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1016anon · 2 years ago

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Title: White Collar Wonder Woman Author: 55anon Fandom: Bridgerton Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Kate Sharma Summary: Kate practiced kickboxing during her lunch hour, taping to her freestanding heavy-bag the Corporate Asshole of the Day. Anthony wisely did not ask if his face had ever made an appearance. He did unwisely say she looked more like pilates or yoga person.

-2-

Their second date, which was also coffee, was painful. There was almost no third date. Every topic Anthony brought up seemed to somehow be related to an investigation or a case or an agency enforcement action. Anthony-- when he was not cleaning out the remaining dregs of Fife's cohort-- worked primarily in finance and therefore had no social life to speak of, aside from networking. Everything out of his mouth had to do with the effect of interest rates on the economy; how the international bond market was faring; did he think the healthcare sector was now stagnating; a certain tech company might be gearing up to raise capital by selling Series E stock.

Kate worked in almost everything it seemed-- he supposed specialization would occur as she gained more experience-- but all her responses to his inane questions (did she know that the price of crude had gone up yet again; his coffee now cost twice the amount it had when he was in university, wasn't that crazy; the latest earnings report for Company A was due to come out tomorrow; how about that heat wave, climate change was proving to have some unforeseen consequences for the global supply chain for alcohol) (jesus fucking christ Anthony, what is wrong with you) -- all her responses may as well have been "no comment." Or she would make a vague noise along the lines of "how interesting."

So Anthony, in love and completely unable to capitalize on it, found himself talking about his family-- something he, as a rule, never discussed. It wasn't that he was ashamed-- it was that whenever he mentioned he was the first of eight, people gave him a strange look and politely moved on or asked if he was some variation of christian which didn't believe in contraception. It was admittedly Not the Norm these days for wealthy white families to have eight children; in many cases, eight children meant you were looking to score a contract with HGTV or you were Alec Baldwin. Anthony had also gone through (several times, i.e. each time his mother was pregnant, save Benedict) a "why do you want so many children" phase. His parents had no satisfactory answers. "We love each other very much" was not an answer.

But! In this particular instance, his family turned out to be useful; one of Kate's friends was in family law and apparently had to handle a custody battle involving nine children, all under the age of twelve (two sets of twins and a set of triplets explained the math). It was a nightmare and had been going on for over three years. Kate spoke of family lawyers with the same sort of awe Anthony reserved for each occasion Colin topped his own stupidity. She respected them immensely; she could never do what they did; they were all crazy; she would rather take LSD whilst doing a handstand to drink absinthe from the bellybutton of gigolo; but she respected them immensely.

Promising to tell her the story of how his siblings came to be named in alphabetical order earned him a third date-- and this time lunch! Anthony had no idea what it was about Kate that made him feel like a goldendoodle who could not wait to go outside to bark at the chihuahua staring from the window across the street, but Anthony found, over the years, it was better to go with the flow. Fighting it only made him crazier.

She had to cancel dates four and five-- both lunch-- because "something came up." She reassured him she was not avoiding him; date six was when she told him that her work came before everything and that she was making time in her schedule to have lunch with him. When he asked her what she usually did, she said she practiced her kickboxing, taping the face of whichever corporate asshole they were investigating to her freestanding heavy-bag. Anthony wisely did not ask if his face had ever had the honor of being pummeled by her fists; he suspected the answer was definitely 'yes.' He did unwisely say he thought she was more the type to do pilates or yoga.

Kate coolly told him that yoga only made her angry; it very effectively gathered energy to herself but did not provide a sufficient outlet. He was welcome to join her for a yoga session this weekend, so long as he stayed afterward to help her train-- her current goal was to qualify for a spot in the local MMA tournament. Then they could go to her favorite smoothie place and share a protein shake. It could be their seventh date (technically fifth). Anthony... wasn't sure if she would stop seeing him if he declined. So against his better judgment, he agreed. And had to ask Daphne what exactly did one wear to a yoga studio. And a kickboxing gym, for that matter. No, he had no idea if it was hot yoga.

It was an enlightening experience in the sense that he felt lightheaded at the end of yoga (dehydration, she'd said with great certainty) and lightfooted at the end of kickboxing (Kate kept telling him to block her kicks instead of running away). But it was fun. Her protein shake was disgusting (there was oatmeal and kale; at that point why not just add an egg and call it breakfast-in-a-blender?); he hadn't laughed so much in a long time; and strangely enough, he still hadn't kissed her. This led to a moment of confusion as to what exactly they were doing: had he been friendzoned without noticing?

In true Anthony Bridgerton fashion, he grabbed her and kissed her right then and there, in the middle of the sidewalk, having dropped his gym bag in a puddle of melted ice cream and catching her by surprise because she had been slurping the last of her smoothie. She kissed him back, which was a great relief and also wonderfully intoxicating. The intoxication was countered by the lumpy texture of her smoothie and the realization he had dropped his on his shoes; his socks were soaked in mango-pineapple slush.

The mango-pineapple was a problem for Future Anthony; the oatmeal smoothie was a problem for Current Anthony. When he pulled away, Kate was smiling at him like he was the cutest hamster in the pet shop. She had to go, but there was most definitely an eighth (sixth) date-- dinner!-- and she skipped away happily. For a moment, he could have sworn she was flying (she was).

Future Anthony would be confronted with many moments when it seemed like Kate did something superhuman (because she did), but he ignored it because he was a human, not a Supervillain-- or even a Normal Villain or Bad Guy-- who had developed a fine sense of paranoia exacerbated by insomnia.

Future Anthony would also be confronted with anonymous phone calls he assumed were scams but may have been polite threats from people under investigation. The fact that Kate targeted white collar criminals-- not the national security, hacking to steal nuclear codes, money laundering to buy politicians in other countries kind of criminals-- meant that... they were actually not that good at committing crimes. Their first reaction to being caught was to blame someone else.

So Anthony got phishing calls pretending to be his bank and asking for his account number and password; spam emails saying he had won a $200 gift card for Amazon, he just needed to click here; mail which said in big, bold letters "IMPORTANT DOCUMENT, OPEN IMMEDIATELY" with language implying he was being audited for his taxes but was actually trying to sell him some kind of insurance.

This was what he meant when he said he struggled with fitting in Kate's narrative as the significant other of a superhero. Significant others of superheros who Fought Crime (never mind that Kate fought much more widespread, systemic, insidious crimes which slowly ate away at the foundations of democracy) were often kidnapped and held for ransom, sometimes tortured or killed. Not that Anthony wanted to be tortured or killed, nor did he want to put his family in harm's way. It was just...

Kate's version of a smoking gun was an email which said "I talked to Lewis in legal-- he said we shouldn't do this because it's illegal in 27 countries, but let's go forward with the plan because we have a narrow window of time to capture this market, it's worth billions." Kate's enemies were people with defense lawyers whose only defense for their clients was "look, I know this looks really bad, but it's not as bad as it seems" (i.e. there was definitely a crime committed here, and it was a serious crime, and we take this very seriously, but the magnitude of the crime is less than what these really damning documents make it seem. Or in regular criminal speak, it would be: look, we killed the family, but we did it quickly and it was relatively painless. So it's not as bad as it could have been. We could have killed them slowly. And killed the dog. But Pookie here adopted the cute guy instead).

Anthony's defense lawyer, when they were prepping him for his deposition, joked that sometimes her job was to hold the client's hand and give reassurance as she slowly led them to the guillotine. Anthony had not found it to be a very funny joke, but it did give him some sort of baseline point of comparison as to how fucked he potentially could be as the head of Bridgerton Capital Management.

The issue was that Kate's version of a villain was him. His father. His brothers. His friends. His coworkers. His schoolmates. His sisters. Their friends. His friends' friends. His business partners. Their work. The multinational conglomerates they headed, or held majority shares, the politicians they had drinks with at respectable bars with low lighting which sold top grade whiskey and had pretentions of being "Asian Fusion" just because they used soy sauce in the glaze and wasabi as a garnish.

Kate loved hearing stories about his family and friends, but she always had an excuse not to meet them. Anthony's particular corner in the world of business and Kate's particular corner in the world of law did not intersect in any easy way. The contents of her investigations could literally move markets around the world. In retrospect, Future Anthony was surprised she wasn't more eager to mingle with his network as it could potentially help with her work as a superhero.

Then Future Anthony realized that many of his conversations could possibly be construed as insider trading (depending on the country's rules and level of enforcement), but it was simply part of the industry. He had friends who for some ungodly reason absolutely loved being on the market floor, who bragged about gaming this system or that. Meanwhile, Kate was essentially not allowed to participate in the stock market at all; she had to get clearance from a panel which reviewed any purchase or sale to make sure she had not acted on non-public information. If Anthony had been her husband, the rules would have extended to him, which would have made his position nearly untenable.

She was willing to meet other lawyers. There was some kind of ecology among lawyers which had made little sense to Anthony until it suddenly did: lawyers switched sides all the time. The lawyer for company X might join a government agency which was conducting a deep investigation of company X. So long as the lawyer disclosed all their potential conflicts of interest and the proper ethical screens were in place, it was fine. Lawyers who were political appointees, when their term was up, went back to large law firms where they parlayed their connections on behalf of their clients.

But lawyers understood this. It was their own little world which operated by very specific rules, where there were different levels of confidentiality and those levels had very precise, narrow meanings and those meanings actually meant something. Anthony knew plenty of lawyers; he knew plenty of lawyers who were married to business people. He did not know plenty of lawyers dedicated to dismantling a vast system which perpetuated income inequality married to a person who perpetuated and directly benefited from this vast system of income inequality.

Lawyers were able to switch sides because all lawyers were (theoretically) on the same side: to uphold the law. Defense lawyers existed to advocate for the rights of their clients and ensure evidence was gathered by legals means (e.g. with warrants). In house counsel existed to advise the rest of the company on how to comply with the law, not how to work around it. From what Kate said, in house counsel sometimes seemed to despise the very people they were working for because they broke laws despite the advice they received, acted surprised when their lawbreaking activities were discovered, expected lawyers to clean up the mess, then acted surprised to discover that some messes could not be cleaned up.

In superhero parlance, Anthony supposed that having Kate mingle in the midst of his friends was like putting the superhero in top echelons of a terrorist organization and expect her to ignore their plots and simply get along.

It would have been so much easier for her to remain Supermedic. It would have been so much easier for her to quit her day job entirely, live in the lap of luxury with Anthony, and justify this choice by saying there would always be someone else who would take her place. She could simply collaborate with Lady Whistleblower, whose sensational stories revealed corruption, provided occasional updates on an investigation or trial or settlement, but tracking the progress of an investigation-- which could sometimes take years-- did not garner as much traffic and was not as click-baity as a new story.

Kate was followed through with what she started. Once again, in superhero parlance, if she had simply acted as an accomplice to Lady Whistleblower, it would be like telling the public the who, what, where of the terrorists and doing absolutely nothing to take down their network.

This concept of follow-through was something that, once Anthony accepted that Kate was High Flyer (another story and conflict entirely), she would rant to him about: how many superheroes simply targeted the manifestation of a larger systemic problem. They never bothered to question why the gangs they took down were almost always composed of Black or Latinx individuals; why did a network of Villains keep popping up around the world to play whack-a-mole. And no, she was not referring to someone's tragic backstory. Everyone had a backstory, but what themes and larger socioeconomic patterns emerged from the collection of backstories?

Just another way Kate was not the typical superhero. And Kate's version of burnout was not the personal sacrifice or coming face-to-face with evil or whatnot. Her burnout took the form of: she was dismantling a system. But something needed to take its place.

Kate suffered from Superhero Syndrome: the need to be everywhere all the time to save everyone and catch all the villains and replace the villain she was fighting against with an ally who shared her goals. (Anthony supposed... that might be him. However, that was Future Future Anthony.) The issue was that Kate was, fundamentally and at heart, not a reformer. Anthony could not actually think of any superheroes who were. Supervillains, on the other hand, were in a way reformers: only those reforms happened to be evil and involved world domination. They wanted to replace. Superheroes destroyed, dismantled, or defended. They did not build.

And they were not allowed to build. One person building an entire system from the ground up, in the name of creating a better society, was what Supervillains did: they disregarded the rights and voices of both the majority and the minority to unilaterally exercise power and impose a new order. Kate could not be a Superhero if she destroyed the infrastructure of the world's economy to replace it with Her Own Vision of Justice.

She already had a David and Goliath problem. That was her fight.

Her existential crisis as a superhero was the line she had to walk. She knew what was wrong with the system, she knew what was broken and how. She had ideas on how to improve it, replace it, fix it. But she could not, because she believed in the rule of law and the very reason why she took up her fight was because it was a danger to democracy. How could she say that, then turn around and wield her superpowers (which, Future Future Anthony discovered, included a form of Jedi mind control-- it only increased the Pathos and Internal Struggle of her crisis) in the name of the thing she was defending? That was how dictatorships started. That was how some Supervillains were born.

It would have been so much easier for her to be Supermedic and leave it at that. However, Kate was like him: ambitious, fierce, biting off more than she could chew and needing something to push against to know she still existed.

But that lucky seventh date (technically fifth) after the oatmeal smoothie mango-pineapple slushie kiss:

Now that the conflict and stakes were laid out, perhaps the romance could actually tell itself. Kate's voice immediately popped into his head, scoffing that the personal was political and their romance was more political than most, to which he replied that if he were Lois Lane, he would most definitely write the human interest stories and didn't she say that a person's life reflected the system and constraints under which they were born? What better way to demonstrate this than by writing their Bad Romance?

Boring Romance-- they were not the Kennedys, she replied.

Better Romance, he countered. They were a superhero fairy tale.

#bridgerton #kathony #fanfiction #white collar wonder woman

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ramblings-of-a-mad-cat · 3 years ago

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do you like the plot of the new tlsq? honestly I don't, to me torvus is too angry with mc for something we couldn't avoid imo, the acromantula attacked us, what were we supposed to do, die? maybe i missed something, i don't understand all these "it's your fault" accusations

....I've got a lot to say.

I'm watching the footage right now and honestly...it's really not a very good story at all. It feels like maybe they wanted to make a TLSQ about Torvus but more out of a sense of obligation or opportunity, as he was one of the character who didn't have one yet. Not because they had a story they wanted to tell about him. Like, we don't learn anything about Torvus or about his relationship to Jacob. I'm not saying that I'm opposed to TLSQs that act as follow-up to things that happened in the main story, but between this and the Knighthood TLSQ...it's just never executed very well. Not to mention that the whole motif of togetherness and community is soured by how mean-spirited the tone feels.

First of all, like you said, the premise is absolutely ridiculous. They repeat the idea that MC is to blame for everything, so many times that if it was a drinking game, you'd die of alcoholism. Usually having MC own up to this, regardless of player input. Which is kind of frustrating if you think about it for longer than half a second and realize that not only was none of this was MC's fault, but you'd seriously have to be confunded to think that this was a logical conclusion. The entire trajectory of how all of this happened is a bit woolly and not well defined, but to place the blame on MC's shoulders is nonsense, and as a result the entire story is systematically broken, especially concerning MC's motivation. Torvus blames them for everything, and they just...kind of go with it. Everyone does, for no apparent reason.

So opening the Forest Vault is cited as the reason for why all of this started. Considering how much they try to push a theme of interconnection and the bonds of nature, I could believe that the Vault would have unforeseen effects on the ecosystem. Hey, we still don't get how the Vaults work, so that would be fair enough...Except apparently what it all came down to was MC's duel with the Acromantula. That's what caused a chain reaction of events that...er, somehow, led to the Centaurs having a water shortage. But the Acromantula was responsible for the trouble with the fairies and the red cap. He had nothing to do with the Troll and the Forest Lake. Did I miss something? The Acromantula had no connection to the Centaurs' problems. No, you know what ultimately caused the problem with the Troll? The sleepwalking students. They trod upon the bubotubers while under the spell. So, in other words...MC opening the Forest Vault stopped the problem from getting any worse. Not only did their actions not cause this, they actively helped. Why doesn't Torvus, or anyone for that matter, point this out?

No one seems willing to take apart the logical fallacies of Torvus' vendetta. Why is MC blamed exclusively when it was a joint effort? Charlie was there. Hagrid was there. Torvus was there! They all helped open the Vault! And he has the nerve to act like this is all on MC? It's no better than when Dumbledore gave MC a year's worth of detention and ignored the other students who came along. That's not even getting into the ludicrous idea that MC is at fault for the duel with the Acromantula. Y'know, where it was trying to kill them and their friends? And they didn't do any lasting harm to the creature at all? And it was his choice to leave his colony? Why is that our problem? The story forces MC to "prove" to Torvus that they can be trusted to solve this problem even though he demanded their presence in the first place. Does he want their help or not? It just really tests my patience. We even have to prove to the Acromantulas that we can be trusted to solve the problem. Why? That seems like such a waste of time. Why do I care if they have faith in MC?

So MC's obligation to this problem, which the quest loves to have them restate, is flat. What about the consequences if they don't fix this? Yeah, no, that's nonsense too. Not to call Torvus' bluff, but literally no one in the quest does, so I suppose I'd better. Just what does he mean by saying that MC will be "banned" from the Forbidden Forest? Does he not realize that they already are? Has he forgotten that the humans call it the "Forbidden Forest" and that students aren't allowed to go in? Clearly, MC has been disregarding that for a while, and Torvus knows it. Tell me why MC should stop visiting the Forest just because Torvus says they have to. Y'know, Care of Magical Creatures classes are sometimes taken into the Forest. What is MC supposed to do if that happens? Get a zero for the day? Why should they? I know it's Kettleburn and he's a little bit odd, but the point is that this would cause a conflict and I don't imagine the school staff would care about the Centaurs' wants in this situation.

I know the Centaurs consider the Forest to be their land, and they have a strained relationship with the humans at best, but seriously, what exactly are they going to do if MC disregards their "ban?" Short of killing MC on sight, how are they gonna enforce this? And again, I'm gonna call that bluff because Centaurs do not harm children. Culturally, it is considered extremely taboo to harm a "foal." Never mind the trouble they would get into with Dumbledore and the Ministry, not to mention R, who want MC alive. Speaking of the teachers, why does MC so freely tell Flitwick and Sprout about their plans to try and temper a troll? They shouldn't, because any reasonable teacher would react with alarm and forbid MC from doing this. Confine them to their Common Room while the staff goes to sort this out. Come to think of it, why don't Flitwick and Sprout do this? They just shrug off MC announcing their intent to visit the Forbidden Forest and tame a dangerous creature! (Deep, deep sigh.) Look Torvus, The Creatures Reserve is (probably) within the Forest, so no, Luca's not gonna stop visiting. It's one of the areas in the hub world of the game, and this quest drops at a point when MC still has to visit later on for plot reasons....so I know The Forest isn't going anywhere. This threat isn't scary, it's irritating in how blatantly empty it is.

At the end of it all, MC has to review what they learned in their path of atonement, and show Torvus how much they've grown. Get the hell out of here with that. MC and Charlie could have died a few times over, and that's on Torvus. He didn't tell MC about the troll! He knew, and didn't tell them! Because "something thing, you needed to learn a lesson, etc." No! That's not okay! I'm supposed to consider him my friend after this? Seriously, I wouldn't mind all of this so much if Torvus didn't constantly treat MC like a hated criminal, and MC didn't so humbly accept that treatment. I'm gonna need to rewrite this one a fair bit in my headcanons because Luca may be soft and an occasional pushover, but they also develop a nose for bullshit as time goes on, and this entire TLSQ is demanding MC atone for saving the school, for something they already faced punishment for with the kitchen detentions. For something that Torvus participated in, and seemed quite happy about at the time. Y'know what, I'm starting to think he's got a pretty serious entitled streak. And for better or for worse (and by that I mean, for worse) I think MC may have nurtured that streak when they first met Torvus. He blamed them for Jacob's actions, and MC did everything they could to "make it right." I think Torvus has learned from that incident that he can hold MC accountable for anything so long as he finds some six degrees of separation method of claiming it involved them.

I feel terrible for the fans of Torvus' character. Because this quest is even stupider than the Knighthood TLSQ and it makes me even angrier than the All Wizard Tournament. This one was, to put it nicely, a misfire.

#Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery #Long Post #HPHM Analysis #HPHM Torvus #The Ramblings of a Mad Cat #HPHM Jacob's Sibling #Charlie Weasley #Rubeus Hagrid #The Forest Vault #The Forbidden Forest #Torvus

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thecaptainhelm · 4 years ago

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Shut Your Mouth Pt.2

hahaha, daminette part two, wasn’t a one shot, gn gn gn.

Marinette sighed as the shower warmed up, rolling her neck and relishing in the light feeling of accomplishment. Ever since Hawkmoth had been defeated, a mere two days ago, things had been tense. Hawkmoth, now known as Gabriel Agreste, was arrested along with his assistant Nathalie Sancoeur who had since retired as Mayura the year before. It was a stroke of luck to discover that the Guardian had the ability to forcibly renounce a broken Miraculous. Something Gabriel hadn’t known, granting them extra time as he futilely tried to ‘fix’ the brooch. While that happened, she managed to finally convince Chat to at least keep him as a suspect if not out of suspicion, then to actually strike him from their list. It didn’t take long rack up evidence against him, especially after learning from the Bats of Gotham.

The battle was quiet, in the early hours of the morning, where the city forcibly cut the power to the Agreste mansion, and it only took one Venom for each while they slept defenselessly. It took only a few minutes to find evidence that he was at least working with Hawkmoth, and when they found the miraculous pin and brooch, it was confirmed that he was, indeed, Hawkmoth with Nathalie working as his henchwoman Mayura.

Soon, with what was probably the fastest trial of the century, Gabriel Agreste and Nathalie Sancoeur were declared guilty and sentenced to serve life in prison and an insane asylum respectively. It had only shocked her for a moment that Mayura pleaded guilty and asked to be sent directly to rehab for mental help, by reason of insanity wrought by grief. What did surprise her was that she was the one to take the miraculous and give them to the Agreste couple as an anniversary gift, ultimately setting off a chain of unforeseen consequences.

That was a whole other cake she didn’t want to bake just yet, so she decided to finally just take a moment to breathe for what felt like the first time in five years.

So it was only normal that her smartwatch chimed on the hook of the shower caddy, a picture of a frowny eagle glaring right at her. She cursed her luck, yeah, no breaks was still her usual routine. It must be real hard for the universe to break out that particular habit.

Then she remembered that she set this particular picture and ringtone for the one person who had never called.

Robin, the vigilante that she might have, kind of, definitely made an enemy of.

Who was also her crush, so that was just. Great.

In her defense, she was a human being, and human beings were capable of amazing feats. It was just that her amazing feats were more amazing bouts of stupidity. Seriously, why did she do it? Just where did her common sense escape to make her think that was even a remotely good idea, because she wanted to go there and never come back.

She had kissed-- no! She made out with Robin, the most notoriously ill-tempered member of Batman’s team. The only reason he didn’t deck her in the face was because, because, well she didn’t know! Was it mercy, a misplaced feeling of pity, perhaps?

No, actually, it was more likely that he was frozen stiff with rage. Marinette couldn’t blame him, heck, she’d be angry too, suddenly getting passionately smooched in the middle of livid rant.

She had planned on giving him her contact information for the longest time, since they'd come to the understanding that they only wanted to do what was best for everyone, the kind of understanding that only leaders could have. And to maybe get closer to him as much as professionalism allowed. So, it stood to reason that she had to go ahead and ruin that, too. She really couldn’t believe herself sometimes, who randomly kisses someone, hands them their number, and then trots off back to work? Marinette Dupain-Cheng apparently.

In fact, it was about time he called. She had pretty much an entire year to prepare herself for what was sure to be a concise and frigid rejection, maybe even a “Stay for away from, lest I stab everyone in this room and then jump out of a window out of utter disgust”? She might as well get it over with and then move on to be alone for the rest of her life.

She wiped the water out of her eyes and squinted at the text message, before jumping out the shower with a loud curse. She hurriedly dried off and put on her clothes, before heading to the Miracle Box, rereading his message.

Emergency evac, one person, requesting Pegasus’ portal twenty kilometers horizontally above sea level precisely fifteen minutes after this message. Coordinates attached.

