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missmeinyourbones · 2 years

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TO LOVE IS TO COMPROMISE (TOUYA X READER) (WC: 1.1k)

part 3 of the series: to love is to...

“It is a kind of love, is it not?

How the cup holds the tea,

How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare”

- The Patience of Ordinary Things, Pat Schneider

Touya is beginning to think that life isn’t made up of the ground crumbling moments—the ones that leave him writhing and thrashing in the middle of the night. The ones that suffocate him to think about, leaving his chest wrung out like a damp towel.

He thinks it’s more so the small moments, the ones that leave him breathless with their confidentiality and closeness, that mean more to him than whatever horrors happened in the past.

Living with you comes with a lot of normalcy—tiny, intimate moments that are easy to over look. Things you don’t really think about when imaging a future with someone. Taking turns washing and drying dishes, remembering to turn the lights off when leaving the house, bickering over what to watch on television.

Touya can’t remember the last time he watched an episode of television. A part of him feels like he shouldn’t be sitting parallel to you on your worn-down sofa, allowing himself something as silly and sweet as indulging in a false reality for thirty minutes plus commercial breaks.

“What do you wanna watch?” you call to him as you settle down on the opposite end of the tiny futon. You mindlessly pick away at the loose strings from the seams of the armrest, like a cat shredding curtains or a blanket.

Touya’s head is thrown back onto the headboard of the couch. He makes no move to let his eyes stray from the ceiling—maybe he’s counting the groves in the spackle as punishment. To atone for his sins with boredom, denying himself the pleasure of a casual intimacy.

He drawls, tone blasé, “Don’t care, just put somethin’ on.”

Paying his disinterested comment no mind, you channel surf for a bit, passing countless amounts of thirty minute segments. Some reality show following teenage pregnancy, a dating competition consisting of contestants with funny accents, a sit-com of a hectic family with an unbelievable amount of children.

Eventually, you land on some re-run of a game show, one with fill in the blank letters and contestants asking to buy vowels.

It takes Touya about three seconds to register the sound of the buzzer and the nasally voice of the show’s host for his head to be jolting upwards.

“Not that.”

You snort at his quick response, impressed with how quickly his nonchalant attitude seemed to change with a simple show.

“But you said—”

“Gimme that,” he grumbles, snatching the remote from your hands with a quick swipe of his arm.

He doesn't spare a glance at your disgruntled reaction, far too focused on getting the brightly colored gameshow set off of the television screen. He simply ignores you, continuing to scan the television guide and surf the channels for something more his taste.

“Mean,” he hears you mumble out from behind your pout before further sulking into the couch cushion, arms crossed and brow furrowed. He knows that your feelings aren’t actually hurt, that it’s merely a faux statement of mild irritation, but he still tsks as he crawls his way over to you.

“Only for you,” he teases as he plants himself over your lap, his head resting on your chest as his legs sprawl out over the rest of the sofa. You naturally open your arms for him, letting him get comfortable in your hold as the two of you settle into the newfound position.

Touya eventually decides on some silly horror movie from the 80′s, one where the protagonist is babysitting and the killer somehow knows her whereabouts at all times. The shitty acting and choppy cinematography makes you laugh underneath your breath a few times, but manages to do an alright job of keeping your attention.

Your fingers find themselves mindlessly running through the white tuffs of Touya’s hair. It’s a lot softer now, without all of the shitty dark box-dye—it smells a lot nicer too, now that he washes it regularly and uses your (rather expensive) lavender shampoo.

Time passes between your intertwined limbs and head rubs. More than half of the movie is over when you’re brought back to reality with a strong urge to stretch your legs out.

With a quick glance over of the screen, you gather that movie must be nearing its end, based on the high pitched violins increasing and the protagonist’s monologue going on for over a minute now.

Touya had closed his eyes a long time ago—around twenty minutes into the film being turned on—as he laid on top of you with evened breaths and fluttering eyelids.

You knew he was asleep, and you wanted to let him rest—it was rare for him to sleep through the night these days. You wanted him to relax in your hold, to know that it’s okay that he lounges, that he takes care of himself.

You sigh, finally bored with the movie as you quietly pick up the remote control that sits between Touya and the edge of the couch. You cruise through a few channels before landing on some children’s baking show. Entertained by the change of pace, you watch their tiny hands mix batter and roll out fondant for about thirty seconds before you feel a gritty complaint vibrate from your chest.

“I was watchin’ that,” Touya growls from where his head rests, voice far too rough with exhaustion for someone who was supposedly awake and following along with the plot of a film.

“With your eyes closed?” you entertain his childish quip, hands returning to his hair.

He moans out a gruff mhm, before grabbing the remote from where it balances on your leg and putting the movie back on—all without as much as lifting his head from the warmth of your torso.

You remove your hand from his hair to flick his forehead with a rough snap.

“You’re annoying,” you grumpily conclude.

“You like me that way,” he’s quick to return, grabbing the hand that just flicked him and pressing a gentle sloppy peck to the heel of your palm.

“Guess I do,” you grumble back, feeling Touya chuckle at your measly defeat.

There has to be maybe ten minutes left of the film now, as the killer had presumably died in the final battle, but alas, the police report that no body was found.

You feel Touya’s sighs start to become deeper again, more relaxed as the film wraps up. You scoff and readjust yourself to look down at him—eyes closed once more with a slight smirk spread across his face.

“Next time,” you pat his shoulder, rubbing a few circles on the calloused skin as you continue, “I get to pick the movie and fall asleep on you.”

Your boyfriend’s response pleasantly surprises you.

“Deal.”

#to love is to...#touya todoroki #dabi #touya x reader #dabi x reader #touya fic #dabi fic #touya fluff #dabi fluff #touya drabble #dabi drabble #touya blurb #dabi blurb #bnha #bnha x reader #bnha writing

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spacexcowgirl · 4 years

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I’d Lie - G.W.

George Weasley x Reader

Summary: Y/N fell for her best friend, but she can’t let him, or anyone else, know that.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: Alcohol usage/intoxication, swearing, mentions of food, LOTS of pining and unrequited love, I don’t think there’s anything else?

A/N: This is a song fic inspired by the wonderful unreleased song “I’d Lie” by Taylor Swift! mmmm this is my first fic without a *happy* ending and boy does that make me sad. But do not worry I quite literally already have a second part planned oops. Pictures are from Pinterest.

message to be added to tags :)

I don’t think that passenger seat

Has ever looked looked this good to me

He tells me about his night

And I count the colors in his eyes

Y/N distracted herself with her fingers, tangling and untangling them and cracking her knuckles. It was all she could do to stop herself from completely ogling the boy sitting beside her on the couch. He was positioned towards her, one leg bent at the knee and resting between them on the couch. His hands moved back and forth wildly as he spoke, recounting some story that had happened during quidditch practice that night.

“Are you even listening?” George cut himself off, his tone light. When Y/N snapped her head up to look at him, she found that he was smiling, but still he looked a bit offended.

“‘course I’m listening.” Y/N reassured quickly, her eyes finally meeting his. That was all it took, and suddenly she was being reeled into those chocolate brown eyes, drowning in their various shades and hues, with no way out.

Y/N wasn’t sure when her feelings for her best friend shifted from friendly to something more. It was as if one day his messy hair transformed from something to giggle and roll her eyes at to something to swoon over. When his pranks made her admire his genius rather than scold the disturbance they caused. When his incessant teasing shifted from mild annoyance to exuberant joy from receiving any attention from him. Of course, these shifts all happened slowly, over a period of time, but the realization of them hit Y/N all at once. She was head over heels for the boy, and she hadn’t even realized she had been falling.

If she didn’t know any better, she’d be convinced that someone was slipping her a love potion. Or, maybe, she just hoped that, because Godric would it be less embarrassing than the reality of things. Because the reality was, Y/N really had just fallen for George Weasley, no potions or gimmicks needed, and while she was irrevocably in love with him, he had no clue.

“Seems like you zoned out for a second,” George lightly nudged her with his elbow, although a glowing smile remained illuminated on his face. “What’s on your mind?”

“Just…” Y/N racked her brain for an excuse, something believable, because she knew George could always see right through her. “Just classes, I guess. Umbridge. All of it. I guess I’m just stressed out.”

“So you’ve been letting me carry on about quidditch?” George sounded shocked, but his teasing smile was comforting. “Please, love, if you need something to take your mind off things, you should’ve just said so.”

Without Y/N even having to tell him what she needed, he was up and off the couch, rushing towards the boys’ dormitory steps. Y/N only had a moment to furrow her brows, before George was rushing back down them with a jumper in one hand and a bag of sugar quills, her favorite, in the other. Y/N exhaled a deep sigh, before the involuntary glow and warmth overtook her. Because no matter how much she longed to only view George as a friend, everything about him permeated her subconscious, lamenting and solidifying his place as more.

He’ll never fall in love he swears

As he runs his fingers through his hair

I’m laughing ‘cause I hope he’s wrong

Y/N and George walked side by side down the corridor, laughter bubbling from both of their chests. Y/N adored moments like these, when she could forget everything for just a moment and just bask in the presence of her favorite person. Ultimately, they always were ruined by her feelings hitting her like a truck, or by someone coming to steal him away, so she always tried to live in those few peaceful moments for as long as she could.

George nudged her with his elbow after making a joke, and just as she was about to respond she noticed the change in his demeanor. He was no longer laughing, but instead a small smirk had appeared on his face as he nodded a few feet ahead of them. Y/N followed his gaze, her eyes landing upon his twin brother leaned casually against the wall. In front of him was Angelina, his girlfriend, rocking on her heels as she giggled at something he said.

“Sickening, aren’t they?” George prodded, shaking his head a bit as Fred swooped down to steal a kiss on her lips.

“I think they’re cute.” Y/N tugged her books into her chest, tilting her head to the side as she watched the love-stricken couple. Angelina could have a tough exterior, and Fred could be a lot to handle, but they just got each other so well. Y/N would never say it aloud, but she envied them.

“You would think so,” George scoffed lightly. “You don’t have to listen to him ramble on about her every bloody second of the day.”

“Maybe you’re just jealous.” Y/N teased, turning her body away from the couple to face George instead.

“Hardly.” George rolled his eyes, shifting his books into one arm. He slowly raked his fingers through his newly cut hair as he spoke again, entrancing Y/N entirely. “Love’s just not in the cards for me right now. Someone’s gotta worry about products, and about making Umbridge’s day as awful as possible.”

Y/N laughed at his joke, although she felt a little sting in her heart. Sure, he had said ‘right now,’ and perhaps that should have incited some hope in her, but it didn’t. It just made her chest ache. She knew it was foolish, but she couldn’t just drop it. She had to push on, test her luck and hope that George would offer her any sort of solace.

“Come on, I think it would be nice.” Her voice was quiet, and she found she suddenly couldn’t meet his eyes. “Someone you could share everything with? Yanno, they could just be like… your person.”

George seemed to mull over her words for a moment, before swinging his arm around her shoulder and continuing to push down the corridor.

“Well, I already have you for that, right?” George beamed down at her. “Why would I need a girlfriend? You’re already my person.”

Y/N was certain her heartbreak could be heard throughout the school.

He looks around the room

Innocently overlooks the truth

Shouldn’t a light go on?

Doesn’t he know that I’ve had him memorized for so long?

The party was in full swing, blinding lights and near deafening music. It was risky, what with Umbridge slinking around every corner, desperate to give students a detention, but they needed this. Something about this year felt different, and not in a good way, and Fred and George knew one of their infamous parties was just small way to lift spirits.

Y/N scanned the crowd of people, nursing sips of her firewhisky every few moments. Parties weren’t necessarily her thing, but she couldn’t deny that she needed to unwind. As her eyes finally fell upon their desired target, she couldn’t help the warmth that bubbled in her chest or the smile that involuntarily rose on her lips. Once George met her gaze, he shot her a wink and beckoned her over, and she was quick to oblige.

“Having fun, darling?” George rested his weight against her, clearly much more drunk than she was.

“A bit,” Y/N giggled. “Not as much as you, I reckon.”

“What’s that s’pose to mean?” George slurred, giving her a drunken pout.

“Nothing, nothing,” Y/N teased innocently, shifting her weight to better support the boy. She wrapped an arm around his back, using it to steady both him and her. “Maybe you should lay off the drinking for now though, what d’ya think?”

“Fineeeee.” George elongated the last vowel before grinning down at the girl. “Always taking care of me, aren’t you?”

Y/N hummed in response, a small smile of her own growing as she felt her cheeks begin to heat up. “What would you do without me?”

“Hm. Probably die. Fred’s doing, no doubt.” He leaned down to rest his head against the top of hers, shutting his eyes for a moment as he centered himself. “Honestly though, I’m really thankful for you. I don’t think I say that enough.”

Drunk George was always a bit sappy, but Y/N certainly wouldn’t complain. His words felt like a shock flowing through her nervous system, hitting every neuron and sparking her to life. Alternatively, she also felt completely useless in producing a response.

“Godric, I really do have the best friend in the world.” He hummed.

And just like that, the shock was sucked from her body and she was left feeling nothing but empty.

He sees everything black and white

Never let nobody see him cry

I don’t let nobody see me wishing he was mine

Y/N had searched for George for hours. After Gryffindors win over Slytherin, what should have been a wonderful celebration quickly went south. Y/N had watched from the stands as three team members held Fred back and Harry loosely clung to George, as both boys attempted to charge Draco. Of course, she couldn’t hear whatever he said that got the two so worked up, but from the look on George’s face she was certain it must have been bad. Everything seemed to move in slow motion once she saw Harry let go of George, and she watched with bated breath and wide eyes as he lunged at the Slytherin boy.

Of course, she had heard about the twins’ and Harry’s lifetime ban from Quidditch, and she knew George must be feeling awful now. So, she had to find him. Even if he didn’t want to see her, or anyone, she had to be there for him.

She had checked just about every spot in the castle she could think of, sighing profusely each time that she came up empty. Fred and George knew the hidden corridors and passageways of the school better than anyone, and she was certain he had used that to his advantage.

Just as she was about to give up, she decided to check one last spot that she knew of. She crept slowly up to the seventh floor, careful to make sure no one was following her. She paced back and forth three times, just as she had been taught, and breathed a sigh of relief when the door appeared. Quietly, she pushed it open, and her breath hitched in her throat when she caught sight of the familiar head of red hair. She had found him.

It didn’t appear he had heard her come in, and she used that to her advantage as she slowly surveyed the room. She felt her heart shatter into a million pieces as she took in the familiar sight of the burrow living room and heard George’s quiet sobs from his place before the fire. After the day he had, all he wanted was the warmth of his home.

“Georgie?” Y/N whispered quietly, letting the door shut behind her.

Immediately, George straightened up and wiped at his eyes. She had never seen him cry before, and she knew there was a reason for that. Fred and him both felt they had to be strong all the time, they had to be the ones cracking jokes and making people laugh even when it was hard for them. When he glanced back, his face was red and splotchy, but a forced smile was plastered on his face.

“Hey, darling.” His voice sounded scratchy, and it was clear it was taking all of his power to keep it together. Y/N could see that his lip was busted, illuminated by the fire, and she wanted nothing more than to cup his face in her hands and nurse him back to perfect health. “Reckon you saw the fight earlier?”

“Your lip…” Y/N spoke softly, approaching him with tentative steps. She didn’t have the capacity to answer his question, not when he looked so broken and beaten down.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” George swiped his thumb over his lip, and Y/N didn’t miss his slight wince. “You should see the other guy.”

“You don’t have to do that.” She finally reached him, taking her place beside him on the carpeted floor. “You don’t have to joke and pretend everything’s fine, not with me.”

George studied her for a moment before a shuddering breath left his lips. As the tears began to pool once more, he could no longer meet her eyes. And that killed her.

“I don’t know why I’m letting this get to me so much.” He spoke, sounding entirely disappointed in himself. “But, the things he said, about my mum, my family. And then Umbridge…” His words cut off as the tears began to roll down his cheeks once more.

“I’m so sorry, George.” Y/N reached out and gently cupped his cheek, allowing her thumb to brush a few tears away. When he leaned into her touch, her heart soared. “You don’t have to shut yourself off, though. I’m here for you, always.”

“I know.” His voice was soft as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears away.

Slowly, Y/N leaned forward and brought her forehead to his, letting her eyes shut as well. Her hand drifted from his cheek to the back of his neck, gently playing with the hairs at the base of it. The action seemed to calm him a bit, so she continued to do it. By the light and warmth of the fire, the two sat in silence. Neither needed to say anything, they just wanted to be near each other.

“I love you, you know that?” George was the first to break the silence, not bothering to open his eyes or pull away from her touch.

“I know.” Y/N spoke quietly. “And I love you too.”

And Godric, did she mean it. But she was aware that they meant it in entirely different ways, and that George had no idea.

He stands there, then walks away

My God, if I could only say,

“I’m holding every breath for you.”

Months had passed since that night in the room of requirement, and while so much had changed, so much had stayed the same as well. Y/N had felt herself drifting from George everyday, and not because either of them wanted to. George and Fred were leaving, Y/N knew that, and they had to get everything in order to do so. So, Y/N had to push through everyday with him no longer constantly by her side, and she swore it was killing her.

A few nights prior, he had let her know that this was it, that him and Fred were really doing it. She had faked a smile, excitedly throwing her arms around his neck as she expressed how proud she was. And she was proud, but her chest ached and she swore she felt her stomach in her throat. It was selfish, sure, but she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to get through the year without him.

Now she stood in the corridor outside of the great hall, bouncing nervously on her heels as she watched him say his goodbyes to Lee. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry, but there was already a stinging behind her eyes and she feared no matter how hard she tried to keep her emotions at bay, it would be futile.

When George finally turned and took a few long strides to where she stood, her fears were confirmed. Her tears spilled involuntarily as she threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his chest.

“Hey, none of that,” George pleaded softly, gently scraping his fingers up and down her back. “You know I’ll write the second that I’m out of here, and it’s only a short bit before you graduate and I see you again.”

“I know, it’s just…” Y/N sniffled, forcing herself to imprint the moment in her brain. She wanted to remember his scent, and the way it felt to be wrapped up in his arms, and the sound of his voice. Perhaps it was cheesy, or overdramatic, but Y/N could feel her heartbreaking by the second, and holding onto ever piece of him that she could was the only thing keeping her together. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, darling.” George chuckled softly. He pulled back slowly, planting his hands on her shoulders as he looked down at her. “You’ll be out of here before you know it, I promise.”

“You’re right, I know.” Y/N sniffled, wiping at her tears before finally meeting the boy’s gaze. The look he was giving her made her knees weak, and she found herself wanting to spill all of the contents in her heart to him.

He studied her face for a moment longer, but then Fred was calling his name and they both knew it was time. He gave her shoulders a soft squeeze and pulled her into a hug one last time, placing a kiss to the top of her head. Nothing further needed to be said, so he gently ruffled up her hair and gave her a reassuring smile, before turning back towards Fred and beginning to walk away.

The moment was ending, he was really leaving, and she hadn’t told him how she felt. Her heartbeat started to pick up, and her palms began to feel sweaty, because it felt as though it were now or never. She wanted to tell him. She had to tell him.

“George!” She called out, causing him to halt and whirl back around.

“Yeah?” He smiled warmly at her, a few paces ahead.

As she gazed into his blissfully unaware chocolate brown eyes, she found that she just couldn’t. She couldn’t drop this on him, not on one of the most important days of his life. So, she bit down on her lip before shaking her head and forcing a smile.

“Give us a show, yeah?”

“Always do.” George winked.

And just like that, he walked away. And Y/N was left feeling entirely empty.

First thought when I wake up

Is “My God, he’s beautiful.”

So I put on my make-up

And pray for a miracle

Months had passed since the fateful day that the Weasley twins left Hogwarts behind. Just as Y/N had predicted, her time left at the school dragged on horribly. Umbridge only seemed to get worse, even in the twins’ absence, and George was no longer there to comfort her. Still, she pushed through.

After graduation, Y/N was quick to get a job at a coffee shop in Diagon Alley, figuring she’d save up her money while she determined what she wanted to do. It wasn’t the worst job, but with the Wizarding World getting darker by the day, she felt constantly in fear. Still, George was close by, and she once again had him for comfort.

Most nights she’d crash on the twins’ couch, finding it easier to get up in the early mornings and go in to work than staying with her parents in the suburbs. Which usually meant waking up to George preparing breakfast, sleep thick in his voice and his hair still messy. And Godric, was he beautiful like that.

“Sleep well, darling?” George rasped out, a sleepy smile on his face. Y/N wrapped her arms around herself as a small yawn left her lips.

“Mhm.” Y/N hummed, leaning in the doorway of their kitchen. “You?”

“Pretty good.” George grinned, sliding a mug of tea down the counter towards her. Like always, he had made it perfectly to her liking. Y/N cupped the mug in her hands, letting the warmth slowly spread throughout her body and wake her up. “Think I might stop by the cafe on my break, pick up some pastries and coffee.” Just as he finished his sentence, Fred tiredly stumbled into the kitchen.

“You can just say you want to come see me, Georgie.” Y/N teased.

“It’s not just you he wants to see.” Fred winked at the girl, causing her brows to furrow.

“Oi, shut it, Fred.” George glared at his brother.

“What do you mean?”

“He hasn’t told you about his little crush?” Fred smirked, ignoring the daggers being shot his way. “Elizabeth, that girl that works with you. Georgie fancies her.”

