#Just HA you thought she meant bare but actually it was unburdened and now your boy is incinerated. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

1dsource · 4 years ago

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Author Spotlight: lovelarry10

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You Were Made To Be Mine

Words: 605k

Louis Tomlinson takes his 6 year old son Jacob to see Harry Styles in concert. Jacob has been a huge fan of Harry's for as long as he can remember, so it's a dream come true when Harry notices him in the pit. But Jacob isn't all that Harry has his eye on...

Louis is a bit embarrassed when Harry picks on him from the stage, but when he's invited backstage after the show, he wonders what Harry Styles could possibly want with a single dad and his kid from Manchester...

(Last update: 16/13-19)

Let Me Be Your Star

Words: 252k

Harry Styles has always been a singer, but he’s never had much confidence in himself. When his idol is brought on as the new judge on The X-Factor, he figures, what the hell? He’d get to sing and meet his idol. What could go wrong?

Louis Tomlinson has always wanted to mentor young musicians. When he’s asked to be a judge on The X-Factor, it’s a dream come true, everything he ever wanted. What he didn’t expect was to meet a curly-headed stranger that would turn his life upside down

We Both Got Nothing to Hide

Words: 43k

Talk to me, Lou.”

“I can’t,” Louis mumbled, knowing he genuinely couldn’t say it. He couldn’t admit to what he was doing. “Don’t ask me to say it, because I can’t.”

“Then… I’ll try and guess. You’ve… got some stuff of Harry’s. Something of his to make it smell like him?”

Louis just nodded, eyes fixated on the floor. This was humiliating, but he knew Zayn wouldn’t stop until he found out what was going on.

“Okay. Like… a blanket, or a comforter or something?”

“Kind of…”

//Omega Louis has a secret nest. Alpha Harry keeps losing his clothes.

Tell Me What You Want Tonight

Words: 18k

Louis Tomlinson loved his job. His boss Harry was great too. He often wondered why a CEO hotshot like him was still single. When a hotel mixup causes them to room together while in The Big Apple, will Louis’ crush turn from fantasy to reality?

Listen To Your Heart

Words: 35k

Are you kidding me right now?

I… No? Louis frowned, feeling angry now. It wasn’t fair, he knew that, but at the same time, he couldn’t help his feelings. It felt like this had been brewing for weeks, and this was it. Give it a rest, Harry.

Why are you such a brat? Why can’t you just be happy for me for once?

You think I want to hear about you kissing James? Really, H? There’s things I just don’t need to know, okay? I’m your best mate, not your fucking relationship advisor…

*****

Louis has always been comfortable being Harry’s one and only. When Harry starts to branch out, Louis has a hard time letting him go.

Harry is very lucky to have someone who listens to what he has to say, despite the fact that he’s deaf. He’s finally feeling like he’s coming into himself, but Louis seems bothered by his newfound confidence.

Beautiful Stranger

Words: 66k

“Did you want to- oh. Uh, sorry, I-” Harry stuttered, licking his lips as he looked over Louis’ bare torso, not focusing on the ocean ahead of him. “You’re very distracting, Lou.”

“Trying to tell me you haven’t seen a topless Omega before?” Louis asked, walking back to his rucksack and grabbing a bottle of suncream out of it before returning to stand by Harry.

“Not one as stunning as you,” he thought he heard Harry mutter as he started to rub the cream into his shoulders.

*****

When Alpha Harry Styles attends the Gucci Cruise 2020 show, he knows what to expect: clothes, clutch bags, and a few too many pretentious people. What he doesn’t expect, however, is to run into an Omega who is more beautiful than anything on the runway.

Take Me As I Am

Words: 117k

“Suppressant? But… why would I need a suppressant? Alphas don’t take suppressants.”

“You’re right, they don’t.

”****

Secrets. Lies. Deception. Betrayal. Self-discovery.Alpha. Omega. How far will they go to hide the truth?

Lucky Ones

Words: 188k

Harry doesn’t believe love is on the cards for him. Louis just wants someone to love him for him and not what he can do for them. Together they learn what love and trust is all about while having a little (or rather, a lot) of fun along the way.

I Drove All Night (To Get To You)

Words: 23k

“Sorry mate, but I think you’re my ride?”

Harry just stared, not blinking at the man in front of him, wondering what he’d done in a past life to deserve this.

“You’re Louis Tomlinson.”

“I was last time I checked,” Louis chuckled, still leaning in through the passenger window. Harry knew he was staring and not in a polite way, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn away in case this was all a dream, and he most definitely didn't want to wake up if that was the case. “Can I get in, then? Would kind of like to avoid more photos of my arse in the paper if it’s alright with you...”

*****

Harry’s job as a chauffeur for the rich and famous was not as flashy as he’d thought. Late nights having to listen to the ridiculous demands and whims of these high profile clients leaves him disheartened with the world he thought was all glitz and glamour.

One night his boss asks him a favour. To collect one last client before he clocks off. Only problem is when that client gets into the car it’s Louis Tomlinson. As in Harry’s all time crush. As in future husband and father of all his children Louis Tomlinson.

He can be cool and professional, right?

Kiss From A Rose

Words: 15k

Harry is the quiet one in the office no one ever notices. Until Louis does, that is. When notes start appearing on Harry’s desk, he ponders who is behind the kind words, oblivious to Louis’ attempts to get his attention....

Just Let Me Adore You

Words: 26k

When Louis’ daughter presents him with a Christmas gift far beyond the price range of a four year old, he jumps to the worst of conclusions. He’s pleasantly surprised when he finds out how she isn’t as naughty as he thought she was, and who came to her rescue..

Part 1 of The Millie Verse

Always You

Words: 15k

“You think he’ll want to come?” Millie asked the question that had been clearly troubling her, and Louis just grinned, nodding. He knew it was right up Harry’s street, and that his husband would near-collapse from the emotion of being asked to something so important to Millie. “Really really?”

“I really really think he will,” Louis grinned, cuddling his daughter tightly again.

*****

Valentine’s Day is one of Millie's favourite holidays. It’s all about love, and boy does she love to love. She loves her daddies, she loves her auntie's and her grandparents. She even loves her new best friend, much to her Daddy’s worry. But this year is going to be extra special if her Papa accepts her question! Harry also wants to make this holiday special for his two loves, while Louis has his own surprise up his sleeve...

Part 2 of The Millie Verse

(Last update: 28/02-20)

Piece by Piece

Words: 168k

Now that his best friend Liam is getting married Louis Tomlinson needs help, and he’s finally admitted it. He can’t work and be the best dad to his disabled son Mason without it. That’s where Harry Styles comes in.

And so begins the love story of a lifetime.

Part 1 of The Mason-Verse

To Carry Love

Words: 21k

Picking up a few years after Piece by Piece, we catch up with the Tomlinson-Styles as they celebrate the arrival of Liam's first child, and make a few choices of their own...

Part 2 of The Mason-Verse

I Get To Love You

Words: 83k

A one night stand leaves Harry with a permanent reminder of the night he spent with a stranger.

Louis has no idea who the handsome stranger he took to bed is... until his friends make a shocking discovery.

A baby is on the way, and Louis and Harry have nine months to get to know each other before they become a family...

There You Are

Words: 82k

“How do you know I’ve got problems?” Harry asked, cocking his eyebrows at the man next to him, suddenly full of a deep desire to confess everything if it kept Louis’ eyes on him for the rest of eternity.

“Your eyes,” Louis said with a shrug. “They look a bit sad. I don’t like that. So go on, unburden yourself to your friendly neighbourhood stripper.”

“You’re not just a stripper,” Harry mumbled as he took another sip of his drink, mentally debating with himself over how to word what he was about to say before he figured he’d just say it in the simplest way possible. “I found my husband in bed fucking another man.”

****

*Harry’s entire life has fallen apart - in one night, his carefully planned future is suddenly uncertain.

Then he meets Louis.

You Are My Sunshine

Words: 17k

“Hi!” Charlie said, stopping at the end of the driveway of a small house and waving at the man. “Mornin’!”

“Well, you just made my day,” the man said, walking towards Charlie and Louis with a big smile on his face. “Thank you so much!”

“Bye!” was all Charlie returned with, and the man laughed, looking straight at Louis for a moment.

“Bye, have fun!” “

We will, thanks,” Louis replied with a smile, still a bit mesmerised by the stranger.

*****

Charlie is a happy little boy, he smiles and waves at everyone around him, making Louis the proudest dad. Charlie’s spark of personality and a well timed hello brings a stranger into his and Louis’ lives when they least expect it...

The Little Dog Whisperer

Words: 28k

Louis lives alone with his dog Clifford. When he spots a sign in the neighbourhood advertising dog walking services, along come Harry and his son Alfie into his life…

All I Do is Want You

Words: 31k

“Lou, if he knew how you felt, he might change how he feels?”

“And that’s the last thing I want!” Louis threw up his hands as he spoke, exasperated as he always was when it came to this particular topic of conversation. “I don’t want him to feel like he owes me something, or that he has to reciprocate my feelings, Zayn. He doesn’t feel that way towards me and I’ve come to terms with that, okay? You need to as well.”

“I would if you actually meant it,” Zayn mumbled in reply, barely ducking in time as Louis lobbed a cushion at him. “You know this isn’t healthy, right? That you can’t just keep fucking him because you’re scared you’re gonna lose him?”

Harry loves his best mate Louis. He especially loves the casual sex they indulge in. Trouble is, Louis’ in love with Harry. Surely it’s destined to end in heartbreak...

The Daddiest Place on Earth

Words: 23k

dilfs_atdisneyworld: Ooh he's popular. Is it me or has it got hot in here? #dilf #hothothot #gimme

louist91: What the hell? Why the fuck am I on a DILFs page again?"

dilfs_atdisneyworld: louist91, Hello! You're on here because you're a DILF. A dad I'd like to f...😜

Louist91: dilfs_atdisneyworld Oh my god. Fuck off mate.

***

Louis. Harry. Instagram. A whole lot of confusion and a whole lot of laughs...

I Knew You Were Waiting For Me

Words: 26k

Harry has been hearing his soulmates voice for years now, and he's just desperate to meet the person he knows he's meant to be with.

Louis has come to think that he's destined to never meet his soulmate.

A chance camping holiday with their best friends just might end in all of their dreams coming true.

How It Would Feel To Be Free

Words: 90k

"When's she due?”

“She said next month,” Harry replied quickly, ignoring the look of shock on Louis’ face. “How the hell am I going to tell my parents that I’m going to be a father, and to a baby born out of wedlock? It’s going to be some whole-ass scandal, Lou, and I can’t ... I can’t-”

“I’ll help you. Whatever it takes, Harry, I’ll be there for you.”

When Prince Harry unexpectedly becomes a father, his best friend Louis steps in. The masses believe the baby is Louis’, but all Harry wants is to tell the world the truth - about the baby and his feelings for Louis.

Waited All Year To Be Near

Words: 27k

“Your kids are so fuckin’ great, Lou, seriously. Like, Leo reminds me so much of you, and Molly is just bloody beautiful, that kid loves me, I swear to God.”

“Oi, not as much as she’s gonna love her Papa,” Louis chided, jokingly smacking Niall on the arm. “And Haz? He’s coping okay?”

“You know him, course he is. He’s wonder Dad, dunno how he does it. Misses you, though. He thinks we don’t catch the little touches of his wedding ring, or the way he glances at your photos whenever he walks by. But we do. He’s like… he’s strong for everyone else, but he needs you, Louis. He needs someone to be strong for him, too.”

****

Harry’s preparing for the holidays at home with his four children while Louis is deployed. All he wants is his husband home for Christmas. But Louis’ half a world away...

With The Strength To Carry On

Words: 113k

The American British Doctoral Exchange Program was the best thing that ever happened to Louis. It gave him a chance to start over and make a real difference in the world. He could focus on work and not be distracted by anything or anyone. When Harry Styles shows up as the new intern, he turns Louis' world upside down.

Harry Styles had one passion in life, and that was helping sick children feel better. Putting smiles on their faces made Harry feel like he was making up for past mistakes and losses. When he gets accepted to the American British Doctoral Exchange Program, he treats it as the chance of a lifetime to make a difference internationally. He didn't expect to fall for his mentor along the way....

or the one where Louis and Harry are doctors, and things happen.

Made From Love

Words: 14k

It's almost Christmas, and amongst the preparations, Louis' realised something about his husband Harry.

Harry, however, seems to be oblivious.

Louis' determined to open Harry's eyes and make him realise the real magic that's happening this Christmas...

I Don’t Wanna Hide Us Away

Words: 3k

It's the X Factor final, and Louis' excited to see Little Mix perform. As he sits back to watch, he's blissfully unaware of how his life is about to change...

The Pain Is For Pleasure

Words: 67k

“Louis, please. I promise you, you are so attractive to me. I love you, and I think you are the sexiest man I’ve ever been with-”

“But Harry, that’s the fucking problem! You haven’t been with me, have you?! You don’t want me in that way, it’s pretty clear…” He cut him off, feeling that he was about to say something he would later regret. “If there’s a problem, I wish that you felt you could have told me, rather than, well, this.”

“Louis, I-”

“Just leave it, Haz. I get it, okay?”

“No! You don’t, you have no fucking idea, Louis!”

Louis and Harry have been together for a few months. Everything is great, but there’s one question burning in the back of Louis' mind - why won’t Harry have sex with him?

Baby We Could Be Enough

Words: 74k

Harry Styles has always wanted a family, but his boyfriend doesn’t. When an unexpected pregnancy leaves Harry feeling alone and terrified, he feels he has no choice but to give up his baby. He finds a family with the adoptive parents, and maybe something more.

Louis Tomlinson and his wife, Jess, have been trying for a baby for years. Their hasty marriage after they first got pregnant has only led to a series of miscarriages that have put a strain on their already precarious relationship. When they meet a young man desperate for a home and someone to raise his child, Louis realizes that he may have been moving in the wrong direction all along.

Step Into The Light

Words: 13k

Harry’s filming his music video for his new song in the humid heat of Cancun, Mexico after dark.

Louis watches him with hooded eyes from behind the visor of his motorcycle helmet watching it all go down.

How far can Harry push his desire?

It’s Coming Home

Words: 14k

Harry hates football and is reluctantly dragged to Hyde Park to watch the semi-final. It’s not the football that catches his eye though, it’s the cute blue-eyed boy at the next VIP balcony...

Or the one where Harry and Louis are strangers who meet at the England vs Croatia semi-final match being screened in London and maybe find what it is they've been searching for.

It’s My Party (And I’ll Cry If I Want To)

Words: 32k

“Sorry, who are you?”

“Oh. Yes. I’m Harry, from Fabulous Frog? I did ring the bell a few times, but there was no answer, and I heard laughter so I thought I’d pop my head round…”

“Oh! You’re the party person! Wow, of course. I’m sorry, lost track of time playing with these monsters,” Louis said, hurrying over and shaking Harry’s outstretched hand. “Lovely to meet you. Did you want to sit out here rather than indoors? Seems too nice a day to waste inside, and I can watch the children.”

“Sounds fine to me. I hope I didn’t scare you, or them? Some people don’t expect a guy to turn up when they ask to speak to me...”

*****

Louis needs help planning the party of the year for his siblings. Party planner Harry Styles is the last thing he expects.

Look How Far We’ve Come My Baby

Words: 5k

Harry’s finishing up his tour in LA, and has a surprise planned for his boyfriend. He’s devastated when Louis can’t make it to the show, but little does he know, Louis has a little something up his sleeve...

Could You?

Words: 2.9k

It's Louis' final night on tour, and he has one more thing to do, the moment he's been waiting for.

It's finally here.

Clumsy

Words: 12k

Louis loves taking Clifford to the market every weekend. It’s their thing. But when Cliff manages to trip over a handsome stranger, on Valentine’s Day of all days, it might just be the start of something new and exciting...

Love Will Tear Us Apart

Words: 103k

“You ruined my fucking life, Harry. You stopped me living my dream because you’re a selfish bastard who couldn’t keep himself clean for five fucking minutes. You took away my independence, my freedom, my choices, Harry. And I hate you for that, I hate you!”

As he spat out the final words, Louis felt all of the fight go out of him. He slumped back into the chair, his heart racing his chest, his head beginning to swim. It was a familiar feeling, and one Louis didn't like. He looked up, finally meeting Harry’s gaze for the first time in a while.

“Out of everyone in my life, Harry, I never thought you’d be the one to hurt me. Not like this.”

A story of two halves.

Louis and Harry had it all - a career, friendship, and some of the best sex either of them had ever had.

But Harry ruins it all with one life-changing mistake ... and Louis is left to pay the price.

Spellbound

Words: 22k

Louis’ a shifter. Harry’s a witch. The only problem is, they’re hiding those things from each other.

Will they be able to keep their secrets hidden at the most spooky time of year?

Baby, Honey

Words: 7.3k

Harry's been talking about sex and babies on stage too much for Louis' liking, so he decides to give him what he wants...

Or the one with the aftermath of Harry's Detroit concert...

Strip That Down

Words: 7.5k

“You’re doing well,” came Louis’ voice, and Harry’s eyes flew open, craning his head to see Louis sat on the sofa across the room, legs crossed, hands resting in his lap as he sat there, an amused smile on his lips. “A bit of a wimp, but I guess it must hurt-”

“You guess? My legs are on fucking fire, Louis,” Harry retorted, his voice a little shaky still. The alcohol he’d been consuming all night was doing nothing to numb the pain, and the thought Louis thought he was a wimp wasn’t helping. “You have literally no idea how much this hurts.”

“No pain kink, then. I’ll bear that in mind,” Louis said smugly as Jesy walked back into the room, a fresh pot of wax in her hands. “Oh goody, here we go again.”

“Please don’t do my thighs, please-”

“Them’s the rules…” Jesy muttered as she started swiping wax over Harry’s left thigh.

*****

Offering to wax his legs as part of a bet wasn’t one of Harry's finer ideas, but if it has Louis ogling his thighs, who is he to complain?

I’m A Buff Baby, But I Dance Like A Man

Words: 10k

“Do not call me a ‘tiktokker’, Louis, I'm a dancer,” Harry said, using air quotes around Louis’ made up word with his fingers. “So have you changed your mind about TikTok?”

Louis gave Harry a wicked smile, their eyes fixed on each others. “No. It’s still shit.”

“Wanker.”

~*~

Louis despises the mere existence of TikTok. Unfortunately, his boyfriend Harry has decided that during quarantine, he’s going to become the latest TikTok dancing sensation...

Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy

Words: 10k

Harry whimpered as Louis pushed himself up onto his tiptoes, grazing his ear lobe with his lips. His breath tickled Harry’s ears, and Harry swallowed, already anticipating what Louis was about to say.

“I’d like to ride you, cowboy…”

Harry's a barman at Flaming Saddles, a country and western themed gay bar.

Louis’ a customer who’d like to see if the tall barman is as good on the ropes as everyone says he is...

(I Can Show You How To) Slow Dance

Words: 15k

Louis feels nervous about asking his boyfriend Harry to his dance. Harry is quick to dismiss his worries and is determined to make it a night Louis will never forget...

A Lot of Fight Left in Me

Words: 139k

A few years after One Direction, Louis and Harry Tomlinson are happily married, have 5 year old twins and life seems pretty perfect. Their children have started school, and they're still in regular contact with their bandmates and best friends, Niall and Liam.

However, when their daughter receives some news they could have never expected, their whole world gets turned upside down. With a little help from friends and family and their love keeping them afloat they’re determined to take back their happiness, believing in the fact that love really is all you need.

You’re My Only Hope

Words: 12k

Harry and Louis have been hoping to start a family for a while, but it hasn't happened for them just yet. With the surprise arrival of a newborn baby on the doorstep at work, are their family dreams about to become reality?

Part 1 of A Life That’s Good

Tiny Dancer

Words: 8.9k

“Why are you awake at-” Harry craned his head to see the clock on his bedside table, cringing when he saw it was just six in the morning. “Six? Too early, love!”

“I’m too excited to sleep,” Hope confessed, giggling softly to herself. “My show is today and I want to get up and get into my leotard and my tutu and my ballet slippers."

*****

It's Hope's first ballet recital, and Harry and Louis are more than excited to watch their four year old daughter perform for the first time.

Part 2 of A Life That’s Good

Who You Are

Words: 10k

“Lou? What is it?”

“No idea, Haz. It’s addressed to us, lemme read it.”

Harry nodded and Louis’ tired eyes skimmed the words, eyes widening when he realised who it was from.

“Shit, it’s been forwarded by Social Services.”

Harry hurried to sit up at that, and the pair of them leaned in, trying to read everything, to work out what was going on.

“Louis… we can’t lose them…”

“They’re ours, Harry. Have been for years, darling. But this is about Oscar..."

~*~

Things are going wonderfully for Harry and Louis. Their family has never been stronger. When a connection to their son’s past appears out of nowhere, it makes them wonder what lies ahead for the future of their family.

Part 3 of A Life That’s Good

We Got Love

Words: 12k

Harry and Louis thought their family was complete. They were wrong.

Part 4 of A Life That’s Good

Follow Your Arrow

Words: 10k

“Come on, you can talk to me, you know. I won’t judge sweetheart. Or we can wait til your other dad’s home and we can-”

“No!”

Harry blinked, a little startled at the ferocity with which Hope had answered him then.

“No? Is it… has Papa said something to you?”

Hope’s hair dropped in front of her face as she shook her head again, biting nervously on her lip now. “It’s not him. I love both of you. I just… I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. I can’t tell him.”

*****

Hope has a crush, but she’s scared to tell her parents, especially Louis. Harry helps her figure out how to break the news to her other dad, who is ultimately nothing but wonderful.

Part 5 of A Life That’s Good

Summer Love

Words: 11k

"Papa! PAPA!”

"What, love?”

"You coming in?”

"Go on Lou,” Harry encouraged, knowing Grace had been waiting ages for her dad to come in the pool with her. “I’ll wait here. Might go and chat to Hope for a bit.”

"Okay,” Louis said, pecking Harry as he stood up. “No eating all my fruit salad, alright?”

"Can’t promise anything,” Harry said before he walked off, leaving Louis to walk over to the pool. He sat down on the poolside, letting his feet dip into the cool blue water, smiling at the sight of children splashing around, having fun with their family members. His daughter soon swam up to him, wet hands and arms resting on his warm thighs as she smiled up at him, her blonde hair plastered to her head.

*****

The Tomlinsons are off on a summer holiday before it’s time for everything to change...

Part 6 of A Life That’s Good

Right Here Waiting

Words: 5.1k

Louis and Harry are expecting a baby. Harry's heavily pregnant and nesting madly, determined to make their home ready for their baby.

The Boy With The Pearl Earring

Words: 14k

“I just… I loved it tonight. Being myself, wearing all this in front of the cameras. I know there’ll be people who hate it but I don’t care. I was me, Lou. I was Harry Styles for the first real time.”

