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sergeantbuckybarnes · 4 years ago

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serendipity // bucky barnes

PART TWO

Summary: You end up stuck in 1942 without a way to come back, but when you meet the young and charming version of Bucky Barnes, do you really want to go back to the present?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: mentions of cheating, reader is a bitch, sad bucky, angst, fluff, lack of ‘40s knowledge

A/N: As always, please remember English is not my first language. Also, thanks to @coffee-books-music for proofreading this!

divider by @firefly-graphics

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Red. Everything went red. Your vision blurred as a flame curled in the pit of your stomach. You enter the building with a firm step, walking through the hallways, anger building inside you, trying to take over the sadness you didn’t want to feel. Your phone vibrated in the pocket of your jeans, you reach for it only to see the name of your sister on the screen. Memories weighed down on you, but you would not allow yourself to break down anymore. Instead, your heart turned ice cold and slunk into the shadows as your brain took complete control. You screamed in frustration and threw the phone against the nearest wall. How dare she call you? You took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

“Are you okay?” a voice called from behind you. You turned to face a man you had never seen before. He was tall, with long dark hair for his shoulders and piercing steel-blue eyes. His face changed once he saw you, going from worried to shocked.

“Y/N?” he asked cautiously, his voice was so soft, with a hidden hope you didn’t catch on.

“Do I know you?” you asked, not really caring for him, but getting annoyed for how he was looking at you.

“Is it really you?” he asked again, not believing what his eyes were seeing. Maybe so much brainwashing had really messed with him.

“Look dude, it’s really not a good time,” you wanted to leave, but he grabbed your arm, not forcefully, but with enough force for you not to have the chance to leave. You yanked your arm from his grasp and realized that where his left arm was supposed to be, there was, instead, a metal arm. Who the fuck was this guy?

“Don’t touch me,” you rebuked. Waves of fury rolled off you as the blood rose to your cheeks. The term anger barely even touched the tip of the volcano that you so clearly were in that moment.

He took a step back, not wanting to upset you even more, but he could not help himself, he needed to know if it was really you. He wished it was really you.

“Y/N, Bucky? What’s going on here?” the voice of Steve Rogers flooded your ears, and you let out a sigh of relief.

“Ask your friend,” you said before giving a not-so-friendly glare to the guy before picking the pieces of your phone and making your way to your room, leaving the men behind you.

You groaned in frustration against the pillow. You were such a bitch when you met him. There were times when your brain fries up. It was no excuse you know; you owned your behavior. It was like a trigger flicked inside you. Your emotions turned cold, fearful, anxious... You back away, flee or strike out at someone. Those are the moments where you’re not proud of who you are. You fail to be the warrior you were always told you were born to be. Instead, you show the frightened child within, damaged and afraid, the one still hiding from the monsters under the bed. You knew these are things you have to work on. You had spent so much time caring for others, pouring out love without measure, yet never receiving it in return. So like a stupid child, you hold out for love.

Now you understand why Bucky acted so weird around you that day in the compound. He remembered you. He remembered you from that night in the dance hall. But… how could he? It hadn’t happened yet. Well, technically yes, but at the same time, no.

“What are you thinking about?” Wanda pulled out from your thoughts, you turned your head to look at her.

“Nothing,” you lied.

“Y/N, we’ve known each other for a long time, I can tell when you’re lying.”

After a few minutes in silence you finally speak up, “I was thinking about the first day I met Bucky,” the tone of your voice betraying you.

“Y/N, you just find out your fiancé cheated on you with your sister. It’s normal you acted the way you did. You were angry.”

“And what about the other times?” you sat up and faced your best friend. “I had been nothing but mean to him.”

That morning you woke up later than usual so when you entered the kitchen, the breakfast was long gone. You groaned, you really needed a coffee.

“Sorry kiddo,” Tony patted your back before leaving the room. Sam and Steve made their way to the gym. Wanda and Nat were chatting on the counter, and the new guy was standing a few steps away from them looking at you. Again.

“Do you have some problem with me?” you asked annoyed, alarming the girls of your presence. They turned to look at you. “You are always staring at me.”

“S-sorry,” he muttered, tearing his gaze away from you. You rolled your eyes and made your way to your friends. “Here,” he offered you a mug of coffee. “It’s still warm.”

You looked at him confused, “You always drink a cup of coffee in the mornings, so when I noticed you weren’t coming anytime soon, I poured one for you in case you would come out later,” Nat and Wanda shared a smile on their faces, melting at how sweet the former winter soldier was being.

Your reaction was very different, though. “I want nothing from you,” and you left the kitchen, leaving the guy with a heartbreaking look on his face, and a shocking one on both of your friends’.

“You can do nothing to change the past, what has happened has happened. But you can change from now on.”

“You think I still have time?”

“You’ll have to try”

You had hurt Bucky so much; you took out all the anger you felt inside you on him. It was unfair. No matter how badly you treated him, he always sent a smile your way, he had been nothing but nice to you. You were a horrible person.

Everyone had their reasons for being how they were. Some people get past their troubles and grow mature, others get stuck in a sort of basic mode of fear and reactions, loving responses becoming absent or portioned out for personal gain. You were the latter type.

This had been the ninth time you checked to see if Wanda was really asleep. You felt like you were sixteen again and you were sneaking out of your house to meet your boyfriend. But you needed to go to the dance hall, needed to see if he would still be there.

You made the pillows form the shape of your body and covered them with the duvet, and you tiptoed out the room.

You walked through the Brooklyn streets one more time, those streets, so familiar but at the same time, so different to you. You spotted the dance hall you were in last night. The night where you met Bucky, and you danced with him…. you kissed him. Immediately, you felt the heat rising to your cheeks when you remembered the feeling of his soft lips on yours. You. brushed your thumb across your lips and a smile crept its way across your face.

You searched through the club, looking for the soldier. What if he wasn’t here tonight? What if he had already met someone else, and he’s dancing with them? You disliked the pit that formed in your stomach when your head was clouded with the thought of Bucky with someone else, holding them the same way that he had held you, showing them that beautiful smile of his….. his lips on someone else’s.

“Looking for someone, doll?” you turned around at the sound of his voice, even though you hastily left last night with no explanation, he didn’t seem mad about it, his face still plastered the same smile.

“H-hi.”

“You’re going shy on me now, doll?” he asked, “What happened the previous night? Never had a dame running away from me so fast,” he joked.

You chuckled lightly, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, no worries,”

The same song that you danced to last night started playing, your eyes caught a few couples starting moving to the music. When you turned to look at Bucky again, he had his head tilted to one side and a hopeful smile playing on his lips.

You stretched out your arm to him, “Shall we?”

He didn’t think twice and took your hand in his. “So, what made you come back?” he asked. His hands were on your hips and your arms wrapped loosely around his neck, just like last night while you swayed to the music.

“I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to dance to our song one more time.” you were feeling pretty bold, and you liked it, and by the grin forming on Bucky’s face, you were sure he liked it too.

“Our song?”

You hummed. “That’s our song. So you can’t dance it with anyone else,” you replied, “Just me.”

He chuckled, “I have no problem with that, doll.”

As you both kept swaying to the music, you leaned towards his body and let your head rest on his chest. You felt the way his heartbeat quickened and smiled, knowing you were the cause for it. All of your thoughts stopped. It was like your heart took over your head when you were with him. You realized that you never felt this way when you were in Jake’s arms.

You wanted a love that was passionate and determined, fire with earth, yet was also a serenity soul that you could dwell in forever. When the song finally ended, you felt his intense gaze on you, and your insecurity took over, “Is everything okay?” you asked looking at him.

“If I kissed you now, would you run away from me again?”

You laughed, and shook your head, “No, not again.”

“Promise? Because my heart wouldn’t be able to handle it again.”

You looked into his blue eyes, and you cursed yourself for not realizing before how beautiful his eyes were… every piece of him was beautiful. He was a masterpiece. You didn’t answer his question, but instead, you stood on your tiptoes and closed the gap between the two of you before he could say anything else.

“I’m telling you, it’s her.” Bucky was losing his nerves to the disbelief of his best friend.

“Buck, it’s been over 80 years, there’s no way it’s her.”

You were the exact same replica of the woman that stole his heart back in 1942 in that dance hall. It was you. He was sure about that. No matter how crazy it would have sounded.

If he and Steve were still here, why couldn’t you be too?

“Alright, then why didn't she recognize you?” Steve wasn’t trying to be mean, he knew his friend really loved that girl since the second she bumped into him. But he also knew that the chances of it being the same person were slim. Maybe you were her granddaughter. But that wasn’t an option Bucky could consider.

“I don’t know,” the soldier didn’t have an explanation for that. Maybe they had brainwashed you the same way they did with him and you forgot about your past… about him? If that was the case, he would try his best to make you remember. “But I will not lose her again.”

He wouldn’t give up on you. Not again.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes one shot #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan imagine #bucky barnes #sebastian stan

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sylvanas-girlkisser · 2 years ago

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Anyways this is the part of the show where I try to untangle my feelings on Gideon the Ninth.

So I don’t know how universal this experience is, but whenever I tried to learn anything about the story to figure out if it was for me, I would either get some extremely obtuse nothing description to protect my pure virgin mind from the horror of spoilers (gasp), or I would get an equally nothing AO3 style description “enemies to lovers, slow burn, major character death, butch POC main character“.

And like, the story really isn’t that hard to explain: a bunch of teens and 20-somethings gets trapped in a murder house where they have to solve a bunch of equally deathly puzzles in an effort to become demigods. It’s basically what would happen if someone stuck the Maze Runner series, Among Us, and the entire discography of Aurelio Voltaire in a blender and turned the results into a book.

I mean that as a compliment by the way. The story of two glorified mall goths running around a gazilion years old house trying to untangle the clues left behind by some grade A wankers, while also trying to figure out if there is an impostor amongus or if the house is just shitful of fuck, is very good.

The problem is that story comes with a lot of caveats, the most prominent of which is the pacing. The first 150 ish pages of the book is just Gideon walking around bored out of her skull, yes this is about establishing that Gideon doesn’t hold a lot of impetous in the story, but that could have been done just as well in the span of 50 pages. same goes for the ending which is, no joke, a 32 pages long fight scene.

Maybe its because of the afforementioned obtuse nothing descriptions I had gotten when trying to learn more about the book, but I went in expecting something kind of high concept and subversive, and that’s just not this book. Or maybe it would have been in a pre-Broken Earth Trilogy world, but the book came out in 2019 (two years after The Stone Sky); and so its slavish adherence to video game logic makes the world seem underdeveloped, and the use of post modern literary tropes like a limited perspective narrator, comes off as being purely for the sake of novelty.

I know nuance is illegal on the internet but that is really the only way to describe GtN. It’s not a good book, nor a bad book, its a book with a very good core story, which lacks the focus to get more than 80% of the way there.

p.s. it’s already 440 pages, could we really not have added another 2 to include a scene where the SIXTEEN (16!) members of the main cast are introduced to the reader in the style of the Hunger Games’ parade of tributes?

#valk yelling at clouds #probably still gonna read HtN #not convinced i will enjoy it as much #valk yelling at bones

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your--isgayrights · 3 years ago

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How about 999 yjh and uriel?

This went a bit past just 999, but I had fun with this prompt! Here's some cannon based Jonghyuk angst with happy ending lol.

The nine hundred ninety ninth regression was one that Yoo Jonghyuk planned based on his previous regressions, as he always did.

Although, it wasn't as if the previous two regressions, the nine hundred ninety seventh and eighth, were really the worst the starstream had seen of Yoo Jonghyuk. That title would probably be saved for the forty-first from which Yoo Jonghyuk was conscious of the fact he had to deliberately block memories from to stay sane.

No, the problem with the last two regressions wasn't the presence of any memories that were wretched to the point of novelty. The problem was the fact that Yoo Jonghyuk barely retained any memories of them at all.

It was all a haze… it was honestly hard to tell if those regressions had been even markedly different from the ones previous to them, as all of the repeated events seemed to mush together and meld with the centuries of anguish he had already endured.

He hadn't felt anything new. Done anything new. So much so that he would forget his place in the new regression and wander aimlessly thinking of the old until some high level constellation punk got a lucky shot at him.

And then all of a sudden, Yoo Jonghyuk woke up in that familiar train car. The one that no matter what would only last for the first thirty minutes of the scenario.

Almost out of habit, he looked for that boy he had been keeping an eye on. The one who always died.

He stopped when he realized.

999.

That boy had died one thousand times.

Yoo Jonghyuk had lived one thousand times. Been in this train car one thousand times. Failed to save anyone one thousand times. Died one thousand times.

Was he really that useless? Yoo Jonghyuk thought to himself, as he went through the motions of beating Choi Han-gyu to death before he could blow up the car.

Honestly, at this point maybe he should accept that he was just like the boy in this car.

No matter what he did, he was going to die anyway.

If he thought about it like that, then…

Well, what was the best thing that he could accomplish with his own death, knowing that it would come to him no matter what he did?

So in the nine hundred ninety ninth turn, Yoo Jonghyuk took more risks than ever before. He made choices and plans that he never would have before because experience had shown they were the antithesis to his former dogma. That which put his own means of survival above all else.

And little by little, Yoo Jonghyuk began to notice that things could be new again.

In this regression, his companions cared more about him. They respected him more, and opened up about things they never had. As if something in his actions connected to them. Made them think he acted out of love for them since his actions clearly showed no care for himself.

And maybe Yoo Jonghyuk wanted to believe them, too. That he was still capable of that sort of love. That desire for connection.

So he let himself fall into it. He made his decisions based on everyone's survival except for his own.

And his comrades continued to show new sides of themselves. The way Lee Jihye tried not to weep aver the bloody remains of his leg, even though no one had died that regression. How Lee Hyunsung's lips trembled while trying to stop the blessing where Yoo Jonghyuk's arm used to be. Shin Yoosung's open bawling, as it began to set in on Yoo Jonghyuk that he would never see this version of her's face ever again.

But Yoo Jonghyuk knew whose response to his actions had surprised him the most this regression.

"Jonghyuk. Are you ready?" The voice of a certain archangel was heard near his somehow still intact ears.

Uriel's face was close to his, a tight grip on his arm and waist along with the angelic wing steadied on his back the only support keeping him held upright as the others had followed his instructions in forging through the final battle ahead of them.

"There's no need to watch over me so closely, Uriel." He told her. It was, in fact, something he had been telling this strange angel recurrently ever since she had stepped down from Eden to join their group.

That was one thing he had never expected of the entity he had once known as the Demon-like Judge of Fire. In all the timelines he had been through Uriel had been just that, a silent judge. Reacting positively to his lawful actions in the early scenarios with coins, and expressing disappointment over his more morally dubious actions. Only descending after the destruction of Eden occasionally to cast judgement in person.

But something about this round had moved the archangel to act differently after the destruction of Eden this round.

"No offense, but there's obviously a d**n need for it, Jonghyuk." Uriel casually censored herself, as though the restrictions of Eden were still in place. "You can't see how the others are looking back towards you right now, but they know it too. That it's always times like this that you feel the need to go and take unnecessary risks."

Yoo Jonghyuk thought that he heard it in her voice, then.

That lilt in Uriel's voice that suggested she was talking to an old friend, even though the span of time in which he had met this version of her was infinitesimal in comparison to the life he had already lived before her, and perhaps compared to the life of a constellation as well.

Maybe Uriel, too, had lived through this all before. A war where she was called upon to support a comrade close to death.

Perhaps she also knew what it was like to be too helpless to save someone important.

Yoo Jonghyuk should be sorry that she would have to go through it again.

He could already feel it. No matter how close Uriel and her sword stayed by his side, Yoo Jonghyuk could feel his death coming to him.

It was because the outer world covenant wasn't an outside threat. It was something that was inside of him. A hole that came from the very center of him. Almost as if there were no outer world god involved, and Yoo Jonghyuk had really only done this to himself.

When everything was fading, and he could recognize her voice as one of the ones desperately calling out to him, Yoo Jonghyuk thought that he should apologize to her.

Instead, he died with a smile on his face.

The one thousandth regression was one that Yoo Jonghyuk planned based on his previous regressions, as he always did.

When he woke up on the train car again, he wasn't smiling as he had been when he died.

It was because he knew that he wouldn't let the events that let him get so far in the last regression repeat.

He couldn't live like that.

Suicidal idiot that he still was, he couldn't let the same thing happen to his precious memories of those friends in the nine hundred ninety ninth that had happened to every other memory he had of them from all those other regressions. Let them repeat until the point of oblivion. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't, even if it would be the right thing to do, even though it could save their lives, Yoo Jonghyuk just wasn't strong enough.

And he hated himself, for that weakness.

That was when Yoo Jonghyuk decided that he had to die, sitting there in that subway car before the scenarios started.

No matter what it took, killing every constellation in the starstream, losing distorted versions of old comrades, finding and wringing out his sponsor's neck…

Yoo Jonghyuk had to survive long enough to stand in front of that wall once more.

And join all of his once treasured memories in the deepest oblivion of death.

From then on, the only times he saw that Demon-like Judge of Fire descended from Eden was when she was sent with the express purpose to kill him in a way that didn't matter.

