#so like this post isn’t like supposed to be a snub just my thoughts as well as some context

[boysborntodie]

Latino!Johnny is super popular in the fandom and my headcanon too but I wanted to elaborate a little bit on why I think it's important to both the narrative and his character for Johnny to be so (no matter what SE Hinton says).

(Also I am not Latino or American, and all my information is second-hand so if I'm wrong about something or said something insensitively, I apologise and please correct me!!)

While Greaser is now mostly used to in reference to the subculture, the word 'Greaser' was often used as a slur against Mexican/Hispanic American, especially in the Southwest.

Greaser subculture itself is heavily rooted in ethnic groups such as Italian, Greek, Latino and Hispanic Americans, both influencing the subculture itself while being the main demographic (at least at first, having later spread around to lower class Americans in general and becoming a sort of movement).

Johnny’s main reason as being depicted as a POC seems to be the scene where he tells Ponyboy his skin is too dark for him to have blond hair. But I think it goes beyond just that and that race is a theme ever-present in Johnny’s progression throughout the book.

Now with Johnny, his entire character is, at first, summed up as 'poor kid who's been kicked down too many times'. He’s got no prospects. He’s bad at school. His parents despise him and he’s, for the most part, homeless.

We later learn that Johnny isn��t actually unintelligent in academic matters. He’s able to pick up themes and details quite easily. The education system is very flawed and has failed many students for centuries. Students of colour have often been neglects and even abused by teachers (esp in the past eras). This is espec true of children whose first language isn’t English.

One thing that I’m a little hesitant to get into but I think it important is that Johnny’s constantly noted to use a lot of grease, more so than any other character. He also keeps his hair quite long and unkempt. Hair is a status symbol and sign of pride for greasers but Italian, Greek, Hispanic and Latino people have been stereotyped as unhygienic and unkempt, especially in regards to their hair.

At one point, Johnny and Ponyboy find themselves in need of directions. Johnny suggests Ponyboy pretend to be a farmboy.

Ponyboy’s constantly says that Johnny looks like a kicked puppy and pretty much harmless. But here he notes that Johnny looks threatening to a stranger. I think this is another scene with racial connotations.

A major event in Johnny’s life was the time he was attacked by Bob and his friends. Johnny’s been noted to have developed PTSD, paranoia and anxiety since then. The suddenness of his attack and extent of violence is unusual. Ponyboy also notes that Johnny isn’t afraid of getting hurt due to his abusive father, so it wasn’t the pain but rather it was the fear they made him feel that affected him. Johnny being a POC adds another layer to this entire incident and especially to his paranoia afterwards, especially with the details that are left vague.

The last point I want to bring up is that Johnny’s character is of one who’s deeply embedded into the Greaser subculture. He’s never been outside of Tulsa and doesn’t expect to ever leave. He’s put against character like the Curtises (who are white) who have the power to leave Tulsa (and the class dynamics it symbolises) and even those like Dally who have that power but are too deep to ever use it. Johnny being a POC makes this lack of freedom his other white friends have give his character even more complexity

TL;DR: That is a Latino man.

[lumosinlove]

Between Fifth And You

AO3

chapter two

~

It’s Saturday night for Manhattan’s elite, and we know what that means. The Noble House of Black beckons, and one particularly family seems to be a little behind on preparations—at least, their youngest son is.

Spotted—Logan Tremblay, looking hot in nothing but basketball shorts. Better soak up that fading blue August heat while you can, Lo. Or are you more interested in something a little more…fiery? But in the LES? Why so far from home, Dorothy? Eye color isn’t the only thing green about the Tremblay family. And they have a bad habit of sorting everything out with a little help from Ben Franklin.

“Shoot, shoot!”

Logan pivoted on his heel and was able to toss the ball around his opponent’s shoulder. He only caught a glimpse of red hair as Finn caught it with ease and jumped it up to the rim.

Finn O’Hara. One of these days Logan was going to step on his own shoes watching Finn O’Hara. His pale chest looked like sugar dusting, his exertion-red cheeks the goddamn cherry.

“Point moo-oi!” Finn shouted, slapping Will Morgan and Percy Marshall on their bare backs. “That’s how you say it, right, Tremblay?”

Logan feigned a shudder. “Non.”

“Shorty’s got game,” Will laughed, sweat dripping down his dark brown skin, darkening the leather bracelets he wore.

Percy shook his head, swallowing over a caught-breath, his silver Star of David swinging at his throat. “Shorty must be cheating with his Upper Side shoes.”

Logan just narrowed his eyes and laughed, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “You’re just tall. Doesn’t mean you’re good.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mazel tov, you fucker.”

“I’m finally winning,” Finn grinned. “And now I gotta get back to the shop. I said be back in five…pretty sure it’s been fifty-five.”

Logan swallowed. “I’ll—I’ll walk you.”

Percy slapped him on the back as they left, and Finn held the cage door of the basketball court open for him.

“So, you’re back at school?” Finn asked as he pulled his shirt on. Logan nodded, following suit, picking at the neck where it stuck to his sweaty skin.

“Yeah,” Logan nodded. “I’m supposed to be getting fitted for a suit right now.”

Finn snorted. “What does that have to do with school?”

“Oh,” the corner of Logan’s mouth raised as he realized. “Nothing, I…well, you know. The social scene. It sort of all feels like one thing, up there.”

Finn pouted at him. “Poor baby. Too many parties.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Logan laughed.

“Hey, feel like lunch?”

“I thought you had to be back.”

Finn shrugged. “I’m hungry.”

Logan bit his lip, wondering how many different ways his older sisters could actually kill him. Honestly, he thought he’d just die on the spot of he passed up the change to be squeezed into one of the small restaurants that Finn frequented. Screw the grand tables of his life. Logan wanted cracked leather booths small enough to let their ankles brush. Not that he’d ever say that out loud.

Finn didn’t disappoint. They walked down the shade of Mott street, then turned at a bakeshop on the corner. Finn pointed at it.

“You’ve been here, haven’t you?”

Logan raised a shoulder. “I don’t get down here much.”

Finn snorted. “Listen to you. Down here. You’re down here enough to pop into my bookstore all the time.”

Logan studied the cakes in the windows, biting his lip when he realized Finn’s eyes were still on him in the reflection. “I…yeah.”

Finn flicked the bill of Logan’s hat which shaded the back of his neck. “How’s that latest book you bought?”

Logan turned away from the window to get them walking again, not sure where they were going but trusting Finn to lead. “I’m starting school, man, I don’t have all the time in the world.”

Finn just laughed. “Come on, let’s catch the 6.”

Logan found himself squeezed into a tiny French restaurant in the West Village that served them even tinier croissants.

“I know the chef,” Finn said popping one he had spread jam and butter on into his mouth. “Dumo. Don’t pay a cent. I fucking love these things.”

Logan would have bought Finn a thousand of the tiny pastries without a blink just to see him lick a bit of jam from his thumb again.

“Dumo doesn’t sound very French…” Logan began cutting up his waffle.

Finn laughed. “Pascal Dumais does.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s more like it.”

Logan glanced at a woman and her baby, who had started crying. He tried to think of something to say. For someone who’s job seemed to be making small talk at various parties and charming people with his accent—or so his mother sometimes said—he sure was horrible at it.

“So, what’s the suit for?” Finn asked, taking a sip of his black coffee.

“A fashion show,” Logan sighed, hiding his surprise—and maybe delight—at Finn’s unknowing shrug. “It’s…sort of a lot. Lots of people and cameras. And I always have to wear something green.”

Finn hummed in understanding. “It’s the eyes, yeah?”

Logan nodded. “A lot of fast English, too.”

Finn tilted his head. “I didn’t know that was hard for you. You’re perfect.”

Logan tried not to flush and covered it with a shrug. “I lived in France until I was fifteen before we finally moved to my dad. It’s still nice to be able to read lips sometimes. With the flashes and they make it super dark…I don’t know.”

“No, that makes sense,” Finn said, brown eyes soft. He smiled. “Hey, well, if you don’t want to go to the fitting, come man the shop with me. I’d love the company.”

Logan looked at him and ached, but saw his older sister Noelle’s pleading, excited expression in his mind. He might not love the scene, but he loved his sisters. “I wish I could. Really.”

They finished up their food and Logan had to admit that he lingered over his coffee until Finn said he absolutely had to leave.

“Hey, Tremblay,” Finn called from down the sidewalk, and Logan turned in the full knowledge that seeing the smile Finn sent him would only make him want to stay more.

The dutiful son wants the bookshop boy…I don’t know, Lo. How will their royal highnesses feel about that?

“Come buy more books you don’t read soon, okay?”

Logan couldn’t help but smile back. “D’accord.”

Finn walked backwards a few steps, yelling, “And bring me something green!” before turning and jogging down the subway stairs.

Logan laughed as he called his driver to him, escaping the heat for air conditioned leather.

XOXO

Pearls or diamonds, Upper Siders? Armani or Ralph? What, like you have other questions tonight?

Well, I have one for you. A tip from a friendly scroller gave me a peak at tonight’s guest list. Do you think we’re in for more than just a showdown on the runway? Cat fights over cat walks is what I always say.

XOXO.

[Image description: Two name cards reading, from left to right, Leo Knut and Remus Lupin, Sirius Black and Sebastian Montague]

Remus found Julian already dressed and tapping at a game on his phone when he descended the winding staircase of their penthouse.

“You waiting for mom and dad?” Remus said, dropping a kiss to the top of his head.

“And you,” Julian said.

“Right, right,” Remus smoothed his black tuxedo, trying to ignore the subtle glint of blue-silver embroidered into the black velvet. His mother was a planner—which Remus liked usually—but this design had not aged well. This suit had a twin that it no longer belonged with. Remus clenched his jaw as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He’d hoped wearing it would feel like defiance.

But it only felt like he was lonely. He gave his head a hard shake. He had Leo. He couldn’t let New York throw him.

“Gossip Girl’s going crazy. Of course,” Julian said.

“Jules, you shouldn’t read that stuff,” Remus sighed. “It’s just gossip—”

“Just posted about Sirius,” Julian murmured.

Remus huffed, pushing his hair out of its too neat style in the mirror. “So?”

Julian shrugged, but pointedly looked away when Remus took out his own phone.

The photo looked like one from the paparazzi, but the sight of Sirius on the red carpet made Remus’ throat close up.

I spy a statement piece. Or maybe it’s just a statement. Sirius Black arrives on the red carpet—or should I say black carpet—with none other than New York’s favorite icon, in worship and fashion alike. The Saint of these streets is looking particularly dashing tonight, hand in hand with the heir of this city. Ouch, Re. Looks like you’ve been dethroned.

Remus stared down at the screen, neck hot. Sirius’ suit sleeves had the barely there leather half moon cut-outs that Remus remembered tracing onto his skin.

Sirius had smiled into their kiss. Think anyone will notice?

Remus had just laughed. Everyone will notice.

But there was Saint, a crown of moonstones in his golden hair.

Remus looked down at his own suit. Of course Saint had thought of a way they’d match, that was all it was, but it still felt like a snub.

“I sort of miss him,” Julian said quietly.

Remus’ heart pulled. He swallowed and clicked his phone off. He looked at Julian, who looked almost sheepish.

“Do you?” Julian asked even more quietly.

“Don’t you like Leo?” Remus asked.

“Of course,” Julian nodded quickly. “But…”

“Remus,” Hope smiled, coming down the stairs arm-in-arm with their father. “Jules. Ready, boys?”

Remus didn’t think saying no was an option. He cleared his throat, pushed his hair back.

“Almost,” he said, backtracking towards the stairs. “Just a second. Gotta call Leo, make sure he hasn’t left yet.”

XOXO

“We can watch a livestream of the red carpet and the show,” Natalie said. “Sit.”

Finn groaned, squished beside Natalie on her tiny sofa. “That feels like I’m stalking him.”

“We’re allowed to stalk the boys we like.”

“You’re dating my brother, Nat. Does this mean you stalked him?”

“It really does,” Alex said, coming in from the kitchen with their margaritas and dropping a kiss to Natalie’s temple.

“Hm,” Natalie smiled up at him, accepting a kiss to her lips. “Scruffy.”

Finn sighed and pulled a knee up to his chest, watching the loading video Natalie had pulled up.

“Your wifi sucks,” he mumbled.

“It’ll load,” Natalie scooted over for Alex and passed Finn his drink.

“Salsa, too,” Finn said, waving it over.

Finally, the video popped up to a view of the red carpet.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Alex said.

“Be nice,” Natalie laughed. “It’s fashion!”

“Look,” Alex sighed. “I know they’re wealthy and it’s suppose to be all, I don’t know sandy beaches and wristwatches, but not a single one of these people look remotely happy. Like take a look at this guy—“

Finn looked over the sandy-haired man posing in front of the cameras—well, not posing, really. Kasey Winter, the commentators were saying.

“Nice hair,” Natalie crunched on a chip. “And listen to that, his mother’s one of the biggest producers at Weird Sisters Records.”

“Fine, but he looks like he’s ready to kill someone. I mean, anyone else think its kind of fucked up that the New York families go to a New York university where New York businesses draw from New York’s elite?”

“Yes,” Finn and Natalie said in unison.

And then there was Logan.

Finn let out an embarrassing sound and set his drink down, leaning forward.

Logan walked out in front of the cameras with three girls—his sisters, Finn remembered. Not to mention he followed all of them on Instagram. They had a lot of shoes, sure, but they seemed all right.

“I saw this thing on Gossip Girl about one of the sisters,” Natalie said. “She—”

“Nat, why the hell do you read that?”

Natalie shot him a look. “Like you don’t.”

Finn ignored them, too focused on the dark, nearly black, velvety green cape—or was it cloak?—that covered Logan’s shoulders down to above his elbows, falling to an elegant point at the small of his back over his black suit. The sisters had a similar get-up in one way or another—a green train, a shawl, a corset. Logan’s clasp was a silver fleur-de-lis.

“Green,” Finn breathed.

“What?” Alex asked.

Finn bit the inside of his cheek at Logan’s expression. It was meant to be blank, Finn thought, at-ease and untouchable, but it came off almost enticing. His dark eyelashes swept against his cheeks. Finn watched his throat bob around a swallow, his adored eyes shifting from flash to flash.

“Nothing,” Finn answered his brother.

“How’d you meet this kid anyway, Fish?” his brother asked.

“I was closing up shop about a month ago,” Finn said. “And he stopped at one of our windows. Looked like he’d run the entire island, he was breathing so hard. Not to mention it was pouring like nothing else. Thought he was gonna pass out, so I unlocked the door and let him in to get dry. I don’t know, he was kind of shy at first. Listened to me talk for about an hour before he started giving anything back.” Finn shrugged, watching Logan walk off screen. “I invite him to play basketball with me, Morg, and Percy now. We get lunch after sometimes.”

Natalie sighed. “He looked like one unhappy camper.”

“I think his family puts a lot of pressure on him. He’s the baby. Only son. All that bullshit.”

“I kind of want that cape,” Natalie said.

Alex sighed. “That’s the idea.”

