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gayhuckleberryinatrenchcoat · 4 years

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You are my home💚💙

Happy Valentine’s Destiel Wedding Day everyone!

Part 2 of my Destiel wedding series.

Click here for the masterpost.

Thanks @bonchickabelle for your support

~2,8k words

“Are you nervous?” Sam teased Dean, who stood in front of the mirror, tugging his tie straight. He thought about it for a moment “Excited? Sure, can’t wait to see Cas again after you forced us to spend last night apart for some stupid tradition. Nervous? No. It’s Cas I’m marrying.” Sam smiled knowingly, already half out the door. “I’m very happy for you two!” Alone again, Dean’s eyes drifted back to the mirror and he placed his hand on his shoulder, right over Cas’ handprint. He meant what he had said to Sam. It had been the first night they had been apart since he got Cas back and he barely slept. He had just felt wrong without hearing Cas’ gentle breaths, without being able to wrap his arms around the former angel and without feeling the weight of Cas’ head on his chest. But was he nervous? Not at all. He was almost surprised at how calm he felt. He’d never been this sure about anything in his life. After today, he would never have to spend another night without Cas.

Everything was perfect. Everyone they knew had insisted on helping with the wedding in one way or another. Sam wanted to officiate them, he got his license as soon as he heard the happy news. Eileen had taken the grooms separately to shop for wedding suits, Jack had promised them a warm, sunny day and handmade the invitations with Claire. Jody and Donna had baked their wedding cake, Ellen and Jo contributed a dozen homemade pies, Bobby took care of the bar and the catering. Garth and Bess promised to capture the whole day on their cameras. Gabe offered to be their DJ and Ash took care of all the technical stuff. Rowena had promised them truly magical fireworks at night, while Crowley and Benny were in charge of the security, although that shouldn’t be necessary ever since Jack became god.

Charlie and Dorothy had not only offered their vast, beautiful property as their wedding venue, they had also taken care of the decorations. The ceremony was set to take place on the Southern side of their house. An aisle led through rows of white chairs up to a little lake in front of which they had placed a rectangular wooden arc, decorated with greenery and big white flowers that stood out brightly against the blue water in the background. The Western side of the house was already equipped with a big dance floor around which tables, a big buffet and a bar had been set up. To top it all off, Charly and Dorothy had hanged fairy lights in every single tree on their property, which would create a magical atmosphere at night.

Lost in thoughts, Dean adjusted the flower on his lapel and smiled at the mirror. He never thought that he – Dean fucking Winchester – would ever get married. And yet here he was. His phone buzzed and his smile became even wider as he saw who texted him.

[Cas 10:34] Dean?

[Dean 10:35] What’s up? Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now😉

[Cas 10:37] No, my feet are perfectly fine, why would they be cold?

Dean rolled his eyes, amused at his fiancé’s confusion.

[Dean 10:37] Not literally, that’s an expression for someone who has second thoughts on their wedding day. What’s going on?

[Cas 10:38] Oh. I see. I’m nervous that I might act weird because I don’t know all wedding customs. So I wanted to ask if you could maybe help me out when I’m about to make a fool out of myself.

[Dean 10:39] Sure thing, sunshine, but don’t worry about acting right, it’s your wedding day, all you have to do is enjoy it. And everybody here knows you’re a little weird😉

Without a knock, Charlie barged in. “What’s up bitch, you ready? Cause your fiancé is and he’s smokin’ hot.” She winked as she noticed Dean’s blushing cheeks. “Yeah, I’m ready. Where’s Bobby?” “Already waiting downstairs for you. I have to go, see you in a few”. As quick as she had come, she disappeared again. Dean took another glance at the mirror to make sure everything was perfect before he left the room.

Downstairs Bobby and Ellen were laughing over a glass of scotch. When Bobby noticed Dean, he smiled and reached up to adjust his baseball cap, scoffing when he realized that he didn’t wear one today. “Lookin’ good” he grumbled. Ellen gave Bobby a quick peck on his cheek and winked at Dean as she went to take a seat. “I’m glad ya two idjits finally got the sticks out of your asses. Took ya long enough.” Dean chuckled nervously, his cheeks turning red again. “Thanks Bobby. Truth is I still don’t know how I got this lucky.” “Well, ya really deserve this, ya know? You’re a good man. He’s lucky to be with you. And I like him. Never seen you this happy.” After a pause he added “I’m very proud of you son.” Fumbling with the empty glass Ellen had left behind on the table in front of him, Dean replied “Bobby... Thank you. You’ve always been a father for me, unlike John, who... Anyways, thank you. For everything.” Dean swallowed, unable to put his love and gratitude for this man into words, but as he looked up at Bobby’s face, he caught him wiping over suspiciously wet eyes. “Idjit” he grunted, pulling Dean into a bone crushing hug. He nodded at the clock. “Ya ready? We gotta go.” “Ready” Dean replied, and he meant it. He was more than ready for this.

Or maybe he wasn’t. He was more than ready to marry Cas, but he wasn’t prepared for the sight of all his loved ones in one place, alive – thanks to Jack – gathered to celebrate with him. He always thought the only occasion where they’d all come together would be for his funeral, and he didn’t even expect that since most of them had been dead until a few months ago. Grateful and touched to see how many people where there because they loved him and Cas, Dean fought back some tears. While Garth’s kids waddled down the aisle, scattering white rose petals, Bobby squeezed Dean’s arm, as if he could sense all those thoughts whirling in his head. Dean nodded, linked their arms and let Bobby lead him down the aisle where Sammy already waited with a big grin and an even bigger stack of notes for his speech.

Back in the house, Charly gave Cas an encouraging smile and handed him a gorgeous bouquet of white and yellow flowers. “Thank you for leading me down the aisle, I was made aware that that would usually be the responsibility of one’s father...” “There’s nothing usual about this wedding..” Charly teased him. “Besides, you’ve been my bestie ever since we first met, of course I’m gonna walk you down the aisle!” She linked their arms. “Ready?” Cas nodded. “Ready...” Leaning in, he added with a proud smirk “...bestie”. The doors swung open and they stepped outside.

All heads turned around to see Cas, but he didn’t even notice. He was completely captivated by the sight of his fiancé, who let out a little gasp before breaking into a wide smile. His eyes made those cute crinkles that Cas loved so much and as he came closer, he could see a tear roll over Dean’s check. Usually, although Dean had become way more relaxed over the last months, Cas could always sense a lingering alertness in him. But now... he seemed completely at peace. Cas quickly blinked away some tears. He didn’t want anything to cloud his vision, he needed to preserve this image in his mind. His navy-blue suit combined with a simple black tie and a white flower on the lapel suited Dean incredibly well. He was beautiful and Cas’ heart skipped a beat at the thought that it was him who caused the pure adoration and happiness on Dean’s face.

Charlie led Cas towards him with excruciatingly slow steps. Dean could barely restrain himself from running towards them. Cas was indeed smoking hot in his black suit, the baby blue tie perfectly matching the color of his big, loving eyes. Their eyes locked and Cas smiled at him with his adorable alien head tilt. Dean took a deep breath in, smiling at his fiancé, whose eyes glistened suspiciously. Cas seemed completely awestruck, and Dean felt a little lightheaded like he always did when Cas looked at him like that... like he meant the world to him.

Charly placed Cas’ hand in Dean’s. “Hey handsome! Missed me last night?” Dean whispered with a wink. “Hello Dean. I missed you very much indeed”. Murmuring “Me too”, Dean softly leaned his forehead against Cas’. The grooms stood there for a moment with closed eyes and fond smiles on their faces, the longing for each other almost unbearable. Cas finally pulled away and stated softly: “You are incredibly beautiful”. He turned towards Sam. Dean blushed at the seriousness in Cas’ voice and slowly turned to face his brother as well, not without glancing at Cas’ concentrated face once more and shooting him a loving smile from the side. While Sam held his unsurprisingly deep and thoughtful speech, Cas slipped his hand into Dean’s, who squeezed it lightly in response.

When it was time to say their vows, Dean took Cas’ hands in his and started shakily: “So, uhm, I’d like to start if that’s okay. Cas – you’re my best friend. And you’re the love of my life. I never thought I’d ever say something like that, I didn’t exactly think love was in the cards for me. I never let anyone close. But you...” His furrowed brows softened, and he broke into a fond smile, adopting Cas’ little head tilt. “You immediately got to me – well, right after I stabbed you... Sorry for that, buddy.” He winked and Cas chuckled softly. Dean continued, his voice overflowing with love: “I love your weird, quirky personality. I love that you’re such an openhearted, adorable little dude and at the same time you’re brave, strong and one hell of a badass. You never stop surprising me. You have the most loving, pure and beautiful soul.” Dean’s voice started to crack. “You know me better than anyone, heck, you probably even know me better than I know myself. You looked into my soul and you love me for exactly who I am, which is the best gift you could have ever given me.” Firmly holding Cas’ gaze, he added seriously: “I promise to always love and support you unconditionally, in our human life together and beyond. I’ve been yours ever since you first laid a hand on me. And I swear I will be yours for all of eternity. I love you Cas, so damn much.”

Cas looked at him completely lovestruck, tears glistening in his eyes. In a low, gravelly voice he declared: “I never truly belonged anywhere. I never... functioned the way I was supposed to. And you made me realize that that’s okay. That freedom and free will were more preferable than being a brainwashed soldier of heaven. You gave me your friendship, you made me part of your family. You taught me to love.” He cupped Dean’s face, gently brushing his thumb over Dean’s freckled cheeks. Squinting his eyes in adoration at the miracle before him, he added: “You are the most perfect, selfless and loving human being I have ever known.” Tears started rolling down Dean’s cheeks, he still had a hard time accepting that someone – especially Cas – would think so highly of him. Receiving this praise in front of such a big audience made him blush. “Dean, you are my home. I love you. Forever.” He pressed a soft kiss on Dean’s forehead and wiped away his tears. Dean almost drowned in his loving eyes, completely overwhelmed with affection.

Claire and Jack came up to give them their rings. Claire handed Cas a ring and whispered: “Congrats Ca... Dad”. Cas froze up for a second, tilting his head, squinting his eyes, trying to understand if she really just meant that or if it had just slipped out on accident. When she gave him a shy confirming smile, he pulled her into a strong hug. Jack handed Dean a ring with a “Hello Dad” and a short hug, before tugging on Claire’s hand to pull her back to their seats. The almost married couple shared a confused look after what just happened, Dean opening his mouth to ask “Did they just call us..?” “I believe they did”, Cas replied happily.

Sam moved on with the ceremony and let them repeat some more promises to each other before posing the final question: “Do you, Castiel, take Dean Winchester as your lawfully wedded husband?” Cas answered earnestly “I do.” Sam turned to Dean to repeat his question: “Do you, Dean Winchester, take Castiel as your lawfully wedded husband?” Dean grinned widely, eyes crinkling around the edges: “Hell yeah, I do!” Sam asked them to exchange their rings to seal their bond and Cas took Dean’s hand gently in his. He slipped the ring on slowly, looking deeply into Dean’s beaming green eyes. Dean then slipped a ring onto Cas’ finger, his fingertips lingering longer than necessary. Sam finally pronounced them “...husband and husband. You may now kiss your groom!” Under the roaring cheers of their loved ones, Dean cupped Cas’ face while his husband pulled him close, arms wrapped around his waist. Their lips found each other easily, all of their adoration blooming into a chaste, soft kiss. Cas spontaneously bent Dean backwards, who gasped into his mouth in surprise, before letting himself fall into the strong embrace. Their kiss deepened, both too far gone to hear the excited cheers and whistles around them. It took them a while to gather the strength to break apart, foreheads resting against each other for one more moment before turning to the cheering crowd. Dean linked their hands and raised them up, as Sam exclaimed loudly: “I present to you Mr. and Mr. Winchester!”

The party afterwards was one for the books. Everyone had a blast and surprisingly enough, everyone got along perfectly, which wasn’t exactly a given on a party were hunters and supernatural beings came together. Donna’s and Jody’s wedding cake was mind-blowingly delicious. It was a white cake with three tiers and a figurine of the happy couple on top, wearing their trademark flannel and trenchcoat. When they cut the cake open, it revealed a colorful surprise. The top tier was colored like the bisexual pride flag. The second tier was chocolate-brown and the bottom tier looked like a rainbow flag. Dean insisted on feeding Cas with some cake and “accidentally” smeared frosting on Cas’ face. After he had kissed it away shamelessly, which earned them loud cheers and whistles from their guests, Dean pulled his husband onto the dance floor for their first dance.

They both didn’t exactly know how to dance, but it didn’t matter. They were just happy to feel the comforting warmth of their bodies against each other and melted into a tight embrace. As they were swaying gently, eyes closed and faces buried in each other’s necks, they didn’t realize that the first song had long blended into the next one. After a couple of songs, Dean opened his eyes for a moment, watching all the people he loved enjoy themselves. Jody and Donna slow-danced next to them and Eileen tried to teach Sam how to dance, hoping not to get her toes crushed. The brothers exchanged a big smile that said: “We’re so damn lucky”. Rowena stood at the DJ-table with Gabe, brushing a hand over his arm and whispering something in his ear. Crowley and Benny seemed to hit it off at the bar and Claire and Jack tried to teach Sonny some “tictoc-dance”, whatever that was, while Miracle excitedly jumped around their feet. Dean closed his eyes again and sank even deeper into the feeling of Cas’ arms wrapped around him.

The party carried on deep into the night, roaring rock classics long having replaced the quiet couple-dance music, everyone partying on the dance floor or sharing stories and laughs at the bar. As the newlyweds sat down to chat with Sam and Eileen over some drinks, Cas looked at his husband lovingly. He was overjoyed to see Dean beaming happily from being among all the people he loved, no danger in sight. As Dean caught Cas starring, he gave him a gentle peck and got up. He linked their hands as they strolled towards the lake, the party sounds fading into low background noises. They leaned up against each other, the reflections of stars and fairy lights glistening on the water as they held each other close in the cold night air. Dean nuzzled his nose into Cas’ hair and pressed a gentle kiss on his head. Cas turned to see Dean’s glowing eyes and pulled him into a long, achingly tender kiss. They were home.

#I've been working on this for 2 weeks now #destiel wedding #destiel #deancas #dean winchester #castiel #castiel winchester #destiel wedding fic #deancas wedding #supernatural wedding #spn #supernatural #supernatural family #happy destiel wedding day #spn wedding #saileen #destiel fanfic #spn fanfiction #supernatural fanfic

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whisperingrockers · 4 years

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would u. i dunno. perhaps articulate some thots on toh infinity train au 😳 if u can

HM. i will do my best. but...i dont really know how to organize my thoughts. i guess i should probably just start with the characters and go from there, huh. also in this particular au these characters don’t actually take the place of tulip, lake, jesse, grace, etc- i think they’re all just there under different circumstances.

Luz

okay so we’ll start with Luz because. she’s the main character, y’know. very important. i think the catalyst that brings her to the train is her mother signing her up for Reality Check summer camp because as a creative it’s just! disheartening to have someone you love tell you that you’re not going to make it in this world if you don’t conform to what everyone else wants. so of course when a huge mysterious locomotive suddenly pulls up to the bus stop you KNOW luz gets on, no hesitation. after all, isn’t that something right out of a sci-fi adventure novel?

unlike tulip, luz is THRILLED to find herself on some unknowable train where each car is a new adventure just waiting to happen, where there are always new friends to make, new places to see, and tons of puzzles to solve? she’s made to feel like the protagonist right out one of her fave animes.

also, really important to note that her number is probably tied to how she relates to the other passengers on the train. i feel like there’s an overarching theme in the show about how luz is going through a lot of firsts when it comes to interpersonal relationships, especially friendships, so i wanted to keep that going in this au- i imagine her number goes up when she finds her friends tapes and convinces them to watch with her because this is obviously the easiest and most straightforward way to get to know them! (luz poppin that bad boy into a vcr player: this mama is ready for trauma!)

realized how wordy this is going to be LOL

Eda

hough so this is a human au also (i assume? infinity train world really do be existing in some limbo state of reality where your reflection can just up and ditch you). i see her as a jack of all trades, master of none type, with a lean towards perfumes and handmade soaps that she sells at fairs or farmers markets and also pickpocketing. i think she sees something that reminds her of the life she used to have/would have had before lilith [redacted because i do not know what she DID yet but on GOD we will have canon continuity] and that drives her to get on the next train headed anywhere.

her number is tied to how much she allows herself to open up; the more she uses her salesman cover to keep others at arms length, the higher her number goes, which is why it’s so important for her to team up with King and Luz; they help her open up and be more honest with herself.

King

king is actually a denizen of the train in this au; i love him too much to turn him into a real ass dog, so i wont. eda meets him in a car full of plush toys, which he refers to lovingly as his army of the damned. i almost want to hold off on writing up any more for him because i know there’s more to king’s character than meets the eye. still torn between eda trying to bring him off the train with her or having him realize that the whole TRAIN is HIS KINGDOM, and all its passengers loyal peons who need their mighty rulers HELP, for without him they would PERISH.

for now though eda sees him and is immediately like get over here (reaching emoji)

Willow

willow is a tough one for me because in all honesty having your longtime friend tell you out of the blue that they can’t be friends with you anymore would be enough to send me packing to the train, but with willow i think it’s less about amity and more about how the fallout between them affects her social and academic success. the frustration reaches a tipping point that has her running out of the classroom and finding the train.

and yes, willow is a very sensible, bright girl, but she was also SO ready to trick the principle and steal from the emperor for her friend so i don’t think getting on a mystery train is wholly out of the question for her, y’know?

There’s a lot about repression in the way willow deals with things generally, so her number is tied to passivity. the more she allows others to infringe on her personal boundaries to keep them placated, the higher her number goes. when she stands up for herself to others (sometimes even her friends!) the number goes up. willow x agency and clear limitations is my otp

Gus

gus was actually a SUPER easy one for me we know so much about him from the episodes he’s been in; he’s an overachiever, he’s passionate about what he loves, he’s a natural showman, and he is constantly pushing himself to be the best that he can be, all the time. the hustle doesn’t STOP for gus, and i...i...(tears up)

anyways, i think the thing that draws him to the train is getting suddenly ousted from the club he formed at school. he’s young, and having everyone you had assumed were your friends turn their back on you and throw you out of the space that you CREATED FOR THEM would be shocking to anyone, but it broke gus’ heart clean in two. after he’d picked his bag and himself up off the hallway floor, he’d left the building in a daze, not even realizing as he boarded the train door that had suddenly opened up in front of him until it was too late.

i’m actually going to go so far as to say that gus would likely be the one MOST interested in the truth of the train- he’d be asking the tough questions, like what is the purpose of the train? who made it and its technology? where does it exist that it can be both at his school and also speeding across a barren desert landscape at the same time? How does it create sentient lifeforms? the train helps him discover a new passion; journalism. he finds a journal that speaks to him as a friend and advisor in one of the trains, and he takes careful note of everything that happens to and around him. by the time he meets up with willow, he’s got so many ideas and theories that the other girl would have never thought to consider until that very moment.

idk what his number relates to because he’s perfect the way he is but if i had to take a shot in the dark it probably has something to do with finding somewhere he feels he can belong, as well as being able to mourn and let go of the people he’d considered his friends before he’d gotten on the train.

sorry this is so long i just have a lot of . gus feelings.

Amity ( + Edric + Emira )

lumping these whites together

okay so nobody wants to hear me talk about blight angst there are 800 posts about blight angst, so long story short the three siblings run away, get into an argument with each other, amity ditches them for the train while they’re asleep, and the twins panic and chase after her, determined to find her because in the end they’re all they’ve got.

‘next stop: amity blight’

i think it’d be a cool journey to see the three of them going from ‘we need to be together out of necessity’ to ‘we need to be together because we love each other, and that genuine support structure will pull us through when everything else fails.’ but in order for that to happen they all have to have their own journey, so at some point edric and emira finally get into a spat and that’s enough to get edric and emira stuck on opposite ends of a retracting bridge. send that mans to the BACK of the train.

emira: my greatest fear is being stuck with edric forever emira: (gets separated from edric) emira: haha wait please say psyche

amity’s number is definitely tied to her fear of failure, of not being enough for the people she holds closest to her- in this case her siblings, and then lilith, and then luz when they finally meet. when she acts without concern for what the people around her think and when she sticks up for what she knows is right, even when the majority is against her, her number goes down.

for ed and em im...i don’t want to think about their feelings because they’re supposed to be clowns but i am forced to consider that they may be jealous of their sisters independence. also separating them means they both have to take responsibility for all their own actions and choices, which is probably pretty new for the twins.

Lilith

im out of energy actually znzzzsnsz uh. estranged sister who sees something that reminds her of the relationship she used to have and she’s not actually as over it as she thought so the train....she..hghrg

#toh #the owl house

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dylanhawth · 4 years

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[ LORENZO ZURZOLO, CISMAN, HE/HIM ] shh ! DYLAN HAWTHORNE, the TWENTY year old SECOND year ANTHROPOLOGY major from HARTFORD, CT is known as a TOURMALINE around here. HE was invited to join because HE PUBLISHED A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES ANONYMOUSLY THAT GARNERED A BIT OF FOLLOWING AND RECENTLY STEPPED FORWARD AS THE AUTHOR, and now, they’re here to stay. HE reminds me of THE NERVOUSNESS OF A FIRST KISS, LEAVING SECRET MESSAGES IN LIBRARY BOOKS, DRIVING AIMLESSLY WITH THE WINDOWS ROLLED DOWN ON A WARM SUMMER NIGHT WHILE THE RADIO HUMS A PLAYLIST CURATED FOR YOU BY YOUR BEST FRIEND.

[ big ass bio ] | [ connections ] | [ pinterest ] | [ playlist ]

ooc.

omfg hello. i can’t tell you how excited and happy i am to be here. i was too nervous to apply for the last three months but i decided to stop being a Coward and just try. im SO happy to be here, it’s the highlight of my week tbh lmao. anyway i am mar, she/her, 24, est. i live in nyc and all i do is visit the planetarium and cry. i’m so fucking bad at these so im just gonna LIST things and hope you get the vibe. i am a pisces sun, scorpio moon. i prob have a napoleon complex a little bit lmao. my favorite social media site is goodreads and i get rlly sad when my friends rate books i love poorly dfljskdfs. i can touch my tongue to my nose. i eat a lot of persimmons. i have a favorite rock at my local park that i visit a lot. idk dfskjls. i’m v friendly tho so pls hmu. i send a lot of memes, and love making meme edits for the chars so im rlly sorry in advance if you guys hate that.

