight-pack, expensive car, and twenty dogs. Real boyfriend material, huh?" He clenched his teeth, his hands trembling with the overwhelming jealousy.

You peered up at him, your eyes soft. "I would never hurt you like that."

"Exactly!" He gently held your shoulders, hopeful that you finally understood you absurd your worries were. "Neither would I! Ever."

"You broke up with me once, why would you not do it again?!" You shoved his hands off of you. Despair clawed at your heart, poisoned your insides with its foul venom, constricting your lungs, wetting your eyes.

Your words and crestfallen features subsided his fury, like a powerful breeze extinguishing a flickering candle, a gleam of sunlight reaching out through heavy sullen clouds, clearing his sight. His face fell, his fingers twitching, aching to touch you. "Y/N..."

You cracked, lost control, lashed out all your anguish on the food you cut. "You left me for Gwen! After three years!" Your cutting sped up, loud and quick clanks echoing across the room. "You said you loved me! A-and I believed you!" You sobbed, yet no tears would spill; only built up rage as you snagged a second tomato and stabbed it harder, the blade dangerously close to your finger.

"You're gonna hurt yourself." Peter warned, watching as you ignored him and only went faster, harder, your hand beginning to cramp up.

"But then you didn't love me, you loved her, and everything you said became complete bullshit and just lies! All those stupid promises and your fucking vows," You couldn't see anymore, your vision too blurry, but you didn't slow down. "What was I supposed to do other than just be happy for you? Because I had to be a good friend, and I just wanted you to be happy—"

"Y/N—"

You felt the knife close to your finger. "And what if it happens again? Mary Jane is perfect, you two were perfect; maybe one day you'll regret you chose me at the end—" Peter's hand shot out and captured the knife. You closed your mouth and blinked your tears away, your eyes then growing wide, for the blade hung right above your finger.

He moved it to the side and away from your resting hand, his grasp shaky. "I told you you were gonna hurt yourself." He breathed out.

The radio remained barely audible before, almost as if its presence were missing, but as silence overtook the room— heavy, asphyxiating, weighing down on both of you, crushing you with no mercy— it made your skull pulse. You laid the cutting tool back down, your gaze fixed ahead of you.

"My boss laid me off today." You saw through your peripheral vision how his head jerked up. "That's why I got back home early. And why I got the speeding ticket." You revealed, ashamed. Peter gulped, trying to dive to the surface, float in the flooded wreckage you two were trapped in.

"I'm sorry."

"What do you mean? It's not your fault." You looked at him, but it was quick. "And it's not my fault, either. I guess the trip will have to wait longer than we expected." You sadly joked.

He didn't say anything. He simply approached you, slowly and quiet, and soon his arms were around you. You grew weak to his embrace and squeezed him, inhaling deeply, holding back the tears once again that day— you didn't even know, really, you'd lost count.

The universe wouldn't hand you the quietude you had craved so easily, though, because without warning, Peter began to usher you far from the stove. "Wait, wha—" A bang cut you off and you yelped while Peter unconsciously pulled you closer to him. You heard clinking, a shattering sound as something rained over the floor. You both slowly glanced back, still hugging each other.

"What the hell?" You gasped when you saw the large crack running up the stove top, various small ones branching out from it, and glass littering almost all of your kitchen. Peter's body shook and you stared up at his nervous grin.

"I told you we had the change the stove."

You two began to laugh— not a normal response to your stove exploding, indeed; perhaps it was an odd way to cope with the pain, but Peter ran his fingers through his hair as he chuckled.

"I should've listened." You smiled at him, and your mind turned to mush when he returned the expression.

"Good evening, everyone— I'm sorry to interrupt, I know that tonight is 'only music' night." The music ended and a dopey voice spoke instead; a guy who'd most definitely hit a few too many blunts.

"What kind of station did you chose?" You asked your boyfriend, your face scrunched up. He shrugged, just as clueless as you were.

"I don't know, it was on when I switched on the radio." However, your ears perked up when the man carried on.

"Just in case you haven't watched the news yet, I wanted to tell you to please stay away from Times Square. There's some crazy stuff going on there, man, it's nuts, and the police are arriving on the scene. But..." Peter looked at you, his eyes sad with guilt. Realization hit you like a truck, your heart almost stopping.

It was the final straw.

"No... no, please, Pete." You started to breathe heavily, your lower lip trembling. He held your hands, kissing your knuckles apologetically.

"I'm so sorry." The tears flowed free, and it broke him further.

"Everything's been going wrong today, p-please, I don't want anything bad happening to you." You begged. But he was already leaving the kitchen, and you yelled out a frustrated curse. You ran to the living room, searching for the remote control, then fell to your knees as you saw it under the coffee table, instantly snatching it. You desperately wiggled the remote when it didn't work, but moments later the TV lit up, and you jumped from channel to channel, seeking for the news. You raised your hand up to your mouth, your shoulders shuddering from the horrific footage— the hopelessness, the explosions, the fire. You heard the first siren outside.

You felt a tender hand on your shoulder, the indication of what you feared the most, of the dreaded goodbye lurking in all your nightmares. You were fully submerged into the screen, enough that you hadn't noticed Peter standing behind you. "This was not the night I planned." He said, staring down at the ground. " We were gonna have a nice dinner, maybe even dance like you enjoy to do sometimes, and then... I don't know, but I'm sorry. You deserved it." He confessed, sorrowful and sincere.

You placed your hand on his hard chest, over the spider emblem of his suit. You didn't waste any time and kissed him, a passion different from earlier; different from the arousal, the heat at the pit of your stomach, the goosebumps spreading all over your skin. Now it was just as forceful, just as needy, but it tasted like innocent affection, like a refuge for a terrified child from a spine-chilling thunderstorm, the assurance that the downpour would pass. You cherished every second, the way he clung onto your waist with as much urgency, his breathing as he ended what he hoped was just another kiss and not the last one. It tore you down to nothingness, but it's what you signed up for the moment you fell in love with him, and you truly did not regret it. Never.

Your foreheads rested against each other, your hands trailing up to his shoulders. "Happy two year anniversary." He grinned. You pecked him one last time.

"Happy two year anniversary."

It was the usual routine: he went to the window, putting his mask over his head, not bothering to brush away his hair, and he looked back at you. Stay, you both thought as you followed him. You held yourself back, though, for you knew that if you asked him to, he would. You tugged his mask down, covering his face. "Go save some civilians, Spider-Boy. I love you." His white eyes were wide, taking you in wholly.

"I love you, too."

You undid the button of Peter's suit jacket for the twentieth time in a row, the action a momentary consolation as your eyes lingered on the flat screen; however, your mind drifted away somewhere in the vastness of space, distant from the images and your solitary apartment, revolving around a certain man you couldn't help but worry about. The broadcast should've been enough to relieve your fidgeting and the iciness that ran through your veins, because just like always, the superhero had saved the day, but you wouldn't ease into satisfaction until you had Peter in your arms— safe and sound, alive. That comfort arrived in the form of the window sliding open, and you jumped off your seat, wrapping your arms around your torso, watching as the red and blue figure slipped inside. He closed the window, holding his side, and he removed his mask with a swift motion, strands of hair sticking up while others fell graciously. You repressed the shocked gasp at his appearance; his bleeding and swollen lip, the cut running up his forehead, his nose which now looked just like yours if not a bit worse, and the forming bruise on his cheek.

You ran up to him and hugged him tightly. As gentle as you tried to be, it still hurt, but he didn't voice his pain. "I'm proud of you. You did great." You kissed his shoulder. He mumbled a 'yay!' and you let out a weak laugh, carefully pulling his arm. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up."

He tugged you back into him, his eyes droopy with exhaustion. "No."

Your eyebrows rose, confusion overtaking your face. "What?"

"Our date is not over yet."

You sucked in a breath, ignoring his ridiculous statement— he'd definitely received a rough blow to his head. "Peter, it's late, you need some rest—"

"Just, please." He urged. "Trust me." He bore his eyes burning with need into yours, frowning.

It was unbelievable, how Peter B. Parker could ask you to dress up as a hot dog and breakdance in the middle of the street and you'd comply, simply because it's what he wanted. You're weak, you told yourself, your hand in Peter's as you strolled down the pathway of the park; although you did force him to sit down and let you patch him up earlier, for only the man thought there was nothing wrong with leaving the house looking like you just came back from the fight club— ‘it's gonna heal soon’, he would whine as the roles reversed and you smoothed the gauze over his nose. He limped slightly while he picked a flower from a bush, another one for the growing collection in his fist, and you groaned loudly.

"Parker, seriously, I wouldn't have minded if we'd stayed back at home. Our anniversary doesn't need to be perfect." You said, expecting it'd knock some sense into him. He remained stubborn, though, inspecting the plants he held.

"Oh man, you said 'Parker', you must be serious." He wore a crooked smile and you narrowed your eyes at him. "Look, the day was far from perfect, so at least I want it to end well."

"I mean, this place is really nice." You acknowledged as you both stopped to admire a cherry blossom tree. Peter glanced sideways at you, his mouth twitching.

"Do you remember when we planned our wedding?"

You looked back at him and you both cringed, laughing after. "Ah, we did that, didn't we?" You crinkled your nose, recalling the night you and Peter lied on your twin bed; surrounded by heavy textbooks and colorful notes with illegible writing, in a haze from all the studying that you two started to make big, naive plans for a distant future, your head on his chest as he ran his fingers through your hair.

"It was cute at the moment, but now that I think back, it was really stupid." He laughed. You swiped away the fallen flowers of the tree with your foot, nostalgia showering over you.

"Yeah... I wonder what sixteen-year-old me would think about thirty-eight-year-old me. Probably would be disappointed. At least she'd be happy I'm with you, though." You admitted softly, your skin prickling. "That's something her and I have in common."

Peter flashed you a half-smile. "Really?"

"Yeah," You grinned back, your eyes darting down to the petals he plucked. "Hey, don't kill it! What did it ever do to you?"

"It looked at me the wrong way." He smiled, shrugging. "I'm just nervous, that's it."

"What, you playing 'does she love me, does she love me not'?" You fluttered your eyelashes, the back of your hand on your forehead. He bit his lip, snickering, but then went poker-faced.

"It's a really serious game, Y/N." Your body lit up with laughter and he moved to face you, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he stared at you. "I want you to know that everything I said back then wasn't a lie. I meant every 'I love you' and promise I made."

You shoved your hands inside the pockets of his suit jacket (you probably should have changed, you realized), shifting your weight from one foot to another. "Pete, I know." You took out one hand to squeeze his bicep. "Forget everything I said earlier, alright? The jealousy just got to me and I said some dumb shit."

He shook his head, his fingers curling around your wrist. "No, but... I really did. And I've been thinking lately th-that maybe things with MJ didn't just work out because I was scared to have kids. I love you, Y/N. It's always been that way."

"Peter..." You rubbed his knuckles with your thumb, your heart glowing. "I love you, too."

"I'm sorry I didn't do this sooner."

You lifted a brow, puzzled. "Do what?" Your confusion dissolved when he dug his hand into his pocket, the color draining out of your face as he revealed a blue velvet box. You took a step back in disbelief, your hand cupping your cheek. "Parker, I swear to God."

"I'm sorry you had to wait so long for this moment." His voice wavered with nerves, the confirmation that this wasn't a sick prank he was pulling— not that he ever would hurt you in such way, anyway, but it was impossible not to feel lightheaded from the shock of witnessing a daydream you'd imagined for so long unfolding right in front of you, to not tremble as you waited for everything to slowly fade away as you woke up from another dream. His touch felt so real, though, so genuine, far from a fabricated illusion created just to satisfy a lurking desolation. "I wish I had known back then— God, I really do. But maybe I did kinda know, because after we discussed the whole dream wedding thing, I proposed to you." He recalled.

You sniffed, smiling. "You said it was practice for when we did get married."

He nodded, scratching the back of his neck. "It was not romantic at all." You both giggled, the ring he'd made out of a ripped piece of paper present in your memories.

You scanned your own outfit, wishing you'd looked much nicer for the occasion. "I look terrible right now."

"And so do I, but I don't care, because my heart still does that thing when it's the afternoon and you haven't showered yet."

"You're ridiculous."

"I know."

A deep rumble in the sky shook the ground beneath your feet and Peter looked up, letting out an exasperated sigh when droplets of rain pattered down on you. "Yeah, way to ruin the moment, weather. Thanks."

You lifted your hand to cover your face from the light drizzle, miniature beads of water on your eyelashes. "You know we can't afford a wedding right now, right?" You asked him, the corner of your lips tugged upwards.

His cheeks expanded as he let out air through his pressed lips. "I know. We gotta get that new stove."

"Our bed broke."

"Speeding ticket."

"I lost my job."

"You need a new nose." He tapped his own nose, which was a bad idea after he twisted his face in discomfort.

"It's not broken!" You insisted with a gesture of your hand, the corner of your eyes crinkled as you laughed. The rain poured down harder, quickly drenching yours and Peter's hair along with your clothes. Nothing was stopping him anymore, though, and he got down on one knee, audibly still aching from his bruises. Your laughter persisted, but now you hiccuped as well, your eyes red.

"We're not at a beach in Hawaii, but I tried to get the petals at least." When you inspected the ground— purple and red petals messily surrounding you, shriveled from the water— you comprehended the reason for his flower killing spree. You gripped his cold hand, the downpour emitting a shudder from you.

"It really doesn't matter."

"Good, good." He breathed out, more like a reassurance for himself, his own breathing speeding up for he could sense the tears coming as well. "Y/N. I loved you back then. I love you right now... and I'll love you for the rest of my years. It's not an exaggeration, it's the truth. I promise I'm not going anywhere. Not again. So..." He opened the box, and you stared in awe at the golden circlet with the pretty silver diamond.

"Will you marry me?"