Natalie slapped his chest, then kissed his cheek, and Finn watched Logan walk off-screen.

XOXO

“What say you, Capulet?”

Sirius looked down at Saint at his shoulder. “They’re out of crab puffs.”

“Boo,” Saint said. “You still closing the show?”

“Yep.”

“Shouldn’t you be in hair and makeup?”

“Yep.”

Saint stepped in front of him, the gold band of moonstones nestled in his curls glinting in the dark stage lights. “Looking for someone?”

Sirius just reached out and ran a gentle thumbnail beneath where Saint’s golden eyeliner had smudged against his brown skin, striking it back to a point. “Nope. See you after the show.”

Saint clucked his tongue. “I’m unimpressed.”

“What else is new?” Sirius said.

Saint went to smile, when his eyes flickered behind Sirius and he raised his eyebrows. “That.”

Sirius turned around, and quickly schooled his expression. The cameras were going wild, and in front of all the flashing lights was Remus, hand-in-hand with Leo Knut.

“They make a sunshine pair,” Saint said from beside him. “How’re you feeling?”

Sirius touched two fingers to one of the black-leather moons on his jacket sleeve. They were meant to go with Remus’ stars. He remembered planning for them. He’d thought…part of him had thought if he’d worn them tonight—

“Cloudy sky,” he replied to Saint.

“I was gonna say dappled sunlight in…” Saint glanced around. “A dark forest.”

Remus and Leo were wearing dress shirts, collars rumpled and unbuttoned at their throats, each in a smooth shade of cream. Their hands, decked out in golden rings, were laced together, and they both wore pale gray slacks, slim cut, and laceless nikes.

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun…hmm, but don’t I spy some burning jealous?

“What are we going for here,” Saint raised an eyebrow. “Left in a hurry and didn’t get the dress code?”

“We’re going against me,” Sirius replied, slipping his hands into his pockets and trying to stand straight. “That’s all.”

“Sunlight in a dark forest, indeed.”

Sirius watched them looking out over the flashes, and tried not to look surprised when golden eyes met his own. Remus’ expression didn’t change either. Instead, he simply blinked, then looked away. Leo, tall and lean, leaned into his ear, and Remus smiled. The cameras popped like champagne.

I love right here, Sirius remembered his own voice, the feeling of the soft skin by Remus’ eye beneath his thumb. I love right here when you smile.

“I need to get backstage,” Sirius said shortly, and turned on his heel.

“I’ll be watching.”

“Don’t I know,” Sirius called as he weaved his way through the crowd, heading backstage. The woman with a radio in her ear looked annoyed and nervous when he slipped past her, and radioed that he had arrived to whoever it was that needed to know.

“Sirius!” Alice called, hands full of makeup brushes and up in the air. “Jesus Christ, do you think I have all fucking night?”

Sirius shrugged out of his red carpet jacket—which someone took—and slid into her chair. “Sorry, Al.”

She twirled a protective cape around his shoulders, snapping it at the base of his neck. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty. But then again, I think everyone’s pretty.”

Sirius closed his eyes, letting her begin. “People are.”

Alice had just finished contour when Sirius all but felt his mother’s presence. A shift in the air. A cooler wind. People standing up straighter and shivering.  

“Sirius,” his mother’s face appeared in the mirror. Her red lipstick was the brightest thing about her, and even that was almost mauve. Her dress was tight around her breasts, but cascaded in thick waves of velvet behind her, and she wore tall leather boots. It almost looked like armor. “You’re very late, darling.”

“Sorry,” Sirius said. “Saint and I got caught up in the crowd, I guess.”

She hummed. “You two looked fetching out there. He’s much more pleasing than that other boy ever was. His family is important, too.”

It was true, that his mother had never liked Remus much. Though, Sirius couldn’t compare him and Saint. They were two different oceans.

“Get dressed,” his mother breathed, and was already snapping her fingers at one of the other models before Sirius could say another word.

“All right?” Alice asked him quietly.

Sirius looked at himself in the mirror. Her contour made his face look almost gaunt, as was the general makeup for all of the models, and he knew he’d be given dark eye makeup next, his hair fluffed into perfect curls.

“Fine,” Sirius said, and closed his eyes to let her work.

Sirius was shrugging into his given outfit—a billowing longcoat, 20th century in fashion, and a longer tunic made almost entirely of the thinnest black silk. It would shimmer when he walked, he knew, and his tall, lace-up boots, the flat sole so thin and delicate that he almost felt barefoot, would disappear beneath the shimmer. His mother was cold, stubborn, and cruel sometimes, an unfeeling, yawning sort of dark, but she was talented.

“Lord Vader,” came a voice from behind him, and Sirius laughed even before he turned to face Thomas Walker.

“Sounds about right,” Sirius said, and they clasped hands, pulling them into a one-armed hug. “You look fantastic, though.”

Thomas spun slowly on his heel, letting the long, loose fitting white linen of his button-down—which went out in two, tuxedo-like tails at his back—flare out above his slim, black trousers. He wore a thin scarf of distressed wool.

“Like a fallen gentleman, no?” Thomas grinned. “I might try and steal these pants. And maybe the shirt for Noelle.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sirius smiled, spying Noelle’s green eyes behind his shoulder. “She’ll love that.”

Noelle wrapped her arms, which were draped in a transparent green cloth, around Thomas’ waist. “Thanks for thinking of me, T baby.”

Thomas laughed in surprise. “Who let you back stage?”

“I’m a Tremblay, they’ll let us in anywhere.”

Thomas turned his head to capture Noelle in a soft kiss.

“See you after, hm?” Noelle said. “I’m gonna go say hi to my friend, she’s walking tonight, too.”

“Yeah, we’ll ride to Honeyduke’s together.”

Noelle raised an eyebrow at him. “You coming, Black?”

“Saint all but owns the place,” Sirius said. “Of course I am.”

Sirius walked. He didn’t look down, or hear the cameras. It wasn’t his favorite thing in the world, to be up here, not able to see past the lights—but something tonight was different. It felt as it had the night of his and Remus’ first kiss.

In that show, he had had one, thin line of black lipstick traced over the center of his bottom lip. It had marked Remus’ throat and cheeks like soot by the end of it all.

Remus had been waiting for him back stage.

“Come here,” Remus had whispered, and laced their fingers together.

“Where?” Sirius had answered, surprised by their palms pressing together.

But it hadn’t been a place. Remus had pressed them back in between clothing racks, and crashed their mouths together.

Here, Remus had whispered, and kissed him again.

Sirius felt the absence of the stage lights like a wash of cold air, and he stretched out his back, letting his stony face drop a little. He glanced around, but there was no one to be found. His cheeks were warm just thinking about it.

“Good,” his mother said as he passed her by to take off the makeup, and that was all.

XOXO

Saint looked across Honeyduke’s and felt like it was his. Logan was laughing with Thomas and Noelle, and he had Kasey Winter beside him, securing tickets to one of their favorite bands to see together.

“Done,” Kasey said, and flashed one of his rare smiles.

“I knew you were my favorite,” Saint took a sip of his drink, and Kasey scoffed.

“Me or my mom?”

“Maybe a little of both. Oh, and we’re going to sushi beforehand.”

Kasey’s smile was larger now. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. You gonna leave with that drummer again? What’s her name?”

Saint smiled. “Oh, Sally. And I make it a habit to always leave with the drummer.”

Kasey just shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. I’m getting a drink and leaving you to your one-liners.”

Saint watched him go, feeling settled, and set about scanning the room for Sirius. He was sure he’d know if he was there—people tended to swarm to Sirius, even if he didn’t ask for it. It was part of the reason they were so close. People flocked to Saint, too. So, they asked for each other’s company. A more intimate, calm part of life. Sirius was quiet. Saint wasn’t, but he let Saint , for a moment, be that way, too. Saint was loud. Sirius wasn’t, but Saint had his ways to fire him up.

“Another drink, sir?”

Saint looked over his shoulder, only to turn all the way around, interest peaked. The bartender had sandy hair, and a strong jaw, his cheeks textured by acne scars in some places. He had brown eyes—save for a sliver of green in one.

“Only if you have one with me,” Saint said, and glanced down at his name-tag. “Luke.”

Luke arched an eyebrow, pressing the heels of his palms onto the bar between them, revealing rolled up sleeves and some type of vine tattoo, wrapping all around both of his forearms.

“I’m working, sir.”

“Is that a later?” he nodded at the tattoo. “Nice.”

“I don’t think so,” Luke said.

“Oh, no?”

Luke scowled—how did he look so handsome doing that?

“Do you make it a habit to go home with all the waiters, too?”

Saint didn’t let his expression flicker, just smiled nice and slow.

“Hillrock,” Saint said. “Neat.”

The barkeep turned away.

Ouch. Looks like not everyone worships at your alter, Saint.

XOXO

The elevator doors opened, revealing the party to Sirius one outfit after the next. He had changed for the afterparty—the first of three. He wore a tight, thin black t-shirt and dark jeans. He hadn’t bothered to wash off the dark, smudged eyeliner from the show. His combat boots went up to just below his knee, and had the same nearly naked feeling sole. It made him feel soundless, like a shadow.

Maybe that’s why it was easy to find Remus and stand beside him without him stirring.

“You’re a little underdressed,” Sirius said without looking at him.

“Says the boy wearing a t-shirt,” Remus replied evenly.

Sirius scowled. “I meant at the show.”

“People like to be surprised,” Remus replied evenly.

“Who’s Leo?”

“My boyfriend.”

Sirius turned towards him. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”

Remus matched him. They were nearly chest to chest. “You didn’t say a word to me in class.”

“You didn’t—“

“I had the last word,” Remus snapped. “I figured maybe you’d finally have something to say back.”

Sirius stared at him, heart pounding in his ears. For a moment, he let himself look. At the golden eyes, hair more blond than ever from the summer’s sun. Sirius couldn’t stand that mouth set in a frown.

“Guess not,” Remus said softly, lips dropping open in the way they used to before they kissed.

Sirius all but felt him vanish into the writhing crowd.

XOXO

Finn looked up when a flash of color on the morning-silent street outside caught his eye. He set the books he was holding down, took the pen out from between his teeth.

Green.

“What the hell?” Finn laughed as he pulled open the door to his bookshop to find Logan standing there. “It’s five in the fucking morning, what are you doing here? Couldn’t sleep?”

“Never did,” Logan said, and that’s when Finn saw that Logan was still in his suit from the livestream.

“Ah, I see,” Finn said, eyes flicking up and down his broad form. He swallowed dryly. “The nature of afterparties, I suppose. Well, you—you look good. For someone who’s been up all night, I mean.”

Logan just smiled, one of his small, secretive ones. Finn watched as he stepped forward so they were almost toe to toe in the doorway.

“Wh…” Finn’s voice dropped off with a breathless laugh. He couldn’t help but look at Logan’s mouth. His full lips that could speak a language Finn couldn’t even begin to describe.

Logan just reached up to the base of his own throat and unclipped the fleur-de-lis clasp there. In one smooth swoop, he drew his short cloak from his shoulders and around Finn’s, right over his worn gray t-shirt, clicking it in place. The fabric brought a gentle scent, and he figured it must be Logan’s cologne.

“Something green,” Logan said softly. A warm, early morning breeze ruffled his hair, pushing the curls forward. Finn couldn’t move. “What are you doing here?”

“Inventory,” Finn whispered, then cleared his throat. “Inventory.”

“Okay,” Logan said. “I’ll help.”

[ladywhistleclown]

Benedict Bridgerton x M!Reader: Valentines Fools

Summary: Benedict does something special. Word Count: 3334 A/N: I read this post about Valentines in Regency England, and found it so interesting that I had to write about it. of course, I made it gay. duh. Also, I wrote the ‘poem’ later myself, but its inspired by many LGBT poets/writers from history who wrote poems like it, about hope for future LGBT folks, just very simplified. This is some of my best work, and I don’t want it to get snubbed just because its not f/m, so like, give it a chance! MLM fic is also fun :) Enjoy! Warnings: Fluff, Drinking, Giggly men doing giggly men things (being stupid) -- Valentines Day, in your mind, was a rather dreadful event. Ladies and Lords spent days agonizing over hand-made letters, writing disgusting poetry about love, or rejection. You had never partaken in the act, partly because you had never had anyone to write to, and partly because even if you had, you had neither the patience nor skill to craft such detailed notes of devotion. You thought it best to leave such things to artists and ladies, of which you were neither. This year was only slightly different. After having met Benedict at Lord Granville's, striking up conversations about art, women, and your places in society, you had developed a rather strange relationship, one that you would almost call a courtship, if it wasn’t so clearly an impossibility. Benedict simply wanted to explore something new, something outside the realm of society and expectations, and you, lovesick fool that you were, happily obliged him. It was nothing more than attraction and curiosity. Second son or not, Benedict could never marry a man. Even if he wanted to.