The only thing new he learned about her thereafter was how her corpse looked with a sword through the middle.

That was, until he met her as an outer god.

Secretive Plotter had wondered if it would please an angel like Uriel to know that he had prayed for the first time in that moment.

Prayed against all odds that her firey sword really could pierce through his curse of life and see him to his end.

But some dumb guy saved him that day.

And now, in the present, Yoo Jonghyuk was watching the kid version of that guy pick the green bits out of the omelette he had made him.

He had been trying to remember from the timelines where he had kids how he had tricked them into eating their vegetables, but like most of the times he tried to recall those deep memories of his, something in his brain had gotten caught up in that pesky number 999's time.

It was probably because his current company made those times hard to forget.

"Aaaaah I'm going to be late!" Uriel ran into the kitchen in a flash of blonde curls, going for the bread in the fridge as if she was going to run out of the house with toast in her mouth like a schoolgirl from one of her animes. "Jonghyuk do you know where Jihye is?"

"She already left." Yoo Jonghyuk reported, as he batted her hands off the bread and gave her a fork for the small omelette he had already put on the table for her. "Her first class this semester is in an early slot."

Even though he had told that girl to schedule her classes with the university early if she wanted good times…

"Shi-" Uriel seemed to remember there was no system to filter out her swears as she spared a glance toward Dokja before correcting herself. "Shoot. I mean shoot." She started speaking between bites as she scarfed down the omelette "I think that [munch] girl borrowed the shoes I was [chew] going to wear to my interview [gulp] without asking…"

"Does it really matter what shoes you wear?" Yoo Jonghyuk commented as he used his chopsticks to start placing Dokja's vegetables back into his omelette. "A former constellation is going to look strange submitting her manhwa manuscript to an editor for review no matter what."

"Give me a break." Uriel frowned. "It's not my fault that your world somehow made the mistake of making creative skills look more appealing on a resume than demon slaying skills."

Yoo Jonghyuk thought that there was truth to her observation, as he watched Uriel ruffle the hair of the pouting Dokja, before putting her clean plate in the sink for him to deal with later.

Everything about this world was new to Uriel. One could see it plainly in the very way she moved, unused to not carrying wings everywhere she went and walking ever so lightly on the earth wherever she went. Whether it was because she knew what it was to fly or because her shoulders had never felt so light before, Yoo Jonghyuk couldn't be sure.

"Good luck." He called, as Uriel walked out into the fray ahead of him, donning combat boots instead of the professional heel she seemed to have misplaced.

"Thanks Jonghyuk!" She replied, seemingly not compelled to look back to check on him as she walked out the door.

Yoo Jonghyuk had this certain feeling, then. A feeling that he often saw himself having in this new life of his, with these old friends of his.

Even though he thoroughly knew these people already, that fact made it all the more exciting to watch them grow into their roles in this world. Become the people that he never got to see them be.

"It's that look in your eye."

Yoo Jonghyuk almost startled, as he remembered he was being watched.

He turned to find young Dokja looking him with a gaze that seemed to see beyond his stoic expression.

"My father never looked at anyone like the way you looked at her just now, Hyung." He said, in that small, knowing voice of his, before a shyness seemed to come over him, and he looked down at his plate.

"That's why nine hundred ninety nine was always my favorite." He admitted, in a little voice

The emotion that Yoo Jonghyuk felt then was a rare one, but not entirely new.

A mixture of pride and bashfulness that only his own children had ever raised out of him, a glow that seemed to start from his chest and go on to cover his cheeks.

Perhaps an erstwhile familiarity with that feeling was the only thing that allowed him to save himself from smiling, as he tried very hard to tell Dokja sternly to eat his vegetables.

And when Uriel came home that evening to announce that her manuscript had gotten picked up… well, it wasn't hard to admit that Yoo Jonghyuk too was now living through a life that he never had before.

#tw suicide #not beta read btw dont beat me up if theres typos #orv #yoo junghyuk #yoo joonghyuk #yu junghyeok #uriel #orv uriel #demon like judge of fire #orv spoilers #ficlet #writing #kid dokja at the end a little bit haha i like 999th regression found family lol

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selchielesbian · 2 years ago

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gideon the ninth, while it broke my heart, was very fun, especially since it activated the professor-layton-poirot-locked-door-mystery loving part of my brain. so here’s my little scorecard of the things I got right and wrong. plus some other random commentary.

-figured out protesilaus was doa, it did NOT occur to me, however, that this would be a problem for everyone else lmao the concept of a necromantic sin is very interesting because where the line is drawn seems to be very arbitrary. like i said before this book has some interesting arguments surrounding the politics of death. i need to chew on it a bit more (and maybe read harrow first) before i come back to it.

-this also led me to assume one of the bodies in the furnace was his--and the other had to be dulcinea...but then of course ‘dulcinea’ was found, so i dismissed that theory and assumed it was one of the priests and something had taken their place

-even though i had an inkling that it was either dulcinea or the third house that killed magnus and abigail, i did not figure out what was going on w ‘dulcinea’ until palamedes confronts her. and i only figured it out before the actual reveal because he said “when i started writing to you, you were fifteen..” and I went. wait a minute. the math isn’t mathing because dulcinea said she was 25 (or i guess, teacher did), but if she was fifteen 12 years ago that would make her 27...somebody lying. much like gideon i’m blinded by hot nice lady :( gideon is stronger than me though cause after everything that happened i probably would have just said ‘yeah okay fuck it’ and went along with cytherea lol. -i have lots of dulcinea and cytherea thoughts but that’ll maybe get its own post.

-on that note--I assumed Teacher was the lyctor. what was going on with him was MUCH more interesting, however

-after harrow and gideon completed the first challenge in imaging (+ what they uncovered in the lyctor lab) it was pretty clear to me that the process to become a lyctor meant the adept and the cavalier have to merge their life force somehow, I just really didn’t understand the magical theory behind it until the end. also had palamedes’ same reaction of ‘well of course that’s how it works--but also that’s totally against the purpose of creating these extremely emotionally intense bonds between the cavaliers and their necromancers.�� but actually that’s EXACTLY why these relationships exist--the process only works properly if the life force is shared willingly. see ianthe struggling with naberius who is ANGRY at her, vs gideon being able to merge almost immediately with harrow. -on the subject of the twins; it actually would have probably been better for her to take corona’s soul, but ofc it’s supposed to be the cav who makes the sacrifice, and she wants naberius’ skills. poor babs. poor corona. it would have been interesting to see what happened if she absorbed coronoabeth’s vitality, though -my theory that one of the twins is dead was only half right--that ianthe is definitely more sickly/near dead and this is exacerbated by covering for coronabeth’s lack of ability. but in that way it makes her a very powerful necromancer, if we’re subscribing to the theory that being near death gives you a constant source of necromantic power ala what made dulcinea a talented adept. and then she has a constant source of power via corona (energy transference, which explains why they would leave and come back and leave and come back when working) and naberius (through EATING HIM).

-still not 100% sure what’s going on re: gideon’s parentage but I have a theory...obviously many of the adepts and cavs were NOT happy with the realization that becoming a lyctor means the cavalier has to die--the hints harrow and gideon found in the first lyctor lab showed that a few of them may even have been trying to find ways around it. I think it’s possible gideon IS the gideon from the note, or an attempt at putting that gideon’s soul in another body. which would explain why gideon was immune to the neurotoxin as a baby and seems to heal much more quickly than others in general.

#gideonposting #gideon the ninth #the dialogue is still the worst part of this book #and in parts is arguably unforgivable

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thetypedwriter · 3 years ago

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Gideon the Ninth Book Review

Gideon the Ninth Book Review by Tamsyn Muir

It would be only a slight hyperbole to say that a million people have either recommended this book to me or have told me to read it. I’ve heard for years now that this book is incredible and extremely well written and beloved by many. So, if that’s the case why did I wait so long to read it?

I don’t have a good answer. Sometimes a book is on your radar, but either the time isn’t right, other books take priority, or in my case, it’s adult fiction and I held slight trepidation that I wouldn’t love it as much as everyone else in the world seemed to.

Thank goodness, that didn’t end up being the case and I’ll get into why in a moment.

First, Gideon the Ninth has the most amazing descriptive sentence belonging on any front cover of any book ever.

I shall put it here for prosperity and awe: “Lesbian necromancers explore a haunted gothic palace in space!” -Charles Stross.

Now, I don’t know who you are Mr. Stross, but that has to be the best sentence written in the English language since its conception. If that isn’t enough intrigue for you to crack open the novel then I truly don’t know what is or what it would take.

That being said, Mr. Stross wasn’t entirely accurate, but that’ll be clear soon enough.

The novel surrounds our main protagonist, Gideon Nav, or, known as Gideon the Ninth, the primary cavalier to the Ninth House necromancer. Essentially, this world takes place in a different solar system with its own sun star known as Dominicus as well as nine planets also known as the Nine Houses.

Each House has a specific specialty for what is known for, and as summarized helpfully, but also overwhelmingly, at the beginning of the novel, the Ninth House is also known as the keepers of the Locked Tomb, House of the Sewn Tongue, and home to the Black Vestals.

This meant nothing to me at the beginning and quite truthfully, I still struggled to remember throughout the novel who belonged to the Third House, or the Fifth and what that quite meant, as once again, each House has a reputation and expected skill set that precedes them.

Not to say that it was poorly written because it wasn’t. Muir just has a lot of characters with specific titles and while she actually does quite a good job of categorizing them and helpfully reminding you who is who, I still struggled with just the sheer amount of information and people.

Normally, this would be a massive criticism, like it was with the cast of characters in Lore but in this case it’s not Muir’s fault. She’s giving me all the information necessary to understand. It was just my brain that struggled trying to recognize and categorize everyone. If anything, I’m excited to re-read Gideon the Ninth and have it sink in like a second skin eventually.

Having this large cast of characters, the book revolves around each of the Nine Houses (except for the First House) sending their best necromancer, a wielder of both thanergy (death energy) and thalergy (life energy) in the form of a House Adept, someone who is able to wield this kind of energy either in bone magic, flesh magic, or spirit magic.

In accompaniment, each Necromancer Adept has a primary Cavalier, a trained fighter that is both protector, companion, and often, necessary energy suppliers to their Adept in both horrendous and acceptable ways.

The goal of these pairs, having been sent to the First planet, is to become a Lyctor, an immortal servant to the Undying Emperor. The catch is that once the Necromancers and their Cavaliers arrive on the First, the shuttle departs and they are trapped in an abandoned, dilapidated, once-regal and great mansion that boasts hundreds of floors, secret doors, and mystery upon mystery.

Each pair expects a streamlined process to Lyctorhood once they arrive, a methodical procedure, perhaps some training, and ultimately a test. What they don’t expect is a mellow man by the name of Teacher that claims to know nothing about the process himself, but is the overseer of the First.

What follows is a mind-boggling search to become a Lyctor and unravel the mysteries of the haunted palace. What the pairs don’t expect is the death of their own, gruesome murders at the hand of someone in their very own positions and an evil danger beyond any of their imagination lurking in the mansion.

This novel was a great concoction of mystery, action, interpersonal relationships, character growth, dazzling descriptions, and world building.

The world of Dominicus and the Nine Houses is expansive and rich, something that I haven’t been able to sink my teeth into, and not for lack of trying, but because it is so deep and so layered that I simply need to take several bites to get it all down.

The mystery is fulfilling and strangely, to me at least, reminiscent of a game called Danganronpa. If you know what that is, and even if you don’t, it centers around the idea of a murder mystery, but where the killer is one of your own and the mystery is trying to figure out not ony the who, but the why of what they are doing, amongst a slew of other deadly riddles.

Gideon the Ninth is the same. As people continue to get picked off and brutally murdered, as a reader you find yourself trying to puzzle out not only who, but why someone would commit such atrocities and the motivation behind it.

The plot itself of Gideon the Ninth was extremely satisfying and alluring. There were times where I personally found that novel bogged down with excessive description, but it was usually broken up with Gideon’s personal brand of crass humor, a very much needed breather with the expansive exposition, that, while extremely well done, well researched, and well written, did get a tad boring from time to time for me personally, even if it allowed for clear imagery as well as adding to already well formed world building.

In addition to the plot, all of the characters were well done and as fleshed out as they could be considering the amount of characters involved. First, even though this is set in a fantasy sci-fi setting, each of the characters seemed realistic and like they could potentially be real people.

A large criticism of books I often have, especially in YA, is that the characters often come across like caricatures, and not real flesh and blood humans with both positive and negative qualities.

Each character, some developed more than others, have both flaws and strengths, even the main characters, which I highly appreciated. Not only does it make the story more real and palatable, but it also is just more interesting to read about as it’s actually based in humanity and the nature of human beings rather than some perfect carbon copy of one.

Gideon as a narrator was hilarious. She was often crass, blunt, horny, humorous and ignorant. But on the other hand, she was also an extremely talented fighter, actually very sweet deep down, forgiving, and loving.

This mix in a main character was a welcome one in addition to making Gideon feel like a real person, despite all the bone magic and necromancy, and often her thought process and dialogue made me laugh out loud.

Another main character, Harrowhark Nonagesimus (What a name!) is Gideon’s Necromancer and main companion. She’s bitter, rude, spiteful, and ruthless. She’s also hardworking, intelligent, and stubborn.

If you’re catching the pattern here, Muir isn’t just writing archetypes and passing them off as characters. She’s writing complex and nuanced personalities that are intriguing and interesting and well developed.

I could get into the other plethora of characters like Camila, Dulcinea, Palamedes, Magnus, Judith and so on, but this review would be a thousand pages long so I’ll just settle for saying that every character was well done and lovingly crafted and not one of them, even the annoying ones, were characters that I hated.

One important thing to note was Muir’s writing itself. It was incredible. Such descriptions! Such characterization! Such detail! Such vocabulary! I was supremely impressed with her writing as a whole and often found myself having to look up words that I had never heard of in my life (always a welcome change of pace). I was blown away by her sheet talent and creativity.

The last two things I have to note might get me in trouble.

One, the ending for me was...bittersweet. For fear of spoiling someone, I won’t get into details, but I found it both lacking and simultaneously making absolute sense. I wanted both more and yet, found that everything was just enough. It’s hard to put into words, but if you know, you know.

I do have a slightly sinking feeling though that the ending twist will somehow be undone in the sequel. I don’t know if this is true (although I will eventually find out), and I can’t decide if I’m going to be happy or dismayed by it.

Such conflicting feelings are in of itself homage to Muir’s skill as a writer and the complexities of her tale.

Lastly, the one aspect that might get me into the stickiest of predicaments: Harrowhark’s and Gideon’s relationship. I don’t know if I like it or not. On the one hand, I absolutely love it. It's a hate-to-love slow burn, which really is the only way an OTP makes its way into my heart. I love that they’re so different and yet so compatible, one flesh and one blood and all that other nonsense.

They see each other as equals, as adversaries, and I adore that dynamic in any pairing. I also love the F/F representation of some badass women and that they’re not traditionally attractive and beautiful.

One of my favorite lines came from the end of the book where Gideon describes Harrowhark’s face as, “bitter” and “hateful”. I just love when characters aren’t conventionally gorgeous and yet beautiful in the eyes of the beholder and all that jazz.

Now. Onto the problems.

Harrowhark’s and Gideon’s relationship is kinda...toxic? It grows into something less so, but it definitely starts off that way. I really hate imbalances of power of any kind and Harrowhark definitely has power over Gideon, power that she creully abuses. I asked myself: if Harrowhark was a man and treated Gideon so abysmally for years, and then Gideon eventually forgave him and loved him despite everything, would I think differently?

And the answer is yes, yes I would.

Is that fair? Probably not. But I can’t help but think how the dynamics change with the two of them being women, and how in my opinion, I think more is forgiven of Harrowhark because of it, even when it’s not deserved.

Now, Harrowhark is a complex character and has traumas of her own, but I just can’t help but think of all the things she did to Gideon and the things she took away from her and forced her to do and then think of them together and it’s...not great.

Overall, my feelings on their relationship are complicated (which is a repeated pattern when it comes to Muir’s writing) and I don’t mind that it’s complicated, it makes it interesting, but I also would be bereft to mention it here. I look forward to seeing how it develops and if my feelings change and grow on the matter as well.

In total, Gideon the Ninth is a fantastic read. It has everything you want inlaid with characters who not only push the plot along, but incentivize you to read more. It has complicated issues and complicated characters, but that means it’s nuanced and complex and juicy enough to bite into.

Don’t do what I did and wait years for this novel. If you need a good read, you don’t need to look any further and then let yourself be swept along for the necromantic ride.

Recommendation: “Lesbian necromancers explore a haunted gothic palace in space!” -Charles Stross. I mean. Come on people, what more can you ask for?

Score: 8/10

#gideon the 9th #gideon the ninth #tamsyn muir #harrowhark nonagesimus #adult fiction #book blog #book review #Book Recommendations #book rec #favorite books #LGBTQ fiction #lgbtqbook #F/F books #F/F romance #8/10

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alyblacklist · 4 years ago

Link

New interview from Vanity Fair (Italy) with James Spader (in Italian). Translation via Google translate below (corrections welcome):

Eight years after its debut, the TV series with Megan Boone and James Spader is back on FoxCrime. Already renewed for a ninth season, the show won't provide any representation of the Coronavirus or American politics. "We are an escape from reality and we want to remain so."