You couldn't utter a single word, your throat closed up as you instead nodded fervently. You both beamed at each other, your smiles easily capable of moving worlds and galaxies as he slid the engagement ring onto your finger, his own hands trembling. You didn't give him a chance to stand up— you got down to his level and crashed your lips into his, your mouths slippery from the rain, your appearances far from alluring with his hair clinging to his skin and your mascara trailing down your cheeks. But it was alright. For the first time that day, everything was alright.

#peter b parker #peter b parker x reader #peter b parker x you #peter b parker x y/n #imagine #peter parker one shot #peter parker #sm:itsv #spider man #spider-man: into the spider-verse #fem!reader

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luwianskies · 5 years ago

Text

Sabatria

As requested, here is an introduction to Sabatria! Warning : wall of text incoming.

Sabatria is a world I named after a particular phenomenon that occurs within the world.

(more on that later)

The world itself is what I call a ‘sky-world’, essentially a world that is mostly sky with floating landmasses in pieces moving around at random. They are held up in this endless sky by a combination of powerful electromagnetic fields, and the fact that objects beyond a certain mass/weight in this world all float by some ...weird unknown wiggly-wobbly physics reason that-I-don’t-have-to-explain-because-it’s-made-up-and-I-said-so...

The electromagnetic fields interact with the landmasses through the iron/other metals content of the ‘islands’ floating about, which makes the fields their own kind of ‘current’ in this vast empty sky. This means that the landmasses do not move in predictable patterns because the electromagnetic fields not only move them around ‘horizontally’ but also vertically, depending on the strength of any given field, and how the fields interact with each other.

The fields also have another, sometimes devastating, consequence : they can produce terrifyingly powerful storms that have been known to tear through entire landmasses and break them into smaller pieces. And since there is no ‘ground’ beneath the floating islands, and no mountains to affect the flow of the winds, the storms can simply go on raging for days and days at a time, all while moving around. This is without even considering the damage done by the lightning and debris being tossed around within the storms. The populations of inhabited islands often have to strike a balance between living on the surface of the islands and needing to dig into them to make shelters inside the rocky centers : dig to deep and too wide, and the next storm might more easily tear your island to pieces. Don’t dig in enough, and the next storm will take all your stuff, and possibly yourself, and toss you ‘overboard’.

Looking downwards from the edge of one of the islands, you might get a glimpse of an ever-deepening, dark mass of variegated clouds, and sometimes the flash of storms, but most terrifying to see are the ‘things’ that somehow manage to live deeper inside the never-ending atmosphere. They are often huge, come in bizarre shapes and are all believed to eat anything that falls off of the landmasses.

And sometimes, they come up from the lower cloud levels during the mightiest of storms. You do not want to be near when they do.

Thankfully, the storms that can do the kind of damage mentioned above tend to occur more at lower ‘altitudes’, and typically the higher in the atmosphere one lives, the fewer the storms, and the more sunlight you get. Which is good because in these sunlit places, plants grow, which means both food and a chance at more stable ground to live on.

The plant and wildlife of this world revolves around two lifestyles : aerial and arboreal. If you can’t climb or fly... you don’t live long. Most plants have 2 reproductive strategies : flying seeds and spreading through vines and roots, and in every direction possible. The flying seeds can fly for a remarkably long time without dying before they find new landmasses to spread to, and the vines/roots also tend to be remarkably mobile : if a new piece of land floats around long enough anywhere near a vined island, they will eventually reach out to grab and secure it to the primary landmass. This means that landmasses in the upper atmosphere especially can grow to be quite large in 3 dimensions, sometimes with nothing but vines/roots holding them together. This in turn makes them prime real estate for anybody looking for somewhere to settle in the sunlight and with few chances of being blown away by too-strong winds or storms.

The only other known landmasses known to get bigger are the ones that, shockingly, have enough water on them to make suitable habitats for (drumroll!) corals! And these corals help reinforce the structures of the landmasses by growing into cracks in bedrock. Mind you, these corals don’t live and grow quite like ones we’re familiar with, but they are similar enough that the structures they create are analogous and strong enough to keep together the landmasses.

Corals are no the only microorganism to live in this sky-world : they are without a doubt the most abundant kind of life, most of it free-floating every where. Lichens, being the hardy organisms they are, also fare well and can be eaten as food. Sometimes they can amass into giant ‘sheets’ that get tossed around, torn apart, twisted and blown away by the winds and electromagnetic fields. Siphonophore- like strings of organisms can be seen being blown about from a great distance, and they are often appreciated as opportune food. Giant jellyfish-like things kept afloat by large bags of gas can sometimes be seen, but they tend to be rare as they are easy targets for flying predators going above them. Despite being relatively nutritiously poor as food, a large enough sky-jelly still provides access to big chunks of food and to very light gasses, which can be collected to make balloon-ships. The smaller ones can sometimes live as ‘passive predators’ that float aimlessly and try to eat anything smaller than them that hey come across, but these too are rare. Their tentacles are prized however, for their potent venom, and some island deliberately to to attract them by offering food and chopping off tentacles in exchange. They don’t seem to mind.

The wildlife is either entirely capable of flight, gliding or decent climbing. So hyper-mobile joints and long limbs are very favored for everything that lives in this world. Bats abound, birds too, and lots of animals we normally not in flight have adapted to gliding or climbing very well. Insects are the main source of protein, and most of those can also fly very well. Most of the mammals that live here are also marsupial. Gotta love that pouch! It’s a lifesaver for most juvenile of any species.

Which brings us to the people! Long-limbed, possibly also marsupial (haven’t decided yet) and with strong grips. In this world, humans never really descended from the trees, we just got better at finding and settling on the biggest landmasses. Open spaces like the Savannah don’t really exist here. (The most noticeable feature of these humans is their feet : having never really stopped needing to climb, the human big toes is still very thumb-like and turned sideways a bit to make it easier to grab things like ropes and vines or roots for balance.)

Because powerful electromagnetic fields are so prevalent and ubiquitous in this world, the ability to detect them, even minutely, is common across all life-forms. This includes humans, and this widespread ‘6th sense’ is crucial to surviving the onslaught of storms in this world. On average, this is little more than a passive perception of the fields, but it can be a lifesaver to know when a storm is coming, even f you don’t know when.

WHICH BRINGS US TO... Sabatria, and its two most common varieties.

‘Wild-type Sabatria’ is, like lichen, a partnership of two different micro-organisms that produced something hardier and much greater than the sum of its parts. I admit to not being sure what they are exactly beyond that, but a least one of the partners is something like a cable bacteria (see the ‘cable bacteria’ Wikipedia page, along with geobacter metallireducens and shewanella oneidensis for references) and the other is something between a slime mold and a fungus.

The combination of these two make an organism than has one particularly special property : it generates an electrical charge, and through that electrical flow, can generate electromagnetic fields of its own. Sabatria therefore is capable of not only generating its own fields, it can also detect them around it through their interactions. The electricity it generates sometimes even makes visible sparks when in a large enough quantity, and a ‘mass’ of sabatria gathered into a ball (slime mold!) looks like a little black ball that occasional flashes tiny star-like moving dots in and on the surface of it.

Granted, since this is a lichen-like organism, this means that it can’t do much on it’s own beyond find a decent spot with the nutrients it needs (mostly iron and other metals) and just...stay there. Doing this, however, is not always the best strategy since, sabatria is also edible to many mutli-cellular organisms. And sometimes the electricity it generates is just not a strong enough deterrent for such organisms smart enough to simply wait for the sabatria to use up its charge and then eat it. Sabatria therefore rarely aggregates into such easily targeted forms, usually staying a relatively diffuse substance that like to hide in wet ground. So landmasses that have a lot of water, be it in the form of puddles or ‘underground’ sources tend to have some amount of sabatria in it.

No, sabatria’s best and most genius survival strategy is by making its two-way partnership into a three-way partnership with the larger multi-cellular organisms that might otherwise be its predators. Sabatria consumed as food is doomed, but if it manages to get into a body by another means (such as an open wound) wild-type sabatria then adopts its ‘triadic’ strategy : it will find its way around the body by disguising itself to the immune system, and start making connections with the nervous system.

Despite the fear of this creating a ‘cordyceps’-like situation, triadic sabatria does not do much to influence what it lives in beyond giving its host a taste for metals. Remember, sabatria lives in places with a decent a mount of water. Humid places. Dark places, out of sight of predators. And what’s more wet or humid and dark than the inside of a living body?

The craving for metals is the trade-off it makes with it’s new environment (the living body) for all the benefits that it gives to the organisms it inhabits : metals, especially iron, is its food. It needs it. And it turns out that its host have a decent amount of it! This can, however, risk giving its host anemia if it consumes too much of the iron in the body, but this is also why it gives them a craving for eating metals : they both need it, and in this new partnership, they both need it badly.

And what benefits does triadic sabatria offer? Glad you asked!

Sabatria generates electricity and electromagnetic fields. It also detects them MUCH better and more precisely than the ‘normal’ 6th sense of multi-cellular organisms can. By connecting itself to the nervous system of its host, it exponentially increases their sensitivity to electromagnetic fields and charges, and even generates electrical charges and magnetic fields that the host can manipulate and discharge for its own use.

Hot damn! Move over midichlorians, triadic sabatria just made a human that can shoot lightning from their fingers and move shit with their minds! (sort of, not quite, but the joke was funny...).

Consider then, in a world where magnetic fields produce storms that can tear continents apart, the benefit of being able to detect the oncoming storms MUCH SOONER than everybody else can. Consider being able to interact with theses environmental fields and used them to sail or fly even better across the expanses of sky between landmasses. Consider being able to give an electric shock to anything that tries to eat you. Consider being sensitive to the electromagnetic fields of other beings around you, and then you can see how beneficial triadic sabatria is to any organism.

Granted, not everything that sabatria infiltrates into survives this invasion : if any given potential hosts immune system is just too efficient at weeding out intruders, then the sabatria simply can’t survive,and if it still tries to stay in the host, it can kill them through their own hyperactive immune response, or through anemia.There is no guarantee that the 3-way partnership will succeed at establishing itself. However, if it does, then sabatria has no issue with contributing to the preservation of its new ecosystem : if floating particles of sabatria in various tissues spots something in the body that is obviously causing problems, it will kill it without hesitation if the immune system doesn’t. Other bacteria simply don’t stand a chance against an electrical enemy. If even this strategy fails, some sabatria cells will deliberately reveal themselves to the immune system while attaching itself to (or swallowing up entirely) an invading bacteria in order to stimulate an immune response. The immune system reacts to it, and clears out the sacrificed sabatria AND the invading bacteria it was attached to. Sabatria likes its ecosystem alive and healthy, because it benefits the most from its host that way. Enlightened self-interest, as seen by a micro-organism!

So what you end up with is a situation where is particular individuals within any given population, human or otherwise, that can do shit nobody else can, and tend not to die of disease, can warn others of dangerous storms and detect big predators nearby, can travel easier and in a more controlled manner, but sometimes want to eat metal.

Also, they tend to be more sensitive to the emotional states of those around them (because brain activity is electrical, and travels throughout the nervous system) AND can even at times detect hints of illness in others, which tend to give them an edge in measuring how best to interact with those around them.

That’s a goddamn mutant you got there! Look at them! They’ve got superpowers!

Needless to say, they are popular and desirable for breeding the next generation of any given species. And sabatria absolutely DOES get into everything with a nervous system, a quite a few who don’t have one, as long as they provide access to iron/metals. This means that anything that has the triadic sabatria in it has the potential to interact electromagnetically with other things that also have it in their system.

For the people who live in this world, and have to talk about organisms that carry sabatria, the terminology is fairly uniform : anything that is partnered with sabatria, regardless of species, is called a ‘sabaean X’ (a sabaean tree, a sabaean bat, etc.) save for people. They are simply called ‘sabaean’ (she’s sabaean, my mother is sabaean, a sabaean, etc.). The ‘condition’ of being partnered with sabatria is called ‘sabaenism’.

Ok, sciencing over. Now, on to the cultural/social aspects!

...tomorrow.

#sabatria #worldbuilding

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henrik-von-schneeplestein · 5 years ago

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Hewwo. You mentioned liking certain albums and songs for the jse egos and ships, what about for the Sander's sides? 👀 Are there any songs you like for certain ships you like? ❣️

HFJDHGJG YEPPP! Not quite as many, just bc I’m new to the fandom but I definitely have thoughts!

Before y’all who are annoyed with me ranting about Taylor jump ship:

-”Pioneer” by The Band Perry is SUCH a good Roman song omg just the softest song about the creative spirit & bravery

-”Lovefool” by the Cardigans is... Deceit’s karaoke song. I have no rationale or defense for this statement whatsoever it just came up on shuffle the other day and I for some reason could picture him singing it perfectly and now I can’t let it go. Roman’s karaoke song is probably like “Any Man of Mine” by Shania Twain. Idk what the other sides’ go-to karaoke songs are but PLEASE lmk what y’all think bc I wanna know

Anyway Taylor time. People w/ bad taste in music you’re free to go now. Have a nice night and please don’t unfollow me

Roman is both the side I think would most be a fan on Taylor and also who has the most Taylor songs that remind me of him.

“White Horse” is definitely a Roman song. Like just change the gender (from ‘princess’ to ‘prince’) and it fits perfectly - a “dreamer” who has the beautiful, romantic fantasies they believe in challenged and emerges stronger but still believing in all those wonderful things... catch me crying

“Starlight” is the other song that has strong Roman vibes to me again bc of the ‘dream impossible dreams’ thing & another ref to a prince (and a ‘duchess’ ((duke)) but it def feels more roman than remus to me). Could definitely be a prinxiety song given the second verse: He said, “look at you, worrying too much about things you can’t change. You’ll spend your whole life singing the blues if you keep thinking that way.” He was trying to skip rocks on the ocean, saying to me, “don’t you see the starlight? Don’t you dream impossible things?”