At least you could drown yourself in booze at Lord Granville's. He was a good listener, with even better advice, and you knew that he understood exactly your pain. It was here you found yourself, a day before Valentines, throwing down your sixth beer and lamenting to Granville, who sat patiently by your side. “Society is not kind to those like us.” You sighed, running the tip of your index finger along the outer edge of your glass, staring blankly at it, as though if you drank enough, the answers would appear in the liquor. “No, it isn’t. But we are kind to each other, and ourselves.” He replied, looking over you with pity. You had never been much of a drinker, not for as long as Granville had known you, but your infatuation with Benedict had brought it out in you, and he wondered if it was a mistake to invite the Bridgerton boy here, if it caused an old friend to suffer in a way that was very familiar and personal to him. He knew the pain of impossible love too well, and saw himself reflected in your morose state. “Of course. You’re too kind to me, Granville. I talk your ear off about my foolish troubles with Bridgerton, but never think to ask of yours.” “I am not nearly as troubled as you are. And as I said, we must look out for each other, as the ton certainly will not.” he lifted up his own drink, pausing just before it reached his lips to glance at you, “Perhaps I should dis-invite Bridgerton from future events?” “Oh hell, Granville, don’t torture the man on my account. He enjoys the art and the company, and besides that,  I’d rather him here than at some brothel.” you grimaced as soon as the words left your mouth, an embarrassing slip revealing just how deeply attached you were. “Apologies. The alcohol has loosened my tongue.” “No bother. I understand that jealousy quite well.” Granville said, his voice still light and amused, and you couldn't help but laugh as he took a sip, winking at you before putting his glass down. “What jealousy?” Came a loud voice from directly behind you. You jumped, Granville almost knocking his drink over in his shock. Of course, he would arrive now, when you were drunk and foolish. You breathed out quickly, praying that you would say nothing incriminating before turning to face Benedict. He looked confused, glancing from Granville's face to yours, before reiterating, “What jealousy, Granville?” “Merely of other artists. I’m sure you know it too.” He recovered, taking another drink before gesturing to the table, “Care to join us?” Benedict sat in the chair closest to you, and you shot Granville a look of pure spite. In your drunken haze, everything seemed too much. His voice was too smooth, his smile too large, and the way he draped an arm across your chair, caging you in, was entirely too casual. You promised to whatever God was listening that you would slaughter Granville for this. “Of course I do. You know better than anyone.” He agreed, sliding easily into the conversation. You remained silent, not trusting yourself in your inebriation to respond beyond a simple hum of agreement or a grunt of displeasure. If you allowed yourself to speak freely, no doubt you would be weeping in Benedict's arms like a little girl within minutes. “What do you think?” You started, retreating from your thoughts to find both Benedict and Granville looking at you. Benedict’s eyes shone with thinly veiled concern, tilting his head and gently shaking you by the shoulder, while Granville simply smiled in amusement. “I..was lost in thought. My apologies.” You said quickly, waving Benedict’s hands away and sitting up completely. You were drunker than you thought, and briefly you wondered if you would even be able to make it to your carriage without help. You figured if you couldn’t, you would force Granville to escort you. He certainly owed you, after pulling this little stunt. “You’re wasted. Perhaps you should head home.” Benedict said gently. You huffed, shaking your head. “Don’t concern yourself with me, I can take care of myself. Now. My opinion on what, exactly?” “Valentines,” Granville supplied, glancing into his empty cup, “we were talking about all the effort that goes into such cards and letters. Artistry, in a way. What do you think of it?” “I find the holiday wholly unnecessary. And it takes far too much time to make such delicate things. A canvas is much more secure.” you huffed. Benedict stiffened beside you, although in your semi-consciousness, you barely noticed, your eyes fluttering between shut and open. “So you wouldn’t make any?” Benedict asked. “No.” “Would you receive them?” “I suppose it would be rude to deny such labors of love. But I have never received one, and I doubt I will this year. Ladies don’t send cards to men like me.” you shrugged, drooping over the table. The longer you sat, the harder it was to hold yourself up. If you passed out, it would be a good escape from such intimate topics with Benedict, so you allowed yourself to slump on the table, sighing. “Alright, that's enough. I’ll help you home.” Benedict declared, standing up and taking you by the arm, heaving you up. You groaned in protest, but didn’t fight as he slung your arm over his shoulder and half dragged you away from the table, Granville following behind. “Apologies, Bridgerton. Next time I won’t allow him to indulge quite so much. You may end up getting more than 10 minutes with him that way.” He said cheerily. “I’m sober enough to know when I’m being mocked, Granville.” you opened your bleary eyes to glare at him, finding his eyes twinkling with amusement. He patted your shoulder. “It’s no trouble. I was about to head home, anyway.” Is all Benedict said as he helped you into the carriage, climbing in after you and seating himself on the same bench. Granville waved you both off as Benedict rapped his knuckles on the carriage, directing your footman to take you home. “Now you have me alone and vulnerable. Not very gentlemanly of you, Bridgerton. What would the ton think?” you teased, leaning lazily against the side of the carriage, away from him. You hoped it was subtle, that he thought you were just drunk and loose and tired. You couldn’t bear the thought of him finding out just how weak you were for him. Then he would leave, and you would be crushed. “They would think nothing, because we’re men.” He pointed out, leaning closer to you. You hummed, acknowledging his words, but didn’t reply beyond that. It was only then that you realized how precarious a situation you were in. Drunk, alone, with a man you loved, who seemed to be moving closer and closer by the minute, although maybe you were imagining that part. Anything was possible when you were this drunk. “They would be wrong, though.” Benedict finished softly. He reached over, brushing his fingers along your jaw, moving downward to loosen your cravat. You sighed, tilting your head back to allow him easier access, cursing yourself but unable to shove him away. You were such a fool. “Are you planning something?” You asked. He finally managed to pull your cravat away, revealing your neck to him. He laughed at your question. “With you this drunk? No. I only wanted you to be more comfortable.” He tossed the cloth onto the other bench, leaning safely away from you to stare out the window after. While you were partly disappointed, you were mostly relieved. You wouldn’t have been able to resist, and only would have brought yourself more shame and confusion in regards to him. But Benedict was a good man, and he would never take advantage of you in your current state. Your heart squeezed. Too good of a man. “I’m sorry to be such a burden tonight.” you blurted suddenly. Benedict looked at you, his head whipping away from the window so quickly it almost made you dizzy. “I shouldn’t have drank so much. It was foolish.” “You’re never a burden to me.” He said, his voice soft and indignant, almost as if he was offended by the mere idea that you had inconvenienced him. “You shouldn’t have to chaperone me home like a weak debutante.” “I’d rather you than a debutante. Trust me.” You chuckled, shaking your head and glancing out the carriage window. You could see the square, and your home, fast approaching. It appeared as though your time with Benedict was over for tonight. Relieved and downtrodden, you sat up and attempted to right your swirling vision as the carriage came to a stop. Benedict stood, helping you up and out of the carriage. After explaining the situation to your housekeeper, he hauled you all the way into your home and bedroom, even being kind enough to help you out of your boots as you lay back in your bed, arm over your eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning. “I’ll be going, then.” He said quietly, standing up and brushing his hands together. You lifted your arm, making certain you weren’t going to puke before crooking one finger, beckoning him closer. “Come here.” You breathed. He obeyed, moving dutifully to your side, remaining silent despite the question in his eyes. You sat up slowly, ignoring your dizziness. Placing a hand on the back of his neck, you pulled him closer. Benedict, realizing what you were after, leaned down and forward, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. You flopped back into your bed after he pulled away, grinning, although you couldn’t see it, having already rolled over and buried your face in the covers. “Goodnight. I hope you enjoy tomorrow.” He said ominously, the clicking of his heels against the marble floor the only indication you had that he had left. Before you could even think of the meaning of his strange farewell, you were dragged into rest. -- The first thing you registered after waking was the pounding behind your eyes. Moaning in pain, you lifted your arm over your face, blocking out the light that your butler had let in through the curtains. “My apologies, My Lord. Should we have a cure made?” He asked politely, noticing your haggard state. “Quickly.” You begged. He nodded, bowing before swiftly leaving the room to procure you a bit of relief. Sitting up, you turned away from the windows completely, opting to try and find your balance. After a moment, you were able to make your way to your wardrobe, pulling on your breeches and doublet. Today you had no need to dress formally. Valentines was a day you dedicated to staying completely shuttered away from the rest of the ton, tending to your estate and business ventures. It was easier than being bombarded with reminders of love, and much easier than running into any Bridgerton, although one, of course, you wanted to avoid above all else. It would only pain you to see him giving or receiving such intimate letters, especially with the women of the ton. Once your butler had delivered your cure, and you had thrown down the slimy, disgusting mixture, you were feeling much improved. You made your way to your study, smiling at your maids as they bowed before rushing off, no doubt in a hurry to finish their work and make off with their sweethearts for the day. You felt a twinge of jealousy, smiling sadly as you opened the door to your study. Oh. In your study sat piles and piles of cards, all handmade, some gilded with gold while others were trimmed with lace. You picked one up, in awe at its intricate gold-foil flowers, embossed on the front and lined with sharp swirls and embellishments, all clearly hand done with a calligraphy pen. You opened the card. The script inside was as lovely as the rest of the card, although it was the words that brought tears to your eyes. I sit and I look into your face And I see those before us, Who have loved as we do, And I see those after, And I pray that our impossibility Will become their reality. Yours. You choked on a sob, quickly closing the card and setting it down. The last thing you wanted was to ruin something so perfect with tears. It was not signed, and it didn’t have to be for you to know. Benedict. You looked around the room. There were at least 3 large piles of cards, enough to last an entire year, all handmade and intricate. You wondered how long this had taken him. It would take you days just to read them all. Surely, your servants thought you were either the biggest rake in the ton, with all these notes. You couldn’t care less. You gathered them all, handling them as gently as you would glass, slipping them into your desk cabinet and locking it. They were yours, no one else's. Benedict's words were just for you. Dazed, you leaned back into your office chair, holding the first card, running your fingers over the edges and rereading the lines over and over. It wasn't quite a poem, nor a letter, but a sentiment. A dream, a wish. You would be lying if you said that it wasn’t your dream too. A future where love like yours would be special, not sinful. Love. You jolted. And then laughed. How could you ever have doubted him? Surely, it was only love that would drive him to do this. Only love that would have him escort you home, make sure you were safe and comfortable. That would make him sit for what must have been weeks, if not months, working tirelessly on card after card just to take advantage of the one day where letters between unmarried men and women could be sent freely. Of course, he did so for a cover. But was that not also love? He wanted to protect you from ire, from harm, and so he delivered all the letters he felt he couldn’t today, just to keep from drawing unwanted eyes. Crying and laughing all at once, you pressed the note to your chest. How had you doubted his love for a second? His devotion? You truly were a fool, although not in the way you had expected. It took you half an hour to calm yourself, and by that time, your headache was back and worse than before, thanks to your emotional outburst. But another thing was back, too. Your butler, standing in the doorway with an impassive look on his face, glancing about the room, no doubt looking for the heaps of cards the servants had dropped off. “Do you know what card came from which maiden?” You asked, holding up the first card. It was the only card you had yet to put away, and though you were loathe to show it to him, you thought you should make it try and seem as though you had no idea who they had come from. “The cards were delivered mysteriously early this morning, My Lord. No names, no signatures.” “I see. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. None of them will be receiving a response.” You laughed, setting the card down. “What is it?” “A visitor, sir. The Second Bridgerton. Says he has something to discuss with you, about Lord Granville's gathering last night.” Your heart stuttered. “Send him up. No doubt he wants me to apologize for making such an ass of myself last night.” You joked, and he smiled back, giving a quick nod before rushing off to fetch Benedict. You quickly tucked the last letter into your desk drawer, pulling out a decanter of whiskey and pouring yourself a small glass. “No better cure for a hangover than more drink, right?” Benedict stepped into your study, shutting the door behind him even as he teased you. You laughed, pouring him a glass as well. He took it gratefully, sitting down in the chair across from yours, the desk between you two. “You may mock me if you wish, Benedict, but I am feeling positively delightful.” you said dramatically, lifting your cup in cheers. Benedict touched his glass to yours, and you took a sip. He did not. “Would that have anything to do with any deliveries?” He questioned, a secretive smile spreading across his face. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” “That’s why I asked.” You snorted, shaking your head quickly. “It would, if you must know.” Dropping all pretenses, he leaned forward, smiling even brighter now. “So you’ve got them. Do you like them?” “Of course I do,” you breathed, leaning in as well, dropping your voice to a whisper, “how long did they take you? They’re beautiful. True artistry.” “Much too long, as you said last night. But they were worth it, if you like them.” You nodded once. Smiling, he brought one hand to rest on your desk, palm up and spread open. You took it, intertwining your fingers. “Do you truly...love me? In that way?” you asked nervously, avoiding his gaze in favor of staring at your two hands. “No, I spent hours of my precious time making hand crafted love letters for a man I consider a friend.” He rolled his eyes. “If anyone would do such a thing, it would be you, Benedict.” “Certainly not. It would be Colin.” You laughed, and he grinned. Standing, he quickly rounded your desk and pulled you up by your still connected hands, pulling you against him and kissing you firmly. It was sudden, but not unpleasant, and you wrapped your arms around him, carding your fingers through his hair before resting your hands on the nape of his neck. After a long moment, he pulled away, eyes shining mischievously. “I do love you.” “And I you.” you said quickly, desperate to reciprocate. You had spent so long convinced that Benedict only saw you as good fun, that the revelation of love had left you reeling. But you would be damned if you passed up this opportunity to tell him of the affections you had kept secret since your first meeting. In response, he kissed your jaw once before pulling away, still smirking. “But you taste of garlic and egg. You truly should not have indulged so much. Now I can’t kiss you.” Groaning, you turned away from him, clamping your lips shut even as he wraps his arms around your middle, pressing kisses to your neck and cheek lovingly, cooing affections like a lovesick fool. You smiled at that passing thought, leaning into Benedict and returning his whispers in kind, leading him with purpose to your bed chamber. Perhaps you were both lovesick fools. You could live with that.

[joshuas]

that’s not even ramen

♫ pairing: yang jeongin x gender neutral reader

♫ genre: college/university student!au, slice-of-life, crack, fluff

♫ word count: 3.5k

♫ warnings: nil of note!

♫ summary: a bunch of chaotic misunderstandings, trot singing new years concerts that lead to lots of fluff at the end ^^

♫ tagging: @fluffyskzclub​

♫ a/n: happy april fools! my joke is... that i can’t do anything on time and post things that were supposed to be posted in january in april, so without further ado, i present the eighth addition to my seasonal drabbles! 

♫ skz seasonal drabbles: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

“I swear, this is the tenth time I’ve heard him sing tonight! If he’s going to continue to do this, he should at least sing a different song.” You sighed, exasperated as you tried to put your three-year-old sister to sleep. Her sleep, of course, being interrupted by your new next-door neighbour, Yang Jeongin. He had taken up trot singing over the last couple of weeks and decided only to practice his singing at 11 pm at night. Which, coincidentally, woke your baby sister up every time. And as if it wasn’t hard enough having sole custody over a sibling let alone having a teaching degree to attend to during the day. Your professors had been understanding of your... predicament after your parents moved out of the picture, but there was only so much patience they could hold. Of course, you couldn’t confront Jeongin about it — you were only acquaintances... barely even friends as you had only known each other through university... and now the thin wall that separated your living quarters. Well, it’d also be too awkward if you did (ugh, social confrontation), which is why you put up with it... Relief flooded through you when you heard the singing cease, sighing as your sister stopped fussing and fell back asleep. It’s not as though Jeongin was a bad singer. In fact, he was quite brilliant. But his singing was not appreciated at ungodly hours. The walls started to pulse as folk music blasted at a deafening volume, snapping you out of your reverie and forcing you to focus back on your crying sibling. You held back a scream, mentally cursing at Jeongin, I swear to God, the next time I see this boy—

“Mina put on your coat, it’s ridiculously cold out! It’s January, remember? And what season is it in Jan—“ You paused, observing the idiot that exited his apartment alongside you, “Oh! Hello, Jeongin—“ He walked away without a word, rushing down the stairs. Rude! First the singing and now he’s ignoring me? Does he have any human decency?

“Hello! Welcome — make sure you sign in your children before you leave!” Your eyes settled on Jeongin, who was beaming at the little kids that entered the daycare, holding out the sign-in sheet, Great and now he works at the only affordable day care. How... pleasant. Wiggling her hand out of your grasp, your sister waddle-ran over to Jeongin, giving him the biggest hug, for him to pick her up and spin her around. Ignoring the skip of your heart, you cooly approached the two of them, silently taking the sign in sheet and signing your name. “You must be Mina’s parent— I’m Jeongin, one of the part-timers here.” He held out his hand, Mina, still in his arms, blocking his view. You shook it, “Not her—“ You broke off as another kid ran to Jeongin, crying as he dragged him inside the daycare. Without turning around, Jeongin waved at you in dismissal. You scoffed, He won’t even acknowledge me at home but now that we’re in public and he’s literally being paid to be a decent human being, he’ll put on a face and pretend to be friendly? No thank you.

