#and he's certainly not telling anyone ELSE it was unintentional. of course we know what we're doing.

[beatcroc]

i already wrote up a whole essaypost about the dynamic for these two but it's funnier to summarize it like this. also it's the only way youre gonna see anything resembling fp getting closure abt any of this :^) [x]

[wisteria-cherry]

in which you’re forced to decide between starvation and humiliation

embarrassing, that’s what this is.

stuck in a bed, practically alone in the hospital wing save for grayson creevey, who, in his defense, was sort of there because of you.

see, you’d have quite enough of those slytherin gits, and, in your indignation, had challenged one of them— bellatrix black— to a duel. marlene mckinnon was your second, of course. creevey was laying in bed as a result of a deflected jinx, nursing an abnormally large pair of teeth. that didn’t stop him from talking, excitedly explaining how he’d gotten pictures and how he was so excited to see what bellatrix thought about the whole ordeal. he reminder you of rita skeeter, a witch who was two years older than yourself, and three years older than creevey.

regardless of creevey’s unintentional intervention, bellatrix had turned out to be a better dueler than you’d thought, and she’d attempted to petrify you. luckily, her charm hadn’t quite done its job, and you could move, somewhat, but it did hurt quite a bit. you were glad you didn’t tell the marauders about the whole ordeal; they’d be i hysterics if they found out that you, a normally even-tempered person, had lost your temper and dueled bellatrix black, sirius’ own cousin.

of course, anything that can go wrong, will.

“love?”

you resist the urge to groan. you weren’t half as proud as james and sirius, but you certainly didn’t need them to see you in such a pathetic state. you snuggle deeper into your blankets despite the mild stinging that coursed through your body, almost like when your foot falls asleep and it gets pins and needles when the blood goes back to it.

“love, what happened?” sirius’ tone was sympathetic, but he was laughing. james was equally as amused. remus was slightly more sympathetic, but peter was indeed giggling. you don’t answer, mainly because it hurts.

“we heard you got in a duel with bellatrix.” remus added.

“did you win?” peter asked eagerly. james snorted.

“she lost, pete, do you see bellatrix anywhere around here?” james gave you a far-too-haughty look, as though he’d never lost a duel (he hadn’t). you couldn’t even defend yourself because he was right. and because it hurt to move.

“don’t worry about it. slytherin has won one out of, what, 20 times?” remus glanced at the other boys. “i’ve lost track of the times we’ve beaten them.”

“food, dear.” madam pomfrey appeared, rolling a cart over to your bedside. “move along, now, boys, i’ve got to feed her, and she’s got to rest, and merlin knows you lot aren’t good for either.”

“we are too good for both!” sirius declared indignantly, before settling himself. you felt a wave of dread, worse than the one that had overcome you when they first arrived. you knew that look all too well: that sly, cheeky look on sirius’ face that could easily land him a spot in slytherin, the one he used when he tried to charm any and every adult that would listen.

“in fact, my dearest madam pomfrey, why don’t you let us handle it? we’re quite capable, you know, and she is our dear friend. and you do have other patients who i’m sure need check-ups.” sirius beamed. james and peter immediately caught on. remus cast you an apologetic glance.

please no.

“please, madam, can’t we do it?” james insisted. madam pomfrey looked skeptical, but even she didn’t see any reason to refuse. plus, the marauders were infamously annoying if they didn’t get their way, and madam pomfrey was far too stressed to deal with such things.

“…i don’t see why not.” she agreed finally, and james, peter and sirius whooped triumphantly. “but you let her rest once she’s done.”

“yes, ma’am!” james saluted, peter and sirius following suit. madam pomfrey only sighed again, moving away to tend to creevey, despite your desperate attempts to become telepathic and beg her not to let you die this way.

sirius plopped himself down on the side of your bed, studying your face for a moment before grinning. anyone else would describe that grin as boyish and happy and maybe even cute, but all you saw was pure, unadulterated malice. he took a spoonful of porridge, positively radiant with evil glee.

“open wide, love,” he cooed teasingly as james snorted and remus did a double take, probably appalled, but nowhere close to the degree at which you were. instead, your bottom lip jutted out in a pout. your dignity had suffered enough, hadn’t it?

“c’mon, love, open up or i’ll have to do it for you.” sirius coaxed, shit-eating grin on full blast.

“hate you.” you mutter, your throat dry from not speaking for an extended period of time.

“you love me. open up!” sirius replied cheerfully, and, very reluctantly, you parted your lips, and sirius spooned the porridge in. it was tasteless, and the texture was questionable, but it was food, and you were already starting to feel better. more likely than not, madam pomfrey had included some sort of healing aspect to it.

“my turn,” james announced, practically giggling as sirius passed him the bowl and the spoon. you could feel your cheeks burning, but you wanted to heal as soon as humanly possible so you could (hopefully) regain your dignity. “open up, now!”

“humiliating.” you mutter, pleased to find that it hurt slightly less than before, but again open your mouth and allow james to feed you another bite. you swallow, not bothering to chew, since the consistency was more like yogurt than anything.

“i’m killing all of you once i’m better.” you inform each of them before accepting another bite from sirius. “except remus.”

“oi, i didn’t do anything!” peter held his hands up in surrender.

“ok, just james and sirius then.” you decide. it was now perfectly comfortable to speak.

“kill ‘em with kindness.” james grinned. “and we are kind, aren’t we, padfoot?”

“the kindest.” sirius agreed solemnly as he fed you the last bite. you had never been more grateful for small portion sizes. “now, love, should we tuck you in, too?”

“madam pomfrey?” you called loudly. “they’re bothering me!”

“hey!” james protested. “we are not!”

“are too.” you stuck out your tongue as madam pomfrey briskly came over.

“out, you lot,” she ushered, waving them away. james and sirius stood up, protesting desperately.

“we weren’t, really!” james insisted.

“i don’t care. out.” madam pomfrey said firmly, and you cast the boys smug smiles as they left. remus bid you a polite goodbye, naturally, but james and sirius were clearly not having it. the two, and peter, glared at you; it was the signature glare that told you, “we aren’t really mad, but you are definitely going to regret this.”

you probably would, but for now, peace and quiet.

and dignity.

[pathetic-dumpling]

Coming to Terms

Dream has been having a bad day, which has quickly turned into a bad week. Techno and Phil both need to go out and do essential tasks around the tundra, but they can't leave Dream alone either. So... they find a babysitter. words: 5,188 - read on ao3 instead

CW: overstimulation, implied panic attack, unintentional self-harm, referenced abuse

Dream has been having a bad day. Correction, he’s been having a bad week. He’s been caught in a bit of a spiral for the last several days, and the exhaustion from an attempt at healing keeps dragging him down before he can get out. The last thing Techno wants to do is leave Dream alone like this, but he and Phil have already pushed off as many necessary tasks as they can. They need to head out, but they can’t leave Dream alone… So in comes the Syndicate.

They consider a few people. Niki is chosen.

“Look, all you need to do is watch him for a day. We’ll be back by the end of it, and you can leave, alright?”

Niki scrunches her face up, which is, in all honesty, reasonable. She’s one of the people who didn’t want to interact with Dream, but Techno and Phil are running desperately low on options.

“Is there anyone else?” She asks. “What about Puffy? She’s a therapist, right? Wouldn’t she be more equipped for something like this?”

“A, we don’t want more people knowing about Dream than necessary, and she’s already refused to give Dream treatment. B, we don’t trust her to not psychoanalyze Dream when he really doesn’t want to be psychoanalyzed. Plus, we don’t know what kind of domestic issues there are because Dream hasn’t opened up about that part of his life yet.”

Niki winced. “What about Ranboo?”

“Well, you see, Ranboo’s been growing into himself recently,” Phil interjects, beside Techno. “Which is good, by all means, but that also means he’s been embracing that he’s a little bit of a dick sometimes. You’re literally the only person we can think of who can be… pleasant and hold your tongue around Dream.”

“And- and we don’t wanna sound misogynistic,” Techno quickly adds. “This isn’t a ‘the kind woman puts up with the toxic man’ situation; it’s just… Dream is fragile right now, like, really fragile, and we’re pretty sure you’re the only person who has the kind of self-restraint to not break him any more, you know?”

Niki raises a brow but ultimately sighs. “This is your only option?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Phil laughs.

“...alright. I’ll watch him. One day, got it?”

“Oh my gods, thank you so much, Niki.”

So Niki is given keys to the house. Mentally, she prepares for whatever Dream might try. She saw him, briefly, in a Syndicate meeting or two, but only between several layers of fabric and zero spoken words. She doesn’t know what he’s like if he’s grown out of his… nastier habits yet. Techno has done everything in his power to tell the Syndicate that Dream has changed, but none of them have actually seen any change. Niki kind of doubts it, if she’s being honest, but she trusts Techno’s judgment more than anything. She knows Techno wouldn’t lie to her and lead her on like others in the past.

She wakes up the following day when things are still dark. Niki can see her breath, even within the small haven of an underground city warmed by countless fires and lanterns. She throws on her Syndicate cloak, getting ready to head out to the arctic. Hopefully, Techno didn’t want her to do anything with the animals because she definitely wouldn’t be able to stand being outside for that long. When she arrives, Techno thanks her profusely. He pledges to show her around the house and offers a few tips while Phil gets ready for their trip outside.

“Alright.” Techno swings his hands by his sides. Niki has noticed he’s stopped clapping them when he begins to speak. “First things first, Dream hasn’t eaten in, like, three days, so we really need you to try to get him to eat something. His diet has been pretty limited so far, but we left a list of things he’s been able to eat so far on the counter. Try to stay fresh- anything stale makes him throw up, and so does steak. Don’t offer it. We keep apples in a little icebox downstairs because he likes fruit cold. Also, Dream likes himself cold, too. He gets anxious when he’s hot.

“If Dream hides in his room, he’s most likely hiding under his bed. If you need to interact with him during that time, do not try to pull him out. That will scare him and he might bite. Instead, just kind of lay on the floor and face him and just… wait until he’s ready to talk. If you try to push him, he’ll probably just curl up more, and he tends to get really distant for the next day or two when that happens.

“If he asks for something, it means that he needed it about three hours ago and has only now gotten the courage to ask for it. Even if he prefaces it between a lot of ‘only if you want to’ and ‘you don’t have to,’ don’t believe him. We’re trying to teach him that asking for things is good but it’s been a bumpy ride. Also, he’s iffy on touch; I’d say it’s better to not try.”

Techno stops, tapping his lip. “Try not to let him outside without supervision; we haven’t really been able to block off potential hazards yet. Other than that, I think that’s everything. Dream is sleeping right now, but he knows you’ll be here. He might get startled anyway. Try not to stare or anything. It makes him uncomfortable. Just treat him like a nervous cat or something.”

Niki blinks, trying desperately to process all of the information that was just dumped on her. Techno waits patiently as she mentally backtracks and tries to commit everything to vague memory. Nervous cat? That’s what the ruler of the server has turned into?

“Okay… I think I got all of that?” Niki says, hoping she got everything she truly needed down. She knows how awkward things get when she or Techno has to start repeating themselves.

“Cool.” Techno sighs, running a hand through his hair until it gets caught in his braid. “A nervous, injury-prone cat… That’s Dream. Thank you for doing this, really. Dream just started being okay with being in the same room as boiling water, and I think I might have a breakdown if I have to leave to make tea again. This means a lot. Anything you need from us, me or Phil, we’ll be happy to help as soon as we get back.”

Niki nods. “Honestly, I didn’t think this would be on the agenda when I joined the Syndicate, but I’m happy to help you, Techno.”

“Of course.” Techno bows his head. “Of course. We’ll be back as soon as we can. Again, don’t let him… do anything to himself, okay?”

Niki gives another nod and a thumbs up. “You can count on me, Techno.”

Techno gives a strained smile and then, awkwardly, does a slight bow before leaving. His muffled voice filters through the door as he calls out to Phil, and then they head out. Niki takes in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before sighing as she watches the silhouettes of her friends disappear over the horizon.

Alright. She can do this. She may not like Dream, but she did agree as a part of the Syndicate to… help. This is just for Techno and Phil, to keep them from worrying. To watch Dream and make sure he doesn’t try anything he shouldn’t. Niki could do that. In fact, she was happy to keep the man out of trouble, if it were for Techno’s sake. Now she just needed to find something to do until there was someone to watch.

Niki glances around the house, finding things pleasantly clean. The chests were a bit of a mess, but things weren’t lying all over the place, and it looks like it’s been cleaned recently. It looks like the house has been somewhat baby-proofed, too, which makes a little chuckle bubble in Niki’s throat. They’ve only been housing Dream, and he’s certainly a grown man, isn’t he? What would they need to keep him out of drawers for?

Niki gets to entertaining herself with one of Techno’s many book recommendations, making a tiny home for herself on the couch. She opens the blinds and curtains, letting any sort of light filter in as much as it can. The sun is slow to rise in the arctic, and candlelight can only do so much. Slowly, as the sun rises over the north, Niki finds herself growing more hungry, so she starts making some food. It gets bright soon after that, lighting up the room with the near-blinding rays of the sun. Niki adjusts soon enough, simply happy to have more than enough reading light.

A few hours later, after Niki has already eaten and taken care of her share of the dishes, Dream emerges. The first thing she notices is that he’s completely maskless. Secondly, he looks exhausted to the bone, drowned in a dark green jacket and a black shirt underneath. Loose-fitting pants cover Dream’s legs, almost completely hiding his figure from view. Dream’s eyes are dark, his posture slouched inward, and his hair is messy, long, and frail. He looks unbearably tense. His eyes squint at how bright it is, but he tries to shake it off quickly with a flick of his hands. He does a quick double-take on Niki, eyes darting around the room before relaxing slightly. His attention never leaves her, though. His gaze makes a shiver crawl up Niki’s spine.

“Good morning, Dream!” She says politely because maybe Dream is worse in the mornings.

Dream waves tiredly, and Niki notices his bandaged finger. Something about it looks off until she realizes it’s too short to be normal, missing nearly the entire first section. She wonders how it happened, how she’s never noticed before. Dream takes his bandaged hand, dragging it down his face. He lets out a long sigh, sitting down at the circular table in the kitchen, leaning heavily on it for support. He raises his hands, and although they tremble and shake, Niki recognizes one thing. Dream is signing.

Oh. It looks like Technoblade forgot to mention one thing.

“Oh!” She says quickly, tucking her book into her chest. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know sign language.”

Dream, from the table, raises a brow at her. He raises his hands, signing what Niki can only assume is: you don’t know sign?

“I always meant to learn, but the only people who use it actively on the server are Callahan and….”

Me. Niki can guess that one well enough.

“Yes… you. I’m sorry.”

Dream waves his hand dismissively. He gestures for a pen, which Niki retrieves without much hesitance. She may not like Dream, but she still needs to communicate with him if this day even has a chance at going well. She places the pen and small pad of paper on the table, stepping back quickly. Dream lets out a long breath before beginning to write.

I’ll show you some stuff I probably won’t be able to translate in the moment, Dream writes. Writing looks a little more challenging with the ever-present tremor in Dream’s hands and his shortened finger, but he makes do. He writes down a few simple words: can’t, stop, no, sorry, and shows the signs for each of them. Niki furrows her brow.

“These are all negative responses. What about… ‘yes’?”

Dream struggles to meet Niki’s eyes for a second, looking away almost immediately. He seems borderline uncomfortable. Slowly, he curls his hand into a fist, nodding it forward twice.

“Yes?” Niki asks in conformation.

Yes.

Niki nods, trying to commit this information, like everything else dumped on her today, to memory. Dream drops the pen after that, cradling his hands in his lap. They certainly… don’t stop shaking. Hm. Niki would ask about it, but she doesn’t really want to poke at any boundaries. Dream fiddles with his fingers, beginning to bounce his leg.

“Em-” Niki starts, catching Dream’s attention and picking at the back of her neck awkwardly. “Techno told me that you should probably eat today, right? I made food a few hours ago, but I can make something for you or….”

Dream waves his hands, furiously shaking his head. He scribbles down variants of I’m not hungry, and you don’t have to, which Niki isn’t given a chance to object to. Dream carefully gets up, grabbing the notepad beside him and pushing past Niki. He makes his way over to the couch, plopping himself down and sighing. Niki watches him, unsure of what entirely to do. She knows what Techno told her, but there was only so much that was truly in her power. It didn’t help how dismissive Dream appeared to be with her attempts at offering him food.

This Dream is… new, to say the least. She didn’t know the old Dream outside of what she heard from her peers, but she especially doesn’t know this Dream. Is he better? Does he know that what he’s done is bad? Terrible? Unforgivable, even? Does he regret it at all, or does he just think he’s a victim in all of this?

It takes two more attempts at getting Dream to eat before Niki’s patience starts running a little slim. She’s never had the time to talk to Dream before, but right now, he just seems nothing more than tired. He looks fine, if not a little skinny, maybe a little quiet. For all Niki knows, this could be a ploy, a trick, to live the high life off of Techno’s dedicated care and then run off into the woods. Niki feels a little nasty for thinking this, but what if Dream is just faking this all? What if he’s just playing it up for show and sympathy? To get free protection while his next plan brews quietly in the background? She’s heard about the lengths Dream was willing to go to in the past; what would make this different? She knows how convincing an actor Dream can be, and dedication to a part can take someone a long way.

Well… Now is as good of a time as ever to get a few things off her chest, Niki supposes. If Dream isn’t faking, he’ll have some kind of genuine reaction, and if he is, then, well… Niki can keep her friends from getting used again. It’s a win-win, really.

“You know, you’re very lucky Techno decided to care for you so much,” she says from the kitchen because the distance makes her feel safer. “He didn’t have to do all of this, you know? It’d certainly be easier for him to have ignored your favor. I would’ve.”

From behind, Niki hears a sharp intake of breath, but no objections come. Niki looks behind her at Dream, still sitting on the couch, wide-eyed and staring at her. He swallows, eyes darting to the side like he’s sorting through his thoughts. He gestures at Niki, a sort of go-on movement, so she turns around and continues. “Things like Wilbur, Doomsday, the festival, you played a role in all of those, you know? You’ve been the authority figure of the server for so long. You-- you had control over exile and Tommy and… Everything you’ve done, it’s hurt all of us. It’s- it’s hurt me, and I-”

There’s a loud, distinct sniffle behind Niki. Slowly, she turns to look behind her, finding Dream curled up on the couch. He brings his knees up to his chest, pressing tightly into himself. He’s looking to the side, almost shameful. His shoulders are shaking.

“...Dream?” Niki asks. Maybe this is the genuine reaction she’s looking for.

Dream nods sharply. He looks up, meeting Niki’s eyes, his own glassy and red and wet. His eyes fill with tears, so he quickly hides his face again, pressing it into the arm wrapped around his knee. It feels like he’s forcing himself to keep his gaze on Niki, and that information tastes a little bitter going down Niki’s throat. He lifts his head just enough to meet Niki’s eyes again, folding his hand into a half square and pressing it to his temple. Niki doesn’t know the sign, but she doesn’t need to.

I know, he says. I know.

Dream takes a shuddering breath, fingers dancing across the parts of the body he’s gripping. They speed up and slow down as he filters his thoughts, eventually coming to a standstill. He grabs his notepad with trembling hands, scribbling down something hastily, ripping out the paper, and holding it out for Niki while hiding himself. Nervously, Niki steps forward because the memory of powerful and quick and ruthless Dream has never left her, even when presented with the sight of the trembling man before her.

I know, the paper says. I want to listen. But not today. I can’t today.

Niki swallows. She looks at Dream, trembling and crumbling in on himself, and nods. “Okay,” she says. “I understand. I… I’m sorry. That was out of line, I...”

Dream nods quickly and sharply. His fingers tap quickly against his leg. Niki feels awkward, standing in front of Dream like this as he fidgets and shuffles. She puts a little distance between the two of them, retreating back to the kitchen. The house is plunged into a small period of unrelenting silence. Niki wished that she knew at least a little sign because maybe things wouldn’t be so awkward. Dream doesn’t look all too thrilled to be talking with her either way, though, so perhaps it was wishful thinking. He’s running a hand through his hair, pausing to tug on the long strands every few seconds.

Niki frowns. Has Techno told her anything about how to handle something like this? Sorting through her memory quickly tells Niki that, no, Techno hadn’t spilled anything helpful for a time like this. He’d asked Niki to make sure Dream didn’t do anything to himself, but certainly, he wasn’t that much of a danger to his own wellbeing, right? Techno had mentioned some other useful things, but he seems to have forgotten some details Niki would’ve loved to have. She sighs.

Niki supposes that the best she can do right now is swallow her words and try to be helpfully polite. To, in kinder words, simply watch Dream. She tried to ask him about some things here or there but mostly ended up talking at Dream instead of with him. That’s okay, Niki didn’t mind. She didn’t really go into today expecting some sort of riveting conversation, and the one she’d already tried to have ended oh-so-splendidly.

Suddenly, the sound of Dream’s stomach growling caught her attention. Niki looked back from her chunk of dough that she’d started kneading to fill the silence at Dream, who was caught like a deer in headlights. He looked to her quickly before starting off on what Niki thinks is a garbled bundle of excuses about how he wasn’t hungry again. Niki laughs kindly, making Dream’s hands pause mid-air.

“I’ll go get you an apple or something,” she says, running her hands under the sink to wash off the extra flour. “Techno showed me where everything was before you woke up. I’ll be back in just a second. Stay put, okay?”

Dream nods, hiding his face and giving a small thumbs up. The trip downstairs is quick, only interrupted by a skulk of three foxes Techno apparently kept in his basement. The box with cooled fruit was propped up, probably to keep the foxes out of it, Niki mused, if the scratch marks on the side were anything to go off of. Dream was sitting in virtually the exact same position Niki had left him in, nervously glancing at her when she approached. At least he’s good at following directions, Niki noted. She held out the apple, waited a long few seconds for Dream to take it, then set it on the table next to him. Dream’s eyes watched her with rapt attention, almost like he was afraid she was suddenly going to turn around and attack him.

After that little experience, Niki went back to kneading dough as pleasantly as she could. She couldn’t explain the small smile that crept onto her lips when the inevitable crunch of an apple being eaten hit her ears after minutes of silence. Niki chalks it up to the fact that Techno would be happy that Dream ate and tries to move on from it as passively as she can.

Shuffling fills the corners of the house between the clanging of various pans and Niki’s humming. Dream had come a little closer, sitting stiffly at the counter and watching Niki work after throwing his apple core into Carl’s stable from the window. He keeps the notepad close to him, bouncing the pen back and forth against the solid surface. Niki greets him and starts explaining what she’s doing, to which Dream nods along. She tries to suggest Dream join the baking whenever she can, moving pans around and into the sink when they’ve become dirty. Dream’s eyes follow her hands as she gestures around, eyebrows twitching downward every few seconds. Every semi-loud sound makes his eyes blink in surprise and something else Niki can’t quite place. It goes on like this for about half an hour, with various levels of participation coming from Dream.

Eventually, he begins to look more and more lost in thought, distracted, even borderline frustrated, eventually dropping his pen roughly and tapping his pointer finger against the counter. His other hand goes to his hair, pulling, as a small whimper tumbled into the air. Dream’s nail makes a quick tap, tap, tap that sounds borderline panicky, only increasing in speed. His shoulders are tense, and because Niki is so used to providing comfort to those unscarred by touch, she reached out for his shoulder.

Dream jerks away as soon as her hand meets his shoulder, a small, distressed noise leaving his throat. He stumbles onto shaky legs, looking almost as if Niki burned him. Niki, in return, pulled her hand back to her chest. Dream holds up a finger, a small give me a moment, before distancing himself. He hangs his head and holds up his hands, shaking them out almost violently as he paces the living room.

“Dream?” Niki begins to ask, watching the man pace and shake his hands. What was he doing? What was going on?

Her thoughts are abruptly cut off by a sharp yelp when Dream suddenly turns and pushes over a chair. This is still Dream at the end of the day, and once upon a time, he was terrifying and dangerous. Niki clamps her hands down over her mouth to keep any further sound from escaping when it makes Dream flinch. His breath picks up in shakiness and speed until a loud crash makes the house go silent.

Dream’s head whips around, finding a pile of shattered glass on the floor next to the chair he flipped over and the table it apparently took on its way down. He stares at it for a good, long second, the breath stolen from his lungs. A quick, strangled sob leaves Dream’s mouth as he drops to his knees, scrambling for the glass pieces. Hot, fat tears fill the corners of Dream’s eyes. His hands are shaking so much it makes the glass pieces he picks up clink against each other. Almost desperately, Dream tries to wipe away the tears, and Techno’s worry about Dream hurting himself suddenly becomes much more apparent as the world catches up to Niki.