Honestly the whole Red album has Roman vibes to me which makes sense assuming his color is red for the same reason she chose that title: bc it symbolizes passion. It really specifically reminds me of him in the ‘Moving On’ videos - him having a hard time letting go of a relationship but ultimately realizing it must be done strongly reminded me of “Red” (the song), “I Almost Do,” and “All Too Well”

LOVES “Wonderland” bc it’s gay uhhh Disney references no but he’d be all over that ‘too in love to think straight’ pun.... and the sheer DRAMA of writing your ex’s fucking TUMBLR URL into a song

“Love Story” and “Today Was a Fairytale” need I say more

Virgil is definitely AT LEAST a Speak Now stan - some of you are too young to remember it and some of you are still too salty to acknowledge it but from like 2008-2011 especially there was the Emo Swiftie phenomenon where a bunch of us very edgy emo kids who liked Panic! & MCR were also Taylor fans. Like she wasn’t considered emo at all but she had the same lyricism & theatricality, and the rampant slutshaming didn’t really start until 2012 so it wasn’t nearly as uncool to like her. So yeah Virgil’s been a secret passenger on the Taylor train for a while

He’s SUPER unwilling to admit it at first but as soon as Roman figures it out they bond & talk about their fav songs

emo boy is most definitely a “Haunted” stan

All I WANT is Virgil in the famous purple Speak Now tour dress and if I had a shred of artistic talent him in that dress under the glowing tree would be the first thing I drew

“Out of the Woods” is a Virgil song - Taylor literally said that the main feeling she was trying to capture is anxiety (x). I would also like to see Virgil in the OOTW music video. Give my baby some WOLVES.

“The Archer” is very literally about anxiety & imposter syndrome I don’t think I need to defend that being a Virgil song

“Afterglow” and “Delicate” belong on any ship playlist involving Virgil

Someone sing “Innocent” to this boy immediately

My favorite Virgil song actually isn’t “The Archer” even though that’s the most obvious - I think “Daylight” is the best one. He’s wounded the good & he’s trusted the wicked y’all!!! But it’s brighter now!!!! I love him!!!!!

With Deceit I see the obvious comparison to “Look What You Made Me Do” and it works pretty well but I think the best Deceit song is def “I Did Something Bad” - ‘for every lie I tell them they tell me three’ ‘this is how the world works; you gotta leave before you get left.’ Also my position just in general is that IDSB is the Distinguished Gay Villain Song & LWYMMD is the Disaster Gay Villain Song.

That said, the only reason Deceit’s never done the traditional Rise Into Frame is to keep me specifically from making a joke about Karyn rising out of the stage during LWYMMD (x) - it’s true my cousin’s best friend’s uncle was an extra in the Sanders Sides he played Roman’s sword

Deceit’s real name is Karyn I cracked it y’all

Also it makes me really excited that the LWYMMD tour outfit is kinda similar to Deceit’s. Something about having the initials TS just makes you go ‘snake time’ and put on a black cape/shirt/jacket thing with yellow/gold accents I guess

“End Game” is a Remus/Deceit song - ‘you like the bad ones, too’ = they’re both dark sides, “you’ve been calling my bluff on all my usual tricks so here’s the truth from my red lips” = Deceit

“New Romantics” is just like ‘let’s lie our way through society’ so

Remus really reminds me of the swift fandom itself and idk what else to say about that bc if you’ve never been in that fandom I don’t know how to explain it to you and if you’ve been in that fandom for even 5 minutes you don’t need me to explain it to you

ME! is such a Remus song!! ‘I know that I’m a handful, baby, UH! I know I never think before I jump’ & ‘I would never bore you baby;’ also ‘like a rainbow with all of the colors’ reminds me of Remus saying ‘if you want the spectrum A-Z then you’ll need a little help from ME!” AND the song tends to get stuck in your head (or it does for me anyway) - kind of Remus’s M.O.

We already know he likes “Shake It Off” lol

Those of y’all who are horny for Remus and I know you’re out there.... “False God” is the song for you

could also be Remus/Deceit - Remus does use Deceit as the serpent in the Garden of Eden after all

Patton is just all the soft love songs lbr. “Stay Stay Stay,” “Paper Rings,” “Our Song,”etc. Also “Never Grow Up” and “Fifteen” and bc he’s nostalgic but also a father w/ good advice.

OK before I do Logan songs I just gotta tell you I was listening to “Tim McGraw” recently and my mind went “he said the way my blue eyes shined put those Georgia stars to shame that night; I said ‘FALSEHOOD’” but anyway

“New Year’s Day” - the references to books/pages fits and also the sort of comforting vibe that Logan can have; it’s a more realistic view of love about how there’s no way to know for sure what’s going to happen but knowing that you’re in it even for the worst

“I Think He Knows” belongs on the playlist for any ship involving Logan

He’d love “Miss Americana & the Heartbreak Prince” but when she’s like ‘where are the wise men?’ he’d be like ‘I’m right here beech’

And with that, I think I need to be done for now lol. Thank you so much for asking & letting me dump all this here. I love you!!!!

#asks #anon #long post

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hamlets-ghost-zaddy · 6 years ago

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it happened during lunch period

Babe Heffron x Eugene Roe

Summary: (Teacher AU) Bill is a hardworking math teacher with few wants in this world: eating the taco salad made by his wife for lunch in peace being the most reasonable of them (in his humble opinion). However, his best buddy, Babe Heffron and his spiraling panic over the new anatomy teacher, Eugene Roe, would disagree.

The door to the classroom eases closed after the final pack of kids, tottering off in a slow-moving herd to stuff their faces with the cafeteria’s consistently mediocre food, and Bill watches it inching closed slowly, slowly, just a few more millimeters and he can safely reach for his taco salad, it’s almost there—

“Bill!”

The door swings open, banging against the outside yellow lockers outside, and admitting a fast-moving orange-haired blurred into the sanctity of Bill’s classroom. Bill’s eyes don’t properly register the blur or its hair (though Bill has a ground total of two friends in this school who have enough disregard for their own wellbeing that they’d interrupt his lunch hour, and only one of them has red-hair) until Babe Heffron has his palms splayed on Bill’s desk, leaning over to emphasis the seriousness of his declaration: “Bill, we have a serious problem.”

Bill’s not sure when Babe started to use plurals when talking about his personal issues. He can’t say he likes it.

“What?” Bill asks before shoving Babe’s hands off his desk adding, “Remove your grubby mitts.”

Babe doesn’t let Bill’s tone—equal parts exasperated and annoyed, and no parts concerned, which would be truly ideal—deter him. He slumps into a recently vacated student’s desk, dropping his forehead into a hand. “We got to do something. It’s Eugene Roe.”

“Who?” Bill grunts, opening the lower drawer of his desk and fishing out the Tupperware container of taco salad Fran sent to school with him. They traded who was on lunch prep duty every other day and, while Bill is mighty proud of his chicken salad sandwiches (thank you very much), he also will be the first to admit Fran makes a bombass lunch.

“You know, Eugene Roe, the anatomy teacher?” When he’s met with a blank stare from Bill, Babe expands: “The new one?”

“Ah,” Bill grunts, prying the lid off his lunch before fetching out his fork (real metal because Bill loves the Earth, double thank you very much). “Why didn’t you say that to begin with, huh? Expect me to know the science department’s names, Jesus fucking Christ.” The rivalry between the science and math departments—crammed into the same wing of the school the majority of last semester after the Physics teacher, Speirs, allowed his students to catapult a Barbie (a Barbie on fire, no less) into a pipe of the water main thereby flooding the science halls—is well known. And, really, English teacher or not, Babe knows better than to mention a science teacher to Bill.

Babe’s expression is decidedly unimpressed. “Bill, you wanna hear the problem or not?”

Bill considers saying ‘no’ as he crunches into a bite of lettuce, tortilla, and ground beef. Then again, his only other lunchtime entertainment would be grading quizzes, and Babe’s problem is bound to be less depressing than fifth period’s attempts at trigonometry. “I mean, if I have to,” Bill replies.

Encouraged, Babe lifts his face from his hand, only to use to it to wave and illustrate his story. “I’ve gotta say something to the guy, Bill, I just don’t know what; I mean, he’s a new colleague, I can’t—”

“Babe, you’re spiraling,” Bill observes. He learned the term from his buddy, Lewis Nixon, the psychology teacher, during a faculty meeting the other week (in true form, neither were paying actual attention to what the school district’s superintendent, Sink, was saying) and Bill is probably, admittedly, using it wrong. Still, it feels right.

It does seem to do the trick because Babe cuts himself off to heave a sigh. He gets to the point: “The dude has been dropping my packet copies off in my room—like, he even came in during the middle of one of my classes! Like, yeah, he apologized and everything, but it was so unprofessional! And then he showed me these notes he took during the faculty meeting—”

“Wait,” Bill interrupts, mouth full and ranch dribbling down his chin. What can he say: he’s a man of refinement and culture. “He took notes during the faculty meeting?”

“I know,” Babe nods, vindicated. A spark in Babe’s eyes, a spark Bill associates with discussions of Sunday night football, bottomless wing deals from Buffalo Wild Wings, and first editions of Steinbeck novels, lights in Babe’s eyes. “Like, seriously, who the fuck does that?”

Stuffing his face with more taco salad to disguise the slow-growing, shit-eating grin curling his mouth, Bill echoes: “Who the fuck.” (Though, it’s around food, so it sounds more like the caterwauling of a minorly inconvenienced cat).

“It made me look like I wasn’t paying attention,” Babe adds.

“You weren’t paying attention,” Bill corrects, because he can’t let the implication stand: if Bill or Nix—or math department head Joe Toye, or chronically grumpy Johnny Martin—weren’t paying attention, there was no way in fuck Babe Heffron was paying attention. “Plus,” Bill drawls, “He did save your ass; Webster would have dragged you if you couldn’t come up with the name of the new book they’re wanting for Common Core. And he’s insufferable enough as is. Remind me why the fuck we decided to invite him to Tuesday morning coffee?”

Frowning and looking uncharacteristically thoughtful—Bill wonders if smoke will start pouring from Babe’s ears, his brain is working so hard—Babe mutters, “We wanted to give Liebgott someone to fight with, remember?” Pause. “Can’t believe they’re replacing The Great Gatsby with John fucking Green.” Another pause. “Like, seriously, if that’s the administrations idea of author diversity and representation than—”

Sensing a brewing literature rant that will ruin any enjoyment he’ll have eating his taco salad in all statistical probability (especially as he is getting to the guacamole layer), Bill hastily prompts: “Babe, you were griping about Roe?”

“Oh, right,” Babe says, shaking his head as if to physically clear his brain of any further mutterings of ‘manic pixie dream girls’ or ‘romanticizing sicknesses.’ “So as if the copies, the interrupting class, and the notes aren’t enough, this little twerp—” Bill’s eyebrows furrow: twerp? Really? “—goes and fricking—! I mean, get a load of this: I let him use one of my whiteboard markers and instead of giving it back, he buys me a new pack! It was one of my good markers, too!”

“What happened to the original one?”

Babe shrugs. “Roe said some kids exploded it over a Bunsen burner.”

Bill opens his mouth to ask, decides he doesn’t want to know, and instead settles on, “Let me see if I got this straight: he delivers you copies of your lesson material so you don’t have to walk to the copy room way over in the BFE, he helps you not make an ass of yourself by filling you in about the meeting, and not only replaces your shit but gives you more than what you gave him to begin with?”

Nodding furiously through the whole summation, Babe declares a heated: “Exactly!” when Bill finishes, punctuating it. Red has risen in Babe’s cheeks, fiery enough to rival his hair, and his fists have clenched tight. “He’s making me look bad, Bill! Like I can’t function by myself as a teacher or grown-ass adult! I know he’s new and we have to create a welcoming work environment, but, seriously—”

“Babe,” Bill intones, because for all that his friend’s an idiot, this—by Bill’s estimation—is Babe really outdoing himself. He can’t stand how embarrassed he is for him. “Babe, you’re mad because Roe is being nice to you.”

“’Nice?’” Babe echoes, spluttering and choking over the word. The eloquence of an English teacher. “What? ‘Nice?’”

Bill nods gravely. “Nice.” To emphasize his point, he crunches into some particularly crisp lettuce.

“I—uh—what—?” Babe squawks. “Bill, ‘nice?’ What do you mean?”

“You’re an English teacher, Babe, you tell me what ‘nice’ means,” Bill retorts, casting his eyes to his classroom’s ceiling as if asking for divine intervention—or maybe Carwood Lipton’s intervention, his classroom directly above. When he returns his eyes to Babe, he finds the red, formerly staining his skin, drained, leaving Babe gaping like a gutted fish. Taking pity, Bill sighs and tries a different tactic, “Kid, he’s not trying to undermine you. He’s trying to be nice.”

“But, Bill,” Babe protests weakly, “Why would he be that ‘nice?’” The implication of Babe’s dubiousness over if it truly is niceties compelling Roe’s actions heavies Babe’s words. “I mean, he’s not that ‘nice’ to anyone else.”

“I don’t know, Babe,” Bill says, though he knows full well why. “Have you done anything nice for him?”

“Well there was that one time I bought him coffee, and I, uh, I told him his tie is nice, and…” Babe trails off. Bill watches with perhaps too much interest as Babe grows yet paler. He hadn’t thought it possible and, if Bill didn’t want the entire science department to drown in a Second Great Barbie Tsunami, he would have reported this preternatural phenomenon to them. Babe’s rambling thoughts, meanwhile, only allow him to get out a single: “Oh. My. God.”

Shoveling more ground beef into his mouth, Bill intones: “You’re spiraling again.”

Babe drops his forehead into his hands—both of them this time—and lets out a long groan. “Oh my god,” he repeats, “Do I have a crush on Roe? Does he have a crush on me?”

Eating the last of the taco salad, Bill confirms: “Definitely spiraling.”

#should I continue?#let a girl know #hbo war #band of brothers #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers fic #bill guarnere #babe heffron #eugene roe #teachers au #/low Cajun voice/ Babe #Eugene Roe/Babe Heffron #Babe Heffron x Eugene Roe #my writing #baberoe

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solastia · 7 years ago

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Tuqburni | 2

Pairing: Yoonmin x Reader

Word Count: 6,968

Genre & Warnings: Angst, Fluff, explicit smut. Threesomes.

