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mamichigo · 5 years ago

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Fic: lemon flavored days (1.8k)

Pairing: Giyuu/Shinobu

Tags: Pre-Relationship, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Birthday

Summary: Giyuu doesn’t think his birthday matters; Shinobu doesn’t quite agree.

N/A: Commission for the ever supportive @azu-sama. You are a dear, thank you for giving me the chance to work a bit on this universe.

Giyuu rested his head against the windowsill, phone secured in between the crevice of his shoulder and the press of his cheek, freeing his hands to fidget with the fork in his hand.

“Did you get the one I told you about?” Makomo’s gentle voice asked from the other side of the phone. “The lemon one?”

Giyuu licked the frosting sticking to the fork and nodded, only remembering he was in a phone call a second later. “Yeah, I did.”

“Did you like it?”

He considered the empty plate where his cake had been; the taste of it had reminded him of summers when he was much younger, spent trying to bake for Urokodaki, and the victory of finally getting it right (though he, Sabito and Makomo were all covered in flour by the end of it). A hesitant smile appeared on his face, and Giyuu hummed.

“It was good,” was all he said. From the way Makomo chuckled, however, she understood exactly what he was thinking of—she always had a talent for doing that.

“I’m glad,” she said, and they both didn’t say anything for a little while. There were hushed voices coming from Makomo’s end, and he could imagine her bundled up in a too thick scarf and walking down a snow-covered street, making her way back from work. Giyuu ached at the thought of it.

“Sabito told you earlier?” Makomo continued, like no time passed at all. “About visiting you.”

“Yeah.” He hesitated again. “…Sorry I couldn’t make it this year.”

“It’s okay, we understand you’re busy. We are, too, after all,” she said. “But we’ll be there as soon as we can, I promise.” Giyuu opened his mouth to reply, but Makomo added, in a softer voice, “Urokodaki-san will come too.”

At this, Giyuu smiled again. “Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Giyuu,” Makomo reminded him, gently. “Happy birthday. We’ll see you soon, so enjoy today, okay?”

Giyuu glanced at his empty apartment, and thought of the contacts in his phone, none of which he felt he could call. “Yeah, I will.”

A bit more tired than usual, Giyuu rubbed at one eye while pointing at a line in the book in front of him, explanation coming easy from years of practice. The little girl sitting next to him, Himiko, nodded along with his every word, small face shoved close to the pages in her curiosity. However, it only took one long, drawn-out yawn from Giyuu to break her concentration.

When he realized she was no longer listening, Giyuu stopped, and faced her stare head-on.

“Are you tired, Tomioka-sensei?” She asked in her raspy voice.

“A little bit,” he admitted, thinking that would be the end of it.

“Is it because you were having a birthday party last night?”

Giyuu blinked at her, surprised at the question. Not that the assumption was right, but the mention of his birthday did surprise him. “How did you know it was my birthday?”

She grinned. “You told me yourself!” Himiko reminded him. “And I wrote it in my notebook so I wouldn’t forget.” She pointed to the red notebook on one side of the table, where she kept everything she thought was important—this included the name of the pretty flowers her aunt brought her once a week, the parts of their history lessons she liked the most and, apparently, Giyuu’s birthday.

Himiko seemed proud of herself for remembering, so he smiled at her in encouragement. “You did well.”

She beamed brightly, then launched into a rant on what she would do for her own birthday—she was quick to reassure Giyuu that he would be invited to it.

Giyuu was just reflecting on what would be a good present for a little girl when a knock at the door made them both pause and look up. Kochou smiled at him, and Giyuu returned the gesture entirely on instinct.

“Tomioka-sensei, you should take a break for a few minutes,” Kochou reminded, all too aware of Giyuu’s tendency to forget to do just that. When Himiko complained, Kochou put her hands on her hips. “And I won’t accept ‘but’ and 'later’ this time.”

Giyuu looked from Himiko to Kochou, cracking at the way the latter raised her eyebrows at him. He got to his feet, though not before promising Himiko to come back in a few minutes.

When he passed, Kochou patted his shoulder briefly. “There’s food in the break room with my name on the label, the second container is for you,” she said. Then, she looked him up and down in consideration. “And there is coffee as well.”

“Oh,” he said awkwardly, then bowed his head, uncertain of how to show his gratitude otherwise. “Thank you.”

“Off you go, shoo,” Kochou said teasingly, gesturing him away.

Giyuu obeyed, gratefully stretching his limbs and making his way to the break room.

When he came back later, he didn’t question the way Himiko was whispering something into Kochou’s ear, and the curious look the two of them were giving Giyuu—Kochou’s was especially mischievous.

Even on Winter break and no classes to be had at school, Giyuu seemed to be just as busy as ever. Preparing for the new school year while still volunteering at the hospital took more out of him than initially expected. For that reason, Giyuu had all the intention to collapse into bed as soon as he made it home that day, but a call from Kochou had destroyed that plan in the span of a single second.

That was how he found himself dragging his feet to the gate of the Kochou residence at eight in the evening, eyes stinging and unfocused.

Perhaps it was exactly the tiredness that made the lack of chattering young voices from inside the house go unnoticed to him; not even the fact that Kochou opened the door by herself—instead of accompanied by one of the triplets, like she usually would—seemed strange to him. Giyuu simply followed Kochou inside without questioning it.

No wonder he almost jumped out of his skin when a loud chorus of “Happy birthday!” greeted him once he made his way into the house. He had to blink several times to process the confetti in his hair, the smiling faces in front of him, and the absurd amount of food displayed on a large table in the middle of the room.

“Tomioka, that’s quite the expression you’re making there!” Rengoku yelled, laughing without reservations.

Kanroji fidgeted like she wanted to approach and check on him. “We didn’t break him, did we?” She asked.

“Don’t worry, that’s just his usual stupid face,” Iguro reassured her, which didn’t seem to help at all.

“Iguro-san!” She chided, waving frantically.

“Iguro is right, he always makes that lost face whenever he has to interact with people,” Shinazugawa said with a mocking snort.

That made Kanroji beg them to stop, which in response had Iguro and Shinazugawa arguing that they weren’t wrong.

Kochou elbowed his side hard enough for Giyuu to stumble and snap him out of his blank state.

“Did you go into shock?” Shinobu asked, teasing but somehow still kind.

Giyuu took a moment to take in his surroundings again. His usual drinking group was there, with the addition of Kanroji and Kochou herself. It had enough people to feel look and sound lively, but not enough to be overwhelming. As an afterthought, he realized a good portion of the food on the table was baked, which made him wonder if maybe Shinazugawa hadn’t made them himself.

“I organized this,” Kochou declared, answering the question in Giyuu’s mind. “I didn’t have to do much, though. Sanemi-san took it upon himself to do most of it. He sounded mad when I talked to him, you know?.” She chuckled, then looked up at Giyuu. “I distinctly remember him yelling about you being an idiot with no social skills.”

Giyuu had no doubt that had in fact happened.

“How did you know?” Is what Giyuu asked when he found his voice to speak again.

“Himiko-chan told me.” He recalled the hushed conversation he had witnessed, just two days ago, and nodded in understanding. “I can’t believe I had to find out from her instead, you’re so difficult, Tomioka-san.”

Giyuu shuffled on his feet and turned his head to the side, so kochou wasn’t in the corner of his vision. “I…”

He didn’t get to finish, as Rengoku lost interest in whatever was being said by Iguro and Shinazugawa and decided to pull the birthday man into the circle, giving him painful pats on the back as he repeatedly congratulated Giyuu.

Giyuu gave Kanroji a pleading look, but there was nothing she could do once the other three joined in to tease and congratulate Giyuu, somehow doing both at the same time. Soon, he was too engrossed with shoving pastries into his mouth to worry about his interrupted conversation with Kochou.

It was only later into the night, when Iguro had his head on the table, mumbling incoherent complaints while Rengoku laughed and poked at his head, and Kanroji was too distracted by Shinazugawa making her taste every single food and give her opinion on it, that Giyuu heard a shuttle go off. He looked up from his drink, finding Kochou smiling at him.

“So you can show to Makomo-san,” she explained. “They’d all like to know you had fun, right?”

Given how often Sabito worried about his social relations, he wouldn’t be surprised if he cried happy tears at seeing a picture of this little party at full swing.

Instead of replying, however, he asked something that been burning at the back of his mind the whole night: “Where’s the rest of your family?”

Shinobu tilted her head. “Oh, I asked my sister to spend the night at Himejima-san’s place today,” she said. “Of course, the girls went with her. You’d be too shy to enjoy the party otherwise, wouldn’t you?”

She said that like it was only natural, a logical conclusion. And perhaps, to her, it was exactly that, which only made it the more unbelievable. Giyuu felt his breath falter, something heavy settling in his stomach.

He looked down at his drink. “…I didn’t think it would be important,” he said, voicing the thought he had earlier. “To tell anyone about my birthday, that is.”

Kochou looked like she had something to say to that, but if she did, it never came out. She simply pressed their shoulders together, and whispered, “Of course it’s important,” like it was never a question.

Giyuu felt the sudden urge to call Sabito, to ask him to put him on speaker so Makomo could hear as well as he told them everything about this night.

“You better do something for my birthday as well, your hear me?” Kochou said. “Otherwise I’ll never do anything for you again, you emotionally constipated idiot.”

“I’ll think about it,” Giyuu replied, easy and playful. Kochou protested and lightly slapped his arm, making him laugh before he could stop himself.

The smile hurt on his cheeks.

#tomioka giyuu #kochou shinobu #giyushino #kny #modern au #my writing

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plays-the-thing · 4 years ago

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Netflix’s Witcher: What Makes a Good Adaptation? – A companion piece

If you’ve somehow found this without seeing the video first, here’s a link:

In this video I analyze the screen adaptations of Lord of the Rings, A Song of Ice and Fire, and the Witcher series. I use the comparisons of the three to discuss what makes adaptations in general work and to explain why I feel the Witcher is heading down the road to mediocrity.

However, this is a hugely complicated subject, and the works themselves are also complex, especially Martin’s work. I make plenty of claims in the video that a reasonable person could disagree with without any explanation for why I think they are true. Unfortunately, if I were to go down every rabbit hole that I touch on the video would be hours long, so I have to gloss over some potentially confusing or controversial statements.

Enter this post. Here I will be attempting to pre-empt any questions that I think people may have, and go through my thought process on certain claims. I don’t recommend that you read the whole thing. Each explanation will be followed by a timestamp and relevant quote from the video that I am expanding upon so that you can quickly search the page and find what you are looking for.

I’m sure there will be things I don’t think to cover, or things that are poorly reasoned both here and in the video, so feel free to ask additional questions. Just please check to make sure you aren’t asking something that I already covered here.

I will also be attempting to give as much credit as possible to all the wonderful writers and creators who have influenced my thinking with regards to these works. I’ll be linking as much as possible to my sources, as well as to additional content that expands on ideas I mention. Also I’ve included some personal tidbits and commentary, just for fun.

Under a cut for length.

INTRODUCTION:

Huge props to the people who put together the behind-the-scenes footage of LOTR. I’ve watched all the bonus footage numerous times in my life. If you have any interest in the nitty-gritty of how movies get made, I can’t recommend it enough. It really shows all the work and complexity that goes into making movies. That they even get made at all is honestly incredible, especially massive undertakings like LOTR.

[3:30] And if you've ever wondered what the hell happened to The Hobbit, to me it seemed like they were indulging all of these worst impulses instead of catching themselves and editing them out like they did in LOTR.

As soon as I saw that they were making three Hobbit movies my hopes plummeted. It just reeked of executive meddling, and of trying to make the story into something it just isn’t. Lo and behold, that’s what we got: sticking in loads of unnecessary and thematically incoherent material to stretch out the runtime and make it more “epic.” I couldn’t bring myself to watch past the first one, but Lindsay Ellis has an excellent video series exploring in detail what went wrong with the trilogy.

PART ONE: LORD OF THE RINGS

[8:40] If you followed the events and the chronology of the book they would just hang out with Faramir for a little bit and then the movie would end

Technically it’s more complicated than this because that’s already following the revised movie timeline. In reality, Frodo would have just left the Black Gate. They *are* moving the events around to some extent, usually by a few of days here and there, but they can’t move stuff together that takes place weeks apart or the whole timeline would crumble.

[9:55] You can call it the theme, the soul, the spirit, the point, or whatever else you want, but the great works of fiction have something at their core that pulls everything together and elevates it into art. It’s a difficult thing to describe, but I think this scene perfectly tapped into the soul of Tolkien’s work.

Huge shout out to Bob Case and his video “Blame of Thrones” for first introducing me to this concept and the language of the “spirit” of a work to describe this phenomenon. In many ways the first two parts of this video are merely building on the LOTR-GOT comparison that he makes in that video, digging a little deeper and looking at more specific and concrete (and spoileriffic) examples of what he’s talking about so that we can apply these ideas to the Witcher…and beyond. Like all his work, it’s excellent. His YouTube is pretty much inactive these days, but he also occasionally writes content for Shamus Young’s blog if you want more of his work.

PART TWO: GAME OF THRONES

Alright, here it is: the section that really caused me to want to make this companion piece. Earlier I mentioned that I have sympathy for the GoT showrunners, and I really do. Martin’s work is incredibly complex, and so this section dominates the blogpost because there is so much to explain and no way that I could explain it all in the video without incredible bloat.

First I should mention that I, and all the writers I am going to credit here, share a very specific interpretation of Martin’s work. This isn’t the only interpretation. I doubt it’s the interpretation of the majority of readers. Obviously, I fully believe it is the correct interpretation, but the showrunners clearly had a wildly different one.

People who have this interpretation express it in different ways. Joannalannister collects hers in her tag #the-meaning-of-asoiaf. PoorQuentyn expresses it here, and in his analysis of Davos, Quentyn, and Tyrion. Other writers express it in their own ways.

With my lit degree hanging over my head, I can’t help but see it as a problem of competing artistic movements. To me, HBO’s Game of Thrones is part of the art movement of the past few decades, namely postmodernism. Art movements are complex, but basically postmodernism is the cynical reaction to the sincerity of modernism which came before it. Cynicism is, I think, the defining trait of Game of Thrones.

But it is NOT the defining trait of the books. In my view, Martin’s ASOIAF is part of the art movement that we are moving towards, which is starting to become known as metamodernism. Metamodernism is a reaction to the nihilistic pessimism and cynicism of postmodernism, and replaces it not with the unbridled sincerity of modernism, but rather oscillation between the two modes. It can be both ironic and sincere, deconstructionist and constructionist, apathetic and affectual. Once you have peeled back all the layers however, it is ultimately hopeful and optimistic. It embraces a sense of radical optimism. In metamodernist works optimism is often radical because the world the characters live in can be so dark. But that darkness serves only to highlight those characters that can hold fast to virtue amidst such darkness.

So, be warned. If you believe that Martin’s work is all about controlling the Iron Throne, and believe that cynicism is for the wise and honor is for fools, we just aren’t going to see eye to eye.

[12:45] Ned is a competent northern politician who has some trouble adapting to southern culture. Through a combination of bad luck, some understandable mistakes, and a misconception about his position, he fails in his goals.

The show didn’t invent the idea of Stupid Honorable Ned. Plenty of people believed this, even before the show. Obviously I believe they are wrong. If you would like to read more about it I would suggest Steven Attewell’s analysis of Ned’s chapters that he does on his blog, particularly Eddard XI and Eddard XIII. Steven does a much better job of analyzing Ned as a political actor than I ever could.

[13:00] Most of these changes are subtle…the best example is the council debate about whether or not to assassinate Daenerys.

Many of the ideas in this section are pulled from two essays by turtle-paced: Poor Doomed Ned and The Argument to Assassinate Daenerys. Turtle goes deep into the details of the differences between the Ned Stark of the books and the show, and I skimmed some of their comparisons for my argument. Steven Attewell’s analysis of this chapter is also worth reading.

[14:09] It’s a good argument, and I think in the books we are expected to mostly agree with Ned, both morally and politically.

When I say “expected” I mean from the authors point of view, which of course relies on me being correct about my interpretation of Martin’s work. Obviously I think I’m right, but if you don’t agree with my interpretation you may not agree with this statement.

[14:16] Notice also that the supporters of the assassination: Littlefinger, Varys, Renly, and Pycelle are all villains (all except Pycelle are trying to destabilize the kingdom), and the people who oppose it, Ned and Barristan, are heroes.

Each of them represents a different sort of evil. Littlefinger is a scheming sociopathic villain. Varys is a well-intentioned extremist whose willingness to commit utterly heinous acts in the pursuit of his goals makes him a villain. This is because, as Huxley puts it, “The end cannot justify the means, for the simple and obvious reason that the means employed determine the nature of the ends produced.” Renly is narcissistic ambitious evil, willing to throw a realm into war to satisfy his own ego, and is totally uncaring about the lives of other people. It isn’t precisely correct to say that Pycelle is a villain because he represents the banality of evil. He thinks he’s just doing his job, but he’s morally bankrupt and politically corrupt.

[16:40] It would take too long to list all the ways that Tywin is awful, and everyone knows it.

To clarify, I mean that everyone in-universe knows it. For some god-forsaken reason, some readers seem to think that Tywin was just being effective after he unleashed the Mountain on the Riverlands and violated every military and political norm in Westeros.

If you are going to say that he is “Machiavellian” I would encourage you to actually read The Prince, where Machiavelli says “Nevertheless a prince ought to inspire fear in such a way that, if he does not win love, he avoids hatred” and goes into the reasons why.

[17:17] Tywin on the other hand accomplished a lot of short-term gains by being as treacherous and dishonorable as possible. But this has a cost: by proving themselves fair-weather allies they surround themselves with the same. Nobody trusts them, and so their allies scheme and betray them.

Oberyn and Doran are both scheming in their own way to revenge themselves on the Lannisters for the deaths of Elia and her children. The Tyrells poison Joffrey and scheme to spirit Sansa away to Highgarden.

[17:36] Ned failed due to a couple of minor mistakes, some bad luck, and treachery.

I mention a few times that Ned, and more broadly the Starks, get “unlucky.” Again, Steven Attewell does an excellent job of documenting this with his keen eye for how GRRM cheats political realities, but I’ll note a few of the many ways George has to bend over backward to screw the Starks.

In AGoT Catelyn leaves King’s Landing roughly around the same time that Tyrion leaves the wall, and both are on horseback. In order for them to meet at the Inn at the Crossroads Tyrion has to travel roughly 2,000 miles in the same time that Catelyn travels 400 miles. This is basically impossible, but necessary for the plot so that Catelyn can lose Tyrion at the Eyrie. If she had caught him somewhere further north she could have simply chucked him into her own dungeons and managed his trial herself.

Cersei has been trying to kill Robert for goodness knows how long with just as unreliable methods as “get him drunk on a hunt.” In order for Ned to get screwed she has to succeed in killing Robert at precisely that moment. If it had failed like every one of her other attempts she is most likely dead, because Ned would tell Robert the truth about her children as soon as he got back.

In order for Theon to take Winterfell, veteran military man and castellan Ser Rodrik Cassell has to stupidly empty the Winterfell garrison while he knows that Ironborn raiders are running loose in the North, not even leaving behind a mere twenty-five to fifty men that would have completely thrashed Theon’s assault. If Theon can’t take Winterfell, the Red Wedding doesn’t happen (as Martin has told us that the real inciting incident of the Red Wedding was the fall of Winterfell).

[17:41] However, killing him was a terrible idea, and backfired on the Lannisters instantly.