01. basics.

NAME. dylan h. hawthorne. ALIASES. dyl, hawth. AGE. twenty. HOMETOWN. hartford, ct. GENDER. cismale. PRONOUNS. he/him.

02. appearance.

EYES. green. HAIR. brown. HEIGHT. 6”0 BUILD. lean. BIRTHMARKS / BURNS / SCARS. a birthmark the shape of australia on his left thigh. TATTOOS. n/a. PIERCINGS. n/a.

03. habits.

ALCOHOL ? socially. SMOKING ? socially. HABITS. fidgets in chairs. cracks knuckles and back often. nervous laughter. chewing on pencils. talking to his plants. dogearing books. staring off into space and applying chapstick for a prolonged period of time. getting overly competitive about boardgames. stress cleaning. carries a book in his bag always. night owl. incredibly impatient when the internet is slow. creature of habit when it comes to menus, orders the same shit over and over again. LIKES. feeding the ducks at the local pond. the smell of the earth after a rainstorm. the way music sounds coming from another room. kissing. watering his plants. inside jokes. making wishes in fountains. discussing a recently finished book with someone. making handmade cards for friends on their birthday. fireworks. coming of age films. packages wrapped in twine. jogs. the way friday nights feels when you’re with someone you love. the feeling you get leaving the movie theatre. DISLIKES. being late. having too many coins on him. coffee with no sugar. when people speak loudly in the library. doing laundry. handshakes with too much squeeze. receiving voicemails. untidiness. golf. charles dickens. lectures with no student input. hot weather. confrontation. being caught in a lie. losing his umbrella. people who cheat during games. rainboots. bad table manners. humidity.

04. personality.

MYERS-BRIGGS. infp. ENNEAGRAM. the helper. ZODIAC. pisces. TEMPERAMENT. melancholic. ALIGNMENT. neutral good. ARCHETYPE. the lover. POSITIVE. empathetic. sensitive. intelligent. charismatic. easygoing. gentle. loyal. passionate. romantic. humble. supportive. gregarious. playful. diligent. NEGATIVE. deceitful. gullible. finicky. naive. obsessive. perfectionistic. secretive. timid. possessive. weak-willed. indecisive. cynical. indulgent. summary: basically, dylan is a love starved, people pleasing nervous wreck. big ass nerd who wants to be everyones friend, wants to be liked SO BAD. very charming and charismatic, comes off as fairly confident and comfortable at first. is able to make everyone feel loved and like they’re the most important person in the world, however lacks a backbone. is both romeo and juliet, and just as dumb as both of them too.

05. hc’s.

dylan was a football player in high school, believe it or not. he was rather good at it too, which is sort of jarring considering his pacifistic nature. however, he DID land on someone incorrectly at some point during his senior year, and broke their wrist. he quickly abandoned the sport altogether because of how guilty he felt.

touched on this briefly but dylan really… loves indiana jones lmao. like, it’s quite ironic given his absolutely inability to be a badass, and lack of suaveness. however, he admires indy’s lust for adventure. he also was obsessed with the mummy as a kid. both of these were incredible sources in his very irrational decision to sudden anthropology. however, he does really love and admire anthropology. his favorite ethnography is the spirit catches you and you fall down, which makes him cry like a little bitch every time he even thinks about it.

he’s the second oldest, but he is also baby. he is SUCH a big momma’s boy. he misses his mom so much. he writes to her often, and of course calls her even more. despite being six-foot tall, he still goes home and rests his head on his mother's lap, falls asleep as she runs her fingers through his hair. he often tries to find native english plants and flowers to press, and mail back to his mother in the form of bookmarks. has nEVER STEPPED ON A CRACK IN HIS LIFE, BABY.

just leaves a shit ton of notes in books in the library. some are riddles, some are poetry, some are commentary on the book, some are doodles. just depends on how he’s feeling for that book. he doesn’t tell anyone he does it, but he’s waiting for someone to connect the dots with his handwriting and writing style.

speaking of plants, his room is basically a big greenhouse. he has so many plants, and takes serious care of them all. he has a little humidifier in his space for them, marks down when he waters what plants, and has a label maker to label them all with a name. they are all named after shakespeare characters.

dyl is a doodler, so much so that he contributes to the school paper as a cartoonist. his cartoons are usually just random thoughts he has, but sometimes they get political and he works marxism into them. (this man loves marx.)

[ suicide implied tw, death mention tw ] he dresses like a victorian boy in love with his roommate who has recently died of scarlet fever and in his mourning, plans to disappear in the bog by the school by mysterious circumstances and become a ghost that haunts the college with his lover. like lots of gray and slacks and ties ands ties and sweaters, lol. also he has glasses that he never wears because he can never find them! catch him squinting in your classroom because he can’t see SHIT. too shy to ask you for your notes though, doesn’t wanna inconvenience you! but when he’s Out on the Town®, he fucking wears like, tacky patterned shirts that are expensive but ugly. someone please help him.

all about fun socks! he loves owning socks that have dumb little images on them. if you get him a pair of fun socks, he’d absolutely go nuts. his entire week: made.

he leaves his roommate limericks when he senses they are sad. tapes em to the bathroom mirror or leaves them in the fridge. also loves buying people presents. tiny ones. like haunted looking things from second hand stores, or your favorite chocolate. also is the sort of friend that has EVERYTHING in his bag, in case someone cuts themselves or has a headache. can be a bit of a mom himself. it’s the little things, y’know?

prob still in his emo phase. listens to way too mcr to not be lmao.

eco-friendly king, will not stand for you not recycling.

if you will allow him, he will attempt to have a secret handshake with you. he’s a child. is dying for someone to memorize the parent trap handshake and indulge him.

cannot sit still in a chair. fidgets an excessive amount, the bobbing of his knee and the squirming around. it just never ends.

bi. that’s the hc.

he’s a little bit in love with everyone he meets if you couldn’t tell, and it’s fucking disastrous.

he is based loosely off: patroclus ( the song of achilles ), ponyboy curtis ( the outsiders ), laurie laurence ( little women ), eduardo saverin ( the social network ), remus lupin ( hp ), oliver marks ( if we were villains. )

( @opalsmedia )

#opalsintro #intro #his background and things are in the big ass bio dfsklds but this is the gist of it lol

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

Text

A Shadow of What You Used to Be (5)

Chapter 5: Lingering Grief | Cal Kestis x Irele Skywalker

Requested by Anon

Summary: There is another! Years after young Anakin Skywalker departed Tatooine, his mother Shmi delivers a second child—this time, a daughter. Whilst the circumstance of the girl’s birth remains unexplained, Irele Skywalker has yet to choose the true path between those laid out for her.

Tags: Fem! OC, Irele Skywalker, Force-sensitive! OC, Anakin’s Younger Sister, Skywalker! OC, Darth Vader’s Secret Apprentice, Long-lost Sibling

Also in AO3

Chapters: Prelude – 1 – 2 – 3 | Previous: Part 4 | Next: Part 6 | Masterlist

6 of ?

“I love… Love…” Shmi choked before she succumbed to death, never able to complete the simplest yet most important of phrases.

Anakin’s shaky fingers closed his mother’s eyes. The pang of grief was quickly overtaken by an unquenchable vengeance.

A heavy, ominous darkness blankets the Tusken encampment. The guards outside Shmi’s tent barely had a reaction time to the ignition of Anakin’s lightsaber; when they had turned around after the flaps of the tent hit their sleeve, they were cut down without the hesitation of a moment.

Alarmed by the attack, the Tuskens untied their massiffs—their reptilian guard dogs—and unleashed those hounds on Anakin, before advancing to attack the intruding Jedi themselves. The rage and grief seething within him was weaponized, it had amplified his swordsmanship; however, it made his movements raggedy, uncalculated, and unbecoming of his practiced lightsaber form. He planted his feet on the ground while he kept his eyes straight on the enemy. Or were they at all?

One after another, the Tuskens came at him—cycler rifles and staves brandished in the air—and were instantaneously felled, not even allowed to have a swing of their own weapons. One of them alerted the snipers who were in the perimeter of the encampment, supposedly on patrol; many of them went for the encampment, attempting to give support in the skirmish, but they were quickly losing—despite outnumbering the Jedi to fifty or so.

When push comes to shove, a number of the females braved and took up arm to fight off this murderous trespasser—who’s cutting them by the numbers. In their native tongue, they urged one another to join the ranks and charge. The women joined the fray, amongst the males, while some other females—particularly mothers—scurried with their young into their tents for safety. Now, the latter caught Anakin’s attention.

Anakin cut through the Tuskens’ defenses, man and woman alike, and sliced down the mothers first then their children next, sometimes the other way around. The wounded but living mothers howled in the night, carrying their children—grown and newborn—sorrowfully wailing, praying to their deities to deliver them mercy from this agony. And that exact deliverance came in the form of a blinding blue beam of light. However, their granted prayers were not of mercy, but of an unquenchable hatred, more like a punishment—from a certain point of view.

But then again, does the way of death matter?

He proceeded to finish off the stragglers, many of them fatally injured and are just scrambling on the sand with one hand extended in a pleading gesture. In their eyes, Anakin appeared to them like an executioner—with the campfire at his back, tracing his unhooded silhouette, and a cyan beam illuminating his distorted features. That was the final thing they ever saw before their bodies met the lightsaber, a noble weapon now used for an atrocious annihilation.

That night, Anakin never discriminated. He killed not only the men, but the women, and the children, too. He left nothing in his wake but death and destruction.

–

In the middle of it all, a chill wraps around Irele over her shoulders. She thought it strange, it’s only the first few hours of nightfall—where it’s usually warm at that time of the day and the cold gradually creeps in. The cold was dramatically different from the desert breeze at dusk. It crawled along her arms, then snaked over her spine and the small of her back, forcing her to pause from her pastime of creating beaded and woven crafts—a hobby she picked up from Shmi.

“What’s wrong, Irele?” asked Beru, mending a scarf in the common room.

“Is it just me or has it gotten unusually colder?”

Beru’s eyes flicked to the side, paused to feel a draft, and then shrugged. She was wearing a short-sleeved tunic paired with her long skirt. She would have felt the same as Irele, but she didn’t. When the older girl noted the uneasiness in Irele’s expression, she stood up and patted her forehead.

“Are you alright, Irele? You don’t seem to have a fever.”

“No, but I guess it was just a funny feeling. Maybe heatstroke.”

“Irele, we’re all too used to the heat here to get a heatstroke,” Beru chuckled. “If any, we’d get one if we were in a volcanic planet!”

The girls shared a chuckle with the lighthearted joke, which may have distracted Irele for a bit until she eventually dismissed it as indeed a funny feeling, but only for a second.

She had been waiting for Anakin—along with their mother—to come home, but given that they lack the whereabouts of this Tusken band, she though perhaps he had asked the locals along the way, like Jawas and vagabonds. When the hours have passed, the night had grown darker, Irele had no choice but to sleep on it.

In her bed, the cold persisted. She pulled up her blanket—her favorite one for it was handmade by her mother—until it covered her up to her nose, exposing her only from the eyes up. She tried closing her eyes, but her lids twitched, begging to be opened. Lying flat on her back, facing the ceiling, staring at the stone ceiling, she wondered and imagined where Anakin and Shmi would be.

“Mom… I hope he brings you home safely.”

More thoughts coaxed into Irele’s mind. They’re hopeful thoughts. Behind her eyes, she’d visualize Shmi in the kitchen, whipping up a favorite meal of hers, and she’d insist on helping. Both of them would sew together, making whatever garment they choose. All that wishful thinking lulled the girl to sleep, blissfully unaware of the chaos that her own brother had wrought.

The next morning, the sound of the speeder made Irele drop everything and run to the porch.

Her hopes from last night were shattered when she saw Anakin riding the speeder alone and all he brought with him was a fully swaddled body. Her felt her heart drop her stomach, and she watched in silence as Anakin carried the corpse and glowered at the Lars family and then to Padmé. He brushed past them, and then in the corner of his eye, he caught his little sister staring. Irele standing there stopped him in his tracks, then his glower softened into a look of shame—one that says he didn’t fulfill his promise to her. Just one day of meeting her, he lets go of a promise, and fails it.

He didn’t know what to say to her. She let him know that he didn’t need to, for she turned tail and ran back inside.

Irele helped in the preparation of the grave, but for the rest of the activity, she did not speak. She did not maintain eye contact with anyone. The only interaction she’s ever had was with C3PO when she needed help on something, but not even he received a gaze from his young mistress.

She dusted her hands together, and dismissed herself.

“I’m going inside. I want a drink.” she told to no one in particular, but her father and brothers acknowledged it.

She was in the kitchen, just through the small doorway past the dining table, helping herself to a glass of juice. She sat in the seat nearest the door and just stared at the glass filled with a clear, apricot-colored liquid, tracing the rim of the glass with her finger, occasionally sipping it—for once, the sweet fruit juice tasted watery and bland, she finished the glass nonetheless, though reluctantly.

During her drinking, she had sensed Anakin walking into the workshop as she heard even the more careful of clinking of metal hitting the table. She remained silent, though he could sense her there, he just chose not to disturb her and rather make himself busy with fixing things. Next, she heard Padmé’s soft and kindly voice, a stark contrast to Anakin’s steely tone.

“Are you hungry?”

“The shifter broke,” he completely avoided her question.

Their conversation went on, with Anakin struggling to keep away from the grief that lingered in him.

“But I couldn’t…” he trailed. “Why’d she have to die? Why couldn’t I save her? I know I could have!”

Then he tasted something sour, not realizing that he had bitten the inside of his cheek and it bled. The walls listened and told everything to Irele, who’s still drawing invisible lines on her glass. Much later, she jolted when Anakin responded to Padmé’s fact with a loud frustration.

“Well, I should be!”

“I will be the most powerful Jedi ever!”

Irele continued to listen in, though Anakin’s behavior frightened her, and she had already come out of the dining room and hid behind the wall before the workshop’s archway.

“And I promise you: I will even learn to stop people from dying!”

Taken aback by the bold claim, she thought it impossible and dismissed it as wishful thinking clouded by unrealistic ambitiousness. Again, Irele heard more of Anakin’s roaring, this time blaming someone by the name of Obi-Wan of holding him back. She just continued to listen, hoping to find a way to empathize with her brother, but she found it difficult when he’s so flooded primarily of hatred and anger than sorrow and grief.

“Ani, what’s wrong?” Padmé cooed, attempting to break through his walls.

Anakin looked down on his hands, the very hands that held and swung the sword as he passed on his sentence to the Tuskens. They’re still red from the overly-tightened grip of his saber from last night. There were bruises too, little nicks that he didn’t notice during the genocide. The tears have dried, leaving glossy streaks on his defined cheekbones. His nostrils flared as he gasped for air, when the realization was slowly creeping up to him. He choked as he sighed.

“I killed them… I killed them all…” he repeated. Then swung to face Padmé. “They’re dead. Every single one of them…”

Padmé stared at him, dead frozen on where she stood. Her fingers unfeeling. Irele heard those very words from her own brother’s mouth and she could have sworn she felt her heart pause from beating. Her stomach tightened after every following word.

“And not just the men. But the women… and the children too!”

Irele’s knees nearly failed her as they lost their strength. Her heart felt heavy like an anchor. She silenced a gasp when she brought her hand to her mouth.

“They’re like animals. And I slaughtered them like animals! I hate them!”

Horrified of the unimaginable, completely unnecessary carnage her brother had wrought, she ran away from the workshop; the sound of her boots lightly scraping against the sand and metal as her heels sprang Anakin’s ears pricked up, but he was too preoccupied with his grief that he dismissed it as nothing. Irele sprints to her bedroom. For a moment, it didn’t sound like her brother was the one talking—she heard the words of a monster in the guise of a man.

Her hands trembled uncontrollably that she cannot even hold something with two fingers. She finally allowed herself to melt to the floor, and she cannot fathom how much violence and damage that Anakin left in his wake upon retrieving their mother. That night, Irele could not sleep; she waited for everyone to have fallen asleep and attempted to sneak out of the house to visit Shmi’s headstone again. They had buried Shmi already, Irele helped too, but Cliegg was too cautious of the nightfall that he insisted on setting the funeral tomorrow morning where it’s safer; of course, his son and stepdaughter agreed to it, Anakin didn’t have much of a choice. He stole a glimpse of Irele, who kept her vision forward; when she would turn to an angle where she’d have to face Anakin she kept her eyes on the ground, and would look in front when she’s gained distance from everyone else.

She and her own biological brother lack the comfort and warmth as siblings would share—especially in such a harrowing experience like losing a parent.

She’d rather prefer the comfort of a stone.

Settling herself on the sand, her handwoven scarf—made by her mother, no less—wrapping her little body from her desert chill, she spoke to Shmi’s headstone.

“Hi, Mom…” she sadly started. Unable to find the next, proper words, she had a silent moment in front of the grave, and rocked back and forth for a bit. “He’s quite taller than I expected. Though, I should’ve seen it coming. He is my big brother, after all.” She huffed out an awkward chuckle.

She scribbled on the sand and then would start over by brushing it with a single sweep of her hand. This would repeat as she spoke openly to the gravestone. For every passing moment, the tone of her voice would grow more somber and quieter, lacking the strength to let out another word than simply letting it go and cry.

“You know, he told me that he’d bring you home—but I never expected it to be in this way.”

There was a bitter taste in her mouth, she clicked her tongue, “He promised.”

No answer, of course. Nevertheless, the girl continued. Already yearning for her mother’s embrace.

“Had I known… I already had that feeling…! I should’ve come with you. I may be little but… You never doubted me. Thanks to that, I knew—I really knew—that I could fight them off, even for just a bit. If I did, I would have protected you. Then they never would have taken you away from me. I would have bought us time to escape… I would have called Dad and Owen—or anyone—for help.”

She hiccuped, picking up what’s left of her failing confidence, “I would have saved you.”

That wishful thinking then led her to finally releasing the tears she had been holding back all day.

“I miss you so much already, Mommy…”

Not even the warmth of her woven scarf blanketing her would be enough of a stand-in for Shmi’s hugs. It will never be. Being the only memory of her mother, it’s only a fragment of what Irele will remember of her.

She went to sleep quite late, understandably so.

–

The morning of the funeral, as promised, occurred. Cliegg gave his eulogy first, Irele had her turn on her eulogy next—she had not much to say, for she had already said everything in private last night—though she cannot be moved from where she knelt, then Anakin got on his knees right next to her.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to save you, Mom, and I hope you can forgive me too, for breaking my promise to my sister.”

Irele craned her head to her side but quickly withdrew it, facing the grave again.

The funeral was interrupted when the white and blue astromech droid R2D2 came to bear news. Padmé and Anakin prepared to retreat to the silver starship meters away from the homestead.

“Come with me,” Anakin whispered, he sounded demanding even in a low voice.

Irele attempted to harden her voice, to convey the conviction of her decision, “My place is here, Anakin. Like it or not, they’re my family. I can’t leave them.”

Anakin’s head bobbed downwards, and then the unexpected happened—in an attempt to comfort one another, both Irele and Anakin planted their hands on each other’s shoulders; he gave her small shoulder a tight squeeze, hers was gentle and somewhat faltering as if the toll of Shmi’s death has only begun to sink into her.

“May the Force be with you.” bid Anakin.

She didn’t know what to say back and simply watched her brother sprint towards the ship.

The Cliegg family watched the starship blow a plume of smoke underneath its landing gear, hovered, and then darted through the sky before vanishing like star come morning light.

For Irele, it’s back to her regular life here in Tatooine. Where she belongs.

Or so she thinks.

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charlottemadison42 · 4 years

Text

Timepiece

A new short story on AO3, 2.3k words, rated G, dedicated to the very dear @musegnome!

----

Crowley got a new watch at least once a year.

He liked them sharp and cutting-edge, bespoke and exclusive and expensive. By the time anyone else heard of the craftsman or the brand, he was ready to cast it off and find something better. From the first decorative clunkers of the early 1500's to the quartz revolution, he was always up to speed on the best of the best. Connoisseurs in Geneva and Tokyo and Dubai kept a lookout on his behalf these days. When they called, doubtless raving about a new mechanism or a new maker, he always picked up.

He didn't think about why he liked watches. If anyone had ever asked Crowley (nobody did) he'd have shrugged. His corvid instinct to collect shiny status markers was reason enough.

(And if every skip of the second hand offered proof of his progress away from the fourteenth century -- one step farther from Golgotha, farther from the flood, farther from the Fall -- that thought was seldom admitted entry to the fortress of his mind. Crowley looked forward, not back.)

Aziraphale had owned a total of four watches in his life thus far.

He liked the kind of timepiece that required winding by hand, with a little key, although he often forgot to. Luckily when he needed to know the exact time, his watch obliged him anyway.

It was conceivable that Aziraphale enjoyed the sensation of suddenly remembering, "Oh! I forgot to wind my pocketwatch!" because he delighted in having some small duty to do, a simple task at which he could not fail, a way he could help the world tick along.

For -- what was a mechanical pocketwatch, if not an elegant dynamic sculpture of the universe as humans experienced it? Aziraphale waxed philosophical about such things in the comfort of his favorite reading chair, while he smoothed the shiny etched surface with his thumb til he knew every groove. He meditated often and fondly about his watch as a Metaphor for Things.

(But the angel never asked where it might be leading him. Aziraphale looked over his shoulder at history with a loving melancholy sigh, watchfully guarding over the sum of human experience. But he did not look ahead. He hated endings.)

+++

Warlock Dowling went through an especially rambunctious phase at age six. He was old enough that his parents' neglect was starting to emerge from the background of his young reality into a Phenomenon that he Noticed. And the more Warlock Noticed it, the more he Did Not Like it, and he took it out on everyone within reach.

