#he was half human in his 8th. because it makes his entire time line a paradox (he wasn’t half human until he was) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

spn-romantica · 4 years ago

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So I watched SPN for years, right up until the end of S11, when they brought back Mary. I heard that S15 would be the last season, and I was like ‘oh ok I’ll rewatch (for like the 8th time) and finish SPN then’ BUT THEN 15x18 happened and I was violently pulled back into the SPN fandom. I still haven’t caught up fully watching yet, but I’ve read so much discourse now...and I have thoughts. Hypotheses currently. I’ll wait to finish the whole show for real to call any of this theories but, I wanted to record my thoughts.

They’re about Chuck. As a villain. Which weirds me out. As an antagonist? Sure. As evil? No. Can’t envision it. I just finished my rewatch of S5 and, damn, but if Chuck is the ultimate villain, S5 reads very differently. :0

But I recently saw a post comparing Dean’s reaction in 1x18 (I believe) to his in 10x05 (for sure) about when someone mentions his mother’s death. In 1x18, it’s Sam when they were children and Dean gets angry. In 10x05, it’s a group of high school girls and Dean just bops his head along to the song. The post was framing it as 10x05 not understanding Dean’s thoughts about his mother, but I think that both episodes understand Dean. When Dean is a child, the trauma over his mother’s murder is still fresh. By 10x05, the event is 70 years in the past. Of course it still affects Dean. Of course. You never really get over something like that. But I’d argue that after 70 years, Dean has moved through the stages of grief to acceptance. It still hurts, but like an old ache, not a fresh, still-bleeding wound.

Interestingly, 10x05 is when we see Chuck, after a long absence. He’s watching the play, probably happy that someone loves his work enough to even make a musical, but he is also watching the Winchesters. The actual episodes of the show, aka the books Chuck writes, are what Chuck knows/cares about regarding the Winchesters. Despite being God, I’d argue he doesn’t pay attention to every second and all the little minutia of the boys’ lives. So, here in 10x05, we have confirmation that Chuck is around to see that Dean has healed from his mother’s death.

Later, in S11, Dean acts as therapist/life counsellor to Chuck/God, regarding Amara and Lucifer. And it works! Dean teaches God about family and about healing. Why does God listen to Dean Winchester, a random human? Perhaps it is because of S1-5. Perhaps it is because Dean and Sam were part of God’s test, as God himself describes it in 5x22.

What was the test? Was it God’s experiment about choice and free will? About freedom vs peace? Or, perhaps, was God trying to understand sibling relationships? He and Amara are two faces of the same coin. They are siblings, but with very different outlooks and it caused a rift between them, caused Chuck to seal Amara away before she could destroy his creations. Chuck regretted this, but saw it as a necessary betrayal. But then, some time later, Chuck’s angelic children experience their own betrayal and sibling rift. Lucifer tries to turn the angels against God, rebel and reject God. He makes demons, for sure, and maybe even Hell. But why? God figures that Lucifer was maybe jealous of the new baby (humans) like others in the show postulates. Or maybe Lucifer had beef specifically with Michael, because humans are little more than amoebas from an angelic perspective. Aside from Castiel, Anna and a handful of other angels, angels consistently view humans as humans might view dust mites. Maybe humans were the cause of the rift between Michael and Lucifer, but it was Michael and Lucifer’s relationship that needed fixing in the end, regardless.

So God is left with the sad conclusion that maybe close siblings will inevitably betray each other and be unable to forgive and heal. He wants to heal with Amara. But he also wants Michael and Lucifer to be able to heal. (It doesn’t occur to God that maybe Lucifer’s problem was never with humanity or Michael; it was with God.)

So God has research to do, to see if it’s possible for siblings to experience such deep betrayal and still heal. He turns to his little hairless apes, the only sentient species on Earth with potential to parallel the angels. He starts testing siblings. Cain and Abel are first up. Needless to say, but the betrayal was too strong and left no room for healing. But on down the line of Cain, God continues testing. Eventually, we come to Sam and Dean.

God has scheduled Michael and Lucifer’s family counselling session for 2010. All the data up to this point says it can only end badly. Maybe it’ll half-kill the Earth, but it’s finally time for Michael and Lucifer to meet and for one of them to die. God isn’t happy about this conclusion, but it’s what the data says. So, finally, the last test subjects, the last in the line who will be the vessels for Michael and Lucifer’s showdown, arrive. Sam and Dean Winchester are to be the last sibling test. The conclusion seems foregone at this point, but there is no point in cancelling the last bit of the test after so long, so it continues. God watches. And Sam and Dean surprise God. Siblings after siblings had failed for millennia to heal. Betrayals too strong, healing too little, too late. But Sam and Dean. no matter how badly they hurt each other, find a way to come back together and heal. They don’t give up on each other, despite millennia of data to the contrary. Still, the angels and demons push and push at Sam and Dean until their rift is as wide and as deep as Michael and Lucifer’s, as God’s and Amara’s (in late S4). It seems, despite the brothers’ best efforts earlier on, it’s all for naught.

But there is a further element of randomness, something God couldn’t foresee. Castiel. God hasn’t had occasion for romantic love in his own experience, so he is entirely blind to what choices Castiel is likely to make. He provides an element of randomness to the experiment, an essential part that gives Dean the ultimate chance to go back to Sam and begin to heal (4x22).

Throughout S5, Sam and Dean heal. There is hurt, still, of course, but they love each other and forgive each other. By 5x22, they’ve surprised everyone. Even the angels have given up on turning them against each other, and have shrugged and settled for using Nick and Adam as the vessels for the showdown. Sam and Dean passed their test. They were siblings who betrayed each other and healed from it. God reconsiders how family counselling will go with Michael and Lucifer. He figured it would be the Apocalypse, the end of the problems between Michael and Lucifer, as one of them dies, as had always happened before. But, Sam and Dean showed God, that though it is rare, it is possible to heal. So God gives Sam and Dean an out. He gives Sam the strength to seize back control from Lucifer, should things go south.

Finally, the showdown arrives. Michael and Lucifer meet. They talk things out. To God’s surprise, Lucifer reveals that he never had a problem with Michael. He had forgiven Michael long ago. But Michael couldn’t forgive Lucifer. He had to be a ‘good son’ and do what he thought God wanted him to do. But Michael didn’t realise, that God doesn’t give orders. Free will all the way, baby! But the whole thing comes as a surprise. Apparently, all this time, the problem relationship wasn’t siblings, it was parents.

Oops.

Good thing God had a back-up plan.

Sam throws himself and Lucifer (and Michael and Adam) into the Cage. Michael and Lucifer have an eternity to figure things out between each other now. But that’s beside the point. The point is, now, that God has to start testing all over again. Not how to fix sibling relationships, but how to fix parent-child relationships.

God restores Castiel, perhaps for a few reasons because God exists outside of time, but originally it may have been just for one. He likes Castiel. He is impressed that Castiel invented free will for himself, broke free of angelic programming (multiple times over), and did it all for love. It’s novel. It’s interesting. God might even think it’s sweet. But God has had time later, and thought about it, and he has a plan. And Castiel is essential.

But Dean Winchester is the key.

Sam and Dean’s relationship with their own father has been strained, but both boys find a way to forgive John his flaws and failings, and love him. Whenever they do get a chance to see him again, post his death, they don’t hate him. They’ve healed. John’s relationship with Sam and Dean is one point of data, Abraham and Isaac another. There are many data points that God can reflect back on and consider.

But as S6 through S10 roll on, God watches Sam and Dean and Castiel. He even watches Crowley and Rowena for another data point. Dean is his main focus, however. (This is a little meta, but as the story focuses more on Dean than Sam post S5, it ties in. Prior to S6, both Sam and Dean were essential - the sibling test. Now, post S5, the parent test, Dean is the most essential. Of course, Sam and Castiel are important too. But Dean is key.)

Dean is a good father. He was a good father to Sam, even when he was only 6 years old himself. He was a good father to Ben. He was willing to die for Bobby John. He’s always good with kids. Not only that, but Dean is blunt enough, brave enough, and crazy enough to tell God to God’s face what he thinks. God needs Dean’s advice, his perspective and opinion on family relationships, but he also needs to see what Dean would do if he were in God’s shoes.

[Edit (1/04/21): After seeing Michael and Lucifer (mostly) heal, and after seeing Sam and Dean heal their relationship, God finally has hope for him and Amara. So God logically wants to retrieve Amara from her prison. But how? Well, he could just wander on up to Cain and do it himself, but what would Amara say? “So I see you’ve come crawling back, eh, Chucky?” She wouldn’t be impressed with God. She wouldn’t understand, because she’s hopeless too. SO how to give her hope? How to make her see that she and God can be okay again? Why, stick her near Dean Winchester, of course! So God sets things up for Dean to get and lose the Mark of Cain, thereby ensuring that Amara will feel a connection to Dean and stick around him/keep him alive long enough for Dean to work his life-coach magic.]

In S11, God and Amara heal their relationship because of the hope Sam and Dean gave God, and also the direct advice Dean gives God. God and Lucifer, not so much.

God needs more data. He needs to see what Dean would do. In comes Castiel’s relevance. God sets things up so that Lucifer can have a son. A nephil. Jack. And God points Castiel in Jack’s direction, trusting Castiel’s ability for unconditional love to keep Jack alive long enough for the experiment. Castiel becomes Jack’s father. But Castiel will never betray Jack, the way God betrayed Lucifer. And, besides, Castiel isn’t the target of this experiment. But it is Castiel’s relationship with Dean Winchester that provides the link needed to get the experiment rolling.

Because Jack is Castiel’s son, he is therefore Sam and Dean’s nephew. Except, God has been watching Castiel and Dean. And, frankly, their romantic love for each other is so obvious even God cannot miss it. Through Castiel, Dean sees Jack as his son too. He loves Jack, exactly like a son. In this way, Dean parallels God, and Jack parallels Lucifer.

But God knows Dean would not easily turn on any child, let alone his own child. So God had a plan for that too. One that Amara helped him with.

They brought back Mary Winchester.

Mary is the one person in existence whose loss would hurt Dean enough to spur him to action. So, she was brought back to die. It was a matter of only a few years of gentle prodding to get everything in position. Jack causes Mary’s death. Dean is faced with a horrible decision. If Jack can kill Mary, what’s to say that Sam and Castiel wouldn’t be next? Mary’s death is like everything beginning all over again for Dean as well. Her first death set off a chain reaction, a series of unfortunate events that spanned decades and nearly caused the ruination of not only Dean’s life, but Sam’s and John’s and even the world. That scar, which had healed as well as it could after 70 years, that God saw was healed in 10x05, has been violently opened up again. It’s the only thing that could force Dean’s hand, that could get him to betray Jack and try to kill him. If Jack had killed Sam or Castiel, it wouldn’t have had the same effect. Both Sam and Castiel had died and come back so many times, and while it would hurt Dean and make him doubt Jack, their deaths would be a sacrifice that Dean would feel obligated to respect, to give Jack a second chance like they would both want. (And God has been laying the groundwork for Dean, convincing him that Jack is evil, will be evil like Lucifer, can’t be allowed to live. All things God has thought about Lucifer over time. Was Lucifer inherently evil? Was their rift inevitable?)

So, here it is. The big test. Will Dean kill Jack? Will he betray Jack and cause an unhealable rift? Or will he find a way to heal, like he did with Sam against all the odds?

And, once again, Dean impresses God. He refuses to kill Jack.

But now we’re in the endgame. Sam, Dean and Castiel are aware that Jack’s life was only on the line because of God. It’s not something they can forgive, or understand. They’re all God’s guinea pigs, and while he loves his guinea pigs, he knows he’s hurt them in the name of science, of knowledge. or healing, and God can’t undo what he’s done. Free will is linear, after all. So it is time for the Winchesters, Castiel and Jack included, to be done with God. God is done with them, too. It’s time for them to be free and at peace. The experiments are done. God has decided not to kill Lucifer. He has decided to try to heal. He can get Lucifer out of the Empty and talk and try to fix things. He has forever to fix things, now that he knows he can. (The last element of this, Jack forgiving Dean for trying to kill him, is something I have limited knowledge of, but I am under the impression happens so... To be added in the edit once I finish the series.)

But the only way the Winchesters will be able to rest, is if they think God, the last and greatest villain, is out of the way. They know they’ve been manipulated their whole lives, first towards the sibling experiment and now the parent experiment, so they need to think God is gone so they can feel secure in their free will once more. Truthfully, God never took their free will. He set them up in situations, maybe even gave a bio-chemical nudge of anger (Dean) or attraction (Sam and Eileen) every now and then. But the choices were always theirs. Still, God knows they won’t see it that way. So he sets things up so that they can defeat him.

He lets them win. He wants them to win. They cannot defeat God, after all. It’s not God’s time, and Death is the only one who can claim God in the end, as the two embrace as friends and walk to the next existence. But the Winchesters need this, and so God allows it. A last gift, to the beings who have been such help, hope and inspiration to him.

With an eye for an eventual S16, 15x20 is written to be ‘an ending’ but also one that could easily be reframed as a bad dream.

For example...

Unfortunately, after Jack, suped up on a extra Grace God lent him, restores the Earth and expends all the Grace (”giving up the mantle of God so that their is no God, no plans, only Free Will”), and Dean, Sam and Jack head back to the Bunker to regroup and gather the ingredients to do the spell to rescue Castiel from the Empty, they’re jumped by monsters who are angry with how much God has fucked with them on behalf of the Winchesters. 15x20 is all a djinn dream Dean is trapped in.

16x01 is Dean waking himself up from the djinn dream, Sam and Jack escaping their own monsters, and then the end of 16x01 is Dean saying something about waking Castiel up from his own dreams in the Empty. The rest of S16 sees the boys save Castiel, reunite with Eileen, start a monster-hunting Bobby Singer/Men of Letters-esque organisation, Dean and Castiel getting together and getting married on Valentine’s Day, Jack getting to live a normal life, going to school, making friends, etc.

If their is no S16 ever (which would be criminal), then 15x20 makes no sense, unless it is plainly a recount of an old, hopeless ending written by God. However you spin it, 15x20 is not the way it seems (like owls).

All things being said, God is an antagonist, but he’s not evil. He’s an asshole, sure, but he never once worked against the Winchesters, never bet against them, never tried to erase or end them. He wanted them to win. He wanted to see the fruits of free will be love, second chances, hope, forgiveness, healing, and happiness, not just betrayal, pain, selfishness, jealousy, disappointment, and hopelessness.

Why is the ending he shows Becky ‘hopeless’? Because God is. He has spent his long existence losing his most loved family members. Amara, Lucifer. How can things end well for God, when they can’t even end well for humans? But Sam and Dean defy the script, again and again. They surprise God, defying the statistics, defying the hypotheses, throwing the experiment into disarray. Giving God hope. Sam and Dean were okay. Dean and Jack were okay. If God had a romantic love, he would find hope from Dean and Castiel being okay. But when God wrote the book he showed Becky, he was writing what he thought would happen. In the end, surely, not even Dean can be enough to hold Sam and Cas and Jack together. But in the end, as we see, as God sees, he is proven wrong and he’s happy to be wrong. He’s hopeful. And he can leave Dean, Sam, Castiel and Jack, and all the angels and all the humans, to rule the Earth and the Heavens. He doesn’t need to learn anything more from them, so he heads to the Empty, with Amara, with Lucifer, with Death (Billie or not, Death is there for God in the end), and they can all depart for a better existence of their own.

If you read all of this, thanks! I eagerly anticipate watching the remaining 10 seasons so I can come back and edit the heck outta this, but until then, if y’all have any thoughts, I’d be interested to hear them~

TLDR: God is a morally bankrupt scientist and the Winchesters are his guinea pigs, but he’s not evil and he does love his guinea pigs, even if he could really treat them nicer.

#supernatural #spn #dean winchester #sam winchester #jack kline #castiel #god #chuck #amara #lucifer #mary winchester #destiel #deancas #this is what i get for living on spn tumblr in a post s15 world while rewatching s5 and having memories ranging from hq to 8bit about s1-s11 #be kind i haven't finished my rewatch/finished the show so i probably have stuff wrong #what if god isn't evil just has no inherent moral compass because he has to teach himself everything #and he's taken to using the winchesters as his guinea pigs/life counsellors

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seokjinurdms · 5 years ago

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Okay but imagine having a “girls night” with Asmo

You and Asmo are just hanging out in your room when you ask Asmo if he wants to have a girls night

Asmo automatically agrees and immediately runs to his room to grab everything he needs

When he gets back to your room, he has three tote bags FULL of supplies

He dumps them out and suddenly your floor is covered in clothes, makeup, DVDs, a speaker, and board games

“Are you sure this isn’t too much, Asmo—“

“Girls night is NOT a joke.”

You both start off by playing spa and doing each other’s nails (Asmo is significantly better at painting nails than you are, but you’re trying)

You accidentally spill your nail polish on the floor and you curse loud enough to gain the attention of Mammon, who happened to be walking by your door at 10:35 pm (coincidence, I think NOT)

Mammon immediately barges in “What are ya yappin’ about—“ and freezes when he sees Asmo “What is he doin’ here alone with you?!”

Before either of you can respond, Mammon sits down with you guys and sheepishly asks if you can paint his nails

Just like that, Mammon has joined girls night

But with Mammon present, it simply couldn’t be quiet for long

Asmo had managed to rile up Mammon when he stole the nail polish he was using, and Mammon began to freak out “You took my polish, didn’t ya? MAKE HIM GIVE ME BACK MY POLISH”

And of course, Beel and Levi come into your room to find out what the yelling is about

Once they find out what’s going on, Levi immediately joins when you offhandedly mention that you’ll be having a Mario Kart tournament later that night

Beel stays because you have a secret stash of candy in your room that you may or may not have shown him

Once everyone’s nails are painted (and a jar of nail polish is returned to Mammon) you guys decide to have a fashion show

Asmo somehow brought entire outfits with him that fit everyone, and they all lined up to be given an outfit by him

The outfits are either very extravagant or very revealing, so many outfits have to be changed in order to keep the rating in the room a PG-13 (maximum)

Mammon starts pouting because he doesn’t think his outfit is as good as everybody else’s, so Asmo is somehow able to convince him to wear a ball gown with gold and lace and jewels all over it

He absolutely SLAYS in the dress; he seems very pleased, but you realize it might be because he’s been picking some of the jewels off of the gown to try and keep for himself

You catch Beel trying to eat some of his jewelry and you decide you need to distract them

While you try to divert their attention from their clothes, Levi is posting pictures of them all over Devilgram

So, as expected, the other brothers see the post

Satan slowly comes in with Belphie (who claims he only came because Beel was there) a few minutes after Levi posts

You sigh in relief when Lucifer doesn’t walk in, as you know he’d be mad at you all for breaking curfew

You urge everyone to be more quiet and the volume in the room somehow rises instead of subsides

Before you and Asmo can quiet them down, there are loud footsteps heard from outside your door

Everyone goes quiet and freezes, holding their breath

Lucifer throws open the doors, magic glowing around him, angry

Diavolo follows him inside the room, smiling when he sees what’s going on “Oh, it’s a sleepover! This is fun!” Lucifer sends him a look and Diavolo smirks “Lucifer, please chaperone them tonight to make sure they don’t burn this place down” and Diavolo leaves

Lucifer is furious, but he takes a seat on your bed anyways and sits silently

Nobody says anything for a moment before Satan breaks the silence “Does he HAVE to be here?”

The whole room erupts and you, Beel, and Mammon attempt to keep Lucifer and Satan from killing each other

Eventually things calm down enough when you exclaim that you everyone to do each other’s makeup

They reluctantly agree and everyone sits in a messy circle on the floor with the makeup products laid out in front of them, and it occurs to them that they don’t know how to do makeup

Asmo, however, knows how to do makeup, as do you (you’ve done people’s makeup many times before in the human world); Levi shyly pipes up and comments that he “may or may not know how to do makeup”

You, Asmo, and Levi begin to demonstrate what tools are used for what, as well as where the products go on your face

Introducing false eyelashes to the group is hilarious to you; Beel, Satan, and Mammon are mesmerized while watching Asmo show how to apply them and peel them off

After the demonstration, everyone tries to do their makeup

When they all start to do eyeliner, it becomes a mess

Two whole packets of makeup remover wipes are gone by the time everyone is done

Mammon’s makeup turned out okay, as he’s used makeup from time to time when modeling

Lucifer’s makeup is a MESS and he goes bright red when Satan laughs at him

Satan didn’t do that well, either, though, and Lucifer laughs at him, too

Beel wasn’t able to finish his makeup because he ate a tube of lipstick and it wasn’t sitting right with him

You, Asmo’s, and Levi’s makeup turned out well, and you all took a group selfie, which Levi promptly captioned and posted

By then, everyone was getting bored so you took off the makeup and started up a game of Mario Kart with the Wii from Mammon’s room (why it was in your room in the first place, we’ll never know)

The first match is you and Mammon, which ends poorly when you come in 1st place and Mammon comes in 8th

“I LET you win, ‘cause I knew you wouldn’t be able to beat THE Great Mammon! Yeah, I lost on PURPOSE!”

Nobody believes him, so everyone decides to play a match against Mammon

Mammon loses against everyone but Belphie, who was half asleep and had a loose grip on the remote

You all have a tournament and eventually it’s down to Levi (no surprise) and Satan (who apparently had never even played Mario Kart before)

Satan loses, and soon after the Wii is broken

Everyone decides that’s enough for that night, because Lucifer is nagging at them and Satan’s eye is starting to twitch

You all pile up in a giant cocoon of blankets on the ground and try to go to bed

You’re almost asleep when Mammon asks “Do penguins have dreams?”

Everyone yells at Mammon to shut up, and when Mammon retaliates, he ends up on the bottom of the pile, being crushed by Beel, who’s in a heavy sleep

Mammon finally shuts up and everyone goes to bed

It’s only five minutes later when the alarm to wake up goes off, and everyone realizes that this wasn’t a good idea

#obey me #obey me imagines #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me satan #obey me belphie #obey me beelzebub #obey me leviathan #obey me asmodeus #mammon #satan #asmodeous #imagine #imagines #writing #crack #idk #x reader

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kadeu · 4 years ago

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Accepted — Park Gunhee

♥ Park Gunhee looks like Choi Seungcheol (Seventeen) ♥ He was August 8th, 1996; making him 24 years old ♥ This Half Fae/Half Human is Bisexual and a Jack of Hearts ♥ Heir to Park Cartel

Biography

“someday, my little prince, you will have the world.”

he could remember his mother’s hand in his hair, stroking through dark strands with slim, dainty fingers as he focused on his drawing. it was an anchor, it promised so much. she promised so much. his head is filled with memories of how she would often tell him that he is better than his children in his family’s high ranking social circles, and how he believed her. he believed everything she would tell him about how destiny had so much in store for him, and how he would have to would have to work hard if he wants the things she promised he would have. he wanted her approval, he wanted to be good and he wanted the world to understand that park gunhee was destined for greatness.

he wanted everything, and the voices in his head encouraged him.

—

“princes don’t cry.”

his mother had told him that when he came home from school with tears in his eyes and scrapes on his knees. it was a valuable lessen, taught to a boy so small and weak, encouraging him to become strong. gunhee clung to those words, tears becoming a sign of weakness in his eyes.

