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cursestothemoon · 3 years

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A Cruel Favor

Regulus Black x Fem!Slytherin!Reader

Request: Could I get and angsty and sad blurb with Regulus? Nothing specific in mind, Regulus’ entire life is pretty tragic already- just throwing some strained and kind of heartbreaking romance into that mix sorry i like pain this is how i cope

Summary: Your relationship with the youngest Black brother in the form of memories seen in a pensieve by Sirius Black.

Warnings: Death, sadness, crying, the dark mark, ghosts

Word Count: 3265

Author's Note: babe you asked for a blurb and i just did not listen i am so sorry, if you'd still like a blurb let me know and i'll whip up a little short piece but regardless i hope you enjoy this 😌

“You didn’t know him! You didn’t want to know him!” Your voice bellowed, trembling with the burning anger you held in your heart for the eldest Black brother.

It was true, back when the war was just ‘politics’ and the ‘Dark Lord’ a name whispered behind closed doors, Sirius Black had already made up his mind about his family- Regulus included.

“He was my brother.” Sirius spoke the statement as if just the mere fact of relation was supposed to trump that he hadn't even spoken to his brother in the months prior to his death.

You let out a bitter laugh, “Don’t lie for the sake of saving face, you never saw him as a brother; not then and certainly not now.”

Sirius seemed taken aback by your accusation, his words getting lost on his tongue for a moment before he quickly regained his fiery passion for argument.

“He betrayed me.”

“You were the one who betrayed him!” Your accusatory finger pointed at Sirius.

The eldest Black brother’s features went stoney, “The moment he decided to get that mark, was the moment he lost his name as my brother.”

Everything in the mangey old house seemed to still, a silence falling so powerful you could hear a pin drop. Your slow footsteps were exaggerated in the quiet, each creak ringing in both yours and Sirius’ ears. With a tired hand, you pushed a small pouch onto the surface of the dining room table, the vials inside clinking together softly.

“They’re numbered.” You breathed out. “There is so much you don’t know, Sirius.”

You walked through the door and onto the street hastily, not wasting any time to apparate back home.

Sirius sat down in the nearest chair with a huff, his knees spread as his shoulders slid down the back of the chair. He hadn’t remembered just how far up his brother’s ass you were.

Roughly, he rubbed his face with his palms before lazily reaching for the dark velvet pouch on the table. The emerald green reminded him not only of his brother, but of his entire family, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Sirius couldn’t help the groan that left his mouth at the memories of his family that seemed to plague his mind.

Fittingly, Sirius opened the pouch to reveal just that. The silvery, viscous tendrils that floated through each vial were immediately recognized by the pureblood. You had given him your memories...and a letter.

You deserve to know him.

Y/N L/N

Sirius’ curiosity regarding what secrets of his brother’s seemed to be swimming in the vials bubbled over, he was sure 12 Grimmauld Place was harbouring a pensieve somewhere within its walls, he’d just have to get up and find it.

17 October 1974

Barty Crouch Jr. was an insolent child, the type to collect bones and listen to them rattle. He had a nervous tick, his tongue slithering past his lips every so often in a manner that was so serpentine it made your skin prick.

“Come on then, L/N, be a good little girl and do as I say.”

You threw down your quill in frustration, “Bugger off, Crouch. I’ve said no.”

“Don't be like that,” Barty smirked, coming closer to where you were sitting. “It’s only some homework. You were going to do yours anyway, why not get some extra practice in by doing mine too?”

“I’d rather have unforgivables practiced on me than do anything you ask.”

His sickly sweet smile wasn’t one you were expecting, his voice low and threatening, “That can be arranged.”

Your blood ran cold as you watched his nimble fingers move toward his wand pocket in his robes. Truthfully, you should’ve known better. Being in the same house as Barty allowed you the luxury of hearing all the gossip surrounding him and his hobbies, dark magic and curses being at the top of that list.

“Barty.”

The cold baritone made the sandy-haired menace stop in his tracks, his face contorting into an expression of mild annoyance and frustration.

“There’s no need for you to be acting like a child. Quite humiliating asking someone else to do your work, isn’t it, Crouch? Are you too thick to get it done yourself?”

Barty turned to look at his friend, words jumbling as he tried to figure out how to get himself out of the hole he had dug.

“Reg-” The stone-like stare had Barty cowering and mouth snapping shut, the boy seemingly trying to fold in on himself.

With a simple nod of his head, Regulus directed the him to make himself useful elsewhere, but you were far too taken by the handsome boy in front of you to notice the stomping footsteps of Barty’s as he left. Of course you had known of Regulus Black, seen him from afar and even once had Transfiguration with him, but seeing him up close was an experience in and of itself. His skin was ghostly pale, hair dark and wavy as it fell just below his ears, and his cheekbones were high accentuating the slant of his nose. Regulus Black was beautiful, everything about him seemed to be placed just right and sculpted with the utmost care and attention.

He turned to you, your eyes meeting before he gave you an appraising look.

“Regulus.” His hand struck out, a rather rugged introduction.

Slowly, you took his hand in yours and proceeded to shake it. You couldn’t seem to rid yourself of the feeling that your hand was far too dirty, far too boring to be touching his, to even be near his.

“Y/n L/n, thank you- for that.” You were proud of yourself for not allowing your voice to shake.

“I’m sorry he was a bother.”

Regulus seemed to lack the ability of holding a conversation, he nodded- you assumed a goodbye- and got ready to make his way to the dorms.

“Wait,” Your voice came out before you could stop it. “You could stay, I’m almost done anyway. We could...talk.”

The suggestion had the boy's ears turning pink, his words coming out stuttered and jumbled, a stark contrast from the boy who had told off Barty so eloquently.

“If you- alright.”

You thought for a moment before speaking again, “You’re not very good at talking to people are you?”

“Excuse my blatant honesty, but you make me quite nervous.”

It was your turn to have your ears turn a soft hue of red, “I could say the same about you.”

5 April 1975

“Haven’t you got your own side of the blanket? Must you be so close to me?” You giggled, trying to roll away from Regulus while still avoiding the grass.

Regulus smiled, his eyes closing and nose scrunching in thought before he spoke, “I prefer to be close to you; making sure you won’t run out on me.”

Both of you began giggling, his head falling to nudge your shoulder. Ultimately, Regulus shuffled away from your side, allowing just about a foot of space in between your bodies. The wind rustled your hair as you turned your neck to look at the youngest Black as he sat up, his legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, arms propping himself up as his palms pressed flat against the floor.

It was no secret that Regulus was beautiful. His dark hair- now gently flowing in the cool breeze- stood out against his pale skin, freckles were dusted delicately over his aristocratic nose and sharp cheekbones. You could tell he’d never worked a day in his life with how handsome and soft his hands were. His fingers were long and slender, never dry or rough, and his nails perfectly trimmed and always clean.

Regulus Black was absolutely perfect and you were regretting ever complaining about his proximity.

You were quick to right your wrong, bashfully you raised yourself onto all fours and crawled over to your boyfriend. Regulus tried to hold in his smirk, avoiding turning to look at you directly but you could tell his resolve was breaking.

“Regulus…” You spoke his name with an innocent lilt, sitting back on your shins once you were close enough to have your knees touching his thigh.

He hummed, not giving you the satisfaction of having his full attention.

A huff of frustration fell past your lips at his stubbornness as you threw your leg over his thighs, straddling his legs just above his knees. His composure was thinning, a wide smile threatening to spread across his thin lips.

“You’re far too close,” he teased, his hand coming up as if trying to stop you from getting any closer. “I believe you are on my side of the blanket, L/n.”

“Don’t be so fickle, Black.”

Regulus’ pale blue eyes found yours, his delicate hand coming up to run across the delicate collar of your dress.

“It’s in my nature isn’t it?” His eyes held a certain sadness that you could not place, one you wouldn’t see again until a few years later.

Your lips parted to respond to him, only to be interrupted by a Hogwarts ghost floating nearby. It was a ghost neither you nor Regulus were familiar with and as she passed she mumbled something- rather spitefully- about young love. The event had your train of thought derailed, a quiet giggle erupting from your throat as the transparent, deceased woman floated on.

Regulus seemed to find the woman just as amusing as you did, his eyes crinkling with laughter as you two now looked at each other in fits of hysterics.

“Oh her poor soul!” You exclaimed, eyes looking off in the direction she had gone. “If you were a ghost, Reg, where would you haunt with your undead presence.”

His expression contorted into one of reminiscence, “Uncle Alphard’s cherry orchard just a few kilometers from Monts de Venasque. When we were little, Sirius and I would play in the trees. I could sit in those cherry trees for hours, everything just seemed to disappear. Alphard’s been burned off the tapestry since, but he’s left the property in my possession along with the small house on the land. I think if I were to choose one place to spend eternity, it would be there.”

You smiled softly at his answer.

“And you?” He asked, bringing you out of your lovesick haze.

“Me?” You chuckled. “I’d suppose my eternity would be well spent as long as I was somewhere with you.”

28 June 1976

It seemed the entirety of 12 Grimmauld Place shook with how hard Sirius had slammed the front door.

He was gone.

Completely and entirely gone.

And Regulus was completely and entirely alone now.

Regulus swiftly made his way up the stairs and to his room, just barely avoiding a collision with the poor house elf.

“Y/n’s room.” The words were spoken clearly and concisely as the floo powder fell from his shaky hands.

The time of night- 2:27 am- was of little importance to Regulus, he needed to see you.

You woke up with a jolt, the sound of someone stumbling into your room and panicked mumbling doing nothing to ease your nerves though the mop of dark curls had your heart calming down.

“Reg?”

He turned to look at you with heartbroken eyes, watery and bloodshot.

“He’s gone.” He choked out.

You kicked the blankets off yourself and stood up from your bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor.

Keeping a calm tone you slowly got closer to him, “Who’s gone, love?”

His pain was so evident, rolling off him in waves, “Sirius- he’s not coming back.”

“Oh,” You sighed, treading lightly. “I’m sur-”

“No!” He cried, “Burned off the tapestry, probably with the Potters- he’s gone an-and he left me with them.”

Regulus’ anguish, tear stained cheeks, had your own eyes welling with unshed tears. It was clear words would do nothing to calm him, instead you opted for pushing yourself into him and taking his crying form into your arms. His body seemed to give out as you held him, his tears soaking your shirt as he wailed into your neck.

Neither of you could tell how long you stood in the middle of your room seemingly holding him together, but his cries subsided into gentle whimpers and the occasional sniffle as his nose nudged the side of your neck.

His voice came out rough and strained, just barely above a whisper, “Please don’t- don’t leave me like Si- like he did.”

You could feel your heart shatter, “Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

“I don’t know how I would’ve survived in this mess if I had never known you.”

Your breath came out ragged as you spoke the truest words you've ever dared to speak, “My heart beats for you, Regulus.”

30 December 1979

His forearm itched.

It seemed to always have an odd itch ever since he was sixteen.

Regulus watched your form get closer, bundled in a thick overcoat and a dark blue scarf- Christmas present from himself- wrapped neatly around your neck. You were the picture of beauty, like a living doll with your soft smile and adoring eyes.

“My love.” You greeted him, leaning in to place a soft kiss against his cold cheek.

His eyes seemed distant, your only greeting a tight lipped smile.

Your eyebrows knit together, “Everything alright?”

Regulus nodded, his eyes swimming with a sadness so familiar, “Just taking you in.”

He pulled off his leather gloves, stuffing them deep in his coat pocket before reaching his hand out to hold your jaw, his thumb running across your skin. The action was comforting and you couldn’t help but close your eyes to savour the feeling of his thumb caressing your cheekbone.

You let out a small gasp when you felt him take your lips in a slow kiss. It was passionate, loving, yet there was a certain finality to it that had a shiver run up your spine in the most unpleasant way.

“I have the cruelest favor to ask of you, and I can only hope you’ll forgive me once I do.”

Your stomach dropped, “What do you mean, Regulus? What- what favor?”

“Please, try to understand-”

“What favor?”

“I couldn’t-”

“Tell me what the favor is, Regulus.”

Your voice had an edge to it that made him compose himself almost instantly.

He took a breath before speaking, his eyes looking off somewhere behind you as he spoke, “He’s getting stronger.”

You didn’t need to ask who this ‘he’ was, the tone made it very clear.

“He has these… horcruxes. Incredibly dark magic, I don't know how many but I know of one. It’s hidden and I’ve found out the location, I can destroy it I know I can but-”

His tone was hushed and your heart rate had started to pick up speed.

“But you don’t know if you’ll live to tell the tale?” You asked with a humorless laugh.

The look in Regulus’ eyes had told you, you were right.

“I can’t let him continue. If this could stop him, weaken him even, it’s worth whatever the consequence to myself may be.” He argued.

You pushed yourself further from him, “I can’t- I won’t lose you. No, there’s no way.”

His expression shifted into one of sorrow and pleading, “I have to.”

And you knew there was no changing his mind.

You bit the side of your lip anxiously, looking at the ground before asking, “And this favor?”

The heartbreak was almost palpable, his voice going raw.

“I cannot be fully prepared to do anything that is necessary to destroy this horcrux if-”

He cut himself off with an intake of breath.

“If I know you’ll be waiting for my return, if I know what I have to leave behind I may be tempted to not go through with my plan.”

You couldn’t help but feel and look horrified, “What are you asking of me, Regulus?”

He seemed to flinch at the tone of your voice, a tone you’d never used before and one he couldn’t name.

“I need you to obliviate yourself from my memory.”

It felt as though your chest had collapsed in on itself, “I-I couldn-”

“You have to!” Regulus cried, his arms gripping the sides of your face as you couldn’t help but let a choked sob escape from your lips. “It’s the only way I’ll be able to go through with it, I can't know that there’s a possibility of leaving you.”

“Please, Regulus, you can’t ask this of me.” You choked out, searching his eyes for some sort of humor, something that told you it was all a cruel joke.

He pressed his lips against your forehead, both of your eyes closing as you two took in short, ragged breaths.

Everything seemed darker. The flowers in the Black garden were cold and dead, the snow wasn’t snow at all, instead dangerous sheets of ice. It was then you realized the war, the death eaters, everything had become so real.

“There is a letter on your bed at home, I’ve settled everything for you. I’m going to stand against the pillar, my back to you, and you are going to do it from behind the hedges so we won’t see each other after. You need to leave once it’s done alright?”

You nodded solemnly, knowing there was no use in fighting it. The cause was bigger than you, bigger than Regulus. Everyone made sacrifices, this just had to be yours.

“My heart beats for you, Y/n, whether I know it or not.”

“And mine for you, Regulus.” You smiled sadly, pulling his wrist up to your face and pulling back his sleeve to reveal his dark mark, pressing a kiss to the skin you spoke, “You aren’t them, you never were and you never will be.”

Regulus smiled but said nothing as he lowered his arms and put his gloves back on. With slow steps he walked to the pillar and looked back at you one last time.

“I’m just taking you in.” He whispered, before slowly turning.

You took your wand from your coat as you took even slower steps to stand just far enough for him not to notice you after it had been done. Regulus felt his resolve crumble with each crunch of your boots against the frozen ground, his eyes screwed shut- tears rolling down his face freely- as he prepared for what was coming.

With a shaky hand you raised your wand.

“Obliviate.”

Present

Sirius seemed to be thrown back from the pensieve, as if the memory had rejected him from viewing any longer, still sensitive. He felt an odd tickling sensation run down his cheek, his hand raising to brush away a stray tear as he fell into a nearby chair.

He never knew…

***

You pushed open the backdoor of your small home, the warm scent of cherry trees welcoming you. The sun was just barely starting to set as you looked off into the horizon of the vast field of trees, if you looked long enough you could make out the handsome silhouette of a boy you once knew sitting up in a cherry tree.

Only a few short months later, the lone figure would be joined by another… a brother.

tags:

@amourtentiaa

@vsawyer1989

@lifeofkaze

@siriusement

@erinruby003

@maybesandohnos

@onlyfreds

@tayyx

#regulus black x reader #regulus black x y/n #regulus black blurb #regulus black imagine #regulus black x fem!reader #marauders era

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disgruntledspacedad · 4 years

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Javier Peña and commitment

a better love series character analysis

Okay, not-so-briefly, let me finish what I started with this post, and say a few more words about Javier Peña and commitment.

I think typical fanon describes Javi as a rogue, smoky, commitment-phobe man slut. The kind of guy who never settles down because he’s too busy having fun with his hookers. And yeah, at first glance, that’s a valid assumption. Javi definitely puts off that vibe. Hell, I think he even believes that of himself.

I call bullshit, though.

Javi is obviously an affection starved softie who is seeking intimacy and human contact. He just doesn’t know how to get it. Watch how deeply he connects with each of the women he sleeps with. He publicly greets the hookers in Medellín by name (like seriously what man does this??) and his relationship with Gabby seems intensely personal. He cares about what happens to her. He’s sweet, almost tender with her.

This is a man with a huge heart and deep, unfulfilled needs.

Now, let me tease apart what I think happened that scarred Javi so profoundly.

I want to start with his family life.

Now, a lot of this falls deep into headcanon territory, but this entire post is in context of Better Love, so that’s fine. However, I don’t think it’s too far off the mark for canon Javi, too. Just things to bear in mind.

Okay, so in The Kingpin Strategy, Chucho makes references to the fact that Javi has always been free spirited and idealistic. “You couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

Javi says, “It was right here, wasn’t it? The last time we had this conversation.” He sounds resentful, frustrated.

And Chucho replies, “You didn’t listen to me then, either.”