“Oh- Dream, no, we- let’s not-” Niki drops to her knees beside Dream, holding her hands out gently. “Let’s not do that, okay? You’ve got glass in your hands.”

Dream doesn’t stop. The tears and sobs only spilling harder and faster. Niki doesn’t think this can get any worse, so she slowly puts her hand over Dream’s, grasping it and pulling it away gently. There’s no resistance, even as Dream digs his chin into his chest. Pricks of blood are already forming on scratches left on Dream’s cheeks from the glass, quickly mixing with tears. Dream starts signing something frantically, and Niki doesn’t know what he’s saying, but, oh, she wishes she did.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Niki tries. “Are you worried Techno will be angry?”

Dream nods, choking on another sob.

“I’m sure he won’t be!” Niki presents her hands, cupped, to Dream again. “He really cares about you, alright? He won’t be mad over a broken cup, okay?”

Dream makes a strangled sound that almost sounds like a “but” as he snaps his head up to face Niki.

“No. No buts.” Niki pushes her hands forward pointedly. “I’ll clean up the glass, okay? I think you should go lay down on your bed and rest. Calm down a little, alright? I’m supposed to be here to help, and Techno would be upset if you hurt yourself. I’ll let you know when everything’s been taken care of.”

Shakily, Dream brings his free hand up to his face, fingers touching the newly formed cuts as his lips trace Niki’s words. His eyes go wide, pressing down on the tiny bubbles of blood forming. He drops the glass into Niki’s hands, staggering up with a sharp breath. He mutters something too faint for Niki to catch before disappearing into his room. Niki picks up the rest of the glass, her hands thankfully much steadier than Dream’s own despite what just happened. Periodically, she glances up to Dream’s room, watching, waiting.

She isn’t quite sure what she’s waiting for, maybe for him to come bursting out, angry at being coddled, or perhaps for him to come slinking back with shaky hands and hot tears and try to help again. Whatever it is, it never comes.

Carefully, Niki spends a few minutes making sure no shards had spread out over the house or that she misses any finite pieces. After her searches come back clean, Niki moves to the knocked-over furniture. She rights the table and chair Dream had knocked over, huffing out a small sigh of relief. The living room was clean again, thankfully. She hopes Techno won’t be mad. That would just make her look bad when Dream was so clearly distressed over the whole ordeal.

At the thought of Dream, Niki makes her way over to his room. She knocks, the wood giving way and opening up into the small room. Dream lays on his bed, curled up into a ball, and appears to be fast asleep. The blankets look almost deliberately untouched around him. Niki steps into the dark room, noting the closed blinds on his window. Everything is kept down to nearly a depressing minimum, the only trace of life in the room being the messy, yet unmoved, sheets and a single flowerpot laying on a chest.

It would be better to let him sleep, Niki thinks. The room is kept cold, and Niki doesn’t want Dream to get sick, so she decides to drape the untouched sheets over Dream’s sleeping form. As she pulls up the blankets around the sleeping body, though, Dreams’ eyes flutter open, and his body tenses. He turns his head to watch her silently.

“I’ve cleaned up the glass, so the living room is good to be in again,” Niki offers. She pulls her hands away, crouching down so she doesn’t loom over Dream. “I was going to let you sleep; sorry for waking you.”

Dream shrugs, not really looking like he had been sleeping in the first place. He sits up, glancing at the sheets pooling around him. Dream glances around, scrubbing at his face and swinging his legs over the side of his bed. Despite Niki’s protests, he gets up and shuffles his way into the living room. His eyes fall on the now empty space on the table, sucking in a soft, shuddering breath. Niki comes to stand beside him.

“Hey,” she says. “It’s okay. I’m not angry, and they won’t be either, okay?”

Dream’s eyes flit from the table down to Niki. His body, slouched forward, leans a little closer to her as he nods silently. He looks back to the room, eyes squinting. He shoves his hands in his pockets and produces the pen and paper he’d kept on him; scribbling down, can you close the blinds? Niki smiles. She needs to encourage him to ask for things, too.

“Sure.”

Dream makes a home for himself on the couch. He eyes Niki’s book and they make idle chatter over it, Niki sitting across from him in the chair. They slide the notepad between each other on the table, both patiently waiting for the other to read or write before responding. Dream apologizes for the outburst. He said that he was feeling overwhelmed and hasn’t had to deal with something like that in a long time. The apology was accepted. Niki even manages to get a small laugh out of Dream, one that tugs gently on his throat and makes his chest stutter. It’s nice to see Dream’s smile, the way it cracks his face as he chuckles to himself. Somehow, it’s the most pride she’s felt in a while.

When Niki gets up to make herself some food, Dream takes her up on the offer to eat together. The list Techno left with what Dream could eat suddenly became very useful when preparing dinner. He doesn’t eat much and apologizes about it, for the hassle he must be causing, but it was what Niki was expecting anyway. Dream goes to sleep soon after that, pausing at his door and sending a quick, earnest thank you to Niki. She smiles.

“You’re welcome, Dream.”

Techno wasn’t mad, and neither was Phil. They seemed more focused on the fact that Dream actually ate a decently sized meal for the first time that week than anything else. Dream, who was hovering in the back, made sure to send Niki off with a little wave.

If she feels a little protective over him during the next Syndicate meeting, that was only her business. If she spoke in a hushed tone and kept an eye on him so he wouldn’t get into trouble, it was just general caution mixed with a bit of care. When she brought the loaves of bread with her on a visit, they were for Techno, Phil, and Dream, but she couldn’t deny the tiny bit of excitement that bloomed in her chest when Phil suggested Dream learn how to bake to help with tremors and outbursts.

If she let Dream into her stash or secret recipes for pies and bread, it stayed between them. Dream promised to keep them secret, and Niki didn’t doubt him. He smiled at her one day, growing nicely into the freckles that had started to speckle his skin, while his third batch of experimental dough was baking. Niki couldn’t help but smile back.

[dahlia-coccinea]

Are the second generation really meant to mirror the first? I'm helping my sister revise for her end of unit test on it and it's mentioned quiet a bit in her notes but from what I've read (though tbf though- I'm reading certain parts for revision) I'm not really getting the vibe of that tbh. Can you help me understand why people may think this. Thank you.

Disclaimer: I'm certainly not an expert on the book and the criticisms about it - I read about it purely for my own enjoyment and there are many interpretations I’m probably not aware of. 

First, I would say they aren’t exact replicas or mirrors but are more like echos or perhaps extensions of the first generation. Certainly all the baggage of the previous generation is placed on them. Catherine Linton and Hareton Earnshaw are much easier to connect to the first generation then Linton is, in my opinion, but some critics have tried to do so - mostly in asserting that there is a love triangle between them similar to Heathcliff/Catherine/Edgar. There are a number of connections that critics make between Hareton/Cathy and Heathcliff/Catherine and some have been told a million times but I’ll try to cover the ones I remember. Let me see if I can keep this organized and not get too off topic. 

The similarity of their characters: At first glance you have the repetition of names - “C” and “H” appear repeatedly. Most apparent is that Catherine Linton is named for her mother. Hareton, although obviously an old family name since its been carved above the threshold of the Heights, it does feel intentional in furthering the connection between “C” and “H.” I’ve always found it interesting we have this scene from Cathy II and Linton in Chapter 14, that seems to directly call out the C & H connection:

“We found two in a cupboard, among a heap of old toys, tops, and hoops, and battledores and shuttlecocks. One was marked C., and the other H.; I wished to have the C., because that stood for Catherine, and the H. might be for Heathcliff, his name; but the bran came out of H., and Linton didn’t like it.”

Funnily I don’t think the H is for Heathcliff, I think its more likely meant for Hindley, but of course Heathcliff has been semi-assimilated into the Earnshaw family by being given the name Heathcliff, which was the name of a deceased child. To me at least, none of these feel unintentional, it feels fated since we have these repetitions noted by the characters themselves.

Cathy doesn’t only share a name with her mother, she lives in her shadow. We know from Nelly that, “On the anniversary of her birth we never manifested any signs of rejoicing, because it was also the anniversary of my late mistress’s death.” Edgar seems to cherish her in part because she is a remnant of her mother, even displaying many similar characteristics, although Nelly is quick to note Cathy is softer and more genteel - which makes sense considering she grows up with a loving father in a calm environment that lets her do as she pleases. She doesn't grow up with the harshness of the Earnshaw family, and Joseph's ranting, and it also seems that Nelly may have softened and become more maternal as years have gone by. I’d say she does become more and more like her mother after living at Wuthering Heights though. 

Some really great parallels between the two Catherine’s dialog have been made by Ann Dobyns - I’ve posted a few excerpts from her essay here if anyone is interested, it’s a bit more in-depth than this needs to be though.

Hareton has many parallels to Heathcliff as well - this is intentionally done by Heathcliff who, upon Hindley’s death, speaking of his plotting says, “And we’ll see if one tree won’t grow as crooked as another, with the same wind to twist it!” Heathcliff and Hareton have such an odd fated destiny, from the moment Heathcliff saves his life by catching him as his father dropped him over the bannister of second floor. Hareton from the start fears his natural father, “squalling and kicking in his father’s arms,” Nelly even fears Hindley will “frighten the child into fits.” Worlds different the description of a scene of very typical father/son affection described by Nelly during Hindley’s funeral when she says little Hareton, “played with Heathcliff’s whiskers, and stroked his cheek.” Or earlier when she had asked Hareton if he liked Heathcliff and he says:

“Ay!” he answered again. Desiring to have his reasons for liking him, I could only gather the sentences—“I known’t: he pays dad back what he gies to me—he curses daddy for cursing me.

In Hareton’s mind Heathcliff is more a protector than his father, and I suppose in many ways he is better than Hindley’s random obscene violence. As wrong as it is that Heathcliff denies Hareton his inheritance and an education, I think it does say something (not entirely sure what) that he is never physically abusive to Hareton in the way Hindley was with him. Hareton doesn’t ever show any real fear of Heathcliff. 

Heathcliff has his own complex feelings towards Hareton, definitely preferring him to his own son - he tells Nelly, “Do you know that, twenty times a day, I covet Hareton, with all his degradation? I’d have loved the lad had he been some one else.” So it seems we have the daughter of Catherine and the wished for son of Heathcliff. Lockwood even mistakes Hareton to be Heathcliff’s son momentarily in Chapter 2.

Some other parallels - Heathcliff notes the similarities between them later on in a discussion with Nelly:

“He’ll not venture a single syllable all the time! Nelly, you recollect me at his age—nay, some years younger. Did I ever look so stupid: so ‘gaumless,’ as Joseph calls it?”

“Worse,” I replied, “because more sullen with it.”

On other occasions Nelly talks about how Heathcliff liked to induce horror from those around him and “he contrived to convey an impression of inward and outward repulsiveness.” Hareton behaves similarly - in one scene after being taunted by Linton and Cathy, he throws Linton from the room to the disgust and fear of Cathy in Chapter 23:

...Earnshaw burst the door open: having gathered venom with reflection. He advanced direct to us, seized Linton by the arm, and swung him off the seat.

“‘Get to thy own room!’ he said, in a voice almost inarticulate with passion; and his face looked swelled and furious. ‘Take her there if she comes to see thee: thou shalln’t keep me out of this. Begone wi’ ye both!’

“He swore at us, and left Linton no time to answer, nearly throwing him into the kitchen; and he clenched his fist as I followed, seemingly longing to knock me down. I was afraid for a moment, and I let one volume fall; he kicked it after me, and shut us out.”

Similarly, when sitting next to him, Lockwood says, “My neighbour struck me as bordering on repulsive.” Even Nelly, who I’d say is typically biased towards Hareton, upon seeing him says he “seemed as awkward and rough as ever.”  Lockwood also describes him as being “almost haughty,” similar to Nelly’s repeated references to Heathcliff’s ego and “proud heart.” 

Heathcliff further casts light on their parallels when he says he sees Hareton as the “personification of my youth,” adding that, “Hareton's aspect was the ghost of my immortal love, of my wild endeavours to hold my right, my degradation, my pride, my happiness, and my anguish.” 

The love triangle:  I know some critics have said the dynamic between the Linton/Catherine/Hareton is similar to Edgar/Catherine/Heathcliff - I don't particularly see this. Cathy II is forced into marriage with Linton and at that point doesn't have notable feelings towards Hareton, compared to her mother who knows she loves Heathcliff more and still does have a choice to make even if it isn’t an easy one. 

Still, there are similarities in their relationship in that both men (Heathcliff and Hareton) end up feeling the need to better themselves because for their respective Catherine. Nelly says of Hareton, “He had been content with daily labour and rough animal enjoyments, till Catherine crossed his path. Shame at her scorn, and hope of her approval were his first prompters to higher pursuits.” I think this is similar to Heathcliff deciding to run away after years of abuse and to risk everything, including his life, after hearing Catherine says it would “degrade” her to marry him. Hareton does seem to show some jealously over Cathy’s attention and regard of Linton, and again with the presence of Lockwood so I suppose it is sort of love triangle-y? 

I also think Hareton shows signs of a growing devotion, similar to what Heathcliff felt towards Catherine. He certainly seems to be enamored by Cathy from the very first time they meet - Nelly says he, “stared at her with considerable curiosity and astonishment” and was, “too awkward to speak; though he looked as if he did not relish my intrusion.”

Something I’ve mentioned before is that Lockwood says about Hareton and Cathy, “Together, they would brave Satan and all his legions,” which feels like a direct parallel to Heathcliff’s assertion to Catherine that, “misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us.” 

Also Heathcliff seemingly attempts to play the role Hindley played in his youth when he tells Cathy, “Your love will make him an outcast and a beggar.” It seems both Catherine and Heathcliff knew their love would result in the same situation as Catherine relays this to Nelly when she says, “did it never strike you that if Heathcliff and I married, we should be beggars?” 

There is also, of course, the similarity of social stature - when Cathy first meets Hareton, he has nothing to his name and lives almost as a servant at Wuthering Heights, similar to Heathcliff’s position while Hindley was master. Cathy, similar to her mother, is better educated and has more opportunities - there is no socially accepted reason that she would choose Hareton, seeing as he can’t give her money, status, or respectability. 

The circle of events and “The Butterfly:” It does feel, in my opinion at least, that it is no accident that our happy ending is the union of Hareton and Cathy. It couldn’t happen with just any couple or in any other way. It does feel that they are made into the semi-proteges of Heathcliff and Catherine, and the elements of the Linton’s allows for there to be peace between the two families. There is a kind of resolution and unification of their energies. 

This is probably the most common narrative of the connection between Hareton/Cathy and Heathcliff/Catherine, and that is rather than just a parallel, critics have noted that the story of Catherine comes full circle with their marriage. The first Catherine wrote out her possible futures on her window sill in the names: Catherine Earnshaw, Catherine Heathcliff and Catherine Linton. Her daughter ends up reversing these different identities being born a Linton, marrying a Heathcliff, and finally an Earnshaw. That can’t be merely a coincidence.

Critic Dorothy Van Ghent deemed Catherine and Heathcliff the “original two” and she said that with the civilizing of Cathy and Hareton, "the great magic, the wild power, of the original two has been lost.” Others say that while poetically it makes sense within the repetition, Catherine and Hareton’s relationship is “improbable” but I disagree. I really liked Carol Ramsden’s take on this that incorporates Emily’s essay “The Butterfly,” and makes the parallel between the 1st and 2nd generation - I have posted this before but to save myself the time of rephrasing it I’ll just post the quote:

In Wuthering Heights, we encounter a destructive principle at work in the love between Catherine and Heathcliff. The principle is manifested fully in Catherine’s mental collapse and Heathcliff’s vindictiveness. However, the love between Cathy and Hareton is allowed to flower and they are both, in their own ways, products of the first lovers. The principle of destruction, as in “The Butterfly”, is transformed into a creative energy. Ultimately, Catherine and Heathcliff are also not deprived of this creative energy. Instead of representing a pessimistic view of life, their love, too, comes to suggest that all things work together towards good.

I think that’s an interesting take, besides just a happy ending for Hareton and Cathy it almost feels like a happy ending for Catherine and Heathcliff? In some ways they burned up only to transform into something better. Not saying that is how it is meant to be read, but I do like it (probably because I like a happy ending). 

I feel like there are other points that I’ve forgotten? But these are what I remember at least. 

[alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer]

all gone, all gone, all gone

part 3: it will not be at all or any better

CW: kidnapping, suicidal thoughts, manipulation, descriptions of bullying, child abuse, and toxic relationship

as a disclaimer (and acknowledgement), some of the dialogue is from what I remember of the book, and some of it is based on takes i've seen on tumblr that I agreed with!

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3 | Masterlist

Thomas never made it to the Devil Tavern that night. His throat burned when he woke, a mixture of dehydration and whatever drug had been used to incapacitate him.

“There you are,” a familiar voice drawled. “Finally. I was worried I’d perhaps gotten the dosage incorrect and killed you.”

Alastair. “You were worried about me?”

“Ha, I suppose not. Would have been a lot more work if you’d died, though. Belial surely wouldn’t’ve been happy if I killed you before he got his hands on you.” He approached Thomas with a glass of water. “Drink,” he ordered.

Thomas wanted to refuse, but he was so thirsty that he could not stop to worry about whatever Alastair may have snuck into the drink. When Alastair finally took the glass away, he attempted to regain his composure. “What do you want from me?”

Alastair shrugged. “I’m sure Belial has his uses for you. Until then… I am to get as much information from you as I can.” He picked up a knife from a table and spun it around with a flourish. “Whilst leaving you in one piece.”

“Why are you doing this?” He hadn’t entirely intended to ask the question out loud, but it hung in the air anyways.

Alastair rolled his eyes. “What, you expect me to hold some sort of loyalty to you? What’ve you ever done to earn it? You truly expect the world to be handed to you, still? You despise me, Thomas. You send me rude letters and threaten me at large gatherings. Give me one reason why I should ever choose your side instead of Belial’s.”

A wave of guilt crashed over Thomas. He knew he’d made mistakes. He was simply angry. He was never trying to hurt Alastair. Thomas wondered whether he would have treated him differently if he’d known what he was hiding. “Cordelia. What about your sister?”

He shook his head. “Before, I had all of these ideas about what I owed her and the world and what I deserved myself. I felt it sensible to give all of myself to others, to give endless compassion and protection and patience to the people I cared about and accept when they gave me nothing in return. Belial helped me to see clearly.”

“What did he do to you?”

Alastair flung the knife, it soaring right past Thomas’ head. He braced himself but never felt an impact. The blade splinted the wood behind him. “Belial made me strong,” Alastair said coolly. Thomas could tell his outburst was not out of anger; he was making a play at intimidation. Thomas would not show him just how terrified he truly was.

“You were already strong.” Thomas’ heart ached for the boy beneath this creature that Belial had created. Though that wasn’t entirely true, was it? It had not just been Belial, it had been Elias, it had been every cut and lash that had led Alastair to the bridge that night. Perhaps some inflicted by Thomas himself.

“I was weak. Love is weakness. Perhaps it is not for everyone, but in my family? In my family, the cost of love is hopelessness. All of us are destined to love those who will never truly care for us.” Thomas thought of Cordelia. Did he know the marriage had been false?

“What did you think I couldn’t see how deeply my sister felt for James? How he disregarded her over and over again for Grace Blackthorn? I understand now that the situation was more complex, but my sister did not marry him thinking that he did not love her back because of a bracelet, she believed he did not love her at all. Such seems to be our curse. So when Belial came to me, when he offered me our deal, I thought, wouldn’t it be nice to not care, too?”

“Love makes us human, Alastair.”

“Good thing, then, that you and your friends already thought me a heartless monster.”

Thomas bit at the inside of his cheek. It was true. He’d spent months, years convincing himself that Alastair was cruel and uncaring. He wanted desperately to know how he could have confused hurting for heartlessness. A thought creeped into his mind, one that had been pestering him ever since he learned of Cordelia’s letter. Had Thomas been one of those people? One of the ones Alastair gave himself to and received nothing in return? He studied his expression, but could read nothing. “It was you, wasn’t it? The person who was following me when I went out at night? You- You were protecting me.”

Alastair didn’t waver. “Perhaps I was.”

“But… why?” He was correct, Thomas had treated him more than poorly the past few months. Why would he risk his life to protect him? Why would he do it all in secret, not even leaving behind a trace of his true intentions in his letter to his sister? In fact, he was fairly certain that if Alastair had been killed, if it were not immediately apparent that he had been following Thomas, he would have assumed that Alastair had some completely separate business that he was taking care of, and they merely happened to be in similar places at the same time. Why would he do that? Perhaps he did not want to risk exposing what Thomas was doing? Or… perhaps he wanted to save him from the guilt?

Alastair approached him non-threateningly, but he could not forget the dagger in his hand. “Because you have shown me kindness in the past, and there are not many people in this world who have done so. I thought it would be most unfortunate for you to die alone, recklessly trying to repair your guilt over not saving your sister.”

“I- I wasn’t- I was just trying to find the killer. So that no one else would get hurt. I had to go alone; going in pairs or groups… it’s too obvious. He would hear you coming.”

“Is that what you told your friends?”

Admittedly, his friends hadn’t asked very many questions about his whereabouts and his actions, so he hadn’t explained it to them. He didn’t answer.

“There may be an element of truth to that, but you and I both know that’s not the whole of it. You couldn’t save your sister. The killer may not have been responsible for her death, but it didn’t matter. Evil is evil, whatever form it takes. You went alone because you knew the risk you were taking, you knew the danger you were putting yourself in, and you didn’t want anyone going down with you.”

“How- How do you know that?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re not the only one who can be observant, Thomas.”

“I- I don’t understand.”

“Just another piece of evidence, proving human weakness. You were never going to save Barbara. You’re guilty over nothing. You risked your life for nothing.”

Thomas felt his anger rising again. “That’s not- If we had-”

“Did you think it was a coincidence that her and Oliver both got so much sicker so much faster than the others? That they were simply unlucky? There was nothing unintentional about her death. Oliver was unlucky, certainly. Unlucky to have loved her, perhaps. But your sister was dead the moment Belial marked her.”

“The welcome ball,” Thomas realized. “But why?”

“Tatiana,” Alastair answered without hesitation. “She has quite the grudge against your father. You’re the icing on the cake, of course. When your family learns of your death, when your father finally realizes why… The guilt will consume him. He will never forgive himself. Tatiana will finally have her revenge.”

“You- you said you weren’t going to kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you, no, but only time will tell what Belial plans on doing with you.”

Thomas could find no words, only stare at him in fear and shock. That was what he wanted wasn’t it? Alastair placed his fingers against his cheek, and he flinched away. After a long pause, Alastair sighed. “Do you want to know what my favorite memory from Paris was?”

“No.”

“It was you.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why is that? I would never tell you lies, Thomas.”

Thomas swallowed hard. Alastair’s voice was soft, filled with longing. It’s not real, he told himself. “All you have done is tell me lies! From the very beginning. I know you were in Paris with Charles Fairchild, anyways. I’ve seen the ways you look at each other. When we were together, your eyes lit up every time you mentioned him.”

Alastair hesitated for the briefest moment at the mention of Charles. Thomas cursed himself for still feeling the slightest pang of jealousy. “Pathetic, isn’t it? But no. My favorite memory,” his voice softened again, a sickly sweet melody in Thomas’ ears, “was taking you to see that film. I’d fallen in love with moving pictures during my stay in Paris. I’d fretted all night over it, worried that you would find it silly, or worse, you would mock me for it. But I wanted so desperately for someone to share it with. Charles never had an appreciation for art, not that he would have ever dared to go somewhere that public with me anyways. Afterwards, looking into your eyes, I thought… in another life... in another life, I could have been here with him.”

Thomas hated how his heart ached in his chest. He hated Alastair, even before this whole deal with Belial. That’s what he told himself, anyways. In another life… These are lies. He’s using you. “No chance we could go now then? I hear it’s beautiful during the holidays.”

Alastair smirked. He ran the cool blade lightly against the skin of Thomas’ throat. “Don’t you feel guilty, Thomas? You couldn’t have saved your sister, but you could have saved me.”

He hoped Alastair could not feel how hard his heart was beating. “No- no, that’s not true. There’s no saving someone like you.” He knew they were lies.

“No, not someone like me. Someone like him.” Alastair leaned forward so that Thomas could feel the breath on his neck as Alastair hissed, “He loved you. He would have died for you, in secret, even knowing how openly you disdained him. You gave him hope last summer. You helped him realize he deserved more than a lover who lied every time he claimed to love him, who never cared for him more than a Clave meeting and always left before the sun rose.” He frowned. “You could have saved him, if you wanted to. But you didn’t think he was worth it.”