“And you fucking smashed it, baby,” Louis grinned back, his hands around the small of Harry’s back now as he pressed in firmly, yanking them together as Harry stumbled, falling against Louis’ body.

~~~~~~

Harry heads home after the Met Gala to get ready for the After Party, but there's a surprise waiting for him...

We’ve Already Won

Words: 7.4k

Harry settles down at home with Clifford and Evie to support Louis on the X Factor, and waits for Louis to return home to his family.

Bigger Ain’t Always Better!

Words: 10k

Harry buys Louis a rather naughty birthday present, and they eagerly hurry back to Harry's flat, eager to try it out. Neither of them expect what happens next....

Don’t You Remember?

Words: 7.6k

Louis nearly broke everything - himself, his relationship, everything that meant anything to him.

But Harry never gave up on him.

Part 1 of Who Do I Run To?

Remedy

Words: 9.9k

"Are you coming back? I mean, are we done? Please don’t say we’re done Lou, you’re my everything, please-“ Harry held his breath as Louis stepped closer, taking Harry’s shaking hands in his own, running his thumbs over Harry’s soft skin. Harry felt calmer immediately at Louis’ touch, and longed for more, fingers itching to touch back. Harry inhaled as Louis stepped forwards and pressed a kiss to his cheek, the familiar scent filling his nose, surrounding him with love.

"I’m so sorry.” Harry’s heart fell at that, and he could do nothing but watch as Louis walked away.

Harry has to come to terms with Louis disappearing as he heads off on his first world tour, but he’s hopeful his boy will find his way home.

Part 2 of Who Do I Run To?

Wonder How I Ever Made It Through

Words: 9.6k

Louis loved his home and his neighbourhood. It made jogging more enjoyable. But when a boy with curly hair moves into a home down the street, neither of these men realise what changes are coming their way.

Or Harry and Louis realise that all they need to be strong is love.

Moments Stay When People Leave...

Words: 13k

Louis just shrugged then, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he looked back up at Harry, pain etched into his face.

“You could’ve just talked to me, told me how you were feeling? I just… I deserved more than you gave me, Harry.”

*****

Harry gets lost in the memories of the best relationship he'd ever had, and then threw away, breaking two hearts. He makes a decision just before Christmas, and can only hope Louis feels the same...

Feels Like Christmas

Words: 49k

Harry Styles has always loved Christmas - it’s his favourite holiday, but there’s always been something missing.

Louis Tomlinson has been running from his pain, and is determined to ignore the holidays once more, choosing to spend them in solitude.

When they meet - entirely by chance - it could be just what they both need this Christmas...

Part 1 of Make My Wish Come True

Fairytale of New York

Words: 9.3k

Harry and Louis fly to New York for their holiday. Harry has a few surprises in store for an unsuspecting Louis...

Part 2 of Make My Wish Come True

You’ve Got This Spell On Me

Words: 20k

Louis has been living in Florida for 3 years now, and loves his job working at Universal Orlando Resort, particularly in the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. He's on a countdown to finally head home to Doncaster, but the arrival of a curly-haired boy from Holmes Chapel throws Louis' last few weeks in the Sunshine State into complete disarray...

After All This Time

Words: 36k

"Look, I’m sorry. I just… we reckon you and Harry would be so good together. You just, I dunno, complete each other somehow? In a way that we all don’t. Sometimes, we watch the two of you and it’s like Harry and Louis against the world, like we could all disappear and you’d both be just fine as long you have each other.”

"Shit. God, I’m sorry, Li, we don’t mean to-”

"No! No, Lou, I’m not looking for an apology or whatever. I just… I wish you’d both see how good you’d be together. It’s nice, to watch you both actually, how easy things are between you. You cuddle, and touch each other, but at the same time, you can just sit in silence with each other, and it’s enough. I’d like to find that, someday, that’s all.”

Louis and Harry have been best friends since a fateful meeting on the Hogwarts Express seven years ago. With their time at Hogwarts coming to an end, their friends are determined to make them see that perhaps they've always destined to be more than just friends.

Prompted into reliving some of their most vivid moments at Hogwarts, Louis and Harry come to a startling realisation... that just maybe, after all this time, they're meant to be each others. Always.

Lost Without You

Words: 9.2k

Louis wants to see the world. Harry tells him to go.

Wasn’t Expecting That

Words: 3.8k

It's three days before Christmas, and Harry's nervously waiting for news. Surely it can't be bad, not again.

As always, Louis' right by his side.

You Bring Me Home

Words: 12k

After forgetting to do his homework, Louis Tomlinson was in a bind. He had to submit something but knew whatever he was going to write in the next hour was gonna be awful. By a stroke of luck, he finds a essay in the printer and submits it as his own. Little did he know it was written by his former best friend Harry Styles. After the essay wins in a competition will this push them further apart or bring them back together?

For You Are Mine

Words: 24k

“This is the most wonderful news. Congratulations. I had fifty wonderful years with my Lily before she passed, and every day I spent by her side was a joy. I wish you and Louis the very best, Harry.”

“He hasn’t said yes yet,” Harry said, laughing as Leon rolled his eyes. “I know, I know, but I don’t want to get too ahead of myself.” “You love him? And he loves you?”

“I do, and he does.”

“Then there are no worries to be had. Be secure in your love for each other. Go, go home and propose, begin the first day of the rest of your life.”

******

As Harry embarks on making one of the biggest decisions in his life thus far, he takes Louis on a journey of memories through his love of drawing.

I Will Answer All Yiur Wishes

Words: 11k

Harry has been begging Louis to let him get a cat for a while now, but Louis' always said no because they work, and it wouldn't be fair to leave a pet all alone all day.

But when their sixth anniversary comes around, he just might have a surprise for his boyfriend...

Mama

Words: 7.9k

"This is it, you know?” Harry said after a moment, filling the silence once more. “This is what happiness feels like. Real happiness. Like, I’m so content I could just stay here with you two forever. I’m a husband, and a Mummy. This, right here, is everything I ever wanted. I love you, and I love Amelie more than I ever thought I could love anyone.”

*****

Harry and Louis bring their newborn daughter home from the hospital, and experience the first twenty four hours of parenthood.

Hallelujah, You’re Home

Words: 2.1k

Harry takes his Louis to watch a final sunset on the beach together, one last time.

I Got Me An Appetite

Words: 4.9k

In the midst of planning their wedding, Louis and Harry spend the day in the countryside hungry for some much needed time together...

Strictly In Love

Words: 7.5k

Harry Styles is doing something he never thought he would do... taking part in another reality show, this time as a contestant in the 14th series of Strictly Come Dancing.

With a talented professional partner, a supportive boyfriend and fun songs to dance to, will the most uncoordinated member of One Direction be able to pull off the impossible and dance his way to the trophy?

#faaw #author spotlight #lovelarry10 #fic rec #hljournal #hlcreators #larry fanfiction

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invisibleinorange · 4 years ago

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Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Bridgerton Rating: T Warnings: Presumed Character Death Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington(besties), Bridgerton Family Dynamics, Simon Hastings/Daphne Bridgerton Characters: Colin Bridgerton, Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton, Anthony Featherington, Benedict Bridgerton, Portia Featherington, Violet Bridgerton Additional Tags: Bridgerton, Polin Summary: Unexpected bad news arrives for the Bridgerton Family (and friends) regarding Colin's travels. This will be a series that is set after "The Duke and I" or season one of the show. It is a companion piece to "Goodbyes".

It would seem that Viscountess Violet Bridgerton could not wait for the arrival of Duke or Duchess's much anticipated bundle of joy to add to her family.

It is reported Lady Portia Featherington seems to have finally rid herself of one of her daughters. While this Author, cannot be certain of the circumstances, it has been reported that not only has said daughter has been seen coming and going from Bridgerton family home quite frequently but household staff have been spotted with taking personal effects from one home to the next…

LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 30 SEPTEMBER 1813

A few short weeks ago, she’d been practically dragged back to the home to warm up and get something to drink. The next thing that she knew, Violet Bridgerton was telling her mother in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t be returning home that night or ever if she didn’t desire it.

Penelope had been appreciative to sleep in a guest room, to feel part of an actual family at their meals and to have a mother in her life that actually saw it fit to care about what she wanted.

She was never judged for reading a book and more often than not she encouraged to have more to eat. She’d taken to barely eating in her own home to attempt to stave off comments that implied she was some sort of a pig. She never felt shamed for just existing here.

It was becoming increasingly hard to imagine ever going back even if she knew she inevitably would have to. This wasn’t her family and she didn’t want to become a burden to them.

No one felt that she was a burden though.

Her presence had managed to bring some small joy to a mood that was very much morose. They’d managed to memorialize Colin without his body and it had helped them. The house still smelled of the flowers that once filled it but the wake had passed and his brothers had handled the delicate matter of religious ceremony.

Even though the grief wouldn’t entirely fade away, they were all weren’t standing still anymore. They might have all still been in black but there was the slightest glimmer of joy there. The dark clouds that had enveloped them for weeks seemed to be leaving.

Penelope felt a bit guilty for starting to think that things could actually be okay.

Benedict hadn’t exactly bridged the subject since the night of his failed proposal.

To say that he was surprised when his mother had all but moved the girl into their home would have been an understatement. He had spent the first few days waiting for something to be said but he had the sneaking feeling she was avoiding being alone with him and while she never indicated anything was amiss at family meals, the fact she wouldn’t meet his eye said plenty.

Anthony had advised him to leave it be for now. Eventually things would boil over and they could make another go of it. Was it really smart to let her integrate into their family like this only to eventually leave it? Surely, she didn’t intend to stay there, unmarried for the rest of her days. It was hypocritical to think when he didn’t particularly mind if he ever did himself but still, there was concern.

After pilfering a cigarette from his Eloise, he’d stepped out to smoke it. A part of him wondered if he could slip away, spend the evening expressing himself in the only method he knew how: his art. Everyone else was starting to act like themselves again and he just felt useless.

Long legs swung in front of him cigarette moving between his hand and his mouth as he let his mind drift between the various things he currently saw as shortcomings.

“I owe you an apology,” he heard before he even realized he wasn’t alone anymore.

His eyes flickered up, finding Penelope standing there in front of him. There was something determined in her voice like she’d been building herself up to even speak to him. He was caught so off guard at an apology that he wasn’t about to argue it.

“You don’t,” he told her simply, gesturing to the vacant swing, welcoming her to join him.

In some ways, this was most inappropriate but he didn’t think there was anyone who would say anything. He’d spent plenty of nights sitting out with Eloise and talking about their lives but Eloise was his sister. Penelope, as much as people seemed to have forgotten, wasn’t.

“I do,” she told him honestly. “I just want you to know that it’s not you that I’m against.”

He stubbed out the cigarette, deciding to focus on the conversation at hand. His jaw tightened slightly but his eyes softened. There were plenty of reasons that he could think of for her aversion to his proposal but it was at least nice to know that he wasn’t the offensive part of it.

“Do I dare ask what you are against?” he couldn’t stop himself from inquiring.

“Entrapment, sympathy - I love your family and while I know I’ve always been closer to others within it, I respect you too much for that,” she confessed, giving him a valid reason.

“It’s not entrapment when you go into it with your eyes open,” he said honestly. “I stand by my offer though I know I cannot force you into it. Surely, the past few weeks have made you see that you belong with us though.”

It felt a bit like a betrayal to nod at the words but Penelope knew nothing he was saying to be a lie and Benedict for his part meant it. Penelope did feel like part of the family.

“I don’t need to be married to you or anyone else to be part of it though,” she said after an extended moment of quiet. “I know that you think the certainty that such a marriage would offer me but you would be miserable.”

“You say that as if I won’t be miserable regardless of who takes my name,” he said with a shrug. He had the find the balance between sincerity and areas where he might find himself in danger. “If I could change places with Colin, I would in an instant but I cannot do that. If you would only consider my proposal though you would see that I could be more than kind. You would be financially cared for -- you would have freedom to do as you please. Most importantly, you could officially become part of our family. Remove any potential stain from this … estrangement with your family.”

It was a hard bargain to turn away but also one that made guilt bubble up in her.

They were doting on her, making her part of their family and they didn’t even know that about the money she had hidden away. She had more money than she would ever need to independently care for herself. With everything happening in recent weeks, Lady Whistledown’s identity hadn’t been a topic of conversation. Penelope didn’t even know how she’d continued to write about little tidbits she managed to hear through it all.

“I have to confess something,” she finally said after a long moment, deciding that perhaps it was time to unburden herself. She could tell Benedict and maybe then he could understand. Maybe once he knew he wouldn’t even think the prospect of marrying her was such a good idea anymore.

“I’m listening,” he told her clearly prepared to hear her out.

“I’m –“

The words were cut off and anything she intended to saw after wouldn’t have been heard. Eloise had apparently decided to come look for the both of them and thought it would be funny if she pretended to be someone chastising them for breaking the rules of society.

“You know that you shouldn’t be alone without a chaperone,” she said, making a mockery of the whole thing, crossing her arms as she played it up. “What will people say? They might think that you’re corrupting our house guest, Benedict.”

It was Benedict who rose from his seat, shaking his head to make room for his sister to take possession of his swing.

“I’ve been trying but I’m afraid she isn’t as debauched as you and I, Dear Sister,” he said musing Eloise’s hair with his hand. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

He did pause before moving to depart in order to address Penelope again.

“We can finish this conversation some other time but think about it,” he said with a nod and then he was gone.

Any prospect of revealing her identity as Lady Whistledown went out the window.

"Well now that he's gone I can steal you away. You have a package," Eloise advised.

Penelope certainly wasn't expecting anything.

#⚜ writings — polin #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #bridgerton

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mattzerella-sticks · 5 years ago

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Lucky You, Huh? (Clover Ebi/Qrow Branwen, set at the end of s7)

After all that happened, it's time for the dust to settle. Choices were made. Now, the consequences for certain actions need to be carried out.

Even though he fought alongside her to save Mantle, Robyn Hill couldn't help save Clover from the whims of the Council. Without a job or home, Clover needs to find a way to carry on.

If anyone understands what that feels like, it's Qrow. Never being one who can communicate his feelings well, would he be the best to comfort the other man. When he's the only one who can, what does that mean for Clover?

Qrow watches him from afar. Leaning against the wall of Atlas Academy, a small bag sat between his legs while he stared into his scroll.

He looked different, out of uniform. Dark jacket with sleeves hiding golden skin, a green shirt with a white four-leaf logo underneath. Kingfisher nestled cozy on the studded belt. And his face… lined in ways Qrow never saw before. Sadness as bold an accessory like the horseshoe pinned to his lapel.

“Where do you think he’ll go?”

Startled, Qrow barely showed it. He glances to his left where Ruby and Yang stand together. Yang bundled tight with her arms crossed over chest while his younger niece rocks on her heels.

Ruby blinks up at him, asking again, “Uncle Qrow, where do you think Clover will go?”

Qrow sighs, scratching his chin. “…I don’t know.”

“Where can he go?” Yang says, “Ace-Ops seemed to be his life.”

“It’s not fair!” Ruby stomps, “After everything he did to help us… and this is the thanks he gets? It’s… it’s – it’s ugh!”

An understatement. He nods, turning to observe the other man again. Somehow unaware of the little party gathered yards away. Or, he was. Given the tightness in his jaw and how deep his eyebrows furrowed since last he saw. Like if he lost focus from the scroll Clover wouldn’t know what to do.

Which, he doesn’t.

“You’re right,” he says, “But what he did made Clover a traitor… and there’s no place for people like that in Atlas.”

People who disobey direct orders to, instead, fight for the rights of the those who would’ve died if Ironwood’s plan went unchecked. Who helped him and Robyn sneak in under the cover of a ruse so they could surprise his former teammates and rescue the others. Who took the harsh lashing from Ironwood’s crazed rants without flinching. Who, even after being praised by the Council for his courage and conviction, was forced from his position because of his liability status.

“I’m really sorry about this,” Robyn said, catching him after the Council finished their meeting. “I tried my hardest but… with how Ironwood went rogue, and everything that happened because of Salem, they… we thought our military needed a rebranding. So the people can trust us again. Because Ace-Ops were so closely tied to the General…”

“I… I understand, really,” Clover nodded, “And I’m not mad at you, Robyn. But… there’s nothing I can do? They won’t let me teach, either?”

She sighed, squeezing his shoulder. Whatever Robyn told him Qrow couldn’t hear from his position. Hidden behind a turn, waiting for when the meeting ended. To see Clover. Except when most of the members left with strident purpose, his reason for being there walked through the doors with a slump to his spine. Distressed, Qrow’s heart beat in double time. He readied to call his name when Robyn beat him to it.

When they hugged, Qrow sped away. Unwilling to be third party to an intimate moment. There were more important things he needed to focus on, that he put off because of his worry for Clover.

Now that Qrow had nothing left to do in Atlas, his feelings resurfaced.

“He wasn’t the traitor,” Yang huffs, “General Ironwood was. He nearly killed all of Mantle out of fear.”

“That doesn’t make James a traitor, Yang,” he says, defending his old friend. Hard to do given how far he fell from grace, but it’s second nature. The image of a younger James always came to mind whenever he thought of the man. Before responsibility and war weighed on their shoulders. They walked unburdened while the world placed stone after stone on their backs. Qrow struggled from time to time, but he never faltered. Sometimes relying on an extra hand to help steady himself. James moved with tireless grace until, suddenly, he buckled and broke, lying flat on the floor. Unwilling to accept the offered hand.

“What is he, then?”

“…Stupid. Incredibly, unbelievably… stupid.”

She scoffs. “You have to be stupid to think that plan of his was going to work. Like a little distance would matter to Salem…”

Warmth leaks through his arm through a gentle touch. Ruby, at his side, says, “You should go talk to him.”

Qrow won’t face her. “He’s clearly busy.”

“He’s clearly hurting,” she says, “And you’re his friend. Clover did all of this… for us.”

“She’s right Uncle Qrow,” Yang adds, “it’s… the least you can do.”

It’s hard to decide which he’s angrier at, his nieces ganging up on him or that they’re right. Qrow chooses neither and both. “Fine,” he growls, “I’ll do it…” He stalks away, adopting a casual gait the closer he moves towards Clover. Stumbling only when seafoam eyes break from the screen and lock onto his.

He stops, cheeks burning and fingers twisting the lining of his pockets. “So,” Qrow starts, tongue awkward behind his teeth, “how’re you holding up?”

Clover attempts a smile but can’t show more than a broad stroke of a line. Completely level. “I’m… barely. Barely.”

Qrow nods, mirroring his stance. Shoulders brushing up against each other slightly. “It’s rough, isn’t it?”

“No,” Clover says, pocketing his scroll in a way that makes more of their bodies touch. “Actually, I couldn’t believe how easy it was. Cleaning up my quarters took… less than an hour. Everything I own is in this… this bag.” He kicks it, knocking it over. “And besides Winter and Robin… there wasn’t anyone I needed to say goodbye to. I tried thinking of people, but…” His eyes flit to him for a brief second. “But that was all.”

“Really?” Qrow asks, “No one else?”

“Ace-Ops wasn’t about making friends,” Clover shrugs, “Any free time meant optimizing our skills, abilities, and strategies to better protect the city of Atlas and of – of Mantle. Maybe I could have checked on my teammates but I… don’t think they’d want to see me.”

Qrow agrees, silently. Remembers how each member of Ace-Ops reacted in shock when Kingfisher’s hook caught Elm’s Timber on an upswing. Pulled it from her hands so she couldn’t slam it on a newly freed Weiss.

“Stand down,” he said, “As your leader, I’m ordering you to –“

“You’re siding with them Clover?” Harriet asked, fury crackling to life in her gaze. “Is that it? Them over Ironwood? Over us?” He didn’t answer her. “Well,” she continued, “I guess that doesn’t make you our leader anymore. Just another criminal.”

That hurt. No matter how many times they gave their speech, Qrow never bought it. Working alongside people changes you. An exposure effect. Might not be friends but definitely more than strangers. He knows from first-hand experience. So, when Harriet said what she did, Clover’s heartbroken expression made sense.

“If it’s all so easy,” Qrow says, drawing them both from their thoughts, “why are you still here?”

Clover chuckled, wiping at his cheek. No fights or danger to force him to hide the broken edges of his spirit. “Because this is the hard part.”

Qrow understands. Even though it wasn’t much of one, Atlas was Clover’s home. And being forced out – after everything he did for it – was the worst form of gratitude. Reminds him of a younger self staring across from his sister, her blade between them. “Branwen might be your last name,” she said, “but we’re no longer your family. Leave.” Under the scrutiny of his entire village, Qrow fled. Drowned his abandonment with ten bottles of the cheapest liquor he could afford.

A thought of Clover, drunk, passed out at the bar crosses his imagination and curdles his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Qrow says, rushed, “I’m sorry this happened to you. You should… they shouldn’t have taken your job from you.”

“They had to. For peace to remain in the kingdom, Ace-Ops couldn’t exist anymore. The people’s trust in us was broken.”

“But to toss you aside like that…” Qrow scowls, borrowing his niece’s words. “It wasn’t fair.”

Clover shifts so their elbows knock together. “All choices have consequences.”

“You didn’t have much of a choice though,” he argues, “Do the wrong thing but obey orders, wind up in prison. Do the right thing but think for yourself, end up without a job. It… it makes no sense!”

“I know. Still… I made it. You were there.”

Tyrian watched with glee as they stood in the cramped quarters of the transport. Giddy, unable to speak from the excitement over such strange twists. Robyn waited with tensed muscles, hands twitching in case her crossbow were needed. Qrow didn’t think of his weapon. Hoped they could avoid drawing them forth.

He took one step forward. “Clover,” Qrow said, “Clover… what are you going to do?”

Conflict played obviously on the other man’s face. Wrapping his head around Ruby’s message, trying to make a decision. He glanced at where his weapon rested, binding their prisoner, then to Robyn and finally Qrow. “I’m going to do what’s right.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Robyn huffed, reflexively unfurling her crossbow’s wings, “it’s never been any good. So, Clover, what is right?”

Right has no set definition. Ask anyone to do so and the answer is subjective. Always changing like the hands of a ticking clock.

Qrow believes he knows what right is, especially in that situation. Trusted Clover felt the same too, even though the shadowed voices in his head whispered doubt. More hurtful than ever because they’ve been left unchecked. Booze no longer impeding their mission to drive him crazy.

Clover said, “Ironwood’s going too far. He needs to be stopped.”

His chest tightened in a frightful mess. Relieved to hear him agree but also doubtful he actually said what Qrow wanted.

Robyn felt similarly. “Funny how this is the line you’re not willing to cross.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Call it suspicious caution,” she said, holding her hand to him, “C’mon… you know what to do.”

Qrow raised a brow at the gesture, unsure of what to do. Clover studied the hand intensely, frozen like a statue. Seconds ticked by deliriously, until he firmly grasped her in a stiff handshake. Suddenly a white glow shone over their joined hands, shifting like clear waves of a lake.

“Everything I’ve done is because, at the end of the day, I thought it was best for my kingdom,” Clover told them, facing Robin with steely determination. “We make the difficult choices so that people can live safer lives. Sometimes the lines blur, because things that can help in the long run don’t look like it immediately. But we do it. What Ironwood plans though… abandoning innocent civilians – members of the kingdom he swore to protect – goes against everything I stand for. There’s no way the ends can justify his means.”

Clover moved from Robyn, looking at Qrow. “I’m loyal to the people who need protection, those above and below. I want to fight alongside you.”

Overwhelmed, Qrow turned around. Listened while Robyn cast off any doubt clinging to Clover. Nodding when appropriate as they went over their plans in the brief window of opportunity until the transport landed at Atlas. Only speaking to wish Clover luck while he tied the bolos around his wrists.

He smirked, squeezing Qrow’s hands between his own. “You know me, I always have it.”

The same thundering emotions shake through him now, tremors echoing across his body. Causes him to chuckle, strange given the current atmosphere. So thick and nauseating, Qrow tries to dispel it with a quick joke. “Funny,’ he says, “how with your semblance everything usually… usually ends up okay for you. And yet, here you are… that doesn’t seem a lot like good luck. It’s bad luck. And I know what that sounds like because of my… my semblance…” Qrow trails off, sneaking a peek at Clover when it feels like his emotions are better under control.

Seeing how his expression darkened further only sent his heart into a tailspin. “But it’s you,” Qrow continues, “maybe this is a blessing in disguise and-and your semblance will find you something even better. There’s… no reason to regret what you did –“

“Qrow,” Clover stops him, “I don’t regret it. I’d never do that.”

“Huh?”

“Even knowing what happens to me, it doesn’t change things. If the Gods of Light & Darkness appeared and told me that by choosing Ironwood’s side meant I could continue serving like I did before, be the leader of the Ace Operatives I… I would choose you. I’d choose you any day.”

Once, when fighting off a Horse Grimm, it bucked Qrow into a stack of barrels that shattered on impact. Tai and Raven kept fighting, ultimately defeating the monster and stopping its rampage. Summer rushed over to him. Shook him until he woke in a daze. Qrow couldn’t hear her over the annoying ringing clogging his ears.

It’s almost like that now. Except Qrow can hear Clover over the tolls.

“The title never mattered to me, much,” he continues “promotions only came because I was so good at what I do… because it’s all I want to do. Helping. I… I want to help. And how the world is, the best way I can help is by fighting. Except I can’t do that here… and I can’t do it alone. I don’t want to be alone. I’m… tired of being alone. Of shutting off my emotions for the job. I shouldn’t have to. Because when we do, we end up being no better than the monsters we’re facing! And I…” Clover’s chin hits his chest. “I spent so long shoving my feelings down that I’ve run out of space. So I’m here, unable to move, because I’m absolutely terrified of what’s going to happen next. Unsure if I can make it in the real world anymore.”

