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saffronique · 3 years ago

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I Read Leopardstar's Honor So You Don't Have To: A Review (Not Spoiler Free)

Oh Leopardstar. A cat who has long divided the fanbase as a leader beloved by some and despised by others. After years of waiting (for some) she was finally given her own super edition. In a word it was... underwhelming.

Introduction:

The book opens during Leopardstar's kithood days. The first scene is adorably heartwarming- readers are treated to Leopardkit and her denmates playing the warriors version of hide and seek, and there are some absolutely adorable moments here, such as Crookedjaw helping Leopardkit escape the seeker by whisking her away on his back, and Mudfur doting on his daughter. The scene takes a sharp turn when Skykit, one of Leopardkit's denmates, lures her away from the group to shove her head underwater and berate her for giving away Skykit's hiding place in the last round of hide and seek. Skykit's actions are startlingly cruel here, as she tells Leopardkit that she's a rotten kit that killed her own mother and that she is doomed to the dark forest like all the other murderers. This understandably disturbs and traumatizes Leopardkit, and when she speaks to her father about it, Mudfur reassures her that she is good, and that Brightsky came to him in a dream to say that Leopardkit will one day save RiverClan. Leopardkit latches on to this dream, and the book follows her through relatively disjointed moments in her life as she tries to live up to her destiny.

Pacing:

The pacing of the book is an absolute nightmare. We don't spend long enough in any one part of Leopardstar's life to see her have any meaningful interactions with other cats, and thus the majority of the relationships she has seem surface level at best, forced at worse, with Whiteclaw being a notable exception. She spends maybe 3 chapters as a kit, 3 as an apprentice, 3 as a warrior, 2 as a mentor, and so on. As a result, we don't actually get the opportunity to see Leopardstar learning or struggling in a meaningful way at any point. We're TOLD she's a hard worker, that she's dedicated and loyal, but the book gives you little chance to actually see it. The book slows down long enough to force an almost love story with Frogtail, which Leopardstar ultimately gives up on to focus on her work, but then a few chapters later Frogtail is dead and it's back to jumping around through her life.

The book really suffers from a lack of side characters and relationships to help things feel connected. The only real through line is this silly dream from Mudfur-not even an official prophecy- that Leopardstar focuses on to the exclusion of all else. Compare this to Crookedstar's Promise and Bluestar's Prophecy- while both books feature a greater destiny that the characters focus on throughout the book, they are given the chance to develop meaningful relationships that last for large chunks of the book. Bluestar has her relationship with her sister and her rivalry with Thistleclaw, and even her friendship with Thrushpelt, all of which allow her story to feel genuine and naturally lend themselves to interesting subplots. Crookedstar has his relationship with Mapleshade, his romance with Willowbreeze, his desire to prove himself to his mother- again, all things that make him feel like a well rounded, multifaceted character. Leopardstar has her dream, and ONLY her dream. None of her friendships last more than a few chapters before the other character is killed off. Her most meaningful relationship, with her apprentice and adopted son Whiteclaw, has the potential to round out Leopardstar's character, but Whiteclaw's fate has been predetermined. We all know he's going to die in the gorge because we see it happen in Fire and Ice. After Whiteclaw's death, Leopardstar briefly has a compelling relationship with Silverstream after she discovers her relationship with Graystripe. Silverstream and Leopardstar have opposing priorities of love and duty, and the interactions between them are an interesting insight into both characters. Silverstream actively rebukes Leopardstar's mindset and challenges her priorities, something that would have been invaluable in making Leopardstar's choice to join Tigerstar seem more consequential. But Silverstream too is doomed to die, and by the time the book reaches its climax, Mudfur is the only cat left to challenge Leopardstar's choices. Instead of letting the rift between father and daughter build, Leopardstar has no problem simply banishing her father and medicine cat for disagreeing with her. No one that she cares about is left to challenge her for her decisions, and thus there are no real stakes to the choices she makes. Sure, Stonefur dies and its awful, but the book doesn't bother to develop any real friendship or camaraderie between the two, so it doesn't feel as impactful as it should. The book concludes with Leopardstar understanding that she's wrong and Mudfur convincing her that she's going to save the Clan from the disaster she helped create. At the very least, Leopardstar seems to understand the problems with this and points out that it's not really her saving the Clans, its Firestar. This is completely true, as she has no role in Tigerstar's downfall and no role in stopping Scourge. The best that can be said for Leopardstar is that she doesn't get in the way of Firestar here.

She faces no real struggles aside from her father's doubt as to her ability to lead, a dynamic already witnessed between Brambleberry and Crookedstar and done much better.

Awful editing:

This book suffers from an almost unbelievable lack of care on the part of the editors, with big chunks of text very obviously cut and pasted to different parts of the story without any effort to edit out nonsequitors. The most painful instance of this revolves around Stormpaw and Featherpaw's apprenticeship. In one scene, Leopardstar comments on the fact that Primrosekit and Pikekit will be made apprentices any day (Reedkit is inexplicably absent here, and Perchkit seems to have died offscreen though it is never mentioned) and notes that Stormkit and Featherkit still have their kit fluff and look tiny next to their older denmates. A couple paragraphs later, we see Featherkit and Stormkit being apprenticed to Mistyfoot and Stonefur, in a paragraph that EXPLICITLY STATES that it's the very next day. The other kits have mysteriously been apprenticed already. Boulder and Jaggedtooth of ShadowClan are inexplicably present at the ceremony, despite there being no mention of their arrival at any point and Leopardstar refusing Tigerstar's offer to join their two Clans together the day before. A few pages later (yes, literally just pages later, that's how atrocious the pacing is) we cut to a battle between RiverClan and ThunderClan at the Sunningrocks, where Stonefur and Mistyfoot's parentage is revealed. Leopardstar doesn't actually hear this, but she does overhear them discussing it in the most painfully forced way possible moments later. Leopardstar finds herself absolutely HORRIFIED that she's apprenticed two half-Clan cats to half-Clan mentors.... and then a few chapters later, after forming TigerClan, Tigerstar asks her if she still intends to make Mistyfoot and Stonefur mentors to Featherkit and Stormkit despite their parentage, to which Leopardstar responds that they are still loyal RiverClan warriors. Yes, I'm serious.

Leopardstar's character:

This super edition is nothing but a showcase of the absolute worst aspects of Leopardstar as a character. Throughout the book she is shown as racist, battle hungry, self-centered, foolish, and utterly lacking in compassion or even pity for any Clan other than her own. She is constantly making racist generalizations about cats from other Clans, actively wishes for WindClan's downfall, sides with Tigerstar simply because Fireheart is a kittypet, and, perhaps most disturbingly, tries to murder Fireheart in cold blood because of his kittypet background. This book literally does nothing to endear the reader to Leopardstar, it makes her out to be the most despicable, honorless cat imaginable. And honestly, if you're not a Leopardstar fan, I think that's one of the most compelling things about this book. The desire to see what atrocities Leopardstar would commit next was what kept me interested in the story, honestly it was the only reason I finished it. There was something morbidly fascinating about watching a character so self absorbed and lacking in compassion interact with the world around her. It was enjoyable in a way to see a character so deeply set in the beliefs that the series has repeatedly established as wrong time and time again. Pacing and editing aside, this difference in philosophy is a breath of fresh air after the same recycled plotlines and moral messages that the series has been using for years. This book isn't going to make you like Leopardstar, but it is going to make you love to hate her.

What the book did right:

While there were very few positives to the book, it wasn't completely lacking in value. The book succeeded in developing a deeply meaningful relationship between Whiteclaw and Leopardstar that, thankfully, wasn't a romance. Their mother/son and mentor/apprentice relationship does a good job at setting up Leopardstar's grudge against ThunderClan over Whiteclaw's death as we see it play out in the first arc. Honestly, Leopardstar as a character would have been served far better if this had just been a novella detailing the relationship between these two. That was probably the only real thing of value in the book, honestly. Aside from that, Frogtail and Leopardstar's relationship, while I personally found it completely unnecessary, addressed a topic I've been hoping to see in warriors for a while now-- two characters who love each other but decide that the things they want out of life are mutually incompatible, and part ways amicably. Leafpool x Crowfeather and Bluestar x Oakheart both almost did this, but fell short because it was only ever really one character who decided to end the relationship. Unfortunately, the value in this message is somewhat diminished by the fact that Leopardstar later laments multiple times that she should've given up on her goals and just had kits with Frogtail instead, an absolutely disgusting conclusion that plays into the recurring problem of misogyny in warriors where women aren't allowed to be both mothers and hold a position of power, they have to choose between the two.

All in all, this Super Edition is easily the worst so far in terms of plot, pacing, and writing, but I still found some enjoyment in reading the perspective of such a selfish, cruel protagonist.

#warrior cats #warriors #warriorcats #wc #leopardstar #leopardstar's honour #leopardstar's honor #Leopardstar's honor review

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adsdragonlover · 4 years ago

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You Matter To Me

Coda to 15x19

Wc: 2k, Tags: fluff, pie, happy ending, first kiss

Also on ao3

It’s been three weeks since they won, but Dean still isn’t happy.

He’s been driving around the country, searching for something he knows he won’t find. The thing he wants that he knows he can’t have. He lost his chance.

Eventually, he ends up at a diner.

Lulu’s Pies, it says in softly glowing neon cursive above the building.

The bell above the door chimes as Dean pushes it open and steps inside. It’s pleasantly warm compared to the cold night outside, but Dean still feels cold. At least on the inside.

He heads to the bar and sits down on one of the stools.

With a cursory and habitual glance around the diner, he realizes he’s the only one here. At least the only customer.

That makes sense, he supposes. It’s barely 3 AM and the diner is plopped in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. The only other signs of life in the area are the long winding road outside and the shitty old gas station a few miles back.

To be honest, Dean doesn’t quite know why he came here. Maybe he needed a break from the drive.

He wanted to get some pie - the place was literally named for its pies - but that was mainly out of habit rather than actual desire. It’s been hard to want any of the things he used to enjoy, not since…

He cuts off that train of thought with a scowl to himself.

The waitress, a sweet looking woman with long, wavy, dark blonde hair and deep blue eyes approaches Dean from the other side of the bar. “What can I get for you, sugar?” she asks with a warm voice, rich with a soft southern accent. It reminds him, inexplicably, of his mother.

“I-“ Dean stops. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly.

The waitress, Jenna, according to her name tag, smiles sympathetically. “That’s alright,” she says sweetly. “It can be hard to know what you want, especially when you lose someone dear to you.”

Dean frowns. “How did you-” He begins.

Jenna smiles sadly at Dean. “There are some things a mother just knows, and heartbreak is one of them.” Her eyes are understanding, and painfully blue - too close to Castiel’s eyes for comfort. Dean looks away. “You look like you could use a slice of pie,” she says, handing him a paper dessert menu, specifically made for this week. “They’re all made from scratch, and made from the heart. Take all the time you need, honey. I’ll be back with a cup of coffee for you, it’s on the house.”

Jenna’s words soothe something raw and stinging inside Dean, and he offers her a small smile as she heads back into the kitchen.

He looks over the menu with a tired sigh. Not too long ago, Dean would’ve killed to eat here. All the pies sound awesome, and something about the waitress makes it very clear she puts effort into her pies.

Still, his heart isn’t really in it.

When Jenna comes back with a mug of coffee and a smile, Dean nods thankfully, but shakes his head when she asks if he’s ready to order. “I just- I need more time,” he says.

He isn’t just talking about the food. Not anymore.

Jenna nods. “Just give me a call when you’re ready, hun,” and then she’s gone.

Dean isn’t really sure how long he sits there, staring blankly at the dessert menu, coffee warming up one of his hands, his soul feeling achingly empty.

He's snapped out of his stupor by the sound of the bell above the door chiming to indicate someone else entering.

Dean’s eyes are glued to the menu still, reading the blurb under Heartbreak Pie. It's a black bottomed cherry pie, and the picture stops him.

He hears footsteps walk over, but he ignores them. They come closer until the stranger sits down on the stool to the right of Dean.

Dean feels irritation flash through him briefly, the diner is completely empty, and Dean’s positive he’s radiating “leave me alone” vibes, but for some reason the stranger decides to sit next to him anyway.

The irritation is gone as fast as it appeared however, Dean just doesn’t have the energy. Not anymore.

A couple days after they’d won, after Jack had left and Sam had reunited with a newly brought back Eileen, Dean had broken down in the bunker.

He’d lost it a little, had cried and cried and cried for days. Begging and pleading and praying. But Cas hadn’t come back.

Not long after, the sadness had turned to anger. Anger at Cas, for making the deal in the first place. For loving Dean so much it killed him. For telling him and then leaving before Dean could say it back. Anger at Jack, for dying and causing the deal, for becoming God and not bringing Cas back, for leaving Dean just like Cas had, just like Sam.

But mostly, Dean had been angry with himself. For not saying it back when Cas told him, for just standing there, for being the reason Cas died, for being too stubborn and too scared to say anything sooner, back when he’d had the chance. He was angry at himself for not being everything that Cas apparently thought he was.

Those few days were fueled entirely by anger in Dean’s opinion. He knew, deep down, that the anger was caused by love, but he didn’t want to think about that. Because if Cas was right, if he was right about Dean then there really wasn’t any good reason why Dean had never said anything.

Those few days were fueled entirely by anger. He knew, deep down, that the anger was caused by love, but he didn’t want to think about that. Because if Cas was right, if he was right about Dean then there really wasn’t any good reason why Dean had never said anything.

Nowadays though, Dean just felt numb. He drives around in Baby with the hopes of bringing something back into his life, but nothing helps.

He almost missed it, he was so lost in thought, and he barely caught the tail end of Jenna asking the stranger what she could “-get for you, dear?”

“I’ll have a slice of cherry pie,” came the low and gravelly voice, and Dean’s heart stopped, “and a slice of apple pie for my friend here,” Castiel finished.

Dean could barely hear Jenna’s acknowledgement and departure over the sudden ringing in his ears and the unavoidable bloom of hope in his chest.

He wants to look over, he does. He wants to see for himself if it really is Cas. Or if he's finally going crazy. But he can't move. He's frozen in his spot.

And then Cas’ hand comes to rest on Dean’s shoulder, right where his handprint had been, both as a scar that was no longer there, and as a bloody stain on a jacket Dean kept in the trunk of the impala for safekeeping. That movement, that touch, it was undeniably Castiel, and it forced Dean into action.

He turns his head, and looks his best friend in the eyes for the first time in what feels like forever.

And it's Castiel. Undoubtedly. He has the same messy hair, the same stubble, the same beautiful blue eyes, same dirty trench coat, the same stubbornly crooked blue tie.

“Cas?” Dean croaks, voice wobbling, painfully close to cracking.

Castiel smiles softly and the sight of it brings endless relief to Dean. And when Cas responds with, “Yes. Hello, Dean.” The relief doubles until it floods over Dean so completely his hands begin to shake.

“Cas,” he starts, voice trembling almost as much as his hands. “I- you- how-?”

“Oh look, our pie,” Cas says, cutting Dean off as their slices of pie are placed down in front of them.

“Cas, listen-” Dean begins quietly.

“Dean,” Cas interrupts. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk, I promise. Just eat your pie.”

And maybe, some other time, Dean would’ve been worried, would’ve been suspicious over Cas’ clear redirection. But he isn't. Because Castiel’s eyes are earnest and honest.

And Dean suddenly understands. Cas doesn't want to talk about it yet. He doesn't know how Dean is going to respond. He wants to have this first, just a quiet, peaceful moment.

So Dean nods, and begins to eat his pie.

It is really good pie, especially a regular apple pie, and it's probably the best apple pie he’d had in years. Mentally, Dean decides to give Jenna a large tip.

He’s halfway through eating his pie when he can’t do it anymore. Not with the way he could feel Cas watching him contentedly, fondly.

“Cas, listen, I-”

“It’s alright, Dean,” Cas says, cutting him off again, but Dean can’t be mad at it. He just needs to keep going.

“No,” he says sternly, looking stubbornly down at his half-eaten slice of pie. “No, it’s not Cas. It’s not alright, and I need to say this.”

He looks back up at Cas and waits for his response. When Cas nods in understanding, Dean takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes to steady himself briefly before opening them back up and looking Cas in the eyes. “Cas, I love you,” Dean says quietly. “You gotta know I love you too.”

Cas’ eyes widen slightly before his expression softens to something so fond it would probably make Dean uncomfortable had it been coming from anyone else. “I know,” he says with a smile that’s almost a grin.

“You kno-?” Then Dean gets it. “Oh you little shit,” he laughs. “You did not know, you don’t get to Han Solo me, you asshat,” Dean says with a wide grin.

Cas chuckles and the sound warms Dean up from the inside out. “My apologies, Dean. It seemed fitting and I figured you’d appreciate it.” Cas ducks his head slightly, avoiding eye contact, though he’s still smiling.

“Hey,” Dean says, and he reaches out and grabs Cas’ hand. “There’s no need to apologize, man.” Dean’s grinning too, and, distantly, he figures he should probably make an effort to stop calling Cas “man” and “buddy”, considering the fact that he’s in love with the stupid angel.

Cas’ smile widens and he looks back up, meeting Dean’s gaze as he turns his hand over and laces their fingers together almost hesitantly.

The flood of warmth the action brings Dean, as well as the hesitation in Cas’ eyes, brings Dean to squeeze their hands automatically, reassuringly.

All the hesitance in Cas’ expression melts away, and he practically beams at Dean. “You should finish your pie, Dean,” he suggests softly.

“So should you,” Dean points out.

Cas chuckles again and shakes his head. “It only tastes like molecules to me. I’ll get a to-go box for it and you can finish it for me later,” he says, and the ‘later’ in that sentence fills Dean with joy.

They aren’t over. There’s going to be a “later” for the two of them.

He grins at Cas and squeezes his hand before turning back to his delicious pie.

It’s after he finishes it that he gets an idea, and he grins. “Hey Cas, you wanna taste it? It’s pretty good.”

Castiel frowns and does his confused little head tilt that Dean has always secretly found unbearably cute. He realizes, suddenly, that he doesn’t have to keep that a secret anymore, and the thought makes him smile.

“Dean, I don’t understand,” Cas says slowly, “there isn’t any pie le-” and then the look on Dean’s face must sink in, because he cuts off with a slowly growing and a little shy smile. “...yes,” he says finally. “I would like a taste.”

“Good,” Dean says, and then he reaches over with both hands, wrapping one around Cas’ arm and cupping the back of his neck with the other as he pulls his angel into a kiss.

Castiel melts into it, and Dean feels a little like he’s glowing from the inside out, he’s so happy.

When they pull away, Dean is still grinning. “Well?” he says. “Did you like the taste?”

Cas is wearing a matching grin. “Hmmm,” he says with mock thoughtfulness. “I’m not sure, I think we should do it again, so I can have another taste.”

God, Dean is in love.

They meet again in the middle for another kiss.

Dean’s face almost hurts from smiling so much after such a long time of not smiling at all. And he knows, as they hold each other close in the pie diner, that they have the rest of their lives to spend together.

And Dean is happy.

Tag list! Ask to be added or removed!

@dreamnovak @tearsofgrace @bluebell-24 @rambleoncas

#coda #spn fanfic #destiel fanfic #destiel ficlet #destiel coda #spn 15.19 #spn 15x19 #spn spoilers #supernatural fanfic #deancas #deancas fic #destiel fic #destiel #my writing #catch me being a musical theater nerd #and adding Jenna from waitress to the story

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rhysismydaddy · 4 years ago

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Naughty Neighbors pt. 3 (Elriel)

I think I might’ve actually died writing the first part of this not going to lie. Also don’t come for me changing the verb tense I’m well aware lol

Coming next week...

“I’m not taking you to bed while you belong to another man, Elain.”

“I don’t belong to anyone.”

“Maybe not your body,” he agrees, placing a wide hand on her chest, right above her heart. “But I want this to be mine. And you’re going to give it to me.”

______________________________________________________________

~Elain~

It’s Saturday night, the first day of what’s shaping up to be a truly unremarkable weekend for Elain. Feyre’s art show’s tomorrow, but that’s the most exciting thing she has planned.

She can’t remember the last time she’d been excited about something even was, actually.

Pushing that uncomfortable thought away, she settles further in the bath and sighs. Desperate for entertainment, she tries to focus on the pages of the book in front of her, but her brain won’t cooperate.

After another ten minutes, she resigns herself to an early night and gets out of the tub, slipping into one of her robes.

It’s only eleven, but she gets in bed, forgotten book on her night table. Closing her eyes proves she is actually a little tired, because she starts to relax and drift off to sleep.

But then she hears it.

A low groan sounds through the wall between her apartment and her neighbor’s, and her eyes go wide. She hears two people talk, then a feminine laugh. Which turns into a loud moan a second later.

Oh. My. Gods.

There’s a thud, then sexy, masculine laughter meets her ears.

Some shuffling sounds make Elain bury her head under her pillow,, the blush on her cheeks hot enough to melt the sheets away. This is so horrible.

But no amount of pillows could stop her from hearing what happens next.

The feminine moaning gets louder, then is joined by a loud banging directly on her wall. Was that his... headboard?

Good heavens above, he’s really going for it over there.

There’s a pause, then the banging gets even more intense. The woman’s moaning is closer now, and she realizes with a start what’s happening. They’d moved against the wall. Her wall.

Oh, he's dead.

She’ll kill him herself if she had to for subjecting her to this.

Except that’s not exactly what she feels like doing as she hears the asshole practically growl, “Fuck, baby.”

~Azriel~

Mor slaps my chest, giving me a strange look. “Fuck, baby?” she whispers incredulously. “That’s what you say when you get laid?.”

I just roll my eyes and mutter, “Shut up.”

“That’s the most embarrassing, male thing you could ever say. But keep going. The point is to prove you have better stamina, and we’ve only been at this for ten minutes.”

Barely repressing laughter, I wrap her jean-clad legs tighter around my waist and keep moving against her.

When she lets out another ridiculously loud moan, I say quietly, “This is so fucking stupid.”

“I agree, but I’m not the one whose whipped.”

In case it isn’t obvious, I really, really regret telling her about Elain.

As soon as she’d heard about Lucien “Shit in the Sack” Vanserra, Mor had been determined to help.

She’s my absolute best friend, the one who knows every sordid detail about my life, and tonight she’s made it her mission in life to help make Elain jealous.

She’s also a lesbian.

“So this is doing nothing for you?” I ask with a frown. I mean, if we were naked, this would be some of my best work.

She gives me a flat look, even as I continue fake-fucking her against the wall. “Not unless you change your name to Azriella and grow a huge pair of-”

“Okay, I get it. Laugh like I said something funny.”

Rolling her eyes, she does, and I force myself to huff a chuckle, too.

Gods, she’s right. I’m whipped. And definitely deranged. For a chick who isn’t even sleeping with me.

If my friends knew, they’d never shut up about it. Mor was the only one I’d told, and that was because she knows how it feels to have feelings for someone and not be able to do anything about it.

Plus, I’d been her fake boyfriend for years in high school before she came out to her parents, so she owes me.

Mor checks her watch and raises her eyebrows. “It’s been fifteen minutes. How long do you usually last?”

It’s my turn to glare. “Did you seriously just ask me that?”

“I’m just saying, I have a date in an hour.”

She groans, so I wait until that stops and ask, “With who?”

“That really pretty barista I told you about, so I don’t want to be late. Five more minutes seems good.” I nod, because it’s nice she’s doing this in the first place. “Make em count, champ.”

I think I’m going to kill her one day.

But I do.

And by the end, we’re both breathing hard and have made enough noise to wake the whole building. After a very obnoxious climax, I let Mor down. “You realize if she does ever have sex with you you’re going to have to-”

“It won’t be a problem,” I assure her, one-hundred percent confident in that fact.

She gives me a disbelieving look but just shakes her head and ruffles her hair. Once at the door, she turns and whispers, “She’s going to look out the peep hole, so I’m going to kiss the shit out of you.”

With that, my best friend swings the door open, turns around, and puts on an expression I’ve never seen before. It’s desire and satisfaction and something else entirely I don’t want to read in to. It’s disgusting.

But I act like the “champ” I am and don’t react, even as she pulls my face down to hers and kisses me.

Her nails rake down my bare back, and even though this does absolutely nothing for me, I wrap my arms around her and lift her clear off her feet to bring her closer.

Don’t get me wrong, Mor’s beautiful and all, but she’s my best friend, and this is giving me flashbacks to homecoming and prom and every other time we had to put on an act.

How long till this is over, exactly?

~Elain~

Watching him kiss that woman... Elain can admit it does strange things to her. Like makes her want to storm out and yank them apart, then scream.

She somehow refraines.

He finally lets her down, and the rage and frustration builds to an insurmountable level because she’s freaking gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous where Elain was tempted to go kiss her herself.

How annoying.

Turning on her heel, she stomps back over to her bed and flops down.

She’s hot and cold and her core is so tight it's almost painful.

Never, not once in her entire life, had she thought she’d be turned on hearing something like that.

But picturing him... doing that, and so close to her own bed... yeah. She’d almost come herself, and she was in a completely different room.

Gods, she’s pathetic.

And she can absolutely never see him again.

That’s beyond obvious.

Terrible liar she is, she knows it would be all over her face. What would she even say? Oh, hey neighbor. Heard you really give that woman a good time last night. So good, in fact, you almost got both of us off. High-five!

Nope. She’d rather move across town before running in to him again.

Even though the thought makes her strangely sad.

She falls asleep soon after, mind going back over every tiny detail she’d heard tonight until she’s surprised she can sleep at all.

~Azriel~

It’s Sunday morning, meaning I don’t have to work. Meaning I don’t have an excuse to see Elain.

But fuck do I want to.

I can’t hardly wait for the blush I know will pop up on her cheeks. I probably won’t have to even speak for it to happen. There’s no way she didn’t hear the amazing fake sex I had last night. She probably won’t even be able to look me in the eyes.

So I wait until I hear her get up and start shuffling around in her apartment.

Then, like the creep I am, I sit on the couch and wait for her door to open so I can go out and tease her until she slaps me or something.

But it doesn’t. I sit there until it’s four in the afternoon, and that’s when it dawns.

She told me herself she checks her garden on Sundays--a fact she knows I know--so the only reason she wouldn’t go...

She’s trying to avoid me.

A laugh bursts out of me.

Oh, Elain. Baby girl, that just won’t do.

I grab my laptop and look up the MOMA exhibits for this weekend, a probably-evil smile already blooming on my face.

~Elain~

Should I go out the window?

No, I live on the third floor.

But...

After looking at the drop down, she decides that’s definitely not happening. She’ll have to go the normal way. Which means she’ll have to walk by the door next to hers. Which belongs to him.

Gods, she was sweating already.

Which isn’t good, since the silk of her dress will definitely show it. Forcing herself to calm down, she grabs her clutch and slowly, quietly, opens the door.

Empty.

Before that can change, she hurtles down the hallway and stairs, breathing a sigh of relief when she steps outside.

It turns into a strangled gasp as she looks up from the cement.

Her neighbor’s standing in front of her, looking dark and alluring and inexplicably handsome in the twilight sky.

But that’s not why her breath goes a little shallow.

The dark jeans, boots, and t-shirts he’s worn every time she’s seen him have now been replaced with a black suit, crisply cut to his tall frame.

He looks so handsome she can hardly remember she’s supposed to be avoiding him.

But then the why of that statement comes rushing back, and her cheeks go pink. He looks pleased at that, even as his darkening eyes roam over her frame.

Her dress is floor-length, but the spaghetti straps and low back make it revealing. That, and the fact that the silk fabric clings to every dip and curve of her figure.

His eyes notice it all, all the way down to her heel-clad feet and back up to her softly curled hair.

“Elain.”

It’s just one word, and it’s one she knows well, but it’s somehow everything.

Now more than ever, she wished she knew his name. It usually seems like a little game, but now it feels like a whole in her chest. She wants to know him.

Wants to know how to say his name in a way that makes him feel like she feels right now.

“You look beautiful,” he comments, sliding his hands in the pockets of that damn suit.

“Thank you. You look nice, too.” Nice? More like devastating. He just shrugs. “Hot date?”

A small smile graces his full lips. “No, that was last night.”

“I’m aware,” she bites out, face starting to heat. Her body’s reliving last night, and she has to force herself not to press her legs together.

