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banapsha · 10 months ago

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Plotting like a Pro: The Only Guide You Need to Outline Your Next Novel

So, you've got this brilliant idea for a novel swirling around in your big monster brain, but you're not quite sure how to wrangle it into shape. *read this next line dramatically* Fear not, soldier, for I am here to guide you through the tumultuous journey of outlining your masterpiece. *you can stop now* But do get ready to dive into the wild world of outlining – where chaos meets creativity, and brainy think-think meets handy write-write.

What Exactly is an Outline?

An outline is basically like the blueprint for your novel – it's your roadmap to success, your guiding light through the abyss (too much?) It breaks down the events of your story in sequential order, ensuring that you stay on track and don't accidentally veer off into the land of plot holes and confusion. Think of it as your comic relief best friend (minus the comic relief), always there to keep you in check as you navigate the treacherous waters of writing.

What Does an Outline Look Like?

Now, technically speaking, there are rules for outlining. But hey, as long as whatever you decide to do works for you, you need no rules. Some fancy folks swear by fancy formats like the skeletal outline or the flashlight outline (let me know if you need details on said fancy formats), but honestly, as long as it works for you, you do you, boo-bear (that’s definitely not my thing). Whether you prefer bullet points, numbers, or hieroglyphics (AKA code), the format doesn't matter as long as it's easy for you to understand. After all, the point is to simplify the process, not complicate it further.

Benefits of Outlining:

Oh boy, where do I even begin with this one? Let me count the ways outlining will change your writing game (maybe even your life. Okay, that was too much.): (TIP: read the headings dramatically for a better experience)

It’s Your Beakon Through the Murky Waters: Ever feel like you're navigating through a dense fog with no compass in sight? Fear not, my friend, because outlining is exactly that for when you enter the said forest to write your book; your guiding light. It's like having a trusty co-pilot by your side, whispering sweet plot pointers in your ear as you navigate the treacherous waters of storytelling. No more aimless wandering – with outlining, you'll always know which way to steer your literary ship.

Plot Holes? Not on My Watch: Say goodbye to those pesky plot holes that seem to pop up out of nowhere like weeds in a garden. Outlining is like a preemptive strike against narrative inconsistencies, ensuring that your story is as tight as corsets from start to finish. With each plot point neatly mapped out, you can rest easy knowing that your readers won't be left scratching their heads wondering what the heck just happened.

It Helps You Defy the Abyss: Picture this: your story is like a runaway train hurtling down the tracks at breakneck speed. Without proper guidance, it's all too easy for it to veer off course and crash and burn in a fiery wreck (That would be an awesome scene but not what we’re looking for.) Outlining is like the conductor that keeps that train chugging along on the right track. No detours, no distractions – just a straight shot to narrative greatness.

Crafting a Killer Climax: Ah, the climax – the moment we've all been waiting for. With outlining in your team, crafting a jaw-dropping climax is as easy as pie. No more floundering around trying to figure out how to tie up loose ends – your outline has already done the heavy lifting for you. So go ahead, crank up the tension, unleash those plot twists, and watch as your readers' jaws hit the floor.

Also, Adios, Writer's Block: Writer's block – the nemesis of every living writer. But not anymore, because outlining is like a magical antidote that banishes writer's block to the furthest corners of the earth. With each plot point neatly laid out before you, there's no room for procrastination or self-doubt. So grab that pen, flex those creative muscles, and get ready to slay the blank page like never before.

Less Revision, More Celebration: Let's face it – nobody likes revising their work. It's like trying to untangle a knot of Christmas lights – frustrating, time-consuming, and guaranteed to give you a headache. But with outlining, you can kiss those revision woes goodbye. By nailing down your story's structure from the get-go, you'll save yourself countless hours of agony down the line. So go ahead, pat yourself on the back – you've earned it, champ.

Stuck While Outlining?

Feeling like you're trapped in a maze with no way out? (Lucky for you, you're not Newt. Get it?) Don't sweat it, my friend. Because Mama’s about to drop some bombs!

Work Backwards Like a Boss: Ever heard the phrase "it's easier to navigate a maze when you see the finish line"? Well, tiny, it's time to put that theory to work. When you find yourself stuck in the tangled web of outlining, start with the climax – the grand finale, the pièce de résistance. Then, work backward, asking yourself how the f*ck you got there in the first place. It's like retracing your steps through a labyrinth, armed with the knowledge of where you're headed. Suddenly, those tangled plot threads start to unravel, and you're on your way to outlining glory.

Outlining Ain't Easy, But Neither is Writing: Let's be real for a minute – outlining is hard. Like, really hard. But here's the thing: so is writing. You're basically creating something out of nothing, conjuring entire worlds and characters out of thin air (or neurons). But when you tackle outlining head-on, you're tackling that frustration right at the source. Instead of letting it simmer beneath the surface throughout the entire writing process, you're ripping it off like a band-aid and getting it out of the way upfront. Sure, it might be tough, but trust me – it's a heck of a lot easier than dealing with it later down the line.

Don't Skip Outlining, You'll Regret It: Now, I get it – outlining can be a pain in the @$$. It's tempting to skip this step altogether and dive headfirst into the writing process. But trust me when I say this: if you’re new and want to make your life easier in the long run, outlining is non-negotiable. Think of it like laying the foundation for a house – sure, it takes time and effort, but without it, your literary masterpiece is destined to crumble (with all the people still inside). So don't shoot yourself in the foot by skipping outlining just because it's difficult. (You shoot your foot now, something is gonna come bite you in your backside later.)

Does Outlining Ruin the Creative Process?

Ah, the age-old question. Does outlining zap all the creativity out of writing? Short answer: absolutely not. In fact, outlining is like flexing your creative muscles on steroids (or any other choice of d*ug). It's your chance to invent an entire world, complete with characters, conflicts, and plot twists in like a jiffy! Think of it as storytelling in shorthand – compact, efficient, and oh-so-satisfying. Outlining isn't the enemy of creativity – it's the ultimate wingman. It's like playing god in your own little literary universe, and let me tell you, it's a heck of a rush.

Forget what you've heard about outlining being dry and boring – it's anything but. (This is your GOD era) Trust me, there's nothing more satisfying than seeing your world completely mapped out in full.

Embrace it, harness it, and watch as your dream narrative becomes a reality.

With an Outline, You Know What's Coming Next...But Does That Lessen the Excitement?

With an outline in hand, you're always in the know about what's coming next. But that doesn't take away from the thrill of writing the novel. Honestly, it's quite the opposite for me. I find myself even more excited to dive into my story because I have a roadmap of where it's headed. Knowing the next scene waiting to unfold keeps me on the edge of my seat, eager to see how it all plays out (I like to know that I am heading towards that one gut-wrenching bit that will make my audiences wish I was dead. It's really fun; sometimes waiting for deaths and stuff.) Plus, there's no room for boredom when you're constantly propelled forward by the anticipation of what's to come. Unless, of course, you've outlined a snooze-fest of a story – but let's be real, who wants to write that?

What if I Need to Deviate from My Outline?

Ah, the age-old dilemma of sticking to the script versus going off-book. Here's the deal – your book, your choice. The outline you wrote is not carved in stone. It's more like a rough sketch, a guideline to keep you on track.

So what if you hit a snag and need to deviate from your outline? It happens to the best of us. Sometimes while writing you realize that you have something more interesting than what you’ve written in your outline. Do it. We’re all not perfect.

Now, a common gripe among writers is when their characters seem to have a mind of their own and they veer off script. But let's get one thing straight – your characters are as fictional as a unicorn riding a rainbow. They don't have any authority; you do.

So when you say your character "decided" to go rogue, what you really mean is that your outline didn't quite sync up with their psyche.

The solution? Plan your characters alongside your outline, ensuring they're in harmony with the plot. Build characters that fit snugly into your story's framework, and vice versa.

How Long Should My Outline Be?

F*ck, I don't know, ah, your outline should be as long as it needs to be. *nailed it*

Some writers prefer short, concise outlines that just cover the basics, while others go full-on novel mode with lengthy tomes that leave no stone unturned. There's no right or wrong answer here, folks – it's all about what works best for you.

Some Famous Authors Don't Outline, Why Should I?

Well, here's the deal – you're the captain of your own writing ship, and nobody's forcing you to walk on the wooden plank.

Sure, there are legendary authors out there who craft masterpieces without ever touching an outline. But unless you're a seasoned pro, it might be wise to outline before beginning to stay away from C.H.A.O.S. (not me foreshadowing my next book) (Follow me on Instagram for updates!)

Remember the writers you are comparing yourself to have likely got years of experience under their belts, while you might still be finding your Nemo.

Let's say that outlining just isn't you. Maybe you thrive on spontaneity and the thrill of discovery. Or perhaps you're still figuring out your writing groove. That's cool – we're all on our own journey.

But do not forget: for every famous author who shuns outlines, there are plenty more who swear by them like a sailor (get it? Coz a sailer swears a lot). So instead of trying to walk in someone else's boots, lace up your own and run on that race track like no one has ever baby.

It's your story – so tell it your way.

Do I Have to Outline?

Nyet. (And Da)

See, in the wild world of writing, there are two main camps: the planners and the pantsters. Think of them as the yin and yang of the literary universe.

Now, there's no denying that there are some writers out there who can weave an epic novel out of thin air with the grace of a ninja. But let's keep it real – those folks are like The Avengers of our world. Sure, they exist, but they're definitely the exception, not the rule.

For us mere mortals, outlining is like a trusty lifeboat in the stormy seas of storytelling. It's the secret sauce that turns a plate of pasta into a plate of pasta; if you catch my drift.

If you're finding yourself drowning in a sea of plot twists and character arcs, maybe it's time to give outlining a whirl. If you're one of the lucky few who can thrive without a roadmap, more power to ya (you nasty little b*tch. Yes, I am jealous of you!)

Just remember – if you ever find yourself shipwrecked on the shores of writer's block, the outline lifeboat is always there to rescue you. There's no shame in admitting you need a little help along the way.

How to Outline:

Step #0: Brain Dump: You're struck by a lightning bolt of inspiration, and suddenly, your brain is buzzing with a million ideas. What do you do? Simple – grab a pen and paper, or your laptop (or your phone, you lazy @$$) and unleash the chaos onto the page. Let it all out – every random thought, half-baked concept, and outlandish idea. It's like a creative free-for-all, with no rules and no judgment. It doesn’t have to make sense, that’s the whole point. This messy brain dump is your starting point, your raw material to mold into something magical.

Step #1: Making Sense of the Madness: Now that you've got a heaping pile of ideas to work with, it's time to roll up your sleeves and get down to business. Think of this step as your personal pitch meeting with yourself. You've got a mess of concepts, characters, and themes swirling around in your head – now it's time to wrangle them into submission. Start by sketching out the basics – the premise, the characters, the vibe, the themes, the subplots – all of it. Keep it loose, keep it flexible, and above all, keep it open to change. Play around with different ideas and see what sticks. Once you've got some ideas that make sense and that you're happy with, it's time to move on to the next step and bring your story to life. Buckle up, Buttercup.

Step #2: The Rough Sketch: This is where the real magic happens– where you take that messy somewhat sensible pile of ideas and start sculpting them into the masterpiece they are going to be. First things first, dig deep into the heart of your story. What are the main conflicts your characters are going to face? What obstacles will they encounter along the way? This is your chance to map out the twists and turns that will keep your readers on the edge of their seats. Now, break it down into four key areas: Who, What, How, and Why. Who are your characters? What drives them, what haunts them, what makes them tick? What's the basic premise of your story – the very thing that'll hook your audience in 30 seconds flat? How will your characters go on both internal and external journeys, and what will they learn along the way? And most importantly, why are you passionate about this story's theme? What do you want to shout from the rooftops, and what big ideas do you want to explore through your character's journey? At its core, the rough sketch is all about finding the story in the mess. It's about distilling your ideas down to their purest essence and uncovering the beating heart of your narrative. So don't be afraid to explore and experiment. Dream big, think outside the box, and create something truly extraordinary.

Step #3: The Outline: Now, after what seems like decades of work, it's time to take that rough sketch of yours and start turning it into something truly spectacular. I usually use the Three-Act Structure. This bad boy is like the backbone of storytelling – it's what keeps the narrative strong and sturdy. If you have any other story structures you swear by, use one of those. Basically, you’re grabbing a story structure that you believe suits your rough sketch and breaking down your sketch into the key story beats of your structure. For the Three-Act Structure, it is usually like this: Act One: the setup, where you introduce your characters and set the stage for the adventure to come. Act Two: the confrontation, where the action heats up and your characters face their biggest challenges head-on. And Act Three: the resolution, where everything comes together in a satisfying conclusion. You can choose to go as in-depth here as you want. (Maybe write like a 20,000-word outline, I don't care.) Now, if you’re not a big fan of writing a 20,000-word outline, the bullet-point outline is here to save your day. It's like the shorthand version of outlining – short, sweet, and to the point. This outline gives you a sense of your character arcs, internal conflicts, and transformative journeys, all without bogging you down with unnecessary details. The beauty of it all? You get to choose your own adventure. If you're happy with your bullet-point outline and ready to dive into drafting, go for it. But if you're itching to go deeper, to explore every nook and cranny of your story, then by all means, keep doing more. The important thing is that you feel confident in your outline, knowing that it's the solid foundation upon which your masterpiece will be built.

Tips and Extras: (some juicy details)

Brainstorming the Centerpieces:

If your story is a jigsaw puzzle, the key scenes are the biggest, boldest pieces. These are the moments that make your heart race, that keep your readers glued to the page, and that make your story truly unforgettable. So start with laying out those major scenes or events. Think big – we're talking key turning points, epic locations, and jaw-dropping plot twists. Don't worry about the order or details just yet – this is about getting those main parts out of your head and onto the page.

What if you don't have all the pieces yet? Well, kitty-kitty, this is a quick, flexible way to brainstorm the centerpieces of your story. Don't stress about getting everything perfect on the first try – just let the ideas flow and see where they take you.

Getting Specific:

Now that we've mapped out the key scenes, it's time to add some meat to these bones. Think of this step as adding color to a black-and-white photo – it's the step where your story starts to come alive. For each scene, jot down a sentence or a short paragraph that captures the essence of what's happening. No need to stress about getting every little detail perfect – just focus on what's being communicated in the scene, the location, and the characters involved.

As you add these high-level details, think about how each scene fits into the bigger picture of your story. How does it move the plot forward? What themes or motifs are being explored? And most importantly, how does it connect with the scenes that come before and after it? This is when you start weaving together the threads of your narrative, creating a tapestry that's rich with meaning and emotion.

Remember, there are no rules for how much detail to add – do what works best for you. Some scenes may only need a few words to capture their essence, while others may require a bit more fleshing out. Trust your instincts and let your creativity guide you. After all, this is your story – own it, embrace it, and let it shine.

Connecting the Dots:

Now that we've fleshed out those key scenes with high-level details, it's time to step back and take a bird's-eye view of your narrative landscape. This is where you can make connections between themes and concepts that you might otherwise miss if you dove straight into writing.

Grab your outline and give it a thorough re-read. Look for scenes that feel out of place, transitions that need a little extra love, or characters who make a sudden appearance without a proper introduction. These are the hiccups that can disrupt the flow of your story and leave your readers scratching their heads. Highlight these areas and make a note of any plot points or scenes that need to be moved around to get the sequence just right.

Think of this step like conducting an orchestra – every element needs to be in perfect harmony for the performance to truly shine. So don't be afraid to make some tweaks, to shift things around, to fine-tune your narrative until it sings. Listen to the rhythm of your story – it knows where it wants to go, you just have to follow its lead.

Unlocking New Ideas:

While it's true that imagery and videos won't make it into your novel, they can be incredibly powerful tools for sparking creativity and bringing your story to life. Think of it like adding fuel to the fire of your imagination – it's a surefire way to kick-start new ideas and breathe fresh life into your narrative.

Get experimental! Dive into Google Images, Pinterest, or anywhere you find a photo that might fit. Start saving images or movie clips that resonate with your scenes. Whether it's a striking landscape, a compelling character portrait, or a mood-setting photograph, let your imagination run wild and see where it takes you.

If you're the type of writer who loves to create mood boards, now's the perfect time to put those skills to good use. Take a look at your existing mood boards and see if any images could help evoke the feeling you're trying to capture in your scenes. Whether it's the warm glow of a sunset or the eerie silence of a deserted street, let these images serve as inspiration as you continue to shape your story.

The Importance of Feedback:

With any creative endeavor, whether it's writing a novel or painting a masterpiece, feedback is key. It's like having a fresh pair of eyes on your work – offering insights and perspectives that you might have missed on your own. So if you’re still not sure about the first version of your outline, it's time to seek out that invaluable feedback.

When asking for feedback, be specific about what you're looking for. Are you seeking input on the sequence of events? Plot points that need fine-tuning? Character development that feels a bit flat? Whatever it may be, make sure to communicate your needs clearly so that your reviewers can provide targeted feedback.

The important part is that you need to stay open to suggestions and improvements. It can be tough to hear criticism of your work but try not to take it personally. Remember, the goal here is to make your story the best it can be, and sometimes that means making tough decisions and embracing constructive criticism.

The Moment of Truth:

Now it's time to dive headfirst into the exhilarating world of drafting. This is where your story begins to unfold before your very eyes. Your outline and your drafts are perfect companions. They're like the dynamic duo of storytelling, working together in perfect harmony to guide you through the creative process.

As you begin sketching out the details in your draft, remember to trust the process and let your creativity flow. Embrace the freedom of expression that comes with drafting – after all, this is your chance to bring your story to life in all its vivid detail. So don't hold back – let your imagination run wild and see where it takes you.

Comrades, now armed with the knowledge of outlining, you're ready for war. So go forth, brave souls, and let your imagination run wild as you craft worlds, weave characters, and spin tales that will captivate hearts and minds.

Remember, outlining is not just a tool – it's your secret weapon, your trusty guide through the wilderness of creativity. And if/when you find yourself lost in the midst of your writing, grappling with plot twists and character arcs, just remember these wise words originally said by yours truly: you've got this.

Happy outlining, and may your pens never run dry!

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That's all, see you later, soldier. 🫡)

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secondhand-trash · 4 years ago

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Heart Knot

A/N: this is in honor of the whole 30 minutes in which I knew how to knit because I was bored at a school function and forced my friend who brought an unfinished scarf with her to teach me lmao

Description: You did not have much happy memories regarding both knitting and your past crushes, but the boy that had your heart now just so happened to be a great knitter.

Pairing: Kita Shinsuke x reader

Word count: 7827

Playlist:

Permanence//Bears In Trees

The Way You Look Tonight//Frank Sinatra

Hiding Tonight//Alex Turner

Kita Shinsuke’s first exposure to the art of knitting was through his grandmother, who taught her grandson the ways you could weave anything into something from doing each repetitive action properly and with care.

Something beautiful, something soft, something that could bring warmth to someone else on a harsh winter morning.

Winter in Hyogo could be rough, with inches and inches of snow blocking the road from down the mountains and into the towns. Kita Shinsuke spent his winter days away from school still waking up at the first ray of sunshine beaming through the paper window, his body glued down on the sweet comfort of his futon but still, he never overslept even as other kids his age would protest just for a few extra seconds in the warmth.

By the time he was done with the daily chores, it would already be way into the afternoon and his tiny hands, soaked in water to wet the towels, would be shaking under the cold. Grandma Yumie always brought out the kotatsu in times like this. “It is a luxury,” she said with a chuckle as her grandson watched in awe at how the tiny round table in the living room had now been transformed into a warm cave, shielding the winter cold out with the blanket draping down the sides, “a reward for those who worked hard in the cold.”

The days he spent with his grandmother was some of his fondest memories, to the point where years later, even as he was old enough to have his own house with paper windows and a round table perfect for being turned into a kotatsu, he still insisted that there weren’t any feeling better than laying under the warm blankets after a hard day at work with the tv playing and a cup of warm tea in his hand.

When he was small, very small, with his fingers still a bit clumsy and not quite able to aim at the little loops held together by the yarn, Kita would sit there and watched as grandma Yumie brought out the baskets and baskets of colourful yarn, all sorts of sizes and patterns, and let him pick which one she should use that day. The afternoon news was playing in the background, and baby Kita had his palms holding on the warm mug of tea that was far more diluted and with way more honey drizzled into it than the one sitting in front of the older woman. His golden eyes all round and focused on the needles going in and out of the woolen piece that grew longer and longer with each flick of her wrist.

He could not figure out what had happened in the quiet hours where he just stared, not yet worked out the way each loop and thread came together in holding everything together, but all he knew was that the scarfs grandma gave him were always the softest and warmest, and comes in all the colours that lighted up the roads of Hyogo that were covered in white.

Kita learnt how to knit when he was old enough to remember the sequence at which the needle thread through the yarn. One hook under the open loop, the other holding it still, before pulling it out and putting the neat knot in place. He started with the thickest needle and the yarn that showed every knot and pattern clearly, before slowly moving to thinner threads and fancier ways of knitting. Now, winter afternoon at the Kita household consisted of grandmother and grandson sitting side by side around the kotatsu, the afternoon programs playing softly at the background as the sounds of yarns brushing against each thread filled the air.

There had never been a single cast out of place in whatever he made, whether it be a scarf or a pair of socks or a little hat for the puppy next doors. Because knitting was about patience, the knowing that you just had to keep repeating and repeating to make sure everything holds together, until you eventually had something good in your hands. It was feeling the tiny bumps under your finger once you had the finished product laid out in front of you, knowing that you put time and care into every single one of them.

Grandma Yumie complimented her grandson on everything he had ever made, smiling until her eyes were just two thin curves as she watched the boy who wasn’t so tiny anymore with his golden eyes fixed on the needle going in and out of each loop, the knitted fabric growing longer with each flick of his wrist.

You could not knit to save a life.

But you had tried, you really did.

Once, when you were 12 and sitting in art class, your eyes beaming at the many balls of yarn your teacher had brought in.

“Today, we’re going to learn how to knit!” The teacher, with pins all over her apron and a book of stickers for the kids who did well poking out of its pocket, said as she placed the plastic box on the table, “By the end of class, you can all bring home something you made to give to your parents!”

You liked art class. It was fun being able to play around with crafts supplies under the disguise of early creativity development, and the things you brought home were always somewhere around the house.

You liked the way you could walk past something you had made and know that it was good enough to be put up, and liked the feeling of showing people the things you were proud of.

You picked out your colours carefully, imaging the way your father would have fitted a dark brown scarf into his work clothes or how mom could have used something in that lovely cream coloured yarn that was ignored by the other kids who went straight for the blues and yellows. You ended up with balls of grey in your arms as you made way back to your seat, thinking that it would go well with, well, everything.

You did not quite remember how you felt about the knitting process itself, all you knew was the excitement budding up in your chest as you just kept repeating and repeating, until the grey bundle of yarn got smaller and smaller.

You knew you could make something they would like, you just knew it.

The outcome of the hour and a half where you did nothing but fidget with yarn and needle was a subtly misformed scarf, a bit crooked at the edges because you forgot how to tie up the piece by the time it was long enough to be thrown around your shoulders and back. It wasn’t exactly the most intricate piece of knitwear, with small ends of the thick thread clumsily tugged back within the grids and some places missing a loop or two.

But still, it held together nicely with the softest texture, and you were proud of yourself.

Your parents took the gift graciously when you presented it to them like you were handing them something of the uttermost value, complimenting you on your hard work and thought as they felt the piece in their hand. You made your father promised to wear it out the next day and he complied with a grin as he threw the scarf around his neck.

Now that you looked back on it, it was definitely not something a proper adult would prefer to be seen in in the public since it was rather... wonky, to put it lightly.

But you were small, and you did not have any idea that even though you tried what you thought was your best, sometimes your best was just not enough.

Oh, the way you froze when your father handed the pile of loose yarn to you that was all bundled up with a worried stare, your throat tight while you used all the might in you to suppress the urge to let the tears just fall.

You soon learned that loose ends and hasty stitches meant that even the slightest tug would make the whole thing crumble, and hours of your dedication was not a match to even the most accidental pull at the widened hole where you tried to hide all the mistakes you made.

You told yourself you were never knitting ever again at age 11, with your face buried in your pillow at the late nights when you didn’t have to fear letting anyone know that you were crying over a few balls of yarn.

At age 15, you had your first real, serious crush, the kind that made the pitch of your voice go higher unconsciously and the corner of your lips tug up just at a passing thought. Your crush was popular, the type of boys that spoke each word loud and clear like they had endless energy. You thought he was dazzlingly good-looking, even though he still had a bit of the awkwardness of being mid-puberty left in the soft arc of his brows and loop-sided grin. He was the captain of the football team, always the first to dash out the classroom with a dusty ball in his arms during break. You spent a good amount of your recesses just looking out of the window with your elbows propping you up against the frame, pretending to listen to whatever your friends were saying when you were looking at him instead.

Occasionally, he would look up from the field as he jogged backwards, and your heart always skipped a bit at the possibility that maybe his gaze had stopped at you for even just a second.

Holiday season rolled around the corner as you looked out one morning to see dots of white landing on the glass, each speckle of the snowflake clearly visible as it plastered on the window, the one you always pretend to not be looking too longingly out of while doing exactly just that. The nearer your last day of school before winter break was, the more you felt the knot twisting and turning in your stomach at the thought of whether you should try and disguise all that feeling into what could be as simple as a normal holiday greeting, between normal classmates.

It was at a passing that you overheard your crush telling the group of people who were crowding around his table during one lunch break that he thought it was attractive when people hand out handmade gifts, earning a round of high-pitched responses from those who were smiling a bit too widely for it to be natural around him, each one of them claiming that then they would try to make something for him.

You shifted in your seat, pretending that you were just napping on your desk casually instead of pitifully eavesdropping on a conversation you both wished you were part of and was absolutely detested by.

You had long decided that you could not even pretend that you were crafty by any means, but sadly, you were also young and very much so head-over-heels in love with a boy who just announced to everyone who was, like you, trying hard to impress him that he basically preferred people who make their own presents.

So that was how you found your way back to the knitting needle that you had not touched since 4 years ago, after how every single trashy article in every single teen magazine that you, at age 15, read an unhealthy amount of, told you that there was no better present to give that would portray the amount of thought and care you were willing to put into something like a garment that was hand knitted with only the receiver in thought.

It should be quite clear that the editors of those articles were just too lazy to come up with something new and picked the safest, most conventional option to put in there, but you were too desperate to find something you too could do that you didn’t care.

You left school each day in complete darkness now that the sun was long gone in the middle of the day as the end of the year approached, and spent the little free time you had to yourself at home struggling to knit. Your hands were a lot more in control compared to the last time you knitted, but the lack of guidance in every step of the way as you relearnt how to knit all from the very beginning.

It was cold, and your fingers were already hurting from the chill, but it did not stop you from staying up each night trying to get the piece done before it was finally the holidays.

You had spent hours looking for tutorials only, always battling between the knowledge that your skill was not enough to replicate a good half of the videos you had bookmarked and thinking that the easy ones were too basic for you to gift to someone. You settled on a neck warmer, something you could imagine the boy you so pined after wearing while running on the court. And as you held the finished piece up under the light, you were proud of yourself for actually carrying through.

There were no messy threads in the scarf this time, and you were sure this was something that could at least be of use to whoever got it.

The day when you were supposed to gather the courage to hand out the present came sooner than you were ready for. You came back to school early that day, knowing that your crush was usually having morning practice at the hour and no one else would be around.

To your surprise, there was already another neatly wrapped box inside of his desk drawer by the time you got back. Its tag was hanging out of the tray rather deliberately, like a sly wink and a wave. Your chest tightened that someone was already one step ahead of you, but quickly fed yourself the narrative that it was actually better this way. This way, your gift would not stand out and seemed like it did not belong there.

It was just a scarf, but the little paper bag that you spent an embarrassingly long amount of time decorating the night before felt so heavy in your hands as you stared blankly at it, the nerves settling in your stomach as your throat tightened at the last minute conflict.

The loud footsteps that neared broke you out of your trance, and you threw the gift bag into your drawer before pretending like you were doing something else. You cursed inwardly when you saw that it was the last person you wished to see at this moment, a rare sentiment given how your eyes usually search for him in a crowd.

The group of boys didn’t seem to pay you much mind as they huffed, laughing at something you did not catch on to as they threw their bags down. You masked the pounding of your chest with a violent stroke of your highlighter against the notebook that opened up hastily in front of you when you heard them going near the table you had been eyeing all morning.

“Huh? What is this?”

You buried your nose in your book, but glanced at the few boys gathering around the desk from the corner of your eyes.

Your heart wrenched when you heard one of the boys snorted, before shoving the box into your crush’s chest. “It’s for you.”

The sharp tear made your scalp tingle, but you fought back the urge to sit up straighter in reflex.

Couldn’t let them know you were listening, couldn’t let them know you cared.

“Ah... it’s a scarf,” even in your most delusional mind, there was no way you could ignore the slight hint of annoyance at his voice.

“Hm, they said they made it themselves.”

The density of the air around you was a stark comparison to the boys’ howling and laughing that followed. The recipient of the gift only shoved the garment into the box roughly before plopping the lid back on.

“So?” one of his friends asked, snickering, “what are you going to do about it?”

The click of his tongue that followed twisted around your throat until all the blood rushed up to your face, burning and suffocating you. “Do you want it?”

“Hell no, why would I want a re-gift?” The other boy yelled with a holler, “why don’t you just keep it yourself

“Well, I can’t wear it, can I? It’s gonna give them the wrong idea.” The nonchalant way he so easily brushed off the undoubted hours and hours of effort whoever made the gift must have dedicated to the present that was now pushed to the very back of his drawer felt foreign to you. A pang of bitterness welled up in your mouth, running your tongue dry as your mind go blank.

“Besides, don’t you think getting something handknitted from someone you aren’t with is a bit too suffocating?”

The gift bag in your drawer remained to stay right where it was when other people started rushing into the room, when the class bell rang, when the same boy who you now realised wasn’t as nice as you thought he might be rushed out with the same smile he had on when he came in that morning.

You shoved it into your bag first thing when you were getting ready to leave, hoping that no one would catch on.

You were surprisingly serene when you tore into hours and hours of effort until it was just a bundle of yarn on the floor.

You were age 15, swearing that you were never doing crushes ever again and finally decided with determination that knitting was just not for you

But life has its ways of making you think twice about every promise you had made to yourself.