Then, Clover’s lip trembles. His teeth bite down hard, but Qrow catches the action. Blames it for what he does next. “Come with us.”

Startled, he whips around to face Qrow. Gaze wet and shiny, eyes wide. “What?”

“You should… come with us,” Qrow says, cheeks burning hotter with each word. “We need to keep moving, find the last maiden. Save the last relic. Along the way we get into some… dangerous adventures. Save people from terrifying Grimm. Our team would probably benefit from having a seasoned professional with us… with your semblance, and… I – uh, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have another adult around. One man can only deal with teenagers for so long…”

“Qrow,” Clover sighs, fiddling with Kingfisher, “I… appreciate the offer. But if this pity – “

“It’s not!” he says. “It’s not… I…” A trove of secrets sits buried in his mind, and he breaks his promise of never touching them. Digs and dusts off the chest they’re placed in, choosing his words carefully. To not give too much away. “I always thought I had to fight alone, because of who I am. What my semblance was. Bad luck didn’t just trip up my enemies, it also hurt my allies. In battle… and off it. My team fell apart and I knew it was my fault. Raven left because I couldn’t convince her to stay. Summer died because I couldn’t protect her. If it was only me, then the bad luck wouldn’t spread and hurt anyone else. Anyone who didn’t deserve it – “

“Qrow – “

“But then I met you and-and you changed me!” he huffs, “Day after day, partnered with you, I… I looked forward to missions again. I was having fun. I started taking pride in my victories and recognizing my accomplishments. With you my powers didn’t feel like a burden. Like they were bad, how I always thought they were. How I thought I was. They’re a part of me and that’s okay. Having bad luck doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. I believe that now… thanks to you.”

His senses slowly return to him. Qrow hears his ragged panting and feels the sweat trailing from his temple. Tastes the salt from where they snuck in from the corner of his lips. Sees Clover completely flipped around, grinning madly. Like somehow Qrow strung together enough rope to catch the plummeting hunter before he slammed into the ground.

“Well?” he asks, unease crawling underneath his skin, “are you in?”

Clover rubs his neck, chuckling. “With a sell like that… how could I not?”

“Good… Good.”

“Y’know,” he slides closer to Qrow. Bodies practically plastered to each other. “You were right. I guess my semblance led me to exactly where I needed to be.”

“Yeah?” Qrow says, staring straight ahead. Determined not to melt under the intoxicating pressure. “Lucky you, then.” Mustering all the strength he has, Qrow pushes off the wall. He stomps forward, “We’ll be leaving in the hour, so don’t be late or we’ll get on without you.”

“I doubt you’d let them!”

Qrow doesn’t answer, because than Clover would know he’s right. Instead he avoids his nieces, standing where he last left them, and hurries to where he can find the closest substitute for alcohol and forget the insane amount of vulnerability he displayed moments ago.

“His good luck,” he scoffs under breath, “Or was it more of my bad luck…”

Ruby looks to Yang, smile wider than Crescent Rose. “Do we have another Uncle?”

Yang shakes her head, gently mussing up the brunette locks of her sister. “Not quite… but I’m sure we will one day. Soon by the looks of it.”

#RWBY #Clover Ebi #Qrow Branwen #Fair Game RWBY #Fair Game RWBY fic #RWBY fanfic #Clover Ebi x Qrow Branwen #Clover Ebi/Qrow Branwen

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damienthepious · 4 years ago

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also. also because. i am a gremlin. and i shall die of Emotions and take you with me apparently. ["From yourself?" Amaryllis says, her brow furrowed with worry. "Look, I- I know this is uncomfortable, Arum, but- but I know that you've tried to get Damien to- to-"] to ["If you had managed to convince Damien to do it, it'd be cruel, first of all. He doesn't deserve that kind of guilt weighing on him. And second, again, you would be dead, Arum.] please thank i am lov u

[Pick a short passage from any fanfic I’ve written and send it to me, and I’ll give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet]

you’re not a gremlin you are valid and i love you. that is a LONG PASSAGE THO, so BUCKLE UP. Also cw for discussion of depression, suicide, and suicidal thoughts below the cut. fun times with soft fic! or somethingggg

fun fact before we begin! Originally, this conversation was supposed to happen... before the i-love-you confessions. This was supposed to be broken down before they admitted that they cared for each other romantically, but i was having a shitton of trouble working out the trajectory and the ending of the scene, like, what the actual resolution was, and I couldn’t figure out how to make it work in time when all the other stuff in the chapter was good to go. And THEN it was supposed to happen right after the i-love-yous, but that felt SO busy and SO sloppy, so it kept getting shifted backward-

which wound up being kind of a blessing, i think? because here’s the thing- this scene is TENSE, here, and Rilla pushes pretty hard- but the older version was... kind of a FIGHT. Arum was much more aggressive about it, and there was a line in there for a long time- something like You will be gone this time tomorrow ANYWAY, Amaryllis. What does it matter? And then Rilla had this fucking heartbreaking- Missing you and MOURNING you are not the SAME THING, are you even LISTENING to yourself? and there was just... a lot more harshness to the whole thing. I’m glad it got to settle out, and I’m glad they were in a place to be softer with each other for this. It was too important to me that they addressed this, and i didn’t want it to get waysided.

obviously depression and suicidality aren’t things that have easy fixes, and love is not a Cure for mental illness, but i wanted it to be clear that a) rilla and damien are aware of arum’s non-physical hurts and care about them, too, and b) they are an expansion of Arum’s support network, which is SUPER important when coping with mental illness!

The Keep did the best it could, I think, but when it was just the two of them it was harder for the Keep to know what to do when Arum was deep in a depressive episode, and... well, they have a mental link, right? so I kind of assumed... they might share at least shades of this as well. Arum’s depression gets bad, the Keep is probably not having a good time just then either. Harder to take care of each other while you don’t even know how to take care of yourself. But! the initial point! expanding their collective support system is SO important to learning how to better cope with Arum’s mental illness, which has been running him pretty ragged while his physical injuries had him in traction.

Anyway. ANYWAY. the actual section you requested.

["From yourself?" Amaryllis says, her brow furrowed with worry. "Look, I- I know this is uncomfortable, Arum, but- but I know that you've tried to get Damien to- to-"] The reason why Rilla is leading this conversation is partially because Damien hasn’t fully discussed this with her, mostly out of a concern for... like... not betraying Arum’s trust? What happened between Damien and Arum was between them, and Damien wasn’t comfortable outright blurting that to Rilla. This was one of the ones that doesn’t get told. Not directly at least. Another reason why Damien takes a verbal backseat here is that... well.. he’s already said his piece to Arum on this front. The waters brought you here to live is a pretty definitive statement, yeah?

["What? Wh-what did you tell her?" Arum says, turning towards Damien, and he means to snap but his tone sounds more hurt than furious. Damien only sits, his hands clasped in his lap, his lips pressed tight together. "What did you say, knight?"] And, clearly, Damien’s instincts on that front were right. Arum is mortified by the idea that Damien would have aired his (as Arum thinks of it) weakness, and hopelessness. He’s hurt, that Damien might tell on him when it doesn’t matter because it didn’t happen, and he doesn’t feel that way now so clearly it doesn’t matter-

["He didn't tell me anything, Arum." She shakes her head, angling her body a bit more between them, leaning closer.] Rilla knows him too well by now. Tries to head off that hurt/anger and get them on track.

["Nothing specific, at least, but I'm not stupid. I heard you goading him plenty of times, and he said you told him about your- your work before we left, and he said that if he killed you then, it wouldn't have been a slaying and really there's only one way to interpret that evidence-" she pauses, cringes, bites her lip. "You tried to get Damien to kill you."] “it wouldn’t have been a slaying” was always a particular... phrasing that hurt me, i guess you could say.

[Arum freezes, his mouth going dry.] Arum does not like being confronted with his own weaknesses, as he sees them. He especially doesn’t want Amaryllis of all people to know about this- bad enough that Damien had to know.

["I don't know if it was because of guilt or- or depression or panic about the trip or what, but- but I already told you, Arum. I didn't put in all this hard work just for you to die. Just for you to throw all of it away-"] It was, in all honestly, a combination of these factors. Which is part of why Arum continues to panic. he’s still not really used to being seen, especially not in such a vulnerable way.

["I am home, Amaryllis," he manages in a whisper. "You brought me home. There will certainly be no reason for me to- to endanger myself now."] When you’re suicidal, it’s kind of hard to imagine what it’s like to not be suicidal. When you’re out of one of those valleys, it’s kind of hard to remember how deep they can feel. he doesn’t want to think about it. he’s happy right now. he has more than he could have ever dreamed possible, so it’s really hard for him to conceptualize that moment, right now. It’s hard, and it hurts.

["No?" she says weakly. "There wasn't any reason for you to try to goad Damien into killing you back in the hut, either, Arum, but you did it anyway."] no reasons that make sense outside of Depression Brain, at least.

["I-" Arum glances away again, his hand flexing, but she reaches out and takes one of his hands, squeezing tight. His eyes flick to Sir Damien, sitting quiet though his worried eyes are fixed on the pair of them. "I- that was- different-"] He has SUCH a hard time articulating this. Combine that with the fact that he really HATES talking about it. Lizard is having a panic.

["Different how, Arum?"] Rilla is pushing really hard, here, for good reason. She’s terrified that he might pull something after they leave. she hasn’t been away from him barely at ALL in MONTHS, and now she knows he’s suicidal, which is compounding the terror she already has about leaving him. She wants to protect him, from other monsters, from knights, from himself if she needs to. She loves him and she wants him to be safe and happy and if she needs to gently bully him through an uncomfortable conversation then by the fucking saints-

["I did not want you to endanger yourself for me, Amaryllis," he hisses, turning towards her with his tail thrashing. "You- you make the world less cruel, by your actions, your choices, your existence. The both of you. You try, if nothing else, and for you to leap to action and danger for my sake is- was-"] And he breaks. That was the real kicker of it, y’know? She found out that he needed to go home for his Keep and she buckled down, for him, after he had just been confronted with evidence of his former work and the ways it had directly harmed a human he loves. How could he possibly feel like he deserved that sort of care, that sort of consideration? How could he allow her to risk her own safety to get him home? He failed the Keep, he failed her, he failed himself-

in that moment, he was utterly certain that it was better for him to simply set them ALL back in their places. Amaryllis might be unhappy that he was gone, but it would be precisely the same hurt that she would have when she left him at home anyway, wouldn’t it? (pro-tip: No It Wouldn’t) Damien would simply return to being the knight he was always meant to be, and the Keep could grow a new familiar, unburdened by his distant, useless weight (pro-tip: No They Wouldn’t). And there would be no more risk to any of them for his sake.

[She stares up into his eyes, her hand clasped tight around his wrist, and he clenches his teeth and pretends that his throat is not aching.] It is so hard to explain this to her. Especially while he is... currently fairly distant from the feeling. He’s keyed up, emotionally, because of his renewed proximity to the keep, and because of the giddiness of newly-admitted love. Literally everything feels like A Lot, right now. but this? next level distress.

["If helping me destroyed you, it would be the worst of cruelties I have inflicted upon this world. And I, Amaryllis, have inflicted more than my share of cruelties already."] ouch. I feel like i’ve already unpacked this so just. ouch.

["So you try to take yourself out of the picture instead? Arum-"] She’s horrified. She understands the particularities of Damien’s anxiety by now, how bad that can get, but Arum’s been pretty internal with his own mental health stuff and whatever hints she’s been catching have been somewhat obscured as possibly just... responses to the physical trauma? Him being actively suicidal when he was basically out of the woods physically is... hard for her to cope with.

["The little knight did not bite when provoked regardless, so I hardly see how it matters," Arum growls, and in his periphery he sees Damien flinch, his head ducking.] oh poor Damien. Thinking about how close he actually did come, to ‘biting’

[Amaryllis' grip on his wrist tightens. "You do know that's not comforting, right?] It’s really not. Putting the onus on Damien like that- god, fuck. [It matters because I- because we love you, and because if you die, Arum, you'll be dead. Even if you were trying to protect us in some roundabout way-"] back when this scene was placed before the i-love-yous, that line was “It matters because I- because I care about you,” for... obvious reasons. Rilla, unsurprisingly, is about as bad as Damien is, at hiding her feelings once she admits to them the first time.

[Arum flinches, and she pauses, pressing her lips together for a moment as she visibly chooses a different phrasing.] She knows him well enough by now to understand that he’s flinching because saying that it was altruistic to want to protect him... she knows she shouldn’t push against that.

["If you had managed to convince Damien to do it, it'd be cruel, first of all. He doesn't deserve that kind of guilt weighing on him. And second, again, you would be dead, Arum.] It would be cruel. I think about Rilla’s assessment of Damien from Treacherous Heart sometimes, about the potential deadliness of real guilt for Damien... if he really broke in that moment and loosed that arrow- it would have destroyed him. Especially at that point, when he cared about Arum, even if he didn’t have any proper context to fit that care into, and when he knows how much this creature means to Rilla- RILLA’S heartbreak if she had to come back to that- to that? when she thinks she’s coming back to pack him up for home? when she knows that she loves Arum but is forcing herself to ignore it and push it down and away? Arum killing himself by Damien’s hand in that moment would have destroyed all of them, in a way. but! hey, that’s not the kind of fic i write, yeah? oof. I just think about what-if’s a lot and make myself sad.

Rilla’s emphasis on the kind of hyper-obvious here is... deliberate, also. if you died you’d be dead is something of a redundant statement, duh, but also like... the permanent consequences of a temporary state of mind are fucking important, and Rilla needs to make sure that he understands what he nearly did, and why it matters, and why she’s SCARED for him.

anyway this was a whole fuck of a lot. i hope any of this is interesting or enjoyable and not just. heavy. whoops.

#elle's fanfic meta #scattered meta #suicidal ideation cw #suicide discussion #depression cw #i dont' know if i need more tags argh #shorter-than-her-tbr-pile #asks

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fightmewiatch · 5 years ago

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Through the Ups & Downs

Pairing: Ari Levinson (Red Sea Diving Resort) x Reader

Prompts: “ Are you upset with me? ” & “ I don’t deserve to be loved. ” & “You’re one hell of a girl. ”

With the tourists finally settled in for the night, you made your way back to the kitchen, shaking your head as you dug around in the fridge for a drink.

“Hey,” you heard from behind you, but you just sighed a little louder, shutting the fridge as you twisted the cap off your drink. “Are you upset with me?”

“No, why would I be?” you huffed, taking a drink, before shaking your head. “Of course I am, what were you thinking, letting them come in here?”

“I was thinking about not outing ourselves before we even get started,” Ari replied, shaking his head a little and moving around you to get a drink for himself. “Look, I promise you’ll see it my way. You just need to relax and sleep on it.”

“Rel-?! We are smuggling out refugees,” you hissed, “at what point am I going to be able to relax?” Ari sighed, sipping his water.

“When you stop thinking that everything is going to go wrong just because it’s not the exact way we planned it.”

You huffed, rubbing your hands over your face. You had to concede that point, because you knew he was right - you were mad because this had been unexpected, but with a deep breath and a step back you knew it would be okay, in the end, at least mostly.

Huffing softly, you nodded, reaching out to pat his arm.

“Well, I’m nowhere near sleep yet. Sit with me, share a drink?”

“...only if you don’t hit me.” Laughing, you grasped your water in one hand, grasping his wrist to lead him out into the dark.

The water barely reached your toes as the two of you sat on the shore, sand still slightly warm against your skin. Ari sat beside you, looking out at the dark water, sipping his drink with a smoke between his fingers.

“How’s the family?” you asked gently, as he turned his head to see you. You didn’t need to look to know there was some kind of pain on his face as he ducked his head, sighing.

“Uh...my wife left...took our daughter. Left me divorce papers.” You hissed, glancing over then, as he nodded. “Yeah...I visited, before I came back here, and my daughter drew a picture of her family...her and her mom. When I asked where I was, she said I was at work. Didn’t seem to realize that hurt my feelings.” He winced as he said it, shaking his head before flicking the ash from his cigarette. “I mean, she’s a kid, and it’s my job to be there with her, but that’s not my only job, unfortunately.”

“I know what you meant,” you promised, so he didn’t think he had to try to explain himself more. “You okay?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t like I was gone for a year, and I dropped a line when I could so they knew I was okay. Sarah knew my job long before this...I don’t know. I know it’s hard to make it through this, but I really thought we were solid…” He shrugged, and you knew the combination of the exhaustion and the drink was starting to wind through him. “Maybe I don’t deserve to be loved.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. No, I mean it,” you sighed, taking the bottle from him as he grumbled. “Everyone has a different level of hard times and shit that they can handle. Being a married single parent can pull the bottom out on a lot of people, maybe it was too much for Sarah,” you shrugged. “But it has nothing to do with you deserving love. What it probably really means is you deserve someone who knows this job as well as you do, understands it well enough to accept all the ups and downs. I know, I know - Sarah married you, means she accepted those ups and downs, but she accepted what she thought they were, not what they actually were.” Ari chuckled, lifting his head as you stood and reached for his hand.

“Thanks,” he told you, accepting it as you helped him stand. “Yeah...you’re probably right. I don’t know, it still all sucks,” he sighed.

“Yeah, I know it does,” you agreed, squeezing his hand as he bent down to put the cigarette out as the water rolled in. “But you know what, just remember what good you’re doing here, okay? Because we are trying to do good, here, to make a difference. And in the long run, that is so important.” Ari looked down at you as you smiled up at him, and smiled back, soft and unburdened for the first time all night.

“You...are one hell of a girl. Thank you.”

“Every time. Now, c’mon, boss, gotta get some sleep before morning yoga.”

#ari levinson x reader #ari levinson #red sea diving resort #my fic

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cypher2 · 5 years ago

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The best goalies have a powerful presence in goal, and their confidence extends outward to their defenders and the rest of the team. This is the case of the American goalie Hope Solo, who is riveting to watch as much for the brilliant, acrobatic saves she makes as for the psychological intensity with which she confronts opposing forwards. Like many other goalies, she didn’t start out in the position, and she learned by scoring goals, not stopping them. As a girl, she was a strong forward, constantly scoring goals. As she recalls it, “No coach would have ever dreamed of taking me off the field and sticking me in goal.” She found solace from a difficult life on the football pitch. “I knew how soccer made me feel,” she writes, “and I knew I wanted to hold onto that feeling for the rest of my life.” She continues, “Life was calm and ordered on the soccer field,” where she felt “free and unburdened.”

“Goalkeeping isn’t glamorous,” Solo writes. “It’s tough and stressful and thankless.” Because youth soccer coaches often put less athletic kids in goal, there’s also a “stigma about goalkeeping,” When Solo was recruited into an Olympic Development Program (ODP) in Washington state, she started playing the position regularly. During her first game with the ODP team, the starting goalkeeper suffered a concussion after colliding with another player in the net. The coach, perhaps sensing something about Solo that would make her a good goalie, asked her to take over for the injured player. She did well and began playing occasionally in the position. Though Solo kept playing forward on her club and high school teams, she found that her knowledge of “how a forward attacks” allowed her to better position herself in goal and know when to run out and break up plays. Anchored in two roles, with a “double identity,” she learned how to think like a goalkeeper and a forward at the same time, closely watching attackers so she could position herself to stop them from scoring.

In 2000, she got her first invitation to train with the US Women’s National Team, then coached by April Heinrichs. The team was fresh off their epochal victory in the 1999 Women’s World Cup, which had drawn record crowds. Solo was a young and untested player, and she found the “skill and confidence level” of the veteran players “daunting.” She found herself in goal behind the legendary defender Brandi Chastain, who had scored the winning penalty kick against China in the 1999 tournament final. Chastain had become an icon not only because of her goal, but because the image of her celebration -- in which she had ripped off her shirt, revealing her sports bra -- was on the cover of Sports Illustrated and heralded by many as a symbol of the bold strength and success of female athletes. For the young Solo, it was terrifying to be on the field with the famous player. At one point, Chastain turned around to the young goalkeeper and “barked: ‘That’s your ball.’” Solo recalls, “Oh fuck, I thought. Brandi Chastain is yelling at me.” In another practice, Solo maladroitly punted the ball up into the air, and the striker Mia Hamm stopped short, looked at her, and said, “Do you want me to fucking head the ball? Then you need to fucking learn how to drop-kick it.” Solo was mortified: “Oh God, I thought. Now Mia Hamm is yelling at me.”

A goalie’s size is important. Being tall, and having long arms, is an obvious advantage when trying to protect the goal. Yet perhaps even more important is the size of the goalie’s personality. A successful goalie projects authority, commanding and controlling her defenders. She arranges them to defend the goal on free kicks and corner kicks, calculating angles and interpreting the positioning and movement of the opposing players. The confidence of defenders depends on the strength of the goalie--knowing that the goalie has things covered in front of the goal enables them to stand firm, as well as take risks when necessary. When a team has confidence in a goalie, the defenders can move more freely up the field toward the opposing goal, putting more strength in the attack and pressuring the other team. In this sense, the goalie, though invisible in the attack, plays a crucial role in giving the rest of the team the space and inspiration to move forward quickly and aggressively.

Solo learned about the importance of authority the hard way. She first played for the US Women’s National Team in a game against Iceland in April 2000, and she was chosen again to play archrival Mexico on Cinco de Mayo in Portland. The US dominated the game, winning 4-0. At one point, with Mexico on the attack, Chastain let a ball through and Solo had to dive to make a save. Solo writes, “Brandi turned around and yelled at me--’Come on, Hope!’--blaming me for not coming out for the ball.” Solo knew it was actually Chastain who had made the mistake, but--too respectful of the authority of the veteran player--she didn’t respond. “That was my mistake,” Solo admits. Afterward, Heinrichs spoke to Solo about that incident on the field and her interaction with Chastain. ‘”That tells me you’re not ready, Hope,’ she said. ‘We all knew Brandi made a mistake. Yet you didn’t have the courage to call her out and yell back at her. You’re not ready to lead the defense.’”

In time, of course, Solo would be ready. Though she missed the 2000 Olympics, she played on the under-twenty-one team, and Heinrichs soon brought her back onto the roster of the national team. She attributes much of her improvement to a goalkeeping coach at the University of Washington, Amy Griffin. Soon after Solo started playing for Washington, Griffin handed her a note that said, “A goalkeeper cannot win a game. A goalkeeper saves it.” What Griffin taught Solo was ultimately the key to goalkeeping: the “intellectual side” of the position, the endless work of observation, of calibration, of constantly adjusting one’s position, and of readiness in relationship to the flow of the game. Before training with Griffin, Solo writes, she had taken a relatively direct approach to guarding the net, waiting in goal and using her size and reflexes to stop what came at her. She learned that the key to goalkeeping at the highest level was to think tactically, remaining a few steps ahead. That meant taking charge of positioning defenders, reading the runs of opposing players as they moved across the field, and understanding “how to anticipate and predict what was happening in front of me.” The key to this was figuring out where the opposing players would likely move and shoot from, and calculating the angles so that she could position herself most effectively. Goalies constantly have to make critical decisions about where to place themselves, and Solo learned how to know when to leave the goal line to confront an onrushing player and when to stay back. All this new awareness made the position “much more interesting.” Rather than “ninety minutes of waiting for my defense to make a mistake,” it became “ninety minutes of tactics and strategy.”

One of the highlights of Solo’s career came during the 2011 Women’s World Cup when the US faced off against Brazil in a riveting game. In the second half of the game, with the US leading 1-0, the referee gave a red card to US defender Rachel Buehler when she tangled with Brazilian striker Marta Vieira da Silva, known as Marta, in front of the goal. The call was controversial, but it was only the first of a bizarre string of refereeing decisions. The Brazilian player Cristiane Rozeira stepped up to take the penalty kick, and Solo made a brilliant diving save. The referee, however, immediately called for the penalty kick to be retaken. It wasn’t clear why at the time, although it was later understood that the call was for encroachment--one of the US players had started to run into the penalty area before the ball was kicked, which is indeed technically a foul, although quite rarely called. Solo argued with the referee and got a yellow card. Then Marta walked up to take the second penalty kick and struck it fast into the net. Solo was beaten this time. The sequence was enough to drive any goalkeeper mad. Solo kept her composure, though, throughout the rest of the game, even making key saves. In the shoot-out, Solo blocked one crucial penalty kick, winning the game for the US.

In the 2015 World Cup, Solo’s goalkeeping was once again critical to the US success. Against a powerhouse German team in the semifinal, Solo saved the game early on when the referee granted a penalty kick. German star striker Célia Šašić stepped up to take it. I was there in the stadium that day, and I could barely watch, sure that Šašić would make it. Solo did something odd, clearly aiming to psych out the German striker. She started to sort of stroll away from goal. It almost looked, for a moment, like she had just decided that she was done, that she was leaving for good. As Carli Lloyd remembers, “It was a very leisurely stroll. If there were flowers nearby, she would’ve stopped to pick them.” It was a dangerous move: the referee could have given her a yellow card for it. Just in time, Solo turned back, came into goal, and stared down Šašić who, very uncharacteristically, sent the ball wide to the left of the goal. We went crazy in the stadium. “Sometimes,” Lloyd recalls, “even in the heat of a big game, you can feel the momentum shift on the spot.” That moment was “one of those times,” and the US went on to defeat Germany, and then win against Japan in the final.

