#Like. When people call her his ex I feel like that's not a good descriptor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

venus-haze · 2 years ago

Text

Ever Fallen in Love? (Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: You underestimated what you were taking on when you married Elvis, feeling more and more helpless as he seems to be slipping away from you at the hands of people who have little interest in anything but exploiting him. Despite your good intentions, things don’t go as planned when you confront Elvis about the people he surrounds himself with and his troubling reliance on the cocktail of pills Dr. Nick prescribes him.

Note: This is based on a request by @holy-minseok. Reader is a woman but no other descriptors are used. This was more angsty than the yandere fics I write but still dark, so I hope I did the request justice. I did make myself kinda sad writing it. I listened to Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve?) by Buzzcocks a lot while working on this. I used ‘vaporial’ at one point, and I’m not sure if that even is a word. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Depictions of drug abuse, violence, fighting, blood and generally dark content which some people may find disturbing or triggering. Literally the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do for someone who’s struggling with drug addiction. Do not interact if you are under 18.

Being married to Elvis wasn’t easy, as you stood in the long shadow of women who came before you, from the ever-present specter of his mother to his ex-wife of less than a year. You weren’t sure why exactly you’d agreed to marry Elvis after only dating for a few months, perhaps your bleeding heart over the man’s loneliness made you informally agree to be the one to help him emotionally exorcize his demons. Instead, you found yourself flustered and exhausted at the amount of people who, for one reason or another, were content with enabling your husband’s decline.

For as much as they claimed to care for him, you’d often butt heads with members of the so-called Memphis Mafia, finding as time went on they could hardly be considered friends, more like leeches. Having Jerry on your side helped, especially since he was pretty much Elvis’ right-hand man and had the same concerns you did. You didn’t trust the Colonel as far as you could throw him, and Vernon’s own disregard for his son’s well-being shocked you. While you certainly didn’t consider yourself anything close to a saint, you wondered how the hell Elvis ended up surrounded by ‘yes men’ who could give a damn.

You knew there were plenty of people whispering falsehoods about you in his ear—selfish, petty, gold-digger, to name a few. While your relationship with Elvis did start as a fling, you found that he was kind and generous, and it was easy to get caught up in conversations with him about everything from religion to the blues. Things became serious rather quickly, but you didn’t realize how serious until one night, when Elvis presented you with a gold charm bracelet with his initials hanging from the chain. The gift was meant to be a dainty accessory since you weren’t a flashy person and would often forget to wear the TCB necklace he’d already given you. Despite this, the bracelet was your proverbial albatross as the glittering EP tapped against your wrist day and night as if dictating your pulse.

Of course you loved Elvis, perhaps to a fault, but his reliance on the prescription pills Dr. Nick gave him, most of which you couldn’t even pronounce, troubled you deeply. You understood why it was the final straw for Priscilla and knew how much of an uphill battle you faced if even she couldn’t get through to Elvis. To your relief, Priscilla liked you, and since she and Elvis were still close, you’d update her on how he was doing. You hoped that between the two of you, somehow you could get Elvis to go to rehab before things got even farther out of hand.

It seemed hopeless, though. When you felt like you were making leeway during the months at Graceland with him, he was thrown back into the lion's den with his contractually obligated Vegas residency. The past month was enough to undo your convincing that he didn’t need the pills and was better off without them, because there was no way he could humanly perform two shows a day, three on weekends, in Vegas without something. While he welcomed you staying in Vegas with him during his residency, you had little choice but to watch helplessly as he slipped back into the destructive cycle. Part of you wished you had just stayed behind in Graceland, but that would have made you just as complacent.

The evening leading up to yet another set of shows in Elvis’ eternal residency at the International was more hectic than usual, conspiracy in the air as Jerry had rushed over to Elvis with urgency you’d never seen before. You could hardly keep up with their strides as they walked down the long hallway. Jerry was speaking to Elvis in a hushed tone, something about the Colonel. While you strained to hear what Jerry was saying, it must have been a bombshell, because Elvis stopped in his tracks for a moment before collapsing to the ground.

Immediately, you dropped to his side, your hands shaking as you frantically wracked your brain as to what you should do. Everything was a blur when you started crying, babbling for someone to help Elvis. You felt frustration toward yourself at being so helpless in the situation, so close to losing the man you loved that it made you almost sick.

Ice cold water splashed onto your clothes as Elvis’ head was dunked into a bucket a few times in an attempt to bring him back to consciousness. You sniffled as a nurse held his head up a bit as he slowly came to. The water did little to hide the cold sweat that had overtaken his body, his hand clammy in yours. He was exhausted, and the visible rage and a hint of fear that gleamed in his eyes when the Colonel rushed over made you move in front of Elvis, as if to shield him.

“I don’t think he should—“ you began, only to quickly be cut off.

“The only thing that matters is getting that man on that stage tonight,” the Colonel said.

“On stage? He just about died, and you want him on stage?”

��Well, this is a Presley Enterprises decision since it affects tonight’s performance, all of the fans who’ve been eager to see his show,” the Colonel said, looking at Vernon.

“If he were my son, I’d take him to the hospital,” the nurse by his side said.

You nodded. “Let him rest, please.”

“I—is there anything Dr. Nick can do?” Vernon asked weakly.

You felt like you’d gotten punched in the gut. “You all should be ashamed of yourselves. He could have died, and all you care about is getting more money out of him until there’s nothing left of him. I swear to god, you people disgust me!”

“Mrs. Presley is clearly hysterical. Please, would someone escort her elsewhere,” the Colonel said, glaring at you.

“Fuck you! He’s my husband; you can’t do this to him!”

You watched helplessly as Dr. Nick grabbed a syringe out of his bag while you were being practically dragged away from the scene. Jerry wrapped an arm around you, and you covered your face with your hands, sobbing as Elvis was injected with whatever poison Nick had on him.

Just as quickly as Elvis was helped up, he was escorted away, presumably to his dressing room. You couldn’t believe the callousness you’d just witnessed toward your husband.

Sniffling, you looked at Jerry. “What did you say to him?”

“I’ll tell you while we catch up with them,” he said.

You and Jerry trailed well behind the rest of the group ushering Elvis away, speaking in hushed tones as Jerry shocked you with his revelations about the Colonel. When you had first met the man, you expressed as nicely as possible to Elvis that you had a bad feeling about him, and he’d light-heartedly told you in passing that his mother didn’t like the Colonel either, as if it were some ‘girl thing’. As upset and outraged as you were, you couldn’t imagine being in your husband’s shoes, putting your whole career in the hands of a man whose existence was vaporial, only visible through lies and cigar smoke.

There was nothing you could do about the Colonel, it was a business matter. As you’d frustratingly discovered not long after marrying Elvis, most people regarded you as vapid arm candy rather than his partner. You did have some sway in Elvis’ decision making, and at least hoped to talk him out of performing that night and to reconsider who he allowed to be part of TCB–his Memphis Mafia. Besides the Colonel, Dr. Nick was at the top of your shit list for how unaffected he seemed at your husband’s collapsing earlier. Wouldn’t a regular doctor order bed rest?

You felt like you had a cement block in your stomach as you knocked on the door to Elvis’ dressing room. The two of you had a secret knock, childish as it was, but you couldn’t help but give in to the mischievous glint in his eyes when he first proposed the idea to you. It was something you loved about Elvis, he was funny, always with something up his sleeve to keep things interesting and make people laugh. Perhaps that would contribute to his downfall, his need to please, to keep the peace and avoid so much of the conflict he’d experienced growing up.

“Hey,” you said, entering the dressing room to find him sitting on the couch, still in his robe. “You doing alright?”

“Been better,” he said, giving you a tired smile that made your chest contract.

“Baby, you don’t have to do this,” you whispered, sitting next to him.

He shook his head. “I gotta go up there, mama. The fans—“

“Can wait. You’re not feeling well.”

“I’m fine now.”

“Elvis—“

“Just leave it, Y/N,” he said.

You closed the small distance between you and Elvis, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his chest. “I love you so much.”

He kissed your forehead. “I love you too. Now go on, I’ll see you after the show.”

You nodded, giving him a kiss before getting up to leave, feeling dejected as ever. Turning around, you took him in, your heart lurching at how visibly unwell he was. There was no way the crowd wouldn’t notice, certainly not the audience members in the front row. They’d be able to see him under the stage lights, how clammy and pallid he looked. In what you assumed would be the more unfortunate reality, they wouldn’t care as long as they got to see your husband run himself ragged for their entertainment while they threw back drinks–bread and circuses while you came so close to losing him.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you. The world loved Elvis, but no one seemed to care about him. His humanity was an inconvenience to them, that he was indeed a man with physical limitations, was a flaw, not a feature. Those snakes would sooner parade him around on strings for a few extra bucks than let him get the rest he needed.

While you normally watched at least one of Elvis’ nightly shows during his residency, you couldn’t stomach it after what had happened before. He hardly got much of a break in between shows, and so you spent the next few hours in the suite, your emotions shifting between sorrow and rage over the treatment of your husband.

You considered calling Priscilla at several points in the night, but decided it could wait until the morning. There wouldn't be much she could do on such short notice, and even still, it’d take time for her to find someone to watch Lisa and then get from LA to Vegas. You wondered if Elvis would even listen to her.

It felt like far too soon, yet not soon enough when Elvis finally returned, hardly able to walk straight after forcing himself to perform through two shows. You fought back tears at his state. He looked so tired and worn out, and if earlier was any indication, it was catching up with him faster than anyone expected. Logically, you knew it wasn’t the right time to bring it up, but you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Part of you worried that if you waited until the following day, it’d all be a blur to him.

“I need to talk to you about what happened earlier,” you said.

He waved you off. “Save it.”

“No, this is important. All of the shit about the Colonel is just the tip of the iceberg, and you know it.”

“Jerry told you?”

“I got the gist, yeah. I hate seeing you get taken advantage of by these people.”

“I can look after my own damn self, Y/N.”

“I just want to help you,” you pleaded. “I love you.”

“Then get off my back!”

“It’s not good for you, all the shit Dr. Nick gives you. Jerry agrees with me, and Priscilla—“

“What’s she got to do with it? She don’t want nothin’ to do with me, and don’t think I don’t hear you whisperin’ on the phone to her ‘bout how much you can’t wait to leave me too.”

“She calls because she’s worried about you. Sometimes she doesn’t hear from you for weeks.”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes as you spoke. In the months you’d been with Elvis, he had never expressed such cruel disdain for you until that moment. You couldn’t even recall him speaking negatively about Priscilla, of all people. It wasn’t him, not really. You tried to tell yourself it was the junk making him this way, but your vision blurred with tears at the realization that you never really knew him without it.

“Can you please just listen to me?” you implored. “You’re lucky all that happened earlier was that you passed out. What if it was something worse?”

“Then you get it all, mama,” he said, gesturing around the suite.

You looked at him in silent disbelief for a few moments before finally responding with, “I don’t care about that. Don’t you see how much you’re hurting me and everyone else who cares about you? Hey! Where are you—“

He shook his head, walking into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. As you approached, you could hear the rattling of pills in a plastic bottle and felt rage build up inside you, white-hot and blinding. You opened the unlocked door, smacking the multi-colored pills out of your husband’s hand.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked in disbelief as they scattered across the tile floor.

“Me? You’re killing yourself!”

“That’s my business!”

You balled up your fists at your side. “Well you married me, so your business is mine too.”

He stood frozen in shock as you opened several of the dozen or so pill bottles on the counter and began dumping them into the toilet. Sure, it was the exact opposite of every effective way to confront a loved one struggling with addiction that you’d read about, but if it was going to get his attention, you were willing to deal with the fallout. You felt a bit of relief as you watched the pills disappear down the drain when you flushed the toilet as you enacted what would probably be considered the worst intervention possible.

As you picked up more bottles, Elvis seemed to come to his senses and grabbed your wrist, squeezing in an attempt to make you drop them. Feeling the bracelet he’d gifted you digging into your skin, you haplessly threw some of the bottles at the mirror. You weren’t sure what you were trying to accomplish when the glass shattered onto the counter and floor.

You heard Elvis grunt something about you being psycho as he tried to get you to drop the rest of the bottles. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of the struggle reflected in the hundreds of glass shards that littered the floor as you tried to pull your wrist from his grip. Fueled by little more than adrenaline and determination, you’d be damned if you wouldn’t see it through to the end.

“I’m trying to help you! You can’t keep going on like this!”

“Help? Look what you did!” he argued.

Elvis was stronger than you, and you knew he could really hurt you if he wanted to, but even though he was holding back, the force from him releasing his grip from around your wrist while you were still pulling it back sent you to the ground. You landed hard, your forearms breaking the fall but digging into the broken glass on the floor on impact.

He looked at you in horror as he saw the blood on the floor, fresh and coppery as it flowed from your arms. As he stumbled back against the counter, you noticed his knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of it behind him. His breathing was heavy as he took in the state of the room, the state of you, in horror.

“Darlin’,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

You hissed as you sat up. “I know.”

“Jesus, let me call you a doctor.”

“Not Nick.”

He nodded, letting out a shaky breath. “‘Course not.”

Pushing yourself up to sit against the wall, you looked around the bathroom and sighed. If you didn’t know any better, it’d have been something out of a murder scene from the broken glass to the blood smeared in the floor. Perhaps it would end up being fitting, a physical manifestation of the death of yours and Elvis’ relationship. You doubted he’d want anything to do with you after what you’d just pulled and wouldn’t blame him if he ended up serving you divorce papers in the following days.

You noticed your bracelet had broken and slid across the floor, his initials imprinted on your wrist from the pressure he’d put on the charm. You stared at the imprint, hoping your focus would distract from the pain in your arms. He hesitantly returned to the bathroom, chewing his bottom lip as he leaned against the door frame. It was almost as if he was afraid to get too close to you while the two of you waited for whatever help he called to arrive. If you were in his position, you’d be afraid of you too.

Taglist: @eliseinmemphis @crash-and-cure @kittenlittle24 @im-lame-irl @loudwombatmugkid @rxsesss @roseymary04 @queendelrey @jovialladyaurora @positivitylane112 @moonknightswif3 @holy-minseok @datsavageavenger @21bruhs @luckyevansstan @djsjs13949 @butlerslut @ash-omalley @powerofelvis @sad-bisexual-bitch @peachy-deaths @kibumslatina @adoreyouusugar @raefoxiegirl @donnamarie23 @ilovehobi101 @memphis-menace @animeketsu-yander @phhistheloml @dkayfixates

#elvis x reader #austin!elvis x reader #elvis presley x reader #elvis #elvis 2022

262 notes · View notes

venenatd · 4 years ago

Text

just friends; eren jaegar x reader

summary: you and eren are best pals and have both recently be dumped. so, a plan to get over your exes is needed! what’s better than going out on the town trying to find quick fucks >:) also eren is a smug bastard but kinda has a heart of gold??

content: smut / nsfw 18+. minors dni. (choking, unprotected sex, creampie drinking, drunk sex, possessiveness ig? dirty talk, both of them want to be dominant tbh. slight size kink, oral both m and f receiving. female bodied reader)

i am new to this pls let me know if i should add anything!!

word count: 5.8k words of unedited content

a/n: uh so i never thought i’d be back on my tumblr bullshit at 23 but hey after years without the app i’m back. i needed to get out the h-word and this is what happened. enjoy and i’m sorry if it’s terrible lmao

“You look different”

Frowning at the man waiting ever so patiently for you on the sofa, you look a little defeated. “Is that meant to be a compliment, Eren?”. He sighed, raising his eyebrows at you. To be fair, maybe you did. Wearing a figure hugging black dress, that definitely just hid your ass cheeks, hair styled and sprayed in place, dark lipstick and makeup on your face. Usually Eren would have seen you in sweats, always running a little late for class, snack in hand.

“Different isn’t bad,” he offered, checking the watch that lay on his wrist, “are we ever going to get to the bar? Your plan will fall through if you’re not careful.”

Ah, the plan. Both you and Eren were newly single. In your final year at university, having managed to keep each relationship going until almost the end. Ironic. Weren’t most meant to fail in the first year? But alas, your partners had decided it was the end within a couple of weeks each other, and as you and Eren had been close since you met on orientation day, you each took to the other for comfort. You had done the crying first, going to him the minute your call with the ex had ended. Leaving wet splotches on his shirt, he had calmed you, only for you to do the same to him later. Now the crying was done, it was time to move on, and what better advice to follow than getting under someone to get over another?

“I just need to look hot enough for a guy to fuck me.”

“What a romantic you are.”

“Shut up Er-”

Eren shifted from the couch, interrupting your usual sass, “and what about me, y/n? Do I look beautiful?”. He threw in a wink with his comment, his aura of cockiness always radiating. You rolled your eyes, before studying his figure. His dark hair half pulled back into a bun, the rest draping his neck and onto a deep emerald green silk shirt, with the top few buttons loose, tucked into dark pants. A ring on each hand, fingers with chipping black nail polish, and to top it off, a thin chain on his neck. You hated to admit it and add to his smug demeanour but... the man did look good.

“Gorgeous as always Eren,” you said sarcastically, even if it was truthful, “I’m sure there will be a queue of women who are wanting to jump on you.”

“Not if they aren’t all taken already,” he taps at his watch. Whilst the two of you had already been drinking as he waited for you to get ready, it was definitely on the later side.

“Order the uber, and we can go.”

Walking over to him and adding shoes to your outfit, you present yourself before him, a cute little smile playing on your lips. He’s staring down at his phone, quickly going through the motions for the ride. Finally, he looks up to catch your eyes. His jade pupils flick down slightly, and he hopes you miss that they land at the cleavage you’re sporting in your current get up. He flicks your nose, earning a scowl from you and a smile from him.

“You look perfect”

The club is far fuller than you both expected, dance floor and tables taken up and crowded round. Luckily, you had managed to secure you and Eren a pair of seats at the bar, and you were currently on your third..? Fourth drink of the evening. Green eyes watch your lips carefully, as you finish the vodka and lemonade.

“So, anyone take your fancy?” he prompts, looking around at the mess of people.

Humming, you scan the area. There’s some people you recognise from class, but plenty more you don’t know. Fucking friends seems like a bad move, even in your tipsy state, so you look to the strangers faces. They don’t look like him. Ugh.

There’s a few options though, and as you point them out to Eren they come with brief descriptors: dark hair and stubble, wide set blonde. He tuts at the options, sarcastically letting out a “sure sure, I see the appeal”.

“And how about you, anyone you like the look of?” you ask with a sigh.

Christ, Eren thinks to himself. It’s been long enough that he hasn’t had to look for someone else. Sure there were attractive people in the world, but with her around, he hadn’t needed to give anyone else a second look. His palm moves to the back of his neck, stretching out behind him with a huff. “Let’s look on the dance floor?” he offers, clearly not as eager as you were tonight. Moving his hand back down, he holds it out for you, pulling towards the throng of people.

He looks effervescently cool like this. Shirt open, hair starting to fall from his bun. Eren is looking around at the people surrounding the two of you. The two of you had been working in circles, allowing each other an eyeful as the club goers move around the space. As a group of guys push their way from the dance floor to the bar, you get shoved towards Eren. Heels were never quite your forte, and you stumble against him, hands on either side of his chest. Grinning down at you with that smug little smile that annoyed you so much, Eren brought large hands to your waist, pushing you away a little. But his hands stay there as he continues to sway to the music, making no effort to break the contact. And so you bring your arms up to his neck, allowing his movements to carry you on time to the song. For the first time in the past couple of weeks, you feel light. Your chest isn’t constricted by some foreign weight. It’s just you and your best friend, buzzed and free.

Colours change above you, as you look up to Eren, him down to you. A playful grin takes his lips as he pulls you a little closer, you so easily accepting the narrowing distance. Your black silk meets his deep green, chest pushing into his. You carefully analyse his features, seeing if he attempts to check you out like earlier.

Was it the alcohol making your cheeks so warm? Lit up by a purple hue, you watch his eyes return to exploring the crowd, his hand still holding on to you. His smirk falters, his eyebrows creasing together. You’re not moving in circles anymore, Eren pausing in his movements as he thinks about what to do next. He shouldn’t lie to you, but seeing your ex at the bar would really harsh the night. Under his fingers, he can feel your body tense, suddenly unsure at how close the contact between you was.

But Eren doesn’t want you to know, he doesn’t want you to be distracted by your ex tonight. He doesn’t want to see your hurt little face anymore. The way your eyes would be red and puffy the next day. The way he would feel your shoulders heaving under his arms. You don’t deserve that. Hell, you didn’t deserve the huge amount of shit your ex had put you through over the years he’d known you. Eren would sit back and listen to you rant, support you where he could. But fuck that guy. And he wasn’t sure what sparked in his chest, but Eren’s jade orbs are trained straight back on you. His eyebrows calm, tension releasing from them. As you can turn to scope out whatever had changed his body language so suddenly, he catches your jaw.

Beginning to slowly move again, his eyes have narrowed, taking in the way the dress hugs you, the shine on your skin from the hot dance floor. Eren couldn’t quite figure out what was intoxicating him right now. Definitely a lot of alcohol, but also a sudden… possessiveness. He didn’t want you in pain anymore. Eren wanted you in pleasure. His breath is suddenly on your neck, making your hair raise.

“I’ve only seen one person I’m interested in tonight.”

“Oh?” you squeak, before clearing your throat a little. The new deep notes in his voice catch you off guard. It almost sounds like he’s… No. He’s your best friend. The little looks you’d been giving each other all night were just two people looking out for one another, two people seeing each other happy for the first time in a while. Your voice is calmer as you ask light-heartedly, “and who would that be?”

His lips are so close to your ear.

“You.”

“Eren-” your hands move from behind his neck, resting on his shoulders. You need to see your best friend's face, you need to know if he’s joking right now. If he’s mocking you. When you draw back, you see his face. Smug, as always. Fuck you’ve always wanted to knock that cockiness down a peg. Cheshire smile showing his teeth and his eyes looking down at you. Half lidded eyes, pupils blown. He’s not joking. Fuck.