“you’re better than them, gunhee.”

better than the kids that had pushed him down, made him cry. his mother taught him that, and she was always right, wasn’t she?

everytime his eyes burned with unshed tears, his chest burned with anger and shame, until he learned to hold back every tear. he grew stronger—became better—than everyone else around him. the desire to be better made him destructive in his need to please his parents. and pleased they were, of the son that continuously made top rankings throughout school and was quickly becoming worthy of being a king’s heir to his father’s kingdom. but they cared little for the boy that pushed everyone away, looked down on his classmates, sent other children home with bruises, and burns from uncontrolled lightning.

—

he’d been happy when his father officially took him on as his heir, just a ten of hearts at the time. it was different from the other families in the hearts faction, as his father was a king. gunhee was told the story of how his parents met, how his dad fell in love at first sight with a sex worker, but was still trying to keep his finances protected when he took his mother as his wife. in case things fell through. humans could be fickle creatures, his father had said.

as a half human himself, this comment about humans made gunhee more determined to gain his father’s validation. being born a blue moon, he was more in tune with his fae genes, but he still had to nurture his human genes as well. his mother and father worked together in order to raise him to deal with the struggles each species could have, and gunhee was often sick as a child with his two halves at war with each other. his mother nurtured him as a young child in the only ways she knew, while his father taught him the ways of fae. he was still young, especially as a fae, but stronger in more ways than one. his sickness is not as frequent, his lightning not as wild (yet not refined enough for pinpoint accuracy either).

gunhee hadn’t known exactly what his father’s business dealt with until he officially became his heir. he’d been explained that the family business produces a drug called glory, designed for clubs as a pain suppressant in the form of injections or pills to provide an edge in the fights. overdoses produced manic highs, intended to become addictive to prey on the citizens of the faction.

careless and young, he wondered aloud what the drug was like, if his human-fae body could handle it. his father had been all too pleased to give him a demonstration, calling it a test. gunhee hadn’t expected the test to be performed on himself, held down while someone pushed a needle into his arm and let go before he could put up a fight. anger was quick to come forward, bewildered and loudly cursing about the situation while his father merely waited for the effects to kick in.

he’d struck gunhee hard across the cheek with the back of his hand, and gunhee felt nothing.

—

“we’re proud of you, gunhee.”

the words ring in his ears. he has wanted to hear them for so long, but who were his parents proud of? as time went on, gunhee began to realize the voices living in his head were never his own, but his parents’. but where was he? where was his own voice?

they were proud of the son they created. but how could they be proud of the person he is, when he doesn’t even know who he is? frustration and anger tear him apart, because what has he done for himself his entire life? everything he’s accomplished has been for his parents. for his father’s company, all to become an heir to his world and gain his parents’ validation.

he fears it is too late to change, too late to be anything else.

too late to save himself.

Then there was Samhain ‘20

the events of samhain were prior to gunhee’s new personal issues; he’d been having lunch, positively bored with the idle chit-chat that was going on. he’d been sitting next to his mother his mother, and his father who was sitting at the head of the table. the seat at his father’s opposite side (a seat that was rightfully gunhee’s) had been taken by a stuffy, large business partner that was trying to whittle more money out of his father.

more money, in return for diminishing returns. gunhee knew this partner well, he’d been the one to advise his father to forgo a trade deal with them. the soon-to-be heir was tasked with doing the research on them before any deals were officially written and signed. gunhee had been thorough, pointing out flaws and holes in their production line, but his father did not listen. the cunning new partner had made a comment to his father about his father being much more wise than his son when they’d signed the agreements. gunhee saw red, but held his temper.

even so, gunhee had been waiting for this moment. once humiliated in front of the man, the heir knew that this deal would eventually fall through. previous partner’s detailed poor management and loss in revenue when dealing with them. finally, his father had seen the same activity and was ready to cut this loose end.

gunhee smirked from across the table at the large man’s desperate attempts to plea for forgiveness after having felt deserving of receiving more money from gunhee’s family. his satisfaction grew as his father recited gunhee’s original analysis and conclusion word for word, the partner’s face drawing in horror as they realize what was about to come.

the partner, having violated their contract with his father’s business, was to pay up the losses and would be removed from their position within his father’s council, effective immediately.

once money had been transferred later that night, gunhee offered his sympathy and wished the man luck, despite the self-satisfied smirk on his face. the heir had been in the middle of shaking the man’s hand when gunhee saw a new tattoo appear on his own wrist, a faint tingling accompanying it. he stared, perplexed, as he watched a bar filling up until his rank of ten of hearts changed to a jack of hearts.

his smirk only grew as he understood what had just happened. thanking whatever gods out there that gave him this gift, his firm, polite handshake went to gripping the man’s hand tightly and twisting to see his new set of tattoos as well. gunhee watched with awe and fascination as the man’s own new progress bar went down very quickly until he dropped two ranks from the fall through of this partnership.

any other time, gunhee would not have cared for the new tattoos. seeing his progression towards the next rank would not change his daily life. he was confident enough to know he’d rise eventually. but that day…

oh, how luck favored gunhee that day.

Personality

gunhee struggles with himself as a person, a lot of anger held within him. he struggles to find his own voice inside a head filled with the voices of his parents’. growing up under his parents‘ watchful gaze made him closed off and independent. their singular voices, filled with suggestion and what was perceived as truth to that of a young child’s mind, made him rash and arrogant. he was raised to be able to handle his own problems on his own, without asking for help. that asking for help would invite others to look down on him, think of him as weak. it only continues to push him away from social situations, leaving him a fish out of water with his very new revelations about his identity (or lack thereof).

the idea of change and finding himself is a daunting task to one who once viewed himself as a prince, untouchable by those around him.

Congratulations Antonia your app has been accepted and your first plot drop will be sent to you soon.

Please follow and welcome @princxly to Kadeu!

#accepted;#hearts;#choi seungcheol #s.coups #krp #literate rp #lsrg #fantasy rp

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captain-danwilds · 4 years ago

Text

I’ve been waiting for so long (to feel like I’m home)

A RBB 2021 Fic AO3 Accompanying Art by @mareofthesky

Summary: Palmetto Public Hospital was just supposed to be another meaningless stop in Neil Josten's life. He doesn't have a reason to keep running to a new hospital every few months, but that doesn't mean he's learned how to stay. And there's something about the rest of the staff on the burn ward that makes him want to try, especially the physical therapist.

This fic was written for the 2021 AFTG Reverse Big Bang. Thank you @gluupor for organizing! I had the joy of being paired with @mareofthesky. She’s absolutely incredible, both as an artist and as a human being. I seriously couldn’t ask for someone better.

This work takes place in a hospital in pre-COVID times. I am not a nurse, doctor or physical therapist, let alone a burn survivor. I do not know everything they go through. I’ve tried to be as accurate as possible, but recognize that I’m going to be wrong about some things. There’s only so far research can take you.

While I don’t think this work is more graphic than canon, it does deal with some distressing stuff, namely: burns, blood, hospitals, child abuse, violence, panic attacks, hurt/comfort, torture, mutilation of corpses (referenced) and Baltimore references.

Nathaniel Wesninski was thirteen when his mother almost died.

In another universe, this would have been the thing that killed her. She would have gotten her hands-on fake passports and they would have traveled across Europe until he was fourteen and Stefan got shot in Germany. But they would have still ended up in Seattle, her blood spilling on the leather seat as her son drove down the coastline.

In this world, their plans to head to Europe fell through quickly. There hadn't been a couple million dollars to pave the way, just two desperate souls fleeing in the night because Nathaniel couldn't live up to the standards his father set for him.

Nathan Wesninski was the head of his own empire, eager for his son to take over. There was no Yakuza demanding a show of loyalty. If Nathaniel had shown promise, he would have been able to take over the family operation.

The problem was, in both worlds, Nathaniel hadn't shown promise. It took years for him to learn how to watch his father butcher a man without crying. He could never master Lola's style of knife play, refusing to draw out the pain any more than strictly necessary. As he got older, his eyes would go stony, his hands moving automatically. But he was moving through water. He barricaded himself into his own head so that he didn't register the stickiness of the blood on his hands until he'd left the basement. The sound of screams became so ubiquitous, he could tune it out. There was no joy, certainly no drive to continue the Butcher's legacy.

He had merely nodded when his father had announced he expected Nathaniel to take care of the traitor in his ranks. He kept his feet trained on the floor, on the puddles of blood slowly inching toward the central drain.

But Mary saw the gleam on her husband's face, the unspoken or else. She also happened to know the traitor in question. One of the servants who liked to sneak Nathaniel snacks while he worked on his homework. There was no way that Nathaniel could force himself to do it. He'd be left with new scars if he was lucky. Knowing her husband and his current frustration over territory losses, Nathaniel wasn’t going to be lucky.

So she'd grabbed what she could, contacted the few contacts she had with her family that could do good work for cheap and escaped into the night.

When they met Nathan and his ilk in Seattle, they had only been on the run for three years. Linda and Alex, their 8th set of names, had settled into the type of neighborhood where no one noticed another kid with desperation in their eyes, where no one had the energy to poke into anyone else's business during the break between second and third jobs. Alex was fine, good at following orders, a natural at stitches. He could blend in just fine, answer questions the right way, but he certainly wasn't ready to start out on his own.

For every time they successfully changed identities, he complained about not joining the track team or jostled against the restrictions of coming home directly after school without hanging on the monkey bars or meeting friends. For all their time on the run, for all the times she'd tried to beat it out of him, Alex was still a child.

And even if he had been ready to stake out on his own. A child, especially one as small as Alex, would always draw attention when traveling alone.

Despite that, he had been able to drive the beaten down car, the phone book stacked beneath him giving him just enough extra height to see the road. His maneuvering was perfect as he weaved through traffic. They hadn't spent weeks training as Caroline and Sam in backroads lined with corn in Iowa for him to fail when escape was their only option.

Mary applied pressure to the bullet wound with one hand and frantically called the local FBI office with her other. Her family might have been able to help her, but she wouldn't live to see them arrive from England. In dire circumstances one had to make do.

And Mary had years’ worth of insider information of her husband's dealing she could easily trade for her treatment at a hospital and her son's continued safety.

So Nathaniel was 13 when his mother almost died, and he entered the witness protection program. He was thirteen when he became Neil Josten.

"Isn't it too similar to his real name?" Mary huffed, giving the trio sent to her hospital room a jaunty smile.

The mousy-haired social worker pushed up her glasses as she gave them a placating smile. "We find young children tend to adapt better when allowed some connection to their genuine selves."

Mary had rolled her eyes, but Neil had merely frowned. He had no idea what she meant by genuine self. Was he supposed to be like creative like Sam? Or logical like Owen? His life had been a mass of contradictions. The only thing he knew for certain was he didn't want to be brutal like Nathaniel.

The only thing he'd consistently been his entire life was scared.

He was fifteen by the time arrests were started to be made in Baltimore.

"You needed two years for that?" Mary spat as she talked to their handler over the phone from their Millport townhouse. "Fucking Moorhouse and Redler?

Neil dutifully filled out his homework as he sat sprawled out in the living room with the patio door open so he could smell his mother's cigarettes as she badgered tonight's lucky caller.

"I would have thought that you'd have something more to show for yourselves. Truly the incompetence is astounding."

Neil smirked as Mary's natural brogue colored her words. She could speak half a dozen languages with the precision of a local but rile her up enough and anyone would be able to tell she’d spent her childhood running wild in Manchester.

Neil pressed his pencil hard into the paper as he underlined yet another one of the rules for pickleball. Sure he couldn't even run around the neighborhood anytime soon, let alone play a game he's actually interested in, but the epitome of his online gym education truly was learning rules and regulations for sports he wasn't even sure were real.

"I'm allowed to lie on this one right?" He sarcastically asked his caseworker as he laid out the exercise tracker worksheet. "Like I'm not about to put myself in federal custody for claiming I have access to an Exy court? Since you guys said I had to be totally honest and everything"

She had rolled his eyes at him, but she didn't ask about Mary's late night phone calls to Uncle Stuart, so Neil took it for the win it was.

In another world, he was nineteen when his father’s people found them. Instead, he was fifteen. Fifteen with a limited skill-set since there are things that can be taught on the run that can’t be taught in a small flat under government surveillance.

The only bright side was that in this world, there was no car. He was not crammed in a trunk with Lola tool close, practically grinding on top of him as she reminded him how much he looked like his father. It’s a small victory.

Instead there’s screaming and knives and he had to watch. He had to watch with his heart in his throat as Romero showed no mercy. Watch as his mother died, watch until he can’t recognize her corpse anymore.

They took enjoyment in this. Lola’s practically laughed as he slammed into the wall, as she dragged her knife down his chest.

Neil spit in Lola’s face as she poured the gasoline. With his squirming, it only managed to douse half his body, but it was enough to finally wrench the screams from his throat as the flames bit into his flesh.

He was scared. He fought back anyway.

But that really wouldn’t have changed in either world.

The bullets that finally came, that finally bring everything to an end, did not come from his Uncle in revenge.

Instead they are fired by federal officers aiming to main so as not to lose the opportunity to interrogate the criminals that might have enough knowledge to bring all of East Coast’s organized crime to its knees.

The weeks that followed weren’t kind to him. Neil saw the pictures later and he didn’t even recognize his own face.

But for once, the people were kind. Kind enough to give him hope even as the rest of the world collapsed around him.

Somewhere else a scared boy finds his family and himself at nineteen on an Exy court. In this world, Neil Josten is twenty-six and finds them in a hospital. This is that story.

"It really was lucky that we found you with such short notice."

In general, Neil Josten didn't believe in luck. He certainly wouldn't call it luck when Palmetto Public Hospital had posted exactly the type of job he looked for on all the travel nurse job boards. Just desperate sounding enough to cause people to not ask too many questions, while professional enough to not make a big deal of his scars.

Neil took Chief Nurse Danielle Wilds' hand with a carefully constructed smile on his face. "I'm glad I'm able to help. Although I was under the impression, I'd be your replacement."

Wilds let out as a laugh as she seemed to instinctively cradle her baby bump. "My husband, Matt, you'll be working with him too, thinks I'm being ridiculous, wanting to show you around myself, but I'd truly hate for you to get the wrong impression of us."

Neil just barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. Every hospital thought they were so special. Like a family or some shit. Every hospital was wrong.

Procedure might differ slightly, and some places had more people worth avoiding. But in the end, all that mattered was that the nurses showed up, did their job and offered some kindness. Even if he’s no Abby, even if his version of kindness wasn’t so much sympathy as it is experience, kindness was essential.

He can never claim to know exactly what the patients are going through. Even if they showed up with third degree burns down half their body, a punctured lung, a broken arm and some knife wounds, he wouldn’t really know. He’d just know they’d hurt like hell. Even if the injuries were the same, their story would be very different.

No one breaks the same way.

Still the things a broken person can say to another broken person can often carry more weight.

It’s one thing to offer sympathy. It’s another entirely to nod in understanding that your body doesn’t entirely feel like yours anymore, that it might never feel like yours, but you just have to keep going forward.

Over the years, Neil got very good at moving forward.

Neil tossed his running shoes by the door. It took him less than ten minutes for Neil to add his things to the furnished apartment. He'd discovered only two hospitals ago that people ask less questions if his clothes weren't covered in wrinkles from staying packed. So Neil haphazardly moved the folded scrubs onto the cheapest hangers he could find.

3:08 PM I'm all moved in.

The responding string of smiley faces to Neil's message was instantaneous despite the fact it was the middle of the afternoon and Abby was likely still on shift. (Or maybe precisely because she was on shift and had her phone on to stay up to date on patients as opposed to cutting herself off from the rest of the world to try and squeeze out some sleep.)

He didn't feel guilty per say as he closed his phone. Abby knew better to expect much from him.

"Kiddo, I'm going to take what I can get. I understand you aren’t used to having someone in your corner." She said as she bundled him up for college, doing far more than anyone had expected of her.

Well he should have expected it of her. Abby had practically laughed in his case worker's face when Cindy had brought up the different moveout options for when Neil turned 18.

It was a strange thing to have someone, even if he kept her at arm's length.

It's for her own good. The little traitorous voice in his head whispered.

Logically, Neil knew that Abby was already in too deep. Anyone, including any of his father's men seeking retribution could find her by simply looking for his file. He didn't need to maintain a relationship with her in order for Abby to be at risk. She had housed him during the trial. That would be enough for them. There was no need to push her away, to prevent her from actually knowing him.

But he felt a little bad that she knew him well enough to not ask why he had a new number or what his address was. Moving so soon after getting a housewarming package of cookies hadn’t been an overreaction and he stood by that.

When he finally met him, Matt was more of an overexcited puppy than an actual person. He dragged Neil down to the cafeteria every day they shared a break. Matt carried the conversation easily needing only the slightest input from Neil to keep going. He talked about any and everything, from college exploits to TV shows to worries that he wouldn’t be a good dad.

“It’s not like I had the best example, you know?” Matt joked even as his eyes are serious.

Neil nodded, understanding a bit too well. “Still an example. Just an example of one way to fuck up. You’ll be fine.”

He ducked his head as Matt beamed too brightly at him.

Words were a weapon he’s used to, but everything about conversations with Matt felt wrong.

Matt made him feel unbalanced. He offered up genuine parts of himself so easily. Neil wished he had something to give him in return for his easy friendship and trust, but even what was safe to say felt like it belonged to a different person entirely, a person he didn’t want to be anymore.

And what was left after that? The fact he didn’t like books or movies or vegetables. It wasn’t a fair trade. Matt shouldn’t be content to accept the breadcrumbs Neil offers in return for his raw insecurities.

But he was.

And that made Neil want to try. Try to force himself into a person Matt deserved, someone real.

Creating that person was fucking exhausting.

After two weeks, he had more than enough. Neil had a bag lunch and a mission.

Neil slipped into the stairwell without anyone spotting him and headed up. He might be able get onto the roof. But he would settle for just one of the upper floors. As long as there was no well-meaning coworker attempting to engage him in the break room or bring him down to the cafeteria, Neil would consider it a win.

The door marked “Roof Access – Maintenance Staff Only" looked like it should be locked. But a few jiggles of the handle had it opening easily enough.

The roof wasn't empty like he expected. Instead there's a figure sitting cross-legged near the front edge of the roof. Even from here, Neil could tell the man is short. Small but not delicate. Probably a former athlete from the width of his shoulders, the bulk visible even through the loose black scrubs. His short blonde hair is slightly windswept, enough so that he can see the man’s black earrings.

Neil tried to place him. He is not the best with names. He didn't see the point of attempting to remember when he’d be gone soon. But Dan had wanted to introduce him to everyone, saying something about them not being a whole bunch of "do-nothings" and it would do him some good to know the typical inhabitants of the burn ward.

Allison had taken that a step farther. Probably because she wanted gossip and hearing vague descriptions wasn't very helpful to her.

Neil stared for a second, cataloguing the man from behind, before it clicked.

Andrew Minyard, Physical Therapist.

”Monster Minyard” Allison said as she brought him around with her one day, telling him everything he should know about his new coworkers. “Bites worse than his bark. If he wasn’t so good with hopeless cases or getting rid of particularly overbearing visitors, I wouldn’t even know why we kept him around.”

The little Neil’s seen already was more than enough to know Andrew’s good.

The only way the nickname seemed to fit at all was that the man was intimidating when he wanted to be, that he could turn himself into a threat with ease. Neil had seen him practically threaten a relative with a scalpel to the chest before turning on the dime and gently helping the patient bend the joints covered with skin grafts.

But the most remarkable thing was how Andrew always let his patients set the pace.

There were sections of his own skin where Neil had lost sensation. There were days when they'd ache or itch, but he couldn't feel much beyond heat. He'd nearly decked the first doctor who touched his arm without warning him. Neil hadn't even realized he was there until the hand moved to a less ravaged spot. Everything about it had made him feel unsteady. He couldn't rely on his body to stand guard for him anymore.

But Minyard never let his patients be surprised. He narrated everything he did before he did it. Nothing was a surprise. They could say no if they didn't feel ready or if something hurt particularly bad that day. He was flexible with the patients in a way he never was with the staff.

Neil hadn't actually heard Minyard utter a word that wasn't directly related to their jobs. He moved silently through the halls, meeting attempts to socialize with deep scowls.

Maybe he'd be better off scouting out somewhere else. There was no rule that Minyard owned the roof. But Neil was also used to spotting dangerous people and everything about Minyard screamed trouble.

“What are you doing up here?”

Neil hadn’t realized Andrew had even known he was up here yet. He didn’t bother turning when Neil forced the door open.

“Trying to avoid company.” Neil moved across the room until he sat next to Andrew. They’re not quite at the edge, but there’s no guardrail. It’s unnerving.

Andrew gave a soft grunt of acknowledgement, still not looking at him.

“What are you doing on the roof?”

“Used to smoke. Never broke the habit.”

Neil merely nodded as he unwrapped his sandwich.

Andrew tilted his head just slightly to the side. “I thought that you’d be put off by smoking.”

“Is it bad to say I like the smell?”

Andrew’s nose scrunched ever so slightly. "You lie. All the time."

Neil only nodded again at the accusation.

This time it isn’t quite a lie. He did like the smell. It’s not quite the same as the Lucky Strikes his mother would blow through after she thought he was asleep. But it’s close, certainly a lot closer than the smell of burning human flesh.

But it's not like Minyard's wrong either. He did lie all the time. Sometimes it felt like lying came easier than breathing.

The rest of the staff hadn’t seemed as bothered about the lies. They were practically amused by them. Neil had smirked when he passed the break room and overheard them sharing some of the most outrageous ones.

“I heard him say to 402’s kid that he was trying to steal treasure from a palace guarded by lava, and he hadn’t been able to jump far enough on his way out.

“At least that one’s child appropriate, he told 407 that was a victim of secret government trials of new chemical warfare weapons. As if anyone with a brain couldn’t tell those were accelerant flame not pure chemical burns.” Allison added.

No one mentioned “International Jewel Thief tortured for trade secrets.” And Seth didn’t bring up “I dabbled in porn to get through college. Got a bit too into temperature play” even if it had made patient 406 laugh uproariously. It was almost a shame his best lies were unappreciated.

They’d even started a bet on what the real reason could be. It would never be settled since it required asking him directly and none of them would do that. They all liked to pretend to have morals even as they bet on everything under the sun. Besides what sort of example would it set to their patients? The one staff member that actually looked like them and yet they couldn’t even show basic decency with regards to his privacy.

Maybe they have a whole separate bet about who’s finally going to work up the courage. Neil didn’t think any of them had put money on that person being Minyard.

Minyard turned to face Neil for the first time, "Tell me something true."

It wasn’t concern on Minyard's face. The look in his eyes barely qualified as interested, but Neil still wanted to answer him. He didn’t know what to say but he can't dismiss the fact that he wanted to answer. It was easy to admit to himself he doesn't typically want anything.

"I don't see the point of icebreakers."

Minyard tapped his fingers aggressively against the roof. "I'm not asking for party tricks. I'm asking for something true."

Neil wasn't sure he even had something true to offer. What does that mean when he existed as a lie stacked atop another lie? The things he’s already told Matt don’t hold enough substance to be something true.