You rubbed at your temples, mentally snapping at yourself to focus. Tutorial time was probably the only time you had to yourself to study and get things done. But you know what? That wasn’t happening today. Why? Because of Yang Jeongin infiltrating your thoughts every five seconds. You grumbled to yourself, almost ready to pack up and leave, He should pay rent for how long he’s been living in my head. “Oh wait! Y/N, you’re leaving already?” A voice called out from behind a tower of books in their hands, not long before plonking them down on the table in front of you. You looked up, your gaze meeting Jeongin’s hopeful one. Why is he being so friendly? Especially since he flat out ignored me this morning... “Um... I was planning to. Not that it’s any of your business.” You said coldly, scrunching your eyebrows in confusion at his sudden friendliness. Really, Y/N? You’re being like this just because he snubbed you this morning? Okay, wait that’s pretty valid. Ignoring the little “no it’s not” in your head, you maintained your cold demeanour.  “Oh. Um. Sorry. I was just asking because I was hoping to study with you.” Jeongin rubbed his neck awkwardly. You looked at him doubtfully, ignoring the hopeful fluttering in your stomach, “Why would you want to hang out with me of all people?” “Well, you’re the top of the class—“ You scoffed disdainfully and he broke off, looking at you wide-eyed. Of course he only wanted to use me for personal gain. Whatever, Y/N. Just avoid him. Do not interact! “I’m definitely heading off now. Bye.” You grabbed your books, leaving the library and a slightly confused and shocked Jeongin behind. He’s not worth it, Y/N.

You buckled Mina in her little seat in the trolley, lightly humming as you pushed her along. After realising that you were out of ramen (a staple study food, fight me if you disagree), you had scrambled to pick up Mina from daycare before rushing over to the local grocery store, keen to get at least some ramen to fuel your study session after putting Mina to bed. That is if she’s able to sleep. Hopefully Jeongin won’t— You reached for the last pack of your favourite ramen, a hand brushing over yours to grab it with you. You whipped your head around, gaze meeting— yet again— Mr Yang Jeongin. How many times do I have to see him today??? This feels like a cruel joke. It’s not funny! You coughed, pointedly looking between Jeongin and his grip on the ramen you had so obviously grabbed before him. He sighed, pushing his specs up the bridge of his nose, pushing his hair back with the other hand, hand still fixated on the ramen packet, “Please, Y/N. I need this to study.” You inhaled sharply, trying not to be bothered by the impeccable College Boyfriend vibe he was exhibiting, dressed simply in a sweatshirt and track pants, “So. Do. I. In fact, I need it a lot more than you since your singing keeps up the whole neighbourhood. And no! I’m not calling you a bad singer, because on the contrary, you’re quite brilliant and I honestly don’t know why you didn’t decide to become a singer instead of a teacher. I mean, do you really want to waste your life away working at a daycare?” You rambled. Jeongin looked at you, stunned, loosening his grip on the ramen, and handing it to you, his cheeks lightly dusted with pink, “...You know what? You can have it. I’ll just buy... this one! Yep. This one.” He scurried away, leaving you stunned, “But that’s not even ramen!”You called out after him. “Doesn’t matter!”

“Mina, please. Isn’t your crying at least making you tired?” You rocked your sister, exhausted as you looked at the clock— thirty minutes she’s been crying. Jeongin had decided not to sing tonight for some reason. But your sister still had difficulty sleeping. Perhaps he is actually a decent human being... although, I can’t say that I don’t miss his singing... what? Yes, you can, Y/N. The guy literally kept you up til three because of his singing. Mina just felt so inspired by his vocals that she had to try herself... by crying. Ugh.  The walls started to vibrate as you sighed, Complimented him too soon. His melodic tone carrying through to the nursery, your sister’s not so melodic cries mixing in even louder than his singing. You steeled yourself, done with this nonsense. Putting on a coat, you stomped out of your apartment, knocking insistently on Jeongin’s door. The door opened to reveal a bewildered Jeongin as you thrusted your screaming sister into his arms, “You started this. You fix it.”

Jeongin held the door to his apartment with one hand, the other arm supporting your screaming sister. Allowing you into the apartment, you observed how spotless it was, giving it an appraising look. “Seungmin’s my roommate. Hence, why it’s so clean. It’s all he does when he gets home from the hospital.” Jeongin explained whilst trying to rock Mina to sleep. “I’m surprised he puts up with your singing.” You noted. “He works nights.” Jeongin deadpanned. You opened your mouth, closing it when you saw his attention turn towards Mina. Cooing at her, he slowly sunk himself into the cushions of the couch, lowly humming a melody familiar to the ones you had heard through the wall. However, it was more of a ballad version. A soft smile crept onto your face as you observed the two, your heart aching at the adorable sight. Mina slowly fluttered her eyes, slowly closing them as Jeongin hummed further, his chest vibrating comfortingly from his singing, the movement lulling her... to sleep! You looked amazingly at Jeongin, his triumphant gaze finding yours. You tried to take Mina off him as she fussed in her sleep, cuddling further into his chest, you sighed, putting your hands up in defeat — afraid to wake her. “So... care to explain why I had to do this?” Jeongin whispered, looking pointedly at you. “Well...you’ve been keeping her up with your trot singing that she’s been eventually falling asleep at almost 11 pm. The thing that I’m weirded out the most by is that she cried at the lack of your singing and when you sang a softer version of that folk song, she fell asleep straight away.” You explained. “Babies are weird like that. But why did you have to give her to me to calm down?” Jeongin asked, confused. “Well one, you’re studying teaching and working at a daycare. And two, you started this!” You numbered. “We’re in the same class and she’s your sister!” Jeongin pointed out, eyes wide. “Look. The main reason really is your singing. Why do you have to sing so late, anyways? It’s not like you’re preparing for any assignment... we don’t have to create a song for our assignment... right?” You asked, tone slightly laced with concern. “No, no.” He dismissed your concerns, sighing, “The real reason why I’m singing so late at night is actually because I’m preparing for something. I don’t really have time otherwise to prepare for it since I have uni and work.” “What are you preparing for?” You scrunched your eyebrows quizzically. “You have to promise not to laugh.” He looked at you pointedly. “I can’t promise that.” You scoffed. “Well then I can’t tell you.” He lifted his head, looking elsewhere. “Fine. Fine!” You whispered harshly. “Okay, well I’m doing this competition that’s basically a talent show for unusual talents. And mine is... trot singing. The whole point of this talent show, though, is to actually achieve your New Year goals and resolutions.” “And yours is... to win with your trot singing?” You looked at him bewilderingly. “No.” He lightly slapped his forehead, disappointed at your lack of piecing together what little information he provided you with. “My resolution is to perform on stage. However, my only formal singing training is in trot singing.” “Ah, I see.” “Yeah... you should come! Only if you can. Obviously. No pressure.” He asked quickly. “Oh! I’m surprised you want me there after everything that happened.” You said sheepishly. “What happened?” He widened his eyes in confusion. “Well— you were kind of a jerk to me all of today.” You noted. “I was? Oh—“ “You ignored me this morning, put on a face when I dropped Mina off at daycare, purely because you were at work and tried to talk to me in tutorial after that. Then you nearly stole my ramen!” You interrupted. “Oh wow, I really did all of that today? Anyway, let me explain. In the morning, yes I saw you and I could’ve yelled a hello, I admit it. But I was very stressed since Seungmin is normally the one to wake me up when he comes back from the hospital but I think he must’ve gone home with his partner or something because he didn’t come home last night, and I had no way to contact him because Jisung threw his phone in the bin.” He explained. “He what?” You recoiled in bewilderment at the last part. “Long story. Anyway, I actually just go straight to autopilot whenever I have to converse with the parents. And since it’s my first week, I wasn’t expecting to see someone I know, let alone you, so I just went straight to my Customer Service Polite Conversation Autopilot Mode... customer service is so hard. As for the tutorial thing, I wanted to study with you! Believe it or not, I actually do appreciate your company.” He said pointedly. You blushed, clearing your throat, “That doesn’t explain the ramen thing, though.” He sighed, “Ramen is my study food too, you know. But I figured you needed it a lot more than me... also your compliment caught me off guard.” He muttered the last part, you smirked slightly as you heard it. “Anyway, I would really appreciate it if you could come because... well, you- you’re one of my good friends.” He rubbed his neck tentatively. Your chest ached slightly, feelings of disappointment infiltrating your head, only to be met with confusion... and sudden realisation. Oh. No.

[00:37] (Jeongin) hey! you left all of a sudden, but I’ve emailed you the details to the comp. hope you can come :) [10:55] (Jeongin)...Y/N? Are you still alive? Actually, I know you are. But why are you avoiding me? It had been a couple of days since you realised your feelings for Jeongin. Trying to avoid him at any costs, you changed up your schedule — only taking morning tutorials, making sure you didn’t run into him wherever you went. It didn’t help that your lives were so intertwined. Mina had gotten particularly attached to him — you watched her from outside the daycare, her little legs wrapped around his, clinging onto him like a koala and reluctant to let him go when she saw you at the gate. That certainly did not help. But what could you do? In order to avoid hardship, you have to cut the relationship in the bud. Especially since he only sees you as a friend. You snapped your attention to the door, as a knock resounded through your apartment, redirecting your attention from your phone to... a very unkempt Seungmin, waiting behind the door. “Hey, Y/N! I was wondering if you could do me a favour?” He asked, words rushed. “That depends on what it is.” You crossed your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow expectantly. “I need you to go to Jeongin’s talent show for me.” He said. You shut the door immediately on him, “Y/N’s not here.” “I— what? Y/N, please. I need to go to the hospital today and he really wants you to go!” Seungmin pleaded from behind the door. “Why can’t you get any of his hyungs to attend? He has like six other ones.” You proposed. “He really wants you to come. He really likes you, Y/N.” Seungmin sighed. You opened the door slightly, peaking out from around the door, “Yeah. As a friend.” “What gave you that impression?” Seungmin looked at you confusedly. “He said it to my face?” You said, equally as confused. “Oh my god. He like likes you, okay? He didn’t tell anyone except us two about the contest. He told me because we live together but he told you because he has feelings for you!” Seungmin inhaled sharply, trying ridiculously hard not to roll his eyes in annoyance. “You’re not just telling me this so I would go?” You raised an eyebrow sceptically. “No. I have nothing to gain out of that because if you found out I was lying, I know you’ll hold a grudge against me forever, and as neighbours that really would not work out.” He said a matter of factly. “...alright. Fine. I’ll go. And you do realise we’re also friends? Friends generally shouldn’t lie to each other.” You looked at him pointedly. “Right. That.” He said shortly. “Anyway, you should hurry since you only have... twenty minutes til it starts.” He checked his watch. You gasped, “And you only thought to tell me now?” “Some of us have more important things to do than helping your love story progress. For example, saving lives. So, goodbye!” He waved, ushering you to close the door before sprinting down the hall. Time to sort this out... I guess.

You rushed to the venue after purchasing flowers and chocolate and organising for Jisung and his partner to come babysit... although you weren’t exactly trusting of them after hearing of their lawsuit rendezvous at the shopping centre. That was irrelevant right now, though. After sitting through more than fifteen of the most unusual acts at the talent show, you questioned how Jeongin even found out about it. It wasn’t until he entered on stage, lights dimming around him as he sang a slow, but emotive trot song— eyes searching over the crowd, only to lock onto yours as he belted his last note, the audience standing in applause as he stood back, catching his breath, eyes never leaving yours. “And there you have it folks! First of all, a big congratulations to all of you— you’ve successfully achieved at least one of your New Years resolutions!” The MC walked on stage, passing Jeongin on his way out, “But now, it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for— the winner of this new year’s resolution talent contest is... Yang Jeongin!” A hearty applause echoed throughout the room, loud cheers erupting as Jeongin entered the stage again, you stood up, giving him an encouraging smile whilst cheering, “Okay, well first of all, thank you for the opportunity to do this. I don’t think I would’ve ever performed if it weren’t for making it a New Years resolution.” Low laughter hummed from the audience, “I guess— another person to thank is... well... someone that I really like and have for a while- Y/N. Even though our whole relationship basically consisted of a bunch of misunderstandings, you still came to this competition for me. At least, I hope it was for me. It’d be awkward if it wasn’t, since this is a sort of confession thing. Actually— do you think you could join me on stage?” The audience turned to you as you stared at him in shock. Shaking out of your reverie, you slowly stood up, making your way to the stage as he held out a hand, helping you up the stairs. You gave him a nervous but small smile, “Congratulations on your win!” You handed him the flowers, as he pulled you in for a quick hug. “Y/N, you’re probably the coolest person I’ve ever befriended. You’re incredibly driven, caring, and probably the person I respect most in my life. The way you’re achieving all your goals whilst managing the stress and struggles of raising your younger sibling astounds me, and honestly, that’s probably the feature that I find most admirable about you.” Jeongin spoke into his mic, gaze deepening into yours, the audience “aww”ing in response to him. “So, I guess where I’m trying to get at is— will you go out with me?” He asked as the audience cheered you on. You took the mic off him, pressing a quick kiss to his lips, “I’d love to.” He pulled you into a tight embrace as the audience cheered loudly, whistling as well. As you exited the auditorium, entering the foyer, you intertwined your hands with Jeongin’s, “Where should we go for our first date?” You asked, quickly putting on your coat and a beanie, wearily eying the snowfall outside, “I don’t know, I was thinking karaoke?” Jeongin suggested. You scoffed, “No.” “Why not?” He asked, genuinely confused. “Because you’d absolutely crush me. That’s why. Also, I know you’re only saying that because they gave you yearly access to the karaoke club as your prize.” You rolled your eyes. “You wound me with your words, Y/N. Do you think I’d cheapskate on our date?” He placed his hand to his chest, faking a gasp. “Never.” You mimicked his gesture as you exited the foyer. “Yah! Y/N!” “I’m joking, I’m joking! Ahh— don’t tickle me-“ You gasped as his fingers found your sides, giggles unwillingly being emitted. “Only if you give me another kiss.” He tapped his lips, you sighed, leaning over to give him another kiss, as he lightly drew your neck closer to him, deepening the kiss. You pulled back, eyes sparkling with joy, “Well...Even though I know you’ll trash me at it...Race you to the karaoke club?” You proposed, stretching your muscles. “Really? We just had the most epic kiss and now all you’re concerned about is karaoke?!” He raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Last one to the karaoke place gets no kisses for the rest of the day!” “Oh, you’re on.”

Thank you for reading! Would you like to read more?

[haruno-sakura-san]

Can't remember if I posted this before, but I was reading through my notes on my phone and found it. Either way, enjoy this playful one shot with Sakura and a mystery man!

🌸❓

"Rough day?" A man who slid into the seat next to Sakura at the bar asked. "None of your business." She snubbed him. "It's been a while since ive seen a leaf nin drink like that," he observed unprompted. She mentally noted that she wasn't wearing her heite. He was either assuming from her gear or he recognized her. "I'm off duty." "I would hope so." Her gaze cut back over to him. A hood and tinted glasses obscured any identify features, but even so he looked incredibly mundane. In her line of work, that was also incredibly dangerous. "Listen, you seem like a nice guy-" "That assumptions a bit premature." "But I'm not here to meet anyone so if you don't mind-" "Actually I do." She glared at him for a long moment, not wanting to be interrupted again. "See, I'm waiting for someone myself." He offered finally. "You don't say" her tone thick with disinterest. "But I'm beginning to think I've been stood up." He sounded more amused than put out. She wondered if it was some kind of pickup strategy to get her to feel bad. "I can't imagine why." She said in the same flat tone. "My thoughts exactly."