“Just wanted you to know how it’s supposed to be done.”

“How considerate.”

He steps close, so close they’re sharing air. “Did it bother you, listening to me with another woman?”

She sure as hell can’t tell him the truth, so she says breathlessly, “Not unless you count the nausea.”

Damn him for turning her into a liar. And damn him for smelling so good.

There’s an arm around her waist, a hand on her hip. He’s so close now that his lips brush her ear as he whispers, “Did it turn you on?”

A whimper escapes her lips, so she bites one to keep herself quiet as she shakes her head no.

“Elain, you are such a little liar,” he scolds, pulling away to smirk at her. “You’re blushing.” A finger runs down her cheek. She bats it away.

“We should get going,” he observes, checking his watch.

That gets her attention. “What?”

His lips twitch as he says, “The MOMA exhibit is tonight, right?”

“Yes, but-”

“Well, we should go then.”

Oh, gods above. He’s planning on attending? With her?

This is a terrible idea. But one look at his devilish smile tells her there’s no changing his mind. So she sighs and says, “We’ll have to get a cab. It’s across the city.”

“I’ll just drive, then,” he says, throwing her completely off guard once again.

“Wait a second. You have a car?”

He looks amused as he takes her hand and pulls her down the street to where a dark, expensive looking SUV is parked. “I do.”

“Then why do you walk to work?”

Opening the passenger door, he turns to look her in the eyes again. “Well, you know what they say. Best way to start the day...” is a quick lay, she finishes in her mind, cheeks going pink. “-is to see a friend.”

Oh, he’s such an unbearable asshole.

She ignores the little smile he gives her and climbs in the car, and soon they’re off. For a minute it’s silent, but then she asks quietly, “Why are you coming tonight?”

“I wanted to see you. And I’ve never been to a museum. Figured I’d have the best guide this way.”

Reasonable enough, she supposes. Even if the way he looked at her earlier told her seeing a museum had nothing to do with art.

She doesn’t have enough time to contemplate it, though, because he pulls up in front of the MOMA and parks, then they’re heading inside. She’s happy to see there’s quite a few people here, something she knows her sister will appreciate, too.

Said sister rushes over immediately and smiles. “You made it!”

“Of course I did.” When she eyes the man next to her, she says awkwardly, “Um, Feyre, this is... my neighbor.”

She really has to find out his name.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, extending a hand. “It looks like a good turnout.”

It was the right thing to say apparently, because Feyre beams. “I know! Hopefully they’ll all sell. There’s a surprise in there for you, Elain.”

Oh, gods. That usually meant something bad. Like being the subject to her sister’s very comprehensive photography exhibit three years ago.

“Anyway, you guys look around and have fun. There’s champagne in the back. Thanks for coming!”

Elain hugs her sister tightly before she can disappear. “I’m proud of you. This is great.”

Feyre rolls her eyes as she pulls back, but they’re a little misty. “Oh, shut up or you’ll make me cry.”

Then she kisses Elain’s cheek and turns to talk to more people coming in.

“Champagne?”

Turning to the man next to her, she smiles and nods. That sounds like an excellent idea right about now. He disappears, so she ventures to the first room.

It’s all landscapes, beautiful paintings of mountains and the night sky and beautiful pictures of nature. She’s standing in front of one, smiling, when he comes back. “That’s your garden, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she says softly, staring at the piece in front of her with new eyes. The night they’d first met creeps into her mind, and she sees him in the painting, lounging on that cute little bench, cigarette dangling seductively from his lips.

“You look sad.” His voice is quiet and soft, and she turns to meet his gaze.

She has to look away, though, because he’s right. She is sad.

Thinking about that night makes her think about what could’ve happened. How different this last week could’ve been.

But she can’t tell him any of that, so she just turns to walk to the next room. The man next to her pauses, and she sees why as soon as her gaze goes to the wall.

Roses, carnations, lilies.

Tulips, orchids, peonies.

All her favorite flowers are on the wall, the paint blending together and creating the most beautiful collage she’s ever seen. They’re all over the wall--there has to be at least fifty paintings in here.

And in the middle of them all is the front of her shop.

It’s an almost perfect rendition to the door of The Archeron, with the glass walls and flowers almost bursting out.

The whole room’s been designed to look like the inside of her shop.

A tear escapes down her cheek as she looks at the art around her. Gratitude, love, and happiness almost erupt from her, and she notices something.

The man next to her notices it at the same time. “You feel something.”

“Yeah,” she replies happily. “I do.”

He smiles, and it’s not one of his usual little grins or smirks. It’s a full smile, showcasing all his perfect teeth. “So do I.”

The voice inside her head tells her he isn’t talking about the paintings.

And for a minute, Elain just stands there, flowers blurring in her peripheral as she stares at him.

“Please tell me your name,” she whispers.

He smiles again, taking a step towards her. And it’s just as he’s leaning down that he opens his mouth and-

“Elain!” Feyre bursts into the room with a wide grin. “What do you think?”

She practically jumps a mile in the air, but she recovers quickly and says honestly, “I love it. Thank you so much. It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Excuse me,” her neighbor says in a low voice, eyes on something in the distance as he heads to the front of the store.

Feyre watches him go, and as soon as he’s out of earshot says, “Okay, now that he’s gone, can you tell me what’s going on? Did you and Lucien break up?”

Elain notices her sister doesn’t exactly sound sad at that prospect. “No, why would you think that?”

“Because you came here with him, and he looks like a villanous-”

“Prince Charming? That’s what I said!”

They laugh, but then Feyre smiles knowingly and asks, “You know he’s in love with you, right?”

The words clear a path through her chest, even as the heart inside swells. She suddenly can’t breathe, can’t form a normal thought. That’s... impossible.

“What? How do you know?”

“Because he just went to buy that painting,” she says softly, motioning to The Archeron’s door.

She shakes her head. “No, he didn’t.”

Feyre smiles, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Yes, he did.”

“Oh, gods,” Elain whispers, pulse starting to race.

“You like him, too. It’s obvious to anyone who isn’t you.” Feyre flicks her nose playfully. “So stop thinking so hard. Just do what makes you happy.”

They say goodbye, and Elain turns to leave, finding him by the entrance. They walk outside in silence, then ride home in silence.

Something’s different between them, and it’s created a tangible tension in the air that makes it hard for her to breathe.

It’s only when they’re in the hallway outside their doors that she quietly asks, “Did you buy that painting?”

His body goes a bit tense, but he looks at her and answers, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I told you.” His eyes are warm, like chocolate and caramel and smoke. And they’re looking at her like she’s everything to him as he says, “I felt something.”

“Liar,” she accuses, stealing his line.

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t say anything, so they continue to stare at each other. She knows him so well already, but there’s one thing she’s still dying to figure out.

Just as she’s about to ask, he murmurs, “My name’s Azriel.”

She tells herself it’s the deal, the arrangement. She tells herself it doesn’t matter. She tells herself she’s just paying the price.

Elain tells herself all sorts of little lies as she steps forward, takes his face in her hands, and presses her lips to his.

______________________________________________________________

Wrote this in one setting sorry if it’s shit. Part 4

@wineywitch202 @astreia-oniria @keshavomit @zukos-simp @whimsyrhys @lameomclameo @thedarkdemigod @captainthefangirlofhp @elriel4life @queen-of-glass @courtofjurdan @nessiantho @texas-shaped-waffle-maker @stardelia @myshadowsingeraz @tswaney17 @illyriangarbage @nicerhero @fancycrowncat @sjmships @perseusannabeth @cursebreaker29 @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @superspiritfestival @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @a-bit-of-a-cactus @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @poisonous00 @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @afifthofvodka @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace

#elriel #elriel fanfiction #sjm #elain #azriel #elain x azriel #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acotar fanfiction #acotar fandom #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #a court of thorns and roses #a court of frost and starlight

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azumasoroshi · 3 years ago

Text

i am in a storytelling mood and you all will now be forced to listen to it

So back in sophomore year, I had this final project for the end of the year. We had to make a book trailer with a partner, and our book was Patron Saints of Nothing by Randy Ribay. It's about this high schooler who goes to the Philippines to investigate why his cousin died.

Our school was not an art school; it was just a regular public high school, and so we were not expected to draw the whole thing. We were expected to find some videos, or film ourselves acting stuff out, or use Ken Burns effects on stock images in iMovie. My partner certainly thought that using stock images would be a good idea, and she legitimately saw no problem with the original "final product" of our iMovie low budget shitty production.

However, my dumbass was excited, because I liked animating and the plot of the book allowed for some very interesting imagery. I had ideas, oh so many ideas.

I was a fool.

Because the one fatal thing my dumbass forgot to take into consideration was that I was, and still am, a serial procrastinator.

(the trailer is below the cut)

So, after getting pretty much nothing done, midnight arrived on the due date. And I was terrified, but in that "eh it doesn't really matter" kind of terrified way because I was an emotionless husk and couldn't feel any emotions other than “welp”.

I had maybe 10 seconds done of what was roughly supposed to be a 1 minute and 30 second long video.

My English class started at 10:05.

“Well you had 10 hours, Soro-“ NO I DIDNT

because i had to LEAVE for school at 6:30 and i had chemistry, java, and health between 7:30 and 10:00 so i couldn’t do any of my work during those periods.

So I had about 6 hours to make an entire book trailer. Whoop.

I started off well enough with the Gising Na Ph! posts. Except I didn’t start off well at all and I spent at least two of my six hours trying to figure out how hands worked before finally letting go of any honor I had left in my being and just tracing stock images.

Now, my partner had gotten a few good images on her version of the movie, which she’d graciously sent to me so that I could scrap most of it. And I wasn’t intending to use any of them in the slightest, but by this point it was about 2 am, and I figured I should hustle a little bit. I was planning to import her iMovie into my iMovie and take the photos from there. Easy enough, right?

The file got corrupted somehow and I had to reverse image search every single image that I wanted to use by screenshotting them from the movie rather than having the photos themselves. And for some inexplicable reason, I wanted to try to resemble my partner’s movie as closely as possible, which meant using the same photos. Could I have just found different stock photos? Yes. Was I in my right mind at the time? No. Did I even consider trying to find different photos? Not until 5 am.

Now, along with the movie being corrupted, that also meant that my partner’s recorded voice lines were inaccessible to me. That meant I had to record my own. At 5 am.

I have several friends who are very talented voice actors. They live in Britain, so it wasn’t too early for them. They’d already expressed that they were willing to help two weeks prior, back when I thought I wasn’t going to procrastinate. Should I have asked them? Hell fucking yes. Did I? Well, I just so happened to ask the only one of them that wasn’t awake at the time. Luck and reason are on my side, clearly.

5:30 am, I realized that my friend probably wasn’t going to answer on time. And it just so happened that one of my irl friends had woken up, for some ungodly reason like sleeping on time or something. I quite literally begged him to record two voice lines for me, and lo and behold, he actually did it. He sounded deader on the inside than me, but his character just so happened to require being dead inside, so that ended up working out. He recorded the voice lines on Notability. That was pretty funny.

(around 6 am my british friend saw my message and he was like oh shit whoops ill do it now and i had to awkwardly explain to him that i found a replacement. that wasnt a fun conversation to have at 6 am)

6:30 am I was in the car. The movie was almost done; I just needed one final image of Jun and Jay together, and I wasn’t going to find that on Google Images. I drew it during health class. My teacher definitely noticed and was probably pissed.

10:00 am. I actually went into the bathroom stalls during the 5 minute transition period between classes, pulled out my headphones, and listened to the whole thing just to check it over. (I’m overly paranoid about how loud my voice is in recordings due to a certain incident that won’t be explained in this post) It sounded fine. Everything was fine. It was all good.

10:05 am, English started. A few other groups went before me. I was ready to present. I had the movie open on my iPad, and I was resigned to my fate. I tried my hardest, somehow. That was enough. My partner hadn’t gotten to check over my movie at all, so she had no idea what was about to happen. That was fine.

11:00 am. Class...ended?

waiit shit that isn’t right. i spent all night working on that movie trailer and i didnt get to present it???

WELL, as it turns out, my AirPlay wasn’t working or something and the method of sharing to Google Drive was apparently too time-consuming, so I had to present the next day. A whole nother 24 hours, just handed to me like that. I could do anything I wanted with the movie in that period of time.

What the fuck.

“So you definitely removed the stock photos and made your movie even better in that time, right, Soro?” oh FUCK no dude i got home at 3, yelled to my friends for an hour about how mad I was, and then fell asleep at 4 pm and didn’t wake up until 6:00 am.

I presented this movie the next day.

I got an A+.

#the moral of the story is that i am a terrible partner #i never did get to know what my partner thought of the movie #she actually emailed me while i was asleep and was like ‘hey can i like. see the movie’#i emailed it to her and she never responded #the voices are edited obviously #i sure do wonder which voice is mine #im sick right now and it’s 11 pm but i cant sleep so i wrote this #ill hide most of it under a ‘read more’ cut once i get off mobile #long post #storytime with soro #this shit is the only exciting stuff that happens to me #its all school related #the background music is from how to eat life/inochi no tabekata by eve #soro's art

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imwatermeloness · 4 years ago

Text

Trust me

Chapter 1 is out, go show it some love :)<3

Summary: 5 times Tony had to trust someone else to take care of Peter and one time he shouldn't have

Chapter summary: Tony and Peter go skydiving. Parker luck strikes and Peter pays the price.

Read it here!

__________

"I can't believe I let you rope me into this." Tony grumbles in the driver’s seat, fisting the steering wheel tightly in a white knuckled grip.

Peter rolls his eyes at the man and leans back in his own seat. “I thought you weren’t scared of anything.”

It had taken a lot of persuasion to get Tony to agree to skydiving with him, without Iron Man. With the suit there would have literally been no point to the activity. Peter had spent weeks talking the man into coming with him and only when he had accused Tony of being scared, had the man assented, though begrudgingly.

The billionaire fixes him with a glare. “I didn’t say that. I said I’m not scared of anything, except for Pepper and your aunt.”

"Then there’s no reason not to do this.” Peter countered with a self-satisfied grin.

The man scoffs. “Speak for yourself, guess who’s going to have his head torn off if I come back and tell them that I let you fall to your death cause I didn’t have the suit.”

“I’m not going to fall to my death, Mr. Stark.”

That makes Tony look oddly alarmed. “For that, I’m gonna need you to knock on wood, kid.”

There’s nothing in the car that’s made of wood, not even cardboard coffee cups or receipts. Tony keeps the car freakishly clean. So Peter knocks his hand on his head, eliciting a scolding look from the man. Tony doesn’t like when Peter plays down or mocks his own intellect, even if it's a joke. He makes a show of putting his hand back down. “I didn’t know you were superstitious. Didn't you say you don’t believe in magic?”

“I’m heavily relying on past statistics. You have a habit of getting into trouble right after promising me you’re not gonna get into trouble. I’m not risking it.”

Peter breathes out a laugh. “Oh come on, it'll be fun. It's supposed to give you the adrenaline rush of your life." He moves his hands in an arch to add drama.

Tony’s grip on the wheel tightens just a fraction. He glances at Peter briefly, an unreadable expression clouding his expression. "I get heart palpitations just from watching the footage from your suit. I'm good on adrenaline."

Peter huffs impatiently and turns nearly sideways in order to give Tony his full attention. The man looks like he’s about to tell him to sit back but Peter opens his mouth before the man does. "Don't be a grumpy Gus, please, just try to enjoy it, for me?" He only widens his eyes a little bit, but it does the trick.

Tony grumbles something incoherent under his breath that sounds a lot like ‘damn puppy dog eyes’ and blows out a breath. Then, “fine.”

----------

They’re in the plane and they're both attached to other people by harnesses that wrap around their upper bodies. Tony is going to jump first. He’s standing in the open doorway of the small plane, his back against the tandem instructor’s chest, looking wildly uncomfortable. Peter is not sure if it’s because of being so close to a complete stranger or the fact that he knows he’s going to be free falling through the sky in just a minute. Nevertheless, the man looks like he would rather be anywhere else right now. Mr. Stark turns around for the last time and locks eyes with the man Peter is strapped against. His eyes are steely and Peter is glad he’s not on the receiving end of that look.

“That’s my kid, you bring him down safe, capiche?” Peter’s cheeks heat up fiery red as he hears the man’s firm ‘yes, sir’. Tony nods once and looks back at Peter.

“You okay?”

Peter wants to roll his eyes again. Tony is such a mother hen. Deciding against it he simply smiles reassuringly and gives Tony a thumbs up. “Yup.” And it’s the truth. Sure, he’s nervous but it’s trumped by the adrenaline filled excitement that’s coursing through his veins now that it’s almost the time to jump. He honestly can’t wait.

Tony nods one more time and pats Peter’s shoulder. “Alright, kid. I’ll see you when you get down. Happy trails!”

And then they jump. Peter watches them float down until they’re merely a small dot against the large area of sand they’re supposed to land on. His heart is racing so hard that he can feel it in his ears.

“Ready, kid?” his flying instructor asks, walking them closer to the edge. Peter swallows down the bubbling anxiety and nods determinatedly, gripping the shoulder straps of his harness. “Yeah.” he says, “let’s do this.”

And suddenly they’re falling. It feels sort of like one of those amusement park attractions that drop down from really high up and make your stomach feel all wonky. it's exhilarating, insane, amazing, terrifying but so, so great. The oxygen is a lot thinner than down in the ground and for a second it's hard to breathe. His mouth is gaping like he’s seen fish do. He breaks out in startled laughter at the feeling that reverberates from the bottom of his stomach throughout his whole body.

It’s incredible.

Until they suddenly jerk violently and are flipped upside down, falling heads first towards the rapidly approaching ground. He hears the skydiving instructor yelp and it's only a half a second later that Peter registers a snap from somewhere in his lower leg, that is soon engulfed by absolute searing agony that emanates from his right ankle. It feels like someone is trying to rip his foot from the rest of his leg. He doesn't even realize that he has been screaming until he closes his mouth to grit his teeth together. His eyes fill with hot salt water and Peter can instantly tell from past experience that his ankle is definitely broken, there's no other possibility. He's felt this pain so many times.

They start spinning around wildly and Peter gets so disoriented that he is unable to tell up from down. He can't really see anything other than the chaotic blur of ground that he can make out occasionally and that they are nearing at an alarming speed.

The man behind him yells something at him but Peter can't concentrate on anything other than the unforgiving burning in his ankle. Peter looks up and what he sees makes his heart drop down to his stomach. The drogue chute has somehow inexplicably wrapped itself around his ankle. The sight of it makes the pain worsen tenfold and Peter bites his lip so he won't scream again. Oh man, what if this thing rips my foot clean off. It feels like it. Could he still be Spider-Man with only one foot? Tony could probably make him a really good prosthetic, with so many different features. He doesn't want a prosthetic, though. He wants to keep his leg and he doesn’t want to be an amputee. Oh God he doesn’t want to lose a limb because of something so stupid.

The rope squeezes his ankle so tight that Peter is half scared that it's cutting off the blood circulation to his foot. It feels worse than getting shot. Delirious from pain Peter thinks the rope might be caught on his shoe so he frantically kicks his sneaker off with his other foot, but it changes nothing. His ankle is still being strangled and no matter how much he flails his leg around, the rope won't budge.

Then finally his head clears enough to hear what the man is yelling in his ear.

"Kid! Kid, are you okay?"

Peter grunts, fighting to keep his voice level. "Y-yeah, yeah, it's just- my foot, it's-"

"Alright, you're okay.” The man sounds just as scared as Peter is although he is hiding it a lot better. “I'm gonna get us down! Just take a deep breath. I'll count to three and on three I'm going to pull the emergency chute. It's gonna get rocky but we'll be fine."

Peter pants because now the pain is on the point of being unbearable. He manages to nod shakily. "O-okay."

"Okay, one, two, THREE!"

It knocks the breath out of Peter's lungs. The abrupt stop in motion feels like getting hit by a car and he can already tell his whole torso is going to be bruised. He can't stop the yelp of pain that escapes through his lips when the movement jostles his leg violently. Deploying the emergency chute has flipped them back into the right position and now they’re floating down feet first.

Peter can't remember the rest of the way down. All he knows is the erratic race of his heart, the all consuming torment in his ankle and the strange numbness that he associates with shock. He thinks the tandem instructor might have talked to him but he can’t be sure. Once Peter's feet touch the ground his vision whites out and he almost faints when he feels the bones in his ankle creak. It suddenly strikes him that they could have very well died.

All the adrenaline drains out of him at once and he sags against the chest of the man behind him. Maybe he should faint. He wants to faint. He doesn't want to feel or think about the mess that is his leg. He can tell that it's bad, just from the feeling. Tears fill his eyes again and he tries to blink them back but then his lower lip starts trembling and he really wants May.

The man places a comforting hand on Peter's chest, rubbing it softly and shushes him quietly, all the while Peter trembles and shakes like a leaf. He's dazed and can't catch a single thought, his mind like a carousel, spinning out of control.

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

Tony lands with the man and his legs feel like jello. That was… God awful. This is the last time he agrees to any of Peter’s insane ideas. The whole way down all he could think about was the chute malfunctioning or the harnesses malfunctioning or the tandem instructor having a heart attack or something. His mind went through every single worst-case-scenario where something went wrong and they fell down, only leaving two wet smears of red in their wake.

Nothing happened though, thank God, and they descended safely. Although, the sight that greets him raises his hackles right back up again. The people around him, even the ones helping him out of the harness are all mesmerized by something that is happening above them, in the air. He’s confused for a moment until his mind freezes on a thought. Peter. Heart pounding he leaps off the ground and gazes up. Sure enough, it’s Peter and his skydiving instructor.

Something is clearly wrong though, as they’re falling down in a completely wrong position, very different from what Tony and his instructor had done, plummeting towards the ground. The air hitches in Tony’s throat and his heart falls down to his stomach. His hand automatically slaps against his chest, and instead of connecting with the nano housing unit, his hand only meets fabric on top of the scarred surface of his chest.

“Fuck.” He had come without the nanoparticles. The realization clenches his heart in a terrifying grip. His kid… Oh god- he has to- oh God. Fuck, he shouldn’t have listened to the kid. He doesn’t know what to do. Frantically he looks around and settles his eyes on the nearest man, getting into his face.

“Hey! What the hell is going on?” He doesn’t care that his voice shakes, he doesn’t even care that everyone there can clearly see that he's scared out of his mind. The man only glances at him before turning his gaze back to the blue sky. It’s painfully obvious that the man is doing his best to act calm around the billionaire. It does nothing to ease the panic that’s clouding Tony’s brain. “I’m not sure, Mr. Stark. It looks like something might be wrong with the drogue chute.”

He frowns. “What, what does that mean?”

The man doesn’t answer his question but places a placating hand on his shoulder. Tony wants to push it off. “Hold on, sir.” The man says and leaves him to go talk to the man a few feet away from them.

“No, you hold on-” it falls on deaf ears when there’s a unified gasp from nearly everyone around him. He spins around to look back to the sky and heaves out a breath of relief. Peter and the man have deployed a parachute and are now approaching the ground in what Tony thinks looks like normal manner. He may have not done this before but even he knows that a parachute means not being in an acute danger of dying.

Or thought he knew, because suddenly the people around him go even more frantic than before and Tony’s heart skips another beat. He hears the word “ambulance” and his heart all but stops. “What…” he breathes when he sees one of the men lifting a phone to his ear. He spins around to find someone, anyone available to tell him what is happening but everyone’s busy discussing the situation with each other.

Tony finally runs out of patience.

“Hey!” he yells with the deepest, loudest voice he can manage and is satisfied when the employees of the place stop buzzing around like damn bees. “Somebody better tell me what the hell is going on before I sue this place six ways to Sunday and you ragtag gang of damn adrenaline junkies never see the inside of another plane ever again!”

The silence hangs heavy around them for a moment until the man Tony had jumped with steps forward. “They deployed the emergency chute. You can tell by the solid color.” he explains calmly, like talking to a frightened animal and points to Peter and the man where they’re floating down with a bright orange colored chute. “That means something’s wrong with the original parachute. Now, according to protocol we have to alert the emergency services and get an ambulance here, just to be sure.”

Tony doesn’t think he’s breathing. Emergency chute? An ambulance?

His arm tingles uncomfortably and in that moment he’s sure he’s actually going to go into a cardiac arrest. Tony hadn’t prepared for this. Yes, technically he knew that there was always the possibility of something going wrong, but statistics always applied to other people. The statistics were there to assure people that these mishaps only happened to a very, very small portion of people and that there was really nothing to fear.

“Right now they seem okay. Don’t worry, sir, Dave’s gonna get your boy down safe and sound.”

That is what bothers him the most. The kid could be dying for all he knows and he’s helpless to do anything. He has to trust his entire world in the hands of a ‘Dave’ he doesn’t even know. Tony hasn’t felt so utterly useless in a long time.

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

"Peter!"

Peter numbly lifts his head to see Mr. Stark sprinting towards him with what looks like at least ten people. His mind clears a bit more and he manages to calm himself down enough to uncoordinatedly pet at the vest that he is still strapped in.

Tony kneels in front of him placing his hands to Peter's cheeks, while a few of the people that came with the billionaire start working on detaching Peter from the man. The tears spill over without his consent.

"Oh my God, kid. Lordy, you almost gave me a heart attack."

In his state Peter can only mumble incoherently. "M-my, my foot-"

Tony glances down at Peter’s ankle and Peter can see him grimace when the man takes in the blood seeping through the fabric of the suit. "Alright, Jesus, we'll, uh, we'll get you all fixed up, okay. I already called Cho."

Behind him he can remotely feel the tandem instructor's body leaving his back and he very nearly slumps down but he hears Tony’s quiet ‘whoa’ and feels the man’s hands catch his shoulders, keeping him upright.

He hisses when he feels someone move his leg to assess the damage. He quickly looks away and settles his eyes on Tony again.

Peter moves his head in a shaky nod, blinking to get rid of the blur of tears in his eyes. Tony is looking at him with more fear in his deep dark irises than the last time Peter got stabbed, and it had been bad. He doesn’t like it when Tony looks at him like that. He doesn’t like it when Tony or May are so worried about him. The atmosphere suddenly feels too heavy and Peter needs to alleviate it somehow. He sniffs quietly, trying his best to form a believable smile. "Told you,” he mutters. “the adrenaline rush of your life."

So much is happening around them, but Peter can only focus on Tony and the stab of pain in his leg. Tony gapes at him like it’s the most ridiculous thing Peter has ever said. Very soon, though, he gets himself together and then gently brushes the wild ringlets of hair off of Peter's forehead.

Tony’s hand is warm against Peter’s chilled skin. "And I told you, little hooligan, that I've had enough adrenaline as it is."

Peter chuckles and smiles sheepishly, when the man lowers his hand to cup his cheek again.

"You scared the devil out of me, Pete,” Tony states suddenly and Peter’s stomach clenches in guilt. “I'm never letting you go skydiving again, at least not without my suit. And even then I need a year, at least, to recover from this."

Peter lowers his chin to hide the relieved expression on his face. After all, this had been his idea. "I think I'm okay with that."

The sound of tires on gravel breaks the moment and Peter looks up to see an ambulance approaching them. He almost groans in embarrassment. He doesn't want to get on the bus and he doesn't want people to make a big deal out of it. He nuzzles into Tony's hand and looks up through his lashes in hopes that Tony can read his mind.

He can apparently, but it doesn't get Peter what he wants. Tony only glares at him playfully and taps the side of Peter's head disapprovingly with the hand that rests against his cheek.

"You put those peepers away. The puppy dog eyes don't work when I'm scared for your life."

Tony points at his own hair where Peter can see hints of grey. "See this? This is your fault, now you face the consequences."

Peter smirks, assured now by the realization that things we’re most likely going to be okay. "It's my fault, that you're... old?"

Tony barks out a laugh and nudges Peter's shoulder. "You little shit! It's only broccoli for you for the next month."

"Jokes on you, I like broccoli."

"Yeah, cause you're a menace."

"Am not! You like me!"

"Don't know where you got that idea from."

"I'm your favorite intern."

"Intern? Doesn't ring a bell."

"What?" He laughs. "You know me!"

"Peter? Peter who? Never heard of him."

Peter cackles so loud his whole body shakes, not even caring that the action jolts his leg uncomfortably, and Tony joins him. They giggle like children until the ambulance reaches them and Tony wipes the remnants of tears off of Peter's cheeks.