Continuing this theme, the Lannisters were in an absolutely horrible position at the beginning of the War of the Five Kings. They pretty much just have their bannerman in the Westerlands. Stannis seems to have the support of most of the Crownlands, and he and Renly are splitting the lords of the Reach and the Stormlands (with Renly having the larger chunk). The Starks have all the support of the North and the Riverlands combined. The Lannisters are surrounded by enemies who outnumber them on all sides. Killing Ned immediately jumpstarts a war that will almost certainly crush the Lannisters. That it didn’t took some very thin plotting and improbable developments at times, but overall George made it work. For more analysis of this, again check out Steven Attewell Blog: Race for the Iron Throne.

[17:48] Tywin was killed by both a guest whom he considered his ally, and his son.

I firmly believe Oberyn poisoned Tywin. Here’s a good rundown of the evidence. Beyond simple means, motive, and opportunity it also provides neat answers to lingering odd questions like why Tywin rotted so oddly and aggressively, why Tyrion knew he would find him in the privy, why Oberyn was willing to chuck his life away for a confession before seeming to have secured revenge against Tywin.

It’s also thematically juicy. I love the idea that Tywin, who so egregiously violated Westerosi norms culminating in the total breach of the social contract at the Red Wedding, was a victim of contrapasso. He can’t be protected by social norms, so he gets poisoned by his guest and ally. Did Tyrion know he was dying? Had he put it all together? Was that bolt really an act of mercy? Perhaps it was one final service to the Lannisters, to keep the dream of their alliance with the Martells alive. Who knows, but boy is it interesting to consider.

[18:13] his alliances fall to pieces, and his children are abandoned by even their own family.

I’m referring here to the infighting between the Tyrells and Lannisters (and Martells, though they never had any intent of staying true to the alliance) after Tywin’s death (though there was some before as well, just intensified after Cersei takes over from Tywin). Kevan forces Cersei to take the walk of shame, and Jaime and the rest of the Lannisters abandon her to that fate.

[19:41] Just like Lord of the Rings, and the Witcher, ASOIAF is clearly dedicated to anti-violence. Not pacifism: all three works have heroes dealing out retributive violence in order to try and restore justice.

I understand it might be odd to suggest that three works which feature so much violence can be dedicated to anti-violence, but depicting something is not the same as endorsing it. I would argue in the case of Martin’s work in particular that his depiction of violence, so un-romantically brutal and direct, is intentionally revolting, and therefore is designed to be anti-violence. Martin purposefully makes you want revenge on certain characters, gives it to you, and then forces you to stare at the inhumanity of this thing you thought you wanted. Yeah I wanted Theon to pay, but not like that. Yeah, I wanted Cersei to pay, but not like that. Yeah, I want the Freys to pay, but I don’t think I’m going to like what Stoneheart is going to do to them.

There is a certain amount of this in the Witcher as well. I can specifically think of one scene in The Blood of Elves, but I promised no Witcher spoilers.

The violence in LOTR is much more romanticized, but as Faramir says: “I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” The hero is still Frodo, who doesn’t fight anyone or anything in the whole story. Frodo is a pacifist, but his pacifism is enabled by others who are willing to fight.

[20:07] In a Dance with Dragons Daenerys allows the old slave-holding class to maintain too much power and so they immediately attempt to continue the old violence of slavery. Daenerys did not commit enough violence against the slave-owners, so they were allowed to continue existing, and as long as they existed they were always going to abuse and oppress the ex-slaves.

A couple years after the release of ADWD, an obnoxiously wrong and poisonous idea began to creep into the ASOIAF fandom: Daenerys’ violence against the slaveowners in Slaver’s Bay is dangerous and immoral, and peace is the better option. This idea was most persuasively argued in the Meereenese Blot’s series of essays.

I’ll quote some of the conclusion here:

“They are supposed to feel this generic distrust for everyone, and to fail to grasp that their peaces were actually quite successful. Dany is supposed to conclude — wrongly — that her behavior through most of the book was silly and foolish. And if you came away with those impressions too, it’s perfectly understandable…The whole plotline is designed to maneuver Dany into a mental place where she’ll decide to sideline her concerns for innocent life, and take what she wants with fire and blood.”

This idea, much like the idea that Daenerys is some sort of unhinged fascist just waiting for the right trigger, makes me unbelievably angry. This idea that I am supposed to value the life of the slaveowner and the slave equally, and that maintaining a “peaceful” slave-owning society is an acceptable alternative to violent revolution is so fundamentally revolting to me, that it turns my stomach even to write that sentence.

Some fans went even as far as to suggest that Daenerys’ occupation of Meereen was a parallel to the US occupation of Iraq, and that she was engaged in erasing an authentic slave-owning culture that she despised. If you read the above series of essays, you can see that they are, at the least, enabling that kind of thinking.

To be clear, I do not consider any slave society to be worth a damn thing. Anything that continues it is evil and all that attempts to destroy it is good. That being said, once again Steven Attewell does a better job than I ever could of rebutting the ideas of the Meereneese Blot, and explaining how the correct parallel of Daenerys’ actions in Meereen is the American mistake of abandoning radical reconstruction. He describes her actions in Meereen as abandoning a revolution half complete. I highly recommend reading it, especially if you are American.��

Martin is not a pacifist. He has said he would have fought in WWII. He demonstrated against Vietnam. As far as I know, the first time George ever used the words “Fire and Blood” was in a book released in 1982 called Fevre Dream:

“I never held much with slavery […]. You can’t just go… usin’ another kind of people, like they wasn’t people at all. Know what I mean? Got to end, sooner or later. Better if it ends peaceful, but it’s got to end even if it has to be with fire and blood, you see? Maybe that’s what them abolitionists been sayin’ all along. You try to be reasonable, that’s only right, but if it don’t work, you got to be ready. Some things is just wrong. They got to be ended.”

Daenerys is a slave-freeing, slave-owner-killing Hero with a capital H. She has made mistakes. I weep for the lives of the slaves that she has thrown away by abandoning her revolution, by failing to give the people of Astapor the strength to defend themselves, by maintaining a false peace that allows the Meereneese KKK to kill ex-slaves in the night. I shed no tears for the slaveowners that she has killed. When you treat other human beings as property you forfeit your right to Prosperity, Freedom, and Life. Preferably in that order—I would prefer that a slave society could peacefully transition, that those who attempted to continue it could be locked up, and that bloodshed could be avoided. But sometimes violence is necessary.

Daenerys will make more mistakes, I am sure. I believe that she will swing too far in the other direction, temporarily. But that’s a topic for another time.

[20:57] She comforts the hound even as he threatens her and helps him on his path from violence to peace.

Sandor did not die, despite what the Elder Brother told Brienne. He uses his words very carefully, to suggest that the Hound is dead, but that Sandor Clegane the man is simply “at rest.” He has become a brother of the isle.

“On the upper slopes they saw three boys driving sheep, and higher still they passed a lichyard where a brother bigger than Brienne was struggling to dig a grave. From the way he moved, it was plain to see that he was lame.” - Brienne VI, AFFC

[21:40] If they don’t understand why Tywin is a villain then of course they won’t understand why the Others are the main villains of the series, and will probably replace them with some blonde queen. And if you don’t understand that the cold of the human heart is the real enemy than of course you’ll think you can stop winter by just stabbing it. Like Tywin would.

In the books the Others are the villains. They are what the whole story is building towards, much like in LOTR the story builds towards Frodo casting the ring into the Fire. Martin has said that he thinks that the finishing chapters of LOTR, like the Scouring of the Shire, were important, so we may see something like that, but the clear emphasis will be on the existential evil, and cleaning up Cersei or Aegon “Targaryen’s” mess will be a clear step down in importance. It’s something that the heroes have grown beyond, but still need to handle, just like Saruman in the Shire.

[22:04] There’s nothing wrong with liking Game of Thrones, or disliking Lord of the Rings, or anything else.

I really do mean this. I am going to be critical of things you like, and am going to praise things you love. People are different, that’s to be expected. I am not here to pretend that people should only like the things I like. I’m interested in what makes these stories work. I said much the same thing in my last video about some of the new Star Wars properties. People tend to get really attached to the media they like (I’m no exception) and that can color our perception of criticism. Do try to keep in mind that if you like something I criticize it isn’t an attack on you. You have a sacred and personal relationship to the things you enjoy that no one can take from you. I like all kinds of stuff that other people might consider bad, and that’s okay. Actually it’s great, because it gives us something to talk about.

I may genuinely hate Game of Thrones because it butchers something I came to love, but that doesn’t mean I have anything against the people who do like it for their own reasons. We’re all just out here enjoying what we like.

PART THREE: THE WITCHER

There is less in this section for two reasons. First, I promised not to spoil anything past the material covered in the show and I’ll stick to that here. Second—full disclosure here—I haven’t read all of the books because after Blood of Elves I got pretty bored and from what I had heard they did not improve in quality, and if anything got worse. Having already felt that going from the anthologies to Blood I was happy to end my reading there.

If something I say is contradicted by a later book that I didn’t read feel free to let me know.

[23:31] First I should mention that Sapkowski’s works are not on the same level as Tolkien’s and Martin’s, who are the best and second-best fantasy authors of all time. I have enjoyed the Witcher books that I have read, but they are not anywhere near as complex or beautifully written.

This is just my opinion, see above paragraph. I really do think that it’s a pretty common opinion though. I’ve read it before, and you often see people recommend the first two Witcher anthologies in a “if you like it maybe see if you like the rest of them?” sort of way. Book sales numbers also support this, though by all accounts they are exploding in the wake of the show.

But, one potential issue is that I’m reading a translation so I have no idea how good Sapkowski’s prose actually is. You get a lot of sentences in the US edition like: “it must be both bothersome and irritating.” Translation is art, not science, and passages like these make me worry that the translator is just translating each phrase without worrying about all the subtlety that makes language beautiful. These are minor examples of course, but they worry me about what else might be changed. So take my criticism of his writing with a giant, translated, grain of salt, in that I don’t read Polish.

[23:58] Despite this, Geralt the Witcher has been worming his way into popular culture for years, interestingly on the back of a series of video games

Google trends clearly show that the video games are what primarily generated interest in the character before the show. There were no English editions until around the time the games started coming out, and the US editions all feature concept art from the games on the covers. The release of the subsequently translated books after the games received very little attention in comparison to the games.

[24:15] In my opinion, that decline of focus on Geralt was the greatest weakness in the books, and the focus on Geralt is the greatest strength of the games. Because Geralt is at the core of what made Sapkowski’s story and world engaging in the first place. He is a fascinating character in a way that Ciri, who is a fairly standard fantasy “chosen child,” could never be.

This is just my opinion, and I explain why I think Geralt is so great in the subsequent paragraphs. Reasonable people can disagree on this, but I’ve come across more than a couple fantasy characters who could be generically described as “royal orphans with special powers.” It’s not exactly novel. Geralt is pretty novel, at least in terms of what I have read.

[24:49] He suffers many of the same psychological problems that characters like Tyrion and Brienne suffer from in Martin’s work

The technical name for these kinds of issues is “internalized bigotry.” This happens when you get treated consistently horribly by the society you live in due to some fundamental fact about yourself that you didn’t choose, and eventually you begin to believe and “internalize” their opinion of you. For example, people expect Tyrion to be unlovable, conniving, lecherous, and debauched. Eventually he simply leans into these characteristics, because in a way it’s almost easier to be what people expect you to be.

[25:48] To top it off, he hides all this inside a cynical and nihilistic exterior, he pretends he doesn’t care when in fact, he cares more than anyone.

The shot that accompanies this, of Geralt looking intently at what’s happening in the room while others tend to be watching with a sort of mild curiosity like you might at an unexpected circus performance, did an awesome job of conveying this idea.

[26:36] This was kind of a cool idea, but predictably their scenes ended up being generally less interesting and engaging then Geralt’s. Yennefer’s were sometimes fantastic but Ciri’s rarely were.

This was the opinion of fans that I most commonly observed. I don’t have any empirical evidence of this. If you have any that either supports or contradicts this please let me know, I would be fascinated to see it. I could see someone really loving Yennefer’s scenes, and I personally enjoyed a lot of them, but I don’t understand how someone could walk away from the first season with Ciri as their favorite character of the three. I’ll come back to this in a later section.

[27:40] In many ways the first two books, and the games, have more in common with Sherlock Holmes than they do most other fantasy stories.

Really a more accurate comparison would be Philip Marlowe since Geralt is definitely more of an American Pulp detective than a British one. I do love the similarity between Geralt’s Witcher Senses in The Witcher 3 and Sherlock’s detective vision in Crimes and Punishment. I can’t make the same comparison to a Philip Marlowe game, because no one’s made one yet.

Actually that’s not strictly true. There was one game that came out in 1996.

[28:12] But Netflix’s Witcher has barely a whiff of detective fiction anywhere. I think this has caused a lot of fans to feel alienated by the show, even if they can’t explain exactly why.

It’s not reasonable to expect people to know why they like or don’t like something. It’s a feeling, and unless they have experience with writing, narratology, literature, film studies, or just read a lot of tvtropes.org, they are not likely to be able to put their finger on what it is. This causes people to disproportionally blame the things that are most obviously wrong. The premiere example of this is Jar Jar Binks in The Phantom Menace. Jar Jar was obviously bad, but he doesn’t even come close to the top ten biggest problems with the movie. It was much worse that there was no main character or understandable plot and drama. Check out Red Letter Media’s legendary review for more on that.

I think a similar thing happened with Ciri, in that her story was sort of obviously underwhelming and so received a lot of flak, but there are deeper problems with the show.

[32:04] The third change is more subtle, but I’m worried that this Geralt genuinely believes in neutrality.

Just like Ned, the showrunners would not be the first to espouse this view. This quote in particular about “evil is evil” is obnoxiously peddled about as a justification for fence-sitting despite the fact that Geralt’s actual behavior doesn’t support it at all.

I don’t know for sure if the showrunners genuinely think Geralt tries to be neutral. There’s some evidence for yes in the first episode, the Borch episode, the Striga episode, and a couple of others. There’s strong evidence for no in the Duny/Pavetta episode. We’ll just have to see.

To be clear, when I mean “neutral” I mean in the face of immediate violence or injustice. Geralt often doesn’t care who is king, as he explains to Ostrit. But he won’t let a Striga continue to kill people just for coin.

[37:20] When the writers took away Ned’s best arguments for his actions, when they took his story of existential triumph, of not compromising his morals, and turned it into a simple tragedy, they showed they clearly did not understand his heroism.

See PoorQuentyn’s explanation of existential heroism, and how it applies to ASOIAF.

[37:58] In the books, Ciri and Yennefer are included in the story through their connection to Geralt, because he is our hero and the foundation of our connection to the world. In the show they are included before ever having met Geralt, and they take up time that could have been spent focusing on those devilish detective details that make Geralt’s stories and character work.

Originally this video had a lot of discussion about how well these two other characters worked, but it ended up being kind of useless because it comes down to personal opinion, and the writers failure to properly use Geralt massively overshadows whether or not someone liked or didn’t like either of the other two leads. Again, I get why someone could like Yennefer’s scenes. I get why someone could maybe even like her scenes more than Geralt’s. Anya Chalotra did great. I thought the writing was a little weak at times, but on balance pretty decent. Geralt gets the benefit of all his stories being straight adaptations, and she didn’t, so it was a pretty decent job.

On the other hand, I thought Ciri’s storyline was a giant waste of space. When I think of all the best moments in the show, Ciri doesn’t show up in any of them. She spends the entire season running away from and interacting with fairly minor and forgettable characters that did not need to be introduced in this season. Calanthe, Eist, and Mousesack were great characters and the actors gave great performances, but that did not make up for the fact that her storyline went nowhere and did nothing to justify its inclusion. If someone loved Ciri’s storyline I would genuinely be interested to know why.

[39:10] I do have some sympathy for the writers of the Witcher.

Many times in this video I mention sympathy for various writers. Moviemaking is a massively complex undertaking. If you know anything about the difficulty of getting these things together you’ll know that it’s an absolute miracle any movie gets made and takes herculean effort from everyone involved. Television series are arguably even worse because they are longer, more complex, and often have a lower budget despite that. The people involved are honestly doing their best, and I recognize that, even if I criticize the product.

[39:47] They are in this unfortunate position where they can’t really pull the majority of their writing straight from the books because the material isn’t really strong enough by itself.

The books are very dialogue heavy. As I allude to, the one scene that was very close to the book is that scene with Filavandrel and it’s just obnoxious because the two characters just dialogue at each other. It goes on even longer in the book. How well that works in a book is up for debate but it wasn’t going to work on the screen, and it didn’t.

These problems are not insurmountable though. You can put other footage over these monologues. You could have included some footage of Elves fighting in their war. You could have footage of the “cursed” daughters of Lilit being locked in towers or autopsied while Stregobor explains it. I get this is more budget, but that budget went other places.

On the other hand some great scenes that I think would have translated excellently shot-for-shot from the book with little additional budget, like Renfri and Geralt in the Alderman’s attic, are entirely cut. Ah well.

[40:25] Well, I have my theories, but it in the end it doesn’t really matter.

I have a sneaking suspicion that somebody thought it needed to be more “epic” than the first two books are, so we got all this princess and political stuff in early. If there’s any merit to the idea that this series “copied” GoT, it’s somewhere in here, just like how the Hobbit got poisoned with all of the “epicness” of LOTR.

[44:54] Lastly, I’m gonna do my best to put out more regular content going forward. I’m aiming for at least one video a month.

I place no limitation on topics. It’ll probably be mostly media analysis, but if I’m honest I’m just going to write about whatever interests me. That’s the best way to keep myself interested.

That being said, if you have something you think I should analyze let me know. If I’m interested, I might do it.

#witcher #netflix witcher #lotr #asoiaf #game of thrones #anti-got #lord of the rings #adaptation #video companions

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yzssie · 6 years ago

Text

OCEAN EYES Pt. 4

Characters: Loki/Reader(Y/N)

Chapters: 4/7

Warnings: smut and smut (dominant Loki), mentions of self-harm, a little angst (added some fluff to compensate it)

Short summary: You find yourself in the midst of another attack by Loki, but little did both of you knew that things will get complicated, a strange attraction to each other will change everything.

Words: 2.9k

Disclaimer: I DO NOT ROMANTICIZE OR ENCOURAGE SELF HARMING! Mental health problems are very serious and real. If you have any struggles and you want to talk with someone, I am right here and I truly wish to help you!

A/N:

Late Valentine’s gift! Though it’s a chapter more, domestic to call it like that, the next one will be smutty /smirks/. Sorry for the cliffhanger T_T Trouble coming up? What do you think?

Please do tell me if I mistakenly added you to the Loki/Tom tag instead of “FANFIC GONE... GOOD?” or if you meant to be added on the general tag and I misunderstood you want only for the teacher au. I said I have only a general tag list, but then I had a lot of tag requests only for “FANFIC GONE... GOOD?” so I am a little bit disorganized. Please mention which tag you prefer (the specific fanfiction or the general one for Loki and Tom), or if you want to be changed or removed from the list! SEND ME A MESSAGE OR COMMENT! Thank you and sorry darlings!

Also, we are going to have the next chapter for “Fanfic Gone... Good?” next week, stay tuned! I wanted to make it slightly longer so I am currently thinking of expanding it in 3 chapters, that’s why I couldn’t double gift you this week! Thank you everyone for all the support, it means a lot to me!! SENDING LOTS OF LOKI LOVE! ❤ ❤ ❤

*part 7 is out, check Masterlist*

You eye him while he takes his seat again and notice that the food was left exactly how it was before you threw your little fit. You get rid of that memory and aim for more basic and calm conversation in order to make up for whatever you two fought off.