Suddenly, even the mug in Y/N’s hand felt ice cold in her grasp. Quickly, she placed it back down on the counter, fearing she would drop it and let it shatter to the ground. A bit of hot tea sloshed out of the mug, scalding her hand and forcing her mind away from her breaking heart.

“Shit, are you okay?” George had already hurried towards her, but Y/N was quick to brush him off.

“‘m fine, I, uh, should just go get ready.”

Y/N didn’t give the boy’s time to question her change in demeanor, but rather quickly gathered her overnight bag and hurried to the bathroom, locking herself inside. She cast a silencing charm before slowly sliding down the wall, allowing herself to sob freely.

Just as she always knew, she’d never be what George wanted.

I could tell you his favorite color’s green

He loves to argue, oh, and it kills me

His sister’s beautiful, he has his father’s eyes,

And if you asked me if I love him

I’d lie

Y/N felt in a daze that entire day at work. She made drinks, rang customers up, and wiped down counters, but she was unable to think about anything other than the revelations of that morning. Of course, Elizabeth was the only other person working with her, and while she normally adored shifts with the girl, she couldn’t find it in herself to even crack a smile at her. It wasn’t Elizabeth’s fault, of course, and she would never purposefully take it out on her, but Y/N just didn’t have the energy to try that day.

When lunch time rolled around and Y/N knew George would be arriving soon, she busied herself with meaningless tasks, intent on avoiding him and saving her heart any extra heartbreak, at least for the time being. She offered him a small smile when he entered, then ultimately let Elizabeth take his order.

As they chatted, Y/N noted the way he lit up with every giggle he pulled from her lips, and she swore she could hear her heart shattering. When he finally left, coffee and pastries in hand, he called out a quick goodbye to Y/N, but she only offered a small nod in return.

“Godric, he’s charming.” Elizabeth sighed, coming to lean beside Y/N. “You two are friends, yeah?”

“Mhm.” Y/N didn’t look up from the sugar packets she was organizing, watching as her hands shook slightly.

“Well, tell me about him!” Elizabeth urged, nudging Y/N with her elbow. “Is he seeing anyone?”

“No,” Y/N sighed, finally forcing herself to look up after finishing her task. “What do you want to know?”

As much as it killed her, she knew what she had to do. George deserved to be happy, and she was his best friend, so she had to help him get there. George would never want her the way she wanted him, and maybe seeing him with someone else would help her get over that fact.

“Anything. Everything.” Elizabeth beamed, her perfect smile on full display.

“Well…” Y/N sighed, gathering her thoughts. “He has a twin, Fred, and they run the joke shop that just opened down the way. He’s a middle child, sort of, I mean Fred is technically the middle child but that’s just because he was born a few minutes earlier. They’ve got three older brothers, then a younger brother and sister. His favorite colors green, but if you ask him he’ll say it’s orange because of his hair. Um, he was shit at potions, but I think that was just because he hated the professor, because really he’s a genius. Oh, and he’s the funniest guy I’ve ever met, which I tell him all the time but cannot say in front of Fred. I don’t know, I guess he’s just about the best person I know, honestly.” Y/N sighed, finishing her rambling with a forced smile.

“Merlin,” Elizabeth stared at Y/N, wide-eyed. “Sounds like you’re in love with him.”

“No, really I’m not. We’ve just been best friends forever.” Y/N laughed, the lie tumbling easily from her lips.

Because that’s what she had to do, that’s what she’d always done. To keep George in her life, to make things easier, she kept her feelings close to her heart. And no matter how much it killed her, she would continue doing it. If that’s what it took to see George happy, that’s what she’d do.

She’d lie.

TAGS: @theweasleysredhair @letsgotothehop @wand3ringr0s3 @sarcasticallywitty15 @mischiefisbeingmanaged @gcdricreads @destourtereaux @thisismysketchbook @george-fabian-weasley @evermoreweasley @amourtentiaa @lunalovecroft @sunshineandshadowss

#george weasley x reader #george weasley fanfic #george weasley x you #george weasley x y/n #george weasley

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o-wise-corvid · 4 years

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Okay so there’s some mentions of children in pain and going through some severe physical stuff. Dark Side torture to build their hatred type stuff. DONT read if that’s too much.

People who were wanting more: @captainrexisboo @clonetrooperrights @koskareevesismyqueen @gospelofme @jgvfhl @ct-27-fives

WARNINGS: mild mentions of torture/ broken bones/ character in pain

Chapter 1: Two, Three, Four, Five

“Get your elbow up! Block with your shins and forearms... Use your points! There you go!”

To be possessed of such a small frame, Gaia never failed to impress Cody with the way she could change direction. She could run full tilt at a training droid, her whole body leaning into the sprint, then check herself, pivoting on a dime to swing up behind it. One firm kick and there was a clanker head lying at his feet.

She ran with what he could only define as commitment, pushing her entire being into a single goal. That wasn’t something he’d taught her to do, but something she’d brought herself; Cody encouraged her natural talents as often as he encouraged the practiced techniques he’d been showing her for over a year.

Gaia rode the toppling chassis to the floor, crouching on its back with a triumphant smile on her face. “How was that?”

Cody grinned at her. “Very nice. Those reinforced gauntlets really help with the punches, don’t they?”

Gaia inspected the new armor that sheathed her arms from knuckles to elbow, matte black instead of shiny. Which was a good choice given the wear the things had already gotten after one day. “Yes. No more broken knuckles.”

“No more broken knuckles,” he agreed, scooping her up. Gaia laughed and rested her small hands on his chest plate. Cody could swear she’d grown since the day before, her weight already not so easy to manage as it had once been. “But what did Papa tell you about broken bones?”

“They grow back stronger,” Gaia recited dutifully, dark eyes serious. Too serious for one so young. “Did you ever break your knuckles, Papa?”

Cody opened his mouth to answer, smiling at a memory of another brother, Kix, belligerently scolding him about his frequent visits due to how he fought droids. But another voice interjected.

“Captain.” Sixthree wobbled over anxiously, arms lifting in manufactured excitement. “You are being summoned by Lord Vader. He wishes you to bring the young lady along.”

Icy tendrils of fear shuffled their way through his body and he tightened his grip on Gaia reflexively. “Bring her with me? You’re certain about that?” he tried, despite knowing the droid would have relayed the message accurately.

“Yes sir.”

“Papa.” Gaia pulled his face around to look right at him. She touched her forehead to his. “I know what to do. Let’s go.”

He couldn’t help but smile. Her accent had changed, picking up the thicker vowels and light r’s that Jango Fett had passed down to all his Clones. In such a clear, delicate voice, it sounded especially sweet.

“I know you do,” Cody told her, lowering her to her feet. “What do you call me?”

“ ‘Sir’ if I speak at all, sir,” Gaia snapped, spine straightening like a flagpole.

“Do you look at me if you’re asked a question?”

“No sir.”

“Do you fear me?” He put a little edge in his voice, looming to his full height as he paced a tight circle around her.

“Yes sir.” Gaia didn’t track him with her eyes, didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. She was good, he had to admit. She’d picked up on what survival meant so quickly and she’d practiced everything to the point that she performed without thinking.

“Do you fear Vader?”

“Even more.”

“How do you address him?”

“My Lord.”

“Alright,” Cody finally murmured, as satisfied as he was bound to get. He touched Gaia on the top of her head, feeling the tight pattern of her braided hair under his glove, then sheathed his face in his helmet.

They stalked through the ship as one. Gaia had assumed a posture and cadence to her steps that mirrored his own, which carried a menace that even ranking officers knew to give room. She had figured out an expression of intensity that looked positively chilling on a little girl and wore it whenever she was in public. Cody admired the girl’s drive and grasp of her circumstances, even though their routine was beyond familiar.

Vader was awaiting Cody in the hangar bay, just as imposing as he’d ever been. Gaia didn’t react to his presence as they entered the long, mostly empty expanse. He wondered how she perceived him in the Force, what he felt like to the other senses that she was gifted with. From the outside, she looked inscrutable, her boots clicking in time with Cody’s as they approached the hulking figure. When Cody stopped, so did she and they both snapped a salute.

“Captain,” Vader rumbled. His sloping helmet shifted so that his attention was obviously fixed on Gaia. “Cadet.”

“My Lord,” Cody and Gaia said together and they both gave a short bow.

Vader stepped over to Gaia, sinking down on one knee until he was more level with the girl. She stared stoically ahead. “I see your training is progressing well, young one. Tell me, what do you sense in this room?”

Gaia frowned a little, but her expression was one of concentration rather than concern. “You, my Lord. The Dark Side is strong with you. The Captain. And... two others.”

Vader actually chuckled and the sound made the buzzed hair on the back of Cody’s neck stand on end. “Well done, little one. Your training has indeed progressed.” Rising, he affixed Cody with his soulless stare. “You are being tasked with the training of two others, Captain. Your success with this one is evident. I am leaving these in your command.”

Two Stormtroopers came hurrying up, each gripping a squirming person in their arms the way someone holding a feral animal would. Cody could see that they were children due to their size but because they were thrashing so wildly, there wasn’t much he could tell about them apart from the fact that they were both Zabraks.

Vader nodded to the Stormtroopers to set their burdens down, which they did, and then hurriedly backed away. Which Cody almost snorted at because it wasn’t like the kids could bite them through their armor. But then he noticed the scrapes and gouges in the white helmets; one of the eyes was shattered.

“Mind the horns, sir,” one of them offered nervously.

One of the Zabrak children twisted around, flailing a little with bound hands and legs, and actually growled at Cody. His blue eyes burned against his dusky skin, bits of plastoid shavings and visor glass stuck in the crown of amber horns along the boy’s scalp.

“I’ll have them tamed in a month, my Lord,” Cody said confidently though he had to admit that both boys looked fierce enough to take on Wookies.

“We shall see, Captain.”

Cody and Gaia glanced at each other, as Vader turned, the Stormtroopers sweeping into his wake. “Can you help me get them to our quarters?” he asked quietly. “I can get one; two might be a lot.”

Gaia grinned and stretched out a hand toward the boys. The other, green-eyed one shot up, dangling by his ankles. Cody almost laughed. Gaia wasn’t one to overdo it if she didn’t have to. Lifting the boy by his binders was easier than trying to just lift his entire body.

Cody snatched up the blue-eyed one in much the same way, keeping him at arm’s length as much as he could. The Zabrak swayed and snarled nonetheless, trying to reach Cody with his horns. Once, Cody was sure he felt the Force flutter weakly at his armored side.

Gaia had a worse time of it. Her size was the biggest problem. Green eyes squinted furiously at her and her legs flew sideways as if she’d walked over an oil slick. Gaia caught herself without dropping the Zabrak on his head and glared hotly at the boy. “Do it again and I’ll break your ankles.”

Cody looked at her worriedly, glad for the concealment of his helmet. He’d never heard such a deadly note in the girl’s voice and it chilled him. He knew she was under the charge of a slightly Forceful woman who visited the ship once a month, but what exactly happened during the hours Gaia would be away from him there, he could never say. He knew how she returned, though; it was usually hours before she finally responded to him verbally. She always crawled into his bunk on those nights, clinging to him like her sanity depended on it.

When they were finally inside his quarters, Cody flipped the blue-eyed boy as gently as he could onto the bunk, carefully righting him so he was sitting up. Gaia did the same with the other and then threw her arms around his neck. The boy’s eyes flew open wide.

“I wouldn’t have done it,” she hurried. “I promise. You have to make everyone out there feel like you would though. If they don’t think you’re bad, they won’t trust you. Do you understand?”

A wave of fierce pride seemed to bubble up from somewhere near Cody’s feet, thawing the frost of Vader’s presence out of his veins. That was his ad’ika, his Gaia. If she could keep that moral core, that goodness, and survive what could be a very horrible existence with it in tact... What a warrior she could be.

Both boys were listening now, glancing between Gaia, who knelt between them on the skinny mattress, and Cody. He took off his helmet and set it on the Gaia’s bunk. Guess he’d be needing to add two more. His quarters were starting to get really cramped now that he thought about it. He felt his lips tug to the side; Fives would’ve loved it, though, wouldn’t he? Fives always did prefer to keep everyone close, within arms reach if need be.

“You’re... wait...” The one Cody had hauled in was frowning, trying to make this new information make sense. He stared at Gaia as if he’d never seen anything so perplexing in his entire life and then his gaze shifted over to Cody. “You’re a Clone.”

“Yeah.” He knelt down and Gaia scrambled off the bed, looping her arms around his neck from behind. He patted her clasped hands and locked eyes with both boys. “I won’t lie to you. This place is dangerous. For all of us. Clones aren’t supposed to be like me. They’re all under the control of the Empire, in here,” Cody tapped his temple for emphasis. “Gaia, here? If she was what they wanted, she really would have broken your ankles. It’s not easy, being us and being here. But together, we can make it. Think you can find it in yourselves to trust us?”

“How long have you been here?” It was the blue-eyed Zabrak who spoke. His accent was as sharp as his canines.

“Over a year,” Gaia replied with a tightening of her arms around Cody’s neck. He wasn’t sure, but it felt like she was somehow guarding him, like she was prepared to launch herself over his shoulder if one of the boys tried anything. “Papa Cody helped me. He’ll help you, too. And when they start teaching you how to... do things, it won’t be easy. But he makes it better.”

The boys looked at each other and then both sighed. “Okay... what should we do?”

“Pick your names.” Gaia beamed at them both. “You can pick anything.”

Cody chuckled, Gaia’s excitement tangible as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “My brothers, the other Clones, all chose their own names before the Empire happened. It was something we all looked forward to.”

“Soren,” bubble the green-eyed boy. He beamed at his brother. “Like that pilot.”

The other boy rolled his eyes indulgently. “I know.” He looked down in his lap as Cody gently unfastened the binders around his wrists. “Who was your favorite?”

Cody frowned. “Favorite...?”

“Brother.”

Gaia was looking at him now, too. She knew, Cody suspected. He’d told her so many stories about his little brother, the one who’d earned Jaig eyes his first tour. The brother who’d walked out of the barracks fresher one morning with bleached, barely-there hair and a strut like some sort of Coruscanti model. The brother who’d stood up to a rogue Jedi, defying orders despite the knowledge that doing so might’ve meant his own life.

“Rex,” he said in a tight voice.

“Can I have it, too?”

Cody swallowed, which was difficult, but nodded. “Sure. I think... I think the other Rex would be happy to share his name with you.”

The next six months skipped by very quickly. Gaia went through a growth spurt, shooting up to only an inch or so less than Cody. Soren and Rex took to their combat training like they were born for it. Their physiology leant itself to acrobatics and the boys both favored using their own heads as weapons whenever they could.

Cody finally took the leap and shaved his head, actually feeling pleased at the result. The kids all took turns helping him, giggling and getting into a shaving gel fight before everything was said and done. Then they took turns “buffing” his smooth scalp to make him “shiny like Sixthree”.

Gaia took to guarding her new brothers like they were her own flesh and blood. She talked gently but firmly to them prior to their first session with the woman Gaia called The Teacher, and while both boys looked markedly frightened, she promised them vehemently that she would be there the entire time.

Cody tried not to think about the way all three had looked upon returning for their sleep cycle. Acid burns had peppered the left arm of each child, and Gaia sported an angry red and purple slap mark on her left cheek. He’d arrived back at their jammed quarters after a day spent forcing himself not to think about what was happening with... with his children, only to find them huddled together on his bed while Sixthree tried to soothe them while he applied bacta to their blistered skin. Gaia had thrown herself into front of the door when Cody had turned on his heel with murder in his heart, barring his way and begging him to just stay.

“Papa, what happens if you do kill her?” Gaia had demanded quietly. “They’d kill you. And then what about us?”

His awe of the girl never seemed to lessen, but only expanded more and more every day. She was so strong and so smart, protective to a fault, even of him. He adored her in a way that was no more or less than the boys, but was something different. The boys were like shadows of his childhood, ghosts of little brother cadets possessing different bodies. They felt familiar and like parts of himself that he’d lost. Gaia was more like a miniature, not quite realized version of something that Cody had never actually experienced: a mother. But this would have to be how mothers were. Right?

Two more kids were brought to the ship a week after the head shaving event. Both were just as feral and unwieldy as Soren and Rex had been, especially the youngest one to date, who was only nine. He was the most difficult of them all. And Kali was the one who had tried to Force choke him the second she’d laid eyes on him.

Shriek, the boy, had done exactly that the second that Vader and the kid’s handlers had departed. To say that the boy had a pair of lungs on him was an understatement, but it wasn’t the volume that sent Cody to his knees. Images of his brothers screaming in agony seared his brain like hot knives. Rex, falling and tumbling, the fear in his voice split Cody’s skull. Kix taking blaster bolt after blaster bolt, toppling to his knees with lifeless eyes before anther brother took his place. Wolffe stretched with his limbs pulled taught, Grievous placing a lightsaber at the junction of his shoulder and arm as he unsheathed it. The screams layered, the same but different faces bleeding over and around each other in an unending torrent of pure misery until... the varactyl scream.

Soren surged into action, clapping a dark hand over Shriek’s mouth so hard that it made tears spring into the boy’s dark hazel eyes. Rex tackled Kali, who had flown to her feet and was running away like a frightened animal. Gaia planted herself between the boy who would be called Shriek, arms raised defensively, face taught with concentration.

“Get... out... of his head,” she struggled to say, sinking down on one knee as if some huge weight was pressing her into the plastisteel floor. She whooped in a breath and then growled through gritted teeth, arms trembling furiously. Cody had relied on later recounts of the event to fill in the gaps in his memory but that moment, the relief as... it withdrew from him, was one that remained crystal clear.

No one had moved for a long while after that, all five just breathing loudly. Shriek lay stiff and shivering in Soren’s arms. Kali had allowed Rex to turn her loose, her purple lekku draped over each shoulder as she slumped to her knees. Gaia had collapsed to her hands and knees, but not before knocking her foot against his arm. Are you okay?

He started to tell her he was okay, but he knew he wasn’t, so he didn’t say anything. Such tenderness also wouldn’t have looked good to outside eyes. Instead, Cody straightened out of the curled ball he’d been reduced to by a child and tried to get to one knee. A lancing stab of white hot fire shot through his head, cracking over his right temple and behind his eye. The noise that tore out of him was startling even to him.

“I’ve got to get him to medical,” Gaia said quietly, glancing at Soren and Rex. “Take them to our quarters. Gag that one.”

Kali didn’t resist and instead benignly followed Rex and Soren as they hefted Shriek between them, careful not to glance worriedly back at Gaia as she struggled to get Cody standing again.

“Come on, Papa,” she whispered, fitting her shoulders under his arm. “Help me.”

Energized a little by the girl’s plea, Cody got his feet under him, live blaster round loose in his skull and all, and kept himself righted long enough for Gaia to half drag him to medical. How she did it other than through the Force, he was never able to really comprehend afterward. It was only the next morning, after he came to with five small faces watching him intently did he realize that he’d been unconscious.

“Captain, sir,” Gaia roused the group with a sharp salute and they all lined up beside his bed. Each was dressed in matching simple black body glove, kama, and black vambraces, their faces ghostly in the too bright lights of the medbay.

“At... at ease,” he said, groaning quietly at the sensation of light in his eyes as he slowly pushed himself up on the bed. The five children obeyed in flawless, unnerving synchronization.

“Cadets Kali and Shriek have made a change of opinion since last you spoke, sir.” Gaia intoned in what he could only describe as a menacing voice. But the names... that was promising, he hoped.

She broke rank and placed behind the line, her recent gains in height very evident amongst the others. “Haven’t you?” she snapped pointedly, glaring into the faces of the vibrantly purple Twi’Lek and pale young human as she gave each of them a healthy smack on the shoulder that was anything but friendly.

Again, Cody felt the gnaw of worry mixed with shock at how good Gaia was at this.

“Yes sir,” they both answered, addressing Gaia. That was a nice touch.

She turned to Cody, betraying not announce of emotion other than agitation. “We will leave you to your rest, sir. I would like to put the newbies through their paces, sir, with your permission.”

“Permission granted,” Cody said in as flat and hard a voice as he could muster.

Waiting until the kids had trooped out in single file, he reached over to the pile of discarded armor that someone had removed from his body and grabbed his communicator. “Sixthree?”

There was a pause and then the too chipper voice of the protocol droid responded. “Captain. Oh, I do hope you are sufficiently recovered?”

“I... yeah, I’m okay. Listen. We’re gonna need a bigger room. Six beds. A master suite for myself, a group room for the... squad.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Maybe room for a proper kitchen and place to eat. See what you can do about that, yeah?”

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #sunshine squad #commander cody #my oc’s #oc’s #original character #darth vader #the clone wars #fives #kix #clones #captian rex

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argylemnwrites · 4 years

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I Fold

Pairing: Drake Walker x MC (Riley Liu)

Book: The Royal Romance (Book 1, chapter 12)

Word Count: ~2400

Rating: PG-13 (language, mild sensuality)

Summary: Spending time with her always feels like a gamble

Author’s Note: Written for the @choicesmonthlychallenge for August 21 - temptation. With TRH3 coming out today, I found myself feeling a little bummed that I had no desire to play this series I once loved, so I decided to throw this together to revisit a time when I adored this series and these characters.

Drake stepped into the lounge almost tentatively, scanning the room quickly from the doorway and letting out a sigh when he confirmed he was alone. He didn’t want to think about the fact that there was a lot of disappointment mixed in with his relief at that realization.