First in the form of a snowfall you had not expected, and then with a boy who was always prepared for the cold.

Waking up early in the mornings just to tread yourself through the chilly streets sucked, but having to rush out because the initial “5 minutes more” you told yourself as you pulled the futon over your head once more turned into you having to rush out the door with your coat barely even worn properly in the matter of a flutter of your eyes.

Your mouth was dry and your stomach empty from skipping past the breakfast that had already gone cold on the table by the time you passed it by. It wasn’t until you felt the pain tearing at your skin from the few bits of your body exposed to the specks of snow flowing down onto the back of your hand, so cold that it felt almost like a burn when the feeling settled, that you remembered the mittens you had also left at the side of your dresser.

Great, just wonderful.

Winter in Hyogo was forgiving on some days, brutal and mocking on the others. The grey clouds were thick and gloomy as you dashed down the road, pulling the collar of your jacket up desperately to shield your face from the wind that you were up against face first, slicing down like blades before you finally made the last turn into the comforting walls of your school building. Your face felt numb of any senses even as you brought your palm up to try and give it some warmth, only to hiss into your hand when the frosted tips of your fingers brushed against your skin.

The bell rang almost right on cue as you stepped into the classroom, letting out a sigh and salvaging in the temporary supply of warmth from your own breath. Your lips were so dry and so chapped from the cold, even just darting your tongue out to swipe over the rough edges had it almost tearing at the thin skin. You winced at the pain, which did not serve you anything other than making the ache worse.

You sighed as you sunk down on your chair, finally able to let your limbs go slack at your sides after being so tense all the way through your walk. The sudden release of the tension you had been holding on you resulted in a broken inhale as you tried to calm the beating dee under the many layers you were wearing, feeling as if you were suffocated in your core with the heat trapped in and only within the center of your body.

“Are you alright?”

Turning to your side was a struggle as you shrugged off the stiff coat you were wearing. You were sure you looked nothing short of ridiculous as the puffer jacket hung loosely around your arms, your arms extended awkwardly to hold it from sliding off the ground. Your state of being was a stark contrast to the boy who was sitting next to you, his back all straight and proper.

You did not really think much about Kita Shinsuke, even though he had been sitting next to you for almost half a year now. There was something distant about him, like he was in a whole world of his own while everyone else just circulated around. He was always polite, never slipped up, getting back earlier than most and arrived at each function punctually. Your image of him was that he was always paying attention in class while everyone else was drooling off, his voice loud but calm when he was suddenly called to read out whatever passage you were supposed to have read at home but obviously didn’t.

It was strange, you were almost distancing yourself from him despite physically being next to him at all times.

He just didn’t seem so real, didn’t feel very human to you.

“Are you alright?” Kita asked again, this time tilting his head a little seeing that you were looking ahead blankly instead of responding.

You snapped out of your trance, quickly yanking off your jacket to place it on your lap in what you hoped was a swift motion to save the embarrassment of acting like a socially numb idiot.

“Oh, I’m fine,” you smiled, shoving your hands under your coat to try and warm up the fingers you still couldn’t feel under the fleece, “thank you for asking.” You added, almost like a second thought as you grew more and more uneased by his seemingly doubtful gaze.

Kita’s eyes went to your hair that was still not yet tidied up from being tangled up by the wind, the dots of water on your coat that was no doubt left from the snow, and your hands that were now rubbing together again and again under the coat according to his guess.

His brows furrowed at the way you were folding yourself smaller and smaller, pulling the heavy jacket that was about to slip off your lap up against your body desperately.

There was a rush of shiver to your spine at the way he pursed his lips together, and you gulped as subtly as you could while trying to maintain the smile on your face.

There was a speckle, a tiny bud of warmth setting off in your stomach when he turned around and slipped his hands into his jacket, hung neatly at the back of his chair unlike yours, and took out a small packet. It was a white fabric pocket but you could see the black powder inside from the thin fabric.

You did not react when he held his hand out, slender fingers holding on the hand warmer mid-air as he waited for you to take it from him. You blinked at the boy who you had never really looked at properly until now, and felt a strange twist in your stomach at the notice that there was a slight flush on his face from the cold, dusting over his cheeks and leading your gaze to his eyes that were looking at you patiently.

He must have thought that you were so strange, you grimaced to yourself when the pang of guilt rushed to your face and burning to the tip of your ears at the remembrance that you had assumed him to be the strange one when you were being so disrespectful right now.

You held out both hands in front of him, looking like a child when he dropped the little bag in your hand. Nothing could stop the sigh from slipping out of your lips when you felt the heat it was emitting, landing on your fingertips like coal in the snow and seeping into your skin.

The warmth travelled from your skin down to your veins, running slowly and slowly until it settled down as a fuzzy tingle in your chest at the thought that it was so warm because he had been the one keeping it in his pocket, likely trapping the heat within his palms when he was holding the warmer himself.

“Thank you Kita kun...” you said appreciatively, swallowing the whine that was threatening to come out with the last note of your voice when you felt your senses slowly returning to you.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, and your heart skipped a beat when he leaned his chin on his palm and gave you a tiny smile, “you should keep it, my hands don’t get cold that easily and I brought mittens.”

You did not speak to him again that day as class started and he, like the good student you never were, put his attention back to things that were more worthwhile. But you could not help but listen carefully for the first time ever when he was once again called to read out the lengthy piece of literature you didn’t study, and feeling a burst of exciting, nerve-wracking warmth budding in your chest.

At age 15, you promised yourself you were not doing crushes over dumb teenage boys again. At age 17, you realised that the pang in your chest when Kita Shinsuke replied to your greeting each morning (one that you tried hard to make it sound as casual as one could get, if you may add) with a smile was the same as that when you imagined your old crushed looking up from the ball court to lock gazes with you.

But Kita was not a dumb teenage boy, he was nice and well-mannered and asked you if you were alright on a winter day. So you told yourself you did not exactly break your promise, even though there was a lingering fear at the knowing that there too was a time when you thought the boy who sneered at the carefully wrapped box on his desk was nice and beaming like the sun.

(You had, however, screamed into your pillow in frustration the day he told you they made him the captain of the volleyball team for the next year when you carefully suggested that he seemed happier than usual. “Captains,” you groaned into your make-shift punching bag, “why are they always captains?”)

Winter passed, and then it was spring. Spring was the time for a new start, but you were not excited about changes. You had been content with a simple “good morning” every day made possible by the convenience of your adjacent tables, but how were you supposed to conceal your yearning for a smile and a nonchalant word of care as nothing out of place if you had to go out your way just to even catch a glimpse at him?　

You had to force yourself, clamp your lips tight together to stop the pitiful squeal that was close to bursting out from the back of your throat when you saw the familiar kanji, the same one as the direction always pointing people forward and the brightest star hanging on the sky, at the “ki” column of the class list.

Your third and last year and still in the same class, this was a sign, this had got to be a sign.

The anticipation was hard to conceal as you paced down the hallway until stopping at the sign of “3-7″ above the door. The embarrassment immediately followed the initial rush of glee at the boy who was, as expected already there. He was sitting at the first seat at the row leaning by the wall and even though your heart died a little at the conflict that you could not slack in class with the whoever it was standing in front of the blackboard so close to you, you still walked closer to the table right behind his with carefully controlled steps.

“Good morning Kita kun,” you said, still fumbling to find a balanced tone between letting him know you were happy to see him but not too much, glad that you were in the same class but not in a creepy way, hoping that he also searched for your name the way you looked for his but not holding out too much for it.

your throat tightened when he smiled back at you, “Good morning, (y/l/n) san.”

“You are early,” you blurted out, praying that it wasn’t too sudden.

“Yes, I had to stop by the club room to prepare for the upcoming tryouts before coming back.” He had turned around to face you completely, and you searched for everything your brain could come up with to keep the conversation going.

“Oh right, you are the captain now,” you cursed yourself for stating something so obvious in your brain, absolutely loathing air-headed your own voice sounded in your head. You breathed in, mastering your courage to appear confident and charming, “I hope it’s alright if I sit here behind you?”

You were smiling, but your knuckles were hurting from how hard you had to grip at the handle of your bag just to hold yourself back from fidgeting. The chair was already half pulled-out, and you crouched down just slightly as you waited for a response.

You knew you were the one who asked, but what if he said no?

But he didn’t, and not even the fear of appearing like a fool in front of the boy you so wanted to impress could stop you from grinning ear to ear when he laughed. You didn’t think you had heard Kita laugh before. It was an addicting sound, crisp like bells and like the pink petals that were falling off the trees all around campus.

You knew at that moment you didn’t care if this crush was just as dumb as the last one, or that you might end up looking like a fool for going against what you had so sternly told yourself when you were 15.

Screw 15 year old you, they knew nothing.

“Of course.”

Then winter rolled by the corner, as an angry current sweeping the dried leaves off the road and the temperature dropping and dropping until you were taking out your heavy coat from the back of your closet again.

It was with great regret and exasperation that you found out, one year after starting to learn more about Kita Shinsuke, that he was brilliant and absolutely so passionate about knitting.

The way you had a whole storm brewing in your head over something as simple as getting back to your classroom after lunch break to see a very calm, serene Kita at his table, with a ball of yarn on his lap and two needles threading with each other in his hand, was an absolute joke. You had tried to form an interest in volleyball just to have more chances to talk to him, going as far as to sit through the hour long practices matches that Inarizaki always had with other schools at the far back corner of the gym just to have something to bring up in a passing the next day. But of all the things, of all the things this person who seemed to be good at everything liked, it has got to be the one thing that you associated with nothing but bad memories.

“What are you making?” you asked, holding back the screaming thoughts in your head as you slid down into your own seat and leaned forward.

The little glimmer of joy in his eyes was hard to miss, and you were not sure if you want to feel triumphant for finding a new excuse to talk to him or cry because you had not looked at a knitting needle in years.

“I’m knitting socks,” he said and held up the tunnel of knitted fabric dangling off his needles, “it’s almost Christmas, and I wanted to make something practical for my teammates.”

“Hm?” You nodded, urging him to go on as if your own scalp was not frying from the recoil of what happened the last few times you wanted to make something practical for someone.

“This is for Akagi from class 6,” he immediately added, thinking about how you might not know who Akagi from class 6 was, “he had been complaining about having cold feet at morning practices lately.”

(You did, in fact, know who Akagi from class 6 was, but decided to let him give you the information instead of exposing how much attention you paid to the Inarizaki Volleyball Club.)

Man, you had never wished you knew how to knit as much you do now.

“Can you teach me how to knit?”

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck-

You froze at the words that went straight through your brain to your mouth and vocalised in the quiet classroom.

“There’s something I want to make,” you gulped, stumbling to force a smile onto your face, “for someone.”

Someone as in, well, him.

You had already braced yourself to chuckle it off when he said that he was busy, or just some sort of well-intended reasoning that would all point to the immediate conclusion in your head that you were just overstepping boundaries as no one but another classmate who just happened to sit near him for the past year.

But the screaming in your head stopped, leaving your world in absolute silence when he placed the ball of yarn onto his table and pulled another ball out from his bag.

“Sure.”

You did not notice, which was strange because you were usually the first to overthink on each of his miniatures, that Kita Shinsuke nearly dropped the needles in his hand when you quickly, in the middle of your inner panicking, suggested that there was someone you wanted to knit for.

He wavered for a brief moment, wondering if he really wanted to teach you how to knit for someone else, before feeling a sour guilt that he was being a bad friend by hesitating to help you when you asked.

He wondered who it was that you wanted to make something for, he thought to himself as he handed you the spare pair of needles he had.

Must be someone important to you.

So every day until you eventually go on break for Christmas and the new years, you would go back to your classroom early during lunch period to learn how to knit from Kita Shinsuke, who was coincidentally who the eventually finished piece that you hope you would finish was meant for.

You went into this with no thought other than to suck up on your own impulsiveness and just milked what had become of it as much as you could, trying to fish the opportunity of spending extra time with him. You were not even sure if you would actually give him the finished piece if there would be any, you were not sure if you were prepared to go down the progress of determination turned hesitation turned eventual heartbreak that last time you had to muster up any courage just to gift something to another person.

Even though this was all an excuse for you to talk to Kita, there was no denying that the 3 years in which you avoided knitting only made your hands even clumsier than before. He was always patient, always stopping his hands with whatever sock or hat or glove he was making to take a look at what would hopefully become an intact piece of knitwork dangling off of your needles.

“Let me see.”

The soft hum from his nasal every time you called for his assistant was enough to have you weak, and you were so glad that he put all his focus on helping you because then he wouldn’t notice you staring at him rather shamelessly.

On days when the weather was good, it was as if his eyes were the winter sun, the same one that was spilling in through the windows and casting a soft halo around him, all while his brows contorted in concentration over your work.

It turned out that Kita Shinsuke was great at teaching, and while much slower than him, you eventually managed to sit in comfort silent with him in the tender winter afternoons of Hyogo and let the sounds of thread pulling filled the air. You were trying but he was a natural, even though he claimed that it was just a direct result from years, a decade of practicing.

In the time you had struggled to focus on one piece, you had seen Kita worked on a multitude of things you were sure you should not even attempt to make. There was a nice thick pair of gloves for Ojiro, the trusty spiker who was feeling bothered by his dry hands from cold water. Another pair of gloves but this time fingerless because, to quote Kita, Suna Rintarou probably wouldn’t wear anything that kept him away from his lovely touch screen. You saw woollen hats twice but in different colours, and he had explained that he thought of making something different for the ruckus twin boys but figured they would just get into yet another fight over who gets what.

Crush aside, you wished you had a slither of his skills.

“I think anyone can be good at knitting,” he said, handing you back the row of maroon casts you had asked him to check up on with an approving nod. His fingertips just barely brushed against yours as he let go of the needles, sending shivers up your forearm that you were so glad was covered by your cardigan.

You laughed, brushing your finger at the few spots that you struggled to get right on the pattern, “I doubt.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?” he said, pointing towards the casts that got neater and neater as you progressed visibly, “you are already getting better.”

You pursed your lips, toying with the unfinished hem.

You had learnt a long time ago that sometimes you tried your best, but the best was not always enough. Sometimes, the best would get you a huff and a complaint that your heart and soul was too heavy, too suffocating. Sometimes the more and more you put into something meant that you did not know where to put it anymore once you tore it apart after no longer having someone to give it too, but it was too much to shove back into the hole in your heart.

You wondered if your best or your “better” was enough this time.

“Kita kun.”

“Hm?” he hummed, like how he always did when you look up at him from your hands. But you did not look at him this time, twirling the loose end of the yarn in your index finger instead.

“Do you think getting something handknitted from someone you aren’t with is suffocating?”

Kita frowned at the sad smile that was on your lips. You were looking at what he assumed would be a scarf from the casting and the patterns, rubbing at the slightly crooked cable. Were you thinking of the person you want to give it to? Were you worried that they wouldn’t like it? He had made himself stop speculating who it was that made you get back early each day and struggle so clearly with something you didn’t seem to exactly enjoy just to make something thoughtful for them, but he couldn’t stop the bitterness from welling up that it was someone who made you worry over them finding you suffocating.

He wanted to tell you that anyone who thought so was not someone who deserved your time, but swallowed it down anyways.

“No,” he said, and you finally looked up at him, “I think it is rude to think that of someone who put effort into doing anything with me in mind.”

And there it was again, the same warmth that tingled until it was all you could feel. Like a hand warmer, like a simple hello in the mornings, like the winter sun that was shining on you.

Right.

You smiled, a genuine one this time.

Because Kita Shinsuke was not just some dumb crush, because he wasn’t like the boy who never really did look up to see you, because you were ok with breaking every single promise you had made to shield yourself off just for a chance with him.

He seemed confused at your sudden change of mood, but you only shook your head and picked up the knitting needles again.

“You’re right.”

To say that everyone was hyped for winter break was an understatement.

But you, you were just really nervous.

You greeted Kita when you came back in the morning as usual, feeling the nerve bundling up in your stomach already just from knowing that if this went badly, you could not bear it to pretend to still be his friend from then on. Classes did not pique your interest in the slightest, and the only time you even diverted your gaze upwards from the book you were staring at blankly was when Kita’s voice rang in the classroom, blocking the blackboard from your view as he stood up to answer some question you did not know the answer to.

He looked warm, you remarked to yourself as your eyes scanned through the grey vest he was wearing.

Did he make it himself? Maybe you should ask him for a tutorial later.

And then you remembered that it was the last day before break, and your knitting sessions with him was already over. Your scarf was finished, he even complimented you on it. (“I’m sure whoever got this will be very pleased,” he had said, and you were just praying to whatever entity you could think of that he would still think so when you give it to him) It wouldn’t make sense for you to go to him anymore, and it would be awkward for both of you if he knew that you were only learning how to knit to be around him.

Your hands were so cold, nearly in pain as you grip on the box that you had been hiding in your bag all day long. You backed out of giving it to him during lunch when no one else was around, deciding that you would rather not stare at his back for another few hours after basically exposing yourself. But the day was about to come to an end. The winter sun was always gone early, and the sky was lit up in shades of orange and red as students rushed home for the start of their break.

You sucked in a deep breath when you saw him packing up his things after the end-of-class bell rang.

“Kita kun?”

“Yes?”

All you could hear was the beating in your ears and the hilt of what was a steady rhythm when he turned to look at you. His voice still made you melt, and heat spread on your face like the fiery cloud hanging on the sky from the setting sun.

Warm, bright, beautiful.

“This is for you,” you tried to stop your voice from shaking as you looked into his eyes, the same ones that widened when he saw the box on your extended hands, “thank you for helping me all through last year.”

You had to remind yourself to breath as Kita took the wrapped present. “Can I open it?” he asked, his hand hovering above the ribbon.

You tried to maintain the smile on your face.

“Of course.”

Kita knew the scarf that was sitting inside the box, he could point out which cast was his doing and which ones you had asked him for help even with his eyes closed. He had wondered about what you had done with it, whether the person who got it was worth your heart and soul.

He had wished, with sincerity, that it would go well for you but there was also a selfish part of him that pondered, contemplated how it might go if he told you he would love to have that scarf.

You grimaced when he didn’t say a word, before slowly closing up the box. You had prepared yourself for this outcome, but part of you still felt a familiar sting in your chest.

Until you saw him digging into his own bag and pulling out a tiny bag. You were still dazed as he handed it to you, his fingers holding onto the handle and a smile on his face as he waited for you to take it. You reached out with both palms, before the weight of it settled in your hand.

It was a pair of gloves, soft and sturdy in your hands without a single stitch out of place. Your finger brushed against the intricate patterns at the center before stopping at the elastic hem. You could not help but slid it on, gasping in awe at how it fit perfectly.

Kita was smiling at you, and he was throwing the end of the scarf to his back when you looked up at him. The one he had worn that morning when he made way back to school under the cold was shoved into his bag and replaced by the less well-made one you had given him.

But he didn’t care, he loved it.

“Should we go?” He asked, holding his own gloved-hand out, “They are closing the school soon.”

You finally got to be mesmerised by him without having to shy away, and the way his eyes were full of you could only be matched to the sun that was setting outside, rays of what would be the last of its shine until tomorrow reflecting off the snow.

Beautiful, soft, and had your heart all warm and gooey.

“Let’s go.” You replied, grinning ear to ear, before taking his hand.

And it was so, so warm.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu imagine #kita x reader #kita imagine #kita imagines

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three-gulons-in-a-trenchcoat · 4 years ago

Note

Okay but imagine Sophie and Keefe being forced to hide out in like a little storage closet for hours to avoid the Neverseen or their parents or something. The whole time they have to snuggle up together and he is just relentlessly teasing her because he can sense her emotions and knows she is enjoying the cudddling

The Great Gulon Incident 2.0

words: 3.3k

[notes: this is a long one! really really sorry that this took so long to get out but it's here now! I really like how this one turned out :) although the title isn't very creative heh]

____________________________

“We shouldn’t be doing this”

Sophie had mumbled those words under her breath at least five times at this point, but this time it seemed to catch Keefe’s attention. He glanced over at her, a smirk resting across his face.

“Aw come on Foster, live a little! Tell me the last time you pranked someone, especially Forkle.”

Sophie rolled her eyes, eyeing the bag he had slung over his shoulder wearily as it jostled around, “You should be more careful with those.” she hissed, “have you forgotten you're carrying around live, stinky bombs?”

Keefe snickered quietly, making his footsteps softer as they neared the Foxfire gates, “Don’t worry, I know how to handle these guys, I happened to learn a few from the supposedly very handsome boy who caused the Great Gulon Incident.” He winked as he said the last part, and Sophie scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

Keefe had hailed her last night, asking if he could leap over for some “important business”. Sophie had been expecting something more along the lines of actually serious but learned that he instead had wanted to snag some of the gulons that were residing at Havenfield.

“And why exactly do you need ten gulons Keefe?” she had asked him, raising an eyebrow.

Keefe resembled the look of a pouting child as he twiddled his thumbs, “It's been ages since I’ve pulled off a good prank Foster,” he whined, “I think I'm going through withdrawal! The least you can let me do is led a few stinkers for the cause.” His eyes resembled a cute baby alicorn, and Sophie felt her resolve slowly chipping away.

Eventually, she threw her arms up in the air, sighing loudly, “Fine” she grumbled, holding up a finger when his face broke out in a wide grin. She tried to ignore the flickering flame in the back of her chest, itching to cause mischief, but ultimately gave in, “You only get five gulons, Keefe…. and I want to come with you.”

Keefe grinned wider, if that was even possible, and quickly wrapped an arm around her waist, leading her to her desk, “I’m so glad you agreed to help the cause Foster!” he brandished a notebook out of thin air, “Now let me show you the plan….”

She was snapped out of her memory when Keefe shoved the sack of gulons at her, nearly knocking her off balance.

“Ah- sorry, I just need to unlock the gate” Keefe quickly apologized as he pulled out what looked like a keycard and swiped it over a sensor next to the doors. He tugged the hood of his black cape over his eyes and face, stepping in front of Sophie slightly as if to block her from view.

“What's wrong?” Sophie asked, frowning when Keefe all but shoved her into the doorway and through the large crystal halls.

“Sorry,” he said again, “There are security cameras hidden behind the large pillars.”

Sophie smirked, “How did you manage to figure that out?” she asked, handing him back the bag of gulons.

Keefe huffed quietly, “I found a map of the security cameras when I was pulling a prank on Dame Alina last year.”

“You really think far ahead in your plans,” Sophie remarked, following Keefe down the hall. She could have sworn his ears turned pink, but that could be a trick of the light.

It wasn’t long until they reached Magnate Leto’s office, and Keefe used another keycard like before in order to get inside. His face seemed to light up slightly as he untied the cord and gently opened the top of the bag. He leaped back quickly, gently tugging on Sophie's arm as the creatures toppled out of the bag, looking very disgruntled.

One of them let out a large burp, emitting a green-gray gas that had Sophie curling her lip and coughing slightly.

“Come on,” Keefe said, tugging her back slightly, “This is the part I wouldn’t stick around for.”

Sophie let Keefe drag her into the hallway, a giddy feeling settling inside her gut as Keefe shut the door, rather loudly.

They locked eyes, and Sophie felt a laugh bubbling up in her throat, Keefe seemed to have the same problem. Sophie clutched her stomach as a giggle made its way up out of her mouth, she quickly slapped a hand over it, her eyes wide. Keefe laughed at her expression, nearly doubling over.

“Come on.” he wheezed, grabbing her hand, making her blush slightly, but she was too busy trying to contain her laughter that she didn’t pay any attention to it.

They raced down the twisting halls, letting their laughter out freely as their footsteps echoed around the crystal halls.

They slowed slightly, still giggling quietly. They didn’t even notice that their hands were still entwined.

Then Sophie heard it.

Footsteps.

They froze at the same time, fear flashed across Sophie's face, and Keefe's eyes darted around, looking for an exit as the footsteps drew closer. They couldn't run towards the footsteps, but they also couldn’t run back where they came, since it would bring them back to the very stinky office.

In desperation, Keefe yanked Sophie towards the first thing he saw as the elf rounded the corner, closing in.

He covered her mouth as she let out a quiet yelp, pressing her against the wall of a supply closet as he dragged the door shut with his foot. They both flinched when it clanged loudly next to their ears.

Sophie locked eyes with Keefe, who has hunched over her rather awkwardly, trying to keep one hand over her mouth, and one over his own to stay silent.

“Are you certain you heard footsteps?” A voice asked, and Sophie's eyes widened at the same time as Keefe's. They knew that voice.

“I also heard laughter.” Lady Zillah said, and Sophie could hear her walk closer towards their door, the shadow underneath the crack growing larger. She glanced at Keefe, who had panic pacing in his eyes.

“Maybe you just thought you heard something,” Tam said through a yawn, making the shadow stop, “I mean, it's almost dawn, shouldn't we be locking up for the night aways? I’m getting pretty tired.”

Lady Zillah sighed, and Sophie inhaled sharply when the shadow grew slightly closer.

The mentor turned away, “Fine, but we are practicing even more tomorrow night got it?” Sophie breathed out harshly, hearing Keefe do the same.

“Whatever,” Tam grumbled as the footsteps silently retreated deeper into the school, presumably towards the gates.

Keefe finally let his hands fall away from both of their faces and Sophie took a deep breath of air, blinking a couple of times to adjust to the darkness.

“That was close.” They both said at the same time.

Keefe slightly huffed with laughter, nudging past Sophie to get to the door, “We’re lucky we weren't caught” he admitted as he reached for the handle, “It would've been worse than The Great Gulon Incident.”

“Ah, so are you finally admitting that you were the one who did it, Keefe?” Sophie asked teasingly.

She waited for him to reply, but he stood frozen, his hand on the doorknob.

“What's wrong?” Sophie asked, just now noticing how small the supply cabinet seemed. A bad feel brewed in her gut.

Keefe turned slowly, slight panic, with a little bit of guilt etched across his face as he sucked in a breath, “We may or may not be locked in a supply closet.”

Sophie felt her face drop, and she rushed past Keefe (which only took about a step) and tried to turn the doorknob, but to no avail.

She let out a puff of laughter, partially disbelief, that she had somehow ended up in this situation, with Keefe of all people.

“You alright there Foster?” Keefe asked, his breath ghosting along her neck, making her shiver.

She remembered hearing about a game that humans would play. Seven Minutes in Heaven, where they would lock two people in a closet like the one they were currently stuck in, and in seven minutes those two people could do anything they wanted until the time was up.

She pushed the thought out of her mind quickly before Keefe could notice her shift in emotions. He raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth to say something.

“Can’t we just bust down the door with telekinesis?” Sophie said quickly, her voice slightly more high-pitched than usual. She cleared her throat, her stomach dropping when Keefe shook his head.

“Two things,” Keefe said, holding up his hand with one finger raised,“ One, these doors are made of a crazy strong metal, like, as thick as the doors at Luminaria, that's why it was so loud when it shut, and before you ask, no, I have no idea why the doors are so thick, they just are.”

“Second,” he said, holding up a second finger, “The security here recognizes when a door is unlocked, or when a door is, ya know, exploded from the inside.” he mimed an explosion complete with sound effects and Sophie rolled her eyes.

It fell silent, and Sophie stared at the ground, “So” she hedged, “We can’t get out of here.”

Keefe shook his head, “Not until morning, all of the doors unlocked at around six, which is normally when all the mentors arrive.”

Sophie dragged a hand down her face, trying to ignore the panic and sudden other emotion she was feeling.

Embarrassment maybe? No, that didn't seem right, it seemed almost fluttery, and she tried to stamp out the feeling before Keefe felt it, but she saw his eyes flicker.

She swallowed thickly.

“Are you sure?” her voice squeaked slightly, and she cleared her throat quickly.

Keefe's eyes seemed to glow slightly in the dim light, and it was then that she realized how small the supply closet was. Sophie and Keefe's feet were touching, even though they were on opposite walls.

“Oh, I'm sure,” his voice had dropped an octave, and Sophie felt her cheeks flush. He moved slightly, pushing himself off the wall and positioning his leg in between hers as he leaned next to her ear, caging her in with his elbows braced against the wall behind her, “What's wrong, Foster? I’d say you almost seem nervous.” his tone was different, deeper, it lacked its usual teasing tone.

Sophie found it difficult to breathe, and when she did take a shaky breath, it didn’t help, because all she got was a lung full of Keefe.

He smelled cool and minty, almost like the peppermint bark that her human family used to make around the holidays, with a hint of the ocean, no doubt from the white foam waves that he said he swam in every morning. Sophie suddenly felt herself imagining what he would look like after swimming in the water, with his hair flat against his head, and sweat curling around his jawline and his shirtless chest-

STOP! her mind screamed, forcing herself to shred the image from her brain and frantically trying to stop her emotions from getting even more out of control.

She could feel his breath hot against her neck and she shivered as she felt his lips curl into a sly grin. She forced her eyes to look dead at the wall in front of her, certain that if she glanced at Keefe, things would definitely go south, not that Sophie would be complaining-

Stop. her mind growled again, more firmly, as if bating this other, more feral Sophie with a wooden bat into a dark corner of her mind. Shoo! Come out later, when you’re not stuck in a supply closet with one of your closest friends who can also tell what you’re feeling at all times.

Keefe's right hand came up to her hip, and she shivered again, partially from well, the fact that his hand was on her fucking hip, and partially because the supply closet was getting really cold.

“Are you cold?” Keefe's voice was right next to her ear, allowing her to hear that he had a deep timbre to his tone that Sophie had never noticed. And she’d be lying if it didn’t make her legs feel like they turned to jello.

“Y-yeah.” She breathed, hating how she stammered.

Keefe pulled away from her, and she naively thought that it would better, now that she could actually breathe and not inhale his intoxicating scent.

But oh how she was wrong.

Because when Keefe pulled away, she could see his eyes, and his jaw, and his biceps, and his lips, and she hated how her eyes quickly dropped to his lips. But could you really blame her?

Yeah, feral Sophie got another smack with the bat.

She shook her head, pulling away slightly as Keefe removed his hands from the sides of her head. He kept his leg between her thighs, and Sophie pretended not to notice as she shivered again, hoping the cold could be blamed for the pink on her cheeks.

“I told you to bring a cape, Foster.” The teasing tone was back and Keefe finally, finally, took a step back, removing his leg from between hers.

She actually felt like she could breathe again.