"I didn't even think about becoming a nurse until after all this." He gestured to himself. He can't call it an accident even if that would make it simpler.

It was no accident where Lola pressed the dashboard lighter into his face, no accident in the way she poured the gasoline. Every one of her actions had been designed to cause him the maximum amount of pain. This wasn’t an accident.

"My roommate forced me into PT. Thought that since it was his new purpose in life, it would be mine too."

"It's not like he was wrong."

"You disgust me Josten."

"I mean you can't be so good at your job without feeling something."

"It's more interesting than other options."

"So you like it then." Neil teased easily.

“Give me one good reason to not push you off the side.”

"Just try. I'd drag you with me. It's a long way down.”

It grew from there. Going to the roof was no longer about avoiding the others by spending time with Minyard, but instead about just talking with Andrew. Eating on the roof together felt easy. The conversation had rules. Answer for answer, truth for truth. There was no awkward imbalance or a desire to be something more for Andrew. They could just talk.

Neil practically collapsed into his spot on the roof with his lunch in hand. He was painfully aware of how he’d gradually crept closer since their first conversation. "Why'd you choose Palmetto?"

"Brother didn't want me in Chicago."

Neil’s head shot up from the banana he was peeling. "You have a brother?"

Andrew glared as if to say it isn't your turn idiot.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "All right I get it. Go on. Ask your question."

"And if I think we should be done for the day?"

Neil shrugged. "I can wait."

And he could. With each day spent on the roof, Neil only craved to know more about Andrew. But he liked what they had and wouldn't dare ruin that with his impatience. The roof felt safe in a way the rest of the hospital didn't.

Andrew grunted. “What's with the orange?"

Neil rolled his eyes. "You gave me a hard time for my question and you're asking that?"

"That wasn't an answer."

"And if I just like orange?"

"You're being ridiculous."

They sat in silence for a while before Neil offered up more.

"College colors. Just never outgrew them I guess. They make me feel..."

Safe wasn't the right word. He practically spent all of college categorizing every exit on campus. Like he was a part of something feels wrong too. He left his apartment for class and an ever-changing cubicle in the library. There wasn't a whole lot to be a part of.

But Andrew nodded anyway like he actually finished the thought instead of trailing off into silence. "Feeling is dangerous."

Andrew's words were simple, but Neil could tell from the way he looked at the edge of the roof that they meant something more. It was a confession and an accusation wrapped all into one.

"So is not feeling. What are you supposed to keep living for if everything is grey and I say that as someone who actually likes grey."

Andrew scoffed, but didn’t say anything more.

Even knowing that Andrew had a mysterious estranged brother couldn’t make Neil break the silence. It wasn’t that he was afraid of pressing too far. Andrew wouldn’t let him. But he knew what it’s like to feel exposed and Andrew had already shared more than usual today.

They sat in comfortable silence until a pager goes off.

Neil wasn’t sure what the others think about the two of them.

The hospital chaplain with her oddly died hair likes to smile at him whenever she came to their floor. He thought she might be friends with Andrew, but he didn’t really care what she thought as long as she stayed out of his way.

Matt complained that he never got to eat with his new buddy anymore, but Neil wasn’t sure the rest of them even noticed.

They must have though, because their friendship was no longer confined to the roof. There were conversations in the hallways, extra food left in the break room that Neil certainly hadn’t brought himself, jokes cracked in the locker room when only Neil could hear. What they had wasn’t something that could be easily hidden away.

It certainly helped that they shared patients. They could walk down the hallway, a patient between them and debate plans for the zombie apocalypse. 402, Luis Hernandez, was a particular good sport about it, even if he was a bit too moral about the end of the world.

Neil did not have soft spots for patients. He was the epitome of professionalism. But he could admit that he liked how he had an excuse to talk to Andrew longer with Hernandez around.

"You don't have to like your scars you know?" Neil said lightly as he perched next to Hernandez’s bed, grabbing more antibiotic for the man's face. "Don't have to hate them either."

Hernandez gave a half-hearted shrug, clearly trying to stay still while gesturing to the brochures in his lap. "Everyone keeps bringing up plastic surgery."

Neil hummed. “They're going to keep doing that. I'm not saying they're an eyesore or even particularly noticeable.” He uncapped a new jar of ointment. “It’s just easier for them if they can pretend it never happened. No scars. No problem.”

“But that doesn’t mean-“

“I’m not saying it would. People are just good at ignoring what isn’t directly in front of them. And if they’re forced to see it, they have to actually acknowledge you’ve been through some shit.”

"It doesn't change what happened."

“They see something wrong, keep trying to find ways to fix things even if you don't particularly think you're broken.”

"And if I want to be fixed?"

"Then that's on you. You're recovering quicker than we expected. I don't see why you wouldn't respond positively to cosmetic treatment." Neil sighed as he laid down the old wrappings "You've just got to be the one to want it. You've gone through too much to want to start living for anyone else now."

He heard a cough behind him and only barely resisted the urge to whip around. Instead he waited until he’d finished smearing the antibiotic across this section of the man’s chest. He turned to see Andrew leaning easily against the doorframe.

“You’re good to take lunch when you’re done here.”

Neil looked upwards and Andrew nodded.

It took very little time for Neil to finish knowing that Andrew would be waiting for him on the roof.

“Did you seriously believe all that shit you were telling Hernandez?”

Neil looked at his lap where his unopened lunch sat. He suddenly wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. “People always look at the scars. Drove me mad with their staring. Hard to be invisible when you’re this fucking distinctive.”

Andrew snorted. “The scars are the least of your problems then.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Neil felt the weight of Andrew’s stare as it slowly scanned up and down his body. He huffed, wanting an actual answer.

“Are you an idiot?”

“Considering you call me that about six times a week, yes?”

Andrew angled his body toward Neil instead of the steep drop of the roof. “People find you attractive.” He shrugged, “I’d blow you.”

The confession was dropped in the middle of the conversation so easily as if it didn’t send Neil’s entire world spinning. He dug his hands into his legs trying to focus himself in any way he could.

“You like me."

"I hate you," Andrew corrected him, but Neil barely heard him, even as the other men left.

Neil got to work slightly ahead of schedule, rolled his eyes slightly at the night nurse giving him the pedantic recap of today's patients, somehow managing to drone on for ten minutes without saying anything of actual value.

Andrew would be in later, he thought absentmindedly as he washed his hands. They might be able to coordinate their breaks if he was lucky. And you might even be able to convince him at gunpoint that lately he was pretty lucky. (Although that might also be because Matt was managing the schedules and his smile was a bit too knowing.)

Still today shouldn’t be too bad. There was only so much on the burn ward he hadn’t seen before and if they had had new patients, they weren’t any of his.

412's patient was a finnicky older woman who only seemed to be living out of pure spite. She'd been in a few days now and Neil's sharp tongue had done little to endear himself to her. So it was truly a matter of his job security to get in and out as quickly as possible. If he had to hear one more complaint about ungrateful grandchildren or idiot politicians, he would snap.

The television was turned up loud in order to reach the women's bed. Despite insisting her hearing was just fine thank you very much, this meant the news could be heard down the hall. Still, Neil had gotten used to putting his head down and doing his own business.

There were enough signs that he should have known. After all, he knew it had to be interesting in order to keep Linda from complaining about the slight pinch as he repositioned her IV.

He should have heard it before he turned around to see his father's face plastered across the screen with the bold red font "Serial Killer Nathan Wesninski found dead in Baltimore Penitentiary." They'd chosen one of the trial photos as opposed to the mugshot. He looked handsome in his expensive suit with the smile he only pulled out at the business parties that left Neil sore for days.

His feet were moving before he fully registered what the headline read.

It was pure instinct to put as much distance as he could between himself and his father as possible even if it was just the picture.

Neil couldn't hear the clatter as he knocked over one of the vases. He was sure Linda was having a conniption, but he couldn’t hear it. He’s not here anymore.

He was thirteen again. And his father wore a much more dangerous grin, the kind that meant no mercy.

Neil's hands were covered in blood as he dragged his mother to the car. Hands digging into her chest as if he could force her to stay with him.

He was eight and his father had crossed the line that was even too much for his mother.

His hands shook as he tried to thread his own needle. He held the needle with his mouth, trying to thread it with one hand and using the other to force the wound together. There was just so much blood and not enough time.

You can't stop running.

He thought he heard someone calling his name. Too close. He’s too close.

You're never safe.

He darted through the closest door. It was a dead end, but it was out of sight.

When you fight back, do so quietly and quickly. You cannot risk attracting another opponent Abram.

He forced himself into the corner. There should be something here, anything really to block the door. But he didn’t see anything, and he heard footsteps. Resounding thuds against the linoleum floor. They were too close.

And if you can’t run. You hide. You hide until I come get you.

There’s space on the lower shelf. It wasn’t very big, but he’s always been small. It should be just big enough. Neil shoved the folded bedsheets and patient gowns out of the way. He would look out of place, easy enough to find if someone cared to look hard enough, but for now he just hugged his knees to his chest.

Everything felt like it’s moving too fast. His heart was pounding so loudly he’s sure it’s about to give him away. His mind wasn’t even forming full thoughts anymore, just racing ahead of him. He squeezed himself even tighter as if he can force out the emotions.

He only vaguely felt his right hand digging into his left arm over the burn scars. He knew he should stop. He hadn’t picked at them in years, tried not to irritate them more than necessary so they didn’t draw attention to him. But it’s not like it mattered now. He’d be dead soon. He should be worrying about if Abby would be able to find the body and how long it’d take the hospital to notify her since after everything she was still his emergency contact.

He should have tried to think his way out of this.

But he couldn’t get his thoughts to stop for a fucking second. Just one second might be enough to find a miracle. But even if Neil Josten had ever deserved a miracle, he’d used up his share. He’d made it to twenty-six. But now, he was going to die.

He knows it won’t be a painless death. There’s only so much a human body could take, a line at which point the mind can’t comprehend the pain anymore. But Nathan Wesninski knew the line and played it like a violin. He’d want to take his time, really make his son feel every inch of his displeasure. There was no way Neil would be able to contain his screams for long enough to satisfy him. His father would risk getting him out of this hospital if it meant he could take his time.

Neil wouldn’t let himself be taken. To lose consciousness now was to accept a long painful death. He would not leave this hospital, not ever again. He would take a quick painful death over a long painful one any day.

But to get a quick death though he needed to be here. And he couldn’t seem to force himself to be. He kept seeing flashes of other moments.

Blood snaking down toward the drain of their concrete basement. Romero’s fingernails digging into his skin as Lola brandished her knife. His father’s grin menacing and horrible.

It spoke to his terror that he didn’t notice when the door opened.

"Hey." The voice is soft, gentle in a way the Butcher of Baltimore was never capable of sounding even when he was playing pretend as a productive member of society.

Still the sound has Neil's head shooting up, just to be sure. Andrew is standing with his back to the door.

"You're Neil Josten. You're in the supply closet at Palmetto Public Hospital. You're safe." The words wrapped around him like a caress.

It felt less like he was drowning.

Neil still couldn’t move, so he just stared. Stared as Andrew moved forward, every step light, his arms raised in front of him to show his empty hands.

Andrew repeated the refrain as he squatted down near Neil's hiding spot in the linens. His hazel eyes stared into Neil's. They're warm like sunlight, like they could cut through the shadow of Neil's soul.

"It’s over. You're safe. Can you breathe with me?"

Neil didn't move. He couldn’t force his tongue to wrap around the words, couldn’t even decide what the words should be.

"We're going to do this together." Andrew shifted from his squat to sitting cross-legged next to him. He's close to the shelving unit, but he wasn’t trying to force Neil out. Andrew exaggerated his own breathing.

He didn’t know how long they sit there before Neil feels his own breathing falling in sync. They're not deep breaths. Just shallow rasps, but he's trying.

Andrew put his hand out in front of him. "Can I touch you?"

He nodded haltingly.

Neil didn’t move away when Andrew gently cupped the side of his face, running a finger over the puckered skin. “You’re not there.” His voice was soft, but it practically echoed in the small closet.

When Neil nodded this time, it feels more natural.

Neil shifted in his position on the lowest shelf. He wiggled his limbs slowly, taking stock of all ten toes and fingers. He's all in one piece. He's fine.

He didn’t know what Andrew sees in his glance, but he's happy when Andrew backs up so he can crawl out of the shelving unit. "Yes or no?"

He hated how broken his voice sounded. His father wasn't even here. His father was dead. He shouldn't sound so lost.

Andrew's stare was penetrating. "To what? I'm not going to kiss you. You're having a mental breakdown Josten."

Neil bit his lip. That hadn't been what he was thinking of at all. He almost wished he had been, because it would have been nice to just lose himself in the sensation, let his body be consumed with raw need for Andrew until there was no room for fear.

"Just touching you. Leaning on you."

Neil knew Andrew didn't like being touched. It felt wrong to want to envelop himself in Andrew, to even ask knowing that, but he's desperate.

"It's a yes," Andrew said as he settled down again legs extended in front of him.

Neil curled easily against his side, Neil's head resting in the crook of his neck. It's nice to sit there just listening to Andrew breathing, knowing that there will never be a future where Nathan Wesninski will get his hands on this bright spot in his son's world.

"I should be happier."

"Bullshit. There is no should."

"He's dead. He's finally dead. That has to mean something."

Andrew adjusted himself to free one of his hands. He threaded it easily through Neil's hair. "Maybe someday it will. When was the last time you thought about him before today?"

Neil wanted to snap back that he'd never stopped thinking about his father, that every decision he made was just one in a long way of keeping himself safe from Nathan Wesninski and his subordinates. But he couldn't. For the last month or so, Palmetto had felt safe.

He'd spent nights marathoning movies in Andrew's apartment and stolen moments on the roof. He treasured Matt's laughter and the yell of joy at grocery deliveries that was quickly hushed because babies are fickle things that never stop crying. He even thought of Allison trying to convince him to let her take him shoe shopping.

Slowly Neil had built something, something untouched by his father. And then his gloating face had come crashing into it, ruining something even in death.

Andrew took his silence as a sign that he was right. “They come where they aren’t wanted. Doesn’t mean they get to stay.

Neil hummed and leaned more of his weight onto Andrew.

“Do you have any other clothes?”

Neil looked up at him confused.

“You’re not staying here,” Andrew said as if talking to a small child.

Neil pushed himself into a standing position, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet to try to give credence to his protests. “I’m fine. I’ve got a whole shift ahead of me.”

Andrew glared. “I’m taking care of that.”

Neil wanted to call bullshit, but he didn’t.

He let himself be manhandled into the locker room where Andrew tossed him some clothes. The black sweats are too short, but the sweatshirt hung comfortably off him. The grey material smelt like Andrew, so he hugged it tighter to himself as he waited for him to get back.

He didn’t jump when Andrew wrapped an arm around him and directed him toward the parking lot.

Maybe he was just done feeling, because he couldn’t even find it in himself to be surprised by the GS Andrew pushed him into. It was much nicer than anything a PT should be able to afford.

They drove in silence. At first, Neil stared out the window letting the surroundings blur as they got on the highway. Eventually though he shifted to stare at Andrew. Neil wasn't sure how long it had been when Andrew finally pulled off the highway into a dingy gas station. The sun had set at some point, but that wasn't much of a clue. Neil didn't even bother to check the clock when Andrew turned the car back on with his hands full of junk food.

"Do you want to go back to your apartment?" Andrew asked as he viciously bit into the twinkie.

"No." The answer was instantaneous even if Neil didn't know why. He should want to go curl up in the far corners of his bed with the door locked and the world unable to touch him. But the thought of leaving this moment, leaving Andrew felt like too much.

He didn't know when Andrew turned into a safe place. Neil was used to standing on his own, but now it felt like he didn't have to. It wasn't just today. Andrew had been there today, but the trust had been building gradually until Neil realized it felt like Andrew could protect him from the world.

"Kevin's going to ask questions."

Neil barely stifled his groan. While he'd only met the man a handful of times, Andrew's roommate was a common topic of conversation on the roof.

"Why do you even live with him if you hate him so much?" Neil asked.

"Don't ask stupid questions." Andrew said his eyes still focused on the road.

Because he's one of yours. Neil thought to himself.

Kevin was Andrew's in a way Neil could never be. Kevin was the person who stayed even after he fulfilled his end of a deal in college. Andrew may complain about his constant nagging, his hypocrisy when it came to Andrew's sweet tooth, his attempts to get Andrew to join his countless intermural sports teams. But at the end of the day, even when Aaron rejected him, Kevin stayed. And for that Andrew would never let him go.

Still the thought of dealing with Kevin’s seemingly endless energy felt like too much right now.

"The hospital's fine. I can get home from there."

Andrew gave him a disparaging look. "Now is not the time Rabbit. Give me the address."

"I'm surprised you don’t already have it. The lock on staff records too hard to break?"

Andrew snorted as he changed lanes.

He still felt rubbed raw from the way he'd broken so easily even if it had been nearly six years since he'd been near his father at all. So he knew Andrew was right, he couldn’t handle other people. He gave his address even as Andrew smirked.

After leaving the safety of the car, he'd ran about eight miles on the treadmill that had certainly seen better days. Typically he'd prefer to run outside and let the breeze carry his worries away from him. But the thought of people made him want to shrink. He'd take the cheap gym with locker rooms that smelt vaguely of mold if it meant he could avoid interactions with all but two people.

He ran to the hospital the rest of the week too. It wasn't worth trying to navigate the subway when he'd be looking over his shoulder the entire way.

Neil wasn't being paranoid. His father was dead. So were Romero and Jackson. Lola and the majority of the minions he'd met were in prison. But there had to be some he hadn't met. People the FBI hadn't even thought to warn him about. He hadn't expected to live this long and if he had to keep one eye over his shoulder, his duffel bag always packed and a new city every few months to keep living he'd do it.

But for now, he had time. He could make the most of his time at Palmetto.

He knew now that Andrew wanted him, and even though he’d never given the thought of kissing much thought before. He was suddenly desperate for Andrew’s lips on his. Andrew made him feel like he didn’t have an expiration date, like the future didn’t actually matter. For someone always thinking three steps ahead, that felt entirely new. But he thought he could get used to it.

Neil had just finished helping Hernandez check out when Dan walked back onto the unit for the first time.

He did a double take at first. He still had three weeks left on his contract and being reminded of just how little time he had left made him grit his teeth.

Typically he’d already have his next location lined up, but Neil hadn’t even sent in his application yet.

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew prolonging the inevitable wasn’t a good idea. Pretending he could stay long enough to memorize the feel of Andrew’s hands on his scars and their mouths pressed together desperately would do him no favors. Neil knew when he started that anything they started had a clear expiration date.

But seeing Dan with her little yellow bundle made him realize how close that date actually was.

Luckily Neil was spared from giving Dan more than a cursory nod due to Allison practically sprinting down the hallway to the front desk.

Allison’s smile was dazzling as she gestured toward the baby. “I’m so glad to see you. Now give me my niece.”

Dan merely rolled her eyes. She looked more tired than the last time Neil had seen her, but also happier. The dark bags under her eyes were matched by a brilliant smile.

When she hesitated to hand her newborn over, Allison put her hands on her hips. "You're in a hospital Dan. It's not like we don't know how to take care of her"

"And when was the last time you did an OBGYN rotation?"

Allison flipped her blond ponytail dramatically. "I'll have you know I could do it any day. I just like you too much to be reassigned."

"And you'd be a bitch to replace. Here." Dan smirked even as she handed over the baby.

"Oh She's absolutely precious, Auntie Allie's going to absolutely spoil you. Yes she is" Allison cooed as she held the newborn.

Dan watched her with a smile. "Randy's a lifesaver, but I'm not about to say no to more babysitters."

"Wait until she's older. I’ve got enough diapers to change as is.”

Dan snorts.

"So when are you back officially then? I need my bestie back."

"I'm still working out the details."

Allison snorted.

Neil busied himself with sorting through the pain medication records for 409, pretending to ignore the weight of Dan's stare.

But Allison had no intention of ignoring it. "You mean we get to keep him?"

"Honestly Al, he's not a stray cat."

"So?"

"And I haven't asked him yet, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't scare him away in the meantime."

"Of Course Dan. I wouldn't dare." Allison smiled again at the baby before announcing that clearly Auntie Allie was the only one who could give a proper tour and that maybe "We'll even find daddy in time for him to change your diaper."

Dan rolled her eyes but wasted none of her newfound baby-free time in waiting to approach Neil.

"I'm so glad I was able to catch you. I've heard nothing but good things about you since you started."

Neil glanced up from the paperwork, but kept his fingers wrapped tightly around the clipboard. "Most of them from your husband I assume."

Dan laughed good naturally. "You’d certainly think so. I swear if I hadn't already cemented myself as his favorite person, I'd be worried."

Neil grimaced.

"But it isn't just him." Dan stepped closer. "How are you enjoying Palmetto Public Neil?"

"It's fine."

Despite his lackluster answer, she seemed undeterred. "I'm glad to hear it, because we've been so happy to have you here. And since we're always short-staffed, I was able to get the board to approve your transition to a full-time position if you want it."

Neil swallowed, a pit already forming in his stomach. "That's-"

"You don't have to give me an answer now. I was just stopping in today and wanted to let you know as soon as possible so you could get your affairs in order."

She smiled so eagerly at him. He almost felt guilty when he said, "No. I'm grateful for the offer and all, but I can't stay."

"Oh." Dan's voice was so small. She looked absolutely heartbroken.

He grimaced again.

"Well, if you change your mind, just know you're always welcome here."

Neil forced himself to turn back to the paperwork to give her a chance to slink away. He wasn't actually reading, probably couldn't even if he tried.

They wanted him to stay.

And that very fact made him want to run until he couldn’t move anymore.

Neil at least stopped himself from running out of the hospital. He went to the roof, where things had always been just a little bit clearer. Maybe if he could just think, he could make his heart stop pounding.

"Why are you being such an idiot?" Andrew's voice was angrier than he'd ever heard him as he slams the door open. "I can't believe you."

"What's there to believe?"

Andrew stalked across the room toward him. Neil knew what angry men could do, but he wasn't afraid not even as Andrew practically spit in his face. "That you're just going to run off again like a fucking rabbit."

"It's better for everyone." His voice sounded empty even to his own ears.

Andrew dug his hand into Neil's shoulder. "Don't give me that shit."

Neil looked at him blankly.

"He's dead."

"So?"

"So stop running."

"I don't know how." The words were small, but he felt the truth in every ounce of his body. He's never had somewhere worth staying or anyone worth staying for.

Abby had tried, tried so much harder than anyone else. But it wasn't the same. He couldn't stop feeling like the scarred boy who'd come into her care determined not to need anyone. And she was all too willing to watch him walk away. He didn't need to stay anywhere to be worth something.

He couldn't explain why this time was different. Why he ached at the thought of never listening to Allison tease him. Why never talking to Matt again made him want to curl in on himself. He certainly couldn't explain why the thought of not being able to laugh with Andrew, not being able to see him every day physically pained him. He needed Andrew in a way he hadn't needed anyone since his mother died.

Neil was desperate for him to understand. "Tell me to stay. You have to tell me to stay."