The message was sent ten minutes ago. How long was she catastrophizing for?!

Max was partying along with the rest of Paris while she took a breather in her art studio. Even with the full fifteen minutes she wouldn’t be able to find him in time. Shit, would she even be able to transform in time?

She grabbed the glasses from the box and Kaalki appeared in a proud flash.

“No time, there’s trouble,” she panted. “Ready?”

“Hmph, of course,” Kaalki tossed her head. “Let’s go, shall we?”

“Kaalki, transform me!” She eyed the time, two minutes left. She memorized the coordinates as she searched for a suitable place for him to land, and realized she was going to have to catch him in her storage closet.

One minute left. She opened the door and cleared space in the center of the room.

Thirty-five seconds. She stood on an old chair that she moved into the center of the room.

Twenty seconds, and she called, “Voyage!” and threw the portal up towards the ceiling.

Zero. She braced for impact and caught a body that plummeted through in a free fall.

“Ow,” she closed the portal with a groan, amidst the shattered pieces of what used to be a pretty sturdy chair.

“Don’t complain, it could have been worse.” A deep voice rasped.

Wow, to think she missed him, that asshole.

“Shut up, Robi-- oh my god your arm! Get up, getupgetupgetup!” She hauled him up as gently as possible, annoyance giving way to concern.

Robin was, putting it lightly, a mess. He had lost his mask, his eye was swollen shut and his face was bruised with cuts all over, and he was sticky with blood practically everywhere she looked. It was his arm that she was most concerned about, however. It was set in a splint, but he must have been in a rush because it was set wrong, his thumb facing perpendicular lyaway from his body.

“I am fine,” he sagged into her, weary. “I just need a place to stay for the night.”

“If you weren’t so grievously injured, I’d throw you out for that,” she remarked. “But guess what? It’s your lucky night monsieur, and I’m a trained field medic.” Robin looked at her, maskless, and she had to dart her eyes away from his maskless face.

“Oh, so Ladybug finally started replacing her subpar lineup? About time, either she benched them or Hawkmoth would kill them at some point. They were woefully incompent.” Yep, this was definitely Robin, no doubt about it with that attitude.

She called off the transformation and was somewhat pleased when he reflexively jerked his head away. She pulled him into a princess carry and made her way back to the bathroom, inwardly delighting at his reaction. She would never let him live this down.

“It’s me, Robin. Ladybug. Pegasus couldn’t make it, so you’ll have to do with me instead of a random stand-in.” She raised her brow, not that he could see it.

“Unless that bothers you, Boy Wonder?”

“...I’m not,” he mumbled.

“Hm?”

“I’m not Robin anymore.”

What. What.

“What?”

“I’ve retired, effective as of nine months ago today, Robin’s cape has been hung up for the next generation.”

Relief didn’t come yet. “Oh, so you’ve taken on a new mantle? Or are you finally the next Batman, though it would take some time to fill those shoulders. Literally, I mean that literally, um.” She observed his downcast expression and once again started walking to the bathroom. When had she stopped?

“I’m not taking over anything,” he said sullenly. “I can’t. Not after what I did.”

“Come on, it couldn’t have been so bad,” she opened the door with her heel as she backed them towards the stool by the sink. She set him down carefully, taking full stock of his injuries.

“It was. Batman’s cowl has always represented a strict moral code, one that I’ve always...struggled to adhere to.”

Marinette bit her lip as she kneeled in front of him. He didn’t say anymore, and she couldn’t think of anything to say. She sighed and brought out her med kit from the towel cabinet. She was always like this with him.

With Robin (now not Robin?) she had always drawn a blank. She could read his emotions somewhat well, had a good grasp on his moods, and could have genuinely insightful conversations with him. It was only at crucial moments like this that she struggled. Even with Adrien she had always known what she wanted to say, but Robin was different. Everything about him screamed “one chance only” and that caused her mind to go blank. It was so unbelievably frustrating that she could scream.

Marinette handed the glasses to Kaalki and nodded towards her purse hanging on the door handle. The kwami zoomed towards it and soon disappeared into it with the miraculous.

“Robin,” she called gently. He didn’t move. “I’ll have to cut your shirt off, okay? I need to see where the blood is coming from.”

“It’s not mine.The blood.” He kept his gaze away as she froze.

“Well, we’ll have to reset that arm,” she tried again. “It’s not...it’s not looking good, to say the least.”

He looked towards his mangled right arm and nodded.

It took some time to undo the splint and she tried not to think about where he had been for him to only have rotted wood and prison rags on hand. She cut his shirt off at the sleeve and down his middle, pulling it off and exposing a painful canvas of mottled bruises, scrapes, and cuts. She handed him her towel and he stuffed it in his mouth without a word. She gently untied the splint.

“Are you ready?” She gazed at him resolutely. He nodded and braced himself as best he could.

“On my count, one, two--” She re-broke his arm a count early on purpose.

“Arrghh! Ffuk!!” He jerked out of her grip.

“Hold still!” He spat out the towel and glared in response.

“Mizq dhiraei allaeaynat 'aw aidbitha!!!” She only understood ‘rip’ and ‘arm’ but she got the gist of his screaming.

“Alright it’s done now, I’m setting it, so stop moving,” She couldn’t help but sigh under his vicious scowl.

“Tsk. Be grateful that I can barely discern your features Ladybug. You’re on my shit list and I don’t feel like kicking your ass today.”

“Wow, thanks for saving me Ladybug, I could have died if it weren’t for you!” Marinette couldn’t help but snark at him.

“...tsk!” Yep, that was as good as she was going to get in his condition.

After years of fighting akuma victims she was able to observe the complex and hidden emotions of her opponents and the civilians that she rescued. And right now, her experience was telling her that Robin had more than his pride ruined. His self-confident, courageous, and taciturn nature seemed to be regressing as he fell back into what was probably a self-defense mechanism. For him to be like this instead of exhausted in his current state told her that he must have been through a lot since she last saw him.

She started to gently clean the blood off and noted the bruises underneath definitely came from an intense melee battle. Most of them were in places that made her cringe just looking at them. At least he doesn’t have any other broken bones, or stab wounds. Lucky him.

Robin put an ice pack to his face in the meanwhile and wouldn’t look in her direction.

It was quiet for a while. “So, what should I call you, then?” And she had to open her big fat mouth, didn’t she? Now it was awkward. It was awkward, and he hated her, and she was never speaking again, ever.

“Damian.” Uh oh.That didn’t sound like a moniker.

“Um, nice code name?” She started disinfecting his cuts and scrapes, trying not to panic.

“I no longer require such aliases.” Ok, process that later, heal Robin now. Process. Later.

“Ro--, Damian, uh, well,” She sighed. “My offer still stands, you know?”

He made a quiet noise.

“Last time I saw you, I mean. I had left in a rush,”-- after kissing you senseless-- “but I’m always here to listen if you want to talk about what happened.”

Robin, or Damian now, she still wasn’t used to that, froze. His brows furrowed and he strangely went red in the face, before sighing, slumping against the sink.

“I...the blood’s not mine. It hasn’t been my for a long time, but it might as well be for how long I’ve carried it. I’m not a good person so much as to blame myself completely, but I do recognize some of the fault as mine. I’d gotten help, and I was making progress, but it wasn’t enough. I started falling back into old habits and I hated it. I tried and I failed, and I kept trying and failing for months and I…” He gained a look of despair, the first real emotion she’s seen on him since he dropped in.

“I couldn’t do it anymore. I just kept disappointing everyone and I hated it so much,” he dug his fingers into his matted hair.

“So, I left. I decided to go on a journey to try and repent, and it was working, at least I thought it did. But, then I had stumbled upon a Shadows base and I…” He peered unseeing at the floor.

“It was like I lost all sense of reason. I lay siege to the entire facility and found my way to the next base. It all turned into an endless cycle, all the way until I reached headquarters and inadvertently met up with high ranking members of the Justice League, teaming up to diminish their power. We were successful, but a candidate for the position of the Demon’s Head activated the self-destruct module. Everyone was scrambling to get out and suddenly my mind felt clearer than it had ever been.” He took a deep breath and Marinette moved closer to offer some comfort. He leaned towards her gratefully.

“The Justice League had already had an escape route, but the Shadows were in disarray for some reason. After I was sure my old comrades were out, I locked all the doors, and dived down to a ceremonial bathing chamber.”

“And that’s where I came in,” she whispered. I think I’m starting to like him more than I should. What is wrong with me?! Who made me this way?! She had some complaints in regards to that.

“You saved my life,” he inclined his head in an informal bow. “Thank you, Ladybug.”

“...Marinette.” She croaked suddenly. She was left reeling from his info dump and her intense, romantic feelings. So, why not go for a confession?

Damian whipped his head up in disbelief.

“My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Enchanté, Damian.” She smiled at his bewildered state, wiping away a bit of blood under his chin. She opened her mouth to say more, but didn’t get the chance.

Damian leapt up, furious. “You fool! I knew you were a space cadet, but I didn’t think your brain drifted beyond the stars! How utterly moronic!”

“Wait, why are you so mad?!” She panicked. She kind of had a spur of the moment idea to kiss him on his split lip, but that was looking less and less likely to happen.

(Damn it.)

“You told me your name!” he shouted.

“Yes, and you told me your’s?” She retorted.

“Have you forgotten Hawkmoth?! Your enemy that can read the minds of the emotionally disturbed should he decide to possess them!” He started to hobble out of the bathroom, still half-treated and mostly in pain.

Oh.

Oh!

“I have to leave, now! If I can stay calm long enough to reach the trains then I’ll be moving too fast for a butterfly to suddenly get me.”

“Uh, Damian?”

“No, it might already be enroute to someone else and might even already be on board,” He winced and stumbled on the tassel rug in the hallway.

“Woah, hang on a second Damian,” she grabbed him before he could fall, but he pulled out of her grip.

“We don’t have time for this, I can guarantee that I would be one of the worst akumas you’ve faced in your hero career, nevermind the insider information I hold within my mind.”

“Yes, but listen to me,” Damian moved towards the small sitting area, not listening to her.

Again.

“This safehouse should be around one hundred kilometers from the city limits, you’re safe for now, but Hawkmoth’s estimated rate of growth was--”

That’s it!

Marinette grabbed his jaw and slammed it closed. She had had enough.

“This isn’t a safehouse, we’re in my art studio,” she snapped. She could see the rage begin to build to new heights in his eye.

“No, shut your mouth, and listen!” A vein in his forehead started to pulse, but he didn't move to speak.

Good.

“Hawkmoth has been defeated as of last week, and the trial was concluded a couple days ago. Going by what you told me, you've been out the loop for almost a year, so you don’t know that my team and I had closed in on Hawkmoth’s trail some time ago and were able to build a solid case that’ll go through in a court of law,” She carefully let him go.

“So, you’re safe, I’m safe, and Paris is safe too.” She’d already started to calm down in the middle of her explanation, and idly noted that she should probably take an anger management class.

And sign up for therapy. Lots of it, preferably.

Damian nodded slowly as he rubbed his jaw and she couldn’t help her wince.

“Sorry, did I handle you too roughly? Come here,” she started to pull him back towards the bathroom. He resisted.

“No, it’s fine, no damage just from that much force,” he tugged his arm away but she quickly moved behind him and began to push him through the bathroom door.

“Well, I’m not done treating you, so get back in there.” He grabbed the door frame and pushed back, and her calm demeanor left as quick as it came. Was it even truly there to begin with?

“I said,” she picked him up and threw him back on the stool where he grasped for stability.

“Come here.” She leaned in close to his bruised face, and wow, the one eye that she could see was so very, very green. “I’m not done with you, yet.”

“...okay,” he whispered. He kept his head down.

It didn’t take long to finish disinfecting the rest of his wounds, and soon she started applying ointment to the worst of his bruises. She had enough, but she was definitely going to be restocking in order to play his nursemaid for the next week or so. She rose to her feet and started packing away her kit.

“I’ll give you some pain meds for the night, I’ll leave you to take care of the injuries under the rest of your clothes. Come find me in the kitchenette. I’ll make something for us, though it won’t be anything fancy.”

“That is fine.” Marinette frowned at the strange husk in his voice. Did someone try to suffocate him? Why hadn’t she noticed until now?

She kneeled beside him and reached around him for the water bottle she had left in there earlier, but noticed him twitch and start to blush. Did he get a fever too?

She observed his red face and clear, but dilated eyes. Merde, did she embarrass him from earlier? She knew he had a large ego, but it was his own fault for being stubborn.

“Here, get yourself some water from the sink,” she handed the glittery black bottle to him and hurriedly strode out of the bathroom, calling,

“Holler if you need me!”

Completely aware of the flustered state she left Damian in. Though not for the reason she thinks, at least.

#daminette #maribat #part two

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spaceskam · 4 years ago

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for @maltrie21 who asked for 21 for tarlos

tags: high school au, underage drinking

21. close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams [ao3]

Carlos was wasted.

TK laughed and kept him steady as he led him out the front door of the party and very slowly to his car. Carlos stumbled and giggled and made sure to tell TK he was pretty at least twice one the walk there. For Carlos’ sake, TK would keep all that to himself, though he would enjoy every moment of it.

“Hold on,” TK said, holding him by the belt loop as he opened the passenger side door and carefully pushed his head down so he wouldn’t hit it as he climbed in. He took a breather once Carlos was safely in the seat.

For all intents and purposes, TK was still the new kid. He’d only been in Austin for two months and he still had yet to make friends. Not for lack of anyone trying, but he had made sure to make a bad impression. He was stubborn and a little annoying and loud.

But then there was Carlos.

He was quite sure Carlos hated his guts at one point. He was loud and brash and Carlos was quiet and smart‒there was an obvious clash of personalities there. But TK couldn’t let it go, couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop wanting him to just look at him. It was so stupid but TK had seen him smile once and that was it for him.

Carlos had been a bit tougher to crack.

After a solid month of slowly pestering him in any way he knew how to just get him to pay attention, TK actually got him to be his partner for a stupid science project. Something about studying mold on different types of bread. TK very pointedly offered to write the essay so Carlos would lean over his shoulder when he typed.

That has made it grow from a little casual infatuation into a full blown crush. He liked the way Carlos smiled, the way he was driven, the way he had ambitions, the way he laughed, the way he looked at TK like he hated him and yet couldn’t look away all at once. It was intoxicating and TK hardly knew what to do with himself.

After their project was done, TK needed an excuse to hang out with him again and it just so happened to be the weekend of some party who talked to TK during math occasionally. He’d invited Carlos and he’d said yes and it sounded like a good idea. That being said, Carlos had very clearly not enjoyed the experience. Well, he hadn’t enjoyed it up to the point he got his hand on alcohol so that he could enjoy it. Carlos had the unforeseen consequence of being a total fucking lightweight, however, and now TK was thankful he hadn’t drank too much.

“TK,” Carlos said as he climbed into the driver’s side.

“Yes, your highness?” TK teased. Carlos smiled that pretty smile, the one that made it impossible to believe that the guy didn’t have a billion guys and girls alike fawning over him. How did they not swoon in the hallways?

“Are you taking me home now?” he asked.

“Yeah, that was the plan.”

“Can we… not take me home?” Carlos wondered. TK’s eyebrows pulled together and he couldn’t help but smile at this very, very light mischievous streak.

“Depends. Where would you like to go?” TK wondered, leaning into the center console. Carlos was already leaning in and it brought them nearly nose to nose. It was much closer than when he’d looked over his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Carlos said, “Somewhere not home. I wanna hang out with you.”

“We’ve hung out all night, you’re not tired?” TK laughed. Truly, he would’ve loved to hang out with him longer. However, it did objectively sound like a bad idea while he was drunk. He should just take him home.

“Nooo, I’m definitely not tired, I’m fine,” Carlos insisted. TK huffed a laugh and scanned his eyes over him. He was gorgeous. It was extremely unfair.

“Okay. I know a place.”

“Cool. Let’s go.”

TK didn’t actually know a definitive place, but he figured if he drove around long enough, Carlos would start to tire out and want to go home. As much as he wanted to be around him he didn’t feel like pushing too many boundaries by being too close while he was drunk. He still wasn’t entirely sure on how Carlos felt about him. As much as he wanted it to be a romantic thing, he wasn’t sure yet.

“TK, can you drive with one hand?” Carlos asked. TK peaked over at him, smiling softly. He was so ridiculously adorable.

“Yeah. Why? You want my hand for something?” TK wondered, teasing just enough to get out a soft hum of amusement. He heard Carlos shifting and that was when he decided maybe he should park. You know, just to see how cute he looked.

“Maybe,” Carlos said, “Can I see it?”

“Yeah, just be careful. Don’t want it flying out the window or anything, you’ll have to be the one to go and find it,” TK said, holding out his right hand. He didn’t have to be looking at him to know he rolled his eyes.

“You’re so…” Carlos said, trailing off as he slowly traced over TK’s fingers. He slotted his fingers in with his after a moment. TK took a deep breath and tried to have completely normal feelings about that.

His new persona at school was that he was a bad boy. That was the goal he set when he moved here, that’s who he decided he was going to be. Bad boys don’t get flustered when someone holds their hand.

But Carlos’ hand was so warm.

“I’m so what?” TK asked.

Carlos took a deep breath. “You’re so much. ”

And that was very much not what TK wanted to hear. Still, he managed not to pull his hand away and waited for some sort of elaboration.

“You just come to my school and mess everything up. I’m not supposed to date anyone until I graduate. That’s the plan. That’s seven months away. But, here you are, loud and cute and flirtatious and,” Carlos paused, circling his fingertips around TK’s knuckles, “And I kinda wanna risk it all.”

“Would it really be a risk?” TK asked, keeping his voice slow and controlled. He never wanted to be the reason anyone felt the need to go out of their comfort zone. He didn’t want to actually mess anything up for him.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know,” Carlos said, “I don’t know. I’m hoping it won't be, but I don’t know.”

“I mean, you don’t have to come out to anyone really. I’m interested in you regardless and it’s no one’s business what we do,” TK said, admitting it out loud because apparently they were talking about that.

He pulled into the parking lot of a playground, parking his car and looking at Carlos. He was looking at the moon.

“You’re interested in me?” Carlos asked, slowly looking at him. His eyes were tired and unfocused and they really should be having this conversation when he was sober.

“I’m very, very interested in you,” TK smiled, reaching out with his free hand to poke his cheek. Carlos rolled his eyes but his smile took over his face. It was such a good smile. “What’s not to like?”

“A lot, probably. You’re cool,” Carlos said, pouting slightly. TK was absolutely endeared.

“I’m really not that cool,” he insisted. Carlos scrunched up his nose and shook his head.

“I don’t even care about coming out, I just need to focus on school. I-I need to go to college and do things. Important things,” Carlos said, insistent and vague and fumbling a little over his words. TK took a deep breath.

“What if… we talked about this when you’re not drunk?” TK suggested.

“I’m not drunk!”

“Mhm, okay.”

“Ugh,” Carlos sighed, sinking into his seat and looking back towards the moon. He was pouting and adorable and TK was infatuated even more. “Okay, fine, we’ll talk when you’re not drunk.”

TK laughed, “I’m not drunk.”

“That’s what they all say,” Carlos insisted. TK grinned so wide it almost hurt and he wanted to kiss him more than he had anyone probably ever. But he was drunk and that wasn’t how he wanted his first kiss with him to go. He wanted sparks and he wanted Carlos to remember.

“Let’s take you home, okay?”

“Okay.”

TK let him keep his hand as he backed up and headed towards the exit. He was more than a little excited about this whole thing and he most likely wasn’t going to get any sleep, but that was fine. Carlos liked him. Liked him enough to want to break the dumb rules he set for himself.

The ride to Carlos’ house was short, but he stopped on the way to get him some water and urged him to drink it before he went inside. TK still got out and helped him to the door just in case.

“Are your parents going to be pissed?” TK asked. Carlos took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes with his fists because he was adorable like that.

“I think it’ll be okay. They should be asleep,” Carlos said, “And maybe they’ll be happy that I actually did something for once.”’

“Okay,” TK laughed, still keeping his hand on his waist to steady him as Carlos reached into his pocket for his keys. He moved slow to keep his hand steady, though he still missed the lock about five times before he actually got it. “Are you gonna be able to make it to your room?”

“Yeah. Thank you,” Carlos said, twisting the doorknob

“Thank you for coming out with me.”

Carlos smiled sweetly at him before leaning over and kissing him on the cheek.

“I wanted to. Goodnight, TK.”

“Goodnight.”

TK stood on the front porch for a long time just smiling dumbstruck before he was able to convince himself to go to his car.

#tarlos #tarlos fic #tk strand #carlos reyes #911 lone star #911ls #my fic #title tuesday

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according-to-the-laura · 3 years ago

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StackedNatural Day 157: 5x18, 6x17, 9x18, 10x18

StackedNatural Masterpost: [x]

April 15, 2022

5x18: Point of No Return

Written by: Jeremy Carver

Directed by: Phil Sgriccia

Original air date: April 15, 2010

Plot Synopsis:

Zachariah has a new plan to overcome Lucifer but the strategy has unforeseen destructive consequences.

Features:

Receiving Revelation as a cosmic event, Dean packing his life into one box, Dean at his most self-destructive, Cas digging Adam out of the ground, a family reunion, a premium Destiel fight scene, Adam as bait, a heartfelt brotherly chat in the panic room, Cas turning himself into an angel bomb, the Beautiful Room, Dean’s conditions, Zachariah’s death, Adam meetin Michael.

My Thoughts:

We decided to watch in reverse order today to build to this episode, and god it was the right choice. I haven’t rewatched this one in probably 8 or 9 years at least and I didn’t realize how many moments that I remembered from the season happened in this specific episode. We all know I love season 5, and this episode is GREAT example of season 5.

Heaven has so much power in this episode. There’s a really strong sense of scale, of the impossibility of the task that they’re actually up against. The bar being destroyed by Zachariah receiving revelation is great for that, as is the blinding light when Michael appears to Adam.

Speaking of Adam, I didn’t realize before how much he’s like Dean. Not just in looks (although that shot of him and Sam in profile at Bobby’s kitchen table is eerie), but also a lonely childhood where he had to take on too much responsibility, and unearned attachment to his father, and a desperate need to see his mother again. It’s kind of brutal.

Adam is also, apparently, capable of seeing Michael’s true form without his eyes burning out. He says yes to Michael right after that moment of awe, which I love in retrospect of them being ambiguously a couple in season 15 when they escape the cage. Unintentional but really delicious in retrospect. Some stories demand to be told.

Dean has a major martyr complex, which @meg3point0 was theorizing is a result both of debilitating depression and the disproportionate responsibilities given to him by his father. He can’t kill himself because people need him, but if he dies as a martyr he’s useful and he gets to die.

There was a great post going around a while ago about Dean lashing out at everyone in the most hurtful way possible and how it works as evidence of Destiel being baked into the show this early. Read the post, it’s not long - but the gist being that he hits everyone where it will hurt most, and for Cas that’s addressing the unnamed emotion between them in a way that belittles it. And then he beats the shit out of Dean in an alley with their mouths an inch apart, with some specific camera angles that will be replicated almost perfectly in Goodbye Stranger, where Dean was scripted to say “I love you”.

Notable Lines:

“Blow me, Cas.”

“John Winchester was some guy who took me to a baseball game once a year. I don't have a dad.”

“The one thing worse than seeing dad once a year was seeing him all year.”

“Well, Cas, not for nothing, but the last person who looked at me like that…I got laid.”

“I rebelled for this?! So that you could surrender to them? I gave everything for you. And this is what you give to me.”

“What the hell happened to him?” “Me.”

“Pretty much a no-shot-in-hell, hail-Mary kind of thing.” “Ah, so the usual.”

“Isn’t that suicide?” “Maybe it is. But then I won’t have to watch you fail. I’m sorry, Dean. I don’t have the same faith in you that Sam does.”

“the world’s ending. The walls are coming down on us, and I look over to you and all I can think about is, ‘this stupid son of a bitch brought me here.’ I just didn’t want to let you down.”

Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 10

IMdB Rating: 9.0

6x17: My Heart Will Go On

Written by: Eric Charmelo & Nicole Snyder

Directed by: Phil Sgriccia

Original air date: April 15, 2011

Plot Synopsis:

The timeline is changed after Balthazar stops the Titanic from sinking.

Features:

Bobby’s extremely healthy coping mechanisms, Ellen and Bobby’s alternate timeline romance, mysterious gold, Final-Destination-style deaths, the Fates, a great needle drop, unsinking the Titanic, 50 000 new souls, an ultimatum, the return of Celine Dion.

My Thoughts:

We had our friend Alex over while we were watching this one and it is so much fun to watch the gears turn in someone’s head who hasn’t seen this episode before. When the Titanic stuff came up she was SO lost and it was delightful.

Phil Sgriccia as a director continues to be inscrutable - sometimes I love his episode and sometimes he does really weird jerky zooms on a random lawyer.

This is actually such a cool episode to rewatch knowing that The Man Who Would Be King is coming. All of Cas’ need for souls and power is directly related to the things he’s learned from Crowley. When he says he’s trying to save the friends he has, he’s not talking about fate, he’s talking about what’s been happening behind the scenes. Cas is so powerful in this season and everything happening behind the scenes finally coming together on screen at the end of the season is SO fun and great.

I love Atropos explicitly saying that Cas threw out the book. Even though within the narrative it’s understood as all of Team Free Will tearing up the script, the larger powers all understand on some level that Cas is the one who has escaped the narrative in the way that the others have not.

In terms of Destiel content, I had forgotten that the “dirty trenchcoat” scene was in this episode, and there’s a lot of prolonged eye contact between Dean and Cas after he saves them from being exploded by fate. Not to mention, the explicitly romantic couple of Bobby and Ellen have an “we need you” moment that will be echoed in season 8 in Goodbye Stranger.

Notable Lines:

“Accidents don’t just happen accidentally.”

“Wait, so you saved a cruise liner because—” “Because that God-awful Celine Dion song made me want to smite myself.”

“You have me confused with the other angel – you know, the one in the dirty trenchcoat who's in love with you?”

“Too soon?” “Yeah, Dean. I'm pretty sure six seconds is too soon.”

“You're the ones who taught me that you can make your own destiny. You don't have to be ruled by fate. You can choose freedom. I still believe that that's something worth fighting for.”

Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 8.8

IMdB Rating: 8.7

9x18: Meta Fiction

Written by: Robbie Thompson

Directed by: Thomas J. Wright

Original air date: April 15, 2014

Plot Synopsis:

When Castiel rejects Metatron's offer to join forces, a surprising plan is set in motion; Gadreel is apprehended.

Features:

Metatron’s story, Hannah and Cas’ meeting, fake Gabriel, Metatron’s pop culture download to Cas, Cas refusing to follow the script, Dean torturing Gadreel, Cas discovering the Mark, Cas finally gathering his army.

My Thoughts:

So we’re watching in reverse order today for fun, and it’s super wild because I found Metatron so terrible and annoying in the season 10 episode we watched and I LOVE him in the episode. He works better as a pulling-the-strings-behind-the-scenes villain than a fist-fight-in-an-alley villain I forgot how much he works as a precursor to God - he literally does what Chuck would and will do. I love the framing of the story, although I kind of wish Cas’ fake world had been the entire episode so that the framing would have been a full book-end to the episode. I love Metatron speaking to us, the viewer, and then revealing that he was really speaking to Cas. Cas has been accidentally (to the villain) but explicitly (in the meta-story) outside of the narrative for a long time. Saying that God published the first draft is great (accidental?) foreshadowing to the alternate universes/alternate drafts of late-seasons Supernatural.

I forgot the whole Gabriel thing happened so that was a fun surprise. I’m excited that Cas is gathering his army because soon he’s gonna give it all up for one guy and give us TONS of great lines. Speaking of, there were a lot of awesome lines in this episode too - see below.

I wish torture was still a soul-corrupting act like it was in season 4. Maybe On the Head of a Pin really did damage Dean in irreversible ways, because he tortures so much lately. I get where they’re going with it in terms of the Mark of Cain, but I think it’s not treated with nearly enough seriousness. It’s bad because it feeds the Mark, not because it’s damaging Dean as a person.

Notable Lines:

“What makes a story work? Is it the plot, the characters, the text? The subtext? And who gives a story meaning? Is the writer? Or you?”

“None of it was real, but all of it was true.”

“Now do you understand that ‘the universe is made up of stories, not atoms’?”

“Among all God's little windup toys, you were the only one with any spunk.”

“he thinks you are just a scared little boy who's afraid to be on his own because daddy never loved him enough? And he is right, isn't he? Right to think you are a coward, a sad, clingy, needy [...] Pathetic bottom-feeder who cannot even take care of himself, who would rather drag everyone through the mud than be alone, who would let everyone around him die!”

Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 9.1

IMdB Rating: 8.2

10x18: Book of the Damned

Written by: Robbie Thompson

Directed by: P. J. Pesce

Original air date: April 15, 2015

Plot Synopsis:

Charlie contacts Sam and Dean after she finds the Book of the Damned - which could help eliminate the mark of Cain; Castiel and Metatron look for Castiel's grace.

Features:

Charlie hiding in a dumpster, a roadtrip with Metatron and Castiel, an exposition dump from Dean to Sam, Charlie uncovering the Book of the Damned, Dean wants to go on a beach vacation, the Styne family, Sam “burning” the Book of the Damned, Charlie and Cas meeting, a covert rendezvous between Sam and Rowena.

My Thoughts:

I generally really like Robbie Thompson as a writer but most of this episode I was vaguely bored for, with interspersed scenes that I enjoyed.

Charlie’s character development is so funny because she’s a hacker and good with computers and then she decides to be a hunter while we’re not watching and then she goes to Oz and a bunch of stuff happens off camera and then she sews up her own bullet holes and breaks into museums and monasteries in Europe. And all of that happens off-screen and just have to accept that in the 2 years she’s known about monsters she’s become a more competent hunter than either of the boys, at least in terms of artifact acquisition. She’s also emotionally intelligent, which is a nice change of pace.

This episode is a big bummer to watch post-finale, because Dean wants to go to the beach which we know he’ll never get to do, and Sam’s character arc has proven and will continue to prove to be accepting the fact that he’s always going to be part of a life that he hates and has wanted to escape since he was a child. And when he finally does he raises his kid to be a hunter, too. It sucks.

Going to a random cabin and trying to decode the book there was wildly stupid. I understand it was necessary for the plot to happen, but there’s no reason not to chuck the book into the lead-lined case and then drive to the bunker, the most warded building in the world, to do research.

The Mark of Cain was more interesting to me when Cain was around and otherwise I think that season 10 was mostly kind of bad.

I did really like Cas getting his grace back, that scene was fun and I liked the books exploding out while he got his powers back. Unfortunately I find Metatron so incredibly annoying in this episode that watching his scenes sucks.

Right at the end with the scene with Sam and Rowena, @meg3point0 said “ah, here begins the great straight-bait of the century.”

Notable Lines:

“If this actually does work, we’re gonna take some time off. [...] Sand between our toes, Sammy. Sand between our toes.”

“Brothers and sisters? Listen to you. Still spitting out the company line like anyone cares. Like we’re actually a family? When what we really are – are a bunch of glowing lights filled with self-loathing or delusions of grandeur. Or both.”

“What’s the maddest thing a man can do? Let himself die.”

Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 6.0

IMdB Rating: 8.8

In Conclusion: REAL strong Stack today, gang. Nic is gonna kill me when Kripke era ends up being my favourite, though. Numbers don’t lie. << Previous Day | Next Day >>

#Stackednatural #supernatural #spn #5x18 #Point of No Return #6x17 #My Heart Will Go On #9x18 #Meta Fiction #10x18 #Book of the Damned #back to 4-ep days woof #cw: mention of suicide

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hellchilde · 4 years ago

Text

The Thing With Feathers

wow it feels like ten million years since i posted a real fic

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Sòng Lán | Sòng Zǐchēn/Xiǎo Xīngchén, Song Lan | Song Zichen & Xiao Xingchen, Xiao Xingchen & Xue Yang | Xue Chengmei

Characters: Xiao Xingchen, Song Lan | Song Zichen, Xue Yang | Xue Chengmei, Wen Qing

Additional Tags: Disabled Character, Blindness, Blind Xiǎo Xīngchén, Lack of Communication, Established Relationship, brief scene with blood, Recreational Drug Use, (but it's just weed), Alcohol, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Cock Warming, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Reincarnation Vibes

Words: 8970

Summary: Sometimes, all you need to throw your life into sharp focus it to stumble over a dying criminal in the street and let it consume your life.

Or: Xiao Xingchen finds Xue Yang injured alongside the road and the rhythm of the carefully constructed life he has with Song Lan no longer seems entirely stable.

It happens when he's walking home from class.

This time, the reason for Xiao Xingchen's loss of vision is not so noble or meaningful. Sometimes things happen for a reason, but sometimes things just happen and it's shit luck and you have to make due with the cards you're dealt. Sometimes you're too young when your vision deteriorates to nothing, but at least that means you don't have to see their pitying looks in the encroaching darkness. But sometimes, there is a good man who is there for you and can help you pick up the pieces when your life changes too quickly for you to deal with. That is a spot of good luck, because this man is someone you love and could picture a life with, even if it's not the life your parents had intended, or the life you set out to start back when the possibilities were endless. This time, Xiao Xingchen learns the lines of Song Lan's face with his fingertips before his sight is completely gone, and lets him reshape their lives to accommodate this unforeseen obstacle to what could have been a story of happily ever after.

With a white cane in hand and a determined set to his face, Xiao Xingchen walks the increasingly familiar path between home, subway, school, subway, home. Never did he plan on learning a new language in his late twenties, but that language is braille, and he refuses to be totally helpless in a world designed against him. Audiobooks help, but he can't listen to them while he walks, has to stay vigilant with his remaining senses or let himself be pummeled by people who won't see him. Shame the onus has to be on him. So it might be dark, but maybe it's not, when he trips over something and sprawls inelegantly, embarrassingly to the ground. His cheeks and ears are burning, he dropped his cane but finds it quickly. Stupid, stupid, he should have felt it.

He reaches back to feel what he tripped over, and feels fabric, flesh. He gropes his way up, increasingly concerned when the person doesn't move or make a sound, and he smells blood. Then finally he feels the blood, sticky and warm but cooling, and is worried he is feeling a corpse until he feels the chest rise and fall and hears the wheeze of breath. He snatches his hands away, worried, and scrambles for the phone in his pocket. It has a voice-to-text option, and that makes up for the lack of buttons. He's never had to dial 9-1-1, and he thinks his voice on the line to the operator is nervous and panicked. He can't even tell her for certain which street he's on, except that it's five blocks from the campus where he had class.

That must be enough. The EMT's arrive and take stock of the situation, and they reassure him, and when he asks them if he can ride in the ambulance, they agree without too much argument. The ride to the hospital is horrible, though, because he has no idea where he's going or how far away and every turn makes him motion sick. He still doesn't consider leaving behind the man he found. The emergency room is chaotic, but one of the EMT's spares the time to lead him out to the waiting room, and someone eventually gets him some water.

“He's in surgery, and then they'll be admitting him for observation,” one of the staff says to him. He's already given his report to the police, explained his innocent side. He's not a suspect for what appears to be a violent crime, but they took his contact information. Otherwise, Xiao Xingchen doesn't know much. “You don't know him, so … you can go home if you want. I'm sure he would appreciate the kindness of a stranger.”

“Were you able to find an emergency contact?” he asks. So far, he has been the only visitor present.

“No,” the staff says. “Don't worry, the police are looking into it.”

“I would prefer to stay with him,” Xiao Xingchen says, because he does always try to be noble, even without a sword in his hands.

The staff member, maybe a nurse or a receptionist but probably not a doctor, reaches out to touch his hands where they're clasped protectively around his cane. He makes a face because he wouldn't have accepted the touch if asked permission, but at least it's kind. “You're a good man,” the staff member says. “We'll help you to the waiting room near where he'll be resting.”

At some point, someone gives him a sandwich wrapped in plastic and a cup of coffee. The sandwich is ham and soggy, but he eats a little of it, and the coffee tastes old and watery. At some point, Xiao Xingchen sleeps in his chair. At some point, someone informs him that the man made it through surgery and is sleeping. At some point, Xiao Xingchen awakens to the feeling of his phone buzzing in his pocket.

“You didn't come home,” Song Lan's voice says, strained. “I was worried.”

“I'll be home soon,” Xiao Xingchen replies. “I have to make sure he made it through. I'm the one who found him, it's my responsibility.” He doesn't like the hospital, which is cold and antiseptic, and his chair isn't comfortable. He's still going to stay. He has to, even if he has to rely on the kindness of strangers to find the bathroom.

Song Lan sighs, too familiar with this side of him. “Call me to come pick you up,” he says quietly. “The hospital isn't far.”

Xiao Xingchen says goodbye and hangs up and only resents a little that the offer makes him feel helpless. He rubs at his eyes, which feel gritty and sore, and locates the remains of his soggy sandwich to at least get something in his stomach. He listens to the sounds of the hospital around him, beeping machines and ringing phones and quiet voices and people rushing by in non-skid shoes. He seems to be politely ignored, or perhaps forgotten, but he doesn't know how long it's supposed to take until he learns what happened.

At some point, another member of staff approaches him and sits beside him, clearing her throat softly. “I have some news, Mr. Xiao,” she says, accented Mandarin. He tries not to be insulted that they think his English isn't good. “The police have found out the identity of the man you found. Apparently … he's wanted for murder, and some other crimes. He works for some very bad men.”

Xiao Xingchen frowns, the information hard to take in. A criminal? He saved a criminal?

“You did a good thing,” she continues. “They'll bring him in to face justice. They wanted me to thank you.”

He manages to nod, trying not to reveal how shaken he is by the news. Why should it bother him so much? He doesn't know this man and has no connection to him other than finding him mostly dead on his walk to the subway. And yet he still feels betrayed. He did something good, he saved a man, and he turns out to be a criminal. It doesn't feel fair, but so little in his life feels fair.

His intentions have been to stay until the man wakes up and introduce himself, get to know him, but he no longer wants that. Instead he digs out his phone as soon as the nurse leaves and dials Song Lan's number to request a ride and pulls himself to his feet, legs feeling stiff from a long night spent in an uncomfortable chair. He still has that feeling that he should at least peek in on the man that he saved, but then, what's the use in that when he hasn't peeked at anything since his vision gave up on him?

It doesn't take very much help from others to make it down to the front of the building and out the doors – the elevator had braille, and the flow of traffic was relatively logical. He takes a breath of fresh air and stands by the curb to wait for Song Lan, his cane clasped in his hands. He hasn't bothered to ask the time, but by the temperature outside and the birds and the angle of the sun he can feel on his skin, he guesses it's midmorning. He's been out all night. No wonder Song Lan was worried.

He hears the car, and the door opens, and there's Song Lan's voice instructing him to get in. He reaches out to feel the edge of the car door and then climbs inside, settling gratefully into the familiar passenger seat to let Song Lan pull away from the hospital.

“Did he wake up?” Song Lan asks after a few moments of silence.

“I don't know,” Xiao Xingchen replies, collapsing his cane back down to make more room in the footwell for his legs. “They told me they found out who he was. A criminal wanted for murder, with mob connections. I didn't want to stay after that. I'm sure they'll arrest him.” He's still not sure how he feels about that. Bad, bad, like there's rocks in his stomach.

Song Lan thinks about that, his driving much smoother than that of the ambulance, mindful of not taking the turns too quickly. “Well, it's a good thing he's off the streets,” he says at last. “And good that you didn't let him die. It's best that he faces the consequences of what he's done.”

Xiao Xingchen nods and chews on his bottom lip, turning towards the window to feel the sun on his face. He's tired, more tired than before, and he thinks he'll sleep all day even if it'll totally throw off his sleep schedule. He feels depressed, for no reason he can put a finger on. How had he been the one to stumble on that man?

He takes Song Lan's help here and there to get inside, finding it reassuring to always reach out and find him there, and then they are safely behind a door and he finds the bed and collapses into it. When he wakes up again, Song Lan is stretched out beside him, breathing deep and even in sleep. Xiao Xingchen sighs, rolls over, and scoots unobtrusively out of bed to find the cigarettes he has hidden in a corner of the closet in case of emergency. He secludes himself on the fire escape to smoke in peace and rub his temple while he attempts to figure out what he's feeling.

He hasn't figured it out by the time he's finished one cigarette, and he has just enough self control to cut himself off after one, then retreats back inside to at least pretend to do some work.

The next time Xiao Xingchen hears about Xue Yang (which is the name of the man he saved, that murderer and mobster and … rapist, for all he knew) he is on the news. He emerges from their bedroom one morning in search of the coffee pot and some breakfast, and Song Lan actually has the TV on, a rare occurrence this early in the morning.

“... released from City Hospital this morning, in custody of the police,” the reporter says. “Xue Yang has known connections with alleged crime lord Wen Ruohan, and charges against him include murder, arson, assault, armed robbery, and fraud. Yang will be facing these charges in a court of law, following investigation into the listed charges, and is currently being kept in custody at an undisclosed location. Yang was found two weeks ago by a civilian on the street following a vicious stabbing, supposedly an attempt on his life carried out by a rival gang. The investigation into Yang's attack is still ongoing with no suspects.”

Xiao Xingchen feels his face fold into a frown, and he steps forward until he finds Song Lan, letting him press a bowl into his hands and starting to eat without really tasting.

“I guess he can walk now,” Song Lan comments with a dry voice.

“What does he look like?” It doesn't matter. Xiao Xingchen still wants to know, to satisfy some perverse curiosity about that evil man he happened to save from bleeding out on the street.

“Like a punk,” Song Lan says. “Like a smug little punk. Like he's going to get away with all of it.” He sets his bowl down and leans in to kiss Xingchen's cheek, running his hand over the other as if he can smooth out the frustration there. “Don't listen to too much of this. I'll be back tonight.” And then he leaves, the sound of his footsteps circling the kitchen island, pausing to pick up his coat and bag, pausing to slip on his shoes, and then the sound of the front door.

Xiao Xingchen takes a few more bites of the food – it's oatmeal, and it's alright, but it's not the way he would have prepared it – and the news is still on in the background, now on to some other story that he cares less about. He puts the bowl down and goes for coffee next, still half the pot left and soy creamer set out nearby. Thoughtful. Song Lan takes care of him.

He doesn't follow the direction. He gets his tablet and sets it up to search for this Wen Ruohan guy. He doesn't keep enough track of the news to have any idea about organized crime, but once his tablet understands what he's asking of it, it pulls up some articles. The text reader's voice renders the shocking events dry and bland, but at least it's something. It makes it sound like Wen Ruohan has fingers in pretty much every bit of crime in the city, maybe further out too. Not surprising that a criminal like Xue Yang would take up with him, do some of his dirty work. The top of the pack never lets that kind of thing touch him. That's why they can't make anything stick when it comes to bringing charges against him. The movies get that much right.

His next search is for Xue Yang himself. Most of what pulls up is the recent stuff about him being in the hospital, the stabbing, the murder charge they want him for this time. Few of the articles he finds come with image descriptions, so if there are pictures, he doesn't know what they are. He can access the public parts of Xue Yang's criminal record. People keep getting his name wrong, calling him “Mr. Yang.” He listens to the text reader list the dates and bare-bones facts of the previous charges. Some of them he had been arrested for, served time. Others seemed to disappear too quickly.

When Song Lan comes home, he is still on the couch, bent over his tablet, hair uncombed and falling over his shoulders and still wearing the loungewear he had put on that morning, which doesn't really count as clothes. He startles when he suddenly feels a hand on his shoulder, too wrapped up in what he had been listening to and thinking about to pay attention to the sound of the door opening or Song Lan saying his name.

“What are you … oh,” Song Lan says, and Xiao Xingchen feels the presence of him reading over his shoulder. “I see you didn't follow my advice.”

“I wanted to know more,” Xiao Xingchen says, feeling oddly defensive. He switches the tablet dark so Song Lan can't read over his shoulder. “Maybe he's a smug punk, but I saved him. I want to know what kind of man I saved.” Why he's weirdly obsessive about this, he still doesn't understand. Why he wants to know more of these dark details. It isn't like it gives him a thrill – well, not a good thrill, that would be kind of sick. It isn't like he's ever even interacted with Xue Yang. Except that he spent a good portion of one day covered in his blood and waiting for him to wake up at the hospital, and for some reason that made it feel like Xue Yang owed him something.

Song Lan sighs so it stirs the hairs on the top of his head, then pets them down again. Not the first time Xiao Xingchen has forgotten to comb his hair, especially on days he stays in. It's a worried kind of touch. “Will you please turn it off for a little while for dinner?”

Xiao Xingchen considers being contrary and refusing, but his stomach rumbles as a reminder that he only broke away long enough to eat some pickles and crackers in a lunch that required minimal effort but could hardly be counted as real food. He submits, then, pulling Song Lan's hand down from his head to kiss his inner wrist. He rises to his feet to follow Song Lan to the table, sits beside him and takes the prepared plate. Song Lan must have guessed some of his mood that morning, because a couple of the dishes are among his favorites from this particular restaurant.

That softens him, and he feels a little bad for considering being contrary or brushing off Song Lan's worry as being patronizing. Guilty, even. Doesn't Song Lan have enough to deal with without his boyfriend being bratty? It's the unfortunate truth of their circumstances that Song Lan shoulders more of the financial responsibilities, more of the housekeeping, more of the cooking. Xiao Xingchen does what he can, and he's gotten to be a pretty fair hand at cooking even without being able to read labels. It's still more for Song Lan.

Xiao Xingchen finishes up his pad see ew, wipes his mouth clean, and gets up to drape himself over Song Lan's lap. His chopsticks clatter lightly on the edge of the plate, and then his hands settle on Xiao Xingchen's waist. Xingchen feels a smile spread over his face, and his hands slide into Song Lan's hair, and he leans in for a kiss.

Being intimate like this has changed. As his sight faded, his other senses sharpened. In some ways it's useful, like being able to so distinctly smell the differences between spices, but his skin is now also more sensitive. Every touch, every brush of lips or teeth, has the potential to be overwhelming. It had caught him off-guard at first, the sheer electricity of it lighting him up more vividly than any lit room. It had been intense enough to scare him, and hence to scare Song Lan, and since then his touches had grown increasingly light and gentle, wary of startling him again. Or perhaps it is that Song Lan is no longer so certain of sharing himself with someone who can no longer see him. He has never been the most touchy-feely person, and Xiao Xingchen wouldn't blame him if the shine of their relationship had faded by now. Occupying that strange liminal space where he was part caretaker, part boyfriend – that can't be easy.

So how can Xiao Xingchen ask for that firmer touch, the way they could get so carried away with each other the way they used to when they were younger and more carefree? What right does he have to demand even more?

He still kisses Song Lan wild and reckless, soft lips and sharp teeth catching at Song Lan's mouth, kissing the flavor of Thai food off his lips. Song Lan sighs against him, hands slipping up under Xiao Xingchen's oversized cardigan and the t-shirt underneath, circling against his waist. There are calluses on his fingers, just rough enough to feel, and at least while they're kissing Song Lan isn't protesting. Xingchen squirms slightly, trying to get his hands to slide down, as if he could wiggle them down. They stay where they are, though Song Lan's grip tightens, starting to dig into his skin.

Xiao Xingchen breaks the kiss to pant softly against Song Lan's lips, only now realizing that he has one hand tangled up in his hair, the other pressed flat against his chest, feeling the steady thud of Song Lan's heart beneath his skin. His own heartbeat feels like it's echoing that beat, knocking up hopefully against his ribs. Maybe this time … maybe this time it would work out. Maybe this time he could somehow convey the kind of attention he was craving, and maybe Song Lan would be amenable to fucking his brains out.

Sure enough, Song Lan shifts his grip, finally down even if it is over his yoga pants, cups his ass and stands up with him clinging koala-style. Xiao Xingchen has no intention of letting go, pressing kisses into Song Lan's jaw, his throat, over his lips, wherever he can reach, his arms settling around Song Lan's strong shoulders and his back arching to press closer against him. This is better, this is closer to what he wants.