“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath is caught in your throat. All too aware suddenly of each of his finger pads pressing into your skin, the contact feeling like fire with the added alcohol. But, you find yourself nodding, the yes just escaping your lips before he’s pressed into them.

Large hands travel to your hip, and up your back, pressing you into him. You can feel his body, tense in exhilaration against you, hands back around his neck. One travels up to the nape of his back, tangling into his hair and pulling him deeper into you. The music is all consuming, you can feel the bass in your body, you can feel Eren against you, you can feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Eren’s hand on your back travels up, echoing your placement on him, to hold the back of your neck. He doesn’t want you to go, you feel too good. The heat between your bodies could suffocate him. His thumb puts pressure under your jaw, he isn’t even sure you can feel it. But he can, measuring your pulse racing underneath the pad. He’s smiling into this kiss, this all consuming kiss.

His tongue swipes at your bottom lip, and you’re all too eager to allow him into your mouth. Tasting the whisky from your home, tasting the coke from the club. His teeth take your lip nipping slightly, before sucking the plump of it into his mouth. You both come up for air, eyes meeting in acknowledgment of the situation.

“Wanna get out of here?”

The drive home had only served to heap tension between you. As clearly that it was that you wanted each other, you would have to wait a while longer. Your thighs pressed together, slowly inhaling and exhaling. Going through your mind was whether this was a good idea, staring out at the city passing by you. Eren was your friend. You were dating another man two weeks ago. The same man that had previously asked you if he needed to be worried about Eren. You’d laughed it off, because it was Eren. You were brought out of your thoughts when you felt him grip your leg, a little too harshly at first, before settling, leaving a gentle pattern of circles and lines on your inner thigh. It was Eren.

Just one hallway. You had to make it one hallway to get into your apartment. One hallway left to come to your senses. And just like he read your mind, Eren is once again touching you, just his hand on yours pulling you backwards. You twist just in time, his hands instantly cupping your cheeks as he kisses you, deeply and intensely. Pushing you back into the wall, you pray a neighbour doesn’t walk out now. His knee is pressing gently between your legs, and you allow it. Your fingers sink into Eren’s arms, lightly covered by the fabric yet you can still feel the muscle underneath, relaxing and tensing as he pulls you closer.

His lips are making their way to your jaw, lifting your chin upwards, tentatively licking the bone before moving downwards still, sucking and nipping and licking your neck. A whimper breaks through. You really need to get inside. Gripping his hair, you sharply pull backwards.

“Not going to play nice, huh?”

When did he speak like this? The playful and shit-eating grin your friend Eren always wore was replaced by something darker, his words laced with intent.

“Don’t challenge me.”

You were off, finally at your door, making quick work with the lock, moving in first before he followed. The door shut as you pushed Eren against it, usual doe eyes being taken over with a deep lust. Your hands are instantly at his belt, as his hands find your face once again. This time he’s grabbing your hair, making you look up at him as he glares down at you. You’re constantly challenging one another in conversation, and it’s translating to the bedroom far too easily.

Lips are on one another again, as you leave the belt and start towards his shirt. You bite down on his bottom lip, earning a hiss from him, and you feel his hand being brought around your throat. He doesn’t add too much pressure, checking if this turn is indeed okay with you. When you push against the weight, he takes the gleam in your eye as a yes, and uses the force to push you against the next wall, finally moving off the front door.

It’s a constant battle to get to the bedroom, both of you taking control for short bursts. Eren pulling the thin straps of your dress down, you untucking his shirt. His muscular torso is on full display, and you had never viewed it in this light before.

Finally he pushes you onto the bed, situating himself between your legs. Your kisses are sloppy and infused with alcohol. Hands are desperate with one another, both of you needing to be closer. Are you scared if the contact ends your thoughts will return to sanity?

Eren’s hot and heavy over you, his hands seem everywhere at once. Smoothing up your thigh, digging in slightly to the flesh when you grind against one another. His hands rest at your hips for a moment, and he’s looking down at you, still fucking smiling. All at once, he’s flipped you over his prominent hard on pressing into your ass. He’s whispering in your ear, leaving wet kisses along your neck, to your shoulder blades. Fingers take the zip at the back of your dress, slowly and carefully pulling it down, leaving licks and pecks as he goes. It’s torturous.

You attempt to speed things up by rutting your ass against his crotch, and you think you hear a quiet moan, before his hand is brought down to the fabric, smacking your cheek. You gasp, turning your head to look at him. Eren is too occupied in taking in all of your body, his green eyes are darkened with authority and lust. His nimble fingers play with the short hem of your dress, thumb dipping beneath, before he pushes the silk up.

You both let out soft fuck’s, as his hands grab at the plump of your ass. It’s like he’s testing the softness, the way your flesh responds to his touch so easily. He slaps at you again, earning a sharp moan from you. Eren’s leaning down, his mouth once again trailing across the apex of your behind, leaving trails of saliva as he goes. Before you can even register the new sensations you can feel a soft pressure against your clothed cunt, just enough to let you know the presence of his hand, but not enough for you to get off on. You’re mewling, once again trying to get closer to him. This time he allows it, eagerly pressing his ring and middle finger to your clit, allowing you to grind upon them.

Seeing you underneath him like this… it’s new and strange and so fucking hot. He’s watching you desperately try and fill the need building in your core, and he can only feel his cock twitch in his pants as he sees you coming undone. If you wanted more, he could definitely give it to you. Bringing his large hands away, to the flimsy fabric that was covering you, he pulls it down, exposing you to him. His heart and dick fucking jump. His hands return to your ass, watching the jiggle as you move and whimper. Spreading you, he brings his face down, breath tingling on your most sensitive areas.

Your breath catches in your throat as his tongue, gentle at first, licks between your folds. He’s tasting you, he’s moaning into your pussy, as you write beneath him. Eren’s hands are squeezing your ass cheeks, holding you still as you try to grind against his face.

“Patience, y/n”, he says, with a slap on your behind again.

“Fuck you,” you hiss.

“You will be in a minute, baby girl, don’t worry.”

You go to make a retort but he’s instantly back, licking up your slit and a deep moan escapes you. Jesus you can feel the smile on his lips as he’s back on your pussy. Eren is so proud of the sounds he can draw from you. He wonders if your ex could make you come undone so easily.

You taste sweet and saccharine on him, and he doesn’t hold back the groan as he further works his way into you. Hardened tongue moving it’s way from your entrance down to your clit. He swipes at it, before moving away again. Kissing your thighs, kissing the skin between your holes. Every now and then he’ll move back to your clit, allowing you a moment of pleasure before he’s teasing again. “Fuck, please”. Your whines are being smothered by the sheets, and Eren wants nothing more than to hear them, loud and clear.

Eren’s ringed fingers make their way to your hair, his face lifting from between your legs. He pulls you back round, and holy shit you can see how wet you are on his face. There’s a sheen to his lips and chin, and instinctively you reach up to his neck, pulling him back on top of you. Your tongue meets his, tasting your tartness on his mouth. A hand makes it way back down in between your thighs, playing and parting your folds. Your hand in turn reaches up his neck, pulling sharply at his hair once again. “Eren. More- please” you get out in between staggered breaths.

“Aw, since you asked so nicely” his eyes watch your expression closely as his thumb rests on your clit, his finger swiftly moving inside you. Your eyebrows raise and knot, eyes wide and lips parted. But he keeps it still as your legs shaked around his arm. “Eren, move” you demand this time.

“Oh, that’s not so nice. I liked it when you were polite.” He starts to retract his finger, thumb gently swabbing your clit so you’ll know what you miss.

“Please, please, please, Eren, please” you speak before he even gets the first knuckle out. All the teasing was creating a tightness in your lower stomach.

“Much better.”

You whine as he continues to pull his finger from you, until he pushes it back in, curling his solitary finger up. Your fingernails are pressing deep into the muscle of his bicep, feeling how it moves as he finger fucks you. He’s hitting that perfect spot inside you again and again, and his thumb is swiping eagerly on your clit.

Eren can feel you fluttering around his finger, desperate for more, desperate to release on him. He adds another finger, your wetness allowing him entrance easily. He wants to fuck you so bad, his cock so hard it felt like it was about to burst.

He pushes your hands off him, leaving crescent moon indents deep in his skin, he works his way back down. He brings the black silk with him this time, fully being able to take in your body as you’re left naked before him. Holy shit you’re beautiful. He doesn’t want to stare too long and make you shy. But he still kisses his way down, before he’s back at your pussy.

This time he allows you more movement, letting your fingers work their way back into his hair, letting you roll your hips against his tongue and stubble.

With his spare hand he pulls out his cock, slowly pulling at it, before he realises he can’t do that for too long without cumming before the main event. Instead he reaches up, rolling your perked nipples in between his fingers. There are so many sensations on your body, and Eren can feel your cunt beginning to tighten around his fingers. You hold your breath before letting out little moans, building towards reaching your height.

“You want to cum on my fingers?

Your back is arching, whispering “yes, yes, yes, please” as your walls are tightening around him. He quickens the pace, making sure to hit that spot inside you over and over. Thighs around his face, he can feel your slick pooling in his mouth, and coating his chin once again.

Your gummy walls are so tight around his thick fingers, he needs you to finish, watch you fully unravel below him. Sucking and licking at your clit, he’s pushing you towards the edge.

“Eren-” his name is strangled coming out of you, and then your moaning, undulating your cunt against his mouth, riding out your orgasm.

His jade eyes look up at you, watching as you pull your head up to look at him, before another wave of pleasure hits you and you have to arch your neck and look back up. He waits for you to come down, letting you fuck his face and fingers. Grinding against his stubble and tongue as you let out pitiful and beautiful moans. You’re so fucking wet, the sounds coming from between the two of you should be forbidden, as you release onto him.

Finally he withdraws, using his forearm to wipe his face. He lies next to you, allowing you a moment as he draws little circles on your stomach. Eren has never quite looked at you in this light. Sure, you were pretty, and the two of you were obviously close. But now you’d walked a line that couldn’t be undone. You weren’t over your ex, and as okay as Eren was with what had happened between you, he didn’t want you to run. He’s overcome with thoughts, looking down to your chest and the heavy breaths you were taking. All he could pray was that you weren’t pretending he was someone else.

But as Eren is getting caught up in his own mind, you’re twisting, hand reaching to his crotch, cock having been recaptured by his boxers. Palming him, you feel how big he really is for the first time. Fingers trace the edge of his pants and underwear, and he lifts his hips, allowing you to pull them down. Shit. His dick slapped back to his stomach, precum leaking from the top of his pink head. He was bigger than you’d imagined, because of course you’d imagined it a couple of times.

Your hand looks so small around his cock, but you slowly tease him, his deep green orbs following your movements. Bringing your head down to him, you kitten lick the precum from the top of his dick. He hisses gently, and you look up at him with these big doe eyes, so fucking eager to please.

You push your lips around him, hollowing your cheeks and flattening your tongue as you begin working along his shaft. He moans just at the sight of you, your eyes peeking up through dark lashes. His hand goes through your hair, eagerly pushing you deeper around him.

He lets out a hoarse, “is this okay?” before you put your own hand on his pushing it for the both of you. You don’t even want to come up for air, you just want him close to you, inside you.

You were learning far more about each other than you had expected, as Eren takes back over. He pushes himself further into you, muttering a good girl that has you whining. The vibrations around his cock make his hips buck, and now you’re gagging as his length hits the back of your throat. He holds you there instead of letting you off, and your nails are sharp against his thighs.

His head lolls back as he starts to move his hips under you, moving you in turn with your hair. He picks up the pace quickly, allowing saliva to drool from you and straight to his cock.

Your eyes prick, big fat tears forming at the corners. But you’re enjoying this way too much, the moans and gasps he gives make you moan, pressing your thighs together for some kind of friction.

He takes your jaw in his grasp, allowing you a moment to catch your breath. Your tongue sits out your mouth, him smacking the head of his dick on it. He notices your tears then, the mascara that’s running a little. He swipes at the corner of your eyes, leaning down to press a kiss into your forehead.

Bringing you up to him, your dripping folds sliding across his length. His lips are on your cheeks, across your jaw, licking up your neck before reclaiming your plush lips once again. You continue grinding against one another, tongues slipping in and out of each other's mouths. Eventually Eren brings his hands to your hips, lifting you up as you hold his shaft up.

Your foreheads are pressed together as he slowly pushes inside you. The stretch is burning and all-consuming, eyes pricking up again as you feel him hit your furthest wall. Eren breathes out heavily, “So fucking tight”

You roll your hips, allowing some friction from him on your clit. It helps your muscles relax a little, and balancing your hands on his shoulders you push yourself up and down, using his length for your own pleasure. Eren’s eyes don’t leave your form, watching your breasts bounce and how your eyes flutter close as he fills you entirely.

“You really did want to be fucked, huh? Look at you” he teases you, watching as you go to talk back before he thrusts his hips up. It leaves the words caught in your throat.

His pace maintains, holding you in place as he fucks up into you, feeling your cunt clench around him. There are long moments where you hold your breath, holding his cock tight within you. Then you’ll release and moan, before holding it in again. Well, Eren is all too happy to help you with that.

One hand grabbing the flesh of your hip, the other wrapping around your throat, he pushes into you at a punishing rate. Your eyes go wide at the sudden restriction of your throat, feeling the cold metal of his ring against your pulse.

“Who knew this about you? That you were such a slut?”

As much as he knows you want to deny it, you want to smack the smugness from his voice, he can feel your pussy tighten around him. He sees your eyes roll back a little.

“You’re getting tighter.”

The hand on your hip moves down, attempting to hold you in place whilst letting his thumb press over your clit. The sounds of him slapping against your wetness is obscene, and he’s only distracted from it as you whimper out pathetic yes’s and please’s.

“You wanna cum?” he’s grunting, trying to keep the pace going until you can reach your peak.

You nod against his wide hand, still tight around your neck. “Oh you can do better than that. I already know how bad you want it, slut.”

“Please Eren, please make me cum. I want to cum, please, please, please” you can barely make out the words, your head going light and body tightening.

“Cum for me.”

You release, and as he can feel the fluttering of your walls around him, he lets go of your throat. The sudden oxygen as you cum leaves you overwhelmed. Burying yourself in his shoulder, he fucks you through it. Cock slapping up into your cunt over and over, somehow being sucked deeper in as you coat his length with more of your own slick. He can feel your nails breaking the flesh of his back as you’re holding on for dear life, moaning his name and even a fucking thank you into his ear.

As you begin to slow, legs shake as you stay straddled over him. He flips you, Eren now firmly on top, slowly moving in and out of you. The stimulation is intense, your cunt sparking at any sensation.

Caged between his forearms, his hair is a mess thanks to you. You push tendrils back past his ears as he leans down to kiss you once again. This kiss is different. It feels… less desperate. It feels deep and meaningful, caring even.

Your eyes meet in acknowledgment, both of you too worried to speak about the shift in tone.

He reaches down instead, pulling your leg up and splitting you on his cock. A tongue swipes at your nipple, biting and playing with each as he gradually picks up pace again. You’re still so fucking wet it’s easy for him to thrust into you at a dizzying pace. You can feel all of him against your gummy walls. Each time he passes that special spot inside you, you moan and gasp, and it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

His thrusts were becoming more primal, holding your thighs close around his hips. Letting your sweaty bodies collide again and again, his balls slapping against you. The grunts and moans coming from his lips were so infuriatingly erotic. Eren just wanted one more from you, and then he’d let himself finish. If this was to be a drunken mistake, so be it, but he would at least make it memorable.

Those jade eyes were on you once again, the power and dominance radiating from the immeasurable. He can see you barely being able to hold on, completely fucked out beneath him. You’re moaning and whining, hands moving over the swell of your breasts and playing with your nipples as if it’s going to keep you grounded.

He sits up, eyes flicking down to where you were conjoined. It took so much restraint not to cum inside you right then and there. Your glistening sex was so tight around him, the wet slapping noises echo again and again. You’re pulling and sucking him in, cream pooling around his length.

“Give me one more, y/n. I want to feel you cum on my cock.”

You try to look up at him through heavy lids. Your friend Eren saying this is so taboo. The words he’s said tonight so far from normal for the both of you. You flutter around him, somehow your pussy still wants to be fucked, still wants to push you off the edge one more time. You can feel the coil inside your stomach tightening.

Eyes rolling back, you can barely keep it together anymore. He’s pounding into you at a startling rate, fingers flicking over your clit again and again and again.

“P - please, it’s s-so good.”

Your breaths between words were quick, “you’re so big-”

“Yeah you like that? You like being so full of my cock? Such a pretty face you make when you’re all fucked out.”

Holy shit.

Eren could tell how much words affected you, your back arching and legs pulling him somehow closer into you.

“Come on, baby. I wanna hear those moans.” he’s grunting, getting so fucking close to losing himself in your cunt. He knows what he wants to hear most though, “say my name. Tell me who’s treating you how you should be”

With that, you’re losing yourself around him again. Writing on the bed, gripping sheets in tightly balled fists. White light taking over your sight as you clench around Eren. This orgasm was the most intense, taking your body by surprise in its overstimulated state. You weren’t even making a noise, just holding on to the high for as long as possible.

And then you shattered, whining and moaning, whispering his name over and over again.

As you moved underneath him, Eren kept his punishing pace up until he watched you expel the last of your energy. Name forming on your lips over and over again he falters, releasing inside you. You can feel the stickiness inside you, the sensation of being filled up. Eren watches for a moment as he sees the white pearls forming around your stretched out pussy.

His chest is back on yours as he kisses your neck, shoulders, whatever skin he can. Thrusting back into you a couple of times, he finally pulls out. You feel his cum dripping out of you, but you’re too spent to do anything about it.

Eren lies next to you, both of your bodies attempting to regulate from that.

“You okay?”

He’s checking in, making sure he didn’t go too far with someone he genuinely cares for.

You nod, turning to meet his stare. Giving him a drowsy smile, you’re not sure what comes next. But for now, you’re happy. Curling into his side, he puts an arm round you and lets you rest for a while. As he notices your breathing become deeper, he nestles into you, muttering something about clean up.

Moving away from you, you can make out some noises of a tap, drawers opening and closing. In your sleepy state you feel him gently wiping at you, two glasses of water being put on the bedside table. Finally he makes his way back to you, and Eren notes how cute you look. Hot and completely fucked out, yes. But also gentle and at peace, allowing the heaviness of sleep taking over.

He rests behind you, wanting to be back in your warmth. He pulls you in closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. The fragrance of you takes over his nostrils, and he’s all too eager to move closer to your hair, pressing one last kiss at the nape of your neck. Whatever tomorrow brings, he hopes it’s not the last time he gets to be this close to you.

#eren jaeger smut #eren jaeger x reader #eren yaeger smut #eren yaeger x reader #aot smut #eren smut #eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader smut #eren yaegar x reader smut #attack on titan smut #pls be nice lmao

2K notes · View notes

chryzure-archive · 2 years ago

Note

I’m sorry today was not great :( as a consolation/prize for making it through, here’s a ✨FREE RANT PASS✨ for any topic you like 💖 let’s hear about it 👀

thank you ;;;; it was just overwhelming and exhausting on top of stressful events. but i’m resting now ;;;;

HONESTLY, i’m kinda glad you mention this bc!!! i’ve been thinking a lot abt chrysi and archibald’s story rn and how i want the events to unfold after archie shows up on selene. i was experimenting with a fic where archie uses his ability to teleport via closing doors to find chrysi—except he finds her in the washroom, frantically trying to scrub off blood from her hands. which is. awkward, generally, but archie doesn’t think much of it bc she is the executioner of selene.

(actually, when he shows up to selene in the first place, chrysi’s like “are you stupid? you’re not registered as a visitor and selene takes any deviation from its laws very seriously. i should know—i kill a lot of people because of it.” archibald suddenly realizes that while the pole may have been cutthroat, selene is a lot more difficult for him to best. BUT, he was the ambassador once, so he has the skills necessary to survive selene.)

((this is also another side note, but i’m going crazy going wild over my snippet from when chrysi realizes archibald used a compass rose to get onto selene—bc she quietly mutters, “archie?” to herself, but when she talks to him, she exclusively calls him “mr. ex-ambassador”. like… she can’t admit that she still has feelings for him, despite everything. ughhhhh i love it when chrysi has her walls up to keep ppl out but they sneak in past her defenses anyway))

anyway, back to the washroom—archie takes the chance to help chrysi clean up + he sneaks her out through the washroom closet (since that’s the door he used to sneak in) since she seemed pretty rattled (at least, from what he’d gathered). then they have a fun convo where chrysi goes “i wish…” “what?” “i wish i could trust you again.” because she wants to let him in again, but she just… is still too broken up to trust him :((( plus, when she starts describing archie to himself, he quietly goes, “but i’m not a good man, then?” —bc chrysi used descriptors like “smart”, “determined”, “charming”, “honest”…. and then she’s like, “no. you’re not good.” OUCH. but she also said that he’s not a bad man (she does mention that she’d define jacks as a bad man. sorry <///3 but it is true.) so archibald’s happy for the participation award, i guess.

sadlkfjasdlf but ANYWAY, later, jacks and archibald are having a fun little cat fight over chrysi (jacks is being a BITCH, but archie is fucking mauling him every time he gets the chance to talk. archie’s winning, obviously.) —only for eris to show up and laugh at jacks, saying, “no need to fight so hard for your master. don’t you know what they do to loyal dogs after their owner dies?” uhhhh WHAT (also, everyone on selene will refer to jacks as chrysi’s little pet. they’re not wrong.)

turns OUT, chrysi is accused of the murder of one of the elite of selene. this man and her were famous for always being on opposite ends of pretty much every issue. it’s not hard to guess why people think she killed him. a lot of ppl are also very eager to get rid of chrysi as executioner, since she’s scarily good at finding everyone’s crimes. it’s similar to how thorn was going to be put to death bc everyone hated him.