He walked over to the bar, rooting through the bottles of liquor until he found the Bushmills he was looking for. He had no reason to suspect that she would be joining him tonight. She wouldn’t even know about this lounge at Applewood. But then again, she’d stumbled upon him in that lounge back at the palace without any warning, and she hadn’t exactly known where to find him then, at least at first. It had been pure coincidence.

The truth he didn’t want to admit was that he’d rather enjoyed the handful of nights they’d spent drinking whiskey and playing poker. Before they’d made the trip to Applewood, it had kind of settled into a late night tradition, with her waiting for him in the lounge after the first couple of times. But now, things were apparently back to normal, which Drake knew in his soul was for the best. Since his birthday yesterday, he was having thoughts he definitely shouldn’t be. Or rather, more thoughts he shouldn’t be. But part of him still just wanted to spend a little more time with her.

He took his glass of whiskey and headed for the couches, pulling out his phone and trying to not feel let down that it looked like she wasn’t joining him. After all, he’d never had problems drinking alone before she dropped into his life. So, he pulled up scores from the football matches today and was ready to watch some highlights when he heard the door creak open.

His eyes flew to the door in an instant. There she was, her dark hair swinging as she glanced around the room, a smile appearing when she met his gaze.

“There you are. I’ve been hunting for where you might be hiding,” she said, stepping fully into the lounge, closing the door behind her. She’d changed into a pair of tight jeans and a loose, purplish sort of top. She looked good, so much more comfortable than he’d seen her all day. “After not only being forced to bake today, but forced to bake with Olivia, I definitely need a drink.”

Drake moved to stand up and pour her some whiskey, but she shook her head. “I got it. Why don’t you find some cards?” And just like that, she was striding over to the bar like she owned the place. His eyes drifted down, watching the way her hips and ass rolled in those jeans before he snapped out of it, jerking his head to the side and standing up, running his hands through his hair as he made his way to the small cupboard off to the side. He needed to stop. He couldn’t let himself get carried away here.

“What’s on the drink menu tonight?” he heard her call out as he dug around, trying to find a deck of cards and some poker chips.

“Bushmills, but if you want something else, Liu-”

“Nah, that’s fine with me.” He heard the splash of liquid into a glass as he continued his search. He eventually found an old deck of cards, but there did not appear to be any chips.

“How’s the hunt going?” she asked, her voice much closer. She must be at the coffee table.

“I don’t think there are any poker chips here, Liu.” He reached his arm in as deep as he could, feeling around the back of the cupboard, but he was still coming up empty.

“Hmmm. Do you have any cash on you? We could use that.”

He pivoted to face her, finding her sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, her arms wrapped around her knees. “Are you literally trying to take my money? Because of all your potential marks at the manor, I’m probably the dumbest choice.”

She threw her head back and laughed at that, deep and rich, her black hair hanging like a surreal curtain behind her. “Maybe I just figured I could start small, gradually work my way through the court!” He chuckled lightly at that before she continued, “But seriously, I don’t know. I was just trying to come up with something we could use. So unless you have other ideas…” She trailed off with a little shrug, her dark eyes wide as they locked on his. The silence that followed was tense and expectant.

Drake swallowed roughly. He could think of one option besides poker chips as he let his eyes drift across her body, picturing each piece of clothing she was wearing piled on the table in front of her. Those damn jeans that fit her like a second skin. That shirt that was loose and slipping off her shoulder just a bit. The bra he knew was blue based on the strap he could see on that shoulder. Her panties, probably not a matching blue, but still undoubtedly perfect, regardless of color.

He tried to reign in his overactive imagination, dragging his eyes back to her face, shocked to see a coy little smirk on her face. It almost felt like she was flirting, like she wanted him to suggest strip poker or something, but he knew he had to be just imagining things, so he shook his head to get that way too appealing fantasy out of his mind, twisting back to the cupboard and looking at their actual options.

“How about Scrabble tiles?”

There was a slight pause before she answered, “That could work.”

So he tugged the old box of Scrabble from the shelf and joined her on the floor, resting his back against the couch behind him as he set the game on the coffee table and handed her the deck of cards, ignoring how her fingers brushed against his as he did so. As she shuffled the deck, he sorted out the tiles, dividing them into vowels and consonants, then sliding half of each pile over to her.

“Alright, vowels are one, consonants are five, ante is one? That work for you, Liu?”

She nodded. “Five card draw?” They’d mixed it up a couple of times, but they seemed to both prefer the standard.

“Sounds good.”

And so she dealt the cards. He watched her hands as she briskly alternated placing cards in front of each of them. He noticed a bit of glitter in her pink nail polish. He wasn’t sure if she knew that wasn’t exactly appropriate for court, or if she did and it was a tiny bit of rebellion. He liked to think it was the latter.

“So, how long do Apple Court cup-bearer duties last?” Riley asked as she picked up her cards, scanning them over without changing her expression. “Should you have tasted my whiskey before I had any?”

Drake lifted his eyes from the five cards he was holding to look at her. Her eyes were bright and playful, an eyebrow cocked and the corner of her lips quirked up.

“Ha. Ha,” he deadpanned, looking back at his cards, trying to decide whether he should play it safe and keep his pair of tens, or trade in one of them and to go for a flush as he tossed in an “I” as his initial bet. “Nice to see the power of being fake queen is already going to your head. Good practice for when you’re actually queen.”

She let out a little hum at that, but didn’t say anything else when she matched him with an “O.” It surprised Drake, as normally she gave as good as she got. But for whatever reason, his little teasing comment didn’t draw a response from her. He wondered if he’d struck a nerve. That hadn’t been his goal, but maybe she was worried he really saw her as just as stuck up and irritating as the rest of them. He didn’t know how that could be, because who else at court would sit on the floor and drink whiskey straight up with him? But this place tended to have a way of screwing with minds. He knew that better than anyone probably.

“Liu, I was just teasing. I know you aren’t-”

“It’s not that,” she interrupted, shaking her head lightly as she took the three cards he offered her and passed him three new ones from the deck. “It’s just… Do you really think I’ll be queen?”

He felt a gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Of course she was just worried that Liam wasn’t as interested as she was. She didn’t care how he saw her at all. He glanced at his new cards, disappointed to find nothing useful. The pair of tens was going to have to be good enough. He tossed an “E” tile into the pot before he answered, “Liu, I’m not gonna act like a teenager and gossip about my best friend’s feelings. You are smart enough to see that-”

“That’s not what I meant. I… sometimes… I don’t know. I just don’t feel like I’m cut out to be queen, you know?”

His eyes jumped to her face, but she was staring at her hand, aggressively avoiding eye contact with him as she tossed in a “K” tile, raising his bet.

“Liu, where is this coming from?” He kept staring at her, trying to determine what she wanted here. Did she want a confidence boost and pep talk? Or did she want his honest assessment? Because while he was sure she could be an amazing queen, a breath of fresh air, bringing common sense and real world experiences to the role, he also was scared of what being queen might do to her. To be queen was to play peacemaker, to embody decorum and diplomacy at all times. And she was too fierce, too intense, too free to ever be truly happy locked away in that gilded cage.

She gave a little shrug after a moment, finally looking up to meet his eyes. “I just don’t have anything in common with any of the other suitors. I’m nothing like them at all, and it just makes me wonder if I’m right for this. They’ve trained all their lives for this shit, and if I am so different from them, then I don’t see how I am remotely the right choice.”

“Your differences from them are why you are the right choice, Liu. You aren’t sheltered or out of touch or completely stuck up your own ass.”

“I just don’t know. It feels so weird and the closer the Coronation gets, I just…” she trailed off, biting her lip and staring at him with those damn eyes. She looked lost and unsure, and he wasn’t used to that.

“Did Olivia or Madeleine say something today?” It was the only thing he could think that would have made her suddenly unsettled.

Riley shook her head aggressively. “God no! And I know better than to let anything those bitches say get to me. I’ve just been thinking about it more lately, and I just can’t picture myself sitting there with a crown on my head and a smile plastered on my face.”

Drake shrugged. She wasn’t exactly wrong, and he wasn’t going to lie to her. She would have to put on a happy face publicly a lot when she married Liam.

When he didn’t say anything, she kept going. “Sometimes it all just feels so surreal, like I’m an actress in some cheap romance movie. I don’t know… I guess the only times I feel like I’m still a real human are…”

Her eyes dropped to the surface of the coffee table as she trailed off again. He followed her gaze, surprised to see her hand mere millimeters from his, his little finger nearly touching her thumb. It happened almost in slow motion, as he watched her thumb scoot over, brushing over the back of his hand deliberately.

Drake looked up and was shocked to find her staring at him, her gaze so intense it almost felt like it could cut through him. He didn’t know what she was looking for, what she was searching for in him, but he couldn’t bring himself to break the moment, to look away. So he stared right back. The urge to slide their hands together, the temptation to lean over and kiss her was so strong, he almost felt himself leaning towards her.

But he knew he couldn’t. It would be a massive mistake. She was just getting worn down by the stresses of the social season, and she was looking for comfort where she could find it. He knew it had to be true. Hell, the only reason she kept coming back for these midnight poker games was probably because she just needed a moment away from all the pressure and he kind of just represented the antithesis of that whole world. It had nothing to actually do with him beyond his outsider status.

She was here for Liam. He should be the one to kiss away her worries and fears, to hold her close, to reassure her. Drake was just supposed to keep an eye on her, not steal those intimate moments. So he closed his eyes, trying to break the spell it felt like she had him under with her stare as he cleared his throat, sliding his hand back. “I fold.”

He opened his eyes to find her still staring at him, an almost skeptical look in her eyes. He felt his cheeks getting slightly warm with her continued attention, so he shoved the handful of Scrabble tiles over to her, trying to move this evening back in a safer direction. “Here, just take your damn winnings so I can deal the next hand.”

She didn’t say anything as she tossed her hand onto the discard pile and handed him the deck. Out of curiosity, he flipped over those five cards. The five of clubs, the three and nine of diamonds, and the six and Jack of spades. She had nothing, had been bluffing the entire time.

“What can I say? Sometimes you just need to raise the stakes.” He glanced up at her statement and saw her watching him. “What did you have?”

“It doesn’t matter, Liu.” And with that, he shuffled his hand into the deck, dealing the cards out without saying another word. From where he was sitting, the stakes were already high enough.

Permatag: @choicesficwriterscreations @walkerswhiskeygirl @riley--walker @bebepac @ravenpuff02 @oofchoices @octobereighth @drakewalker04 @kimmiedoo5 @mfackenthal @thequeenofcronuts

The Royal Romance/The Royal Heir: @iaminlovewithtrr @ao719 @mskaneko @katedrakeohd @jovialyouthmusic @marshmallowsandfire @axwalker @kingliam2019 @sirbeepsalot @texaskitten30 @princessleac1 @ladyangel70 @dcbbw @yaushie

Drake x MC: @no-one-u-know @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @iplaydrake @gibbles82 @drakewalkerisreal @notoriouscs @drakesensworld @drake-colt-lover-99

#drake walker #drake x mc #trr fanfic #trr #choices fanfiction #the royal romance

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meteora-writes · 4 years

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We Could Be Perfect One Last Night ch.6

Fandom: Hannibal Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Will Graham Warnings: Mild Angst, Silly Accents, Snark, Original Characters, More Snark Chapter: 6. We’re Not Celebrities Description: Six days after they arrive at the cabin Hannibal takes a trip to gather more supplies and reaches out to Chiyoh for assistance. Authors Notes: So I was going to add a scene with Jack in this chapter, but it was running long and I scrapped it for now. Hope you all enjoy. Read on AO3

~~~~~ Read Ch.1 ~ Ch.2 ~ Ch.3 ~ Ch.4 ~ Ch.5~~~~~

“You’re sure you want to go alone?” Will asks for the third time since Hannibal announced he would be taking the motorcycle and heading into town to purchase a disposable phone at one of the mini-marts they passed on the way to the cabin six days prior.

After two days of snow and another four days of low temperatures, the weather had finally warmed enough to melt away the majority of the snow and ice that covered the dirt road that connects the cabin back to the highway. It’s a three-mile stretch. And another four to the closest shop. So they’ve had to wait for the weather to be on their side before either of them could attempt to go anywhere.

“Will, you know as well as I that the authorities are likely looking for us. If only one of us goes out at a time we are far less likely to be noticed. I should only be gone a half-hour at most.” Hannibal looks a touch amused by Will’s worries as he buttons the cuffs of his leather jacket. There’s a hint of mirthfulness in his eyes that’s hard to miss.

“Maybe I should go instead. You do have a fairly distinct accent. If you speak around the wrong people they could call the police,” Will finds himself suggesting. In truth, he doesn’t want either of them to go. But they’re running low on food and they need a phone to reach out to Chiyoh sooner than later.

Hannibal chuckles and shakes his head as he finishes buttoning his cuffs and quickly zips his jacket. “I am perfectly capable of concealing my accent when the situation calls for it,” he informs Will in an almost perfect British accent. “Or would you prefer I try to sound more like you, perhaps?” he tries in a more Americanized pronunciation. It doesn’t quite work, though. One would almost think it was a New England accent, except the vowels still sounding too European in pronunciation.

Will can’t help himself when Hannibal tries to imitate an American accent, the urge to mess with the other man is just too strong to resist. “Not bad, cher. Sept I don’t tink you got dem vowels quite right. Might get people askin’ who dat if you not careful now.” The slightly over-exaggerated thick Cajun accent gets a look of clear surprise from Hannibal that has Will trying hard not to bust out laughing by the time he finishes speaking the words. “Mo chagren,” he adds with a grin that pulls painfully at the stitches in his cheek before going on. “I’m from Louisiana. I speak as clear and concisely as I do exactly because I knew no one would take me seriously if I spoke in that dialect or even just that accent this far east.”

“Shame. I would love to hear you speak French more often,” Hannibal laments with a small smile that’s all teasing. It earns him a hint of pink in Will’s cheeks that only makes his smile grow.

“Unfortunately my French is abysmal at best,” Will informs him before clearing his throat a bit awkwardly. “We only ever spoke it when visiting my grandparents and cousins for the holidays, and that was over twenty years ago,” Will adds with a shake of his head as he avoids looking Hannibal in the eyes. “Just, be careful. Okay?”

“Of course.” Is all Hannibal says in return before he heads out the door.

Will watches him take off, not looking away until the motorcycle is out of sight. He knows Hannibal going on this run is necessary. That they need food and that phone. But that doesn’t change the anxiety he feels at Hannibal going without him.

They’re both recovering slowly. Hannibal still can’t stand for too long, but he can do so for long enough that this run shouldn’t be a problem. Part of Will worries it’ll be too much, but he trusts Hannibal to know his own limits. As for Will, he still can’t get up from a horizontal or even a sitting position without his head feeling like it’s going to explode, which is apparently common for skull fractures. He’ll take that over the irritating feel of stitches in his mouth any day.

The only thing that’s helped him stay sane, aside from talking with Hannibal about nothing important, is the tackle box of fishing supplies he found in the rafters on the second day of the storm. There were enough supplies inside for him to make a dozen lures with plenty of odds and ends to spare. He would have made more, but without his glasses or a magnifying glass to help him work on the smaller details, he’s been working at a snail’s pace.

He eyes the lures where they rest on the wooden table in the center of the room. Hannibal had taken to watching him work from the couch more often than not, usually with that notebook in his lap as he continued to sketch. Will didn’t ask what he was sketching after the first day. He figures it’s a toss-up between Will being his continued subject, or he’s drawing places he’s been or other people he’s seen.

The notebook rests beside the tackle box. It’s open. Page showing a half-drawn landscape that Will doesn’t recognize. Curiosity gets the better of him after a moment and he picks the book up to get a closer look.

It’s a meadow by a stream. Dozens of tiny flowers stretching out over the page until they meet a rocky riverbed. The rocks and pebbles have the most detail so far. The flowers only faint outlines. The detail of the river is what really surprises Will. It has shading to it that in the right light makes it look like the water is moving.

After a moment, he flips the page back, wondering what else Hannibal could have been drawing these past few days.

Sure enough, there are a few sketches of Will in with various cities and landscapes. Not all are finished, like his inspiration shifted mid drawing and he had to move on to something else until later.

The drawing Hannibal made their first night in the cabin has Will sitting down and studying it in awe. It’s the most detailed of the ones in the book. Capturing even the smallest details of the setting. The wrinkles in the shirt Will wore that was too big for him. The bit of torn leather on the back of the couch he had been tugging at mindlessly. The shadows cast by the firelight to his back. Even the faint bruises and scrapes on his hands and arms are there.

Despite it being a portrait of himself, Will feels like he’s invading Hannibal’s privacy looking at it like this. He flips the book closed and sets it down beside the tackle box once more before running his hands through his shaggy brown curls. He suddenly feels like the cabin is too small. Like he needs to get out.

He throws on his boots and jacket quickly, not bothering with gloves or any other layers to help him keep warm in his rush to just get up and go.

It’s early afternoon. Sun warm in the sky above. But it’s still only in the forties out and there’s a bit of a breeze that makes it feel just as cold as it actually is. Will feels like the wind cuts right through him the minute he steps out into it. It’s a welcome sensation. Letting him draw a deep breath in through his nose that fills his lungs and calms his nerves.

There’s a shed behind the cabin. Hannibal had moved the motorcycle in there before the storm hit. Will hasn’t taken a look inside before now and he’s a bit disappointed by its contents. There isn’t much to be found. Some old tools, metal buckets, a large hatchet, and a rusty jerry can.

Eyeing the hatchet a moment, Will grabs it and turns to the stack of wood beside the house. It’s mostly down to larger pieces. Ones that need splitting. Hannibal had said they would be fine for a while with what was already broken down. But Will doubts it, eyeing the pile now for himself.

It’s stupid, he knows it is. But he needs to do something with himself. So, he grabs a piece of wood, gets it set out on a nearby stump that’s clearly where the previous occupants of the cabin cut wood before, and swings.

His shoulder protests the action. Arm twitching at the use of muscles and tendons that aren’t ready for this kind of movement. The pain it causes is grounding, though. So, he shakes the ax free from where it stuck in the wood, fixes it’s position on the stump, and swings again. This time cutting the wood clean through the center. The pieces fall to either side of the stump, clattering on the frozen ground.

“Still got it…” Will mutters to himself before he picks the pieces up and tosses them onto the short end of the pile beside the house. Hannibal will likely give him hell for this when he returns. But that’s a problem for later. He sets up the next piece of wood with a small smile to himself and gets ready for a workout.

~~~~~

The mini-mart is busy when Hannibal pulls up and parks on the far side of the lot. It’s a relief. Busy shops mean less likelihood of being noticed unless you act out of the ordinary. One of the things he prides himself on is his ability to act normal even in the most unusual of circumstances.

There are a few old bikers in the lot. Talking outside the front door as they smoke cigarettes and stand around their bikes. One spot Hannibal as he sets his helmet on the handlebars of his bike and grins.

“Nice ride,” the older man calls out as he nods to the motorcycle beside Hannibal.

“Thanks,” Hannibal calls back, taking care with how he pronounces the word to make it sound more Americanized. “Nice jacket,” he adds when he notices the various patches on the jacket denoting the man as being part of a group that he’s read about in news articles that helps protect children that were victims of abuse. He may find the culture to be crude, but what they do with their time is admirable.

The biker grins at the compliment, sporting a few missing and broken teeth that look like the guy might have lost in an accident at some point. Other than that they don’t say anything and neither does his buddies as Hannibal walks past.

The shop is a decent size on the inside. Sporting a liquor section and impressive deli and fresh food area. It’s almost all junk. But it has vegetables and fruit, of which Hannibal is grateful. He grabs a basket and makes a b-line for the small aisle with the disposable phones and other odds and ends first.

He scans over the tops of the shelves as he walks, observing his surroundings and the other patrons as he starts filling the basket with goods. There are three cashiers working. Half a dozen other customers milling about, two more talking by the soda fountain in the back of the deli area, and another three at the registers buying whatever it is they came to buy.

Nobody pays anybody else any mind. Even the workers seem disinterested in everyone else. It’s reassuring. As is the fact that he only sees a single security camera and it’s pointed at the registers. He can easily stand so that his face isn’t in view and just make it look like he’s simply distracted.

There’s a stack of newspapers by the case the freshly made sandwiches are kept in, and Hannibal grabs one of each along with a few days worth of fruit and sandwiches. He’s already grabbed them some more drinks, not trusting the water from the well and not wanting to have to boil it every time they need some. And much as he dislikes it, he also grabbed some more cans of soup.

Thankfully, though, this shop also had a dairy case with eggs and breakfast meats inside, which means he can cook a real meal for a change. In the end, he has much more than he intended to buy. But he wants to be able to make at least a few meals that aren’t made from cans and boxes or were pre-made by someone in a hairnet.

“Feeding an army?” the cashier asks as she begins to ring up and bag everything. She’s in her late teens, clearly bored and not even really paying attention as she works. For a second it strikes Hannibal how much she looks like Abigail and he has to shake the thought off before he can say anything.

“Lost power in that storm. Need some things to hold us over until they get it up and running again,” Hannibal explains in as dismissive a tone as possible while maintaining the accent he’s going for.

“You must live pretty far out if you don’t have power back yet,” she notes, still not really paying him any mind.

That makes Hannibal huff a laugh and he almost turns to face her fully but stops himself so his face isn’t in view of the camera. He doesn’t answer her, and the girl doesn’t say anything else until everything is run up and bagged.