Notes: Enjoy this smutfest before we delve back into angstville.

Saturdays were usually your favorite. You’d sleep in until noon, wake up and make breakfast, then you and Yoongi would binge-watch Netflix for most of the day. Today, however, was your three-year anniversary, and usually, those involved him taking you out somewhere. Even though he didn’t seem to remember it, you continued your routine in the hopes that maybe he was just being sly and trying to spring something on you.

So despite how tired you were from a night of tossing and turning, you get up to make breakfast. You make the usual heart-shaped pancakes complete with chocolate chips, strawberries, and whipped cream. You make his coffee using the special expensive beans that are only brought out for holidays because you guys had to special order it from some hipster place that grows and roasts them on site in limited batches. You even make his usual bowl of rice on the side, because even though rice isn’t usually paired with pancakes, he’s an old-fashioned soul that “feels weird” if he doesn’t start his day with rice.

You hear the shower start up and assume it’s Jimin since Yoongi likes to have his coffee and breakfast first. You go ahead and start plating now that they were awake.

You’re humming to yourself when Jimin finally wanders into the kitchen, no doubt following the smell, no sign of Yoongi behind him. His puffy and half asleep face was slightly covered by the hoodie he’d put on, and frankly, you’d find him adorable right now if you weren’t so determined to not like him.

“Sit,” you order softly and place a plate in front of him. He quietly thanks you, smiling drowsily before he takes a bite.

“Noona, these are amazing!” Jimin moans with a gravelly voice, thick from sleep.

Ever a sucker for having your cooking complimented, you smile at him genuinely for the first time without thinking. Jimin freezes midbite, staring at your mouth. A strawberry falls off of his fork unheeded. You’re about to ask if you have something stuck in your teeth when Yoongi comes strolling into the kitchen, pecking the both of you on the cheek.

“Good morning, loves.” As you observe him cheerily fixing his coffee, you realize that besides the odd phenomenon of him being fully aware before his caffeine, he’s totally showered and dressed like he’s ready to leave.

“How many pancakes do you want, Yoongi?” You ask, setting his rice and a plate next to Jimin at the table.

“Mmmm, as good as they smell, babe, I have to get going. We have a comeback starting in a couple weeks, and I can’t leave Namjoon alone in the studio.” He chuckles then drains his coffee quickly, leaving the cup in the sink.

“Oh, noona, did you drop this?” Jimin asks, peering at the trashcan. He leans over and grabs the card you’d thrown in there, Yoongi’s name in bright red glitter glue. You always use glitter glue instead of markers. He hated how the glitter got everywhere, and you found it hilarious when he grumbled for days.

You want to be furious at Jimin for not keeping his mouth shut, but you suppose it’s more your fault for waiting until after breakfast to take out the trash. Yoongi’s eyes widen when he spots the shiny red of his name.

“Oh, did you write me a love letter, Princess?” He smirks and grabs the card from Jimin, who is glancing at you curiously, no doubt wondering why you’d suddenly gone tense.

Yoongi opens the card and pulls out the two playoff tickets you’d had to promise so many favors to get. Your friend Baekhyun was as adorable as they come but was really a diabolical mastermind. He’d made you promise to treat him to pizza once a week for a month and petsit his puppy. However, the way he’d worded it made you unsure if he’d really meant his dog or his boyfriend.

“Shit, babe! These were sold out! How did you get these?” Yoongi’s surprised gaze flitters between you and the tickets as you smile at him with smug pride.

“I have my connections.” You say airily as you prepare coffee for yourself.

Yoongi grins at you knowingly. “So, what do you have to do for Baek this time?”

You huff at the loss of your mysterious cover. “Pizza for a month,” you moan dramatically as Yoongi chuckles.

“Shit, babe this is amazing, but these are for today. I really have to finish at work, the last piece is due on Monday. You and Jiminie should go. I’m sad that I’ll miss out, but at least my babies can have a good time, yeah? Love you, gotta go.” Yoongi pecks the both of you on the lips and rushes out, leaving you staring at the tickets he’d left on the counter. He didn’t even seem to wonder why you’d gotten him the tickets.

You sigh wearily and begin cleaning up, not much in the mood to sit down to eat anymore. Besides, you’d had your fair share of stolen strawberries while you’d cooked. It’s silent for a good two minutes until you hear Jimin clear his throat behind you.

“Noona?” His voice is soft and unsure, and it makes you feel terrible. You were generally well known for being a kind person, and the fact that someone was too scared to even talk to you was an uncomfortable experience. Even if a small part of you reveled in the last shred of dominance you had over him.

You turn to Jimin, your eyebrow raised in question. He clears his throat again and squares his shoulders like he’s going into battle.

“I’d love to go with you if you’ll have me. We could make it our first real date because I think you’ll agree that ice cream thing that Yoongi sprung on us doesn’t count. I’ll even take you to dinner. Please?” His eyes are wide and pleading, his generous lips pursed in a slight pout. You wondered if there was a secret school that people like Jimin and Baekhyun attended. Pout perfection 101. It had even you melting momentarily.

“It’s okay, Jimin. You don’t have to pretend to date me. I know what you’re here for.” You mumble, unable to stop yourself from allowing hurt to color your tone.

“No, Noona, it’s...I know we don’t have to date each other too to be in this, but I think it would be good if we at least try? It would certainly make things easier, and it’s not like I don’t find you attractive.” His voice tapered off into an almost whisper towards the end, and you peek over to find him staring at his hands, his cheeks covered in a deep blush.

You were slightly flattered, you couldn’t lie. Someone as ethereal as Jimin saying he found you attractive in any way would flatter anyone.

“Jimin...I don’t know.” You know that what he’s saying makes sense if you want things to work out in the long run, but it seemed too hard. You were still so hurt, and in your head he was still the dastardly villain, twirling his evil mustache.

His head shot up, eyes filled with fierce determination. “Y/N, give me a chance. This is the first time we’ve really been able to talk one on one, something we should have done a long time ago, but still. I know this is all unfair, and that a good chunk of the blame lies on my door. Allow me to make an attempt at making things better for us. You’ve been trying so hard, and you do so much for us. But you’re unhappy, I can see that, and I don’t blame you. Yoongi seems to love you as much as he loves me, and I know it would break him if you became so unhappy you’d leave him. For Min Yoongi to love you so fiercely, you must be amazing, so I’d like the chance to learn for myself. Please? Please give me a chance to make you happy?”

You stare at Jimin in wonder, and for the first time, you see a glimpse of just what would make Yoongi fight to keep him.

“I...” you chew your bottom lip in thought, observing Jimin’s eager expression. Finally, you sigh. “Fine, but you’re buying dessert too.”

Jimin beams, his eye smile endearing. “Great! Let’s get ready, Noona.” He jumps up and places his dishes in the washer before running to the bedroom.

He politely lets you shower first, which is a blessing because you’ve learned since he’d moved in that he takes forever to get ready. While he’s in there taking his turn, you get dressed, throwing on one of your favorite semicasual date outfits. A simple black dress accented by a silver leather jacket and matching pumps, as well as your fishnets. Yoongi loved your fishnets, and you wondered if Jimin would too.

He wanders into the bedroom clad only in his tight boxer briefs as you’re finishing up your hair and makeup, freezing in the door as soon as he sees you.

“Wow, you look incredible.” He says as his eyes travel your body up and down. You’re still a little weirded out by this sudden change, but you can’t help feeling a little smug.

“I know,” you shrug, pretending to be unbothered, and go back to touching up your lashes. Jimin chuckles and grabs his clothes from the closet.

You sneak a small peek, just out of curiosity since you’d never really allowed yourself to look at him in that way before. You had to admit he was built nicely. Surprisingly muscled and sharply toned despite the babyface. And even you had to admit the view you had of his ass as he bent over to pull on the black jeans he’d grabbed was fascinating. You quickly remind yourself that his ass is what your boyfriend has been buried in the past couple of nights, completely ignoring you, and that sobers you back up. You’re not doing this for any personal interest, just to try and be less unhappy. Maybe if Yoongi sees the two of you getting along, he’ll be more inclined to remember you’re a part of this too.

You were so lost in your thoughts you slightly jump when Jimin suddenly speaks behind you. “Well, what do you think?”

You turn from your vanity seat to see him smirking at you, his outfit a mirror to yours. Black shirt, black jeans, and a silver jacket with silver dress shoes.

You can’t stop the giggle that escapes. “Couple outfits, are you serious?”

“Hey, Y/N.” He says softly, his voice somehow still commanding in a way, enough to make you glance at his face in surprise. His expression is completely sober. “I am. Completely serious. I want to do this for real.”

Your cheeks suddenly feel hot as a blush forms against your will. You flap your hands in a way that you hope conveys a lack of care. The fact that your heart fluttered a little was probably just due to lack of attention the past few weeks.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

The courtside seats were excellent; near enough to the players that you even smelled the sweat, and not too crowded. You felt terrible that Yoongi had to miss out because you knew he would have flipped out being this close. Not to mention that the seats were utterly wasted on you, someone who’s only knowledge of the sport came from what Yoongi yelled at the television. You spotted a few idols and actors you were familiar with in the crowd and exchanged friendly waves.

“Noona, did you just wave to Gong Yoo?” Jimin asked in shock, his mouth next to your ear to be heard in the loud stadium.

You smirk and lean in, trying not to focus on the fact that he wrapped his arm around your waist to bring you closer to his ear. “Yeah, he played a musician in his drama last year, and I was the one that worked with him. He still asks me out every time I see him, so don’t be surprised if he comes over here.”

Jimin’s eyebrows shoot up at that, and he quickly turns to glare in the man’s direction. You snort and poke his shoulder.

“Stop glaring at Gong Yoo.”

“Nope. Can’t let you become the Goblin’s bride. We all saw how that played out. Yoongi would kill me because you know he’s totally the grim reaper.”

You throw your head back, unable to stop the genuine laughter at the image. Jimin glances back at you, smiling proudly for finally making you laugh. He opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by the appearance of a food vendor. He unwraps his arm from your waist and leans forward to talk to the man. You try not to dwell on the fact that your waist suddenly felt naked without Jimin wrapped around it.

“You want anything, baby?” Jimin asked absentmindedly as he looked over the options. Your silence prompted him to turn around, and he took one glance at your surprised face and hastily apologized as he realized what he’d said.

“I’m sorry, it just...ummm.” Jimin stuttered, his cheeks blazing.

“It’s...uh, it’s okay. No biggie. I’ll take a hot dog, no onions, and a beer. Please.” You shyly answer. Jimin nods and quickly turns back to the vendor, no doubt hoping for the moment to be forgotten.

The two of you dug into your food as you pretended to watch the game. Honestly, it was more exciting to watch live, but you still didn’t know enough to really follow. And it quickly became apparent after Jimin starting rooting for “guy with the green hair” that was on the opposing team that he didn’t know anything either.

“I’m beginning to suspect that these tickets were as big a waste on you as they were on me. You don’t know anything about basketball, do you?” You snicker at Jimin’s overly dramatic sigh.

“Only a little that I picked up from Yoongi. Otherwise, it just looks like a very complicated game of monkey in the middle. At least they all look very nice doing it.”

“True,” you agree, as a passing player winks at the both of you.

Suddenly the crowd around you is yelling and shaking your shoulder, pointing up to the ceiling. You look up to find a nightmare. You’d forgotten about this horrifying tradition at sports games.

You and Jimin were on kiss cam.

You inhale a shuddering breath and glance up at Jimin, who is already staring down at you, his gaze dark and terrifyingly determined. As usual, your mind had to go into overdrive, questioning everything. Was he determined because he really wanted this, or was that more of a preparing himself for something unpleasant kind of determination?

A hand gently cupped your jaw, and suddenly Jimin was coming closer until his lips were on yours. You were surprised to find you didn’t hate it. His plush lips were so soft and gentle as he tentatively coaxed you to respond. He began to pull back, but you mindlessly followed and finally kissed him back, marveling at how your lips slotted together perfectly. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, nipping gently and grinning against your lips when you gasped. He quietly moaned against you, his heavy breathing as you finally moved apart awakening something in you. You stare at his lips that are wet and pinkened because of you, and you’re so confused as to why that makes you feel proud.

Suddenly, you become aware of the roars of approval and remember where you’re at. The two of you soon sport matching blushes and Jimin grins at you sheepishly. As soon as the camera moves away and the people behind you stop poking your shoulders, Jimin leans over.

“Wanna head out?”

“Oh, God, please.” You plead, making Jimin laugh as he helps you up and escorts you out to the car.

Once you’re on the road, he turns to you. “Still up for dinner?”

“Yeah, I could eat. All I really had today was the hot dog.”

“Can’t let my Noona starve! I know just the place.”

Twenty minutes later he’s leading you into a tiny restaurant, following after a sweet old woman who greets Jimin like he’s her grandchild. After you tell him you don’t have any preferences, he places two orders of “his regular,” which turns out to be Kimchi Jjigae with pork belly and a plate of mandu. You take a bite and glance at him in surprise.

“This is really good. Most places don’t make it sour enough for me, but this is perfect.” You explain, humming around your spoon.

He grins, pushing some side dishes closer to you. “Yeah, she’s great. She learned a long time ago that I’m not into seafood, so she makes it with rice stock instead of anchovies. Same with the side dishes, all fish free.”

“Aren’t you from Busan?” You ask, cocking an eyebrow.

He sighs theatrically, still smiling. “Yes, I’m a man from Busan that’s not into seafood. I’m a disgrace to my city. Please stone me and have me exiled.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t go that far. Most you’ll get from me is a good shaking of my head in your direction. I’ve been with Yoongi too long. I’m much too lazy for a stoning,” you giggle.

The rest of the dinner goes by smoothly, both of you too preoccupied with eating to make too much conversation, but when a topic arises, it’s not difficult. Jimin’s surprisingly easy to talk to, not to mention polite and kind. You’d never really noticed before since you’d been looking at him through a haze of bitterness and jealousy. Not that it had all magically went away. You’d just packed it into the back of your mind. Might as well enjoy your anniversary.