((also, the title “executioner” isn’t entirely about killing people. chrysi is also an investigator of sorts. she spends just as much time in a court of law as she does tracking down criminals.))

anyway, both archibald and jacks rush to her holding cell, their fight put on hold. maybe they don’t get along with each other at all, but they both care about chrysi, so that counts for something.

when they get there, chrysi’s studying the holding cell thoughtfully and comments that they took her suggestions to heart, in order to make the cells harder to escape. then she says that the killer must’ve waited until her changes went through before they killed the guy, just so she would be further trapped.

jacks is desperately trying to find a game plan for chrysi’s defense in the courts, and archibald’s feeling real sick to his stomach right now, because—he saw her hands covered in blood. he doesn’t think chrysi did it, but he can’t lie. if the court knew he had been there, he would be put on the witness stand and either tell the truth (‘cause he can’t do anything but tell the truth), or he would stay silent and condemn her anyway.

add on top of this that, when jacks asks chrysi why her hands were covered in blood, her response is a very soft, “i don’t know.” “well, you didn’t kill him, at least?” “i don’t know about that either.” “…….what?”

chrysi is fucking pleading with jacks to stay silent w her eyes, bc a symptom of her faetelle worsening is blackouts. she sometimes will find herself in a different place with no memory of how she’d gotten there or what she’d done. plus… she doesn’t want archie to know that he’s in love with a dying woman :((( (meanwhile, archie doesn’t want chrysi to know that she’s in love with a dying man lskdjflksjdfklsdjfklsjd. get it TOGETHER, you two)

they go into court completely unprepared as a result. or so archie and jacks think.

when chrysi’s put on the stand to plead her case, she announces that she wants to be released to investigate the murder. she’s the only one qualified to do so—and when everyone says that she’ll make up evidence, tamper with the crime scene, try to escape—she points right at archibald and announces him as the ex-ambassador of the pole, once a member of the web, and completely unable to lie. she’ll investigate and he’ll come along with her, observing her every moment, and coming back as an unbiased witness to the truth.

archibald’s like “:) you know, i’d feel a lot more confident about this if we knew for certain that you didn’t kill the guy :)” jacks is SEETHING.

but YEAH, i decided to add this to my chrysiarchie storyline and i’m alskjdalksjflsdkjfsdlkfj about them… they were my saving grace while i was at work.

#m.filly✨#.asks #s.chrysiarchie #archibald… *rattles him around so hard that i smack his head against the wall*

3 notes · View notes

finalgirlkateausten · 4 years ago

Text

Sick Day

So this drabble goes with a larger au, which is currently an in-progress multichap that will be up... at some point. Huge huge thank yous to @freetobegrace and @andreasbayden for the inspiration for this! We've all kinda been talking about a Ted Lasso au where Rebecca and Rupert had a kid, and I've finally gotten around to writing it. Could not be more honored to brainstorm with these lovely people ❤

Summary: Rebecca gets a call from her son's school that she needs to pick him up because he's gotten sick... but technically, it's Rupert's week for custody.

Monday morning sees Rebecca in an utterly foul mood that even biscuits from Ted hardly help. It’s storming outside, a torrential downpour, she has three more days until she sees her son again, and coming off a semi-relaxing weekend to a mountain of contract re-negotiations and relegation costs is enough to make anyone miserable.

The biscuits and her lunch plans with Higgins are the only bright spots in a day she already knows will be filled with paper cuts and ink stains, so she’s even slightly relieved when her phone rings. Talking to another person is almost always better than staring at a screen or signing documents until her hand is cramping. She picks up her cell phone quickly, frowning when she sees the contact name for James’ school scrolling across the screen.

“This is Rebecca Welton,” she answers.

”Ms. Welton, this is Lucy, the school nurse at Richmond Primary School, are you available to pick James up today?” the young woman sounds unreasonably chipper, and there’s the sound of a keyboard clacking, even through the phone. ”He threw up in class and is running a fairly high fever.”

“Yes, of course,” she answers immediately, swallowing bile in her throat as she realizes what she has to say. “But, ah… technically James should go home with his father. He has custody this week.”

”James specifically asked that we call you instead,” the nurse responds. ”He says he’s felt bad all day, but his dad told him he needed to go to school anyway.”

Rebecca mulls that over. James isn’t normally one for exaggeration, but Rupert won’t be at all forgiving just because she got the call and their son asked for her. “Would it be too much trouble for me to speak to him?”

”Not at all.” There’s shuffling on the other end, and then James speaks, sounding tired and puny even over the phone.

”Are you going to come pick me up, Mum? I don’t feel good.”

“I’m very sorry about that,” she says, her heart aching at the thought of not being there for her son. “But James, you technically are supposed to go home with your dad.”

”Dad doesn’t even believe I’m sick,” the nine-year-old protests. ”I told him I didn’t feel good this morning, and he said I should ‘buck up and walk it off’. Even Bex-who-I-don’t-like--” he always says her name like that, all together, as if the descriptor is a part of it-- ”Put her hand on my forehead and said I felt warm. But he just ignored her!”

At that, Rebecca’s last flake of charitability toward her ex-husband vanishes, washed down the storm sewer with the rain. “Alright, I’ll be right there. You don’t have to go back to your dad’s this week, not if he can’t even take care of you when you’re sick. I’m sorry you had to go to school feeling bad, James. I love you.”

”Thanks, Mum. I love you too.”

Not half an hour later, she’s in the back of the Rolls Royce with James dozing in her lap. She clicks on Higgins’ contact in her phone-- she really needs to change that name-- and waits as it rings.

”Hello? Why are you calling me from your office?”

“I’m not in my office,” she says, keeping her voice low and absentmindedly stroking James’ hair. His forehead is damp with sweat. “Sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel our lunch plans; James got sick at school so I’m taking him home. I assume he’ll sleep and I’ll be able to answer emails and whatnot as usual.”

”Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Higgins says. She can practically hear his hesitation through the phone.

“I’d like you to call Rupert for me.”

All she gets for that is a sigh.

“He’s going to be spitting mad if he finds out at school pickup, you’d best call now,” she continues. “Quite frankly, I don’t care if I’m in violation of the custody agreement, James told him he was sick this morning-- and he was-- and Rupert blatantly ignored him.”

”I’ll do it, I’ll do it,” Higgins says, ”But I’m a director of football operations, Rebecca, not a divorce lawyer.”

“And you’re quite good at your job,” she says. “I’m just asking you to do me a favor, Leslie. Please and thank you.”

”Alright,” he agrees, ”but if he tries to press the issue, I’m telling him to call you.”

Higgins must offer some sort of suitable explanation, because Rebecca has a good hour of peace and quiet before her phone rings. She tucks James into bed, singing softly and rubbing his back until he fully drifts off. Once she’s positioned a trash can by the side of his bed, she heads to the kitchen, ignoring her work emails in favor of starting up a pot of chicken soup.

Even though the work she does ultimately have to do is the same as what she’d be doing at the club, it feels nicer at home, sitting in the large beanbag in the corner of her son’s room. Her back is going to complain to her about this later, but it’s worth it, to be able to watch over him. Rebecca occasionally unfolds herself from her cross-legged position to check on him closer, pressing her hand or her lips to his forehead. The fever doesn’t seem better, but she’s made an appointment with the doctor already, so that’s good.

When her phone rings, she heaves a sigh and steps from the room, crossing her fingers that the conversation stays civil, though she knows that’s unlikely.

“This is Rebecca Welton…”

#ted lasso #ted lasso fic #rebecca welton #leslie higgins #james au #oc: james mannion #oh yeah i hope y'all like his name #technically he's a junior #but he goes by his middle name #for obvious reasons #actually y'know what i just hope y'all like this au in general #my writing #my stuff

34 notes · View notes

quentinbecks · 4 years ago

Text

stillness in woe

Summary: Charlie left Hope County years ago hoping never to come back. But when she learns of her parents involvement with the local doomsday cult, she finds herself heading back to a life she thought she left behind. (Begins two years before the reaping/events of the game)

Pairing: Eventual John Seed x Non Dep OFC

Word Count: 1.9 k

Warnings: mentions of death and vomiting

A/N: I was a little nervous that introducing Charlie’s descent into the cult in the second chapter would be too soon, so I made a little filler chapter. Not the best, but the real meat of the story begins in the next chapter.

Chapter 2: Family Reunion

She hears footsteps coming up behind her. She pauses, thinking it’s only a figment of her overtired imagination. The noises don’t stop. Instead, they only increase in proximity. She’s barely turned around when she notices the red and white camo that signals Jacob’s hunters. The sight alone sends her into a panicked frenzy. Both the hunter and its prey raise their weapons at the same time. Luckily for Charlie she shoots first. Stomping over to the body she rips the red ski mask of their face. This time it’s not the usual boyish face that greets her; it’s her own.

“Charlie!”

The young woman awakens with a start. For a second she’s confused about her whereabouts, not used to sunlight first thing in the morning. After realizing that she’s in Mary May’s apartment she quickly relaxes, but that doesn’t last very long. Her nightmare combined with her current hangover causes bile to rise up in her throat. Charlie bolts upright and runs towards the bathroom, Mary May following right behind her.

She can only make it as far as the sink before her body retches into it. She feels Mary May rubbing circles on her back as she trembles, clutching the porcelain.

“You okay?”

“No” Charlie sniffs, wiping away the tears pooling down her face.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Charlie shakes her head no. She doesn’t need her friend knowing about what she was doing up in the Whitetails. She knows Mary May said things were bad in the valley, but she doubts John Seed is as much of a monster as his brother is. At least not yet. Instead of worrying her, Charlie chooses to tell a white lie.

“It’s nothing. I’m just worried about going to Joseph’s service. Can’t shake the feeling I’ll be held hostage at his compound.” It’s not completely untrue. Charlie is worried about losing herself to the Seeds. She’s heard and seen too much to not have that weigh heavy on her mind.

“Hey” Mary May says, forcing her friend to look at her. “I’m not gonna let him take you. Not when we just got you back.”

Good luck with that she thinks to herself

“My hero” Charlie says with a smile, choosing to forgo voicing her doubts. “I should shower and at least make an attempt to look decent. I wouldn’t want to show up to a Sunday service looking like a sewer rat.”

“Clearly you haven’t seen many peggies.”

In the shower she tries to wash away all of her fears, but the image of Mary May’s scar keeps flashing through her mind. How many other people in the county have been scarred by the youngest Seed? His handiwork looks painful and she doubts anyone would choose to have it done willingly. She wonders what sin will be chosen for her when the time comes. With her luck her whole body would adorned with all seven.

Charlie leaves the apartment to find Mary May helping Casey Fixman open up the bar. She gives a twirl as she hits the ground floor. “You think daddy Seed will like me in this dress?”

Mary May crinkles her nose in slight disgust. She had been gracious in Miami her friend a dress her, recently deceased, brother Drew had bought her for her graduation. On Charlie’s newly slimmed down body the white dress hangs a bit loose, the straps barely clinging to her shoulders.

“I’m sure Joseph will like a lot of things about you if you call him daddy.”

The blonde studies her friend’s appearance closely. The two of them know the importance of appearance to the cult. Due to the release of the documentary ousting the behavior of Eden’s Gate, the group has become more serious in trying to root out those that come with ill intent. And given by the knife holster strapped to Charlie’s thigh, the woman isn’t going in with good will.

“Come here” Mary May pulls on her pony tail once she’s close enough, letting her waves cascade over her shoulders. “There, see, now you look docile and sweet. Just the way the cult likes.”

Charlie wants to remind her friend no one has called her docile or sweet, not even when she was a child, but she can see something is bothering the younger woman. “You do know Nolan will there, right?” Mary May inquires before she can even ask what was wrong.

“No. No I didn’t fucking know that. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s involved with something illegal, but I am.”

“Your ex husband is basically a glorified drug dealer. He’s helping turn the people in the Henbane into angels” Casey calls out from the kitchen.

“Angels? You know? No. I don’t want to know what that means.”

“Hey” Mary May calls out, bringing her hands to rest on Charlie’s shoulders. “Don’t think about him. Focus on what really matters. Like getting your family out of a cult.”

Charlie nods. She knows Mary May is right, but she can’t help how she feels. It’s been five years since they divorced and she left Hope County, but the wound still feels so fresh.

After promising to check in after the service, she decides to head out to the church. The warm, late summer sun and some classic rock helps Charlie relax on the ride over. Makes her realize there are bigger problems in the world than cheating exes.

The woman is shocked to see the throngs of cultists loitering around and inside the compound, making it almost impossible to find a spot to park her car.

After ditching her car at the end of the drive and doing a few sets of breathing exercises, Charlie makes her way inside. Before she can make her way past the gate she’s stopped by burly, bearded middle aged man.

“Sorry, ma’am I’m afraid I can’t let you past without searching you for any weapons.”

Choices quickly flood Charlie’s mind. She can run past this guard, try to hide amongst the crowd; the crowd wearing mostly uniformed clothing. Or, she can try her hand at improvisation; pretend she really is innocent and sweet. She chooses the latter option.

“I’m sorry” she says, lifting her dress a little to show the knife strapped to her thigh. “You can never be too safe as a woman.”

Charlie pulls the weapon out of its scabbard, holding it out to the man. “If you do me a small favor you can keep this.”

The cultist eyes her warily; unsure of whether she’s worthy of his trust or not. But, to her surprise, her charms worked on him. “What do you want?”

“Well,” Charlie bites her lip before getting as close as she can “I was just wondering if you could introduce me to John Seed. My mom works for him and I just wanted to meet the man she speaks so highly of.”

“I don’t know…” he trails off, looking back at the Seeds and the flock congregating around them.

“Please?” Charlie looks up at the man through her lashes. The man has a rancid odor to him and she wishes she had chosen to duck and run into the compound instead of flirting. “You don’t know how much it would mean to me.”

“Fine. But don’t try anything once you’re inside.”

Pathetic

Charlie flashes him a smile. “Thank you so much.”

The man leads her up the gravel path and through the crowds up to the front of the church. There stood three men and one young woman that everyone seems to gravitate towards.

The Seeds

Charlie’s blood runs cold at the realization that she’s finally in their presence. It dawns on her too late that they may know she was the one responsible for the death of the young chosen. Fortunately she doesn’t have time to dwell too long on that thought as the man pulls her gently towards John Seed.

“Brother John?”

The young man looks up and she’s struck by the fact that he’s actually handsome. He’s well dressed and equally well groomed with a lordly posture. She recognizes immediately that she can’t manipulate him with her feminine wiles, he’s clearly too worldly for that. The older man pushes past two young women who were waiting in line to speak to the herald.

“This lost soul has been looking for you.” Charlie tries not to roll her eyes at the descriptor, but she knows she can act the part if it brings her closer to her parents.

“Is that so?”

“Yes” Charlie answers for the cultist, a sudden surge of bravery overtaking her as she steps around him. “I haven’t heard from my family in years. I heard they were here and I wanted to see if they were okay. A wellness check, if you will.”

“That’s not what you…” John cuts the man off before he can continue on.

“Did you not recognize her?” he asks as his eyes light up with recognition. Charlie freezes.

How? He can’t possibly know.

“She’s clearly our accountant’s daughter” he says lightly spinning her around.

The other man studies her face for a moment. “Huh. You really do look exactly like Christine.”

“You know, there’s really nothing to worry about. Your family is doing well here, but, if you want to do your little ‘wellness check’, you best follow me, sweetheart” John suggests over her shoulder.

Charlie fights the urge to make a snarky retort, choosing to cast a smile over her shoulder instead. “Of course. After you.”

They head inside and Charlie is flanked on all sides by peggies. Two to her side, one behind her, and John in front of her. If she’s being honest she doesn’t understand why they need to guard a tiny, unarmed woman. Besides, who goes to reunite with their family just to attack them?

All of that goes out the window when she sees her mother. She barely registers John calling out to her mother before she’s shoving past him.

“Mama?”

Christine steps forward, her hands cupping her daughter’s cheeks. “Charlene? Baby, what are you doing here?”

Charlie blinks back the tears she can feel tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. “You haven’t returned any of my calls in almost three years. I was scared” she whispers, hoping none of the cultists can hear.

Unfortunately for her the youngest Seed does hear. “I told you there was nothing to worry about” he says, clasping both Berger women’s shoulders. “Your family is doing well here, even better, they’re thriving.”

Her mother nods and smiles at John. Charlie can tell her happiness is real and it pains her to see it. If it weren’t for the armed militia around the compound she would punch the smug look off of his face.

“Sweetheart, now that you’re back in Hope County; now that you’re home, why don’t you move back in with your dad and I?”

It sounds like a terrible idea. The last thing she wants is to be stuck in a house with two people who only want to talk about Eden’s Gate. She goes to protest when she realizes she hasn’t even seen her father yet.

“Oh, no I really couldn’t... Wait, where is daddy?”

Before her mother can explain a deep voice from behind her interrupts, stopping everyone in their tracks “Who’s this?”

Charlie turns around to see who intruded on their conversation. She recognizes Joseph almost immediately, his man bun and glasses giving him

Shit

#if anyone wants to be my beta/sounding board for the rest of this fic pls hit me up #i would love you forever #far cry 5 fic #far cry 5 oc #john seed x oc #oc: charlie berger #fic: stillness in woe

28 notes · View notes

brinconvenient · 4 years ago

Text

Green Egg and Fam

You know what? I'm just gonna go ahead and do this...

So a few years back, I was talking to another trans woman who is very familiar with the DC Universe and we were trying to figure out who is Actually An Egg, and after a few suggestions back and forth, I galaxy-brained the answer. She heartily agreed and we talked about it a bit: 1. Artsy 2. Serial Monogamist who is a Relationship Disaster (Big "Do I want to Be With Her, or Be Her?" energy) 3. Becomes best friends with every ex-girlfriend 4. Noted Respecter of Women in Very Terrible and Awkward Ways 5. Chronically allergic to self-reflection and introspection, but also addicted to it in much the same way lactose intolerant people talk about how they can't give up cheese. 6. Just a complete and Utter Messy Agent of Chaos. 7. All too willing to adopt Other People's Expectations and internalize them as a Sacred Duty. 8. Just constantly Marked By Tragedy - both external and self-created.

It's Kyle Rayner, kids.

Torchbearer,

Honor Lantern,

Erstwhile Ion/avatar of the power of will

Kyle "I will be the Last of the Green Lanterns and yet keep trying to ressurect this entire Corps of Space Cops that I didn't even know existed until some Blue Dude showed up to give me jewelry and I guess marry me into the Corps? Because I guess that's just my job now and that will become my whole personality" Rayner.

After the conversation, this - the only fanfic I have literally ever written popped out of my head fully formed. It's intended to really be Chapter 1 of Several which are basically conversations between Kyle and one Ex-Girlfriend per chapter as Kyle finally accepts herself and transitions.

Eventually she reveals that the name "Ion" comes from her real name "ImOgeN" because she read Nevada and Was Impacted and she's just that extra.

But, honestly, despite getting started on the Alex chapter ages ago, I never have drawn the energy to go back and finish and/or write more, so I'm just gonna share the first chapter of what I am calling:

"Green Egg and Fam"

Putting the actual content behind the Read More because I've already rambled too long.

“It’s just exhausting, you know? Every few years it seems like I have to pick up the pieces of my life, my memory, my self and figure out who the hell I am! Every time I get a handle on things, someone or something comes along and shakes up the snow globe,y’know? I’ve tried to talk to Diana about it and, like, she’s compassionate and cares and offers sympathy, but most of the time, my whole relationship with her is just one more flake in the globe and I never know who we’re going to be to each other. Somehow, though, you’re always my favorite ex-boyfriend. It’s weird, right?”

Kyle patted Donna’s arm reassuringly. He glanced from Donna’s face to the view over Lake Michigan. There was no more beautiful view of the lakeshore than the roof of the John Hancock Building. He could just about make out the lights of the small shore towns across the lake in Michigan, and he could see the industrial Indiana towns along the round tip of the lake.

“I’m not positive I like that descriptor of our relationship, but I am happy to be some kind of constant for you,” he said with a rueful smile. “Donna, you are one of my dearest friends and I always want to be here for you. I know you didn’t need my help with Dr. Psycho here, but I’m glad I was Earthside to help you out anyway.”

They’d taken the diminutive psychic menace to the Chicago Special Crimes Unit, who had training and facilities for telepaths and telekinetics. They found this perch when Donna said she just needed a little bit to settle down before heading back to the Titans Tower in New York.

“No, I had him just about handled - a Lasso of Persuasion is pretty useful, after all - but I’m glad you swung through, all the same,” Donna said. “I’m glad to have a friend here. Psycho was really messing with my head this time. He kept dredging through my memory, pulling out bits and pieces of lives lived and people lost. He made me relive the loss of Terry and Robert and Jenny, over and over, replayed the tortures of Dark Angel, dragged me through that whole mess with the Titans of Myth, and I’m actually not sure which of any of those actually happened in this reality anymore.”

Donna’s breath was getting ragged and tears were falling down her face, twinkling in the moonlight.

“You told me about Terry and the kids when we were dating, so since I still remember them, they must still have existed and they still loved you and you still got to love them. I’m a little fuzzy on the Titans of Myth, so I can’t be sure about that stuff. But you’re here now and that’s what’s important right now. Just take a sec to enjoy this moment, this view, this night and see how you feel, ok?” he said.

They sat in the quiet, next to each other, watching the waves reflect and distort the moonbeams. Donna’s breathing calmed down and she straightened her back, half a head taller than Kyle even while sitting.

“Thank you, Kyle. I’ll be ok now, I think. I appreciate you listening. You have a good heart. If you’d only learn to actually fight without that ring, you’d make a pretty decent Amazon. Well … if you weren’t a man, of course.”

Kyle coughed and thanked the stars that Donna couldn’t see him blush. Suddenly Kyle felt like there was lava beneath his skin and he couldn’t sit comfortably.

He didn’t want Donna to catch on, so he stifled his squirming and whipped up a quick construct of a miniature green Kyle in an Amazonian uniform, breastplate, Spartan skirt and calf boots. For added effect he made sure to widen his shoulders and used Hal Jordan as a reference for a jaw far more square than Kyle’s real life chin.

“I’m not sure I can pull off the uniform. Guess I’ll stick with green and black for now. Ha!” he said. He hoped it didn't sound as forced as it felt.