Song Lan deposits him on the bed, doesn't drop him, just setting him carefully on the mattress like fine china. But still he crawls over him, whispers kisses into his skin, teeth scraping lightly down his throat. The light touches make Xiao Xingchen gasp and writhe, his skin feeling so oversensitive that he can't even stand still wearing his clothes. Song Lan hovers over him, on his hands and knees, still barely touching him except for the brush of his lips.

“Zichen,” he breathes, needy, eager.

Song Lan pulls back, and Xingchen can just weather the feeling of being watched, breathing and trying not to feel self-conscious beneath the weight of Song Lan's gaze. His fingers are still in Song Lan's hair, twisting and trying to pull him back down. He bears it for a few moments, then stretches up to try and find his lips.

But before he can make it, Song Lan's hand takes his own, unpeeling his fingers from his hair and kissing his palm before pressing his hand to Xingchen's chest and sitting up. The gesture has an air of finality to it, and Xiao Xingchen can't help it, he covers his face with his hands. It's like being blind has erased any ability he had to control his expression, and he can only imagine what his face is doing right now, because it certainly feels all twisted up and hurt and mad and frustrated.

“I'm sorry,” Song Lan says, because he isn't good at reading people but he isn't blind, and he sounds regretful. “I'm sorry, it just wasn't...”

Xiao Xingchen rolls away, taking a moment, then sits up, his back facing Song Lan. “It's fine,” he says, as though merely saying the words will make it so, and he knows his voice sounds too tight. “It's fine,” he repeats. He wishes there was a switch in his body that he could just turn off, rather than having to sit with the coiling warmth still lingering in his stomach, refusing to dissipate just because Song Lan is no longer touching him.

He feels Song Lan touch his hair lightly, then the shift of the mattress as he stands up. The ensuite shower turns on shortly after, and entertains the vindictive thought of forcing his way in and pushing Song Lan up on the shower wall and just...

He doesn't know what. Song Lan had already made his “no” very clear, and Xiao Xingchen has no intention of crossing that particular boundary. He knows there wouldn't be any coming back from that. Taking care of himself feels equally out of the question. It's not what he craves, and doing it alone feels empty.

He goes to clean up after their dinner, finding some comfort in scrubbing off the plates and plunging his hands in the soapy water. It doesn't perfectly redirect his energy, but it takes the edge off. Then he steps out to the fire escape again, retreats, cowardice. The cold, damp wind slaps him in the face, and he takes a lungful of the foggy air, pressing his back into the wrought iron to feel it dig in.

He should tell Song Lan. There are things he should say, explanations, verbalizing his desire and upset and love and frustration. How it feels to be treated as an invalid, even when Song Lan does it so soft and gentle. Song Lan will tell his part too, the part where his desire can't always keep up with Xingchen's and that particular quirk where touching makes his skin crawl, where he treasures Xingchen and wants to protect him by wrapping him up tight in bubble wrap, kept and sweet and placed high on a shelf never to be touched.

He kicks the fire escape, just to make himself feel a little better, and wedges himself in. He should have brought his tablet. He could have done more research. Without it, he just listens to the sounds of the city at night, traffic and ambulances, someone singing, a baby crying in the distance. He lets it all flow and melt around him, lets his body relax into becoming the ambient temperature of the fog, cold and misty and amorphous.

By the time Xiao Xingchen retreats back inside, his thoughts are as cool and calm as the air outside. He slips into bed, fitting into the space behind Song Lan, slotting in, his knees in the crook behind Song Lan's knees, his cold nose tucked against the back of his neck. Song Lan smells clean, and Xingchen feels sorry for earlier, silly for letting himself get carried away. He's happy here. He is happy.

That thought circles his brain as he drifts off to sleep.

Time passes. Xiao Xingchen dials back his research to what he thinks is a normal amount of interest. There is always news to follow – Xue Yang seems to be at the same time the media's darling and their favorite villain. The tabloids keep commenting on how he looks, calling him angelic and sweet-faced while at the same time condemning him for what seemed like an ever-increasing number of crimes. Song Lan quickly learns to simply leave him to it, and in return Xingchen can moderate himself so he doesn't lose entire days to sitting on the couch and burying himself in news and police reports.

Life is pretty much normal. There's a routine, a rhythm, comfortable and familiar. Xiao Xingchen further adjusts to life in a world that isn't built to accommodate him, his steps ever more certain on his path. He can visualize his future stretching before him, and none of it looks bad. No surprises, no tragedy. He figures losing his sight is bad enough to fulfill the quota for drama for this lifetime.

Xiao Xingchen listens to the trial when it starts. From what he can tell, this is apparently very fast, but he doesn't know enough about the American justice system to confirm that. There's plenty of media coverage on it, but despite their efforts to highlight the most exciting parts, the trial itself seems to be fairly dull, nothing like the TV shows. That doesn't decrease Xiao Xingchen's interest, but it does help to prevent him from focusing too much on it.

Song Lan has a launch party for work. Xiao Xingchen doesn't know enough about computers to know what it's really for, some piece of software or another, something Song Lan has been working on for months. It's a cause for celebration, and while Xingchen doesn't relish the need to dress up, he lets Song Lan help him with it. Most of his wardrobe is in interchangeable shades of neutral, white and black and gray – he made sure of that before his sight was gone. But it's better to be safe than sorry and accidentally choose something inappropriate or clashing. Anyway, he knows Song Lan quietly enjoys dressing him, making sure he looks nice. It suits the same part of his personality that's so good at the nitty-gritty details of code, a fierce, strict streak of perfectionism.

Xiao Xingchen has no doubt that they make a sharp picture when they arrive. He left his cane at home, since it would be too cumbersome in a party setting, and thus holds Song Lan's arm to navigate their way inside. It's a club, it smells like a club, alcohol and bodies and several layers of perfume and cologne, and there's music playing with a low bassline that reverberates in his ribcage. It's probably dark, which means that people will be asking all night long why he's wearing his dark tinted glasses. Hopefully sticking close against Song Lan's side will decrease the need to explain.

Parties like this are always a little awkward. Xingchen is friendly and willing, but he doesn't speak the same language as these technology prodigies. Maybe he could have wandered and found other partners of Song Lan's coworkers, but he was always wary of losing track of Song Lan in an unfamiliar place. And Song Lan is good, he's considerate, but sometimes he gets so wrapped up in whatever conversation he gets involved in that Xingchen falls by the wayside despite being attached to his arm.

It's still fun and interesting to be out of the apartment, chatting with people, picking canapes off the trays, accepting the drink that Song Lan passes to him. It's one of the fruity ones that he likes, but strong enough that he can taste the alcohol under the juice. He's playing the role of arm candy tonight, but he lets it be fun, lets himself be the sweet and sparkly juxtaposition to Song Lan's dry, serious demeanor. Song Lan's coworkers forgive him easily when he doesn't know the more technical details and humor him by talking about other, more accessible topics.

Inevitably, though, they turn back to talking shop, and Xingchen tries to follow but it all starts to sound like gibberish. He sighs and ceases to pay much attention to the conversation since they're not really paying attention to him, and he sips his drink, wishing the music were better. Though, of course, the inevitable result of sipping a drink all evening is that he has to use the bathroom. Xingchen realizes it with some dismay. There's no good way to bring it up without sounding like a complaining toddler, but he doesn't even know which way to point himself to find it if he were to just wander off. So he just … waits. Song Lan will have to go eventually as well.

Except the situation is steadily growing towards urgent, and Song Lan shows no indication of breaking away from his conversation, focused the way he can get sometime. Xiao Xingchen starts to fidget anxiously, hoping to somehow telepathically convey what he needs. Unfortunately, he doesn't magically develop psychic powers. He's inches from giving in to the embarrassment of asking to be escorted to the bathroom when he feels another hand on his free arm.

“Hi,” a female voice says, one that he doesn't recognize. “Song Lan, do you mind if I borrow him for a minute?”

Xiao Xingchen could curse, and desperately hopes that Song Lan makes up an excuse to keep him from being pulled to another conversation with strangers. He can't focus on being friendly when his body is screaming at him. He feels Song Lan look up in surprise, finally breaking from his own conversation.

“Oh, right, of course,” he says, gently taking Xingchen's hand from his arm to pass him over to the woman. “Xingchen, this is Wen Qing. She's a doctor and a friend.”

“Alright,” Xingchen says, voice cracking, shooting Song Lan what he hopes is a desperate look before Wen Qing tugs him away. He's panicking, he thinks he might die, he wants the earth to swallow him up. He clears his throat and touches Wen Qing's hand, her pace never slowing. “I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry, but...”

Before he can finish, she pulls him through a doorway. Their footsteps turn echo-y, and he feels a glimmer of hope. She continues pulling, then places his hand on what feels like the handle of a urinal. He makes a sound, desperate still, and feels for the edges of the porcelain before letting go of her entirely so he can relieve himself.

“You looked like you were suffering over there,” she says, only far enough away to give him the space he needs to get the job done. “I know how Song Lan can get too intense in his conversations and forget the world around him.”

“Thank you,” he breathes, shooting a small smile in the direction of her voice. “Unfamiliar places are always a little difficult, especially without my cane. I hope it wasn't too obvious.”

“Not to the tech nerds,” she says, putting her hand on his shoulder to help lead him over to the sinks after he gets his slacks fastened up. “They might be geniuses, but they're oblivious to any kind of subtlety. Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you,” Xiao Xingchen says again, washing his hands and then relaxing a hip against the sink. He isn't in a rush to go back out to the music he doesn't like. “So you're a doctor?”

“Cardiac surgeon,” Wen Qing clarifies. “I normally don't get to see below the belt. But don't worry, I'll remain professional.” It sounds like she's smiling too. Xingchen isn't surprised to find that she's friends with Song Lan, with that dry kind of humor.

“I wasn't too worried about it,” Xingchen says. “Do you come to a lot of these things?”

“A few. I was dating one of them for a while, made some friends. They keep inviting me, and the appetizers are good, and every once in a while I get to help somebody's poor boyfriend find the bathroom.” He feels her pull his jacket straight, adjusting his collar slightly. “So. Been together long?”

“Since college,” Xingchen tells her. Maybe she isn't very close with Song Lan, to have not heard the story before. “Actually, we met in the airport when I arrived in America. I was so lost and overwhelmed, and he stepped in to help me find my way in a new country and a big city. It was just a happy coincidence that we ended up going to the same school while he was getting his graduate degree. And then from there, it's basically just history.”

Wen Qing laughs and touches his shoulder again. “Somehow, I doubt it's 'just history,' but we can leave it at that, if you want,” she says. “That's very sweet. I'm just glad you look as lost by all their talk as I am. Do you smoke?”

“Ah...” He doesn't want to lie, but also isn't sure about how likely it is his answer would get back around to Song Lan.

“Doesn't matter,” she says quickly, taking his arm again to lead him out. “Come hang out with the wives. We're all the wives, regardless of gender.”

Together, they wind through the party, past snippets of conversation and a speaker rolling out bassline in waves. Wen Qing pulls him out of a door, and the sound of music is dampened. A comforting cloud of cigarette smoke wafts around them, and there's a soft hum of conversation.

“Hey, wives,” Wen Qing crows. “I bring fresh blood.”

“One of us,” someone chants, and Xiao Xingchen grins and gives an irreverent salute.

The wives are apparently the company he was craving. He no longer has to pretend to understand or be interested in the technobabble, and instead he can pluck crackers smothered in cream cheese and prosciutto off of the platter that they stole from the catering staff and sip from the bottle of wine that they had also stolen. He can listen to one of them chatter about a thesis project on Emily Dickinson and steal drags from cigarettes and blunts passed to him. It's closer to the way he and Song Lan operated in college, parting for their own friend groups before drifting back together, and the wives are closer to the kind of people he would choose for friends, free to be bohemian while their significant others take advantage of the tech boom and bring home the bacon.

Xiao Xingchen hasn't bothered to check the time on his phone, but it feels late by the quality of the air and the conversation. They've stopped talking about anything of substance, and he's leaning on Wen Qing's shoulder. He's a little drunk and a little high and feeling soft and easy. Song Lan's touch doesn't even startle him when it comes to rest on his shoulder.

“Let's go home,” he suggests in a low murmur, and Xingchen peels himself up. The wives moan and complain, and someone reaches for him, fingers catching on the edge of his jacket with a soft cry of, “Chen-chen, don't leave us!”

Xiao Xingchen gives his goodbyes and makes his promises to stay in touch – his phone is full of their phone numbers. He leans on Song Lan to make their way out and down to meet their car. They slide into the back seat, and their hands find each other on the seat, fingers folding together in the most intimate touch Song Lan would allow in public.

“Time's it?” Xiao Xingchen asks, sleepy and smiley and soft.

“Close to one,” Song Lan replies. He sounds a little drunk too, and his thumb runs over the space between Xingchen's thumb and index finger, fitting into the hollow. “Did you have fun?”

“Mmm,” he hums and smiles more. “They were nice. Wen Qing was helpful, and you know how useless I am when you talk shop.”

“I should have known you'd get along with them. I should have introduced you earlier. I'm sorry you were bored with me.” He snorts softly. “Chen-chen.”

Xiao Xingchen's giggle is significantly less dignified, but at least it's not too loud out of consideration for their poor driver. “You know I can't help if they think I'm cute!”

Song Lan doesn't protest, but he doesn't have to. They're back home, and he thanks the driver, and comes around to help Xingchen out of the car and back into their building. They're quiet due to the late hour, so the sound of the keys feels like it echoes in the still night air. Xiao Xingchen lets himself inside with a sigh of relief and kicks his shoes off, and opens his mouth to suggest they go to bed only to have Song Lan's lips and teeth and tongue providing an effective gag.

Song Lan backs him against the wall in the entryway, and his hands span Xingchen's waist, broad and solid. Xingchen can taste the alcohol in his breath, but he probably tastes the same. His head spins, his stomach flips, feeling simultaneously over- and under-fed on those canapes, but thrilled with possibility. The kiss is rough, with teeth, not like delicate good morning kisses or gentle good night ones that he's gotten used to. This kiss demands, and expects him to answer – and so he does.

Xiao Xingchen moans into it and grips back at Song Lan's shirt, returning the kiss with equal fervor. Sleep is no longer on his mind. Instead, he has to get his hands on Song Lan's skin or he might just evaporate. He tugs until he can get Song Lan's shirt out of his slacks and he can slide his hands underneath, flat against the skin of his stomach. His skin is warm, solid, and he can feel the frantic rate of his breathing beneath his touch. It feels like a dream, like it's so much that it can't be real, and at the same time it's so real, so perfect, everything he wants.

It feels like Song Lan needs this as badly as he does. With hands tight around Xingchen's arms he pulls him away from the wall, further into the apartment. Xiao Xingchen assumes they'll go to the bedroom, to the bed as usual, but he finds himself bent forward over the couch instead, the familiar fabric under his fingers and the back digging into his stomach. Song Lan presses against him, rubs against his ass, pushes his shirt up and runs his hands over his back. Xiao Xingchen lets out a shaky breath and pushes back against him, just as demanding and desperate.

Finally, finally Song Lan reaches around to get his slacks unfastened, pushes at them impatiently, and locates the zipper to shove it down. Xiao Xingchen squirms to help get them down his legs and winds up with them stuck around his knees, but at least it's some relief. Song Lan seems to think that's enough; his fingers grip into the flesh of Xingchen's ass, squeezing and massaging and spreading. He pants into the couch cushions, his breath coming back hot and wet against his cheeks and the sensitive tip of his cock bumping up against the back of the couch in a way that isn't altogether pleasant but at least it is some sensation. He's hard, he needs it, his skin feels like it's sparking with heat at every brush of Song Lan's fingers.

He remembers with some despair that they don't have any lube in the living room and is just about ready to straighten up, drag Song Lan back to the bedroom so they can do it properly. Then he hears something tear and feels slick fingers slide against his ass. Song Lan came prepared. Such a good, thoughtful boyfriend, even if it is frankly out of character for him to anticipate sex like this. When it happens, if it happens, there's so much delicate kissing and foreplay and it's consistently in the bed or the shower where they're prepared. But he can't even speculate on it, Song Lan's fingers feel too good, pushing the lube inside him fast, impatient. He wants to spread his legs but he's trapped by his slacks and can only pant helplessly against the couch cushions.

Thoughtfully, Song Lan's clean hand reaches down to brush his hair out of his face, tracing the line of his jaw. The fingers inside him spread once more, then slide out, and that's all the warning he really gets before he feels Song Lan's cock press steady and inexorable inside him.

The sound he lets out would be embarrassing under any other circumstance, low and broken and wet. It's been long enough that he almost can't handle the stretch. It's almost too much and makes him choke. His knees feel weak. His spit is making a wet spot on the couch cushions. Song Lan still doesn't stop, not until his hips are pressed flush against Xingchen's ass. His breath is coming heavy now, ragged. He's thoughtful again when he pauses to let then both get used to it, his hands resting on Xingchen's hips, one of them tacky with drying lube, and he pets soothingly at one hipbone like Xingchen is a skittish horse.

Like that, Xiao Xingchen remembers that he's supposed to breathe, and he takes a deep, shaking breath before letting it out loudly, and he can feel it relax down his spine. Song Lan pets him again, approvingly, then eases out of him only to slam back inside. Xiao Xingchen chokes on another cry, and that seems to encourage him, the pace rough and quick.

Time ceases to exist. Xingchen can't see, obviously, but the pleasure feels like starbursts of color in his mind. The apartment is very quiet, except for the wet slap of skin and too much lube (Song Lan was always careful like that) and their labored breathing, punctuated with moans and whimpers punched out of Xingchen's throat. It is so rough, he knows he is going to be sore, aching and remembering this for days. But it's so good too, Song Lan's cock stretching him and hollowing him out, making a space inside him. He's so hard it hurts, and his own cock is leaking. Song Lan's hand reaches down to cup it protectively, preventing it from smearing over the back of the couch. The pressure is maddening without friction to go with it, and Xingchen sobs out his pleasure, trembling and pushing back on him.

When he cums it's a punch to the gut, fingers white-knuckled against the couch cushions and a cry ripping out of his throat. His heart feels like it's hammering so hard that all he can hear for a few moments is the whoosh-whoosh of his heartbeat. But he realizes quickly that Song Lan has felt it. He drapes himself over Xingchen's back, fucking him hard and fast, racing towards the end. It must crash into him too, because he grunts and transforms into a heavy, shuddering weight, pressing him into the couch, his cock twitching inside.

Time still doesn't really exist. They might stay draped over that couch for hours, for all Xingchen can tell. His ass is sore, he can barely breathe, he's going to have bruises where the couch is digging into his midsection, and he feels like he hasn't been this happy in months. It's not just the sex – though, to be fair, the sex is amazing and a big part of it. It's what comes with the sex. He feels connected to Song Lan like this, special, needed. And then, taken care of, because eventually Song Lan straightens up and helps him up, drops down to help him work off his shoes and slacks so they can walk back to the bedroom. His arm supports Xingchen around the waist because he's for surewalking with a limp right now. He helps him get his shirt off and brushes his hair back over his shoulder and kisses his cheek, so sweet.

Xiao Xingchen makes to go to the bathroom. He still smells like smoke and wine and sex, and Song Lan won't want that in their bed. But before he can pull away, Song Lan pulls him back in close, nuzzles his hair and kisses him again in a way that makes his heart feel soft and warm, honey in his chest. He lets Song Lan lead him to bed, even though he has the distinct sensation of cum slowly starting to leak out of his body.

“Here, keep it in,” Song Lan rumbles low, curling up behind him and pressing his fingers into Xingchen, pressing it back inside. Xingchen sucks in a breath, his body feeling oversensitive and raw but good. It's not too much. Then there are some sounds behind him, and then he feels Song Lan's cock press into him again. That is almost too much, and he makes a small sound, not sure if he could handle a second round.

But it's not to fuck him. Song Lan settles, their bodies pressed close, fitting perfectly. Song Lan's nose presses into his shoulder, and he kisses there a few times. Without too much preamble, they fall asleep.

The next morning, of course, they are stuck together. It's a little disgusting, but there isn't a thing that Xiao Xingchen would have changed about the night before. He stirs a little, then makes a sound of complaint, his body protesting the movement from the waist down. Song Lan wakes up next, and Xingchen can practically hear his grimace when he remembers the position they were stuck in.

He's as careful as he can manage when he pulls away from Xingchen's body, pressing a gentle hand to his arm to indicate he should stay still. There are some bathroom sounds, water running, and then Song Lan returns with a warm, wet washcloth to gently wipe him clean. Xingchen has to bite his knuckle; his ass feels raw, sore and swollen. He can feel precisely how hard they went. He still doesn't regret a moment.

Song Lan treats him soft and sweet that morning, brings him breakfast in bed and combs his hair. They're both quiet, Xingchen because he's hesitant to say anything that will break the spell, and Song Lan because he seems exhausted from socializing so much the day before. Sometimes it's harder than others. Then to recuperate, he's quieter than usual, minimizing his interactions, sometimes even with Xingchen himself. Xingchen doesn't take it personally, and usually uses the time to indulge his own inner introvert and work on his own projects.

Nothing wrong with that, except that they continue to not talk about it. Xingchen can't make the shape of his desire into words, the way Song Lan's touch lights him up, the way he craves the desperate way they came together after the launch party. Song Lan's touches feel apologetic, half guilty, wary of pushing too far, like he's afraid of his own attraction. They haven't had to navigate anything like this before, where before they were coasting on instinct and now the waters feel choppy.

Xiao Xingchen finds it a welcome distraction to turn to the trial. There's no shortage of material – Xue Yang continues to be the media's darling or scapegoat by turns, sometimes both in the same article. He figures out how to find the best news channel to listen to what he can, certain amounts of testimony from witnesses and arguments from lawyers. He thinks its a small blessing that he himself was such a useless witness when it came to the stabbing incident, so he hasn't been called to court. In any case, that's how he first hears Xue Yang's voice, surprisingly young, always irreverent and teasing, even when he's supposed to be taking the court show seriously.

And it really does seem like a show. The prosecution is fighting as best they can, but the defense is barely working at all, their questions lazy and confident at the same time. The judge doesn't seem in any kind of hurry to help the prosecution when the defense steps out of line. Everything is played to the media like a huge circus, and everyone is marching towards a foregone conclusion.

Then, as quickly as it started, it's over. The media coverage disappears overnight. It's not old enough to be old news, but that's how it's treated. Xiao Xingchen has to search and search to find anything about the conclusion, and all he can find is basically a footnote stating that a settlement was reached, which sounds frankly preposterous. The charges against Xue Yang included murder! He hadn't thought it was possible that a settlement could be found against a potential murderer, especially when the prosecution had brought witnesses and evidence galore. It feels profoundly unfair, a sincere lack of justice, and he wonders how natural-born Americans feel about their supposed “justice system.”

His dissatisfaction with the finale of the trial makes it hard to put it all behind him. He struggles with sleeping and focusing on his projects and his studies, he's snappish and short-tempered and withdrawn from Song Lan. Even if Song Lan asked what is troubling him, he has no confidence that he could articulate it to any understandable degree. So Song Lan can't help, and Xiao Xingchen doesn't know how to help himself.

It's on a random day when Xingchen hears a knock on the door. That's unusual – Song Lan left for work, but he would have texted if he forgot his keys, and Xingchen doesn't think they're expecting any deliveries. He debates just leaving it, pretending he's not home, but the knock comes again, more insistent.

Heaving a big sigh, he picks himself up from where he had been lounging, attempting to read and feel somewhat productive but mostly just feeling listless. It crosses his mind that Song Lan might have gotten it in his head to do some kind of gesture, getting him flowers or something – not that flowers aren't thoughtful, but he thinks the gesture is now lost on him since he can't see them. He doesn't think he brushed his hair this morning, but this delivery man will just have to tolerate him looking a little messy. He finds the door and opens it, trying to put a pleasant expression on his face.

“Hello, can I help you?” he asks, and waits for a response.