"In eight years, not a single episode has gone far and wide." The voice of James Spader, on the last Friday in the red zone, peeps out from a distant space, from an America in rebirth, whose present enthusiasm has not found any representation in the television series of which he is the protagonist. Spader, The Blacklist's Raymond Reddington, has strenuously opposed the possibility of contaminating one's fictional universe with the dross of the present. "Our show has always existed within a parallel world. Over the years, we have never bothered to plot a plot that had to do with real life, with newspaper headlines and news stories ». The Blacklist, whose eighth season is set to debut on FoxCrime on prime time on February 12, "has defined a universe of its own, to which it has remained faithful." Therefore, no Joe Biden, in the twenty-two new episodes of the television series. No pandemic.

The Blacklist, on air since 2013, will only find the characters who have made it a cult. Raymond Reddington, a repentant criminal whose decision to cooperate with the police is not the daughter, alone, of a sudden goodness of heart; Elizabeth Keen, special agent responsible for following his confessions; Donald Ressler, Harold Cooper, the set of FBI agents and gangsters whose "Red" is determined to secure a future behind bars.

Many television series usually set in fictional universes have, however, decided to make an exception and give their own representation of the pandemic. Why this categorical "no"?

“For a few, but effective reasons. I think one of the strengths of our show has always been its verisimilitude. The Blacklist is a parallel universe, in which credible characters live. This allowed the audience to find an escape from reality in the series. I think many viewers watch The Blacklist because it allows them to detach themselves from the problems related to everyday life, and this has led us to exclude the pandemic over everything ».

However, you will have had to face the restrictions that the Coronavirus has brought with it.

"Absolutely. We had to deal with many restrictions, we had to limit the number of people present in a given location. But, net of the difficulties and the productive effort that required us, I think I can say that a magnificent job has been done ».

Work that will continue: The Blacklist has already been confirmed for a ninth season. What still remains to be told?

"Much. It may seem absurd, but in eight years we have never found ourselves beating around the bush. No episode, in the eight seasons, was thought of as a filler. I remember one day talking to Jon Bokenkamp, the director. He had a twenty-minute longer bet on his hands. We tried to figure out how to cut it, which unnecessary scenes to eliminate. In the end, it was twenty minutes longer than it should have ”.

Aren't you bored playing the same character for eight years?

"No. On the set of The Blacklist, I've never had a mediocre or mundane day. The series has always been very exciting and the very idea of moving forward excites me. There are many surprises in this new season. There are more for the public than for me. The writers and I talked for a long time about what we were going to do, so nothing could surprise me once shooting started ».

And this would lead us to think of a certain repetitiveness ...

“It would induce, though. When I play the part of Red I'm not surprised by the story we're telling, but by the world we're making it in. '

Explain.

"One of the great entertainments of being an actor is being able to be surprised by your reactions: there is amazement in the physical and emotional responses that are given in certain situations. There is some wonder in seeing a location for the first time. There is growth in looking at a problem or a fact from a new perspective. The surprise, when you are an actor, is not about where you get to on the show, it's about the little things, the details, even personal, that we discover as we go on ».

So what has Raymond Reddington left you over these eight seasons?

"From the beginning, what I loved most about Red was his irreverence, his sense of humor. I discovered and learned to love his pervasive and profound longing for life ». His character is highly ambivalent.

Has he really never despised him?

“I don't usually make judgments about my characters. I have a deep understanding of everything Raymond stands for. Rather, I'd say there are things about Red that Red doesn't like: his brutality and the danger he poses to others, for example. But I think Red is aware of the qualities that make him strong and able to survive the worst circumstances in life. He saw the tremendous price of loss and witnessed it. He feels how bad death does. This led him to strongly desire sweetness, calm, love. He is a dichotomous character, and it is this ambivalence of him that has made him so interesting ».

He often talks about his collaboration with the writers. What exactly does it consist of?

«In a real collaboration. Let's talk about everything that has to do with the show. We talk before the writing of the scripts, during the shoot. Let's talk about the new entries and the possible suppression of some characters. We are talking about subplots that can last years, months or days. Let's talk about the tone of the show, the dialogues. We talk during the holidays. This series keeps me awake at night ».

And do you think it's a good thing?

“Let's just say I've always had trouble sleeping. When I wake up, my mind begins to travel fast. I tend to be an obsessive compulsive person, so I often stay up at night shaping ideas about The Blacklist. It happens that I waste hours trying to remember them, so as to put them on paper the following morning ».

Elizabeth Keen, the special agent played by Megan Boone, is one of the strongest female characters on television. How do you judge the change that Hollywood is aiming for, the progressive abandonment of gender roles?

«I find it fundamental. For me, as a man and actor, it always has been. I have always felt more comfortable in the company of women. I grew up with a female majority in the house, a terrific mother and two older sisters. I've always been attracted to strong female characters and the ones I've met in my films have been. I've always looked at the world from a female perspective, and I can't imagine doing otherwise. I understand, however, that it took the industry some time to get here. Today, I feel like saying that it is only a matter of time for the real and definitive change to be achieved ».

Digital has imposed a decidedly sustained production rate, even on linear television. Do you find such trouble to be good?

«I state that I, on the other hand, have never felt in competition with digital or Netflix. Netflix aired The Blacklist, creating added value for all of us. Streaming brought us audiences, and it was great. In general, I'm happy to have the huge amount of programs we have now. Competition is a good thing, it leads to excellence, it spurs commitment ".

Cinema, television, theater. In his career he has done everything. Which medium did you prefer?

“On television, I found a greater opportunity for further study. The Blacklist is the second TV show I work on, and has been running for over 150 episodes. My first character I played in The Practice, then in Boston Legal. Either way, I found it fascinating to see how it evolved, not in history, but over time. My TV characters have aged with me, and I with them. I think it's the best thing about working on television ».

Nothing bad then?

“You wake you up in the morning.When I started acting, I found myself working on the stage.It was a night job, and I've always been a night person, not a morning person.So when I found myself making films, I always tried to play characters who lived at night. What, this, that I managed, if you notice. It was television that forced me to turn. TV is a day job, which starts very early in the morning. It was a shock.I haven't gotten used to the sound of the alarm yet. '

#the blacklist #james spader #interview #raymond reddington

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 4 years ago

Text

I’m Ready

Summary: “I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”

Picks up right where the show left off. Not technically a fix-it, as I didn’t change anything, but I promise it gets better.

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of (canon) child abuse and neglect, mentions of past trauma, working through trauma, denial, bit of pining (but, like, in a denial sort of way), some fluff, some angst (but not as much as there is fluff)

Author’s Note: So many thanks to @there-must-be-a-lock for endless suggestions, fixes, and beautiful images (header AND dividers!!!). Thanks to all my friends for cheering me on, especially @thoughtslikeaminefield ; I probably wouldn’t have kept going with the story without you.

This is my first Destiel story and my first time posting in a while. Please be kind.

Word Count: 7704

In case you missed it: ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

Dean isn’t sure how long he’s been in heaven, at least not by heaven’s timeframe. Probably years, maybe even a couple of decades. He doesn’t age in heaven, and time works differently, running fast and stretching slow.

For Dean, heaven is a chance to rest, catch up with his massive found family, and just breathe for the first time since he was a kid. No worrying about Sam, no waiting for the next monster to pop out, no prepping for the next apocalypse.

Nothing like heaven to give a guy time to kick his boots off and just relax.

Unfortunately, relaxing has never come easy to Dean. Sure, he can go through the motions (binge watching horror movies, binge drinking, hell, just bingeing in general), but relaxing is an entirely different matter.

Relaxing means letting his guard down. It means giving up his hypervigilance. It means sleeping hard and staying asleep until he wakes naturally and unassisted by attackers. It means spending long moments reminding himself the monster at the end of the book is really gone.

Sam is safe. Everyone he’s ever loved is safe and close, where he can reach them.

Almost everyone.

...

Jake Walker is born on the ninth of July at twenty-one seconds past 9:14 AM. His mother Samantha is exhausted after a two-weeks-early delivery, but both she and the baby are strong and steady. Her wife didn’t faint, none of the medical team ever sounded the least worried, and she heard her son’s first shocked wail as he came into the world. Exhausted, but definitely good.

His mom Betty, on the other hand, is an absolute wreck. She’s been anxious the entire pregnancy, despite good news from the doctor at every visit, and she is terrified that the unexpected early arrival of their son means her worst fears are just beginning.

Betty takes slow, calming breaths, focusing on not clamping down too hard on Sam’s hand. She has to stay strong, calm, for her new family. She has to keep her head on straight, in case—in case —

“Your son is absolutely fine, seems he just had a real particular time he wanted to arrive. Here he is.”

Betty opens her eyes to find a delivery nurse beaming at her, proffering a small, swaddled bundle.

“Never seen such a calm baby. Here, he’s been waiting for you.”

Betty looks down into the startlingly clear, mossy green eyes gazing up at her from the squashed, serene little face, and she feels something click into place in the middle of her chest. Samantha leans her head back against her pillow, letting out a long slow breath as she smiles, and Betty’s pulse slowly finds its way back to something like normal.

“We’ve been waiting for you, too, big guy.”

...

Trauma doesn’t heal in a day, not even in heaven. All the shit Dean remembers — all the shit he tried to forget — everything he ever managed to suppress — drives him from his bed at night, leaving him sleepless on his front porch, staring blankly into the night, or tinkering on Baby in the garage, digging into the perfect engine, determined to distract himself from his spiraling thoughts.

Dean has never been an idiot, no matter how many times he played the fool in life. The people he and Sam couldn’t save, the people he let down, none of those deaths are on him. Dean isn’t responsible for the pain and suffering, but he’s haunted by it all the same.

The problem is, haunts don’t go away on their own. Every hunter knows that.

It’s not that he wants forgiveness; how can he be forgiven for something he isn’t responsible for? He needs to see those people, though, see that they’re okay and at peace. He has to make sure everyone is where they should be, safe and at least content. And even if he ultimately isn’t their killer, didn’t want their deaths, would have done anything to prevent them, he still needs them to know...to know everything.

He needs absolution.

And if the person who needs to hear those things the most is MIA, well, they’ve got a history of not saying a lot of things face to face. There’s always prayer, right?

Dean starts by visiting a couple of people he hadn’t been able to save along the way, feeling strangely like someone following a twelve step program. Objectively, (ie, according to the people he talks to), he’s got nothing to apologize for. He did his best; he made tough decisions in situations forced upon him. They don’t blame him in the least, and most are truly and obviously thankful for his intervention.

Their words don’t make much of a dent in the mountain of guilt Dean carries on his shoulders, but it’s a start.

Once or twice, Dean finds himself looking up at the sky, so far from empty, opening his mouth to call out — an action so common on earth it nearly became reflex —but he stops himself both times. He’s not ready for that conversation.

But he needs to talk to someone closer to him, a deeper connection than the monster victims he’s been visiting.

He’s restless, needs to move a little, needs to talk to…

Someone. He needs to talk to someone. But he can’t. Hell, he can’t even say the name.

Pacing the garage turns to a wandering ramble down the road, past Sam and his family’s house, past Mom and Dad’s house (there’s a conversation or fifty that he’s not ready for), until he finds himself in front of what can only be described as a hobbit hole. He shakes his head, not for the first time, the corner of his mouth tilted up as he knocks on the circular front door.

He’s greeted by bright red hair, a surprisingly crushing hug, and one of the brightest smiles Dean has ever seen.

“Hey, Charlie. Can we, uh...You up for a walk? I was hopin we could talk for a while.”

...

Jake grows quickly and steadily, always near the top of all his growth charts but never alarmingly so. He’s bright, quick to anger and quick to laugh, and fiercely loving. He is both his mothers’ boy, always up for a cuddle or a wrestle, and he loves to build block towers and demolish them with equal abandon.

He makes his displeasure with vegetables known early on. On this particular morning, he introduces his strained peas to the kitchen wall with surprising velocity. Betty knows better than to encourage this attitude, so she hides her smile behind calm, controlled admonition as she offers another spoonful.

Jake looks her straight in the eyes, his smile dazzling and laughter bright, and she knows she hasn’t fooled him one bit. She sighs and lets her own smile match his. He won her over the day he was born; there’s not much point trying to fight it now.

“Come on, babe, eat your peas and we’ll see about some of those stewed apples left over from Mommy’s pie filling. Deal?”

She scrunches her nose and wiggles her eyebrows. Jake’s little eyes widen at her expression, and he tries to imitate it before dissolving into giggles. Betty takes the opportunity to poke a spoonful of peas into his open mouth.

She’s not spent much time around kids before this, but Betty swears she’s never seen a baby look so resigned and exasperated in real life. But she’s played her trump card. He’s too young for the crust, but a couple of spoonfuls of smashed up fruit (apple is his favorite), and Jake is guaranteed to eat just about anything she presents.

“Pie?” she asks.

Jake smiles and opens his mouth wider.

...

“SURPRISE!!!”

The last time he was shocked this badly, Sam didn’t let him forget that fucking cat for years. Or ever, really. Seems like everyone he ever knew is stuffed into his living room, barely leaving room for the balloon bouquets and a massive… That’s not a cake, it’s…

That’s the most beautiful apple pie Dean has ever seen in his entire life.

Dean is engulfed by arms, hugging and patting and slapping his back (was that a pinch on his ass?), everyone eager to get their turn with him, wishing him a happy birthday, saying they can’t wait until he opens his presents, it’s so good to see him, he’s looking so rested!

He manages to extract himself from the wellwishers, citing parental obligations, and finally makes his way over to Mary, smiling warmly and offering him a knife and a plate. His eyes flick anxious from his mom to the golden brown circle of perfection before him, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Mary’s smile widens.

“I didn’t lay a hand on it except to take it out of the box. Happy Birthday, Dean.”

Six plates of pie later, Dean reclines on his couch, letting the relaxed atmosphere of the party sink into his bones. The excitement and crowd of early have begun to wind down, leaving a double handful of family, both blood and found, all telling the most embarrassing, terrible Dean stories they can think of.

It’s possible Dean’s never laughed this hard in his entire life.

He heaves a deep sigh of contentment and props his feet ponderously on the coffee table, draping an arm across the back of the couch and surveying the room.

Donna, one of the apparent party conspirators, tosses him a sparkling grin over her shoulder before turning back to a rather animated conversation with Charlie about the length of Dean’s wig at the LARPing battle. Sam and Kevin are recounting Dean’s worst cooking disasters to Garth’s wife, and Bobby is entertaining Mary with Dean’s disastrous attempt to flirt with the pizza delivery girl who delivered to Bobby’s house most weekends when Sam and Dean would stay with him.

If Dean had to describe one perfect day, this would be just about it, down to the flakiness of the pie crust and the amazing collection of horror movies and original vinyls he’s been gifted. Almost every single person he could possibly want present is there, and since he isn’t dwelling on absence today, Dean decides to push his wandering thoughts out of his head and just soak it all in.

Every muscle in his body hums contentedly, and Dean feels strangely warm and peaceful, but excited, all at once. It’s weird, just sitting here and enjoying the moment, not worrying about the next minute or hour or day or even year. He’s full of pie, he’s got great tunes to look forward to, and there’s nothing to worry about.

He’s happy.

Naturally, that’s when the panic sets in. This won’t last; it never does. Happiness can’t last. He learned that a long time ago.

Sure, it’s heaven, but he doesn’t deserve to be here, so something is going to spoil it for him, for everyone. Probably Dean himself, he thinks as his eyes dart from his mom to his dad. Dean always seems to find a way to fuck things up, couldn’t take care of Sam, couldn’t keep himself alive, couldn’t even keep the Empty from—

“Hey, birthday boy.” Jody’s voice somehow reaches Dean through his darkening thoughts, and he comes back to himself in stages, focusing on the warmth of her hands on his shoulders. She stands behind the couch, leaning down to squeeze his shoulders. “Wanna get some air?”

He nods blindly and climbs numbly to his feet. Jody guides him efficiently out the door and points Dean in an arbitrary direction. They walk for what could be moments or hours as Dean plows through the morass in his mind.

“I get it,” Jody finally says.

Dean glances sharply at her.

“I still have random panic attacks sometimes, wondering if Alex is safe at the hospital, if this is going to be the hunt that gets Claire.” Her eyes are fixed on some point in the distance, and he gets the feeling she’s deliberately not meeting his eyes. “I check on Owen every thirty minutes on my bad nights, and I have to lay hands and eyes on Sean to convince myself he’s really there before I can calm down. It always takes me a minute or sixty to make myself remember where we are, where everyone is, and that there isn’t some big or even small bad waiting around the corner or under the bed.”

Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets, stuffing down his automatic reassurances. The first half of his life was spent avoiding conversations like this, and it took him a long time to unlearn the knee-jerk reaction to brush off people’s concerns with some variation of “Everything’s fine.”