Laurent Dubois | The Language of the Game: How to Understand Soccer | March 2018

#hope solo #uswnt #wwc 2015 #wwc 2011 #woso #interviews and articles #thinkin about buying this book bc it seems an interesting read throughout #also @hope write another book please

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coeurdastronaute · 6 years ago

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Essays in Existentialism: Monarchy 5

Preciously on Monarchy

The morning mist rose quietly over the rolling expanse of the garden. Stately rows of trimmed hedges outlined a path, ordered and neat, not a twig out of place. The mist didn’t care about any of it, disrupting the perfection by obscuring it, making it hazy and unclear. In the cold, even the snow was symmetrical and even, perfectly coiffed and parallel, with level surfaces everywhere. It was a peaceful sight to behold as the sun snuck between the low clouds and the tips of the trees, allowing a bit of red, golden light to welcome the new day.

From her spot by the window, Clarke sighed and watched it all happen from the window in the large dining room that made her feel like an ant in comparison. Ceilings had no right to be so high; walls had no right to be so ornate. But there she stood, in Lexa’s old prep school button up and day-old jeans, looking out onto the property of the most famous house in the nation, a sight so few ever got to cherish.

With a small smile, Clarke clung tighter to her coffee cup and stood so close to the glass that she could feel the chill emanating from it. She wiggled her toes in old wool socks and felt the stately carpet beneath them and very gradually became aware of how absolutely insane her situation had become.

But that was quickly struck down with the knowledge that Lexa was about to go through something even worse, perhaps.

When they were just anonymous idiots in a place that they almost didn’t expect to survive, tucked behind a shelf that once held packaging supplies, Clarke knew how important Lexa’s duty was to her name, to her family. In the dark, the princess told her about it, about her compulsion to hide away, to run from it.

A little guilt snuck in, because Clarke knew that she was the reason Lexa bypassed all of that duty and honor. The only comfort was in the idea that Lexa was secretly eager to finally breathe again, to unburden herself of a secret-- to be herself.

The sun hummed into the day, while the clouds wiggled and moved, rushing along to another world. Twenty-four hours ago, she didn’t exist. She was just a doctor who was trying to find how to come back after feeling like she’d failed to complete her mission. For the first time, she thought about her job and her life and how it was never going ot be the same. Even if she denied everything, even if Lexa claimed fakes and got rid of all evidence, it was out there. Her name would follow. There was no more Clarke Griffin as she knew it.

But feet thudded against the carpet, making their way across the space behind her, and Clarke saw again that the day was settling in, all blue and grey and void of the burst of the sun. Anyone else might not believe her, but she saw it.

Clarke sipped her coffee and looked over her shoulder to catch a brooding Lexa, hair wet from the shower. She hadn’t slept, and Clarke knew that meant she was working out until she couldn’t stand. Clarke woke up alone and wasn’t sure what kind of Lexa she would run into. Now she was seeing it, the entire pacing, distracted mess. The nerves were evident.

Lexa made her way down the hall and disappeared for a moment before returning, unaware that anything had changed in the time she’d huffed and clenched her firsts. Only when she met Clarke’s eyes did she stop and freeze, as if struck by the idea that someone else was awake and had witnessed her frantic pacing and nerves. She relaxed when she realized she was allowed; that it was just Clarke, and therefore safe.

“Did you know that you have a fountain in your backyard that pre-dates America?”

“You should see what we have for dungeons.”

“Did you get much sleep?” Clarke worried as Lexa shoved her hands in her pockets and stood near her, leaning against the corner of the large table. “When I woke up you were gone.”

There was a look to her that betrayed the tired in her bones. The doctor saw it and thought of how to combat it, but she didn’t have a good answer for the potential shunning of an entire country someone loved to their very core.

“A little.”

“It’ll be okay.”

“I know.”

Clarke shook her head and put down her coffee cup. She hugged Lexa tightly, surprising them both as to the extent of her strength. She closed her eyes so hard that stars appeared, but she did her best to transfer her energy and feeling to Lexa in that moment-- if she could give her the strength, the boost, the safety, the anything at all, then she would, and she was going to do it in a hug.

Reluctantly, Lexa pulled her hands out of her pockets and let out a heavy sigh, one she’d been holding for longer than she could remember, and she adjusted her chin on her girlfriend’s shoulder.

“This might be one of our last moments alone for a while.”

Arms constricted around her neck a little tighter and Lexa smiled to herself as she felt Clarke take a deep breath, her nose finding her neck, warm and soft there.

“Nothing else matters. You’re about to do something very important. I’m not going anywhere, tiger.”

“I have to come out to the world today, and my stomach is in knots. I’ve never been in the spotlight before, just off to the side.”

“Hold on one second,” Clarke pulled away slightly. She surveyed Lexa’s face, she smooshed her face around in her hands and furrowed. “You’re the one that can turn into a wolf. Who comes from an unending line of greatness. Who has the blood of kings running through her. You were never made for anything but the spotlight, and you do it nobly.”

All she could do was nod slowly before Clarke decided that was good enough, and she hugged Lexa once again, the length of her frame hunched over to allow for it.

“I’m really happy, I think, deep, deep down.”

“I know.”

“Are you happy?”

“Very.”

It wasn’t until a voice cleared itself that Lexa felt Clarke’s arms slacken their hold. The daylight was already warming the chill on the glass and the clouds were barely hiding the day as grey rose up and illuminated everywhere.

There should have been more words, probably. Clarke wondered why she couldn’t say anything, or why the time spent together felt so short and like Lexa’s words were an omen, that it would be their last time alone for a while. Quickly, the feeling of calm disappeared

“Good morning, girls,” the queen greeted them, reading the paper with her head tilted to see out of her glasses. All business, she held the paper at a distance and read the headlines with interest, afraid to raise her eyes.

Her daughter blushed and sighed again.

“Good morning, Mom,” Lexa smiled softly before kissing her cheek as she took the seat at the head of the table. “How are the headlines?”

“Not bad at all,” she lied before folding it and slapping it on the table. “How did you sleep, Clarke?”

“Oh, fine, yes, fantastic. I slept in a palace.”

“It does have its perks, doesn’t it. Sit, sit. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and you both are going to need your strength today.”

Clarke looked to Lexa, in hopes of escape, but instead just followed her, mimicking her movement on the opposite side of the table. Almost instantly, maids skittered into the dining hall with trays of silver containing delicious smelling food and coffee. The fairy tales had it right, the doctor realized. These things just happened.

Breakfast just started, and before Clarke found refill her coffee cup, Aden made his way to join them, the king shortly after. It turned suddenly busy and loud and fun with the newest additions, that by the time the eldest made her way to meet them, her husband following with their hands linked, the table was laughing at something the king said to his wife about his lunch date with some ambassadors.

The queen sat at the end of the table and opened the news paper, hiding behind it.

Lexa glanced at the large black print and stalled, toast stuck in mid-air between the plate and her mouth. The table was quiet before her sister started laughing uncontrollably which spread to the rest.

GAY

The word covered the top half of the paper. Clarke looked at Lexa’s picture beneath it and watched her eyes grow wide.

“At least they used a nice picture,” Alex offered as he took another bite of his grapefruit.

The apartment was far from the hum of the big part of the city. It was far away from her actual apartment, but Clarke looked out of the floor-to-ceiling windows and couldn’t really figure out a way to complain about missing her place. Tucked high in a new building that she thought wasn’t even finished yet, Clarke was greeted by a modest staff of four when she arrived, a bag of her own things packed and waiting in the large bedroom down the hall.

With a sigh, Clarke sat on the couch and watched the late afternoon sunlight wane and doze behind the layer of clouds that never seemed to want to leave. Without Lexa near her, the entirety of the situation felt remarkably real. Suddenly, it wasn’t an abstract, and she wasn’t holding someone’s hand as they came out. Instead, she was alone, in a strange condo, with a security guard at the door.

It was only after being left with her thoughts for a few seconds that she decided she needed more distraction and noise in the quiet, and so Clarke put on the television to see her girlfriend’s face plastered on it.

Four talking heads debated something about Lexa’s coming out, or at least the pictures, and why it was a big deal. It made Clarke slightly sick to her stomach.

If she could have looked away, she would have, but her eyes were permanently glued to the screen for the first few hours of her isolation.

The nerves didn’t start until the time grew closer for Lexa’s address and interview. Everyone speculated as to when it would be, but Clarke actually knew. She spent hours with a trainer as to how to answer questions and what was about to happen. The royal family’s team was thorough, if anything, and it all made sense how secrets never made their way out of the gated palace.

But the nerves did start, and Clarke sat on the edge of her seat and waited as she held her breath.

“Are you ready for this?” Alex asked as he adjusted his collar, smoothing his sleeves in a graceful movement he’d perfected over the years.

“I’m about to come out to the entire planet and disrupt an entire monarchy,” Lexa nodded and tried to swallow away the dryness of her mouth, though that was about impossible.

“You’re not disrupting anything.”

“I’m disrupting your Tuesday.”

“That’s true,” he nodded.

The two stood backstage, amidst the flurry of excitement and eagerness to get the scoop. Everyone on the studio stage was fretting with everything, and the royals remained very still, something they’d learned and perfected across time.

“You are still my daughter. You are still the princess. You are still all of it,” he finally whispered as they found an ease after a few moments. “Show them that.”

“I don’t want to… I couldn’t ever-- I won’t disappoint you.”

“You could never.”

“I’m sorry you have to deal with all of this,” Lexa sighed and adjusted her collar before pressing her hand over her chest and rubbing there for a moment.

“I’d switch places with you if I could, to protect you from all of this. I’m not the one that has to deal with anything.”

“I don’t think Mom would take it very well if you came out to the entire world.”

Alex chuckled and nodded, the smile on his lips fading almost as soon as it came around. The call for the studio began, and it started to filter around.

“At the end of the day, I want you to know that I am your biggest fan, Al,” her father muttered. “Nothing will change that.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

The king watched his daughter out of the corner of his eye, proud of her so utterly and completely, for just a moment, he was not so sure he didn’t have a favorite. With a slight movement, he reached down and held her hand. Lexa didn’t look at him, but she squeezed her father’s hand to find some strength before dropping it as the green light blinked and it was her turn to make her way onto the camera.

She never looked back, and her father remembered all of her firsts-- steps, bike ride, graduation, enlistment, departure for duty-- and each time, she was the kid that never looked back for support or encouragement. Lexa was his daughter who didn’t need it, and he took pride in her assuredness.

But Lexa never looked back, and she didn’t see his teary smile, and so the king radiated all of the love he could for her and hoped it would be enough.

For hours after the broadcast, the news stations talked about Lexa and the monarchy and Clarke and the entire situation that now became a situation. The talking heads chatted, bringing on experts in both things that Lexa now proclaimed to be-- gay and a princess. Legal experts spoke about succession and the implications of a potential gay royal wedding while gay rights activists applauded the visibility and what this meant while lamenting the fact that Lexa existed in the closet for so long.

All of it, Clarke knew, was exhausting to her girlfriend. She was probably hating every minute of the attention and talking about herself.

Clarke spent the evening scrolling through social media and listening to everyone chatting about her and her girlfriend.

So enthralled, she didn’t notice the knocking at her door. She hadn’t expected it, locked up across town amidst the blitz.

As soon as she opened the door, a handful of flowers met her, and Clarke smiled before Lexa appeared behind them, bashful and exhausted and showing every ounce of it.

“Hey,” Clarke smiled.

“I had the roughest day at work,” Lexa sighed. “Can I come in?”

“To the safe house that you have guarded like a vault?”

“Yeah,” she grinned, slightly back to the helo pilot who was so tan her freckles were splattered across her shoulders and approached a girl in a makeshift bar.

Clarke hung on the door and looked past Lexa toward the guards and their burly chests and big guns and roving eyes. She looked back at Lexa’s deep brown ones, warm and gooey and lathering her up. She saw the shadow of the freckles on the bridge of her nose, hidden beneath the bags that were evident when her make up was removed. She nudged her head and welcomed the princess.

“I missed you,” Lexa sighed as she grabbed Clarke into a hug the moment the door was closed.

The flowers crinkled against Clarke’s back, but neither cared. She dug her nose into the princess’ neck and she inhaled and smiled against the skin there.

“I am so proud of you,” Clarke whispered, holding Lexa’s cheeks and wobbling her head slightly to punctuate her point.

“Can you believe I did my best to overturn an entire monarchy, because I like eating you out and it didn’t even budge?”

“I’m so glad you didn’t phrase it like that.”

“The vagina that toppled one of the last breathing monarchies.”

“Put it on my tombstone,” Clarke smiled and played with the hairs at the base of Lexa’s neck. “You had a long day.”

“I had the longest day.”

“It’s going to be a long week.”

“A very long week,” Lexa nodded, settling her hands on her girlfriend’s hips. She leaned her head forward so her forehead rested on Clarke’s shoulder.

“It’s going to be a long month.”

“I came over here to feel better.”

“Do you?”

With a small movement, despite herself, despite her worries and her thoughts, Lexa felt Clarke’s hands around her shoulders and she nodded softly.

“Good. We’ll try again in the morning,” Clarke decided. “Want to go to sleep.”

“For at least three weeks.”

“Three weeks sounds perfect.”

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sapphires-and-gold-fics · 5 years ago

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Fictober 2019 Day 2: “Just follow me, I know the area.”

Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones

Relationship: Jaime Lannister / Brienne of Tarth

Read on AO3

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Jaime was lost.

When Tyrion has recommended he get away, he’d spun the globe in his library and had Jaime tell him when to stop. Tyrion’s finger had landed not far from home at all, but Jaime had agreed to it all the same - anything to get him out of this godforsaken city, and away from his cousin’s wedding.

Tarth was a small island east of the Stormlands. Jaime took a very short flight from KLI to SEN, then a cab to the wharf, and from there he chartered a boat to Evenfall, the largest town on the island. There were ferries that ran twice daily to and from the island, but Jaime felt better spending the money for the private boat and avoiding the crowds of families traveling for the summer.

At one time, he thought he might become one of them. Cersei had convinced him that they belonged together, and that they too would one day go abroad in the summer, maybe with their 2.5 kid family, maybe with a dog… they would be the only people in the world that mattered, and the world would be their oyster. It didn’t matter if business was booming or if they had to scrimp and save just to take a day trip, it would be them taking on the world together.

But Cersei had never believed in that. Cersei wanted the power, the privilege, of the family business. So when Jaime stepped away and told his father he’d having nothing more to do with it, Cersei wanted nothing more to do with him. Her affections very quickly transferred to one of the firm’s managing partners, and Jaime was left alone - he’d be taking on the world alone.

From the docks it was a very short walk to the Evenfall Suites - the largest hotel on the island, not that it meant much. Tourism to the island was usually found in day trippers who took the ferry over and explored the markets, and then went back to the mainland where chain resorts lined the popular Stormland Coast. The Evenfall Suites was at the northern tip of the island and boasted just 16 rooms, but each had a view of the Narrow Sea. The inn backed up against Evenfall Wood, a quiet mountainous forest full of evergreens that made the island feel massive.

It was in those woods that Jaime was now lost.

He wasn’t the first person to underestimate the scope of Evenfall Wood. People - men more often than women - had been getting lost in the forests of Tarth since the days of magic and knights and dragons. The tall grey-bearded proprietor of the inn had offered him books and pamphlets and even tried to get him a tour guide when he’d checked in - the pages of the books seemed worn and the ink had begun to fade, but in a place like Tarth the facts rarely changed. Yet Jaime wasn’t one for reading or guidebooks, and he wasn’t in the mood for company. When he made the trip he’d thought only of where he was headed from. So he wandered into the woods too late in the day, and heading in the opposite direction of all civilization.

A steep edifice rose ahead, the sound of running water seemingly not far, but maybe too high for Jaime to reach. If only he could get to the ledge above, perhaps he could get his bearings and spot the sea. He hitched up his trousers and pulled himself up the rise slowly, using his hands to push against the larger stones, kicking up a cloud of dirt. Finally he could smell the water and could hear it rushing quickly toward a precipice.

He’d just caught sight of the waterfall and a hint of a clearing through the trees when he felt a sharp burn across his palm - one of the stones at the top of the hill was craggy and had cut him there. Losing grip with his right hand, his arms windmilled and he toppled backward, rolling back down the hill, striking stones and twigs, and beetles in his path. By the time he landed at the foot of the hill his arm was bloody and his body was dusted in fine soil and rock dust.

Afraid of his state, he tested his limbs before opening his eyes and found that all of them seemed to function as expected. Then he twisted his head from side to side and found that his neck was sound. Clutching his pained right hand to his chest, he used his left to prod at his skull and face - all seemingly sound there too. Finally he opened his eyes.

He’d found the sea.

A woman - he guessed it was a woman - was peering down at him with eyes bluer than he could have ever imagined. Cersei’s eyes were hard like jade - she’d insisted that they were the same as his but he’d always seen his own as moss and juniper. These eyes were softer still - like cornflower and starlight. Like shards of the blue and white porcelain his mother had collected before her marriage. Like tide pools during a full moon.

He was bewitched by these eyes which had somehow found their way in the company of the woman’s other features. She was ordinary and yet exquisite - short tawny hair that seemed stiff as if washed in salt water, but curled behind her ears, a half-moon scar stretching across her left cheekbone, thick lips the corners of which fell just outside the lines of what might be considered pretty symmetry, broad shoulders that highlighted the gracefulness of her long neck, and freckles - freckles everywhere - as if the gods had traced the carbon of the night sky through to her skin. She wasn’t beautiful, she was startling. She was astonishing.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice deep and soothing.

“Are you a... fairy?”

She snorted, his question catching her off guard. “No, there are no fairies on Tarth.”

Tarth. Tarth. The insignificant name sounded much more wonderful in her mouth than in Tyrion’s.

“An elf?”

She scoffed, “You’ll find I’m much too tall for that. Did you hit your head?”

He sat up slowly, causing her to sit back on her heels. He hissed when his bloodied hand touched the gravel.

“Here, let me.” She took his hand in hers - soft above and callused below - and quietly tended to it. She opened a canteen and poured her water across the wound, offering him what was left to drink after. Then she carefully cleaned around the area with a wipe she pulled from a pack in her pocket, and bound it with a roll of gauze she kept in her bag. It should have stung while she wiped it down and throbbed when she wrapped it up. It should have been painful, but Jaime was so mesmerized by her that he barely felt a thing. He found himself checking the backs of her shoulders when she turned to pack her supplies away.

“So you’re not a fairy...” he looked appraisingly down at her muscular thighs and calves, “you’re certainly not an elf... and I checked for wings so I guess you’re not some kind of angel fallen from the heavens...”

She smirked, zipping up her bag, “No, not an angel. Besides you’re the one who did the falling.”

“Yeah I might have to do it again sometime,” he muttered mostly to himself.

She started to blush. It seemed to originate behind her ears and then spread in glorious pockets of pink and coral across her cheeks and neck, and past the collar of her t-shirt. He ached to see just how far it might continue. Her mouth tweaked to one side and she pushed herself to her feet, holding out her hand for his left to help him up.

Dirt fell from him in sheets as he stood, filling the air. He held onto her hand and stepped closer to her, shaking her hand, marveling at her height which just exceeded his. “I’m Jaime. Lannister.”

She smiled, her eyes a deeper blue now, set against the pink in her cheeks, and shook his hand back. “I know. You’re staying at Evenfall Suites.”

She dropped his hand and picked up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder.

“I...how did you know?”

She bent over, dusting off her knees, “Well...not many places for tourists to stay on this part of the island—“

“—How do you know I’m a tourist?” he asked, flashing his teeth.

She rolled her incredible eyes. “For one, the locals don’t really get lost. And they certainly don’t try to climb the falls without gear. For another - you’re staying at my hotel.”

Were they actually staying at the same hotel, Jaime thought, he would be sure to stick closer to the property for the rest of the trip. “I took you for a local.”

She let out a laugh that would have caused birds and all sorts of creatures alike to go scampering away in any other forest, but which here felt perfectly suited, natural. “No, Jaime... it’s my hotel. My dad checked you in - big guy, beard? That's how I know your name.”

“Oh…” so not only did the magical nature woman rescue him, he thought, but she was operating an honest business that clearly didn’t sap the livelihoods out of the poorest of the poor, putting her heads above Cersei - literally and figuratively. Jaime. Gods, but his name sounded amazing when she said it. “So do you always come after idiot tourists who get lost in the woods, or am I a special case?”

She glanced at the sky and eyed her wristwatch, “Men like you usually at least pick up one of the guide books.”

He grinned up at her, “There are no men like me, only me.”

“Well,” she said, tilting her head fondly, “next time we’ll be sure to get a book printed with your name on it then.”

He laughed openly, feeling somehow unburdened. Free. His heart leapt a little at her words. Next time . “What’s your name?”

“Brienne. Tarth. Like the island,” she said, gesturing to the woods around them. "I'm descended from the original founders. My family used to own this land."

Tarth. Tarth . There it was again, an entire world built with her lips. “Huh. So Brienne be honest, how lost did I get? Do we have to camp here, or will my bruised body and ego get a bed tonight?”

He watched her blush again. How far does it go?? “Mostly you walked in circles… we’re no more than fifteen minutes from the main building. But the sun’s setting so it’s going to get dark quickly. We should take it slow just to keep from tripping on the way there.”

“Well then,” Jaime stepped closer to her again, and looped his good hand into the crook of her arm, “I’d better stick with you. I don’t mind taking it slow.”

She smiled, the starlight in her eyes igniting faintly, and tightened her arm around his hand.

“Just follow me, I know the area.”

#fictober #braime #jaime x brienne #brienne x jaime #ficlet #put me back together #ao3 #ao3 link #mine #fictober 2019 #got au #modern au #game of thrones au #braime au #modern braime au #tarth

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acklest · 6 years ago

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Jensen Ackles, AU!Michael!Dean, 14x10: Nihilism (and rambling about “range”)

Jensen was so fucking good, don’t even touch me right now, don’t even look at me. I mean, he’s always good, but with this episode, he kicked it in the ASS.

I don’t feel like I have enough WORDS for it. Behind a cut while I prattle on. (None of the gifs used as examples are mine.)

I watched the episode multiple times to see what Jensen was doing as Michael that so wasn’t Dean Winchester, because he was so fascinatingly NOT Dean. I know there are certain style choices that lend themselves to the differences, like his hair being parted on the other (wrong) side and the painstakingly dapper suits and the newsboy cap. Dean Smith (4x17: It’s a Terrible Life) had his hair parted on the wrong side, too. It’s some easy shorthand for “hey, something about this isn’t quite right.” (Like the French cuffs didn’t give it away.)

Demon!Dean was just Dean without the moral center. He was fun to watch, don’t get me wrong, for the brief time we got him. MoC!Dean was actually closer to what I thought Demon!Dean was going to be, so I enjoyed him more. Watching MoC!Dean massacre the Stynes was epic and so satisfying (and tragic I know because of the kid, I’m not like yay murder). As much as I love the real Sam and Dean, and I’m always happy when they get back to who they really are, these dark side digressions are so much fun because we get to see Jared and Jensen show off.

But there’s more to it than that. Jensen has said that his approach to each new script is instinctive (reads the script once or twice and decides what he’s going to do) and Jared is intellectual (reads it multiple times to feel like he’s really soaked it in). But here, I feel, Jensen has made some very deliberate choices.

First, A Tangent: I watch different Dark Angel vids on Youtube and there’s usually a comment somewhere about how Alec and Dean are basically the same character, or Alec is Young!Dean. They don’t (always) come right out and say, “He can only convincingly play Dean-like characters”, but the implication is there. The two characters have some superficial traits in common, like sarcasm, physical comedy, Jensen’s face (can’t be helped). But even his face doesn’t really come into it once you hit the latter half of S1 because Jensen’s face changed a lot in the interim. His jaw got stronger, his face got broader. So I watched an episode of Dark Angel and immediately watched an episode of Supernatural (1x3: Dead in the Water). @deanscarlett helped me figure this out: Alec is out for out for himself, Dean was always out for anything but himself (except when it comes to pleasure-seeking, when he even allows it). Alec has his own psychological trauma (2x11: The Berrisford Agenda) which adds facets to his character’s mercenary pursuits, but once he locks down that perceived weakness (”I’m always alright”), you don’t really see him break down like that again. His programming is strong; he just buries it. But it serves a purpose: Max had written him off as a loss after she saved his life at the expense of not getting a cure to the virus (2x3: Proof of Purchase). It showed her that he wasn’t just a “happy-go-lucky sociopath”, that he had a story like everyone else, and that meant he deserved a shot at redemption. Alec was relatively unburdened (I mean... genetically enhanced master assassin... star torturer in HELL... Dean wins this round, I think) compared to Dean, who’s had ever-increasing weight on his shoulders since “Take your brother outside as fast as you can - don't look back. Now, Dean! GO!” Even young, Dean was never this carefree except maybe in his imagination or as a way to distance himself from others, or when he got really into the “I’m a badass I save people” part of it.