Soon enough the two of you find yourselves walking along the street eating the crepes filled with ice cream he’d insisted on getting, despite your stomach near to bursting. You’re staring into the shop windows as you pass along, humming to yourself as you enjoy your treat when Jimin suddenly grasps your left hand and laces your fingers together. You glance up at him in shock before looking down at your combined hands.

Jimin clears his throat and peeks at you with a little embarrassed smile, squeezing your hand lightly in a comforting way.

“Soooo....” you mumble, trying to cut the tension a little. “Did you always want to be a dancer?”

“Oh, well. Secretly, yeah. But for a long time, I planned to become a police officer because I figured that was more realistic.”

“You should have just become a stripper then. You could be a dancer and an officer whenever you wanted.” You chuckle mischievously.

Jimin cocks an eyebrow, grinning down at you in amusement. “Oh Noona, already thinking about lap dances? Feisty.”

You choke on your own saliva, squeaking with indignation as Jimin laughs.

“Shut up.” You groan. Jimin smiles at you happily and swings your arms back and forth as the two of you walked back to the car.

“This was nice, Y/N. I’m glad this went so well. I'm serious when I say I want this to work. I know we didn’t start off well, but I’m hoping this is a sign we’ll be okay.”

You sigh and buckle in, taking in Jimin’s seemingly genuine desire to include you. “I hope so too. I mean, everything is not going to be perfect all because of one night, Jimin. I’m still hurt, and yes, I’ll admit it, jealous and bitter. What we have going on here is weird, and I don’t even feel welcome in my own home half the time. However, you seem like you really are serious about making it work. I have just been so focused on making sure that Yoongi was happy that I forgot we’re supposed to be happy too. I promise to try harder.”

“Let’s go home, Noona.” Jimin reaches over and grabs your hand, leaving a gentle kiss on the back of it. He grins cheekily then starts the car, humming as he drives home.

You decide to take the time to check your phone. You power it up since you’d both shut your phones off during the basketball game and you’d just forgotten to turn it back on. You had ten missed calls and fifteen messages, all from Yoongi.

“Shit, is your phone on?” You ask Jimin as you scroll through the messages, most of them just asking where you were and to text or call him back asap.

“No. I left mine off too.” He hands his phone to you to turn on while he drives, and sure enough, he has an almost equal amount of messages.

You quickly call Yoongi, who answers after one ring.

“Finally. Where are you guys?”

“We went to have dinner after the game, then walked around a little bit while we had dessert. Why? What’s up?”

Jimin glances at you, worry evident in his eyes, and you shrug.

“Just...get home soon. I’m so sorry, Princess. So sorry, I love you. Hurry home.”

The call abruptly ends, and you hold your phone before your face in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” Jimin asks, and you shrug.

“Not sure. He said sorry and to hurry home. Maybe he remembered...” you mumble, and Jimin peers at you in confusion.

“Remembered?”

“It’s, ah, nothing. I guess we’ll see what’s up. Onward, Officer Park.”

“You’re going to hold that over me forever, aren’t you.” He snorts.

You smile innocently. “Of course not. Only until I lose my memory someday.”

“Yoongi? We’re home,” you call out as the two of you enter the house. You kick off your heels, looking up with a small smile as Yoongi exits the bedroom.

He looks angry, and for a moment you’re terrified that perhaps he saw the kiss cam and was mad about you kissing Jimin. After all, you’d never discussed actual dynamics. Maybe Yoongi didn’t want the two of you to interact like that.

He rushes towards you, and before you can think of an excuse, he drops to his knees and buries his face in your stomach, wrapping his arms around you to bring you closer.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me,” he mumbles into your shirt.

You reach down and card your fingers through his hair, crooning. “It’s okay, baby. It’s no big deal. I’m fine.” Of course, you knew you were lying, but you hated seeing Yoongi like this.

“I didn’t even make the connection, my mind was so wrapped up in work. The pancakes, the tickets. God, I’m an asshole. I didn’t even remember until Jin brought Namjoon lunch and screamed in my face for being at work today.”

“What am I missing?” Jimin asked, prompting Yoongi to finally look up. Your heart clenches when you notice he was starting to tear up a little.

“Jiminie, thank you for taking care of her today. I forgot today was our three year anniversary, but at least she had you.”

“Anniversary? Noona, why didn’t you tell me?” Jimin’s jaw drops, and he turns to you dumbfounded. You just shrug and keep petting through Yoongi’s hair.

“Because she never complains. She never fucking complains. I used to love it, but then she lets me get away with doing shit like this and I hate it. Baby girl, I’m so sorry. I love you so much.” Yoongi finally stands up and pulls you in by the back of your neck, kissing you harshly with slightly chapped lips. He pulls away and presses your foreheads together.

“I got you a gift though. I didn’t forget entirely. I got it a few weeks ago. Hold on.” Yoongi suddenly rushes towards the fancy sound system he had set up for the entertainment center. He pulls the front off of one of the speakers and pulls out a velvet box, approximately the size of a tablet.

“You sneaky son of a bitch.” You exclaim with a pout, seeing his new hiding spot.

Yoongi chuckles as he walks back to you. “I had to get creative after you found my present stash in the hall closet.”

He holds the box up in front of you and slowly opens it. “You know how much I like you in red. I saw these and couldn’t stop picturing you wearing nothing but them,” he explains with a slowly deepening voice.

When the box is opened, you inhale shakily, shocked by the glittering red contents. It’s an entire set of ruby jewelry. There is a ring and a bracelet, what appeared to be a thick ruby collar, and right in the middle of all of them was a ruby tiara.

“A tiara, Yoongi, really? Why do I need a tiara?” You giggle, still peering at the contents in awe.

He hums and kisses your cheek, pleased by your reaction. “Because you’re my Princess. Do you like them?”

“They are stunning. Yoongi, this is too much.”

“Nothing is too much. You deserve everything, and I’m sorry that I’m lacking.” Yoongi mumbles. You stroke his cheek lightly, letting him know without words that you loved him.

“Okay, now put them on me!” You laugh, hoping to lighten the mood.

Yoongi’s eyes darken as he smirks at you. “Not yet. I told you I pictured you wearing nothing but them, didn’t I?”

You peek at Jimin, a little embarrassed that Yoongi was talking like that in front of him. Yoongi notices and turns to Jimin.

“What do you think, Jimin? Don’t you think your Noona would look stunning in these?”

Jimin licks his lips and catches your eyes, his own slightly dilated as he stares at you hungrily.

“Yes. She would look incredible.”

You gulp nervously as Yoongi sets the box down and grabs the jacket your wearing, lifting his eyebrows in a silent plea for permission. You take one last look at Jimin, and not seeing any signs of discomfort, you quickly nod. Yoongi sighs and slides your jacket off, throwing it across the recliner behind him, before moving behind you and grabbing the zipper in the back of the dress.

“Jiminie hasn’t gotten to see you yet, has he? He’s in for a treat.” Yoongi chuckles darkly and presses a kiss to the back of your neck as he begins to pull the zipper down slowly. The sound is abnormally loud and echoing in your ears.

Jimin still hasn’t looked away from you. He’s just staring right into your eyes like he’s daring you to look elsewhere. It isn't until Yoongi begins sliding the dress off of your shoulders that his gaze finally lowers. As the black lace bra is finally revealed, Jimin visibly swallows hard and licks his lips. His gaze follows the path of the rest of the dress as Yoongi purposely lowers it slowly until it hits your ankles and you kick it away, allowing Jimin to feast on the view in front of him.

“Can he help with the rest, sweetheart?” Yoongi asks as he rests his long fingers along the side of your stomach and holds you close. You can feel his bulge digging into your back, and it takes you a few moments to remember he’d asked you something.

“Yes...please,” and suddenly it was like he’d just been waiting for you to say something because Jimin rushed forward and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling and pressing a soft kiss there.

Jimin’s fingers trailed down from your collarbone to either side of your breasts, teasing with light brushes before cupping them both. He lifts his head and watches you as he moves his thumbs over to brush against your nipples.

“Is this okay, Noona?” He asks softly, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it before and looking at you like you were the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. Either he was the world’s greatest actor, or he was being genuine, which was just as confusing. He was only here for Yoongi, right?

“It’s okay. You can...take it off.” You mumble shyly.

Yoongi unsnaps your bra from behind. “Still good, baby?” He asks lowly in your ear. You nod and crane your neck around to peck his lips quickly before turning back to Jimin.

He bites his lip and hooks his fingers under each bra strap, sliding them down slowly. As your breasts are revealed, he throws the bra behind him and stares down at you in awe, reaching out to cup them like before.

“So perfect,” he groans, pinching your nipples slightly. You gasp in surprise but lean into the touch.

Yoongi chuckles from behind you. “I guess you can tell Jiminie is a boob guy.”

Jimin smirks then trails his fingers down until they rest near Yoongi’s that were still lodged against your hips. He tugs lightly against the top of your panties, peering at you in silent query. You take a deep breath, suddenly really nervous because holy shit you were about to be naked in front of Park Jimin, but you nod to give him the go ahead.

He suddenly drops to his knees and begins pulling the panties down slowly, groaning as you’re revealed to him.

“Fuck, Noona, you are so wet already. Your panties are soaked. How are you so wet?” He holds up the panties in question, causing you to blush profusely. Yoongi groans at the sight, leaning in to nibble on your neck.

“I think we’ve been neglecting her, haven’t we? Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you. You have two cocks at your disposal, baby. Nothing but the best for the Princess.” Yoongi growls against your neck. “How’s the view, Jimin?”

“She’s perfect, hyung. So pretty. Even her pussy is pretty,” Jimin responds as he strokes your thighs, staring at the dripping sight in front of him.

Yoongi smirks and releases you, reaching over to get the box of jewelry. You give a startled squeak when a wet tongue suddenly slides up your pussy. You look down to see Jimin grinning at you with wet lips. Yoongi peeks over your shoulder and laughs.

“Yah, you brat. Are you sneaking a taste?”

Jimin whines dramatically, still smiling. “I couldn’t help it. She’s dripping down her thighs, and she smells so good.”

“Sounds like she’s going to need to be serviced soon. Strip while I get her ready.” Yoongi orders as he clasps the ruby bracelet around your left wrist.

You take a moment to admire it on you before you notice the shuffling in front of you. Jimin is taking off his clothes speedily, throwing them everywhere until you were faced with the view that you had earlier today. He stood there with his sculpted body, his hands holding the tops of his boxers as he waited for the go-ahead from you, like you would actually turn him down at this point. You scoff quietly but nod, following the path of the boxers down his body.

It was strange seeing another dick in front of you after only being with Yoongi for three whole years. He was thicker than Yoongi but not as long. It was a pretty pink and clear of all the veins that stuck out on Yoongi’s. You were suddenly struck with the desire to see what he tasted like and unconsciously licked your lips. His dick twitched like it heard your thoughts and he stalked back to stand in front of you.

Jimin helps Yoongi put the rest of the jewelry on you, wrapping the ruby collar tightly against your neck and placing the ring on your right hand. Yoongi comes around to face you with the Tiara, grinning naughtily as he places it snugly into your hair.

“Damn, Jimin, have you ever seen a more beautiful woman?” Yoongi asks as he observes you.

“No. She’s stunning. The perfect Princess.”

You can’t stop blushing, never having received this much attention in your entire life, but you can’t say you don’t like it. In fact, you probably loved it a little too much. You were supposed to hate Jimin, he was your rival, but all you wanted right now was to know how he felt buried deep inside of you.

“Jimin, since you were so desperate to get a taste of her, why don’t you eat her out while I undress, make sure she’s nice and ready for us.”

Jimin led you to the couch and sat down, positioning you so that you were standing on the cushions with one leg on either side of him and leaning over to grasp the back of the couch. You blush and glance down at his head between your legs. He winks at you cheekily before sticking out his tongue to lick your clit. You groan and buck your hips into his face. He grabs your ass to pull you closer, the lewd slurping noises as he basically feasted on you filling the living room. You reach down and slide your hands into his hair as he works, your cries increasing in volume. His plush lips felt so incredible, like they were made for pleasure.

“Fuck...” Startled, you glance behind you, surprised to find you’d actually forgotten Yoongi was there. He was staring at the sight of Jimin underneath you, his lips working against you as saliva and your juices dripped down his chin.

Yoongi has his long fingers wrapped around his cock as he watched, tugging lazily. You whine, desperate for him, and he smiles as he comes up behind you and kisses the dip at the base of your spine.

“Are you ready to sit on your throne, Princess? Wanna try out Jimin’s?”

You pull your hips away slightly to glance down at Jimin, suddenly unsure. Did he even want to go that far? You were in such a pleasure induced haze, you’d probably agree to anything right now, but that didn’t mean he had to.

You guessed he sensed your hesitation because he suddenly smiled shyly, his drenched face contrasting perversely.

“Please, Noona? I’ll make you feel so good,” he asked quietly, pressing a light kiss against your thigh.

You chew your lip in thought, assessing his face for the truth. He seems to really want this, amazingly enough, so you nod and let him ease you down. Yoongi reaches between you and grasps Jimin’s cock, leaning near your ear one last time.

“Still all good?” He murmurs and kisses your neck when you nod.

He lines Jimin up with you and Jimin’s hands on your hips slowly ease you down. The slight stretch as your body adjusts to the new thickness isn’t bad, and you practically slide right down you’re so wet.

Jimin gasps and bangs his against the back of the couch. Yoongi looks up from your neck, releasing the bit of skin he’d been sucking on to laugh.

“She feels fucking amazing, doesn’t she?”

Jimin nods but keeps his eyes clamped shut. “So fucking tight and warm. I’m not going to last long,” he whimpers, his fingers clenching hard against your hip.

“Give him a good ride, baby,” Yoongi whispers into your ear before sitting in the recliner next to the two of you and grasping his cock in his hands.

