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monsterkissed · 3 years ago

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2021 In Writing

I saw this event by @ecwrenn and it seemed like a pretty good excuse to sit down and process what has felt like a very weak creative year and actually crunch some numbers to test that theory.

As of today (December 28th) during 2021 I have written 410,965 words including drafts, editing and discarded material. This is significantly above my goal of 300,000! I’m very happy about that. On average I was able to write approximately three weeks in every month, but my longest streak of writing was 41 consecutive days. February was my most productive month at 56656 words and September was my weakest at 15987.

@holybikinisbatman also kindly put together a really neat little program for recording how much I write over the month which has been really useful for seeing where my ups and downs are.

(under the cut for more info on specific works and some beautiful gay graphs)

It’s very gay : )

Work-related burnout did put a huge dint in my progress following the summer. All my projects stalled very severely and my average words per month. I was able to switch to a less terrible, lower-hours job in order to make writing my priority, but it turns out that the psychological exhaustion of working in health and social care during a pandemic doesn’t disappear overnight. I’m still trying to get into the rhythm of doing anything at all that’s just for me and not for work.

I was inspired a lot by anthologies like “The Dangers of Smoking in Bed”, “Bloodchild”, and “Friday Black” as well as Clive Barkers “Books of Blood.” I also continued to keep up my reading on theory with some academic texts. Games like Disco Elysium and Inscryption also added a lot to the mill this year. I really think I have a better grasp on the kind of work I want to write: weird uncomfortable queer shit.

My wips suffered the most visibly for the burnout. I don’t think the quality has dropped because I still edit very stringently, but I haven’t had time to put enough care into them to meet that standard so updates have been slow over autumn and winter. The problem with an intensive style of long drafts and repeated editing is that it takes time and care and it’s frustrating when I have to sacrifice speed for satisfaction over quality. That said: People really seem to like all three? So maybe it’s fine?

Being No One, Going Nowhere had the most complex work done on it. A lot of tricky chapters I was really worried about executing that only got worse as I started to really second-guess everything I was writing in the tail end of ‘21. It’s still consistently well-received and getting new readers which is frankly inexplicable to me. People are consuming hundreds of thousands of words at a speed that I find humbling and alarming. Overall I think the transition from for want of a nail fic with some silly jokes to drama metacommentary with some silly jokes is going Okay. Even if I wish I could have written more of it I have finished the second act and I don’t see any situation bar death or disaster where it doesn’t either finish or mostly finish next year. But... there are also a few works in the series I would like to get done as well, including one that’s going to be just, just a huge bastard.

The Comrade’s Song is still my weird ugly peculiar child that appeals only to very specific people of very particular tastes (affectionate). It’s always been the one I work on at a more lazy pace so it by far has suffered the most for my burnout. That said, the reason I have never worried too much about updating it religiously is because it is something people are either going to like a lot or bounce off of. I am hoping to get one more chapter of it out before the new year because it deserves some love. There should be no reason this one doesn’t get done in 2022.

I Think We’re Alone Now exists entirely as a labour of love in more ways than one. If I had accurately estimated how deep in the weeds of it I would get while writing it would be done by now, but, unfortunately, Ideas Happen. I am simply not capable of making simple little stories any more, I think. If you can’t take a funny little fluffy joke and season it liberally with dread and anxiety then what is even the point? I would probably feel guilty about stretching out a gift fic this long if I were not quite sure the recipient does not mind, and at the end of the day this particular fic only needs to be good enough for exactly two people. But other people seem to like it, too, and that’s a nice bonus. 2022 should be the completion date for this one, too, and sooner rather than later.

All three wips also got fanart this year, which is still something I have difficulty grasping. I do not know how to process that kind of investment in the things I make but it’s all so pretty. I can’t cope in the slightest. I still have them open in tabs for moral support, and this has been a year when I really needed the moral support.

I got out a lot more oneshots this year than I thought I had before writing this post. Access: Authorised gets bonus points for being my first fic in a different fandom and I am really proud of how the voices came out. I watched a Lot of Star Trek this year and I feel pretty confident with how I translated it, and writing trans stuff is always a fun time.

I won’t go through all the oneshots I did this year, but Prelude was my shortest complete work at 506 words. As an experiment in dialogue-only fic I’m pretty pleased with it and I think it’s pretty effective with the length that it is. The Compromise was my longest at 10,415 words and it might legitimately be the best short story I have ever written. It does everything I set out to do with it and it’s a type of horror writing I hadn’t really dabbled in before. I think it stands alone really well and with some work I’d really like to try expanding the core concept to something original and novel-length.

In general I would like to spend the next year years writing more original stuff and looking into pro publishing. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop writing fanfic altogether because it’s just really fun and I like entertaining people and exploring existing worlds, but at this point I have had enough positive feedback on my writing as a whole that I think I could make some original things people really like, too. Original characters have always been a weakness, but over the past few years I have overcome a Lot of weaknesses I had assumed were just inherent to my writing. I have a couple of ideas for original short fiction as well, but that’s more a question of deciding where the best place to post them would be.

All in all I felt pretty bad about my output this year and that’s very silly when I lay everything out like this? For a Bad Year this looks like a lot more work than some people do on their best years, and I need to stop being so ridiculously prone to moving the goalposts on myself. In general I am really proud of the stuff I have managed to put out and I think the quality is consistently a strong reflection of the effort I put into it. My method of sprinting the first draft and then repeatedly editing might be intensive and slow but I am happy with the results; I think for me it’s worth the work. Going forward I would really be happy to keep up what I have, for the most part, been doing. Writing consistently, getting the work out, trying new stuff. I would love to break 400k again next year, but I think I am going to keep the target at a “low” 300k and just concentrate on getting that hit reliably. I think giving myself loose and reasonable targets to meet month-to-month in terms of updates would be a good idea. Not strict enough for me to panic over, just enough to keep me focussing on putting stuff out at a comfortable pace.

I need to do a lot of work on getting into a good headspace in general because at the moment stress is really putting a wrench in my doing anything for fun at all, so I am also going to try to do some more work on my mental health. I can’t be a good writer if I can sit down and enjoy a good book or game or in general relax and feed new ideas into the brain-mill.

#ayearofwriting #a year of writing #writeblr

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mon-blanchetts · 4 years ago

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Two years after The Long Night, Sansa is held prisoner at Dragonstone on charges of murder and treason. And yet, nothing is as it seems.

Had the decision been his, Jon would've insisted they leave half-way through the second course. But, as it wasn't, he was forced to see the evening to the end, making his way through four elaborate courses, each consisting of a dozen dishes. And even after all that, Jon still wasn't free. For a city merchant like Francys Drury, who was as wealthy as he was ambitious, a dinner with four courses just wasn't enough—a fucking banquet1 had to follow as well, held in the marble house erected in his garden just for the occasion.

No, he realized, downing the last of his wine. A servant quickly re-filled his goblet without prompt. Had the decision been his, Jon wouldn't be here at all. Only the damn thing was supposed to be in his honour, a celebratory dinner to prelude his departure, and Dany had ordered that he be in attendance with her. Jon didn't feel to argue when the time for him to take his leave was so near. She was already furious with him to begin with.

At least for the moment, Jon was free from his wife's wrath. Dany was informally holding court on the other side of the garden, surrounded by her courtiers. Jon could make out Francys Drury from his clothes only. Their host wore a rich doublet spun with gold, so that the fabric glittered beneath the flames from the torches surrounding them. Dickon Tarly was also among those orbiting his wife. Jon packed that away for later. For now he had Ser Wylis Manderly to contend with; the knight had latched himself onto his person just as soon as he'd lost Drury's wife and her brood.

"Seven Hells, it's been an evening," he praised, not for the first time. "I haven't been witness to this level of hospitality since well before The Long Night. Though, speaking of The Long Night, I found the pageant lacking in accuracy. Too flowery and all over the place for my liking. What say you, Your Grace?”

Jon noted the stains on the man's clothes with his good eye, the comfit in one of his hands. "Many prefer a rose-tinted variation of the truth."

"Too right, that," Ser Wylis said, his eyes twinkling. "Not so many can handle the truth, eh? Not like us northmen. Looks like most of this lot here decided to sit The Long Night out, too.” The comment was not made quietly.

He knew he was being watched; the feeling was too familiar as it crept slowly upon him. Jon began to regret heeding Sam's advice. It had been on his friend’s recommendation that he bring Ser Wylis tonight, thus saving him from the ordeal of offering a seat at his own dining table.

"The decision was their own, Ser. Whatever my opinion, it matters not now that those tribulations have passed."

Ser Wylis nodded as he finished the last of his comfit. "Well, let us hope the bad times are behind us. I'd like to think that after so much tumult and violence, it's only fitting that the gods bless us with a little prosperity, if they're generous enough. Though I must say, the gods have been well generous to you, no?"

"Generous indeed," he said. It was just short of a spat. Jon was ready to excuse himself, but Wylis Manderly had other plans.

"I assume you'll see Lady Sansa while at Dragonstone, Your Grace?"

Even more eyes felt like they were closing in on him. Jon watched the knight with an air of boredom on his face.

"If time permits, I suppose I will."

Ser Wylis wiped his fingers on his clothes as he spoke. "I do hope her health has improved from the fresh sea air. If she hasn't I already, it won't be long until she realizes how hard it will be not to live by the sea. Anyway, I hope you don't mind, but my father’s commissioned something for the Lady that I hope you'll take to her in honour of her name day. I've had it sent to your household just this morning."

It would please me more to throw it over the side of my ship, he longed to say; instead, he offered a nod. "So long as it's within reason, I don't see why she can’t have it. My half-sister always did enjoy a pretty bauble when presented with one."

"As do all women, believe me," said Ser Wylis, chuckling heartily. “Well, I do think she’ll like Lord Wyman’s gift well enough. Of course, I’m sure there’s much that the Lady Sansa would desire, but that’s not really up to her at the moment, now is it?”

Jon stared at him, his face closed. “When the time is right, Ser Wylis, Lady Sansa will be fairly tried, as promised to her by my wife. We’ll have real truths then—and I doubt it will be of the rose-tinted kind.” He'd spoken with an air of finality, drawing a curtain over the subject. A flash of hesitation passed over the knight’s face, but he recovered quickly.

“Yes, yes, of course. It will be good to have closure finally, no doubt.”

Ser Wylis was smart to segue into lighter matters, but in truth he had lost Jon’s attention nearly as soon as he had caught it. Jon dismissed the northman before making straight for his wife. He’d had enough.

Dany had an arm draped carelessly over her stomach when he approached; the crowd around her fell open upon his arrival. He caught sight of Dickon Tarly for a moment before looking away, but not before Jon noted the nervous expression on his face.

Even when he drew his wife close to him and away from their courtiers, her arm remained where it was. She’d been playing with her midsection throughout the whole evening and had refused the fine wine offered to her. Jon knew exactly what she was up to.

“I’m leaving,” he declared.

Her expression remained unchanged. "I'm not finished here yet," she said.

"Stay if you want, but I’m done here."

"Jon," she said gently, but he wasn't deceived. Her face was still light and calm, but he caught the anger brewing in her violet eyes, the tautness of the skin around them. He could hear her voice in his head, fury laced in her voice. We leave when it suits me.

“You’re welcome to stop me, but your courtiers will have plenty to talk about if you do, I promise you that.” Public or no, he was itching for a good fight. Strange, because he was so tired of fighting, with Dany and everyone else, be it literally or figuratively, but it seemed that it was the only thing he kept doing.

She didn't respond to his threat, only kept playing with the fabric of her gown around her stomach. Jon knew she was taking stock of her options, turning over one possibility before moving forward to the next. There'd be plenty for their courtiers to whisper about if they were to leave separately, but it would be nothing compared to the public row she was asking for.

"You can do the talking then," she ordered, beckoning for her one of her handmaidens before turning her back to him. If she couldn’t have her way, Dany found other means to punish him, however trivial they may be.

He made quick work of it. A word of thanks to Francys Drury, who accepted the toast that Jon made with a look of pure smugness on his face. He even managed a laugh out of their audience when he mentioned that his ship would set sail to Dragonstone without him were he to stay any longer. Of all the eyes staring at him while he spoke, his wife’s were the most menacing.

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"Did you enjoy yourself at least a little last night?" Sam inquired, pulling his dining cloth off his left shoulder.

Jon watched through the open window as the men below packed away the very last of his possessions onto wooden carts. He intended to make an early start for the harbour, eager to avoid as much fanfare as possible.

"Only as much as her dothraki, I think," he said, turning to face his steward.

Sam cracked a lopsided smile. "So they behaved themselves this time around. I half anticipated news this morning that they'd gone and set fire to Francys Drury's manse with his own cellar of vintages. That would've certainly put an end to your invites from the city’s merchants.”

Unlike yesternight, where countless eyes had watched Jon while he dined, today there was only Sam present in his private chambers. This morning's fare was just as much of a contrast, a world away from the elaborate and daunting menu that Francys Drury's cooks had planned out: fresh bread with salted meat and cheese, all to be washed down with light ale. The only cause for envy was Drury’s collection of wine, far superior in quality than anything served at Dany’s court. Jon knew that to be a connoisseur in such matters only meant he’d been imbibing more than his fair share; even the Hand had taking mild interest.

Well, at least she didn't know. Suspected it, perhaps, though there was never long enough occasion for her to draw any firm conclusions. But then, Jon never felt the need to drink so much in her presence, either.

"Were there any Tyrells present last night?"

Sam’s question shook him from his thoughts. "None. Tyrion missed a perfectly good night for nothing. Dickon Tarly attended, though." Jon remembered the tall man hovering near Dany, the strange look on his face.

“Yes, so I’ve been told. And Her Grace? Was she in a fine mood last night?"

He told Sam of his observations, the hints she had thrown about to all and sundry. His steward nodded.

"My guess is if you’re not back in a moon’s time, she'll make a formal announcement. You do plan on returning before then, right? That's what we agreed upon."

Jon followed the elaborate design etched on the table with his good eye rather than look up. "Some things may keep me there longer."

"Some things or someone? Sam pressed, his thick brows furrowing. Jon said nothing.

His friend sighed. "Jon, if you stay any longer than was planned, your courtiers will surely talk."

"They'll talk regardless. Once Dany decides to announce her pregnancy again, they'll have something new to fix their attentions on."

"Will it be true, this time around?"

Jon scoffed. "No, but if by some dint of miracle it is, the babe wouldn't be mine." Jon glanced at the man sitting across from him. They remained silent for a moment, but it was pregnant with meaning.

"Well, if you're going to stay at Dragonstone that long and tell people you're going partly to take the fresh air, then at least this time try coming back like it actually worked," Sam pressed. "More than once you just come back looking even worse for wear than when you left. Someone's going to speculate one day that you're being slowly poisoned, mark my words."

Sam wasn't wrong. His excuses weren't holding up the way they used to, and really, that was more his fault than anyone else's. That Dany might have to use another goddamned pregnancy as a means to force him back to the capital was equally bemusing.

But it was just so hard to leave after he got there, was getting harder and harder to do so with each visit

Seven Hells, it was agony.

"It would be more than Dany could ever hope for, that," he remarked. There was a knock on the door before Sam could reprimand him.

Stannis Seaworth entered at Jon's beckoning. "Everything's packed and ready, Your Grace," his squire announced after a quick bow of his head. "The captain wants to be knowing whether you'll be leaving immediately or whether you want to delay a bit more."

"No, we make for the harbour now," Jon ordered, soaking his hands in the silver bowl of rosewater that one of his pages brought before him. The boy—of a minor house from the westerlands—had slipped in after he’d given Stannis permission to enter, together with a small retinue of other servants designated to wait on him this morn. He could feel the boy's wide eyes on his back as he left his private chambers for what would, for now, be the last time.

Out in the busy courtyard, dozens upon dozens of bodies milled about; even this early in the morning, it bustled with as much energy as the city's marketplaces that existed beyond the castle gate. Those who recognized his person stopped to offer a quick bow, but he could never take leave of that feeling that itched at the back of his head, or the side of his face. He was being watched. Always being watched.

"Did you happen to receive anything from Ser Wylis Manderly?" he asked, mounting his black palfrey.

Sam looked up at him, squinting from the sun’s glare. "I did, actually, now that you've mentioned it. A set of combs made of ivory and horn. It was one of the last things packed off this morn.”

It was on the tip of Jon’s tongue have it removed from his inventory, but he thought against it. The choice wasn't his to make, it was hers.

He remembered his conversation with Wylis Manderly last night. Lady Sansa. No longer Lady Stark. A small slight with the greatest of meaning. Dany's work, he thought bitterly, no doubt aided by Tyrion Lannister or one of her other favourites.

Sam wished him safe travels. "You'll send her my greetings, won't you?" his steward asked.

"Of course." There was more to his words—always more—but the courtyard was no place for them.

There was no looking back over his shoulder as he left the Red Keep behind with his traveling party. The things that he still cherished were few and far there. Neither was there a final farewell between husband and wife, but that was the way it was for them; Jon had more or less bid her goodbye as soon as he told her he was leaving court for Dragonstone. If her dragons were still alive, he suspected that Dany would've happily razed the island to the ground with him and the other inhabitants on it. A small price to pay, the burning of a Targaryen stronghold, if it meant wiping out one of the strongest claimants to her throne. That she would also be removing the heir to the North was only a happy afterthought.