Jody, with an awareness born of decades of hunting and parenthood, senses his discomfort. She slows her steps and catches Dean’s elbow, turning him gently to face her.

“That feeling in your gut when the happiness comes, the panic, that knowledge deep, deep down that everything good is bound to turn to shit.” Jody reaches out and wipes a trickle of moisture from Dean’s face.

It’s not raining, he thinks, frowning. Where the hell did that come from?

“You're going to unlearn it. You’re the toughest bastard I’ve ever met, Dean, and you've been through literal hell. If anyone has earned their happiness up here, it’s you. You’re allowed to be happy, and someday you’ll know it.”

Dean would love to reply right now, to contradict Jody. He’d love to remind her of all the bad calls he made, of all the torturing he did in hell, of all the lies he told...

But this knot in his throat is choking him. And still Jody persists.

“I know how goddamned stubborn you are, but you’re not stupid either. We have nothing to forgive you for. Maybe once you’ve talked to everyone on your list, you’ll see that, too. But in the meantime, take a deep breath, give me a hug, and at least say in your head that you’re allowed to enjoy yourself at your own damned birthday party, even if you can’t admit it out loud.”

And if the damp patch on Jody’s shoulder bothers her as they stroll back to Dean’s house to grab a couple of beers, at least she’s tactful enough to not mention it.

...

Jake takes care of his family. He’s a fairly serious, empathetic toddler, quick to kiss other’s ouchies. After receiving his first Elmo bandage, Jake insists on bandaging his stuffed puppy’s tail, his tyrannosaurus rex’s left eye (“He fight with stegosaurus,” Jake solemnly informs Samantha as he presses the adhesive strip in place), and then an old, almost-healed shaving cut on Betty’s left knee.

“Mama better now?” Jake asks, somehow managing to sound strictly professional and absurdly adorable at the same time. He looks up to Betty for approval, and she wonders how she manages to let him touch the ground at all with how much she just wants to hold him all day long.

“Mama so much better now,” she informs him, careful to stay serious. He rewards her with the golden smile that is the highlight of her days before rushing off to find someone else he can fix up.

Both Betty and Samantha marvel in his quickness to share his snacks. They never refuse an offered Cheerio from him, no matter how damp or sticky (though a few of those disappear quickly when Jake’s attention wanders).

The discussion over a first pet is fairly quick and decisive. Everyone agrees the pet must be something fluffy that can be cuddled. Betty vetoes anything smaller than a cantaloupe, citing her clumsiness and tendency to step on things that should never be trod upon. Jake vetoes cats, saying he just doesn’t trust them, and Mommy and Mama share one of their silent conversations before Samantha speaks up.

“A puppy it is, then, Jakey. Let’s go look up some good breeds.”

Their first pet is a rescue named Garth, at Jake’s adamant insistence, though they're still not sure where he learned that name in the first place. Garth is clumsy, awkward, easy-going, and the most spoiled and cared for pet in the neighborhood.

Jake’s little sister Tabitha comes along shortly before his fourth birthday, and he takes to big brotherhood with an authority and self-assurance that delights every stranger the family meets. When she eventually starts walking, Jake is right by her side, guiding each one of her toddling little steps while a beaming Mommy and Mama follow close behind.

No one is even a little surprised when Tabby’s first whole word is “Hake.” She masters the letter j eventually, but continues to refer to his big brother by the name she gave him for most of the rest of their lives. Jake doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed.

“It was just a matter of time,” Samantha says one night, as she and Betty are getting ready for bed one night not long after Tabby has given Jake his new moniker. “You know what I mean?”

Betty, who has known exactly what Sam means since the day she literally tripped over her future wife at university, smiles and turns down the covers on her side of the bed.

“That’s Jake,” she says. They’ve spent hours, discussing their son’s odd, charming quirks long into the night, offering up phrases like “old soul” and “wise,” and eventually realized nothing they said could ever completely encompass the loving little person they somehow managed to bring into the world.

��That’s Jake,” Sam agrees, and turns her version of Jake’s golden smile on her wife. Mischief sparkles in her eyes, and Betty wonders how she ended up with three people in her life that she absolutely cannot win against.

“Ready to get sweaty, Betty?”

Betty groans but can’t hold back her grin. “You are the absolute worst, and that is exactly why I love you.”

…

Sam manages to shock Dean when he insists on a big family Christmas. His extra years on earth apparently helped the younger Winchester warm to the idea of holidays, finally getting to enjoy them with his son as he never did during his own childhood.

Sam doesn’t have to try very hard to talk everyone into celebrating. Things have been calm and serene, more than a little on the uneventful side, and Dean figures it will add some variety to his afterlife. Something to plan, something to look forward to that won’t be crashed by murderous Elder Gods or various other supernatural entities.

Probably.

Dean secretly loves that feeling of finding the perfect present for someone, something he was never really in a position to do back on earth. He takes a deep breath, proactively reminding himself that this is okay, this is allowed, this is good, that everything is not only okay but actually kind of great, really.

He can be happy. He can. He can do this.

The shade of red Sam’s face turns before he finally dissolves into laughter is a thousand percent worth the degradation of actually gifting someone a signed vinyl copy of Celine Dion’s first solo album.

“It’s perfect, Dean. Thanks, man.” Sam pulls his brother into a hug, and his giant paw slapping Dean in the middle of the back literally knocks the panic right out of him. Deans huffs, at a loss for words, and hugs Sam back perhaps just a smidge too forcefully before letting him go.

“You’ll never top Sapphire Barbie for best Christmas present, but this runs a close second.” Sam shakes his head, still grinning as he reads over the back cover of the album while Mary and John look on, varying levels of confusion and amusement on their faces.

“What’s he talking about, Dean?” John asks. He takes a long drink of his whiskey. “Sapphire Barbie? Some kinda code word or something?”

Sam and Dean glance at each other, their shoulders tensing automatically. For a moment, Dean can actually feel the phantom hunger pains transposed over the current fullness of his belly, and he can see a tiny Sam (still way more hair than necessary), huddled despondent and hungry under a shitty, moth-eaten motel blanket, convinced there would be no Christmas.

“Dean, uh...accidentally got me a Barbie for Christmas one year, it was — a, uh — yeah, he wanted to make sure I got a present, so he grabbed it, and…” Sam trails off.

John huffs a confused laugh, and Dean’s hackles rise at the scoff, so like Sam’s and yet so much more...condescending. John rises from the couch and goes to refill his glass. Sam seems content to let the moment pass, but something in Dean’s gut, something latent and ignored since his heavenly ascension, sparks and smolders bitterly.

“How the hell do you ‘accidentally’ get somebody a Barbie?” John asks, still chuckling, and Dean suddenly realizes he’s real fucking tired of biting his tongue.

“I stole the Barbie. Stole a couple of other things, too. A Christmas tree, some decorations, a baton.”

Mary glances between her sons, confused, before turning to John. “Where were you while this happened?”

A parade of emotions march over John’s face: confusion is followed by slow recognition. Guilt makes a quick appearance only to be chased away by dull, ashamed anger.

Dean can practically see John’s mind flashing through the scenario, recalling more about the hunt than his own sons on that cold, nasty Christmas Eve. He knows the instant his dad reverts to default setting of laying the blame on his eldest son. Dean braces himself automatically, his body viscerally reacting to the familiar storm on his father’s face.

Dean has the fleeting thought that at least his dad is drinking from a glass now; ought to hurt a lot less than being hit with a whole bottle.

“You left your brother to go steal from somebody else’s home on Christmas? After what happened with the shtriga?”

Dean knows true anger, near rage, for the first time in heaven, and the bitter wash of it through him is cutting and all too familiar.

“Pretty stupid thing to do, I know, but I wasn’t even twelve yet, so I wasn’t making the wisest of decisions.”

“Not even twelve?” Mary cuts in. “Sam? Does anybody feel like explaining this to me?”

“What the hell were you thinking, Dean, anything could have—”

But Dean had a lifetime of being plowed under by his dad’s inability to take responsibility, has had way more than enough of shouldering the blame for shit he should never have been left with in the first place.

“I was thinking that somebody should get a seven-year-old something for Christmas, should make sure he has enough to eat. Where were you, Dad? What were you thinking? Because you sure as hell weren’t thinking about us.”

That knot starts up in Dean’s throat again, the muscles tightening against the fear that blossoms in his chest, echoed from decades of training. Sam’s hand finds Dean’s arm, and Dean looks to him. Instead of the caution or reproach he’s expecting, though, all Sam simply nods.

“Say it, Dean.”

Dean stands slowly, facing John Winchester with every bit of strength he’s built, every bit of courage he’s earned from a lifetime of terror, and realizes that the angry, bitter man before him is no more a threat to him anymore than Chuck is. And without looking, he knows Sam stands behind him, solid and resolute.

“I wasn’t even twelve. It was Christmas, and you abandoned us. Yeah, I stole Sam a Barbie doll. You know what I got for Christmas that year? The year before? Every fucking year before that for almost as long as I can remember?”

John opens his mouth, even now unable to admit his faults, but Dean barrels on before his dad can get a word out.

“Not a damn thing from you. Not one damn thing. Not presents, not food, not a warm place to sleep or a word of thanks or approval. Not even a fucking phone call to say Merry Goddamn Christmas.” Dean pauses one last time, and it suddenly feels like he’s towering over the man whose shadow always felt too dark, too large, too suffocating; the man whose respect he used to crave more than food and water.

“What about me, Dad? Huh? What about me?”

Dean doesn’t recall leaving his parents’ house, doesn’t remember driving home, but he finds himself on his own front porch, leaning forward in his rocking chair. He takes in a long, deep breath before scrubbing his hands through hair and leaning against the back of the chair.

A breeze rifles the leaves of a nearby tree, ruffling Dean’s hair. He taps his thumb against the arm of the chair and takes a long moment to breathe in the night air.

Dean lets his thoughts roll around for a while. The stars creep slowly across the black, the crickets chirp, and the breeze continues to tickle through Dean’s mussed hair.

“You and I could write the book on shitty dads, am I right, kid?”

He’s not sure why he decides to talk to Jack. Just nice to have someone to talk to, knowing they’re not going to talk right back.

“Could just cut him out. Dunno how that’d work in heaven.” He thinks a moment, then grins to himself. “Not sure Mom’d let me get away with that. Sam would back me up, though.” Dean grins into the somehow not-empty night. “I would be the guy that brings a family feud into paradise, huh?”

Dean takes in the wilderness around him, the empty house at his back, the extra rocking chair for...a visitor, he supposes. He has learned today that heaven, as perfect as it is, still holds anger and bitterness and loneliness, and he figures that’s to be expected.

“You still did good, kid. You and me, we did good even with our shitty old men in and outta our lives. Glad we cut yours out for good. Guess I’ll figure out how to deal with mine eventually. All I’ve got now is time, anyway.”

Dean pushes up slowly, still surprised at the lack of cricks, pops, and aches that accompanied the action his last couple of years on earth.

“Night, Jack,” he says into the wind. He glances over at the empty rocking chair one last time. “If you see him, tell him —just tell him—”

Dean frowns, shakes his head, and turns his back on the night.

…

Jake’s not a crier, not really. There are inevitable tears that come with bad falls, but Jake sheds tears like it’s a physical reaction that he’s getting out of the way so he can move on.

So when Betty goes to change the sheets in her son’s room, only to find him silently crying on the floor, she panics. Sheets flop forgotten to the side as she drops next to his, reaching instinctively for his still-plump cheeks.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Nothing happened, Mama, I’m sorry I scared you,” he sniffles, his eyebrows down low on his small forehead.

Jake has never lied in his entire young life, and Betty is torn because he is obviously upset about something, but his face is full of nothing but truth and confusion.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Jakey,” she says, settling on the floor next to him and opening her arms. He instantly climbs into her lap, hooking his own arms around her neck and nuzzling under her chin. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Can you tell me what made you cry?”

“I...I don’t know,” he says, his little voice quiet and heavily confused. “I was playing with Tabby, she was helping me build a tower with my blocks, and then Mommy came to get Tabby for her snack.”

Betty is stumped. Jake has never had any kind of separation anxiety, as far as she can tell. He’s spent nights with both sets of grandparents, even a couple of weekends with aunts, uncles, and cousins, and never shed so much as a single tear.

“You...are you crying because you miss Tabby? She’s right in the next room, baby, you can go with her for snack time, you know that.”

“No, Mama, I —I don’t know why I’m crying. Tabby hugged me, she said she loved me, then she went with Mommy, and I felt...really happy. Like —the happiest ever, and...it was too much happy?”

The last part comes out as a question, and honestly Betty isn’t sure how to answer it.

“Well, baby,” she starts hesitantly, not sure where to lead this particular discussion. “Can you explain what you mean when you say ‘too much happy’?”

He snuggles closer against her chest, his forehead pressing along her jaw. “I dunno. I think...maybe I’m not supposed to be that happy? Is that why the tears came out? Because I got more happy than I’m supposed to get? Was I wrong, Mama?”

Betty breathes slowly, tightening her hold on the little boy in her arms. “You weren’t wrong, Jake. You can be as happy as you want. There’s never too much happy, I promise.”

She feels him shift, and she looks down to meet his clear, green gaze. He studies her carefully, scrutinizing her expression, and she’s reminded why she’s always been so very careful to tell her children the truth, albeit on levels they can understand.

“You pinky promise?”

The proffered pinky is smudged, pudgy, and absolutely perfect. Betty hooks her pinky finger with her son’s, bumping his nose gently with her own.

“Jakey, you have my eternal permission to be as happy as you are capable of feeling. And no one is ever allowed to take that from you. Good?” He nods, and she carefully brushes the tear tracks from his cheeks. “Sometimes feelings are really big, and they’re just a little too big for your body. They have to find a way out, and that’s why the tears come out.”

“Is that why you cry when you watch the kissy movies?” he asks, suddenly smiling. “Your feelings are too big, too?”

“Yup. We’ve got big feelings in this family, Jakey. Better get used to it, kiddo.”

...

More time passes. Dean walks, he talks, he goes through the motions. He heals a little with every conversation, every time he reaches out, and even though some of the wounds feel as fresh as the day he got them, eventually all that’s left are faint scars. He’d never willingly erase the scars, anyway. He earned them, and he’ll be damned if something like a little death and talk therapy could just wipe them away.

Gradually — so gradually Dean doesn’t realize it until Donna makes a comment one night after their regular poker game — Dean learns to not only let his guard down but drop it entirely. He’s shocked to realize the loss of his emotional armor doesn’t even bother him.

Dean works on Baby, drinks with Bobby, teaches Mary how to make an apple pie from scratch, and even manages to have a couple of honest, semi-civil conversations with his father. They don’t exactly reach Andy and Opie levels of father-son bonding, but John does eventually manage to grudgingly admit he fucked up some (a lot). Dean supposes anyone can make progress in heaven if they try hard enough.

He’s talked to everyone he can think of, settled scores, smoothed ruffles, filled himself to bursting with absolution. Dean is so absolved he thinks he might punch the next person who pats him on the back and tells him how much good he’s done for the world.

And still, he comes home every night to that extra rocking chair.

He waits now, waits while he talks with Sam, waits while he walks through the woods, waits while he changes Baby’s oil. He can’t shake the feeling that something is coming. He can feel it around himself, like a suit of armor or a second skin. Nothing terrible, nothing ominous, but something. Which is weird because nothing ever seems to happen in heaven, not really.

Could be he’s just bored, but Dean doesn’t think that’s it. Not entirely.

He talks to Jack nightly now. It’s a habit, something to help Dean talk through and untangle his thoughts into something he can understand. He looks forward to their talks, being able to get his feelings out without being either validated or rebuffed. Just letting some steam off.

He’s done it for so long that he can barely remember the night he started. Dean knows Jack can hear him, but the kid’s been true to his word, stayed hands off and radio silent. He lets mortals deal with their own issues, keeping himself and the supernatural world well away. Even the angels leave people alone in heaven.

Especially the angels, Dean grudgingly admits to himself, late one night after leaving Sam’s house. Instead of going home to that extra rocking chair, he drives Baby slowly, aimlessly, yet somehow ends up back on that same bridge where he met up Sam all those years ago.

He parks right at the end (no traffic in heaven) and strolls out to the middle, scuffing his boots and sending little puffs of dust in the air. His hands are stuffed deep in his pockets, out of habit more than anything else, and he lifts his gaze from the ground up to the full moon in the sky.

“Hey, kid,” he says softly. “Hope it’s goin good for you.Things are pretty good here. I know you know, you’re everywhere and all that,” Dean waves his hand vaguely, then continues, “Just wanted to let you know, I guess. I didn’t tell you enough, but we—I —really appreciated you. Appreciate you. You, uh...you did real good, kid. Then and now.” He pauses, then takes a breath, standing straight and letting all pretense go.“Please tell Cas...he did good, and...I miss him. And I know you’re all taking the hands-off approach, but —I dunno, maybe...he could —stop by? Or…”

The silence around Dean is heavy, comforting like a thick blanket.

Or a tan trenchcoat, he thinks.