None comes. He waits a few moments, then frowns. Was something dropped off? He considers bending to check for a box, but there's a feeling rising, a prickling feeling on the back of his neck that tells him he's being watched. But if there's someone there, why aren't they speaking? Why aren't they telling him why they're there? Belatedly, he realizes this might be some kind of burglar who could take advantage of him. He doesn't have a weapon, but there's an umbrella in the stand next to the door and knives in the kitchen, and though it's been years he still has his martial arts training. How much that will help, he doesn't know, he hasn't even attempted to fight anyone even to spar since he lost his sight, and he doesn't think running through the exercises and stretches in the morning will really help if someone actually attacks him.

Whoever is at the door still hasn't spoken, and it's making his nerves go haywire, his heart pounding even though he hasn't even moved. Maybe he's being stupid and getting freaked out over nothing. Maybe there's no one even there, and there's no reason for his skin to feel nervous cold/hot. “Hello?” he says again, this time significantly less confident, his voice giving out halfway through.

There's another few moments of silence, then a wild cackle, not an attractive laugh at all. It feels familiar, somehow, though it's not until Xue Yang speaks that Xiao Xingchen recognizes him.

“Wow. I guess you're real, huh?”

#xiao xingchen #songxiao #song lan #the untamed #mdzs #fanfic #my fanfiction #cql

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seven-oomen · 5 years ago

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Honey, honey | A Buddie One shot

Main ship: Eddie Diaz/Evan Buckley

Wordcount: +- 1600 words

Rating: PG-13, for language, abo mentions, and mpreg mentions

Warnings: Mentions ABO dynamics but isn’t explicit, language, mpreg mention but none of it is very graphic.

I’ve tried finding/writing sensible Spanish but I’m still learning the language so forgive me for making mistakes. I blame the duo lingo owl, he’s trying his best to teach me okay?

Based on the prompt: We've been living together for a few years now, your son calls me dad and recently you started calling me honey. But I never really connected the dots until after I posted a question online and a bunch of random strangers gave me advice. When I finally confessed my feelings for you, you told me you loved me and we've been dating since.

Based on the post: https://seven-oomen.tumblr.com/post/611873995367890944/adding-this-to-my-prompt-list-because-yeah-this

Tagging: @daughter-of-infinity because I saw your reblog of that post and know you wanted a story like this.

He stared at the page before him, biting his lip as he pondered his next move. Was he really going to ask a bunch of strangers online a question like this? What if he was wrong? What if someone he knew found out? What if Eddie did…

But at the same time, he was tired of walking on eggshells. Of not knowing what was going on between the two of them. Don't get him wrong, he wasn't against Chris calling him papa or against Eddie calling him cariño. Whatever that meant. But it was weird that everything had changed so gradually. He almost hadn't noticed it really, until Tia, Eddie's aunt, had said something about Eddie finally finding a good Alpha to raise Christopher with at the last family gathering. She had looked fondly at Buck whilst she said it. And that got him thinking. Did she think Eddie and him were dating?

Wait...

Were they?

And so, here he was. Sitting in front of his computer, staring at the Reddit ask page in front of him.

Oh, fuck it. He was already here, might as well ask some random strangers on the internet what was going on. Surely it wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass.

He started tying.

Firehose asked a question:

What does it mean when someone changes what they've always called you?

I've (31AM) been living with my roommate and best friend (37OM) and his 11-year-old son for three years. We've been through so much together, from earthquakes and the tsunami to a lawsuit and some bullshit with his late wife and other craziness. For us, that's just on the daily. It happens. But it did forge a really strong friendship between us.

I care a lot about my friend and his son, to me they're family and I'd die to protect them and keep them safe. And I know he'd do the same for me. We're best friends and partners on the job but lately, he's been telling me that "I'm the best thing that's ever happened to him."

And I noticed his family has been smiling at me differently lately. I've been going to family meetings for two and a half years and consider them my family but the air seems to have changed, it's almost even warmer. I didn't think that was possible.

Anyway, I've noticed more things lately. Like how my friend calls me cariño, I honestly don't know what that means, and his son started calling me papa about a year ago. Which is absolutely adorable and something I encouraged, I'll admit.

But the cariño thing is bothering me as my friend smiles at me and touches my cheek when he says it. Now, we've always been very tactile in our friendship and we're completely comfortable around each other but this made me feel a bit weird. Not bad weird, just something that makes me feel something but I don't know what or why.

I just don't know what this means and I don't know how to respond to it except smile at him. Cause it does feel kinda nice. I don't know how to talk to him about it, we've never discussed our sexualities. Honestly, I'm still not sure of mine.

We've just always been really close, shared a bed during nightmares kinda close but I honestly don't know how to breach the subject with him. Am I reading too much into this? Am I dating my best friend without knowing it? Honestly, any kind of advice would be appreciated at this point. I don't want him taking this the wrong way.

TLDR: My best friend calls me cariño and his son calls me papa. I don't know why and I'm too scared to ask. I feel a lot of things but I don't know if either of us is bisexual or gay. I don't know what to do with myself. Should I ask him if he has feelings for me?

The next few days were filled with responses from Reddit. All of them pretty much said the same thing. Just ask him out already. Talk to him. Or oh my god, you are totally dating, you dingus...

So he figured he might as well take the next step. He asked Eddie that night after they put Christopher to bed.

They were watching tv together on Eddie’s bed, a beer in hand and shoulders touching.

“So- you know how you always call me cariño? What does that mean?” He asked.

Eddie gave him a rather amused look and chuckled. “It means darling or sweetheart, maybe honey, you know. It’s a term of endearment. I thought you knew that?”

The Omega cocked his head at him and scooted closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. And it felt nice to be held, so he couldn’t help but relax in his hold, laying his head on Eddie’s shoulder as he stared at his beer bottle.

“I-” he bit his lip- “I didn’t. And I just- I don’t know. It’s confusing... “

“What is?” Eddie genuinely looked concerned. He felt terrible for causing it and he wanted nothing more than to hug his best friend and press a kiss to those lips.

Fuck.

“I- are we- Eddie are we dating?”

Eddie looked at him as if Buck had gone insane and snorted. “Excuse me? What do you-” Realization seemed to set in as Buck only looked more confused at Eddie’s amusement. “Oh, you stupid bastard…” Eddie chuckled, “Buck, we’ve been dating for two years.”

It was like a floodgate had opened and another realization came over him. The handholding, laying in bed together on most nights, taking care of Christopher, Buck coming with them to family gatherings, Eddie coming to him for comfort or affection. Holy shit... How had he missed all of that?

Neither of them had dated anyone else in the last three years, he hadn’t even looked at anyone. The only people he really wanted to spend his time with were Eddie and Christopher. Hell, they went to the zoo together, to the movies, they went out for dinner- just the two of them- in fancy restaurants even.

And it had never clicked. Not even once.

“Shit…” He looked up at Eddie in surprise before breaking out in one of his trademark beaming smiles. “Guess we have been.”

Eddie gently put both their beers on the nightstand beside him and pulled Buck closer, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Eres corto de luces, pero te amo de todos modos.” Eddie mumbled, shaking his head. (You are not the brightest bulb, but I love you anyway.)

“And that means?”

“That you’re stupid but I love you.”

He couldn’t help but smile at those words, gently cupping Eddie’s cheek as he pressed his lips against the Omega’s. “At least I’m your idiot,” He murmured.

“That you are.”

UPDATE: What does it mean when someone changes what they've always called you?

TLDR: You were all right and I was dating my best friend without realizing it. But guess what? We talked and now we’re married with three kids. Crazy what a year can change, huh?

So yeah, you guys haven’t heard from me in a year but I decided it was time to let you all know what happened between me and my best friend. So we talked that night after I posted my original story. Turns out I was dating him all along and never put two and two together. Until he did it for me. We talked that night and some other stuff and decided to take the next step together.

Naturally, everyone I knew had a good laugh about that one. Apparently, there was a betting pool on when I would realize I was dating my roomie. My sister won that one by the way.

So within the week my friend and I were engaged. He asked me, with some help from his son. It was adorable, really. He set up this really nice picnic for the three of us in the park, near the lake where we like to hang out on our days off. And he had his son come up to me to show me something he caught. (We both like insects, it’s kind of our shared thing.)

Turns out, our son was actually holding a ring. An engagement ring. And when he handed me the box, my friend took my hand, kissed it and asked me to marry him.

So of course, I said yes. We got married about six months after that. But it turns out that our night of ‘talking’ had some unforeseen consequences, and my husband was six months pregnant with twins when we walked down the aisle.

Yeah, so we married and two months later our son and our daughter were born. Our daughter in an elevator during a power outage and our son in an ambulance, on the way to the hospital. Because nothing in this family ever goes as planned it seems.

It’s been a wild year and if I think about it, I have all of that thanks to you guys. So thank you, for helping me realize what I had all along.

He finally closed his laptop and looked over to where Eddie was sleeping on the couch, Robert and Rosalie on his chest as they napped. Chris was silently drawing some pictures next to him at the table and grinned when he noticed Buck was looking.

Yeah it had been a crazy year all around, but truth be told, he would do it all over again.

So let me know what you all think of this one, would love to hear it. I very much enjoyed writing this. It was fun to just let my thoughts go and not worry about writing something good. I had fun and it made my day a bit brighter. And honestly, I hope it does that for other people too. So let me know if it did for you <3

#buddie #911 buddie #911 fanfic #buddie fanfic #ben writes fanfiction #My writing #abo fanfic #mpreg

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itonje · 4 years ago

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jesus was a gook, ron ridenhour

‘Funny, how it sometimes takes forever for the perfectly obvious to crystallize for you. I'd been seeing little murders right along, ever since I'd gotten to Vietnam and started flying light air cover for grunt companies. Sometimes, standing on the skid, flitting along fifty feet above them, you'd actually see some grunt just blow some peasant farmer away. Blip. Blip. Like that. Nothing to it. One VC KIA. Got us a gook, Captain.

In five separate cases I actually saw, the poor bastard who was killed just happened to be home when the grunts arrived. In other instances, we'd fly over moments after some infantry company or Vietnamese patrol had blown holes in a bunch of civilians for no apparent reason. They'd be laying there, three, four, maybe as many as half a dozen, bleeding and dying, some piece or another of them flopping around in the road. No weapons. Travel was hazardous for gook civilians.

I had even heard two sergeants talking about another smaller massacre a few months earlier. Same thing as My Lai. Lined up a hamlet of perhaps forty people and blew them away. A platoon sergeant from a line company, an E-6, was visiting a buck sergeant whose bunk was next to mine. We'd all been in the same unit together, in Hawaii. The platoon sergeant was telling the buck sergeant a story about how his company had done this massacre of roughly forty women and kids from a small hamlet one night. "Jesus," the buck sergeant said, "how did you shoot women and kids?"

"Just closed my eyes and followed orders," the other guy said.

There was other stuff, too. Even with all of that I had not gotten it. There was a pattern to all this. It was on purpose. The whole plan all along really was to kill a lot of gooks. Didn't really matter who they were. What was happening all around us in Vietnam was not a strategy that went awry, or one that had some unforeseen and regrettable consequences for civilians, but one in which the deliberate military aim was to lay waste the countryside. Yes, yes, kill them all. Let God sort 'em out. The brass knew what they were doing. They knew what we were doing.

It took me a long time to really understand that. I knew the first time I heard the story that My Lai was not some grunt's idea. These dirty motherfuckers, I thought. Look at what they've gotten me into. Funny, the things you think at certain times. How stupid. I had been "into" it for months, of course, but for some reason it never dawned on me just what the "it" I was into was.’

#g slur #my lai #death #imperialism #ask to tag #vietnam war #racism #and other things idk this is heavy but like

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kaytlarambles · 4 years ago

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More 100 Theme Challenge!

This time, some modern Xuanli, which is actually my first time writing this pairing. Once again, I wrote this to avoid the things I’m actually supposed to be writing, oops.

72. Pretence Jin Zixuan/Jiang Xuanli Jin Zixuan felt like he was walking a razor’s edge. Not for the first time in his life, he questioned his choices. He’d made some spectacularly stupid ones, in the past. Said things he didn’t mean because of his pride and almost lost the one person who’d come to mean the most to him. Because of her, he’d made less stupid decisions in the six months since they’d been together, but he still wasn’t immune, apparently. Trying to keep a secret from her had had not entirely unforeseen consequences. “Just let me see her,” he insisted urgently, looking back and forth between Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng, who stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking his entry from the house. “Why?” Jiang Cheng demanded, terse as always. Jin Zixuan had never seen him without a scowl on his face, though Jiang Yanli assured him it did happen. It seemed clear to him Jiang Cheng saved that particular look for him. “I need to talk to her.” “You need to leave her alone,” Wei Ying put in, somehow managing to look even more intimidating than his brother with that mocking smirk on his face. “You’re lucky I haven’t punched you again for upsetting jiejie.” Jin Zixuan stubbornly refused to be cowed by that. They’d scuffled once before over Jiang Yanli, over his stupid choices, which he had embarrassingly lost. It had set him on the right path to realising how he truly felt, though, so he hadn’t held a grudge “Wei Ying…” Jin Zixuan paused here, clenching his jaw and steeling himself like a boxer waiting for the blow. It wasn’t easy to let go of his pride, particularly for someone he didn’t especially like. “Please. Five minutes, that’s all I need.” “No,” Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng said, almost in perfect unison. They stepped back into the house, starting to shut the door. “Wait!” he yelled, panicked, slapping a hand on the door to stop it closing. “Wait, you can’t shut me out. I - I need to see her. I need to give her something!” “Not interested,” Wei Ying drawled, moving as though to shove Jin Zixuan’s hand away. “Wei Ying, look! It’s this!” Hurriedly, giving up on all pretence, he groped around in his pocket until he could pull out a small, velvet box. Awkwardly, he opened it with one hand, revealing a ring resting on white silk, the diamond surrounded by a dozen smaller, pale amethysts. For a moment, there was silence as the two brothers stared at it. “You were planning to propose?” Jiang Cheng asked, incredulously. Behind them, there was suddenly a gasp. Unheard by any of them, Jiang Yanli had appeared in the foyer. How much she’d actually heard, he had no idea, but she’d heard enough. All the planning Jin Zixuan had done to make the moment perfect, the venues he’d checked and dismissed and checked again, had been for nothing. But suddenly, he realised none of that mattered, so long as he got the answer he wanted. Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying were distracted enough by their sister’s arrival for Jin Zixuan to push past them and reach Jiang Yanli. “A-Li…” he breathed, reaching out for her; he was relieved when she took his hand in both of hers. “A-Li, I’m sorry I worried you.” “When you kept disappearing and wouldn’t tell me where you were going, I thought…” she said quietly, looking down at where their hands were joined, “I thought… there might be someone else.” “No!” he insisted, squeezing her delicate fingers reassuringly. “No, of course not. There’s no one, I swear it.” “So… you were really going to propose?” she asked, staring up at him with wide eyes. “I - yes, I - will you -” A hand clamped down on his shoulder, pushing down. From behind him, he heard Wei Ying murmur, “If you’re going to propose to my jiejie, do it properly, you damn peacock.” Jin Zixuan swallowed back the retort on the tip of his tongue. Punching Jiang Yanli’s beloved brother right now would be a colossally stupid idea, even he could recognise that. So he allowed himself to be pushed, going down on one knee like he’d practiced at least a dozen times in front of his mirror. He looked up at her face, flushing ever so slightly pink. “A-Li -” he started, then shook his head. Wei Ying was right, he had to do this properly. “Jiang Yanli, will you marry me?” “Yes,” she said, smiling beautifully and holding out her hand for him to slip on the ring.

More 100 Theme Posts!

19. Sangcheng | 49. Xuexiao | 68. Yunmeng Bros

#kaytlarambles #100 theme challenge #mdzs #theuntamed #cql #jin zixuan #jiang yanli #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #writing prompt #xuanli

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xx-thedarklord-xx · 6 years ago

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Thine Enemy is Sweet (Part 7)

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five , Part 6

“I’m assuming you want to go to a Muggle bar?”

The bitter tone surprised Harry enough that he paused half-way through locking the classroom door.

“Not if you don’t want to.”

He was confused. Malfoy was fine with the students, so why wouldn’t he be okay with Muggles?

The tip of Malfoy’s Oxfords rubbed against the wall and his confusion increased.

“If we go to a Wizard bar I’m going to be recognized.”

“So am I.”

Malfoy’s shoulders tensed before he looked up at the ceiling. Harry felt like he was missing something.

“People don’t want to be seen with me, Potter.”

His heart sunk and when Malfoy closed his eyes, Harry felt the urge to comfort him—briefly—before he thought better of it.

“I do.”

A harsh scoff was his reply, and Malfoy still wouldn’t look at him. “Don’t pretend, I’m used to it. We can go to a Muggle bar.”

When Malfoy tried to move past him, Harry pushed back until Malfoy was pressed against the wall and caged between a hand on each side of his head.

“I won’t pretend to know what you face every day,” Harry whispered. Malfoy’s eyes were on his chin and for some reason, that bothered him. He wanted Malfoy to look at him.

“I don’t know the things you have been told or will be told, but I meant what I said. I don’t mind being seen with you. If I did, I wouldn’t have asked you to be my fake boyfriend.”

“Unforeseen consequences can never be factored in,” Malfoy said softly, almost too softly. “Desires can cloud judgement.”

“You think being seen with you is compromising my judgement?”

Malfoy shrugged but said nothing, and that was the true sign that something was wrong. When did Malfoy ever stay silent?

“I don’t bring good headlines, I don’t bring good conversations, I don’t bring good energy and I surely don’t bring good company.”

“Who the fuck said that?”

When Malfoy’s shoulders tensed further, Harry knew.

“Nott said that, didn’t he?”

Malfoy tried to push Harry back, but he wouldn’t budge, not when it was all making sense.

“Potter—”

“He told me I was unattainable,” Harry muttered and when grey eyes finally glanced up, he couldn’t take it and looked away.

“Said that I was too good, put me on a higher standard, one that he never matched. I was suddenly something made to be seen—a prize. I couldn’t have bad days, I couldn’t be something other than what everyone always thinks of me.

“Do you know how restrictive that is? Society sees me as someone who saved them, they see someone who can’t do any wrong and to them, I am unattainable because they don’t know me, however badly they want to. I face that every day, and then I had to come home and face it too.”

Malfoy’s hand slid up Harry’s neck to grip his jaw hard enough to force him to look. No emotions but there was an intensity there, something he couldn’t look away from.

“Human nature is to mess up,” Malfoy whispered.

“I didn’t get to,” Harry said. “And the ironic part of it was that he said I made him feel like he couldn’t make mistakes, that I was the one who made him feel like he had to act perfect. I’ve never been perfect, Malfoy, never.”

“Oh, that, I do know.”

Harry’s shoulders shook as he tried not to laugh but he couldn’t withhold it.

“I want to be able to mess up,” Harry mumbled. “I want to be able to stumble and it be okay. I want to be able to right wrongs instead of living a lie. Because who he saw wasn’t me and he refused to try at all.”

Malfoy let go of his jaw slowly, far too slowly to not take notice before he stepped forward and placed his forehead against Harry’s.

“You can’t always right a wrong, I should know” Malfoy said, and he could feel Malfoy’s eyelashes press into his skin. “But you should be allowed to try.”

“And you’re allowed to be who are wherever you want to.”

Malfoy arched a brow, almost as if it was a challenge. “Even if I’m crass, abrasive, blunt, and pessimistic?”

“I happen to like that about you.”

“You like something about me?” Malfoy teased and Harry rolled his eyes.

“Not anymore.”

Malfoy smirked but it was far softer than usual and very close to a smile.

“This fake relationship is full opposites,” Malfoy said. “I was never good enough and you were too good.”

Harry wanted to purse his lips, but they were too close for it to not cross some boundaries.

“Except the defining factors are from a right fucking bellend and we are more than his descriptions.”

This time, there was no smirk, there was only a smile, but it was empowering to see, Harry thought. “Let’s define ourselves.”

“Yeah,” Malfoy murmured; voice still so soft. “I like that, I get to be the only voice that matters.”

“And hey,” Harry began as he stepped back. “I can always take some of your not good enough and you can have some of my too good—we’ll even each other out.”

“I always wanted some good in me.” The sarcasm was teasing in a way, and he didn’t think Malfoy could be so intriguing.

“Oh?” Harry’s brows rose. “How deep?”

There was silence before Malfoy groaned and shoved him to the side.

“You just had to ruin it, didn’t you?”

“It was a serious question!” Harry yelled as he ran after Malfoy who had jogged to get away from him. “If Nott was right, and I do have too much good in me, then it’s just waiting to come out. I’m just saying that could go quite far—”

“I don’t want to hear about the length of your prick, Potter.”

“Does that mean you want to see it?”

He dodged a stinging hex only to yelp when he tripped over Malfoy’s strategically placed foot.

“I was just kidding!”

“You’re a real pain,” Malfoy growled, and Harry wondered if there was any fondness in it.

“Sometimes.”

“You also talk to much.”

“I always thought it was the opposite.”

Malfoy crossed his arms and arched a brow.

“You like to mess with me.”

“That, I will agree to, spot on.”

He had to dodge another stinging hex, but it was worth it.

“So,” Harry said when Malfoy started walking again. “What kind of bar are we going to?”

Malfoy tensed and he almost wished he hadn’t asked.

“I figured we could go to the Three Broomsticks.”

Pride. Harry was proud of Malfoy, and as weird as it was to be proud of his partner in crime, he was.

“Good, I can show you off then.”

Malfoy spun around and it caused Harry to almost run into him.

“Show me off?”

“You deserve that, Malfoy. You deserve to be treated right, and I don’t know how many shitty people you have been with but fake boyfriend or not, I have standards to uphold.”

“And if I don’t want that?”

“Then I won’t.”

Malfoy looked at him, really looked at him and Harry didn’t know what there was to see. Before he could say anything, Malfoy took his hand and the crack of an apparation surrounded him.

“You really need to stop that,” Harry snarled. “You’ll hurt me at this rate.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything; his hand was still gripping Harry’s and there was a peculiar look on his face.

“No, I know how to keep you safe.”

Keep him safe? “People look to me to protect them.”

“I don’t need protection, Potter.”

“And you think I do?”

“I think you’d like to not have to worry about protecting anyone. I think you’d like someone to look out for you instead.”

“Is that you offering?” The hold on his hand tightened.

“Maybe,” whispered Malfoy as he pulled Harry forward but continued to hold his hand as they walked down Hogsmeade. “A trade. You show me off and I take care of you.”

No one had really ever taken care of him before. Part of that was how others perceived him and also the status quo of feeling like he could never stop being responsible for everyone else.

“Weird fake relationship, huh?”

“Yeah,” Malfoy agreed. “Weird has always been taboo for me though.” Malfoy turned the handle of the Three Broomsticks, took a deep breath and pushed.

“I think it’s about time I change that, don’t you?”

A few heads turned toward the door on instinct, those that recognized them did a double take and he knew the news would spread like wildfire.

Malfoy chose stools at the bar versus a table and it was probably for the best if they wanted to avoid seeing all the stares, but confrontational wise, it wasn’t good—their backs were turned and undefended.

“What can I get for you boys?” Rosmerta asked, eyes narrowing on people behind them.

“Gin for me,” Harry said as the urge to turn around increased when her eyes narrowed further. He wasn’t stupid, he could tell it had to do with Malfoy.

“And for you, love?” Rosmerta asked as she slid Harry’s glass with no warning and some of the drink sloshed over the rim.

“Firewhisky.”

“My kind of guy.” There was a fondness to her that had certainly never been directed at Harry before, and he came in once a week!

“Add a splash of exploding ale, will you?” Malfoy called after her when she turned to leave.

Harry grimaced at the combination. Exploding ale was strong.

“Rough night?” Rosmerta asked over her shoulder, eyes on Malfoy. “I haven’t seen you drink that since you were nineteen.”

“What?” Harry looked between them. He hadn’t known they were friends. Malfoy had used an unforgivable on her.

“I wasn’t sure you remembered that,” Malfoy grabbed Harry’s glass and downed half of it. “You were drunk.”