Nanny Ashtoreth's attempts to dress him resulted in arching and kicking and flailing fists. Brother Francis's nature walks ended with tantrums in the dirt. Warlock began to enjoy ruining things when he learned that he could: tearing up his own drawings, ripping leaves off the tulips and ferns, pouring grape juice on white linens, breaking toys. It made him feel powerful.

"Hell could learn a thing or two from this one," Crowley muttered.

"I expect they're going to, since he'll be running the show if we fail to do something about this," Aziraphale snapped in reply.

Neither angel nor demon had been prepared for the inexhaustible physical frenzy of an outraged six-year-old Antichrist.

But when Warlock finally smashed Aziraphale's pocketwatch on a paving stone in a fit of rage, the poor child broke through something else, too.

Warlock stared at the pieces of glass and the crushed face on the ground, at the minute hand all bent out of shape. He looked up at Brother Francis. He looked at Nanny, running across the lawn toward them.

And he started bawling. ...

[Click through to read more or finish on AO3]

Warlock knew that watch was special. He knew it was very old and delicate. In fact, the watch was the reason he'd learned the definitions of "fragile" and "breakable" and "irreplaceable." Once he had command of those words, he'd been allowed to hold it while seated on Brother Francis's lap. He'd even learned how to wind it, awestruck by the action and the shine. He always included the watch when he drew pictures of Brother Francis, attached by a chain of lumpy circles to the pocket of his baggy trousers.

Now the fragile breakable irreplaceable thing lay in pieces on the garden path.

Aziraphale was terrible at hiding his feelings. He was shocked and saddened, and it showed all over his face, though he did his best to suppress it. Every time Warlock looked up at him, the child cried harder.

Aziraphale was rapidly realizing that if he miracled his watch back together, even discreetly, Warlock was old enough that he would notice its reappearance. Warlock noticed everything. So the watch would have to stay at home, unworn, for several years at least -- perhaps until the end of the world. It had survived the Blitz, the trenches, the Seven Years' War, the Crimean War, and a number of unfortunate dining mishaps (though it was perhaps helped along by a few frivolous miracles). Aziraphale had not gone without it since he purchased it from the watchmaker himself back in 1689, in a dim workshop on the outskirts of Zürich. The angel felt some epoch ending. Endings made him sad. Especially these days, when they reminded him of The End.

But Crowley was there; of course Crowley was there. She scooped Warlock up in her arms even though he was getting big for that. She held him tight as he sobbed.

"Here's a how-de-do," she groaned, assessing the situation.

Aziraphale had been crouched over the ruined watch for so long now that his knees were stiff. He stood up and sighed heavily. "I suppose it's...it's only a watch," he said, dispirited. "I shouldn't grow so attached to worldly goods. ...And it's an opportunity to teach compassion, model forgiveness, and discuss respect for others' things, as well." He was letting the accent slip in his sadness, but Warlock was as far from paying attention as he could be.

"He's six! He can't track all that!" huffed Crowley.

"Well he's certainly tracking the bit about crushing the world under his heel!"

"Nnnnnrrrrrrgh," Crowley snarled in frustration. She was caught between her mandate to teach Warlock to be fantastically evil and her fear that succeeding would bring about the end of the world.

In the end, though, Warlock surprised them both by doing something entirely human, entirely his own. He cried himself out for several minutes on the lawn, and once he could speak again, he asked Aziraphale:

"Brother Francis, why did I do that?"

Then he looked to his Nanny, silently repeating the question to her with his bleary eyes.

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at one another, blinking.

"Um," said Crowley.

"...Why d'you think ye did, me lad?" asked Aziraphale, retreating from his hurt feelings into his ridiculous bucktoothed persona.

Warlock sniffed. "I don't know. I din't think it would feel like that." He squatted and poked the exposed paper of the clock face.

Crowley knelt down next to him. "Can you put it back together?" she asked.

"No."

"So what do you think you should do now?"

"Nnnno!"

"That's not even...nngh." Crowley looked helplessly to the angel. But they were both at a loss.

"Can we go inside?" Warlock finally pleaded.

And so they did. As Nanny and Warlock walked away, Crowley restored the pocketwatch with a snap of her fingers without even looking back. It was good as new once again.

But Aziraphale knew that its time had come. He picked it up, enjoying the way it fit just so in his palm -- the comfort of a handful of crystallized time -- and then he clicked it shut and sent it back home to the bookshop, where it would have to stay for now.

That evening, just before supper, Warlock showed up on the porch of the greenhouse with Nanny in tow. His little face was wrinkled up in concern and contrition and other Very Grown-Up Feelings as he presented Brother Francis with a card. It featured a colored pencil drawing of all three of them holding hands, and yellow triangles on the ground to represent the afternoon's event. The unsteady lettering inside read "soRRY for yuor wAtch From wARLock."

"I made you this," said Warlock, and he handed over the most awkward little handcrafted project. It was roughly disc-shaped, and it featured play-doh, pipe cleaners, and glitter glue. The face was sharpied directly onto the half-dried crumbling clay, and the chain was made of taped rings of construction paper.

It plucked every heartstring the angel had. He melted on the spot.

Crowley rolled her eyes as Aziraphale poured out fond words of thanks for his new watch and forgiveness for the old one, embracing Warlock between tearful phrases. But Crowley also had her least cruel smirk on, the one that was very nearly affectionate.

Before they left, Crowley also noted in a low voice that there had been no more trouble with kicking and screaming and tearing up houseplants today. Warlock had been upset twice, but had managed to calm himself down without help both times.

After she took Warlock away, Aziraphale tried to miracle protection over his new handmade treasure so that the play-doh wouldn't crumble and the paper wouldn't crush -- only to find that Crowley had already done so.

+++

Two nights later, on a crosstown bus bound for Soho, Aziraphale noticed that the lanky redheaded passenger in front of him happened to leave behind a small shopping bag when he disembarked. Aziraphale folded up his newspaper and slipped into the empty seat to take a closer look. Inside was a wooden box wrapped in plain black paper. It was marked "AZ" in black ink that was only detectable by its slightly more reflective shine.

Aziraphale opened it right there, and of course, of course it was a new pocketwatch. From Crowley. Crowley knew watches. And Crowley knew Aziraphale.

It was hard to date this one exactly, but he estimated the 1820's, and English-made; it was thin and modern and elegant, much lighter than the other. It was in excellent condition, although pleasantly worn with time. He spent the rest of the bus ride home admiring it, listening to it, growing familiar with the new face, wondering who it might have belonged to before. When he reached his stop, he slipped it into the waistcoat pocket meant for the purpose, and he felt like a new angel.

Gifts. How strange. A gift from Warlock, and a gift from Crowley. Gifts of time, restored.

Perhaps there was still time enough before the end of the world. Perhaps there might be time, after.

Aziraphale set the new pocketwatch down on his desk back at the bookshop, right next to his old favorite of several hundred years and his handcrafted masterpiece from Warlock. He had never thought to own more than one pocketwatch at a time. Now he had three.

He picked up the telephone to call the responsible party and offer sincerest thanks, but after some dithering, he decided not to. Crowley hated thanks. Crowley could even be endangered by thanks, if the two of them weren't careful.

Perhaps, instead, Brother Francis could show the new timepiece to Warlock and Nanny in the morning. He could explain how precious this watch was, since it was a gift from a friend. He could say that breaking something irreplaceable was sad, but it was not the end, not as long as the world spun on. He could talk about the way new things follow old ones -- and though the new things might be different, they could be lovely too. New things were worth holding out hope for, and worth learning to treasure, given time.

And after explaining all of that to Warlock, he could give Crowley a wink.

Which would communicate his thanks for the gift far better than any phone call.

+++

Over the next few years, Crowley found himself browsing for new wristwatches more and more often in his spare time. He bought them at a faster clip, too -- three in the year Warlock turned seven, six the year after that. Each was sturdier than the last, made to withstand impacts and temperatures and pressure that no watch was likely to encounter in the wild. But Crowley could feel the world running down, he could see the future he looked forward to contracting into nothing, and he burned with protective instincts as everything in him rebelled.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale spent more and more time with his books, especially history and memoirs. As he looked back over the story of humanity that he loved, the story he'd spent so much time recording and remembering, he felt it all spinning up to something awful indeed: The End. When Warlock turned nine, Aziraphale turned to his books of prophecy, feeling no small amount of distress. Looking ahead was painful for him, especially now. The future was unsafe, it was wild, it was ineffable, and unfortunately it looked to be very very short. Aziraphale did not forget to wind his pocketwatch anymore. It was a tool now more than a treasure, as The End drew near. It seemed important to remember what time it was, these days.

+++

As it happened, Aziraphale almost didn't notice when his fourth watch joined the collection.

In his defense, it was rather a busy day.

And since the new pocketwatch was identical to the one that Crowley had given him, down to the last molecule, it was unsurprising that making the connection took the angel a little time.

But some weeks after the End of All Things didn’t quite, Aziraphale realized that the watch in his waistcoat pocket was a gift as well. And this time it wasn't from Crowley.

When the thought occurred to him, sitting in his favorite chair in his restored bookshop, Aziraphale gasped faintly and set aside his well-worn copy of Now We Are Six. He had been revisiting children's literature lately for some reason. The Just William books had set him on a roll.

"Crowley, dear," he said.

"Nnnnghm?" Crowley hummed from the couch, where he sprawled limbless and relaxed as a squashed spider might if it were sort of into being squashed.

"We really ought to go and visit Tadfield sometime soon, don't you think?"

"Ngk."

"I have a great deal to thank Adam for, after all. And we should check in on everyone."

"Mmf."

Aziraphale palmed the fourth watch he had ever owned and ran his thumb over the back. "Do you think a wristwatch would be an appropriate belated birthday gift for someone Adam's age?" he asked absently.

Crowley windmilled himself up off the couch and sauntered over to give Aziraphale a peck on the cheek. "Hell if I know. Prob'ly. Maybe. More tea?"

"Yes, it's about that time, isn't it? Thank you, darling. Ever so."

#good omens #promptposal #aziraphale and crowley #aziraphale #crowley #fanfic #ao3 #crowley's ridiculous deep sea diving watch was one of many #warlock #nanny ashtoreth #brother francis #good omens anniversary

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storiesforallfandoms · 5 years

Text

rescue mission ~ harley quinn;suicide squad

word count: 1576

request?: no

description: after the tragic death of joker, he entrusts one person to break his queen out of prison

pairing: harley quinn x female!reader

warnings: swearing

masterlist

Harley was sat innocently in her cell, reading a book and sipping her cappuccino, when the explosion went off. A group of people dressed in suits and masked swarmed her cell as she scrambled to the back, confused as to what was happening.

One figure led the pack. Their sites set on Harley as a female voice said, “Harley Quinn! Come with us!”

“No way!” Harley snapped. “Who the hell are you guys?!”

“We worked for J,” the woman responded. It was all she needed to say. Harley stood excitedly and followed the woman out of her cell and into a large truck. To the others, she demanded, “If anyone comes after us make sure you stop them! You heard the boss, Harley goes free no matter what, no one gets her but us!”

The men nodded and the doors to the truck slammed shut. The driver stepped on the gas and sped away from the prison. Harley watched as the prison guards came running out to see what was going on, only to be mowed down by Joker’s men.

Beside her, her unfamiliar saviour took off her mask. She was a young woman, around Harley’s age, and Harley couldn’t remember ever seeing her. Suddenly, her jealousy kicked in and she crossed her arms. “How did you say you knew Mista J again?”

“I’m (Y/N), I worked for him,” the woman responded. “Head of security at his club, head of operations when it came to his missions. He left this last one with me: free Harley no matter what the cost.”

Harley’s arms and face fell. “Wait, last one? So...so Mista J is really...”

(Y/N) sighed and nodded solemnly. “Unfortunately so. Waller got the one up on us, we didn’t see her attack coming. We hoped there was a chance but...” She trailed off, sparing Harley the gory details.

Harley stared out through the windshield, letting the news sink in. Of course, she had said goodbye to any chances of getting the Joker back when she helped kill the Enchantress. But when these people broke into her cell to save her, and told her they worked with the Joker, she had a tiny sliver of hope that meant he had lived.

She stayed silent for a long time, unable to speak. She was sure she’d start crying at any moment. She bit her lip to keep the tears away.

“Where are you taking me?” she finally asked.

“To J’s old hiding place,” (Y/N) explained. “We have your stuff there. When we get there, you can decide what your next plan of action is.”

Harley nodded. The rest of the drive was quiet as Harley looked out the window and tried not to cry.

They arrived to the old hideout soon enough, and the minute that the truck came to a stop Harley jumped out and walked away from her saviors. She looked around the hideout, all the memories of her and her lover running through her mind. She still couldn’t grasp the fact that Joker was gone forever. She was just wishing that this was all a bad dream and she’d wake up soon with her lover still here.

Her rescue team entered just after her, with (Y/N) leading the pack. Harley glared at her. She knew she had no reason to be so upset with this woman, after all she had saved Harley’s life, but something about her made Harley annoyed. She just wanted to ring this bitch’s neck, but she wasn’t sure if even that would cheer her up.

“Where’s my shit?” she demanded. “I want to leave this hell hole.”

“We have it all in your old room here,” (Y/N) explained. “We can equip you with whatever you need to get out of here.”

Leaving was her current plan, although she really didn't know where to do. She had been following the Joker for so long, she really didn’t know how to exist without him anymore. There was no way she could leave the hideout and be “normal”. Normal just wasn’t an option for her, it never would be again. Her only option was to keep running and hiding.

“I don’t wanna leave yet,” she shrugged. “I need to figure out my plan. And then I’m gone.”

“You can stay as long as you want. Follow me, I’ll show you to your room.”

“I know where the room is,” Harley hissed. (Y/N) smiled and shrugged, which pissed Harley off more. She glared at (Y/N) as she walked away, taking the familiar route to the room she once shared with Joker.

Walking into the room filled with their memories was bittersweet. Harley was happy to be back and to no longer be in prison, or under the thumb of Amanda Waller, but being there without the Joker felt wrong.

On the bed was Harley’s clothes from her mission with the Suicide Squad, including her handmade “Puddin” choker. She picked up the choker and held it close to her heart. She also picked up the only picture in the room, a picture of her and the Joker fleeing from a crime scene that she had taken from a newspaper and framed; the only picture of them together.