The desire to just watch Yoongi was strong, but the twitching cock inside of you reminded you of your task. You peek at Jimin, surprised to find him watching you. He suddenly lifts you up before slamming you back down, the both of you moaning at the intense sensation. You adjust yourself so that your hands are on his shoulders and dig in your knees, and ride him hard, giving him your all. A tiny part of you insists it’s to show Jimin that Yoongi lacked nothing while he was gone. The other thought that you’re not quite ready to explore says that you are just enjoying how pretty Jimin is when he’s falling apart under you.

And pretty he is. His lips are parted with little whimpers and groans escaping, his heavy-lidded eyes pleading with you to look at him. You stare into his pleasure filled gaze as the room is filled with skin slapping against wet skin, cries from the two of you, and the occasional grunt from Yoongi.

It doesn’t take long before you feel his grip on your hips tighten painfully.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum, Noona!” Jimin groans and tries to lift you off of him, but you smack his hand away and slam down hard, rolling your hips slowly as he cums inside of you with a stuttered moan. He stares at you as he comes down, breathing heavily and petting every part of your skin he could touch.

“Is the Princess ready for me now?” A voice growls against your ear.

“Yes, Yoongi, please.” You plead as he helps lift you up so that Jimin could slide out of you.

You try to back off from Jimin a little bit, so you don’t smother him, but he just pulls you closer, kissing you softly before tucking your head into the crook of his neck. This angled you towards Yoongi, so he entered you effortlessly, the remains of Jimin’s release easing the way.

“Shit, this is so dirty. You like this, baby? You like me fucking Jimin’s cum out of you? I’m going to fill you back up when I’m done. Can’t let my Princess be empty.” Yoongi grunts as he slams his hips into you, already overly excited from watching.

You moan into Jimin’s neck as he wraps his arms around you, petting your sides and whispering things into your ear that you were too far gone to make out. Jimin slides one of his hands down to rub your swollen clit.

“Oh, God, I’m going to cum! Jiminnnnn....”you whine, nipping his neck as your orgasm rips through you.

It doesn’t take long for Yoongi to follow, pounding into you fast as he fills you up with one long groan. He leans into you and kisses the back of your neck as he catches his breath, then pulls out slowly. It’s completely silent for a minute, so you glance behind you to find him staring down at the mess between your legs.

“Stop looking at me.” You whine, shoving your head back into Jimin’s neck in embarrassment. They both chuckle as Yoongi helps you up.

“Can’t help it if my Princess is prettiest when she’s messy,” Yoongi smirks and taps your butt on the way to the bathroom.

Yoongi props you on the bathroom counter and runs a warm rag across you and helps you take off the jewelry. Jimin was apparently in the kitchen getting water for all of you.

“Was that really all okay? I know we didn’t talk about it, but I thought it was amazing.” Yoongi asked softly, peering at you with a hint of vulnerability and worry.

“Yeah...it was good. New, kinda strange, feel like a porn star, but nice. I felt like I was wanted.”

Yoongi suddenly appears horrified. “Baby, did you not feel wanted before?”

“Um, not for awhile, no.” You whisper, staring down at your hands.

Yoongi sighs and leans his head into your lap. “You are wanted. God, you are so wanted. I’m sorry I’m such a bastard. We’ll talk, properly this time. Okay? We’ll all sit down and figure things out better. I’m not good with actually talking about shit, I know, but I can’t have you going around thinking that you’re not wanted.”

“Okay. It’s okay. This was good though, alright? I enjoyed it.” You quickly reassure him, not wanting to end the night on a sad note after everything that happened. He nods and kisses your thigh.

Jimin brings water for everyone, and you all finish your bottles before climbing into bed, everyone content and sated for the first time. You smile happily as Yoongi cuddles you close to him, and Jimin sweetly tells you goodnight. Maybe it was okay to have a little hope that everything would soon work out, because this day wasn’t bad at all.

Little did you know this was merely the calm before the storm.

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kristallioness · 7 years ago

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Lightning before thunder

Summary: Iroh teaches the young couple a little bit about Fire Nation folklore.

Word count: 1,976

Author's note: Thank you, Estonian weather, for providing me with an idea for this prompt when it rained this Saturday! Almost a week late, but at least I wrote something for this one, too. The story takes place some time after "North and South" (Aang and Katara are around the same age), prior to the founding of Republic City. Also, Zuko is dressed exactly like in the beginning of "The Avatar and the Fire Lord".

----------x----------

When Katara opened her eyes, she was met with utter darkness. A loud rumble that came from outside had awoken her in the middle of the night. She released a long yawn, stretching her arms against the red velvet sheets. She fancied being engulfed in these soft fabrics that fell over the edge of the bed. Much lighter than her thick furry Water Tribe sleeping bag.

The lightning that struck outside lit up the entire room in a white glow for a second, casting eerie shadows over the few pieces of furniture. No wonder it was raining so hard in the Fire Nation after an almost month-long heatwave had raged across the country.

Katara wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead. Her bedroom was stuffy and rather hot, as were all the other rooms in the royal palace. She couldn't crack a window open either cause then the winds would start blowing inside and soon a mini-hurricane could form. At least she was only wearing a sarashi around her chest and her undergarments, the blanket keeping her lower half warm.

She lifted her head a bit when she heard a gentle knocking against the door before someone slowly opened it.

"Katara?.. Are you awake?" Aang whispered as he peeked inside. He met a pair of diamond blue eyes shining right back at him. She yawned again.

"Yeah, I'm up.. What's wrong?"

A loud crash of thunder shook the entire palace and made the airbender leap on the bed in a split second, all the way from the doorway. He crawled under the vast blanket, making his girlfriend giggle since he tickled her legs, until he found one of the edges. First his bald head popped out. Then, having realized where her upper half was, he snuggled up to her and gave her a pleading look, his lips slightly pouting.

"Can I sleep here?"

The surprise in Katara's face melted into a loving smile instead. She wrapped her arms around him protectively, pulling him into her embrace. She hummed.

"Of course, sweetie," she murmured to him, her fingers running over his cheekbone as she stroked his cheek. He grinned, then gifted her with a kiss on her left shoulder before resting his head on her chest, making himself more comfortable.

"Thank you, Katara."

Silence prevailed in their now-shared bedroom, apart from the heavy rain tapping against the several sheets of glass in the walls that surrounded them from two opposite sides. Aang tried to resume sleeping despite the noise. He just had to find something else to focus on that'd lull him back to sleep.

He nuzzled his nose against Katara's warm skin, breathing in her familiar scent. Besides the salty sweat smell, it reminded him of the mango-scented soap they'd used earlier, provided by the servants in the palace.

The two of them had arrived on Appa for an informal visit a few days ago. Considering everything that'd been going on in the old Fire Nation colonies that ran along the coast of the Western Earth Kingdom, they wanted to keep Zuko updated on the progress. He was kind enough to let them use the guest rooms for as long as they needed.

Their bedroom flashed again when lightning struck nearby, followed by a low, scary rumbling. Aang tightened his hold and cuddled even closer to Katara, closing the thin space that'd remained between them.

"You're scared, too?"

She asked what he'd been thinking for a while. With his right ear pressed against her chest, he could hear her fast heartbeat and feel her uneasy breathing. She didn't even deny that the thunderstorm was bringing up dreadful memories, for both of them. Aang sighed.

"Yeah.. a little bit," he admitted, his thumb rubbing the bare skin on her arm.

"But not as much when I'm with you."

Katara giggled, her hand running along the blanket, down to the spot where it covered the huge scar on his back. Her fingertips danced along the line where she guessed the edges of the burnt skin were, tracing a heart-shaped path. In a way, she really was his guardian angel.

"Me, too.." she whispered, her other hand tenderly grabbing his and laying it flat on her chest. He felt the calm beating of heart thump against his palm as well. Aang smiled, glad that he could give her a sense of security.

They tensed a little when they heard someone walking in the hall. A dim light grew bigger as it approached their room ever so silently. There was a knock on the partly open door.

"May I come in?"

The two lovers sighed in relief.

"Yes, Iroh. Come in!" Katara was the first one to answer. The Dragon of the West hesitantly pushed the door open to peek inside, in case their guests needed some time to dress appropriately. He gave them a warm smile at the sight of the Avatar cuddled up to his love, not wanting to budge.

When Iroh came out of hiding, he revealed that he was carrying a hot cup of tea with him, the stream of steam following his movements. The small flame he was firebending with his other hand lit up his surroundings. As he entered the bedroom, he tried to close the door behind him.

"Actually, could you please leave the door open a little bit? It's so hot in here.." Katara begged while waving a hand in front of her face. Iroh was more than happy to grant her request before he came over to sit on the edge of their huge bed.

"What are you doing up so late?" she wondered whilst rubbing an eye.

"I couldn't sleep with this storm, so I decided to make some calming jasmine tea for myself. On my way back to bed, I heard talking, so I thought I'd come and check whether you two are doing alright."

"We appreciate the concern, Iroh. We're okay. Though I wish it was a bit cooler inside the palace," Katara said as she waved her hand again, making the old man laugh.

"You'll get used to it over the years. Here, would either of you like some tea? This batch is fresh. I already had a cup before I came here."

Aang lifted himself off of Katara so she could sit up in bed together with him and take the cup in her hands to drink.

"Wow! Thank you!"

A bright light flashed through the windows for a moment, after which the walls shook from the loud thunder that followed. Aang scooted closer to Katara and rubbed her back until she finished drinking. She offered him a sip, too.

"Do you know how lightning occurs?" Iroh asked the two of them so they wouldn't have to sit in complete silence.

"Yeah, when positive and negative energies crash inside the cloud," Katara answered proudly. Paying attention to Sokka's boring speeches about science finally seemed to pay off.

"That's correct. But, would either of you be interested in learning how in the Fire Nation we used to explain this natural phenomenon through a myth?"

"I like myths! Please, tell us!" Aang said with excitement, taking another sip of jasmine tea.

"Well, thousands of years ago, our ancestors believed that there were two different dragons, who were much bigger than all the rest put together, and they were capable of changing the weather. One of them was Ibzan, the blue northern dragon, who breathed blue fire and brought cold, dry weather along with him wherever he went. The second one was called Azar, the red southern dragon, whose firebending was red. He brought warmer, more humid weather with him."

"Oh, so they represented the two types of cyclones?" Katara wondered, moving her hands around in a circular motion.

"You're right. Normally, Ibzan would fly over the northern islands of the Fire Nation while Azar remained near the mainland or down in the south. However, when these two dragons met to switch sides, they'd become so angry at each other that the smoke coming out of their nostrils would form these dark clouds and warn the people of their upcoming battle."

"Ah, so that's like when the seasons change?"

"Exactly. We could not see the battle since it always happened high above the clouds, but we could understand how intense it was when it started to rain, we saw lightning or heard thunder. The raindrops were the scales of the dragons, which fell off because of the injuries they received during the battle. Lightning would appear when the blue and red firebending of the dragons merged into one. And we would hear their roars in the thunder that followed."

"Huh, that's a pretty interesting take on how weather works. And with the dragons being the animals who were in control, it does give off a true feel of Fire Nation culture," Katara claimed, averting her gaze towards Aang to hear his opinion. He swallowed a sip of tea, nodding in agreement.

"Mhmm.. That's a really fun way to explain lightning. I gotta remember that story, so we can tell it to our kids in the future," he pondered out loud. Katara started giggling at his idea, her cheeks blushing over the suggestion. She gave him a playful nudge in the ribs, careful not to hurt him too much so he wouldn't spill the remaining tea. The gesture made Iroh laugh, too.

Their joy and laughing was interrupted by someone else knocking on the door. It gave off a small creak as the Fire Lord stepped inside. He was dragging a pillow along with one hand and holding a candle in the other.

"What's going on in.. uncle? What are you doing here?" Zuko asked, his golden eyes growing wide with surprise.

"The storm woke me up, just like it did to your friends," Iroh said, motioning towards Aang and Katara, who waved their hands and greeted him with two equally goofy grins. Their smiles faded when the walls of their room shook from the thunder once more. The airbender snaked his arm around his girlfriend's waist to hold her close. Zuko glanced over his shoulder for a moment, then sighed.

"Can I join you guys? Kiyi's sleeping with my mom and stepdad. It gets a bit lonely over there.." he claimed, tilting his head towards the hallway a few times. If everything had worked out better, if he hadn't been so stupid, he wouldn't have been sleeping alone in his bedroom. Without Mai. They still hadn't made up yet.

Seeing the frowns on his friends' faces in the light that came from his uncle's firebending, Zuko dropped the pillow and scratched his loose hair awkwardly to change the topic.

"..Plus, it took me five minutes to convince Suki and Ty Lee that I wanted to come here because I felt lonely and NOT because I'm afraid of the storm."

At that statement, Katara chuckled and patted the mattress.

"Get over here, Zuko. The more the merrier."

He gave her a warm smile, picking up the pillow to come and join them. His uncle stood up to give him some space for climbing under the sheets. Zuko put the candle on the nightstand and shifted closer to Katara's other side, fluffing his own pillow before he found a cosy position for falling asleep. Aang handed the empty tea cup back to Iroh, then lay down together with Katara, snuggling up to her similarly to before.

"Now rest, young ones. This storm is nothing unusual to typical Fire Nation weather. It'll pass by morning," he assured them. Uncle watched over the three best friends as they slowly drifted off. He tucked Zuko in properly, blew the candle out, then left the guest room so they could get some rest. He left a small gap between the door for Katara's sake.

#Kataang Week #mythology #Kataangtag #Kataang #Iroh and Zuko #Aang #Katara #Iroh #Zuko #ATLA #my fanfiction #mine #shards of Kristal

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designertrashgod · 3 years ago

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Someone I follow who goes by the name CJ the X on YouTube recently released a video called "The Kronk Effect" that hit me like a ton of bricks. The video starts by pointing out the weakness in using Kronk, a "perfectly designed" side character, as his own main character in a direct to video sequel of The Emperor's New Groove.

We all like to joke about "main character syndrome", but my takeaway with the video essay was, essentially, are you ready to take responsibility for being a main character if that's where you lean? And what does that look like for you?