“Jack —“

He cuts himself off, though. He spent all this time in heaven working through rivers of bullshit, wearing down mountains of lies and self-loathing until he can finally be honest and open with everyone. And if he’s going to be honest with himself tonight, Jack isn’t who he needs to talk to.

“Sorry kid, I gotta put you on hold.”

Purgatory flashes before his eyes, that sense of loss and being lost, the desperation and certainty that he’d never see his best friend again.

I can’t do this anymore, he thinks. I can’t pretend anymore. And I’m done lying to myself.

“Cas. Castiel. I hope you can hear me. I miss you. I don’t know where you are. Bobby said you were here, that you helped remake this place into something pretty damned awesome, but I never see you. I can feel you sometimes, can tell some things are up here just because you put ‘em there. Someone will tell a story, and I swear I can feel you standing right beside me, can almost hear you frowning and not understanding the joke. I…”

He knows there’s something left —knows he hasn’t found the right words yet. He has no idea what that right thing is, or even what he’s still waiting for, but he figures if he just barrels on, it’ll come to him.

“There was too much in the way, back on earth, in Purgatory. Too much always coming after us, trying to kill us or worse. I got in my own damned way, never knew what to say or how to say it. Didn’t think I deserved...I should’ve…”

He’s not sure what’s more bizarre, that he’s praying to someone who probably won’t respond — probably can’t even hear him — or that he’s doing so in a place wildly opposite from that last time he prayed like this.

Dean isn’t sure how he keeps ending up in this situation, but here he is, gasping out his feelings to the night air, barely able to squeeze the words past that perpetual knot in his throat.

“It’s a lot clearer up here, more room to breathe and think. This heaven you and Jack made...it’s great. Hell, it’s damn near perfect. But there’s no you. And I just can’t see my heaven as right without you. I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”

A wispy cloud, silver in the moonlight, drifts across an otherwise flawless sky. Dean stares upwards for several minutes, wondering if Cas can see the same stars tonight, wherever he is.

“Maybe...I don’t know if you can come back. Or if you even left. I don’t know how any of it works.”

He’s on the cusp. He can almost taste the next step.

Dean’s at a loss, though. He could be brave: he could say everything he should’ve said in that last moment, everything he should have told Cas.

Or he could take the comfortable path, revert to being a dick and tell Cas exactly how he feels about all this silent treatment, about the no-show in heaven or not telling him about his deal with the Empty until it was too late, about waiting until the last second so Dean would have no time—

Or he could do both.

Both is good.

Metal railings squeak under Dean’s punishing grip. He’s not sure when he grabbed hold of the bridge itself, but right now he needs all the support he can get.

“You left me! You should have told me, given me a chance. Another chance, just one more. I’m sorry, Cas, I knew but I didn’t. I— I should’ve told you, should’ve held you, I could have—“

The tears flow unimpeded, the air squeezed from his lungs in convulsive gasps, but Dean can’t stop now.

“I should have told you everything I felt, every day. I should have trusted you more, and I’m so sorry. You were always family, you were always there for me when I needed you. We both fucked up so many times, lost so much time together. I was so angry at you, at me, at everyone and everything, and I let it get in the way.”

The silence around him is maddening. Here he is, ripping his guts out in the middle of the bridge, and all he gets back is crickets and evening breezes. Dean shoves off the railing, too frantic to stay still.

“Gimme something, Cas, anything! I’m pouring my heart out! I fucked up, and I’m sorry, and I swear I’m gonna do better, but you’ve gotta give me the chance! Just...just give me some sort of answer, please? Let me know you’re there!”

The silence persists.

Just as quickly as Dean’s rage crescendos, it fizzles suddenly. He drops to the ground, back and head slamming hard against the side of the bridge as he lets out a roar of helpless rage. His fists grip his hair, teeth grinding against the wave of helplessness that threatens to overwhelm him.

“I missed my chance, I waited too long, I should’ve said— I should have—“

And then it comes to him.

His hands draw down from his hair, scrubbing his face before steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to realize.

“I’m an idiot.” His voice is barely audible, even to his own ears, but he has no doubt his words will reach their intended destination. “This place you built, you and Jack, it’s as good as it gets. I deserve it, I earned it. I got my family, I got the easy life for a while. I got my family. I had my rest. There’s only one thing left in the universe I need, only one person I want.”

Dean stands, dusting himself off and turning his face back up to the stars.

“I’m ready, Cas. I— I love you. And I’m ready for the next thing. Whatever that is. However that is. As long as—”

One last pause.

“As long as you’re there, that’s all I need.”

...

The inevitable day of separation comes: Jake’s first day of kindergarten. Samantha is proud of her guardian warrior, knows he’s going to succeed at everything he puts his little bullheaded mind to. Betty hopes very hard that he won’t be too lonely without Tabitha there with him. Tabitha only knows that Jake’s finger tastes good and makes her gums feel better when she chews on it.

Jake, as always, approaches this monumental step with aplomb and logic.

“I’ll give it a shot,” he says casually as his little sister gnaws on his thumb. “An’ if I don’t like it, I’ll just stay here and take care of Tabby. You an’ Mommy can go to work, then, ‘kay, Mama? I can make nut butter n’ jelly sammiches. But I’ll try it out.”

...

School isn’t so bad, Jake decides on his second day. His teacher Mrs. Harris seems to know what she’s doing (she already knows who she can trust with scissors and glue), and the other kids are nice enough. There’s different toys (“learning tools”, Mrs. Harris calls them), so that’s interesting enough, but—

Something is missing.

“Can you tell me what you mean, Jakey?” Betty asks at dinner that night. “Are there supplies you need? We got everything on the list.” She wipes a smear of sweet potato off Tabitha’s face before looking back to her son. His mouth is turned down in a frown of concentration, like he’s trying to remember something.

“I don’t need anything, Mama, just...someone. I need someone. My friend hasn’t come to school yet.”

“It takes time to make friends, baby,” Samantha says. “It’s only the second day of school. Have you tried asking anyone to play yet?”

“Yeah, and they’re fun and all, but they aren’t my friend. My friend isn’t here yet,” Jake says. Then his frown vanishes with the sudden mood change of a five-year-old, and he turns beseeching eyes on Betty, aiming unerringly at the softer target. “I finished my green beans. That means dessert now, right, Mama?”

Jake decides on the third day that the best place to wait for his friend (he just knows he’s going to show up any day now) is the playground.

“My friend likes the playground,” he murmurs. “That’s good, I like the playground, too.” He eats his lunch slowly, watching the other kids wolf down their food so they can have extra playtime. He’s barely finished his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, though, when he’s distracted by movement on the other side of the play yard. The door to the school opens and the school secretary steps out. Then she turns and gently pulls someone out from behind her.

A small boy stands in the doorway, white shirt tucked neatly into black slacks. His blue tie is a little loose, as if he’s been tugging on it, and his tan jacket is a little too big, hanging loosely around his small frame. His hair looks like someone was in too much of a rush to comb it properly. He clutches a pink piece of paper in one hand and, in the other, a backpack inexplicably decorated with flying, winged slices of pizza.

“Late drop-off, parent had to run,” the secretary tells Mrs. Harris before tiptoeing out of the room.

With an anxious glance at the other children, the boy scuttles forward and immediately trips over his own untied shoelaces.

Jake is at the little boy’s side before anyone else can react, kneeling down to check on him. The prone child is too shocked to cry, both by the fall and by the sudden appearance of this unknown factor. Jake checks him over, then nudges him until he sits up.

“You gotta keep ‘em double tied,” Jake says seriously. “Or else that’ll happen all the time.” Without waiting for an answer, Jake sets about the laborious task of looping each set of laces in turn, rabbits chasing each other around trees and down holes until the shoes are secure.

Jake climbs to his feet and reaches down, gripping the other boy’s shoulders and helping him stand. A dark smear of jelly stains the shoulder of the coat in the shape of a smudged purple handprint.

“Thank...thank you,” the smaller boys whispers. He lifts his eyes hesitantly, and clear blue meets olive green for the first time. “I’m Chris.”

“I’m Jake.” He thinks for a long moment, frowning. Something is settling in his chest, something big and permanent and scary; at first he thinks it’s too much.

Then he thinks back to what Mama told him: you can be as happy as you want.

He smiles at Chris. “You’re with me. You’re the one I was waiting for.”

Hope and just a bit of delight flicker across Chris’s eager face.

“I am? You mean it?”

Jake nods and grabs his new friend’s hand. “Yep. Now you’re here, that’s all I need. And nobody's allowed to take you from me, Mama said so. C’mon, let’s play cars.”

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e-milieeee · 4 years ago

Text

tell me your heart—ladrien

Summary: Marinette finally works up the courage to tell Adrien her feelings. Except there’s one little problem: she accidentally does it as Ladybug, not as Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

Notes: happy anniversary, APS! this is slightly messier than my usual fics but marinette is a mess and so is my brain and yall robbed me of my brain cells :( super glad i joined the server and ily all!!

Or click here to read on AO3

Marinette Dupain-Cheng is going to confess today.

It’s not going to be like the twenty-second attempt, when she had left her water bottle’s lid screwed on too loosely and ended up digging out a soggy piece of paper in front of Adrien, which Marinette had stupidly dumped into his hands before running.

It’s not going to be like the thirty-sixth attempt, when she had slipped in front of a banana peel and tripped face first into Adrien’s chest and promptly told him to ‘stay peachy!’

It’s definitely not going to be like the thirty-ninth attempt, one that was too embarrassing for her to recall. Marinette keeps that one in the cobwebbed crevices of her memories with caution tape layered all over the crime scene. No, this time will be perfect, because everything—every roadblock, every little thing that has the slightest potential to go wrong—has been dealt with.

Except, that is, the akuma attack that happens right after school.

By the time she purifies the akuma and bids Chat goodbye, Adrien’s schedule has moved from Chinese lessons to fencing. In a mad scramble, Marinette snatches her backpack up from the corner she’d tossed it right before the akuma attack. Inside, nestled carefully, are a pair knitted mittens. They’re less colorful than the rest of her inventions, but it’s been meticulously tailored to fit Adrien’s color scheme in a way that she hopes won’t clash with his other clothing (and, fingers crossed, will pass Gabriel Agreste’s critical eye). In a smaller box lies five passionfruit macarons that she’d woken up to bake at four in the morning.

It’s all perfect—every little bit—nothing can go wrong. Absolutely nothing.

She runs past one of the other fencing boys on the way, ignoring the strange look he sends her. Then, crossing her fingers that Adrien is still in the locker room, rushes inside.

It’s empty at first glance, and while Marinette’s heart drops, she isn’t deterred. She has a backup plan to the backup plan. And a backup plan to that. If she can’t catch Adrien before fencing, she’ll catch him after. If she can’t catch him after, she knows exactly where his Chinese lesson is—it’s all foolproof. No loopholes. No mushy notes, no banana peels.

Except she doesn’t need to find him after. Because there, at the last row of the lockers, stands Adrien Agreste.

He’s all dressed in his white fencing gear, arranging his shoes with the helmet tucked under his arms. Marinette practically barrels towards him, holding the gift-wrapped mittens and the box of passionfruit macarons. She’s out of breath, but it’s not from the running. Nervousness churns in her stomach, in her chest, until she feels like she’s going to barf.

No. She is not going to barf on Adrien Agreste attempting to confess to him. That would make it even worse than attempt thirty-nine.

“Adrien,” Marinette announces loudly.

Said boy looks up at her. His eyes widen, hands dropping from his shoes and leaving his laces untied, before he straightens. His mouth is open and does not close.

Is she that surprising? Maybe it’s because she’s in the boy’s locker room? But Marinette has long decided that doesn’t matter. She’s going to do it. She’s going to say it. Now.

“I have something to tell you,” she continues. “Do you have a moment?”

“Yes,” Adrien replies. He hasn’t taken his eyes off her. “Um, definitely. Definitely have a moment.”

Mentally, Marinette congratulates herself. Her voice has remained even and confident, and she sounds like she knows what she’s talking about. Judging by the look of surprise that still hasn’t disappeared from Adrien’s face, she figures that she might be doing something right, finally. Or maybe something horribly, horribly wrong—

That thought drives out the eloquent speech she had prepared to deliver. Reverting back to her mess of words, Marinette thrusts out her arms, where the two packages lie.

“I like you,” she declares.

Oh, no.

That was not how it was supposed to go. Marinette opens her mouth to amend, although she only ends up digging an even deeper hole. “Like, as in like-like you. Not as a friend. I mean—I mean, I do like you as a friend! But more than that too. I’ve liked you since you gave me your umbrella on the first day, and I realized you were such a compassionate, considerate person and you really care for your friends and you’re amazing and you smell good— argh.” She looks down at the gifts she’s still holding out to Adrien, tucked between red and black lined up her arms and tries to collect her words. “I like you a lot Adrien, and I know you might not feel the same, but I wanted to—”

The realization hits Marinette a second before Adrien manages out, sounding like he very much might faint, “Ladybug?”

They stare at each other. Then, like the idiot she is, Marinette blurts, “I’m not Ladybug, I’m Marinette.”

Oh, God.

It's tragedy at it’s finest. This much, much worse than the time she’d dumped her yoghurt over his head.

Marinette knows that she should do something to fix the situation. Especially now, as Ladybug, who should be able to fix more than she ruins. Will it work if she summons a Lucky Charm? If she Miraculous Ladybug’s the situation, will Adrien forget about the very, very conspicuous slip-up?

No, probably not.

“Um,” Adrien manages. His face is as pale as a sheet. “Ladybug? I—I don’t—uh, are you sure you’ve got the wrong person? This is for—that’s for me?”

Amidst the panic, Marinette’s heart still manages to drop even further. Of course. It’s a little vague, his reply, but it’s enough for her to understand the undertones in his voice.

“No,” she stammers, reverting right back to a stuttering mess she had been so certain she was long past. Then, as if she hasn’t contradicted herself enough today, she thrusts the bundle—macarons, mittens—into Adrien’s arms. He manages to catch it all, despite her shaky fumbling.

“I’m sorry,” Marinette tells him, because it’s the only thing she can think of saying.

Adrien doesn’t move. His mouth is open and Marinette can’t tell if the expression on his face is shock or confusion or worst—disgust.

The countless possibilities and the sheer terror of not-knowing throws Marinette into action. In one well-rehearsed action, she throws her yo-yo towards the window. It slams against the lock, opening a sliver.

And, like a coward, Marinette runs.

***

She’s missing.

Adrien has searched everywhere.

He’s well aware of the fact that he skipped fencing; Nathalie will undoubtedly find out and therefore his father will too, but he can’t bring himself to care. He can spin another story about the akuma attack—it doesn’t matter, not when Ladybug— Marinette— is nowhere to be found.

He scours the whole school first, as Adrien Agreste. Then, without letting Plagg convince him into doing anything smarter, Adrien transforms into Chat Noir.

It’s very apparent he has lost his ability to think things clearly when he stops by at the Dupain-Cheng’s bakery to ask for Marinette’s whereabouts.

He’s hit with memories of his last visit here, as Chat Noir: standing in front of the door, imposingly large, with a single pink rose in hand. That might’ve been one of the most terrifying days of his life.

How ridiculous to think that it had been Ladybug—Ladybug, Marinette, Ladybug—that had welcomed him inside, Ladybug whom he had kissed so nervously on the cheek, Ladybug’s parents who…

Adrien’s head is spinning so much that he thinks he’s going to be sick.

The bakery isn’t very crowded when he enters, but he assumes it's because he came at an odd time. He sees Marinette’s mother behind the counter, straightening the displays. Her eyes widen when she sees him. Tom Dupain is nowhere in sight, which Adrien decides is most likely best for himself. They left on decent terms, but he doesn't want to explain to the man why his daughter might be possibly missing.

“Chat Noir!” she exclaims. “What a lovely surprise.”

He manages to return her smile, but it feels more like a wince. “Is La—Marinette home, Mrs. Cheng?”

“Sabine,” she corrects. “And no, not that I know of. School ended and she has yet to come back. Would you like me to pass a message for her?”

Adrien tries to hide his disappointment, but he’s pretty sure Sabine is too perceptive to have missed the way his ears drop. “That’s okay,” he tells her. “Any idea where she might be?”

A shake of her head. Adrien bids her farewell before rushing out, hoping to avoid any more questions.

His next destination is Alya’s house. She’s home, sitting in her room editing the formatting for the Ladyblog. Adrien doesn’t dare walk through their front door, but instead, taps on the window as he clings onto the side of the apartment.

Her eyes go wide when she sees him, and the window is thrown open in a moment and Alya practically sticks her head out. “Chat Noir!” she exclaims with her usual enthusiasm. “What can I help you with? Actually, do you think I could interview—”

“Not now.” He readjusts his grip. “I’m actually looking for Marinette. Do you know where she is?”

Alya frowns. “Marinette? I haven’t seen her since after school. She went looking for one of our classmates—Adrien Agreste? Maybe you’ll find her with him.”

Adrien’s heart stutters a little when he hears his name from her lips, an old nervousness about his identity. He does his best to make sure his expression doesn’t betray his thoughts, and instead offers Alya a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you, anyway,” he says. “I’ll just keep looking.”