Man oh man, this says a lot. There’s a lot of reference to some very old bitterness, most (but not all of it) on Javi’s end. Let’s break it down.

In Better Love, Javi lost his mom to colon cancer when he was nineteen. We know from canon that he was chomping at the bits to get out of town, so I kind of think that Javi packed his bags the day that he turned eighteen and left. He’s from a small, close knit family, and him taking off into the blue without any warning would have shocked them. It would have hurt.

The fact that he and Chuco have their conversation in the driveway is telling, too.

I think Javi spent some significant time estranged from his family, and things were probably still rocky between them when his mom passed away. Colon cancer can be pretty subtle. Javi’s mom didn’t get a diagnosis until it was far too late for effective treatment. It would have hit her hard and fast, and she and Javi may not have had much time to reconcile. Hell, she was upset by Javi leaving - she may not have even told him what was going on.

Ouch.

Now, Javi is a guy that silently shoulders all of the responsibility that he’s not meant to carry, and he’s absolutely going to blame himself for taking off like that, and for being too stubborn to call home and check on Mom. Her death is the first in a series of wounds that lead to Javi’s (very misguided) belief that he’s a shit human, when truly, nothing could be further from the truth.

Next, let’s talk about Lorraine.

We know from Javi’s conversation with Steve that he thinks Lorraine was better off without him, giving us another glimpse of that deep seated self-loathing that we know he carries. Javi almost sounds wistful, like he regrets leaving her. Certainly, he regrets hurting her (more proof that Javi is actually a pretty sensitive guy - he knows he fucked up). But then we actually meet Lorraine in season three, and there’s something really weird there.

Now, granted, Javi left her at the alter. Things are bound to be weird. But look at how he’s drawn to her, like he just can’t help crossing the room to see her again, even years later. That was the first big red flag for me.

Then, watch how Lorraine treats him. She’s dismissive, pretty biting. And okay, yeah, she’s well within her right to be bitter. But then she says this:

“Can you imagine if we actually were married?”

Like, scoffs it. Guys, that’s a pretty serious dig. Lorraine is implying that Javi is beneath her, that he could never, ever be decent husband material. And watch his reaction. He takes this cut like he’s used to taking this cut from her. I don't know, but to me, it just reeks of a history of toxicity.

Men are absolutely capable of being the victims of toxic relationships and emotional abuse. I mean, duh. But try telling that to Javier Peña, with his tendency to internalize and self destruct.

It would make a lot of sense to me that their relationship was built on this type of fucked up interaction, with Lorraine constantly pushing Javi to be this perfect dude with a white picket fence, and constantly calling him on his “failure” to do so. Maybe some of it was rooted in racism and classism - Lorraine seems like she could be that petty, materialistic type. Maybe Javi just wasn’t ready to settle down.

Remember, too, that Javi’s love language is acts of service. He’s not a super romantic guy in the traditional sense, but he wants to do things for the person he loves, practical, tangible things to keep them safe and happy. If Javi thought that he could do better by Lorraine by putting a ring on her finger, it might be pretty easy to persuade him that he “ought” to do that, especially if there’s a continued history of verbal abuse. Remember that we tend to believe the things our abusers say about us, and that most of the time, this stuff starts subtle. If Lorraine is constantly suggesting that Javi’s not good enough for her, eventually, he’s going to fucking believe it.

And consider the fallout of skipping town on your wedding day. No matter if the relationship is healthy or not, men tend to get the short end of the stick when it comes to breakup sympathy, and to leave a pretty woman like Lorraine waiting at the alter? My god, people would have been vicious to Javi.

He probably believed all of the shitty things they said about him.

Javi threw himself into his career, and between a dangerous, high stress job with the DEA and never addressing these old hurts (Javi just doesn’t do that, you know), what you wind up with is a deeply wounded, “self sufficient” (read: emotionally constipated) man with raging self esteem issues and an intense fear of emotional intimacy. Now, all of this shit might have scarred Javi, but it doesn’t change his nature. Javi has a huge heart, he’s fiercely idealistic, and he desperately wants to do the right thing. And we all need love and human connection.

Javi just denies this emphatically.

But the ugly truth is, Javi avoids long term relationships because he thinks he doesn’t deserve them. It’s not even about being hurt again, not anymore. He almost sees it as an ethical thing, dammit. Give this boy a hug.

This is why it took a fucking bomb to get him off his ass and admit his feelings for Ears. Javi would never, ever have done that without something very radical catching his attention. He would have let Ears walk straight out of his life, and yeah, it would have torn him to pieces, and he’d have always regretted it and wondered ‘what if,’ but that fear is an old, deeply rooted thing. That’s why I have Ears sort of pick up on the gravity of Javi saying, “I’m all in,” to her at the end of The Rules of Engagement. She’s not eloquent, but she’s pretty intuitive, and she knows that a commitment is something that Javier Peña does not take lightly.

And let me just say this about commitment: Javier Peña is a man who honors his fucking commitments. Watch what he’s willing to do for his informants - he always, always puts their wellbeing first, even before his own, even before the integrity of the hunt for the cartels.

And Javier Peña is beyond devoted to bringing down the cartels. Like, that’s his entire arc in the show, right?

He’s committed to justice, too. Like fiercely, will do fucking anything to make things right, to make them fair. He wants to do the right thing so much it burns.

So, I don’t think it’s fair at all to say that Javier Peña is a man who fears commitment. He fears intimacy, while at the same time, he craves it. He fears human connection, when really, that’s the thing he needs most.

But he doesn’t fuck around once he decides something.

Which is the really, really fun thing about Better Love. For the first time, we get to see Javier Peña, the idealist who wears his poorly disguised heart blatantly on his sleeve, the man who goes for broke trying to get things done, the man who’s passions literally destroy him, in an intensely emotional relationship with another human. One who is just as devoted to him in return.

So, anyway, if you’re still reading this, wow. I just wanted to babble about how Javier Peña is far more than brooding testosterone. Actually, he’s a very soft boy who needs patience and a lot of healing, and somebody who is willing to meet him exactly where he is and love him because of it.

And I want to give him that.

#Javier Peña #Javier Peña x reader #narcos #narcos netflix #pedro pascal #Javier Peña headcanon #Javier Peña imagine #Javier Peña x you #better love #the rules of engagement #i will spam you guys about this precious disaster couple for as long as you let me

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mrsamaroevans · 5 years

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HAMILTON QUOTES PROMPT LIST

I know there are people who already did this, but, anyway. I made this list of prompts with quotes from the musical Hamilton including the off-broadway versions.

"This kid is insane, man"

"There's a million things I haven't done..."

"Just you wait"

"You could never back down"

"You never learned to take your time"

"Me? I loved him"

"I'm the damn fool that shot him"

"Pardon me, are you _____?" "That depends, who's asking?"

"I have been looking for you"

"I'm getting nervous"

"I may have punched him"

"He looked at me like I was stupid, I'm not stupid"

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"That would be nice"

"Let me offer you some free advice"

"You can't be serious"

"Fools who run their mouths off wind up dead"

"Who is the best?"

"Give us a verse, drop some knowledge!"

"I am not throwing away my shot"

"You keep out of trouble and you double your choices"

"I think your pants look hot"

"_____ I like you a lot"

"Oh, am I talking too loud?"

"For the first time, I'm thinking past tomorrow"

"I may not live to see our glory... but I will gladly join the fight"

"When our children tell our story, they'll tell the story of tonight"

"No matter what they tell you"

"Tomorrow there'll be more of us"

"Daddy doesn't need to know"

"Like I said, you're free to go"

"Remind me what we're looking for..."

"_____, you disgust me"

"Ah, so you've discussed me"

"You can trust me"

"So men say that I'm intense or I'm insane"

"Look around at how lucky to be alive right now!"

"Let him be"

"It's hard to listen to you with a straight face"

"My dog speaks more eloquently than thee"

"If you repeat yourself again I'm gonna scream!"

"Honestly, look at me"

"Please don't read"

"Why so sad?"

"Now you're making me mad"

"Remember, despite our estrangement, I'm your man"

"You'll be back"

"Soon you'll see"

"You'll remember you belong to me"

"You'll be the one complaining when I am gone"

"Don't change the subject"

"I'll love you 'till my dying days"

"Don't throw away this thing we had"

"Here he comes"

"The moment you've been waiting for"

"Can I be real a second?" "Let down my guard and tell the people how I feel a second?"

"Who are you?"

"I have some questions"

"You wanted to see me?"

"Close the door on your way out"

"Have I done something wrong?"

"Your reputation precedes you"

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Look into your eyes and the sky's the limit"

"I have never been the type to try and grab the spotlight"

"Then you walked in and my heart went 'boom'"

"Yo, this one's mine"

"Then you look back at me and suddenly I'm helpless"

"I'm so into you"

"Where are you taking me?"

"I'm about to change your life"

"Thank you for all your service"

"If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it"

"Now my life gets better, every letter that you write me"

"If you really loved me, you would share _____"

"There's nothing that your mind can't do"

"We're through"

"Be true"

"That boy is mine"

"My love for you is never in doubt"

"And long as I'm alive, _____, swear to God you'll never feel so helpless"

"My life is gon' be fine 'cause _____'s in it"

"I remember that night"

"I just might regret that night for the rest of my days"

"I'll never forget the first time I saw your face"

"When you said 'hi' I forgot my dang name"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean"

"I'm a girl in a world in which my only job is to marry rich"

"My father has no sons so I'm the one who has to social climb for one"

"That doesn't mean I want ____ any less"

"You will never be satisfied"

"You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind"

"Well, I heard you've got a special someone"

"What are you trying to hide?"

"If you love this woman/man, go get her/him!"

"What are you waiting for?"

"You're the closest friend I've got"

"Your man has to answer for his words"

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Meet me inside"

"You're absolutely right"

"____ should have shot him in the mouth, that would've shut him up"

"Watch your tone"

"I am not a maiden in need of defending, I am grown"

"I need you alive"

"How long have you known?"

"You should have told me"

"I'm not sorry"

"I knew you'd fight until the war was won"

"You deserve a chance to meet your son"

"Will you relish being a poor man's wife, unable to provide for your life?"

"I relish being your wife"

"Look at where you are" "Look at where you started"

"The fact that you're alive is a miracle"

"Just stay alive, that would be enough"

"If this child shares a fraction of your smile or a fragment of your mind... that would be enough"

"I don't pretend to know the challenges you're facing"

"I'm not afraid"

"I know who I married"

"As long as you come home at the end of the day"

"We don't need a legacy"

"We don't need money"

"If you could let me inside your heart"

"Let me be part of the narrative"

"Let this moment be the first chapter"

"That would be enough"

"I gotta meet my son"

"When you knock me down I get the fuck back up again"

"Don't come crawling back to me"

"You're on your own"

"When you came into the world, you cried and it broke my heart"

"I'm dedicating every day to you"

"Domestic life was never quite my style"

"When you smile, you knock me out, I fall apart"

"And I thought I was so smart"

"When you smile I am undone"

"Look at my son"

"Pride is not the world I'm looking for"

"My father wasn't around; I swear I'll be around for you"

"I'll do whatever it takes"

"I'll make a million mistakes"

"I'll make the world safe and sound for you"

"Soon that attitude may be your doom!"

"Why do you always say what you believe?"

"It's the middle of the night"

"What do you need?"

"I know I talk too much"

"Hear me out"

"You're making a mistake"

"I am doing the best I can"

"I know it's a lot to ask"

"Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room?"

"But the sun comes up and the world still spins"

"What'd I miss?"

"Where have you been?"

"I'm already on my way"

"If the shoe fits, wear it" "I'll show you where my shoe fits"

"You think I'm frightened of you, man?"

"And there you are, an ocean way"

"Do you have to live an ocean away?"

"Take a break"

"There's a little surprise before supper and it cannot wait"

"Your son is nine years old today"

"I have a sister but I want a little brother"

"Our kid is pretty great"

"You won't be an ocean away"

"You will only be a moment away"

"It's good to see your face"

"You're not joining us?"

"I know I'll miss your face"

"I'm sorry to bother you at home, but I don't know where to go"

"Well, I should head back home"

"Lord, show me how to say no to this"

"Please, don't go"

"Nobody has to know"

"I guess I'm gonna finally have to listen to you"

"I wanted what I got"

"I'm sure he already knows"

"Excuse me?"

"I've always considered you a friend"

"I don't see why that has to end"

"The only person you have to convince is me"

"____ knows nothing of loyalty"

"You must be out of your goddamn mind"

"You're nothing without ____ behind you"

"I wanna give you a word or warning"

"I don't know what you heard, but whatever it is ____ started it"

"You'll see what I can do to him"

"Relax, have a drink with me"

"Let's take a break tonight"

"Have you read this?"

"You said you were mine" "I thought you were mine"

"You and your words flooded my senses"

"I'm burning the memories"

"I hope that you burn"

"Shh! I'm trying to watch the show!"

"If you had only heard the shit he said about you"

"I doubt you would have let it slide and I was not about to"

"You don't want this young man's blood on your conscience"

"Is he alive?"

"Can I see him, please?"

"You did everything just right"

"Is he breathing?"

"Is he going to survive this?"

"I never liked the quiet before"

"I know I don't deserve you"

"I know there's no replacing what we've lost... just let me stay here by your side"

"Is there anything you wouldn't do?"

"I learned that from you"

"I am not the reason no one trusts you"

"Even if I said what you think I said"

"I don't wanna fight"

"I won't apologize for doing what's right"

"I can't apologize because it's true"

"_____ come back to sleep"

"It's still dark outside"

"I'll be back before you know I'm gone"

"Best of wives and best of women"

"Now I'm the villain in your history"

"I was too young and blind to see..."

"I stop wasting time on tears"

"Can I show you what I'm proudest of?"

"I can't wait to see you again"

"I've gotta stop a homicide"

"What in the hell was that?"

"What in the hell are you doing downtown?"

"I will not let our family be embarrassed like this"

"Let the whole world know"

"You better have another punch to throw"

"You could let it go"

"Stay alive for me"

"People will always be critical"

"Let other people be cynical"

"You're smiling because you know I'm right"

"You didn't kill him, did you?"

"Were you here this whole time?"

"You don't have to bring a gun to a knife fight"

"You know you really oughta listen to your wife, right?"

"Let everybody know you can take a body blow"

"Let everybody know you can learn to let it go"

"You wouldn't know what I'm doing"

"You have invented a new kind of stupid"

"Truly, you didn't think this through?"

"I begged you to take a break, you refused to"

"You know what I'm here to do?"

"I'm not here for you"

"I will choose her happiness over mine"

"____ is the best thing in our lives"

"____ changed my life"

"____ made my life worthwhile"

"I'll be there for you"

"Don't take another step"

"I can't be trusted around you"

"Don't think you can talk your way into my arms"

"You can stand over there if you want"

"I don't know who you are"

"I have so much to learn"

"I have seen women around you" "How they fall for your charms"

“When will you learn?”

"If you thought you were mine... don't"

#prompts #prompts list #hamilton prompt #hamilton #prompts writing #writing #fanfiction #fanfic

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thwip--thwip · 5 years

Text

duly noted

“You’re okay, Mr. Stark,” Peter says gently, cluelessly, and Tony coughs, trying to get the words out - that Peter needs to panic, needs to call someone or several someone’s, that this isn’t just food poisoning or something - because if someone managed to get close enough to drug Tony in his own damn Tower, there’s a serious problem. “It’s probably just - “

“Peter, Peter,” Tony’s words are slurring together, and his eyes feel heavy - he cannot fall asleep, no no no - and he grabs Peter’s forearms, shaking him (or is Tony the one shaking?) “Something - someone - I’ve been - been drugged.”

Written for the prompt 'laced drink' for Whumptober 2019.

Read here on AO3 | Or below the cut!

Tony knows something’s wrong about thirty minutes into the R&D presentation.

If he’s being honest, he thinks he knew something was wrong like, ten minutes in, but one glance at Peter by his side had put him at ease. The kid had a built in danger radar, and he wore his emotions on his face so transparently it would have been laughable if it weren’t so endearing. Peter’s been full of nervous energy today - leg bouncing, biting his nails, the whole nine yards - but he doesn’t look like he’s sensing anything wrong.

But there’s definitely something wrong.

Tony’s head starts to feel fuzzy fifteen minutes in, almost with the slow, creeping intensity of a migraine - except it doesn’t hurt, it just feels thick, like a weighted blanket on his brain. Peter leans over and whispers something Tony can’t focus on - something sarcastic no doubt, about the sentient toaster or whatever-the-fuck new innovation these bright minds have cooked up next (the smart fridge was dumb, but sold decently well, so).

It takes him another ten minutes to realize he feels drunk (which...says something about how high-functioning he’d been before he quit drinking).

“Peter,” Tony whispers - or he thinks he whispers, but the marketing intern turns around to look at him, so maybe it wasn’t as quiet as he’d hoped. Peter inclines his head towards him, eyes still on the presentation. Tony reaches out with a hand that feels too heavy for his body and clasps Peter’s shoulder. The boy finally turns to look at him with those wide, brown eyes of his, and Tony clutches at his shoulder, tight.

“Get me out of here.” That one is a whisper, an intense one that can’t fully hide Tony’s building panic, and Peter only hesitates for a split-second before complying. He stands up, subtly helping Tony out of his seat (okay, yeah, he’s swaying like the gondola ride at Coney Island, something’s wrong), and looping Tony’s arm over his shoulders when they finally make it out to the hallway (thank God Tony always insists on sitting at the back of the room to brook quick exits).