Harley looked at the picture for a long time, still clutching the choker against her heart. She didn’t realize she was crying until her vision completely blurred and her tears started hitting the picture. She sat down on the bed, still looking at the picture. She didn’t want to ever look away. She wanted to climb into the picture and be with her one and only again, forever.

~~~~~~

Hours passed, although it could’ve been days as far as Harley knew. She was still sat on the bed, not staring at the ceiling. There was no indication of time in the room, but it sure did feel like a long time.

A knock came on the door. Harley debated on telling the person to go away, but she didn’t have the energy to even do that. The person on the other side took Harley’s silence as an invitation to come in. (Y/N) stood in the doorway, holding a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“You want some wine?” she asked.

Harley sat up quickly and responded, “Fuck yes.”

(Y/N) chuckled and entered the room. She poured up two glasses and offered one to Harley. In one gulp, she downed the wine and offered her glass back to (Y/N).

“Slow down there,” (Y/N) laughed. “We have to make this bottle last, it’s the only one we have.”

“My life fucking sucks, I wanna get drunk,” Harley declared.

“You seem to have a pretty good life,” (Y/N) noted. “You know, despite being a criminal on the run. You caught the attention of a pretty powerful man. Even after he’s gone you’re guaranteed protection for life.”

“He tricked me into thinking he loved me so I’d help him escape, drove me to insanity, then left me to be captured by the stupid Bat. Among other things. He only loved my devotion to him, and now he’s dead.”

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you so upset over his death?”

Tears pricked Harley’s eyes again as she responded, “Because I don’t know hoe to exist without him!”

She wrapped her arms around (Y/N) and buried her head in her shoulder. (Y/N) awkwardly patted Harley's shoulder, unsure as to what to say or do. Luckily, Harley continued speaking before (Y/N) could.

“Ever since Arkham Asylum, I’ve followed Mista J. I’ve done everything he’s ever told me to. The only time I haven’t was when I was forced to fight that witchy bitch, and even then I was told what to do. I don’t know how to exist on my own!”

(Y/N) took hold of Harley’s shoulders and pushed her away. Harley looked at her, confused.

“You do know how to exist,” (Y/N) told her. “You did it before the Joker, and you’ll be able to do it again now that he’s gone.”

“I don’t think I can,” Harley responded.

“That’s the part that J manipulated in you, the part that would make you stay with him, but you are so much more than the Joker’s pet. You just have to get out there, leave all this behind, leave the Joker behind, and start a new life.”

Harley was stunned. This was the first time someone had ever given her a choice, to let her truly decide what she wanted to do. There were so many possibilities, so much she could do with her new found freedom.

She looked up at (Y/N) with wide eyes. “Will you come with me?”

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow at the question. “Really? You didn’t seem to like me very much earlier.”

“You’re the only person who’s told me I could be independent, who has made me think maybe I could be. I need someone to help me start a new life, I want you to help me.”

(Y/N) smiled and took Harley’s hand in hers. “I can’t leave right now. I have some lose ends to tie up for J.” Harley’s face fell. “But, when all that is finished, I promise I’ll come find you.”

Harley’s face lit up with excitement and (Y/N) giggled when Harley lunged at her, wrapping her in a tight hug.

#Harley quinn #Harley quinn imagine #Harley quinn x reader #margot robbie #margot Robbie imagine #margot Robbie x reader #suicide squad #the emanciption of harley quinn #imagine #one shot

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christineeej94 · 4 years

Text

Extremely❤Part three

a/n:tell me if you want to make other parts to ‘Extremely’. I hope you gonna love it. I cry so much writing this part. Kisses🌻

Warnings: bad language.

Word count: 1.960

“My dear, Arón Julio Manuel Piper Barbero aka my love of my life

I´m writing this to you with a heavy heart and tears in my eyes. It´s like a love letter, don´t get it like a break up note, please. I let you in the envelop the first reason I left and that´s our baby. Yes, it´s sound unimaginable, me and you having a kid at this young age. I don´t want to give up on this pregnancy and kept the baby, I am sure that you will be happy when you gonna read this. I left you because you weren’t no more in my life and it still hurts so bad. I lost my nights thinking when you were, if you are safe or if you ate something. I’ve seen signs that you came home but I couldn’t feel your warm body next to mine. Your bed side was cold and empty like my soul in this moment. I don’t know what cause this breaking in our relationship but sometimes we shouldn’t think at those things. I going to raise our child by myself and when I’m going to be ready maybe I’m going to presented to his father.

I love you more and I hate you more,

(Y/N) aka your love of your life”

I memorated my letter to him and I repeat it in my mind every morning. His memories don’t let me sleep at all and I still can feel his touches. It’s a month from that moment when I let everything behind me and I left. My soul broke in millions of pieces and I can’t repair it until I found my happiness again.

I’m living in a village by the ocean, near to Valencia and I like it here and it gives me quietness. My bump grows a little and it’s barely noticeable. I’m starting wear large clothes and eating healthier. Today I’m going to buy something for my little apartment and usually I do my shopping at the local market. I love to go there and talk with merchants and some people I met when I moved here. About a week ago I met a lovely couple, of age with my parents, and weirdly they look kinda familiar. I waved to the curly head lady and I went closer to her. Today she is alone and she already done her groceries.

“Hello, what a beautiful day.” She greets me and I salute her back. “And the little one grows day by day.” Her hands rub my little belly and I giggle. She has a gentle touch and she reminds me of Arón. “Yeah, she is growing fast.” I said melancholic. “She? You think it’s a girl?” the lady said and we are going together to a handmade store. “I feel it. I feel that the baby inside me is a girl. A little baby girl Piper.” I said sadly and the woman next to me stairs at my face for a second. “You didn’t tell me why you come here alone. What happened?”

I smiled softly. ”My boyfriend forgot about me and he starting to spend his night out too much. He sporadically came home at a decent hour. I didn’t feel his love that much.” I explain and the woman approve smiling sad. “Maybe in the future you are going to forgive him.” Her voice is soft and calm.

I looked at her and a lot of memories come in my mind. Our first kiss, when we first slept together, when I met him on that yacht. And I realized how much I still love him. “I already forgot him. Because I love him, but that’s doesn’t mean that I’m going back to him. He needs to learn his lesson and if he cheated on me, I’m not coming back at all.” I replied and a tear fall on my cheek. “Don’t cry, hermosa, everything is going to be okay.” She hugged me and I hugged her tight. I miss him so much and my soul hurts so bad because I want to jump in the first train to Madrid and go back to him. I want to squeeze him in my arms and I want to tell him that I LOVE HIM. “Saturday come to our house and let’s have lunch together. What do you think?” “Sure, I’ll be there.” I hugged her again and I continue to shop what I need.

After the shopping, I got home save but very tired. This pregnancy is already giving me tiredness and I’m feeling very weak. I open my phone and I called Ester. She is the only person who I keep in touch. Besides my parents who don’t know about my baby. I appeal her and after the third tone she answered.

“Hey, chica, what my niece is doing?” I laugh. Ester thinks that my baby is a girl too. “She alright, got me tired” I said and I heard a load noise from Ester. “Arón, don´t… .” Ester screams and my heart stops. I heard a thud and another scream. It’s him. “Boys, hold him. (Y/N), I’m on set and he got crazy every time my phone rings. I didn’t tell him where you go. Now I need to go, love ya.” She ends the call and I fell on the floor crying. He doesn’t forget me or he’s just frustrated because I left without an explanation. I put myself in bed and I listen the waves breaking of the shore.

I couldn’t sleep last night and every night from that call. Maybe I shouldn’t have left and I should have stayed with him. I run like a loser and now I regret my decision. Fuck no, he left me in the first place.

I get up tired and run to bathroom for my morning routine to throw up everything I ate a night before. My morning sickness is bad day by day but I control it with some lime water. I horrible to be alone, mostly in this period but I manage myself. Today it’s Saturday and I don’t want to go anywhere but I promise to this lovely lady. I open the dressing and I found my yellow dress which I wore it when I go on my first date with Arón. It was at coffee shop in the downtown aria, he picked me up from my home and when he left me back at my place, we had the sweetest kiss in the universe.

I put on the dress and it´s mold around my belly, accentuated the little bump. I wear a light makeup and I put on some flip-flops and I take the tart a baked last night. It’s the only sweet thing that I can make, besides pancakes. Actually, is Arón’s favorite and I thought that it will be nice to bring something. At noon the streets are empty, you can barely see a dog or a cat crossing the road. I like here, it’s peaceful and I love to smell the salty air every time I open the window or I’m walking down the street. The house where the curly hair lady is living with her husband it’s so beautiful, they are having a huge garden with flowers and trees. The house is in a very old fashion Spanish style, painted in a light blue. First, I was greeted by two fluffy dogs who started to bark at me. They stop when the lady got out from the house and smiled at me.

“(Y/N), I didn’t think you are coming or not, come on, the lunch is ready.” I entered in the house and a strong cologne hit my senses. Smells exactly like Arón and I need to stay a little get my shit together. “I bring a lemon meringue tart.” I handed her the box with the tart and she smiled friendly, pointed me the table. I found her husband there and he hugged me.

“You look good, please sit down.” He encouraged me to sit down and I observe that on the table are 4 plates, not three. “Sorry, it’s someone else is coming?” He smiled softly and drinks some water from his glass. “My son, he didn’t announce us sooner that he’s coming to visit us.” “It’s alright, I can leave if I’m furthermore.” I said and he stopped me. “No, you are welcome here like he is. Honey, bring the food, I’m sure our guest is hungry.” He gets up and go probably to the kitchen.

“(Y/N)” I heard my name called and my blood freeze in my veins. I turn around I can’t believe what I’m seeing. My body is blocked on the chair and I can’t move or speak. He is here. In flesh. “Baby, I’m sorry for my behavior. I’m sorry that I wasn’t beside you when you need me.” Arón looks at my bump and smiles. “Our baby is growing.” I get up ready to run, but why. I love him and he is here, giving me an explanation. “What are you doing here? How you found me?” I mumbled, ready to cry my ass off. “The couple from the other room are my parents. When my mom called me and told me that she met you I was in shock.” I am too. I figured out why they were familiar to me. “I was ready to leave everything and come here, but she told me that you need time.” He is changed. Now he has a new haircut for the series and also have huge bags under his beautiful eyes. He takes a deep breath before he speaks again.

“In the night after Ester’s birthday, I met Carlos again in the club, he drugged me and put me said some things, bad things. He filmed me and then he blackmailed me. I spend the nights with Miguel and a lawyer trying to do get a way out from this shit. He didn’t want money, he wanted to sleep again with me. But it was impossible because I love you. I’m sorry for let you down and for not telling you.” He come closer and I looked in his wet eyes. He is sad and depressed and I see that. Because I’m too and I believe him.

“Fuck, I missed you so much” I jumped in his arms and I started to cry loud. He rubbed my back with his big hands to relax me. “I love you and I’m sorry because I left.” I kissed his lips and he responded me. “I love you too, mamá” he mumbled.

After we cuddled for a while, we decided to get up and to meet properly his parents. They got me. I laughed when his mom told me that she handles herself not to cursing his son and for not telling me who they are. We ate together and I’m happy. I hold his hand the whole lunch even if was hard for us to eat. I don’t want to leave him never again.

“So that’s your apartment here” Arón remarks and I approve. “It’s cozy” he added. “Our home is waiting for us when you are ready to come back” “I’m ready.” I kissed his lips putting my arms around him. He groans in my mouth and slaps my ass. “Your ass is bigger.” he smirks and kisses my forehead. “I’m fat now.” “You are just a sexy mamá.” “Mhm, let me present you the bedroom.” I said passional and grab his hand in mine. “I was waiting for this”. I lift his t-shirt and he put his hands on my belly.

“Hey, bebé, daddy is speaking to you. Sorry for making mommy upset. I love you.”

#aron piper imagine #aron x reader #aron imagine #aron piper #valencia #spain #elite imagine #elite #elite cast #im cryign

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oyesmendes · 4 years

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The Coffee Roasters - Prologue

a/n: yeeeee i hope you like it! this is a whole new series for me so i hope you shower Sophie and Niall all the love you have ❤️SHOUTOUT TO @ohholyfanficsmain YOU’RE THE BOMB, ELLE.

Caffe Americano - a shot of espresso in a cup of hot water; a splash of sunshine for an empty heart.

It was a busy day in downtown Brighton, the streets bustling with people. And you can say it was the same for the small cafe owned by the Hoang family. 3rd generation coffee masters, the Hoang’s have had their cafe on the same street in the same spot for over 50 years. The tiny shop was home to many - office workers too busy to make their own morning brew; the old couple who lived a few blocks away and came everyday without fail after their morning walk; and the students who needed a pick me up while they studied their asses off. Everyone who lived on the street knew the Hoang’s and they knew everyone like the back of their hands. Each of their regular’s morning order, all the way down to how hot they like their tea and how many pumps of vanilla syrup they’d like in their latte. And all of the credit goes to Sophie Hoang. The middle child, and only girl of the Hoang’s that has been running around in the cafe ever since she could move a limb. She definitely took after her father, Alex Hoang, who has been running the cafe as far as he could remember.

“All you need is a good set of hands, and a lot of love, Mei” Alex always reminded her when she was growing up. Alex and his wife, Angela, weren’t your typical Asian parents. They never wanted to force their children to become doctors or lawyers, only wanted them to focus on what they loved. And for Sophie, that was running the cafe. It worried her parents at first, a small Asian girl getting her hands dirty with coffee grinds stuck in her nails but Sophie loved every single moment of it, so much so that her parents gave her and her brothers free reign to run the business.

Running the cafe was tough though, especially being a shop with years full of history, the crowd never seems to die down until the evenings when caffeine intake wasn’t so welcomed. Of course occasionally they’d have one or two people come in, getting their fix of coffee to fuel them through the night. And Sophie always added an extra bit of cookies or cupcakes, just to brighten their day a little. You can say that she was the neighbourhood sweetheart, the one that brought the sunshine even if it was pouring down rain. However, she couldn’t run this cafe alone. She had her brothers, Brighton’s biggest heart throbs - Austin and Harvey to help her through each day. That is, if a girl wasn’t trying hard to flirt with them at the cashier or pick-up counter.

“Take the flirting to the back!” Sophie yelled at Harvey who was at the pick up counter. He was talking to a dirty blonde, who was busy scribbling her number down on his arms. She blew him a kiss, which he (very cliche, I know) caught in his hands and put it right on his heart. Sophie gagged a little as she shoved another order into her brother’s hand.

“Come on, Mei. She was really pretty!” He scrambled to dish the rest of the coffee out. “Caffe Latte for Anna! Espresso for David!” Sophie rolled her eyes at his comment. She admits that her brothers were indeed, hot, but they were also pretty dumb. She couldn’t remember the last time Harvey every had a girlfriend for more than 6 months. And don’t even talk about Austin who’s probably never even been on a real date. Brighton’s biggest heart throbs, they said.

The morning crowd was finally slowing down, so Sophie began the second part of her routine - making pastries. The Coffee Roasters no doubt was one of the best coffee shops in Brighton, but it was also the best place to get your fresh pastries, handmade and only for a limited period of time daily. As Sophie was rolling the last of her croissants and placing them in the oven to bake, she heard Austin call for her from the front.

“What is it, di?” Sophie wiped her hands on her apron, looking at her brother who was standing all alone at the front counter. “Where’s Harvs?” Austin shrugged his shoulders and you rolled your eyes, knowing fully well that Harvey was probably down the corner of the street, flirting with the blonde from this morning.

“I need to go use the bathroom, can you watch the front for me?” Austin gave his older sister a small grin. Sophie nodded, shooing her brother off to the back rooms. It was the cafe’s quiet time and the period she enjoyed the second most, the first definitely being the morning and afternoon crowds where Sophie planted herself at the coffee machines. She was scrolling through Instagram, before a young man walks in, taking his cap off. Sophie perks up, a wide smile plastered on her face. A new customer, someone she hasn’t seen before, someone that will probably be coming back again for more coffee, hopefully.

“Hi! How can I help you?” She asks the man as he looks at the massive menu board above her. He pauses to think, for a really long time, probably overwhelmed by the variety that the cafe had. What she didn’t know was, he was trying to suppress the flashbacks of coffee shop dates he had with his girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend now. They broke up last night and she threw him out of her apartment. He barely got any sleep on the soft plush hotel bed and the coffee from this cafe was the only thing that was going to prevent him from collapsing to the ground. He folds his arms in front of him, still staring blankly at the menu while last night’s memories came crashing back to him. The words they exchanged were brutal, some of the most hurtful he’s ever heard come out of her mouth. It was as if she became another person, so full of hatred and anger. “You’re a stranger” Niall remembers whispering under his breath as he watched her throw his travel bag him. He felt as if a dark cloud was looming over his head ever since last night, even with the sun shining down on the city today. The loud ding from the oven in the backroom brings Niall back to reality, and Sophie straightens up.

“Hey..” She waves her hand in front of him to get his attention and in a split second, he’s staring into her brown eyes. “I’m going to grab something from the back real quick, you take your time in deciding what you would like ya?” The man nods slowly, still looking at the menu. Sophie speeds through the backroom, pulling out the tray of piping hot croissants from the oven. She puts one in a paper bag, leaving the rest too cool on the rack. When she gets to the front of the cafe, Austin already has the man’s order on a chit.

“Caffe Americano” he tells her and Sophie nods, hands working on autopilot. The drink is out in seconds, and she brings the croissant and cup of coffee to the pick up counter.

“Americano for Niall!” He approaches the counter quickly, not wanting to be recognised by anyone. She slides the drink over to him, followed by the paper bag with the croissant. Their eyes meet, and unlike his own, Niall could see the rays of sunshine in Sophie’s eyes, she was beaming and the constant curve in her lips was proof of it. They were staring at each other again, and when they realise it, Sophie manages a soft smile, fiddling with the marker she had in her hands.

“On the house, they just came out of the oven so be careful!” She hands them over to him, before dipping back behind the machines. A string of orders have come in and Sophie can’t afford to have them be delayed. Niall grabs the bag, and coffee, thanking her softly, and makes his walk back to his hotel. Something about the girl intrigued him - the way her eyes held so much light, and energy. He would never admit it but he was watching her as she focused even when hot steam came gushing at her face as she made the espresso; and the whirring of the machine that almost made her hands look as if they were dancing while prepared his drink. Maybe he should go back tomorrow, try to have a conversation with her. Maybe. When he arrives back in his room, he sets the paper bag on the table, and he notices the note that Sophie has left on it,

Your eyes are really beautiful. Hope to see you again sometime! -S

Just a tiny message, absolutely harmless. Sophie left such messages for her customers and it was her way of making them smile - a drop of sunshine is what the old couple across the street would call it. It kept her customers coming back for more, and it definitely did put a small smile on Niall’s face. He sipped on the Americano, amazed at how fragrant and strong the coffee was, even when it was basically a watered down espresso. Niall attacked the croissant next, letting out a moan as he bit into the flaky yet soft piece of pastry. At first he was hesitant about visiting the cafe again, but he knew the croissant was his sign that he had to go back. He had to meet this girl.

#niall horan fic #niall horan #niall horan imagine #niall james horan #niall horan x reader #niall horan fan fiction #sophie hoang #TCR #the coffee roasters #sophie x niall #the coffee roasters series

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lizzybeth1986 · 5 years

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Quick Thoughts on The White People Waambulance, Chapters 18 and 19

• Sorry this QT is coming out so late, guys. I regret to say my heart wasn't really in this one...and it hasn't been with regards to my QTs for a while. This one might be my last, unless we count me finishing them off for the (not rewritten) Book 1. It's been two years since I began, and the last two books made the process honestly really exhausting.

• I clubbed the two finale chapters together because I really couldn't be bothered to do separate ones for both.

• In fact...I won't be doing any of what I have been doing for my QTs so far. I'll be honest to you: I usually do multiple replays, the last few in tandem with the other routes on YouTube. I go through the scenes one by one. I keep note of differences and variations and carefully choose screenshots that will reflect the gist of the scenes.

But I couldn't be bothered to do any of that this time. I pressed the "continue" and then the "end book" buttons as soon as I finished my first run of those chapters. I'm drained, guys. And I don't think I'll be coming back to the TRH series at least, not even for Liam or Hana or Kiara. Maybe my mind will change by the time the second book comes out (update from present-day Lizzy: no it didn't) but I'm not counting on it. And you'll probably know why by the time this QT ends.

• TW: Discussions on racism, both fandom racism and from within the narrative. The last section of this QT is going to be...pretty heavy, guys.

There's also going to be a lot of anti-Drake, anti-Olivia, anti-Madeleine and anti-Penelope content here, so if you like any of those characters...well, you've been warned.

The ensuing post is going to be LONG, and I know a lot of you have good reasons not to deal with long posts, so here's a tldr:

1. The TRR writing team stick to their weird obsession for jobless whiny white men.

2. Read this book once and you'll feel like you're drowning in an ocean of white tears.

3. WOC continue to get scraps from the writing team, even as they boast of being diverse and inclusive. In fact, they're regularly treated as mere tokens, exotic eye-candy or non-entities, while their behaviour is measured on standards that are very different from their white counterparts (this happens in other books as well).

...okay I wasn't expecting for the tldr to be long too 😅

• Me @ my QTs then:

Me @ my QTs now:

• I'll probably be finishing off my TRR Book 1 QT series when I'm a little less burnt out, but for now this is where it ends, I guess.

• So...here is to summarize the last two chapters: Accident happens. LIs mad. Paparazzi sad (but largely get away scot-free). MC and baby safe. At the Council meeting Kiara slam dunks the murderer of Liam's mother with the style and elegance this fandom still refuses to acknowledge her for. The MC is nice to her for like half a second. Last Apple Ball. New clothes for everyone as if they had a Diwali bumper sale the week before or something. Godfrey is somehow responsible for the security (who thought this was a good idea) and seeing the Auvernese Royal Guard outside our doors is SO not-creepy.

We get to see if we impressed our Auvernese and Monterriso allies enough. Bradshaw compliments Kiara for like half a second. Olivia sees the dude from the Q&A session (Jin) at the Ball and (if you pay) you get to see her catch, interrogate and lowkey flirt with him.

Leona and Bianca make it to the ball (where is Bartie Sr. Where are Xinghai and Lorelei. Where is Regina) and this time the narrative makes sure to shoehorn a plot element into their presence here: Leona is there so we can do something about the reveal that she constantly ratted us out to the press for money. ("oh look! Walker Ranch was plot related after all! We have a reason (albeit a flimsy, paper-thin one) to set 9 whole chapters in Texas. Even though we had to literally come up with this bit in the last minute, because really - all we wanted to do as a writing team was nut collectively over Drake Walker")

(I also can't believe that between the time I wrote this line and the time this QT finally came out - they literally found a way to re-fucking-write Book 1 so they could nut collectively over Drake Walker earlier)

• Why were we required to dress down in Texas for these assholes when they couldn't even bother to dig up their Sunday best for this ball??? Oh right, they're Walkers. Hypocrisy runs in the family.

• Good thing is you can choose to banish Leona if you want. She's angry about it for a second then accepts it and leaves. But like what is the point of banishing her when she hardly even bothers to come there in the first place? She's not going to be bawling her eyeballs out saying "boohoo, they threw me out of this country that I spent like five minutes in and never even wanted to visit in the first place".

• Bianca is present at the end of Chapter 18 mainly to deliver to us a plot point at the very last minute: a clue about where we could find proof about Queen Eleanor's murder. Bianca mentions conversations Jackson had with her, and a secret room somewhere. Her leaving the palace and abandoning her children is addressed, and the MC gets to berate her. It's...short.

• Why this important piece of information was given to Bianca when idk LEO could have pitched in and spoken about it, no one knows. Oh wait. I keep forgetting. Bianca is Drake's mother. That's why.