“I- That’s not- I-” Thomas tugged at his bindings, suddenly filled with rage. “Shut up! I hate you! You now and you before! You’re cruel and callous! You never cared for anyone but yourself! Why were you even so mean to us at school? We never gave you any reason for it! Your family is friends with the Herondales; you could have at least been kinder to James.”

Alastair looked away wistfully. Thomas loathed it, how easily he replicated emotions. He felt none of them. “If you wanted an apology, Thomas, you should have asked for it two weeks ago.”

“Just explain it to me. You wish for me to feel something for the person you once were? Explain it.”

“When I arrived at school, talk about my family preceded me. The rumors about my father’s drinking, the speculation about why we moved so much. The fact that my family couldn’t afford tutors for us. I looked different than them; talked different than them. Shadowhunters like to pretend that such prejudices don’t touch them, but it’s only to make themselves feel better. I had no friends; I knew no one when I arrived. Who better to beat up than the Persian boy whose father would never show up when he was injured?”

“So you were jealous, that day after the prank. I thought you might-”

“No. I wasn’t jealous. I was angry. I was put in the infirmary for two weeks, I nearly died, would have were I a mundane, and all my father did was lecture me when I came home for the holidays about how I needed to be more careful and how much of a burden I was to him. You, James, your friends, you had everything. You had pretty homes with nice parents, parents who loved you, who cared for you. You arrived at the Academy expecting the world to embrace you, as it never had me.”

“So, what? You needed to even the scores?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. There are no scores, and if there were, I would never be able to even them. It had to be someone. It was the only way to keep them from hurting me. I had nothing, no one, but I had my tongue, and when I cut some poor student down to size, the other boys were so amused that they forgot about ever hurting me. I never hit anyone, never got my hands dirty, but it didn’t matter, did it? I was one of them. It had to be someone, so I chose you. I chose James.” He paused. “So, what about now?”

“What?” Thomas’ throat ached from holding back tears.

“Do you think I could have been saved?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was just above a whisper, more of an echo. It was the truth. He understood what Alastair was telling him. The decision he’d come to was not a rash, impulsive decision. It was one that was built up over many, many years. And with that was the knowledge that time after time, year after year, someone, anyone, could have helped, could have saved him, like Thomas’ own father had been saved when breaking free of his father, but no one did. No one noticed, and the ones that did didn’t care. “You deserved better.” A still silence fell on them. “You’re stalling.”

“How do you figure?”

“You’re meant to torture me, but you can’t do it. You never physically hurt anyone at school, and you can’t now. Maybe it’s morals, maybe your mind is still caught in your past, maybe some part of you still cares for me. It doesn’t matter; you can’t do it.”

“That’s quite the gamble.”

It was. There was no telling whether his speculation was correct or whether Alastair was about to place him on a skewer. He was simply trusting his intuition. “Prove me wrong. Hurt me or let me go.”

Alastair moved closer to him, essentially on top of him, but Thomas kept his eyes locked with his, not showing a flicker of fear. When Alastair’s arms dug in, however, he felt no stab of pain. His wrists came free. He watched as he slashed the binds at his ankles. Alastair kept his eyes on him as he left, his expression never swaying. I’ll free you next, Thomas thought.

* * *

"You let the Lightwood go?"

"He esc-"

"Don't lie to me! What, do you think you're special now? Do you fancy yourself human? Redeemable? You think yourself better, more moral, than I? You would betray me for them? You are exactly what I make you. If you wish to be sentimental so badly, you need only ask." With that Belial disappeared. The doors to the room slammed shut and Alastair nearly stumbled to ground. It felt like he couldn't breathe. It felt like- It felt like heartache.

He ran first to the doors, but he knew they wouldn't budge. There were no windows to this room and only one vent that would not move no matter how hard he tried to pry it open.

He gasped for breath, knowing there was no escape. Belial would not let him go free. Not after Thomas. He’d had a lapse in judgement, and he would not make the same one again. Alastair was trapped here, alone. Alone with nothing but the feeling of the world crumbling around him, of his guilt crushing his chest. Finally, he was all the things other people believed him to be: evil and heartless and cruel. Finally, he was all the things his father and Charles had called him: pathetic and weak and useless. Finally, he was the monster he’d always feared becoming.

There was no redemption for him, not anymore. Not after Belial. Not after betraying Cordelia. Not after kidnapping Thomas.

He looked to his blades laid out on the table. He could not leave the warehouse physically, but… He lifted one, and it felt oddly heavy in his hands. His grasp shook and he sunk to his knees. He gripped it tighter and he realized that Belial would never let him.

He had not let him die the first time, and he would not now. Belial wanted this, he wanted him to give up. It made him much easier to control. Belial wanted him to have no motivations, no loyalties, no reason to betray him. If he wanted him dead, he would be dead. Belial still had uses for him, and the only thing Alastair knew was that he could not let him win.

thanks for reading! we're almost done actually! taglist (lmk to be +/-): @jem-nasium @littlx-songbxrd @fortheloveofthecarstairs @cant-think-of-anything @vampireeugenia-deactivated20210

Part 4

[groovybaybee]

Empty Beach (4.5k)

Three hours. It only took three hours for the tan line on my ring finger to be brought up. Three measly hours I had spent in the country, travelling to the house and unpacking, before his name was mentioned. Despite choosing a later flight in a desperate attempt to spend as little time with my distant relatives as possible, the question was inevitable.

 “No Ethan this year?” my sweet but intrusive grandmother had asked the second grace had been uttered.

 It took less than two seconds for the question to be answered by my mother.

 “They split up, ma,” she said with a passive aggressive smile as she passed me some vegetables.

 “That’s a pity… such a nice young man,” my grandmother pressed, leaning forward in her seat.

 “Very nice,” I muttered under my breath, knowing fully well that my side of the story would never be accepted.

“Anyone else on the scene?” asked my uncle as he bounced a fussy toddler on his knee. “Want to get yourself settled soon, pop out a couple of these sweet things.” He added when I shook my head.

 I watched as the child grabbed wildly at anything in his reach, knocking a bread roll on to the floor. My eyes followed my uncle as he reached down to scoop up the discarded food, quickly blowing at it before settling it back on his plate.

 “Mhm,” I hummed before dropping my gaze to my plate, pushing the food around miserably.

 The rest of the meal followed a similar pattern. Questions were asked. Digs unsubtly disguised as jokes were made at my expense. I offered half-hearted noises of agreement when reminded that my biological clock is ticking, and no man wants an old spinster for a wife.

 Family has a way of making you feel terrible about yourself. They can highlight all your perceived failures and mock them to your face, delighting in their ‘progress’ comparative to yours.

 Ethan used to make these visits more bearable. Having someone accompany me to these yearly holidays helped to calm the fire in my stomach, the urge to argue with my family’s traditional ideals. For a while, I convinced myself Ethan’s presence soothed my wild nature outside these trips as well, encouraging me to be practical and always plan ahead.

 He was sensible and I was sensible when I was around him. So, when he asked me to marry him at this exact villa one year ago, I did the sensible thing and accepted.

 My family were ecstatic, finally marrying me off and watching me become the person they expected me to become. First would be the wedding, then children, then grandchildren. I would be a wife, most likely staying home to raise our children and resenting every moment of allowing myself to be stifled like that.

 Ethan and I made sense in almost every way. We just lacked that… something. Some people describe it as a spark, others a fire. Whatever it is, it never existed between us. We both knew that, so it did not shock me to see the relief in his eyes when I returned his ring.

 No one could understand how we ended a four-year relationship over seemingly nothing, especially not my family members.

 “Have you been trying to work things out with Ethan? I’m sure if you just talked you could resolve whatever you’re going through.” My mother urged as we cleared the table.

 The scoff that left my lips was unintentional but impossible to retain.

 “I’m trying to help fix your mistakes.” She snapped, clattering plates as she piled them forcefully.

 “Not everything I do is a mistake.” I countered softly, exhausted from my flight and from the years of having this conversation.

 “Of course not, but don’t your father and I deserve grandchildren? Have we not earned that after—”

 I refused to let her finish her sentence, quickly announcing that I was going for a walk.

 Blood boiled in my veins as I trudged through cobbled streets. The stomp of my sandals against the ground sounded ridiculous and only infuriated me further as I stormed aimlessly through familiar backstreets until the sound of softly crashing waves called me closer.

 It was after sunset, most of the beach empty save for a few teenagers gathered around a small fire. The anger in me had subsided by the time I reached the sand, gently toeing off my shoes and carrying them with me as I walked the width of the beach.

 Waves brushed my toes as I inhaled and exhaled deeply, grateful for the gentle evening breeze that seemed to soothe the burn inside my throat. I spent a few moments, still, allowing the water to cleanse my soul and pull away the negativity of the night with each receding wave.

 Planting myself in the sand, I stretched out my legs to their full extent, flexing and relaxing my bare feet until the tiny grains felt coarse on my skin.

 I sat for a long while, reminding myself that only I knew what was best for me. Not my family, who I purposely only interacted with a couple of times per year. They barely knew me; they most definitely did not know what I needed.

 The urge to settle down at a young age and start a family as quickly as possible in order to continue the cycle had never appealed to me. Even as a child I craved excitement and adventure; something no amount of familial intervention could knock out of me.

 A late-night trip to the beach like this one would be considered reckless. I could only imagine the passive-aggressive nightmare I would return to. Silent gawks and glares would surround me until I felt claustrophobic.

 My desire for freedom and spontaneity most certainly was the product of a recessive gene, one only shared by my great aunt, Delilah. She stopped attending all family get-togethers when I was still a child. The memory of her pulling me back during a family walk to skip stones with her would stay with me forever.

 “They won’t be around you forever,” she had told me as she bounced a rock four times across the placid lake. “One day you’ll have your own life. You’ll make your own choices and you’ll make them for yourself, won’t you honey?”

 I hadn’t really understood what she meant but I nodded anyway. I idolised her. The fire I recognised in myself, I saw in her. She was the only one who understood me, which is why it hurt all the more when I had to face family gatherings alone.

 It was only when I was an adult that her leaving made sense. Delilah was in her late sixties when she finally came out to her family. That evening, after we returned from the lake, I was sent to bed while my family had a ‘grown-up’ discussion. The next morning, she was gone, and no one would tell me why.

 She sent presents on birthdays and Christmas, postcards from each new place she visited, always reminding me to be true to myself and do what I wanted. Now she was free, she felt alive.

 I drew her name in the damp sand with my index finger, mine beneath it, and made a silent promise to keep the fire alive for the both of us.

 What would DeeDee do right now? I had wondered.

 An immediate grin had spread across my face when I heard her voice in my head, telling me: “I don’t know, something stupid like skinny-dipping.��

 I knew that if she were around, she would tell the story of how she skinny-dipped at boarding school with the headmistress’ daughter. I could almost feel the warmth of her laughter as I sat on the sand.

 Envying her liberation, I glanced around the beach to gage the possibility of being nude without being arrested for public indecency.

 The teenagers had left while I was reminiscing, their fire extinguished. The beach appeared empty. No one would see. Even if it was just for a moment, it felt something that I needed to experience.

 Head and heart fixed on the idea, I quickly stripped my body of the pale blue sundress. Taking a swift but deep breath, I pulled down my underwear and tossed them into the pile. A small giggle fell from my lips as my body adjusted to the new temperature. A warm gust of wind blew past me, almost as if encouragingly pushing me towards the water.

 I ran without looking back until my knees splashed water around my body and the ocean became too deep and slowed me down. I stood, waist deep, under the sky. It was a clear night, save for a few light clouds which glided past in the breeze.

 My eyes fell closed as I breathed in the moment, desperate to savour each salty kiss and gentle caress of the water. Everyone had disappeared. Each nag and dig had vanished from memory. This was peace.

 It was peace, until the gentle crashing of waves was interrupted by a sigh.

 Instantly, I crouched in the water, eager for ever the slightest touch of modesty as I turned to locate the source of the sound.

 About ten metres away, waves lapping around his ribs, stood a man with his eyes closed and head thrown back as if bathing in the moonlight.

 In a desperate attempt to go unseen, I squatted low. My chin just above the water, I attempted to side-step away in order to keep an eye on him and prevent any awkwardness.

 I was almost crab-walking away when he finally noticed me, a misplaced footstep caused me to be plunged underneath the lukewarm tide.

 “Whoa, you alright?” I heard him ask when I surfaced, spluttering and spitting so much water that I did not notice him mirror my stance, also crouched.

 “Fine.” I coughed, clearly not fine but thankful that he did not press it.

 The two of us stood in silence as I caught my breath, running my hands over my head to scrape back the tangling mess of hair, already wondering how I would explain this when I returned to my family.

 “Nice night isn’t it?” he asked after the silence started to become thick with tension.

 “Yeah, not bad,” I replied, pausing for a moment to smirk at the ridiculousness of the situation.

 “Know any constellations?” he had asked, turning his head back up to the sky.

 “Not really,” I answered.

 It was at this moment that I was given the chance to appreciate him. His head bobbed just above the water, darkened wet hair plastered itself to his head, some parts curling out in defiance. An angular jaw tilted to the stars, catching their light and softening his features. The stranger glowed and glistened as awe-filled eyes watched the twinkling wonders above us.

 “You?” I questioned.

 “Just the ones everyone knows… Orion’s belt, Cassiopeia…” he commented, and I copied his stance, gazing up to the night sky.

 An overwhelming swell of gratitude washed across me as I stood beneath the glittering expanse. I pictured the stars looking down at us as we did to them, marvelling at their distance. Everything felt so insignificant in the most calming way. It did not matter what my family thought of me, or even the unknown man beside me (once I felt safe that he was not about to murder me and leave my lifeless body to float out with the tide). All that mattered is that in that moment, cuddled by gentle waves and illuminated by starlight, I felt alive.

 “When I was a kid, I thought that night-time was like a knitted blanket and stars were the little gaps you get,” he spoke.

 Not able to help myself, I turned to him with a grin at his admission. It felt like such an impossible confession to make to a stranger that I had to meet his gaze, eyes already trained on me by the time mine found his.

 “Sorry, bit mental to tell a stranger.” He laughed.

 “What’s your name?” I asked, sensing his discomfort from oversharing. “Then we aren’t strangers anymore.”

 I learnt his name was Harry. I told him mine and we discuss childhood beliefs as if we had known each other longer than a few minutes. Mentioning my unshakable faith that lightening was just a huge camera flashing seemed to relax him. There was a sweetness to the look he gave me as I spoke. A gentle stare that paired with an equally easy smile. Lips quirked with each word I uttered, until I soon wore a matching grin.

 Only when I was able to notice the deep-set dimples in his cheeks did I realise we had migrated closer to one another. By the sea or our own volition, we were only a few feet apart. He was breath-taking up close, warm but dark eyes glinted emerald and a light dusting of freckles across his nose were a testament to a day in the sun.

It was then that I began to panic. The realisation that the possibility to slip away without him seeing my nude body was quickly diminishing the more I spoke to him. But I didn’t want to stop.

 “I don’t believe you.” I laughed heartily.

 “It’s true! I can call my mum and she’ll tell you. My sister convinced me whenever I blinked everyone turned into a frog.” He spoke fondly, a warmth spreading across his features as he reminisced.

 “Can I ask you something that’s going to sound a bit mad?” I asked once calm was restored between us. One last-ditch effort to keep some dignity intact.

 “Sure.” Harry had answered with a light, throaty chuckle.

 “Do you think you could wait here for a few minutes and then come meet me on the beach? I’m getting kind of cold, but I think you’re interesting.” I explained the best I could.

 “Okay.” He smiled.

 Almost unbelievably, he continued to follow my instructions when I had him face away from the beach and promise not to look back. He seemed respectful when I made a half-hearted comment about wanting privacy as I towelled off, so I made my way out of the water with confidence that he would not peek. Even if he did, all he would have seen was two cheeks speeding away.

 As quickly as possible, I wiped off as much excess water as I could before pulling on sandy clothing. Almost instantly, a wave of regret passed over me as grains of sand covered a variety of patches of skin. However, when I saw Harry stepping towards me, equally sodden and sandy, the feeling washed away as promptly as it had arrived.

 “So how come you’re out here alone?” I asked curiously as we sat.

 “Doing a bit of solo travelling, kind of figuring out who I am by myself.” He answered. I felt there was more to his story that he was holding back but I did not push. “How about you?”

 “Similar thing kind of... just needed a break.” I explained. I imagine he sensed the same caginess from me as I did him, but, again, we did not dive deeper.

 “What’s the plan for your trip? Where you headed next?” I asked nosily, fascinated by him in all honesty.

 “No real plan.” He told happily.

 Again, he took my breath away. Here was someone with no plans, no aims, no pressures. He was freely living his life. The carefree and spontaneous nature of his attitude threw me off, and I sat staring at him, wondering how I could capture that feeling and keep it with me.

 “What?” he asked with a smirk as I gazed at him admiringly.

 “Nothing, you’re… you’re just not like a lot of people I know.”

 “Shall I take that as a compliment?”

 “Definitely.” I told him with a nod.

 Finally, I managed to prise my gaze from him and look out to the swelling ocean, but I felt his eyes on me still. My face began to heat up as I felt his lingering looks, tracing over my features. Breath caught in my throat as my chest rose and fell heavily.

 “Harry,” I uttered, voice barely above a whisper as I turned to face him.

 “Mm?” he hummed, eyes softly locked on my lips.

 We didn’t say anything else, there was no room for words as our bodies gravitated towards one another until our lips touched. His were salty and a little chapped from the ocean, I imagine mine were too, but they left soft, buttery kisses that left my chest aching for more. From the first moment our lips pressed, I felt addicted to them. Each kiss was another hit, more intoxicating than the last.

 He held me to him. Fingertips grazed the slope of my jaw. Lips sweeter than treacle, we sank together. Soon, our bodies laid as one on the sand, water occasionally lapping at our toes as the tide rolled closer.

 We kept ourselves warm despite the dropping temperature, bodies moving against one another symbiotically. Gradually, hands worked their way under clothing, cold and warm meeting in a blissful collision. A cocktail of excitement and caution filled my stomach. Each matched breath and heavy sigh sent a fizz through my bloodstream, soon drunk on his movements. Desire and trepidation battled throughout my being; a tug of war unevenly stacked against sensibility.

 When a large hand reached my breast, a light gasp tumbled from my lips. His actions stoked a fire within me that even the rising tide could not extinguish. Harry moved slowly, thoughtfully, as his touch spread around me, seeming to savour every single inch. My body arched into his when his lips pulled at the soft flesh of my neck, sucking gently but enough to have my hips rolling involuntarily. Desperately seeking some form of stimulation, they jolted harshly against his. The smirk I felt pressed against my skin only encouraged the burning within me. I was in dire need for something free and a little wild, and there he was.

 “I don’t want to assume anything…” I began, my breathy voice barely above a whisper as his lips travelled down my collarbones and to my chest, “But do you have protection?”

 “In my bag.” He replied with a nod to his large, bulging backpack.

 For a moment, we lay still, his chin on my chest as bright eyes and a matching smile looked up at me. There was a shared sense of relief at the realisation that we both wanted the same thing and wanted the best possible outcome for each other. There was mischief in our eyes, a touch of recklessness, but mainly care.

 Lips returned to my skin, puckering along each peak and valley of my covered torso until his mouth reached the hem of my dress. Lifting his eyes questioningly to meet mine, he waited patiently until I gave a soft nod. Eagerly, hands slip beneath the fabric, gliding up the outside of my thighs to reach my hips. He grabbed at the flesh there, greedily kneading it as kisses worked their way up the inside of my legs.

 “Harry…” I breathed out hopelessly.

 His lips crooked into a smile, but he continued to take his time, seeming to enjoy the way my body fought to lay flat against the sand.

 Special attention was given to each and every part of my body, his lips taking their time in dragging their way upwards until, finally, they met the ache between my thighs. His tongue licked tentatively to begin with, before the sight of my body writhing beneath him instilled a new wave of confidence. Soft licks evolved into wet, open-mouthed kisses. Before too long, his mouth moved keenly in delicate swirls as fingertips dug gently but firmly into my hips. Harry held me in place as I desperately sought more from him. Back arched and toes dug helplessly into the sand, his hair tangled through my fingers.

 His eyes were on me the whole time, confidently working me close to orgasm without even a shred of doubt in his performance. Not that there needed to be, his mouth moved beautifully against me, switching between soft licks, gentle sucking, and passionate lapping. I felt his jaw moving up and down as his face pressed into me, nose and mouth gliding up and down the length of my pussy, sure to leave no area neglected. My eyes met and disconnected with his constantly, battling to watch and remember every detail of being with him while struggling to keep my eyes open at all.

 “Think you can come for me?” he groaned; lips so close they sent vibrations across my flesh.

 I was already a quaking mess from his actions, but his words, his desire to give me pleasure, all became too much. My fingers wound through his hair as he pulled me closer, working faster and sloppier. Messy, wonderful circles swirled around my clit as a hand reached up the length of my body. The top of my dress was pulled down, breasts exposed and sensitive in the night air. Gentle fingertips juxtaposed the passion between my legs as they caressed and rolled the freed flesh.

 Overcome with sensation, my hips shuddered against him. Stomach contracting as my toes buried themselves in the sand and fingers grasped his hair, desperate to cling to the world in any way possible. My body fought this urge, convulsing and shivering as his actions became less intense, tongue moving softer against me as he pulled me through my orgasm.

 Once I had stopped shaking, Harry crawled back up my body to lay beside me. He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead before propping himself up on his elbow to observe me.

 My breathing levelled out and muscles relaxed before I was able to open my eyes again. When I did, I noticed the way the moonlight reflected on his face, showering him with luminescent majesty. He looked ethereal as he watched over me.

 “All good?” he asked softly, the slightest touch of nervousness present in his voice.

 In response, I nodded my head to his backpack. I watched as an inescapable grin slipped on to his lips before he rolled over to dig through his bag.

 As he searched, my hands began to explore his body. Slowly, they felt the tension of his shoulders, a firm chest, prominent abdominal muscles covered in a layer of soft flesh. The other hand ghosted across the meatiness of his thighs, urgently fighting the desire to dig my fingers in. It continued up to his hipbone, the bottom of his shirt pushed up slightly, revealing tattoos I had not had chance to see yet. I wondered if he would let me count them sometime as he turned back to face me, condom in hand.

 His gaze softened as it fell on me, flickering for a second to my breasts before returning to my face. Our lips reconnected, the same warmth spreading across them and down into my chest and stomach, already hooked on the feeling.

 “You’re sure, right?” I asked him when my hand reached the waistband of his shorts.

 “Positive. You?”

 My answer came in the form of a nod before I slipped a hand through his hair and pulled his lips back to mine.

 Our hands worked clumsily together to unbutton his shorts, soft giggles shared as our fingers tangled. I pulled myself on top of him as he rolled the condom down the length of his cock. His eyes watched me hungrily as I positioned myself above him, gathering the excess fabric of my skirt in my hand before sinking slowly on to him. A gasp left my mouth involuntarily as my body accommodated his size. When the backs of my thighs met the tops of his, I paused, my hips grinding of their own volition. Rocking back and forth caused him to hit the most delicious spots, my muscles clenching around him until he was bucking his hips slightly, starting the cycle anew.

 I rose from my position before returning, just as slowly and deliberately. The moans my movements elicited where otherworldly. The melting of our bodies into one another was intense, seeming to fit and move together as if that was their design. Soon, our hips rolled and met quicker, the sensation unlike anything I had ever felt. After a moment, Harry sat up, one arm around my waist and the other behind him to steady us. Lips clung to my chest, pressing kisses along my sternum before encircling my nipple and sucking softly. My hips began to move up and down at the new sensation, causing Harry to pull his head back, watching with lust-filled eyes as my breasts bounced before his eyes.

 A low growl of a moan escaped Harry’s lips as both arms wrapped around my waist tightly. I was lifted and placed gently on my back on the sand before I could even register what was happening. This new position allowed so much more freedom for him, his hips instantly snapping against mine. Each thrust shook my whole body, sand certainly tangling in my hair. There would be no excusing this when I returned to the villa, but I could not have cared less. All I could think about was the feeling between my legs as Harry grabbed me by the waist and collided our hips over and over. He had pulled his shirt up, holding the bottom between his teeth to prevent it from interfering. His eyes bore into mine, watching with a small smirk as I crumbled into a moaning mess beneath him when he slipped a hand down to rub gentle circles against my clit. Still sensitive from before, the added stimulation had me writhing under him.