"Alright,” his voice is almost a soft whisper. “let's get you to Cho." Then a smirk grazes his lips and he points at Peter.

"It's Peter, right?"

Peter shoves Tony's shoulder with a childlike giggle. "Stop."

Tony chuckles and places a hand on top of Peter's curls. He grins at him and adds softly. "You'll be okay." Peter smiles back at him, all bright eyed and trusting, just like he always is.

Tony will make sure of it.

A mischievous grin tugs at Peter’s lips again. "So,” he stretches the word. “who's gonna tell May?"

The smile on Tony's face falls.

"Shit."

#peter parker #tony stark #protective tony stark #hurt peter parker #worried tony stark #my ao3 #fic #tony stark acting as peter parkers parental figure #peter parker whump

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flowercrown-bard · 4 years ago

Text

Birds Still Sing When They Fall From The Sky

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7/ part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12 / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 / part 16 / part 17 / part 18 / part 19 / part 20 / part 21 belongs to this

content warning: metion of past character death, a grave

(Still not the final chapter)

His stomach twisted into knots and a lump sat heavy and thick in his throat, making it hard to breathe.

He didn’t want to do this. He had avoided it for months now, as much as he could. The loud laughter and clapping coming from the tavern almost made him flee as he had done embarrassingly often before.

One look at Roach made him reconsider. Her head hung low and her fur was matted with dust from the road. She deserved some rest in a nice stable.

As much as Geralt didn’t want to admit it, he needed the rest just as much.

The dread turned into an ache as the cheering from inside died down and the bard stroke up a new song. The only consolation he had was that the singing wasn’t accompanied by a lute.

The notes that drifted to him as he put Roach in the stable, whispering in her ear that he would be back in a moment to take her bags off once he had secured her place here, had a strange quality to them.

With a pounding heart and tense shoulders, he pushed the door open, his eyes scanning the crowed room in an attempt to find someone who could tell him the cost for a box in the stables.

Instead, his eyes found the bard as if they were drawn to them.

He froze and his breath got stuck in his throat.

Someone shoved him from behind to close the door, but Geralt didn’t care. He couldn’t take his eyes off the woman who had been Jaskier’s student not so long ago.

Sera.

As suddenly as his body had stopped moving, he was overcome with the urge to move, to leave.

This was the first familiar face he had caught sight of since he had left the coast.

It was suffocating and filling his mouth with the taste of bile.

He should never have come here. There was a reason why he avoided taverns and bards.

Still… it had been so long since Geralt had been surrounded by music that didn’t stem from his own pathetic attempts at playing, and it wasn’t the painful sound of a lute being strummed.

A powerful yearning took hold of his heart, rooting his feet to the spot and making it impossible to flee.

Maybe…. maybe there would be no harm in staying, only for a bit to ease the bruising grip the music had on his heart. There was no need to speak with Sera. It had been a long time since she had last seen him. The chances of her recognising him - grimy and unkempt as he was - were slim and even if she did, there was no reason for her to approach him.

He could just stand here, hidden in the shadows in the corner of the pub room and listen for a bit.

Only one song.

One song turned into another.

With each note Sera teased out of the heavy looking instrument Geralt could understand a bit better what Jaskier had meant when he had said she was better than him. The idea was still outrageous, of course, and perhaps it had just been too long since Geralt had heard any music to compare it too, but Sera was good. Great, even. She was charming the audience with easy smiles and winks that rivalled Jaskier’s.

Though the invisible hand choking him had eased its grip on his throat as the songs progressed, it came back in full force as she took a bow in the same sweeping manner as Jaskier had always done.

It was too much. Geralt couldn’t stand to watch any longer. He had to escape the acidic guilt of enjoying another’s performance when it had taken him so long to show any appreciation for Jaskier’s music.

He stormed out of the tavern, uncaring of the patrons he shoved to the side.

Blindly, he stumbled into the stables, where Roach’s ears pricked up at the noise he made.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly and opened her box. “We have to go a little bit further. I promise I’ll find a nice stable for you.”

“Isn’t this one nice enough?”

Geralt didn’t flinch at the amused voice behind him, but it came damn close. What a pitiful excuse for a witcher he was, if a simple song sufficed to get him so distracted.

His shoulders slumped and he turned around, facing the bard who was leaning against the wall with crossed arms and a cocked eyebrow.

“Thought you could leave without giving me a review?” She pushed away from the wall and came closer, a teasing smile on her lips that was so unfitting to how Geralt felt that he almost drew back. “Or maybe my singing was so bad that you left because of it? The most scathing review of all.” She left a pause and huffed when Geralt didn’t seize the opportunity to correct her. “Jaskier wasn’t lying when he said you had no appreciation for a good performance.”

Knowing that the words were untrue didn’t sooth the ache in Geralt’s chest. There had been a time when Jaskier truly had believed Geralt to be unimpressed by the music he offered him. He couldn’t allow the thought that maybe he had never given up the belief, to fester.

The thought alone was enough to take away all ability to speak.

“Don’t think you could escape unnoticed,” Sera said, still so lightly, so carefree. She had no way of knowing what had happened. If only Geralt was so lucky. “I have to tell you even if the white hair and the swords weren’t a dead give-away of who you were, the dramatic exit would have been enough to draw anyone’s attention. And you know how much we bards love drama.” Her expression grew a tad annoyed and if Geralt’s mind wasn’t screaming at him to leave and never turn back, he might have been impressed at how patient she was to the unresponsive man who was little less than an old acquaintance. After a brief pause filled with awkwardness that even the most confident person couldn’t ignore, she was openly grasping at straws. “You are still doing with witcher business then?”

Geralt’s fingers twitched. “Not still. Again.”

Sera’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Why did you go back to hunting?” Geralt flinched. There hadn’t even been a moment of confusion as to what might have made him give it up in the first place. He prayed she figured out what him hunting again meant as well. It would hurt to see the realisation flash over her face but anything was bearable, as long as he didn’t have to say it. “Talkative as ever. Care to come back inside for a talk with an old friend? It’s been forever since I last heard from home. How’s Jaskier?”

This time, Geralt was unable to repress the finch. Even in the dim light of the stable, it couldn’t have escaped Sera’s notice.

Her eyebrows drew together and she made a step forward as if to steady him, when her eyes fell on Roach and the bags she was still carrying.

“Oh.” The sound was soft, almost apologetic. Geralt didn’t have to look to know her eyes were locked onto the lute Geralt had been too weak to leave behind. There was no mistaking as to the reason why he had it with him. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

For some inexplicable reason the voice telling him to go quieted down. Everything did. His pounding heart, his staggered breath, the nervous scrape of Roach’s hooves. The words spoken so plainly, saying so directly what no one else had dared to say the way it was shifted something in Geralt.

His shoulder’s sagged, as if a weight he had been carrying with him had finally been taking off. No, not taken off, but shared.

Geralt nodded brusquely, before repeating the words that should burn his tongue but for some inexplicable reason soothed his heart. “He is dead.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. It was almost ironic, a bard not finding the right words. Or maybe it was her knowing when to be quiet.

After what felt like an eternity, she spoke up again. “I think he would have liked that you carry the lute with you.”

Geralt grunted. “He would have mercilessly mocked me for it.”

“Of course he would have,” Sera said with a half-smile. “And then he would have sighed over how romantic it is that you keep it around.”

“It’s not romantic. It’s-“ Geralt cut himself of. He didn’t know what it was. His tongue wanted to say ‘pathetic’. A word he had used more and more often lately to describe himself, but something about the way Sera looked at the lute, so similar to how Jaskier had done it, made the words taste like ash on his tongue. “I just didn’t want it to rot somewhere. I’m just taking it with me until I find better use for it.”

His heart skipped a beat and his eyes widened unnoticeably for a human. He cleared his throat, but couldn’t get rid of the rapidly forming lump that made his voice raspy when he choked out, “Do you want to have it?” Say no. Please say no. “I think…out of anyone, he would have wanted you to have it.” And in contrast to Geralt, she would actually know how to play more than one song so simple and pitiful that it was a shame to force such an instrument to sing it.

Something strange happened with Sera’s face. “I think it’s right where Jaskier would have wanted it.” Her tone was flat, but something sincere and soft resonated in it. “I was never allowed to even hold his lute, always practicing with my old one. And he was right about the lute not really being the instrument for me anyway.” Her smile became full. “I am far more happy with my hurdy-gurdy.”

A heavy sigh of relief rumbled through Geralt’s chest. He didn’t care that Sera saw. If she judged him for his reaction, she didn’t show it.

Instead she cocked her head to the side. “Speaking of which, I’ll have to get back on stage soon. Come back with me. If only until my break is over.” Her eyes narrowed and roamed about his face. Geralt felt strangely self-conscious under her scrutiny. “Have you eaten yet?”

Geralt shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”

The calculating look didn’t leave her eyes, but without waiting for Geralt to take the chance to leave, she stepped past him and started to unload Roach. “Well, I am. And I would really appreciate the company.”

Entering the tavern for the second time, this time without the tension but instead with a smiling bard guiding him to a table in a corner, the room seemed more welcoming somehow. Less suffocating and constricting.

Sera gave the barmaid a disarming smile, when she brought her some stew and complimented her on her singing.

Geralt shifted in his seat. “It all worked out for you then? With Oxenfurt and seeing the world?”

A wistful expression flashed across Sera’s face before it was replaced by a small quirk of her lips. “It did. It’s not quite what I expected, but it’s wonderful.” There was the barest hint of hesitation, before she added, “I couldn’t have done it without Jaskier.”

A smile tugged at Geralt’s lips. “You seem to be doing fine on your own.”

Sera seized him up in contemplation and Geralt couldn’t shake the feeling that she chewed longer than necessary on the chunks in the stew to give herself some time to figure out what to say next.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not nice to have support.” With a nod at Geralt she added, “Or to meet a friendly face every once in a while.”

Geralt snorted at that, but he couldn’t hope to mask the sting Sera’s words sent through his heart. As much as he wished it weren’t so, he couldn’t deny that there was truth in her words. Geralt didn’t want company. He didn’t need it. Clearly, he was better off on his own.

But there was no denying that this was the first time since he had been with Jaskier that he sat in a tavern like normal people did, no rush to find the next contract, no anxiety spiking up about hearing music.

Though he did his best to hide his thoughts behind an impassive mask, some of it must have slipped through, for Sera put the spoon down and leaned forward, taking in the details of Geralt’s face.

“What about you? How are you doing on your own?” She didn’t let Geralt’s non-comital grunt deter her. “Looks like you had some rough hunts.”

She didn’t even try to conceal the way her eyes raked over his torn and dirty clothes and lingered on the new scars adorning his face, some of which were still fresh and burning pink.

Geralt felt strangely exposed and vulnerable under her gaze.

“Witchers have a rough life.” It sounded more defensive than he had aimed for. Geralt resented the hint of bitterness and remorse that hopefully slipped Sera’s notice.

She looked at him a little longer, before leaning back with a sigh. Almost dismissively, she pushed the still half-full bowl of stew towards him.

When Geralt raised an eyebrow, she cracked a smile. “I’m already full and it would be a shame to let it go to waste, wouldn’t it?”

Geralt glowered at her. He would be an idiot not to see what she was doing. Still, when fake-innocent eyes looked back at him, he relented and picked up the spoon.

He wished he could say the stew wasn’t doing wonders. He wished it wasn’t filling and warm and delicious with spices that Geralt hadn’t used when roasting his own meals over a fire somewhere in the woods.

A smug smile danced across Sera’s lips, but it softened before Geralt had the chance to feel stupid because of it.

When Sera didn’t comment on Geralt wolfing down the meal, Geralt was overcome with the burning need to fill the silence.

“It’s nice to be with a bard who doesn’t try to steal my food for a change.” As soon as the flat joke left his mouth, he tensed up, the all too familiar guilt digging its ugly claws into his chest.

He shouldn’t joke. Least of all about Jaskier. It was disrespectful and wrong to laugh about him, even if Jaskier had made many a joke on Geralt’s expanse. Even if Jaskier would have gasped in mock outrage only to prove Geralt’s point by stealing more of whatever Geralt was eating.

Still, when Sera let out an undignified snort, the guilt receded the tiniest bit to make place for an unexpected warmth.

Geralt could do nothing to stop it. Talking about Jaskier like this felt good, better than it had any right to. It wasn’t a grand speech about Jaskier’s big accomplishments or a solemn reminiscence of some defining moments of his life. Remembering the way he used to steal Geralt’s food was something small, barely worth mentioning. Yet it was something so fundamentally Jaskier that Geralt yearned for more.

But it was wrong. He had no right to smile and waste time sitting in a tavern.

Geralt hadn’t noticed the way he tensed up, his grip on the spoon turning his knuckles white, until Sera laid her hand on the table next to his, not touching him, but close enough that there was no way for Geralt not to notice her presence.

“It’s alright to miss him, you know,” she said in a tone that was painfully gentle. “You are allowed to feel things.”

A huff escaped Geralt. “Heard that one before.”

Sera lifted an eyebrow and the corner of her lips turned up. “Are you accusing me of unoriginality?”

Her tone was so full of mock indignation that Geralt couldn’t stop his own smirk. “I would never. I’m just saying that you are the not the first person to tell me that.”

“Am I the first person you are going to listen to?”

Geralt’s heart missed a beat, but his smile didn’t drop. The reply that he was good on his own lay on his tongue. He just had to say it. It would be so easy. He had said it before, whispered it to himself time and time again when the road got too long and the nights too quiet.

The words didn’t come; they were supplanted by a voice inside him – quiet at first, then insistent and growing louder with every passing second that he didn’t deny Sera’s words – telling him to listen to her, to Eskel and Kris and anyone else who had told him that there was nothing wrong with what he needed. Above all else, it told him to listen to Jaskier.

Slowly and with what felt like inhuman strength, Geralt nodded.

Immediately, shame rose in him. He knew it was irrational, it must be when so many people had told him it was alright to admit to needing them, but after spending so much time with the freedom of only relying on himself, it felt restricting.

He lowered his eyes to the stew before he could see Sera’s face transform into a relieved and proud smile, no doubt.

She let him be for a while, only speaking up when Geralt got too tense, getting lost in his darkening thoughts, to reminisce of something Jaskier had once said or the way his descriptions of life as a travelling bard had helped her find her footing.

It was soothing. Often Geralt wouldn’t know how to respond, only answering with hums and the occasional nod, but Sera seemed content to let her own voice become calming background noise.

It was nice to have someone talking to him for a reason other than giving him a contract.

After another stretch of silence, Sera spoke up again.

“Have you visited his grave since you left?”

There was no judgement in her tone, no hidden accusation, but Geralt still flinched.

He couldn’t bring himself to say the shameful truth out loud or even shake his head. His silence was answer enough.

Sera didn’t press, didn’t tell him what he already knew himself.

Instead Sera sighed. “I miss the sea sometimes.” Her eyes snapped to Geralt. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret leaving. Life as a bard is wonderful, but sometimes I just think it would be nice to go home again. Only for a little while.”

Geralt cleared his throat and before he could think better of it, he reached into the saddlebags that had been standing beneath the table and dug in deep, searching for what he had buried with no intent of digging it back up any time soon.

His jaw worked as he held the sea shell out to Sera.

“It’s… you hold it to your ear.” The words were clumsy and awkward and nothing like the loving instruction Jaskier had given him when he had presented the shell to Geralt.

It did nothing to dim the smile on Sera’s face as she listened to the sounds of her home with closed eyes. There was something about the way her expression softened. Perhaps she finally understood what she hadn’t when she had written her first song.

She must be thinking the same thing, for when she put the shell down, she exchanged it for her hurdy-gurdy and played a few notes of a vaguely familiar song about home.

“Jaskier would have loved to hear you play that song. On that instrument,” Geralt said, the hints of a smile dusting over his lips.

“Maybe I should go home again. Play my song for him.” Sera looked up as her hands stilled, letting a note that so clearly demanded to be followed by others ring through the air. “If I remember correctly, Jaskier once told me to get myself a witcher? We could travel together to the coast, if you wanted to?”

Geralt’s mouth went dry and something stirred in him. The note begging for the song to be continued echoed in his mind.

When Geralt took too long to answer, Sera stood up and gripped her hurdy-gurdy tighter.

“Listen, Geralt, I’ll have to continue with my set. I promised the barmaid that I would sing a ballad for her after my break. How about you think about it and tell me your decision when I come back.”

Geralt’s eyes followed her as she took up her place at the centre of the tavern again and slipped into the light-hearted persona of a performer.

Her offer repeated in his mind over and over. She had left it up to him. Had asked if Geralt wanted to.

He didn’t.

But his mind drifted to Eskel’s offer of travelling together. He thought of how Kris had told him that he didn’t have to be alone when he had knocked on their door in the middle of a storm and drenched to the bones.

He thought of a different bard seeing him all on his own and deciding that he needed a friend.

A hurdy-gurdy was no lute. Its music had none of the light playfulness or solemn clearness of a plucked lute. It was heavier and could not easily be played while walking.

But the soft humming next to him, when Geralt and Sera started their journey back to the coast – back home – brought a smile to Geralt’s face, not big enough for Sera to recognise it as such, but sincere enough for Geralt to know that he had made the right decision.

Travelling with the bard was different than being on his own.

She told him to take breaks far more often than he would have if it were just him. She refused to sleep outdoors more than necessary and always made him order a decent meal when they took a break at a tavern, allegedly because she was uncomfortable being the only one eating.

Geralt might be stubborn, but he wasn’t stupid. He saw what was going on.

Unwittingly – or more likely with full intention – Sera got him to take care of himself.

Though Geralt grumbled when the breaks they took or the nice beds made him restless and filled him with guilt, he felt lighter than he had in a long time.

Geralt had never heard the song in its entirety. Of course, Geralt knew that it would be good. After all, it had secured Sera a place in the Academy of Oxenfurt.

But as he was listening to Sera sing it now, Geralt couldn’t shake the feeling that no one had ever truly heard the song, not the way it was meant to be played.

As the hurdy-gurdy wept and Sera sang of a lonely old lighthouse that would shine brighter when a traveller came by and shared a piece of the world with it, the waves that sounded like home provided the harmony.

As the melody dimmed and spoke of the traveller leaving again to face the storm-tossed sea and stony roads, a witcher stood next to her, roughened up from months on the road.

And as her voice soared as the lighthouse’s shine reached even the darkest path despite the distance, keeping the traveller company until its light would beckon him home once more, a breeze ruffled the flowers on a grave, colourful and wild and straining towards the sun.

There was no doubt, no one had ever heard the song quite like Geralt did in this moment. Though the metaphors and intricacies of the melody were lost on him, Geralt felt something in him shift as he listened, his eyes fixed on the place where Jaskier lay buried and that looked far too bright to be a place for loss.

When the last note of the song faded away, it took Geralt a while to find his voice.

“He would be proud of you.”

“As he would be of you.”

Geralt’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t do anything worth being proud of.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” When Geralt didn’t reply, Sera gave him a long look, before she finally said, “Remember what he told me about never selling myself short? Just because he isn’t here to tell you that he is proud of you doesn’t mean you are any less worthy of his or your own pride.”

Never forget I love you. How often had Jaskier said it? How close Geralt had come to forgetting.

A lump formed in his throat, making it hard to breathe. His chest grew tight and a something sharp stung in the corners of Geralt’s eyes.

He turned his face away from Sera, as the first tear fell. No human should have to see a witcher cry. No witcher should know how to do it in the first place.

Geralt hadn’t known. For months, he hadn’t known how to let go of the emotions that had built up inside of him and that he had tried to hold back, building the dam higher and higher with each contract he took to lessen the hurt.

Now he learned it again.

His shoulders didn’t shake, no audible sob left his mouth and his legs didn’t crumble beneath him.

And yet he cried, as he hadn’t been able to in a long time.

He barely registered how Sera told him that she would head over to her parents’ place and left him to his tears.

He was alone again, but this time it was different. This time, he allowed himself to let the tears fall freely, the feelings he had tried so hard to repress flooding him alongside memories of smiles and gentle touches and wrinkles and youthful ambitions.

He didn’t speak to Jaskier’s grave, not in the way he had heard of other people do. Nothing he could say would be something that Jaskier would have liked to hear.

Geralt hadn’t looked at the sunrises or taken note of the wildflowers’ colours.

Instead of the guilt that he half-expected a determination took hold of him. He would do better, be better. Next time, he would come back with stories that would have lit up Jaskier’s eyes and made him reach for his quill.

For now, there was only one thing he could say to Jaskier that would have made him smile.

A call was all that was needed to get Roach to lift her head in curiosity and trod over to him.

A smile flickered over Geralt’s lips as he reached up to pat her on the neck.

“This is Roach,” he said softly. “She likes music and getting scratched behind the ears.”

There was nothing more to say, but Geralt thought it would have been more than enough to make Jaskier coo over Roach.

The image of Jaskier’s brilliant smiles whenever he managed to win over one of Geralt’s horses made a warm fuzzy feeling grow in his chest. Without thinking much about it, Geralt reached out to brush his fingers over the petals of a bright blue flower.

With a soft snort, Roach leaned past Geralt and bit the flower off.

Geralt shouldn’t have laughed. He should have gotten mad and made sure Roach stayed well away from the grave, but he didn’t try to quench the laugh that welled up in his throat.

Too close were the similarities to the time when Jaskier had offered a different Roach flowers to be braided into her hair only for her to eat them straight out of his hand.

Jaskier had laughed then and Geralt had the feeling that he would do the same now.

Oh, he would definitely have loved this Roach.

Still, when Roach took Geralt’s lack of reprimanding as invitation to eat more of the flowers, Geralt gently pushed her away.

As much as Geralt was sure Jaskier wouldn’t have minded her feasting on the flowers, the garden had been his pride and joy and Geralt couldn’t watch it get ruined before its time once again.

Especially when not only the grave but the whole garden was in bloom. In fact, it looked as if someone had taken good care of it, as some of the plants were cut back as if to help them grow.

The frown that creased Geralt’s forehead smoothed into a tiny smile.

He wandered somewhat aimlessly through the village. The strange and vaguely unpleasant feeling he got when he met other people’s eyes without glowering or turning away himself, lingered, but it wasn’t as strong as it had been, when his old neighbours now greeted him with a smile and nod.

Finally, his feet carried him to the market place. It was less busy than oft times before, but the smell of recently cut flowers that whiffed his way was strong as ever. The only thing that contrasted his memory was the lack of enthusiastic calls, praising the flowers or offering them up for free.

When the vendor’s eyes finally found his they widened in surprise before the skin around them crinkled with joy.

“Geralt!” Kris called out, setting aside the flowers they had been rearranging on the table. There was neither discomfort nor pity in their voice. “I did not expect to see you here today.”

The ‘today’ that was added not as an afterthought but as naturally as if it had always been a certainty that Geralt would return one day, made something in Geralt soften.

“And I did not expect you to pick up my old business.” It was true. If Geralt had ever thought about what Kris might be doing now, this was not something that had ever crossed his mind, but seeing them like this felt strangely right.

Kris shrugged a bit sheepishly, but not without a proud smile. “What can I say, I always liked taking care of people. So why not take care of your garden as well and continue what you and Jaskier started here?” They rubbed the back of their neck a bit uncertainly, leaving a smudge of dirt on their cheek as he brushed the skin there. “I am not very good at it yet, but I like doing it and I’m learning.”

“It took us three tries to get the flowers to survive more than a week the first time around.” When Kris’ expression lifted at Geralt’s words, he added, “Jaskier had a book about gardening. It should still be in the cottage somewhere… You could have it if you wanted to.”

“I would love to! It would make this so much easier. It’s been so hard to figure out how to grow the garden. Don’t even get me started on the damage the last storm left.” Their voice drifted off. “But I can see why you two continued doing it.” They picked up a small white flower and twirled it between their fingers. “Handing out a little happiness with each flower, you know?”

They held the flower out for Geralt.

Geralt hesitated, before taking it. “Don’t tell me you too give flowers away for free.”

Kris let out a chuckle. “Only to old friends.”

After talking with Kris some more, Geralt kept strolling around town. He had to force himself to slow down and every once in a while he had to follow the urge to go into a shadowy alley to breathe deeply and close his eyes until the restless feeling that made his fingers twitch and told him to go do something, to find a distraction and hunt until exhaustion made his mind fall into emptiness, receded enough to let him continue.

It was hard, but he gritted his teeth and thought of Jaskier and of how Geralt hadn’t had anything nice to tell him about what he had seen.

As he turned around a corner, something barrelled past him in a flurry, followed by cheerful cries of “Don’t go!”

Geralt stepped aside, just in time to let more children run past him. He watched them with furrowed brows as they shouted at each other in voices that almost seemed like an imitation of the over the top players Geralt had seen in the theatres Jaskier had dragged him to.

“I’m having none of it!” The first child screamed as she dashed into the next street.

Something about it felt strangely familiar, but no matter how much Geralt wracked his head he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Geralt watched the horde of children disappear around the corner, when the smallest one of them stumbled.

Without hesitation, Geralt went over and helped the little girl up.

She gave him a toothy grin, before her eyes widened.

“You are the White Wolf!” Geralt was taken aback by the sheer amount of glee in her voice. When Geralt nodded, too perplexed to do anything else, her face split in the biggest grin. “Do you want to play with us? If I tell the others that you’re here, maybe we can play ‘Monsters run and Witchers hunt’ again.”

Geralt’s heart leaped at the words and he let out a startled laugh.

“I don’t think I would be any good at that game.” While the girl assessed him critically, Geralt threw another look at the other children who were still shouting theatrically at each other. “What are you playing now?”

The girl’s eyes lit up. “Right now, the little siren is swimming to the deepest, darkest part of the ocean.”

Geralt drew back when the pieces finally shifted into place. He only hesitated a moment, before saying, “To find the sea witch?”

The girl nodded. “Yes! The sea witch is evil, but the siren isn’t, even if the adults say all sirens are bad. She falls in love with a pretty prince and saves his life.”

Geralt’s insides twisted into a knot. “Maybe the prince saved her as well.”

For a moment the girl’s eyes grew wide, before she pulled a grimace. “No, I don’t think so.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, when a call cut her off. “Piwonia, come on, we need you to play!”

The girl threw Geralt a toothy grin, before running off to where the little siren was just meeting the prince.

Geralt watched her go and the knot in his chest unfurled as the name Piwonia jogged some distant memory he had almost forgotten, of a baby named after a flower Jaskier had grown and that Geralt of all people had held in his arms years ago – a child too young to have ever heard Jaskier tell the tale of the siren and that still found joy in it.

When Geralt finally tore himself away from the story he had heard so many times, it was the tiniest bit easier not to let his mind fall back into the familiar emptiness.

There was one more old friend Geralt had failed to visit here. Something he couldn’t wait to make up for.

He stood to the side and watched in amusement as his old Roach carefully approached his new one.

The difference between the two horses couldn’t have been more obvious, the old girl huffing in much the same way she had often done when Jaskier had skipped ahead on the road, while the younger horse dashed around her and threw her head back in excitement.

Geralt watched them get to know each other and once the novelty of meeting the other horse wore off and new Roach got more interested in the grass and flowers she was allowed to eat, Geralt approached his old companion and stroked her nostrils.

“We’ll come visit you more often, Roach.” His lips quirked up when the new Roach made a snorting noise at the sound of her name. “And you’ll learn to love her too, I promise.”

It didn’t take Sera long to answer the knock on her parents’ door, as if she had been expecting it. Geralt suspected, that possibility wasn’t as unlikely as it might have seemed to him some weeks ago.

She looked at him expectantly, her eyes trailing down to what Geralt was holding in his hands.

“I needed to find a book,” he said and shifted his weight to one foot while holding up the notebooks in his hand. “and found these. I don’t know if they would be of any use to you, but… they have some new songs Jaskier had written in the past years and …” he broke off, suddenly unsure of how to explain the need to get them out into the world when just a few months ago, the thought of parting with any of Jaskier’s possessions had seemed like an impossible feat.

“And it would be a shame if they would be unsung?” Sera supplied for him.

She took one of the notebooks from him and thumbed through it.

“I don’t know if you can use them,” Geralt repeated. “They are…Jaskier wasn’t at his best when he wrote them, but those were the notes that were the most legible.”

“I do. I could absolutely use them.” She cocked her head to the side. “What about the other notebooks? The less legible ones?”