“I didn’t think we would get stuck in a freezing supply closet.” Sophie retorted, bringing her hands around her chest, looking away.

Keefe sighed softly, and Sophie glanced at him right as he draped his cloak over her shoulders, pinning it in place with her Ruewen crest that she carried everywhere, even if she wasn’t wearing a cape.

Keefe said something after that, but it was drowned out by the ringing in her ears. Because if she thought that Keefe leaning over her in his scent was overwhelming, she severely underestimated what being wrapped in his cloak would do to her.

She didn’t realize what she was doing until she did it. Bringing the hood to her nose, she took a deep whiff, savoring what his scent felt like in her nose. And wow, she had never felt this safe before.

She snapped out of it suddenly. God Sophie, what are you doing? furiously trying to act like she was trying to warm her nose and not try to sniff his cape like a fucking weirdo.

She glanced at him.

He stared at her, a mixture of amusement and- was that almost pride? No, it couldn’t be that. Sophie felt her face turn pinker. To get away from her mounting embarrassment, She chose to look away from what was causing it.

“W-Why are the supply closets so cold at night?” she asked, blaming the slight stumble in her words as an act of the cold as she averted her eyes from his piercing blue ones.

Keefe blinked, wrapping his arms around himself right as Sophie realized how cold she must have just made him.

“Foxfire gets cold at night normally, so it's not like I didn’t expect this, which is again, why I told you to bring a cape.” he gave her a pointed look and Sophie scoffed.

She was about to reply when a full-body shiver racked Keefe's torso, making him clench his teeth.

She frowned, beginning to unclasp her crest from the cloak.

“You don’t have to-”

Keefe was cut off when Sophie stepped forward and flung half of the cloak over his shoulders. Sure it was slightly cramped, and it caused Sophie to be squished into Keefe's shoulder, but she wasn’t exactly complaining.

Keefe stood stiff for a moment, then very gingerly wrapped his left arm around her waist, pulling her slightly closer and causing the cloak to cover her more. He bent his legs, tugging her down slightly so that they were now sitting on the floor, and unfortunately for Sophie’s poor little heart, in a very compromising position.

Sophie was sure her face was practically maroon as she awkwardly straddled Keefe’s lap, and she looked anywhere but him as he readjusted the cloak.

“You can turn around if you want,” Keefe said softly, his ears slightly pink, “It would probably help the cloak to cover you better.”

Sophie nodded mutely, shifting around in the blond's lap until she was sitting comfortably against his chest, her racing heart didn’t slow down as Keefe stretched out his legs, almost touching the other wall, and let her do the same until they were practically miming the same position.

Keefe's hands were still on her hips, and she could feel her skin burning from underneath the thin fabric of her tunic.

“Is this ok?” Keefe asked, his voice was softer then she had ever heard, and he sounded slightly unsure of himself.

“Yeah, this is fine.” granted, it came out a little more breathy than Sophie was hoping for, but hopefully Keefe couldn't feel how fast her heart was still pounding in her chest.

But oh how he could.

Keefe was eternally grateful that Foster didn’t manifest as an empath. Because if she did, he would be screwed.

His heart felt like a stampede of mastodons as Foster shifted again, bringing her legs slightly closers to her lap, which caused her to fall further into Keefe's torso.

Over the years of living with his father, Keefe had learned how to hide his emotions behind false smiles or jokes, and right now he was grateful that Foster didn’t turn behind to look at him. And he prayed to whatever god was up there, that she couldn’t feel his hands shaking as he readjusted the cloak again, shamelessly giving her more of the fabric for her to curl closer into.

And he’d be lying if he wasn’t absolutely preening at the way Foster looked in his cloak. Pride swelling in his chest as she sighed slightly, seeming to get over her initial embarrassment and burrow into the folds of the black coak.

Of course, there was the other part of his brain, which was screaming over and over, HOLY FUCK YOUR CRUSH IS IN YOUR LAP THIS IS A ONCE IN A LIFETIME CHANCE WHAT ARE YOU DOING JUST STARING GO KISS HER YOU ABSOLUTE DUMBAS-

“Keefe?”

He hummed slightly, and Sophie could feel the vibrations from where she was curled on his lap.

“How long do you think we’ll be stuck in here?”

He shrugged,“ at least for a couple more hours I’d guess.”

She felt his head lean forward, and she squeaked when his hands came around her hips instead of tucked into his side. He hesitated for a second, and she felt her face burn, trying to ignore the fact that they would be in this position for a few more hours.

Suddenly she felt his chin on her shoulder. His breath fanned across her right ear and cheek. Sophie fought not to shiver because she doubted Keefe would believe her if she told him she was still cold.

“Why?” Keefe questioned, and Sophie could hear the timbre of his voice again, vibrating next to her ear.

A voice in the back of her mind told her that she should be on the other side of the room, frantically trying to hide her flustered emotions from the empath, but…

She sighed, leaning her head against his, feeling his eyelashes flutter next to her cheek as she closed her eyes, “Just wondering.” she mumbled, a small smile creeping onto her face as Keefe pulled her slightly closer under the cloak.

Keefe echoed her smile, tugging her back against his chest and bringing his hands across hers. A slight blush tinged his cheeks, but he could feel her emotions against his chest, and they were…

Flustered, yeah. But also… calm, and almost, soft.

Exhaustion pawed at the teens. And Sophie found herself burrowing further into Keefe's chest. And Keefe found himself curling closer into Sophie.

They could deal with the aftermath of this prank later. Right now? They were comfortable, warm, and happy.

____________________________

#sokeefe #sophie foster #keefe sencen #kotlcprompt #kotlcwriting #kotlc #keeper of the lost cities #kotlcfanfic #kotlcfanfiction #ask #ask me anything

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darker-soft-starker · 4 years ago

Photo

Starker High School AU, Pt. 2 (Pt. 1, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5)

-----

Peter will admit that during he took an extended moment during his journey home to grieve the loss of his free afternoon, and indeed the impending headaches.

And the rest of his future, if he was honest.

Not that Peter was prone to melancholy by any means, but with this assignment his fate was officially sealed, there was no misunderstanding. He was going to fail this assignment. He was going to, for the first time in his academic career, be forced to submit garbage of a caliber worthy of Tony Stark. It will forever be a black mark on his academic record.

No respectable college is going to accept him after this. In fact, he might as well drop out of school now and hit up Mr Delmar for a job. All of his prep for his MIT application is as good as useless after this. Extracurriculars? Goodbye.

Because it’s confirmed.

He’s doomed.

Swaying with the motions of the train, Peter types a text to Ned, the only person who might provide him with some much needed sympathy.

> I’m doomed > paired w/stark for an assignment lollllllllll. > help

Maybe Peter could trade with Ned. Maybe he could plead with their teacher, for honest fear of his life and scholastic integrity. He wasn’t even exaggerating. In no known iteration of this universe could Peter amicably work with Tony Stark. It would be like Harry Potter sitting down for tea with Voldemort, or Frodo and Sauron chilling with a pint and a pipe in Bag End.

It was unthinkable. Implausible. Laughable.

And Peter would laugh, were it anyone but him in this situation.

The feeling is unusual. Never had he found reason in his life to truly dislike anybody before, everyone could be redeemed or given the opportunity for penance. Natasha has said more than once that Peter would offer the devil himself a sandwich if he appeared.

Tony Stark on the other hand? No sandwich for him.

Well, maybe a slice of bread. A stale one.

While he waits for Ned to responds he catches sight of his injured reflection in the train window, which is admittedly pretty gnarly. Even with his hood drawn up, there was a noticeable berth allocated to him in the busy carriage between himself and the other passengers.

< sux. can I have ur lego hogwarts if u die?

> dude :( pity me.

< lol. so, can i?

Peter sighs.

> sure. Look after May for me, bro. delete my internet history.

< deal. godspeed

Pocketing his phone, Peter wonders if it’s too late to take up praying.

---

By the time he’s back in his apartment his mood has managed to swing back up.

Tony Stark is not going to be the arbiter of Peter’s fate. Hell no. He’s smart, he’s creative and hardworking - it isn’t up to anybody but Peter to determine his outcomes. If he has to do the assignment with Stark then he will. And he will work his hardest.

If he has to do it sharing the credit with Stark, well, Peter knows a concession when he sees one.

No matter how reluctant he is.

But he powers through it, like ripping off a bandaid. It’s fine! He’s a Parker and he’s come this far in life already against ill, Parker-like odds. What was being paired for one assignment with someone who escaped the nearest hellmouth?

It’ll be fine.

Probably.

Not letting himself linger on his fears, Peter clears out his previous plans of going on a YouTube spiral and eating sour gummies until his teeth stick, instead utilising the time to get his foot in and and begins prepping for the assignment. Cursory, preliminary research at first, before the inevitable deep dive begins.

Neanderthal, Peter scoffs, mad all over again. Who is Stark to call Peter a neanderthal? He’s second in his class. He’s a straight A student. He likes school.

And as much as he is moderately skilled in, and enjoys JV, it’s not like he received his scholarship to study at Midtown based on his physical prowess.

The graze on his cheek that stings every time he yawns is proof of that.

Stark can eat his entire ass and choke on it, he thinks darkly, as he continues his research. He doesn’t know the first thing about Peter.

The data is sobering as he delves into job listings and statistics of his projected salary in a three year margin. This is really what his teachers earn? Wow. Depressing.

The contrast of expected salary versus the forecast of steep student loans is disheartening further still.

Teaching quietly slips from second to third on his list of ideal occupations.

Turning on a playlist on his phone, Peter continues to compile notes, amassing a truly gargantuan amount of tabs on his browser. His computer, old enough to be on its’ last teeth, whirrs loudly in protest.

It’s not until his room goes dark that he thinks to check the time.

Ah, shit. It’s nearly six.

Peter pauses. Should he tidy up the apartment?

...Nah, no point in breaking a sweat for Stark.

He continues typing. Then he hesitates, fingers suspended in mid-air.

But what if Stark sees his unfolded laundry out on the dining table and publicly shames him for his old-but-comfortable Bulbasaur themed boxer shorts?

Goddamnit.

---

A quick, cursory clean ensues and leaves a relatively orderly Parker apartment. No freshly laundered underwear is in sight.

Peter wraps up just a few minutes before six. Right on time.

Taking a seat at the now clear dining table Peter drums his fingers on the surface and waits.

And waits.

---

He knows when Tony finally arrives when he hears the sound of a car pulling up outside his apartment block. The riffs of a Roxette remix can be heard playing loudly from the ground to the seventh floor of his apartment, the bass so thunderous it reverberates the windows all the way up to his floor.

Drumming his fingers on the kitchen table, Peter checks the wall clock again. It’s nearly seven.

Tony’s late.

Not that Peter is particularly affected with surprise that Tony is incapable of following basic instructions, but still. Really? Really?

By the time there is a knock on his door, Peter is already before it, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. Every second between Tony pulling up and his ascent to Peter’s floor has him positively fuming. He can’t believe how this day played out. It started with such promise. He had such innocuous, but high hopes.

Clearly, he miscalculated.

Feeling a touch petty, he waits to answer, listening to Stark knock a second and then a third, more insistent time before he rouses enough calm to open the door.

He instantly regrets it when he does.

Tony’s expression is curious one as he breezes right passed Peter without waiting for further invitation. There’s a smudge of something dark on his brow, his otherwise white undershirt smeared in dark stains.

Peter watches incredulously as the other boy drops his backpack by the door with a thump.

“You’re late.”

He closes the door behind Tony and scowls at the other boys easy posture, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes taking in the apartment.

“I didn’t realise you lived all the way out in fucking Queens. Do you have any idea how bad traffic is at this time of day? Also, your elevator doesn’t work. I just climbed seven flights of stairs, where’s the hospitality?”

“Try earning it.”

The other boy rolls his eyes. “Like it’s worth my time.” He breezes past Peter and slides his leather jacket off his arms, tossing it atop of his backpack in the corner. “Look, I’m here now. Okay? You can unclench now. So, do I get a tour or what?”

“Or what. This wouldn’t have been an issue if we had just started straight after class like I said.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” Tony clutches his hands to his heart before gesturing to the room. “I didn’t realise I was interrupting your busy Friday night, Parker. You got a keg and the rest of the meatheads stashed away somewhere?”

Without waiting for a response, Tony wanders around the living room like a curious child in a new play room. His gaze inspects everything all at once, from peering at up close at the wall mounted photos and hovering his grubby hands over the oddments and knick-knacks speckled throughout the space.

Apprehensive, Peter can’t help but shadow him, afraid he just let loose a hurricane in a china shop.

Without asking, Tony picks up May’s old Magic 8-Ball and gives it a good shake. Peter’s fingers itch to reach over and stop him, but stops himself because then that would require actually making direct skin contact the other boy.

Not worth it.

“Cannot predict now. Huh,” Tony says to himself before placing the ball back in the wrong spot.

They both watch silently as it rolls precariously close to the edge.

“Anyways,” Tony helps himself to an armchair, lounging back and spreading his legs wide. “I know your long-term memory is probably as defective as the rest of you, so don’t strain yourself recalling that I had other priorities.”

“Like what?”

“Like literally anything that isn’t being around you,” the other boy grins. “Now, are we doing this thing, or did you invite me over so you could bitch at me?”

“I didn’t invite you,” Peter grumbles, swiping his notebook from the dining table before sitting on the sofa, as far away from Stark as possible. Shifting, he takes his phone from his pocket and opens the notes he’d taken earlier.

“So, I cross referenced some websites and current job listings,” Peter scrolls through his research, adjusting his glasses as they slip down his nose. “Assuming you have no savings, we’re looking at an average of sixty-thousand per annum based on my salary alone. The average rent in --”

“-- Uh, why are we assuming I have no savings?”

"Because... we’re being realistic?”

Tony springs to his feet and paces across the living room.

“Well,” he says, gesturing to Peter, “if we’re being realistic, does having no savings also that mean I have no debt -- or are you paying off two student loans on your salary?”

“I don’t --”

“Do we have car loans? Health insurance?”

“Wait, slow your roll, Stark. I haven’t yet --”

“-- Of course you haven’t. I mean really, Parker, do you ever think ahead? You should try it, we do have a baby on the way, you know.” Tony clicks his fingers and points at Peter. “Oh, names! I want to call it Molly.”

“As in the drug?”

“No, as in Ringwald. Anyhoo, seeing as only one of us has the intellectual capacity to construct a budget,” Tony gestures to himself, “that would be me, consider maybe that I spent my savings paying off my student loans and bought a car for me and Miss Molly, leaving you with just your own stagnant debt. Happy?”

“Thrilled,” he says through clenched teeth, feeling utterly steamrolled. “But we’re not calling the baby Molly.”

“Yes, we are. Think of all the great nicknames. Hey wait,” Tony pauses in his pacing, “are your parents going to be home soon?”

It was in that moment Peters world narrows down to one, botched cosmic joke.

Turning his gaze heavenwards, Peter prays silently for mercy. What did he do to deserve this. This is all his bad karma come at once. This is the bad place.

“Ah, no,” he replies, eyes widening. “No, my parents are not going to be home soon.”

“Cool. Lucky you.”

Oblivious to Peter’s existential turmoil, Tony resumes his patrol through the living room, picking up a frame on the mantle. It houses an old photo of Ben, May and a young, bespectacled Peter.

It is one of the more embarrassing immortalisations of his younger self, eleven-years old and grinning widely, bearing his silver braces to the camera as he holds up a science fair trophy, curls wild and untamed.

Oh god. That was exactly what Peter needed on this unholy day - Tony Stark in his living room, witnessing Peter in his prepubescent glory.

Quick, create a diversion.

“So, as I was saying,” he says loudly, “rent is reasonably affordable with a sixty-thousand budget in --”

“Who’s the babe?” Tony points to a younger Aunt May in the photo.

Peter gets to his feet and removes the frame from Tony’s grasp. He glowers as he places it back on the mantle.

“No one you would have a chance with. Can you stay focused? Like, are you physically capable of it?”

“Okay, calm down,” Tony holds his hands up in surrender. “You’ve got a lot of anger for someone so vertically challenged, you know that, shortstack?”

“Focus, dumbass.”

“I’m focused! Let’s see, we’ve established that I am excellent at managing my money. You have a shitty job and a shitty salary, and apparently my imaginary future self has terrible taste in men. So. Have I got that right? Where are we living?”

“Queens. LIC has some one bed, one baths that could be affordable.”

“Uh, rewind. Going to have to eighty-six that - I am not living in Queens.”

Peter stares at him.

Tony rubs his hands over his face and sighs. “Fine, whatever. But I want a Pontiac Firebird in this imaginary life if I have to deal with you.”

“For someone so keen on getting away you’re doing your best to prolong this experience. It’s literally painful.”

“Well, I just like to see you get all riled up, Princess,” Tony grins, leaning back against the mantle and folding his arms over his chest. “You have this vein that bulges on your forehead when you’re mad. Makes you look like a pitbull.”

Peter swallows the particularly acidic retort sitting on his tongue and tries not to let Tony’s words sting. Be the bigger man, Ben used to say. As difficult as it is to channel even a modicum of the mans’ eternal patience, Peter takes a deep breath and reminds himself to stay focused. The less he gets sidetracked by Tony’s fuckery, the sooner it’s over.

He mentions the next part with unease.

“...Miss Ahn said that we need references and should do field research. Speak to realtors. Ask people who have a similar lifestyle and budget.”

The look that comes over the other boys face is one of unequivocal revulsion. Peter can relate. The thought of having to spend more time with this guy makes his stomach turn.

“Well, Parker, any bright ideas who we can ask?”

The hinges of the front door squeaks before Peter can respond.

Moments after, Aunt May walks into the living room, placing her bag down on the dining table. She looks between the two boys curiously.

“Hey, Pete,” she comes to his side to squeezes his shoulder. “Who do we have here?”

Tony rushes over with his hand outstretched, an eager grin on his face.

“Tony Stark, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, ah, okay, well,” May laughs as he enthusiastically shakes her hand. Her eyes are soft as Tony smiles brightly at her. “Nice to meet you too, Tony. I’m May, Peter’s aunt. Are you... friends with Peter?”

Peter snorts.

“Definitely not. We just have an assignment --”

“-- Great friends, actually,” Tony talks over him, taking a seat beside Peter on the sofa. To Peter’s utter disgust, the other boy puts an arm around his shoulders, squeezing his bicep encouragingly. “Aren’t we, Pete? Hmm? Best buds. We go way back.”

Peter freezes, feeling the line of heat from Tony’s against his side, the weight of his arm on his body.

Eyes widening, he feels his skin crawl.

“That’s sweet,” May smiles, putting her hair up in a loose, messy bun. “Well, I don’t know about you boys, but I’m starving. I’m ordering pizza, Friday special. You should stay for dinner, Tony.”

Tony places his free hand on his chest.

“I would be honoured.”

May looks at Tony strangely before retreating to the kitchen to retrieve the menus.

As soon as she’s out of sight Tony takes his arm off Peter and quickly shifts away from him like he’s been burned.

“Dude,” Peter whispers, bewildered. “What the fuck?”

“Oh my god,” Tony whispers, shuddering as his face scrunches up in disgust. “I’m going to have to pour scalding hot water on all the places your skin just touched me. Ugh, I feel like I just touched toe fungus.”

Peter slaps his arm.

“What is wrong with you?”

Tony backhands Peter’s arm in retaliation and then shudders all over again.

“Your aunt is crazy hot, okay, I couldn’t help myself. It was an instinctual reaction. Is she taken? C’mon. Vindicate me.”

“I’ll eviscerate you --”

“-- I mean, clearly she married into the family, she doesn’t share your unfortunate phenotype, but I didn’t see a ring on her finger. So? Yes or no?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Peter hisses as his aunt comes back in. “She’s not available to you. Not now, not ever.”

“But she is available?”

“Don’t even, Stark. You’re like, sixteen. Don’t you have any shame?”

Tony smiles, as she nears. “Not a shred.”

“So,” May waves a menu at them. “You boys happy with pepperoni?”

Closing his eyes, Peter wishes for death.

As fate would have it, he gets pepperoni instead.

-----

If you had ever told Peter that he would be sitting down for dinner with his Aunt and a dirt-streaked Tony Stark, he would have laughed.

And if Peter were outside himself he would probably find the sharing of pizza and soda over their plastic, chequered table-cloth comical -- in that uncanny, Dogs Playing Poker kind of way. But in reality there was nothing funny about the discomfort of having Tony in his personal space or the heavy, suffocating tension that has removed the air from the room.

The entire time Tony has been hamming it up, cracking jokes with his aunt, complimenting her on the decor, asking what she does for work. Peter doesn’t know if he’s being sweet to May for the purpose of buttering her up, or, given the wealth of his family in contrast to the Parkers, if he’s being cruelly facetious.

Nonetheless, Peter has felt on edge. It’s disconcerting, is what it is. Every single movement Tony makes, every time he opens his mouth -- frequently to sweet-talk his aunt -- has Peter’s anxiety standing at attention, hyperaware of everything the other boy does.

He’s beginning to feel like a meerkat whose den has been invaded by a lion.

Through the course of a single meal Peter’s attention moves from the sky to the floor. There is no grace or higher power that is coming to save him from this profound, unusual torture.

So he focuses his hopes to the south, seeing through their tiny, cramped, dinner table, past bargaining. He’s willing to trade his soul to end it all. Surely some wayward being from hell would come to his rescue.

May has Peter’s chin between her fingers. She turns it this way and that, inspecting his injuries.

“What happened this time, bubby?” She frowns, brow furrowing. “You look like you got beat up.”

Peter, very aware of Tony’s amused gaze on them, gently pulls away from her grasp. He smiles placatingly and picks at his pizza slice. God he’s never going to live this down.

“Training accident. It’s okay, I feel fine. ‘Tis but a scratch,” he brings himself to joke.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

She leans in to kiss his cheek, carefully avoiding the fresh scabs and injured flesh. “God, you bruise like a peach. Be careful, baby, you’re our money maker,” she laughs. “What about you Tony, do you play football?”

Tony, who is mid way through chewing on a mouthful of pizza, momentarily chokes, beating his chest with his fist to swallow down the obstruction.

“Uh, no,” Tony gulps, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Nope. No recreational sports for me. Can’t.” He gestures to his chest and sighs heavily. “Asthma.”

Peter sips his coke and rolls his eyes, knowing full well there’s a half-empty pack of Marlboro Light’s in the pocket of Tony’s jeans. Asthma. What a schmuck.

“That’s a shame. Do you boys have classes together?”

Unfortunately, Peter thinks.

The other boy seems to have the same thought, as he glares at Peter from over the table. When he picks up his can of coke, he gives Peter the finger outside of May’s eye-line.

“That’s why Tony’s here,” Peter twists his napkin in his grip. “We have an econ assignment together on microeconomics. Teach says Tony’s destined to be on welfare.”

Tony leans in, chin rested on his hand. He addresses May but his stare, dark and odious, rests on Peter.

“Not accurate. Stay-at-home parent, actually. One might say that is the most important job of all. Wouldn’t you agree, May?”

She raises her Coke.

“Hear, hear.”

Tony grins roguishly, the same grin he gave the girls at the lockers earlier. “Petey here was just saying that we should ask you about your experience running a household on a single salary. We’d love to have you as a reference.”

“Was I saying that?” Peter narrows his eyes. “I can’t remember.”

Tony kicks him under the table. The hit lands right in his knee cap.

Wincing, Peter kicks back, satisfied when the other boy bites his lip to hold back a pained groan.

“Yeah, well, not surprising,” Tony says airily, waving his hand. “Hit your head today, didn’t you? Maybe you should get all that damage looked into.”

The napkin rips in Peter’s grasp.

“Maybe you should go f--”

“I’d be more than happy to help with your assignment, boys,” May cuts in.

Whatever snide reply he has in his mouth instantly wilts when he looks over to his Aunt. She looks...pleased. Delighted, almost. Her eyes under the dull, yellow kitchen light seem to get warmer, and her smile is small but softens around the edges.

Instantly, Peter feels like the worst person in the world. Of course May would be the best person to ask. She does so much for him, the least he can do is set his pride aside for one moment to make her feel good about how hard she works for their life.

He reaches over to squeeze her hand, smiling as gratitude swells unexpectedly in his chest.

“Thanks, May. That would be great.”

Across the table, a smug Tony looks like the cat who got the cream.

Without warning, Peter’s chest goes hot with contempt, his fingernails dig into his palm. He’s not sure he’s ever met anyone he couldn’t like, until now.

I hate you, Peter mouths while May busies herself with rounding up the pizza boxes.

Kiss my ass, Tony mouths back.

In an instant his expression flips from contemptuous to angelic when he stands and offers to help May clean up.

Peter stands too, sparing a disdainful glance to the floor. Turns out not even the devil was willing to give him a hand.

Natasha was right. It’s going to end in murder.

---

Peter walks Tony to the door after dinner to say goodbye to his ‘friend’. Following him into the hall, Peter closes the door behind them.

“What do you want, Parker?” Tony asks wearily, retrieving a cigarette from his pocket. “I’m trying to make a getaway here.”

Peter crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t do that with my aunt. I’m not joking, asshole. It’s not cool.”

“Relax, princess,” Tony rolls his eyes, fishing for his lighter in his backpack. “I’m not actually interested. Just trying to get under your skin. Worked, see? You’re easy like that. Hey, why do you live with your aunt anyways?”

“None of your business,” he frowns as Tony holds one hand up in surrender and lights his cigarette with the other. “Dude, you can’t smoke in here.”

“Can’t, shouldn’t, gonna. By the way, you’ve got sauce on your chin, it’s very distracting.”

Peter wipes at it without thinking. When he pulls it away there is indeed a smear of red sauce on his hand.

Tony walks backwards down the hall and exhales a cloud of smoke, waving in a sardonic imitation of a farewell.

“See you Monday, bubby.”

Peter doesn’t bother with a response, too tired from the week, exhausted by this whole darn day, and it’s not like the other boy cares what he has to say anyway. He takes a moment to swallow his anger before he heads back inside, sighing.

Well, at least he has an entire weekend free of Stark to look forward to.

May looks at him curiously when he reemerges, but says nothing. He considers for a moment about heading to his bedroom and playing a video game to disassociate - but then, suddenly, remembers her smile earlier, and how alone she looks now. A surge of affection hits him right beneath his breastbone.

He checks his watch and then catches her eye. Tilting his head towards the living room, he says, “Hey. You wanna eat some ice cream and watch some Colbert before bed?”

She smiles just like she did earlier and kisses his cheek. “Sounds nice, Pete.”

Maybe the whole day wasn’t lost.

As May heads to the sofa and switches the TV on, Peter catches sight of the Magic 8-Ball from the corner of his eye. He walks over and gives it a shake.

Outlook good.

----

tagging: @bylerboyfriends @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @muse-of-gods

#starker #ironspider #high school au #enemies to lovers

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birdwonder · 5 years ago

Note

headcanon the joestars on how they would react to an artist s/o like always painting, drawing and giving them like a painting of them they worked on?? thank u 💕

|| I don’t do part 5 or further requests yet, and I’m taking Joestars as in the Jojo’s, but I think I know Giorno somewhat enough to throw him in ! Also, cuuute request.

Part 1-5 Jojo’s | Artist S/O Headcanons

Jonathan Joestar

- As one would expect, he is incredibly supportive of your talent! All of your family/couple portraits are hung up in the hallways and even a few landscape ones too to keep things looking lively. His favourite above all favourites would go above the fire place however, which is probably a painting of the two of you that you had gifted him on your anniversary.

- He cherishes it more than most possessions he owns, and when he’s warming up by the crackling flames, he can’t help but smile at it. That’s your hard work and your effort up there, and any house guests will know it as soon as he shows it to them.

- Honestly, he doesn’t want to request anything from you as he feels as though anything that you gift him that comes from your mind and heart alone is far more valuable to him. Besides, he wouldn’t really know what to ask for aside from another portrait of you to hang somewhere that wasn’t taken up.

- During the spring and summer seasons, you take the time to set up an easel, canvas and paint set in the garden to have some fresh air and gather new inspiration. Even if you haven’t even gotten far into the piece, Jonathan will eventually come out the house with two cups of tea and stand behind you, bending down to lightly kiss your temple as he’s afraid anything more passionate would interrupt your creative process or cause your finger to slip. He would then ask for you to take a break and sit with him at a table to enjoy the view together, so the two of you can talk about your future painting plans and how his studies in archeology are going. Mutual respect for each other’s interests is an essential ingredient in any relationship.

- “Oh, look at your hands! No matter, we’ll just have to wash them once we’re inside,” is something he says before you realise that a tea cup you were holding had been smudged with a variety of green’s and blue’s from your fingertips. You apologise profusely in which he shakes his head at with a chuckle. “It’s alright, my love. I think it makes them look far more unique now! No china set in the world could look like this.”

- Skip 100 years into the future and your paintings may be in a gallery with a small “to Jonathan” written in the corner.

Joseph Joestar

- Definition of “Paint me like one of your french girls.~”

- Definitely suggests a nude painting of him. Or you. Or the two of you together, whether it be a joke or he’s somewhat serious.

- He’s amazed by your talent! Including your patience. He probably wouldn’t be able to sit still for long enough to even paint an abstract tree, so he has nothing but respect for your artistry.

-If you were to ever gift him a drawing, he’d be stunned. Does he even deserve to own one of your pieces? Was this a declaration of love? Because he’s accepting it with a hard kiss to your lips and a string of ‘thank you’’s and compliments.

- One day, you had a serious artist block and had no idea what to paint leaving you stumped and staring at a blank canvas in despair. The lack of spark in your eyes that you usually had when painting hurt Joseph, so as a foolish attempt to help, he grabbed a bottle of one of your haunts and squirted it all over his hand.

- You gasped in response, about to scold him on the price of the paints when he suddenly slapped it smack middle of the canvas. “Joseph! Those cost a lot!”

- “Yeah but it’s fun! C’mon try it! Get your creative juices flowing or whatever you art folk say!” Taking your hand, he squirted a different colour onto it which made you giggle cutely as the cold sensation. He then guided it next to his bright hand print, pressing your palm down.

- It looked adorable and gave you an idea.

- With a smile, and a promise from Joseph that he’d buy you more paint later, the two of began to spread more paints onto your hands and continued to cover the canvas mindlessly with your prints.

- By the end of it, the two of who are laughing and even smearing paint on each other’s faces, leading to some squeals and hilarious facial features.

