#I am so normal about Martyr can’t you tell? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wrenhyperfixates · 4 years ago

Text

Don’t Gotta Work it Out

Pairing: Loki x reader Summary: A particularly nasty fight rattles your relationship with Loki. Even as both of you wonder if you’re not meant to work things out, you long to be in each other’s arms. But can you make amenjds before your hope is gone? Warnings: mentions of depression; angst, some more angst, then a lot more angst, and finally a fluffy ending A/N: inspired by the song Don’t Gotta Work it Out by Fitz and the Tantrums. I’m experimenting with a new style, so flashbacks in italics! Hope you enjoy :)

Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiant @lunarmoon8 @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @lowkeyorlokificrecs @gaitwae @whatafuckingdumbass @castiels-majestic-wings @kozkaboi @cozy-the-overlord @birdgirl90 @myraiswack

Disclaimer: Gif not mine

Loki had signed himself up for the mission before the words even left Tony’s mouth. He didn’t care where he was going or what he was doing, just so long as he was away from you. You’d gotten into a fight—a bad one. Somehow, Loki’s way of dealing with it was running away. Whether that was because of pride, pettiness, or cowardice, he wasn’t really sure. Then again, he was avoiding thinking about it as much as possible.

“I have volunteered for a mission,” he told you, the sentence short and clipped as he entered your shared quarters. “I leave at midnight.”

“Oh,” you replied, rolling over on your bed so you were facing your boyfriend. He’d already grabbed his bag and started packing. “That’s nice.”

A small hum of acknowledgement was all he made in the way of a response. He perched on the edge of the bed as he tugged on his boots. Right as he finished with the last buckle and was making ready to stand, your arms suddenly encircled his waist. For a minute, the room was filled with hesitation and quiet breathing, a spell of tension only broken when Loki’s hand alighted on top of yours. Not to say everything was fixed between you two, but the anxious energy in the room calmed a bit.

“Just... Come back safe, ok?” you said, your voice so soft, it just barely registered in his mind.

“Alright,” he whispered back. Your forehead rested in between his shoulder blades, and his thumb involuntarily began rubbing small circles on your skin. “I will.”

How Loki wished for more, for the passionate kisses that you usually shared before a mission. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen now. It might even be wrong considering how mad you were at each other, everything you’d said. Though, if it really was wrong, Loki didn’t think he much would have minded; it still would have felt good. Felt normal. Not like whatever messed up situation you were in right now.

You and the trickster god had been dating for over a year and, as any couple would, had a few squabbles. But nothing like what you’d gone through the other day. Loki shuddered now, just thinking about it. It started out stupid, as these things tend to, but turned into something much more serious. He tried to push it from his mind as you placed a featherlight kiss to the base of his neck. Then you pulled away, hugging your knees to your chest. Now it was Loki’s turn to look at you. His hand hovered above your knee for a second before he lost his nerve and let it fall to the mattress.

“I have to go now,” he said. “Take care of yourself.”

You nodded, and Loki walked to the door, looking back at you one last time. You’d already rolled over so your back was to him again, but he could tell you were crying from the way you were breathing. It made his heart break, but all he could do was whisper a small “I love you” and hope you heard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh. You’re awake,” you said, entering your quarters.

“I am,” Loki replied, staring at the fire crackling in the hearth. There was an open book in his lap, and you couldn’t help but wonder how long ago he’d given up on reading in favor of a contemplative trance, looking at the flames. “And you are home now. Are we all caught up?”

“Ok, it’s past someone’s bedtime,” you answered him, catching on to the ice in his voice. “And no, we’re not all caught up. What’s wrong?”

“You could have invited me.”

You’d gone bowling with roughly half the team, only leaving a note for Loki so he knew where you were. You huffed as you tossed your keys onto the dresser. Leaning back on it, you surveyed his face, set in a harsh manner.

“Sorry,” you shrugged. “You were in the shower, and I knew you wouldn’t want to come, anyway.”

“And what if I did?”

“Then, sorry again. You can come next time.”

“Oh, can I now?”

You pushed off the dresser and walked over to him, rubbing his shoulders a little. He didn’t shake you off, but he didn’t relax at all either. You frowned and walked around to the front of the chair, planting yourself in his lap. His arms instinctively wrapped around you, but his face was still stuck in a scowl.

“What’s this really about?” you asked, resting your head on his shoulder.

“It hardly matters.”

You clenched your jaw a bit. You love Loki, but it’s hard to deal with him when he gets like this.

“If you’re going to brush it off,” you said, forcing a smile, “then don’t act so obviously upset and angry. I’m always here to talk, but if you’re not going to, then don’t pick a fight.”

“It seems to me you are the one picking a fight.”

“Yeah, ok. Whatever,” you snapped, standing up. You waited for him to clench his fists or give some sign he was feeling something, but he was as unreadable as ever. “I’ll just never have fun without you. Sound good?”

“You are blowing this out of proportion, darling,” he drawled. “You can calm down.”

“Oh, can I now?” you answered with a smug smile, the petty parts of you egging you on to parrot back his words from earlier.

He sprung up from his chair and approached you fast as lightning. It startled you, and you gasped, walking until your back was against the wall. Loki menaced over you, placing one hand next to your head. He made sure to leave the other side open so you could get away if you really wanted to. You didn’t, instead staring defiantly into his eyes.

“You should,” he growled. “Just invite me next time and drop this nonsense.”

“Wow,” you scoffed, crossing your arms as he made to spin away from you. “Just because no one’s ever cared to listen to you before doesn’t mean you get to make yourself a martyr.”

Your hands immediately flew to your mouth. Loki had shared everything about his past with you. Really and truly, every painful memory. Every ugly, gritty moment. You knew how much stuff like that damaged him. He spun back around, rage plain on his face, and a deep hurt lurking behind his eyes.

“Loki, I’m so sorry,” you said, rushing toward him. “I didn’t mean-”

He put up a hand to stop both your words and approach. “No. I think you did. It is my fault for believing a mortal of all beings could have any depth of understanding, of feeling. For thinking you could love me. The joke is on me, I suppose, hmm?”

He scoffed and stalked toward the door, refusing to let you see the tears in his eyes. He was yanking on the knob before you could even say his name again. The last thing he saw before slamming the door behind him was you crumpling on the ground in a sobbing mess. As he stomped down the hall, his own tears began to pour.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Loki, are you even trying to sleep?” Bruce asked from across the hotel room.

Tony had taken a room for himself and stuck Bruce and Loki together in an adjoining one. Thankfully, it had two beds, but Loki was still a little pissed. Honestly, he’d considered just skipping the hotel and going on a walk, a long walk. Instead, he was laying with his eyes open and glued to the ceiling, reliving the fight in his mind over and over again.

“Yes, Banner, I am,” the god huffed. “I am just not having any success.”

“Is there... something on your mind?” Bruce hesitantly asked. He and Loki were far from best friends, but he figured it would be considerate to ask.

“Actually, there is,” he sighed.

“Do you, uh, want to... talk about it?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “I suppose you are a doctor, after all.”

“Not that kind but-”

“My beloved and I have gotten into an argument, and now I am on this mission. So, we have not made up. I fear we never will.”

“Oh, come one. I’ve seen you two. How bad could it be?”

Loki sighed and sat up on the bed, recounting the story. He did his best to keep the tears out of his eyes and emotion out of his voice, and was met with far more success on the first front than the second.

“Yikes,” Bruce said when he finished. “I mean, they tried to say they didn’t mean it. And I’m sure you didn’t either. So maybe just try to talk?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe we are not supposed to work it out.”

“That’s crazy. Look at you right now; you can’t stop thinking about them.”

“And do you think they are thinking of me?”

“You know what, yeah. I do.”

Loki just mumbled his thanks and flipped onto his side so he was facing the wall now. Bruce went back to sleep, and Loki prayed that slumber would claim him. It did not, and he spent the whole night wishing for you. That he had never said those awful things. That he had never even been given the opportunity to know you, for if he didn’t, he never would have hurt you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You laid on the floor crying for hours. The notion that Loki would come back and wrap you in a hug and talk about what happened didn’t leave you be for hours. And then, all of a sudden, it did. Then you just felt empty and tired. Somehow, you managed to pick yourself up and drag yourself into bed, still in your clothes from the day. You waited another hour, still believing Loki would come back, if even just to lay beside you in the bed you shared and say nothing. When it became clear he wouldn’t, you submit to the tears still stinging the back of your eyes, and cried yourself to sleep.

Waking up the next morning, you didn’t immediately remember what had happened. You felt the empty space next to you where your boyfriend usually was. You listened for the running water of the shower that you could always hear on the mornings he wasn’t beside you. The silence was deafening.

“Loki?” you called out to the vacant room.

Only the echo of your voice answered you. Suddenly, the memory of the night before came crashing back into your mind. A strangled sob escaped your lips. You desperately looked around, frantically searching, begging, for some sort of sign that he’d returned in the night and had just left before you awakened. There was no indication that such a thing had happened.

Moving on autopilot, you found yourself in the shower. You tried to wash, but mainly just stood there and let the scalding spray run over you. Eventually, the stream turned cold as you used up the last of the warm water. You always enjoyed how plushy the towels in the Tower were, but you hardly noticed it as you dried off. Some water still dripping off you, you pulled on your robe. The mirror revealed that your eyes were still a little puffy from crying. Your pruny fingers touched the reddened skin, but you couldn’t be bothered to do anything to cover it up.

“You’re back,” you gasped, walking back out into the bedroom.

He was sitting in a chair, different from the one last night, this time actually reading the book he had. He looked so composed that it made you embarrassed by your appearance. You were sure he was just as much a mess on the inside as you were, though. At least you hoped he was.

“Mhm,” he replied. “And you are dripping on the carpet.”

You looked down where, surely enough, a small wet spot was gathering from the droplets rolling off your body. Everything was moving at half speed in your mind because of how drained you were, both physically and emotionally.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

He didn’t even really acknowledge it as he sidestepped around you and into the bathroom. A few seconds later, you heard the shower turn on. Summoning all your strength, you managed to get dressed for the day, encasing yourself in your most comfortable clothes. You looked at the door and considered getting something to eat, but the pull of your warm blankets was too great. The bed, devoid of your lover, reminded you too much of last night, though. You grabbed the blankets off and swaddled yourself in them on the couch. You tried to shut out the world and go back to sleep. It didn’t work.

“Darling?” Loki softly called as the bathroom door opened.

You wanted to reply, you really did, but it felt like too much effort to peel your eyes open and will your voice to work. So, you listened as he padded over to where you were. He sighed and left, leaving your quarters silent once more. You didn’t even have the energy left to cry.

Roughly ten minutes later, you heard the god come back in and set something on the coffee table. The aroma of pancakes, bacon, and tea flooded your senses seconds after, and you felt your heart somehow swell and break at the same moment. Loki’s hand softly touched your cheek and caressed it so gently, it seemed he was afraid you might break.

“Sleep well, my darling,” he whispered.

Loki kissed the top of your head as gently as he had touched your cheek, his damp hair tickling your skin. He stood up and, though you couldn’t see, felt him turn and look at you once more. Then the door closed, and the strength to cry returned to your body.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Please, Steve,” you beseeched. “Just tell me where he is.”

“I’m sorry, you know I can’t.” He truly did look hurt that he had to keep this from you, especially when he noticed the tears welling in your eyes. “It’s top secret.”

You were trying to figure out where Loki was, if he was ok. You should have asked him more about the mission; he would have told you where he was going, rules be damned. But you hadn’t, so he hadn’t, and now he’d been gone for three days with no word on when he’d return. You tried his cell phone, but Steve had at least informed you that they had to turn off anything that could be tracked for the mission.

You felt so awful about what you’d said, the guilt gnawing at your heart every minute of every day, every dream of every night. If he were to die before you could work it out... you just didn’t know what you would do. Even if you never made up, you just needed him to make it back safely. Maybe you didn’t have to work it out, shouldn’t. Maybe you were a toxic poison ruining his life. Refusing to cry in front of Steve, you pushed the thought from your mind.

“But he’s my boyfriend. Doesn’t that count for something more than the rules?” you pleaded, the look of desperation in your eyes only growing.

“Sorry, but it doesn’t. Look, it would be different if you were married. What I can tell you,” he said with a sigh, and a quick glance over his shoulder, “is that he’s alive and safe.”

“Thank you,” you sniffled. “I guess that’s something, at least. When will he be back?”

“Soon, ok?”

“Ok,” you sniffled again.

You trudged over to the couch in the common room, trying to spend time someplace other than your room for the first time since the fight. Besides quick meals, you’d just been moping in your quarters. The thought crossed your mind that you were probably depressed, that you should get up and exercise or move about. Despite the knowledge of that, you couldn’t actually muster up the willpower to act on it. Instead, you flipped on the TV and pulled the blanket hanging over the back of the sofa snugly around your shoulders. The voice of Gordon Ramsey faded into background noise as you stared out the window, foolishly and fruitlessly hoping that you’d see Loki’s ship flying in.

“Monday,” Steve sighed, setting a mug of hot chocolate on a coaster for you.

“What?” you asked, slightly bewildered after abruptly being pulled from your trance.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you, but Loki’s coming back on Monday.” Steve sat beside you and comfortingly pat your back as you expressed your gratitude. “Can I give you some advice, though?”

“Please.”

“Whatever happened between you two, you can work it out. I promise.”

“I just feel so bad, Steve. I said something horrible that I never should have.” You bit your lip before continuing, nervous you were oversharing. The way your companion was sympathetically nodding his head, however, urged you on. “And then he said something awful too. And now he’s gone, and no one will even tell me where to find him. Maybe it’s a sign that we shouldn’t work it out. That we’re not right for each other.”

“Come on, that’s just the fear talking. I know sometimes the team grumbles about you guys, but it’s only because you’re so sweet together.” He waited for some sign of recognition that what he was saying was true to click on your face before continuing. “Take it from me, you don’t want to let an opportunity to pass you by; even more so when it comes to being with someone you love. You have to make the most of every moment. But you also have to be willing to work through your disagreements, even if they’re particularly bad. Heck, especially then.”

“Thanks, Steve.” You managed a smile. It was small, but it was also the first one that had made its way onto your face in nearly a week. Not only did you realize you had great friends surrounding you, but you felt a spark of hope that you could repair things with Loki. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. Now, want to come for a training session? Take your mind off things for a bit?”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m still not really feeling up to it. But soon, I promise,” you added when a flash of worry danced across his face.

He gave a nod and one final friendly pat on the shoulder, then was off. You went back to staring out the window, now gently sipping on your cocoa. It was still a bit too hot, and it burnt your tongue a little. You knew you should wait until it cooled, but the pain kept you tethered to the earth instead of floating away. You also knew what Loki would say to that so, after a few more sips, you set it down to let it become a more drinkable temperature. As you waited, you let your mind be filled with thoughts of Loki, wondering if he was thinking of you too. Soon, your eyes were drooping shut, and you succumbed to dreams of happier times with your beloved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the day passed much the same, with you pretending to be asleep. Loki knew you were awake at some point, at least, to eat the food he’d brought. Otherwise, he would have flown into a panic that his little mortal was unwell. Or, more unwell than just in an emotional sense, anyway. There was one point where he saw your eyes crack open and look at him as he sat nearby, switching between reading and thinking. You didn’t say anything, though, so neither did he.

“Brother?” Thor said, knocking at the door. “Are you two in there?”

Loki rushed to the door and, opening it, shushed the God of Thunder. He gently closed the door behind him as not to wake you, thinking you may really be asleep now.

“We are, brother,” he whispered. “Why?”

“The team has not seen either of you all day. Is everything alright? Are either of you ill? Or perhaps you’re just having fun in there?” Thor playfully elbowed his brother in the ribs and suggestively wiggled his eyebrows. “Oh, and why are we whispering?”

“Because my beloved is sleeping.” Loki felt a prick of fear in his heart. Maybe he had lost the privilege of calling you his beloved. “We are ok. Relatively.”

“Relatively?”

“Yes. We... We had a fight,” Loki exhaled. “It was not pretty.”

“But you are going to work it out, right?” Thor sighed when Loki said nothing. “Oh, come on, brother. You must talk to them.”

“I will. At some point.”

With some final words of encouragement, Thor let his brother be. Loki took a deep breath and reentered his room. You were sitting up on the couch, twiddling with your thumbs, eyes cast down. He tentatively sat at the end by your feet. Elbows on his knees, he buried his head in his hands.

“Well,” he said to the floor, “are we going to talk about it?”

He felt you flinch at how angry he sounded, while he mentally kicked himself for the same reason. He peeked out from behind his hands, trying to compose himself so he could speak to you in a calm voice.

“I mean,” you said, “if that’s what you want.”

“Oh, and you do not want it?” he snapped, silently cursing himself again.

“Please,” you scoffed, “don’t do anything for my sake.”

Now you were both angry at yourselves, and completely honestly, the other too. When it became clear neither of you was going to say anything else, Loki stood to leave. He spun back around when he heard you mumble something under your breath.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he said in a too-sweet voice, making the pet name sound more like a threat or a mockery than anything else. “I did not quite get that. Would you like to speak up?”

“Yeah,” you snarled, this time loud enough for him to hear. “I said, ‘so you’re really just gonna walk out again, huh?’”

“Oh, allow me to apologize. I must have been making myself a martyr again, hmm? Was that not what you said last night? Or perhaps that was just me blowing things out of proportion again?” He looked down at you as a panic flooded every inch of your body. Loki wanted to stop, but his floodgates had been opened. “But I thought that no one cared to listen to me. Again, I do believe those are your words, not mine.”

“That’s not- I didn’t- I’m not-” you struggled to form a coherent sentence. “I didn’t mean that!”

“No? But it is what you said. Perhaps it was that ever condemning Freudian slip of the tongue? Or do you think yourself so special, mortal, that you care? For I know no one else ever has; I did not need you to tell me that,” he spat.

“You know what?” you laughed without mirth. “You’re right, this isn’t what I want.”

Loki knew he’d pushed too far. His voice grew immensely softer as he spoke again. Not in a kind way, but in a way that showed he was afraid.

“And what exactly, do you mean by ‘this’?”

“This, what we’re doing now. I don’t know what it is, but if it’s your way of talking about what’s wrong and working it out, it’s not what I want. I guess you should just go, Loki.”

Loki hated himself. No, that wasn’t strong enough. He loathed himself, utterly and completely. He slammed the door behind him, and immediately sank back against it, falling to the floor. Neither of you heard the other’s sobs over your the sound of your own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Though Monday was only two days after Steve told you it would be the date of Loki’s arrival, it felt like years elapsed in those forty-eight hours. By some miracle that, you thought with a tiny laugh, Loki would have said was thanks to the Norns, you managed to get yourself into a presentable state. Shower? Check. Teeth brushed? Check. Eyes normal and not red from crying? As checked as it could be.

Steve had promised that he’d get Loki to go to your room straight away. You figured if you two were going to have it out again, it should be in private. Though, you were hoping it would go a great deal better than last time. You could only hope that some time and space was all the two of you would need to finally work through this.

Your breath hitched in your throat as the doorknob turned and Loki shuffled in. The door softly clicked shut behind him, and you tried to quell your worry that your conversation would end with him slamming it again. He dropped his bag at his feet, and for a second, the world stopped. You just looked at each other, both too afraid to end the moment of peace.

“I am back,” he gently said, opening his arms to you.

You took a single hesitant step forward before fully launching yourself into his arms. He caught you with surprising grace, and though he seemed unsure of himself, calmly rubbed your back.

“Can we... Can we try again?” you asked, pulling back enough so you could look into his beautiful, blue-green eyes. “The working things out, I mean. Can we try that again?”

“Yes, my darling.” The pet name had returned to something more gentle, holding the usual care and affection it did. “I’d love nothing more.”

Hand in hand, you walked toward the couch. This time you sat with bodies angling towards each other, already starting off on a high note. It made both of you feel the other was much more willing to listen to what you had to say.

“Shall I start?” he asked, cupping your cheek.

“No, I want to go first.” Your hand rested on top of his and you leaned into his touch. “If that’s alright with you?”

“It is. Please, speak your mind, my sweet.”

You took a steadying breath before you began. “Look, I’m so sorry for what I said. I was frustrated, and I lashed out. But that’s no excuse for it. I never in a million years should have said what I did. It was wrong and insensitive. And I do care for you so, so much on so, so many different levels. I’m sorry I ever made you doubt that. I will spend every day of the rest of my life reassuring you that I love you, Loki. I love you.”

“I accept your apology, and I love you, too.” A single tear rolled down his cheek, but you knew it was from happiness. After all, several tears of the same emotion had fallen down your own cheeks. “Now, it is my turn to say I am sorry. I was unreceptive, pushy, snappy, and cruel. I should not have responded in that manner, and I should have been more open to working through the problem. My insecurities got the better of me, but I promise I will try to keep them at bay. Because I have you, darling, and I love you. And I have no doubt that you do feel the same.”

“I forgive you, too, Loki. I’m ready to put this behind us if you are.”

“Absolutely I am,” he replied, smiling—really smiling—for what felt like the first time in a century. “And, if I may be so bold, I do believe we have a week’s worth of kisses to make up for.”

“The math checks out,” you giggled, leaning in. “I certainly wouldn’t be opposed if you wanted to start playing catch up now.”

“It is like you have read my mind.”

You gave him one quick peck on the lips before he pulled you flush against him and kissed you like there was no tomorrow. Maybe it was because he’d been so worried that there wouldn’t be. But, in the end, there was. Because you worked it out. Because you loved each other. Because you were two hearts connected as one in the crazy journey called life. And you’d always find a way to work through your differences. For, deep down, you both knew you were meant to be together, would always find your way back to each other. There was nothing either of you believed more, and you’d never doubt it again.

354 notes · View notes

bentforkent · 4 years ago

Text

milk & honey

(penelope garcia x spencer reid)

i wrote this within the past hour because i wanted to read it. be the change you want to see in the world <3

word count: 1,108

content warning: SMUT 18+!!! mommy kink, non-sexual BDSM a little, size kink kinda, small cock spence <3, handjob

in which spencer can’t sleep and penelope knows just the thing to help

Spencer pads out to the living room, sweaty and disheveled. Silently, he moves to stand behind Penelope’s desk chair, just standing there, rubbing at his eyes and sniffling.

Penelope, noticing his presence pretty quickly, turns to him, pausing her video game. Her pink headphones are pulled off of her ears and set down on her desk. “What’s wrong, baby?” she asks him kindly.

It’s not alarming that he’s awake, really, but definitely out of character. Spencer crawls into bed every night at 9 o’clock sharp, where he reads and reads until his eyelids hang low and he falls asleep. Penelope can’t even count how many times she’s pulled books from his hand or removed his glasses gently.

It’s nearing 1 AM now, and typically, Spencer would be fast asleep, dreaming of dinosaurs and kittens and lunches with Ray Bradbury. But here he is, standing nearly naked in front of Penelope, covered in a thin layer of sweat, briefs hanging low on his hips. His normally slicked-down hair is messy and soft. He’s so endearing, and Penelope can’t help but reach for his hips and tug him closer to her, inviting him to stand between her legs.

“I can’t sleep,” he says through an impossibly sweet pout.

“I see that, my love.” Penelope grins up at him, trying to lighten his mood, but he’s sleepy and he’s grumpy and instead of humoring her with a soft smile, he knuckles at his eyes in response.

Penelope coos at him, and it only serves to make him more upset. “What does my baby need right now, hm?”

Spencer huffs, trying to pull away from her embrace. “Nothing,” he mumbles. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Oh, don’t be a martyr, Spence,” Penelope says, pressing a gentle kiss to his lower stomach. She ushers him to the couch, parting the sea of throw pillows to give him a place to settle.

“Sit,” she tells him very seriously, then rushes to the kitchen to make him a tea of some sort. Usually, Spencer is the one making her a tea, so she’s a little bit out of her element, but how hard can it really be? Her first task is finding a mug--they’ve got quite the collection, the pair of them, but she chooses a clearly handmade one with the moon painted onto the side. Then, it’s all just water, tea, milk, and honey.

When she comes back, Spencer’s staring off into the distance, eyes glazed over and tired, playing with the tassels on the bright blue pillow next to him. She offers him the drink, and he accepts with both hands, taking a tiny sip.

In a small, very polite voice, he says, “Thank you, mommy,” and Penelope melts.

It’s silent for the next few seconds, but Penelope can tell Spencer is thinking. His brow furrows ever so slightly, and his head tilts almost imperceptibly. “Can I have a kiss?” he asks.

“Baby, you don’t even have to ask,” Penelope gushes, gently setting his mug onto the coffee table and kissing over his face repeatedly. I love you, I love you, I love you, she murmurs, and it’s soothing Spencer, definitely, but also working him up. The whole reason he couldn’t sleep in the first place was because he jolted awake around midnight, hard and leaky, but he was too embarrassed to tell Penelope that. And he wouldn’t. He was hoping the problem would just go away, but as Penelope is sitting right here next to him, kissing him so tenderly, he abandons that possibility.

It’s when Penelope places an innocent kiss on Spencer’s jawline that he slips up, bucking his hips up into her with a whine. He flushes bright red, and Penelope pulls away from his body with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, I see what this is all about,” she says.

Spencer covers his face with both of his hands. “Mommy,” he whispers.

“I know,” Penelope agrees with a chuckle, tugging at his wrists gently. “Let me see your face, baby.” He peeks one eye out and Penelope continues, “I think if you let me take care of your little cock you’ll sleep a lot better. What do you think, my sweet love?”

Spencer nods eagerly. “Yes, yes please.”

Penelope nods, pressing a firm kiss to his neck. She runs her hand down his torso slowly before pulling his underwear down just enough to pull his cock out. Spencer hisses at the contact, and Penelope gives him a sympathy pout in response.

“Spit,” she requests, holding out her hand. Sheepish, Spencer spits into her hand, watching intently as she wets his cock, trying to hold back a moan. She makes a loop with her index finger and thumb around the base of him, causing him to let out a soft whine.

“Look at this pretty little cock,” she says sincerely, working her fingers over him skillfully. “So small and pretty and all hard just for me.” She’s talking to herself, mostly, because Spencer’s eyes are screwed shut and he’s babbling far too loud to hear anything but himself.

“Mommy,” he whimpers, reveling in how nice her hand feels on him.

“I know, baby,” Penelope replies. “Feels good, hm?”

“Mommy, mommy, mommy,” he says, like a mantra, and then his legs are stiffening straight out and he’s bucking his hips up and he’s cumming, a generous spurt over Penelope’s hand.

“Good boy,” she tells him, holding her hand up to his mouth. He pulls her fingers into his mouth, partly to clean his mess off of them and partly to soothe him. They sit like that for a little, enjoying being close to each other. When Spencer’s eyelids are sufficiently hooded, and he hums around Penelope’s fingers, they stand together.

Penelope tugs his briefs back up his legs and pats him gently on the ass, sending him towards the bedroom. When he’s finally snuggled into the sheets, Penelope leans over and kisses his forehead softly.

“I love you, sweet boy,” she tells him very matter-of-factly.

“I love you too,” he says, straining up to kiss her lips gently. “Come to bed soon.”

#ta-daaaaa #garceid #penelope garcia x spencer reid #spencer reid smut #penelope garcia smut #spencer reid #penelope garcia #criminal minds #cm #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fluff #idk tagging is so annoying

207 notes · View notes

retvenkos · 3 years ago

Text

Grishaverse Deep Dive: The Darkling is a Character that lives in a Society.

((spoilers for ALL of the grishaverse))

Ah, yes, Shadow and Bone season 2 is gearing up, the birds are singing, I have a cup of earl grey tea before me - it is finally time to sit down to talk about the Darkling, and explain his tenuous relationship with the Grishaverse.

The Darkling is a character greatly contested. When simply looking at his motivations, we see a rift in the fandom. Add in his backstory and it fractures even more. When you pepper in the third ingredient of his relationship with Alina, you get an entire war. The Darkling is a divisive character. He gets under our skin and lingers for days afterwards.

I am going to take you on a deep dive of the Darklings character, and try to tease apart the problems that lie within the creation of his character. Why were so many fans betrayed by his ending? How did he muddle the messages of Shadow and Bone, and why is his ending so complicated that it satisfies very few? Today, we’re going to look at The Problem of the Darking: An Essay in Six Parts.

A little history lesson;

So first, allow me to take you back in time, to 2012, when Shadow and Bone was first released.