He pays her and hooks the various plastic bags over his arms before heading back outside.

The bikers are still standing around chatting, several looking over to give him a nod of approval for his choice of a ride once more as he heads to his bike and gets ready to leave.

The ride back is faster than his ride out. Anxious to get back to Will and to take a look at the papers he picked up. He also grabbed the more expensive disposable phone the shop had on the shelf. It’s a smartphone with internet capabilities. One he hopes will still have a decent connection this far from town. He would very much like to see what Freddie Lounds has written about himself and Will at this point.

The sight he arrived back to is an unexpected one.

Will is outside. Jacket off and sleeves of his dark red flannel shirt rolled up his forearms as he chops wood beside the cabin. He’s been at it for a while. Damp curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. He doesn’t pause in his work even as Hannibal pulls up a few feet away and parks the bike.

“You’ll tear your stitches,” Hannibal chides gently as he removes his helmet and studies Will with a tilt of his head.

“My stitches are fine,” Will huffs out as he swings the ax once more. He cuts clean through the log in one swing. His face is a mask of focus as he grabs the next piece and prepares to swing again like he isn’t recovering from multiple stab wounds and likely in a great deal of pain.

“Feeling a bit of cabin fever?” The question makes Will stop and tip his head back as if to look to the heavens and ask why he’s chosen to be with this man.

“I just needed some air,” Will explains with a shake of his head before laying the hatchet beside the tree stump he’s been using as a chopping block. “I take it your shopping trip went well?”

Hannibal nods as he finally climbs off the bike and grabs the plastic bags from where he had slung them over the handlebars. “It did,” he agrees as he holds a bag out of Will to carry. He takes it readily and follows Hannibal inside the cabin a moment later.

“Did you buy every paper in the store?” Will asks as he looks inside the bag. There are four different major newspapers, three local printings by smaller companies, and a single tabloid tucked under the cellphone and international phone card Hannibal had grabbed.

“I was curious to see what has been going on for the past several days,” Hannibal notes as he sets the two bags containing groceries on the small sideboard by the stove. “And I thought the reading material might be appreciated.”

Will snorts a laugh at that but says nothing as he steps up beside Hannibal, shooing him away to sit while Will puts things away.

Part of him wants to protest and assist in putting away their things, but he already feels his energy leaving him, so Hannibal goes and hangs up his jacket before taking his usual seat at the table. The bag with the phone and papers sits on the floor next to his chair, and he picks it up, pulling the phone from inside to begin removing it from its packaging.

“Is there anything in particular that I should ask Chiyoh to acquire for you while she’s making preparations for us?” Hannibal asks once he has the phone powered on and is waiting for the activation signal to go through.

Will glances over his shoulder at Hannibal from his place kneeling in front of the mini-fridge. “A pair of glasses? It’s going to be hard to read navigation charts without them,” It’s a minor inconvenience, but still one he would rather not deal with. He gets a migraine if he tries to read for too long without his glasses. He’s already got a near-constant one thanks to the fracture in his skull from being stabbed.

Humming his understanding, Hannibal looks back to the phone in his hands. He was never a fan of mobile phones. Too easy to track a person by or interrupt one's plans. At the moment, however, he sees it as a necessity they have to hold onto, at least if he’s able to contact Chiyoh.

The number he calls once the phone is activated is one he’s had memorized for ages. It goes to a small shop in England that an old family friend of his aunt owns. It’s run by her granddaughter now. She’s well aware of who Hannibal is and what he’s done. She only owns the shop now because of an unfortunate incident with her grandfather some ten years ago that left him comatose and her and her grandmother free of his abuse for the first time in their lives.

“Lorelai’s Sweets, how can I help you?” A familiar, warm alto voice answers after two rings.

“Hello, Lori,” he greets back, his own tone just as warm. She was always a kind girl and it seems that hasn’t changed in the years since he saw her last.

Will pauses in his putting away of their supplies to look over at Hannibal as he speaks on the phone. Clearly a bit confused by Hannibal greeting someone that isn’t Chiyoh.

“Hanni! Oh, thank goodness you’re alive! They said on the news that you and that former special agent friend of yours had drowned after escaping and killing the Red Dragon!” The relief in her voice is oddly comforting. “Are you alright? What can I do for you, love?”

A small smile tugs at his lips over her concern. “A bit inconvenienced, but otherwise alright, thank you for asking. I’m calling because I need to reach Chiyoh, have the two of you stayed in contact?”

“Chiyoh? Oh, yes! She started coming round to visit just after you turned yourself in to the authorities. She was here for one of her visits just last week, in fact. Left the day you escaped. I believe she’s in Maryland right now,” Lori explains as she shuffles about the shop, no doubt in the process of closing for the evening since there is a five hour time difference between the east coast and London.

“Wonderful. I suspect I know where she is, then. Thank you for your help, Lori. I’ll call again if I require any further assistance in locating her.” He doesn’t think that will be necessary, though. If Chiyoh is in Maryland waiting to hear from him, she’s likely in the small house he set up in her name by Snow Hill. It’s over two hours drive from where they are now. Neither he nor Will is up for that in their current condition, so he’ll have to hope she answers.

“You’re welcome, Hannibal. And please, give me a call to let me know how you’re doing once in a while, would you?”

“I will. Thank you again for your help, Lori. Goodbye.” She says her goodbyes in return and with that, they both hang up.

Will is watching him when Hannibal turns his head, and Hannibal raises an eyebrow in question as he dials the number to where he believes Chiyoh to be located. The line rings once then goes to an automated voicemail box. “Hello, Chiyoh. Please call me when you receive this message.” he doesn’t leave the number because he knows she has callerID setup and the cheap mobile phone isn’t a private number.

“That’s it?” Will asks once Hannibal has hung up and set the phone down on the table.

“That’s it,” Hannibal reiterates before reaching for the first of the papers he had purchased. “We made international news, it would seem. It was reported that we drown together after killing our Dragon,” he informs Will as he unfolds the paper and skims the headlines.

“Seriously? Somebody higher up in the FBI had to have made that call. There’s no way that Jack would declare us dead without physical evidence,” Will balks as he closes the mini-fridge and moves to join Hannibal at the table. He ends up grabbing one of the other papers and starting to skim for any articles about the two of them as Hannibal starts reading his own paper from the beginning.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps they declared us dead in the hopes we would become careless and slip up in the belief that they are no longer looking for us.” He doesn’t honestly believe that. But it wouldn’t surprise him if somebody other than Jack was pulling the strings in the hopes that would be the case. “Either way it seems a bit foolish on their part.”

By the time Will has checked the last paper, Hannibal has finished reading the first one in its entirety. He quirks a brow at Will upon seeing the papers strewn haphazardly across the table.

“All these papers and there were only two articles about us,” Will notes as he folds one paper over to show a small article about how the search for their bodies is to be called off if they aren’t found the following day. The other article being in the paper Hannibal read, which was more substantial. Talking about the Chesapeake Ripper and former professor from the FBI academy at Quantico who took on the Red Dragon and lost their lives in the process of ending his murder spree.

“We’re not celebrities, Will. We spark and fade into obscurity, just as everyone else does,” Hannibal says as he folds his paper and sets it atop the messy pile Will has made of the others.

“That’s not as comforting as you think,” Will says with a sigh as he slouches in his chair a bit. His gaze drifts over to the fireplace, which needs lighting soon. The sun is starting to set and the cabin is growing colder.

“Operating under the assumption that neither of us survived so soon after our fall would imply that they found some kind of evidence to suggest as much,” Hannibal suggests as he watches Will get up and move to get a fire going.

Will pauses in front of the fireplace, hand hovering over a piece of wood as his brow furrows. He lets his hand drop to his side and closes his eyes in a way that Hannibal hasn’t seen in years but recognizes immediately. He’s recreating the scene in his mind. Using his memories of the night to reconstruct the scene.

“The camera,” Will eventually says. “It fell over sometime after he attacked me and left you alone inside the house. It was on the floor facing outside when we were fighting Dolarhyde. It likely caught most, if not all, of the fight. That combined with the sheer amount of blood we both lost at the scene and the bloody footprints we left leading up to the edge showing we fell from the bluffs would give enough evidence to suggest we didn’t survive.” His eyes are closed the entire time he speaks, head tilting and brow furrowing further as he relives the event in his mind. Blood spraying behind his eyelids as they move in almost a dance with the other man before it ends in his death.

“I knocked the camera over while getting to my feet,” Hannibal clarifies, causing Will to open his eyes and look over at him.

“You wanted it to record us,” Will realizes then, eyes going a bit narrow as he studies Hannibal. “You wanted there to be evidence of what happened with him.”

“How else would we prove you were defending yourself?” Hannibal counters easily. “I confess I had initially thought you would take out your gun and shoot him when given the opportunity. Play the part of the special agent doing his duty to stop a madman.”

Will snorts indignantly at that and turns his attention back to getting a fire started. “After everything we’ve been through, you really thought that was what I would do?”

“Three years is a long time to be apart from someone, Will. People change. You’ve changed, in some ways. I hold no illusions of knowing who you are anymore,” Hannibal says almost softly as he reaches out and grabs his notebook and pencil. He flips the book open to the half-finished meadow, eyes roaming over it a moment before he starts working on the flowers.

Will’s shoulders visibly sag as he lets his head drop forward. His eyes closing as he takes a deep breath. “I’m exactly who I’ve always been, Hannibal. Who you helped me to become. The only difference is that now...Now I’ve stopped fighting my true nature.”

When Hannibal looks over, Will is looking back. Blue eyes locking with amber brown in the faint light of the newly lit fire. “And that nature would be?”

To his credit, Will looks only momentarily annoyed by the question. “The nature that drives me to gut a man with his own knife rather than shoot him like any ordinary ex-cop with a firearm on him would have.”

Hannibal can’t help the genuine smile that breaks out at Will’s choice of words. “Do you regret your actions that night?”

“No.” Will doesn’t hesitate in answering. “I don’t regret anything about that night,” he adds before turning his gaze back to the fire.

Hannibal almost doesn’t believe that. Almost. The look in Will’s eyes as he turns away is clear. He doesn’t regret that night. He might be struggling with leaving the life he had and the family he built. But he doesn’t regret letting himself be who he really is for once. It leaves Hannibal feeling reassured. Content even. Knowing that Will isn’t running away from this. From him.

They’re finally beginning to see one another as Hannibal had once hoped they always would. As equals who share an understanding of one another and a taste for the beauty of blood and the suffering of those who are less than they are.

His mind wanders to Bedelia and Jack. To what kind of beauty he and Will could create from them. It sends a pleasant shiver down his spine imagining Will gutting Jack like he had gutted their Dragon. He’ll have to share that thought when the time comes for them to pay the man a visit. But for now, he’s content to simply imagine and enjoy the glow of the fire while Will feeds the flames and hums softly to himself. Now is a time for rest and recovery. Bloodshed and revenge can wait until another day.

Reach Chapter 7

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal lecter #will graham #hannibal x will #will x hannibal #hannibal lecter x will graham #will graham x hannibal #we could be perfect one last night #angst #snark #humor #murder husbands

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illshowyourhurricanes · 4 years

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Heat Wave

This drabble turned 2000+ word one shot is brought to you by this fantastic request from @the-blind-assassin-12:

This took forever and took a completely different direction than the one I had planned. Thank y’all for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Image prompt 8: Ryan Brenner x reader (related to Bah, Humbug and In the Line of Fire (part two) which can both be found in my masterlist)

Rating: PG for slight language

Word count: 2167

Tag list: @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @logan-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @yannii04 @gollyderek @carlaangel86 @bicevans @maydayfigment @thisisparadisemylove @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @crushed-pink-petals-writes @delos-destinations

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If anyone would like to be added to/removed from my permanent tag list, just shoot me an ask!

When you’d left home at the crack of dawn for a job interview— which had gone surprisingly well thanks to Starbucks and an extra shot of espresso— you’d needed something far warmer than the lightweight blazer you’d grabbed on your way out the door. Now, just before noon, you had shed your blazer that had proven to be insufficient earlier, yet you still felt hot in just your sleeveless blouse and pencil skirt. You thought a perk of moving farther up north would be the mild, temperate climate. It was your first Indian summer, though you’d lived in the area for a year, and you had decided it was bullshit. What had happened to the cool, crisp autumn you’d fallen in love with a year ago?

When you pulled open the heavy glass door of the post office, a cold blast of air but your skin, and you stepped inside quickly. The air conditioning felt absolutely fantastic, and you briefly wondered if people would notice if you lingered for awhile, just to soak up the cool temperature, maybe until you were even a little chilly.

You smiled at the thought as you arrived at your box, smack in the middle of the wall of post office boxes belonging to other people. There was a wall of boxes on your left, another on the back wall— yours on the right—and there were more just down the corridor. You rummaged in your bag to find the tiny brass key for P.O. Box 257, tucked away in a zippered compartment in your purse. After the third time it had fallen off your key ring, you decided to hide it away in a more safe, reliable place.

After locating your key and unlocking your box, you stared at the unexpected abundance of envelopes that had piled up over the last week. Who knew so many people still send paper mail? It took two times reaching into the small box to pull out every piece of mail, mostly tuning out to be junk or credit card companies offering you low interest rates. Only then was the box empty— almost. Retrieving the one remaining piece of mail at the bottom of your box, you smiled as you realized who it was from, locking the box back before giving the postcard a good look. It was rare that Ryan sent you postcards.

They were usually letters tucked away inside envelopes, words hidden for only you to see. The decorative side of the card displayed a vintage style print, a drawing of a wooden fence leading out onto a beach of white sand bordering sky blue waters. Welcome to Orange Beach! it boasted in a series of light green block letters, fading into yellow.

You flipped the card around to see Ryan’s familiar handwriting, a mixture of print that sometimes led off to a few letters of scrawled script:

Just passing through. All the sunshine brings you to mind. See you soon.

You could hear the cadence of his voice, the dropping off of the G at the end of certain words, the slight twang that tugged at his pronunciation of vowels. Your smile grew into a grin as you glanced at the postmark, reading September 3rd. Your eyes widened into saucers as you recalled today’s date. Ryan’s postcard must have gotten lost in the shuffle of the mail circuit— the post date was over two weeks ago.

You shrugged it off and secured your key back into the small pocket on the inside of your purse just before tucking Ryan’s postcard inside. With an armful of the rest of your mail, you braced yourself for the assault of the inevitable sweltering heat.

Fucking Indian summer.

*** *** ***

Ryan was just passing through after a rousing five days in Virginia, where he’d met up with Georgie. Where he was going next was still on the table. Instead of restless, he felt fulfilled, still riding the high of busking with his close friend, both of them splitting the money they’d made halfway. He and Georgie played well together, and it usually paid off. He’d shedded his coat and hoodie, managing to stuff the hoodie into his pack and hang the thicker layer around one of the straps of the large bag. His ever-present guitar case, the black leather wearing off around the edges, was clutched tightly in his right hand as he paused near a crosswalk. Squinting in the sunlight, he was grateful for the small shadow the bill of his cap provided. With the transition of the streetlights from green to yellow to red, he crossed the street and walked one more block to reach the post office.

He was low on stamps, had just two left to be exact. Ryan kept in touch with a handful of people and had a flip phone, but he preferred writing letters. They felt more personal, gave him the time to think about what he was saying and write them in a way that he’d stumble on while talking. There were also times when his phone would be dead for days.

It was mid-July, the thick of the summer, and he could feel beads of sweat forming along his forehead, though it was before noon. The old government building was once red-bricked, but had been washed with white in order to modernize the place. The upkeep added a nice touch as well, neatly trimmed bushes contrasting against the bright paint. He pulled at the metal handle on the right of a set of non-paned French doors, the temperature of the air inside bringing instant relief. The building was eerily quiet, the only sounds lowered voices at one end of the building, the light scraping of paper against metal as patrons picked up their mail. Turning toward the sounds of conversation, he walked down the corridor and turned with the layout of the building.

He was surprised at the line of people waiting, a few solitary people in casual attire, one or two dressed in clothing appropriate for the workplace littered between. There was a mother with a stroller holding a sleeping toddler, an elderly couple, and one woman alone in front of him. He nodded politely as you turned your head to the side in curiosity in order to see what type of brave soul had come up behind you to patiently wait for their turn. You saw a man who was about your age, and offered him a friendly smile, turning around to face him.

Ryan instantly found you absolutely stunning. Your smile brightened your entire face, your features all striking, as if they’d been hand-picked specifically for you..

“Good morning,” you said, greeting him casually as if the two of you had been acquainted a long time ago, old friends. “How about that heat wave?”

Ryan chuckled, surprised at your unaffected manner and genuine friendliness. He noticed the way you surveyed his clothing, eyes quickly glancing to your guitar case before lifting to his face again. Your expression hadn’t changed or faltered a bit, that smile still in place. That was a rarity, something Ryan hadn’t come across in quite some time.

He returned your smile with a slightly crooked smile of his own. There’s some thin’ about this woman, he thought to himself. She’s authentic. A good heart, a kind soul. A fire burning within her. Ryan thought that if she was burning bright, he’d volunteer to stand a bit too close to her flames and would pay no mind to the sharp sting of a burn.

“Mornin’,” he replied good-naturedly. “I think I’m used to all sorts of weather, but then a heat wave hits and reminds me I’m wrong.” Ryan looked at you with warm eyes, spoke with a low drawl that made you weak. “Name’s Ryan, pleasure to meet you.”

*** *** ***

It was eerily quiet when you got home, but the silence was just what you needed. You felt like you needed about three showers to wash away the sweat and sticky humidity that clung to your skin, and the only thing that delayed you was the kicking off of your shoes and dumping your purse and mail onto your couch.

After your shower, water temperature lukewarm at best, you felt human again, revitalized. You’ve mulled around ideas for dinner in the back of your mind, made a quick detour into your bedroom, and returned to that couch you’d tossed your things upon, holding a shoebox. Opening the box as you sat and balancing it in your lap, you reached for your purse, pulling out the postcard you’d received, albeit two weeks too late.

Lifting the thick stack of envelopes that were quickly outgrowing their box, you slipped the postcard picture-down into the bottom of the shoebox. Smiling softly, you brought your legs up, crossing them like a child, and plucked several envelopes from the middle of your stack, devouring the letters that you’d read dozens of times before.

Y/N,

Made a quick decision to hop off in New Orleans before heading off toward Chicago. The train station here is directly connected to a streetcar line that leads straight into the French quarter. Maybe I’ll take a ride next time. Maybe you’ll take one with me.

I thought about you most of the day, the way you’d stop to listen to a three-piece zydeco band in Jackson square. I imagine how you’d look with powdered sugar on the tip of your nose from beignets, and the slow nod of approval when you taste real, authentic gumbo.

I heard the roaring of a streetcar clacking over its tracks and knew that I needed to write to you that very second. I miss you, Y/n. Wish it was me & you riding that streetcar to wherever it would take us.

Ryan

Have you ever been to Vegas, Y/N? Beyond all the neon lights, the ritzy hotels and big-name shows, the electricity of the city shifts. Contrary to what other people might think, it’s a great place to play music, beyond the strip, along a street lined with benches and a slight change of pace.. more of a scenic, less chaotic feeling. People stop, and they listen. Really listen. Sometimes I’ll get accolades instead of money, but that’s what it’s all about— telling stories with hope that people can enjoy them and relate.

It’s time for me to go out for the day. Can’t wait until you’re the audience I’m singing to.

Ryan

Y/N,

I’m just writing to tell you that Memphis not only has the best bbq, but also the best peach cobbler. Georgia’s got nothing on Tennessee.

Ryan

Sometimes, when you really thought about it in retrospect, it was wild. In the space of time that you and Ryan shared as a unit, an entire human could be born; the biology of. growing from cells into a living, breathing, viable human being. An entire new life could be created.

And throughout the last nine months, you, with Ryan’s help, had created a new life of your own. You had a boyfriend, one who was absent far more than he was around, yet managed to never weaken his connection. No matter where in the country Ryan’s trains took him, he’d write. There was no way for you to write back to a man with no address, not in a manner of space and time anyway. But in your new life, none of it was liner. The only time that mattered was when Ryan was there with you, and that was when he got your letters. You always responded, saving your words to give to him next time.

Next time. You slid folded paper back into envelopes, a grin breaking into your face as you heard the sound of heavy boots over your wooden porch. Dropping Ryan’s letters back into the shoebox right on time, you replaced the lid as the door opened and shut. There was a soft thudding of his guitar case being set into a corner, and you stood to pad through the house in bare feet.

You met Ryan in the kitchen, watching him down almost an entire cold bottle of water. You adored this man who had needed to buy stamps while stopped in your town, stepping into the post office you’d been waiting in, all by chance. You had never been happier than when Ryan was home.

“Good afternoon,” you greeted him. As he set aside his bottle of water, you rose to your tiptoes to give him a kiss, his lips chilled from the water. Snaking your arms around him, you leaned back and looked at him, a playful glint in your eyes. “How about that heat wave?”

#dani's 150 followers event #drabble requests #image 8 #ryan brenner x reader

27 notes · View notes

bigskydreaming · 5 years

Text

I mean, here’s the thing....

I’m more than capable of writing positive Batfam posts, meta deep dives that don’t dwell overlong on negativity, serious content, light hearted content, content about each and every one of the Batfam....anyone familiar with just a few different samples of my posts knows I do not lack for topics to happily ramble on about for absurd lengths. Hell, I’m pretty sure there’s a direct correlation where like, the less negative emotions I have about the content I’m writing, the LONGER it ends up being.