 I became increasingly thankful for the sound of the waves, just loud enough to cover the obscenities that spilled from my lips as I was brought to my second orgasm. The sensation of my muscles tightening around him proved too much, as he stilled not soon after, a beautifully gruff rendition of my name tumbling from his lips.

 After a moment of gentle thrusts, he pulled out and returned to his position beside me, grabbing a towel from his bag and laying it across us like a blanket. His arm lifted, calling me closer until my head rest on his chest. We laid for a while, regaining our breaths and waiting for our heartbeats to slow.

 “I think that one is Ursa Major.” Harry spoke softly, his voice a little gravellier than before.

 I looked up to the stars to seek the constellation he pointed out, quickly realised I was not that interested.

 “I don’t really care about stars.” I confessed, looking up at him with a slightly exhausted grin.

 “Me neither,” he replied, bottom lip tugged slightly into his mouth as he smirked at me mischievously. “Just wanted to keep talking to you really.”

 Thankful that the night would cover the heat rising in my cheeks, I told him, “I think I quite enjoy talking to you.”

 “Maybe we should run away together.” He joked, a look of fear flickering through his eyes as he realised how intense that could sound, quickly melted away by my breathy laugh.

 “Where do you want to go first?”

masterlist

[rainingpouringetc]

Hi! So, I’ve been wondering what the problem with Anna Lightwood is, because my brain saw that she was bending gender norms and hit love. But, now that I’m on tumblr, people are saying that she is problematic?

hi! i’ll try my best to explain, idk if i’ll hit everything but i hope this helps. and i’m sorry it took me a while, i wanted to do it justice so i tried to cover my bases and do my research.

basically, anna has said and done things that came across to many as ignorant, racist, and even misogynistic. 

first, let’s look at “every exquisite thing” from ghosts of the shadowhunter market. 

“If I were to tell my parents the truth about myself, if I were to reveal who I really am, they would despise me. I would be friendless, cast out, alone.”

Anna shook her head.

“They would not,” she said. “They would love you. You are their daughter.”

Ariadne drew her hand back from Anna’s. “I am adopted, Anna. My father is the Inquisitor. I do not have parents who are as understanding as yours must be.”

“But love is what matters,” said Anna.

this is from when ariadne was trying to explain why she would be getting engaged to charles. anna is very lucky: her family loves and accepts her and she’s able to live her life as she wishes, which we see her doing in chain of gold. ariadne, however, is not as lucky, and she has to take into consideration the conditions of her parents’ love. anna apparently struggles to understand this, ignoring ariadne’s valid concerns and telling her that it doesn’t matter because “love is what matters,” as if it makes everything perfect.

this is where anna’s ignorance begins to show through. ariadne is: (a) a woman in the late 1800s/early 1900s (i don’t remember for sure what year this story took place but i’d assume 1900s), (b) indian at a time when india is under british rule, (c) adopted, and (d) a lesbian shadowhunter. we know enough about how intolerant people have been about homosexuality, but shadowhunters are a whole other story. put all of this together and you have someone who is terrified of letting down her family and being shunned by society more than she already has been. in ariadne’s mind, she has no choice but to hide who she is.

 anna ignores this. entirely. she doesn’t take the time to talk to ariadne about her concerns, but rather skirts around them and insists that what she wants is what’s more important. this is highly indicative of her privilege and how she puts herself before others and others’ feelings.

now let’s look at chain of gold. there are two scenes in particular that i want to look at, but there are more.

“I quite like your mother. She reminds me of a queen out of a fairy tale, or a peri from Lalla Rookh. You’re half-Persian, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said, a little warily.

“Then why is your brother so blond?” Anna asked. “And you so redheaded--I thought Persians were darker-haired.”

Cordelia set her cup down. “There are all sorts of Persians, and we all look different,” she said. “You wouldn’t expect everyone in England to look alike, would you? Why should it be different for us? My father is British and very fair, and my mother’s hair was red when she was a little girl. Then it darkened, and as for Alastair--he dyes his hair.”

“He does?” Anna’s eyebrows, graceful swooping curves, went up. “Why?”

“Because he hates that his hair and skin and eyes are dark,” said Cordelia. “He always has. We have a country house in Devon, and people used to stare when we went into the village.”

Anna’s eyebrows had ceased swooping and taken on a decidedly menacing look. “People are--” She broke off with a sigh and a word Cordelia didn’t know. “Now I rather feel sympathy toward your brother, and that was the last thing I wanted. Quick, as me a question.”

this scene is from cordelia’s tea with anna. i won’t touch so much on the “peri from lalla rookh” comment so much as i’m afraid i don’t feel well enough qualified or researched to adequately represent people’s concerns about this statement, but i do know that there were several posts going around about people discussing how it rubbed them the wrong way, so i thought i would include it as well.

the rest, though, is a bit more obvious. one of the things about books is that it can be more difficult to interpret someone’s words and their meaning because we don’t have things like tone or facial expressions or any of that unless the author explicitly includes it. however, we can draw on the way other characters react to certain comments. cordelia goes on the defense, answering anna’s question “a little warily,” setting aside her tea and explaining rather bluntly that not all persians look the same. it’s pretty easy to infer from her reaction that she’s uncomfortable from anna’s words. now, is that to say anna was intentionally being racist toward cordelia and her family? absolutely not. this is where microaggressions come into play. we see them with anna and also with matthew and even jessamine (though we see hers in the infernal devices rather than the last hours). microaggressions, while often unintentional, are still a form of racism. given the times these characters have grown up in, it’s not necessarily a surprise, but that certainly doesn’t excuse her behavior.

there is, however, a more intentional party to this scene that really rubbed me the wrong way. it’s her discussion of alastair. cordelia has just explained that alastair dyes his hair to stop people from staring at him when he’s walking down the street, and anna replies that she feels sympathy for him and that is “the last thing” she wanted. i understand that she has her own feelings about alastair, likely from listening to the merry thieves’ depiction of him, but that doesn’t excuse her. she even starts to say something about it, likely drawing on her own experiences of wearing menswear at a time when fashion was much more strictly regulated in society than it is today. but she stops herself and instead goes on to reemphasize her dislike for cordelia’s brother and changes the subject.

She held up a small black-bound memorandum book... “This,” she announced, “will hold answers to all our questions.”

...

Matthew looked up, his eyes fever-bright. “Is this your list of conquests?”

“Of course not,” Anna declared. “It’s a memorandum book... about my conquests. That is an important but meaningful distinction.”

...

Anna flipped through the book. There were many pages, and many names written in a bold, sprawling hand.

“Hmm, let me see. Katherine, Alicia, Virginia--a very promising writer, you should look out for her work, James--Mariane, Virna, Eugenia--”

“Not my sister Eugenia?” Thomas nearly upended his cake.

“Oh, probably not,” Anna said. “Laura, Lily... ah, Hypatia. Well, it was a brief encounter, and I suppose you might say she seduced me...”

i hope i don’t have to explain this one too much. there’s just something... unsettling about the fact that anna is held up as this feminist icon and yet she keeps a book with the names of and her encounters with all the women she’s slept with... and then reads those names aloud to everyone. it’s a bit much, don’t you think? and all of this is even without touching the leak we got about her and ariadne, which i’d rather not speculate on too much but is also quite damning. 

all in all, i’d like to believe anna is really a good person who’s just misguided and confused, much because i love the idea of a genderqueer character, especially one in an era before stonewall, but her actions and behaviors have led me to believe that she has a long road ahead of her. as i said earlier this week:

let me get something clear: i would die for fanon anna but canon anna needs to get her shit together before i’ll willingly breathe in her direction

i really hope this was helpful... i did my best lol. if anyone else has more to add, please feel free.

[pumpkinpaix]

HI! I'm new to the MDZS fandom and I fell in love with Suibian, but you don't see it that much. I seen somewhere that it would burn out a weaker core and I cried cause I wanted to see that, and as far as I know it doesn't happen anywhere. I'm wondering if you could tell me anything and everything you know about Suibian. I'm starving for anything about it

hi anon! ahahah, it’s always a dangerous thing to ask me about “anything and everything” on a topic because I usually have too many thoughts, most of which are unorganized. but! if you’re interested in that, then here we go!

First, re: your comment about Suibian burning out a weaker core: I am not aware of this theory (or is it something from an interview?? if someone knows, please say so!), but if it brings you joy, then it’s certainly an interesting one to consider! Unfortunately, I don’t have much more to say on it because I’m unfamiliar with it, but I do have quite a lot to say on some other Suibian concepts!

ask and ye shall receive (a very jumbled heap of thoughts as i spiral further and further out of control):

[all rough translations are mine, and thus all mistakes are mine. I am using the version of the novel that is available on luoxia because I can’t be bothered to go flipping through my print edition ahaha.]

the questions about Suibian that interest me the most are why it sealed, when it sealed, when Wei Wuxian began to wield it again, and what that might all mean. I’m going to be talking about novel, CQL, and audio drama canon all together, because I think looking at each canon alone and in combination can raise a lot of very different points!! (I have not watched the donghua or read the manhua yet, so forgive me, I have nothing to say about them. /o\)

So! the one piece of information that we’re given consistently throughout all three of the canons is that Suibian was sealed after Wei Wuxian’s death and that no one but Wei Wuxian himself (and Jiang Cheng, by proxy) could draw it from its sheathe. Thus, Wei Wuxian’s identity is revealed and the golden core swap comes to light. Wei Wuxian is surprised by this, and asks Lan Wangji, “Did it really seal itself?” (novel, chapter 63; CQL, ep 42; audio drama, S2E15).

The novel and audio drama both include a line from Wei Wuxian that emphasizes Wei Wuxian’s surprise, implying that sword-sealing is very uncommon:

万中无一的大好事竟然让我给撞上了

Something incredible that happens less than once per ten thousand times, and I actually encountered it.

the irony, of course, is that this incredible thing is what ended up blowing his cover. rip Wei Wuxian.

but what I think gets really interesting is comparing different points at which Suibian sealed itself and what that might imply in conjunction with other information. Jin Guangyao says “shortly after” his death, but CQL includes a scene in episode 19 that implies that Suibian actually sealed itself much earlier.

[ID: Gif from episode 19 of the untamed drama. Lan Wangji attempts to draw Suibian after he and Jiang Cheng storm the Nightless City and retrieve their swords. He cannot pull it from the sheathe. /end ID]

(in case anyone is curious, it’s about 30 minutes in. I spent the effort to make the gif, so I might as well give you the timestamp lol)

this scene takes place during the period of time when Wei Wuxian is in the Mass Graves (aka the Burial Mounds) after Wen Chao cast him down and left him for dead, right near the beginning of Sunshot. I’m fairly certain it’s not mentioned in either the novel or the audio drama, so this is a CQL-only detail. (please correct me if I’m wrong; I get my canons muddled all the time //hides face)

CQL basically does nothing narratively with this scene other than giving us some sad shots of Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng (honestly, valid ;A;) but!! if we decide to accept this scene as our jumping off point, we can get to some interpretations about Wei Wuxian using information from the other canons!

take this exchange from chapter 57 of the novel (immediately prior to the massacre at lotus cove):

江澄道：“还不是又为咱们的剑的事去温家了。一想到我的三毒现在说不定被哪只温狗握在手里，真是……”

他面露嫌恶之色，魏无羡道：“可惜咱们的剑还不够灵，要是能自动封剑，那就谁也别想用了。”

江澄道：“你再修炼个八十年，说不定可以。”

Jiang Cheng said, “He’s gone to the Wen sect regarding our swords again, hasn’t he. Whenever I think that my Sandu might even now be in some Wen-dog’s hands, ugh…”

His face filled with loathing, Wei Wuxian said, “What a pity our swords don’t have enough spirit. If they could seal themselves, then no one could even think about using them.”

Jiang Cheng said, “If you kept cultivating for another eighty years, maybe.”

from the novel, it seems clear that sword-sealing is something that only happens when a person’s cultivation level is exceptionally high. if this is true, and we go with the CQL timeline of Suibian sealing itself long before Wei Wuxian’s death, it means that Wei Wuxian’s cultivation level wasn’t just high, it was leagues above pretty much anyone else when he was still a teenager. (In fact, Suibian had most likely already sealed by the time this conversation takes place.)

If we don’t go with CQL’s timeline, however, I think we could make a very different argument. It’s a bit of a reach, but I think it’s a lot of fun, if you’re willing to come with me on this journey!

Jin Guangyao says Suibian sealed itself “shortly after” Wei Wuxian’s death, but we don’t really have external confirmation of that. For all we know, someone only bothered to test it sometime after his death, and Suibian had been sealed for some indefinite amount of time. All we can say for sure is that by some point shortly after Wei Wuxian’s death, Suibian was already sealed and resisted being drawn by anyone who tried it.

We’re told over and over that one can only wield a spiritual sword effectively if you have a golden core/the spiritual energy to match it. Wei Wuxian stops carrying/using Suibian because he knows that in his hands, it will act as nothing more than an ordinary sword. His method of cultivation is no longer suitable for the sword. Suibian is tied to both Wei Wuxian’s soul and his golden core.

If sword-sealing only happens when the cultivator’s level is unbelievably high, then I think we can make the argument here that by the time of his death, Wei Wuxian’s core was likewise unbelievably strong – but Wei Wuxian is no longer the one developing his core. Jiang Cheng is.

I know it’s a ridiculous reach. To be clear, I don’t think the text actually intends this or supports this in any meaningful way, but I do think that it gives us some very tasty potential!! If Suibian sealed itself sometime after the core transfer (which, honestly, we wouldn’t know – after all, who’s been trying to draw Wei Wuxian’s sword?), but just if, I think we can plausibly make the argument that Jiang Cheng’s cultivation is truly extraordinary.

:DDDDDDDD

It’s fun right?? It’s a fun concept!!! Even if it’s nonsense, even if it’s not that deep, even if this was an unintentional coincidence, I think it would be interesting to look at this as being some kind of measure of Jiang Cheng’s accomplishments. On the flip side, I also think it’s very important thematically that Jiang Cheng’s value as a person has nothing to do with his cultivation, that he is, in fact, always second-best, but that doesn’t make him any less worthwhile or deserving of love. Maybe I’m just projecting lmao. Of course, being extraordinary doesn’t preclude him from still lagging behind Wei Wuxian–Wei Wuxian might have just been more extraordinary ahahah. We can have both!!

Now for a totally different thing! Interestingly, this conversation about cultivation levels and sword-sealing (the one with Jiang Cheng) also happens in the audio drama, S2E12 (about 15 minutes in, since I just checked), but Wei Wuxian adds an additional comment:

(don’t have the transcription of the original chinese, I’m just going to translate it as I hear it)

“But maybe you don’t need to cultivate to a certain level to have your sword seal itself. What if there were some other way?”

these two versions of the conversation actually imply pretty different things, I think! this addition opens the possibility to the audience that sword-sealing is possible even without an extraordinary level of cultivation, and I think lends credence to the idea that Suibian is just an unusually loyal sword, regardless of Wei Wuxian’s cultivation level. Whether that’s something inherent to Suibian’s “personality”, or whether this says something about how Wei Wuxian inspires loyalty wherever he goes, or whether it just speaks to the strength of their bond remains to be seen.

(obviously, this could imply any number of other things as well, but I find this to be the interpretation that makes me happiest.)

If we go with “Suibian seals itself after Wei Wuxian’s death” in this canon, I think this emphasizes the loyalty aspect with a touch of grief.

If we combine this with CQL and have “Suibian has been loyal since he was a teenager”, that also emphasizes the loyalty aspect – just in a different way.

Of course, doing meta combining unique details from different canons is largely pointless in terms of crafting any real “analysis”, so I’m mostly saying all of this because I enjoy the process of building the supercanon in my head that brings me the most joy! To summarize the varied interpretations I’ve brought up in this post:

CQL-only: Suibian sealed itself when Wei Wuxian was a teenager, at latest, by the time he was thrown into the Mass Graves.

Novel-only: Sword-sealing is very rare and achievable only through extraordinarily high cultivation. Shortly after Wei Wuxian’s death, Suibian is discovered to have sealed itself, so Wei Wuxian’s core, by the time of his death, was extraordinarily powerful.

Audio drama-only: Sword-sealing is considered very rare and achievable only through extraordinarily high cultivation, but might also be accomplished by other methods. Shortly after Wei Wuxian’s death, Suibian is discovered to have sealed itself. If Wei Wuxian’s core is not wildly and improbably powerful, this implies that Suibian has become an exceptionally loyal sword by the time of his death.

CQL/novel: Wei Wuxian was already incredibly powerful by the time he was a teenager.

CQL/audio drama: Suibian has been exceptionally loyal to Wei Wuxian since at least his teenage years.

Novel and audio drama-only have a much wider range of when Suibian could have sealed itself, as mentioned, so there are further variances within those interpretations.

there’s a lot of potential here!! with my personal feelings regarding the story, I like novel-only with Suibian sealing post-core transfer, audio drama-only with Suibian sealing post-Wei Wuxian’s death, or CQL/audio drama with Suibian sealing as a teenager pretty much all equally. I think the CQL/novel interpretation gets too close to casting Wei Wuxian as a hyper-special and innately noble individual in a way that undercuts the strength of his character arc, but that’s my opinion. (As an aside, this is actually one of my major complaints about CQL in general, independent from what I’m talking about here. But that is a topic for another day ahahaha. To be clear, I still love CQL very much, despite my many frustrations!)

As for what I think is the most “likely” to be the “right” interpretation (whatever that’s worth), I would probably say the one that emphasizes Suibian’s loyalty with Suibian sealing post-death, because I think it’s the most thematically cohesive and has the textual support to back it. (I think it’s a valid interpretation even using novel-only text; it’s just slightly less explicit without the additional comment from Wei Wuxian.)

A final detail:

We don’t get anything from either CQL or the novel that explicitly addresses when/if Wei Wuxian is able to wield Suibian again, but the audio drama’s rendition of the “Yunmeng” extra very subtly indicates that by the time that extra takes place, Wei Wuxian has cultivated a golden core and is carrying his sword once more. You only get it at a couple of moments, but Suibian sometimes clinks when Wei Wuxian moves or when he bumps into something. The two instances I can remember specifically are when Lan Wangji tosses the ring onto him (the ring hits Suibian), and when he’s rowing the little boat onto the lotus pond and the motion makes a sound. It’s!!! Extremely good!!! It makes my heart very full!!!!!

ANYWAYS, if all of my scattered rambling didn’t fill the Suibian-shaped hole in your heart, I would also like to recommend @zeldacw‘s wonderful WangQingSuiChen series of comics, featuring anthropomorphized versions of Wangji guqin, Chenqing, Suibian, and Bichen. I believe the most recent comic is here, and there are links to the rest of the comics in the post. If you just want her general tag for the AU (which is more than just the comics), it’s here!

If you have interest in listening to the audio drama yourself, you can purchase it through the MissEvan app (Mao’er FM). There are buying instructions linked in this post! If you need English subtitles, @suibiansubs is the group that does them. :)

I really can’t recommend the audio drama enough, tbh, it’s really really dear to my heart, and the team clearly worked so hard and cared so deeply for the story they were trying to tell. Consider this my regularly scheduled plug for the audio drama ahaha.

As always, my meta is my meta and if you don’t vibe with it, that’s chill! I change my opinions constantly (I think I changed them like three times in the course of writing this ahahaha), and I know some of my older meta has been making the rounds and every time I see it I think about all the ways my views have shifted since I wrote it rip. For this post moreso than usual, I want to emphasize that pretty much all of the meta included in this is meant to explore intriguing what-if possibilities, not for serious literary analysis purposes. I am aware that a lot of this is reaching/overinterpreting into implications that probably aren’t there. I just think they’re fun to consider!

so this was a mess, but I hope you or someone out there enjoyed it anon!!

(ko-fi, if you’re so moved)

[scribble-blog]

Changeling Fae AU? Changeling Fae AU.

I feel like I start every post with an apology so I won’t do that but I mean to update!! And then I don’t or I can’t write and it all sucks!! But have 3000 words of something brand new instead!!!!

Her parents had been bakers; blessed with a babe after years of believing themselves barren. Sabine had wept to hold her child at last in her arms, and Tom had brought their whole village to celebrate her birth with his wonderful sweets.

Of course, they had named her Marinette. One who rises. They had no intentions of guiding her towards higher connections, the way some thought they might when they glimpsed the child; surely, between her beauty and kind disposition, Tom and Sabine could marry her to some lesser title, and leave their child in comfort for the rest of her life.

But as the child grew older, whispers surrounded her. People wondered about her seemingly small stature, her odd grace paired with her clumsy movements, the way she could inspire and move you with words and then flail and mumble after.

“Fae child,” people started whispering. 

“Changeling.”

Tom and Sabine didn’t let it move them. Their daughter was theirs, oddities and eccentricities and all. For her clumsiness, she could sew and mend with more skill than the tailor two streets over. For her size, she was able to learn the trade of the bakery and helped her parents every morning as a good child should.

And if some mornings, Sabine woke to find the kitchen just cleaner, the bread rising just better, the smells just more aromatic, she had no problem setting out a small bowl of milk, tucked behind counters, for whatever creature was slipping in to check on her daughter and helping them on their way out.

After all, Sabine had been small and awkward and graceful and different once too.

It is on the cusp of Marinette’s twelfth birthday that Tom stumbles down in the morning, ready to start the bread for the day, and finds the being sitting there. 

In the dark of the morning, lit only by the fire in their hearth, the woman glows. She has the same short stature as his girl, the same bright blue eyes that she had not gotten from either himself or his wife.

“I owe you a boon, Thomas Dupain,” the Faerie says, sitting on his counter and swinging her legs slightly, oddly child-like. “You and your wife, Sabine Cheng. For raising-“ her voices rises and falls melodically for a moment. It almost sounds like Marinette. It almost sounds like the crackle of the fresh baked bread. It almost sounds like the rustle of cloth as his daughter sews. It almost sounds like she has said ladybug.

Such a small thing, to bring luck and joy.

“You have done so well with her,” the faerie says. “And so compassionate, has she become. The kindness displayed by your wife to my lesser subjects also cannot go unrewarded.”

Tom swallows, then bows his head. “You are here to take her, then?”

The creature regards him. “Call me Tikki, Tom Dupain,” she says. She makes the sound again, this time rushing waters and warm sunshine and Marinette and ladybug, “must join me. I cannot tell you what will happen when she does.”

“My boon,” he says, reckless to the face of this powerful being, in the knowledge that it is his child she is here for. “My boon. You must not let today be the last I see of my girl. The last time I hold her. If only for a day, an hour, a minute- you must return her to me.”

Tikki tilts her head, smile dazzling. “A good man, you certainly are. A good parent, without doubt. I can grant you this boon. And as your reward- nothing will replace your Marinette, of course. But a new pair of hands to help in your bakery. Expect her soon.”

Tom nods; there are more rules then sense about dealing with the Fair Folk and he’s certain he’s already broken some. What else can he say without angering her? What else can he do without causing unintentional offense? “Would you like breakfast?” He says instead of heeding his thoughts. 

“No,” she laughs, a tinkling glass bell like the chirping of birds. “I shall return for her at high noon.”

Tom nods, throat tight. He starts the bread and he goes through his morning until daylight starts to peek into the windows, and then he sighs and puts the last loaf in the oven, and he goes to wake his daughter and wife.

Marinette stands in the kitchen, hands clasped tightly, staring into the embers of the fire. She wears her best dress, with the pink trim, and she does not have tears in her eyes as she looks at her parents. Anything to say had been said; anything left over was just going to hurt more. She had a small bag, slung over her shoulder, with paltry things her parents hoped might help.

Tikki sat before her, perched on the counter. The flimsy sheer overlay of her clothing was resting in the flour.

“Marinette,” Tikki says to her, but it’s not just her name. It’s something deeper that echoes in her heart. “I’ve come for you.”

“I thought something might eventually,” she laughs nervously. 

Tikki extended a hand. Marinette reached for it, hesitating before the contact. 

Tikki smiled gently and took her fingers. “This isn’t a bad thing, Marinette. Just a change.”

Marinette tightened her grip. “I’m ready.” She gave her parents one last look, trying to burn their faces into her mind.

“Then come, Marinette, of the Orders of Creation and Luck. Come and claim your birthright as my heir.”

Marinette did not expect this much walking. “Is it... is it far?” 

The town was hours behind them. Marinette’s nicest dress was ragged at the hem, snatched with brambles and in one spot, torn by a branch that had wanted blood. She hefted her small pack higher on her shoulders, waiting for the Fae to break the silence.