But her dragons were gone, just like the Others, and all the magic they had brought with them when they first hatched from their eggs. Now it was only mortals playing at the games the gods had fashioned them with, dealing with a hand of cards that weren't as strong as they might’ve hoped. But the gods had fashioned them for love as well—their greatest glory and their greatest tragedy. Jon had learned this all to well.

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The skies were clear when he landed on Dragonstone, greeted by less than a handful of the island’s nobles and the castle’s maester. Out of everyone, it was Ser Davos Seaworth whom he was grateful to see most. Jon recalled Dany's fondness for her merchants, which wasn’t so different from his own affinity for the former smuggler whom he now regarded as one of his closest confidantes. There was a time when he had more in common with his wife than that.

Jon threw a quick glance over his shoulder as the party made their trek up to the castle. With the winds blowing so loud around them, it would be impossible for the lords and knights walking not so close behind him to eavesdrop.

"How is she?"

His voice was low, audible for Davos’ ears alone. He didn't need to clarify; they both knew exactly who he meant.

The knight’s gaze was on the steps before him. “As well as I've described her in my letters,” he responded, not unkindly.

His heart sank. "She's still not eating?"

Davos shook his head. "Not as much as Marya think she ought. Apparently it's beginning to show, she says."

"I've brought some of her favourites,” Jon said. “I think Marya can use that to coax her to eat more."

"It may help." There was a note of hesitation in his friend’s voice that Jon didn't miss.

"You have doubts?”

Davos sighed. “I'd like to think her loss of appetite lies in a lack of variety, but...I fear the cause may be something else. A deeper melancholy, if you will.” He glanced at Jon with a crooked smile on his weather-beaten face. “Maybe things will get better, now that you’re here. A familiar face never did hurt.”

Would things get better? He had about a moon's time to make sure that they did, that she wasn't on her way to another illness as he had feared while reading Davos’ letters. But what if more time were needed? How much longer could he stretch his absence until court gossip reached a fever pitch?

Without thinking, Jon looked up. The imposing castle, with its sharp edges and perfectly-erected walls, stared down at him. Thousands upon thousands of years’ worth of Targaryen history were buried within this castle. It was no place for a lone Stark, one surrounded by nothing but dragon motifs sneering at her in just about every direction, but it was the safest place for her at the moment.

If he squinted hard enough, Jon thought he could make out wisps of red hair dancing the wind from one of the keeps.

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He played the role of Prince Consort adequately enough, even without Dany present. He invited Ser Davos and his other nobles to sup with him in the Great Hall that evening, going so far as to extend his offer to Lady Brienne of Tarth. In the end, she declined; whether of her own volition or whether she'd been pressured not to by whom she'd sworn to protect, Jon couldn’t tell. A little bit of both, perhaps.

Supper was a boisterous affair of the most subdued kind. He knew when he invited them to dine at his table that his nobles were expecting some flavour of hospitality famous in the capital, even if that hospitality didn't run the full gamut of what they knew either from experience or hearsay. But Jon had Ser Davos ensure that the wine he'd brought with him be served generously that evening, and the conversation flowed freely enough.

The subject of Sansa Stark was noticeably suppressed.

Knowing that she was somewhere within these castle walls—somewhere within reach— was all Jon could think about. He was styled a prince, a high-ranking one at that, and yet the one person he wanted to see above all was to come last, not until he dealt with something as trivial as entertaining his vassals, many of whose loyalty seemed to swerve from dragon to stag and back again. With a title like his, Jon thought that he should have whatever he desired, and yet the chasm felt as if it stretched forever.

It was ironic that the trappings of freedom were, in fact, the most constricting.

And so there was no choice for him, not now at least, but to keep his face closed off and his fury shackled as evening morphed into night. News of his arrival and subsequent movements would be reported back to King’s Landing; Dany would no doubt receive a minute report of his performance within a few days. Pages danced in and out of his sight; those seated at his table were equally fixed on him, even when their gazes appeared to be elsewhere. Everyone was gathering all the things they could to pick apart—all the things they could use to pick him apart. In the shadows of the room, he thought the eyes of the carved dragons coiling around the stone columns stalked him just as mercilessly, if not more so.

Don't give them reason to talk. Don't let them see what they want to see.

Paranoia clung to him long after he’d retired from the Great Hall, licking at his heels as he barred the door of his private chambers. Jon knew from experience that he could never fully shake off that wretched feeling, that it was never to be entirely ridden of it. Not so unlike this ache, he thought bitterly, stripping down to his small clothes.

For the space of a moment, he considered doing the opposite of his desires. Let his pride win for once, and forsake her for at least a night, perhaps even two. It might even be better for them in the long run; his head would be clearer from the fresh sea air.

Only he wanted her too badly. At least if he went to her now, Jon could blame his madness on the vices of the capital. He could blame it on the smog of King’s Landing that clouded his faculties and blinded him of his wits. If he went now, rather than later, he could still cling to some of dignity.

What value was there in his dignity, compared to her? What good was anything if he couldn’t have her?

Absolutely nothing, he told himself as he pulled aside the worn tapestry. The false stone panelling hidden behind it gave way to his hand with a sturdy push. Jon would never have known about the secret passages if it weren’t for the castle’s long-standing maester—the same one he’d pensioned off to the southern outskirts of the Stormlands, all before bringing in his replacement, a novice with little knowledge of the castle he was meant to serve.

Jon reached her chamber within minutes, could hear his familiar growling on the other side of the wall as he pushed it open. Ghost quieted down as soon as he recognized him, the direwolf’s red eyes glowing brightly beneath the flames of his torch. Sansa was abed, the curtains of her bed drawn shut. The last vestiges of the fire in the hearth sang weakly.

He set aside his torch and removed his boots, snuffing out the light before approaching her bed. The velvet curtains were soft beneath his fingers as he slowly drew them back.

Sansa laid on the opposite side to his, her back facing him. As his good eye adjusted to the darkness, he made out long strands of red hair that spilled across her pillow and the one beside it. Jon suspected that she was still awake, despite her even breathing.

His heart swelled painfully at the sight of her. It felt like ages since they had last been together, each short reunion feeling more poignant than the last that came before it. Jon wasn’t made to be far from her, but the realization had come too late; he damned himself over and over again for the fool he’d once been, leaving her when, even all those years ago, something within him had held him back. A flood of anger washed over him, like it always did whenever his mind drifted back just a little to that period in their lives. He had every single right to be furious with her—he still was. That didn’t change the fact that he loved her. More than anything.

He climbed into bed before pushing the curtains closed. Ghost, loyal until his last breath, would alert them to any unwanted approaches at her unbarred door. As soon as he burrowed beneath the covers, Jon didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around her waist as he pressed the length of his body against her, breathing her in. It was trivial, but one of the ways he marked their evolution together was the scent she carried. A long time ago Sansa once smelled of pine and rosewater. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Jon recalled how every inch of her skin, even the parts he was never meant to lay eyes on, had clung tightly with the potent musk of his leathers. It had baffled him, more than once, but he could never fit the pieces together. Not until it was too late.

Sansa neither smelled of pine or his leathers now. Instead, it was the sharp saltiness of the island’s waters that clung to her, assaulted his senses. Could he drown in it the same way he might drown beyond the shores of the Narrow Sea?

How could you have done this to me? How could you have done this to us?

Jon pressed his lips desperately against the back of her neck before lifting his head to kiss the skin of her exposed shoulder, his anger mingled dangerously with desire. Sansa was awake, he was certain of it, but he wanted to revel in her without her protests. They may come later, he didn’t know, but for now she was willing to lie pliant in his arms, and for that alone Jon was eternally grateful to her. He found her hand resting close to her chest, like she was protecting her heart while she slept. From her enemies? Or from him?

Was there ever chance for that? he wondered, his fingers gravitated towards her own. Jon took small comfort in the cold metal he came into contact with, pleased that she still wore the ring he'd given her not so long ago—but then, Sansa also knew better than to take it off, unless she was intentionally courting his anger. Not so heavy as a yoke, but it wasn't meant to be such. It was a reminder, at best, a token in return for one she'd gifted him at Winterfell, bestowed with the same twisted malevolence. Had it been then that all their troubles and sorrows started, or were they conceived long before?

Jon knew he could dwell on it forever, but in truth it no longer mattered where their troubles began. What mattered, he realized, was that they had tonight. And tomorrow. And all the rest of his days where he remained on the island. He would take what he could.

"I've missed you," he whispered into her ear, tenderly rubbing the ring with his thumb. "You’ll never know much I’ve missed you."

He ached for her with the same force as a thousand suns, yet what little he could have of her for snatches at a time could never satiate the want that haunted him every day and night. Would it have been different, once? Would their lives have shaped out for the better if Sansa had only let things be, rather than play with them the way she had?

These were questions that Jon asked himself over and over again. Questions he knew would remain impossible to answer.

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Notes:

1 There are two meanings to the word banquet: one refers to an elaborate feast or celebration, while the second is akin to an after party of sorts held after the feast, and tends to take place in specially-made houses in gardens. Guests are served desserts and wine, buffet-style. I’m using the word here as it relates to the second definition.

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Please note that this story borrows heavily from The Persistence of Desire by Margot_le_Faye; while I highly recommend it if you're a Dramione fan, you will very likely spoil yourself silly for this story. Considering my horrible track record for updates, I wouldn't blame you, though. Lots of elements in this story may also echo when the walls come tumbling down by phantomphaeton as well as From Instep to Heel by orangeflavor, so giving credit where credit's due. Inspiration also comes from John Guy's Mary Queen of Scots, which I highly recommend reading if you're able to get your hands on it.

Also, if you happen to make it this far, I need you thank you guys so, so much for reading! I've had this premise in my head for so long and tried to put it down paper, but it just never felt right until now. This story will likely be the longest and most ambitious thing I've ever written, not to mention the angstiest. Like, not a joke you guys; when I looked at the entire outline I made for this fic, I just shook head. Please let me know what you think of this story-all comments and encouragement keep me going! Stay safe, folks.

#jon x sansa #jonsa #jonsaff #jon snow #sansa stark #writings

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bloodybells1 · 4 years ago

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PROCESS, ONE: A READER’S JOURNEY

“The essays in this book were memoir until they couldn’t stand to be memoir anymore.” —Leslie Jamison

Had I read that quote even only six months ago (the book to which she refers is her much-lauded personal essay collection The Empathy Exams), I wouldn’t have known exactly what it meant.

How can a piece of writing evolve from memoir? In terms of simple, unvarnished truth-telling, I thought the memoir, as a genre of literature, was pretty much the vessel. Yet here a case is being made for something that sounds like the opposite: it seems one can go beyond even the once terminally-regarded memoir.

Let me think about this further, about my confusion. Maybe my framing is off. Maybe it’s not an issue of evolution or reduction. It’s not that the personal essay is somehow purer than the memoir, as far as autobiographical writing is concerned. The issue is not one of authenticity. It’s about application, or even misapplication, that the quest for truth for which one naturally uses the data of one’s own life could, depending on the circumstances, be more appropriately undertaken in a different genre. The two genres are merely looking at different subject matter. They’re examining completely different lifeforms on the slides, but they’re using the same authentic microscope, as it were.

I relate to the sense of frustration in the Jamison quote, that there’s a feeling that the mission she started out on—writing a memoir—became so inadequate for the real task at hand that it became unbearable, that the pressure of working under a false guise gave way to a different form of transmission.

The memoir became a personal essay collection. It had to. The questions she was exploring could not be undertaken by simply telling the story of one’s own life. Personal data was necessary for the full picture. But she needed other sources, the experiences of others, the realities of phenomena outside of her normal experience, even as they were phenomena that ultimately she ended up relating to in a deeply intimate manner. In her collection, she let us into those experiences, and then we were able to relate, by dint of her fearless storytelling and personal excavations.

Now I’m getting it: a personal essay is fixed on some question and that is what drives the exploration. Personal, say, autobiographical, details are needed for the exploration, and this can vary depending on the subject. But the focus is the external question. That is the different lifeform on the slide. It’s about the question being pursued.

But first, a look at where I started on this journey, with the memoir itself.

The memoir as a work of literature was my singular focus while I was crafting my book proposal a couple of years ago. Simply put, it was what was on the table. Owing to my provenance as a musician and an actor, and my express interest in writing about my life, the genre of the memoir naturally became a thing for me.

So I dove into acquainting myself, not with examples of celebrity memoirs or memoirs by politicians—perhaps the two most popular varieties—but with examples of the finer possibilities in those genres which—big surprise—happen to be written for the most part by writers. I found myself falling in love with the exercise of memoir writing, as opposed to, say, the gratuitous voyeurism that is often offered by the popular variants of the genre.

For me, what became valuable was the quality of the writing; most of the time I was reading the life stories of people with whose work I had, outside of the memoir being read, little to no familiarity. These windows into life were captivating in their own right, these portals into raw experience, the possibilities of narration within the genre of nonfiction, the enlightened self-awareness made evident in sculpting large-scale timelines of one’s own life.

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It’s difficult for me to overstate the degree to which these two books have influenced me thus far.

Nabokov’s memoir is well-known. It’s a work of literature in its own right. It is a great example of the possibilities of the memoir to accomplish something other than realism: the whole thing is a kind of Proustian meta-narrative of his childhood and abrupt departure from Russia after the revolution, like a dream of family life written down. Mary Karr, in The Art of Memoir, heads her chapter on this book, “Don’t Try This at Home: The Seductive, Narcissistic Count.” Indeed, the book reads somewhat Transylvanianly, a bold, exotic yarn full of strange characters unfurled for an audience unfamiliar with that way of life. It reads as alluring and dark, and, yes, quite vampiric. But it is also profound and gorgeous.

While it’s not really a memoir, more of an autobiography, and also not often regarded as exemplary of the form, My Lives, written by Edmund White is an incredible tour de force of portraiture of the most important people in his life, his therapists, his parents, his lovers, his friends, his subjects, they all get a chapter dedicated specifically to them. Imagine knowing a world-renowned painter who decides he wants to do a string of portraits of the most important people in his life and you are one of them. That’s what this is, in literary form. It’s less a story of him than of these people, but, by the end of the book, you, of course, end up knowing a lot about him. His ability to make you see the things that he is looking at, in a very concrete, physical way—the curves of a body, the angles of a face, the ambience of a train station—is unparalleled in my view.

Is there a difference between an (a) autobiography and a (b) memoir?

I think the difference is about scope. The autobiography is explicitly a functional genre that attempts to document a person’s entire life. It is a biography that is written by the person whose life is being written about. It does not usually try to invoke any literary devices and is intended to serve as an ancillary to consumption of the subject’s work outside of the autobiography. It is a kind of “reader” of the subject’s life. It’s main purpose is not to be written well (although if it isn’t it is a grave mistake), it is to convey the near entirety of the subject’s experience on earth.

By contrast, good writing is a bit more called-for in the memoir; otherwise the whole premise falls apart. The memoir, in carving out a specific “slice” of a person, either a period of time or some type of encounter or some activity that they always do, is explicitly intended to amplify and interrogate aspects of being. In this way, the memoir has more potential for inspiration and edification irrespective of the reader’s interest in the subject’s life outside of the memoir. This, to me, is the crucial difference.

For the most part, I am not explicitly a huge fan of the work of the writers below. But their memoirs have touched and inspired me. I don’t think I would have all that much interest in reading the autobiography of, say, Joan Didion. (I might, I can’t be sure, of course). But my point is that I’m not looking for her autobiography, whereas there’re a lot of Didion fans out there that would be waiting for said autobiography.

In this way, autobiography is a kind of fan service, whereas the memoir is a thing unto itself. It is a work of literature written for the purpose of refracting aspects of being alive. To appreciate that type of writing you need not be familiar with anything else that person has done on this planet, anymore than that it is necessary to be familiar with Herman Melville’s entire oeuvre in order to love and appreciate Moby Dick.

It was with the consciousness of the memoir’s self-sufficiency, the irony of its ability to communicate, in its more specific mode, even more broadly than the supposedly more capacious autobiography, that I continued my exploration of the genre and began taking notes for the writing of my own memoir (which is now a personal essay collection, but more on that later).

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Two classics of the genre, here.

Many of us have read Maya Angelou’s book in high school. Both focus on the same thing: a period of time starting from birth and leading just up to late adolescence. Both are written like traditional first-person stories with beginnings, middles, and ends, and, were it not for our knowledge of their source material, might easily pass as romans a clef. I also think that both are examples of “misery lit,” although I think that that genre is overly hip and reductive for Angelou’s work, which is about so much more than just her misery. But they both focus on their childhood traumas in such a plain, unadorned, simple way, it is shocking and, for those of us struggling with these same issues, healing.

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The Apology and The Year of Magical Thinking are examples of how the memoir can focus to a degree of incredible specificity. Both focus on pain but are concerned with different parts of experience. Didion writes only about one year of her life, while Ensler writes about almost the entirety of it, but with a focus on a single, prevailing experience. Both are harrowing in completely different ways and both are exquisite in the way they lift up their struggles to find meaning and truth, things that pertain to the reader’s own experiences and which he or she may also come into touch with in reading these books. They truly are gifts in that regard.