“I think - I think I’m -” He wants to say drugged, but his stomach rolls and Tony groans, closing his eyes. “Bathroom. Toilet. Gonna puke.”

“Oh shit,” Peter says, ever the eloquent one, diverting them towards the closest bathroom. They burst into the stall, and Tony practically collapses to his knees on the hard tile, stomach heaving as it all comes up. There isn’t much - he’s not exactly a breakfast person - but the coffee and bile stains the bowl a dark brown (not really a half and half person either). Peter rubs a comforting hand down the line of his back, a slow circle, and something that just screams of May Parker’s tenderness.

Tony expects panic. He expects fear and confusion.

He doesn’t expect Peter’s sad little smile. He doesn’t expect to hear “I’m sorry.” out of the kid’s mouth.

And the last thing Tony expects, as the horrible, confusing, utterly blindsiding realization that Peter was the one who roofied him (Peter brought me the coffee…), is to pass out, Peter’s face blurring out of his vision, into darkness.

But that’s what happens.

***

Tony wakes up in a fireman’s carry, feeling like ass. He wishes he could say it’s a new low for him, but it’s not - and Tony Stark is a lot of things, but he isn’t a liar. Tony grunts, clearing his throat - his mouth feels like it’s full of cotton balls, and it tastes terrible - yet again, not unfamiliar.

“H-ey.” Tony rasps, re-finding his voice - his body feels weak, arms dangling over someone’s back, and Tony struggles to regain fine motor control. “Hey.”

“Oh,” That’s Peter’s voice, sounding shockingly nonchalant, and that’s about when Tony realizes they’re moving. Peter is...not running, but speed walking...somewhere. “Hey.”

“Hey?!” Tony’s annoyance sharpens his tone, brings his voice back a little stronger, and he can’t see it, but he can feel Peter’s wince. Yeah, no shithe’s in trouble.

“Look, uh, don’t freak out.” Peter practically pleads, as though Tony is in any way going to listen to him. “Everything’s under control.”

“What the fuck?” Tony growls, and he wants to demand to be put down, wants a fucking answer - and somewhere, in the back of his brain, he wants to be hurt, he wants the space to be deeply upset that Peter, of all people, would do something like this.

He didn’t think the kid had it in him, and he hates that he can’t help but worry about it (betrayal burns on the way down).

“Mr. Stark, I - “ Peter’s words are cut off by a spray of bullets - he dodges them expertly, jumping and kicking off the wall to propel them down the next side hallway. He executes the maneuver with ease, and no indication of difficulty while still carrying Tony.

“Sorry,” Peter says, so infuriatingly casually, like they’d just been interrupted by a phone call. He’s running now, though, so at least there’s that.

“Who was that?” Tony demands, trying to sound as angry as he felt, which was difficult when he had to close his eyes against the next wave of nausea. Rohypnol - assuming that’s what Peter used, or at least close to it - can last up to six hours so unfortunately, Tony knows he’s pretty much down for the count.

“Our kidnappers,” The kid can’t keep saying shit like that with such ease, or Tony’s going to lose his goddamn mind (even more than he already has).

“Explain. Right now.” He tries, again, to sound commanding, but he knows it just sounds kind of desperate. Peter takes another corner, navigating them somewhere - or at least away from something.

“I was on my way in this morning and these totally weird dudes grabbed me like right off the subway,” Peter begins, and Tony’s stomach lurches at the thought. “But I wasn’t in the suit, so I just went along with it. They wanted me to drug you so they could kidnap you, and they said they’d kill me if I didn’t do it, which like, whatever - “

Whatever. Tony’s gonna fucking kill him when he can stand up under his own power again, Jesus Christ.

“ - but they also said they had bombs in the building, and I didn’t know if that was true? So I figured it was probably better not to risk it.”

Tony hates to admit it - believe him, he does - but it makes sense. It’s what he would have done (well, he’s not sure he could drug Peter and allow him to be kidnapped, but Tony would have 100% sacrificed himself). Still, he’d be remiss if he didn’t protest. “And you didn’t tell me any of this when it happened because?”

“You would have tried to stop me,” Peter shrugs, the movement of his shoulders lifting Tony up and down. Tony sighs, long-suffering - Peter’s got him there.

“Maybe you should have been stopped.” Tony doesn’t need to see Peter’s face to feel the way the kid almost rolls his eyes - but he can also feel the guilt emanating from him, too, so Tony tries to swallow down the upset. “So where the hell are we?”

“I think we’re at AIM.” Peter skids to a stop by a door that leads to a stairwell - it’s locked, but he breaks it open with one hand and then they’re going again - up, towards the roof, it seems. “Not sure. I pretended to panic when they tried to take you, so they hit me with their gun and I pretended to conk out, and that got them to take me too.”

Peter’s a little bastard genius, and Tony struggles between feeling proud and pissed. He can be both, can’t he?

“Are you really mad?” The kid asks nervously, after a long beat of silence, the only sounds his feet, slapping on the concrete steps as he propels them up, floor by floor. Tony stifles a sigh, because that singular question is enough to take the wind right out of his sails.

“No,” Tony squeezes his eyes shut tighter, trying valiantly not to chuck. The up and down motion of Peter’s stair-stepping isn’t helping. “No, Pete, I’m not - “

Tony cuts off in frustration, and the next words out of his mouth - he’s not sure why he says them, why he admits it. Blame it on the drugs. But he says: “I’m scared, kid.”

The admission takes Peter by surprise (almost as much as it does Tony), and he almost falters on a step before continuing, up and up. Tony thinks he hears a door open, far below them, but Peter doesn’t stop to find out. “It’s gonna be okay, Mr. Stark, really I - “

“No, Pete,” Tony cuts him off, tapping a hand against Peter’s back. He’s starting to be able to move his limbs again, thank God. “I’m not scared for me. I’m scared for you. You went lone wolf on this one and - yeah, sure, maybe everything might end up fine. Doesn’t mean it’s any less terrifying to - to be helpless and watch you do it.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter’s voice softens, and this time, Tony knows he means it. “I - I guess I just felt like I didn’t have much of a choice. And it - I felt like it would be safer if I was with you.”

“You don’t need to protect me,” Tony replies gently, and for the briefest second, he feels a wave of ridiculous laughter bubbling in his stomach - this probably isn’t a conversation they should be having while Tony’s facing Peter’s butt (and that says a lot about a) his twelve-year-old sense of humor and b) their lives). “I can save myself, kid.”

“But you shouldn’t always have to.” They reach the top of the stairwell and Peter breaks through the next door, taking them out into open air. He turns around and twists the handle with a screech of metal - who knows how long it’ll hold, but at least there’s an obstacle.

Tony didn’t expect to have his own lessons parroted back at him today, but he can’t deny them. Peter finally sets him down, leaning up against the brick wall that marks the edge of the building. Tony watches blearily as the kid starts taking off his clothes - but the suit is on underneath, and Peter slips his mask on and webs his clothes behind the air conditioner in seconds flat.

“Can I save you, Mr. Stark?” Peter offers, one hand extended, the lenses on his mask widening as they adjust to the light. Tony - he can’t help but smile, because it feels so innocent, so light-hearted. The kid was unbelievably infuriating sometimes, but he means well. Tony takes the proffered hand, allowing Peter to haul him up to his feet.

“Fine. But for future reference, when I swoon, I prefer bridal carry. Just ask Steve.” Peter snorts, lifting one arm to shoot his web, the other wrapping securely around Tony.

“Duly noted, sir.”

Peter jumps off the roof with no further warning, and Tony can’t help the startled yell that the sensation rips from his chest - freefalling with nothing to stop them, until the stomach-dropping swoop of Peter’s webbing catches them.

If I had to be rescued, Tony can’t help but think, as Peter lets out a whoop and shoots another line of web. I’m glad it’s Spiderman.

#im back bitches #peter parker #spiderman #tony stark #iron man #irondad #spiderson #irondad and spiderson #marvel #mcu #avengers #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #laced drink #whump #whumptober 2019 #whumptober2019 #tw: roofies

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rambling-at-midnight · 5 years

Text

Snowflakes Melt Too Quickly: Part 2

Okay, I’m sorry it took so long. I’m working on a bunch of other projects in the wake of Avengers: Endgame, but don’t worry, this is still going to get finished!

Pairing: Five x Reader

The Freeze

Day 6

Five knows a lot about patching up burns (you suspect he knows a lot about patching up wounds in general, or just everything in general) and he helps you to find a cream to put on your feet and arms. It stings like a bitch and you cry, too strung out and tired from the actual apocalypse to deal with more pain. He also makes a whole day out of clearing the ground a bit so it’s easier for you to roll your wheelchair around.

You appoint yourself to be in charge of the food. By some miraculous fluke, there is an emergency power switch that’s working, so you manage to keep the fridges running, which means there’s frozen food, power outlets, and pretty much everything you need.

Five must come from a pretty sheltered family. He doesn’t know anything about the one fancy coffee machine you’d pulled out of the wreckage of TVs and he also doesn’t know how to use the microwave, saying his is a lot older than that one. How old is his microwave? It’s not like microwaves have changed a whole lot in the past decade, but you digress. You’re just happy someone else has survived the apocalypse.

To pay him back for all his help, you turn on some music from some electronics you’d found in the back. The internet is still up, but you have a feeling there’s not going to be any updates to any sites or software any time soon. He hadn’t known what a tablet was or how a phone could be that small.

He must come from a really old-fashioned family.

At the end of the day, you pull out another version of one of the puzzles you’ve already made. One good thing about puzzles is that they never really get old. Five helps you for maybe thirty minutes before asking you about heavier topics.

“Y/N, do you have any family? Is there any way any of them could be alive?”

You put the puzzle away before responding. “I had my mom and my dad. My dad was at home, so I assume he’s dead.” You have to stuff your fist in your mouth to keep from choking out a sob at that callous statement. You hope he’s not dead, but you know, logically, that he is.

“Hey,” Five says softly, moving to sit next to you on the ground. “I know it’s hard. I lost my family too.” A shadow passes over his face and your heart aches for him.

You take a deep breath and blink quickly. You can’t close your eyes too long, though, because you can still see the moon exploding, like it’s been etched into the inside of your eyelids. “Yeah. And I was with my mom when… it happened, but she wanted to drive somewhere safe, and, well, everyone knows that a Costco is a pretty safe place to go if anything’s happening…” you wipe away a stray tear trickling down your cheek. “I ran back in here just moments before the fire hit.” Just thinking about it makes your chest feel tight.

“The fire?” Five repeats. “What fire? What happened, exactly, Y/N?”

“I’m sorry,” you gasp out. You can’t breathe. “I don’t want to talk about it. And don’t you know?” Accusing Five helps you breathe a little deeper, takes your mind off the fact that he’s the only person you’ll ever talk to again.

“Long story,” he says shortly, which he said yesterday. Maybe he doesn’t trust you enough to tell you his story, but honestly, if the two of you are the last people on earth, what’s the point of secrets?

You’ll ask him about it another time. Who knows, maybe he feels the same way about his story that you do about yours, but you can’t imagine Five, who, in the last day you’ve known him, being as weak as you are.

Day 14

You can’t believe how long it took you. Your parents told you all about his siblings, their special powers, and the whole Academy. They got Luther and Allison’s autographs, for heaven’s sake!

“You’re Five Hargreeves,” you blurt out one morning during breakfast.

Five quirks one eyebrow at you as he looks up from his strawberries and bread. You chose the less healthy option of a piece of ice cream cake, citing the excuse that it would get bad quicker. “Yes.” He draws out the word, making it clear he doesn’t really see why it’s important.

“But you disappeared years ago,” you say, abandoning the rest of your cake. You were almost done with it anyway, and this new development is certainly interesting. “And that means you’re about thirty years old. So why do you look my age? And how did you survive?”

Five sighs and puts down his fork. “I’m assuming you know my power.”

You nod.

“Well, another part of my power is the ability to time travel,” he explains. “Unfortunately, it was not a skill that my old man wanted to train on very much. He felt that no matter how much I practiced, time travel is just too unpredictable.”

“So when you disappeared you jumped to 2019,” you guess. “Now. Just after the apocalypse. And you’re my age even though you were born thirty years ago. But why haven’t you time traveled back?”

He inclines his head to you, raising his eyebrows. “I’m impressed you were able to put it together so quickly. Unfortunately, as the old man had said, time travel is unpredictable. It did something to my powers so that I can’t even jump right now.”

“That sucks,” you say, not very eloquently.

Five shrugs, though you think it bothers him more than he lets on. It would bother you for sure. “I’ll get them under control soon enough. I’m more impressed with you. I should think I’m not talked about much in this era, seeing as how I’m the only one not still out and about.”

“Well, you and Ben,” you say without thinking, and then wince.

Five’s head snaps up and he narrows his eyes at you. “What?”

You swallow and keep your eyes on your plate, scratching at the foam with your plastic fork. “Ben died just before the Umbrella Academy broke up. I don’t know how. Your dad was pretty private. And, really, your disappearance and Ben’s death set you two apart from the others. There are lots of conspiracy theories about you on the internet. There were,” you correct. After thirteen years of being surrounded by people, being so alone is hard to get used to.

Five leans back in the lawn chair he’d assembled three days ago and crosses his arms on his chest, staring at you with a stony expression. “Give me a minute.” He gets up and walks away into the toiletry aisle, knowing full well you can’t follow him. That aisle has the most boxes on the floor and you simply can’t get into it with your wheelchair.

Not that you would follow him anyway. Finding out that your siblings are all dead is tough. Even if Ben would have died anyway in the apocalypse, it’s hard to hear that he died when Five was gone. For all you know, Five’s presence could have saved him.

You pack up the rest of the cake and put it back into the freezer. Time to practice walking again. It’s not as painful as it was when Five first showed up, but you still can’t do it for long, and you hate the weakness.

Day 48

Five can’t sleep.

It’s not just the cold winds blowing in from all angles, through the various holes in the warehouse’s walls. It’s not just the hard, cold floor he’s lying on. It’s not just the knowledge that he’s stuck 15 years in the future. It’s not even the knowledge that the future sucks actual ass.

It’s you. You’re sniffling again, obviously crying but trying to cry as quietly as possible.

It’s annoying.

Yeah, he knows that losing your entire family is hard. Five lost his, too! And being here with each other is definitely better than being alone, but Five’s under no delusions. He knows he’s not exactly easy to live with. He’s brash and abrasive and he ignores you without telling you why. He knows you’ve gotten so mad with him you’ve had to scream and cry several times (he’s only been here six weeks, too), but at least you have the good sense to do it in private. There’s hope for you yet.

Sure, he supposes it’s annoying to have permanently disfigured feet, but they’re not that bad. They’re just discolored, really, and a little bit swollen. And he knows that it hurts to walk, too, a lot of the time; your permanent limp is a testament to that. He’s told you time and time again that it’ll get better. It always gets better. When Five’s not being a complete jerk, he’s trying to make up for being a complete jerk. There’s hope for him yet.

And, yes, he gets that you’re going to be scared once he figures out how to jump back to his time and stop the apocalypse from happening, but as he’d told you earlier that day, he’s going to stop the apocalypse from happening.

There’s hope for both of you yet.

You obviously think Five’s sleeping or you would’ve walked away to do your crying in a more private place. He feels a little bad that he’s going to leave you and even worse that you’re so scared of being left alone. He’s pretty sure, though, the worst part of it is how he’s letting you cry right now, just listening, not letting you know that he can hear you and that he doesn’t really want to abandon you, but he doesn’t really have a choice.

He can’t speak, though. Something in his stomach will make his voice crack if he speaks, he knows it, or he won’t even get the words out. He can’t say anything.

A particularly harsh burst of wind washes over your two forms. Five, laying under the puzzle table in the center of the warehouse, pillows and blankets piled under him in the form of a makeshift mattress, and more blankets on top of him to keep the chill away. You, underneath the book table because god forbid a boy and a girl sleep next to each other, laying on a layer of only blankets because you toss and turn in your sleep and move the pillows that are under you, with a small mountain of blankets on your form and a fort of pillows around your form in an attempt to block out the wind.

Only six feet apart and yet it’s twenty miles. Complete strangers still but the closest friends (you can’t be friends, Five knows, because he doesn’t have friends, and besides, friends don’t make other friends cry, but what else can he call the two of you?).

Very different sleeping styles. If Five came to you, the ground would be too hard for him to sleep, and if he invited you to sleep you’d shiver and shake and move all the pillows away until you’re both lying on the cold stone ground.

He rolls over, squeezes his eyes shut, and lets you cry.

Day 183

“Try again,” you encourage, sitting on top of a table and swinging your legs. You’ve got a loose t-shirt on and shorts. During the winter the warehouse is too cold and during the summer it’s too hot. What you wouldn’t give for some air conditioning right now.

Five glares at you, ignoring the pained look on your face as you watch him possibly abandon you. He hasn’t missed the way you tense every time his fists make that blue light. “Don’t rush me.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his hands, shifting his weight between his feet. What if this is it? What if this is the moment he’s finally able to jump again?

What if this is the very last moment he spends with you?

Five drops his hands and looks at you. “You know I don’t want to leave you, right?” The honesty surprises and scares him; he’s never said anything that nice to you. He’s never said anything that nice to anyone. Growing up in the Umbrella Academy forbade emotional connections (unless Reginald could exploit them).

The half-smile drops off your face and you scowl. “No. You’re an asshole to me most of the time. I’m sure you’ll be glad to get rid of me.”

Five blinks, taken aback by the attack. He’d meant to have a nice moment, possibly a goodbye, and you just metaphorically lunged for his throat.