- Sure, it wasn’t want you had initially wanted to go for, but with a carefully painted on “Joseph and [F/N]” written underneath the first two handprints that were made, you knew that the sentimental value of the piece was far greater than anything else you could have made.

Jotaro Kujo

- He has no reason to be against your talent and doesn’t have enough words and facial expressions to his name to show how impressed he is with you.

- Though that slightly changes when you hand him your sketch book one day, a bashful look on your face as you fear for the worst reaction from him.

- Inside are a multitude of sketches and even fine lined pieces of him, some with and without Star Platinum if you can see him, all carefully and accurately drawn in your own style. You even remembered to add the pin on his hat and his earrings...

- Jotaro could only blush brightly and cough into his hand to compose himself. “It’s good... I like it.” An understatement really, because if you let him keep even a page, he’ll be sure to keep it safe somewhere but no where obvious so his mother or grandfather don’t tease him for it.

- If you ask him to pose for anything, he’ll want to decline and might even do so the first few times, though with some begging he may do some poses in your home, with the assurance that no one will barge in. Only casual ones though, so he doesn’t have to strain or embarrass himself.

- Buying presents for you is considerably easy as there’s always some sort of pen or paint set he can get to add to your wide range of media, all of which you are grateful for and gush over even though you tell him that buying them is unnecessary.

- “Have you considered doing an art major?” If you say yes, he supports you completely but warns you of the stresses and the harsh reality of the art world when it came to work.

Josuke Higashikata

- Ooh, is he going to show you off.

- “Yo Rohan Sensei! Sure you can draw that manga of your’s but can you draw THIS?”

- He might get killed or have his destiny rewritten by a certain stand user, but he knows it’s worth it when it comes to you. Have you seen your own art? It’s incredible !

- Most likely, he finds out by seeing you doodle in class and his jaw completely drops that your maths work sheet was instead covered in drawings of amazing bodies and plant life. If you insist that they’re nothing and “they’re just sketches,” he will personally shake you senseless and talk your ear off telling you that they are amazing.

- Gifting him any kind of artistic media makes him overjoyed. Josuke shoves it in Okuyasu’s face, much to the delinquent’s dismay, and hugs you to death for the gift. “Aw babe, you really didn’t have to!”

- If you’re ever stressing over the quality of your work, he reminds you that you are amazing at what you do and that everyone has their own style, so that comparing yourself to others just wasn’t fair on you.

- He plays a personal game where each day he tries to guess how much pen or paint you have your hand by the end of the day. Usually on weekends, it’s a lot more.

Giorno Giovanna

- There’s a good chance that you met because of your work.

- You’re in a particularly beautiful Italian city, either sitting on a stool or ledge with a canvas or book in front of you, your hand working away at the landscape before you.

- While he was on a relaxing stroll, Giorno stopped behind you and peered over your shoulder, his breath taken away by how accurate your piece was to every exact detail.

- “Bellissimo...” He whispered, causing you to jolt a little and quickly turn around to look at him, a flushed or embarrassed look on your face. Oh, you’re cute.

- Right after he apologised for startling you and praises you for your work, which only flusters you more that such a handsome boy was complimenting you, you offered for him to sit next to you. Perhaps for you to even draw him?

- He doesn’t refuse.

- Once you’re dating, he takes you wherever you want whenever he can so you can draw the scenery, and shows you more gorgeous places to draw and even suggests what sort of people to draw. He also supports you doing something out of your comfort zone, for example if you typically liked to only sketch, he’d suggest for you to paint or use chalk in another style to see if it improves your skill as a whole.

- When he’s a don, he asks for you to paint or draw him so that he can hang it somewhere in an expensive frame to make his work place appear more serious and clear that he was the boss.

- If you do so, he thanks you a hundred times and buys you anything you want and as much as you want. Giorno also makes sure to repay you physically with a night out and kisses with a goodnight cuddle.

- He might keep a small sketch of the two of you in his inside jacket pocket or draw so that every time he took it out during work, he’d be reminded of you and how you met, which motivated him to get the job done quick so he could go home to see you.

#jjba headcanon #headcanon #joseph joestar x reader #joseph joestar #jonathan joestar #jonathan joestar x reader #jotaro kujo #jotaro x reader #giorno x reader #giorno giovanna #josuke higashikata #josuke x reader #jojo's bizarre adventure #request

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itsclydebitches · 5 years ago

Photo

Discredit Part Three! (Click on each pic for something resembling quality!)

Part One---contains translations, podfic, and related works---Part Two

Tagging, credit, and transcript all below the cut 💜

First off, people who specifically asked to see more of this nonsense may God in all Her glory bless you accordingly:

@internet-or-sleep, @just-some-girl-on-the-internet, @readytoocomply, @vocallsama, @fellowshipofthegay, @lucky-leafeon, @alph4centauri, @sumoranges, @diaphanedreams

Aziraphale’s profile pic is courtesy of good old Neil, found here. All others are from Creative Commons.

Sorry it took so long to produce more stupidity. YOU ALL ROCK 🎊🎊🎊 Here, have a messy transcript.

Abdou G.

Have you ever walked in on a conversation and, despite clearly missing the majority of it, feel like you could reconstruct it, word for word if necessary? That happened at Fell’s today. The ‘talk’ had obviously been going on for a while, but I can give you a perfect summary here: rude fuckboy thinks he gets to say who God is, Fell was having none of it.

Best response? Turn around, walk back to your apartment (pro-tip: this only works if you’re just a few blocks away), and change your shirt. I walked back in with my I MET GOD, SHE’S BLACK tee and had the pleasure of seeing Fell do a double-take.

“Yes, thank you, that’s what I’ve been trying to say!”

***

Doug E.

Scout’s honor: I once saw that Crowley dude unhinge his jaw and eat a large pizza in one goddamn bite.

Update: you heathens read about this gay abomination with his dislocated jaw and what you decide to question is whether I was acTUALLY A SCOUT?

***

Mary L.

I came in with my four-year-old last week fully intending to keep him within sight at all times. Yes, I bought one of those kiddie leashes and no, I don’t regret a thing. You try holding down two jobs as a single mom to the bonefide antichrist. I love my boy, but the devil got to him, telling him things like, “Yes, Freddie, permanent marker would look just great on Mum’s only work jacket!”

I said as much to the owner because this mom needs to vent sometimes.

I wish I could give this place a higher rating, but the ownership is frankly terrible. Inconsistent hours, no help when you’re trying to find a book, just basically all around bad customer service, BUT it still gets five stars because when I told the guy I was raising the antichrist?

“Oh yes. I did that myself not too long ago!”

We parents need to support one another. Otherwise the world is going to burn. So here’s a good review for you, Mr. Bookshop Guy. A part of me hopes you’re a better dad than you are a bookseller. The other part? The bigger part? It’s very aware that Ms. Pot here just met Mr. Kettle.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Freddie just got into the flour.

***

Alfred B.

I hereby nominate Mr. Fell as the British Steve Irwin. I’ve never seen anyone handle a red bellied black snake like that. I mean yeah, they’re a chill species overall, but there’s a difference between casually handling a snake and fucking chucking one onto the chair because it’s in your way. (Okay. Maybe Irwin was a little nicer.)

Renee K.

whos steve irwin?

Alfred B.

...How old are you?

Renee K.

Alfred B.

You existed on this planet for two years with him and you dare to ask me this? Go boil your head and then use google. Good god.

***

Mark F.

overheard the owner telling his boyfriend that last they met his brother tried to set him on fire? and succeeded?? actually now that I think about it, not sure which brother they were talking about---his brother or boyfriend’s brother--but WHOEVER has the brother needs to... i don’t even know. do something about that? ring the police or go to therapy or SOMETHING. i mean maybe they already have, i’m just an eavesdropping tourist, but the idea of someone setting that bow-tie cutie on fire—DID I MENTION THAT? PERSON ARSON. MURDER—makes my blood boil

***

Shiefa N.

People aren’t joking about overhearing weird conversations here. I walked in on two men (owner and husband? owner and escort?) debating Seven Minutes in Heaven. You know, that stupid kissing game the better looking kids got to play in middle school. It got pretty heated at one point (pun not intended), arguing about whether seven minutes of making out was divine or damning behavior. I hung out long enough to catch the segue into a lust vs. love debate and then had to skedaddle. Nice couple. I support their weird flirting habits.

***

Chang Z.

Is it legal to visit a store for things other then what it sells? I realize that makes me sound druggie or something but I swear I’m dealing with a much healthier addiction. (Ha. Maybe.) I cosplay (yeah, yeah, move along, trolls) and Mr. Fell has an absolute wealth of historical clothing. It’s astounding! I thought they were particularly detailed costumes at first, but no. I’m majoring in Textile and Apparel Studies. I know a naturally worn piece of fabric when I see it. Mr. Fell is always cracking jokes about how he wore this frock in the 19th century, this shirt in the 17th, oh don’t you just love my old vest? (He has... so many vests...) I indulge him because anyone who lets me borrow this stuff for free deserves all my attention and fake laughter.

Yeah. You read right. Artifacts borrowed for free. He’s even let me alter some of the stuff because I’m not exactly his size. Should this stuff be in a museum somewhere? Probably. Am I calling anyone to take my personal cosplay supply away? Noooope.

***

Leah M.

Helping to spread the word here because I’m not sure how much foot traffic this place actually gets.

I pass Fell’s every morning on my way to work and yesterday there was a new sign in the window. This might not seem very interesting to most people on here, but you’ve got to understand that Fell’s never changes. None of it. I’ve lived in Soho since I was a boy and this place has always had the same placard with his insane times listed, same stripped paint on the door he’s never gotten around to fixing, same spiderweb in the corner I absolutely swear. My dad used to pop in there when he was in college and I swear he’s taken me through the stacks, points out books that haven’t moved in 30+ years. It’s nuts and more than a little bit impressive.

So you can imagine my shock when I passed by and saw not one, but four new papers in the front window. They’re drawings and I recommend going and taking a look for yourself. I don’t think I can accurately describe the utter chaos of crayons and glitter that’s displayed there, let alone what it’s trying to depict. A dystopia? The end of the world? If so the apocalypse features a surprising number of dogs.

There’s a fifth paper off to the side, written in Fell’s messy penmanship. It just says, “My god-children drew these!” and if that’s not the cutest things you’ve ever heard get out of my face.

***

Gabriel A.

azirfell

alzaphral

azzzzzirafal

i’m a litttle drunk but azifjkaafha’s place is good he just needs a name easier to spell

***

Aziraphale

Dear Gabriel A,

My partner Crowley told me about this site and the many lovely well-wishes you all have left us here. I have come to express my thanks and to offer a bit of advice. You are hardly the first person to struggle with my name, dear girl! I recommend the following three step process:

A - simple, yes? + zira - a nickname I’ve adopted over the years, easy enough to recall + phale - this is admittedly more difficult as our ending, “phale,” is neither spelled in a way nor presumed to be pronounced like the “fell” sound we end up with. In truth my name is more along the lines of Azz-ear-raf-AE-el, but change is inevitable and you needn’t hear about that transformation, nor the etymology involved in getting “fell” out of “phale.” I say this not because I don’t wish to teach you, but because my partner has reminded me--in a rather rude tone I should add--that this site has a word limit. Suffice to say you should simply memorize the “phale” portion and you shall be, as the expression goes, in tip top shape!

Best regards,

Aziraphale

P.S. Nothing personal, dear boy, but I fear I’m not terribly fond of your name either. I would highly recommend changing it if you’re ever of a mind to do so. Cheerio!

#good omens #ineffable husbands #air conditioning #long post #good omens fic #(apologies for that)#(tried for text post and the quality was totally unreadable)#pgnbri #attempting to tag you here #since tumblr won't let me do it in the post :/

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agerestorybits · 4 years ago

Text

twin trouble

Turns out Remus wasn’t the only one that would shrink when they put off regressing too long. Something they all found out when both Remus and Roman had been working together non stop for two weeks during a creative burst.

Roman was working himself to exhaustion and Remus was holding back all the nastier stuff so he could be of service. As soon as they finished and got into their beds, they dropped.

Patton found Roman after a toddler Remus went streaking through the hallway naked. Logan caught him and wrestled him into a diaper and pants. Remus managed to take his shirt off. After the third time he took it off, Logan gave up.

Roman was just slightly bigger than Remus but not by much. He was still asleep when Patton found him. Patton stayed in there and waited for him to wake up instead of waking him in case he scared him.

When Roman woke up it was easy to get him dressed and down stairs for breakfast. He saw Remus was also small and got very excited. “Re!”

Remus looked up from his cereal. “Ro!”

He started to squirm down out of his seat before Logan stopped him, “Finish eating first.”

“Mkay!”

Patton put Roman down in the chair next to Remus and went to get Roman cereal. He returned to Remus trying to feed Roman his cereal and Roman going along with it.

“Logan! Why didn’t you stop him?” Patton asked, setting Roman’s bowl in front of him.

“I didn’t see any reason to upset Remus by telling him that he couldn’t share.” Logan said. “Isn’t that an important lesson for children?”

“Well..yes.” Patton relenanted as Roman dug into his food and Remus went back to eating his own.

As soon as they were finished they ran off to play. Roman better at walking than Remus was by quite a bit. So when Remus fell down Roman ran back to help him up before Logan could.

“Aaaw!” Patton said watching as Roman helped his brother up and then grabbed his hand so that he wouldn’t fall again. “Ok! Who wants to color?”

They sat down on the floor, each with a coloring book. Remus insisted on Logan sitting next to him. So Roman made Patton do the same thing for him.

It went like that for most of the day. Roman would do something then Remus would copy him or visa versa. It got to the point where they were just watching the other waiting for them to make the first move.

“It’s like a tiny showdown.” Virgil commented.

Patton laughed. “Any idea how long this will last?” He asked Logan.

“Well it took Remus over sixteen hours to revert back to normal. “I think we can expect something similar this time.”

Janus walked and took one look at the twins before turning and walking out again.

Remus got bored of their game of copycat and waddled over to Logan. He held his arms up, “Up!”

Logan picked him up. Remus yawned and laid his head down on Logan’s shoulder, a tiny arm hugging his throat.

“It looks like nap time.” Logan said.

Roman pouted, “But..I wanna play with Re!”

“Remus needs to sleep now.” Patton said gently.

Roman shook his head, “No! Re!”

Remus started and looked around confused. He had almost fallen asleep. Tears appeared in his eyes.

“Shh. it’s ok.” Logan said, swaying a bit.

“Put him down!” Roman yelled at Logan.

“Roman you need to calm down this isn’t...ow!” Roman kicked Logan’s leg.

Patton picked him up, “Ok. It’s time out, time mister.”

Roman screamed and kicked his legs. Remus started bawling.

Logan left the room to calm him down better. Roman yelling no the whole time.

Patton det him down in the corner, Roman tried to dart past him to follow Logan. Patton blocked him.

“No no no! Re!” Roman yelled, crying reaching for his brother.

“He’s going to take a nap now. He’s tired.” Patton explained.

“Give him back! RE!”

Patton looked up at Virgil for help.

“Ok. You can see him but you have to be really quiet.” Virgil blurted out.

“I see Re?” Roman said breathing heavily.

“IF you are quiet.” Patton whispered the last word to get the point across.

Patton picked him up again and they went to Logan’s room.

Remus was laying on Logan’s bed asleep. Logan raised an eyebrow at Patton.

“Shouldn’t you say something to Logan?” Patton asked the boy.

Roman looked away from Remus, “Sorry…Can I see Re now?”

“Quiet. Don’t wake him.” Patton said setting Roman down.

Roman walked over and peeked over the edge of the bed at his brother before climbing up onto the bed next to him and laying down. He put a hand over Remus’s closed one and just watched him.

Logan nodded to Patton who smiled before leaving. Roman drifted off to sleep next to his brother.

---

“Remus give that back!” Roman yelled bigger again.

Remus laughed as he jumped over the couch and took off up the stairs. Roman tan a hand through his hair. “I can not stand him!”

Patton, Virgil, and Logan shared a look before bursting out laughing.

Roman looked at him, “What?”

They laughed harder at his offend expression.

---

“This is a bad idea.” Virgil warned.

“Please! It’s just for a couple hours.” Patton insisted. “Logan can’t watch both of them on his own!” Virgil looked over to where Remus and Roman sat together with Logan on the floor.

“What about Janus?” Virgil hated to suggest it but Janus would probably be better at it then he was.

“I’ve got to go!” Patton said sinking out into the real world to help Thomas. He sent a thumbs up as he left.

Virgil took a breath. This was fine! He was just back up in case something went wrong. It was fine! Logan would be doing most of the work.

And he did! Until Thomas summoned him too.

“I’ll be back as quickly as possible.” He promised handing him a sleepy Remus.

Remus immediately panicked and reached for Logan. He was squirming so much Virgil was scared he’d drop him. “Can’t you just take him with you?”

Logan felt the pull of the summon again before he glanced back at a drying Remus. “Fine!” He grabbed Remus and then they were both gone.

Virgil sighed in relief. He just had one of them to watch now. This was ok. Roman was just playing with a puzzle on the floor.

Virgil sat down close by and watched him as Roman sat with his tongue stuck up focusing on putting the puzzle together. As soon as he put the last piece in Virgil clapped, “Good job!”

Roman looked up at him beaming before he turned around, “Re look it’s done!...Re?” He looked around confused as where his brother and Logan had been before there was just air.

“Roman it’s fine.” Virgil said, trying to calm the rising panic in Roman.

“Where’s Re?” Roman asked standing up. He looked around again, “RE!”

Shit! Virgil had forgotten about how panicked Roman got last time Remus left the room when they were both regressed.

“It’s ok. He’s just with Logan.” Virgil said.

Roman looked at him, “Why? Did we do something bad again? I didn’t mean it!” Roman cried. Again? “You did do anything bad.” Virgil promised.

“But they took Re! And I...I didn’t mean to be bad! I’ll be good! I want Re!” Roman cried.

Virgil hugged him which did nothing for the anxiety rising in the boy. Why did he think if he was bad then…

Oh.

When they were younger they were separated. That fear of separation must only come out when he was little. “Wait here for a second ok?” Virgil asked.

Roman looked at him confused but nodded.

Virgil sunk out into the real world.

“Virgil! Why are you here I didn’t-” Thomas started.

“Who’s watching Roman?” Patton and Logan asked at the same time.

“Can’t talk. Need this.” He said grabbing Remus from Logan and sinking out.

He showed back up and was tackled by Roman. “RE!”

Remus woke up a little and looked at his brother, “Ro?”

Roman hugged his brother like his life depended on it. “I’m sorry. They won’t take you again!...right?” Roman asked looking up at Virgil.

“No one is going to separate you two again.” Virgil promised.

---

It was another hour or two before Remus reverted back to normal. Roman stayed little. Virgil held his breath at this.

“Re?” Roman asked looking up at his brother. Remus blinked, “Do I look like that too?”

“Well..yeah.” Virgil said.

Remus put a hand to his face, “The mustache?”

“Not there. Sorry.” Virgil said.

Remus sighed in disappointment before looking down as Roman tugged on his pant leg. “Re?”

“Yeah?”

“You gotta leave now?” Roman asked.

Virgil frantically shook his head. Remus shook his head, “No I can stay. Do you want to play something?”

Virgil sighed in relief. “Piggy back ride?”

Remus smiled, “Sure kid.”

Virgil made a note to tell Logan and Patton about never separating the twins when Roman was regressed again.

#agere remus #agere roman #cg logan #cg patton #virgil

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vintageneptune92 · 4 years ago

Text

Rain Song- Prolouge

So I promised myself I wouldn’t start any new stories until I worked on my pre-existing works. But...I just haven’t gotten anywhere with them creatively. I tried doing requests for one shots to spark my writers block and it didn’t work. This, however...came flowing out rather easily. So I’m going with it.

This is my first toe dip into Harry Potter. I’ve had this idea for a really long time. It will probably not follow cannon completely as I am creating an original character. But the bones remain the same.

Here’s the skinny- Sirius Black falls in love with Remus Lupin’s younger sister. Evanora Lupin-Black is a powerful Witch & Seer. (I’m kind of going with my own ideas with Seer mythology based on some HP stuff and some of my own ideas).

Sirius and Nora have a daughter who Remus Lupin must raise after the death of his sister and the imprisonment of is brother-in-law

Let me know what you think!

You are the sunlight in my growing - So little warmth I’ve felt before

October 31, 1981 “Remus...Remus you must take her and go! Please!” Evanora begged her big brother to take the sleeping child wrapped in her arms. She looked down at her daughter, the unfairness of the situation was palpable. She knew this was the last time she would see the most perfect thing she had ever done. She had spent the time waiting for her brother staring at a picture of her daughter and her father. She wanted the faces of the two loves of her life to be seared into her brain when the lights went out.

“What of Sirius?” Remus couldn’t take her. She was safer with Sirius. “She should be with her father.” Remus felt a pang. Sirius had recently been keeping him at arms length. Almost two years ago he trusted Remus with the life of his daughter when he was named as her Godfather. Now...Remus didn’t know what had caused the change. Perhaps the stress of the war. The fear for his family. The fear that Voldemort would take James, Lily and Harry. Fear sowed doubt. But Nora...Nora’s faith in her brother was unwavering. It always had been. Lycanthropy be dammed. Remus knew there had been contention between his sister and his friend because of Sirius’ change in attitude. Yet Remus knew, no matter what, his sister was meant to be with Sirius Black.

“He’s- I don’t know where he is. Please Remus. They’re coming. I won’t survive this. But she MUST. Please-“ Her voice broke as she choked back a sob. Nora had been preparing for this for months. Filling books with letters and instructions for her daughter. Pulling memories for her to see. Nora quite literally saw it all coming, yet she could say nothing. Nora couldn’t warn her husband. She tried to steer him in the right direction but his stubbornness knew no bounds. And now? Nora knew what would become of him. It broke her heart but she knew this was how it had to be. The conflict on her brothers face almost broke her resolve. She couldn't tell him about what had happened to her husband. Time would reveal all to her brother. It would be a hard road, but it was one he must travel. Her only concern could be for that of her daughter. Her survival was essential. She could only pray that the love and faith she had always instilled in her brother would be enough. He had to be strong now. They all had to be strong.

“Nora- let me get you both to safety. I cannot leave you behind.”

“Rem- you must. It is meant to be this way. She must be protected. I cannot follow her where she goes. To keep her safe I must stay behind. Big brother please.” He could never deny his sister. She was only a year younger than he and she had him wrapped around her finger from the moment they were old enough to know they needed each other. Remus didn’t even try to hide his tears. He reluctantly took the now almost toddler from his sister. He knew this was her end. He hated that she wouldn’t tell him more. But she never did. She would never upset the balance. She never messed with fate.

“Nora- I...I wish we had more time.” He wanted to say so much more, but he could not find the words.

“Me too Rem. Tell Sirius that I loved him, until my dying breath. Tell her...”Nora couldn’t hold back her sob.

“I’ll tell her everything. How beautiful and brave her mother was. How she loved her broken shell of a brother. How she made her father a better man. That he became the very best version of himself because of how much her mother loved him. She will know her mother’s grace and her ferocity. Her loyalness. Her ability to be all others above herself. How she was so wonderfully kind. She will know you Nora.” Nora nodded.

“Remus. You are not a broken shell of a man. You must remember how wonderful YOU are. She will need you. Be strong for her and for me. There is- there are journals and vials. She’ll need it to learn. Remus he will be back. He will fall, but he will be back.” Remus shifted his niece to one arm and hugged his sister and kissed her forehead.

“I love you.”

“I love you too brother now go!” He rushed out of the house after he threw the bags his sister had packed over his shoulder. He looked back at her one last time, she smiled through the tears in her eyes. She was always smiling. He forced himself to look away and fled.

Once outside he disapparated from the cottage. When he reached safety, he looked down at his niece. She had slept through the entire dramatic ordeal. She was the only person who his love for rivaled that of his sister. Her dark blonde hair already cursed with the wild curls of her mother. She had Nora’s features; pale and delicate skin, full lips and long lashes. She had her mothers radiating smile that would haunt Remus for the rest of his days. But he knew when she opened her big eyes the stormy grey of his best friend would be looking back at him. She already had Sirius’ proclivity for mischief and his full barky laugh. Her laugh was a sound that Remus could never get enough of. Her innocent looks would get her out of the many corners she would undoubtedly paint herself into. She had the charm of Sirius Black pumping through her veins.

He knew not of what happened to his best friend, he just hoped that whatever rift was between them could be mended. Remus didn’t know how Sirius would survive the loss of his sister. She had been the one to tame Sirius. While he was always a prankster, he mellowed for her. He renounced his play boy ways for her. And while he still a shameless flirt, he began to reserve it only for Nora. He knew Sirius was a good man. When Sirius asked him permission to pursue his sister Remus had laughed. It didn’t matter what Remus had to say, it was Nora he had to convince. He gave him his blessing and wished him luck. Watching his best friend and sister fall in love was the honor of his life thus far. Now, Remus would need help to tell Sirius that the love of his life was gone and it was now up to him to protect his special child.

He really wanted to go to Lily and James but it wasn’t possible with how they were heavily hidden. It gave Remus comfort to know that his niece would grow up loved by not only her father, but Lily and James as well. She would have Harry as a life long friend. He knew his condition would take him away from her and Sirius for stretches of time. James and Lily would help, once it was safe for them to come out of hiding.

He looked up at the house that would offer himself and the child safety until he could figure things out. It was several stories high, slightly crooked with multiple chimneys. The only other place he could think of that would offer him refuge was The Burrow.

He will return? Who will return? She had to have been talking of Voldemort. It didn’t make sense to him. Remus was confused. His sister, plagued with sight had painstakingly learned how to hone her gift without the help of an accomplished Seer. It was impressive. Her daughter would carry the same burden, Nora had seen it. Now it would be up to Sirius to find someone to help her, he had no idea who. Most of the Seers he knew were quacks or had a meager amount of talent compared to his sister. Remus wished he could take the power of sight from the child he loved like his own. He recalled the nightmares of Nora’s childhood and the intense headaches that had once plagued his sister. She could often see into a persons memories by touching them. She had pulled away from most until she learned how to shut that off. He didn’t want this for her child. It was different when Nora would be here to guide her. He sighed and walked towards the warm home of the Weasley family. He felt guilty for coming. While he knew the Weasley family supported the cause- they opted out as their children were so young. They had all met Arthur and Molly through Molly’s brothers who were active Order members.

“Remus?!” Molly had heard the sound of his apparition and had run down the stairs to greet him. “Where is Nora?” She looked wide eyed at the man before her. She looked at the child in his arms. When she looked back up at the man before her, Remus’ body began to shake. Molly, alarmed scooped the little girl from his arms and ushered him into the house. He needn’t tell her what happened, she knew, but she let him speak.

“I don’t know where Sirius is. But Nora....they came for her. They came for them both. She had me take her and she stayed behind. She said- she couldn’t follow her. If she was to survive she had to stay behind. I should have made her come. Oh God Molly. I left my sister to die.” Remus finally wailed. Molly was silent for a moment. She wanted to cry with him. She couldn’t imagine the wherewithal it took Remus to walk away from his sister. Had it not been for the girl, he would have stayed and died with her.

“She told you to take her because if she knew if she didn’t stay behind they would both be dead. You would be dead. You didn’t allow your sister to die, you’ve given your niece the chance to live.”

“How am I going to tell Sirius?” Remus saw something pass over Molly’s face but she didn’t not share what she was thinking. There was something beneath the surface but he did not have the strength to ask.

“Come, come inside. I’ll put the kettle in and we’ll wait. Arthur should be here soon. Let me take her up and lay her with Ronald. She can sleep and we’ll contact Dumbledore.” She patted Remus on the shoulder. She couldn’t tell him. Albus would have to be the one. She slowly walked up the stairs to her son’s room as she tried to maintain control of her emotions. She could feel her own feelings later. Remus needed them now. She stifled the feelings of loss. She laid the sweet child next to her son.

“I am so sorry darling.” Molly took a few moments to compose herself as she looked down at her son sleeping. They were children of war and while it seemed her son would go unscathed, the beauty next to him would not be so lucky.

Hope Euphemia Black, named for her maternal grandmother and paternal surrogate grandmother, would not know her parents. She would never know her would be Aunt and Uncle Lily and James. It would be years before she knew Harry. It would be up to Remus now to take care of her. Poor Remus, was all that Molly could think. The man who suffered and struggled all of his life lost his sister and 3 best friends in one fell swoop. Molly didn't know how Remus would take the betrayal of his brother-in-law, but it would not be good.

Molly was pulled out of her thoughts as the clock chimed. Undoubtedly Dumbledore would have secured Harry with Lily’s sister and would soon be on his way to find Remus. Molly would just have to hold it together for now. She closed the door quietly behind her as to not to disturb the children. As she walked down the stairs, the voice of her husband set her at ease.

“Dumbledore is on his way Remus.” She heard the clink of a glass. Arthur must have thought Fire Whiskey more appropriate given the circumstances. “I’m so sorry about Evanora. She was quite remarkable.”

“Her body-“ Remus couldn’t finish his sentence. “I’ve already dispatched the ministry to recover it. She will get a proper send off Remus.” Arthur was stalling, like Molly, he wanted Dumbledore to be the one to tell him about James, Peter and the fate that would be Sirius Black. Arthur knew that it would break him. Arthur barely knew the group of men and it tore him up.

A month later...

”Remus, you can’t be serious!” Minerva was incredulous. “You’ll need our help during the full moon. You need support. You both do.”

“We cannot stay here. She’s not safe. After what happened to Alice and Frank- I have to take her away from here. There are still Death Eaters afoot looking for Voldemort. He will return. She can’t be here when he does.”

“This isn’t what Nora would have wanted.” Minerva could barely speak her name. She tried not to have favorite students, but Nora Lupin had enchanted all those that came in her wake.

“NORA ISN’T HERE!” He regretted yelling as soon as the words left his mouth. She said nothing. He sat slowly and placed his head in his hands. “She entrusted her to me. Walburga is already trying to get her hands on Hope. I won’t let it happen.”

“And what of the full moon?” Remus sighed. “Andromeda and Molly offered to help. But with the supply of Wolfsbane we should be alright.”

“Where will you go?” Remus didn’t want to give the location away. He wanted Hope to know peace.

“My parents bought a beach front cottage. It was Nora’s favorite place. We’ll go there. It’s beautiful and peaceful. It’s a home that Nora loved that hasn’t been tainted by the war.” “And when she turns 11?”