Two years prior, The Hunger Games Trilogy had finished coming out and, in a rather stunning turn of events, shifted the popular Y.A. category from the genre of the paranormal romance (thank you, Stephanie Meyer) to the dystopian society.

Now, this is not to say that there weren’t dystopian stories prior to The Hunger Games, or that there weren’t paranormal romances in the Y.A. genre afterward. Both have survived, but the boom of dystopian stories and the whimper of paranormal romance was definitely felt.

So 2012 hits. In comes Shadow and Bone, in a time where we have some interesting precedents that our Y.A. forefathers created:

Firstly, let’s talk about themes.

Carried over from both genres, is this idea of duality. There is light and there is dark, and whether or not there is a middle ground is up to the author. As the Y.A. target audience is quite large, there’s a lot to be said for how nuanced this idea can be. In many stories, it’s a nail on the head. In others, the lines are a little more blurred. In most stories, you get some semblance of Good = Light, Bad = Shadow. In the end, the ultimate goal is to embrace one or the other. At the end of the series, we’re either in the midday sun or the midnight darkness. The peak of the story leaves very little middle ground.

Then, brought over from the dystopian genre, we have the idea that The Current Regime is Bad for insidious reasons, and it needs to be torn down and built anew. This is often the main focus of dystopian stories, and our main characters are revolutionaries that see the world in a new, free light.

Finally, a trap of the Y.A. category is it’s simplistic idea of good and bad. Again, we hark back to the vast target age range, and you can see why this would be so prevalent. There is very little by way of morally grey, in the Y.A. category, and if there is moral greyness, it almost always falls into two categories: (1) it is held by the main character alone, and that is why we root for them, or (2) it is martyred and killed. Moral greyness is either the Ushering of a New Era, or The Ideal that Could Not Be. If greyness is to survive, it must exist in the main character who, readers hope, will usher in a new dawn of peace (and light moral greyness) either through their small acts of love (the angel loving the demon) or in large displays of change (the morally grey character rising to be ruler).

These are all themes we expect to be present in Shadow and Bone. And for the most part, they are!

But now let’s talk about character tropes.

Carried over from the paranormal romance, we have the introduction of the “Othered” love interest. This character has a condition that sets him apart from others, and (whether it be vampire, demon, werewolf, etc.) is so prevalent that he cannot fit in. And because of his differences, he has been shunned by Society. This character, notably, is not the “light” or “pure” paranormal figure - he is not the angel - but rather, the demon. The angel would be able to slip into society (presumably because his goodness grants him some kind of godly camouflage). The demon cannot. He doesn’t fit in, and he never can. This creates tension in him, and so he shuns others just as hard as they shun him - he has done so for a very long time until he meets our main character, who gets close to him and breaks down his walls. This character is often the eventual love interest, for reasons that will become apparent later.

Sometimes carried over from the paranormal romance is the idea that the main character is secretly an “other in hiding” (an angel without her wings, etc.). This creates a bond between the “Othered” love interest and the main character - a bond that can’t be deteriorated once it’s been made, because the main character can’t be un-Othered. They can’t take back the forbidden knowledge they’ve obtained. If this character pops up, the “Othered” love interest is almost always chosen, if he exists.

The dystopian genre has a branching version of this trope, as there is almost always a healthy amount of othering. The main character usually comes from a group of people that is Othered from Society, but our main character is even more unique/different from their “Othered group.” This “specially Othered” character is superpowered in that they can navigate both “Othered” Society and “normal” Society. They can be the go-between.

Sometimes found in the paranormal romance is the “normal” or stereotypical character. This is the average human - the character that doesn’t understand the “Othered” love interest, and wants the main character to go back to the way things were before. This character can sometimes make up the other leg of the love triangle and become a love interest. Other times, it’s a family member or a friend or even an abstract ideal. The point of this character, however, is to show the main character that they can’t go back to the way things were. Too much has happened. Too much has been discovered.

All of this is to say that when Shadow and Bone came out, audiences had expectations with long standing. It is safe and fair to say that the Darkling was set up as a character to be viewed in a certain light, and then the rug was pulled out beneath fans, who had already invested so much in his character.

Shadow and Bone: The characters that Don’t Fit;

So now let’s look at Shadow and Bone in the scope of history and audience expectation. Let’s look at the characters as well as the Grishaverse, in broad terms.

The Darkling is, in the first half of Shadow and Bone, the stereotypical “Othered” love interest. He can summon shadows, which is remarkably different from the other powers of Grisha, and his “forefathers” have done terrible things with this power, making him not only an other in talent but an other in animosity and fear.

In comes Alina, and she is a perfect fit for the main character being an “other in hiding” as well as a “specially Othered” character. She was otkazat’sya before she realized she was Grisha, and she is seen as the go-between for these two different worlds - she can bring them together. Furthermore, she is stronger than your average Grisha - distinct from all others, excepting the Darkling.

Alina is understood by the Darkling. She is discovering parts of herself that she didn’t know she had. This is all decidedly Good, and the romance that is forming is living up to reader expectation.

We also have an interesting occurence of duality. Alina, with her light, is the equal and opposite to the Darkling and his shadow. Together, they have limitless power, a common goal, and perhaps a purifying dynamic as Alina can “save” the Darkling. Her light can banish his shadows.

History is leading us to believe they are the endgame ship.

This is only inculcated when you have Mal, who is the “normal” character. Through the framing of the story (not seeing Mal, holding on to him only causing Alina to not reach her full potential), we see that the love story with Mal is the Romance That Cannot Be. They are fated to be apart due to the tropes that readers know and understand.

But then the second half of the book kicks in, The Darkling is proven to have been manipulating Alina, things go South, and readers are left unaware of what’s coming next. In this moment, the theme of The Current Regime is Bad slaps readers across the face.

So let’s take a second to look at The Current Regime is Bad, because how the Darkling and his motives exist in that tempest is thought provoking, to say the least.

The Darkling is, decidedly, a part of The Current Regime. He is a general and close to the King, after all. He is a part of this life... and yet he is not. Remember that The Darkling is our “Othered” character. He cannot be a part of The Current Regime because he is shunned by it. And yet, he is tied to it like a prisoner.

The reader thinks: is the Darkling bad? He is shown to be a part of Society. He wants the war to continue - he doesn’t want to tear down the Fold.

As the reader is grappling with this revelation, we are told (in the same book!) that the Darkling is actually not a part of The Current Regime (which is Bad), but rather, had been working against it.

Okay.

So now the reader thinks that since Society is Bad, and the Darkling is against it, he and Alina do have a common goal, and his status as a love interest can be saved. He can be redeemed as a character because Alina can purify his methods, then together they can get rid of the current regime, and they can be Others together.

It’s a solid thought process. After all, the “Othered” characters have been consistently good at heart, and Alina can redeem him. We still have a bad guy to take down - and it’s not the Darkling.

But...

Leigh Bardugo decides that is not the story she wants to tell, and she has to pull out some literary gymnastics to give us an explanation. The idea is, no, the Darkling is Bad and his “Othered” status is not relevant because it doesn’t justify his actions. He is a part of a radical portion of The Current Regime and is just as Bad.

Enter Nikolai Lantsov, who can take over The Current Regime, because as the reader is constantly reminded, Alina no longer wants novelty - she wants normalcy (which is represented by none other than Malyen Oretsev).

So, what does all of this mean? The Darkling decidedly Doesn’t Fit into any of the currently accepted (and expected) tropes of the Y.A. genre. This, on its own, is not inherently Bad or Wrong, but you can see how readers were thrown and consistently, ideas were stretched to fit the simplistic ideas of good and bad that run rampant through the Y.A. category.

The Darkling: What We Left Behind;

We have all heard the critique that the most frustrating thing about the Shadow and Bone Trilogy is how the treatment of Grisha is never fixed. It’s mentioned, but it’s never addressed.

To play the Devil’s Advocate, I am going to tell you all that this problem was never fixed because it was never part of Alina’s Narrative. As I will now attempt to point out, The Darkling is an ill suited antagonist for Alina’s story.

As I like to joke with my friends, the Darkling is an Adult Fantasy character inside of a Y.A. Fantasy story. He cannot be properly served because the story does not fit him, and it doesn’t really try.

Y.A. stories are incredibly focused. There is usually a lot going on in the wider story, but the reader is confined to one point of view and one narrative. This is why the main character is always leading rebellions and fighting in the thick of things. In order to address the problems of the wider narrative, the main character needs to be pretty front and center with the problems.

Alina is at the center of an inner conflict of power vs. normalcy. She is not at the center of the Grisha’s problems.

Time and again, we see that Alina largely doesn’t care about how terribly Grisha are treated, as a whole. She has moments of clarity where she is angry (notably the scene in Ruin and Rising where the nations’ treatment of Grisha is described in detail), but her remorse doesn’t really extend past sympathy. In the end, she still does nothing to save Grisha.

Alina is a terrible hero when matched to the problems the Darkling is trying to solve. She doesn’t understand their full breadth, having not grown up with them, and she doesn’t want to fix them.

The Problem of The Darkling is that he is a character with problems and motivations that get shrinked and discarded because they do not fit into the Alina Narrative.

Alina’s story is about three things: (1) learning that a lust for power is bad and only corrupts; (2) tearing down the Fold, which is the representation of lusty power; and (3) returning to normalcy. (If you’re wondering why Mal is a rough™ character, it’s because he’s supposed to be the ideal of normalcy, that Alina both wants but can’t have as long as she seeks the amplifiers.) The Grisha don’t factor into that equation.

Alina doesn’t have a solution for giving the Grisha a safe existence where they won’t be sold into slavery, won’t be persecuted by the world, and won’t be forever Othered. She stumbles upon the vague promise of fixing the last of those problems when she runs into Nikolai (purely by chance, or, if you want to stretch it, The Darklings machinations). Furthermore, she doesn’t want to do any of that - she wants normalcy, remember? Her story isn’t going to be saving the Grisha - that’s not what it’s about.

The Darklings entire character motivations focus on all of the plot points that Alina doesn’t hit. He wan’t to make a safe existence for Grisha, he wants Grisha to no longer be persecuted and Othered. How is he going to do it? By ugly means, yes, but he’s going to achieve it nonetheless.

The Darkling has motivations that are not addressed in the Shadow and Bone Trilogy. They aren’t what the story is about, or what the story chooses to focus on. His story is a braided narrative that is too complicated for the simplistic, black and white story that the Shadow and Bone Trilogy is.

So here’s the problem: the story insists the Darkling is the bad guy, but he can’t possibly be the bad guy if his intentions are Good, and there is no other way. Until Alina finds another way, he is a martyr - he is the Starless Saint. The Saint who was misguided, sure, but the only Saint who tried to solve things.

The Darkling is not fit for Shadow and Bone. His story and what he advocated for isn’t resolved by the end of the trilogy. So when he dies, it feels unearned. It’s tragic - and perhaps there is some beauty in that tragedy, or some lesson to be learned about how you cannot justify evil means for a good end - but it feels undeserved. His problems aren’t addressed. He is defeated, but his cause and his essence aren’t put to sleep.

King of Scars: A Cause Without Its Martyr;

Which leads us to the Nikolai duology.

Like I said - The Darklings’ problems are forgotten in Alina’s narrative. So what happens when we break out of that point of view? After a brief (and iconic) interim with the Crows, we are back in Ravka and the Grisha are still struggling with the problems that Shadow and Bone failed to address. Ravka is still dying, but now that we have gotten rid of a reluctant cast of characters and have made distance from the trope-heavy Shadow and Bone, we are better equipped to save her.

But here’s a question - can we ignore the man who pioneered these problems in favor of a more palatable cast? Can we not address the Darkling while picking up the sword he used?

Leigh Bardugo needs to reclaim the Grisha Problem by stealing it from the Darkling’s grasp. That proves to be difficult, given that we’ve killed him and have given him a tragically beautiful death. Absence has made the heart grow fonder, and in his final moments, the Darkling was not the evil Shadow Summoner but rather Alexander Morozova - the boy within. Readers (even those who didn’t like the Darkling) might be more endeared to him now that everything is said and done.

We need to separate the Darkling from his cause.

Enter the Cult of the Starless Saint and the Condemnation of the Starless.

To remind readers that the Darkling is bad, Leigh Bardugo does a few things. Firstly, she has her characters repeatedly condemn the Darkling. On one hand, it makes sense and feels genuine. On the other hand, it can be a little excessive. Sometimes, the vehemence reads like what it is - Leigh Bardugo is giving us reasons to hate the Darkling again. Add on the fact that Nikolai’s monster is Bad and one of few remnants of the Darkling still surviving, and you get a lot of hate.

Except, ah! The more we talk about the Darkling, the more we are reminded of what he stood for!

So we have to strip him of that - we have to take his legacy and drag it through the mud. Thus, we create The Cult of the Starless Saint. They represent the Darklings legacy and status in history - were his intentions Good Enough to grant him mercy? To give him Sainthood?

Spoiler alert: They are not. Not as portrayed by the Cult of the Starless Saint.

The Cult is a laughing stock. They don’t have a stance of the Grisha, they’re worship of the Darkling is meant to be seen as mocking Alina’s sacrifice, and the main priest readers interact with is the receiving end of a slew of jokes. They don’t care about anything the Darkling cared for, and they don’t really want to help Grisha. This is done to muddy the waters - if the people who emulate the Darkling are selfish and without cause, well... the Darkling clearly wasn’t Good. They just think his shadow powers were cool and want him to be a Saint. They exist to slander the Darkling.

So now we have separated the Darkling from his cause, and the story continues. The Darkling is Bad. He doesn’t have a legacy. His cause is passed on to others.

But (because we’re Delta airlines and life is a f*cking nightmare) it doesn’t end there. We bring the Darkling back from the dead.

*long sigh*

Resurrection? The Curse of a Second Life;

I have wracked my brain for many an evening, trying to give reason as to why we brought the Darkling back. The obvious answer is for his role at the end of Rule of Wolves - we need him to hold the rift of the Making at the Heart of the World together. However, when Leigh Bardugo introduces real Saints, he’s not needed. Suddenly, we have a slew of characters who could do the same. Furthermore, part of why this rift exists is because the Darkling was brought back. If he is both the cause and the solution, the conflict didn’t need to be there in the first place - especially considering how inconsequential it was to the narrative.

If I had to pin a reason as to why we brought the Darkling back, it was simply to further push the Darkling from his original motivation. He comes back and... doesn’t do much. He doesn’t seem to have the same care for Grisha, he has watered down character traits, and he largely does nothing. The Darkling in the Nikolai Duology is Not The Darkling because he’s a shell of the character he used to be.

Bringing him back from the dead was unsatisfying, and it weakens his original ending. As I have mentioned in other posts, the Darkling coming back cheapens whatever meaning readers gleaned from his ending. The Darkling is resurrected and he doesn’t truly seem to care about anything - which is the direct opposite of what the Darkling has been shown to be.

The Darkling has been bastardized in any appearance he’s made after The Demon in the Wood, and ultimately, it leads to a rather anticlimactic end for such a distinctive, hallmark character.

But let’s really quick establish why the sacrifice the Darkling makes at the end of this book is unfulfilling.

Because, in the final moments of Rule of Wolves, the Darkling gets his moment of penance and sacrifice - he chooses to hold the rift. It’s said he will have to hold it for eternity. You would thing that this would leave an impact!

However, as is, this ending leaves much to be desired for a few reasons:

The Darkling has been so far removed from his character, that when he states, “Everything I did, I did for Ravka,” it feels... incorrect? It sounds like the hollow, misguided claims of a tyrant king, because for an entire Duology, the Darkling has been bastardized and has been the cause of a blight that is killing Ravka. His presence is actively killing the country he claims to serve, and as for actions, he has done very little for Ravka, and nothing for the Grisha. The last time he did anything of substance was before Six of Crows!

None of the characters present for his sacrifice have any sympathy for the Darkling. The Darkling chooses to sacrifice himself, and we get no emotional closure. Alina isn’t there to whisper his name and mourn him, and while Zoya gets the glimmer of weak pity, we have much reason to believe that Zoya mostly feels disenchanted because he will be praised as a martyr and not hated as the evil man she knew him to be (more on that here). There isn’t sympathy so much as there is bitterness and the semblance of the remnants of tattered respect shining in the dim light.

The final chapter of Rule of Wolves tells us that it’s all going to be made inconsequential in the coming books, when they are going to replace the Darkling with something else. The Darkling won’t even get his full sacrifice, because he is undeserving of a redemptive act of selflessness.

So now, where do we leave the Darkling? For two books, we have separated him from his initial cause, watered down his character and motivations, and given him ends that are largely unsatisfying.

We’ve actually started to fix the Grisha problem, and there’s something interesting to be said in that it’s fixed by Zoya Nazyalensky, who goes up through the chain of command in a very similar fashion as to how the Darkling planned. She was a General, and then she became Queen of Ravka - the acting monarch, no less - with a beloved public figure on her arm (which, in the Darkling’s case, would have been Alina).

So I am left to wonder - was the lesson, then, indeed, that you cannot justify evil means for a good end? Was the moral of the Darkling all along about how you must be good throughout - with good acts and good intentions - in order to make change and be revered for it? If so, why did Leigh Bardugo slander the Darkling retroactively, the way she did?

If the problem was his actions and not his intentions, why insist that his intentions were devoid of meaning, as well?

Aleksander Morozova: What We Buried;

Now, you all knew I was going to get here eventually, and if you’ve made it, congrats. We are now talking about the emotion behind the deed, the man behind the monster, the boy swallowed by the shadows.

I believe it is pivotal to understand that Leigh Bardugo has always wanted us to struggle with our feelings over the Darkling. She wanted a character that you could sympathize with, she wanted a character with humanity, and she wanted a reason for his villainy. I think that Shadow and Bone, for all of its failings, gave us that. There’s a reason why there is such a big divide over the Darkling in the original trilogy. He was a compelling character! Somewhere along the way, Leigh Bardugo lost that nuance of her own character. At some point, she resorted to stripping him of his meaning and slandering his image.

Perhaps I am playing the Devil’s Advocate again, but I believe this was intentionally done.

Because one has to ask - why slander the Darkling? A large portion of the fanbase already hates him, so cheapening his character is doing nothing for them other than giving them sweet vindication, which is unnecessary and only disenchants the other half of your audience. There has to be some deeper reasoning. Leigh Bardugo wanted this character to be sympathetic, so why, now, does she want him to be two-dimensional?

Once more, I am asking you to think back to the original trilogy. What was the main moral? That power, no matter how good-intentioned the pursuit of it is, corrupts. What is the Darklings purpose of coming back again if not to simply have power? He certainly shows no other motive than lusty greed, after being resurrected.

And even if we ignore his lust for power, as he so willingly gives it up to Zoya Nazyalensky in the end of Rule of Wolves, we have two other corrupting forces that could account for the degradation of his character - time, and death.

We know the Darkling to have lived for eons, and he would have continued to live on for an eternity more. There is nothing like time to truly corrupt a character’s vision, and there is nothing like death and resurrection to husk a character.

In fact, if Mal’s character did anything of importance when it comes to effecting the Darkling, it lies in the epilogue of Ruin and Rising, where it is stated that “the boy and the girl had both known loss.” Mal’s loss is equated to Alina being stripped of her power - that is the power of having died, and being forcefully brought back to life. That is a vague basis for which we readers can compare what it must have been like for the Darkling to come back - even if he is so desensitized to feeling, that he doesn’t remark on it himself.

But let’s keep chugging on.

When we first met the Darkling in 2012 Shadow and Bone, he was unfeeling. He was cold and harsh. There was something beneath the surface, yes, but there were thick sheets of ice in the way. You had to mine for it. Time had already warped the actions of his intentions. It’s expected that time would continue to do its damage, and when he is revived in King of Scars, his intentions are warped as well. He is nothing of the person he used to be other than memories and power. That is why, at the end of Rule of Wolves, when he states that he did everything for Ravka, it feels hollow - that was once true, but the Darkling has even lost that. He has the vague impression of it, but nothing you can sink your teeth into.

I think, had this idea been looked at in deeper depth, it would have been a far more compelling story. Had Rule of Wolves really dedicated itself to showing the Darkling’s conflict of his current apathy, and the knowledge that there was once a time he possessed meaning, we could have found the marrow of his arc. If the book had made an allusion to this concept, his character would have been more satisfying. But as it stands, the Darkling is just degraded in the later books, and unless you really search for meaning, there isn’t any.

And perhaps, if the Darkling had been a different character - a character who, at his core, was more unfeeling - the way we left him would feel okay.

But while The Darkling was harsh and cruel, Aleksander Morozova wasn’t, and that’s what has us all hung up on his character.

If you haven’t read The Demon in the Wood for whatever reason, do yourself a favor and read that instead of revisiting the show’s version of his villain origin story. The show made the Darkling far less compelling by showing him as the grief stricken Black Heretic, rather than the boy within. When we meet Aleksander, he is a boy who is afraid of the world, who has never belonged in it or with others, and who is, ultimately, afraid of himself. With his mother, Baghra, he has taken on a thousand names and traveled a thousand places, and all the while, he is afraid of getting too close to others because he is an amplifier and he knows that if any Grisha were to find out, they would kill him for his power.

Thus, there is so much nuance to his relationship with the Grisha. He is one of them, but he is not. To hark back to our history lesson, he is the exact opposite of the “specially Othered” character that is so often given to protagonists. Instead of acting as a go-between, he is the one person that everyone - Grisha and otkazat’sya - can come together to kill.

And as a little boy, he knows that. He knows he has to stay in the shadows, and yet, he is deathly afraid of the dark - afraid of that which sets him apart, and that which he cannot escape.

This is poignant because at the root of every great character is a singular, vulnerable emotion, and for the Darkling, it is fear. And most importantly, fear of the shadows.

When he meets Alina, we truly see the strength of their duality. We truly see why he was so drawn to Alina - why he could so easily fall in love with her, despite the years and despite the tide, and despite his fear of letting others in. She is his equal and opposite - with her, there are no shadows. There is no fear. The fact that he lets Alina use him as an amplifier is so telling of his deep feelings for Alina.

Where each reader draws the line between their dynamic - either him truly loving Alina, or him simply loving and obsessing over the idea of her - is for the individual to decide. The wonderful thing about the Darkling in his current state in the original Shadow and Bone Trilogy is that he still has good intentions within him, no matter how corrupted by his evil actions. Whether or not they truly could have been is up to each person because the question over whether or not Alina could “purify” the Darkling was never deeply explored. We will never know if she could save him, or if it would have destroyed her in the end. Whether or not you want her to try is personal preference.

Again, Alina didn’t want to fully commit to that act, and so we readers will never truly know. Luckily, fanfiction exists.

But, I didn’t name this section “what we buried” for nothing, and I think it’s important to note that even in the beginning of The Demon in the Wood, the Darkling was already on his way toward a darker, harsher existence.

Baghra, from presumably the moment he was born, groomed the Darkling to be a certain way - the same way as her, a survivor with little hope, living for the sake of living and fighting for the sake of a meal. She had no plans to save the world - it was only after the Darkling had a run in with the possibility of death that he unearthed a deep desire within him - the desire to save the Grisha. Before that, it was buried.

Before that, the Darklings' desires were buried beneath his mother’s words and buried beneath the dirt that settled over his heart like a shallow grave, because his connection to others was buried as well. Baghra did that, and whether or not she was misguided or if she was the smarter of the two is an essay better tackled by looking at her, specifically, which we won’t do here.

As we’re reaching the end, I feel like I have earned the right to be cliche and quote the Darkling’s thoughts from when he was still a boy, but already a shadow. In The Demon in the Wood, he thinks:

“My father is dust. You all are.”

At such a young age, the Darkling has already lost his grip. Already, he knew he would outlive and outlast anyone, and this heavy knowledge was already piling up, and he was slowly being buried alive in his own infinence.

It was only ever inevitable that his story would end like this - with a detached man who was once a hopeful boy, but could no longer recall what such confidence tasted like - so perhaps the tragic beauty in the end of Ruin and Rising was not that he died, it was that he wasn’t given an end.

— Special kudos to @onceupon-a-decembr who let me scream about this with her, and another kudos to @musicallisto who introduced me to a book series that I will never stop screaming about. Ever.

— tagging: @maybanksslut, @musicallisto, @catsbooksandmusic, @thefifthweasley, @thegirlwhocriedwerewolf, @amirahiddleston, @lachichapequena, @mrs-brekker15, @amortensie // add yourself to the taglist here!

#grishaverse #grishaverse meta #shadow and bone #shadow and bone meta #meta #meta analysis #writing #the darkling #aleksander morozova #the darkling meta #i am once again ranting about the grishaverse #if miss leigh bardugo wants me to stop analyzing her characters and (kind of drag her) she better put me in the writers room.#or put me in the show her choice #and there's more i could have added to this smh #but i feel like people stop reading after 5.6k words.

103 notes · View notes

mostly-mundane-atla · 4 years ago

Note

Got it. What about Inuit, Yup’ik and Inupiaq stereotypes? Are there a lot of harmful ones to avoid? I do know you shouldn’t make eating meat their entire personality, but what else?

Okay, this is going to get dark, so if you need to blacklist any content warnings (mine are tagged as "[insert content here] mention", do that before reading and if you need me to tag anything specific, please tell me and avoid this post until I get to it.

And again: Disclaimer that simply having an eskimo coded character fall into these stereotypes is not inherently racist or wrong. Keep this in mind as writers of color, and thereby Native writers, often get a lot of shit for writing our experiences as we feel them. Not to mention, yelling at someone trying to do justice to a dark topic, even if they don't succeed, is a shitty thing to do. Some of these have subtextual backing in canon. Remember that although we are looked down on for crimes, wrongs, or unpleasantness we're assumed to have commited, it's the members of our community who suffer most for it. There is value in understanding the pain that comes from the community that's supposed to protect you, and I don't believe the writers of the series had any malicious intentions toward us for writing characters that fall into any of these stereotypes. Recognize the nuance or get off my blog and find someone else to back up your discourse.

I'm going to use the term Native in this context. Natives come from many different cultures and cannot be assumed to be the same, but many of these stereotypes are used against more than just Inuit, Inupiat, and Yup'ik peoples. This is why I find it to be the most appropriate term in this context. I will add my understanding of where these stereotypes came from and why they're harmful, but I am only one person and a full understanding of the topic requires more than one point of view.

"Natives are drunks." The United States used alcohol on Natives the same way Britain used opium on China. They introduced it to us and blamed addiction on our own "weakness of character." This assumption of alcoholism carries with it assumptions of untrustworthiness. For a real life example: I was on a grand jury (a jury that decides whether a case is worth taking to court) years ago and one case was an older Native man accusing his brother of physically assaulting him. For some reason, a nearly all-white jury was deemed to be a jury of this man's peers, and two or three white men violently insisted that it shouldn't be brought to court because it happened at a party and therefore it was just some alcoholics from the village wasting a judge's time. Eventually, after some discussion about how no alcohol was mentioned, it was decided the case should be presented to a judge. I would also like to point out that the Native man in question was entirely sober, well put-together, spoke more cohesively than other cases that day, and had a bad limp.

"Natives are child abusers/molesters." This one actually links to the first stereotype mentioned, and a lot of what I've said on this blog about how abuse perpetuates. There was a lot of physical, mental, and, yes, sexual abuse in the US run schools, especially the Christian ones and boarding schools. (I've heard people mentioning that the priests would more often target the boys because they couldn't get pregnant.) When one gets regularly exposed to this sort of thing, they come to accept it as normal. This normalizing of abuse is bad enough for the one person, but it also affects the way they interact with others when put in similar situations as the abuser. They're hurt and traumatized and weren't effectively told that it was wrong and they shouldn't have been put through that, so they perpetuate it on people as vulnerable as they were when it happened. Movements have started in hopes of bringing awareness and getting help for these people before they can carry out the cycle further. Abuse between adults is also a tricky issue because the ways people are taught to give or not give consent are counterintuitive to cultural norms around verbal and nonverbal communication. See: the "they didn't say no" argument.

"The Stoic Native." There are a number of reasons one culture might emote less than another, especially around people they don't know. This doesn't mean that we don't feel or are too strong or brave to feel. Our emotions are our business and we don't owe anyone an explanation.

"Natives are part of the land." For some reason, a lot of non-Natives have trouble grasping that Indigenous Peoples are human beings in our own right. A lot of media portrays us not as people in the same sense that the outsiders are, but as extensions of the land or the spirits of the land. It's true that generations upon generations of living somewhere means the land will change to reflect the people, but that is due to the influence of people living there and how their culture says to interact with it. This trope reduces us to symbols of "a simpler time" or just as often white people's ideas of nature conservation. It's dehumanizing and infantalizing, ignoring our cultures and civilizations, treating us as either innocent martyrs for someone else's cause, or pests that are done away with once the land is developed.