In a manner of speaking, these two books are like two, very long, book-length personal essays. They rigorously explore and interrogate their premises and do their best to extract whatever possible that is meaningful out of that exploration.

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More “misery lit”! I actually don’t mean to be reductive in saying that. Both of these are fabulous stories concerning completely different encounters with mental illness and they are far beyond some hipster term of art. But there is a lot of memoir writing out there that explores the darker ways some of us were brought up and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with simply naming a certain type of writing that courageously explores how our childhoods might have been compromised.

In The Glass Castle it’s about her father’s mental illness and in An Unquiet Mind, it’s about the author’s own journey discovering and treating her bipolar disorder. Walls writes her story very much like it’s a novel, like Angelou’s memoir, and, also like Angelou, she writes it from the perspective of her child self and it is a compelling account as a result, full of tragic innocence and complicated encounters far beyond the reach of a child to properly grapple with.

Jamison’s book is very clinical, although she recounts her episodes frankly and shockingly and really brings you in to her subjective experience of insanity. These two books—not to mention Eve Ensler’s—have given me the courage to begin exploring my own encounters with mental illness and childhood trauma and to commit those experiences to writing.

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As I continued to research I started coming upon a very interesting type of memoir, the experimental memoir. That’s really interesting I thought. How does one write a memoir as a form of experimental art?

Not that this one is expressly experimental, but Robert Graves’ book is slightly off-putting in that fecund, experimental way: the bulk of it is dedicated to his experience in the trenches and it’s told with grit and harsh realism. But it starts with his schooldays and ends briefly, and curiously inconclusively, with scenes of fatherhood and tutelage. It’s a rather unique rendering of a life. Towards the end he admits that his original idea was to use the notes that he took on the frontlines for writing a novel but changed his mind after realizing that he would be desecrating his experiences and his memories and his sacrifices by layering a plot and storyline onto them. He then decided to write it simply as a factual account.

Dark Back of Time, however, is a full-on experiment in autobiography and it is always slipping in and out of reality, imagination and historicization. He spends a large amount of time writing about an old soldier who died accidentally on a hotel balcony in South America but he gets to this through talking about the reactions that his peers in Oxford had to one of his novels which they suspected made use of their lives. Truly an eye-opening experience to read autobiographical material refracted in this way.

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I haven’t read these three yet. They are “on deck,” as it were. Eat, Pray, Love needs little introduction, obviously. The Speckled People was highly recommended by a fellow writer and Lying came up in an online search as a prominent example of the experimental memoir.

At this point, it was already clear to me that I was writing a different kind of memoir than any of these examples. I realized that I was in effect writing personal essays without knowing it. I knew very early on that I wanted to eschew responsibility for an overarching narrative of any sort. I wanted to commit myself to specific topics that could be covered discretely in one chapter each. When I read the Graves’ passage regarding the desecration of his time on the battlefield, I thought of my own “war stories” and thought similarly that trying to give them a plot, while not exactly a “desecration,” would feel unnatural and inauthentic. What was feeling natural was to pick separate experiences in my life and devote a chapter to those I felt were strong enough for further elucidation. The time I got stuck on a mountain overnight with a friend. The shock of coming to NYU. The decision to leave the music industry. There were so many other parts of my life that seemed to deserve specific treatment in this way. I naturally started coming upon essay collections as a result.

II.

I took an online course by Alexander Chee called, “How to Write an Essay Collection” and afterwards it became much clearer what kind of book I wanted to write. I read about half of his reading list for the class and, along with the volumes I’d already dug into, I learned what a personal essay really was and what it wasn’t, and knowing this difference demonstrated to me quite clearly that the book I was writing wanted to be an essay collection in the truest sense of what an essay really is. The Leslie Jamison quote at the top of this blog post became true for me as well. My memoir could no longer stand being a memoir and had become a personal essay collection.

During the class, Alexander Chee recounted an irony regarding his own personal essay collection. He said that he found it curious when readers of his book would tell him that they found so much of him in it. “There’s actually not very much of me at all,” he said; and he mentioned this in order to illustrate what a personal essay collection is and what it isn’t. The reason why there’s not that much “of him” in his essay collection, nor, for that matter, why there isn’t much of any author’s life in any of their personal essay collections, is that a personal essay, despite being “personal,” is primarily geared towards externals not internals. “Pity the personal essayist,” the author Sloane Crosley writes in her New York Times review of Jamison’s latest essay collection, Make it Scream, Make it Burn, “fated to play with a reader’s tolerance for that most cursed of vowels. Too many “I”s and you’re self-absorbed; too few and: Where are you in this piece?”

Self-absorption as a liability in writing is understood enough, though, when it comes to autobiographies and memoirs, the liability becomes unavoidable and, if anything, necessary. We read those books exactly for the purpose of the big drop into an author’s psyche, willingly diving down the subjective abyss, basically swimming in “I”s (the best ones allow us to do this gleefully).

Not so in a personal essay, where the restriction on egoistic license holds. And yet: how do we include and implicate ourselves into the topic? without stepping on traps of self-absorption? This is what Chee was talking about when he said that there wasn’t much of him in his essays: not that he didn’t implicate himself in his narrations—he very much did—but that he skillfully observed this precarious balance.

That balance is undertaken quite differently depending on the author (and in my synopses of the collections I’ve read recently I’ll try to speak about how they’ve assigned “percentages of self” into their essays, what the “lean-to-fat" ratio is, for example, when “fat” could be understood as the strictly autobiographical portion of the essay). It can also vary according to the essay. In some cases it’ll be necessary to fully implicate oneself. In others, perhaps only a passing mention of the author’s impression of the events is needed. But there’s an essential aspect to what makes for a great personal essay, irrespective of ratios of personal to objective, that Charle’s D’Ambrosio captures beautifully in the introduction to his own essay collection:

My instinctive and entirely private ambition was to capture the conflicted mind in motion, or, to borrow a phrase from Cioran, to represent failure on the move, so leaving a certain wrongness on the page was OK by me. The inevitable errors and imperfections made the trouble I encountered tactile, bringing the texture of experience into the story in a way that being cautiously right never could.

This is kind of a Copernican revolution to me. I mean, it had never really occurred to me that you could be wrong and that would be a good thing. In writing I had always striven to make sure that I didn’t insult researchers, journalists, experts and scholars by misrepresenting the truth. Yet, here was basically a license to get it all wrong and admit it on the page and have that be a virtue of the writing.

What this tells me is that what remains key in the personal essay is not some authoritative stance, but the very uncertainty of the perspective, and how that might invite opportunities for a much more intimate relational structure with the topic matter on the part of the reader. This isn’t about ingestion (of data, of info, of ideas, etc.) but about contact. I see that as being very similar to the relationship between reader and author in a memoir, this premium on relation. The only difference—and for me, a very consequential one—is that the primary target of a personal essay’s sight is not the self qua self, but some implication with the content of reality on the part of the self. That intersection is what fascinates me more at this time than simple self-narration.

In this way, a personal essay can kind of be like a stop sign, a signal to halt the gyrating (mostly online) world, with its hyperlinks and ads and other pseudo-references. In fact, in his brilliant collection Proxies, Brian Blanchfield takes on this very task and turns the internet off when writing each of his essays in the collections. In order to take solace within the much more subjective account housed within the pages, an account at once open and tentative, based as it is in doubt, and hermetically sealed, shunning the greater world’s insistence on certification and realism, the essay becomes a prismatic utility for investigation, where perspective and subjectivity are king and certainty and objectivity are actually limiting.

The memoir offers something very direct to the reader: the author’s own struggle with, or journey through, some issue or period in life. The author is the chief protagonist in the drama, the star of, say, the cinematic adaptation of the book. The issues swirl around the protagonist but the camera stays trained on him or her. What I started to notice was that my mental gaze was always scudding away from the protagonist (me) and over to what else was in the frame. And so the personal essay as I began to learn about it became a much more appropriate vessel for these concerns, even as I knew that I would need to implicate myself in the action, keep myself in the frame. Striking that balance in a way that is both specific to me and my experiences and yet observant of the proper limits of the genre, so as not to veer away and “regress” back into memoir, has become my chief objective with each of the essays that I’ve been writing.

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These three collections might be my bible for this project. Each are very different in style and application, but each is similar in that joyous experience of reading a paragraph and being so stunned by the insight that one has to turn the face away from the page for a moment (or two) to let it sink in. Baldwin is, of course, the king of this sort of thing. There were times while reading his essays when I actually had to straight up close the book and put it down in order to absorb what was going on. The title essay which is about Harlem, his father, and his early awakening to the depth of his country’s racism, is perfection on both the level of content and form. It does what an essay does best: leave you with the unequivocal residue of human feeling twisting around the grander issues with which that essay is concerned.

Each essay, in all of these volumes, is like a discrete nugget, a piece of writing, contiguous, open and alive, that can be read and reread, like an oracle you visit throughout your life, which, using the same words, speaks to you anew each time.

Ambrosio’s essays are absolutely nimble and virtuosic; his language is muscular and sinewy; his sentences are lean and long and you can ride them effortlessly and when you finish them and their paragraphs, you are left with an image of a truth that was planted in your sight without you knowing. It’s an exhilarating experience.

Blanchfield’s essays are a revelation of subjectivity. This volume was part of Chee’s reading list and I can’t express enough gratitude for having been directed to it. Perhaps Blanchfield is the master of nesting the autobiography within the confines of an essay. When he toggles between the external and the internal, you don’t notice it. It’s effortless. His ability to tell a giant story in one paragraph is inspiring. The tone and delivery is somewhat sacral, he’s a poet, after all. But it is also delicate, graceful, poised and elegant. And deeply personal. How someone can title an essay “On Frottage” and turn the reader’s attention to the true significance of the topic—AIDS and the gay scene in the 80s and 90s—and all of the social significance intertwined in it, along with implicating himself in a nakedly autobiographical way, is beyond me, but I am happy to be in the audience for it.

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What I love about these two collections are their stealth and form. Their stealth comes from how they read, not so much as casually but as without artifice or adornment, and how this aspect lets the reader’s guard down, only to have some extremely penetrating conclusion arrive at the end of each essay, in a manner that the more plainspoken style did not necessarily anticipate. Chee’s prose particularly comes across as either supremely and dryly witty or as modest plainness, but when you finish one of his essays the takeaway is anything but those things; it is profound. Jamison as well. As for their form, they tend to do some adventurous things. One of Jamison’s essays uses a kind of diagram of storytelling which she learned in a writing class to “tell the story” of a traumatic episode involving a horrific episode of violence she experienced in South America. The essay is called “The Morphology of a Hit.” It’s a perfect example of something else that I really love about personal essays which is their ability to take leaps in form when that form enables a type of storytelling that otherwise isn’t possible. Chee does this very thing in a somewhat humorous essay, the titular one of this volume, which is just a long list of life hacks and writing tips. I’m really grateful for the insight that this man has given me into the writing process. My copy of his book is signed, as I first became aware of him at a reading of his with Edmund White at NYU which my good friend invited me to. So I’m very grateful to that friend as well! He also introduced me to Edmund White so it’s a double whammy!

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I would’ve never encountered these collections of my own volition without their inclusion on the reading list in Chee’s course, but I’m very happy that I read these. McCarthy’s essays are quite old, dating to the 50s and 60s, I believe, when they were originally published in The New Yorker. They’re all centered around her childhood years, either living with her grandparents or in an orphanage and they are remarkable portraits of intimacy and observation. The same with Ginzburg’s collection, although she writes in a much more enigmatic style. What inspired me most about her essays was how simultaneously aloof and vulnerable they are: she has a way of, say, writing about England, without ever even mentioning the name of the country, yet contriving a recognizable and incisive portrait of it, all from the vantage point of her own experience of the country during a certain time. Finally, there’s really nothing quite like Wojnarowicz’ book. It’s slightly Beat in tone, sometimes surreal and ecstatic, and then progressively more plainspoken and political. But it is all so very raw and pulsing with the heat of experience and desperation and anger. Wojnarowicz was an incredible artist, a sculptor and photographer and he lived in the East Village of the 80s and reports from the frontlines on the AIDS crisis. His work bears the stamp of a deeply tuned in artist confronting the hypocrisies and injustices of his time.

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I put these three together mostly because these collections are explicitly comedic, although each has its own manner of using humor to communicate a deeper message. Jonathan Ames is well-known as a very funny novelist and the creator of the TV show Bored to Death. His essays are very short and very direct. There’s almost no commentary and he just narrates the events. The approach of leaving room for not knowing is very noticeable in his work, as he often qualifies his observations with humility and openness. The work comes across as very tender as a result. Irby is laugh-out-loud funny. I don’t know how she does it but she has a way of sending herself up and making fun of herself and her limitations that is both funny and painful at the same time. Commercialism, body positivity, and personal achievement are only some of the themes that are explored through that lens of self-effacement. Her ability to put herself under the most lacerating gaze of the authorial microscope and coming out the other end of that examination as a strong individual is unparalleled. I consider this volume must-reading material. In terms of exquisite construction and intelligence I would have to put Sedaris up high on the list, though his work is popular enough and his collections prodigious enough that his reputation for that kind of writing needs no further illustration here.

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Virginia Woolf is popular as an essayist for collections published much earlier than Moments of Being, such as The London Scene. The essays here are actually very raw and unedited and so very sprawling, though obviously of high literary quality. She wrote them down like diary entries and then they were found after her death. They feel similarly to McCarthy’s essays in their naked observations of early childhood and family life. Juxtaposing this collection with DFW’s Consider the Lobster is a bold choice on my part, but it’s for the purpose of elucidating my previous point about that delicate “lean-to-fat” ratio I spoke about earlier in this blog post. Woolf’s posthumous collection is “all fat,” one could say, in that her focus is almost exhaustively on her own life and personal upbringing and subsequent marriage. These essays are basically memoir writing in the guise of the personal essay. DFW’s essays, by way of intense contrast, are almost “all lean,” in the sense that he spends almost no time talking about his personal life. The closest he gets to that is his essay on 9/11 where he goes over the details of where he was when it happened. The rest are what you’d expect from the author: penetrating accounts of the subtleties and hidden motivations of the cultures and people he investigates. He is basically like the most intelligent wartime journalist where his “wars” are the John McCain presidential campaign of 2000, the AVN Awards Ceremony, or the Maine Lobster festival.

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I have yet to read these collections but I’m very much looking forward to them. Hemon’s essays are about his upbringing in the war-plagued Balkans of the Nineties and subsequent emigration to the US. Didion’s basically needs no introduction as its de rigeur for essay writing. I’ve included Benjamin’s because of his critical insight. He’s not writing about his personal life, but his gifts for analysis will be really helpful to be exposed to for anyone undertaking the task of writing a personal essay. I have not included a picture of Susan Sontag’s collection Against Interpretation because it’s on order, but that one is also on deck. As are two other collections not pictured: Mary Oliver’s Upstream and Rebecca Solnit’s Hope in the Dark.

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anythingandeverything1d · 5 years ago

Text

Heart Attack

“Hey.”

“Hey? That’s it? That’s all you're going to say?”

“Harry...”

“Whatever. This was stupid. You shouldn't be here. Neither should I.”

“But yet here we both are.”

“It was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Haz-” “No. Stop. Don’t call me that. You don’t get that right anymore. Im done with this. I never should have come.”

“Harry stop. Please. I miss you. I-I never should’ve left... Just let me explain.”

1 MONTH AGO:

“Stop!” you shrieked as Harry picked you up and threw you over his shoulder. “Harry!” He fell back into the couch with a laugh, you landing perfectly in his lap. Both of you were out of breath, Harry nuzzled his nose into your neck and you smiled, turning his head to yours and pressing your lips against his. It was the first night in almost 2 months that Harry had been home. You ran your hand across his cheek and sighed.

“Whats wrong?”

“I just missed you...” you bushed his hair out of his face. “I feel like we haven't had any time together.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Things with writing just got really crazy...and then the album release..”

“Yeah..I know. It still sucks though.” Harry smiled and kissed your nose. “I’m glad we at least have now. And you won't be leaving anytime soon so we can settle back into a routine.” You kissed him, wanting something more to follow.

Harry pulled away with a guilty expression. “Actually, I only have a month or so to stay before I start my tour for the new album...”

You blinked looking into his green eyes full of regret. “What?”

“Well we decided to do a full tour for the album and we decided to push it forward a bit....you know keep the excitement and everything up.”

“Oh.” You climbed off his lap and stood up, pacing the room. “You were waiting to tell me this because?”

“I just wanted to wait and do it in person....I didn’t want to cause any extra stress.”

“Harry you literally promised we would have time together after the album was done...remember?”

“Yeah I know but I don't have a choice right now....this is what I do.”

“So we are just going to go back to a long distance relationship..Is that all we will ever be to you?”

“No-No of course not babe...You know I love you.”

You bit your lip holding back tears. Harry was trying to think of what to say to make things better but in your mind there was nothing that could fix this. “Harry you haven't even spent more than a week consecutively with me. We- we haven't even had time to relax. We were supposed to have that now.”

“Well we will for the next few weeks...We can make this work. You can come with me-”

“I have a job Harry. My dream job. I can’t just quit to tour with you..I don't want to be something you only come home to on the weekends. I want you to want this. To want a future together. A family.”

