#my style is so inconsistent... you can TELL I did this over the stretch of days | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

olivia-anderson-fanfic · 4 years ago

Text

Satisfied, Part 28

First

~~~

The pair sprinted out of the store, blonde in tow. It took about half a minute for Chloe to finally process everything going on, and another ten seconds for her to finally catch her footing enough for them to let go.

Marinette chanced a look back and cringed. A few people had stayed inside the store for various reasons but most were following after them, phones in hand. She pulled up her hood.

Dick glanced at both of them as they neared a crowded escalator. “Can you guys hop a railing?”

“Obviously,” said Marinette.

“... No? What the hell?” Chloe said.

Marinette and Dick gave each other a look before he groaned.

“Sorry for this.”

“For wha --?” The girl began but she, unfortunately, got her answer pretty quickly. He picked her up and held her to his chest, resting a hand over the back of her neck.

The two vigilantes gave each other a small nod before they jumped over the railing. Neither of them pointed out the fact that they both had perfect form, or that it was clearly an everyday thing for them. Because now more people were staring.

“Didn’t think this through, huh?” Chloe commented as she was let down.

“Shut up,” muttered Dick.

And then they were running again.

A quick look back at the crowd chasing them made her face pale. Fun! Now security thought they were thieves.

“Oh, come on, do you guys have to do your jobs?” She whined.

Ah, crap. They were losing Chloe. Dick was distracted, pulling out his wallet (for some reason) and hadn’t noticed.

Marinette bit her cheek. They could just leave her. A glance at the security footage would clear her name. It would be fi--.

She skidded to a stop and wheeled around. Damn it.

When Chloe got to her, she threw her over her shoulder and started up again. She raced to catch up with their third member, who was now dropping money on the floor.

She blinked a few times to process this, then shook her head and ran faster.

“The hell, Dick?” Chloe yelled as they stepped out into the sun.

“The less people chasing us the better! I can afford it!” He said.

They gave a pause at the edge of the parking lot. Their car was... well, they didn’t know.

“Random alley and hope we don’t get mugged?” Marinette offered.

“Yeah,” Dick said.

They passed off Chloe like a baton and then broke into a run again.

Five minutes later, they were panting in an alleyway. Marinette looked down to check her clothes weren’t originals before dropping onto her back and spreading out in the grime. Dick all but dropped the girl he was holding and leaned against a wall as he tried to catch his breath.

Chloe, who hadn’t run in a little while, was mostly just holding her probably bruised stomach (Marinette hadn’t taken time to make sure she was positioned properly on her shoulder).

“The PR team is gonna hate meeeeee,” complained Dick, who was sliding down the wall very slowly.

“You know...” Began Chloe, who seemed a bit hesitant to say anything.

“What?” Hissed Marinette, squeezing her eyes shut.

“You probably could have said that Mari was going to be future Wayne adoptee number 453542 and no one would have batted an eye.”

There was a short silence, then a string of very creative cursing from both of them.

After they had cursed enough to feel marginally better, Dick turned to Marinette. “Remember when I told you that you should let go of your anger?”

“Mhmm...”

“Not with her. Stay mad. She’s smarter than us. That’s not allowed.”

Chloe gave a short laugh and held out a hand to each of them to get up.

Marinette smiled and took it.

It took a week for her to be allowed on patrol again. This was good for her job, she was actually getting work done (she had even finished Adrien’s outfit!), but also dreadfully boring at times.

So, when she was finally told on the comms that she could come back, she was somewhat disappointed when Red Hood said that he was going to take the day to teach her sparring.

There was, unsurprisingly, a bit of an argument over this.

“Red Hood can’t mentor her! She already has less morals than us, we can’t just let him corrupt her!” Nightwing hissed.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.”

“I’m doing this to teach her to communicate her injuries. Would you like me not to do that?”

Batman sighed. “No, but maybe someone else would be better suited than you to --.”

“I’m better suited than all of you!”

“Why don’t we just go over and abduct Ladybug?” Chimed in Robin.

“Yeah, do your weird dad thing and track his credit card,” said Red Robin.

Batman sputtered for a response, then sighed. “I guess I could...”

“Suckers! I’m using cash!” Red Hood said, which was met with a string of cursing.

Marinette turned off her comm with a small roll of her eyes. “Tikki, spots on,” she muttered.

Only to scream.

Because the hands and feet of her costume weren’t appearing.

She stared at the glowing purple at her wrists and ankles. As she watched, it retreated up her arms very slightly. Her costume was disappearing before her eyes.

She swallowed thickly. What could she do? She couldn’t really switch miraculi. Ladybug was already well-known enough there to have a costume made of her. But, ethically, could she continue on like this, knowing how Tikki must be suffering? And even if she did, how? The purple was glowing. It would be hard to miss.

Marinette mulled this over for a bit before walking around her apartment. She picked up the pro-fighter gloves she’d stolen from the Waynes and a set of parkour shoes. At least they were black. She didn’t know what she’d do if her outfit didn’t even slightly match.

A few minutes after she’d pulled them on, Red Hood opened the door to her apartment.

She blinked. “Didn’t I lock that?”

“Yeah, I learned how to pick house locks while you were out,” he explained.

She gave a small frown but shrugged it off and pushed past him. He caught her hand and raised his eyebrows at her new look. Dang, she hadn’t even gotten out the door.

“What’s up with the new outfit?”

She shrugged casually and pulled her hand from his grip. “Honestly? I was getting tired of the plain outfit. Figured I’d start upgrading it over time.”

He looked a bit skeptical. She couldn’t blame him. The last time he’d seen her in this costume she’d been shot. She’d think that she was getting weaker, too.

And she was. But he didn’t need to know that.

Okay, so maybe Jason had had a point. So what?

They slipped out the window and started making their way across the rooftops.

“You’d tell me if there was anything wrong, right?” Red Hood said as he hopped another roof with ease.

She tipped her head to the side and considered this. It was the whole point of what they were doing, getting her to admit when she needed help. But she brushed this aside. She couldn’t get help for this. The only way to fix it was to give someone the cat miraculous.

And she didn’t know if she trusted Robin enough yet.

So she smiled and shook her head. “Honestly, you worry too much. Relax. I’m a designer, remember? Of course I’d want a more intricate outfit than plain spandex.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly and he nodded. “Good.”

She bit back her guilt. “Where are we going, anyways?”

“Private studio.”

She nodded and they continued on in silence. She always hated silence. It gave her way too much time to think. About the way she was getting weaker with every transformation. About how she was supposed to hide it. About whether it was right to do so.

Marinette was glad when they finally touched ground outside a dojo.

They stepped inside and the person at the front blinked a few times. “It’s really you,” he said.

Red Hood rolled his eyes. “Take a picture, it’d last longer.”

She swatted him over the back of the head when the attendant actually began to take out his phone. “You can take one afterwards, okay? We’d prefer not to be hounded right when we leave.”

The man nodded and sheepishly put his phone away. They were led into a private room not unlike the one the Waynes had (though, admittedly, far lower in budget).

Red Hood crossed his arms. “Right. Ground rules: we fight until one of us gives up, we have to give up when we’re in pain or completely pinned, and two taps on whatever you can reach is a give up.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Why two taps?”

He gave a shrug. “It’s what Nightwing and Batman drilled into all of us. My guess is one could be an accident and three just feels excessive.”

Marinette nodded. Fair enough.

She could feel him watching while they stretched and groaned. “I’m fine. I barely even feel it anymore.”

“We can postpone if you need, I don’t care about the money.”

She rolled her eyes. “Relaaaaax.”

All he gave her was a stern look in return.

“Kwami, you’re beginning to look like Batman, scowling like that.”

He gasped. “You take that back!”

“Nope,” she grinned, pushing herself to her feet.

They both got into fighting positions.

They eyed each other warily as they circled each other. Marinette didn’t know Red Hood’s fighting style for close-combat, and Red Hood seemed to be considering his options.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she eyed him up and down. He was certainly strong, a quick glance showed that, but did he know how to use it? He had years of vigilante experience, surely he must know some hand-to-hand combat, right? Then again, he was only really known for using guns. Maybe she could beat him, maybe not. She didn’t want to underestimate him...

He lunged forward and she had to jump over him to dodge, using his back as a vault so she could land on her feet. He stumbled forwards a step and whipped around just in time to earn a kick in the stomach. To her surprise, though, he didn’t double over all that much, only giving a small wheeze at the blow. He must be used to hand-to-hand, then, if he could take a kick like that.

Damn.

They narrowed their eyes at each other.

He ran forward, hand coming up for a punch. She grinned and dodged the easy attack. He must be trying to figure out her style. She’d just have to make sure to stay inconsistent --.

His leg swiped under her and she cringed as she hit the ground with a dull thud, only just managing to roll out of the way when he came down after her.

A hand locked around her leg and she cursed, kicking up in a weak attempt to break his grip, but he held fast. With a quick twist she was forced onto her stomach to avoid messing up her ankle and she groaned as he leaned forward to press her head onto the mat. She wiggled around awkwardly underneath him, only to sigh when she realized she wasn’t getting out of it.

There was a beat.

She reluctantly tapped the ground twice.

His weight shifted off of her and she sent him a glare as she flipped onto her back.

He gave her a small smile, holding out a hand to help her up.

“You know, if I didn’t think Nightwing would infect you with his stupid morals, I’d let him train you. You have similar fighting styles. Very... jump-y.”

She scoffed and took his hand, allowing him to pull her up. “Fight with him often?”

“You have no idea,” he said with a slight grin. “Best two out of three?”

She nodded and brought her hands back up to her face.

After a little bit of fighting she’d managed to get a grasp on his fighting style. It seemed a mix of a bunch of different martial arts, but he seemed to put an emphasis on pins rather than genuinely painful attacks.

With this in mind, she was actually able to win some. He definitely won more than she did, he wasn’t going easy on her at all, but it was nice to not lose every time.

Red Hood handed her a water bottle and rested an arm around her shoulders as she drank it. “Same time next week?”

She grinned and wiped her mouth. “Don’t trust me to tap out all the time, yet?”

“You’re getting better,” he admitted, then ruffled her hair. “You’re finally tapping out at the moment you realize you’re not getting up, but I’d like you to start doing it while you’re being pinned instead of after.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“Fine, fine. I’ll... consider it.”

He sent her a halfhearted glare. She smiled cheekily and rested a hand over the doorknob. “Ready for the press?”

“Never am,” he muttered.

They both brought their widest smiles to their faces as they stepped out to greet the paparazzi.

~~~

Taglist

@comet-kun @thatonecroc @trippingovermyfeet @swiftie-miraculer13 @nickristus-dreamer @moongoddesskiana @i-am-ironic @indecisive-mess-named-me @thebooki3h @insane-fangirl-of-everything @deepestobservationwombat @theymakeupfairies @fatimaabbasrizvi @clumsy-owl-4178 @fanofalittletoomuch @iamablinkmarvelarmy @nathleigh @lilkymilky @silvergold-swirl @dino-lovingreen-angel @thestressmademedoit @kissa-chan @ladybug-182 @alysrose-starchild @t1dwarrior-of-earth @spyofthenightcourt @rowanrouge @nik-nak-3 @momothefemur @aestheticnpoetic @labschaos @our-preciousss @mochinek0 @eliza-bich @mythogaychic @severelyenchantedwonderland @sashakoi @smolplantmum @bluesimani @tropestropestropes @kitsunebell @keepingupwiththemalfoys @sassakitty @2confused-2doanything @too0bsessedformyowngood @all-mights-asscheeks @demonicbusiness @meg-an-ace

#maribat #satisfied #timinette #timari #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #tim drake #red robin

180 notes · View notes

snkpolls · 4 years ago

Text

SnK Episode 61 Poll Results (for Manga Readers)

The poll closed with 359 responses. Thank you to everyone who participated!

Please note that these are the results for the Manga Readers’ poll. If you wish to see the results for the Anime Only Watchers’ poll, click here.

---

RATE THE EPISODE 347 Responses

While this episode wasn’t as big of a hit as episode 60, overall most viewers still enjoyed the content and are looking forward to more next week!

amazing amazing! I'm so delighted with this season so far!

Im so beyond pumped i love everything

Dissapointing but acceptable.

I’m like angry I loved it so much.

I just wish we didn't have to wait a week

It was amazing. We all gotta apologize to MAPPA for ever doubting them.

It's a huge stepdown from episode 1. At times the animation was straight up painful to watch. My expectations were low and yet I'm still disappointed :/

WHICH OF THE FOLLOWING WAS YOUR FAVORITE SCENE/MOMENT? 349 Responses

Reiner-centric scenes were the highest on people’s radar, with 24.9% of respondents enjoying his reunion with the warrior cadets, and not far behind, 22.9% enjoyed Reiner bringing up the 104th at the dinner table. In third, with only 13.5%, was Pieck and Porco’s formal introduction to the audience.

Hearing Zeke greet his grandparents with such happiness warmed my heart. I do believe that he loves them.

They just had to add one last image of Ymir's broken face before she died, huh? :(

WE FORGOT TO ASK LAST WEEK D: WHICH OF THE FOLLOWING SCENES/MOMENTS FROM EPISODE 60 WAS YOUR FAVORITE? 348 Responses

Last week we forgot to include what your favorite scenes were. The scene from episode 60 that got the most favor was Reiner’s, “I’m sick and tired… of walls” with 33.6% of the vote. 16.7% most enjoyed Zeke’s titan transforming scream. 14.9% were hyped about Reiner and Porco wrecking Fort Slava.

MAPPA WENT ALL OUT WITH THE CINEMATOGRAPHY IN THIS EPISODE. WHAT DID YOU THINK OF THE CINEMATIC PANS AND ROTOSCOPE ANIMATION? 349 Responses

Overall, a total of 74.5% respondents have positive feelings about MAPPA’s use of rotoscope animation and camera panning. Some felt like it was akin to watching a movie, while others are just happy to have the dynamic movement. A smaller amount of respondents didn’t have feelings one way or another, and a minority (about 10.3%) really are not a fan of this type of animation style for the series.

It felt odd sometimes as they used it for long scenes (like Udo talking or Gabi telling the story to her family) but overall it was pretty great and I prefer it to WIT's stale animation during season 3

I liked the more dynamic movement during dialogue, but my roommate found it super awkward and off-model. So a fifty-fifty split in a sample size of two lol

It could have been animated better, but I like the extra dimension it gives to scenes

Enjoyed it a lot! However, there were a few scenes that felt a bit off, like some frames were missing. Specifically, when Udo was doing all those gestures while talking with the rest of the Warrior Candidates.

It felt dynamic to the point of looking unnatural - some gestures and expressions just moved wrong

i'm split, in some scenes it was great (like reiner waking up), but in the dialogue scenes the constant movement seemed kinda unnatural and distracting

It was amazing but at the same time I'd didn't look fluid enough, especially at Udo's mouvements which made the character look kind of...video game-ish in constant moving.

I thought it looked great the rotoscoping,the movements all looked amazing

The animation during Urdu’s scene is so cool! I was caught of guard at first though lol. It’s so realistic!

NOW THAT WE’VE GOTTEN TO HEAR A LITTLE MORE OF THE NEW OST TRACKS, HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THE SOUNDTRACK SO FAR THIS SEASON? 344 Responses

So far, reception to the newer music is overall positive. 31.1% are really enjoying the music and think the songs are being used immaculately, and 40.4% really feel that the song choice compliments the scenes they’ve been used in. 13.1% think the songs are good, but miss having that sole Sawano feel to them. 10.8% just feel the music is “ok” and 2.6% aren’t a fan of the new OST tracks so far.

I mean it sounds good, but we haven't gotten to important moments that require a memorable track, so we'll see!

First episode slapped because it really complemented the scene but it's more... generic. I didn't like how it was used in this episode, there wasn't enough of it and again, generic. I miss Sawano's unreal scores.

the animation absolutely blew me away, and i love the intense music that played during Reiners monologue

The music is fine.

I've heard both new and old songs from the previous seasons. Still too soon to make an opinion as we need to hear more.

I am deaf, I can't hear no damn soundtracks

That music guys when they came back to Liberio and reuniting with they parents, made me tear up but also because the scouts never had the chance to go back home with victory in the arms of their family, I wish I could have seen EMA like this.. It kinda felt unfair X) but I was happy for them nevertheless.

HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THE CLOSEUP OF ZEKE’S MOUTH? 346 Responses

Our first of probably too many crack questions in this poll, 32.7% thought the closeup of Zeke lighting his cigarette was cool looking. 21.4% are concerned about Zeke’s lung health. 19.1% are probably annoyed with us and simply don’t care (lol). 13.3% wouldn’t mind smooching Zeke, and 11% were just plain grossed out.

Does smoke even affect a titan shifter? Surely his lungs just heal themselves

ASMR for the eyes, right there. Aww yiss

It was awesome! Zeke is shown as relaxed person with a big drop of mystery.

Smoking Bad but he is gonna die in a year anyway

Suuuuuuucc

It might've just been an artistic choice to include it in there, but i gotta say I'm oddly fascinated and idk why

I don’t remember it lol

I didn't even notice.

Zeke looks hotter than he has ever looked

WHAT’S YOUR OPINION ABOUT ELDIAN ASSES? 341 Responses

Most of the responses seemed to feel rather positively about Eldian asses, with almost 40% seeking out Zeke’s ass wiping technique. About 17% simply stated their appreciation for them, while almost 13% are just thirsty. In contrast, a little over 17% seemed confused to the question’s inclusion and about 10% were confused outright.

MAPPA WHERE IS PIECK'S ASS

More into Eldian thighs, really

I bet Levi’s is nice

If only Eren had one

zeke has the energy of a straight man who doesn't wash his ass

Only Shadis' ass

GIVE IT TO ME 😏😏

They are like normal, human asses. Do not turn them into some magical, special snowflakes, just because they belong to Eldians.

Seek help

Enough

DO YOU WANT REINER TO GIVE YOU A HEAD PAT? 343 Responses

A definitive majority, almost 59 percent, openly expressed enthusiasm for the prospect of a head pat from Reiner. However, a near 30% fraction of responders didn’t seem too happy about this recent chain of less than serious questions. We’re sorry about that. 😅. The rest either didn’t seem interested in said prospect or noted they wouldn’t care either way.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THE DECISION FROM MAPPA TO CONDENSE REINER’S FLASHBACK INTO (PRESUMABLY) A SINGLE EPISODE? 346 Responses

It would appear that the majority of those who took our poll express cautious optimism at the prospect of seeing all (or the vast majority) of Reiner’s backstory being adapted into a single episode, with a near 47% supporting the move, thinking it could make the narrative “more coherent”. Almost 20% argue it would work better pacing wise. On the flipside, just over 17% state that they would rather have a more accurate adaptation to the manga. 11.6% simply say they have no opinion. There were also more than a few write-ins.

I do wish everything could be animated to full detail, but pacing and structure will benefit here

They've done a good job so far, so I'll reserve judgement until I actually watch it.

It will be difficult as they're chapters with loads of dialogue, but they can pull it off if unnecessary stuff gets cut out or changed in some type of way (like watching Marcel's death for the sixth time, them breaking through the wall or even Jean and Eren fighting)

If they get the pacing right, then the rearrangement will be for the better.

Reiner flashbacks + Reiner suicide attempt + Falco meeting "Kruger" (more than 2,5 chapters) in a single episode? HELL NO! WTF MAPPA!

Worried and cautiously optimistic.

At least it looks like they're going to stick to just one episode for the RBA flashback. It was mostly just filler anyway, so there was never any need to stretch it out and waste precious time getting back to the Paradis side of the story

I doubt that that's exactly how it is, but if so, then I don't think that that's a wise idea

It’s gonna be rushed as hell

Reiner flashback is very long and there is tons of dialogue, so I dont know how its going fit in only one episode, but if they can make it work then its fine for me

WHICH CHARACTER DESIGN DID YOU LIKE BEST IN COMPARISON TO THE MANGA? 346 Responses

This question gave us a somewhat evenly split pie chart, but Porco nonetheless managed to gain the bigger piece with just over 55%. Surely due to that bomber jacket and haircut. Nearly 45% picked Pieck (gottem) instead. Must have been the somewhat inconsistent nose.

WHO’S SEIYUU DID YOU LIKE BEST? 335 Responses

On the flip side, 68.4% seemed to prefer Pieck’s soft voice. Porco with his (how the hell does Porco sound like… how can you describe his voice) managed to win the hearts of 31.6% of responses.

Pieck voice wtf? I imagined Pieck with a more Hanji-ish voice, not this sweet and high pitched.

DID MAPPA DO PIECK’S NOSE JUSTICE? 345 Responses

The debacle over Pieck’s POWERFUL nose gave us quite a colorful pie chart. Almost 39% of responses noted that Mappa was on point with Pieck’s nose for most of the episode. Afterwards, 26.7% stated that they thought that Mappa got it right only in some points of the episode. On the flip side, another 26.7% thought that Mappa was generally quite on point throughout the entire episode. A small minority (7.8%) thought that Mappa simply did a poor job.

The animation is good, and while I don't want to complain, I have a small problem with the drawings themselves. I feel like they lack precision (like Pieck's nose, idk if that's clear).

I'm grateful for Pieck's nose. I always respected Isayama for drawing imperfect characters, because this way he has made them to look more realistic. Even though Pieck has so-called imperfect nose, she is still absolutely gorgeous. Her imperfections are part of what makes her beautiful and unique.

PORCO’S HAIR - WERE YOU TEAM RED HAIR OR BLOND HAIR? AND ARE YOU HAPPY WITH HIS ANIME COLOR SCHEME? 345 Responses

A far less controversial debacle concerned Porco’s hair scheme. The folks supporting a Blond color scheme were universally content with his hair color (all 57.4% of team Blond). On the flip side, an almost universal approval was also present from team Redhead (13.6% of those supported his blond hair color). 27.5% of the responses seemed to care not about this issue at all, however.

NOW THAT WE KNOW PORCO BETTER IN THE MANGA, DO YOU THINK HE WOULD HAVE *ACTUALLY* DONE A BETTER JOB THAN REINER IF HE HAD INHERITED THE ARMOR AND WENT TO PARADIS? 348 Responses

Porco inheriting the Armored Titan is a rather interesting what-if scenario. Perhaps of the most interesting as a whole, so it’s no surprise to see a rather divided opinion of those who took our poll. A little over 36% believe that Porco doing a better job than Reiner on Paradis is a definite possibility. Just over 24% believe it’s not likely Porco would have done better than Reiner. On the flip side, 21.6% think that is is likely Porco *would* have a more successful conduct on the island. 9.2% believe that Porco’s success is a given and in opposition to that, 8.9% think that Porco’s success would have been basically impossible.

HOW ABOUT IF PIECK HAD GONE TO PARADIS WITH THE WARRIORS? 346 Responses

Much less division here, however. 70.5% of responders believe that Pieck’s possible trip to Paradis (in the initial attack) would have not have resulted in a given “mission success” for the Warriors, although she would have been a rather useful ally. Nearly a quarter, on the other hand, think that Pieck’s inclusion would have ended the story right then and there. The rather small minority of the other responders think that Pieck would not have been useful had she participated in the mission.

GABI HAS ALWAYS BEEN A CONTROVERSIAL CHARACTER. HAS MAPPA BRINGING HER TO LIFE CHANGED YOUR FEELINGS TOWARD HER? 342 Responses

64.6% of respondents overall have positive feelings toward Gabi as of right now, with 39.5% having already been enjoying her character throughout the manga. 25.1% now view her more positively with her being brought to life. 20.2% don’t really care about Gabi either way, and 11.7% feel very negatively toward Gabi, without the anime swaying their opinions.

Gabi still sucks

Sakura ayane as gabi is probably the best thing to happen to me all year

WITH SUCH A DIALOGUE-HEAVY ARC, CUTS WERE INEVITABLE. WHICH CUTS WERE YOU DISAPPOINTED IN, AND WHICH CUTS CAN YOU LIVE WITH?

Overwhelmingly, the scenes that were most missed by manga readers were “Pieck walking on all fours/scaring Porco”, “Zeke mentioning the Ackerman Clan”, “Reiner’s smirk when his family talks about ‘Island Devils’”, and “The imagery of Eren and Armin wrecking ships”. Smaller character details, such as Reiner mentioning how he acted like Marcel on Paradis, Gabi wishing to understand Reiner’s feelings, Falco pointing out how Reiner almost had the Armor taken from him, were also very missed by manga readers, although just less so.

General Calvi talking about Zeke’s loyalty, Gabi getting praise from her parents when they reunite, and Magath trashing the Marleyan navy, were moments that many respondents didn’t feel strongly about one way or another, or felt that these were details that weren’t really needed anyway.

Cutting the scene where Falcon talks about why Reiner kept the AT was really bad. Also the table scene could have been better. Some imagery when Reiner was describing the 104th and his smirk.

The cuts the anime has done made the spectators less informed about some story background stuff. This is in order to direct attention to the marley's eldians planning how to overcome the world's disparagement towards the power of the titans.

I'm sad they cut the gate guards. They humanize the marleyans a bit. Hope they add their scenes next episode and do them justice.

I hope we will get the Gabi/Reiner talk about understanding each other through PATHS when she eats him next episode

Gimme crawling best giiiirl

MAPPA cut Pieck's ass so this episode wouldn't be so ass centered with Zeke's ass wiping technique. This is my theory lol

Great episode but U was so looking forward to the Reiner scene talking about Paradis “devils”. In the mange it was a powerful scene really adding to the duality of Reiner and the pain he has, and the animation did not do it justice. Plus some parts of his speech were probably hard to understand for a non mange reader without the flashback. (Like which one is referring to Jean for example). I really wish it had been better delivered

IS THERE ANY CHANCE WE’LL SEE SOME OF THESE CUTS ANIMATED IN A LATER EPISODE? 342 Responses

them into different scenes. Overall, the majority answered a big, fat, “maybe.” 15.8% are confident that what’s done has been done, and 12.6% are more optimistic that MAPPA will find a way.

Overall I was a bit disappointed. I feel like the amount of material cut from every conversation included really added up overall and gave it a very rushed feel to me. I really hope they add it all in later.

ON THE FLIP-SIDE, WHICH ADDITIONS/CHANGES DID YOU LIKE/DISLIKE?

The changes and additions that MAPPA made were overall viewed very favorably, with the scene of Porco and Pieck interacting with the warrior cadets being the most liked addition. This is followed closely by the overall character movement during dialogue scenes, the small detail about Pieck’s father being unwell, and Gabi shouting “Watashi!” on the train.

I loved the additional details made it very emotional

IT WAS A GREAT TIME TO BE GALLIPIECK TRASH

Sneakier Eren's a nice addition too

Porco my boiii I'm so happy he's here 💖💖💖💖 if mappa is adding some extra scenes then gimme more of gallirei 👀

WHICH SCENE FROM THE PREVIEW ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? 338 Responses

Unsurprisingly, 42% of respondents are hyped about Kenny’s brief return and Annie’s unlikely encounter with him in the Underground. 22.2% are eager to get that sweet Reiner angst as he is rejected by his Marleyan father. 17.8% are looking forward to Reiner’s training days.

ADDITIONAL THOUGHTS ON THE EPISODE?

great! it was inevitable they would cut stuff but it hasn't changed any major plot point or thing i would want to see desperately

It was just really great to see the scenes animated, it adds another level of depth and understanding to the story I believe.

Loved anime-onlies missing Eren completely. Some even thought it was him but then noticed the leg and thought against it

I think it was very well done. Just need a little getting used to with MAPPA on the reins now. I think MAPPA added some scenes to show how those Eldians over there are still just human after all and they have their own problems to deal with. 8/10 episode.

I feel like they took a lot of emotion way from reiner. made him seemed stoic and determined to go to the island even though in the make he looked scared about having to return.

I thought the rotoscoping was really well done! I’m happy with the pacing, the fact that the episode felt like it went by fast is good considering it was dialogue based.

Incredible. The direction, the cinematic quality, we are feasting. MAPPA is elevating the story beyond anything I could have imagined! I'm beyond hyped for the rest!! But where is asshole Marley guards/Hobo!Eren's appearance as a favorite moment?!

Incredible, it adapts the source material very well while adding some touches that make it unique in it's own way. As a manga reader, I'm really glad that they're doing this because it feels like a completly different experience from reading it and makes me excited on what changes or directing choices they're going to make during the course of the season, great job so far MAPPA!

Such an amazing episode. Made 20mins feel like 5. MAPPA is doing fantastic. The characters have never felt more alive and the animation style is something I never knew I wanted until now.

I can't believe they didn't cast Mads Mikkelsen to voice Mads Mikkelsen

The episode was good but the dinner scene didn't do justice to the manga. It didn't have the same feeling to it. I saw a lot of anime onlys thinking Reiner was just trying to talk shit about the 104th. I feel like the flashbacks during that part in the manga gave it a nostalgic feeling that helped convey what he truly felt about his time on the island. His facial expressions were not quite there either. Specially sad because it was the moment I was expecting the most this episode and because it's a big part of Reiner's character, maybe next episode can kind of fix this.

I haven't seen the anime only poll results, but given personal conversations with them I imagine quite a few could care less about the Warriors and are looking forward to the 104th showing up to stir shit up. Boy are those folks in for a treat :)

I knew I'd feel more attached to all of them once they got animated. I didn't expect getting real thirsty for Lainah.

I was so happy with how much detail MAPPA put into the background scenery. Also, I think that an underrated moment during this episode was the Marlian douchebag triggering the Eldian soldier’s PTSD. You could really feel their terror, and THEY KEPT THE HOBO EREN PART IM SO HAPPY!