“So… what is this?” you point to a plate which looked delicious.

“It's a rolled pastry with beef, vegetables, some you don’t know because they're Asgardian and cheese?” his eyebrows furrow at his explanation. “It sounds terribly normal but I have to keep it simple for your Midgardian tastes.”

“I'm fine with everything honestly. And I would like to know more about this one,” you take a bite of the roll and your eyes widen. “It's so goooood,” you throw your head back and Loki can't help but smile shortly at your overreaction.

“Ok, I would actually like to know about everything here,” your eyes scan the table and a hint of pride can be seen in Loki's glimpse. He feels pleased with your own satisfaction.

“There will be enough time.”

You look at him and can't help but feel content at his remark. This has to mean something, he wouldn't keep you with him just to toy with you, right?

“I recommend this,” his golden magic shoves a plate in front of you and you smile.

“It's beautiful.”

“The dish? Well, I wouldn't call it beautif…”

“Your magic.”

He raises an eyebrow and you cough.

“I mean, the colours and the way it works. Better than that blue thingy you have on your scepter.”

The Tesseract? Have you just assumed his magic is better than a cosmic box combined with an Infinity Stone? He shakes his head in amusement at your statement and continues eating his food. Sure, he worked intensely on developing his magic skills while he was “dead” and he reached a point where he can be called one of the best sorcerers in the nine realms, yet he also analyzed the Space Stone and he indeed grasped a better hold on its power. He took his time giving the fact that he was hidden from everyone over the assumption of being dead, but, even if he still needs time to comprehend them, he wanted to show off his new powers. And what wouldn't be a better target than the planet he almost owned and the race that caused his mother to sacrifice herself?

His hatred is paused by another satisfied sound escaping on your lips when you bring a piece of cake in your mouth.

“What did I tell you about…”

“I am sorry but I usually don't eat a lot. And since I wanted this cake so much I should refrain from eating much of a meal before it. You know, counting calories and macros, I bet you don't worry about getting weight and so on. Trivial things for a God right?”

“My strength requires a lot of replenishment.”

“Obviously,” you take another bite.

“I would much prefer you to be as replenished as I am than starving for such an idiotic human goal.”

You roll your eyes and take a bite from another cake.

“You know Loki, life on Earth is really hard. I mean, you underestimate the hardships a Midgardian goes through.”

“Is this why you hurt yourself?” he asks and you stop your fork from getting another piece of cake.

You're afraid to reach this subject with anyone, moreover with the God of Mischief.

“Let's make a deal,” his voice interrupts your thoughts but you still don't raise your head to meet his eyes, “You answer a question I ask and I will also answer one of yours.”

You finally look up at him and chew on your lip.

“I assure you that I can get all the information I need with only a touch, so you should be thankful that I am feeling a little bit… generous today.”

“Ok…” your fingers are starting to fiddle with the fabric of your robe and wait for him to start.

“Why did you self-harm?” the question sucks all the air from your chest and you gulp.

“Life,” the word barely escaped from your lips with a choke.

“You're testing my patience.”

“I'm sorry…” you whisper.

“What exactly in your life made you do that?”

Silence.

“Well, I did warn you,” his body vanishes and by the next second your back meets his chest, one hand wraps around your stomach and the other one sticks to your forehead. You feel a weird pressure trying to get in your head and you lean on Loki's shoulder when your memories start to project in your mind. From high school when comments about your appearance made you starve yourself, to college when you felt useless, stupid and hopeless, to your boring work life. The times your heart broke because of failed relationships, the times you felt your existence a failure to your parents and friends. Nights you barely slept, anxiety attacks, moments you let your blood flood the sink, scenarios on how you could just end your life… he watched everything. You pant when the memories stop and struggle to get away from his grasp.

“No…” a muffled sound meets his neck and he does something you both get surprised of: he hugs you tightly, warmness from his body taking over your, making you totally give in.

“Stop,” his voice is stern and you do as you're told. “I would have done it anyway, sooner or later.”

You lay in his hold absent-minded, realizing that he knows everything now. You are ashamed, embarrassed, you never told anyone details about your depression.

“I am… not exactly proud that I invaded your privacy in this forceful way and pained you by reminding of those…”

“You mean that you're sorry?” you would have laughed at his attempt to avoid this word if you weren't in the given situation.

“I do…” there's a long break and then a soft whisper, “Apologize.”

He would have never said that to a mere mortal. But he can almost feel all your misery radiating through your delicate frame. He now concluded how easily to break you are, not just physically but also mentally. There was a slight panic in his chest when he blood on your skin. He now has second thoughts on this whole matter. At first, he didn't mind breaking you, wrecking you, that was his plan, but now it’s different. Why? He keeps questioning his actions. Why? You're messing his plans, his… crave for power and domination.

“Well…” you shift awkwardly.

He clears his throat and let's go of you, even if the absence of your touch makes him sigh.

“I guess this didn't work as I wanted,” you sit back in your chair and drink a glass of wine to bear with another awkward exchange.

“Let's say I would prefer you not to drink a lot, it doesn't seem like you can handle alcohol,” his hand pushes the glass away. “I will answer some of your questions if you behave.”

You look at him standing to your left and search his eyes. God, how can someone have such a beautiful pair of eyes? The blue irises are like an unknown yet mysterious place that fascinates you, wishing you would never stop falling into their profoundness even if you know it’s dangerous.

“You're staring.”

“Oh, yes,” you break the eye contact. “So, we're in Asgard.”

He nods.

Great. You've been drifted to another realm, though it sounds tempting to explore.

“Probably somewhere pretty far from the palace you're supposed to be at.”

He nods again and sits on the chair near you, prepared for more nonverbal replies.

“What happened to you after the…” you pause, “Avengers crash and so on?”

“Nothing special. Imprisoned and then,” he takes his time to think the answer, “Freed by the oaf of my brother.”

“And what have you been up to?”

“Studying magic and getting stronger.”

“For?”

Good question. He wanted to attack Earth again, revenge his mother’s death but now everything seemed stupid in your company. But why? You are nothing but a mortal, as Thor's lover is. He somehow understands why his brother was so protective of Jane when the dark elves approached. But his mother… Did she also feel as Thor felt? As he still feels now? When she sacrificed herself for a mortal? Was it for Thor's happiness?

Of course, the mighty real son of Odin and Frigga.

No.

He wants to hit himself for a moment that he actually assumed his mother didn't care as much for him as she did for Thor. She was the only one, the only person in his life who truly loved him.

“You…” he snaps.

“For me?” your face contorts in bewilderment.

“No. What's it with you? Is this a trick? Are you sent by one of my enemies? By Father?” he jolts, hitting the chair on the floor and you yelp. “Tell me,” he grabs your chin threateningly.

“Loki… you took me here.”

“Yes, yes I did! Because there is something about you, something that attracts me. Did he cast some spell on you?”

“Loki please, calm down.”

“Calm down?! You dare to inflict me with your affection? Affection? For whom? For what reason?” he’s screaming now and you're shaking at his outburst.

“I'm…” your lip quivers but no words are coming out.

“You're what?” his fist pounds the table.

“Understanding you,” you finally manage to respond, making him frown.

“I know how you feel. You're misunderstood because of your actions. But those actions were simply a reflection of the pain you're going through.”

He laughs ironically, “Understand me? You?”

“I was in New York when you fought with the Avengers. And I saw… your eyes. It was for a couple of seconds while Thor evacuated the building. And I just… felt it… knew it from your eyes.”

“You're completely stupid.”

“Meeting you twice… I will not call it destiny, merely a chance to…”

“To?” his tone is low.

“Know your true self. I know it sounds crazy, who do I think I am? You're a God, I'm a very non-significant human, more non-significant as usual people are. I don't know, to be honest, I am also clueless about my actions towards you. They're just led by… my inexplicable feelings.”

“Feelings?” a strangled sound comes from his throat. “For someone who almost killed you? For a monster like me?” his pale skin changes to blue and the ocean you adore becomes crimson.

So that's how a Frost Giant looks. Nobody from Earth seems to be aware of Loki’s true identity except you. When you were hiding under an office for safety while Thor was fighting Loki, you overheard the small conversation between them, including Loki stating that he's a Frost Giant, a species which they both hated. Your eyes follow the lighter blue stripes on his face and can't help to trace them with your fingers.

Loki's eyes widen and for a moment he leans in to feel your touch but hastily grabs your wrists to stop you.

“I will freeze you.”

You chuckle. “In case you haven't observed, my body’s temperature is literally 15 Celsius degrees.”

He is not amused by your joke and your lips tighten.

“Ok… it was not appropriate for this mome…” your words stop when Loki's hands wrap around your waist and his head rest on your stomach, his Frost Giant form gradually disappears. Unsure about how your movements could push him away, you hesitantly bury your fingers into his hair and gently play with his long black curls.

Your scent is taunting him, you feel like… a place where he'll always be welcomed back whatever happens, a place that waits for him, longs for him... You feel like home.

“You are not to discuss about this moment,” his voice is muffled in your embrace and you smile.

“Of course I am not,” you roll your eyes. “What will happen to your enormously evil reputation if words are out about cuddling with such a weak Midgardian?” you massage his scalp and he hums in approval.

“Can you show me around?” you mumble while you're still stroking his hair.

“Why would you give up your life to accompany someone like me?” he ignores your question and you take some minutes to finally respond.

“Because I have pretty weird standards as you might have already noticed.”

“Indeed,” he agrees and lets go of you. His hand tangles in your hair and pushes your lips onto his, gently tugging on your lower one. His hands travel to your thighs, your muscles tense at his touch. He grabs and wraps them around his waist, jolting you up on the table. Your arms tug his leather blouse, while the kiss is getting sloppy, slow, as if he has to retrace a lost map. His tongue is looking for yours which gladly joins his dance for dominance. You thought this kiss will steal your soul, you have never been kissed like this before, needy but in the same time steady, passionate. His fingers brush your back and you shiver in his arms, moment which he breaks the kiss.

“It's not entirely safe to do so… but take a quick shower and I will show you around,” he grazes his fingers on your right thigh. “A quick one.”

You nod and storm for the bathroom while Loki grins stupidly at your excitement.

What did I get into?

After what lasted like 10 minutes you return to the dining room where Loki sits on the couch, reading a book.

“What are these clothes Loki? Renaissance times much?”

“Those are Asgardian clothes.” He takes a glimpse at your figure and his gaze drops on your revealing shoulders marked by his bites. You squirm uncomfortably under his stare and he stands up.

“You would have to stay near me and don't touch anything or speak to anyone, understood?”

You nod as he grabs your waist and your body feels weightless for some seconds before a weird sensation hits you and you hold onto his shoulders strongly. Your eyes shut close and your breath stops while his arms are now rubbing your back.

“We’re here,” he states and your legs go jelly but he holds you in place. “Breathe.”

He has just teleported the both of you in an Asgardian square but your body is not adjusting really well to his magic.

“I might throw up,” you gasp but a sudden warmth envelops your chest and you instantly feel better.

Did he just use his magic to make me feel better? Oh God, I'm starting to like him more than I already do.

“This is an Asgardian square, though it is not as fancy as it is in the center. We’re in a very reserved place in the mountains.”

You glance at him and gape at his changed appearance.

He rolls his eyes at your reaction, “I cannot be seen here, especially with someone like you.”

His features could be still seen slightly due to his blue haunting eyes which remained the same but he now he has shorter curly copper hair and a beard. His face is less visible from the black leather hood he wears.

“So are we shopping?” you smile widely while you take in the surroundings.

He grabs your hand and drags you back, almost sticking your body to his.

“There are some people here who can feel if someone is not Asgardian.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“They might be. My magic is covering your smell but I would prefer you close.”

You ignore his death stare and return your attention to the blue decorated stands with different objects. The sellers are wearing simple brown and beige clothes. You wouldn't know that they're Asgardians if you weren't on another planet.

“I actually do need some things like make-up? Skincare products? Comfy clothes?”

“I much prefer you naked, body and face.”

You roll his eyes and he tilts his head.

“Did you just…?”

“So if you can transport things,” you interrupt him, “Can't you like have a short trip to Earth and steal a Chanel make-up stand? Or a…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was just trying. I mean… since you would do this, at least let it be something expensive.”

“Choose whatever you want from here.”

“Loki… I have no idea what these are… what language is this?”

“Give her whatever she needs.” his gaze fixes the seller and a green glow flashes in her eyes.

“Of course, your majesty.”

Did he just cast a spell on her? Her mind-controlled gaze fixes on your face as she studies it. She quickly packs a few bottles in a box and she handles it to Loki.

“Let's leave.”

“Well if you can steal from a merchant in the square I assume you can do the same to a whole line of cosmetics which probably gains 100.000 times more than this woman.”

“Your tone pet, you better lower it and stop complaining,” he groans and grabs your waist to crash your body into his. For a moment you thought he would kiss you but it appears he’s sensing something and checks his surroundings from the underneath of his hood.

“Loki?”

“We’re getting out of here, now!”

Taglist opened (please mention which tag you prefer):

Loki/Tom Hiddleston tag: @drakesfiance , @cutiepotpie177 , @brokenthelovely , @heart-shaped-hell , @ultrailoveharrystylesblog, @mooncrow123 , @screw-real-life-i-pick-fandoms , @powerstrangerdacre , @darkprincessloki92 , @abrunettefangirlnerd , @little-moonbeam-666 , @youreawizardjulie , @writingmi , @lokislilslut , @abelstnbhd , @januarycalendargirl , @yuna-belikova @joyofbebbanburg , @timevortexheart , @captainrainbowpanda , @thesisterofthedevil , @unlikelytigerqueen , @loreleyfromouterspace , @bitchwhytho

*crossed username means I cannot tag you for some reason :( *

#loki fanfiction #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki #loki fic #loki marvel #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston fic #tom hiddleston fanfiction #marvel #thor #loki smut #loki imagine

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today-only-happens-once · 7 years ago

Text

Of Playgrounds and Proms

Title: Of Playgrounds and Proms

Word Count: 8329

Summary: High School AU. Nobody but Patton and Logan know that Roman and Virgil are dating. The night of their prom, Roman thinks back on his relationship with Virgil, and later finds himself with a decision to make. Romantic Prinxiety with a side of Logicality.

Warnings: fluff, angst, closeting, getting outed, homophobia, kissing, panic attacks, parental neglect, cursing, let me know if I missed anything.

A/N: This was supposed to be a single scene, friends. Just one. It is now my longest Sanders Sides fic. Go figure. Shout-out to @creativenostalgiastuff for her help and encouragement through the long process of writing this. It might be really bad, tbh, but I’m kind of tired of working on it and reading it, so… here ya go. ^u^ Editing done by yours truly. All mistakes are mine.

Tags: @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @lizaelsparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist, @ravenclawicecream, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @rileyfirstname, @pinkeasteregg, @sassy-in-glasses, @vigilantvirgil, @generalfandomfabulousness, @lacrimosathedark, @thepoolofthedead, @monikastec, @heir-of-the-founders, @yourworstnightmare999, @artistictaurean, @kanejandkruge, @cdragontogacotar, @candiukas, @damienswifeolicitydallysgirl, @angst-patton, @savingshae, @ethospathoslogan, @pastel-patton123

…

“Patton, would you just hold still? I don’t want to accidentally stick you,” Logan Sanders says as he holds the lapel of his boyfriend’s gray tux, attempting to put a pin through the stem of the boutonniere: a light blue rose and baby’s breath. It compliments Patton’s white tux shirt and blue bow tie.

Patton Foster grins, his eyes bright and happy behind his thick glasses frame. “Sorry, Lo,” he says.

Logan finishes pinning the flowers to his lapel and gives his boyfriend of two years a fleeting, soft smile. He takes a step back, smoothing the front of Patton’s suit jacket before giving him a satisfied nod. Patton laughs and grabs his tie—matching Patton’s bowtie in color despite the fact that the rest of his suit and tux shirt were black—and kisses him.

Roman Prince—in a white suit with a gold vest and tie—smiles at the exchange from where he stands leaned up against the entryway to the living room.

“Get a room,” says a familiar voice coming up behind Roman. Virgil Shea moves to stand beside him, his arms just barely grazing Roman’s. It’s enough to send a flutter through his stomach. Virgil looks… exquisite, if Roman is being honest. Black tux jacket and a matching vest that lay over a violet shirt and a metallic purple tie.

Virgil’s hands ghost over Roman’s, their fingers entwining for a moment. Roman feels a familiar warmth in his chest at the touch. He remembers when they first met.

…

September. Second grade.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

Seven year-old Roman frowns as he looks at the other seven year-old. Roman is hanging off the side of the upper level of the playset, a wooden stick he’d been using as a makeshift sword in his hand. The other boy is new to the class, Roman knows. What was his name again?

“Oh yeah?” Roman challenges, annoyed. “Why not?”

The other kid huffs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black zip up hoodie. “Something bad could happen,” he explains.

Roman rolls his eyes. “The ground is lava, you know. So… you’ve burned up because of the lava and I don’t have to listen to you.” He valiantly swings an arm out, now only holding on with one hand.

“What are you doing?!” the kid exclaims, ignoring Roman’s explanation. He sounds mad. Roman rolls his eyes.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m fighting off the lava monster.”

“That’s stupid.”

Roman thinks for a moment about throwing his stick at him. But then he’d have lost his sword, and it was his only defending weapon against the monster. Instead, he scowls at the kid below on the ground. “You’re stupid.”

The other kid glares at him for a long moment. “I’m going to tell Mr. Picani.” Mr. Picani was the recess monitor. Roman refuses to back down, staring at the other child intently until he eventually turns on his heels and storms off towards the adult over by the swingset.

Roman groans loudly before jumping to the ground, staring at the kid in the hoodie as he walked away. Why did he have to go and ruin the fun?

…

Present.

Virgil squeezes his hand, pulling Roman back from his thoughts. Roman smiles, bringing his boyfriend’s hand up and kissing his knuckles lightly. His heart flutters a little at the soft blush that spreads across his boyfriend’s cheeks at the gesture.

“Are you ready?” Logan asks. “We don’t want to be late for the reservation.”

“Right,” Roman says, not taking his eyes off of Virgil even as he lets their hands drop. “I’m driving, right?”

“I believe that was the plan, yes,” Logan replies. “But should the need arise, I would not mind taking on that responsibility.”

Roman shakes his head. “Not necessary,” he says, finally taking his gaze off of the curve of Virgil’s lips, the angle of his jaw, the slope of his nose. “Shall we, everyone?”

Patton laughs lightly, slipping his arm around Logan’s. “We shall.” He grins. “This is gonna be so fun!”

Roman tries to not let the smile falter as he feels Virgil extract his hand from his own. “Most certainly,” he says. “Senior prom is going to be lit.”

“Lit?” Logan repeats, arching a skeptical eyebrow.

Roman rolls his eyes. “Look it up on Urban Dictionary, School House Flop.”

Logan pulls out his phone to do precisely that as the four of them file through the doorway, waving to Logan’s dads as they remind the four of them to be safe, have fun, and call if they need anything. Roman feels a small twinge of envy as Patton and Logan keep their fingers entwined as they cross the lawn to Roman’s car on the street. Virgil sticks by Roman’s side, jumping into the front passenger seat, but they don’t touch one another.

Roman isn’t ‘out’ yet. In the back of his mind, he wonders if he might still be in the closet if it wasn’t for what had happened to Virgil. He remembers the day clearly. It was also the first time Roman had witnessed one of his panic attacks in person.