Remus sighed. “Well...I have a little over 9 years to decide. I guess it will depend on how much control she has.” The idea of not having the opportunity to teach the daughter of Nora Lupin and Sirius Black was too much for Minerva. She didn’t know what caused Sirius to turn, but the boy she knew was who she decided to remember.

“Professor-“

“I think we’ve hit the point where you can call me Minerva.” Remus smiles sheepishly.

“Minerva- why did he do it? I cannot for the life of me piece it together. He loved my sister. He loved his daughter. How? Why?” Remus was beside himself with grief. Minerva could see the pain wearing on his features, more so than his lycanthropy ever did.

“Sirius maintains his innocence. Perhaps he was given the choice of his family or The Potters. I wish I knew. I wish I had the answers you need. Remus- you must promise me something.” Remus looked up at Minerva McGonagall and was met with tear filled eyes. “You’ll send me the occasional owl?” He nodded and she patted him on the shoulder.

The two remained silent until the sound of Hope’s laugh came closer and closer. The sound of Sirius echoed through the corridor. Moments later in walked Albus Dumbledore carrying the happy child along with him. In her hands were all sorts of treats the Headmaster had bestowed. He knew Remus’ mind could not be changed. He also agreed that it was for the best, for now. Remus watched as your face lit up and you reached for him.

“Come darling, it’s time to go home.”

“Remus.” Dumbledore stopped the tired looking man. “Remember- help will always be found at Hogwarts for those who need it.” Remus paused for a moment and nodded before heading out into the hallway. As he walked down the corridor with Hope in his arms listening to her chatter, there was one thing he felt certain about, he had no intention of bringing his niece back to Hogwarts. Perhaps he’d send her to a school abroad or he would teach her himself. His fear that the dark world that took your mother would take his Hope too.

#Harry Potter #Harry Potter FanFiction #Harry Potter OC #Harry Potter Imagine #Sirius Black x Daughter #Sirius Black x Daughter OC #Sirius Black #Remus Lupin x Niece #Lupin Original Character #Black Original Character #Sirius Black x Daugther OC #Remus Lupin x Niece OC #Sirius Black x OC #Remus Lupin x Sister OC

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sortasirius · 5 years ago

Note

Prompt: Dean drives Sam to the library routinely & pretends he hates it (but Sam knows he has a library card). Dean's started seeing a new face in the library, always reading books about spiders, but he doesnt how to break the ice. Until one day, he finally sits down and invites Cas over to his place to see his pet tarantula. When they get there, the tarantula is missing. Both are afraid of spiders: Cas was only researching for an assignment & Dean only got a tarantula to impress Cas.

This is literally the funniest prompt I have ever received, I literally laughed for a minute straight when I read it. Thank you so much, this was such a fun one to write, I hope you like it!

Words: 2063 (what can I say, the spider sparked my creativity)

Dean pretends to hate the library. Someone had to put up the front of being the cool intimidating brother, and they both knew that wasn’t going to be Sam, even though he was about a foot taller than Dean now. No, that didn’t make Dean self-conscious.

He takes Sam to the library at least once a week, Sam insists he studies better when he was there, Dean rolling his eyes and relenting, sprawling out in one of the hard wooden chairs and pretending to be bored on his phone until he could sneak off to peruse the stacks himself, where he was sure Sam wouldn’t see him. He reads Tolstoy and Vonnegut and Dostoyevsky and Salinger, even dipping into those Hunger Games books that everyone was so unto a few years before (his review? They’re pretty good, make him feel like he’s a fast reader).

It’s an easy routine, something that Dean will never in a million years admit how much he enjoys. The quiet shelves that all smell like dust, pencil shavings, and old books are peaceful, something that makes him feel like he can breathe a little easier, that life is a simple as sinking down onto the worn, stained carpet, his back being poked by a metal divider between the S’s and the T’s and losing himself in the inky words printed on the page.

One Sunday in the dead of winter, Dean’s in his usual hiding place in the back corner of the library. It’s a little darker here, but when your eyes get used to the lower light, it’s easy to read. He’s lost in the world of Jack Kerouac’s On The Road today, and is so immersed that he doesn’t even notice someone looking at the shelves next to him, right up until they trip over his feet in the aisle and crash onto the floor with a thud loud enough to shake the books stacked towards the ceiling.

“Shit!” Dean cries in a stage whisper, surprised, but not surprised enough to use a regular speaking voice, he isn’t an animal, this is a library after all. He scrambles to help the person up in the semi-darkness and then is face to face with a pair of wide blue eyes.

“Sorry,” the stranger whispers, trying to arrange his clothes, which Dean notices fit the attire of a college professor more than a student, and this guy looked like a student.

“S’no problem, my fault, I probably shouldn’t sit in the middle of the aisle.”

The guy nods, smiling a little shyly, and then hurries off before Dean can even catch his name. Damn. He was good looking too.

Dean sheepishly moves out of the aisle and to a small table which, though more in the light, is also open enough that Sam could see him if he walks by, and Dean still wasn’t sure he wants to deal with the smug look that would take up residence on his brother’s face if he saw him reading. But man, this book was just a little too good to put down.

Surprise surprise, he does get caught. Sam taps him on the shoulder with a wide grin, his bag hooked over his shoulder, clearly ready to go.

“So much for hating the library huh?”

“Ok, whatever, I just come here for the pictures.”

“Kerouac isn’t exactly kid’s stuff.”

Dean rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, looking anywhere but at Sam. He tucks the book under his arm. He had to check it out and finish it tonight, it’s just that good.

They walk by the guy that had tripped over Dean earlier. He’s hunched over his table, his hands flying across a notepad he has next to him, several books about spiders spread out around him. Dean makes a mental note of it. He was going to talk to that guy if he saw him again, he’s always up for a good challenge, and spider-boy looked like the perfect one.

He does see spider-boy again the next week, when Sam simply has to study for a midterm he has coming up. He’s wearing thick glasses with dark frames this time, his nose an inch from the diagram of a garden spider he’s copying. Dean tries to work up the courage to go talk to him, but there’s something so taboo about interrupting someone when they’re so clearly in a groove, so Dean watches him from the non-fiction section, observing the way his hair brushes the edge of the book he’s staring at, and the way he cracks his knuckles every so often when his hand starts cramping.

Dean decides he’s being a freak. He goes back to his little table and picks up Tortilla Flat by Steinbeck.

It goes on like this for nearly two months. Dean sees spider-boy every week, who’s name, he learns, is Cas, always at the same table, always working on something to do with spiders. And every week, Dean swears he’s going to go talk to him, but he has no idea how. He’s never been this nervous to talk to someone, but there’s a little nagging voice in the back of his head, what if this guy thought he was an idiot? What if they had nothing to talk about?

So, he does what he does best: he hatches a master plan at his little table in the back of the library.

He’s a genius.

“You’re an idiot,” Sam sighs, staring out the window of the Impala at the looming brick building of the library grew closer. Dean had put his plan into action the day before, and was eager to get to the library and ask Cas to come home with him, see his prize. He had insisted that Sam get a ride home with his girlfriend, and Sam had been only too happy to oblige.

“This’ll make a great story for Eileen I guess.”

“This is going to work.”

Sam laughs again.

“Like I said, you’re an idiot.”

Dean doesn’t waste time. The second he steps inside, and smells the familiar old-book smell, he heads straight for Cas’ table. Cas is wearing his glasses today, and is reading a book called The History of the Arachnid, he’s leaning back on his chair so two legs were off the ground. A rebel. Dean’s kinda guy.

Dean plops down across from him, and Cas lowers his book in surprise.

“Hi, you probably don’t remember me-”

“I see you every week.”

This catches Dean off guard. Cas arches an eyebrow, and then laughs a little.

“I’m Cas.”

Dean knows this, the librarian, Mrs. Covere, is a total gossip who loves Dean, and he had wheedled it out of her three weeks prior to hatching his plan.

“Hi Cas, I’m Dean.”

“Nice to meet you, Dean,” Cas smiles at him, clearly intrigued, and Dean isn’t going to disappoint.

“Listen,” Dean starts, leaning across the table with his hands clasped in front of him, “I see you reading a lot about spiders. And, though there are other books out there, I was wondering if you wanted to stope reading about them and come meet a real one.”

Cas pales by a few degrees, and Dean rushes to explain so he doesn’t come across like a total freak.

“It’s just. Uh, well, I just got this guy, and he seems pretty cool, and you, uh, seem into spiders and I was just wondering if you, like you totally don’t have to, I don’t want to make it seem like, anyway, uh, the offer’s there? I guess…”

He trails off, kicking himself for rambling so much. That was not part of the master plan. But Cas, though still pale, smiles at him again.

“Sure, as long as you promise not to murder me.”

Dean grins back.

“Scout’s honor,” he raises his hand in salute, “You can ask Mrs. Covere, she’ll vouch for me.”

The ride over to Sam and Dean’s shared apartment with Cas is quiet. He doesn’t seem to feel every silence with words, and Dean’s the same, he likes that. He wasn’t sure he could talk much anyway, he would probably say something that would ruin the surprise.

Dean jumps out of the car and hustles to his door the second he parks, and Cas follows, still with those wide, interested eyes, his reading glasses tucked carefully into the breast pocket of his dress shirt. Dean had never seen anyone dress so formally all the time, he would have to ask him about it, after his amazing ice-breaker.

Dean heads straight for the enclosure the man at the pet store had suggested to him, looks in the tank…and his stomach falls into his shoes.

There is supposed to be a tarantula that Dean had purchased in that tank. There is not a tarantula in that tank.

“Ha ha,” Cas is standing next to him, also looking into the clearly empty tank, “Good one. Where did you hide it?”

Dean’s throat is very dry. His eyes flick from floor, to wall, to ceiling. Can they even get on the ceiling?

“Um. This isn’t a joke. He, uh, got out I guess.”

Cas eyes widen with palpable fear, he takes an automatic step toward the door.

“Oh hell no, nope no, I gotta go.”

“Wait! You’re the only one here with any idea at all what to do!”

Cas gapes at him, Dean feels like he’s hyperventilating, suddenly feeling like there was maybe something on his back.

“What do you mean? I don’t know anything about-”

“You’ve read nothing but spider books for the last two months!”

“It was for my term paper! I hate spiders!”

“Well I do too!”

“Then why do you have one in your house?!”

“Because it was my master plan! I thought it would impress you!”

Cas splutters, half laughing.

“Wait,” Dean continues, “Why did you come with me if you hate spiders?”

“Because I wanted to impress you,” Cas cries, still looking all around the room for their missing spider friend. Dean follow his eyes, searching for the traitor. He was supposed to get him laid, not be a cock block.

You’re gonna have such a cool home after this too, he thinks bitterly, you do this to me, and I’m going to give you to Charlie. She loves all kinds of weird pets, you’ll be living the dream, I don’t deserve this man.

Yes, he’s talking to a tarantula in his head, these are desperate times.

He looks up at Cas, half desperate, half terrified that Cas was going to walk out the door and start going to the library across town.

“Listen, please help me find him, and I swear I’ll take you on a normal date after.”

Cas just nods.

It takes them the better part of an hour to track down the spider, who is hiding in the corner of the living room by Dean’s guitar, and then ten minutes of rock, paper, scissors to decide who picks him up. Dean loses, damn paper, and doesn’t immediately yell when it crawls on his hand because this is a delicate operation and, even though he hates spiders, he actually didn’t want to freak the little dude out.

Dean calls Charlie immediately after he’s back in his enclosure, and tells her she needs to come grab her new pet ASAP. He and Cas sit on the couch, staring at the lighted enclosure, trying to make sure the tarantula stayed in place this time.

Charlie shows up ten minutes later, bouncing on the balls of her feet, and happily scoops the spider into a “travel carrier” as she calls it. Dean carries all the spider supplies out to her car, and as she straps him carefully into the passenger seat she calls,

“Say bye to Aragog!”

Dean and Cas wave as she drives away, Charlie eyeing Dean from her rearview mirror. He knows he’s going to have to give a full report later.

“I have to say,” Cas says quietly after a minute, “That was the most fun I’ve ever had on a first date.”

Dean’s heart skips a beat.

“Just how I drew it up. You hungry? Let’s go get something to eat.”

Cas slides his hand into Dean’s as they walk towards his car, and Dean can’t help but think he owes Aragog a drink or two.

#my writing #anonymous #lilly answers #yall i am ALWAYS down for prompts #destiel #spn

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miracul0us-multishipper · 5 years ago

Text

Lady Wifi (part 1)

Marillion AU

“Come on...”, Marillion whispered into the glowing outline in front of her. “You can do it! You've practiced the entire morning, you've got this!”

“But they're all looking at me!”, her champion - The Magician, an amateur entertainer with stage fright from Mendeleiev's class - whispered back. After failing at a simple trick this morning her brooch had alarmed her of his distress, and since she couldn’t focus until it was resolved she had akumatized him. It was supposed to be quicker than talking to him as Marinette, but her lacking experience with a miraculous showed: she'd had to spend almost half an hour convincing him that letting out his frustration on the Eiffel Tower wouldn’t help him. Now, instead of making Paris' most famous monument disappear, he was trying to impress children at the Trocadero. Not the greatest challenge with his new magical powers, but that wasn’t the point.

“It doesn’t matter.”, she calmed him. “You can’t fail! You are using real magic now, they'll be so amazed they won’t even know you’re nervous.”

“But it won’t be forever! And then I’ll just do regular card tricks, and probably ruin it again.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But in my experience, when you’re feeling scared you're twice as likely to make a mistake! I'm just helping you to get some experience with crowds, so that you'll feel surer next time. Some positive feedback is always good to lift a creative block.”

She always went to her parents when she couldn’t finish a design. Their genuine awe and pride of her abilities never failed to get her back on her feet. But since the Magician didn’t want to call his parents, the job to encourage him fell to her.

“Okay... I... I'll try!”

He stepped forward and took off his cylinder, ready to create a cloud of white butterflies. The kids cooed and awed, and the Magician smiled hesitantly. Marillion gave him a thumbs-up from her hiding place on the roofs.

It went flawless, after that. He made little lights and clouds of colorful smoke, more butterflies and even made himself dis- and reappear a few times. The children were utterly fascinated and their laughter and applause warmed her heart. And her champion's as well: soon the clouds of butterflies were joined by a freshly purified akuma and the Magician transformed back into a carefree, laughing boy.

“See?”, she said to no one. The link to her champion had gone vacant when he had detransformed. With a last smile towards her freed akuma she turned around and vanished with a swirl of her tailcoat.

This had been a great morning after all.

“This is a horrible morning!”, Alya complained to Tikki. Not only had she failed to identify her nemesis via a cutout of Marillion, she had even been caught by Bustier! And Marinette wasn't here to distract her!

“Well, I did tell you to focus on your lessons.”, her cherished but unbearably goody-two-shoes friend replied. “Besides, it’s impossible to recognize the wielder of a miraculous. Your masks are magical, remember?”

“It was worth a try.”, she shrugged. “And hey, its not like you’re the one who has to focus for two hours on the most boring subject there is. Oh! Rose, Juleka! Have you seen Marinette?”

Tikki hurried to hide in her bag while her classmates shook their heads and she moved on.

“Where is that girl?”

“She said she didn’t feel well. Maybe she went home?”

“But she left her bag here!”

Tikki raised an eyebrow - or at least the skin where her eyebrows would be, if she had any.

“Because your friend never forgets anything, right?”

Good point. She loved her BFF, but Marinette sure was a mess.

“I‘ll look at her locker. If she's not there I'll just bring her bag over to her home.”

Any excuse to go by the Dupain-Cheng Patisserie was fine with her. The croissants were incredible, and Tikki barely ate anything except their delicious macarons. In her mind she was already sinking her teeth in the artwork of a pastry when a ruffling sound stopped her. Was that... Chloé?

Indeed. The blonde b... beast was hurriedly packing something into that overly expensive handbag of her, and she looked very keen on not being watched. Alya's eyes narrowed and she hid behind a corner. Suspicious!

Her spying- observing turned out to be worth it. Thanks to her infallible intuition and sixth sense as superhero, she was able to witness it: Chloé Bourgeois, heiress to the mayor of Paris and his empire of hotels, meanest little brat under the sun... pulled a purple mask out of her locker. A butterfly shaped mask. And ribbons that matched Marillion's.

The bell rang and startled Alya out of her stupor. She quickly disappeared into the yard before Chloé - Marillion! - could spot her.

“Did you see that?”, she hissed to her Kwami, still not believing her luck. “Oh my god, Tikki! Did you see that?”

“I... uh, I did? But Alya-“

“This is Perfect, with a capital P!”, she cackled. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell everyone! By tomorrow I'll have thwarted my nemesis AND the school bully. Admit it, I’m the best superhero you ever had, right? It hasn’t even been a week since Stoneheart!”

Tikki struggled to keep up.

“Alya, you know I believe in you and your great potential, but I really doubt that-“

“I'll have to prepare my article for the Ladyblog! This is gonna be the scoop of the century, Tikki!”

“Maybe we shouldn’t rush-“

“This spoiled little brat really thought she'd get away with it, huh? Thought that just 'cause she's pretty in purple I’ll have mercy? Well, think again, Marillion! Now that I know who she really is, I suddenly don’t find her attractive in the slightest!”

“Wait, you think Marillion is attractive? Why didn’t you say anything-“

“I don’t! Not anymore, at least, and even if she weren’t Chloé... She isn’t that pretty. Villainy is not her color. Oh! I gotta remember that line for when I confront her. It could be my new catchphrase.”

“Alya!”, Tikki called out with more volume than should be possible for her tiny body. Immediately her chosen fell quiet. “Alya, please think this through! We don’t have any proof of Chloé being Marillion. And her suit is created by the miraculous! Why would Marillion carry her mask around if she can make it appear with a few magic words?”

Alya scoffed.

“You don’t know her. Chloé has an Ego that thwarts the Eiffel Tower, she'd totally be the type to wear her own merch. Besides, no one ever said supervillains were smart, hm?”

“But Marillion saved Chloé, don’t you remember? When Stoneheart dropped her. They can’t be the same person, we’ve seen them together!”

“Well...” This time Alya actually paused, but soon waved it off. “Don’t you think that’s weird? First Marillion causes her to fall, then she catches her... sounds a little staged to me. She totally did that to deceive us! She's got the means, her miraculous is really op.”

“But-“

“Nah-ah. You can’t apply logic where Chloé - or magic! - is involved. But if you insist on a second opinion, I'll go and tell Nino! Oh, and I'll leave a message for Marinette.”

Tikki sighed deeply as her chosen talked on. She loved Alya with all her heart, but sometimes her creativity expressed itself in ways that weren’t always... productive. This was going to be exhausting.

“Did he just... die?”, Marinette asked, baffled by that utterly random turn of events. What a ridiculous ending!

Nooroo didn’t answer, instead he desperately shoved popcorn into his little mouth.

“Hey, are you crying?”, she gasped and moved to grab the tissues. Stubborn her Kwami shook his head, despite the obvious tears that ran down his little cheek.

“Oh, honey!”, Marinette tried to comfort him. “It's just a movie. They're okay in reality, I promise!”

“'M not shad!”, he insisted, the words muffled by the sugary popcorn in his mouth. “I kno' they're oh-righ.”

He hiccuped and hurried to take the tissue she offered, blowing his nose. His voice a little clearer now, he swallowed and rubbed his eyes.

“It's just that... he wanted to be better, didn’t he? He wanted to be good! And then, when he finally did it, he... he...”

Oh. Maybe this movie had been a bad idea after all.

“He was good now.”, she assured him. “And he was happy! For... a moment.”

Admittedly, that was a weak argument. Gosh, time to distract him.

“Maybe we should watch Pride and Prejudice next? No bad endings, I swear! Plus, the dynamic is really similar and I'm sure you'll adore Keira Knightley!”

Nooroo sniffled and looked up at her.

“Are you sure? It's almost four o’clock in the morning.”

“What?!”

A panicked glance at her phone confirmed Nooroo's statement and she all but hauled herself up the ladder to her bed.

“I’ve got school tomorrow!”, she wailed and frantically tucked herself in. “That means I'll have to get up in three hours! That means I won’t get enough sleep! That means I’ll have bags under my eyes and yawn like a hippo just when Adrien looks at me! Alya is going to think I’m a freak who stays up all night like a vampire! This is a disaster!”

“Uhm... are you sure that's going to happen?”

“With my luck? Definitely.”

Contrary to her fears, she did not wake up dead tired and embarrassed herself in front of everyone. No, she didn’t wake up at all!

Until Nooroo gently nudged her shoulder, that is, to inform her that they had overslept.

“Noooo! No, no, no!”, she all but cried as she shoved her homework into her bag and got dressed. “Damn Disney for making this many movies!”

“Marinette, you lost something!”

Eagerly Nooroo caught the note that had fallen out of her bag and gave it to her.

“It's from Alya!”, she realized and her eyes widened. “What?! She found out who the real Marillion is?”

Her Kwami gasped.

“Oh no!”

“We gotta hurry! Before she tells anyone!”

“I'm telling you, she is Marillion!”, Alya insisted and pointed at Chloé. “So what if I took a measly photo of her locker? She's a supervillain! You have to search her for her miraculous!”

Monsieur Damocles cleared his throat.

“Mademoiselle Césaire, I understand if you feel embarrassed, but that’s no reason to make such accusations. Please don’t aggravate your situation.”

“Aggravate her situation? She broke into my locker!”, Chloé - that little monster - complained. “How can it get worse than that?”

M. Damocles blinked.

“She, uhm, is kind of accusing you of terrorism?”

“What, because she called me Marillion? That’s a compliment, though not one I want to her from the likes of her. But what about my locker?! Suspend her already!”

The headmaster sighed deeply. He wasn’t paid enough to deal with these kids.

“A week of suspension, and now out of my office.”

“WHAT?!”

When Marinette entered the class, she was prepared for betrayed looks and roared accusations. Instead, everything was silent as Bustier wrote something on the blackboard. And Alya was missing.

Nervously she tapped Nino on the shoulder.

“Where is she?”, she whispered and nodded to Alya's vacated seat. Nino shook his head. “She got into a fight with the Principal because she thinks Chloé is Marillion. She's even been suspended!”

“What?!”, she yelled, but she wasn’t the only one. Adrien had been surprised as well.

After Bustier rebuked her for the disruption, Adrien leaned over to Nino as well.

“What do you mean, Chloé is Marillion?”

“That’s what Alya thinks. Crazy, huh? Not that I wouldn’t suspect Chloé of being a supervillain, but... yeah, it doesn’t make any sense.”

“That's horrible!”, Marinette murmured, masking her relief that her secret was safe. Poor Alya! “We've got to do- Ah!”

With no warning a wave of hot red anger crashed into her, searing through her brooch. She barely noticed Madame Bustier sending her to the Principal, she was already on her way out and running towards the bathroom.

“Marinette!”, Nooroo worried as she gasped in air and waited for it to pass. “Oh, this is bad. The closer your bond to a person, the stronger you feel their emotions!”

“Don’t worry about me.”, she said, the pain already receding. “Worry about Alya! She must be so hurt and we've got to help-“

She fell silent all of a sudden. Nooroo paused.

“Marinette? What happened?”

She shook her head, confused.

“It... stopped.”

Her eyes widened.

“I can’t feel her anymore.”

- - -

Any guesses what movie they watched? ;)

#miramu writes #marillion au #ml marinette #ml nooroo #ml alya #ml chloe #chloe bourgeois #alya cesaire #marinette dupain cheng #butterfly!marinette #alyanette #chlonette

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mcousland · 4 years ago

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nobody asked for this at all, the dummies have just become my comfort zone and i love them so a fool filled out a whole meme for them for the fun of it. dietrich belongs to @darlingicarus!

— SHIP QUESTIONS

PRE-RELATIONSHIP —

how did they first meet?

dietrich saved both maeve’s and carden’s lives while he was making a run in the city. saving carden was pure coincidence that came from killing a few of the dead that had been blocking his own path, but maeve was intended as he kept her from meeting a terrible end when one of the dead got hold of her skirt while she tried to run past. as everyone is prone to in those early days—dietrich was fine with protecting maeve and even bringing her back to whatever group there was at the time, but didn’t mind one bit if carden got bit somewhere along the way.

what was their first impression of each other?

maeve thought he was a bit too Blunt about everything that was going on and wished he would stop looking so damned serious all the time, it made her nervous about danger being around every corner and she was already scared enough. she also thought he was a bit handsome underneath that scowl

dietrich had a bit of a hard time seeing her past carden’s [annoyingly] large presence but thought she wasn’t taking things seriously enough, too many witty one-liners and worries about dirtying her hands and clothes. probably worried about the brightness of her clothes attracting too much attention too tbh

did any of their friends or family want them to get together?

family, that’s a good one. ohhhh, i’m sure a few of their friends wanted them to sort things out and just admit to themselves whatever was going on between them, because oh boy did they Ignore a Lot of things for quite a while but a good 80% of the group could spot how close they had grown through all of the things they endured together.

who felt romantic feelings first?

we already know that it was maeve!! we know this, how silly it is to even type it out!!! we know that she woke up one morning after an evening of fwb activities, spent a minute gazing at him while he remained asleep beside her and there was a frightening Oh No realization when she found herself reaching out to touch his cheek without thinking.

did either of them try to resist their feelings?

both of them! big time!! they were fucking terrified. on top of their own already established issues with Feelings, there are the obvious shared fears that come from the world they’re living in. it’s difficult to accept that you’re becoming attached to someone when you know that you could lose them at any moment with so much violence and darkness surrounding you at every turn, especially when you’ve already lost others along the way. (dietrich definitely held out his resistance for longer, though that's a given.)

if you had told one of them that the other would be their soulmate, what would they think?

would depend on the timing, i suppose. early days they’d probably both scoff at the thought, but later on maeve could be convinced. there’s that whole “soulmates can be made” belief and yes it may be cheesy, but maeve’s a romantic at heart and she’d like to think it’s true enough. soulmates are people who understand each other deeply, are connected at the mind, and know without doubt that the other will always be there at their side—consider maeve Convinced.

GENERAL —

who initiated the relationship, and how did it go?

maeve did! technically twice if you count a difference between the beginning of their fwb agreement and then the relationship proper faaaar down the line. i believe the first hook-up came about from maeve making a Very convincing argument for them to find some pleasure and relief from their steadily growing stress while they were away from the group, given that they had become somewhat of a default duo for supply runs and spent so much quality~ alone time together. considering that you could hardcut to five minutes later and find maeve on her knees unbuckling dietrich’s belt, i’d say the proposition went pretty well 😌 the relationship itself came along quite some time down the line, when maeve accidentally slipped up mid-makeout and let the love she has for dietrich Shine through her eyes while looking at him. naturally his instinct was to book it out of there because Feelings Hard, but maeve decided to risk baring her fuckin' heart ((after some months of Pining and a particularly Traumatic series of events that led to them clinging tighter to each other than before)) by asking him simply to "stay" before he could get out the door. arguably that moment was scarier than most of the times they've gone out into the world beyond the safety of their group, but ultimately worth the leap of faith!! because he stayed, and though it was never explicitly stated, they both understood that that night spent together was them putting an end to the fight against the feelings they both knew were there and finally taking the next step in their relationship.

did they have an official first date? if so, what was it like?

they did, but it was purely because maeve labeled it as such and no other reason. a few weeks after their relationship was Confirmed, maeve up and decided that their run into the city would be their first proper Date because they hadn't had some actual alone time in a good while, and it sounded like harmless fun which they didn't get enough of. nothing really Changed from their routine of clearing and scavenging, she just changed up their usual dialogue to asking the "typical date questions. oh, you know! what's your favorite movie? your weirdest fear? the dumbest thing you spent far too much money on?" just a silly excuse to get to know some of the little, random things about each other that popped into their heads or that they'd been curious about for a while.

what was their first kiss like?

tentative and oddly gentle, maeve went for a slow approach in every aspect while testing the waters to see if her last few minutes of attempting to Seduce the bastard into a fwb arrangement had panned out. it was almost Immediately followed up by another kiss and some touching that bordered more along the lines of desperate and eager as they wanted to get to the fun bits, but it was still one of the first notable moments of maeve taking that first step for them and waiting to see if he’d follow suit.

were they each other’s first anything (kiss, relationship, etc.)?

probably first relationship after the world went to shit, but in general nah they’ve both got some prior experiences.

what’s their height difference? age difference?

dietrich’s 5′10″ and maeve’s 5′0″. he’s in his early-to-mid 30s, she’s probably at the end of her 20s?? somewhere around there. who needs solid numbers anyway

what’s their relationship with each other’s families?

😔✌️ new fam found in the group, who dis??

who takes the lead in social situations?

100% maeve baybee. whether she’s talking circles around somebody to keep them distracted, trying to diffuse a situation or just comforting somebody through a difficult moment, we all been knew that maeve’s better suited for almost every kind of social situation. she’ll let him handle any of the ones that rely on intimidation tho, that’s all leitner right there

who gets jealous easier?

ohhhh, that’s another maeve claim. she has Zero reason to worry because dietrich is oblivious to so many attempts at flirtation from others, but it’s still a gut instinct in her to get a little ticked off seeing some rando trying to make moves on him. that’s Her bastard that she spent untold months charming the defenses away from, take a step back and show some respect.