Sakura made a sharp sound of disapproval. "My deepest sympathies. I don't see how this has anything to do with me." "Well, it really doesnt, on the surface. But you see, here I was feeling sorry for myself when I see you stomping in here, looking like you've just dragged yourself through a pigsty-" "It was a river bed." "Oh thank you- a river bed. Possibly the sorriest sight I've seen all day - not that I would normally say such a thing to a lady. I'm sure you look at least pleasant under normal circumstances." "Does this story have a point?" Feeling her anger swell at his commentary. "Of course, I just thought it might be nice to commiserate together - one passing stranger to another." She hates the cocky way he inclines his head, gesturing between them with his glass. "No, thanks." "Oh come on - why else come to a bar?" "For a drink - unbothered." "If that were the case, then I'd think the liquor store down the street would have done the job." "And what, have a few drinks at the store front? They have laws against that, you know." "You dont have a hotel room to drink in?" "Of course not" "Interesting." He purred. She realized she said too much. "So your plan was to get tipsy and then travel back to konoha or wherever your headed, seemingly alone, in the middle of the night." "I don't have to explain myself to you." "No, I think I've got a good handle on the situation without any explanation. Where are your teammates anyway? Isn't there someone around to keep you from making dangerous decisions like this. A captain maybe or a boyfriend?" Sakura slams her glass down against the wood of the bar. "For your information, I can more than take care of myself. I have an extremely high alcohol tolerance. And I've had too long a day for a pretty boy like you to be picking at me when all I want to do is have a drink in the peaceful Haven that is my own mind. So shut your trap. Am I clear?" "No, I have several questions." She snarls and begins to crack her nuckles in preparation to put this idiot though a wall when the bar tender yells, "No fighting in my bar! Take it outside if you want to act like animals." She settles back into her seat. "Sorry, sir. No need for that. This poser isn't worth the energy," she grumbles under her breath. "Lets backtrack to pretty boy. That had a nicer ring to it." Clenching her jaw, she takes a deep breath, exhales and takes a long drag on her drink. "So are you going to tell me the river bed story, Pocahontas?" "If I do, will you leave me alone?" "It certainly won't hurt your chances" She huffs. "Fine. I got caught in a fishing net." There was a beat of silence. "And?" She gave him a long-suffering look. "And was dragged behind a fishing boat." His eyebrows rose. "And how did that happen?" "I was pushing the boat. It was beached on a shallow part of the river." "Pushing it?" "Yeah." "Remind me to tip that bartender for not letting you deck me into next week." She smirked into her drink. Damn straight. "So when the boat broke free these fishermen did what? Cast their nets right done on top of you?" "Yup. I had to cut myself free and everything." "No good deed goes unpunished I guess." "Technically it wasn't a good deed, they were paying me to help." "That's even worse. And no one noticed you were missing onboard?" "Well, they wouldn't let me on the boat in the first place -" "Why not?" "It's bad luck." "Bad luck?" "To have a woman on board." "Wait a moment. So before the ship got stuck in the first place, while it was sailing, where were you? Nearby on the shore?" "No. I was running alongside them in the water." He laughed outright. "Running alongside them. That's too good. They didn't even give you rowboat." Her face flushed. She hadn't thought to ask for a row boat. "They were absolute assholes. Usually I can take quite a bit of crap from a client, but when he told me to pay for the net." "Pay for the net!" "And the lost profits for the day" "Ha!" "I told him just where he could shove his

lost profits and came to the nearest bar. I feel a little less sorry for myself now. Glad I could help. Now leave me be." "You don't want to hear my story?" "Not part of the deal. Now scram." He pouted, cheek resting on his hand. "But we were getting along so well." "You have a very twisted sense of relationships if you think that was getting along well." "I cannot argue with that." She didn't know if it was the alcohol or the bickering, but she was finally feeling a little unwound. Studying his profile for a moment, she thought it must definitely be the alcohol. "If you're going to stare, i might as well tell you my story." Definitely the alcohol. "I wasn't staring." She huffed, turning sharply away "Would admiring be more accurate?" "Do you ever shut up?" "For the majority of the time yes I do. It's quite liberating to go on and on like this. Strangers make some of the best conversation. You don't have to hold back because they will never see you again, probably not even remember speaking." She hated that he was right. She also hated that she couldn't see his eyes, instead watching his lips move. Kami must hate her because he had rather nice lips. "You're admiring again." They said. "Staring," she corrected. "Staring then." He said in a low voice, leaning in slightly. "Tell me your story." She said, trying to break the moment by divert this exchange to something hopefully safer for her psychy. Those damn lips curlled up in a feline grin. "Of course, my little mud pie." "Don't push it." She snapped, "You were meeting someone." "Yes, I've been seeing them for some time now. We are both wonderers so we meet about once a month. " "How long is some time now?" "Hmm, about ten years maybe." "And you guys haven't made it official yet?" "Well, it's complicated. They are a little old for me, and I'm not sure what society would think." She got the feeling he was making fun of her, but didn't get the joke. "They've never once been late or missed a meeting. I'm a little worried you see." For the first time since meeting the guy, Sakura felt a little bad for him. "Plus theyve got hands and eyes that wander a bit too much for my liking." "Sounds like they finally got bored and left." She commented. "Well. Even so, the meetings were as much about business as pleasure." "And just what kind of business are you in exactly?" "I'd say we were in the same field." She scoffs, looking him up and down again, not able to make out anything helpful from his form from under his travelling cloak to back up his claim about being a Shinobi. It was convenient line for civilian men who hit on kunoichi, so she rolled her eyes. "Sure you are." "Don't believe me?" "I believe you'd say just about anything to get on my good side."

"Hmm," his lips curled in that feline way, "And I thought leaf nin we're very skilled at seeing underneath the underneath." She froze, recognizing her sensei's phrase. "Who exactly did you say you were meeting again?" "I didn't." She slowly turned toward him, hand sliding to her thigh pouch under the bar, but it was too late. Here eyes were locked on his red, glowing gaze, pin wheels spinning. She felt her consciousness being torn from her body and into the inky black of his sharingan.

🌸❓

Quite sure this was supposed to be Itachi but it's quite OOC for him. So I'll leave it to you reader to fill in who it is. I guess I like Shisui for it myself but don't limit yourself haha.

[imnotoverlyobsessive]

Mabel’s All-In-One Guide to Being a Shooting Star: How to Avoid Being Caught and Other Tips You Should Know

Chapter Four: Not Gravity Falls

Whoops I forgot to post it my b you guys

Shoutout to @edward-or-ford and @pacific-ship for being bangs

When I wake up, the dream isn't done, I wanna see your face and know I've made it home. If nothing is true, what more can I do?- All Time Low, Painting Flowers

There was something… off about this Gravity Falls. Which was, of course, to be expected; alternate reality and all that. It wasn’t as different from her Gravity Falls as Not Dipper was from her Dipper, it just… It just felt strange. Like it was just a little bit wrong. It was darker. Everything was darker. She didn’t quite understand why.

She was still somewhat out of it, and walking was a chore. She really missed her bike. Why didn’t she have her bike again? Right, because she’d been abducted by gnomes, and then abducted-slash-rescued by an alternate version of her bro.

He was walking beside her, this alternate Dipper, and there was something different in the way he held himself. Her Dipper was… awkward, for lack of a better word. Adorably so, of course; it was one of the many things that had made her fall in love with him to begin with.

But this version… this version of Dipper walked with an easy sort of confidence Mabel wasn’t used to seeing, not on anybody, or at least not to that degree. He wasn’t awkward. Not even a little. He was sure of himself, perhaps even arrogant. He stood at his full height, not slouching or hunching his shoulders.

He didn’t just walk, either. He strutted, and he didn’t seem to notice when the townspeople (who had all stopped dead in their tracks and were looking at her, slack-jawed and wide-eyed) gave them both an unnecessarily wide berth. He didn’t glance at them, not even briefly to take mental note of their locations in relation to his own. He simply continued on as if they weren’t there, as if they didn’t exist.

They were looking at her with such unmistakable horror that Mabel had to say something.

“Hey,” she murmured at Not Dipper. “What’s the deal with these guys?”

“Hm?” He didn’t appear to have been paying attention to them, so when she voiced her question, he glanced around haphazardly. “Oh, I suppose they might think you’re… the other Mabel.”

“Huh. Weird.” Before she could comment further, her words were cut off.

“Mabel?” came a shocked voice that was almost familiar, but not quite. And when Mabel slowed her pace along the sidewalk and turned her gaze to her right, she found herself looking at a very… well, it was just odd, wasn’t it, almost as odd as Not Dipper’s mannerisms and general Not Dipper-ness. The contrast of these weird versions to the people she knew was lowkey freakin’ her out.

It was… “Pacifica?” It did very much appear to be Pacifica. The girl looked like Pacifica. She had the same face, eyes, and general appearance, but it looked like Pacifica if Pacifica had aged several years and gotten a hippie costume from a Halloween store. Or a Summerween store. Y’know. Whatever.

“You’re, uh… how are you…?” Pacifica was asking, and Mabel still felt a bit wobbly, but she smiled at this strange version of Pacifica all the same.

“Hi!” Mabel greeted with a cheerful wave, sticking her hand out for the other girl to shake. “I’m Mabel, nice to meet ya!” There was murmuring of words from the crowd that Mabel couldn’t hear or understand, and Pacifica was looking at Mabel’s hand like it had a shark’s mouth and the corresponding number of teeth (which was, fun fact, three thousand), and would give her hand similar treatment to that of those teenagers in Jaws.

Realizing Pacifica wasn’t gonna take her hand, Mabel lowered it with a pout. Not Dipper wasn’t looking at her. He’d stopped walking when she had, but he was staring off into space, his expression blank.

“I… I don’t understand,” Pacifica said, eyeing Mabel warily. “How are you… how are you here?”

Suddenly, Mabel remembered: ‘nother universe, concussion, blah blah blah.

“Right!” She snapped her fingers. “Sorry, I totes magoats forgot!” Pacifica (and everyone else) raised their eyebrows at her. “Have a bit of a concussion here,” she explained, knocking on the side of her head. “Yowch, prolly shouldn’t’ve done that. Anyway, the long and short of it is,” she paused for dramatic effect, “I’m from an alternate dimension! Ta-da!” She did jazz hands. Dramatic effect really was important. Essential, even.

“Okay,” Pacifica said slowly, looking immensely confused. “So, how, exactly…” she glanced at Not Dipper, and her eyes widened. “Holy crap, what happened?!” she exclaimed, rushing towards him. “Are you okay? We need to get you to a hospital, ommigod!”

He rolled his eyes, allowing them to land on her. “It’s none of your concern.” His voice was bored, disinterested, like the absolute last thing in the world he wanted to be doing was to be talking to her, and the fact that he was having to was nothing more than an irritating waste of time.

“Worry not, little missy!” Mabel gave her a double thumbs up. “We’re gonna get it taken care of and the not-broseph over here will be a-okay!”

Nobody else said anything. Pacifica was still looking at her nervously. If they thought she was the alternate universe’s Mabel and they were acting like, well, that, then what in the hell had her other self done to them? Dang diggity, they were looking at Not Dipper the same way; what had he done to them?

She glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at Pacifica anymore. He was staring off into space again.

“Um, well, I-“

Pacifca’s nervous stuttering was cut off by Not Dipper sighing, taking Mabel’s hand in his, and pulling her forward again. “Time to go,” he said, not bothering to look over his shoulder.

Had he always been so... apathetic? Mabel wasn’t sure. Her head was still pounding somewhat, and she couldn’t remember suuuuuper clearly, but she was pretty sure he’d been paying attention to her before. In fact, he’d been focused entirely on her, she had thought. But just then, he wasn’t focusing on anything. He’d totally snubbed Pacifica, too!

“Where are we going, exactly?” Mabel asked, doing her best to wave over her shoulder at the bewildered and fearful-looking townspeople as Not Dipper dragged her along behind him, his hand gentle but firm around hers.

“Home,” Not Dipper said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Not her home, obviously, but his. Was it her shaken brain, or was his distinct lack of the word ‘my’ weird?

“Not… uh…” she took a moment to collect her thoughts. Stupid concussion. What was that word again? “Not a hospital?”

“Not a hospital,” he agreed.

“O...kay…?”

After several minutes of him walking in strides that were a bit much for Mabel, particularly since she was having difficulty walking at all, he looked over his shoulder at her with one of those stupid stupid stupid grins-

“You seem to be having a bit of trouble there, Mabel dear. You’re quite sure you don’t want me to carry you again?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” She nodded emphatically. But, wait a second. “Again? What do you mean again?”

“Oh,” he glanced over his shoulder at her for a second, as if he’d forgotten he’d mentioned it to begin with. “I carried you earlier. When you were unconscious, you know.”

“R- right,” she stuttered. He’d carried her? How terribly embarrassing. She was far too heavy to be carried, and she was massively uncomfortable with this random version of her twin she loved in a very un-sister-type way knowing that she was far too heavy to be carried. “Thank you for saving me, by the way.”

“Of course,” he said easily. “Though please do try not to get into too much trouble now that you’re here.” He paused for a moment. “I’d hate to see something happen to you.”

“Honestly, the only place weird stuff ever happens to me is Gravity Falls,” she chuckled a bit. Her own need to escape had trapped her in a way, hadn’t it? “I’m probably no safer here than I was in my dimension.”

They’d migrated from sidewalks to dirt walkways along the side of a long, winding road that Mabel couldn’t see the end of.

“You’re safe with me,” he told her firmly. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He was pulling her along the dirt path still, the earth and gravel crunching beneath her shoes. It was fairly dark by this point, so the chill of the evening air bit into the bare skin her shorts and loose crop top revealed.

“Sorry for complaining, but like. We’ve been walkin’ for a hot minute here, and I’m not seeing any houses in sight, so I’m just…'' she paused to take a break. Words were hard when one had a concussion. “Just kinda wondering if we’ll ever actually get to your far-far-away abode, y’know?”

“We’re almost there,” he assured her, and she could’ve sworn he squeezed her hand, but she really wasn’t sure. She might’ve imagined it. Actually, she probably imagined it. Almost certainly.

Which, side note, but why was he still holding her hand? They weren’t exactly walking side by side, no, but she was close enough behind him to where he didn’t really need to lead her anywhere.

Before she could formulate the words to question it, however, a wall came into view. A very high wall. Perhaps ten feet? Mabel didn’t know; she’d never been great at math. Sue her. It was stone, it looked like, but it was difficult to tell for certain because it was covered in ivy from top to bottom.

“You see?” He smiled at her slightly. “We’re there.”