You ease yourself off the desk and limp away from Five. He’d offered to make you crutches the other day, but you’d pointed out that both of your feet hurt, and crutches are for the people that have at least one working leg. He’d pointed out that you could give your feet breaks one at a time. You’d told him you’d get back to him on it. He’d thought you’d been thinking about it, too. Maybe his daily attempts to jump, though, are what’s making you so hesitant to ask him for a favor or so aggressive when he tries to establish an emotional connection with you. They’re a daily reminder that he’s going to leave—trying as hard as he can to leave—and you can’t come with him.

It’s as if Five’s been spitting in your face every day.

“Come on, Y/N,” he says, chasing after you. It’s not hard to catch up; he’s fast and sure on his feet, and you’re limping. Five grabs your arm to slow you down. “Come on.”

“What?” you snap, slapping his hand away. “Come to insult me again?”

“Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have called you a cripple yesterday,” Five admits.

You laugh sarcastically. “Oh, you think?”

“Y/N, we are the last two people on earth!” Five exclaims. “Don’t you think it’d be a good idea to get along? Your only option is me!”

“Yeah, and that’s the only reason I’m putting up with you,” you snarl. “I’d choose anyone over you, Five. You’re an asshole! You’re arrogant, you’re selfish, you’re rude, and if I could run I’d have run from here the day you came!”

“It’s not like you’re a ray of sunshine either!” Five yells back. “All you do is sit and whine and cry about your feet and your family! Guess what? My family’s dead, too, and I shouldn’t even be going through this crapfest of an apocalypse. I should be growing up with my family!”

“Then go back and try to jump!” you bellow, shoving him with both your hands. Five stumbles back and would have fallen if his back hadn’t collided with a metal rack. The pain makes him even angrier.

“I will!” he bawls back. “I will! I hope I make it back, too! I hope I grow up with them and die in the apocalypse and you survive so you live out the rest of your miserable life with no help and no one to talk to!”

You slap Five, hard, and turn away again.

He doesn’t chase after you.

It takes Five a full week to talk to you, and then it’s only a stiff “Where’s the milk?”

You don’t respond.

It takes you two weeks to talk to him.

Day 363

You’re crying again. You’d dropped a heavy pan on your foot and screamed. The only protection you have on your feet are fuzzy socks. Apart from the occasional splinter and piece of glass (after the last time you’d been cut on your left foot and not cried at all despite your white knuckles as Five cleaned the wound, he’d spent two full days without sleeping cleaning up every part of the warehouse so you’d have to search out something to step on) there was no need for you to wear anything else.

Now that you’re able to walk for a little bit without pain, whereas before there was always pain, you’re starting to do a little more lifting and work in order to stay busy. It would be so easy to just sit and eat, read, and puzzle yourself to death, but you can’t do that. You have to stay busy like how Five has to do his mathematical equations to stay busy.

Five doesn’t blame you for screeching. You’re lucky you didn’t break any toes; the pan is heavy metal, and that plus your burn pain? He can’t even fathom being as strong as you are.

He wraps your foot up and decides that now is the perfect time to give you the crutches he’d made. It had taken a lot of work, sleepless nights, and splinters, but he’d managed to fasten two big logs he’d found on the ground into crutches. He’d had to cut off different parts of the logs to create handholds as well as make them a reasonable size. Stapling fabric and stuffing to the top part wasn’t hard.

They may look terrible compared to professional crutches, but Five’s proud he did what he could with what he had. Secretly, he starts to fantasize leaving the warehouse and finding a hospital to get you better crutches, but he thinks he’ll start out with getting you a pair of shoes. If only this Costco had shoes.

With a pang of shock, Five realizes he doesn’t want to leave you alone, despite the lack of any risk. You’d be completely fine if he left to find you shoes and crutches.

He just doesn’t want to be alone, and more importantly, he doesn’t want you to be alone.

You start crying harder when he presents the crutches to you and you fling your arms around his neck, squeezing as hard as you can as you thanked him over and over again.

Five doesn’t understand girls.

Day 447

“Five!” You shake Five’s shoulder again. For the first time ever you’re awake earlier than him, mostly because the wall you’d built out of pillows had toppled in the middle of the night (you suspect you kicked it) and a gust of wind had woken you. You don’t know how he can ignore the wind. It digs through your skin and deep to your bones with every gust.

“Huh?” the boy rubs his eyes. “Y/N? Is everything all right?” Five’s eyes are barely cracked open. He doesn’t want to fully open them because then it means that he’ll be fully awake and not going back to sleep until nighttime.

“It’s snowing!” you’d excitedly responded, pulling him up. You can feel the cold seeping through your sweatshirt and leggings, but you don’t mind. You’ll put on more layers later, but you know for a fact that playing in the snow doesn’t make you cold. “Come on, Five!”

“It’s just snow, Y/N,” he’d grumbled, trying to turn over and go back to sleep (he was up late last night because you’d been snoring). “It’ll still be here later.”

“But we have to be the first people to mess it up!” you exclaim. Every other time it had snowed you’d woken up early so your neighbors wouldn’t mess up the snow in your yards before you. There is something extremely satisfying about fresh snow, and it’s even more satisfying when you’re the one messing it up.

“Y/N, there’s no one left to mess it up,” Five grumbles, turning over in his bed.

You fall back on your haunches, realization hitting you. You’d been so excited about the snow that the constant shadow hanging over your head—the shadow of all your dead friends and family, the shadow of all the people that didn’t survive the fire—had disappeared for a second.

You walk out to the snow anyway, trying not to let Five ruin your day just like he always does, but it’s black.

Day 524

Five’s fingers are running through your hair gently as he braids it. He’d said his sisters taught him how to braid their hair when they couldn’t do it themselves, but you honestly can’t imagine Allison ever needing help with anything. Plus, you can’t ever imagine Vanya in a braid. Every time you’d ever seen pictures of her, her hair was only ever unstyled and hanging loose around her face.

“I was thinking,” he begins, interrupting your reading of The Catcher in the Rye. “We’re almost out of food.”

You scoff, closing the book but keeping your finger in the page you were reading. “What are you talking about? We’ve got a ton left!” Sure, it’s almost halfway gone, but there’s still a lot left. You and Five have barely started on the packaged and snack food, too; he’d insisted on eating the perishables first.

“It’ll only last us a few more months,” Five insists. He pulls on your hair, but you’re not sure if it was on purpose. “I’m sure there are other buildings out there that have more food.”

You tense and start to turn around, but he yanks you back so your hair doesn’t get messed up. “You want to leave?”

“Just for a few days,” Five insists. “And just me. I don’t want you walking around for long because of your feet, you know, and why should we permanently leave a working shelter that has everything we need? I just want to bring back a little bit more food and supplies for all of us. I also want to see if there are any undamaged showers nearby. Using the sink in the women’s bathroom gets old quickly.”

You can’t argue with that. It takes forever to scrub yourself with the sink’s water. It’s not efficient, but it’s better than nothing.

Still, you don’t want to be left here alone. “I could go with you, though. And how will you bring anything back? How would you find your way back?”

“I found a wagon that I could use,” Five suggests. “And we could go all Hansel and Gretel if you like. I’m sure there’s a string that I could wrap around trees and such for a path.”

“I don’t like it,” you say stubbornly. “I want to go with you.”

“Y/N, you won’t be able to walk as far as I want to go,” Five says, tying an elastic around the end of the braid. “I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

The problem with that is you don’t know if he’ll come back. Sure, he could pretend that he’s going to, and he could put up an act of leaving a trail, but the second he’s out of sight you could be on your own for the rest of your life.

You turn around, chewing on your lip as you look at Five’s earnest face. He doesn’t look like he’s lying.

I trust you, you want to say. You wouldn’t have said that a year ago, or even six months ago. You shouldn’t trust him. He’s still trying to jump, but he doesn’t try as often as every day anymore. Do you trust Five to leave and come back?

Day 558

Five can’t help the butterflies in his stomach as he sees the familiar Costco, the place he’s been living with you for the past year and a half, looming on the horizon. His right hand clenches around the string he’s holding. It’s stretched taut between the burnt shell of a car that may or may not have been red before the fire and a stray lamppost that had been mangled. It was his breadcrumb trail for the entire time he was gone.

The wagon creaks and rattles as he pulls it along with his left hand. The ground is especially rough and more than a few times Five has had to pick everything up from the ground when it all fell from the wagon. The crutches have fallen over the most, but it’ll be worth it to see your face when Five gives them to you.

“Y/N!” he yells, trotting around the cars’ corpses. “Y/N, I’m back!” In the silence of the apocalypse, his voice is deafening. Every creak of the wagon sounds like a gunshot.

“Y/N!” Five drops the handle of the wagon at the entrance of the warehouse. “I’m back!”

“Five?” You limp into his gaze. You sound entirely too surprised to see him again. Had you really thought he wasn’t coming back? Sure, Five was gone longer than he had anticipated, but he’d promised to come back.

The look on your face is priceless. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open and turning up like you’re trying not to smile. Five imagines he has a similar look on his face as he tries to stifle his smile. He’d missed you more than he’d thought possible, just like he misses his siblings. He supposes that’s what happens when someone gets used to someone else’s presence in the way you get used to someone that lives with you. It’s alien to live without them.

Faster than Five had ever seen you walk before, your hobble turns into sort of a gallop and you throw yourself into his arms. “I thought you weren’t coming back,” you whisper into his neck, and it breaks his heart a little bit.

“I said I was,” he replies, wrapping his arms around your waist and squeezing. “And I did.”

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7deadlycinderellas · 5 years

Text

if the summer of our lives could just come again, ch3

AO3 link

Davos

Leaving Shireen again is the hardest thing he’s ever done.

Waking up in bed with Marya had been surreal enough, it had seemed decades since he had seen her. Going through the keep to encounter all seven of his sons, even Dale, too, had felt nearly like a dream. They’d come to visit, he remembered suddenly. Steffon’s name-day had just passed.

That whole day, he had tried to enjoy it.

When the older boys began to leave, is when he had to set his plan in motion.

Faking summons from Stannis was easy enough, turns out he had been planning to send for him soon anyway. Getting to Dragonstone was also shockingly easy.

Stannis had been his usual self, gruff and straight-forward. He had asked him to help him go over changes to shipping schedules what the effects of the late summer droughts on the tides. It had ended far too slowly.

Then on his way out, he had heard a small laugh.

“I’m supposed to be in lessons, but I had to come see you Onion Knight!”

Shireen was as small as she had been, her arms and legs had not yet begun to lengthen. Her face still bore the roundness of youth, her blue eyes shining.

Davos’s heart seizes as he allows himself to hug her tightly, without breaking. “Not having anymore dragon-dreams are you child?” he asks, remembering the nightmares that had plagued her.

Shireen looks confused. The comet, Davos remembers, her nightmares had begun with the coming of the comet.

“I haven’t dreamed of any dragons, I wish I did though, it sounds more exciting than the boat dreams I’ve had lately.”

He leaves her with just that single hug, trying his best to banish the image in his head of her burning.

Returning home, Davos recalls that Maester Cressen had once suggested betrothing Shireen to Robyn Arryn and sending her to the Eyrie, but Stannis hadn’t agreed.

Davos couldn’t imagine marrying Shireen off to that sickly, ill-tempered boy, but he wondered if he could somehow convince Stannis to let her be fostered somewhere else.

Renly, it hits Davos suddenly. Stannis’s brother had no children, but the court at Storm’s End was always bright and lively, fitting with it’s Lord’s showy and dramatic personality. And perhaps with his daughter so near, Stannis might not wish to lay siege to it.

It ended up, in the end, not truly being difficult at all.

“Storm’s End is the Baratheon ancestral home, it would be good for Shireen to see it. And I think having her around might put some responsibility into your brother, being that he currently has no heirs.”

Stannis’s eyes are hard to read, part distaste, part uncertainty.

“Last he saw her, Renly said she was ugly.”

Davos laughs softly in derision.

“Your brother may be thoughtless, but he isn’t needlessly cruel. Shireen may not be a great beauty, but she is a sweet, good child with a fine mind. She will win Renly over as easy as she won me over.”

He tries not to sound desperate, but Stannis is already speaking of the mystics, and he knows Melisandre may soon come to him.

And Stannis agrees, and Davos feels like maybe he’s won this time. That maybe they will win this time.

A week later, the agreement had been pounded out. Davos wonders if perhaps Renly simply saw a way to one-up his brother, but if it ends with Shireen safe, then it’s good either way.

Stannis asks him to accompany her. He would have offered anyway.

“Where are we going now, Onion Knight?” She asks him.

“We’re going on a quest.”

“Me too?”

“Well we’re going to need someone to read me all the books about all the old quests, so I know how I’m doing it right.”

There’s a touch of disappointment on her face. He takes her by the hand to help her into the wheelhouse.

“I have to go and rescue someone, then we have to ride north and try to stop some monsters.”

“Who are you rescuing? A princess in a tower?”

Davos laughs. Shireen did often have an affinity for the trapped princesses.

“A prince perhaps, though he would likely spit if he heard me call him that. I need to help him get back to his princess.”

Shireen wrinkles her nose.

“Not Prince Joffrey right?”

Davos can’t even imagine a laugh here. If half the stories he’s heard are true, the crown prince was more likely to need people rescued from him.

“No, this boy doesn’t even know what he is yet. But he will rise to greatness anyway. I’d like you to meet him someday, he’s one of your cousin’s actually.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gendry”.

He could remember the boy before, in his cell hopeless and ashamed. He could remember the man he became, who had wanted to help people even before learning he was of noble blood. Davos had believed Danaerys had intended to legitimize him for his heroism during the battle against the dead. She hadn’t had the chance. And part of Davos wondered if he would have even wanted that.

“Why does he need to be rescued?”

Davos sighs deeply.

“Because some people with a lot of power will want to hurt him, and he can’t save himself from where he is.”

A bastard boy on the streets of Flea Bottom. He was beholden to his apprenticeship unless released, and any route out of the city would be fraught with danger. Bandits, pirates, men who might try and sell him, all the worse if anyone got a good look and maybe figured out who he was. Ned Stark had figured out the Queen’s secret easily enough, but it would be a falsehood to say no one in King’s Landing ever questioned her fair haired children before.

“Do you know how you’re going to rescue him?”

That makes Davos smile.

“Do you remember why I told you your father cut off the tips of my fingers before knighting me?”

“Because you were a smuggler?”

“Which means I am excellent at getting things out of places and getting them where they aren’t supposed to be without being found out.”

He put his fingers to his lips to remind Shireen that she shouldn’t tell this to anyone, then taps her on the nose and shuts the door and moves to mount his horse so that they could leave.

He hopes he’s right.

Sansa

Sansa carries Lady through the hallway and into her chambers. When she turns, she notices Arya sitting on her bed and yelps, dropping Lady to the floor. The wolf, now the size of a regular wolf, gives her a look of disgust, and pads off, taking a step onto the trunk at the end of Sansa’s bed and climbing up to curl up and fall asleep.

Arya cocks an eyebrow.

“I thought you had more nerve than that.”

“What are you doing here?” Sansa asks her, slipping off her shoes and stockings.

“Can I stay with you tonight? I had a bad nightmare last night.”

Sansa sighs, slipping one hand up to undo the ties at the top of her gown.

“Can you help me undo my straps?”

Arya reaches out and yanks the strings, loosening them. Sansa slips out of her gown and into her nightshift with ease before speaking again.

“Should I even ask which one?”

There were so many to choose from that they were both having. The Long Night nightmares, the watching Father get beheaded again nightmares, the ones where going through the anomaly just put them straight back in Hell (Ramsey for Sansa, Harrenhall for Arya).

“The one about Hardhorne. I think I had it because Jon left yesterday.”

Damn. Neither of them had been at Hardhorne, but Jon’s stories were so vivid and descriptive. The piles of bodies being climbed by walkers before they too rose, the people who ran straight into the water, clawing their way towards the boats trying to run. They had both had this one too.

Arya distracts herself by petting Lady.

“You really shouldn’t carry her everywhere now, she’s getting too big.”

“I’ll carry her for as long as I can. It will make me stronger.”

“She’s going to be bigger than you soon.”

“Then maybe someday she’ll carry me instead.”

Arya is quiet after that, and pulls off the cloak she’d thrown over her night shift in case one of the servants came by. She leaves it on the trunk next to Lady.

“Bran told me the Reeds should be here sometime tomorrow.” Sansa tells her as she crawls under her furs.

Arya bites her lip.

“That means we’re going to have to tell everyone tomorrow.”

Sansa laughs hollowly.

“Jon was hard enough...I can’t imagine how we’re going to tell Robb or Mother.”

Arya feels her stomach tighten. She could barely look at Gray Wind when he followed along with Robb after having seen what had become of them before.

“I can’t believe you managed to have the eloquence to tell what we know to Tyrion in just a single letter.”

“Well it was pretty rambling and confusing. I told you, I told him I saw things in visions. That King Robert was in danger, that people would look more closely at Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella. Not to trust a damn thing Littlefinger says. More politics, fewer ice zombies. Besides, I had that trump card to make sure he paid my words due.”

Arya frowns.

“I saw you give him the letter when he was leaving with Jon. What on earth did you tell him?”

She hadn’t been close enough to hear their conversation, But whatever Sansa had whispered in the Imp’s ear had affected him enough that his eyes had gone wide and he’d stood in the same spot, seemingly dazed until Uncle Benjen had prodded him and he’d tucked the letter into his satchel and rejoined everyone.

“I told him the name of his first wife.”

Arya’s surprised.

“I never knew he was married before you.”

“Most people don’t. No one outside his family should know anything about it. That’s why it worked.”