“Oh I don’t know. You’ve got great legs, Kyle! Maybe you should start wearing shorts when in uniform. Besides, you had those over-the-knee boots for the longest time. I think you’d be just fine!” Donna said, laughing.

“Give me a hug, Dick just texted me to meet him in Blüdhaven. Take care and fly safe back to Oa!” she said.

After a quick, warm embrace, she turned eastward and flew off over the lake. Kyle watched her fly out of sight. He looked down and saw little Amazon Kyle, slowly spinning in the air. He drew the construct up to eye level and returned the shoulders and jaw back to his more slender and softer reality. It didn’t look that bad actually.

He’d been trying to make Donna smile, and deflect from … something before, so he exaggerated those features to highlight the incongruence, but he didn’t hate this more realistic image.

He continue to finesse the construct’s features. Like most artists, he never really considered a piece finished, he just stopped working on it. He smoothed the musculature, narrowed the shoulders a little further, pulled the hips out just a bit more, and left the waist alone. The ersatz Kyle’s face got softer still, the brow less pronounced, the nose narrower, the chin just a bit more rounded. He watched the chest muscles soften and breasts form to fill out the breastplate better.

Finally, he lengthened the construct’s hair to shoulder length, adding some wave and curls like Donna’s somehow-always-perfect hair.

And there she was. The woman who’d been haunting Kyle’s dreams as long as he could remember. Slowly spinning in the air was a woman who could easily have been Kyle’s sister, wearing Amazonian garb (or at least what he remembered from seeing Donna’s while they were dating so many years ago).

He didn’t know how much time had passed since he started fiddling with the image, and he didn’t know how long he’d spent staring at the final form. Sister. Yeah, right.

With an angry wave he flashed his hand through the construct, dissolving and dispersing the light particles that he’d given form. He hastily looked around the roof to make sure no one had seen him or, specifically, seen the construct. The burning sensation of shame returned instantly and he immediately flew into the sky until the buildings looked like so many light-speckled building blocks.

He took himself through a calming exercise he learned from Kilowog to help him center himself and sling his ring “like he wasn’t a complete Poozer and deserved to wear it.” Kilowog had no appreciation for just how hard it was for other people to feel calm when he was around. Still, Kyle found it helped when the pink giant wasn’t breathing down his neck.

“My will is strong enough to carry the torch for the entire Green Lantern Corps, I can stop these feelings. I can make all of these thoughts go away. I can stop this. I’ve got too much responsibility to keep indulging this … this nonsense” he thought, trying to ignore the sting of the tears fighting their way free to fall down his face, ignore the pain in his heart.

“I don’t want to lose my friends - what would Donna say? Would she think I was a pervert, or making fun of her somehow? I definitely don’t want to lose Hal’s and the guys’ respect. I don’t want to lose my whole life just because I’m some kind of freak. Get it together, Rayner. No one else is feeling sorry for themselves because they don’t fit in.”

He pulled a hand down his face and pointed his right fist with it’s gaudy, shining green ring on the middle finger toward the Milky Way and flew into space. He hoped the cold solitude of the transluminal conduits would help him regain his composure before he faced Guy, Hal, John and Kilowog for the Honor Lantern meeting. For the millionth time, he wished he could just be more like them, have just a sliver of their easy and effortless masculinity. They made it look so simple.

“Bet they don’t spend half their life trying to figure out what is wrong with them,” he thought. He tried so hard not to envy them, but it was really hard sometimes.

Especially nights like tonight where his resolve had failed him yet again and he gave in to his most hidden thoughts. He entered the transluminal conduit between Saturn and Jupiter and closed his eyes.

He traveled faster than light, but it still took time to reach Oa, so he tried to sleep and hoped that his dreams wouldn’t betray him again.

30 notes · View notes

skygirl5 · 4 years ago

Text

12 Prompts of Christmas - #8 - Snow

A/N: this prompt begins an all new AU ficlet

EIGHT - Snow

A shiver traveled up the spine of Richard Castle when a clump of snow fell from the branch of a tree above, landed on his neck, and slid down towards his collar bone. Grunting, he hunched his shoulders and zipped up his coat a bit higher, regretting his decision not to grab a scarf before he’d left his Manhattan apartment and traveled two hours north west to his wilderness destination. He’d just been very on-edge and frazzled meaning he’d probably forgotten more than just some warmer items, but he could manage; his trip was only a few days long.

His day had begun just after six a.m., which was at least an hour before he would have preferred to be awake. He’d had himself a quick cup of coffee—no time to savor that morning since he was on a time schedule—and then gone upstairs to wake his daughter. Thankfully, her luggage had been packed the night before (SHE had been the one to remind HIM that was a good idea), but he needed to get her breakfast and then pack some snacks for her to have on the plane.

They shared a quick breakfast together and then, with a heavy heart, he gathered up her things and they made their way to Penn Station to get the New Jersey Transit train to Newark. Since his daughter was a minor traveling alone, Castle was allowed to walk her to the gate and wait with her until it was time to board, at which point the airline representative took charge of her. They hugged goodbye and he’d managed to wait until he was back on the train to the city before letting a few tears fall. The first Christmas without his daughter was definitely going to be as hard as he thought it would be, which was why he’d planned what he thought was a good distraction.

Back at his apartment he wasted almost no time throwing belongings into a suitcase of his own. Then, he got his car out of the garage, and began the two-hour drive towards northern Pennsylvania. He’d heard about the cabin from a friend of his and thankfully the owner said it was still available over the Christmas holiday even though he had only called a few weeks before, once his ex-wife Meredith had officially confirmed that, yes, she wanted Alexis to visit for Christmas.

When he thought he was nearing the cabin, Rick pulled off into the first grocery store he spotted and shopped for some essentials. He made it to the cabin about twenty minutes later and surveyed the interior, which had been advertised as “rustic” and certainly fit the descriptor. The interior had rustic looking wood panels on the walls and exposed beams on the ceiling. The furniture was obviously well used, and the kitchen appliances looked nearly as old as he was, but for a few nights it would do.

Though he hoped to get a fair amount of writing done in his free-from-distractions environment, Castle first knew that he wanted to explore the surrounding woods and lake, which were, after all, the main draw of that location.

He started out walking along the road, which was not the best due to a narrow berm made narrower by piles of plowed snow. After about ten minutes of walking, he noticed a path through the trees and hoped over the plowed banks of snow to access it. The path was well covered in footprints from both humans and dogs by the looks of it and it was paved beneath the cover of snow, which meant he wasn’t slipping or tripping on the uneven forest floor. About fifteen minutes into his stroll he was hit by the falling snow, but he didn’t let it bother his forest exploration. It was so tranquil and quiet. He hadn’t experienced such a walk since that summer when he’d walked down the beach in the Hamptons.

As Rick walked, he tried not to think. Maybe if he was in a different headspace he would have used the time to plot, plan, or think up dialog for his latest book, but in that moment, the turmoil in his chest was too great. He was so distracted with worry over Alexis that he knew that concern could soon consume him and he didn’t want that, so he used the walk as a meditation of sorts. He tried to keep his mind as clear as possible and if he had to think about something, he tried to focus on what he saw in front of him: trees stripped bare of their leaves now that autumn had come and gone, a small bird sitting on a naked branch, some rocks and stones on the ground.

When he came to a divergence of the path, he chose the one to his left, which seemed less traveled. In fact, the further he walked, the less footprints he saw marking the path. After what he estimated to be about twenty minutes, he grew concerned that he was going to become a bit lost and thought about turning back to the divergence and taking the opposite path which might lead him back to the main road when something caught his eye.

The path was well defined enough for him to see it curved to the right up ahead, but to the left he could see distinct footprints in the snow. The virgin fluff was otherwise undisturbed, but for the distinct walking path that cut directly through a cluster of trees. He walked over to the footprints and couched down. From a closer vantage point he could see they were crisscrossed with prints from a small animal, perhaps a rabbit, but were otherwise lone markings in the newly fallen snow.

Intrigued, several scenarios started to spin in his mind, and he decided to follow them to see where they went. He liked to use his story-on-the-fly exercises to keep his creative juices flowing. At that moment in particular, it would continue to serve as a distraction for him and keep his mind off his daughter.

Were the footprints made by a hunter stalking his prey? An old man missing his deceased spouse and going on a ramble in the quiet early morning? Or perhaps a mischievous child determined to explore, just like he had done during his younger days.

Rick took two steps forward but then thought better of it. Was leaving the designated path really a good idea when he was already feeling a bit lost? Probably not. Disappointed, but knowing it was for the best, he began to turn around when something up ahead caught his eye. Dangling from a tree branch about fifteen steps ahead he saw a green scrap of fabric, notable as all the green was gone from the trees. Curious, he walked forward, but when he reached out to touch the item it immediately fell to the ground; it had evidently barely been hanging on.

Castle scooped the green object from the snow and realized it was actually a green knitted mitten. He glanced between the mitten and the tree for several moments then realized this made sense. The mitten had been hanging at about hip-height in comparison to his stance. It was entirely possible the mitten had been in the coat pocket of the snow footprint maker and was snagged out by the branch.

Still holding the glove, Castle couched down again and examine the footprints ahead of him. In comparison to his own shoes they seemed a bit shorter and definitely narrower. His first thought was that they looked to be from a woman’s boot, and that would have made sense given that the glove in his hand was more feminine than not.

Now even more curious, he found himself unable to turn back and instead pressed on. The thicker the trees grew, the more difficult it was to proceed. He was constantly being hit in the shoulders and arms with twigs and sticks, but he kept going. Sometimes he needed to crouch down closer to the ground to see what direction the footprints were traveling, especially where the thick trees had prevented a lot of snow from falling.

More than a few times during his twenty-minute journey he’d been fearful that he might never find his way to a clearing, and then what would he do? Surely his cell phone wouldn’t work that far into the middle of nowhere. Thankfully, he could soon see a clearing ahead and let the panic dissipate from his mind and instead focused on how he might use his experience in a novel. Perhaps Derrick Storm could track an enemy through the woods—or maybe even a potential lover. Maybe both!

As the trees began to thin, the lake came into view, and Castle smiled to himself; he’d made it through the wilderness! He was so relieved that he almost forgot about the green glove he still held until he stepped into the clearing and caught sight of a figure by the lake. She was tall and wearing a long quilted coat as she stood just a few feet from the edge of the lake. With a grey and green striped hat on her head, he couldn’t tell much about her—at least not from that distance.

The clearing he stepped into gave him about twenty feet of clearance before it turned into the rocky shore of the lake. No other people or structures were in sight, though a low hanging cloud reduced visibility significantly. He took two steps towards her, his boots crunching against the newly fallen snow, then stopped when she turned in his direction just slightly. She brushed some of the hair back from her cheeks with bare fingers enabling him to see her profile. Instantly, the breath was sucked from his lungs for she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

Thinking she might have turned in his direction due to the sound of his walking, he decided to approach cautiously. He walked forward, closer to the lakes edge, before cutting over in her direction. From that spot he could see more of her face: her petite nose and the slash of her well-defined cheekbone, in addition to the hints of her honey-brown eyes, which to him appeared heavy with sadness.

He took several more steps closer before saying softly, “Excuse me?” Despite what he thought was a delicate approached, she still jumped at the sound of his voice, so he apologized. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you. I just…I found this and wondered if it was yours?”

When he held up the glove, her eyes widened with recognition. She glanced down at herself, stuffed her hands in her coat pockets, and only came out with one glove. “Oh, yes, thank you! That must have fallen out of my pocket somehow.”

He gave an easy smile and walked forward to pass the glove off to her. “No problem.”

She took the glove with another thank you and said, “You startled me; I didn’t realize anyone else was out here.”

He nodded in the direction over his shoulder and said, “I came from the trees…I just got here, was wandering around. Glad I didn’t get lost to be honest.”

“Are you renting one of the cabins for Christmas?”

“Mmhm. Are you?”

She shook her head. “No; my family owns one.”

He nodded. Her jaunt through the trees made more sense if she was a resident of the area and thus probably not as likely to get lost unlike a newcomer such as himself. “I see. I’m Rick, by the way.”

When he extended out his hand, she shook it and introduced herself as, “Kate.”

He took a moment to study her face now that he could see it closer up. She was definitely younger than him by more than a few years; he guessed her to be in her early twenties. Her eyes were indeed filled with an unexplained sadness, but her smile was warm and friendly. Though he’d wished to speak with her more, his gut told him he should leave her to her solitude, so he reluctantly decided to part ways. “Well it was nice to meet you and I hope you have a good holiday.” He rocked back on his heels, glancing out at the lake for a moment, but then looking back to her with a pit of a pitiful expression. “I, um, well seeing as you’ve probably been here before, perhaps you could point me in the right direction so I’m not circling this lake for hours? I’m afraid I got turned around.”

“What’s the address of your cabin?”

He laughed, having no idea; fortunately he still had the directions in his jacket pocket. “What an excellent question. Hold on. Um…” He hesitated while he skimmed through the folded up piece of paper. “Ah, here its: 817 lakeview.”

Kate nodded and pointed towards his left. “That way. About halfway around that big curve.”

“Thanks so much.”

“Not a problem. Happy holidays Rick.”

“You too,” he echoed. Then, he turned, shoved his hands down into his coat pockets, and trudged his way through the thickly laying snow.

#castle #caskett #castle fanfiction #12promptsofchristmas #my fic: 12 Prompts of Christmas #castleficathonwinter2020

32 notes · View notes

amandlas · 4 years ago

Text

almost gone (in these little moments get your cards out)

tfota | jude x cardan, she doesn’t come back au, no smut, hurtful and punishable tbh (ao3)

entry to jurdan week 2020 by @jurdannet - day 7: wild card! a what-if au had jude tried to make a new life in maine (don’t worry, cardan shows up). heaps of angst. little payout. sorry in advance. trigger warnings: violence, guns, shooting, and death mention.

[canon divergence from twk ending. title from “lay your cards out” by poliça]

gone. she’s gone. avulsed from her land, never hers, and her lover, never loved. the mortal world welcomes her with wide arms, arms that are shorter than she remembers, a little less homely, much less magical. after all, how can the ordinariness of television, powder tea, and surround sound compare to the true magic of faerieland?

vivi says it will be well. of course she does. why wouldn’t she, with her strong blood and pointed ears.

jude stares and stares at the tv. at the window. at the door. she’s not so stupid as to believe it will allay her want, but like programming, she follows the routine nonetheless.

two months. oak is recalcitrant to her teachings. vivi is buoyant in her obliviousness. they do not see her. she cannot see herself. the closest thing she has to a mirror is miles away, attending a new husband and parading with stars dangling from rounded ears. if taryn were to come, jude thinks she wouldn’t recognize either of them.

she is ashamed to watch her pillowcase blotted with tear stains at nightfall.

it’s more embarrassing than waking up the first time to menstrual blood staining her sheets, two stories up in madoc’s estate, knowing not what it meant or what to do.

jude duarte avoids as superfluous emotions as sadness or hopelessness. being a mortal in faerie, those sentiments would wash her out of focus, riddle her with doubt, and with a certainty would so far as kill her.

but, she thinks, i am not in faerie anymore. i am no longer in a place where blood is a better find than tears. where eyes are dry and swords are sated by throats and bellies.

perhaps in her native world it is safer. that’s what jude wanted this whole time, was it not? safety. if she were meant to feel relief, she should feel it now.

survival feels wet against her cheek.

he keeps slugging his damn arms. jude tugs oak roughly to her, fixing his stance, and urges him to strike.

“will i still be king someday?”

as per usual, he tries deflection to talk out of a combat lesson. jude is unmoved. “yes.”

“are you sure?”

she shifts her weight to her other leg. “there is no other way.” his form is poor. she identifies his weaker side and rounds slowly to it. “the crown answers to blood. raise your elbow higher. protect your face.”

oak listens for once. his voice is shrill still. “so there is no one else?”

of course there’s someone else. another bearer of the crown, another royal to lead their nation. but jude grits her teeth and resorts to her best asset: lying. “no. no one else.”

her little brother pauses, their lesson half-present in his mind. intrigued, she watches the scrunch of his brows as he formulates a thought. “unless cardan has a child. then there would be another.”

if he sees her freeze, he doesn’t mention it. the scenario turns her thoughts errant, threatens her with a conniption. some sick part of her wishes to linger on the possibility, but with oak before her and posed to fight, she cannot allow herself that masochism.

oak stands expectant, his arm growing weary and slouching. the least she can do is not lie.

“i suppose.”

he remembers none of the stance the next evening.

“no word from dad. taryn either.”

jude lifts her face to catch vivi rummaging through envelopes of mail. “what, were you expecting miracles? a shift in the weather?” she scoffs, coming back to her task. counting money. hard-earned cash from late shifts of all services and flavors. espionage, theft, the occasional sparring match. the underground fae crime ring taints the soul, but it pays in fifties.

vivi interrupts her quick fingers. “he liked you best, you know. dad always gave more of himself to you than to me or taryn.” she notices her brother sitting at the couch, leans in to rumple his hair. “or oak.”

jude shoots vivi a cruel look, an exasperated look. “what good that did to me.”

her sister’s eyes are fierce as a growling cat where they pin her in place. “quite some good, your highness.”

jude does a fucking great job at not screaming.

she hates to think of the name.

what could his true name be, she wonders? if she commanded it, before the brokering of their epically failed marriage for his release, jude asks herself if he’d given it. if he’d hated her that much more.

her mind swirls with reminders of midnight black eyes, of fingers against her lips and the abstruse feeling of possession by another being.

she won’t think of it. she won’t dream of it. she won’t aerate the two syllables in a whisper of dark sky. she certainly won’t be pelted with the scariest word, the four letters she refused since childhood to allow a place in her. the word that died with a blade on its back as it ran to the kitchen. the word that meant a certain foolishness, a certain danger. she won’t. it’s her new mantra: she won’t, she won’t, she won’t.

falsehoods have always been her strongest asset.

“we shouldn’t be watching this shit,” heather sighs between mouthfuls of red licorice.

they’re leaning on the couch, lined up like soldiers catching their breath amidst pilgrimage to battle. the television blares high. jude notices heather has shifted her free hand to cover oak’s eyes.

she inspects the playing show more closely. one second there’s a wide shot of scenery, familiar in its medieval setting, and the next there’s a person. a striking young woman with silver hair like new iron falling in tresses across pale shoulders.

the figure is so intimate it nearly makes jude jump. “a princess,” she murmurs.

heather shakes her head. “no. oh no. well, sorta.” oak squirms in her hand, breaking free of her hold, to which she sighs and acquiesces. “sure, i guess, but more than that. it’s complicated.”

from her place next to oak, jude nods. “royals tend to be.”

her sister’s lover, or ex lover (certainly an ex something), barrels on. she uses hand gestures to further her explaining. “her father was the mad king, but she was only a baby when he got dethroned. she was exiled from her home, far across the sea. then she married a powerful man, leader of a tribe, and sorta grew into herself. after he died, his rivals and his people tried to disbar her. turns out she had more in her arsenal than was believed.” heather wags her eyebrows at the show.

jude couldn’t be more confused until a huge, black winged creature crosses the screen. “are those…”

“yup,” heather confirms. “the mother of beasts. and her husband’s people, they followed her. even though he was gone, and was their real ruler, and it was unacceptable that she rule on the basis of who she was, they still accepted her as leader.”

jude stiffens. “really.”

they made it seem so close, so easy to reach. the princess-who-wasn’t-a-princess straightens her spine, amplifies her voice. when she speaks, people heed.

heather slices her reverie. “because she has magic.” she points to the overflying monsters. “badass.”

ah. because. she. has. magic.

a non-magic girl slouches back in her non-magic couch, watching a non-magic box, consumed by baneful imaginings.

unprepossessing. that is what they called her. ugly, if wine or fury loosened their vocabulary. how had i let someone who called me that touch me at the collarbones? kiss my throat? call me his sweet villain? jude has no answer. she replays and loops the plethora of adjectives her dear husband and company had called her. wormfood. unsightly. repellent. direful. unbecoming. synonyms alike to the same derivative, final word.

mortal.

the circle of worms, she and taryn. daughter of dirt.

she wishes she were nobody’s daughter.

it takes her three nights after that to realize now she really is nobody’s daughter.

her exile hits the half year.

bride of faerieland. the mortal queen.

a fugacious dream, she finalizes. no more than a fleeting child’s wish. had she remained at home, no, in faerie , she’d never have been queen. not without the people’s approval and not with her mortality. a hollow crown, a fool’s wreath.

she cements it into her brain, sears it to memory. she never. would. have been. a true. queen.

oh, but what a vision they would’ve been. jude, stiff boned with graying hair, and cardan beside her, youthful as ever and tethered to her with ball and chain. unescapable. a fresh minted prison for him. he’d be gagged to ask for her kisses, much less beg for them. when her skin sagged and time plundered her heart, how quick he’d be to run from her. a bat out of hell.

when it processes that she’s thought of his name, written it to existence in the myriad of her thoughts, she breaks into a cold sweat.

she won’t call her exile a blessing. there’s many descriptors for the singular event that redefined the last leg of her fleeting teenage life, and blessing won’t cut it. recently, however, jude has had the chance to add timely to the list.

jude kills a troll. he’d been preying on humans the same time as her abscond to the human realm. this particular troll began his horror streak after developing a taste for the helpless glaze in their eyes at final moments before teeth sunk into shoulders, the way they rolled back or if the occasion came up that the eyelids would fall crookedly. the funny look of a drugged, passed out, mindless loon. except these were dead loons, victims to the desire of a beast. these humans had been lured into the abandoned subway tunnel, but jude had strolled there all on her own.