“I thought I could bring some of them to Oxenfurt.”

Sera snorted, a grin splitting her face. “And let the scholars wrack their heads trying to decipher it?”

“Something like that.”

He didn’t need to tell her about his plans for the other books. The ones he would take to Kaer Morhen, where Eskel could appreciate the poetry about life on the path like no scholar ever could and Vesemir could chuckle to himself over the horribly inaccurate descriptions of monsters in the verses.

Least of all did anyone have to know about the one notebook Geralt intended to keep for himself. The last one Jaskier had ever written in; the only one that wasn’t filled until its last pages.

Geralt had no delusions about his unskilled hand and his lack of fitting words to describe what he saw, but maybe, by filling the pages himself he could give Jaskier some of the world back that he had gifted to Geralt.

It was a silly thought, but one that wouldn’t leave Geralt alone, until he grabbed the notebook and put it on the top of his bag, right next to the seashell that would no longer be buried in the depths of Roach’s bags.

“So when are you planning on leaving for Oxenfurt?”

Geralt lifted his brows. “Are you asking to be polite or is there a different reason you want to know?”

A sly smile stole onto Sera’s face. “For someone who claims to know nothing of the art of words, you are far too good at reading between the lines.”

“I had a lot of practice listening to bards trying to trick me into agreeing to stupid ideas. So, what is your stupid idea?”

If Sera was offended, she didn’t show it. “We could continue to travel a bit. Only until we reach Oxenfurt.” She pointed a finger at his face. “And just so you know, it’s a brilliant idea.”

The twitch of Geralt’s lips wasn’t strong enough to be noticed by anyone who hadn’t known him for years, certainly not enough for Sera to recognise it as the amused smile that it was, for she continued talking. “Did you know that when I left for Oxenfurt, Jaskier told me to find Valdo Marx’ plaque of honour and defile it?”

Geralt folded his arms in front of his chest. “You didn’t do that.”

“Maybe not. Maybe I did. But if you came with me, I could show you where the plaque is and you could find out for yourself. Or do the job yourself.”

Geralt huffed and made sure to make his smile show this time around. “You really are following in Jaskier’s footsteps, aren’t you?”

“Not really.” Sera’s brows knitted together and she turned the notebook in her hand in contemplation. “I’m not doing this out of some sense of obligation or wish to be exactly like my teacher. I am not looking to steal his muse ether. It’s not my fault that you are such good company.”

Geralt huffed, but strangely enough, he didn’t feel the need to correct her.

As if sensing that she was close to victory, she smiled. “So, when did you say we were going to Oxenfurt?”

No matter how carefully Geralt scanned the walls of Oxenfurt Academy, he couldn’t find a single sign that there was or ever has been a plaque of honour for Valdo Marx.

Geralt’s lips twisted into a tight smirk and he was sure the students that heard him curse that damn bard that tricked him hurried past just a little faster, unaware of the humour in his voice, while Sera wore a horribly self-satisfied grin when Geralt finally gave up looking for the plaque she had either made up or managed to make disappear, before she scurried off.

She didn’t say where she was going and Geralt didn’t ask. Maybe they would find each other again in a tavern later. Or maybe Sera would go back to the friends she undoubtedly had here and forget all about Geralt being in Oxenfurt.

Then again, he had thought the very same thing was going to happen multiple times with Jaskier and every single time he had been proven wrong.

Only this time, when Geralt walked the streets of the place that Jaskier used to call his home, no one would call his name in excitement and tell him to wait up for them so they could pack their things before heading off together again, hurrying to gather all of his oh so necessary quills and notebooks.

Sera was to stay here for however long she pleased and Geralt would be off once he had done what he came here for.

A fond but heavy feeling lay like lead in Geralt’s stomach. Here he was, resolute to give away Jaskier’s notebooks that he had worked so long on.

Taking a deep breath, Geralt entered the academy building, the one winding labyrinth that Jaskier has had to guide him through for a change, until he reached the library.

Until the moment he laid eyes on the librarian, he hadn’t been sure whether or not he had hoped that the library would be empty and he wouldn’t be forced to watch another person hold Jaskier’s possessions in their hands.

For a moment, Geralt stood rooted to the spot, until he pulled himself together and marched forward with determination, though his heart beat painfully in his throat.

The librarian eyed him with disdain as he got closer and Geralt could feel his heart sink with every step, his hold on the bag which held the books tightening, until finally he stood in front of the librarian.

He wished Jaskier were here. He wouldn’t just stand there silently and so obviously out of place. Geralt needed to leave, to get out of this room, this building, this city he didn’t belong in. But first he would have to face the impossible task of explaining himself.

He steeled himself to speak, but the words never left his mouth. Instead, he thrust the bag out, holding it out to the librarian. When they didn’t react, he shook the bag a little.

Finally, the librarian reached out, their curiosity or drilled-in manners winning out.

It was almost like handing over part of Jaskier himself. Geralt wanted to hang on, to not let go. Slowly, painfully, his hands loosened their grip on the bag.

“Careful with that.” The words escaped Geralt without meaning to. Without the bag to hold, his hands felt too empty.

The disdain on the librarian’s face turned into incredulity at his words and then when they chanced a glance at the contents of the bags into firey outrage.

“That is no way to carry books!” They took one out of the bag as carefully as if it were a delicate butterfly.

Geralt kept his face impassive, but if Jaskier were here, he would have grinned at the librarian’s boldness, reprimanding a witcher in full armour.

Maybe there was something about Oxenfurt that made its scholars lose all self-preservation. Though more likely it was Jaskier’s influence seeping through his other home.

Geralt watched as the librarian thumbed through the book, the crease on their forehead growing with every passing second.

“What is this?”

Geralt leaned forward to see which book they held in their hands and this time he couldn’t hide the grin.

“Those are Master Jaskier’s.” When the librarian’s eyes widened, he added, “You’ll have to sort through that one. A storm messed up the loose pages and who knows in what order they truly belonged.”

As he left, he almost could imagine Jaskier’s glare at the back of his neck that he had actually dared to make good on his playful threat to publish his works in messed up order. On the other hand, there was no doubt that once Jaskier had an ale or two he would have cracked up about the thought of the professors wracking their heads over trying to get his notes in order only to find out they were children’s stories. If he were here, he probably would have even spread false rumours about the correct order and sit back to watch in delight as the professors debated over his work.

But Jaskier wasn’t here. Geralt had to make do with telling Sera about it.

She grinned and toasted to him, but she wasn’t Jaskier. No one was.

Oxenfurt was a city of arts, of stories and of music. Geralt should have known that sooner or later, under the cheering of the crowd, a bard would make their way to the middle of the tavern and strike up a song on their lute.

Sera didn’t try to stop Geralt when he stormed out of the room to get Roach and escape the tightness in his throat that threatened to choke him, the sound of the lute haunting him like a wraith.

He was grateful that Sera didn’t push him to stay. But as he left Oxenfurt behind, he found himself already dreading the lonesomeness of the path ahead of him.

#and thus the healing begins #the librarian is not amused with Geralt walking in in full armour probably making a lot of clanky noise #so when i wrote that the lute wasn't really for sera i fully intended to make her play the hurdy-gurdy because i think the name sounds funny #i kind of regret that now that the story has gotten far more serious than i intended #im going to excuse that decision by saying that Geralt's theme on the soundtrack is played by a hurdy-gurdy #also hurdy gurdies are amazing #im going to move tomorrow and who even knows how bad the internet will be at my new home #so maybe there won't be an update tomorrow #geraskier #but lets hope for good internet #geralt #witcher #witcher fanfic #fic #my writing #grief #accidental multichapter #Birds still sing when they fall from the sky

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lettersfromn0where · 4 years ago

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ZFAW: Self-Love Saturday

For the last day of @zkfanworkweek!

It’s no secret that I love writing more than almost anything in existence, or that I’m somewhat absurdly passionate about my work. I’m well aware that a handful of people probably think this is annoying (how many people who have had the misfortune to be in any kind of chat with me never want to hear the name “Hina Oyama” again? Probably most of them), and I was hesitant to do this at all because I know I can be self-centered and I’m trying to work on that. But I realized that I’m not doing this for feedback or because I want people to read my work - if I were to talk about my fic like this, it would be coming from a place of excitement about sharing something I love with others, not about finding new readers. (Have I done a little too much networking of that kind? Yes. Am I proud of it? Not at all. That’s why I had to make sure that that wasn’t why I was doing this.)

So I’m going to go for it, and give you guys the background behind a few of my favorite things I’ve written. Stories below the cut.

Story #1: The One That Taught Me That It’s Okay to Fail As a Writer

and I'll write you a tragedy (June 2020)

I wrote this back in June, when I was first getting into AtLA - I think it was my third or fourth published Zutara fanfic. I didn’t have many friends yet; most of the ones I talked to at the time, I've since lost touch with. So my participation in the fandom was largely isolated. I’d just write things and yeet them into the void without a care in the world - that’s what I did with “And I’ll Write You a Tragedy.” I had this grand idea that it would be ~the angstiest thing ever written~ and I was SO excited to get home (I was at the beach when I got the idea) so I could work on it...

Only to find that I simply wasn’t ready for the story I was trying to tell.

Oh, I wrote it, and it was...decently well-reviewed for something that caused me so much existential angst. But it fell so short of the concept that I had for it that, the moment I hit “post,” I was so frustrated that burst into tears. (Like a kindergartner. One can never say I deserve to be called an adult.) I wanted to establish myself in this new fandom so badly that anything I perceived as substandard was a crushing failure. And it was the process of talking myself through that frustration that taught me something I’ve tried to hold close ever since: every writer writes a dud every once in a while. No one is at the top of their game 100% of the time; those who appear to be probably don’t post the duds. Should I have posted this, then? Well, the jury is out on that. I still hate it. But it deserves a spot here just for the lesson it taught me.

Story #2: the One That Broke the Angst Ceiling

who lives, who dies, who tells your story (July 2020)

I have no idea how this took my angst from the coltish awkwardness of “sort of sad, but not very well-done” to genuinely depressing, but it did. Maybe I should blame quarantine and all of the difficulties that brought with it, or just the additional writing experience I had gained by that time. Whatever the reason, I remember this - even though it never got very popular - as an absolute triumph for me as a writer, because this is when I FINALLY learned how to write effective angst. For *years* I had thought I was simply incapable of writing anything sad, but this showed me that I wasn’t. I’ll never understood what flipped the switch (maybe it was @hiniwalay, whose help in forming this idea was invaluable...I love and miss you so much <3), but it’s a very important part of my writing journey even so.

Story #3: The One That Got Inexplicably Popular

Tethered (Zutara Week - written in June 2020, posted in late July 2020)

Zutara Week 2020 was sort of the point at which I established myself in this fandom and I have super fond memories of the warm reception I received at the time. It was such a positive, encouraging experience - and perhaps the one and only time that people have actually wanted to indulge my somewhat ridiculous obsession with fluff. And this was sort of the peak of my entrance into the ZK fandom.

And I am...not sure how I feel about that.

Soulmate AUs are obviously super popular, so I knew that “Tethered” was going to be one of my better-recieved ZKW fics if I did it even marginally well. What I did NOT expect was that, by the time of this post, it would be exactly tied with The Waiting Game for my most kudos’d work. It’s almost insane to me that that is a thing, because, while I don’t hate how “Tethered” came out, I definitely don’t feel like it deserved the hype it got. It’s...just another soulmate AU, but seeing that I was capable of writing something that people would gobble up did wonders for my confidence - and, I think, for my reputation in the fandom as well. It was definitely a mile-marker on my journey, even if I would rather it have been a different ZKW oneshot (this one was my favorite).

Story #4: The Twitter Favorite

Four Days and Three Nights (written August 2020)

I will never, ever forget the day I posted this.

I joined a Zutara group chat on Twitter just before Zutara Week 2020 began, and I quickly became...a little bit desperate for their attention. “The Waiting Game” (much more on that later) sprung from that desperation, but this was the one that actually did something about it. Which is funny, because it was actually a complete accident! 4D3N, as it is affectionately called on Twitter, was the result of my dumb butt reading “Five,” thinking “I want to write something that depressing!”, and just...going for it. I told myself not to overthink things as I desperately banged out the 3166 words of this story in two hours (because I needed to go for a run before it got dark and didn’t start writing until 3), and that is probably the one and only time in my entire life that telling myself something like that actually worked. Writing 4D3N was just sort of this rush that I barely even had time to recognize while I was caught up in it and the result was something I genuinely felt that I could be proud of - that’s pretty rare. My Twitter friends went slightly insane, half of them wanted to stab me (in a good way), and I finally felt like I actually belonged in this fandom - like I had done something to earn a place there. [Caveat: fandom is for everyone and you never need to “earn the right” to be in one, but my brain latched onto the idea that I didn’t deserve to be creating things for a fandom that didn’t want me and would not let it go. Figures.] Lately, I’ve been struggling with this one a little bit because it’s getting a lot of comparisons to “Five” in which it never fares favorably, for obvious reasons, and it was never actually my favorite fic to begin with, but it still means a lot to me. This is the one I recommend to people who are curious about my work and probably always will be.

Story #5: The Sleeper Favorite

Lean On (written August 2020)

I have no earthly idea why I like this one so much, but it has to be my favorite oneshot I have up. It’s hurt-comfort and dives into the implications of the Agni Kai for Zuko’s health, both physical and mental - maybe it’s the uniqueness of that premise that endeared it to me, or maybe the personal-ness...is that a word?...of the narrative. The bare-bones summary: Zuko’s health is declining a year after the Agni Kai, Katara shows up to do something about that, and what follows is a year of Pain and Heartache for both of them as they try to navigate their conflicting feelings for each other. But really, it’s a story about healing: physically, yes, but also mentally and emotionally. I certainly relate a lot to Katara in “Lean On,” as I’ve been the friend caught in the crossfire of others’ battles with their mental health many times and I wanted to try to write from both sides of that conflict. But I think I probably wrote more of myself into Zuko than I originally anticipated, as well. Quarantine has not been good for my mental health...at all...and I’ve found myself lashing out at my family far more than I should without even knowing why, isolating myself and growing thorns so that no one would come near me. I hate seeing myself like that, and I hate that I can't seem to make myself do anything about it. So really, I was hashing out my own feelings both past and present, and what I ended up with, whatever you might think of its quality, came from the heart. I also, for whatever reason, really liked my writing here, so I have a special place in my heart for “Lean On.”

Story #6: The Fluff I Didn’t Hate

Waffleosophy (written September 2020)

Look, there's not a lot to say about this, but it’s definitely my favorite fluff that I’ve ever written. I felt like I finally managed to hit the right note with this so that it came off as sweet without being saccharine, and it feels...I don’t know, wittier than what I usually write? I write a lot of fluff but something about “Waffleosophy” made it feel more polished and coherent than most of my other fluff. This was one that, as ridiculous as its premise was, I felt like I could truly be proud of; since I’m often a bit ashamed of how much of my work is fluff (it feels like “cheating” sometimes, as if I write this way because I lack the skill for real emotional beats), that’s saying a lot.

Story #7: the Insanely Niche AU

Once In a Lifetime (ongoing)

This one gets updated at the speed of snail, but. ZK ice dance AU. It just makes me so HAPPY.

Story #8: The One That Actually Did What It Was Meant To Do

Hanabi (written October/November 2020)

This heading is ironic because this was originally supposed to be an angsty slow-burn about surviving on an uninhabited island. Instead, it became as unerringly Sarah S---- as any fic ever has. Oops.

Hanabi sprung from a desire to write something incredibly soft and wholesome. Seriously. That’s it. I had just finished writing a story that got a lot more violent and dark than I had expected it to, and I wasn’t comfortable with that; I wanted to return to my roots, if you will, and write something ~soft~. I wanted to write about good people, doing good things, being good to each other, with as much tender pining as I could cram in on the side. I wanted unique worldbuilding and a relationship that had to be built rather than handed over under the guise of Soulmateism (because this was the period in which I hated The Waiting Game and everything it stood for, aka...that. It was a weird time). And I actually? Did all of that? There’s this F. Scott Fitzgerald quote about how writers have to “sell their hearts” that I think about often, and I did that here. This has as much of my heart in it as anything ever will, I think, and if I had to pick a favorite thing that I have ever written, it would be “Hanabi.” I love it a lot.

Story #9: The One You Knew Was Coming

The Waiting Game series (written July-October 2020)

I have so many feelings about this that I can’t even really articulate them all. Where would I even start?

There was the fact that the first installment was written in two weeks (thirteen days, 94,832 words) to try to get the attention of a Twitter chat. There was the matter of Hina Oyama, my blog’s namesake, an OC who took on an absolutely massive life of her own to the point where she was quite literally my coping mechanism over the summer and I annoy everyone I know by constantly banging on pots and pans and screaming about her. There was the way this universe spiraled outwards from its original installment and now has three generations, two sequels, and a prequel in progress (Hina’s origin story, which I am writing for a friend but will most likely never post). There were the friends I made because of this series and all of the inside jokes and headcanons we’ve developed while discussing it. There were all of the existential crises I had (over negative comments, over whether or not this career-defining series is even decent, over the moral implications of writing about people getting stabbed in the sequel...please don’t ask). There is the fact that everyone I come into contact with now knows what Haang is, and that by a close-reading of any passage about Hina or Kya, you could probably learn a lot about me.

But all I can say, in the end, is that I don’t know if I’ve ever written something that I fell in love with so quickly as I did “The Waiting Game,” or that had as much lasting impact upon me. (It has been five months, and I’m STILL writing in this universe, still talking about it constantly.) I know my TWG obsession is a little annoying, and I know that this universe isn’t really anything special - but it’s special to me, and it always will be. Will I shut up? Abso-freaking-lutely not. Do I care if no one knows what my username means because it refers to an OC in a fic not a lot of people actually like? Not in the slightest! I won’t pretend that TWG is a perfect story, or even that it deserves to be thought of as particularly good, but I will absolutely defy anyone who tells me that I need to “get over it.” (No one has, but my brain likes to tell me that everyone is thinking it.)

I will never be over stories that move me, especially not ones I created.

And especially not Yangchen Oyama.

~finis~

#zfaw #self love saturday #oh yeah. I went OFF #man #I have so so so many feelings #zkfanworkweek #zutara fanworks appreciation week

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thebibliomancer · 4 years ago

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Essential Avengers: Avengers #221: ... New Blood!

July, 1982

A semi-famous somewhat imitated cover!

Can you guess ahead of time which two will be joining the Avengers?

No cheating.

Actually, what’s funny is that I can imagine a Young Bendis looking at this cover, seeing Luke Cage, Spider-Man, and Wolverine all in a row like that and whispering to himself ‘one day... one day...’

Spider-Woman is even on this! This is almost the roster meme that Bendis would have selected his team out of.

Just as soon as he cleared the way by killing off Ant-Man and Hawkeye.

Anyway, I like the cute touch that there’s just a completely blank square for Sue Storm. And is she really still going by Invisible Girl at this point?

-google- Ah, Invisible Woman is still a few years off.

And at risk of spoiling, I like the cover pretending that Rom (Space Knight) could feasibly join the Avengers. Although that would have made a hilarious mess when the rights lapsed. A whole swathe of Avengers comics unavailable.

So, where are we at?

Last times on Avengers: Captain America decided that the Avengers had become too unwieldy. They’d settled into a filler rut and Cap wanted them to be lean and mean.

So the old order changeith’d! And Moondragon meddled, causing half of the old team to quit. But Cap got his lean team of himself, Thor, Iron Man, Wasp, Yellowjacket, and Tigra.

And then Yellowjacket Hank Pym had an ‘attempted murder out of insecurity’ breakdown and tried to murder his friends and was a very bad husband to Wasp as well.

So Yellowjacket was out and Wasp took some personal time.

It was just Cap, Thor, Iron Man, and Tigra. And then Tigra quit.

Wasp rejoined but the trim team of six had become anemic at four and after some space mishaps, its finally time to try to do something about that.

As Iron Man declares in title-of-the-issue font they need some ... NEW BLOOD!

And Wasp declares ‘yes we all know that already we’ve just been putting it off.’

(And they finally got the big meeting table back from the cleaners or wherever its been. Thank goodness)

But the question that Chairperson Wasp poses the team is should they re-induct some ex-members or go looking for some truly new blood?

Thor is brooding on the recent events, where Moondragon manipulated the Avengers previous roster shakeup and later when Moondragon took over a planet and got Thor to fight his friends.

So Thor’s point, by way of dwelling, is that they should be careful with who they choose.

Thor: “Thus can no action, no thought made by any of us in the last weeks be truly, absolutely claimed as our own. Not even... mine.”

There we go. There’s that good Moondragon induced paranoia I was hoping for.

And character wise, I do like that there’s fallout from the Ba-Bani misadventure. Whether being forced to fight his friends or being made to fall in love with Moondragon or being convinced to side with her plan to bring mandatory peace to the universe. Thor has been affected by what happened.

Cap suggests that they clear the slate and just judge potential members on their current qualifications.

So what qualifications should potential Avengers have?

Captain America: “Compatibility. Someone who can work in a team.”

Iron Man: “And technical expertise. Perhaps someone good with weaponry.”

Thor: “We’ve enough strength, methinks. But courage is important. Aye, and a noble heart.”

Wasp: “Well, I know exactly what this group needs. More girls!”

Good suggestions. All good suggestions. But very good suggestion from Wasp.

I know that two women on one team is the low bar that Avengers tends to reach but you know what’s worse? One women on one team. And you know what’s better? Three.

Think about it.

The meeting gets cut short because Jan has to go do Jan things like show off fashion at the Tavern on the Green but she tells the others to figure out who they’d like as new Avengers and then they’ll all decide at their meeting next week.

As the Avengers all head off, Captain America mentions to Iron Man that hey remember how Hawkeye used to be an Avenger all the time? Weren’t those good times? He worked well on the team, was real into being an Avenger.

Iron Man agrees that sure is a Thought but flies off thinking more about Jan’s suggestion to have more women on the team, albeit probably for less than pure reasons.

Thor meanwhile doesn’t have anywhere to be so sits down in the sitting room and reads a Time magazine.

Jarvis brings Thor some mead and Thor asks who Jarvis would enlist for the Avengers if Jarvis was given the choice.

Jarvis is surprised to be asked but does his best to speak off the cuff.

Jarvis: “Why, I - I really hadn’t given it much thought! But since you ask, I feel that some of the best Avengers have started as the most unlikely candidates. For example, those with strongly individual, independent natures seem to have worked out surprisingly well.”

You’re a good guy, Jarvis.

And you’ve got a good point. Since the Avengers were pretty much everyone who wasn’t on a team jammed onto a team together, the Avengers kind of have as foundation strongly individual independent superheroes managing to do a teamwork anyway.

And Thor just so happens to be reading the Time magazine that has a picture of Spider-Man on the front (along with “Friend or Menace?”) and thinks huh individual and independent??

Oh boy!

Spider-Man going to be offered a spot on the Avengers? Is it 2005 already?

Goofs aside, this is an interesting callback maybe.

All the way back in Amazing Spider-Man Annual #3 (November, 1966) which I didn’t cover but probably should have if this was a more comprehensive Avengers blog but then I may have died under the enormity of the task.

Uh, that sentence got away from me.

Anyway, in that Spider-Man Annual, the Avengers debate whether to recruit Spider-Man for their team. Thor is the one there to find Spider-Man and bring him to the mansion. The Avengers decide to test him and (after Spider-Man tries to beat up the entire team because that’s what Spider-Man thinks proving himself is) they send him to bring the Hulk back with him.

He finds the Hulk and fights the Hulk but Hulk turns back to Bruce Banner and Spider-Man feels bad for Bruce and doesn’t want to turn him over to the Avengers (not knowing that they want to help Hulk). So he comes back and says welp couldn’t find him guess I’m not Avengers material byyyyyye.

The other Avengers go huh I guess he wasn’t Avengers material but Thor seemed to suspect what had really happened.

So my rambling point is that its appropriate that Thor again thinks to recruit Spider-Man for the Avengers because of that previous story.

Later in the day, Iron Man calls Captain America.

Although as Cap points out they know each other’s civilian name now so why be formal?

Iron Man: “Captain America? This is Iron Man.”

Captain America: “Hey, Tony, let’s make it ‘Steve,’ okay? I’m off duty.”

So Tony “Iron Man” Stark has managed to stop thinking about more woman on the Avengers and has actually started to think about having Hawkeye back on the Avengers and has to admit, it sounds good to him!

So Captain Steve says they should go together tomorrow and see what Hawkeye thinks.

This is a nice sequence.

Its nice to see how the two learning each other’s identity plays out like this. Tony trying to stick to how they’ve known each other and Steve making a not subtle overture for them to become more familiar.

This is probably good shipping fodder, I realize!

But it is also good friendshipping fodder. It can be both.

Elsewhere and meanwhile, at the Van Dyne residence, Janet puts her own recruitment drive into... drive?

She’s invited every super-heroine in the country she can think of to brunch but she has no idea how to get a hold of She-Hulk.

Not even her state of the art computer system can find her! Granted, the state of the art computer system is for analyzing fashion forecasts and not news reports about She-Hulk sightings.

So Jan decides that if you want a She-Hulk you’ve got to spend a little green.

She has her assistant take out a bunch of full-page ads in all of the major west coast newspapers. And heck, buy a bunch of commercial time too!

Jan is going to do some I Want You (to Join the Avengers) ads!

She is ludicrously wealthy.

I went and checked and her original inheritance was ‘only’ three million dollars but the way that she throws around money I’m pretty sure she has managed to get some lucrative investments. That or she’s just super good at being a fashionista.

Granted, blowing a bunch of money for a chance to have brunch with She-Hulk is a pretty good reason to blow a bunch of money.

Later, as twilight comes, Thor is flying around Central Park because he has no idea how to find Spider-Man but hears that he’s often around “the meadow-lands called Central Park” and happens upon three goofuses who just robbed a pawnshop.

These goofuses are such goofuses that one of them is wearing groucho glasses as a disguise. Another one is wearing a clown mask.

Which, like a moth to fire, aggros Spider-Man just to mock the guy.

I’m pretty sure rather than flying around aimlessly, the best way to find Spider-Man is to create the perfect quip opportunity.

A clown: “I’m gonna kiss every dime o’ my share -- just as soon as we get to the hideout so’s I can take off this stupid mask!”

Spider-Man, suddenly: “Aw, c’mon, Bunky, leave it on! I’ve always wanted to bust a bozo who looks like a bozo!”

Groucho: “S-s-spider-Man!”

S-s-spider-Man: “But enough of this clowning! Wanna give up?”

Dangit, Peter. Good wordplay.

But before can catch these thieves just like flies, down came the rain and washed the spider out.

A sudden, inexplicable (cough cough Thor) localized storm tosses around the thieves until they surrender.

After the police lead away the goofus thieves, Spider-Man comes dripping wet and with a bone to pick.

Spider-Man: “Do you have any idea what it’s like running around in wet tights?”

Thor is like sorry bro but I’ve come to talk so Spider-Man agrees but they’ll need to go off somewhere private because the press is honing in on him to ask him bonkers questions about whether he came in a flying saucer.

I think they’re thinking of a certain emissary of hell.

That darn press!

Spider-Man and Thor relocate to a high rooftop for their talk.

Spider-Man: “Now, Goldilocks, what’s your beef?”

Thor: “Thy protective demeanor is unneeded, my friend. I have no ‘beef’ -- only a proposal. The Avengers are seeking new members, and I wouldst offer thee such position.”

Spider-Man: “You... Thor... want me as an Avenger?

Spider-Man is still not sure if it would work out (reflecting on Spider-Man Annual #3) but he’s also really flattered by the offer. And presumably how the offer wasn’t accompanied by “BUT FIRST YOU MUST PASS OUR TEST!”

So he can’t just accept the offer off-hand but he’s definitely going to think about it.

Even if you don’t join the team, even just being considered is an honor.

The twilight turns into night turns into day, and Cap and Iron Man show up in Hawkeye’s place of business to bug him.

Don’t know if you remember but Hawkeye has a cushy job as head of security for Cross Technological Enterprises. And he actually does take the job seriously which is why he’s a little concerned, at least for his professional pride, that Cap and Iron Man got past his guards.

Cap: “Avengers priority -- never leave home without it. In fact, we’ve come to offer it to you.”