…

October. Sophomore year.

Roman feels his phone buzz in his pocket in the middle of Chemistry. He exchanges a quick glance with Logan across the classroom, arching a silent eyebrow. Logan nods almost imperceptibly. He’d gotten a text too, which meant it was probably Patton or Virgil. And Patton was in American History where he was giving a group presentation. As a general rule, the four of them rarely used their phones during school but after Virgil told them about his struggle with anxiety, they all had agreed to have them on their person just in case Virgil needed help.

If Virgil was texting them in the middle of class, it meant he needed help.

Logan seems to reach the same conclusion. He raises his hand, grabbing the teacher’s attention.

“Uh, yes, Logan?” the teacher says.

“To calculate the molarity of a solution when the solute is given in grams and the volume of the solution is given in milileters—“

Roman tunes out the question and uses the evident distraction to his advantage as he fishes the phone out of his pocket, glancing down. He’s right. It’s a text from Virgil, and one letter: “Q”. Any single letter from Virgil meant that he needed some help. In the few instances where it had been necessary, Virgil had always sent a letter on the edge of the text keyboard because his hands were usually shaking too hard to type out much else.

Roman’s hand shoots straight up in the air as he slips the phone back into his pocket. The teacher casts a faintly surprised look. “You have a question, Roman?”

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

The teacher gives him a tired look but nods. “Sure.”

Roman has to keep himself from sprinting out of the room. His mind is racing. Virgil has a free period, which he usually spent in the theatre working on sets even though technically he wasn’t allowed to. The theatre would be empty, so he’d probably stay there, right? He figures it’s worth a shot. Roman sends a quick text to the group:

R: on my way, V.

He hurries down the stairs around the corner, checking the hallway quickly before he pulls the door to the theater open and slips inside. It thuds heavily behind him. Roman’s wide, worried eyes scan the empty rows of seats and the stage—also empty save for the half-constructed set pieces. There’s no sign of the teen, and Roman wonders if maybe he guessed wrong.

“Virgil?” Roman calls, feeling his stomach twist with concern. He starts his way down the aisle towards the stage, seeing an abandoned screwdriver and set of paintbrushes next to a paint tray. The paint is still wet, and the only techie who worked on the set during the school day was Virgil. Even if he wasn’t still here, he had been recently.

Roman jumps up on the stage. “Virge? You still here?”

He hears soft fabric rustling, the curtains moving in the corner of his eye. Roman’s head swivels over instinctively. Virgil is looking at him with wide eyes, his hood pulled low and tight over his sweep of bangs. Even in the shadows of the stage wing, Roman can see he’s white as a sheet. Slowly, Virgil lowers himself to the floor.

“Whoa, Virge. It’s okay,” Roman says softly, crossing over to him slowly so as to not startle him. “You’re okay.”

Virgil shakes his head. “N-No, I… I…” As Roman gets closer, he can hear the other’s breathing. It’s fast and shallow.

“Hey,” Roman says, doing his best to keep his voice calm and quiet as he kneels in front of him. “Take a deep breath.” Though he’d known that Virgil had anxiety and occasionally suffered from panic attacks, he’d never actually been around to witness one. He tries to think back to when Patton and Logan had talked about their experiences in helping Virgil. What had they done? What had they said seemed to work?

Virgil shakes his head again. “I can’t.” His voice sounds tight and strained.

“You’re gonna be okay, Virge,” Roman repeats. What was that breathing exercise again? It clicks in his head a second later. “Breathe with me, okay? We’re gonna breathe together. In for four seconds. Ready?”

“Ro-Roman,” Virgil says, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

“Just try, okay?” Roman says gently. “I’ll count. You don’t have to keep track, I’ll do that. Breathe in first. Okay? One…” Roman counts to four aloud, watching Virgil carefully. He tries, but he’s exhaling by the time Roman reaches three.

“Sorry,” Virgil grits out. “Sorry, it’s…”

“No, that’s okay.” Roman is about to encourage him to try again when a quiet zzzt interrupts him. Virgil’s breath catches slightly and Roman realizes suddenly that the teen has his phone in a death grip in his shaking hands. A small crease appears between Roman’s brows as he frowns. Virgil seems to be shaking even harder. And though Roman isn’t sure why, he has the vague feeling that he really should get Virgil away from his phone.

He remembers Logan saying something about how some people used their phone to communicate during a panic attack if they went nonverbal, or used it as a distraction to calm back down. Roman also knew Virgil sometimes used it in that way, too. But he can’t ignore the gut feeling that something is different about this time. Virgil isn’t using his phone so much as crushing it in his hand. And whatever notification had just came through seems to have made everything worse.

“Virgil,” Roman says, shifting tentatively closer. “Can I touch you?”

He hesitates, then nods. Roman holds his hands up towards him slightly. “Are you sure?”

“Y-yeah,” Virgil says, nodding again with more certainty.

Roman moves slowly, reaching for Virgil’s hand that was wrapped around his phone. “Can you let go of this? Just for a moment.” Virgil’s fingers uncurl reluctantly from around the phone, and Roman smiles encouragingly at him as the phone drops into the young actor’s outstretched palm. He slips the phone into his own pocket. “If you need it,” Roman assures him, “I’ll give it back right away. Okay? But here.” He takes Virgil’s now empty hand and holds it against the center of his chest. “Let’s try to breathe together again, okay?”

It takes them a while. Roman breathes evenly—in for four seconds, hold for seven seconds, out for eight seconds—with Virgil’s palm pressed against his heartbeat. He can feel Virgil’s phone buzzing every few minutes in his pocket. He ignores it. Eventually, though, Roman notices Virgil’s breath getting less shaky as he is increasingly more able to inhale, hold, and exhale for the same amount of time Roman is. His color starts to come back to him gradually. Roman keeps the exercise going for a bit longer even after Virgil seems to have evened out, just to help ground Virgil a bit more.

“There ya go,” Roman tells him softly. Virgil swallows and leans his head back against the black brick of the wall behind him, his hand still against Roman’s chest. Roman doesn’t push it away. “You did great, Virge.”

Virgil scrubs a hand across his eyes, smearing his makeup. “God, you missed the rest of Chem, didn’t you?”

Roman waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. It was just exam prep anyway, and Logan can help me if I get confused.”

Virgil gives him a skeptical look but it’s overshadowed by a deep exhaustion and lingering fear that makes Roman frown. Virgil’s eyes fall to his hand against Roman’s chest. He feels some pressure let up on his chest as if Virgil is going to pull away, but he doesn’t. “Sorry, Roman,” he says quietly, averting his gaze. “I guess I owe you an explanation, huh?”

Roman feels Virgil’s phone buzz again in his pocket. He ignores it again and shakes his head. “You don’t owe me anything. Unless you want to talk about it.”

There’s a long, heavy silence.

“I was outed.” Virgil’s words ring clear despite how quiet his voice is.

Roman stares at him. “What?”

Virgil’s eyes flash back up to Roman’s. He doesn’t repeat it, but he doesn’t need to. Roman knows what he said, he just can’t believe it.

Roman’s thoughts race ahead of him and the questions tumble out of his mouth before he can think to stop them. “Who to? Your parents? A teacher? The tech crew?”

“Pretty much everyone,” Virgil says, the bitterness overtaking the fear for a moment.

Roman blinks a few times. “Who outed you?” The only people who knew Virgil was gay was himself, Logan, and Patton. And he knows with absolute certainty that none of them would do that. Logan and Patton may be out already, but they’d never out someone else. Roman feels a cold, sharp anger settle in his chest.

Virgil looks at him tiredly. “Does it really matter who, Roman?”

“Yes,” Roman answers immediately. “It matters to me.”

“Why? Gonna beat them up or something?” There’s a faint note of amusement in his voice. Roman doesn’t understand it. There is nothing remotely funny about this.

“Don’t tempt me,” Roman growls.

“Roman.”

“I mean… shit, Virgil,” Roman says, running a hand through his hair. “How’d they…?”

Virgil looks away again, the faint smile falling from his face. “Remember Jonathan?”

He does. It was a false name, he knew, but Jonathan was what Virgil had been calling the guy he was interested in. They’d been texting for almost two weeks. Texting. Roman’s stomach drops. Had someone gotten ahold of Virgil’s phone?

“Virgil…”

Virgil grits his teeth, then shakes his head. “The worst part is that he was in on it, Roman. The whole thing, right from the start, was a fucking set-up.” Almost as if on cue, Roman hears the zzzt of Virgil’s phone buzzing in his pocket. Virgil gives him a dry, vaguely pained smile. “Been getting notifications nonstop ever since they emailed it out to most of the student body. It’s been on Snapchat. Twitter. Hell, probably even Facebook by this point.”

Roman’s hand balls into a fist before he forces it to relax. He’s furious. But not at Virgil, and he doesn’t want to scare him. “We’ll get them to take it down.”

Virgil sighs, and this time he just sounds tired and defeated “It’s a little too late for that, Ro.”

A dozen and a half threats against Jonathan and his friends flashes through Roman’s mind, each more creative than the last. But he takes one look at Virgil—the tired eyes and anxious set to his jaw—and the fight bleeds out of him for now. Roman gently places his hand on Virgil’s knee.

“Hey,” he says, his voice suddenly softer. “You’ll get through this. I’ve got your back. We all do.”

Virgil nods. “Y-yeah. I know.”

…

Present.

Dinner, Roman has to admit, is a lot of fun.

Some of it is spent with Logan going on an admittedly amusing tangent about how slang was in itself ‘indicative of the ambiguity of language and its increasing complexity as a social phenomenon’. Somewhere along the way, Virgil and Logan get into a friendly debate about conspiracy theories. Patton makes, by Roman’s count, no less than eight food related puns before desert arrives. Roman laughs and smiles throughout the entire meal, his smile softening just a little every time he sees that rare, bright look in Virgil’s eyes.

God, he’s so lucky.

Logan scribbles his signature on his and Patton’s check, then glances at the watch on his wrist. “Well, it’s almost eight.”

“We should probably get going,” Virgil says.

Roman nods, finishing the signature on his own check with a flourishing pen stroke. “As you wish,” he replies, glancing up long enough to make quick eye contact with his boyfriend across the table.

“Was that a Princess Bride reference?” Patton asks, sounding surprised.

It was. Roman smiles and hums with feigned innocence. He stands up from the table, leading the way out of the restaurant and holding the door open for the other three. There’s something soft in Virgil’s eyes this time when they meet Roman’s as he passes through the doorway.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Roman has the sudden desire to wrap his arms around Virgil’s waist, pull him close, and kiss him. Kissing Virgil never failed to make Roman feel light, sending his stomach doing somersaults and his heart soaring. Even if those moments were rare and private, he’d always cherished them. That first night he kissed Virgil was still seared into his memory, signaling a permanent change between them that had led, eventually, to this moment right now.

…

May. Junior Year.

Roman’s hand brushes against Virgil’s, smiling to himself when his long fingers deftly fold between Roman’s. It sends a small flutter up through his stomach and he’s grateful for the cover of the dark. He takes in a deep breath of the warm night air, glancing at Virgil beside him. His eyes are trained on the lights of the city in the distance. They catch and twinkle in Virgil’s dark eyes even as he slowly leans his head against Roman’s shoulder.

“Gotta admit,” he says, “this was one of your better ideas, Princey.”

Roman snorts even as he leans his nuzzles lightly against the top of Virgil’s hair. “I’m glad,” he says with a faint note of amusement in his voice.

They lapse into silence, filled mostly with the sound of crickets and distant traffic from below. Up here on the hill overlooking their small town, Roman felt at once small and larger than life. Most of his attention, however, was on the warmth and pressure of the teen beside him. His heart skips over itself in his chest at his soft sweep of hair, the soft rise and fall of his breath against him, at the way his eyelashes move when he lets his eyes flutter closed for a moment. Roman swallows and licks his lips, turning his gaze back to the city lights when he sees Virgil glance up at him.

There’s another long beat of silence. “Do you ever think about the future?” Virgil asks suddenly, his voice subdued.

The question startles Roman, but he doesn’t pull away from Virgil against his side. “What about the future?”

Virgil lifts a shoulder. Roman sees him worrying the hem of the sleeve of his hoodie between his fingers, his other hand still entwined with Roman’s. “I don’t know. Anything.”

The corner of Roman’s mouth curls up faintly. “A lot of the times, the future is the only thing I can think about,” he confesses.

“Does it ever… scare you?”

“Sometimes,” Roman replies honestly. He lightly brushes his thumb in against the back of Virgil’s hand. “Does it scare you?” he asks gently.

Virgil releases a breathy, humorless laugh. “Always.”

The honesty twists something in Roman’s chest. “Why?”

“Because…” Virgil sighs and pulls away. Roman feels an abrupt sense of absence as his heat and the pressure of his body vanishes from his side. “Because… it means things change.”

Roman tilts his head slightly even as Virgil pulls his knees up closer to his chest and rests his chin on top of them. “Is change such a bad thing?”

“It’s complicated,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the words on his tongue before he voices them. Virgil glances at him out of the corner of his eyes through his long bangs.

Roman curls his hand into a loose fist against the sudden urge to brush them away. His heart jumps suddenly at the words. There’s a weight to them, and Roman suddenly wonders if he might be talking about something more specific. About… them. “Does it have to be?” he asks carefully.

“Change means losing what you have,” Virgil replies. “What if you can’t bear the thought?”

Roman shakes his head, leaning closer to the other teen. “Change can also mean holding on even tighter.”

Virgil’s eyes flash over to him and Roman’s stomach flips at the intense gaze. “It can also tear things apart. Squeeze a bar of soap too tight and it slips right out of your hands.”

I wouldn’t do that you, Roman wants to say. He swallows the words down. “Then those weren’t the things worth holding onto,” Roman insists softly.

Virgil’s gaze flickers over Roman’s face like he’s searching for something. He doesn’t pull away from Roman’s closer proximity. “How do you know?” he asks quietly.

Suddenly, their noses are mere inches from brushing against each other. Roman can feel his heart pounding fast in his ribcage, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Trust me,” he pleas in a whisper.

And then Roman’s lips are brushing against Virgil’s. The kiss is soft and feather-light. Careful, his heart beat skipping in his chest. It only lasts a moment before Roman is pulling back, opening his eyes and searching Virgil’s face for any kind of reaction. Had he crossed a line? He hadn’t even really meant to kiss him, but then he just… Oh God. He should have asked first, right? Roman’s stomach won’t stop doing flips. He feels faintly dizzy.

Virgil is just sitting there, his eyes fluttering open a moment after Roman. It’s hard to read his expression in the dark but he doesn’t say anything and Roman heart constricts. You’ve ruined everything.

“Virgil, I… I’m so sorry, I…”

The words die on his tongue as Virgil’s hand cups his jaw and suddenly the other boy’s lips are against his again, firmer and more certain this time. Roman wonders if it’s possible for his heart to burst as he sinks into the kiss.

…

Present.

When the four walk into the school gym, they sign in quickly with the teacher at the check in table before stepping further into the room. The theme had been A Night in Paris, and the gym was decorated with stills from the French city and strings of lights in the rafters. A heavy bass pop song blares from the speakers.

“Oh, there’s Eliot,” Patton says excitedly. “C’mon, Lo, let’s go say hi.” He’s dragging his boyfriend along before Logan could even think to protest.

Virgil hovers by Roman’s side in such a way that feels like he’s hyper aware of not wanting to stand too close. Roman suddenly hates the distance between them.

“Hey, guys!” a voice from behind them says. Roman looks over his shoulder to see Valerie—fellow theatre girl, and also the class president—in a royal blue gown.

“Hey, Valerie. You look beautiful as ever,” Roman says sincerely.

“Oh, thank you so much. No date tonight, Roman?” she asks.

Something uneasy shifts in Roman’s stomach as he answers her. “Not tonight.” He gives her a bright, entirely false smile. “What can I say, this Prince is on a solo quest for right now.”

Wrong wrong wrong wrong. Roman wants to look at Virgil, hope that he can see how much he doesn’t mean the words, how much they hurt to say… but he forces himself to keep eye contact with the girl in front of him.

Valerie gives him a sweet and sincere smile. “Good for you, Roman. No shame in that.” She looks at Virgil. “It’s so great to see you, Virge.”

Virgil gives her a kind, polite smile in return. “You too, Val.”

“Valerie!” another girl—Dahlia, Roman remembers her from freshman year English—calls out, grabbing her attention.

“Oh, I guess that’s me. I should go say hi. You both look great. Have fun tonight!” She rushes off before Roman can respond. The young actor slips his hands into his pockets and finally glances at Virgil. He hopes Virgil can read the apology, the emotion, in his eyes.

Virgil just gives him a patient, reassuring look in turn. Roman breathes a sigh and tries to swallow down the guilt. Virgil had always been reassuring for him, often more than he felt he deserved.

…

November. Senior Year.

Roman sighs and slams his locker closed. The metallic clang makes heads turn, and Roman pointedly ignores them, shouldering his backpack.

“Whoa,” Patton says from behind him. “Something wrong, Ro?” Roman turns around to see both Patton and Logan looking at him. Patton’s brows are drawn together in concern. Logan purses his lips as he looks at Roman thoughtfully.

Roman forces a tight smile at the expressions of concern. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m good.”

“Your behavior indicates otherwise,” Logan replies.

The aspiring actor rolls his eyes. “Just drop it, okay? I’m fine.” He falls into step with his two friends, a pace or two ahead of them.

“Falsehood.”

“Logan,” Patton says, placating. Then, behind him, Roman hears Patton add, “Roman… you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but… we’re always here if you do.”

A harsh retort dies in his throat. Roman swallows, adjusting the strap of his backpack as he slows to a stop outside his English classroom. Patton and Logan stop beside him. Logan looks expectant. Patton has his eyebrows slightly raised in anticipation, a soft and sympathetic look in his eyes.

Roman sighs. “Mom and Dad came home last night,” he says quietly. He sees understanding dawn in both of his friend’s eyes. He continues. “We… talked about college. It didn’t go well. That’s it, okay?” he says, sounding more tired than angry. The information is, perhaps, an incomplete truth. But the bell is about to ring, and Roman really doesn’t want to get into it right now anyway.

He’s still trying to block out the sound of his dad’s voice from the night before. What, you’re gonna prance around in tights your entire life? Man up, Roman. Be realistic.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Patton says quietly. He opens his mouth to say more, but the warning bell rings through the hallway.

With a quiet, apologetic look to Roman, Logan nudges Patton’s shoulder and nods down the hall. “We’ve gotta get to World History.”

Patton purses his lips, glancing at Logan and then worriedly looking back at Roman. “We’ll talk at lunch?”

Roman does his best to give a reassuring smile in return. “Sure.”

He ducks into the classroom as Logan and Patton head down the hallway. Roman grabs his seat towards the back of the room, fishing a notebook and his copy of Hamlet out of his backpack as the teacher greets the class and walks through the agenda for the day. The aspiring actor did his best to pay attention, helped slightly by the fact that Roman did quite enjoy Shakespeare most of the time. Shakespeare was poetry in action, and it had always been easy for Roman to visualize how it would play out on stage when given a script.

Despite himself, though, Roman finds his mind wandering back to his parents and the argument they’d had the night before. His parents had never been around much. Roman had never felt like they were really part of his life, so why did they think they had a right to control what he did with it? His dad’s detached voice echoes in his head. These prissy daydreams of yours needs to stop, son. You’re gonna be a grown man soon.