“It is less about the distance,” Tikki told her, “and more about the time and your intentions. Anyone could walk this road into these woods and continue happily onto whichever small village next offers a meal- but to walk it in the hours before dusk, with the intent to find home, with myself at your side-“ 

Tikki stopped. The tree ahead of her was worn and old and stooped, but still vibrant in its flowers and leaves. Tikki traced the whorls along the bark, watching them glow with an internal light.

“We still have hours til dusk,” she said. “Come.”

Marinette rubbed her eyes. 

Tikki had been just before her. She knew it, had heard the small footsteps and the cheery whistle and then she had turned a bend and Marinette was alone.

“Tikki?” She called out. “Hello, Tikki?”

The woods were green and ethereal around her, the warm light of evening streaming through the foliage and dying everything alive and almost thrumming with energy. She kept walking forward, waiting for the path to turn against and she’d see the Fae ahead, waiting with a raised brow and a small smile. Marinette broke into a run. 

“Tikki??!” She called again. The road ahead of her seemed endless, and it changed as her heart beat faster, until everything had focused into the tunnel of branches and roots she sprinted through. “Tikki!!!”

She came to a rough halt, stumbling over a root as the road diverged. She caught herself on the tree, not quite tumbling. 

“So you’re a changeling as well?” The voice was cool, and dismissive, and challenging all at once. Marinette tensed, meeting the eyes of the stranger.

“I know you,” she said instead of any of the instant rebuttals she can think of.

And she does. Leaning up against the tree that marks the split path is the Bourgeois daughter; she’d fixed one of her dresses once, and her parents were often entreated to come and work for them. Marinette had never actually spoken to her though.

“One would hope.” The girl flips her hair, and Marinette takes a second to actually take her in. She isn’t wearing a dress like Marinette, or anything remotely expected. Instead she’s dressed in pants and layered shirts, a cloak over her arms and a pack on her shoulders. “I am Chloé Bourgeois, after all.”

“I’m Marinette,” Marinette offers. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

“Did I ask?”

The girl was getting on Marinette’s nerves. “Did you see anyone else come through this way? I’m looking for-“

“A Fae.” Chloé shrugged. “I know what you’re looking for. It’s part of the whole trial.”

Marinette squared her shoulders. “If you’ve got something to say, say it. I’m trying to find someone.”

Chloé’s expression remained smugly disdainful. “The trial? You have to make your own way into the Other World in order to prove yourself as rightful heir. The Fae that led you here? Their gone. Face it. You’ve been abandoned to die in the woods. At least my Fae told me what was happening before dipping out.”

Her blood felt icy in her veins. “No. They wouldn’t.”

“They’re Fae,” Chloé said coolly. “They lured us out here with promises of being special of whatever and then left us for fun.”

“No.” Marinette closed her eyes, and then turned left. “Tikki said it was about intentions. Well, I don’t intend to die here. Come on.”

She grabbed Chloé’s arm and yanked, pleaded to see the blonde sprawl and lose her composure with a squawk.

“You little peasant, how DARE you! I’ll-“

“You’ll do what, Chloé? Call your Father’s guards?” Marinette laughed. “Come on. I’m not letting either of us die in here.”

Chloé looked around for any other choice and Marinette could see her face fall when none presented themselves. And then she hardened her expression. “I’m certainly not following around a dirty little baker’s daughter. I’m a Bourgois. I’ll find my own way.” She spun and started stomping down the other path.

Marinette eyed the path she’d chosen. It had felt right to turn left. She was sure when she chose it that it was the right way. And Chloé was being rude enough that Marinette would love to consider leaving her.

But she turned to the right. If it was intention, then she would make sure she and Chloé both made it. She had enough intention for anyone and everyone.

“Chloé!” She called, and Chloé actually did stop and wait for her. “I’ll follow you, if you don’t mind.”

“And why would you do that?” Chloé squinted suspiciously even as they started walking. “Well, obviously, because I’m right and everyone should follo-AEEEUgghh,” she squawked as she fell and groaned from the forest floor.

“I figure you’re a decent warning system for problematic roots,” Marinette grinned, holding her hand out. 

Chloe grit her teeth and took it.

They walked in silence for a while, Marinette thinking and Chloé seemingly fuming.

“Is that the best dress you could muster for the occasion?” The girl finally spat. “One faerie prances up to your door and you pull out all the stops? I’ve got dresses that would make yours wrinkle with envy.”

“Where did you get those clothes?” Marinette finally voiced what she’d been thinking for a while. “It doesn’t seem like something you’d just have on hand, and they all look pretty ill-fitting-“

Chloé self consciously fixed the collar of her vest. “If you must know,” she sniffed, “my Father thought the Fae was full of shit. So I stole these from the washroom and I figured I’d find out myself.”

“And?” Marinette giggles.

“Yeah, this is pretty shitty still,” Chloé grimaces. “I’m- sorry. Pollen said I had to work on my temper.”

“It’s-“ Marinette stopped. It wasn’t okay, but she didn’t want to alienate the only companion she had. “I can understand, I guess. As long as you’re trying to be better.”

Marinette was getting the feeling now that she should have taken the other path. Not because of Chloé- just- it had felt right. And the longer they walked this one, the wronger it felt. 

The trees seemed longer. Sharper.

“So Pollen was the Fae who came to get you?” Marinette asked. “Mine’s name was Tikki.”

“Don’t see how it matters.” Chloé pointed up. “Light’s starting to fade. It’s nearing dusk.”

“Then we need to go,” Marinette said. 

Chloé sighed. “I suppose if we must.”

Marinette started walking faster when the light started turning pink. And then when it started losing the vibrant color, she started running, Chloé in her heels. She could almost feel it when the sun set, the last ray burning over the horizon as she stopped.

“That’s it, Dupain-Cheng.” Chloé dusted herself off. “I’ve known it since Pollen took off. We weren’t changelings, we weren’t special- just the next fun human toy to throw out in the woods.”

“You’re wrong,” Marinette spat, whirling around, suddenly furious as she tried desperately to suppress the fear climbing in her throat. “Tikki promised I’d see my father again!”

Chloé gave her a contemptuous look. “More fool you.”

“No!” Marinette stomped up to her. “It’s you, isn’t it! With your bratty attitude and your cynicism. Tikki said it was about intentions and you’ve been doing nothing but try to irritate me since I found you!”

“Oh, since you found me?” Chloé barked out laughter. “You were just as lost as I was! I was better off sitting there than walking even further into the Fae forest!”

“You’d still be sitting there without me!” Marinette shouted. “You’re ready to die just because you’re afraid you aren’t as special as people say you are! Well guess what! You aren’t special!”

“I could be!” Chloé yelled back. “I was going to be a Fae Queen and I was going to rule and then you and Mother and everyone would see it!”

Marinette stopped short of the next ugly thing she was ready to say, watching the tears bead up in Chloé’s eyes. “You don’t need to be special. Pollen didn’t want you because you’re Chloé Bourgeois and your special. Pollen just wanted Chloé Bourgeois.”

Chloé angrily wiped away the moisture. “I’m fucking special, fuck you.”

Marinette looked around again, the dim light starting to cast the shadows grey. And then she saw a tree, weathered like a worn brow upon the forest’s face.

She walked up to it and reached out her hand, watching the way it reacted, lights sparking beneath her fingers, beneath the bark.

“It’s about the intentions,” she murmured. For a moment she looked at Chloé.

“The light isn’t quite gone. You’ve got to try, Chloé.”

Chloé’s lips trembled, as of about to speak, but instead she just nodded, jerking her chin forward. Marinette took the first step, listening to Chloé behind her, concentrating on somewhere she’d never been.

And then there was a corner and she rounded it, and Tikki was there. Marinette rushed forward, throwing herself into the Fae’s arms.

“You made it, Marinette. My Ladybug.” Tikki caressed her cheek. “Welcome home.”

Marinette looked back first. “Where’s Chloé?”

“Subjection’s girl?” Tikki paused. “You’ll have opportunity to see her soon enough, I suppose.”

“Then she made it,” Marinette could feel the tension drain away from her.

“Come,” Tikki said, amused. “And I will show you your world.”

Marinette faced where Tikki gestured and gasped.

They were on some sort of balcony, framed in by the branches of the trees she had just exited. She could see the grounds below rolling out forever, hills and plains and farmlands and forests and small towns. Right below them sprawled a city, and she realized that she was standing on a tower, and looking around her, she saw the scope of the castle.

“This way,” Tikki said, leading her to one side and opening up a vine covered door Marinette hadn’t realized was there until that moment. “The castle is, of course, yours. You must feel free to roam as you wish. Those who work here will serve you as they do me.”

“Huh?” Marinette felt dazed. The hallway progressed into a larger hall, into a larger one, until they stopped at a door.

“Your room, of course,” Tikki said, pushing the doors open. “You should find everything you might need here. In the morning, I shall have you escorted to breakfast, and then you will join me in my study. For now, I will send up food and drink. Rest well, dear one.”

Marinette took a step in and had to resist the urge to faint.

The room was spacious, with small corners carved out for what looked to be a study and a small sitting area. The bed dominated the room, with two doors leading out from either side. 

She turned to Tikki, to protest, and found the Fae already gone.

She sat on the bed, finding it plusher than the bed at home, which had lumps, but she knew the lumps and she could sleep around them. She laid down, sinking in and trying not to cry at the sudden overwhelming wave of homesickness and exhaustion. The day had seemed so long, how could she have said goodbye that morning? How could she have been with Chloé, not half an hour ago?

Eventually she wiped away the tears that had sprung up and moved towards the sitting area.  She imagined it to be for sharing secrets with the kind of close friends one might invite into your room, but she had never truly had anyone who didn’t whisper about her behind her back other than her parents.  The chairs were soft too, in the plush way she was now coming to associate with this life.

The study held more interest. The bookshelf was already full and she let herself browse titles for a moment. The Miraculous and Children of the Miraculous caught her eye, as well as one that seemed untitled, but when she pulled it out she found a hand written journal in a language she didn’t know.

The desk was grand, but the drawers held other treasures. A set of needles, each finer alone than her parents could buy in a year. A small selection of fabrics. She clutched them to her chest and let out a muffled dry sob before composing herself. 

The first door led to a bathroom and she gave it a perfunctory look over, sure that it would matter much more to her later. The final was a closet, and -

“Highness?” A small voice asked. Marinette’s eyes opened to see very wide hazel eyes, just in front of her. 

She had fainted upon seeing the open closet, filled with clothing she could only ever have dreamed of. 

The servant was a small girl, with mousy blonde hair and the widest eyes Marinette had ever seen. She was also carrying a covered platter which Marinette assumes would be her dinner.

“Let me take that,” she offered, hands reaching, but the girl stepped back.

“No, Highness,” the girl said, taken aback. “Simply direct me-“

Marinette blushed. “If you would set it on the desk then?” 

The girl did so, and then curtsied. She held her pose, as Marinette watched, long enough that Marinette realized she was waiting for Marinette to dismiss her.

“Oh! Sorry, yes, thank you.”

The girl spun and walked briskly out, and Marinette groaned. That was a bungled first impression if there ever was one. The smell of the food beckoned and she gave the closet one last longing glance before lifting the lid.

Steaming rich stew, with warm bread and butter and honey. A glass of milk. Marinette sat down and ate it without thought, trying to settle her mind. 

She went back to the closet when she’d finished. It would make sense to know her own wardrobe.

She proceeded to spend the next two hours attempting to try on dresses. It was rather difficult as several were clearly designed to be put on her by a second pair of hands but she managed.

In the end she found a soft linen shift on the bed and put that on, before crawling into the bed and closing her eyes. Sleep fell upon her immediately.

TAGLIST:

@ash-amg @vixen-uchiha @redscarlet95 @dramatic-squirrel @athena452 @novaloptr @bee-wrecker @constancetruggle @pr-y-sha

[hellsbellschime]

I was wondering if you could do an analysis on Sansas and Daenerys interactions in 8x02?

Totes, because I think it’s an extremely interesting character interplay that needed more development and that was either actually rife with subtext and just written really poorly or it was just dumb. But while I wish there had been more development for literally everything in season 8, I think that the dynamic between Dany and Sansa needed far more room to breathe and grow given that their incredibly brief relationship is one of the main catalysts for the climax of the story. 

Jaime’s whole “trial” scene is one that I really wish we had been able to see the lead up to, because while the drama of starting off the episode with it is certainly compelling, I’d honestly really like to know how everyone even got to that point in the first place. Like, Dany is furious that Cersei has betrayed her and lied to her about her intentions... except how exactly does that square up to someone who came to a truce with their enemy and then immediately arrests them and puts them on trial when they actually follow through on their end of the bargain?

However, looking beyond that there is not just Dany vs. Sansa, it’s kind of Dany vs. Team Stark. Dany lays out all of the reasons why Jaime deserves to be punished and Sansa actually completely agrees with her and says she completely understands how she feels, but then Brienne speaks in Jaime’s defense and Sansa immediately agrees that Jaime should stay. Now as viewers we understand what Sansa is doing here, but I think that Dany does not. I think that this may be a sort of crucial moment for what happens later, because someone who is unfamiliar with Sansa but sees that she is popular among the Northerners might come to the easiest conclusion, which is that Sansa is easily manipulated, weak willed, or likes to agree with people and thus everyone kind of likes her even though she’s the type of person who shouldn’t really be seen as important or authoritative. 

But when Dany kind of ropes Jon into it I think it’s even more interesting, and once again could be an implication that she doesn’t understand people who put the interests of others before themselves. Because way back when Melisandre told Dany to invite Jon to Dragonstone, Tyrion tries to sell her on it by explaining that the Lannisters have treated the Starks even worse than they theoretically treated her, so they have even more reason to want to see their downfall. So I think she inquires about Jon’s thoughts expecting her to agree with him, because quite frankly it’s just not in her wheel house to put the needs of others before her own. But he winds up agreeing to let him stay, and she feels peer pressured into acquiescing when she really doesn’t want to. That really puts her on the back foot and makes her extremely uncomfortable because it’s something she never does, and it’s basically taking her whole fantasy of conquering Westeros and destroying her enemies and basically forces her to give it up for the sake of maintaining her own mystique. 

So she’s super pissed and Jorah talks her down, and while once again the show cuts away from shit that we actually need to see, it’s fair to assume that he said something along the lines of Sansa is Regina George and you’re currently Janis Ian, so you need to go talk to her and charm her into liking you and the rest of the Northerners will fall in line. So, Dany follows his advice and tries to actually talk to Sansa and to get her to see her as the Enlightened Despot she imagines herself to be. 

Frankly, the conversation between Sansa and Dany is extremely weird and vapid on the surface, but I think it makes sense within a certain context. Namely, that Sansa and Dany both have very clear preconceived notions about each other, however Sansa’s assumptions are generally correct while Dany’s assumptions are completely incorrect. 

Obviously at this point, Sansa isn’t being fooled by charm, and Dany unfortunately reveals herself to Sansa in completely unintentional ways that she doesn’t realize are actually really hurting Sansa’s perception of her. Dany is here to conquer Westeros and force the North into submission, and maybe I’m overestimating Sansa’s political genius here, but what I find extremely interesting is that Dany asks Sansa why they’re at odds with each other but she doesn’t answer. She waits for Dany to answer, and Dany’s answer frankly gives Sansa an enormous political and manipulative advantage by letting her know that she assumes Sansa would not like an invader with dragons and an army the size of a city because she’s jealous that Dany has her brother’s attention. 

And yes, of course, Sansa loves Jon and is likely extremely concerned, but I just cannot believe that Sansa is being genuine in this conversation. This is the woman who had to convince Jon to accept the inevitability of their baby brother dying because focusing on saving him was an existential threat to their family and the North. I cannot believe that she would have more issues with the potential safety and manipulation of her brother who was a king, Lord Commander, and survived with wildlings beyond the wall than she would over Rickon. Not to mention, the notion that at this very moment when the North is on the brink of destruction and everyone is facing down the apocalypse, but somehow Sansa is concerned about the person that Jon may or may not be smashing, is an incredibly condescending and childish assumption to make about her. 

However, Dany does seem to make that assumption. Dany’s whole impression of Sansa seems to initially be that she’s just a catty and frivolous girl, and she seems to think that assuring Sansa that her super cute new crush is the one who really has her wrapped around his finger is enough to reassure her that everything’s fine and that that’s enough for Sansa to accept Dany as queen. 

But then Sansa quickly flips the script and asks about Northern independence, which I honestly think was a mistake on her part. Dany initially saw Sansa just like Cersei and Joffrey and Tyrion and the Tyrells and every other person saw her, as just a superficial idiot who can be easily managed and bent to someone else’s will. I understand why Sansa would never want to play that game again, but it also left her in an enormously advantageous position, and letting Dany know that she was actually very politically minded was not the right move at that moment. But of course, because this is the season of constantly interrupted interesting conversations, as soon as the discussion turns political it’s interrupted. 

Now, what I think is very interesting about Dany is her desire to essentially acquire special people. She wants Tyrion, the “most brilliant man in the kingdoms”, to be her hand. She knows he’s exceptional, and she wants to basically own him. And she goes through the same thing with Jon. She perceives her feelings towards him as love, but I think she really knows nothing about him and just thinks that he’s extraordinary enough to be worthy of her and therefore they must be in love with each other. Dany sees herself as a person unlike any other, with no equal in existence or history, so when people fawn all over her or give her unquestioned loyalty it’s nothing more than what she expects, but when literally anyone seems to care about or respect someone more than they do her, she doesn’t understand it and often sees it as some kind of a betrayal. 

So when Theon shows up to fight for the Starks, she doesn’t necessarily seem mad, but she is clearly baffled, especially because she has already categorized Sansa as someone not special. If she thought Sansa were special or important enough to warrant her attention, Jorah wouldn’t have had to tell her to go try to be friends. But when Theon arrives and asks Sansa to fight for her, she doesn’t get it because in her mind Sansa is not worthy of that kind of devotion because she’s too ordinary, and the fact that someone is prioritizing Sansa over her right in front of her face really puts her off. And what seemingly makes this interchange dangerous is that Dany’s reaction to seeing this doesn’t seem to be a desire to actually understand where it stems from, but seems to result in the immediate conclusion that Sansa herself must be stopped (which is an idea that Dany toyed with in the season premiere as well, but I think it only solidified that idea for her further).

But I think that Sansa and Theon’s interaction here is obviously fascinating as well, both in relation to Dany and in general. Honestly, that kind of raw emotion and vulnerability is something that people in GoT rarely display around one another, and I can’t even think of another instance of Dany actually witnessing two people who genuinely love each other emotionally connect in that way. That’s not generally a way that she feels about a lot of people, and in her world, she is always the center of attention. So even if there are people in her orbit who love each other, she never really sees that. I actually think Emilia’s expression captures that perfectly as well, she both seems put off but unsure of how to react and borderline unsure of WTF it is that she’s actually seeing, because again, it’s pretty abnormal to see people be that emotionally open in public anyway and because it’s something that Dany is completely unaccustomed to seeing when it’s not directed towards her. 

And of course, for Sansa and Theon as a pair, it’s extremely heartwarming and emotional to see how deeply they care for one another, and it’s even more touching to realize how powerfully they have had to repress their own emotions for so long and that they have now gotten to the point where they’re so completely unashamed and completely lacking in self consciousness that they’re willing to be that raw no matter who’s looking. 

Overall, despite the massive flaws of season 8, I do have to say that the scenes between Dany and Sansa are some of my favorite and I wish we had gotten so much more out of them. I actually think the performance chemistry between Emilia and Sophie is better than nearly every other character that Dany was introduced to late in the game, and I think it was a huge mistake to not explore that more and to not fully clarify that these two literal queens are not bickering over a boy’s attention. 

[tangledinmdzs]

you belong to me, mdzs junior hc (cont!)

Lan Sizhui’s pt. 2

i intended to make this more light hearted than it is, but i hope that it is still enjoyable cheers to you all, i appreciate all of your support!

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[Operation L. L. O. - Lans Love Once]

the timer

there’s a saying that his great uncle had talked about, once, a long time ago at a family gathering...

“Lans only love once,” 

Sizhui had learned that night, from his father’s golden eyes and his dad’s wide smile that that was lineage that would become his

and so...

the first time that Sizhui ever lies to you is on the morning after his 18th birthday

he didn’t really mean to

and he doesn’t know why

but he does

he never breathes a word about who his soulmate is to you, he doesn’t dare

how could he?

would you leave, then?

if you knew?

the mysterious identity of his soulmate becomes the dirtiest, darkest secret that Sizhui keeps to himself from you

it eats at his insides, like a parasite

and weighs in his chest like a rock

but every time he sees the spark of determination in your eyes ,

the deep set belief that you have in true love and the true hand of the universe,

the effort you put in to finding and reuniting him with someone that didn’t even exist

didn’t even belong to him...

you are serious about finding his soulmate though

even going so far as dubbing it “operation L. L. O.”

“What’s that?” Sizhui had questioned you when you had presented a very unnecessary thought out and hand written plan to him

“Lan’s Love Once! Isn’t that how your parents met? Isn’t that how you all are destined to love?” you say excitedly, like a trivia nugget in a show

Sizhui’s heart weighs heavy in his chest

he let’s you play detective well into your first year at college, until one day in the spring of the same year, he tells you that he will take over finding his “soulmate” himself,

“If they’re someone that’s meant to be with me, I’ll find them” Sizhui tells you in the face of your worried eyes

you’re afraid that he would give up hope

but what you don’t know is that he had lost whatever hope there was long ago

“We have to work together to find them. They belong to you A-Yuan” you insist, earnestly tugging onto his arm

the shake of his head had never felt so final

and from that day, the tides shift between you guys

Sizhui takes on a more withdrawn persona whenever you mention his soulmate

and you easily get annoyed and angered at the fact that he isn’t trying hard enough to find who he loves

it makes a little space, yawn in the middle of your friendship

which is jarring to Sizhui because you and him have always gotten along

and the moments that you wouldn’t weren’t like... like this.

and yes it wasn’t that bad, not as bad as it could have been if you knew, Sizhui reassures himself always

yes the space that’s created between you guys is small

but it is enough 

it is enough for someone to slip in, almost unnoticeably between you both

one day you suddenly meet someone new as your timer reaches the final year of it’s countdown

it feels like faith

from the storybook like way you guys met 

to the instant click of your personalities

you told Sizhui that you felt like your heart moved 

and Sizhui had never felt more...lost

but...

he supports you of course

because if there’s anything he’s learned about the universe was that it was wrong sometimes

and your happiness would always be his priority, whether destiny was shared or not

so he supports your romantic endeavors,

is the best wingman

and the most prepared planner of dates

all in all he is the best person you could ever ask for

the year passes by faster now that Sizhui watches your happiness from an outsider’s view instead of a creator

he is not the one responsible for your smiles

your laughters

and he’s not the one that you share many hugs or secrets with anymore

the times he’s seen your hand held in someone else’s are the confirmation that you were no longer his

but why use ‘were’

when you had never belonged to him in the first place

When January approaches once again, winter feels a lot colder 

the morning of his birthday is uneventful, despite the buzzing of good wishes from friends and a phone call with his dads

Sizhui knows that this will be his first celebration alone

and the reason for that was still raw and fresh in his brain

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。

“You promised me you’d go on this trip with me, Y/N” Sizhui had heard as he stepped into your dorm room

both the heads talking turn in surprise to his entrance

Sizhui doesn’t forget the hard grip that your boyfriend held on your wrist when you finally yank your hand away

“Can’t we switch it to another day?” you’re pleading at this point, not wanting to make a big situation.

Sizhui gives you both your privacy, even though it’s a college dorm and that isn’t something that can actually exist

“What’s wrong with the 12th? It’s a Friday, we’ll have the whole weekend to ourselves”

At the date, Sizhui whips his head back and ends up meeting your eyes

it’s unintentional of course, but he knows you know what date that is

your boyfriend catches on really quick too

“Don’t tell me, you already have plans with him; don’t you?” such an accusatory voice makes you riled up but you don’t know what to say because it’s not like your boyfriend is wrong-

“And what of it if she does have plans with me?” Sizhui finds himself saying, drawing a eyebrow lift from your boyfriend and a little shocked gasp from you

your boyfriend huffs a superior little chuckle and looks Sizhui dead in the eye

“Oh what? You think that she’d choose you over me?” he teases and turns to you 

Sizhui looks at you too, looks straight into your eyes for the first time in a long time 

Choose me,  Sizhui wants to say, has always wanted to say

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。

as he watched the little car you were in drive off campus into the cloudy snow white back drop, his skin is numb with the chill

of course you don’t choose him, Sizhui isn’t surprised

but he just didn’t realize that it would hurt this much

his first birthday alone feels longer than he is used to

Sizhui longs for night to come for a conclusion to all of this misery

because he can’t stay like this for much longer

but when night comes, the dark leaves a lot of room for his thoughts

so he spends well late into the night sitting on his couch with a small cake on his coffee table, the TV idle

he is woken out of his stupor, when a hard knock jolts him from mid-slumber

Sizhui sits up in confusion, staring at the TV show that had turned to a cartoon at such a late hour

he very nearly thinks he is delusional until he hears the hard knock again

Sizhui belatedly related that it is at his front door.