Its consistently very pretty and well animated which is great of course, but I worry the team won’t be able to maintain this quality for some of the meatier scenes in the later episodes. The fast pace of the episode (compared to the manga) as well as the many cuts make it a bit harder for scenes to stick, I wish there was a bit more breathing room at times. This also makes the fancy animation and frequent rotoscoping cuts feel less impactful for me—with every scene being cut down to its core ingredients, and every scene having at least one cut with more motion and energy than we’re used to, I can’t help but feel it all kind of mashes together without sticking out as much, leaving less of an impact. (I feel really really weird actually complaining about good camerawork/animation, what the hell lol) Also hobo <3

Plenty of questions about ass but no questions about the full ED? Or how we thought the episode did at hiding Eren in plain sight?

rip Reiner's chocolate abs :'(

The episode wasn't as interesting as the first one. I was yawning from time to time. Yet, I think that Mappa did a great job, because it's hard to animate full of dialogues chapters. I was disappointed of the fact that flashbacks from Paradis have been cut. I hoped to see Sasha, Connie, Ymir and Marco while Reiner was speaking about them. Without the flashbacks we just got the dry speech and this way hard to say what Reiner is really thinking about people he met on Paradis. We - as manga readers - already are aware of his feelings, but anime onlies may not know and see Reiner as cold hearted person. I'm not complaining over animations or the OST tracks because no studio is perfect and some small mistakes here and there won't destroy my fun. I just sit and enjoy the episode.

Very good, with the exception of the dinner scene, in which the director missed the mark completely with the tone.

WHERE DO YOU PRIMARILY DISCUSS THE SERIES? 328 Responses

Thank you again for participating! We’ll see you again next week!

#snk poll #snk polls #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #snk #aot #snk s4 #snk spoilers

22 notes · View notes

dangan-meme-palace · 4 years ago

Note

Kaede had so much potential to be a great protagonist. The first thing that really got me invested on her is that she is flawed and she recognizes that and tries to do better unlike SOME people. I relly liked that instead of pretending she didn't do anything wrong, Kaede owned up to her mistake and apolagized to everyone. I think she would have been a great influence on the others characters, especially on Shuichi and maybe even on Maki helping them slowly improve wo forcing them like Kaito

Oh boy this is gonna be my least popular take ever haha

I don't agree but I don't disagree?

It's not like she'd be worse or whatever, but I don't think that she would be the amazing, show-stopping protagonist that everyone hypes her up to be either, and that she would be better off dead as horrible as that sounds.

I understand that Shuichi went downhill after Chapter 1 and was a major disappointment because of his whole character arc with Kaito that made him dumb and never learn a single lesson but I dont feel as though Kaede would do any better or that Kaede would have been able to escape the writers' wrath if she had been intended to live.

Basically there are two or three major problems with Kaede becoming a full-time protagonist instead of dying:

She has limited room to develop because she only has two major traits (being pushy and believing in people) to work with, traits that don't work well with the established writing style of dragging things out for way too long, and if the second problem was avoided then she would have had to develop into a different character entirely which I doubt fans would have been happy with.

Also if she didn't become the blackened and have that moral greyness going for her and if she hadn't gone against her own philosophy of "we won't kill each other" in such a cool, satisfying way I would have literally 0 reason to be interested in her, personally. Not a huge problem for most, but for me it's critical to my enjoyment of her character.

Anyway, the first and second problem are problems that stem from the writers. Kaede as we know her wasn't made with the idea of having her live for a long time, so having traits to develop for a long time just wasn't important to making her and I promise you that it would Show if she had survived.

The V3 writing team really loved to stretch out Shuichi's flaw of not having confidence, to the point where even when he gained confidence and learned a lesson in one chapter he would lose it and forget the lesson in the next just for the sake of stretching out his arc, making him seem inconsistent and lowering his overall quality, and I guarantee if Kaede had been left alive they would've done the same thing to her. This is incredibly Bad News not just because she would be as grating as Shuichi, but because her flaws Need to be Solidly worked on and can't be waffled around like Shuichi's.

Kaede's specific flaw of being very stubborn would have to be stretched out, you see, so that moment you liked where Kaede owned up to her shit? She would immediately go back on her word and clash with the group again in a long, tedious cycle throughout the game just like Shuichi. This is awful because Shuichi's flaw was never something he needed to be sorry for, it's not something that affected other people, but Kaede's flaw would definitely affect the group because that's what it does inherently and that's what it Did in the game.

What good is an apology to someone if you keep doing the thing you said you wouldn't do? But that's how things would have to be if she were the protagonist because the writers were obsessed with it even though it was ruining Shuichi.

Personally speaking, if Kaede had apologized for negatively affecting the group only to keep doing the thing that negatively affected the group over and over again I would have hated her. It's just not satisfying to watch a character continuously fuck up and never truly learn their lesson despite how glaringly obvious it is that they need to work on their shit for the sake of the people around them. It's the reason I hated Kaito's character and it would be the reason I'd hate Kaede.

Especially because of what is the most probable source of her stubborn clashing with the cast, her Only Other Trait: her stubborn belief that no one would kill each other during the killing game. Oh my god it would be a nightmare, I'm telling you.

If we keep having her believe in everyone despite the obvious, effectively making her as braindead as Kaito—

And let me just say that we really don't need another Kaito, especially when the cast eventually starts acting just like him, we need the opposite of Kaito, like Maki in Chapter 1 or Kokichi or Rantaro.

— then it would be really disappointing because having Kaede become Kaito 2.0 would make no sense. It didn't make sense when Kaito did it and it wouldn't make any sense for Kaede to do it either. In fact it might be worse.

Kaito is a big dumbass, so at the very least we would expect him to be dumb, but Kaede is actually somewhat intelligent (despite falling for the despair road trap like a looney toons character) so seeing her keep denying the situation and all common sense, making her seem dumber and dumber, would be so frustrating to see.

And if she didn't do that, if she accepted the reality that her belief in people turned out to be wrong as the bodies kept piling up, I think she would become an entirely different character with a much more hopeless arc, and unfortunately this would be more realistic than the previous option.

It's literally the only logical conclusion to her No, We Won't Kill mentality because it would be proven to her Over and Over again through each chapter that Yes, They Will Kill and it would have to wear her down eventually because unlike Kaito, Kaede actually has a fucking brain and can't deny the reality and the situation forever, unless the writers made her as dumb as a rock as with the previous hypothetical, which I really wouldn't forgive them for.

This isn't even me just making it up either, it happens in the canon story when Monokuma gives out the first motive and Kaede yells something about no one killing each other with a nervous face and Monokuma says that he doesn't need her Lies, meaning she was already doubting everyone. If it was already getting to her Before the murders, she would have gotten so much worse after the bodies started hitting the floor and that would lead to development, just not anything positive.

The only way for her established character to realistically play out would be for Kaede to have a character arc about learning to Not believe in people, which would change her character entirely (because her whole character is about believing in people and forcing them to cooperate with each other) and also just be super depressing. At least Shuichi's poorly written arc ended on a hopeful note, meanwhile Kaede would have to learn to doubt and distrust others.

So even if she had lived, she would end up becoming a different character than the Kaede fans fell in love with and end up becoming as dissatisfying as Shuichi (although in a different way) unless you're really into depressing stories about characters losing faith in others, in which case it would be great, for all five of you.

If you're not fully convinced that this would change her character (in a debatably horrible way), imagine Kaito going through the same arc as the one above– it's hard to imagine, right? Because the concept of believing in people is thoroughly baked into his character to the point that to change it would mean to make him a completely different person and scrap his old personality unsatisfactorily.

All of this to say:

I don't think that Kaede would have been any better off as a protagonist than Shuichi was. She was written into a futile corner since the moment she was conceived by the writing team and she was better off dead, if only for the fact that she was saved from the writers by dying off too quickly for them to ruin her.

At least if she's dead I can have good memories of her character and think of my own ideas for her, y'know? If they ruin her, she's ruined for good and we can't go back.

#asks #defective detective #forced harmony

19 notes · View notes

stayextrafrosty · 4 years ago

Text

I am Your Future, I am Your Past: Chapter 10

A Roswell New Mexico Soulmate AU

A/N: We finally crossed 100 pages and 50000 words for this story! My inconsistent updating remains consistent. I hope you enjoy anyway!

Read on AO3 // Chapter 1

“As much as I wish I could just manifest a bike out of thin air, I do have my limits,” Tessa said as she held Alex steady. And as much as he wished, he could only put on his prosthetic so fast. Putting it on wrong would hurt the rest of his leg but what choice did he have? There was no time to waste with technicalities.

“Why do you need a bike when you can basically fly?” She shrugged as he slowly put weight back on his leg.

“Style, I guess. You good?” Alex nodded, and he was weightless once more. The desert was nothing more than a tan blur. He didn’t used to get motion-sick but nausea was creeping up fast. He tried closing his eyes.

“Get ready to tuck and roll,” she called over the wind. How the hell was he supposed to prepare when he could hardly feel his body? They began to slow down, and he hoped this would make the stop less jarring.

He opened his eyes just enough to see how far the truck was. The black box rushed toward them at an alarming rate. Keeping his panic in check wasn’t easy. How the hell was he supposed to react to the possibly of a supernatural car wreck?

He tried to call to Tessa but his words were swallowed by the wind. Feeling was returning to his body. Her grip on his torso was loosening. Five seconds and they’d crash.

Four. He reached out his hand.

Three. He was falling.

Two. The doors burst open.

One…

He grabbed the handle of the door, the momentum yanking his arm up. Alex hissed. Tessa grabbed the other handle and his free arm. She hauled him up to get his footing. The car lurched forward. He could hear curses coming from the front.

Dust kicked up into his face. He stumbled forward, tripping over a body. Tessa kept him from falling face first but his leg gave out beneath him, landing him on top of a motionless Michael. The brakes of the car complained loudly at the sudden stopping.

Alex pushed himself up as fast as he could checking Michael for any serious injuries. Tessa threw the armed guard out the back door, sending him at least ten feet. The driver reached for the gun at his hip as he spun toward the back. Alex gripped on to Michael and Tessa grabbed the guard, yanking him out the back, wresting the gun away from him.

Pushing himself up again, he ran his hands over Michael’s face gently. He trailed his fingers down his neck, checking his pulse. It was still there but faint. Whatever they had given him to knock him out was intended to last.

A dried trickle of blood from his nose caught his attention. Rage bubbled again and tears threatened to fall. Alex shook his head and pressed his forehead to Michael’s. Yelling from the door pulled his attention back to Tessa.

“Alex, they called back-up! We gotta go! Drive!” He didn’t want to leave Michael’s side but he had to trust that she’d keep both of them safe. He pushed himself up with no small amount of pain. The prosthetic was not on right.

He watched her shove back another guard, before scrambling to the front seat. Not bothering with the seatbelt, he cranked the key hard enough he thought it would break. The car roared back to life as he shifted gears and slammed on the gas. The wheels spun for a second before it jerked forward. His leg screamed but he just gripped the steering wheel and focused on the desert in front of him.

“I recommend finding a road,” Tessa called as she slammed the door shut. He glanced in the side mirror. A small black dot was gaining on them.

“No, what I fucking need is some cover. That’s a bit hard to come by if you hadn’t noticed.” He thought he heard her snicker. “Please, just watch Michael. Try to wake him up,” he pleaded.

The gas was pressed as far as it could go. The gas was full but if he happened to be going the wrong direction that wouldn’t help them. He could drive for miles and there would be no civilization. And without water, he and Michael were done for.

“Turn to the left slightly,” Tessa said, poking her head into the front seats. He turned slowly as to not flip the car. The black dot in the distance was slightly bigger but wasn’t gaining ground fast enough. They could make it to Roswell before they caught up.

“Can’t you just fly him back to Roswell?” His voice cracked with worry.

“I could but if you get caught again what would be the point? He’ll just come after you without resting. I’m no doctor but I think they broke his leg. Even with the accelerated healing, it still needs to be set.” He would kill his father. He set this up and now Michael had to suffer. A hand rested on his shoulder. “Don’t get too in your head Manes. Distractions lead to casualties.”

He nodded and focused on the vast space in front of him. The heat of the sun burned his hands on the wheel. Just off to the left he could make out the shining of a green sign. Which meant a road. The radio in the car crackled to life, making Alex jump.

“Alex, please stop. The car has a tracker. We’ll find you wherever you go.” Forrest’s gentle voice floated through the speakers. He wanted to scream. Maybe punch him. What had he done to deserve being used like that? Alex grabbed the radio.

“Go to hell,” he growled back. Slamming the receiver down and looking for some kind of off switch proved difficult while doing eighty on dirt. Tessa rested a hand over his.

“Hey. I got it. Just drive.” He glanced at her but returned his one hand to the wheel, heading straight for the green sign. The radio never cracked again.

They hit a particularly rough bump, making the equipment in the back shake and crash in their places. Alex heard a soft groan. His head jerked, needing to see if Michael was ok.

“Michael,” he called back cautiously.

“He didn’t wake up. The bump probably just moved something too much,” Tessa said back.

The road rushed toward them, black stretching along the horizon. He prayed the change from dirt to asphalt didn’t flip the car. The black dot in the rearview mirror kept pace with them. If he knew where the tracker was kept, he could disable it. Although with his luck recently, it would be on the outside of the car somewhere.

Alex cursed under his breath. When they got to Roswell, they would have to ditch the car and walk. Or was it fly? He didn’t know the limits of her powers. He shook his head and willed the car to go faster. He just needed to break the line of sight long enough for them to bolt and catch an uber or something.

He laughed to himself. An Uber? They were in a life or death situation and they needed to rely on an Uber. No one could have predicted this twenty years ago. Hell even ten years.

“Brace!” He yelled to the back as the road stretched before him. He jerked the steering wheel and felt the car tip slightly. His heart pounded and his stomach dropped like he was in free fall. It tipped back and more equipment in the back crashed.

The metal of the car groaned at the stress but then it was speeding up again. He breathed a sigh of relief as it pushed past eighty. He glanced in the rearview mirror. He didn’t immediately see the other car but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. As long as there was a tracker, they wouldn’t get away.

He glanced at the radio again. Wait…

“Tessa! Unhook this radio and throw it out the window,” he ordered. He swerved around a minivan, ignoring the agree honking from behind.

“I would love to but I’m kind of busy making sure all this equipment doesn’t crush your boyfriend.” His heart skipped and he wanted to correct her. But did he really? They weren’t dating. Alex had made that very clear. But hearing it phrased like that… his heart could have exploded.

“Ok well just move him up to the front seat. But we have no chance if we don’t get rid of the tracker.” He heard shuffling from behind him as he swerved around another car.

“Damnit Manes, learn to drive or you’re going to kill us all,” she scolded as she – as gently as possible – heaved Michael into the front seat. Tessa yanked the seatbelt across him and he groaned as they hit a particularly nasty bump.

She grabbed the seat, bracing herself as she knelt in front of the radio receiver. She started yanking wires and jamming her fingers into the spaces, trying to pull it out.

“What makes you so certain this is where it is anyway?” The car jerked and she stumbled into his seat, elbow hitting his leg. He flinched but made no other sound of distress.

“Just a feeling. And even if it’s not there, at least we don’t have to hear their stupid voices,” he spat out. Specifically Forrest.

He could feel her eyes on him but she didn’t say anything more. She had always trusted him. Of course, maybe she knew the outcome.

“Hey, can’t you tell me if we’ll get out of this or not?” She laughed as she yanked more wires.

“Doesn’t work like that. Even if I could, telling you would change the outcome. Haven’t you seen any time travel movies?” He shook his head. Was now really the time for joking? He felt himself grin anyway.

Tessa gave one final tug at the radio and it popped out of the dash. She pulled out the remaining wires and leaned over Michael to roll down the window. She tossed it and Alex watched it break further in the side mirror.

There was no guarantee that it worked so he couldn’t slow down. Another sign zipped past, and he swore it said Roswell. Almost home. He was gaining on a car in front of him. He prepared to shoot ahead of them but he saw the lights sitting on top of the car. There’s no way they wouldn’t pull him over.

“Shit. I can’t get out of a speeding ticket at these speeds. And not with Michael looking like that.” He looked back at Tessa as he let his foot off the gas. She glanced between him and the cop.

“Actually. Michael is exactly what we need to get out of this. Pull up behind the car and honk.” He glanced out the window to the mirror. He still couldn’t see a car. He hit the breaks as soft as he could, pulling up and tapping the horn a couple times.

The driver flipped their lights on and pulled to the side. Alex followed, turning on his hazard lights. He glanced at Tessa as he rolled down the window. She gave him a reassuring smile. Alex trusted her with his life before. He could trust her with Michael’s too.

Alex watched the cop’s door open. A familiar blonde stepped out of the car. Without a doubt in his mind, he knew it was Jenna, Max’s partner. He let out a sigh of relief.

She blinked at him through the open window. Or maybe it was the sun?

“Alex Manes? What are you doing all the way out here?” Tessa poked her head out from behind Alex.

“Ma’am we need help. He’s hurt and needs a hospital,” she rushed out in her best scared voice.

Jenna looked to Michael in the passenger seat. Dried blood still trickled from his nose and a bruise was forming on his cheek. Alex didn’t want to think about the bruises that had transferred on his back.

“What the hell happened,” she exclaimed. Alex gripped the steering wheel.

“Please Jenna. We just need an escort back to town. Preferably quickly,” Alex begged. He chanced a look in the mirror again and sure enough, a car in the distance gaining on them. It could have been a car they originally passed but somehow, he doubted it. She nodded in understanding.

“Stick close to me.” She jogged back to her car. The sirens rang out and off she went, Alex following close behind her.

Soon enough, they were back up to their original speed. The town rose from the horizon and Alex allowed himself to relax just a bit. He looked over at Michael in the seat. He looked like he was sleeping. But it wasn’t natural. The hard lines of his face remained, as if he wasn’t resting at all.

Alex could only hope he wasn’t in pain.

They had to slow down as they approached the town. Didn’t need anyone else getting hurt because of this mess. The hospital was conveniently in the middle of town with the most traffic. Alex cursed under his breath. People in other cars did the best they could to move but the roads weren’t exactly made for high speed traffic.

They made it to the parking lot and Alex screeched up to the front doors, a sense of déjà vu coming over him. He went to unbuckle Michael but Tessa was way ahead of him.

Alex jumped out of the car, hobbling on his leg. He yanked the passenger door open, supporting Michael as best he could while Tessa climbed out after him. She took on most of his weight but never told Alex to let go.

He looked for Kyle as soon as they were in the front room. He was talking with the receptionist about something but jumped when Alex called his name. He took in the situation for a moment but never asked questions.

He rushed up to them, taking Michael and pulling him toward a gurney that was being rolled out. He checked for responsiveness from Michael then turned to Alex.

“What happened,” he asked?

“He was given some sort of sedative. I don’t know how much.” His voice cracked. For a second, He thought he saw pity in Kyle’s eyes but it was gone just as quick. He turned back to Michael and they rolled him away for tests.

Alex dug his nails into his palms, fighting the pain in his leg. A hand landed on his shoulder. Tessa tugged him toward the chairs. He let her pull him but kept his eyes on the door Michael had disappeared through.

“Alex come on. Let me fix your prosthetic. I know you’re in pain,” she said softly.

He finally met her eyes, nodding slowly as he sat down. He rolled up his pant leg and leaned back into the chair. Her fingers were careful and precise. The pressure released and after a brief stab of pain, it faded completely. She set it to the side. He opened his mouth to object but she cut him off.

“Trust me Alex. You’ll feel better if you leave it off for a while.” The panic of not being able to move on his own set in. What if he needed to fight someone off? A smile settled on Tessa’s face. “I know what you’re thinking and I can take care of it. If I need it, you’re more than capable of kicking ass with or without a leg.”

He did his best to squash any anxiety that came with being mostly immobile. He tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair, only looking away from the swinging doors when someone said his name.

“Can we talk,” Jenna asked?

“Yea,” he answered cautiously. She sat on the wooden table, being careful not to bump his leg. His eyebrows drew together.

“Care to tell me what’s going on?” He looked around to make sure no one was nearby.

“Someone abducted me and then hurt Michael.” He hoped it would be enough to stop the questions but nothing was ever that easy. She sighed and spoke quietly.

“Manes. That car was reported stolen by a branch of military that deals with terrorists. Technically I shouldn’t even be asking questions.” He cursed. Of course they reported the car stolen. Had it been anyone other than Jenna in the car, they would have been arrested.

“I know how it looks but please, just believe me. Someone is using their power in the Military to torture Michael and I,” he pleaded.

“Can you give me a name?” Before he could speak, Tessa did.

“Jesse Manes.” Alex’s head snapped toward her. She knew what an accusation like that could do. She needed proof and they didn’t have it. He was going to give Forrest’s name but would that have been any better?

“That’s quite an accusation from someone I’ve never seen before. Who are you?”

“Commander Theresa Morris. Air Force.” She pulled a small clip out of her pocket, taking an ID and showing it to Jenna. She blinked and looked back at Alex. Where had Tessa come up with an ID when she’s been missing for a couple years?

“We’ll look into it,” she said shortly. She proceeded to salute and walk back out the front door. He looked over at Tessa, a million questions on his tongue.

“Kept it from my time serving. And I know I wiped myself from the system but I can put it back if she decides to look into me. Which she probably will.” Alex let out a short laugh of disbelief. He never really knew her.

“Alex.” He turned toward Kyle’s voice. He moved to push himself to stand but Kyle shook his head. “Just stay sitting. Whatever’s working its way through Michael’s system, it’s strong. He’ll be out for a day at least. More likely a few days. His nose is broken but nothing serious. He also has extensive bruising over his back, shoulders, and face but no internal bleeding.”

Alex flinched at the memories of being slammed against the wall. He shouldn’t have fought it. Michael was suffering for his choices and he hated it.

“Where is he?” He reached for his prosthetic.

“You should go home. He won’t be up for a while and you look like you could use some good rest yourself.”

“I’m fine. I just need to see him,” he insisted, pressing his leg into the metal.

“Alex…”

Once it was snuggly on - correctly this time - he stood to face Kyle. He looked worried. What did he care anyway? Not like they were ever friends.

“Just take me to him.” Tessa grabbed his hand and Kyle sighed, signaling for them to follow.

“You really should listen to the doctor, Manes,” she mumbled as they walked. He couldn’t focus on himself right now. If they wanted him to leave they would have to drag him out.

Kyle pushed open a door, allowing them both to step inside. Michael laid there, hooked up to a saline drip, a thin bandage over his nose. Alex pulled away from Tessa, grabbing a chair and setting it right next to his bed. He sat. And he would be right there when Michael woke up.

He heard Tessa and Kyle talking but didn’t try to pick out what they were saying. He looked over his body. The rise and fall of his chest was slow and steady. The tattoo peaked out from under the hospital gown.

He pulled the collar of his own shirt down. Still four petals. This seemed ‘trial’ worthy to him but maybe the damn gods had other ideas.

“If it was a trial. I ruined it.” She spoke quietly, pulling up another chair. Alex’s eyebrows drew together.

“I’m not supposed to interfere. Get you out of things, protect you. But this has to end with you two. The curse is supposed to end when the original lovers find their way back to each other. And they have. But if you don’t make it through the trials then it’ll keep going and who knows when it’ll happen again.”

“What do you mean original lovers? The slave boy dies saving the princess and I assume she dies of old age. Not to mention it was a couple thousand years ago.” She laughed and took Alex’s hand.

“Alex. You’ve got the story all wrong. The original lovers… are Thomas and Samuel. This princess you speak of, is a prince. And my god, you and Michael, look exactly like them.”

Alex was trying to wrap his head around it. She wouldn’t have any reason to lie, right? Those visions he and Michael had. That journal…

“So… you’re saying we’re, what? Reincarnations?” Tessa thought.

“You could call it that. Doppelgangers, reincarnation, future self. All a similar idea. But yes. You two are identical to the originals and the curse is supposed to end with you. You two share the souls of Thomas and Samuel, like past incarnations, but it runs deeper than that. Hence your resemblance.”

Alex ran a hand through his hair. Just how warped are the stories? And why were they changed? Dumb question. He thought to himself. Homophobia wasn’t a new concept.

“Your father… I don’t think he knows this… Is also a reincarnation. The biggest obstacle in keeping the lovers apart was always the prince’s father. Just as it is now.” Alex dug his nails into his palms.

“You know I’m trying to get away from him,” he said quietly. Tessa took his hands in hers.

“I know. But you’ll have to face him head on sooner or later.”

Black was the only thing he could see. He tried to dream. He tried to wake himself up. His body simply refused. Michael could feel the tugging in his chest.

He felt nothing. Heard nothing but his own breathing. And his only instinct was to follow his heart wherever it took him. Probably to Alex. As so many other things in his life did. Always toward Alex.

The overly clean smell assaulted Michael’s nose first. Then it was the scratchy clothing. Fuck. Not again. This place was becoming for familiar to him than his own trailer. How long was he out? How much money did he owe this damn place now? Not to mention he hadn’t been working. Too preoccupied with other things. His back ached and a dull throb came from his nose.

He pried his eyes open, flinching at the bright light shining through the window. His head was foggy but the memories slowly came back.

Forrest stabbed him in the back. Literally. A complete 180. He had stopped for a second, thinking he had fallen behind. Then a pinch right at the top of his spine. An arm around his neck. Then black. And now here.

He knew there was something off about the whole situation but he ignored it anyway, thinking that maybe he really cared about Alex. He would never make that mistake again. He was the only one who would protect him.

“Michael,” a female voice said. He lifted his head, looking around the room. His eyes fell on a body curled up in a chair, brown hair messy, prosthetic sitting nearby. Alex? He looked to where he heard the voice. Tessa sat on his bed.

“How…”

“I interfered.” Michael’s shoulders sagged. She had saved Alex. But she also might have made a bigger problem by doing so.

“Why?”

“Because they were going to kill you. Then Alex presumably.” He did his best to push himself into a sitting position. He couldn’t be mad at her for interfering. He would have done the same thing.

“So what happens now? The next trial pushes us both to our limits? Lightning comes down to strike us dead,” he asked sarcastically. Tessa shook her head.

“I don’t know. But it would probably be best for you and Alex to stay close from now on.” Michael looked up at the ceiling. Alex would hate that. And the last thing he wanted him to think was that Michael was a babysitter. “The trials are going to come whether you want them to or not. I just figure it would be easier to overcome if you two are together.”

“What about Forrest,” he asked?

“I wish I knew. He seems different. I don’t think he knows the full extent of what’s going on.” He cursed under his breath. That means he’ll still be around. Did he help save Alex?

Rustling clothes pulled his attention back to where Alex was sleeping. His eyes cracked open and stretched out his legs. Running a hand through his hair, he seemed disoriented. He looked around before his eyes met Michael’s. Michael smiled at him.

“Hey there, Captain.” Suddenly he was fully awake. He pushed himself up from the chair. Tessa was by his side in less than a second, making sure he didn’t fall over.

She helped Alex to his bed, though it was clear he wanted to move faster than she was allowing. Michael’s heart raced. How long was he out for Alex to be this worried? He stumbled slightly, bracing himself on the edge of the bed before practically launching himself at Michael.

Michael didn’t even bother to fight the urge to return the hug. They wrapped their arms around each other. Alex buried his face in his neck and he could feel his breath on his skin.

“I’ll give you two a moment,” Tessa said quietly before walking out of the room.

They sat there for a moment, just holding each other. Michael ran his hands through Alex’s hair, noting the tangles. His heart jumped into his throat when Alex’s lips brushed over his neck as he spoke.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled. He squeezed him gently.

“What have I told you? You’ve done nothing that you need to apologize for,” he said.

“You keep ending up here. That’s reason enough.” Michael pushed him back gently, forcing Alex to look at him. He took one of his hands and placed it over his heart where the mark would be.

“As long as you stay safe, I wouldn’t do anything differently.”

Alex blushed and looked away. He could feel both of their hearts racing. Alex had told him that they were no good together. And while it hadn’t been a lie, he knew it wasn’t the complete truth. Had his beliefs changed?

Michael didn’t press the matter. Instead he asked Alex what happened. He explained that he had been knocked out and taken to the bunker. He talked about fighting to get away on his own, which is why there was now a bruise coving his back.

He explained that Forrest had turned on them. That Tessa saved him. And that they basically stole a car from the military and then proceeded to rip out the radio with him in the back. Michael couldn’t help but chuckle. But he also wanted to scold him for being so reckless.

“Just how long have you been in that chair,” he asked once he was caught up?

“Since you were brought in a couple days ago. Tessa refused to bring you back here without me because she was worried you would do something stupid.” Michael tilted his head. Not a lie but…

“Why though?” Alex wrung his hands together, bouncing his leg, chewing on his lip. “Alex.”

“I was worried. I thought you wouldn’t wake up.”

Michael took his hands again, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles comfortingly. Alex was too good for him. Someone who has been through as much as he has shouldn’t care so deeply. But he does and hell would freeze over before Michael let anyone take that away from him.

A few quick knocks at the door made them both turn. Alex went to pull his hands away but Michael refused to let go. A quick glance back at him and then his shoulders relaxed again. And Michael was on could nine. Just from the man in front of him allowing him to hold his hand.

“Tessa let me know you were awake. I just want to check your injuries then I’ll be out of here,” Kyle said, stepping into the room. Michael just nodded. He walked to the other side of the bed, not giving a second glace to their entwined fingers or bothering to ask Alex to move.

“Sit up for me,” he said. Michael listened without complaint. Was this really the guy that tormented Alex all those years ago? Kyle pushed the scratchy gown off his shoulders and partway down his arms. He pressed lightly on the parts of his he assumed were bruised.