In this scene, Alec (if the character is Jensen’s age) is 23. He’s found a bunch of transgenics that fled from Manticore (the only home they’ve ever known) because of a fire. They’re all children, ranging in age from elementary school to early teens. He’s annoyed because they interrupted his sexy times in a motel. He’s very dismissive of them and spends most of those scenes throwing pieces of popcorn at one of the X7s, who are all small children. Creepy black-eyed hive-minded small children, but small children nonetheless. He makes smart remarks and rolls his eyes while Max tries to get through to the children to let them know that they should absolutely not go back to Manticore if they want to live. In just a few minutes, she takes apart their foundations: You don’t answer to me. You’re not a designation, you’re a person. You have a name now. You have to make your own choices.

“Why would Manticore try to get rid of us?”

Alec answers:

Compare that to Dean as early as 1x3 Dead in the Water:

Dean doesn’t even talk the same way as Alec (except in the first few episode, while they were still getting used to their characters), and I don’t mean Jensen’s ever-more-gravelly voice, I mean the way he stubbornly pushes his jaw forward and talks out one side of his mouth or through his teeth. He has his mouth slightly open a lot. Sometimes he barely moves his mouth when he talks, speaking as if saying the words mostly to himself. Like 2x20 where Wishverse!Sam says “You slept with my prom date. On prom night.” Dean says, “Yeah that does kinda sound like me” while barely moving his mouth at all. Or in 4x01 where he holds up the empty liquor bottle and asks Bobby, “What, r’yer parents outta town or somethin?” That’s such a mushy line. He has a mush-mouth that’s only made mushier by hunter jargon and Dean’s... idiosyncratic way of speaking. If you weren’t in this fandom, would you know what I full-on Swayze’d that mother even meant? I always think of this (7x21):

(He can speak perfectly clearly when he wants to make a point, or when they’re pretending to be any kind of authority. I always think of the exchange in 5x14: My Bloody Valentine:

SAM: [mock sadness] That's when a dog doesn't eat-- That's when you know something's really wrong.

DEAN: [pokerface] Remarkably patronizing concern. Duly noted.

He can turn it off when he wants to. That Dean’s Master Adapter thing and it’s FUCKING HOT. Oh, I’m a production assistant now? Cool, aced it in a day. Oh, we’re in prison? This is fine, I’m gonna procure cigarettes. LARPing? Sign me the fuck up. Oh, we’re reporters? I can sound like a reporter. I’ve watched thousands of hours of television, I can mimic anyone. I can fake my way through almost anything. We’re in a different town two weeks from now, I can tell people whatever I want.

OH SHIT, DEAN TANGENT INSIDE OF A JENSEN RANGE TANGENT. Quick, make it look intentional!

Anyway, to me, Alec... Dean... not the same character. Going from one to the other was so jarring. For gifsets or edits where you want to show young Dean Winchester, it totally works for that. I mean, it’s Jensen’s face when he was that pre-Supernatural age... except that Jensen didn’t really look like Ridge Canipe or Dylan Everett when he was that age. (I love Dylan Everett. I don’t even care that his eyes are the wrong color.)

But something else Jensen does is put his own mark on roles that he’s given. Tom Hanniger wasn’t supposed to be as sympathetic as he turned out to be, and most people who watched it stated that they wanted someone else to be the bad guy (Axel was looking good for it) so that Tom would be okay. (Sorry if I just spoiled that for you.) Alec wasn’t supposed to be quite so likable, but that’s what Jensen brought to it. Even Kripke said early on that Dean was different on the page than when Jensen got ahold of him. He finds the heart of the character. Imagine if Dean Winchester had been the guy from the pilot this whole time, grossly leering at Jess to make Sam uncomfortable and defensive.

Remember that Jess first says “Your brother Dean?” with a pleased smile on her face.

DEAN: [instantly leering] Oh, I love the Smurfs. [ogles cleavage] You know, I gotta tell you. [steps too close] You are completely out of my brother's league. [suggestive grin]

JESS: [smile fading, clearly uncomfortable] Just let me put something on.

[JESS turns to go. DEAN's voice stops her.]

DEAN: [isn’t discouraged by her discomfort] No, no, no, I wouldn't dream of it. [another leer] Seriously.

When I first watched that, I thought: “Pussyhound with control issues? That’s your brother’s girl, don’t be skeevy.”

But before long, you realize what it was: Contempt. He wasn’t interested in Jess. “I’m going to make you feel very unwelcome because who the hell invited YOU?” It’s very possessive.

Think about that first scene with Dean after “Easy, tiger!” and then Dean a mere 9 episodes later, in “Home”, trying to get through to John because he’s scared, his voice breaking, his eyes filling up. During that first scene, would you have predicted something like that? "My heart’s gonna break for this bossy bad boy creep.” In fact, by the third episode of the series, it has. Sam tries to make a note of it and gets shut down by Dean right away. "I’ll show you a little, but that’s all. Don’t test me.”

DEAN: You're scared. It's okay. I understand. See, when I was your age, I saw something real bad happen to my mom, and I was scared, too. I didn't feel like talking, just like you. But see, my mom—I know she wanted me to be brave. I think about that every day. And I do my best to be brave. And maybe, your dad wants you to be brave too.

Later:

DEAN: Oh God, we're not gonna have to hug or anything, are we?

It’s not until 2x20: What is and What Should Never Be where you see how Dean feels about Jess now that he understands how important she was to Sam: He hug-tackles her from out of frame, and if she never died... There were more layers of Dean revealed in that episode than Alec got his entire season. (Don’t even get me started on that episode, I’ll just start crying and I’m already so off course with this post.)

Jensen took this role and made it as iconic as it is. He protects it.

I’m not saying another actor couldn’t have also “sold” that role and made it their own. What I am saying is, I don’t think that another actor would be playing the everloving fuck out of that role -- with all its twists and turns, advances and setbacks -- 14 years later with seemingly as much passion (if not more) than when they started.

But Jensen didn’t leave Dean in that swaggering, cocky, Han Solo place. He deepened the character, added layers, he shows us the cracks and the flaws. The show would NOT have lasted 14 seasons without these two actors. God, I only watch it to see what’s happening to them and see the ways they found to challenge themselves in otherwise unremarkable episodes. It’s like a troubled relationship where you’re like “No, I’m not watching it again ever” and then it texts you at 3am with “wyd” and suddenly you’re playing an episode and wondering about your life.

I went into that long-ass, rambling, what-even-are-you-talking-about tangent to set you up for this:

Nihilism was NOT an unremarkable episode.

This is not like any other role that Jensen has played before.

There’s really no trace of Dean Winchester in Michael except the resemblance (and the daddy issues, I suppose). And even that’s played down with the neat hair, the suit, the artful "I know my best angles” way that he presents himself to people. There’s not even a trace of other characters that Jensen has played. It’s an entirely new role for him.

Michael carries himself elegantly. The perfect posture, the poise, the careful, graceful motions. Dean kind of slouches, looms, or does a parade rest sort of thing where he’s braced for whatever might happen. He’s got a big ambling swagger. He puts his feet up on tables or sits with his legs sprawled apart.

Michael eerily doesn’t blink as much as you would expect. As Dean, Jensen blinks a lot and closes his eyes, sometimes for a few seconds in the middle of a line, as if he’s processing his thoughts. I love it. It doesn’t start happening until S4 or so, where he wants to show the general weariness of the character. It happens the most when he’s angry or exasperated. But Michael is laser-focused.

Michael speaks very precisely and almost ceremoniously, like he’s selecting each word for the maximum impact. He has ALL the time in the world. Dean talks like... well, Dean. This is the big one for me. He just doesn’t SOUND like Dean, even though it’s the same damn voice. It’s in the cadence. He also holds his chin upright so his voice projects differently, and his jaw isn’t clenched like Dean’s usually is. His voice comes across as smooth and oozes condescension.

Michael, in keeping with his wardrobe and (understandable) superiority complex is very fussy. While Sam, Cas, and Jack are talking, he’s speculatively opening and closing his hands in the background as if trying the cuffs, but he doesn’t even bother to struggle. While he’s talking to Cas during the big monologue, he absently picks a speck of something out from under a fingernail and neatly refolds his hands on his knee. He puts himself in those 3-piece suits. He has expanded to take up all of the possible Dean-ness and he’s very proud of his vessel. The human that used to be in control could not possibly matter less. As far as he’s concerned, Dean was his the moment he was even born.

Michael’s expressions are very different. Dean has a very expressive face. In one 5-second gif, you can identify a number of little micro-expressions he goes through. His face is almost never still unless something has gone very wrong. His eyebrows are all over the place. He’s squinty from having scowled for so long. He absently curls his lip when he talks. Because Michael doesn’t have all the trauma and worries that Dean has, he keeps his expression smooth. He looks completely dignified. Because he feels he has absolutely nothing to fear, his expressions are supercilious and disdainful.

Michael is very, very serene. He’s a BEING, and currently immortal. The things the “pig-filthy humans” are doing don’t really seem to concern him. “He's a gnat,” he says about Dean. He’s waiting them out because to him, they’re the blink of an eye. People keep trying to get a rise out of him, I think because he wears Dean’s face and they’re desperate to see a glimpse of him. Michael just doesn’t give a shit. Holy fire? Whatever. These cute handcuffs? That’s adorable.

Look at the image below. There is no Dean at all, there is barely even a flicker of concern. His smile here is almost like, “You are naive and tedious. I’m just waiting for my army to get here. Might as well relax.”

I’m sorry, I’m just very, very excited and I’m so proud of Jensen. He was already brilliant, but this kicked it into a whole new level.

What killed me:

* Don’t interrupt me.

* Dean’s not home right now. Please leave a message.

* (”With these angel cuffs on, Michael’s under control.”) You keep telling yourself that.

* THAT CREEPY ASS SMILE after Sam says that the Impala’s trunk could hold Michael!Dean too. IT’S SO CREEPY WHAT IS IT

* I called them. [smiles, fake gasp of surprise] It’s a party.

* (”Sam, are we going to die here?”) ANOTHER CREEPY LITTLE SMILE like he could not be less intimidated if he tried.

* I can hear you. [they move about 5 steps further] Really?

* Remind me, Castiel, we’re west of Kansas City? (Dudes, he is an archangel, did you think walking into another room was going to keep him from hearing you?)

* Yeah, put a chair against the door. That’ll help.

* The last thing you’ll see is this pretty smile. AND HE DOES THE TONGUE THING THAT JENSEN DOES so in the small moment to me he was Evil!Jensen. I would read that fanfic. it made me SO uneasy.

* I’m in his head. LITERALLY.

* (”He’s lying.”) No, I’m not. And I can still hear you.

* God -- Chuck -- is a writer, and like all writers, He churns out draft after draft. (The way he sort of labors over every letter in the word “Chuck”, it’s so contemptuous, almost like he’s saying “Fuck”?)

* He never would’ve been so... anemic. [absently cleans a fingernail]

* [leans forward] Even God can die. Ugh, the chill that went down my spine.

* Cool science project.

* When they put the electrodes(?) on him, he’s sort of glancing back and forth, HE’S SO AMUSED, he even laughs disparagingly.

* Oh, Cas. I believe in you. LOL

* In there? You’re all mine. *audible swallow*

Ugh, if AU!Michael!Dean was a lotion, I would smear it all over my body.

Thank you for coming to my Jensen Talk.

#spoilers #spn spoilers #supernatural #jensen ackles #i haven't written analysis in a long time so this might just be stupid #dean winchester #spn cast

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samhainrites-secretnights · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 1

warnings: the crime scene is described and well it includes a dead person (duh) and blood - will include a warning before it in the text so you can skip if needed! (also mentions of weed but no use)

word count: 10,5k

PROLOGUE

Something deep down had told her she’d get her way. She usually did.

It didn’t match her usual demeanor at all: a reserved, distant looking person, her shyness was often mistaken for cold disdain and gave her an air of superiority. She didn’t like that image but it seemed to stick: it had followed her all the way from her previous life to her reincarnation as a village librarian, keeping colleagues and curious children at bay, maintaining visitors at arms’ length in spite of her otherwise polite attitude. Oh well. She had a few friends who knew her past that first impression, and for the rest she could make do with fiction and correspondence, appearing to the rest of the world as a semi ethereal, semi sleepwalking presence. She presented well (enough) and gave no cause for complaints. She was, as most would put it, an eccentric; there was a time she’d have been suspected of witchcraft.

This amusing perspective was a big part of why she had moved to this little rural area of england, rather than staying in the suburban routine she had grown up and studied in. It started to occur to her that as a newly actualized adult, she was, in fact, in charge of such decisions: where to live, what to do, what to look like, and who to see, all those things that seemed to work themselves out in boring ways, and that she was now able to subvert and turn into something a little more interesting. What she didn’t expect was for wonder to become the norm, and normal to become extraordinary.

***

Charlie Nelson had, against all expectations (including his), gotten perfectly used to country living.

Upon his move two years prior, his friends and family had barely cared to hide their skepticism at the thought of this frankly a little uptight city mouse moving to an area of cottages and sheep, where the median age seemed to grow by a year with every passing day. Charlie was a Londoner by birth and had never expressed the slightest desire to change that: a young, health-conscious detective ready to dedicate his time to his work with little restriction, it seemed the lively character of the inner city fit him best. He had to admit he had been the first one surprised by his own enthusiasm as his superiors had offered him a position alongside a certain DCI Barnaby, whom he knew nothing about; it had felt as if the words came out of his mouth on their own, and as he first set foot in the town of Causton, Oxfordshire, he surely started to question his own judgement.

But that was two years ago. Two years of weathering his colleagues’ utter disbelief at some of his perfectly normal life choices, such as drinking green tea and going for early morning runs, of being resented for filling his predecessor’s shoes, although to be fair, that only lasted for a minute; two years of slowly becoming a part of the tight knit community he formed with the Barnabys as well as Dr Kate Wilding, forensic doctor and, to him, landlady. Two years of discovering things about himself he never had the chance to see before: his resourcefulness, his dedication to serving not only the greater good in childish spectacular fashion, but also the less than glamorous village folk that he had started to like in spite of a sting of bigotry that he did his best to ignore. His contentment with relative isolation, too. And something he didn’t care to admit just yet, though it did worry his adopted mentors slightly: a little void in the way he spoke of the future, a little longing at the thought of living with a colleague, like a college roommate at age 33, intangibly yearning for headquarters of his own.

To his relief, there was no time to think of this when the urgency of cases brought him into a state of constant brainstorming. Not that he used the distress of others to drown the noise of his own shortcomings: he was sincere in all that he did, save for perhaps how he felt about other people - he was, after all, an Englishman - and wouldn’t think of instrumentalizing his position for such mundane purposes. Would he go so far as to say it wasn’t a convenient corollary? Maybe not. However, and to his superior’s great relief, he was always professional when it came to separating his own inner turmoil (you could hardly call it that!) from the necessities of a high risk job; he was good at it, which meant he wasn’t allowing himself to be as clever as he could, leaving the credit to Barnaby and acting as his ever loyal right hand. He didn’t mind: he was watching and learning, remained an inestimable asset in terms of physicality (you wouldn’t see DCI Barnaby running like that, would you!), and formed a bond that grew grumpily somewhere between brotherhood and parenthood.

It usually went like this: on regular days, they’d do their paperwork and go home in the evening, Barnaby to his wife, Sarah, baby daughter Betty, and dog, Sykes; Charlie to Kate’s first floor and occasional company, sharing chinese takeout and films, wondering if perhaps this was becoming domestic, albeit as far from matrimony as you could get. On the weekends they’d visit the Barnabys for tea, and if the weather was good, they’d collectively pick on Charlie for opting for long runs or bike rides before joining them, welcomed by the grownups’ consistent teasing and Betty’s enchanted cooing. She loved her detective-turned-babysitter: as Kate mockingly put it, Charlie was nothing short of a domestic goddess, unburdened by the masculine cliché of messiness and neglect that his landlady was all too happy to take on.

Upon moving to Causton, Charlie discovered himself a bit too much of a homebody, took utter joy in cooking and cleaning, and found that his lack of interest for a company of his own age was often met with his mentor’s dismay. He had adapted swimmingly, but had gotten a little too comfortable and often relied on his cozy routine rather than to put himself “out there”, as they said, for such uncomfortable goals as meeting new friends or courting ladies. In the back of his mind, he knew the longing would become too strong to ignore: fortunately for him, it really hadn’t yet. He went on with his work, and time passed as calmly and erratically as it does when you live in the paradox of a picturesque village as an investigator of its worst possible crimes.

CHAPTER 1

To sit at work one morning, in the reassuring boredom of a rural police station, and to receive a phone call announcing someone’s violent murder was both absolutely baffling and mind-boggingly normal when your name was John Barnaby. On occasion, and if he was in the mood, he’d even roll his eyes (“that’s beetroot on your clothes, Mrs Oadby, not blood, for god’s sake”); but he was a professional and never failed to take a case seriously the second he detected anything fishy about it. And there wasn’t much to detect that morning, he thought: the sun was shining, he was in a rather good mood, the bakery had his favourite pastry in stock, and the only phone calls the station had answered concerned security matters for the upcoming kids’ halloween celebrations.

He considered bothering Nelson for a coffee, since his young partner seemed to oscillate between sighs of boredom and the recognizable look of someone who’s dipping their toe in an introspection most definitely too cold to bathe in at this time of the year. Just as he really started to pity his colleague who turned his undivided attention to a nearby rubiks cube, a uniformed officer came trotting in their office, her hand clutching a scribbled note, her cheeks flushed from the rush. She all but pounced on Barnaby, holding on to his desk to keep from falling over while he raised his eyebrows in an inquiring expression, letting her catch her breath.

“Well? What have you got for me, Patel?”

“Sir… We have… A body has just been found in the Fairfield-under-Wychwood cemetery”, she panted.

“I should hope so, it’s where we usually put those, isn’t it?” Barnaby’s sarcasm was met with officer Priya Patel’s most resigned eye roll. He continued: “Do tell me more. What exactly have we got?”

“With all due respect, Sir, if you’re done showcasing your dad jokes,” - Charlie chuckled in the background - “the local vicar called us, utterly panicked - said he’d been rushed to the cemetery after he heard someone screaming. A local woman apparently found the body as she was visiting a grave - she was too shocked to tell him more, and he said we’d better come see for ourselves.”

Barnaby sighed. Ah, civilians and their inability to control their emotions! Almost as bad as Nelson!

“Very well, thank you, Patel - think Nelson and I will head down then, who are we to question the word of God?”

They got up and grabbed their jackets, leaving officer Patel to her endeared consternation, and back to the task at hand. Seconds later, she could hear tires screeching from the station parking lot.

***

Fairfield-under-Wychwood was everything you’d expect from a minuscule nook in the heart of Oxfordshire’s lush greenery. Everything, and perhaps a little more.

You wouldn’t usually end up there unless you were specifically looking to, or had, by some sort of animist inspiration, summoned the right turns in a seemingly never ending network of eel-like forest roads. Snaking through the moss like a gondola under a canopy of spirits, you’d have to drive slow, or the lack of visibility would guarantee a frontal shock with any oncoming vehicle, animal, or apparently, frenzied murderer; moreover, you’d drive in silence. Not that it made any difference to your security as a motorist. You simply would, though, due to the reverence and hint of discomfort one usually feels when faced with the creeping of nature’s sinuous darkness, its ominous volutes of leaves and distant chirping, and the ancient moisture of its crumbling floors. If you slowed down, you’d remember your ancestors’ memories, and hear the roots hold your ankles in place.

When the roads would decide they’ve caused you enough torment, they’d spit you out and, if you were reactive enough, you’d cling by the tip of your fingers to the edge of an invisible cliff, on top of which you’d land and finally catch a glimpse of your destination. Your confused gaze would linger on the gentle curves of a meadow, gorged with sheep like a tree heavy with ripe fruit; behind it, greyish shapes would suggest a range of mellow stone cottages, adorned with brambles and smoking chimneys. But as soon as your eyes would get used to their surroundings, they’d turn to their most prominent feature: under the greying skies stood the church tower, like a tired lighthouse in the autumn fog.

So did Barnaby and Nelson discover their momentary workplace. The chief inspector’s demeanour remained as phlegmatic as his sergeant’s was becoming tense, Nelson’s big, delicate hands clutching the driving wheel as he slowed down to enter the village’s main street, that lead to the church in a barely perceptible slope. The car trembled over the wonky, somewhat charming cobblestones. As they progressed towards the heart of the village, nameless family cottages gave way to picturesque storefronts and hand painted signboards; vague faces appeared behind thick, steamy windows, slow like the morning errands of an aging community gathering for coffee and newspapers.

The air was crystal sharp and thick with a lingering fog. Rays of sunlight dissolved like dust in the crisp autumn morning, brightening the orange palette of the trees but failing to provide enough warmth for pedestrians to walk without instinctively clutching their coats around themselves; so did Barnaby, slightly irritated at Nelson’s infuriating, sensible planning as the younger man put on his scarf. They had parked by the church garden wall and made their way to the entrance on a mossy, winding path that took them through the small green and to a wooden door. As they approached, it opened and gave way to an elderly man in religious dress, tortoiseshell glasses so thick they made his eyes appear nearly amphibious. His expression was one of utter disbelief, and he walked as though he was floating in confusion.

Barnaby and Nelson routinely displayed their police badges as they introduced themselves to the man who, despite his apparent state of shock, had signaled the incident. He seemed to snap out of his trance as he shook their hands, seemingly hit by reality once more after having saturated.

“Father Gregory, Alvin Gregory - please, if you’d follow me… I was standing right over there by the passage to my study, that’s this room at the back - i was right there when i heard a scream, and it didn’t sound anything like joking around or trying to get someone’s attention, no, it was truly a scream of terror, like you rarely hear, so naturally i hurried there and caught poor Mrs Tomkin right as she was fainting. And that’s when i saw it and -”

He was interrupted by a tremor, halfway between retching and shivering, and had to steady himself by leaning against the nearby wall.

“-and there she was. Dear God, as if murdering her wasn’t enough - her very soul was humiliated, inspector, i can’t believe this is real.”

(WARNING - BLOOD / BODY HORROR, SKIP TO NEXT QUOTE)

Nelson barely had time to catch father Gregory and help him to a chair before the old man’s legs gave in. The two detectives excused themselves and proceeded to the cemetery, where Kate and her team were already set up, their seriousness clashing in a surreal way with the golden highlights of the site’s nature, like a kaleidoscope carried by the threatening presence of the woods and moors beyond the village limits. Across the safety line, their colleague’s blonde hair was tied in a bun above her usual blue protection blouse and gloves, and she was leaning over what looked more like an entire altar than a simple abandoned corpse. She was brought out of her focused examination by Charlie’s loud “HOLY F-” that he had the sensibility of interrupting before his own blasphemy added to the crime scene.

“Take your time, why don’t you!” she started towards them, peeling off her gloves, and went on: “Victim is a sixty-eight years old female, Margaret Hawthorne, known locally and professionally as Sister Peggy.”

“A nun?” Charlie asked, oblivious to the victim’s religious attire.

“No, Nelson, a plumber, in fact-” Barnaby caught a glimpse of Kate’s piercing look.

The doctor went on: “The cause of death would be… Well we’re kind of spoilt for choice actually. She received fatal cuts to the throat and wrists, all of which could have been lethal, and was left to bleed out for uh, obvious purposes, apparently. You’ll have to let me know whatever the hell this is.”

The two detectives stared at the scene in utter incredulity. Not only was Sister Peggy’s lifeless body carefully arranged, her stretched limbs were circled by sketches of browning blood, forming a sort of symbolic shrine around the nun’s corpse. Neither of them was all too familiar with the esoteric, so what they could gather from a first look was rather limited; however, Barnaby’s wife being a historian, the inspector had seen his share of dead languages and forgotten alphabets. From their unfamiliar, angular form, he could tell the drawings looked like norse runes: some of them combined, other simple, some repeated, none he recognized.

Plants and twigs had been disposed between the runic shapes, and in the middle of it all, the elderly woman’s face had been messily painted, her eyes still wide and terrified. The thick smell of blood started to get to the two men as their gaze studied the dark display, Charlie wincing, Barnaby too deep in thought to notice his own frowning. The older detective had had his share of eccentrics, new age lunatics and everything in between; he had surprised the elderly community of a quiet village in full pagan attire, had seen parents killing children and children killing parents. He knew there would be more to it, and, metaphorically rolling up his sleeves, he sighed.

Charlie, on the other hand, was a lot less experienced when it came to the peculiar rationality of isolated countryside murderers. Though he had seen his share of revolting crimes, there was a certain quality, a certain pragmatic originality of the country folk in the way they’d dispose of another person’s life - he had seen corpses washing off the Thames, but was a lot less used to seeing them emerging from manure stocks. A nun with her throat slit in the middle of some esoteric sigil, in a village that peaked at two or three hundred inhabitants on a good day, that was definitely a first.

Barnaby raised his eyes to face his tall sergeant, who was holding his scarf in front of his nose and mouth; he let out a superior huff.

“Thought you liked your black pudding, Nelson?”

Charlie’s face got several shades paler. Kate, in a rare moment of motherly protectiveness, thought the time had come to give them the details of what she’d be expecting from the autopsy, stating that the contents of the blood and stomach would be scanned, as well as any trace of the culprit’s DNA on the victim and surrounding objects. For the rest, she said, they would have to search the villagers’ minds, which seemed to her an even more disturbing task. She’d much rather be in the safety of her lab, where she was sure her company wouldn’t disturb her, on account of being, you know, dead - although with this one, she wouldn’t risk it, she said with a semi-convinced smile.

As the forensic team was proceeding with securing the body and site, pictures were taken from every angle, and the detectives knew they’d need to wait for any clues to be revealed from Sister Peggy’s wounds; focusing his attention away from the waves of nausea that kept hitting him with every reek of blood, Charlie copied the symbols in his notebook, determined to find out more. Barnaby, on the other hand, seemed to pay them little mind; instead, he turned away from the quarantine zone and scanned the area for any curious villagers. Behind them, unsteady and gripping the arm of a slightly younger nun, father Gregory had appeared outside the church door. Motioning for Nelson to follow him, Barnaby made his way back to the vicar, and spoke first.