“that bitch carries the devil,” commented one of the fae. gathered in a ring, stealing glimpses of her over their shoulders.

waiting for her pay, jude kicked the tip of her boot into the solid ground, arms crossed. “that bitch can hear. i may not have fae hearing, but i’d abstain from testing me were i in your shoes.”

the fae she had spoken to was of the sea, and was barefoot. irony not lost on her.

sooner than expected, jude duarte developed a reputation. successful runs, frightening recounts of what she did to earn her money, it swiveled up and circled around her like a tornado. some fae considered testing if the legend was bigger than the person, and some fae had lost the use of a limb. she knew she’d been strong before, but this new world taught her what an unstoppable force she was. had always been.

they give her a nickname. fearful of evoking the name given to her at birth, though being human it had no effect on her. still, shadows shivered at her wake, watching, consuming jude duarte’s trail of defeated foes. in the damp, cold streets of maine, in a world she long since had cut true tethers from, she’s reborn as the wrath.

in her mind, somewhere in the bowels of the elfhame palace, the court of shadows laugh up a storm.

oak grows less querulous and more capitulant to his role. jude in turn decides to do the same with her old-but-now-new home amidst mortals.

she watches tv. repaints her bike. buys new clothes. eats toasted waffles with peanut butter and honey.

when heather mentions a museum across town, jude no longer stares at her blankly. she doesn’t fumble or grasp for words. her foot’s planted on the ground, steady and strengthening.

she becomes inclined to music. an old trait, now in a new ambient. vivi glamours money to grant her a gift, a small excuse to cheer her up. the gadget fits most of her hand, sensitive to her tact and bright during the darker hours. heather hauls her laptop once in a while to upload new songs onto it, teaching jude how to sift through the list.

music player in her hand, jude sheepishly assembles a queue of songs that she likes. tunes that have replaced bards in taverns or notes plucked from lutes.

an aggressive song by a vexed wife goes first, the one with words that hit jude harsher than she wants to admit, the title saying not to hurt yourself. another one called once upon a time. a wedding song turned rock, a “strong electric guitar” according to heather, the singer belting about being loved tenderly. paint it, black by the stones that roll. where once her fingers would’ve stumbled over the gadget’s buttons, today she masters with ease.

the stunted child, the wraith of a human girl she once was rears her head in jude’s dreams. she gains color with each passing day.

by the time her exile hits eight months, jude begins the transition. she intends it to life, gives it air to breath.

i, jude duarte, will be happy in the mortal world.

she wills herself to change on a molecular level. when the desire of faerieland hightails back, she slams it to the back of her mind. she transforms the pain into power, into will. the scar left behind from her banishment becomes fuel for her new life. for the transformation into who jude could truly be in this wide, marvelous, enormous human world.

they don’t want you. they have not once wanted you.

he doesn’t want you. not like you do him.

doesn’t

want

you.

move on, she begs herself. move on. move on. move on. stop chasing after ghosts.

the wrath is elbow deep in a goblin’s guts. he swindled bryern a bagful of gold coin. it came down to her to rescue it back, and assure the impediment of a repetition. that’s when she met her.

“hnnnnggg…” moans a figure across the room.

jude ignored the drugged out junkies on her way in, leaving them in the back burner while working through the bulk of her job. but the turncloak goblin is dead, and was that noisy mound moving?

“help…” she hears.

jude rarely considers herself so altruistic. but the meekness of the plea pulls her across the room, tugs her legs to the sprawled person.

human. a girl, dirty blue hair all too reminiscent of nicasia, but not so polished as to pass for a sea princess. no, this girl appeared on the edge of a precipice, thin coat of sweat across her body.

“more,” the girl begs.

like clockwork. jude squats down to get closer. “want me to get you out of here?”

weakly, the girl nods. “she’ll find me.”

“what’s your name?”

the stranger smacks her lips, eyes rolling in her head. “lolli.”

lolli turned out to be an easy haul but a terrible map. jude exasperatedly dragged her through alleys and corners, hearing the laments of her companion through the journey. lolli got sidetracked from her ride-or-dies, see, shot up a bit too much powder - something she called never - and had an urgent need to return to the clan.

jude’s self-preservation rang high when she knocked on the selected door and met a fae two heads taller than she. his red skin shone bright in the doorway, his glamour invisible to jude’s geas.

“thank you for bringing pop back to us. i’m qylin” he says across from jude, having invited her in and given her a once-over. “uh, you mortal?”

she’s declined a drink, but accepted a chair. “as they come.”

qylin moves closer. “and you took out melbor? pop’s supplier?”

“is pop meant to be lolli?”

“her full name’s lollipop.”

“oh. i see.” a red flush runs across her face. “melbor huh? didn’t catch his name. i did catch both his kidneys though.”

qylin whistles. “damn. a mortal.” he pronounces it with wonder. nothing like she’s used to. it falls with disbelief in her ears.

“that’s quite a might you got in you. here.” in an outstretched hand, jude finds a tiny acorn that no doubt has a message inside it. “if you ever quit meandering for coin and want to run with the real wolves, i’ll answer.”

wolf. she’d been a girl and she’d been a mortal. then she’d been wormfood and after that she’d been a queen. couldn’t say jude once considered herself a wolf, or imagined running with them. then again, she had become so many things far from her imagination.

the ward. the mortal. the queen. the wrath. her list of faces ran endless, each mask pressing heavier and heavier on her fragile composition.

in the beginning, vivi congratulated her like a preschooler with a trophy. “look at you, making an effort. i told you home wasn’t so bad.”

months later they’ve turned to “you are too far out” accompanied by the tapping of her foot, a face riddled by concern. “you’re jumping into danger again.”

vivi didn’t know how jude missed being afraid.

if she dreams of cardan, the sting pulls her awake and breathless into the chirping crickets of the dark hours.

ninth month. her exile is a baby somewhere, born and breathing. a marking reminder of her incipient rule cut short.

jude duarte makes a decision. she steps outside of the girl she used to be, the teenager latched to a world that had not once been hers.

the acorn is light in her hands. she splits it open, unrolling the paper inside, and when she sees the address and phone number it takes her a total of eighteen minutes to pack.

saying goodbye without telling them it’s goodbye cracks a new wound in her already shattering heart.

oak thinks she’s going to the gym. vivi thinks she’s babysitting oak. heather might’ve had a clue, but she kept silent while jude hugged her, muttering a quick thanks for watching her brother while vivi came from the post office.

it appears, after years, she’d learned to say farewell to all things that were close to her.

qylin refrained from asking questions, just as jude liked it. she watched, studied, learned, kept to her rank while scheming for more. the room and cot qylin offers is as home as any she’s had.

when she urged cardan to inveigle the princess of the undersea, it led them to a hidden alcove draped with vines, to a couch where she’d bared more of jude duarte than she had in her entire life. the memory is both a memory and the dream that recurs most in her sleep. their tryst, their unculminated tumble, their fumbled connection, whatever people would want to call it. in her sickest hours, jude allowed herself to think of it with a tender gaze, with a pink shiny filter, with the dreaded word she’d been on the run from for years.

that you hate me. tell me that you hate me.

“i hate you,” jude whispers. “i hate you and i married you and i hate you.” the two phrases weren’t mutually exclusive.

lollipop has been gone for weeks, but her junkie spirit is alive.

the wrath evaded nevermore like cats did water, but the gradual acclimation to qylin’s ring fills her with misplaced ease. it took them damn near six months, but jude finally surrendered her arm.

it pricks, the needle, like the pinch on her finger when cardan stabbed her for the salt in her blood. for the antidote to faerie fruit.

she’s high. she’s at a revel in new york and she’s vulnerable and she’s high.

it doesn’t take long for jude to cement her decision to never do drugs in her natural life again. but once that’s been engraved in her think tank, the world turns mellow and technicolor. it tells her to enjoy while it lasts.

she’s surrounded by leaves, platter of fruit, dancing pixies and slender fae. painful reminders of the home she direly tries to forget.

in a mirage, she pictures black curls under a golden crown of flowers. cruel lips forming a smile.

as if underwater, ears plugged with chlorine liquid, jude hears a seductive voice to her side. “what a pretty thing.” a woman. tall and thin, fae ears and slit green eyes. eyes that fall down to jude’s chest. “busty.”

not all quite there, jude struggles but succeeds in recognizing the tone coming from her courtier. and before she can respond, to her surprise, a second woman emerges from the back of her new companion.

she’s got beautiful straight teeth and straighter talons. “careful. saphine can bite.”

after being called hideous half a life, this come-on douses jude awake like a bucket of water. she studies the two girls and the raking nature of their eyes. she thinks perhaps if she paid more attention she could’ve recognized that in cardan’s eyes. could’ve told it apart from the hatred, the arrogance and the disgust.

without preemptiveness, without pause to think it over, jude tugs both girls to her. her body busts in sensation.

she remembers cardan in a maze, draped in languor and gold faerie drug and girls. black shark eyes watching her while horned girls had their way with him. one kissed his neck, she remembers, and another his knee.

“here,” she scoffs, pushing down sapphire or whatever’s head to her knees. “above my boot.”

a chuckle. “feisty, huh?” she hears, and she truly doesn’t care.

next, jude unceremoniously pulls the second girl up to her neck, leading them exactly where and how she wants them. she’s a constellation of heat and brief spikes of libido.

does cardan think of her? when he’s in bed or bedding someone new, whichsoever activity he performs at night, does jude cross his mind? does he remember her? sometimes in the ridiculous seclusion of her mind she thought cardan would be faithful to her once upon a time. she could slap her own cheeks for such foolishness.

his face appears stark in her memory. deep hollows on his collarbones, raven black hair and eyes devouring her like fruit. his lips, they’d been so soft.

jude leans her head back and laments her ghosts. she inhales sharply.

after the hot spell passes, after jude feels the trickle of tongue make its way up to her thigh and another down her chest, she pushes them away.

why? she doesn’t know. jude is only sure of the fact that she’s tired and doesn’t want this and instead wants a glass of water then maybe a bed.

saphine tilts her head, rolls her eyes, and waves her off, moving along. jude is thankful, for the first time, at being so easily discarded.

a month later makes two years since her infamous exit.

“unless cardan has a child,” oak said. many moons past.

the memory of him brings upon a dream. the opposite to her listless, watered-down dreams she grew used to having.

she sneaks through the palace, it’s name near forgotten to her, crawling against walls or chasing shadows.

he’s there. he’s in many of her dreams and he’s there in this one. hair astray. tilted crown. reclined on a couch, his tail freely swishing left and right.

if he remembers their pact of marriage, he doesn’t bother to show it. no mourning, no sadness, no desperation. unlike the other dreams of him, in this he’s placated. joyful, even, in a way so seldom his character.

jude’s understanding is little.

something squirms in cardan’s arms. when she gets closer it nearly takes her breath away to a fault, threatening to kill her. it’s a baby. older than a newborn but small enough to fit in his arms, to paw at his chin and gargle.

no test could prepare her for this sight.

and cardan. he’s absolutely changed. reinvented in the light of this babe, this creature jude hasn’t seen the face of. because that is his spawn, the tiny tail swishing from its rear indicates as much. that, combined with the black tresses, leaves no doubt that she is looking at a king and his heir.

in the depths of her shriveled dignity, jude duarte senses another break, another disgusting branched crack.

her husband is inconsolable in love. his bright smile slashes wide across his face, softening his sharp cheekbones. he lifts the baby to his face, pressing their noses together, cooing. she hardly recognizes him. but she recognizes the lack of a need for her.

this was a nightmare.

cardan lets the child descend, adjusting them in his lap with heartbreaking gentleness. to her horror, the toddler turns and pierces jude in place with raven black eyes.

she runs cold all over. the child has the look of a girl.

her coloring is unique, darker than cardan’s and any fae’s. it’s closer to… jude’s own. and below the black curls, which she realizes now is actually dark amber brown, there’s ears. rounded, untipped, human ears.

jude is utterly unmoored. the scene melts. she wakes up to hands descending upon her, to frightened questions of why she was screaming and that she’s woken up half of the gang. they cannot get a straight answer from her, and after plowing her with cups of water and aspirins from a quick run to the mini-store, the most they get from jude duarte is a somber face and a fall into her pillow.

jude becomes a gallery of girls. she’s judy, and she’s martina, and she’s amelie with the occasional latika. running in qylin’s underworld gang requires her to. police don’t catch her, fae detectives don’t either, and if by chance she needed to run an errand the name she gave was one of a basinful of fake i.d. cards.

“i once had a twin,” she offhandedly told someone.

“what was her name?” they asked.

jude slurped from a tall gas station soda cup. “doesn’t matter.”

three years. the earnest smile she’d lost a number of winters ago returns tenuously but surely. as a sliver, as a tiny reminder, as a planted seed showing the very smallest evidence of root.

a pixie joins their ranks. young and limber. her cerulean skin reminds jude of a blue court under the sea.

“fand,” she greets the mismatched group. “newborn nomad.”

jude welcomes her by the form of a nod, turning back to the display of headshots splashed on the table, organizing it into a semblance of order.

she feels fand dance around her, suspicious to her presence. she thinks for a hot minute that fand might want to cause trouble. jude focuses her attention to the knife hidden between her breasts.

the pixie stares at her, unabashed, and right as jude thinks to reach to her chest, fand grows the courage to ask. “you. do i know you?”

the question falls flat. “i don’t believe so. there’s little chance our paths crossed.”

fand squints. “well, i’ve just left elfhame. finally broke from that unruly mess.”

lightning forks in jude’s chest, attacking her nervous system. an old phantom possesses her body, causing her to still.

the pixie moves closer, inspecting. “your look, it’s so familiar.”

jude understands in a minute.

taryn. fucking taryn. always, forever, impossible-to-be-rid-of taryn.

summoning years of falsehoods and acting experience, jude breaks eye contact to laugh and feign offense. “all mortals look the same to fae, i’m sure.”

that is not a lie. she learned that from the wickedest prince himself.

when fand slips away from the gang two nights later, jude forces herself to block it from memory.

she’s almost twenty-one. in faerie she might have died since she was eleven.

here, she’s got a family. a rough knit circle of confidants, people she rarely thinks twice about trusting anymore. her music keeps her company, and her growing arsenal of skills, of wins, it warms the smallest piece of her soul.

how could she have hated such a place?

“counterinsurgents. we calculate two dozen below the bridge,” jekka, qylin’s second, explains over a map.

jude’s focus is precise, uninterrupted.

the years, the lack of practice from a simple lack of need to, makes it so that she doesn’t religiously check the perimeter, doesn’t spot a green face. his dark tuft of hair and hooked nose, spying from the window, hidden among leaves and wind.

if she had seen him, she might’ve remembered her old friend. if she’d seen him, she might’ve broken down in tears, or begged for a word, or done none of those things to help jekka figure out their positions for the next day’s raid.

“watch for the sniper!” one of her gang yells.

jude ducks, experienced muscles leading her across the space, the shielded street with broken streetlights. abandoned houses repurposed for criminal night creatures sprawl one after the other. they’ve chosen one a stone throw from the river, so close they could taste the salt while counting bloody fae or human scalps.

five, six, seven leaps and she’s out of shot, crammed into a wedge in the building. she took down three counterinsurgents already. the wrath ran rampant today.

another figure jumps out the window, two yards from her, and takes off running through the backside of the house, the one facing the water. swift as the wind, jude pursues in fervor.

bam.

first the noise like thunderclap. then the pain.

oh.

when they screamed sniper, she expected an arrow. she expected a taut bow and a sharp, easily removed tip of metal. not a bullet.

in the end, jude has been a galaxy of abridges.

she’s had abridged parents, gone before her eighth birthday. that led to an abridged innocence and an abridged life in their rudimentary home in maine. she’s had an abridged relationship with her sisters. an abridged sense of belonging.

she had an abridged romance with a prince and king. that chapter being severed short was, as they all were, not her fault.

she had an abridged marriage. an abridged kingdom rule.

to be culminated in an abridged life. thin and meager.

she hopes no matter how small her garden has been, that each poison flower and cherry blossoms she’s sowed has done its best to enrich the tiny piece of universe allotted to her.

she should’ve known when she saw the river.

in water all began, and in water it ends.

there are no screams. no chaos. the gang has left her, chasing their foes further up the street, looking to corner them. jude? she’s going for a dip. a passage to the next life. she’ll float to it. gargle on the last of life.

“huh,” she whispers.

the ache is pungent in her back, the bullet hitting close to the spine but not quite. deadly, though. deadly for sure.

she wasn’t queen of nothing. she was queen of death, the hierophant of misery. her whole life has been a string of it. well, no longer.

jude duarte reaches the water’s edge, using each fiber of her strength to not fall in quite yet.

in the haziness of all that she’d done and all that she’d run from, he comes to her. in dream, in flesh. she’s not yet in the water.

“jude.”

this has to be the mark between. the straddling line of life and death. because somehow, impossibly, she hears him.

“jude!”

or?...

her brows scrunch in confusion, a naked toe in the river already. she wants to turn, but the seeping life at her back won’t allow it.

she doesn’t need to. long arms surround her, someone moving in front of her to read her face, to see what lies there.

it’s him.

jude’s lids droop. her back is on fire, and she burns in the flames. he’s barely changed. matured into his looks, if she had to put it into words. his tar eyes, slender lips, pointed nose and legendary black curls suddenly remind her of being seventeen.

there’s so much in his face she can barely read any of it. “is it you? is it really you?” he demands.

she’s always been jude. who jude became, that was a different question. one she no longer cares to ask.

“i found you. i finally finally found you.” his voice is incredulous.

is he the harbinger of the beyond? was that his role to play this entire time? her thoughts eddy and murk the more time passes with a hole in her back.

it is an arcane thing, in truth, to be held by a creature she’s craved and despised. her body responds on its own by pressing closer, seeking warmth.

he might be crying. could also be the angle of the sun.

“please,” he whispers.

she hasn’t said his name in years.

“cardan.”

his eyes fall closed.

her mouth repeats the motion, recognizing the familiarity of his name. cardan. once her king. her husband. the sight of him brings forth a wave of emotions, cascading through her like a waterfall.

cardan tugs her close to a punishingly tight degree. “i thought you dead.” he speaks into her ear. “we searched for years. i thought you were gone. gone, jude.”

the word pulls her back, creates distance between them. jude lets herself get lost in his eyes, those splendid eyes, bottomless and infinite, a serene look on her face as she responds:

“almost.”

the fractious prince too arrogant to be a ruler does not stand in front of her. this man is similar, but a sense of strength she hadn’t seen is forefront and shining. jude wishes she could appreciate it.

if only this weren’t the last time.

“so it is you.” she says it with wonder, with a detachment that lets her turn away from his arms and face the river.

cardan’s intake of breath indicates he has finally seen her wound. he twists his neck, shouts to someone far back, hidden in the houses. “shes hurt! SHE’S HURT!” his voice is raw and desperate.

jude walks into the water.

a hand at her arm stops her, keeps her in place, but she shrugs it off with newfound confidence and turns around. cardan’s incredulous face sparks memories of faraway lands and kingdoms.

“what are you doing?” he demands.

jude’s lips break into a smile. how she missed his voice. she walks back until water reaches her waist, then her chest, then the crown of her head.

“stop!” she hears.

the layers of the girl she was, who she is, who she could’ve been, they merge. yes, she had missed faerie. yes, she had wanted cardan. yes, she had wept tears of rage at knowing she could not have either of them back. if she cried now, her tears would turn to river water, melding into the beautiful greater whole.

a hand grips her chest. another tugs on her neck, urging her up, up, up.

air. sweet air in her lungs.

jude gasps, her plans interrupted. the bulletwound at her back sears at the salt water, the sensation so intense it actually numbs her and leaves her feeling very little.

cardan presses her flush to his body. he raises her up, and his face is marked with horror and betrayal.

“how could you?” he weeps. his features are anguished, desperate. he’s shaking her by the shoulder. “how could you?”

jude smiles a wet smile. “remember when you pushed me into the rapids? and you forced my twin to abandon me and kiss your cheeks? i can’t remember a time when i’ve been warm since then. the water, it was cold. like a leech.”

“the roach is gathering for a salve. jude, you will be okay. you need to get out now.”

she realizes there’s something wrong. “wait. no. that’s a lie. i am a liar.” she tilts her face to his, eyes meeting. “you were warm. behind the throne room and in your bed. you kept me warm. but you ripped me from my home and i've been cold since.”

cardan does something she didn’t imagine him capable of. he didn’t do so when balekin beat him. he didn’t do so when his family was slaughtered. he did so this moment, with her encircled by his arms. cardan sobs.

maybe this is when he understands he’s been forever her herald. the marker of her death. their destinies, interlinked, but only for this.

as he bares himself open, jude candidly studies his face. there’s freedom in allowing herself to admit she missed him. missed all of it. her kingdom that never was.

“i’ll heal you,” he implores. his hand runs down wet and shakingly down her face. “you’re my queen. we’ll use our magic. we will, jude, if you stay with me. don’t you get it? the exile was fake. i never meant for you to vanish. i’m begging you, please, help me heal you.”

her forehead falls on his. waist-deep in water, she feels his short breaths fall on her cheek. “you held hatred for me once.”

slowly, miserably, cardan shakes his head. the motion makes her pull away but he doesn’t let her, staying together. ��love. i held love, jude.”

love

four letters.

years of running. and it caught up to her all the same.

his words hit her worse than the sniper did. she staggers in his embrace.

“hold.” he says the word with intensity. “i hold, jude.” cardan refuses to let her go, won’t let her fall. “you walked away with my heart.”

thoughts swirl in her head. they swim around like the fish crossing in between their legs.

“hold,” she says weakly.

hold love. he loves me.

impossible. and true.

“huh.”

“hold me,” she asks him. and he does.

he does.

he appears vacillant to his actions save for holding her.

jude can’t remember a time when she wasn’t running. from her parents’ demise. from madoc’s threats. from the cruel fae. from her sister’s betrayal. from cardan’s torments and, apparently, his ministrations of love. from her own shadow.

they haven’t moved from the water. it’s been a minute. it’s been four years.

jude feels her body slag, the water making up for the new deadweight.

“i wish you’d never left me,” he murmurs.

gratingly, she lifts her hand to trace a finger along the hard, straight line and point of her husband’s ear. “cardan, are you here to ask me for a divorce?”

his face breaks. she’s fully leaning on him, his long arms cradling her to his chest. amidst their soaked clothes, she feels the thudding of his heart against her cheek.

jude’s eyes flutter open and closed. “i want to tell you i will. i want to tell you i’ve waited for it. i - ah…” a jab of pain causes her to pause. “i want to tell you it hasn’t been eating me alive to be apart from you. i want to tell you… so… many… lies.”

through her misty vision, she sees cardan shake his head. “you are not leaving me.” the conviction in his voice draws a laugh from her.