Michael hissed in a breath. What was this supposed to accomplish? Other than putting him through pain.

“It’s healing slowly. You don’t have any broken ribs but the bruising is deep. It’s going to hurt for a while. There’s also not much we can do for your nose. Try not to run face first into anything for a while,” he said lightly. Michael actually let himself chuckle.

“Whatever you say, Doc.”

“Oh just listen to the guy,” Tessa said, leaning against the doorway. “I handled the paperwork. Is he free to go?” Kyle shrugged.

“Well considering there’s not much we can do for him, yes. I prescribed those painkillers if you need them but make sure to take them with food and no more than twice a day.” He moved to leave.

There wasn’t much talking until they made it outside. The sun beat down, though the wind kept the temperature bearable. Tessa twirled some keys around her fingers. Speaking of…

“So I know this might be a stupid idea, but I’d really like to get my truck back from the middle of nowhere.”

“Already done. Left it at Alex’s house,” Tessa said without turning to face him. Why had she left it there?

“Why my house,” Alex asked?

“I told you both that you needed to stay close. Why not just move in together for now?” Michael’s heart flipped, or was it Alex’s? He glanced at the airman. “You guys have had roommates before. This isn’t any different.”

Michael had wanted to move away with Alex when they were younger but now it was different. He still wanted to move in together, he just wished it was under different circumstances. He thought that maybe there was something good going between him and Alex. He worried this would ruin it.

They stopped at a larger SUV with tinted windows. Tessa unlocked the door and stepped into the driver’s seat. Michael chanced a glance at Alex, who looked away as soon as their eyes met. They walked to the other side and Alex took the passenger side. Pulling out of the parking lot, Tessa spoke again.

“After I drop you two off, I’m leaving.”

“What, why,” Alex asked?

“I’ll be punished for interfering in your trials. And I don’t know what will happen next so I want to see what the other gods are saying.”

“But what about all the stuff you told me,” he pleaded?

“You’ll have to explain it to Michael. But the longer I put off my punishment then the worse it’ll be.”

“Wait, tell me what?” Tessa gripped the steering wheel.

“Short version? The stories you’ve been told are all wrong. You never did read the original scrolls did you? That’s why you wanted Alex to hack into his dad’s things? Because you think he stole them?” Michael leaned forward, bracing himself on the seat in front of him.

“You’re probably right. But Jesse Manes wouldn’t make copies of those things. He wants to destroy any evidence of the curse. Of the lovers. That’s always been his role. If he took the scrolls, then they were destroyed.”

He leaned back and cursed under his breath. Jesse Manes continued to be the definition of evil even into his adult life. He should have killed him when he had the chance.

The rest of the short ride was silent. And sure enough, his truck sat to one side of Alex’s driveway. Michael hopped out of the car, followed by Alex. Tessa opened her door and stepped out but didn’t follow them up. Alex jogged back to her.

“Don’t you dare disappear on me again,” he heard Alex tell her. A smirk settled on her face.

“I hadn’t planned on it. I’ll be back soon with more information. Until then, please stay safe. Both of you,” she said, looking over Alex’s shoulder at Michael.

Then he pulled her into a hug. She seemed surprised at first but quickly reciprocated. Michael felt himself smile. Alex trusted her and she had saved his life more than once. That was good enough for him.

She pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the street. Alex walked back to Michael, glancing at him and then heading for the front door.

It occurred to him that this might not be the safest place to be. They caught him here once and there was no reason to think that they wouldn’t try again. He reached forward, grabbing Alex’s arm. He pretended to not notice the way his pulse spiked.

“Hold on. What if they’re in there. Let me go first,” he warned. Alex glanced between him and the door.

“If they’re in there then I will personally kick all of their asses for hurting you,” he said before turning back to the door. He pulled the keys out of his pocket, jiggling the doorknob before the door swung open.

They moved slowly, listening for any hint that someone was in the house. It was silent. Both of their shoulders relaxed as they moved to the living room. Michael kicked his shoes off as Alex grabbed his crutch. He sat on the chair and removed the prosthetic, rubbing the tension out of his knee.

“You alright,” he asked?

“Yea. Just been wearing it for a while.”

He sat on the couch across from him, remembering the last time they were in this space together. Everything was new. It still was, now that he thought about it, but it’s like they had been doing this their whole lives. Maybe in a way, they had. Once his leg was off, he leaned back and ran a hand through his hair.

“I wish she hadn’t left this to me, but I’ll do my best.” Michael nodded slowly.

Alex launched into the story about how the original scrolls would have told the same story Michael had told him. Only with a prince instead of a princess. The rest was generally the same but that means the lovers were disgraced for reasons other than what he had been told. Samuel and Thomas were indeed the original two and the two of them were reincarnations.

“So your father is cosmically required to make our life a living hell? I shoulda known,” he tried to joke at the end. Alex shook his head, running his hand though his hair again.

“We need to get out of here,” he said suddenly. Michael just blinked. Had he heard him right? “You were right earlier. They know where we live and if we stay here then we’ll just be easy targets.” Hard to argue with that logic. “Tessa’s right, too. We’re better off together,” he mumbled at the end.

He wanted to joke to try and lighten the mood but figured it wouldn’t be the best time. Maybe when they were out of this shitty situation. But Alex Manes was asking if he would run away with him. And god it was all he ever wanted.

“Any places in mind,” he asked instead?

“There’s an old cabin about a half hour from here. Middle of nowhere. We can tell your family and stuff but otherwise, no one knows about it.” He nodded slowly.

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Of course. It’ll be safer and that’s all I care about.” Another blush creeped onto Alex’s cheeks and he looked away, making Michael grin. Alex pushed himself up, leaning on his crutch.

“I’m going to go shower. I feel disgusting,” he said nervously. Michael leaned back on the couch and smirked at him.

“Need any help?” Alex’s gaze shot toward him before looking away almost immediately. He opened his mouth to say he was kidding but the feeling in his chest stopped him.

Consideration. Want. Denial.

“Very funny. You’re welcome to eat if you can find anything. I don’t remember the last time I went shopping. I’ll be done quickly.”

Michael watched him disappear down the hallway, weighing in his head if it would be a good idea to follow him or not. This wasn’t the time.

He only stood when he heard the water turn on. He needed to distract himself from the knowledge that Alex was close yet so far. He wandered to the fridge and laughed at how accurate Alex’s offer was. There really wasn’t much in there.

A knock at the door made him frown. He was going to ignore it but whoever was on the other side persisted. He looked around the kitchen for a weapon and settled for a steak knife he found in a drawer.

He could deal with this before Alex got out of the shower. No need to worry him.

Michael moved toward the front door quickly but silently. He cursed doors that didn’t have peepholes for this reason. He grabbed the knob as whoever it was knocked again.

He yanked the door open, knife poised and ready.

#malex soulmate au #malex fanfiction #Roswell New Mexico fanfiction #multichapter #michael guerin/alex manes #michael guerin #alex manes #malex #rnm fanfic

4 notes · View notes

painted-starlight · 5 years ago

Text

The Young Iduna Model is the Moana Model With her Brown Skin Removed

Warning: Anti-Frozen, discussion of whitewashing, colorism

Note: Don’t pull that clownery saying “people get light over time uwu” bullshit on me. I’m a light skinned black woman and I say you’re full of colorist dog shit.

These characters were designed by a billion dollar corporation with thousands of artists. They promote/represent images of cultures and market them to wide audiences and they have a monopoly.

And by the way, humans can look like anything because genes are WEIRD. But you can’t convince me you have anything in common genetically with a cartoon character created by a huge corporation that poured hundreds of millions of dollars into the design.

Elephant in the Room Time

So...they basically put light skin on a Moana model for Young Iduna, didn’t they?

There are few reasons I can only speculate on this frankly, horrible decision, but I’m going to explain how I know this.

Here is the model of Moana. The resemblance to the Young Iduna model is especially noticeable with the hair texture, style, and facial proportions.

Here is “Child Iduna.” First trailer (brown skin), promotional image (light brown skin) #1 and #2 (pale skin)

What was everyone’s first response? “Hey, that’s Moana!”

Hell, what tipped me off what the fact that “Iduna” had almost identical hair texture to Moana and facial proportions. Like, adult Iduna doesn’t have wavy hair.

Her bangs are straight. In fact, you could argue they don’t even share the same hair color until the final promotional trailer with the pale skin version.

Also, the first and second image supposedly come from the exact same scene, however, the model’s skin color is different (don’t say it’s the light. It’s not.) suggesting that they rerendered the scene after making adjustments to the model.

So what I’m saying is that they used the older Moana model, shrunk it down, and then pasted pale skin on her while reducing her racialized features.

Yes, white passing Indigenous people exist. But it’s important to note that these characters were designed by PEOPLE in a CORPORATION. Every aspect of their design is scrutinized and they go through multiple iterations before the final product. That doesn’t happen with genetics. People look how they look by chance.

And yes, I know the whole subplot that was told and not shown about Iduna’s past through exposition-y ice sculptures. That is not the argument here.

I am asking why specifically did they use the Moana model for Young Iduna and removed her skin color. Why couldn’t they make an Iduna model from scratch?

Literally why??

(Below is speculation btw from my observations)

Theory: The Iduna Plot Was Last Minute

I think that the “Iduna is the girl who saved Agnarr” was last minute. It could even be possible that the girl was an entirely different person altogether. It seems really strange, considering how important this plot element is. But it’s the only explanation that actually makes sense and why this whole plot point was both reliant on exposition, telling things to the audience, and believing that putting light skin on a Moana model would, in any situation, be ok.

Either that or the writers were struggling to keep it in the movie because they wanted to bring both parents in instead of just Agnarr and didn’t bother giving Iduna a child model (but they sure gave Agnarr a unique one, hmmmm.....) until they got the go ahead.

Theory: They Didn’t Care (all the female characters are based on the same Rapunzel Model, so in the studios’ eyes it makes them interchangeable)

It’s also possible that they believed that since Moana was modeled from the Rapunzel model, and so were Elsa and Anna and Iduna, that it wouldn’t be a stretch to use the Moana model for young Iduna. Not caring about the implications.

Observations: Promotional Trailer Inconsistencies

One thing I think happened during production is that they changed the Moana model’s skin color for Iduna, but not how the light is reflected on it for the promotional materials.

They most likely used the information from the previous model (which was brown skinned) because they pretty much only changed a few facial/proportional features and pasted it into the Frozen 2 movie.

Seeing this, they kind of shrugged it off until they took a look at the continuity between young Iduna and her older self. She became light skinned and this looked like whitewashing (which it is).

So for the next round of promotional materials, they played around with making the Young Iduna model as light as possible without doing too much work. At least, until they decided just to erase the color information on the model altogether, start from scratch and give her very pale skin.

This is probably why the models vary so much in skin tone. Because it was done without a shit given, and since Iduna as a child wasn’t seen up close in the movie itself for long periods of time (other than in ice sculptures, and a blue tinted vision in “Show Yourself” which itself has both the brown skinned and light skinned models used interchangeably in the sequence, and a poor attempt to hide them under a color filter) that their trailers “didn’t count.” In fact, the reason I can even go this in depth is because of the wide availability of the promotional trailers.

Final Thoughts

For fucks sake, Disney. Stop using the Rapunzel model for every goddamn female character, especially GIRLS OF COLOR. Rapunzel is WHITE. No character of color should have a white base model, EVER.

(note, 5/12/2020: Many animation productions often use a simple base model for making background characters or ones with little screen time. I am not against this method in practice. However, white characters are often prioritized and it can be very obvious when changes to characters of color sharing the same model have consistently eurocentric features or little variation, such as characters like Honey Lemon from Big Hero 6 and Moana.

It is also important to note that it doesn’t seem like a simple base model was used, but Rapunzel’s actual finished model to create characters like Honey Lemon, Moana, etc. and make small changes rather than make a character model from scratch. Basically, the creators took a white finished model, made a few tweaks and used it for main characters of color. This practice robs them of their own unique models and prioritizes white base models.

Characters with main screentime status like Moana should have their own unique models. But it’s obvious that her model is basically Rapunzel’s finished design with a few tweaks. And this, in itself is a problem.)

This whole situation is just...how do they keep fucking up like this?

When Disney does this, what it conveys to me is that they are blatantly admitting that they are reusing the R//apunzel model and that they think that their audience will pretty much accept anything they do.

Moana’s model is supposed to be a girl of color. And it really irritated me that they decided to use the Rapunzel model, make a few changes, and then use this as the base for her design in the first place. It’s really obvious.

But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s still supposed to be Moana. Just using this character model and lightening her skin seems really disrespectful too?? Like they just pasted light skin on an Indigenous girl whose model is supposed to be brown?

#anti frozen #does this even count as tangled crit #nah

46 notes · View notes

painterofhorizons · 4 years ago

Text

I... am speechless.

We have a stylesheet-like paper for our students on how to cite things. It only includes the basics, so a colleague, lets call him TIM, suggested we make a version that includes more things. We all agreed, and I wrote an email to all colleagues telling about this idea and if someone disagreed (believe me, there are people in my department who’ll make anything an issue, so we had to take that step). Everybody agreed that based on the existing cite-sheet we can make a bigger one. The thing is: based on the existing cite-sheet, because there are a trillion and one citing styles in science so no matter which one you take, it’s important to be consistent, and it’s important to teach the students to be consistent and why that matters.

So, task is to do a bigger version of the cite-sheet based on the existing style. Should be easy.

Should.

TIM consistently argues to completely switch style. I remind him like three times that due to specific issues in our faculty we gotta stick with the existing style, no matter our personal professional preferences.

Last email exchange was on thrusday, where I again reminded him that these are the guidelines we have to stick to.

Today (Sunday) I get an email from TIM with him sending me his version of additions - that all completely ignore the existing style. It’s small differences, but painful to all change (like: the existing cite-sheet says: list ressources the following way: “Lastname(s), Forename(s): Main title. Sub title. Place date.” TIM writes “Name, Forename: Title. Sub title, place date.” - Considering we are trying to teach our students consistency, also formal consistency, yes I am fucking talking about . or , I am also talking about that everywhere should be “Title. Sub title” OR “Main title. Sub title” and stuff - because we have to hand out cite sheets that are 100% correct and we cannot expect our students to use them correctly when they are already inconsistent.)

I email him back basically saying (in a polite way): here are my suggestions of what I would add in the GIVEN citation style. It seems we cannot agree on the general proceeding (aka TIM cannot or simply does not want to stick to the given style and constantly ignores me reminding him that we HAVE to stick to that) so as it was his idea to make a bigger sheet anyways he is free to do so and I am out. (I did my part in the additions, like I said I would do.)

Now he emails me that like he WAS trying to stick to the style sheet? And maybe I could go over his version and correct it?

Sorry dude. First, if you don’t see the MANY mistakes you just did, maybe you should not be the one doing this addition. Because it is full of mistakes. Second, I will not fucking correct all your mistakes! It’s not my job, I did not volunteer in this and it is hardly a student assistant’s job to do that work. Maybe I do have enough to do already? Maybe it is goddamn not hard to stick to a given style? I mean for gods sake, what’s so hard to look into the original sheet and see: okay, they do a . here and no , or they call it main title and not just title, so I have to do mine accordingly. THAT IS NOT HARD, YOU’RE A HUMANIST FOR HOW LONG EXACTLY?

(TIM is about 20 years older than me.)

This is like the short version of what initially was a very easy task but turns out to stretch my nerves WAY TOO MUCH given we are still in a pandemic.

I hate that I volunteered in this. I do not want to have a zoom call with TIM tomorrow. I don’t know how to stay polite in this matter. Because dude is fucking fucking with me and I cannot take that rn.

#random work ramble #delete later #I just don't know what to say

2 notes · View notes

spacemilkies · 6 years ago

Text

and the times keep turning

summary:

by the age of thirteen, ben learned to stop asking for things he wasn’t going to get

until he met you

word count: 8k+

a/n: I figured I’d just go for the full AU. Still a bit of canon angst but we’re in this for the fluff(ish)

Ben tells himself that he isn’t staring (even with Klaus snickering to his right). But he’s too fixated to bring up a complaint. So he raises a hand, wrist still angry red and marked with a curse shining fresh, under the dull light of the dingy donut cafe in dismissal. It would be so easy to walk over. For once, he’s not crowded in the center of the booth and free to move independently. Naturally, he won’t though. Even when the universe is working against his decision. The restaurant feels less ventilated than it ever has. Even with the help of inconsistent opening and closing of the entry door. The air feels humid and hot, the overall discomfort of it all creeping under his clothing like an itch. He knows he looks ridiculous, jaw slack and accompanied by a wide look of wonderment. He certainly knows he feels like it, the tempo of his heart beating against his chest rattling his bones. It’s so simple. Even when his conscious insists that it’s not. All because it’s you.

You’re with a friend. Just one. But he can tell you’re close from the way the two of you lean in together. Sharing laughter and smiles. If he had the capacity to feel any other emotion than infatuation, he might have felt envy. Not just because your friend was so near to you. But because of the obvious relationship the two of you shared. Friendship was still a foreign concept to all of them. He’d like to have friends. Maybe one day. After you. Klaus is back again and Ben barely registers the weight of his arm on his shoulder. Yeah, he might look like a creep. But he’s been a freak all his life, whats one more title. Klaus is close. So close Ben vibrates as he pipes up in his ear. “She’s cute.” And Ben wants to scoff. Argue. Come to your defense in anyway he can. Because you’re not just cute. You’re beautiful. Amazing. Ethereal. (yes he knows what that means. He read about it once.) Everything he wants, even though he doesn’t quite comprehend any of those words to their greatest extent. Though he’s certain you’d blow them all out of the water. “You should talk to her.” Ben is happy that Klaus is adopting a softer tone for once. He doesn’t need his theatrics drawing any attention to himself. “No.” “Why not?” “No, Klaus.” “She can’t be worse than the monsters you’ve seen.” It comes as a joke. But Klaus is so right. So so right. Ben is the monster. And monsters never get the princess in the happy ever after. “Oh, does Benny have a crush?” Five’s voice is chased by a sharp jab to his side. With a little less training, Ben might have doubled over. He still might as the rest of his siblings chime in as they catch on. “Who is it?” “Ben has a crush?” “That’s so cute.” “Father would never approve.” Father would never approve of your love for Allison, Ben wants to quip back. But then he thinks, maybe he would? Being grandfather of super babies might even get the old man to smile. Diego managed to make it around the table before Ben could catch up with his movements, throwing an arm around his neck and dragging him out of his seat. The little restaurant is never very packed, so its easy to draw the attention of the room. For now he’s safe though. A booth of rambunctious thirteen year olds draws more shakes of the head than shows of concern. Ben thinks he sees your gaze dart over briefly. “Bro …you hav-” Diego slips up briefly but manages to carry though with determination. “Go. Don’t be the last one waiting for your first kiss.” Ben blinks, before squinting at the challenge. As far as he knew, they were all of equal standing. “Guys, just stop. Please.” It’s a futile attempt. They continue egging him on, somehow bringing even Vanya into the mix. They get louder until Ben finds himself pressured out of premature mortification than anything else. They send him off with a cheer and he deems them all assholes. You don’t see him coming, but your friend does. They seem attentive in a way that Ben thinks they caught on a long time ago. Ben swallows thickly ready to embarrass himself and move on but they beat him to it. “Aren’t you from that academy ? Umbrella or something ?” Ben’s first instinct is to shield his tattoo. A modern day taboo on a child his age. But he’s too late because now you’ve seen it too now. Twisting in your seat, he finally sees more than a glimpse. In actuality, you’re not perfect. Up close you’re human. There is no celestial light or singling angels. But you do have an adorable button nose and dimples poking at your cheeks. You smile. And he mirrors it with a level of ease he’s never attempted. “Hey, dude- did you hear me?” He does. But now you’re opening your mouth to speak and he could care less about anyone else. Your voice is an addictive timber as your eyes dart down to inspect his covered wrist. Recognition ages slowly on your features as you come to terms with everything. “You all were at that fire a few weeks ago.” Ben remembers it. Much more vividly because he had little to do with that day and he’s glad it’s your first recollection. You don’t remember him as the monster who easily tore men to shreds. You probably barely recalled his presence but that’s okay. It was a fresher start than he was expecting. “Uh, yeah sometimes we save people?” It sounds cheesy but you laugh and suddenly he understands the meaning of butterflies. You thank him even though you were no where in the vicinity and knew no one from the tragedy. He accepts your invitation to sit even when you both know he didn’t come alone. But he doesn’t care. You ask questions. A lot of them actually but they’re good ones. You ask about his favorite color. If he has any pets. What he thinks about 7th grade math. Later, you walk away knowing more than he’s told anyone ever. But he knows your name. And a chance to see you again. And he feels like the winner.

It had taken three tries to successfully meet up for a proper meet up (a date). That fateful night had been a casual occurrence for the Umbrella Academy, but for you and your friend it had been a stretch on your own curfew.

At the age of thirteen, Ben was still very much under the thumb of his father. But as he later learned with Klaus’ help, it was much easier to sneak out as an individual rather than a group.

What it really came down to were the missions.

For a moment, Ben was actually worried that his father had caught on. The alarm always seemed to go off just before he was meant to meet with you.

But tonight was different. He’d managed to make it onto the street without a problem.

When he found you were equally as nervous, toeing unsurely outside of the little cafe. Ben’s apprehension was slightly more geared to the tall individual looming just a few feet short of you, obviously taking him in all his entirety.

With a laugh you introduced the third wheel as your cousin, a necessary excuse to let you out alone. With a staged whisper, you’d promised him that he would keep his distance.

And he did, but his gaze apparently wasn’t part of the deal.

Ben squirmed uncomfortably while trying to down his milkshake without choking. He was happy to be sat by the window, relying on the distraction of passerbys at each polite opportunity. Sometimes impolite when necessary.

“So-um, you look pretty.” He felt silly mentioning now, more than twenty minutes into your outing but he’d been too scared to chance it with an additional set of ears. To think he’d taken down men twice his size and still managing to be intimidated.

Your head bowed, cheeks heating at the compliment. It was a subtle warmth, just barely adding color to your skin. But your gron was the real winner.

Shyly you poke at your straw, coaxing it into a slow circle. “You do too,” you add with a bit more confidence. “It’s different, seeing you out of your uniform.

He was less recognizable too. With his sleeves pulled taught to his wrists, he was just like any other kid on the street. Something he rarely got to experience, especially away from his siblings.

Ben’s returning smile is more reserved with a half shrug,” We don’t always have to wear it.”

“Are you really a superhero?”

His lips pull taut, and unrecognizable look on his face as he considered your question. Was he a hero?

Luther fit the look of a hero. Even Diego accepting the title with his own flair. Allison and Five had their own style but he-

It didn’t matter the mission.

No particular scenario.

Somehow he was always doused in blood.

His own cape.

Sometimes it felt more like the cloak of a villain.

He jumps at the touch of your hand, finding your gaze teetering between comfort and apologetic.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Ben thinks you’ll pull away. Leave it at that. But your hand stays, your fingers tapping a distracting staccato on his knuckles that he found himself craving. By focusing on it he managed to chase away the self depreciating thoughts.

“My mom always says everyone a hero as long as you make a positive change. And from what I can see you guys are helping a lot of people.”

It’s not enough, but it’s something to hold on to.

Ben can’t remember the last time he felt something reach out that wasn’t from within.

It’s three months after your first kiss that Five goes missing.

He doesn’t tell you at first because he thinks his brother will come back. They all do. Because it’s Five.

Reckless but reliable. He’s the smartest of them all, so of course he can find his way back to them. You’d only had the short pleasure of meeting him from odd occasions and late night donut excursions. So you believed it too. But a month goes by and Ben’s breaking. Nothing is getting better. His father doesn’t stop sending them on missions. So he cracks a little more. More people die. Most by his tact and phantom limbs. There’s blood and gore. And he finally shatters.

“How do you do it ?”

When you aren’t tempted by sticky donuts or overcrowded booths, the two of you sneak away to your peaceful oasis. You’re fifteen now with a little more freedom.

Autumn is your favorite time to visit the overlook. The whispers of winter creating a nice enough breeze to accompany the glittering lights of the city below.

You’re leaning back on your hands, your legs casually slung over your boyfriend’s lap.

Ben had been quiet when you’d brought up the question. But in truth he’d been wordless for weeks leading up to now. His touch was less too, as if he thought the briefest affection would scorch your essence.

For longer than you’d like, you had rolled with the change. Unable to do anything but allow the gap to get wider as you bid your time just trying to understand.

Klaus had been tight lipped about the subject, but it turned out that you didn’t need words for an explanation. You could see the haunting look in his eyes.

It was the first time you began to wonder, had Superman ever broken down?

Ben’s little finger twitches against your own it he doesn’t follow the urge. His gaze strays for a second,” Do what?”

No playful guess, or ticklish prodding. Just a dry response.

You try to fill the void, offering a timid smile that trembles. This was a deep dive for your relationship and he was so far under.

What happened if you couldn’t make it back to the surface?

Your hand clenched around the ground before extending, gaining just enough to brush his fingertips. He hesitates but doesn’t pull away yet.

“Do all the stuff you do ?” Biting the inside of your cheek, you feed off the pain to root your resolve. “You’ve been doing this so long but … Ben- does it hurt being a superhero?”

“Yeah, it hurts.” It starts off slow. A few pebbles sprinkling from above.

You don’t expect him to answer. To hear his voice crumble, rocks sliding together in a downpour of emotion.

“Were not invincible- except maybe Luther. But it doesn’t fucking matter because we’re kids. He forgets that we’re children who didn’t ask for this.”

Your hand hovers at his back, trying to find the right time to intervene with comfort.

“But he bought us fair and square so I guess it’s his choice, right ?”

Your legs slid against his as you decide instead to give him space. The stout pillar of sadness was degrading into a pile of salt.

But he catches you by the waist before you can move, your gasp heating his cheek as he drags you closer. This time your legs part to let him in, arms confident as the looped around his neck.

This is the closest you’ve been in weeks and it feels so good.

“No, Ben, it’s not okay. “

But you’re only fifteen and with all the power between you, you can’t change anything.

You’re brushing just above the waters of seventeen and not much is better. But you understand Ben more. Think you’re more equipped to help. It never escaped you that he may be touch starved. Such a tender gift that weighed heavily with social implications. But you wanted to give it to him. Because you loved him. And most importantly wanted to believe he loved you back. It was reckless but your parents were out and honestly you could give a damn about the rest. The kisses were too hot, the touch’s only providing more sparks to the flame. Ben moved the two of you from the doorway, to the wall until the back of your knees bucked against your bed. You were more focused on getting as many layers off as you could during the travel time. Swallow his little moans of protest when your actions blocked a kiss or the tangle of clothing halted his hands. But nor here you were at the meeting point, both goals accomplished in full. Lips swollen, bodies stripped to the bare necessities and flushed in anticipation. Biting your cheek, you reached out to map out the plane of his abs. Dressed comfortably in hoodies and loose clothing, Ben made it hard for you to remember that you were dating a superhero. A boy being cultivated into a man with vigorous training. Gripping the single strand of boldness between the both you, Ben took your free hand, drawing it loser in exploration as his lips attached your neck. The two of you shared a mixed groan of appreciation: you at the suction against your throat and him moshing at the tentive palming of his bulge. The two of you weren’t strangers to the taste of pleasure. Buye this would be the first time that you forgo the limited trials and accepted the full package. The spontaneously of it all had been tainted by a bit of planning , necessary actions for privacy. But now it was finally here. The boy you’d fallen in love with at the age of thirteen, settled firmly if not a little anxiously between your legs. His hands ran along the length of them carefully as he voiced his concerns,” Are you sure about this?” You captured his wavering hands, threading your fingers together. You were both bound to be nervous. It was a first for you each. But not the first taste of fresh experiences for either. You’d been each other’s first kiss. First date. First significant other. First love. And now- Nor you were never more sure of anything in your life. “As long as it’s with you. I can face everything with you at my side. “ His lips quirk in that soft little smile and you knew the worst of his worries were settled. Letting him go, you brought him back into a kiss, encouraging him to lead at his own pace. You swallowed the urge to flinch at the first touch of his fingers curling under the band of your panties not wanting to reignite any anxiousness. Instead you encourage with a roll of your hips, expressing your consent. It’s not the first time he’s touched you there and the confidence is present, if not weighted down slightly from the added implications. But it felt food, and you made sure to let him know as much. Your lips quirk when the tips of his ears redder in response to your breathy call of his name. Moaning came easy when his string fingers dipped into you, his thumb not idle as it stroked you. “Hm, condom?” You remember thoughtfully, not too far gone to forgot common sense. You’re thankful when his fingers remain in you as he reaches over your head. From the new angle you award yourself with a kiss, humming and grinding down on his fingers. You’re no expert on what’s wet enough but you think you know your body enough to want to try. Rolling your eyes, you snatch the square before your boyfriend could attempt to free the rubber with his teeth. The last thing either of you needed was a tear. A soft gasp left you when his hand left you without warning, needing both hand to free himself of his boxers. When the condom was freed without injury you did the same to yourself, completely bare to one another for the first time. “So we’re really doing this?” With a deep breath you confirmed shyly,” Yeah. “ Getting the confirm on properly was a little awk arc and way too many hands were used. There were a few giggles here and there and ticklish touches to guide them. Timid glances. Accelerated heartbeats. One more deep breath. And a push. Your thighs quaked against your bodies internal battle to abort. It stung a bit but it wasn’t as bad as your friends made it out to be. Ben was Attentive as always, delivering wet kisses until you gave him the okay. Your nails bit into the meat of his arm but he never complained. When you looked up, his eyelids were wrinkled from the pressure of holding them together. Your grip loosened to a caresses as you checked in, “Ben? Are you okay?” One eye blinked open, his face a mix of s grimace and pure bliss,” This is going to sound really cliche but you’re sososo tight and I think I’m going to come.” You laughed, genuinely laughed at his ‘pain��, head thrown back in the act. Yeah, you two were going to be okay.