“What happened?”

Sansa smiles grimly.

“It’s not my story to tell. The only reason I think he even told me was because we were in the crypts sure we were going to die that night. Airing our sins and all that.”

Arya rolls over to face her.

“I guess I just don’t really understand your relationship with him. I couldn’t imagine you being so close to someone you were forced to marry.”

Sansa laughs. It is somewhat ludicrous, and her thirteen year old self would have screamed in horror had she known.

“He was forced into it as much as I was, and he was always kind to me. Beyond that, he tried to protect me, to make me feel better about things that happened. Though of course there was no way he could.”

Sansa turns suddenly pensive.

“And I got a front seat to exactly what his family thinks of him. Jamie aside, the rest of the Lannisters seemed to delight in tormenting him as much as they did tormenting than me. And it made me so incredibly angry. He once told me that people were going to spend a lot of time underestimating me, and that ended up being incredibly true too.”

There’s a long silence after, and Sansa really doesn’t want to have to talk about this anymore.

“Get some sleep Arya. Tomorrow’s going to be rough enough as it is.”

Laying all the way back down, she feels Arya shift beside her.

“Uhh, fair warning? I’ve been told I’m an angry cuddler.”

Sansa’s eyes pop back open.

What on earth was an angry cuddler?

She finds out the next morning when Arya has managed to migrate halfway down the bed and wrap both her arms so tightly around one of Sansa’s legs that she’s woken with the limb heavy and prickly, and entirely unable to stand up.

Bran

Bran wakes, his stomach already in knots.

He gazes out the window, noting the clear skies. He notices Summer isn’t sleeping underneath like he usually did, perhaps he had an early start.

He manages to dress himself, though he only has one pair of breeches that have been cut to fit over his cast. His boot takes the longest, but he laces it up tightly before reaching for the heavy metal crutches Mikken had made for him when it became clear that he was not up for staying in bed until his leg healed.

Hobbling on the crutches had been hard to learn. The splinted wrist was one thing, but he could hardly admit that it had been near on a decade since he had walked properly at all.

So at least he had an excuse for his staggering.

In the hallway, he bumps into Arya, who’s rubbing the back of her head.

“What happened?”

“Sansa pulled my hair until I woke up and let her leg go.”

He’s not going to question that.

Rather than join the rest of the family at breakfast, Bran has Arya slip in and grab them a platter of oatcakes with honey and sliced apples.

“Where are we going?” Arya asks.

“The stables.”

She makes a face.

“They won’t let you ride with the cast.”

“I’m not going to ride,” Bran tells her, “I’m going to see Willas.”

Arya’s stares at him confused for a moment before it hits her.

“Oh, Hodor.”

“That’s not his name,” Bran says roughly. “So I won’t call him that. He died protecting me, that’s the least I can do. Especially since the other is my fault.”

Arya is quiet most of their slow walk out to the stable. Bran has never been overly forthcoming about what exactly happened to everyone north of the Wall.

When they reach the stables Willas is finishing up with the morning chores. The other grooms have already gone down to breakfast, leaving the three of them alone.

“Hodor,” he says, upon seeing them.

“Have breakfast with us,” Bran says, and Arya offers him the platter.

The three of them sit and eat their cakes in silence. Arya licking a bit of honey off her thumb and Bran leaning over to steal one of her apples.

When they’re finished, Willas stands, and with a “Hodor,” leaves them to haul water for the troughs.

Bran chews thoughtfully on his last bite while Arya wipes off the tray.

Arya finally fixes Bran with a gaze while he chews.

“You’ve been weird since you told us the Reeds were probably going to arrive today, so what is it?”

Bran doesn’t say anything, and avoids her eyes.

“Come on, out with it. Sansa said Meera left almost immediately when you two returned to Winterfell, and you didn’t even mention her again. When you lead us down to the Neck, she didn’t even look at you. What in seven hells happened?”

“Nothing. And that was the problem. We were north for, gods it must have been two or three years. Meera helped keep us safe, she hunted to keep us fed. Underneath that tree, she did her best to keep me sane even though she seemed completely lost after Jojen died. After...Everything that had happened to us, everything I had felt...I suddenly didn’t care. I would have died a hundred times over without her, it didn’t matter“

He’s quiet for a long time.

“I remember, the way Meera was looking at me, before I touched the weirwood tree to see what happened at the Tower of Joy. If she had looked at me like that before...I probably would have died of a heart attack. That’s what she said before she left, was that Brandon Stark died in that cave.”

“Well you didn’t, and you’re alive again,” Arya tells him. “So quit acting like you did die. We all get second chances now, that’s sort of the point isn’t it?”

“All three of them have cause to hate me.”

“Well they definitely will if you stay this way when they all show up. So come on, and lets try and prepare.”

She helps him get back onto his crutches and they hobble back to the keep to try and head off the storm.

Jojen

Jojen Reed was not used to being confused. His prophetic dreams aside, he had always been clever, and good at his lessons. Feeling completely in over his head was not something he was used to.

But two weeks before when he had woken to his older sister running into his room and hugging him tightly he had been completely at a loss for words. Normally, he would have thought she was ill, but when she dragged him down to breakfast, their Father had been in a similar state. Both of them had looked incredibly tired, but somehow energized, with wild looks in their eyes, babbling on about things that didn’t make any sense.

Then they sat down, and tried to tell him, and it made even less sense.

And even after they had left Greywater Watch, it hadn’t stopped.

He wakes the last day of their travels with a feeling of creeping dread in his gut.

And for the first since she lost her mind, Meera seems as unsure as him.

They’re packing up camp, Father leading the horses to water when he finally brings it up.

“You seem anxious. You and Father were so sure we had to go north to Winterfell when we left, now it seems like you don’t want to.”

Meera laughs.

“We were both so sure we had to go north before. And look how that turned out.”

Jojen doesn’t really know what to say to that. She’d told him he had died on the journey before, which explained her exuberant reaction to seeing him again, but it didn’t really explain her despair. True, she had also mentioned that his body had immediately exploded, but still…

“I know you were probably upset that I died…”

“It wasn’t just you,” she cuts him off. “Everyone. The last time I left home, everyone around me ended up dying, you were just the first. We were under there for over a year, I didn’t even know why anymore, but I trusted the Children of the forest. Then the Night King found us and attacked, and they all died. All of that history, and they died. Then Summer died protecting us, and Hodor died so we could get away, and we ran. “

They’ve finished the packs, and so Meera just pokes at the ground with a stick when she finally continues.

“We got back to Winterfell, and it turned out even Rickon and Osha had died after we left them. I wanted to go home, but I didn’t feel like I could. I went to talk to Bran, and it was like he was gone too. Whatever the Raven did to him in that cave, his body was still alive, but what made him him was gone. He was little more than a shell.”

Father returns to the clearing, leading the horses. They begin loading the packs onto them, when Meera continues. Her voice goes quiet, with a tone in it Jojen’s not sure he’s ever heard come from her before.

“I thought what the two of us had gone through- as hard as it had been, I thought it was special. I thought it was important. I don’t know anymore, I still don’t know if it was worth it. The end of the world still came after all. I don’t know what I’ll do if we get to Winterfell and Bran is still...that thing.”

Jojen can’t really say anything to soothe his sister’s words, so he just listens. He supposes that must do some good too.

They ride for a bit in silence. They’re not far, could reach the keep by mid-day easily. Jojen can still feel Meera sitting stiffly in the saddle. They could have taken a third horse, but neither of them are good riders, having not had much way to practice, given that horses don’t suit bogs well.

As the day goes on, he suddenly feels Meera go still.

“Either of you hear that?” She asks, eyes staring straight off into the trees. When neither him nor Father reaction, she slides off the horse, and grasps her spear.

They aren’t far from Winter Town, it could just be another traveler or someone out hunting, but Meera’s muscles are pulled taut as though she expects this to end in a fight.

She’s still, still as a rock upon a cliff, when the leaves of the underbrush shift and a figure emerges from them.

Jojen feels his heart quicken when he realizes the figure is a wolf.

Meera, on the other hand, softens.

“Summer?” She calls out, in an unsure voice.

Both Jojen and their father watch as Meera kneels in the road, and the wolf approaches her slowly, carefully. Jojen watches in amazement as the beast rests it’s muzzle on top of her knees, and she reaches to rub the top of it’s head.

“You did everything you could,” She assures the wolf, “You were your best, you did your best.”

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #time travel fix it #gendrya #breera #fic

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imdifferentshadesofpurple · 6 years

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notata.

for my girl @parkhabits - my markjin half word count: 1,927 a/n: i started this in july so it’s so late my bad LOL

You didn’t believe in magic, didn’t believe in any sort of hocus pocus that resulted in unicorns or witches or creatures of the night.

You’re what your mother called ‘unimaginative’ and ‘cynical’, even though she’d say that with a fond look in her eye.

You liked facts, liked to know exactly what was happening. And if you didn’t, you took comfort in knowing that there’d be a book somewhere that could answer your questions.

So ironically, it’s a bookstore where you first encounter Park Jinyoung.

He first catches your eye when he sweeps past you in the Greek mythology aisle, mumbling apologies as his shoulder brushed against yours.

You feel...something under the surface of your skin like he was a match that was lighting you aflame. But the time you had turned around, he had rounded the corner and you were left rooted in your spot, fingers ghosting over your shoulder and a sort of dumbfounded look on your face.

Your paths don’t cross again until you’re leaving later that night, a bag of books hanging from your arm and a smile on your face.

You didn’t notice the cold at first, and the wind that started to pick up. But when you did, the fog had already settled and you could feel the chill down to your bones.

It was all a blur after that, a haze that fell over you like the ongoing fog.

You’re not sure what came at you but later, much later, you could still hear the screech echoing within your mind, feel gentle but urgent hands pushing you aside.

You felt yourself falling, the ground rapidly approaching, and in all the commotion you swore you saw what looked like wings.

“You fainted.”

Those were his first words to you, right when you open your eyes and see a slightly familiar face swimming before you.

You don’t really know how to reply to that, head as heavy as probably twelve elephants and maybe a few more exotic animals. You groan and try to sit up but his hands on your shoulders, sturdy and warm, halt you immediately.

“Don’t do that,” he scolds gently, “my father will take a look at you once he’s tended to my brothers.”

That surprises you, even amidst your confusion. “What do you mean? Did something happen?”

He frowns, “You don’t remember? Jaebum hyung and Yugyeom saved you. You were attacked by a harpy last night.”

A harpy?

Thanks to your love for reading, harpies weren’t an unfamiliar term. But it doesn’t stop you from frowning, “A harpy? What in the world are you talking about?”

A yelp of pain sounds from somewhere in the house and both of you turn towards the noise. He clucks in worry, eyes darting back to you quickly. “I can explain everything, in due time. But I just need you to lie back down or the stitches will pull. I’ll be back, please don’t move.”

You watch him go, frozen in this foreign bed you’ve found yourself in. Stitches. You can feel them now, running the length of your shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, nothing does aside from the slight burn behind your eyes, and you wonder just what kind of medicine was coursing through your veins.

A sudden wave of exhaustion passes over you and you do as you’re told, lying back down against the soft white sheets while minding the stitches. Eyes heavy, you drift for a moment before sleep takes you once more.

“She’s pretty hyung. But I bet she’s gonna freak out when she wakes up, the meds dad used have worn off.”

“Bam I need you to shut up please before your obnoxious voice does, in fact, wake her.”

Eyes fluttering open, you hear a sigh sound somewhere above you before the pain cuts in and you hiss as your shoulder shifts.

When the boy from the bookstore’s face appears before you, it’s like the fog from before was clearing and you were just starting to realize what was happening.

Or it could really be because the medicine had worn off.

Sudden panic surging through you, you scream and lift yourself off the bed, ignoring the stabbing sensations running up and down your arm. You push yourself as far as you can, eyes focusing and breath labored.

“The stitches hyung!”

You recognize who’s in front as if you've known him for some time instead of a simple brush of shoulders between books. Another boy, seemingly younger, is by the door, his eyes a bit wild but worried while his hands are out as if he’s waiting to fly across the room and catch you.

“Y/N, you’re okay! You’re okay, I promise. Just please, try to calm down or you’ll pull the stitches and bleed everywhere!”

You take in air, like small gulps of water, “H-how? How do you know my name? What’s going on? Where am I and who are you?”

He runs a hand through his raven hair, biting his lip, “I’m Park Jinyoung. I know your name because you’re a regular at my brother’s bookstore. He’s the one that recognized you when we brought you here, to our home. Over there is my brother BamBam and yes, that’s his name, he won’t respond to anything else. Now, please. Your shoulder.”

Your racing heart starts to calm and you sink back down into the sheets. You still keep your distance, a thousand questions running through your mind.

“What is going on? Why am I in your house and why does my shoulder feel like it was almost ripped off?”

Jinyoung shares a look with BamBam and the younger nods, bowing slightly before leaving the room. You squint in Jinyoung’s general direction and he catches you, chuckling under his breath. “Don’t worry, he’s just grabbing Mark hyung. So he can re-check your arm. And I can explain everything when they’re here.”

“When who is here?”

The door opens again and BamBam appears once more, this time with five other unknown people.

When your eyes widen, Jinyoung smiles. “My brothers.”

You don’t believe in magic, in things you cannot explain.

So when Jinyoung tells you he’s Apollo, tells you his family are full of gods and goddesses, you’re sure you're still in the bookstore, maybe asleep and dreaming all this up.

But Jackson, or Ares as he so eloquently introduced himself, only smiled and pinched you (hard), earning a glare from Jinyoung as you groaned and realized you were very much awake.

You let Mark take care of you, Poseidon's hands a lot more skilled and gentle than you thought possible. He re-examines the wound on your shoulder, slapping Youngjae’s hands away when he gets a little too curious. You don’t focus too much on the pull of the needle, staring at each brother as you try to process everything that’s being thrown at you.

Jinyoung is rambling about the bookstore when you throw your hands up unexpectedly, causing Mark to yell shrilly. “Just -- stop! For one minute!”

All eyes turn to her and it’s silent as you take in a few deep breaths. “Look. I don’t -- I don’t believe in this stuff. Gods and goddess? Reincarnation? Harpies? You’re trying to tell me that Youngjae is Hephaestus? The god of metalworking? And -- and that Yugyeom helped saved me but he’s the god of wine and ritual madness?”

You point right at Jaebum who had made himself comfortable in the corner by the window. “And Jaebum. He’s not even the oldest but he’s Zeus. You’re trying to convince me that Jaebum is Zeus? And BamBam is Hermes.” You turn sharply and Mark hisses through his teeth as he meets your eyes. “You want me to believe you’re Poseidon.” Another turn, this time to Jackson by the door, “And you. Ares. The god of war. And Apollo --”

You halt as your gaze lands on Jinyoung. He looks worried, something in his own eyes burning like a fire that’s about to rise from the pyres. It sends a shiver through you as if time was stopping and zeroing in on you both.

As abrupt as everything else happening around you, you’re sucked into something, your body squeezing tightly like it’s trying to fit into the neck of a glass bottle. You realize your surroundings are different, you can feel it, even though you can’t break the tether between you and Jinyoung.

Look around.

You’re somehow unsurprised to hear his voice in your head, its gentle timbre breaking the trance long enough for you to register you’re in a memory.

Your memory. From the harpy attack.

You watch your past self walk out of the bookstore, shoulder unmarred. You see the fog, feel the cold and understand that what’s happening in front of you is no illusion.

You see Jaebum, lightning in his eyes. You catch a glimpse of Yugyeom, pushing you to the ground just as something swipes at you, tearing the skin and muscle up and around your shoulder blade.

There’s blood everywhere and you can’t tear your eyes away, Jinyoung by your side, silent and stoic.

The fog lifts once the harpy is driven away, injured and afraid of Zeus himself. You’re there on the ground, eyes closed and breathing labored. It’s Jackson who appears and lifts you swiftly, barking orders at Youngjae who materializes seconds after him, jaw set tight as he searches for any more threats.

When they’re gone, having whisked you away with them, that’s when Jinyoung appears. You frown, noticing the way Jaebum sets a heavy glare in his direction.

You should’ve stayed away from the store. I told you she’d be here and yet you came anyway.

Jinyoung looks sick, matching the expression of the Jinyoung standing next to you.

I didn’t think--

You flinch when Jaebum’s voice rings out, as strong as the lightning sparking the sky.

Of course, you didn’t think! I know how hard it is for you, the physical pull you feel! But we all agreed, centuries ago, that to protect her you’d stay away. You’ve done such a good job so why the hell would you ruin it now? Jinyoung. She’s marked. The fucking harpy marked her. Which means they’ll be able to find her, no matter where she goes. The Fates warned you. You’re tied together for eternity, every reincarnation for the rest of forever. But just like you watched Cyrene die all the years ago, you watch her die in every life she lives. Atropos gave you a solution: no contact. No harpies, no memories. No memories, no death. And now--

Jinyoung’s voice, just as fierce, makes your heart clench. You can hear the pain, hear the sadness of centuries past.

Now I’ve gone and fucked it up! I know that! I know! But she was there hyung. In front of me. And my body moved towards her. We barely touched and now I’ve messed up the rest of her life. But we have to protect her, I have to protect her, I don’t know anything else. My life means nothing else.

You don’t know you’re crying until Jinyoung is wiping tears from your cheeks and you’re back in the present. You’re alone with him now, the others suddenly gone. You’re shaking, only a slight tremble, but he pulls you towards him and whispers in your ear. He tells you it’s alright, tells you that you’re safe, and as you let your tears fall and your arms wrap around him, you finally start to believe.