(GORE BIT OVER)

“If you don’t mind me asking, Father - we’re going to need to know every relation mrs Hawhtorne, uh, Sister Peggy had in the area… Or anywhere frankly, but let’s start there. How well did you know her?”

“Personally, not very - although I have known her for a little while now, yes, she had been participating in the celebrations for several years… perhaps ten? Time passes strangely when you’re my age”, father Gregory answered, thinking out loud. “You see - starting today, the parish is holding the Allhallowtide celebration… As lots of churches do, but these days hold a special meaning to us here, since it’s also the time for us to celebrate our saint Nivel - and that’s been a source of concern recently, it might be our last year having her here”, the older man went on, his voice breaking.

He noticed Barnaby’s inquisitive look and explained: “Our parish takes great pride in being the resting place of such a meaningful figure - you see, saint Nivel was one of the first female abbesses, who happened to be buried right here in this parish! Ever since I started officiating here, we’ve centered our Allhallowtide festivities around her, and have referred to her remarkable intelligence and scholarship for guidance. So to think our little village would be robbed of such a central part of who we are as a community… You see, the Oxford parish has been claiming her for the past months, and that’s brought the occasional attention, both good and bad”, the vicar sighed. “Sister Peggy was part of a group of visitandines who come round every year as a pilgrimage, usually help out with the celebrations too. They’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember, and I’ve been here since… Well, for over seventy years, you could say.” He chuckled. “I was born just across the street, in the house where my nephew now runs the inn.”

Nelson was frantically taking notes, his brow furrowed in concentration; next to him, Barnaby’s face betrayed his mental mapping of everything he knew up to this point, which really wasn’t much. He knew village folk to take lots of their daily circumstances for common knowledge, and knew he’d need to pry if he wanted a clearer view.

“Father, if I may - you did say your saint brought both good and bad attention, am I correct? I take it the visitandines sisters are the good part?”

The vicar sighed, his afflicted face looking down. “Oh they’re alright, they’re certainly a great help, that they are. The bad part is… Well, you younger folk may know about that, but lately there’s been a certain enthusiasm for so-called… Paganism”, he bemoaned, his fingers tracing quotation marks as he said the last word. “Some self-proclaimed guru seems to have declared our village as somehow relevant to whatever it is they think they’re doing. It’s the second time now that they’ve come to bother us during this time of year. Between this and our st Nivel being ogled like some cheap tourist attraction - it’s been a bit of a circus already. And now poor sister Peggy… Punished for devoting herself to our celebrations? Dear God, how could I make it up to you?”

As the realization seemed to sink in, father Gregory’s thick glasses went muddled with tears, and the two detectives were reminded of the presence of the nun that had stood by him earlier as she came rushing to take the old man’s arm and help him stand. Father Gregory excused himself, visibly weakened by the shock and exhaustion, and Charlie replaced the woman - who had been introduced as sister Meg - following her as she guided them back to the vicar’s house, where he’d get some rest and be questioned later on. Any information they’d need for immediate proceedings, they’d have to get elsewhere, and they opted to split up: Barnaby would accompany sister Meg and learn what he could from the three remaining nuns, while Nelson would go and find out what he could about, and from, the so-called pagans. He gulped upon receiving the order.

Charlie liked to think of himself as open-minded: after all, he had grown up in one of the most cosmopolitan, culturally rich havens of eccentricity the western world had to offer, though he had managed to get out somewhat unscathed. In fact, he was probably most original in how ordinarily he carried himself. Though he was surprisingly handsome, he had a tendency to dress too old for his age, and sound too young; he was a mixture of naive all-boys school and barbour-wearing accountant, which was endearing enough but didn’t exactly match what you’d expect of a millenial from London. He felt too tame for the city and too urban for the country, but the truth was, and he knew it, that he went through life following the gentle pointing of his own compass. What he didn’t know, on the other hand, was how much his mentor valued that in him - give John Barnaby one extra glass of wine and he’d reluctantly mumble something about training a future proper chief inspector. He’d never admit it to his face, though: nothing worse than a detective who relies too much on his own talent.

As sister Meg indicated him, the group he had written down as ‘pagans’ for lack of a better word had set their camp at the edge of the woods whose darkened weight bordered the moor-like cemetery. Behind the church lied a threatening, mossy murmur that appeared to warn humans not to try and expand too much: as the nun described it with hyperbolic intimidation, Nelson was struck by the way father Gregory did little to contradict her. Aside from the obvious restraint that one tends to exhibit when faced with a graphic assassination, it seemed to him they shared an unspoken agreement, giving nature the credit and authority it was due, taking the fear it instilled like a serious factor in the way they lead their lives: if Charlie had expected such things to take up more space as he dealt with the ingrained beliefs of remote villages, he now had to admit their reverence was contagious. As he made his way towards the outskirts of the cemetery, he felt like he was reaching the edge of the waking world.

If Charlie (the man) was rather skeptical about everything dark, threatening and frankly uncomfortable, DS Nelson (the detective) had a job to do, and was capable of plunging in bone-chilling, slimy bodies of water for the single purpose of unearthing a less than impressive clue if he felt it was the right course of action. He did wince as the soles of his nice leather shoes gave an unpleasant suction noise when lifted from the muddy path, but quickly focused on looking for the visitors’ camping grounds that sister Meg had indicated in a scoff. He didn’t know what exactly he was looking for, or who; images of “the wicker man” bounced in his head as he carefully trod on the damp forest soil, spied on by peeking mushrooms and croaking birds, abandoned by sunlight and his courage. He puffed out his chest, suddenly very aware of being unarmed, and followed one of the many intuitive paths the footsteps of previous wanderers had shaped.

After a while, he started to feel cold. The trees, the leaves, the ground, everything was damp and pervasive, his jacket clinging to his arms like a leech, his scarf only highlighting the gaps it couldn’t cover; the horror of the crime scene started to sink in, the old woman’s terrorized face and the lines painted on one of her cheeks, the time it must have taken to draw all those symbols, using someone’s blood while their life was coming to a pitiful end. Like a goldsmith crafting circumvoluted rings, Charlie compartmentalized each dimension of his work, packing death away in bundles of kraft paper to be shipped somewhere far away. Somewhere he’d visit one day, perhaps, but not now. Not while he was risking his own life all the time. He shivered and took a deep breath, scanning all his senses for any sign of the campers. Somewhat further away, carried by the wind, he heard voices.

The gentle droplets of wind chimes mixed with the smell of fire and burning herbs as he got closer to the camping grounds. It reminded Charlie of those shops a girl he dated in college would buy incense in, before filling her apartment with it - mixed with mold and weed, it clung to his hair and clothes like she did until he realized he wasn’t particularly happy. He wondered if maybe she’d be there, or if not her, another one of the same breed he found himself too old for even back in those days, when he wore a necklace of wooden pearls that she gave him and it smelled like patchouli and it didn’t feel like him at all. He wondered if anyone would ever give him something that did feel like him; then he heard someone playing one of these saucepan-looking instruments and had to keep his eyes from rolling. Way to be impartial, he thought, but then again, someone’s literally died, lay off the bloody tambourine, will you.

Rather than settling in a clearing, it seemed the campers had preferred limiting their own comfort by cramming their tarpaulin-covered dwellings between trees and stumps; they had somehow managed to dig a respectable fire pit, around which the tents were disposed in a circle. All in all, the site must have accommodated perhaps ten people; four of them were currently sitting in folding chairs, wrapped in shawls, pensive. The music stopped as the man holding the instrument noticed Charlie - soon the three others turned to him as well, unsure of whether or not they should start to their feet, nervously tightening their grips on their armrests. Although he hesitated and thought of joining them undercover, Charlie decided he might as well jump in - it’s not like he’d ever be credible anyway. He flashed his police ID and felt the tension in his interlocutors rise; it stung a little bit. They were about his age, but he had crossed the rubicon of cool long ago.

“DS Nelson, Causton CID - don’t even panic about that, mate, that’s not what I’m here for”, he sighed as one of the men tried to put out his joint on a nearby tree stump. “I’d just like to ask you a few routine questions about what happened last night - i suppose you heard?”

The group, two men and two women, exchanged concerned looks, seemingly unsure about who would talk and what they’d say. One of the women, her black hair braided in a complex network of tresses, cleared her throat.

“We heard. The rest of our group drove out this morning after they went into the village to get coffee - said they didn’t come here for this kind of negative energy”, she answered. “We weren’t sure we’d stay, either. But then we decided this was out of our control and we could do nothing but welcome it like we should any other overpowering circumstances. That’s kind of what we came here to celebrate, anyway.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow at that last comment. “Could you perhaps give me your names… And where you were last night up until about 8 this morning?” They shifted in their seats, ready to defend themselves. “Just standard procedure. As of now, we aren’t accusing anybody, simply gathering information, you understand-”

“Okay fine”, sighed the other woman, not bothering to hide her disdain. “But it’s funny how we’re always being targeted, just because we dare to live slightly differently… Doesn’t mean we’re criminals, unless exploring a peaceful alternative to modern society is a crime”, she paused, hoping to get the assent of her colleagues, who remained silent. Her ash blonde dreadlocks shook as she scanned them for any type of reaction, but they looked reserved, perhaps even a little embarrassed.

“My name is Rosemary Cook”, said the first woman, “this is Maureen Kemp, and Ray Khan, and Chris Hughes - I mean, Christopher”, she added, as Nelson wrote the names down in his notebook. “We’re all from London, as were the rest of our group. Ray here is a musician, Maureen teaches meditation, and Chris and I run a boutique - we focus on alternative therapies. As for where we were last night…” she paused. “I was here at the camp, the entire time.”

“Can anybody confirm that?” Nelson asked, repressing a sigh at the thought that they might all cover each other just in case. The musician, Ray, shifted uncomfortably. “He can”, said Rosemary, pointing at him. “He was with me.” Maureen scoffed in disbelief and let out a barely repressed “fuck OFF!”. Ray shook his head and added, “let’s discuss that later, right Maur?” to which she responded by mumbling something about how unbelievable it all was. Charlie raised his eyebrows, waiting for them to continue citing their alibis.

“I was at the pub with some of our mates that drove back to London”, Chris went on, “i’ll give you their numbers, they’ll confirm I was there. Think I even got the receipt.” He searched his jeans pockets and extracted a crumpled piece of paper. “Got back here at about two o’clock. Then the others drove off around eight, and I went back to sleep.”

“It’s true, I saw him when we got out to say bye”, said Rosemary. Charlie turned to Maureen, who was still visibly upset by her friends’ nightly activities. “Ms Kemp? What about you?” he tried, and she sighed deeply. “Mind if i tell you in private, Mr detective?” she answered in a mocking tone, while the others turned to her and started to get impatient; Rosemary and Ray spoke at the same time, something to the tune of what’s-so-secret-that-you-can’t-tell-us. “I don’t think having something to hide from your friends is a great look on someone present in a tiny community, the night of a murder”, Charlie said. “Just tell me where you were, and i’ll leave you to sort out whatever it is that’s going on with the four of you”.

“Right, and you’ll run my business when I lose my main customers, too?” Maureen snapped. “You pigs are all the same! It’s not my fault you can’t find a killer in a village that’s even smaller than your d-” “THAT’S ENOUGH, MAUR!” Rosemary had risen to her feet and seemed ready to smack the other woman, who suddenly seemed a lot less confident. “You’re gonna make us all look bad, you fucking idiot! Just tell him where you were and let’s be done with this or we’ll start to think we have reasons to suspect you too!”

“I take it you can’t vouch for her presence here at the camp, then?” Charlie tried.

“Was kinda, uh, occupied”, Rosemary mumbled - Charlie blushed and mentally thanked the forest for being dark enough to conceal it. Chris shook his head and muttered something about how he wouldn’t have seen anyone regardless of who was here: after a night at the pub, he went directly to his tent and blacked out. Cornered, Maureen knew she could either lie and be discredited, or give her actual, corroborated alibi, and look a fool - but a free one. She had a certain pride, sure, but wasn’t about to be jailed for a crime she didn’t commit.

“I was at the inn.”

The group looked at her in confusion. “Like, for tea? Do you know someone there?” Ray tried, about as surprised as she had been upon hearing who he was with.

“I was at the inn… In my room. I’ve been sleeping there and sneaking back in before you got up. Guys, i’m sorry, I couldn’t do this anymore.” She barely had the time to finish her sentence before starting to sob, in exceedingly theatrical fashion. “Happy now, detective? You’ll find me there, now that you’ve made me betray my cause”, she whined, got up, and trotted pathetically towards the village, leaving her three friends too confused to react - Charlie didn’t bother to run after her, all too certain he would indeed find her there.

Ray had lit up his joint again, forgetting the reason for the detective’s presence. “Well fuck me! She was the one who insisted we’d ‘reconnect with nature’” - he mimicked quotation marks- “and freeze our asses off while she was sleeping in a bed this whole time! Can you believe this!”

“Actually Ray, I can”, sighed Rosemary. “I mean look at us. Are we even making any sense at this point, like would you reckon we’re making a point at all or just catching fucking pneumonia?”

With the most defensive element gone, Charlie thought it was time to finally ask them what in the world they were actually doing - as much as it had seemed self evident to Sister Meg, who couldn’t look more irritated at what she called ‘blasphemy’, it truly wasn’t to him. In fact, he was getting more confused by the second. Those people always seemed to be defending something or other and he tended to lose interest as soon as the lack of scientific basis started to rear its ugly head. But now, seeing how he wasn’t exactly going anywhere with their discussion to this point, he might as well get to the bottom of it - after all, the entire dramatic setting of the crime scene was still painted in the back of his mind, and, as unlikely as it sounded at this point, he was going to have to associate it with someone.

“If i may, Mrs Cook…” “Miss.” “Miss Cook. Would you mind telling me a little about what it is that you’re doing out here? I haven’t exactly heard a… Constructive version of it from the clergy, you imagine”, Charlie tried, giving her a sympathetic look, and hoping his last comment would attract some sort of anti-religious complicity from his interlocutors. Indeed, the men exchanged a smirk - Rosemary, however, seemed less inclined to indulge in clan wars at such a time. Her face kept a serious expression.

“We’re united, or were united, around our practice of what we call paganism”, she said, her voice dull. “We believe in reclaiming the pagan ways our ancestors lived by, and that implies a change in our lifestyle - abandoning modern comfort for a return to our natural cycle, a union to the natural world. You see, not only do we reject the exploitation of our earth as a resource for us to waste, we also wish to return to a more organic spirituality, one that would celebrate our symbiosis with nature rather than obedience and greed…”

“-like the church of england would?” Charlie tried. Rosemary looked down. “Yeah. we did come here to make a statement about this village and their so-called saint Nivel, who’s actually more likely to have been one of ours, killed for her belief in our ways and not in theirs”, she sighed. “But that doesn’t mean we’d kill to get our point across. We strive for a union between mankind and the rest of the living world, not for mindless violence. We’re not them. They’re the ones that kill for their church, and are ready to appropriate a woman’s death for their own benefit, as if they weren’t rich enough,” she scoffed.

“We’ve been coming here to demand that Nivel’s history be read as it should, as it was meant to, we’re asking for justice so that her memory becomes that of an independent thinker, you could even say a feminist! She’d have been accused of witchcraft rather than catholicism”, Ray added. “The church simply doesn’t want to hear the research, they think that saying it’s always been like that is enough of an argument. But you go to the village library and see - we’ve required a special section on local history, it’s all in there.”

“Still doesn’t mean we’d kill for that,” Chris spat, visibly threatened by Charlie’s frantic note-taking.

“Still you’re the first people i meet who seem rather familiar with the use of runes?” Nelson’s comment was met with a deep, ostentatious sigh from Rosemary and glares of utter disdain from both men. Indeed, the camp was surrounded with the type of art you’d expect from a group of self-appointed animists - except the usual tibetan garlands were replaced by painting on the surrounding trees and what could be apprehended as land art, and it just happened to form the same shapes that enshrined the body of sister Peggy.

“Bet you use the alphabet too, does that mean you’re the fucking zodiac killer, sherlock?” Chris seemed to instantly regret his choice of words, as Charlie’s eyebrows rose in incredulity. “Sorry. Don’t mean to lose my temper, but - people here are constantly at our throats as if we were some sort of animal sacrificing satanists, it gets tiring. We’re non-violent. All we do is look for alternative ways of living, respect mother earth, hold our own rituals for each season…”

“...smoke weed in front of police officers…” Charlie snorted.

“Shit! When did i-” the rest of Chris’ composure had definitely faded. “Forget it, i’m just messing with you”, Charlie went on, “anyway, care to tell me what this is about?”

He pointed to an area behind the arranged tents: surrounded by more of what the campers described as protection runes, a rectangular shape had been dug out, at the bottom of which a plastic tarpaulin was collecting fallen leaves and rainwater. Knowing he’d hit a wall if he mentioned it right away, he’d diligently averted his gaze, afraid to look too accusatory to his already defiant interlocutors: it had to be said, however, that the zone did look like a grave, and that it was, as a matter of fact, surrounded by runes. The similarity was just too stupidly visible to be ignored any longer. In fact, charlie thought, as much as he was going for a subtle approach, it had started to make him look very stupid himself. Everyone present was aware of how absurdly incriminating it looked.

Rosemary started to lose her patience. “Look, detective - i’ll explain, but you have to promise you haven’t already decided we were guilty, cause we haven’t done it, okay? I know it looks shit, i’m not an idiot, but it’s as Chris said. Runes are used by lots of people… Too many, if you want my opinion. Got no idea what they imply. Those are meaningful symbols, detective, not to be thrown around as if they were… Emojis or something.” Rosemary’s look of disgust didn’t go unnoticed, and Charlie made sure to keep a mental note of how animated she got while defending her point. It did sound like she was referring to a particular demographic, one that he had yet to see in the village… But still. He had lots to discover, and lots of connections to make.

Rosemary walked towards the litigious site, motioning for Charlie to follow. “So you see, one of the things we believe is that our society is too wary of death, but sort of fetishize it at the same time, you know? What we’re trying to do is sort of an exercise in perspective, that’s… a way for you to reconnect with your surroundings and re-anchor yourself to the earth, while being aware of your mortality and escaping the hectic routine we’re so often trapped in. It’ll be more evident if you try it, really, but in general - it goes like so: if you have a problem that’s troubling you and you can’t seem to get past it, and you just feel like escaping the stress for a second, well, you lay in there, simple as that. Only rule is, you can’t stay less than an hour. You have to feel powerless in order to gain perspective and let go - don’t look at me like that! Honestly, don’t you think we get ridiculed enough, and here i am making an effort, it’s a risk for me to give you insight to our way of thinking, you realize that!”

She looked so sincerely hurt that Charlie apologized, in part because he felt a fool, but mostly because she was basically blackmailing him and he absolutely needed more justification to this charade that, as far as he knew, might just have gotten someone killed. Rosemary was winning this, both of them were bad enough actors to know, and he swore he saw her smirk before she proceeded to get him exactly where she wanted - six feet under, indeed. “I was serious, you know. It WOULD be clearer if you tried. Not sure i’ll take your impartiality so seriously if you continue to proper disrespect my beliefs, detective.” Or we could keep that staring contest going, Nelson thought, it’s just as mortifying.

“Alright”, he conceded, his irritation so clear he almost sounded like Barnaby - there went his last hope of fitting in with his age group. “I’ll do it. I admit i’ve let my prejudice obscure my judgement, but, miss Kemp, you’ll admit - the whole setup doesn’t exactly play in your favour, does it… Still it isn’t evidence. So, walk me through it, if you’d be so kind.” If she wasn’t turning her back to him, diligently trying to light up a bundle of dried sage, Charlie would have seen her victorious grin, but there was no need for that: he felt it perfectly. Good thing his ego was already reduced to the size of a frightened puppy, wary of his chief inspector’s snark. Joke’s on you, miss Kemp, anything an investigation requires, detective Nelson is willing to do, dignity be damned.

“Kneel.”

Now there ARE limits.

“Excuse me?” “Before you get in, there’s a purification ritual - the sage here provides clarity and wisdom, it has cleansing virtues and will help your mind get a fresh start, free of negative energies”, miss Kemp explained, walking around him waving the burning sage. “Now whether or not you’re open to this idea is up to you, but it does have antibacterial properties that you can hardly argue about, no matter how much of a skeptic.” Her round finished, she dug into her pocket and brandished what looked like a makeup crayon. “If you don’t mind - we usually draw a protection rune so that the person has a reminder they’re being watched over during the process,” she brushed charlie’s hair out of his forehead and applied the cold colour in a few strokes.

“There you go.” He couldn’t help using his phone as a mirror just to make sure the drawing was at least civil. Then, as she waved for him to get back up and follow her, he proceeded to climb down the wonky wooden stool she’d placed in the mockup grave; he winced as she took it back out once he had reached the bottom. “Lay down, detective, and please, give this a chance - you might be surprised. I’ll get you in exactly one hour.”

He was, indeed, surprised. He had expected them to wait at least a few minutes before running off.

***

Charlie was cursing both his lack of climbing skills and his phone’s questionable battery power by the time the light footsteps came within earshot. “Hello?” he went, although perfectly aware whoever was approaching had heard him struggle already - he didn’t want to take any chances. If the cold he was feeling was any indication, he must have spent the best part of the afternoon stuck in a trap of his own making. He was positively freezing, and the humidity had long sunk into his skin; it left him trembling, strands of brown hair stuck to the blurred drawing on his forehead, and the end of his long, thin nose like a pink button above his hazel scruff gave him a boyish air that didn’t exactly help his case. In fact, the newcomer thought he looked like a puppy who’d have played in the mud for too long and strayed away from its family, and it was disarmingly endearing.

She stood by the edge of the grave, taking in the sight with the face of someone who’s not trying hard enough not to laugh. In fact, she was positively chuckling, and Charlie would have been vexed if he wasn’t too busy deciphering what on earth he was feeling: there was definitely some fear in the mix. Upon arrival, he thought the village would be like their usual Oxfordshire unofficial retirement homes, parishes full of gossiping housewives and treacherous land-owners; but up to this point, all he had seen was a dead nun, a live one, a couple of disrespectful hippies, and what he was sure enough was a witch.

She stood, gently shifting her weight from one leg to the other, and from the way she looked down at him, it took him way too long to nice she must be very small. Her round little teeth clashed like a hail storm against the burgundy velvet of her mouth, her cheeks shimmering with the cold; you could only tell her eyes from the black ash that enshrined them by how they shone like a riverbed in the spring. And she laughed, her dark eyes crinkled and wet, pools so deep he flinched; and her jawline shot from her scarf like a dove, and her hair, like pompeii’s pyroclastic flow, turned him to stone. One moment a menhir and the next just a fox, her presence hovered and sank to him all at once, and suddenly, peering from under layers of skirts and capes, her hand reached for him.

He didn’t know what to make of it. It was delicate, the colour of a peach, engraved with scriptures older than the world that ran from under her sleeves and dripped to her fingertips. In a breath he yearned to map her entire skin and marvel at the sensual kaleidoscope; in the next, he remembered he was being offered help, and her laughter doubled, dribbling along with the flows of her brown mane. “Silly me - what use will i be once i’m down there as well, right! Just let me toss you one of their stupid camping chairs first, don’t worry, i’ll be out of sight, not out of mind!” she spoke to him as though she had known him for years, reassuring like a bowl of soup. It appeared to Charlie she was making her footsteps purposefully louder so that he’d know she was still there and he could have shed a tear. As she rummaged through the camp for the appropriate rescue equipment, her wooly alto mumbles made his stomach stir; his heart soared on her accent, lifted from forest moss to snowy passes, and it dived back to her like direct current bolts shot through his fingernails.

“Here,” she reappeared, and handed him a chair. “It still might not be enough… is it?” Charlie struggled, the slippery carpet of leaves and mud providing no solid grip from which he could pull himself up. “Okay wait” - she dug her leather boots into the ground until she was sure not to slip - “take my hands and try to walk up the wall. No really i think that’ll work, come on,” she leaned forward, and offered two tattooed palms for Charlie to grab. “Hold onto my wrists, feet against the wall, i’ll fall backwards and pull you up.” It sounded more like a pragmatic order than a suggestion, the way a tender yet resigned mother would address the child she’s getting out of trouble; though perhaps, as Charlie fell face first into the forest soil, he heard her deep voice fall into a laugh that somehow still sounded foreign. He pitifully failed at dusting himself off, stood and towered over her by at least one foot.

And yet, somehow, she was looking down on him.

And yet, somehow, he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

He finally could take in her full form - the pale, oval face clouded by delicate dark makeup, and long, long hair falling all around it like endless rains; the way it shone out of her cloak like a full moon, how her body was draped in elegant black clothes and mystery, and how the only things about her that seemed a little real were her muddy boots. Her engraved hands had sunk back into her sleeves before he had had time to study them more closely, and just then he realized he had been staring, stunned, intrigued, mouth slightly agape in utter naive fashion. Her eyes crinkled as she burst out laughing again: he kept making a fool of himself. He stood there covered in mud after she had to drag him out of a fake grave where he had ended up like the silly wolf trapped by the clever fox from childrens’ stories, and he couldn’t control the intensity of his blushing.