High school isn’t a breeze but it gusts by like August wind. All too soon you’re ordering your cape and gown and wondering about college. Like everyone else you’re unsure, a little scared but somehow excited all at the same time. Ben is leaned in close, resting his head on your shoulder while you scroll through your emails. There’s nothing new there. Hasn’t been for the last half hour but you refresh every few seconds just in case. It’s the unofficial acceptance day and most of your friends know where they’re going, except you. Ben strokes your arm from your bicep to your elbow, dry lips scratching the underside of your jaw as he leaves a short kiss,” They haven’t forgotten about you,” he assures. You know they haven’t. Because they can just as easily reject you. But Ben, the ever consistent and loving boyfriend, is determined to distract you properly. His limber fingers plunk your phone away from you even as you complain. “I didn’t buy you a milkshake just to watch it melt. I’ll keep an eye on the mail.” You’re too weak to challenge him, especially when he’s kissing you in reassurance. So you huff and purse your lips fro the straw. Ben was right. It’s good and it brings you a little comfort. That and the way his hands absentmindedly play with your hair. As promised, from the corner of your eye you spot his thumb dragging across the screen of your phone every few minutes. You’re halfway down the strawberry bliss when he speaks. But it’s not with news. “You’re great whatever college you get into. You know that right?” You do, but that’s not the reason for your stress. It just so happened that the school of your choice came about to be one of the highest ranked in academics. But you weren’t chasing the prestige. You just wanted to stay. Rooted in the same city that brought you into the same life you couldn’t see yourself without. It just helped that schools status made your parents proud. They could look past you remaining for the sake of your boyfriend when they knew you were in a top tier university. But it was all riding on you getting in this one. Because your second choice was hundreds of miles away. Ben of course reassured you that the relationship would be fine. He never wanted anyone other than the girl he met at thirteen. It was sweet but the world was sour. And he had a dangerous life. Nothing was certain. And everything- Ben’s thumb stops. And you close your eyes knowing he’s hovering over the first unopened email you had in days. For a moment it’s quiet and then he’s kissing you. It’s a very Ben kiss. Slow encompassing. One he used to give and seek comfort. And it leaves you wanting to cry. “Baby..” You’d planned meticulously for your life to fold one way. Preferably around the two of you, shrouding each other from the rest of the world. His hands cup your cheek and you know he’s urging you to open them. But you can’t. “Baby, you got in. “

The soft click of your front door turning puts you on edge. Your hand tightening around the feeble defense of a wooden spoon. Edging against the shadows of the wall, you refrain from the urge to call out- because honestly, who the fuck does that? You’re perched, ready to strike- When Ben rounds the corner catching on to your intentions with a delayed widen of his eyes. “Really? A spoon. “ With a huff, you clamber off the stool a little put off that your boyfriend wasn’t nearly as confident in your skills as you were. You couldn’t all be super powered. “You could have at least texted asshole.” Since you’d reached the age of independence, you traded the comfort of your parents home for the benefit of living a bit closer to the university you were attending. At first they’d been worried, especially at the prospect of you living alone. You didn’t think assuring them that a superhero often took up lodgings and you weren’t in complete solitude. Of course they knew about Ben. But as far as the rest of the world knew, he was busy with the Umbrella academy. Except for the few times he wasn’t, and sought solace in the little pocket of peace you provided for him. You didn’t care when he showed up, granting him a key to emphasize your point. As long as he gave you a heads up. That was really the summation of your brief list of rules. The moment you got use to him just sliding in, was the moment the same went for anyone..

“Sorry,” his mumble came dry and not too apologetic. The sixteen year old you might have been more understanding. Young and still fresh in the whirlwind of love. But at twenty-one, now you finally caught up in the adult world. You had classes to worry about, grades to maintain to hold on to your scholarship. An assistantships to help pay the bills. In a position where you have so much, you’d earned the position to ask. You would have been more willing to curl into his request of comfort, ready to mutually accept and give what you needed most right now. But his curt response edged with unconquered aggression only sparked the flint of your smoking irritation. “I’m sorry, did the big bad Horror show get his tentacles twisted ?” Dark eyes flash and you know immediately that’s you’re rousing a haggard beast. Too bad the comfort of knowing that same beast for some odd years belittled the warning. “I’m not in the mood tonight.” Bringing your hands to your hips, you show no signs of backing down. “Neither is the rest of the world- which surprise!- still manages to revolve with or without you.” His body shudders, or maybe it’s a quake? Either one brings flighty hands into a tight clench as he sways unhelpfully on his dark hoody. Another thing you weren’t looking forward too. Ben had adopted the habit of tossing his clothing in with your loads without warning. Often mixing colors or ruining them with stains. Squinting, you couldn’t make out any foreign material but it wouldn’t surprise you to find some blood disguised in the dark lining. “Not yours though.” His time is sharp but also something else. “Your world would stop, because mine would too. ” The fight was still there. You certainly had it in you to go quite a few rounds. Like a lot of things in your relationship. Fighting with Ben was easy. He wasn’t just a compliant punching bag that took the jabs and rolled with them. In fact he was worse. Having triple the amount of siblings push sparing with him quite a few notches above your weight class. Unfortunately a championship belt valued for little and in the end you both settled separately in misery until the threads tightened and sew the two of you back together again. The stitching wasn’t always perfect but you were my ended and had something to look back on. So here you prepared yourself. Ready to swing through the motions and hopefully leave the one beaten but still standing. But Ben just stood there, nails digging into his palms. “Can we just-“ “Not?” You finished helpfully, hopefully. Nodding quietly, Ben left you standing there to drag himself into one of the chairs of the island counter. His sleeves dragged against the counter to leaning- yep definitely needed to use a detergent for blood tonight. The lack of a fight somehow left you more exhausted than an actual one but you still managed to work through dinner. It was over a fork full of pasta that you considered your boyfriend with a critical eye. It always occurred to you why he didn’t leave the estate. College had been a whim of an aspiration for him. But if he wanted to could he really? You were all still so young, barely reaching the height of adulthood. But you were managing so far. There was no reason why he couldn’t as well. “Have you all though about moving out?” His fork freezes and you worry you’re about to ignite something. But his voice is quiet. “And go where ?”

For awhile it calms down. Your second year of college was a smooth transition into your third. And now you have a better idea of how you plan to mold your life. The July sun is searing reminder that summer is almost over. Something you’re both excited about and dreading. You’d spent the last two months a few hundred miles away on an internship. It’d been the furthest you’d ever been from home. And equally the longest you’d been from Ben. With a clink, your front door opens and your luggage slumped against the entrance of your apartment. The end of your trip wasn’t your only relief. Coming back to see your apartment in one piece had been the greatest stress reliever. With another year still left under your belt, there had been no reason to let go of your lease. But with the internship, this was the first time you hadn’t occupied your home. You considered renting it out, a suggestion from your father to gain a bit of revenue. But that required moving your things out, which frankly defeated the whole purpose. Besides. Why waste the effort when you had a house sitter on call? “Guys?” Kicking your bags out of the way, you let the door close behind you as you ventured further into the flat. It was quiet in a way that made you a bit anxious. Ben had known you’d be in time around this time. You parents had insisted on picking you up so you had him forgo the effort of meeting you at the airport. It made sense for him to wait here for you but it wouldn’t surprise you to find him out with his family on some excursion. Or what was left of the team. From what he’d filled you in on, only Luther, Diego, Ben and Klaus were left. Allison’s disappearance spoke for itself. You’d come across more than a few promotional ads for her first role in an upcoming movie. It was shocking to say the least, to find out your childhood friend was on the cusp of a celebrity lifestyle. But as one of the Umbrella kids, you supposed they all were. With nothing but her academics, Vanya had been the first to move out to pursue. Very little was known about her personal progression. According to Ben, no one was concerned enough to pry. So in the revelation of the academy growing into their own shoes, it made sense for Klaus and Ben to enjoy a bit of freedom. One you were happy to give as long as it didn’t come at the price of a lost security deposit. For some reason you were hesitant to turn on any light, thinking it might ruin some indiscernible setting. The setting sun was still high enough to provide you some light, the soft glow equal to the glimmer of the bulb above the stove. Yet it was somewhat unsettling to think that they were here. Surely they would have picked up on your presence by now. The training they’d suffered through would have managed to hone their skills that much. The hunt of your small flat was short lived, coming short of your bedroom where your inconspicuous house guests lay scattered in your living room. Klaus managed to once again fit himself uncomfortably into the chair under the window. His head craned in a way that hinted he’d been chasing the sun until its descent. One of your throw bellow wedged under his arm instead of behind his back. You were almost urged to drape a blanket over him. But he was so quiet. You weren’t referring to the light scores rumbling against her throat of course. But the lack of shifting, the absence of mutters and heartbreaking screams. In the wake of everything you’d known about Klaus was the perfect image of peace. “Hey, sweetheart.” There was a shuffle of clothing as Ben rose from underneath the mounds of your knitted cover. He’s yawning around a languid smile, drawing you near with a lazy beckon. It’s the the welcome home you’ve been waiting all day for. His laugh warms you, curling around your body as you straddle his waist and bring your arms around him. The kisses are light and noiselessly, intentionally formed so not go disturb the still slumbering occupant. Ben’s lips brush your cheek as you take in the rare sight again. “He looks so at peace,” you comment quietly. Ben hums in agreement and you shift to accommodate as he slouch’s back into the cushions. Helpfully, you gather the blankets back around you. “Been like this all summer. ” He kisses your raised brow and tucks you closer,” I’ll explain in the morning. But this was a good idea for both of us.” You fall asleep dreaming about what it would be like if everyday was like this.

Everyone has had enough, Ben tells you over the phone one day. You’re at the library, fumbling quickly with your things at the first sound of distress. You managed to escape to the outskirts, hidden between the shelves as he spoke. The last mission was bad. Too close for comfort and the consensus was to get out once and far all. He shares his fears. None of them are really ready to face the world alone. They’ve saved countless lives but it’s still not enough to conquer it. But Vanya managed, he scoffs, still agitated by it all. It became common knowledge by now that she’d climbed to the top of the class of the local university. Providing a rather vivid and compelling dissertation into the life of her family.

Your offer comes easy. Maybe because you’ve been wanting to asks for years. “Why don’t you live in with me?” His resigned sigh isn’t exactly rejection. “What about Klaus ?”

Ben’s eventual decision lined up with the end of your lease nicely. After three years of seeing the same walls, you were experiencing the newness of indulgent arches and patio gardens. Klaus managed to come up with quite a few demands, even apartment hunting with you and Ben. “Nothing but the best for the most sickening sweet childhood sweethearts you’ve ever seen.” You’d wanted to interrupt him on more than one occasion but he just rolled into another tangent as you scouted out all imperfections and cried for justice. It had taken most of the week for the final decision to land on a quaint three bedroom townhouse downtown. Now you were six couches deep in the department store as you unsuccessfully corralled a disgruntled Klaus. You grimaced guiltily through a smile at the hovering employees expression their displeasure. Not that you blamed them. Klaus really taking the ‘try it yourself’ offer too far. Legs kicked up, swaddled in a blanket with one if the throw pillows under his arse- Because that was his money maker. Klaus was very much at home. Which would be great. If you were at home. Not in the center of IKEA on the verge of getting revoked for loitering. Scanning the store, you desperately tried to locate your boyfriend, uncertain of how you got out on babysitting duty two shops in a row. When no help was on the horizon you reluctantly settled into your role. “Klaus, honey..” You tried to start. “This is the fifth couch you’ve made your own. It’s just lounge ware not your final resting place. “ “You see that’s where you’re wrong my dear. “ Your body sags in defeat as he rolls into another speech. Somehow managing to belittle a billion dollar industry built on home economics in the process. A touch on your shoulder comes as more relief than surprise when Ben appears next to you. He takes in your exasperated state with confusion and inclines his head back towards the rest of the store,“I’ve been waiting by the beds. Why are we still looking at couches?” You gesture to his couch-ridden brother,“I think Klaus has an obsession. “ Ben seemed to have given up on comprehending all together and reached for his brother’s hands, dragging him to his feet. A quiet ‘thank god’ flitters behind you. “Dude, you can pick out the couch too. But you really need to decide on a bed before the ones on sale sell out. I really don’t want to fight a coupon obsessed mother. “ A perplexed Klaus loses all his theatrics. Its in his confusion that the most clarity is found for you. Throughout the course of the weeks, you’d noticed little things, but you’d never expected this kind of miscommunication. You hadn’t realize such a direct approach had been necessary. “You want me to pick out your bed too? I didn’t think you’d value my expertise so much. It’s rather refreshing “ You in Ben share a look. The tilt of his head cementing your conclusion. You say slowly “ We already picked up ours. Remember the sleigh bed ?” “Oh right. I take back my words. Shame one your distasteful cliche.” You resist the urge to scowl. You quite liked the woodwork if that choice. “Well good thing you get to choose your own,” Ben grumbles, equally as proud of the choice in the bed frame. He manages to get everyone on the walkway in route of the direction he’d come from. He takes on last look at Klaus’ calculating face before he gives up.“Oh for fucks sake Klaus. We want you to live with us.” “What?” Reacting to the softness in his voice, you reached around your boyfriend to twine your fingers,“Were just getting ahold of this adult thing. You thought we’d make you figure it out alone ?” You’re happy when everyone decides to ignore the obvious wetness pooling in Klaus’ eyes. The store had enough of a stage production and the last thing it needed were the three of you breaking down over the implications of growing up through childhood. Klaus thankfully just squeezes back in response, but there is an obvious crack in his voice.“You really want to live with me after 17 years ?” “I figured she could to suffer an equal amount of the trials of living with you before we could call it even. “ Laughing wetly, you pinch Ben’s side playfully “Yes, we want you to live with us.” “So the apartment ads?” “Yes, you’re getting your port side view because you asked for it. Not because we were just appeasing you. It’s yours.” “I don’t know what to say…” Ben perks up visibly as the three of you approach the more congested part of the store. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d exaggerated about the chaos of selection. “Can we discuss it after you pick a bed on this sell?. “ He was already trying to map about the best way to navigate through the masses. Frankly, you were already starting to miss the couches. And Klaus. Ben protested loudly when his brother ducked under his arm and pivoted in the opposite direction. Klaus barely managed to eade his grasp, snatching the waist length of us coat up like a victorian style dress. “Oh this is all wrong. We need to start all over. Honey, that kitchen table with those drapes? Not in my house.” With a flounce he disappears down an adjacent pathway. The feeling that settles over you, under the thick fog of irritation floating around Ben, is eased content. With a comforting hand, you drag you palm over the tense muscle of Ben’s back and counted to ten for him.

Twenty five feels like a prime accomplishment, but in truth you’re so far from truly encompassing the progression of an adult. But you are a college graduate and a proper contribution to the workforce. Both Ben and Klaus were well on their way to understanding too. It had taken some effort, but with Ben’s help you managed to convince Klaus into seeking counsel. There would never truly be a point in his life that he would come to ignore the voices but perhaps channeling them would drive away the ache. At first, he’d been resistant of the idea of being diagnosed with ‘PTSD’, a symptom that he didn’t feel truly exemplified his ordeal. That was of course, all until a war ridden solider named Dave stumbled into a session. It was the first time Klaus had managed to manifest a spirit on pure will. Driven by the urge to comfort Dave with the news that his fallen brother wasn’t tormenting him and had indeed passed on with no regrets or grudges. It was Dave who had recommended Klaus to the community center for a position as an official consoler, taking with his own breakthrough. Neither you or Ben had commented how it had been the quickest Klaus had agreed to anything that wasn’t his own idea. Conveniently, Dave had also recommended a few good places for dinner.

“Oh shit. “ With a groggy groan you nuzzled unconsciously into Ben’s chest. It was too early for you to properly comprehend the tone of his voice but your body still provided comfort under the guise of apprehension. Ben responded to you gratefully, long fingers tangling in your hair through small loops eventually pulled taut when reality finally settled. His lips flapped, opening and closing around the truth that felt so much like a lie. A mirage. But certainly it really couldn’t happening- “Ding dong the wizard is dead. Which is quite frankly sad news for me but wooo!” The two of you flinched, jumping to attention at Klaus grand entrance. Ben, the more awake and informed, relaxing first as he shared a look of disbelief with his brother. If two people believed the same thing, it was closer to the truth right? Still trying to swallow around the news, Ben cleared his voice shakily,” Can you see him?” Klaus managed to clear the low hanging haze of sleep from the room when he pounced, bed shaking under his weight as he made himself at home in the sheets. Ben vaguely registered your groan of protest as you tried to secure the sheets around your modesty. The act was for naught however, as the two umbrella children were preoccupied by a more pressing matter. Rolling his eyes, Klaus lounged back against the foot of the bed, forgetting his own modesty as his bathrobe slid around his body to accommodate. With lazy excitement he twirled the strings,” As if I’d willingly summon him. I just got him out of my life, Ben,” he scoffed, to which the others merely shrugged. It wasn’t like Klaus gave out invitations to his phantom visitors. “Can someone get me up to speed?” You requested disgruntled, a little put off from being left out. You almost regretted asking. “Dads dead.” The two answered with a mixture of excitement and barely aged disbelief. You were suspended between high fiving Klaus and stroking your boyfriend’s back out of comfort. You had your own thoughts about the man, some unjust and the others completely dignified. But in the same thought, he brought you these dysfunctional idiots and that was enough to pay your respects for. The underlying emotion, however, was relief. No denying that collective emotion. Thinking around Ben’s persistent and absent minded tugs against your scalp, you tested the waters. “Should you guys be preparing funeral arrangements?” “Oh! My inheritance!” With a squeal, a flutter of sheets and unmentionables you really shouldn’t be use to seeing, Klaus was gone. You didn’t expect much out of him anyway. Beside you, Ben’s shuddered with a haggard sigh. He leaned gratefully into your palm as it roamed the plane of his back. Breathing more easily at the touch of your lips between his shoulder blades. He sought out your hand still lost in the wrinkled sheets, bringing it to his lips. “Guess should check in with the others?” Ben found it strange. The man they called ‘father’ put them through so much turmoil. Put him through so many horrors. And for what? Just to call himself king of the castle? They called him the monster. But Ben had experience enough to point out the real ones. But it was all over. Finally over And yet… “Oh, Ben..” He blinked past the tears in disbelief, eyes shining as he curled into your offered embrace. He was still their dad.

“Hey, I could buy my own mansion with this kind of money. You think Dave would like that?” You vaguely registered his words over the thick haze. Snuggled close to Ben, you were still trying to properly dissect what all had happened in the last twelve hours. The funeral had been a small affair, exclusively tightening around you as the sole outsider, purely by your longstanding devotion to Ben. It had been jaring at first. Seeing all the siblings in one place. Even Vanya in attendance. They were all living out their own lives, so close yet so far out of touch. For the most part, you’d been able to follow Allison on the tabloids. Vanya was a distinguished professor at the college of music, often having promotional concerts around the city. Diego was a little harder to keep track of, but Luther. Luther was about as impossible as a feat as still coming to terms with the fact that he lived on the moon. In all honesty, it had been the first time you’d set foot in the mansion. Ben had never wanted you to experience the drab lifestyle he’d grown up in. Beyond all the luxury and schematics, you were beginning to realize how many secrets the shadows held. It would have been a quiet event. Meant to be placed in the courtyard. The mismatched cohesiveness of it all was abruptly interrupted by the alert of an uninvited guest. Diego had rolled into action first, donning his mask with efficiency that made you question its origin. Ben had instructed you to stay behind him, and you stepped back the agreeable amount of feet should an occurrence like this ever arise. The echo of footsteps was slow and calculated. A confident gait that traveled with a sense of knowing. They grew closer, each one coiling the muscle of tension a thread tighter. Until a single man rounded the corner. One unfamiliar, yet so recognizable from the curl of his scowl. A disinterested Five, rolled his eyes at his less than seasoned battle ready family, clad in a button up and linen pants with a loose ringlet of tropical flowers around his neck. He took everyone in with vague disgust before rolling his eyes and tossing the petals aside, muttering audibly about getting the show on the road so that he could return to his estate.

“ So we’re not going to talk about how our brother basically ran away from home and built his own starter company on a private island based on the exploits of time travel?” Klaus’ exhale backfired at the end, the smoke rushed out with a sputter and accompanying coughs. Another time you might have shown more concern, but the shock still took heavily dosed in your body to process another emotion. Ben was equally as unconcerned, his chest pushing you briefly into a sitting position as he reached out to snatch the smoking roll of paper from Klaus’ strangled grip. Eventually Klaus recovered, breathing shakily as he registered the theft. “No, we’re not going to talk about the little imp.” A thick cloud of smoke curled around you as Ben spoke,” Not so little anymore.” “Fucking family,” Klaus quipped. “I hope he got cut out of the will.” You responded to a light tug of your chin, turning into the gesture to welcome your boyfriend’s lips against your own. With a part of his lips, Ben emptied the second drag of weed into your mouth. You sink down further into his hold, hanging onto the hazy cloud before releasing it with a relieved sigh. It really was therapeutic in a way you couldn’t quite comprehend or explore on your own. The feeling radiated with a pleasant warmth that curled your toes. You snatched it back before Klaus could, bringing it to your lips for a slow deep pull like you’d been instructed. Klaus meet your gaze with a twinkle of pride, happy to corrupt you even just a little bit. “When are the two of you going to get married so I can ask Dave?” It was your turn to choke on an inhale, to which Klaus grinned victoriously. Ben’s hand massaged your back, patting firmly behind the lungs. It was careful and coherent, so unlike the visible shock you were feeling. “Why do you have to wait for us?” Klaus rolled his eyes as he took the burning paper with a frown,” It’s only out of courtesy. I don’t have to. But since you bought the ring first…” “Klaus.” Ben’s voice was sharper and more aware. The conversation doing the the same to your consciousness. Turning in his hold, Ben only fought your attempts shortly before giving up. Both of your eyes were thinly laced but slowly gaining coherency. “You bought a ring?” Ben mumbled around the touch of your fingers against his lips, nibbling unintentionally with each word. “I really don’t want to bring this up high and on the evening of my father’s funeral.” “And brother’s resurrection. Hallelujah!” Klaus added unhelpfully. But you were determined, hands gripping his chin this time as you kept his gaze on you. “You want to marry me?” “Yeah, baby. I want to marry you.”

You’re twenty eight lying awake at 2 am on the day of your wedding. It wasn’t a restless sleep and neither of you were recovering from a bout of passion.

It was serene.

Quiet.

Much like it had been since Klaus moved out a year ago. Him and Dave had managed to sign on a townhouse just a few lots over. The prompt and wholly unexpected sighting of ghosts encouraging a hasty move from the last occupants.

They were engaged now, well into their own plans.

Everyone was back in town.

Allison with shared custody of Claire. They were staying with Luther for the weekend.

Diego has promised to show up in a proper suit for once. Bow tie and all. A cute detective ( who he definitely was not dating )as his plus one.

And then there was Five and his mysterious wife Delores.

No one was even tempted to unpack that enigma.

You roll onto your side and ride to your elbows. Ben’s eyes are closed but his breathing isn’t deep enough for sleep. You test your hypothesis with a short kiss that he lengthens with a smile.

The arm resting under you, curls up around your waist,” Still not sleepy?”

You hum in response, “it’s helping me remember this isn’t all a dream.”

Ben strokes your cheek with a laugh,” We’ve been living the dream for the last fifteen years.”

You weave your fingers together,” Fifteen huh?”

He buried his face into your neck and the two of you inhale together. There are less than six hours left before you’ll be separated for the majority of the day. Allison had been firm on her schedule, looping your mother and other bridesmaids in without complaint.

Five planned to pay for everything. Whether it was out of apology or simply because he could mattered not to Ben who agreed without a blink.

“It felt like a fantasy when I first saw you. Glad we never woke up.”

You go to kiss his nose and he turn in just the right way to capture your lips.Its a slow kiss, one to travel across the years and a few more for the future.

“I love you.”

After a decade of trials, the thirties certainly aren’t smooth but its a better set of challenges. You learned a new part of Ben’s heritage when your first pregnancy resulted in not one but two babies.

The two of you had been swept into a reasonable amount of panic. It was one thing for first-time parents to prepare for a single child, but twins?

Ben had been told to save his other hand for the second child during labor, he hadn’t expect to nearly lose both in the same day. But he’d been your pillar through the whole ordeal, stroking the wet cloth across your forehead and murmuring encouragement over your explicitness.

He was really really glad you weren’t Allison that day.

Thinking about it made him wonder what kind of hell erupted on Claire’s birth.

Raising twins wasn’t impossible but it wasn’t a walk either. More like a casual collection of jobs with a few stumbles along the way. In terms of proper parenting, there was a bit of a deficit between both of your experiences but there was a bold consensus to make up for misgivings on both sides.

Klaus turned out to be more of a help than either of you had expected. But then again, neither of you had anticipated Dave’s arrival into his life either. The two were well into their own marriage now and at the top of the uncle list.

You both watched them now, tucked under each other on the porch while your children drug their uncles through the snow. It was early enough for the snow to still be considered fresh and the coffee to be mildly ineffective. You watch the steam roll from your mouth, hissing on the inhale.

You decided to give the little group another five minutes before calling it in. It was all fun and games until you had a house full of sniffles and icky coughs. You were already thinking of whether to entice them with pancakes or french toast this morning.

“If I wasn’t so worried, I’d leave them out here with them and go back inside,” Ben grumbled lowly behind you. He’d returned back inside for a fresh cup of coffee.

You want to laugh but a yawn comes first,” Then we’d be taking care of four sick kids.”

“Daddy, come help me please!”

Ben tries to hide the smile, but that kind of grin is impossible to subdue. You know from experience. All fight leaves his body, and likely the rest of his warmth as he hands over his cup after one last long sip.

You’re pleased to still see half left as you steal a few sips for yourself.

#the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy imagine #ben hargreeves imagine #ben hargreeves x reader #klaus hargreeves imagine #the umbrella academy headcanon #the umbrella academy writing #the umbrella academy oneshot

1K notes · View notes

the-fox-knows · 4 years ago

Text

‘I’ll Tell You a Story’

Berries and Ravens (2)

“And you say it was a woman who had this book?” Athelstan asked, threatening Ragnar’s patience with the repetitiveness of the question.

“You are a learned man, are you not?” His hands slid firmly from the base of his neck to the crown of his bowed head. Looking up, he pierced the monk with a cool gaze. “Can you read what is written, or not?”

“It is peculiar,” Athelstan voiced, running a finger along the strongly-marked scribbles. He was unperturbed by Ragnar’s demeanor. Either accustomed to the Northman’s exasperation, or too invested in puzzling out this new occupation that had literally been thrown into his lap.

“These markings are clearly expressing something; the regularity to the characters, not to mention the similarities to some of the letters in my own alphabet. Other than that, however, I cannot make out the meaning of the words.”

He glanced up at Ragnar, noting the intensity of his gaze while his form appeared relaxed. Athelstan had not been with the Vikings overly long, but there was something akin between the one who sat across from him at the wooden table in the kitchen of his farm. He viewed Ragnar less as captor and more as friend day by day, especially when there was something they could both intellectually devour. He was even growing more confident in deciphering Ragnar’s moods.

“You believe there is value to this book?” He raised it in his hands marginally, keeping it open to the page he was currently attempting to dissect.

Ragnar sniffed as he shifted position, brining a lazy hand to rest at the side of his head.

“It is a key, I think.”

“To what?”

He shrugged, incorporating his whole face in the expression. “Another land? Another people?”

“You have only recently invaded my shores, and yet you already seek new horizons?” Athelstan said, not hiding his hint of amusement he was uncertain he shouldn’t have. Ragnar grinned at him.

“If you were not a man of your G-d, and had seen the woman I had, you would be of the same mind.”

“Perhaps,” he congenially agreed, dipping his head back to resume his study. “Or perhaps my personal limitations would have propelled me further in discovering this new land where you failed.”

“Have caution, monk,” but there was no real bite to Ragnar’s words.

“I assume you frightened her,” he commented, looking back up.

“Why would you assume that?” Ragnar said in a play of mild offense.

“Because you frightened me when first we met.”

Ragnar’s grin grew beyond his first.

“And because she would be here in addition to the book she carried. Did – is…is she alive?” Athelstan asked, suddenly serious.

Ragnar’s grin faltered; the humor leaving his eyes.

“She is.”

He dropped his hand, and began picking at a splinter on the table; his focus wavering between his two points of activity.

“Yet you did not bring her?” Athelstan asked unbelieving. Silence stretched for a few seconds until Ragnar successfully broke a piece of wood off.

“She was smarter than you,” he said at last, using the jagged splinter to point across the table. “Then again, I was a fool who left her unbound.”

Collecting the pieces, Athelstan said amazed, “she escaped you?”

“Hey,” Ragnar ceased his fidgeting, and trapped Athelstan in a glare. “Whose side are you on?”

The monk only smiled.

“In this instance, I favor the lady’s escape from your clutches. I would not have trusted you not to debauch her.”

“Hmm, perhaps you are right,” he hummed in agreement, his expression softening. Discarding the splinter, Ragnar tapped the book’s binding.