And you know you’re never going to be safe again.

#g7hyungnet #7ornevernet #sfw #got7 #got7 moodboard #got7 fic #greek mythology!au #park jinyoung #got7 park jinyoung #got7 park jinyoung fic #got7 park jinyoung moodboard #park jinyoung fic #park jinyoung moodboard

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sockablock · 6 years

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Here’s Chapter 4 of my Critical Role backstory fic, this time featuring Beauregard! It’s the longest one so far; I had a lot to write about the Disaster Lesbian™ (check out Fjord, Caleb, and Jester too!)

Word Count: 4686

From Where We Came: Chapter 4, Beauregard

Beauregard is born in the early morning hours of the 18th of Brussendar, in the height of summer, to parents glowing with immense pride. Beauregard is hastily handed off to her nurse in the early morning hours of the 18th of Brussendar, in the height of summer, by parents who don’t even do their new daughter the kindness of hiding their disdain and disappointment. She is whisked away, down the hall, to a different room furnished in soft blues and filled with little wooden toys and plush animals. She is placed into a wooden crib. The nurse leaves. In the lonely quiet, the newborn girl begins to cry.

“No, Beau, dearest, stop fussing with your dress,” her mother scolds quietly. “This is a very important tour, and you mustn’t behave this way. It would look absolutely terrible for your father if you caused a scene.”

“But, Mama,” Beau protests, “I hate wearing this dress. The lacy parts are itchy and the sleeves are too long.”

Her mother pats her on the head. “Don’t worry, darling, we’ll get you another one made.”

Beau pouts. “Mama, I don’t want another dress. I don’t want to wear a dress.”

Her mother tuts quietly. “Don’t be silly, dear. Look, Mummy is wearing a dress, isn’t she? Don’t I look pretty? You look so pretty too.”

Beau considers her mother. Then her eyes wander a few yards away, where her father is proudly showing off the brewery’s newest oak barrels to group of tall, very important-looking men. They are dressed in long coats, with their trousers tucked into sturdy, but well-made and needlessly fashionable boots.

“Why can’t I wear what Papa is wearing?” Beau asks. “He’s not got a dress on, so why do I have to wear one?”

Her mother laughs. It’s a soft, twinkling sound, like a little bell. Beau knows this laugh. It’s the we’ve-got-company-and-my-child-is-talking-too-much laugh. Beau knows this laugh well.

“You can’t wear trousers,” her mother says, “you’re a girl. You could if you were a boy, but you’re not, are you?”

Beau knows the answer to that question. “No, Mama,” she says.

Darien is a boy, and one of the most exciting people Beau knows. He’s eleven, two years older than she is. He’s the son of another winery owner, as renowned and as wealthy as Beau’s parents. The edges of their lands weave together easily enough, and he frequently slips away from his duties to go hang out with the rowdy girl next door. Together, they pester the workers and write cuss words in the dirt paths and chase each other through endless rows of gleaming purple grapes. During peak harvest season, one of their favorite things to do is steal the fattest grapes off the vines and meet in the woods between the properties to compare their loot. They sit together in one of the tallest trees and munch on grapes and talk of benign, childish things.

“I could beat you up,” Beau says between mouthfuls.

Darien considers the muddy hem of her dress, her rolled-up sleeves, the leaves in her hair. “Yeah,” he says, “You probably could.”

“Probably could?” Beau raises an eyebrow.

“Definitely could,” he admits. “But I’m not that strong.”

From six feet up in the branches, Beau leans against the tree trunk. “That’s ok,” she says in a rare bit of open friendliness, “you’re good at other stuff. Like climbing trees and stealing things from your dad.”

Darien shoots her a grin. “You won’t believe this,” he says, “but I picked a lock yesterday!”

Beau’s eyes go wide. “No!” She exclaims. “Really? How did you do it?”

His grin broadens. “I can show you when we finish these grapes!” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, even though there’s nobody around for ages here. “I lifted a set of thieves’ tools from one of the sheds,” he says, “and I’m not really sure why they were there, but it was probably fine because nobody goes in there ever anyways. And I was messing around in there but then I knocked some stuff over on the top shelves and it hit the door and then the door locked and then I was like oh, Pelor, I’m gonna die, but then I just shoved some of the hooks from the set into the lock and then it opened!” Darien takes a deep breath to refill his lungs. “And now I’m an expert rogue,” he concludes.

The pair stand in front of the door. “It’s not locked,” says Beau. “It was just rusty. I think you probably just messed with the inside hard enough to unstick it.”

Darien gives her a reproachful look. “That’s basically lockpicking,” he says.

“Nuh-uh,” Beau says.

“Uh-huh,” he replies with scathing wit.

“Nuh-uh,” Beau retorts eloquently.

“Uh-huh. It wouldn’t open before, and now it does.”

Beau considers this point. “Alright,” she says eventually, “I’ll give you that one. But it’s not lockpicking like real thief would lockpick.”

Darien points a finger under her nose. “Then just you wait!” he declares. “I’ll learn how to be a real thief and then you can’t tell me what’s what anymore.”

Beau grins. “Oh yeah? What if I do it first?” And she cuffs him over the head and scampers off, shouting about how real thieves could move quick as the wind. Darien gives chase, whooping loudly behind her.

Beauregard stares out the window, and chews on the end of her quill. The clouds look quite fascinating today, and the fact that she even had that thought must be a testament to how godsdamn bored she is. Father and Mother are making her check the books again, and even though her tutors have praised her mathematical skills (“When she applies herself she really is quite good,” the one with the annoying mustache had said.), Beau really can’t be bothered to even try and be interested in numbers. Even though her parents have hinted numerous times that she should be stepping up and helping out more with the business, Beau doesn’t want to. It’s boring. She’d rather run around outside or pick grapes or do almost literally anything else.

She sighs and glances down at the page. Only a few rows left.

“You spoke out of line again, Beauregard! That tour was incredibly important, and your comments disrupted my guests and made me look like a fool!”

“I’m sorry, father, I’m sorry! I won’t do it again.”

“If you do, you know what the punishments are.”

She does.

So when Beau accidentally lets slip to her parents that her clothes are always filthy because she spends all her free time traipsing through the woods with the neighbor’s son, she expects the worst. There are grave punishments for doing boy things. For being disruptive. For being ungrateful and ruining the lovely things we give her and being a bad, bad girl.

What she doesn’t expect is for Mother to scoop her up in a big hug and cry tears of joy. What she doesn’t expect is the flicker of impressed surprise that flits across her father’s usually stoic face.

“Oh, my darling, this is wonderful news!” Her mother gushes. “And you’re sure this is young Darien? You’re sure he likes to spend time with you?”

Beau makes a face that neither of her parents notice. “Mama, of course I’m sure it’s Darien. And, uh, yeah.”

“Oh, this will be absolutely fantastic for your father. Won’t it, dear?” She asks with a glance at her husband.

He gives the slightest nod. “How old are you, Beauregard?”

Beau looks down at the ground. “Twelve, Papa.”

“You are rather young,” he muses, “but this opportunity…”

Beau’s mother nods enthusiastically.

Her father nods again, this time more firmly. Then his frown returns and he says, firmly, “But pleased as I am with this match, you two cannot keep spending time the way you currently are. No more of this running through the forests and getting into trouble. You are a young woman, and should compose yourself as such.”

Beau can feel the weight of his gaze. She doesn’t like it.

“I can’t believe our parents are making us do this,” Darien groans. We’ve never had to be fancy around each other before.”

Beau grumbles, misery dripping off her slumped shoulders. “This sucks ass,” she says. Swear words are still rather new to her, but she has a good feeling about them. She makes a mental note to ask the servants for some more.

Meanwhile, Darien risks a glance over at where his mother and father are talking with Beau’s at the other end of the garden. They’re seated around a polished wooden tea-table and passing each other the weird little sandwiches that grownups like to eat. Between bites, they discuss (probably) the best way to ruin their kids’ lives. A maid hovering behind them, striking empty cups with the teapot like an eagle diving for heron. To the side a butler stands, staring at pink lilies, artfully pretending not to be waiting for commands while also waiting around for commands. Birds chirp in the flowering trees above them. A few bees hum softly in the background.

Darien turns back to Beau, whose scowl has somehow gotten even deeper. “Hey,” he says, “do you think they’re doing this ‘cause they want us to…you know? Get married and stuff?”

Beau sighs and gives a shrug. “That’s what they were talking about yesterday.”

Their eyes meet, and they consider one another for a moment.

“No,” they say simultaneously.

They both nod in acknowledgement of a good decision and slide further down on the bench. Beau’s dress, a horrific, daffodil-colored poofy nightmare, prevents her from achieving optimal slouch. Darien fidgets with his coat. They are basically in hell.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Beau hops to her feet. “Okay, I’m done now. Let’s go.”

A slow grin spreads across Darien’s face. “The birch tree by the river?”

They wait for just the right moment. And while the parents are preoccupied with one another and the maid is busy fielding refills and the butler is distracted by a particularly unruly-looking begonia, they slip away, adults none the wiser.

Beauregard stares out her window. Her cheeks are sticky from dry tears, and the sniffling hasn’t quite stopped yet. Her face is still a bit puffy, and her eyes are bloodshot. But the worst relic from the last half-hour are the words, which she are trying desperately to bury so far into her subconscious that nothing would ever be able to bring them out again.

Horrible, useless child, how could you be so ungrateful—This was an incredible opportunity and your selfishness has ruined it—His parents were appalled at your behavior—How could you just run away like that and wreck everything—We raised you better—

—Oh, for Pelor’s sake, stop crying, you’re nothing but an embarrassment. Get out of here, Beauregard. Get out and stay in your room while your Father and I try to fix the damage you’ve caused.

Beau hits her forehead against the glass.

“Father is sending me away,” says Darien from outside the open library window. “I snuck over here so I could tell you, but I have to go back before he notices. He’s kind of still super pissed about our disappearing act.”

“Yeah,” Beau mutters. “My parents are too. Who would’ve thought, huh?”

Darien smirks. “The sticks up their asses are pretty lodged in there.”

There is a brief silence. Then, “Where to?”

“It’s an academy in Rexxentrum, if you can believe it. Apparently lots of young nobles and wealthy hoity toity assholes go there to learn…whatever it is they learn.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Father says it’s until I can ‘behave properly enough to live up to my duties,’ which I think is a load of shit.”

“How long do you think that’ll take you?”

“…I’m not sure. But I think he wants me to be there for like…a long time. A really long time.”

“Will you come back?”

The answer is instantaneous. “Yes,” Darien says. “I’m his heir. He said so himself.”

“Alright then,” Beau closes the ledger she was working in. “I’ll probably be here when that happens. It’s not like my parents are going to do anything with me.”

Darien leans through the window and reaches around Beau’s shoulders rather clumsily. “You’re my best friend,” he says.

“You’re my brother, dumbass.” Darien doesn’t argue. And the next day, he is gone.

“Papa,” Beau asks tentatively at dinner, “am I your heir?”

He continues to skim the documents in his hands. “No,” he says.

Beau continues to work the books for the brewery. It seems like the times she quietly retreats to the library to manage ledgers are the only times her parents don’t make their displeasure with her quite as overt.

At least you’re good for something, goes unsaid.

She also keeps up with her studies, though she really would rather not. History is about boring dead guys fighting in stupid wars because they do stupid things. Geography doesn’t matter; it’s not like you can do anything about it if you don’t like it, and it’s not like you need to keep an eye on it in case it runs away. She finds marginal interest in the stories of the gods from religious studies, but could do without the constant, underlying our gods are superior and nonbelievers are scum. Math has always just been math, and she couldn’t care less about the politics of the Empire.

The only things she really enjoys reading are the tales of adventure she finds in the dustier sections of the library. She steals them from the shelves and hoards them in her room. At night, she’ll pull them out and reread her favorite parts by candlelight. She absolutely loves The Mountain Range of Gold, and almost cheered out loud when the protagonist resurfaced in Part 2. She delights in gratuitous descriptions of kick-ass fight scenes, and sometimes tries to reenact them with that a particularly kind onlooker might call “enthusiasm.”

There are also many, many romance scenes. Beau is unprepared for the sheet amount of…canoodling that some of these adventurers get up to. She’s rather annoyed by the unfortunate tendency of the broad-shouldered, handsome male characters (heroes) to sweep the beautiful, helpless female characters (love interests) off their feet. Beau could do without ever reading about a Sir Diggory and his seemingly endless muscles again. Usually she’s also disgusted by the way the women are portrayed, as gorgeous damsels with hearts of gold and not enough clothing and apparently very soft skin.

Though sometimes, a small part of her is absolutely delighted. Beau isn’t sure what to make of that yet. Yet.

When she isn’t raiding the libraries or being forced to learn things, Beau continues to run through in the vineyard and the nearby forests. Doing so does feel a bit empty without Darien around, and the loneliness would never go away, but the sharp edges of solitude had smoothed down into soft corners over time. Besides, Beau has to do something, and stir craziness does not sit well with her.

So rather than mope around all day in the manor, which is probably what her parents would want, Beau climbs trees and wades through streams and throws pebbles (unmaliciously) at squirrels. She also has the clothing for it now. A while back, in a stroke of genius, she asked the one of the more slightly-built workers for a pair of trousers, a linen shirt, and a hefty pair of worker’s boots. Despite her worst fears of being reported to her mother, the boy didn’t seem to mind. And after a while of hanging around their quarters and volunteering to do chores and refusing to bugger off, the servants move from tolerating her presence to inviting her for drinks (non-alcoholic) and stories. She hears about daring adventurers from ages past, brilliant and bloody battles, and learns quite about the various criminal elements of the empire. One day, an older worker teaches her how to really pick a lock, which comes in handy on the nights she stays out too late and has to break into her own home. They help her touch up her disguise, which allows her to hang around outdoors when her parents expect her to be in the house doing ladylike things. They let her hide her outfit with their belongings, and even occasionally pass along other hand-me-downs to her.

She has never been so free.

“You’ve gotten rather fit, haven’t you, Beauregard?” asks the dressmaker as she measures Beau for another terrible ensemble. “Just look at you!”

Beau considers herself in the mirror. “I suppose so?”

“I can’t imagine how,” says the dressmaker, “with you being home and learning to be a proper lady all the time.” The comment is pointed. It indicates that at any point Beau’s mother can be brought into the room and also shown how rather fit Beau has gotten.

Beau sighs. “I promise I’ll stop squirming,” she says.

“Don’t worry, dear, it’s refreshing. Too many young ladies these days look like a light breeze would blow them over.”

Beau can now successfully hang upside-down on a tree branch by her knees. She considers this one of the greatest achievements of her young life.

“Her tutors are quite impressed by her abilities,” her mother says to the guests in the drawing room. “Aren’t they, dear?”

“Yes, Mother,” says Beau. Her hands are folded in her lap. This dress is blue, at least, but that only helps so much.

The other ladies are speaking. They sound like birds tittering ceaselessly outside a bedroom window in the early morning.

“Not too impressed, I would hope?” says one, louder than the rest. Beau doesn’t like her. She’s got hair that’s obviously going grey, though the woman tries to hide it under an ostentatious hat. There’s also a mole growing on the edge of her nose. It’s got more personality than she does.

“A husband wouldn’t want his lady to be too clever, after all,” says the terrible woman. “Can’t have her getting too controlling of his household.”

Beau’s mother laughs. It’s another tinkling laugh, the I’m-richer-than-you-and-we-both-know-it-so-don’t-you-dare-lecture-me laugh. “Of course, Deannie, she’s properly educated. She just excels at what she’s taught. Why, she was almost betrothed to young Darien. It’s just that his father decided the boy should be sent to school before committing to anything.”

The women sip their tea in a manner that indicates how impressed they are. Beau wants to pick up the tea cart and use it to smash the window open.

Beau receives another letter from Darien. She crumples it up shortly after reading it. Then, immediately filled with regret, she picks it up and tries to smooth it out best as she can. Her fingers trace over the words.

Beau,

I’m sorry to say this but I won’t be coming back. Father is having me stay in Rexxentrum to be the face of his company in the capital. I know I promised I’d see you again, but there’s nothing I can do. Believe me, I tried to fight him about this. But he said that with him in Kamordah already, there’s no need for me to be at home. He wants me to be a businessman. You and I both know he won’t change his mind. You’re my sister, Beau, and I’m so sorry—

She puts the letter in a drawer and goes to bed.

There’s a new maid at the manor.

Her name is Mariel. She has dark, curly hair and freckles across her nose. She moves like a storm through the Quarters, cussing loudly and joking cheerfully, and old Reddick tells Beau she’s from one of the rowdier coastal cities. She’s seventeen, and Beau is thrilled to finally meet a girl her own age. But Mariel makes Beau nervous, and she isn’t sure why. Maybe it’s her unrestrained spirit. Maybe it’s her wide smile and mischievous eyes.

Maybe it’s the loud, echoing laugh that dances through the halls when she watches Beau—who had scaled the manor to the third-floor and tripped over the windowsill as she tried to sneak in—spill onto the floor and land on her ass.

“Ow.” Beau rubs her head. She looks up at Mariel. “I’m not a thief,” she says.

Mariel snickers, and Beau is struck by complete lack of decorum in the action. “Yeah, a real thief wouldn’t have fallen like that.”

Beau scowls. “I mean I’m not a thief ‘cause I live here.”

Mariel leans against her broom. “Yeah, right. Mister, you’re wearing worker’s clothes two sizes too big for you, and you’ve got dirt all across your face. And haven’t I seen you around the Quarters before? I could have sworn you were playing cards with Reddick yesterday.”