• Okay so Amalas valiantly found out about Leona's involvement in this and gave us tangible proof via photographs. But we're kiiiinda forgetting that the scrutiny and privacy invasions were happening even before we hauled ass to Walker Ranch? Who was responsible for those? Who was the "source" that the Chapter 17 paparazzo was referring to, the one that mentioned they would triple the price for more photos of the Queen/Mother of the Heir (Coz like why would she do that. She's already broke)? How did Amalas come by this information so easily and why was she really that invested? Why is no one asking these questions? Why isn't the group asking these questions? Why are they stupid. Jesus, they're all so stupid. HOW ARE YOU SO STUPID, SQUAD.

• Shortly after they get rid of Leona and Bianca, the rest of the group give the happy couple a choice of toys for the nursery - and that's our final nursery purchase. You can either go for the corgi - which is on brand for the series by now I think - or the lion, which is seen as very Cordonian.

• More party shenanigans. We're nice to Kiara for another half-second. Kiara arranges a photoshoot for us. The team can't pretend to give a fuck anymore about its fans so they will ask us to pay for an edit that I've seen millions of edit-creators in the fandom do wayyyy better. Like let's be honest - compare the engagement shoot pics (messy as they were) to the shoots we eventually got this book. You can see the difference. You can tell which one required more work.

• Anyway, if you choose this scene you wind up going back to the ballroom, dance with your spouse, aaaaand it's time for another diamond option. This time your spouse gives you something you've been craving (mousse parfait for the Liam MC, chocolate chip cookies for the Hana MC, handmade chocolates for the Maxwell MC and a choice between bacon and a veg version of it for the Drake MC. Damn, team TRR. Your favouritism is showing). The couple also writes a letter to the baby that the child can read growing up, in a bit of a parallel to Eleanor's letter to Liam that we see at the end of the chapter.

• After this, Liam reveals he has been pondering over what Bianca said, and wants to find out where they could find that secret room. Cue Liam's own flashback scene for free. Godfrey bringing to Queen the same goblet that the RoE MC found in a flea market in Book 2 for Regina (or perhaps just a similarish one). Liam and Eleanor reciting a rhyme that turns out to have clues for the secret room.

• To give the team credit, they seem to have (finally) put some thought into this. Like this actually feels like Liam's scene. Not one that delivers information about his family but is really about another character. They seem to incorporate all the things Eleanor seemed to be known for - things that were hardly addressed in the books when it came to talk of her. She is shown with a love for books given that books and poetry form an important part of the clues she leaves for Liam. One of the books is about foraging, which is unsurprising considering her love for gardens that was established in Book 1 of TRR.

• So...like...nice job but why was practically everything about Eleanor (including the way she'd stand up to Constantine, her displeasure at the sound of Godfrey and Bartie's names, her nature that Liam not only inherited but also learned) left only for your finale? Why no buildup? Why was I seeing you lot constantly pandering to Drake's family the entire time? Why do I know way, way more about Jackson than I do about Eleanor whose story this WAS? Why is she and her son suddenly getting this burst of attention at the tail end??

• They still manage to push young!Drake into a scene focusing on Liam and Eleanor, so we can see how Eleanor's teaching of how to be a responsible royal began to make inroads into Liam's way of thinking. It's the ultimate irony, that Liam took his mother's advice so much to heart that he lets Drake stay in his home, eat his food, and complain about those dastardly nobles to his heart's content for free.

Poor Eleanor in her grave is like

• Very fitting, how Constantine's proposal to Eleanor happens in the hedge maze, very much like Liam's first declaration of love in Book 1.

• If you're married to Liam, you get an extra letter that's addressed to Liam's future wife. She clearly knew her days were to be numbered by the time she gave birth to that second child at least.

• Lmao @ how the team somehow managed to remember that Eleanor would have been Leo's stepmother too. He's mentioned a couple of times. They didn't have enough time to develop a sprite for young!Leo but somehow had all the time and resources to make one for young!Savannah who had literally no purpose in Drake's flashback scene? Hmm. Hmm.

• They somehow manage to find the twin to the RoE MC's gifted goblet that Godfrey gave Eleanor the night she died, and Liam reveals that he's been obsessed with poisons enough to know that it wasn't the drink that was poisoned, it was the cup itself. Everyone is shook.

• Love that extra little detail about Liam's obsession with learning about poisons and how it's a sign of how deeply Eleanor's death affected him. But tell me honestly if you remember this plot point coming up even once before in any significant way. Even during the one time a person is poisoned in the previous book (by the laws of karma, the victim in this instance is Godfrey's only daughter) Liam shows very few signs of this "obsession". At a time when he has also lost a father. Convenient how something that could have added more depth to Liam is kept aside until there's a scene where his knowledge is required. Convenient indeed.

• I kind of understand why Liam acts on impulse, okay. The man just discovered who murdered his mum, at least some amount of irrationality is allowed (esp considering he hardly got to express ANYTHING when his goddamn father died). But you'd think Liam's friends would hold him back and help him think this through? Convince him that there are more effective ways to confront and get a confession out of Godfrey who after is in charge of security at the moment? You seriously think charging into the ballroom and suddenly stripping this man of his titles is going to actually work??? You couldn't figure out how to make him vulnerable instead so that he wouldn't be able to escape???

• I mean like, sure, one could always rationalize it all as "well see Lizzy, they needed a dramatic end to this story and they needed to wrap this mystery up quick". But there were other ways they could have spread it out than make it all sound so...so random. And you bet we all know why the narrative had to scramble around last minute to solve this. It's because we spend half the damn book in a dilapidated ranch with a shit family!

• Anyway, Godfrey escapes...and the MC tells her spouse that she's going into labour after...two contractions? Um. Okay.

• So. That ends Book 1 of this new series. And with it my QTs, for this series at least. My QTs for Book 1 (the OG, not the rewrite) might continue, but I'd need to repeat my failplay again because I lost most of those screenshots 😭

General Thoughts on the Book:

• So far, this is what I can see as happening in the next book:

- The birth, obviously

- Any extra perks from our purchases (ie. the nursery and the garden)

- Subplots involving the LIs' conflicts regarding parenthood and their own childhoods

- The mystery behind Eleanor's death isn't quite over yet, nor is the truth behind the constant paparazzi presence in TRH. Leona was the scapegoat this time around, but how did Amalas get all this information so quickly?

- Where is Eleanor's other child? Olivia's investigations may or may not lead to that answer. I'm pretty sure Jin might be involved as well.

- Another possibility is that Madeleine may give us important information since she was potentially aware that Eleanor was pregnant at the time.

- The mystery behind Jackson's death and what he knew regarding Eleanor's condition.

- What part did Bartie Sr have to play in all this? How involved was Constantine in the murder (if in fact he was)? What more dark secrets will we learn about Constantine, Godfrey and Bartie Sr during this time? What ultimately caused the breakdown in Constantine and Jackson's relationship, since Drake mentions Jackson being around when Regina was Queen as well?

- Speaking of Regina, how involved was she in any of this? We know she was Godfrey's cousin-in-law and Bartie Sr made a comment on her during the announcement about the heir, and that she married Constantine a couple years after Eleanor's death, but was she aware of any of this or was she largely out of the major plot and brought in later to cement Godfrey's position and power?

- I'd mention the possibility that Lorelai could know something, but they didn't really give anyone connected to Hana any time at all, so I have my doubts.

- Operation Swan, and possibly a visit to Monterisso. Liam's younger sibling must be in one of these places but my guess is on Monterisso.

- I'm guessing the team will write a nice wedding for Penelope and Ezekiel next book, while Kiara continues to get scraps from the same team.

- Drake and Olivia will continue to eat into the plot. Madeleine will join this unholy trinity as well because they've set the stage for her to have plenty of angst.

With that over, these were my thoughts once this book was finished:

WHERE ARE THE DUCHESSES?

Remember how, back in Book 3, we all marvelled at the number of women in this country who were in positions of power? Adeleide and Emmeline were powerful duchesses while their husbands were secondary figures, and Joelle though married into a noble family is an influential artist and - according to Liam - the embodiment of King Fabian's values. It seemed like, despite the underlying sexism and racism in the story, women were at least at the forefront of Cordonian politics.

This is virtually gone in TRH1. Godfrey (who wasn't even interested in Krona in the first place, much less Cordonia) and Landon (whose only concern seemed to be Penelope, leaving Emmeline to manage the duchy) have a seat in the Council. In fact we never even see either of these woman in the book. I can maybe understand the logic behind not appointing Adeleide, but the fact that Emmeline is passed over for her far-less -qualified husband is a mystery to me!

Also, has anyone noticed how white-male-centered the whole Eleanor story is? Notice how we never see Eleanor's friends, besides Jackson? We never see any of the courtly ladies of that era? She's the Queen. She'd have her own court. I find it impossible that Eleanor would have no interactions of importance among her own goddamned court, that Joelle, Emmeline or Adeleide wouldn't even be mentioned in her story thus far. It's fascinating that forget being part of her story - these women are largely forgotten in the book itself.

(Note: It's also important to add that none of Kiara's family - besides Zeke - makes an appearance this book. At all. One member of Penelope's family and one member of Madeleine's family is in the council, but we never really see or hear anything from Kiara's, even though Hakim was Constantine's old friend and Joelle could have easily been connected to Eleanor, given that Eleanor was exactly the kind of ruler Joelle would have loved and respected.

While we're on that subject, Lorelai could have been connected to Eleanor as well - considering that we know next to nothing about her years in Shanghai. There were ways Hana's story could have been tied into the overall plot as well that were largely ignored. The fact that both the main and secondary WOCs presented opportunities for better plot and story, and despite that they were largely ignored in the books...I think that says a lot. But I will get into more of that in detail in a different section).

LI SPACE AND STORY

• Now...as we all know, The TRR/TRH series is primarily a romance-focused book first, with an underlying plot about royalty and politics. So it makes sense to evaluate the book based on what it gives its love interests. That includes the number of scenes they get, and the kind of focus their story is given. So...here's the rundown of how that goes in TRH Book 1:

Liam: Overall, not too bad. He gets one individual scene, a free and paywalled childhood scene (though the free one is essential for the group's realization of who killed Eleanor). The letter his mother writes to Liam includes an extra section towards the end, meant for the MC who marries him. However, we must note that a lot of this "attention" was thrust into the very final chapter of this book, and 99% of the same book didn't exactly make an attempt to explore his inner thoughts on anything - his mother's death, the dealings with the foreign countries, his political activities. Eleanor being pregnant came from a scene that made Olivia the center of attention, the MC had the opportunity to ask him how he was feeling only once or twice, and most of the time the narrative relegated it all to "the matter is still being investigated". It's a slight improvement from the absolute lack of concern the MC and the narrative showed about Liam's emotional state post his father's death in Book 3, but not much.

Variations wise, the team did step up on the basic ones for most of the LIs, so clearly we've moved past the days of seeing cut-paste scenes and the likes of Liam and Hana saying "I'm so dumb in love with you". However, in playthroughs where the MC is Liam's wife and Queen of Cordonia, her lack of genuine concern for her country and lack of curiosity about the place she's ruling, sticks out like a sore thumb. The fandom loves to highlight how the plot is "written for Liam" or is "easier in Liam's playthrough", but besides his own child being the heir, nothing else from Book 3 onwards seems like it was particularly written with him in mind.

Drake: Hoo boy. So 2019 was clearly the year that many people didn't believe me about Drake eating up space, and the year they had to eat their words because in TRH it was too obvious to be ignored. On an overall scale you cannot avoid the extra perks even his LI scenes got - his Valtoria scene in Chapter 4 was longer, set in a different place and he was allowed to expand on his decision to say yes to Liam's request in a way Hana and Maxwell never were. We learned way more about his familial relationships and dynamics than all the LIs combined. His childhood scene was the first to be given variants depending on whether the MC was his wife or not. His sister's wedding takes up almost half the book, leaving little to no space for either the intrigue, or even the pregnancy that was supposed to be THE most important part of the book.

An insane amount of retconning was done to emphasize strongly on the "marshmallow" part of his personality, having him state time and again that for the MC he can even "sport a tutu if you said you had a thing for the Sugar Fairy". Part of these changes could be attributed to the backlash the team got for having him call a pink cake "girly".

There is a strong possibility that Jackson might be explored further in the second book, and it's no surprise considering that he's the one parent that is most talked about in the series. The book looks like it was truly written with Drake in mind, with a heavy dose of Olivia, and everyone else was added as a bit of an afterthought.

Maxwell: Pretty awful treatment for a character that the head writer of the team claims to like. He has no individual character scenes, and one childhood scene where his older brother Bertrand is given more focus. Ironically, Maxwell was more wary of Bartie Sr in TRR Book 2 than Bertrand was, but somehow they changed this little detail so that Maxwell could be written out of his own story.

His LI scenes were also not given much effort - some were badly written, and some scenes (like the free ones) showed little to no variations between the friendly and romantic playthroughs. One that comes to mind is the baby announcement photoshoot, which was so poorly done it added nothing of value to the character or the relationship.

Like the last book, Maxwell isn't allowed much development in TRH1, and he's still forced into a largely "court jester" role in the story. This reflects very poorly on him in certain situations, such as the chapter where we finally get glimpses of his book. The aim was to be humourous and light about the events of the series, but he comes out of it sounding thoroughly insensitive towards his friends, none of whose consent he took to write this self-centered pile of garbage.

However, there is hope that they might do things a bit better for him next book, if the rewrite of him in TRR 2.0 was anything to go by. However, it would be awful if they tried to do a better job of him and then left out Hana. Speaking of which...

Hana: I'm going to begin this section with a comparison to another character, someone who should have been treated as a secondary character - Olivia.

Olivia in this book has 2 character scenes (they're very plot driven, but they also explore her outside of her friendship with the MC and dynamic with the group). The spy scene with Auvernese royalty, and the scene with Jin, the Auvernese spy. An entire chapter is spent in her duchy (by now we've seen Lythikos four times and I'm now sick of the place), and she winds up taking over Maxwell's Q&A scene as well.

So that's technically 2.5 scenes AND a childhood scene that revolves around her even though it's about Liam's mother. In addition to this, Olivia also gets her own mini-book, The Royal Holiday, that revolves (again) around her duchy and has the group clamouring to give her attention when no one else wants to.

Here are the stats for Hana, who by virtue of being an LI, is also a potential co-protagonist in the series:

Nothing.

Zilch. Zip. Zero. Nada. Nothing.

She has one childhood scene that is part of the group's scenes - a beautiful, heartbreaking one that serves as a slap in the face to anyone who'd dared to be dismissive of what she went through earlier - but none after that, and no individual scenes either. The team - in one of their most offensive choices this book - force a storyline where she has fertility issues just so the MC can be the one carrying the child, and the same MC can opt(!!) to ask about her well-being after two days. The same MC has the chance to whine about not getting pregnant soon enough in front of Hana.

There have been a few efforts made to make the MC appear more caring towards Hana: she can angrily defend Hana against Isabella's jibes, and she can make Hana relax for once during the baby shower (unlike the wedding reception where the same MC treated her like a bridesmaid). The MC even gets to tell her wife that she should never consider herself secondary or unimportant.

All of these are nice, but at the end of the day they're all scraps. I'd equate it to how we're allowed to give Kiara compliments on the final two chapters, but the white women around her still get a far bigger chunk of space, story and attention dedicated to them. The team have a pattern of adding these tiny tidbits that will temporarily satisfy stans while still maintaining the status quo, and that's precisely what's happening here. Its important for us to understand this. Underneath all this surface concern and all these scraps, Hana is still getting dust in place of actual story and characterization. And given that they made ZERO major changes to Hana's scenes in TRR 2.0, I'm not expecting that to change.

As for the book in general...I don't have to go into why this book is a mess, do I? We all know. We've all witnessed how disproportionate the writing has been and while I'm glad more and more people recognize what I've been seeing since Book 3, it's sad that it took 9 whole chapters in Walker Ranch for so many to understand exactly how much space Drake has been eating up for no good reason.

BLACK HOLES AND WHITE TEARS

I'll begin this section by talking about Drake Walker. He's the most prominent sign of the larger problem.

Drake Walker is what I call a Black Hole LI. And yes I mean black hole as in the one that exists in space (Beckett from TE also fits into this category). He is the kind of LI that sucks up everything. Love. Light. Joy. Common sense. Other characters' spaces.

He is the kind of love interest that will have Liam's traumatic experience centered around him. The kind of love interest for whose problems - largely created by his mammoth ego - we have to resolve in Shanghai, the home of the lone female LI. While that same female LI gets nothing, and then disappears in a subsequent chapter. The kind of love interest whose love confession can take precedence even over the MC's own issues (remember the Beaumont House chapter in Book 1? The one that took place the day after Tariq nonconsensually kissed the MC? 98% of the dialogue revolved around Drake's feelings. Not about the faulty lock, not the possibility that the MC's security had been tampered with - Drake's feelings). The kind of love interest that was given an entire extra wedding and artwork for his mother in Book 3 itself - none of which were given to any other LI.

A Black Hole LI is totally the kind of LI that would get 9 whole chapters in their home while we have never even visited the homes of the others since the early books of the previous series.

This wasn't something that began just this book. It's been a constant since Book 2, and you can even see signs of his story gaining way more importance in Book 1. It's also not something we can - in all honesty - blame simply on finances and fan popularity: the writers confirmed Drake to be one of their favourites, and attempts to give his scenes additional perks (eg plot elements pushed into both the Whiskey scene and the Beaumont Office scene) happened long before they could make any conclusions about his popularity. I bought the Beaumont Office scene to find out more about that family. I bought the Marshmallow scene so I could find out more about Liam and Hana's conversation post Coronation (remember - Hana was never even allowed to speak about her return to Cordonia because that scene was given to Drake). I bought the Italian Restaurant scene to learn more about Liam's assassination. The funny thing about all these three is that these were their stories to tell, yet Drake is the focus. Quite a few of Drake's initial scenes sold because the team consistently made the effort, consistently ensured that the information from his scenes would benefit us in the long run. The narrative allowed for Drake to have his own story, and additionally let aspects of his story overshadow that of the other LIs' (see the examples I've given above). Even though he has very little of value to contribute to the larger story (no job, his friendships are shallower than a wash-basin, and no genuine communication with any commoner in the story - only endless whining).

The treatment Drake gets that no other LI does, is a problem in itself, but it also is a small part of an even bigger issue. He isn't the only white character who gets this sort of attention and detail to his story.

Take Olivia, for example. Started out as a rival to the MC, before her sad sad childhood and her genuine love for Liam was revealed in the Book 1 finale. Over the course of the story, her role changed from petty rival to Warrior Duchess to reluctant bff. Over the course of the original series, Olivia became one of the most prominent characters in the story, on par with the male LIs. I'm not sure how many people realize that Lythikos is the ONLY duchy in the kingdom we've seen thrice (four times if you count Holiday). To give you an idea of how big a deal that is, here's how many times we've visited other duchies besides the capital and Applewood:

Fydelia - 2

Portavira - 1

Castelserraillian - 1

Ramsford (the home of our sponsors!) - 1

Hana's mother's home - Never.

Lythikos has a detailed familial and cultural history, and I wouldn't be lying if I said we know more about this one region than we know about the entire country of Cordonia. And honestly for me, the obsession with this one duchy has reached saturation point. Lythikos is not Cordonia. Lythikos is not all there is to Cordonia or even the only place that should matter. Yet it seems the team is more than eager to flog that horse until there's nothing of interest left.

Olivia is the only character who gets an entire mini book that revolves around comforting her and making her feel better about her background and origins. I don't think we've ever given Hana this much attention when she left her home for us. Or when she was being bullied by Madeleine. Or when she was the other bride in that grand wedding. Or when we received the news that carrying a child to term would be dangerous for her body. Or --

We were given an entire mini-book to comfort Olivia - the woman who continued to call Hana "damaged goods" and " a failure" for not marrying a man, while Hana's friend/wife stood by and watched. The woman who didn't have to think twice before making snide remarks about an equally skilled courtier who never did her any harm, only because she could get away with it. Istg when I heard that most of the court snubbed her during that first event in Holiday, this was my reaction:

Like girl I feel bad for you but at least now you know how it feels to be held responsible for shit beyond your control!

Hana, in the meantime, is forced time and again into situations that would break most people - but with very little payoff. Her arc with her parents was given a resolution that confirmed that Hana could only be considered worthy if she was useful. She was made to interact time and again with the woman who harmed her with such glee in Book 2. The MC - as a friend or as a wife - is at best neglectful of her issues and at worst someone who uses and discards Hana as she sees fit. And now...in her romantic playthrough she's given a storyline that doesn't allow her to bear children easily, and the MC spends less than two minutes to actually check on her. Hana is one of the co-protagonists, yet a side character given the treatment she should be getting. One could technically blame finances for the way she's being treated too, but keep in mind that the bad treatment goes as far back as the Applewood chapters in Book 1. Technically a time when she was bringing in money.

I get it. Olivia is a fan favourite. Many in the fandom wanted her to be an LI, the writers didn't, so they carved out this middle path where she'd have a major portion of the story anyway. But keep in mind that a lot of this attention came - and is still coming - at the cost of Hana. The team pretty much gave Olivia what they'd been refusing to give Hana all along.

On a smaller scale, you see similar patterns with the secondary characters - especially the women of the court. Madeleine and Penelope had elaborate backstories designed to make people forgive and sympathize with them, and Kiara - even though her backstory in Book 1 was inherently tragic and deserved to be handled sensitively - was given validation with great reluctance from the team, and with no consequences if we treated her cruelly. Even now, the team has only tossed Kiara a couple of scraps in the final chapter, while already setting the stage for Madeleine to get her own tragic "patriotism" arc for TRH Book 2, and a possible wedding for Penelope in the near future.

The difference here doesn't just lie in who gets attention and who doesn't. It lies in how the MC is supposed to view these women as well. A lot more sympathy and understanding is automatically extended to the white women, and the MC faces consequences if she fails to acknowledge their pain. Far less sympathy is offered by default to the black and the Asian woman - the MC may be friends with Hana but a huge chunk of their relationship is mostly about the MC benefiting from Hana's skills without giving much in return.

Even though their misdeeds are acknowledged and spoken about, both Madeleine and Penelope are written in such a way that the problems they're currently facing matter more than anything they've ever done in the past. Hana is made to sweet-talk Madeleine despite being bullied by her in a previous book. The MC herself never gets ANY opportunity to directly address what Penelope put her through in Portavira, because what the MC went through matters less than Penelope's condition.

Compare this to the relatively small scale of Kiara's "misdeed" (being honest about not continuing with an alliance - I'm surprised people think this is an actual thing to be offended about!), and the way the MC is allowed to mistreat her sans consequences afterwards. We're even allowed to call Kiara a snob in the books - which isn't at all true if you look at any of her scenes in canon - and constantly make fun of her desire to learn (in fact, if anyone in the series could be called a snob, it would be Olivia). If I were to sum up how a woman of colour is spoken about in the books, vs a white woman - this screenshot would do the trick:

(Notice how none of the options to speak about Penelope allow us to speak rudely of her, yet in Kiara's case we're allowed to make judgements on her as a person. In Hana's case, while we don't exactly drag her the way we can drag Kiara - we get precious few opportunities to actually defend or support her when others talk rubbish about her).