“Tell me more. There are none of your illuminations, only the black markings.”

“Indeed, this is no religious text as far as I can tell. There is a lack of elegance or care. The style of writing is inconsistent, yet the book itself speaks of wealth. The binding is extremely precise, perfect almost, and the leather is dyed. Then, of course, there is the ink that is of a kind I have never seen, but would greatly value. Look how it never falters nor fades; it is consistent in each stroke. If I had to guess, this may have been a record for some noble or wealthy lord. What it was doing in the hands of a lady begs the biggest question.”

“I am not so certain she was…a lady.” The humor returned to Ragnar’s countenance, as he clearly meant to conceal how pleased he was of this remark. “Her attire spoke of …”

“Prostitution?”

“Do you know of such things?”

“I am a monk, not an idiot.”

“Her trousers did much to help my imagination in filling her out,” Ragnar continued, his eyes looking past Athelstan in memory. “She jumped over the side of the boat, you know.”

Athelstan expressed his genuine amazement.

“Maybe not a lady then after all, but maybe not yet either a prostitute as you wish her to be.”

“Is it not enough that she slipped through my fingers, but you must ruin my daydreams,” Ragnar scolded.

“As the only man of G-d in your life, I would be neglecting my duty if I did not make you aware of your folly.”

“But He is your G-d, not mine, so what would He care of me anyway?”

“The Lord cares for all His creatures, whether they recognize Him or not.”

“He is more generous than my gods.”

“And merely waiting for you to realize it,” Athelstan smiled good-naturedly. Ragnar returned it with a half smile of his own.

“Go,” he gestured with his chin, “continue your study and inform me of anything you find. I must think now.”

Athelstan departed to his own corner, despite the table being the preferable work place. There may be an understanding between the pair, but the reality of his residing in his captor’s home was still a hard truth to shake.

Ragnar remained seated for a while in deep contemplation; his thoughts varied and grasping, yet always returning to the image of the woman. The very fact that he had had her only to lose her played on his mind in a confusing game of annoyance and intrigue. Idly he wondered what she had done after reaching the shore – where had she gone? At the time, he’d been fairly certain that she did not understand the tongue he himself had only recently learned from Athelstan, but she must have known something.

As gravitating as thoughts of the woman were, they led to nothing more than daydreams that lessened over time. Even the book proved disappointing when Athelstan confessed his bafflement over the script after months of analyses. In time, the incident was remembered as nothing more than an interesting encounter, though was told of as a modern myth by Ragnar’s comrades who’d witnessed the event of the woman jumping overboard. They delighted in making her out to be some spirit of the water, therefore, unafraid of plunging into the perilous depths. The more their audiences clamored for descriptions, the more these warrior story-tellers embellished their tales, often contradicting each other.

Years passed and new distractions claimed Ragnar’s attention. His rise to Earldom by unseating Haraldson; the tenuous alliance forged with King Horik; the betrayal of Rollo; the redemption of Rollo when he protected what was his brother’s from Jarl Borg, keeping safe his home and his people; the loss of Athelstan on one of their raids; and now, six years since the encounter with the woman, Ragnar was once again greeting the shores of the Christians, this time in tow with King Horik. The only thing to serve as memory of that strange meeting was the book, and that he took with him always in hopes of finding someone who could tell him its meaning.

His focus never strayed from their ambitions of gaining land, and talks resumed cordially enough between King Ecbert and their party. That is until King Horik’s ambitions outpaced Ragnar’s, leading them all to the battle that would see victory for the Christians, and ruin for the Northmen.

. . .

Ragnar lay motionless in the mud, his back one with the soil that clung to him as if welcoming him to return to the earth he came from. The noises around him were muted; distant thuds and reverberations; the call of men; the tramp of horses; the familiar strike of steel on bone.

A raven circled overhead. Ragnar watched its flight through barely open slits. His lips were dry and parted despite the drizzle that wet his face; the taste of blood coated his mouth, filling his senses unpleasantly. Was that a man or was it Odin peering down at him? The hard stomp of feet grew nearer. The raven turned inland and out of Ragnar’s sight.

More steel on bone.

Willing his head to move, Ragnar tilted his chin up so that he was presented with a reversed view of the approaching enemy. They were presently halted some feet from where he lay, their backs turned as they overzealously insured that the dead Northman, laying broken on the field, was truly departed from this life.

With an internal groan, Ragnar straightened his neck and then proceeded to bring movement back into his immobile limbs. The pain struck sharper than he’d anticipated, and he hastily self-diagnosed that a gash to his leg would make his flight that much harder. Abandoning his legs altogether, Ragnar silently rolled, blending neatly with the mud and blood-soaked battlefield. He had lain near the summit of one of the hills and the force of gravity took over from his tired body once he initiated the action. Unconsciously, he followed the direction the raven had flown in; the looming shadows of the trees welcoming him in its cover at the base of the hill. Their welcome, however, was harsh as he could not stop his momentum. Only the harsh obstacle of a trunk had that power, knocking the wind out of him with the impact.

For a time he lay there; listening to his breathing above the patter of the rain. He was undisturbed, and over time, the pain became more bearable. The throbbing in his stomach subsided, while the wound to his leg itched. He would have to clean it, he knew, but for now he would rest.

. . .

The drizzle had ceased when Ragnar opened his eyes from the hazy sleep he’d fallen into. His head felt clearer, and his eyes were capable of opening wide, which he took advantage of a couple of times before rubbing the sleep away. His leg, however, remained a problem, as did his location. He was uncertain of the land that was no doubt crawling with his enemies. He also became aware that while he still had his axe, his sword and shield were not with him. He cursed.

“Well this is a pretty mess,” he muttered to himself, grunting as he sat up. He couldn’t see much of the battlefield; the hill he’d rolled down blocked most of his view, yet he did not think walking back into that open space was a good idea so soon after their defeat. If anything, he would skirt the tree-line of the woods until he could find a route that would bring him back to camp.

The woods were quiet, and save for the few rustles his limping produced, the ground was far too soggy for any leaf or twig to crunch underfoot. His eyes remained vigilant, seeking threats that did not come. He was still armed, but as he progressed, his grip loosened on the handle of his axe.

His intention of edging the eaves of the forest were proving more difficult than anticipated as patches were too thick to cross, and not wishing to walk exposed in the open, was forced to take a route deeper through the trees. On and on he walked, him limp bothering him only when he thought of it. Still, it twinged with each step.

It was nearing midday when a break in the trees spread into a grassy path, bright and green – a striking difference to the scene he’d left. Ragnar hesitated in the shadows; this appeared to be a common-way, though not a soul walked on it presently. There was definition to it, indents in the grass where horses hooves walked, as well as the steady double line impressed by numerous carts wheeling past this spot. He swept his gaze up and down the path, deciding finally to risk the exposure when a figure rounded a bend in the road and came walking towards him.

Slinking back into the shadows, Ragnar watched, first in impatience, then in curiosity as something struck him as being familiar. It was a woman dressed as any other woman of this land would attire herself of a lower rank; a large basket secured around her crooked elbow. She walked slowly, clearly in no hurry to get to wherever she was headed, and which aggravated Ragnar further as his impatience had been transferred to seeing the woman’s face.

As she came nearer and nearer to view, her expression neutral as her eyes wandered lazily from point to point of her walk, he could not help an amazed grin to tease his lips as he recognized her; perhaps a little older, but definitely her, and looking far lovelier than he remembered. He considered that she had not the terrified expression that he knew her best by. She was calm, in her own world, and unfortunately in a dress that hid her pretty legs.

Ragnar realized the decision he had to make; soon she would pass out of view, though if he approached her now, she would, without a doubt, run from him and easily outpace him in his present state. He viewed it as no mere chance that their paths would cross each other’s again, though they’d not shared one understandable word between them. He had followed the raven, and that path had led him here, right to where she was walking.

He would follow her, he decided. Keeping a distance, he would follow her and take further action as necessary. The battle against King Ecbert’s men may have seen the Northmen beaten, seen their endeavors shattered, but right at this moment, Ragnar would follow the soft footfalls of the woman who’d escaped him all those years ago.

. . .

800 AD, Wessex

Out of all her duties, gathering berries for the cook’s jam in the nearby field was Molly’s favorite. There was no thought involved, and it had that seasonal attractiveness of only lasting for so long. Her basket felt comfortably heavy on her arm as she made her way back to her master’s house. Her employer’s house.

Master – employer; it was all one here.

After her arrival, and subsequent escape from the Northmen (as she later found out their identities), Molly had rambled aimlessly in a state of delirium and doubt. The shock of her attempted abduction, her wherewithal to escape, and the terrifying swim in the wild ocean had cured her of any further tears, yet she still was oblivious to all else around her. There had been no connecting point, nothing that stood out remarkably as bringing her from point A to point B in her sudden change of situation.

It was by chance that Molly had found the town only just abandoned by her would-be abductors. Tousled by the sea, and red-eyed, it was to the general opinion that she had been caught up by the raid, her clothes stolen (for surely no lady would present herself so scantily clad), no doubt by one of those wild men from the North.

Molly had understood none of this. In fact she remained in a state of ignorance for well over a year, trusting her fate to strangers and her own street smarts to direct her towards existence. She had ceased living that day – her sole priority became survival. In the blink of an eye her life was forever changed; the way she thought altered inexorably. There was no one but herself in whom she could trust, and as dangers continued to loom large and towering over her day-to-day, she learned the art of keeping a bowed head.

News of the raid had spread over the weeks and, as Christian fellowship commanded, those who could afford to offer generous assistance did not want to be outdone by their fellow lords and ladies. It was one such lady that had taken a liking to Molly’s subdued manner, yet youthful countenance. When it was learned that the ‘young woman’ as she’d been termed, did not speak their language, the lady had taken pity over her and decided to take her into her employ. The nerve-wracking experience of traveling a great distance with even more strangers, and with no knowledge of the purpose of the journey, nor her requirement, Molly could only accept what came to her and make of it what she could. Acknowledging how little power she had did much in aiding her in how to maneuver these new waters.

Though the barrier of language was a hard and grueling one to overcome, within her second year of this new life the flow of conversation came easier. Unlike her former self, however, she exhibited no inclination in resuming her talkative nature. There was no one to talk to. Her employer was certainly above her, despite her initial pity; her fellow maids and serving staff engaged with her in mundane things, but they’d learned early on that Molly was a quiet sort - quiet, but dutiful and uniquely lacking in ambition. This made her harmless, allowing her to evade the censure of her co-workers and the attacks they pulled on each other.

The large manor that no longer housed the lady that had brought Molly, was the estate and property of the eldest son who’d inherited everything at the passing of his mother. While Molly had no communal relationship with the lady, she had preferred her to her heir. Still, nothing had changed much in her sphere of existence and she had to be content with that.

Walking up the stone path that led to the servant’s entrance, Molly pushed through the heavy wooden door that creaked on its hinges, and into the bright, south-facing kitchen. Depositing her burden on the wide table, she looked around curiously at the empty space.

“Hilda?” She called, peering down the corridor. There was a murmur of voices coming from one of the other rooms of the servants’ hall, followed by an excited squeal. Bemused, Molly stepped forward to investigate what had drawn everyone from the kitchen when the familiar creak of the back door caught her attention.

Turning, she caught sight of a large man, covered in a mixture of blood and mud, leaning on the door as his piercing gaze stuck her to the spot. There was no amount of grime that could obscure the one face that would remain etched forever in her conscious – the one face that haunted her nightmares from time to time.

“You!” she breathed, taking a shaky step back. The sounds of the others continued to filter down the hall, though they now seemed miles away.

He made no move towards her, only continued his posture against the door, yet this did little to comfort her. She knew that Hilda the cook had an array of knives she favored, and while she might be cross with having them used for anything other than the preparation of her delectable meals, she would understand the necessity of the situation.

“You can speak now – that is good to know,” he said, his grin peered out from his tilted chin. “Were you pretending before?”

Molly made a sudden grab for the biggest knife on the stone counter behind her, and brandished it with both hands.

“Leave! Get out!” she commanded rather boldly considering how terrified she was. Her hands were sweaty, as was most of the rest of herself; a steady trickle streamed between her breasts and down her stomach, absently tickling her. “I’ll scream,” she threatened.

“Scream, then. I would like to meet your friends.”

Molly couldn’t discern if this was meant as a threat against her co-workers’ lives, or if the Viking truly did not care if his presence was known. The chatter down the hall gave her some courage, but then, to her dismay, the friendly voices began moving away. They were entering the main house in a body, unwittingly leaving her alone with a most dangerous man.

She should have screamed. Perhaps she still could.

But then – what if he lunged for her? What if he stuck her through the heart with the very knife she had poised at him? He was a warrior, skilled and lethal, and, for some reason, an unfortunate magnet she couldn’t seem to shake.

“What do you want?” she asked at last.

“There are many things I want,” he pushed himself away from the door, grimacing. Molly startled back, crashing into the side table, her arms trembling as she positioned the knife even higher. He ignored her, limping towards the central table where her basket of berries sat. “But first, I need your help.”

His eyes met hers, unblinking. They stood nearer now, though, with the table continuing to separate them. The silence stretched, measured by their audible breaths; one heavy with fatigue and pain, the other laced with fear and suspicion.

“Why?”

“Because I know you, and you will help me,” he said earnestly. Molly stiffened.

“You do not know me.”

Maintaining her gaze, the Viking made slow, deliberate, steps around the table, approaching her as she pressed herself as firmly as she could against the unyielding edge of the side tables. Her whimper morphed into a shaky gasp the moment his rough hand grasped her wrist, echoing his first hold on her from years prior. The blade of the knife pressed against his throat, yet with no pressure applied as he leaned towards her.

“I know that you will not use this knife on me,” he practically whispered, “or you would have done so the moment you saw me.”

“I am not a ruthless killer,” she hissed back, craning her neck closer to his. Their arms still locked between them as the knife hovered close to taking a life.

“I know,” he smiled, the expression fully visible beneath the mud on his face.

Molly’s eyes widened a fraction as she realized that her own words conceded his point. A flare of anger was coaxed from her, and recklessly she aimed to knee him in his most sensitive spot while attempting to pull free from his grip. It was a sloppy maneuver coming from her, though she succeeded in freeing herself, though he managed to evade her knee. Letting her fury fuel her actions, Molly sent out a wide swipe with the knife, which he easily avoided in spite of a grimace of pain. Her next jab was caught and in the following second the knife clattered to the stone floor.

“You don’t know me,” she spat, her chest heaving after the effort, disliking how it momentarily drew his attention. To her consternation, his features told of nothing but satisfaction.

“Perhaps,” he said, his voice maintaining that low timber. With a gentle slither, his calloused hand released her, sliding down her forearm. She brought her arms to her chest, crossing them over as protection. “Or perhaps you do not yet know yourself.”

He moved from her then, limping back around the table to lean against it, his back towards her.

“I am injured,” he said over his shoulder. The generous beam of sunlight entering the kitchen windows shadowed his profile, while highlighting Molly, casting a glint in her eyes as she observed him cautiously. “Will you help me?” He sought her gaze for an instant, almost as if he wanted to see her reaction, before lowering his eyes and turning his head forward.

Nothing further was said on either of their parts. The Viking remained half seated on the table, his back the only privacy Molly was allowed as she clutched the neckline of her dress with nerves. It seemed impossible that he was giving her an out. Yet could she not slip past the door and down the corridor without making a sound?

She could – she meant to.

She hesitated.

Slowly, with the weight of what felt like bricks, Molly hedged her feet around the first bend of the table, bringing her ever closer into the Viking’s range of sight. She couldn’t say what exactly her reasoning was for not running when the chance was so tempting. He was wounded and would be outnumbered by the men her employer kept for his own personal security; nasty men that leered at her and the other women. One trembling step after the other, the width of the table never felt so long, until finally she stood before the Viking, out of arms reach. The gnawing grip she had on her dress was nearly strangled into a state of permanent wrinkles when his gaze flicked up, his blue eyes turned translucent from the light of the sun.

Swallowing under his stare, she subtly nodded her chin at him.

“I-Is it your leg?”

“Among other things.”

Another silence lapsed between them; she, absently taking in how battered and bruised he actually was, and formulating what next she was going to say.

“Are you going to hurt me?” she asked plainly, meeting his gaze as bravely as she could.

He held it, silently appraising her before answering, “I will not hurt you. It was never my intention to cause you harm, you know.”

“I doubt that,” she said, shuffling her feet with nerves.

He shrugged, clearly unconcerned whether she believed him or not. “Do you think I am in much of a way of posing a threat to you at present?”

“Yes,” she answered at once.

“And yet I can see you will help me anyway,” he pointed a brown finger at her face, as if exposing her thoughts with that simple gesture. She shifted her jaw in discomfort, her teeth lightly grinding against each other. “Your gaze has been drawn to my leg as we’ve been speaking. That is how I know you will tend to me.”

Molly deliberately looked away from his wounds and into his eyes, willing any fierceness she possessed to encompass her countenance as warning. His lax posture against the table exhibited none of the wariness she’d hoped to achieve. In fact, a coy smile was gently lifting the corner of his mouth.

“If I help you…you will leave?” she meant it to come out as a demand, however her nerves couldn’t quell the inflection. He tilted his head, his lips slightly parted as his tongue played behind his teeth.

“Once you have tended me,” he dipped his chin in a nod, “I will leave this place.”

Not entirely satisfied by this answer, Molly deliberated a second longer, eyeing him all the while. She knew only simple first aid, but at least she knew the importance of disinfecting his wound and pressing clean linen to it. She supposed that would have to be the extent of her medical care, and yet that was more than what he deserved.

If she chose not to treat him, he was too loose a cannon for her to anticipate his reaction. Would he remain, or try to get at her in some way? Would he bring about his own death if he persisted in seeking out her help and instead drew the attention of the household? Molly held no love for her master’s guards; they were cruel and beady eyed with a love for violence. It took little imagination to know what they would do if they learned of the Viking’s presence; even less to deduce what they would do to her for aiding the invader.

Taking a step closer, Molly sought his gaze, the gaze of the man who greeted her in nightmares every so often; the gaze that was already watching her with a piercing quality that extricated an ounce more of her courage.

“I am sorry,” she found herself saying, “but you must leave. I will give you alcohol and fresh linen, but you cannot stay here.”

His brows rose as his lips simultaneously frowned with his shrugging shoulders.

“Perhaps some bread and cheese can be added to the other supplies?” he requested, seemingly unbothered by her refusal.

Molly did not trust his nonchalance, though she set about the kitchen collecting the things she’d promised as well as the food asked for. She never lost sight of him, always turning to make sure he remained on his perch at the table as she quickly worked.

Opening the door with its customary squeak, sunlight struck a beam straight through the middle of the kitchen, highlighting the Viking and presenting a true picture of how ghastly he looked. A tinge of guilt gnawed at Molly’s conscience for leaving him like this.

“The alcohol is not for drinking, unless to help with the pain, but you must use it to clean your wounds,” she informed him, standing by the open door, basket in hand. With a twitch of pain, he pushed away from the edge of the table and walked towards her. “If you run out, you must find some way to boil water in order to…” there was no word for ‘disinfect’ in Old English and she doubted there was a translation for ‘sterilize’. “…to…purify anything that comes in contact with your wound.

“You know much of healing?” he questioned, his gaze once more pinning her like a butterfly to a board. She jolted when she felt the rough calluses of his hand slide past her fingers as he took the basket from her.

“N-no. No, I am only telling you simple things that most people know.”

He quirked a doubtful brow at her. The golden light cast their faces in half-shadow where they stood in the doorway.

“I have never heard of the methods you’ve told me.”

“That is because you are not from here,” she answered quickly, fidgeting against their prolonged conversation.

“Just as you are not from here,” he stated.

Molly clasped her hands behind her back, digging her nails into her palms.

Suddenly a trill of laughter floated down the corridor, reaching Molly like the midnight stroke that broke Cinderella’s enchantment. Forgetting her fear of him, she lightly pushed against his chest, mindful of his injuries as she whispered for him to leave.

“They will see you! Oh! and they’ll kill me! Please, flee!”

In the six years that Molly had endured learning the colloquialisms, not only of the place but of the time, had proven a bitter taskmaster. Yet, now the use of ‘flee’ rather than ‘go’, or ‘get’, tripped only slightly on her tongue as she urged him out the door. He, however, was proving to be a mountain of a man, vulnerable body notwithstanding, as he resisted her.

“Who will kill you?” he asked, serious.

“Never mind that now! Flee!”

Her gentle shoves turned more forceful when suddenly she found herself being whipped around by the Viking, an arm pressing against her throat, locking her neck to his chest. When she could once again focus, her eyes caught sight of a stunned Delwyn standing framed in the entry to the kitchen from the corridor – a piglet in her arms. A distant part of Molly’s mind wondered if the animal was what had everyone giggling earlier.

Her fingers scrabbled against the corded muscles of his forearm and bicep as she drew her hips away trying to pull free. His strength held. Though, she noticed breathing wasn’t a difficulty as she feared it would be. His hold on her was firm, yet not abrasive.

“That is a nice pig,” the Viking remarked, ending the stunned silence and surprising Molly at his direction of dialogue. Poor Delwyn was rooted to the spot, her eyes impossibly wide as her entire figure shook. The pig in question let out a grunting squeal at the palpable fear.

“Delwyn,” Molly gasped, hooking her fingers between the Viking’s arm and her neck. “Run! Run, Delwyn!” she urged at the seemingly immobile woman. The Viking stepped back, forcing Molly to match his movement. She did so with a stumble, her hands remaining the only barrier between her throat and his arm. Her eyes remained riveted on Delwyn.

“You would do well to listen, Delwyn,” the Viking said lightly, almost unconcerned at his tenuous position. If either of the women screamed, attention would inevitably be drawn towards the kitchens where his waning strength would be tested. “I have no quarrel with the house.”

Unexpectedly, the pig fell with a crash, its stubby legs scrabbling against the stone floor, squealing in protest at the rough treatment as it scurried away. Delwyn’s screaming reverberated off the hollow pots hanging from hooks above the hearth, echoing down the corridor, and piercing Molly’s eardrums painfully.

“Time to go,” the Viking grunted, hauling her with effort down the single step out the kitchen. His gait was awkward from the contributing factors of manhandling Molly while still gripping the basket. His arm released her only for his hand to fist in her hair at the base of her skull, forcing her to comply with his retreat. She gasped and hissed at the pain, refraining from a struggle as Delwyn’s terrified face stuck in her mind. Their hurried, yet stunted steps carried them several yards before a challenging shout sounded behind them.

Molly automatically tried to look back, and for a second she saw Emory, her least favorite of her master’s guards, charging after them before a tug pulled her back forward. The hard thumping of running feet grew louder behind them until Molly was thrown unceremoniously to the side as her chronic captor spun fluidly to precisely deflect a blow that would have cleaved his head in two.

The basket fell with a tumble, as the Viking employed both hands to grip either ends of his axe, the handle bearing the brunt of Emory’s sharpened blade. From the ground, Molly watched with an anticipatory cringe at the inevitability of bloodshed. This life had surely toughened her up, but she had still been spared the sight of gory violence right before her eyes and at close proximity — save for that one time six years ago when she had found the town.

Emory was a fine fighter, but his passion was a caustic flame, likely to extinguish after the first throes of battle. He fought for the blood, not for any honor. His strikes came quick and stealthy, slipping past the Viking’s guard more than once. Yet, what little Molly could tell from the blur of fighting, was the Viking’s continued strength. There was tactic to his movements so that even when Emory’s sword struck like a snake beneath the Viking’s arm, he maneuvered away from the blow, using that momentum to launch an attack of his own. However, his wounds still deprived him of a decisive victory, of which Molly was certain would be his had he been hale and hearty. She did not claim a vast knowledge of warfare in the slightest, but she knew enough to recognize a walking weapon when one of her master’s best guards began to falter under continued blows.

Belatedly, Molly realized that there was shrill screaming piercing the dry air. Looking back at the kitchen door, she spotted Delwyn uselessly exhausting her lungs, her cheeks afire with either fear or lack of breath. Motion caught her eye, and she saw that more guards, no doubt drawn by the horrible racket, were filing in from around the house, while some slipped past Delwyn, paying her no heed as they made for their struggling comrade.

“There are more coming!” Molly shouted. She didn’t know why she warned him; perhaps because she felt that some invisible line had been drawn and they would see the guilt in her face, see that she offered aide, no matter the smallness of the gesture, to one of the Northmen.

The Viking didn’t even acknowledge her, though with a final swing, the head of his axe found its home in Emory’s gut. Blood splattered in an arc, streaking across the Viking’s middle, and, more disturbingly, landing in a myriad of specks across Molly’s face.

There was a moment, a mere millisecond, in which she was capable of viewing this scenario very pragmatically. A man she didn’t like, but had known for a few years just died in front of her, his innards barely contained by the remaining walls of his flesh. His life’s blood now marred against the Viking’s already filthy jerkin, and which also pulsed hotly against her own nose, cheeks, and chin. The blade of the axe a tortured image of gore. Emory’s eyes nothing more than glass — his face a frozen picture of his final pain.

She couldn’t scream. How could she? She didn’t mourn the guard’s passing, she realized. Did that make her cold, she wondered? No. No, she was in shock. Her mind skipped like a bee in the wind, bouncing off tenuous petals born by a gust that she had no control over. Thoughts and images unrelated to the violence flashed before her eyes; her mother picking her up from school; Captain America assembling the Avengers; a drop of her blood staining white fabric inflicted by a sewing needle. Random pictures of her life filled her head in a nauseating slideshow that left her blind and deaf to the scene that had prompted this brief departure from reality.

It was as an echo, shadowy at best, where the corners slurred into one another in a most distorting way that set her mind reeling further. The Viking had her, some part of her mind was aware of this. Vaguely she recalled his shouting, his hands on her again; pushing her, dragging her. The thunder of armored feet clanging behind them. She’d lost her footing and fallen hard on her knees; a sharp rock piercing her skin in a jagged line. She hadn’t even felt it. The oncoming rush of greenery, a hazy canopy whose quiet was disturbed by their approach. But suddenly, there was nothing. She lay prostrate on the soft earth, her nose buried in the soil as a firm hand pressed against her back. The fresh scent of the earth overwhelmed her senses, and ignoring the particles that shot up and tickled her nostrils, she breathed hungrily as one emerging from deep water. In the dispassionate earth, Molly found some grounding. It neither cared nor asked what she meant by gulping up its soil – it simply was, and would be long after this disaster.

Whether it was seconds, minutes, or hours passing, time held no sway to the current fragility of her mind. She wanted never to open her eyes again; never to move from this safe, hidden position. Never to see the seal of her life, now irrevocably changed once again.

His hand remained fixed to her back; a pesky line linking her to the reality she’d rather not face again. The hand was strong, however, an unavoidable presence separated from her skin by a mere two layers. The heat branded her otherwise shivering body, and she was brought grudgingly back to the present by its coaxing humanity. It moved slowly up her spine, as if uncertain of its route. The fingers dragged on the ridges made by the fabric of her clothes. She felt with indifference his touch at the base of her neck, grazing only minimally the peek of her bare skin there, before moving to her shoulder where he offered a comforting squeeze, and then withdrew his touch.

With his sudden absence, Molly blinked, jerking onto her elbows and staring at the patch of scuffed up soil her face had produced. She could still feel it in her mouth and around her cheeks and nose. Automatically, she coughed. Then again, and a third time for good measure. She realized that tears were mingling with the saliva leaking from the corner of her lips, and the prospect of surrendering to hysterics was almost too tempting.

“Hush!” The Viking’s whisper tickled her ear. “They are still near enough to hear us.”

Molly silently gasped at his voice right in her ear, seeping into her brain and becoming her only thought. Her mouth remained open, taking in shocked breaths, as if it surprised her that the function of breathing still remained capable. Her eyes, inches from the ground, stared at its teeming community of natural life without seeing anything. Her vision clamped on a troop of carpenter ants, dutifully making their way over a mountain of an oak’s root to the other side where, hopefully, a better life awaited them.

‘What a ridiculous thought!’ But Molly continued to watch their progress with undivided attention, finding once more a way to ground her mind; the Viking beside her drifting momentarily to the realm of hallucination once more.

Alas, he was not to remain there.

“We must keep moving. They will come across us eventually if we remain.”

She let herself be drawn to her feet where she was surprised to find her balance cooperating. A lingering dizziness swayed her initially, but after putting a hand out on a trunk to steady herself, her eyes cleared and almost unwillingly, looked up, accepting that there was no going back. Quickly, she took inventory; her knees twinged with minor soreness, but from experience she knew they were nothing more than scruffs; her hair had come loose from its cap and the plaits she wore them in hung loosely coiled at the base of her neck, a mild irritant; but most importantly, she noticed the absence of something.

“Where’s the basket?” Her voice was thick with the question. She didn’t expect that that would have been her first contribution to this unexpected path; but when she saw the Viking, soaked in the shared blood of his and his adversary’s, and no sign of the basket loaded with medical supplies, she felt oddly irked.

“I assume it is back with the guard. Little use it will be to him.”

“You left it?” she asked, complying with his tread, though there was no mistaking her irritable tone. His grasp was strong and encompassing, though it only retained the small purchase of her wrist, and brooked no arguments. For a man severely wounded, and fresh from yet another battle, he seemed incapable of tiring. But then she remembered his efforts at standing upright against the broad kitchen table and found her eyes narrowing in grudging wonder at his mere will to keep going.