Roman had snapped right back at him. What do you know?! You’ve never even been to a performance!

“Mr. Prince?” The teacher’s voice calling his name snaps his attention. At his wide, lost look, the teacher nods to his copy of Hamlet. “Could you read starting at line 98? We’re in scene five.”

Roman nods, flipping a few pages and clearing his throat. “Oh. Yeah. Um… ‘Yea, from the table of my memory/I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records/All saws of books, all forms, all pressures of past/that youth and observation copied there/and thy commandment all alone shall live/within the book and volume of my brain/unmixed with baser matter. Yes, by heaven!’”

“Excellent job. Thank you, Roman,” the teacher says. “Can you explain to the class what is happening in these lines?”

Roman skims the text again and swallows hard before responding. “Hamlet feels pressured by his dad, so he agrees to do whatever his dad tells him because he loves him.”

“Yes, exactly,” the teacher praises, and then addresses the class. “Can anyone remind us what exactly the ghost of his father is asking him to do?”

Roman tunes out of the conversation again. He’s already well familiar with Hamlet, seeing as how he’d played Laertes freshman year when the high school had performed it. A small part of him had always identified more with Hamlet though. Is that what he’s destined to do? Hamlet’s quest to fulfill the wishes of his father had led him towards his undoing. Throughout the entire play, Hamlet is told in no uncertain terms to stop being so expressive in his emotion.

Roman again thinks back to the night before. Oh, quit crying, Roman. Don’t be so dramatic.

The young teen jumps slightly when the bell rings again, but he quickly shoves his books into his backpack and tugs the zipper closed. With third period over, Roman knows he ought to head to the cafeteria for lunch. But instead, as he makes his way through the hallways and down the stairs, he soon finds himself at the door to the theater. He opens it without really thinking and slips inside.

It’s abruptly quiet. The door clicks closed behind him. The stage is stripped—they had just finished a production of Bye, Bye Birdie—and stands empty with the houselights up. Roman takes in a deep, calming breath of the smell of dust, wood, and paint. An odd, aching pain gives a small tug in his chest. Slowly, he makes his way down the aisle of seats towards the stage. He sets his backpack on the ground before hoisting himself up and sitting on the edge of the stage thrust.

Roman doesn’t know what to do.

He groans and lays back on the stage floor. Why does he even care what his parents think? They didn’t know him. They might as well be strangers given how little Roman actually saw them. Weeks would pass between him seeing them, and it had been that way for as long as he could remember. When he was small, he got used to seeing babysitters cycled through every few days. Rarely was there a consistent face in his life before he made friends with Logan and Patton in the first grade, and then Virgil in high school. His parents hadn’t seemed to care when Roman tried sports, and cared even less when he started getting involved in theatre in middle school. Meanwhile, Logan and Patton and (later on) Virgil had come to nearly every performance and game Roman had been a part of.

One time, in eighth grade, Roman ran away to Patton’s house. He still doesn’t know to this day if his parents ever noticed.

When he’d started secretly dating Virgil, he had started to believe he could be worthy of someone. Roman had always believed that was more a testament to who Virgil was than himself. But last night had been an ice cold bucket of reality. His parents didn’t believe in him. What did that say about him? The answer is simple: Roman is unremarkable. Not enough for even his own parents.

What makes him think he’s enough for anyone else, especially Virgil?

“Hey.” A voice startles him out of his thoughts, his eyes flying open. He hadn’t even heard the door open. Virgil is standing above him, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

“Virgil,” Roman says, surprised. He sits up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, hey.”

Virgil gives him a long look that Roman doesn’t return before shrugging out of his backpack and taking a seat beside the teen actor. “Thought I might find you here.”

Roman busies his hands by fiddling pretending to examine his nails. “Yeah?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Virgil nod. “When you didn’t show up for lunch, Pat and Lo got worried.”

Roman groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’d completely forgotten that he told them he’d talk to them during lunch. “Sorry.”

“Need to talk about it?” Virgil replies, his voice just a touch softer. It’s with that rare gentleness that always made a small part of Roman melt.

Roman doesn’t answer right away, torn between the part of himself that feels so completely unworthy of this boy sitting beside him and another part that wants to hold onto him and never let go. “Mom and Dad came home last night,” he says eventually.

Whatever kind of reaction Virgil has to the news stays off his face. “Ah,” he says.

“Things didn’t… go well,” Roman elaborates hesitantly. “It wasn’t any huge thing. Just… they asked me about college. They’re not… fans of what I had in mind.” If you’re gonna insist on doing that gay-ass shit, I’m not paying for it, his father had told him with an icy glare.

“They don’t get to decide what you do with your life,” Virgil tells him, an edge of protectiveness slipping through. “Especially when they haven’t been involved in it much at all.”

Roman lifts a dismissive shoulder even as his eyes burn slightly. “Yeah, no. I know that.”

Virgil sighs. “Roman.”

“What?”

Roman feels Virgil’s long, slender fingers cover his own. “Look at me?” He takes in a deep, slow breath and lets his eyes flicker up to meet his boyfriend’s. There’s a sincerity, an intensity, in his gaze that catches Roman off guard. “I’ve got your back.”

Roman shakes his head quickly. I don’t deserve you. “Why’d you settle for me?” Roman asks suddenly and earnestly.

Something flashes through Virgil’s eyes. “Who says I’m settling?”

Roman shakes his head and looks away. “Virge, I mean… you’re…” He releases a breath. “You’re strong and resilient and loyal and… God, Virge, you’re a walking masterpiece. I’m just… me.”

Virgil’s hand grips Roman’s a little harder. “Stop. Roman…” He sighs. “You’re better at… at words than I am. But… you’re incredibly talented. And dedicated. And so, so creative. Every time I see you up on that stage doing what you love, it’s…it’s… amazing. Roman, you’re kind and courageous in ways I could never be. And if your parents can’t see that, it’s their loss. Because knowing you has been… it’s been one of the best things to happen to me.”

Roman’s throat closes up, averting his gaze to look at their entwined hands. Virgil squeezes it softly before continuing. “Roman, I didn’t settle for you. I chose you.”

He vision blurs suddenly, and he opens his mouth to respond when the sound of the theatre doors opening interrupts them. Both of them jump and pull their hands away instinctively. Roman looks up, relaxing when he sees Logan and Patton walking towards them.

Roman reaches out and takes Virgil’s hand again.

…

Present.

As the night goes on, Roman finds himself increasingly hating the distance between him and Virgil. Even though he can see him, something in Roman’s chest aches to physically touch him. To slip his hand into Virgil’s and never let go. To wrap his arms around him, crush him against his chest in a hug, breathe in the scent of his hair. The ache weighs increasingly heavier throughout the night. When Virgil discretely brushes his arm against Roman’s at the snack table, he swallows down the urge to lean into the touch.

Virgil seems patient. Roman, on the other hand….

Their mutual friend Remy sidles up to Virgil and pulls him into the Cupid Shuffle; line dances were about the most dancing Virgil generally would do, as it was easy to blend into the crowd and the steps were already decided for you.

Patton seems to materialize beside Roman as he watches his classmates dance. “You okay, kiddo?”

Roman jumps slightly before recovering. “Yeah. I’m good, Pat.”

Patton follows his gaze to Virgil. “Can’t say I expected Virgil to be doing more dancing that you tonight, Ro.”

Roman shrugs and takes a sip of water. If he’s being honest, there’s only one person he really wants to dance with tonight, and he can’t. He locks gazes with Patton, who seems to soften with understanding. He gives Roman a sympathetic smile and grabs a cookie at the table beside them.

“Try to have fun tonight, okay?” Patton asks. “Be yourself. If you can do that, things will feel okay in one way or another.”

Be yourself, Roman thinks dryly. Right. Way to make it sound easy, Pat.

The song comes to an end and Virgil lingers on the outskirts of the dance floor, chatting idly with Remy. Roman watches him, love swelling in his chest even as it tightens with the repeating knowledge that all he wants to do is dance with that amazing, incredibly handsome boy right there and he can’t.

Roman remembers vividly the first time they’d said ‘I love you’ to one another.

…

July. Before Senior Year.

It had become almost a tradition for the four boys to play some kind of board game or card game to pass the time between school ending and the start of opening night for the musical. This time, the summer show was The Music Man, and the board game at their disposal was Catan. They’d found a quiet corner of the otherwise deserted library. Even the librarian had gone home after getting some summer work done, having a particular fondness for these four boys and electing to trust them to not wreak too much havoc.

Roman gasps dramatically as Virgil and Logan exchange resource cards. “You’re trading with Logan?” he demands.

Virgil arcs an eyebrow. “What? He has sheep, and I need sheep.”

“I have sheep! And I needed wheat, which I know you have,” Roman argues, his tone much more teasing than actually angry.

Logan adjusts the frame of his glasses. “Roman, you are still in the lead given that you have the Longest Road. It was a well-calculated strategic move to avoid trading with you. Especially when you are only two victory points away from winning.”

“I’ll trade with you when it’s my turn, Roman,” Patton offers.

“Do you have wheat?” Roman pleads.

Patton scratches the back of his neck. “I, uh… no. I have lots of brick, though.”

“I believe it’s still my turn anyway?” Virgil cuts in. “Roman, if you have wood I can give you some wheat.”

“I can give you sheep.”

“I already got sheep from Logan.”

Roman pauses. “I can give you two sheep.”

Patton bites back a smile. “He said… sheep-ishly.”

Logan groans as Patton giggles to himself at his own joke. Virgil looks thoughtfully at his cards, ignoring the pun, then across the table at Roman. “You really don’t have any wood?”

“I’ll give you three sheep! I’m drowning in sheep. All I want is one wheat, Virge.” Roman flutters his eyelashes. “C’mon, just for me?”

“Are you actually flirting with your boyfriend right now just so he’ll give you a resource?” Logan asks Roman, incredulous. Faintly alarmed at the potential for Roman to win, Logan turns to Virgil. “Virgil, I strongly encourage you to turn the offer down. A wheat will permit him to draw another Development Card. I already strongly suspect that the one he has yet to reveal is a Victory Point—“ Roman scoffs at the insinuation (precisely because Logan is entirely correct)— “But allowing him to draw another could also garner him Largest Army, and thereby win the game.”

The corner of Virgil’s mouth quirks upwards in amusement at Logan’s desperation. “Relax, Lo. I’m not gonna trade him.” Logan relaxes back in his chair. “Because I’m gonna build some things.” In a flurry of card and piece movement, Virgil shifts things around the board. “I’m gonna build two cities here, and a settlement here in the middle of Roman’s road, thereby blocking it.”

With a cocky smirk that made Roman flush slightly, Virgil took Roman’s “Longest Road” card and placed it in front of himself. With his road interrupted in the middle, Virgil now had a longer road than Roman did.

“And here’s two more Victory Points,” Virgil continues, flipping up his own unrevealed Development Cards. “So… That’s ten, right?”

Logan’s mouth moves silently as he counts it up, then sags in his chair in defeat. “Yes. Virgil wins.”

“This betrayal will not stand, my dark and stormy night!” Roman announces dramatically and teasingly. “I will not soon forget this painful twist of the knife. I will hold this grudge to my dying breath, mark my words.”

“Love you too, Princey,” Virgil quips dryly, and then Roman swears the entire world stops for a moment.

Did… did he really just say…? Did Virgil just say he loves you? The words repeat in Roman’s mind a few times over. Virgil had never said that before. Ever. Roman can feel his face heating up, his thoughts tripping over themselves. Virgil’s face flames red under Roman’s wide stare and he averts his gaze, busying himself by sorting the remaining cards and stacking them back in the box.

Virgil just said he loves you, Roman thinks again. He blinks a few times and starts assisting with putting the game away. Did he even mean it? Virgil had never said it before even in that half-teasing way he had just now, but… he had sounded like he was teasing. So did Virgil really mean it? Roman had been wanting to say it to Virgil for a while now, but he had been afraid that doing so would make Virgil feel pressured to say or feel something he didn’t. Roman didn’t want to ever make him uncomfortable.

But still. Virgil just said he loves you. Is that sign? Roman doesn’t know. But he can’t quite help the lighter feeling in his chest. The aching desire to say it back.

Patton glances at his phone just as Logan slides the top of the box. His eyes widen suddenly. “Oh, yikes, kiddos. I’m late for the production crew meeting. I gotta run.” He jumps out of his seat, kissing Logan’s cheek before running out of the library.

Logan stands and walks away to put the board game away. Roman looks at Virgil, feeling his heart sink a little when Virgil still doesn’t look up.

“Virge?” he asks softly.

“I do, you know,” Virgil says suddenly, glancing up to meet his gaze. There’s something wide and vulnerable in them. “Love you.”

Roman gives him a soft, deliriously happy smile. “I love you too, Virge.”

…

Present.

An hour or so later, Roman, Virgil, Logan, and Patton stand towards the back of the gym as the teacher announces the Prom Queen and King. Patton and Logan’s hands are entwined, Patton’s head on Logan’s shoulder. Virgil has his arms crossed over his chest. Roman slips his hands into his pockets as if it might stifle the sudden urge he has to hold onto Virgil’s. He takes a few steps towards the drink table when the teacher’s announcement slices through the air.

“And your Prom King is… Roman Prince!”

Roman freezes in surprise for a moment. “What?” he asks, before feeling a gentle nudge in his back.

He glances over his shoulder to see Patton giving him an encouraging smile. Roman smiles a bit, the initial shock giving way to flattery as he makes his way to the stage to the sound of applause. A few people clap his shoulder as he passes through the crowd. The Prom Queen, Valerie, is already on stage and is grinning at Roman as he jumps up to join her.

The young actor feels the drama teacher—one of the chaperones for the night—drape a red sash around his shoulders. She gives Roman a warm smile and congratulates him. The stage lights are bright. Roman’s gaze floats back to his friends where Logan is clapping, Patton appears to be cheering, and Virgil now has his hands in his pockets. The corner of his mouth quirks up in one of those faint smiles that never failed to make Roman’s stomach flutter.

“And now, our Prom Queen and King will dance with their respective dates. If… they brought any,” the drama teacher adds with a curious look to Roman.

Roman Prince feels his heart suddenly start pounding in his chest, his stomach squirming.

Be yourself, Patton had told him earlier that night.

Roman watches as Valerie’s date steps into the small clearing of people that had formed around them. The young teen scans the crowd when his eyes land solely on Virgil in the back. Roman can’t quite read his expression anymore.

Roman shakes his head and shoulders his way through the crowd. He’s tired of hiding. He’s tired of feeling like he should be ashamed of who he is. He isn’t.

He ignores the questions and whispers around him as he makes a beeline for his boyfriend. Before long, Roman stands in front of Virgil with the entire crowd’s eyes watching his back. Roman takes in a deep breath, gives Virgil’s wide eyes a soft look of reassurance, and extends his hand.

“Could I have this dance, Virgil?” Nerves clutch at his chest as he asks.

Virgil swallows. He glances around the room, at the crowd watching them intently. “Roman….” His eyes flit up to lock briefly onto his boyfriend, his eyes searching and uncertain. Slowly, he places his hand in Roman’s and nods.

The single touch melts away the last of Roman’s buzzing nerves in his stomach. He releases a breathy laugh and leads Virgil back to the center of the dance floor before letting his hand fall to his waist and keeping their other hand clasped together. Virgil’s hand falls to Roman’s shoulder.

“Roman,” Virgil says under his breath. “Are you sure about this?”

“I have never been more sure of anything, my dark and stormy night,” Roman responds, his heart racing for an entirely different reason now as he gazes down into his eyes. “I’m tired of hiding. I’m not ashamed of you. Of me. Of us.”

Roman sways softly with Virgil, totally enraptured with this incredible, brave, and protective young man in his arms. Virgil shakes his head a moment later. “I just… I don’t want you to regret doing this on an impulse—“

“Sssshhh.” Roman smiles at him. “This moment with you is not something I could ever regret.”

Virgil releases a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. He glances down at their feet even as Roman dances him in slow circles. “Well, you’re definitely a Gryffindor.”

Roman grins and laughs a little, leaning his forehead against Virgil and feeling his heart swell. “Because this is chivalrous?”

“Because it’s reckless,” Virgil deadpans. Roman’s grin doesn’t falter as he pulls back to look into his eyes. The corner of Virgil’s mouth quirks a little. The bright look in his eyes fades a moment later.

Roman frowns. “What’s wrong, Virgil?”

Virgil lifts a shoulder. There’s a forced indifference behind it. “Nothing,” he says. “It’s just… well. People are probably going to just assume you’re doing this to be nice to me after what happened last year.” There’s a light teasing tone to the words, but there’s something in his eyes that gives Roman pause. Virgil is giving Roman an out in case he’s feeling regret. But he’s not. Maybe it’s silly and cliché but Roman feels light in a way he hasn’t in a very long time.

Dancing here with Virgil, not feeling like he has to hide anymore… Roman feels like he can breathe again.

“Wanna bet?” Roman challenges. Before he can think twice, he stops dancing and cups Virgil’s face gently with his hands and kisses him. The kiss is soft, gentle, and lingers for just a moment before Roman pulls back.

Virgil’s blush is bright underneath the bit of makeup he was wearing. Roman’s thumb traces his cheekbone. “I love you,” Roman tells him suddenly. He leans his forehead against Virgil’s again as his hands fall back to his boyfriend’s waist and closes his eyes.

“I-I…” Virgil takes in a breath and swallows. “I love you too,” he whispers in that soft, personal way. The way that whispers something unique and special underneath it.

Through everything, they had found each other and chose each other again and again. A kid in a dark hoodie had stepped into his life over ten years ago on the playground. Somewhere along the way, Roman had fallen slowly and completely in love with Virgil. And as the song plays on, Roman lets everyone else melt away into the background and finally—finally—dances with him.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #romantic prinxiety #prinxiety #romantic prinxiety fanfiction #homophobia #getting outed #closeting #cursing #this is so long friends goodness gracious #and pretty fluffy?#but also kinda angsty at times #yikes #aaaaaaaaaaa why is always scary to post fanfics

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kaylewiswrites · 6 years ago

Text

Drunk WIP Week Day 2 - Knifepoint

Welcome to day two of the week where I rant about my wips like an excited drunk person because I’m tired of trying to make coherent and professional sense. Yesterday, I made an extremely long post about my main WIP Walk, so go check that out if you like morally grey characters, almost-dystopian settings, and found families that, every once in a while, get along with each other.

But today? Today, we’re talking about....

Knifepoint

Sometimes I start off a story with a vague idea in my head, and sometimes I literally just start writing words to see what happens. In this case, it was 75k of a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers lesbian romance in the desert between three politically fraught invented nations. It was almost entirely about (a) not having enough water and (b) deep conversations about feelings, so I decided to actually try drafting for the first time in my life, and now we have a plot! but the slow-burn romance and talking about feelings in a desert is still a thing. Like, a big thing.

Premise:

So we’ve got three countries living together, with a rich (not so thought out) history, and a desert sitting in the middle of the peninsula they occupy.

Ceathyia: This is a peaceful country of diplomats, fine artists, scholars, and doctors. They’re, like, pretty stuck up. They’re all proud of themselves because they value selflessness and kindness above everything else, and their neighboring countries can get kind of defensive around them. Not too defensive, though. They’re the best at selling and marketing to the more distant countries, so the other nations sell most of their goods to Ceathyia. Besides, they’re a bit annoying, but ultimately harmless. It’s not like a Ceathyia is ever going to stir up trouble. They worship the sun as a symbol of all they aspire to be (warm and giving and selfless and all that stuff).