"The Native Princess." Sometimes the only way non-Natives can see us as people is by pushing cultural norms and forms of government they're more familiar with onto us. Naturally, this means assuming that our civilizations were as successful as they were because they were like the non-Native author's. This is especially gratuitous in the case of Inuit, Inupiat, and Yup'ik peoples because we don't have anything resembling a monarchy. Yeah, this one is explicitly in the text so I can't expect much to be done with it

"Native women are always available to men." I don't know what it is about cultures that consider themselves more "advanced" seeing ones they consider "primative" where women have more autonomy in the relationships they have with men and fewer restritions on their bodies. I don't know how they misinterpret "she can do that here" as "she's there for the taking" but it's so gross and I would like it to stop. Sexuality being more open and not inherently sinful doesn't mean the women don't have standards or won't turn anyone down.

"Natives are broke and/or homeless." This is just the typical racism mixing with classism to make something even uglier situatation. The result is a lot of treatment you see non-Native POC get, such as being followed at the store because they expect you to steal something.

There are more, I'm sure, but these are the ones I get the most. Note that again, it's not inherently bad to write a Native or Native-coded character who drinks or has a lot of partners or is particularly connected to their homeland or poor, but take care to handle it with some sensitivity. Understand that there are implications to these things and real harm can be done by legitimizing racist stereotypes.

#response #eskimo on main #rape mention #this is a heavy one guys so take care of yourselves

126 notes · View notes

hangovercurse · 4 years ago

Text

Our Song

At the last show of his tour, Kells invites you on stage for a duet, but it turns into a bit more than that.

Request: “Can you do one where the reader and Colson both are music artist. I know you're doing this with "The Thing We Can't Tell Pete about. But with this one they have been dating for a while and while they are in the middle of the song Colson decides to announce they're dating and gives her a kiss in front of the crowd, and the reader is just in shock. However it ends it up to you. Love ya!!!!!!!!”

Colson Baker x Reader

Warnings: implied smut/ mentions of sex, cursing

A/N: So, I used my own lyrics in here because why not (sue me I guess)

Word Count: 2326

The last two months had been absolute hell on Earth. Yes, you loved your job. Recording your third studio album was exciting but being busy all the time was exhausting. On top of that, your boyfriend being off on tour meant you hadn’t seen him in person in two months, which was driving you even more insane.

It also meant you hadn’t had sex in almost two months.

You’d called each other every night, even if you were both drunk off your asses or faded beyond belief. It had become your routine; get home from the studio, grab something to eat, then hop into the bath and facetime your blond boyfriend.

Tonight, was no exception, but the energy on the call was different. Colson was coming home tomorrow. Granted, he would be going straight to the venue for his concert, but he’d be here.

“You’re still coming tomorrow, right princess?” He asked, a joint hanging from his lips.

You smiled, nodding, “I haven’t seen you in two months. If I’m not there, you should assume I’m dead.”

He chuckled, “good.” He hesitated before continuing, “I was thinking you could perform with me. We haven’t performed White Sea in like a year.”

You bit your lip at the thought of performing with him again. He was right, after you’d finished live performance promo for the song, neither of you had performed it together. “Yeah, I’m down.”

The song was the first one you’d written together; it was actually the whole reason you’d met. “You don’t think people will get suspicious though? I mean, people are already catching on. I feel like performing it out of the blue would add fire to the flames.”

He thought about it, the wheels turning in his head. “I think it’ll be fine. Besides, it’s not exactly a secret.”

You nodded, “I know, we’ve just never really talked about telling people.” The last two words came out softer than you had intended.

Colson and you had been together for a year and still hadn’t officially told anyone outside of your closest circles. You liked the privacy, and getting the media involved always caused problems. So, you kept it to yourself. People saw you out together, but nothing had been confirmed.

Colson left the conversation there, not having a good answer. You had both agreed a long time ago that if people figured it out or someone slipped up and told you would be okay with it, and you would. You just didn’t think it was a big deal if people knew or not.

He started talking about his day on tour, the crowd he’d played to tonight. You told him about the song you were working on. Eventually he got called away by the boys.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, babe.” He smiled at you through your phone.

You smiled, “You better. I-“ You almost slipped up. Almost said those three words so casually. But you’d caught yourself. “I can’t wait.” You covered.

He gave you a small wave before your screen went back, the sound of the line disconnecting ringing through your bathroom. You put your phone on the floor next to the tub, leaning your head back and sighing.

You don’t know why it worried you so much. You knew you loved him, and you were pretty sure he loved you too. There was just something about saying out loud that scared the hell out of you.

The next day was amazing. As soon as he texted you that he’d gotten to the venue, you were rushing to meet him there. When you stepped into the green room where he was, he ran up to you and grabbed you by your waist. Your arms went around his neck, legs around his as he lifted you up, burying his face into your shoulder.

“I missed you so much.” He mumbled into your skin. Your hands tangled themselves in his hair, holding him closely.

“I missed you too.” You whispered. He lifted his head up and pressed a deep kiss to your lips as your feet came down to touch the floor again. His lips were so familiar, it felt like the world had shifted back into place when you felt them on yours.

He pulled away, forehead and nose still pressed against yours. Your hands travelled from his neck to his shoulders, rubbing the fabric of his t-shirt. “I didn’t think I was gonna survive another night without you.” You said with a slight giggle, making him laugh.

“Well now you don’t have to worry about that.” He said, pressing a peck to your lips.

Before you could pull him back to your lips, your moment was interrupted. “We get it, you guys are cute. Whatever. Can we get hugs from our favorite girl?” Irv joked, pulling your attention to the group of guys near the couches in the room.

One of the things you loved most about being with Colson was how accepting his friends were of you. Slim and you had bonded over your love of music production and mixing, Baze had taught you some more complicated bass riffs, and Rook was your designated adventure buddy (after Colson, of course). You felt lucky that your boyfriend’s family had taken you in as one of their own.

You ran over to them, giving each of the guys a hug. When you hugged Ashleigh, she whispered in your ear, “don’t ever leave me alone with these lunatics again.” You both giggled at that, leaving the boys confused.

After messing around backstage for a while and catching up with your friends (mostly from the comfort of Colson’s lap), it was time for the guys to perform. You set up your spot side-stage with Ash, Irv, and Andre, excited to see the set.

Before he went on, Colson came over to you and pulled you in for a very giddy kiss. Pre-show Colson was your favorite Colson, except for maybe post-show Colson, only because he was so excitable. Every time you sat show side, he demanded you give him a good luck kiss. No matter who was watching.

Watching him was magical, in fact watching all the boys was magical. The way their passion showed through the music and the performance was something that not many other artists could perfect. You felt like you’d never match their level of performing.

When Colson brought out his acoustic guitar and two bar stools, you were a bit taken aback. Normally his shows were so high energy that he never wanted to sit down, even during the slower songs. It wasn’t really his style.

“I wanted to bring out a very special guest today to help slow this down a bit.” He said to the crowd as they screamed. “I haven’t performed this song in a very long time, but I figured today would be the perfect time to do it.”

He looked over at you, a smile on his face. It finally registered in his mind that he was talking about your song. Luckily, you’d had ears put in at the beginning of the show, so that wasn’t an issue. One of the venue’s techs handed you a microphone and signaled you to go on stage.

Once you came in view of the audience they erupted into another round of cheers, making you smile. Colson met you halfway and pulled you in for a sweaty hug. He led you over to the chairs, letting you sit down while he adjusted his mic stand. “For those of you who don’t know, not that there should be anyone who doesn’t know who this is, but just in case, this is Y/S/N. We wrote this song a little over a year ago today.”

You smiled as he started to strum the familiar intro, the lights dimming just a little bit.

Drownin’ in empty space.

You started singing.

Don’t even know my name

Feels like you’re miles away

Close my eyes, see your face

It’s okay

Rook brought the drum beat in as Colson smiled at you, his verse starting

Yeah

I was drownin’ in this darkness

Feeling like I was so heartless

All these drugs makin things harder

They tried to turn me to a martyr

You loved watching him party on stage, but you loved watching this side of him, too. Completely stripped down and raw. Hearing him rap the words you wrote together made your heart flutter, even if you’d written them so long ago.

I can’t handle shit I’m just a man

I tried to tell ‘em, they don’t understand

Riptide’s pulling me away from land

I couldn’t stand till you reached out your hand

And now I can.

The rest of the music came in, the sounds mixing as you began the chorus.

Drownin’ in empty space

Don’t even my name

Feels like you’re miles away

Close my eyes, see your face

The key raised.

Out on the open sea

Feel your eyes watching me

Wanted to fall asleep

Now I believe.

The music kept playing, but Colson’s rap didn’t enter like it was supposed to. Instead, he just looked at you, a fond smile on his face. You tilted your head, questioning him, but he just placed his guitar on the ground and kept looking at you.

“I just want to let everyone here know, that today is my one-year anniversary with this amazing woman right here.” He said into the mic, causing the audience to burst into screams. Your jaw dropped, eyes widening.

He caught your expression and laughed but kept going. “It wasn’t a secret that we’ve been together, but we’ve been quiet about it. But I mean, like, fuck that shit. When you’re in love you should tell everyone, right?”

You smiled at him, your heart picking up speed. “And Y/N I am so fucking in love with you.”

You looked down, trying to hide the heat on your cheeks and the idiotic grin you were sporting. You had never expected this from him. “Like, seriously, this past year has been the best year of my life. Even when we aren’t together you are the one thing that I look forward to the most, every day. You are one of the best things in my life, and I want everyone to know that.”

During his little monologue he had walked over to your chair and pulled you up into his arms. You nuzzled your face into his bare chest, making him laugh. He pulled the microphone away from you both so it wouldn’t pick up your conversation.

“Hey, look at me.” He said softly and you complied. “I love you.”

You had tears in your eyes as you studied his perfect features, “I love you, too.” You whispered. “I’ve wanted to tell you for a while I just…”

“I know, princess.” He smiled, leaning down and pressing your lips together in a sweet, passionate kiss. The audience erupted in applause, cheers, and awes. “Are you gonna say anything?” He asked once you’d pulled away, motioning to the audience with a smile on his face. You shook your head, burying it back in his chest and laughing. He spoke into the microphone, “she got all shy now.”

The crowd laughed with him, shouting supportive comments at you both. “But she said she loves me too so that’s all that matters.” He continued, earning even more cheers.

After the show, Colson came backstage and immediately attached his lips to yours, hands holding you close. You pulled him into one of the unused dressing rooms, mouths never leaving each other. He hoisted you onto the counter, standing in between your legs, and leaned your back against the mirror.

Finally, he released your lips from his, making you whine. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about all this, but after last night I couldn’t keep it a secret anymore. And you just looked so pretty out there that I-“ You cut him off with a kiss, lips moving together slowly.

He chuckled as you pulled away. “Colson, I loved it. I was hella embarrassed because the first time you told me you loved me was in front of thousands of people, but I loved it. And I love you.”

He smiled, pressing a peck to your lips. “How much do you love me?” He asked, slyly.

You raised an eyebrow at him, knowing something was up. “Depends on your next statement.”

A laugh fell from his mouth as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small rectangular box. “Because I really hope it’s a lot.”

“What are you doing?” You asked him, giggling.

He lifted the lid off of the box to reveal a key with your first initial painted on one side and a C on the other. “You don’t have to, but if you wanted to maybe think about moving in with me, now you have a key.” He smiled as you took the metal in your hands.

You looked up at him with wide eyes, lips open in shock. “So, you’re asking me to move in with you?” You confirmed.

“Only if you want to. But yes.”

You smiled, looking back down to the key and then up to his face before pressing a passionate kiss to his lips. Your arms went around his neck and his hands went to your waist. “Of course, I want to, dummy.” You giggled and reconnected your lips.

“We’re supposed to go out and celebrate the last night of tour tonight, you’re gonna come, right?” He asked and you rolled your eyes.

“You act like I don’t wanna be around you.” You pushed his chest playfully. “But we might be a couple minutes late.” You smirk.

Colson raised an eyebrow, “oh yeah? And why is that?”

Instead of responding you just giggled and pulled him back into a kiss.

#mgk #mgk imagine #mgk fluff #machine gun kelly #machine gun kelly imagine #Colson baker #colson x reader #colson baker imagine #colson baker fluff #colson imagine

192 notes · View notes

trashforhockeyguys · 4 years ago

Text

Don’t Hold Me -18- Carter Hart

As always, all previous parts are linked in my master list!

A/N: Sooo we get to see a little bit from both Kora and Carter in this chapter, which I think is important. But honestly still just a bunch of feelings and a little bit of fluff from Carter. So enjoy!

Your nails bit into the skin of your palms as you walked through campus. He was gone, the last away game of the season was tonight. He was away from Philly, which meant Zachary couldn’t touch him. But that didn’t change the fact that Zachary was still in Philly, and was just waiting.

You almost couldn’t make it into your dorm fast enough. You wanted to be out of sight and back in your little room. It felt safe there.

“How did your final go today?” Kora asked once you finally got into the room and sat in front of the TV.

Shrugging, you took a handful of popcorn from the bowl between you two, “Fine I guess?”

“I think Professor Martin tried to kill all of us with his final today,” Kora stated, “God I can’t wait for summer. None of this bullshit. Plus, Ethan said he’d come visit.”

You couldn’t help but let out a little laugh. Never did you expect that your roommate and brother would become a thing, but at the same time you were almost happy that it was them. They worked so well together.

“Just as long as I don’t have to listen to all of the gorey details,” You joked.

She smiled and nudged you with her shoulder, “Do you know what you’re going to do this summer?”

That feeling set back in again. Your shoulders seemed to sag with the weight that was now baring down on them. So much could happen between now and the time that the season would really end. Even if they didn’t make it through the first round, and the season ended in a week. You didn’t know where you’d stand when it was all over...or if you’d even be standing at all.

You wondered when Zachary would show himself again. When he would come back to tell you exactly what he wanted you to do. How he wanted you to play. Or maybe the proper way of putting it would be how he wanted to use you for his game. You knew he was watching, waiting for the right moment.

You weren’t sure you’d be able to find a way out of it this time. You were out of moves, out of ideas. There would be no more escaping. In so many ways, he already won. He had you exactly where he wanted you, and there was nothing else to be done. All you could do was play along.

“I don’t know yet,” You told her, “I’ll figure it out somehow.”

She glanced over at you. She wondered if you knew how truly awful you looked. The circles under your eyes were nearly black. Sure you always seemed to have them, but she’d never seen them this bad before. You jumped at every little sound. Deep down, Kora knew this was how you were right after everything happened. This was how you were when she’d first met you. She remembered the way you practically hid behind Travis, who’d come just to make sure everything went smoothly.

Kora knew you wouldn’t tell her what was going on. You wouldn’t tell anyone. If she didn’t know any better she would’ve swore you had a martyr complex. But this time it seemed to be destroying you, whatever it was.

“Well...not that I would make the top of the list,” Kora stated, “But, my place is always open. You know, if you want to get away from all of the meathead hockey players for a bit.”

“Thank you.”

Your voice was so small as you watched the boys take the ice. Travis and Nolan were laughing at one another, across the ice Carter was stretching before going into the net. Your chest squeezed again. Would you be able to watch him in person again? Would he even want you anywhere near him once all of this was over?

“I don’t know what’s going on...but we can help you,” Kora stated, “Me, Travis, Nolan, Ethan...and Carter. We can help, you just have to tell us.”

You forced down the lump in your throat. All you could hear was Zachary’s threat against Kora. You knew he wasn’t bluffing. You knew he would do anything he could, even if that meant hurting innocent people to get to you. If Kora was in his way, he would deal with her. He’d deal with anyone.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m okay,” You swore, “Just haven’t had a lot of time to sleep.”

“Y/N-”

“The game is starting.”

Reluctantly, Kora settled back into the bed and didn’t say another word. She knew you wouldn’t talk now that the game started and you could use it as an excuse. Kora always gave you space, she knew you needed it. But this time she was almost too afraid to give it to you. Had you let the boys see how bad you were? Or were you somehow finding a way to hide it from them too?

You tried to put up a better front after that. You took special care to put on concealer to make yourself look better before Kora woke up. Anything you could do to convince her that you were just fine, you did. All you could think about was keeping her safe from Zachary...keeping all of them safe from him.

Around Carter, you tried to act normal. You tried to make it seem like nothing changed, like you were still just as carelessly in love with him as you had been just weeks ago. Every time you closed your eyes you could almost see all of the things you wished you could have with him. The future that you knew you wouldn’t get was almost clear as day. It hurt.

The pencil in your hand flew across the page again as you tried to get the shading on Carter’s face right. He always felt some sort of pride when you asked if you could draw him, but he didn’t know that this time was to make sure you could remember him how no one else got to see him.

His hair was a little extra fluffy, his eyes were brighter as he smiled at you. He had on a sweatshirt that he’d thrown on just minutes beforehand, because you joked that you weren’t going to use him as a nude model. You loved how at ease he seemed. You wished people got to see this side of him more, rather than the side that the media saw during interviews.

He could be so quiet, so shy and reserved, but he could also be the loudest one in the room. He could be the one who would tell jokes that would make everyone laugh for hours. Or just be the one. You knew that you would never meet another person quite like him. There would only ever be one Carter.

“You’re cute when you chew on your lip like that,” He stated, “All focused and shit.”

You fought back a blush, “Shut up. You’re meant to be staying still.”

“I am still,” He countered, “I’m just trying to compliment my gorgeous girlfriend while she paints me like one of those french girls.”

“We aren’t doing a nude session. Therefore, you are not one of the french girls.”

He laughed, so loudly and beautifully. You wondered if you’d feel the pain in your chest long after he was gone. How long would you still look back on days like this and wish things could’ve been different? Would he remember you as fondly as you knew you’d remember him?

“I’m thinking after this next game, you and I should do something,” He told you, “Go get some takeout, rent a movie, maybe drink some cheap wine. Just be regular twentysomethings.”

You smiled softly at the thought of it. You wished for nothing more than things like that. You wanted a whole life of simple nights with him. But you would settle for one of two more.

“You’re gonna make me drink cheap wine when you can buy the good stuff?” You joked.

“Baby, you like Barefoot. You stick your nose up at the good stuff.”

You rolled your eyes and tried not to laugh. He was right of course. In true broke college student fashion, you would drink box wine and the cheapest stuff you could find and were quite happy with it too.

It wasn’t unusual that you and Kora would have a couple of bottles on the weekend. Especially mid season when the guys were on a road trip. Carter secretly liked how cuddly wine made you. After a couple of glasses all you wanted to do was snuggle up next to him with a big blanket. You would always pout when he tried to get up.

“I love you,” He said softly, not taking his eyes away from you.

You had that feeling in your chest again. The tightness seemed to take over once more, “I love you too.”

If only you could tell him just how much you loved him. How much you were willing to do to keep him and everyone else out of the line of fire. How much you were going to give up so that he could have everything he deserved in life.

“Kora said you killed your exams so far.”

You shrugged, “I guess?”

“C’mon, that’s something worth celebrating, Y/N.”

You felt the need to crawl up into a ball and hide. Because you weren’t worth celebrating. You didn’t feel like doing anything special. Not while Zachary was just one text away from probably ruining everything. How could you celebrate when that was hanging over your head.

“You look exhausted. Are you sure you’re sleeping?” Carter asked.

“It’s finals week, you don’t sleep during finals week,” You told him, “Not that you would know about that, Mr. All-Star.”

“I’m not an All-Star yet babe.”

You knew he was a little disappointed that he didn’t make it this season, but also enjoyed the short break that he was able to get. You spent all of it with him, locked in the apartment together. Both of you enjoyed that time more than you’d expected. You remembered him saying he wished that it could always be like that.

“Soon,” You promised him, “Before too long they won’t be able to keep you away.”

He smiled, knowing you fully believed it. You didn’t seem as bad today. To Carter, you seemed a little lighter. He tried asking Travis if this was normal around finals, if you’d always been quite this bad, but even Travis was at a loss. You were pulling away whenever one of them tried to talk to you about it. So Carter tried not to let it bother him too much. You were still here with him, that had to mean something.

So until you told him that you didn’t want him around anymore, Carter was planning on holding you as closely as he could. He was almost afraid of what would happen, like you might just slip away into nothing.

Carter hadn’t felt this deeply for someone before. He was pretty sure that it scared him just as much as it scared you. But one thing Carter knew for certain was that you managed to make his life better by being in it. You opened his eyes to a different side of life. He didn’t always have to be all about hockey. There were some things that were just more important in life. Not to mention the fact that life was too short to not appreciate them.

“Y/N?” He questioned, looking down at you.

You hummed, somehow already half asleep in his arms. Carter smiled, knowing that you somehow always felt safe enough to fall asleep with him. He wished she could always feel that safe. Not just with her small circle of friends, but with anyone.

“I love you,” He whispered softly, “So much.”

#carter hart imagine #Carter hart imagines #Carter hart #Carter hart fanfic #Carter hart fanfiction #nhl imagines #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl fanfic #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #Hockey Fanfiction #hockey fanfic #Philly flyers imagine #Philly flyers imagines #Philly Flyers #flyers #nicolewritesthings

83 notes · View notes

rainecreatesstuff · 3 years ago

Text

escaping is not the same as running away- chapter 3

thoughts are not for the lonely:

Characters: Ranboo, Tubbo, Tommy, Michael_Beloved

Relationships: Ranboo & Tubbo (qp), Tommy & Tubbo (p), Tommy & Ranboo (p), Ranboo & Michael_Beloved (f), Tubbo and Michael_Beloved (f)

Warnings: Mentions of martyrdom and martyr ideologies, descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks.

Summary:

Ranboo, Tubbo, Tommy, and Michael continue their journey to escape the SMP. Includes Bench Trio goofs, Allium Duo heart-to-hearts, and Michael_Beloved. Enjoy! :)

Ranboo glanced up at the sky as he rowed. The moon was reaching its apex, shining down brightly on the waves that surrounded them. A few clouds dotted the sky here and there, but overall, the skies were clear, giving a view of a beautiful starry sky. Tubbo was gazing at the stars with admiration. Ranboo wondered if his husband had ever seen the night sky so clearly before.

“Hey Tubso, you alright there?” Tommy asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Yeah, no, I’m good.” Tubbo glanced back to Tommy for a moment, then returned his gaze to the sky.

“What’re you thinking about?” Ranboo gently poked Tubbo’s foot with his own.

Tubbo pulled his gaze down to Ranboo, and paused for a moment, as if he were recollecting his thoughts.

“Just can’t remember the last time the sky was this clear.”

“God, yeah, last time we saw this many stars must’ve been before L’Manburg, huh?” Tommy rowed a few meters ahead of them, then took his hands off the paddles and stretched.

Looks like they were taking a break, then. Ranboo slowed the boat down, bringing it to float beside Tommy’s.

“Was the light pollution all that bad in early L’Manburg?” Ranboo stretched his back, bringing his hands above his head.

“Eh, early-early L’Manburg not so much, but once the walls were built…”

“Yeah, we had torches on the top, and also buildings n shit were popping up all over the place, so.”

Ranboo hummed.

“Then, of course, Manburg was pretty shit, and there was a bunch of light, and you were there for New L’Manburg, which glowed like a Christmas tree that's been set on fire, so, y’know, not a lot of stars.” Tubbo carefully shifted Michael in his arms as he spoke, laying the toddler down so his head rested on Tubbo’s lap.

“There were a lot of lanterns,” Ranboo stated grimly.

Tubbo laughed.

“Yeah, there were. Gotta admit they were pretty though.”

“Oh, definitely. Definitely fit the aesthetic.”

Tommy snorted.

“‘The Aesthetic.’ You can say spruce wood.”

“Oh shut up, spruce is a great block to build with.” Tubbo cut in.

“You could have chosen oak wood and cobblestone, but you went with spruce.”

“Yeah, ‘cause we didn’t want it to look like an abomination.”

“Oak and cobble are lovely blocks! You know why so many villages are built with them? Because they look good. You know why so few villages are built with spruce? It’s a lesser block.”

“Mhm, you’re one to talk about what looks good. Not like you’ve built several ugly cobblestone railroads.”

“My railroads are beautiful.”

Ranboo laughed as quietly as he could at the back and forth, not wanting to draw their attention away. They continued arguing, and Ranboo saw Michael stir a bit.

“Tubbo.”

Tubbo’s head shot in his husband’s direction, then down at Michael, who was blinking sleepily. Tubbo’s face became one of pure agony.

“It’s alright, go back to sleep. Sorry about that Mikey.” Tubbo gently ran his hand through Michael’s mane, soothing him back to sleep.

The toddler mumbled something half-heartedly, and was out again. Partially against their own wills, Ranboo and Tubbo both let out a sigh of relief.

“Who knew all it took to make Tubbo go soft was a piglin child,” Tommy said, an amused smile on his face.

“You haven’t dealt with a toddler that doesn’t want to sleep before man.” Ranboo gazed at Tommy with what he hoped would be read as horror.

Tubbo laughed quietly as Tommy snorted.

“Can’t be that big of a deal.”

Tubbo perked up.

“Great! Once we’ve got our houses and stuff built, he can stay in yours for a night! I’m sure you’ll have so much fun!” Tubbo spoke with a practiced smile and a faux-cheery tone, his eyes aflame with something sinister.

Sometimes Ranboo was reminded of just how happy he was that he wasn’t Tubbo’s enemy.

“Ahahaaa… yeah… sure…” Tommy rubbed the back of his neck, “Let’s keep going, yeah?”

Tubbo cackled, and Ranboo rolled his eyes fondly.

“I thank the gods above every day that you’ll never have the opportunity to be a suburban mom.” Ranboo took the paddles back in his hands and began rowing again, straightening out so he was travelling in the right direction.

“Fuck you, I’d be a great suburban mom.”

“Yeah, that’s my fear.”

“He’d be terrifying. He would rule the neighbourhood with an iron fist. Michael would be an iPad kid.” Tommy tossed in.

“Oh gods, no. Not an iPad kid.”

“Yes, Ranboo, an iPad kid. And you would be a malewife.”

Ranboo spluttered, laughing.

“I- why?”

Tommy levelled him with an unimpressed look.

“Well, look at you.”

Tubbo turned away sharply, holding a fist to his mouth in a desperate attempt to stop himself from laughing. The other hand still ran soothingly through Michael’s hair.

“Gee, thanks, Tommy, really- really means a lot, man.”

Tommy snickered as Tubbo coughed into his fist. Tubbo eventually regained his composure, and turned back to Ranboo.

“Aw, it’s okay Boo. You’d make a great malewife.”

“I hate every part of this. I’m going back.” Ranboo mocked jumping out of the boat.

“Noooo, Boo, I didn’t mean it. You’re not a malewife I promise.”

“When we find land I am throwing you.”

“You will not.”

“I will.”

“No.”

“The decision has already been made, Tubbo. There is no going back now.”

Tubbo groaned lightheartedly as Ranboo laughed quietly to himself. Tommy laughed beside them.

“Tubbo will simply kick you lots. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Tubbo froze, and Ranboo paused, slowly turning to face Tommy.

“Wait, have you never picked up Tubbo before?”

“Not successfully.”

Ranboo grinned. Tubbo glared at him with fire in his eyes.

“Ranboo. I will make you regret every decision you have ever made if you tell him.”

“Jokes on you, I already regret most of my decisions,” Ranboo turned back to Tommy, “So, like he just doesn’t let you, or…?”

Tommy’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“I- yeah? Like he just kicks you, right? And then squirms out.”

“Tommy, my friend, you have been going about this the wrong way,”

“Ranboo I swear to all things holy if you mutter another word-“

“So, basically, you kinda just have to-“

“Ranboo-“

“Put your hands under his arms and hold him out, like a-“

“I’m going to kill you-“

“Displeased cat.”

“You’re so dead. You are all types of dead. I am going to push you out of this boat.”

Tubbo reached over and shoved Ranboo as much as he could without waking up the toddler asleep on his lap. Ranboo laughed evilly as Tommy watched the two with confusion.

“What, and he’ll stop kicking?”

“Oh, no, he’ll still kick, but his legs won’t be able to reach you. He’ll just tire himself out until you can carry him normally.”

“I hate you so much.” Tubbo pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

Ranboo giggled, “Aw, thanks, love you too, Bo.”