“It was a choice between it and your sorry self. A decision I am already coming to regret as my stomach aches with hunger.” He stopped suddenly, causing her to bump into him, at which point a small transference of blood occurred. It was easy to keep her eyes averted from her front where the blood now stained her frock, as the Viking was looking directly at her. “I don’t suppose I could take a bite out of you?”

There was no response to that, save open-mouthed astonishment. Was he serious? Or merely teasing her?

A glimmer of amusement passed over the glassy expression of his pained eyes, and she was again distracted. No longer embarrassed by his true or mocking implications, she spoke firmly, “You’re in too much pain.”

“And what makes you think that?” His expression made it clear that if she thought otherwise, she was immensely thick.

She wanted to know where they were going; how long it would take; where the guards were, just how long he thought he could go on like this, and all manner of similar queries that left her tongue stumbling over which to ask first.

“I-I…whe – why…”

“You can gather your thoughts as we walk,” he said, resuming their hike through the forest. They went slowly, taking care of their surroundings and pausing whenever they became aware of an approaching guard. Molly saved her questions for later. Their flight through the forest did much to sharpen her senses after emerging from her shock, and made her aware that arguing with a Viking, who may or may not be her worst enemy presently, was best done with the absence of marauding guards. She eyed him, however, waiting for the moment that he would keel over. His broad shoulders had long taken the appearance of being weighed down by a tree’s bough, while his limp only aided in their snail’s pace.

She wanted to say something, to suggest a break perhaps, though was a little afraid to do so. They’d already had to divert their direction a handful of times to avoid being caught, and couldn’t help but think that sitting ducks were a far easier target. However, that reasoning didn’t quell her sore feet, nor her pangs of hunger, having only partaken in some of the berries she picked that morning for breakfast.

“Er…Mr. – I mean…what do I call you?”

The Viking didn’t stop, though a tilt to his head indicated that he was listening.

His voice, barely higher than the rustle of the wind dancing between the trees, drifted back to her.

“You may call me what you like,” he replied simply. “And you,” he briefly looked over his shoulder at her, “what do I call you?”

“Hmm? Oh. Er…Molly. My name is Molly Hatch,” she answered, slightly thrown by his evasiveness.

“Molly Hatch?” he repeated. She could hear the frown in his tone. “What an ugly name.”

Despite herself, she let out a laugh like a silent cannon blast, short and quick, but with just enough humor to reach her eyes. The Viking glanced back at her again, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

“It is not an ugly name,” she defended, allowing a small grin of her own to linger momentarily. It was a grasp at something menial and unrelated, and could not last as her features returned soon after to their grim expression.

“No? Tell me what it means and perhaps I will change my mind,” the Viking continued.

Rather than answering, Molly kept quiet. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to get into the habit of opening her mouth to him; it held the possibility of becoming comfortable with him. Instinct told her to flee, to leave him while he could not chase her. Alas, reason cautioned this impulse. Should she be caught by the guards alone, there would be no one to help her.

Suddenly, the Viking reached back and slipped his hand over one of hers, giving it a squeeze, and breaking through her thoughts.

“Well?”

It took her a moment to remember what they’d been discussing, and when she did, no humor remained.

“It’s not important. It’s just a name,” she spoke harshly, and pulled away from him.

Neither said anything more, and he did not attempt to reach for her again.

She was angry at her trapped position; angry at the Viking who’d ultimately caught her; and angry that she cringed in sympathy with every other step he took. His gait was clearly labored, and not for the first time she wondered if he would die of infection. Was it possible to die of infection, she asked herself, trying to remember if it just led to death or if it was the cause itself. Shaking her head as if to clear it of medical science she didn’t understand, she told herself the most important thing was that one way or another he would be in no shape to dodge the law for much longer.

She was pulled sharply from her day dreams by a shove to the ground and the alarming weight of the Viking atop of her.

“Wha – “

His hand clamped over her mouth, and she wisely shut it under his grimy palm. She could feel the bite of his fingers digging into her cheek, as the taste of blood bloomed suddenly on her tongue. She’d bitten her lip. Her eyes were wide, and staring up at his extended jaw, his beard tickling her nose and smelling of something questionable. He was staring up, straight ahead, his face impossibly close to hers, as the breath in their bodies rose and fell in time to each other – the beat of their racing hearts providing the tempo to their abrupt distress.

“Let us turn back,” a muffled voice bloomed from a short distance, strangely sounding as if conjured from thin air by the suddenness of its appearance.

“Let us first investigate further down this hollow. We have come far brother, and I will not turn back until we see our comrade avenged. The damned Northmen must be taught a lesson they will not soon forget.”

A grumbling acquiescence from the first fellow followed this bold declaration and the sound of their dismounting their horses thumped heavily in the still forest. Their footfalls came heavy and approaching, and with terror, Molly caught the Viking’s eye. There were mere seconds before they would be seen, and a blind terror made her grip the Viking’s shoulders in some pretence of a shield. To her astonishment, however, his hands moved down her body, passed her waist and hips and quickly rucked up her dress.

“Play along,” he hissed in her ear and, with a deliberate shift, settled himself between her legs, forcing them open. Her cooperation was yielded only by her inability to comprehend the fast-paced business at hand; the simultaneous rustle of the guards, now nearly overhead, sounded loudly in her tense ears as the Viking began to pantomime the very intimate actions of sexual relations.

Molly lay frozen for what felt like minutes, but really could have only been a split-second. She maintained her grip on his arms, clutching him fiercely, and couldn’t decipher if it was a silent plea on her part for him to stop, or to remain atop as her protector. His eyes bore into hers, imploring her to respond, and with a jump, she felt his hand slide up her leg, further revealing her skin to the cool air and his searing touch.

The footsteps closed in on them, then stopped abruptly. Above her, the Viking let out a satisfied grunt which broke through her state of disbelief and moved her to action. Awkwardly, she tried bucking up against him, but then stopped, feeling too self-conscious. His lips came down to brush hers.

“Move with me,” he breathed into her mouth, then kissed her fully. He tasted awful, and, instinctively, she tried to turn her head away, despite understanding what charade he was playing. She forced her hands to release their vice-like grip on his arms, to instead trail her fingers up his shoulders and to the nape of his neck, while tentatively allowing her body to follow his lead; raising her hips to meet the illusion of his thrusts. Embarrassment was pushed aside as necessity took the reins of her rationality, and she could almost imagine that she was viewing this spectacle unfold from a distance, rather than experiencing it at the heart of it.

Peripherally, she saw the guards’ feet through her slit lids, not three yards away, and distantly heard them remarking on the show being provided for them. Wishing to add to the farce in hopes that they’d deem them as harmless and be on their way, Molly let slip out a breathy moan. Her feet met the leafy floor decisively, as she arched her back sensuously. She’d never been intimate with a man before, having been nineteen (and a good Catholic girl) when she’d first arrived in this time, but she knew the generic routine. Sex-ed and quiet late night sessions in her room with nothing more than a finger and fantasies (perhaps not altogether a good Catholic girl) had helped her understand certain aspects.

He kissed her again, and this time she responded, ignoring his foul breath and dirty beard. Their movements were equally becoming more enthusiastic, and she was certain the Viking was taking advantage of the situation, but noted that he wasn’t actually forcing her to have sex with him. The quiet part of her brain, still capable of stringing thoughts together, wondered how he was not groaning in pain at the friction forced upon his wound. Then it occurred to her that what she took for sounds of false pleasure were really a mask for the reverse.

It felt an age of this play-acting, and Molly began to think that perhaps they were putting too good of a show on if the guards’ continued attention was anything to go by. She was unable to escape the stench of the Viking - even when his mouth left hers to follow a new trail along her jaw and down her neck – and wanted nothing more than to push him off, stomp up to the lascivious guards and use their own swords against them. The sudden thought of violence, however, brought the sharp memory of seeing Emory’s guts spilling out, his life’s blood staining the ground and splattering her face. Of his blood now being forever worked into the fabric of her dress by the continuous drag of the Viking’s body across hers.

He seemed to sense her sudden distress a mere second before her body convulsed, the tingling strain just beneath the surface of her skin; her pupils blown wide not from desire, but from horror. Before she could act, his mouth was on hers once more.

“Stay with me,” he barely whispered past her lips, stifling a cry that had made it halfway up her throat. Their eyes met, and a silent tear slid down the side of her temple and into her hair. With the slightest nod to indicate understanding, Molly closed her eyes and sent herself to a place very far away.

“Well, here, that’s no fair. He’s had his time with the whore and let’s see her favors shared, is what I say,” the first guard spoke, shattering Molly’s endeavors of mind over matter.

“You there,” the second guard joined. The Viking’s movement’s began to slow, though he did not show any other signs of being aware of the interlopers. “Are you aware that you are on the land of Lord Cyneric?” the second guard continued.

“Well? Are you?” he pressed, when he received no response. He poked the Viking in the back with something. Molly felt him tense up as he slowed completely and gave her a meaningful look. Their jig was up. She noticed how he blocked her face from them by the bulk of his head and shoulders, and knew it was in case they should recognize her.

“Your name and business, rogue?” It was the guard who’d displayed more loyalty to Emory who spoke, and clearly would not be satisfied until answered. His fellow sniggered, however, and answered before the Viking had the chance to.

“I think it’s plainly obvious what his business is. And I say as he’s had his fun, and should be willing for others to have their pleasures,” he said. And with a resumed tramp of heavy feet, he meant to close the distance and likely fling the Viking off of Molly.

With their noses already touching, sharing their mingled breaths, he relayed his final order.

“Do not come until I call for you.”

She gazed at him confused, torn between wanting to understand what he was saying, the threatening approach of the lustful guard, and the continued interrogation of the self-important bastard who wouldn’t shut up.

“Come now, we haven’t all day. Have you seen – “

With the speed of a striking snake, the Viking rolled Molly aside so that she fell neatly to the bottom of the hollow, away from the lightening fast engagement that claimed two more lives of her master’s guards. With no thought or plan, Molly rose from her tumble on unsteady feet and ran, slipping on the slime and mildew of a carpet of leaves before gaining traction and darting frantically between the trees. She dare not look back for fear of witnessing further violence, or worse – swift pursuit. Presently she didn’t know who she feared most, but with the taste of the Viking in her mouth and the echo of his body atop her and between her legs she was inclined to think that her true terror was being recaptured by him once more.

‘Third time’s a charm,’ a wicked voice sing-songed in her head.

She was blind to any goal, save perhaps escaping these woods. One bounding step followed the next, and the next, and the next, and so it continued until her breathing was short and her legs burned. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, however, and she felt that she could sprint her way to freedom if it took eternity to do so. Caution was thrown to the wind as she crashed through the underbrush, running from her predators as a rabbit flees from pursuing hounds. And very soon after, she knew she was being pursued. The unmistakable drum of hoof beats reached her ears.

A last, desperate, spurt of energy propelled her like a shot, and she wove through the labyrinthine trees with little care for the scrapes and scratches that etched her skin from the prickly twigs she passed. Alas, her pursuer was not easily lost, and ere she could redirect her course, the Viking, mounted on a steed of her master’s, cut off her escape by using himself and the horse as a barrier.

Molly caught herself before she ran into the black destrier, her eyes traveling up once to meet the Viking’s as she gasped for air. His expression betrayed no oncoming retribution for having disobeyed him; in fact, he sat almost calmly in the saddle, his arms crossed easily over the pommel. Yet, Molly knew his focus rested solely on her. She sensed it by the way he masked it.

“You are a fast runner,” he commented, almost nonchalantly. Molly did not answer. Instead, she took advantage of taking full breaths as she discreetly transferred her weight from one leg to the other, slowly edging her way backwards. Her eyes remained on the Viking, warily anticipating what next he might try. He looked a mess, incongruously seated on the fine horse while he himself a picture of bloody violence.

“You did well…back there,” he said, looking past her, as if seeing the scene they had just departed.

“I had little choice,” she spat.

His eyes met hers. “You would rather return then to your castle where you fear death awaits you?”

“No,” she bit out through a tight-lipped frown. “No, but I – “

“What?” he prompted when she cut herself off. She looked over her shoulder, as if expecting to see a sudden door labeled, ‘Escape Route’. Only the woods stared back at her, however, and her movements grew more restless. She no longer tried to hide her attempts of retreat, as she glanced around, taking greater strides backwards. The Viking dismounted the horse, his leg swinging over the neck of the destrier. His landing was accompanied by a wince, but other than that he showed no outward sign of his pain.

Molly jumped slightly, her fists clenching by her sides.

“Haven’t we been here before,” she asked rhetorically.

“You would not make it one night on your own,” he said, his calm demeanor masking his measured steps. “Between the soldiers and the harsh wilderness you would either be caught or dead before the following morning. Is my company not a better alternative?”

Molly’s restlessness subsided at his words, at the truth she heard in them. Her retreat stilled as her eyes gazed sightlessly at the leafy floor. Absently, she became aware that the Viking now stood before her, his presence a paradox of her blink-of-an-eye altered fortunes, and now the only anchor that she could cling to in order to weather the storm he’d created. Slowly, she brought her eyes up to stare him directly in the face.

“And why do you even care what becomes of me? I seem only to ever be prey to you.”

He considered her a moment, his eyes boring into hers as if attempting to read a hidden message he was certain would be written there for him. With a grunt, he dipped his hand beneath the band of his trousers, rummaged for a second before pulling out a book. Molly looked on with a deep crease between her brows, her lip curling up in disgust at his hiding place for whatever he had brought forth.

“I keep it with me always so that should I ever meet someone who can read it, I may learn its secrets,” he told her candidly. She eyed the book with an ounce more interest, noting that one side was smeared with the same blood that adorned both of them. At least she hoped so, though there was no telling with a berserker. There was something peculiar to it, however, something that made her want to reach out for it.

“What is it?” she asked, keeping her gaze on it.

“Do you not recognize it?” he responded sounding surprised. She looked up then, and shook her head. “Take it.”

With a barely concealed grimace, Molly had no choice but to accept it when he all but shoved it into her grasp. Taking care to use only her fingertips to handle the book, and to stay clear of the blood, she cracked it open to a random page.

The woods grew suddenly quiet, or was that merely the blood rushing to her head, pounding in her ears as a piece of her old life stared back at her. An unbidden teardrop quickly ran down the bridge of her nose, dangling on the tip for just a second before falling on the familiar pages of her journal.

All the fight left her as she was thrown back into the painful memories of first arriving in the past. Seeing the names of her friends, of their day-to-day activities in Wales, England, and finally in Scotland before the writing gave way to ominous blank pages.

Molly let the Viking guide her to the horse. She let him help her into the saddle, and she lightly held onto his middle as they set off to some unknown destination. Feeling drained physically, emotionally, and with her surge of adrenaline now depleted, she hesitated only a second before resting her head on his back and closing her eyes; flashes of her own writing lighting up behind her eyelids.

She did not trust him, yet she found that she did not fear his physically harming her. His returning her journal had pulled him away from being that phantom she had viewed him as for so long.

With yet another twist of fate, she found herself in the care of a man she had escaped in the most dramatic of circumstances six years prior, and all she could think about was how happy she was to be holding her diary, propped as it was between her stomach and his back.

Breaking the silence, she had only one thing more to say before letting drowsiness overwhelm her.

“I can’t believe you kept it in your trousers,” she mumbled into his back.

Even if her eyes had been open, she would’ve missed the satisfied smile that cracked the mud and blood on the Viking’s face.

Chapter Three →

#fanfiction #vikings #vikingfanfiction #writer #writing #ragnarlothbrok #adventure #romance #timetravel #OC #ragnar/OC

5 notes · View notes

king-finnigan · 5 years ago

Text

That’s Just Wasteland, Baby - Chapter 7

You can also read this on AO3! M A S T E R L I S T

A/n: I posted this on AO3 yesterday, but only now on tumblr because I realized I had forgotten to post chapter 6 here. Which is kinda stupid of me but go off, I guess. Special thanks to @pansexual-courfeyrac for being my beta! Also made a little /style change/ cause uh... Geralt’s not doing.... great.

As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don’t hesitate to leave a like and a comment if you feel like it!

His back screams in agony, as he shifts slightly, trying to find a position on the cold, stone floor that isn’t immensely uncomfortable and painful. The bleeding had stopped, after a while, though the wounds are barely healed. Still, every small move of the muscles in his back sends new waves of pain across his body, stretching its paralyzing touch all the way down to his toes and fingers.

He sighs, and slowly pushes himself into a seating position, giving up on trying to sleep. Instead, he sits cross-legged on the floor – with some trouble – and closes his eyes to meditate. His thoughts are scattered, his mind fuzzy, and a small tendril of fear flares up in his chest. He’s scared of forgetting, of losing himself in this cold, damp cell.

So, he organizes his thoughts, by cataloguing the things he knows.

He knows he is Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher. He knows he has a Child Surprise, Ciri. He knows he has a good friend, Yennefer. He knows he has two brothers, Eskel and Lambert. He knows he has a father figure, Vesemir. He knows he is was engaged to Jaskier, who has been murdered in cold blood by Nilfgaard. He knows they abducted him. He knows he is in a dungeon of sorts. He knows there is a guard by the door, staring at him with contempt in his eyes, and he knows there’s another one, outside his cell.

The list ends there, worryingly short, and he frowns. Fine, what does he not know, then?

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, for starters. The food comes at inconsistent times, and is often not enough to appease his hunger, making him weaker and his thoughts even more incoherent. The guards change either too quickly or too late to be normal. He can see what time it is from the angle of the sunlight shining through the dirty window high in the stone wall, but sometimes time seems to move either too fast or too slow. He could have sworn he saw the light moving backwards once, and he feels like he’s losing his mind.

He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t hear any birds, nor the wind, nor anything else, other than the heartbeats of the guards, and his own. No one talks, except for the Eel, when he feels like dignifying the Witcher with his presence, and the young guard, the one with the sea-green eyes, when he had told him his name. Everything around him is encompassed in an unnatural silence, and it makes him uncomfortable.

So he doesn’t know what time it is, where he is, or how long he’s been here. He doesn’t know when he’ll eat next, when he’ll see another kind face, when he’ll finally be able to sleep properly. He doesn’t know how to escape. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the chance to really mourn Jaskier.

He doesn’t know a lot of things, and he’s losing hope and it annoys him.

He opens his eyes as the door to his cell opens, and the young guard steps in – Rhirthisech, his name was. The angry-smelling guard leaves, walking down the hall until Geralt can’t hear his heartbeat anymore, the guard that had been standing outside the door following him.

It’s quiet for a few moments, and Geralt closes his eyes again, trying to meditate, failing to keep his mind from wandering. His nose tingles, as something in the air changes. The young guard smells of curiosity again, a scent that tickles, like when he’s smelled a candle or a perfume too deeply.

The smell becomes nearly unbearable, and Geralt is ready to snap at the boy to spit it out or stop being so loud with his emotions, when a soft voice breaks the silence. “I thought Witchers didn’t feel.”

Geralt opens one eye, peering at the teen, before closing it again. He doesn’t know what to say, so he keeps his mouth shut, hoping the young guard will give up and go back to being scared of him. Like everyone always is. Like they should be. Like Jaskier never was.

The scent of curiosity itches at his nose again, sharp and demanding. A few more moments of quiet, and Geralt can hear the start of a sentence in the back of the teen’s throat, only to be cut off again immediately. It repeats several more times.

He sighs and opens his eyes fully, giving the young guard an annoyed glare. Still no fear. “Spit it out.”

The boy startles a bit, though he regains his composure quickly. “Is it true, then? That Witchers don’t have emotions?”

Geralt pulls up his eyebrows at the teen. “Does it matter?”

Rhirthisech’s voice is soft, sea-green eyes sincere under the black, Nilfgaardian helmet. “It does to me.”

The Witcher scoffs, yellow eyes incredulous, confusion in his chest. “Why?”

The teen shrugs. It is quiet again for a few minutes, as the young guard stares at the back wall. Geralt is about to close his eyes to try and meditate once more, but the soft voice speaks up again: “Who was he?”

Sea-green eyes look at him confused when Geralt shoots him a death glare. “Who?” he asks, very much aware who Rhirthisech is asking about. A silent warning in his eyes to back away, to leave the subject be.

Rhirthisech does not heed the warning, and keeps on talking. It reminds him of Jaskier.

“The man who was killed, who you cried for.” A sharp tug at his chest, and Geralt sighs as the grief hits him again.

He looks up, into the teen’s earnest eyes, curiosity and sincerity in his scent, making for a delicate smell of flowers, teetering on the edge of becoming troublesome for the Witcher’s nose.

“He was the love of my life.” The truth, for once. He has no desire or need to lie.

Rhirthisech looks down at his feet. “So Witchers do feel.”

Geralt nods, closing his eyes again, ending the conversation. “Yes, we do.”

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s a day later, or a week later, or a year later, or an hour earlier. Geralt can’t tell. His mind is fuzzy, and he has to blink a couple of times to clear the fog from his vision. He’s not sure if he’s fallen asleep, or if he meditated too deeply, but he notices the cell is suddenly empty, Rhirthisech gone.

He cocks his head, straining his ears, frowning when he doesn’t hear a heartbeat outside his cell, or anywhere nearby, except for his. Maybe Nilfgaard has abandoned him – an almost hysterical part of his mind thinks.

Still, the cuffs are secured tightly around his wrists and ankles. He stands up slowly, painfully, as the barely-healed wounds on his back stretch a little too tightly and uncomfortably. The chains around his legs are short, shackled to the floor, and he finds out he can’t put a step forward. Those around his arms give him space to move, though, and he bends down, tugging at the ring in the stone floor that anchor the bonds around his ankles.

It doesn’t budge an inch, the metal too strong to bend, the stone too tough too break, Geralt too weak to free himself.

He stands up straight again, back protesting, as noise fills the hallway outside his cell, his door bouncing off the wall as it’s slammed open.

His heart sighs, then sings in relief, as he meets Yennefer’s purple eyes. “Geralt! Thank the gods, we’ve searched everywhere for you.”

She walks over to him, crouching down to inspect the chains around his ankles, tugging at them, probably figuring out a way to break them without hurting him. He frowns. “’We’?”

She nods absentmindedly, and footsteps in the hall draw his attention again. He looks up, and meets blue eyes he would recognize anywhere.

Jaskier sighs in relief, half-sobbing as he stumbles forward, bridging the gap between them. Geralt is still for a moment, frozen and numb, the realization not fully settled yet. Finally, he hugs Jaskier back, and he feels tears sting in his eyes. “Jaskier…”

“Gods, Geralt, I’ve missed you so much.” The Witcher frowns, and pulls back, holding his love a few inches away, yellow eyes inspecting the familiar face, unsure if he really heard what he thinks he heard, or if it had been another a figment of his imagination.

“What?” He tries not to sound too worried or weirded out, afraid of hurting his love’s feelings if he did. The last thing he wanted was to see Jaskier ever hurt again.

Jaskier’s hand comes up to cup Geralt’s cheek, the coolness of his fingers seeping into his skin. “We were worried sick, I was so scared they had killed you, or…”

Geralt’s frown turns into a scowl, and he pushes Jaskier away, ignoring the pang he feels at the Bard’s hurt expression, he has hurt him again. His cheeks sear were Jaskier’s cold fingers had been just moments before. He notices the emotions on his love’s face doesn’t really reach his eyes, and that the colour of them is slightly off, the blue a little too grey. He takes a deep breath, the smell of mud and murky water assaulting his nose. Finally, he strains his ears, and hears Jaskier’s heartbeat, steady and slow. Too steady, too slow.

He takes a step back, and to the side, away from Yennefer’s hands. He notices her eyes are slightly the wrong shade of purple.

“You’re not real.” He tries to take another step back, his movements restricted by the chains still around his ankles, as not-Jaskier reaches out.

“Geralt, it’s me, it’s always been me. My love-“ The Witcher feels heat building in his chest, anger red-hot in his veins, and he slaps not-Jaskier’s hand away, chains clanging against each other noisily as he does so.

“Don’t call me that. You’re not Jaskier. Jaskier is dead.” He growls out the last words, teeth clenched, jaw set.

A heartbeat comes and passes, and suddenly not-Jaskier laughs coldly, not-Yennefer standing up, looking impressed. “He figured that out quite soon.” Her face morphs, and in the blink of an eye, she’s a Nilfgaardian soldier.

“That, he did.” Not-Jaskier has turned into the Eel, and Geralt growls at him as he takes the Witcher’s chin in his cold, unforgiving fingers. “I wonder how.” He pulls his eyebrows up, waiting for an answer.

“Fuck you.” The Eel tuts, and lets go of his chin, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Now, now, Witcher. That is no way to talk to a friend. How very rude of you.” He grins, muddy brown eyes crinkling in genuine delight. “Obviously, you must be punished now.”

He snaps his fingers at the soldier. “Bring me a torch from the hall.” He slaps Geralt’s cheek condescendingly. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

Geralt sneers at him, anger coursing through his veins. The soldier returns with the requested torch, and the Eel takes a knife from his belt, the crude leather handle worn.

“You’re probably wondering why I did all this.” He looks at Geralt expectantly, as if he wants the Witcher to ask for an explanation. He doesn’t. The Eel continues anyway.

“Well, you see, my dear Witcher, it gets quite boring here from time to time. And what’s more fun than breaking a man from the inside?” He smirks, pressing the tip of his finger against the pointed end of the blade. “Better yet, you’re not just a man, you’re a Witcher.”

He presses the tip of the knife against Geralt’s nose. “All the more fun to break you, then.”

He steps back, hanging the blade in the flames, the light flickering in his cold, muddy brown eyes. For once his gaze is not emotionless; he looks delighted.

“Anyways, I thought it would be fun to commemorate this” he takes the knife from the fire, the metal red-hot “victory you’ve had on me. Though, maybe you won’t be so lucky next time. We’ll see.”

His hand grips Geralt’s left shoulder, squeezing painfully, as he presses the tip of the searing blade into the Witcher’s right shoulder. Pain explodes as the skin sizzles under the heat, and Geralt clenches his jaw, determined not to cry out.

Finally, the knife is removed, and Geralt releases his breath in one quick scoff. The Eel smiles, inspecting the thin, violently red stripe the blade has branded into the Witcher’s skin. “Hmm. Very pretty.”

He moves back, wiping the now cooled-down blade on a handkerchief he has pulled from one of his pockets. He waves his hand dismissively to the guard. “Go, get that useless boy to stand guard. What’s his name again?” He rolls his muddy brown eyes. “Whatever, doesn’t matter.”

And with that, they’re both gone from the cell, and Geralt is left alone as the door closes behind them. He lowers himself on the ground, with some trouble, pressing the cool metal of the chains around his arm against the burn, hissing quietly as he does so.

҉ ҉ ҉

Ten minutes later, or maybe an hour later, or maybe a week later, Rhirthisech joins him again, standing guard next to the door silently for half an hour. He eyes the new, red mark on Geralt’s skin, curiosity and worry in his scent. It reminds him of Jaskier.

Geralt sighs, as the teen shuffles on his feet a little, and he can once again hear the start of a sentence stuck in the back of the boy’s throat. “Spit it out, Rhirthisech.”

The young guard looks up, sea-green eyes surprised and delighted. “You remembered my name.”

Geralt nods tiredly, almost regretting starting the conversation. “Not much else to do around here.”

The sea-green eyes are too excited for Geralt’s liking, but he decides to humour the teen. “I know you want to ask me something.”

“What’s it like out there?” The question takes the Witcher by surprise, and he simply stares at the young guard, who has an expectant look on his face.

“What do you mean?”

Rhirthisech puts his spear on the ground, and Geralt listens for anyone else who may be present or approaching in the hall, sure the boy would be punished terribly for doing something like this. The young guard moves forward, sitting in front of the Witcher.

“I’ve only ever known Nilfgaard and serving my country. What’s it like” he waves his hand to the dirty window, high in the stone wall “out there? In different countries?”

Geralt cocks his head, fighting to keep a smile from dancing across his lips. It’s been a while since he’s seen someone so curious and excited around him, so carefree and fearless. It reminds him of Jaskier. It reminds him of Jaskier. It reminds him of Jaskier.

But Jaskier’s dead. He ignores the sharp pang in his chest.

He shrugs. “It’s… fine, I guess.” His brow creases as memories flood him. “I used to travel around, fight monsters, get coin for it.”

Rhirthisech removes his helmet, an unruly mop of jet-black hair springing out from underneath it, and for the first time, Geralt can see how young the boy truly is. Barely fifteen, maybe. His sea-green eyes are filled with wonder. “You can do that? Just… travel around?”

Geralt frowns again, though he tries to make the boy feel like he isn’t judging him. Since when does he take other people’s emotions into consideration? “You… can’t?”

Rhirthisech shakes his head. “No, we’re not allowed. Only when our squadron goes somewhere, and even then, we travel mostly by portal.” He gets a faraway and dreamy look in his eyes. “I’d love to see a forest sometime.”

Geralt would love to see the forest again. He cocks his head. “You’ve never seen a forest before?”

The teen shakes his head again, sea-green eyes focused on the back wall. “No, I was born in the capital, and I grew up there. I went to train for the army when I was eight, as usual, which was in the mountains. Now I’m here.”

Disbelief rises in his chest, and he’s not sure if he heard what the boy said correctly. “You started training when you were eight?”

Rhirthisech nods, then shrugs. “All orphans do. Because usually you take your father’s profession but well…” he rubs the back of his neck, and Geralt can feel a note of sadness creep into the ever-present scent of curiosity “since I didn’t have one, I had to become a soldier.” He shrugs again.

Something stirs in Geralt, and his mind flashes back to the training he’d had to endure when he was younger. The boy reminds him of himself.