Smooth. Smooth, Cap.

Although I do like that they can just march up to the guards of this company and go ‘hey let us in we’re avengers’ and its not even a ‘ok i’ll clear it with head of security hawkeye’ its ‘yeah sure go right in and do you want any paperclips?’

Anyway, Hawkeye has his pride so he tells Cap not to expect him to come crawling back after the Avengers booted him out (actually Gyrich because Gyrich wanted the Avengers to have some ding dang diversity. Its weirdly the least assholeish thing he’s ever done although he approached it very much in an asshole way).

Point being, they kicked Hawkeye out and he has a new super cool job now.

Iron Man takes this show of wounded pride in wounded stride, just asking that Hawkeye consider it and let them know when he makes a decision.

But Hawkeye doubts he’ll decide to come back to the Avengers because he’s got a good thing in this steady, respectable paying job which comes with job security and respect!

And then, suddenly struck by the realization that he, Hawkeye, is turning down a drama implosion like the Avengers to do the adult thing?? Hawkeye doesn’t like what he’s become.

And he stares in horror at the trappings of power and respectability. The sex and the drugs.

Or a Playboy magazine and a personalized coffee cup, at least.

And he decides to give Iron Man his answer right then and there.

Which, of course, involves shooting arrows. This is Hawkeye we’re talking about.

What’s amazing is that we’ll learn later this issue that he’s going to keep his security job and do Avengers on top of that (and in fairness most of the Avengers don’t have Avengers as their only thing). But he just shot an arrow through a glass door in his place of employment.

But you don’t hire Hawkeye if you don’t expect that kind of thing so I can see why it wouldn’t impact his job.

So that’s Hawkeye as a YES and Spider-Man as a ‘I’ll get back to you.’ And as the weekend arrives, it’s time for Janet van Dyne’s superheroine brunch.

And on the hill above the van Dyne house, its our old pal Fabian Stankowicz.

Remember? The Mechano-Marauder? Built a robot suit to beat up the Avengers, none of them took him that seriously? Iron Man beat him up solo without trying very hard and then got angry about Hank Pym?

Anyway, he’s back, somehow, and he’s salty about the less than dignified experience he had in issue 217. But this time, he has a new plan!

Fabian Stankowicz: “They laughed at me! Mocked me! But I’ll show the Avengers that the Mechano-Marauder is not to be toyed with! I’ll attack their weakest member when the others aren’t around! She’ll be helpless! *Heh-heh-heh*”

Well. Good luck with that, my dude.

Sue Storm-Richards, the Invisible Girl, arrives and Jan introduces her to the other prospective Avengers: Dazzler, Spider-Woman, and Black Widow.

All good candidates, really.

Especially Dazzler.

Well, Beast left and Tigra left so somebody needs to be the new funny person.

Apparently, Spider-Woman doesn’t like puns because she immediately starts getting catty with Dazzler.

Spider-Woman: “Nice going, Blaire! You’re showing all the polish and poise of a real pro!”

Dazzler: “Oh? And I suppose crawling on walls like some yucky insect is ‘professional’?”

Spider-Woman: “I sting, too”

I guess, they have some history in Dazzler’s own book that didn’t go over well. Black Widow has to lean over and tell them to cut the shit out for Jan’s sake.

But then the last invited guest shows up.

ITS A SHE-HULK!

She saw the ads and she’s come for the free food!

Relatable.

Outside, Jan’s chauffeur Mr. Carrothers sits on the limo taking a smoke break and reflecting how good he has it working for the Wasp. Good pay, casual hours. The most he can complain about is that it gets a little boring sometimes.

That’s probably tempting fate because the All-New All-Different Mechano-Marauder stomps up to the house. Remember how Fabian threw the limo last time? Mr. Carrothers remembers.

He panics and runs into the house and tries to warn the assembled heroes.

And yet.

They didn’t really leap to action, huh? I mean, I get it. Brunch.

Even after the robot fist has punched through Wasp’s frankly ludicrous window and kidnapped Dazzler, Wasp is more annoyed than anything.

Wasp: “Fabian Stankowicz, you get that thing out of my living room!”

And then has to explain to her guests that Fabian is some chump that Iron Man beat up and that he wants to make a name for himself by defeating the Avengers. And Sue is like ah yes I understand completely.

But chump or not, Black Widow decides that they should rescue Dazzler.

Dazzler: “I don’t think I need saving, folks! This guy’s just holding, not squeezing!”

And so much for the brunch bunch taking this any amount of serious.

Sue just puts up a quick invisible dome to keep Fabian from getting to the rest of them which the Mechano-Marauder instantly bonks into and bangs on impotently demanding that they let him in.

Careful, Fabian.

You’re memeing yourself.

Dazzler saves herself when she gets tired of being carried around. She does her Dazzler thing with the bright pulse of light, blinding Fabian.

He drops Dazzler but she’s caught by She-Hulk.

The blinded Mechano-Marauder drives around blindly, thinking “These women aren’t even Avengers! They can’t beat me!”

Alas, Dazzler decides the same decision she decided in #211, that she’s a singer, not a fighter.

And Sue also decides to head off, saying that she’s too busy with the Fantastic Four anyway.

Shame.

But can we talk about the sheer audacity that Jan had of trying to poach Sue from the Fantastic Four to the Avengers? The nerve! The verve!

So that’s two of her candidates declining but that still leaves Spider-Woman, Black Widow, and She-Hulk.

And unfortunately for Mechano-Marauder, the first two are the two that have decided to kick his ass a little for entertainment reasons.

Spider-Woman’s venom blast damages one of the giant robot fists and Black Widow swings around Hoth-style and trips the Mechano-Marauder into the ornamental pond.

Alas, after literally dunking a giant robot into a pond, both Spider-Woman and Black Widow turn down the offer to join the Avengers.

Black Widow has private business that are keeping her busy. And Spider-Woman doesn’t even offer an excuse.

In fairness, she has her own solo book over in California and that’s a heck of a commute. I’m actually impressed that she came all this way for brunch.

Fabian is fed up with being treated as an after-thought in his own fight scene and bursts out of the pond, yelling how he’s going to destroy them all!

All.... uh, two that’s left at this point. Yup, he sure is going to destroy all two of them.

She-Hulk has been fairly low-key this whole story, especially for She-Hulk. I’m pretty sure she came to the brunch just for the food and she hasn’t reacted much to Fabian, even when the others were. She caught Dazzler but she hasn’t had much to say since arriving. She’s mostly been standing with her hands on her hips, watching things play out.

But I guess she’s gotten tired of Fabian. Or maybe it falls to her as the last guest.

She tells him to shut up and breaks his robot suit with one punch.

Fabian has one last trick up his Mechano-Marauder sleeve but its a dumb one.

His ejector seat is actually a backup robot suit. Annnd, its so heavy that it sinks into the ground. Trapping him.

Good job, Fabian.

She-Hulk goes to give him one more punch but Wasp stops her. Because she wants a shot at him.

And wow! What a shot!

At full not small size she crosses the streams to focus her bio-power stings into one concentrated beam and blows a hole in Fabian’s escape suit.

I’ve talked before about how Wasp’s pew pew stings have seemingly gotten souped up under Shooter and I think this is another good example. I mean, she’s not blowing up a house but combining the blasts to do precision boring is another cool application we haven’t seen before.

Anyway, now Wasp goes teeny and flies into the hole she made and up into the helmet to blast Fabian in the face. So hard his helmet flies off.

Wasp: “That’ll teach ‘im for ruining my party!”

And that’s that for brunch.

Days later, Jarvis calls the State Department to request official clearance for two new members.

And we see part of the process of that. Interesting if you’re interested in the logistics of an officially recognized superhero team.

I guess what’s interesting is that Henry Peter Gyrich is still part of the process.

You’d think he’d have been replaced or something after the Avengers very publicly embarrassed him and got emancipated from him. I guess he keeps doing the necessary liaison stuff without ever talking to them.

The requests for the two new members cross Gyrich’s desk and he takes it to the White House where the request gets signed by Ronald Reagan.

(The two new members are Hawkeye and She-Hulk by the by. We see it on the paperwork. Guess Spider-Man is still thinking it over.)

Anyway, I guess its interesting that new Avengers are a matter that goes all the way up to the president.

God, I’m glad that for the modern team, Cap told the US government to fuck off because I don’t want to even think about that still being a thing.

The next day after the paperwork is signed, Hawkeye is on his way to Avengers Mansion in a cab. He’s reading a Time magazine about the change in the Avengers’ roster and reflecting that it’ll be hard to hold down two jobs but worth it because he’s missed the adventure.

Check out the Time magazine though.

The cover of this comic book issue is in-universe the cover of Time magazine! That’s neat.

But Hawkeye’s cab is suddenly cut off by a pink Cadillac.

And Hawkeye being Hawkeye doesn’t just grumble and go about his day. He commits assault. Because this is Hawkeye.

The guy that Cap and Iron Man wanted back for being a good team-player.

So he gets out of the cab and shoots the pink Cadillac with an EMP arrow that fries the car’s electrical system.

Really abusing that Avengers Priority Status already, huh, Hawkeye?

The one mistake he made is that the pink Cadillac belongs to She-Hulk. She in fact earned it by doing a car commercial for Wacky Willie’s Wheels-And-Deals so you might imagine she’s fond of it.

So she picks up the cab with Hawkeye in it and leans it against a lightpole.

And then she picks up the Cadillac on her shoulder and walks off with it.

She-Hulk knows how to make a lasting impression, I’ll say that.

But soon after he gets down from the taxi and stops in at an ER to make sure he’s not concussed, Hawkeye arrives at Avengers Mansion to rejoin the team.

Hawkeye: “Okay, folks, life can go on -- Hawkeye’s here!”

Iron Man: “And it’s about time! We were starting to get worried. What happened?”

Hawkeye: “Oh, nothin’ much -- not ‘til some freaky Amazon tried to play dominoes with my taxi!”

She-Hulk, lurking silhouetted by the window: “‘Amazon’, eh? I don’t suppose it could have been -- a green Amazon?”

That is a powerful energy you have there, She-Hulk. Powerful energy and a power move in a power suit.

And that’s how Hawkeye’s day was ruined. Also how the two new additions to the team start with bad blood.

Conflict! We gotta have it!

Wasp: “Hawkeye, She-Hulk. I’d like to officially welcome you both. From now on -- you’re one of us. We’re one of you. And we’re all -- THE AVENGERS!”

Jan’s trying a new thing where she kisses every new member. And they both have to bend down a little for her.

Also, another new Wasp costume! Wasp gonna Wasp!

This is another good, light-hearted decompression issue. The Moondragon two-parter had some yuks but also mind-control sex and Drax’s brain melting. So this time Wasp throws a brunch and Cap and Iron Man help Hawkeye escape the drudgery of an adult job.

There’s a lot of what could have been with Wasp’s guest list. What if she could convince Sue Storm to take a break from the Fantastic Four to try being on the Avengers.

She’ll join later, in the Worst Roster but she’ll join with Reed. I’m thinking more of a thing where Sue gets some time away from the family. I don’t think it could last long and it would need the Avengers and FF writer to be on the same page but I think it could be interesting - Sue getting to be on a team where she doesn’t have to be the adult in the room and doesn’t have to work alongside the family.

It’s a similar reason to why I’d like to see adult Cyclops join the Avengers. He’s so tied in with X-stuff and being the leader of X-stuff that I want to take him out of that context and see a new side of him.

Spider-Woman and Black Widow also could have been interesting. They’ll both become Avengers later. I don’t know that Dazzler ever did and she presents interesting opportunities.

The Avengers have had Wonder Man who was also trying to break into acting while being an Avenger. So Dazzler trying to pursue her singing career might just be a retread of that but what if she were more successful and was a celebrity on the team.

The Avengers kind of are celebrities but I think it’d be a different feel if they had a famous (disco) singer on the team.

Interesting stuff (for me) to think about, anyway.

Something else to talk about is the creative credits. Jim Shooter is credited for plotting but Dave Michelinie as writer. And looking ahead, Shooter is not going to be the solo writer again in the near future.

I think we’re getting to the point where Shooter’s going to be too busy with EIC duties to keep up writing the Avengers. He’s going to get plotting credits for a few more issues, probably loose threads he’s handing to other writers.

So the second Shooter run is going to end soon. Shame. Very much a shame. It wasn’t a very long run but he put a lot of energy and humor into the book.

Next time: Egghead’s back and he’s bringing a new Masters of Evil. Wow, it’s been a while since we’ve had them and they’re supposed to be the Avengers’ evil opposite team.

And Egghead is the not very impressive criminal mastermind who couldn’t beat Hank Pym so instead framed him for crime. Hopefully the new Masters rise above that level of menace.

Follow @essential-avengers because I’m bringing you the She-Hulk content you crave. I assume. I took a poll and one out of one person said ‘this is the She-Hulk content I crave’ and I extrapolated from that. Also you should like and reblog because She-Hulk would want you to.

#Avengers #Mechano Marauder #Iron Man #Captain America #Thor #the Wasp #Spider Man #Hawkeye #Invisible Girl #Dazzler #Spider Woman #she hulk #Black Widow #essential avengers #ten issues since the last one that had a bunch of guest stars #its a bunch of guest stars and a roster change!#essential marvel liveblogging

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steve0discusses · 4 years ago

Text

Yugioh Ep 28: Valon Joins the Dead People Gang

So lately it’s been really freakin hot.

Like crazy freakin hot. I haven’t done anything productive because youknow--I live in a Covid hotspot and I’ve been quarantined for what feels like is 6 years, and then to continue the 10 plagues across America, now it’s just really freakin hot.

I was trying to go the hell to sleep when I heard this WIND outside my window at 2 AM. Just...WIND. It was like 5000 degrees outside, and then it started thundering, and then the lightning started hitting and I was like...wtf 2020, please calm down!

So I decided to check Twitter at 3 AM really fast just to make sure this wasn’t a freakin dream. Aaaaaaand Northern California had a Fire tornado warning.

3 words I never thought I’d see in conjunction. Fire tornado Warning.

and it hella dropped in Tahoe, y’all, it was freakin nuts. Meanwhile, Death Valley--the place where Yugi hella biffed it and died, if you don’t remember--hit 130 F (54.4 C, for the metric lovers in the back) so...it’s been a time for every part of California, and now we have some good ol fashioned rolling blackouts accompanied by 27 wildfires (yes, 27 fires) who have turned the sky into a yellow pea soup.

So because of the rolling blackouts (one of our power transformers exploded because of either the lightning or overuse, I dunno) at any point...my power might go out. Because of this, I didn’t feel like booting up Photoshop and so instead I’ll just...work on this.

...something about the Fire Tornado, the yellow shadow realm outside my window, and crazy lightning over San Fransisco reminded me that it’s been a HOT MINUTE since I’ve posted so lets get back to Yugioh. Somehow they knew that the doorway to hell was my back yard and you know what? They’re right. Completely believable and I wish someone would close the damn door.

Tristan read my mind that it’s been such a hot minute since I’ve checked in, that he mansplained a very quick summary of what the hell is currently happening to Tea Gardner.

A brave man, Tristan Taylor. A brave man to risk getting into a fight with Tea, who is the only Goliath on this show that exists without also being a paper card.

Which is when Pharaoh had some news.

I guess without Duke around, Pharaoh had to be the new Killjoy

(read more under the cut)

I exaggerate a little for the caps, but it’s kind of interesting that when Joey is usually on his own, it’s Yugi who’s certain that Joey is about to die and Pharaoh is the one that has to calm little Yugi down. But, when Yugi’s not there, I guess Pharaoh is just already in a Mood.

Mai is really weird this episode! I wish this season had gone into more detail about the extent of the Orichalcos’s mind control. Because Mai could very well be under it’s spell...or not...maybe it has no spell and they’re just falling for it like a placebo?

It’s not like the Orichalcos was ever put on anyone who was “good.” like if it were possessing someone nice like...

....

....(let me think about this, I’ll think of someone on this show who is a true lawful good.)

....

.................Dark Magician Girl, then I’d actually know if this Orichalcos actually IS different from how these characters actually are. But Mai was introduced in this series as a villain, and she’s always been around to bust balls, so it’s like...what part is Mai and what part is not?

Apparently a part that only shows up when Valon dies.

PS Valon turns a very quick 180 right before he died. I honestly thought I had skipped an episode or something because bro mentioned something about...Valon burning down a church or something...but I think that was a spicy headcanon where he mixed up this show with another anime.

I think. If I skipped an episode, y’all would tell me, right? I didn’t skip an episode?

I did skip the card games, however, so something about getting punched like 1000 times in the dick by Joey Wheeler taught Valon how to be human again, and the death that followed the 1000 dick punches inspired Mai to remember that Valon exists and that she Loves Him.

(just flat on his face)

I just...

I am going to give Yugioh this one. They have had so little in terms of relationships--I will give this to them. Good Job Yugioh, you did it. You had a relationship on your show. Sure, it was one where she...never seemed to like the guy at all, but hey--they actually did embrace...a corpse. Good on you, Yugioh.

Again, I have a really difficult time not cracking up about this very tragic moment a little bit because (and I have said this before about relationships on Yugioh), but I have never seen a TV show treat a straight relationship this way. I have never seen Straight Baiting before in my life and it is...WILD.

Also because Valon and Mai have both murdered I want to say hundreds of people at this point, it’s hard to feel too bad about them, although they are drawn as a very cute couple in how their outfits match. They got the finger less gloves, the belts hanging off their collar, the sleeveless outfit that is both too much clothes and too little clothes at the same time.

And like...I really like the idea behind Valon/Mai. I still think that was a good idea to build off of, I just wish that there was more of a sign from Mai that she had any idea that Valon existed prior to this. Because Valon had Orichalcos too, but he was fully able to love her--so what was happening on her end that prevented this? Was it just the amount that she hated Joey was so much more than her love for Valon? Was Valon actually more jealous of her hate of Wheeler and misinterpreted it as love?

Anyway it’s a billion degrees and I don’t have air conditioning so...I think we’ll have more time to think about this next episode. Maybe it’ll occur to me two weeks after this heat wave ends exactly what I am trying to grasp at when it comes to these two, but for now all I can say is...well it was nice.

Ah RIP Valon/tine (or at least I assume that’s the ship name). You lasted almost a whole season. You almost became a thing. I guess well find out if there’s redemption after he eventually gets resurrected.

And on this show we redeem resurrected people kind of a lot, so that seems reasonable. Sure it was a couple hundred people that he murdered but like...we redeemed Marik.

And then she goes back to wigging out like immediately. The flipping and the flopping of Mai Valentine in this episode is a lot.

And immediately after he says something along the lines of this, he follows with...doing this:

Joey! Valon just died so you wouldn’t have to duel Mai Valentine! He’s dead, Joey! Maybe try talking???

The thing about this show is that cards can both heal you and also destroy you, and the line between the two is just...rolling a dice and hoping you come out healed. Yugi played cards against Yami so that Yami could free himself from his guilt and move on--Valon was healed of Orichalcos control because Joey beat him at cards--Seto was “cured” of his more evil side because Yami mind wiped him in a card game--card magic is weird.

At the same time, Cards can take your soul in just So Many Ways--kind of one of the downsides. But, in a very round about way, maybe cards are kind of like therapy in this world. Maybe they don’t have therapy, and all these kids playing card games with eachother is metaphorical to how they all need eachother in order to push eachother to actually go through the steps of-

Ah, who am I kidding? They just really needed to have Mai lose at cards so they could write her off the show.

I do appreciate that the show never tells you that someone’s actions in the past mean they must rot for eternity. This show will never cancel anyone and say “burn that bridge, let’s go” but I feel like murder is...the line where you can just walk away?

But youknow if that were true of Joey wheeler he’d have no friends left.

During this time, The Yugioh crew was inexplicably lost while, for once in his entire life, Seto was going the correct direction.

Unfortunately, the lure to throw cards at thing was too much for him to go the right direction for very long. It is kind of funny to note that he is the smartest boy in Domino--so he knows you can drive through a hologram--but he just didn’t want to know if they were real or not, so he...didn’t.

Like I think that says a lot about Seto, and I’m sure the show-runners didn’t think about this at all, but he could have tested his theory right now. He could have just seen if these were real in order to know if he was crazy or not...but he’d rather be insane, than be involved with magic.

Anyways, Mai drops that Orichalcos.

Reminder that San Francisco is only 7-12 miles from one end to the other depending on what part of the peninsula you’re on.

But then again, they’re reading a map in Roman characters and these kids are school dropouts who only speak Japanese and maybe Spanish. Maybe they’re actually doing really, really well considering the language barrier?

Anyway that’s all for now I’m gonna go pass out and hopefully when I wake up it’ll be next week when it is no longer hot. If you just got here, this is a link to read these caps from the beginning!

https://steve0discusses.tumblr.com/tagged/yugioh/chrono

#yugion #ygo #photo recap #episode recap #yami muto #tea gardner #joey wheeler #tristan taylor #Valon #Mai Valentine #So much punching #Seto Kaiba shows up for 5 seconds #Mokuba too I guess #S4 #Episode 28

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miracle-sham · 5 years ago

Text

Hold Your Wake Softly, for the Dead Sleep Lightly.

| {MaribatMarch2020, Week 3, Day 17: Grave} |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] |

| Triggers/Warnings: Major Character Death, Temporary Character Death, Graveyards/Cemeteries, Mentions of Death, Explicit Language/Swearing, Blood and Minor Injuries. |

| It's been six months since she died, so Jason goes to visit her grave. Only sometimes things aren't quite as they seem, and dreams are merely reflections of reality. |

| Word Count: 1794 |

-<◊>-

| A/N: So this is probably going to be my last Maribat March ficlet. I've been super busy and I got ill again (which is why I've not responded to comments yet, sorry!), so I've barely been able to get any writing done, and most of the fics are turning out not great. This fic is the only one that turned out well and I'm happy with it. I've not really got else much to say, so uhh enjoy! |

| If you want to be tagged in future oneshots/fics, or a specific Au, then comment or send me a DM/ask! |

| Also side note, Don't Like? Don't Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

-<◊>-

Jason knows he's dreaming. But what strikes him as odd, is that he's dreaming. He's not dreamt since his dip in the Lazarus Pit. Weathered nightmares and night terrors, sure. But not the stuff of rainbows, sugar plums, and happiness, no. Although, this dream he's dreaming isn't exactly that either, so perhaps it shouldn't be that much of a surprise.

He can't quite tell where he is. The surroundings are completely unfamiliar. He's on a roof, that much is clear. But it's not a roof in Gotham, no. Jason knows the roofs of Gotham like he knows the back of his hand. If he had to guess, the roof looked European in style, maybe Gothic French/Parisian if he had to guess specifically. There are poles and fairy lights strung up around the roof, and a picnic blanket is laid out with a basket overflowing with sandwiches, pastries, and fresh fruit.

And as lovely as the scene is, the disconcerting part, is the phantasm sitting beside him. A phantasm in the guise of his lost love. Just sitting there, alive and breathing—with her eyes, so bright, twinkling in the low light—and her dazzling smile, the lovesick one he'd always catch her doing when she thought he wasn't looking.

Jason can almost imagine the warmth of her. But this is a dream, and she's nothing more than a phantasm. So there's no real warmth. It's just his imagination. Not that that knowledge does anything to ease the aching of his wretched and bleeding heart.

He's almost tempted to stay here. To indulge in this love-stricken reverie of a dream. But he can't. Not tonight. Not when tomorrow he'll wake with the dawn and trudge over to the cemetery and lay a bouquet of marigolds upon her grave.

It almost sickens him, to need to leave this place. He'd love nothing more than to hold her in his arms one last time. But she's not real.

Jason feels a need to wake up, for the sliver of peace in the hopes that he'll forget this torturous dream upon waking. It hurts. It hurts so much to be close to her only for her to be a phantasm.

No sooner does he think this, he feels the darkness of the dream ending pull at him. Tugging him away from the rooftop with her and tossing him into the swirling shadows of dreamless sleep.

-<◊>-

Except, he doesn't wake up in his bed from a dreamless sleep like he expected to. No, he finds himself in a bleak observatory with a giant window that has a butterfly design in it. The edges of the room are shadowed, as only the window and a circle in the centre of the room are illuminated with faded blue light.

There's a shimmer in the centre of the illuminated circle, and a young child kneeling on the floor flickers into view. No matter how much he tries to focus, Jason finds himself unable to tell what the child looks like. It's almost as though there's a magical glamour surrounding them that makes it impossible to see their true appearance.

Jason walks to the edge of the circle and stares at the child. They're holding two pieces of jewellery, one in each hand. In their left hand, is a pair of red and black spotted earrings and in their right hand, is a black and green ring.

Two strange small creatures float above the child's hands. The one floating over the ring, is a weird-looking purplish-black cat with green eyes. The one floating over the earrings, is an even weirder looking red and black spotted bug thing.

Jason squints then furrows his brow, the child and the creatures appear to not have noticed him yet. Yet.

“I want to make a wish.” The child says solemnly.

The bug creature looks pained at that statement. “There'll be consequences.”

“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” The cat creature pipes up.

The child bites their lip. “I know and I don't care. I want to bring the previous Ladybug holder back to life.”

The bug creature starts to tear up. “Mar—” it pauses. “The previous holder has been dead for six months.”

A chill runs down Jason's back and his mouth becomes inexplicably dry. Fuck, he thinks weakly. They're talking about her. He drags a hand down his face and bitterly blinks back tears, feeling so fucking conflicted.

The child tilts their head to the side and closes their eyes for a minute. “I know. I still want to bring them back. Again, I don't care about the price. The previous holder shouldn't have died.”

The cat creature narrows its eyes at the child. “If you bring the previous holder back with the wish, it won't be an immediate revival. Whoever pays the price for the wish will spend the next six months slowly wasting away as the previous holder returns to life.”

Jason feels sick because as much as he misses her like a lost limb, he doesn't want to subject her to the trauma of coming back to life and digging herself out of her own grave, like he did.

The child hums. “Like a portable charger? Drain the power in one object to recharge the other object?”

Huffing, the cat creature rolls in its eyes. “That's one way of putting it.”

The child nods. “Do I get to choose who pays the price?”

“No, the person who pays the price must be of equal value to the previous holder. For example, you couldn't pay the price because you're too young and don't use a power to achieve a goal.” The bug creature explains, shaking its head.

The child frowns and puts the earrings and ring on. “Okay. Tikki Spots on. Tikki, Plagg, Unify.”

The following flash of bright light temporarily blinds Jason.

“Using the power of the Ladybug Miraculous of Creation and the Cat Miraculous of Destruction, I wish that...—”

The world fades to darkness and silence before Jason can hear the rest of the wish.

-<◊>-

It's the dawning of the wake, with its claggy skies above and claggier mud underfoot; rain splatters against the pavement in a constant solemn cadence. Rusted wrought iron railings are all that stands between him and his love.

Jason treads slowly, shoulders hunched, gaze averted. He's walked this path before. Too many times, the others would claim. He bites his lip and blinks back tears. He follows the path to the marble gravestone, her gravestone.

Falling to his knees upon the grave's soil, he lightly traces the stone's engravings with one finger, silently muttering along.

When he runs out of words to trace, he closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the stone. Digging his hands into the grass and soil, he can't help but let out a hollow sob.

The minutes ebb by as he slowly recomposes himself. The cold wet mud of the grave clings to him, both that and the rain chills him to the bone.

He sighs, then swallows thickly. “Hey, Mari. I know missed visiting you last week, I'm sorry. I got caught in a bit of a scuffle in our—uh night job.” He quickly glances around incase anyone's nearby, but on such a dreary day like this, there's not another soul in sight. “I attempted to bake your signature macaroons last night. They turned out fairly well but they're shit in comparison to how you get them to turn out.” He chuckles hollowly.

“Last night whilst out on the night job, I found a tiny blue kitten with the most piercing blue eyes ever. Kinda reminded me of you, so I kinda ended up adopting it. I think you both would get along like a house on fire if you met. I was going to bring her today, but well you can see what the weather's like. Don't really want to get the thing sick when it's like this.” Jason rambles idly, not really putting too much thought into what he's saying.

He huffs and pauses for a second, “Actually speaking about last night, I had the fucking weirdest of dreams. And it wasn't just a weird pit nightmare like it usually is—”

He's cut off as a swarm of black ladybirds converge around the cemetery. On autopilot, Jason stumbles to his feet and backs away from her grave, eyeing the swarm with calculative apprehension.