I'll get to that. Before I do I'd like to introduce you to two of my favorite young adults in science-adjacent anime: Okabe Rintarou from Steins;Gate, and Senku Ishigami from Dr. Stone.

In Steins;Gate, the big shtick to the time travel game is Okabe's Reading Steiner, which is what he calls his ability to remember world line events. Okabe's immediate response to first learning this phenomenon, among other things, is to freeze, but after a moment he does his mad scientist "evil laugh", proclaiming he wouldn't be the savior of the world, but its destruction in his own manner. Those looking for context to his actions need look no further than his response to Mayuri's trauma is to take her as his "hostage". This is not him being destructive for the sake of destruction. This is him taking responsibility for the necessity of doing unethical or bad things to liberate the world from the likes of SERN.

Senku in Dr. Stone labels his intentions a little more clearly. As some within the anime point out, he has the mannerisms of a villain. He admits that he's selfish and that bad things will happen if he restores humanity with science. He laughs with Chrome and Gen saying they will be bad together as they break apart Tsukasa's army with deception. Again, this is him taking responsibility.

As someone who's been conditioned all their life to think that the abuse was all their fault and that they're a bad person, it's easy to get caught up in the joys of "being a bad person". Growing up my favorite characters in Pokemon were Team Rocket. As Mr. Wolf in The Bad Guys puts it, we didn't have any choice. But I encourage all those who grew up this way, and those who restored a conscience from otherwise being genuinely awful (because hey, I did that too)… obviously my endorsement of "being bad" does not extend to the likes of terfs, nazis, and so on… to take "being bad" to a new perspective and a new choice. If you must be unethical in the pursuit of justice, do so. Be prepared for the level of responsibility it brings. We are all villains in someone else's story.

Looping back to CJ the X's wonderful video (and I highly suggest giving it a watch here), I want to equate my thought vomit here to the idea of being the main character. A well written main character has flaws. Sometimes trauma. I should have taken away from the video that I would be best suited as a side character and that I should try my hardest at it. But I won't. I can't. Just as we are villains, just as we are side characters, we must also tell our own stories just for the sake of being selfish. I guess that's why I hold Okabe and Senku so close to my heart. They're flawed people who admit they've gotta be bad for the greater good of the world.

#I genuinely do not know how to tag this #here just take it #cw for abuse

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bastardtravel · 7 years ago

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August 11, 2018. Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

In the deepest hidden recesses of the internet, on a vague Wikipedia page about “brewing in New Hampshire“, I learned that there is one beer that stands above all others. It is a Russian imperial stout lovingly handcrafted by an unusually tall hill dwarf, undoubtedly from an ancient recipe that his clan brought from under the mountain untold ages ago.

Wikipedia claims it is “the best beer in America” and also “the most sought-after beer in America”. It’s called Kate the Great, and legend has it that it can only be obtained by locating this master brewer on his home turf, the Portsmouth Brewery, and praying to whatever gods you keep that the stars have aligned and it’s in season.

It was drizzling on Mystery Hill, but it hadn’t quite started to monsoon in Portsmouth yet. Thunderclouds loomed in the sky like hanged men, shrouding the little downtown in portentous darkness. Everyone we encountered hated us. This isn’t altogether foreign to me, I’ve chosen the Bastard moniker for a reason, but the Girl tends toward amicability and we hadn’t done anything yet.

In The Shadow Over Innsmouth, an archaeologist crossing New England in search of genealogical information finds a foggy, derelict port town. He thinks it might be interesting to check out, so he books a room and pokes around. The locals seem to share a common deformity, a scaling skin disease, puffing around the face and eyes, and unusual hydrocephaly. They spurn him outright. We’re talking like, Amish shunning. The inhabitants call him an outsider and refuse to sell him anything. They bar most public places against him, and retreat into their homes if they see him on the street. As the novella goes on, he discovers that the inhabitants of Innsmouth have been interbreeding with a race of cannibal fish-people, the Deep Ones, who conduct grisly rites in worship of a bloodthirsty aquatic god called Dagon.

I thought the parallels were cute at first, but as our time in Portsmouth wore on, they got more distressing. We’d driven across New Hampshire into an HD remaster of Call of Cthulhu: Dark Corners of the Earth.

The Portsmouth Brewery was wall-to-wall with people, easily the most active building in the town. The hostess sneered that the wait for a table would be 20 minutes. The Girl said that would be fine, and asked if we could get a drink while we wait.

“Yeah, I guess.”

We dodged around the teeming masses of people and, for some reason, all their infant children, to get to the bar. When did the bringing babies into bars phenomenon start? And why? Babies don’t go in bars. Babies go in, I don’t know, parks. McDonald’s Playplace.

Eventually, the girl tending came over to us.

“Hey, we’re here treasure hunting,” I said, trying for charming. “Legend has it this is our best shot at getting Kate the Great. Do you have that right now?”

She scoffed. “We’ll never serve THAT beer again.”

I exchanged a glance with the Girl.

“Is this like, a sensitive subject?”

“No,” she said, providing the exposition she really should have led with, “It’s just, the brewer just quit working here, it was this whole big thing, so we don’t have Kate the Great anymore.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“He opened his own brewery, Tributary. It’s in Maine. But here, you can see our draft list.”

This was technically true. It was in Maine, across a bridge, an 8 minute drive from our present location. It was also technically true that we could see the draft list. It consisted entirely of IPAs, which would have been clutch if I’d ever liked one.

“Can we have a minute to think about it?” the Girl asked. The bartender nodded and drifted off. We escaped to the place next door, which had a similar draft list, substituting one of the IPAs with Budweiser which it listed as a “light lager”.

“I can’t Yelp,” the Girl said. “This is impossible. Two for two. You do it. I’m losing hope.”

dolphins have had it good for TOO LONG

A few blocks away was a brewery called Earth Eagle, which specialized in a hopless proto-beer called “gruit”. It’s a Danish word, and should be pronounced “gryoo-IT”, but I pronounce it groot and will continue to do so until dead.

We made our way past the cute little technicolor New England cottages to Earth Eagle. Random assignment from day two of any outdoor music festival would give you the clientele. It was also crowded, but not as bad as the Portsmouth Brewery.

“Could we sit outside?” the Girl asked. The waitress glared at us balefully.

“You can if you want,” she said. “But it’s gonna rain.”

“If it starts to get bad, we’ll move back in,” the Girl said.

“You should probably just sit inside.”

The Girl was ready to fight her on this. She was hangry. I’m always hangry, and so I’ve developed a tolerance. I steered her aside.

“Not worth it,” I said. “If we sit outside, no one’s going to come take our order.”

It looked like no one was going to anyway. After a while, one of the Deep Ones waddled over, and we ordered gruit. It tasted like beer-flavored juice. They also played the entirety of Rancid’s “And Out Come the Wolves”. I found that suspicious. Like they were humoring me, and when I left they’d return to their backward recordings of whale song and those high-pitched meditation bowls.

The scene was about to turn. I could hear them sharpening their knives. During the next ponderous waitress’ circuit, we waylaid, paid, and am-scrayed.

“I’m so hungry,” the Girl said. “This is where we die.”

“Very possible. I’ll bet they have a sacrificial table here, too.”

“Bastard, we need to find something,” she said. “I’ll go back in there and eat tofu puffs if I have to.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I said. “Listen. We’ll go back to the pizza place. We don’t need to drink there. We’ll just get a pizza. It’s impossible to ruin pizza.”

She was hesitant, but I kept saying, “Huh? Piiizza?”, and that eventually won her over. That’s a pro strat for you, fellas. No charge. Just remember where you learned it.

They were kinder at the pizza place, probably because it was in a basement full of aquariums, and being below sea level and surrounded by their brethren soothed the agitated merfolk. They had a giant neon sign for RED HOOK, which I presumed to be of “The Horror At” fame, and would have won me a prize had I remembered my Mythos bingo card.

We asked the first pleasant waitress in New Hampshire for garlic and it baffled her.

“Garlic? Like, whole garlic?”

“No, like, powder,” the Girl said. “Or salt, if that’s all you have.”

“We… might have some in the kitchen.”

“That’s only a thing where we’re from,” I told her. “When I went west, none of the pizza places had garlic. A lot of ’em didn’t even have oregano.”

The Girl looked as though she might cry. “But… but why?”

“Forgive them. They know not what they do.”

We were given this.

garçon! a ration of garlic powder, s’il vous plait, and your finest sprinkling fork

We walked back out into the building tempest. The fishfolk were growing stronger as it became soggier. It was like you could hear the Jaws theme playing in the distance.

“We gotta look at the whale wall,” I said. “That’s like the only other attraction. Then we get the hell out of here.”

We looked at the whale wall. It was both.

Then, we scurried back to the car.

mood

Unfortunately, the Deep Ones were lying in wait for us. A supply truck was sitting in the middle of the street, right next to my car, parking us and only us in. I couldn’t get around it, and there wasn’t enough sidewalk for any real desperate escape maneuvers. I waited, crouched in the driver’s seat with a fileting knife clutched to my chest. The Girl sat shotgun, slowly pumping up a super soaker full of tartar sauce.

Some other lost tourist/genealogist had parked in front of us, and finally returned to her car. She got the hell out of my way and we made our daring escape.

We crossed the bridge into Maine. It immediately stopped raining. Whatever ancient cult magic held sway in Portsmouth didn’t extend beyond its borders.

Tributary Brewing Company even had a parking lot for free! It was busy, as one would expect for the chosen brewery of the creator of America’s alleged best beer. We sat on the bench along the wall and had a flight and took in the ambiance, most of which consisted of impressionist paintings of this dude’s face.

Mott the Lesser is what he renamed Kate the Great, presumably in order to avoid legal disputes with Portsmouth Brewing. It wasn’t in season, but that was all right. Ask Tennyson. It was never about the Grail. The quest is all.

The man himself sat at a table, eating his lunch and grinning the grin of a man presently living his dreams. He was surrounded by a squadron of adoring Dads. I will admit the dude had an aura, and his biere de miel and porter were magnificent. The porter tasted like smoked joy.

We went next door to a tasteful mermaid-themed restaurant with walls colored in equally tasteful mermaid tiddy art. In retrospect, I should have photographed that, instead of whatever the hell it was we ate. (I know mine was scallops, and I know they were excellent).

Our next stop, continuing with the supernatural theme along New England’s eldritch ley lines, would lead us to the most haunted restaurant in America.

But that’s a spooky campfire story for another day.

Love,

The Bastard

The Shadow Over Portsmouth August 11, 2018. Portsmouth, New Hampshire. In the deepest hidden recesses of the internet, on a vague Wikipedia page about "