He can see the question forming on her lips. Adrien practically flees to avoid questioning yet again.

He visits many places, everywhere he can imagine Marinette would go. He even turns up at the Couffaine’s boat, but the answer he receives is the same: no, she hasn't been here.

An hour into his search and Adrien finally . begins to look for spots he knew Ladybug would visit.

He scours Eiffel tower. The area around Notre Dame. He goes to the school again, for good measure. Neither Ladybug or Marinette are anywhere in sight.

It’s at the banks of the Seine that Adrien nearly gives up. He drops by at Andre’s ice cream stand, grudgingly heading over when the man beckons to him.

“Looking for somebody?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Adrien toes the ground. “Has Ladybug passed this area?”

Wordlessly, Andre points his hand towards the row of rooftop. Adrien follows his gaze to them, where bricks and stone dip and form into structures, and—

There.

Red against blue, outlined against the sky.

There.

Adrien sucks in a breath. “Thank you,” he breathes to Andre before leaping off.

He drops by behind Ladybug thirty seconds later, his throat closing and chest constricting. She doesn’t turn around even though she must’ve heard the thump of his landing.

She looks impossibly small sitting there. But of course. Ladybug is Marinette—short and cute and bright and generous Marinette, who’s adorably clumsy and sometimes stumbles with her words around him. Other times, she snaps at Chloe—Chloe, who no one else dares confront—without an ounce of fear. (Figures. After facing akumas as Ladybug, Marinette Dupain-Cheng probably wouldn’t be scared of Chloe.)

There, with her legs pulled to her chest and untouched ice cream melting in a couple next to her, Adrien finds himself reconciling the two people very easily in his mind, even if part of him still trembles with disbelief and anticipation.

Marinette—Ladybug—is in love with Adrien Agreste; Ladybug is in love with him.

It’s that thought that gives him courage to take a step forward. “Hey,” he greets, throat dry.

“Hey,” she replies softly. “Why are you out right now, kitty?”

Adrien sits down beside her. “Something surprising happened to me today and I needed time to clear my head. You?”

She turns her head to look at him, and for the first time, Adrien takes her features in with the whole picture in mind. Blue eyes like the sky, black hair. They even had the same hairstyle. The same voice. Ladybug pouts like Marinette does when she’s trying to convince people, because God help him, Ladybug was Marinette.

“Remember the boy I told you I liked?” Ladybug mumbles.

The sting in his chest is gone when she mentions it. Mentions him.

All those days of harbouring jealousy—jealousy Adrien had told himself many times was irrational yet could not let go of—at Ladybug’s unnamed crush, and it had been himself all along.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I made a mistake today.” She stretches her legs out in front of her and gives him a sad little smile. “I thought… I don’t know what I was thinking, but I thought I should finally tell him what I feel about him.”

“Did he reject you?” Adrien asks carefully.

“Yes—no, but I-I might’ve accidentally given away my identity. He isn’t the sort of person who would go around telling anybody, but I just—I mean, now he knows I’m Ladybug. And the worst part is that the first thing he said was are you sure you’ve got the wrong person. So maybe that was a rejection. Maybe—I mean, what if he was disappointed? To find out who Paris’ superhero really was?”

“Why would he be disappointed?”

Ladybug throws her arms up. “Because it’s me,” she says. “I’m just a normal girl underneath the suit. Maybe he was expecting…maybe he was expecting someone more phenomenal. Someone more…worthy? It’s just… yeah, the options could’ve been much worse. But they could’ve been much better, you know? Maybe if I hadn’t accidentally confessed as Ladybug, he wouldn’t have been…wouldn’t have been as disappointed.”

Her words hurt, the fact that this is what she thinks about herself and his opinion of her, but Adrien doesn’t let himself give in yet. The words and dancing on the tip of his tongue— Plagg, claws in— but he seals them away for later. “If this boy you like doesn’t think you’re worthy, then he’s not worthy,” he tells her. “Underneath the suit, whoever you are, I’m certain you’re just as amazing.”

She laughs, but it’s a little strained. “Thanks, kitty,” she whispers. “I wish he thought like that as well.”

Adrien can barely sit still. It must be black magic that his voice comes out without trembling. “Maybe he does.”

“If he did, why did he say that? He looked shocked, and it wasn't the sort of good shock?”

“Did you give him a chance to respond?”

“Well… no.”

“Maybe Adrien would’ve said something different if you stayed a little longer.”

“Or maybe he would’ve said even worse— wait. Did you just say Adrien?”

She looks at him now, and Adrien’s heart is beating so fast that he’s sure it’s going to rip right out of his ribcage. “Did you say Adrien?” she repeats when he doesn't immediately respond.

Adrien takes a deep breath. “Plagg, claws in.”

His transformation falls in a burst of green light, too quick for Ladybug to turn away, too sudden for her to remember to close her eyes.

Silence follows. Then, with a loud shriek, she practically leaps to her feet. “ Adrien?”

Now that he’s reached the end of what’s been thought through, Adrien can only improvise. He opens his palms, which are sticky with sweat. “Ta-da?” he announces weakly.

Ladybug lets out a sound that sits between a sputter and a choke. She points a finger at him. “You’re Adrien,” she says.

“Yeah. And you’re—you’re Marinette.”

They stare at each other, both speechless, before Adrien says, “I wasn’t disappointed, you know. I was just… I wasn’t functioning properly because the girl I’ve been in love with for the past six months confessed to me. And because I was so used to you turning me down that it was just—uh, it was shocking. But I promise you it’s the best sort of shock. Not the bad kind you were talking about."

“Oh my God,” Ladybug manages. “ You’re Chat. Of course you’re Chat Noir. And…all those times—I dumped yoghurt on Chat Noir’s head?”

Adrien can’t help the laughter that bursts out. “Ladybug dumped yoghurt on my head,” he confirms.

“I’ve… thrown Adrien Agreste off the Eiffel tower for fun.”

“I sit in front of Ladybug in class.”

“Adrien’s face is plastered all across the city and nobody suspects that you’re Chat Noir!”

At that, she bursts out laughing. It’s a little hysterical, but it’s laughter all the same, and she laughs until she has doubled over, clutching her stomach and shaking. “We’re so stupid,” Ladybug manages out between giggles. “All this time, and we’ve been idiots.”

He grins back at her. “To think that you’ve been the one grilling me about keeping my identity secret, yet you’re the one who gave it away in the end.”

Ladybug shakes her head. “What now?”

“What now?” Adrien echoes. “Well, the girl of my dreams just confessed to me, and I haven’t given her an answer yet.” He takes a deep breath. The words are well rehearsed as Chat; less so as Adrien Agreste. It’s strangely foreign now that their situation has shifted so drastically, but he plows on. “I like you as well, but I’ve made that abundantly clear. And I like you, Marinette too. N-not just Ladybug. Both sides of you. I’m not disappointed you’re Ladybug, because now that I see it, it could only be you. And I’m so, so glad you decided to tell me today. Even if it didn’t go as you planned in the beginning.”

A thrill runs through him when he sees the way her face lifts into a smile. They look at each other, wordless but not needing words, everything unspoken already laid out between them.

“There doesn’t need to be a what now,” Adrien adds. “I’m quite content with now.”

He holds out his hand, and she takes it.

“I’m glad you’re my partner,” Ladybug says quietly, after a little bit of silence. “And I’m glad that today happened. And I’m really, really glad that it was you I dumped that yoghurt on. It's suddenly a lot less embarrassing.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She nudges his hip playfully with her own. It’s a familiar action, but this time, Adrien swears his heart melts a little bit more at it. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, kitty.”

“Well, if I’ve got it right, you like me because I’m amazing and generous and smell good, so I don’t think I’m getting ahead of myself.”

When he sneaks a glance at her, her face is red. “Shut up.”

“Or else?”

“Or else,” she echoes, then shakes her head. “I just remembered. I gotta go before my parents start panicking.”

“Are you leaving on purpose?”

“Ye— no! No, I’m not. But my maman expected me home hours ago, and they’re bound to worry. I’ll—I’ll call you when I get back, and we can even meet tonight if you want.”

Adrien smiles at her. It's endearing, these little pieces of Marinette he sees in Ladybug that he's never noticed before. The slight stumbling over her words, the way she taps her feet on the ground. “It’s fine,” he reassures, “I get it. And tonight sounds good.”

“Tonight it is,” Ladybug agrees. “Eiffel tower?”

“Yeah. S-see you.”

She gives him a quick wave, pauses, then leans in and presses a chaste kiss against his cheek. Before Adrien can speak or react, she has thrown her yo-yo towards a nearby building and swung away.

His face is warm long after the red of Ladybug’s suit disappears. Adrien doesn’t know how long he continued staring after her if it’s not for Plagg, who zips out of his shirt and smacks his cheek, hard.

“Close your mouth before I barf,” his kwami groans. “Because I’m this close to cataclysming myself.”

“Ladybug likes me back,” Adrien tells Plagg for good measure.

“I’ve heard!”

Despite his complaining, though, Plagg grants him silence as Adrien sits quietly on the rooftop. And everything is okay—everything is more than okay—because Ladybug is Marinette, Marinette is Ladybug, and Adrien has never been happier.

Notes: i tried my best ok pls accept my offering of good will :(

(this is also the least angsty reveal fic i’ve done fhsjkfdhf)

Fics masterlist

#miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #marinette dupain-cheng #ladybug #chat noir #reveal fic #my writing #mlb fic #they babies #aps anniversary!!

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professorsnape394 · 4 years ago

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The Potions Master’s Apprentice

Chapter Nine: Letters, Lovers and Loyalties

A/N: This is the ninth part to my fanfiction ‘The Potions Master’s Apprentice (Severus Snape x OC)’. Chapters 1-16 can be found already uploaded on Wattpad under the same name. Feel free to leave requests in my inbox for anything Snape related you want me to write. Leave a comment below if you wish to be added to my tag list.

Pairing: Severus Snape x OC (Dumbledore’s Granddaughter)

Summary: A talented young witch is employed as an apprentice professor at Hogwarts, but who will she be working under? Severus Snape is not best pleased with his new responsibility of taking on an apprentice, however she is relentless to create a friendship between them. Will she be successful? Or might the friendship just go a little two far? With the eyes of her grandfather constantly watching over them, an attempt at a relationship might not be in the cards for Aria Dumbledore and Severus Snape.

Word Count: 2185

Warnings: n/a

Credits to Gif Creator

Yet another letter dropped into the lap of Aria Dumbledore as she sat absentmindedly sketching. Dropping her quill back into the small pot of ink which balanced on the arm of her chair, a small sigh escaped her lips. She had been expecting another to arrive any day now.

Aria allowed herself a small glance in the direction of her desk where the ever growing pile of unopened letter sat gathering dust. Disregarding her drawing, Aria traveled to her desk, fingers fumbling with the edge of the envelope. Admittedly, Aria's mind had been focused on that small pile of letters the past few days, and consequently the man who sent them. She couldn't bring herself to reply to his constant inquiries, but she had considered there was no harm in opening a few of them. She longed to hear from him, though she had been in denial for so long now she wasn't sure what to expect from his most recent letters.

Waiting no longer she ripped the paper from its wax seal, her eyes quickly scanning every word on the page.

My dear Aria, Though I know you say you cannot reply to my letters, I write them all with the hope that you will find the time in your busy schedule to at least read them. As always things are quiet here without you. Too quiet. I miss your voice. I miss hearing you sing to yourself in the shower thinking no one can hear you, I miss hearing you hum as you wander aimlessly through the house, I miss watching you draw as I pose for you, but most importantly I miss holding you in my arms. I long for the end of the school year when we will be reunited and I will have nothing to miss except maybe writing these letters. I long for a response to my letters, my darling. I simply must know that you miss me as I miss you. In the mean time I will continue to write to you to keep myself distracted from everything terrible happening in the world, by simply thinking of you. All my love, S.

Aria couldn't help but feel a great pang of guilt in the pit of her stomach for ignoring the letters, but she couldn't bare the thought of reading them, while she was still coming to terms with how she felt when she decided to leave for Hogwarts. She knew immediately she would not be able to maintain a long distance relationship with him. Though he was the first man she had ever loved she had been too cowardly to confess her feelings for him in person, let alone on a piece of parchment. She knew she was a pathetic coward from the moment he told her he loved her and she could not find it in her to return the favour. Her cowardice was more than proven the day she left for Hogwarts. Aria had planned to break up with him, to avoid further heartbreak down the line. But she could not even find the courage to do that.

Instead she was living in denial. In her mind they had broken up, and refused to face up to whatever she was truly feeling until it was absolutely necessary. Her plan had been to distract herself as much as possible, suppress her feelings and just forget about the situation completely. And to be totally honest her plan had been working for her, with the exception of a few off days such as today. However when it came time to wake up and face the music she had no idea what her plan would be then.

Leaving the letter open on her desk she took a stroll around the grounds of Hogwarts to clear her mind. The time to figure out all of her problems was not now. She was still a young, carefree woman and she didn't want the burden of guilt stopping her from living her life however she so wished.

Arias walk led her to the village of Hogsmeade, and after working up a light sweat, the young professor opted to pop into the Three Broomsticks to quench her thirst.

Unsurprisingly for a late Tuesday evening the place was barren. Besides for a drunken wizard practically falling off his bar stood, a crazy witch whispering to herself and two well dressed men, sitting out of place in a side booth, the place was completely deserted. Planning to only stay for a pumpkin juice Aria took a seat at the bar and begun chatting to the same barmaid who had served her and Severus all those weeks ago.

"Busy night?" Aria joked, rolling her eyes at the drunk to her right.

The woman laughed in return, handing over a glass of pumpkin juice. "This is pretty much the standard, at this time." She shrugged, polishing off a perfectly clean glass, to keep herself busy. "That one over there doesn't even order anything, but its not worth the hassle kicking her out." She gestured to the old hag in the corner, her perfectly polished nails glistening in the dim bar light.

"I wish I could say I felt sorry for you, but a break away from the chaos that is Hogwarts is a slight relief." Aria sighed. She was still not used to being around so many people all the time having spent the past few years alone, besides her mother, she often needed time alone to breathe.

"Oh, then you must be new. I've had my fair share of lonely professors spend an evening behind my bar, and I usually remember who's spilled their whole life story to me. Though you do look familiar, what do you teach?" She finished up with her glasses, leaning her elbows on the bar to get a closer look at the younger woman, her breasts practically falling out her blouse.

"I'm just an apprentice for now. I'm the new Potions Mistress." Aria smiled, taking a small sip of her drink.

"Oh yes, now I remember. You came here with that Severus. He's not unfamiliar with our whiskey selection, if you know what I mean." Both women rolled their eyes in unison. "He doesn't seem to talk much though, I can't say I know anything about him. I must admit I was surprised to see him with a gorgeous young witch like yourself."

"You weren't the only one." Aria scoffed, finishing off her pumpkin juice.

"Well it makes a little bit more sense now." She laughed, a set of pristine pearly teeth emerging from her red glossy lips.

It seemed Aria was not the only one who had been admiring the woman's beauty, and almost right on cue the drunk decided to look a little bit more lively, demanding another pint. Reluctantly the barmaid obliged, shooting Aria an apologetic look.

Aria couldn't help but notice the gruff looking man practically throw himself over the bar in order to get a good gawk at the barmaids behind. The slightly older woman seemed unfazed by the mans actions, in-fact Aria wasn't entirely unsure she wasn't enjoying the attention. Choosing not to interrupt as neither party seemed to object to the altercation, Aria kept her mouth shut.

That was until the man's attention turned to her. The barmaid disappeared from view, presumably to refill the barrel the drunk had practically drowned himself in. "Haven't seen you around here before." He started harmlessly, though Aria did not miss the way his eyes seemed to scan the whole of her body.

"Just moved into Hogwarts, haven't seen much of Hogsmeade." Aria admitted, but made the conscious decision to turn away from him, hoping not to engage in any further conversation.

"You a friend of Ros'" He asked, intrigued, while downing a good half of his pint.

"Not really, no." Aria shrugged. "I didn't even know her name until just now."

"Rosalind Rookwood." He edged his seat closer to Arias. "Fantastic barmaid, though I wouldn't say it was her best profession." He winked.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Aria turned her nose up at the man, just praying he would leave her alone.

"Well, you know, bein' a barmaids fine an all, but it doesn't always pay the bills. Miss Rookwood's got her fair share of stories to tell, and not all of them her own." He laughed, the potent stench of his alcoholic breath suffocating Aria as he leaned in closer, wrapping a heavy arm around her shoulders. "If it turns out teaching isn't for you, just know you'll have a loyal customer in me." He hiccuped, his free arm, reaching down to stroke the woman's exposed thigh.

Instinctively Aria gripped onto his wrist, forcing it off of her. "What the hell do you think you are doing!?" Aria exclaimed, pushing the man away from her. "Don't you dare lay your hands on me again."

The drunk showed no sign of guilt or remorse, he simply chuckled to himself, revealing a shocking lack of teeth. Disgusted, Aria made to move but found herself cornered against the bar.