As he does that, the swarm sweep over her grave before dissipating into the sky.

Jason holds his breath, waiting to see what the ladybirds did.

A minute passes in silence, and just as he's about to step closer, a muffled and sickening scream emanates from beneath the grave. Fragments of last night's dream rise to the forefront of Jason's mind. “Fuck!”

He throws himself forwards and starts desperately digging into the mud with his hands. “Come on, come on, come on…” Each second passes as slow as molasses but eventually, the mud starts to gradually give way underneath him.

A grasping hand breaches the surface and starts frantically clawing at the ground. A wave of nausea hits Jason like a brick wall. He hesitates for a split second before fixating on digging up the mud around the hand. With each scoop of mud dug away, the hole around the hand starts to widen and widen until a second hand breaches the surface. With increased desperation, Jason continues to dig and dig and dig.

After another couple of minutes digging, the hole's big enough that Jason can see the coffin shards and ripped scraps of clothing among the mud. He grabs at the arms and pulls with everything he has but the resistance is nearly equal.

Gritting his teeth, he continues to pull until the resistance against him suddenly weakens and he stumbles back, dragging the cor—body of Marinette out of the grave.

Jason let's go of her after a second and drinks in the sight of her, alive and breathing. Under his breath, he whispers, “Mari…”

Frankly, she looks awful. Skin pallid, eyes bloodshot and glassy, freckles faded, hair dull, hands bloody. Her clothes are ripped, muddied, and bloodied. Earthworms, as well as other underground creepy crawlies, fall off her.

Her eyes manage to focus on him for a second but almost immediately after, her eyes roll back and she collapses, unconscious.

Jason rushes forwards and grabs her, to stop her from hitting the ground. Dazed, he fumbles for his phone and calls Bruce. “Marinette's alive.” He immediately blurts out, “She fucking dug herself out the fucking grave and she's unconscious and injured.” It takes all his willpower not to choke on his words.

“We'll ready the medbay. Tim will pick you, he'll be there in five.”

-<◊>-

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little oneshot! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated! |

| @maribat-march2020 | | @vixen-uchiha |

#Miraculous Ladybug #Maribat #ML x DC #DC x MLB #Jasonette #JasMari #MariJay #MaribatMarch2020 #MaribatMarch Week 3 #MaribatMarch Day 17 #MaribatMarch Grave #Hold Your Wake Softly for the Dead Sleep Lightly #HYWSftDSL #Sham's Posts #Sham's Writing #Sham's Fics

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spiderman-homecomeme · 5 years ago

Text

day seven - pull-out p.2

ONLY ONE BED

A/N: Well, here we are friends. It’s time to say goodbye to spideychelle week. But really, when you think about it, isn’t the real spideychelle week the friends we made a long the way?

Okay, but for real, this has been so fun!! Both writing and seeing all the creations made by our talented fandom! Thank you again @spideychelleweek for putting this together <3 Till next year

There’s stuff in this fic that’s pretty new for me, as I’ve never written explicit smut before, and it’s something I’ve been thinking about trying for a while. So, I figured Spideychelle Week would be the best time!

Without further procrastination on my part: enjoy some 6.3k of cow facts that will impress your friends, Peter being a mess, MJ being a mess, everyone’s a mess, smut, and ONLY. ONE. BED.

Read here on AO3

“Hey, uh, MJ.”

Peter’s voice is hushed as he gently nudges her.

She mumbles and stirs, blinking sleepily at him as she returns to a vague form of something akin to consciousness.

“MJ.” His hand brushes her arm once more, leaving a certain warmth that she can’t quite place. “We’re here.”

Sure enough, there’s a faint glow coming from the porch light ahead, though it’s entirely too bright for one o’clock in the morning. MJ sits up in her seat, yawning as she stretches her arms out in front of her. Her eyelids droop for another moment as she goes to unbuckle her seat belt, and she can just barely hear the opening of the driver’s side door as Peter climbs out of the old Volvo.

“You don’t need me to carry you in do you?” Peter’s gently teasing voice cuts through her sleep-raddled mind.

Apparently he’s done being a weirdo.

The thought of being held against her best friend’s chest flashes through her mind, fleeting, but it’s there alright. She shakes it away almost as quickly as it appears. She cracks an eye open, quirking an unimpressed brow at him as he leans against the door frame with a stupid little smirk on his face.

“Fuck off,” she groans.

Something in the way he shakes his head with a snort of a nervous-sounding laugh causes her stomach to flip, filling with butterflies.

Again, she simply brushes it off.

But then, watching him pop open the trunk, his shirt riding up a little as he lifts the lid, she wonders if he’s thinking about the way their hands touched in the car as much as she is. It was a soft touch, warm, and in a way, inexplicably familiar. Though, as much as it made her heart seize, Michelle’s not sure why she didn’t just pull her hand away.

Then again, Peter didn’t pull away either.

It’s dangerous territory, this kind of thinking. “Do you think there’ll be any cows on the beach?” She asks through a yawn, a teasing lilt to her tone.

Peter barely glances back at her, scoffing. “Shut up.”

A smirk pulls at her lips.

They grab their things from the car, MJ feeling as though she’s moving through quicksand as she gathers her bearings, trying to get a feel for her “land legs” after sitting for so long. The walk to the front porch feels like a half-marathon, and it feels even longer as Peter struggles to remember the door code to get in.

Finally, after a nearly eight hour drive after class, they step inside the small beach cottage.

The house is silent and dark, the only light coming from a lamp in the kitchenette. Ned and Betty must have gone to sleep hours ago, there being practically no sign of life in the house except for the few dishes in the sink. There’s a note on the counter, from Betty giving them instructions for the wifi, the tv, and of course, how to work the shower.

MJ can feel herself once again falling closer and closer into the welcome embrace of sleep. She doesn’t waste any more time, nearly pushing past Peter as she heads for the open door to their bedroom. She can hear him laugh behind her, and she bites back her own smile when he calls out a soft, good-humored, “hey!”

But as they both step into the room, they’re met with a rather strange surprise.

When Betty had told them about this house, she had sworn up and down that there was room for four people to sleep. Two bedrooms, three beds. One for her and Ned, two for Peter and MJ. It was simple.

Here, however, in this dark, moonlit room at one in the morning, there’s only one, full-sized bed.

One bed, and a single, dark leather loveseat.

The silence that falls between them almost crushes their shoulders under its weight. MJ can practically hear the collective overthinking they’re about to do.

“You can take the bed—” They both say simultaneously.

Peter immediately cuts in. “Uh, you—you should take it,” he insists, his lips stretching into a sheepish grin as he scratches the back of his neck.

“No, it’s fine,” MJ replies, setting her backpack down next onto the leather sofa, flinching at the way the fabric squeaks under the weight of her things. “I can take the couch. You take the bed.”

“No, no,” Peter repeats back to her. “Seriously, I’m cool with it. Plus,” He continues, putting his own bag down next to hers and ignoring how the squeaky leather groans again. “Being Spider-Man, I’ve gotten pretty used to sleeping literally anywhere. Just one of my many talents,” he cracks a joke, his almost timid grin wreaking havoc on her insides. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken up on the side of a building.”

She quirks a doubting brow in his direction, though the corner of her lips twitch upward.

“For real,” Peter pushes. “I’m cool with it. The super-speedy healing will help with the lumpy couch.”

Her lips purse as she lets out a quiet hum. She’s quiet for a moment, her brows pinching together. “It does make sense,” she finally nods.

Peter smiles.

“I mean, you are the short one,” she teases.

“Hey!” He fights to get rid of his smile as he shoves her playfully. “Only by, like, two-inches.”

Their shared laughter dies for a moment, and they’re left alone in the quiet, dim room.

MJ wants to roll her eyes, even though she’s beginning to feel that same, creeping awkwardness from earlier. “Why—” She clears her throat, telling herself that it’s only so she can get the tired scratchiness out of her voice. “Why don’t we just both take it? We’re adults. And friends. We can share. Besides,” she pauses, her eyes drifting to the bed in question, a strange yet not entirely unwelcome heat rising to her cheeks. “It’s not a queen, but we could both fit.”

“No,” Peter spits out, perhaps a little too quickly. A faint blush falls across his face, and he coughs again, rocking back on his heels. He huffs out a breathy laugh. “No… You—You really don’t wanna share a bed… with… with me. I—” He chuckles. “I’m a huge—HUGE—blanket hog. And, like… I always try to cuddle whoever’s in bed with me—not that… I’m ever in bed with a lot of people… or I mean—random people. Just—”

Throughout his rambling, Michelle starts to really feel that now annoying, almost tingling warmth even more, the same one she’s been feeling since this damn trip started. She shifts on her feet, trying not to think about what it might feel like to have Peter’s body pressed up against her, snuggling up to get warm, in that very bed.

It alarms her just how quickly she thinks that, yes, she would really like that. Very much.

“—I guess I get cold at night? I don’t know, every trip for decathlon in high school, Ned would always complain if he had to share a bed with me at one of the hotels.”

His quiet laughter fills the room around them, and MJ can’t help but notice the correlation between that sound and the speed at which those stupid stomach-butterflies’ wings flap.

“—I honestly don’t know where I get it? I mean, I slept with a teddy bear until I was thirt—”

“—Okay, fine!” MJ sets him free from his rambling, a tired laugh hiding under her words. “You take the couch. I’ll take the bed.”

Peter nods, lips pressing together into a thin, yet slightly triumphant smile as he goes to move the bags off of the loveseat.

After a beat, he speaks again, chuckling quietly. “We made that a lot harder than it needed to be.”

MJ can’t help but let out a snort. “Yeah, probably.”

“Well, uh—” He coughs to hide the jittery waver of his voice. “I guess I’ll get the couch ready.”

“Sounds—sounds good,” Michelle exhales a sharp breath through her nose, a twitch of a grin appearing on her lips. She lamely throws a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll—I’ll just go get ready for bed. In the bathroom. Yeah,” she adds, toying with the loose threads at the hem of her t-shirt.

He looks up from his bag, brows raised, eyes dopey and sleepy. “Oh, cool. Okay. I’ll—” He clears his throat again. “I’ll use it after you.”

“Cool,” she mutters without another glance, looking down at her feet as she grabs her toiletry bag and a new t-shirt and sleep shorts, before practically sprinting out of the room and into the hall. She doesn’t stop until she gets to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it. Relief is the one thing she can feel in that instance, yet her breath is still stuck in her throat. Closing her eyes, she runs her hands over her weary, yet tingling face.

God, what was wrong with her?

The icy floor of the bathroom tile does nothing to cool the warmth radiating from her head to her toes. With another quick, sharp exhale she moves to the sink, splashing her face with cold water. She looks up after a beat, staring—borderline, glaring—at herself in the mirror.

Get it together, MJ, she thinks to herself, mouth setting in determination.

One weird road trip, one single hand touch in the car, one glimpse of abs, one bed, and one over active imagination; the key ingredients to begin the process of breaking Michelle Jones.

But she won’t let that happen. No, she absolutely will not. Sure, Peter’s probably one of the best people she’s ever known, and sure, he’s funny—sometimes, mostly on accident—and sure, he’s got the body of an olympic gymnast, and she can’t get the image out of her mind that olympian bod wrapped around her in bed, but none of that means anything. Anything at all.

None of it’s relevant to how she feels right now. And none of that changes anything about how this night—this trip—is going to go.

Yes, maybe she’s had this stupid crush on her stupid best friend for some stupid amount of time.

But again.

It’s not relevant here.

She’s just had a weird day. That’s it. She’s tired. She needs to sleep.

Forcing any and all thoughts concerning the boy in the next room, she starts her nightly routine; brushing her teeth, washing and moisturizing her face, the basics, not rushing anything. She takes her time changing her clothes, perhaps a little longer than normal. But again, she tells herself it’s only because she’s tired—not at all that she’s avoiding going back to the room where Peter is. When she runs out of things to do to procrastinate going back, she brings herself to the mirror again, staring at herself with almost disappointment.

But then, she steels herself. She didn’t need to be freaking out right now. Peter’s just a person. He’s just her best friend. They’ve had plenty of sleepovers before, and this is no different. And besides, they’re sleeping in two separate places, so really, all of this inner turmoil is pointless. Nothing’s going to happen.

And really, why should she be freaking out about the guy who read her cow facts for a solid thirty minutes of their trip?

With a solid, resolute nod, lips pressed tightly together, she exits the bathroom and goes back down the hall, opening their bedroom door without a second thought.

Big mistake.

Big BIG mistake.

She really should have waited maybe five more seconds, because when the door swings open, Peter’s standing there in just his boxers, his head caught in his t-shirt as he pulls it on, chest and abs just out and ready to go.

Big mistake—that absolutely doesn’t mean anything.

It suddenly becomes very confusing to MJ why the Brant’s would have the thermostat set at eighty degrees.

Michelle decides that there’s a very interesting spot on the wall just above his head.

Peter pulls the shirt the rest of the way on, his eyes widening when he sees his friend just standing there. “Oh, uh, hey.” A not-cute-at-all unforgiving blush rises to his cheeks, spreading to the very tips of his ears.

They both huff out an awkward laugh.

“Uh—” Michelle finally meets his gaze, finding it damn near impossible to go back to her spot on the wall now. “Bathroom’s—bathroom’s open.”

The chuckle that comes out of him is breathy. “Cool. I’ll just—go use it, then.”

“Yeah.”

She waits until the door closes behind him to smack herself on the forehead. Groaning, she flops herself on the bed, covering her face again.

These feelings have always been here, she knows that, she’s not dumb; but they’ve never been this intense and the way he’s been acting all day and in the past fifteen minutes hasn’t been much help at all. She wonders if he’s been so strange because he’s feeling those things, too. She’s seen that guy hopelessly in love, and it’s always looked kind of like what he’s doing tonight, but…

This feels like a whole new level of loser.

Truly, she has no idea how she’s going to get through the night.

But maybe—

No.

No. She’s not going to think about this any more. She’s going to go to bed before he gets back. That way, she doesn’t have to talk to him or see him. She’ll sleep, and then they can just hang out tomorrow. With Ned and Betty. Not alone.

As long as their not alone, she’ll be fine.

She gets up to shut the overhead light off before turning the bedside lamp on, passing a brief glance to the loveseat turned bed across from her. Shaking her head, she pulls back the blankets and settles into her own bed.

When Peter returns, the room is dim, Michelle scrolling mindlessly on her phone. She wonders if she appears a little too casual for comfort, but she shakes that thought away as the door clicks shut behind him.

Peter’s silent as he settles into the couch, the leather groaning and squealing loudly under his movement. The noise cuts through the air, causing them both to freeze for a moment. He grins sheepishly as he nestles further under his blanket, his face becoming only partly visible.

Michelle doesn’t say anything as she turns to the bedside lamp and switches it off.

The room becomes blanketed in dark, and it takes a moment for their eyes to adjust. The air feels heavy; soul-crushing, even. It’s deathly quiet, and Michelle’s almost a hundred percent positive that Peter can hear her breathing and the way her heart’s beating like an out-of-time snare drum.

She closes her eyes, willing her mind and body to return to that feeling in the car, before she started having this weird, sudden existential crisis. And to some degree, it starts to work. She counts, starting at one, hoping that having her mind focus on something other than the current situation might help. Her mind starts to drift, her counting switching to random, sleep-induced thoughts, and her body starts to feel heavy, sinking further into the fluffy mattress—

EER-ER-EEEP

But she’s startled, yanked back to reality by the loud squeaking of Peter tossing and turning on the loveseat.

Once again, the deafening silence returns, but Michelle doesn’t say anything, annoyed, but still electing to just ignore it. All he’s doing is getting comfortable. No reason to attack him for that.

It’s quiet again, and for the second time, she closes her eyes, taking in a deep breath. Minutes go by, and she’s finding it harder and harder to get that feeling back. The counting from one doesn’t work this time, her brain immediately crossing to the Peter lane that’s always there. The thoughts and feelings from earlier in the day and in the bathroom flood right back—especially seeing him mid-putting-a-shirt-on—and it suddenly becomes too hot to be under so many blankets.

Trying not to let even the tiniest bit of frustration show, she flips onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, subtly scooting a little closer to the wall to be as far away from her problem as possible. Drawing in a long, deep breath, she closes her eyes again.

It’s quiet again, the silence that fills the room bringing the mood back to what might be serene if she weren’t so stressed out. She focuses on her breathing, on slowing her heart beat to a semi-normal rate, pushing any and all thoughts about Peter Parker out of her head—

EP-EEEEER-EP

EEER-EEP

Peter groans from his place on the couch as he turns on his side, cutting the silence of the room with his restlessness.

There’s a moment where she thinks that he’s finished, that he’s finally settled.

ER-EP

And instantly, the moment is gone.

“Peter,” she almost hisses.

“Sorry!” Peter whispers back. “I can’t—ugh… get comfortable. It’s like there’s a giant metal rod just… Stuck right in my back.”

She doesn’t say anything in return, sighing as she turns over on her side, facing away from him. If anything, as annoyed at his noisy fidgeting as she is, she can see the silver lining—being angry at him is a nice distraction from whatever the hell the other feeling is—illness, pining, lust, she doesn’t know. At least now she can just focus on how much of a pain in the ass he’s being.

She does feel sorry for him, of course. The couch hadn’t looked all that comfortable when they walked in, and a loveseat isn’t a good option for anyone, no matter how tall or super-powered they are. It would have been much easier for them both if he had agreed to just share with her. It’s not like it’s that big of a deal.

(It is.)

It’s not like all she’d be able to think about would be his hand next to hers, the warmth of his body lulling her into a homey comfort.

Nothing like that at all.

Feelings for her best friend aside, she’d be more than able to share a full-sized bed—that’s really meant for only one person—with him. But then, she thinks about how much—how quickly, he’d rejected the idea, and then she deflates. He’d been so defensive, so insistent. So—

EEEEEEEE-EEEP

Michelle can hear him suck in a breath, bracing himself.

“Oh, my GOD.” She whisper-shouts into the pitch black room, grabbing her pillow and pushing her face into it.

“I’m sorry!” Peter matches her tone, sitting up before throwing himself back against the cushions.

No. She will not listen to this all night. She’s had enough.

If’s she going to get any sleep at all—

Peter sits up again, listening as MJ starts rustling around on the bed. “What—What are you doing?” He asks carefully.

“Scooting over.” She snaps.

“What? Why?”

“Just get in the bed, Parker.”

“Wha—what?” Even in the dark of the room, Michelle can practically see the blush fall over his entire face.

She scoots closer to the wall, huffing indignantly. “Because I don’t wanna have to listen to that all night. I’d like to sleep at some point, if that’s okay with you.”

It takes a moment for Peter to respond, and at first, Michelle thinks—worries—that she’s taken a step too, far.

But then, the couch squeaks again as Peter stands hesitantly.

“...Are you—Are you sure?” He asks, his voice coming closer, her heart leaping into her throat.

Despite the rush of blood roaring in her ears, she holds her ground. “God, yes! Just get over here already,” she whispers again, opening the blanket for him to get in.

She can hear the hesitation in his silence, but she’s surprised when the bed dips beside her. His hand brushes her arm as he crawls under the blanket and settles into the mattress. When he settles in, he keeps a respectable distance, clinging as close to the side as possible. It’s certainly a tight fit, even with both of them as close to their respective ends of the bed as they can possibly get, and although he’s almost falling off the edge, she can still feel the his warmth.

And then, they both lie there for what seems like hours, each holding their breath, neither one daring to speak, neither one truly settled.

Michelle tries moving, turning away from him, though it doesn’t help much. He’s still too close; she can still feel him right next to her.

It’s not fair, she thinks. It’s really not.

Though she’s not all that surprised; she shouldn’t be. This is exactly what the both of them had been avoiding.

Michelle shifts again before sighing in defeat.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asks as he turns on his side, his quiet, soft, sleepy voice so incredibly close. She shivers.

“Can’t sleep,” she says, nestling further into her pillow.

On instinct, she turns back around to face him.

Perhaps a mistake.

His face is mere inches from hers, her breath catching in her throat. If the lights were on, she’s sure she could count every freckle on his nose. He quickly pulls back to give her another centimeter of space. “Sorry,” he whispers, the sheepish grin on his face audible.

“It’s fine,” She breathes out, albeit a bit shakily, as she rolls over onto her back again.

Her hand falls to the middle of the bed, but she yanks it back when her pinky brushes his. “Sorry,” she says, huffing out a laugh at herself.

Peter rolls onto his stomach, his face turning to her as he rests his head on his pillow. “You’re good,” he mumbles groggily, his eyelids drooping with every passing second. “This is so much comfier.”

She smiles, a warm fluttering in her stomach as she looks over at him. His breathing deepens slowly, and soon, she can tell that he’s fast asleep.

He could fall asleep anywhere, he said.

Anywhere except for a loveseat.

Sleep doesn’t seem to want to come as easily to Michelle. She still tosses and turns, feeling herself drifting in and out of the first stage, never fully asleep and never fully awake, staying in that torturous limbo in between for what feels like a whole-ass eternity.

When a solid-ish form of rest finally comes, it’s gone before she has a chance to realize. She opens her eyes again, seeing the hint of the beginning of morning light through the single window in their room. Craning her neck up from her pillow she looks over Peter’s sleeping form and at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

4:48 AM.

She falls back against her pillow with a frustrated huff.

“You okay?”

If she weren’t so sleep deprived, Peter’s soft voice so suddenly awake and beside her would have made her jump. Instead, she passes him a fleeting glance before rubbing her one of her eyes with a knuckle.

“Can’t sleep,” she says again, just as she had earlier.

Peter rolls on his side to face her fully, his arm tucked under his pillow, his lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “Do you want more cow facts?”

Her laugh cracks, voice worn from a lack of sleep. “No. No. I’m good. Thanks, though.”

“I’m gonna get you more cow facts.”

“Peter—”

But he’s already reaching for his phone on the table, turning back to face her after typing into his google search. His face glows blue from the light, and she can’t help the way her lips tug upward at his look of fierce concentration.

“Okay, you can pick—”

She stares up at the ceiling.

“—27 Amazing Cow Facts That Will Impress Your Friends, or—get ready for this—”

She will not look at him.

“Are you ready?” He doesn’t wait. “10 ‘Udderly’ Fascinating Facts About Cows.”

“Peter—” She warns, her grin hiding nothing, as she turns on her side to face him.

“Pick!” He insists, his quiet voice full of mischief and excitement. “You gotta.”

Her eyes narrow. “Neither.”

“Okay, we’re going punny,” He decides for her. “Did you know that cows cause more deaths than sharks per year? Crazy right? Where’s Cow Week then, huh?” He scrolls further upon earning no response besides a deadpan stare. “You ever wondered why Cows moo? Well, these moos are the pick-up lines of the cattle world. Bulls and cows let each other know that they are ready to, in the words of a bovine Marvin Gaye, get it on.”

“I hate you.”

“Cows can see three-hundred-sixty degrees. Kinda like chameleons—HEY!”

Before he can even finish the fun fact, her hand shoots out to yank his phone out of his hands. His reflexes are much fast, and he holds it away over the edge of the bed.

“No more cow facts!” MJ hisses as she reaches over him, her arm laying across his chest, in an attempt to snatch his phone and throw it across the room. “No more!”

Peter lets out a breathy laugh, and it’s then, when he just drops his phone, that she realizes how close their faces are; his nose just barely brushing hers, his breath fanning her face. They stay like that a moment, her hand unconsciously smoothing over the fabric of his t-shirt, unable to tear her gaze from his.

Almost instantly she pulls back, muttering out a sorry.

But she doesn’t fully move away, and neither does he.

There’s a moment, one where it all just suddenly clicks—where it all falls neatly into place, like that last, perfect piece in Tetris—and it’s when she finally lets herself look right at him; when she sees that tiny, shy smirk on his face; when she sees that unspoken tint to his eyes as he looks at her.

“Do you, uh—” He swallows. “Wanna hear another one?”

There’s nothing she can do to stop herself from smiling a soft smile.

“No.”

Against any of her better judgement, she leans in.

The first brush of her lips against his is barely there. It’s unbelievably soft, almost as if she’s dreaming. Peter startles at the touch, and she pulls back. He stares at her, mouth parted as he looks at her, speechless. A nervous laugh bubbles up out of him as he tentatively brings a hand to brush her wild curls behind her ear, staying there.

“You kissed me?” He asks dumbly.

She nods, mentally reminding herself to breath.

And that’s all it takes.

A split-second later, he’s crashing his lips against hers, sighing in relief at the contact, his hand moving to cup her jaw. And it’s a feeling that’s everything to her. For something that’s been so hyped up in her mind for so long, she feels delighted shock in finding that the feel of his mouth moving with hers far exceeds any of her previous expectations.

There’s a faint tremble to her hand as she cards it through his stupidly soft hair, gathering the strands, giving an unconscious, yet gentle tug. Peter groans, the sound sending a tidal wave of electricity through her.

And truly, she thinks she could live in this moment for forever, cheesy as it sounds.

His hand moves to her neck, bringing her even closer to him as tilts his head, deepening the kiss. With his free hand, he grips at her waist—her old t-shirt bunching as he pulls himself up to lean over her—before moving down to smooth circles into her exposed hip.

A harsh, short breath escapes her as she grips onto his black shirt, her other hand slipping underneath it to smooth across his stomach.

“I’ve thought about this for a long time,” Peter murmurs against her lips when he pulls back. “Like—a long time.” His laugh is breathy.

Hers is, too. Almost moreso. “Yeah,” she grins. “Me, too.”

The way his smile stretches, reaching all the way up to his eyes just might kill her, she thinks for a split-second, and she comes to her own rescue by pulling his face back down to hers.

She can feel his smile widen through the kiss as he rolls them over, her legs coming naturally to wrap around his waist as he lays on top of her. He squeezes her hip playfully, his hand ghosting across the waistband of her shorts. At her sharp intake of breath, he retracts his hand quickly, as if he’s been burned, mumbling out a “Sorry” against her cheek as he moves to press kisses along the column of her throat.

Michelle feels herself laugh breathily, still unable to bite back her smile. “It’s… It’s fine.” She takes his hand back to it’s place on her stomach, encouraging him to continue, her body screaming in celebration.

But he pulls away, looking at her inquisitively, the hand she’d moved coming back to rest on her arm. “We don’t have to do anything—”

“—I know we don’t,” she cuts him off, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she grins up at him. “But I want to.”

Somehow, someway, his grin seems to get even bigger, and he tries twisting his mouth in an effort to hide it. “Me, too.”

Without another word, she pulls him back down, kissing him soundly, his hand still resting against the flat of her stomach. Again, he deepens the kiss, a hand reaching to cradle the back of her head as his lips mould perfectly against hers. His tongue shyly brushes against her lips, and she readily parts them.

Her breathing grows ragged once more, and unconsciously, she rolls her hips upward, moaning softly into his mouth at the feeling of his hardness briefly pressing against her. He holds himself up with his free hand, muscles tensing as he bites back a groan. Her smile against his lips grows, and she does it again, earning the same reaction.

He huffs out a nervous chuckle, his kissing growing gentler as his other hand comes once again to the waistband of her soft sleep shorts. Slowly, almost too slowly, his hand dips under her shorts, and he freezes again.

Michelle’s ready to pull away and ask if he’s alright before he starts to just barely touch her.

Her hips jerk slightly, and she laughs quietly when he pulls away from her, looking down at her with curious concern before cupping her through her cotton boyshorts. One of his fingers traces a line down the middle of the soft fabric; it’s a faint touch, almost ghostly, but it’s more than enough to make her face burn hot. Almost experimentally, he presses down harder, his strokes smooth as he starts to rub slowly, the corner of his lip quirking upward at the tiny gasp that comes out of her.

He matches the pace with their breathing, his movements slow and deliberate. Pulling her in for another quick, yet sound kiss, he removes his hand. Instinctively, she raises her hips, her own shaking hands moving to remove her sleep shorts. She pushes them off, though she struggles getting them past her thigh, Peter swooping in to move them down the rest of the way.

“Teamwork,” he jokes lamely.

“Great—ah,” She responds, her voice catching when he returns his hand it’s earlier ministrations. “Great job.”

“Thanks,” he says with a small smirk.