Tommy was looking between Ranboo and Tubbo with something akin to awe.

“Ranboo. My friend. You have made a revolutionary discovery. You have done the gods’ work.”

“Tommy if you even try to pick me up, I will just kill you in your sleep.”

“Ah, but now I have the knowledge that I can simply just pick you up and you will be rendered defenceless.”

Tubbo huffed.

“You two are lucky you’re my friends.”

“We are,” Ranboo said without thinking.

Tubbo visibly softened, like a switch had been flipped. He looked as if he was about to say something, then stopped himself, tilting his head downwards to look at Michael as his hand combed through the kid’s hair. Tommy fake-gagged, and Tubbo rolled his eyes affectionately.

“Shut up, Tommy.”

Tommy laughed, and a pleasant quiet settled over the trio. Ranboo and Tommy rowed in silence as Tubbo began humming a song Ranboo had never heard before. They continued on until it must’ve been one or two in the morning, what with the moon being where it was. Ranboo was beginning to grow sore, and he was sure Tommy must be as well. Tubbo yawned as Ranboo slowed down the boat, Tommy coming to a drift beside them.

“Should we take a break for now?” Ranboo let go of the paddles, not waiting for an answer.

“Please.” Tommy shook his hands before pulling them to his chest and examining them.

Ranboo hoped he hadn’t gotten any splinters. Those would be a pain to deal with right now.

Tubbo rubbed his eyes before turning his head back up to face Ranboo.

“Do you want me to take over for a while?”

“No, you need sleep too, you haven’t slept well recently.” Ranboo reached across the boat to brush Tubbo’s hair out of his eyes, making eye contact with him briefly.

That was something Ranboo had been noticing recently. As much as Tubbo did try to accommodate for his usual dislike of eye contact, he hadn’t found himself becoming agitated at eye contact with Tubbo for a while. If he held it too long, it became uncomfortable, but he suspected that it was mostly just social awkwardness, nothing Enderman-y. He did find that he enjoyed making eye contact with Tubbo though, just for a couple moments when they were safe at home. It felt the same way that giving a hug did.

Tubbo blinked once, then drew his gaze away from Ranboo’s. Ranboo tried to ignore the disappointment that came with it.

“I’ll be fine if I need to.”

“Yeah, but you don’t need to. Get some rest. I’ll be fine.”

Tubbo eyed him suspiciously.

“You’ll wake me if you need anything. Got it?”

“Of course.”

“… Alright.” Tubbo carefully pulled Michael into his arms, then slowly sat down on the floor of the boat.

Ranboo turned around and grabbed a blanket from one of their bags, draping it over Tubbo and Michael. He passed Tubbo a rolled-up hoodie, which Tubbo put behind his head to act as a sort of travel pillow. Tubbo yawned again, pulling a yawn from Ranboo and Tommy as well.

“Goodnight, Boo.”

“Night Bo.”

“Night Toms.”

“Sleep well Tubs.”

And with that, Tubbo promptly passed out. Ranboo quietly giggled to himself at how quickly Tubbo fell asleep. A part of him was glad Tubbo felt so safe around him, but another worried how tired he must have been to have fallen asleep like that. Ranboo turned around, surveying their surroundings.

A shoal was just a hundred or so metres away. He pointed it out to Tommy, who groaned theatrically, then picked his paddles back up and began rowing in the direction of the shoal. Ranboo followed, and they carefully docked their boats as best they could in the sand. Ranboo grabbed a piece of rope from his own bag, and tied his and Tommy’s boats together.

“Just in case.” He smiled, and Tommy nodded.

Tommy stretched, and got into a similar position to Tubbo’s. Instead of falling asleep, though, he turned to the horizon, watching the waves.

Ranboo opened his bag completely, checking on Enderchest, who seemed displeased. The cat meowed unhappily as Ranboo picked her up, placing her on his lap. She stepped off his lap and onto the seat, batting at his hands as he tried to stop her. She settled on the edge of the boat, looking down into the shallow water curiously. With a quick whap at the water, her ears flattened, and she returned to Ranboo’s lap.

He pet her for a while until a loud purr rumbled from her throat. Ranboo opened his inventory, grabbing a couple small fish, and fed her.

“Get why Tubbo calls you a catboy now.”

“C’mon, man, it was so peaceful.”

Tommy cackled.

“You did start purring the second your cat did. You are literally just a big cat.”

Ranboo tried to will his tail to stop hitting the floor in an annoyed manner. It did not work.

“No. Go to sleep.”

Tommy laughed, but pulled a blanket onto himself.

“I take it you don’t plan on sleeping?”

“No. I figure someone should stay awake, just in case something happens. A storm could roll in, or something.” Ranboo idly pet Enderchest as he spoke.

He didn’t mention that being surrounded by water prevented him from calming down enough to sleep, but it seemed like minor enough of a detail to leave out.

Tommy hummed.

“You mentioned… You mentioned Tubbo hasn’t been sleeping?”

Ranboo bit his lip.

“Yeah. He’s, uh, he’s been staying out later, not coming back until well after Michael’s gone to bed. And then he’ll usually stay at his desk for a few hours before I can convince him to come to bed. At least, at least when I’m around.” Ranboo sighed.

“Can’t say I haven’t found him asleep at his desk when I’ve come to visit, though.”

“Really?” Tommy seemed taken aback.

Ranboo frowned.

“I mean, yeah? It’s not really all that surprising that he stays up late, I mean, when I’m there I usually have to like- lure him to bed with promises of like, his favourite breakfast or something in the morning.”

“…Huh.”

“Is that.. abnormal, for him?” Ranboo’s tail swished against the floor.

“Uh, no, not the overworking part. Surprised you find him at his desk though. As long as I’ve known him he’s always woken up at sunrise.”

“Even when he’s been up late?”

“Especially then,” Tommy picked at a loose thread in his blanket, “He slept pretty lightly most nights, but especially when he was up late, so he’d wake up the second the sun got in the windows.”

Ranboo hummed. That was… weird. Since he began staying in the same house as Tubbo, Tubbo usually wouldn’t wake up until at least eight or nine. He told this to Tommy, whose eyebrows raised with surprise. Ranboo watched as Tommy bit his lip, then looked up at Ranboo pensively. Ranboo suddenly felt the urge to sit up straighter.

“What?”

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

“You. And Tubbo.” Tommy’s gaze drifted over to the goat hybrid, who was still fast asleep beside his son.

“What about us?”

“… Just that it’s good you help him sleep ‘n take care of himself ‘n shit.”

Ranboo felt his face grow warm against his will.

“Oh, I don’t- I don’t think it’s me, I think it’s probably just ‘cause he’s, he’s uh, not president and stuff anymore? So he’s probably been a lot more relaxed.”

Tommy looked at him amusedly.

“I’ve known Tubbo for a while. When we first met, he’d wake up at sunrise to take care of his bees and check up on his redstone machines. He was a bit like a farm boy in that regard,” Tommy said, turning his gaze back to the ocean.

“Then, the independence war happened, and we were trained to wake up at sunrise every day. Even when we stayed up until ridiculous hours, sitting around a campfire and singing and being dumb, Wilbur would be in our bunks at five in the morning with a bell. You don’t just lose that kind of training. Hell, I didn’t lose it ‘til I stayed with Techno.”

Ranboo wondered a bit where this was going.

“Then of course there was the Schlatt presidency, and Pogtopia. And I think I saw Tubbo sleep a total of three times when he was with us. Then he was president, and I’m not sure his sleep schedule ever improved.”

Ranboo hummed.

“Yeah, I get that. I, um, used to wander around L’Manburg at night sometimes and, and he was usually also out, or his lights were on.” Ranboo recalled.

“Exactly. Even when he first started Snowchester, as far as I know he never stopped waking up at sunrise. And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he didn’t sleep much.”

“Yeah. He, uh, he seemed like- gaunt, almost.”

“Yeah.”

Tommy sighed.

“Point is, you’ve gotten him to break that habit, which is pretty fucking awesome, so. Good job, or whatever.”

Ranboo felt distinctly out of his area of expertise. He hadn’t really done anything. If anything, he’d probably annoyed Tubbo into sleeping in.

“I- um, thank you? But honestly, I really didn’t do anything.”

Tommy glanced back over to him for a moment.

“Alright.”

The two fell into a soft silence, the only sound being the waves gently lapping against the side of their boats. Enderchest curled up in Ranboo’s lap, falling asleep quickly as he pet her. Tommy yawned, drawing a yawn from Ranboo as well.

Tommy stared out the side of his boat opposite to Ranboo, his gaze settled on the horizon. Ranboo wondered again how Tubbo had managed to convince Tommy to come with them. Of course, Ranboo was almost certain that if Tommy hadn’t come, they wouldn’t have left in the first place.

Even if he and Tubbo hadn’t been as close recently as they used to be, Tommy was Tubbo’s person. His “other half,” if you want to get cliche. There was no Tubbo without Tommy. At least, not the same Tubbo.

“How are you holding up with… with leaving?”

Tommy rolled his head back in Ranboo’s direction.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Memory Boy?” He grinned.

It was still deflection. Ranboo bit his lip.

“So. Um. I take it not that great, then?”

Tommy laughed quietly to himself.

“I don’t even know at this point. One second I’m over the moon and the next I feel like screaming.”

“I get that,” Ranboo spoke softly, “Or, I guess I don’t get it, really, but I understand. You guys have been there a lot longer than me. There were probably a lot of places and people that were really important to you.”

Tommy hummed.

“Yeah, something like that. It’s weird, innit? Knowing you’ll probably never see some of those people again.”

Ranboo had to agree. The fact that he might never hear Niki’s voice again nibbled at the back of his brain like a mouse. He hoped she’d be open to talk through their communicators, but really, at this point it was a coin toss with most people in the SMP.

“A bit, yeah. It feels kinda odd knowing that I’ll probably never pass by Foolish working on some big project again.”

“Or by Eret’s castle. That’s one of the big ones for me. Don’t know why, honestly.”

“Fair. Her castle was kinda like… a staple of the SMP.”

“The only thing that hasn’t been blown up at some point.”

“Gods bless the power of pride flags.”

Tommy laughed, his head falling back and hitting the seat gently. Ranboo smiled.

“The two greatest powers of the SMP: Withers, and six stripes of colour.” Tommy quipped.

“I mean, Techno’s house was technically blown up.”

Tommy threw him a curious look. Ranboo giggled to himself for a moment.

“Okay so, you know how Phil will like, hyper-focus on things sometimes?”

Tommy nodded.

“So, basically, he was showing his flock something, I think it was some trinket he’d found while he was adventuring. I guess he must’ve left the doors open, because this creeper just walked like, right in, nothing stopping it, and blew up.”

Tommy snorted.

“Dude, Phil was freaking out. Techno was literally on his way home from the Nether and like half of Techno’s chests and paintings and stuff had been blown up. So I go over to see what’s happened, and Phil is just sitting on the floor surrounded by pieces of paintings like it’s a puzzle.”

“Oh god, the old man has no spatial reasoning, did he fix it in time?”

“He saw me walk in, yelled ‘Don’t just stand there, help,’ and then threw a box of ripped up paintings at me.”

Tommy laughed, loud and clear, and Ranboo grinned.

“So we’re sitting there on the floor frantically putting these paintings back together, and Phil’s getting messages from Techno saying he’ll be home soon, and that’s just making us mess up more. And you’ve seen Techno’s house, half the paintings have the exact same colour palette, so we end up getting half of it wrong and slapping it on the wall anyways.”

Ranboo laughed quietly as Tommy buried his head in his knees to avoid laughing.

“Long story short, we did eventually get them figured out, and Techno walked in like, literally a minute later. Thing is, we forgot to cover up the scent of gunpowder, so.”

“Oh god, what did the Blade do when he found out?”

“Oh, man, it was terrifying. It was Phil, so of course Techno didn’t care, but Phil was gonna blame it on me. I would’ve died, man, that would’ve been it for me.”

Tommy chuckled.

“Nah, Techno’s got a soft spot for you. No way he’d kill his favourite random teenager he picked up off the street.”

“Oh! Speaking of that!”

Ranboo opened his inventory, carefully pulling out the netherite Techno had given him. He handed the full set to Tommy, who looked at it with awe in his eyes.

“Yoooo…” Tommy whispered, running his hands over it.

His hand paused at the collar of the chest plate, where the enchantments were inscribed.

“Techno made this.” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement.

“Oh, yeah, I guess his writing is pretty recognizable.”

“No, I mean,” Tommy began handing it back to Ranboo, “He probably wouldn’t want me to use it, ‘specially if he gave it to you.”

Ranboo frowned, pushing the armour back.

“He gave it to me for you.”

Tommy looked taken aback, his mouth open slightly and his eyebrows high on his forehead. He pulled the armour back to his chest, running his thumb over the engraved enchantments.

“Good thing I left him the axe, then.” Tommy muttered.

Ranboo hummed.

“Do you want to try it on?”

“Nah, it’ll fit.” Tommy stared at the armour a moment longer, then woke from his stupor, opening his inventory and carefully placing the four armour pieces inside it.

If Ranboo didn’t know any better, he’d think Tommy was in shock. He was just kind of staring ahead of himself, a soft frown on his face. His hands fiddled with the blanket at his chest, and he chewed on his lip.

“Tommy? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, just thinking.”

“You seem to do that a lot.”

“Yeah.”

Ranboo continued petting Enderchest, praying silently that the lull in the conversation wasn’t an awkward one. He couldn’t always tell, so moments like these were a bit stressful. He felt like he should be filling it up in some way, but at the same time, he didn’t want to make Tommy talk if he didn’t want to.

“I, um, I know we’re not like, super close or anything, but if you ever need to talk, I’m here to listen.” He offered Tommy a smile, and Tommy smiled back awkwardly.

“Thanks big man.”

“Of course.”

Tommy stared at the water again for a few moments, before drawing in a breath.

“How has Techno been? Since, uh, since Doomsday? Haven’t really spoken to him.”

“Oh! I think he’s been doing pretty well. I uh, know it’s kind of a sore topic, but, uh, I think blowing up L’Manburg kinda got most of the vengeance out of him so, that’s good.”

Tommy snorted.

“Oh, Niki’s kind of been hanging out with us recently. Not a lot, but I think Techno really enjoys having her around. She’s very skilled and I think he respects her a lot.”

Tommy smiled.

“Good for them. He and Niki were friends back in Pogtopia, you know? So it’s nice they’re like, talking again.”

“Yeah. It was nice having Niki around. I think being around us also helped her. She seems happier than when she started coming around.”

“Yeah, Niki’s awesome.”

“Phil really likes having her around too, they’ll bake together some days. The crows love her, but they love pretty much everyone, so.”

Tommy stifled a laugh.

“Please, do not remind me of the birds. I was outside one day and I guess they thought my hair looked like gold because they decided to start plucking it.”

Ranboo laughed.

“You’ll be happy to know I’ve added one more bird to the ranks then.”

“You are everything that is wrong with this world.”

His laugh dissolved into a giggle, and Tommy giggled as well. The air had loosened again, and Ranboo could barely hold back his sigh of relief.

“But uh, yeah, Techno’s been well. He hibernated for a long while, and he’s been training quite a bit, but every time I’ve spoken to him he’s seemed pretty happy. Uh, until today, that is.”

“Did he give you trouble leaving?”

“Not really, but I think before I explained everything he kind of thought I was just leaving them? So he seemed kinda bitter at first, but once I explained everything he seemed fine.” Enderchest nearly rolled off his lap as he spoke, so he gently picked her up and placed her back in his bag, zipping it up halfway.

“That’s probably my fault.” Tommy’s voice was tinted with regret, the emotion evident on his face.

Ranboo bit his lip.

“I don’t think it’s your fault. He kind of put you in a difficult situation. Everyone did, if I’m being honest. You were kinda forced to choose between two people you cared about which pretty much never ends well.”

“I don’t regret choosing Tubbo. Do regret leaving Techno a bit. Weird innit?” Tommy rolled his head back, “That I can both regret and not regret the same decision.”

Ranboo hummed.

“I mean, I don’t think so. You were kinda forced to make two decisions, one being going with Tubbo and the other being leaving Techno. They were on opposite sides.”

“That’s your whole thing, yeah? Choosing people, not sides.”

“Yeah. I try not to choose sides whenever I can. I think it’s unfair to have to choose between people just because their ideologies don’t perfectly match up.”

“Fair. Would’ve been interesting to have you around during the first war. ‘M glad you didn’t come until later.”

Ranboo tilted his head.

“Why’s that?”

Tommy shifted uncomfortably.

“There was a lot of choosing. Dream used to be our friend, y’know? Then, of course, Wilbur started L’Manburg and I guess Dream lost it a little bit. It was kinda like, if you weren’t on our side, you were on theirs, which obviously doesn’t make much sense in hindsight.” Tommy sighed.

“Just, you probably wouldn’t have had a very good time. Wilbur was… a little extreme at times. D’you know I died twice during that war?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, once in the final control room, then again in a duel with Dream.” Tommy rubbed his chest as he spoke, like he could still feel the wounds.

“Yeah. Wilbur had a bit of a ‘Your country is more important than your life’ approach to things. Not that he wanted us to die, but. Y’know how it is.”

Ranboo distinctly did not “know how it is.” He wondered how often Wilbur spoke like that. He could feel dots connecting themselves as Tommy spoke.

“Did he say stuff like that a lot?”

Tommy shrugged, “Eh, not all the time, but quite a bit, yeah. You’re leading a war, you kinda have to give the big speeches about martyrdom ‘n all that.”

Part of Ranboo wanted to hop into Tommy’s boat and give him a hug, though he knew Tommy was still re-adjusting to touch and wouldn’t appreciate it. He and Tubbo must have been, what, sixteen? And they had one of the people they looked up to the most telling them their country’s independence was more important than their own lives. Whether he believed it or not, Wilbur must have been a pretty bad guy to even consider putting that thought in their heads.

Ranboo felt a bit ill just thinking about it. He was reminded of all the times he’d panicked at some stupid thought he’d had, and Tubbo had been forced to help him out of it, and felt a bit guilty. Tubbo must have gone through so much worse than anything Ranboo could ever imagine. He deserved to rest. So did Tommy. Everything about the situation was just so messed up.

He was glad they’d gotten out before something else went wrong and added onto the ever-growing list of reasons why Ranboo wanted to protect Tubbo and Tommy.

“Don’t look so upset, man. That’s just how war is.”

“You shouldn’t have been there. You don’t deserve to go through that.”

Tommy’s lips tightened into a line.

“Maybe not. But what’s done is done. Nothing we can do about it now.”

“You know that what he was saying isn’t true though, right? Nothing is more important than you being alive and safe.” Ranboo spoke in a soft tone, his voice quieting even more so than before.

Tommy stared at him.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” His voice went a bit high pitched, and he cleared his throat, “I, uh, yeah, no yeah, it was a bunch of bullshit.”

“M’kay, good,”

Tommy was eyeing him weirdly, he could feel it, even as he didn’t see it. He shifted in his seat, biting his lip. His hands began fidgeting with the hem of his jacket.

“I just, um, know what it’s like, a tiny bit, to have thoughts kinda like that in your head, and it’s not- it’s not fun, so. Just wanted to, uh, make sure you’re okay.” Ranboo smiled as best he could.

Tommy watched him curiously, but didn’t push.

“Yeah, I’m alright.” He shrugged.

“Okay.” Ranboo sighed to himself, making sure Tommy wouldn’t hear.

Deep conversations were hard.

“Are you gonna at least get more comfortable? We’re probably gonna be here a while.” Tommy said as Ranboo shifted again.

“Probably a good idea.” Ranboo carefully sat on the floor of the boat, opposite Michael so he could sit comfortably with his knees to his chest.

As he readjusted, Tubbo groaned in his sleep. Ranboo moved carefully, grabbing Tubbo’s hand in his own and holding it. Tubbo squeezed back in his sleep, and Ranboo had to stop himself from audibly cooing.

“Ugh. How long do you think you two are gonna be all gross and husbandy?” Tommy asked with mock disgust.

Ranboo stifled a laugh.

“If all goes according to plan, forever.”

“Ew.”

Ranboo broke into a giggle as Tommy snickered from the other boat.

“Whatever. Just don’t be gross in front of me. Frankly, it’s weird.”

“I literally just held his hand.”

“Disgusting.”

Ranboo rolled his eyes affectionately.

“Alright Mr. I Built Myself A Girlfriend.”

“I’ll have you know she was wonderful and treated me right.”

“She was a log with a jack o'lantern on top.”

“Small details.” Tommy made a gesture of waving Ranboo off.

“Mhm, mhm.”

“If you were not allergic to water I would be splashing you with it right now.”

Ranboo snickered.

“Aw, you do care.”

“Alright fuck it.”

Tommy made a show of drowsily splashing water against the side of Ranboo’s boat, and Ranboo snorted in amusement. Tommy sighed like he was exasperated, then yawned.

“Try to get some sleep dude.” Ranboo’s tone softened.

“You shouldn’t have to be up all alone,” Tommy mumbled tiredly.

Ranboo made a mental note to himself to write down that tired Tommy was sweeter than awake Tommy.

“It’s alright, if I need anything I’ll wake you up, alright?”

“Wake me up, not Tubbo.”

“Okay, I will.”

Tommy eyed him suspiciously, accidentally making eye contact with Ranboo. Ranboo decided it was definitely worse than eye contact with Tubbo, but nowhere near as horrible as it used to be with Tommy. Slight discomfort, not panic-inducing.

Baby steps, he supposed.

Tommy glanced away quickly.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“I’m gonna sleep now.”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“Night Ranboob.”

Ranboo sighed loudly and saw Tommy smirk as he closed his eyes.

And then there was one.

Ranboo took the opportunity to write in his memory book. With his luck, he’d wake up at some point in the next few days expecting to be back in the tundra, and he didn’t want Tubbo to have to pull him out of that panic.

He jotted down the events of the day, and some of the things he’d talked about with Tommy. He left himself a small reminder to keep a close eye on Tubbo, to make sure he was doing okay. And on Tommy, as well. And Michael.

He hoped they’d made the right decision by doing this. Maybe it was foolish to run off so quickly, without letting it sink in. It worried him to think that they might regret it later down the line. But right now, at this moment, Ranboo couldn’t find much in him to care. All he could focus on was the fact that now, his family would be safe. No more war bunkers, or TNT cannons (unless Tommy happened to be bored, he supposed). They could just grow up, and raise Michael, and live without the fear of death lurking around every corner.

Maybe they would regret it. One day. But today was not that day.

And so, Ranboo settled into the night, listening to the distant caws of seagulls and the occasional chirp from dolphins. He sat, and listened, and allowed himself to hope and daydream for a while, as the moon shifted in the sky. Eventually, the sky began to turn orange, the early rays of the sun peeking above the horizon.

He watched the sunrise, and for the first time in a while, he felt at peace. Not the faux-peace they had created back in the SMP lands, but really, truly peaceful. He felt as if he was finally coming home after a long day in the mines. Tired, but calm, and warm. And he could be with his family, and laugh, and feel safe.

Safe. What a precious, beautiful thing to feel.

A soft groaning arose from the other side of the boat. Ranboo turned, and saw a pink ear twitch. Soon, a tiny, hoof-like hand rose from the blanket and rubbed his son’s tired eye, who finally blinked his eye open and looked at Ranboo.

“Boo?”

“Hey, bud. Good morning.”

“Good mornin’.” Michael yawned, crawling out from under the blanket carefully, and flopping down beside Ranboo, leaning on his side.

Ranboo gently rubbed Michael’s arm, placing a kiss on his forehead.

“Did you sleep well?”

Michael groaned in response, and Ranboo giggled. He really did take after his other father.

“Do you want some breakfast?”

Michael nodded, and Ranboo opened his inventory, grabbing some bread. He ripped a small piece off for Michael, who looked at it for a moment in contemplation, then promptly shoved it in his mouth. Ranboo sighed.

“You’ve spent too much time around Mimi.” He smiled, petting Michael’s mane.

Michael grinned up at him, taking another bite of bread. Tubbo began to stir across from them, his eyes blinking open slowly.

“Morning Bo.”

Ranboo was met with a groan. He giggled to himself quietly.

“Five more minutes.”

“You can have as many minutes as you need.”

“It’s too early for you being nice, ‘m gonna accidentally tell you to fuck off. Leave me alone for like- just one more minute.” Tubbo mumbled.

Ranboo laughed, and Michael giggled beside him, chewing on his bread. Tubbo stared up at the sky, then glanced around, getting his bearings. Eventually, he brought his gaze back to Ranboo, and Ranboo leaned forward a bit until Tubbo got the hint and moved to bonk their foreheads together.

“Ugh. It’s too early for your husband shit.”

Ranboo sighed good-naturedly.

“Good morning, Tommy.”

He looked over to Tommy’s boat, where Tommy was stretching. He seemed a bit tired, but not as grumpy about waking up as Michael or Tubbo were.

Tubbo stretched as well, then reached into his inventory, retrieving some baked potatoes and steak. He handed them to Ranboo and Tommy, then took some for himself.

The group ate in silence for a while, letting the morning set in. Ranboo finished, and returned to his seat as Tommy did in the boat next to him, grabbing the paddles.

“Ah, no, I’m rowing now. You did it last night.” Tubbo stood carefully, gently kicking Ranboo’s shin.

Ranboo bit his lip. Tubbo had been so tired, and had gotten so little sleep. Ranboo could survive a couple more hours of rowing if it meant Tubbo got a bit more rest.

“Oh, that’s alright. I’ll be fine, I’m not tired.” Ranboo offered him a smile, to which Tubbo raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t care. Sit your bony ass down on the other seat or I’ll skin you.”

“Why do you always jump to skinning me?”

“Ranboo.”

Ranboo sighed. He supposed Tubbo could row for a bit, and then they could trade again…

“Fine.” Ranboo carefully moved around Tubbo, sitting on the seat opposite him.

Michael jumped up, sitting beside Ranboo and leaning into his side again. Tommy reached across the boats and untied them from each other, tossing the rope down onto the floor of his boat. Tommy and Tubbo began rowing, heading North.

“Hey, Tommy, are you sure you don’t want me to row for you for a while? You didn’t get much sleep last night, so…”

“I got enough. Rest, dumbass.”

Ranboo sighed, resigning to spending the next couple of hours doing nothing. He released Enderchest from his duffel, to which Michael squealed with delight. Enderchest purred as the toddler pet her gently, eventually curling up beside him on the seat.

Ranboo retrieved one of Michael’s books from his bag, and read to him for a while as the toddler clutched his plushie with one hand and pet Enderchest with the other. Ranboo finished the book, and returned it to its place in Michael’s bag. He opened his inventory, grabbing a couple small fish, and turning back to Michael.

“Here, can you feed Enderchest for me?”

Michael nodded excitedly. Ranboo smiled warmly.

“Alright. Hold your hand flat, like this.” Ranboo demonstrated with his own hand, holding it flat with his palm facing the sky.

Michael copied his movement, holding his hand out flat towards Ranboo. Ranboo carefully placed the fish on Michael’s hand, and the toddler wrinkled his nose. Ranboo laughed gently.

“Okay, now you can just move your hand in front of her, and she’ll eat them up!” He carefully guided his son’s hand in front of Enderchest, whose ears perked up at the scent of fish.

Her eyes opened, and she gingerly took one of the fish from Michael’s hand. Michael giggled, leaning backwards. Ranboo steadied him from behind, a grin on his face. Tubbo watched across from them, his eyes and smile soft. Ranboo’s tail wagged happily, gently slapping the inside of the boat.

Enderchest plucked the last fish from Michael’s hand, and Michael pulled his hand back, flapping it happily.

“Can I hug you, Mikey?” Ranboo asked.

Michael nodded, and Ranboo scooped him up, enveloping him in a hug. Michael hugged back as tight as he could, then pulled away, bumping his forehead against his dad’s. A soft purr rumbled from Ranboo’s chest, and Michael flopped down beside him again.

Ranboo yawned, and Tubbo lifted an eyebrow.

“Did you not sleep well last night?”

Ranboo paused. The tendrils of anxiety started gently tugging at his stomach and lungs. He could tell Tubbo he hadn’t slept, but then he would ask why, and Ranboo didn’t want him to think they were bothering him in any way…

“Oh, no, I did, I’m all good, just still a bit tired from travelling all night.” Ranboo smiled what he hoped was a convincing smile.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Tommy’s brow furrowed, “You stayed up to keep an eye on the boats.”

“I, um, fell asleep after you did?”