The road they were walking beside appeared to end at a very large, ornate wrought iron gate that the wall-slash-fence appeared to house, and beyond that lay a driveway, leading to…

A… castle? It certainly looked like a castle. It was very very tall, and she couldn’t see much, but it definitely looked like a castle.

She sped up her pace a bit so she could match his long strides and poke him lightly on the arm. He looked down at her with mild amusement, it looked like. “Hey, uh…” he raised his eyebrows at her. “Is that where you live?”

“Yes, that’s why we’re here,” he said as if it were obvious. As if anyone living in a goddamn castle in the year of our lord 2019 was an obvious conclusion for somebody to jump to.

She noticed that some of his hair had fallen from its slicked back style and was falling over his birthmark. She wondered what it would look like down. She wondered what it would feel like. She wondered- no no no, bad Mabel, very bad, he’s not your Dipper!

“So…” she trailed off for a second. “Just to be clear, so we’re like, one-hundred-and-ten percent on the same page here, you live in a castle. Have… have I got that right, oooorrrrrr…?”

“If you consider this a castle, then yes, I suppose.” Not Dipper was looking down at her again, and he looked like he found her surprise quite funny. Which she didn’t exactly appreciate, but y’know. Beggars can’t choose their rescuers and all that.

They’d finally reached the gate, and it appeared to have a very large G in very fancy cursive on it.

He pressed his thumb to an electronic pad. The gate creaked open, and he strolled through it, pulling her along after him. It closed again as soon as they went through, and she found herself looking around every way she could without making herself all dizzy again.

They navigated around what appeared to be a hedge maze (that she would later discover was also in the shape of a giant cursive G), and it was several more minutes before they reached the overly tall wooden doors.

It wasn’t until he pushed the door open, taking his hand from hers in the process, that she realized he’d never let go of her hand. He’d been holding it the entire time, and she’d never even noticed.

[bubonickitten]

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 14 full text & content warnings below the cut.

Note: There are text messages in this one. The AO3 posting uses a custom work skin to format them. I’m going to upload them as images for the Tumblr post. Might be easiest to read on AO3, though. (Particularly if you use a screen reader or have difficulty reading white text on green backgrounds and need to highlight those portions of text.)

Content warnings for Chapter 14: Buried-typical elements (claustrophobia, inability to breathe/move, etc.); mention of past suicidal ideation; some anxiety/panic symptoms; brief description of a past depressive episode; relatively mild blood/injury; swears; some Unsettling Spider Trivia (personally I think it’s fascinating but if you don’t like spiders maybe just skip a bit ahead when you get to that part). SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 14: Up and Out

Much like the ebb and flow of the Buried, that sensation of being pulled vacillates. A few times now, it’s disappeared almost entirely, leaving Jon disorientated and suddenly doubting whether he’s headed in the right direction despite being certain only moments before. It always comes back before long, but each time it’s happened, he’s had to pause to fight down the knee-jerk influx panic.

Right this moment, he’s stopped – both because that sensation is dwindling again and because he’s simply winded. They’ve been in a particularly tight squeeze for quite some time now, and he’s aching and exhausted from the struggle.

“Jon?” Daisy prompts, panting even more heavily than he is. Nearly eight months of muscular atrophy and restricted lung capacity haven’t done any favors for her stamina. “A-are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just – just taking a break. Getting my bearings.”

“Anchor f-fading again?” He has a feeling she was aiming for casual, but the trepidation creeps into her voice anyway.

“Yes. But don’t worry, I’ll find it again. I just need to catch my breath.”

Daisy laughs. It comes out as some combination of a wheeze and a whimper.

“I d-don’t think I’ve been able to catch my breath in… I – I don’t know how long.”

“You will soon,” he promises, rubbing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.

“I – I c-can barely remember what that’s like. F-feels like I’ll never know it again –”

“I know,” he says gently, “I know. I – I know it’s worse for you – you’ve been here longer – but I do remember that feeling. I promise I’ll get us out of here.”

“And – and then what?” she says in a near-whisper. “The – the Hunt, it – it’s going to come back, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. But – but you’ll still be you, and I’ll still be me, and we’ll – we’ll both fight to keep it that way.”

“I – I never thought about it, b-but – I’m prey too, aren’t I?” Daisy makes a noise that straddles the line somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “It – it’ll always chase me down, and it’s – stronger, f-faster –”

“Maybe, but I think you might be more stubborn.” Daisy gives a weak chuckle. “We all are, aren’t we?” Jon continues, emboldened by her reaction and intent on distracting her from her burgeoning panic. “Wonder if it’s somewhere in the job requirements: must be stubborn, curious, and preternaturally unlucky.”

This time, Daisy actually does laugh – clipped and wet with barely-contained tears, but a laugh all the same. For a minute she’s quiet, before sniffling once and clearing her throat.

“Can you tell me what happened last time? Did I – was I able to…”

“You fought it, yes,” he says slowly. “The call of the blood was always in the background. Distractions helped to take the edge off, sometimes. You spent most of your time with Basira. You and I spent a lot of time together, too. Tried to listen to the quiet. Both of us.”

“It sounds like there’s a ‘but.’”

“There is,” he admits.

“It caught up to me,” Daisy guesses, sounding resigned.

“It did. But… you refused it right up until the point where it was your last resort. The Institute was under attack, and Martin was in danger, and the two of you stayed behind to deal with the threat to buy me time enough to find him. A pair of Hunters cornered you. Basira couldn't take them both, and you… were too weakened from resisting the Hunt to stand a chance against either of them. You let the Hunt back in because it was the only way you could protect Basira. You made her promise to find you and kill you when it was over, and you told her to run.”

“Do you – do you think if not for that, I would have kept resisting? Or was I just – using that as an excuse to give in?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. He hesitates, attempting to balance honesty with tact. “You were wasting away. We all thought that refusing to feed the Hunt might kill you eventually. But whenever the subject came up, you said you were willing to die rather than let it back in. You were – adamant. And I… think you would have followed through on it. Resisting, I mean. Even if it meant dying.”

“I see,” she murmurs.

“Actually, it’s – probably morbid to say, but I envied your resolve. You didn’t want to be a predator again. You thought death was preferable to being lost to the blood. Right up until the end.” He shakes his head. “But – but maybe we can find a – a different way. Me coming back has already changed some things that I thought were inevitable. Just – don’t give up hope?”

Daisy makes a noise of acknowledgement, but Jon can’t glean anything else from it.

“I know it sounds bleak, and – and maybe it is. But for what it’s worth, I’ll be right there with you. I’m not taking live statements this time around, and it – has similar effects on me that refusing the Hunt does for you. Reading old statements takes the edge off, sometimes, but based on past experience, it… won’t be sustainable, and I’ll – have to cross that bridge when I get to it, I suppose. It’s not exactly the same, obviously – our patrons operate in different ways – but it did… help, last time, having someone nearby who knew what it was like.”

“You… know things now, right?”

“It’s… complicated. There are a lot of constraints and” – he huffs – “I don’t have as much control over it as everyone wishes I did, but… yes.”

“Any educated guesses on our chances?”

“None,” Jon says with a grim half-smile. “The Beholding tends to be uncooperative when it comes to concepts like escape and recovery. I won’t lie – marks don’t fade, and as far as I can tell, once someone is fully an Avatar, there’s no undoing it. You embrace it, or you wither away. You feed it, or it feeds on you.”

“Sounds about right.”

“But,” Jon says emphatically, “you should also know that no one had ever escaped the Buried before we did. And we’re about to do it again. So… who knows. Maybe there’s a third option and we just haven’t found it yet. I can’t promise there’s another way, but if there is… we’ll find it.”

“Or die trying?” Daisy replies, a wry edge to her tone now.

“Suppose so. But not without making a nuisance of ourselves first. I still don’t Know if the Fears are sentient, but on the off chance they are, I find that spite is a decent motivator.”

“Naturally.” Daisy snorts. “I wonder what annoys the Hunt?”

“Don’t know. Fraternizing with someone who was marked as prey, maybe. You told me once that on bad days, my blood was the loudest thing in the Archives. We theorized the Hunt wasn’t too keen on you letting me go.”

“You… weren’t you afraid I’d turn on you?”

“No.”

“Is that because you were suicidal, or because you honestly thought I wouldn’t kill you?”

“I wasn’t –” Jon sighs. “My mental state aside, I trusted you. You were as stubborn as I was. Maybe more. Even if we weren’t friends, I imagine you’d have snubbed the Hunt anyway, just on principle.”

Before Daisy can reply, the earth around them begins to shake again, soil coming loose and raining down on them from above. They both hold their breath, waiting for the impending crush – but it doesn’t come, and after a few seconds, they exhale simultaneously. Jon’s comes out as something of a cough, jolted out of him by the now-familiar sensation of an insistent upward pull.

“Anchor’s back,” he gasps out. “Ready to move?”

As they move forward – up, Jon assures himself, we’re making progress – the perpetual squeeze begins to open up into a narrow passageway. Sometimes they need to dig to bypass blockages and widen their tunnel, but the closer they draw to the surface, the hard-packed earth gradually gives way to looser soil.

Between one moment and the next, Jon’s fingertips – already raw and bleeding from burrowing through the debris – scrape against something much harder and rougher than packed earth. Solid rock, hidden by a few inches of soil. He hisses as he feels another layer of skin peel away at the abrasive texture, but he brightens at the memory of the stone steps and walls at the entrance to the Buried.

“We’re getting close, Daisy,” he says excitedly, tugging on her hand. “We’re almost there –”

The Buried compresses in a blink, crushing them up against one another.

“Shit,” Jon hisses. “Shouldn’t’ve said anything.”

“Jon?” Daisy says, her voice pitched higher than usual, shot through with barely concealed panic.

“It’s okay, Daisy. This happened the last time, too. Just” – the earth contracts further, forcing a whine out of him – “wringing one last bit of t-terror out of us before we leave.”

“Th-that’s – greedy of it,” she rasps with a nervous chuckle.

“I find that – a-all the Powers tend to be – like that. Needy, spiteful things, all – all of them.”

So do their Avatars, for that matter. He thinks of how Helen couldn’t resist frightening him one last time before parting ways at Hill Top Road; of how Jude Perry knew she was going to die and chose to spend her last moments pulling him down to her level; of how Manuela Dominguez knew she had failed, but still wanted to take someone out with her; of how Peter Lukas couldn’t lose a bet gracefully, how he dragged Martin into the Lonely and tried to trap Jon there as well; of how Jonah wasn’t content to just have Jon read out his ritual, but had to hijack Jon’s voice to monologue first.

And Jon himself isn’t all that different, is he? Didn’t he force himself to confront Jonah in the Panopticon, even though he knew it would have no impact on anything? Doesn’t he regularly provoke the Eye with small acts of rebellion? How many times has he mouthed off to an assailant threatening his life? He just said it himself: spite can be a decent motivator. Failing that, sometimes it just feels satisfying.

“It’ll – let up,” Jon says, for himself as much as Daisy. “J-just – give it a minute.”

As if to be contrary, it actually takes several minutes before the pressure begins to withdraw. Slowly, so very slowly, the collapsed tunnel begins to expand again, releasing another downpour of dirt in the process. The passage is still tight and they have to squirm through in small increments, but after some of the squeezes they passed through on their way, even a few extra centimeters of wiggle room feels like a luxury.

That said, Daisy’s breathing is increasingly labored, punctuated by soft whimpers.

“You doing alright, Daisy?”

“Y-yeah, ‘m fine.” Her breath catches and comes out as a pained groan. “Chest hurts,” she says brusquely, before Jon can express concern.

“Your lungs aren’t accustomed to having this much room to expand,” he says instead, striving for a bland tone.

“W-well, they’ll just h-have to – get used to it.”

“They will, but – take it slow? Last time, you had a fair amount of bruising. A few cracked ribs as well. We both did.”

In fact, he thinks they might just be the exact same ribs he injured last time, if the pain is anything to go by.

“Listen,” he says, “I – I think we’re coming up on the exit soon.”

“Soon soon?”

“Fairly certain, yes. Before we leave, I should tell you – Elias doesn’t know that I’m from the future, doesn’t know how much we know, and I’d prefer to keep it that way as long as possible. He can’t See us while we’re in here, but as soon as we’re out – the only safe place is the tunnels, like before.”

“Got it.”

“And also, I…” Not much for it, he tells himself. Make your peace with it now. “I might lose my voice again as soon as we’re out. Maybe – maybe even before then.”

“Again?”

“I – I mean, I’ll be able to talk, just – not in my own words.” Jon tries to wet his lips and immediately regrets it, succeeding only in drawing more dirt into his mouth. He grimaces and sputters a bit, to no avail.

“Jon?”

“Y-yeah, sorry. I, ah – remember what I said, about – about the Archive? I’ve – outside of here, I’ve only been able to speak using the statements in my… library, I suppose.”

He says the last part with distaste, all but spitting the words out as if they’re poison.

“Huh.”

“It started partway through the apocalypse, and it followed me when I came back. Being in the Buried’s domain has cut me off from the Archive for now, but once the Eye can reach me again, I – there’s a chance it’ll take over again.” He sighs. “More than a chance, it’s – probably more of a certainty. I just wanted to let you know now, I – I’m still me, it’s just – the Archive puts limits on how I communicate, and it can be – off-putting. And annoying. And… abhorrent.”

“Abhorrent?”

“I mean… appropriating other people’s trauma any time I want to speak? It’s…”

There’s no succinct way to capture just how – how perverse it is, exploiting the words of the people who lived through the horrors retold in the statements. Some of them, Jon himself victimized. More than some, if he considers the billions he condemned in his future. Claiming their terror for his own use doesn’t feel all that different from actually taking statements: dehumanizing, objectifying, degrading. It’s all on the same ghoulish spectrum of monstrosity, just… slightly different shades of wrong.

All he says aloud, though, is the last part: “It’s wrong.”

And yet, you do it anyway, he thinks, disgusted with himself.

“Like going from one hell to another, isn’t it?” Daisy says after a pause. “Getting out of here, only for the Eye and – and the Hunt to be waiting on the other side.”

“Yeah. As much as I want to get out of here, I’m… not looking forward going back to – to that.” He sighs, then rallies himself. “But fresh air and a drink of water do sound nice, don’t they?”

“And a bath,” Daisy says, as if it’s the most beautiful word in the world. Jon laughs quietly.

“The Institute only has the one shower, I’m afraid. No tub, terrible water pressure, occasionally –”

“– occasionally runs cold without warning mid-shower,” Daisy finishes, an audible grin in her tone. “I recall. You won’t hear me complaining, though.”

“Nor me. Not for the next couple weeks, anyway.”

“Mm. Yeah, I’m sure you’ll hear me swearing up a storm at four in the morning about water temperature at some point.”

“Assuming that trivial detail hasn’t changed since I was last here, yes, I will,” Jon says with an amused chuff. He readjusts his grip on her hand and tugs gently. “Come on, we’re getting closer.”

Martin sits in his office, head in his hands and the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes.

Eight days. It’s been eight days since Jon went into the Coffin, there have been no signs of when – if – he’ll return, and there’s nothing Martin can do to reach him.