“I do.”

“Are you sure? It doesn't seem like it?”

Harry looked up, tears in his eyes. “What do you want me to do? What can I do to fix this...Quit the tour?”

“No. I’m not going to ask you to give up on your dream. I’m not going to take away something you love....”

“Then what? Just tell me what I can do..”

You sucked in a breath and wiped a tear from your eye. Crossing your arms you stood there for a minute. “I think we should just be friends...”

“(y/n).”

“No. I’m serious. I love you Harry...but I cant do this anymore. I need a break. I need to figure out what I want. I need to figure out if I can even make this work anymore.”

“Babe-”

“No I’m sorry.” You knelt down and kissed his lips hard. Your tears on his lips and his on yours. “I want to figure out what I can handle. I don't want to feel like I come second to you anymore..”

“Youre not second I swear.”

“I just need time okay?” You kissed him again and sighed. “I love you, but this isn't working...” You stood up and walked out to your car, gasping for air and trying to collect yourself through the sobs as you drove home.

It had take a few weeks. You had taken a while to get over the pain of leaving Harry. Your heart ached. You felt sick to your stomach when you saw anything about him. You slept in his hoodies every night and questioned if you had made the wrong decision but you also knew that you couldn't continue with how things had been moving. So eventually, after those first few weeks, you had pulled yourself together and agreed on a causal blind date with a friend of a friend. You had gotten dressed in a crop top and skinny jeans, your hair down and makeup done. You weren't ready to date anyone...but you did want to try and move on...try to get back into a normal social routine. So here you were, entering the club late on a Saturday night. Of course you walk in and your eyes immediately rest on the green eyes you knew too well.

Harry’s POV:

Harry felt sick to his stomach. Watching (y/n) walk out of his life that night was burned into his brain. He almost didn’t believe you when you said you wanted to be friends...He couldnt believe it. He loved you more than anything. You had gotten him through long nights away, writing the new album. You had been the one he called when he couldnt sleep. You had supported him through everything and yet now you were leaving? Saying you needed space? What was that about? The first few nights he hadn't slept. He just paced around the house, tossed and turned in bed, and barely ate. Things got a little better when plans for the tour started evolving and shaping. He had gotten into a better routine, one where you weren't involved. When some of the band had suggested going out to a club, he had said no. He didn’t want to be around other girls. He was secretly still holding out for you. Of course, the guys had practically dragged him there anyway. He sat at the bar, a drink in his hand. He was watching people walk in and out. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular but when his eyes landed on yours, he froze. He felt sick to his stomach. He felt like he was going to pass out. Your eyes were glued to his, until the guy behind you grabbed your shoulder and pushed you towards the bar opposite of his, your eyes reluctantly leaving his.

Harry put a hand over his chest. “You okay mate?” Mitch asked concerned. “Youre looking a little pale.”

“I’m trying to be okay, I’m trying to be alright but man. It hurts.”

Mitch followed his gaze to you. “Harry she's no good for you. Look what she's done to you, I mean you barely ate. You weren't sleeping.”

“It doesn’t feel right though. She shouldn't be with another guy. She should be here with me. She was the one. She was the only thing I’ve ever wanted in my life.. ”

“Harry.” Adam cut in. “You're just too blind to see how much she's messed you up this time.. Youre way better off now that she's gone.”

“Im trying. Im trying so hard to be better now.”

“I’m glad. Do you want to leave?”

“It feels like I’m having a heart attack. Ugh” Harry gripped his chest and leaned back into the bar.

“It’s probably a panic attack...” Adam corrected. “We should probably go.”

“No. No- I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s gaze fell back to you. You looked incredible. Dressed perfectly. Harry just wished he was the one kissing your cheek, telling you that you looked beautiful and that you didn't need the extra make up. He wanted to be the one with his hands around your waist. Who even is this guy? Why are you even moving on so quickly?

Harry stood up from the bar and smiled. “I’m just going to have a wee, I’ll be back.” Mitch and Adam looked uncertain but nodded and ordered another drink. Harry wandered to the bathroom. He stood by the door waiting. Within a few minutes you had wandered over, probably to check your hair. Harry causally bumped you as you were exiting and you looked up. His eyes met yours and his heart skipped a beat. He felt his chest tighten and his heart beat irregularly. “(y/n)...”

Your POV:

You looked up at him. His hair was trimmed, but perfectly pushed back in a wave. His green eyes were frantically searching yours and his hand was pressed lightly over his chest. He moved to step away but you grabbed his wrist quickly. “Wait. Can we talk?”

“I-I don't know...”

“Harry please.”

“Fine. Meet me outside in an hour.” You nodded and he walked away. Your heart was rushing and heat flooded your cheeks and your body. You hadn't reacted that way since you had last seen him and it made you smile. You entertained your date for a bit, but your mind was always on Harry. How he was doing, what you were going to say. Truthfully you wanted to tell him how much you missed him. You wanted him to know you made a mistake. But you also didn't know anything about what his life had been like and dint want to interrupt something he had with someone else...kind of like the media had said. After an hour passed, you wandered outside, waiting for Harry in the dark alley, a light rain drizzling over your body.

PRESENT DAY:

“Explain what? How you left? How, out of nowhere you said you wanted to be friends? How you said you didn’t know what you wanted?”

“Harry I swear I-”

“Then, you show up with some random ass guy tonight, only shortly after breaking up with me?”

“No- well yes but thats not how it is.”

“Then how is it? Do tell me (y/n).” Harry was pissed.

“I made a mistake okay? I should have stayed with you. I love you Harry. I always have and I always will. I left because I wasnt sure how to feel...I felt you were always putting me in second to your music. I know its important to you but you rarely called, you rarely spent time at home with me...I just felt like it was one way. And I get it, I left. I walked away. But I regretted it the second I did it...I just needed time to really figure it out. And I have now okay? You are my dream. I know I have a great job and I love it but I love you more. I want to be with you and if that means touring with you and selling my house and quitting my job just to follow you around the world I will. I need you. I don't want to be your friend. I want to be your everything.”

Harry’s mouth dropped. He stepped towards you. It looked like tears were dripping down his cheeks, but you couldn't tell if it was that or the rain. His wet hair dripped in front of his face and he brushed it back before closing the remaining space between you. His lips collided with yours. He was patient for a second before biting down hard on your bottom lip and slipping his tongue into your mouth. He kissed you like his life depended on it and if that were the last thing you had of him, you would die happy. “I love you.” he whispered against your lips.

“You do?” You leaned your head back, cupping his cheeks in your hands and staring into his eyes.

“I am in love with you (y/n). Seeing you here, tonight, with that other guy. It didn't feel right. I wanted to be him, his hands on you, dancing with you...” Harry’s hands slid to your waist. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. I mean look at you. Fuck.”

“You don't hate me?”

“I have never hated you.” His lips pressed to yours again, this time more gently. “Come with me. I want you on tour with me.”

You kissed him, your hands tangling into his hair. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You kissed him hard, pulling his lips back with yours. “Take me with you and don't ever let go.”

“I won't. I promise.”

---

Hope you all like this! Let me know what you think! xoxo

#Harry Styles #harry styles fanfiction #harrystyles #one direction #directioners #one direction fanfiction #one direction imagines #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #harry styles blurb

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megalony · 5 years ago

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Second chances- Part 1

This is a Four/ Billy series from 6 Underground which I fell in love with as soon as I watched it. I hope you all will enjoy it.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @luvborhap @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @jonesyaddiction @rogahs-drowse @milanosaurus @httpfandxms

Summary: (Y/n) believes being in the group is her second chance and Billy starts to believe it was his chance too as it brought (Y/n) into his life. But their newest mission is far from easy.

Note: (Y/n) is Two in this imagine.

Series masterlist

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You can be such a piece of shit sometimes." The words passed through (Y/n)'s lips before her mind had a chance to filter what she was going to say or clamp her lips together to calm herself down.

She felt her skin heating up faster than the cool wisps of breeze could cool her prickling skin down from the flickering flames eating her up from the inside out. The tiny splashes of saltwater sprayed against her skin and the scent flooded her nostrils as she turned so her back was facing the other four people on the boat with her.

The dark leaf green bottle of beer started to sway in her left hand from the breeze and the way her fingers started to shake despite the tight grip which she had them clasped around the neck of the bottle. Moving her other hand, (Y/n) raked her fingers through her hair, scratching her nails against her scalp in a coping mechanism that she knew wasn't working, nor had it ever really worked. It had simply become one of her habits that she couldn't shake, less she wanted her anxiety to build up and take over.

"I'm sorry? What would you like me to say?" One quipped, planting his hands on his hips as he ticked his head to the side.

(Y/n) couldn't figure out how he could seem so calm and so sassy right now when they had literally just dumped Six's body over the side of the deck. He seemed to act like this was a game or that it didn't matter but no matter what One said, he couldn't believe the lies he had told himself and the rest of them.

None of them could truly go around thinking they were dead. Their identities had been buried but they were here, they were still standing and that was the truth. Six was dead, he was in a body bag slowly sinking down to the floor of the ocean. That was real death and One didn't comprehend the situation they found themselves in. He wasn't dealing with this like he should, they had just lost one of their own and whether he liked it or not, the rest of them felt like they were a family and that was how it should be.

"You spout all that shit about us being dead but you don't listen to yourself. Six is dead, you have just buried him, the actual him, not his identity. This is life, One or whatever your name is. We are all alive, we are here and we are living and no matter what identity we give or take, this is our lives. Don't talk about him like he's some disposable tissue you just dumped in the trash."

(Y/n) wasn't asking One to change his thoughts or give a eulogy for Six, she was simply asking that he acted like they did just lose one of their own rather than a tissue he had used and disposed of.

If this was the way things went around here, (Y/n) didn't know if she could cope with this. She didn't want to dump people and be frowned upon for crying over them, she didn't want to think of them simply leaving or throwing her body away when she eventually passed away. It wasn't okay to act like this and it wasn't human to try and act like they were actually ghosts roaming the world to try and do some good.

"He knew what he was walking into in this game, we all did. We are ghosts now Two and he already had his funeral. What do you want me to say? He lived a long life, he will be missed, he had a good job-"

"We are five people who decided to boycott the Government and scrap our identities. We are not dead, we are not ghosts, we have deleted our ties to the world so we will remain anonymous. We are still people, One, and I will miss him."

Without thinking, (Y/n) raised her hand before swinging her arm around and letting go of the neck of the bottle. Her eyes not wavering once as she watched the glass shatter into splinters and fragments across the white glimmering floor of the boat.

They had all faked their deaths so that society will delete their information and mark them as not important. They had gotten rid of their social ties and any other tie they had to the world and the people it contained. But they still had hearts that were beating and bones that could be broken. All of them still had the same thoughts and opinions and voices and brains that they did before they came into this game of ghosts and justice.

Six was still a person and even though (Y/n) didn't know anything about Six's personal life or his real name or his life, (Y/n) was going to miss him. She was going to miss his nervous but cheeky personality hanging around and the way he drove them around and did whatever he was asked. She would miss someone she hardly knew because he had become part of this messy, unconventional family that they had created.

No one else spoke.

One was the leader, he had formed this unconventional group of people wanting to change the way the world worked and bring justice and goodwill. He created the rules that they didn't say their real names or get involved or too close to anyone else to prevent any complications or grief or tangled wires. One told them that they couldn't have contact with anyone from their lives after joining this group. They couldn't see family or friends in order to keep them safe and make sure they all remained anonymous in the world.

It didn't matter that everyone else agreed with (Y/n), they weren't going to dispute when it wasn't going to do anything.

"Don't take his shit to heart, you know what he's like." Four leaned against the silver railing near the top of the boat where he found (Y/n). He arched his back and bent one of his knees, lowering his head to look at the waves crashing against the boat before he dared to look at the girl standing next to him.

He knew she didn't know Six very well but he could understand why she felt so angered by One and what he said. Not everyone could get along at the best of times but right now, losing Six couldn't have come at a worser time. They had another big mission coming up and they desperately needed six or more people to be on the job or else it made things a lot harder for all of them. Even with six people, they weren't likely to come out of this very well.

"It's not the send-off that annoys me, you know. I get that we can't bury him and that's fine, it's the way he acts. It makes me wonder if this was all worth it... like, if I get shot down next week, what would I of achieved? How would you get rid of me?"

(Y/n) tilted her head to the right, looking at the blond whose green eyes were rather enticing. She wasn't arguing because they didn't bury Six, she knew they couldn't and she didn't really see how burials were so special or such a big thing. It was the fact that they gave Six absolutely no dignity or respect and just dumped him without saying anything. And when Three shed a tear he was immediately called out for that as if it was so wrong to show any emotion, like they were actually supposed to act dead.

If someone shot (Y/n) tomorrow, she didn't dare think about what would happen. She hadn't achieved all that much in her life and she wondered if she, too would be thrown over the side of this boat in a bag to be lost at the bottom of the sea.

"Not everyone gets to achieve stuff in their lives, if you leave a mark on a place or a person, that's good enough, right? And you're not going to die next week so forget about that."

Four knew that there were millions of people in the world that would die without making an impression on the world or making a dint or doing one good thing that people would remember. Lots of people were born and died without anyone knowing and that was the way of the world. But he knew that there was some sort of comfort in knowing that if he personally had made an impact- a good one- on someone's life, then he could die happy.

(Y/n) had impacted on his life the moment he joined this fucked up group and if she did pass, he certainly wouldn't be able to forget her. She had left her mark on him and he was sure she had on many others and that meant part of her would still live when she died.

"Oh yeah, what makes you so sure?" (Y/n) teased as she rose her brow, looking at Four as he flashed his teeth in a shit-eating grin that sent shivers running down her spine.

"You're not dying on my watch." He simply responded before he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side. Both of them knew the rule of not getting too close to anyone else in the group, but they couldn't seem to help it. Four made her feel better, he made her feel safe and relaxed and happy and giddy like she was a teenager again. He spoke his mind in a manner that simply made her laugh.

He was curious and plain and damn good at what he did, and for some reason, he was instantly drawn to her too. He liked how fierce she was and how she couldn't help but speak her mind and speak the truth. He loved how she could handle herself and everyone else at the same time, she took care of herself and still had the ability to look out for the team and cover them or help them out.

But mostly, Four loved the way she looked when she was holding a gun.

"I know One spouts that stuff about not talking about the past and whatever, but tell me why you have this." Four moved his free hand towards her top, his eyes locking with her own as he smirked like a shark when he dipped his hand beneath the fabric.

(Y/n) knew he wasn't copping a feel or trying to be too forward, she knew what he was asking about. Her thoughts were confirmed when his fingers latched around the silver chain hanging from her neck that he always saw her tuck into her bra to keep it hidden. Her eyes followed his hand as he pulled his hand from her cleavage to reveal the slightly rusty golden bullet hanging on the end of the chain.

Sharing stories about their old lives wasn't something One wanted them to do because they had given up those lives. In a sense, (Y/n) could understand his logic, the less they knew about one another, the safer they were so there were no slip-ups and so they didn't fall for anyone or get too close and an accident happen. But on the other hand, they were all on the same side and they were in this together. She didn't mind sharing a story or two with Four because they were close already, talking wasn't going to compromise them any more than they already were.

Late nights and frenzied touches and kisses had been swapped between them for the past few weeks as it was. That didn't compromise them on missions, they weren't overly worried about the other or asking them how they were doing or if they needed backup. They were as professional as everyone else and it worked fine.

"I worked in the CIA, we were on a mission but we got ambushed... that was the bullet that got me. One inch lower, and it would have pierced my heart. That's why I'm here, I got a second chance at life and I want to do something with that chance, that's kind of a good luck charm I guess."

That mission was the last one (Y/n) had ever worked on, after recovering from the surgery to remove the bullet, (Y/n) woke up with One standing in her room offering her a chance. He offered a chance to be someone else and do something really good with her life. It was as if he had known the internal struggles she had been battling when she was conflicted about if she was doing the right thing and if it was making a good impact on the world.

(Y/n) knew she had been extremely lucky with that bullet and she wanted to keep it as a memento. It was a token that she had to remind her during the bad times that she was here for a reason and she wasn't going to waste that.

"My name's Billy."

Four slowly rubbed the bullet between his index finger and thumb as he looked at the piece of metal that was meant to stop her heart from beating. That one piece of metal could have snatched (Y/n) from Four before he even had the chance to have her in his life. It gave her the opportunity to join the group and to meet Four.

He didn't really believe in second chances, and he didn't know if he believed that things happened for a reason or not so he couldn't comment on her story or respond with a touching anecdote of his own. But he could tell her his name which was kind of like a secret around here, and he hoped it would be enough.

"Hmm, it suits you." (Y/n) whispered the words quietly before she leaned up and pressed her lips delicately to his own. She felt him let go of the bullet that swung back against her top before hanging limply against her chest. His hand moved to caress the side of her neck as his other arm pulled her closer until her chest was smothered against his own.

He didn't care why they were both here or what brought them to this point, he was simply glad that she was here with him now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Magnets, that's your big idea?" Five questioned as she planted her hands on her hips with a raised brow. When she joined to be their doctor, she thought that everything would be different than this, she thought it would be other-worldly. That there would be some sort of essence to what they were doing or something that made it feel like she had died and gone to heaven or even hell.