Beau freezes, and swears inwardly. Of course, someone new would think she was one of the servants breaking into the Boss’s house for some gold. Over the years, the help had welcomed the muddy-faced and loud young lady of the house into their fold, and largely ignored her antics. She had gotten so used to making a fool of herself and breaking rules in front of everybody except her parents that she’d forgotten how unacceptable her behavior really is. She sighs, and figures there’s no good way out of this situation.

The truth, then.

She pulls her hair out of its messy bun and does her best to wipe the dirt (fresh from the forest) off of her face. She tugs at the sides of her pants, trying to flare them out like a dress. “I’m Beauregard,” she says. “Please don’t tell my parents?”

The broom falls over, and Mariel almost does too. She hastily picks it up and tries to curtsy with a four-foot wooden stick in her hands, which only makes her almost drop the broom again. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” she says, and when she rises her face goes red, “wait, fuck, I mean…oh shoot, dammit. I’m sorry, milady.”

Beau tries to suppress the smirk threatening to split her face. “Nobody warned you that I do this sometimes?”

Mariel swears under her breath and curtsies again. “No, ma’am.”

Beau fails, and when Mariel resurfaces from the curtsy, she is met with an absolutely shit-eating grin from Beau. “I kind of hang around the Quarters and run around in the woods a lot. I think everyone thinks it’s funny, and I always loose a lot of money when we play cards, so nobody really cares. Except my parents. Who can’t know,” she adds.

Mariel stares at Beau, and bursts into laughter again. After a while, she wipes the tears from the corners of her eyes. “Wow, when I heard that the daughter of the house was a troublemaker, I thought they meant you were shitty to the servants or something. I didn’t think they meant you dressed up in boy’s clothes and lost at cards to us.”

Beau rubs the back of her neck sheepishly. “Well—”

Footsteps echo down the hall. Then, “I’m sorry, Madam, but I really don’t think it was a servant.”

There’s a scoff. “It had better not be. Honestly, I pay you all well enough to keep quiet and keep out of trouble. If I found out it’s a servant making noise this late at night I’m docking all of your pay.”

It’s her mother. Beau freezes.

Mariel quickly looks around. Then she grabs Beau by the wrist and yanks her down the hallway and into an empty guest bedroom. She carefully clicks the lock shut, then squeezes Beau and herself against a wardrobe just beyond the doorframe so their shadows don’t peek under the door.

Footsteps go past, along with an angry tirade by Beau’s mother.

They breathe a sigh of relief. Then Beau notices how the other girl has both her arms around her to keep her still, how she’s still holding her wrist and how well her body fits into Beau’s. How soft her hair is, and the way her chest rises when she—

“See something interesting, Milady?” whispers Mariel. Beau’s face colors. Her head snaps upwards and their eyes meet.

“You’re eighteen. And though our previous efforts failed thanks to your actions, new arrangements can always be made. It’s high time we planned for the future of this business, and it’s not as if you’re completely undesirable. Marcus would be a nice match, I should think.”

Beau carefully helps Mariel into the branches, then swings herself up the trunk and lands next to the her.

“Nice of Syra to cover for you today,” she says.

“Personally, I think Syra is on to us, and I think she’s doing her best to keep us together.”

Beau pulls out a book. “Perfect! That means we can keep going. Now, where were we?” she asks.

Mariel grins. “I think Sir Diggory was just about to compliment Lucianne’s tits in a much-too flowery manner.”

Beau snickers. “Oh, you’ll love this part.”

She leans against the pillow, breathing heavily. “Mariel?” She says.

“Yes, Beau?”

There’s a pause.

“I think I love you.”

They let their guard down. It’s a mistake.

“Your father and I have decided to send you to Zadash,” says Beau’s mother. “You’ve left us in a very…difficult position, and it was extremely hard for us to find a place for you. But Archivist Xenoth has agreed to teach you, and we think learning from the monks will be a positive influence on you.”

“Why?” asks Beau. “Because monks do what they’re told and don’t have sex?”

Her mother’s face turns a scandalized crimson, and her fists clench. “Beauregard, you have caused enough trouble for this family. You’ve always behaved extremely poorly, and you’ve never listened to your father and I when we know what’s best for you. You destroyed your own chances at a future with Darien, and got him sent away by his parents. You continue to mess about with the servants when you should be mingling with the rest of dignified society. And now you allow yourself to get tangled with this common girl, and—”

“Don’t you talk about her like that,” Beau says through clenched teeth.

“—and you get caught and you’ve scandalized the entire family—”

“Nobody needs to know! And why does it matter, anyway? Why does it matter what I do?”

“—you have duties to carry on this legacy your father has worked so hard to create for you—”

“I didn’t ask for it! I didn’t want any stupid legacy! This would be fine if I were a boy!”

“—shut up! You are not a boy, as both of us are well aware, and if you were one then everything would be so much easier for us! But you’re a girl, even if you seem incapable of acting like one, and we cannot have you soiling this family by continuing to stay here and being the way you are. If you aren’t going to do what we wanted you to all along, you’re going to go to the Cobalt Reserve and you’re going to become a monk, and maybe you’ll learn some respect and come home, or maybe you’ll just stay there and keep studying. But whatever happens, you’re going to become respectable, and you’re not going to ruin our name. Is that clear?”

Beau is biting her lip. There are tears running down her face. Her mother is shaking with anger.

“Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

It could have been worse, Beau thinks. At least they gave her some neat robes. At least they let her swear. At least they taught her how to fight. And she was really good at that last bit. But all this crap about “preparing her mind” and “preparing her soul” and “being the truth” learning about patience and sorting shelves and reading books is…is all crap. Beau doesn’t give a fuck. And so when she packs a bag and slips on her uniform and cracks open the window and slides onto the balcony, she moves quietly. And she doesn’t look back.

#critical role #fic #cr2 #fanfiction #fanfic #beauregard #the mighty nein #party backstory #theory #wildemount campaign #marisha ray #text

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delfiend423 · 7 years

Text

For Those Who Want to Get Better At Writing And Were Told “Just Write” And Don’t Know What To Do With That Advice

Just like one cannot get better at painting without painting, or sculpting without sculpting, or drawing without drawing, one cannot get better at writing without--you guessed it--writing.

But!

I don’t know about you, but telling someone to “just go write” is too abstract of a command for me to follow. So, here and now, I will break down some very simple very clear very tangible things you can do to become a better writer (in my humble and personal opinion, that is).

1.) Writing is Private. Keep It To Yourself.

Listen, I’m sure I’ll get some backlash from this sentiment, but its honestly what I personally feel to be the healthiest way to write, whether that be at the very start of your writing journey, or very late stage. When you share your writing with someone, one or more of the following is likely to happen:

- you’ll receive criticism from the reader. It could be something you can actually take and use, but more often than not it’ll be something you can’t do much about, such as “Idk I just don’t like this style of writing”. Criticism, especially when given at a stage where you yourself don’t have a lot of confidence in your creation, can be the poison that kills all motivation to improve.

- the reader will never actually get around to reading it. This happens a lot, more so with original works than fanfics. And it doesn’t matter why they never read it, be it deliberate or they just totally forgot: it’ll hurt. And it’ll be disheartening.

- they will read it, and they’ll love it! They’ll be really into the story! They’ll want more!! And believe me, you won’t be able to deliver. Either you just aren’t writing at a clip of a pace, or the writing you are getting done just doesn’t feel good enough to share. Either way, this will grow guilt onto your writing project and cause you to lose motivation to keep writing

We live in an age of oversharing, where if you do anything interesting of or make something you're proud of, you immediately expect the world to see it and appreciate it at the same level you personally do. Art is not meant for this kind of exposure, be it drawings, paintings, writing, anything. Art and writing are a private venture, an expression of the soul. Sometimes, you’ll produce a piece so exceptional in which you are unshakably proud of in your own right you can share it without expectation of praise nor fear of criticism. For writing, this will be after at least a second draft or seven, never your first time through writing a piece.

So don’t share. Keep your writing to yourself. It doesn’t matter if people think it’s “good” or not, because it’s not for them. So write whatever the hell your heart desires! Write something totally weird! Write something that doesn’t make sense! Write trash! Write self-inserts! Write a fictional language without any linguistic basis! You should enjoy what you’re creating, free from the concern over whether it will be enjoyed by anyone else. But that leads me to my next point...

2.) Writing Isn’t Always Sunshine And Rainbows

It’s work. Let me say it again for those in the back: writing. is. work. Because let’s face it, Thomas Eddison hit the nail on the head when he said: “ Genius is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration.” And by genius, he means any sort of pursuit of creation, be it creation of the light bulb, creation of a landscape in acrylic on canvas, or, yes, creation of the a story. If you truly want to be better at writing, you have to write even when it’s no longer a cinch. If you truly want to be happy with the way your writing reads on paper, you have to write even when it’s no longer a cinch. If you want to type up the next novel sensation to sweep the nations, you have to write. even. when. it’s. no. longer. a. cinch.

I am probably the worst offender of this piece of advice. If the words aren’t flowing from my mind to the keyboard keys to the word doc like a river freshly un-dammed, I shut the computer and go eat half the kitchen. Which leads me to point number three:

3.) There’s Writing As Creative Flexing. And Then There’s Writing To Practice.

We all want writing to be this wonderful time of sitting down and crafting beautiful and unique plots and characters and moments from the fabric of our own mindscapes, but it can’t always be if you ever want to climb the steps of improvement. Sometimes, you have to write something that you don’t love, that’s totally been done a million times before, something that gets at nothing and leaves no lasting impression. Let me explain.

When I was in middle school, at a time in my life where writing was this shiny new talent I had discovered, a time where I was convinced writing was what I wanted to do when I grew up, when I was convinced that aside from this super eloquent kid named Joey, I was the best writer to grace the planet, I joined a writing club called Power of the Pen. Power of the Pen was this organized sort of writing competition, where the middle-schoolers would go, they’d receive 3 writing prompts over the course of the competition, and for each prompt they have like 30 minutes (maybe an hour??) to write a complete work that responded to the prompt(s). So, during our weekly meeting after school, us kids in the Power of the Pen club were given a sample prompt by our teacher, were given the 30 minutes to write a piece, and then we shared what we wrote with one another and gave compliments and advice to one another.

None of these short stories I made were ever anything spectacular or even really that great, but they were a very instrumental in improving my writing. I learned to keep track of my thoughts as they occurred to me and were inked into the page, learned to mind the clock and hit that full beginning middle end in the time allotted to me. The more I wrote, the more I was able to experiment with the voice I used in my writing, and by trial and error learn how to use a multitude of voices in appropriate contexts.

My point being: not everything you write is going to be your passion project, and it shouldn’t be. Google writing prompts, set a timer, pull out a notebook or open a new document, and get to creating. Not all of them have be complete short stories; a lot of the prompts in practice were meant to make us work on a specific aspect of writing. One prompt I remember was to describe a scene as if we were there with our eyes closed. Another could be to tell a story with nothing but dialogue, the back-and-forth of two or more folks. You could also use these prompts to practice outlining, and come up with a full story--beginning, middle, end, plot twists, etc--without writing the whole thing out. Think of it like an artist filling a sketchbook page with a bunch of hands, so as to get a better grasp of how to draw hands in various ways. This type of writing should be no-strings-attached, it should let you focus on what you need to get better at (and that can be a little bit of everything!). But like the artist and their hand drawings, don’t just create a bunch of identical hands: change it up, try and write with a different tone and voice each time, play around. Write very formally, then write like Chuck Palahniuk, then do something else!

Just because this type of writing is classified as the grind, as the persperation of your genius, doesn’t mean it can’t be fun! Don’t take yourself too seriously when hashing these out. Or you’ll come to hate it, and you’ll never do as much as you should!

4.) Make Time For Writing. Be Ready At Any Time For Writing

If you’re anything like me, you live and write by the mindset of “when I’m feeling in the mood, I’ll write,” and then you’re hardly ever “in the mood” or at least “in the mood” while you’re not in the middle of the busiest week of your life. While there’s absolutely nothing wrong with writing while you’re inspired to write, if you really want to make some headway in your writing journey, you’re gonna need to write far more often than that. In Suggestion #3, I already talked about how you should take the time to do timed writings to work out your writing muscles and add build up your armory of writing instruments. Both this type of practice writing and working on material and ideas that inspire you are perfectly good uses of your time as a writer, but they have to happen to be of any use to you.

That’s why I’m suggesting the unthinkable: schedule your writing.

Yes, I know, it’s horrendous. But hear me out! Think of your writing as a workout. For those who aren’t too familiar with workout culture, those who workout regularly usually keep a pretty hard and fast schedule. They usually allocate which days they are going to workout in a week (and at what time), what sort of muscles/sorts of techniques they are going to work out on which days (i.e. leg day, arm day, core day, pull day, push day, etc), and what machines they need to spend time on and for how long.

So! Let’s apply that mentality, that structure, to our writing! Find time in your week, a day or two at least, where you have a free hour or two (in case the heat picks up, and you need the extra time to carry through with that writing momentum to its fullest potential). Block that time out to write. Now! Get even more structured, like the workout folk! Jot down what kind of writing exercises you are going to do on which days. Timed prompt writing for 30 minutes, then practice outlining for 30 minutes? Work on one of your writing projects for 30 (writing literally anything! See Suggestion #5), then do some 10-minute bursts of writing each focusing on a specific element in the story (i.e. dialogue for 10, descriptive for 10, plot-driven for 10).

Now that I’ve gone and made you ready to write at specific times on specific times when it’snot and convenient for you, I feel obligated to burst this bubble: the urge to write can and will come to you as unpredictably as the wind. And when this happens, you should do whatever you can to entertain the inspiration while its there. If you’re lucky enough to be free, grab a pen and paper or computer and get to it!! If you’re not so lucky, and this urge to write hits you at 3 in the morning, or in the middle of work, or heaven forbid in the midst of midterms or some time comparably as hectic... be prepared! The worst thing you can do is think to yourself: “I’ll remember these thoughts and take to the computer later”. Because you won’t remember them when you get to the computer later, if you even manage to sit your butt down to write at all. If the urge is accompanied by ideas and inspiration, jot those down on whatever scrap of paper you have, or into an email to yourself. Try to include lines of dialogue you hear going through your head, any sort of inkling of context if you have any, the weight/importance of this bit of story to the overall plot, and anything else that might be important to recall later. So even if you don’t get the privilege of working on your writing with these ideas freshly hatched, you won’t lose the ideas for when you have the time to sit down and get the writing you’ve scheduled in advance.

5.) Leave Perfection, Chronological Order, and Omniscience At The Door. You Don’t Need Them Now

Listen. I violate every one of my suggestions, but this one I violate the worst. I want to write my stories from start to finish, filling in every gap as I reach them, and I want my writing to be publishing-ready the first time through. All these things are impossible expectations. Let me repeat, so it sinks in: these things are impossible expectations to have for yourself. Stephen King said something to the effect of this: the first draft you write for yourself, the second draft you write now knowing what the story is you are trying to tell. Ergo, when you write a story, it’s experimental, it’s a project of discovery. You may not know everything single scene that will occur from the start to the finish. You may not know how it will end, or perhaps how it will start. Maybe you won’t know the plot twists, or really know the characters to the full depth they’ll come to embody.

But don’t sweat it! You’re not supposed to know! The point of writing is to bring a whole universe from out of your mindscape, piece by piece like a puzzle. Sometimes, you’ll have a sequence of pieces that all fit together nicely. Sometimes, it will be a scattering of bits from across the big picture that for now have no relation to one another. You’ll need to do a lot of writing before you’ll excavate enough pieces to realize what all the pieces are making together, realize the whole, and from there you can rewrite and revise and write anew to better tell the story that eventually came together.

So! My point being: when you sit down to write, don’t be confined by any the principles above. You’re writing need not even be prose if it doesn’t want to be at the moment, which is especially doable considering we’re not showing your writing to anyone other than yourself (Suggestion #1). It need not be final draft quality writing; the sentences can be choppy, the dialogue can be all back and forth like a screenplay with no spice whatsoever, heck you don’t even have to write a scene if its not coming to you, but instead insert a block that plain and simple hashes out what happens in this space of writing you have yet to craft. Don’t feel like picking up where you left off, then don’t! Write a random disjointed scene that you’re more inspired to create, write the death of one of your characters, write whatever whenever its to happen in the story! Don’t know what’s going to happen? Don’t sweat it! Make anything happen, because you can always just cut that chunk out if you don’t like the direction later on. No one will know your characters had a 20-page shopping spree if you don’t tell them that was the original direction!

These 5 Suggestions should help get all you folks looking to write more or write for the first time off the ground! Feel free to add your own suggestions in the reblogs and all that jazz!! I might add more later, myself.

Happy Writing Everyone!!!

#writing #writing advice #writing for myself #writing tips #writing things #yatta yatta #writing goals #2018 resolutions #how to write

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acesonuckles · 7 years

Text

Or Something pt. 2

[Sonic and Knuckles, a newly matched soulmate pair, must learn to navigate their new relationship...]

It occurred to Knuckles months later as they poured over blueprints, Sonic’s gloved hand drawing hard lines on the page, that the hedgehog was manipulating him.

“—and the bedrooms will have large western windows,” he was saying, tracing large squares on the print, “so we can watch the sunsets.”

Knuckles, who was struck dumb by his epiphany, could only nod.

Sonic paused in his rambling to give Knuckles one of his patented I-can-see-through-you looks. He dropped the pencil and turned to the echidna fully, palm pressed into the table. “Okay, what’s up? You wanna take a break?”