“Hey!” Harry snatched his drink back and scooted away the best he could.

“I’m never drunk,” Rosmerta argued as she set down Malfoy’s glass. It was smoking and Harry didn’t trust it. Who combined exploding ale with anything?

“What brings you here?” She continued, one hand on her hip. “You always make me see you at the club.”

“His strip club?” Harry asked, mouth an inch away from the rim.

“Why? I enjoy the ladies just as much as you would.” Her hands were crossed, and he raised his own in defeat. He hadn’t meant anything by it.

“I’m just curious is all.”

“What he means,” Malfoy drawled as his drink gave off several loud pops and liquid splashed outward. “Is that he’s nosy.”

“That too,” Harry agreed with a nod and a wink.

Rosmerta looked between them and for the first time in a while, she smiled.

“Draco worked for me one summer.”

“What?” Harry shook his head. “I didn’t know that.”

“It was right out of Hogwarts,” Malfoy shrugged. “Heard you took a year off to travel.”

“So you did read up on me,” Harry teased. When Malfoy’s ears turned pink again, he couldn’t help the smug grin that tugged at his lips.

“It was in the papers, Potter. Front page, not like I could avoid your ugly mug if I wanted to.”

“Do you honestly believe the bullshit that comes out of your mouth, or just expect me to?”

Malfoy kicked him in the leg—hard.

“You take what I give you.”

“Was that an innuendo? Or an order? Because I can take orders.”

“Potter,” Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, alright,” Harry conceded as he placed his chin on the heel of his palm. “Continue on.”

“I wanted to make amends,” Malfoy whispered as Rosmerta was flagged down for a refill by a patron. “I wasn’t sure she’d want to see me.”

“And she hired you?”

Malfoy snorted so harshly that Harry could see ripples in the Firewhisky, gross.

“She said if I was sorry, truly sorry, then I had to prove it. Scammed me into free labour, that’s what happened.”

“Free my arse,” Rosmerta yelled halfway down the bar. “You kept your tips.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because people were just dying to tip me.”

“Well,” She lifted her hands. “I got something out of it.”

“She taught me a lot,” Malfoy whispered as he watched Rosmerta fill several orders back to back easily. “I saw how much she puts into this place, the care, the love and seeing people give it back made me want that too.”

“And that somehow made you want to open a strip club?”

Malfoy smirked over the rim before he downed nearly all of it in one go. “No. I wanted a business, something that was mine, something my family had no claim over.”

“And?” Harry asked impatiently.

“There was a girl,” Malfoy placed the drink down with a scrunch of his nose. “She would stop by some nights after her shift at a Muggle strip club. I was curious enough to see a show after she invited me.”

“Was it how you thought it would be?”

“More.” Malfoy’s eyes lit up before he folded his arms on the counter and placed his head in the middle. “She sure could dance, Potter. Never saw anything like it before. I was fascinated. At first, I thought I was thinking with my prick, you know?”

“I didn’t know you were into girls too.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Malfoy tried to wink but he closed both eyes. Harry had to wonder if he was tipsy already.

“I asked her to teach me. It was hard, harder than it looks. The body strength required is more than it seems, you need to have stage presence and a charisma that draws people in. Some of it has to be natural and not learned.”

“Did you work with her? At the club?”

“Nah, I wanted to but the thought of what my father would say held me back.” Malfoy glared and it made his nose scrunch up further. “But it was enough to make me want to do something. I never had that before. The urge for something that was my own interests.”

“That’s sad.”

“That’s life,” Malfoy tried to grab his drink but missed the first attempt. “I told my father I wanted to run my own business and he put me into business classes for it. My guess is he thought I wanted to do something to better the Malfoy name, or something that would somehow benefit him.”

That, Harry, could see. Lucius Malfoy was someone who only ever considered himself first.

“Right before I graduated with my business certificate, I pulled out the money from the Black Vault and—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what?”

“Regulus left me money,” Malfoy continued with a glare. “I always wondered why. I never even met him; I was just a baby when he disappeared.”

Regulus. The thought of him always hurt. Regulus was someone who got to right wrongs, but no one ever knew about it.

“It was enough for a deposit, and I pulled out a loan for the rest.”

Malfoy and a loan didn’t sound right to Harry. Oxymoron.

“Of course, my father found out,” Malfoy laughed hollowly. “Threw a fit and said he wouldn’t fund it. Came as a shock when I told him he wasn’t going to. I didn’t want a sickle from him. I told him he could disown me and show the world what kind of father he really was.”

Harry let out a whistle. As far as he knew, Lucius had never disowned Malfoy.

“Mother calmed him down, said to think of what people would say.”

Disgust was all Harry could feel. Some people shouldn’t have kids.

“That was her way of supporting me.”

It didn’t sound like it to him, but what did he know? “So he came around?”

Malfoy pounded the counter with his fist as he laughed. “Please. He would never. Sure, he offered to pay off my loan but I’m not stupid. I’d rather be in debt a million times over with the Goblins than to ever owe him a single thing.”

“Why?”

“Slytherins demand repayment for the things you never want to give up.”

Another riddle. Of course there was.

“Was it easy? Your business?”

“No.” Malfoy’s fists clenched. “People don’t respect what I do, what the people who work for me do and it can be hell. Sex work is a valid career and it doesn’t get the understanding we deserve and it sure as hell gets treated like a dirty secret. What kills me the most is that some of the people who say shit during the day are the very people who come see us at night.

“Took a few years but I got there, slowly and surely I got my business. Added a bar and used what Rosmerta taught me. I taught those who wanted to stop working the streets learn how to dance and I found a family among them all.”

“It sounds nice,” Harry whispered. “Finding family among co-workers.”

“You don’t have co-workers,” Malfoy’s forehead wrinkled.

“I know, why do you think I said it!”

“Do you think you’ll hire someone to help?”

Harry frowned at his empty glass. “With what money?”

Malfoy sat up suddenly, so sudden that he grabbed his head and let out a groan. He truly was a lightweight.

“Let’s petition the Wizengamot, or we could sue the Ministry. I like the second option better.”

“I’m not going to sue anyone,” Harry laughed. “You’re drunk.”

“I take offence to that.” Malfoy raised a finger but ended up inspecting it instead of whatever he was going to do with it. “And I said we, didn’t I? Or did I only think it?”

“No, you said we,” Harry said slowly. “I just assumed you meant me and was just drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!” The protest came several beats too late and it helped his case none. “I meant we since you’re my boyfriend.”

“Is that so?”

Harry startled when he caught sight of, Turner, a reporter for the Prophet. “Go away.”

“Yeah,” Malfoy jabbed his finger but missed and hit Harry. “You write mean stuff and that’s not okay.”

Turner pulled out a quill and smiled unpleasantly. “Is that so, would you like to give a statement about that?”

“Yes,” Malfoy sat up straighter. “I would. I think you are a piece of—”

“No,” Harry interrupted with a hand in the air. “He has nothing to say to you and neither do I.”

Turner put away her quill with a huff and he knew that she’d not leave easily. “You both are public figures, Mister Potter, I’m doing my civic duty here.”

“Civic duty,” Harry scoffed. “It’s your duty to harass us?”

“I wouldn’t call it harassment.”

“I would,” Malfoy argued with eyes so narrowed Harry doubted he could see through them. “You wait outside my club and bombard my employees despite them asking not to.”

“Oh?” Harry crossed his arms. “His club is private property. You can’t do that.”

Turner leaned forward into Harry’s personal space and it made his skin crawl. “You think the Ministry cares about Malfoy or his club? With the things that happen there and who he is?”

“Piss off,” said Harry as he leaned away from her. His back hit Malfoy’s chest and arms wrapped around his stomach.

“Yeah, what Harry said.”

Harry. He almost jerked at his name coming from Malfoy.

Turner hummed as she stared at them. “Alright, I’ll leave. I know when I’m not wanted.”

Malfoy snorted hard enough that Harry could feel the air hit his hair—lovely.

“I got what I wanted anyway.” It was dramatic exit, but he didn’t expect anything else from someone who worked for the Prophet.

“Was that supposed to be foreboding?” Malfoy whispered.

The corner of Harry’s lips lifted as Malfoy began to rub his stomach. “Yeah, I think so. What are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” He didn’t have to look to know that Malfoy was frowning, it was audible in his voice. “Do you want me to stop?” The hand rubbing gentle circles on Harry’s stomach stopped.”

“No.” Harry grabbed Malfoy’s hand and moved it for him. “I don’t think so.”

“Alright.” The whisper was louder than it should have been, but Harry didn’t mind, not when he was comfortable—well, as comfortable as one could be stretched over a bar stool and half on top of someone else.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Harry asked after a pleasant silence.

“I said that to you,” Malfoy said, voice sleepy.

“You did.” Harry was horribly endeared. “Because you wanted to spend time with me.”

“Shh, don’t give away secrets.”

A grin tugged at his lips and he decided that tipsy Malfoy was alright. “I won’t.”

“Wait,” Malfoy said loud enough to make Harry jerk upward. “Does that mean you want to spend time with me?”

“Perhaps.”

“This doesn’t mean I want to see your cock.”

Harry laughed loudly and Malfoy’s arms tightened. “I wasn’t offering.”

“Oh.” It sounded disappointed and it would be nice if Malfoy could pick a side. “Then let’s go.”

“Malfoy wait—” Harry ended up sprawled on the floor when Malfoy tried to move them both.

“This is not how I imagined my night would turn out,” Harry whispered into the floor, but when Malfoy’s light airy laugh carried over, he thought it wasn’t so bad.

“I think you are the drunk one,” Malfoy said when Harry managed to pick himself up and drag them outside. “Drunk people fall over.”

“I love that you are ignoring that you were the one at fault.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“Of course you aren’t.”

Malfoy preened and he didn’t have the heart to tell him it was sarcasm.

“Where are we going?” Malfoy asked when Harry directed them to the public floo sector on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. “The apparation points are the other direction.”

“We’re going to my place.”

A dramatic gasp could be heard before Malfoy came to a full stop. “You do want sex.”

“Will you quit?” Harry growled as he pulled Malfoy with him. “I promise to respect your virtues. You can sleep in the guest bedroom.”

“Is it nice?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does!”

Maybe he should have just let Rosmerta handle Malfoy.

“Don’t throw up, please,” Harry warned as he stepped into the fireplace. “It won’t match the décor.”

“That was a joke,” Malfoy said when they landed. “A bad one.”

“Eat shit.”

“I preferred the arse one better.”

“I bet you do,” Harry teased but Malfoy wasn’t paying him any attention.

“You can sit on the couch or I can show you the guest bedroom. But first I have to make a firecall.”

“To who?”

“Now who is the nosy one?”

“Always been you, Potter.”

Harry ignored him as he threw in floo powder and waited for the connection to be approved on the other end. “We can’t let Turner be the only one to report on us. Her story can ruin the whole plan. Which you’d know that if you weren’t drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.” Malfoy collapsed on the sofa, mouth pressed into the fabric and the whole sentence was muffled.

“Who are you getting to tell a different story?”

“The best reporter I know.”

“Harry!” The pleasant tone was familiar, and it brought a smile to his face.

“Luna, I’ve missed you.”

-TBC-

-----

Hello! Finally glad to post this. I do hope you like it! I edited it before I got super tired so I’m hoping it still reads the same as I remember. I will probably be asleep by the time Gigi wakes up so I didn’t ask for a beta, all mistakes are mine but you should still give her love anyway. I will start tagging when I wake up.

#Drarry #Draco Malfoy #Harry Potter #Fake Dating #Enemies Fake Dating

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rikudiora · 5 years ago

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Unintentionally Seducing Emotionally Compromised Chameleons: Chapter 2

There were many things that Ilia disliked doing when she’d just woken up in the morning after having arrived to her current place of stay later than planned the day before. Trying to act friendly to the other people in the hideout, for example, was particularly straining on her newly sleep roused brain, so that was one of the first things she shucked out the window during mornings like this. Any greetings or questions she got were exclusively answered with noncommittal grunts as she dragged herself to the White Fang’s most shameful, yet simultaneously sacred relic;

The Schnee-tech industries XXL Turbo coffee maker(TM).

It was only after she had a cup of extra strong black coffee in her hands and she’d taken a few sips of it Ilia finally became able to interact with the rest of the world. Sadly, the first of these interactions would be one that she had dreaded in the back of her mind ever since she got back to base yesterday, and she knew that she couldn’t put it off anymore. Sighing, she threw her head back and swallowed the rest of her coffee in a series of loud gulps, the burning pain rising up in her throat helping to further wake her up. She’d never been a fan of the taste of coffee anyways, only really seeking out the caffeine, so she considered her intake of the liquid rather efficient, happily ignoring the horrified stares from the other White Fang members around her in the kitchen as she put her mug among the rest of the dishes and wandered off to the debriefing room.

Adam Taurus’ seemingly perpetually frowning face appeared on the viewscreen in front of Ilia the moment that she pushed the call button, and he didn’t waste so much as a second before interrogating her like she knew he would.

“You didn’t send any reports yesterday, Ilia,” Adam growled out slowly, his tone as bitingly cold as the featureless expanse of his mask. “I thought I’d made my orders very clear regarding your duties once arriving in Vale, but apparently not. You also chose to not answer any of our calls to your scroll either for some inexplicable reason. Care to explain yourself?”

Ilia winced internally at the venom in his voice, but the sooner she gave her side of the story, the sooner she could get out of here, scolded or not. It helped that she’d somewhat prepared what to say regarding her whereabouts.

“Sir, yesterday’s journey did not go entirely as planned, sadly, and I apologize for my absence. I was attacked by a pair of human scum and dealing with the situation brought unforeseen… consequences, that kept me occupied for far longer than I had anticipated,” Ilia replied carefully, bowing her head. She was doing her best not to lie directly to Adam, merely leaving out certain details that she wasn’t too keen on sharing right about now.

Not while she still felt all tingly with strange emotions from the past day’s events.

Adam regarded her silently, seemingly considering her words, for a moment that went on for longer than Ilia would have liked. Now more than ever, she could recognize how rash or outright stupid her actions could be seen as, even if, to her, they’d felt entirely natural. Something told her that her fellow Fang members wouldn’t exactly agree with her, however, and she felt immense relief when Adam decided to move on from the subject.

“No matter. I can accept your excuses this time, but only if ensure it doesn’t happen again. You’re a valued part of the Fang, Ilia, but that doesn’t make you exempt from being punished for further insubordination,” he said, arms crossing in front of his chest.

Ilia simply nodded in understanding, letting out a breath she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding, before giving her only slightly altered report in full. She regaled him dutifully with all the information she’d been able to gather from people in the city, mundane as most of it was, and only left out one particular individual from her recollection of the previous day’s events. ‘Human interference’ and cleanup of evidence were believable enough ‘complications’ for Adam to instead focus on her new mission briefing. It did not take long for Ilia to zone out during the explanation, however, only paying enough attention to Adam to answer yes or no when needed and to make sure she had at least a passing understanding of what she was meant to do during the coming weeks.

“Humans bad, Faunus good, oppression and suffering, they live in a society, it was time for them to rise up.”

It wasn’t that Ilia didn’t agree with his ideals or opinions about humanity—with the exception of maybe one certain human—but she’d gotten a bit tired of hearing what essentially boiled down to the same speech every single freaking time she got a new assignment. If the White Fang were ever going to be successful as bringers of justice for Faunus everywhere, Adam really needed someone to write some new scripts for him to regale the masses with or risk causing alarming outbreaks of narcolepsy all across the world.

Instead, Ilia found herself thinking back to how Jaune had ‘saved’ her for what had to be the thousandth time since the event itself had taken place. She could still feel the slight spark that had happened when their hands had brushed against one another’s when he’d given her her bag, the memory giving her goosebumps all along her arms. She found herself wishing she could feel it again—feel him again—and for longer than just a split second this time. She envied the orange haired girl he was apparently on a team with, since she seemed to have an all access pass to hugging on clinging to Jaune whenever she wanted.

Though it wasn’t like Jaune was the only target of said girl’s rather enthusiastic affections…

Ilia’s attention was only brought back to the Adam’s visage on the viewscreen when she caught his explanation winding down, and she let out a resounding “Sir, understood, sir!” in response to his questioning look.

“Good. I expect you to not make the same mistake of delivering your report late again, or you will find yourself replaced on this operation.”

With that, Adam cut the video feed, and Ilia finally let herself relax slightly, some tension flowing form her shoulders as her body sagged. As one of her hands ran through her hair, she brought up her scroll for her actual mission details with the other—yet another reason why she didn’t feel too bad about not paying much attention to her superior when he started repeating his speeches again. These calls were essentially just a formality, or so Ilia thought, but she knew that complaining about it wouldn’t do her any good. Adam was her boss for the time being, and he wasn’t exactly the most even tempered Faunus she’d ever had the pleasure of knowing, which was probably one of the reasons why breaking up with him had made it easier for Bla-!

With a clench of her fist, Ilia quickly stomped that thought down on instinct, feeling that pit from the day before slowly starting to crack open. In her head, the picture of the citrine eyed ravenette started to appear, but then, suddenly, it stopped. Instead, there was only the ugly scribbled image from the day before, and almost immediately after another thought took its place;

With her conversation with Adam over, she was now free to go back to him…

Ilia promptly spun on her heel and all but ran towards the base’s exit, picking up a breakfast bar on the way and scarfing it down mid-jog. She had almost made it halfway when she suddenly remembered an idea that she’d had as the sun had started to set the previous afternoon, skidding to a halt in front of the large storage area where all their equipment was contained. She was skilled when it came to tracking and spying on people, but it never hurt to be more prepared…

XXX

Head requisition officer Striga only gave Ilia a deadpan look as she read through the list of items that the chameleon Faunus wanted to withdraw from their arms and armor stockpile for a second time. When she looked up from the piece of paper, trying to determine if this was some kind of prank or not, all she was met by was Ilia’s smiling, hopeful looking face.

Despite being just a few years away from becoming an adult, she looked remarkably like a little kid right about now, one who had just given their Christmas list to their parents and was eagerly waiting for some kind of response.

As oddly sweet as it may have been, however, Striga knew she couldn’t just hand out gear without proper cause. Especially not when the ‘requisition order’ contained such oddly specific items.

“So… you’re going on a scouting and reconnaissance mission, yeah?”

Ilia immediately nodded.

“And you want me to check out one of our XV25 Stealth-suits for you? Along with a scent marker kit? For a scout mission?”

Again, Ilia instantly nodded, albeit slower this time.

For a moment, Striga simply had to lean back in her chair and clasp her hands together in front of her mouth, processing the information before her along with the sheer audacity of Ilia’s requests. It wasn’t every day she had someone come to her asking to take their top-of-the-line equipment for something that was almost akin to sightseeing. There were even more items listed on the paper in her hand, a diverse mix that went from outrageous to mundane and back again, but she could not for the life of her imagine how Ilia might ‘realistically’ need most of this gear.

“I have been given this assignment directly from captain Taurus himself and have been given permission to requisition any and all equipment I may need,” Ilia said after another second of silence, her posture suddenly ramrod straight.

“Uh huh,” Striga replied, not particularly convinced. “Pray tell, what are you planning on using these...” she glanced down at the list again, “Blacksun filtration goggles for exactly?”

“Nighttime reconnaissance over long distances. I need to be able to make out all the details of whome- whatever I am scouting out, ma'am.” The practiced and obviously deliberate neutrality of Ilia’s voice didn’t go unnoticed by the officer. “I’d, uh, also like to make sure the model of goggles can minimize window glare,” she added with an awkward cough, now sounding much more honest.

“Kid, these things will let you see the specks of dust floating around on that cracked moon of ours. They can handle a few panes of glass, don’t you worry. Especially not considering I can’t just give a pair of them out without really damn good reason. Sorry to say, kid, but your job doesn’t qualify.”

A flash of irritation moved across Ilia’s features, and for a short second the requisition officer wondered if something bad was about to go down, but as swiftly as the emotion had appeared, it went away, and Ilia’s face instead became one of resignation.

“Alright, fine,” she huffed, leaning over the officer’s desk, their gazes locked. “Look, either I walk back to the briefing room and call captain Taurus just to get a confirmation message for you, which is exactly the kind of interruption that he absolutely loves to deal with, or you give me what I’ve asked for and we can both get back to doing something more productive. If I’m lying, then I’ll be the one in hot water for falsifying a requisition order, not you. You’d just be doing your job.”

Despite her suspicions, Ilia’s words were enough to make Striga take a pause to think for a second. She didn’t entirely believe Ilia’s claim about having permission from Adam, but she didn’t put it past the higher ups within the Fang to give an operative like Ilia her own, secret mission, along with whatever she needed to carry it out either. Refusing to give equipment to someone working directly for their somewhat temperamental captain, if it turned out that Ilia was actually telling the truth, would definitely bite her in the ass one way or another, so the kid definitely had a point.

‘All this inter-organization politics stuff is why I’ll never accept that promotion they want to give me...’ she thought to herself.

Despite knowing there was still a decent chance she’d regret this, Striga ultimately decided that she could pull enough strings to make sure Ilia got all the blame for whatever stunt she might be trying, and took out a scroll from the one of her pockets, fingers moving to fill out forms with downright professional efficiency.

“I don’t get paid enough to deal with this crap...” she muttered mostly to herself before presenting her scroll to Ilia. “Press your hand to the screen to confirm your requisition order then wait here while I get your equipment for you.”

As soon as Ilia had done as instructed, Striga snatched back both her scroll and the list she’d been given and entered the storage area. Had she chosen to turn around at any point, she’d have caught a certain chameleon Faunus fist-pumping wildly with the expression of someone who’d just pulled off a big heist on her freckled face.

Lucky for Ilia, Striga didn’t, and only a bit later than she’d originally planned, she was finally off to begin her ‘special’ assignment;

Operation find a way to meet Jaune Arc again was a go!

XXX

Hitting Pyrrha’s shield felt like he was trying to cut down the very tower they stood on with a butter knife, and Jaune felt the muscles in his arm groaning from the shock that went through them. Again, he tried to find a way to reach the girl behind the bronze shield, and again his sword was easily swatted aside, only for her own blade to smack against his unarmored side. She might have refrained from using the cutting edge due to their shared lack of protection, but the hit still made him let out a hiss of pain and take a staggering step back.

He felt so slow and sluggish compared to her, like he was trying to fight while submerged neck deep in syrup, and no matter how much the rational side of his brain reminded him that she had more fighting experience in her left toe than he had in his whole body, he couldn’t help but get increasingly frustrated.

When he’d fought that bastard in that alleyway, he’d been unstoppable, at least while his aura had been active, but against Pyrrha, he was nothing more than a light nuisance, a fact supported by the rivers of sweat that ran from his body that were nowhere to be found on her own, or the heaving of his chest as he greedily tried to fill his lungs with as much air as they could handle.

He was already exhausted, all the while she hadn’t even gotten a light workout.

As Jaune continued to stagger backwards, he soon felt his back bump against one of the walls beside the door leading to the balcony they were training on, and the feeling of a red-hot knife shot up his spine, his knees crumbling beneath him. He managed to throw his arms out to catch himself before his face slammed against the stone floor, but it was a small comfort when the whole of his back felt like it had been brutalized by a sledgehammer. That kick he’d taken from the lady the day before had evidently wreaked havoc on his nerves, and when Jaune managed to gather the strength to lift his head, he caught Pyrrha looking down at him with concern written everywhere on her features.

“Maybe we should call it a day, Jaune? I think your injuries still need some time to fully heal,” she said in what Jaune assumed was supposed to be a supportive tone, but he couldn’t help but hear as condescending.

“I’m fine,” he bit back, cursing himself inwardly at the flash of hurt that Pyrrha didn’t manage to hide. “Sorry,” he quickly added, somberly. “I didn’t- you’re not- ugh...” A sigh escaped him as shame crept into his stomach. “I’m just… sorry.”

It wasn’t Pyrrha he was angry at and she didn’t deserve him taking it out on her, not when she was spending so much time helping him despite how big of a fraud he was.