"Why should I? Nothing will come of it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Neil wanted to scream. Scream that maybe if Andrew just asked he'd be able to. He'd be able to force down all the impulses telling him to run, just like he was able to stop himself from running out of the hospital entirely at Dan's offer. Instead he ran to the roof, where it was safe, where Andrew made it safe.

Andrew pushed him away and Neil already felt himself stepping forward unconsciously, trying to close the distance between them.

"It means I'm self-destructive, not stupid. I'm not going to ask when you clearly don't want to. I won't make you."

I'd never make you.

Andrew didn’t say that, but Neil heard it anyway. Because Andrew never pushed when it came to consent, to wanting this thing between them.

It's why he's so desperate for Andrew to understand now.

"It's always been 'go. It's always been 'lie' and 'hide' and 'disappear'." Neil gestured wildly as if trying to grab the words from thin air. "I've never belonged anywhere or had the right to call anything my own. You can't expect me to just know how to-”

Neil trailed off when he saw Andrew's face. It was stony even to his impassioned plea.

He didn't know how he could fix this. He felt like he was hanging on by a fraying thread as it was. "I'm so tired of being nothing."

"Then stop making yourself be nothing. Let yourself have this."

Neil felt himself floundering even more. "It's not that simple."

Andrew huffed and turned away from him. "I don't have time for rabbits or idiots."

He let the door slam as he left.

Getting through the rest of the day was a blur. Neil just kept thinking about Andrew walking away from him and the rooftop door echoing too loudly as it closed. His apartment was no better.

There was nothing in the little apartment that Neil was renting that looked remarkably like home. He was used to packing his life up in to the grey duffel bag every few months. Nothing he bought couldn’t be replaced at any big box store.

It never really bothered him before.

That wasn’t to say he hadn’t noticed how other people’s spaces seemed to fit them. But he had spent so long trying to blend in that he wasn’t even sure what he could add to make the space feel more like him.

He didn’t have the college pictures to string along his wall like Dan and Matt. He didn’t even have the dime-a-dozen motivational posters that Kevin seemed to favor the few times he’d been to the apartment he shared with Andrew. He certainly didn’t have the wall of books that Andrew kept in his own room.

Up until recently he wouldn’t have cared.

But for the first time in his life, Neil was starting to feel like a real person. A real person was supposed to have something that other people could remember them by, to identify them with. Neil had his job and the scars on his face.

And Andrew. Andrew who didn’t seem to care about either.

If anything Andrew scoffed at the desperation he brought to his job when they both know that you couldn’t save everyone, and that most of the time you couldn’t save the people who deserved it either.

But Neil could see the way he cared even if he didn’t make it his entire personality or guiding force. His chart notes were too detailed. His frown all the deeper when things went wrong. He was too good at his job to not care at least a little bit. And there was no one at Palmetto that could deny that Andrew was brilliant at his job.

While others could look at Neil and see nothing but his injuries, there was a way that Andrew looked at him, his eyes pooling like honey that made Neil feel like Andrew was seeing everything but his scars.

Somehow he even looked happy with what he found.

It made him want to stay, to take that little feeling and nurture it until Neil could see something in himself too. Something worth being happy about.

He sent out three texts one right after the other.

The first was to Andrew. “I’m not an idiot or a rabbit.”

It was simple, but it said everything. Neil wasn’t running from this, wasn’t running from Andrew. Tomorrow they could talk, but for now it had to be enough.

“Can I really stay?”

It was less professional than it should be, considering Dan would be his supervisor if everything worked out. But he didn’t have another way to ask. It felt like pulling teeth to even write those four words.

Neil shouldn’t have turned her down so quickly this afternoon. He should have let himself realize how much he wanted this, realize how forcing himself to move again felt like he was leaving a part of himself behind that he didn’t even know he had before.

But he needn’t have worried. Dan’s reply was practically instantaneous. “Of Course!!!! I’ll make sure to go over all the paperwork tomorrow.”

The last message was one he should have sent twelve weeks ago. It was only his address. But Abby would know what it meant. She always did.

#rbb 2021 #aftg #aftg fic #neil josten #andrew minyard #andreil #andreil fic #hospital au #so many potential triggers so please read bolded list #blood #burns #torture #panic attacks #are the big ones

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nouveauweird · 4 years ago

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A Short Essay on Metaphor by Ocean Vuong

The following is a transcription of the instagram stories shared by Ocean Vuong on the subject of metaphor, which I found quite moving, and hope others can take something valuable from it as well. You can find the originals on his instagram highlights.

Each paragraph below is transcribed from one instagram story slide.

[ The first part is Vuong’s answer to the initial question that sparked the discussion, he went on to elaborate some more, but in his longer discussion several days later he reused some of the same examples so I will only be featuring the longer, 25 slide, “mini essay”. ]

QUESTION: How do you make sure your metaphors have real depth?

VUONG: metaphors should have two things: sensory (visual, texture, sound, etc) connector between origin image and the transforming image as well as a clear logical connector between images if you only have one of either, best to forego the metaphor. otherwise it will seem forced or read like “writing” if that makes sense.

[ elaborated discussion ]

I’ve gotten so many responses from folks the the past few days asking for a deeper dive into my personal theory on metaphor. So I’m taking a moment here to do a more in-depth mini essay since my answer the Q/A the other day was off the cuff (I was typing while walking to my hair cut appointment). What I’m proposing, of course, is merely a THEORY, not a gospel, so please take whatever is useful to you and ignore what isn’t. ...

Before I begin I want to encourage everyone to forge your own theories and praxis for your work, especially if you’re a BIPOC artist. Often we are perceived by established powers as merely “performers” suitable for a (brief) stint on stage-- but not thinkers and creators with our own autonomy, intelligence, and capacity to question the framework in our fields.

It is not lost on me as a yellow body in America, with the false connotations therein, where I’m often seen as diminutive, quiet, accommodating, agreeable, submissive, that I am not expected to think against the grain, to have my own theories on how I practice my art and my life. I became a writer knowing I am entering a field (fine arts) where there are few faces like my own (and with many missing), a field where we are expected to succeed only when we pick up a violin or a cello in order to serve Euro-Centric “masterpieces”. For so long, to be an Asian American “prodigy” in art was to be a fine-tuned instrument for Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven.

It is no surprise, then, that if you, as a BIPOC artist, dare to come up with your own ideas, to say “no” to what they shove/have been shoving down your throat for so long, you will be infantilized, seen as foolish, moronic, stupid, disobedient, uneducated and untamed. Because it means the instrument that was once in service of their “work” has now begun to speak, has decided, despite being inconceivable to them, to sing its own songs. I want you, I need you, to sing with me. I want to hear what you sound like when it’s just us, and you sound so much like yourself that I recognize you even in the darkest rooms, even when I recognize nothing else. And I know your name is “little brother” or “big sister” or “light beam,” or “my-echo-returned-to-me-intact.” And I smile. In the dark I smile.

Art has no rules-- yes-- but it does have methods, which vary for each individual. the following are some of my own methods and how I came to them. I’m very happy y’all are so into figurative language! It’s my favorite literary device because it reveals a second IDEA behind an object or abstraction via comparison. When done well, it creates what I call the “DNA of seeing.” That is, a strong metaphor “Greek for “to carry over”) can enact the autobiography of sight. For example, what does it say about a person who sees the stars in the night sky-- as exit wounds? What does it say about their history, their worldview, their relationship to beauty and violence? All this can be garnered in the metaphor itself-- without context-- when the comparative elements have strong multifaceted bonds. How we see the world reveals who we are. And metaphors explicate that sight.

My personal feeling is that the strongest metaphors do not require context for clarity. However, this does not mean that weaker metaphors that DO require context are useless or wrong. Weak metaphors use context to achieve CLARITY. Strong metaphors use context to SUPPORT what’s already clear. BOTH are viable in ANY literary text. But for the sake of this deeper exploration into metaphors and their gradients, I will attempt to identify the latter.

I feel it is important for a writer to understand the STRENGTS of the devices they use, even when WEAKER versions of said devices can achieve the same goal via different means. Sometimes we want a life raft, sometimes we want a steam boat-- but we should know which is which (for us). My focus then, will be specifically the ornamental or overt metaphor. That is, metaphors that occur inside the line-- as opposed to conceptual, thematic, extended metaphors, or Homeric simile (which is a whole different animal).

My thinking here begins with the (debated) theory that similes reside under metaphors. That is, (non-Homeric) similes, behave cognitively, like metaphors. This DOES NOT mean that similes do not matter (far from it), as we’ll see later on, but that the compared elements, once read, begin to merge in the mind, resulting in a metaphoric OCCURENCE via a simileac vehicle.

This thinking is not entirely my own, but one informed by my interest in Phenomenology. Founded by Edmund Husserl in the early 20th century and later expanded by Heidegger, Phenomenology is, in short, interested in how objects or phenomena are perceived in the mind, which renewed interest in subjectivity across Europe, as opposed to the Enlightenment’s quest for ultimate, finite truths. By the time Husserl “discovered” this, however, Tibetan Buddhists scholars have already been practicing Phenomenology as something called Lojong, or “mind training”, for over half a millennia.

Whereas Husserl believes, in part, that a finite truth does exist but that the myopic nature of human perception hinders us from seeing all of it, Tibetan Lojong purports that no finite “truth” exists at all. In Lojong, the world and its objects are pure perception. That is, a fly looks at a tree and sees, due to its compound eyes, hundreds of trees, while we see only one. For Buddhists, neither fly nor human is “correct” because a fixed truth is not present. Reality is only real according to one’s bodily medium.

I’m keenly interested in Lojong’s approach because it inheritably advocates for an anti-colonial gaze of the world. If objects in the real are not tenable, there is no reason they should be captured, conquered or pillaged. In other words, we are in a “simulation” and because there is no true gain in acquiring something that is only an illusion, it is better to observe and learn from phenomena as guests passing through this world with respect to things-- rather than to possess them.

The reason I bring this up is because Buddhist philosophy is the main influence of 8th century Chinese and 15th-17th century Japanese poetics, which fundamentally inform my understanding of metaphor. While I appreciate Aristotle’s take on metaphor and rhetoric in his Poetics, particularly his thesis that strong metaphors move from species to genus, it is not a robust influence on my thinking. After all, like sex and water, metaphors have been enjoyed by humans across the world long before Aristotle-- and evidently long after. In fact, Buddhist teachings, which widely employ metaphor and analogy, predates Aristotle by roughly 150 years.

Now, to better see how Buddhist Phenomenology informs the transformation of images into metaphor, let’s look at this poem by Moritake. “The fallen blossom flies back to its branch. No, a butterfly.” When considering (western-dominated) discourse surrounding analogues using “like” or “is”, is this image a metaphor or a simile? It is technically neither. The construction of this poem does not employ metaphor or simile. And yet, to my eye, a metaphor, although not present, does indeed HAPPEN.

What’s more, the poem, which is essentially a single metaphor, is complete. No further context is needed for its clarity. If context is needed for a metaphor, then the metaphor is (IMO) weak-- but that doesn’t mean the writing, as a whole, is bad. Weak metaphors and good context bring us home safe and sound. Okay, so what is happening here? By the time I read “butterfly,” my mind corrects the blossom so that the latter image retroactively changes/informs the former. We see the blossom float up, then re-see it as a butterfly. The metaphoric figuration is complete with or without “like” or “is”.

Buddhism explains this by saying that, although a text IS thought, it does not THINK. We, the readers, must think upon it. The text, then, only curates thinking. Words, in this way, begin on the page but LIVE in the mind which, due to limited and subjective scope of human perception, shift seemingly fixed elements into something entirely new. The key here is proximity. Similes provide buffers to mediate impact between two elements, but they do not rule over how images coincide upon reading. One the page, text is fossil; in the mind, text is life.

Nearly 5000 years after Maritake, Ezra Pound, via Fenolosa, reads Maritake’s poem and writes what becomes the seminal poem on Imagism in 1912, which was subsequently highly influential to early Modernists: “The apparition of these faces in the crowd: Petals on a wet, black bough.” Like Maritake, Pound’s poem technically has no metaphor or simile. However, he adds the vital colon after “crowd,” which arguably works as an “equal sign”, thereby implying metaphor. But the reason why he did not use “are” or “is” is telling.

Pound understood, like Maritake, that the metaphor would occur in the mind, regardless of connecting verbiage due to the images’ close proximity. We would come to know this as “association”. Even if the colon was replaced by the word “like,” the transformation, though a bit slower, would still occur. In fact, when I first studied Pound years ago, I had trouble recalling whether this poem was fashioned as a simile or not-- mainly because the faces change to fully into blossoms each time I try to recall the poem.

Now let’s look at a simile that, to me, metaphorizes in the same way as the examples above, in [a] line ... from Eduardo C. Corral: “Jade moss on the tree intensifies, like applause.” The origin/tenor image (moss) is connected to the transforming element (applause). This metaphor suggests, not an optical relationship, but a BEHAVIORAL one. Both moss and applause are MASSES that accumulate via singularities: grains of moss and pairs of hands clapping to form a larger whole.

By comparing these two, Corral successfully suggests that moss grows at the RATE of applause, creating a masterful time lapse effect. Applause speeds up the moss growth, connoting rejuvenation, joy and refreshment. That something as mundane as moss deserves, even earns, jubilance, also offers a potent statement of alterity, that the smallest flourishing deserves celebration, which in turn suggests a subtle yet powerful political critique of hegemony. The poet, through the metaphor, has recalibrated the traditional modes of value placed on the object (moss). And no other context is needed for that.

You might disagree, but when I read Corral’s line, I don’t SEE an audience clapping BESIDE the moss. I see moss growing quickly to the sound of clapping. Although the simile is employed, the fusion of both elements completes the action in my mind’s eye. Like Maritake and Pound, metaphor has OCCURRED here-- but without “metaphor”. HOWEVER, the simile is still VITAL. Why?

Because the transforming element is abstract (applause) and looks nothing like moss. We don’t want moss to BE applause, we want the nature of applause to inform, imbue, moss. The line, I feel, would be quite poor if it was formed sans simile: “Jade moss is applause on the tree.” The “is” forces transposition, which is here akin to slamming two things together without mediation. We also lose the comparison of behavior, and are asked to see that moss BECOME applause, which doesn’t have the same meaning as the original. So, although the simile fuses into metaphor (via association) in the mind, such a metaphor would NOT have been possible without the simile. Similes matter greatly-- as tools towards metaphor. Why? Because (thank god) our minds are free to roam.

To summarize, one of the central strategies (and, to an extent, purposes) of the Japanese Haiku is to juxtapose two elements to test their synergy. This impulse is grounded in Shinto and Buddhist concepts of impermanence and structural malleability. That is, all things, even ideas and images, are subject to constant change-- and such change is the most pervasive nature of perception.

The Haiku then becomes the perfect medium to test such changes. This principle is of central importance to me because it is rooted in non-dualistic (or non-binary) thinking. The poem becomes the theatre in which fixed elements can be transformed, their borders subject to being dissolved, shifting towards something entirely new-- to “create”, which is the Greek root to the word “poet”. The metaphor, then, is more like a chemical, whose elements (like hydrogen and oxygen), placed side by side, becomes water. In this way, Buddhism’s influence on my work and, specifically, my use and understanding of metaphor, is a foundational QUEER praxis for alterity.

The reason why I emphasize the malleability of simile’s impact is that, although syntax and diction can aide a metaphor towards its more luminous embodiment, the ultimate key to its success is you, the observer. YOU have look deeply and find lasting relationships between things in a disparate world. In this sense, the practice of metaphor is also, I believe, the practice of compassion. How do I study a thing so that I might add to its life by introducing it to something else? At its best, the metaphor is what we, as a species, have always done, at OUR best: which is to point at something or someone so different from us, so far from our own origins and say, “Yes, there IS a bond between us. And if I work long enough, hard enough, I can prove it to you-- with this thing called language, this thing that weighs nothing but means everything to me.”

In the end, it is less about how you set up your metaphors (you will eventually find a way that suits it and you) but more about how you recognize your world. THAT is not easy to teach-- it comes with patient practice, with a committed wonder for a world that at times might be too painful to look at. But you must and you should. Good metaphors, in the end, come from writers who are committed to looking beyond what is already there, towards another possibility. This calls that you see your life and your work as inexhaustible sites of discovery, and that you tend to them with care. That’s it. That’s the true secret to a strong metaphor: care.

Lastly, I want to recommend the work of BIPOC poet and theorist, Thylias Moss, who discovered the Limited Fork Theory, a theory which suggests that the mind engages with the world, and especially with ideas, including text and art, the way the tines of a fork engage with a plate of food. That is, only so much can be held on the work/mind with each attempt to consume, and that no “work” can be possessed in its entirety, which I find happily congruent with Lojong. What a wonderful anti-imperialist and forgiving way to engage with our planet and its phenomena. Thank you, Mrs. Moss!

And thank YOU for sticking around through my little seminar. I hope this has been helpful. Again, this is just my 2(5) cents! Now I’m going to sleep for four days. In the meantime, me-ta-phors be with you. [concludes with a pixel gif of Obiwan Kenobi with a blue light saber]

#writeblr #poetry #writing community #metaphor #amwriting #ocean vuong #my posts.#long post.#( i thought his quote of 'like applause' said applesauce )

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babedur · 4 years ago

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Well, between "ADA gets a human body for some reason," "Maisie's mom time travels to the future somehow," and "Alex Hawthorne just shows up one day on the Unreliable," the last one won the fight for my brain today.

We’ll see who wins tomorrow.

Alex only hit the button because it was his only option, and braced himself. The scientists outside were yelling- at him, at each other, at the guards. The guards were yelling at him, too, and the scientists, and probably at each other, too, just to cap it off, except it was getting harder to hear over the whir of the machine he’d trapped himself inside.

If he lived, this was the last scientist job he was taking. No more scientists and corporate espionage. Smuggling and scavenging exclusively. Though he was certain to break this promise to himself, because, first of all, espionage tended to pay, and second of all, it was actually getting kind of difficult to hear himself, and everything was starting to tingle, and the tingling turned into needling, then piercing, and-

and he was in the dark, someplace a little cold and smelling a little bit like socks and the leftovers of a meal that involved hot saltuna, with a fine undercurrent of recycled ship air.

Alex patted himself down. All his fingers seemed to be in order and he could only assume the same for his toes. It was an odd feeling, going from extreme pain to extreme… neutralness, in an instant. He had the feeling it would be coming back at any moment to hit him like a ton of bricks. Or maybe a ton of bullets. Where the hell was he?

The lights flicked on. He had a moment of relief- the Unreliable’s galley, what were the odds- before ADA’s voice rang through the entire ship: “ALERT! INTRUDER in the GALLEY. I repeat, INTRUDER in the-“

“ADA,” Alex hissed. “It’s me! Not sure how, if I’m being honest, but-“

One of the closed doors in the unused crews quarters slid open. A guy with sleep-tousled curly hair, one sock, and a blade slid out into the hallway.

“What the fuck,” Alex said, lifting his pistol. “ADA, who the hell did you let onto my ship?”

“Hey!” the guy- the kid, really- barked. “How did you get onto our ship!”

“‘Our?’” Alex repeated. “This is the Unreliable. My ship, thank you.”

“I don’t understand,” ADA said, sounding lost. “I don’t- I don’t understand.”

Another door slid open. A short-haired woman aimed a bolter pistol right at his chest. “ADA,” she said, sounding half-asleep for all that her pistol hand didn’t waver as he switched his aim to her. “You falling asleep at the wheel? How the hell did we get two days away from Scylla and no one noticed we had a stowaway?”

“I don’t think that’s what happened,” ADA said.

“Damn right,” Alex muttered, and a third and fourth door opened- just how many people were here? Last time the Unreliable had had more than one person, it had just been him and Lucky, and even that had been too many people. ADA had complained for weeks about the intrusion. As it was, he was now being held at gunpoint in his own galley by four different strangers in various stages of asleep and unclothed, and most of them looked like they meant business.

“Drop the gun,” the woman with pink hair who apparently slept with a fucking axe said. She tried to circle around behind him.

“Since you asked so nicely, I’ll consider it,” Alex said, backing up to keep her in his sights. It wouldn’t last forever.

The redhead cocked her bolter and lowered her aim to his legs. “Don’t worry,” she said cheerfully, “I’m pretty sure I can patch up most of what we’ll do to you if that gun doesn’t hit the gun right now.”

Alex compromised. He put the gun on the table. The woman with pink hair immediately circled the table completely and started frisking him, finding his backup pistol and belt knife, then his boot knife. “Buy me dinner, first.”

“Is the captain awake?” A young woman with a big hammer asked.

ADA hesitated for a full two seconds. That was a long damn time, for an astrogator with ADA’s processing power. “Maisie is coming. Please standby.”

Okay. Okay. Current theory: ADA had been hacked while he was gone.

“ADA,” Alex said quietly, even as the redhead raised her gun in warning. “Do you recognize me?”

“Of course I do,” ADA said, her voice completely flat. “You’re Alex Hawthorne. But I don’t- I don’t understand. You’re dead.”

“Obviously not,” the woman with pink hair said. “You sure it’s him, ADA? You haven’t been hacked, somehow?”

“That’s my line,” Alex snapped. “Why else would ADA let anyone else onto my ship?”

Two more people- that made six, now- approached. He knew, with a sinking feeling of dread and violation, that they’d come from the captain’s quarters. The man was older, built like a tossballer and idly carrying a deadly-looking shotgun somewhat at odds with his pyjamas and slippers. The woman was older, too, with an eyepatch covering what looked like some real damage on her left eye, and acid scarring on her right cheek. Her remaining eye looked him over.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ve got a lot of questions.”

“You?” Alex snapped, kicking away the woman who was currently relieving him of his gunbelt. She just unceremoniously shoved him into one of the couches while the rest of the intruders formed a semi-circle. “You have questions? I’ve got a fucking question, lady, who died and made you captain of my ship?”

“You did, I think,” she said mildly. “Quick question, what day do you think it is?”

“Thursday, probably.”

Her mouth pulled in what could have been either amusement or exasperation. “What month and year.”

“March 3rd,” Alex said.

“And the year? 2355?”

“Of course. What other year would it be?”

“The current day,” the woman said, “is February 8th, 2356. I’ve been captain of the Unreliable for almost a year, in May, since her previous captain, Alex Hawthorne, died in the Emerald Vale by standing too close to an escape pod’s landing beacon.”

Alex blinked. And snorted. “Nice one,” he said.

“No,” ADA said. “She isn’t lying to you. That… happened.”

“It’s not possible. I was just…” he frowned. “Hey, ADA, did I get paid for the Cedar Springs job?”

“No,” ADA said. “As I recall, shortly after landing you decided that it was too risky and that your contact was, I quote, ‘a flaky son of a rungleech who didn’t have enough bits to make me piss on a sleeping UDL recruit, let alone storm an entire compound of them.’” (The young fellow barked a laugh.)

“That sounds like me,” Alex admitted. “But that isn’t what happened. I took the job. Got trapped inside. There was some big…” he gestured, outlining the platform inside the huge science-y cage thing. He received blank stares in return. “…science thing, and I pushed the button, figuring it would distract them.”

“And then…?” the captain- ugh, no, the woman- prodded.

“And then I was here, being threatened and robbed on my own ship.”

“Not quite time travel,” the woman mused, leaning comfortably on the back of one of the chairs. “Alternate universes?”