Stupid, he thinks fiercely, to think that sitting there and talking to a – a box of dirt would do anything.

Keeping vigil at Jon’s bedside at the hospital for months had done nothing to bring him back. Why would this be any different? When Martin’s predictions panned out, he felt almost vindicated that he was right – comforted by the confirmation that he is still all alone in the world, relieved by the reassurance that nothing will disturb his solitude after all.

There’s a part of him that still has the decency to feel ashamed at that impulse, but it’s small and distant and shrinking by the day. And yet… it’s still there, withered though it may be: a sentimental sliver of attachment that stubbornly refuses to die, both to his dismay and – to a lesser but nonetheless undeniable extent – his relief. No matter how pessimistic his outlook has become these days, he had still hoped against all the odds that reaching out to Jon would have some sort of effect.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. That sort of hopeless romanticism is for fairytales. Sure, given the existence of extradimensional fear entities, it isn’t inconceivable that some sort of… long distance psychic bond, or link, or – or whatever could exist. But Martin has yet to see any evidence pointing to the existence of powers like hope and love to balance out the existence of Smirke’s Fourteen.

That admission alone is enough to whittle away at that stubborn sentimentality of his just a little further.

And that’s for the best, he tells himself.

He can feel a bitter smile flicker at the corner of his mouth. The Lonely’s really got its hold on him, hasn’t it?

But no matter how well-suited he is to the Lonely, no matter how resigned he is to the idea that he’s destined to be alone, and that that’s exactly as it should be… Martin still cares for Jon. His emotions feel dulled most days, as if they’re happening to someone else, but the act of caring… he doesn’t have to feel in order to go through the motions. It takes effort and thought, certainly, but the impulse is second nature.

Peter tells him that he’ll be free of it before long. Martin doesn’t know how he feels about that. Nothing, usually, or something adjacent to it.

Apparently he hadn’t cauterized his feelings as much as he’d thought, though. For the past week, the sense of detachment he’s built up over months of practice and resignation and goal-oriented focus has been interrupted. The calm and quiet that have become so comfortable to him have been punctuated by windows of raw, wild emotion and sensory overload and sharp, racing thoughts, and it’s too much – especially all at once – after months of fog and cold and single-minded resolve.

He still doesn’t know what he feels, but it’s something rather than nothing, and it hurts.

“Brooding, are we?” comes a voice from right behind Martin, sending an icy chill through him.

“Peter!” Martin nearly snarls, glaring over his shoulder at him. “I told you to stop doing that –”

“So, Martin,” Peter continues, smoothly overriding Martin’s complaints, “I can’t help but notice you’ve been quite… distracted recently.”

Martin looks away, clenches his teeth, and says nothing.

“Oh, I’m not upset, Martin. I’m simply curious to know where we stand. To gauge the magnitude of this… little setback.”

“Setback?” Martin whips back around, incensed. “You really think I care about – about my progress right now?”

“Judging by your tone, I imagine not.” Peter smiles, that customary aloof smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not very reassuring, but I thank you for your honesty. It shows that we do still have our work cut out for us.”

Martin should keep his composure. He should keep his mouth shut. He should feign indifference and continue playing the long game to which he’s committed himself, but he can feel his heart hammering in his chest and he can hear his blood rushing in his ears and all the words he cannot – should not – has to say are brimming in his throat and –

He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice when the outburst claws its way out.

“I don’t care, Peter. You promised –”

“That I would protect your coworkers from external threats,” Peter says mildly.

“You don’t think one of the Circus’s monsters just – waltzing unnoticed into the Archives hauling a bloody gateway to the – the literal manifestation of claustrophobia counts as an external threat –”

“By the time the intruder’s presence came to my attention, it had already been dealt with. Quite handily, in fact. As for the Coffin itself, our agreement did not extend to saving a self-destructive Archivist from his own foolhardiness. There’s only so much that I can do.”

“Then apparently I need to pick up your slack.”

Once again, Peter ignores him and steers the conversation to his liking.

“I will say, I was pleased to see that the Coffin’s call has no effect on you. It shows that your connection to the Forsaken is still intact.” Peter begins to pace slowly, hands folded behind his back. “I am interested to know why you’ve been spending so much time so close to it in the first place. Why you were… speaking to it.”

Martin huffs irritably. “I thought it might help.”

“I wonder where you got that idea.” When Martin doesn’t reply, Peter stops his pacing and sighs. “I don’t mean to be invasive” – Martin snorts derisively; Peter continues without pause – “but I notice you’ve spoken to that – woman quite a few times.”

“She’s no one,” Martin says hurriedly, hoping that Peter doesn’t notice his momentary nervous flinch.

“Is that so?” Peter gives a contemplative hum. “If she’s trespassing on Institute property and interfering with day-to-day operations, perhaps I should have her… removed.”

All at once, the world around Martin rushes into focus: clearer, sharper, brighter, louder, more real – every sensation more immediate, every thought more acute. He feels his spine go rigid as he sits up straight and locks eyes with Peter.

“Peter,” he says, balanced on a razor’s edge between firm and furious, “we talked about that. You agreed to let me handle –”

“Workplace disputes and employee conduct,” Peter says. “Not interlopers.”

‘Interlopers’? Martin thinks. Really, Peter?

“Here I thought you might be glad to have someone like her around,” he says, forcing calm back into his voice. “Give me some practice pushing people away.”

“Perhaps. But if she’s posing a distraction in the workplace –”

“Like the Archives aren’t a distraction all on their own,” Martin seethes, his impassivity quickly teetering into agitation again, “what with the – the spooky murder tunnels, and monster attacks, and clandestine coffin deliveries, and the watching –”

“You know what I meant. If she’s distracting you from your work –”

“When have I ever left any administrative tasks unfinished, hmm?”

“Martin.”

“Yes?” Martin says, meeting Peter’s eyes with a level stare. There’s a muscle twitching almost imperceptibly in the other man’s jaw. It’s not easy to provoke that sort of response from Peter, and Martin would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t feel just a bit gratified.

Peter takes a breath and when he speaks again, he’s regained his usual mild manner – but Martin can still detect just a hint of tension underneath.

“As I have told you before, you are the only one who can do this. The plan –”

“Which you have yet to explain –”

“– requires a servant of the Eye, imbued with the power of the Lonely. And the cultivation of that power depends on your voluntary isolation. I can’t force you to cooperate, Martin. I can only tell you of the consequences should the Extinction emerge – and if it emerges because you choose not to act, then, well…” Peter shrugs. “You can’t keep anyone safe from that sort of power, and that includes the Archivist.”

“You still haven’t convinced me that your theories regarding the Extinction are true.”

If anything, Martin is less convinced than ever. Jon didn’t exactly elaborate on what he knows, but he seems certain that the Extinction isn’t a threat. If that’s the case, the only other reason for Martin to cooperate with Peter is to keep Jon safe – or, barring that, to at least keep Peter away from him. And if Jon is gone, then… what’s the point of any of this?

Peter takes a step closer and slides a folder onto Martin’s desk. Judging by how thin it is, Martin doubts there’s much follow-up or supplementary material within.

“Then you’d best get reading,” Peter says amiably, backing away again.

“Peter,” Martin says, stopping him before he can take his leave.

“Hm?”

“If she disappears,” he continues, mirroring Peter’s faux-pleasant tone, “you can count on my non-cooperation going forward.”

“Come now, Martin. We both know you wouldn’t allow the Extinction to emerge over a single life.”

Martin lifts his chin defiantly and gives Peter a hard look.

“I’d do it for Jon.”

“And he’s gone.” There is an almost hungry glint in Peter’s pale eyes. The temperature plummets a few degrees as thin tendrils of fog begin to unfurl from around his feet. “You’re alone.”

“Exactly.” Peter’s smug expression wavers at Martin’s non-reaction. “You’re a gambler. Shouldn’t you recognize when you’ve shown your hand?” Martin shakes his head with a thin, humorless smile. The mist creeps closer: wispy eddies and grasping coils stretching across the floor to pool at Martin’s feet. “If Jon’s gone, you’ve lost your best bargaining chip. I’ve nothing left to lose. At this point, you really should be thankful for whatever leverage you can find.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Try me.”

Peter simply chuckles, but Martin can detect the faint uncertainty laced through it.

“I mean it. If my work performance is unsatisfactory, just feed me to your patron now if you can’t resist. Seems a waste to do it before you’ve gotten what you need from me, but it makes no difference to me; I’m Forsaken either way.” He leans back in his chair. “The only one who stands to lose anything is you.”

“And the entire world, should the Extinction evolve unchecked.”

“In that case, let her – let everyone connected with the Archives be. And don’t disappear any more staff, either.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds: “Or statement givers.”

There is a long silence in which Martin stares into Peter’s eyes, willing himself not to blink or falter. Eventually, the fog recedes and Peter’s fake, plastered-on smile reappears.

“Well, I think I’ve kept you from your work long enough.” Peter nods at the statement folder. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The moment the telltale static of Peter’s departure fades, Martin lets out a heavy exhale and rests his head in his arms on his desk. Every encounter with Peter tends to leave him feeling drained, but that one was more intense than usual.

“Prick,” Martin mutters to the empty office.

It takes a few minutes for him to register the low whirring coming from underneath his desk.

“Were you listening the whole time, then?” Martin scoops up the tape recorder from the floor. “Or,” he sighs, his eyes flicking to the waiting statement, “are you just hungry?”

Martin still doesn’t know what to make of the recorders. On the one hand, supernatural artefacts never bode well. There’s no telling what’s they are, what’s listening on the other end, what controls their spontaneous appearance or why. Eavesdropping and surveillance are on brand for the Eye, but Jon had a point when he said that the Beholding would have no need to use tape recorders to listen in, especially within its own temple. They weren’t Elias’s doing – apparently all of his spying is done through eyes. The Web, maybe? But to what end?

On the other hand, Martin has grown so accustomed to their presence that he was actually unsettled by their absence while Jon was – away. When they started manifesting again, Martin was… relieved, almost. It isn’t the same as having Jon nearby, but it feels like having a connection to him all the same. They’ve almost become a welcoming, comforting sight – at least for the first few seconds after their appearance, before they start making their usual demands.

Sometimes, Martin wonders whether Jon might be subconsciously manifesting them himself. Even before his paranoid episode, he seemed keen to document and catalog the world around him, as if it was the only way for him to make sense of it all. It made Martin's heart ache, how Jon could never seem to relax, to let himself just be in the moment. His hypervigilance was exhausting by proxy, and it’s only gotten worse as time goes on.

In any case, ever since Jon’s coma – half-death? – proved that the recorders’ existence is dependent on his, Martin has started to see their regular appearances as decent indicators as to whether Jon is alive at any given moment. And here they are, still showing up. Which means… what? Martin already knew that Jon is still alive. The Coffin doesn’t let its victims die; death would be a release, and it's incompatible with a realm predicated on unending pressure, on the experience of being trapped with no hope of escape. But if Jon was entirely cut off from the world, lost and unreachable, wouldn’t his connection with the recorders be severed as well? So, if they’re still here, does that mean Jon isn’t gone yet? That there’s still a lifeline tethering him to the surface?

If so, it’s a useless lifeline, isn’t it? The tapes always make their way to Jon in time, but what good does that do in this situation? It’s not like they’re two-way radios; Martin can’t communicate with Jon in real time.

Unless…

No. No unless. It’s not even a long shot, it’s just – daft.

But hasn’t he already been treating them as stand-ins for Jon for the last few weeks? And is it really any more foolish than talking to a coffin?

Martin sighs as he eyes the tape recorder, its reels still insistently spinning. It isn’t going to leave until it gets a statement. He waits it out for another minute or so, but in the end he gives in, just like it knew he would.

“Hi again, Jon,” he starts, picking at his cuticles as uncertainly as he picks through his words. “I doubt you can hear me. At least not right now. But I know you listen to all the tapes eventually. Don’t know if you’ll ever get to hear this one, though. If not, I suppose this is rather pointless, isn’t it? You’re always so diligent about listening to them, too.” Martin huffs. “Well, if you want this one, you’ll have to come back and get it. I’m very cross with you, and I’d prefer to tell you in pers-”

Shut up, shut up, what are you saying?

The recorder lets out a short burst of static, as if protesting the break in his confession.

“Oh, shut it,” he grumbles. “Not – not you, Jon. Sorry. I mean, not like you’re hearing this anyway, right? Whatever, just – you’re needed here, alright? It’s been too long. It’s time to come home.” Martin shakes his head and smiles weakly. “Funny, I – I remember when I used to have to nag you to go home at night. The more things change, the more they stay the same, right? Don’t know what good a persuasive argument does in this case, though. It’s not like you need convincing –”

Martin stops short, a sudden thought crystallizing cold and heavy in the front of his mind. For all he knows, Jon’s gotten it into his head that he needs to stay in there to keep the rest of the world safe. It sounds like the sort of conclusion Jon would reach.

“I mean, I – I – I hope you’re not willingly staying down there out of some misguided belief that it’s – safer, for everyone? Jon?” Martin laughs nervously, on the edge of hysteria. “I – I don’t know why I’m talking like I’ll get a response. Anyway, it’s – it’s probably more likely that you want to come back and you can’t, right?” He chuckles again, and realizes too late how teary it sounds. “I don’t even – I don’t know which of those options is worse, but – but it’s not like there’s anything I can do in either case, so – what’s the point of this, of any of this?”

Martin clamps both hands over his mouth to stifle his abrupt, stuttering intake of breath – the precursor to sobbing, if he isn’t careful. He takes a long moment to compose himself, swallowing back tears and slowing his breathing.

“W-well, in case you do need to hear it… things are not better with you gone, okay?” His voice still sounds thick with emotion. In an attempt to steady it, he ends up overcorrecting, his next words coming out far more vehemently than he had intended. “They aren’t. And I don’t know how to make you believe that, but – but – if you don’t come back, you’ll never get a chance to learn, and it’s not like you to pass up a chance to learn something, right, so – so just get back here, will you?”

He stops again. After months of suffocating, deadening quiet, raising his voice even slightly feels like shouting. He finds himself leaning closer towards the tape recorder, as if he’s sharing a secret. Despite the conscious effort to lower his volume, it does nothing to temper the intensity of his speech.

“Jon, you’re late, and everyone’s waiting. Georgie’s worried. Basira spends most of the day camped out in front of your office, just… listening for any change. I – I don’t think she’s been sleeping much. And Melanie, she –” Martin flounders. He hasn’t spoken to Melanie in weeks, but he has no reason to assume her feelings towards Jon have changed. “Well, she – she’ll be angry if you break a promise to Georgie, yeah? And I’m – I…”

Martin doesn’t know what he is.

“Look, Jon, you – you need to come back now,” he says, more softly. More like a prayer than a demand. “Come home, and we’ll… we’ll figure things out.”