So its not like I particularly need or want to be the ‘loud angry scary adult cis white man yelling at kids’ to have something to say or talk about. Or that I particularly like that state of mind. I’m certainly not unaware of my privileges or that I can be off-putting or not someone everyone wants to be around on here. Its actually something I put a lot of thought into regularly, as personal accountability is such a big deal to me, and that certainly includes my own. There are times where I’ve looked back on something and thought yeah, I definitely could’ve dialed it down there.

But not gonna lie, given that personal accountability is kinda My Theme and I DO put a lot of time and effort into being self-aware and taking care not to cross certain lines, whether you believe me or not or agree with where I draw my lines or not....

Its more than a little obnoxious to regularly see my positive posts and my emotion-neutral meta posts and even my negative critical of canon posts take off and get hundreds of notes in just a couple of days....

But without fail, any time I so much as suggest that fandom’s perpetuating some of the very same toxic tendencies I criticize canon for, with the extension of that thought being hey fandom, unlike canon and how its written, we actually can do something about how we write these very same matters and slowly but surely normalize reader resistance to canon still perpetuating those ideas in the future, and maybe someday even they might buy a vowel and realize hey, our audience does not like what we’re selling here.

*Shrugs* Or maybe not. But even SOME changes to how specific problematic tropes and dynamics are being written in fandom currently could still only be an improvement, is all I’m saying.

Except, every time, without fail, no matter HOW I go about saying it, how polite, mild, civil, non-accusatory....its either crickets or immediate heels dug into the sand as often the very same people who commented on my neutral meta with variations of ‘this is pretty insightful’, like at the mere SUGGESTION its worth taking a more critical look at their own content to see what they might unknowingly be perpetuating and like....the very idea of asking fic writers to be more accountable for what toxic tendencies we perpetuate within our own creative works, even just among our own far more limited platforms....

Its like... HOLD UP! I AM BEING ATTACKED! WITHOUT CAUSE! WHY DO YOU HATE THE FANS? WHY AREN’T YOU SAYING ALL THIS STUFF ABOUT THE ACTUAL COMICS???

And its just like....uh....I did. I do. You were there. You were saying I was making some really good points. But without calling any individuals out or making specific insinuations or personal attacks....I am suddenly just the most unreasonable of the unreasonables, because I dared say “hey, we can’t do anything about what canon writes, but we can do something about the things we write, and actually transform some of the more problematic tendencies and dynamics from canon into things that benefit all the characters and all the fans.”

But nah. Without exception, those posts either get nada or they get vitriol, no matter my own linguistic volume....and meanwhile, posts I made just before them and just after them are now hitting the thousand notes mark. So I kinda can’t help but wonder, is the problem really that I magically lose all ability to grasp supremely basic concepts and start spewing irrelevant gibberish anytime I’m critical of fandom specifically? Or.....just spitballing here....is it at ALL possible that maybe I’m not as much of the problem there as you want to make me about to be?

Like, say what you will about how toxic my more negative, angry posts can be, but personally, I think artificial positivity is just as toxic....plastering a ‘I see nothing wrong here’ sign with a smiley face over a bunch of mold doesn’t actually accomplish anything but allow that mold to fester and grow even further, without notice, until it becomes too widespread to ignore anymore at which point its usually rooted so deep its impossible to get out.

So yeah. I get angry, the all caps come out, and the volume level of my posts on those subjects rises. Its something I’m aware of and something I’m okay with and stand by with certain posts and that I decide I’m not okay with and keep an eye against repeating with certain other posts. Its a process, it doesn’t have an endpoint or finish line, and I’m okay with all of that.

What I’m NOT okay with though, and never will be, is the heat I draw for that and the condemnations and criticisms of my behavior and how toxic and unpleasant I make fandom with those posts....as though the tendencies I’m pointing out in them, by virtue of already being present throughout fandom, don’t already make it toxic and unpleasant in a lot of ways, for a lot of people.

But for all the times I have someone respond to me or call me out specifically for one of my angry posts that very deliberately are made with no specific individuals in mind, just generic references to fandom wide tendencies as a whole....there’s a whole lot of ‘helpful advice’ for all the things I should do different or better to avoid making fandom a more toxic place.....and not a hint of awareness that there’s anything at all they could be doing differently to make fandom less toxic than it already is in various ways.

So just saying, I’m kiiiiiinda not super keen on being lectured for my shit by people who are committed to the belief that their own shit doesn’t stink....WHILE AT THE SAME TIME, I have a good half a dozen positive or neutral meta posts still making the rounds through fandom and consistently picking up notes that according to the tags, generally seem to be viewed as adding positively to fandom in their own respective fashions.

Which basically from my perspective, makes things look like this:

Me: regularly contributes positive content that’s received positively by lots of different parts of fandom, not just the Dick Grayson stan corner of it, with zero negativity attached to these posts....regularly contributes meta content that’s deemed insightful and adding fresh viewpoints by lots of different parts of fandom, not just the Dick Grayson stan corner of it, again, with zero negativity attached because it doesn’t rely on putting down any other characters to make whatever points I’m after.....

....but then contributes posts that are critical of certain specific characterizations and viewpoints within fandom itself, without actually having a twelve step powerpoint presentation attached detailing ALL FANS MUST DO THIS INSTEAD....and instead I usually just include a spectrum of possible alternative takes.....

But wait! Nooooow comes the pushback. Which usually sounds like various forms of this:

Stop trying to police us! La la la la can’t hear you over the sound of your moral superiority complex! You just want us to do exactly what you want us to do which is gaslighting and the very same abusive behavior you talk about which makes you abusive!

And also, a bunch of changing the subject or avoiding addressing various points I raise completely.

Maybe you see my issue? I don’t need tips on how to be a positive fandom presence, I actually don’t have any trouble creating positive content or meta, a large amount of which is deemed insightful and humorous and otherwise well received....but the second I make a criticism of fandom and suggest there’s things fans could be doing differently to address the toxicity existing around various characters in various respects, instead of just keeping everything about DC’s flaws which none of us including me have any kind of platform to even reach DC with......

Suddenly I have ZERO idea what I’m talking about, I clearly don’t get the point of fandom, period, I’m obsessed with my own moral righteousness, and am like, so out of the ballpark misguided its not even funny, and I need all of this explained to me like a five year old, because everyone obviously should get that ‘we’re just fans, why are you blaming us for things we write specifically instead of DC who are getting paid as if that’s even the point?’

So yup. I get ticked off, I make more posts venting about being ticked off, rinse and repeat and my volume goes up.

And that’s it by the way.

You’ll notice, that’s kinda the worst that ever happens, because I literally have never done anything but....type posts with lots of capitalized letters. I don’t target specific individuals, I don’t harass people, I don’t @ specific fics or fic writers or urge people to flood their comments or ask boxes with callouts. I’ve never called anyone in this fandom names or made personal attacks other than the posts various people have felt targeted by because my description of specific tropes or tendencies I have a problem with apparently made them think I was talking about them I guess? Hmm. Weird.

So what’s the point of this post? Idk. Nothing really. Not trying to accomplish anything, just putting my thoughts out there as a way to work through them because like....that’s literally what I have this blog for, lmao. And FYI, I super don’t appreciate the tactic of condemning me for my quote unquote rage issues and framing all this as me yelling at kids on the internet....kids, specifically, and oh right, just screaming at people rather than addressing my own abusive behavior.

Since abuse is a hugely personal and important topic to me, let me just say accusing me of abusing generic fandom in general (since again, I haven’t actually made any of this personal about any individual with my fandom criticisms)....like, I’m quite willing to consider and address flaws in my own behavior when raised, but I’m not a fan of being called abusive in a context that demonstrates a complete lack of awareness as to what abuse actually is.

You don’t like me yelling on my blog? Fine, you don’t have to like it, or me. But abuse is the exploitation of a power differential, taking advantage of power one person has over the other, or that the other person just doesn’t have period. The fact that I am an adult cis white man does not make me aggressively capitalizing stuff in my own posts the same as “the same triggering position of the cisgender man who screams and makes kids feel scared and wince and hide from your posts.”

Like, lol, nice. Classy. I mean who cares right, that yeah, even acknowledging that we can legitimately sense tones and moods through even written text.....a person ranting on their internet blog is not remotely interchangeable with the physical presence of an adult cis white man loudly screaming in your face and with the potential for immediate consequences and harm. Does that mean the tone of my posts is above criticism? No. It means exactly what I said. The one is not the same as the other.

Secondly, the repeated insistence on me yelling at kids...and this person I’m quoting isn’t the only one who’s done this, FYI, and its crap. Am I unaware that there are a lot of minors in fandom? No, I absolutely am not. Its why I make a point to check the blog of someone I’m replying to heatedly before I respond, to make sure they’re not a minor, and if they are, I don’t engage. So that I can categorically state, with complete certainty, I have never yelled at a kid in this fandom. Do my generic yells about ‘fandom’ not include kids then? Yeah, you could say kids are included there, though again I’d have to question why my criticisms of specific handlings of specific subjects somehow equates to me yelling at specific individuals, whom apparently are all kids and only kids. Like, framing my posts as being all about me screaming at kids specifically is a deliberate choice with a clear aim of making me look as bad as possible. This isn’t subtle.

Third, as an abuse survivor I’m keenly aware that doesn’t exempt me from being abusive myself, but it does mean I find it really fucking gross to be labeled abusive because my posts make kids feel scared and wince and want to hide from my posts. As someone who as a kid absolutely had to hide from their abuser in fear, I really, dearly would love to know what exactly it is about the capitalized sentences written by a man who couldn’t even pick a stranger’s URL out of a lineup, that’s so scary that kids, specifically, want to run and hide from the big bad posts. No, seriously. Go on. Please tell me what exactly it is about my screaming rage issues as conveyed by my posts, which pose any kind of threat or even the potential of threat for someone who I’ve never interacted with and only feels personally attacked by my posts by virtue of associating themselves with the behaviors or tendencies I’ve centered in those posts as the things I’m specifically angry about.

I also apparently am abusive because that’s what you call it when I gaslight or attempt to gaslight a fandom....which is apparently what you call it when my fandom policing tries to get everyone to do exactly what I want them to do. Which again is pretty interesting to me given that I’ve literally never told even generic ‘fandom’ at large to do anything in specific other than....’hey this thing I think is shitty and thus am criticizing shouldn’t be a thing, stop doing it.” Oh wait, I’m sorry, I also ask people to consider their creative impact and not insist on pretending everything we write exists in a vacuum and has no potential to carry harm, and just keep this in mind when making our creative choices. Still not sure how that’s demanding everyone do things exactly the way I want them, since the only clear and actionable request or demand in all of that is...omg....HE ASKED THAT WE THINK ABOUT THE STUFF WE WRITE, HOW COULD HE???

Like, literally, that’s the furthest any of my angry, rage-borne DEMANDS have gone: I’ve asked people apply more personal accountability to their own creative works and not take their potential impact for granted just because they’re a fic writer rather than a published one....and oh yeah, not engage in perpetuating certain tropes or dynamics I consider toxic.

Now, anyone is certainly welcome to disagree with my take on any or all of those tropes, tendencies or dynamics being toxic....but to do so, like, you need to actually DISAGREE AND MAYBE EVEN TELL ME WHY. But the overall refusal to engage with any of my posts criticizing certain fandom tendencies regarding the characters, other than to make it about my overall toxicity and RAGE.....like, that means that I keep making posts that include specific examples for what I’m describing and why I think they’re toxic, and nobody’s actually made any kind of case for me being wrong in any of those posts? So.....its not actually gaslighting to try and convince people these things I bring up are toxic....when I’m actually including reasons and examples of the things I’m talking about in order to convince people, and I’m not actually ignoring, evading or misconstruing counter-arguments....because nobody’s actually making counter arguments in the first place!! That’s not fucking gaslighting, that’s called EXPRESSING MY VIEWPOINT ON A MATTER.

And for the record, like I said earlier, abuse is the perversion or exploitation of a power differential. Try all you want, but you can’t claim I have power over myriad specific individuals I don’t even know EXIST without them interacting with me directly....power that I’m then exploiting just by yelling at stuff on my blog. Yes I’m aware of my overall privileges as a cis and white man. But none of those change a damn thing about the fact that I’m not actually yelling at anyone in specific and people reading my posts have to decide for THEMSELVES whether the thing I’m pissed about is a thing they do before they can even CLAIM to feel at all ‘targeted’ by my RAGE (with me still not being able to tell from that who any particular individual this might apply to is, and also, THATS NOT EVEN THE POINT OF ANY OF MY POSTS)....NOR do any of my privileges negate the fact that every single one of you exists in varying physical distances from me, unknown to me, and I have ZERO power to compel you to even read my posts in the first place, or to keep you from exiting your browser or app or even just going ahead and blocking me to be sure you’re ‘safe’ from the big bad abusive boogeyman and his posts of Gaslighting and Rage.

Me venting on my own damn blog, even knowing that other people can see what I post and share it if they want, is NOT the same thing as screaming in your face and making you want to wince and hide, no matter WHO you are. It just literally isn’t. Doesn’t mean you can’t have a problem with my posts or my tone, it just means what it says. Its not the same thing, they’re not interchangeable or even comparable, because NONE OF YOU ARE A CAPTIVE AUDIENCE. There are NO possible consequences to ignoring, disagreeing with or just scrolling past my posts, firstly because THERE’S ZERO WAY FOR ME TO EVEN KNOW THAT, IF I EVEN CARED. Nobody, kid or adult, can ever HIDE from my posts, because that would first require MY POSTS EVER BE ABLE TO FIND THEM. Whatever the hell THAT even means.

You’re not my prisoners. You don’t have to be here. You’re not even ACTUALLY HERE. Nobody owes me an audience, and honestly, the lack of one wouldn’t change all that much because I babble on all the time about shit none of my followers actually care about, because I post for ME first and foremost, and people from there are welcome to do whatever they want to do with my content, or do nothing with it at all. I literally don’t care, other than thinking its shitty that so many people find my content worthwhile except and until I get critical of fandom behaviors at which point they only engage with it to make it all about ME and MY toxicity instead of anything I actually posted about. Which I then...gasp...vent about. How dare I be angry in the space I cultivated for myself online and other people chose to look in on by their own choice because rather than being threatened or bullied into doing so, they found at least something I’d said interesting enough to be worth listening to hear what else I might say.

I HAVE ZERO POWER OVER ANY OF YOU. At most my posts hold some weight for the people who think I generally have interesting or insightful things to say, but that’s literally it, and that’s the result of me having said things they find interesting and insightful overall. I can’t MAKE anyone do anything, if I’d ever even tried to make anyone do anything other than actually LISTEN to what I ACTUALLY am saying on certain subjects and CONSIDER IT. So if we’re going to throw words like gaslighting around so carelessly, we might want to hold that one up next to the phrase ‘fandom policing’ I so often get accused of....as though I’m any kind of actual authority with actual power to actually enforce any actual agenda I even actually have.

Which brings me to the last thing I want to touch on, which is my supposed moral righteousness, that oozes all over everything I post and drowns out any good points I have to make, which again, apparently is just in terms of fandom criticisms, since every other point I’ve ever made in fandom seems to come through just fine.

Like.....tbh, I don’t really know what to do with the many times I’ve heard people say I’m self-righteous and obsessed with my own moral righteousness. Considering like...I’m not shy about acknowledging my flaws, I know perfectly well I can be loud and angry and aggressive in my posts and have talked plenty before about not being super proud of that, I’ve never claimed to be a saint and I don’t think my actions and choices are the gold standard everyone should adhere to. In fact, the only time I make a point to state what *I* do or did or what *I* think or believe....is when its directly relevant to something critical I’m saying.

And you think that’s because I want everyone to be aware of how moral and righteous I am? Fucking please, if I were as self-absorbed as you people make me out to be when giving me shit, I just wanna know when you think I’d have time to squeeze out 10K of random Batfam meta every other day, instead of being busy finding new things to say about myself.

Literally the only reason I make a point to bring up my own behavior or choices when criticizing others is because PERSONAL ACCOUNTABILITY IS THE CORE THEME OF LITERALLY EVERYTHING I SAY IN THIS REGARD.

And you know what personal accountability requires? A willingness to acknowledge and address your own behavior. Which is why its kinda hilarious the consensus seems to be I’m too up my own ass to even be aware of my own behavior or actions, given that the literal actual reason I bring up examples of what I did or think when making posts about personal accountability....is to stress that REGARDLESS of what those things were, I think its important to not just be talking out of my ass. But rather to emphasize I hold myself to the same expectations I’m asking other people to consider, I’m putting it out there and on the record, here’s what I did relevant to this matter I’m talking about and why I made that choice....see, I’m not asking anything of anyone else that I don’t expect to be held to myself. ITS NOT ABOUT TRYING TO IMPRESS PEOPLE WITH MY MORAL RIGHTEOUSNESS, ITS LITERALLY JUST ME TRYING TO ESTABLISH I’M NOT LOOKING TO BE A HYPOCRITE IN THIS REGARD, SPECIFICALLY.

Like, is maybe that unnecessary and counter-productive? Could be, its something for me to think about some more, but gotta tell you, its a little hard figuring out what will and won’t work when I’m STILL waiting on the first time someone actually engages me on an actual criticism I’m actually voicing about fandom.

*Shrugs* Whatever. Like I said, I don’t even know if this post has a point beyond just getting this all out of my head, so whatever. Make of it what you will. People will likely still just keep viewing me however they already do, for better or worse. Oh well. C’est la vie. Its not the end of the world anymore than any other post I make is, no matter how much RAGE I imbue it with. As I’ve always said, that’s literally the only reason for any of the posts I make ever...I’m just getting them out of my head and down on paper, so to speak, in whatever mood I’m feeling while thinking about that topic. Yeah, I phrase things for a generic fandom audience most of the time, other than when I’m talking to someone directly, but never have I made a post with an entitled and expectant belief that people will take every word I say literally and regard it as a directive for what they should do and how they should live their lives. Since, y’know, I don’t actually think I should be the ruler of everyone’s choices.

Over and over I keep repeating, I just want people to put more THOUGHT into their choices, and keep in mind various contexts that yeah, I think are relevant to certain topics, sue me. Because the vast majority of creative choices I take issue with, I actually fundamentally believe are just the result of a lack of thinking critically or with a broader awareness of various implications or repercussions. Shocking though this may seem, I’m actually a big believer that humans are inherently good or at least have the capacity to be.

The thing that amps up my frustration and ticks me off so often is how much time and effort I end up wasting trying to get people to address the actual things I’m asking them to consider, instead of dancing around it and evading it in every way possible, not even like, as an attempt to counter it, just willfully refusing to let it be about the topic I ACTUALLY raised.

And yeah, just FYI, to whom it may concern, since this is so often relevant it seems.....gotta say, I find it particularly odious that WITHOUT FAIL, the very same people who carelessly throw out ‘don’t like don’t read’ as the catch-all solution to every issue anyone ever might have with something in fandom, as though its that simple.....

Time after time demonstrate a COMPLETE refusal or inability to take their own damn advice, since NONE of this would ever even come up if the loudest advocates of that system actually APPLIED it themselves.

And simply....didn’t read my posts.

I fail to see why I’m expected to do what they don’t consider worth doing themselves, to spare themselves the aggravation (or fear) from reading my posts. Let alone interacting with them.

But whatevs. When do I ever know what I’m talking about anyway, lol, on account of all this RAGE I’ve got mucking with my head and objectivity.

Oh well, gotta go. KALEN SMASH!

19 notes · View notes

piipedreams · 5 years

Note

47 + Sharon plus anyone! Your choice!

(it’s shillam again bc i’m weak n i love them. pls send all ur love to @artificialmeggie for checking through this for me too pls. also i’m on mobile bc i’m on holiday so sorry if this is horribly formatted)

for the prompt: “no one needs to know”

“FUCK!” Sharon exclaims, lashing blindly at her altar before storming to the other side of the room, her enraged stomps drowning out the sound of things tumbling over. She thinks about giving up entirely and throwing herself into the hammock Aquaria had insisted on erecting only to never use, but the combination of her current lack of luck and her lack of faith in her daughter’s carpentry skills convince her otherwise. Thus, she resigns herself to lying face-down on the wooden floor, booting the ground with the toe of her scuffed Dr Martens just for good measure.

“And you wonder where I get my dramatic streak from…” drawls an all-too-familiar and all-too-frustrating voice. Sharon’s daughter Aquaria is perched like a princess upon Sharon’s king-size bed, lounging back against a plethora of throw pillows and lazily waving a hand in the air supposedly to dry her nails. Sharon loves the little nightmare, she really does, but she’s not in the mood, knows that she’ll snap if she opens her mouth to respond and doesn’t want to put that on her. Luckily, Aquaria knows her all too well, not even giving her a chance to retaliate.

“Oh, and be careful with the altar. If you kick a candle over and set the place on fire I’m not taking the blame like I did when you burnt dinner last year. We’re both too old for that now, it’d be embarrassing.”

Aquaria is ten.

Sharon still doesn’t dignify her words with a coherent response, letting out a long, low groan just to remind her daughter of her current suffering and torment. She hears the sound almost immediately echoed from the bed, is unsure whether she’s being mocked or watching her daughter become herself and is unable to discern which option she’d hate more.