But magnets, that seemed oddly basic. The guns and smoke bombs and the laughing gas they had planned was different. The car chase they had two months ago, that was out of this world and it made her feel more alive than she ever thought possible.

Magnets was a step-down.

"Not just any magnets, big ass magnets. Ones that can cause any piece of metal to fly to one side of the ship and then the other, all on my command." One held up his phone and gave it a little shake in front of them all to show them this wasn't as stupid as it sounded.

He had created this, it was what he did in his other life and it was what he was good at. He could make every single piece of metal on that ship tip to the right with just a swipe of his finger and he could make people stick to the walls if they had one scrap of metal on their body. He could give them passage into the lower decks of the boat and get them right to the president with this device that he could easily control from his phone. This was their golden ticket to get to the guarded president they were here to take down.

"What about our weapons?" Seven asked with a look in his eyes that showed he was intrigued rather than bored like he had looked moments earlier.

"Ever heard of plastic?"

Leaning over the table they were all crowding around, (Y/n) glanced her eyes over the plans and layouts that One had managed to scavenge and come up with. It showed all the levels of the boat, where he wanted the magnets to be placed and where they would need to go once they got to the boat- if they even managed to get this far in the plan.

(Y/n) could slowly feel her heartbeat increasing as she realised the magnitude of the magnets that he had created and what this would mean. They were all in on this mission, they were all needed because even with six of them, their chances at survival and pulling this off were slim. But if magnets of this scale were involved, (Y/n) was going to have a hard time.

"You can control what piece of metal the magnet attracts, though... right?" (Y/n) tried to play it off as if she was simply taking an interest, but the type of question she asked and the tone she used gave away something bigger hidden behind her words.

"Do you see this plan? There's gonna be hundreds of individual pieces of metal on this ship. What are you asking, do you want me to isolate a fork so it stays in place?" One narrowed his eyes as he shook his head in confusion. Why on earth would he need to control what metal went where? It didn't matter, everything would go to one side and they would have no metal on them so they would have the right of way. He could play about with everyone and do what he wanted and toy with them how he pleased.

There were going to be metal plates, forks, spoons, guns, bullets, armour, vests and jewellery on that ship. He couldn't stop a small piece of metal with how much more metal was going to be controlled. Isolating one thing would take too much time which they wouldn't have.

"Can you do it or not?" (Y/n) snapped back as she stared at the man standing across from her with a growing annoyance building up inside of her. She didn't see why he couldn't just drop the sarcasm and be serious for even one second.

"Essentially, but it'll waste too much time and it's relatively pointless. Why?"

"I've got a metal plate on my hip, I can't get through this maze if you're plastering me to the walls." (Y/n) tried to keep some sarcasm in her words but her tone simply came out worried. If One couldn't isolate her metal plate and stop the magnet from attracting her then she wouldn't be able to be on the boat, she would be stuck in the water or on the sidelines and they needed everyone on this mission. She couldn't get through the levels of the boat if she was being thrown about like a ragdoll.

Her heart jumped in her chest when she felt Billy slowly slipping his fingers between the groves of her own, his palm pressing against hers so he could press his fingers firmly against the back of her hand.

Their touch was concealed by the table blocking the action from sight but it still made her feel calmer to have his hand in her own and his side inconspicuously pressed against hers. Neither of them wanted the others to know of whatever was happening between them because they didn't need any torments or sarcastic comments or the others thinking this was going to affect their work.

"Oh, you drama queen... I'll adjust the modifier and isolate your hip, alas do not worry. We can't have you out of action, now can we?" The smallest trace of a smile appeared on One's face as he rolled his eyes. He knew that was going to make his job all that much harder but it didn't matter.

They were really going to do this.

#ben hardy #ben hardy imagine #billy #four #six underground #six underground imagine #ben x reader #second chances #billy x reader

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worryinglyinnocent · 5 years ago

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Fic: Jump

AU-gust Day Eleven: Farm/Ranch AU Fandom: Once Upon A Time Pairing: Rumbelle

Rated: G

Summary: Belle and her horse, Philippe, move to a new town, meeting former show-jumper Gold. A friendship blossoms between them and begins to move into something more.

Jump

Moving across the country was a very different experience when you also had a move a horse. Belle had almost turned down the job opportunity of a lifetime until she had found riding stables just outside Storybrooke who would be happy to let her rent space for Philippe.

Now the day had finally arrived to get him settled into his new home. She had taken a couple of tours of Gold Stables and Riding School before moving to Storybrooke, and she had found them to be clean and roomy, with the resident horses well looked after. Neal and Emma Gold, the owners, were friendly and welcoming, and Neal was chatting with her quite happily as she got Philippe into his new stall until he stopped mid-sentence, looking out over the paddocks that spread out away from the stables.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered. “Em!”

“What?” Emma was standing in the yard with a group of kids on ponies.

“Dad’s out by the jumps again!”

“Oh, leave him be, if he wants to break his neck then that’s on him.”

Intrigued by the conversation, Belle peered around Philippe and down in the direction that Neal had been looking in (and was now standing shaking his head in despair). There was a set of jumps in the furthest paddock, and Belle could see a figure on a brown horse circling them at a fast trot. They were too far away for her to make out any features, and she decided that it would probably best not to say anything. It was a family matter, after all.

At length, Neal seemed resigned to his father’s stubbornness and continued his conversation with Belle, although she could tell that his attention was only half on her and half on the other paddock. After a couple of minutes, she took pity on him.

“You know, I should probably give Philippe a good brush, get him nice and relaxed. I’m sure that you’ve got lots of other things to be doing rather than talking to the newbie.”

Neal gave a grateful nod and rushed away after welcoming her to the stables again, and Belle put the incident to the back of her mind, concentrating on brushing down Philippe and combing the straw out of his tail. He never particularly enjoyed going in the horsebox, and she wanted to make sure that he was properly calm again before she left him alone for the night.

“Well, Philippe,” she said, palming him some apple and patting his neck, “I think that we might be in for some exciting times here.”

There was a clatter of hooves in the yard, and Belle looked out over Philippe’s stall door to see the horse from the jumping paddock being led in, its rider in a heated argument with Neal.

“Dad, how many times am I going to have to drag you away from those jumps? You know you’re not supposed to jump! You’re barely supposed to ride as it is!”

“You really think that I don’t know that, Neal? Let go.” He batted Neal’s arm away as he reached for the horse’s reins. “I might be crippled but I can take care of my own damn horse.”

Neal threw his hands up in defeat and left in the direction of the house, set back from the yard. His father sighed, looking first at Neal’s retreating back and then at his horse.

“He doesn’t understand, does he? I mean, he’s right, but he doesn’t get it.”

As he began to lead the horse across the yard, Belle noticed the heavy limp, and she could well see why he’d been advised not to ride. He stopped short on seeing Belle and Philippe peering out of their stall.

“Well, Imp, I think you have new neighbours. It’s been a while since you had some company.”

Imp snorted, and Belle couldn’t tell if it was in welcome or derision. She seemed to be eyeing up Philippe rather warily. Belle couldn’t exactly blame her; Philippe was larger than the delicate mare in all proportions.

“Welcome to the stables,” Imp’s rider said. “I apologise for that spectacle, but sadly it probably won’t be the last time you see it.”

He went to move past Philippe’s stall to settle Imp next door, and that was when Belle managed to put all the pieces together.

“Wait. You’re Cameron Gold, aren’t you?”

He stopped in his tracks and turned back towards her, giving a slow nod.

“Who’s asking?”

“My name’s Belle. Belle French. I’ve just moved to Storybrooke to take the librarian job. And obviously Philippe moved with me. I was a big fan. I am a big fan. I’m really sorry about what happened.”

Gold nodded again, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, so am I.”

Up until a few years ago, Cameron Gold had been one of the biggest names in professional show-jumping, until his horse had fallen badly during the final of the world championships. The horse, a prize thoroughbred named The Price of Magic and almost as famous as her rider, had been put down and Gold himself had been injured badly enough to end his career. He’d fallen into obscurity since then, and Belle didn’t know why she hadn’t made the connection sooner. Gold stables, Cameron Gold.

It was watching Gold in action at the Olympics that had made Belle keep up with riding, even when funds were tight, and it would have been financially advantageous for her to sell Philippe and all her paraphernalia. She’d not had enough money to be able to continue lessons once she was comfortable enough riding alone, so she’d never been able to learn to jump, but it had always been a pipe dream of hers.

She shook herself and got back to brushing out Philippe’s tail. So, she had met the man now. They always said never to meet your heroes, but Gold had seemed nice enough in the few moments that she had spoken to him. She tried to reason with herself that she wasn’t going to bump into him again, but then, if he lived at the stables with Neal and Emma and was out riding a lot, then she would likely see a lot more of him just by dint of them existing in the same space.

Belle sighed. He probably wouldn’t appreciate her hanging around and asking questions about a career that had ended extremely painfully for him, so it would probably be better if she just kept her mouth shut and pretended not to notice, as much as she might want to spend all afternoon talking to him.

Once she was convinced that Philippe was going to be ok, she left the stall.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Philippe.” He nudged the sleeve of her jacket in protest and Belle sighed. “You silly sausage. You’ll be fine here. Neal and Emma will take good care of you when I’m not here, and there are lots of horses and ponies for you to make friends with. There are so many more than in your last paddock, and face it, you were getting a bit tired of looking at the same faces over and over. You won’t be fighting over that bush with Lady anymore, surely that’s something.”

She heard a low chuckle from the stall next door and peered in; she had forgotten that Gold was in there with Imp. Imp was giving Philippe the side eye, and Belle wondered if she had been a little too optimistic about Philippe making new friends in his new stable.

“Well, you’d be nervous too, moving to a new home and suddenly being faced with a bunch of stablemates you’d never seen before,” she said.

“Oh no, I completely agree.” Gold patted Imp’s flank. “You be nice to your new neighbour now, Imp. Don’t go putting on airs and graces now. I’m sure he’s harmless.”

“Philippe wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Belle agreed. Indeed, a fly had just landed on the end of his nose and it looked like Philippe was going cross-eyed trying to get a good look at it.

Imp poked her nose out of the stall, looked at Philippe, and gave a pointed snort. Philippe snorted back, and it wasn’t long before the two horses were engaged in a full-on staring contest. Gold rolled his eyes and sighed.

“She might be haughty at the moment, but she’ll be fine tomorrow. She’s just a bit highly strung; she gets that from her mother.”

“Is she… Is she Magic’s foal?”

Gold nodded. “Yes.” He stroked her mane. “I wasn’t going to keep her. She’s got jumping pedigree and she really ought to go to someone who can give her a chance to compete properly. But after I lost Magic, I couldn’t bear to let Imp go too.”

He paused, and when he spoke again, it was clear that the subject was changed. “Do you jump yourself? You’ve obviously got an interest in it.”

Belle shook her head. “No, I never had the chance to learn. Philippe’s probably too heavy to jump anyway.”

“I’m sure that’s nonsense, let me take a look at him.”

Gold left Imp and came around to Philippe’s stall, looking at him from a couple of angles. “No, he’ll be fine over the jumps. He’s large, but he’s not exactly a carthorse.”

Philippe snickered in hearty agreement. He, a carthorse? What a suggestion!

Gold went back to Imp. “If you’d like to learn, I’d be happy to teach you.”

“Really?” Belle’s heart began to beat a little bit faster. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”

“I’m not exactly doing much else with my time.” Gold sighed. “Neal is right, I shouldn’t be jumping myself, doctor’s orders. I’ve only just got through enough physiotherapy to allow me to ride again. I’ve resisted teaching for a long time, but I think that the time’s come to accept I’m not going to be able to reclaim my former glory, and I might as well pass on my knowledge whilst I can.”

Belle smiled. “Well, if you’re sure, then I would love to learn.”

Gold worked her and Philippe hard and he could be a strict taskmaster, but Belle couldn’t deny that he was a good teacher, and he never pushed her and Philippe beyond their limits. She was never going to get to Olympic standard any time soon, but she was very pleased with the progress that she had made so far.

Her lessons would, she felt, be going slightly better if Philippe was not constantly trying to impress Imp. She had not noticed it at first, but as time had gone on and as she and Gold had spent more time on horseback together, she had noticed that Philippe was taking a definite interest in his stable neighbour. Whether or not Imp returned that interest was up for debate; she certainly acted aloof when they were in the yard together being brushed down after lessons. On the occasions when they had been loose in the paddock, however, Belle thought that Imp’s frosty side might be thawing out slightly. She had been spotted getting a lot cosier with Philippe than her demeanour in the stables would imply.

They were walking back towards the yard having finished a lesson, Philippe nosing at Imp who kept huffing at him to go away, and Belle glanced over at Gold. As cliché as it was for her to be falling for Imp’s rider as Philippe was falling for Imp, she knew that she was developing more than a little crush on Gold. She liked to think that they were friends – he was giving her lessons for free, after all, and they always got on with an easy camaraderie. Neal had even privately thanked her for giving his father something to focus on to stop him trying out the jumps himself again.

Still, Belle couldn’t help but hope that they could become more than friends.

They had reached the yard and begun unsaddling the horses, and Belle decided to bite the bullet. Do the brave thing, and bravery would follow, right?

“You know, since I moved here I haven’t really ridden much in the area away from the stable,” she said. “I’ve always kept to the paddocks, but I think it’s time for Philippe to stretch his legs a bit more. I was going to take a ride down one of the bridle paths tomorrow after the library closes.” She paused, buoying up her courage. “I was wondering if you and Imp would like to come with us? I was going to take a flat route; it shouldn’t be too taxing for your leg.”

For a moment, Gold looked at her as if she had grown a second head, and Belle began to worry that she had said something terribly wrong. “I mean, you don’t have to…”

“No, no, I’d like to. It sounds like a great lovely idea. I just thought that surely you’d have other friends your own age who you’d prefer to spend your time with?”

Belle shook her head. “Not really. I haven’t lived in the area all that long, and none of my friends can ride. Besides.” His shyness had served to build up her confidence a little. “I’d like to go with you.”

Gold smiled, a schoolboy grin of excitement, and Belle wondered ever more strongly if her feelings might be returned.

“Well, in that case, I’d like that very much.”

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #Belle French #Mr Gold #Ranch AU #AU-gust #Worry does AU-gust #Fic: Jump

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themagicpotatoes · 4 years ago

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mdzs for the fandom asks? :)

THANK YOU for the ask!!! 💚💚

(Take the context of the book into account, since I read that first)

Character I first fell in love with - gonna be honest, it makes me a basic bitch but Wei Wuxian, the man himself

The character I never expected to love as much as I do now - torn between Jiang Cheng (since going into the book and watching the initial eps of the donghua that was a tall order to deal with) and Nie Huaisang and the juniors!!! My heart expands 3 times thinking about those silly kids

The character everyone else loves that I don't - I mean, this is probably either Xue Yang or Meng Yao I guess...I'm happy to read fics painting them in a positive light or AUs or whatever, def don't hate them but would I say I love them? Particularly in canon? No

Potential runner-up goes to Lan Xichen, just by sheer dint of the fact that while I definitely like him a lot it's irritating when people try to portray him as perfect or whatever (he's a great character because he's nuanced! Like the rest of the characters)

The character I love that everyone else hates - Ooh this is difficult I don't think I could pinpoint a character like this...it's difficult to like the villains in MDZS? Idk (though some talented writers and their talented AUs....)

And while I don't hate JFM like many people on this website and AO3 seem to, I don't particularly like him either or think he's a good father (or even adoptive uncle)

The character I used to love but don't any longer - I don't think there is one...I guess at a stretch, if we're talking about just my opinion of the character going down with time JFM maybe?

The character I would totally smooch - Lbr this could be a lot of people lol

There are so many options! So many beautiful men and women! I guess if I had to choose I'd go with WWX, but it'd be a hard choice. It's also weird because WWX is the one I most identify with

The character I would want to be like - another difficult question because there are many traits that I like about various characters. Guess if I had to choose it'd be NHS just because I'm in such awe of him and his schemes

The character I want to slap - THERE ARE SO MANY

From the villains of the piece who I'd want to beat to death like Wen Chao, Wang Lingjiao, Jin Guangshan, Jin Zixun, Su She, etc. etc....not only are they evil they are also SO. FRICKING. ANNOYING.

The pairing I love - Oof there are so many...while Wangxian has a special place in my heart, I enjoy reading a myriad of varied pairings, and lots of different mix-and-match combos. I also enjoy pairing LSZ with JL and/or LJY. Practically anything goes really (except pedophilia or cross-generation pairings)

The pairing I despise - I don't outright hate or stop reading because of a particular pairing, though cheating is typically a big turn off in fics, and I prefer Wangxian together over other ships with WWX and LWJ in general. I wouldn't say I despise it exactly but I don't seek out WWX/female ships, particularly WWX/WQ, since that always seemed more like a sibling relationship.