LOVE —

who said “i love you” first?

everybody knows it was maeve, i hardly need to say it. we know she was the one brave enough to say it first, even if it Did take a scare of losing dietrich to tell him. they both already Knew, in that ways of theirs that they have where things are simply Understood between them without having to be mentioned aloud, but she needed him to hear it from her lips at least once. just in case

what are their primary love languages?

i’d say they’re both pretty big on quality time because of them both being naturally inclined to it and how they drifted into becoming partners for supply runs and other action, they spend so much time together it’d be Wild for it not to be their shared #1. not a single doubt in my mind that acts of service is dietrich’s other big one, while maeve’s kinda 50/50 on words of affirmation and physical touch being her runner-up.

how often do they cuddle/engage in PDA?

i’ll out them on main for being cuddlers in bed or just generally when they’re Alone. they’re not very big on PDA as a result of dietrich’s whole “if there’s affection exchanged in public i Will learn how to teleport myself halfway across the planet to escape the embarrassment” deal and maeve respecting that. HOWEVER. it’s still maeve and she sneaks in little things when she can, like hand-holding or winding an arm around his waist while they walk. has been known to sneak in a quick kiss to the cheek if he’s sitting down and she can snatch it while he’s not anticipating it. i think hugs are The Most affection that people would frequently see from them in public ((aside from the soft expressions as they watch each other but those don’t count, don’t @ them about it)). the amount of times people in the group have seen them kiss in public can be counted on Maybe one hand if they’re lucky lmfao they keep that shit locked down

what are their favorite things to do together?

this question deserves to be banned from memes because it immediately erases all creative braincells from your mind. dietrich likes to watch maeve tell stories and she loves to ramble those stories, so that’s a win/win for them. sitting on rooftops to watch the sunrise/sunset together. going out of their way to look through any abandoned antique stores or book shops because they’re both Nerds and willing to put in the work of clearing them out so that they can browse. i imagine their favorite is reading together in some comfortable silence, whether that’s separately or with her curled up into him on a couch so they can read the same book. wait also i think maeve thoroughly enjoys any time they’re on watch together because it gives her the opportunity to freely Tease him (and also Gaze at him while he’s focused on the perimeter but that’s entirely too soft so don’t talk about that)

who’s better at comforting the other?

i don’t think either of them are particularly Better at it than the other?? purely because in the beginning, there’s a balance there between dietrich being reluctant to accept maeve’s comfort when she offers it & her taking a hot minute to understand his attempts at comfort. but then they reach that point where dietrich doesn’t tense up when she pulls him into a hug, and maeve finds the consolation she needs in his quiet assurances. on the surface it’d appear that maeve’s better at comforting dietrich purely because she’s more openly physical with her attempts, but the amount of security and solace that she finds in his words or touch means just as much.

who’s more protective?

dietrich takes it with this one. on top of his already there inclination to protect someone if they manage to get close with him, dietrich’s simply the one with better combat skills. maeve can? kinda?? handle herself, if the danger isn’t too pressing and she can find an opening to take advantage of, and she Does have some very strong protective instincts when it comes to dietrich, but he for sure comes out on top for this one. he has the stronger drive and better skills to back the protectiveness up.

do they prefer verbal or physical affection?

physical for both of them! a lot of their communication lies in the unspoken anyhow, it’s no surprise that most of their affection is expressed physically instead of verbally. dietrich’s preference coming from the fact that he might just actually implode on the spot if maeve showered him in too many compliments and expressions of love through words, and maeve’s from learning to appreciate and bask in the meaning and emotion behind the physical affection that he does engage in. also she’s just,, a slut for any kind of affection to begin with, but it’s definitely a whole Thing with being touched when there’s genuine care and love behind it instead of some other ulterior motive.

what are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise?

[sweats in Having An Entire Playlist Dedicated To Dummies In This AU]

sunlight by hozier — (video essayist voice) the conclusion: maeve is the sunlight to dietrich’s raincloud, thank you. the vibes for this one are just off the charts, lads. it’s about finding Warmth and Light in this love amidst the horrors of the world and in spite of the initial reluctance to let each other get close.

safe & sound by taylor swift — another one with vibes out of this world, this song is Top Tier for a big part of their dynamic in this verse, which is them finding safety and comfort in each other while the rest of the world goes to shit around them. everything may be going up in flames outside, but they know that they have each other and they’re not Alone in anything they do.

what kind of nicknames do they call each other?

maeve’s the queen of petnames, unfortunately for the easily flustered bastard. her favorites are naturally dear and darling, but she also enjoys an occasional use of lover. has called him baby once or twice just to get the reaction out of him. oh wait she also likes calling him an old man when he’s Like That and doesn’t get her references or grumbles too much.

i mean,, it’s dietrich, he uses Sommers more often than her fuckin’ first name and i don’t think he’s out here using petnames/nicknames on the reg At All, they’re opposite ends of the spectrum with this one. he called her sweetheart once to throw her off and it sent her out of wack for at least the entire rest of the day. so good on him, mission accomplished.

DOMESTIC LIFE —

if they get married, who proposes?

no marriage! dietrich’s not quite keen on it and maeve’s not the type to push him into anything he’s not comfortable with. if anything she might?? bring up the idea of rings if they ever come by some while out and about and they’ve been together for a hot minute, for the sentimental and sappy reason of having little reminders of each other to keep on their persons, but she’s not Insistent about it and is content with what they have.

how many kids do they have, if any? What are they like?

no kids! world too scary, no thank you!! they’re also just Not in dietrich’s wheelhouse, which may have been a Problem for them if they weren’t in the midst of an actual fuckin’ apocalypse where nearly every day is a fight for survival and maeve can Clearly see every downside of bringing a baby into that.

do they have any pets?

don’t think so, but maeve’s probably made a whole Deal once or twice about leaving a little food for any dogs or cats they see along their treks because she has a soft heart.

who kills the bugs in the house?

dietrich!! he’s in charge of doing away with those Creatures because maeve will most certainly not be going anywhere near them if she can help it. which is,, pretty funny. you know considering their Big Picture circumstances. zombies? she’s fine with them after a point, only truly terrifying in medium-to-large numbers. a spider or cockroach skittering across the kitchen counter?? Horrifying! leitner do your job and protect your woman from the hellspawn

how do they celebrate holidays?

generally just by,, Acknowledging them?? at the very least. maeve has her entire Thing that is keeping track of the date with a day planner that she has had with her from the very beginning (though it’s been lost once or twice, always found its way back), but she doesn’t demand anything happen on holidays because they’re usually a bit Busy making sure they aren’t Dying to whatever’s threatening them that day. on the occasions where they have the free time, maeve insists they spend quiet time together without having to worry about any of their daily responsibilities and that’s holiday enough. maybe slips in a small tradition if applicable and not too over the top

who’s more likely to convince the other to come back to sleep in the morning?

maeve is a very ;) persuasive woman ;)) it was more difficult and had a less frequent success rate back during the fwb days, but he’s completely fucked after they’ve been #confirmed. stands not a single chance to resist those eyes and the idea of lying in her arms for just a little while longer before they have to start their day.

who’s the better cook?

😔😔 dietrich by far. maeve couldn’t cook for shit before the apocalypse began when she had access to all sorts of appliances, recipes and helpful tutorials, there ain’t no way in hell she stands a chance at beating him Now. she’ll gladly take up other duties, but he’s their chef unless somebody else in the group has made a big dinner for everyone to share.

#not me constantly yelling from the rooftops about how much i love theym #i had half a braincell while writing most of this but consider: i don't care bc i fuckin adore them and the rambling is on brand #sometimes the romance is stored in the growing and learning from each other until you mirror & perfectly understand each other y'know #witcher au: apocalypse #maeve & dietrich

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elrondsscribe · 4 years ago

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So! Let’s talk about this Jedi Code for a minute.

From what I have absorbed through social osmosis (I’m not terribly familiar with much of the EU material), the original Jedi Code went like this:

Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony. Death, yet the Force.

But by the time of the prequel trilogy and the Clone Wars, the Code appears to have been changed to this:

There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no death, there is the Force.

Unfortunately, the way the Jedi Order amended the Code and were practicing it is in many ways similar to my own evangelical/Calvinist upbringing. Let me illustrate, one by one:

There is no emotion, there is peace.

This point I feel has already been well talked over, so I won’t belabor the point too much, but there’s definitely a deep problem when you systematically raise an entire order to fundamentally distrust their internal compass (because that’s how emotions often function).

It’s also the most destructive kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. Raising an entire subculture of people to be suspicious of emotion in the abstract leads to an environment where you can’t examine or interrogate your emotions. And, paradoxical as it may seem on the surface, a culture raised not to examine or interrogate their emotions (and whose primary way of dealing with them is to expel them -- I mean, ‘release them into the Force’) is a culture who will be up to its neck in self-deception, hypocrisy, and unacknowledged constant fear. On the other hand, a culture that is conditioned to be emotionally aware and intelligent is, paradoxically, in much less danger of actually being ruled by their emotions.

Trust me, I know a thing or two about being raised to deal with emotion by pushing it away in a religiously sanctioned manner. It does not lead to whole, healthy persons who are at peace.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

This point holds more interest for me than it seems to hold for most people, so I wanna park here for a moment. You know what it sounds like to me? A fixation with certainty. Now, evangelicalism does not have a monopoly on certainty, but the form it takes in evangelicalism is what I have experience with. I also think it’s quite useful and instructive in examining where the Jedi went wrong.

In an ideology that prizes certainty, religious advancement is closely correlated with acquiring correct information and refuting incorrect propositions. By the time of the prequel trilogy and the Clone Wars, experimentation in using the Force was forbidden, or at the very least highly discouraged, at a systemic level. You do things one way because it’s the Right Way, and anything outside of the Right Way is automatically suspect and probably Bad. If the Right Way is painful or difficult for you, that’s because there’s something wrong with you, and it means that you need to work harder to conform.

For both the Jedi and evangelicalism as I knew it, actual curiosity and creativity are explicit threats. You don’t ask why we do things one way. You don’t ask what other ways there are of doing things. And you definitely don’t entertain the notion that a voice outside the approval of the order is capable of speaking truth.

Actually, I’m going to have to do the unthinkable, and give the edge to evangelicalism here. At least evangelicalism doesn't say that if you so much as start down a ‘wrong’ road, it defines you and you can never come back. But so far as the Jedi are concerned, you can’t even touch the Dark Side without becoming irrevocably consumed by evil.

There is no chaos, there is harmony.

Basically, in my opinion, the hypocrisy-slip is really showing here. The Force is wild -- if it really is ‘that which is between all things,’ then it’s just as present in the storms and high seas and exploding nebulae as it is in stationary rocks. I don’t think it’s possible to interact with the Force at all without inviting some amount of chaos. And that’s not even touching the fact that some amount of chaos is just inherent in being human.

Also, as a piano major, let me let y’all in on a little music theory secret: there is no such thing as music that has no dissonance, no sonic ‘chaos.’ You can’t even have chords, the basic building blocks of harmony, without some dissonance between the notes. Part of what constitutes harmony in music is an agreement between composer and listeners (and performer/s, I guess) as to how much chaos is acceptable before the music becomes meaningless noise.

What I’m saying is, you can’t have harmony, you can’t have music, without inviting chaos.

And, infuriatingly, I think they know this. Both Obi-Wan and Yoda in ANH both tell Luke that when you tap into the Force, it flows through you. So it really looks to me like what they’re really doing is denouncing anything they can’t control and calling it ‘chaos,’ while allowing contact with whatever they can control by calling it ‘harmony.’ That’s really what it’s all about for them, it’s about control.

And oh boy, do I know what it is to live under a religious order that pays lip service to internal harmony, but is actually all about control.

There is no death, there is the Force.

Well, I’ll give the Jedi this much: unlike evangelicalism, they don’t bring up their littluns to believe that someone who doesn’t accept their version of reality is damned to eternal torment.

However, there is a larger problem where you’re refusing to let people deal with death honestly. At some point when dealing with a loss, you’re expected to be able to say: “Yes, I will miss them, but they’ve gone to be with Jesus and they’re in a better place now.” You don’t really have any help in processing the fact that, whether or not the person you lost is in a ‘better place,’ you still had to figure out how to move forward with that loss. Especially not long-term.

And that’s what I’m so painfully reminded of when Yoda tells Anakin in ROTS not to mourn or miss those who have died, to rejoice that they’ve joined the Force. Recall that, at that point in Jedi history, nobody had EVER heard of someone dead remaining personally accessible to the living in any way. ‘Become one with the Force’ holds about as much meaning for people in the Star Wars universe as ‘gone to heaven’ holds for us.

And hey, again with me grudgingly giving an edge to evangelicalism: they allow you to have human ties! At the very least, they let you cry at the funeral. They let you say “I miss them.” But the Jedi, for all their bleating about ‘compassion for everyone,’ are very un-compassionate toward their own chickadees when it comes to letting them process death.

Now why did I choose to say all this?

There is, floating around some corners of the PT/CW Star Wars fandom at least on Tumblr, a certain idea that we should withhold sharp criticism of Jedi practices and beliefs because some aspects of Jedi-ness as shown in the films nominally resemble some points of Buddhism. In the eyes of those who hold such sentiments, criticism of Jedi ideology as practiced during the PT/CW reveals our true colors as white Christian imperialists unable to conceive of any other way of life being functional.

Well, being a degenerate and a daughter of slaves myself with no love of white Christian imperialism, and being a survivor of some very specific forms of religious abuse, let’s just say I know a super dysfunctional religious subculture when I see one. And the prequel-era Jedi definitely fit that bill.

In other words, there’s a little more going on with my critique of the Jedi than the ‘no attachment’ rule. It’s a whole system that’s gone wrong, and I’ve only just gotten started in talking about how.

#jedi critical #jedi order critical #jedi code #these people need some help #toxic religion #star wars #sw prequels #sw: tcw #clone wars #jedi ideology #when i said i was critical of the jedi this is what i meant

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soveryanon · 5 years ago

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Reviewing time for MAG169 (nice)~

- So, no cookie for guessing Desolation with this one, but big kudos to those who guessed that the episode would be reminiscent of the Grenfell Tower fire. Oh boy, what a domain it was ;; Desolation episodes have always felt extremely cruel and this one went veeerrry harsh on the torture and despair, even before the physical pain of it (as Jon said, “Some fears don’t need to be intensified; only manifested”). I really felt the nightmare-logic in this one, the feeling of being trapped and discovering/realising the rules and parameters as they became relevant; a little scenario that felt repeated, again and again, beginning badly (home as a prison, a toxic place that one cannot help but love because it’s familiar and theirs) and only getting worse, with Sabina losing everything (parents, possessions, physical safety), while at the same time… everything was rooted in something very concrete, very logical, very relatable, laced with poverty and the loss of agency.

- The edge in Jon’s voice for this one was terrifying (and so was the soundscaping, expressing what was being said), and it seemed… on point for The Desolation. Jude directly called him out about the fact that he himself was enjoying the fear but, even before that, the way Jon narrated Sabina’s nightmare really hammered in the cruelty and sadistic glee of the domain feeding on her ;; The mentions of the “landlord” were especially chilling, given a rhythmic, almost casually fatalistic c’est-la-vie tone to the whole ordeal (… while no, clearly, it wasn’t, and even if the fire had been accidental, there should have been ways and options to make it out… but no, due to an accumulation of negligence/neglect turning into something criminal):

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: “But the door latch never really aligned properly, you see; the landlord always said he was going to get it fixed and… it refuses to open. […] The window frame never really opened properly, you see; the landlord always said he was going to get it fixed. […] But the fire escape was always really rusty, you see; the landlord always said he was going to replace it. […] Falling back into the inferno that is now her home, Sabina dashes over to the laughably small fire extinguisher the landlord begrudgingly provided; it is sputtering, and empty.”

(… Jon impersonating the parents’ screams sadly took me out of it on first listen, because the “We’re BURNING” immediately made me think of Jonny-playing-Galahad in HNOC’s “Hellfire” and the “We’re FALLING into the flames”, which was a bit of a mood-whiplash x”) It worked better on second listen, and again, WHAT is Jon currently feeding to the tape recorders…)

- Same as in other domains, memories were clearly rewritten or only made accessible to serve the dominant Fear at stake:

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: “Next to him, Charlie saw Ryan, who he’d known since childhood – though the other details were hazy. Ryan gave him a thumbs-up and an encouraging smile – before his face exploded inwards to a sniper’s bullet, peppering the boat with shards of bone and gore.”

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “There was never a time before the disease, no matter what the old bastards tell you. It has always been in the village, always festered in the dark corners where nobody could stomach to check, where good neighbours wouldn’t dream to speculate.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “Its pace remaining as it ever was, it does not care for coming pains as you are torn. Doesn’t it know who you are? No… And soon… neither will you. […] You will be someone again, someday. […] “I’m still Hannah!” you try to scream, but are you? No. Perhaps there’s some Veronica as fragments there, or Julian, or Anya, but… no. You feel the last of names and “who” you might have been be torn away and borne towards new bodies. New pages, blank; determined to be people.”

(MAG166) ARCHIVIST: “When had the crushing pressure in his chest become literal? When had the empty promise of the horizon finally vanished completely, replaced by the pitch darkness of this “forever wall of earth”? Sam did not know. Time had no meaning here. […] His existence was static, and eternal. Immutable. “Sleep” was only a memory, because even the prospect of unconsciousness might have made his present state slightly more bearable. Food as well, he knew, must be a thing, for he could feel the hunger, but his imagination failed to picture it. The only smell he knew was the damp, and the dirt.”

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: “How long as she lived here? How long have these cramped, dingy rooms in the back of this sprawling rundown tenement been the place her heart calls home? She cannot recall, but long enough for her to grow into love for it, to cherish every rusted appliance, every crumbling piece of plasterboard, every – flickering – lightbulb. […] Sabina cannot… picture their faces, but knows that should they wake to see the state of the place… their anger would be blistering. […] What floor was her flat on again? Surely, it can’t be this high. […] Limping and desperate, she turns to see her furniture in flames, the bookshelves full of memories, that she can’t quite place [STATIC RISES] but knows are precious to her, curl and float away as ash. The photos on the wall of her family whose faces seem indistinct but she knows that she loves, begin to blacken, as the glass pops out of the frame.”

For Sabina, memories were only useful to represent what she would lose. (;; It’s one of the things that still makes me the most uneasy with this season: the fact that regular people are deprived of who they used to be, the memories of who they were… while Jon&Martin are beaming with their Uniqueness. People are trapped in these nightmares but, by comparison, it feels a bit like they’re already “dead” and interchangeable, only allowed to remember things and be reshaped to better fear and feed the Powers…)

- I was wondering what would be the point of avatars in this new world (if they would still feed their patrons, or be absolutely superfluous, etc.). The fact that Jude’s death apparently didn’t perturb the Desolation domain very much tends to prove that they aren’t necessary, so it really seems like the keyword was what Oliver said last episode:

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “Sometimes, for some small variety, I will allow Danika to brush against another root: the final fate of someone she loves. […] And with each one, she knows her steps forward bring closer not only her own end, but all of theirs. Time walks forward with her, but she has not the strength to stop it. Her fate draws ever-nearer, filling me with the joy of watchful fear, but also my own concerns.”

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: It’s a maze in there, deliberately so. People running, desperately struggling for fire escapes only to find them blocked. … We won’t get lost, though. I know the route. […] “Do you smell smoke? Do you smell… the creeping ruin of a life, a stalking creature of unmaintained electricals, of cheap insulation, of cut-corners and missing fire alarms and unenforced safety regulations? Do you see it creeping under the door to your bedroom as you sleep, the burning coals of its eyes, regarding you in the supposed safety on your home; not indifferent, but hungry, eager to take everything from you, to burn down your life in any sense it can reach? Can you hear the crackling promise of kindled despair, that it whispers into your uneasy, dreaming ear?”

“Variety”? Creativity? Diversifying people’s suffering for the Powers’ enjoyment, and above all The Eye’s? I… wonder what that would mean regarding Jon, as The Eye’s favourite, right now… ;;

- I got genuinely surprised that Jon mentioned Arthur Nolan as still alive, because I thought he had been done for since March 2014 and the events recalled by Jordan Kennedy:

(MAG145) GERTRUDE: So. Now, Diego has taken over… Where does that leave you? ARTHUR: [SNORT] Slumlording over a nest. GERTRUDE: Oh. A nest of… what? ARTHUR: Found a mass of the Crawling Rot growing, a while back. Managed to get a hold of the property before it became too big. Gotta wait ‘til it blossoms before we can properly burn it. So until then… just playing landlord.

(MAG055) JORDAN: Time seemed to move slowly as he reached for the ashtray on the arm of the chair and picked up a pack of matches. He struck one and without even looking at me, he gently pressed the small flame to the centre of the scar. His flesh caught fire, immediately, the flames spreading across his body like rippling water. The armchair caught, then the floor, and then I was running out of the building before the rolling inferno could come at me as well.

(MAG169) MARTIN: Right… I just assumed this would be… Who was that landlord guy? ARCHIVIST: Arthur Nolan. He’s here, he has a… part of it, but it’s… huge. Bigger than you could believe. There’s so much fear in there…

It had felt odd to die from self-immolation, for a Desolation avatar, but we hadn’t seen him since then, and he had lived his time – given how Eugene Vanderstock was aware that he wouldn’t last forever (MAG139: “So, me? I was born in ‘36 – I know, I don’t look seventy. But burning the candle at all ends does have a few advantages. Until you burn out entirely, at least. It’s hard to say how much I’ve got left in me; how much longer my sacrifices can buy me. But when I go… you better believe I’m going big – and it is going to hurt.”), I had assumed that Arthur setting himself on fire was because his time has reached its limit and/or that his life had been tied to The Hive’s nest somehow by Gertrude, and that Jane becoming The Hive meant his final demise or something? But apparently, no, he was still around. I wonder what he was doing during the following four years? (If it was a matter of Desolation avatars respawning in the domain, I’d have expected for Agnes to be mentioned, but she wasn’t, so…)

- Speaking of Arthur, it’s hilarious how much this statement hammered in the confluence of Corruption/Desolation when it comes to one’s life crumbling, getting devastated:

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: “Maybe the dirt and grime builds up to such a degree that the stench begins to infect your soul, or an infestation of moths or ants or bed bugs stretches itself throughout the very structure of your home, until it feels like your skin is squirming with them. […] How long as she lived here? How long have these cramped, dingy rooms in the back of this sprawling rundown tenement been the place her heart calls home? She cannot recall, but long enough for her to grow into love for it, to cherish every rusted appliance, every crumbling piece of plasterboard, every – flickering – lightbulb. Even as the widening cracks and spreading mould fill her heart with dread, they gently, slowly, inch by inch, approach the mildewed room where her parents lie sleeping.”

… Given Arthur’s utter disdain for the idea that The Lightless Flame could be assimilated to anything Corruption-adjacent:

(MAG145) ARTHUR: Not like I can vent to the others about what a prat Diego is! Got a lot of funny ideas. Still calls The Lightless Flame “Asag”, like he was when he was first researching it. I just want to tell him to get over it – I mean, [FASTER AND FASTER] Asag was traditionally a force of destruction, sure, but as a church, we very much settled on burning in terms of the… face we worship, and some… fish-boiling Sumerian demon doesn’t really match up, does it?! Plus, there’s a lot of disease imagery with Asag that I’ll reckon is… way too close to Filth for my taste, but, but no, he read it in some ~ancient tome~, so that’s that– GERTRUDE: Well, I can’t say I– ARTHUR: –reckons he always knows best, ‘cause he’s read a few books, well. Big. Deal! Way I see it, if a writer can’t even save themselves, they probably don’t have a lot worth knowing! Find me one so-called “expert” on all of this who didn’t end up regretting all of it!

I hope your ego and convictions are shattering and that this is your personal hell, Arthur. Diego was RIGHT.

- Regarding Jon and Martin’s own domains, Jon raised the possibility that they were metaphorically trapped in their own quest, and it follows the comments about how they were outside of the box:

(MAG164) MARTIN: Are we safe, traveling like this? ARCHIVIST: Yes… Yes, sort of, we’re… I don’t know how to phrase it, we’re… something between a pilgrim and a moth. We can walk through these little worlds of terror, watching them; separate, and untouched. MARTIN: [NERVOUS CHUCKLING] That’s not as comforting as you might think. ARCHIVIST: I like it better than the alternative…!

(MAG165) MARTIN: But. You said we needed to go through these places. … Is that even going to work here? ARCHIVIST: Uh… [EXHALE] We need to go through them… metaphorically. MARTIN: Mm… ! ARCHIVIST: Psychologically, we need to… “experience” them. […] MARTIN: Jon, what are you talking about? NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: She can’t touch us. We’re so far beyond her now. NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: She’s just like everything else here, rules by The Eye.

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: Like I said, I can’t see the future. It wouldn’t free them, if that’s what you’re asking. “Free” doesn’t really exist in this place. MARTIN: Apart from us. ARCHIVIST: I suppose. I–in a sense, though… [CHUCKLING] how much of that is because we are trapped in our own quest to– MARTIN: Okay, let’s, let’s not dive into another… ontological debate right now, not here.

… and 1°) they’re still technically under The Eye – the whole world is its domain right now; 2°) Obligatory “WHAT IS MARTIN’S DOMAIN” (a fixed place? Web, Lonely? The Institute-Panopticon too? Jon as “the Archive”, having ~trapped~ Martin?), 3°) … big Oouft because if they were to consider their quest as the “domain” trapping them… a quest is made around a goal. Jon presented it as a “doomed quest” which was already worrisome, Oliver highlighted that the current system would ultimately collapse on its own, The Buried’s domain taunted its victims with constant hope, so… if the goal kept being unreachable, but still “almost” out of reach, Jon and Martin could be trapped a bit more literally than just on an ontological plane.

- ;w; Martin is afraid of fire…

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: … You said you were onboard. MARTIN: I was! I am; I just… thought… ARCHIVIST: It wouldn’t hurt? MARTIN: … That we’d be safe. ARCHIVIST: I never said– MARTIN: I know! I know, okay, I just… [SOMETHING SHATTERS] Look, I j–, I just don’t want to get burned, alright? It’s, it’s like my least favourite pain ever. ARCHIVIST: Is that… a joke? MARTIN: No, no! Okay? I… I legitimately hate burns, alright, they’re–they’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just, it– It–it just makes me sick, I–I hate it. Hate it!

* Is it related to the fact that he had to care for his mom from a very young age, and that accidents happened…? That makes his decision to burn statements in MAG117-MAG118 even braver – fire that he could control on his terms, but still, in close proximity to him.

* … Actually, Elias implanting in his mind the truth of how his mother saw him, while Martin had just burned a few statements and was threatening to keep doing it, and when the smell of the fire might have still be floating around at that moment miiiight have added fuel (ha) to Martin’s own fear. Associating bad things and pain to fire.

* Wooft that he hates burns and what they leave, when he’s probably been walking kilometres holding Jon’s all-burned-to-fuck hand.

* YEAH ALSO, that line about how pain can leave a scar even if there is no physical mark to show for it? Is valid on its own but, given Martin’s past, resonates even more when keeping in mind his relationship with his mother and the way Elias inflicted his powers on him and Melanie (MAG118: “Do you want to know what she sees when she looks at you?”). It’s really not empty words, he knows from experience.

* … Same thing as the contrast between MAG117 (“This way I finally get to do something. It’s gonna hurt, but… I’m ready. And I want to. Also, I get to burn some stuff, so that cool!”) and MAG118 (“Don’t. burn. any more. statements.”) around fire: reality not as great as when plans were made, when it comes to the “smiting”, uh.

* … Obligatory “This Is How Web!Martin Can Still Win” since The Desolation and The Web were extremely at odds, and Martin… really was uncomfortable and panicking in this zone, when he had been keeping it together in previous ones (he got very afraid in the Slaughter’s, but it was the first and Martin was discovering the rules):

(MAG139, Eugene Vanderstock) “The compromise we came to… was Hill Top Road. We knew it was a stronghold of The Web, full of other children Agnes’s age. We would supervise from a distance, but were confident she would be in no danger. The Mother of Puppets has always suffered at our hand – all the manipulation and subtle venom in the world means nothing against a pure and unrestrained force of destruction and ruin.”

(Though to be fair: Martin presented himself as a “luxury smörgåsbord” for Fears in MAG117 since he was “just afraid all the time”, was always the Assistant Of Many Fears throughout the series, so it doesn’t have to be significatively a Web indicator – it’s mostly that, well, alright, so Martin can still feel specific, personal fears.)

- … And meanwhile: we went from Jon really casually forgetting that he was using his powers and knew more than he mundanely should have (the beginning of MAG167) to taking a moment to remember that Martin is not omniscient nor a mind-reader, not processing that pain (even temporary and without long-lasting damage) is a genuine factor, and admitting blankly that he’s feeding from this world, which, oops:

(MAG167) [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: Help us with what? MARTIN: ‘xcuse me? ARCHIVIST: Annabelle, help us with “what”? Our–our, our journey, killing Elias, vanishing the Entities – what? [FOOTSTEPS STOP] MARTIN: Please don’t do that. ARCHIVIST: Do what…? Oh! Oh. Right, I, I see, yes. [STATIC FADES] Well, I– … [FOOTSTEPS RESUME] Sorry. MARTIN: It doesn’t… feel great, having someone looking inside your head…! […] I mean, I don’t want to keep secrets from you, but– ARCHIVIST: You should at least… be able to. MARTIN: Basically, yeah…! ARCHIVIST: I–I suppose that’s fair. MARTIN: It’s just… It’s weird, knowing that you can… know literally everything I think and feel– ARCHIVIST: Right… MARTIN: –especially since you’re not exactly the most open of people. Emotionally, I mean.

(MAG169) MARTIN: … Seriously? You don’t– … It’s on fire, Jon, it’s– ARCHIVIST: Yeah, uh… MARTIN: It’s a burning building! ARCHIVIST: Yes, it is. MARTIN: That’s on fire! ARCHIVIST: Yes. MARTIN: … Right. You are aware that traditionally, wading into a flaming inferno is actually considered bad for your health? ARCHIVIST: Yes, Martin. It will be fine. MARTIN: Alright. I just wanted to check. So. Okay. We’re planning to go through… all this, so I’m guessing the fire can’t… actually burn us! Right? Jon? ARCHIVIST: Hum… MARTIN: … Jon? ARCHIVIST: Hum… Mm… MARTIN: Jon. ARCHIVIST: I–it’s complicated. MARTIN: Well, if you want me to go in there with you, then I suggest you find a way to make it simple. “Yes” or “no”, can that fire hurt us? ARCHIVIST: Define “hurt”. MARTIN: Will the fire feel hot to me? ARCHIVIST: Yes. MARTIN: Will it cause me lots of pain, if I touch it? ARCHIVIST: Yes, though not as much as– MARTIN: [SHAKILY BUT STRONG] Will it burn me alive, and kill me dead? ARCHIVIST: … No. It can’t do us any permanent harm; once we’re out, we’ll be fine. MARTIN: You are aware that intense pain can do you loads of harm, even if there’s no any physical injury! […] ARCHIVIST: I should have told you before, so… I leave the decision to you. You know my feelings on the matter. MARTIN: I do? ARCHIVIST: I… Oh, right. I–I want revenge on Jude Perry. I want to… “smite” her. Make her feel what… [SIGH] what all her victims have felt. But I’m not willing to force you to suffer for it. […] JUDE: Yeah, but you like seeing their pain, don’t you? Their fear? ARCHIVIST: … Yes.