When you explore the series overall, it's impossible to ignore the casual racism that makes disrespecting people of a certain race/colour easier than on another. It's impossible not to see where the narrative chooses to give consequences to an MC who treats a white woman badly, and where it allows the very same MC to suspect, and then (optionally) gaslight, a woman of colour a couple chapters later. It's impossible not to see which people are meant to be respected despite their bad behaviour, and which people can still be treated badly despite their better behaviour. It's impossible not to see a pattern emerging.

This is not even a problem that plagues only the TRR series. From TCaTF to ACOR to Platinum to even MoTY, there is an ongoing pattern of discrepancies between the way white people and people of colour - particularly women - are treated. Many POC characters are placed in situations where it's easier for them to suffer/die/be shown disrespect, than it is to show them kindness or mercy. MOC are regularly either exoticized (Prince Hamid is the most glaring example of this) or placed in very traumatic situations for which the payoff isn't always going to be that great (I know this happens to Dallas, but I don't know about the payoff for Syphax).

WOC particularly suffer quite a bit in a lot of PB novels, in comparison to their white counterparts. Rowan Thorne of TCaTF, as a character, didn't deserve for her death to be made easier than her survival (in contrast to Diavolos, who was given far more opportunities AND will live simply by virtue of allying with Kenna), any more than Kiara deserved to be interrogated by the people who should have been concerned for her safety or Xanthe deserved to be shipped to slavery. All this, while a Vanessa (who is in a position of power and who plays an active role in rendering the MOTY MC financially helpless) gets a diamond scene where she "explains" her situation and a Madeleine doesn't even have to hear about her bullying from her victims.

The fandom, too, has contributed to this on a number of occasions. Speaking specifically of TRR, how many times have we seen Hana being dragged on Olivia posts? (also, if we were really measuring Olivia by the impossible standards that we held for Hana's characterization, Olivia would appear pretty damn one-note too: after all, 80% of her characterization consists of knife jokes). How many times was Hana being looked at with disdain for either her niceness or the poor writing for her, while the same fandom would regularly coo over a nice-presenting Penelope (whose characterization is one of the most inconsistent in the series)? How many times have we seen Kiara being called a creep/obsessed for merely looking at a man, while almost no one judges Olivia for kissing a man without his consent? How many times have people forgiven a traitorous Penelope and hated on a far more innocent Kiara in the same breath? How often did the fandom hate on Liam for accepting the MC's advances after she rejected him, yet not say a word when Drake did the same thing? How many times has Maxwell been loved for his humour and childlike nature while people of colour with a similar personality (Lily from Bloodbound, for example) were hated on instantly? Clearly, there have been more instances of people in the fandom sympathizing automatically with the white character, than with characters of colour. Time and again, brown and black characters - particularly women - have been required to match up to impossible standards (if they're nice they're boring. If they don't like the MC they're <insert every gendered sexist insult you can think of here>). The standards are far more relaxed for white characters, and they're often given more breathing room and to most of what they want without the constant judgement that black and brown women get. The standards set up for both are grossly different.

Racism is a beast that assumes many forms - and not all forms of racism will appear obvious to some, especially when such stereotypes are so normalized in media and popular fiction that we almost accept it at first. Almost. To get to the root of why there's such an imbalance in this series - among others - we need to first acknowledge the sexism and racism that are such a vital part of its narrative, and that its fandom regularly buys into and (sometimes unwittingly) promotes.

At this point, it's important to understand that having queer characters or characters of colour simply exist in the books isn't enough. Token rep can be found in PB's books by the dozens, but at the end of the day it means nothing if there is a constant reluctance, over and over and over, to treat those characters with the same care and sensitivity that they treat their white ones (or their "exoticized brown" ones).

• Like I mentioned earlier, I won't be playing TRH from this point forward, but I do hope to finish my TRR QTs soon. I have a LOT of thoughts! If you'd like to be tagged on those, do tell me!

#long post #tw: racism from pb #tw: fandom racism #trh quick thoughts #trh qts #king liam #hana lee #maxwell beaumont #anti drake walker #anti olivia nevrakis #anti trr madeleine #anti trr penelope #trr kiara

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haloud · 5 years

Text

many times, many ways

a malex christmas gift for christi @michaels-blackhat, who inspired me into holiday fluff and who spent this month writing wonderful gifts--I hope you enjoy this one in return! Happy holidays, everyone!

-- ao3 --

An unmarked package. An envelope, more accurately, hand-folded out of plain brown paper and left right in front of Alex’s front door. Buffy is sniffing at it before Alex can stop her; he snags her by the collar, heart in his throat, but she’s close enough to nudge it with her nose. Alex holds his breath, but she just lets out a soft boof, then loses interest and heads back inside. Alex, however, can’t be quite so cavalier. It may not have exploded when Buffy moved it, but there are ways other than explosives that a strange package can fuck you up. He fetches a pair of gloves and a particle mask before he even touches it. A small gesture toward security, maybe, but it makes him feel safe enough to work a pocketknife under the tape and slowly pull the paper apart.

Alex blinks twice at what’s inside. Pulls his mask off so it falls around his neck and blinks again. Reaches out to touch it.

It’s…a Christmas ornament. But not any, it’s—it’s light in his palm, a tiny thing, a miniature of a poster he had as a kid, the one Maria smuggled into his car after school and he hung up in the toolshed where no one would see it. Alex holds it up. Dangling from a scrap of black ribbon, the little orange rectangle catches the light, gleaming off the black enamel picking out the singer’s little face and the Danger! At the Picture Show lettering. It’s cold when he clenches it in his fist, heart pumping a hundred miles an hour.

For a second, he’s seventeen again, and he has to laugh at the memory of that kid he used to be, earbuds stuffed in his ears, knees jammed up against the desk waiting for the first period bell to ring. He grins despite himself, turning over the paper again, searching for any kind of note or indication who it’s from. Rosa, maybe? Secret presents are definitely her thing, and she was the one who gave him his first DatPS CD when he was fourteen. Maria is the other person who comes to mind, but Alex hopes she would just give it to him in person—he doesn’t like to think of her being too anxious to give him something like this face to face, what with all the mending fences going on.

He smooths his thumb over the ornament’s glossy surface one more time, then puts it on a shelf for safekeeping for lack of anywhere more festive to put it. He doesn’t really decorate for Christmas; the holidays were only ever more of the same when he was a kid, with a thin, grotesque veneer of family over the top of it.

Things get even more festive the next day, though, when he gets home from work and finds another package, in the same brown paper, sitting on the porch steps. It’s bigger this time, three dimensional, and after a moment of deliberation, Alex picks up the phone. Guerin might laugh at him, but that’s a price he has to be willing to pay.

He doesn’t laugh, though. He rolls up in his truck, that, despite the circumstances and the vaguely tipsy feeling of fear lurking in his blood, Alex has to laugh at—there’s a sprig of mistletoe wrapped in bright red ribbon hanging from the rearview mirror.

Michael bounds over to him and says, slightly breathless, “What did you need me to check out?”

Alex waves his hand in the direction of the stairs. “It’s probably nothing. I got something similar yesterday, and it was fine, I just—”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, I get it. Here, let me.” Michael squeezes Alex’s shoulder, a quick, warm, reassuring touch, then takes a step back. Focusing, he narrows his eyes at the little package, then wings it in an arc off into the empty desert.

A second passes. Nothing blows up. Michael pulls the package back in.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, “Sorry if whatever’s in there broke. But whoever sent it to you should have known better. Fucking idiot.”

Alex lets out a long breath, forcing his shoulders to drop and his brow to smooth. “No, it’s okay. ‘Tis the season, right? It could be from anyone.”

“Still.” Michael’s mouth curls downward, like he tastes something foul, like he tends to look whenever he tries to make nice with Kyle. It’s exasperating. It’s also a little sweet, in a twisted way.

The box has the same wrapping, same tape job as yesterday’s envelope. It comes apart easily, and inside is—Alex pulls it out, holds it up.

It’s. It’s an alien, full-on little green man alien, holding up its noodly little hands in two peace signs. Wearing a Santa hat. Covered in gaudy glitter. And still intact—only one piece has snapped off, a little piece of red molding clay that someone clearly fashioned so an ornament hook could go through it.

After a shocked second, Alex lets out a very uncharacteristic giggle; then, face burning, he drops the little alien back into the box and glances up at Michael, who’s watching him with his head tilted and a shy smile of his own on his pink mouth.

Their eyes meet for a long, breath-catching moment, a spark jumping through the cold, dry air from one body to the next. Then they both look away, clearing throats, shoving hands in pockets, and looking up at the sky instead of back at each other, each of them so large in the other’s sight to block out the sun.

“Secret Santa?” Michael says, voice cheerfully flippant. He’s still grinning somehow. Alex wants to wipe that look off his face. With his own face.

“Something like that.”

“Next time try to get someone who knows you better than to get that touristy shit.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Michael leaves after that, making it both easier and harder to breathe. Touristy shit aside, Alex puts the Santa alien on the shelf beside the first ornament, and later that night, after tossing and turning for a little while, he grabs his crutches, goes to the shelf, gropes in Jim’s old toolbox for a tube of superglue, and hunches over the coffee table to fix the clay part, making it an ornament once again.

One is an event. Two is a coincidence. Three ornaments in three days, and it’s a pattern.

No brown paper package shows up the third day; rather, he finds the ornament when he checks his mailbox in town. It’s a little laptop this time, nothing special, but it still brings a smile to his face when he holds it in his palm.

Who could the mystery sender be? It turns into something of an obsession over the next few days, which see him receiving a log cabin, a beagle, and a beautiful handmade silver and turquoise songbird. It’s clearly someone who knows him now, and someone who knows him well enough to know his home, his pet, what he does for a living…it’s a narrow field, to be sure—basically just Maria, Liz, Kyle, or Rosa. He rubs his thumb over the beagle’s little painted nose while Buffy shoots it a suspicious look from the couch as he considers his options.

Whoever it is, Guerin must know, because since the second day, the ornaments have arrived in his mailbox or on his porch unwrapped or in clear plastic wrap if it’s raining out.

Of course, all the evidence could point toward it being Guerin himself. But…somehow, Alex can’t bring himself to believe it, if only because the thought of Michael thinking of him like this, over time, with dedication, makes Alex’s chest ache with longing to see him, to hear him, to feel him. Better it be some scheme of Rosa’s. It’s just…better that way.

The gifts keep coming. Day seven, it’s the Air Force crest; on the eighth and ninth days, he finds a sunbathing alien and a bowl of ramen on his front step. They both go on the increasingly-crowded shelf, though he shoots the ramen a nasty look when he puts it in place. Another point in the Maria column, considering last time he went to one of her movie nights, he was asked to put pizza rolls in the oven and managed to burn them despite absolutely following the instructions on the package.

The tenth day’s ornament arrives in a blue Tupperware container, just translucent enough to see the ornament inside, but not so much he can tell what it is.

He opens it and finds a ball ornament wrapped in strips of paper cut from dictionaries in ten languages he can identify, including all six he speaks. It’s sturdy papier-mâché, but Alex still holds it like it might shatter if he breathes on it too hard. Every line defines things like family, like love, like forever. He returns it to its box and puts it on the shelf with the others, but his fingers linger over the lid, because there are lines he hasn’t traced with his fingertips yet, and he can hardly tear himself away.

He goes into town later that day on a grocery run with words still swimming in his mind and his mouth fixed shut because he’s not sure what might come out. But no level of distraction or concentration could keep him from being blindsided when he runs into Guerin outside the Crashdown, their bodies catching shoulder to shoulder, Guerin’s hand on his arm to steady him—their collision almost knocked a big box out of Guerin’s hands, but he steadies it with a little help from his powers until Alex has his balance back and he can take it in both hands again.

“Alex,” he breathes, then clears his throat. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I could say the same to you,” Alex manages.

Guerin shakes the box lightly. “Liz wants to surprise Arturo with the decorations this year, so I figured I’d offer my services. I’m the only one who can get tinsel into all the hard-to-reach places, after all.”

“Oh, that’s—that’s really nice.”

“Nah, I’m getting paid. Mostly in milkshakes and fries, but who’s complaining?”

They stare across the box. It’s been like this, lately, a small talk stiffness to their interactions, and Alex doesn’t know how to make it stop. But at the same time, he isn’t sure he wants to. It’s almost…nice. A couple weeks ago Alex drove by the junkyard just because he could, and Michael smelled like snow and pine and commented on the weather, and that brief exchange left the both of them grinning like idiots by the time Alex drove away. They aren’t lovers again, not yet. But they’re something. They’re getting there.

“Want some help? I’m free tonight,” Alex says, and Michael smiles at him, and that’s that. Alex comes back late, once the Crashdown is closed and Arturo is in bed. Liz and Rosa come downstairs to work on the decorations too, and more hands makes for light work, though Michael does most of the work without using his hands at all. They’re finished in no time. Alex plugs the lights in, flips the switch, and Rosa laughs, real and unrestrained and tugging Liz into the middle of the floor, dotted with multicolored puddles of light, twirling her in a circle. Sometime during the decorating, Rosa managed to stick Michael with a present ribbon, and it bobbles on top of his curls as he slinks over to Michael’s side to knock their shoulders together. Alex lets him, in the spirit of the season, and because every time Michael touches him his body goes weightless.

Now is as good a time to ask as any.

“So, Guerin,” he says, “I’m still getting ornaments every day. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that you haven’t told me, would you?”

Michael shrugs and grins that cowboy grin. “Looks to me like you’ve got yourself a secret admirer.”

“Secret, huh?”

“Looks that way.”

And before Alex can say another word, Michael is walking away to join Liz and Rosa dancing, whistling Let It Snow. He gets away from Alex that time, but before their little impromptu party is over, Alex manages to steal the bow from his hair, just glancing his fingers off those curls, so lightly Guerin doesn’t even seem to notice.

Whether he’s the ornament giver or not, Alex puts the bow on the shelf with the others. Just in case.

The next day, there’s no ornament when he leaves in the morning, and nothing in his mailbox when he checks it that evening, either. He’s—frustrated, okay, rather than sad, because what was the point? Stopping ten days in, what was even the point? It leaves him feeling untethered, without that tiny little thing to look forward to each and every day. Somehow, without even really noticing, he’d kind of gotten into the Christmas spirit. He even, feeling ridiculous the entire time, went to the pet store and bought a couple gifts for his dog, because he’s in a gift-giving mood even if he’s not sure he’s exchanging gifts with anyone else this year.

He shoulders his way out of the office, avoiding eye contact with the clerk, who’s surely noticed him coming in every single day, when he used to only check his mail once a week at best. Whatever. Now he has no reason to come back so often, and they’ve got plenty of time to forget him, like the way things should be.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he almost smacks Maria right in the face with the door as he leaves. She yelps, and he catches it at just the last second, tripping over apologies while she flaps her hand at him dismissively.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, Alex, really,” she laughs. Alex steadies her with his hands on her shoulders, and she tugs him to the side, out of the way of the sidewalk traffic. “I was hoping to run into you anyway. I have something for you.”

Oh shit. Anxiety spikes, and Alex blabbers, “Oh, shit, Maria, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know we were doing gifts this year—”

Great. Their friendship is finally finding even footing again, and Alex immediately puts himself in the red again by hitting her with a door and tells her straight up that he didn’t get her anything for Christmas. Batting a fuckin’ thousand, isn’t he. No wonder his secret admirer or whatever got bored of him.

“Alex, seriously, chill.” She tweaks his chin. “No presents is one hundred percent fine. You think I’m all about worshipping at the capitalist altar that is Christmas? Hell no. Buuut someone asked me for a favor, and it just so happened that I had something for you anyway, so here you go.”

She grabs his hand and presses into it a beautifully beaded eight-pointed star, red and white and gold. Alex gasps, and says, “This is—”

“One of Mom’s, yeah.” That wry, sad smile Maria gets when she talks about her mother curls up on her face. “She makes a lot of them on her good days, and her nurse says it’s good that she’s working with her hands. And Mom specifically said this one was for you.”

“God.” Alex swallows and grips the star as tightly as he can without crushing it. “Let me know next time you’re going to visit her, okay? So I can thank her in person?”

“Sure thing.”

Maria blinks rapidly for a moment, and Alex, understanding, doesn’t mention it. She composes herself quickly, and then Alex just has to ask:

“So it hasn’t been you the whole time, has it?”

“What, leaving you the ornaments? I am not that sappy.”

“Come on, there’s nothing wrong with being a little sentimental,” he teases.

“Uh huh. Sure. I forgot I was talking to the master of fuzzy feelings himself.”

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

Maria laughs at that and, hooking her arm through his, starts off down the street. “Now, we may not be exchanging presents this year, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make you help me with the rest of my shopping.”

The next day’s ornament is a classic Han Solo one, and if Alex lets out an undignified gasp when he sees it, Buffy is the only creature around to witness it. If he spends the rest of the day finding and watching the Star Wars Christmas Special, well, the same goes for that too, and his dignity is firmly intact.

The day after that, Liz texts him to come to the Crashdown, and since it’s a weekend he makes it there to meet her on her lunch break. The decorations look just as good in the daylight, if an inch or two less magical, and Alex has to duck his head to hide his grin when he remembers Michael very seriously placing a Santa hat on each individual alien in the place.

Liz beckons him over to a booth, two shakes and a plate of fries already in front of her. “Figured since I called you out, I could at least treat you,” she says. “On top of what I called you here for, which is….” She does a little drumroll on the table, then plonks an ornament box down on the table.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Alex bursts out.

“I know, right? I couldn’t believe it when I found it.”

Laughing and shaking his head, Alex picks it up. It’s a cat wearing an antenna headband so, so similar to the one perched on Liz’s head—the wrong shade of green, but still.

“I don’t suppose this is your way of telling me you’ve been leaving me ornaments all month, is it.”

“Pfft, no way.” Liz steals a fry from his tray and crunches it smugly. “Secret admirer, Manes. It’s supposed to be secret.”

Day fourteen is something delicate, so much so he’s a little scared to touch it. It’s thin glass, deep blue, and when it catches a light source it sends shimmering blue all around the room. It’s the day Alex stops trying to guess who his mystery gift-giver is, because now he’s been given light to hold in his hands, and it makes him feel—makes him—

Someone thought he was worthy of this. Someone wanted him to have it. Whether or not they ever tell him who they are, that means something.

His fifteenth ornament is the third one to come wrapped in a package, but this time it’s in an actual USPS shipping box, and it comes with a letter inside, in handwriting he recognizes.

Captain, it says, we got pressed into service again, and I was the unlucky bastard who drew the short straw, so I’m sending this to you, along with a warning that you fucking owe me…

The ornament is basic, a decently pretty white and silver snowflake. He puts the letter on the shelf with it. If the season is forcing everyone else into a sentimental mood, he might as well succumb to it too.

He wakes up on the sixteenth day with a bit of a sentiment hangover and lets himself lie in bed for a little while longer than usual, fondling Buffy’s soft ears and cradling this lovely, bittersweet feeling inside himself. If Christmas is the deadline for this whole ornament thing, he’s over halfway to the end. He takes the morning slowly, lingering over his coffee and over the view of the desert through his kitchen window, the high def white-gray limning of the world you get with a serious cold.

That day’s ornament doesn’t match Alex’s mood at all, but he still chuckles and shakes his head when he sees it. It’s another patch job like the Santa alien, but this time some sort of Valentines leftover—a traditional Roswell Gray holding a big red heart that says you’re out of this world!, with a handmade place for ornament hooks to go. It looks absurdly out of place next to everything else he’s accumulated, but he gives it its place of honor anyway.

He doesn’t expect his seventeenth ornament to arrive on the doorstep or in the mail, and sure enough, the pattern holds and it’s hand delivered at like ten o’clock that night. He almost doesn’t answer the door, but to be honest he’d left his leg on after work expecting just this.

“Ho ho ho,” an exhausted-looking Kyle says, shoving a box into Alex’s hands.

“Dude, did you drive all the way out here after your shift? It could have waited.”

“Nah, this is my one good deed for the year.”

“You’re literally a surgeon. Your job is good deeds.”

“Fine—my one act of charity.”

Alex bristles at that. “I don’t need—”

“Not for you.” Kyle punches him lightly on the shoulder.

Cryptic bastard.

“Go ahead and open it,” Kyle says, “My blood is eighty percent coffee right now, and I want to get home before I crash”

“You know you can stay if you need to.”

“Yeah, yeah. Open it.”

Alex’s eyebrows go straight up when he does and pulls out a shimmery white ball with the Buffy the Vampire Slayer logo on it. “You didn’t pick this out yourself. You asked me why I gave my dog a porn name the first time you met her.”

“Hey! I listened when you explained—” When Alex fixes him with a glare, Kyle gives in with a laugh. “Okay, okay, Rosa helped. Oh ye of little faith.”

Kyle leaves after that, with a quick hug and a Merry Christmas, and Alex goes to his shelf to put the ornament away. He hasn’t been keeping them in chronological order, more a sort of a…thematic grouping. The Buffy ball goes with Maria’s star, Liz’s alien cat, and the snowflake from his unit.

He looks up and turns away, casting his eyes all around the room to hide from no one the fact that he’s getting a little bit choked up.

Maybe he’ll buy some lights tomorrow. Or tinsel or something. No reason he can’t go in on the decorating, right? Why is he still holding himself back?

He doesn’t make it to the store the next day, or the two after that, three days that see him receiving a coffee mug, a UFO that’s supposed to light up when it’s plugged in, and a little truck hauling a Christmas tree.

He wonders if maybe that last one is a promise.

The pattern of hand deliveries every other day has been broken. But, in the spirit of the season—Alex doesn’t dwell on the fact that he never got one hand-delivered by Michael and instead chooses to think about the other thing that could mean.

On day twenty-one, he gets a glass teardrop that shimmers purple and golden, and on day twenty-two he gets a golden disc engraved with a tiny, perfect star chart.

The day before Christmas Eve, he opens the door to find an acoustic guitar.

As if he didn’t already know.

Christmas Eve dawns gray and dismal with the smell of snow in the air. Buffy trots around the yard in circles, lifting her nose every couple minutes to sniff the cold, and Alex cradles his coffee in both hands to keep them warm while he watches her, content. Part of him regrets that he never went and got more decorations, but it’s okay. This whole month—it’s been such an unexpected thing to be able to accept a simple joy into his life, to let himself expect a little, uncalled-for gift every day, that all he can feel at this point is just…peace. He couldn’t have asked for anything else. He didn’t.

Buffy barks, and Alex looks up just in time to see a familiar truck coming down the road, the bed covered with a tarp. Alex puts his mug down on the railing and regrets it instantly for want of something to do with his hands as Michael parks, opens the door, and jumps out of the car.

“Hey,” Alex says.

“Hey. Merry Christmas,” Michael says in return.

They just stare at each other for a moment, something that happens a lot when it’s just the two of them. Like they have to steel themselves to speak. Like they have to make sure that no, it’s not, it’s not the time to take that step forward and drown themselves in each other. It’s okay, yeah, it’s okay to just be here. Like this.

“Want some help with that?” Alex tilts his chin in the direction of the tarp.

“Y-yeah. Sure.” He stumbles over the word and ducks his head, rounding the truck to reveal what’s underneath.

It’s exactly what Alex expected, and everything he never did. His heart in his throat, he touches one of the branches on the tree, needles pricking his skin, sap sticky on his fingertips when he pulls them away.

“You get the other end,” Michael says, and they carry it inside together, a crate full of other decorations floating along behind them, Buffy pulling up the rear, eyeing it suspiciously. She settles in the corner to watch as Michael sets the tree up, hammers it into the stand, and positions it in the corner where it’ll be out of Alex’s way.