Koden: Separated from it’s neighbors by a strip of desert, it’s only been two hundred or so years since Ceathyia and Haryth even knew that Koden and it’s people existed. Before then, both countries just assumed they had rights to the whole desert if they wanted it, but when they found out the other was there, they got...pissed. Koden raises it’s kids in kind of a weird way: each citizen is trained to live for only three things. Any three things, but only three. Is it money? Is it family? Is it peace, or lust, or commitment or happiness? The country doesn’t really care, and it believes everyone has the freedom to do what they need to do in pursuit of these ‘Aspects’ of their ‘Selves’. Murder a man because your aspect is ‘violence’? Fine with us, but that man over there with a ‘justice’ aspect has just as much right to slit your throat. So it reads as pretty lawless and chaotic.

Haryth: They want to fight. They want to fight ALL THE TIME. They want that desert that Koden claimed for themselves. Harythian people aren’t born with names. They have to die a glorious death on the field of battle to be worthy of remembering, so it’s easy to encourage young people to train to be soldiers. They have to pass ten tasks in order to be received: archery, hand-to-hand combat, sword fighting, stealth, on and on until their final task: walking the length of the enemy country of Koden and back without being killed. If you can do that, you’re a soldier, and you’re one step closer to getting your name.

Characters:

We’ve got one main character from each country, because how else would we do it?

Sian: Late teenage Ceathyian (why would I know my characters ages?). He’s studying to be a doctor, but for right now he’s accompanying his dad on a diplomatic trip to Koden. In a country of kind and selfless people, he feels an unhealthy need to be the MOST kind and the MOST selfless, because he’s terrified that people will find out that he’s faking. He thinks he’s terrible. He’s always felt this desire to live carefree lives the way the other nations do, and he’s been bottling up his resentment of his society since his mother died. So he compensates by donating the most, volunteering the most, getting the best grades, but the more praise he gets for his behavior, the guiltier he feels, and the harder he feels like he needs to work. He’s just a big ball of self-loathing anxiety. Oh, and he’s about to find out he’s not as straight as he thought he was.

(Side note, I’m pretty sure the only (maybe) straight people in this book are the villains. Like, even all the named side characters at this point are somewhere in the LGBT alphabet.)

Mona: Like all Kodens, she has a Self: Simplicity, Survival, and Self Control are her three aspects. She’s a blacksmith that makes really cool weapons, and her workmanship is so good that people come from Ceathyia to make requests. This is good, because all that money means Survival is happy. Simplicity likes the process of making everything, the repetitiveness. Self Control is happy to get rid of any trace of anger buy hitting things with a hammer over and over again. So she’s got a pretty chill life. Until these other two nerds come hurtling into it, ruining everything. When she can’t satisfy Simplicity, she gets intense stomach pains (Anxiety), but Self Control refuses to show weakness, so she just smiles. The more upset she is, the more she smiles. If she’s really panicking, she starts laughing. It throws the others off, and makes them think she’s an asshole, but she’s mostly just trying to make it through all these stressful situations without an ulcer.

Rada: That’s not her real name (since she’s not dead, she doesn’t have one), but it is a nickname Mona gives her to piss her off. Actually, most of want Mona does pisses her off. Rada is basically the (ง'̀-'́)ง emoji. She has a short temper, is extremely impatient, and a little too curious for her own good. She tends to feel everything very passionately, which is why she takes every accidental slight from the other two very personally. She’s also ridiculously impulsive. Like, deciding to jump into the final task of breaking into Koden without actually learning the language first kind of impulsive. Like gambling away her only weapons in an enemy country kind of impulsive. Like stealing new, very expensive knives from a famous Koden blacksmith in front of a Ceathyian, leading all three of them on a chase scenes that ends with the discovery of a political plot kind of impulsive. You know the type, right?

Plot

So yeah. Look at the last two sentences of the last paragraph, and that’s basically how we start. Turns out Ceathyian has been manipulating the other two countries into war for decades, for their own gain, and these three idiots have to figure out a way to stop them before another war breaks out. This will require them to: Cross a large, inhospitable desert, make their way through two different countries that members of their party are not welcome in, deal with disapproving fathers, coming to terms with different sexualities, coming to terms with the idea that your enemy might not need to be your enemy, learning new languages, discovering what platonic love feels like, and one very drunk night of dancing.

I really did try to make this one shorter than yesterday BUT it didn’t work. Tagging @aomory and @concerningwolves. Let me know if anyone wants to be tagged in posts about Knifepoint in the future, or in the rest of Drunk WIP Week. If you want to see a more professional explanation of Knifepoint, you can see the WIP page here

Below is a snippet of Knifepoint. Critique and criticism is always welcome!

We’ve already established I’m not good with the mud, right? That point’s been made clear to you? No review necessary? Great. So you understand that while I’m running from the second shop keep of the day, I’m not doing too well.

Each step feels like a gamble, a chance. I’m usually fast—the Speed Task was the first one I passed, after all— but each step I take lands deep in the mud and it’s hard to call what I’m doing running when it takes so long to lift each foot up. Some people yell as my attempts to sprint splatter them with wet dirt.

While it seemed clear pretty quickly that the used salesman wasn’t interested in a pursuit, I’m getting a different vibe from this encounter. Maybe because you actually took something this time, I remind myself. Technically three things. Three very expensive things.

Stupid broach. Stupid Ceathyian. Does he think he’s doing the right thing? Does getting someone killed over a piece of jewelry make him morally superior?

I take a glance over my shoulder, wondering if it’s safe to slow down. The shop keep probably isn’t hard to lose, and the Ceathyian wouldn’t want to get his nice clothes all dirty. But I don’t find either of them behind me.

The blacksmith. The blacksmith running with her hammer in hand. The blacksmith that is running barefoot through the mud like she was born in it.

She probably was, I growl to myself. I take a sharp turn into the market square, using a pole to pull myself in the right direction. It’ll be easy to disappear into the crowd here, I think. I take a few steps leaning back to slow myself down quickly…

…and slip. I slip right into a tent with a wooden board of a gold painted sword.

The poles fall, the cloth collapses, and from inside I hear the sound of clanging metal and an angry roar. I roll off the cloth, just in case any of the sword happen to be sharper than they looked. I right myself quickly, but the blacksmith is only a few tents away, and that hammer doesn’t look friendly. I pull my feet out of the mud and keep running.

So the market plan was a bust. But if I can get into some of the tighter side streets, I might be able to lose her there. I need to, fast. She’s gaining on me with every turn. She might be able to run better in mud, but a Harythian will always be able to outsmart a Koden.

A left, a right. The paths get skinnier, the backs of the buildings point toward us. The paths don’t make sense, houses built and added to at a whim. I’m going to have a hell of a time finding my way out of this, but I guess being lost is a privilege of being alive.

Left, left, right, and then a fork in the road. Perfect. I run to the left, then shove myself into an alley way on the right, folding my body behind a barrel. She’ll have no idea which way I’ve gone. She won’t be able to—

A hand grabs my hair and yanks me up. I pull the new knives out of my sleeves and swipe, but I only gaze the hand pulling back. Even that, though, is enough to draw a thin, shallow line of blood across the blacksmith’s palm.

She smiles as she lifts the hammer. “You give up, you get to live. You fight, I leave a corpse back here. This is your choice.”

I growl and slash upwards, but the movement is awkward in this cramped space. I realize this is the first fight I’ve ever had outside my training yard, and it couldn’t be more different. Narrow alley, muddy ground, and a girl with a hammer—everything I’ve learned in training is failing me. In less than a minute she has me on the ground, knives in the mud, holding me up by my wrist. I wait for her to bring the hammer down on my head and end it, but she keeps looking at me with the same vague smile. “Well? I demand, knees sinking into that godforsaken mud. If this is how I die, I’d rather get it over with.

“You didn’t happen to steal an ax as well, did you?” She asks. Her voice is soft and smooth, not at all what I expect, and I’m wondering if that has something to do with the fact that I’m obviously not hearing things right.

“What?”

Wet running footsetps and wheezy breath narrowly give us warning to the arrival of another person. I feel both ashamed and hopeful at the idea of someone finding me like this, but the person that almost runs by and has to double back is not some savoir but the Ceathyian snitch that put me in this position in the first place.

“Stop!” he pants. “Don’t—Don’t hurt her!” He’s leaning heavily on the silver staff he was holding when I ran.

“Did you steal that, too?” The blacksmith asks.

The boy closes his eyes and pants harder. “No, i…it was in my hand when I chased you out of the shop, and I didn’t realize it until I had gone all the way down the street, and I was afraid it would get stolen if I put it down, so I thought I’d…just return it in person when I found you, but the important part is, don’t hurt her.”

“Did you happen to bring an ax?” The blacksmith asks. Ok, I know I didn’t mistranslate this time. Between her vague smile, calm voice, and irrational questions, there’s something going on with her.

When the Ceathyian looks confused, she continues: “Do you think Gadum was being serious? About bringing back her hand?”

Instinctually, I try to twist out of her grip, but I swear the girl is made of the same iron she works with.

“You can’t cut off her hand!” The Ceathyian cries.

“I know,” the blacksmith answers. “All I brought was this hammer.”

#writblr #writeblr #writing community #writers of tumblr #my wip #knifepoint #drunk WIP week 2018 #long post

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chasholidays · 7 years ago

Note

Bellamy POV for When One Falls In, Another Can't Get Out, thank youuuu!

Original fic here!

The first time Bellamy meets the woman he’s going to marry, she doesn’t make much of an impression. If not for the taste of milk in his first sip of coffee, he probably wouldn’t have even taken a second look at her, if he’s honest. She’s pretty, but he’s met plenty of pretty people. And he’s worked in customer service. He gets how it works. The person behind the counter can be attractive and welcoming, but it doesn’t mean anything. And Clarke, at their first meeting, wasn’t even notably welcoming. She messed up a drink, apologized, and gave him a replacement. It wasn’t anything special at all.

But on his way to school the next week, he remembers the board full of custom drinks, the shelves full of books and, okay, the cute girl. He definitely remembers the cute girl, but that doesn’t matter. Not really. He doesn’t even really think she’ll be there.

So she makes much more of an impression when she is, sitting behind the register with what appears to be a notebook. She closes it and stands when she sees him, giving him the same bright smile she did the last time he was in, even though it’s like eight hours earlier and he kind of hates the world right now. She really is a professional.

“Good morning,” she says, once he reaches the counter. “What can I get you?”

There are enough custom drinks that it’s actually kind of overwhelming, so he just picks the first one with only ingredients he likes. “Can I get the Mother of Dragons with–do you do almond milk?” he asks, hopeful.

Of course, she shakes her head. “Just soy.”

“Then soy, yeah.”

“What size?”

“Large.”

“Anything else?”

The case of pastries is as overwhelming as he remembers, but it’s easier in the morning. He can stick with the breakfast genre. “How’s the cherry-bran muffin?”

“I’ve heard it’s good. I’m not really a bran person, but it’s my best friend’s favorite. It’s not too sweet.”

Either she remembers him or she just figures it’s useful trivia information; if it’s the first, he doesn’t want to be an asshole, so he checks her name tag and makes a mental note of Clarke, then tries out a smile. It’s not even seven a.m., so he’s not sure how he does, but the effort’s probably appreciated. “Then, yeah, one of those. Thanks.”

“Cool.”

They’re the only ones in the entire shop and he feels kind of weird just waiting in silence, so he casts about for something to say. He’s never been great at small talk, and he doesn’t really want to bother her.

In retrospect, “What were you writing?” is a stupid, invasive question, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Drawing,” she says. “Just sketching.”

It’s the kind of thing he’s pretty sure he would have gotten fired for when he worked in a coffee shop. “Your boss doesn’t mind?”

“I am my boss,” she tells him, with a slightly smug smile.

“Oh.”

She slides him his drink. “So, yeah. I’m keeping an eye on it to make sure it doesn’t interfere with my work.”

He has to smile. “As long as you’re aware of the situation. Thanks.”

“Have a good day,” she says, and that should be it.

But she nags at his attention as he drives to work. He doesn’t think she can be that old, probably not even thirty, and it’s not like you need to be, to be a manager. She doesn’t have to own the place, but part of him thinks she must. After all, he went in because it had recently remodeled, and it has a kind of young, artsy vibe. It would make sense, if the owner was a young artist. And that’s interesting. He can’t help wondering who she is and where she came from.

And then there’s the drink. It’s fine, really. It’s not a bad drink. He thinks it’s probably a great drink, with real milk. And so is the next one. And the next one. It just keeps happening.

“How hard is it to just figure out how soy milk works?” he grumbles to Raven after his third visit. She’s lactose intolerant too; she should get it.

“Everyone knows how soy milk works,” she says. “What are you even complaining about?”

“New coffee shop. Her proportions are off.”

“Whose proportions?” asks Gina.

“The barista. I think she needs to adjust her ingredients when she uses soy.”

“Wow. This might be a new level of asshole for you,” says Raven.

“I’m not telling her that. I’m just telling you. I’m hoping I’m going to find the one that’s good with soy milk. You know, eventually.”

“So, you’re going to keep going back to this place that has drinks you don’t like, hoping they end up making a drink you do like?”

“I like the drinks. They just could be better.”

“You know it’s hard to go wrong with a latte, right?” Gina asks.

“She forgot the soy the first time.”

Raven and Gina exchange a look, and he knows he’s being obvious, but he can’t help it. He did the same thing to Raven before he started dating Gina; it’s like a disease.

“Same barista?”

“I think so,” he says, like there’s any universe where they’d believe he doesn’t know.

“And you keep going back.”

“The muffins are really good,” he says, and Raven pats his shoulder.

“Yeah, I bet.”

If anyone had asked, he would have assumed Clarke sort of knew him, after a few weeks of visits. She doesn’t have to take his name, because it’s usually pretty quiet when he comes in, but he pays with credit card sometimes and she might have noticed. He never gets the same thing, so she hasn’t had a chance to learn his order. She’s made a much bigger impression on him than he has on her, he assumes.

The assumption rides until one morning, when he’s checking her board and says, “Isn’t the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster alcoholic?”

“Caffeine is a drug too,” she says, prim. “You can make it Irish if you want, I won’t stop you.”

“Or Betelgeusean. I’ll take that with soy milk.”

“I’ve got almond.”

She says it with this kind of deliberate casualness, a tone that makes him somehow sure that he’s the only reason this happened, her entire motivation. She personally decided to start stocking almond milk, for him.

So she definitely knows who he is.

“Almond would be great, thanks,” he says. “Is that going to be a regular thing? The almond milk.”

“I’m trying it out. As long as people want it, it’s not hard to stock a carton or two. I’ll see how demand is.”

“I appreciate it,” he says, and she smiles.

“Have to give my regulars what they want, right?” She slides him the drink. “How’s that one?”

Given she’s buying him special milk and going out of her way to be welcoming, he figures honesty probably isn’t the best policy, at this time. And it’s not like it’s bad. It’s just slightly off.

“Great, thanks,” he says. And then, because if she’s buying milk for him, she probably won’t mind, he adds, “Have a good day, Clarke.”

Her smile is warm. “You too, Bellamy.”

He spends the next couple months becoming very much a regular. He and Clarke chat most mornings, and once he tells her about it, she takes on lactose-free coffee drinks that taste good as a personal mission. The basic issue that she clearly doesn’t actually like milk replacement products remains, but he gets the impression she’s kind of stubborn, and she’s not going to give up until she solves this problem.

He has a crush on her, without question, but that’s not a big deal. It’s not a real crush, or a real relationship, even, and he’s not going to do anything stupid like think they’re friends. He’s a customer to whom she is positively inclined. From what he can tell, she likes talking to him, and interacting with him isn’t a chore. But they do that in a strictly customer/employee capacity, and he doesn’t want to be that asshole who thinks a barista who’s nice to him because it’s her job secretly wants him to ask her out. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t want him to ask her out, in fact. There’s just enough of a this is professional vibe from her that he thinks she knows he’s interested and is trying not to encourage that. It stings a little, but just his pride. Not to brag, but he doesn’t think he’s the worst boyfriend in the world. Not that he’s tried actually being a boyfriend that often, but still. He would be.

Clarke not wanting to date him doesn’t actually need an explanation, obviously, but when he meets Lyra, it does feel like he gets one.

He knows, intellectually, that his reaction to unsupervised children is not normal. But over the course of his many odd jobs, he’s had ones where lost children were common, and they had protocols to deal with it, and he can’t turn off the part of his brain that’s aware, very keenly, when he’s near a kid who is alone in a public space.

Besides, coffee shops are busy. It would be easy for one to just wander. This one has settled in with a book, too, and he can’t help fretting that someone just left her here while they ran other errands, hoping that no one would notice. And, granted, a thirty-year-old stranger talking to her isn’t exactly the best look, but people here know him, and he’s pretty sure if he explained to Clarke, she’d let him off the hook with a warning.

The girl’s on one end of the couch, so he takes the other, pulls out one of his own textbooks. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before, but he’s only half paying attention to his own reading and mostly watching the girl out of the corner of his eye. He’d put her at seven or eight, probably, with long black hair in two braided pigtails, and she looks healthy and happy, shows no signs of worrying that her adult might not be coming back.

She also seems to be aware of him, so he deliberately and a little unfairly, laughs.

“What’s funny?” she asks, as he hoped she would.

“Just the book I’m reading.”

“What are you reading?”

“It’s for school.”

“Aren’t you too old to be in school?” she asks, sounding suspicious.

“I’m in graduate school, getting a master’s degree.”

“Oh! My dad did that.”

That’s a good sign. “What about you, what are you reading?”

She sticks her thumb in the book to hold her place and then shows him the cover as she enunciates. “The Wainscott Weasel.”

“I haven’t heard of that one. What’s it about?”

Her face lights up, and she scoots over on the couch so she can show him. “It’s really good! I’ve read it before but I really like it. It’s about this weasel named Bagley and–”

It feels mean to derail her, so he just kind of lets her go, racing through a muddled plot summary as she flips between pages to show him her favorite pictures. Whatever else might be true about who she is and how she got here, she’s clearly a bright, happy kid, and he doesn’t feel like she’s lacking in attention so much as she’s just happy to have someone to appreciate a favorite book.

Still, when Clarke comes over to check on them, he figures he should probably get the conversation back on track. Just because he’s a teacher and an acquaintance doesn’t mean he couldn’t be a creep.

He flashes Clarke a quick, embarrassed smile, then turns his attention back to the girl.“That’s really cool. But I wanted to check–do you know where your grownup is?”

“Present,” says Clarke, raising her hand. “Bellamy, this is my daughter, Lyra.”

The girl–Lyra, apparently–turns her attention up to Clarke, pouting a little. “I was just telling him about my book. I wasn’t going to go with him.”

“I know,” says Clarke, sitting down next to her and giving her shoulders a squeeze. “He wasn’t trying to take you, he just wanted to make sure I knew where you were.”

“Oh.”

“His name’s Bellamy, he’s a friend of mine.”

Now that he’s looking, he can see the family resemblance to Clarke. Something in the shape of her face, the curve of her jaw and nose. It’s not exactly a disappointment, finding out she’s already in a relationship–if anything, it’s nice to have an explanation–but he’s kind of amazed she has a child as old as Lyra. Maybe she’s actually forty and is just aging well. That would explain a lot. “Nice to meet you, Lyra.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Clarke smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “She hangs out more on when she’s on break, like you do.”

“It’s the cool place to be. Sorry they dragged you out to make sure I wasn’t a kidnapper,” he adds. Hopefully, she appreciates that he was worried. He thinks he would, in her place.