“How old are you, Rhirthisech?” The teen looks up, squaring his shoulder unconsciously, as if to appear bigger.

“I’m fifteen, but I’m a very good soldier. I may be a little… thinner and smaller, but that doesn’t mean I’m not as good as the others.” Geralt gets a sneaking suspicion that the boy has said this a hundred times before already, as if he has had to defend himself against sceptics and bullies his whole life. The boy reminds him of himself.

He smiles, softly, reassuringly. “I believe you.”

It is quiet for a few seconds, and Geralt’s mind wanders back to the beach-side cottage, and to his home in the wooded hills of Lyria. “So you’ve only ever seen mountains?”

Rhirthisech shrugs. “And the capital. I’ve heard of other things, like the ocean, and… meadows I think they’re called?” Geralt nods. “But I’ve never seen them before.” The boy smells sad again. “Would love to, someday. Though I doubt I will. At least not anytime soon.”

He recognizes the dreamy, wistful look in the sea-green eyes, the boy reminds him of himself, and he smiles softly. “Would you like me to describe it to you?”

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #gerlion #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla of cintra #that's just wasteland baby #chapter 7 #mine

3 notes · View notes

thedenimdentist · 5 years ago

Text

Truman Boot Co: Java Waxed Flesh MTO Review & 1 Year Update

Introduction

Truman Boot Company is an American boot making company founded in 2014 in Pennsylvania. They later moved out to Boulder, CO, and recently moved again to their current location in Eugene, OR.

This will not be so much of an in-depth review of the Java Waxed Flesh boot by Truman Boot Company, as an amazingly extensive and detailed review was already written by Nick over at stridewise.com. Instead, my goal is to provide a quick overview of my specific pair of Java Waxed Flesh boots (including the customizations I chose and their build quality), as well as provide detailed photographs capturing the patina they’ve developed over the past year.

Customization

I designed these boots through an MTO order placed back in March 2019. The customizations I chose were as follows:

Last: P-79 last

Size: 11EE

Construction: stitchdown (+$100)

Vamp: cap toe

Heel style: standard, no pull tabs

Stitching: brown

Ankle style: plain

Tongue leather: dark brown

Hardware configuration: 7 eyelets

Hardware finish: antique brass

Toe construction: unstructured

Sole: commando

Sizing

When buying my first pair of Truman boots, I was having a really difficult time determining what size I should order. After speaking to Truman and multiple people through Instagram, it was recommended I buy a size 10EE (based on my Red Wing Iron Ranger size, 9.5EE). Man, was that off. I normally have to wear my boots with a full length orthotic, and I could barely squeeze my foot into the size 10EE boots without the insert. I had to send those back to Truman to be stretched (to a size they claimed was 10.5EE) only to find that it was still way too tight. I ultimately had to sell those boots, and ended up purchasing 3 pairs of size 11EE Trumans within 2 months. (Probably not the best idea, but luckily 11EE was my correct size, so it all worked out.)

Tl;dr: I’m a size 11EE in Truman’s P-79 last.

Above are the two lasts offered by Truman: the C-55 last and the P-79 last (image taken from the Truman website). The C-55 last was not available when I purchased my Java Waxed Flesh boots, and has more of a formal, almond-shaped toe. Unfortunately, Truman does not yet offer wide EE sizing in this C-55 last, so I wouldn’t have been able to choose it anyway.

Below I’ve listed my sizes in boots from other brands for reference:

Truman Boot Company - 11EE

Viberg (1035 last) - 10.5

Red Wing, Iron Ranger - 9.5EE

Thursdays - 10.5

Onderhoud - 44E

Parkhurst - 11

For a deeper dive into how my feet suck and why sizing is always an issue for me when buying any footwear, please refer to my Onderhoud review (here).

(Above are the orthotic inserts I wear in my boots. They’re full length memory foam, so all my boots feel like slippers. Available on Amazon.)

Above are my 3 pairs of Trumans (from left to right: Java Waxed Flesh, Black Waxy Commanders, and Aubergine Horserump), along with my Red Wing Iron Rangers. All 3 Trumans are size 11EE with unstructured toes. (I’ve heard others recommend dropping down a half size for Trumans with a structured toe box. I can’t say for sure since I’ve never tried, so don’t quote me on that.)

Price & Shipping

The base price for these boots was $380. With the $100 fee for stitchdown construction, the final price came out to be $480 (plus $18 shipping). I placed my order on 3/15/2019, they were completed and shipped on 5/17/2019, and the boots were delivered on 5/23/2019.

Leather

Java Waxed Flesh is vegetable-tanned roughout leather produced exclusively for Truman by Horween Leather Company in Chicago. The leather starts as a rich, dark java brown color with a glossy waxed finish. This durable waxy coat makes this leather extremely durable and water-resistant. However, this glossy finish will scratch and scuff away with wear, revealing a roughout surface texture with a lighter, warmer color tone.

Waxed flesh is a great leather option for those who don’t want to worry too much about leather maintenance. Other than a quick brush down every once in a while, I have yet to apply any conditioner to my boots.

Unboxing & Initial Impressions

Unfortunately, when I first received these boots I had no intention of ever writing a review for them, and thus did not take very detailed photos. However, by looking at the photos I did take (and comparing to how they look now), these boots were constructed and finished very nicely. The stitching on the uppers appears to be very clean and neat, and the patterns are symmetrical between the left and right boots.

Straight from the box, these boots felt like tanks. The chunky commando sole gave them significant weight and made them feel very rugged and sturdy. The leather was fairly thick and stiff with a waxy gloss finish, making it feel like armor when trying them on for the first time.

One area that I wish Truman had done a little cleaner is the two rows of stitchdown welt stitching. The spacing between the two rows is a bit inconsistent, with the outer row being a little wiggly in some places. It isn’t bad by any means. There are no loose stitches and the stitch density appears fairly consistent all around (I’ve seen far sloppier welt stitching out there on Instagram). That being said, I have no complaints about the durability and functionality of the stitchdown construction on these Trumans. I have no doubt that this welt stitching would far outlast the life of the commando soles, and will present no issues with resoling when the time comes.

I admit, I have been told that I place a higher emphasis on the cleanliness and finishing of my boots than most (I blame Jake, @almostvintagestyle). I’ve come to appreciate the extremely precise and uniform stitching I’ve seen on boots by custom boot makers such as Rizky (@onderhoud.handmade), Peng (@flamepanda11), and Goto-San of White Kloud (@show_goto). I acknowledge that the precision and uniformity of a boot’s welt stitching mostly just aesthetics and has little effect on the durability/longevity of a boot (as long as it doesn’t fall apart or any cause issues with resoling in the future). However, I still believe that how cleanly a boot is constructed speaks to the craftsmanship and overall attention to detail of the boot maker, making me proud to own, wear, and post photos of their work.

(The very clean and uniform welt stitching on my Onderhoud derbies.)

1 Year & 139 Wears Later

As the header states, I have worn these Java Waxed Flesh boots 139 times over the past year (actually 11 months, but as the world is currently closed due to COVID-19, these boots probably won’t be worn much more over the next month anyway). The waxed flesh leather has broken in significantly and is much more flexible and comfortable. However, the leather still feels very thick and rugged, especially in comparison to my other smoothout leather boots. I admit, these are not my most comfortable pair. Even fully broken in, this waxed flesh leather is not nearly as comfortable as the Aubergine Horserump used on my other pair of Trumans (which were soft and pliable from the start). However, these javas are definitely my most heavy-duty boots. I feel like I could go into battle with these while still maintaining that slimmer, service boot silhouette.

You can tell by the rolls and creases in the leather that the leather has conformed nicely to my feet. Also, at this angle you can really see the uneven, asymmetric, and wiggly welt stitching that I mentioned previously (especially on the outside of the right boot).

Here is a top-down view of the toe shape of the P-79 last in size 11EE (wide).

As I stated earlier, these boots are rugged tanks and can withstand quite a beating. However, being a dentist living in the suburbs, I don’t subject these boots (or any of my boots really) to the outdoor manual labor for which they were built. The smooth waxy coating has only really scuffed away in areas of high flexure (where my toes crease and around the neck of the boot where I wrap my laces). Other than that, the majority of the boots still maintain the glossy shine, even after nearly 140 wears.

Looking back, one thing that I might’ve changed is getting a dainite instead of the commando sole. I opted for the commando sole because I felt like it complemented the rugged aesthetic of the waxed flesh leather. However, as these boots are worn mostly at work in a dental office and walking casually around Target, the functional traction the commando soles provide has had little use for me. I actually prefer the dainite soles of my other Truman boots, as my feet feel more balanced and sturdy on the ground. (This may be because the width of the commando sole actually in contact with the ground is significantly narrower than my feet, as you can see in the photo above.) Ultimately, this is still just my personal preference. There is nothing wrong with the commando sole used by Truman. When the time comes for a resole, I’ll probably send them to Brian at Role Club for some half soles and a low woodsman heel.

I’ve read online that some people find the heel (counter) of Truman boots to be bulbous and wide, resulting in some heel slip. Personally I haven’t had any issues with the heel.

While my boot collection is still fairly small, I can definitely say that I prefer unstructured over structured toe boxes. I absolutely love the silhouette of a boot after the leather has broken in and the toe has fully collapsed, conforming to the shape of the owner’s foot. The toe boxes of these Trumans have partially collapsed, and I look forward to seeing how they continue to mold to my feet in the future.

Conclusion

Overall, I am very happy with the construction quality of these boots by Truman, as well as how they’ve broken in over the past year. They are by far the most rugged boot I own (other than my Red Wing Iron Rangers), and would be my first choice should I ever need to do anything outdoors (like hike, or go camping, or whatever). The waxed finish of the leather still has a lot of life to it (I’m guessing, based on the amount of sheen still left on the boot), and I look forward to see how they look after another year of wear.

In the Wild

Below, I’ve compiled a few extra photos I’ve taken of these Java Waxed Flesh boots as I’ve broken them in over the past year. For more photos of these boots, as well as the rest of my denim and boots collection, please check out my Instagram (@thedenimdentist).

2 notes · View notes

dvstoonreviews · 5 years ago

Text

Hazbin Hotel Review - A show that doesn’t know what it wants to be

Disclaimer: All of these opinions are my own and if you disagree with me that is totally okay! I also understand this is a pilot episode, and that it may be very different to the main show. I will also not be including the Vivziepop controversies as I am just going to be judging the cartoon. Okay, let’s get into it.

Art

Hazbin Hotel is a well-known cartoon. It has been long anticipated by many people (including myself) and it does not disappoint in terms of art quality. It’s very unique, different and compelling. The variety of characters is pretty new to me - it looks like a whole bunch of over the top characters strung together in a show - which isn’t exactly a bad thing. The variety of characters shown in the pilot give the viewer a look at what to expect as the series progresses, it’s also an interesting way to show the spectrum of demons that reside in this universe.

(There are some really creative aspects in the environments of the show, 04:10, Vivziepop) The show also has a very defined style - you can pick it out amongst almost any other cartoon. It looks like it’s come from some very strong visual talent, and it’s what I liked most about the show. My issue with the visuals, however, is that there is so much to look at that it seems oversaturated. The animation style changes constantly and is inconsistent. This leads to me feeling a bit nauseous and it feels almost headache-inducing. In the opening musical number, there is a moment where there are characters that look stretched to fit a shot and it broke the immersion for me.

(An example of the stretched-to-fit format, 00:53, Vivziepop)

Plot

Hazbin Hotel is a cartoon about Lucifer’s daughter, a girl named Charlie who tries to rehabilitate Demons so they have a chance at redemption to ultimately stop/lessen the extermination of demons each year. The plot is pretty straightforward, linear, and easy to understand. The issue with this is that characters become predictable. This is a show targeted at a mature audience, so why is the plot so simple? If you took away the swearing and replaced the drugs with cookies or something, I feel like the audience can understand what the show wants to do - receiving a simple plot can drive away mature audiences because they feel belittled by simplicity - this did not stop shows like My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic from having a huge following, but those episodes teach life lessons and have a G rating. I also found myself zoning out within the first five minutes of the show. I was disinterested, and some potentially interesting parts e,g. The Radio Demon’s introduction tells instead of shows, we are told that he a character who “began to topple overlords who have been dominant for centuries”. But all we get are animated stills across constant transitions. This dream like-sequence would usually be quite effective in a cartoon episode, but for Hazbin Hotel, this instead feels like a time filler (for lack of a better term). There is lots of potential for character growth in Hazbin Hotel, but it is squashed by cliches and predictability.

Another issue I have with the pilot is that I can’t understand the relationships between characters. I could only tell the character Vaggie (a supporting protagonist) had Spanish heritage from a joke, and only on the wiki did I know she was actually in a relationship with the main character, Charlie. I could see no chemistry between these characters other than the fact that they hang out and that Charlie doesn’t really listen to her.

(An example of possible oversaturation of characters on screen, we don’t get much time to look at them before they are quickly panned away from, 11:16, Vivziepop) Humour

Humour is subjectable, but I feel I should touch on this anyway, as it is a big part of the show. Although adults are the target audience, the humour feels juvenile and throwaway - contributing to the overall questioned identity of the show. There are a few gems in there that made me laugh, such as one character saying “that was shit” after a musical number. I found myself cringing at a majority of it because it reminded me of something my 14-year-old self would have loved because it’s edgy, not because it’s funny.

Conclusion Overall, I feel this cartoon is better catered towards a teenage audience instead of an adult. Much of the profanity is completely unnecessary. Yes, you can use the argument that it’s set in Hell, but that doesn’t make up for bad writing.

This is an introductory episode so I don’t expect things to be perfect, but I feel it’s very overhyped for what it is. I understand that many people love it, but I am interested to see why they love it. Please let me know in the comments below how you feel - I’d love to hear what you have to say. Also, if you’re comfortable, I would be interested in knowing your age along with the comment purely for demographic research.

Total Rankings

Art Style: 8/10

Plot: 5/10

Humour: 6/10

Total: 6/10

Hazbin Hotel is currently streaming on YouTube, if you haven’t had the chance to check it out yet, you can watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zlmswo0S0e0

#hazbin #hazbin hotel #cartoon #cartoon review #youtube cartoon #youtube #hotel #pilot #pilot episode #Adult cartoon #hell #youtube cartoons #hazbinhotel #cartoonreviews #Hazbin Hotel Review

10 notes · View notes

magic-and-moonlit-wings · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 46: Dinner Party

Becoming The Mask

+=+

Ultimately, Barbara did not ask Draal to leave. She wanted to, but she didn't want to make Jim feel insecure about whether he would be permitted to stay in the house or if Barbara was going to kick him out again.

Then they showed her the hole in the wall, covered by another tarp.

"You're filling that in," she said.

"How else am I supposed to get around during the day?" asked Draal.

"It's a good emergency escape route," Jim lobbied.

"You said there are lots of tunnels under Arcadia, right?" They both nodded. "I don't want random trolls wandering into my house because they got lost. That hole needs a proper door."

"Mr Strickler might know some warding spells," said Jim. "'Authorized personnel only'."

Once these matters were settled, Draal and Jim helped Barbara find her canvases and easel. She backed her car into the driveway and set up her painting supplies in the garage.

That space would probably be easier to air out than the basement anyway. She'd just have to move or cover any works-in-progress before opening the garage door in bad weather.

Barbara breathed a sigh of relief when Jim put down the last paint cans he'd carried for her and left the garage, shutting the door behind him. She opened a colour at random – green – dipped in a wide brush, and started to fill the white canvas with a new background colour in wide, rough strokes.

Filling in a background colour was how Barbara warmed up. Move your arm from the shoulder. Don't worry about being precise. Long lines. Loose curves. Something tighter now, to fill in that blank spot.

Barbara went over the edges of the canvas and painted the sides stretched over the frame as well. She gave those a minute to dry, then rotated the canvas ninety degrees so all four sides were painted. This was why she often started by orienting her rectangular canvases landscape-style, longer side up, when she usually painted portrait-style.

She rinsed her brush in a mug of water and selected orange paint, next. On a piece of cardboard she thought would make a decent palette, Barbara mixed the orange with yellow, a bit at a time, to lighten it until she got the shade she wanted.

She began slashing streaks of orange through the green. It was like lava rippling through a jungle, or amber peaking out of a moss-covered stone.

Barbara had created a tangle of orange streaks and was rinsing her brush while considering her next colour when she realized Jim had called her 'Mom' earlier. She dropped her brush into the water.

He hadn't called her that since she'd kicked him out. She'd been avoiding asking why. Barbara didn't want to push Jim to forgive her for kicking him out if he wasn't ready, or to keep lying to her if he genuinely didn't see her as his mother. (That thought made her chest hurt.)

Had he realized what he was saying? It had been a very charged moment, with her afraid and Jim and Draal both in pain. But he said it more than once …

It could have been a reflex, after sixteen years of habit.

It could have been to manipulate her emotionally, finally hearing it again as he was asking her for something. Barbara discarded this thought almost immediately and felt terrible for having it cross her mind. Jim had heard her screaming and thought she was in danger, and then he had been in pain. It was far more likely he didn't realize what he was saying than that he'd planned out that entire encounter.

Barbara steadied her breathing and picked up the brush, wiping it on some old newspaper to coax out the excess water.

She would wait and see if Jim called her 'Mom' again. She would not be pushy. She wouldn't mention it until and unless he did.

She picked blue for her next colour.

+=+

Jim didn't realize, until after everyone was calm again and Barbara was painting in the garage, that he had slipped up and called her 'Mom'.

Several times.

It had been only a matter of time, really, since he thought of her that way half the time. Hopefully she hadn't noticed.

Jim had avoided addressing Barbara as 'Mom' since she found out he was a Changeling. He couldn't stand the thought of her telling him not to call her that. Likewise, he had been avoiding physical contact so he wouldn't have to risk her flinching from his touch.

If she still wanted to touch him, she would initiate it. If she wanted him to call her 'Mom', she'd … bring it up at some point, whenever she noticed he'd stopped. Jim wasn't quite willing to call her 'Barbara' or 'Dr Lake' to her face to prompt that conversation, though … just in case she really didn't want him to call her 'Mom' anymore.

Avoidance. A Changeling life skill.

He curled up on the couch and pulled up one of the seat cushions to hug it. A seat cushion was more substantial than a throw pillow. Jim had some stuffed animals in his room still, but he didn't feel like going upstairs.

He really missed how casually he and Barbara had hugged before she found out about trolls. Jim had hugged Toby and Nana and those of Nana's cats which enjoyed that kind of thing while he was staying with the Domzalskis, but it wasn't the same, and Toby was inconsistent about whether he was willing to get hugged in public so Jim had fewer opportunities for contact now that he was back home.

Jim looked at the windows. There shouldn't be any witnesses …

But it was still light out, and the curtains were open today.

So, ultimately, he didn't switch forms. His sense of smell while human-shaped wasn't that bad; he could still tell that his mother had been on this couch recently, even if the scent wasn't as clear.

He huddled on the couch hugging the cushion until his stomach rumbled.

+=+

There was a knock on the door connecting the garage to the house.

"Come in?" Barbara wasn't surprised to see Jim, but she was surprised he'd knocked instead of just opening the door.

"Should I make dinner, or did you want take out?"

She hadn't realized she was getting hungry until his question reminded her of food.

"… How about you cook?"

He grinned hugely.

+=+

"Draal taste-tested and confirmed it; trolls officially love your cooking."

"I'm not sure how to feel about that," Barbara admitted. It had been two days since she'd met their basement lodger, and now Draal and some other trolls from Trollmarket were going to join her and Jim for dinner.

It was also the first time in years that she and Jim were cooking together. Trolls apparently enjoyed a number of things which Barbara would consider unfit for consumption. So, although gratifying to hear her cooking complimented, it was unflattering to have it fall into the category of 'troll food'.

They were making quiches as the main dish. One was set aside for Barbara. Several others were baking in disposable foil baking pans, which Jim explained would be considered part of the entrée. The Lakes had purchased extra cutlery at a thrift store, since that would likely end up eaten too.

The quiches were in large rectangular pans, except for the human-safe one Jim baked that morning in a traditional round pie pan. The pie crust was based on Nancy Domzalski's recipe. Barbara cracked four dozen eggs for the larger egg pies, which looked more like egg casseroles, and blended the eggs with heavy cream. Cheese, mushrooms, and spinach followed. She sprinkled the crushed eggshells on top like a garnish and put the first two in the oven.

Jim put together some appetisers, which Barbara thought looked distinctly unappetizing. A bunch of cut-up plastic of various types, coffee grounds, and crumpled labels from recycled cans and jars had been arranged inside the clear jars like parfaits, while the metal cans were filled with wadded newspaper around a 'meaty centre'.

He also sliced some vegetables into disks and arranged them into dainty little sandwich-like stacks for Barbara and himself.

Barbara thought about dressing up, since they were having guests, but in the rush after work to help with dinner she didn't have time to change out of her scrubs. Jim would've taken care of the meal on his own, she was sure, but Barbara had issued the invitation, Barbara was the hostess, and by golly Barbara was going to cook at least some of the food.

She switched the first two quiches for the second two, and then she and Jim went downstairs to wait with Draal. Their guests were coming in through the basement tunnel, which still didn't have a proper door.

When Blinky and AAARRRGGHH arrived, Blinky in pants and suspenders with no shirt and AAARRRGGHH naked, Barbara was glad she hadn't had time to change. The trolls might not have known enough about human culture to notice, but she would've felt overdressed.

"Welcome to our home." She smiled and hoped showing teeth wasn't threatening in troll body language or something.

"It's an absolute delight to be here," said Blinky. He proffered a box. "We brought a small contribution to the meal. These are called 'salty niblets'. The young humans seem to enjoy them," which implied they should be safe for Barbara to eat.

"Is Vendel coming later, or could he not make it?" asked Jim.

"I … to be honest, I elected not to pass on your invitation," Blinky admitted. "It was almost guaranteed to be declined. Vendel has not left the Heartstone in over a century."

"Sure he has. I've seen him all over Trollmarket."

"To leave Trollmarket is to leave the Heartstone. You've felt how its power extends even to the entrance. Beyond the boundaries that its magics are harnessed to maintain, the Heartstone becomes more difficult to sense, even for the magically adept. One of Vendel's many duties as the market's Elder is to tend the Heartstone. He would only leave that post under circumstances of great urgency."

"Like talking down a human who might be considering exposing the existence of trolls?"

Barbara flushed. She wanted to demure, to set her guests at ease, but Jim had a point. She still wasn't convinced that hiding trolls from humans was the best course of action.

"We're eating upstairs," she said instead. "The curtains are all shut." It was night, but there could be passersby.

The stairs proved to be a challenge. AAARRRGGHH, the last to climb up, was … very large, and struggled with the doorway at the top. Barbara cringed as the stairs groaned and hoped the steps weren't going to give way under the troll's weight. But he extracted himself with only minor incident – the vibration through the wall knocked down a picture, luckily one without a glass covering – and they all made it to the table. Jim had set up cushion piles in lieu of chairs.

"Nice house. Pretty," said AAARRRGGHH. He sampled a vegetable hors d'oeuvre. It was comically tiny between his fingers, each finger being bigger around than Barbara's arm.

"Thank you." Barbara tried one of the salty niblets. They had a pleasant crunch.

"AAARRRGGHH couldn't get inside when we came to inform Master Jim of his calling," said Blinky. "Draal's tunnel is a great convenience." The six-eyed troll had a few eyes on their living room through the door. "I see you're an avid reader, Dr Lake."

"When I have time." A significant number of their books she hadn't actually read in years, or she had received as gifts but never gotten around to reading, but she couldn't bring herself to give them away in case of that mythical day when she would have time for them. Her reference books and a few favourite novels were opened most often. "I remember you had quite a library?"

"One of the largest collections of troll lore in the world. Curated by my brother," said Blinky proudly, then seemed to freeze. He frowned and added, ominously, "before."

His hands clenched. Blinky's hands were much closer to human-sized, although not scaled the same. His forearms were nearly as broad as his hands, with barely any indentation denoting his wrists, and his fingers were quite short.

"Well, there's a loaded word," said Barbara, trying to lighten the mood and back away from what was clearly a sensitive topic. "And Jim says you train him. I assume that's somewhere else."

"The Hero's Forge," said Draal, attempting to raise his fist dramatically and nearly punching the ceiling before catching himself. Actually, Barbara noted, none of the trolls present had much distinguishing where their hand met their forearm. Draal had the most, in the form of a strip of leather tied around one wrist.

"It's something of an arena," said Blinky, "as I'm sure Master Jim has mentioned. But the Forge serves not only as a training ground and memorial to the fallen – many grand events take place there. For example, have you ever heard of Pyrobligst?"

It was a sport, apparently. The description Blinky and Draal gave, punctuated by occasional comments from AAARRRGGHH, sounded like a mix between basketball and gladiator combat.

"Between the first and second half is the Scalding Hour," said Draal.

"You do what now-er?" Jim asked, looking deeply unsettled.

"When competitors seal their wounds with burning hot metal."

"Is that normal troll medicine?" asked Barbara, "or another part of the competition?"

"Oh, no, metal sealant is quite commonplace, should a troll be injured enough to need it," said Blinky.

"Hold stone together," said AAARRRGGHH. "Strong, but … can move. Won't chip. Can stretch." He looked at Blinky, who said "Flexible" softly, and AAARRRGGHH repeated it. "Flex-able. And minerals help, heal faster."

"I assume different metals would have different properties for this?" said Barbara, intrigued.

"Oh, yes," agreed Blinky, "depending on the troll's own mineral type and the nature of the injury. It's not just to prevent deep fractures from splitting further. A surface coating of aluminum, for example, can speed the healing of sunburn."

"Humans use aloe vera for that."

All the trolls turned to her and leaned closer, eyes wide and mouths slightly open. Barbara stepped back from the abrupt scrutiny. Was aloe poisonous to trolls or something?

"Humans sunburn?"

"Not the way you're thinking," said Jim. "It takes a few hours of direct exposure and it's usually just skin damage. Uncomfortable, but not fatal." To Barbara, he said, "Sunburns for trolls are more like … third-degree burns for a human."

She grimaced. Working in the ER rather than a burn ward, she didn't see burns that severe on a regular basis, for which she was grateful.

"And speaking of burning things," Jim continued, "we made quiche for dinner, and some of them just might be a little burnt."

Barbara didn't consider that an appetizing segue, but Blinky and AAARRRGGHH apparently did because they both had their ears twitch upwards. She assumed that meant 'excitement'. Draal didn't have noticeable ears – maybe they were hidden by his horns – but he tilted his head back and sniffed the air appreciatively.

Blinky was the only guest to bother cutting his quiche into smaller pieces. Draal and AAARRRGGHH simply picked the pans up and bit into them, as Barbara might with a brownie.

Jim, with a wary look at everyone, switched to his troll form and cut himself a slice of the quiche that had been intended for Vendel. Barbara jumped when he transformed – everyone did, she realized after the fact, and everyone carefully did not comment on it.

He had five fingers like this, Barbara observed, and his hands were noticeably wider than his forearms – she had noticed the four-fingered hands of her guests and been trying to remember whether Jim had five fingers as a troll or if she was conflating his troll-form hand and human-form hand in her memory.

To avoid staring at Jim, Barbara turned to Blinky and AAARRRGGHH and voiced another thing she'd been wondering about. (It wasn't really any of her business, but even awkward conversation had to be better than everyone staring silently at Jim.) The two trolls were obviously close, but the finer details eluded her.

"At the risk of being rude, I'm curious; what exactly is your relationship with one another?"

"Dating." AAARRRGGHH put down his quiche and bumped Blinky's upper shoulder with his knuckles. Blinky reached up and put his hand on AAARRRGGHH's, the three eyes nearest AAARRRGGHH turning to look fondly at him.

"We've been romantically involved for almost two centuries now."

"Wow." Barbara's mind boggled at that time span. And you couldn't make it to ten years, sneered a nasty voice in the back of her mind that she forcefully pushed down. "How'd you meet?"

+=+

Previous Chapter (Barbara finds Draal in the basement)

Table of Contents

Next Chapter (Glug tells the story of the Shattered King)

I'm not going into AAARRRGGHH and Blinky's backstory yet because I haven't decided whether I want to use how the comics claim it happened or go with something else; sorry. I have, however, officially decided they are not married yet, so I can do a wedding story arc later – I will presumably recap their relationship at some point during the engagement.

According to Wikipedia, 'entrée' outside of North America refers most often to food served prior to the meal, also called an 'appetizer' or 'starter', or as one of the early courses in a multi-course meal. Inside North America, which is the context I am familiar with, an entrée refers to the main dish of the meal.

14 notes · View notes

ailuronymy · 5 years ago

Note

Hey, I follow a WC YouTuber called Moonkitti and she'd uploaded a video called "Warrior Names". She kinda slams traditionalism and also demonstrates she has no idea what exactly it is. Like she shows some prefixes as examples which has Tree and Dirt as acceptable and Jay isn't, despite the inverse being true. I know she mentions she's not against it in concept, but that it was being enforced to limit others' creativity, but I have really mixed feelings about it and wanted to know your opinions.

Hello there, Ruddles! I hadn’t heard of this person before but I went and watched this video and I think I understand where your mixed feelings might be coming from. This video is trying to do a lot of things but, in my personal opinion, it’s doing none of them particularly well.

There’s three major things happening all at once: 1. a legitimate personal reflection about how certain traditionalists acted towards this person in the past and how that impacted her (4:50; 6:20); 2. an incorrect and misleading explanation of what traditionalism even is and very clearly no understanding of why it appeals to people, and therefore very little empathy towards people who use the style; (5:13; 6:00); and 3. (from an outsider stance as someone who likes deconstructing arguments for fun) a fascinatingly messy argument both in favour of Erin Hunter while using Erin Hunter’s various (and typically more incompetent) choices as justifications for… everything and anything.