Giving up the struggle against his legs, Jaune let himself collapse against the wall, Crocea Mors slipping from his sweat slickened grip with a clattering of steel on stone. A bead of perspiration ran down his creased brow, finding its way into his eye, and he wiped it away with the back of his now free hand, sweeping back his matted hair in the process. His body ached all over, and it wasn’t just from the day before.

When Pyrrha settled down next time him, Jaune simply let out a deep sigh of disappointment and frustration at how little he fit in with people like her, Ren, Nora, or any of the girls in team RWBY. He felt more certain than ever regarding what he wanted to do after dealing with people like Cardin and the racist couple, but at the same time, his fake transcripts plan was only looking more and more rash and downright stupid.

His attention was pulled to Pyrrha when he felt her hand gingerly brush across his cheek, checking on one of his many bruises. Their eyes met, and Jaune had to ask himself just how he’d managed to get someone as amazing as her as his partner for what had to be the hundredth time. Despite having every right to tell on him to the headmaster, getting him kicked out and letting her get a proper partner instead, she was sitting here with him, helping him.

“I really don’t deserve you, you know. The training, the secret-keeping, everything really… I shouldn’t be here, dragging you and everyone else down with me,” he chuckled dryly, entirely humorlessly, before looking away just as Pyrrha did the same, her cheeks far rosier than before.

“You’re being too harsh on yourself, Jaune. There aren’t a lot of people out there in the world who’d willingly risk their lives like you have done by coming here just because they feel like they need to do something for mankind. It’s true your skills aren’t exactly on par with everyone else’s, but we’ve only just started. You’re growing faster than most.” She nudged his shoulder with her own as her expression turned contemplative for a second before her eyes lit up. “And don’t forget, if you had never come here to Beacon, you would never have been in Vale and therefore able to save that Faunus girl from those humans. If it weren’t for you, she could have gotten seriously hurt, maybe even worse.”

Jaune let Pyrrha’s words hang in the air between them for a moment, a part of him half tempted to brush them off, but then he remember the look in Ilia’s eyes when he’d handed her her bag, and a new sense of purpose found itself breaking free from the gloomy expanse of his thoughts.

Despite his back still stinging, a small smile quirked across Jaune’s lips as he let the cool stone of the wall behind them seep into his muscles, relaxing them. The fire of determination in his gut had been lit anew after being temporarily doused by his lack of skill compared to Pyrrha, and his fingers found themselves coiling around the grip of Crocea Mors again.

“Ozpin is far wiser than either of us put together and he wouldn’t have picked you to be our leader if he didn’t think you were the best person for the job,” Pyrrha added as she hoisted herself off the ground, extending her hand to him.

With a deep breath, Jaune intertwined their fingers and, with Pyrrha’s help, got back onto his feet with only a slight grimace of pain. “Thanks,” he said honestly. “For everything. You’re the best partner anyone could ever imagine, and I’m gonna make sure not to let you down.”

He was under no delusions regarding just how far he still had to go to catch up to anyone else at Beacon, but he could also feel that the only way he could truly fail in the eyes of his partner and teammates was if he gave up now. To showcase his new conviction, he tried to get into the ready-stance that Pyrrha had taught him, but the weight of the sword and shield in his hands was too much at this point, and all he managed to do was flail his arms with a tired grunt.

“I think that’s your body’s way of telling you that we should try this again tomorrow instead,” Pyrrha giggled from the other side of the balcony. As much as it irked his pride to admit it, Jaune had to agree, collapsing Crocea Mors into its sheathed form.

Feeling even more sweat soak into his hoodie, he decided to simply tug it off entirely, leaving him in just a thin, previously white tank top that clung to his chest. He just barely caught Pyrrha’s exclaimed “Head’s up!” before a bottle of water landed in his reflexively raised hand.

“Appreciate it,” he mumbled absentmindedly as he regarded the bottle, eventually electing to take a single deep swig from it and then dump the rest of the liquid contents atop his head.

In the very same moment, the feeling of being intently watched started scratching at the back of Jaune’s mind, and he looked around at the windows of the towers around them. He definitely hoped that no one had watched his rather poor excuse for swordplay aside from Pyrrha, and despite the coast seemingly being clear, the feeling didn’t go away.

“Hey Pyr, you didn’t catch anyone watching us train, did you?” he asked over his shoulder, still looking at the surrounding towers for any sight of a spying presence.

Pyrrha—who unbeknownst to Jaune had been spending the last minute or so ogling the way his now all but transparent shirt outlined his torso—shook herself free of her thoughts long enough to let out a stammered “N-no!” before focusing her gaze on the very interesting way her feet were fidgeting, praying to all known and unknown deities throughout the history of Remnant that Jaune didn’t notice her very fierce blush.

Despite what Pyrrha said, however, Jaune still couldn’t help but think something was up. The feeling was only further solidified when he noticed a weird flickering near the top of one of the opposing towers, like there was something distorting the air...

Ultimately, he decided he was simply being paranoid, trusting the attentiveness of his partner even if he wasn’t sure what his own eyes saw. Instead, he moved to pull on his hoodie again, only to remember his previous cooling-off-measures and how uncomfortable it’d be to put on something over his currently wet clothes.

“I think I’ll stay out here for a bit. Try to relax and stretch while waiting for this thing to dry,” Jaune said as he turned to face Pyrrha, tugging on the front of his tank top.

“G-got it. I’ll see you later then,” Pyrrha replied before quickly gathering up her gear and heading inside, forcing herself to keep her head and eyes looking straight ahead when she heard Jaune grunting. She was in no state of mind to stay and watch him go through the stretching routine she’d showed him, no matter how tempting the images her mind conjured up were.

Instinctively, she reached up and felt her nose, just to ensure that there wasn’t blood running from it, her cheeks practically matching her as she finally left Jaune to himself.

XXX

After having spent the latter half of the previous day making her way around Beacon unnoticed, Ilia had had a lot more time to actually think about her actions as made her way around the school, now knowing the routes she should take to avoid detection. The weight and gravity of the measures she’d taken were settling in, how much time and effort she was spending simply to keep tabs on what amounted to just another human hunter-in-training. At one point, as she scaled the sheer wall of one of the towers, she went so far as to wonder if she was going a bit crazy.

But then, right as the thought hit, she’d glanced to look behind her where, on the other side of a window, she saw the one human who’d ever been nice to her, and her whole stomach lit up with that inexplicable warmth, wiping away any questions.

Jaune Arc absolutely needed to be watched because she simply couldn’t get enough of the feelings that watching him brought up from deep inside her.

Deep down, Ilia knew that what she was doing was irrational, but she’d been so emotionally burned out these past couple of weeks that she simply couldn’t care. Somehow, Jaune made her feel nice things, and recently that had become a scarcity for her, so she had become deadset on savoring it now that she had the chance. Just like the day before, after he’d helped her, seeing Jaune smile or laugh made butterflies flutter throughout Ilia’s stomach, accompanied with a longing to be the one said smiles and laughter was directed at rather than his teammates or friends.

Just remembering the scene she’d stumbled on was enough to make Ilia frown, her eyes flicking down to her scroll on which she’d recorded numerous notes regarding the people that Jaune had surrounded himself with. Most of which pertained to the females of his circle of friends (a collection of people that Ilia absolutely refused to think of as ‘competition’, the word all but banished from her word catalog, much to the delight of her chaos-feeding mind gremlin).

Chief interest among them was one Weiss Schnee, an individual who Ilia had already harbored many negative feelings towards due to her obvious familial relations, but had recently made her way to the very top of the Faunus’ rather short but important ‘people-who-deserve-several-swift-kicks-in-the-bloody-shins’ list (patent pending).

For some ungodly reason, the pompous heiress had somehow earned Jaune’s attention in ways that did not at all make Ilia feel pangs of jealousy (no sir!), and instead of cherishing every minute she could spend with him around, the special snowflake of a Schnee instead told him off at seemingly every given opportunity.

The dejected looks that Ilia had seen on Jaune’s face after he’d spent any time talking to Weiss were almost enough for her to want to blow her cover, and it was only the knowledge that Adam had very special plans—violent plans—in mind for every member of the Schnee family after the Faunus uprising had officially begun that made her restrain her fury.

Why exactly Jaune thought that the Schnee heiress was worthy of his time, Ilia had yet to understand, but her preliminary findings were still plausible enough to conduct further experiments.

“Jaune Arc attention grabbers(?): Long hair. Short?

Family history of Faunus exploitation???

Skirts.

Riches?

Lack of development???”

Rereading her list, Ilia looked down at herself, considering her own assets, or lack thereof, for a moment before she had a sobering thought.

‘Never imagined I’d be so relieved to be a B-cup… also, I need to get a skirt...’

As the afternoon sun began to shine its rays over the impressive structures that made up Beacon academy, Ilia felt a twinge of disappointment well up inside of her that she’d have to leave the school to conduct the actual reconnaissance that she’d been tasked with, but then, just as she’d started to prepare her exit strategy, the sound of a door opening reached her ears, and as she turned her eyes to check whether she needed to hide or not, a very familiar head of blonde hair stepped into view.

Ilia watched with rapt attention has Jaune and his partner, the world renowned Pyrrha Nikos, walked out onto a balcony of which she had a perfect view of. What they spoke of, she couldn’t make out, but before long they got into positions that she immediately recognized as sparring stances. Why they weren’t training in one of the academy’s facilities, she didn’t know, but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth either. Not when said horse took the shape of being allowed to watch Jaune in action again.

For the next two hours, Ilia sat fixated at the simultaneously enrapturing and vexing display that was Jaune Arc sparring with Pyrrha Nikos, her hands clenching whenever Jaune stumbled or made a poor move. Even from her vantage point, Ilia could easily tell that he wasn’t acting with the practiced ease that a student at Beacon should be, that he lacked the coordination that she’d consider crucial for someone training to fight Grimm, and he struggled far more than he aught to be against someone who clearly wasn’t putting their all into their fight.

It was confusing, to say the least, and only made more so by the fact that Ilia could tell there was something else going on beneath all the mistakes. She was a person who knew how to fight, far better than most in fact, and as such, seeing Jaune keep getting up after his mistakes were punished with surgical precision by his partner, especially considering the beating she’d watched him receive the day before, baffled her. What the boy lacked in skill, he almost entirely made up with endurance the likes of which would put fully trained and hardened White Fang members to shame, and every time he fell, Ilia could feel that he’d learned something from it. Anyone else that she knew of would have simply stayed down after the third or fourth defeat, but not him. She’d lost count of how many times he’d been brought down only to rise up straight away.

As Jaune finally sank to the ground and stayed there, Ilia felt as if she’d seen something impossible. There were hundreds of questions buzzing around in her head, but before she could find any answers to them, something else caught her attention.

Something that she recognized, even if she didn’t want to.

Whenever Pyrrha Nikos looked at her partner, there was an unmissable veil of longing shining from her expression, and despite her best efforts, it didn’t quite go away when Jaune looked at her. Whether he had noticed and was ignoring it willfully or if he was somehow unaware, Ilia had no idea, but one thing was very, very obvious to her;

Pyrrha Nikos had feelings for Jaune Arc.

And the reason Ilia could tell was because she had seen that very same expression on her own features whenever she’d looked in a mirror after being around Blake Belladonna...

By now, it had almost been a full day since the ebon-haired Faunus had entered Ilia’s thoughts, something she hadn’t even truly noticed with everything that had happened with Jaune, but her return made a feeling almost akin to retching rise up Ilia’s spine, her hands curling into fists and jaw tightening until her teeth started to hurt. All of it was unwelcome, unneeded, but despite closing her eyes and doing her best to clear her head, the feelings and thoughts remained.

Anger erupted within Ilia’s chest as her attempts at finding equilibrium failed, washing her emotional plate clear for a moment. It was the unfairness of it all that she found herself focused on, how Blake had been allowed to simply leave without any signs of distress—like she hadn’t ever cared—while Ilia was left with all these untethered and blood-raw emotions.

It simply wasn’t fair.

Nothing in her life was, she was slowly coming to realize, and she hated it.

She had to wonder if the foul taste of betrayal would ever wash out of her mouth.

As these thoughts threatened to forever blacken Ilia’s heart, she glimpsed down at the balcony again just in time to see Jaune getting up off the ground, his posture changed from just a minute earlier. He stood straighter, with more purpose, and for whatever reason, the sight begun to resonate like a struck cord within Ilia’s turmoil filled heart.

Again and again, she’d watched him fall, but he didn’t let himself be kept down. He didn’t give up, despite the clear gap in skill there was between him and his partner. To Ilia, it felt downright inspirational. She was instantly reminded of how he’d looked the day before; bloodied but unbroken, with that smile that was more genuine than anything she’d seen before.

If Jaune could get back up again after getting beat down, so could she, Ilia realized. She unfortunately didn’t know him well enough to understand all his own thoughts and emotions, but something deep in her heart told her that he wouldn’t want Blake to control her like this, no matter how deep of a wound she had caused when she’d left.

All of a sudden, Ilia felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her back, like her breathing was now easier and her eyes had become clearer. Something had clicked again, and the chains that had kept her from moving forward from Blake had been shattered in an instant.

She felt free.

And all from witnessing the resolve of a human who had risked his own safety to for her sake.

What had once been a massive, impossibly realistic, and exquisitely radiant painting of a young man with golden-blonde hair and eyes the color of deepest of oceans inside of Ilia’s mindscape was at once transformed. No longer was the shirtless stud contained within canvas and frame; instead, there now stood a statue so grand and impressive that it would have had people come from far and wide to leave gifts and offerings to what had to be a deity of masculinity and glory were it to actually exist in real life. Perfectly cut marble, the likes of which not even the greatest artisan on Remnant could have chiseled, gleamed and glinted in the shine of a heavenly light from on high, every single breathtakingly beautiful detail from the painting made three dimensional. Warmth, safety, hope, inspiration, all were exuded from the statue.

It was a dream that was too good to be true, but at the same time, to Ilia felt entirely accurate when it faded away, melting into the image of Jaune Arc looking down at a water bottle in his hand.

It was then that time caught up to the chameleonic Faunus, and she realized fully what she was looking at. For once, there was no fantasy playing out before her mind’s eye, she was actually looking at Jaune, in the flesh, with his big hoodie on the balcony beside him. In a flash, Ilia had a pair of binoculars in her hands, focusing intently on the incredibly distracting way that Jaune’s arms shifted and moved minutely with every breath he took. A light sheen covered his exposed skin, and it only helped to accentuate the muscles she could clearly tell were being grown throughout his body. There was strength within those arms, the kind that had always existed but never been truly used until very recently, and Ilia observed them carefully as they worked to bring the bottle of water to their owner’s lips.

What happened next all but caused Ilia’s heart to skip and entire minute’s worth of beats, all the while her brain simultaneously fried itself like a server farm being hit by a firehose.

What had just been a clingy, damp tank top only a second earlier suddenly turned almost entirely transparent when Jaune decided to empty a water bottle atop his head, drenching his entire upper body and making Ilia catch herself on the tower she was sat atop lest she fall right off it. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d seen a half-nude man before, the relatively small size of the White Fang hideouts she’d all but grown up in hadn’t exactly had privacy or modesty as a chief concern, but something about seeing Jaune in such a state, and not just in her head for once, was so very different.

Never had she appreciated how wide a boy’s shoulders were before, nor how solidly built their chests could be, or simply how big they often got compared to her, but she most definitely was now. Unlike the imagine that her subconscious had conjured up for her, Jaune’s entire body wasn’t made up entirely of rippling muscles the likes of which could crush stones between them, but in a way, the real thing made her stomach tingle far more. This wasn’t the body of a seasoned warrior, instead it was a firm foundation from which said warrior could be forged like a sword by a master blacksmith. And Ilia liked the look of it. Liked the look of him.

A lot.

So much so that Ilia only had a fraction of a second to duck down when he realized that Jaune was looking right at her hiding spot, her eyes wide and hands clamped over her mouth to contain the squeak that hap almost escaped her lungs. For a full minute, she just laid on her back, hardly breathing, as what she had seen replayed itself over and over again in her head. Had she looked down at herself, she would have seen the spots covering her dusty brown complexion practically glowing a hot reddish-pink, but she remained entirely frozen, vehemently ignoring the small trickle of drool that had begun to dribble down her cheek sometime ago.

Once the shock had mostly faded, she very slowly rose up into a sitting position, eyes just glancing for the briefest of seconds down to where Jaune was now stretching before her head snapped around and she focused on the sky in the opposite direction.

‘Holy shit...’ she thought as her hands finally moved away form her mouth and down to her stomach where she felt a completely foreign throb shoot through her, the temperature all around her feeling as if it had risen by several hundreds of degrees. The little gremlin in her mind whispered in her ear about how she should look back down again, make sure that Jaune was still there, but she couldn’t risk being caught like that again. Not when seeing Jaune in this state did so many strange things to her.

Ilia wasn’t entirely sure how long she spent sitting and looking anywhere that wasn’t in Jaune’s direction, but when she finally heard the distinct sound of a door being shut, she chanced a glance over her shoulder and was both relieved and disappointed to see that Jaune had returned inside. As strange as he was making her feel, deep down, it all felt good in a way, and losing ‘access’ to it was less than fun.

With a groan, she stretched her back out until she felt a satisfying pop and rose onto her sore legs. She hadn’t noticed just how rigid her whole body had become after sitting still for hours, but now she regretted not getting up sooner. She couldn’t exactly go back and change her actions though, so now she had to live with the consequences.

It was getting fairly late, and Ilia knew it was time for her to get back to her actual mission now that Jaune had finished his training and the chances of her spotting him again were pretty slim. Doing a final stretch to limber up her arms, she began to descend from her ‘perch’, making sure to follow the same route she’d taken when climbing up. For such a prestigious academy, she was kind of surprised at how easy it was to bypass the alarms and guards, but she figured it was an ego thing. With some many hunters and combat-ready students, the headmaster probably thought they didn’t need the kind of security that might have made her job difficult. Not that she was complaining though. Lax security meant she was able to focus more of her attentions on more important subjects rather than making sure no one spotted her.

A small shiver tip-toed up Ilia spine as she remembered how broad and strong Jaune’s shoulders had looked when he’d taken of his hoodie.

‘Man… I wonder how it would feel to wrap your legs around those…?’ she pondered for a split second, before immediately pushing the idea out of her head when she almost slipped out of one of her footholds. ‘No! None of that! Not now! But maybe later… when you’re back at base… and alone...’ Unknowingly, Ilia’s teeth latched onto her bottom lip at the prospect, her markings once again a radiant hue of red.

At this point, she wasn’t sure what she was doing anymore, or where her actions were taking her, and at some level that should have worried her, she knew that, but it just… didn’t. Not really. Not when she could simply imagine the smile of her ‘savior’ and be filled with a sense of comfort.

Nevertheless, one thing Ilia knew for certain was that she was going clothes shopping whenever she got a chance.

‘Need to buy a skirt… and maybe put my ponytail on the side...’

AN: Now comes the tricky part; where do we go from here? First off, I'd really like to know if you guys enjoy the level of humor that has been on display in these two chapters so far. When I originally thought up this idea, it was a lot more... crack-y, if that makes sense, but I am rather new to writing funny shit, so I abandoned that route since I couldn't get the timing right, I felt. The result is a mix of some "serious" moments and then jokes, mostly at Ilia's expense, but if you guys think I should lean into either side more, I'd very much like to hear your opinions.

Secondly, seeing as I haven't got a roadmap for this story yet, I'd love to hear any and all suggestions for scenes that might make it into future chapters (with the exception of Blake and Ilia confrontations, since that moment I do have planned fully already), and what kind of direction you think would make for the more enjoyable story; a complete romantic comedy, or something with a bit more meat to it?

Please leave your ideas and thoughts in the notes/reblogs, or send me a PM. Have a good one!

#RWBY #Fanfiction #Jaune Arc #Ilia Amitola #Adam Taurus #Pyrrha Nikos #Humor #Romance #Dorkmeleon

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bjasamuel-blog · 6 years ago

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Martin Scorsese, Thelma Schoonamaker and protagonist morality.

Martin Scorsese and Thelma Shoonmaker have edited films together since Raging Bull (1980). They have a unique working relationship and have a very particular way of editing films.

Martin Scorsese makes a few different styles of films.

The fast flowing life story:

‘Goodfellas’, ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’, ‘Casino’, ‘The Departed’.

The more serious narratively straight story:

‘Taxi Driver’ or ‘The King of Comedy’, ‘Raging Bull’ or ‘Bringing out the Dead’.

He also makes more prestigious, less ambitious mainstream films:

‘Hugo’, ‘The Aviator’, ‘Kundun’ or ‘The Gangs of New York’.

He makes other films that are sloppier yet never-the-less successful exercises in genre:

‘New York, New York’, ‘Cape Fear’ or ‘Shutter Island’. I am going to discuss the ‘fast flowing life story’.

‘The fast flowing life’ story usually attempts to make us sympathize with a protagonist whose life is very different to our own. We are introduced to a character that is living a life that might seem shocking to us. In ‘Goodfellas’ it’s Henry Hill. He is driving along a road, a thumping in the car forces him to pull over. We then discover that a man is trapped in the trunk. Henry’s companions violently murder him. In ‘Casino’, Sam ‘Ace’ Rothstein sits in his car and is apparently killed in an explosion. In ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’ Jordan Belford is throwing a little person against a dartboard as he screams in an animalistic fashion, he then goes on to boast in an extremely distasteful way about his lavish lifestyle and habits. How did these people end up here living such different lives to our own?

We are immediately thrown into a stream of memories narrated by the protagonist usually without remorse. The editing jumps straight into the earlier days of the characters lives, when they were young and ambitious. The editing throws us straight into the deep end. We are introduced very quickly to the characters and their situations. The scenes are chaotic, realistically shot and snappily edited. We are shown minor details and before we can figure out the location we move on to the next scene. The scenes do not begin and end in a traditional manner but flow like a montage. We are not given establishing shots in the traditional sense, we are given snap shots of the characters lives in incidents and are asked to interpret the meaning ourselves. This creates a flow of images and incidents that reveal the manner in which the characters were slowly seduced by the glamour and excitement of the lifestyles they wished to be part of. Usually this happens in a moral vacuum where the characters were sealed off in an amoral world. This is where form and content meet. The characters are usually morally ambiguous yet by starting at the start and then moving us quickly through their lives we are made to travel with them, never overly questioning the choices they made, we are made to identify with them and become seduced by the excitement of their lives, the filmmaking is so slick and fluid we are made to feel excitement through the films fast pace and energy. These films don’t have traditional scenes with a begining and end, they flow one to the other overlapping at times, almost like memories. This could be almost abstract, like a Tarkovsky film, but instead you are always grounded by the use of music and voiceover.

The films seem informal and fluid but in fact they adhere to a strict structure. We don’t know what moments in our lives will be informative and neither do the characters in the film. They remember the incidents narrating them as they happen. Martin Scorsese is so sure handed that he even introduces multiple narrators without it feeling overstuffed or confusing. Usually the films carry us along so quickly we have jumped years without even noticing, scenes overlapping one another music playing from one time jump to the next without stopping to catch breath. All the while music is played, diegetic music will become incidental and vice versa and carry from one scene to the next, carrying us from one era to the next without us really noticing. The music is the lubricant carrying us from one sequence to the next. The films are like a river carrying us in its current from one point to the next.

The characters are living the dream. They usually display enormous greed and hubris, arrogantly showing their wealth and power to us and we enjoy the excitement of their lives vicariously. We are not asked to sympathize with them but we are shown how exciting their lives are and how they got to this point, we can relate to them easily. This is done with power of editing bringing us to this point without giving us a chance to really overly question the actions of the characters. We are shown the beginning scene again this time with an understanding of how they got to this point and then we move beyond it. Then towards the end of the films an unforeseen detail seeded earlier in the film (usually a the stupidity of a minor character) ends the reign of the protagonist.

We see a montage sequence of the house of cards collapsing, usually to one piece of music overlaid over the entire montage. We are carried through the film with fluid editing to the excitement of the protagonists life all the way to his downfall. We are then shown the downfall and then the consequence. This is usually the protagonist looking pathetic, in a normal life trying to exist like the rest of us or like a “snook” as Henry says in ‘Goodfellas’.