Alex hovers in the kitchen, making them both more coffee, hands shaking a little bit on the grounds, on the filter, on the carafe. The tree still takes up too much room. Michael takes up too much room. He always has. In this tiny house. In Alex’s heart and in his head and between his ribs. Michael pulls things out of the crate one by one and hangs them in the air around himself—bundles of lights, a skirt for the tree, multicolored balls and delicate paper snowflakes to fill all the spots left between the ornaments in Alex’s new collection.

Their fingers brush when Alex hands him a mug, and Alex lets the moment hang there. Skin on skin in the most casual, innocent way, but with Michael’s golden eyes so close it still manages to heat his blood, dry his mouth, cover him in yearning.

“Thanks,” Michael says hoarsely. He drags his index finger along Alex’s as he pulls his hand away, sending a shiver through the both of them.

Decorating for Christmas shouldn’t feel forbidden, but it does. It does, as they circle around each other, spiraling lights around the tree, eyes catching on every pass, Alex’s face so warm every time he sees Michael’s answering blush, on his cheeks, on his lips. Once the lights are on, they start in on the ornaments. Alex picks them off the shelf in chronological order, passing half of them to Michael, keeping half of them—like Mimi’s star, Han Solo, and the guitar—for himself.

“How did you manage it?” He asks eventually, fixing the teardrop to a high branch so Buffy doesn’t get any ideas.

“A friend who knows how to navigate Etsy, a sister with Amazon Prime, and a little bit of old-fashioned gumption.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Sure am.” Michael grins with satisfaction at the Valentines alien. Then he sobers a bit and says, “Hey, look, I’m sorry about the packaging the first couple days. I wanted to surprise you—I wasn’t thinking, and I should have.”

“It’s okay. You changed it up, and…yeah. It’s fine.”

“Thanks.”

A couple minutes pass in silence as Alex searches for what else to say. To ask. Why did he do it? When did he get the idea?

He asks, “What about the others? The ones you had Maria, Liz, Kyle, and the guys pick out? Red herrings, or did you just run out of ideas?”

“Oh, I had lots of ideas.” Michael presses his shoulder to Alex’s, coming in close to hang the star chart right beside the silver bird. Nudging him shyly, Michael says, “But my favorite one was the one where you got reminded how many people care about you.”

Alex almost drops the UFO at that, at Michael’s absurd honesty. He has nothing else to say, and they finish decorating the tree in peaceful silence. When they finish, Alex turns the lights off, and Michael plugs the tree in, and the gray day is dark enough that everything lights up bright like it would in the evening, all the colors of the rainbow.

“Fuck,” Alex breathes. It’s like a punch to the gut, happiness and disbelief and the unavoidable need to hoard this feeling, this moment, that comes on the heels of those feelings.

“So you like it?”

“Fuck,” Alex repeats, “Michael. I love it. It’s…I just…”

“Good.”

Michael, hesitating all the way, reaches out and takes Alex’s hand, sliding their fingers home together.

“I have one more ornament for you.” And he reaches into his pocket.

Alex makes a strangled noise when he sees it. Instinct tells him to rip his hand out of Michael’s and flee to the other side of the room to regroup, but he stays rooted in place, struggling, grasping for anything to say.

The console shard—because that’s what it has to be, just with gauzy ribbon looped and knotted carefully around one end so it dangles neatly from Michael’s fingers—shimmers in the soft rainbow light. Michael’s eyes shimmer along with it, equally as alien.

“I can’t,” Alex blurts. “I can’t take it. Michael. No. It’s—”

“No, no, listen, please.” Michael tugs on his hand like he wants to pull him closer, but Alex can’t—he just can’t—

He can’t be what ties Michael to Earth. He can’t be the sole tether that keeps him here, to the world that hurt him again and again, even if it’s the thing he wants most in the world, to protect, to hoard him like he hoards every sliver of a happy memory, where no one can take it away from him. That’s why he—months ago, when he most thought Michael was slipping through his hands, he gave him the console piece he found so he could go if he needed to. And now Michael tries to hand another piece back to him again?

“I can’t,” Alex says again, stuck on repeat.

“Hey, hey,” Michael fumbles for Alex’s other hand, and Alex lets him catch it, because with Michael holding him in place he doesn’t feel as cold. “It’s not what you think. I’m not asking you to keep me here, or anywhere, just.”

He swallows. He’s beautiful, in this light most of all. The most beautiful thing Alex has ever seen. Shining in every way, from the golden brushstrokes of his hair to the heart of him, who knew that Alex must never have had much of a holiday and decided to give him one.

Alex wants to kiss him. Wants to swallow whatever words Michael is going to say next and end the conversation there.

“Look.” Michael squeezes his hands. “When my mom—when she died. And after. Everything I worked for, everything I built the console for and devoted my life to, I thought it was over. Useless. But…you told me you were my family. And I know it took me too long to believe it, but I do now.

“I built the console because I was searching for my family. And now that it’s right in front of me, I want you to have a piece of it. Want us to have a piece of it.”

Alex searches Michael’s face, every earnest, open inch, until he can’t stand it anymore, until he drops Michael’s hands in favor of cradling his face, pulling him in, and taking his mouth in a slow, deep, careful kiss, tasting coffee on his tongue, drowning in the coming home of him, of his mouth on Alex’s, the rightness of having him in his arms. Michael responds with enthusiasm, stroking his back with his broad hands, making eager little noises into the kiss, going along with it until Alex pulls away to look at him again.

“You’re unbelievable,” Alex breathes.

“Thought it was the season for believing,” Michael replies, a little smile returning to his face.

“That’s what they tell me,” Alex says, and kisses him again.

Michael stays the night, wrapped up in Alex’s blankets, wrapped up in every inch of space Alex has ever thought was empty or cold. He doesn’t even need to set the heater that night, kept plenty warm by Michael’s body all along his back, holding him so close.

They wake up slow in the morning, but Alex earliest, because…

Well, even after everything Michael has done this month and everything he said the previous day, Alex is nervous about Michael’s Christmas present. He needs those extra minutes, watching him sleep peacefully, to steel himself.

But when he watches Michael wake up, sees how the first thing he does is look for Alex so he can smile at him, he isn’t so worried anymore.

They bring the blankets out into the sitting room, bundling up under the tree. Buffy leaves her bed to lie beside them instead, on top of the blankets, effectively pinning them in place, so Michael has to use his powers to get the wood and kindling set and strike a match and get a fire going in the fireplace.

The light flickers like something living off the console shard hanging from one of the uppermost branches. Heart in his throat, Alex pulls the envelope—the same one that held the ornament he got on December 1st—out of his pocket.

“I have something for you, too.”

Michael takes the envelope, eyes locked on Alex’s like he’s waiting for permission to open it. When Alex nods, he slips the tape open carefully, almost reverently. Like Alex, he’s never really gotten a gift before. Not one he thought meant anything. Not one he thought could stay.

He shakes the envelope, and a key falls into his hand.

“It’s to the front door,” Alex says to fill the silence.

Michael’s fist clamps around it with a familiar desperation, like someone might come out of nowhere to snatch it away. He blinks glossy eyes, wet lashes up at Alex, his mouth open, closed, throat bobbing as he swallows. Alex reaches out to stroke his closed fist.

“You’re my family. You’re my home. I don’t ever want to shut you out; I want you to be here. With me. Together. And I think you want that too.”

“Alex,” Michael chokes, and then he’s in Alex’s arms, wrapped around him in a hug.

He stays like that for most of the day, handsy and gentle, reaching out to touch him whenever they’re separated even for a moment. The next day passes much the same—then the next they both have to go back to work, live lives outside of their little holiday bubble.

Alex gets home first. He takes the dog out, gets dinner out of the freezer. Then about an hour later, he hears a car outside, footsteps on the stairs, then, after a minute’s pause, a key slots into the lock.

And Alex knows.

#malex #my fic #roswell new mexico #christmas fic #michael guerin #alex manes

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pythosart · 5 years

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A big ol 2019 end of the year update

I felt somewhat compelled to write my end of the year/decade thoughts, but a warning before you read: This one’s going to be heavy, intensely personal, and long. If you don’t feel up to reading that, it may be best to skip it. I promise I’ll go back to shutting up and posting art afterwards. I’m profoundly incapable of being concise, ever, so apologies for the length of this.

2019 was a nightmare.

Some background: In mid 2016, my mother was diagnosed with a rare form of liver cancer. She was given a few months to live. She was given weeks or months to live multiple times, for almost three years. In that time my mom was in and out of the hospital, but spent all her good days living life to the fullest, starting and finishing dream projects, and keeping all of us going despite her own situation. Even when she was bedridden, hooked up to tubes and bags and god knows what, she found time to prop up her loved ones and pursue her hobbies. She even managed to develop new hobbies and interests while otherwise imprisoned by her physical state, something I struggle to do at the best of times even in my young and relatively healthy form. If there’s anything I can make of this experience, it’s that I hope to grow into even half the woman my mother was.

I ended 2018 with my final quarter at SCAD. I spent the entire quarter terrified my mom was going to die while I was away from home. It was horrific, I barely scraped by my last few classes (bless my professors’ endless patience), and immediately left Savannah for home as soon as the quarter was up. I never had room to celebrate finishing college. Any other year it would be a huge milestone, but I barely even care.

This past May, my mother passed away, after three years of petrifying suspense. It happened in the dead middle of the night, while my best friend was visiting for a con, and it still feels like a bad dream. It’s also one of the only vivid memories I even have of this year.

I wish I had more to say on that, but I genuinely think the drawn out suffering and fracturing of my whole world left me unable to fully unpack everything that’s happened. It’s hard to even think about for long, and at times I even half-forget she’s gone. I think of things I want to show her, or tell her, or cook with her. Just the other day I kept thinking I’d tell her how much I liked endive after she showed me how to make it. I found a historical Italian cooking channel that, every time I see it, I just think of how much she’d love it. I knew she’d love Hot Fuzz but never got to show her. Little, stupid things that shouldn’t matter, but they do. They just do.

My mother and I were close, much closer than I am with my dad. Especially towards the end of her life, we had gotten closer, and I felt like I was only just really getting to know her as an equal. I still want to share my life with her, but that chance is gone.

This holiday season has been especially rough in her absence, because not only was my mom the motivational and creative force behind a lot of holiday activities here, it’s the first everything without her. We had Thanksgiving with friends and a catered dinner, instead of spending several days cooking and polishing family silver and setting the table. I won’t be making handmade tortellini with her for Christmas like we did every year. It’s the little things like that.

We’re a tiny family, with over half of us in Italy and lacking much communication due to the language barrier. Family holidays were always small, but there’s just a huge hole how, much greater than the cold numeric value of “one fewer participant.” My mom was always a driving force and a keystone in our support networks, not to mention the main line of contact with the Italian-speaking side of the family, so now the family feels so much more scattered and isolated than ever.

My girlfriend was close to my mother too, and as she’s been living with me for years now and is practically part of the family, I think she took it just as hard as anyone. Cel saw everything I did, and dealt with many of the same uncertainties and traumatic experiences I did.

A month after I lost my mother, I lost my cat too. Galileo was twelve years old, a spry old man who yelled instead of meowed, and just a wonderful cat. I got him when I was in 7th grade, after begging my parents for years to get me a cat. It was my mom who eventually overrode my dad’s hesitations, and from then on Leo was part of the family. He went through a very sudden decline over the course of a week or two, and we learned it was cancer. Feline lymphoma, I think. I had to make the call to put him to sleep, and it ripped what was left of my heart out.

Not that it needs stating, but fuck cancer.

A few too-short months later, I cut ties with a “friend,” which despite how fucking much it hurt, was really for the best. At a certain point one simply can no longer afford to waste energy on a certain kind of person. Unfortunately I’m a persistently optimistic idiot, and it took me too long to cut my losses before deep damage was done. Done to me, my close friends, and even barely involved acquaintances this “friend” dumped on relentlessly and tried to harass into spying on me. Really, if any part of this is unforgivable, it’s that.

All this was, however, a valuable reminder that it’s no good to have any tolerance for habitually dishonest people, even if they think they’re doing it to look “nice.” Chronic liars will gaslight you whether they know it or not, and trying to navigate that in an already damaged mental state is inadvisable. It was an important lesson in picking one’s battles, albeit one learned too late. I’m still holding out hope I can find it in my heart to forgive this person, if only for my own selfish sake so I can move on. I have a lot of experience living on spite, and I don’t want to make a further habit of it.

Naturally all of the above did little to curb my already inflamed pessimism about the state of my country and the world at large, but I need not expand on that, I imagine.

I suppose it would be unfair of me to leave it all at that and only mention the negative, though admittedly positivity is hard to muster these days. A few bright spots of note:

Graduated from SCAD with my BFA in Sequential Art (technically last year, but I did the ceremonial bit this year)

Tabled at Animazement with Woods. We barely broke even, but it was a great time and I plan on doing it again in the new year.

Spent literally an entire month hanging out with my two best friends, which was amazing and exactly the kind of healing experience I needed around that time of year.

Properly did Halloween for the first time in years. I made a costume I’m proud of and we went out on the town… for like an hour, because it promptly started pouring. But fun nevertheless

Started therapy. As of writing this, I’ve only had an introductory session, but it’s a start. Should have started six months ago, but didn’t for reasons to be addressed...in therapy

Started volunteering at the local natural history museum, where I spent like half my childhood. I’ll be doing data entry in collections, but that’s still cool as hell

Got a start on figuring out what I want to do with my life. It’ll involve going back to school for science within the next five-ish years, but it’s nice to have a goal. More of a goal than I’ve ever had, in fact.

Played some extremely good video games (shout out to The Blackout Club and Control)

Made a shitload of unnecessary yet endlessly fun and good AUs with my friends and my one (1) OC

Got an iPad Pro and started learning Procreate, which has gotten me drawing more

Learned a bit of needle felting

2019 was a year of getting much closer to my two best friends, and I genuinely owe them my life at this point. I don’t know where I’d be without them. Nowhere good, certainly.

Woods and Dross kept me talking to people, kept me creating, told me when I was being unreasonable or needed to cool it, heard me out when I needed it but always kept me honest. They helped me keep some creative juices flowing when otherwise I’d have been at a frustrated loss and might have given up for good. If it seems like I’ve kept up my usual art output at all, and if you’ve enjoyed the Lou content (or not, whoops... apologies to everyone who followed me for monster content) you have both of them to thank.

Even moreso, I owe my girlfriend a great deal for being there for me through all of this while she herself was suffering similarly. She and I have had our ups and downs, and been through a lot in the five-ish years we’ve been together. We aren’t the most outspoken couple, but I think our mutual understanding and pain mitigated a lot of the damage this year has done. I don’t think I could have handled it alone.

Furthermore, I really need to thank a lot of other friends and acquaintances I’m not quite as close with, but still talk to. These people especially were willing to call me on my bullshit when necessary, or just talk to me at all, about anything. Even if these acquaintances didn’t know it at the time, there’s a good chance they were dragging me out of one of my frequent existential despair spirals.

I also, weirdly, owe a lot to helping my hen Julia recover from her dog attack. That was around the time that my mom’s health was in its final decline, when I felt the most helpless and despairing. I think having even some tiny something I could do to help was like, the only feeling of control I had in life for a bit there. Julia’s fine, by the way. Still queen of the yard, top chicken boss bitch, etc. Julia was always a kind of kindred spirit with my mom, in a way. Little but not to be underestimated, gray, big personality and commanding presence… Not to mention, she was one of the first in our flock and was always my mom’s favorite.

It would be too much to say I have high hopes or plans of any kind for the upcoming year, but I do have a list of things I want to try and do. Some of which will involve art, and the posting thereof.

Big if on this one, but I’ve also recently started therapy (only took me half a year to work up to making a phone call after the first failed attempt took all the wind out of my sails) and I have…maybe not high hopes, but hopes, for that doing something to help. I should have started therapy two years ago, but the second best time is now, etc etc.

I have a lot of New Year’s resolutions, beyond the usual “get in shape, drink less coffee, blah blah” that I’ll try and write up a little list of separately. Most of them are art-related, so you all will be there to watch me swing and miss I PROMISED I’D TRY TO BE LESS NEGATIVE. New Year’s resolution #1: Maybe don’t make so many self-deprecating jokes.

Anyway, I don’t know how to end any wall of text, be it an OC worldbuilding screed or something serious like this, so... I guess, love yourself, cherish your friends, know when to put your own needs first and when to put your friends’ needs firster. One of the things my mom taught me in this past year or so is that relationships are what you make of them, and that it’s okay to be selfish sometimes. Be generous, be genuine, don’t be a doormat and don’t lie to people you care about, even if it seems kinder in the moment. Savor the time you have with those close to you, and spend time doing things you love. Cliché, maybe, but cliché can still be true. Happy new year, everyone. I sincerely hope it will treat us all better. 2020 may just be an imaginary change of numbers, but I like to think it really does wipe the slate in a way, and make room for all of us to do what we can to be better. Speaking of which, vote. For the love of all that is good, vote.

A little bullet list of New Year’s resolutions, because it’s nicer to look at

Try to get back in shape (of course) - That 30 days of strength thing was good while it lasted, despite my joints hating me

Learn some new recipes, preferably with fewer carbs, you Italian ass

Keep a physical calendar and stick with it for at least a few months

Learn at least one new skill by the middle of the year, whether it’s art-related or something else

Start writing more. Don’t have to share it, but try. Write down ideas somewhere other than Discord where they’re easy to lose

Either reopen Patreon or figure out how ko-fi works. Even if it’s for no money, just to have structure and goals.

Do Animazement again and try out some new product types

Go to SCAD career fair with a decent portfolio

Get better about spending, by whatever method works

Attend some art classes at the local collectives, doesn’t matter what

Play more video games. I swear I only played like three new things this year

Read more classic literature and nonfiction, at least one book per month. I’ve been really enjoying Agatha Christie’s works and am about to start Guns, Germs, and Steel

Read more comics. Basically just consume more media

Do Halloween again, better this time

See friends in person more

Practice accepting whatever shitty thoughts show up and then letting them go, rather than dwelling on them

#not art #text post #death cw

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corinthbayrpg · 5 years

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NAME. Atlas Rose AGE & BIRTH DATE. 29 & June 16th, 1992 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He / Him SPECIES. Fury of Alecto OCCUPATION. Co-Owner of Woven FACE CLAIM. Chris Wood

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: violence, death ) In the temperate rainforests of the Pacific Northwest, a nomadic and matriarchal coven birthed a pair of twins. Born first was Atlas, and soon after came his brother, Aegon. Descended from a long line of Celtic Druids who could trace their lineage from the West, to the Witch Trials of Massachusetts, all the way to the ancient Gauls of Europe. Routed from their sacred groves by Romans, the only way to survive was to assimilate and practice their traditions in secret. Persecution dogged the Druids turned Witches at every step, they traded one brand for another and were made to stand by as their kind were burned at the stake. It was not enough to blend in with society, the Rose Coven needed to separate themselves from it entirely. Centuries later and the flames of ignorance failed to snuff out the practices that they, at great cost, had long kept alive. It was this life that Atlas and his brother were born into, twins born under an auspicious sign to the head of their coven.

They had allegiances with a line of shapeshifters known as the Griffen wolves, while they were a pack that had only aligned with them out of necessity, the ties between the witches and the werewolves became close. Through the generations it became less about protection or safety, and more about family. The witches were tied to the wolves and the magic within them, and the wolves were inherently tethered to the witches. Both were made stronger by the other, and so long as this pact was respected, both prospered.

From childhood’s hour Atlas was not as others, he did not feel the way that others felt, or dream in the same way that they dreamt. He could not remember a night that went by where he did not awaken screaming, or a time where he did not see mysterious shapes in the patterns of birds in the sky. Among the other children, it was only Aegon that did not poke fun at Atlas - instead he questioned it and wished to know why. Atlas didn’t have any answers, but their grandmother did and quickly confirmed that the young boy was born with the power of the sight. The things that Atlas dreamed were futures that had not yet come to pass, the birds wove omens for him in the sky as messages from the very Gods they worshipped. She too had the gift of sight, retired now from her long tenure in leading the coven, their grandmother took instead to bringing Atlas under her wing. It was she who embedded in him a love of weaving, it was this craft that had kept their people warm through the winter, that fed them fish from the rivers, created snares, nets, and other traps. It required patience, and nimble fingers, two things that Atlas had been notably blessed with.

Atlas and Aegon were inseparable outside of their lessons, Atlas had always been patient, the calm in any storm. His inherent nature was that of water, while Aegon had been born with fire. When his twin brother would set about a fit of rage, it was Atlas who would soothe the hurt with kind words. Calm, consistent, and steadfast, Atlas never questioned what his role in the coven would someday be. He was an oracle, a rare and generous gift of magic that would serve their family well into the future.

One night he awoke from a premonition of death, teeth that broke skin, blood that stained the ground, and bodies that were swallowed by the earth. Still just a child, Atlas barely understood it, but he woke Aegon and whispered to him everything he’d seen just as the oracle always did. The next morning the bodies were found, a vampire had torn through some members of the coven that were away from their protection, and they might have gotten away with it had a fury not noted the crime and come to take vengeance. Atlas would always remember how the man had looked, carrying the head of the creature who had wronged them as he strode into the camp. From their tree house above Atlas and Aegon watched as the fury dropped the prize before their parents feet. He took no payment, and offered only a promise that no others would follow this one.

There was power there that Atlas had never known, raw and visceral. It was a strength that the witch simply lacked, without a doubt he was talented, and had he been born a woman then he might have been seen as suitable to someday lead the coven. But that wasn’t his destiny. He learned more of the Greek mythos, and that furies were not born, but created. From then on Atlas and Aegon took to practicing their own form of protection about the forest, their practices had embedded a deep mistrust for the outside world into their psyche, and for this reason anyone who came near their coven’s borders were purposefully led astray. With Atlas’ power over the future, and Aegon’s talent for crafting illusions, nothing was ever truly as it seemed.

More and more the twins pushed the boundaries of their home, they wanted to see the world that was denied to them, eventually getting bold enough to venture into towns, then even cities. They had grown up in their coven, they knew how to slip in and out without being detected and for years they continued to do so. It was on their eighteenth birthday that Atlas and Aegon ventured out once more. This time to North Vancouver where they wandered the Quay, eventually going their separate ways with a promise to meet up shortly. Atlas had been raised on stories of witches who turned towards darkness, how one could risk their lives in severing their tie to the Goddess for even greater power. These tainted creatures were genasi, and it was on this day that Atlas encountered one for the first time. Rumors of the oracle’s skill had slipped from the forest’s borders and reached the ears of a coven of air genasi, it was Isaac who set out to retrieve him and with his magic bewitched Atlas’ mind.

That day on the quayside Atlas left his old life behind, left Aegon to wonder what had happened to his brother, and left his parents to eventually succumb to a coup. Taken into the company of the genasi and their collective, three long years would pass before the spell was eventually broken. Witness and complicate to innumerable horrors, it was Aegon’s magic that managed to reach him through the aid of a family relic. Armed with the knowledge now that the twins would never be able to return home, they set a different course, to Corinth Bay where they laid in wait for Isaac to come after what had been stolen from him. In death, a genasi could always be brought back, so they dispatched him instead to a place where his soul would never be reached again.