It’s a mixed bag to be sure! To start with, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with saying that some people who use the traditional style are jerks. It’s very true. I remember those days too. Some people genuinely did crash forum threads just to mock and belittle other people. It was terrible and I think it’s totally legitimate to be upset about that.

I think the argument that everyone who uses traditionalism behaves that way is bad faith, however, and I also question the confirmation bias happening at 6:54, because I only ever see people talking about traditionalism for themselves, because that’s the spaces I hang out in. I wonder if Moonkitti has ever actually looked for traditional forums and sites, or if she’s just taken for granted that they don’t exist and everyone who uses the style is waging their own personal crusade. That’s not something I endorse in any way, by the way. Don’t anyone do that.

The second topic is personally the most frustrating because at points she’s almost right. But her definitions are incorrect and explanations simplify in a way that isn’t helpful to anyone. She’s not trying to actually give an account of the style and then point out the ways it doesn’t work or shouldn’t exist or anything like that: she’s half understood the idea and gone, “That sounds dumb.” This is in fact what she claims traditionalists say about other styles (7:22), which I disagree with: traditionalism is based mostly on having a set framework in place and then fairly rigorously debating what works and doesn’t within that world set-up. Plenty of names that are traditional sound pretty silly, but that doesn’t mean we knock them back wholesale. The whole point of the style is there is a method. Making judgments based on looser qualities, like sound or flow or imagery, is more of a lyrical approach.

Anyway, she doesn’t even seem to have gone to the effort of learning about it herself before deciding to preach. I think that’s tacky. It’s exasperating to me, because it’s not like there aren’t a ton of resources out there: if nothing else, traditionalists are good like that! We love lists and archives and referring to rules we’ve written out. That’s one of the things she’s correct about. She frequently refers to the fact that traditionalism is fan-made (2:25; 3:59; 6:45), but she does so as if this is a bad thing, which it’s not. Traditionalists are aware it’s fan-made: we are, after all, the fans who made it. That’s the whole idea.

Which brings me to the third topic: she doesn’t seem to fully understand why traditionalism exists and why it brings joy to people who use it. That’s an issue, because much of her argument is based around “well, canon.” She mischaracterises traditionalists as people who are “taking things too seriously” for being creative–i.e., she recognises that the entirety of traditionalism is fan-made, but can’t seem to understand why fans would elect to create rules to follow; it seems to cancel out the creativity in her world-view. She also repeatedly refers to the fact that she doesn’t need a traditional system to enjoy the Warriors world (0:26; 7:17; 8:28; 9:05)–to which I reply, your mileage may vary–and seems to look down on people who are pulled out of the story by “a silly name,” unlike her or Erin Hunter, who don’t take things “seriously.”

The major problem I have with this approach is that it shows a fundamental misunderstanding of the value of good world-building–or even some idea of what it looks like. She claims a strict system would result in a boring story (which perhaps would be true for her, who knows: again, mileage may vary) (8:28), but the issue I have is that she says: “don’t get me wrong, warrior cats is not perfect, but the least of our troubles with the quality of these books is how strange these names are. Sure, Bouncefire sounds weird and doesn’t seem realistic, but if you’re worried about this story’s realism, consider the fact that we have about fifty cats who live together who barely gossip except if it’s about a housecat” (1:06).

She uses the word “realistic” throughout the whole video, as though the goal of using a traditional style is to make Warriors realistic, which in my opinion it’s not. Plausible, yes. Believable, yes. Cohesive, yes. But not realistic. These are, after all, talking cats with religion. I myself multiple times a year refer to the fact we’re all getting excited over “feral cats talking to stars in the forest.” There’s no pretense there! But the thing Moonkitti argues that actually makes me mad is that, because it’s not real, nothing matters.

And that’s absolutely horse-apples. It matters that the names in canon don’t have structure, because the world of Warriors doesn’t have structure and that is the underlying problem of the series. That is part of why the series is not well-written. The world doesn’t have structure or consistency in how it is built, and the run-on effect is that characters are frequently flat and their decisions–even their deaths–are regularly made meaningless by the world of the story. The world-building is inconsistent and poorly planned, and the run-on effect is that plots regularly force characters who are supposed to be intelligent or even an average amount of smart into being unbelievably stupid simply for the sake of furthering it, and the stakes of the stories are constantly forced to increase to squeeze any amount of impact out of the plots because the writing itself won’t do it.

There is no hierarchy from most to least when it comes to the quality troubles of Erin Hunter’s work. The issues in Warriors are not stand-alone. They are interconnected. It’s silly to pretend that transformative world-building, which is what traditionalism is, is somehow a superficial, ornamental thing and not simply another way for fans to mend some of what makes Warriors “not perfect,” like any other AU or fandom meta. Canon invented the name-change custom (7:43)–and repeatedly made it messy, and shameful, and had no idea what they wanted to go with. Traditionalism mended that and made it better. If you can recognise that the series isn’t perfect, I don’t think it’s a stretch to also recognise and acknowledge different ways of how fans react to and deal with those imperfections in fan-works, such as role-playing and fanfiction and OCs.

Moonkitti’s repetitions that this is a fantasy series and it’s not real so stop caring frankly reminds me a lot people who get uncomfortable and defensive when you analyse and discuss a piece of media in any kind of critical or thoughtful way and will tell you don’t be so serious. In my case, these people tend not to realise that, for me at least, this is fun--and it’s worthwhile and important to do. It’s also my actual job, in the daylight hours. (Here it’s just a hobby).

So tl;dr: Erin Hunter doesn’t take Warriors seriously–and that is the problem. The canon naming style is a symptom of how little effort Erin Hunter puts into consistent or meaningful world-building. Traditionalism exists as some fans’ attempt to craft a solution for themselves, and I include myself in that.

Moonkitti’s approach to explaining traditionalism from a place of 1. not being interested in understanding it and 2. being oddly defensive of Erin Hunter, the creative team behind all of canon’s terrible weird writing choices, rather than critical of said choices and choosing instead to blame fans for wanting canon to be better and then acting on that desire, feels a bit in bad faith to me. I’m sad to hear that she had such bad experiences with traditionalists in the past, because that’s awful, but I also feel strongly that it’s a good idea to know what you’re talking about before you step onto the stage like this.

For instance, she says, “There’s no real argument for why [certain] names [should] not be in the series,” (2:13), but, well. I’m here and this blog is my seven-years-and-counting argument. I like to think it’s often a persuasive one, too!

#good god this is long #ALSO it goes without saying but i'll say it just in case: no-one is to go to this person's channel and leave any kind of rude comment #i like to believe none of you would even think of that but i'm saying it now: don't.#if you don't like what she's said just move on and go do something nice. plant a flower. tell a friend you love them. do that kind of thing.

29 notes · View notes

sunlitroom · 6 years ago

Text

Gotham s5e09 - The Trial of Jim Gordon

As I watched it, and some random observations here and there.

Previously on Gotham:

The river is full of chemicals. Reunification likely isn’t happening now. Jim rescued Victor. Jim made impossible promises to a winsome orphan. Ivy’s feeding the earth with corpses. Jim insists he’s going to be part of his and Barbara’s child’s life. Barbara wants in on Oswald and Ed’s submarine plot. Lee needs to read a season 4 synopsis, because she’s appalled that Jim is having a baby with Barbara.

So…

This is a summary as opposed to a recap.

This is one of the hard-fought for – thanks for locking me out of my account twice, Twitter! :) – extra episodes that fans won. It was filmed last, so while it exists within the context of season 5, I don’t think anything that comes after this episode is dependent on it story-wise – if that makes sense?

As such – it’s sort of an easter egg.

The recaps I do are pretty much old TWoP-style recaps, if anyone here remembers what TWoP was. They cover what happened in the episode, but there’s also an element of critique throughout. This is not a ‘hate’ thing. This is simply what meta used to be: critical analysis.

The thing is, I didn’t think this was a strong episode. I feel that if I do a full recap of this episode, it’s going to look like I’m meanly picking holes in it every second sentence, and given that this was an ‘extra’ episode hard-fought for by fans (Twitter locked me out of my account during the campaign :D), with cast involvement in the writing side, it would make me feel churlish to spend 7000 words picking it to bits.

On top of that – recaps are a bit of a labour of love. They usually take a few hours of my weekend and wreck my wrists. The nature and standard of this episode is such that I’m going to regard it as a sort of fun optional easter egg, as opposed to canon. It’s sweet that there are so many personal associations in it for the cast (there were lots of genuine smiles in the wedding scene) – but it doesn’t really hold up in comparison with a regular episode.

As such, I’ll still do meta, because I love a bit of meta - but not as much as usual. My wrists are so happy.

When I saw The Trial of Jim Gordon as a title, I was excited. Jim’s always had a tricky relationship with guilt and shame and the whole notion of the hero. He’s also got a tendency to wallow when he’s hit rock-bottom, but never actually goes so far as to apologise and make amends. He feels bad about himself for a while, turns over a new leaf, and then carries on until the next moral lapse.

This title sounded like we’d get a sustained look at that habit. Great – fascinating. And it would be a nod to viewers who have been there since the first episode, because Jim’s sins stretch back as far as season one. For example, he took Loeb’s one good and pure quality – his love for his daughter – and used it to blackmail him: an incredibly morally murky moment for him.

And there’s been so many more moments like that over the years. He went to Carmine Falcone because his ego couldn’t take losing a pissing contest with Oswald. His actions led to the deaths of cops during the Pyg fiasco. He let Oswald take the fall for Theo Galavan’s murder. He allowed Sofia Falcone to propel him to the Captain’s job and screwed over his best friend in the process. He betrayed Alice Tetch’s trust. And that’s only naming a few.

However, it was quickly apparent that his trial would only focus on one thing: his treatment of Lee. And don’t get me wrong – Jim has done Lee wrong at points. I would say the worst moment was when he didn’t contact her immediately after his escape, despite knowing that she had suffered a miscarriage. His rationale for that was weak, and I could see how she would be badly hurt by it and feel betrayed.

But. There’s a couple of big issues created by focusing on Lee alone.

First up - it diminishes her as a character. It removes Lee’s intelligence and strength and agency and interests and makes her one thing: the victim. Was Jim the perfect man? Nope. Did Lee have the ability to call it a day? Yes, repeatedly. She could have checked out when she didn’t feel he was open enough about their relationship at work, or when he was weirdly slow to commit, or when he went off and murdered Galavan against her express wishes, or when he killed Ogden Barker, or when he lied about killing Galavan…. the list goes on.

Which is not to condemn her for wanting to stay in the relationship, that’s her call and that’s fine. But what you can’t really then do – in telling a story – is to paint her as a passive victim. Lee had choices. Which leads to the next problem in focusing on her alone.

In the context of Jim’s sins – the fact that Lee at every point had other options means that she’s probably one of his less hard-done-to victims. Alice Tetch was terrified and without any other help when he betrayed her. Harvey has repeatedly said that working with Jim is essentially what keeps him going day to day – but Jim took his captaincy and left him feeling judged and alone and obsolete in a hospital bed. Oswald was powerless when he abandoned him in Arkham. Barbara only asked to be recognised as a human being when she was released from hospital. It’s these kinds of people he has to answer to: the people who were vulnerable and powerless and desperately in need of help when they came to him.

And when the story just chooses to ignore them – then what we’re left with is the underlying message that those kinds of people, the freaks, the outsiders, the ones on the edge, well - they just don’t count. Not to Jim Gordon, and thus, tacitly, not in the moral system of this universe. They’re somehow not valid – their suffering matters less, and Jim doesn’t have to answer for how he’s wronged them.

For the narrative here to send and endorse that message is so difficult to reconcile to the show’s narrative as a whole that – for me – it simply can’t be accepted without major problems.

On practical level, too – the trial premise doesn’t really make sense. Lee’s willingness to still have Jim in her life doesn’t exonerate him from past wrongs. The trial is an interesting idea. Examining whether Lee wants to rebuild a relationship with Jim is an interesting idea. The two don’t really mesh well, though.

Overall, as a concept – it just didn’t really come off successfully, which is unfortunate, because the kernel of the idea had promise.

Most of that main plotline is also plagued with inconsistencies, which didn’t help. Last week – Jim told Barbara that he didn’t want to see her in jail and take their baby away from her. This week? That doesn’t hold water. She’s excised from her own child’s life all over the place. Alfred tells Lee she’ll make an exquisite mother. Jim’s hallucination has Lee offering him the baby. You can easily acknowledge that Lee will be the baby’s stepmother without erasing Barbara – but the story doesn’t seem to know how to do that. Fumbling it like this makes characters look callous. Another odd moment was Ivy’s sudden willingness to see Selina dead. That doesn’t follow on at all from the last time we saw her. On top of that, it felt a bit wearying for the women to all be at odds in this episode - and in such a simplistic good vs bad way.

Thinking a bit more about inconsistencies, the story seems not to acknowledge that season 4 happened. It’s pretty glaring that season 5 hasn’t touched on Ed/Lee at all. Whether or not you personally liked it, it was a big relationship that seemingly revealed a lot about Lee, and what’s seemed apparent this season is that they simply don’t know how to write their way back from something as big as the climactic ‘I do see you’ moment.

This episode continues to ignore the repercussions of that relationship, which is fair enough, since the rest of the season has too – but it also ignores just about all of the rest of season 4. You can’t really have Lee calling Barbara a psychopath when we saw her shoot Sofia in the head and knife Ed in the gut. If you do, then you’re going to make her look like a moral hypocrite.

Last up, you have Oswald and Barbara in Sirens. It’s maybe a very concentrated example of a problem the show has had over the years in handling shifts of tone. If the story were consistently light and camp, and never touched on deeper themes, and the characters were purely comedy villains – then the notion of Oswald and Barbara not being invited to the wedding is a sly nudge in the ribs joke. But because it does frequently examine darker territory, and because it has showed us that they’ve both saved Jim’s neck repeatedly, and because it did show us their trauma, and did made us engage with them emotionally – excluding them causes problems. It creates an ’us vs them’ when the show has been at pains over the years to stress the idea of nuance and shades of grey. Much like the Madonna/Whore thing it creates with Lee and Barbara – think hard. Is this honestly what you want your story to say?

And…it’s not. Not really. Which is fundamentally the issue. The story just doesn’t really feel like it was constructed with attention to the narrative first and foremost. And there are reasons for that, and as a sentimental nod – I’m sure it’s very sweet, but as a story it’s ultimately much too self-indulgent and, as a result, not really up to par.

General Observations

Things that I’m unclear on going forward

Will we have a vengeful Ivy running about - seeking revenge for the failure of her plan? I’m assuming not?

Will Jim and Lee be described as married by other characters – or just ‘together’?

Are the gangs settled now? This one seems a big deal in terms of the city’s stability

To finish on a positive note:

Bruce and Selina were sweet.

Victor was a joy throughout. As well as quoting Dickens a few episodes ago, he gave us some Shakespeare this week. Also, he’s a vegan now. Victor: officially more well-rounded than several main characters. I think that the last time we’re going to see Victor (on Fox, anyway) – so catch you later, Mr Zsasz.

Lee should get to wear 40s-inspired stuff every week - she really suited that shape of wedding dress. That’s been a real missed trick in her costuming.

Lucius and Ed are a match made in heaven. Not only did we get Lucius’ ‘we’re perfectly bonded – like carbon and oxygen’ line, but he also seems to get walloped round the head as often as Ed.

Normal service will be resumed in a fortnight :)

#gotham commentary #the trial of jim gordon #gotham s5e09

25 notes · View notes

stormquill · 6 years ago

Text

debt-free | chapter ten [Tony Stark/Reader]

You tasted like coffee and faded lip gloss; he tasted like vodka and day-old despair.

In which an unexpected late-night rendezvous at your University library ends up with you in way over your goddamn head.

Credits: Beta'd by @l0kt0n. Follow the blog / AO3 mirror @debt--free.

Somehow, you thought ‘safehouses’ were supposed to be inconspicuous.

Though nowhere near as grandiose as Stark’s home in Malibu, the place you’d taken temporary refuge could still house a family of twelve quite comfortably. The elegant outdoor landscaping and impeccable interior design made the building feel more like a four-star hotel than covert asylum, but you figured it made sense—if Stark had to go into hiding, he’d be doing it in style.

You and Hansen sat across from each other, a small table and two untouched coffees between you. You both looked little worse for wear, but you’d been lucky to escape the day’s events with nothing more than a handful of scrapes and bruises. Stark wasn’t looking much better himself, but unlike the two of you, he was on his feet and moving, pacing around the room with all the patience of an anxious cat; you could practically hear the gears grinding in his head, processing everything Hansen had confessed about Killian and their company on the car ride over.

It was strange to think that, less than a couple of hours ago, you were leaving the hospital with Stark, having successfully convinced him to take a break and let you handle the meeting with Hansen.

Five henchmen and one destroyed cafe later, you knew he must have been regretting that decision.

“So the Mandarin is using your Extremis for his attacks?” Stark asked.

“Yeah,” said Hansen. “Those bombings? That’s exactly what happens when you let it get unstable enough.”

“Incendiary devices leave remnants. A million-acre forest fire can be tracked down to a single lit cigarette—it’s forensics, it’s a science. That means there’s evidence at the theater explosion. Something I can use to connect the attacks back to AIM.”

“You won’t find any evidence. Just like they wouldn’t have found any at any of the other sites.”

“Yeah, why’s that?”

“Extremis isn’t just some incendiary device, like a bomb or a flare, it’s.” She folded her arms and shifted in her seat. “It’s a form of genetic manipulation. It needs a living host for the thermodynamic hypercharge to work. If the host can control it, Extremis can give them regenerative abilities, enhance their physical performance—but if the host can’t control it...”

Stark made a comical explosion noise.

She shut her eyes and winced away from him, as if the thought alone made her sick. “Point is, the Mandarin is weaponizing my tech to make super-soldiers and living bombs, tech Killian just handed to him on a silver platter. And I don’t know what I can do.”

Keeping silent, you’d watched the two of them go back and forth since Stark started his pseudo-interrogation. Still fueled by outrage over Hogan’s incident, Stark was looking for information, for inconsistencies, for anything he could use as an excuse to get out there and track down the perpetrators. Hansen, on the other hand, was wondering if seeking help was worth the trouble if all they were going to do was talk in circles.

The entire situation was way above your paygrade—but the gears in your head were turning, too.

“You said Extremis is a form of genetic manipulation,” you spoke up. “How is it administered, exactly? Radiotherapy?”

Hansen turned back to you, blinking the weariness from her eyes to try and refocus on your conversation. “Uh—no, intravenous. It’s an intravenous agent.”

“So it works like a virus? Enters the bloodstream, attacks the brain, creates a biochemical reaction.”

“More or less.”

“Then, hypothetically,” you straightened up, “you could develop a vaccine for it.”

The suggestion gave her pause. “I don’t know, maybe? I haven’t gotten anywhere with Extremis’s development in over a decade, I’m not sure how plausible it is to try reverse-coding a half-finished product.”

“I think I might be able to help.”

Your words had gotten both Stark and Hansen’s attention.

You cleared your throat, mulling the words over in your head to make sure you got them right. “If Extremis evokes a thermodynamic reaction that accelerates cellular function, reversing it means causing mass cellular deceleration, which...just so happens to be the unwanted byproduct of my current experimentation.”

The sudden light of inspiration in your eyes now sparked in hers. “You can’t maintain neurogenesis because of entropic decay.”

“And entropic decay is exactly what you need to reverse Extremis’s unstable effects,” you continued. “Obviously, the numbers will need major tweaking, and we’ll need to run some tests—”

“We’ll need samples,” Hansen agreed, shuffling forward in her chair. “There’s not enough time to recreate Extremis from scratch, not with the Mandarin’s recent threats.”

“Where would we get those?”

“Closest AIM headquarters would be in Houston, but...you don’t understand, Killian’s got eyes everywhere—if we hop on a plane, o—or a bus, he’ll see us coming from miles away.”

“Honey,” Stark interrupted, rather loudly, “can I speak to you in private for a moment?”

You were so wrapped up in your discussion with Hansen, you’d forgotten Stark was even there.

His request took you by surprise, but you followed his lead down the hallway. The way Hansen watched in confusion as the two of you disappeared around a corner did not escape your notice.

You entered the room, and shut the door behind you.

Segments of Mark 42 had been disassembled and spread across the floor for post-battle diagnostics. Toeing around the maze of parts, Stark reached the nearby couch, and lazily straddled the armrest. He stretched an arm out in front of him; one of the suit’s gloves flew across the room and attached itself to his hand like a magnet, red and silver metal spreading across his fingers and up his entire forearm.

“Haven’t seen that trick before,” you said, impressed.

“Neat, right? Had to bring the baby—he’s the only one who’d fit in your trunk.”

A mass of images projected themselves from his forearm panel, drowning the room’s ambient lighting with the bright blue glow of various interfaces. Stark gestured through the windows and touch screens, navigating the arrays of diagrams and news articles filling the room around him, his attention maneuvering quickly from one set of panels to the next.

“What are you thinking, doc?” he asked, without looking at you.

“About what?”

“About Maya.”

“I want to help her, if I can.” You made your way over and sat by his side, folding up your legs off the floor. “I mean, having the worst, most volatile parts of your research stolen by a bunch of power-hungry men and used in terrorist attacks? That...fucking sucks.”

“So you trust her?”

“You don’t?”

He clicked his tongue. “Just feels like there’s something she’s not telling us.”

Falling silent, you watched as he conducted his wordless research. Hansen hadn’t given you any reason not to trust her—but in Stark’s world, you realized that must have been tragically naive.

“What do you think we should do, then?” you asked. “Send her back to Killian?”

“No, but I don’t know if getting you involved in this is the greatest idea.”

“I’m already involved. I was involved the moment I went to meet her instead of you.”

“That was a mistake,” he snapped. “I should’ve never let do you that, I should’ve never—”

“You didn’t let me do anything,” you shot back. “We’re both adults—we made a decision, together, and like it or not, here we are.”

“I definitely don’t have to like it. And I definitely don’t have to sit quiet while you hand over your life’s work to someone you just met two hours ago.”

The words took you by surprise.

Stark was worried about you, of course he was, but he was also worried about the integrity of your research—and his concern made sense. At the heart of it all, he was a fellow scientist who’d been with you every step of the way—from your University research proposal, to your doctoral thesis, to the months upon months of sleepy, unproductive nights filled with failed experiments and paperwork to nowhere. He was just as invested in your work as you were.

And he didn’t want to see you compromised.

“I’m not like you, Mr. Stark,” you said. “I’m not a genius in any sense of the word. I don’t have a lot of things to offer.”

“That’s not—”

“You know what I mean,” you interrupted. Fishing for compliments wasn’t what you were aiming for, here. “My research...hasn’t gone anywhere. It hasn’t gone anywhere in a while, and I’ve been worrying a lot about whether or not I’m wasting my time. But Doctor Hansen—she’s been working on this one project for over ten years. That’s how much faith she has in it. In herself. Maybe I have something she needs. Maybe she knows something I don’t. You know my work almost as well as I do, Mr. Stark—if you think any part of my research can help her, I need you to let me try.”

Though he continued staring at the projected screens ahead of him, you could already read the answer in his expression.

Leaning up, you gently cradled a hand against his cheek, turning him to face you properly.

“You have to let me try,” you whispered.

“...you know, the last time I took your advice, you got a cafe blown up.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That cafe would’ve blown up with or without me there and you know it.”

“Crazy things happen once these suits get involved, sweetheart. It’s going to be dangerous.”

“I’m in a relationship with you, it comes with the territory.”

He smirked, softly.

And then his lips were on yours.

It felt like it had been ages since you’d last done this, but he kissed you, hard, and the contact set your nerves alight, just as it did every time.

He touched his forehead to yours, resigned, the worry weighing heavy in his eyes.

You rested another kiss against the side of his nose. “Stop thinking you have to do everything on your own. You’re not alone, remember?”

Realization dawned across his face like a new day.

Stark righted himself on the couch arm, clearing away the projections with an impatient swipe of his hand before replacing them a number pad and hitting speed-dial.

Before you could register what was happening, a video display appeared in the air as someone picked up the line.

The man on the other end glanced at Stark, then at you, and already looked exhausted.

“Evening, Colonel,” you said, sheepishly.

“Hi, Doctor. Tony. What’s up?”

Stark’s tone was clear and deliberate. “I have it on very good authority that your buddies over at Advanced Idea Mechanics have something to do with the Mandarin attacks.”

“Oh yeah, what authority?”

“An AIM executive told me so. She’s my hostage now, by the way—you sure you still don’t want me in on this?”

“Are you serious right—” With a loud, frustrated groan, Rhodes rubbed a hand over his face. “I told you, I am not in charge of this operation anymore.”

“But you’re second-in-charge, right? That’s almost as good.”

“Look, just because you can piss all over protocol, that doesn’t mean the rest of us can get away with it scott-free. There’s a chain of command—I cannot be discussing this with you on my own.”

“Well, not with that attitude.”

“I’m bringing him in.”

Stark’s face fell. “Wait, what?”

“You haven’t given me a choice, Tony.”

“Wait wait wait—nonononono—”

But the line was already dialing.

A second video screen appeared next to Rhodes. Bright blue eyes and short blonde hair came into view—a handsome face, boyish but strong, and trustworthy in a way you couldn’t quite explain. The man seemed out of breath as he answered the call; you could see a punching bag behind him, and a gleam of sweat on his brow.

You couldn’t have stopped yourself if you trIed. “Holy shit, it’s Captain America!”

Still catching his breath, Rogers gave you an impossibly charming smile. “Evening, ma’am.”

Meanwhile, Stark’s eyes rolled to the back of his skull. “Yeah—she’s easily impressed, don’t read too much into it—can we focus, here?”

“Captain Rogers,” Rhodes started, “Tony here’s captured an AIM executive who says the company’s dealing with the Mandarin.”

“What—you’ve taken an AIM rep hostage? Is this a civilian we’re talking about? Is that her?”

Rogers pointed at you with a boxing-wrapped hand. Your brain shorted out and you waved back, nervously.

Rhodes had a smile in his voice. “No, Captain, that’s Tony’s girlfriend.”

“Oh.” Smirking, Rogers offered you a nod. “My condolences, ma’am.”

“Watch it,” Stark warned.

“So you mean to say you brought two civilians into my investigation without my knowledge?”

“Sure did, mom. Hey—could you let me explain before you jump down my throat, maybe? The two of you might learn something.”

Rhodes looked as exasperated as always, but Rogers kept his patience, his composure clearly tempered by many past experiences with Stark.

“We’re listening.”

“The AIM exec is an old friend of mine who came to me for help, Dr. Maya Hansen. She says it’s their tech behind the bombings. There’s been three of them so far, right?”

“Only three have been made public. There’s actually been—”

“—nine attacks worldwide.” Stark brought up a holographic projection of a globe; certain areas around the world were marked with a bright red glow. “I found out the Mandarin attacks have a distinct heat signature—a very balmy 3000 degrees. Not many natural phenomena match the time frames and radii of impact from the Chinese Theater bombing. Why haven’t the other six been made public?”

“We’re trying not to cause a panic,” said Rhodes. “Especially since we don’t know how he’s doing it. We’re calling them bombings, but none of the fire investigations have turned up remnants of explosive devices.”

“It’s because he’s using people as bombs. Not suicide bombers—people injected with some kind of performance-enhancement virus, something that blows them up if it runs too hot. ”

“...you’re kidding.”

“Dr. Hansen told you this?”

Stark nodded. “Mandarin’s associated with the Ten Rings, same guys who threw me in a cave and wanted me to build things for them. Weapons of mass destruction are their bread and butter. Looks like they finally got their hands on something big.”

Rogers nodded again. “Any leads?”

“AIM has a global network with two headquarters in North America, Houston and Miami. Both good places to start digging.”

“And the third?”

“There’s a tenth heat signature that matches the profile, but predates all recent Mandarin attacks. It was marked as a suicide bombing, in some backwater town in Tennessee. I’m thinking it was ground zero. Might be worth checking out.”

“Understood. Colonel Rhodes will stay at his post with the President and continue trying to isolate the source of the Mandarin’s broadcast. I’ll investigate places of interest and get back to you with what I find.”

“Got it, Captain.”

“If you give me ten minutes, I can. Y’know.” Stark made little typing motions. “Sneak into AIM’s databases, save you guys some time.”

“You’ve done enough,” said Rogers. “Dr. Hansen is a person of interest in this investigation, and you’ve somehow managed to get your girlfriend involved. Your job right now is to keep the civilians safe until this is all over.”

“Yeaaaah, about that. There’s little thing I need to take care of in Houst—”

“Don’t let them out of your sight, Stark. Over and out.”

Both video feeds disconnected at once, throwing the bedroom back into its normal ambient lighting.

“You’re welcome!” Stark shouted at the now-empty room. He threw an arm up, hopeless. “Unbelievable.”

“At least you got help,” you offered, trying to cheer him up. “Now you don’t have to be in three places at once.”

“Nope. Just one. Ever been to Houston?”

“Um...” You weren’t sure where this was headed. “No, why?”

“Captain’s orders, remember? Can’t let either of you out of my sight.” He tilted his head to look at you. “Think that car of yours can make the trip?”

You returned his smile of malicious compliance tenfold.

“Hell yes, he can.”

#tony stark #tony stark x reader #tony stark imagine #mcu imagine #debt.free

47 notes · View notes