His relation to pain is understandable as someone who got “used” to the concept of hurting himself by repeatedly getting harmed, getting marked, and accepting more injuries to reach his goals and protect/save people who were close to him (and it’s very ironic that Martin used to be portrayed as the one “always setting himself on fire to keep others warm” while Jon… selectively did and does that too). The fact he’s feeding from this world is not a new thing: Jonah had announced that Jon would be tailored for this world, Jon himself pointed it out in the trailer, Helen toyed with him by being implicit about it – what is new is the… reverence? with which Jon seemed to marvel at the Desolation domain, the glee during the statement, the deadpanness when Jude called him out on it. It felt like at the beginning of the season, Jon was expressing more guilt, more uneasiness when it came to his enjoyment of this world… and in this episode, those were absent. So is it that he’s gradually accepting it? Or that he was trying to make a point to Martin about himself, about the fact that he is also (objectively) a monster and needs Martin to keep him in check if he doesn’t want to turn out like the others? No idea, but I feel like something is happening and building up about it;;

(… Was Jon feeding from Martin, in the Desolation domain? Martin who was miserable and afraid, coughing and in pain?)

- I LOVED the effect of Jon being in his small “bubble” of pouring out the statement, only for Martin to fight his way to get him out of it:

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: ��Limping and desperate, she turns to see her furniture in flames, the bookshelves full of memories, that she can’t quite place [STATIC RISES] but knows are precious to her, curl and float away as ash. The photos on the wall of her family–” MARTIN: [MUFFLED, DISTANT] Jon! [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: “–whose faces seem indistinct but she knows–” MARTIN: [MUFFLED, DISTANT] Jon! ARCHIVIST: “–that she loves, begin to blacken, as the glass–” MARTIN: [MUFFLED, DISTANT] Jon! [COUGHS] ARCHIVIST: “–pops out of the frame.” MARTIN: [MUFFLED, DISTANT] Jon, she’s here! ARCHIVIST: “Her home is being eaten alive by–” MARTIN: [CLOSER] Please come back! ARCHIVIST: “–this devouring Desolation–” MARTIN: JON! ARCHIVIST: “–and she–” [RESOUNDING SLAP] [STATIC FADES] MARTIN: She’s here! [COUGHS]

* … So, interestingly, Martin could actually get him out of it this time, while he had mentioned in MAG167 that he couldn’t stop Jon. Was it because the “statement” was different: given by the Desolation domain in this one vs. Jon giving a statement through his “knowing” in MAG167? Is it because Martin was outside of the statement mode, not listening to it (so able to break it, since he wasn’t enthralled by it)? Or is it because Martin has been becoming stronger by getting in contact with the domains? Or because he actually could have stopped Jon in MAG167… but didn’t, because he was curious, too, and preferred to think and say that he was entirely caught in the statement?

(* With MAG160, that’s the SECOND time Martin slapped Jon to “get him back” in some way. Gotta love how Jon shaking him off from The Lonely was by breaking out the violins and making an emotional confession and baring his soul to him vs. Martin, getting Jon back into focus by screaming and slapping him. Different kind of powers when there is an emergency.)

* … I’m very interested in the fact that the tape recorder was with Jon in that tiny statement bubble, while Martin was heard muffled from the outside. It wasn’t only Jon’s POV: it was, above all, the tape recorder’s, hearing the statement more distinctly than Martin. It illustrated the situation very well (Jon being unreachable and following the story, and the outside having trouble interacting with him), but I wonder what caused the bubble to exist in the first place: the Desolation domain contaminating Jon with his story? Beholding, focusing its attention on Jon because he was acting as a vessel while narrating Sabina’s story? Or the tape recorder, since Jon was feeding it?

- It’s noteworthy that so far, avatars have all been able to identify Jon as the one having provoked this apocalypse, and not “just” as an avatar beneficiating from it the most since The Eye is his patron:

(MAG164) HELEN: What would I have to gloat about? Much as I am delighted by this brave new world in which we find ourselves, I can take no credit for it. This was all… you!

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “This report is being sent to: [STATIC FADES] The Great Eye, that watches all who linger in terror, and gorges itself on the sufferings of those under its unrelenting, stuporous gaze! And its Archive, which draws knowledge of this suffering unto itself. […] Perhaps once it might have horrified me, or given me some sense of pursuing the ultimate release of the world that you have damned.”

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: Hello, Jude. JUDE: Fancy seeing you both here. To what, exactly, do I owe the pleasure, the honour, of being graced by the great and powerful Archivist, harbinger of this new world, and his, uh… valet…? […] Sure, I moan about The Eye, who doesn’t? But, we’ve won! Both of us. And… that’s great!

Seems like they got a special knowledge or are able to feel his status in the new world? It’s still cracking me up that nobody ever mentions Jonah and his participation, and that he’s absolutely irrelevant (while he was the one to scheme and pushe and engineer this apocalypse in the first place).

- Gigantic dread as soon as Jon mentioned Jude, because y i k e s: technically, we heard about avatars who felt extremely ruthless and cruel, such as John Amherst or Arthur Nolan, but those had belonged more to Gertrude’s era. Jude Perry was the one who felt the most gratuitous and deliberate in her cruelty, in Jon’s era? And despite that, was mostly staying in her lane – Jon had to look her up to find her in MAG089, she never went after him? So the idea that he was trying to confront her and bringing Martin with him (… without warning him at first), that he sought her out and was planning to kill her, felt dangerous and worrisome.

- Gotta love, about the “valet”-thing, how:

(MAG169) JUDE: Fancy seeing you both here. To what, exactly, do I owe the pleasure, the honour, of being graced by the great and powerful Archivist, harbinger of this new world, and his, uh… valet…?

* It’s payback for Jon’s “I just… er, you were a friend of Agnes Montague, correct?” (MAG089). Opposite of mlm/wlw solidarity.

* ONCE AGAIN, after Elias, after Peter, after maybe Helen currently?, it’s an avatar underestimating Martin on sight.

- It felt to me like Jon was mostly seeking answers or a form of peace of mind than genuinely getting revenge, or helping Jude’s victims? He insisted on his questions all through their confrontation:

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: I have a question for you. I’ve been wondering. MARTIN: [COUGHS] ARCHIVIST: Did you know what you were doing? JUDE: Excuse me? ARCHIVIST: When you burned me. Marked me with… Did you know it would lead to… all of this? [CRUMBLING] JUDE: You came all this way just to ask that? ARCHIVIST: Answer the question. MARTIN: [COUGHS] JUDE: If you want to know so badly, why don’t you just reach into my head and pull it out? ARCHIVIST: Because I want to hear you say it. Willingly. JUDE: What difference does it make if it’s– ARCHIVIST: Just answer the damn question…! JUDE: … No. I had no idea. ARCHIVIST: So why did you do it? JUDE: Why do you think? Because I wanted to hurt you. MARTIN: [COUGHS] JUDE: Because you were annoying, and I didn’t like you! So I hurt you. ARCHIVIST: And if you had? JUDE: But I didn’t. Look. I don’t care, okay? MARTIN: [COUGHS] JUDE: I just… I don’t. Raking over the past like it matters, like it means anything… The past is dead, Archivist; ashes in the wind. We’re – here – now. And that’s it! ARCHIVIST: … I suppose you’re right…!

And this time, it wasn’t a tug-o’-war of question/answer resulting in one’s death (Peter), or an impulsive murder (Not!Sasha). It was planned and controlled, and deliberate. And it didn’t feel good at all: it was really a horrible scene, with Martin coughing and coughing in the background (… and Jon not paying it any attention), the execution dragging out and taking time, because Jon was processing slowly and not… giving the final blow. I really wondered if he was going to just stop, or if it wouldn’t work, or if Martin would ask him to stop – but no, quite the contrary, it’s Martin who yelled for it to be done:

(MAG169) MARTIN: [COUGHS] [STATIC RISING: LOW AND SPIRALLING, PRESSURING] JUDE: Uh! Listen… Listen… [BREATHLESS CHUCKLING] You’re enjoying this, right? ‘Course you are! You want to use those powers of yours to hurt people, you want to murder everybody who can’t fight back at you now? I can help you…! [DIGITAL GLITCHING SOUNDS] MARTIN: Just DIE already!! JUDE: You’re… not… better… than… me! [SCREAMS] [DIGITAL BURSTING, RIPPING SOUNDS] [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] MARTIN: [COUGH] [PANTING] Is it…? ARCHIVIST: It’s over. … She’s gone.

;; There was something very… child-like, in Martin’s scream? You know, the kind of absolute rejection because he’s hurt and because in his mind there is no other way than for the other person to disappear for him to feel good ever again? I hadn’t paid much attention with Not!Sasha, but technically, the distorted, glitching sounds before and during the ripping of both the Not!Them and Jude sounded very close to Peter’s own static (and Martin’s, when he disappeared in front of Georgie): is it possible that he might have contributed in both cases, or amplified it? Or was it “only” Jon all through it?

- There is something very fitting in the fate of avatars, lately: the Not!Them was forced to “know” the suffering of its victims before getting ripped away from existence; Oliver was not rejecting death and knew it would come from him at some point, and Jon fittingly decided to spare him (although he was aware of the irony); Helen-the-Distortion is an ambivalent case (Jon can threaten her, but they can talk, it’s a bit of an unstable relationship the balance of which could shift at any time); Jude was inflected the suffering of her victims (and desolated herself in a way). It’s kinda fitting, for The Stranger, The End, The Spiral and The Desolation? I wonder how much the Domains are influencing Jon’s behaviour towards their agents, regardless of his personal feelings about them…

- Regarding Jon&Martin, it’s really heartbreaking that they are trying to navigate around and with each other’s feelings, trying to find the “right” decision regarding choices and boundaries… and that it backfired so badly due to the circumstances and the fact that, right now, they can’t really make an ideal, non-harming decision:

(MAG169) MARTIN: Jon, is there another way? ARCHIVIST: I mean… sort of? M–maybe? [SILENCE] MARTIN: That turn…! You, you took a hard turn after the roots back there. I knew that was a thing! Why are we here? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] It’s just… [INHALE] When you said… [SIGH] MARTIN: Jon, why have you taken us here? ARCHIVIST: Jude Perry. … This is where Jude Perry rules. […] You said you were onboard. MARTIN: I was! I am; I just… thought… ARCHIVIST: It wouldn’t hurt? MARTIN: … That we’d be safe. ARCHIVIST: I never said– MARTIN: I know! I know, okay, I just… […] ARCHIVIST: … Alright. If you really don’t want to do this, we, we can go another way. MARTIN: Really…? ARCHIVIST: Really. My revenge… [SIGH] Well, let’s just say you’re more important. […] So are we going in, or not? MARTIN: You’re– … I, you’re asking me? ARCHIVIST: I should have told you before, so… I leave the decision to you. You know my feelings on the matter. MARTIN: I do? ARCHIVIST: I… Oh, right. I–I want revenge on Jude Perry. I want to… “smite” her. Make her feel what… [SIGH] what all her victims have felt. But I’m not willing to force you to suffer for it. MARTIN: Okay, so it’s… I have to choose, do I? ARCHIVIST: Or we could sit here. [SILENCE] [DISTANT SOUND OF SOMETHING COLLAPSING] MARTIN: … No. No, I–I’m not going to choose, I d–I don’t think that’s a fair decision to put on me. It’s your revenge; your choice, not mine. [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: … Fine. We go in. [DISTANT SOUND OF SOMETHING COLLAPSING] MARTIN: [SHAKY INHALE] Al–alright then…! ARCHIVIST: We’ll be fine. MARTIN: J– Lead the way. [BAG JOSTLING]

It was good of Jon to admit that he should ask Martin, and expressed reluctance at the idea of putting him in an uncomfortable position for his own revenge! It was good of Martin, to establish once again that he didn’t want to bear the burden of deciding for both of them (MAG154: “Don’t do this.” “Do what?” “Make it my decision.”), while it was explicitly about what Jon wanted! … But it also feels like Jon would have needed Martin to decide agree to go for him if the goal was for Jon to find some peace of mind with his revenge, and that Martin would have needed Jon to say that no, definitely not, his revenge wasn’t worth endangering and harming Martin.

(Though, I feel like Martin was the most hurt of them both, this time around ;; He sounded absolutely miserable at the end of the episode, and he had been the one to begrudgingly agree to follow Jon after making it clear that he wouldn’t like the experience… I’m really surprised that Jon stuck to the “revenge” concept while he knew what was at stake for Martin. Really hoping that they will talk about it soon ;;)

- ;; Technically, Jude made a lot of valid points regarding Jon-as-an-avatar:

(MAG169) JUDE: You’re not scared, though, are you, Archivist? ARCHIVIST: … I can feel the pain of every person you have trapped here. My own isn’t all that different. JUDE: Yeah, but you like seeing their pain, don’t you? Their fear? ARCHIVIST: … Yes. JUDE: You and that stupid Eye, god, you make me sick! Lording it over everybody like you own the place? You’re just leeches, voyeurs, parasites on the real monsters. […] Oooh, I see! I get it. You finally get a sniff of power, and the first thing you do is try to settle some old scores. MARTIN: [LOUDER COUGHS] JUDE: Play the big man, get off on good old-fashioned petty revenge~! […] I’m happy in this world. I belong here. And so do you. MARTIN: [COUGHS] [STATIC RISING: LOW AND SPIRALLING, PRESSURING] JUDE: Uh! Listen… Listen… [BREATHLESS CHUCKLING] You’re enjoying this, right? ‘Course you are! You want to use those powers of yours to hurt people, you want to murder everybody who can’t fight back at you now? I can help you…! [DIGITAL GLITCHING SOUNDS] MARTIN: Just DIE already!! JUDE: You’re… not… better… than… me! [SCREAMS]

He presented it to Martin as “revenge”. He went out of his way to find Jude, first hiding it from Martin and then deliberately making the decision of going after her after he learned that Martin would be terrorised by the domain (but ready to follow him if Jon really wanted to go). Jude’s execution also exists in contrast to Oliver, whom Jon had decided to spare because he had “helped” him (… to wake up as an avatar), while knowing full well that Oliver had killed people too (MAG121) and that he was currently torturing victims in his domains (in creative, cruel ways for “VARIETY”…). Jude’s smiting didn’t feel like an application of justice, or as something fair; it just felt like personal retribution, because Jon has the power to do it. There is something reassuring in the fact that the whole scene didn’t bring any catharsis, felt so extremely anti-climatic and miserable (Martin was in pain and on the verge of tears, wanted to leave the place; Jon wasn’t triumphant), because Jon behaved as the plaintiff, the legislature, the judge and the executioner – it is terrifying in itself that he has the power to establish who would have the “right” to die or to keep torturing people following whether or not they’ve served his interests.

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: I just, I don’t think he’s… [SIGH] I don’t know, I don’t think he’s evil. MARTIN: Oh, yeah, sure, he’s probably a really kind, benevolent ruler of a hellish fear prison…! ARCHIVIST: It’s just… He helped me. Wh–when I was… He woke me up. […] But I’m not going to… seek him out. At the very least, he’s earned not having me hunt him down. MARTIN: Fine. I suppose that’s… reasonable. […] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] No. If Oliver will not seek me out, then… I will leave him be. [TINY CHUCKLES] The avatar of Death… shall live. Martin’s going to be thrilled…! [SIGH]

(MAG169) MARTIN: [COUGH] [PANTING] Is it…? ARCHIVIST: It’s over. … She’s gone. MARTIN: [PAINED] The fires are still here. Doesn’t look like much has changed. ARCHIVIST: … No. I suppose not. [CRUMBLING SOUND] MARTIN: [SHAKILY] … Let’s just get out of here.

Jude was indeed that one avatar we wanted to see disappear (since the was gleeful about hurting, that she chose to get involved in the cult and didn’t join it to escape another horrible fate, that she admitted she didn’t regret this world nor the hurt she had to Jon himself); but her accusations had some truth in them precisely because Jon had just decided to spare Oliver given their own relationship – while Oliver, too, had admitted that he was torturing and enjoying people for the fun of it. Jon’s judgement… doesn’t work. And since nothing changed in the domain, it just proved that avatars themselves weren’t the real problem at the root – the Fear-system is still in place, still working, with or without them, still hurting and feeding from people.

(… And it also highlights that, indeed, right now, Jon is “made” for this world, as Jonah had hypothesised in MAG160. He’s been shown grieving the old world, being eaten by guilt, refusing to embrace the fact that the Fears around him feel “right” at the beginning of the season. But he’s currently feeding from this world and still enjoying victims’ pain on some level – what would happen, if Jon&Martin managed to successfully revert the world back in some way? Would Jon still be able to survive?)

- We’ll see if Jon and Martin talk about it soon, but it sure feels like a conversation regarding the “smiting” is needed. Martin seems to have experienced first-hand that it’s nnooooot as good in practice as in theory (he was miserable, in pain, coughing his lungs out, witnessed Jon choose to willingly bring him into a discomforting, potentially triggering place in the name of it), but I’m not sure it will be enough for him to reconsider the idea, or to point out that… he had been wrong about it, and that the logic of killing avatars as an easy, evident, helpful thing… is actually not that simple, since it didn’t change anything. (Probably because they have to aim higher.)

I’m really not sure about their future stances regarding other avatars, because, really, who could feel as “deserving” as Jude? Jon might want his rib back, but he technically gave it to Jared as part of an agreement (and Jared honoured his half of the deal!); Daisy would “at best” represent an attempt at mercy-killing if Jon were to try anything (and it certainly wouldn’t feel good); Julia&Trevor… indeed caused the chaos in MAG158, which also led to Daisy snapping, but would it be enough to want to “smite” them? (Meanwhile, if Jon meets Simon: same as Oliver, given his relationship to his patron, he would probably just embrace his own death.)

Plus, if Jude’s execution felt unsatisfying now, I really doubt that doing anything to Jonah would feel satisfying either? It… wouldn’t solve anything or fix the world back.

- I really wonder what’s happening in Jon’s head right now, if everything was a conscious decision that more or less backfired (ha), or if there are once again influences at stake… Did he really go after Jude because, like Martin suggested, Jon thought it could free or at least relieve the people imprisoned in that domain? Jon can’t see the future, but he could have “known” what had happened to the Not!Them’s carousel to get an indication of what happens in those cases; it… didn’t sound like a genuine reason. Same thing with the concept of revenge: Jon was scared of it just a few episodes ago (MAG166: “Because I’m ashamed, Martin. […] Yes! Ashamed of the fact that I… destroyed the world and have been rewarded for it; the fact that… I can walk safe through all this horror I’ve created like a fucking tourist, destroying whoever I please; the fact that I… enjoyed it, and… the fact that there are… so many others, that I still want to revenge myself on!”), and if it had been only about revenge, he wouldn’t have needed to ask Jude all these questions and to delay the moment when he would actually end her. Was it because he hoped that Jude would regret, would have behaved differently if she had known that it would lead to the apocalypse? Was it because he wanted to check with himself whether “smiting” her deliberately would feel good, fair and right? Was it because he thought that trusting Martin’s judgement and killing avatars would indeed be the best course of action? Was it because he wanted to prove a point to Martin – that he’s a monster too, and/or that killing doesn’t feel as great in practice as on the paper?

… His behaviour in this episode reminded me so much of MAG141, however, and how coldly rational he had sounded about what he was doing to Floyd, as if it was a logical and implacable course of action; so I can’t help but wonder if there is Eye-related influence at play. Pushing him to hurt other avatars for The Eye’s entertainment, to feed from the ones who are usually feared? For “variety”, too?

- … Regarding Jon’s powers, I had briefly wondered whether Jon was still able to compel, given what Oliver had mentioned, but mMMMmmm…

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “Please, Jon, do not interpret this report as a “plea for mercy” or a “call to action”. I would have offered it willingly, of course, but to do so is no longer an option. You cannot ask; you may only take.”

(MAG169) JUDE: You came all this way just to ask that? ARCHIVIST: Answer the question. MARTIN: [COUGHS] JUDE: If you want to know so badly, why don’t you just reach into my head and pull it out? ARCHIVIST: Because I want to hear you say it. Willingly. JUDE: What difference does it make if it’s– ARCHIVIST: Just answer the damn question…! JUDE: … No. I had no idea.

Since compelling Peter to death, Jon has never been shown forcing an answer out of someone again. He has been shown “knowing” things with alarming ability, being almost entirely omniscient at this point (MAG164: “Okay. So… how much can you see? What else do you know?” “Uh… Maybe everything…!”), whether it’s prompted by someone’s questions (as Martin demonstrated) or Jon just knowing things on his own accord. He has demonstrated a new way to deal with “statements”: getting filled with the Fears suffusing his surroundings, and having to “pour out” these statements into the tape recorder (MAG162: “This cabin. It’s not right. And, when I thought that, I–I felt… It, it all poured out of me down… into the tape.”). He has manifested his new Eye-related ability to turn the Feared into the Fearful, eradicating monsters and avatars (MAG166: “But The Eye still rules. All this fear is being performed for its benefit. And so, there are now exactly two roles available in this new world of ours: the watcher, and the watched. Subject, and object. Those who are feared, and those who are afraid. And Jon, well… he is part of The Eye; a very important part. And he’s able to, shall we say… shift its focus. Turn the one into the other.”). But compulsion as the act of asking a question and forcing an answer out of someone? Nothing since the beginning of the season. It might be nothing, but Oliver has always known so much about Jon and his situation, and Jude directly made a reference to that power when Jon didn’t use it, so… it could indeed be a thing.

(Or it’s also possible that, after Peter resisted compulsion to the point of dying, Jon fears that ability and what it could do, and purposefully stopped using it?)

MAG170’s title is… MmMMmm. If this an episode regarding a territory, I would say Spiral or Flesh (… and Jared in particular). It could also be about things outside of a domain, like what happened with “Curiosity” – and then, I’d see ways for it to be an outside POV (Jonah? Annabelle?) and/or other characters coming back (Georgie&Melanie? Basira? … stumbling upon/finding Daisy…?). And/or Martin talking about himself – we know so little about his pre-Archives life, I feel ;; (Same for Basira…) There could also be a way to connect with something mentioned about Agnes in MAG067…

(… It’s also making me think of Albrecht’s library / the Black Forest crypt and what Jonah did of the books…)

#mag169 #tma liveblog #tma season 4 #tma spoilers/#long post/#the magnus archives

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singeramg · 5 years ago

Text

Midnight: Chapter 18

Pairing: Clark Kent-Superman/ Metahuman! Black! OFC

Rating: M

Warnings: Much of the same warnings before, language, sexual innuendo, lewd comments, child abuse so trigger warning.

A/n: I am writing a little bit everyday so this got done and I am already well into chapter 19! I was going to post this last night but I decided to wait until this morning.

CATCH UP HERE!

Midnight: Chapter 18

* Denotes: Inner-voice

I look around the dimly lit room as if seeing it for the first time despite knowing I had been in it for a while. My eyes hone in non Clark chained to a wooden chair in the middle of the room.

“Clark?!” Recovering from whatever hold had been put over me, I tried to shake my head to clear it, but all my emotions were a jumbled mess. All I knew was that I had to get to Clark. It was odd but he wasn’t giving off fear.

“There’s my Gia. Glad to see you again.”

He says with a smile as if he was trying to comfort me. The longer I looked at him the fogginess of what I had done began to lift. I remembered helping trap him, bringing him here, coming up with the idea for those god awful chains and then I forced myself onto him. What the fuck dude!

If he didn’t hate me before, he sure as shit would now. I scramble to my feet, and over to him.

“What in the hell did I do?!” Ask mostly to myself but Clark responds.

*“No permanent damage yet, but I think we stand a much better chance of sorting this out if I get out these chains.”*

I don’t think too hard and control myself enough to gather enough energy to cut through his chains. I pull them off quickly and toss them as far away from him as I can. Clark finally takes a full and deep breath as the Kryptonite chains were constricting all of that for him. He coughs roughly as his body readjusts to his strength returning.

“Oh my god I fucked up bad. What did I do...”

Thoughts raced through my head as I imagined all the ways Clark could kill me, each more creative than the last.

*“Gia, Gia. Calm down. Everything will be alright. Can you still hear me like this?”*

I was confused.

“I am panicking Clark, not deaf of course I can hear you.” I snap but note that I am still shaking.

*“Gia look at me.”*

He says and it sounds like he is trying to poke fun at me. I frown and look at him.

*“Gia my lips haven’t been moving the entire time.”*

I yelp and jump away from him.

“What the hell?!”

This time Clark laughs out loud and he just pulls me closer to him, it surprised me that he would even want me that close to him.

“Everything will be okay, but first we have got to get out of here. I am still too weak to fly, at least while I am near these chains. Do you think you can get us out of here?”

All of my memories of this place are still fuzzy, everything felt so intense, and sharp. Apparently now I could read minds. This was all new and strange to me. What had happened while I was here? How long was I here? Most importantly, how could we get out of here. I looked around for clues, trying to think of anything that could help when Clark’s head shot toward the door.

“Someone is coming. Follow my lead.”

He pulls me close to his body as he sits himself down in the chair and we end up in the same compromising position we had been in before. Clark’s hands pull my face down onto his just as the door opens. He makes the kiss intense right off the bat, slipping his tongue into my mouth, holding my head in place. Lost to the moment I moan forgetting we were only putting on a show, at least until a throat clears behind us.

“I hate to interrupt but I heard the bossman just kicked out his house guests and is about to make an appearance. You may want to lock the lover boy back up before that happens.”

I fight back the urge to cry as I recognize Tracy.

It had been years since I had seen Tracy and to see her again, under these circumstances I was hit with my own guilt, and her simmering anger and sadness.

I have no control over these new expansions of my powers so I can’t control hearing thoughts. Tracy practically yells in her mind at me.

*“Hurry up so I don’t have to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you! Hurry hurry! Boss will make me hurt you.”*

“Okay Tracy. What if we don’t tie him back up? I need to leave.”

“Leave? Wait...you are awake aren’t you?”

I watch as Tracy goes on the defensive. I stand down so that I don’t make her even more wary of me.

“Tracy I don’t want to fight you. Come with us.”

This time Clark was the one shouting at me. I winced outwardly as Clark yelled in his own head.

I would definitely teach him that he didn’t need to yell in his head.

*“Are you crazy Gia?! She was the one who caused the crash and kidnapped you.”*

*“Yes Clark. I know exactly who she is. I failed her before. I won’t do it again.”

*“You are trying to get yourself killed, I’m convinced.”*

I realize we have been silent exactly long enough to be rude and freak her out. I feel her defensive energy build and she prepares to fight me.

“Please Tracy come with me. We can help you.”

“So now you want to help me? After all these years? You want to help me? I don’t think so, I think you just want to use me. You don’t care about me. He does.”

The images of the kind words, and sweet gestures. All of which had been more of a sibling in nature, but as I watched them briefly it was clear she was being groomed. He was talking to her persuasively, soft words laced in the way that would make any impressionable young person comply with whatever just to continue to receive that affection they had been starved of and I knew Tracy had been starved because for a while I had too.

“Tracy I care. I promise I care about you. Just come with us. You will see that I only want what’s best for you.”

“Fuck you!” She growls at me. I feel Clark tense up behind me.

“Tracy. Please I already said I don’t want to fight you.”

I try to keep my eyes open and honest. Tracy was contemplating an attack as she had been taught, but the part of her mind that hadn’t been altered. The true part that I knew of her, was fighting her to let us help.

For some reason she can’t explain to herself, she agrees at least until she is sure we aren’t a threat as much as I could gather from her surface thoughts. Without much control over this new power I didn’t know how to dig deeper for the stuff people wanted to hide. I push positive emotions to her.

“Alright, we can get out of here but the boss is headed down here on detainment level.”

“If we can get Clark away from the chains, he and I can handle the rest.”

Tracy nods and holds her thumb against the door panel and it opens to an empty hallway. Do my best to move calmly and confidently as if nothing is wrong. Tracy has no problem staying calm and I can feel her power surging through her arms, which indicated she had super strength. I remembered her punching me and taking me down for the count. Clark is nervous mostly because he knows he is not at full strength to help me as much as he normally could. It worries him and especially as we navigated through the halls, using what I could feel of energies to avoid others and trusting Tracy to guide us out. Thankfully, just as we were getting out the last door, we narrowly avoided a guard coming around the corner. Out of the building I felt Clark’s strength boost exponentially as he was now far enough away from the chains that he was back at full strength.

“We have got to get out of here. Gia I can carry you, Tracy will have to get on my back and I can fly us out of here.”

Then we heard a loud siren which told me someone knew we were gone. I could feel anger, and mostly panic coming from those inside, and from experience I knew nothing good came from that mix of emotions.

“Shit, okay let’s go!”

I turn to Tracy who for the first time looks unsure. I walk over to her and take her hand.

“Tracy, I need you to trust me. I can’t leave you here so let’s go.”

Clark looks between us as he walks over and turns his back to Tracy for the first time since this all started, and kneels down so she could get on his back easily. Tracy shoots me a look and I can feel fear and uncertainty pouring from her, but she latches onto his back and grips him tightly. I breathe a sigh of relief and let Clark scoop me up and hold me tightly against his chest like he always does when we fly. We take off with a blast ignoring the calls for us to stop and get just far enough away that if Clark moves at a random pattern then they couldn’t get a shot on us.

*Wayne Manor: 4:45am*

The flight wasn’t that long, maybe 30 minutes at best and I could feel Tracy’s energy was running low. Clark landed in the driveway of Bruce manor rather than my room, and Tracy slid off his back easily. Clark doesn’t put me down until we are inside the house.

Lights come on in the foyer just as Clark carries me across the threshold, sitting me to my feet just as Bruce, Alfred, Diana, Barry and Victor all come rushing into the room.

Their thoughts all come at me loud and at once, it hurts. I crumble to my knees, holding my ears, trying to make it stop. Ramblings of ‘he found her’, ‘she’s alive’, and ‘she’s hurt’, all swirling around in my head. I start crying and Clark kneels in front of me.

“Gia, baby what is wrong?”

He pulls me against his chest and I mumble.

“It’s so loud, Clark. Everyone’s thoughts are too loud.”

“Remember when I taught you to focus your energy? Make your world smaller, focus on one thing. One sound or one mind, start blocking everything else.”

“It hurts.”

I say with my head throbbing, tear tracks running down my face.