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expatimes · 4 years ago

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Pokémon at 25: How 151 fictional species took over the world Written by Oscar Holland, CNNWhen the Gameboy titles "Pocket Monsters: Red" and "Pocket Monsters: Green" were first released in Japan in 1996, few could have predicted what came next.The concept was simple enough: Players would traverse a fictional world capturing, training and battling the creatures that inhabited it -- a mission encapsulated in the game's famous slogan, "Gotta Catch 'Em All." But within just a few years, Pokémon, a portmanteau of the Japanese name "Poketto Monsuta," was a global phenomenon. By 1999, the game had launched in multiple Western markets, later becoming one of the most successful franchises of all time. It spawned an anime series, which was translated into over 30 languages, and trading cards that swept the world's playgrounds during the "Pokémania" of the late 1990s. It also imprinted the identities of 151 entirely fictional characters into the memories of millions. Japanese children participate in a Pokémon card game tournament in 1999. Credit: Yoshikazu Tsuno/AFP/Getty ImagesA quarter of a century on, many first-generation Pokémon are as recognizable to millennials as they are to their children. This is partly thanks to a post-2016 revival inspired by the mobile game "Pokémon Go" and movie "Detective Pikachu." But the franchise's success is about more than clever marketing -- it is the result of unique characters that were universal enough to cross cultures and diverse enough to make catching 'em all a challenge, not a chore.Their origins trace back to Pokémon's creator Tajiri Satoshi, whose childhood love of collecting bugs inspired a game with a strikingly similar premise. Most of the individual designs were, however, the work of illustrator Ken Sugimori. Sugimori had worked with Tajiri on the magazine Game Freak, which would eventually grow into the games company behind Pokémon. As the firm's art director, he brought his collaborator's vision to life through a complex and imaginative taxonomy, complete with individual lines of evolution and fictional genuses, like grass- or dragon-type Pokémon.Bulbasaur, one of the most recognizable Pokémon from the first generation. Credit: Courtesy The Pokemon CompanyGiving the characters distinct personalities was always going to be difficult. Even with an accompanying TV series, most were only able to utter their own names repeatedly. Their appearances, therefore, were especially important.Sugimori's designs were gloriously diverse and grounded in science -- not just biology and zoology, but geology (see Geodude, who was essentially an animated rock), chemistry (the noxious gas clouds Koffing and Weezing), paleontology (the fossil-like Omanyte and Omastar) and physics (the likes of Magneton, who loosely drew on the principles of electromagnetism). The resulting catalog of creatures, known as the Pokédex, was essentially a periodic table for game nerds -- and was, for many, much easier to recall. Going globalPokémon's ability to evolve was part of their appeal, according to Joseph Tobin, a professor of early childhood education at the University of Georgia and editor of the 2004 book "Pikachu's Global Adventure: The Rise and Fall of Pokémon" (a subtitle that, he readily admits, completely failed to predict the franchise's revival)."Along with Tamagotchi, the narrative was that you're caring for them," Tobin said in a video interview. "You care for them so they grow up, and kids can identify with getting stronger. But then you also care for them by (making sure they) don't die. It was unusual to have this in a battle game ... it took some of the features of war and then combined them with nurturance."Squirtle, a light-blue turtle. Credit: Courtesy The Pokemon CompanyThe cutesy Squirtle (top) evoled into Wortortle and, eventually, Blastoise (bottom). Credit: Courtesy The Pokemon CompanyThis juxtaposition was reflected in the designs, which were at once both cute and fierce -- or, through the process of evolution, morphed from cute to fierce, from the big-eyed, babyish Squirtle to the formidable Blastoise (by way of Wartortle). None, however, more aptly embodied this dichotomy than Pikachu, the franchise's most successful and marketable figure. Dumpy and rosy-cheeked, with a high-pitched voice, the electrified mouse was also a powerful fighter. The character's design also played into Japan's wider drive to export pop culture in the 1990s, according to Tobin."The idea was -- or the corporate strategy as a nation was -- we want 'our' mouse to compete with Mickey Mouse," he said. "So I think the fact that Pikachu is a mouse-like creature is not coincidental, but (the character) was made to be hyper-cute -- cuter than Mickey or Minnie."There were, however, fears that Japan's "kawaii" aesthetic wouldn't resonate with kids elsewhere. Superheroes in Western markets were, at the time, often sharper and more muscular than their Japanese counterparts. Ahead of the game's US release, late Nintendo boss Hiroshi Yamauchi was reportedly shown a beefed-up alternative version of Pikachu, though the company's American subsidiary stuck with the original designs for its 1998 launch.Not all of the Pokémon were the talk of the playground -- like Metapod, a crescent-shaped chrysalis. Credit: Courtesy The Pokemon CompanyBut while the likes of Pikachu and Bulbasaur stole the limelight -- and made it into the all-important merchandise -- there was strength in sheer diversity. And some among Pokémon's vast cast were neither cute nor fierce. Take Diglett, a crudely-drawn sausage-shaped mole, or Metapod, a droopy-eyed and immobile chrysalis, whose sole ability is hardening its outer shell. All were relatively useless in battle; none were the schoolyard's most sought-after playing cards. But they were part of a complete universe -- one that had something for everyone. In the gender-normative world of 1990s toy marketing, that mattered, Tobin said. "At the toy store (at the time) you had a blue aisle and a pink aisle," he said. "But Pokémon was created to reach across the aisles."The art of localizationWhile the characters' designs remained the same overseas, Pokémon was nonetheless adapted for different markets, especially when it came to language. Cultural references would, inevitably, be lost in translation: Many characters were rooted in Japanese folklore. While audiences in Japan might have recognized the influence of fox spirit Kitsune in Pokémon like Vulpix, or the mythical thunder beast Rajiu in Pikachu's design, these would never translate.A woman browses goods at a Pokémon store in Tokyo. Credit: Behrouz Mehri/AFP/Getty ImagesBut the Pokémon's new names often remained true to the spirit of the originals. Take Sawamura and Ebiwara, who had been named after a Japanese kickboxer and boxer, respectively, but were called Hitmonlee and Hitmonchan in English, a reference to martial artists that kids in the West would recognize: Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan. Or Ivysaur, whose Japanese name Fushigisou combined "fushigi" (strange) and "sou" (grass), resulting in a similar principle being used for the French version: Herbizarre.Some names, like Pikachu, were transliterated more or less directly from the Japanese. But elsewhere there were portmanteaus like Psyduck (a duck with psychic powers), or names that only resonated with speakers of the language in question, like the slothful Slowpoke. There was also puns of varying quality, from the jellyfish-like Tentacool, to Exeggcute, a collection of furious eggs.Psyduck, a duck with psychic abilities. Credit: Courtesy The Pokemon CompanySome were a little less imaginative. There was a horned seal called Seel, and a crab named Krabby. The serpentine Ekans and Arbok were made simply by reversing the words "snake" and "kobra" (sic). But there were moments of linguistic sophistication, too. The game's three "Legendary Birds" were named Articuno, Zapdos and Moltres, with the Spanish suffixes -uno, -dos and -tres reflecting their consecutive order in the Pokédex. An amorphous blob, able to assume the form of anything it saw, was named, appropriately, Ditto.The anime series was also subtly adapted for overseas markets. For instance, human characters were more central to the US version's narrative, because it was believed that "Americans wanted someone to identify with that was more than just bugs and animals," Tobin said. But, he added, Pokémon always retained something quintessentially Japanese."I think the amazing thing is that it wasn't changed that much. Not only was the Japanese-ness not a liability, it was associated with 'cool Japan.' Kids didn't like it because it was Japanese, but they certainly got the idea that it was a little bit exotic," he said, likening it to a type of soft power for the country.'Inter-generational nostalgia'The designs kept on coming. Today, there are almost 900 characters, though many are, arguably, less memorable than their predecessors. Later generations of Pokémon have included Chandelure, a sentient chandelier, Milcery, a cream-based Pokémon resembling a splash of milk, and, inexplicably, a floating keyring called Klefki that is "constantly collecting keys... (and) will protect them no matter what."A Hasbro employee shows off components of the Pokemon Battle Stadium at the company's showroom in New York in February 2000. Credit: Richard Drew/APAffection for the first generation endures, however. The original 151 may represent just a fraction of the Pokédex, but they account for over half of the Pokémon featured in the 2019 movie "Detective Pikachu." In December, a first-edition holographic Charizard card sold for a record $369,000.Tobin, having failed to predict Pokémon's longevity last time around, is more optimistic about the franchise's next 25 years."I was wrong in that I thought Pokémon would, like most kids' media or cultural products, rise and fall and be replaced by the next big thing," he said. "But I think what I, and the other authors in the book, got right was (understanding) what made Pokémon so attractive at the time. And the things that made it attractive were not limited to the culture of the 1990s.Performers dressed as Pikachu during a "Pikachu Outbreak" event hosted bin Yokohama, Japan, in 2018. Credit: Tomohiro Ohsumi/Getty Images"I think it's become one of these very rare products that will, now, never end, because it's so much in the popular imagination," he added. "It has this inter-generational value of nostalgia, in the way that parents who grew up with Barbie now might want to (buy them for) their kids, or people who grew up with baseball cards want to do that with their kids."It becomes self-recognizable -- there's value to its own fame."Top image caption: 1999 (L To R) Pikachu, Psyduck, Togepy, Squirtle In The Animated Movie "Pokemon:The First Movie." Read full article: https://expatimes.com/?p=18465&feed_id=35100

#design #Pokémonat25How151fictionalspeciestookovertheworld-CNN

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mittensmorgul · 8 years ago

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1) I saw your tags on that post of Lizbobs about Twist and Shout and I am so happy that clear thinking meta writers like you agree that it in no way should be as popular as it is. It makes me cringe whenever someone brings it up as if it is actually a ‘beloved’ fic. I’m sorry if this sounds hateful, and I don’t mean to bring hate on the writers who put effort into it, but at some point this fandom has gotta realise that this fic being the ‘flagship fic’ for Destiel is a really REALLY bad thing.

2) Consider this fandom: We are close to getting canon destiel. That could put this show on the map, get real media interest. There is no doubt therefore that some media will dig further into the ‘fandom phenomenon’ behind destiel. Imagine just how CRINGEWORTHY it will be for mainstream media to discover that the most popular destiel fan fic is nothing more than poorly written tragedy porn rip off of Forrest Gump with the standard ‘kill your gays with aids trope’ at the end?!?! It is actually

3) disgraceful and we should be ashamed of ourselves for trying to push this fics popularity. Imagine how, on the chance destiel DOES become canon (which in my mind is rather likely) the writers, creators and actors on this show would feel that their beautiful love story about an angel and a hunter was butchered and turned into something frankly AWFUL?

4) How would Misha feel to know that a so called majority of destiel fans actually idolise a fic where his character dies from aids thanks to his decent into drug abuse?! What the HELL fandom?! WHY is this such a popular fic? It is a disgrace to the show, a disgrace to the characters and frankly an insult to our intelligence as a fanbase looking for LGBT+ representation. We don’t need more gay tragedies. That is pretty much ALL we get in mainstream media.

5) Yes the aids crisis was a horrible tragedy, but after decades of mainstream media giving LGBT people basically NOTHING but tragic stories where there are no happy endings for us, isn’t it about time that this trope DIED? Yet here we are, a modern and at least somewhat progressive fandom, still glorifying a fic that falls under that same tired miserable category. Not to mention that the fic is terrible written and the characters are absolutely nothing like their canon counterparts.

6) Sorry, I know this is getting rather mean, but years of pent up anger about this stupid fic is bringing it out of me in your inbox. Lets all be honest here. Twist & Shout is our ‘My Immortal’. It needs to die. Just like ‘My Immortal’ did for Harry Potter, it gives all other destiel fics a bad name. Can we PLEASE stop glorifying it and admit how shitty it is already.I know this is a harsh message, and I am sure that a lot of people would be upset by me saying these things, but it’s the truth

7) and I’ve spoken to enough people in fandom who silently agree with me. Though we all live in silence for fear of offending this mysterious majority of destiel shippers who apparently adore this fic? I’m sorry, but I am convinced that if we were to do a survey of peoples actual opinions on that fic, it wouldn’t come up positive at all. Popularity grows popularity. That’s the problem here. New people search for the most popular fics on AO3, and they become more popular, and those same new

8) people then believe that T&S is the standard to live up to in destiel fandom. That is an embarrassment for all of us. I just really want the obsession to end. Its not a good thing.

Oh hi. I see you have Feelings™ about this, and since I largely agree…

I’ll start off by linking the post you’re referring to, with my attendant tags on it, here:

http://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/163613335445/hey-lizbob-i-was-watching-12x03-and-i-noticed

as well as a few other tag rambles I’ve gone on over the years here, going all the way back to 2015. So that at least gives readers an idea of how I personally feel about it. And now on to the disclaimer section of this post:

I’ve always been, and will ALWAYS be a proponent of fanfic being a “ship and let ship” environment. I will NEVER assume to dictate what people write, read, or find enjoyment in. I will NEVER judge what “should” and “shouldn’t” be written or enjoyed by ANYONE. FULL STOP.

I am also a fierce advocate for “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all” when it comes to discussing fanfic. And that will never change.

But that’s not the issue when it comes to the inexplicable fandom “popularity” of this particular fic. If you read it and loved it, that’s GREAT! I’m glad. More power to you. It’s not the fic itself I have an issue with. I just wanted to make that clear. I am not here to dissuade people from enjoying it, nor to speak ill of the story itself.

It’s the nature of the story itself, versus the nature of fanfic, versus the fandom mystique surrounding it– the fact that it has somehow become the Flagship Fic Standard for ALL destiel fic, and the fact that for some reason the fandom itself seems to push it at the actors and creators and crew members of this show over and over again.

I’ve often wondered if some of Bob Singer’s cavalier attitude about having killed Charlie Bradbury wasn’t directly rooted in the fact that the entire production staff seems to be aware of T&S, even if they haven’t actually read it for legal reasons, but at least know that this particular fic that is apparently glorified in this fandom is founded on the Kill Your Gays trope.

Like, we constantly yell at TPTB to be better than that, and yet THIS is the story we’ve chosen as a fandom to elevate to the highest pinnacle of fanfic glory?

It’s just… depressing.

(and honestly, this fic is THE reason I refuse to read ANY fic that’s tagged “period typical homophobia.” I just… refuse to torture myself with that damn trope anymore)

But from everything I’ve read about it (and from the half a chapter I managed to struggle through myself before noping out), the only thing necessary to make this an original work of fiction would be to change the names of the characters. It’s not even a “file the serial numbers off” job. It READS like original fiction where the characters and plot share little other than the names of our beloved Dean and Cas.

And to me, that’s not why I read fanfic. If I wanted to read about entirely different people, I’d read original fiction, you know? Not struggle to identify with characters that bear little to no resemblance to the characters I actually care about.

It’s not just a problem with AU fic, because I’ve read HUNDREDS, if not THOUSANDS of AU fics that don’t seem to have this problem with keeping the characters “in character” even in entirely different situations. If they can feel like Dean and Cas in a Firefly AU, or a Regency Romance, or a Gothic Horror, or Ancient Rome, or in a fantasy AU where they’re witches or dragons or a freaking octopus, then yeah, they can remain in character in ANY AU. HECK I ADORED AN AU WHERE DEAN AND CAS WERE FREAKING CHICKENS. LITERALLY CHICKENS. And it was more in character than T&S.

I’m not going to presume to suggest the sort of fic that I believe is more representative of the best of our fandom, but having read far more than 5000 fics (I’ve got over 4k in my AO3 history, and I read fic for over a year before I got an account there to start tracking my history, PLUS all the fic I’ve read on LJ, FF.net, tumblr, etc… I mean the real number is probably closer to 10k or even MORE if you count all the little drabbles and things), I have to say that the MAJORITY of fic I’ve read has been far better at representing Dean and Cas as I know and love them.

We as a fandom don’t have to agree on what the “best fanfic” of the lot of them is, but can we at least agree to stop pushing THIS PARTICULAR FIC so forcefully and directly into the faces of the actors, writers, crew, etc.?

If we want THEM to do better by our characters, if we want our shouts of STOP KILLING OUR QUEERS to actually hit home, maybe we need to stop glorifying this particular fic to TPTB at every goddamn turn.

(and second disclaimer: In all my years in fandom, aside from anon messages praising the fic, I have spoken to exactly TWO people who admitted to enjoying this fic. Talking privately with hundreds of others, people express a far less enthusiastic opinion of it. I firmly believe that the vast majority of hits on it are from people just like me and others I’ve talked to about it, that the only reason we ever clicked on it was due to this very fandom mystique, the controversy about its popularity, and curiosity over what all the fuss was about. It’s become a self-sustaining enterprise of generating more and more hits, you know?)

Newbies to fandom and fanfic are often encouraged to go to AO3 and search the ship results by either hits or kudos to read “the best stories” first, and of course T&S is the first result either way.

But as a fic WRITER? Can I just speak for all of us when I say getting a comment that our story was “just as good as T&S” doesn’t really feel like a compliment? Most of us don’t WANT to think we’ve written an OOC Kill Your Queers tragedy porn, or to really be associated with it in any way.

Honestly, we need to stop hating ourselves this much.

#Anonymous #fandom problems #standard disclaimer blah blah blah

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