#mdzs #asks #ask game #esmeraldablazingsky #ask meme #thank you for the ask!! 💚💚

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marveling-chrisevans · 6 years ago

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Im Right Where I Belong | Chris Evans x Reader

Pairings: Chris Evans x Reader / Chris Evans x You

Warnings: Little angst, and some fluff/ okay very fluffy (to me)

Words Count: 1,519

Prompt: “Im Right where I belong” - Emily’s 5k writing challenge @my-emotional-self

Summary: You and Chris, live together and no matter how many times he offers you can’t bring yourself t quite your job due to your post and always needing to run when things got bad. What happens when your world falls apart just a little.

Tag-List: @patzammit @torntaltos @smoothdogsgirl

A/N: so this is the first challenge I’ve ever participated in, and I am all knew to this whole fan fiction thing, but I wanna get more involved so as always if you have a prompt or an idea. or anything let me know - id love to write for you, for fun.

Another day, another dollar. Another minute where you feel like its about time you drive your car into a tree, who would miss you at this point right? You question this every day Why you went to the dead end job you knew was not going to go anywhere, why you kept going back even though you knew there was nothing in it for you. The one highlight of your day is the moment you walk though the door at home, and are immediately greeted by the sound of a dog barking and jumping on you, like he thought he would never see you again, and is just happy to see you “Dodger stop, we can’t do this every day” you laugh as the dog has his front paws on your shoulders licking you in the face. Walking further into the house you see a tall man standing there as he turned around and smiled at you “hey Beautiful, I didn’t get home till late, I didn’t have time to cook. So I ordered Chinese” He smiled his beautiful blue eyes at you. You walked over to him and wrapped your arms around his neck “its okay, I know your not the best cook, and it was already a hard day” You smile and peck his lips as he gasps “hey Thats Steve, not Me” He smiles back at you “Y/n, he sighed as he looked at you, what happened today” “Chris, you know just the normal stuff, getting yelled, the whole I’m better than you mentality, but always keep a smile and in that customer service voice because they are always right, even when they are not. And if I say anything that’s my job.. I just need a different job” You replied with a shrug as you go to the fridge and poured yourself a glass of wine “how many times have I told you that you don’t need to work, that you can quit any time, you know I can support the both of us, easily” he sighed wrapping his arms around your waist from behind as he kissed your neck softly “and you know why I can’t quit, because that is your money, and as much as I was a princess in a fairytale, I’m not. Bell, I’m not held captive, I’m not Cinderella, I didn’t loose my shoe. I want you. I don’t care how much money you have or if your movie just beat avatar in the best grossing movie of all time..” You sighed as you have had this fight before and you were just not having it right now not after the day you had but you couldn’t drop it. “When we moved in together I thought you were going to drop this whole thing, Chris I’ve told you my past and that my family we work, we always work. We support ourselves no matter what because you never know what is going to happen” you shook your head “im going to go take a shower let me know when the food is here” you said to him and walked away before he could get a word out. Chris stood there and sighed heavily watching you walk away. He heard the door bell go off about 10 mins later. He went and paid for the food and set it out on the table. You stood in the shower, letting the water run over your body as you just needed to unwind and the rain fall shower setting was by your favorite one to relax too. You cleaned yourself and then went and slide some pajamas on and wondered out of the master bedroom and saw the food “how long as it been here?” You wonder looking at him as he was sitting at the table

Chris looked up at you “uh just got here, I heard the shower turn off so I just waited for you, and I want you to know y/n, I never meant to offend you, I know that is how your family has always made a living, but I want you to know you have options. I know you are not a princess in a fairy tale, and I am no prince, I make mistakes. I say the wrong thing. I just hate seeing you so stressed out over this job, and I know you hate that place. I know you want more out of your life.. I just want to show you the entire world. I want to show you what the world has to offer.” He said simply back to you, Well he was in the process of talking you watched him get up and close the distance between the two of you, he set his hand on your silk night gown. He gripped onto you as he kissed the top of your head. You always felt weak under his touch, it could have been the stress or the fact that he really in your world was prince charming. He had saved you countless times from your past, and the abuse that you had received. You worked because you knew at any moment you might need to run. The next day, the moment you walked into your job, and it happened, they fired you. No reason what so ever. You felt like the world around you was crashing around. You cleaned off your desk and got into your car. You sat there for a good 10 mins before you went home. You walked home. Chris wasn’t home, he was on set of that new tv show he was doing. You went and drew yourself a bath, getting fired was either going to be the best thing that happened to you, or it was going to be the worst. You climbed into the claw foot tub and slide into the bubbles as you sat there. Dodger came in to join you. “dodger no, its not bath time.. no don’t think about it” you said to the puppy who had his paws on the edge of the tub and you could tell he was thinking about joining you. He was a pup who loved the water after all You laughed slightly and pushed him away with your hand “buddy go lay down” you said and gave him a kiss. You slide your body under the water for a few moments and felt a body climb in behind you. You quickly shifted and looked behind you “oh my god don’t do that” you said as you saw it was Chris not hearing him come into the home

“we wrapped early and and I was going to come home and shower and surprise you for lunch, but I saw your car in the drive, what happened?” He wondered wrapping his arms around your body You sighed as you leaned against his chest and looked up at him with your head on his shoulder “i got fired” you said “but its fine, like you said I didn’t really like that place in the first place, so really could be the best thing that has ever happened” you smiled up at him. He knew what working meant “you know what that means then?” He wondered with a smile and kissed you softly in the most tender way “we can now try for that baby we have always been talking about, you dint have to worry about maternity leave, or the morning sickness and bed rest you are worried about with preeclampsia running in your family” he smiled as he bite his lip softly. You made a face and looked at him as you grabbed some bubbles and rubbed them on his face making his beard that was already there look like Santa and started to laugh, without responding him “say ho ho ho” you said as you started laughing. Chris shook his head and did as you asked as he dunked you under the water and flipped you around so you were facing him. You sat on his legs in the tub and wrapped your saround his waist so both of you fit comfortably, He loved you and wanted to make sure you were okay, with everything that happened “but seriously y/n” he sighed and pulled you slightly closer resting his forehead to yours “are you good? I know we fought about it a little bit but I know you were helping people and that’s one thing you loved” You nodded as you smiled at him. Before you respond no one was watching dodger as he leaped in-between the two of you pushing you apart. He barked at the bubbles as you screamed “Dodger” you couldn’t help but laugh as the puppy came up and kissed you a hundred times. Once he said you looked at the man of your dreams the man that light up a room with a single smile “i am right where I belong” you replied to his first question then leaned over the puppy who was just enjoying the water, your little family. You kissed the man you loved. Your soul mate.

#emily’s5kwritingchallenge #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans story #chris evans fanfic #chris Evans x reader #Chris Evans #Chris Evans x Original Female Character #chris evans x y/n #Chris Evans oneshot #Chris Evans imagines #Chris Evans Fluff #Chris Evans angst

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fanfic-scribbles · 6 years ago

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Lunch Buddy: Chapter Nine

Masterlist

<<Previous Chapter Next Chapter>>

Overall Story Facts:

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Story Summary: Steve Rogers makes a friend. A prickly, generally people-averse friend, but they’ll both take what they can get.

Quick Facts: Friendship (/Eventual Romance) – Steve Rogers & Reader (leading to Steve Rogers/Reader) – Female Reader

Story Warnings: Reader-insert that verges on OFC, written in 1st person past tense

Chapter 9: Drunk Buddy

Chapter Summary: Emotions suck. But it’s nice to have someone willing to stick around despite them.

Chapter Word Count: 3370

A/N: Warning for intentional typos, drunkenness, POV being slightly down/self-deprecating in parts. I wish I had more to say but uh, new Fire Emblem game is really good and all my braincells are going towards romancing and teaching and stabbing. Please enjoy!

I was drunk. Just the right amount– I felt pretty pleasant, light and comfortable, but I wasn’t out of it. Or so I thought, until I stumbled outside and suddenly I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember how I had decided I was going to get home.

Oops.

My phone buzzed and I displayed excellent dexterity by catching it just as it slipped out of my hand. So I wasn’t that drunk and I would remember…eventually. After a brief dip into whatever nonsense Steve was sending me in the middle of the night.

Steve: Help Steve: I need a good excuse to leave a party

I bit down on my lip to keep from laughing.

Me: Does anything need saaving? Steve: It’s Tony’s party Me: Hmmmm

I tried to think, but it was hard.

Me: Sorry Steve: It’s okay Steve: What are you up to? Me: Just leaving club Me: Stopping to try to rememember Me: How I was going to get home tonight Me: I think subw Me: ay? Me: But Me: Wait Me: Wht time is it?

I squinted at the clock. Okay, slightly-more-than-midnight.

Me: Okay guess i’m not Me: doing that Steve: You were going to take the subway Steve: At this time of night Steve: While drunk?

I stuck out my tongue.

Me: Stop it Me: I can feel the look you’re making Me: Also I dint know it was so late Me: Also also: I’m not as drunk as I look in texting. A little yes but i’m more lazy than out of it Steve: Regardless Steve: Do you need a ride home?

I smirked.

Me: I guess if I can’t think of an excuse I can be one Steve: Exactly!

That was nice. I hadn’t seen him in a few days. I missed him.

Me: Ooooooooo Me: Are you hungry? Me: There’s a dumb trendy pizza place Me: That’ll probably close within a couple months Me: But it’s actually really tasty Me: Wanna meet? Me: There? Steve: I’d rather make sure you stay safe Me: It’s like a block away Me: Or smth

I made an executive decision and sent him the name of the place and the one street name I could remember.

Me: I’ll save us a table, pls don’t come in a suit Steve: It’s a little dressy for a pizza date Me: And I look cute for once Me: You will not Me: outdress me Steve: Noted Steve: Should I wear my workout gear?

I failed to see how that would make me look decent by comparison.

Me: Stop texting and get ready Me: Or unready Me: Whatever Steve: I can multitask

Wait a minute.

Me: Are you on your way????

He did not respond. I started walking. However for me, at the moment, multitasking was a touch more difficult.

Me: You are such a dick Me: I’ll see you there Steve: Wait! Steve: I’m almost there!

When my fingers failed to hit the right buttons thanks to righteous indignation and adrenaline, I stopped again.

Me: I didn’t say I was on the same street

“It’s not hard to narrow it down.”

I jumped and my phone flew into the air. I tried to reach for it but a hand came from over and behind me and caught it before it could be dashed against the unforgiving concrete. I held my chest while my heart recovered and I turned to give Steve the dirtiest look I could muster.

“Sorry,” he said. Smiling.

“You have never been sorry for anything in your life ever,” I said and put my phone in my purse. “How did you get here so fast?”

“Well, I was close,” he said. His hair looked good and he smelled nice, but he otherwise wore his standard jacket and jeans. “Also, your texting is…really slowed down.”

“Hm.” I really didn’t think I was that drunk so much as he was just that desperate to get out of an uncomfortable social situation, but I could sympathize with that to extremes so I didn’t push it. “Come on; I need food.”

“To soak up the alcohol?”

I dragged him by his jacket sleeve. Except, when we were just about there I realized I was less ‘dragging’ and more ‘leaning on’ him. I felt the creeping tendrils of ‘shit, this is a bad idea,’ but it felt like it was too late. It was too late and I didn’t want to tell him to fuck off because I suddenly couldn’t deal. If I was sober enough to realize the ways this night could go poorly, then I was sober enough to deal with it. I hoped.

“Are you going to be sick?” Steve asked and put his hand on my back. It should have been a nice, centering, kind thing, but at the moment it just felt heavy.

“Nope; just thinking about what I’m going to order,” I said and slipped away from him to get the door. He was quicker, though, and pulled it open for me from over my head just as I went for the handle. That made it slip out of my hand and I fell forward a bit, but I caught myself rather well, in my own opinion. I shot him a dirty look and he shrugged with a sheepish smile. Since he was apologetic, at least, I went forward to stand in line.

The place was fairly busy for what time it was, but I wasn’t the only drunk person there. Nor was I the drunkest, which was nice, though they were annoyingly loud, which sucked. I focused on the menu, and scanned it for things Steve might like. “Do you trust me?” I asked and looked at him.

He was frowning at the board and his “Mostly?” was the most unconvincing thing I’d ever heard.

The look on his face made me smile. “Let me guess: you’ve never had pizza outside of pepperoni or plain cheese?”

“And supreme,” was his defense. But I could understand; some of the pizza toppings here were just plain weird, to the point where even I hadn’t yet tried them.

“Okay, hear me out,” I said. “The pizzas aren’t personal but they also aren’t that big, so I’m going to order four that I know I like and that I think you’ll like, and then we’ll get one ‘Boring’ for you to snack on just in case. Sound good?”

He nodded but looked at me with some exasperation. “You got something against just cheese and pepperoni?”

I didn’t even try to hide my glee at I pointed to the area on the menu where it listed, in a wholly appropriate font, ‘Boring.’ It was just a typical cheese pizza but Steve’s look of annoyance was worth everything. Suddenly, inviting him out was a great idea– the best I’d ever had.

“Do you secretly own this place?” he asked as we waited for the gaggle in front of us to grab their cups and go.

“If I owned a pizza place I’d be bankrupt and easily mistaken for a parade float,” I said and stepped forward to order. I got my wallet open as I spoke but when I finished telling the cashier what I wanted, Steve still managed to hold his card out before me.

“Hey; you paid last time,” I said.

“And I can pay thi–”

He jolted when I smacked his hand and his card flew to the floor. I gave the bewildered woman my card before he could recover. “I give the better tip,” I said as she swiped it.

“That’s a lie,” he said as he came back up.

I shrugged and pointed at the tip jar. “Put up or shut up.”

He looked right at me while he opened up his wallet and counted out one twenty, and another, and…

My eyes widened at the end amount he dumped in the jar and when I stole a look at the girl behind the register she was straight up gawking. “You’re such a fucking show-off,” I said and signed the receipt (after adding my suddenly-so-much-less-impressive tip).

“I am so okay with that,” she blurted out.

I laughed as he ducked his head and stole away with the number and his cup. “Sorry; I concede defeat,” I told her.

“Yeah, no problem,” she said like she didn’t even hear me and she stared at the tip jar even as I went to get my drink. Then I joined Steve in the corner, where he fidgeted while we waited. When we got the pizzas and I dished out some slices, he didn’t look upon them any more kindly than he had the descriptions.

“Here,” I said and pushed one of the plates over to him. Then I stacked the boxes so the plain one was at the bottom. “Try these first. If you don’t like them then you can have the cheese all to yourself.”

He sighed and looked at each piece. “It seems like such a possible waste. What if I can’t do more than one bite?”

I rolled my eyes. “Then I’ll cut off where your icky diseased lips touched and eat it myself. Fuck, man, weren't you in the army?”

He ducked his head but he was smiling. “Sorry; you’re right, this isn’t any worse than–”

“Eat or die,” I said and threw a packet of parmesan at his face.

Thankfully he knew better than to test the strength of even a lightly-drunk woman’s stomach and he ate. And if the noise of surprise he made didn’t show how he felt about the food, the way he plowed through the rest of it clearly did. I managed to snake a few more pieces and I was still getting through them when he neared the end of his.

And yet in between inhales he still found the time to be really annoying.

“So, tonight…did you go with a date?”

There were a lot of things I could have said to that, but all of them were terrible, and none of them made me feel better, so I shook my head. “Just by myself; to get out.” He was staring at me, and I wanted him to stop. “I’ve been a little…down, I guess.”

“Hm,” he said, not stopping his steady look. “Is that why you’ve looked like you’re about to cry all week?”

I shrugged and took a bite. It was still good, but my throat had closed up, so I had to chew for a while. Steve stared at me until I swallowed. “What?” I said.

“I can be patient,” he said, smiling slightly, like this was a light thing.

I tried to act like it was. I rolled my eyes. “Keep holding your breath and I’m gonna eat your pizza.”

He relented then, thank goodness, and chowed down on the last of the food in front of him. When he sat back then, it was a lot more natural. “I can’t believe I let you pay for all that and I ate most of it,” he said.

I snorted and kept picking at my last piece. As much as I wanted to finish, my stomach wanted me to curl up in bed and forget it existed for a while. “If you admit I was right I’ll consider it paid in full.”

“You were right; that was delicious,” he said. He looked me over. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay. Sleepy,” I said and stopped playing with my food. “Do you want this? I only took a little bit.”

“Well, I guess so. Since I was in the army and all.” He took the slice and smiled mischievously at me.

“You think you can handle my poison lips?” I asked.

“For good pizza, it’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he said, so fucking deadly serious that I fell apart into helpless laughter. Then he took a bite and his eyes bulged and he grabbed his throat and my heart skipped several beats. I was almost out of my chair to try and give him the Heimlich when I realized the bastard was just playing and I punched his shoulder hard enough to hurt. Well, me, but at least he must have felt it.

“You're an asshole,” I grumbled and shook out my hand.

He swallowed and took a moment to laugh. “I can’t wait to tell Sam. He says I can’t act to save my life.”

“I don’t think it’s real brag-worthy to get one over on a drunk girl,” I muttered and rested my head on my arms.

He turned serious all of a sudden. “Shit, I forgot–” He dug through his little backpack and pulled out painkillers and a bottle of water like a proud kid showing off his potato lamp at a science fair. “I’m sorry; I can’t believe I almost forgot these.”