“oh, cardan.” it’s the last good breath in her lungs. in the distance, she feels the ripples of someone entering the river, racing towards them. she sees only pitch black eyes. “i already have. i already have.”

they are esoteric, rendered in numinous light. from their entwined bodies in the water, there grow white flowers at the riverbed, their petals straining for the sun.

#jurdanweek2020 #jurdan #jude duarte #tfotaedit #cardan greenbriar #he's kinda scattered in this fic tbh but i promise there is SOME sort of follow-through to the angst #if you survive getting there #this took me all night and now its 9am HELLO THANK YOU FOR THIS MADNESS HOLLY BLACK #note: this will be my last tfota fic fellas #nicky writes #mine #mine:tfota

103 notes · View notes

kihaku-gato · 3 years ago

Note

AVTUALLY do you have a like guide on your OCs? Like quick and dirty who are they, why are they, what’s their universe etc etc. you seen yo have so much on them and how they fit in their world but i never really got a grasp on them and i want to know, well, everything

The quick and dirty… mildly challenging but not impossible, I’ll try to boil it all to bare essentials right here.

The World- Hoep

Not including AUs and Miscellaneous little stories/worlds there’s really only one fleshed out world for a good chunk of my OCs, which are in the “Hoepian universe” aka. the planet known as Hoep.

There’s a lot of details/lore for said world but here’s the short of it;

Fantasy setting, everyone’s a dragon. Almost everyone sticks to their human form cause most peoples’ dragon forms are… too smol. The monsters that caused humans before dragons to go extinct are still trying to do the whole planetwide extinction thing, some peeps try to stop it.

Terra

Badass aloof athletic. Tournament fighter is her hobby but Mana Tech (or “magic scientist/craftsman” for lack of a better descriptor) is her career choice. Her battle style has a bit of a disciplined martial artist or military style to it. She is of a race of (literally) venomous/poisonous dragons, but does a bit to distance herself from any culture attached to that side of her, due to biological family abuse from an early age (well that and the whole “her father is a murderer and war criminal” detail), right to the point that she uses fire magic rather than poison or venom.

Due to the rough start she was a crybaby as a child, but after being adopted by a travelling fighter tournament champion, she started to make efforts on her own accord to be tougher and more like her adoptive mother. Though her mother did influence her badass aloof persona, I like to believe that Terra herself would’ve put her own pressure on herself to be tougher even w/o that influence.

This and that and she’s a little awkward socially. I’ve headcanoned her as Autistic but its one of those things I go on/off on.

She pays her bills partially through Mana Tech commissions (aka. commissions for enchanted clothes, armor, or weapons) as well as occasionally from the few tournaments she competes in.

Kayla

Bubbly innocent lowkey powerhouse. Very bouncy and girly, a bit of romantic. She is last of her Clan of Monster Slayers (fyi there were three different Monster Slayer Clans that got wiped out). By instinct she is a good monster slayer to the point she took the job of monster bounty hunter to try to get by in her nomadic wanderings all the while not even training herself much to actually do said jobs.

She’s not really book smart, but definitely is attuned to emotions and intuition.

She holds up a very innocent rambunctious maiden kind of personality around people despite that violent career- it’s not so much as lie as much as it’s just the fact she wants to desperately hold onto her dream to be anything but a warrior. Settling down with a s/o, maybe starting a family, that’s what she would love to one day do so.

A bit of a powerful tank; half of it is all that hefty muscle hidden under the fat, the other half of it is her magical power being huge as well. Hard to beat being able to summon a lightning storm with enough build up.

She grows a crush on Terra when they initially meet. Rose-tinted glasses at the time saw Terra as a knight in shining armor.

Demauria

Third image I had to include cause FRICK Shiro fanarts of Demauria are fucking gorgeous I die

Ice cold smol angry ball of rage. Despite being the shortest of the main roster, she’s actually slightly older than Kayla (some of it is genetic, but also some of it is that bad nutrition and improper magic usage stunted her body a little bit).

Like Kayla, is the last of her monster slaying clan. If that wasn’t bad enough though, Demauria lost family twice; her Clan, but then also her adoptive family as well (which got slaughtered by monsters). Between that and being raised in isolation (desolate arctic wilderness) she has a really bad time managing her emotions, which tend to then all lead to a response of becoming very angry as her emotions get out of hand. I could very easily see people calling her a tsundere (I even jokingly call her that) but it’s not a perfect label for how she is.

Her use of Ice Magic is both from her Clan and from being taught by her late adoptive father.

The one OC to be stubborn about preferring punk/goth aesthetic and very little else. If she wasn’t dealing with the mess she has to deal with (both in herself and the world itself) I would believe she’d be one to delve into Hoep’s history; both reading and studying the world’s roots.

While I’m not proofreading most of this ramble, upon nearing posting this I realized I should probably also explain wtf is with the pink haired vs the red haired with freckles versions of Demauria; like how Gaara (from Naruto) covers his body in a layer of sand for protection, Demauria does the same but with ice which is what causes the bluer hues and the hidden freckles.

Riivar

Tall Travelling flirtatious entertainer. She’s ex-royalty from another kingdom (daughter to the King of Kennara). She severed her already rocky connection to her royal roots and took career choice of stage entertainer (a jack of many trades; singing, dancing, magical fire light shows, dramas, she dabbles in whatever she feels like having fun in) and struck huge fame. She’s also just is famous for being great with ladies in bed but shhhhh that’s not important.

In stark contrast to her royal roots she’s chill and very free-spirited and is much about having the freedom to do what you want to do in life.

Harriet

Airheaded ship captain. Despite not being the smartest (she’s “sea smart” and has a lowkey theatre-kid mind but otherwise-), strongest, or prettiest, she makes up scrappy tomboyish charisma. Even in AUs she tends to attract a bit of a loyal crew that can move almost like an extension of herself.

Due to being the magnetic center of attention she can feel very ruffled/threatened when that attention she soaks in gets yanked away from her by someone else accidentally or otherwise (this is often the origin of a lot of Harriet’s animosity towards Terra both in canon and in AUs).

Like Terra, I lowkey headcanon Harriet to be autistic as well (funny for me, their Autistic creator to be so wishy washy on declaring it canon but that’s just how it is).

She was raised in a big family (lots of brothers), and was taught under the wing of a Retired-crimeboss who leads/directs her town’s Tournament Arena. Said ex-crimeboss trained her in “tournament legal” fighting methods but also taught her how to be illegal/dirty/underhanded methods where it be necessary for survival at sea. Before going to sea in her dream to be a seafaring ship captain she fought up the local tournament to become the tournament Champion to get her mentor’s blessing. Harriet had a random encounter with Riivar near Harriet’s “leaving of the nest” which both awoke Harriet’s adoration for women (“oh shit I’m bi”) and her idolization of Riivar to the point that she clumsily tries to mirror Riivar’s flirtatious mannerisms if she’s trying to woo a lady.

Though she holds herself to be graceful (her ability to ballerina spin for her water-magic attacks would fool anyone to believing that) she has a bit of a fumble-klutz streak in odd moments; the missing tooth in her smile was from tripping headfirst into the ship deck after a successful brawl against a rivaling ship crew at sea where she didn’t even acquire a scratch during said brawl (most AUs find similar ways to cause her to get a lost tooth in her grin).

You’d think her shipcrew would be a band of pirates but that’s mildly off the mark despite the well-matched aesthetic; she does not seek to steal, so she gets her ship’s maintenance paid by a blend of discovered sunken treasure/artifacts (some which she keeps for shiny keepsies) and the odd cargo/trade delivery to various places.

Anne

Shy gentle beefcake. Same boat as Kayla and Dema in that she is the last of her respective monster slaying Clan (while Kayla was a kid and Dema was a baby when that happened to them, Anne had it happen to her in her tweens). In the fleeing for her destroyed home she eventually ended up in the great deserts where she was adopted by one of the nomadic desert dragon clans. Being lava magic (the magic her bloodclan specialized in) is similar to earth magic she quickly learned of the earth/stone golem techniques from said desert clan. While she’s capable of using lava magic she often uses earth magic first till the lava magic “warms up”. At some point she ran off to try to avenge/reclaim the town of her lost Clan from the monsters and left quite a mark on said monsters (not w/o getting scarred up physically and mentally herself though).

After that encounter rather than delve further on the monsterhunter role or return to the desert clan, she wandered around confusion of what she should do only to somehow end up in Harriet’s crew in a chance encounter. Before meeting Harriet she was getting money by a mix of selling baked pastries and shiny gems/minerals she prospected with her earth magic.

I’m still bouncing around on a lot of her motives and personality (the first conception of her she was a bit of a battle hungry warrior- not anymore, she softer now) but for the moment she’s pretty quiet and shy despite being so big and strong; she’d rather have a calmer life and embrace a more feminine style in how she holds herself, but she too busy having Destiny/Responsibility of being a monster slayer breathing down her neck despite not wanting to involve herself in those things.

I’m not entirely sure if that’s a good down and dirty of the main OC 6 but I hope it is. I’d mention a lot of my other OCs (Hoepian or otherwise) for their sum ups but most of them are short story characters or support characters at best, or just pretty faces with little personality at worst.

#boiling to base essentials was weirdly harder than I thought #oc ramblings #ramblings #wall of text #ask #askbox #anon #Anonymous

4 notes · View notes

madamhatter · 3 years ago

Text

Witch of the Cosmos

In Which (Sophie) The Sorceress is Explored/ A Different Adaptation Is Explored.

This is basically a ‘proof of concept’ aka me writing out what I’ve written for this version and applying it nasu.verse.

The Sophie known as the Witch of the Cosmos has been sprinkled throughout this blog’s running. She is a Sophie that is able to through tenacity and miracle is able to break the cycles of self-dejection/self-denial/self-imprisonment she has made for herself and is able to live. She is a Sophie that is able to live with better knowledge of her magic and is rendering the full capacity of her magic - which is foreseeably limitless and frightening altogether.

Like in this post (x), the original idea was this is a post-curse Sophie whose lifespan was ultimately meddled as a result of the curse and, unintentionally, her own magic. She is, unfortunately, considered outside of the cycle of mortality. Because of sudden shoifts between her aging and her life cycle being tangled, she is someone who would’ve aged significantly slower. In this initial take, she isn’t considered immortal, but is definitively ‘inhuman’ and ‘undying’ by how long it’s taken her to look this old. Because of such power, she does live up to the title of “madame sorceress.”

The great sorceress’s reach of magic includes the ability of crafting, altering, and ending contracts (between other people and those that she makes with people), changing the flow of life and lives of others (be it through speaking to people or items), giving life and sentience to others (and giving it away), and much more. Her magic is literally conducted by her voice; she is only limited by what she can say. There is more original ideas like her being able to travel across worlds (as it is canon in book verse) and actually creating life from ‘nothing.’ Hell, she made a pocket world for herself - (More information in Part 1)

However, this has changed to better suit better literary themes and character challenges - -. Sophie becomes impermanently immortal by her her own magic inflicted on herself (created because of her own emotions, unresolved traumas, and lingering hesitancy). Her own situation still has her working with the remnants of how she used ‘personas’ and masked her true self from others. In this case, she does feel at peace with certain things and lives somewhat better - but is still haunted by many others. She is a form that is very aware of how the other Sophies (or ‘sproutlings’ as she calls them) will and have lived.

There is The Sorceress and Sophie the Sorceress. The former is not Sop.hie Ha.tter and the latter is. A TLDR; Sophie the sorceress, exhausted from existing for so long, decides to eject her soul and have a chance to be mortal again. In her last moments, she breathes ‘life’ to her own magic - giving her own power the gift of sentience. The ‘magic’ is left with Sophie’s body as Sophie’s soul leaves and rejoins the cycle of rebirth. (More information in Part 2)

A plot that has been going on between Athena’s Kohaku and my Sophie, which we can dub the “amnesiac route.” It is in which the river deity some years after Spirt.ed A.way and wishes to reunite with his first love, Ch.hiro. The Sorceress makes a contract with him that grants him that chance. To be mortal and beside his beloved, she grants such chance and in exchange for his immortality and memories. This is an attempt for the Sorceress is reunite with the soul. (More information in Part 3)

However (x2), this plot is exclusive to these threads/storyline and is not applicable to every chance (A) that the Witch of Cosmos verse is involved , OR, (B) where the Witch of Cosmos counterpart/variant exists in a verse.

This is a case where the (B) point is being focused on and being worked to be better situated in a universe.

ONTO THE PROOF OF CONCEPT

The Witch of Cosmos’ concept existing in Nasu.verse is very possible and what she has done/what can do can be explained through different mechanics. I have already written down these items on a still unfinished google doc that is meant to be Sophie’s nasu.verse profile.

The Witch of Cosmos will now be better referred to as the Witch of Life. It is more fitting. It is basically her title switched with her ‘origin,’ that being Life. The alternative thought was that her ‘origin’ would be ‘creation,’ but you can easily slip ‘creation’ into the large umbrella that ‘life’ covers. That is the base that is always ‘canon’ to a nasu.verse Sophie to have this origin as is the fact she temporarily sealed it unknowingly when younger.

This counterpart is attuned to the flow of life/life itself than her mortality/human self. In this scenario, her origin magic is actually detaching her further from her humanness as the magic is getting more and more powerful. This fate is not applicable to all Sophies that manage themselves to live past their short-lived tragedies - but it is something that may arise, depending on the conditions.

The Witch Of Life functions as the figure that travels across different universes and behaves like an observer. She is not a being like the Ultimate Ones nor a Deity nor Daemon. By definition of how her existence started (human), she is classified lower than them. But by her magic and what it may do, she is arguably in a class that both surpasses and is undefinable, considering the scale of growth is endless for her. Maybe the fact that she could make contact with them is interesting enough-. She’s already been contacted and worked with deities and daemons before, and one or two other worldly figures.

The Witch of Life may be an eligible candidate for the Th.rone of H.eroes (ToH). However, given her range of power and the audacity of how far it can go, her presence being known on the world would be disastrous. Not because people would know her - quite the opposite, she is an enigma. The fact that the “im” in “impossibility” does not apply to her capabilities and what she may do, she exists as a form of great power that doesn’t have an inherent lean in what she may do with the power.

If you will, consider her a great force that operates with such a large scale of freedom. And with that kind of unrestrained magic and chaotic possibility with her, well... That is something that most would not want to risk if she isn’t pertinent to their plan or interests.

Depending on which version of the WORLD she allows her appearance to be known, she may be marked as a threat. If she is needed or dare requested by that variant, then the dynamics with her and that particular world changes.

However, there is always the fact that she may not be allowed exist completely in the “human world” and must stay adrift between the thin layers of realities that exist. Or, as usual, she stays in her pocket dimension (which would be better known as her real.ity m.arble) or on a very special level that she refers to as her “office.”

The “office” is basically where other worldly figures or those unfortunate enough to cast the wrong spells end up at. This is usually the spot where people negotiate for contracts or beg for help in situations that could be solved with her magic.

In the case that the Witch of Life is compatible to be allowed to the ToH, the best variants or descriptors that would apply to her are either Caster or Foreigner. A Sophie could exist as a ‘Caster’ whose abilities are that of the Witch of Life’s, but is not exactly her. I.E., a Sophie who lives long enough and through her unintentional heroisms, she manages to leave a mark and be a candidate for the ToH.

The Witch of Life is considered a singular entity and her ties and past are a mystery. As in, what version of Sophie lived to become the Witch of the Life is unknown. However, she is considered the ‘collective representative’ of others Sophies that may have gotten close to this form or actually reached it. This is possible due in part by the matter of multiple universes existing and the beauty of there always being an AU in the hard-to-understand lore of Nasu.verse.

Technically speaking, she is possibly among the most difficult servants to maintain - not because of her personality or attitude, but the sheer amount of aptitude and magic her summoner would need in order to maintain a good portion of her magic. She would cheerfully refer to herself as among the most “useless servants to exist.”

By all means she could perform her greater spells and actually reveal her moveset, but the problem lies in the master. As in, she could kill her master because of how much mana some of her spells may need. A regular Sophie is basically on a EX level in terms of quantity and quality because of how active her magic is, how she cannot ‘turn off’ the magic, and how infectious it is. Then again, she could operate with her own reserves, but that can be a bit of a complication.

#( in which we learn about the eldest ; headcanons )#( verse: witch of the cosmos )#( verse: night air ; silver traces ; boundless breadth ; betwixt self and unknown )#long post tw #long post

1 note · View note

creeroleplays · 5 years ago

Photo

- creeroleplays does a guide -

Black Hair: How to describe texture and style in roleplay

Introduction: I want to start by saying that black hair is one of the most- if not the most- diverse hair groups in the world. What is in this guide may not apply to everyone, but it may give you some insight on the culture surrounding our hair and how it applies to your character. I didn’t fully edit this, so you might see typos, inaccuracies, etc. I’ll update it the more I pick up on things. Enjoy!

history.

Black hairstyles have been passed from generation to generation for thousands of years. From Ancient Africa to Black America, styles such as locs, bantu knots, braids, afros and twists have adorned our heads as symbols of identity, culture, politics and status. They have inspired fashion, music, movements and art, and defined cultures as we know them today.

During colonialism, black people were often forced to conform to European ideals of beauty- turning them to harmful chemicals and equipment to achieve what some would call “good hair”. During the civil rights movement (and even some time before with the Rastafarian movement), people were encouraged to turn away from damaging practices to embrace their natural textures, reestablishing their identities by shunning conformity and returning to their roots. In the years following, black hairstyles became symbols of pride and rebellion- as it was considered daring for black femmes in particular to wear big afros and long braids.

Today, black hair care is a billion dollar industry- from oils to equipment, we invest quite a bit of money and time into our crowns. The reasons why may vary- some see their hair as a symbol of pride and identity, others simply dig the aesthetic. Whatever the reasons, black hair is always evolving while simultaneously serving as a reminder of where we come from.

types of styles.

There are hundreds of styles that I could detail, but I’m going to stick to a few of the most popular ones. Many black hairstyles are often protective styles -styles used to protect our hair from natural detriments such as the sun, wind, rain, our own hands, etc-. Some even wear these styles beneath wigs for further protection and style options. Below, I will list a few that I know of personally with accompanying pictures.

cornrows

Cornrows were named because -well- they look like rows of corn. They are a protective style worn by braiding the hair in an underhand, upward motion. In Ancient Africa, they were considered a symbol of agriculture and order, while today they are used for a myriad of purposes whether protective or fashionable. The process of braiding can take anywhere from minutes to hours. When I was a little girl, it took approximately four hours to braid my full head of hair- for those with longer and more intricate styles, it can take even longer. These braids can be done in different angles and shapes. I personally liked to have my braids angled into stars.

locs

Dreadlocks, locs, goddess locs, faux locs, twists- there are so many different variations of this style it is mind boggling. The most basic one involves sectioning off the hair, twisting it and leaving it uncombed until it mats and turns itself into a loc.

Beginning dreadlocks can be an arduous, costly and time consuming task, but most who get them claim that it’s the best decision they ever made. Some incorporate weave into their locs for longer styles while others go for a shorter approach (thank you Michael B. Jordan in Black Panther). My big mama (grandmother) had locs all my life and they grew until they reached her waist- they required a lot more care and attention than my own hair did, with weekly retwisting, washing, oiling, etc.

microbraids/box braids

The reason I put microbraids and box braids into the same category is that they’re basically the same thing. Small sections of your hair are braided until they cover the entire head. Microbraids are very, very skinny and mimic strands of hair, while box braids are thicker and more defined- earning it’s name from the box-like way the hair is parted into sections. If someone plans to get box braids, they can plan to spend anywhere from 3-10 hours getting their hair braided. When I got mine a few years ago, I showed up to the shop (hair salon) at 7am and didn’t leave until 6pm. I also chose to incorporate weave into my hair for a bulkier braid and more of a protective style.

afros

Afros are, for the most part, exactly how our hair grows out of our heads. Some of us (me) don’t have the ability to grow afros that go upward or have volume like traditional afros do. This particular style involves maintaining healthy hair, and often picking it out with a pick comb. Those with afros usually have kinky, high volume hair textures that enable them to unravel their natural curl pattern to form their fros. I am not one of those people. While I have thick hair, my curl pattern is not as kinky as others, thus is tends to lay flat.

how to describe black hair

Black hair is incredibly diverse. It can be kinky or coily, loose or big, long or short. There is no set standard or expectation for our hair, it simply is, and every kind is beautiful.

When describing texture it always helps to keep in mind that there have been very harmful stereotypes to avoid. Words like ‘nappy’’ are generally best kept far away in describing your black character’s hair. Instead, aim for descriptors that give light to the features. Fluffy, crimped, coily, poufy, spirally, etc. It can also helps to simply describe the style they are wearing, as cornrows and afros create their own visual presence in your head.

ex.

“My hair, which someone had tied back into a puff in an effort to control it, broke the tie and clouded loose behind me.“ (The Inheritance Trilogy by N.K. Jemison

“I got the crown of his head at first, and marvelled as always at the feel of hair like my own — soft-curled, dense but yielding, thick enough to lose my fingers in. The first time I’d touched him I’d thought he was one of my people, because only Maroneh had such hair. (The Inheritance Trilogy by N.K. Jemison

That’s not to say that black people don’t have days when their hair is less than immaculate. For instance, my hair is currently piled on top of my head with curls popping out of my bun every which way. A good rule of thumb I have found when it comes to describing black hair is to avoid harmful stereotypes and to focus on shape, style and color.

ex.

“Dark spirals coiled around my face, the frayed ends frizzing from my night of tossing and turning. It would take some kind of miracle to free the knots that surely hid in the thick mass of curls and scalp.”

Black men and women often cut their hair short- sometimes in styles known as fades, where parts of the hairline fade to the skin to create a gradient effect. The hairline is always incredibly important, as a straight and well-angled hairline is often seen a sign of self care. Describing the hairline as sharp is always a good place to start off, though you could also go on to say that it is clean, precise, or smooth.

ex.