Tubbo frowned.

“That shouldn’t be a question, Boo.”

“Right, um, sorry, but, I really am okay! You know Endermen need less sleep than humans?”

“That’s a lie.”

“…Yeah.”

Ranboo wrung his hands nervously. Shoot, he’d probably just worried Tubbo more, and it wasn’t like there was anything either of them could do about the issue anyways. He didn’t really feel all that tired either, so it wasn’t really a problem. It’s not like he’d continued to travel all night, he had rested, he just hadn’t, y’know, slept.

“Did you not sleep at all? We could have taken turns, if you were worried. You don’t get to sacrifice your sleep just ‘cause you want us to sleep.” Tubbo watched him carefully, as if watching for any tells he might show.

“It’s, it’s not that, well, maybe it is, a bit? But, um not- not totally, at least, um…” Ranboo rubbed the back of his neck as his friends looked at him quizzically.

He really didn’t want to worry them. Or make them feel guilty. But he was probably just worrying them more by lying. Right? Or maybe not, maybe they were just upset that he’d lied, not worried. But Tubbo looked worried. Ugh, this sucked.

“So, you know how we’re, like, surrounded by, by water?” Ranboo began nervously.

Tubbo and Tommy nodded cautiously. Ranboo bit his lip, and saw something click in Tubbo brain.

“Is the water stressing you out?” He asked, slowly coming to a stop.

Ranboo gulped.

“Well, no, not- not really, it’s not like, stressing me out consciously, but, I think it might be an Enderman thing? Like, instinctual, or something. I, uh, I can’t fall asleep in boats, though. There’s just- too much water, like everywhere, and, uh… yeah,”

Tubbo looked at him sadly, and Ranboo felt a pang of guilt in his stomach. Great, now he’s made Tubbo feel bad, and Tommy probably did too, and Michael was probably confused why everyone was upset, and he was just stressing them all out, and they should have just left him behind-

“Woah, Boo, it’s alright, we’re okay, breathe.” Tubbo placed down his paddles, grabbing Ranboo’s hands as Tommy’s boat drifted up beside them.

“I’m sorry.” Ranboo said quietly.

“You don’t have to apologize for anything. Breathe. In for four, hold for six, out for seven, remember? Just like you do with me.” Tubbo exaggerated his breathing, and Ranboo copied him as best he could.

Guilt continued to tug at his stomach for making Tubbo deal with him.

“There we go. Alright. We’re not upset, or angry, or anything. I just wish you’d told us sooner so we could’ve figured out a better travel plan.” Tubbo explained, rubbing Ranboo’s hands.

Tommy hummed.

“We should be near land soon enough, so we can take horseback from there. We can probably rest for a while once we get to land too. Tubs and I will be tired from rowing anyways.” Tommy said lightly, gesturing behind him as he spoke.

“Yeah, I- yeah, don’t, don’t worry, I’m all good. I’ve stayed up much longer than this, I’m fine.” Ranboo said nervously.

Tubbo stared at him for a moment.

“You gotta understand why that’s not reassuring.”

Tommy stifled a laugh beside them, and Ranboo huffed.

“It’s true, though. I can, I can handle it, y’know? I’m not gonna, like, break just ‘cause I’m awake for longer than usual.”

“You should still get some sleep.” Tubbo argued.

Ranboo’s ears flattened against his head against his will, and Tubbo noticed, his expression softening. He glanced away for a minute, as if thinking, then snapped his fingers.

“What if we covered your eyes?”

Ranboo frowned.

“That sounds horrible.”

“You mean like with a blindfold?” Tommy asked.

“No, of course not a blindfold. What would he do if we got attacked or something?” Tubbo leaned down grabbing the blanket he and Michael had used to sleep.

“I mean, like, what if you slept with a blanket over your head? That way you wouldn’t be able to see the water, and maybe your Enderman instincts would chill out a bit.”

“Like a parrot.” Ranboo grimaced.

“Uhhh… Sort of, yeah.” Tubbo said, grinning.

“Alright, well, you heard the man, down on the floor with you.” Tommy said, pulling a theatrical groan from Ranboo.

“Seriously, Tubbo, I’m fine, I’d much rather just like, nap, once we find land.”

“Nope,” Tubbo said, popping the ‘p,’ “Sit on the floor.”

Ranboo obeyed hesitantly, and Tubbo tossed the blanket over his head. Ranboo’s tail whipped back and forth across the boat in annoyance, and he could feel himself blushing profusely.

“Is this revenge for something?” Ranboo asked lightheartedly.

Tubbo giggled, and Ranboo smiled, though the other two couldn’t see it. He heard something plop down beside him, and was then greeted by Michael shuffling under the blanket, curling up beside him. Tubbo cooed quietly, and Ranboo heard Tommy scoff. He wrapped an arm around Michael, who gently headbutted his shoulder.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Tommy asked.

Ranboo paused for a moment, biting his lip. As much as he hated to admit it, he could feel the tightness in his stomach alleviating as more time went on under the blanket. His foot was pushed out far enough that it was touching Tubbo’s, and with Michael beside him, the instinctual nervousness he got when he didn’t know where his… his “haunting” was, lessened. Enough that he could actually feel the effects of exhaustion in his muscles.

“It probably will and I hate that.” Ranboo finally said.

Tommy and Tubbo cackled, and Ranboo huffed. They delighted in his suffering, and it was horrible. He could feel the sticky tendrils of anxiety loosening from his throat, though, and he could feel his eyes becoming heavier. Another yawn escaped him, and his tail slowly came to a stop, curling around him and Michael. Tubbo sighed happily.

“Get some sleep, Boo. We’ll keep rowing for a while, and we’ll wake you once we find land, alright?”

Ranboo hummed affirmation, his eyes already sliding closed. He felt something placed behind his head, and leaned against it like he would against a pillow. It was soft, probably one of Tubbo’s hoodies. Distantly, he hoped Tubbo wouldn’t be upset at him for using it as a pillow.

He heard Tommy and Tubbo start bickering about something or other, accompanied only by the waves and, occasionally, the distant squawks of seabirds. His eyes slid shut as his heartbeat slowed, and his brain drifted to thoughts of flower fields and apiaries.

20 notes · View notes

my-personal-multiverse · 4 years ago

Note

I saw your anti-Bangel I Will Remember You post, and if I remember correctly, didn’t Angel ask the powers to swallow the day because the Powers That Be told his Buffy was going to die? And him turning back time would either allow him to help her in the battle to come, or prevent her death entirely? Everyone is entitled to their opinion, but isn’t it about Angel being selfless and giving up the one thing he’s always wanted to keep Buffy safe and alive? Love you blog btw

I think that before that point he's already fucked up by even going to them to talk about all this without having talked to her first. That's the whole problem, he thinks it's up to him to protect her like a little child as though she doesn't deserve a say in the matter. All this concerns her. Even if they hadn't swallowed the day and just turned him back he still should have talked to her. Because he's making decisions that will severely impact their relationship and as such her life because he thinks he needs to protect her (which she has said he doesn't) without consulting her. Or even telling her. Like "hey Buffy I'm going to ask them to turn me back" "but angel then we can't be together why???" *insert bangel drama*. End in the end Buffy would have ended up agreeing with him if he had been like "I need to do this to protect the people" because she understands that. ( on top of all this there's the fact that angel simultaneously is like "can't be with Buffy as a human because I need to be a strong vampire to protect her and would only get in the way" and also "can't be with Buffy as a vampire because she needs a normal human guy and life" like should Buffy just stay single forever.)

I think one of the reasons I am so incredibly mad at angel in this episode and this episode as a whole is that it starts with this conversation:

(I took the dialog from the transcripts wiki because I didn't want to have to rewatch the entire thing myself.)

Angel: "Well, umm, it's good to.. Can I get you anything?"

Buffy: "How about - an explanation? - Who do you think you are coming to my town and following me around behind my back?"

Angel: "I'm sorry."

Buffy: "What is this? (...)"

...

"(...) What are we playing here?"

Angel: "We're not. I'm not playing anything. I wrestled with this decision.."

Buffy: "Which you made without me."

(this line is so important to me. They start the episode with this and then instead of really exploring this and maybe dealing with the persistent problem in Buffy and angels relationship where he doesn't allow her to make these choices or communicate with her they just ignore this and let him continue to do the same bullshit she calls him out for and then try to make it romantic. Wtf)

Angel: "I tried to do what I thought was right. It's complicated how this all happened, Buffy, you know? (...)"

...

Buffy: "You didn't feel that I was important enough to even tell me that you were there."

Angel looks at her: "I'm trying to explain. It's because I felt that you're important that I didn't tell you." (what are you on about angel?? "I don't tell you things because I care. I go behind your back because I care." what kinda Kindergarten "he's mean because he likes you" bullshit is this)

Buffy: "I'm a big girl now, Angel. I'm not in High School anymore. A lot has happened in my life since you left."

Angel: "I know. I respect that." ( maybe show that by not doing the same thing again angel)

Buffy: "And I don't need you skulking around, trying to protect me. (...)"

I really don't know how much clearer she could be. Don't make choices behind my back trying to protect me. She literally traveled to LA to tell him this. That's how much it bothered her.

Also the fact that he leaves while she's sleeping without telling her. Like yes he is human now and the curse isn't in effect but that doesn't change the fact that she has trauma about sleeping with guys and them not being there in the morning. He might not know about Parker but he knows what happened the last time they slept together and he can't be that oblivious to how that affected her and how him just leaving in the night without waking her or even leaving a fucking note is just fucked. It's fucked. And if he really doesn't understand this he doesn't understand her and lacks basic fucking empathy.

Buffy: "Where is Angel?"

(some back and forth)

Cordy with a sigh: "He told me not to tell you."

What the fuck angel?? Not just not telling her but explicitly telling others to not give her information and keep her out of the loop.???. That isn't some oversight oops I forgot that is an active choice to keep her in the dark about things and not allow her any agency to make choices.

(side note: I generally love cordy but "(...) And anyway, it's your fault that he went to fight that thing by himself without..". Yeah no. Don't go blaming Buffy for angels choices. She's not responsible for any of this. She didn't make this choice. Angel made sure of that.)

And about the oracles

Angel: "The Mohra demon said the end of days had begun. That others were coming, soldiers of darkness. I need to know if he was telling the truth."

Man: "As far as such things can be told."

(super vague and literally my point. "as far as such things can be told" nothing is written in stone. Prophecy gets misinterpreted. It is not fact.)

Angel: "What happens to the Slayer when these soldiers come?"

Woman: "What happens to all mortal beings. Albeit sooner in her case."

Angel: "She'll die? - Then I'm here to beg for her life."

(she was prophecied to die and survived it before. Like you can't take any of this at face value. And she gets brought back the next time too and him being or not being a vampire has nothing to do with it)

The Oracles turn and walk away: "It is not our place to grant life or death."

Angel: "And I ask you to take mine back. (The oracles stop walking and turn back to him) Look I can't protect her or anyone this way, not as a man."

Woman: "You're asking to be what you were, a demon with a soul, because of the Slayer?"

(they don't say shit about him needing to be a vampire to save her life or him being able to better protect her or him being able to avoid her death if he isn't human. He makes that assumption. And they are just mildly intrigued by the whole situation but they are not saying he's right)

Man turns to leave again: "Oh, this is a matter of love. It does not concern us."

Angel: "Yes, it does. The Mohra demon came to take a warrior from your cause - and it succeeded. I'm no good to you like this. I know you have it in your power to make this right. Please."

(they consider doing it after he let's them know that he will also be no good to the powers that way. But this is unrelated to Buffy and this is the thing that then makes them think of a way to do it. Because they realize him being a vampire is good for them. Not Buffy. Yes Buffy is his motivation but they just vaguely talk around it and never confirm to him that as a vampire he can save her life. He just wants to believe that because it fits into his martyr complex. And again. He can't actually save her as a vampire. )

So basically I hate angel in this episode and I hate that the episode frames all of his bullshit as romantic.

But thank you for the question anon. Ranting about angel is very cathartic for me.

#buffy #btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy summers #angel the series #i will remember you #anti bangel

39 notes · View notes

pengychan · 4 years ago

Text

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 23

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: There's Chekhov's gun and then there's Ernesto's poison. You know the rule.

Art is by @lunaescribe and @swanpit!

***

“This way, all of you, don’t make noise.”

“But Sister Antonia, these are your quarters--”

“And you’ll stay here until you’re told otherwise, chicos. Make no noise. We’ll bring you food here until they’re gone.”

“But the girls…?”

“They wouldn’t take them for their ranks. God willing, they’ll leave them be. We’ll keep them safe, too. Now you stay here, all right?”

A few terrified, wide-eyed glances from the boys. No reply.

“Am I clear?”

“S-sí.”

“Can we pray, Sister?”

“... Quietly,” Sister Antonia said, her voice tight in the way one’s voice gets when it’s so close to breaking up, and she closed the door, turning the key in the lock. When she turned to grab the bookcase and drag it across the floor, Imelda stepped in to help her push it. It left deep scratches on the wooden boards, but no matter. They would cover that with a rug.

“Is Miguel still missing?” Imelda asked, her voice as firm as she could make it. Antonia lowered her gaze with a nod.

“He’s the only one who didn’t come back. None of the boys has seen him since they went out to play hide and seek.”

Imelda bit her lower lip hard enough to almost break the skin. “Nor Óscar, have they?” she forced herself to ask, and the slow nod felt like a blow. Where was he? Where had they both gone? Could it be that they had both made it to her parents’ home, that Miguel had followed Óscar there? Maybe he had, maybe they were both safe.

God, please.

“I’m sorry, Imelda,” Antonia’s voice reached her as though from a mile away, and she scowled. Anger came easier than despair, and it was more than welcome. No point in fearing the worst behind the safety of those walls.

“They may very well be safe and sound,” she snapped, and marched to the door. “I will go out looking. If they ask, I’m looking for some of our girls. Make sure they’re all in - if anyone asks, this is a girls-only institution.”

“... Do you know where Sofía is?” Antonia spoke up, fear now showing in her voice, and it made Imelda pause. As much as she rolled her eyes at their antics, poorly hidden behind hastily closed doors and too thin walls, Imelda knew they cared deeply about one another.

“She’s taking care of something important. She will be here soon. Don’t worry,” she added, and smiled in the attempt to convey a sense of calm she did not feel. “She can handle herself just fine.”

Antonia’s own lips curled in a weak smile. “I won’t tell her you admitted that. Be careful out there. I really do want to see the gringo’s face when Padre Ernesto officiates your wedding.”

Imelda, who rather liked the idea of her wedding actually being both legal and valid in the eyes of God, knew they would probably have to settle for the gringo to officiate it, but that was not the moment to voice that thought. Except that, as she stepped out and ran towards the plaza, she quickly found out that perhaps the gringo would be in no position to officiate anything anymore, either.

“What…?” Imelda stopped in her tracks, stunned at the sight of several men quickly carrying a body towards the church on a sheet, dark blood a stark contrast to the man’s pale skin and fair hair. He looked-- was he-- dead?

If they go around shooting priests, none of us is safe.

There was no love lost between her and Father John Johnson, and yet there was a stab of something in her stomach at the idea he may be dead. He had been trying to help, after all. He had left the relative safety of the parish to help its people.

Maybe he just said something stupid. He does it a lot. Only this time they were armed.

“Go call doctor Sachéz,” Imelda heard someone saying as they passed her by, but before she could even voice her question - would the doctor be of any use, was he even still alive? - someone else called out her own name.

“Imelda!”

Ceci’s voice caused her to tear her gaze off the gringo who was perhaps an ex gringo. She was running up to her, hair dishevelled in a way Imelda had never seen it - she had always been dignified, even when they were young girls.

But today was not a normal day.

“They have Miguel,” Ceci panted, grabbing her shoulders. “And Óscar.”

No. No. No.

For a moment, just a moment, the world seemed to spin around her. It was as though sunlight itself faded for a moment, distant screams muffled, leaving the world empty and dark. Imelda’s knees may have buckled, they almost did, but she couldn’t allow herself to collapse.

“Their commander is loco,” Ceci was saying, eyes wide. “He just kept screaming about a deserter, one de la Cruz, and the more we swore none of us knew him the more he lost it. And when Padre Juan stepped in-- Imelda! Wait! Come back!”

Imelda didn’t listen: she just tore away from her grasp and ran, towards the plaza, towards the cries.

They had her brother. They had her charge. She had to go to them.

Whenever she thought about that nightmare scenario, Imelda was so certain of what she’d do: get the pistol she had taken from Ernesto, and use it the second it was necessary. But now that it was happening, she knew that taking out the gun would mean signing her death warrant, and that of God knew how many others in the village. A lone woman with a pistol - she would be killed quickly, and retribution on everyone else would be swift. She would be of no use to anyone dead.

Maybe Ernesto had been right, after all. What involvement she’d had had been from the sidelines. She knew nothing of war; Santa Cecilia knew nothing of war.

But war had come to them, and it was a matter of learning fast or dying.

He just kept screaming about a deserter.

There is no mercy in war, Ernesto had said.

He’s one of our own now. I can’t give him away.

They have Óscar.

I promised we would protect him.

They have Miguel.

We protect our own.

He lied to us.

There must be something we can do. Anything.

As she ran as fast as her robes allowed her, blood rushing in her ears and thoughts going in circles, Imelda could only pray that Ernesto would stay at the González farm, unaware, for as long as possible.

If he returned too early and they found out he was there, and that they hadn’t handed him over, it would spell disaster for all of them.

***

“Miguel!”

Héctor’s scream was loud enough to hurt his throat, and it was still lost under the echo of the gunshot, under the wordless cries of the people of Santa Cecilia trying to back away, the shouts of those calling out for doctor Sanchéz and the stunned cries of ‘he shot him, he shot a man of God ! ’ coming even from the Federales themselves.

It was lost beneath all the confusion, and Miguel’s screams.

“No! What have you done! What have you done!”

“Be still-- be still, brat! Don’t try my patience, there is a bullet for you too if you won’t--!”

“Let me go!”

“I am warning you!”

“Murderer! Let me g--!”

“Wait! Por favor!”

This time, Héctor’s cry was loud enough to be heard. That, and it’s rather hard not to notice someone in a priestly robe throwing himself in front of your horse, gripping the reins and looking up at you with a look of pure anguish on his face.

The commander seemed startled, pistol still in mid-air, and he let his gaze shift from Héctor to the motionless priest bleeding out on the cobblestones, a few men already trying to press on the wound to stop the blood loss, calling for help to take him to the doctor. Héctor didn’t look down, didn’t focus on the fact he had just witnessed a man being shot down, didn’t even think he was putting himself in danger of being next.

All he knew was that the man had Miguel, and he couldn’t have him.

He opened his mouth to plead, but the commander’s eyes were back on him and he spoke up before he could. In his grasp Miguel was shaking, eyes full of tears and skin ashen.

“Are all priests in this village eager to become martyrs? Let go of the reins now, or--”

“I’ll join you,” Héctor blurted out, holding tighter onto the reins. “I beg of you to let him go. I’ll take his place.”

The soldier’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline; Miguel, on the other hand, let out a gasp.

“Héctor, no--!” he choked out, only to trail off when the man gave him a shake.

“You know him?”

“He is a warden of the Church. I--”

“Well, go back to the Church. We don’t take in priests.”

“I am a novice, not a priest,” Héctor spoke quickly, and fell on his knees. Blood soaked through the robe, warm and wet, while somewhere behind him Father John was taken away on a sheet. Federales allowed it, most of them probably still stunned at the notion their commander had just shot a priest; many held no more love for the Church than Huerta himself did, but fear of God’s punishment was too ingrained in their hearts since childhood not to hold some weight. “I have taken no vows-- none. I can join the army. I’ll do it right now. I’ll do anything you ask.”

There was a hiccupping sob, tears spilling down Miguel’s cheeks. He was always such a lively boy, so smart, always up to something - but now he only looked like the scared child he was. Héctor desperately wanted to comfort him, but he dared not tear his gaze from that of the commander, whose harsh expression had softened even so slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was… calmer.

“You seem to care about this muchacho an awful lot.”

“He’s like a son to me,” Héctor said, and he realized the truth of it only as it left his lips. Miguel let out another sob, trying to wipe his eyes.

“Héctor…” he managed, and Héctor finally dared smile at the boy. A shaky smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“It will be all right, chamaco, I promise,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it, and looked back at the soldier, who stared back a few moments… and finally lowered the pistol, putting it back in the holster.

“What is your name?”

“Héctor, señor.”

“Héctor and what else?”

“Just Héctor. I-- I have no family.”

“Can you hold a gun?”

“Sí.”

“Shoot?”

“I-- only tried a few times. But I will learn.”

“Mph. I guess it’s something. We can’t be picky these days.”

“You won’t regret it. I swear.”

The man sighed. Much later on, Héctor would wonder if the look he gave him that moment truly was somewhat apologetic, or if it had just been his imagination. To his last day, he would never be entirely sure. “... Very well, Just Héctor. I am Commander Hernández. Welcome to the Federal Army,” he said, and let go of Miguel. The boy jumped off the horse and was in Héctor’s arms the next moment, crying hard, face pressed against his shoulder.

“Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go,” he sobbed, holding on tight. “You’ve got to get married-- I’m sorry I was so mad at you-- please don’t go--”

I’m sorry, Imelda.

“It will be all right,” Héctor managed, trying to sound as optimistic as he could. “I’ll be back once this is over and I’ll have plenty of stories to tell.”

Miguel sniffled, still holding on tight. “Promise,” he choked out.

“I swear.”

Another shuddering breath. “Did you-- do you really--?”

“All right, all right, enough. Just looking at you makes my teeth rot.”

Gustavo’s voice rang out suddenly, and Miguel was torn from Héctor’s arms before he could react. He tried to protest, to break free, but Gustavo had already pushed him back towards Chicharrón, who trapped him in a steely grip the boy had no chance of escaping - Héctor would know, he had been on the receiving end of that a few times before.

As the old gravedigger began pulling Miguel away despite his protests, and Héctor stood - so much blood on the cobblestones, surely the gringo was dead - Commander Hernández gave Gustavo a somewhat weary glance. “And you are…?”

“Gustavo Torres, señor. I wish to join your ranks,” Gustavo said, making a dismissive gesture towards the plaza behind him. “I’ve had enough of this place. I am a good shooter, too,” he added. Héctor knew that was an absolute lie: Gustavo couldn't even hit his own foot with any type of firearm. What the hell was he going on about - and why join the Federales? He was a pendejo, that much was no mystery, but since well did he support Huerta? What was going on?

Commander Hernández tilted his head, seemingly taken aback of for entirely different reasons. It probably wasn’t often anyone volunteered to join. “... Well then. If you’re willing to join, I see no reason to deny you.”

“Uh, Commander…” a soldier approached them, looking a little shaken up. Either he was new to all this, or he found his commander had gone a step too far in shooting a man of God in cold blood - gringo or not. He gestured towards a group of people behind him, separated from the rest of the plaza; all men of varying ages… and, to Héctor’s horror, among them there was a boy. Óscar. “We have the thirty men you ask--.”

“No you don’t,” Gustavo muttered. “What you have is twenty-eight men and a half,” a pointed look in Héctor’s direction, “plus a child. The muchacho with glasses over there? Those two bottle ends on his face are not enough to make him usable with a gun. He couldn’t tell his sister from a donkey. I mean, sometimes no one can,” he added, making Héctor want more than anything to wrap his hands around his neck, thumbs on the throat, and squeeze.

But he could see what he was trying to do, so he held his tongue and his hands. Just barely.

Commander Hernández raised an eyebrow. “If this is an attempt at taking the boy’s place, it is rather transparent,” he said, and Gustavo shrugged.

“Then I can replace anyone else,” he replied. Either he did an excellent job at sounding like he didn’t give a damn either way, or he really didn’t give a damn either way. “Or you leave with thirty-one men. It just seems fair to warn you that the boy’s eyesight is awful and he’d make a poor soldier.”

Commander Hernández turned back to look directly at Óscar, who pressed himself against the wall under his gaze as though trying to make himself feel smaller, all skinny limbs and huge glasses. In the end, the man shrugged. “Mmh. Those glasses do seem awfully thick, and you do look like you’d make a better soldier,” he said, and he gestured for the closest soldier to let him go. Cries of mercy for others rose up from sisters, wives, parents - but none was heeded. There would be no more mercy that day.

As he watched in relief Óscar being pushed away from the lineup, eyes wide and bewildered, Héctor only vaguely heard the commander’s orders for his men to give the new recruit uniforms, get supplies and fresh horses from the village, and be ready to leave within the hour. He let out a long breath and turned to Gustavo.

“Gracias,” he murmured, only to get an annoyed look in return.

“Don’t thank me. If we survive this, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Let me guess. This is all my fault?”

“Of course it is. It’s always your fault, somehow,” Gustavo grunted, glaring at the ground while they walked to get their uniforms. “We can only hope the puta is going to follow my instructions and get us help.”

A thought crossed Héctor’s mind, unexpected and blinding as the flare of a match in a darkened room. He found himself blinking, taken aback. He had no clue who the puta may be, but the rest was… revealing. “Those messages-- the instructions-- was it y ouch! ”

“Scream it for everyone to hear, why don’t you!” Gustavo hissed, falling back into step after stomping on Héctor’s foot. It caused him to walk a bit awkwardly, but he didn’t protest or say anything more. Only after a folded uniform was pushed into his arms - obviously used, ill-fitting and with specks on it that looked a lot like dried blood - did Héctor dare turn, heart heavy in his chest, hoping to get at least one last glimpse of Imelda before he left.

And, for the second time that day, he got his wish. Imelda stood at the front of the crowd, holding onto Óscar. He was already taller than she was, but she cradled his head the way she did when she was a girl and he was just a young child. Miguel was there, too, having somehow escaped Cheech’s grasp. He was holding onto her robe but, unlike Óscar, he was looking towards him. Both him and Imelda were, his face tear-soaked and blotchy and hers terribly grave, and terribly pale.

I’m sorry, he ached to tell them both. Stay safe. I love you. I’ll be back soon.

But they were too far away, and he could only hope his glance would be enough to tell them that. He could only hope they knew.

When I return, Héctor thought, refusing to contemplate any other scenario, to add any ifs to that. He’d be back, whatever it took. When I return and we marry, Miguel will stay with us.

Only then, with that thought in mind, Héctor was able to give them a weak smile.

***

Had it not been for her brother holding onto her like he hadn’t in years, or for Miguel clinging to her robe while shaking with hiccuping sobs, Imelda may have ran forward. She may have pushed through, to the commander, and screamed to him that she knew where to find the deserter he wanted - that he could have him, if he released everyone else.

One man’s life against thirty. Thirty men, including the one she loved, that could be released in exchange for one.

I could save him. I could save them all, here and now.

Later on she would not be proud of what she came so close to doing, but neither would she be ashamed. She had promised Ernesto she would protect him from the Federal Army if it came to it, and she had meant it; if it came to taking a bullet to keep that promise, she’d have taken the bullet. But letting other people do the same… that was where she balked.

As much as it tore at her heart, she knew Héctor had made his choice. He must have known that giving Ernesto away would save him and Miguel both, but he had decided to take Miguel’s place and keep Ernesto safe instead. The others, though, had no choice at all. Twenty-nine men who knew nothing of Ernesto’s deceit and could not make their own decision as to whether he should be protected with their lives or not.

There were young husbands, young fathers, family men who may never return home, leaving widows and orphans and lonely parents. Who were they to make that choice for all of them? Who was she to do it?

We protect our own.

He is one of ours, too.

One life. One life against thirty.

Héctor may never forgive me.

He can hate me, if it means he’ll be alive to do it.

Imelda watched, her head wrapped in silence, as Héctor took a uniform and finally, for the first time, looked back. Their gazes met, the coldness in the pit of Imelda’s stomach turned to ache, and the idiota did the unthinkable. He had the galls to smile at her, and somehow it was the most heartbreaking thing she ever had to endure - seeing that smile, and knowing it may be the last time she did.

No. No, she couldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t let that smile be taken away from the world a day too soon than it had to, no matter if she would never again see it directed at her. She would live with it. They both would.

With a long breath, Imelda made peace with the fact she may never be able to sleep well again as long as she lived, and gently pushed Óscar away. “Go home,” she told him, stroking his cheek, and went to step forward and go speak with the commander.

Only to stop as Miguel’s grip on her robe tightened and he pulled her back, looking up at her with a tear-streaked face. “Don’t do it,” he choked out, and Imelda’s blood ran cold. It was as though the child had read her intentions on her face, plain as day. “I promised him he’d be safe here. I promised.”