This time, his strokes are faster, and he adds just the tiniest bit of pressure. Michelle’s breathing gets heavier, less steady, and all she can do is close her eyes and focus on just how fucking good it feels.

And also, how god damn frustrating it is that he’s still not actually touching her yet.

She can feel Peter’s smug smile against her neck when she lets out the quietest whine and she almost speaks up, ready to tell him off—joking of course—until she feels his hand finally dip past the navy blue lace trim.

Fuck.

His fingers hover above her silky skin before coming down slowly. They both let out shaky breaths as he touches her—finally touches her. His movement is still tentative as he goes to tease her entrance, collecting her wetness and swirling it over her clit, the slight tremor in his hand giving his nerves away. Unconsciously, her hand comes to rest on his, guiding him softly into a gentle rhythm. He murmurs something incoherent before capturing her lips into a tender kiss.

He repeats his movements, dipping his finger further into her each time.

“Oh—” A soft moan escapes her when he inserts a second finger, an uncontrollable grin pulling at his lips at the sound.

His fingers pump and in out of her, curling, speeding up when he notices how her breathing matches, his eyes trailing down to her lips. Michelle can hear her heart thundering in her ears, her breathing growing ragged as he picks up his pace.

But before she can feel herself getting closer to that point, Peter removes his fingers, sitting back on his heels as he rests between her knees. The whine that comes out of her at the loss of contact would almost be embarrassing if she wasn’t so annoyed. She glares up at him, though her gaze softens when he glances down briefly, then back up again, his eyes questioning and earnest.

“Can—” He clears his throat. “Can I—?”

It takes her a moment to register what he’s asking, but then it hits her.

Oh, fuck.

“Yes!” She answers a little too quickly, disguising her excitement under a cough. “I mean—” she replies slowly, lowering her voice. “Yes.”

He grins easily at her, the expression making her heart seize.

His smile fades as he leans down, his fingers tracing the lace trim of her boyshorts, pulling them down slowly, leaving them to hang off of her left leg. Before she can make any comment—perhaps one about how he half-asses everything, though perhaps, she thinks, it’s not the time for that—he dips his head down quickly, his lips meeting hers.

Michelle shudders, and her breathing hitches as he flattens his tongue before licking a long stripe up the length of her center, the fingers of his left hand digging into her thighs. Instinctively, her hands fly to his hair, wrapping themselves in the soft curls, smoothing them down as he sucks on her clit, tracing smooth circles with his tongue. He moves his free hand back up to her hips, curling two of his fingers into her once again.

After a beat, she lays back, allowing herself to become lost in the feeling, letting Peter coax soft moans from her lips, unable to stop her body from tensing, her insides twisting in white hot pleasure. He quickens his pace, and she has to cover her mouth to stifle her moans. He glances up at her, a sight that’s almost too dizzying when she dares a quick glance in return. She feels that same heat pooling in her stomach again, a wavy smile tugging at her lips as she feels herself getting closer and closer.

Her thighs twitch, tensing around Peter’s head, and for a moment, she worries that her hair pulling is a little rough—which doesn’t seem to be a problem, given the moans that Peter gives when she tugs and pulls, and frankly, it’s hard to focus on anything else with how she’s teetering back and forth on the edge. With another swipe of his tongue, Michelle gasps, bucking her hips upward, her fist in his hair holding him in just that right spot.

The coil tightens, the heat burning, and with added pressure to her clit, she feels herself flutter and spasm around his fingers as she releases, back arching as he whimpers under her breath. Peter pulls back, his breathing as ragged as hers, wiping his mouth before crawling up to meet her.

She doesn’t wait for him to ask before pulling him down, capturing his lips into a heated kiss, sighing as she tastes herself on him.

For a moment, there’s nothing else said between them as Peter pulls away, laying on his side next to her, the only sound in the room being their labored breaths.

“Go team,” he jokes.

With a playful eye roll, still breathless, MJ goes to pull the blanket back over them after the AC kicks in again, sending a shiver through her. “Go team,” she says back.

As soon as she’s back against the pillow, he moves in again, his hands moving to cup her face as he plants a soft kiss on her lips that makes her heart flutter. Her hand sneaks under the blanket as she tilts her head to deepen the kiss once more. The surprised grunt the comes out of Peter as she dips her hand under the waistband of his boxers, grabbing his dick, causes a faint, tired laugh to bubble up out of her.

He kisses her back eagerly, laying them back against the pillows as he brings a hand to rest on her naked hip.

It’s such a happy moment, Michelle thinks. Her heart feels as if it’s soaring in her chest, her cheeks warm and glowing. She likes this loser. So much. And she’s unbelievably glad that he feels the same.

Peter groans, feeling her soft hand tighten around him. His strangled moan is cut off. “Oh, God—”

And, perhaps in what they’ll remember as the ultimate, literal cockblock of all time from a Certified Moment Killer, Ned Leeds, their dear, dear friend, barges into the room.

“—Guys! Betty and I are gonna go watch the sunrise! Wanna—?”

He freezes, seeing his two best friends huddled together.

“—What’s going on guys? Why are you… in the same bed…?”

It’s in that moment that Michelle’s exceedingly glad she put the blanket back on so that they’re friend can remain blissfully unaware.

It’s also in that moment that she promptly takes her hand off of Peter’s dick.

Peter and MJ exchange glances

“...There was only one bed. And the couch sucked.”

Ned stares at them, his brows pinched together. He points a thumb at the loveseat in question, his expression seeming to state the obvious.

“You know that’s a pull-out couch right?”

#spideychelle #spideychelleweek2k20 #petermj #peter parker #michelle jones #cw: smut #spiceeeey

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ariel2art · 4 years ago

Text

To be loved (Enjoltaire)

Chapter 1 I went too far

TW: Implied suicide attempt, Alcoholism, Depression, references to dysfunctional families

Grantaire goes too far this time and it's Enjolras who decides to pick up the pieces, even if he's slowly falling apart too.

Will they be able to save each other from the pain?

Note: Hi, this was my first Les Mis fic. I decided to publish it here. I’m currently trying to write chapter 3. I don’t know if I’ll ever finish it tbh, but I hope you like what I got.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23843473/chapters/57300742

It was all over.

The fog that covered his mind was getting thicker. He didn't feel anything. There was no more pain, no more resentment, no more bitterness, no more love, no more desire. His body was lost in an unperturbed ocean, the small waves caressing his body. There was no sound beyond their gentle murmur. He realized how gigantic his ocean was, but didn’t feel any fear, it was home.

He opened his eyes.

Above him, a dark sky watched in return. It was its own ocean, one covered with stars, which formed constellations. Oh, how he wished he could become one of them, be part of some masterful constellation. To be a star that never ran out, something beautiful and eternal. I could live with the others, without having to worry about anything, anything at all. People would look at the stars from Earth and the stars would listen to the depths of each person.

He didn't know if he was drowning in the very mantle of salt or If he was placed in that starry sky, where chaos faded, where he could be free. He raised his arm, trying to get closer, looking for peace.

And, content, he decided to sink.

Suddenly...

_Grantaire! Grantaire!

That voice... That voice that called him, it wasn't any voice, it was the most important of them all. It was the voice that took him away from that desired peace and at the same time gave it to him. A voice that didn’t let him sleep, the voice of his desires, the voice of his wishes and fears, the voice that could raise the world from its ashes. It was something powerful, full of an intense passion, a passion that burned and made it a symbol of hope, even if it was only for a beautiful moment. His words were the sword and the voice the handle. When it was calm, however, the voice could be as warm and soft as it wished, like a cabin fireplace after a bitter cold. What would Hans Christian Andersen's sea witch would give for such a graceful voice? And the owner of that great voice was like fire itself. Brilliant and attractive, revolutionary in a way. But the danger, the great disadvantage, was that if you got too close to him you could get burned. And Grantaire had been burned countless times.

A hand shook him, gently but firmly. That touch was the first tangible sensation he felt in minutes? hours? days? He slowly opened his eyes, which felt charged and exhausted.

His blurry vision managed to focus, after a few seconds, on an angel, his angel. The angel with the flaming voice. He had blond hair and a marble-white complexion, even a halo covered his head or so it appeared. He also had blue eyes that seemed to have seen everything in this world. Was it from those eyes that his ocean came? Grantaire thought that perhaps he was finally dead, because it could not be that his angel, his Apollo, was looking at him with a frown, but not out of irritation but out of... Concern? Really? No, it was impossible. His angel felt annoyance and pity for him, and only that. No matter how many times Apollo tried to show him it wasn't true, it was hard, excruciating, to believe him. And this was his curse, the cross he carried on his back.

It was painful, the times when his angel slashed him with his sword. Until one day, inexplicably, the angel took pity on him. He sheathed his sword and observed the young man with an indecipherable expression.

“I don't hate you, Grantaire. I never did. “

“How can I believe you when you’ve showed me nothing but disdain?”

Then a sigh came from Apollo's mouth, which reached his face, as if with a breath he could bring his pitiful self back to life. But why? Grantaire didn't want to live anymore, he'd had enough.

_You're awake. That’s good_ breathed out Enjolras, the Apollo of the mortal world, dressed in red, presenting himself to Grantaire in all his glory _. I was afraid for a moment that...

“That I would have died? Would you really have cared?”

Grantaire blinked a few times as his senses reappeared and he felt his feet on the ground. His head laid on a wooden table, his body was reclining in a chair, bent uncomfortably. On the table, near his arms, there was something spilled, and judging by the smell it was whiskey. It wasn’t the first time the man had been in such a situation, but he had never faded from this world like that before. It was really as if his soul had left his body. A small fear invaded his mind as he realized the seriousness of the event. Death no longer looked so attractive. For being mortal, no matter what one did, everyone would always fear death, deep down in their souls.

Grantaire lifted his eyes, meeting those of Enjolras. They were glassed-in, fearful, but not giving up their bravery; he no longer had that halo surrounding his head_. Look, I have to get you out of here. I don't know if you can hear me, but we have to go, okay?

_ En... jolras?_ whispered the one who was being called. His voice sounded hoarse and foreign to his ears. His throat was sore, as were his muscles.

_Yes, it's me, I'm here._ Enjolras bent down on one knee to reach Grantaire better and to try to get his attention. With a pale hand he caressed Grantaire’s cheek, granting a bit of warm and light.

“What a sad irony “ Grantaire thought, smirking to himself “Apollo lowering to my height. It's what should never happen.”

_Can you hear me?

“I always hear you”

But out of his mouth only came a pathetic "uh." The blond bit his lower lip and that's when he decided he couldn't waste any more time. Standing up again, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire by the waist, pulling him out of his chair, and placed Grantaire's arm around his neck for support. The alcoholic almost fell to the floor, but Enjolras had more strength than he let on and caught him on time.

The world was spinning around Grantaire, his legs were shaking, his back and neck were uncomfortable because of the position in which he had been inert. He felt a bit of bile in his throat and scorching eyes. He would have preferred to fall down and not get up again. Oh, how tired he was. Everything hurt.

Enjolras said a few words to the bartender and took out some coins to pay him. If Grantaire had been more conscious he would have felt guilty about it, but all he could do was stare like a fool. And so they both left the bar.

After that they crossed the cold, dark street in silence, one of those that were uncomfortable and heavy.

Grantaire still found it hard to believe this was happening. If it weren't for the suffering he was going through physically and mentally at the time, he would have really believed he was dead and that a spirit disguised as Enjolras had come to pick him up and carry him to the afterlife, hell, purgatory, the Underworld, nothingness, whatever. Or maybe he was already in one of them. After walking a few more steps, Grantaire ventured to look at him. His Enjolras (“you have no right to call him that”) had shadows under his eyes, a tense jaw and looked like trying very hard to maintain his courage, but the illusion was broken, Grantaire was aware of that. And that terrified him more than anything else. The world could tear him apart all it wanted, but not Enjolras! He didn’t need to suffer because of… because of his troubles!

“And it’s all your fault”

Trembling knees gave up and made him fall. Enjolras caught him again.

_Grantaire, come on, hold on_ was he begging? His voice was dripping with fear and worry_. You can't give up. We are getting there, I promise_ as he said this, the young man held his calloused hand, trying to give some kind of support. Determined, they continued.

“I believe in you, Enjolras.”

The next thing he knew, Grantaire was now laying on a bed and was wrapped in its sheets. Instead of wood on his head a soft pillow was there. Apparently, he had fainted again. But instead of wild hallucinations, his consciousness had completely shut down (well, it was about time). Searching his memories, he tried to remember what had happened last night but for now there were only blurred and dark shapes. He was certain about one thing though, that this time was different, that he almost had had an overdose. His mind had screamed in agony and he only thought of drinking more and more and more to stop those horrible noises. Grantaire was kind of surprised to be alive, in fact. But who had rescued him?

As he moved, he noticed, with a grunt of pain, that his head hurt as if it had been attacked with a hammer. His mouth was dry and he felt like a horse had stepped on his bones. So, the man decided to take a look at the place where he was disposed, which didn't seem so bad. Actually, it could’ve been a lot worse.

He found himself in a modest room. A wooden wardrobe, a shelf and one French flag leaning against a wall. Next to the bed was a night table, occupied by a candle, a few books and a seemingly recent glass of water (Oh, just what I need). At the left of the room was a window, covered by a curtain. And, near it, a wooden desk, with a few papers arranged, an inkwell and a pen, and a few letters in a corner. However, his breath was cut off when he saw who was sitting at that desk, engrossed in the papers.

Grantaire was silent for a few minutes, staring quietly at Enjolras. His heart was pounding strongly. He was expecting Joly's concern or Bossuet's disappointed look or maybe Bahorel trying to lighten the mood, but not Enjolras. What could he do? Go back to sleep? Play dead? No, it was impossible to go back to sleep knowing now that it was Enjolras who had saved him and taken him to the his apartment (I can't believe that I’m in his house, in his room).

Thus Grantaire stretched out his arm to drink the water, his throat could no longer stand the thirst it felt. But, of course, as good luck was never on the alcoholic’s side, what really happened was that he dropped said glass on the floor and it broke to pieces. Enjolras was startled by the noise and turned to Grantaire, his eyes wide open.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry! _ Grantaire babbled, begging to be swallowed by the bed_. I'll... I'll fix it! For God’s sake, of course I can't fix it, what am I thinking? it's glass and it's broken, but... I'll get you another one! Believe me; I have many glasses, all kinds of glasses...

And what happened next left him mute.

Enjolras was smiling softly at him, dropping his shoulders as if in great relief.

Of all the possible reactions, that was the one he last expected. Somehow, Enjolras’ smile made him even more afraid. He tried, with all his might, to get out of bed and run away from that tiny room, but abruptly was greeted by a puncture in the head that caused him to grunt and hold his forehead.

_ No no! Don't get up yet_ Enjolras had come closer and was pushing him gently onto the pillow_. You were unconscious for quite a while, if you get up like that you will only hurt yourself more.

Grantaire stammered more and then shut up, resigned. He had a lot of questions and didn't know how to ask them. Enjolras tucked him back to bed.

_ Tell me, how do you feel?

_ I see Combeferre taught you some nursing lessons, huh?_ That's what came out of his mouth instead of the truth.

Enjolras sighed and his expression changed to one of annoyance, to which Grantaire was more accustomed.

_ Uh_ Grantaire looked at the wall that was closest to him_. I suppose I’m better than… yesterday, but my head is killing me. And... I'm really thirsty, so I tried to grab the glass, but... _ and gestured to the floor with a movement of the arm_ we both know how that ended.

Enjolras nodded, thoughtful. He straightened up and decided to leave his room.

“I definitely don't understand what's going on”

After a couple of minutes, in which Grantaire entertained himself by looking at the ceiling and walls, Enjolras returned with a new glass of water and an apparently wet cloth. He positioned the water on the table and placed the wet cloth on the sick man’s head. Grantaire felt his cheeks warm as Enjolras gently pulled his sweaty hair away from his forehead, leaving his fingers between the black curls for a few more seconds. Between the cloth and Enjolras' calm presence he began to feel better. His features loosened and relaxed.

_I hope this will help you. Water is quite useful in these cases too.

Mmm_ Grantaire muttered, a slight mocking smile on his lips_. And how do you know so much about these things? No offense, but I don't see you as a person who likes to drink beers in a bar full of noisy, scruffy, dull people.

_ You're not the only one who drinks alcohol in our group_ replied Enjolras, with some exasperation_ And you know that well_ Grantaire wanted to add that last night had been very different from the simple drunkenness of someone who drinks only occasionally, he actually tried to kill himself, but he didn't say anything

Therefore, he sat down and made himself comfortable to drink the water, holding the handkerchief in his unoccupied hand. As soon as the water touched his aching throat he felt refreshed and more energetic. Enjolras just watched him, still pale and with somewhat reddish eyes. He looked sick as well. Grantaire felt a squeeze in his heart. What he wouldn’t give to feel the blonde’s figure in his arms, to calm his anguish. But was it really concern or simply the effects of insomnia? Grantaire really wanted to reach for the first possibility, to embrace it, to feel it, but he was afraid to give himself even a spark of illusion.

_I... Thank you_ started Grantaire, with a hoarse, worn-out voice, effects of excessive alcohol intake_. I mean...

_You don't have to thank me for anything, Grantaire_ said Enjolras, with his characteristic resolution and conviction_. You can stay here until you recover. No, you don't owe me anything_ he replied when the mentioned opened his mouth. And with that he got up to sweep the mess of the floor, and then returned to his desk, with nothing else to say.

Grantaire was astonished at all this, but thought that for now he would just rest. His head was already hurting too badly to continue fiddling the matter. So he lay down on the pillow again and tried to sleep. After a while, he realized that it was impossible. How long had he been sleeping anyway? That's when he remembered the books on the bedside table, so he lay back to grab one of them, to entertain himself for a while, because apparently Enjolras didn't want to talk to him.

“Or maybe he just wants you to rest. Why do you always have to be so negative?”

“Oh, for God's sake, stop assuming things and shut up.”

With a snort, which caused Enjolras to raise his eyes briefly, he took the first book he found, almost annoyed. The cover read: L'Esprit de la Révolution et de la Constitution de France. Saint-Just, huh? It didn't surprise him at all. What's more, He almost expected it. But Grantaire wasn't in the mood to read about politics or philosophy or subjects that required mental capacity and... Oh, yes! Beliefs. So, he seized the following book: Du contrat social- Jean-Jacques Rosseau. With a groan, he held the other books that remained, familiar names fluttering in these: Voltaire, Robespierre, Danton...

_ Can I ask if you possess a simple novel with no trace of politics whatsoever that I could read?

Enjolras left his paper on the table, too tired to be irritated.

_What's wrong with the books I have?

_Well... Do I really have to explain?

Enjolras sighed.

_When I said you could call me when you needed something I didn't expect you to need something like this," grunted Enjolras, with sarcasm pouring out of his voice. People thought the blonde was serious all the time and had no sense of humor, but Grantaire knew better. His humor was simply more... subtle. He knew this because he had observed him a few times during the meetings at the Musain, well, when they weren’t trying to save the world.

_Enjolras! Have you heard the new gossip ringing in town?_ Bahorel had exclaimed one night at the Musain, resting his elbow on the table.

_Bahorel, I don't have time to listen to silly, unfounded rumors," Enjolras had answered, with a calm and tranquil tone, lifting his cup of coffee to his lips.

Bahorel replied, approaching Enjolras_ The friend of a hmmm… let’s say "friend", kept watching you the other day when we were going to college, she was laughing and blushing like a thirteen year old girl!

_How romantic!_ sighed Jehan dreamily, coming closer to hear the gossip_. I think you should take the opportunity, Enj. I’ve met the girl, and she's beautiful, with dark hair and red lips, and…

_ Like Montparnasse, right? _ smiled Feuilly, who until then had been absorbed in a conversation with Joly and Bossuet. The three of them and Bahorel laughed out loud, as Jehan became as red as his hair.

_Sometimes you assholes can be very cruel," grumbled Jehan, with a sort of pout. Courfeyrac pinched his cheek with mischief and muttered something resembling a “aww, you cutie pie”.

While all this was going on, Grantaire was drinking situated at his usual spot, laughing at the comment about Montparnasse, but deep inside he was feeling some bitterness and jealousy. As long as Enjolras was happy he could bear it, though, or so he told to himself.

Bahorel was trying to appease the others, who after a while became quiet enough to listen to Bahorel. Then, addressing Enjolras, he asked_ Would you dare, then? I can introduce you two. You know, arrange a romantic date with candles, roses, whatever you want.

And Enjolras looked back at him.

_ I'm afraid that's not possible, as my "wife" has a name, and that's France.

That day they were taken out of the cafe for making a fuss. Bossuet even fell of his chair and broke his arm.

“Now that I think about it, maybe he was being serious about the France thing…?”

Back to the present, Enjolras set out to look through the drawers of his bookshelf for some "non-political" books. After pulling out a pile of dusty books, which made him cough, he found what he was looking for. It was a book less thick than most of the ones he had on the floor. It looked about 200 or 300 pages long. Grantaire looked at Enjolras' nostalgic and hurt expression with curiosity. Enjolras stroked the cover of the book for a few seconds and quickly composed himself. With said book in hand, he went to bed and handed it to Grantaire.

_ “Gulliver's Travels" written by Jonathan Swift_ Enjolras nodded, sitting on a space in the bed, which increased Grantaire's pulse_. Okay, I really didn't expect you to like this kind of fantasy books_ hhe said, smiling and looking back at Enjolras.

_ I liked reading it. It was..._ hesitated_ a gift.

Grantaire didn't want to be curious, but he had to admit he was indeed. He took the risk of asking:

_ From whom?

The nostalgic look came back.

_ From my mother.

He didn’t expecting such answer. Grantaire was sure it was Combeferre’s gift (the doctor had a passion for books), or even Courfeyrac, who was his closest friend. But his mother? Enjolras had never spoken of his family, ever. Les Amis only knew that they were wealthy and that Enjolras had escaped home because of a huge difference in ideals and thoughts. That probably occasioned some big fight.

After a few moments of silence, Grantaire opened the first page of the book. The handwriting was somewhat small and, the truth was, despite having asked for this in the first place, he found it difficult to concentrate on what was written, his vision was a little cloudy.

Enjolras, noticing this, offered:

_I can read it to you.

Grantaire startled.

_Oh! There’s no need for it, really. I can handle this. I'm just a little tired, that's all.

_Grantaire_ Enjolras raised an eyebrow, with the kind of tone he used to scold Feuilly every time he pretended he didn't need a break. It was a scolding tone but at the same time... an affectionate one? Gods, what did Grantaire do to deserve that Enjolras would address him as he addressed the others?

_But... what about... _ and with a gesture pointed to the desk, full of half-written papers.

_ I have time_ and without waiting for an answer he took the book.

_ My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire…

Fascinated, Grantaire listened to every word Enjolras pronounced, with total clarity and perfect pronunciation. We had already spoken of the power of his voice and how comforting it could be when the time was right. Grantaire was in love with that voice, and with Enjolras. Oh, but someone like him could not be his, it would be a waste.

_Of five children, I was the third. He sent me to the Emanuel School in Cambridge...

For a moment, the halo of light returned to Enjolras, which disconcerted Grantaire. “What the...?” He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was hallucinating again. At that, his memory took him back to the night before, when he had woken up and hadn’t seen Enjolras, well yes, he was there, but it wasn’t actually him, he looked like an actual angel. Such a strange vision. How far had his idealization for Enjolras had gone? He didn’t know, but it could be dangerous, to allow himself to fall like that would be his ruin.

Though perhaps he was already ruined.

Hey_ Grantaire came out of his thoughts_. Are you listening to me or shall I stop?

_Oh no, don't stop for me, Apollo.

And Enjolras frowned.

_I'm asking you to please don't call me that.

_Hmmm, I don't know, I think it's something that might fit our leader. Apollo, the most revered god in all of Greece_ said in a theatrical voice.

The aforementioned "Apollo" smiled bitterly.

_I am not a god, Grantaire_ a dark look crossed Enjolras' eyes, which frightened Grantaire. “Does he know?”_ I hope you don't think that of me.

Grantaire bit his lips.

_I don't_ he whispered, clutching the sheets with his hands. To dispel the discomfort, he cleared his throat_ Please continue, dearest leader_. And at this a fond smile crept onto Enjolras' lips.

As Enjolras continued his reading, Grantaire closed his eyes, losing himself in the narrative. He thought that for once luck was on his side. He could have held this moment for eternity if possible. An atmosphere of peace, warmth, and serenity flooded the room, and both Enjolras and Grantaire forgot about any worries that dwelled in their hearts. Both felt deeply fortunate to have each other.

It was just that neither of them knew it yet.

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memories-are-mine · 5 years ago

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We Survived the Crisis, Babe

This week on I Like Hurting My Characters: We have Chapter 3!!

Here are some handy links so y’all don’t have to go digging: Chapter 1, Chapter 2

ao3

Lemme know if you want to get on the taglist, as always!

Chapter 3 - Ethan

Ethan tried to sit up but immediately gasped in pain and laid back down. Apparently, the Friendly Black and White monster’s powers did not extend to healing cuts, bruises and stab wounds, though he figured he shouldn’t be ungrateful. After all, he was alive. However, he was currently lying in a concerning puddle of, presumably, his own blood, which did not bode well for his future survival.

Think. He had to think. Take stock of his situation. It had never been Ethan’s strong suit, but now it was necessary. For Lex and Hannah’s sake.

He took a few deep breaths, enjoying how good it felt to be able to breathe again.

He lay on the ground, near the bench where he and Hannah had sat after he’d gotten thrown out of the Cineplex. His head still felt fuzzy but didn’t hurt quite as much as it had before, so that was good, maybe he hadn’t suffered permanent brain damage. It really hurt to move his left arm, though not his right. Okay. One out of two wasn’t bad. The gaping knife wound in his side: definitely a problem. He needed to stop the flow of blood, or he would pass out, or worse, die again. Friendly Black and White Voice had helped him once, but Ethan knew instinctively that it was up to him now. If something happened, she wouldn’t be able to bring him back a second time.

His hand brushed his flannel, still somehow wrapped around his waist. Not ideal, but it would do for a bandage until he could find something better. His fingers fumbled with the knot around his waist, and after a lot of painful fiddling, it came undone.

Now for the hard part. Ethan bit down on the sleeve of his leather jacket, hard, and slowly, excruciatingly, pushed himself up into a seated position, so that he could tie the flannel around his stomach. He peeled his t-shirt off of the wound, nauseated by how much effort it took to pull it away. He made a point not to think about the fact that the wet sticky stuff was his own blood.

Slowly, very slowly, he wrapped the flannel around the wound and pulled it tight. It killed his bad arm, but the pressure helped to ease the pain in his side slightly, and hopefully, it would stop the bleeding.

Ethan scooted so that his head rested on the bench’s armrest and sat there for a few seconds until the pain went from pure torture to, well, less torturous, then, using the bench for support, he staggered to his feet. He had to find Hannah, then Lex.

Oh, God, Lex. Toy Zone had been where this mess all started, and she was caught in the middle of it. She might not even be alive.

Ethan pushed the thought from his head. He would see Lex Foster again. She could take care of herself, and he had promised her to look after Hannah. That was a promise that he was going to keep.

“Hang in there, Banana.” He said to the empty mall. “I’m comin’ for ya.”

Ethan set off in the direction of the Marshall’s.

When he was closing in on the Playplace, he heard Hannah scream. He picked up speed, going as fast as his tired, beaten body would allow.

“Banana Split?” He called desperately as he reached the entrance. No reply. Ethan’s heart sank. “Hannah? Are you here?”

He saw hesitant movement at the back of the McDonald’s. A small figure, with a backpack, a hat, crawled out of the kiddie tunnel and stood on the opposite side of the ball pit from him. Ethan’s heart soared. She was okay! She was here, and she was okay!

He reached out with his good hand and smiled. “What’s shakin’, Banana!”

Hannah yelped and moved back. “No! Bad!”

Ethan furrowed his brow. Hannah had never reacted to him like this before, not even the first time they’d met. Then he remembered that he probably looked like a zombie extra on The Walking Dead, which may have been a little bit scary for a small child.

“Sorry, Banana Split,” Ethan said, going to move around the ball pit to get to her. “I know I probably look kinda scary right now, but I promise that I’m gonna be okay. We gotta get going. Stick together, you know? We gotta find Lex and get the heck out of this mall.”