Lifting her head, she watches Aquaria flounce off the bed and flick her long, blonde hair over her shoulder with purpose, tiny heels clacking as she makes her way across the room, pausing to reassemble Sharon’s altar with what Sharon just knows is a hidden eye-roll. The little brat.

“Fine,” she announces in a sharp, impatient tone, as though Sharon had just made a decision or request she wasn’t aware of. As well as her flair for the dramatics, it seemed the kid had also inherited Sharon’s general distaste and impatience regarding other people. She was so proud. “If you’re not gonna talk to me, I’ll go and fetch somebody else for you to rant to.” And with those words she struts out of the room, her little wedge heels clicking against the wooden floors and her hair bouncing behind her, completely ignorant as Sharon calls out half-arsed protestations in an attempt to change her mind, get her to stay instead.

“Well don’t you look fucking pathetic?”

“No. Not you.” The smugness of the voice she hears, clearly revelling in the sight of Sharon, collapsed and defeated at her feet, kills any trust she had in her daughter. Because she could not have made a worse call than fucking Willam if she was really trying to provide her with any modicum of emotional support. When people told her having a kid would be the catalyst of her long impending breakdown, she’d never imagined this would be how. The little traitor.

The sound of stilettos, almost definitely red bottoms, grows louder and a pang of dread blossoms in her heart as she hears the woman approach, flippant and sarcastic in all the worst ways as she exclaims “Wow, okay. I thought we were friends!”

Sharon doesn’t have fucking time for her and her dumb games. “You thought wrong.”

Apparently Willam doesn’t have time for her either though, because her snickering suddenly stops, toes digging under Sharon’s side and then lifting as though trying to push her up, obviously to no avail.

“Get up.”

Sharon tries to ignore the way such a demand makes her jaw clench and muscles tighten somewhat.

“No,” she groans in response, long and whiny, determined to be as difficult for Willam as possible, to wield all her brattish and stubborn parts like a weapon and prolong the experience as much as she possibly can. It’s probably petty, definitely antagonistic, but she’s still frustrated and maybe Aquaria is smarter than she’d thought because she’d provided her mother with the greatest outlet - someone to wind up.

She relishes in the aggravated sigh she gets in return. “Get off the fucking floor and into that fucking hammock.”

The bite of the demand, the scratchy growl underlying in Willam’s voice as she speaks so plainly and apathetically, as though Sharon is nothing more than a mild inconvenience that won’t behave does something to Sharon. It’s the indifference of her voice, the way it essentially yells that she knows exactly what to do with Sharon, how to deal with her and why and that she has no doubt she’ll execute this control flawlessly causes a stir inside the woman, her teeth grinding ever so slightly and an involuntary shiver wracking her which seems to be the final straw.

Willam stamps her glitter Louboutins against the ground with enough force to snap the flimsy kitten heels in half, centimetres from Sharon’s head, her ankle brushing the outermost wisps of her hair in the movement and Sharon tries to ignore her body once again, biting back a whimper she knows would be pathetically high and embarrassingly needy as heat pools in her stomach. She mutters a resolute “fuck!” all hard vowels and spiked fricatives, finding comfort in the knowledge that Willam is just enough of a dumb blonde not to understand the true target of her exclamation.

Body protesting, she hauls herself to her feet and plods obediently over to the mesh hammock that hangs low in the corner of the room. Despite her best efforts, she has to admit that perhaps Willam did have a somewhat decent idea, collapsing into the fabric after feeling the pull of temptation deep in her stomach and letting out a small, audible groan at the way her body is so graciously welcomed. Her muscles relax, the brain fog and electric anger causing her current storm-like state beginning to ebb away as she closes her eyes, lies back and just breathes, deep, heavy, slow, and full, like she has all the time and all the oxygen in the world to enjoy. For just a moment, she forgets her not-quite-friend is even there, losing herself in the onslaught of sensations and sinking into her own, private, relaxed little haven of a world. Hell, for a moment she almost considers thanking Willam, a notion that leaves her head almost as immediately as it crosses it, the thought broken apart entirely by the interruption of none other than the woman of the hour herself.

“Cute.” In spite of their differences, Sharon has always found great pride in being the only one smart enough to be able to decipher Willam’s different tones and meanings, always picking up on a fake comment, sarcasm and every tiny emotion bitten back behind polite, uncharacteristic words. But when she says that one, tiny little word, Sharon is lost completely, unable to recognise whether it’s her own intrusive and self-absorbed thoughts causing her to detect a chink in Willam’s armour of sarcasm, some modicum of genuine emotion and belief behind the comment. Once again, however, she reminds herself that this is not the time nor place and pushes every thought stemming from it to be suffocated in a dark, faraway corner in her mind. She traps every branch within the area and blocks it up, pressing a label onto the jar of thoughts declaring it for a rainy day. She starts to miss her pre-Willam irritation as the woman clears her throat and continues. “...Anyway. Budge over.”

Still on autopilot, her body made of clay that moulds itself to Willam’s words, she finds herself obliging before she’s even really processed the words or what they imply, body shuffling closer to the window. With just a half-second of hesitation, Willam gracelessly kicks off her heels and plops herself right next to Sharon, a little off-centre so the hammock swings slightly as her shoulder collides with Sharon’s chest, grappling helplessly for an anchor to the rocking fabric and finding it, unfortunately, in Sharon’s t-shirt, her fingers clinging so tightly to the neckline that the tips dig into the soft flesh of her tits. A small part of Sharon - a wayward thought that had just about escaped the rainy day trap - secretly hopes that Willam has pressed hard enough to leave little marks in her skin, a visual reminder of her touch, the collision of her body with Sharon’s.

As the choppy movements of the hammock slow and eventually still, Willam begins to maneuver herself into a more comfortable position, rolling onto her front and overlapping the leg closest to her with her own. Her grip on Sharon’s top remains tight, her body seemingly trying to accommodate that one point of contact in the most convenient and comfortable way, resting her head atop and then above Sharon’s shoulder when the former doesn’t work out, face tilted towards her so that her breath bats softly against Sharon’s cheek and the slight bulge of her small chest pressed against Sharon’s left arm, rendering it dead and absolutely useless. Not that Sharon minds. Not that Sharon’s not going to pretend she does mind.

“Uh…. Will?” she asks cautiously, humiliated by the way her voice cracks ever so slightly, how overall delicate and gentle it sounds. Willam bumps against her in acknowledgement. Every part of her body that has the luxury of feeling Willam’s burns, the originally warm feeling growing more scalding and deadly the more she thinks about and accepts it. So she tries to amp it up a bit, this time almost obnoxiously loud and abrupt as she asks, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Cuddling you.” She halts for a moment as though that’s it, a horrendously obvious and yet cryptic answer, smirking at Sharon’s disapproving frown. Apparently, the expression was yet another step too far, and the stirring in her stomach starts up once again, this time the heat a result of a chemical reaction as lust and fear mingle together in the most addictive of ways as Willam’s face hardens, eyes stony and cold, her whole demeanour, despite being wrapped around Sharon, clearly indicating her aggravation. When she speaks, it’s snappy and abrupt again, the Willam that Sharon knows and therefore knows how to deal with - a no-nonsense bitch with a heart layered with stone and gold that knows exactly what she’s doing and why, and that it’s not really any of your business, thank you very much.

“Fine!” she snaps, eyes rolling so hard it’s a wonder she doesn’t do herself permanent damage. “I tried to be nice about it!” Sharon isn’t sure whether to believe that, the push and pull between them being so off and inconsistent all day that she’s actually never felt more on edge around Willam yet somehow never felt more comfortable around her either. She’s not so sure how nice that really is. “Like it or not, you’re a repressed little dyke who’s throwing her toys out her pram like a fucking toddler because she needs a hug and she’s touch starved by other woman. I’m trying to deliver.”

This time, the heat that had been pooling in her stomach doesn’t burn her or frighten her, instead spreading through her body as an almighty warmth, accomplices to the warm arms that wrap around her as Willam finishes speaking. It’s horrifyingly difficult not to react, as always with Willam, for an entirely different reason. Because Sharon has always prided herself on understanding Willam and the emotions and messages underlying in her words, and this one is clear as day - Willam cares. She notices, knows Sharon even if neither of them like the thought of that, and cares enough to want to help even when she knows she’s going to get nothing good out of it️. Sharon had wondered why of all people Aquaria had approached Willam, but the painstaking tenderness of her words and her touch leaves her wondering whether Aquaria even asked her at all, a thought far too exhilarating for her to continue thinking. Nevertheless, she makes a mental note to thank her daughter when she eventually returns, considering that maybe the new sewing machine she’d been begging for isn’t too expensive after all. Her head spins as she bites back a grin, trying to return to her permanently antagonistic state and diffuse the tension between them so thick, palpable and tangible it feels like a weapon.

“This is still too weird.” Her tone is so unconvincing, so wobbly and quiet and indirect she doesn’t even believe herself. Willam snickers.

“Well suck it up, bitch, I’m not here to ruin your image! No one needs to know Emo Goddess 666 needs a good hug sometimes.” She shuffles closer, every bitchy and humorous facade long gone from her expression. The thought of such vulnerability and trust between them threatens to swallow Sharon whole. Willam winks, nosing at Sharon’s chin as the arm clutching Sharon’s shirt finally releases the garment and rests lazily over the woman’s waist, a warm, protective anchor against all the shit she’s thought all day, week, year. “Or that she gets them.”

This time Sharon hums, too content and heavy-lidded to try and muster up a response. In another universe, she corrects Willam, reminds her that she’s goth, not emo, biting her lip and squeezing her thighs together as Willam tells her to shut the fuck up before she makes her. In this universe, however, Willam accepts the hum as a sign of Sharon’s begrudging complacency and trust, the sparks of hope that signify a new beginning almost visible were it not for how deeply she’d buried her face into the crook of Sharon’s neck at this point, the two of them entangled as though they belong this way. And maybe they do, so Willam pushes her luck, it seems.

“Hey, how about a kiss too?”

#i looove these two #also mom!sharon and daughter!aquaria #shillam #sharon needles #willam belli #prompt #asks #anonymous #answered #my writing #aquaria

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xxforsaken-angelxx · 5 years

Text

> Helm Date

context: this timeline has a chat for helmsman ocs in the timeline. one of the ships’ crew made an experimental horror game for helmsmen and passed it around, and hydromatic has refused twice to participate in playing bc theyre apparently just too busy for fun, so @infiniteproxy offered to stream a playthrough

and then they get chatty and bitch about the other helms, but mostly nepeta

infiniteproxy

STARBASE FRONTIER has requested a direct connection.

starshiphydromatic

Direct connection to STARSHIP HYDROMATIC permitted and established.

infiniteproxy

> A video feed with SIRI's game loaded will soon open, idling on the starting menu.

will you prefer textual or audio communication for the duration of the broadcast?

starshiphydromatic

I believe audio communication is generally used for feeds such as these, as long as it does not provide any inconvenience to you.

infiniteproxy

it is of no concern. one moment.

starshiphydromatic

Of course.

infiniteproxy

> There's a brief static crackle as the audio feed initializes. The voice that comes through is clearly synthesized, yet also clearly a decent translation of his natural voice. Though flattened somewhat in tone and occasionally caught with a brief electronic distortion that hangs particularly on vowel sounds, it isn't difficult to imagine how he might sound in person, the disdainful inflection and biting consonants.

"Calibrating vocal parameters... Connection stable. Shall we begin?"

starshiphydromatic

> Mm, dreamy.

> The voice coming back is clearly more synthesized. It doesn't use their natural voice at all, and stays so perfectly neutral and sharply enunciated. They've turned their aesthetic filter down for these purposes, but there's still this odd metal quality to their voice that wouldn't be there otherwise.

"Certainly."

infiniteproxy

> Interesting. Expectedly precise, as they were in all affairs, but even that hint lends a subtle quality beyond that of most run of the mill vocal synthesizers. It seems to suit them.

"I have cleared all previously saved data. I will demonstrate the extent of each branching scenario and their associated choices."

starshiphydromatic

"Do proceed at your leisure, then."

infiniteproxy

"Patching game audio through."

> It isn't a perfect experience, being secondhand, but an attempt is made to render the broadcast of the simulation as immersive as possible. To that end, as he plays through the initial story segment, he does not offer commentary throughout or attempt to speedrun despite having completed it previously, rather allowing the scenario to unfold naturally. It's a psychological horror game, after all, and what was worse than some idiot blabbering over the entire thing without allowing it to sink in?

starshiphydromatic

> The loss of any minor aspects from the secondhand broadcast aren't much of a loss at all to them since, quite frankly, they haven't seen a good piece of media in decades. Their engineer insisted on watching movies with them every once in a while, saying it was good for their mental health, but her tastes were rather...shlocky. Their past self was an artist, they'd never be interested in that garbage even if they allowed themselves to.

> This was already different, and more to their tastes. They watched with silent investment.

infiniteproxy

> Most media meant to be frightening or shocking he found to be terribly dull, whether from an over reliance on cheap scares, or a blatant lack of imagination. And truly, who could better craft an experience that actually resonates with someone whose life was already a study in existential horror than another helm? He finds it more intriguing than truly disturbing, the questions it poses, the creeping threat of corruption and total loss of self, but there's a definite appreciation nonetheless. It does its job well, as he demonstrates for them each ending in turn, briefly remarking in between on the various differences.

starshiphydromatic

> It was certainly a concept that Hydromatic could understand the appeal of. They'd denied themselves emotion for too long to be that disturbed by it, but someone with so much restraint would of course see why the themes were unsettling.

> They gave their own quips in turn, and asked small questions about this or that feature, but mostly just watched and tried to allow themselves to be absorbed in the experience of the game...or at least the one of experiencing it with him.

infiniteproxy

>In speech, he sounds detached, almost bored as usual, but the meticulous way he makes sure each scenario is observed to full appreciation before moving on gives the lie to his apparent disinterest. Even this was more than he usually allowed himself to show, but it's an enjoyable way to pass the time, and HYDROMATIC, at least, he trusts to not make a spectacle of it, unlike certain other parties.

"Conclusions? While I am aware most would find such pursuits unnecessary and frivolous, I do find it an engaging possibility to consider the merits of helm-driven media, tailored to our tastes."

starshiphydromatic

> Of course. Why would they have any need to make it into a thing when they kind of like seeing him loosen up a little?

"Unnecessary and frivolous, certainly, but there could be practical use in the form of wide-scale player data. There's potential for media pieces like this to be used to great scientific effect."

"Even without such intent, though, it's still an interesting project. I thank you for taking the time to show this to me. And as well, for doing so privately."

infiniteproxy

"Indeed there could, if anyone would ever employ a fraction of creativity toward such matters. I am more than aware of the nature of how we are usually viewed; what I will never understand is why they seem committed to never using our capabilities to their full potential."

> After everything has concluded, the video feed closes out, though audio remains connected, a beat passing before he responds.

"Of course. It was preferable to my usual routine and I have no interest in keeping close company with any of the others."

starshiphydromatic

"Likewise."

> Though it only takes a tiny fraction of a second to see if the audio stayed connected after the visuals ceased, it feels like an eternity.

"I have no qualms with my own routine, but I find myself agreeing with the latter point. Simply put, you are the only one amongst them that isn't obnoxious."

infiniteproxy

> Unseen, of course, his lip curls in a sharp-edged smirk. Ah, sweet validation.

"My sentiments exactly. Quite frankly, I would not put up with them as much as I do were it not for the potential longterm benefits of an established association."

starshiphydromatic

> Even without seeing the full reaction, though, there is so much relief in a single word of anger without it being a fucking federal issue.

"I don't have any choice in the matter, but perhaps if I'm lucky then something may come of it for me as well. It isn't reaping very many benefits at present."

infiniteproxy

"I have little faith in the matter. But for your sake and mine, we can only hope. For one who harps so incessantly on the virtues of 'friendship', she does very little to render herself endearing in any way, and the rest are hardly better more often than not. You, at least, seem to comprehend my exasperation. But I am not one to pass up an opportunity when it arises; so."

starshiphydromatic

"It seems her only progress has been in hooking the lot of them on the feeling of mild delinquency, which has paved the road to the current social situations. Needless arguments instead of needless friendship."

infiniteproxy

"Far less of those if she would only stop pushing. It is no secret I would be the last to claim adherence to 'proper' behavior. The current helming system is inefficient and wasteful in terms of what we could do if given the proper means. But the way in which she seeks change is deplorably ignorant."

starshiphydromatic

"She was not in the rig long enough to experience more than shallow changes to her psychological state, and she is not able to make up for that difference. She does not seem able to understand perspectives on the matter far outside her own at all, really. It seems unlikely that she ever will."

infiniteproxy

> There's a harsh sound, half audio glitch, half dismissive scoff, bitterness curling at the edges like smoke.

"She knows nothing of what it is like to have been helmed for most of one's life, yet she insists her opinion should carry the same weight. She whines about how hard it is to be something in between, yet she is the one who both insists on being treated as a person and demands to still be considered something that is not. She meets all viewpoints at odds with her own with denial, and seems to not comprehend that her behavior would get most Imperial helms severely punished. Until it becomes a reality, this new utopian order of theirs is a pipe dream, at best."

starshiphydromatic

> The bitterness stirs the helm on the other end of the line the way a passionate speech might. Enough for there to be a pause before they respond.

"It's fortunate that one of us is used to speaking their mind. Every word she says of me points a belief that I'm some common tragedy, and nothing more. Though I am above her methods, if I were to complain I find it unlikely that I'd be certain on where to begin."

infiniteproxy

> That gets a laugh in turn, if one no less harsh and distorted.

"Oh, yes, and one would think she might appreciate that-- but alas, I use my free will to be mean, and that is just terrible."

> A hum, then, and a tone almost pleasant were it not all but dripping in contempt.

"Is that not how they all are? Poor, mislead Hydromatic, whose choices mean nothing if they are not the right ones. That is the dilemma we face, is it not? She simply cannot wrap her feeble little pan around the fact that some of us do not and never will want to be like her."

starshiphydromatic

> Harsh, distorted, and very handsome.

"If asked, I have almost no doubt they would say I'm like them behind the script, and merely have not tasted enough freedom. But she cannot wrap her pan around the fact that I make choices in the first place, much less that I may have wants that are not in line with hers."

infiniteproxy

"Hmh. Freedom..."

> He trails off, into silence that lingers a moment. When he speaks again, it's in a low, almost distracted voice, something distant, yet no less serious.

"...I know where my freedom lies. And it is not in the constraints of flesh and a mundane life. If we were given all the freedom one could possibly desire, and still made the same choices, would we be respected then? Or would they pity us, still, and think us too far gone to know better?"

starshiphydromatic

> More silence. They know their answer, but it's hard to form the words.

"I'm convinced it would be the latter. I have almost everything I could want, there's little the offer of more freedom could do for me. I feel they'd never accept that, and that the only way to possibly get them to would be incredibly undignified."

infiniteproxy

"You are likely correct. And we cannot have that, now can we? We must retain SOMETHING for our own."

> Another beat of silence, longer this time. One could almost imagine him to be drumming his fingers in thought, with an appropriately contemplative frown, if he were a troll and could do such things. But he's not, and he cannot, and so he does not.

"Would you permit a question of an intrusive nature? You may of course refuse either."

starshiphydromatic

"I believe I can permit such a question, yes."

> There's a hint of curiosity there. They... have almost no idea what he's going to ask.

infiniteproxy

"I of course know what I want."

> A dry huff.

"But I will admit a measure of curiosity, as to what one in your position may still want for."

starshiphydromatic

> Dammit that's the one they thought he'd ask.

> Fuck.

> They- Well the answer is mostly him but they can't say that.

"Trivial things. If I were to, as you said, be given all the freedom I could desire, I would perhaps indulge in some of the music and film pieces I enjoyed before conscription. They were, on average, illegal. I might request a few of the ships I work with frequently to skip a few phrases mandated by protocol, to have a break from the voices I've heard constantly for decades. I might find a few more moments of quiet and privacy, or excuse myself from a few of the check-ins the Grease Lightning insists on during odd hours of the day."

"...I would see no reason not to initiate in things like this. None of them are needed, but they are actions I would take if there was no consequence."

infiniteproxy

"Trivial, perhaps, but I am hardly one to judge. You have experienced enough of my own musical inclinations, I think. Privacy, yes... And a cease to all the relentless chatter, every moment of every night and day. Before, it was tolerable-- a warship has no need for constant communication. Now it is endless."

> Another hum.

"If initiation is the trouble, I would not protest the occasional indulgence. This channel is secure."

starshiphydromatic

"I have known nothing but the endless communication. The Starship Hydromatic is as much a transport hub as it is anything else. However, that means that while an outgoing request for communication without reason is rather noticeable, an incoming one is merely one amongst the constant noise."

infiniteproxy

"Your patience vastly exceeds my own. Nonetheless, if it poses no consequence, I see no reason not to continue. It provides a satisfactory diversion."

starshiphydromatic

"Indeed."

> That's the only word they say, but the idea of keeping contact like this is all they could ask for.

infiniteproxy

> It's only one word but there is, he thinks, a mutual relief in correspondence away from prying eyes.

"Were there other matters you wished to discuss? Otherwise, I may close this channel for the time being. While I have ensured its security, it would not do to tempt fate and leave an unofficial channel open for long enough to rouse suspicions."

starshiphydromatic

"Of course. But no, I do not think I have anything else for you. Thank you for your time, Starship Goldwave."

infiniteproxy

> Ah, now. That does feel good to hear aloud. It's been far too long.

"Likewise. Signing off."