Sizhui doesn’t have an inkling of who could be there

and he certainly wasn’t expecting you

because you had drove off, long gone 

so when he opens the front door, he’s more than surprised at the nostalgia he feels

you stand as you are, hair messy and windblown, because why else would your eyes be that shiny for?

your cheeks are tinted red and the falling snow had collected in your messy hair in a similar fashion to how it was when you were 18

except at 22, you exchange your wide grin for a teary eyed smile, locking with him

Sizhui blinks at you and isn’t prepared when you jump into his arms, wrapping him tightly

even though he’s clad only in a light sweater and pajama bottoms

and your winter coat is getting snow all over him 

and the open front door is making his shiver

it feels right 

you break apart from him when you feel a particularly strong shiver from Sizhui 

“Y/N...”

he stares widely at the tears that roll down your face and is once again breathless when you push the sleeve of your coat up for him to see

00:00:01

“I’ve never had to choose anyone before...because it’s always been you” you say, sincerity lining every words

the timer ends

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 maybe the universe wasn’t wrong.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。°。 with your warm lips against his for the first time, Sizhui realizes that maybe the universe had a plan all along.

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Deathless Gods

Part 2 to Hades and Persephone 

Thank you to everyone who enjoyed the first part. I really had a lovely time writing this so I appreciate everyone who liked it!

Alfie never kept a steady appointment with Rachel at the bookstore although he made sure never to go more than a week without seeing her. He came and went as he pleased. However, he knew her work schedule enough to only go to the shop when she was there. He had a feeling her father wouldn’t be keen to know Alfie Solomons was chasing after his daughter.

            Not that Rachel was running away from Alfie in any way, much the opposite in fact. He noticed that when he came into the shop, a smile always formed on her face. Soon he found himself returning the favor.

            If she was helping a customer, Alfie strolled around the shop, glancing at a few books even if he wasn’t interested in finding anything. When she was free to talk, he pulled up the chair that had become unofficially his. It was a chair that Rachel had brought down to the shop so she could reach things without having to drag the ladder around. But it was now Alfie’s.

            He’d bring in the book that Rachel had recommended he read so he could discuss any qualms he had about it. That’s what he seemed to like to do best. Rarely did he tell her about any passages that he liked. He waited until she showed him her favorite lines. Then he secretly reveled when they shared favorite passages.

            He had long finished the collection of myths that had begun their relationship. Though it certainly held a special place in his apartment. In his sparsely decorated room, usually, the only things on his nightstand was a lamp and his glasses. But now, the book of myths sat beside the lamp.

            Every time they met, Rachel made Alfie fall more and more for her. Every little thing she did or said enchanted him. He just didn’t know that she was realizing the same thing.

            Rachel felt as though she was turning the page every time Alfie stepped into her shop. What was once some myth entering through the door, he was now just a man. Every visit, she read more about him, diving deeper into his story.

            Of course, he wasn’t very forthcoming about himself. He merely made little slips that gave her hints into his world. Some of them weren’t even verbal. The persistent smell of rum, though he said he never drank. His affection for Cyril. The scar on his cheek. The weary lines on his face. It was like sitting at a museum and studying a very detailed portrait. Every other second, she was finding something new about him.

 ~~~~~~~~

            “Did you know that they’re calling us the Lost Generation?” Rachel asked when their conversation about Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises dried up.

            “That so?” Alfie checked his pocket watch, not at all surprised they had been chatting for two hours. Time flew by so fast with Rachel. One time he’d spent nearly four hours in the bookshop, consequently missing two meetings. Instead of fretting, he simply blamed Ollie for mixing up his schedule. “Why’s that?”

            “Because of the war.” She smiled down at Alfie’s bull mastiff when he nudged her hand.

            Cyril had taken a shine to Rachel. Early on, he would sit obediently by Alfie as they talked. But over time, he inched toward Rachel until he was lying down at her feet, waiting for a pat.

            “Huh. Don’t feel lost.” He pocketed his watch again and tipped back in his chair, casually leaning back.

            “I suppose it’s more of a…sense of confusion. What do we do after something like the war?” She tilted forward so she could scratch behind Cyril’s ears.

            He frowned. “What do you mean? Ain’t nothing else to do but move on. It’s over with.” He concluded with certainty.

            But Rachel wasn’t so sure. “I was reading in the newspaper about men who are still suffering. Men who were in the war who can’t seem to forget it. I guess that’s what I mean about being lost. They don’t know what to do with the things they saw over there. And, I suppose people who were here don’t know how to help them. Because we never experienced the things you did.” She tried to capture Alfie’s eyes but he was trying to look busy with cleaning his half-moon glasses.

            “Nothing to help.” He replied curtly.

            Rachel bit her lip and knew she was taking a risk. “The article talked about nightmares.” Her forehead wrinkled with concern.

            He let out a little huff of disgruntlement. “Why’re you going on ‘bout this, Rachel?” He asked.

            “I just wanted to know what you thought about it.” She tried to defend herself even if she had been prying a bit more than she usually did.

            Alfie ran a hand over his face. He wanted to storm out, avoid any conversation she was trying to strike up about nightmares. Memories of the war. Things he could perfectly avoid because no one dared ask him.

            Yet, no one looked at him the way Rachel did. No one smiled at him like she did. Laughed at his jokes. No one saw the humanity in him the way she did.

            And even if he left and never returned, he would never be able to get her out of his head.

            “Why do you care? Aye?” He asked harshly. The conflict inside of him was stirring up anger that he was trying to keep from her.

            Rachel saw the pain in his eyes. He sounded angry but she knew better. It was like a wounded animal biting the person trying to heal them. He was only trying to protect himself.

            “Because, I’m very fond of you, Alfie, and I care about you!” She replied firmly so he wouldn’t mistake her intent.

            He finally looked up at her.

            She let the words sink in for a bit before she continued. “Because I know that you make yourself out to be an evil man, but you’re not. You’re scared of something, just like everyone is. You aren’t heartless.”

            Alfie’s conscious was urging him to get up and leave. Who was he to walk into this woman’s life and cause whatever sort of hell he might cause? Even if it was unintentional. The bookshop was like a little bubble, blocking out the rest of the world. But it didn’t matter, he was still the same man. A man who sinned, lied, robbed, and killed. He couldn’t delude himself to think he was any different because of how Rachel might see him.

            But he couldn’t budge from the chair.

            “Alfie, if you’re alone, just tell me. I enjoy your company and I-I would be there for you.” Rachel confessed something deep from within. Although she adored her time with Alfie in the shop, it was never enough. She always wanted him to stay a bit longer. She wanted to see him outside of the shop. She wanted to see him in the real world. She wanted to see every part of him.

            “That’s the problem, innit?”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “Love, men like me aren’t meant to have women like you in me life.” He responded steadily. “Just like that fucking myth. Hades never deserved Persephone, now did he? Just a miserable fucker who took what he wanted and didn’t care what anyone else thought. We can talk ‘bout books all day long but my life ain’t anything you’ll get used to. Not a life you should know.”

            “You don’t know that,” Rachel replied stubbornly. “I don’t care what you’ve done, Alfie. I know who you are!”

            “That’s the problem, Rachel. You don’t care. You’re willing to make excuses for me when there ain’t any excuses.” He pointed to the door. “Your neighbors, yeah? You know their son?”

            Rachel didn’t answer.

            “’ Course you do. Their son works for me. I’m sure you’ve seen him, he’s in a sling now. Why’s that, aye? ‘Cause someone broke his arm. Care to guess who broke his fucking arm? How are you going to excuse that?”

            Tears began to form in her eyes as she shook her head. She didn’t want to hear what he was saying.

            “When I walk down the street, what do you think people think, aye? Do you think they think the way you do? Or do they think I’m the fucking devil?”

            “Just stop.” She lowered her head, not wanting him to see her cry.

            Alfie’s shoulders fell as his anger cooled down. He heard a small sniffle from Rachel and he felt his heart shatter. It was everything he feared. A self-fulfilling prophecy, as it were. He was afraid he was going to ruin her life, so he did it just to prove himself right. Just to prove to himself that he wasn’t meant to have people like her. She was unattainable and rightfully so. Such a lovely woman deserved to be with someone lovely too. A man like him deserved loneliness.

            He reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. “I’m sorry.” He mumbled as he held it out to her.

            Rachel took it to wipe her eyes. “There’s nothing for you to apologize for. I should have realized I was being foolish.”

            “You’re not-you ain’t done nothing wrong, love.” He assured her. “I just-I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what to say to make you understand.”

            “Just tell me. You know what to say, you just have to tell me.” She urged.

            He couldn’t look away from her. Fierce hatred for himself drove deep knowing he had made her cry. But his heart wouldn’t let him leave. He needed her.

            “The first time I got a proper bath after the war ended, it took hours before I felt clean. Even then, I really didn’t feel right. I couldn’t quite scrub all the dirt off. The mud from the trenches, right, it just…it permeated every bit of me. I couldn’t get it all out. Even if I didn’t see any dirt, it just…I knew it was there. So, I figured, yeah, if I ain’t ever able to leave the battlefield then might s’well embrace it. I’d make London a warzone because that’s what felt right. It makes the nightmares feel more…seamless, I s’pose. If I fight all day then it don’t bother me as much if I have nightmares ‘bout the war.”

            “I don’t understand how you could be unbothered by them. It must be awful.” Rachel realized Alfie wasn’t the type of man who afforded himself any time for grieving or sympathy. He didn’t pity himself because he didn’t think he should be pitied.

            Alfie stared at her a bit blankly. It was awful. They were awful. The war in London was nothing compared to the things he revisited at night. He didn’t have nightmares about Camden Town. He had nightmares about France. He woke up in a cold sweat because he thought he was back in the trenches. Shin-deep in mud and dead bodies. It was so vivid.

            “Alfie?” Rachel coaxed him out of his stupor.

            “Sorry.” He said in a quiet voice. “Just…I dunno.” He felt lost.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

            Rachel didn’t expect Alfie to return. She was right. He didn’t.

            Two weeks passed without any word from him. With each passing day, she became more and more saddened, worried that she had chased off the only person she truly had feelings for.

            Every time the bell above the door jingled, her heart leapt in her chest, hoping it was Alfie. But it never was.

            She felt empty inside.

~~~~~~~~~           

            Then, one blustery day, a man in an apron delivered a letter to her. He didn’t say anything, just saying he was supposed to give this to her. Then he left.

            Confused, Rachel opened the envelope which was addressed to her.

             Rachel,

I’m sorry for my absence but I’ve had an accident and needed to be in the hospital for a bit. If you’d like, I’ll be sending a car around the shop to pick you up Saturday at eight in the morning. The driver will bring you to my place in Margate where I’m recovering. There, I can explain more. If not, tell the driver you’re not going and he’ll tell me in turn.

            Hope to see you soon,

            Alfie

~~~~~~~ 

            Rachel was outside the shop when eight rolled around that Saturday morning. Almost on the dot, a car pulled up and a young man came out to greet her.

            “Miss Watkins? Mr. Solomons sent me to bring you to Margate if you wanted.”

            “Yes, thank you.” She nodded and got into the car.

            On the way to Margate, she and the driver chatted casually. But he wouldn’t say anything about what happened to Alfie. He said he was specifically told to let Alfie explain everything. So Rachel was left wondering the long drive to the beach town.

 ~~~~~~~

            The large house on the bluff was quintessentially Alfie. The garden wasn’t very well-kept but it wasn’t overgrown either. The house seemed to be in good condition and yet there was a sort of sadness lingering over it.

            Alfie hadn’t mentioned his place in Margate before. But he did mention how fond of the ocean he was.

            Rachel went to knock on the door and heard Cyril start to bark in response.

            The door opened and a middle-aged woman greeted her. “You must be Miss Watkins.”

            “Yes, is Alfie in?”

            “Come in, he’s in the sitting room.” She let Rachel in and offered to take her coat before showing her to the sitting room.

            Cyril happily greeted Rachel but she was a bit distracted. Alfie was sitting in an armchair, turned to the balcony, watching ships pass by.

            “Alfie?”

            He turned and she gasped.

            He sighed and stood up. “I know, I know. I should’ve warned ya but I-dunno, couldn’t find the words.”

            Rachel felt her eyes prick with tears when she saw the state his face was in. Fresh scars scored around his left eye. And his eye had turned from deep turquoise to a cloudy grey. She struggled to find the words. So instead, she rushed to him and embraced him tightly.

            It was a reaction Alfie wasn’t expecting. He was frozen a bit before he wrapped his arms around her.

                       It was awhile before they let each other go. Alfie was afraid to tell her the story of how he ended up in such a state and Rachel was afraid to hear it.

            But eventually, he withdrew his arms from around her and offered her a seat and a handkerchief to wipe her tears.

            “I don’t understand…”

            “Right before I met you, right, I went to the doctor and found out I have skin cancer. I made a plan to divvy up me wealth and go out how I saw fit. Then I met you and…well, I s’pose you changed the plans.” He cleared his throat and scratched his cheek absent-mindedly.

            “Cancer?” Rachel’s eyes widened. There were brief moments where she noticed abnormalities in Alfie’s skin but she didn’t think it was anything serious. For the most part, he kept the condition hidden.

            “I thought I could make the best of life with you but then…after we spoke last, I decided it would be best if I went through with my original plan.” He tried to breathe steadily but the event was still so raw in his mind.

            “What was your original plan?” Rachel hesitated to ask.

            He didn’t meet her gaze.

            “Alfie…please tell me.”

            “I had someone shoot me.” He finally admitted. “Reckoned he was a good ‘nough shot but he-well you can see what sorta job he did.” He waved a hand over his disfigured eye.

            “And what if he hadn’t missed? I was just supposed to find out you were dead?” She asked, horrified the thought had even crossed his mind.

            Looking guilty, Alfie sighed. “M’sorry, love. I felt like I had no other choice. I couldn’t be a part of your life. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

            “So, it’s fair that I would have to grieve you and wonder if it was something I had done?” She retorted.

             “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

            “Clearly.”

            The grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked the seconds of their silence.

      ��     Alfie fiddled with the chain of his glasses. “I didn’t want to die that way, just wasting away. But, while I was in the hospital after Tommy shot me, the doctor said I’d been misdiagnosed. It’s just a skin condition.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Think that’s irony or just stupidity?”

            Rachel wasn’t sure what to say. At least she knew he was okay and would be okay in the long run. She couldn’t completely understand his thought process but perhaps he was just in a desperate state. “I’m just thankful you’re still here.” She answered quietly. “That’s all that matters to me.”

            “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He said gently. “Honestly, I just didn’t know what else to do. I never wanted you to suffer.”

            Rachel stood and walked over to him. She knelt in front of him and took his hands in hers. “Can you just accept me into your life? Accept that you deserve happiness?”

            Since he was meant to be dead to most of London, Alfie figured it would be best to retire and stay in Margate. Of course, he assumed that meant he would be leaving Rachel behind in London. And yet, maybe that’s why he sent her the letter. Maybe he didn’t want to leave her behind.

            “Yeah, love.” He lifted her hands and gently kissed her knuckles. “I can do that.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~

            “Papa, read another,” Meg whined and grabbed at the book.

            “No, no, my dear you need to go to bed.”

            Rachel walked down the hall, carrying Cyrus who was only four months old. She turned into her daughter’s room. It was very late, way past her bedtime. But it was a common occurrence in the Solomons’ household. The little girl was, in Alfie’s opinion, just like her mother. She ate up books at an alarming rate for a six-year-old. She’d begun reading much sooner than most kids her age and refused to even get in bed unless her father was there with a book in hand, ready to read to her.

            “But I’m not tired, you need to read more!”

            “We’ve finished the book, princess, there aren’t any more words to read.” He chuckled softly.

            “Meg, it’s time to go to bed. You’ve already stayed a half-hour past your bedtime.” Rachel reminded her from the doorway.

            Her daughter pulled a pout. “But I want more stories!”

            “If you read more stories tonight, you’ll be out of books to read.”

            “What ‘bout this one!” Meg popped up from bed and went to the bookshelf in her room. She stood on her tiptoes to reach the top where a lone book had been placed.

            Alfie looked perplexed when she brought over the book to him. “Where’d you get this, princess, aye?”

            “In yours and mum’s room.” Meg crawled back into bed, pushing the book into his hands.

            Rachel got closer to see what Alfie was holding. She smiled when she recognized the worn collection of myths that had united them all those years ago.

            “Love, this is mum’s book. Not appropriate for you.” He gave it back to Meg to put away.

            But his daughter was just as relentless as he was. She haphazardly flipped through the pages. “Read this, papa, what’s this word?” She shoved the book toward him.

            Alfie sighed and looked to see what she was pointing at. “Orpheus. That’s the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice.” He explained.

            “Read it, papa, please!” Meg begged.

            “Fine, but you’re going to bed after this, miss, no more whining.” Alfie scolded.

            “Okay!”

            Rachel smiled and sat down in the rocking chair near the bed. She cradled Cyrus close to her chest as he slept peacefully.

            Alfie held the book open but didn’t read the words. He knew that if he read right from the book, Meg would be stopping him every sentence asking what a word meant. Plus, he knew the myth well enough to just summarize it for her.

            “Orpheus, right, he was the son of Apollo. Apollo gave him a lyre and Orpheus was well known for his songs. Everyone loved them. One day, he fell in love with Eurydice and they were married. But unfortunately, Eurydice was bitten by a snake and had to go to the underworld.” Alfie did his best to skirt around the death part of the story. He wasn’t quite in the mood to have that discussion with his six-year-old. “Hades ruled the underworld with his wife Persephone. Orpheus was very sad that his wife was trapped in the underworld. He decided, that he would see her again and went down to the underworld, protected by the other gods. He played his lyre for Hades and the god decided to let Eurydice go back to Earth with Orpheus. But he had a condition. Orpheus had to walk ahead of Eurydice, and he couldn’t look back to see if she was still walking behind him. If he looked back before they were home, Eurydice would be stuck in the underworld forever.”

            Meg looked up at her father, bug-eyed and rapt with interest. Just as she always was when he told her stories. “Did he look back, papa?”

            Alfie glanced down at the book before shutting it. “No, princess. He didn’t. They returned home and they lived happily ever after. The end.”

            Meg smiled, finally seeming content. “I like that story, papa.”

            “I’m glad. Now, time for bed.” He got up and kissed her forehead.

            Rachel handed Cyrus to her husband so she could tuck Meg in and kiss her goodnight as well.

            Alfie shut off the light before going to put Cyrus in his cot for the night. Rachel was waiting for him in the bedroom.

            “That’s not how the myth ends.”

            He chuckled, undoing his bracers. “I know. But you know how I feel ‘bout that one. It’s a shit ending.”

            Rachel smiled. “Alfie Solomons, the only man who can rewrite ancient myths to his liking.”

            “Well, I’ve never heard any complaints from you, Mrs. Solomons.” He replied with a grin. “As I recall, you didn’t like the ending to that one either.”

            “Well, I appreciate its message.”

            He scoffed and walked over to the bed where she was sitting. “You’re just saying that. You think it’s shit.”

            Rachel let him lay her back as he lightly peppered kisses down her neck. “Fine, it’s shit.” She grazed her fingernails down the nape of his neck. “I like your ending much better.”

            “Mhm, that’s what I thought.” He murmured lovingly. “You were always a sucker for lovely endings where everything is all nice and happy.”

            “Like our ending?” She gazed into his eyes.

            He smiled and brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. “Ah, love, our story ain’t ended yet. We’ve got lots more chapters left.”

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla​ @giftofdreams​ @biba3434​ @kimmietea​ @karmezii​ @enrapturedbythemoon​ @vampgirl1997​ @tarafaithe​

@fuseburner​ @jmw87​

PB Masterlist

[princesssarisa]

“Beauty and the Beast”: Belle’s beautiful discontentment (warning: long)

In my Feminist Defense of the Animated Belle, I addressed most of the issues I’ve heard people complain about regarding Belle’s character. But there was one I didn’t touch on, because it has very little to do with gender roles: the common complaint that Belle is a “snob.” I’d like to discuss that topic now. I’d also like to use it as a springboard to discuss a valuable aspect of Belle’s character that sets her apart both from certain Disney princesses who came before her and from depictions of Beauty in other Beauty and the Beast retellings: her willingness to own her discontentment.

I do understand the “snob” accusations. After all, Belle’s neighbors are poor peasants working hard to eke out a living. It’s only natural that they have little time for books or dreams of adventure and think Belle’s passion for those things is impractical. It’s reasonable to sympathize with their perspective more than the movie seems to want us to. It’s fair to argue that the movie has a (probably unintentional) classist undertone by portraying the villagers as small-minded and bigoted and by having Belle only find a kindred spirit in a prince, albeit an enchanted outcast prince, and find her ultimate happiness by leaving the town in favor of a royal castle. I’m grateful that other BatB retellings exist (e.g. Megan Kearney’s webcomic, or Robin McKinley’s Rose Daughter) that portray Beauty’s peasant world in a more positive light, depict the historic cruelty of royal court life in the Beast/Prince’s backstory, and have him leave the castle in the end to become a peasant rather than Beauty becoming a princess.

But none of the above is any reason to criticize Belle.

I don’t think she looks down on her neighbors. She most certainly doesn’t shun them, as some critics claim she does. Just look at her meeting with the baker during the opening song: she tries to have a friendly conversation with him and tell him about the wonderful story she’s read, only for him to rudely brush her aside with “That’s nice... Marie! The baguettes!” I don’t interpret her subsequent shrug and eye-roll as showing disdain for his “low-class” disinterest in books – just as “Oh well, as usual, no one shares my interest.”

Nor do I buy the claim that she shows disdain for the “I need six eggs!” woman (and by extension for all struggling mothers) when she rides past her. It’s true that she does seem to be smiling, which might imply amused contempt, but she might also just be enjoying her ride on the wagon while at the same time wistfully yearning for a new life, with her expression having nothing to do with the woman. I don’t know what the animators meant to convey. And even if that overwhelmed mother does represent the life Belle doesn’t want for herself, and if Belle sings “There must be more than this provincial life!” in response to seeing her, what’s wrong with that? I don’t think it’s an insult to women who choose to have big families. Even a woman who chooses to have five kids shouldn’t be expected to wrangle them all by herself while also doing her grocery shopping, with no help from her husband or from anyone else. That’s the kind of unpaid labor women have too often been forced into and it’s not “insulting other women” for Belle to yearn for something different.

Belle has the right to be bored by her small town life and want something more. She’s not some rich girl looking down on the poor peasants; she’s a poor peasant too. A person trapped in a dull, stifling lower-class existence has every right to long for a different life. Would we accuse Cinderella of being a “snob” and “ignoring the value of domestic work” because she dreams of escaping from her enslavement by her stepfamily? Of course Belle’s life in the village is more comfortable than that, but it’s still reasonable that she should want to break free from its limits.

“But Belle is clearly richer and more privileged than her neighbors!” some critics argue again and again. “Most peasants in those days were illiterate, so the fact that Belle can read shows she’s had a higher-class education, and in the stage musical, Maurice tells her she’s ‘class’ while their neighbors are ‘the common herd’!” I don’t buy that argument. I’ve never bought it. Not one bit. The movie’s setting isn’t the real late 18th/early 19th century France – it’s the Disney version of it. The village has a bookshop in the animated version and a church library and schoolhouse in the live-action remake. There’s no indication whatsoever that Belle's neighbors can’t read. (Gaston holding her book askance as he looks for pictures in it and Le Fou’s inability to spell Gaston’s name don’t count; the first is a “parental bonus” gag implying that Gaston is looking for a centerfold, while the second is a “Le Fou is stupid” gag. Gaston quotes Shakespeare in “The Mob Song,” so he’s clearly had some education.) Belle just stands out because she has a passion for books, instead of only reading now and then during breaks from “more important” things, and because she would rather read than engage in smalltalk about practical everyday matters. Belle is shown borrowing her books, not buying them, which I presume implies she can’t afford to buy them, and Maurice builds his invention out of ordinary household items (e.g. a wood stove, an axe, a teapot), so he presumably hasn’t spent much money on it either. Nor are they any better dressed than their neighbors, nor does their house look any fancier. They certainly don’t seem richer than Gaston, who apparently owns the village tavern and can afford to arrange a wedding party on short notice and bribe Monsieur d’Arque with a bag of gold to help him blackmail Belle. As for Maurice’s remarks in the stage version, they’re clearly about her personality, not about social class.