This smile is stronger, so he assumes she does. “I didn’t really want to do payroll anyway. But yeah, you don’t have to worry. She’s very supervised.”

“It’s good that you own the place,” he muses. “I used to bring my sister to work with me, but I got fired once my boss found out.”

“What a jerk.”

“Yeah, it’s almost like he didn’t want his employees distracted on the clock.”

“He didn’t have to fire you.”

“Yeah, he was a jerk for unrelated reasons,” he admits. Octavia was a handful, and not nearly as happy to just hang around and read as Lyra seems to be.

Of course, as soon as he thinks that, she says, “Mom, can I get hot chocolate? Sorry for interrupting, but I finished my chapter, so–”

Clarke squeezes her shoulders. “Yeah, that’s fine. Small, okay?”

“If it’s small, can I have whipped cream?”

“Deal.”

Bellamy watches her go, still trying to figure it out. Plenty of people have children, of course, but he had something like a theory of Clarke going, and Lyra doesn’t exactly fit into that. He’d assumed she was a few years younger than he was, single, probably busy with owning her own business. And the single thing was, admittedly, mostly wishful thinking. But there had been a few times when he thought–

Well, assumptions are probably stupid, at this point. She’s right here, and Lyra’s right there. It’s the most natural conversation starter in the world.

So he asks Clarke, “How old is she?”

“Turning eight in February.”

Even if she’s his age, she would have had Lyra just out of college. “Can I ask how old you are, or is that rude?”

She smiles. “I just turned twenty-seven.”

“Just?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Happy belated birthday.” This is still Clarke, so he figures he can stop stressing. They have a decent dynamic going, and that doesn’t have to change. “Did you get pregnant on prom night?”

She laughs. “Close.”

“Just wanted to check the cliche levels.”

“Good sleuthing.”

He does the math quickly. “So she’s in second grade?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Elmwood.”

“That’s where me and my sister went.”

They lapse into quiet for a minute, but then she offers, soft, “Thanks for not being weird.”

“My mom had me when she was seventeen, I’m used to it. And you seem like a better parent than she was, so–”

She snorts. “Based on the last ten minutes?”

“You have your whole staff looking out for her,” he says, watching as one of the baristas helps her with her drink. “She’s smart and talks to people and knows she’s safe here. That’s more than lots of kids get.”

She worries her lip. “We’re doing our best.”

He’s not sure how to phrase the question, finally settles on, “Is her dad still around?”

“Yeah. My best friend. We slept together twice in high school, to see what it was like. Twice,” she huffs, some teenage bitterness shining through.“ And we ended up with a kid.”

“But you kept her.”

Clarke shifts a little, leaning forward. “Yeah. It was–I don’t know. Sometimes I still feel like it was stupid. Not because–I’d never give her up. Not for anything.” She flashes him a grin. “But I feel like there should be some sort of biological lock that keeps you from getting pregnant before you can legally drink.”

“If not longer. It’s, uh–yeah, teaching high school, it’s fucking scary. Thinking about what my mom went through.”

“Do you tell her that?” she asks, with enough warmth he feels guilty about the answer.

“She died when I was nineteen, so–”

The color drains from her face. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Not to be a dick, but–it kind of improved my life.”

She opens her mouth, clearly about to ask, but Lyra comes back over with a small mug overflowing with whipped cream and plops herself between them.

“Don’t touch your book until your hands are clean,” says Clarke.

“I know, Mom.” She turns her attention to him, to his surprise. “You can look at it if you want.”

He picks up the book, looking for where she’s marked her place. “Where were you?”

“Chapter four.”

“Huh.” He finds it, glances at Clarke, but she’s looking at Lyra, not him. “It sounded pretty good. You want me to read it aloud?”

“If you want,” she says, like she’s doing him a favor.

“Yeah, I’m not doing anything else. Clarke?”

“I should probably actually do the payroll. Lyra, if you need me, I’ll be in the office.”

“Okay! Thanks, Mom.”

Once they’re alone, he starts up reading, falling into the rhythm of it easily. He used to read to his sister, and sometimes when he worked at the history museum too, for events.

He’s always thought he’s pretty good with kids.

They make it through a couple chapters, Lyra generously telling him he could keep reading even after she finished with her cocoa, and it’s the worst kind of nice. Clarke still isn’t interested, and it might not be just because she has a daughter. One afternoon of his hanging out with her kid doesn’t make a different.

Especially not when a really hot guy shows up to pick her up, and Lyra lights up and says, “Dad!”

It’s not as if he really believes that Clarke has to have a thing for Lyra’s father. But it’s hard not to think about how simultaneously easy and complicated that would be. It would probably simplify her life hugely, if she got together with him, but it would be just as hard to ask for that, if they’ve got a good thing going now.

“Hey, kiddo!” says her dad. “How was your day?”

“Really good! This is Bellamy, he’s a friend of Mom’s.”

Bellamy stands and offers his hand. “Bellamy Blake. Just a customer.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m Wells. You were showing him your book?”

“He likes to read,” says Lyra. “He’s still in school, like you were.”

“Getting my masters,” he explains. “I teach high-school history, but I don’t have my degree yet.”

“Cool. Where’s Mom?” Wells adds, to Lyra.

“In the office.”

“Is your coat there too?”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay, why don’t you grab your coat and go say bye?”

“Okay!”

It leaves Bellamy and Wells kind of awkwardly looking at each other, failing to make conversation. They’re strangers, and neither of them has Lyra’s energetic, childhood easiness with strangers.

“So, uh, what do you do?” Bellamy finally asks. “Help out with the shop, or–”

“No, this is all Clarke. I’m in computer programming. Nothing fancy, but it pays the bills.”

He nods, and they lapse into silence again.

“Teaching must be tough,” he says. “High-school kids are pretty dramatic.”

“Yeah, I like it, but I don’t know how long I’ll last.”

Clarke and Lyra come back before the awkwardness can last much longer, and Bellamy turns his attention away while they do family logistics stuff.

But Lyra calls, “Bye, Bellamy! Nice to meet you! Thanks for reading to me!” as she leaves, and he turns back to wave.

“Bye, Lyra.”

Once they’re gone, Clarke says, “I can’t thank you enough for reading to her.”

“I don’t mind. It’s fun. You’ve got a great kid.”

She ducks her head, her cheeks a little flushed. “Thanks. I like her too.”

“How’s that barista thing?” Gina asks.

“Clarke, right?” Raven adds. “Clarke the argumentative barista. You should invite her for New Year’s.”

“I know you guys aren’t telling me to ask a service professional out,” he says. He drums his fingers on the bar, debating. He could just lay it all out, but he doesn’t think either of them knows anything about kids. Besides, he doesn’t have a chance. It’s not fun talking about a crush that’s not going anywhere. “She’s probably working. Or already has plans.”

“You could ask,” says Gina. “As long as you’re not a dick about it, which I know you won’t be, there’s nothing wrong with asking a service professional to come to a party.”

“I’ll think about it,” he lies. “If she seems interested.”

Lyra’s back in the coffee shop the next time he comes in, and she comes over to sit next to him and chatter, and Clarke is watching them with a smile, and he can’t imagine doing anything to jeopardize that.

It’s not worth it.

“Don’t be weird,” he tells his sister.

“I’m not the one being weird. You’re the one who’s bringing me back to what’s now your regular coffee shop, where you’re flirting with this barista, who’s not interested in you because she has a kid and you think she secretly wants to hook back up with the kid’s dad.”

“It sounds weird when you put it like that,” he grumbles.

“What’s the non-weird way to put it?”

“I’m not flirting with her. She’s cute, but she’s not interested, so I’m not going to flirt. We’re just–friendly.”

“Uh huh. I’m going to be the judge of that.”

He holds the door open for her, smiles when he sees Clarke leaning on the counter, chatting with another customer. There’s no sign of Lyra or Wells, which is probably good; Octavia would read into it.

Clarke’s smile looks a little tired when he gets to the register, and he wonders if it was a rough day. He makes sure his own expression is warm when he greets her. “Hey. How’s it going?”

She shrugs. “Not bad. Lunch rush is over, Wells and Lyra are coming in half an hour to pick me up so we can go to the movies.”

“Cool, sounds fun.” He wants to ask more, but Octavia appears at his side, demanding his attention. “Don’t be a brat, O, I’m getting to you.” He yanks her in with an arm around her neck, because he’s kind of a disaster and a little embarrassed now that he’s actually introducing O and Clarke. Not that he doesn’t know her family, but–he’s a mess. It happens. “Clarke, this is my sister, Octavia. O, this is Clarke. This is her place.”

“You’re an adult, you’re not supposed to give me noogies!” Octavia protests, kicking his ankle hard enough he actually jumps.

“Jesus, you’re wearing heels, that was not fair. Way worse than noogies.”

“They’re not heels,” she says, lofty. “They’re wedges.”

“That just means there’s more to kick me with.”

“Is this what having a sibling is like?” Clarke asks, sounding amused. “I used to think I was missing out.”

Octavia beams. “Basically. Nice to meet you. My brother says he’s a dick to you about almond milk and tea.”

“I don’t think we can limit it to just that,” Clarke points out, and he laughs.

“Yeah, okay. I’m a dick about everything. What are you getting, O?”

They get their drinks, and he’s honestly expecting Octavia to be an asshole non-stop, but once they get to the table, all she says is, “I forgot how nice this place is. I can see why you like it.”

“That’s it?” he asks, wary.

“What do you mean, that’s it?”

“You’re not going to ask me about anything else? Like–”

“I’m monitoring the situation,” she says, and he shakes his head.

“Whatever you say, O.”

He’s not expecting anything to come of it, but it’s only about five minutes later when Clarke comes over, lingering by their table, looking a little nervous. “Can I hang out while I wait for the kid and her dad?” she asks.

O beams. “Yeah! I’m curious about the kid.”

Clarke glances at Bellamy, like she expects him to have an explanation, and he just shrugs. “Why?” she asks.

“I like other weird families.” She taps her jaw. “So the dad is–do you guys live together?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re not dating?” she asks, and it sounds totally natural, like a question anyone would ask.

It’s possible he’ll owe her for this.

“Nope,” says Clarke, and Bellamy’s heart lodges somewhere in his throat. “We’re really not like that. I’d say he’s like my brother, but–” She pulls a face. “It’s kind of weird saying you had a kid with your brother. But the longer we live together, the more I can’t believe we ever had sex.”

“You were really young, though, right?”

“O,” he warns. She’s way too perky about this conversation.

Clarke flashes him a reassuring smile. “Yeah, I was nineteen when I had her.”

He feels himself flush. “Oh, uh–that reminds me. It’s her birthday this week, right?”

“Yeah,” says Clarke, with a slight frown.

“I, uh. I thought she’d like this,” he says, pulling the present out of his bag. He forces himself to not say anything else as Clarke examines the package. It’s really not a big deal, in terms of gifts, just a copy of Redwall. If Clarke thinks it’s inappropriate, he won’t be offended.

“You got her a birthday present?” she finally asks.

He can’t read her tone, and his confidence falters, falls away. “I, uh–yeah? Sorry, if it’s weird you don’t have to–it’s okay if you don’t–”

She’s shaking her head before he’s even finished. “No, no. This is–it’s really nice of you. Thanks.”

“Sure,” he says, and remembers, very suddenly, that Octavia is here, and definitely watching them. He clears his throat. “When’s Lincoln coming to get you?”

They chat until she has to go, and it’s fun, good to see her, easy. Of course she slips in that he’s single, but–Clarke seems to be too. It doesn’t have to mean anything, but all his friends might be right; he should find out if it could. He wants it to, wants it so much it almost hurts, and finding out he doesn’t have a chance would suck.

But he wants to know.

“Sorry about her,” he tells Clarke, smiling. “I was grading all weekend, so we barely had time to see each other. Lincoln’s down the street, so–”

“No, that was–it was fun to meet her. I actually thought she was your girlfriend,” she says, slow, and he almost chokes.

“Based on what?”

“The first time you guys came in.”

He blinks, genuinely surprised. He didn’t think she remembered that. He had no idea she’d recognize Octavia. “Really?”

“She was cute, you were waiting for her.” She’s not making eye contact, and he figures it out suddenly. She was looking for him to have a girlfriend. She wanted to know if he was single. “I just kind of assumed.”

“Huh,” he says, trying to maintain his cool. “I guess there isn’t a ton of family resemblance.”

“I’m not gonna judge on that,” she says.

He smiles. “Lyra looks a lot like you. I couldn’t believe I didn’t notice.” He straightens up, takes a breath and lets it out. “Speaking of, did you notice how subtle O was in mentioning that I’m single? Subtlety is not her strong suit.”

Clarke bites the corner of her mouth. “I appreciated it, though,” she admits, and just like that, all the tension drains out of him, and he’s sure. He’s not being inappropriate; she doesn’t mind.

“She also wanted verbal confirmation you weren’t into Wells. I was pretty sure, but–I don’t know. Best friend can mean a lot of things.”

“I’m not into Wells. At all.”

“Yeah.” He lets himself put his hand on hers, and even though he was sure, it feels so good when she doesn’t pull away. “So, uh, do you–”

Wells and Lyra come in, and he jerks back, tries to act normal. Clarke might not want them to know about–whatever this is. It’s not even a date yet, just–

“Do you want to come?” Clarke asks him. “We’re just catching a movie and grabbing dinner.”

“I don’t want to impose,” he says, without much input from his brain.

Clarke takes his hand back and turns to her daughter. “Lyra, you don’t mind if Bellamy comes to the movie, right?”

She’s practically bouncing. “Yeah, you should come!”

“If you guys really don’t mind.”

“Definitely not.”

She follows him to his car, and he gets to kiss her for the first time right there, in the front seat, uncomfortable and a little cramped, but perfect, and when he pulls back he thinks, for the first time, that he’s going to marry this woman.

And about eighteen months later, he does.

#stayalivelou

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pinknerdpanda · 7 years ago

Text

Because I Do

Word Count: 1,600

Characters: Reader x Sam, Dean

Warnings/Triggers: Depression, feelings of low self worth, fluff, the ‘F’ word.

A/N: This is the somewhat autobiographical-ish and I tried to write through some of my depression. If only we all could have a Sammy of our own. Thanks to the always wonderful, insightful and encouraging @wheresthekillswitch and @hannahindie for beta’ing this. I love you both dearly! (Also shout-out to Lee for coming up with the title - where would I be without you, soul sister?)

Gif (x) is not mine

Because I Do

The day started out perfectly normal; well, as normal as your days go, anyway. You’d woken up in a decent mood; the sun was shining, there was coffee in the small coffee pot across the room and the case you’d been working on had wrapped up sooner than any of you’d expected. With nothing else on your radar for the moment, you’d all decided to stay an extra night; the boys choosing to spend the day at a local music and beer festival, and you deciding to have a “treat yo’ self” day.

You’d had it all planned out; sleep in, go have a fancy breakfast, and then a trip to the spa. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a massage or gotten a pedicure and your hair was in desperate need of some love.

It hadn’t taken long for things to go south, though, and now you find yourself staring blankly at the wall, fingers playing absently with an already well-worn spot on the back of the uncomfortable hotel sofa.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting that way, but when the door to your shared room swings open there is a distinct lack of sunlight pouring through. Dean enters first, followed by his younger brother; you assume anyway, since you don’t bother looking up.

“So what you’re saying is, I shouldn’t be nice to our waitress, Sam?”

“Being nice is one thing, Dean. Asking her if she ‘sat on a pile of sugar’ because she ‘has a pretty sweet ass’ is insulting.” Sam’s fingers curl in mock quotation marks and his voice holds a hint of teasing.

“I stand by that line. How is that insulting?” Dean scoffs.

“Well, it insulted her intelligence for one.” Sam throws his jacket across the back of the chair next to you before collapsing into it, fingers kneading the creases in his forehead. “Everything ok, y/n?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Your gaze flicks up to his and you give him a tight lipped almost-smile. Sam squints at you, carefully examining your face. He cocks one eyebrow and tilts his head slightly, obviously not buying your weak acting skills. Damn him and his overly observant brain.

“It’s nothing. Really,” you sigh, grabbing a pillow from the sofa and clutching it tightly against your chest. “Just a bad day, I guess.”

“What happened? I thought you were going to spend the day getting all dolled up.” Dean glances back over his shoulder at you as he grabs three beers from the small fridge. He passes them out to you and Sam before perching on the opposite arm of the sofa from you and taking a long pull from the glass bottle.

“I was...I mean I kind of did, but…” you scrape at the corner of the label on your bottle of beer with a freshly manicured fingernail, your gaze dropping to your hands. “I don’t know. I’m just in a mood apparently.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dean’s voice is tight and each word is enunciated carefully. You look up to see a very earnest attempt at a blank expression on his face, but his eyes are practically begging you to say no. The combination is both endearing and slightly comical.

“No thanks Dean. You’re off the hook,” you smile at him sincerely, stifling a giggle as all the air rushes from his lungs in a single, loud huff.

“Oh thank god,” he mumbles under his breath before bringing his beer to his lips again. He is not exactly one who enjoys discussing feelings, but the fact that he was willing to makes your heart warm slightly.

You sneak a glance at Sam to find him rolling his eyes. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, a loud ring sounds from the other end of the couch and Dean digs his phone from his back pocket. Dean’s face lights up as he checks the number and he wiggles his eyebrows in Sam’s direction before answering.

“Well hello, Janet.” He stands, pointing at the door to indicate he was going to be taking the conversation outside. “I was just telling my partner, Sam, that I was hoping you would call.”

The door opens and closes again, leaving you and Sam to sit in silence. You dare not look him in the eye; those hazel's have coaxed darker truths from things bigger and badder than you and you know you wouldn't stand a chance.

“Your hair looks nice, y/n.” Sam’s voice is gentle and encouraging. Where Dean lacks in discussing feelings, Sam excels, and you know there is no way you’re getting out of this room without hashing this out.

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you Sam?”

“Wasn’t planning on it. What happened today?” You can feel his gaze boring down on you and, while you could continue to play stubborn, you know it’s probably useless.

“It’s just...oh, I don’t know…” You take a deep breath, releasing it again in a long slow sigh. “I got up, everything was fine. And then I went to get breakfast. I had a coupon I’d planned on using but they wouldn’t take it, of course I didn’t find out until I was done with my meal. Then when I was heading to my hair appointment, some asshole cut me off and was yelling at me out his window like it was my fault. After I’d slammed on my brakes, there were like three other cars that pulled around me and flipped me off!”

You look up at Sam’s face and he nods, urging you to continue.

“And then the hairstylist was snobby and making comments about all the grey hairs she was finding while she was blowdrying my hair, insisting that a new color would ‘take 10 years off!’” You frown, brushing the loose strands of hair from your face and whimpering pathetically when they fall right back in place over your eyes.

“The massage place was nice, but then as I was undressing, my mom called and I shouldn’t have answered it - I know that - but she only ever calls when there is an emergency. There wasn’t one. And when I explained where I was, she told me that I didn’t need a massage. What I really needed to do is lose weight because that was my biggest problem.”

“Did you tell her to fuck off and hang up?” Sam’s voice is uncharacteristically harsh sounding, and he looks like he could spit nails at the moment. “Because you should have.”

“No, I got dressed and snuck out.” You fix your eyes on your hands.

Sam’s tone is softer now, “What happened next?”