“He was good looking- dark skin, full lips and a clean, fresh cut.”

tips.

Avoid harmful stereotypes. Black people do wash their hair- whether it’s in locks or not-. Our hair is not nappy and “othering” our textures or styles is never okay.

It’s okay for your character to wear wigs, weave, etc. Despite what some people might say, there’s nothing wrong with weave. Taking care of our hair every single day can be exhausting and sometimes you just wanna throw that shit in a wig and call it a day.

When in doubt, do some research. It’s easier to do research than it is to offend someone. If you don’t have a way of describing a particular style or texture, just refer to the resources you have on hand. Or ask a black person that you’re friends with. More than likely, we’re not going to be upset at you wanting to accurately and respectfully portray us.

While there are many differences between our textures and different textures from various ethnic groups, we also have a lot of similarities. Don’t think you have to go above and beyond to get an accurate description of our hair, sometimes less is more.

Shrinkage is a thing. Because of how tightly curled our hair is, sometimes our hair can see shorter than it actually is when you stretch the curl out.

Have fun. Seriously, black hair is so incredibly expansive and beautiful, portraying it in anyway can be very exciting. Enjoy the experience.

This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind and I may make this into a series, but if you have any questions, feel free to message me! I’m always happy to clarify whatever I can!

#rpc #rph #guides #resource guides #resources #black hair

147 notes · View notes

writtenbyhappynerds · 5 years ago

Text

Unit 3: Face Claims, Please Stop Using Emily Rudd

Ok. So now lets look at face claims. Face claims are a broader topic to character creation and OCs as a whole. I like face claims. They’re great, because they allow you the writer to get in your head what the main character looks like and how they fit in with the cast and the world. I have nothing against face claims, I use them myself because I like to visualize what I’m working with. However, as we’ve seen in Unit 2, it’s on the writer to convey what the character looks like. As we’ve seen in Unit 1, the character should be cohesive with the rules of the universe. Face claims and characterization can apply the first two units very easily.

Reference images are for your eyes only, so that you can see what the character looks like. When describing a character, pull details from your reference image to explain what they look like. You do not have to be overly specific. Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way is a prime example of being overly specific, given the first paragraph of her fanfiction My Immortal is:

“Hi my name is Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way and I have long ebony black hair (that’s how I got my name) with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Amy Lee (AN: if u don’t know who she is get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to Gerard Way but I wish I was because he’s a major fucking hottie. I’m a vampire but my teeth are straight and white. I have pale white skin. I’m also a witch, and I go to a magic school called Hogwarts in England where I’m in the seventh year (I’m seventeen). I’m a goth (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly black. I love Hot Topic and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a black corset with matching lace around it and a black leather miniskirt, pink fishnets and black combat boots. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eyeshadow.”

Never do this. I will find you and we will have a very nice conversation about how to improve your writing. Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way breaks the three big rules of characterization and character description: She drops the face claim directly in the narrative (Amy Lee, lead singer of Evanescence), she describes every characterizing feature about her (vampire teeth, ebony black hair), and she describes her complete outfit. To give a better standard of describing characters, we are going to fix Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way.

Young Adult novels very often stick to height, hair color, eye color, and body shape. This is something you as an author should think about, but sticking just to this blueprint can be pretty generic. When you look at other people, those aren’t the only things you notice, right? Those aren’t even things you necessarily need! A big example of going against the grain of the standard is found in The Great Gatsby. Despite having loads of color imagery, we never learn what Daisy’s hair color or eye color is. But somehow, we don’t need them because we are supplemented with, “Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it. Bright eyes and a bright, passionate mouth.” Fitzgerald focuses on how his characters carry themselves and their facial expressions. These give descriptions of their personalities. When he does describe hair color or eye color, he does it in a way that fits with the style and vibe of his writing, and you as a writer can do the same.

In my own personal opinion, eye color does not need to be described immediately. You can save small descriptions of your characters and sprinkle them in throughout the story, rather than dumping an appearance in one paragraph. In one instance you can describe what a character’s wearing, and in another later on, describe their hair as they pull it away from their face. Describe it as it changes from the normal. Jeremy Scott’s The Ables is a great example of character description and characterization. The main character is blind, which means that the cast gets by on contrasting personalities. We don’t know the ethnicity of many of the characters until we’re halfway through the book, and the main character only learns his basic appearance because it’s been described to him by his parents. Things like eye color and hair color and how tall someone is don’t matter as a whole. What matters is how it can be applied and further the story and the personality of the character. A character having curly brown hair? Don’t necessarily need that. A character who takes the time to curl her brown hair every morning? That tells me something about that character. Small moments, and giving descriptors through details can really help you avoid the paragraph dump.

Character Bios are the bane of my existence. Do not put character bios in the beginning of your fanfiction. All you’re doing is giving me a paragraph I’m not going to read. Character bios are lazy writing. It’s low-hanging fruit to mention them as something to not do. There are so many ways to incorporate detail into a story. By putting in a character bio, you tell the reader that you either: don’t know how to incorporate these facts, are too lazy to incorporate these facts, or don’t care enough about what you’re writing to incorporate this information that we must know immediately about your character. In addition, we don’t need to know your character’s favorite color and the music they like on page one, so why do that to yourself? Not caring about your work can ruin a fanfiction. If you don’t care about what you’re putting out there, how can you expect your audience to care enough to read it.

Another important aspect of characterization is show-don’t-tell. Which we’ve all heard, but I’ve rarely seen it used. When used effectively you can draw the reader in, and allow them to use context clues to draw their own conclusions. A good rule of thumb, and the Show Don’t Tell 101 is that you show emotions, and tell feelings. You don’t need to tell me how the floor swayed under someone’s feet and they felt as if they were underwater. You can just say they felt tired that morning. However you can show emotion, and show the full range of anger and pain when someone’s upset to convey properly how that character is feeling. This is something that requires a light touch. It ties in with context clues and foreshadowing. I shouldn’t know from the third line of dialogue of a Shane Dawson fanfiction that the OC has an eating disorder. I shouldn’t know when exactly two characters are going to end up together, or when two characters are going to split apart. It should come as a surprise. An example I can give is a story I have of two spies who fall in love. From the first chapter, it’s obvious to the reader how this world is a game to them, and how they click and exist on that same wavelength. Chemistry can be obvious. Banter can be a fun way to express chemistry. What wasn’t obvious in this story, was that one of the spies would be killed by his own organization. What wasn’t obvious was how this would shape the other spy, who became the main villain of later works. If you make the narrative obvious I want you to then surprise the reader. Because you yourself will get bored. That’s why you see a lot of fanfics get dropped after three chapters- the writer has it all planned out how something will happen, and this plan becomes boring, but they don’t try to change the plot to make it more exciting. Throw in a wrench. Shoot someone. Spice it up my dudes.

We titled this chapter Please Stop Using Emily Rudd because one, we see Emily Rudd, as well as other girls who will be in an imgur album at the end of this chapter, way too often as the main OCs in fanfiction, and two, they represent a saturation and an insecurity in the market of main characters. We as writers don’t need to rely on these girls, and we actually keyhole and limit ourselves when we stick to stereotypical goth/emo girls (ex: Eugenia Cooney, Aly Antorcha, and Taylor Momsen face claims), or pale girl with dark hair and green eyes (Emily Rudd) same thing different descriptor for Nina Dobrev, or that red haired girl with green eyes who I couldn’t find a name for but she’s in almost every Harry Potter and/or Weasley sibling fanfic so you know who I’m talking about.

These girls should not be the standard of OCs. On top of that, not every OC has to be “strikingly beautiful” some of these OCs are like, 11-12 at the start of the fanfic. It’s ok to not describe how pretty they are. On top of that, not all of the world looks “strikingly beautiful” and that shouldn’t be a character descriptor. When one fanfiction I read had the love interest describe the OC as, “nothing to look at,” they contrasted everything else I’d read before because they made the beauty in that character not about what she looked like but her actions and who she was as a person. She became more beautiful as the fanfiction went on because of her personality, and by the end of it, it made sense that the love interest fell in love with her because he loved her as a person, not as an object. That’s what it boils down to. These girls don’t have to be pretty thin models and celebrities to be good face claims. Spending less time on the appearance, and more time on the personality makes for a character more beautiful and more believable than if you used some model. Don’t feed the manic pixie dream girl trend.

Moving on. Your character should not fill a hole or replace a member of the cast. They should bring a new perspective and add, not take conflict from the original work. For example, if you are writing Harry Potter fanfic, the character should not be composed of all the attitude Harry and Ron didn’t get in the movies. If you write Sherlock fanfiction, the character should not be the voice of reason to apologize for Sherlock’s antics while still doing the same things as him. In my own Psycho-Pass fanfiction, my character should not be a manifestation of Shogo Makishima’s soul. All these things do are fill holes in the story without adding to the narrative. If they were removed the story wouldn’t know they’re gone. If you can add conflict or alternative plots to the narrative, making the characters and the cast go through something they didn’t go through otherwise, you make the OC matter more. There used to be a beautiful Harry Potter fanfic that got deleted, where the OC went on full fledged adventures without the cast. She did her own thing, hanging out in the Harry Potter universe. This fanfic worked because the OC was the star of her own narrative. She wasn’t hanging on to Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Draco. They did their thing, and she did hers. It made for a great fanfic that I’m very sad to have seen the end of. Try and give your character something to do that doesn’t involve the cast. Think of it like fanfiction’s version of the Bechdel Test: Can your OC go through a chapter of fanfiction without relying on the cast.

Let’s revisit our darling, dearest, dead, Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Ravenway. Using what we’ve discussed in the previous paragraphs, I am going to attempt to fix the introduction given by our dear Enoby in Chapter One of My Immortal. Pray for me.

By Year 7 at Hogwarts, I had given up on the uniform. I’ve been at this school for too long to keep wearing the same damn thing, and as soon as I’m done I can bow out of button-ups and itchy sweaters. Professor McGonagall had a fit when I walked in last year with purple and red streaks in my hair. I smile as I imagine her face when she sees my miniskirt and corset. I sloughed in front of my mirror, carefully winging out my eyeliner and dabbling my lids with red eyeshadow. I popped on a black lip, blew myself a kiss, and felt stupid for doing so.

McGonagall didn’t even let me make the Great Hall. She marched me back, and forced me to change into the school uniform. I added pink fishnets and combat boots, and rolled my skirt up before heading back down to the Great Hall. My classmates gave me a wide berth. As I walked past a cluster of Slytherins I could hear them whisper.

“Fangy bitch.”

“Say that again?” I said setting my sights on them. “Do you really want to insult me now? I haven’t even had breakfast yet, though I could make an exception.” They scurried off. I flipped them the bird as they went, and carried on downstairs. Remus Lupin was the best thing to ever happen to this school. Yeah, he was a werewolf, but I felt a little less alone. At least there was more than one monster running around here.

Next week we will be discussing names. Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way will make a return, as well as some other names that are uncomfortable and cringy to read. This is your warning now, that in 2 weeks we will have our first exam for Fanfiction 101. I did say in the introduction that there would be an exam, and it’s on its way. We will give you more information next week when we see you to discuss Nameberry.com.

Supplemental Instruction: The aforementioned imgur album of overused face claims and OCs. Think of this like a newly minted banned book list.

https://imgur.com/gallery/SpIGZhF

#ff101 #fanfic #fanfiction101 #writing #fandom #Harry Potter #DC #Marvel #Victorious #Addams Family #Supernatural #Twilight #Sherlock #Original Works #OC #percy jackon and the olympians #Percy Jackson #Avengers #self-insert

25 notes · View notes

faejilly · 6 years ago

Text

i am for you (11/?)

so apparently this is going to update every other week rather than every week, despite my best intentions. AH WELL. Have some Maryse POV, because she’s my favorite.

None of Maryse's children would tell her anything about Alec's new boyfriend.

Izzy and Jace were an odd combination of amused and confused and possibly worried when she asked. Izzy said he was a professor at UIA, and Jace said Magnus was very... fancy. And then he shrugged liked he'd used up his quota of words on the subject. She thought it was supposed to be a compliment, and Jace was just surprised that Alec liked fancy.

Maryse found she wasn't, but she didn't think she could explain why not in a way that Jace might understand.

Clary grinned and said she didn't want to ruin Maryse's first impression.

Maryse was not at all sure what that meant.

Simon and Maia were there when she asked Clary, so they didn't say anything either, though they at least looked vaguely apologetic as they went along with Clary's decision.

Clary had that effect on people a lot. It was a good thing Clary was fundamentally a good person or she'd probably be leading a cult of some sort within the next decade. She was terrifyingly like her birth parents some times.

She also laughed delightedly at Maryse's expression after refusing to help, and Maryse couldn't help but smile and concede the point. Clary was also wonderfully like her father.

No one would tell Lucian anything about Magnus either, but it didn't seem to bother him as much. When he laughed at Maryse's fretting and pulled her into a hug in the middle of the kitchen to distract her from her fourth or fifth attempt at meal planning, she found she didn't mind too much anymore.

"I think this is going to be really important." Maryse whispered into her husband's neck, unable to make herself speak up. She wasn't entirely sure what she was afraid of, but she could feel the weight of something approaching, and she didn't think it was just surprise that Alec was introducing someone to the family for the first time.

Lucian kissed her temple. "You're usually right about Alec. Important doesn't mean bad or stressful though, or something we need to worry about."

"But I don't know how not to worry."

Lucian laughed again, his chest rumbling against her. "You'll ride it out until it's better, you always do."

"You have such faith in me."

He lifted up her chin and kissed her gently. "You've earned every bit of it."

She kissed him again, just because she could, and decided she'd worry about planning dinner later.

***

saturday

***

[newgroup]

[maia]: so how bad's your hangover, Clary?

[clary]: don't type so loud

[simon]: do I need to bring you some Lewis Hangover Cure™, Fray?

[clary]: oh god. I will give you anything you want [clary]: My firstborn [clary]: MY SOUL [clary]: please

[simon]: like I'd know what to do with a kid. Don't even threaten me with that for a joke.

[clary]: SORRY. THANK YOU. PLS

[simon]: sure thing, gimme 20

[maia]: I'm surprised you managed to drink that much, Alec and Magnus were really distracting

[jace]: What?

[maia]: they were having date night at the club [maia]: you missed Alec dancing again!

[izzy]: Alec was at a club? Wow. And I missed it? Pictures?

[maia]: Pandemonium

[izzy]: damnit

[jace]: that's so [jace]: this is so weird [jace]: I'm not the only one who thinks this is weird, right?

[izzy]: not even a little bit

[clary]: but I think it's a GREAT weird

[maia]: They seemed happy

[jace]: No one else is worried that it's not very... Alec-like?

[izzy]: you've got to trust his judgment Jace, it's his life [izzy]: everyone's allowed one grand impulsive romance, aren't they?

[jace]: look what happened the last time Alec did something out of character

[izzy]: ... [izzy]: that was eight years ago

[jace]: doesn't make it feel any better, does it?

[clary]: are you talking about?

[izzy]: yeah

[maia]: shit

[clary]: I still think it's good weird. But I get why you're worried about him

[jace]: I want to think that [jace]: Magnus does seem like he's as into this as Alec is [jace]: But that could just mean they're both about to crash? [jace]: or we could be completely wrong about Magnus and he's actually a giant dick

[maia]: you can't put it like that, this is a serious conversation and I get entirely where you're coming from but now all I can think about is I bet Alec likes his giant dick and I didn't need to think that

[clary]: 🤣🤣🤣

[izzy]: If you didn't want to think it, why'd you type it?

[maia]: well, once it happened it was too late to pretend it hadn't. No reason not to share.

[clary]: bet Alec doesn't want to share Magnus' giant dick

[izzy]: 👏👏👏

[jace]: 🙄🙄🙄

[jace]: I know I'm probably over-reacting [jace]: I just want him safe and happy and he's never even MENTIONED a guy he's been on A date with, much less a relationship, since he came out and

[izzy]: suddenly he's joined at the hip with a guy we don't know

[jace]: yeah

[izzy]: it's a lot

[maia]: and wow am I glad I'm better at this group message thing than Jace, cuz that'd be one awkward conversation for Alec to walk into later

[jace]: hell yes you are, thanks

[izzy]: As Simon isn't here to do the usual: "because you're the best, Maia"

[maia]: *bows*

***

[tessa]: I know you're working a double today [tessa]: want me to buy you some lunch in-between?

[cat]: I am actually meeting Magnus' Alec for lunch

[tessa]: because if you'd just said Alec I wouldn't have known who you meant?

[cat]: ha. Maybe? It feels like an important descriptor. Would you like to join us? He seems like he's just sort of letting Magnus' friends happen to him.

[tessa]: ha right back at you... that's probably a good way to deal with us though [tessa]: and thank you, but no, he's met you already, that's different than springing a stranger on him. I'll see him Sunday for brunch, after all. Besides, Dot would be so sad if she met him last. I'll savor the suspense for one more day

[cat]: that's very thoughtful of you. [cat]: I could see if Dot can come, and then you'll be the odd one out tomorrow 😉

[tessa]: I doubt she's up yet. Ragnor's observatory nights usually go 'til almost dawn, counting driving back home again.

[cat]: I should really try and go on the next one, I haven't managed it in ages

[tessa]: but sleep!

[cat]: I know! [cat]: when did we get so old?

[tessa]: we'll never be old, kitty cat [tessa]: that's what Ragnor's for. He'll be old for the rest of us

[cat]: but he's the one who can still stay up all night

[tessa]: by napping and ignoring people all day. He was an old man when he was 10, I bet

[cat]: he is a such a lovely old grouch isn't he? [cat]: he definitely knows Alec things he's not sharing, he's got too much smug going on

[tessa]: are we surprised by that?

[cat]: no, just pointing out the obvious I guess [cat]: I think I want to pretend my break's not almost over

[tessa]: you love your job, even when it's exhausting, and you get to meet the pretty six foot tall boy who blushes over lunch!

[cat]: are you going to tell him that that is how I described him?

[tessa]: depends on how pretty he is [tessa]: if he's too pretty I will start talking without realizing it and it might very well happen

[cat]: I'm doomed

[tessa]: really? How delightful. Is he pretty enough to keep up with Magnus?

[cat]: Entirely different sort of pretty, but yes, I think so

[tessa]: amazing. I can't wait 'til Sunday

[cat]: invitation for lunch is still open?

[tessa]: nah, but thanks [tessa]: now get back to work

[cat]: 💙

***

[clary]: so how'd lunch go?

[izzy]: Magnus is delightful and brilliant and gorgeous [izzy]: and tried to get the check even though I invited him [izzy]: but was entirely good natured about it when I paid [izzy]: so [izzy]: better than any of my blind dates [izzy]: and most of my regular dates [izzy]: I'm a little jealous that Alec seems so much better at this than the rest of us

[simon]: speak for yourself

[izzy]: do I need to remind you of your seven-year crush on your best friend the LESBIAN

[clary]: wait, Simon had a crush on me?

[maia]: your best friend the CLUELESS lesbian

[simon]: you did not need to remind me of that, no [simon]: and yes I did. It was really obvious. I had more than a couple baristas & waiters either offer sympathy or tell me to just ask you out over the years. They saw us together for five minutes and they knew. [simon]: pretty sure they could tell from the ISS

[clary]: REALLY?

[izzy]: really really

[clary]: my whole word has wobbled, I don't know what to do with this [clary]: do you think I'm that oblivious to GIRLS who like me too?

[jace]: yes

[izzy]: yes

[maia]: yes

[simon]: you're even worse, girls actively try and hit on you rather than pining like I did and you don't notice

[clary]: well. Fuck.

[maia]: only there's not fucking, isn't that the problem?

[izzy]: you are X rated today, are you a little frustrated?

[simon]: I don't know if that's a dig at me or Maia, but either way: HEY

[maia]: maybe I just feel sorry for the rest of you that you're not getting laid on the regular like I am [maia]: and Alec, apparently

[jace]: ew [jace]: why is it always about sex

[izzy]: you've had sex and you know we all have sex

[jace]: yeah, but [jace]: it's nice exercise? [jace]: I mean. I don't mind it [jace]: but I don't get it

[simon]: I still want to make you a shirt [simon]: Jace is Ace. Maybe Jace The Ace! [simon]: it rhymes!

[izzy]: you're such a dork

[simon]: but you love me anyway! That's what family's for

[izzy]: I do, unfortunately

[simon]: 😜

[jace]: we're all going to be there on Sunday right?

[clary]: I think so [clary]: did Maryse try and ask you guys about Magnus, too?

[izzy]: yeah, Jace called him *fancy*

[jace]: was I wrong?

[izzy]: no, but I don't think that helped Mom figure out what to make for dinner

[jace]: well I don't know what he likes to eat, what was I supposed to say?

[maia]: that he looked at Alec like he hung the moon and stars [maia]: I'm assuming that's the kind of thing a Mom would like to hear

[simon]: and it's not like it's even an exaggeration

[clary]: they're adorable

[jace]: weird but good. Right. Why am I nervous? I'm not the one bringing a date to meet the parents

[izzy]: oh wow imagine if he actually had to meet all our parents

[jace]: I have like five options & they're all terrible except Maryse

[maia]: Terrible or dead. Ghost parents?

[simon]: well that's a horrifying mental image

[clary]: My mom would be a kick-ass ghost

[simon]: your mom was a kick-ass everything

[clary]: she was, wasn't she? [clary]: I still miss her

[simon]: we always will

[izzy]: would it be terribly insensitive of me to say I *wish* I could miss my dad?

[simon]: horrifyingly so, holy shit Izzy [simon]: but still fair. I get it [simon]: but counter suggestion [simon]: if he was the kind of guy you could miss your Mom probably wouldn't have left the way she did, and none of you would be here, and I don't want to imagine Alicante without the Lightwoods

[izzy]: awww. Same. I feel like I'd miss you guys, though I wouldn't know what I was missing

[maia]: it'd be quieter [maia]: I mean boring. which would be... bad [maia]: I Can Not Even Imagine hOw dUll our lives would be It would be Awful

[jace]: I can hear the sarcasm across town there

[maia]: hey. If I really didn't like you guys I'd tell you to your face

[clary]: she makes a good point

[jace]: doesn't mean she can go five minutes without sniping at us

[maia]: why should I? you fuss so pretty when I do

[izzy]: I finally figured out why she likes Alec best, they're both assholes

[maia]: it's a feature, not a bug!