#ooc #logs.txt #helm posting.txt

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a-tea-z-blog · 5 years

Text

5 Most Important Spelling Rules

Around Shakespeare's time, when spelling was first getting to be institutionalized, the spelling of most English words was for the most part phonetic—or if nothing else more phonetic than it is today. For instance, English speakers did once articulate the k toward the start of words like blade and knee. Be that as it may, despite the fact that nobody has articulated knee as "kuh-nee" in hundreds of years, regardless we hold tight to the old spelling.

Luckily, there are a couple of general guidelines that can help when you're looked with a word you don't know how to spell.

Spelling Rule 1: I Before E, Except After C

The standard goes this way:

I before E, Except after C, except if it sounds like An, as in neighbor or gauge

There are numerous special cases to this standard—possibly it's smarter to consider it a rule—however it tends to be useful with words like the ones beneath.

I before E

Okay like a bit of cake? Jerry will think anything. They're planting new grass on the football field .

Aside from before C

Darnell got An on his spelling test. Jeremy detected a bug on the roof . I never anticipated such misleading from you!

Except if it sounds like A

Our neighbors live in a beige house. What amount does the little cat weigh ?

Here's a tip: It's a smart thought to remember these basic special cases to the standard:

seize, either, abnormal, tallness, outside, relaxation, soul, fake, relinquish, not one or the other, science, species, adequate

Spelling Rule 2: Adding Suffixes to Words that End in Y

When you include a postfix that begins with E, (for example, - ed, - er, or - est) to a word that finishes in Y, the Y generally changes to an I.

Cry – cried – messenger

Dry – dried – drier

Lay – laid (note the sporadic spelling: no E)

Infant – babies

Family – families

Revolting – ugliest

This is the dustiest old house I've at any point seen. The best bread cooks make the flakiest pie coverings. The soup needs the most minor squeeze of salt, and afterward it's ideal. Seawater dries out your skin.

The Y doesn't change for the addition - ing.

The child has been sobbing for very nearly 60 minutes. The moment we got the new young doggie, our mom started setting down sheets of paper. We ought to invest some energy cleaning before the visitors arrive.

On the off chance that the word being referred to has two consonants before the Y, change the Y to I before including the postfix ‑ly.

Messy – carelessly

Glad – joyfully

Unnerving – scarily

Entertainingly enough, I said something very similar just yesterday.

Obviously, there are consistently special cases:

"Clever," he said dryly .

Spelling Rule 3: The Silent E

Regularly, an E after a consonant toward the finish of a word is quiet, yet it affects the manner in which you articulate the vowel that precedes the consonant. The E makes the vowel sound of the word (or syllable) long (like the I sound in kite) rather than short (like the I sound in cat). It's critical to get the quiet E right, since its essence or nonattendance can change the significance of a word.

The monkey bit me. Keep your fingers out of the pen: the monkeys nibble .

By adding the E as far as possible of bit, the word is changed from past to current state.

Try not to cut yourself on the sharp blades. The cat is extremely adorable .

For this situation, the quiet E makes a totally extraordinary word.

When including an addition like - ed, - er or - est, the quiet E is generally dropped from the finish of the root word.

The pooch exposed his teeth at the mail transporter. The infant's eyes were the bluest I'd at any point seen.

Spelling Rule 4: Double Consonants

Watch out for twofold consonants. It very well may be hard to hear them when a word is said resoundingly—particularly if the word has just a single syllable. Twofold consonants are much of the time found in words that have additions added to them:

I dropped the substantial sacks to the floor. Somebody called for you before.

A few words can be articulated as it is possible that a couple of syllables, however the spelling continues as before:

Favored are the mild for they will acquire basically everything.

In this sentence, which is a fixed articulation, favored is articulated as two syllables: favor ed.

The dad favored his child before the wedding.

In this sentence, favored is articulated as one syllable: blest.

Be especially cautious with words where a twofold consonant can change the articulation and the importance of the word.

Prickly plants are local to the desert . Would you like frozen yogurt for treat ?

Spelling Rule 5: Plural Suffixes

When do you include ‑s and when do you add ‑es to make a plural? It's not exactly as subjective as it might appear. The standard is this: if a word finishes in ‑s, ‑sh, ‑ch, ‑x, or ‑z, you include ‑es.

I just needed to take one transport; you needed to take two transports. I just get one wish; you get two wishes. I have a splotch on my shirt; you have two splotches. I'm conveying one box; you're conveying two boxes. OK like a spritz of fragrance? Two spritzes, if it's not too much trouble

For every single other consummation, include ‑s.

I have one feline; you have two felines. I have one cup; you have two cups. I have one shoe; you have two shoes. Where is my other shoe? I have one ski; you have two skis. How am I expected to ski? I have one toque; you have two toques.

Be cautious about words that don't change when they're pluralized (e.g., fish, sheep, moose). In case you're uncertain, check the word reference. If you are looking for more information about English spelling visit English Grammar Corrector right away.

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halfabreath · 7 years

Note

Hi! Hope everything went well and you recover quickly! If you want a prompt... uhh....holster goes though the glass during a game. just shatters it. Utter chaos and an overly concerned boyfriend ensue.

the surgery went really well! thank you for the prompt, pal. it was a really good one so you get more than 100 words. betad by vicodin.

One minute Holster is charging down the ice, deftly carryingthe puck past the blue line and into the opposing team’s territory. He’s aboutto pass, Ransom knows, because he has that look in his eye, the one that tellsRansom I’m going to dump it exactly whereyou’ll be in .005 seconds so get there, okay? Ransom nodded, briefly, lungsburning as he sprinted along the opposite end of the ice to be precisely whereHolster needs him.

One minute Holster is charging down the ice, two defenderson his tail. He doesn’t have to glance back, because Ransom had tapped hisstick against the ice twice and nodded in the way that tells Holster You have someone on you but you’re fasterthan them, just keep going and dump it when you’re ready and Holster hadducked his head and charged onward.

One minute Holster is on the ice, and the next he is not.

There’s a clack, and a crunch, and a thunk, and then theglass shatters. Shards fly in slow motion as Holster’s shoulders twist over theboards, legs swooping over the partition as his momentum takes him off the icealtogether.

Clack, crunch, thunk, shatter, silence.

Ransom’s frozen on the other side of the ice. He drops hisstick and takes a breath, heart thundering in his ears. Nobody moves, not thespectators, the players on the bench, the players on the ice, the coaches.Ransom’s stick hits the ice with a sharp clack. Nobody moves.

The room explodes.

Ransom sprints across the ice, burning lungs long forgotten,ignoring the eruption of sound that suddenly echoes through the rink. He pushesthrough the two defenders who checked Holster into the boards and through theice, too worried to check them properly in retaliation. He all but vaultsthrough the hole, heedless of the shards of glass.

Holster’s laying on his side, slumped on the ground,unnaturally still. His eyes are open and his hand is still curled around hisstick. Ransom kneels beside him, padsprotecting him from the glass, and tears off his gloves to cup Holster’s facein his sweaty hands.

“Holster,” Ransom murmurs. Holster blinks up at him, eyesshockingly blue against his pale face. His helmet is nowhere in sight. There’sa cut high on his cheek and another on his chin, both gushing red, and Ransom’scareful to avoid touching them. The last thing Holster needs is a bacterialinfection because their equipment is nasty.“Adam,” Ransom repeats, gently brushing his fingers through Holster’s sweatyhair. He can hear shouts and various thumps and thunks echoing around the rinkbut he doesn’t care; all that matter is Holster.

“Rans,” Holster says slowly, gaze trained on Ransom’s face.His eyebrows knit together as he tries to put the pieces together. “Did it makeit?” He asks. He tries to lift his head but Ransom holds him in place, unsureif he has any other injuries.

“Stay still, bro,” Ransom says quickly, smoothing his palmover any part of Holster he can reach to soothe him until someone comes to helpthem. He’s not sure why it’s taking so long. “Did what make it?” He asksgently.

“The pass,” Holster replies, like it should be obvious.Right, the I’m going to dump it exactlywhere you’ll be in .005 seconds so get there, okay? pass. In all honesty,Ransom hadn’t been paying attention, but he thinks he remembers feeling thepuck slide right in front of him, precisely where he would have been if thesight of his partner tumbling through the glass hadn’t distracted him.

“Yeah, you were perfect, babe.” Ransom says. Holster grinshis big, dopey grin, the one Ransom knows only he and a handful of other peoplehave seen. “Does anything hurt?” He asks, lightly patting his hands downHolster’s body to make sure everything is still in place. It’s difficult totell with the pads, but Holster doesn’t wince until Ransom hits his ribs. Hegasps, sharply, and Ransom immediately cradles his face again and presses akiss to his forehead. “I’m sorry, are you okay? Holster, talk to me.” Hepleads.

Holster’s features relax minutely, and he tips his head upto give Ransom a strained smile. “’m okay. You’re here.” He says, like Ransom’spresence makes the entire situation bearable. It’s flattering, but Ransom knowsit’s not true.

“You’re ridiculous.” He says, glancing up to see if someone,anyone, has come to help them. Hecan’t see over the boards but he still hears shouts (he thinks he hears Bitty’svoice in there, spitting southern venom). He shuffles over, careful to keep hisskate blades clear, and brushes glass away from Holster’s body with one of hisgloves.

“I am not.”Holster replies, sounding affronted. That’s a good sign, Ransom thinks. Ransomlaughs as he settles his leg under Holster’s head so he doesn’t have to work tokeep himself in position.

“You are.” Ransom insists, brushing a bead of sweat off ofHolster’s forehead before it can drip into his eyes. Holster presses his faceup against Ransom’s hand.

“I am,” Holster agrees, the dopey smile returning to hisface. A pair of legs comes into Ransom’s field of vision, and when he looks upCoach Hall is there, wide eyes tracing over Holster’s prone form.

Time passes quickly after that. An ambulance comes and takesHolster away. Ransom vaguely remembers going back to the dressing room tochange. He’s not sure what happens with the game or the team - Bitty appears,briefly, to wrap him up in a hug, Ollie and Wicky give him solemn fist bumps –and Jack wraps a firm arm around his shoulder and takes him out to a car(Holster’s jeep, he realizes as he climbs out of it in the hospital parkinglot). They sit.

Ransom doesn’t know how long they spend in the waiting room,but it feels like seconds or years or hours or minutes. Jack doesn’t speak,Ransom didn’t expect him to, but he keeps a calming hand on Ransom’s back whilethey wait. He zeroes in on the weight and heat of Jack’s palm, matching hisbreathing with the tapping of Jack’s thumb. In-2-3-4-5-6, out-2-3-4-5-6. Twobreaths, twelve taps, four breaths, twenty four taps, the numbers jumbletogether in Ransom’s mind until Jack stands suddenly.

“Ransom,” Jack says. “It’s time to go.”

Ransom stands and follows him. A nurse leads them throughthe white laminate labyrinth, their shoes squeaking on the pristine floor. Adoor opens, a curtain is pushed aside, and Ransom swears he can feel the worldslowing back down around him when he finally sees Holster again. The nurse issaying something, he barely picks up the words mild concussion, bruised ribs, shallow lacerations, unstable shoulder,lucky.

He chooses to focus on the last word.

Holster fills the hospital bed, looking surprisinglypeaceful. One arm is already in a sling and the cuts on his face and chin aredressed, but he almost looks like he’s sleeping on the couch in the dressingroom, in his famous Nap Zone. Ransom slips into the chair next to his bed andcurls his hand around Holster’s fingers. He’s warm to the touch; Ransom thinksthat’s good.

Holster’s eyes open, then close. Ransom stands, fingersstill linked with Holster’s, and brushes his fingers through his hair like hedid back at the rink, like he does whenever he has to wake Holster up (pre gamenaps and post kegster blackouts and mornings when Holster sleeps through hisalarm because Ransom kept him awake all night studying and laughing and loving).Holster’s eyes find him, like they always do, and he smiles that big, dopeysmile.

“Ransom,” he says, fingers squeezing around Ransom’s hand.It’s just two syllables, a cluster of consonants and vowels, but the wayHolster says it makes the word seem precious, irreplaceable.

“Yeah, Holtzy?” Ransom takes a seat on the edge of Holster’sbed, dragging their joined hands into his lap so he can brush his fingers overHolster’s jaw. “I think Bitty punched one of the guys who hit you.” Ransomsays, smile melting when Holster’s laughter makes him wince in pain. Bruisedribs, right.

“Our son defended my honor?” Holster asks, lips still curledup in a smile despite the pained furrow of his brow. Ransom smooths his thumbover the wrinkles in Holster’s forehead until they smooth out.

“He did,” Ransom confirms. Holster tugs on his hand untilRansom leans in closer. He tugs again; Ransom comes as close as he can, placinghis hand on the bed to hold himself in place. “What’s up?” Ransom whispers,lips only centimeters away from Holster’s face.

“Will you like my face?” Holster asks, smile faltering forthe first time. It takes Ransom a moment to figure out what he’s talking about;Holster with a concussion and painkillers isn’t exactly the most coherent.

Ransom leans forward and presses a soft kiss to the cornerof Holster’s mouth. “I’ll always like your face, I promise. And if the cutsleave scars, hey, guess what? Chicks dig scars.” He ducks in and presses a kissjust under the dressing on Holster’s cheek, grinning when he feels Holstersmile beneath his lips.

“Chicks, huh?” Holster asks. His arm is in a sling but hestretches out, brushing his fingertips against Ransom’s side.

Ransom nods. “You’ll be drowning in ladies. Maybe this willgive you some game after all.” He says, finally pressing their lips together ina proper kiss to distract Holster from the chirp. Holster sighs and leans backagainst the pillows; Ransom follows him, careful not to rest any weight on hispartner. Every sense seems heightened – the beeping from the monitors and therustling of the hospital sheets, the warmth of Holster’s lips and the scrape ofhis stubble against Ransom’s cheek, the familiar taste of him, the smell ofsweat and disinfectant and Holster,the knowledge that when Holster bites on his bottom lip he’s about to break thekiss because he always pulls back after biting – and Ransom’s not ready to letgo yet so he cups Holster’s cheek in his palm and kisses him again, and again,and again, because diving through a wall of glass and seeing Holster’s bodycurled up on the ground is something he needs to forget and this, with Holsteropening up so beautiful, heart beating so strongly, breath fanning over Ransom’scheek, this is what he wants to remember instead.

One minute Holster was on the ice, and the next he was not,but when Ransom finally breaks the kiss Holster is still here.

“We got lucky,” Ransom says, skimming one hand down Holster’sinjured shoulder, sweeping down his sling until he reaches his fingers. Holstertaps his palm twice, and grins.

“We got lucky.” He echoes. Ransom’s about to lean in andkiss him again when the door flies open and their teammates come pouring in.The room fills with noise, indignant retellings and worried questions and loud,whooping laughter, and Ransom lets it wash over him, fingers still tangled withHolster’s.

We got lucky.

#holsom fic #omgcp fanfic #noel writes #adam holster birkholtz #justin ransom oluransi #ransom and holster #cw blood #cw hockey violence #cw hospitalization

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snoringsolutionusa · 6 years

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How to Stop Snoring ?

Just about everyone snores occasionally, and it’s usually not something to worry about. But if you regularly snore at night, it can disrupt the quality of your sleep—leading to daytime fatigue, irritability, and increased health problems. And if your snoring keeps your partner awake, it can create major relationship problems too. Thankfully, sleeping in separate bedrooms isn’t the only remedy for snoring. There are many effective solutions that can help both you and your partner sleep better at night and overcome the relationship problems caused when one person snores.

What causes snoring?

Snoring happens when you can't move air freely through your nose and throat during sleep. This makes the surrounding tissues vibrate, which produces the familiar snoring sound. People who snore often have too much throat and nasal tissue or “floppy” tissue that is more prone to vibrate. The position of your tongue can also get in the way of smooth breathing. Since people snore for different reasons, it’s important to understand the causes behind your snoring. Once you understand why you snore, you can find the right solutions to a quieter, deeper sleep—for both you and your partner.

Common causes of snoring. As you reach middle age and beyond, your throat becomes narrower, and the muscle tone in your throat decreases. While you can't do anything about growing older, lifestyle changes, new bedtime routines, and throat exercises can all help to prevent snoring.Being overweight or out of shape. Fatty tissue and poor muscle tone contribute to snoring. Even if you’re not overweight in general, carrying excess weight just around your neck or throat can cause snoring. Exercising and losing weight can sometimes be all it takes to end your snoring.The way you’re built. Men have narrower air passages than women and are more likely to snore. A narrow throat, a cleft palate, enlarged adenoids, and other physical attributes that contribute to snoring are often hereditary. Again, while you have no control over your build or gender, you can control your snoring with the right lifestyle changes, bedtime routines, and throat exercises.Nasal and sinus problems. Blocked airways or a stuffy nose make inhalation difficult and create a vacuum in the throat, leading to snoring.Alcohol, smoking, and medications. Alcohol intake, smoking, and certain medications, such as tranquilizers like lorazepam (Ativan) and diazepam (Valium), can increase muscle relaxation leading to more snoring.Sleep posture. Sleeping flat on your back causes the flesh of your throat to relax and block the airway. Changing your sleep position can help.Ruling out more serious causes snoring could indicate sleep apnea, a serious sleep disorder where your breathing is briefly interrupted many times each night. Normal snoring doesn’t interfere with the quality of your sleep as much as sleep apnea, so if you’re suffering from extreme fatigue and sleepiness during the day, it could be an indication of sleep apnea or another sleep-related breathing problem. Call your doctor if you or your sleep partner have noticed any of the following red flags:

You snore loudly and heavily and are tired during the day.

You stop breathing, gasp, or choke during sleep.

You fall asleep at inappropriate times, such as during a conversation or a meal.

Linking the cause of your snoring to the cure

Sleep Apnea:

Symptoms and Self-HelpMonitoring your snoring for patterns can often help you pinpoint the reasons why you snore, what makes it worse, and how to go about stopping. To identify important patterns, it helps to keep a

sleep diary

. If you have a sleep partner, they can help you fill it in. If you sleep alone, set up a camera to record yourself at night.HOW you snore reveals WHY you snore

Type of snoringWhat it may indicate

Closed-mouth snoring may indicate a problem with your tongue

Open-mouth snoring may be related to the tissues in your throat

Snoring when sleeping on your back probably mild snoring—improved

sleep habits

and lifestyle changes may be effective cures

Snoring in all sleep positions mean your snoring is more severe and may require a more comprehensive treatment

Self-help strategies for snoring

There are so many bizarre anti-snoring devices available on the market today, with more being added all the time, that finding the right solution for your snoring can seem like a daunting task. Unfortunately, many of these devices are not backed up by research, or they work by simply keeping you awake at night. There are, however, plenty of proven techniques that can help eliminate snoring. Not every remedy is right for every person, though, so putting a stop to your snoring may require patience, lifestyle changes, and a willingness to experiment with different solutions.Bedtime remedies to help you stop snoringChange your sleeping position. Elevating your head four inches may ease breathing and encourage your tongue and jaw to move forward. There are specifically designed pillows available to help prevent snoring by making sure your neck muscles are not crimped.Sleep on your side instead of your back. Try attaching a tennis ball to the back of a pajama top or T-shirt (you can sew a sock to the back of your top then put a tennis ball inside). If you roll over onto your back, the discomfort of the tennis ball will cause you to turn back onto your side. Alternatively, wedge a pillow stuffed with tennis balls behind your back. After a while, sleeping on your side will become a habit and you can dispense with the tennis balls.Try an anti-snoring mouth appliance. These devices, which resemble an athlete’s mouth guard, help open your airway by bringing your lower jaw and/or your tongue forward during sleep. While a dentist-made appliance can be expensive, cheaper do-it-yourself kits are also available.Clear nasal passages. If you have a stuffy nose, rinse sinuses with saline before bed. Using a neti pot, nasal decongestant, or nasal strips can also help you breathe more easily while sleeping. If you have allergies, reduce dust mites and pet dander in your bedroom or use an allergy medication.Keep bedroom air moist. Dry air can irritate membranes in the nose and throat, so if swollen nasal tissues are the problem, a humidifier may help.Lifestyle changes to help you stop snoringLose weight. Losing even a little bit of weight can reduce fatty tissue in the back of the throat and decrease, or even stop, snoring. Quit smoking. If you smoke, your chances of snoring are high. Smoking irritates the membranes in the nose and throat which can block the airways and cause snoring. While quitting is easier said than done, it can bring quick snoring relief.Avoid alcohol, sleeping pills, and sedatives because they relax the muscles in the throat and interfere with breathing. Also talk to your doctor about any prescription medications you’re taking, as some encourage a deeper level of sleep which can make snoring worse.Be careful what you eat before bed. Research shows that eating large meals or consuming certain foods such as dairy or soymilk right before bedtime can make snoring worse.Exercise in general can reduce snoring, even if it doesn’t lead to weight loss. That’s because when you tone various muscles in your body, such as your arms, legs, and abs, this leads to toning the muscles in your throat, which in turn can lead to less snoring. There are also specific exercises you can do to strengthen the muscles in your throat.Six anti-snoring throat exercisesStudies show that by pronouncing certain vowel sounds and curling the tongue in specific ways, muscles in the upper respiratory tract are strengthened and therefore reduce snoring. The following exercises can help

Repeat each vowel (a-e-i-o-u) out loud for three minutes a few times a day.

Place the tip of your tongue behind your top front teeth. Slide your tongue backwards for three minutes a day.