“That’s fairly far-fetched,” the older man said. “But if any company would try to research and monetize it, it would be UDL. Or, some clever hacker has convinced ADA that he matches the description of her deceased captain, and given her a fake memory or two to match.”

“Fuck you,” Alex snapped. “I put so much work into this ship I may as well have built her from scratch. You see that panel?” he pointed. Only the young woman and the guy actually looked, but that was beside the point. “I spent four hours behind it, wiring the cameras so ADA could see the table.”

“I could tell you had some trouble,” the young woman piped up. “Everything back there was covered in shrink wrap, like you’d had to strip back so far on the wire you needed to add more. A lot more.” Under his stare, she flushed. “I mean, uh, you got the job done, obviously, it’s just…”

“Great,” Alex muttered. “You stole my ship, suborned my astrogator, and now you’re insulting my engineering.”

“Let’s say we believe you’re Alex Hawthorne,” their leader said. “What happens now?”

“You put down your guns and kindly escort yourselves to the airlock?” Alex said hopefully.

The other captain shook her head. Behind her, her crew bristled.

“Worth a shot. Well, you’re the ones with the guns, you got any ideas on what to do with me?”

“You mentioned the airlock,” the redhead said thoughtfully.

“Absolutely not,” ADA said, calm voice at odds with the sudden increase in volume from her speakers throughout the ship.

“Message received,” the redhead said. “No spacing the ex-captain.”

“Ex-captain,” Alex repeated with disgust. “Current captain, thanks.”

“Do you have your ID cart?” the older man asked, which was the important question.

“Not on me,” Alex lied, and the other captain looked to the table. There it was, sitting on top of the things the pink-haired woman had filched from him, the ID cart designating him as the captain of the Unreliable. “Oh, that’s a fake.”

“I’ll just be taking that anyway,” she said, and there went one of his options for regaining control of ADA, right into her jacket pocket. The others would take more finesse and time, both of which were fragile things where you were a prisoner. “We’re currently on a job, but once we’re done with that, it seems we’re going to Cedar Springs. Any objections?”

“Who’s going to pay us for that?” the pink-haired woman asked.

“I’m sure we can find something Gladys will be interested in,” their leader said. “Or Phineas.” And that was something, that she was on first-name basis with Dr. Welles. “We’ll be solidly in the black once we collect on this one, anyhow.”

“What, after all this you’re just going to do me a good turn?” Alex said, as the crew read something in their leader’s body language which made them start to relax a little.

“Well, that’s part of it,” she said. “I know what it’s like, to wake up in a place you don’t really belong. On top of that, I’ve never met a horrific science facility that didn’t end up profiting me somehow. And, most importantly-“ she patted the pocket with his ID cart in it. “-in some other world, there’s a ship that needs a captain. I aim to return him to her.”

#the outer worlds #the outer worlds fic #towfic #my fic #snippet

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clmcl · 5 years ago

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Dramione fanfics rec (2018-2019)

Hey, guys, this is just some fics that I like. I have a similar list here if you are interested or in need of a good dramione. I don´t read much angst so these are mostly fluffy. They´re not all published in 2018-2019 but I discovered them these years. I hope you all enjoy:

An Unexpected Malfoy by RiverWriter : Once upon a time Hermione Granger literally ran into Draco Malfoy in a bookshop. His mother sees a connection between her son and the muggleborn that she can't ignore and determines to get to know the girl. An imagining of how things could have gone if Hermione had been taken under the wing of the Malfoy family. WIP

The Troublesome Thing About Time by LadyKenz347 : Draco Malfoy has just arrived from twenty years in the future and insists on speaking to his wife, Hermione Granger. The only problem is that the Draco Malfoy she knows is still the snarky, button-pushing boy upstairs-and not the man in front of her now. COMPLETE.

Diamond Heart by artemisgirl: When Hermione approaches Draco Malfoy proposing a fake relationship between the two of them as part of a scheme, he's eager enough to participate - the potential benefits outweigh any costs on his time. But as it all progresses, Draco finds himself wondering what it would be like if what was 'fake' was real. COMPLETE.

The Alkahest by Shadukiam : The Marriage Law, once enacted, has the power to destroy Hermione's perfectly normal life. Luckily, she and Ron are already planning to obey the horrific law together as a team... Until a Malfoy-shaped wrench gets thrown into the works. WIP.

The Silk Thread by LoverGurrl411 : Dumbledore's dead, the ministry's desperate and crumbling around them, and war is on the horizon-but the only war that truly matters has yet to begin: the war of hearts. In between silence and hatred lies a twisted desire that will either consume them, or help them survive Voldemort's rise to power together. Marriage Law Fic. AU Seventh Year. WIP (one of the few angst).

The Family Business by Nova5621 : Scorpius Malfoy is convinced his parents are secret agents. Fancy formal wear, stashed weapons. I mean, look at how they met! COMPLETE.

A Secret Admirer by DragonLady37 : "Who does that belong to?" Lucius asked, his tone harsh. Draco's fingers tightened around the piece of cloth as he turned to his father. He kept it tightly in his fist. "My soulmate," he growled. "You've found her?" his mother asked, hand over her mouth, tears shining in her eyes. "Finally?" DRAMIONE, AU, Veela Fic. COMPLETE.

Draco's Bad Day by Maloreiy : Draco is having a bad day. In fact, every day is a bad day because he's been trying (unsuccessfully) to convince himself he's not in love with Hermione Granger, who is engaged to Ron (the prat) Weasley. Except that all of a sudden she's not. And Draco's about to have more good and bad days than he had ever expected. WIP.

Howl For Me by Kittenshift17: The Ministry enacts a Marriage Law, magically pairing couples who'd never in a million years agree to even speak, let alone wed. Paired off with Malfoy, Hermione has to suffer the added indignity of the Ministry banning all contraception and forcing fertility treatment and aphrodisiacs on them all. Draco's secret makes it worse. WIP.

Drastic measures by hbsj: Draco's mother had a plan: Draco would marry Astoria and make perfect little heirs to the Malfoy line, he wasn't necessarily happy about it but he knew he couldn't get what he really wanted anyway so what the hell, right? Hermione did NOT agree with the plan and would literally do anything to thwart it, will she succeed? A fun/dirty five-part Dramione, rated M for smut and language. COMPLETE.

His Veela Heritage by RiverWriter : His entire world shifted and he was suddenly certain that his life was no longer really his own, it belonged to her. He could only hope she'd forgive him, could only hope she'd accept him. Because he was a veela and Hermione Granger was his mate. The only woman who had any chance of truly making him happy was the same girl he'd spent half a lifetime tormenting. Karma was a bitch. COMPLETE.

Veela For A Day by tammyfait69: 8th year fic. Pansy gets her hands on a Veela lust potion & plans to lure Draco into her bed. When her plans go to pot, & Draco gets doused with the potion instead, he becomes irresistible. What will Draco do when half his class is trying to get down his pants? Why, turn to the brightest witch in his class of course. Will Hermione help or jump him herself? COMPLETE.

A Fear of Wolves by I'm All Teeth: "Do not stray from the path again. There are terrible monsters in these woods that would like nothing more than to devour delicious little girls like you. Run along to your grandmother's house and pray stop for no one." Fairy Tales, retold. COMPLETE.

In the Arms of Her Dragon by Wolf Blossom: "Why're you crying?" Draco whispered, sitting down beside Hermione in a deserted Great Hall. Looking up at him with puffy eyes, she admitted what happened earlier at the Gryffindor Tower. Without a moment's hesitation, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and said: "Come on, you're spending the night in the Slytherin dungeon. With me." WIP.

The Worst Date Ever by MotherofBulls: Hermione loses a bet to Draco and now has to let him take her on "the worst date in the history of the world." His words. Hermione is in for a night full of crappy pub food, a rented children's choir, and casual violence. But at some point in this rubbish heap of an evening, Hermione finds that there's more to Draco than she thought. COMPLETE.

The Trouble With Veelas by hiddenhibernian: Draco just wants to make Hermione happy. Unfortunately, telling her he is a Veela and she is his mate would achieve exactly the opposite, so he has to find another way. Nothing else in Draco's life has gone according to plan, so he ought to have known it would only go downhill from there... Veela!Draco. COMPLETE.

Shallow Draco by MykEsprit: When Draco Malfoy is cursed to see only inner beauty, he finds Hermione Granger to be the most beautiful woman in the world. How utterly predictable. Dramione. One-shot. COMPLETE.

She was Beautiful by longdistance: What if Draco had other reasons for bullying Hermione so badly in school? What if her life had depended on it? This is a story of what happens when they meet again eight years after the war. He'll begin work on healing the wounds he created. COMPLETE.

A Season of Miracles by StoriesForTheMature: Hermione must tell Draco that he is the father of a suddenly motherless child. Will he refuse his new role as a father? Not if the miracle of Christmas has anything to do with it! COMPLETE.

Who Could've Thought That by Lerysakon: "Enlighten me, Granger, as to why you are being referred to as Professor Granger." Sorting. A new professor. The children make new friends. And Hermione has something to reveal – who is this mystery man of hers? COMPLETE.

Second Time Around by Neko-Tenchi: Draco fell in love with Hermione after it was already too late. Then a contraption of Dumbledore sets Draco back in time to his first year of Hogwarts with no memories of the future, but all his future-self's instincts, feelings and love felt towards Hermione. How will he do things the second time around. Time travel story with a twist: Draco Edition. WIP.

Her Number One Fan by Peanutbuttertoast1: Hermione leaves England to start a new life...only to return to find that the world has moved on in more ways than one...and her heart is touched by an unexpected encounter with her #1 fan! COMPLETE.

What Lynx Us Together by BirdsOfAFeather92: Draimione soulmate with a twist. What happens when its voluntary? WIP.

Lines by FlyingWorldOtter: Wizards were gathered in large numbers, because when matched, a fine magical line would connect your heart to your soul mates' heart. Once you had found the person at the other end of your line you would then hold hands and a golden glow would appear around the hands and personalized rings representing the couple would appear on their finger. WIP.

Fated by Hanako A: Hermione has always thought of herself as a rational creature. However the magic of her blood won't be denied, and there's nothing she can do to stop her fall. COMPLETE.

A cornucopia of noncoincidences by muffin_reverie: She was leaving her position as a Healer for good, or at least she thought she was.“I reckon you may want to reconsider that thought about not having to heal anyone ever again.” Ron awkwardly shifted on his feet.“Because you may have just broken Draco Malfoy’s nose with your knuckles.” COMPLETE.

A Game of Chance by TheLastLynx: Hermione barely registered Harry calling out after her to let in someone he was apparently waiting for. So when she rushed out, deep in thought, she smacked straight into the tall person standing just outside the door. ‘Careful there, Granger,’ someone with a pleasant baritone said, chuckling under his breath. ‘No need to hit on me.’ Hermione’s head snapped up. The pointy face of Draco Malfoy looked down on her, something like humour brightening his pale eyes. She raised her chin, ignoring the heat in her cheeks. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy.’COMPLETE.

A Theo-logical Dilemma by LightofEvolution: “Draco, Miss Granger is yelling at the dog in the tea room. What did he do?” Narcissa asked. “Maybe he ate her reports?” he suggested, knowing it wasn’t true. A little story about Hermione, Draco, and a black Labrador with a very human pedigree. COMPLETE.

All This Time by GirlwhoLived: It's 2007. Hermione has a job at the Ministry, a posh flat and even a new kitten. She is happy and content with what her life has become. And then Ronald Weasley appears on her doorstep. Three years ago he broke her heart and disappeared without a word. But now he has returned with every intention of winning her back. But Ron is in for one hell of a surprise. Hermione got married a year ago. To none other than Draco Malfoy. WIP.

All You Want by SenLinYu: Eighth Year at Hogwarts was supposed to be Hermione’s. And it is, just not in the way she expects. Omegaverse fic. COMPLETE.

Amateur Cartography by worksofstone: That one-night stand with Draco Malfoy was a mistake. Hermione doesn't make mistakes, or at least she isn't supposed to. She's working hard at her Ministry career, however frustrating and pointless her job may be, and she's also got to live up to everyone's expectations as Hogwarts's most famous Muggle-born and a top-tier War Hero. So, why is she still sleeping with Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and infamous pureblood? And why isn't she certain that she wants to stop? COMPLETE.

Bond by HalfwayThrough: Years into the war, Hermione is trapped for an entire night between a broken wand and a Death Eater. The consequences of which will affect everything. WIP.

Calla by RiverWriter: She had been missing for more than ten years. But then she had dark magic cast on her in the Department of Mysteries, and that insidious curse did more than just injure her physically. It revealed a secret, a truth. Hermione Granger could finally be recognized as the girl she’d been at birth: Calliope Nott. WIP.

Dangerous by sunalso: Life is, at last, safe and stable for Hermione. She knows who she is and who she loves. Until something starts to follow her in the dark and she finds she might not know herself at all. WIP

Business Partners by Debboluh: Andromeda Tonks approaches Hermione with an idea to start an orphanage and community center for children and families who have been affected by Voldemort’s werewolves, other extra-magical children and families are more than welcome! But what secret is their potions master hiding? And will Hermione ever find out? Draco's mood swings are giving Hermione whiplash, first he doesn't care and then he offering his own house!? COMPLETE.

Okay, I got tired. That´s all I´ll probably do another next year (or a part 2 this year).

#dramione #dramione fanfic #fanfic rec #random #draco x hermione

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all-the-love-harold · 5 years ago

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Chapter 15 - Door Knocking

Master post

Come and Talk about Harry and Poppy

Just so you know, I’ve been started writing the sequel to this series and it’s going to emotional and beautiful at the same time. I hope you’re ready for it

September 11th, 2017- 22 Weeks

Harry carried both of the bags down to the car while Poppy did one last one check around the wedding house to make sure they hadn’t left anything behind. The wedding had been everything they’d ever dreamed of, and the following two days had been filled with love and support from both Poppy’s family and Harry’s.

“Got everything?” Harry asked, as he bounded up the front steps to the house, meeting Poppy at the front door and wrapping an arm around her shoulder and placing a soft kiss on her forehead

“Yeah” she nodded, “just mum’s bags when she’s ready.” Since Harry was leaving for tour tomorrow, and Poppy had reached the point in her pregnancy where her condition could start to affect things, her mum had decided to stay with her in London, until Harry gets back.

“Will she be long?” he asked, looking at his phone to check the time “we’ve got that baby appointment this afternoon and it’s three hours back if the traffic’s good”

“Five minutes” Poppy smiled, leaning her head on his shoulder “We’re about to leave the wedding bubble H”

He placed a kiss on her forehead “the real world isn’t so bad with you as my wife.”

The front door of the house burst open and Poppy’s mum stepped out, struggling to carry her bags “Oh sorry” she blushed “have I interrupted a moment?”

“You’re fine Mum” Poppy smiled, ushering her out the door

“Let me get those bags for you Mrs Thomas”

“Harry please!” Poppy’s mum handed him the bags “call me Linda”

Harry smiled and took the bags off her and loaded them into the boot of the range rover while Poppy and her mum climbed in. They made a quick stop off at Anne’s so that Harry could say goodbye before he left for tour and headed off in time to make it back for the appointment at 3. The journey back was slow, with traffic getting busier the closer they got to London, but Poppy didn’t mind, because it gave her and her mum time to catch up on all the things they’d missed being so far away from each other and Harry the chance to get to know her a little better. They’d met a few times over the years, but it had always been brief and, most of the time, rushed, to fit in with his busy schedule and Poppy was glad to see that they were getting along so well.

“We’re going to have to go straight to the midwife love” Harry said to Poppy, checking the clock as they got closer to London

“That’s fine” she yawned, tired from the weekend “Mum can come, she’s going to have to know what’s going on anyway”

“I can just stay in the waiting room, they probably won’t want me in there”

“That’s a good point” Poppy turned in her seat to look at her mum in the back “are you alright with that?”

“Of course dear, you’ll tell me everything I need to know”

Harry pulled into the carpark of the doctor’s offices about half an hour later, stressed from the busy traffic, and ready to get out and stretch his legs.

“H” Poppy smiled sweetly as they all stepped out of the car

“Hmm” he said, stretching his arms out “what’s up love?”

“My handbag with my notes is in the boot” she pointed to the back of the car “under everything”

He rolled his eyes at her and opened the boot, moving bags around until he eventually found her handbag “Poppy” he said closing the boot, making her look up from her phone, that was still blowing up with congratulations from, friends, family and fans “catch” and he made sure the zipper was done up on her bag and threw it to her.

“Thanks” she smiled catching the bag

“Good catch” he made his way over to her, putting his arm around her “let’s go see our little man”

Poppy hadn’t yet told him about the message she’d received from Danny the night of the wedding. She knew he’d be mad, and she knew he’d try and do something about it, but she wanted to enjoy their first few days together as a married couple first, and now that her mum was here finding the right time to tell him would prove difficult too, but she promised herself that, at some point today, she would pull him aside and tell him. After checking in at the front desk they all took their seats, whispering to each other about the wedding, all giggling as they remembered all the dorky dance moves that Harry brought out as the night went on. Harry knew Poppy was nervous about this appointment and every time he caught her looking over at place where her midwife would soon appear and call her name, he’d change the subject, to keep her mind off things

“Poppy” Julie said, popping her head around the corner of the hallway that lead to the examination room. Both Poppy and Harry stood up and made their way over to her greeting her as they got close. She lead them down the hallway and ushered them into one of the rooms, closing the door behind them. “I heard on the radio this morning that you two got married over the weekend?”

“We did” Harry smiled widely at Poppy

“Well congratulations” she said “although, I must say I was a little confused, because I’m sure you told me he wasn’t the father”

“He’s not” Poppy shook her head, “But close enough” she squeezed Harry’s hand and smiled at him

“Right” she nodded “I’m sensing things are a little more complicated than they seem, and it’s my job to make sure your little guy is doing just fine in there, so why don’t you jump on that bed there, and we’ll take a look”

Poppy did as she was told, lying down on the bed and lifting her shirt up to expose the bump. Harry stood next to her and held her hand as Julie squeezed the gel onto her belly. Within seconds they heard the familiar sound of their little boy’s heart beat and Poppy’s entire body relaxed. She knew he was ok in there, because she’d been feeling him move around for the last few weeks, but ever since she had the miscarriage scare, that sound always made her breathe a sigh of relief.

“So you’re at 22 weeks now?” Julie asked, looking a little concerned

“Yeah” Poppy nodded

“And have you been feeling any movement?”

“He goes wild when Harry sings” she laughed, smiling up at Harry as he smiled back weakly, worried about Julie’s obvious concern

She smiled, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen “I bet he does”

“Is everything ok?” Harry asked, squeezing Poppy’s hand a little tighter

Julie took her eyes off the screen and swivelled the chair so that she was facing them both “He’s a little smaller than we’d expect at 22 weeks, but everything else looks healthy to me so I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, I’ll have doctor Miller take a look at these pictures and she’ll come in a little while and discuss things with you” she pressed a few buttons on the ultrasound machine, Poppy assumed to load the images into the system for her doctor to look at.

“Thank you” Poppy and Harry both said quietly as she left the room.

Harry placed a soft kiss onto Poppy’s hand as the door shut behind Julie “he’s probably just a small baby, you’re not exactly the biggest human I know, and Danny was no giant”

“Speaking of Danny” she sat up and wiped the gel off her bump, pulling her shirt down “I got a message from him on our wedding night”

He let go of her hand and gave her a stern but curious look “What did he want?”

“Custody” her lips drew into a sharp line as Harry drew in a deep breathe, filled with rage

“After what he said to you when you told him?” he placed his hand back over Poppy’s “Not a chance”

“He’s the Dad Harry, I don’t know how much a choice we have in this”

“There’s no way he’ll get custody off you,” he placed his hand over her bump “I’ll do everything I can to stop this Poppy”

“This is why I married you” she kissed his forehead and swung her legs around, hopping off the bed and making her way over to the chair next to the doctor’s desk. Harry followed, rage still a little evident on his face.

“I’ll call my lawyer as soon as we get home and see what we can do” he said, sitting down next to her

“I’m not sure your lawyer will know a thing about family law H”

“She’ll know someone that does though”

Before Poppy had a chance to respond, Doctor Miller walked in with a clip board in her hand “So I’m told I can call you Mr and Mrs Styles now?” she smiled at them both

“You sure can!” Poppy smiled back, placing her hand on Harry’s thigh, while he pulled on his lip, still thinking about what he could do about Danny.

“Well congratulations” she nodded, taking a seat in the chair behind the desk “So I had a look at your scans, and your little boy is looking a little small, he’s measuring about 3 weeks behind, which with your condition is ok, it means he can stay in there longer without being affected the shape of your uterus”

“That sounds like a good thing” Poppy said shyly

“The longer he’s in there the better” she smiled “We’ll have to review your C-section dates now” she clicked through a few screens on her computer until she came to one that showed what looked like her schedule for November and December “right now we’ve got you in on November 10th and December 1st, so what I’ll do, is keep the December 1st date, which, if everything goes to plan, would have you measuring at 34 weeks, and we’ll book another one in for December 15th which will have you at 37 weeks.”

Poppy nodded, breathing a sigh of relief knowing that Harry’s tour ends on December 8th.

“Of course, we’ll be keeping an eye on things and these dates are definitely not set in stone, but it helps me to have dates in mind”

“Of course,” she smiled, knowing what it’s like to try and work around everyone else’s schedule

She smiled back “Now ideally, baby will stay in there until at least 35 weeks, but like I said before, we’ll be keeping an eye on things, once you reach 30 weeks, we’ll have you in for weekly scans again and I’d like you to start keeping track of all your symptoms from now on, including all of his movements”

“I can do that”

“Is there a reason he would be so small?” Harry asked

“It could be a few things, I don’t think there’s anything to be worried about, but we will keep an eye on his growth to make sure he hasn’t stopped, but all of his vital organs are developing at the right pace, so I’d say he’s just a small baby, which is not uncommon, especially in pregnancies like these”

“Good news” Harry smiled, squeezing Poppy’s hand

“I’ll get you to book an appointment with Julie for next week to check his growth, and all things going well, I won’t need to see you then”

“Great” Poppy said “does this mean I’m only at 19 weeks now? Or am I still 22?”

“You’re still 22 weeks, like I just said, everything else is developing as it should be, he’s just smaller than average, which is fine” she smiled reassuringly “Any other questions?”

Poppy looked at Harry and he shook his head “No, I think we’re ok” she said, picking up her handbag

“Great” she stood and walked over to the door, opening it for them “I’ll see you next time then”

Both Poppy and Harry thanked her as they walked out of the room and made their way to the front desk to make next week's appointment. As soon as Poppy's Mum spotted them she stood and quickly made her way over to them, worried about why it took so long but relieved to see Poppy and Harry didn’t look to concerned.