Oh, my little one. It was too much responsibility to put on you.

Imelda swallowed, unable to speak for a few moments. “Miguel…” she managed, her voice barely audible, most of it stuck somewhere in her throat. “This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. Sometimes we need to make-- choices we’d never want to make.”

“I don’t want to choose,” Miguel pleaded, still holding on with both hands. “I don’t want either of them to die. He-- he’s loco, you didn’t see how he shot Padre J-Juan, he… he really hates Ernesto, I don’t know why, we can’t let him have him…!”

She sighed, and crouched down, wiping his face with a sleeve. “Miguel, listen to me--”

“No. You listen before you do something I assure you you’d regret.”

Sofía spoke suddenly before Imelda could say anything more, crouching next to her as though to comfort Miguel as well. “First of all, lower your voice, Jesus Christ. Second, don’t do anything. We can kick Ernesto around for putting us into this mess later, and I’ll be first in line, but no need to see him hang.”

“None of those men has ever been in a battle. If they take them--”

“We’ll take them back.” Sofía pushed something into her hand, a folded piece of paper. “We will have reinforcements.”

“What…” Imelda read the brief message, taken aback. Then she read it again, and again, and again; the handwriting itself struck her as much as the content itself. “Wait… this is…?”

“Same handwriting as the instructions you’ve been getting, yes. It was Gustavo all along.”

Somehow, Imelda may have been less surprised to be told that the Pope himself had been behind the entire thing. Gustavo, of all people? Someone who never cared about anyone other than himself?

Except that he took Óscar’s place just now. I owe him. Oh God, he made me owe him. He will never shut up about it, will he?

“It-- what?” was all Imelda managed to say in the end, stunned. But it made sense, suddenly - how José and his men had known their bell needed repair, and why they had come running to fix it after Ernesto’s unsuccessful attempt, once Gustavo took it upon himself to find a solution. She knew there was something behind it, but she had no idea what. Now she knew.

The bell had always been their means to call for help.

Once they have left, ring the bell to a death knell and don’t stop. Help will come. Tell them to follow the trail. They’ll know.

“Wait, what… what did Gustavo do?” Miguel was asking, confusion overriding his anguish. Sofía smiled, and pulled him close.

“Don’t worry, niño. We’ll fix everything,” she said, brushing back his hair. She smiled, but even her smile was wrong, sharp, teeth ground tightly. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Imelda stood slowly, slipping the note in her sleeve, and glanced up. Now all she could see were people huddled together mourning their losses, while soldiers took all that was not nailed down in the small weekly market. The men the Federales had chosen to join their ranks were gone, Héctor with them, without so much a last word between them.

No matter. This is not the end. We’ll bring them back. By any means necessary.

“... Let’s take Miguel back to safety, and be ready to ring the bell once they’re gone.”

“And what do you plan on doing?”

“There is something in my room I need to retrieve, and a horse I need to borrow,” Imelda said, very quietly, as they began walking away from the plaza. Sofía still held onto the hand of a very confused Miguel; she knew she was referring to the pistol, she had to know what she meant to do, but she didn’t say as much aloud or try to talk her out of it.

“Of course,” was all she said. "Be careful.”

“What’s happening?” Miguel asked, his voice small. Desperately wanting to be hopeful, but terrified of seeing that hope shattered. “How… can you really fix this?”

“... I’ll do my damndest,” Imelda replied, getting a somewhat shaky laugh from Sofía.

“If the gringo heard you, he’d have a heart attack.”

“Oh!” Miguel seemed to recoil. “Padre Juan! Is he-- did they get him help?”

“Huh?” Sofía looked down, taken aback. “What happened to the gringo?”

“He was shot.” Miguel swallowed, and tugged at her sleeve. “He was trying to save me and… and… can we go to doctor Sanchéz first? Por favor-- just to see if he’s… if…”

His voice faded, and Sofía looked over at Imelda with a bitter smile. “First one points a gun at me, then they shoot a priest. Our robes aren’t much of an armor anymore,” she said, and turned back to Miguel. “... I’ll send one of the sisters to see him as soon as you’re safe with the others, and let you know how he’s getting on. I promise.”

Miguel protested, but not too much. He was exhausted, still in shock for everything he had gone through in the span of little over an hour, and all things considered it was testament to his resilience that he was not curled into a ball and screaming.

He let Sofía lead him back to the orphanage, and Imelda watched them disappear with a long sigh. He was safe now. He could rest. Her own work, however, had only just begun.

Imelda gave another quick glance behind her, towards the plaza, before she headed back to her room, where a pistol lay hidden beneath a floorboard, waiting to be loaded. She had hoped it wouldn’t come to it; she had hoped the Federales would spare their village until the end of that war. But there they were, and there she was.

It was time to see if the hours spent learning to load and aim had been worth something.

***

All right, so maybe the painfully slow trip to the González farm had been worth it, after all.

Ernesto was almost entirely sure his half-assed blessing had precisely nothing to do with the young bull suddenly realizing what went where and enthusiastically getting to work - too enthusiastically, he had definitely seen more bull than he ever needed to see in his life - but he had to admit, the timing had been nothing short of amazing.

The look on old Manuel’s face had been a sight to behold, and the fresh eggs he had gifted him immediately afterwards were a nice plus. He’d probably been moments away from falling on his knees and declaring him a true miracle worker, which would have been flattering but also rather awkward, right next to a bull and a cow getting down to business.

Ah, he couldn’t wait to tell Juan his blessing had worked, after all. Maybe he’d suggest Manuel González to name any resulting male calf Ernesto and a female Juanita, just to be spiteful. That would teach him.

Ernesto was snickering to himself at the idea when suddenly, on the other side of the hill, the bell of Santa Cecilia’s church began tolling - slowly, with long gaps between strikes. It was enough to make the smile fade from his face, heart dropping somewhere in his stomach as always whenever he heard that sound. A death knell.

What happened? Who died? I was away only hours, what did they do?

It may be nothing, of course; one of the old parishioners may have kicked it, a sad but not really unusual occurrence. With some luck, it may be the insufferable gravedigger. Maybe the sexton had finally fallen off the stairs and broken his stupid neck.

But that couldn’t be it. The death knell would only ring out during a funeral, or… or maybe the damn Pope had died, didn’t all churches do that if news came that the Pope croaked? He was almost sure they did. Or maybe someone had just climbed on top of the belltower to fuck with the bell for no reason.

I was only gone for a few hours. What can possibly happen in a few hours?

Anything, was the answer. He’d learned the hard way that anything can do wrong in a few hours. Everything can go to shit in less than a few hours, and something in his gut told him that was exactly what had happened. Trying to keep a sudden wave of panic at bay, Ernesto spurred the stupid donkey to go faster until he reached the top of the hill, and looked down.

For a moment, he forgot to breathe; it was as though something had taken hold of his lungs, and squeezed all air out of him. From way up there in the distance, nothing about Santa Cecilia looked amiss - but it was not the village itself he stared at. What made his blood run cold was the column of men on horses and carts further west, leaving it behind. Federales.

They’re leaving, Ernesto thought, hands shaking on the reins. It’s all right, he told himself, but it was a lie and he knew it. The Federal Army never left anything behind if not devastation, and the bell kept going on and on and on, the continuous death knell making him want to scream. He could taste bile, stomach clenching.

Dead, dead, dead.

There it was again before his eyes - the men who stood blindfolded before the firing squad, his own rifle gleaming in the sun, the wails of women and children and the elderly quieted down by the deafening bangs once the order was shouted and they obeyed. When they left those villages, too, had he heard the church’s bell ringing to a death knell. Mourning.

Santa Cecilia was in mourning. His village, his parish. His people. His friends. Who did they take? Who did they kill?

Not me. They’re leaving, they must not have been here for me. It’s all that matters, isn’t it?

… Isn’t it?

Ernesto didn’t answer his own question. He shut down all thought the way he desperately tried to shut out the ringing of the bell, and spurred the donkey down the hill as quickly as he could, heart hammering somewhere in his throat.

***

They’re mourning us already.

The thought was enough to almost break him, but Héctor forced himself to keep going, holding onto the reins of the horse he had been given, clad in the too-small uniform that had been drenched with someone else’s sweat and blood. Forcing himself not to turn, not to break, because he knew that if he did he may never be able to put himself back together.

Was that how soldiers got through it? Was that how Ernesto had survived until he'd found refuse in Santa Cecilia - by focusing on nothing but the road ahead, never turning back to look at what they may never see again?

No. I will be home again. I’ll be with them again.

Héctor held tightly onto the reins and followed the horse in front of him, holding onto that thought with all he had.

***

They’ll come as soon as they get the message. They must.

Towards the back of the convoy, Gustavo shot a glance ahead towards the commander. He kept riding, not turning once. Thinking the bells were ringing to mourn them, most likely, or the stupid gringo priest who couldn’t keep his mouth shut, or both. Either way, he would be wrong… but he didn’t know that. He wouldn’t know until it was too late.

Gustavo Torres pulled a knotted-up handkerchief from his pocket, one of several he’d stuffed in, and prepared to let it drop as soon as the column of men turned to another path.

***

With how little he’d lasted in bed the one night she had been dumb enough to spend with him, Sofía had written off Gustavo’s stamina as non-existing. However now, with her arms already aching from ringing the bell no more than a few minutes, she had to take that back.

Not that she would say that aloud, let alone in his presence, but apparently he wasn’t bitching for no reason when he said bellringing was more work than it looked like.

No matter. Keep ringing. Keep going. Help will come.

So she did keep going, letting her gaze wander towards the column of men, their men among them, leaving the village right ahead of her. She kept ringing as she noticed Imelda leaving the parish down below, clearly having recovered the pistol they had taken from Ernesto and heading towards her parents’ home to… borrow one of their horses.

Be careful, Sofía thought, and might have prayed for her safety if she still believed God gave a damn. Instead she bit her lips and kept pulling. Kept ringing, focusing on nothing else.

And thus failing to notice Ernesto rushing down the hill, into the village and towards the plaza as quickly as the donkey - and then his legs - could carry him.

***

“They came upon us like locusts--”

“I turned and they were there--”

“They took my son! My only child, what will I do--”

“Why didn’t God smite them where they stood!”

“Thirty men, my brother among them, I ran but I was too late, I couldn’t say goodbye--”

Ernesto heard all of it, heard the cries and pleas, the anger and pain, but they seemed so very distant. He stood on the spot, reeling, eyes fixed on the ground in the middle of the devastated marketplace.

There was blood. There was so much blood, soaking into dirt and pooling in the cracks between cobblestones. People and carts and horses had stepped over it in the chaos, tracking it everywhere; no matter where he turned, there was blood. A trail of it left the plaza, away from it, towards the church. Only one clear trail.

Only one body.

“Who…?” Ernesto managed to ask. His ears were buzzing, and his tongue felt too large. The reply came like a blow to the pit of his stomach.

The Delgado widow crossed herself, her skin pale as ash. “Their commander knows no God. He tried to take an orphan, the boy Brother Héctor spent so much time with-- Marco, was i--”

“Miguel?” Ernesto blurted out, horror stealing his breath for a moment. He looked at the woman with wide eyes, feeling as though all strength was sapped away from his body. All that blood, it seemed impossible it had all come from a child. It felt like a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare.

No, not him. It can’t be. Héctor will never recover.

“Yes, Miguel… the poor child, he was so scared. Padre Juan tried to save him, to stop that man, but that beast pulled out his pistol and… and… ay, I told you, he knows no God. To shoot a man of god like an animal!”

“What-- Juan?” Ernesto looked around again, at the blood, at the weeping people all around - and back towards the church, where the trail led. Above him, all around him, the death knell kept ringing.

“He shot-- Juan?”

Dead. Dead. Dead.

“Sí. Ah, it was horrible. He fell back, and didn’t move-- so much blood, I couldn’t bear to watch.”

Ernesto staggered back, light-headed, struggling to make sense of what had happened. How had it happened? Only hours earlier, Juan had been alive and well - in a good mood, even. Messing with him by sending him out to bless a stupid bull. He’d chuckled, patted his arm like the insufferable bastard he was, promised there would be no Latin lesson that evening.

And now there would be Latin lessons at all, ever again, because that idiota could learn every stupid rule of an useless dead launguage but didn’t have enough brains not to step between a man with a gun and his target.

Bile rose to Ernesto’s throat, and he closed his eyes. Behind his eyelid the sun still shone, merciless, and he stood in the desert, beneath two swaying hanging corpses, talking to a priest on the brink of death. Left to die for trying to be merciful when the world would not, for trying to put himself between prisoner and executioner.

It was a bad call, Padre, Ernesto had said.

It was my duty, Padre Joaquín had replied.

Stupid priest. Stupid gringo.

High above, the bell kept ringing.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

When Ernesto heard himself speaking again, his voice was barely audible to his own ears. “... And Miguel?” he managed. Had Juan’s death at least been worth something, anything at all?

“Oh, the child is safe-- Brother Héctor took his place, it was heartbreaking to see, but at least he has a chance of coming back alive.”

Ah, of course. Of fucking course Saint Héctor had taken the boy’s place. What was it with that village that made everyone so damn inclined to martyrdom? What was it about Santa Cecilia that made those who lived there so eager to die a stupid death?

God damn you, stop dying on me. Stop leaving me behind.

“Padre Ernesto, will you pray to God for our men’s return?” a voice spoke up, and Ernesto turned to face a small, scared crowd. It was the first time he got to linger in a village after the Federal Army left it behind, and he found he couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand the anger, the pain, the pleading looks. He couldn’t stand how the first thing they chose to do was praying to a God who would not hear, or chose not to listen.

God had never been any good to Ernesto. He had long since learned that if you want a job well done, you have to do it yourself.

Ernesto gave a kind smile, seething with anger behind it. Anger was good, though. Anger would get things done. Anger was something solid to cling on to, so that he could ignore that other thing gnawing at him, threatening to undo him if he let himself acknowledge it.

He knew what he had to do.

“Of course,” Ernesto said, still smiling. “I will immediately retire to pray for their safe return in the chapel. If you’ll excuse me.”

He rushed towards the parish before any of them could say one more word - and before any of them could mention anything about the deserter they were looking for. He followed the blood trail for a distance and then diverged towards the back of the church, the death knell unbearably loud in his ears. He did his best to shut it out, to focus on the small voice in the back of his head. Juan’s voice, back when they had only just met.

“As the founder of my order said, todo modo para buscar la voluntad divina.”

Any means to find the divine will.

Ernesto had seen the wisdom in de Loyola’s words then, and he certainly saw it now. By the time he reached the small shed where holy wine was stored, among other things, the blood rushing in his ears almost covered the incessant ringing of the bell. His hand closed around the cold metal key in his pocket, and bared his teeth in a smile that was almost a snarl, jaw clenched so tightly his face hurt.

He had no idea what the divine will was, and neither did he care. He knew his own will, and he would see it become reality.

“Todo modo,” he gritted out, and turned the key in the lock.

***

“... Do you think he has any chance of pulling through, Doctor Sanchéz?”

The man didn’t reply right away, washing his hands in a bowl of warm water that had by now turned almost completely red, as had the towels strewn about. For several moments all Antonia could hear was the quiet splashing of water, the distant echo of the bell ringing outside - what was Sofía doing? - and the painful-sounding gasps as Father John Johnson struggled to draw in each breath, eyes shut, skin pale and clammy, covered by a sheet.

“Mph. I stitched up all I could, but my guess is that he’ll be the gravedigger’s problem before sundown. I have never seen a man lose as much blood as he did and live to tell the tale.”

Ah. Antonia nodded, folding her hands. There was no love lost between John Johnson and… any of the sisters, really, but this was not something she would wish on anyone.

He tried to stop them.

“I see,” she finally said. “We will pray for him.”

“Getting Padre Ernesto to come as soon as he returns would be a better use of your time. He will need the final rites,” Sanchéz muttered. Antonia barely had enough time to open her mouth to let him know she would when she was cut off by a groan. They both turned towards the bed; the gringo was still unconscious, but stirring weakly. Or was he regaining consciousness? Had he heard them? Or--

“Er-- nest--o,” he choked out, and that was it. His head fell back on the pillow and he made no more noise except for a weak, low whimper.

After a long silence, doctor Sanchéz sighed. “... Go get him, for Christ’s sake, so he can give this poor bastard his final rites.”

Antonia nodded, something heavy in her chest, and went out to do just that. She was told almost as soon as she stepped outside that Padre Ernesto had indeed returned, and headed to the church to pray… only that he was not there. He was not in the chapel, not in the living quarters - not in the yard, nor in the orchard, or in the orphanage to comfort the children, or even back at the plaza. No one had seen him since.

Padre Ernesto had returned, they told her... only that now he wasn’t anywhere.

***

Chicharrón needed a drink.

It wasn’t that the events of the day had left him shaken, that he had felt powerless, or that he was terrified out of his mind of how quickly Héctor would die in battle, after a lifetime learning how to handle a guitar and barely touching a rifle. It wasn’t that he worried about Miguel’s state of mind, or that he was generally so upset even Juanita looked crestfallen.

No, of course not. He was too old for that nonsense. He needed a drink for reasons unrelated to the day's mess, that was all, and he knew just where to find it.

But it seemed someone had found it before he did, because the shed’s door was open and what caskets of holy wine had been left were gone.

Of course, better of them to have found the wine rather than any weapons or other supplies hidden away - that would have probably made them decide to burn Santa Cecilia to the ground - but that was the last straw and Chicharrón was suddenly too furious to even try and see a silver lining to anything.

“Those bastards! Even the wine! Is nothing sacred anymore?”

Chicharrón would have kicked the door, if not for the fact he would have probably lost his balance or even broken his peg leg, so he did the next most reasonable thing, and punched it.

“YOWCHGODDAMNIT!”

He punched the door again for good measure - his hand already hurt, anyway - and limped inside. Maybe they had left at least some wine, at least a casket; it wouldn’t hurt to check.

As luck would have it, there was one casket left, but Chicharrón didn’t pick it up right away. For a long time he could just stand frozen on the spot, staring at the empty space where something else had been stored. Something that was not wine at all.

Well, look at that. Had those damn idiots taken the rat poison, too? God, he hoped they thought it to be sugar or something or the other. He hoped they would eat it and choke on it.

Chicharrón limped right out of the shed with the remaining casket under his arm, slamming the door shut behind him and getting ready to toast to that wish - entirely unaware of the fact that a priest who was not a priest at all was currently clambering up the hill with two donkeys, one of whom carrying nothing but caskets of wine, hellbent on making that wish come true. By any means necessary.

High up in the belltower, the bell kept ringing.

***

[Back]

[Next]

#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #imelda rivera #miguel rivera #coco #fake priest au

34 notes · View notes

darker-soft-starker · 4 years ago

Photo

Starker High School AU Pt. 7 (1...6)

tw: general Howard Stark warning

----

So, here’s the thing.

Peter meant to ask May about the letter the night he got it back from Tony, He really did. But then everyone was in such a good mood, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter that to satisfy his own curiosity.

So then he meant to ask the next day.

And he tries, he really does.

But the letter feels as heavy as an anvil in his desk drawer and Peter is too nervous to ask about it. Something always comes up or he gets too scared to shatter the image of the good, obedient nephew he is, one who doesn’t go rifling through mail not addressed to him, prying into personal business.

So he flusters and stumbles pretty badly for the first couple attempts. He changes topic quickly, pretending like he was going to ask about something else, asking himself where exactly his business ends and where his curiosity begins.

Once during a gymnastics comp he stopped mid routine to check on a rival who had fallen from the rings and injured themselves. His coach asked when he was going to stop being a goddamn martyr.

He shakes the Magic 8-Ball on Monday morning and asks the universe if it’s an appropriate time to approach May.

Reply hazy, try again.

Well, that’s not what his flagging courage had hoped for. He shakes it again.

Ask again later.

One more time, harder.

Better not tell you now.

“What the hell,” he whispers, placing it haphazardly upon where he took it. “That’s bullshit.”

“What’s with the potty mouth,” May asks suddenly from behind him. He turns as she’s affixing some dangling earrings to her ears. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

“Nothing,” he sighs. “Just - do you have a minute?”

She checks her watch. “I have about forty seconds. Is something wrong - are you okay?”

“No - I mean yes, I’m okay. Are...are you?”

“Top of the world, bubby,” she scoops her keys from the bowl, approaching him with a curious expression. “Why do you ask?”

There’s no easy way to ask without blatantly admitting to going through her things, and the last thing he wants her to think is that she can’t trust him.

“I just mean. If you weren’t. If there was something wrong, you would tell me, right?”

“Of course,” her face falls. “You’re acting strange, Pete.”

“I just worry, that’s all.”

You’re all I have left, is what loops over and over in his mind, but doesn’t say. She seems to hear it anyway, rushing forward and kissing his forehead, her perfume filling his nose.

“Everything is fine, bubs. The second it isn’t, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Okay.”

“I gotta go, but stop worrying okay? That’s my job. You have a good day.”

She hurries to scoop up her handbag and closes the door before he’s broken out of his thoughts long enough to reply. He sighs and shakes the stupid ball again before he leaves as well.

Cannot predict now.

Of course.

Just for once he’d like fate to be firmly on his side.

---

Something smells weird.

It’s sharp, chemical and not entirely unpleasant. Noticeable, however, sharp enough to cut through the usual musty smell of the library. It’s like apple cider, but overpowers the usual library smell of old books and dust and pencil shavings, a scent Peter has long associated with study, solitude, and the easing of his anxious heart from a gallop to a steady stride.

It’s not a bad smell, just misplaced.

And Tony’s been acting strange all study period. Like, weirder than normal - and his resting state of normal is already ineffably frenetic and bewildering, so this was an entirely different carton of eggs.

Peter doesn’t exactly want to bring it up, they’re kind of on a tenuously peaceful truce, a silent lay down of arms, so to speak.

Well, as peaceful as a truce can be while they call each other all sorts of names and rib each other over literally any sign of weakness, but still. They have some sort of an understanding now, and it’s all relatively innocent, good natured banter.

Mostly.

Peter for sure could have done without being called fuck-face-mcgee upon entering the library, but he’s willing to let it pass. He was late, after all.

“Anyway,” Peter says, sitting across the table from Tony, “so I think if we removed the monthly gym membership, we’d have an extra sixty per month that could go towards other stuff.”

“Like what?” Tony’s face pinches.

“I don’t know, like a college fund?”

“Ridiculous idea. I need that membership,” Tony rebukes, shrugging his leather jacket off, hooking it over the back of the chair. “When else am I supposed to get a reprieve from you and the cabbage patch?”

“When do I get a reprieve? I’m the money-maker. When do I get my break from work and childcare?”

“At work. What are you, like an art teacher or something? Your whole day is like a rich, white woman's vacation. Parents don’t get a lunch break.”

“Right. I’m sure watching Dora and burping an infant is as hard as teaching a class of thirty.”

“Wow. So dismissive. I mean, if you were a good spouse, you would give your withered and weary husband a break from screaming babies and shitty diapers.”

“Mhmm. That would mean I’d have to do something nice for you, and that doesn’t sound like me.”

Tony shakes his head. “We’re getting a divorce as soon as Molly is old enough to pick me as the superior parent,” he points to Peter’s papers. “Put that in the notes.”

Peter closes his eyes and sighs, willing himself not to lean over the table and smack the other boy.

“You are not the superior parent. You’re the deadbeat that forgets to pick her up from school and day drinks.”

“And yet, she loves me the most. You’re just the breadwinner who comes home grumpy every evening. I’m the cool dad.”

“Fine, keep your druglord baby. I never wanted kids anyway.”

“Fine. I’m keeping the car.”

“I’m keeping the apartment.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

They snicker quietly in a rare moment of camaraderie before a lightbulb goes off in Peter's head.

“What if we used the membership, but cut costs elsewhere, like, cutting our own hair and stuff. We could save for a yearly holiday, go to the beach or something.”

“Florida! Disney, roadtrip, yes,” Tony clicks his fingers towards Peter, smiling wide. “Look at you getting all savvy. Call the judge, the marriage is back on.”

“You can’t go to Disney for a few hundred dollars, dumbass, that’s barely the price of admission,” Peter scribbles on his pad, making note of their ideas. “You ever been?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Not even once.”

“That’s surprising. Isn’t that where all rich white people take their baby sociopaths to beat up their first mascot?”

“One, I was never a baby, I emerged fully grown, and two, could you imagine Howard Stark within a mile of the happiest place on earth? He’d have a fucking stroke,” his face changes like he’s had an epiphany. “Not a bad idea, actually.”

Peter doesn’t mention that he doesn’t personally know Howard Stark but is willing to take Tony’s assessment at face value. That being said, he can’t imagine Tony, now, voluntarily heading to Disney without coercion or the promise of copious quantities of alcohol. He’d probably smoke and cuss and scare away small children.

He mind lingers on that particular characterisation, and for a moment tries to picture what Tony looked like as a kid, if he was a chubby, toothless little brat, can’t help then imagining him with Mickey Mouse ears, gleefully running through his gigantic home, harried caretakers running after him.

He must have been the worst.

“I’ve never been further than Washington,” Peter offers, “but that was for AcDec, so it wasn’t like we got to see much.”

“You did Academic Decathlon?”

“Yep.”

“Ew, why would you do that to yourself.”

“I still do it. It looks good on college applications and it’s fun,” he shrugs. “I like it. I’m good at it.”

Tony’s hands cover his mouth, but it doesn’t stifle the rising apple of his cheeks or the mirth in his voice.

“I’m feeling so much second-hand embarrassment for you right now.”

“Shut up,” Peter huffs, kicking him under the table, satisfied when the other boy winces. He fails to smother his own wince when he gets a kick in return, right in the kneecap. “Nothing wrong with being an intellectual.”

“You’re a fucking nerd, four-eyes.”

“What about you?” Peter rolls his eyes, keen to change the subject. “Been outside New York?”

Tony shrugs, tapping his pen on the pad, looking anywhere but at him. “When I was younger I’d sometimes go on my dad's business trips to Europe or Japan or whatever. And we have a house in Malibu.”

“That sounds awesome.”

Tony snorts. He shuffles on his seat, sliding their notes over and making further amendments in quick strokes, the cheap pen spurting bright red ink over the paper like arterial spray.

“Oh yeah, it was a real blast.”

Spoiled brat.

“Are you going anywhere for Thanksgiving?”

“With my family?” Tony looks up. “No, I’d rather stick my head up a turkey’s ass. You?”

Without warning, Peter’s hand flies to cover his mouth, unable to but snort at the imagery, He’s not sure if Tony just doesn’t get along with his family or if he’s still stuck in that churlish, ‘too cool to be around my parents’ stage of adolescence. It’s one the idiosyncrasies that would have annoyed Peter before, his ungratefulness of having a family that’s still alive would be just another thing for Peter to hate him for.

Now, he thinks, he’s beginning to parse out when Tony’s being sincere and when he’s hyperbolic, finally recognising the latter as a mechanism to throw someone off a topic that makes Tony uncomfortable. He sees it - the warning lights and stop signs in barbed coding, wrapped up in dry wit and sarcasm.

Peter is like that sometimes, too.

And what the hell would Peter know about having a normal family.

“Yeah, actually, for once,” he says softly. “My aunt - not May - and uncle have a holiday home up north, so we’re staying with them over the long weekend.”

“S’cool. May’s family?”

Peter shakes his head. “Sort of - they’re not actually related, but May and Margaret have been best friends since college, so.”

“Is Margaret a babe, too?”

Peter throw a chewed-up pencil at him that he catches easily.

“Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not,” he throws the pencil back, overshooting and hitting the shelves behind them. “What are we talking, on a scale of haggard to hottie.”

“I don’t know, man. You seem to have questionable taste in the people you are attracted to.”

Tony grins crookedly, eyes shining with something Peter can’t decipher. “Ain't that the truth.”

“What’s the supposed to --” he stops himself, suddenly recognising what the strange scent was that he’d been picking up. “Wait - dude, are you wearing cologne?”

Tony’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he responds. “No,” he denies, just as the bell rings. “Oh, look at that, time to get to class.”

Saved by the bell.

“So, this is it,” Tony nods, shutting the lid of his laptop as the bell signals the end of their free period. “We’re done. The assignment. That’s the last of it, right?”

Dazedly, he watches Tony stuffing his laptop and notes into his backpack, brow creasing as his mind catches up.

“Uh, yeah. I guess.”