“They really did you dirty, eh?” she breathed between giggles. Then, like a manuscript summoned, her hand reappeared as she held it out for him to shake. “Luella Göldin. I live just over there,” she nodded towards the woods. He finally snapped out of it and, as he shook her hand, was caressed by a whiff of the most delicious perfume he’d ever smelled. “Charlie - DS Charlie Nelson, Causton CID”.

“I thought so! Met your boss earlier, came by my work looking for the nuns - bit grumpy, is he? I heard him mention his colleague had gone talking to the hippies… didn’t think i’d still run into you on my way back, it’s been hours”, she thought out loud. “Nice to meet you, DS Nelson.” “Charlie.” he corrected her with no second thought, especially none about whether or not this familiarity was appropriate. The fact that she could not be ruled out of the list of potential murderers did not even cross his mind. “Oh. Charlie, then.” Her thumb brushed ever so gently over the back of his hand as she dropped it, neither of them quite sure how intentionally. It felt like she had wrapped it in silk, and from that little touch Charlie’s armed tickled, pumped full of cotton balls; his head was spinning, trying to figure out the provenance of her accent (german? nordic?), to bottle up her perfume and save it for later, to memorize the familiar-yet-strange patterns on her skin that he’d only gotten glimpses of. Her earrings were shaped like rose branches and he wanted those thorns to scratch him so badly.

He felt like those skull-adorned moths had nestled in his throat and were giving him a surprising longing for irresponsibility. Is what what she’d taste like? Shouldn’t he be talking by now?

“Well, miss…” “Göldin.” “miss Goldeen.” she chuckled. “That’ll work.” “Thank you. For getting me out of here. Gosh, this is ridiculous, isn’t it -” “yeah, Charlie, it is.” Her piercing eyes were reducing him to a helpless, boyish embarrassment. She continued: “but you know what it also is? Not your fault. And i won’t tell anyone, don’t worry about that chief inspector.” Shit! Barnaby! He had got to get back - he’d been without a phone for the best part of the afternoon and it was getting dark already, his superior was bound to be concerned, and his concern would absolutely turn into annoyance as he returned unscathed. Charlie sighed.

“Bet he’ll find another reason to make fun of me, seems like it’s all the rage today…” Her mischievous smile showed a glint of compassion. “I’ll need to talk to you some more about today’s events, miss, if you don’t mind - that is, after I reported back about whatever idiocy i’m going to have to invent to justify being lost in the woods for half the day”, he added, rolling his eyes at his own misfortune. She nodded seriously: “you do know where I live, now - just follow the path you came from further into the woods, you’ll find the house, Mrs Brewster’s - that’s my lodger. She’ll likely be there as well, if you wanna question her too, which i suppose you do? Just come by tomorrow.” she paused.

Her eyes slowly, slowly went from the ground and up his legs, up his broad chest, caressing his shoulders, fluttering upon his lips and finally met his gaze - fearful or enthralled, she knew he didn’t know, and almost imperceptibly, her tongue darted out to the upper corner of her lips, disappearing as quickly as it had come. It looked as if she had been about to speak but had changed her mind and just breathed in softly. Charlie felt like she had just inhaled a little bit of his mind and he found himself willing to give her all the rest.

Their exchanged look only lasted an instant, but God, were Charlie’s blue eyes the direct window to his helpless gentle soul. She found him to be so stupidly endearing, his wit tripping over his dorky exterior, sincere as an open book, yet clearly keeping something to himself - after all, he was still a detective, and she was very aware of how little she’d trust herself if she were to meet herself for the first time. As she started to realize just how tall he was, she did all she could to conceal the growing shallowness of her breathing; as her eyes gently brushed his messy long-ish brown hair and his pink, freckled cheekbones, she felt her heart growing warm and her stomach tender. He looked ripe and edible as a sun drenched peach and her hands twitched as she struggled to keep them from cupping his face and running over his charming stubble.

He was the first to break the spell, because of course he was, lowering his eyes in embarrassment at just how choked up he was getting as he realized that the nauseating hot waves greedily licking at his feet were in fact the wildest, most primal desire he’d ever felt in his life. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint what had triggered it or what precisely he felt so strongly about, but he certainly was quite ashamed of it and hoped she didn’t pay his awkwardness any mind.

Or perhaps, to his own astonishment, he did want her to notice. Quickly and furiously, he pushed aside the thought, excused himself, and all but ran off as he heard her chuckle at his clumsy haste; he’d question her later, in better dispositions, when he’d have collected his dignity and a presentable outfit. And perhaps some cologne. But that’d be excessive, she’d know, she’d make fun. Everyone would! But should he bring her something? God, he was spiraling, wasn’t he?

As a matter of fact, as he got to the police car he had escalated all the way to scheming how to get some black roses past Barnaby, like a teen plotting to sneak out on a school night. His emotions had long gone past being all over the place: they were now leading revolutions, building barricades and firing at each other in hormonal fanfare, and he wasn’t sure by what miracle he managed to explain his afternoon’s activities to his superior - or perhaps he simply told the truth, as would be most typical. Either way, the chief inspector shot him a patronizing look, and as he buckled his seatbelt and focused on the road back to the police station, the woods that looked so scary that morning suddenly were synonymous with the lair of a peculiar little witch, and scary had become a promise, and nothing made sense anymore.

The drive back was rather silent, once both detectives had given each other accounts of what they had found out from their respective interviews; Barnaby had managed to get some bigoted ramblings out of the shocked nuns, but he was hoping to talk to them some more now that they knew who he was, and he counted on the shock to wear off and leave them more pragmatic. Between them and the pagans, that they had taken to calling ‘the hippies’ since most people did, the questionings were bound to be of the frustrating variety, as they always were whenever beliefs and rivalries were involved. Superstition was exhausting to both officers, and as most of their cases had to do with rural people more preoccupied with each other’s business than with scientific developments, they were confronted to all sorts of modern crusades, although this was their first encounter with blood runes -

“-and witchcraft too! Did i mention the sisters are utterly convinced the librarian and her lodger are practicing black magic?” Barnaby’s expression was one of complete weariness. “I found them holding some sort of inquiry of their own in the public library earlier, doing their research on saint Nivel to try and prove the pagans wrong, while they’re doing just the same and the village’s book collection is taking a most specific turn… Seems to fit the curator just fine, though - black magic or not, she seems like quite the eccentric young woman, could see why the older crowd would think her a witch”, Barnaby added, seemingly doubting everything everyone had told him, as he tended to do.

“Miss Göldin? Is she the librarian?” Charlie asked, suddenly very much interested in the conversation. Barnaby turned slowly.

“Oh?”

“I ran into her on the way back to the car, says i should come talk to her tomorrow, as well as mrs Brewster, that’s her landlady”, Charlie specified, trying his hardest to sound casual and focused. But you couldn’t fool John Barnaby, especially when you were the worst liar in England: the chief inspector noticed his subordinate’s blushing, fidgeting with the driving wheel, the tensing of his thighs, the nervous lip-biting. He turned back to the window, punctuating a sigh with one of his signature grumpy airs, and mockingly concluded: “well, reckon you’ll do that first thing, then, Nelson?” The teasing was, as intended, utterly lost on the younger man, who nodded in all his faked seriousness.

As he got home after what seemed like a perfectly endless debrief at the station, Charlie found himself longing for the silence of his bedroom, for a chance to be alone with his looming thoughts and unruly feelings. He wasn’t one to succumb to someone’s charm at first glance - in fact, he wasn’t one to succumb to anything at all, and remained notoriously chaste and distant behind the apparent innocence. It was the classic tale of a sensitive heart that had been hurt before, and in his move to the country, he hadn’t been looking to reiterate the experience of attaching himself to someone that’d distract him from his work and take advantage of his good nature. He may not have had a plan, but he knew by all accounts that this, this wasn’t the plan at all.

The more he thought of it, the more he found himself in a daze, unable to make sense of his emotions at all. Purely as a reflex, he let his jacket fall down on the floor and toed off his shoes before letting himself fall on his bed, trying to keep the ceiling from spinning, and only getting back up to lock the door in case - he could not handle any more information for today, thanks very much. He pressed his eyes shut and exhaled, desperate for his breathing to settle, but every breath made his veins tingle with a million sparks and his heart pump some more magic into his chest.

The contrast of Luella’s deep voice and the light girlishness of her laugh were all he could think of - the mystery behind her accent and her cloak; he felt jealous of her tattoos because they got to run up her wrists and beneath her sleeves and god knew where else. Tomorrow she’d be there, and he’d need to stay strong; but tonight, and for many nights to come, he’d let himself yearn and dream, nestled in the palm of her bewitching patterned hand.

Patterns he’d caught a glimpse of, and knew they were definitely familiar but he’d been so enthralled that he didn’t think to connect them -or her- with anything else in the world.

And only then did it hit him: runes.

Jesus. Again?

#my writing midsomer murders samhainrites-secretnights

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wanderleave · 6 years ago

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My contribution for @jancyficweek, which, in an extremely on brand move for me, is not finished, but! I wanted to get it up for AU day, of which this is most definitely. Parts two and three coming, hopefully, soon. I know my blog text is tiny, so if that isn’t your jam, you can also find this guy on AO3.

As always, this is @stoprobbers‘ fault.

Attending her ex-boyfriend’s wedding alone may not be the stupidest thing Nancy Wheeler has ever done, but it’s close.

It was meant to be a statement, attending the wedding at all, crossing out the plus one on the invite, traveling all the way back to Hawkins, where her parents don’t even live anymore. But as Nancy steps off the plane, she can feel the pit in her stomach, the one that says, this is the worst idea you have ever had.

She pushes the pit down, takes a deep breath, and goes to find her luggage.

For some inexplicable reason, she’s been invited to the rehearsal dinner, a tiny slip of a note in her invitation, perhaps by virtue of arriving early from out of town, or maybe Steve just wants to get the introduction out of the way before the actual wedding.

She’s never met his fiancée, but it’s a wedding. Nancy’s going to have to meet her eventually.

Might as well get it over with.

The first person she sees (of course) as she walks into the restaurant is Carol, who mutters something to Tommy before walking over with what Nancy knows to be a fake smile on her face.

“Nancy Wheeler, what brings you back to Hawkins? I thought you were too big for our little town?”

Nancy plasters a matching smile on her face, even as she remembers exactly why she left Hawkins in the first place. “I was invited, Carol. Although I didn’t realize you were close enough for the rehearsal dinner?”

Carol lets out a simpering laugh. “Tommy’s a groomsman, I’m just tagging along. Are you bringing anyone?” she asks, looking around, her tone implying she knows Nancy’s here by herself.

“Oh, um,” Nancy begins, but Carol cuts her off.

“I mean, it must be so hard finding someone who can live up to all of your demands, I mean, dreams.”

Nancy blinks, the smile on her face turning brittle. She knows Steve would have unburdened himself after the breakup, but she should have expected this, should have realized there would be an ambush. She shouldn’t have come alone.

“It was great to see you again, Carol,” she says, cutting off the conversation, only sort of trying to hide the sarcasm as she walks away.

It doesn’t end with Carol.

Steve’s mother, his grandmother, his cousins, everyone mingling, all incredibly interested in Nancy and how she’s doing, and if she brought anyone, Nancy stammering out vague responses.

She should have prepared for this. Made up a boyfriend sick with the flu back in New York, or in the Peace Corps, or Canadian, unable to cross the border for some reason. Anything would be better than having to admit that she came alone to her ex-boyfriend’s wedding, as a matter of principle, yes, but also because she hasn’t dated anyone since she broke up with Steve last year.

And then she sees Steve.

Their eyes meeting across the room, his arm wrapped around someone that has to be Robin.

It’s easier than she thought it would be.

And harder, all at the same time.

Nancy manages a weak smile, one that Steve returns. The hand resting on Robin’s waist lifts in a wave.

She needs some air.

It’s started raining.

Of course it has.

Nancy stands just under the awning to the restaurant, letting her hair frizz up, letting the raindrops splash onto her toes. Breathing in and out, wishing she hadn’t left her wine inside, or that she’d stopped after the fourth glass, she’s not sure which.

“Fuck,” she half-shouts, at life, at her choices.

Maybe she shouldn’t have come at all.

“Everything okay?” an unfamiliar voice asks.

Nancy turns to find a stranger tucked into the shadows, smoking a cigarette, looking at her with concern.

She blinks, flustered. “Oh, no, yeah. Everything’s . . . ” She pauses, trying to find a way to describe her situation. “Fine.”

The stranger smiles wryly at the emotion she packs into the word. “Anything I can do to help?”

Nancy begins to turn him down, then reconsiders. Nodding at his cigarette, she says, “Can I get one of those?” She’s not normally a smoker, but if there was ever a time, it’s now.

He frowns, his nose wrinkling. “It’s, ah, my last one. But?” He holds it out to her.

Nancy looks at him, considering.

Finally she breathes, “Fuck it,” and takes a drag. Lets out a deep sigh of relief.

The stranger laughs.

“Thanks,” she says, handing it back to him, and as he leans back against the wall, gestures to herself. “Nancy.”

“Jonathan.”

She nods at him, looking back out at the parking lot. The rain starts to fall harder.

“Should I ask?”

Nancy huffs out a mirthless chuckle. “Probably not.” She puts her head in her hands. “Oh god, what am I doing here? I shouldn’t have come, I should have never come back, I can’t believe I have to deal with these people all weekend.”

“Bride or groom?” he asks, and the perfunctory curiosity of someone who doesn’t know her history with Steve—with this town—is so refreshing that Nancy laughs out loud.

“Groom,” she tells him. “About as groom as you can get. What about you?”

“Neither,” Jonathan shrugs. “Or, both. Kind of? I don’t actually know anyone in there, except for the bride, and I’ve only met her once. I’m just waiting until they need me.”

Nancy tilts her head in confusion at the statement, but before she can ask him to clarify, she hears from behind her, “Nance?”

Nancy swallows. Turns.

“Hi.”

Steve looks good, better than the last time she saw him in person, although that wouldn’t take much—almost anything is better than tears and screaming.

He pauses for a second, a vague smile on his face, almost rueful. “I didn’t think you were actually gonna come.”

Nancy shrugs. “Here I am.”

Steve nods. “Yeah.”

They stand in silence for a few moments, Nancy breaking it before it goes on too long. “Everyone’s told me you’re doing really great—she’s really great—I’m . . . I’m really happy for you.”

Steve smiles, a real smile this time, one that lights up his entire face. “Yeah, she’s . . . yeah. She’s amazing.”

Nancy smiles back. “That’s great,” she says, meaning it, and even though it’s awkward, so awkward, it’s manageable. She thinks maybe coming back was a good idea, that the closure provided was, in the end, worth it.

Until Steve asks the question, the one she’s been asked too many times to count.

“And what about you, how are you? Are you uh, seeing anyone?”

Later, Nancy will blame many things for the words that come out of her mouth—the wine, Carol, her precarious emotional state—but even as she says them, she knows they will be impossible to take back.

“Actually yeah, I am.”

What has she done?

“Oh.” Steve sounds surprised. “My mom—she was saying . . . ” He shakes his head. “That’s great, Nance. I’m . . . happy for you too. I’d love to meet him.”

Just kidding, Nancy wants to say. Just wanted to see your reaction.

Instead, what comes out of her mouth, even as she thinks stop, what are you doing, is, “Well, you won’t have to wait too long.”

She watches as her hand extends toward Jonathan, the man she met literally minutes ago, hears herself say, “Steve, this is Jonathan,” makes herself meet his eyes as Jonathan’s head cocks in confusion, pleading silently, please, just go with it.

To his credit, Jonathan barely skips a beat. He drops the cigarette on the ground, grinding it out as he leans forward, placing his arm around Nancy’s waist in the same movement as his other hand extends towards Steve. “Jonathan Byers.”

“Steve Harrington,” Steve replies automatically, before his eyes narrow and flick to Nancy and then back to Jonathan, shaking his head from side to side, once, twice.

His eyebrows knit together.

“Wait,” he says, slowly, and Nancy holds her breath, sure the ruse will end before it even begins.

“You’re dating my photographer?”

Nancy feels like she’s going to faint.

She feels Jonathan’s hand tighten around her waist, almost like he can tell, like he’s trying to hold her up.

Or he’s warning her that he’s about to walk away, she’s not really sure.

Steve is still looking at her expectantly, and after the silence drags on for far too long, Nancy says, lightly, hesitantly, “Yes,” her tone landing somewhere between statement and question.

“That’s so crazy.” Steve shakes his head. “How did you guys even meet?” But before Nancy can even try to come up with a plausible explanation, Steve answers his own question. “Oh, New York, of course.”

Nancy presses her lips together, turning her head to meet Jonathan’s gaze, and this time Jonathan’s the one to answer, his “Yes,” even less confident than Nancy’s, his eyes locked on hers.

“Great, that’s great,” Steve repeats. He seems to mean it, and Nancy feels a twinge of guilt at her subterfuge, but her sense of self-preservation keeps her tucked into Jonathan’s side.

“So I’d better, uh,” he nods toward the door, “get back, but, uh, good to meet you.”

Jonathan nods.

Nancy does the same, counting the seconds until Steve leaves, even as she knows that the conversation she’s about to have will be one for the ages.

“And,” Steve turns back, hanging onto the door frame, saying to Jonathan, “I think we’re gonna start the speeches soon, so . . . “

“Got it,” Jonathan confirms, waiting for the last glimpse of hair to disappear, before turning to Nancy, stepping back, his steadying presence at her side disappearing, Nancy strangely finding herself missing it, even as she knows she doesn’t deserve to feel that way.

“Okay—”

“I am, so, so sorry,” Nancy breathes.

“Yeah . . . ” he trails off, and she blanches, her anguish swallowing up the rest of her apology. “I mean . . . so that’s clearly your ex, right?” he says, offering her an opening.

“Yes.” Nancy swallows. “And you’re the wedding photographer.”

Jonathan nods at her, an expression on his face that could be apprehension or amusement. “So, what—”

Nancy cuts him off. “I’m so sorry,” she says again, because she can’t say it enough times. “I don’t know what I was thinking, it’s just that his mother, and everyone in this fucking town, it’s like they were all waiting for me to come back, tail between my legs for dumping him, and I just . . . with everyone else I could fake my way through it, but then he was right there . . . and you were right there, and I’m so sorry and if you give me five minutes I will march in there and pretend you dumped me because I didn’t tell you about Steve, just give it a second for it to spread around so people won’t get confused, because it will, I promise you, and then you can spend the rest of the evening taking truly awful pictures of me, which I absolutely deserve.”

Jonathan blinks as she catches her breath. His gaze is sympathetic, and Nancy hopes against hope it means the photographs taken of her won’t be too unflattering.

“I think you would have told me about Steve, though, right?” he muses. “If we’ve been dating for—how long have we been dating?”

Nancy’s mouth drops open. She stammers for a second, before finally choking out, “What?”

He shrugs. “I did offer to help.”

“Yeah, but this is—this is beyond . . . are you serious?”

Jonathan laughs at the expression on her face, shrugging again. “I’ve been there, trust me. And like I said, I don’t know anyone here, so it’s not like I’ve got anything to lose—and it seems like you do.”

Nancy feels tears prick at her eyes, perhaps from the wine, or perhaps because someone she just met is being kinder to her than all of the people inside the restaurant, people she’d grown up with, people who, before she left, she’d considered almost family.

“Plus,” he goes on, hurriedly, as Nancy blinks the tears away, “weddings are boring. I could use someone to talk to.”

She frowns at him. “Is there lots of time for conversation? Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, be taking pictures or something?”

“My contract doesn’t officially start until 8, and it is,” he checks his watch, “7:55 on the dot. So, no.” His head tilts. “I’ve got nothing better to do for the next five minutes. Except talk to my girlfriend of . . . five months? Seven?”

Nancy eyes him warily, but his face is open, genuine, and she thinks he may actually want to help her, for no other reason than she needs it. For the second time that evening, Nancy says, “Fuck it,” but this time it’s accompanied by a grateful smile. “How about six?”

Jonathan grins. “Six months it is.”

They stand in silence for a few moments, Nancy letting the enormity of what she’s about to embark on wash over her. She’s going to lie to everyone she knows. And she’s going to have help doing it. She thinks about telling Jonathan forget it, I changed my mind, but the thought of having to walk back her lie to Steve, to his entire family is far too daunting.

Better to just have a fake boyfriend.

Nancy sees the door to the restaurant opening and moves toward Jonathan, almost instinctively. He frowns at her sudden movement, but picks up on her intentions quickly, wrapping his arm around her once more, solid, steady.

Tommy’s head appears around the door.

“Hey Nance, heard you’re banging the photographer.”

“Hello, Tommy,” she says dryly.

If Tommy knows, everyone knows.

“Anyway, best man duties mean I’m here to tell you to get your asses inside. Speeches, and all.”

Nancy frowns. “I thought you were just a groomsman?”

“Whatever. Just . . . get in here so he can take the pictures.”

“We’re on our way,” Jonathan says pleasantly, as Tommy rolls his eyes and disappears inside.

“Sorry about him,” Nancy apologizes, “he’s always been—”

“A dick?” Jonathan guesses.

Nancy shrugs, “I was going to say asshole, but, yeah.”

Jonathan laughs, and then walks away, back to the shadows. Nancy feels a sharp stab of alarm, but he’s only slinging a large bag she hadn’t noticed before onto his shoulder.

Photographer. Cameras. Of course. He’s not just here to prop up her ruse.

“Hey,” she says, waiting for him to turn to her, giving him one last chance to back out. “You’re really sure you want to do this? Because I can—”

“I’m sure.” He looks at her sideways. “Six months?”

She lets out a grateful laugh, and instead of answering, says, “Thank you.” Nancy tries to put everything she’s feeling into the words, the gratitude, the relief, and as he looks back at her, she thinks he understands.

He raises his eyebrows. “Don’t mention it. Literally. Or everyone will know.”

“Right,” she says, nodding solemnly. “Six months.”

He nods back at her. “Exactly. Shall we go in, honey?”

Nancy makes a face at him.

“No pet names. Got it,” Jonathan says with a grin, and offers her his hand.

Nancy takes it, and holds on for dear life.

#jancy #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #jancy fanfic week #fake dating au #idk idk idk what this is other than self indulgence of the most ridiculous sort #so like i said #super on brand #anyway enjoy #bonus points if you can identify the gif #fanfiction

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penniesforthestorm · 6 years ago

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On Jane, Part 2

Actually I Mostly Talk About Rochester in This One

Greetings, pals! Today's chunk lends itself a bit more naturally to analysis, because it's primarily concerned with the development of the relationship between Jane and Rochester, concurrent with the deepening of the mystery surrounding Thornfield Hall (those 'bumps in the night' I mentioned in yesterday's post). Again, if you haven't read the book, you will probably be confused by a lot of what follows here—if you have read the book and you're still confused, I apologize. With that in mind, let's get to it.

First of all, let's talk about this Rochester fellow. By the time he actually physically enters the picture, we know very little about him. He's not a titled peer, but he's evidently wealthy enough to spend most of his time traveling around Europe. He's apparently well-liked by his tenants and employees, though Mrs. Fairfax (so far, the chief source of information for both Jane and the audience) makes a reference to his eccentric personality. Beyond that, he's an unknown quantity.

When Jane first sees him charging down the icy lane on his black horse, she thinks of a mystical creature, the Gytrash, known to haunt solitary lanes at nightfall. During their first real conversations, Rochester teasingly accuses Jane of bewitching his horse, asking if he had broken through a fairy-circle. These particular scenes are some of my favorites, because they give such a clear idea of both characters. For his part, Rochester addresses Jane as a person, with thoughts and opinions worth hearing. And Jane rises to the occasion, frankly and innocently answering his questions. In the second conversation, when Rochester asks if Jane finds him handsome, she answers ‘no’, not out of any intent to insult, but out of simple honesty. Rochester pretends to be piqued, but given the way the rest of the conversation proceeds, it’s clear that he finds her candor admirable, even as he pokes fun at her naïveté.

For a while, not much happens. Winter thaws into spring, and Rochester and Jane’s conversations deepen. He tells her the rather Romantic story of Adele’s parentage—himself, the young wastrel, seduced by the feckless showgirl Celine Varens. But the anecdote is revealing. Despite his professed lack of enthusiasm for the company of children and his rather dismissive attitude toward Adele herself, he nevertheless rescued her from a probable grim fate. In Paris, Adele was the illegitimate daughter of a woman who was about one rung up the ladder from a prostitute. In England, she is being raised in a comfortable home, and educated as a member of the upper classes, no doubt with an eye toward a future advantageous marriage, as long as nobody asks too many questions. One could argue that Rochester’s actions in this case constitute the most basic level of human decency, but within the context of the story, wherein children are either spoiled rotten or cast off and starved, Rochester comes off looking like quite the benefactor.

(I could derail this into a Whole Thing about the trend of novels in the 19th Century still functioning largely as allegory and not precisely meant to represent the Real World—Dickens, Thackeray, Hardy to an extent, and of course Wuthering Heights, but I feel like that deserves further and better research than what I’m going for here. Still, I think it’s another thing that often gets missed in discussions of this novel, and thus, the more melodramatic elements of the work seem incongruous with its overall ‘realistic’ tone.)

Now, a bit more on those bumps in the night. Ever since Jane’s earliest days at Thornfield, she’s been aware of an eerie laugh issuing from some rooms on the third story of the house. There is a servant who stays there, rarely venturing down to the rest of the house, and her name is given as Grace Poole. Everybody seems rather vague on the subject of what Grace actually does, and Jane, being observant, begins to suspect that there is something going on with Grace, despite her thoroughly ordinary appearance and taciturn manner.