“Everything ok?” she asked Harry as Poppy spoke to the receptionist

“Yeah” he nodded, still thinking about Danny “he’s a little smaller than he should be, but the doctor said that’s normal in pregnancies like these, she has to come in next week though, for another scan to make sure he hasn’t stopped growing” he whispered, aware of other couples in the waiting room

Poppy’s mum nodded along with Harry “Next Friday?” she asked

He nodded “probably, she has Friday’s off work, so that’s when her appointments have been, besides today of course”

Poppy turned away from the front desk and slid her hand into Harry’s “Good to go?” she asked, and he pulled the car keys out of his pocket

“Let’s go home” he smiled at Poppy and her mum

***

When they arrived back at Harry’s house, which Poppy supposed was her house now too, he hurled all the bags inside and left Poppy and her mum alone while he made the phone call to his lawyer. Closing the door to his office behind him, he searched the room for his work phone which he’d left at home for the wedding because he knew he wouldn’t need it. Finding it in the top drawer of his desk, he dialled the number of his lawyer’s office and waited for her to pick up.

“Harry!” she said cheerfully into the phone “To what do I owe the pleasure”

“Uh” he sighed “how much do you know about family law?”

“Not a lot, but I can draw you up a post-nup”

Harry giggled to himself and shook his head “Don’t need one of those – this is more of a custody type thing”

“Ok” she said a little unsure of what was going on “a little out of my depth I’m afraid, but tell me what’s going on and I’ll see what I can do, or who I can refer you to”

“Right” he said sitting down on the couch in the corner “My wife is 22 weeks pregnant, but the kid’s not mine” he stopped and thought for a second “that sounds bad” he sighed “we only got married on Friday and we weren’t together when she got pregnant, I set her up with the dude”

“Does he know about the baby?”

“Yeah, that’s kinda the problem”

“This is definitely out of my area of expertise, but continue so I know who I can put you onto”

“When he was told, he didn’t want a thing to do with it, told her not to get in contact with him about child support or anything like that but now, since he knows that we’re together, he told her that he would be taking her to court for custody” he let out a deep sigh “I guess I just want to know what my rights are here,”

“As far as I could work out, since you married Poppy on Friday, you have the rights of a step- father”

“Which are?” harry asked, pulling his lip nervously

“You’ll have parental responsibility, granted that you remain married to your wife”

“And where does that leave him?”

“That’s where I fall short I’m afraid Harry, are you and your wife able to come into the office tomorrow? I can set you up an appointment with one of our family lawyers?”

“I leave tomorrow, for tour, but if it can happen in the morning, then we can make it in”

“I’ll see what I can do, I’ll email you”

“Great, thanks for your help” he hung up the phone and dropped it into his lap, placing his face in his hands and rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers, trying to figure out what he could do next. Tonight was his last night at home with Poppy before he left for tour, and all he wanted to do is spend it watching rom coms and doing all the things that they were both too tired for on their wedding night, but he also needed to make Danny go away before he left, so that he didn’t need to worry about him trying to intimidate her. He stood from the couch, putting his phone in his back pocket and making his way out of his office.

Poppy and her mum were stood in the kitchen, discussing what the doctor had said earlier, Linda was telling Poppy that Addie, was a small baby and that there was nothing to worry about. Poppy nodded along, agreeing that everything was probably fine and quickly changed the subject to the nursery. She loved her mum, but she had always found it difficult to talk about serious things with her because she often refused to recognise the bad things that could potentially happen. Not that Poppy liked to dwell on them, but she felt it best to acknowledge that they were there. Harry walked in as Poppy pulled the paint cards out of the drawer, showing them to her mum.

“I’ve got to go tie a few loose ends before I leave tomorrow” he said picking up his keys, and placing a gentle kiss on Poppy’s lips “I’ll bring us back some dinner- the fridge is empty”

Poppy nodded accepting the kiss, but looking at him, a little confused by his sudden need to leave, knowing exactly what his last phone call had been about. “Will you be long?”

“Shouldn’t be” he said, walking out of the room towards the front door “I still like the light blue” he yelled, referring to the paint colours

“It’s grey Harold!” she yelled back, hearing him giggle as he shut the front door. Poppy looked at the time on her phone and realised that it was past 5 and there was no way he could be going to his office to tie up loose ends because his PA would have left for the day and she knew as well as he did that he was useless on his own. “I’ll be back in a sec mum”

She jogged out of the house and into the garage, finding Harry in his car, searching for the remote that opened the gate, he spotted her, and opened the window “What’s up love?” he asked, still looking around avoiding eye contact with her

“Where are you going H?” she asked shyly ‘It’s past 5, Emma would have gone home by now”

“I can’t let Danny do this” he admitted, finally looking at Poppy

“What did your lawyer say?” she asked sympathetically

“She doesn’t know enough about family law, she’s going to get us an appointment with someone who knows what they’re talking about tomorrow” he sighed “I just want to talk to him Pop, see what he wants”

She leant her arms on the window of the car, leaning her head inside “we know what he wants”

“Well, he’s not getting it” he said, frown forming on his face “he doesn’t deserve that little boy”

“Don’t say anything stupid H- don’t give him anything that he could to the media about” she kissed his temple and moved away from the car

“Promise” he said, holding his pinky up for her to shake. She wrapped her pinky around his and giggled at how childish the gesture was but admiring it just the same.

“Don’t be long either, don’t want mum to think you’re avoiding me after being married for two days”

He laughed “I’ll be a quick as I can, could you open the gate for me? Can’t find the remote”

“Yeah” she nodded turning and walking back towards the house to where the main control for the gate was “Bye H” she called as he drove the car out the driveway and she closed the gate behind him.

He sped down the quiet London street away from the house, thoughts running through his head. He didn’t know what he was going to say to Danny, but he knew Poppy was right, he had to keep it civil and respectful for the sake of his career. He could hardly release merchandise that boasts the phrase “Treat People with Kindness” if there were articles circulating about him doing the exact opposite.

Danny lived on the other side of London in a dingy old flat that Harry was only able to find because he’d been there once before, to help Danny bring some supplies to set for the photoshoot. He climbed up the stairs, opening lines running through his head “Do you really want a kid mate?”, “you don’t know the first thing about being a dad”, “You can’t just swoop in now, after everything you’ve put her through and expect to be a happy family.” None of them would do, he knew what he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how to say it – He needed Danny to know how much he’d hurt Poppy, and how much this baby meant to her, but there were no words that could express how both Poppy and Harry felt about this baby.

Harry reached the top of the stairs on Danny’s floor and made his way down the hallway to his door, a boozy smell surrounding it. He drew in a deep breath and knocked on the door, unsure what he’d be greeted with. After a few seconds, a drunken Danny answered the door, squinting at the harsh light in the hallway.

“What the fuck do you want dick head?” He slurred at Harry “Come to buy my silence or summat?”

94 notes · View notes

tanadrin · 5 years ago

Text

Reordberend

(part 18 of ?; first; previous; next)

They went on, down through the rough, channeled terrain at the mouth of the valley, down onto the icy strip of land that lay between the hills and the sea. There was no path here, no markers of any kind, and Katherine wondered how far she was from the place where she’d come ashore. Finally, as the twilight glow on the horizon had begun to fade, Ælfric started walking a little faster, moving with more purpose. Katherine had the feeling they were getting close to their destination.

They rounded a rocky outcrop that jutted up through the ice and snow, a big dark shoulder of the land; and on the other side, framed against the dark sky, was an immense shape. Katherine couldn’t make heads or tails of it at first; it was too top-heavy to be a hill. As they got closer, she realized it was the hull of a ship. A pretty big one, to be all alone out here on the shore, maybe two hundred meters from one end to the other. When they were close enough for their lanterns to cast light on it, she saw white-painted walls, streaked with dark rust; great big holes in the side, some clearly made by hands scavenging steel, some, perhaps, the result of reefs or weathering. Katherine paused near the bow, and lifted her lantern-staff up, trying to make out the markings high above her head. WINC- -R was all she could read.

“Come,” Ælfric said. He led her along the keel of the bent-over ship, until they came to a crack at ground level that seemed to go all the way up to the top; it was big enough for several people to walk abreast into. She could see stars through it. It ran all the way through the ship, as though it had been ripped in half. They went in, and Katherine found the ruin provided a decent shelter against the the constant shore-wind. It was actually pretty peaceful inside. But the looming darkness overhead did unnerve her a little.

“Be careful,” Ælfric said. “Stay close. This place is old; it is dangerous.”

But he went confidently forward; he seemed to know the path. They did not go up; they walked through what must have been the cargo hold, until they came at last to the far end of the stern. Old crates and pieces of debris littered the ground here; the floor beneath them was ripped away, exposing ice-free, stony ground. Ælfric leaned his staff against a bulkhead, then went to a big bowl-shaped thing in the middle of the space; Katherine couldn’t see what he was doing at first, and then a fire roared to life, beating back some of the darkness. Ælfric dragged a crate a little closer to the brazier, then sat down on it, stretching his legs out in front of him and letting out a long breath. He suddenly looked rather tired. The bright firelight threw the lines of his weather-beaten face into deep relief. He motioned for Katherine to sit, too.

“Is this ship what you wanted to show me?” Katherine asked.

“Almost. Not yet,” was all Ælfric said. He took some jerky from his pack, and tore it in half; they ate together in silence for a few minutes. Then Ælfric stood, and walked to the very back of the room. Katherine followed.

There, where the ragged, torn bulkhead met the ground, there were seven long, low mounds scraped in the dirt. Above them, on the steel plate, gouged into the surface, were drawings. Faces, animals, words. Words, Katherine suddenly realized, she could read without effort, words in English. The largest were names and numbers. Dates, actually. Katherine realized she was looking at graves.

“What is this place?”

“Look,” Ælfric said. “Read.”

Katherine read. ALFRED ROBERTS. 2175-2229. Of Milwkee, Wisc. Even after all other dfficulties, our dparture ws delayd--the govt of NZ refused at 1st to give us permission, saying they did nt wish to be rsponsible fr our rescue. Dspite our assurance, tht we neither dsired nor needed thr assistance, they hindered us 4 weeks. Then very bad weather; we cd not set sail. JULIA TOAL. 2182-2222. Dparted 8th May, far later thn hoped. Winter closing quickly. Too late in summer by far. Bt we were unanimous; would nt wait another year. Wd accept any difficulty, for wht we wished to accomplish. PERRY MILLER. 2160-2219.

It was a record of a journey, interspersed with names and years. There were many more names here than just seven; if these were dates of birth and death, all these people had died frightfully young.

Ælfric pointed to the first name. “Ælfræd, son of Lawrence. His son was Ælfwine; Ælfwine’s daughter was Ælfgyfu; Ælfgyfu’s daughter was Ælfsteorra; Ælfsteorra was my mother. He is my ancestor.”

“What happened here?”

Ælfric looked at Katherine, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“These dates.” Katherine pointed at the first few names. “Dates of death?”

“Yes. Ælfræd died in the tenth year. Julia, in the third. Perry, in the first.”

“They were not old.”

Ælfric cocked his head. “This land makes old men of the young. It carries off the child and the father and mother alike. The first years here were the hardest of all.”

“But there are only seven graves here.”

“No.”

Ælfric took his lantern-staff up, and pointed it down, back the way they had come. In the brighter light of the fire, Katherine could see that this was not the only bare patch of ground here in the cargo hold; the floor had been pulled up in even intervals, down along the length of the ship, all the way back to the place they had entered from. There were more than forty more graves here.

“These were men and women honored among us,” Ælfric said, indicating the seven graves they now stood next to. “But many gave their lives in the landtaking. It was not easy. Few had dared to try to make a home in this land of winters before we came. None tried for a long time after. It seems, from all you have told us, that they even forgot we were here.”

“You must have come during troubled times.” Katherine looked at the dates again. “Right in the middle of the Collapse. You might have even been alone here for many decades.” Katherine had done a bit of research on the history of the continent before she came. Amundsen-Scott had closed right around the turn of the century; McMurdo had lasted only a decade or so longer. For most of the 23rd century, the only human presence in Antarctica had been a few Chilean and Argentinian bases on the Peninsula, a desultory claim to what everybody thought of as a worthless patch of ice, held on to more for reasons of national pride than anything else.

The hundred years or so from the middle of the 22nd century to the middle of the 23rd had not been a good time for anybody. For various reasons, the whole human race at once had seemed to find itself in the middle of a dark forest, with no clear way forward. A vision of the future that it had carried with it, in one form or another, for centuries, the vision of steady (if not monotonic) forward progress, the vision of hope, the vision of a world they could make better eventually (even if they did not know how just at the moment) had absented itself. And instead, for a long time, nations started looking inward. Governments feared to look weak, feared to rely on their neighbors, feared that expressing hope for peace and prosperity made them seem naive. Instead, they seemed to decide, now was the time for all the serious people to admit, once again, that struggle was the real truth of existence.

It wasn’t that civilization fell. The Collapse was a fairly dramatic name for the period, albeit one that had stuck, because to many of the people living through it, it did feel like the end of the world. What it had really been was a series of political and economic shocks. Even throughout that entire century, the world had not stayed still. There was new art, new technology, new ambitions, if you knew where to look. But the tenor of the era was one of paranoia, nativism, and tyranny. Katherine’s own homeland had spent the better part of it under a series of right-wing dictatorships. Other parts of the world--India, China, Japan--had fared much worse.

It had broken, like a fever ending, in the 2250s. There were lots of reasons: advancements in technology and medicine, and the economic revolutions of the global south finally ended the endless series of shocks and recessions that had plagued the world. Geoengineering finally stabilized the climate. Some even said the real credit went to the artistic revolutions of the era. That it stopped being unfashionable to dream again, to imagine what a utopian future could look like. And all that long darkness--and all the time before it--had been repressed. Not forgotten, exactly. But you didn’t like to dwell on it. That was the dark ages. Nevermind that it had not been all that dark. That many millions had lived and struggled (and wept and laughed) in that time, that it was a time as suffused with human life as any. It was painful to think about. And so, few people did. Katherine was just as guilty of that as anybody. Why trap yourself in the past, when there is a bright and endless future ahead of you?

“Why did they come here, Ælfric? If it was going to be so hard?”

Ælfric gave Katherine… a look. She wasn’t sure what kind of look. Like he was sizing her up. Or nailing her down.

“You survived.”

“What?”

“You survived. You are a survivor.”

“I don’t understand.”

Ælfric nodded, more to himself than anything. “Mæwstan found you on the shore, three days from here, after you had walked God alone knows what distance; we found the rest of your ship some days later, and the crew. They were all dead. Killed by the storm that marooned you here, or by the freezing sea. You should not have lived.”

“I’m not baseline, like you. I have, uh,” Katherine searched for the word, “I have improvements. Machines, in my body.”

“Your machinae have not functioned since you came here.”

Katherine stiffened, startled. “How do you know that?”

“I have watched you. You have suffered fatigue, soreness, pain. You have eaten with us, eaten our food, and had pains in your gut.” Well, that was embarassing. No, the food had not always agreed with her. “You have slept badly. The long nights, they make you depressed. Anxious. I have watched you closely, outlander Katherine. You have endured what few outlanders would endure, or could. I have noticed. Also, Leofe told me.

“I was wrong to want you exiled. In my defense, I did not think it would be your death, not truly. Perhaps it was wishful thinking. Perhaps I wished to absolve myself of that guilt. But I really thought that one who had walked the ice from the northern shore would find a way to survive, even if we turned her out of our hearths. But that was wrong. Even if it were true, you did not deserve that, and I am sorry.”

He said it flatly, like he was simply observing a fact of nature. The ice is cold. Penguins like to swim. I was wrong to try to have you killed. Katherine resisted the urge to give him a hug.

“It is the prejudice of my people that all outlanders are weak of spirit. That they do not know what they live for, and so they do not know how to fight for it. Perhaps it is not so. Perhaps some of you are strong. Leofe also said you are not like the other outlanders; that you come from a people apart even in your homeland. A people who have not forgotten their past, and so are not wholly of the present. If that is so, I see now why John sent you to us. You alone, perhaps, could understand.

“So understand this. Our foremothers and our forefathers came here because they could do nothing else. Those were grim years in the countries they hailed from. Years of dark hearts, years of narrow sight. Years in which the troubles of the world pressed in on them, hard like a prison, from which they could not escape.

“This--” and he gestured at the carved steel surfaces around them “--this is the annals of the first years of our people. It is written also in our books, but I wanted you to see with your own eyes, how it was at the beginning. The letters we carved into the hard metal and the graves we scratched into the hard ground. Because in the hardness is a lesson.

“They were not hard people, not at the beginning. We do not prize hardness of heart. We are not cruel, whatever--whatever our failings may sometimes be. We do not value cruelty. Because we would not be cruel, because we would not admit the darkness into our hearts, because we would not surrender, we could not remain. Perry, Julia, Alice, the others buried here, they kept a jewel hidden in their breasts, a jewel which burned like fire, a jewel which even in the long darkness to which no Antarctic winter can compare, warmed them and gave them purpose.

“They wanted a place where they could be themselves. Where they could, despite the purposes of other men and women, build a community of the heart. But how could they do that? The world was crowded and claimed, with high walls at every turn. They were few in number. There was only one place where the laws and walls did not run.”

“Antarctica?”

Ælfric nodded.

“The land of many winters. They bought a ship. They gathered all the things they needed; they expected much hardship. Even so, it was harder. But they fared forth, came to these icy shores, and sought a refuge here.”

“You make it sound almost religious.”

“The separation of the religious from the secular is a contrivance of your world, Katherine. We do not have a religion you would recognize, but yes, we are religious in our fashion. And we do not separate that from the other elements of our life.”

“You make it sound like you’re primitivists. Some kind of intentional throwback.”

“Ha!” Ælfric seemed to be genuinely amused by this. “That because we speak a dead tongue, we wish to recreate a dead people? A dead culture? Do you think we are Angles in spirit? Playing at the ancient world?”

“You live a difficult life. Not unlike the people who spoke your tongue before.”

“Our foremothers and forefathers did choose this tongue for a reason--but it was not because they fancied themselves ancient folk of Britain. I don’t think any of them were even English.

“They chose it because it had been forgotten. The study of the past was deeply unfashionable in their day. I gather, from your ignorance, it has grown only more so since they set out. They wanted a language that they could make their own. And they wanted a language they could give to the voiceless land that they chose to inhabit. We spoke of names before, yes? They wanted a new tongue for their landscape, both the landscape around them and the landscape within themselves. They sought a new understanding of what was possible for them. They sought something the world around them lacked--hope.”

“And they needed a new language to find that?”

“Or an old one. A language from a time when, as then, the world seemed to be dreary, and speeding towards its end. A language from a time when the people huddled together on a cold island surrounded by the deep, dark sea, and wondered what lay beyond it. A language from a time when we knew what value the knowledge of the past held, and we husbanded every little scrap of it, fearful to lose the meagerest portion, lest we forget it was possible to hope for a better future. We, of course, do not look to Christ for our salvation, as they did. We find it in different places. But we find it.”

“The world has changed, you know. It’s not half so dark, or half so dreary. It’s been a long time since the time of your forefathers and foremothers. Why do you stay here, where life is hard, where you have to struggle to survive? Why not rejoin the world?”

“We would not lose ourselves.”

“The world is a big place. It has room enough for you.”

Ælfric shook his head. “Not for us. You are too optimistic. You do not understand. Our tale does not end with our arrival on these shores. It does not end with our move from the wreck to the Valleys. It does not end with our adoption of the Tongue, and our building of the fanes. You do not yet understand. Maybe you will, in time. But not yet.”

With that, as if Katherine had somehow transgressed, Ælfric’s urge to speak seemed to end. He sat quietly, staring into the fire, leaving Katherine to peruse the writings on the wall on her own. So she read. She read the record of the first years of the Dry Valleys People, read the records of their deaths and their griefs, the records of the things that had driven them forth, and of the hope they retained, even when it seemed to her they had little enough to hope for. The cramped, telegraphic style of the language only got more so as it went along, and then it began to lapse into the new tongue, and then it ended; and when it did, Katherine looked back at Ælfric. He was asleep now, wrapped up in a bedroll close to the fire. Katherine suddenly realized just how tired she was, and using her pack as a pillow, lay down next to him. She closed her eyes, listening to the rushing of the wind through the bones of the old ship, and before she knew it, she was asleep, and dreaming of the sea.

#tanadrin's fiction

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mackdizzy · 5 years ago

Text

hey brother, do you still believe in one another?

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667843

Fandom: GRAVITY FALLS

Pairings: Stan and Ford (NON-ROMANTIC/NON-INCESTUAL)

Rating: T

Warnings: Eye Trauma/Horror, (Nothing too graphic!) Mental Trauma/PTSD (On Ford’s part,)//brief Bill mentions, etc.

Summary: intergalactic bounty-hunter AU. 8 pages of teeth rotting stan twins hurt-comfort, because I need nothing more in this world, apparently.

A/N: My first published one-shot, after I've done a lot of publishing and deleting; I think I'll keep this one up for good, though, I'm quite proud of it. Inspired by an rp I'm hashing out with @lemonpie , the entire love of my life. Also dedicated to those on the Fandom Fields discord server. You guys have made my week, seriously.

AU that Probably Has A Name But I Don't Know It in which when Mullet!Stan came back to see Paranoid!Ford, instead of fighting like idiots they made up, got Ford better, and are now intergalactic, multidimensional bounty hunters who love eachother a lot and care about eachother a lot.

It's pretty simple, guys. 8 pages of fluff because my poor little heart needs it.

First things first: shoes off. Ford hates the dirt.

It was surprisingly early when they returned to the room; barely breaching 4 in the afternoon. Apart from the trouble of finding a place to stay (you thought hotels were hard to find in your own dimension?), Stan and Ford usually stayed out late enough anyway. There was evidence to gather, there were clues to collect, there were people to bring to safety; all of this denouncing the fact that there was usually also something to kill, of course.

It had been almost a year since they’d completed the portal and left that old house behind. Not left it behind for good, per say; they would come back every now and then to drop off old gear and pick up new stuff, make sure nothing bad had gotten in when they were away--sometimes they just needed a break from all of….this. But not always, not usually. Breaks were appreciated, but the work was exciting, dutiful, and never-ending. Breaks were best (and usually) taken at moments like these, when they had the time to spare; him fixing the weapons, Ford poured over one of his journals or a book he managed to find, both of them hashing over what they were going to do tomorrow over cheap interdimensional food (strawberry waffles tasted good in any multiverse, his brother would always insist).

The routine wasn’t always as straightforward as that, but nothing the two of them did would ever really be considered straightforward. There were bumps in the road; there had been bumps in the road all year, really, but after the first week in that house “alone” with his brother, that was sort of to be expected. They did what was natural; they worked them out. Because that’s what family did, and because there was nothing he’d rather have done.

Currently they were located--precisely, he noted, pulling out the pocket compass-- at -36.85271, -68.54629, 1.56. If they were back at Ground Zero, he’d note them somewhere in South America (Argentina, maybe, or Chile). Here in the moonshine dimension (which apparently had nothing to do with liquor, despite the fact that he felt drunk every time he looked out the window), the cliffsides remained, but that was about all; the grass was magenta and the sky was a deep purpley color, and the stars saturated the sky so richly, 24/7, that they were almost blinding. Stan would’ve been happy to sit by the windowsill and stare all night, but they had work to do---and besides, they never left the windows open.