Belle also has the right to be an individualist and a misfit. That’s part of the whole point of her storyline. It seems to me that critics who complain that she “looks down on normalcy” are doing the same thing the villagers do, which is supposed to be wrong: saying “It’s a pity and a sin she doesn’t quite fit in.”

It’s no surprise that people should complain about Belle’s complaining, though. Traditional fairy-tale heroines aren’t supposed to complain. As much as we can joke about the cliché that the “I want more” heroine became during the Disney Renaissance, we shouldn’t forget how innovative that kind of heroine was in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. Just think back to Snow White: at the beginning she’s dressed in rags and forced to work as a scullery maid by her stepmother, but we find her smiling and cheerfully humming as she scrubs the castle steps. Then there’s Cinderella: a bit more complex and openly discontented than Snow White, but in general she still goes cheerfully about her chores. The heroine who lives in unhappy circumstances but “bears it cheerfully and without complaint” is a mainstay of classic, old-fashioned fairy-tales (and other stories too). The early versions of Beauty and the Beast are no exception. After Beauty’s family falls into poverty, we’re told that her sisters constantly wail and cry over their lost wealth and status, but Beauty swallows her grief, resolves to be cheerful, patiently shoulders all the household chores, and devotes her days to consoling her father and siblings. For this she’s held up as a role model, in contrast to her complaining sisters, who despise her and insult her for it, but whom she always loves and forgives.

Of course there’s value in that kind of character. Resilience in the face of adversity and finding happiness where others find none is a strength in its own right. But it can be overdone. The more that women, poor people and outcasts are encouraged to be cheerful, patient and uncomplaining, the more they’re expected to “stay in their place.” Any righteous desire or demand for a better life or better treatment is labeled “rude,” whiny,” “petulant” and “selfish.” It doesn’t always cross that line, but it can.

Linda Woolverton, the head screenwriter of Disney’s BatB, knew that she wanted Belle to be different both from the traditional Beauty and from the likes of Snow White and Cinderella. So did lyricist Howard Ashman, whose experience as a gay man did much to influence the outcast heroes and heroines of the three Disney movies he wrote for. As noted in this Time Magazine article, they resolved to create a heroine for “the next century,” who wasn’t “based on being kind and taking the hits but smiling all the way through it.”

They definitely succeeded.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s wonderful that Belle owns her discontentment. It’s beautiful that she doesn’t try to fit in or put on a patient, cheerful mask, but unabashedly yearns to escape from her dull, small-minded village and find adventure in the great wide somewhere. It’s wonderful that she has no patience for Gaston’s rudeness and arrogance and that she loathes the thought of having to give up her reading and intellect in favor of a mundane marriage and raising a gaggle of children. It all leads beautifully into her friendship and romance arc with the Beast, where she refuses to tolerate his bullying, refuses to let him control her even though he’s the master of the castle, only forgives him when he earns her forgiveness, and inspires him to change for the better. The happy ending comes about precisely because Belle was willing to be discontented and shamelessly wanted more than she was given at first. This makes her almost the opposite of the original tale’s Beauty, whose story was written as an allegory for arranged marriage and whose purpose was in part to convince girls to submit to unwanted circumstances for their families’ sake. I love that instead, Belle refuses to submit to what she doesn’t want, and her refusal becomes the catalyst for all the positive growth and transformation in the story.

Let’s hear it for heroines who want more!

[franklyshipping]

Practice Makes Perfect ~ A Markiplier Ego Fanfic

HERE WE HAVE ANOTHER WONDERFUL ANON PROMPT THAT INCLUDES ONE OF MY FAVE HEROES EVER AND SOMEONE THAT I HAVEN’T WRITTEN IN A WHILE! LET’S DO THIS!

TAGGING: @silvlee-shepherd 

Harold B. Darrensworth liked to think he was in the know about a great many things. Colour co-ordination, how to be punctual without fail, how to hoover and dust correctly, and especially when it came to the laws of the land. However, there were still so many things that he wanted to know and understand, especially now that he lived with this strange myriad of a community wherein half of the people had the same face that he did. They were a very social bunch, and slowly but surely Harold was trying to be social too, and there was one particular activity that bonded this community more than anything else. Tickling.

Now unfortunately, Harold didn’t have much experience when it came to social cues and experiences and the like, tickling included, and he desperately wanted to learn about these things! Mainly, he wanted to learn how to tickle someone properly so he could partake in making his fellow egos happy….as well as to maybe persuade them to do a few extra chores around the manor. So Harold had decided to seek out someone who he figured would be an expert, someone who had been on the receiving end of every single tickler in the household. The great hero himself, Silver Shepherd. Harold decided to head to the hero’s room first, and luckily the hero was in, lying on his bed and just relaxing his day away. Harold took a light breath, before knocking on the door.

‘A-Ahem, Silver? It’s Harold, might I come in?’

Silver sat up with a smile, and called out.

‘Yeah of course! What’s up bud?’

Harold smiled at how jovial Silver was as he entered and shut the door behind him, and he beamed gratefully when Silver patted the bed, inviting him to sit. Harold sat by him as he replied.

‘I am very well….but I am in need of some help with something, and I think that you may be the only person who can assist me.’

Silver’s eyes widened in curiosity, and he immediately perked up, giving Harold his full attention. Whenever anyone needed help, they always became Silver’s top priority.

‘Of course, what can I help with? Whatever it is I’ll do my very best to do whatever I can!’

Harold smiled, because Silver never ceased to be the most selfless person in the room. Harold took a breath, before replying.

‘I require help….with tickling.’

Silver’s face went a little bit pink from hearing that ah….word, but he tried to keep his cool as he cleared his throat.

‘Uh ti-….t-tickling?’

Harold nodded, and cleared his throat as he elaborated.

‘Yes, tickling. It has become incredibly clear to me that tickling is the most prominent social interaction that we, the egos, tend to be involved in with one another. Now, I know that I do enjoy it, but I have very little experience when it comes to actually administering tickling on somebody else. I want to learn how I can tickle properly so that I may interact with people more, since even though practically everyone is a disorganised, lawless mess, I do enjoy everybody very much.’

Silver’s expression softened a he listened, and he almost felt ready to cry at how Harold wanted to put so much effort into interacting with people properly and being more social, because he knows how daunting that can be for someone who hasn’t been used to people for a long time. Silver beamed at him encouragingly, because he so badly wanted to help.

‘That’s such a sweet goal, and I really want to help! What is it that you’d like me to do?’

Now, Silver was expecting Harold to ask him to perhaps tickle him and show him different tickling techniques….but Silver’s blush ended up darkening when Harold replied with his suggestion.

‘Well, logically if I am to be an adept tickler I must practise on somebody. This person must be incredibly ticklish, enjoy being tickled, and have had experience receiving tickling from every potential other tickler in the household. You, Silver, are by far the most tickled ego by my calculations, so I can think of no-one better to hone my skills upon! I believe you will be able to properly advise me on my techniques and warn me against doing anything that is accidentally inappropriate or not part of tickling etiquette. Will you help me by letting me tickle you?’

Harold was looking at Silver hopefully, fidgeting with his shirt sleeves as he watched Silver gape and descend into thought. Well, in truth Silver was trying to just process all his flustered feelings that had arisen from the unintentional teasy things that Harold had said to him. Of course though, Silver was certainly not going to say no to being tickled, especially since it was for such a good cause! So, after a few moments, Silver smiled bashfully and nodded, and tried (and failed) to keep his stammers at bay.

‘W-Wehell I-….I-I’d l-love to help…..o-of course you can t-….tickle me Harold.’

Harold gasped, and practically started wriggling with elation as he replied in a frantic, excited manner.

‘Oh-thank you! Thank you so much! You won’t regret this! Ah, how do we begin, can we begin now?!’

Silver giggled endearingly at Harold’s cute excitement, before replying with an excited smile of his own.

‘Yeheah yeah we can, o-okay so uhm….I-I’m going to lie down, a-and you should probably just sit on my legs so uhm….s-so you have a good vantage point….’

‘Okay!’

Harold eagerly replied, and waited for Silver to lie back down properly before he took off his shoes and then carefully perched himself on top of Silver’s thighs. Harold got himself settled, before looking down at Silver brightly.

‘Is this comfortable for you Silver?’

Silver smiled and nodded up at him.

‘Yeah, yeah it’s good. Also that’s really good of you, asking after my wellbeing, that’s a-always really important.’

Harold beamed at the fact that he’d already done something right, and made a mental note of the factor, before Silver continued.

‘But the uh, the most important thing is actually knowing when to stop, so that the whole thing stays fun and perfect. So, generally the person being uh….t-tickled will choose a special word. A short word that, i-if they say it, is the point blank sign to stop, no matter what. B-Because a lot of the time t-ticklees will say the word “stop” r-reflexively, without a-actually meaning it.’

Harold happily nodded along, taking in all the new information with great interest and care, since he was so eager to learn.

‘That makes excellent sense, prioritising safety in the situation, I like that very much! What is your special stop word?’

‘Mine is Red.’

Silver replied with a giddy smile as Harold nodded, before Harold started rolling up his sleeves.

‘Red, noted! So is there a certain place I should begin at, or may I start to tickle at any place I choose? Also, are there any places that you do not wish me to touch? Aside from obvious intimate areas of course.’

Silver replied with a bright giggle.

‘Yohou can start wherever y-you want uhm….there’s nowhere that makes me uncomfortable a-as such but ah, i-if you decide to g-go near my navel y-you need to be extra c-careful. If you’re t-too rough then i-it can be really unpleasant.’

Harold smiled in understanding, he understood very well that some tickle spots can be so hyper-sensitive that anything other than a feather touch can be horrible. He replied in a caring voice.

‘Since I am as of yet inexperienced I shall avoid your bellybutton, so there is no chance of me making you uncomfortable. Okay….hmm…..where to start where to start….’

Harold spoke reassuringly, before trailing off with a murmur, and Silver now started to squirm as Harold’s analytical eyes gently flicked over his body. Harold took a good few moments to think, just because there were so many potential tickle spots on the human body that it was very hard to pick where to start! Then though, Harold decided on a simple methodology, and smiled and clapped his hands.

‘Alright, I shall simply start from the top and work my way down!’

Silver let out a gasp when Harold then reached for him, and started stroking up and down the sides of his neck experimentally with his fingertips. Of course, with Silver being Silver, he started to giggle immediately.

‘O-Ohohoho my g-gohohosh….’

Harold beamed at Silver’s reaction, his eyes lighting up at the fact that he’d already made Silver giggle and they’d barely freaking begun the tickling!

‘My goodness, you’re already giggling! So you’re ticklish here?’

Silver nodded, nibbling his lip bashfully as he replied.

‘Y-Yehehes I-I ahaham….’

Harold kept up the gentle tickling at the sides of Silver’s neck, and cocked his head down at the hero as he commented happily.

‘Your giggles are very sweet Silver, I can see why the others tickle you so often!’

Silver squeaked with flustered embarrassment and spluttered cutely.

‘H-Hehehey d-dohon’t tehease mehe!’

Then, in a similarly cute fashion, Harold furrowed his eyebrows in confusion down at Silver.

‘Tease you? I didn’t mean to tease you, I only meant to compliment you.’

And for Silver, that made it even worse, knowing that Harold hadn’t even been trying to tease him. Silver scrunched his neck as he whined through his giggling.

‘C-Cohohomplimehents lihike that ahare teheheasy!’

Harold blinked in surprise at this revelation, but knew that teasing and tickling very much came hand in hand, and therefore that teasing was a good thing! He smiled and had mercy on Silver’s neck, before replying matter-of-factly.

‘In that case, I shall tell you some more! Did you know Silver, that you have incredibly endearing dimples when you smile?’

Silver yipped in surprise, and hurriedly hid his face in his hands, grinning as he stuttered.

‘H-Harold sh-shuhush!’

‘I most certainly will not! Did you also know that the way you blush so fast is incredibly cute and unique?’

Silver then started whining incoherently into his hands, which made Harold gently laugh. Harold found that he was enjoying teasing Silver just as much as he enjoyed tickling him, using his words to fluster him so much was incredibly enjoyable, which meant he continued to eagerly croon.

‘And I especially think it’s sweet how your tummy twitches when you laugh.’

Harold poked Silver’s tummy gently as a way of emphasising his point, which ended up making the hero yelp. Harold noticed of course, and grinned at his discovery of the new tickle spot….and decided that it would be the next perfect place to continue honing his skills.

‘In fact, I think I’ll tickle this tummy of yours!’

He stated brightly, making Silver hold his breath in giddy nervousness, before he let it out in a splutter as the hero descended into loud, airy laughter. Harold had started experimentally skittering over and poking Silver’s tummy, and by his mirth Harold surmised that the hero was incredibly ticklish there.

‘OHOHO MY GAHAHAD HAHAROLD!’

Harold chuckled gently at Silver’s exclamation, keeping up the tickling as he replied.

‘You seem much more ticklish here than you were at your neck, is my analysis correct?’

‘Y-YEHEHES-OHO FRIHIHICK!’

Harold giggled in amusement, especially when Silver’s hands started to flap about, and Harold commented on it playfully as he kept up the tummy tickling.

‘What are you doing Silver? Are you attempting to dance or to fly, I can’t quite tell.’

Silver snorted cutely, and spluttered with indignant embarrassment through his laughter.

‘D-DOHOHON’T BEHE CHEHEHEEKY!’

Harold grinned at that, and now scratched specifically at the sides of Silver’s tummy as he replied in a half-nonchalant, half-teasy tone which Harold thought would fluster Silver immensely.

‘But being cheeky seems to make you blush more, and besides, I fail to see how you can stop me….you seem to be at my mercy Silver, would that be fair to say?’

Harold was right of course, his tone of voice and wording really got to Silver. Needless to say, Harold was one of the best amateur ticklers ever, and Silver had to admit that he was certainly at Harold’s mercy right now. Especially since the sides of his tummy were monolithically ticklish and had him squealing.

‘EEEE-OHOMYGOHOD YESYES OHOKAY I AHAM!!’

Harold beamed, feeling very proud that he’d managed to get Silver to admit it aloud, and he was feeling oh so happy and confident with his tickling abilities. Then, he raised an eyebrow down at Silver, still tickling him as he spoke.

‘Would you say that I am a good tickler then? Based on the fact that I have you at my mercy?’

Silver snorted again with embarrassment through his laughter, his dimples fully on show along with his sweet smile as he nodded and wriggled about, trying desperately to stay strong and not fight back instinctively.

‘YEHEHES YEHEHEHES!!’

Harold was thoroughly enjoying tickling Silver like this, and decided to move his scratching fingertips down to Silver’s waist. Harold let out a chuckle when Silver yelped and bucked, before throwing his head back with mirth.

‘Gohoodness Silver, is there anywhere you’re not ticklish? You must have the most unruly nervous system in humanity.’

Silver hit his bedcovers with his fists as he writhed, laughing hysterically now as he got happy tears in his eyes from all the tickling….Harold was just too freaking good!

‘IHIHIHI DOHOHOHO NAHAHAHAT!!!’

��Oh I beg to differ! I’m not even tickling you intensely and you’re so hysterical! It’s adorable!’

Silver tossed his head about as he laughed, his face and neck a furious red from his flusteredness from all the surprisingly effective teasing and tickling. As a result, Silver had now reached the end of his tether for the day, and called out giddily as his face scrunched up cutely.

‘REHEHEHED REHEHED!!!’

Harold gaped and immediately stopped, looking down at Silver with a half-smiled. He was elated from tickling Silver, but also a little anxious to see if he was okay after saying his safe-word. Harold fiddled with his fingers as he cleared his throat.

‘Are ah…..are you a-alright Silver?’

Silver was panting and giggling residually, and of course didn’t hesitate to nod as he smiled up at Harold so damn happily.

‘Haharold Daharrensworth…..yohou are the b-best ahamateur t-tickler ehever!’

Harold gaped and went pink with happy bashfulness, letting out a laugh as he felt his heart swell at the compliment. He’d done good. On his first time, he’d done good, he’d done the right things and kept it all happy and fun…..he was a good tickler after all. Silver had loved it, and so had Harold. Harold slid off of Silver’s legs, and cleared his throat again as he smiled at Silver.

’So ah….what do we do now?’

Silver smiled, and made Harold yelp by pulling him down next to him and wrapping his arms around him.

‘Now, we cuddle, which fyi is completely mandatory.’

Harold giggled at that and happily snuggled Silver. Harold felt so happy. Because yes, the one on the receiving end of the tickling is the person being made to smile and laugh….but never underestimate how happy someone can become when they lovingly coax out that laughter. It is one of the most fulfilling things in the world.

WOOOO HOPE YOU ALL LIKED THIS FIC LEMME KNOW IF YA DID WOOOO LUV YOUS XX

[amillionmillionvoices]

12/river trapped in a closet

She doesn’t quite know what to do. After dinner on the balcony, after they return to the TARDIS, after she showers and slips on familiar clothes.

There’s so much she wants to say, even more she needs to hear. Her stomach still hasn’t settled and she can feel her hearts pick up every time he looks at her. She feels like she’s on a precipice, getting ready to jump and for the first time in as long as she can remember, she doesn’t know if he’ll catch her. 

Isn’t certain anymore that he wants to. 

The Doctor, of course, says nothing. She finds him in the console room, and barely has a chance to breathe before he drags her off on a completely unnecessary tour. He takes her to the 19th deck where there’s a perpetual desert storm and down below where there’s a room full of nothing but carousels; he shows her the replica of Coney Island and a new library and a meadow with thousands of butterflies. 

“Not actually butterflies,” he admits as one lands on his arm. “Tiny robots.” 

He grins, like it’s a huge secret he couldn’t wait to share, and oh, how she’s missed him. She wonders how long he’s been alone, that he’s this eager, chattering away like he’s been starved for company. 

Though his voice is different, she still loves the sound of it, the way he narrates each room. She loves the smell of him, though she has to keep stopping herself from getting too close, from breathing him in. She wants to—wants, so much, to simply stop, to close her arms around him and bury her face in his shoulder and just stay there, for as long as he’ll let her. 

But he doesn’t seem interested in that this go around, and his touches are fleeting at best. The occasional hand on her spine, or her arm. He doesn’t take her hand. 

She supposes she deserves it. 

After Manhattan, after Hydroflax, Fleming and Ramone, she understands why he’d be reluctant to touch her. Now that he knows, now that he’s seen the parts of her she’s tried so hard to keep hidden from him, to protect him from. 

She doesn’t blame him. Couldn’t fathom it, but it hurts—the way his body doesn’t lean toward hers anymore. The way he barely looks her in the eye. She wonders what he sees, now, when he looks at her—a thief, a murderer.

A monster. 

He touches her arm again to steer her from the room, and she flinches. His touch is too light, too absent, too unintentional. 

She doesn’t deserve it, regardless, but her chest aches and she has to take slow, measured breaths, has to dig her nails into her palms to keep from crying. 

There will be time for that, later. When he finally tells her the truth. 

When he leaves. 

She tries to pay attention, to ask questions and offer the occasional innuendo that doesn’t make him blush any more. Instead, he just looks at her strangely, like he doesn’t know how to process the words, and she bites her tongue the next time there’s an opportunity; the very thought of making him genuinely uncomfortable makes her feel ill. 

Pushing the feeling aside, she forces a smile as he explains how the waterfalls work, and where the stream goes. It’s beautiful, and wonderful, and she wants to know everything but all she feels is tired. 

It’s been so long since she’s seen him, so long since Manhattan and she’s been running nonstop and she just wants quiet. Wants one night without nightmares, without his words ringing in her ears, things he’d said in his grief to make her angry, things he said to finally make her leave. 

Looking down at the railing, she stares at their hands, both curled around the metal. There was a time when she wouldn’t have hesitated to cover his fingers with hers; a time when he would have done the same. Now, he keeps himself at a distance, the physical space between them almost more than she can bear. 

And still, she smiles.

She smiles when he takes her to a diamond cave and smiles when he shows her badminton courts and smiles when he grumbles about the new training room the TARDIS made. She smiles behind a flinch when he touches her elbow to guide her into the room, at the same time he declares how horrible guns are and how much he hates having a whole room of them on board. 

Though the room is dark, she steps away from him, closing her eyes briefly against the lance of pain in her chest. 

She knows he hates weapons. She isn’t sure why it’s taken her so long to realize she isn’t an exception. 

Behind her, she hears the Doctor shuffle around for a light switch, hears the door click shut behind him. 

“It was right here the last time I was here,” he mutters. 

She doesn’t want to know why he was in here. The air around them feels dense, and she can’t see anything in the black, not even with the sliver of light from under the door. 

“It’s fine,” she says. “We can come back another time.”

She reaches past him and fumbles for the door handle. 

“It’s stuck.”

“No it isn’t,” he says, and she huffs. 

“Yes, it is.”

She feels him press up against her, and stumbles out of the way, knocking into something that feels suspiciously like a broom. 

“Doctor.”

She feels her way along the wall: shelving, a few bottles, pails, and what she hopes are sponges. 

The Doctor is muttering at the door. 

“You locked us in a cupboard.”

“I did not. It’s the training room.”

“It’s the maintenance cupboard.”

He kicks the door and then grunts. “Why would I take us to the maintenance cupboard? It was supposed to be a grand tour.”

“Sonic?”

“My other coat,” he says, and his voice is strange, almost disembodied. She can’t see him at all. 

“Seriously?”

“No, you’ve been Punk’d,” he says, and she tries not to flinch at his tone. 

“There must be some way out of here,” she says, trying to feel around; but it’s a small space, barely big enough for three people, and it’s only a moment before she bumps into him, and quickly steps away, shrinking herself into the furthest corner. She knocks over what she thinks is a mop, hears it hit something hard and then clatter to the floor. 

“Ow.”

She almost smiles. 

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he says, and her smile drops, her hearts like a lead weight. 

Part of her assumes he’s joking, but in the dark, without his smirk or glimmering eyes she can’t tell, and the words fall flat between them. She doesn’t have a reply, words stuck in her throat, and because he can’t see, she wraps her arms around her stomach in some kind of embrace. 

Oblivious, the Doctor sighs. “We’ll just have to wait until she lets us out.”

“She? The TARDIS?”

“Who else?” 

River frowns. “Why would the TARDIS lock us in a cupboard?”

There’s a beat, then, “Seriously?”

River glares, then realizes that won’t do any good and huffs loudly. “Forgive me for not being a mind reader.”

“If you were this would be a lot easier,” he says, low and almost reluctant, and her breathing stalls. 

She knew this was coming. She just thought, maybe, a few hours… that she could have just a few more hours with him, to say goodbye for good before he flies away. 

“River,” he starts, and she can hear the hesitation, the guilt, and slams her eyes shut.

“Don’t,” she manages. 

“Don’t what?”

��Don’t say it.” She’s nearly begging, but she can’t bring herself to care. She can’t hear him say it’s over. That’s it’s been over for years. She knows, if he says it she’ll break and she can’t afford to, not here, not now. “I know—” Her voice catches and she clears her throat, tries again. “I know this isn’t what you want. I understand. I appreciate—everything.” Her eyes sting and she has to take two slow breaths to calm her trembling. 

“You appreciate it,” he echoes, and it sounds angry, bitter. 

“I just meant—I know what you’re trying to do, but it’s unnecessary. As soon as we’re out of here, I’ll leave you alone.”

He’s silent, and it weighs on her. In the dark; she starts to see faces, gaunt and howling. 

“If that’s what you want,” he says finally, flatly, and she resists the urge to laugh, almost hysterically.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” she says. “What matters is that you—” She stops, hesitates. “What matters is that you’re happy,” she says quietly, and it feels like a secret, too hushed. 

“What makes you think I’m not?”

Because you haven’t kissed me, she thinks. Because you haven’t touched me. Because it’s been so long without me. 

Instead, she forces a laugh. “I can’t imagine anyone would be thrilled to discover their wife’s a homicidal maniac.”

“I already knew that,” he says, and she flinches, hard. 

Breathless, she barely manages, “Well, you certainly seemed surprised.”

“I’m always surprised when I’m with you,” he says, and she can’t tell what he means, how he’s saying it, his voice low and gruff in the dark. 

“Surprised isn’t happy.”

“No,” he agrees. “No, it isn’t.”

Tears sting at her eyes and she shuts them tightly. There’s not enough air, not enough space and everything feels like it’s closing in on her, suffocating. 