“I came back here.” You lift your eyes to find his gaze fixed squarely on you. “I don’t know, Sam. It sounds so stupid saying it out loud now. I just feel like the universe was conspiring against me today and it completely deflated me. I can usually hush the voices in my head telling me how worthless I am, but tonight they are screaming at me.”

Sam’s hand brushes gently across one cheek and then the other and you realize he’s wiping away tears you didn’t know had been falling. This only makes you cry harder. Sam moves to sit next to you on the couch, wrapping his arms around you and hugging you tightly to his chest as your body shudders with silent sobs.

After a while, the tears subside and you are aware of Sam’s hand gently stroking your arm as he plants soft kisses on the top of your head. Taking one deep, shaky breath and then another, you pull back. Sam loosens his grip, but keeps one arm around you, his fingertips brushing against the ball of your shoulder.

“Hey, y/n.” You rub your hands over your eyes and sniff before looking up into his beautiful face. “Listen to me. Those voices in your head, telling you that you aren’t enough? They are lies. You are enough. Your worth isn’t based on your mother’s opinion or that of some random hairdresser. Your worth is based on who you are and who you are is funny, smart, kind, honest, good, generous, and those are just a few reasons why,” Sam pauses, cupping the side of your face with one hand. “Why I love you.”

Before your brain can catch up with the conversation, Sam’s thumb lightly traces the curve of your bottom lip. He lowers his head and presses his mouth gently against yours. His lips are warm and comforting and more than unexpected. The shock is soon replaced with hunger as Sam deepens the kiss, your mouth opening to him. He kisses you until you’re dizzy and you pull back enough to gulp mouthfuls of air.

The silence that follows is lingering and ripe with questions.

“I am so confused right now. I don’t even know where to begin.” You scrunch up your nose. “Did you just say you love me?”

“I did.” The corner of Sam’s lip curls up and he smooths one hand over your hair as you stare at him in befuddled amazement.

“But,” you begin, chewing on your lower lip. “But, why?”

“Because I do. I have for a long time.”

“But, why?”

Sam snickers slightly before taking both sides of your face between his hands. “Well, I think I already explained a few of the reasons. But I would be happy to elaborate.” He places another soft kiss against your lips and you can practically feel the tension from the last few hours begin to thaw and melt away.

“I think. I’m going. To require. Further. Explanation.” You say between kisses and Sam chuckles.

��You know how much I love research.”

Like what you see? Want more? My Masterlist is here. Thanks for reading! :)

My Forever Tags (I love you guys - stay weird!): @wheresthekillswitch @arryn-nyxx @emilywritesaboutdean @fandommaniacx @cookie-dough-lova @spnfanficpond @impandagrl @maddieburcham1 @trexrambling @27bmm @beachballsizeladyballs @hannahindie @rosie-winchester @winchesterprincessbride @that-writer-one @amionthetumbler @abbessolute @deansdirtyduchess @fandomismyspiritanimal @angelsandwinchesters @cfordwrites @zenia3 @charliebradbury1104 @9769997118 @mogaruke @luulaachops @supernaturaldean67 @barbedwireandbubblegum @karlee-fay-my-wayward-son @muliermalefici @galaxy-jellyfish-queen @canadianjelly @kathaswings @almusanzug @feelmyroarrrr @captainradicalpassion @bethbabybaby @thinkwritexpress-official @akshi8278 @hexparker @emoryhemsworth

Pond Tags (Sam + Fluff): @manawhaat @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @blushingsamgirl @notnaturalanahi @bkwrm523 @whispersandwhiskerburn @roxy-davenport @impala-dreamer @deathtonormalcy56 @samsgoddess @frenchybell @for-the-love-of-dean @mysupernaturalfics @spn-fan-girl-173 @deandoesthingstome @jelly-beans-and-gstrings @fiveleaf @deansleather @curliesallovertheplace @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname @waywardjoy @mrswhozeewhatsis @captain-princess-rose @imadeangirl-butimsamcurious @kayteonline @supernatural-jackles @idreamofhazel @wevegotworktodo @ilovedean-spn2 @babypieandwhiskey @wi-deangirl77 @deantbh @supermoonpanda @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki @deanwinchesterforpromqueen @chaos-and-the-calm67 @memariana91 @teamfreewill-imagine @chelsea-winchester @fandommaniacx @revwinchester @ageekchiclife @your-average-distracted-waffle @drarina1737 @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell @castieltrash1 @supernaturalyobessed @mysaintsasinner @ohwritever @ruined-by-destiel @winchester-writes @deals-with-demons @maraisabellegrey @faith-in-dean @winchestersmolder @bohowitch @clueless-gold @melbelle45 @winchester-family-business @4401lnc @writingbeautifulmen-deactivated

#Sam Fluff #Sam x Reader #Sam Winchester x Reader #Sam Winchester #SPN Fanfic #SPN Fanfiction #SPN Fanfic Pond #guppy fic #Panda Writes #trigger: depression #trigger: self-hate #depression #self-hate #i lost my queue

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spntvdhunger · 7 years ago

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Innocence

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Pairings: Sam x Reader / Dean (Mentioned)

Summary: The reader is the daughter of Bobby Singer and she wants to find her father, so she starts looking for him and the leads take her to the Winchesters. Sam agrees to help her but just to be with her. What would happen when she finds out her father is dead and the guy she’s been slowly falling for knew that from the very beginning?

Warnings: Bloody (just a little part) Angst and fluff

Word Count: 3441

A/N: I love writing this and wow I think is one of the largest I have written. Fluffy Sam is the best, I love him.

GIF not mine credit to owner

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Tags <3: @shut-ur-face-and-get-in-the-car @strawberryjuiceboxxx

It all started one day when something came up in the mail for you, a little package with a notebook inside. That notebook was filled with names and numbers and names of different creatures you only thought exist in books. It was all strange, so you decided to show it to your mother and the explanation she gave to you was even weirder.

She told you that the notebook probably was of your father, the man you never met. And she told you that he was a hunter. How could believe that? It could be just words from a dying woman. You didn't think it too much and put that notebook aside, just as something strange that happened to you. But some weeks after your mother died, you find that notebook again.

What if it wasn't just part of the delusional mind of your mother? What if that was true? What if that man… Bobby Singer was your father and he was a hunter?

Suddenly an urge born inside your chest. Since you were a little girl you were curious to know how your father was, but now it was way more intense, you needed to find him. You needed to tell him that your mother died and that well… You were his daughter.

So, you took the notebook again and read through all the names in it. You called a lot of numbers but no-one answered until you reach some names written with red ink. ‘Dean and Sam Winchester' You called the first number and a low voice answered you.

"Yeah?" A very manly voice said in the other line. "Hi!" Yeah, that was stupid, you called a total stranger and you just say ‘hi'. "Hmm… My name is Y/N Y/L/N and I'm looking for this man, his name is Bobby, Bobby Singer. I think I have something of him and… I… Well, your number was in it… And I was wondering if you happen to know him…"

"Oh…" He answered after a few seconds. "Yeah, I know him… Why are you looking for him?" Because you were his daughter, it was obvious, but you didn't tell him that, so you came up with a pretty convincing lie. "My mom was a very close friend and she passed away three weeks ago and she wanted me to find him… You know, to tell him." Talking about your deceased mother was still tough for you and even more saying a half-lie that involved her.

"Yes, I understand." You could hear the confusion in his voice. That man, Sam or Dean probably never imagined a call like that. "Okay, so, maybe we can see each other somewhere…" You said. "Yeah, I think so…"

You two agree to see in a restaurant the next day. It surprised you that they were that close to you… Just one town away.

The very next day you wake up early and took the notebook with you when you left your house and jumped into the car. You arrived at the restaurant in less than an hour and entered. You didn't know what to expect, you didn't know how the guy that you talked to, looked like, so how in hell you were supposed to recognize him in a restaurant full of people. You asked the waitress for a table near the door, to watch everyone entering.

Once you had your coffee, you took out the notebook and passed the sheets, sometimes reading things like ‘vampire' or stranger things like ‘ghoul'. Your sight caught two men arriving, one of them was extremely tall, with brown hair and the second one was shorter and blonde. They asked something to the same waitress and she pointed at your direction.

"Hey, Y/N?" The blonde one asked once they got closer. "Yeah." You nodded. "I'm Dean, we talked on the phone yesterday, and this is my brother, Sam." You looked at Sam, and he smiled at you while he sat in front of you. There was something in his innocent smile, in his innocent eyes that made you feel almost at home, something that you've never experienced before.

"So… You are looking for Bobby Singer…" Sam started. "Yeah! You know him?" "Yes." He answered. Now you had hope, the hope of finding your father. "We pretty much grew up with him…" Dean added. And he started telling you how close they were to him, and some other stories too.

"Hold on… So, you are telling me that everything that is in this notebook is real?" Your eyes dropped to the yellow pages and then back to the brothers. "Well… Yes." Sam whispered. "And you are hunters?" "Yes." The older brother said. "And Bobby is a hunter too?" "Well, he…" Dean was interrupted by his brother. "Yes, he is." They exchanged strange looks that made you raise an eyebrow.

That was something else to take. So, your mother was saying the truth, and everything was real, monsters, ghosts, demons, everything. And when you thought about it, you remembered when you got classes of self-defense as a teen and when she taught you how to handle a gun. She wanted you to be prepared if you see something… She was protecting you. And maybe even your father tried to do it too… Keeping you away from his life, of everything.

"We have some things of him back at home… I mean, if you want to check them out." Sam offered after a few more minutes. "You really will help me to find him?" Dean glanced at his brother, but apparently, he didn't notice. "Of course." He said with that cute smile. "Great! But first… I have to go to the lady's room…" You stood up and walk to the restaurant's restroom.

"Dude, what the heck are you doing?" The green-eyed hunter asked his brother once you were far enough. "Bobby is dead, how are you supposed to help her to find him?" "Aren't you curious to know why she's looking for him right now?" He replied. "She said that her mother was a friend of him, you knew the man, he got his secrets." "Look, we take her to the bunker, we keep an eye on her and…" "Oh, you like her." "What?" frowns. "No!" "Hey man, I don't blame you, she's cute." "I'm just trying to help her, Dean." "I'm your damn brother, I know when you are lying to me." Sam rolls his eyes and shook his head. "But I'm telling you… This might end badly."

They offered to pay your meal and then you leave the restaurant. They told you that you could come in the car with them but you decided you would follow them in yours.

It was a quick trip to their so-called home, but it wasn't what you were expecting, it was literally a fucking underground bunker. The hunters noticed how surprised you were and they told you how they got it… Apparently, more hunters existed and even a secret organization called The Man of Letters existed too. That was too many information to process.

When you were inside, Sam took some beers and hell you needed one… Or maybe more to understand everything you were listening. You didn't show too much how surprised and confused you were and maybe that encouraged the brothers to continue talking.

They told you a lot of stories about your father, how he was when they were kids and how he helped them to save the world. Yes, save the fucking world. And yes, you needed a third beer to keep processing all that.

You talked for hours, you even said to them what your mother said to you when you were little. She used to tell you that your father was a policeman and he was busy all the time… And well, she wasn't completely lying about that. Of course, you kept some details, you weren't ready to tell them that you were looking for your father, not only your mother's old friend.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, Dean fell asleep on his chair, but you continued to talk with Sam. There was something about him that attracted you, of course, he was attractive, but you always thought that a guy like him was way out of your league. But now it was different, you felt like he was actually interested in you, or maybe it was just the buzz, who knows.

The conversation changed without you even noticed it and suddenly you were being totally open with him about your life, telling him how devastated you feel now that your mother died because of cancer, and how lost you felt. You left Med school to take care of her a few years ago and now you didn't want to go back. "I never felt like I fit there anyways." You mumbled. A little smirk appeared on his face. "You know, I went to law school once. And I felt like an outcast too." You smiled at him and your glance went right down to his lips. Maybe you were too drunk for that right now.

He offered you to stay and you couldn't say no, of course, if you attempted to drive back home that drunk, you would die for sure. You jumped on the bed and as soon as your head touched the pillow you fall to sleep with one thing on your mind; Sam’s innocent eyes.

Later the next day you drove home, once your hangover was bearable. But you kept on contact. Somehow being with Sam and even with his brother helped you to move on the death of your mother. Now you were focused on one thing; finding your father and the best part was that Sam was helping you on that.

Sometimes you drove to the bunker with the first excuse you could think of. But the truth was that you only wanted to see Sam again and talk to him. Yes, you were falling for him and there wasn't any way you could avoid it.

One day you were parking your car when you saw the Impala arriving. Dean jumped out the car and go to the other side to help out Sam. When you saw blood, you jumped too. "What the hell happened?" You asked while Dean was taking his brother inside, he could move, but you could see that he was in pain. "A fucking shape-shifter stabbed him." "What?" You screamed. "It's okay, it's not that deep, I'm okay," Sam said, dragging his words. "Shut up and let me see that!" You ordered.

Sam sat in a chair next to the map table and he opened his soaked on blood flannel. Even with all the blood and sweat, his naked torso was so fricking perfect that made your whole body clenched. You shook your head and focused again. You saw a tattoo and a few inches under it, there was a deep cut that kept bleeding. "Jesus, you are gonna need stitches." "I'm bringing the whiskey, hold on," Dean said. "No! Don’t you have a first aid kit?" "Whiskey is our first aid kit." He answered. You rolled your eyes. "I know how to do this… Okay, like I actually studied this." "Okay…" He didn't seem happy, but he abandoned the room to search for all the supplies they had.

"Are you sure you can do this?" Sam murmured from the chair. "Of course, I can. And the best part is that you are not getting a scar, trust me." Dean reappeared with a lot of things in his arms, he literally took everything he saw, hoping you knew what to do with it.

You had to kneel in front of Sam and got your face extremely close to his body. You went for three years to med school, some stitches would be easy, but you were nervous as hell. But you managed to keep you still and you used the needle to go through his flesh, but softly enough to cause him the least pain possible. He was a warrior, he didn't complain.

You cleaned his wound several times while you were working, and once you finished you covered him with some gauzes they had.

"See? Good as new." You said when you finished. You took of your plastic gloves and stood up, but before you could do anything else, Sam took your wrist. "What?" He had a fresh bruise right below his eye. "Thank you, Y/N." "Yeah, it's nothing." You nodded and continued to clean the table, with Dean's help.

You ordered Sam to go to sleep while you stay a little bit more talking with Dean, trying to know exactly what happened. He didn't say too much but he thanked you for helping his brother.

In that moment, you understand something… They were two men that had given up everything, they were risking their lives every time they went on a hunt, and there wasn't any reward. And thinking that way about your father was… Well, you couldn't describe it. He was a hero too and you should be proud of him. ‘Now, more than ever I need to find him.' You thought. Maybe he could help you to find your path… Maybe your place was inside the battlefield.

You walked to Sam's bedroom just to check on him. "Hey, how are you feeling?" He was now covered by a loose shirt and was sitting at the edge of the bed. "Fine… Much better now." "Good. I bring you some painkillers and antibiotics… We don't want that thing infected." "Yeah…" You left the pills on his night table, next to the cup of water you also bring. "Y/N?" He whispered your name and you sit next to him. "Yeah?" He was tired but there was something in his eyes that was teasing him. With the time you had spent with him you slowly started to learn how to read him. "Everything is okay?" You insisted.

He placed a hand on your cheek and without warning, he leaned and pressed his lips over yours. You taste the saltiness of his sweat and the taste of his blood, but over that, the kiss was sweet and soft, almost needy, you both needed it. You were the one who stepped back, breathless.

"Sam…" You gasped. "Sam… I need to tell you something." He swallowed. "Me too… Y/N… I…" You interrupted him. "No, Sam… I have to tell you this." You took a breath and you didn't give him a second chance to finish his sentence. "I lie to you… My mom knew Bobby, but… He's my father." You finally said.

That felt like a ton falling over Sam's shoulders. The same way you had an excuse to see him, he had another, but his was worse. He already felt bad for not telling you the truth, but now he knew that Bobby Singer was your father. How could he tell you that he was dead and this whole time he had been keeping that from you?

"Y/N…" He whispered again. His hand falls over his legs and he wasn't able to look at you. "Damn, you are going to hate me after this…" He mumbled.

"What?" You moved, trying to see Sam's face, but he evaded you. "It's about Bobby… He… He is dead." You jumped out the bed and covered your mouth. "What? When?" You couldn't help it, tears coming down your face. "Sam!" Your voice breaking. "When!" You demanded again. "Some years ago…" He finally said.

Your arms fell at your sides while you stared at him. "What?" You felt your heart shrinking inside your chest. "You knew that this whole time?" He glanced at you, his eyes getting wet. "Yes…" He admitted.

You didn't say anything else, you ran out the room in a blast. Took all your things you left on the map table and run to your car. You even heard the voice of Dean calling you, but you knew he was a part of it, that he also keep the truth from you.

You drove at high speed, not caring for anything, the only thing you felt was the pain. Your father died before you could ever meet him, your mother died months ago too… Leaving you alone. And when you thought you find someone that made you feel alive again, he lied to you.

Maybe Sam Winchester was human, maybe he killed monsters, but he hurt you so deeply, like anybody else. Maybe he wasn't as innocent as you think he was.

Back at home, you decided to investigate by your own… And without help, you track down the package that came to change your life so long ago. You find out that a lawyer sent it to you after Bobby passed away, and that was part of his will… He knew who you were… He knew you were his only daughter and he left you that notebook so you could meet him.

You took the notebook again and read carefully through it, not skipping anything. There were stories of his hunts and in a lot of them, he mentioned the Winchester brothers. Almost at the end, you find a picture glued to a page, something you haven't seen before.

For the first time in your life, you saw your father. A chubby man with a cap was looking at the camera, with a smile on his face. And at his sides were two other young men, it didn't take you long to recognize them, Sam and his brother. And just like that, you started to cry all over again. They were like his sons, he loved them and you could tell that just by looking at his face in the picture.

When you were with the Winchester brothers, with Sam, you were close to Bobby, to your father. Maybe you could never saw him in person, but you met all the good things he had done.

You hear some knocks at the door, that made you jump on your chair. You cleaned your eyes with the sleeves of your jacket and stood up. You opened the door and Sam appeared in front of you. The last time you saw him was five days ago… When you left the bunker.

"Y/N… Please, let me talk to you." He begged. "How did you find me?" Really? That was the only thing you could say? "I… I looked for your address online." You swallowed and looked down to your feet. "Y/N… Please…" He insisted. "I'm so sorry for lying to you… I know it was stupid, but I was afraid." You raised your head and looked again at him. "Afraid of what?"

"Of you leaving… I don't know how to say this but… With you, I felt in a way nobody had made me feel in years… And I was afraid that if I've told you the truth you would leave."

You were out of words, you didn't feel the same as he, but your feelings were similar.

"I think I need you, Y/N. I don't know in which moment you become something I need."

Again, no words… Your eyes stinging, but you were tired of crying.

"I know that I can't ask you to forgive me, but please, talk to me, say something."

"I… I don' know what to say, Sam." You said. He nodded and took a step back. "But I don't want you to leave either." You admitted. "I want to be with you, Sam…" That was the only thing he let you say, he crashed his lips over yours one more time, but this time the kiss was different.

You follow his rhythm, slowly moving your lips, tasting him. His arms wrapped your waist while your hands were traveling his back. He kicked the door when you two were inside and you let him go further, but you stopped him after some minutes.

"Sam…" Your lips were swollen and you could barely talk. "If we are doing this I need you to promise me something." "Anything." He answered millimeters from your face. "No more lies, okay? No more secrets." He nodded. "No more secrets."

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instagraamapp-blog · 5 years ago

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