“You brought this for me?” I asked. I opened the pill bottle and it still had the foil and cotton, and the water bottle seal was still uncracked. He hadn’t just brought it for me, he had bought it for me. That was…so sweet, and while I took a couple of pills and drank some of the water, he cleaned up the table.

“Come on.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take you home.”

The journey was a little fuzzy. All I could think about was that he had known I was drunk and instead of taking that as a sign to stay at his boring party, he’d left to hang out. With me. And instead of just dumping me in a cab after it all, he was coming with me. To make sure I got home safe. Because he cared that much.

Familiar melancholy rose back up in me like frothing bile, and as he helped me into my apartment I felt like I was going to burst. “Th-thank you,” I said. “I can’t– I can’t believe you brought me home.”

“I’m just doing what a friend does,” he said as he helped me to my room.

“Thank you. You're a good friend,” I said as I sat down and shut my eyes. It was going to hurt so bad when he eventually got sick of me. But it was okay. I had to make sure he knew it was okay. “I’m gonna– I’m gonna miss you when you go.”

He stopped whatever he was doing at the side table, and weight settled on the bed next to me. “When I go tonight?”

“When you get tired of me, and go,” I said and leaned my head against my pillow. I sighed. It was so much comfier.

“Why do you think I’m going to do that?” he asked quietly.

“It’s okay,” I said, because he sounded hurt. “Everyone does. It’s me; I’m…I’m no good. I’m bad at staying in touch; I flake out if I can’t handle shit. I say the wrong things. I’ve had good friends but I’ve never been one. So it’s– it’s okay. When you want to go, just know it’s oka–”

I woke up with distant dreams of fluffy pancakes, a minor headache, and a vague feeling of unease. I shut my eyes tight and loosened up when that just hurt. Why did I feel so weird? I had been a little miserable and so I had gone out. I’d gotten a little drunk. I’d texted Ste– oh no. But, wait, no, it wasn’t that bad. We had hung out, had dinner, and I’d come home. He had helped me home. And then…

I sat up and wanted to vomit for reasons other than a hangover. Because I had basically done that to Steve the night before, only worse. Normal vomit you could clean up, but what could you do about emotional vo–

Okay. I pinched the bridge of my nose. I really needed to stop thinking about being sick or I was going to get real literal about it. I took a deep breath, got out of bed, and shuffled towards my door. Physically I wasn’t actually so bad off– thanks Steve– but mentally I was spiraling– thanks Steve.

No. I gripped my head. No, that wasn’t fair; I was the one in a bad place and made it Steve’s problem. Shit. I didn’t know if this was something he would be willing to pretend never happened or if this was the beginning of the end.

I took a few seconds to control my breathing and beat back the tears. One thing at a time. First: coffee. And painkillers. And maybe some pancakes. Then I could text Steve and apologize and…go from there. Whatever that meant.

When I stepped out of my room though I lost my breath entirely.

Steve. Was on my couch. Sleeping.

Steve was sleeping on my couch.

I flailed like a weirdo and forced some control while my body wanted to flee my own damn home. What had I said that he felt he had to stay? That was worrisome, but…whatever was happening, a: I had no clue, and b: he still deserved an apology. So I went about The Plan, but I made a pot of coffee and decided to dump all the blueberry pancake mix I had into my biggest bowl.

I was getting the batter just right when I heard the couch springs shift. I put all my focus into making sure the powder-to-milk ratio was perfect and then started stirring. It was very quiet, so I took a quick peek and saw him standing right behind me. “Oh. Hey.” I faced forward and started stirring in earnest. “I was dreaming about pancakes, so I hope you like ‘em. You look like a guy who can eat a lot of pancakes; I’m–”

Steve draped his arms over my shoulders in the most relaxed hug ever. Inexplicably, my head actually felt better. “How’s the hangover?” he asked.

“Uh…” I took stock. “Not bad.” I didn’t know what to say. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

If he wanted to pretend it never happened, that was one thing, but this question was not that, and I peered over my shoulder to squint at him. “Do I have to say it?”

He stood up and shrugged. “I don’t know what you have to apologize for.”

“Puking emotion all over you?”

“That’s…evocative,” he said, wincing momentarily. “And I’m pretty sure I puked emotion all over you first.” He gave me a look with meaning. Man I hated those. “Closeted bi besties, remember?”

“What’s going to happen when you’re not closeted anymore?”

He looked like he was thinking about it. “Disaster bi besties?”

“You need to get off the internet,” I said. “But…accurate.”

“Are we okay?” he asked earnestly.

“I hope so,” I said, just as sincere.

He smiled and smoothed down his few fly-aways. “Sorry,” he said and glanced up like he could glare his hair into behaving.

I couldn’t help myself. “Oh thank God,” I said. “You were so hideous before; now I can actually look at you.”

He snorted. “You don’t share your feelings often, do you?”

“Did the teeth chattering give it away?”

“Knee-knocking, actually.” He leaned back against the counter. “So…are there going to be pancakes this year, or should we go out?”

My jaw dropped and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Asshole,” I said and buttered up a pan. “I did not mix a whole box of my best stuff for you to abandon me for IHOP. You're going to eat these pancakes or else.”

“Or else what?” he asked as I ladled some batter in.

“Or else you get no coffee,” I said and pointed at the pot. He made a sound like he quietly suffered an injury and went to pour himself a cup in the mug I had set out for him. I sipped my own while I made breakfast and smiled sweetly in return for the glare he aimed at me. As I made a breakfast for me and a human trash compactor, my headache started lifting really fast, and my body settled into a relaxed feeling suitable for a Sunday morning. Thank god for coffee.

And Steve Rogers was pretty okay too.

<<Previous Chapter Next Chapter>>

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers & reader #captain america fanfic #avengers fanfic #reader insert #lunch buddy

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devilbat · 6 years ago

Text

Ale

Did this as a little Drabble then I decided to add more to it.

Warning ⚠️:drinking, fluff, mention of smut

You had decided on grabbing a drink with Thor down in Tony’s bar, a few floors down. After a difficult mission you both had, it was needed. You didn’t know loki was back. So when you found Thor with his brother waiting for you. You smiled to yourself. You had feeling for the god when you first meet him. At that time he was moody, but it seemed like after you both got to know each other. He seem to come out of his shell.

“Ah, lady y/n!” Thor stood up, when he spotted you walking in. Loki looked over, quickly standing as well. “Look who made it back, alive.” Thor bellowed patting his brother on the back. Loki smiled shyly, a hint of a smirk played on his lips.

“Lady y/n you look ravishing.” Loki cooed, watching as you walked towards them.

“Thor, Loki. How much have you two had?” You question the two. “Or better yet who brought the Asguardian ale with them?” Taking a set between the two gods. You felt tiny in comparison.

“Ah Lady y/n, my brother found ale from our home on his journey. Would you like some?” Thor boomed in delight as he offered you some.

“Um no thank you boys. I really don’t want to be lose what little I had for dinner.” You smiled sweetly. You grab a beer for yourself. Thor had his brother tell you about his journey to his birth realm. When he was done, it was about 1am. You, decided to call it a night. They both watched you leave, after saying good night to them both.

“Brother, I thought you’re going to confess to liking lady y/n!” Thor waited until you were out of range. Thor poured Loki another shot of ale.

“How can I Brother, look at her.” Loki sighed heavily. Looking towards the door from which you had left from. “How will she love someone like me who isn’t just a god but a monster as well?” Loki had been rethinking things after find out his own answers about his Heritage. Which only made him think you could never love him.

“Brother lady y/n, could care less if you were a frog? let a lone being a frost giant. She likes you.” Thor wiggles his eyebrows, as he stated, though his words more slurred then normal. Thor handed another drink to his brother. “Here this will help, now go tell her.”

Moments after you got into your getting ready for bed. There was a knock on your door not thinking much of it. That it was probably Nat, as you saw her walking out of Bruce’s room. ‘Like no one knew’ you thought. Rolling your eyes. The knock on the door started to become more inpatient. Opening the door your eye widened as you looked up at loki who was using the door frame to hold himself up. You tried to cover yourself a little more. As you were just in a shirt. One of his in fact.

“L-loki, what are you doing here?” You stuttered as the god walked passed you, more like stumbling passed, inviting himself in. Shutting the door, you turned to face him. About to ask why he was there. Not realizing he was standing only an inch away from you. Before you could step back. Loki’s hands found their way onto you waist. His slender fingers digging into you tightly like you were going to disappear. Before you knew it his lips were on yours. The kiss was needy yet sloppy. You could taste the ale on his lips.

“Y/n, I-I’m in love with you.” He blurted out. His hands still tightly around your waist.

“What?” You stares at him not sure what you were hearing. He smiled that little sexy smirk of his. “Loki your drunk.”

“That I em, but I know what I feel. And I want to feel you, by my side every night before sleep comes for me, and by my side every morning when I awake.” He slurred over his words, as he stared down at you.

“Okay yep, you are one drunk god. Let’s just have you go to bed. You can confess your undying love to me when you wake up, sober.” You mumbled trying to shove him out the door. Knowing it was no good. You wanted to believe him you did, but he was drunk and men say dumb things when they are drunk.

“Fine I’ll tell you tomorrow. But,” before you could ask but what, green mist of his magic surrounded you both. You were in your bed, with a clinging drunk god using your chest as a pillow. Oh this was going to be interesting. He snuggled into you tightly. Head rubbing against your chest. You thought about calling Thor for help. But if loki this drunk, you weren’t sure what level Thor would be at. Even if you tried to call it may be no use as the god could sleep through just about anything.

Your tried to figure out what to do with your hands. Not entirely sure where to put them at this point.

“Darling?” Loki asked still resting on your rising chest. You breathing had picked up ever since he walked in.

“Yes oh mighty one?” Like he was going to remember any of this.

“You smell delectable, I dint know if I ever have told you that.” His hand snuck up cupping under your breast like he was pushing up a pillow. You breath hitched. You teased up a bit.

“Um n-no Loki you never have. Um thank you I think.” You stuttered out.

“Darling?” Loki purred. With a little hiccup. Almost making you giggle.

“Yes loki?” Your voice was a little bit higher then normal.

“When we wake, can I ravish you?” Your head snapped down looking at his still form.

“Sure loki. You can.” Rolling your eyes. “Like your drunk ass will even remember.” You mumble resting you head back down on to your own pillow. You heard a dark chuckle come from him making you shiver in response.

“My darling?” Loki smiled as he nestled into you more.

“Really Loki? What now?” You try to hold you giggle. As you thought this was rather funny the god of mischief drunk.

“Is this my shirt?” He asked as you felt his hand play with the material.

“Noo why would it be yours?” You said shyly. “And you know for someone who should be sleeping you awfully handsy.” You never got a response.

A few minutes had gone by while you waited to see if loki had yet another comment. But soon realize he had fallen asleep, finally. Shortly after sleep took hold of you. You woke up to movement. Your eyes fluttered open to see the god back at it. Rubber his face like a cat in between you breasts. You weren’t going to lie it was doing things to you.

“Morning loki!” You voice louder then normal. Seeing how hungover he was. He flinched a little.

“Shhh, women, silence.” Loki hissed as he stopped what he was doing to peek up at you.

“There’s my Loki.” You whispered. Looking down at him. “Do you remember anything from last night?” Your eyebrow raised. He nodded slowly a smirk placed a crossed his face. You gulped.

“Yes, now on to having my wicked way with this lovely body.” His hands trailed down a long with him. Throwing the covers over his head. Making you giggle at his dorkyness. You felt him pushing your shirt up. His hands roamed over your body, you giggled as it felt like he was tickling you. He stopped flipping the blanket over his head. “You mean to tell me that, I had total access to you last night? You have no panties on.”

You could only nod in response. His hand still ticking you. As he kissed your torso. Working his way down, the blanket back over his head. Soon your giggles turned into quite whimpers. As his hands stop tickling and started to roam over your breasts, kneading at them. His lips at your navel.

“Loki.” you quietly moaned out. As his tongue licked a crossed.

“So y/n, I saw loki walk into your room last night. Did you finally have him take your-“ Nat walked in cutting herself off. Making you squeak. As you stared at here. You whole body turning red.

“Darling, what’s-“ Loki’s head popped out from under the blankets. Looking over to see a very stunned yet smirking red headed assassin in your room. “Oh.”

“Ah, morning Natasha, hey lady y/n, have you seen my brother we were-“ Thor’s walked up behind Nat. His eyes widened at the sight before him. A joyous smile plastered on his face. You and Loki both were about to say something when.

“Hey, y/n we were going to go over the Porto type from Scott and Peter’s su-uuit.” Tony filed in behind Thor looking around him. At the two of you. You grabbed the blanket and throw it over your head. As Loki pancaked on top of you.

“All right everyone out.” Nat ordered. As she pushed the other two out of your room. After hearing the door close. You throw the blanket back over Loki’s head to look at him. Loki’s head was back between your boobs. Looking up at you with a cheeky grin.

“Well that wasn’t awkward or anything.” You hissed in announce. Loki moved to kiss your lips.

“Could be worse. They could of walked in while I had you tied up. While I took what was mine from this ravishing body of yours.” He chuckled darkly. Hands back to roaming.

“You wish.” You teased. Kissing Loki until the FRIDAY’s intercom came on. “Really, I do need your help like now. I can’t control Scott’s ants and he not here. Hurry I think they are planning on eating me.” Tony’s voice sounded panicked. With a heavy sigh you both got up. As you went to go save Tony again from Scott’s harmless ants.

@kitkatkl @lokilvrr @instantnoodlese @drakesfiance @meyoko10 @jackheart180 @wolfcore227 @mr-hiddlestons-pet @madleiine

Tom/Loki Tag’s: @theoneanna @graveyard-groupie @silverquartx @moonfaery @kcd15 @moonlightprime

#loki fluff #loki #loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki smut #loki imagine #loki of asgard #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki x you #alcoholic drink #drinking

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teamdoesminecraft · 6 years ago

Note

I hope I'm not bothering you but I'd love to know more about your su au when your back from hiatus. -

oh absolutely!thanks a lot to people in the discord and my close friend @crystalfloe for helping me develop this also

Bajan (or Star Ruby) is a gem type grown specifically for entertainment purposes: specifically, gladiatorial combat. Star Rubies rarely live long before being shattered, but this one came out near-perfect (aka Jasper Complex) and he proceeded to win three matches in the ring– which is unheard of. He was assigned to an actual army at this point by White Diamond (Notch) for making it so far.

True (Blue Peridot) is a relatively high-ranking gem in charge of a fleet of ships. His main job is to seek out potential colonies and explore them; he’s a little bit full of himself due to his high rank. He’s been around for thousands of years.

Jerome (Tiger’s Eye) is a part of Blue Peridot’s crew, but he was grown for a slightly different purpose: he was intended to mimic life on Earth as closely as possible, to better infiltrate human settlements. He’s a lower-ranked gem and not exactly a perfect cut, and sometimes got some flack from BlueP for it.

Husky (Lapis) is a standard terraformer like any other lapis; he was sent to Earth a while ago, along with a small team, to start construction of temples/vistas for the higher gems, should they arrive. Of course, when nobody started to show up, Husky started to go a little mad with freedom; the would-be temple is overrun with earthly entertainment and its inhabitants might not respond as well to authority as they should.

SSundee (Tourmalinated Quartz) was bred as a berserker in battle; his gem is high-ranked but incredibly unstable, attacking everything at a moment’s notice. He rarely interacts with others and when he does it’s dangerous.

Deadlox (Green Pearl) was the pearl of a younger diamond before disaster fell and the diamond was shattered/lost. White Diamond took him in, but under incredibly strict orders after that. GreenP harbors a lot of trauma, and refuses to act out whatsoever in public situations; he’s surprisingly knowledgeable about Homeworld tactics and data for a generally low-ranking gem.

Sky (Gold) is a young but incredibly high-ranking gem. He was made on Homeworld, and his role was as supervisor– to ensure several other productions went according to plan.

Gold didn’t get a chance to be assigned a role on Homeworld before he was booted off, however. At a court meeting, his very first one at only a few days old, he met GreenP- although “met” is a bit of a strong word. Gold tried to talk to him, but GreenP was shut off and reserved. Not fully understanding gem culture yet, Gold started prodding him for information about himself and the diamonds; why was he green if his diamond was White? This sent GreenP into an internal breakdown, and White Diamond had Gold dismissed from homeworld entirely as punishment.

Gold was sent to “supervise” a temple construction on Earth. When he arrived, he was greeted with a very much not-complete temple project that was supposedly headed by Lapis. After a bit of conversation, and after Lapis got over the fear of being reported to the diamonds, Lapis let him know that the temple hadn’t been checked on in thousands of years: that it was all but an earth-prison for Gold at this point. Gold, with nothing to do but supervise a temple that would never be used, began to grow restless.

Meanwhile, BlueP and his crew landed on Earth to explore more of it. BlueP stayed mostly in command, checking on the world in the functional spaceship. Tiger’s Eye split off from the group to learn about human society, and found himself in a village– and was immediately ambushed by a human who knew a little too much. Seto pried and prodded Tiger’s Eye for everything that he knew, about the gems from space and the magical weaponry they brought with them. After a time being held “hostage” in this village, though, Tiger’s Eye began to realize that this planet held smarter creatures than simple animals, and started to wonder if it was really worth taking over.