It was in Corinth where Atlas grieved the loss of his old life and the future he’d long come to accept, but it was where he also began to move on once more. Not unlike Aegon, Atlas met a vampire. One who was potentially as old as the traditions his family had been keeping alive for thousands of years. Despite their differences, the two of them fell in love, and for a time Atlas let himself believe that life could just be simple. That he could be the sort of person that, despite what he had been through, could simply grow old and be content with the happiness that he’d created for himself. In Corinth he made friends from all different walks of life, and he met people that he never would have encountered had he stayed in the woods. Alongside his brother Aegon, Atlas even opened a business, duly named Woven for the handmade textiles that he spent long nights pouring over.

But fate was less content, and furies were not born, but made. One night because Aegon happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, a vampire tore his throat out. Atlas came upon him too late and held his brother as Aegon took his final breaths, Aegon who’d saved him when no one else in the world was even looking for him, Aegon who’d been the first to believe the fantastical things Atlas dreamed of, and Aegon who despite his temperament was impossibly kind. He was good, talented, and taken from this world too soon. When his twin died, Atlas had felt it ricochet through every fibre of his being. His soul was sundered, and his heart was broken. There remained only one thing left to do and that was to get justice for the life that had so wrongfully been taken.

A shell of the sweet-natured witch that he had been before, it was only when Atlas was stood over the vampire’s decapitated body that Alecto appeared before him. There was only a serpent at first, one that slithered from the open-mouth of the vampire and struck at Atlas’ wrist. Fangs broke into his skin and the witch felt himself hurtling through earth and fire before he landed at the feet of the horrid, winged creature. A den of snakes writhed about her head, eyes like brimstone burned into his soul, and a pair of bat-like appendages jutted horribly from her back. Atlas did not have to ask to know who this was, she was Alecto, Fury of Anger. And she had an offer for him.

Immortality came with a price, because while Xander had found a way to become human again, Atlas turned against this plan in favour of filling the hole in his heart with the only thing that felt justified given the loss of Aegon: vengeance and rage. As it happened, Aegon was visited as well. But not by Alecto, by Atropos. Atlas’ brother was made into a fury, and while they were once complimentary as witches, now Atlas can feel his loss of power every time he is stood in the presence of his brother. He can hear the cries of all those Xander killed in the past reaching for him in the waking hours, he feels the fault of his friends, knows without knowing when an egregious crime is committed nearby. Now he thinks often of destiny, and fate and to the few quiet years where he was happy. Truly happy. Perhaps a person is only allowed so much of it, and that the years he has left now with Xander will be the last he gets. Instead of the life they both wanted, Atlas instead will have to watch him grow old while his brother, Aegon has now been cursed to watch the fury move further and further away from his old self, forever.

PERSONALITY

+ intelligent, intuitive, confident – suspicious, reclusive, hostile

PLAYED BY SHANE. EST. He/Him.

#male #atlas rose #fury #chris wood

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slothgiirl · 5 years

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Shadowplay (alex turner x reader)

Ottoman's was the only coffee shop you were willing to splurge on.

Their coffee a delight even without all the milk and sugar you could add when you needed a kick to keep up. There had been a rush of orders this week and even after waking up past noon today you still felt tired.

As per usual, there was a line. People sitting around, working on their laptops. An old man reading the papers. A woman in a sleek suit typing quickly on her phone as she waited for her order.

The bells chimed and you couldn't help but glance over at the man who walked in. Clad in black fitted jeans, a leather jacket despite the turn in weather over a crisp white shirt and shiny leather boots. Hair gelled back with what looked like a whole tub of gel.

With a confident swagger he took his place in line behind you. He was undeniably attractive. But you were more interested in getting your cuppa and getting all your errands done for the day than anything else.

The next few people in line went up. You were probably going to go for your usual. With just a splash of oat milk.

Two people made a bee line for the man behind you. An incredibly beautiful woman, the type that become influencers on instagram, who got free drinks at bars. She had a golden glow and her hand in the man next to her.

"Al," she greets him, hugging him with ease. She's loud and you can't help but overhear them as you scroll through the sales page on net a porter. "It's so good to see you."

"Arielle," the man behind you greets stiffly, not leaning into the hug at all. You can't see his eyes from behind his aviators. "Didn't 'spect to see you here."

"Just a weekend trip really," she tells him, "the wedding plannings been crazy."

"Aaah, yes. The wedding. Congrats 'bout that again."

Arielle doesn't seem to sense any of his discomfort, too caught up in her own happiness. Probably an ex boyfriend then.

You're not even trying to pretend not to listen anymore, their drama better than anything on the telly since downtown abbey ended.

The man at the til calls up, "next in line."

You're about to go up when the man behind you throws an arm around your neck, pulling you into his side and smiling down at you as he tells Arielle, "gonna order. Wait for us?"

Arielle smiles at you warmly, "of course Al just don't take to long."

And before you can say anything he's pulling you along forward to order. "I'll 'ave a earl grey creme and whatever the lady wants." His loose hold is the only reason I don't move away instantly.

Al turns to you, a devilishly confident smile on his lips, the type people promising a good time and more trouble than their worth give, as he asks, "please go along with it for a couple of minutes?"

Not wanting to bother the man at the register by taking forever you add, "and a cafe au lait with oat milk." Before looking back at Al as he finally lets go and slides his card, "and what's in it for me?"

He chuckles, "the coffee."

"Least you could do."

"Listening in on people's conversations is very rude love," Al says, wagging his finger playfully.

You snort. "Maybe you shouldn't have those conversations in public if you don't want people to overhear."

"It's just a couple of minutes love." His deep voice smooth as you both move to wait for your order.

"All right," you nod, letting yourself be charmed by him.

"I'm Alex."

You introduce yourself as well, finding it funny that everything seems to be going in the wrong order with you both.

"So," Arielle asks, joining you both along with her fiancé. "Who's this Al?" She's light and genuine and you think it would be all to easy to be friends with her.

"My girlfriend," Alex replies back casually, as if remarking on the weather. You roll your eyes at him. He's a terrible actor or maybe he's just that much of an arse.

"That enthusiasm," you tease, putting your arm through his, "it's too much."

Alex shakes his head, smiling.

"Are you two going to make it too my wedding," Arielle asks, "it's in Palm springs. Just a few hours from yours."

So he doesn't live in the city despite his accent and we won't ever have to talk about this again. It's a relief. Lets you ease up from whatever this was. It said something about Alex, despite his confident demeanor that he didn't want to be alone while his ex got married.

"We shall see," he says noncommintantly.

"Got to get going," she adds, "hope we can get lunch before I go back to LA or when we're in LA."

Alex looks like he would rather die than do either one of those things, so you answer for him. "Love too but maybe this weekends a little short notice."

"Oh okay." She looks genuinely disappointed. They both leave and the barista calls your order out. Alex grabs them both.

"Thank you love. Really saved my arse."

"It would've been easier just to tell the truth," you note. Lies got all tangled up quickly.

He shrugs, "a lot less fun though." Alex finally takes off his aviators. It's frankly unfair. His wide brown eyes only adding to his already well formed features. A softness to them that ruins the idea that he's a debonair devil the way he fronts.

"What are you going to do when she asks?"

"Lie."

"So she's your," You raise a brow.

"Ex. She wanted to get married and I-," he fiddled with the ring around his finger, a silver garish thing that he pulls off through sheer confidence, "I didn't want to."

"To marry her or get married at all?""

Her. . .both?" He pouts, looking into your eyes.

"And what? You don't want to look like the loser in the breakup or are you actually regretting not marrying her."

Alex runs a hand through his hair, ruinning the carefully done style. "No. I don't regret breaking up with her. I just. . .I guess I'm feeling particularly old today," he jokes.

You shake your head. "Honestly I've been feeling old since I finished school."

"So what about you love? Any boyfriends that I should worry about?"

Laughing, you explain, "not but it's me you should be worried about. Did years of krav maga."

"Really," Alex says, looking your small form over. You might have a full figure, but you also have lots of toned muscle.

"Yeah. My dad was very into martial arts. Boxing was more his thing though. What about you Alex? Arielle said you lived in LA?"

Alex takes his time to answer, dipping from his drink. Looking thoughtfully around before replying. "I do have a place there."

"But?"

"But I'm currently staying in London. Thought a change of scenery might be nice."

"Are you like a drug dealer or something," you ask unable to help yourself. London was expensive. Let alone having a place in Los Angeles too. "Or some trust fund posh kid?"

Alex laughs, almost choking on his tea. Rubbing his nose bride, before looking over at you and laughing again. "Neither. I promise love. I'm a musician."

"So a rich kid," you state, "all the musicians I know are broke."

"A successful musician," he amends.

"Like Beyoncé?"

"Not quite," Alex says shyly. It makes you even more curious, having to wrestle this information out of him. "What do you do for a living love?"

"I'm a tailor. Mostly do handmade stuff. I always liked sewing. Even as a kid. In college I made my clothes a lot of the times and sometimes had to stitch things up throughout the day." It had been embarrassing to have a seam unravel during class.

"Tailors make the world go round," Alex notes, "Though the fittings are annoying, the results are undeniable." He puffs out his chest and straightens out his leather jacket.

You laugh at his faux posh face, one you know very well from work. It took a certain type of customer to afford suits starting at 2000 pounds. "Most people ask if people really still need tailors what with poshmark and h&m."

We finish our drinks, easily going back and forth. Alex is charming and sweet. The lull between his responses worth it, his voice holding the same quality as a good dark chocolate and just as addicting.

He tells you about LA, a place you've never been too. About music, going off on tangents about instruments and records you've never heard off and will be googling as soon as you get home.

It's easy to fall into conversation with him. Telling him about your small family. Your sister still in uni. Your parents down by the coast. The amount of work you currently have, and all the ridiculous request you get from your customers. "I'm all for making people look as fit as they want me too and having clothes that make them feel good but there's a limit. No cut will make you loose ten stone. Of have you suddenly look twenty years younger."

"I admire your ability to but up with all those posh fookers."

"I do too. Not that everyone's bad. There's also business people that are more middle class but a good suit is everything. Counts for more than having twent my prada ones."

"Well," he states, finally leaning back and ending the magic of the afternoon, reality coming flooding back because you both have things to do and he's still just a stranger, "it's been lovely talking to you darling but I'm afraid I already made plans for tonight."

"And I have errands to run before lazying about all day tomorrow." You might still make it to the bank if you rush. Hail a cab.

"You've been the best fake girlfriend I could ask for."

"How many have you had Alex," you tease him, watching the heat rise to his cheeks. Feeling emboldened, you give him your number, scribbling it out on napkin, "in case you ever need a fake girlfriend. I hear it's much easier than a real one. Not that you look like you have any trouble getting women."

He smiles, looking over at you in amazement, as if he's not sure your real. That he'd been lucky to run into a woman like you while getting coffee. It was too entente of a gaze for you to hold for long.

You look away, feeling surprised at yourself. It wasn't like you to hand out your number. But you hoped that you might see him again. That it wasn't just a one off.

"See you around love."

#Alex Turner #alex turner fanfic #alex turner imagine #alex turner x reader #mine #fake dating au #shadowplay

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shastelly · 5 years

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Klance Positivity Week - Modern Day/ Historical

So this is for May 27, not sure if I’m going to do the whole week, I’m behind on some other stuff, but wanted to at least get this one out.

Total self indulgent fluffy silliness :)

Modern College AU

"Lance, I don't know about this." Keith grumbled picking at the outfit he was being forced to wear.

"Keith, it's fun, have fun." Lance huffed. He had personally picked the costumes and he thought they both looked damn fine.

"I'm sorry, I just, I feel weird." Keith frowned picking at the red, brown, and black patterned coat think he was wearing. The weird little wooden toggle button things on the front were just funny looking. The black pants were pretty plain, and he had flat out refused to even consider tights, much to Lance's dismay. The only thing he really liked about the outfit was the black belt with a special sheath for his dagger and a place to hand the scabbard for his sword and, of course, the two blades themselves were the only things he really like about the outfit. The black boots were relatively okay, they went up his calf and were soft leather pull on types.

"Well, you look hot." Lance huffed annoyed that his boyfriend was not appreciating his effort, and in all his pouting glory was still completely adorable.

Keith huffed out a breath, he knew he was being a bit of a brat, after all he had agreed to this. Lance had been begging him to take him to the Renaissance Festival since Pidge and Hunk had decided they were going. He had agreed when he'd seen how much Lance wanted it. He really did like to make him happy.

"Hunk's wearing a kilt, you know. I was trying to pick something you'd like and would look nice on you." Lance twirled the fringe on the edge of the cropped jacket he was wearing. It moved around and tickled him when he danced. His broad legged pants gathered at the knee and he lost count on the number of scarves and belts he'd strapped around the waist, with whatever bit and bobbles he could find to spice up his gypsy costume. He had a scarf tied around his head and a fake hoop in his ear and a few bangles and rings to add more flare. The outfit was completed with brown leather sandals that had laces that wrapped around his legs to his knees. He looked sexy and he knew it. He wasn't sure why his boyfriend was failing to notice.

"Pidge is an archer. Her outfit isn't so…stiff." Keith picked at the jacket again.

"Keith. You know what, you're going. You promised. I'm sorry if you don't like the outfit. Next year, pick your own." Lance huffed and crossed his arms. Shiro would be there to pick them up in the van any minute. Keith had come over to his place to get dressed. Allura was with Shiro and they would pick Pidge and Hunk up first because they were at Pidge's dorm. "Besides, you think your outfit is stiff, you should see what Allura convinced Shiro to wear."

"What?" Keith suddenly forgetting his pout for teasing his mentor.

"Well, you know Allura broke up with Lotor last week, anyway, so she begged Shiro to be the matched set for her costume." Lance smirked. "Let's just say Shiro is not too chicken to wear the tights and his jacket makes yours look like a comfy hoodie."

"This I have to see." Keith smiled and finally let go of his nerves enough to appreciate the costume Lance was wearing. His skin looked great against the fabric colors and Keith's fingers twitched with a sudden desire to wrap his hands around Lance's bare midriff.

"Hmph. Well at least you're smiling now." Lance put his arms down and pulled Keith to the door. "They should be here any minute, come on."

Keith took a deep breath. It took a whole lot of love for Lance for him to leave the safety of the room in costume, but he managed it. Cringing and waiting for laughter he made his way down the hall, down the stairs and through the lobby.

"Hey, Keith! Lance!" Ryan Kincaid waved from the lounge area in the lobby. "Looking good! You going to the Renn fest?"

"Yeah." Lance smiled brightly and waved back.

"I went last weekend. It was a blast. The turkey legs were awesome, and I loved the archery area. If you do well at some of the games, you can be a squire or get knighted by the queen."

"Really?" Lance's eyes lit up. "I am so doing that. Or we are, right Keith?"

"Um…sure?" Keith shrugged.

"Don't worry Keith, it's fun." Inna called from the other side of Ryan. "The pirate show was very entertaining, lots of acrobatic action."

"I liked the Mud Show. Seriously, though, do not sit in the front row." James spoke up with a grave look on his face. The rest of his group burst into laughter.

"I have never seen Griff look quite that upset." Nadia laughed. "He was covered in mud."

"So worth it." Inna grinned.

"Traitor." James huffed. "Keith, I don't care what they tell you. Don't sit in the front row. Don't sit in the front six rows, avoid the splash zone."

Keith looked slightly horrified, but Lance just laughed.

"I am not letting him fall for that, not when I put so much work into this costume." Lance almost giggled, "Though it would have been funny."

Keith glared at him and Lance and the other four laughed a little more.

"Anyway, have fun. We'll have to compare notes after class tomorrow?" Ryan asked. He and Lance shared a geometry class and were study buddies.

"You bet. We got to get going. Shiro has the team van to haul us in." Lance waved and they headed out the door. Shiro was the assistant swim coach and frequently asked permission to use the van to haul students around. Lance and Keith were both on the swim team, while Pidge was on the dive team, and Hunk was a student coach and lifeguard.

Pidge was a crazy high diver and it amazed Keith how many times she could flip between the platform and the water. She was also completely fearless. She was currently a double major in Software Engineering and Physics. She'd started university two years early and was a certified genius.

Lance was the best swimmer on the team and swam breaststroke, butterfly, a couple relays, and long-distance freestyle. He was majoring in education with an emphasis in literature and art and had told Shiro he wanted to be a swim coach someday.

Hunk was a student coach. Lance joked if they didn't go to school inland, Hunk would be the star of the surfing team. He told them repeatedly Hunk was a crazy strong swimmer, just not fast. He'd watched Hunk surf enough and even had his own butt hauled out of the water when he'd taken a bad fall off a surfboard. Hunk was an engineering major, but he was also a lifeguard and was training as a paramedic.

Keith was also a good swimmer and did a lot of the short distance freestyle, relays, and the only one he could beat Lance in - backstroke. At first, they'd really clashed, but after Shiro forced them on the same relay team, things had really turned around and they went from enemies, to a great team, to boyfriends. Keith was majoring in psychology and sociology. He wasn't sure what he wanted to be when he finished, just that he wanted to help people. Lance had gushed and said it was sweet when he told them.

Shiro and Allura were graduate students. Shiro was a physical therapy major. Allura was a law student. Their classes didn't really overlap, but they were both very active on campus and currently the co-leaders for the campus Habitat for Humanity group.

When the blue and red van pulled up, Pidge slide open the side door and they climbed in. Lance was practically preening at the compliments the others made to their costumes. He in turn complimented Shiro and Allura on their noble costumes and how authentic they looked. He also complimented Pidge on her costume, letting her know he particularly liked the caplet and hoped she might let him borrow it. Hunk's costume deserved to be raved about due to the leather armor pieces and the pattern in the kilt, though Lance gave the most compliments on Hunk's legs making Hunk sputter in embarrassed pleasure.

Keith spent the entire time sitting behind Shiro poking at the ruffled collar and laughing.

**pics of the costumes at the end of the fic :)**

They arrived at the festival before it opened. Pidge had gotten their tickets online, so they didn't have to wait in the line or anything. There were players from the faire moving through the crowd doing gag routines and talking up the crowd. It was a fun atmosphere and Keith felt himself relaxing. There were a lot of people in costume, almost half of the crowd. Lance told him several other would be in costume after they went in because there were places to rent costumes.

Keith even found himself laughing at a couple of swordsmen up on fake castle wall. They were clashing blades and laughing and making jokes. Keith thought it looked like fun. Lance had whispered into his ear that he was not allowed to climb the wall. He'd blushed.

They had gone to show after show. There was singing and sword fighting and acrobats. He'd remembered not to sit in the front rows of the Mud Show and was able to laugh at the mud-splattered attendees that had sat in the splash zone.

They'd done some shopping. Lance bought some weird handmade creams and candles. Hunk got a new mortar and pestle that he was going to use for herbs for his cooking. Keith bought a new dagger, which surprised no one. Pidge got a kit to make a mini trebuchet. She planned to use it to scale up for a large one. Allura bought a flower crown. Shiro had picked up a wax seal set.

They'd eaten turkey legs. Pidge had looked particularly ridiculous tearing into hers. Shiro and Allura drank mead. Hunk had gotten steak on a stake. Lance and Keith split a bread bowl stew. Pidge found some kind of deep-fried cookie dough.

"What now?" Keith looked around. He hated to admit it, but he was having a great time. He'd been especially enthralled when Lance had joined the belly dancers on the stage and managed to pull off several of the moves they had showed him.

"Now on to the tests of skill!" Lance yelled and pointed to the section of the faire with most of the games. "Remember what Ryan said? We need to become knights!"

"What kind of tests?" Keith frowned, remembering the conversation, "I'm not good at archery."

"Well, there are knife, axe, and spear throwing," Lance looked back with a grin and a wink, certain Keith would be happy with some of those choices.

"I can throw an axe?" Keith's eyes widened.

"Yep." Lance popped the "p".

"Well, let's go!" Keith grabbed Lance's hand and pulled him along toward the games. The rest laughed and followed along.

Surprising no one Keith was awesome at the knife throwing. He was okay with the axe; Pidge beat him at that one and Allura tied her. Lance put so many bullseyes into the archery area that he'd gathered a crowd watching him. Hunk and Shiro both aced the spear throwing.

They all earned high enough marks to be knighted by the queen. They talked to some people and made arrangements to be knighted after the evenings final jousting event. They all sat together during the joust cheering on the knight for their section. Allura was up on the bench yelling for the knight during the sword portion. Lance jumped up and joined her and Keith felt like crawling under the bench, but he noticed that no one around them seemed to mind and were just looking on with smiles. He slowly relaxed and allowed himself to enjoy their antics.

After the joust they were called out with a few others to approach the Queen and her court. She stepped down onto the bottom step of her raised viewing area. She held a sword and carefully knighted each person as they approached.

Allura was first and the Queen gave her a tight nod and a smile for her prowess with the axe. Pidge was next and earned a round of laughter from the crowd when it was announced that she too had shown prowess with the axe. She glared and aimed her bow at the audience and the Queen asked that the brave warrior not injure the ignorant crowd of peasants. Pidge lowered the bow with a smile and strutted off to Allura's side. Hunk and Shiro were also honored for the spear throwing. Keith received a special award for high marks in two categories. The Queen declared him one of her guard and gave him a rose and a medallion. Lance was last and the Queen made a point to say he was the first gypsy she had ever declared a knight, but to welcome him into her service. Lance smiled and bowed deeply before spinning and twirling in a dance over to the others using some of the moves, he'd learned from the belly dancers. The crowd loved it and there was thunderous applause for the new knights.

Lance slipped his arm around Keith's and snuggled into his shoulder, his face warm from the sun, but he was shivering a little in the evening breeze. Keith smiled wrapping his arm around him and pulling him closer. They all walked out to the van a little sleepy in a dazed happy kind of way. Lance said something from under Keith's arm, but he couldn't quite make it out.

"What?" He murmured into Lance's hair.

"Did you have fun?" Lance looked up at him, so worried and hopeful that Keith's heart felt like it was going to beat right out of his chest.

"I did, you were right, Lance." Keith smiled and was rewarded with the brightest beaming smile Lance had to offer. He couldn't help but lean forward and press his lips to that smile.

Lance laughed happily into the kiss. Pidge made barfing sounds.

"I think you mean Sir Lance, don't you Sir Keith?" Lance ignored Pidge's sounds and just snuggled in as close as possible.

"That must be what I meant." Keith laughed. "I think what I meant was no matter if you're a knight or a student or an old man, I'm going to love you no matter when."

"Aw!" Lance wrapped his arms around Keith's neck.

"That was very sweet Keith." Allura patted his back and smiled as she walked by and got into the van.

"You are so gross." Pidge stuck her tongue out and climbed in.

Hunk walked by with tears in his eyes and gave Keith two thumbs up.

Shiro just smiled quiet like and nodded to him.

They climbed into the van, Lance barely loosening his hold on him. He curled into his side and was asleep before they were out of the parking lot. Keith rested his head on Lance's and found his own eyes drifting closed. It had been a very good day.

For a visual idea on Keith's costume:

From <https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=PHJGFRWx&id=6B806DC18E93F94C684B93FEADD4C1A346A9334D&thid=OIP.PHJGFRWxGEuk9mrwRxP-HQAAAA&mediaurl=http%3a%2f%2fimgs.inkfrog.com%2fpix%2fgdalsf%2fRoyal_Court_Doublet.jpg&exph=600&expw=378&q=Renaissance+Faire+Costumes+Men&simid=608009201531359138&selectedIndex=7&mode=overlay>

For an idea on Lance's costume:

From <https://i.pinimg.com/originals/32/7b/27/327b27ea213a54b5226cce02ec4449d7.jpg>

Visual Aid for Hunk:

From <https://i.pinimg.com/originals/c6/e9/98/c6e9986404368183e7ca2883cd9fb35c.jpg>

Visual Aid for Pidge:

From <https://i.pinimg.com/736x/5d/d1/3f/5dd13f742963d767cac4a7bc31fdf736--viking-warrior-warrior-women.jpg>

Visual Aid for Shiro and Allura:

From <https://i.pinimg.com/736x/b8/25/ed/b825edbf9f723ca45349eef860b1a302--renaissance-clothing-renaissance-fashion.jpg>

#monthlyklance #klance #fluff #voltron fanfic

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