Fortunately the altercation had caused enough disruption to alert the two men having a casual evening drink. Instantly one rushed over to her aid, stupefying the old man. The second man followed suit and made it his business to remove the frozen figure from the bar.

"Are you alright?" The first man asked, his brow furrowing with worry.

"I'm fine, thank you for stepping in." Aria smiled, brushing herself down, as though she was riding herself from the drunks disgusting touch.

The man returned a boyish grin, his eyes bright blue and full of kindness. Aria had never seen anyone like him. His presence was almost cartoon like, with positivity radiating from him. Aria couldn't help but let out a nervous laugh, her smile growing just by looking at him. His energy was contagious.

"Is... is there anything I can do to thank you?" She tried your shake herself back to reality though remained entranced by him.

"Nothing at all. I'm just glad I was here to help." He extended a hand, almost nervously, introducing himself. "Alexander Turner, pleasure to meet you."

"You too." Aria blushed, unable to break eye contact with the man, and was now incredibly aware of how dumbfounded she must look. "I'm Aria" She stuttered, the sound of his friend retuning sending her back to reality. "I apologise for staring, but I just can't seem to take my eyes off you, you have an enchanting aura about you. I'm sorry if I may seem a little strange."

"There's no need to apologise, I get it all the time." He laughed, though not arrogantly, it was sweet and innocent. "My mother's a Veela." He added, almost embarrassedly, upon noticing the slightly look of confusion appearing on Arias face.

The couple shared an awkward smile, both at a loss for words.

Alexander's friend passed by the pair silently, slapping him encouragingly on the shoulder before disappearing behind the bar, Rosalind following closely behind.

Aria noted the difference in both attitude and appearance in the two men, finally able to distinguish between the two. The friend was tall and broad shouldered, his hair messy though not long. He gave off a sort of American football, "bro", fratbroy vibe. In other words kind of arrogant and full of himself. Clearly he saw himself as the one in control. Alexander on the other hand was more slim, but not skinny. Tall but not lanky. Innocent but not naive. His clothes appeared similar to his friends but presented more neatly and well put together. She assumed he felt sorry for his friend, knowing his Veela parentage would gain him lots of female attention, and in return Alexander simply allowed himself to get pushed around to boost his friends ego.

With a roll of his eyes Alexander practically confirmed her theory and Aria couldn't stop herself from laughing once more.

Knowing that while Rosalind and 'Braydon'; as he turned out to be, would not be returning any time soon, Aria and Alexander chose to occupy one of the booths and get to know a little bit about each other, where Alex truly confirmed all of Aria's suspicions.

Upon Braydon's return, he flashed his rather large biceps, kissing each one in turn as he flexed them, before letting out a hearty growl, presumably this was a display of male dominance among his kind. His kind being; douchebags.

With another roll of her eyes Aria bid farewell to the men, thanking Alexander once more for his heroic rescue.

"How about a date?" Alex called nervously as Aria had just about reached the door.

"I'm sorry?" She replies, caught off guard.

"A date, here, with me. What do you say?" Aria shook her head unable to look away from that damn charming smile of his.

"I'll agree to a few drinks." She clarified. "Just send me an owl, you know where I'll be." And with that she disappeared once more down the path to Hogwarts, the grey sky above all the while threatening to rain down on her.

Taglist: @ayamenimthiriel @lizlil

#severus snape #severus snape fanfiction #severus snape one shot #severus snape imagine #severus snape x reader #severus x reader #severus x oc #severus x y/n #Harry Potter #harry potter and the goblet of fire #harry potter fanfiction #alan rickman #dumbledore #dumbledores granddaughter #potions master #potions masters apprentice #Severus Snape smut #severus snape fluff

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antiquitiesandlabyrinths · 4 years ago

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Akhenaten

The name Akhenaten is rather well known as a Pharaoh of Egypt. Like Ramesses II, Hatshepsut, Cleopatra, and Tutankhamun, Akhenaten won the popularity contest of modern society through defining himself as far different from most other Pharaohs. With Akhenaten, however, he’s not even like the special Pharaohs.

Let’s look a little at his life and the history of the time period he ruled over. He was in the 18th Dynasty of the New Kingdom, from 1353-1336 BC. Like most Pharaohs there are a few different pronunciations of his name, including Akhenaton, Ikhnaton, Khuenaten, all meaning of great use to Aten, which leads into his conversion into the cult of Aten. Before the conversion his name was Amenhotep IV, son of Amenhotep III. His mother was named Tiye. Later on in life he married Queen Nefertiti, fathering two children, one from his wife Nefertiti and one from his lesser wife, Lady Kiya, having Ahnksenamun and Tutankhamun to each wife respectively.

Before we get into the whole mess of his religion and the ‘revamping’ he did of ancient Egypt, let’s recognize the other things he did for or to the country.

You’ll recognize the vastly different art style between Akhenaten’s rule and the history of most of Egypt. In art that depicts Akhenaten, he was shown as long and spindly, a style that carried into his family. Some people believe that this was because he and his family suffered from Marfan’s syndrome, a disease that caused the elongation of bones and skinniness. A more likely explanation stems from the Pharaoh’s religious beliefs, which as you know, was vastly different from other Pharaohs. This theory is a little more likely because there was no reason for the queen Nefertiti to have the same condition as her husband. Instead, it was probably because their status was far different from the other Pharaohs, as they were moved into a genuinely god-like status for their worship of Aten.

The part of Akhenaten and his rule that interests me the most is the way the royal family was presented in art, despite the style. Like many parts of Akhenaten, it’s entirely different from other Pharaohs (though, whether that’s good or bad is up to you).

Now, most Pharaohs presented themselves highly in art. They could do that, so why not? If I had the guts and the money I probably would too, but my point is that essentially all Pharaohs depicted themselves alone on stelas, engaging in hunting or other activities that strengthened the image of themselves that they wanted to show the world. Usually they were masculine tasks that could be done only by those with great strength and great riches. Akhenaten went in an entirely different direction; he depicted himself with his family. In the stele of Akhenaten, he is shown in a private way, the scene being him with his family, enjoying themselves together.

While we can’t say the definitive reason for him presenting himself as this, the most logical conclusion has to do with, again, his religious beliefs. In his mind, the Aten was held above all else, even the Pharaoh. With Aten as the highest consideration, the Pharaoh and his family enjoyed their lives under the influence of the Aten’s love and grace.

Now that we have a little insight, let’s get into the whole mess of his religion that died immediately after he did.

Akhenaten originally reigned as Amenhotep IV, a reign that lasted around five years before he switched religions. Changing his name, he converted to a cult that worshipped Amun to that of Aten, abolishing the ancient rites of those before him, and instituting what is believed as the first example of monotheism state religion in the world. His rule as Akhenaten lasted 12 years, during which he was labelled as the infamous ‘heretic king’, so that should give you some insight into how people felt about him.

Before his rule, the cult of aten was a cult like all others in Egypt. It was a bit like choosing your favorite God – find the one you like most, and join that cult. For example if I were to join a cult, I would join the cult of my favorite God, Ma’at. I mention this because before the change, the Aten was shown in inscriptions of Akhenaten (Amenhotep IV at that point), represented by the sun disk. It’s also important to note cult doesn’t carry the same meaning as it did then, and each cult shared the same goal: balance and eternal harmony.

At the time of Amenhotep IV’s rule the Amun cult (where the Aten is from) held incredible power. Their power had been growing for a long while, and by the time of his rule, they held nearly as much power and riches as the Pharaoh himself, and actually owned more land than Amenhotep IV. The fifth year of his reign he switched everything; this was when he abolished the practices of the previous religion of Egypt, and proclaimed himself the “living incarnation of a single all-powerful deity known as Aten,” (Joshua J Mark), and by the ninth year, he closed every single temple, prohibiting all the old practices and devotion to the many Gods the people of Egypt worshipped.

Around then was when he moved the royal seat of Egypt from the traditional house of Thebes to a city of his own creation, a city named Akhetaten, and with that he changed his name to Akhenaten. Here he earned the name the Heretic King, earning the ire of some historians and the admiration of others.

Despite the fact that Akhenaten’s influence completely destroyed worship of the Gods many Egyptians loved, one of the main problems with his rule was that the Old Gods of Egypt instilled harmony and order in the citizens, ultimately helping to create a country that lasted over 4,000 years. Without these Gods, things got a little wonky.

Religious tolerance was allowed with the many Gods, emphasizing peace to the point where religious intolerance wasn’t even an issue. Unfortunately, for monotheism to work, there has to be something inherently wrong with the other side, which made Akhenaten’s work a lot harder, and its’ effects much stronger. It led to the intolerance of other beliefs and some severe suppression, and if you look at the monotheistic religions of today, you can see the same sort of pattern. With intolerance comes hatred and war.

“Dating to this point in Akhenaten’s reign was a campaign to excise the name of gods other than the Aten, especially Amun, from the monuments of Egypt. This was done with violence: hieroglyphs were brutally hacked from the walls of temples and tombs. This was probably carried out, at least in part, by illiterate iconoclasts, presumably following the orders of their king. [Akhenaten] carried out a religious revolution the like of which had never been seen before in Egypt.” (Zahi Hawass, 42-43).

There were priests of Atum who attempted to hide religious artifacts, storing statuary and texts away from the soldiers ordered to destroy them. The priests, with nothing left to do, were forced to abandon their temples. In response Akhenaten either hired new priests or forced the other ones to obey him, proclaiming him and his wife once more as Gods on earth.

Now you can see how Akhenaten kind of sucks. Let’s talk about how he sucks even more.

His foreign policy.

With his ego inflated to the size of the sun, Akhenaten thought himself above interactions with foreign powers. He left his duties to spend more time on himself and his family, ultimately leading to a severe neglect.

You might be asking, “didn’t every Pharaoh have a super-inflated ego?” and yes, you’d be right, but no Pharaoh before Akhenaten had genuinely claimed themselves to be a God. As a self-proclaimed incarnated God, he must’ve thought such affairs beneath him.

Discovered through letters of the time, several (former) allies of Egypt had asked for their help several times with various affairs. At the time Egypt was wealthy, prosperous, and strong, a state that had been slowly growing before halting at Queen Hatshepsut’s reign. Hatshepsut and her successors employed a strategy of actually doing work, by working out when to approach with diplomacy, and when military action was required. Akhenaten on the other hand, ignored everything outside of his palace at Akhetaten.

The uncertainty of Akhenaten’s rule, along with letters of correspondence between the city of Amarna, the Pharaoh, and foreign nations, led to this era being called the Amarna period. These very letters were proof of the Pharaoh’s negligence. However, the letters also show his keen eye in foreign diplomacy, if the situation interested him so. It was a whole thing with the Hittites, but since this is chiefly about Akhenaten, I’ll leave that topic for later. All you really need to know is that he only tended to issues that affected him directly, and through the Amarna letters, historians can see how poor of a King he was, as well as how deeply many of his subjects disliked or despised him.

Essentially, the main reason this mess didn’t work out was because it brought about something new: exclusivity. And the Egyptians did not like that, believing that the world needed to have a balance in order to stay away from slipping into chaos. In the end monotheism didn’t last; hell, it was ended basically the second Akhenaten’s son took the throne. Tutankhamun, originally named Tutankhaten, changed his name to reflect the return to polytheism. His successors tore down the reminders of Akhenaten’s reign, removing him and his adoration for the Aten, eradicating his name from the record.

There’s no saying he didn’t affect the world – he did, a lot. Whether that affect was good or bad is up to the interpreter (personally I don’t like it all that much). By Freud’s thinking (hear me out, I know he sucks) Akhenaten’s rule inspired the ancient world, leading others to copy his ideas and theology, eventually snowballing into our modern world, where there are essentially no polytheistic religions. You have to give him credit – he was the first person of the ancient world to dream up monotheism, changing what had defined humanity for so long.

With his name stricken from the books, historians only discovered him upon finding his city Akhetaten. In the records, Horemheb is labelled as Amenhotep III’s successor, skipping over both Akhenaten and Tutankhamun’s rule. Later when Tutankhamun’s tomb was found as one of the very few graves still filled with treasure, interest spiked in Tutankhamun’s life, eventually leading back to his father Akhenaten.

#ahkenaten #ancient egypt #ancient history #egyptian history #amarna period #cult of aten

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jurijurijurious · 3 years ago

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Writerly ephemera meme

I was tagged by @thisbluespirit in this rather intriguing meme!

Find five bits of yourself that you gave to your fiction (memories and places and phrases and things into our stories), post and tag five or more writers to share as well.

Now I know I do write bits of myself and my experiences into my stories, one way or another, I think everyone does, but it doesn’t half put you on the spot when you have to try to remember where you’ve done it!

1) I know that recently I wrote Walsingham passing out at the end of a scene in “Mea Culpa”. The entire description is based on personal experience. I went through a scary few years as a young teen where I would pass out for little to no reason, usually at school where there were lots of people watching to cause me huge embarrassment, which then almost gave me a form of PTSD. I was constantly anxious about fainting, it was not good, and we never found out why it happened. But that’s another story... I still occasionally pass out but it’s usually for a reason, after having a vaccine or blood taken or something, but the whole process of fainting, though horrible, is like an old nemesis to me, uncomfortably familiar. I generally feel intense sickness in my stomach, my vision is puckered increasingly with white dots, my entire body comes out in a sweat, and I hear a high pitched whistle-type noise as I lose consciousness. And so since that is my experience, it became Wals’s too:

His palms sweated, his pulse raced... He shuddered and emitted another strangled breath, fingers white where he clutched the window sill, body trembling. He needed rest. Ursula's voice was becoming distant, the room was swaying like the deck of a ship caught in a storm. He felt a sudden nausea in his stomach, could hear a high pitched sound in his ears, a siren's wail beckoning him into the abyss.

“I am sorry. So very sorry,” he whispered, though he knew not exactly who he was addressing. His own voice now sounded as if it was coming from underwater, far away; he was drowning and could resist no more, slipped where he stood and descended into the open arms of oblivion.

2) This is another Walsibeth example I’m afraid because I haven’t written anything else for about a decade! So... Though the pandemic and my lack of funds has put a temporary hold to my hobby of horse riding, I am a half-capable rider and love tearing across country if opportunity allows on horseback. I can thus write people riding horses (English style, anyway) with a degree of accuracy. So in my smutty one-shot fic “In perpetuum et unum diem” (the one which is mostly a pastiche of the raunchy finale of “The Tudors” season 1, and also an excuse for me to write shameless sex), I began the ficlet with a bit of a horse-race between Bess and Wals to get the blood up (a scene that in itself mirrors Elizabeth’s racing with Raleigh in TGA, I later realised). Though I personally haven’t raced a person on horseback per se, I have done beach rides and also ridden on a horseback safari in Africa where you gallop as a group, and “giving your horse its head” is the order of the day! So a lot of this passage is me:

She turned her head back over her shoulder and caught Francis’ eyes. His lip quirked slightly at the corner but otherwise there was no change to his countenance. But that was enough. Her smile deepend as if to invite him to race her and she turned her head back around, gave her dappled grey mare its head and pressed her calves to its flanks. And the beast responded, driving its legs harder, faster, into a gallop and flew like a falcon through the trees.

...

As the wind flew in Elizabeth’s face, making her eyes water, a great whoop of exhilaration escaped her. There was nothing but her and the horse, and the knowledge that her blackguard of a lover galloped behind her. This was what it should feel like to live, even in tragically brief snippets; to feel the blood in your veins, the air in your chest, and the sun on your face, wild and free.

They then jump a tree trunk which I’d love to say I’d do, and I might, but most of my falls have been from jumping so I’d probably wimp out and go the long way around... ;)

3) Annnd another one from my Walsibeth fic “Mea Culpa”, just because it’s fresh in my mind. When I was driving to work last winter, there was one Sunday morning which had a jaw-droppingly beautiful sunrise. I tried to take a photo of it but could not do it justice. I did find a photo of Lincoln Cathedral on instagram from the same morning though which captured the sky perfectly. It literally looked like the sky was on fire, or something, and I immediately worked this memory into my story! I felt that a sky like that would make the perfect backdrop for a single, forlorn, broken bastard riding his horse in a clear, freezing morning:

There was a strange light in the sky as the sun began to make its ascent. It turned a deep crimson then lifted to shades of rich amber and gold; this combined with the few grey clouds passing overhead gave it the illusion of a huge fire, as if a great furnace now filled the heavens. Some might have called it beautiful, others would see a grim omen.

4) I had a look in my dreaded old fic archive, so full of cringe, and I found this from the end of my Doctor Who fic “Choices”, which I reckon I wrote between 2005-2006, possibly finishing it later than that. This scene right at the end (told from the perspective of Rose and the ninth Doctor’s daughter, Hope) is literally my old senior school - the class length, the finish time, the uniform was what I wore, and my history teacher was Mrs. Gaskin, and my mum would be waiting in her car to pick me and my sisters up:

By a quarter-to-three in the afternoon, she was in another History lesson with Mrs. Gaskin, and was spending another forty-five minutes hearing about the Black Death, the plague doctors, and the red crosses that were painted on people’s doors. It was fascinating, but Hope’s concentration wasn’t there. She kept looking out of the window at the school yard, noticing the little details that other days she would take for granted - like the way the trees swayed in the wind, the way a crisp-packet rolled across the concrete, and the pure azure-blue colour of the cloudless sky. Something was afoot but she had no idea what it was, or why she was feeling this way.