“Send me your notes tonight, I’ll stitch them together with mine and send them back.”

“Okay,” he sluggishly collects his own notes, picking up the bag by his feet. “That’s - that’s good.”

“Well, Parker,” Tony slings his backpack on his shoulder, shuffling backwards, “we didn’t kill each other. I mean, not for a lack of wanting on my behalf.”

‘��Yeah, from Wednesday we’re free. We can go back to normal.”

“Yeah,” Tony’s grin fades. They stare at each other for a long moment that could have been seconds or hours, he doesn’t know, until the second bell rings.

“Hey, um --”

“I’ll send you the notes later,” Tony interrupts, sotto voce. “I gotta get to class. See you around.”

Something in his stomach deflates, sadly and slowly, like a balloon with a pinprick, emptying itself until it’s an uncomfortably hard to digest crumpled mass at the base of his stomach. He pastes on a smile and looks out the window, hoping the feeling doesn’t show in his eyes.

That’s when he notices the leather jacket Tony has left behind, still slung over the back of the chair.

“You left your…” he trails off, turning back, but Tony is already long gone, probably already halfway to his next class. Like a bat out of hell, Peter thinks wryly, picking up the jacket, the leather smooth like butter under his touch, still warm around the collar where Tony’s had been leaning against it.

No good leaving it here to get stolen or be tossed into lost property. He decides to take it with him, folding it gently over his arm. He’ll give it back when he sees him again, maybe after school.

“Nice jacket, Parker,” Flash says approvingly when Peter bumps into him out in the hall.

At first he thinks he’s referring to Peter’s ratty hoodie, and it confounds him for a moment because it’s decidedly not nice, but then he realizes he’s referring to the leather in his arms.

“It’s not mine,” he replies a little too late, because Flash is already down the hall, out of earshot.

Peter sighs. It’s beginning to become a depressing theme.

---

The weird feeling in his chest doesn’t subside all afternoon, and into the evening Peter is starting to think maybe he just has indigestion, like acid reflux or something. Must be the chilli surprise from lunch. Maybe he’d missed his meds.

He sends his portion of the final notes to Tony’s email, turns off his computer and switches on Colbert.

---

It’s not until hours later, well after midnight and the infomercials are playing, only then does his phone buzz against his thigh with a response.

Figures that Tony would be a night owl like him.

> soz was distracted > youtube spiral

Peter shifts downwards on the bed, holding the phone over his face. < s’ok < what were you watching > say yes to the dress < lmao really > lol no > anyway, looks good. ur notes > will print off for u to sign tomorrow < is that a compliment or an admission u were wrong about me

> neither. One subject does not a genius make > unlike me, an actual genius

In your dreams, dipshit, he wants to type, but doesn’t, not really keen to provoke a muddy discussion on who is the smartest (it’s definitely Peter).

< u left ur jacket in the library btw, I have it, he texts instead, his pulse jumping when Tony replies with crying emoji’s.

Tony sends him a snap, unexpectedly, a sad face that makes Peter snort. His face seems distressed, the caption reads, thought i lost it for good.

Shifting down further on the bed, he’s feeling suddenly and inexplicably courageous, fire burning up from his belly button to his fingers.

Peter takes a silly photo of himself and sends it back. > didn’t want it to get stolen < aw u care

“I do not,” he whispers to himself. > i do not. come collect it after school tomorrow or im throwing it out. < u wouldn’t do that to me > there’s a lot of things i would do 2 u > .... > um > lol

Peter’s face flames at the implication. He reads over what he just so carelessly typed, stomach positively knotted with embarrassment. Oh god, that is not what he meant. His fingers fly over the screen at record speed as he types out a response. < NOT LIKE THAT < I MEANT IT IN A THREATENING WAY < I’M LITERALLY GAGGING > yikes > ur dirty talk needs work < no it DOESN’T bc we’re not sexting > sure jan > damn. didn’t kno u had it in u bubs < i don’t have it in me > not yet > ;)

Despite the deep blush still heating his face and his heart galloping in his chest, a laugh breaks out of him. The phone in his hand vibrates again. > jk jk, not ever > need to bleach my brain now

Slowly gliding back to earth he types out a response. < ikr me too < ugh.

He puts his phone down on the bed, looking up at the water-stained ceiling, amusement slowly fading. His pulse though, that doesn’t return to normal.

How could it when his mind suddenly runs away from him, evoking short-lived, but nonetheless strikingly vivid images of intertwined legs, planes of pale skin, and lush lips. How can the heat in his stomach escape when his thoughts conjure phantom sensations of a soft mouth sucking on his neck, the punishing grip of hands on his hips and the warmth and weight of another body on top of his own.

A forehead leaning against his, brown eyes that knocked his pulse off kilter.

The taste of nicotine.

Stop it.

That is dangerous territory right there. And a line he doesn’t want to cross.

Shaking his head, Peter swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, looking anywhere for a distraction; his window, the posters on his wall, his figurines on his shelves, anything to douse the low-burning fire in his gut.

Standing, he heads to the bathroom to get ready for bed, banging their crappy old heater with his fist to get it working again.

He takes a very cold shower.

----

It’s not that Peter doesn’t enjoy sex.

Not that he’s had it.

But he enjoys jerking off, at least. Like a regular amount, whatever that is for a teenage boy. He likes kissing. Likes thinking about one day being in a real relationship and exploring someone's body and he likes exploring what turns him on and what he doesn’t.

It’s just that he doesn’t let himself think of anyone he knows personally that way, no matter how conventionally attractive they are - not Thor, and especially not him.

Typically, his fantasies are people with vague features, sometimes with bodies like those he has seen in porn, all shapes and sizes. And that’s safe for him.

He doesn’t want to have to look anyone he knows in the eye and wonder what their lips would feel like pressed against his own. If they’re any good at kissing. If they’re the type to take control or cede it.

He does wonder, sometimes though. No matter how much he denies what or who he wants.

Because it doesn’t matter if it’s a person or a thing. Want is never superficial in his experience, it doesn’t feel good most of the time. It’s deep and sometimes dark, it sinks itself into him with its hooks and it tugs, and keeps tugging. It yields to craving and yearning.

Back in his bedroom, his eyes land on his wall-mounted mirror. It’s small. Like the Mona Lisa. Small enough that he doesn’t have to see his whole reflection if he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to crave and yearn for anybody, because he knows it will always be one sided. He’s well aware that he isn’t exactly centrefold material.

Who is gonna look at his weird ears or thin lips, and think, shit, that’s the guy of my dreams. Not with his big glasses or the way his hair twists itself into frizzy, unruly curls once the gel wears off and he starts looking like an unkempt labradoodle.

Who would want to wake up next to him? No one.

So it’s better not to risk imagining anyone real. It’s only in his head that anyone could ever want him back.

His eyes go from the mirror to the jacket folded and placed on his desk. It was intended to be plain sight so he remembers to bring it in - out of sight, out of mind, is what Ben would say. He can still smell the cologne Tony denied wearing earlier.

Once he’s in bed, he turns to face the wall.

Out of sight, out of mind.

---

Maybe Tony subscribes to that mantra as well.

Peter forgets to bring the jacket in all week and Tony doesn’t ask.

---

Danvers wants him fit and ready to be harpooned into the mud by next week; that’s why she looks the other way when Thor and Peter take their informal training in the boundaries of the field, stretching out on the grass as the JV team runs their usual morning drills - drills Peter would have been a part of before his stupid injury and his stupid wrist-brace.

This school is stupid too. Now he has to pay to see a doctor so he can get medically cleared for a sport he doesn’t really care that much about.

Like he didn’t have enough medical bills to deal with.

In any case, he’s not really in a position to complain, because he has the opportunity now to run through his warm-up with Thor, who is taking his direction to spread his legs into a butterfly position so beautifully, even as his knees raise from the ground to make a v-shape, whereas Peter’s lie flat on the grass.

If the last few days had been different, he might have blushed and used the situation at hand as an opening to place his hands on Thor’s knees and applied pressure. But now he just smiles encouragingly and reminds himself that he has no chance - no place - and his hands do not belong anywhere but his own body.

And surprisingly enough, he’s okay about it all.

Thor was a good guy. Peter will never say no to having more friends.

It’s a dreadful, bitter morning. Icy cold, wind biting into his shirt, the grass below them is damp. He has to keep rubbing his hands together so he can restore feeling in his fingers.

To make things worse, Tony is back on the bleachers. White v-neck, jeans and dark sunglasses. Sprawled out over a set of steps, legs askew, arms behind his head, unmoving as if he were napping or sunbathing, appearing like a cocky main out of an eighties movie.

Or a king surveying his kingdom.

Rhodes and Potts slouch on either side of him, swapping phones over his idle figure, taking pictures and laughing amongst themselves.

“It burns,” Thor says lightly, hands on his thighs in an attempt to aim his knees to touch the ground.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, despite the ease in which he can lean in. “It just takes practice, dude. Twenty minutes a day, warm up and don’t over-do it. You’ll be limber in no time.”

“You can do this better than I can,” Thor argues, accent thick as he tries to lie flat like Peter.

“And you can lift a hundred pounds better than I can,” he tries to rebut, even as they switch positions, hip flexors aching with old injuries.

While the stretches are like second nature, he doesn’t miss the pressure of training for competition. The eagerness to get into a flat butterfly or oversplit. There was no argument that he spent nights on crunches back then, and he was somewhat toned - but he was shit at weight training. He hated lifting. Reps were more boring, more tedious and difficult and the diet required to give them any value was frankly not worth giving up a great hotdog or a loaded sub from Delmars. He wouldn’t go back to it now.

None of that old heat is there when he inspects Thor’s form. That quick simmer, the call to be closer. That terrible thing, want. All but gone. awe is still there, as he suspects it always would be with someone as outstanding as Thor, but the butterflies have very much flown away.

As he suspected would be the case. He has someone and they’re happy. With the cat out of the bag Thor had shown Peter pictures of his boyfriend all morning. He’d gotten a puppy, apparently, which just tickled Thor. He was so happy it was almost sickening.

When is it gonna be him that sickens someone with photo’s of his partner?

“Hey, Parker,” Tony yells from the stands, “you suck!”

Looking over, the idiot is raised on his elbows and grinning, like he’s proud of himself for a spectacularly unoriginal insult.

Rolling his eyes, Peter gives him the finger and he gets one in return.

His stomach twists and he has to duck his head to conceal his smile.

“Your husband is somewhat rude,” Thor says, following Peter’s example and switching from a pike to a lunge.

Peter looks back over to the stands. A cigarette now dangles between Tony’s full lips, sunglasses slid to the tip of his nose.

That’s how Peter knows he’s looking at him too.

Even from afar his eyes are round and mirthful, framed with ridiculously long lashes like a cartoon mouse, far too outlandish for any real person to have.

“He’s the absolute worst,” Peter bites his bottom lip, quickly averting his gaze. “It was an arranged marriage, to be fair.”

---

Wednesday comes and goes.

Their assignment gets handed in, Peter signs it off to say he did his fair portion of the work and Miss Ahn beams at the both of them when she is handed the thick binder, looking all too pleased with herself.

They have a presentation of their work next week, after Thanksgiving, each pair expected to give five minutes of their life pretending that they’re passionate about schoolwork in front of their fellow students who don’t care.

After that they are completely unburdened. No study sessions, no car rides, and no fries dipped in milkshakes.

They’re embarrassingly hailed as a prime example of people working through their differences, as if they had come together and were now friends or something.

From the front row Tony sneaks a furtive glance at Peter when she applauds them to the class.

“See, kids,” she says, “it wasn’t so bad working together, was it?”

Their eyes meet briefly.

“Zero out of ten, would not do again,” Tony declares, brash and loud, kicking his combat boots onto his desk in a leisurely display.. “That guy is the human equivalent of watching paint dry. Awful.”

“Oh, come on,” she chides. “Be nice.”

Not one to be outdone, Peter lets his horse out of the gate too.

“Singular worst experience of my life. I once had a root canal without anaesthetic and it was less painful than working with him.”

“Alright, boys, that’s enough out of you,” Miss Ahn sighs deeply, walking to the front of the room. “Mr Lang, how did you find the assignment?”

“Very informative…”

From the front row Tony turns in his seat and winks at him.

----

“Thanksgiving plans?” Natasha asks, leaning beside his locker, smothering a smile as he struggles to get his locker open for the nth time that day with one functional hand.

“Visiting my Aunt and Uncle,” he says, finally prying the damn thing open. “They’ve got a place up at Otisco Lake, so. Probably watching old movies and swimming all weekend.”

“Oof,” his friend winces. “That’s a trip. Think the May-Mobile will make the distance?”

The May-Mobile of course to the ancient, ‘89 Volvo 240 that May has been driving ever since Peter was born. She adores it and refuses to trade in, despite the fact that it rarely gets driven, practically haemorrhages gas, and has cost more in repairs in the last five years than the actual value of the car. But May really loves it. It's sentimental. She says it was the car Ben and her picked out together.

“It better make it,” he dumps his books in, closing the locker. “I don’t want to spend the weekend waiting for AAA in the middle of nowhere. What’s your plans?”

She shrugs, walking with him down the hall.

“Probably go and annoy Yelena. Was supposed to spend it with Bucky and his mom, but that ain't happening.”

He bumps her shoulder sympathetically. “Do you think you two will get back together?”

“Probably. But he’s got a shitload of grovelling to do first.”

“Don’t maim him, please. We need him on the team.”

“No promises.”

“Speak of the devil,” Peter adjusts his glasses, spotting Bucky at the base of the stairs talking to somebody. He gets startled, heart jumping when Natasha grabs him by the waist, pushing him towards the wall and inching them closer to the stairs.

“What are you --”

“ -- Shh, I want to listen. Who is he talking to?”

Craning his head, he finds himself in for another surprise when he sees that the other person he’s talking to is --

“He’s… he’s talking to Stark - what...?”

She shushes him again and Peter listens, curious now too.

“... what do you want, Barnes?” Tony visibly grimaces, taking a cigarette from his pocket and tucking it behind his ear. “Make it quick. I got places to be and your noxious stench gives me headaches.”

An announcement goes off over the loudspeaker over their head, calling for Brendon Bennett, a dick of a senior, to move his car from where he has blocked a teacher from leaving. It would be funny at any other time, but as it goes, he misses a chunk of their conversation.

“...Rogers isn’t the boss of me.”

“Yes, he is, and I’m not getting suspended again because you’re a pussy and he has roid-rage.”

“I just need an ETA. C’mon, pal, I really need this.”

“I’m not your pal and I don’t give a flying fuck what you need.”

Ever the easy going guy, Bucky puts his hands up placatingly as a group of students file down the stairs, causing enough noise that Peter misses whatever is said next. As he strains to hear he tries to draw the line between the dots, but comes up short on exactly how these two are connected.

“That fucker,” Natasha mutters near his ear.

By the time the students clear, Tony’s descended the stairs and begun to walk away

“I have better things to do than to sit around and wait for you,” Bucky calls out, giving him the finger.”

“And yet you will.”

Not in any possible lifetime was Peter going to address that he was weirdly relieved that Tony didn’t flip him off in return, some part of him petulantly thinking that’s our thing, but that’s wrong - Peter and Tony are not friends and they do not have things, even when they do, it’s not like a thing thing.

Nat grips his hand and pulls him along when Bucky leaves as well, swiftly walking away to avoid being caught. His backpack jostles at the speed and he realizes he’s still clutching Tony's jacket from where he had retrieved it from his locker.

“What was that about?” He asks, struggling to keep up with his friend's furious pace as he’s led down the hall. “Tash?”

She drops his hand once they are outside, her disapproval near palpable, voice laden with fire and fury.

“That’s Bucky being a world class idiot, he’s gonna get himself expelled, I swear.”

Peter stops on the spot.

“Expelled?”

Something dark curls unpleasantly in his gut, heavy and not leaving.

“They have a thing,” she explains hotly, mouth turning down. “Bucky and Stark.”

“What?” Peter breathes, uncomfortably thinking back to the party and the way Bucky overtly complimented Tony’s body. “Like a.... like a sex thing? Did he cheat on you?”

“What? No.”

“Then what?”

Red strands whipping in the wind, his friend looks around to see if there is anyone nearby before leaning in to speak low. He leans in too, unabashedly curious.

“Do you remember when Bucky was having issues with his parents when school started?”

He nods, thinking back to the times Bucky slept over in the late days of summer and early weeks of the school year, once or twice a week to get away from the shouting in his own home.

Natasha continues.

“Don’t tell him I told you this, but he got really depressed and fell behind with his work and everything he was handing in was terrible. Danvers pulled him up and said if he didn’t get his grades up, he’d be risking his spot on the team. So Bucky paid Stark to write up a few assignments for him, apparently he was doing it for a few kids, like it was a thing.”

...Okay.

That was not good, and definitely disappointing, but -

“Rogers found out. He gave Bucky a warning, but with Stark he threatened to go to Fury.”

Peter thinks back to the fight between their captain and Stark and their fight not long ago. “That’s why they…”

“I’m told Stark snapped, but I don’t know. I found out about the whole paper thing after that and me and Buck fought about it. I just got so mad - he’s - he’s not stupid, you know?”

“I know.”

She exhales heavily through her nose. “He’s going to get himself kicked out of school and I’m so -- I could kill him. We’re supposed to graduate together and get away from our families and go to college, and then he does this.”

“I’m sorry, Tash, I didn’t know,” he hugs her, her body going stiff before relaxing in his hold. “That’s shitty. For both of you.”

“I’m sorry for thinking you were in on the loop.”

He smiles, self-deprecating.

“Nope, I’m as clueless as ever.”

“No, you’re just too good for that,” she shakes her head. “Look, I gotta go and blow off some steam. Please don’t tell anybody about all this.”

“I won't, I swear - but text me later, alright? Let me know you’re okay.”

She ruffles his hair before stepping back.

“You’re a bleeding heart, PP. Keep an eye on that, will you?”

Hearing a squeal of tyres, he whips his head around to the parking lot, the source of the noise. The Firebird squeals out of the lot and onto the road, the sound as angry, the glimpse Peter gets of Tony’s face, even angrier.

He turns back to Nat, but she’s already walked away. Which means she isn’t there to hear him mutter to himself.

“What are you getting into, Tony?”

----

His thumbs hover over his phone that night, as he writes i saw u with barnes today.

He quickly deletes that, not wanting Tony to think that he was following him or spying on him - or worse, thinking that Peter actually cares about what he does. He doesn’t. They’re not friends.

A dread settles in the spaces between his ribs, like thread trying to squeeze them together too tight, his lungs feeling compressed. Maybe it’s his asthma, or allergies.

It’s not and he knows it. He’s disappointed.

He rubs at his chest on his way home thinking about the scene they just saw and about what Natasha said. How is it that so many people in his orbit had this entire entanglement going on without Peter having any whiff of it? It really makes him wonder if they were they good at hiding it or was he just really fucking stupid. Stupid enough to think Bucky was doing okay, that Rogers wasn’t as sanctimonious as he appeared to be, and that Tony was --

Nevermind.

It’s none of his business and it’s not his place.

He knows better than to ask. It’s not as if he can forget all his own secrets that he clutches tightly to his chest, so tight it feels like he constantly walks through life with his fists clenched.

That and, like May, the real truth is that he can’t claim any entitlement to their trust. He eavesdropped in more ways than one these last two weeks. He tries to brush off that dry, sobering thought; it’s none of his business anyway and he has enough on his plate without getting involved.

When are you going to stop being such a goddamned martyr.

So then he thinks about the sheer fury on Tony’s face, how his - how he used to look at Peter the same way, and how Peter used to think that angry and bitter was Tony's default mood. That was that. The status quo.

Well, that wasn’t entirely fair, was it. It was easier to dislike Tony when he was distant enough that Peter could pigeon-hole him into a stereotype.

Because Tony got into fights, sure, countless and petty, but he was the guy who pet puppies and snuck them food under the table. Not the guy who kicked them.

He looked like the puppy that was kicked, though.

Not angry.

Wounded.

And that’s what confuses Peter. Turns out he doesn’t really know anything about his friends.

Or Tony, it would seem.

----

May closes the drivers-side door and throws a packet of snacks into Peter’s face.

“Pretzels.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he adjusts his glasses where they'd been knocked askew.

“Sorry, I thought your reflexes were better,” she says, and by way of apology, lobs a packet of sour gummies more gracefully on his lap. “Your favorite.”

“Apology accepted.”

From a plastic bag she fishes out two cokes and places them in the centre console, a bag of red licorice and crackers follow, also making their way onto his lap. She always buys too much food.

Then they’re turning back onto the highway that leads them out of where they paused at Monticello, the radio jacked up loud enough to be heard over the tiny droplets of raindrops sporadically hitting the windshield.

They’ve left early enough that it’s still dark.

Fog still hangs low on the roadside, intangible pale wisps that seem to disintegrate upon crossing, the road dotted with other travellers, but not too crowded, enough so they can easily cruise the speed limit and sometimes over. The Bangles play on a cassette tape and, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, May looks so carefree, driving her sentimental car with the noisy engine, singing along to the same cassettes she’s had since she was his age.

Peter can’t bring himself to say what he wants to. About the letters. One in particular. He knows something isn't right but who is he to break the peace?

So, he doesn’t and they keep driving.

The fog lifts and the tunes continue, both of them singing familiar tunes from ABBA to George Michael and Peter let’s go of what he can’t control and loses himself in the buoyancy of nostalgia - neither of them can carry a tune for shit and it’s funny, and when he rolls his window down he sticks his hand out to feel the frigid air, it’s the most free he’s felt in a long time.

Football and his after-school duties and everything else just drifts away with the wind, at least for this moment.

It was like when he was a kid. The route itself is mostly dark and dull, and this time without Ben, but their usual car games of ‘dollar every time you spot a windmill’ and ‘how many minutes until the next town’ are fun and easily pass the time. This will be another memory that he will gloss over with fondness, how even the boring roads will seem like rapture.

When the sky starts to turn from black to grey they stop for early breakfast at a diner just slightly off their trail in Windsor, both of them famished despite the hoard of snacks and in dire need of coffee.

The car is beginning to emit pale plumes of smoke from under the hood as they arrive at Davis Grove, Otisco Lake in the early morning. The sun rises low over the horizon, a slow ascent that turns the sky grey and brushes wriggling streaks of color over the lake.

The house is exactly as Peter remembers it.

Panels painted slate blue, brown-tiled roof. Two-storeys with a wrap-around porch and a private dock only a short distance away from the entrance. A swinging chair on the lawn that comfortably fits three and a half people.

It looks exactly as it did when Peter first came here as a kid, plucked straight out of his memories in perfect form, like it was set in a liminal space that time refused to touch. A piece comes back to his being at this moment, something that he didn’t know was missing.

Aunt Margaret is already standing at the door when the pull up. She doesn’t look a day older than when Peter last saw her years ago.

“Oh, look at you,” she coos, wrapping Peter up in a tight hug, curls brushing his cheek, “my darling little Petey-pie.”

“Hey, Aunt Margaret,” he returns the hug.

“You’re so tall now, let me look at you,” she holds him at arm's length, warm eyes roving over his form. “Oh my goodness, haven’t you grown a handsome young man? Last time we met you only came up to my shoulders and had braces.” She turns her attention to May. “Isn’t he handsome?”

His aunt nods, smiling at them, both women gravitating into a tight embrace. “It’s good to see you, Peggy. Thanks for having us.”

“Our pleasure. You look even more beautiful than the last time.”

“Oh, stop,” May releases her, wiping at her eyes. “Look who’s talking.”

She tilts her head to the porch and takes May’s duffle from where she has dropped it to the ground. “Come on you two, inside. We’ve got the fire going and scrambled eggs on the table.”

Inside it smells like the best parts of his childhood. A burning fire and butterscotch and lingering musky-but-floral scent from the bowl of potpourri high on the mantel. Even the sounds are the same, the same coo of early birds in the burgeoning daylight, someone humming by the stove.

Margaret leads them into the living room, where her husband meets them halfway from the kitchen, oven mitts still on his hands when he spreads his arms wide to welcome them.

“My goodness,” he beams, “look what the cat dragged in.”

He wears a cravat at the same time he wears an apron, looking every bit the formal yet whimsical man Peter remembers him to be and a crushing wave of nostalgia comes over him so suddenly he can’t help but rush forward and embrace him.

“Welcome, Peter. It’s so good to have you here.”

“Thanks for having us, Uncle Ed.”

“What have you taught him,” he points his query to May as he releases Peter to hug her. “You know you can call me Jarvis.”

---

Margaret ‘Peggy’ Carter and Edwin Jarvis had been young twenty-somethings when they first met. Both were born in England before moving to the US, but it wasn’t until they met at Margaret’s first college that their paths crossed. They worked in different departments, Peter thinks Ed was an engineer or something and Margaret an analyst, but the universe pulled them together eventually.

Margaret asked Ed out first and then a year later, May was the maid-of-honor at their wedding and Ben was reportedly a teary guest in the squeaky church pews.

And the rest, as they say, was history.

A photo of that day sits framed upon the mantle. May and Margaret have their arms around each other, Uncle Ben and Ed standing awkwardly at the sides of the frame, holding up flutes of champagne.

They look so young. Happy.

Peter observes the photo, smiling. He would have been a baby back then. Before his parents and Ben had -- well.

His mind does these weird calculations sometimes. Like, the May in this photo is only nine or so years older than how old he is now, and this moment, suspended in time, makes them closer than they have ever been, even though in real life they are over twenty years apart.

Looking at this picture, it makes him wonder how many people he knows now will live full lives and die of old age. How many people his age will stay forever young, and who will be in the future looking back at their time now, wistfully staring at pictures of those who only exist suspended in that time.

It’s funny, being a teenager. His peers are too young to die so they assume they won't. Even in their twenties and thirties or forties, death seems like an elusive thing that doesn’t apply to anybody until it does. It’s for the decrepit, the sick.

But in Peter’s case death comes like poorly aimed darts, always landing badly and scoring low. In his pockets, his hands turn in fists. He hopes the three people left alive in this picture get to grow old.

He smells her perfume before he sees her. Margaret approaches, bumping their hips together.

“This was a nice day,” she says softly, wistful. “I wish we’d kept more contact over these last few years.”

“Me too,” he smiles sadly, her expression reflecting his. With a hand on his back she leads him to the couch.

“Come on, munchkin, come sit. Tell me how you have been.”

---

“We weren’t planning on the big dinner,” Uncle Ed says as he finishes peeling a potato, handing it to Peter once he’s done. “But we’re so glad you two joined us. Neither of us have a lot of family here, you know.”

“Us neither,” Peter runs the peeled potato under running water to rid it of dirty residue before chopping it into quarters. “It’s really nice to see you again, it’s been way too long.”

“You really have grown into such a nice young man,” the man smiles. “Ben would be proud. Your parent’s, too.”

“Thank you.”

They haven’t got together like this since Ben died a couple years back. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Shit happened and it got harder to try. May got busier with looking after Peter full time and working more - and Uncle Ed quit his job and opened up a garage and Margaret lost a baby - all at the same time.

It was a lot for everyone. Even college best friends moved apart when fate put up walls at every turn.

It seems everyone in his circle is just does their best to survive. Or maybe that’s just what growing up is.

The remainder of their morning is spent eyeing the oven and skedaddling while Margaret prepares her pecan pie, ejecting them out of the kitchen with a forceful shoo.

“May says you’re playing football,” Ed says, leading him out to the lounge, passing him a can of soda. “How’d that happen? Last I checked you were doing splits over a pommel horse.”

Peter shrugs, tapping his can with his fingernails, idly paying attention to the football on the old TV. “Needed an extra-curricular, there was an opening and for some reason they accepted me.”

“You were so good at gymnastics,” Margaret comments from the kitchen, whisking away at her bowl. “I’m sure you’re exemplary in anything you do. They’re lucky to have you.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, sculling back the rest of his drink, bubbles burning down his throat. “Looks good on college applications in any case.”

“This kid,” May points to him with her beer bottle. “He does it all, I don’t even know how. He’s brilliant.”

I could do more, he thinks. He wonders again in that moment what it is that makes him so deficient that May couldn’t rely on him to accept the truth about their situation, that maybe he was just too naive. But he’s not. He’d drop his after-school activities and get a job in a hot second if he thought it would help. And for just a split-second he’s mad about that, about being kept in the dark.

But then he sees the strain around her eyes, how the bottle in her hands trembles ever so slightly, how much she makes the hard world soft around them. And it’s easy for him to let that feeling go.