‘The Wolf of Wall Street’ ends on a slightly different note. Although the days of cocaine and prostitutes are behind him Jordan Belford had found a new way to dupe the public. He has realized that in some small way most people want the excitement of money and fame and he asks us to sell him a pen. The films ends with the audience reflected back on themselves as though to say, we are all the same we are all greedy, that’s why he was able to exploit the system because we are all greedy. This editing flow carries us through the lives of an undesirable protagonist it allows us to empathies with that character and wonder, if I had had their life would I have ended up where they are? The chances are that if you were excited by the lifestyle the film has depicted then the answer is maybe?

#MartinScorsese #ThelmaSchoonamaker #goodfellas #the wolf of wall street #thewolfofwallstreet #protagonists #morality #cinema #film

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orionsknightsky · 6 years ago

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*incoherent word ramble cuz I both do and don’t feel like talking/ seeking out someone to talk to rn and so that means it gets to go on tumblr I guess*

It feels like absolutely nothing is happening in my brain right now but also that’s cuz I can just feel that everything has been sped up and so word thoughts are gone cuz I think they’re going to fast to hear, either that or they got dumped and it’s only other kinds of thoughts that I don’t know how to focus on happening now. Idk, like, I had whole lots of coffee (like six smallish cups of coffee but also it’s been literal months since last I drank even one cup so that is soo much) cuz it was free at work this morning and I got to sit around while people chatted for almost two hours today and just eat the free snacks and coffee, which was super cool cuz I’ve literally been looking forward to this all week, even though set aside time for morale-boosting office place gatherings are and interesting beast.

So back to word thoughts coming from current state of being instead of explaining why current state of being is being (heh). It feels like everything is and exists so much rn and I don’t care, cuz like also there is just nothing that is me? There is no solid “me” that exists, and their is no solid me that cares about things I’m doing/knows where I should start in order to help in things that matter/isn’t scared to find where I’m supposed to be. *but also like, supossed to is such an interesting term, and I should maybe reexamine the frequency with which I tell myself I should do something or that I’m supposed to do it, cuz there is no inherent purpose to the universe and so nothing matters. But also like, a good reason why I’m alive is cuz I have frequently told myself that I’m supposed to stay alive in order to not make other people upset. And so maybe I should just tell my self that I feel like I should stay alive cuz I don’t feel happy when I make people upset? Or is that just a different version of what I have been already doing? (the actual thing is maybe that I’ve got to find a thing that I feel makes me want to continue to exist cuz it makes me feel the feels I want?, but idk what that means and also I don’t know why or how or where I’m gonna find it and I don’t think it’s gonna be until after I’m done with college {only one more quarter, woot fuckin woot!!!!!}, so I got to keep figuring out what things make my brain want to keep caring?, or just keep on telling my brain that even if it doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t care cuz future brain does and will care, but also nothing matters and there is no purpose to anything even if I find purpose so is everthing just a conundrum and why will I just keep existing to live within a purposeless conundrum) I’m curious about what else there is but also I know that there’s no thing that makes it so people know why we need to be alive, and everyone is so scared of dying? and like, it will supposedly almost definitely be a painful and awful experience?? but also a lot of things are? and I don’t know why that matters cuz I’ve suffered before and got through it, and I’ll continue to suffer and get through it, and then one day I’ll supposedly suffer and not get through it, and apparently that suffering is more important to postpone then other suffering? Nothing makes sense (including and definitely this word spew) and yet everyone/society pretends like it does and that it matters and that anyone has anything figured out. but we just don’t. We just really, don’t. And that doesn’t matter, but my brain does thing /unless it doesn’t/ and I’m supposed to continue to do things even while my brain does things even though I don’t want to do things and so I don’t excpet when I do- which is both often and unoften cuz boy the world sure just keep on coming and it don’t stop coming- but I like just observing, participation is so much hard when I have to exist as me, (school participation is not hard cuz I don’t exist as me and I just learn the things and say the words that professors/teachers need to hear in order to continue to advance a subject/teach a class) (I’ve written much of this, I think I probably am going to post this cuz words are words and whoever reads can decide not to whenever cuz like, you can decide to not do most things just whenever, but at least stopping reading this won’t have negative consequences upon your life for whatever reason -unless it does, in which case, fuck I’m sorry, that’s a weird and somewhat unforeseen circumstance)

ahffshighrghori

Why do people act as if words are easy? Communication is so impossible and yet people think they do it? and to some degree people sometimes do? But also no one ever knows if they actually successfully communicated in entirety, but also there are ways to be more successful? (and I’m not currently using most of the ones I normally do!)

But maybe just saying all the words in all the stupid orderr and not reading or working with them or doing them in more than just the way I’m “thinking” will just make them have a meaning even if it’s not important beyond what it makes them not in my head cuz fuck proper coherence nothings ever made a goddamned sense

(have you ever just exist in a place? and not made sense, even when you hear what people say? not being able to understand is weird.

Hope this doens;t)

Some of this is purposeful incoherence, but I don’t know what it means that you can just, one can just choose to then make a words how they happen in your head and that they then don’t make sense. I don’t know what I’m saying! why do other?

Why do people understand eachother, why do people think things make sense? Why do they sometimes,

gosh when people tell you to just write and see what happens they really do mean that it won’t be good the first time, but also fuck having word s that make good, it doens’t mattetr

. It just djorenst ay doesn’t.

This entire mess both is and isn’t because of the addition of caffeine to my present. Wild It’s shared because of the caffeine, but it’s existent because my existing is incoherent and not wanted/understood/necessary/working out how I imagined cuz I’ve rarely if ever imagined what existing would be./

Idk, I assumed I’d be dead when I was 10 and hadimagined that life had no understood purpose at and before then, and I never really did stop with it and that think. ogsa gshi gi gi g igi we i

Fuck man, what is

I hope if you read this you at least realize a little bit that nothing makes sense/has any purpose/matters, but that, like, that’s both freeing and makes it hard to do things and is maybe a good idea to fairly regularly ignore? Cuz none of this

(also if you read this I hope you’re doing okay and undrstand that even though nothing makes sense and there’s no proof of purpose there’s no proof of unpurpose and so maybe just caring about people will make something better, cuz maybe happiness in the present is as good as it will ever get and so it’s okay to find and seek that out when you can?

Words are hard and don’t make any sense even when they’re in my head and what I’m trying to think. Why am I even trying to think cuz I do that anyway (as evidenced my most if not all of this words cuz dan g if not any of it was I trying to think beyond the thinking involved in not letting my thougghts rowrds thingk.

Was gonna edit it cuz the typose werewakl twp gajow

cuz the typos were and weren’t purposeful and how can you know when your actions are simulated to achieve a specific purpose and when they aren’t and why do I feel as though purposeful word order to achieve specific thoughts is a tthing to not because not. ?.

Nothing needs to make sense and I hope you’re having fun.

I also hope you’re not making the world worse, but I’m not convince I’m not, and if you are and it’s not purposeful then it’s okay if you give yourself some slack and breathe and move past it to get to where you are and can be contributing not good and not bad and maybe just good or the morality that you want to achieve and make be in what

Fuck senssfm, sorry if

If I pause for too long does that mean done? I think i t means slowing down and that it might be done soon, if I’ve said something that you read and word was harmful, I don’t think I did but that’s cuz I didn’t stop to think and did not intend harm but am willing at time when can think more to try and thing positively but also I’m fairly certain this isn’t somethings that is in any way too much offensive and is probably just overly personal in an not sense making kind of way that might seem like too much later or more likely I’ll just forget about cuz who thinks. sfljagwjogogohi

Gosh I don’t like when the overthinks so trying to make this end is making that happen which makes it feel like it need s to keep being word sthat come out of my brain and do the typing even thoeugh I was trying kind of to make it stop cuz it felt like maybe it was reaching an end but why would I let it reach an end if the entire point (if there was a point which apparently I’m trying to assert that there was even though I didn’t let my self assert that there was at the begiinnning cuz obviously theres is jsust htat wacky randomness of words that just happen and not every thing that is written serves any purpose or thoughts to convey cuz If when if I try and let my words b e with and wiithout no purpose then when nad if nothing word isa than to make sens b cause thaen word that I’m trying don’t matter and that good? Fuck yah I managed to lean into not want ting to say that sentance when I lost it. In conclusion there isn’t one?

Sorry, brains and words are weird and I’m glad I did this but I don’t know what it means I and I don’t know why I said it and I dont’ know why or if you read it but I hope you knew the words you understood and wanted. Hope you’re having good, hope you find coherence, hope we have good.

#personal #I don't know what this is and I don't really intend to reread it within any known timeframe but apparently thsi is what words when I odn't #tldr this is just me stream of conciousing with semi-caffeine induced existentialism?? and no editing #and if you read it feel free to tell me what you think or feel free to not #this simply exists cuz there was no reason not to let it exist and that's okay #now to figure out how to make this a read more cuz that is definitely what this post should be cuz it's way too long #and very much just the concept of you can just say whatver you damn well want/don't want can't you #and so I did and am kind of continuing to do in the tags cuz that's what tags are for and also I don't know when/ how to shut up #(I also don't know how/when to speak up #but that is a both the same and a different issue)#Words!Just!Happen!Why!#also like really feel free to not read this cuz I don't know what it is beyond letting my brain be completely not filtered for a bit #(but also feel free to read if you want to I guess cuz that's apparently the point of being vocal within the world/on tumblr)#I'm losing the coherence of what it means to think the words in my head again so I'm actually gonna stop and figure out the read more stuff #okay I did the thing it is a read more but now I got to just briefly mention that not rereading this is while cuz I almost started to #and then that first tag both would and wouldn't kinda be a lie #but boy the fact that you can actually say words and then people have a way to know more and less things about who they think you are #dang that is just wild

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simone-garnett · 6 years ago

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word count: 3.1k dedication: to @reeseneseira. serena baby, happy birthday honey. hope you didn’t think i’d forget! information: continuation to this post. caitlin ‘the flash’ snow making a return ;)

Caitlin isn’t quite sure where she is running, doesn’t have a specific location in mind. Just away, far away from reality, from STAR Labs, from a past she missed out on and a future she will be forced to endure.

She simply runs.

And the world around her blurs.

It is miles when she finally stops, when she finally feels like she can breathe without the weight of the world crushing her heart. She stops, buckled over, her hands on her knees, forcing oxygen back into her lungs, too exhausted to care.

But then she takes in her surroundings, forests and trees and no building in sight. She hadn’t been running for that long, ten minutes maximum. But there was nothing familiar around her, no Central City, no identifying landmarks. It was as if she were transported into a different city entirely. It is a distraction, sorely needed and kindly gifted to her.

It wasn’t possible, none of this was possible.

And yet…

She tries to run, and it is her normal speed, but she pushes herself, Caitlin ever the scientist, needing to attempt a variety of circumstances to test her hypothesis. She almost runs into a tree 200 metres away. She had only ran of three seconds.

She didn’t just run miles, She ran hundreds of miles.

There is a pressure in her chest, a clawing feeling scraping at the inside of her, something stopping her lungs from expanding fully. There was something wrong with her, something had changed her on a biochemical level. She needs answers. And she thinks she knows where to find them.

Caitlin speeds to STAR Labs, too confused and bewildered by this to focus on anything else. They were the smartest minds she knew bar Tina and the Stein’s, but she wasn’t sure revealing this new discovery to her boss of all people, would be the wisest course of action.

And it’s Cisco, her best friend and one of the handful of people she trusts implicitly.

If there was one person she could turn to and rely on, it was him.

It takes some time to get there, Caitlin approximating where the city was, using memories of the direction she first ran in and the skills she had picked up as a girl guide to figure out where she was. She was off by a few miles but by that time she could see the lights from the city, see developed bitumen roads, could follow that to the city, to Cisco and STAR Labs.

To answers.

And she pushes herself, rushing to get there faster, a small part of her wondering just how fast she could run, just how far she could push herself physically. And the burning sensation doesn’t occur, not until she starts to slow down in order to navigate the twists and turns of the street. She looks down, eyes widening at the clothes she was wearing were alight with flames, pieces of charred material falling off, fluttering in the wind behinds her as she nears the location. It’s terrifying, an unforeseen consequence of running in flammable clothing, and she needs to get it off herself. Quickly.

So she speeds, up, Caitlin calculating that, while she may have super speed, the fire still burns at normal speeds, fed more easily by oxygen at slower speeds. It means that she skids more, almost hits cars and she thinks that there are explosions of glass behind her. She’s too afraid to turn around and check.

It takes her minutes to reach the building, the security so lax she’s able to enter without any identification. There is an alert every time someone enters the building, so she knows they’ll be there, waiting to see who enters.

She hopes they will know what to do when she does.

As she predicts they are all there, Cisco armed with a spanner, Barry with what she can only assume is a tranquilliser. She can feel a laugh bubble up inside her at the sight – like they could touch her. But then the burning sensation returns.

“OK!” She thinks Doctor Wells says more, thinks he may be asking her questions. She doesn’t answer, too distracted by the fact her clothes are burning again, her dress is now ash and burning, to see the reactions from the men around her, Barry spinning on his heel and covering his eyes, Cisco eyes wide and unmoving. She didn’t think the clothes would disintegrate so quickly. She contemplates trying to pat the fire out, but it’s destroyed too much of her clothing, the more efficient method to just pull it off.

Cisco yelps when she does so, Caitlin now clad in just her undergarments.

It is only when Doctor Wells sighs, directing his wheelchair to her, does anyone take action. He has a lab coat in his lap, picked up on the trip to her, and he stops a meter away, holding it out to her. There are words of gratitude as she pulls it out of his hands, quickly slipping it on and wrapping herself, well aware that it was the only thing covering her body.

She notices that he doesn’t look away, gaze scrutinising as he takes her in. And she feels like the clothes isn’t on at all, that he is looking through it. She isn’t sure what he’s looking for, isn't sure why he is staring intently at her, isn’t sure what he could see.

But then he claps his hands together.

She jumps.

It breaks her concentration, Caitlin finally turning to the other guys in the room, Cisco holding out a spare shirt he keeps in the lad. She accepts it and ducks out of the room, to put it on, leaving Doctor Wells and the team to discuss the next course of action while she goes to put it on. It is only when she’s alone does she feel more relaxed, laughing at the stupid pun on Cisco’s shirt because why is Han shooting first so important? It comes down mid-thigh and she still feels so under-dressed for the lab, Caitlin slipping on the lab coat over the shirt, sighing before entering the lab.

They barely give her a glance, Cisco sitting on a chair, running simulations on the computer, Barry leaning over him, pointing out factors that need to be changed, calculating the different permutations that could exist when considering different circumstances.

And Wells just sits in his wheelchair, listening, interjecting only to push them onto a new train of thought.

She almost feels guilty for interrupting, but they are discussing her, talking about her powers and her abilities and she needs answers.

It is almost comical, the way she clears her throat and has Cisco and Barry jump in their spots in response, Doctor Wells instead just rolling around to face her. Cisco spins in his seat, rolls to her, a smile on his face and a twizzler hanging out of his mouth. “Do you guys have my phone?”

Barry shuffles in the background, pulling something out of the drawers, face consciously neutral as he hands it to her. It is her phone, but only a few taps are needed for her to realise it was dead. “Really? You didn’t charge it?”

Cisco winces at the unimpressed tone. “Sorry. But think about it this way – you can charge it while we time you.”

She knew it was coming, but she didn’t think it would be so soon. “And what am I supposed to be running in?” She looks down at her outfit and then back at Cisco. “This?”

But he just smiles and laughs, jumping up off his seat. “Just leave that to me.”

It only takes a few hours for him to design and create a suit for her, the STAR Labs van used for the first time in what seems like months. Barry is driving, silent as he concentrates on the road, the location somewhere he was familiar with. And Caitlin sits in the back with Cisco and Doctor Wells, tugging at the tight outfit they had her in. Discreetly. Cisco had noticed her doing it earlier in the hour and had slapped her hand away, frustrated that she was ruining the integrity of the outfit. And yes, she gets why it has to be tight, why calculating the impact of air resistance on loose clothes would be such a pain and so much easier if they simply didn’t need to do it.

She still hates it.

There is an overwhelming joy when they arrive at the testing site. Cisco disappears to set up the markers, Doctor Wells sets up the equipment at the base and Barry is responsible for making sure the sensors attached to her were functioning correctly.

“I noticed you don’t smile too much. Not anymore.” She takes the opportunity to talk to Barry while they were separated from the others. While they weren’t as close as she was with Cisco, it doesn’t mean she never saw the man before. Because she did,and he was always accompanied with a bright smile and a sparkle in his eye. It had disappeared.

A dry laugh leaves him, Barry running his hands through his hair. “Yeah, didn’t think you would pick up on that.”

There is a sadness in his tone that has her heart lurching for him. “Wanna talk about it?”

Apparently he does, because that was all she needed to say for the story to come tumbling out in stilted sentences, Barry’s face pinching as the memories cut at his heart. “My best friend and my dad. I was so excited about working in STAR Labs I dragged them both with me.” There was a bittersweet smile on his face, a weak thing that didn’t deserve the title of smile, not when there was so much pain behind it. “And then there was the accident.” He cuts himself and she wants to apologise, wants to run back in the past and stop her words from coming out, to protect him from herself. “She wanted to be a journalist, wanted to get the biggest scoops. I couldn’t keep her away from the site if I tried. And then my dad, hit by a blast of energy as he tried to get to safety…” He breaks eye contact, shaking his head, Barry feeling so helpless. “I lost so much in that explosion, more than my reputation or job…” She can see him shuttering himself off and she puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it, hoping it comes off as comforting.

She thinks it does, Barry lifting up his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips as gratitude. But she can still see the pained expression on his face. “You know who you’re speaking to, right?” Caitlin tries to inject some humour into her tone, she can hear the undercurrent of sadness underneath.

His expression softens, a more genuine look on his face. “Ronnie.”

He doesn’t really need to say any more.

He isn’t given the chance to.

“Alright guys!” Cisco’s voice carries over the distance, the pair separating quickly, Barry to the makeshift lab where the equipment was set up, Caitlin to the starting line. She bounces on the balls of her feet, trying to loosen herself up. “We’re ready Cait. Just run as fast as you can, trying to keep in the course.”

She grins.

That, that she could do.

She leaves them in her dust, a whoop echoing in the air behind her.

The rest of the day is a blur, Cisco alight with excitement at the speeds she could reach, eager for more tests, to learn more about her new ability. And Barry was intrigued by the chemical change in her body, interested in learning just how this happened. It thrills her, Caitlin throwing herself into testing, so eager for a distraction, for something to focus on so she wouldn’t think about the other revelations from hours earlier.

It is when she leaves the lab, when she is alone with only her thoughts as company, does everything she tries to suppress bubble up, a force unrivalled, overwhelming her, overcoming her.

Her new powers, the lost time.

Ronnie.

Martin Stein can never be accused about not loving, not caring for his children.

Not even Caitlin,

especially not Caitlin.

He had been accused multiple times, teenage and adult Lily alike, of favouritism to her. And it’s wrong and ridiculous and maybe a little but true. But Lily was her mother’s daughter, alike in attitude and temperament and in ganging up on him. But Caitlin, sweet Caitlin who would never get involved, who would support him when they criticised his workaholic tendencies. Caitlin moved in when she was only five, who would, even at such a young age, sneak into his study and curl up in a chair so she could spend time with him, even if it was in silence. Caitlin who would fall asleep in the chair, who would complain if he tried to send her away, who would fight his attempts only to fall right back asleep in his arms as he carried her to bed.

Caitlin who would cry because of her nightmares, screaming for her daddy, would plead please daddy, please save me. Caitlin who would only calm down when he would hold her in his arms and tell her the history of the Jewish people or of his research.

Caitlin who had called him dad accidentally when she was ten, too tired to think. Caitlin who realised later on and hid from him for a whole week before he called her to him and explained that she could call him that if she ever wanted to, that he was okay, that it was up to her.

Caitlin who never realised just how much his heart swelled whenever she would do that, how choked up he was when she first said it. How it was one of his most treasured memories.

And so having her stumble into the house late that afternoon, collapsing into his hands as soon as he had opened the door, it filled him with relief and sorrow. Because she was awake, she was alive. He had spent nine months wondering whether he would ever have that opportunity, whether he would never have the opportunity to tell her that he loves her. She returns to him, and she returns overcome by her tears. Martin can’t help but pull her close, a hand cupping the back of her head, holding her to him as she breaks down in his arms. The tears soak through his shirt and she trembles in his hold, desperately clutching at his sweater, using him to hold herself up.

He just holds her tighter. “Come on Caitlin, let’s go sit down for a moment.” And she walks with him, small, shaky steps until they reach the couch, the pair of them collapsing on it. She curls up in his side, so small, so fragile. She still clings to him, pressing herself to his side, the trembling receding.

“Sorry,” she chokes out.

“You don’t need to apologise, honey.” He strokes the top of her head, pressing a kiss to her crown. It takes few minutes before she has the strength to pull away from his side, Caitlin taking his hand. “Look at you, my beautiful girl.” It is a watery smile on his face, Martin wiping away the streaks of tears still on her face. “You’re awake.”

“Ronnie’s dead dad.” The tears start welling up again, her voice thick with emotion. “Ronnie’s dead and I was in a coma for nine months and he’s gone and everything’s changed. I’m so lost.” He pulls her closer, a deep exhale leaving him.

He had nine months to adjust to that knowledge, Caitlin’s only had a few hours. “I’m still here sweetie. And Lily, and Clarissa. We’ll be with you every step of the way. Whatever you need.” She nods against his shoulder, her breathing wet as she tries to get oxygen back in her lungs. The monster from earlier had returned, but it cowered away in the presence of Martin, the pain softened by the gentle way he held her, had always done so.

“Did you tell mum?” The question surprises him, so left of field.

“I haven’t told anyone you’re awake Caitlin, I’ve only just found out.” There is a certain mirth in his tone, chuckling softly at the idea of it.

Her face twists. “No, my mum. Did you tell her I was in a coma?”

The mirth drops from his face and he holds his breath.

Carla.

The truth shows on his face, and hers falls. “I’ve got to see my mum, Dad. I’ve got to tell her I’m okay.” And Martin Stein, his heart breaks for her. The desperation in her face, the utter need to talk and speak with her mother again, even after the mess of their past. There was barely a flinch when he had told her about the incident, a stone-faced Carla simply asking for updates before leaving the meeting.

But Caitlin had lost her fiance, he couldn’t deny Caitlin her mother as well. Not while she was still alive.

“Alright, alright.” He squeezes her hand. “If you think you need to I’ll go with you.”

The offer isn’t surprising, he makes it every time she thinks of visiting. She had never said no before. “I think I should go on my own.”

She thinks it might hurt him a little, for her to want see her mother without his presence. There is a flicker of something behind his glasses and she hopes it isn’t disappointment. “Tomorrow then, I think I’d like you home for the rest of the day.” He smiles at her, and she feels a warmth inside her. Home. “And I don’t think Lily would take it well if you leave before she has a proper chance to say hello.”

Caitlin lights up at the idea of Lily, a sheepish look crossing her face as she realises that she had missed her earlier the day during the run. That she must have rushed from work to STAR Labs at Barry’s text, only to find Caitlin missing and not responding to her texts.

She nods and he smiles, a weight off his shoulders at the acceptance. Martin offers to heat her something up as dinner, rebuffing her attempts to join in, lighter memories of Caitlin and almost burning the kitchen down in her previous attempts to cook something brought up between laughter.

And she can’t deny the effect that he has, that being back in her home has. Her spirit already feels lighter.

Today she’d stay with the Stein’s.

Tomorrow… tomorrow she’d visit her mother.

Tomorrow she’d go to Iron Heights.

#the flash #the flash fic #caitlin snow #cisco ramon #martin stein #barry allen #harrison wells #there is no universe where eowells isn't interested in caitlin okay #ive been planning this fic since rc's bday ngl haha #she's was like 'pt 2 on serena's bday' and i was like 'interesting...'#now im back to studying #joys of engineering project management whoop whoop #anyways hbd honey #serena tag #ruthie writes

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