[clary]: I feel like we should make a follow-up to this morning's dick jokes via Magnus appreciating Alec's ass [clary]: but I also feel like if I do that Jace might murder me in my sleep

[jace]: so you did it in the hypothetical in an attempt to have your cake and eat it too?

[izzy]: Cake is not a better choice of metaphor if you want to get away from the sex talk

[jace]: you are all terrible why do I talk to you

[simon]: uh, because we're adorable and you love us

[jace]: that sounds fake but ok

[clary]: we love you too, Jace

[jace]: 😔 [jace]: 🖤

[izzy]: 😘

***

sunday

***

Maryse opened the door for Alec and his date and knew immediately what Clary meant. She couldn't blame Maia or Simon at all. Magnus Bane was stunning. On several levels.

She always knew Alec had good taste.

Magnus was polite and charming, and for all he'd claimed to be "a reasonable amount of nervous" he didn't show a bit of it. Alec was a little tense, but easily distracted by Magnus' everything, and he had such a smile every time their eyes met. Maryse wasn't sure she'd ever seen the like.

It was a good dinner. Conversation never flagged, Jace and Lucian easily talking about the people they'd worked with the past week. Simon's brain was clearly still half caught in the song he was currently writing, but he focused back in enough to tell them all that Maia had aced her last lab report. Maia sputtered a little but accepted all their congratulations. Clary told them about her current art project, while Izzy complained about her pathology class in a tone of voice that was clearly more delighted than annoyed. Magnus told them all about his and Alec's crossed-email-chain, and Maryse had to admit it was a charming story. Almost enough to make one believe in fate giving them a hand. That or the University servers were haunted by helpful ghosts.

Lucian cleared the table when everyone was done, and Izzy leaned across the table toward Alec. "So, did you warn him?"

"Warn me about what?" Magnus flicked a glance back and forth, and Clary giggled.

Alec rolled his eyes. "We're not really—"

"'Course we are," Simon interrupted. "We always do."

Alec groaned, and Magnus turned towards Maryse with wide-eyes and lifted eyebrows.

"We found half an old board game in the pantry when we moved in," Maryse said.

"We think it was supposed to be one of those dumb date night or newlywed 'how well you know your partner' things." Clary added. "But we've uh. Adapted it."

Magnus tilted his head, aimed a loud stage whisper at Alec. "What does that mean and why did you make that noise?"

"They're going to ask a bunch of really stupid questions off of cards and then laugh at everyone’s answers."

Magnus blinked. "That sounds harmless."

Jace scoffed. "Should say that to Kaelie and Maureen and Jordan and Meliorn and Louisa and Andrew..."

Maia smacked Jace on the shoulder. "Pretty sure that had more to do with Lightwoods being scary intense rather than a party game."

"And Magnus has already survived that!" Izzy grinned. "And to be fair, some of them we're much better off without. Alec seems to have better taste in dates than the rest of us."

"Wouldn't take much," Lucian muttered as he sat next to Maryse again. "Sometimes I worry about our children."

Maryse leaned over and kissed him on the temple, lingering for a moment against the warmth of his skin to hum her agreement.

"Ha ha," Clary blew him a kiss. "You love us."

"That I do, kiddo." Lucian agreed. "Now, are we going to subject Magnus to our interrogation here, or in the living room?"

Alec rolled his eyes. "I promise it's not really an interrogation."

Magnus laughed, and pushed back from the table. He offered Alec a hand up. "I'm not worried. But I presume you'd like a bit more room to stretch your legs?"

Alec's smile lit up the whole room, and he took Magnus' hand. "Thanks."

They headed toward the living room, and Maryse blinked at their backs. She had a feeling she'd underestimated things when she'd thought Magnus might be important to Alec. She had a sneaking suspicion he was surprisingly close to vital already, after only a week or two.

It was slightly terrifying, but she'd never been happier for him.

It really wasn't an interrogation. They went around to everyone with the questions off the game cards; it was a chance for Magnus to break through the Lightwood united front as much as it was a chance for them to get to know Magnus.

Well, and Lucian did always keep a close eye on anyone their children thought worth bringing home. He hadn't been a cop in almost twenty years, but some habits he'd kept. He seemed relaxed tonight, leaning against Maryse's side and laughing warmly at some of the answers.

"Adjunct?" Izzy asked Magnus. "That's your least favorite word."

"Look at a university employment contract for part-time and entry-level teaching or research positions." Magnus waved a hand elegantly through the air, light glinting off his rings and catching in the matte finish of his dark blue nail polish. "'Adjunct' is the devil's word."

"Why are you so concerned about Magnus' answer?" Alec asked, though he was smiling as he spoke. "It wasn't even his question."

"There's nothing funny about moist." Clary shuddered. "I agree with Izzy on that answer completely."

Maryse shook her head. "But now it's actually Magnus' turn." She reached her hand out until Jace passed her the box, and she pulled out the next card. "What was the first thing you said when you met?" Maryse glanced up from the card at Alec and Magnus.

Alec lifted his chin as his mouth curled up into half a smile. "Pretty sure I apologized."

"You did, quite prettily, and then I asked you if you believed in fate." Magnus was holding Alec's hand, and his thumb moved gently across Alec's knuckles, and they both looked so peaceful, so content, leaning against each other and settled on the couch.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Alec so simply happy, and she agreed with Magnus' word again, that odd sensation of fate, of destiny, almost tangible when they looked at each other.

"That's the email though, right, the one that didn't go to Professor Fell." They both did a surprisingly well-timed shrug-nod maneuver, and Maryse's eyes narrowed. There was something. She was missing something. "What was the first thing you said, though, when you met in person?"

Alec went a little too still, and looked at Magnus, and it was such a speaking sort of look, she recognized a silent conversation when she saw one. Magnus exhaled, and she could hear a shudder in the sound, and had a feeling she'd found the thing she was looking for.

"Magnus?" Alec's voice was soft, and so tender that Maryse's throat ached.

"Alexander." Magnus' eyes were too bright, and Maryse couldn't swallow.

"Marry me." The entire room was still, and she didn't think her family had ever been so quiet, even when they were all sleeping.

"Ok." Magnus smiled, and Maryse forgot how to breathe. "Kiss me?"

"God, yes."

Alec and Magnus leaned into each other, the small space between them disappearing as they kissed, and there was something so fragile in the lift of Magnus' chin, in the way Alec's fingers brushed against Magnus' jaw, that Maryse could feel the hot prick of tears in her eyes.

It was still so quiet she could hear the kiss, could hear their lips part, the way they breathed, even as Magnus lifted his hand to hold Alec's fingers against his jaw, to keep them both so close together.

"And then Lydia interrupted us." Alec's voice was so full of love that Maryse wondered if she'd remember how to breathe again before she died.

"Which is probably good." Magnus' voice had a hint of a wry twist, but underneath that it was just as heartbreakingly sincere as Alec's. "Or we might have gotten in trouble for indecent behavior in a public bus-stop."

Alec laughed, and the shiver in the air broke, and Maryse inhaled as he and Magnus leaned back against the couch and turned to face the rest of them.

"What!" Izzy stood up, and her face was a twist of about ten different emotions, and the only one making it out into her voice was shock.

"Izzy." Jace hissed, and grabbed her hand to hold her still. He had the same tangle of conflicted feelings visible in his eyes, but on him the overwhelming conclusion looked closer to grief.

"But?" Izzy gestured back and forth, and her eyes were much too wide, worry and confusion.

Maryse looked at Alec, and she smiled. She recognized that look in his eyes.

"Congratulations," Maryse lifted her voice to make sure no one interrupted. She looked at Magnus, at the glint of surprise he hadn't tried to hide at her reaction, and felt her smile widen. "Welcome to the family, Magnus."

"Maryse," Lucian's voice was low beside her, and she turned and she smiled at him, and saw his breath catch at something in her face.

"Sometimes you just know. Just like I knew when we washed up here." She leaned forward a little, her hand balanced on his thigh, staring into his eyes. He had such beautiful eyes. "I didn't know how we'd get there, or when, but I looked up into your face and you smiled at me and I knew. This was it."

He smiled back then, just as beautiful and startled as that first one years ago, and shook his head just a little. "Wish you'd told me that a little sooner, it would have made some things much less stressful for me."

"Sometimes a little worry's good for you." She leaned forward enough to kiss him before she made herself stand up.

She walked over to Alec and reached down to tug him up out of the couch and hug him properly. When she let go she lifted a hand and placed it on his cheek, and his eyes were damp and she was pretty sure hers had overflowed by now, faint warm tracks down her cheeks. "You have always been much too much like me for your own good, my boy."

She patted Alec on the arm, and leaned around him to include Magnus in her smile. Magnus stared back with something that was a cross between a shocked deer-in-headlights and honest adoration, completely ignoring the tears welling up in his eyes that were such a close mirror to her own. "I hope you like the idea of a large family, Magnus, because you're stuck with us."

She stepped back, and wiped her hands together, and exhaled. She ignored Jace, who was staring at her with his mouth half-open like a landed fish, and Izzy, who wasn't really any better but at least had her mouth closed. She smiled at their other children, almost all of them, we're so close now, so soon, Clary with her hands over her mouth and Simon with his lips pressed too close together holding in a nervous joke or three and Maia, the only one Maryse thought maybe understood what she meant about washing up against the place, the people, that were about to become home.

Maia had had such a wary look on her eyes when Luke had hired her, as if she'd never thought she'd find a safe place to stand again, and wasn't quite sure how to trust this one, no matter how much she wanted it, needed it. But she'd made herself try, made herself stay, because somehow she'd known that this was her chance.

She had that look sometimes still, as if she was afraid someday it might all fall apart, even now. It happened a lot less often than it used to, and that was good enough. Some day they'd get rid of it completely, Maryse was sure.

As sure as she'd been of Lucian. And now Alec's Magnus.

"And I think this calls for some wine!" Maryse grinned, and spun around and left the room.

"I think I'm in love with your mother, Alexander." Magnus' voice drifted out behind her, and Alec laughed so hard he snorted, and Maryse felt so light she thought she might float all the way to the wine and back.

#jilly writes #shadowhunters #malec #maryse lightwood #lightwood family feels #my sh fic #i am for you #this is the most ridic thing I've ever written #and that's saying something #I go ALL OUT #when I write fluff #pls enjoy the ridiculous with me #<3

41 notes · View notes

spectral-musette · 5 years ago

Text

Finished Thrawn: Treason a couple of days ago, and typed up some thoughts (cause I don’t know anyone else who’s read it and I just wanted vent them somewhere).

Overall, I think I still liked Alliances the most of the new Thrawn books, but Treason (or as I’ve been calling it, Threason) was also really enjoyable.

(Spoilers to follow for the current Thrawn series, Outbound Flight, and the end of Rebels)

(Disclaimers:

While I think Thrawn is a fascinating character, I’m not under any illusions that he is heroic, good, or admirable just because he’s written as the protagonist of the current series of novels. To me, Thrawn is interesting because I don’t see him as the kind of villain who convinces himself he’s actually good; it’s just that, in his calculations, morals and ideals are valued below expediency. He doesn’t think he’s right, only that he’s necessary. When you’ve compromised morality and justice and sworn allegiance to someone like Palpatine for what you believe to be the greater good, what’s left? What remains of your own soul when you’ve made yourself a monster just to fight off worse monsters? None of the novels have gotten to that point yet, but I hope TZ will eventually take us there.

Also, I know Outbound Flight is considered “Legends”, but I think it gives a lot of insight into Thrawn’s character. At his panel at SWCC, Timothy Zahn said he always writes as if all his old books could still become canon, so I’m assuming that the events of Outbound Flight continue to factor into TZ’s development of the character.)

I think the title maybe oversold the angle that we might see Thrawn working against Imperial interests. Apparently, he’s much too committed and careful for that. Acts of treason certainly came into play in the plot, but not committed by Thrawn. He doesn’t even lie to Palpatine – he omits, carefully, sometimes, but rarely that.

I discovered at SWCC that fandom was pretty hyped about the return of Eli Vanto. I had admittedly been rather tepid on Eli in the first novel in the series. Any good things Eli did were always tempered by the fact that I couldn’t quite forget that this was a young man who quite freely decided that the Imperial Navy was the career path for him. In Treason, I found it much easier to like Eli now that he’s no longer an Imperial officer. Seeing him finding his footing on the Chiss battleship was interesting, and I liked the soft beginning of romantic feelings between him and Vah’nya (the Force-Sensitive Chiss navigator who, at 22, is the oldest known Chiss to ever maintain her abilities). I was going to say “hints of feelings”, but I think it was a bit stronger than that? Her flirtation was downright overt at times (“You were not merely coming to see me? Too Sad.” Lol, get it Vah’nya), and Eli did tell her that he’d die for her, so that seems like a pretty solid foundation? I’m a little worried about them, though. What I recall about Chiss society from Outbound Flight and Survivor’s Quest is that it’s pretty class-bound and that they don’t really think much of outsiders. It’s unclear to me if an important asset to the Ascendancy like Vah’nya would be permitted to have a relationship with a non-Chiss.

Much as Assistant Director Ronan (who is just the worst, see below) liked to throw around “traitor” re: Eli, I’m not sure I’m ready to give Eli Imperial Defector status, at least not quite at the same level as the people who joined the Rebellion. Eli has yet to actually work against the Empire. I feel like Eli’s background (being from Wild Space) did affect the way he perceived the Empire as just the same old Galactic Republic going by a new name, but after the things he experienced in the first Thrawn novel, Eli at least knows very well that the Empire uses slave labor. But I guess at this point he’s buying Thrawn’s rationale that the military strength of the Empire is keeping the Grysk, the spooky big bad from the edges of the galaxy, out of that part of the galaxy? It would be interesting to see how Eli’s perceptions of the Empire might change after the destruction of Alderaan.

Leading up to the release, I saw some promotion for the novel, I think on twitter, saying that a “new” female Chiss character was being introduced, Admiral Ar’alani. My initial response was, uuuuuuuuum wasn’t she in Outbound Flight, though? And I know that’s not technically canon anymore, but, wasn’t she also mentioned in the first new Thrawn novel? So actually, not really new at all? BUT Vah’nya and little Un’hee are both new and I love them, so there absolutely ARE new female Chiss characters in Treason… just… not Ar’alani. Though we do see a good bit more of her in this book than we have previously.

And I really enjoyed Ar’alani as a character in Treason. She’s a great foil to Thrawn to directly demonstrate that no, all the Chiss are not Like That. She’s honorable and cunning, and she’s quite passionate, quick-tempered but also quick to move past her anger. I liked that we got to see her being fierce and indomitable, but she was also able to be so soft and comforting to a rescued child without ever undermining her authority or seeming remotely awkward or uncomfortable about it. It was fun to see her get so angry and annoyed at Thrawn, but be able to put it aside and work with him because she knows it’s the best course of action.(There are points from Faro’s point of view when Ar’alani just goes off on Thrawn in the Chiss language aboard the bridge of the Chimaera, and I’m DYING to know what she’s saying to him). I was kinda getting a vibe that the two of them possibly were exes before the scene where Eli has the same thought -

Eli Vanto, on the bridge of a Chiss warship, during battle: I Think My Admirals Used to Bang.

(Verbatim, it’s “he wondered at the history and the relationship between Ar’alani and Thrawn”)

And it kinda solidified for me in the farewell between them:

[“Someday, Mitth’raw’nuruodo, you’ll overthink and overplan, and it will come crashing down all around you. When that happens, I hope someone is there to lift you back to your feet.”

“You, perhaps?”

Ar’alani shakes her head. Her expression holds regret, perhaps even pain. “I very much fear I will never see you again.”]

(I MEAN, wow okay, why don’t you two just make out right there in the turbolift, then?)

(And I get that you could totally read the dynamic another way, but that’s how it comes across to me)

I don’t recall their dynamic being that uh… charged? in Outbound Flight? But Outbound Flight was a bit more focused on Maris’s hero-worship/crush on Thrawn (and admittedly it’s been a while since I read it).

Speaking of Outbound Flight, the fact that Ar’alani has held the rank of Admiral since before the Clone Wars tells us that she definitely is not a young woman. Even if she rocketed through the ranks on a combination of extraordinary ability and family connections, it seems like she’d be at least in her 30’s at that point (and that’s really low-balling it), and that was 25+ years ago. Granted, we don’t know much about Chiss lifespans or how they show their age, but no mention is made of her age at all. The only descriptor I could find of Ar’alani when paging back through Outbound Flight (aside from the typical “blue-skinned”/“glowing red eyes” Chiss stuff) was “resplendent”, so I’ve decided that’s her main attribute and she might be slightly immortal.

Eli makes note of the fact that she has the same name-structure as the navigators (two-part instead of three-part, never abbreviated to a core name). This can’t just be a gendered thing – Eli is supposed to be good at noticing patterns in things and would SURELY have realized that (plus, Feesa in Survivor’s Quest is a lady with a three-part name) – but I wonder if the answer is just: Ar’alani was a navigator when she was a child. She knows an awful lot about the navigators’ abilities (even Thrawn doesn’t know much about “Second Sight”), seems particularly sympathetic to and protective of them, and both Vah’nya and Un’hee seem particularly attached to her. Force-sensitive Ar’alani is an interesting prospect!

I’m not sure I’d say I ship Thrawn and Ar’alani, exactly, but the idea of him being her ex-lover who keeps calling her up and asking for favors even though he’s off the grid doing CRAZY SHIT is amusing to me. I’m not sure if I like the idea of them having been together when they were young (in a military academy, maybe) and splitting up for political reasons (differences in class/family affiliations) or if I prefer to think they had a thing when he was her junior officer, or what. Mostly I think it makes an interesting sunken ship, as it were. She probably deserves better anyway (more on Thrawn’s personal problems in a bit).

Wow that turned into “just blather on about Admiral Ar’alani”, didn’t it? Anyway, she’s a great character and I like her a lot.

To move on to another character, Assistant Director Ronan is, as I said, the worst. I’m pretty sure Thrawn’s not wrong about Vader straight up murdering this dude, given the opportunity. And I mean, there are two types of characters Vader will murder: Ones you Really Don’t Want him to, and ones that you… do? Ronan is the latter. Instead, Thrawn is using him to let Ar’alani feed very select info back to the Empire about the Chiss. So, cape-wearing, Krennic-worshipping Ronan thinks the Emperor is petty and more interested in watching his subordinates squabble than providing effective leadership and also apparently hates Force-users (declaring himself an enemy to Thrawn if he’s working against Palpatine’s goals to eradicate them). And while I’m sure the Chiss will maintain the secrecy and protection around their navigators as well as they can, I’m very uncomfortable with the idea of this guy anywhere near my tiny blue daughters.

And I’m pretty sure Thrawn is not working with Palpatine to kill Force-sensitives in the Ascendancy. If he was, this would be a dark prospect given Eli’s project to collate data about the navigators! But as far as I can tell at this point, Thrawn’s goals for the navigators are the same as Ar’alani’s – more navigators who maintain their abilities longer are a benefit to the Ascendancy. And while navicomputer technology is certainly more sustainable, it seems like if the Ascendancy wanted it, that’s certainly something they would be able to obtain. Possibly they’re just being traditionalist about it (using navigators because they’ve always used navigators) and possibly it’s partly to contain the Grysk – a navicomputer doesn’t have an expiration date like a captured Chiss navigator does. Maybe Force-aided navigation has advantages we haven’t fully explored (or I’m just forgetting some of the ones we have).

I think TZ has tended to write Thrawn as more sympathetic over time (not that this is a recent development; see Outbound Flight) so it becomes hard to reconcile the version of Thrawn in Rebels to the current Thrawn in the novels, even though the events are tied up quite closely. Probably because Rebels Thrawn is drawn mostly from the less-developed version of the character in the original Thrawn novels, and mostly I think because TZ didn’t have any input in writing Thrawn’s episodes.

What seems to be an on-going thread in the current novels is Thrawn’s tendency to isolate himself. I think he’s actually pretty fond of Eli (insofar as he’s capable of things like “fondness”). And while I’m sure Eli can be an asset to the Ascendancy, with Eli serving Ar’alani, Thrawn also no longer has to deal with Eli, who views him as a good commander and a brilliant, admirable person, holding him accountable for any actions that might contradict that view. He holds Eli at arm’s length throughout the story in Treason; in part you can chalk this up to the urgency of the mission, but it strikes me that he’s actively pushing Eli away. Eli never gets much of a moment with Thrawn, no renewal of camaraderie. Eli’s angry about it at the beginning, perceiving it as a snub, but by the end he’s more resigned to it. It sucks to love someone who doesn’t seem to care about you.

(But I’m not sure Thrawn doesn’t care about Eli, I think he’s just being careful to let Eli get that impression.)

And Thrawn does the same with Commodore Faro, recommending her for a major promotion out of his immediate circle. She’s deeply loyal to him and admires him, and he is sure to remove her from his sphere of influence. Always to the benefit of the removed party (Eli is thriving in the Ascendancy, and I’m sure Faro will do well in her new command), of course. But they’re also gone. He doesn’t have to be privy to their disappointment, disillusionment, and he doesn’t have to be responsible for their lives or deaths. Thrawn is actively denying himself the opportunity to be cared for, and maybe keeping himself from getting attached beyond a certain point as well.

Because once upon a time, before the Clone Wars, Thrawn was a person who liked being admired, who deeply valued idealism in others, who loved his brother.

Does the self-isolation go back to his brother’s death, or is it part of his approach to serving Palpatine? If he doesn’t live like a person with feelings and loved ones, is it easier to tolerate the suffering he’s causing to other people with feelings and loved ones?

(And in the aftermath of the Rebels finale – assuming Thrawn survived the Purgill attack, and there’s no reason he MUST have – what happens when he is really truly isolated, with nothing between him and oblivion but an angry teenage Jedi apprentice who utterly loathes him? And… some space whales.)

#long post

11 notes · View notes