“You’re still freelancing?” Peter asks Margaret, momentarily distracted when Ed’s phone lights up with a call.

“Excuse me, terribly sorry,” he says suddenly, picking up the phone and answering it, rising to his feet to converse in the adjacent room.

“Yes,” Margaret says, eyes lingering over where her husband has gone, his voice carrying over the walls in worried, muffled tones. “Well, consulting. I can work from home, which makes it easier to take care of all my non-existent children,” she gestures to the empty room around them.

“You could go work with Jarvis,” May retrieves a new bottle, popping the cap. “Look after the books, help him replace tyres.”

“Tempting,” Margaret says dully, rolling her eyes. “Can’t understand why I haven’t done that yet.”

Jarvis re-enters minutes later, hands held out apologetically; whispering to Margaret first before he addresses the room.

“Um, we have another guest coming up for dinner, if that’s alright,” he winces at their blank faces. “He works for me. Has a difficult family arrangement and needs a bit of respite. You know how it gets over the holidays.”

Peter meets May’s eyes and shrugs. Anyone working under the business and is vouched for by his surrogate uncle is good by him.

“The more the merrier,” May raises her bottle.

After that, the kitchen needs his hands again.

---

The afternoon is spent preparing the sides, checking in on the truly gargantuan turkey and indulging their cat with nibbles and head scratches. May and Margaret spend the time drinking beer and cider, reminiscing their college years. It’s nice to hear the house full of laughter, given how somber the mood was when they were last all together.

“When did you get a cat?” Peter directs his question to Jarvis, accepting a peeler from him to attack the carrots.

The cat in question is completely black and delightfully plump, not overly so, but enough to indicate it’s decently fed but probably also a little lazy. Or maybe he just thinks that now that it lies tall on the peak on its scratching post, tail flicking idly while it watches them work tirelessly in the kitchen from above.

“Oh, about a year ago. Gives Peggy some company while I'm in the garage. She’s a sweetheart, this one.”

“What’s her name?”

“Friday the Thirteenth. Friday for short.”

“That’s, um, unique.”

“Was the day we adopted her,” Jarvis reaches up to scratch her. “And she’s a black cat, so, you know; spooky.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, considering it. “I like it.”

“Not bad, huh.”

“Yep. It’s a better name than Molly,” he mutters, shaking a slimy carrot shaving off his fingers.

Jarvis pauses. “As in Ringwald?”

Peter sighs and continues peeling.

----

“Did I ever tell you about the time May came to class in a bathing suit?”

“I don’t think they need to hear that --”

“So we have this exam,” Peggy says, ignoring May, “Super important. Fifty percent of our overall grade. She comes in late, dripping wet, the biggest hickey on her neck I have ever seen --”

“Peggy.”

“-- Only thing saving her modesty was Ben’s shirt over her shoulders. I had to lend her a pen so she could sit the exam.”

“Did you pass though,” Peter asks curiously, shovelling a large lump of mashed potato into his mouth.

“Top grades,” she winks at him.

“She sat there for two hours, dripping water onto the ground and got flying colors. Meanwhile I’m the idiot who studied for weeks and got marked down twenty points for --”

The end of her sentence gets cut off by the sound of a car approaching the property, headlights flashing through the windows.

Then, a knock at the door.

“Ah, that must be…” Ed trails off, wiping his hand on a napkin before standing. “Excuse me.”

He goes to answer the front door, Margaret continues her story albeit much more quietly until the voices of Ed and their guest filter through, becoming progressively louder.

“Sorry to intrude, I know it’s the holidays --”

Wait. That voice is familiar.

“Nonsense,” Ed interrupts, “you know you’re welcome anytime. You’re practically family, kid. Come in, we’re eating now, you’re just in time.”

Peter’s fork clangs loudly on his plate when he sees their visitor, unable to keep his grip on the utensil as his limbs start to tingle. He forgets how to breathe for a second, entire body going hot.

Ed’s arm is around Tony Stark and they’re approaching through the living room, heading right for them. There’s a fresh cut on his lip and an ugly, wreath of bruising around his jaw and neck, deeply purple, speckled spots of burst capillaries visible from even where he’s sitting.

The worst part isn’t the intrusion. It’s how Tony looks unlike himself; he looks small and skittish, gaze flicking nervously around the room, arms curled around his waist. Something in his chest starts to feel the closer he gets, weird, hot and unwieldy, burning, like a hot poker has been drawn across his sternum.

“You’re the best, Jar...vis,” Tony trails off when he spots the Parkers, eyes zeroing in on Peter.

“Um,” Peter says, sharing a surprised look with May, not knowing what else to say.

But then suddenly Tony is shaking his head, shrugging out of Ed’s embrace and backing up, the skittish look gone and replaced with anger.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. No fucking way.”

Then he turns, and leaves.

----

tagging: @bylerboyfriends @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @muse-of-gods, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @plueschpop, @spideravocados, @jellybbunny, @booktrashme, @elfkido, @mycatislickingmybedsheets, @queerghostboyo, @disneyprincessdominatrix, @cherrygoldlove @starkerflowers@starkeristheendgame @thewolffearsher @starkersugar , @starkerforlife6969, @css1992, @parkerrbitch, @fuckmemrstark, @blankblankityblank, @ilovemoreid, @blaquedecember, @killmylonelysoul, @notfor-temporaryuse, @arvaen, @chaos-with-a-pen, @notnormallaura, @portiamarie02, @bloodymisanthropist, @ser-no-tonin, @staticwhispersinthedark

#starker #tony stark x peter parker #ironspider #high school au

161 notes · View notes

usagi-mitsu · 4 years ago

Text

Werlyt & Gaius - a bunch of thoughts.

I am a little late to the party. I know. But I just finished the Emerald weapon and before I go to try out the „not Zenos“ weapon as in „Diamond“, I need to get my thoughts on the story straight.

Perhaps I have been spoiled by 5.0s brilliant MSQ and cannot appreciate the inherent beauty of at least decent writing any longer. But this felt so wrong and out of tune with the rest of the game. I started writing this 2 hours ago! I wanted to one in bed by now! XD But I had to get it out of my system… so….

Spoilers for the MSQ and Werlyt incoming??? And no I did not re-read this so not just spoilers but also writing errors incoming. -.-

The good

These fights are epic! I have only ever cleared the normal versions, but I loved those. They are amazing. The callbacks to Eula (her being a woman here! When did they discover that???), Regula (may he rest in peace) and Gaius himself in his prime were delightful. But I could do with a little less rotating, ok? A dragoon has positional, you know? And being allowed to pilot my very own mecha was like *chefs kiss*. On that front? Well done Square Enix!

I am also glad they were able to get another use out of Porta Praetora! That place looks amazing with the wide open field and the lake – and Ala Mhigo across it. It was one of my favourite Stormblood areas and I am always glad to return there. And of course… being able to visit the allied camp again… And Werlyt itself. It’s simply a beautiful place. It reminds me very much of southern Greece. If you’ve watched the movie Mamma Mia you know what I mean.

The music too was really nice. But I don’t think I’ll… you know… listen to it on repeat as I am doing with other parts of the soundtrack.

I’ve also loved how much amazing lore we got about Garlemald and especially the garlean military. And the military abroad. The way soldiers not from the mainland get treated. I love learning about these things.

Gaius

The man. The legend. The guy yelling in Prae.

He’s so very boring here. He has so much potential as a character and maybe I’m missing something, but all throughout this story he has been nothing but passive. He’s a reactive character in this storyline. You know. The guy who made deals with Lahabread (the d is intended), tried to take over Eorzea, lead a whole army, stood idly by as the moon dropped, almost died but then decided just not to die and then though „hm… I’ve got so much freetime now. How about I go and hunt some ascians?“ That guy is NOT a reactive character. He is active. He goes out of his way to make shit he wants happen. And in here? He seems too starstruck and devastated by his adopted kids actions to actually have one clear thought.

The only explanation I have is that he might have gotten hit in the head by something on his way to the ruby weapon. I get why he would rely on Cid for help, but the WoL??? The alliance? If you wish to be an ally and help or something, fucking act like it. You were a former legatus and I expect you to live up to your name – even after retiring.

And yeah.. I guess it’s hard having to watch your kids willingly, knowingly dying. But you fucking raised them. You are a big part of the reason to why they are in that predicament. So like… Aside from that I don’t even get why you are in this story at all.

And for the record: I’m not sorry for him. I’m just flabbergasted by all the bullshit we’ve been learning about him.

To be quite honest, I think this story could have worked just as well or maybe even better, if we got another man as the „hero“ of the story. I am talking about none other than our engineering, hammer-swinging, ex-enemy - of course talking about Nero!

The MSQ has long established that his research into the Ultimate Weapon had been taken, twisted and turned – Estinien had to experience this first-hand. I’m not saying that Nero was in need of a redemption arc and I cannot remember if these weapons were of his creation or even stem from anything he did, but it would make so much more sense for me, to have him confront his past in the garlean military like this and be responsible for the death of his former colleagues. Soldiers that he served with, whom he faught with. Give me Nero and them working together to get the weapons going and him bonding with them as his pilots to a degree. Comrades. Not that strange familiar bond that Gaius appareantly has with them. … Scratch that: Let Gaius be the father figure. Him being that wouldn’t change Nero’s relationship with them, but maybe his with Gaius as his superior.

The story wouldn’t even need to try and redeem Nero: He has already gone through major character development with the MSQ and the Omega raid tier. It would simply be Nero, confronted with the things he created, hopefully instilling more morals and a sense of responsibility for his creations. Heck: Let Cid yell at the guy! Seriously! Cid sticking around to help out would make so much more sense if it was Nero instead of freaking Gaius! Cid hated the guy! He might be a professional, but he is not one to torture himself by staying around a guy he (as far as I know) detests.

Make Nero the central figure and give Cid and Gaius the roles of „angel and demon“: One desperately trying to reach out to his old friend, reminding him why they became engineers and trying to make him realise that he can’t just run around designing weapons and leaving the scematics for everyone to read; while the other has trouble letting go of his imperial past and is struggling to see the errors of his ways – if Nero was wrong, than he (Gaius) was wrong too -and of course they did all of this for their home, to further their cause, and to bring peace to the savage lands of Eorzea, who had been fighting amongst themselves for so long… You get the point.

And you could still have these gundam themed fights. But I think everything would make so much more sense in general.

But speaking of which-

The children

I do not truly care for any of them. And that is a shame: I do think there are great characters and dynamics hidden behind these very few cutscenes. When they were first introduced I was wondering why I was suddenly watching „heartwarming“ cutscenes of my foes as children – until I realised that I was supposed to care and that they were supposed to make me feel pity for Gaius. I was supposed to feel bad for him, because they died and he blames himself. But while their fates so far have been gruesome, I cannot say that I am sad they died. They chose to die as they did. There were a myriad more options. And they chose that.

Actually. Their whole story makes me feel like they were huge masochist from the very beginning. They could have just run away and gotten help from someone more competent than them, but they stayed in an abusive military arrangement just so nobody else got hurt?? Please. Use your brains next time. And for the Berserk-like torture scene? I mean. I get what was implied here. But was it necessary? As a writer myself I follow the rule that torture and sexual violence should never be used in a story, unless it must be in there for the story to work or to bring across a vital point important to the story or it’s moral (or if you are writing porn and you are into it – but we are talking official in-game content here). But the violence towards these „children“ seems unnecessary for the plot and the violence of their deaths by piloting the weapons is already gruesome enough. Sometimes it’s better to leave things like this out – the emotional torture of feeling stuck and having a martyrs complex would have been enough here, I think. If the rest of the story had been well written at least.

(I believe my utter lack of sympathy shows how little character developement they had. I love tragic characters, who choose to suffer for the good of other people – even better if those people don’t even like them. It’s just my thing. And those kids are just… well.)

Their reasons and especially why they were making Allie out as the one who would need to survive was also just… weird. Like. I feel like 75% of what happened would not have happened, if they actually talked to each other, used their brains and had done something about their problems. But no…

These characters are also so exchangeable with basic anime/j-RPG character tropes… I only remember Alfonse, Rex and Allie – because I just did the Emerald weapon. And right afterwards I thought, „huh. So… Fullmetal Alchemist?“ Which brings me to my third point …

…the story at large.

„Pacing is a virtue“ or was it patience..? Anyhow: The author of this story should have had more patience with his story and characters and taken a bloody break! And I am not talking about the obvious blunder of „How is Allie feeling?“, „she is in shock and you cannot talk to her“ turning to „oh yeah if you are careful you can talk to her now“. I mean. WTF. That was MAYBE 10-20 in-game minutes of dialogue.

But everything was moving so very fast – and not even in a good way. There are few things better than a fast paced, action rich story about a group of young people trying to safe (their) world. But if you try to cram in two expansions worth of character development and story telling into about two hours of content each patch.. Well, then you get whatever the hell this is.

Gaius is a very interesting character and while I did not understand why they needed to bring him back in 4.4 (?), I do see how he could be a good asset for endwalker. And his involvement in 5.0 with Estinien was just a dear delight. So I am not opposed to learning more about him, to watching his character grow and changed with time. But I am not ready for badly written content of which 50% get told by suddenly induced echo-sequences. I mean – weren’t there rules for the echo at some point???

I’m not sure which one of the devs said it, but the feature that let’s you play an NPC is super convenient for them to tell the story, because before they could only show what happened where the WoL was.

And that’s just it. Rule number 1 in writing anything is „Show don’t tell“. It feels like they literally turned this one around for these cutscenes. While Valens torture and diet-Fandaniel-routine were very much „show“, the rest of the story was one long cutscene of exposition: We get exposition by Cid, by Gaius, by echo, by Gaius and his crew again, then by Allie. Before having to watch scenes we are not there for.

BTW. Dear square Enix: Your writers are capable of writing amazing villains, antagonist and despicable assholes. You don’t have to write „asshole, must die“ on Valens name card. And I also think the „WoL, strike here“ sign above his head was a tad bit too much. Nuance, dear writers. Nuance. Or perhaps I just got spoiled by these last few foes in the MSQ.

When I said I wanted to just be able to punch a bad guy for once and not feel bad about it, I did not mean this! I meant that I just wanted to play training dummy with Danny-Boy.

(Oh! And as far as I’m concerned you can just… sideline Gaius … „would be killer“ and the lady? Make them targetable NPCs with Dialoge to read. Let them stand somewhere accessible and comment on the latest developement. But ffs don’t give me hour long speeches about how you are going to kill Gaius if he does something you don’t like. The guy could and would wipe the floor with you if he felt like it. -.- So. Please. Shut up.)

Conclusion

Basically. I have to finish the Diamond weapon. But I doubt it will change my perception of this story line even in the slightest.

To be perfectly honest though … bringing Gaius back, having this story with and about him, forcing a sort of redemption ark here. It feels like they are really „grooming“ him to be a morally grey ally in Endwalker, with perhaps a big part to play in the endgame. At this point I wouldn’t even be surprised if they pulled a GoT and made him „King in the North“. Or if they had him die a heroic death to save the world, but especially his country. And to do so they need us to think his sacrifice means something. Or that he is the right person to lead Garlemald into a new future (I don’t think he is). But: For one, neither we (the players) nor the characters need to find him worthy of throne or death by heroism for his sacrifice/ascension to work. To be a useful tool for the story, only the other garleans who might oppose the alliance and scions need to deem him or his sacrifice „worthy“. And only they. And Ishikawa-san has all of 6.0 to accomplish whatever the hell she needs him for. He did not need to be the center of his own botched redemption ark. If that’s what they wanted to do. Or maybe I’m looking at this all wrong and all they wanted was to give the writes in training some literal training grounds to test their abilities.

But! On a positive note: I have yet to be told that raids and other side content are canon to any degree. So when playing the next story quests I’ll blissfully ignore all that happened in Werlyt and if it get’s mentioned (because they do that sometimes when you’ve done certain content) I’ll just ignore it.

Happy ignoring! Also: GIVE ME MORE NERO CONTENT!

33 notes · View notes

nadisabug · 4 years ago

Text

Princess

Summary: Y/n is not prepared to find out why she has been picking fights with Zuko. Prompts: 42. Character A: Fuck. Oh, fuck. I’m in love with Character B! Character C: Yeah. A: Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?! C: What?! I thought you knew! 31. "I'm so in love with you it hurts." Fandom: ATLA Pairing: Sokka x reader Warnings: cursing A/N: Ah! Here is my second piece for the @fromthewatertribe‘s event! (also gonna tag @astroninaaa jic!!) I loved writing this, I hope I did the prompts justice! I hope you enjoy guys!

"Why don't you get off your pretty little ostrichhorse and face the fact that we're not going to treat you like royalty," I spat angrily, glaring at Zuko.

We were fighting. Again.

Ever since he joined us after we defeated combustion man we had been getting into it.

A lot.

"Says Princess," Zuko scoffed and rolled his eyes.

I felt fire surge up to my face. I opened and closed my mouth, completely unsure of what to say. That was Sokka's nickname for me and only Sokka was allowed to call me that. I was so floored that he would bring that up that the only thing I could shout back at him was, "You are the most despicable person I have ever met!" Fucking lame, I thought to myself.

"Tell me something I don't know," Zuko quipped. His responses were so easy and calm, he wasn't riled up in the least bit. It bothered me that I was so emotional and he wasn’t. It was like he didn't even care.

So I went for a low blow that I knew would set him off.

"Oh poor baby Zuzu, playing the martyr-"

"Don't call me that!" He nearly screamed losing all of his composure. He lunged towards me, flames erupting from his closed fists.

"Okay that's enough!" Sokka strolled in between the both of us, putting his arms up as if that would stop us from tearing each other to pieces. "Zuko, you come with me. We'll go hunting together. Princ- Y/n, you stay here with Toph and cool down."

"I don't need to cool down!" I shouted. I winced when I realized how loud I was. "Fine," I sighed and let my shoulders slump. I watched as Zuko and Sokka walked off to go hunt, leaving me behind with Toph.

It wasn't like I didn't like being with Toph, I loved her, I just... Something was bothering me about that fight.

I turned around and sat next to Toph. She was sitting there, nonchalantly picking her feet. I supposed she had been doing that the entire time we had been fighting.

"What's up with you today, grumpy pants?" Toph asked and elbowed me in the ribcage.

"Ow," I grumbled and rubbed my side. She had good aim for a blind girl. "Nothing, I'm fine."

"When will you people learn that I can tell when you lie," Toph sighed dramatically. She scooted closer to me and whispered in my ear. "Is it a secret? You can tell me, everyone else is gone."

She was right, Aang was training with Katara and now Sokka was off hunting with Zuko. The later part may have been why I was angry. I didn't know why but I felt this intense jealously that Sokka had asked Zuko to go hunting with him instead of me.

I huffed and scooted away from Toph. "I'm just jealous Sokka took Zuko instead of me," I answered truthfully. "I don't know why it bothers me so much though."

"Really?" Toph deadpanned. She paused for a second and when I didn't answer she continued. "Do you even know why you started fighting in the first place?"

I rolled my eyes at her tone. She was probably just trying to make fun of me for being upset over something so trivial, or because I couldn't figure out why it bothered me. "Yes really, I'm jealous. I always go with Sokka when we hunt." I purposefully ignored her second question, though, because I honestly couldn't remember what started the fight.

"I know that, I meant-"

"And why did he take Zuko anyways? He always says that you have to trust you hunting partner with your life, does that mean he trusts Zuko more than me now?"

"I meant-"

"After Boiling Rock they just seem so close, and about that too, I can't believe he took Zuko and not me with him. I knew how important that mission was to him, and he always takes me on his missions."

"Oh whatever," Toph gave up on trying to talk and listened to me rant instead.

"And I guess I am just so upset because usually we sit next to each other during the night around the campfire but now he's sitting with Zuko instead. You remember that time I accidentally fell asleep on him? Do you think that's why he doesn't sit next to me anymore?" I barely paused to get a response before continuing, but it was okay because Toph made no move to answer. "Like I thought that was so nice but what if I snored or something or he just doesn't like me and that was so annoying and-"

I stopped. Something I said had caught my attention.

What if he doesn't like me?

For some reason I felt like it meant more than just like. Like... I wanted him to like me. A lot. Like more than normal. I wanted me to be his favorite person and I wanted him to choose me first and-

"Fuck. Ooooohhhh, fuck. I'm in love with Sokka," I cried out, throwing my head into my hands.

Toph had since begun picking at her feet and didn't even look up when she responded. "Yeah? And?"

"You knew?" I gasped and whirled on her. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me?"

"What?! I thought you knew!"

"How was I supposed to know?"

"Are you kidding me? They're your feelings!"

I didn't have a good comeback for that. So, we lapsed into silence and I began to think about my newfound feelings. It actually started to explain a lot. That's why my face burned every time he sparred with Zuko, shirtless. That's why I felt so at home next to him. That's why I was always so angry at Zuko, I was scared that he was replacing me.

"I need to apologize to Zuko," I mumbled softly.

"Yeah you do, grumpy pants."

"Thanks, Toph," I rolled my eyes. I was about to reprimand her for not being a more supportive friend when I spotted Zuko and Sokka coming back. Still embarrassed over my outburst, I pulled my knees to my chest and hid my head under my arms.

"That was quick." Toph said.

"Yeah, flamey-o hotman over here scared everything away with his magic whoosh powers. I'll have to go out later," Sokka replied. "I'm going to fish for now."

I peeked out from behind my arms to see Sokka stalk off, leaving Zuko awkwardly standing in the middle of the clearing.

I sighed. Now was a good a time as any.

I stood up and walked up to Zuko. "Zuko, can we talk?"

"What, want to yell at me more, princess," he sneered angrily.

I sighed. "No, I want to apologize," I reached up and rubbed the back of my neck and looked off to the side. I couldn't meet Zuko's gaze.

"Let's walk," he nodded and began to lead the way. I followed him, leaving Toph behind.

Once we were a good ways away, Zuko looked at me. "Big change from earlier, wanting to apologize."

"Yeah, I did some thinking."

"Cooled down a bit?" Zuko suggested.

"Fuck off," I growled and rolled my eyes. Zuko raised his hands in defense.

"Sorry, you're right you didn't cool off at all."

"You are making it really hard to be nice, you know," I said and shot him a glare.

"Sorry, sorry," he relented waving his hands. "You're right, I'm still in the mindset from earlier. So. Why are you apologizing?"

"Well, I picked the fight. It was kinda my fault."

"True."

"Zuko," I sighed.

"FIne, fine."

"I just want to say I figured out why I am picking out fights with you and I want to say I'm going to try to do it less."

There was a beat of silence. I looked at Zuko to see his response but his gaze was unreadable.

"And?"

"What?" I responded quickly, defensive over my lame apology.

"You're not going to tell me why?"

I flushed red and turned away. "It's personal."

"It's not personal when you're picking fights with me over it," he responded, raising his voice a little. I could hear his frustration, but I really didn't want to tell him.

"Well it's a personal reason I'm not obligated to tell you everything about my life."

"And I just said if it's the reason you're picking fights with me it's not personal anymore."

"That doesn't even make sense," I bit back, matching his volume.

"Just tell me!"

"Fine it's cause I like Sokka!"

"Okay and?"

I blinked. "What do you mean 'and,' I just told you I like Sokka! That's a big deal!"

"Not really," Zuko shrugged. "I mean we all already knew that."

"You did?"

"You didn't?"

"No of course not how could I?"

"Well I mean it was pretty fucking obvious," Zuko scoffed and folded his arms. He was so blase about it it blew my mind.

"It was obvious?" I repeated what he said, still unable to grasp it.

"Yeah, but moving past the fact that you're an oblivious idiot, how does you liking Sokka have anything to do with me?"

"Oh," I said softly, my cheeks reddening. "Um, well I'm kinda jealous. Of how close you two are."

Zuko was silent for a long time so I looked up at him to see what was the matter. When I did, I just saw him staring incredulously at me.

"We're just friends. It's not like I want his tongue in my mouth like you do," he finally said, laughing.

"Zuko!" I shouted, my face growing even more red.

"Well it's true," he shrugged nonchalantly. "So that's why you're so upset at me all the time."

I shrugged meekly, "Pretty much yeah."

Zuko nodded resolutely. "Then let's help you get this boy."

"What?"

"Did I stutter? I'm going to help you confess and start dating Sokka."

"I don't need any help!"

"Obviously you do if you haven't realized your feelings until now," Zuko half snorted in response. He seemed to find this situation so funny.

"Listen, I can confess on my own time okay," I said resolutely.

With that, Zuko shrugged and walked away. I sighed, but let him, knowing I didn't have much more to say anyway. I went back to camp and sat down next to Toph, talking to her about nothing.

Later, when Sokka came back from fishing, he was soaked and shirtless, a bad combination for my heart. Since I realized I liked him, it was like my feelings were magnified. My face burned red and I couldn't bear to look at him.

"Look what Katara did to me!" He whined once he was in earshot.

"What did you do to her?" Zuko responded airily, not even turning to look at him. I wished I could be that easy going around Sokka.

"Doesn't matter," Sokka waved him off. I saw Sokka look at me and the heat in my chest flared. I looked down quickly, breaking eye contact as soon as we made it. "You and Princess make up?"

I heard Zuko rumble an assent then the topic was dropped. Zuko and Sokka eventually wandered off, talking to each other.

"You're lucky he's as dense as you are. I can't even see and you're making it more obvious than a platypusbear in a pottery shop," Toph smirked at me.

"Oh shut up," I mumbled. I looked up to see Sokka walking back towards me. I mentally hoped that he wasn't coming to talk to me, but when he stopped in front of me I knew my worst fears had come true.

"Hey, can we talk, Princess?"

"Uh, I am actually talking to Toph right now-" I nervously began but Toph cut me off.

"Oh, we just finished. Go have your talk, Princess," Toph pitched her voice up at the end of the sentence, obviously mocking me.

Left without any other excuses, I took Sokka's outstretched hand and followed him to go talk.

We walked all the way down to the beach, where no one else was, before he finally broke the silence.

"So, Zuko said you wanted to talk to me," he finally said, looking down and over at me.

"He did?" I was caught off-guard by that. Why would...

"Yeah, he said it was about the reason why you're fighting with him so much."

If thoughts could kill a man then our party would be down one member. "I can't believe he said that," I groaned and threw my head into my hands.

"So... you don't want to talk to me?"

"No!" I looked up quickly and met Sokka's confused gaze. "I do want to talk to you just not about that!"

"But you talked to Zuko about it?" He asked, half a question half a statement.

"Yeah," I agreed slowly. Sokka smiled softly, sending my heart up into my throat.

"While I am a little jealous, I am actually kinda glad. You don't know how hard its been, what with my best friend and my girl not getting along."

I stopped breathing for a second.

"Your girl?" I whispered breathily.

At my statement, Sokka blanched and began to stammer. "I, uh, I mean a girl that I know not specifically my girl I mean because I can't own a girl you know women's rights and everything equality yeah um so yeah I didn't mean my girl yeah of course not."

I smiled softly and began to open my mouth, but Sokka cut me off.

"I just mean its so hard when your two best friends are fighting because that's what you are to me, just a best friend."

At that my smile fell. "Oh," I said softly, turning away. I began to think that he may have actually just misspoke and that was all.

Suddenly, I felt Sokka grab my arms and pull me in, wrapping his arms around my waist. I looked up at him in surprise but his eyes were closed. He rested his forehead against mine.

"Aw man, don't make that face, I'm sorry I'm such an idiot. It's just... I just... I just love you so much it hurts when you look like that... don't hate me," he added the last part on quickly and softly, scrunching his eyes up.

"How could I, when I love you so much it hurts too?" I whispered breathlessly.

And then, I kissed him. He didn't react at first, but after a moment he began kissing me back ferociously. I reciprocated immediately, kissing him with an intensity of months of pent up affection.

We only parted when we both couldn't breathe.

Panting, we leaned into each other. My arms around his neck, his around my lower back.

"I am considerably less mad at Zuko now," I said happily.

"Yeah, what was with all of that?" Sokka replied, pulling his head away to look at me properly.

"Oh," I flushed for what felt like the millionth time this day. "I was maybe a little jealous."

Sokka laughed but stopped quickly when I glared at him.

"Y/n, don't be jealous. You'll always be my Princess."

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

#ahhhh my second one this one is long and I feel like its so bad #thank you again nina for hosting this event!#I am so glad I participated :)#ninas 1k event #sokka x reader #sokka imagine #sokka x you #atla x reader #atla imagine #atla

136 notes · View notes