Normally, they found absolutely any living space that felt hospitable and plopped down for the night--they were the opposite of picky--but after a couple of rough nights in a particularly rough part of the southern woods, he was delighted to hear Ford say matter-of-factly that he had connections in the mountains, and that’s where they were headed. They’d spent the entire morning traveling, and 4 hoverbuses in plus a lot of hiking later, he’d made the executive decision to check them in and call it a day. Unconfronted yet with the roofwalker who owned the place, someone who Ford had said it would be crucial to talk to, they’d checked themselves in nonetheless and taken the elevator up 38 stories to the bedroom arrangement.

Kitchenette in the corner, desk and 2 chairs, television, bookshelf (empty). Attached bathroom and bedroom--another TV, 2 chests of drawers. And 2 beds. They were always given 2 beds, and they always started out arranging themselves across both, and yet both beds were never actually slept in.

Still: shoes off first, because Ford hated the dirt. He unlaced his boots and threw them casually by the door, hoping that wouldn’t annoy his brother too much. What happened next was calculated routine. He took the window bed, threw his massive bag down. Crossed to the window, locked it, pulled the shades tight, wrapped the cord around the lock to keep them shut. Repeated the process with the window in the sitting room. Moved to the door, locked it tight, pulled the door bolt. Checked the lock on the bathroom and then checked all four locks again, just for safety measures. Next he spot-checked the room, corner to corner; their reputation wasn’t massive, but it was still slightly dangerous, so every inch was scrubbed for cameras, bugs, and any geometrically-suspicious looking artwork. Finally, lights on, buzzing radiator off, windows weatherstripped for sound prevention, tea on the kettle.

Ford never really watched him do any of this; it was more of a safety-net set of activities than anything. Ford didn’t stare at the windows so much if he knew he’d locked them, didn’t direct so much erratic attention to the corners if he knew they’d been checked. So once everything was underway, tea included, he made his way into the bedroom, to find Ford cross-legged on his bed, poured over one of his journals, referring to the other two and a general mass of paper around him as he scribbled. Stan leaned on the doorframe and raised an eyebrow, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

“Ford, what are the beds for?” He tried not to sound too naggy, but he knew Ford’s sleep habits improved significantly if he wasn’t doing most of his work in the same place. He’d read that on a travel blog somewhere ...he thinks.

“You’re not my mother, Stan.” Ford grumbled in return, but it was half-hearted, and he stood anyway, gathering the paper in a messy armful and carrying it to the desk anyway. Stan took the chance to stand behind his brother and peer over his shoulder, where his loops of neat script had begun filling the newest blank page of the journal.

“Shapeshifters, huh?” He noted, fingers drumming against the back of Ford’s chair. They’d only dealt with shapeshifters once or twice--most of them were nasty, selfish creatures, the conscientious ones interested only in self preservation. With such little regard for the species, he wondered how they populated, but he supposed that could be said for some lines of human lineage as well.

“I believe that is what we’re working with, yes. With all we’ve encountered, I’ve yet to do an official entry.”

He leaned further against the hard-backed chair Ford was situated in, squinting his eyes at his handwriting. His dyslexia had never made it easy to read any of the perfect, neat script Ford had started writing in around age eleven. He did really like the drawings, though; his brother was an amazing artist, something they’d never really known about until he’d started drawing the things they encountered. He let himself stare a bit and wonder at the ways Ford was even able to make something with no defined shape come alive on the page, and all his little frantic scribbles; messy with excitement, not panic. It was a nice sight, but Ford kept stopping to---well, at first he thought he was just brushing away his hair or fixing his glasses, but the 7th or 8th time in about two minutes, it finally set in.

“Hey, hey.” He said gently, nudging Ford’s shoulder. “Your eye ok?”

“Fine.” Came the simple response, which was Ford-speak for No, but I’m totally busy doing my nerd shit and don’t want to be bothered.

Still, Stan could be good for one thing, and it was this. “Let me see.” He sounded slightly naggy again, and Ford rolled his eyes at the ceiling, but some things couldn’t be helped, and he was grateful it worked when Ford spun awkwardly around in the seat and gave him a fixated stare.

“It’s swollen.” Stan said under his breath before even really getting a good look at it, because it was. Pretty red, too. “Look at my finger.” He said, directing his brother’s eye around. Motion was good, that was a start.

“Is it bleeding?” Ford asked, and the sad, wounded little tint in his voice might have been enough for him to lie about it if it was (as if he could ever lie to Ford), but luckily, it wasn’t. “No.” He said, gently. “It’s red, though.” And then he grabbed the chair from the desk across from the room and sat across from Ford, placing his hands on his lap, and Ford rolled his eyes and went to face the journal, but Stan pawed at his arm, infuriated, so he eventually turned around to face him.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Ford mumbled, averting both eyes. “Stan, I’d really like to get back to m--”

“Ford.” Just the slightest edge tinted his voice.

“It’s not fair!” Ford shot back, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Stan could tell he was starting to get a little worked up, and he tilted his head, half in curiosity, half in concern. “It’s not fair that I have to be the one with a---full blown facial anxiety tracker!”

“You know I would’ve noticed anyway.” His voice tried to be gentle, not all-knowing or condescending, and the sentiment was enough to get Ford to crack a smile (albeit a wounded one), which was all he needed, really.

“It’s also quite unfair how you notice everything, Stanley.”

And that got him to laugh, and then he extended a hand and Ford took it. He stroked his thumb along the backside of Ford’s hand and he felt all six of his fingers relax in his grasp, and once they were both pretty calm, he tried again.

“What’s up?”

This time around there was more honesty. Ford looked at his hands for a moment before shutting his eyes tight, taking a shaky breath. When he spoke, it was very quiet. “Haven’t been sleeping.”

“Really? You’ve seemed pretty restful to me.” Inside he’s cursing himself, though, guilt overflooding him. He should’ve been paying more attention, but Ford hadn’t asked, hadn’t brought this up, and he never wanted to seem too pressing. Still, Ford was right, he did notice everything, or at least...he was supposed to.

“Yes, well, my body’s alright, but my mind---haven’t been dreaming right, keep going to the mindscape, I’m stuck, stuck with---with---stuck with-”

“Alright, alright.” He gave Ford’s hand a little squeeze, stopped him before he had to say it out loud. “That’s what I’m here for. Do you ...do you think it’s real?” He had to admit, the thought dried up his throat a little bit. What he’d seen was pale in comparison to what he’d heard from Ford, but the scars didn’t lie, and neither did his own haunting memories of that twisted, inhumane laugh coming from Ford’s lips.

“...No.” Ford replied, but it was hesitant, and it took a moment. “No.” He said again, more resolutely. “Just--just me in my head. It’s getting worse, though, it’s not real REM.”

“How long has it been like this?”

“About two weeks?”

“Ford.” He groaned, his hand covering his eyes, another sharp wave of guilt consuming him. “Jesus Christ. Two weeks? Why didn’t you tell me, Ford?”

“You always worry so much.”

“That’s my job, doofus.”

Ford didn’t say anything in response to that, so he stood, stretching his arms above his head, and yawned, throwing his coat onto his bed. “Alright. Executive decision. Showers and then we’re sleeping. That--” He pointed to whichever journal that was-- “Can wait for the morning.”

Ford’s eyes turned to the clock. “Stan, it’s barely 5.”

“Yeah, well, it’s 2 o’clock somewhere.” He yawned again, and this time Ford caught on and yawned back, flipping him off (with two fingers as per usual) lazily for making him catch it. He laughed, and Ford stood and sluggishly made his way towards the bathroom.

“Want me to come?”

“No, it’s alright. Thank you, though.”

He nodded and made his way into the bathroom off the sitting room, taking the tea off the kettle for when they were both out. Once he was done he fetched it and poured two glasses, making his way into the bedroom to see if Ford was done yet. He wasn’t, but he’d been expecting that, so he set both of the cups on the desk, set on his own bed, and waited.

And waited.

He’d gotten quite good at just waiting--sorting through his thoughts, and though Ford was the list-maker, planning; these days, boredom was nonexistent, any downtime was appreciated. But he did start to worry slightly when 45 minutes later Ford was still in the bathroom, and he was about to go knock on the door when he heard a scream.

Ford’s scream.

He grabbed the gun out of his holster, changed the setting on it to the most powerful stun setting; not enough to knock Ford dead, but if something was in his body that shouldn’t be there, it would be enough to get it out. He’d had to use it twice before, and neither time had been pretty, so he hoped Ford was in control enough for it not to be necessary.

The bathroom door was locked, but that wasn’t a problem. He considered getting the lock kit from his bag, but hearing another scream was enough for him to discard that idea; he kicked at the hinge-points to loosen everything and then shouldered it hard enough to unlodge the lock before kicking it open the rest of the way. Hotel doors were always shit, no matter the dimension.

There was blood all over the counter, and it stained in the shower as well. Ice filled his veins and he could almost feel his breath stop, but Ford was still alive, still in there, needing him. One hand on the gun he pushed the shower open with the other, shoulders trembling. “Ford?” He said, concern in his voice, but a slight edge too; a warning, to anyone else.

Ford (Ford’s body?) was huddled in the corner, arms tight around his shoulders, his whole body trembling. Since he was undressed, it was easy to scan for the blood, and he was at least a little relieved to see that it was all coming from his eye--better for no blood at all, of course, but no self-decimation had occurred, and since that was usually Bill’s first step, it meant if there was possession, he was fighting it.

“Ford? Ford, are you with me?” He got down on his knees and reached out, safety out the window in lieu of his desperation to make things right, make things okay. Ford met his eyes, and another wave of relief--those eyes were so unmistakably his brothers, large and brown and mousy and right now they looked terrified, the left filled with tears, the right pouring blood. Those were Ford’s eyes, not anyone or anything else’s; so what mattered now was assistance, not violence, and he re-sheathed the gun, holding out both hands.

“Stan--Stan--” Ford gripped his sleeves and held on tight, tugging aimlessly, and he moved in closer, pulling his brother to his chest. It relieved him once again to see Ford clinging on; it meant he was processing things, he was still here, still recognizing him. “Stan, he’s--he’s coming, wants in, been too long without, Stan he’s angry, make me pay he wants me to pay Stan, I’m not safe you’re not safe watching, he’s watching, he’s--he’s--”

“Alright, Alright, Shh, shh--” There was blood in Ford’s hair from where he grabbed at it, blood on both hands, blood smeared on his face, and Stan just wanted to take him in his arms and gather him all up and make everything better for him. He held him close against his chest and whispered things into his hair as he ran his hands through it, down his back; useless, pitiful reassurances, I’m here, it’s okay, he’s not real, I’m real, you’re safe, until Ford’s racing mind finally gave out and he collapsed flat against his chest, head by his heartbeat, silent, still.

“There we go.” He soothed softly, tilting Ford’s chin up. “Whatever your head’s been givin’ you for the past two weeks, it’s bullshit. It doesn’t matter. I matter, and I’m right here.” Ford was soft like putty in his arms in a way that showed he trusted him, which of course meant the world to Stan after everything. Ford’s eyes met his solidly for a moment and he very briefly smiled but then he was out again, somewhere baseless and mindless, just breathing softly against his chest, the fingers on his left hand twitching gently against his leg. He stepped back just for a moment and turned the shower setting into the bath setting, laying Ford back in the tub with his head propped against the rim.

At that point he stepped out, getting a bundle of fresh towels from under the counter. He grabbed a couple of the mouthwash glasses (so as not to get blood in the tub) and used them with the water and shitty hotel soap from the tub to clean off Ford’s hands and face, taking his time and never stopping that soft mumbling, that soft reassuring Ford that he was safe, would be safe so long as he was here with him, and he was so brave and smart and strong, and that he could tell him anything at all, any time.

Eventually he set the soap down and doused the washcloth in water a few times, but he couldn’t even reach Ford’s eye before he felt six slim fingers close around his wrist. Gently he pulled back and caught Ford’s eyes, soft, and his smile, gentle.

“Hey.” Stan spoke, his voice barely audible above the dull running of the bathwater, beginning to work on Ford’s eye. His brother had since let go of his hand to let him work, but Stan had met his grasp with the other one, and rubbed his fingers alongside the back of Ford’s hand for the next few minutes as he worked to get him cleaned up, keeping his handiwork as gentle as possible. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Mmm.” Came Ford’s only response, half-cognisant, and he chuckled back, wringing out the last of the washcloths before brushing Ford’s messy curls away from his eyes.

“Alright, Brainiac. How about we hit the sack? I’m making sure you actually sleep tonight, idiot.” Ford nodded, half playfully half sleepily, and he stood, turned off the water, picked Ford up bridal style like he weighed nothing; he grumbled softly and fussed at first, and Stan was about to put him down when his brother apparently changed his mind, resting his head back against his chest. He set Ford down on his bed, and it only took a minute before he was sitting up, rubbing at his (good) eye sleepily. They both changed for bed, Ford climbing under the covers, and Stan sat on the edge of his bed but didn’t do anything further. “You want me here, or over there?”

A singular moment of silence, then Ford beckoned him over with two fingers. He wasn’t expecting anything less, not after tonight’s earlier confession, and frankly, he didn’t want anything less, so it was with no hesitance that he made his way over to the other bed; not by much, but big enough for two, and they’d slept in much more cramped spaces before. He laid on his back, one arm underneath Ford, the other one in his curls. It was a position that was nothing but familiar to them, albiet one he’d missed the past weeks, and he was happy to be giving something back to Ford for once; a night of good sleep was not arbitrary, not to them. Ford gently set his head on his chest, managed to get his arms over him and their legs tangled up in his sleep. He was cute when he slept, endearing when he mumbled math equations and excerpts about the paranormal.

It wasn’t long before he drifted off himself; day and night cycles didn’t exist here, so he set his alarm for a good solid 10 hours--way more than usual, but Ford needed it and they’d both earned it. He felt well-rested when it finally buzzed, and he was overjoyed to see Ford’s head still on his chest, his own chest still gently rising and falling, curly hair a mop around his head. He stirred gently when he heard the alarm, too, wiggling off Stan to rub at his eyes, and Stan placed a gentle kiss to his forehead before throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and stretching.

“Stanley?”

It was a very soft, very genuine call, and there was some caution as he turned his head, tilted it gently, furrowed his eyebrows. “Yes, Ford?”

“Thank you...for what you did last night.” Ford met his eyes. “I don’t think I say thank you enough, Stanley.”

“‘S alright, Ford.” He said, walking around the bed and sitting on it next to him. Ford’s head lazily collapsed onto his shoulder. “I told you, that’s what I’m here for.”

But Ford wasn’t done. “And that I love you.” Their eyes met again, Ford’s at somewhat of a crossed angle from his head on his shoulder, and Ford’s hands went to his sleeves, gripping somewhat urgently. “I need you to know that, Stanley.”

He laughed slightly, pressing another soft kiss to his twin’s forehead. There was a minute of silence, just the rustling of the trees outside and the smell of last night’s forgotten tea in the air and the two twins who needed nobody else in the world cuddled close. Then Ford jumped to his feet, laughing.

“Race you down the stairs!”

“Seriously, Poindexter?” Stan stood too, brushing himself off. “You think you’re gonna beat me in a footrace?”

“Never said footrace.” Ford laughed, hefting his travel bag with one shoulder and the portal gun with the other. But Stan always had an extra trick or two up his sleeve.

“Ford?”

“What?”

“Love ya’ too.” When Ford’s face softened, like he’d never needed to hear any other words in his life, Stan took the opportunity to snatch the gun from his now-relaxed hand and toss it on the bed, sprinting for the door.

“Last one to the bottom buys waffles!”

If you liked this, I’d really appreciate some reblogs and even better, some feedback. Or if you think there’s something I can improve upon!! Hell, use the tags to tell me what you had for lunch. I don’t care. I hope you all enjoyed my first real fanfic though!!

#Gravity Falls #Stan Pines #Stanley Pines #Ford Pines #Stanford Pines #Stan and Ford #Stan Twins #pines twins #fanfic #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanfiction #fanfiction

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story-weaver-d · 5 years ago

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An edit from my last post.

A mother a lovely elf who performs an unusual show. She loved using her arcane abilities to bring joy to those around her. She had learned through her years how to make toys come to life. And crowds were very amused. One day she met a human who was traveling through town and he loved making fantastic toys. He was surprised top see my mom first in line to purchase from his unique selection. He was so curious but when he saw that she could bring the man's toys to life he was amazed. And decided he had to make toys just for her.

They decided to work together and they fell madly in love. It wasn't long after that they got married and had a half- elf child. They were all so happy together.

This child was taught by his father how to make toys as a pass time. It was time much better spent in his opinion than with the elven kids of the town which made fun of him at every opportunity. They called him names in elven assuming he couldn't understand because he was only a half elf. But he wasn't bothered. He could enjoy spending his time with his father.

One day around the boys 8th birthday his father got sick. It wasn't long before he passed away. It was hard on the boy and his mother both. For a while the boys mom couldn't bring herself to go outside and the toys once brought to life now lay still on a shelf. She wouldn't even look at the toys that now collected dust.

One dark day the boy went to market to get some food and drink for himself and his mother. And he was cornered by a couple of elven kids in the alley. They pushed the boy to the ground. "you're only a half breed. You need to get out of our city. " the elf quickly struck the boy. The boy reacted by putting his hands up and *pff*. He heard a thud. The boy looked up he saw something floating in the air a single large rock and an elf boy who struck him on the ground confused. The other elf couldn't even react before the half-elf boy struck him with the rock too. The elvish boys quickly ran away.

As the boy came out of the alley he noticed something strange. All the elves in town were looking at him. They knew the elven boys had pushed him into the alley. They knew everything the entire time. But no one was willing to help him. It was the first time he realized he was different and was treated differently by everyone. Including the adults. They were looking at him with anger instead of ignoring him now. As though he was doing something wrong. But he only defended himself and without even meaning to. So he grabbed his bread and fruit and ran home. Rushing into the house he eagerly explained what had happened and what he had done.

After the experience the boy and his mother left the elven city. His mother seemed revitalized somehow and started teaching him the ways of the arcane strings. It wasn't long at all before they both could make toys come to life. They were arcane puppeteers and boy made them new toys as they traveled and they put on showed while staying in taverns for coin and selling the very toys used in the show's to other kids.

One day an elf man approached them as they finished a show in a new town He was amazed with their gift. He offered a free room while they were in his town. He was an arcane mage but didn't know abilities like the boys and his mothers even existed. The boys mother fell in love with this elf and they stayed with the elven. After all it had been 3 years since the boys father passed and the boy was 11 now.

The man taught the boy a little about the arcane spells he knew and how they could be used. He apparently loved hearing himself talk. Something never quite felt right about the elven man. Something was odd about this mage.

One day after being with the elven man for two years there was yelling. The elvin man was angry at the boys mother for not being able to bear a child and gift him with a child.

He wanted a son of his own but the boys mother apparently could not have kids anymore. The boy shrugged it off and snuck outside. He imagined he couldn't hear them despite hearing the screaming and yelling. Then there was a loud crash. The boy rushed back into the house as the elvish man had walked out. The boy saw his mother with tears in her eyes. With a rosy red cheek. She'd been struck and this filled the boy with much rage. Even when he was bullied by the elven kids he didn't feel much rage. But this anger devoured him.

His mother stroked his hair and said it was ok. But it wasn't and the boy knew it wasn't. So when the boys mother was in the wash room he took a knife from the kitchen and hid it on a shelf in the book case. Just in case he needed to protect his mother she obviously needed protection. She obviously couldn't protect herself. She needed someone to protect her and he was the only one who could.

That night the boy had a bad feeling that he couldn't shake. Something seemed off. The elven man never came back so the boy got out of bed. He snuck through the hall and peeked into the candle lit kitchen to see a short man in black. He had the boys mother, his hand across her forehead and a sharp knife in her neck. As she was let go she collapsed on the ground, lifeless.

The boy seethed with anger. He saw the blood dripping from the man's knife as he wiped it off with a rag. The boy couldn't contain his rage any longer and with a yell he ran into the room and used his arcane strings to grab the hidden knife he had placed earlier. It flew into the man's back from behind. He never saw it coming as he let out a big grunt. He pulled out the knife and threw it to the ground he moved up to the boy so swiftly and quietly it was terrifying.

The short man went to plunge his knife into the boy's gut when the boy held up his hand in response and then he stopped. The man was brought to a stop. Again a knife had found his back but this time it was the boys mother. She impaled him with the kitchen knife and the guy was in shock as he looked back in horror. "You're dead! The elf said this job would be easy." The short man fell to his knees. He was dead.

The boy knew his mother was definitely dead. He was an arcane puppeteer and he could control all sorts of things. The short man and the boy didn't realize a corpse could be a puppet as a weapon. The gathered his things as he thought. He thought about his step dad, he thought about the short man and what he had said, he thought about revenge. The boy was full of rage. He packed food and everything. He'd need. That he'd used while traveling with his mom. He took the coins from the short man. He searched his belongings and took his knife as well as anything that seemed valuable. As he took things from the short man he pulled back his hood. It was a young halfling. Didn't seem very skilled probably new and cheap to hire. The boy thought to himself.

Before leaving the elena mansion home the boy kicked the halfling as hard as he could. "I'll kill that elven man one day. He'll die in the worst way for taking my mom from me. "

The boy changed into the darkest clothes he had. Putting on the halflings cloak and fingerless gloves.

The boy pulled his hood up and grabbed a few toys off the shelf and left on his own. At 13 years old all alone. Over the course of a few years he'd lost everything. But he had to do what he could to keep living. He had one main goal and no one would stop him. But he had to find a way to kill a mage.

A years passes by. The farther he got from the town his mother died the less he saw his wanted posters. He was wanted for the murder of his mother and a family friend. His face was posted all over the place for a while. So he made a mask to hide his face.

It was all just more fuel for the fire in his eyes. He now wears black garbs with a dark hood and a mask. Dark in color with a dark red smile and yellow eyes with purple lines under each eye.

His show's seem to grow in popularity. Crowds naturally group around his show while he does amazing things with his toys. From knights fighting dragons, to saving the damsel in distress. The people see incredible life like movement as the toys dance and fight. The people give coin in a tankard as the boy continues to perform.

One day in the back of the crowd is someone dressed like the boy he's big and broad with dark clothes and a dark green cloak covering his face. He smiles as notices something odd about the show. And he approaches the boy after his show.

"Care to talk?" The boy snaps "busy."

"A small toy makes his way through the crowds back. He swiftly uses a sharp knife to cut pursed and gathers the few extra coins from non payers. Still not interested?" The boy having been caught red handed. "Yeah, I'll chat."

The two walk off to a dark corner as the man pulls back his hood revealing a big dark green half-orc with huge tusks and a scar across his face.

The half-orc clears his throat before speaking up. "you've got skill boy. But if you don't watch it you'll get found out. Just like today. I can teach you some interesting tricks if you're interested. I'm a half-orc of many talents" "What's in it for you?" The boy snaps. "Half our lootings" before he knew it the boy was in training. The half-orc taught him how to sneak around so quietly no one could hear him. and he was fast too. He learned how to pick locks and many useful tricks as well as weapons training. The man trained him to use many weapons and how to create and disarm traps. They stole from many people and made lots of money together. Somehow although very different the half-orc reminded the boy of his father. They had fun being bad and took from a lot of people. But they eventually attracted too much attention do to the amount of thievings in the town. The guard became so tight the half orc decided it was time to move on.