The bell rang finally at the end of the lesson, as the clock read three-thirty, and the class disappeared swiftly out of the door. It was home time! The voices of myriads of children echoed and shrilled down the corridors, and desperate feet, eager to get home, pounded down the stairs, making for the exits. White shirts were un-tucked from trouser and skirt hems, blue-and-red ties were loosened from about shirt collars, and black blazers were thrown off and carried over shoulders as the mass of pupils took flight.

Hope, however, took things slowly, almost as if she might never see them again, picking up on every smile, every individual laugh, and every joke pulled on every unsuspecting victim. She waved goodbye to friends, hitched her backpack over her shoulder, and made her way out of the school gates toward the spot where her mum or Uncle Jack would usually be waiting to pick her up. As she turned the corner onto Petunia Grove, though, she stopped and sighed. The car - either her mum’s or Jack’s - was not there.

Hope pursed her lips and shrugged, taking another good look around just to make sure that she hadn’t missed it, but there wasn’t a familiar car in sight. She thus let her bag slip off her shoulder, and she perched her backside on the street sign, swinging one of her feet back and forth as she waited for the arrival of her escort.

In the meantime, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander again, as it had been doing often throughout the day, and looked around the street. There was a blue tit on the hedge over the road, stood near a couple of sparrows and a robin. The front door of house number five was a brilliant shade of red, something which she had never really noticed before, and there was some graffiti on the road sign on the opposite side of the street. It read ‘Bad’ something or other, but she couldn’t read the other word since it was blocked off by the blue box.

Hope blinked and slowly rose to her feet. It couldn’t be…

5) And for number five, this is a short extract from the an unpublished Star Wars fic I wrote around 2010, where I tried for what must have been the third time to re-write the Star Wars nonsense I wrote as a teenager, all starring my very Mary Sue OC, Nadia, who became Vader’s apprentice and was mentored by Veers. I have here again worked my experiences of passing out into the story - a psychologist would have a field day with me. Nadia’s thoughts about showing weakness were also real fears of mine - I never liked to be weak, to be ill, to be a burden, and my character was the mouthpiece for my own self-disgust. It’s written in the first person with Nadia narrating in this scene where she accompanies General (Maximilian) Veers to the Kaminoan’s cloning facility to review further batches of troops and is taken ill by the experience of seeing the thousands of farmed foetuses:

Max nodded whilst I remained breathless and shaky in his shadow. I could not get those tiny, wriggling foetuses out of many head - they floated upon my consciousness, their inhuman eyes glaring into my face and their tiny hands reaching out toward me. I tried to rid myself of these infantile phantoms, but I could not, and I suddenly felt quite ill.

“We shall need many more in our next delivery,” Max told the creature, who began to babble on about the problems of this request, but was halted mid-sentence when Maximilian wheeled about and grabbed me, saying my name over and over. He disappeared amidst the snowstorm of white dots that littered my vision, however, and I collapsed upon the floor.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a bright, white room. The walls dazzled me for a moment and it took my eyes and my mind time to adjust and to recognise reality. I looked slowly at the plain walls, finding myself alone upon a bed with my hands by my sides and a drip feeding liquid into my arm. This seemed quite surreal - I knew I was not ill enough to warrant this - but I resolved to stay put until someone came to me. I felt extremely tired and I thought that I may as well take advantage of the rest.

I fell back to sleep again and, when I next woke, I saw Max sat in a chair beside me. I glanced about the room - we were alone. I looked at him uncertainly, my visage undoubtedly betraying the signs of my mortification, for he first said: “Do not worry, Nadia, I am not angry with you. It cannot always be helped.”

...

I wanted to defy him, to be strong, but no, I just showed him weakness and insecurity. What indignity was this?

Thanks for the tag, that was fun! I can’t think of 5 writers to tag but off the top of my head: @feuillesmortes, @robins-treasure and @captainofthegreenpeas? Have a go if you fancy.

#memes #writerly ephemera meme

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emmy-writes-sometimes · 4 years ago

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Attention

You’re Jacob’s twin and always get the short end of the straw, but your dad gives you no choice but to tell him why you’re such a troublemaker.

“Promise me you’ll be good today?” Andy asked, looking over at you. You looked back at him and rolled your eyes as you opened the Audi’s passenger side door.

“I’ll keep her in line,” your twin sighed.

“He’ll keep me in line,” you reiterated. Your dad sighed, took a sip of his coffee, and watched the two of you start to walk inside the building. “You really don’t have to watch me, I’ll be fine on my own.”

“You heard what the principal said, though. You’re one problem away from a suspension.” You walked backwards into the school’s doors, making sure no one was behind you, and watched as your dad pulled away. The two of you used to be close, really close. Actually, you used to be close to both of your parents. And then you started growing up and they picked a side. Jacob’s side. All you really knew was that Jacob was the favorite of the two of you. You were known as the troublemaker, the one who was always doing something wrong even if you thought it was right and nobody would ever listen to you about it. You always got the short end of the straw and you were sick of it. You loved Jacob, he was your best friend, but he was your mind’s worst enemy.

“I’m really not that much of a bitch, am I?” You asked him. He scoffed.

“The ninth graders are scared of you, y/n,” he said.

“As they should be. I’m going to history.” You walked away from your brother and went to the school’s history wing, where your first period was. Jacob did have the same class until about three days in when they decided the two of you shouldn’t be in any classes together because you just talked to one another. You’d ended up in the same English class, though.

You sat down and looked around to see that none of your friends were there yet. Most of them were usually late since they took the bus – not everyone’s dad was the assistant DA. You and Jacob were some of the luckier ones at Archer, or so you were told, because your parents actually cared. You weren’t sure how true that was, at least about your dad, because he never seemed to unless it was impacting him. Today was going to be an example of that, but it was also going to be the turning point.

“Hey, little Barber, your daddy put any innocent people away again?” Brett, one of your least favorite people ever, asked from behind you. You turned around and rolled your eyes.

“Don’t you have anything else to be concerned about? Like your grade or… football or something?” You shot back.

“Yeah. Like how I’m going to plow the shit out of your brother on the field at flag today.” That was right. It was flag day in gym, meaning they were going to drag your whole grade out onto the field and play capture the flag, which gave an excuse for all of the football players the chance to prey on anyone who wasn’t them. You didn’t stand for that shit, but your brother wasn’t exactly going to stop them.

“You try that and the only thing getting plowed is your body off the field,” you responded with your arms crossing over your chest. You tried to forget about Brett, and the rest of the people on the football team, as they all sat down behind you. They sat behind you in your other two classes before lunch and you noticed them eyeing you as you went to sit down across from Jacob.

“Why is half of the football team looking at you like you flashed them in the locker room?” Jacob asked as he drank some milk. You kicked him underneath the table.

“Because I threatened them.”

“You know not to…”

“I’m not going to do anything and they’re not going to do anything, Jake. It’s fine. I promise.”

“As long as you promise.” You two ate the rest of your lunch and went your separate ways – him going to find Sarah, who he had an insane crush on, and you going to your English classroom. Your daddy issues led you to be good friends with your English teacher, Mr. Marx, and you were supposed to help pass out copies of Catcher In The Rye. You were looking down at some meme Jacob had sent you when you literally ran right into Brett.

“Whoa, little Barber!” He said. You felt your breath turn to pure fire as you sighed out, kneeling down to pick everything up that you’d dropped. “Better watch yourself.”

“Yeah, you too.” You rolled your eyes and started walking away, toward the classroom, and for a few minutes you forgot all about Brett. You saw Jacob sit down a few minutes later and went to sit beside him, at least until the bell rang that it was time for the capture the flag game.

You were lucky. You were on Jacob’s team, thankfully, because the person who was choosing knew that the two of you had some kind of twin telepathy. You were against Brett, which gave you the chance to kick his ass.

“Come on, little Barber. Daddy’s not here to protect you now. You and your big brother are all alone now, and nothing is going to stop us from stomping on the two of you like a couple of cockroaches.” That was it. You’d had enough of the taunting, enough of the teasing, enough of the fucking bullying. Something just rose up inside of you and your fist collided with Brett’s face.

“Miss Barber!” One of the coaches yelled, grabbing your hands and putting them behind your back like you were about to be handcuffed. “Miss Barber, that is enough!”

“No, I don’t think so!” You said loudly, lunging back at Brett. He was laughing, even as his nose was bleeding, and he wiped the blood away.

“You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that,” Brett said. You rolled your eyes and walked to the principal’s office, right through the double doors and right into the actual office. The coach sat you down in one of the chairs and walked off, leaving the principal to tell you how things were going to go.

“Who am I calling? Your mom or your dad?”

“My dad, I guess,” you shrugged. Usually it was him that dealt with things like this since the courthouse wasn’t too far from school. He was also a lot nicer to you than your mom was, and the earlier he came home the later she was able to work. You watched as the principal called your dad and hung the phone up after he said he was coming.

“So you’ve progressed from acting out in class to punching other students?”

“A natural progression, don’t you think?” You said, crossing your arms against your chest. You heard the bell ring and not a minute later, your brother was walking in there, still in his gym clothes.

“What did you do, Y/n?” He asked you. You could tell that he was angry.

“I punched him because he was being an asshole.” You looked behind you to see that he was looking at the principal.

“Mr. Barber, you should go back to class. Your father will be here soon too deal with your sister.” Jacob looked at you this time. You nodded and he left, turning and walking out of the office. “Miss Barber, you do realize that this is a suspension?”

“A suspension? You’re kidding me, right? He provoked me. I didn’t just try to break a guy’s nose!”

“You did break his nose, regardless of your intention,” the principal said.

“I’m not saying anything else until my dad gets here,” you replied, sitting back in the chair, arms crossed.

“Fine by me.” The principal left you in the room, probably to go complain to one of the ladies at the front office who just agreed with everything he said because he was kind of creepy, and you sat there. You texted Jacob back, saying apparently you were getting suspended, and he only responded that your mom was probably going to be pissed. You were counting on your dad being a little less angry at you. He always understood. You just hoped this wasn’t an exception to that.

Your dad walked in a few minutes later, obviously not happy, in his suit and tie. He sat down beside you, barley looking at you twice, and the principal walked in behind him. Then he adjusted his seat at his desk, turned his computer monitor the other way, and glared at you. He looked from you to your father and then back again, finally sighing and clasping his hands together.

“So, Miss Barber, are you going to explain what happened to your father?”

“Brett kept attacking me, verbally, until I lost my temper. Apparently I broke his nose.” Your father turned toward you, a look of disgust on his face.

“You what?”

“Did you even hear me? He was attacking me all day, he always does and he always gets away with it because he’s a linebacker and they get away with everything,” you explained further, hoping that your father would just fucking listen to you. But he wasn’t having any of it. He glared at you, rubbing his temples, and shook his head.

“I’m proposing a one week’s suspension for her. Her brother can get all of her work for her, but for the next week she is not allowed to step foot on school property. And on top of that, she’s going to write a letter to Brett explaining that she’s sorry for breaking his nose.” You sighed.

“Un-fucking-believable,” you muttered under your breath.

“LANGUAGE!” Your father turned to you and grabbed onto your arm. “I need to get you home before your mom starts to wonder.”

“But I-” You started to say. But your father yanked you up, barely giving you enough time to take your backpack with you, and nearly pushed you out of the school. His car was parked right in front of the doors and you got in, kind of afraid to hear what he was going to say. He drove aggressively, even by his standards, and pulled into the house a little bit father than he normally would. You didn’t want him to talk to you, so you tried to get your key out. But he came up behind you and pressed his palm to the kitchen door. You looked behind you before letting the door swing open.

“What the hell, Y/n?” Your dad asked you.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I already tried and you didn’t listen to me.” You started walking up the stairs, trying to prove your point, but your dad wasn’t in the mood for games. He ushered you over to the couch, all but making you sit down, and you could tell that he was absolutely fuming as he walked back and forth.

“Why would you do that, Y/n? You already knew you were on thin ice with us. You know your mother was looking at boarding schools for you? So we could keep you out of trouble?”

“If you’d listen to me you would know that I didn’t just punch him to punch somebody!” You said over him. Tears were coming to your eyes and you knew you were about to break down and cry even though you didn’t want to. You wanted to stop being such a crybaby at everything.

“So you’re telling me you did this, for what? To get attention?”

“No, I did it because he was bullying me and Jake and he wouldn’t leave me alone! I just got mad and I reacted.”

“You just reacted. Right,” he said, hands on his hips, shaking his head. “This isn’t a reaction, Y/n, this is assault.”

“I didn’t do it just to do it! I’m sorry!”

“Sorry isn’t good enough!” You stood up then, tears in your eyes, and walked away. You knew that wasn’t what he meant. You knew he meant that you weren’t good enough. He never saw the good things you did, only the bad, so why would this be any different? Why would he actually fucking listen to you this one time?

You slammed your bedroom door and slung your backpack onto the floor, making sure you didn’t hit your laptop, and you took out your phone. You opened up the text messages between you and Jacob – Week’s suspension. Dad still won’t listen to me.

A whole week? It’s not even that bad!

That’s what I said! He hates me J.

He doesn’t hate you.

He thinks I’m doing it to get attention.

You are doing it to get attention.

Not like that! The blue bubble said that Jacob was typing for another few seconds before you got a ping.

I’ll talk to him when I get home. Mom said she’d be late so maybe everything will be fine when she gets home.

Thanks. You shut your phone off, knowing that your dad was probably going to do something crazy like log into your account and try to say that you were planning all of this all along, just to get his attention. You kind of were, but not in the way that he thought. You just wanted him to fucking listen to you about this, to listen to why you had punched the guy instead of focusing on the fact that you’d done it.

You heard the door open and shut in another few minutes and looked at your phone, realizing Jacob must be home. You didn’t even notice you were crying until you wiped your tears away. You were sitting on the floor of your bedroom, crying, and you were absolutely ridiculous. All of this over a stupid bully, but all of it came down to the simple fact that your dad just didn’t listen to anything you said. And if he couldn’t even listen to you about this, what would he listen about?

You couldn’t really hear what was going on downstairs, but there was no yelling. Of course there wasn’t. Sometimes you thought that maybe things would be better if it was just your parents and Jacob – no you, no problems. That’s what you were, to all of them, even if Jacob didn’t want to admit it. A problem. A big fucking problem.

There was a knock on your door a few minutes after that and your father walked in, looking at you on the floor, and he sighed. He took a seat across from you, crossing his legs, leaning his back up against your bed. He looked you up and down, noticing that you’d been trying to be quiet and there were little half-moon shapes on your arms from your fingernails digging into your skin. He noticed that you were crying.

“Jacob told me what that guy said to you.” You sniffled.

“What, that the kid called us cockroaches? Or said that Daddy wasn’t around to protect us? Or the cracks that he makes all the time and expects me to be okay with it?” Your dad sighed.

“He didn’t tell me all of that.”

“I can’t believe that it took him telling you for you to stop hating me.” Your father thought about it for a minute, eyebrows furrowing, and shook his head.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve listened to you from the beginning. But I’m listening now, so tell me what happened.”

“I just lost it. And I knew I would be in trouble because he never gets in trouble, for anything he does. And he does this all the time, not just to me and Jake. He does it to everyone. And I just got really really mad. And then the principal didn’t listen to me, and you thought I was just doing it for attention, which brings us back to the fact that you don’t listen to me. You never listen to me. And the only reason you are now is because Jacob is making you, because let’s be honest, everything would be so much better if I wasn’t such a problem.”

“A problem? Sweetie, you’re not a problem.”

“Then why won’t you listen to me? Why do you always assume I’m the one to throw the first punch?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s easy to believe that you’d be mad at us instead of some other kid. But that’s our fault. That’s my fault for not listening to you and believing you. But that also doesn’t change the fact that you got physically violent with a kid just because he talked you into it.” You nodded, knowing that he was right.

“I don’t know if I’m doing it for attention or not, but maybe if you’d pay me some I would know.” Your dad reached his arm out for you to come hug him so you did, leaning against him as he hugged you to his side.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. But you still can’t punch him. Even if he is a stupid linebacker.”

“I know. I just got mad.”

“You’ll have to work on that.” You both sat there for a few more minutes before your mom’s car door shut and your dad sighed. “I’ll go talk to your mom. Everything’s gonna be fine, okay?”

“Okay.” You watched him leave your room and sniffled once again, ready to face your mom the same way you’d faced your dad. Jacob walked into the open doorway, leaning against the frame.

“I didn’t hear any yelling. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

A/N: I’m sorry this took so long to get out! I’m having a lot of family things going on at once so I haven’t been able to write. I hope you like it still!!

Taglist (if you’d like to be added, send me an ask or a message!): @an-adventureland, @firstangeldragonranch, @ssebstann, @winterreader-nowwriter

#andy barber angst #andy barber x daughter!reader #andy barber imagine #defending jacob imagine

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