Gold, stranded on the temple for so long, couldn’t get GreenP off his mind– he was terrified he’d done irreversible damage to him. Or worse, as he was starting to guess, that the diamonds had; Lapis and the other temple-builders, after a lack of contact with aristocratic gems, hadn’t turned insane. If anything, they were more energized, sporadic, and happier than any gems Gold had seen on Homeworld. Feeling personally responsible for what had happened to GreenP, Gold kept track of incoming spaceships– when one landed, he set off with Lapis’s well-wishes on foot across the planet to get to it.

Gold managed to get onto BlueP’s ship by dint of simply being Gold– once he explained what he wanted done with it, though, BlueP was more than outraged. This was an exploration ship, not a ferry, and he definitely wasn’t going to use it to send a banned gem back to Homeworld. When Gold simply begging failed to convince him, he tried a new tactic; he just took BlueP from the ship and showed him the planet. BlueP didn’t fully understand the purpose of any of this at first, and was miffed (but not exactly “allowed” to be angry at a gold) by being stolen from his ship– but when he saw the temple gems, and the humans in the village, understood what Gold’s point was. Begrudgingly, BlueP agreed to fly Gold back to Homeworld; his entire crew was off on planetary exploration at this point. On the trip back, BlueP explained GreenP’s history of diamond-exchange and the trauma that would have resulted.

Upon landing, Gold originally intended just to check in on GreenP; but he found him under strict quarantine, cut off from any other gems. After somewhat abusing his status and BlueP’s access to Homeworld tech to get in, he tried to talk to him– and found the broken eye under his hair. Gold panicked when GreenP wouldn’t talk to him, and panicked even more when an alarm system sounded– but he knew he couldn’t leave him in an empty room for eternity, not when places like Earth existed. Gold steeled himself and dissipated GreenP’s form, “poofing” him, and tucked the gem away in as safe a place as he could think. He and BlueP had to run from the facility and back to the ship. They succeeded in getting away– but not before they could be spotted and marked down as criminals by Homeworld.

BlueP was incredibly distraught at being cast out from Homeworld and immediately started thinking of plans. They could go to an uncharted system, he reasoned, and live out their days as criminals while the diamonds continued to be distracted by Earth– but Gold realized he didn’t want anything to happen to the planet. After some arguing, Gold convinced BlueP to land back on Earth. BlueP wanted to leave again immediately, saying it was only a matter of time before Homeworld gems came to this planet in droves to finish the colonization– after all, his crew had to be almost done mapping it out by now– but Gold didn’t want to. He took BlueP back to the temple and explained his plan.

GreenP eventually reformed, in a quiet room, still a little broken; the group living there tried everything they could to fix him. Eventually, after trips outside the temple and through the planet’s strange environment, he started to come back, bit by bit– and started to fall into a new (or old) personality now that he was out of range of White Diamond’s control.

Gold formed an army on Earth– the rebel Crystal Gems, consisting mainly of himself, BlueP, GreenP, and Lapis. When the first few Homeworld gems landed, his team took them by surprise. Tiger’s Eye eventually got wind of the new rebel force; with a newfound enjoyment for Earth, he left to join their army instead. The diamonds back on Homeworld began sending more and more gems in droves: an actual army. Star Ruby and Tourmalinated Quartz were a part of this army, two ultimate fighting forces at the head of it.

During a particularly difficult battle, Tourmalinated Quartz found himself lost in an underground Earth cave system. With no way to tell how to get out, he wandered for days; when he couldn’t see anything, he stopped attacking it. He slowly realized that he had been nothing but a slaughterer from the day he was made– moreover, he realized that he’d much rather be a pacifist than a warrior. With a makeshift pair of incredibly dark glasses, Tourmalinated Quartz found his way back to the surface, completely willing to spend his time in near-darkness if he could choose what he fought. He was captured by some members of the rebel army and brought back to the temple for judgement; after all, he was a battle berserker. Lapis, however, let him live; Tourmalinated Quartz spent his time there working on the temple, doing menial tasks, and reveling in the mundane. He refused to join the rebel army, he explained, but he was more than willing to stand with the cause of allowing gems to experience new paths.

During a separate battle, Star Ruby and Tiger’s Eye took their fight miles away from the main battle, constantly pushing and prodding one another, neither giving up. When earth-weather changed and lightning struck, Star nearly jumped out of his skin. Tiger’s Eye didn’t get a chance much to laugh at him before dormant pieces of Homeworld war tech awoke. Neither of them really wanted to die much– they forged a temporary truce as they spent the next weeks on the run from Homeworld, humans, and earth animals. In secret, after finding an abandoned Homeworld ship, Star managed to contact the main Homeworld army and explain he had caught a rebel with a strong knowledge of Earth, and that he was taking the prisoner back.

After a few more weeks, however, of Tiger’s Eye showing Star Ruby around the world and fighting by his side, Star realized he was warming up to the traitor. During a particularly dangerous battle, Star ran to protect him– and collided with him– and fused. Neither had heard of a separate-gem fusion before, and they fell apart quickly, but it stuck as a point of bonding to talk about later.

The Homeworld army eventually met up with Star, though, to collect the prisoner. Star had forgotten all about the contact, and tried to explain to Tiger’s Eye that he had done it a while ago and didn’t mean it now– when that failed, the best he could do was distract the team sent until Tiger’s Eye managed to disappear into the woods. As soon as he was gone, Star announced his rejection of the Homeworld army, and fought against the team sent to get him. After inevitably winning, Star started his search for the rest of the rebels.

The diamonds saw they were losing the battle on Earth, and wasting resources on it to boot, but they wouldn’t let the rebels simply win. They worked together to release the corruption light across the planet. Gold, BlueP, GreenP, Lapis, Tourmalinated Quartz, and the newly-turned-traitor Star Ruby were only saved by Seto’s uncanny knowledge of gem technology and magic. He was able to erect a barrier that kept them alive and undamaged by the light. Tiger’s Eye, the one who had brought Seto to the temple in the first was, was not so lucky. He was entirely corrupted.

Star Ruby set out to find Tiger’s Eye again, despite being told that he was probably just as corrupt as any other monster. He was, of course; but eventually they managed to reverse most of the corruption, leaving only a few physical animalistic traits behind.

The war was over; Homeworld was done with that planet. Gold and his small team began working to restructure the lost gems, to dismantle Homeworld technology, and to keep humans from discovering or being injured by the new monsters that raged on their world.

#team crafted #minecraft #au tag #steven universe #lore #ask #long post

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braincoins · 6 years ago

Text

WIP Wednesday

I’m going to do something a little different with this WIP. Instead of giving you a small chunk of one part as a teaser, I’m going to give you lots of little chunks from all throughout the document (so far).

Mostly just to mess with y’all, but also partly because there are lots of little lines and bits I like and trying to choose one is too hard.

So, yes, anyway, it’s a Shallura story. It will be smut and while it has gotten a bit... mature in some places, it hasn’t hit the bow-chicka-bow-wow yet (or I’d be putting this on the smut blog instead). It’s a twist on a particular trope. Oh! And it incorporates a few aspects of V:LotD because, honestly, I have rapidly-dwindling interest in writing in the actual VLD canon anymore. But this wouldn’t actually happen in V:LotD. It’s... a V:LotD AU? V:LotD fanfic? Even though I don’t have V:LotD anywhere even approaching done (because, let’s face it, rewriting an entire TV show is a hell of an undertaking)?

ANYWAY. Time to jump to the cut.

“Paladins, let’s clear a path for the lady,” he ordered.

----------

“I await your cue, Princess.”

She smiled. Polite as always, even if it put distance between them. She was often torn on whether to correct him on his habit of using her title. On one hand, they were friends, weren’t they? They were all friends and teammates. They’d been in many battles together, saved each other’s lives. This team was all she had; she didn’t want to stand on ceremony.

On the other hand, he was the only one besides Coran to use her title regularly. Sometimes the other paladins used it, but it was rare. And sometimes… sometimes it was nice to be reminded that she still held a place of leadership. Sometimes it wasn’t, to be fair; sometimes she didn’t want to be the one calling the shots. But for Shiro to acknowledge her title… He wasn’t Altean. He hadn’t been born and raised to revere the Altean crown and throne. He owed her no allegiance due to the accidents of birth – his or hers – yet he gave it to her anyway.

It touched her deeply. In a way, it was almost an endearment. Not that he meant it as such, or that she even took it as such, typically. It was just… it was nice. It was nice of Shiro to be this semi-formal level of casual with her – if that made sense. She knew where she stood with Shiro – as his princess – and in a universe as chaotic and unsteady as the one she’d woken up in after all that time, that was a precious thing.

------------

“Maybe this is some sort of new Olkari tech?” Pidge postulated as she typed. “Hunk, help me out with the boost.”

“Oh, right,” he said, settling in to start his own typing.

“They would have saved Shiro and Allura, too,” Keith protested.

“Something went wrong with it, maybe. Errors happen, even with great engineers like the Olkari,” she replied. “Think about it: transporting the Castle, all the Lions, AND all of us out of danger, all at once? It’s no wonder something went sideways. We just have to figure it out.”

“I’ll send a message to them,” Coran said. “Even if they didn’t do this, maybe they can help us figure it out.”

“Good idea.”

“But for now we’re safe?” Keith asked.

“Don’t,” Lance warned.

“What?”

“DO NOT fly out there in Red to go look for Shiro when we don’t even have a spot to start looking.”

“You’re not my boss.”

“No, I’m your teammate and I’m telling you we’re already down two, let’s not lose someone else! At least wait until we have an idea of where to search; then you can hare about all you want. But for now, just STAY PUT, WILL YOU!?” Lance all but screeched at him.

“Fine,” Keith sulked, folding his arms. “But the second – the TICK – we have an idea…”

“Yes, yes, I won’t stand in your way,” he assured him. “I’ll be right out there with you. I mean, gotta have someone competent out leading the search.”

Coran, Pidge, and Hunk let the two of them bicker. It was like white noise by now, and it helped keep their minds off the worrisome question of where the leaders of Voltron had disappeared to.

---------

“Interesting. I wonder why they don’t use translator technology? It’s relatively easy to develop.”

“Says the woman from the supremely-advanced technological race.”

“We’re only supremely-advanced compared to some others.”

“Like humans,” he pointed out.

“You’ll catch up in time,” she replied consolingly.

“Besides, you have all this magitech stuff…”

“Magitech?” He was now fully capable of seeing the look of amused confusion on her face.

He spelled it out for her. “Magic + Technology = Magitech.”

She snorted. “Alchemy,” she corrected him.

“Magitech,” he agreed, as if that was what she had said.

“Anyone could do it, with the proper training.”

He scoffed.

“It’s true! Oh, some would always be more adept at it than others, certainly – my father was a superb alchemist by dint of being Sacred, and Honerva was unrivalled in raw talent and diligent study – but anyone could do it.”

“I couldn’t.”

“I bet you could.”

“That’s a bet you’d lose.”

She grinned at him. “When we get out of this, I’m going to teach you a simple alchemy trick,” she told him. “And I’m willing to bet that, if you apply yourself to it, you’ll be able to do it.”

“Bet what?” he shot back.

“Whatever you like,” she replied airily.

He whistled. “Someone’s sounding pretty confident.”

“I only bet when I know I’ll win.” But she swapped her almost arrogant expression for a warning as she looked at him. “But you have to try. Really try, not just pretend to try then give up just to win the bet.”

“Okay, I’ll do it. When we get out of here.”

She nodded. “When we get home. Or… well, back to the Castle, I suppose.”

“When we get home,” he agreed, and the smile that bloomed on her face made him smile in return. He almost forgot that they were strapped to chairs, held by thus far unseen aliens who had mysterious, unknown purposes for them. Almost.

------------

“Uh, maybe I shouldn’t be asking this, but when you say ‘genetic engineering’…?”

It just now occurred to her how that might sound to him, to Shiro of all people, having been a living experiment of Haggar’s for so long. “Oh, they’ve never done anything like… I mean, as far as I know, they haven’t… They’re not…” She didn’t know how to bring it up without bringing it up, so in the end she settled for, “They’re not her.”

------------

He walked back out and heard the princess gasp. She was sitting up in bed now, hand over her mouth as she looked straight at him.

He blushed and looked away. He ought to be embarrassed, but that wasn’t actually the first thing he thought of. His mind went straight to his scars.

He’d never wanted her to see them. Never wanted any of them to, because they drew attention and they… reminded everyone who saw them. Oh, sure, some of them were of fonder, more far-off memories, back on Earth: a bike accident when he was twelve, a bad hit in training when he’d been cocky. But far too many of his scars were from the Arena, from when survival was the only duty he had and he’d obeyed it scrupulously. At least, according to the half-remembered snatches of memory left to him.

“Sorry, it… wasn’t my idea,” he muttered.

Her hand lowered and she sighed. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and caught her blushing. Maybe she wasn’t focusing on the scars after all. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. “No, I know. And it’s not your fault. But twenty vargas and we’re out of here.”

-----------

He cleared his throat and knocked on the nearest wall, leaning in to say, “I don’t suppose we could get a deck of cards?”

----------

“Nothing? Again?!” Keith was on the verge of having a fit.

“No, no,” Hunk told him. “Nothing still. STILL nothing because ‘again’ would imply that we had something at some point.”

“If you want to tear your hair out,” Lance said, leaning towards Keith, “I volunteer to help. Anything’s better than the mullet.”

------------

Shiro knocked on the wall. “Hey, some water would be nice? Princess?”

“Oh, yes, please,” she said pleasantly.

An opening appeared in the wall after a moment, and a tray slid out onto the table with two glasses and a pitcher of ice water.

“Thank you,” Shiro said. He picked up a glass. “Say when.”

Her brow furrowed. “Huh?”

He was pouring water into the glass. “Say when it’s full enough for you.”

“Oh! When, when!” she rushed to say, as the glass was getting quite full.

He laughed and handed it over to her. “You can just say ‘that’s good,’ or ‘that’ll do’ or something like that. You don’t have to actually say ‘when’.”

“But you said to.” She took a drink.

-------

Princess Allura had pointed out that it took being held captive by aliens for either one of them to take a vacation, and they’d both laughed so hard they’d cried.

-------

There was a pause. “You are both very attractive members of your own species.”

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT!” she screamed.

“They’re not wrong,” Shiro murmured before he could help himself. Her legs… those thighs…

Princess Allura shot him a look, eyebrows raised, and he cleared his throat and excused himself to the bathroom, leaving her to shout deprecations and vent her annoyance at the disembodied voice in the ceiling.

-----------

I wonder if he’d still call me ‘princess’ if I was in his lap right now?

---------

Eventually, Shiro said, “You really want to know what happened?”

“Yes!” Coran replied immediately, actually latching onto Shiro’s arm and looking into his face with anticipation.

Shiro leaned forward just a hair. “Ask. The. Princess.” He straightened up again.

---------

“Well?” he asked. “Shiro refused to tell me what happened. He suggested I ask you.”

“Where are we and how long until we get to Olkarion?”

------------

“Or we can rest now,” he insisted. “Please. Look, there has to be something you can spend this time doing, if it bothers you. Work on your alchemy more?”

She remembered the bet suddenly: that she would teach Shiro a simple alchemy trick. But that would require being alone with Shiro again. They couldn’t even have a simple “hello, sorry about that, goodbye” sort of conversation right now; how could she be expected to teach him anything?

“I can work on my alchemy when we’re on Olkarion.”

He snorted. “You won’t though. You’ll be in conference with Ryner or the rebels or any of the other various Coalition groups that have started working on Olkarion as a base of operations. This is an excellent time to advance your studies.”

She had to give him that one. “Very well.” She gave him a warning glare. “But be careful about gainsaying me in the future.”

He smiled; her warning was not having the desired effect. It was hard to cow a man who’d seen you in diapers. “Yes, Princess.”

It sounded wrong to hear him say it. I want Shiro to say it again. She looked away quickly, hoping Coran wouldn’t catch her blushing and turned to leave.

--------

Keith shot Shiro a glance and found him looking… mildly uncomfortable. That was odd. Not the look itself: Keith had seen Shiro look like that a hundred times before. It usually meant he was having a flare-up and didn’t want to admit it. But his disease had been cured by the pods. He wasn’t degenerating anymore, so there shouldn’t be anything to flare up.

He leaned in towards him to ask quietly, “Everything okay?” just the way he had in the old days.

Shiro’s answer back then had usually been that he needed to sit or stop or he’d request Keith run a distraction so he could slip out, if it was really bad. But his answer today was to put on a thin smile and say, “Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Keith frowned. That was the bullshit he’d always given everyone else, the ones who didn’t know, the ones Shiro didn’t see the need to tell. You’re supposed to tell me everything. You’ve never shut me out before.

And Shiro caught that. It was a two-way street, after all; they knew each other. He dropped his voice low. “I really am fine, Keith, I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“Is there something I can do?” Because he always wanted to do something. Standing around, talking, all of that was bullshit. Action produced results.

“No, buddy. Sorry. Not this time.” Shiro patted his shoulder. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

He walked away, but he might as well have been running.

#Shallura #WIP Wednesday #fic teasers #bonus points if you can figure out what trope I'm toying with

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