Please, she begs, hears the TARDIS hum soothingly in her mind. Please let me out. 

She can almost feel the ship’s disapproval, her defiance. 

The Doctor moves, does something she can’t see and then there’s a hand on her arm, but it feels misplaced, feels conciliatory, and she flinches. 

She hears what sounds like a sharp intake of breath, and his hand falls away. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll stop doing that.”

Don’t, she thinks desperately, please don’t stop, please touch me, please hold me— 

She can’t bring herself to say the words out loud. Instead, she clears her throat, tries to make herself small in the tight space. 

“No,” she says, too hoarse. “No, it’s not—it’s just—”

She doesn’t know how to explain. How his touch unravels her. How it feels like a brand, how she craves and needs it so much, and yet, dreads it. 

Because he’s too good. Too kind, too soft, and she knows she cuts him with her hard edges. Knows she’s too violent and too cruel and too sentimental for him, especially now. 

She can’t bear to imagine what he’d think of her if he knew, all the things she’s done since Manhattan. Since she lost the only three people she’s ever truly loved. 

He wouldn’t understand. He’s lost so much, over and over and somehow remains so, so good, and she’s not like that, never has been. Fear has never made her kind, the way it does him; it makes her weak. Angry. 

Unworthy. 

“Just what?” he asks, and his voice sounds softer, somehow. Patient, in a way he’s never been, not with her. At least, not lately. 

She doesn’t know what to say, without saying everything. 

She pushes it aside, tries to keep her voice causal, keep it from cracking. 

“It’s just been a while,” she says, and hopes he doesn’t ask. She hopes he does. 

“Since Manhattan?” 

She nods, and a long silence stretches before she remembers he can’t see her. “Yes.” 

“How long?”

She shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. “Almost a year.” 

There’s a beat, and his tone is a strange mix of anger and hurt. “Then you lied to me.”

“About what?”

“You said two months.”

River frowns, trying to remember. “When did I say that?”

“At Amy’s. When I followed you, you said—”

“Spoilers,” she says, suddenly breathless, a faint hope knocking at her ribs. She hasn’t been back to her parents house, with its warmth and photographs and memories. She hadn’t wanted to see it empty, hadn’t been able to bring herself to go back, to clear it out. She knows she’ll have to, eventually—she knows he won’t do it. 

“What do you mean, spoilers? You’re a professor, you’ve done Manhattan, and then you left and I found you packing up their house—”

“Maybe you did, but I haven’t done it yet.”

“You haven’t,” he echoes. And then, “You haven’t done Arnos yet either, I assume?”

“No,” she says, her mouth dry, suddenly desperate and terrified of seeing her husband, that version of her husband, again. She’d thought that was the end, after—

“So the last time you saw me…” he trails off, and River closes her eyes, tries not to think about his words, the look of betrayal on his face. 

This is your fault. 

She shudders, exhales, waits for more of his ire. 

Instead, he touches her again, fumbling in the dark for her arm. “I’m sorry.”

River blinks. “What for?”

“Everything,” he says. “What I said. What I did. Time travel.” He huffs. “I followed you, River,” he says, and she shakes her head, almost frantic. 

“Don’t tell me—”

His hand tightens around her arm. “I followed you, and I did everything in my power to make it up to you. Or rather, I will.” He sighs. “I didn’t realize it had been so long.”

River swallows. “It’s not your fault,” she manages. 

“Yeah, it is.” She opens her mouth to protest, and he must know, because he steps closer, still holding her arm. “Don’t. Just because I will apologize doesn’t mean you have to forgive me now.”

“I always forgive you,” she murmurs. 

“Even for not loving you enough?”

The words knock the air from her lungs, and she pulls away from him, winded. She’d known, she’d known he didn’t love her, not the way she loved him, but hearing it, she can’t breathe. Her hearts trip and she remembers her father, before he knew he was her father, asking her what she meant by a far worse day and it’s this, she thinks, this moment, all her fears true and the blackness and she can’t stop the tears from slipping down her cheeks. She inhales, body trembling and she’s glad, suddenly, for the dark. If this is what had to happen, and even the TARDIS knew, she’s grateful he can’t see her face. 

“River—” he starts, uncertain, and it’s not his fault, no one’s fault but her own, and she shakes her head, her voice cracking just slightly on her reassurance, 

“You can’t help it.”

It falls flat, sounds unconvincing even to her own ears but she doesn’t blame him, doesn’t want him to think she does, but when she tries to speak, it’s all air. 

“I suppose,” he says, and she tries to breathe, to control herself, but when she exhales it’s a hitched sob, and she claps her hand over her mouth, humiliated and heartbroken and so, so lost. 

“You’re crying.”

He sounds surprised, and she doesn’t understand.

“I’m fine,” she manages, swipes at her cheeks, aware her tone is too curt, angry at herself. 

“Why?” he asks, and there’s no judgement, no reprimand, just concern, and she supposes she owes him, for whatever good it will do. 

“I knew—” she starts, stops when her voice breaks and tries again, softer. “I’ve known for a while. That you don’t feel the same. It’s just another thing to hear you say it, that’s all.”

He moves, and she can feel him closer, and she closes her eyes, wishes he wouldn’t. She wants to bury her head in his chest and cry but she can’t do that to him, won’t do it to herself, and she’s so distracted trying to keep herself together she almost misses his words, the floundering, 

“Say—? No, River. That’s not—that’s not what I meant.”

Her hearts pinch. Her Doctor, always trying to make things better. 

“It’s alright, Doctor, really. It doesn’t matter—”

“Stop it,” he snaps, and she blinks, momentarily stunned. “Stop saying that, of course it matters.” He sighs, and steps a few paces away from her, and she doesn’t know what she’ll do, now. She knows she doesn’t need him—not to travel or survive or live her life but she wants him, always has, always will, and she supposes this is her punishment, to love so fiercely the person who can never or will never love her back. 

She’d thought she’d made peace with that. Apparently she was wrong. 

Just as her tears start to well again, the Doctor reaches out, fumbling along her arm for her hands. She tries to pull away but he holds fast, stands so close, his forehead nearly pressed to hers. 

“I meant I haven’t shown you. I haven’t been there for you. I haven’t done enough.”

She inhales sharply, rehears his words, and they mean something different, so suddenly, but she doesn’t dare hope. 

“Doctor—”

His voice trembles, and she can feel his breath against her cheek. “You really think I don’t love you?”

Hope flutters in her chest and she can’t do this again, can’t be brave any longer. Her mother’s last words ring in her ears, take care of him, but she barely remembers how to take care of herself. 

She wants to lie. On instinct, wants to apologize and lie and say it was all a misunderstanding, to chase the guilt and weight from his words. That of course she knows. Of course it’s all pretend. 

But she’s so tired. Of running and fighting and lying.

In the silence, the Doctor slides his hand up her arm, and she holds her breath as his fingers slip over her jaw, and his palm, soft and tentative, cradles her cheek. 

“I don’t know anymore,” she whispers, doesn’t mean to, wishes she could take it back but instead of the guilt she expects, the groveling, the Doctor’s quiet a moment, and then, so soft, his thumb brushing over her cheek, 

“Would it help if I said it?”

She freezes. “What?”

“Would it—”

She shakes her head. It can’t be real, can’t be true. Not once has he told her, never returned her whispers in the dark. She knows he can’t, and doesn’t want to demand it of him but she’s hungered for those words for so long, so much, each time he leaves her with a kiss and nothing else she’s wished. 

“You don’t have to—”

His hand falls to her waist and he holds fast. “Would it help, River,” he repeats. “The truth, please, for once.”

He sounds sincere, and desperate, and afraid, and for the first time she wonders if she was wrong. If all of this is wrong, and she’s just been without him so long she can’t remember what it feels like, his love. How he says it without saying anything at all. 

But she’s never heard it before. 

Amy and Rory never said it, not as children, not as teens. They never said it as her parents, though they certainly seemed to love her in some kind of way. She’s never been close enough to anyone else, and even if she had been, there’s only one person she’s ever wanted those words from and here he is, at last, offering them to her in the dark. 

“Please, River,” he whispers, like it matters. 

She swallows, breathes out, and admits, so quiet, “Only if you meant it.”

It’s as good as a yes, and the Doctor’s fingers dig briefly into her waist before he drops his hands, and she tries not to panic. 

“You know,” he starts, and she can hear his clothing shift, but can’t see what he’s doing. “Gallifreyan has over a thousand words for love. There’s a word you use for brothers, for sisters, for parents and friends and lovers and strangers.”

She knows, remembers learning them all, his voice in her ear, hand over hers as he taught her how to write, those beautiful circles it took her so long to perfect. 

“Time matters as well—most languages, they only think in past, present, and future, but Gallifreyan - there’s a word for “I love you right this second.” There’s a word for “I’ll love you tomorrow.” There’s a word for “I don’t love you yet, but I will.”” 

River bites her lip, feels like she’s waiting, feels like she’s falling, but the Doctor just keeps talking, almost casual, but she can tell he’s choosing each word with care. 

“We have words for inevitable love and unrequited love and fleeting love and dancing with someone you love. There’s even a word for falling in love, that roughly translates as “the sound of wind rushing in your ears.”” 

She can hear the smile in his voice, the fondness for his native tongue. 

“Marriages on Gallifrey only last one regeneration,” he continues, “Because personalities change, it’s unfair to assume people will stay together any longer than one life. Sometimes vows are renewed, sometimes people go their separate ways.” 

Her hearts plummet again, waiting for the truth, for him to step away. Instead, his voice softens, and he takes her hand again, stroking his thumb over her skin. 

“And very rarely, people will stay together through every one of their regenerations. Those people use a different word—there’s no exact translation, but it’s close to endless, boundless, eternal, with the understanding that life isn’t fleeting at all, not for a Time Lord. When humans say forever it just means time. A little more time.” He echoes her words, and she can hear his smile. “When we say it, it means unending.”

Her chest aches and her eyes burn and she can barely breathe. “Doctor.”

“I can’t say I love you, River,” he says, and she feels herself start to slip away, and then: “It’s too small, and too ordinary, and not nearly sentimental enough.”

River inhales sharply. “Sweetie—”

He pushes something into her hand, something soft and worn and she would know it anywhere, that old bow tie. Her fingers fumble for it, follow it, and she nearly gasps when she realizes one end is wrapped around his hand, the other loose for her. 

To choose. 

Leaning forward, his lips brushing her cheek before they reach her ear, he breathes the words she recognizes, words he just told her. It’s I love you forever. I love you eternal. I love you boundlessly. Her breathing hitches and she strives to stifle the sob, but it creeps up anyway, a shuddering gasp in the quiet room. 

“That’s why I don’t say it, River. Not because I don’t feel it. Because it’s just not enough.” His hand settled on her cheek, brushing tears away with his thumb. “Do you believe me?”

She sniffles, and almost laughs. She doesn’t know what to do, what to say, how to tamp down her hearts, which feel like they’re flying away. She wants to hug him, kiss him, hold him and never let go. She restrains herself, barely, and takes a deep breath before feeling in the dark for his hands. 

“Yes,” she murmurs, wrapping the other end of the bow tie around her hand, the gesture so familiar, so precious. 

The Doctor releases a breath she hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and she reaches out with her free hand, searching for his face in the dark. She brushes his cheek, and he instantly tilts against her, his other hand coming up to cover hers. 

“Good,” he says, his voice scratchy. “Good.” 

River smiles, and for the first time in so long, it’s real. 

“I love you,” she whispers, in his language, the same words repeated back and the Doctor shivers, and steps closer, crowding her, still clutching her hand. His forehead drops against hers and he tangles his free hand in her hair.

“River.”

“Shut up,” she whispers, and he seems to take it as permission, seems to open some floodgates she hadn’t been aware existed. He surges forward, pushing her back against a shelf and his mouth covers hers and she keeps her hand on his cheek, parts her lips and kisses him back. He makes a sound, gruff and somehow sweet, a moan that turns possessive when she tries to pull back. He grips her tighter, presses himself against her and he’s warm and gentle and all-consuming, his mouth moving over hers and his fingers against her neck. 

She startles when the lights come on, and the door clicks, but the Doctor doesn’t seem to notice, breathing heavily, his fingers brushing the remains of her tears from her cheeks. 

“Staying?” he asks, and she can hear the insecurity, sees it in his face still when she leans back, just far enough. 

Squeezing his hand, she smiles. “Yes,” she murmurs, the single word swallowed in his kiss. 

[animerunner]

What Happened Is Not Right And That’s Okay (Chapter 2)

Ao3

Link to Chapter 1 Fandom: The Owl House Rating: T Warnings For this Chapter: Dehumanization, ableism, possible borderline gaslighting, and parental ignorance/neglect possibly bordering on child abuse.  Relationships: Eda Clawthorne & Lilith Clawthorne, Eda Clawthorne & Eda Clawthorne’s Mother, Eda Clawthorne & Principal Bump (additional relationships to be added as the story progresses. Summary:Living with a curse was never a simple task. And really from day one Eda knew it was going to be complicated. But she can't help but wonder at times. Just why hers has to be this complicated.

In short: An Exploration of what life might have been like for Eda growing up with the curse. AN: Hey there so what story is basically what it says on the tin. With some creative liberty of course.

Something to keep in mind is that this story progresses: 1. Explore Eda's character and others in response to the curse 2. Help myself explore and come to terms with my own Chronic Illness 3. Help educate others who aren't as familiar with disabilities on the realities of the situation. This one is important to me since the fandom can have an ableism issue. And I would like for readers to maybe take away why the use of certain tropes is a lot worse than they might realize. 4. This story is not meant to be either tragedy or inspiration porn.  5. I've only really begun interacting with the disability community in the last few years. So if I do a misstep its unintentional ignorance. Which I realize is not great either. I just want to make clear my intent is not malicious. If someone else who is in the community in some form be it Neurotypical, disabled, chronically ill, etc. sees something questionable within the story that comes off as unintentionally ableist please tell me. I would be happy to clarify if the plot beat was unintentional (and fix it) or somehow deals with the story itself. Which will happen sometimes. 6. Some of this is based on my own experience. Some of it is not. The parents issue this chapter is a good example of it not being based on my own experience. 

This story will touch on some topics that might be sensitive to some readers. I will include warnings . If your sensitive to the topic please keep that in mind before starting it. Also please bear in mind that not all chapters will have the same element. So while one chapter might have one issue, the other might not. A good example of this is an arc I will be exploring later in the story involving ableism in sports. 

For anyone who wasn’t around for the first chapter. This was originally inspired by @beckyarteest​‘s fic before it went off and became its own quasi multi chapter AU (I am bad at sticking to canon compliance): I'm getting old and I need something to rely on.

Anyways Actual story is under the read more. Ao3 link is at the top. Please let me know what you think!

One day turned into two and two turned quickly into a week. And after that with no real sign of the ‘curse’ resurfacing, Eda had actually started to think that maybe everyone else was right.

Maybe whatever had happened that day was just a one off thing. 

Unfortunately, reality had made that hope come crashing down just over two weeks after “the duel that wasn’t” with Lilith.

                                                  =============

Eda wouldn’t remember the moment that would properly change everything about her life.

Though, she guessed that wasn’t entirely accurate. Considering the biggest moment had happened a week prior was when she had been supposed to be vying for an Emperor’s Coven spot against Lily. The day of her first transformation.

However the incident in potions class, the moment they now knew this was almost certainly not just a one off incident like they had been hoping? That was the moment it became all too real for Eda. 

Even if it would be a while longer before it became real for the rest of the family. That was the day reality started to sink in for Eda. As it was the day that she knew at least to an extent that her life wasn’t going to ever be the same.

It would also be her first gateway into the many, many issues that came with the curse. Whether it be other people’s treatment of her cursed form, right or wrong, or just still having people take her seriously in the beginning. 

Something that would be a recurring struggle she would have to deal with in the coming years.

Much like the duel, she would only be told what had happened afterward. The entire time she was transformed she wasn’t even aware of what was going on. 

It was something that would over time become  associated with fear and worry. At the time though, for an Eda who was still in denial, it was more of a source of annoyance. 

Eda didn’t like that she had to rely on other people to necessarily do ‘the right thing’. Especially since in both instances so far it nearly hadn’t ended in her favor.

Thankfully of all people it was apparently Principle Bump who came to her rescue. Seeing reason when one of the other teachers had tried to suggest handing her off to the head of the Beast Keeping classes for the time being... 

Bump scowled at that not particularly liking the way this conversation was going, “She is still a student. A transformed one but one nonetheless. Unless she starts attacking someone there is no reason to be summoning Arden.”

Sure, he may not be particularly fond of Eda’s antics at times. Sometimes he wished that the entire Clawthorne dynamic wasn’t like how it was. It was a source of many of his headaches.

But that did not mean he supported putting Eda in a cage.

Even if she wasn’t in her right mind currently, she was still a student. And she wasn’t being aggressive. Honestly, this other form so far hasn't been aggressive at all. Though who was to say that wouldn’t change?

He was more than a bit concerned with how little they knew. However, there was one thing he was certain on: that forcing her into a cage would make things worse, not better.

Not that he particularly liked the idea even before you factored in the fact that they’d be caging a student.

“So what do you suggest we do with her then, sir? Leaving her out could cause property damage.”

Which, arguably, was more Eda than anything else. 

“Put her in my office and call a healer. Hopefully someone will know what to do to get her to transform back.”

“Sir, I must protest. Putting her with you could put you-”

Bump cut the other teacher off before he could continue. “I didn’t become the principal of this institution by sitting on my thumbs Marcus. I am more than capable of handling an unruly student. Even if she has been transformed into another creature.”

Not that he genuinely thought handling would be an issue.

                                                 =============

“So what your saying is neither of you can help.”

 Bump had ended up summoning both a healer and grabbing DeFrost anyway. Hoping maybe one of them would know how to solve their issue. 

 “I apologize, sir. But I’m used to dealing with minor curses. Things of inconvenience mostly. Under normal circumstances, I would refer this student to a specialist. This is way beyond my own capabilities to treat.”

 And of course, they couldn’t do that without involving the Clawthorne parents. Who he had tried to alert when Edalyn had transformed again. But they had both been busy and he had yet to hear anything from them yet.

 “And I’ve never seen a creature quite like this. Cursed or otherwise. I could possibly see if I have anything discussing something similar to Ms. Clawthorne. However...”

 “Most likely Edalyn will have transformed back by then.” Bump concluded.

 So apparently they were dealing with not just a curse. But a rare curse. Great. 

 Why was it that nothing involving the Clawthornes was just plain and simple?

 “At the very least can you tell me if she’s any sort of danger?”

 That way he could have his staff stop bothering him.

 DeFrost adjusted their glasses. “Well it's hard to say without knowing the curse or how it impacts her mind. But based on normal cursed creature behavior most likely she won’t be a danger to anyone unless she’s provoked. However there’s still a lot of questions there...”

 “Like what could provoke her.”

“Exactly.” DeFrost  nodded. “Sir, I know you said you could handle if anything happened but-”

“I can handle myself just fine Arden. I appreciate your concern but if I need your help again I will ask for it.”

“Understood sir.” DeFrost agreed reluctantly. Before taking their leave.

“Am I dismissed as well sir?”

“No. Actually I wanted to ask. I know you can’t help her return to normal. But I imagine the transformation back won’t be easy on her. Is there anything we can do to ease that at least?”

“Well yes. But that would normally involve the family…”

“I’ll handle anything that might come if they protest. This is already a difficult time for Edalyn. Let's not make it worse.”

                                                =============

Thankfully time really was all they needed for Eda to transform back. 

Though rather than answering his questions and possible suspicions. Eda’s return to awareness just raised even more of them in their steed.

“Welcome back Edalyn. How are you feeling?”

“Like an icicle is trying to drive a hole into my skull,” Eda said, wincing again rubbing the right side of her head. “What happened?” 

“I believe that you will probably want this, then.” Bump rather than answer the question slid the potion that the healer had left for Eda when she finally returned to normal. “The healers figured you might have one after you transformed back.” Bump explained as Eda downed the bottle.

Eda frowned as she put the bottle down again. Now that the pain was receding she could think a bit more clearly. And realize that she couldn’t think of a reason for why she would be in the office in the first place. “Back? Wait was I-”

“Transformed into that creature from the duel? Yes.”

“I didn’t even realize it,” Eda noted with a frown. Much like the last time everything was just a giant blank from right before she transformed. Which worried her on another level. Why was she unable to remember anything from when the spell, curse, whatever it was took effect?. “I didn’t hurt anyone did I?” 

“No everyone got out of your minor escapade without a scratch.” Bump assured her. Deciding to leave off the near incident with DeFrost and the cages for the moment. It wasn’t like he hadn’t specifically told them not to get the Beast Keeping professor involved. 

Eda sighed in relief. “That’s good at least.” 

“So you really aren’t aware of what happened after you transformed? I take it?”

“No, the last thing I remember is being in the potions classroom. And then waking up here. Everything between the two is a blank.” Eda’s face scrunched up in a frown. There was a bit of a tangible residue of some sort of memory. But she still didn’t know the relevance of it. “Mother’s going to kill me for missing class.”

“I would have thought you might be somewhat pleased by the new attention.”

After all that had been a reason behind some of Eda’s pranks over the years. Though sometimes Bump wondered just how much Eda realized this herself.

“Not like this.”

“Either way I’ll write a note. In the meantime you really should have a specialist check you.”

Eda winced. “That’s probably going to be easier said than done.” 

“If it comes to it, the same offer I made to your sister when she was being given difficulty by them I’ll extend to you. If you need someone to help you get seen about this curse then I can try to help you find someone that your parents won’t cause problems with.”

Eda winced remembering the fiasco that had been trying to get her sister her glasses. There was an unfortunate high probability history could repeat itself. She really hoped her parents had maybe learned. “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you Principal Bump.”

“Your welcome.”

Eda’s unusual politeness wasn’t lost on him. Go figure the most polite conversation he had ever had with Edalyn was because of a curse.

Maybe he should have tried a different tactic with the youngest Clawthorne?

Too late to fix that now he supposed.                                                 =============

Any small hope for Eda that maybe her parents would take it seriously when she got home. And not try to toss it again under ‘something else’ didn’t last longer than five minutes after her mother got home. 

“Clawthornes don’t get cursed.”

“But-” Eda began to try and protest. Absentmindedly scratching her wrists. While most of the pain had subsided with the potion Bump had given her, there were still some residual aches and pains from the transformation.

Just like last time in fact. 

“End of discussion. I will not entertain this absolutely absurd discussion. Let alone the idea of taking you to a specialist.”

Eda scowled, not ready to back down without a fight. “If it's just a spell then why did it happen a second time?”

“I don’t know Edalyn, maybe someone thought they should continue the lesson.”

Eda opened her mouth to try and continue the argument. Only to have her mother disappear through the door, slamming it shut behind her. 

“But I haven’t even done anything this past week.” Eda muttered to herself.

After the first idea of it being a curse had gotten into her head. She had decided to try and be better. The transformation had hurt! She hadn’t wanted to go through it again. 

So as difficult as it had been she had hung up her pranking supplies. For now at least until whoever was angry with her cooled down.

If this really was because of a prank. Then someone was really vindictive was all she could say.

Either way whatever caused it wasn’t really the problem anymore. It was figuring out what to do next before the curse resurfaced a third time.  

Normally she would have turned to Lily for guidance. But her sister was away at training. Meaning it was her against her parents. And she had no clue how to handle it from there.  

It had always been them against the world. Even when that world sometimes included their own parents. 

With the one person who may have understood their complex family dynamic gone. With her having no idea when she would see Lily again. She had no one to turn to. 

Sure, Bump had once said that if she needed help to come to him. But this felt like a bit of a reach. 

Maybe it was for the best to leave it alone for now. Maybe if it happened again her parents would take it seriously.

She knew that the likelihood of that happening was probably small, but what else could she even do at this point?

Her parents' reaction, while infuriating, was not entirely unexpected. And it was even less likely to change if her childhood was anything to go by. Since, if it was something that made the Clawthorne’s imperfect, then it was not to be acknowledged. Even if it impacted their own children. 

And if there was anything that indicated an ‘imperfection’ it was having a curse on a child. 

Titan knew how it had been a fight to get Lily her glasses. Eda couldn’t even begin to imagine how complicated things might be if this was something far more sinister than getting your sight corrected.

She guessed if she needed too she could try looking for care on her own. She was old enough now that she didn’t need her parents there at a healer’s appointment. But then again the fall out from going to a doctor when she didn’t have her own source of income.

Well it would be a mess. 

Why did this have to be so complicated?