“No! Not Ethan! Bad Double!” Hannah screamed. “Ethan died! Webby told me Ethan died! You’re not getting Wiggly!”

Now Ethan was even more confused.

“Hannah, what do you mean ‘Bad Double?’ I know you’re scared, but it’s me, it’s Ethan. I gave you that hat this morning!” He put his hands up in a placating gesture. “I don’t want Wiggly, Hannah. I just wanna get you outta here.”

Even as he said it, the Wiggly doll that inexplicably lay on the ground was whispering in his head. Telling him that if he just took the doll from the little brat, then he could make it to California and beyond. He could go anywhere he wanted.

Focus, Ethan. Nice Black and White Voice returned. Don’t listen to the doll. Focus on Hannah.

Ethan shook his desire for Wiggly off. He didn’t understand how, exactly, but he knew that Wiggly was causing all of this. The men who had attacked him were after a Wiggly doll. Wiggly was bad, and the thing wasn’t worth seven thousand dollars. Hell, it probably wasn’t worth seven.

Ethan mentally told Wiggly to go fuck himself, and he could feel the doll’s presence begrudgingly retreat from his head. He had more important things to do than worry about a stuffed tentacle monster. Like get Hannah out of here.

“You can’t trick me again!” Hannah screamed. “You died!”

“I did.” Ethan didn’t want to scare her, but he had to tell her. “But… But something brought me back so I can save you and Lex. Hannah, I think it might have been Webby. If you don’t trust me, ask her. She’ll tell you.”

If Hannah was going to reply, she didn’t get the chance, because two other people entered the McDonald’s, crazed hunger in their eyes.

One of them was Ethan’s shop teacher - the only one he’d ever actually liked, and the only one who’d ever actually liked him: Mr. Houston. The other was a lady in nursing scrubs that Ethan didn’t know. They both had their eyes fixed on Hannah.

Oh, shit.

“Hello, little girl,” the woman said, as she and Mr. Houston began to snake their way around the edge of the ballpit opposite Ethan. “Why don’t you give us that doll.”

Hannah moved back a few steps.

“Woah, woah, where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” Nursing Scrubs asked.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Mr. Houston promised, taking another step around the ball pit and toward Hannah.

Ethan felt useless. He was leaning up against the wall of the McDonald’s. He could feel that the knife wound in his side had started to bleed again. Mr. Houston was taller and stronger than even Ethan in the best of times, if he had to fight, he wasn’t sure if he could protect Hannah, he wasn’t even sure he could limp fast enough to make it to her.

“California.” Hannah’s voice pulled him out of his stupor, and if he hadn’t been so terrified, her determination would have warmed his heart. “I’m going to go to California. And you shouldn’t listen to Wiggly, he’s bad. He’ll trick you.”

“Mr. Houston, she’s right!” Ethan chimed in. “That Wiggly doll is corrupting people, you don’t actually want it.”

The two adults completely ignored him.

“Don’t worry, little girl.” Mr. Houston gave what Ethan figured was supposed to be a reassuring smile, but it just looked like a grimace. “We’re grown ups, we don’t get tricked.”

When Hannah took another step back, Mr. Houston got impatient.

“Listen, kid. I’ve been through hell today tryin’ to get one of those dolls for my son. He’s about your age.” Mr. Houston’s polite mask dropped, and he seemed to grow bigger in the darkness. A monster straight out of a children’s nightmare. “I’d do anything for him. ANY goddamn thing. Even if it means pounding the guts out of a little TWERP! NOW GIMME THAT FUCKING DOLL!”

He wheeled on Hannah, who screamed and ran deeper into the McDonald’s, disappearing into some dark corner.

“Leave her the fuck alone, you assholes,” Ethan cried desperately. He managed to push himself off the wall and started to move toward Mr. Houston and Nursing Scrubs. “I’m the one you want!”

Again, they ignored him, now consumed in an argument with each other.

“You let her get away!” Nursing Scrubs snapped. “You really are a fucking idiot, aren’t you?”

“Well, I didn’t see you coming up with any ideas, cheer captain!” Mr. Houston shot back.

“Oh, fuck off!”

This was good. If they were consumed with their argument, then maybe Ethan could sneak Hannah out without them noticing.

“Hannah,” He whispered as loud as he dared. “Banana, we gotta go!”

He saw her peek her head out from behind a jungle gym in the back. He gave her an encouraging nod that he didn’t know if she could see, then started forward as quietly as he could, hoping to meet her halfway.

Abruptly, Hannah stopped and ducked, and Ethan turned back to Mr. Houston and Nursing Scrubs, who had finished yelling at each other, and were now scanning the Playplace.

“You see, Tom.” Nursing Scrubs said. “You don’t scream at a child, it frightens them.” She turned with a blissful, insane smile directly towards Ethan, who had to fight the urge to scream like a five-year-old and run away. She almost looked through him.

“You lure them in delicately,” she said as she fished in her pocket. Triumphantly, she pulled out a syringe filled with some kind of blue liquid. Ethan assumed it was a sedative. “And you put them to sleep.”

Oh, hell no. Ethan was the only one that would be doing drugs here.

“Little girl?” Nursing Scrubs called out in a sickly-sweet voice. “Sweetheart? California?”

Ethan reached down to the ball pit, wincing in pain as the movement agitated the wound on his stomach, and closed his fist around one of the rubber balls. Straightening, he chucked it at the wall farthest from Hannah as hard as he could. It gave a satisfying thwack when it hit, and Mr. Houston and Nursing Scrubs twisted towards the noise and made their way towards it,

“Do you want to play with me, lovely girl?” Nursing Scrubs said in a soothing, singsong voice. It could have been mistaken for a lullaby if not for her sinister tone and the needle she so subtly hid behind her back. “Do you want some candy, my lovely girl?”

Ethan saw Hannah poke her head out, and he gestured to her to hurry up. She hesitated, obviously still wary of him because of whatever she had seen. She closed her eyes for a moment.

Somehow, Ethan heard her thoughts.

Webby? Is it Good Ethan?

Yes, Hannah, it is. The same female voice that had saved Ethan in the Black and White replied to her. Ethan had been right, it had been Webby. Apparently, since he had died, he now had some sort of connection to the Black and White.

Hannah opened her eyes and smiled at him. She didn't need words for Ethan to know that she trusted him again. They were back on track. She started to move towards him, but her hesitation had been a second too long.

“Hey, Becky,” Tom said, turning back from the wall where they had found nothing. The woman with the syringe turned to look at him. “There she is.”

“Hannah!” Ethan cried desperately. “Come on! Hurry! I gotta get you out of here!”

Hannah made up her mind and sprinted towards Ethan. As she began to run, Tom and Nursing Scrubs, who apparently was named Becky picked up speed and started to gain on her.

“Come on, Hannah!”

Hannah reached Ethan, and he moved aside to allow her to move past him on the edge of the ball pit. She scurried past the ball pit and to the entrance and turned to wait for him.

He started after her, stumbling as fast as he could. He had almost made it to the entrance when Hannah’s eyes widened.

“Ethan!” She yelped. “Run! Fast!”

He didn’t need to turn around to know that Tom and Becky were right behind him. He tried to run, though every step hurt. He wasn’t nearly quick enough. Even in the best of times, Mr. Houston was faster than he was.

Ethan cried out as Mr. Houston grabbed his bad arm, as all the pain that had been subsiding came flooding back. Mr. Houston’s other hand pinned Ethan’s arms to his sides.

“Aww,” Becky Nursing Scrubs said in that same sickly-sweet voice. “Poor boy. You’re hurt. Let me help.”

“No!” Ethan struggled, but to absolutely no avail. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hannah, once again frozen in shock. “Mr. Houston, please, let me go,” he begged. “It’s me, it’s Ethan Green. Ethan. You know me, Mr. Houston, I was in your shop class, snap out of it! Don't do this! Mr. Houston -”

“I don’t know you!” Mr. Houston snapped. “All I know. All I want is Wiggly. Now shut up.” He turned to his partner. “Becky, would you hurry up and stick him? He’s keeping me from Wiggly and it’s pissing me off!”

Ethan was absolutely helpless as Becky jammed the needle into his neck. He felt his eyes closing. The world going dark once again, and that same rush of panic that he’d had before welled up. Mr. Houston dropped him like a sack of potatoes on the mall floor.

“Run, Hannah,” He murmured. He had no idea if she could hear him. “Run.”

“No!” Hannah started running back toward them. Wrong direction, Hannah. “Not leaving again! Gotta stick together!”

Mr. Houston grabbed her just as easily as he’d grabbed Ethan, locking her in his arms so she couldn’t escape.

The last thing Ethan saw before he blacked out was Becky raising the needle over Hannah’s head, he made a noise of despair as she brought it down. Then something surprising happened. She missed Hannah completely and stabbed her own leg with the needle, immediately collapsing next to Ethan.

Huh, that was weird.

Then everything faded.

Taglist: @hurricanehellion, @asshole-gay-797, @ethngreen, @just-a-side-kick, @theirishhufflepuff, @somegeekychic, @curse-brekker, @unusual-ly, @softotacoo, @believeinasmilinggodtoday

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possiblyimbiassed · 5 years ago

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What happened to Sherlock? Part VIII - The Sign of the Hetero Norm (1)

Why does Mary Morstan play such a prominent role in BBC Sherlock?

I’m surely not the only one asking myself this; while she’s barely mentioned in canon after marrying Watson, she’s all over the place from TEH and onwards in Mofftiss’ adaptation. And when I recently read this excellent fic by @discordantwords, a couple of things dawned on me, that I think have been brewing in my mind for quite some time. Which brings me to the long promised continuation of my marathon meta series about what I think we’re actually seeing in this show. Because the entire point of Mary Morstan seems to be to prevent Sherlock and John from getting together in a romantic relationship - a story of hetero norm. This eighth installment will explore the ‘case’ of little Rosie, and the role she and her mother plays in this show.

This far I’ve published an intro and seven installments, each with corresponding attempts to test my hypotheses:

Introduction - The game is on (explains the method of analysis) Part I - Blog vs TV-show Part II - Re-living memories Part III - Drugs and weirdness Part IV – Heartbreak and coma (1) Part IV – Heartbreak and coma (2) Part V – Bizarre scenarios Part VI - Live and let die (1) Part VI - Live and let die (2)

Part VII - The Importance of Being Earnest (1)

Part VII - The Importance of Being Earnest (2)

This installment will also be parted in two, and the second half can be found here (X). Many of the screen caps from BBC Sherlock in this meta are from Kissthemgoodbye.net - thanks! And thanks also to Ariane DeVere for the incredibly useful transcripts!

My next hypotheses is, in and off itself, a clear and straightforward prediction that can be explicitly verified or falsified once we finally get to S5, so it will be extra fun to see what happens with it in future:

Hypothesis #8: John is not the father of Mary’s baby

(Disclaimer: My suspicion here only concerns John’s biological offspring. It would still be possible that John, and perhaps also Sherlock, might father the child - if it exists - by adoption. It does not exclude a metaphorical reading where the baby represents, for example, Sherlock’s and John’s relationship. I also want to stress that this hypothesis is an attempt at logical reasoning based on observations in the show and in ACD canon; it’s not meant to be ‘gossipy’ and has nothing to do with whether I would actually like to see this happen or not - that’s a whole other story. ;) )

This hypothesis has been brewing in my mind for quite some time now, but I don’t think it’s just a hunch; there are actually a series of reasons that have made me come to this conclusion.

(Continued under the cut)

But first of all: can we debunk my hypothesis at this stage in the story, by testing it ‘scientifically’? Well, not really, since the show doesn’t provide any reliable evidence that confirms John as Rosie’s biological father. Not even IRL would this have been possible without a DNA-test (or without physical circumstances that would have made any other option impossible). And the only thing that the show tells us about human DNA-tests is that not even this procedure is 100% reliable, as shown in ASIB:

JOHN: You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you. IRENE: DNA-tests are only as good as the records you keep. JOHN: And I bet you know the record-keeper. IRENE: I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear.

DNA is brought up in TGG (Ian Monkford’s blood) and again in TST (the identification of Charlie Wellsborough’s body), but since John’s fatherhood is never questioned in the show, little Rosie is never tested, as far as we know. The remaining evidence that speaks for John being the father is circumstantial: that John and Mary obviously must have been living together at the approximate time of conception. And that they both act as if they’re both Rosie’s parents.

So I guess that in order to get any further with this, I’ll have to start at the other end, analysing the characters and see if I can find evidence that support my hypothesis - on a textual level as well as metaphorically and on the meta level.

Mary’s function in the story

I think we can safely say that Mary is the most controversial character of BBC Sherlock. Some viewers love her, others hate her, but I can’t recall anyone claiming to feel indifferent towards her. Mofftiss have indeed managed to push forward a character who is hardly even visible in canon, once she’s married to Watson. In BBC Sherlock, however, Mary totally dominates the show from HLV and onwards. Her appearances may have been increasing in numbers and length already from her introduction in TEH. But from the point where John wakes up in HLV, there isn’t a single case where she’s not somehow involved. Up until TFP, everything is about ’Mary’. And even then, once we might have believed we’d got rid of the ghost of this hijacking protagonist, she comes back, only to once again take over the narrative with a weird and basically inexplicable voiceover. She seems like some kind of obsession; a brain ghost stuck on someone’s mind.

This is rather different from ACD canon, where Mary Morstan has extremely few lines as soon as she’s no longer a client, but Watson’s wife. Personally I find it hard to see the lovable aspect of this character in BBC Sherlock, since she constantly shifts appearance, behaviour and motivation; it’s almost impossible to pin down who she actually is. Which makes me convinced that Mary is not meant to be a real, believable character that we can relate to as such - at least not all the time. And maybe that goes for canon as well.

But what then is the purpose of her, what’s Mary’s actual function in the narrative, looking at the subtext? I think there’s basically three of them, and by no means mutually exclusive:

1. Mary is a metaphor for heteronormativity and its power over people when they internalise it

2. Mary is a façade or ‘beard’, where a straight marriage is established to cover up a story of a gay relationship

3. Mary is a mirror for Sherlock; by substituting himself with a female spouse for John, Sherlock can be with John ‘by proxy’, trying to figure out John without having to face his own real problem: reveal his emotions and risk failure.

As soon as Mary firmly puts her foot in the show, it all becomes a spectacle, a demonstration of how to keep up a straight facade at any cost. After TSoT, no-one ever assumes John and Sherlock are a romantic couple; Mary is the ultimate ’proof’ that John is indeed straight. Which is of course illogical, because why would a bi person stop being it because they married someone, no matter of which sex? Mary admits it herself by telling Sherlock that ”neither of us was the first, you know”. And Sherlock complains that John is dancing around Sholto ”like a puppet” even after the wedding ceremony. But in all the episodes after TSoT, John is happily freed from people’s assumptions regarding his sexual orientation. Gone are all the gay jokes, and John Watson is miraculously ‘cured’.

I think this is perfectly illustrated in the fic by @discordantwords that I mentioned above. The plot follows logically on TFP, as things would be if everything we’ve seen from HLV and onwards is actually meant to be ‘true’. Mary is now dead and John lives alone with little Rosie. For a case, in order to get close to the suspects, Sherlock is planning to fake his own wedding with Janine Hawkins, and John is feeling jealous and excluded – especially when he finds out that one of the murders that Sherlock is investigating had involved a wedding of a gay couple:

"Why all of this, then?" he asked. He tipped his head towards the kitchen, where Janine was fiddling with the kettle. "I could have just—wouldn't it have been easier for us to just—?"

"You're not gay," Sherlock said.

"Well," John paused. "No." He cleared his throat, looked back at the wall. "But everyone already thinks we're a couple. Wouldn't be that much of a stretch, really. For a case."

"No one has thought that for quite some time."

This fanfic rings perfectly true to me, considering S4 on the surface level; John and Sherlock appearing as a couple wouldn’t work after John’s own wedding in TSoT. Because gone is now every allusion to John being anything else than straight. Gone is also John’s admiration for Sherlock; from HLV and on, he hardly ever even speaks about Sherlock in a positive way. (Which also makes me wonder: was ‘The Fall’ also about Sherlock feeling he had fallen from John’s pedestal of admiration?). For the rest of the show, it’s only Sherlock whom we see suffering from (presumably) gay pining. It’s only in Sherlock’s Victorian imagination that Moriarty tells them to ’elope’ together, while John in TLD is shown to be exclusively fixed on his dead wife.

On the surface, Sherlock seems to support John’s relationship with Mary, while I’m sure he is actually suffering deeply. But I think, metaphorically, that Sherlock is acting like some kind of self-sacrificing Christ figure. (Don’t forget Irene’s words from ASiB: “I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself”). He bears the ‘cross’ of torture by seeing John with someone else, until he can’t stand it any more and trashes himself on drugs. This is what we see at the beginning of TEH, John holding hands with a woman in front of Sherlock’s grave:

Why can’t we see Mary’s face already here? I think it’s because this is from Sherlock’s POV; he’s either seeing or imagining them from behind. She might have a hidden face but a familiar shape because by the time Sherlock is recalling this, he already knows what Mary looks like. But at this point in time, maybe he didn’t? In any case, it must be devastating for Sherlock to see or imagine John with someone else, when he should be there to mourn him, Sherlock.

Thinking about John with Mary, Sherlock can’t even sleep. He is tortured on a cross and dies for all our ’sins’, doesn’t he? On the meta level Sherlock Holmes sacrifices his life, he extinguishes his true self, in the name of heteronormativity. So that John can have his straight marriage, even if it’s dysfunctional. But our worst ’sin’ as an audience, I believe - our ultimate mistake - is to buy into this narrative without questioning it. That’s literally letting the hetero norm rule.

King David the Adulterer

Mary’s ex-boyfriend David is introduced in TSoT, but after this episode he never shows up again. But this seems very random to me; why is David even there, and why is he depicted as some kind of rival to John? What is his narrative purpose? David is often blurred out in the scenes, but he is definitely present during the whole wedding reception, where his role is to be an usher (showing people their places/seats). David gives the impression to be single, since he attends Mary’s wedding without any partner as company.

Sherlock, who meets David alone at 221B during the wedding planning, deduces that he still seems to have an intimate relationship with Mary. Only recently I discovered this meta from 2014 called The Baby Problem by @abitnotgood, which brings up pretty much exactly the same suspicions I have had for quite some time now. The main points are the following:

Mary was dating David for 2 of the totally 5 years she had been undercover with the false name Mary.

They’re still close enough friends for David to attend the wedding, which might indicate their breakup was unwanted from one or both parts.

Mary’s reactions during the wedding reception indicates that she still cares for David.

Sherlock finds out that David has “offered to be her shoulder to cry on no less than three occasions.”

David sits at the same table as most other major characters, which indicates that he’s important.

David doesn’t look particularly happy while toasting for the bride and groom.

To these I could also add that Sherlock gets so suspicious about David that he threatens him with keeping a close eye on his whereabouts with Mary. From a story telling POV, when a character is suspected by the main character who is a genius detective, there should actually be some reason for this - shouldn’t it?

So who is David? Does he appear anywhere in canon? I actually think he does. In ACD’s short story The Crooked Man (CROO), the name David plays a symbolical role. The story is about a (supposed) murder of a middle-aged military officer, colonel James Barclay. It’s a classical Sherlock Holmes mystery with a door locked from the inside and the key missing. The death seems to originate from a domestic quarrel between the colonel and his wife. (Which is particularly interesting considering the Watsons’ ‘domestic’ in HLV).

Turns out the colonel died of fright when he saw his old rival Henry Wood, whom he had betrayed in the war and deliberately left to be captured by the enemy. Henry was repeatedly tortured and crippled and held prisoner for many years, until he could escape back to London and a coincidence brought his old love interest in his way, who was now married to the colonel. (Hmm... tortured by the enemy. Been away. Love interest married. Does this seem like anyone we know? ;) ). Henry was “the crooked man” of the story, who was bereft of his loved one because of James.

But the name David was mystically uttered by Colonel Barclay’s wife while quarreling with her husband - why? Holmes claimed it was a biblical reference to the drama of king David, Batsheba and Uriah. King David committed adultery with the beautiful Bathsheba, who was married to his soldier Uriah. Bathsheba got pregnant after sleeping with David, while Uriah was out fighting a war. David tried to cover up that fact by sending Uriah home, but Uriah refused to leave his comrades. Then David betrayed his rival Uriah the same way James betrayed Henry: by deliberately leaving him exposed to the enemy. The only difference was that Uriah died on the battlefield, while Henry was caught and crippled. Which leads us almost inevitably to Captain John Watson - he is a soldier who was crippled by the enemy too, wasn’t he? ;)

What about Rosie?

Although Mary is dominating the show from TEH and forwards, John’s and Mary’s daughter - little Rosie - is subjected to the opposite treatment; she has very little screen time, and we never learn about a single character trait of hers. In ACD canon the Watsons never had a child, as far as I know. And – even in Victorian times – I believe it would have seemed strange with the Doctor spending so much of his free time (besides work) together with Holmes, obviously neglecting his family duties. So since Mofftiss have introduced a totally new ingredient to their adaptation - a time-consuming baby - one would think this has to have a clear purpose, right? I would have expected Rosie to play a part of her own, someone the audience could relate to just like the other characters, if only still a baby.

But instead, Rosie is seen most of all as an obstacle. Mary is balancing her while discussing a case with Sherlock. Rosie is handed over to John like a sack of potatoes when the family goes on to solve a case with Sherlock; she doesn’t make a sound and we don’t even see her little face. We see John change Rosie’s diaper once (basically to show that he has a toy daisy behind his ear, which is apparently a good flirting device), and then we see Sherlock trying to babysit her at 221B, getting hit in the eye by her toy. We also hear her cry in the background once, and see Molly hold her once. And that’s about it.

When Sherlock texts them from the London Aquarium at the end of TST, Mary and John debate which of them is going to have to stay with the baby, but finally both of them show up at the Aquarium – without Rosie. And this happens not long after Mary has taken a ‘little trip’ around Eurasia ending up in Morocco and John and Sherlock going after her – little Rosie staying at home. Which means weeks without any of her parents. If S4 were real, I’d feel truly sorry for little Rosie.

In TLD, Rosie is more absent than her dead mother! While Mary haunts the episode, all we hear about the baby is John’s tremendous guilt for neglecting and abandoning her (which he manages to do completely). John does seem to have enough spare time and energy to go on another case with Sherlock, though, in the middle of his therapy session. At the end of TLD, all is supposedly fine again with Rosie (until John gets shot with a tranquiliser), but we never get to see it. But then in TFP John goes on a long journey with Sherlock to a far away island, and not a word about Rosie. She’s not even present when John receives Mary’s DVD at home. At the end she’s suddenly there again, though, without any comment.

Based on this, it doesn’t seem farfetched to ask if this little character is even supposed to be real. There’s a subtle hint in TLD which could point in this skeptic direction:

Sherlock: “And, of course, I hadn’t really anticipated that I’d hallucinated meeting his daughter.” “Still a bit troubled by the daughter. Did seem very real, and she gave me information I couldn’t have acquired elsewhere.”

John: “But she wasn’t ever here?”

An earlier quote from TGG could also question John’s fatherhood: ”Of course he’s not the boy’s father - look at the turnups on his jeans!” (Sherlock while watching telly with John in TGG, right after the fourth ‘pip’).

And - of course - if S4 is all imaginary, only happening in Sherlock’s head, Rosie would probably not even have been born yet.

There are also some more subtle hints about Rosie’s narrative function: John’s guilt about cheating on Mary in TLD is connected to the baby. John specifically mentions that he was “cheating” on Mary while she was taking care of Rosie: JOHN (to Ghost!Mary): “We texted constantly. You wanna know when? Every time you left the room, that’s when. When you were feeding our daughter; when you were stopping her from crying – that’s when.” This does make the (otherwise rather exaggerated) texting affair sound a bit more damning for John, doesn’t it? ;) If this is all taking place inside Sherlock’s head, it might rather reflect one of Sherlock’s (possibly) major excuses to himself for not confessing his true feelings to John; it might (once the baby is born) disrupt a whole family and affect an innocent little child.

John and Mary’s relationship

The other day I took to re-watch this little piece of extra material from S4: statements by Martin Freeman and Amanda Abbington about John’s and Mary’s relationship (X). Every time I see this video I’m just laughing so hard. Please don’t miss how Martin is struggling to keep a straight face without smiling, after claiming “they’ve been through stuff already in S3 that would test any couple.” (Yep. Like the discovery that Mary is actually a contract killer who shot his best friend and hasn’t even revealed her real name to John). Or how Amanda avoids looking at the camera when she’s lying talking about Mary’s feelings towards John, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Great acting! :)

I mean, this cannot even be intended to fool anyone; I think this is meant to signal to the audience that the marriage we’re seeing is a dishonest, superficial construction made up of empty words. It’s very similar to the scene in HLV where Sherlock tells John about his ‘relationship’ with Janine. Platitudes like “we’re in a good place” are not only included, but also called out in the very same dialogue. John: “You got that from a book!” Sherlock: “Everyone got that from a book!”. In the video clip, overly sweet violin music is playing when Martin and Amanda talk about their characters’ supposed deep love for each other, but this is mixed up with sitcom-like scenes where this love is made very hard to believe in, like Mary about to give birth in the car and roaring to her husband to pull over, or John telling Mary that he simply intends to forget about a recent past where she very nearly murdered his best friend.

John’s marriage actually seems terrible from start; he can’t even keep himself off Sherlock’s blog comments during his own honeymoon. Which I believe is canon consistent; in ACD’s stories Mary Morstan even encourages Watson to never leave Holmes’ side. And the bad marriage is also confirmed in HLV by Wiggins’ and Sherlock’s deductions about John’s cycling to work and keeping his shirts ‘folded and ready to leave’ at any moment.

But what’s Mary’s position in this? Let’s say, as a mental experiment, that she knows from start about John’s feelings for Sherlock. Why would she want to be together with, and even go on to marry, a man who is obviously in love with someone else? Well, while I don’t buy the facade-climbing Ninja!Mary who tries to kill Sherlock in HLV, she could still be dishonest in her approach to John. She could still be on some sort of mission related to Sherlock, where her role simply is to get in between John and Sherlock, while she actually is together with someone else (and even carrying that someone’s child). Her aim could be to hurt Sherlock as much as possible, for a specific reason.

As far as I see in TEH, Mary seems suspiciously eager to befriend Sherlock. Instead of behaving like one would expect from someone in love who just got their special moment ruined by a rival; with anger or at least annoyance, and of course supporting the beloved - Mary immediately sides with Sherlock.

And she seems to side with him most of all on an intellectual level, taking part in his explanations of how he managed to fake his death.

“Oh, he would have needed a confidant...”

So - what can we deduce about Mary?

If everything we see in the show after TSoT only has happened inside Sherlock’s head (as I’ve tried to make a case for in this meta series), from this follows logically that in Sherlock’s ‘reality’, there is no Assasin!Mary, no SecretAgent!Mary, no Martyr!Mary and - of course - no Ghost!Mary. Because up until the wedding, Mary seemed to be just an ordinary woman. The character’s appearance from HLV and onwards would all be fabrications of Sherlock’s drug-influenced mind, albeit loaded with a lot of metaphorical meaning from his subconscious.

But Mary still seems to exist on some level, doesn’t she? She is referred to by John on his blog, talked about by other people on the blog (including Sherlock), and she even makes comments on it on no less than ten occasions. On the blog, John is clear about getting married to Mary. And after Sherlock’s final blog post ‘The Sign of Three’, it also gets obvious that Mary is now pregnant.

And – most importantly – if S4 is all-fake, this also means that in Sherlock’s ‘reality’, Mary’s drama-loaded death in TST never happened. Mary is still alive! So if Mary is a ‘façade’, a ‘beard’ and/or a mirror for Sherlock on a meta- and sub-textual level, who is she on the textual level? Well, I think there are some clues in the show, and also a lot of subtext material in ACD canon to draw from, which might have been developed into actual story line in the show.

And this will bring us to the second half of this meta, which you can find here (X).

Tagging some people who might be interested: @raggedyblue @ebaeschnbliah @sarahthecoat @gosherlocked @loveismyrevolution @sagestreet @tjlcisthenewsexy @elldotsee @88thparallel @devoursjohnlock @sherlock-overflow-error @yeah-oh-shit

#who is mary?

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