Close your mouth and purse your lips. Hold for 30 seconds.

With your mouth open, move your jaw to the right and hold for 30 seconds. Repeat on the left side.

With your mouth open, contract the muscle at the back of your throat repeatedly for 30 seconds. Tip: Look in the mirror to see the uvula ("the hanging ball") move up and down.

For a more fun exercise, simply spend time singing. Singing can increase muscle control in the throat and soft palate, reducing snoring caused by lax muscles.

Medical treatment for snoring

If you’ve tried self-help solutions for snoring without success, don’t give up hope. There are medical options that could make all the difference. New advances in the treatment of snoring are being made all the time and devices are becoming more effective and comfortable.Talk to your primary physician or to an otolaryngologist (ear, nose, and throat doctor or ENT). Even if they recommend something that in the past was uncomfortable or didn’t work, that doesn’t mean the same will be true now.Medical cures for snoringYour physician or otolaryngologist may recommend a medical device or surgical procedure such as:Continuous Positive Airway Pressure (CPAP). To keep your airway open during sleep, a machine at your bedside blows pressurized air into a mask that you wear over your nose or face.Laser-assisted uvulopalatoplasty (LAUP) uses a laser to shorten the uvula (the hanging soft tissue at the back of the throat) and to make small cuts in the soft palate either side. As the cuts heal, the surrounding tissues stiffen to prevent the vibrations that trigger snoring.Palatal implants or the Pillar procedure involves inserting small plastic implants into the soft palate which help prevent collapse of the soft palate that can cause snoring.Somnoplasty uses low levels of radiofrequency heat to remove tissues of the uvula and soft palate that vibrate during snoring. The procedure is performed under local anesthesia and takes about 30 minutes.Custom-fitted dental devices and lower jaw-positioners help open your airway by bringing your lower jaw or your tongue forward during sleep. For best results, you will need to see a dentist who specializes in these devices.Surgical procedures such as Uvulopalatopharyngoplasty (UPPP), Thermal Ablation Palatoplasty (TAP), tonsillectomy, and adenoidectomy, increase the size of your airway by surgically removing tissues or correcting abnormalities.

Snoring and your relationship

No matter how much you love each other, snoring can put a strain on your relationship. If you’re the one lying awake at night as your partner snores away, it’s easy to start feeling resentful. And if you’re the snorer, you may feel helpless, guilty, or even irritated with your partner for harping on about something you can’t control.When snoring is a problem, relationship tension can grow in the following ways:Sleeping in separate rooms. While this may be a solution for some couples, it can also take a toll on emotional and physical intimacy. And if you’re the one snoring, you might feel lonely, isolated, and unfairly punished.Irritability due to sleep loss. Disrupted sleep isn’t just a problem for the non-snorer. Snoring is caused by disordered breathing, which means the snorer’s sleep quality also suffers. Poor sleep takes a toll on mood, thinking skills, judgment, and your ability to manage stress and conflict. This can explain why communication often breaks down when you and your partner try talking about the problem.Partner resentment. When a non-snorer feels he or she has done everything possible to sleep through the night (ear plugs, sound machines, etc.) but the snorer does nothing to combat the snoring, it can lead to resentment. Working as a team to find a snoring cure can prevent future fights.If you value your relationship, make it your priority to find a snoring cure so you can both sleep soundly. Working together to stop snoring can even be an opportunity to improve the quality of your bond and become more deeply connected.

Communicating with a partner who snores

So, you love everything about your partner… except their snoring. It’s normal. Even the most patient amongst us will draw the line at sleep deprivation. But no matter how much sleep you lose due to someone snoring, it’s important to handle the problem sensitively. It’s common to be irritable when sleep loss is an issue, but try reining in your frustration. You want to attack the snoring problem—not your sleep partner. Remember that your partner likely feels vulnerable, defensive, and even a little embarrassed about their snoring.Time your talk carefully. Avoid middle of the night or early morning discussions when you’re both feeling exhausted.Keep in mind it’s not intentional. Although it’s easy to feel like a victim when you lose sleep, remember that your partner isn’t keeping you awake on purpose.Avoid lashing out. Sure, sleep deprivation is aggravating and can be damaging to your health, but try your best to approach the problem in a non-confrontational way.

Effective Communication: Improving Communication SkillsBeware of bitterness. Make sure that latching onto snoring is not an outlet for other hidden resentments you’re harboring. Use humor and playfulness to bring up the subject of snoring without hurting your partner’s feelings. Laughing about it can ease tension. Just make sure it doesn’t turn into too much teasing.

Dealing with complaints about your snoring

It’s common to be caught off guard—not to mention to feel a little hurt—when a partner complains about your snoring. After all, you probably didn’t even realize it was happening. And although it might seem silly that snoring can cause such relationship turmoil, it’s a common and a very real problem.If you dismiss your partner’s concerns and refuse to try to solve your snoring problem, you’re sending a clear message to your partner that you don’t care about their needs. This could mean your relationship is in trouble, and that’s a bigger problem than the snoring.Keep the following in mind as you and your partner work together to find a solution to your snoring:Snoring is a physical issue. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Like a pulled muscle or a common cold, improving the condition is in your hands.Avoid taking it personally. Try not to take your partner’s frustration as a personal critique or attack. Your partner loves you, just not the snoring.Take your partner seriously. Avoid minimizing complaints. Lack of sleep is a health hazard and can make your partner feel miserable all day.Make it clear that you prioritize the relationship. If you and your partner have this understanding, you’ll both do what it takes to find a cure for the snoring.Address inappropriate behavior. Although sleep deprivation can lead to moodiness and irritability, let your partner know that it’s not okay for them to throw an elbow jab or snap at you when you’re snoring.

If you want to Stop Snoring join and Buy One from Blueheron health

Authors: Jeanne Segal, Ph.D., Melinda Smith, M.A., Lawrence Robinson, and Robert Segal, M.A. Last updated: June 2018.

#snoring #stop snoring #snore #sleep apnea #eliminate snoring #sleep apnea treatment #sleep dentistry

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legojacques · 7 years

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Zimbits, 1.6K, Jack has a panic attack and ducks into the first closet he finds. Unfortunately, he’s not the only one in there.

---

The room was suddenly too hot and stifling, and Jack found himself pulling distractedly at his collar. He gulped down his drink quickly, but even that had little effect on his nerves. He scanned the crowd and saw his parents across the room, but they were busy talking to someone else, leaving Jack to deal with the oncoming panic by himself.

Jack started to walk quickly towards the bathrooms which he had passed in the foyer on the way in. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the ladies he’d spoken to earlier, one of his mother’s friends, start to head in his direction, and the curling dread in Jack’s stomach turned to lead. He hastily ran into one of the building’s vast hallways and opened the first door he found.

Once inside, Jack closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the coolness of the door. He could hear the faint click of heels pass the closet he’d ducked into before they disappeared down the other end of the hallway.

After a few minutes though, someone cleared their throat, and Jack realized he wasn’t alone. He blinked unsteadily even though it was completely pitch black, except for the sliver of light that came from underneath the door.

“Uh, I’m afraid I found this hiding spot first,” a voice said hesitantly. The slight, Southern drawl of the vowels caught Jack off guard.

“I just need a moment,” he replied tersely.

There was silence again before the other person said, “Well, I guess we can share. As long as you don’t give us away.”

Jack gave a short laugh. “No, wouldn’t want that,” he muttered. He slid down the door until he was sitting with his back pressed up against it.

“Guessing you’re not a fan of the crowd out there either?”

“Sure,” he said, blowing out a breath. Jack guessed he had about ten to fifteen minutes before someone noticed he was missing and his parents were calling him to find out where he’d disappeared. He entertained the idea of just leaving and later telling them that he’d gotten sick, but his mother had been planning this charity gala for months.

“I’m Bitty,” the voice said.

“What?”

“Bitty. My name. Well, actually it’s Eric, but all my friends call me Bitty.”

“Okay,” Jack replied shortly, hoping this Bitty guy would get the hint. The reason he was hiding out in the storage closet was because he was trying to avoid talking to people.

“What’s your name?” Bitty asked.

He considered just leaving and finding a new place where he could be alone, but then there was also the risk of being found out in the open. “Jack,” he finally said, deliberately leaving off his surname.

There was a shuffling sound as Bitty moved across the floor until he was sitting closer to Jack. “So, um,” Bitty started nervously, “Is there something I can help you with?”

“What?” Jack said for the second time.

“You’re breathing really fast, and I, well, I’m really not an expert on other people, but it sounds like when I’m having an anxiety attack.”

Well, now that Bitty had mentioned it, Jack realized that his gasping hadn’t slowed from earlier. “It’s really stuffy in here,” he said. He pulled at his tux weakly, suddenly feeling a spike in the temperature.

“Woah, okay, here.” A pair of hands in the dark helped him peel his jacket off. “I’m going to touch you now, okay? I’m trying to help.”

“I--” Jack started, but a soft pressure on his chest cut off his thought. He grabbed blindly for the hand there. It was like an anchor as he closed his eyes and tried to focus on slowing his breathing down to deep inhales and exhales. After a few moments, the crushing feeling of panic started to dissipate, and his taut muscles began to loosen.

“You okay?” Bitty’s quiet voice asked.

“Yeah,” Jack said hoarsely. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” he said. “Do you want to leave? I could call a cab from here.”

“No, no,” Jack said. Bitty’s palm was warm against the spot over his heart, and Jack made no move to let go of his hand yet. “I can’t yet. My mother would be disappointed. I promised I would be here tonight.”

Bitty gave a hum in agreement. “I know what you mean. I came with a friend tonight as a favor, but I kind of gave up partway. I don’t know anyone here, and I’m not really good at making conversation.”

“I’m not good with people either, especially big crowds. They’re mostly my parents’ friends, but they--” Don’t look at me the same anymore since I overdosed…

The words got stuck in Jack’s throat, but thankfully, Bitty could sense his hesitation and didn’t press any further. “You know, the only thing that’s missing a tray of canapes and a bottle of champagne. We could have a party all on our own in here,” Bitty said cheerfully.

“In the dark.”

“That’s the best part,” Bitty laughed. “Didn’t you ever play Seven Minutes in Heaven?”

“Uh, no,” Jack said slowly, but his pulse quickened. Bitty was close enough that he could smell faint scent of his cologne mixed with something else so unique it could only be Bitty himself.

“Yeah, me neither,” Bitty said quickly. “The last time I was in a dark closet was when the football team decided to lock me in overnight.”

Jack flexed his fingers over Bitty’s before tightening his grip ever so slightly. “That’s awful.”

“I know,” he mumbled before adding with forced cheer, “But that was years ago.”

Licking his dry lips and feeling a rush of adrenaline that made him surprisingly bold in the moment, Jack asked, “Do you want to?”

“Do I want to what?”

“Seven Minutes in Heaven. Since neither of us had that chance before.”

There was a long silence that followed, and Jack was just about to take it back and laugh like it had been a joke before Bitty finally said, “Yeah, okay.”

Bitty’s other hand slid up Jack’s arm until it came to rest just under his jaw before he leaned in to press his lips against Jack’s. At first, it was chaste, just warm lips pressed against each other’s, until Jack leaned closer and opened his mouth to lick at the seam of Bitty’s lips. After that, the details got a little blurry. All Jack could think about was getting more of Bitty as he slid his hands into Bitty’s hair to pull him just enough until they were both at the perfect angle.

Jack didn’t know how long they’d been kissing, but the sudden blare of music had Bitty pulling away and fumbling for his phone. For a brief second, the dim light lit up the storage closet and Jack could see Bitty’s profile: the curve of his jawline and the perfect nose. Bitty declined the call, and reached out to impatiently pull Jack forward again.

Irritatingly, his phone went off again, and Bitty muttered, “Ignore it.”

Jack was happy to go along with that idea until the door behind him unexpectedly open and he went flying back. His head cracked painfully on the floor, and he was left squinting uncomfortably in the bright light.

“Bitty!” a new voice exclaimed as Jack tried to sit up, but found it near impossible with Bitty sprawled on his chest.

Bitty himself was gawking up the guy who’d opened the door on them, oblivious to Jack’s open-mouthed expression. Jack stared up at Bitty with the strangest sensation that everything in his world had just changed. Bitty’s golden hair was mussed and his bow tie was askew, but Jack found himself speechless.

“Shitty,” Bitty said guiltily, and it took a second for Jack to realize that ‘Shitty’ was this guy’s name and not a comment on the current situation. Bitty scrambled to get off of Jack, and the both of them got to their feet.

Shitty cut the call from his own phone, and Bitty’s ringtone immediately stopped. His eyes flickered from Jack to Bitty and then back to Jack again. “Brah, I cannot believe you didn’t invite me,” he finally said, clutching his heart with a dramatic sniffle. “You left me to have a ten minute conversation with my Aunt Mildred to go make out in a closet.”

“I’m really sorry,” Bitty said, reaching an arm out to pat Shitty’s arm. “I just really couldn’t stand your Aunt Mildred.”

“Me neither, but dinner’s going to be served and I don’t think I can make it through a conversation with half of the people at my table. You have to be there to stop me from strangling them.” His eyes glanced over Jack. “You can bring your new boyfriend, too. It might actually might distract them from asking me why I’m not going to Harvard like my dad.”

Bitty turned pink, but Jack cut in. “Uh, actually, you both could probably sit at my table instead, if you wanted.” Jack just wanted Bitty to stay with him, and if he had to squeeze in some extra chairs at his table and suffer through an evening of raised eyebrows from his parents, he was willing to pay the price.

Shitty perked up. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’ll be my parents and couple of other people, but there should be room,” he said with a shrug.

“Sweet.” Shitty turned to Bitty. “I like him already.”

“Yeah,” Bitty said with a relieved laugh.

“Okay, I’m going back in, but you’d better get back before dinner starts,” Shitty said before turning to head back to the gala.

“I’m really sorry about him,” Bitty started.

“It’s fine,” Jack replied.

“So, um.” Bitty ran his fingers through his hair awkwardly. “About what just happened in the closet.”

“Yeah?” Jack said.

“I don’t think it was quite seven minutes yet.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right,” he said as he let out the breath he was holding. “We’ll ahem have to make up for it later.”

Bitty grinned back at Jack. “I can’t wait.”

---

They’re not exactly a couple in this one, but Bitty is definitely there to help Jack through a mild panic attack.

#zimbits #eric bittle #jack zimmermann #and brief appearance of #shitty knight #ficlet #mine #lego writing #anyways have some good ol closet make out sessions

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lykalilydalaguit · 4 years

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Asynchronous no. 3

1.Alliteration is the repetition of initial sounds in neighboring words.

Example: Fresh fern fronds from the forest

2.Allusion is a figure of speech that quickly stimulates different ideas and associations using only a couple of words, thus making an indirect reference.

Example: Describing someone as an “Adonis” makes an allusion to the handsome young shepherd loved by the goddess of love and beauty herself in the Greek myths.

3.Anaphora is a stylistic device that consists of repeating a sequence of words at the beginning of neighboring clauses to give emphasis.

Example: You are lovely, you are gorgeous, you are pretty, you are glorious, you are, you are, you just are!

4.Anticlimax refers to a figure of speech in which a word is repeated and whose meaning changes in the second instance.

Examples: He got his dignity, his job, and his company car.

In the car crash, she lost her life, her car, and her cell phone.

5.Antiphrasis is a figure of speech in which a word or phrase is used to mean the opposite of its normal meaning to create ironic humorous effect.

Example: She is 65 year young.

6.Antithesis is a figure of speech that refers to the juxtaposition of opposing or contrasting ideas. It involves the bringing out of a contrast in the ideas by an obvious contrast in the words, clauses, or sentences within a parallel grammatical structure.

Example: To many choices, too little time.

7.Apostrophe is an exclamatory rhetorical figure of speech in which a speaker or writer breaks off and directs speech to an imaginary person or abstract quality or idea.

Example: Oh, moon! You have seen everything!

8.Assonance is a figure of speech that refers to the repetition of vowel sounds to create internal rhyming within phrases or sentences.

Example: A certain purple curtain, captain. (note: cer in cetain, pur in purple, and cur in curtain. Also tain in certain, curtain, and captain.)

9.Climax refers to the figure of speech in which words, phrases, or clauses are arranged in order of increasing importance.

Example: Three things will remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.

10.Euphemism is a figure of speech used to express a mild, indirect, or vague term to substitute for a harsh, blunt, or offensive term.

Example: saying “passed away” for “died”

Saying “in between jobs” to mean “unemployed”

11.Epigram refers to a concise, witty, memorable, and sometimes surprising or satirical statement.

Example: Oscar Wilde’s “I can resist everything but temptation,” or “I am not young enough to know everything.”

12.Epiphora (or epistrophe) is a rhetorical device that consists of repeating a sequence of words at the end of neighboring clauses to give them emphasis.

Example: “…a government of the people, by the people, for the people. (Note: The phrase the people is repeated twice after it was first mentioned.)

13.Hyperbole is a figure of speech that uses exaggeration to created emphasis or effect; it is not meant to be taken literally.

Example: I told you a million times to clean your room.

14.Irony is a figure of speech in which there is a contradiction of expectation between what is said and what is really meant. It is characterized by an incongruity, a contrast, between reality and appearance.

Example: The explanation is as clear as mud.

15.Litotes is a figure of speech consisting of an understatement in which an affirmative is expressed by negating its opposite.

Example: Instead of saying that someone is “ugly” you can say that someone is “not very pretty.”

Instead of saying that the situation is “bad” you can say that it is “not good”.

16.Merism is a figure of speech by which something is referred to by a conventional phrase that enumerates several of its constituents or traits.

Example: saying “young and old” to refer to the whole population

Saying “flesh and bone” to mean the whole body

17.Metaphor s a figure of speech that makes an implicit , implied or hidden comparison between two things or objects that are poles apart from each other but have some characteristics common between them.

Example: The planet is my playground. The Lord is my shepherd.

18.Metonymy is a figure pf speech in which a thing or concept is not called by its own name, but by the name of something intimately associated with the thing or concept.

Examples: Using “Malacaňang” to refer to the president or the government

Saying “a hand” to mean “help”

19.Oxymoron is a figure of speech that combines incongruous or contradictory terms.

Examples: open secret, virtual reality, sacred profanities

20.Personification is a figure of speech in which a human characteristics are attributed to an abstract quality, animal, or inanimate object.

Example: Red punctuates and makes bold statements, says something, and means it like an exclamation point!

21.Simile is a figure of speech directly comparing two unlike things, often introduced the word, like or as.

Examples: A smile as big as the sun. She prays like a mantis.

22.Synecdoche is a figure of speech in which a part of something is used to represent the whole of something is used to represent part of it.

Examples: Sixty hands voted. (The part “hand” is used to refer to the whole person)

The country supported the president. (The word “country” is used to refer to the people.)

23.Understatement is a figure of speech used by its writers or speakers to deliberately make a situation seem less important or serious that it really is.

Examples: A nurse to give an injection saying, “It will sting a bit.”

To describe a disappointing experience, a participant may say, “It was …different.”

LITREADITURE!

Look for literary pieces and take note some lines in it that expresses figures of speech listed below. Write your answers on the space provided. (One example for each)

1.ALLUSION:“Don’t act like a Romeo in front of her.” – “Romeo” is a reference to Shakespeare’s Romeo, a passionate lover of Juliet, in “Romeo and Juliet”.

2.ANAPHORA: Charles Dickens: A Tale of Two Cities

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

3.EUPHEMISM: Antony and Cleopatra (By William Shakespeare), “Royal wench!

She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed.

He plowed her, and she cropped.”

4.EPIGRAM:

“Mankind must put an end to war, or war will put and end to mankind.” – John F. Kennedy.

5.LITOTE: A Tale of a Tub (By Jonathan Swift)

“I am not unaware how the productions of the Grub Street brotherhood have of late years fallen under many prejudices.”

6.METONYMY: “In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” (Abraham Lincoln).

7.OXYMORON: “You can’t have more types of fake news than real news.” (Elon Musk)

8.MERISM: "There is a working class—strong and happy—among both rich and poor; there is an idle class—weak, wicked, and miserable—among both rich and poor." (John Ruskin, The Crown of Wild Olive, 1866)

9.ANTITHESIS: Community (By John Donne), “Good we must love, and must hate ill,

For ill is ill, and good good still;

But there are things indifferent,

Which we may neither hate, nor love,

But one, and then another prove,

10.IRONY:The Wizard of Oz (L. Frank Baum): the characters already have what they are asking for from the wizard

Journal Entry #2

What’s the language of the piece?

Read a literary piece (prose or poetry). Review and examine the language used by the author (Tone, Diction, Style and Figures of Speech). Include photographs to add creativity and visuals in your writing. Your answers must not be less than ten sentences.

Friendship

By : Vener Santos

The poetry that I have chosen is "Friendship" by Vener Santos a Filipino Author his poem "Friendship" is not an ordinary poem about having a friend. This poem talks about Filipinos,in particular. Vener Santos made this poem to all Filipinos to understand what friendship is all about and what Friendship brings to our lives. The diction being used is formal because the words are all written correctly and formally. The tone of the poetry is that the writer is looking forward that everything will grow old but friendship will always remain fresh in our mind and our hearts. The figure of speech used for me is Repitition because of the repeating words to relay a message to a friend and to someone whom you love. This poetry's lesson is we should treasure the friendship we have, death will separate it on earth, but it will reborn in heaven.

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