These suspicions come quite literally roaring to life one night, when Jane hears that laugh in the hall outside her bedroom, and ventures outside to discover that Rochester’s room has been set on fire. Jane runs in and douses him with water, and once he is aware of the situation, he dashes off, telling her to stay there and wait until he returns. The bit that follows his return is an interesting one—Rochester urges Jane’s silence, and confirms Grace Poole as the owner of the laugh, terming her a ‘singular’ (here meaning odd) person. Jane begins to leave, but Rochester detains her for a second, sincerely thanking her for saving his life, and speaking to her in his fondest tone yet. This instant marks another significant step in Jane’s ascension—she is not just Rochester’s ‘paid subordinate’, she is his confidante and quite literally his savior. The incident has bound them together in a way neither of them understands just yet.

And this closeness is seemingly dashed the next morning, when Jane is informed that Rochester has gone off to visit some friends, and will likely not return for several weeks. When he does come back, he is accompanied by a full complement of guests, including the imposing, imperious Miss Blanche Ingram, who Rochester is rumored to be courting as a future bride. At first, Jane is crushed—Blanche has money, beauty, accomplishments, and power. Again, this could be a jumping-off point for a discussion about how marriage among the upper classes at that period of time still hewed fairly close to its feudal roots, more as a way of securing finances than as an expression of emotional attachment. But you can read Jane Austen for that. In this case, Blanche wanting to marry Rochester for his money isn’t quite as much of a stain on her character as it might seem to a modern reader. Her vanity and coldness, however, serve as kindling for Jane’s feisty side—at one point, she dismisses Blanche as ‘a mark beneath jealousy’.

Another strange incident occurs after the guests have been staying at Thornfield for quite some time. Mr. Rochester leaves on some errand, and in his absence, a stranger shows up at the house, claiming to be a friend of Rochester’s. He is described as around thirty-five, dark-haired and handsome, but somehow deficient. Jane gives particular attention to his ‘wandering eye’ and his peculiar accent. We soon learn that his name is Richard Mason, and he has come all the way from Jamaica to pay a visit to his ‘old friend’.

In the interest of keeping things moving, I’m not going to discuss the business with Rochester in disguise as the fortune-teller. Once he unmasks himself before Jane, and she informs him of Mason’s arrival, we see a reaction in him we haven’t seen before: fear. He begs Jane for comfort, asking her what she would do if the assembled company suddenly turned against him. Assured of her fidelity, he rejoins his friends and apparently greets Mason calmly enough.

Once again, however, Jane is awakened by noises in the dark—screams, this time, from the regions where Grace Poole keeps her dark vigils. In due course, Rochester summons her. The newly-arrived Mr. Mason is lying injured in an upstairs room, and Rochester enlists Jane to keep watch while he fetches the doctor. He orders Mason not to speak to Jane, which, considering that the guy’s barely conscious, doesn’t seem like a difficult request to fulfill.

Rochester and the doctor return, and it’s revealed that Mason was bitten, as well as being stabbed with a knife. Once Mason is fixed up enough to leave, Rochester sends him on his way, but not before a brief, fraught conversation, in which Mason begs him to take care of Her—that mysterious inhabitant of the upstairs room. Rochester tersely replies that he has done his best, and will continue to do it.

Rochester then summons Jane into a garden, and attempts to unburden himself to her. He alludes to his past misdeeds, without giving much in the way of satisfactory detail, and testifies to his sincere wish for his own redemption. He tells her, finally, that he thinks he has found it… in Miss Ingram. He calls her his ‘lovely one’, and suddenly becomes cheerful and jocular. Neither Jane, nor the reader, is satisfied by this.

This brings us nearly to the end of the book’s actual first volume, and (more to the point) near the end of this installment of my…whatever this is. I also think I’m going to need to do two more of these, rather than just one, like I’d originally planned. I’m assuming that if you’ve gotten this far, you’re just as invested as I am.

There is one more major occurrence: the illness and death of Jane’s Aunt Reed. Bessie, Jane’s old nurse, comes to inform her that Mrs. Reed has suffered a stroke, but has been asking for Jane. Jane pays one last visit to her former childhood home, to find it greatly changed: her cousin John has committed suicide, Eliza has become a religious obsessive, and Georgiana is a hapless social climber (though it’s worth noting that she treats the adult Jane with a certain friendliness). And what of Aunt Reed? Before she slips off her mortal coil, she passes Jane a vital piece of information—Jane has a rich uncle from her father’s side, a wine-merchant in Madeira, who has asked for information on Jane’s whereabouts, with a view toward making her his heir. Jane, for her part, offers her aunt her forgiveness, and in this way, seals off that portion of her past.

In tomorrow’s recap, we’ll get to the really juicy stuff. For anyone who’s reading along, thanks a bunch, and feel free to come tell me your thoughts. For anyone who missed yesterday’s, Part 1 is here: http://penniesforthestorm.tumblr.com/post/176721452934

#prose #Jane Eyre #Part 2 of ?#views my own

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blvckenedsoul · 7 years ago

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A Prayer in the Night ( -10 months )

His sleepless restlessness brought him out of his apartment and down the streets of his neighborhood, until they turned into ones he’d hung around as a teen, littered with the places he’d gone to with his brothers, or had accompanied his sister to. The run-down bakery Mama would send Nadezhda to every week. The little market his mother had favored, going out of business, from the looks of it.

The church. Mama’s church. The church he’d shuffled past for years as a boy, his pace picking up out of shame as he’d become a man. Where they’d held little Aleksandr’s service. Where she’d dragged him the day after he’d come home bloody and off-kilter, because he may have just killed someone, Mama, and he wasn’t sure where to go from there, because he’d never meant to take it so far. Where they’d held Mama’s service.

Nikolai started up at its grey-stained wall, at the lone cross the church bore on its roof. He was not a scared boy anymore, or even one trying to provide for his family. He had done much worse since his first kill–had killed with intention, with no room to call it an accident–and had not been able to even look the priest in the eye for longer than a few heartbeats at his own mother’s funeral service.

Any faith he may have had as a boy had dwindled to nothing as he’d grown older, and it was not a fear of damnation that kept him up at night or drew his hands sharply away from anything gentle and kind, but a sense of maybe not regret, but shame, that he had not made himself an honest man like his mother had wanted. Not enough to steer him away from the work, but enough to wrestle with it, struggling to reconcile the feeling with the knowledge that if he, and men like him, didn’t do what they did–maintaining Vasily’s power–then things in Moscow would be much worse.

He did not regret what he did, but that didn’t mean there weren’t still consequences. If there was a heaven, he’d never see it.

And yet.

And yet here he stood. On the front steps of his mother’s church in the middle of the night, uneasy, disquiet stirring in his gut. Because they were struggling. Because the violence he involved himself was just barely maintaining the status quo now. And he knew what would happen to the city. Knew the general fate of Vasily and his men, and by extension, the people of Moscow. He knew where this ended.

But he had someone else to worry about, now. Someone outside of his work. Someone beyond himself, who was there with him, tangible and real, who didn’t belong in a world so violent and unforgiving. And he didn’t know what would happen to Danny when it all eventually went to shit. Would he make it? Or would he become someone’s casualty?

And because he knew the church kept its doors open–a place of refuge, and solace–and because his mother had found comfort within its walls, and he could do with something like that, something to help him hold on to the little sleep he managed to catch as it was, Nikolai slowly climbed the steps and slipped through those heavy, creaking wooden doors.

It was cold. Quiet. Nothing but candles casting dim light inside. Were it anywhere else, he’d have been on high alert, searching every shadow for someone waiting to strike. But instead, he settled down in one of the middle pews. And then he had nothing. It had been more than a decade since he’d attended service. He’d been young, then, and hadn’t paid close attention to the prayers said around him. So he had nothing to open with.

He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and pressed his hands together as though in preparation to pray. But his hands didn’t stay that way for long, nerves driving him to rub them together, dig a thumb into the opposite palm, run one hand over the other. Finally, he brought one hand up and slowly crossed himself, the way he’d seen his mother do so many times before. “Holy God,” he began quietly. Hesitantly.

“I know I’ve never been – I haven’t been –” He sighed quietly. “Faith, has never been my strong suit. My mother, she was a devout woman. Service every week, and prayer every day.” But, if he really was addressing God, then He already knew this. Right? “I have not lived a life without sin. And. I tried, to do good. To keep others safe. But it led me to violence. And I’m so far into this life… I’m not looking for forgiveness. I know.. perhaps I’m beyond that. But.”

I am afraid.

“My mother always found comfort in, in seeking guidance from God. From you... I think.. I could use some of that now.” He wouldn’t mind knowing someone was listening. Even if it was someone like God. “For so long, I thought that I would be alright, because it was just me. After they left. It was just me, and whatever happened would happen. But. I found someone. Someone who, doesn’t belong to this life. He’s kind, and gentle. And things here…” Things here were getting worse and worse.

Vasily, for all that he may have thought he would remain in power until his children grew old enough to take over for him, was losing control. And he didn’t know what that meant for Danny. And that scared him.

“I feel like I have this impossible choice. I am not a traitor. I’ve worked for this man since I was just old enough to be told I should be supporting my family. He is not a great man, but he’s not a bad man, either. He tries to keep this city safe. He tries to keep the people here safe. But he can’t see what’s happening.” Or, maybe he didn’t want to see. No one liked the inevitable, knowing that they couldn’t change it.

“Moscow is my home. My family started here. I have built a life for myself here. Part of me wants to stay. These are my people. I’ll fight until I can’t anymore to keep them safe. But I know how this ends.” Men like him didn’t get happily ever afters. They didn’t live to have children, didn’t get little grandbabies running around. They didn’t retire, or get to put down their fists, or their guns, or their knifes.

“I’m okay with dying here, doing what I’m doing. I made my peace with the idea a long time ago.” Long before Danny. “But. My friend. He doesn’t deserve a life like that. He fled to Moscow because his own home wasn’t safe anymore. He left with a soft heart, scared, but bright. And life here.. It’s bruised it some.” But Danny still offered him these brilliant smiles when it was just the two of them, like he’d kept them tucked away until he felt safe enough to pull them back out. And he laughed lightly, and freely.

“I don’t know what will happen to him, once Vasily’s overtaken.” He resisted the urge to raise his gaze from his shoes in search of someone who shouldn’t hear that sort of talk. “And I can’t watch life here break him.” He desperately wanted something better for Danny. A life where he could earn a living on his feet, and play his violin, and enjoy the artistic things he wanted to indulge in.

“But I got this offer. Supposedly there’s this, this utopian city. And they want-” He chuckled softly. He still couldn’t believe it. “They want men like me. Bruisers. And everything they’re offering…” It sounded too good to be true. How could anywhere be so put together, after what the Wars did to the world? But they’d showed him pictures. And Andrei had whispered of an actual video chat with some woman in this city. And it had looked like they’d claimed, Andrei had said. “I could take him away from here. They said they could make arrangements to bring my family.”

He curled one hand tightly around the other. He hadn’t heard from his brothers in years. Nadezhda was god knows where. He had no idea if any of them were still alive. (If he stayed in Moscow, he doubted he himself would be for too much longer.) “He’s all I have left,” he whispered. “And I don’t know what to do.”

Nikolai unclasped his hands to rub one over his face. “I don’t know what to do,” he repeated softly.

“In all my years, I never thought I’d see you back here.”

Nikolai jerked in surprise, shooting up to his feet with enough force to make the pew grate against the stone floor. “Father.” He thought he’d been alone. How long had the priest been standing there?

Father Sokolov offered him a wry smile. “You’ve done some growing since the last time I saw you,” he commented as he drifted closer from wherever it was he had appeared from. (Maybe he’d been there the whole time, and Nikolai just hadn’t seen him.) How he managed to smile at the thought of their last encounter, even if it was over something like his height, Nikolai wasn’t sure. Because it had been his visit to confessional, grief-and-alcohol fueled, after his mother’s death. “But, I suppose it has been a long time.”

The priest gently pushed the pew to straighten it out, then settled down near the edge and looked up to Nikolai expectantly. It wasn’t until Nikolai was seated once more that he spoke again, “You know, that’s not how a standard prayer goes.”

Nikolai nodded minutely. “I figured.” He didn’t know any full prayers.

“May I offer you some advice, Nikolai?”

Again, though more slowly, Nikolai nodded.

“It sounds like you’re carrying a lot of weight with you. And I know you didn’t start unburdened.” Nikolai wasn’t sure whether the Father was referring to Aleksandr’s death, his mother’s, or something else entirely. “But, it also sounds like part of you has already made up its mind. This, man you’ve met. You speak highly of him. And you said you can’t watch life here break him. Not that you wouldn’t, but that you can’t. You said he was family, Nikolai. Would you leave your brothers to this life, if you had a way to get them out?”

“No.” Father Sokolov knew he’d never force Pavel or Luka to stay in Moscow if it would hurt them to do so.

Father Sokolov sighed quietly. “Your circumstances are difficult for me to work around. If you stay, you might help more people. But you do it through violent means. And I may not be foolish enough to believe that a kind word and good deeds will fix everything in the city. But I also don’t want to see you throw your soul away, continuing any further down this path. Your mother wanted to see you redeem yourself. She knew you could do better.” Mama had always looked for the best in him. Even when maybe she shouldn’t have. “This man might just be that step in the right direction. You could save him from whatever his fate may be here. Bring him to this utopia. Help him make a better life for himself.”

Nikolai fixed his gaze down to his feet. “What about God having a plan?” he prompted. Shouldn’t the Father be telling him to trust in God? That He had a plan?

“He guides us. It’s less, divine intervention and more… moving through us. Influencing our actions with others.”

“So, you think this, me getting this offer, is God’s way of helping him?” Why? Why would God put something like that–ferrying a gentle, friendly young man like Danny–with someone like him? A killer, and a brute.

“Maybe.” He reached out to pat Nikolai’s arm. “But I also think you need to sit down and consider why you’re torn over these options. What about staying is so important to you? Why is it important to you? And what makes this man so special, so important to you, that you would be willing to go to this new place with him?”

Nikolai nodded slowly. “Okay. I will.” And he really did mean that. “Thank you, Father,” he added more quietly.

“Of course.” Father Sokolov shifted his gaze out the church window, to the dark sky. “Have you gone home for the night yet?” he prompted softly.

“I came from there,” Nikolai admitted. “I couldn’t sleep.”

The old man frowned at him. “You should go back to your own bed. At least lie there until you have to get up. It’s better for you than staying out all night.”

Nikolai laughed softly. “Perhaps,” he agreed.

“Go home, Nikolai.”

Ah. “Yes, Father.” Nikolai slowly pushed himself back to his feet, his joints protesting the stiffness from the cold. “Thank you, Father.”

The Father walked him to the entrance of the church, and waited until Nikolai was at the bottom of the stairs before finally bidding him a goodnight and pushing the heavy door closed.

For a few moments, Nikolai allowed himself to just stare at the doors, not quite thinking, not quite not. But he really shouldn’t stay all night, and so, with a quiet sigh–his breath fogging the air–he started off on his way back home.

#drabbles

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danijimenezv · 7 years ago

Text

Who We Used to Be

Prompt/Summary: Based on “Two Ghosts” by Harry Styles

Pairings: Tony x female!reader

Warnings: angst, bittersweet moments, implied smut

Word Count: 2260

A/N: I wrote it for Bella’s Cool Times Summer Jamz Mix Writing Challenge ( @whothehellisbella ). This takes place at the end of Captain America: Civil War. I didn’t exactly include the lyrics of the song, but I did make sure that it fits the plot :)

It had been a while since he had thought about her. Until that Friday afternoon, Tony Stark actually hadn’t thought about her for years, not really.

Tony had been working at the New Avengers for days, trying to come up with something to help Rhodes. To say he was going out of his mind was an understatement, especially after the events with Steve and the Winter Soldier. That’s why he found himself wandering around Fire Island beach, after hours of driving. He didn’t even know why exactly he had ended up there, he had just driven mindlessly.

The sand underneath his feet and the calm environment of the beach helped him think, and he found himself mulling over everything that had been happening lately, not only with Steve and the rest of the Avengers, but also with Pepper. Tony and Pepper were giving each other some time, being Iron Man finally taking its toll on her. He was so deep in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice the person approaching him. It took him a few seconds to finally register the face that was in front of him.

She looked exactly how he remembered, even if it had been more than a decade since they last saw each other. Her hair flowed freely in the wind, giving off the vibe of freedom, and her eyes sparkled as she too recognized him. She was still as beautiful in his eyes as ever; the only difference being the small crinkles by her eyes, and the way they seemed to hold a new world of knowledge and experience. Tony’s heart picked up its pace as he continued to gawk at her, and both stood in absolute silence for some minutes, studying each other with their stares. Finally, the woman broke into a friendly smile.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here again, Stark.”

“Y/N.” he sighed, “It’s been a while.”

“Indeed.”

“How have you been? I haven’t heard much about you these past years.”

“Can’t say the same about you, Iron Man.” she pointed out, laughing softly, “I’ve heard plenty of you. Every time I turn around, there you are, in the news, in some paper, or in a kid’s costume.”

Tony smirked, “Don’t pretend you don’t love seeing me so much.”

“Guess you’ll never know.” her face was a mask, and Tony was unable to know if she really did or didn’t at all, “I’ve been relatively good.”

“Still working as a doctor?”

“Forensics, yeah.”

“Kinda CSI, huh?” Tony chuckled under his breath slightly, but squirmed uncomfortably as her steely gaze seemed to look right through him, bore into his very core. As their eyes locked, Tony felt a wave of feelings washing over him, teleporting him back to the day they had first met, back to when he was barely 18.

“How bad is it?” her voice brought him out of the flashback.

“Bad? No one said anything about-”

“You can lie to anyone else, Tony, but not to me.”

She was right. Tony was used to keeping everyone at a certain distance, but Y/N practically knew him from the very start, and they had been together for years. There was no way he could hide anything from her, no matter how much he tried or how long it had been. Y/N frowned, one of her hands reaching up to cup and caress his cheek, but she suddenly became aware of what she was doing and retreated her hand slowly.

“Sorry, I know it’s been a while. I don’t want to overstep my boundaries.”

Tony simply dismissed the situation with a nod. He was oddly silent, uncharacteristic of him. Y/N had never seen him like that, not in the eight years they were together. He was different from the Tony she once knew; he had seen and experienced far too many things for her to even start to comprehend what changed him. Still, that didn’t stop her from trying to reach out to him, to be there for him, not baring how in despair he looked.

“Come on, I’ll take you to get a drink. You seem like you need one.”

“I don’t want to be anywhere public.” he scratched the back of his neck.

“My place sounds fine for you?” she asked, and Tony could see the sincere concern in her shining eyes, something that, still after more than a decade, still disarmed him completely, “I’ve got booze and it’s not out in the public.”

“I’d be worried about your life decisions if it were.” he joked.

They drove for about half an hour, just two people joking and reminiscing about the past. No one would have suspected they hadn’t seen each other in years; probably because, deep down, they never stopped thinking about the other. Once in her house, they settled down fairly quickly, as if being together was an old routine they remembered well. Tony got out two glasses from one of the kitchen cabinets, while Y/N gathered a bottle of whiskey and a bucket of ice. For the following hours, all they did was exactly the same they did in the car, remember moments they lived together and the best of those years. Some memories were happy, some were sad, and some were absolutely ridiculous, but each and every one of them reminded him of a time where everything was much simpler than the problems he was now facing at the moment with the Avengers. Tony honestly couldn’t point out the exact moment he had last felt as carefree and on ease, nothing comparing to how she was making him feel in that moment.

“Come on, gulp it down. I dare you.” Tony smirked, making Y/N gasp in offense.

“You think I can’t hold my drink?”

“Sweetheart, this is the third glass of whiskey you’ve had in the past two hours. I think you can’t handle any more, much less in one gulp.”

“Watch me.” she did as she was dared, not looking unfazed in the slightest, which surprised him deeply, “See, Stark? I told you I could.”

“I just have one more question.”

“Which is?”

“How did you manage to get whiskey on your nose?”

A deep, scarlet color adorned her cheeks, but as Tony laughed at her expression, he leaned forward to clean it for her. That was the mistake, or maybe that was exactly what he needed to do. Before he could stop to think about it, he just let go of his inhibitions and followed his instinct. He crashed his lips against her in a matter of seconds, and he was relieved as she returned the gesture with as much fervor as him. The kiss was full of desperation, lust and unspoken promises, and it filled both of their veins with adrenaline. They continued kissing, their limbs ending up tangled together as their tongues messily danced together, their mouths practically clashing together as the two of them chased their own desires.

“Bedroom?” he asked in a strained voice, barely separating from her.

She panted heavily, “Down the hall, last door on the right.”

Tony woke up in the middle of the night, stretching a bit and feeling the other side of the bed cold and empty. He reached out for his discarded boxers and his pants and put them on, somehow knowing, or more like hoping, that Y/N was wearing his shirt, just like the old times. He wandered around the halls for a few minutes, before he heard soft humming coming from the kitchen, and made his way there. Easily enough, he found the woman, hunched slightly as she searched for something in the fridge.

“Want anything, Tony?” she asked casually, startling him, as she retrieved a bottle of water.

“I’m fine.” he brushed off and took a seat at the table.

“Suit yourself.” she shut the fridge door closed.

Even without the house lights or the white light from the refrigerator, the moon was intense enough to light them. The moonlight made her silhouette stand out even more, and Tony couldn’t help but admire her beauty. He wanted to say something, but what? He felt a huge lump in his throat and his tongue tied in an impossible knot, making him unable to even utter a single word. Still, even if he didn’t feel as physically incapable to talk as he was feeling right then, he didn’t know what to tell her. ‘Thanks for tonight, I’ve gotta go’? He couldn’t be a jerk to her, not after everything they had lived together. Tony yearned with all his heart it could be as simple as he used. He wished he could tell her he still loved her as much as he used to, and that they could be together again. A happy, fairy-tale ending. However, no matter how much Tony tried, the same thoughts about her fluttered around in his mind. Y/N was a throwback, a beautiful one at that, but still a throwback to a time when he was young, unburdened and definitely not scared of love and loss. She was all he had back then, and he would always love her. But the heart-shattering, ground-rumbling love he once felt for the woman in front of her, that was gone, turning her simply into a beautiful memory, meant for him to remember some of the best time of his life by her side.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Y/N interrupted his line of thoughts.

“I don’t think you do, sweetheart.” he chuckled, trying to hide the bitterness with his wit.

“You’re thinking the same thing I am.” she stated, and somehow, he knew she was telling the truth, “It’s not what you expected.”

“Y/N, I-”

“I’m under no pretense here, Tone.” she sat down in front of him, taking his calloused hands in her soft ones, “ I know last night was a one-time thing only. I know how it is. After all, everything has changed.”

“Why do I feel so broken, then?”

“Because, deep down, you and I both wanted it to be just how we remembered.”

“I thought you were the one for me all along.” Tony continued stubbornly, “Meeting again after some years wasn’t supposed to work like that.”

“Oh, Tony. My Tony.” Y/N chuckled, “Not everything is like in the movies, no matter how much we want it to be. Don’t think of us as a failure. Think of us as a beautiful experience. Now, you can put that small bother in the back of your mind to rest. Maybe it’s just not meant to be. We can finally leave it in peace, in the past, and move on to whatever life has in store for us.”

“I felt like I used you, and I definitely don’t want you to feel or even think that.” he shook his head vehemently.

“In a way, we used one other. We were both trying to relive the past, trying to feel again how that was like.” she shrugged, “Please, Tony, I knew the existence of this possibility, of things ending this way. I knew what I was getting into, so you don’t have to worry about me.”

“You were too important for me.” he kissed her forehead, “You still are. I’m sorry I didn’t realize that sooner.”

“Not your fault. We were young, just experiencing life.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have given up on us. What if-?”

“You and I...” she whispered, caressing his cheek lovingly as she stared softly at his warm brown eyes; the same eyes she had fallen in love with back all those years, and the same eyes she would always love no matter what, “You and I will always be unfinished business, just a torrent of ‘what if’s that never came to be. It’s too late now, but I don’t regret a thing. I love you, Tony.” she clarified, “Always have, and probably always will. You’ll always hold a special place in my heart… but I’m no longer in love with you. We’ve grown apart into two very different people, and we still have a lot to figure out on our own.”

“I’m sorry.” Tony held back a sob, “I’m sorry for what we could’ve been.”

“Me too.” she sighed sadly and, in a bold move, leaned towards him and placed her lips on his, in a last, cherishing kiss, “But do me a favor.”

“For you, anything.”

“Try to be happy once again.” she practically begged him, “That’s all I want for you. I don’t know how bad things are within the Avengers, but I’m asking you this because I care about you, Anthony Edward Stark, not Iron Man, not the infamous Tony Stark.”

“I never deserved you.” he let out a breathy laugh, standing up and pulling her to him as well, his strong arms snaking around her waist almost immediately, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“On the contrary, you always did.” she snuggled further in his embrace, trying to remember every little detail, from the way his arms held her tight with strength but still delicacy as if she was his whole world, to the way he smelled like the home she used to know, “That’s why I’m still here, and I’ll always be.”

“In my heart is a memory, and there you’ll always be.” he quoted, remembering one of her favorites, which, in turn, made her grin breath-takingly.

Their love story was over, but Tony Stark could brag he had the most epic and spectacular love story to ever tell with the one and only Y/N Y/L/N.

Tags: @whothehellisbella, @thinkwritexpress-official, @buckysberrie, @sebbytrash, @bovaria, @maybe-mikala, @a-little-hell-to-raise , @hunters-from-stark-tower

#bella's ctsjm #tony stark x reader #marvel fic #song challenge

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