“I know it hurts but if you don’t try this, you will just hurt and hurt. I can’t watch you suffer. I know you can do this. Remember to focus on just one thing, one sound, one feeling, bring yourself down.”

He rubs my back and I try to heed his advice, focusing on how good his hand feels on my back, and his thoughts which he had basically cleared out to chant ‘relax and breathe Gia, I am here to protect you’. His mantra helps me focus until I stop whimpering and can open my eyes. I look at him with bloodshot red eyes and Clark offers me a small smile, leaning down kissing my forehead.

“There’s my Gia.”

I get that tingly feeling from hearing him call me his. I push it down for the moment and stand to my feet, ignoring the small ache in my knees. I am finally able to look up at the team and everyone looks and feels concerned however the most resounding emotion is relief for me.

“Thank the gods you are alright. That both of you are alright. We’ve been looking for Clark for hours since he disappeared from the club.”

Diana walks over and pulls me into a hug. I allow it and I start to feel suspicion roll off of Bruce in heavy waves.

“While I am glad you and Clark have both returned. I think we are a little behind the curve, who is this?”

He gestures behind us to the small figure who had backed herself into a corner. I read her quickly and I feel true and deep fear from her for the first time. I pull away from Clark and walk over to Tracy.

“Everyone, this is Tracy. One of the reasons we escaped was because of her.”

Victor steps up.

“I know her face. She was the one talking to Clark before he disappeared, I’ve watched that tape back and forth. She slips something in his drink and then she guides him out the club through the back entrance. He is clearly influenced by something.”

Victor looks pissed and rightfully defensive.

“ Yeah she also was the one who caused the wreck, but apparently I came up with the entire plan to kidnap Clark here. She was my partner. She didn’t have a choice. She never did. We were both kidnapped by the same people.”

“So you brought the threat to my house then.”

Bruce asks dryly.

“No. She isn’t any threat. She came willingly and if you could feel the emotions I could then you would know she is not a threat. I will warn you though, she is finicky. Keep calling her a threat and moving to attack and she will attack you. Her mind has already identified 6 ways to incapacitate and/ or kill you Bruce.”

I say with a straight face and I take note that Diana moves herself between Tracy and Bruce.

“I brought her here because I knew she would be safe. I couldn’t leave her there. Not with them. I already broke my promise once, I wouldn’t do it again...”

Flashback: 7 years ago

They kept us in dark, dirty cells in a black if them, that looked like we were being housed in an old prison. I have been here for years and everyday I wake up feels like a fresh hell. We slept two to a cell, however I didn’t have a roommate right now. The last one was a 22 year old Hispanic girl they took away and she never came back. It was common at this point, they took away so many girls that never came back.

I learned a long time ago to stop crying about it because these guards and scientists could smell your fear, and no matter how much you cried and begged. They would always take you. It was rare that you even made it back to a cell without severe damage. It was still lit for the block and I sat on the top bunk re-reading an old, worn copy of Alice in Wonderland. This place didn’t have much in the way of books, despite them having kept me learning. I wasn’t allowed too many that weren’t educational. Under the guise of more possible success ‘if I wasn’t stupid’ I had been here since I was 16 and based on the dates I could glean from the other children they had taken, I was somewhere around 19 now.

The longest ‘candidate’ they had here. I had been through so many tests and trials that I wondered why my body hadn’t just given up on me. I wanted to go already. To see my momma again, not to suffer through this pain anymore. I was simply biding my time until that happened.

Alice was talking to Twiddledum and Twiddledee when I heard muffled crying and a dragging of feet. The worst guard, Jax, manhandles a small girl into my cell. Tossing her inside so hard she slams against the wall, yelping in her surprise agony. I leap down quickly.

“Hey you jackass, she is just a little girl!”

I stand between the two of them. I fight off my feelings of disgust as I watch him lear over me, the industrial lights of the corridor shining off of his bald head, and his lips curling back to reveal crooked and yellowed teeth that looked like dude had never had a relationship with toothpaste in his entire life.

“She might be, but you're not. Are you? You know exactly what happens to little girls with bad attitudes.”

I try not to let fear show across my face. He was right, I knew the stakes of bad behavior, shit I probably was the reason they didn’t have as much push back from the other girls and boys they took. I was always made an example of when it came down to punishment for what they deemed breaking the rules. Hell, early on, they beat me often I didn’t even know what I was being beat for by the end of it. Jax has been around the entire time I had been here and he took sick pleasure in how we cried and bled on cold, stone floors. Now he just looks at me like he’s waiting for the perfect opportunity to get me alone.

“Yes I do, and Unless you are coming to take me away for that, then get the fuck out my cell.”

His eyes flashover in anger, and before I can make note of it he slaps me down to the ground. I scream out in pain, and catch myself on my hands.

“Still so feisty, you would think you would have learned your lesson by now.”

“Fuck you.”

He leans down laughing at me as I wipe the blood from my lip.

“You ask me nice enough Sweetheart and I will.”

I frown my mouth up in disgust, and try to scoot backwards.

“Keep holding your bad ass breath, the fuck you’ve been eating, dog shit?.” I snark.

“I have a feeling I won’t have to wait that long. The boss is thinking of approving some new techniques to bring out the success in his experiments. Trust me I’ve got some interesting ideas.”

Then he laughs, walking out of the cell, slamming it closed, locking it.

“You should probably teach the little one some manners. I would hate to have to teach her a hard lesson.”

With that he whistles back down the cell block.

“Sick fuck.”

I say pulling myself off the ground, dusting off the tank top and sweatpants I was wearing. The small girl was huddled in the corner, her sniffles obvious in the silence of the cell.

I walk up to her slowly, and she curls in on herself. I remember doing this exact same thing years ago.

“My name is Gia...ummm... Gia Smith. What’s your name?”

She sniffed, finally looking at me, her eyes big and brown. Her lips were small and red from being worried, her hair light brown and super tight curls. She was actually similar to me except she was mixed with white and black making her a few shades lighter than me, smaller, really just a baby.

“My n...na..name is Tracy.”

I held my hand out to her, hoping she would take it.

“Okay Tracy, how old are you?”

*sniffle* “9.”

“Okay baby well, how about you get off this cold floor and you can have the bottom bunk.”

“Ms...Gia I am scared.”

My heart broke for this beautiful little girl. She was obviously so loved from wherever they had snatched her from and it hurt that she was even here, having to endure this same type of pain and life I was in everyday. She gets up, running unexpectedly into my arms. The force of it almost knocked me off my feet, I didn’t have much strength but I held the sobbing little girl as tight as I could....

*End Flashback*

Standing in the corner, despite her hair being completely straight and being taller, she still was that same little girl that was thrown in my cell all those years ago.

For a year I basically took care of her, taking all of the punishments, helping her with the work they gave her, gave her my share of food sometimes when she was still hungry, cleaned and comforted her when they would take her away for hours and she would come back a mess, battered, and sometimes unconscious.

Those were the nights I would stay up all night crying and hoping each time wouldn’t be the time that they took her out of the cell forever. It was the reason I had never gotten close to anyone here, because that day that I broke out, I forgot and I broke my promise to Tracy.

Now as we all stood in Bruce’s giant foyer the tension was real. I walked back over to Tracy, her eyes were still brown, the little girl I helped all those years ago still there, but burrowed behind years of torture and pain. Almost killing her, but I knew that sweet girl was still there. She looked much older but she couldn’t be any other than 16 now, which bothered about having her in that club, drinking and dressed like she currently was.

“Tracy, do you think you would like some different clothes? I know I have something upstairs that will fit you?”

She looked at me, and then shut her eyes tightly as if trying to fight off a memory. I knew that was probably the case as I had recognized that hunted look on my own face plenty of times.

I look at Bruce.

“Would it be okay if she stays the night? We can figure everything else in the morning?”

“You trust her?”

He asks skeptically

“Yes.”

I say without hesitation, surprising almost everyone except for Clark.

“Sure.”

I help Tracy upstairs to my room and once inside I find her something comfortable to sleep in.

“Why do you trust me?”

Tracy surprises me, asking as I go over to the bathroom, to pull out fresh towels for her.

“Because I know you, you may have gotten older but I know you Tracy. I know you are still in there and while you may not feel like it, maybe she’s buried deep, but I know the little girl I shared a room with for a year is still there. I hope that with a little trust from me that she will trust me enough again to reappear. I am going to head downstairs and I have someone very important to check on, but if you need just for me or Clark and we will come back up. You can sleep in my room tonight.”

I offer a small smile, her mind still doesn’t fully trust me, but she still knows she is tired of following whoever this boss was and deep down she remembered what I did for her all those years back. I leave the room as she goes into the bathroom. As tired as I am I manage a shield to notify me if she leaves the room, and I could monitor her energy from anywhere in the house.

The team had moved into the library as I walked back in and I winced as the thoughts hit me again. I tried not to drop to the floor and Clark helped me into the nearby chair.

“Gia, what happened to you?”

Diana has rushed over to me as Clark helps me relax with a centering hand on my back. Her mind, along with everyone else’s runs a mile a minute. I toss a finger over my lips, and say

“Can everyone just like... focus on like one thought for like five minutes? Jesus.”

I says rubbing my temples.

“Did she just say focus on one thought?”

Barry says

“Yes I did, and shit you think almost as fast as you are, slow down for a second kid. Plus all of you are thinking really loud.”

“Gia what happened? You’ve developed the ability to read minds?”

Bruce asks me, with his hand on his chin.

“Yes. The last thing I remember after being taken was me talking to a man and his basically authorizing them to start new tests. After that I came to with Clark tied to a chair, and me dressed like this. Speaking of which...”

I waved my hand and the annoyingly short and tight outfit I was wearing changed into yoga pants and a t- shirt. Grateful to feel so exposed anymore.

“That’s better. I can tell you guys details from what isn’t foggy but where is my son first?”

I look to Clark pointedly.

“Our son is with Ma’ and Ms. Alphonse at the farm.”

“Ms. Alphonse?”

“She didn’t want to leave until you returned. We all figured Kalen would need familiar faces around while you were gone.”

Alfred offers the conversation and I tear up as it hits me how much I missed my baby boy. How freaked out he must have been not to see his mom.

“Can I...we go to him? I need to see my baby...”

“Gia I will go and get him, he has been waking up at 6 am anyway. It’s practically 5 now, by the time we get here he will just be waking up. You can go get some rest.”

“I am not sleeping until I see Kalen. I can’t hold the shield I put over Tracy’s room all the way at Mrs. Martha’s. I can’t leave.”

“Bruce you have virtual driver mode on all of the cars correct?”

Victor asks

“Yes.”

“Good, Clark give your mother a call and let her know a car will be there to pick them all up in about an hour.”

I shoot a grateful look to Victor and I take note that the loud thoughts have all stopped while I wasn’t thinking about them but as soon as I did they came back full force. I wince, Clark notices and shakes his head. His voice speaks clearly above everyone else latent thoughts.

“Okay that’s enough, Gia you are in pain. We can finish this in the morning. You have been through enough. I’m taking you to bed.”

His voice books no argument but that didn’t mean Barry didn’t think anything.

*“Well that was fast. Didn’t think they were together again, but I guess he missed her, urges are urges...I mean shit...you can hear me can’t you Gia.”*

“ Yes Barry. I can.”

He blushes and I laugh. While everyone else looks on confused.

“Clark would be correct. Everything has been a haze and the lack of sleep is not helping this new power at all.”

I stand to my feet, Clark hovering and he toys with the idea of tossing me over his shoulder. I turn to him with a glare, and shake my head.

“I’m tired, not unconscious Clark.”

I eye roll and he chuckles behind me.

“Gia we are all glad you are safe. I will be here if you need anything.”

Diana offers and I know it’s sincere. I offer a small smile to her and everyone else despite my head ringing, and Clark takes my hand in his to lead me upstairs...

A/n: HEY EVERYONE! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and as always I appreciate all the love you guys have been showing me with this story! Also the re-blogs and replies are great and helps me move forward and write faster! You rock!!

TAGLIST: Still open so let me know if you’d like to be on it.

@bloodyinspiredfuck @romyr4 @thethirstyarchive @p3nny4urth0ught5 @kmcmpmd

#Henry Cavill #henry cavill x black ofc #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill x ofc #SUPERMAN X OFC #Superman #Clark Kent xOFC #Clark Kent

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waywardaardvark79 · 5 years ago

Text

Yes, Mistress

Summary: Dean and the reader accidentally switch bags, leading to a night of fun that neither one of them expected.

Pairing: Dom Reader x Sub Dean

Warnings: language, smut, restraints

Word Count: 4,132

Dean was following after you to the garage, hot on your heels, and obviously unhappy with your sudden decision to back out of the hunt the three of you were supposed to go on to suddenly go out on your own.

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to go alone." Dean said, for the hundredth time.

"I told you I won't be alone. I'm meeting up with someone once I get there." you explained, keeping the details as vague as you could.

"Who is it, and why'd they have to call you?" he asked, quickly stepping in front of you to block your path. "Why couldn't they call someone else?"

"Dean." you breathed out, tired of explaining yourself to him. "I told you, it was an old friend, and he called me and not someone else because I'm the best person for the job." you explained, dropping your bags at your feet, one hand coming up to poke him in the chest.

Dean dropped his own bags next to yours, not willing to let you go so easily. He had to make sure you were safe, after all.

"What's the job?" he asked, staring down at you.

"It's a milk run, simple salt and burn." you said, crossing your arms across your chest.

Dean scoffed, "If it's so simple why couldn't this friend of yours do it on his own?" he asked, trying to trip you up.

You shifted your weight, one hip jutting out to the side, "You know how hard it is to dig a grave by yourself and watch your ass at the same time. I'm just going to be an extra set of hands." you said.

Dean narrowed his eyes at you, "You've never volunteered for grave digging in the two years that I have known you. It's like pulling teeth getting you to help me, so what's so special about this friend? Why are you willing to drop everything to help him?" he asked, not believing a word you were saying.

"Well, maybe this friend of mine didn't bark orders at me like a drill sergeant. Maybe he didn't tell me to get my lazy ass down there and give him a hand. Maybe he asked me nicely. You know, you'd be surprised what you could get me to do if you just asked nicely." you said as you pulled your keys from your pocket and twirled them around your finger. "I should be back Sunday night." you added, knowing that you had to get on the road, this trip had been planned for months.

"Y/N." Dean breathed out, completely frustrated with you, but he knew that once you had made up your mind you were unlikely to change it.

"Sunday night." you said as you started to bend down to pick up your bags.

"I got em'." Dean replied, bending to scoop up your bags and heading to your car.

You opened the door while Dean tossed the bags in the back. You started to climb inside, but Dean was standing there looking like he still had a million things he wanted to say.

"Don't get your panties in a wad. I'll be fine, and I'll be back Sunday night. I promise." you said before climbing behind the wheel and closing the door behind you.

That was how it all started, with the simple mix up of a bag.

You made it back to the bunker late Sunday night, the loss of your bag forced you to get a little creative, but everyone left satisfied so, you classified this weekend as a success.

You left the car parked out front and decided to try and sneak in, the two days you had to prepare yourself for all of Dean's questions and comments suddenly not enough.

You eased the door open and closed it behind you as quietly as you could before tip toeing down the stairs, the bags, one of them being Dean's, tossed over your shoulder as you tried not to make a sound.

It was dark, no light at all as you silently made your way to your room.

"How'd the hunt go?" Dean asked out of nowhere, causing you to jump, the bags on your shoulder falling to the floor with your sudden movement.

He flipped on the lamp next to him, the soft glow allowing you to see him as he sat at the table, his hands running back and forth over something in front of him.

"Fine. It was...fine." you said as you stepped closer to him, trying to see what he was toying with, your eyes widening when you realized it was one of your riding crops.

"So, uh were you plannin' on tyin' the ghost up and spankin' it?" he teasingly asked. "Cause unless you know something that I don't, everything in that bag of yours would be pretty useless on a hunt. Hell, I didn't even know what some of that shit was."

You threw your head back and sighed, "Dean...can we just...not do this now? I'm tired, and..." you tried to say before Dean cut you off.

"Oh, I bet you are, Sweetheart. It looks like you had a busy weekend." he said, slapping the crop down against the table.

"Dear God, I am never gonna hear the end of this, am I?" you asked, knowing that he was going to tease you mercilessly.

Dean smirked, "Maybe we could come up with a little agreement, and I promise I'll keep my mouth shut." he said, still tapping the crop against the table.

"Agreement?" you asked. "Dean, I really don't think you have a clue about what all of this is, about what I do." you added.

Dean shook his head, "I'm not gonna say I understand all of it, but I have a pretty good idea of what you do, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested." he said, his eyes never leaving yours.

You placed your hands on the table and leaned down, "I take this very seriously and I don't appreciate you fuckin' with me." you said, never thinking that Dean would be one to be able to give control to another person.

"I'm not fuckin' with you. I'm completely serious, Sweetheart." he said.

You stood up straight, "I don't know, Dean. It's not something that you just jump into, and I don't know, it's me and you. Don't you think it would be a little weird?" you asked, different scenarios running through your mind.

He stood from his seat and leaned over the table, "I don't think it'd be weird at all, and we don't have to jump right in. We could...you could..." he trailed off, not knowing where to go from there.

"How about I walk you through all of the different services, things I provide and we'll go from there." you said, grabbing the reins and taking control.

Dean swallowed nervously, never really expecting you to go along with him, "R-really?" he stammered.

"You said you were serious, so am I." you said before turning to head towards your room.

You stopped when you didn't hear him following after you, "I suggest you get a move on, Dean. We have things to discuss." you called out, only moving once you heard his hurried footsteps.

You walked Dean through everything, explaining everything in excruciating detail before answering every question he had.

After everything had been discussed he looked at you with bright eyes and an eager smile, "So, can we..." he trailed off, obviously both nervous and excited.

You shook your head, a small smile on your face, "Not yet. Take a few days, make sure this is something you really want, and if it is then we'll go from there." you said, gesturing for him to stand.

"But...I don't need a few days. I already know." he almost whined as you ushered him to the door.

You looked up at him, your hand coming up to gently tap his cheek, "We'll talk about it in a few days." you said, before giving him a gentle shove out the door and closing it.

Three Days Later

Dean cornered you in the kitchen, far too bright eyed and bushy tailed for that early in the morning.

"Mornin' Dean." you greeted, barely able to hide your smile at how excited he was.

"So, it's been a few days." he said, his arms coming up to cage you in.

"Has it?" you asked, pretending that you hadn't noticed.

Dean eagerly nodded his head, "And." he said.

"And?" you questioned, prompting him to continue.

"And, I still want to." he said before looking around to make sure that Sam wasn't in hearing range. "Even picked my safe word, just like you told me to."

"You did? Well, someone has been a very good boy." you praised, noticing how Dean lit up at your remark, and making a mental note to yourself about his obvious praise kink.

"So, does that mean we can?" he asked, the shaking of your head making his face fall.

"The next time Sam goes out for a little while. Things can get loud sometimes, and I really don't want to scar him." you said, lifting his arm out of your way and walking away from him.

You were almost to your room when you heard Dean yell Sam's name at the top of his lungs, the corner of your mouth quirking up at his eagerness.

About an hour later there was a pounding at your door. You closed the book you were reading and sat up on the edge of the bed, listening as the pounding increased, as if he were growing more impatient by the second. You smiled to yourself and finally decided to let him come in, fearing that he may break down the door if you were silent much longer.

"Come in." you called out, your voice calm.

Dean burst through the door, looking anything but calm, and slammed the door behind him. "Sam's gone." he breathed out, a wild look in his eyes.

"Is that so?" you asked, standing from the bed.

Dean furiously nodded his head, "Mmm Hmm."

You walked towards him, stopping once you were about a foot away from him.

"And you remember the rules?" you asked, wanting to make sure that he remembered everything the two of you had discussed.

"Yes." he replied, almost buzzing with a nervous energy.

You furrowed your brows at him, displeased with his answer, "Yes, what?" you asked, impatiently tapping your foot.

Dean swallowed nervously, internally cursing himself for his mistake, "Yes, Mistress." he said.

You nodded, "And you understand that you can use your safe word at any time and we'll stop immediately?" you asked.

"Yes, Mistress." he said, not making the same mistake twice.

You gave him a small smile of approval, "Good boy." you praised, Dean's eyes lighting up at your words, "And your word, what is it?" you asked.

"Poughkeepsie, Mistress." he answered, his eyes glued to you.

You raised your hand and crooked your finger to beckon him closer, backing up towards the bed as you did so.

Dean quickly followed your command, more than eager to get things started.

You stepped to the side and pointed towards the bed, "Strip." you commanded, your tone leaving no room for arguments, not that he had any.

You stood back and watched as he quickly undressed and stood before you unashamedly naked, eagerly awaiting your next command.

You didn't speak right away, just simply circled around him, your eyes roaming his body and taking in every detail, from those bowed legs, to his thick thighs, thighs that you would definitely have to ride later. You let your eyes continue their journey, taking in the wide expanse of his freckled covered chest and those broad shoulders, your mind racing with all the things you wanted to do to him.

"Good boys pick up after themselves." you said, finally tearing your eyes away from his body and pointing to the clothes on the floor.

"Sorry, Mistress." he said, turning to pick up his clothes from the floor, giving you a perfect view of his ass.

He neatly folded his clothes and placed them in a pile on the top of your desk, his boots perfectly lined up next to yours.

"Good boy, now get on the bed." you instructed, Dean quickly obeying and now laying in the center of your bed.

Once he was settled you opened the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a key before walking to the large wooden chest you kept in the corner of the room. You opened the chest and retrieved the item you needed, leaving it open because you knew you would be coming back to it soon.

You laid the item on the end of the bed before walking towards the head of the bed and taking Dean's wrist into your hand and raising it above his head.

You grabbed the restraint that was hanging, hidden, at the top corner of the bed and placed his wrist in the leather cuff, quickly strapping and locking him inside before moving to the other side of the bed to give his other wrist the same treatment.

"Are you ok?" you asked, watching as he gave the restraints a pull to test them out.

The other end of them was secured to the bed frame and you knew the only way he was going anywhere was if you let him out.

"Yes, Mistress." he said, his eyes landing on the item at the end of the bed.

"It's a spreader bar." you explained as you moved to the foot of the bed, strapping one of his ankles inside and giving him a moment to adjust before repeating the action with the other. "Still ok?" you asked, after a giving him a few moments to get used to the feeling.

He took a deep breath in through his nose before slowly exhaling from his mouth, "Yes, Mistress."

"Good." you said as you walked back to the chest and retrieved a blindfold, letting it teasingly dangle from your finger as you walked towards him.

Dean raised his head, without being asked, and you placed the blindfold on him, checking that it was secure and that he couldn't see anything before stepping away.

"Remember to use your word if you need to." you said as you walked to the chest and pulled out a few items, placing them all on the side of the bed before walking back and grabbing a few more things you needed to get ready, purposely going slow to toy with him.

"Now, I'll be back shortly, but I won't be far so, if you need to use your word yell and I'll hear you." you explained.

Dean nervously bit down on his lip, "Yes, Mistress." he finally said before you turned and walked out of the room, leaving him naked and blindfolded, tied to your bed, and completely at your mercy.

Dean couldn't tell you how long he laid there waiting for you to come back, sometimes it seemed like only minutes had passed, but then again, it felt like an eternity.

The clicking of what he assumed to be heels caught his attention and he felt his whole body tense as the sound drew closer. His breathing started to quicken as he heard a chair being dragged across the floor, the sound of your heels moving with it until there was nothing, silence.

He jumped when he felt your nails graze up and down his thigh, going so desperately close to where he longed to feel your touch before quickly retreating.

You continued to tease him, running your nails up and down his body, using a barely there touch, eventually pulling a needy whimper from him.

"Is there something you want? Be a good boy and use your words." you said, still running your fingers up and down the length of his body.

"I...I want to see you, Mistress." he said, a small hint of desperation in his voice.

You pulled your hand from him, "You didn't say please." you said, bringing your hand up to his nipple and giving it a hard pinch.

Dean sucked in a breath, "Please, please let me see you, Mistress." he begged.

You stood back, making him wait a few moments before pulling the blindfold from his eyes.

Dean blinked his eyes a few times, letting them adjust to the light before looking over at you, his hand instinctively trying to reach out to touch you and groaning when he realized that he couldn't.

You smirked at him before moving to the side of the bed, your hand running over the items you had placed there earlier.

Dean's eyes roamed your body, taking in the sight of you. The garter style stockings you were wearing, and the black, silk robe that hit at the top of your thigh, riding up whenever you bent over allowing him to see the curve of your ass, causing a low moan to fall from his lips.

You turned to face him, a cock ring in your hand, "This ok?" you asked, waiting for his approval before you put it on.

"Yes, Mistress." he breathed out, a moan escaping when you put it on him.

You stood back, admiring your handy work before untying the belt of your robe and shrugging it off your shoulders, giving Dean a full view of you in nothing but your heels and stockings.

"Fuuuuuuuck." he whined, as you grabbed a vibrator from the bed and sat down in the chair you had placed next to the bed.

Dean turned his head, needing a minute to collect himself.

"Look at me, Dean." you said, bringing up your legs and hooking them over the arms of the chair, spreading yourself open for him.

You took your hand and started to rub it down your body, cupping your breasts and slowly trailing lower until your middle finger started to rub languid circles around your clit. You lowered your hand, running your fingers through your folds before slipping your middle finger inside, Dean groaning and pulling at his restraints the entire time.

"Now, be a good boy and watch me." you said as you turned the vibrator on and touched the end of it to your clit, jumping a little at the vibration.

You quickly worked yourself up, moaning and putting on quite the show for him. You knew you were close and you brought the vibrator back to your clit while you worked two of you fingers inside of you until you felt your body shake with your orgasm.

"Please, Mistress." he begged, still desperately pulling at his restraints.

"Would you like a taste?" you asked, your legs still spread wide open, and your fingers still inside as you tossed the vibrator onto the bed.

"Yes, please Mistress." he replied.

You pulled your fingers from your pussy and stood from the chair, "Open." you demanded, Dean quickly obeying and opening his mouth.

You stuck your fingers inside, "Suck." you said, and you felt his tongue swirl around your fingers, making sure he got every drop of you.

You pulled your fingers from his mouth, Dean moaning at the loss of them, "You've been so good for me. I think you deserve a better taste. Would you like that?" you asked as you looked down at him.

"Yes, Mistress." he replied, his head nodding.

You climbed on top of him and placed your knees on either side of his head, teasingly holding yourself over him just out of reach. "Beg." you ordered.

"Fuck, please, Mistress. Please, let me taste you. I need to taste you." he pleaded.

You lowered yourself onto his mouth, moaning at the feel of his tongue running through your folds. He brought his tongue up and circled around your clit a few times before sucking it into his mouth.

"Oh, fuck...such a good boy." you moaned as you rocked your hips back and forth on his face, one of your hands coming down to tangle in his hair.

Dean was moaning just as loud as you, getting off on the pleasure he was giving you. You looked over your shoulder to see his hips bucking, desperately searching for the friction he so badly needed, his cock so hard that it almost looked painful.

You threw your head back as your second orgasm hit you, your legs squeezing around his head.

"Good boy." you panted out. "Now clean me up." you added, Dean eagerly licking you clean.

You started to work your way down his body, stopping once you were straddling his stomach, the feel of your wet pussy on his bare skin making him cry out.

"Please, Mistress. Please." he begged, unable to form a coherent thought.

You raked your nails down his chest, stopping to give each of his nipples a pinch, "Please, what? You have to use your words, Dean." you said, as you slid lower down his body, stopping when you felt his cock against your ass.

"Please, let me be inside you, Mistress." he said, his hips trying to buck.

"Hmm...I don't think you've earned it yet." you said, rocking your hips back and forth, smearing your slick against his skin.

Dean threw his head back as far as the pillow would allow and squeezed his eyes shut, "Yes, Mistress." he quietly said, and you were honestly surprised that he had held off for this long.

You continued to work your way down, careful not to bump his cock as you straddled his thigh, "Eyes on me." you demanded before you started to ride his thigh.

You brought your hands up to cup your breasts and give your nipples a few tugs, "You're so good, Dean...such a good boy." you panted out.

"Mistress." Dean croaked out, causing you to immediately still yourself.

"Yes, Dean?" you asked, despite knowing what he was going to say.

"Mistress...I...need." he tried to say.

"I know, Dean, and you've been so good for me." you said as you moved yourself so that you were hovering over his cock. "So good." you added, before plunging yourself down on him, both of you crying out when your body was flush with his.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." he panted over and over, as if it was the only word he was able to say.

"Tell me how good I feel." you said, as you picked up your pace and started to ride him hard.

"Fuck...so fuckin' good...Mistress...so good." he said, his head still tossed back and his eyes closed, almost as if he was trying to will himself not to cum.

You slowed only long enough to reach behind you and grab the vibrator you had used earlier, turning it on and holding it over your clit as you increased your pace.

"Be a good boy and cum for me." you instructed, knowing that your orgasm was nearing.

You started to ride him harder, "I'm gonna cum, Mistress." Dean warned, and you felt him explode inside of you a few seconds later, a loud moan escaping his throat.

You rocked your hips back and forth, the vibrator still held to your clit and followed him over the edge moments later, your pussy contracting around his cock as you slowed your pace, slowly working the two of you through it.

You finally stilled yourself, turned the vibrator off, and pulled yourself off of him, Dean hissing with your movement. You unsnapped the cock ring before reaching up to free his wrists, bringing them down and gently taking them into your hands to inspect the damage. You moved to the foot of the bed and released his ankles.

"Don't move." you instructed as you got up and grabbed your robe from the floor.

You walked out of your room and into the bathroom, quickly grabbing the first aid kit and making your way back to your room. Dean was still in the same spot when you walked in, a blissed out look on his face.

You sat down next to him, and started to clean the abrasions on his wrists, applying antibiotic ointment before bandaging them.

"Are you ok?" you asked, once you had finished.

Dean looked over at you with the most relaxed look you had ever seen on him, "I'm fuckin' awesome, Mistress." he answered.

You chuckled, "You know, you don't have to call me that now. Y/N is fine." you said.

"I think, no, I know I want to call you that again. If that's ok with you." he said, implying that he would like to play again.

"Are you sure that's what you want? Next time I won’t go so easy on you." you said, looking down at him.

Dean nodded his head, "Yes, Mistress."

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