The day they were to leave the boy came back to their shelter with supplies for traveling. He opened the door and found the half-orc dead on the floor in a puddle of his own blood. The boy heard rustling in the back room. The boy snuck in and snatched his gear that was ready for them and left without a sound thought. At the front door he noticed a paper. Picking it up it was his wanted poster. The boy adjusted his mask and looked around. He snuck into the shrubbery and waited outside the door.

It wasn't long until the guy walked out and it was an elven man with armor. It was someone he'd once seen come and visit his step father. One of his ears had skars on it from being re attached.

The boy squinted at the man and before the elvish man could get away you could hear the pop of the elf's skin as a burly half orc pushes a blade into the back of the elf. The elf screams in pain as the half orc shoves his fist into the mouth of the elf and pulls him inside the shelter.

The orc then takes and ties the elf to a chair. And pulls the roaps so tight the elf looks like his eyes will pop out.

The orc takes off all his weapons and as quickly as he had struck the half orc falls over, lifeless. The elf confused struggles to get up. But fails. And quietly he hears a voice say from behind him.

"What are you looking for?" "Who's there!" The elf shouts loudly. "You were asked first." The boy hissed. Trying to distort his voice. The elf said nothing. "I recognize you, you're friends with the wrong people, and he sent you here didn't he." The elf again said nothing. The boy once again moved the half orc and put his face into the elf's face. "Why did you kill my friend?" And the half orc grabbed his dagger and slowly put it into the fire. He reached over and burned the elf's face. "Better talk before your face looks like your ear." As the sizzle and smell fill the room.

After a few hours the man had told him everything he wanted to know. The elf was hunting the boy. His step father hired him to kill the boy and instead found the half-orc. He found out that the boys father could scy on him using his old belongings. So he couldn't hide. But he was also told him scrying wasn't cheap for his step father. The Elf told the boy that his friend was the one he'd killed and that more of there friends would come in time for the boy. But he has traveled so far it's still a pain to find the boy.

Days passed and the boy walks out into the light and takes a bite of some bread. He throws his pack onto his shoulder and heads out.

His goal is repurposed and he starts traveling again. Still filled with anger and rage. But a look of satisfaction on his face. He pulls out a small notebook and scribbles. Then puts it away.

The boy is now a man. He's Traveled far, making money as a showman with his toys. Always on the move so they don't find him. On the side he crafts and works works on new tools to use because he know's he's being hunted. These tools he'll use for his protection and his revenge. It's his first life size puppet. Crafted to look like a goblin and is given a dagger and a cloak. To test out his new puppet he travels into the woods outside the town he's passing through. The puppet is heavy. It'll take some time to adjust. But he quickly darts the puppet around as though it were a real moving creature. The puppet swings it's knife through the air as though it were clashing swords with another creature. This is a useful tool because it's not just a dead body. But it's crafted for his own abilities.

Suddenly he spots a small squirrel out of the corner of his eye and *fwip*. The knife cuts it down. The practice is successful and the half elf grins. "Having protection is sweet, but getting revenge will be sweeter." He smiles as the hair on his neck stands on end. And he knows, he's being watched right now.

#writers on tumblr #writing #d&d story #d&d #d&d shenanigans #dungeons and dragons #backstory #edit

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megan-callitwhatyouwant · 6 years ago

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What Taylor Swift means to me: An essay

Taylor Swift is not just another popstar - not to me at least, and I need to vent.

Taylor Swift’s debut self-titled album came out on October 4, 2006, I was 7 years old at the time, about to turn 8. I felt really alone, my parents were in pre-divorce meaning they were still trying to work through a failing marriage and living in my home was like walking on eggshells, it didn’t help that we had just recently moved from Kentucky to Illinois, hours away from any family so we were on our own. It was summer of 2007 that my mom’s dad and stepmother came to visit us from Kentucky. My Nana (my mom’s stepmother) really loved country music. I did not, I hated it, and was really disappointed to see that CMT was the channel she had chosen to watch (not to worry I have since grown and seen the light that country music can be in dark times, I also discovered old country which is honestly ~iconic~.) As I was actively bitching in my head about how much I hate country music Taylor Swift came on the screen with her super curly blonde hair talking to “Drew” in front of some lockers and I was of course intrigued, the next scene is her laying in a bed snuggling a guitar with rhinestones on her face and lip gloss on her lips (which was and always will be iconic) and I was absolutely obsessed. I begged and begged my mom for the album and finally received it in November of 2007 for my 9th birthday, by this point my dad had lost his job, at the time I didn’t know why but I later found out he was so depressed about his relationship falling apart that he had just quit going to work, his options were to find a new job in Illinois where we lived or to take his old job in Kentucky back. He ended up doing the latter and moved away. We stayed in Illinois so my mom, who went back to school late could finish her degree, at the time the understanding was 2 years. It was like really really hard on me when my dad left, I fell apart a bit and was angry at my mom for keeping us in Illinois and angry at my dad for leaving but it’s hard to be angry at someone you miss. My dad always got me a white teddy bear on Valentine’s day and the most recent one had been easily my favorite and I started taking it to school with me everyday to still feel close to him, everyone knows how kids can be especially when you’re taking a freaking stuffed animal to school and you’re almost 10 years old. I knew it was going to happen, I knew I was going to get shit from other kids but it was so important to me to just have that little piece of my dad and to not feel alone but things got really hard with the other kids. Taylor Swift felt like my only friend and she sang about being an outcast in songs like “The Outside” and “A Place in this World.” She gave me songs to feel sad to when I was angry like “Invisible” and “Cold as You.” Absolute bops to make everything feel right in the world like “Mary’s Song”, “Our Song”, and “Should’ve said no.” This album had everything I needed when I was going through this as a kid and listening to it even now serves as a reminder that things eventually get better and the songs on it are all still absolute bangers. Taylor knows how to capture feelings that feel unmanageable and unexplainable and make them magically feel manageable and like a shared experience. This is I believe what has made Taylor such an unrelenting force in the music industry and why she so seamlessly was able to transition from country to pop. It was never about the genre it was absolutely always about her lyrical genius and the shared human experiences she has always been able to portray so well.

I am so lucky that I found Taylor at such a young age, dumb luck has had her releasing albums exactly when I needed them most. Fearless came out a little before my birthday in 2008, Taylor has a pattern of releasing albums in the fall which also happens to be when my birthday is so it works out perfectly for me. Fearless served as a healing album for me, it was one I danced around my room with my one friend to. It helped me cope with my first crush who obviously didn’t like me back and it made me feel normal despite how hectic my life was with my dad being gone and my mom being essentially a single mother with 2 kids while pursuing a college degree (which was an amazing feat for her but didn’t leave her much time to spend with my sister and I.) I absolutely adored Taylor Swift and every song she released just made me feel everything and I loved her. Fearless for me is like a time capsule to simpler times, I listen to Fearless and it makes me feel like everything is going to be okay and everything was for a while. I found out in Summer of 2010 that my parents were getting a divorce, I had thought that they were trying to work things out so this came as a shock to me, my mom wouldn’t tell me what happened. Me and my friend I mentioned earlier, Margaret-Rose, were on a spy kick we had just gotten our hands on the Nancy Drew movie that came out in 2007 and had recently watched Harriet the Spy so we came up with a plan to figure out what had happened. My mom is the type of person to tell every bit of her own and everyone else’s business to her friends on the phone so me and Margaret-Rose thought it would be an excellent idea to have a sleepover, put on all black and sneak downstairs and out into the garage where my mom would have private phone conversations, we snuck out and hid behind my mom’s van in the garage and waited for her to come out and call a friend, we knew she would do this because she did this every night, she still does. What we found out is that my Dad had cheated on her and she had already been cheating on him, in my little 10 year old brain this computed to both my parents are terrible people and I was of course extremely hurt. I didn’t know how to tell my mom that I’d heard her, I laid there venting and crying to my friend all night it just was all around bad. Of course not too long after Speak Now came out and had the songs “Innocent” and “Never grow up” on it which were a huge part in my healing from what I’d heard. “Innocent” helped me realize that I didn’t have to be mad no matter how wrong the things they did were, I could be hurt and forgive them without holding onto the anger that I felt, I could see them as innocent people who just made some mistakes. This is of course easier said than done and I sometimes do still feel angry but it really helped me adjust my perspective and I come back to both songs frequently. The album also had, as always, a few bangers to help you forget and feel magical. Speak Now is hard for me to listen to now despite being such a beautiful and heavy body of work just because it takes me back to such dark times, but I think sometimes it’s important to take yourself back there just to show yourself what you went through and know that you got through it. Speak Now for me serves as a testament to the strength it takes to get through that kind of emotional pain and broken trust.

Taylor’s album “Red” came out in the last half of my 8th grade year, this year was rough for me because I knew it would be the last school year I’d spend in Illinois with the people I’d been going to school with for most of my life and then I’d be moving back to Kentucky to be near my Dad, 5 years later than the initial plan. It was just too hard for my parents to be around each other so they chose to stay in separate states which obviously wasn’t easy for the kids involved. It just served as an escape from my usual life as all previous albums had, I loved how much raw emotion was involved in this album especially. With “All Too Well” I couldn’t relate to the romantic part of it, but there were so many lines in the song I could relate to easily which is an amazing thing about Taylor Swift songs almost exclusively, even if the entire song doesn’t quite fit your situation you can always find a line or verse somewhere that just hits you hard in the chest. For me anxiety about moving away was eating me up and the line, “Time won’t fly it’s like I’m paralyzed by it, I’d like to be my old self again but I’m still trying to find it” just hit home so hard the first time I heard the song, that line comes to mind every time I feel nervous or scared about anything for a while because it just embodies that feeling so well of just not feeling like you and wanting what you’re going through to be over. I’ve never been through a romantic heart break but I’ve had friends break my heart and parents and just life in general and Taylor just embodied that so well with this song. This album is one I come back to frequently as I get older, it’s amazing how coming back to the albums you can experience them differently with your new life experiences. I’ll get back to Red later.

1989 came out October of my sophomore year of high school and I didn’t listen to it. My parents were actually going through the legal process of a divorce and things were just bad. I lived in a hotel for 2 weeks bad and didn’t want another one of her albums to feel like a time capsule to terrible times so I was waiting for things to get better but they just got worse my junior year. I listened to a lot of My Chemical Romance those 2 years if that shows at all just how angry and unhappy I was, I’m not going to get into it too much but my junior year of high school was the worst year of my life hands down. I FINALLY listened to this album in its entirety my SENIOR year of high school. I’d obviously heard songs from it on the radio despite trying not to and they were amazing and the album won a Grammy for album of the year, I was extremely excited to hear Taylor’s first all out pop album. She’d experimented with pop on a few songs on Red and those were, of course, iconic bangers. 1989 will always be one of my favorite albums by Taylor. I was (am) in a happy relationship, I was (am) in love, and I was thriving as a senior. It was one of the happiest times of my life and I could finally listen to her love songs and actually fully understand what she meant. “You are in love” will always always always mean everything to me and be about my boyfriend. “Clean” absolutely brought me to tears after the years I’d had before, I was reminded how healing she can be. “Style” is THE bad bitch anthem, there is no other song you can hit a strut to like “Style.” Taylor really made the perfect pop album on her first try and I’m so glad I waited to listen to it despite missing out on following the tour and watching the press conferences because 1989 will now forever be a time capsule into one of the happiest times of my life.

Reputation came out when I was starting college and let me tell you I HATE college. I was hating life and in the midst of all the college hating I was doing I find out that my boyfriend had chosen to attend a college in Pennsylvania which, for reference, is a 12 hour drive away from me. Aiden is the actual light of my life, he is what is good in this universe. He’s patient with me when I don’t deserve it, he understands me, and is there for me when I need him and how I need him without fail. He, much like Taylor, just knows what to say and how to make things better, they are the type of people everyone should strive to be like. Aiden being there makes things so much better so finding out he wasn’t going to physically be here anymore was rough. Life was rough, and I of course had a fresh Taylor album right when I needed it. This album was different from the rest because she was happy and in love when she wrote it, she had overcome hardships and I had never been able to relate to one of her albums more. I knew what it felt like to be misunderstood and seen as the bad guy by the people around me and watching her rise from the ashes the way that I had to not too long ago made me feel so good, I was so glad to see her happy and I was so happy to have the love songs to describe what I was feeling to go with it. “Dress” reminds me of how I felt about Aiden before he was my boyfriend, “Call it what you want” reminded me of him still wanting me despite the rough years I’d had previously, “King of my heart” ,“New Years Day”, and “Don’t blame me” will always be Aiden songs to me, always. Not to mention the absolute bangers Reputation delivered in “Delicate”, “I did something bad”, and “Ready for it…” Reputation deserved album of the year hands down and I’ll leave it at that. Despite Reputation being Taylor’s most lovey album by far Red has some of the most iconic love songs on it as well, “Treacherous” and “Come back, Be here” fit my situation so well it’s scary and they really just help me a lot right now because long distance is hard and I don’t know anyone I can talk to who can relate to what I’m going through fully and Taylor really just is there for me, again.

My point in all this is that Taylor Swift will be an icon long after she stops producing music and writing songs. I’m confident that this generation’s children will listen to her music and their children’s children because she is timeless. The raw emotion that goes into her songs is timeless and relatable. Her music isn’t popular because it’s catchy (though she’s good at that too - see “Shake it off”,) Its popular because she captures those raw emotions that you don’t know how to put into words or cope and puts them into words, she makes them normal, she makes you feel like you are not alone. She not only does this with her music but in the way that she treats her fans, she invites groups of fans to her home to play the album for them before it becomes available to the public, she interacts with them online, her mother handpicks fans from the crowds at her concerts to meet her backstage. She feels like a friend more than a celebrity and that is the magic that is Taylor Swift. I can’t wait for the next chapter.

@taylorswift

#taylorlurking #taylurking #taylor swift #essay

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voidszoro · 5 years ago

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In Denial // A Theo Raeken story

Chapter 6

Theo's pov: (warning, a bit of violence in Theo's pov but none in Ruby's so if you want you can skip theos pov) (also update, Ruby's pov contains some hints of depression, anxiety, and mentions self harm. If you can't read, trust me, i completely understand. It was hard writing. All i want to say is that if you need help, if you are thinking of harming yourself in anyway, please ask for help. My messages are always open if you don't feel comfortable talking to anyone. I Promise i dont judge. Take care. Here is the chapter xoxo)

The dream always starts off the same way.

I wake up in the morgue. The box in which I lay is tight and dark, but beyond my feet, an infinite abyss streches out. I raise my arms over my head and push open the door to the box. It slams into the other boxes on the side and I take my arms out so I can push myself out. The cold metal trey that holds me slides out of the box and two legs, almost like a table, swing out from underneath the trey keeping me from falling on the hard tile floor. I sit up on my trey, finally out of the box and take a breath of fresh air.

The dream Isn't over yet.

I place my bare feet on the tiles and lift myself to a stand. The cool air in the morgue sends chills through my half naked body. I only wear a thin pair of basketball shorts. A woman's voice echos my name throughout the room. It repeats over and over and I get the feeling of it drawing me into it. I start to walk out of the room, pushing open the two swinging doors, but I hesitate. I know what's coming, but everytime I try to fight back, I fail. The voice rings louder as I push the doors open anyway, knowing there's no way out but through her. My sister.

I walk down to the end of the hallway, each step I take feeding me more fear than the last.

"Theo," the voice gets louder and louder as I get closer to the end. I take a stop once coming to the end of the hallway and in front of the check in desk of the hospital.

"Theo!" The voice growls from behind me. I snap around and see what I dreaded. A teenage girl, about my age, crawls towards me on her hands and knees. Her gaze pierces through my horrified eyes as I look down at her chest. Her rib cages poke out of her and there is an empty spot in the middle. That is where her heart would be.

This is my punishment. I deserve this for doing it to her.

She finally reaches me and I can't move a single muscle in my body like I've been poisoned by canima venom. My sister drags me down by the heel and crawls on top of me, her gaze not once faltering. The horror on my face spreads to my whole body as I scream at the top of my lungs. She takes her hand and plunges into my center which makes me squirm and scream louder. She digs around in my chest for a second until she pulls out my heart. The blood from the organ drips everywhere as she puts it inside of her own chest. She shouts at me with almost the same power as Lydia, a banshee.

"Helloooo" I hear another voice in my head. I shake my head, finding myself standing in front of Scott's front door, a hand wavig in front of my face.

"Theoooo, you still alive over there?" I nod my head.

"Yeah, sorry I was just thinking." I rub the wrinkles on my forehead caused by my furrowed brows.

"Pretty vivid thought huh? You were blank for a good minute there." She reaches out for my hand. Why is she being so nice to me?

I take her hand in mine and then squeeze it in three short intervals. She smiles at me and we stand there for a good thirty seconds until she finally lets go of my sweaty hand and opens the door.

Everyone is here. Well, everyone that is left. The wild hunt has taken almost everyone in Beacon Hills. Ruby finishes explaining my reason for being here and I step further into the small, tidey home. There are photos lining the walls right when you walk in, like a story. They hang neatly and precise. Some pictures have multiple people in them, some are just some yearbook photos of Scott. Unfortunately, I don't spend long admiring the delicate memories of Scott's family when Ruby pulls my hand and drags me fully into the living room. A tall man stands in the room, and I immediately recognize him, but Ruby takes a minute.

"Who's he?" She asks.

Scott replies, "It's Peter. As in Peter Hale." Ruby's eyes go wide for a second.

"Ohhh. How could I forget? You. Evil bitch."

"Hey, hey, hey. No need for any language Ruby. I'm actually here to help. I know where Stiles is."

RUBYS POV:

Of course I don't completely trust Peter. I never will. Even though, technically, he's my alpha. He's the one who bit me. The morning after Scott got bit. When I started taking morning jogs.

"What makes you think I belive you? What do you want in return?" My voice echos through the silent room.

"In return, I would like you to trust me. You know, I bit you for a reason. I needed a pack. I needed more power. But- but that doesn't matter anymore. All I ask is that you help me help you save Stiles so we can get Malia out too." His eyes are full of sincerity. I feel bad for him. He loves Malia. I know it.

I remember as soon as he found out that she was his daughter, he had some sort of scent to him. I've never smelt it before and it reminded me of pride and happiness mixed together.

"We'll get her out I promise," Scott is the one to speak this time. Peter might be my only chance to see Stiles again. To get him back. I know Lydia feels the same. She probably misses him more than I. I've seen the way the two look at eachother. It's mesmerizing to watch. It's love.

We go through our idea of finding another rip in the two dimensions, the wild hunt and earth. Part of me thinks we have no hope. I feel like I'm the only one who thinks that. Everyone just seems so confident in everything. Especially Scott. That's why after the pack meeting. I go home and take a long, hot shower.

The water burns my skin to the touch when I step into the wet oasis. I left Theo in my room. Unoccupied, which is probably not a good idea, but I don't acknowledge it at the moment. I'm only focused on the burning feeling. The feeling not only on the surface of my skin, but on the inside. I feel the left over bits of passion from today start to melt away at the heat. My body tenses up, but only for a second. I close my eyes and drift off into bliss. The water running all the way down my bare body. I run my fingers through my hair and breath in the steam that accumulates in the shower with me. My mind starts racing as my body finally gets used to the warmth of the water. I think, what would my life be like if I was only human. What would my life be like without Stiles.

And then the memories flood my head, making me slightly dizzy.

(Once again, warning)

I'm sitting on my bed, a knife in my hand. I remember this day. I was exausted. I had had an anxiety attack in class that day. Everyone looked at me weird when the teacher asked if I was alright. My breaths were shallow but quick. Stiles saw me immediately and dragged me out of class. I remember his voice apologizeing to the teacher. He carries me into the girls locker room, I'm still taking quick breaths. My heartbeat increased by a million from the time I was in the class to the time I was proped up against the shower walls. Stiles had delt with my attacks before but not at school. He gets them too sometimes. He was trying everything to get me to clam down. He squeezed my nose and coverd my mouth, trying to get me to hold my breath. It obviously didn't work. I was squirming everywhere. Until I wasn't moving. The only movement was my chest moving up and down and the water that now coverd my entire body. The water even got on Stiles' clothes. He turned the shower on. The warm water engulfed me like a volcano of relief.

When Stiles walked me down the hallways to the outside of school where the Sheriff's car sat, the bell rang. Everyone in their classes came flooding outside. I was drenched in school locker room shower water and I look like I almost drowned. Everyone stared. Everyone's eyes stayed glued to me as Stiles had to forcefully drag me outside to the ride he called.

Dad dropped us home and Stiles stayed with me until seven. I remember, because immediately after he left my room, I looked at the clock as I pulled the knife out of my drawer. Every part of me begging to take some of the pain away. I wasn't a wolf yet, didn't even know about that stuff. I didn't want to just get high, partially because I didn't know how to, it was 8th grade. I had made the decision earlier that day. I had had too many embarrassing moments during the three years of my middle school carrier. I couldn't get away from myself.

I lifted my shirt to reveal the scars on my stomach. They were almost gone. I was going to be one month clean tomorrow. Not anymore.

(Okay we good now)

I jolt back to reality in the shower. The water is turning colder the longer I stay inside. I finish my normal shower routine and switch the water off. I grab a towel from its hanger in the bathroom, dry off a bit, and wrap it around my cold body. I look up at the fogged mirror and see a smiley face drawn in the steam and "-T". I let out a giggle.

A giggle, seriously? My inner voice complains. I remember what I'm doing, which is putting clothes on, and do that.

Once im fully dressed im my comfy black leggings, blue tee shirt, and some white ankle socks with a check on the side, I step out of the steamy room. A chill sweeps through me. I quickly race to the thermostat and turn the temperature up a hell of a lot. Theo must've turned it down.

I walk into my room, seeing Theo sitting on my bed. His legs hang off as he faces me. This reminds me of the last time he was sitting like this, a few weeks ago when I let him stay in the spare room.

It's only four o'clock.

"I'm starving," I realize out loud. Theo keeps his gaze on me. For some reason, he seems to be analyzing me. I grab his hand and pull him up so he's standing. "My dad's gonna be home at five, let's get you something to eat."

Once in the kitchen, we rummage through the kitchen for any signs of food. Apparently, nobody in Beacon Hills, no pay check for the Sheriff. That also means no groceries.

I hear the front door creak open and then slam shut.

"Hey, anybody home?" My dad shouts from the living room. I go wide eyed at Theo. Dad's not the biggest fan of this boy who went to hell.

"Yeah, um- wait. I'm not wearing pants!" I shout and Theo shoots me a devious glare. Yep. There's the boy who went to hell.

"Why- Ruby." He takes a deep breath. I'm never gonna live this down.

"Just stay there, dad. Let me go upstairs." Unfortunately for me, the stairs were in the living room. "Can you cover your eyes?" He grunts a response which I take as a yes. I put a finger to my mouth and direct it at Theo. Then I signal him to follow me. He does.

I give it a few minutes upstairs before I come back down. My dad stands awkwardly in the kitchen.

"There's no food." I say. "Wanna order a pizza? It has to be that place outside of Beacon Hills."

Hii again. It's em. How was this chapter?? Also hello new readers ily sm. Ooh i have a questionnn what's your favorite pizza topping? Mine's cheese and extra cheese. Xoxo -em

Wc: wow 2171♡

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