Did he? Maybe. His head was spinning, trying to put the fragmented pieces of this realization puzzle together. Sonic was playing a very good game, leaning toward him like he was worried, letting Knuckles dictate everything, but Knuckles could see through him.

“What are you playing at?” he demanded, fist smashing onto the table.

Sonic jumped, yanking his hand back. “What?”

“You! You’re— Ugh!”

“Whoa, whoa! Use your words! What’s with you?!”

Knuckles made a frustrated sound, searching for words and failing. “You can’t control me,” he managed to bite out eventually.

Sonic’s mouth dropped open and he seemed to visibly struggle with that. “What? No one’s controlling you, Knux!”

“Of course not, but you’re trying!”

“Knuckles...” Sonic sighed, shoulders slumping. It occurred to the Guardian that Sonic hadn’t moved, even though he was predisposed to running and putting distance between himself and his problems—so I can get a better look from a better angle, the hedgehog so insisted. Knuckles didn’t know whether to be insulted that he didn’t elicit that kind of reaction or impressed that the hero managed to keep his cool. “I’m not trying to control you. That’s impossible.”

“You are!” Knuckles punctuated this with another fist to the table, causing pencils to bounce and rattle their way to the floor. Sonic looked unimpressed. “You constantly follow me around and you’re always paying really close attention to everything I say—like you don’t trust me or something! And this house! It’s idiotic! I live on the Island and you live... everywhere! So I’ll ask again: what are you playing at?!”

Sonic stared at Knuckles for a few beats before throwing his head back, loud laughter filling the room. Knuckles, already fired up, felt irritation drip into his belly, igniting flames.

“This isn’t funny.”

“I know. I know, but oh—Knuckles! You’ve got it all wrong. I want a place where we can consolidate, where we can come back to and feel at ease, a place where there will be someone else to eat dinner with, especially for y—” He broke off, aborting his small impassioned speech before it could reach its climax.

Knuckles, who wasn’t as stupid as most people thought he was, blinked and let out a very eloquent “huh” which made Sonic twitch just a bit because it was a very fervent huh, the type of huh that moved mountains or got you punched in the face if the echidna was feeling violent (which was almost always). But, the hedgehog remained where he was, as if he wasn’t scared of Knuckles.

What a strange, almost unfortunate predicament.

Sure, Sonic hadn’t ever been scared of Knuckles per se, but there was a healthy respect there that made him think before he spoke sometimes and flinch away when Knuckles made certain sounds or moves, because he knew that the echidna was dangerous. It went both ways really—Sonic could kick Knuckles’s head right off his shoulders if he tried hard enough—but Knuckles felt like there was a shift happening, a shift he wasn’t prepared for.

“Nothing, never mind,” Sonic muttered, stooping down to gather the pencils Knuckles had displaced, “I’m not trying to control you,” he added from under the table, probably so Knuckles couldn’t see the lie on his face.

“Sure,” Knuckles remarked, crossing his arms. The anger from before was gone, replaced with vague bafflement and a sense that he had screwed up somehow. “So you’re paying super close attention to me because...?”

Sonic sighed and reappeared—without the pencils, Knuckles noticed. “You know, not everyone in the world is out to get you. In fact, some of us... We actually want to make sure you keep breathing.”

Knuckles bristled. “So you’re stalking me because you think I can’t keep myself safe, is that it?”

“What? Hell no! And I’m not stalking you! I just... I—I don’t want you to be alone all the time, okay!”

Knuckles, who felt like someone had just punched him right in the gut, felt his jaw drop open, nearly all the way to the floor. Sonic, for his part, looked shocked, as if he hadn’t intended to say that out loud. Well, at least they were in the same boat, surprise wise.

“What?” Knuckles gasped, except he was pretty sure it wasn’t in Mobian. Sonic seemed to understand though, if his set jaw and next outburst were anything to go on.

“Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but I’m standing by it now that it’s out there. Listen, Knux,” he stared the echidna straight in the eye, “I want you to have somewhere that you can call home, okay? And, don’t even get started on the Island—” he cut across when Knuckles opened his mouth to argue. “That ain’t no home. That’s a job, man. And it’s a pretty sad, unforgiving one, if you ask me. You sit out in the elements all day, for what? To keep the Master Emerald safe? No one even knows it exists except for us and Eggman, and you always go after him with me anyway. It won’t kill you to have somewhere to live that’s not coated in a weird green glow.”

Knuckles, struck dumb, could only swallow and say, “you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“I know! This is new for me...” Sonic muttered, glancing off to the side. “But, this thing we’ve got is doing weird stuff to my head, man. I wanna nest or something. And I’m worried about you, like, I don’t want you up in the middle of the sky when I’m down here.”

“You know,” Knuckles could tell that Sonic was getting uncomfortable—this much emotional release was new for the both of them. He needed to lighten the mood, “before this, you basically lived on the Island.”

“Did not!”

“You did. You slept up there four nights out of the week.”

“You— That’s...” Large green eyes widened in horror. “You’re right... Oh Chaos, we were already married weren’t we?!” He was wailing now, overdramatic as always, so at least he was back to normal.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Knuckles gritted his teeth against the thought.

“But, okay, so maybe I did live up there, but it was totally killing my back. I can’t be sleeping on the ground all the time. I already need to go to the chiropractor.”

“This coming from the guy who sleeps in trees.”

“Trees have better lumbar support than the ground, let me tell ya.”

“Bet a bed is better.”

“It is! Wait...” Sonic’s eyes narrowed, “are we still fighting? I’m never sure with you.”

“Are you gonna stop following me around like a lovesick puppy?” Knuckles quipped, only half-serious, and was shocked to see Sonic’s face fall. Ah, crap.

“Yeah...” Sonic sighed and ran a hand up his forehead, the hedgehog equivalent of pushing his hair out of his eyes, “as long as you agree to actually live in this house.”

Knuckles paused at that. He wasn’t sure that was a promise he could make. Sure, Sonic was right about the Island—it was a thankless job, but it was home as well. Could he really give that up?

“You can have more than one home, you know.” Sonic whispered into Knuckles’s extended pause, making the echidna jump. Damn, did Sonic develop the ability to read minds? “And you can always spend all day on the Island. Just come back here to sleep and eat—that’s all I ask.”

That wasn’t much, really. A bed would be nice, especially if it was raining, and a hot meal would be even better, though he wasn’t sure Sonic knew how to cook much. (Neither did he, so they were kinda screwed on that front, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it.) He could probably do that. Besides, he could feel himself getting almost-attached to Sonic as well, especially with all the time they had been spending together.

“Yeah, fine. I’ll try,” he answered eventually, being vague enough so as to not get Sonic’s hopes up. The last thing he needed was Sonic’s disappointment months from now. Hedgehog could pout.

“Great!” Sonic grinned and held out a hand. “It’s a deal!”

As they shook, Knuckles couldn’t help but wonder why he was more than a little okay with Sonic’s meddling now.

Against their best wishes, Amy went and organized a wedding anyway. Knuckles wasn’t exactly sure how she got off the ground, seeing as she didn’t have any money to plan the thing, until he caught wind of some sort of crowd-funding operation in Green Hill Zone—everyone there had been sworn to secrecy, of course, but Knuckles knew they did it. They donated money so their treasured hero could marry the man of his dreams.

Except, Knuckles preferred to only appear in nightmares.

And Sonic? Well...

“I can’t believe this! We deliberately told her— No wedding! I’m not doing it! I’m not marching down the aisle like some virginal bride and we’re not kissing ever, let alone in front of people, and I. Am. Not. Dancing. With. You. to some sappy song. Also—I hate wedding cake. There, I said it.”

Knuckles, who had never had wedding cake and so couldn’t understand the sin of that statement, could only watch as Sonic marched a rut in front of the Master Emerald dais, wedding announcement making that indescribable warble of card stock as Sonic shook it in his agitation. “So, you’re not a virgin then?”

“Knuckles,” Sonic pressed with a tone and expression that begged for a little seriousness and sympathy. “She planned a wedding! Don’t you understand?!”

“What I don’t understand is how she managed to mail that announcement to the Island.”

Sonic groaned like he was being water boarded—low and scared and panicked and desperate. “We can’t get married!”

Knuckles shrugged, a gesture so depleted of worry that Sonic’s eyes nearly bugged out when he saw it. “I don’t see what your problem is. We’re already basically married in the eye of the law.”

“We are a matched pair, registered for social benefits, not married and devoted to each other.”

Knuckles shrugged again, if only to see Sonic get more agitated. At this rate, he was going to be able to grow something in Sonic’s pacing path with minimal effort. “I still don’t see what the big deal is. So we traipse up some aisle, stand in front of some people, and say a few things about honoring each other—what’s the problem?”

Sonic gave him a betrayed look that said I-thought-you-would-be-more-upset-about-this-than-me, which might have been the case a few months ago. As it was now, this whole situation was too funny for him to really worry about; Sonic was doing plenty of that for the both of them. “Knuckles,” Sonic began, deadly serious, “have you ever been to a wedding?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Then you can’t possibly imagine the terror that awaits! Knuckles—”

“Look, she already planned it all; we just have to show up.”

“You know, I never expected you to be the reasonable, let’s get married! type,” Sonic ground out.

“I’m just the type that likes to keep his head on his shoulders. Amy’s got a mean swing with that hammer.”

Sonic groaned with new terror as the reality of that statement hit him like a well-aimed wallop from said hammer. “Oh Chaos, we’re dead either way!”

“Which is why I picked the path of least resistance. Now, c’mon Sonic, we have to find something new, something old, and something borrowed.”

“I thought you didn’t know anything about weddings! And you forgot something blue!”

Knuckles couldn’t help it—he laughed. “Just because I’ve never been to one doesn’t mean I don’t know about them, Blue.”

Sonic opened his mouth to argue back, but then something seemed to occur to him and his jaw snapped shut. “I can’t believe this.”

“Now you know how I feel every time you open your mouth.”

I can’t believe this became Sonic’s mantra up until the very moment that the temple head declared them married and they stared at each other in terror.

Mobians didn’t have religion so much as a respect for science and nature—Chaos Energy being the physical manifestation of those ideas—but they did have Chaos temples where they gathered to commemorate weddings, births, and deaths. In the past, mobian weddings were simple things with little pomp and circumstance, but, recently there had been a push to make them more like human marriages—some sort of romantic spirit that was infecting mobian culture like a virus.

But, all of that aside, it meant one very bad thing. Knuckles wasn’t one hundred percent on all of the conventions, but he had sat through enough chick flicks with Amy to know what happened at the end of a wedding ceremony. The temple head didn’t make a sound about a kiss, which meant that Amy probably talked to her ahead of time, but they could feel the crowd’s expectations like plasma in the air, thick and clinging to everything.

Hell no, Sonic mouthed at him and Knuckles was inclined to agree. However, there was a building energy in this room that he was afraid would explode in their faces if they didn’t do something.

In a slight non-panic and with no better ideas, Knuckles punched Sonic in the shoulder hard enough to make the hedgehog rock backwards. Sonic’s mouth dropped open in shock as he caught his balance and the room seemed to suck in a simultaneous gasp of air, waiting for Sonic’s reaction.

The hedgehog rolled forward and punched him back, crashing his fist into Knuckles’s red arm with a laugh, the first pure chuckle Knuckles had heard him make since the beginning of this debacle. It was such a nice sound that even the temple head chuckled in response. Laughter rippled through the room slowly like waves on a calm day at the beach, rolling over and over until they reached the back. Sonic grinned at him, and Knuckles shook his head in response, fighting the fond smile that was tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well,” the head began with a declarative voice, “I suppose that’s as good as we’re gonna get. Good luck in your marriage.”

“Good luck in your marriage!” the room chimed back, Amy’s voice being a particularly loud participant. Suddenly, Knuckles wasn’t so sure that this was so much a joke on her part as a genuine gesture. Misguided, but thoughtful, in her own way.

“Marriage...” Knuckles muttered, and couldn’t help but feel his tongue stick to the top of his mouth. Chaos, what the hell—

Sonic slung an arm around his shoulder, knocking into the blades of his back with a heavy movement. “Or something,” he muttered, just low enough that only Knuckles could hear. “C’mon, we’ve got cake to eat.”

Knuckles let the hedgehog pull him along, down the aisle, past well-wishers who were in on the joke, yelling out congratulations that ranged from dangerous to downright hilarious. Sonic pushed the doors open, letting sunlight filter in and causing Knuckles to squint, before tugging him again, causing him to stumble out.

“You don’t like wedding cake,” Knuckles managed as he wrestled his tongue into working order as they were crunching across the gravel.

His only answer was that chiming, infectious laugh.

#sonuckles #sonic #knuckles #amy #or something #writing #ashe

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bambamramfan · 8 years

Text

Part 2: Time for the Other

Answering @jadagul on Alienation in Social Relationships

Okay this one is pretty long. But also really important.

This is the one I find most confusing, I think. But also most concerning.

A lot of people seem to write about the experience of being trapped in a system that obligates them to follow certain social norms that make them miserable. And my instinctive answer is always “then don’t do that? What do you care what other people think?”

Now sometimes that runs up against a certain sort of hard power; clearly you will care what other people think if they are credibly threatening violence against you. (Although I am sufficiently sheltered/privileged/oblivious to never have actually witnessed an act of violence, and thus to not alieve that violence actually happens, intellectually I’m aware that this is nonsense).

But most people seem to worry about being judged “by people”, as you wrote about eloquently a month ago. And this is a worry that I just don’t understand.

(My favorite story comes from a friend of mine, who was sitting in her cubicle one day drinking orange juice. And someone whom she had never seen before was walking by, and said “You shouldn’t drink orange juice. It will start your middle-aged spread.”

And I’d have a lot of issues with that interaction–starting from the fact that someone started a conversation with me when I was sitting alone minding my own business, moving through the unnecessary judginess, and possibly winding up at the fact that the criticism doesn’t even make that much sense. But my friend was really upset, and when I asked why, she said “I don’t want to stop drinking orange juice!”

I normally tell that story as a joke, with that last bit as the punchline. Becasue the link from “someone criticized me” to “I should change my behavior” just isn’t there in my head).

I think I tend to assume that if people think ill of me, that reflects badly on their judgment, and thus I don’t need to care what they think of me. It’s nice when a catch-22 works in my favor.

It also probably helps that I simultaneously am an introvert with low emotional bandwidth, and find it very easy to make friends. Not having enough close friends to spend time with isn’t a very real-feeling possibility to me, since at any given time I have more close friends than I can actually make time for.

Heh. I like your idea of a joke. It reminds me of one of Zizek’s favorite jokes:

A man who believes himself to be a kernel of grain is taken to a mental institution where the doctors do their best to convince him that he is not a kernel of grain but a man; however, when he is cured (convinced that he is not a kernel of grain but a man) and allowed to leave the hospital, he immediately comes back, trembling and very scared—there is a chicken outside the door, and he is afraid it will eat him. “My dear fellow,” says his doctor, “you know very well that you are not a kernel of grain but a man.” “Of course I know,” replies the patient, “but does the chicken?”

So I really respect that you only see “hard limits” as going so far in controlling our social interactions. It’s easy to tell a story where your boss cares about every social signal you show, or your parents have a lot of sway over your life so their opinion of you is one of material force. This is true for some people, but it’s very easy to exaggerate. So I’m glad when people can see how much freedom they really have.

But, as you note, people still feel very socially limited. Why is that?

Whenever we are worried when some vague, undifferentiated group of people may socially judge us, in psychoanalytic terms that is fear of the Big Other. The theory here is that early on we imprint “there is a social other out there, and our subsistence relies on it, so we must stay in its good graces” and our brains never really stop thinking that way, even as we consciously become aware of specific people and their specific power (and lack of power) over us.

So what are all the vague forces that judge us for how we perform either our morality or social conformity? God. The Discourse. Those gossiping girls from high school. What would our parents think. What would the children think. The people in the grocery store watching us as our kid cries. Journalists who judge our subgroup. Corporations who sponsor them. The high school reunion.

These forces are all just very vague - it’s hard to prove how our actions lead to their judgment in a way that directly affects us, but it’s also hard to prove it never will. Most people choose some particular force, and obsess over whether it approves of them constantly. At the heart of it, we know we are a good person, but we worry this all powerful force might catch us at the wrong moment out of context and conclude we are a bad person, and then cast us into social abjection. See my Seinfeld review. But does the chicken know?

Now, the Big Other is nothing new. In fact you’d think modernity and the decline of tribes would if anything make it a weaker influence in our life. But the internet may put this into overdrive - we now have exact numbers knowing how many people like us, what activities of ours they like, and what number of people are downvoting us. What influence do any of these numbers have over our life? Unless you’re selling your brand, almost none, but LOOK LOOK THE NUMBER JUST WENT UP has combined our little Pavlovian hindbrain with our Lacanian fear of vague social judgment and it’s just an incredible social addiction most of us can’t escape. Hence my concerns about Twitter Hell.

Which brings us to the twofold answer of “Should we worry about other people?” I think we should care a great deal about what specific people think about us, and whether we have harmed them, and how to avoid harming them. But everyone could do with less worrying about what some vague, undefined group of people think about us, when there is no specific person who is going to affect us directly. (In fact, the worst case is when we care so much what the Big Other thinks of us, that we let that fear cause us to bring harm to a specific person. And that’s when we become the oppressor.)

The difference here can be roughly akin to alienation. Focus on the relationships that are real, and you have real control over. Get yourself out from the judgments of vague groups that may not even exist and how Tumblr followers and Facebook likes will respond to your actions.

#big other

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