He wracks his brain for more, but comes up speechless. There was a time when he could have spoken volumes about what Jon means to him, and the words would flow from him easily. Now, anything he could possibly say feels shallow and jumbled and meaningless. Absolutely useless. But since when did words make any difference anyway? Jon has always been resistant to an outstretched hand. He rarely accepted any offers of help or invitations to talk; could barely handle a kind word or comforting gesture some days. He seemed to be opening up in the weeks prior to the Unknowing, but then –

Martin lets out a sigh and shuts the tape recorder off. Almost immediately, it clicks back on.

“Seriously?” He stares daggers at the thing. “That wasn’t enough for you?”

He depresses the button again, perhaps a little harder than necessary. The moment he removes his finger, the reels resume winding.

“Can’t you just – piss off and let me have some quiet for five minutes?”

It can’t, apparently. After several more foiled attempts to stop its droning, Martin gives an aggravated groan. As tempting as it is to hurl it at a wall, all the archival staff know from experience that the recorders are practically unbreakable, taking only superficial damage regardless of the attempted means to destroy them. Martin could toss it into a bonfire and at most it would come out a bit worse for wear; the casing would never melt or warp so badly as to render the buttons entirely nonfunctional.

More than once, Martin has caught himself wondering whether they get their durability from Jon. It’s a morbid thought and Martin is always quick to shut it down, but, well – there it is again.

At least Jon’s persistence is – charming. Martin glares at the tape recorder some more. Unlike –

The recorder crackles with another impatient uptick of static.

“Fine!” He flips open the folder on his desk, seizes the statement roughly, and gives himself a papercut in the process. Another hiss erupts from the recorder when he swears. “Yeah? Well, I don’t care if personal commentary is unprofessional,” he snaps at it. He doesn’t know who he’s talking to.

When he finally turns his attention back to the statement in his hands, he makes no effort to hide his foul mood.

“Yet another statement about – I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s bleak and horrifying, or else it wouldn’t be so keen for me to read it. Recording by Martin Blackwood, Assistant to Peter Lukas, Head of the Magnus Institute…”

Daisy draws in a sharp breath and stops short.

“Daisy?” Jon tugs lightly on her hand. “You alright?”

“Jon, I – I feel something, like a – like a pull, I –” Daisy laughs breathlessly. “There’s an up.”

“What,” Jon says, grinning to himself, “didn’t you believe me?”

But Daisy isn’t listening to him, instead continuing in an awestruck tone: “I’m – I – I’ll get to – to see Basira again.”

Her voice pitches up ever so slightly towards the end, making the statement sound almost like a question – as if she didn’t believe until this moment that seeing Basira again was even a possibility, as if she still doesn’t quite dare to believe it.

Jon has repeated the same promise dozens of times now along their trek to the surface. Once more can’t hurt: “She’s waiting for you.”

“I know,” Daisy whispers, almost reverently. Then, louder, her mounting anticipation crowding out the remnants of disbelief: “I can feel it.”

So can Jon. For quite some time now, that feeling of being pulled along – almost like he’s an anchor being reeled in, oddly – has been relatively consistent. The strength of the sensation still fluctuates from time to time, but it’s been awhile since it last disappeared entirely.

Of course, now it’s also shot through with a far more unwelcome pull. He swears he can feel the Archive drawing closer the more they near the exit. Maybe it’s simply his imagination, increasingly overactive as his dread intensifies, but the outcome is the same either way: the Eye will have him again, and soon.

“Come on, then,” Jon says, suppressing the grim edge threatening to creep into his tone. There’s no point in worrying Daisy just when she’s started to feel hopeful. “Almost home.”

Not long thereafter, the passage widens again. They still have to walk single file with their shoulders angled, forced to sidle through a few tight spots sideways, but the soil has finally transitioned entirely to solid stone walls and there is a noticeable upward slant to their path. All the while, Jon doesn’t let go of Daisy’s hand.

He grits his teeth against the lancing pain surging through his leg with every step as the incline grows steeper. From the sounds of Daisy’s labored breathing behind him, she’s having a far worse time of it. He’s just about to reassure her again that they’re almost there when his foot connects with something and he stumbles, pitching forward and nearly pulling Daisy down with him. His free hand flails in front of him to break his fall, and that’s when he recognizes –

“Stairs,” he whispers, feeling the shape of them, their flat surfaces and angles.

“What?”

“Stairs, Daisy.” After pushing himself to his feet, he places his free hand against the wall as a guide. It’s still pitch dark, and it will be until they manage to lift the Coffin’s lid. “Not much further now. Watch your step, and go slowly. They’re uneven.”

Despite an abundance of caution, they both end up tripping several times on the way up. The steps are all different heights and depths: some short and wide shelves, some steep and narrow ledges nearing two feet high – which may seem negligible were they both not so weakened, winded, and wounded. Occasionally, a step that felt solid moments before would crumble underneath them, giving way like gravel; a few times, Jon could swear a step disappeared entirely just before he put his foot down.

He’s so focused on keeping his footing that he forgets to be wary of his head. When he places a foot on one particularly sheer step and propels himself upward with the other leg, his head collides violently with something just above him. The pain races through his skull, his neck, his spine, and he nearly topples backward in the momentary daze of the impact. He has just enough presence of mind to throw his weight forward so that when he loses balance, he collapses against the stairs instead of tumbling down them.

For a few seconds, all he knows is a high-pitched ringing in his ears and fireworks in his vision. He’s dimly aware of Daisy’s hands patting at him blindly, frantically; her voice is muffled, but he can detect the urgency there.

“‘M’fine,” he slurs. He tries to tell her to just give him a minute, that he recovers quickly from this sort of thing, but he’s pretty sure it comes out something more like gim’nit.

When he finally starts to come around, Daisy’s words, once fuzzy and indistinct, start to break through the haze: “Jon? Jon, are you alright?”

“Will be,” he groans. He pushes himself up with one hand and reaches up with the other, groping blindly. Either it’s closer than he thought or he put too much force into the gesture in his disorientation, but his knuckles collide with rough wood and he hisses when he catches a splinter.

“Jon?”

“Lid’s right above us,” he says unnecessarily. “Watch your head.”

Daisy snorts. “Noted.”

“I – I might need some help lifting it,” he says, his vertigo gradually fading. He places both palms flat on the underside of the lid. “Last time, it was a lot heavier on the way out than it was going in.”

“Got it.” Daisy crawls up a few steps to kneel next to Jon, and he can feel her hands brush against his as she reaches up to find a grip.

“Feel it?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Ready?”

“On three. One – two – three –”

As expected, it offers more resistance than it should, as if a force is pressing down from the other side. For a terrifying few seconds, it refuses to budge. Then, with a prolonged creak of protest, it starts to give. Even just the dim light of Jon’s office filtering through that first tiny crack is enough to hurt. Judging from the startled yelp next to him, Jon assumes Daisy is shutting her eyes as well.

Jon can hear the low chatter of the tapes he left behind, as well as something louder and clearer cutting through the white noise.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this on my own.” Basira’s voice, overlaid with the crackle of radio static. “I’m here, Daisy. I need you to be here, too. I need –”

As soon as the opening is wide enough to stick a hand through, the pressure lets up all at once and the lid swings up the rest of the way. Jon scrambles over the side and grabs both of Daisy’s hands, dragging her up and out. He winces sympathetically when she cries out – she hasn’t properly stretched those muscles in months, and it must be agony.

The moment she’s completely cleared the lip of the Coffin, Jon drops her hands and eases her to a kneeling position on the floor. Rising unsteadily to his feet with a pained groan, he takes hold of the lid and drags it back into place. He stumbles the short distance to his desk for the key and hastens to replace the chains and reaffix the padlock. On the way, he kicks a tape recorder and it goes sliding across the floor; an instant later, the knowledge comes to him: Not a tape recorder. A two-way radio.

His hands are shaking so badly that he fumbles the key four times before he manages to fit it into the lock. He’s so absorbed in that simple, seemingly insurmountable task that he barely notices the swearing and clattering coming from just outside the office as someone on the other side goes through the exact same struggle to unlock the door. Just as Jon turns the key, the office door swings open to reveal Basira, panting and wide-eyed, the radio in her hand dropping to the floor as her eyes rest on Daisy, shivering and gasping for air.

“You’re back,” Basira murmurs, frozen in place.

“Hi,” Daisy says with short, almost giddy laugh, before promptly collapsing forward onto the floor. It’s enough to spur Basira into action, lurching forward and going to her knees next to her.

“Daisy,” she says urgently, shaking her shoulder. “Daisy, please –”

“She’s – she’s alright,” Jon says breathlessly, on hands and knees in front of the Coffin, gulping for air to fill his screaming lungs. “Just – needs to –”

He freezes.

“Jon,” Basira says, disbelieving. “Your voice?”

“I – I – I thought I would – I would lose it again,” he stammers. He begins to move his hand up to his throat, but stops when his other arm trembles violently, unable to hold up his weight on its own. “I don’t – I don’t know, I – I might still, it – it –”

The thought turns to static and the words dissolve on his tongue.

“…it barely even sounded human as it – as it spoke in a strange monotone –”

Jon shakes his head frantically, bringing the lingering pain from his earlier head injury back into the forefront.

“…it was then that I became aware of them – hundreds of glossy dead eyes staring at me from all directions –”

“– a tremendous eye – turning to focus upon me –”

“– staring into me, acutely scrutinizing my reaction –”

“Jon!” He stops and looks up at Basira, suddenly realizing that she’s been repeating his name for several seconds now. “You’re hyperventilating. Just – breathe?”

He latches onto Basira’s voice, forcing himself to breathe – oh, god, he can breathe again –

“Good,” she says after a few moments, calm and steady. “Okay. Can you try talking again? No, Jon, listen – look at me,” she says when he shuts his eyes and starts shaking his head again. “Try talking again.”

“…but my inability to speak –”

“Humor me.”

“…it’s still there, still watching me. There’s nowhere I can go, a place I can hide that it doesn’t keep looking at me – I can’t sleep because they’re watching me – those unseen eyes that hover everywhere and won’t let me rest –”

“– I’m sorry – it won’t let me say the words –”

“Yes, you can,” she says. Firm, but not cruel. Authoritative, self-assured, decisive – a solid presence to fixate on. “You’re just – too in your own head. Focus on me and try again.”

“I –” he begins, then stops short. Not the Archive. He gives Basira an uncertain, panicked look.

“Keep going. Try – try something simple. Tell me your name.”

“My name is…” His voice quivers as he forces the words out one syllable at a time.

“Go on. Who are you?”

“The Arch –”

The Archive, he almost says, before a fearful part of him remembers that Jonah might be listening. Besides, right now it would be inaccurate, wouldn’t it. The Eye does not typically dispense outright falsehoods, and its Archive has no use for fictions. Deception is for the Stranger, for the Spiral, for the Web –

“Try again,” Basira says patiently, drawing his attention back to her. “Who are you?”

“The Archivi –”

“No. Who, not what.”

There is a long pause in which he cannot parse the instruction.

“Full name.”

“Jon,” he says slowly. The sound feels strange on his tongue. “Jonathan Sims. The Archivist.”

“Could’ve done without that last bit, but good enough.” Basira relaxes her posture. “You alright?”

“I – I don’t understand.” Lightheaded and trembling, Jon releases a shuddering breath and leans back on his heels, slightly hunched over with his hands on his knees. “How did you know that would work?”

“I didn’t. But you were spiraling, and I imagine that’s exactly what the Eye wants.”

“R-right. I, ah –” Jon runs a shaky hand through his hair. “I don’t know how long it will stay away, the Buried severed the connection temporarily, but now it –”

“Don’t dwell on it.” At his blank stare, Basira sighs. “Yes, I realize that’s not quite your speed, but try anyway.”

“But –”

“We’re dealing with things that feed on fear and can rewrite reality as they please, right? You said yourself that the feeling is all they care about. Maybe feeding it your fear just makes it easier for it to write your reality – in which case, accepting a hypothetical bad outcome as an inevitability is just creating a self-fulfilling prophecy for yourself.”

“That’s… certainly a theory,” he says cagily.

But it’s a theory that Basira must be invested in, because she leans forward, her eyes as bright and interested as when she’s engrossed in a good book or pouring over some compelling research.

“Yes, it is, but I don’t think it’s too far-fetched. Georgie and I have been pooling ideas, and – I don’t think ‘mind over matter’ is a panacea, but mental state does seem to factor in. I was studying the statements you left for me, the ones involving anchors, and – I’m still not sure about the exact mechanics, but would an anchor help someone survive one of the Fears if state of mind wasn’t a key variable? It might not be the most important aspect, but it does seem significant enough to affect the outcome. Not all the time – not even most of the time – but in some cases, at least. Under the right circumstances.”

“And the Fears wouldn’t even exist without minds to experience them,” Jon says, brow furrowed. It’s uncanny, hearing some of the same ideas he bounced off of Daisy to pass the time in the Buried parroted back at him by Basira now.

“Exactly,” she says excitedly, then closes her mouth just as she’s taking a breath to start on her next thought. She clears her throat, looking slightly self-conscious. “I’m getting sidetracked. We can talk more about it later. For now – priorities.” Her expression turns sharp and focused again. “What should we do with the Coffin?”

“Artefact Storage. Tell them – tell them about the compulsion, make sure they take special precautions. Maximum security. No interaction or hands-on research.” He forces the words out rapid-fire, still expecting the Archive to take over any moment. “Store the key separately, same restrictions. No public cross-referencing, keep the link between the two on a need-to-know basis, preferably restricted to the head of the department. In – in fact, refer them to case number 9982211. Joshua Gillespie had a rather – creative way of containing the key. Simple, but” – Jon laughs, shaking his head – “incredibly effective.”

“That’s…”

“The best we can do without –” Jon huffs. “Well, burying it. Sealing it in concrete.”

“Not a bad idea,” Basira says thoughtfully. She raises an eyebrow when Jon doesn’t reply. “Is it?”

“I – I don’t know. We got out, and it seems – wrong, to completely eliminate that possibility for all the other people trapped in there.”

“You think you can help them?”

“I… I doubt it,” he admits, voice dripping with guilt.

He could try, but he suspects he was only able to reach Daisy because he had a personal connection to her, plus the recording of her voice to help him navigate. Finding anyone else in there would mean wandering around aimlessly until he eventually crossed paths with someone by chance, hoping he could reach them before the Buried whisked him away again.

“But if someone else does make it this far,” he says, “I – I don’t want to be the one responsible for the moment they try to lift the lid and find it cemented shut. The chains will still be there, but at least there’s a chance of someone hearing them, helping them? Probably not, but – sealing it off entirely feels… I don’t know, final? Like we would be condemning them personally.”

“Yeah, okay.” Basira sighs heavily, absentmindedly stroking Daisy’s hair. “Point taken. Can you stand?”

“Not yet. Give me a few minutes. I’ll – I’ll be fine here, though, if you want to move Daisy. Put some distance between her and the Coffin. It’s a good idea.”

“Don’t read my mind, Jon.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay? I don’t feel right leaving you alone after…”

Jon meets her eyes again, tilting his head to the side slightly. Last time, she had no qualms about ushering Daisy away from the Coffin the moment she got a chance. She didn’t leave him alone for long – she wasn’t cruel – but still, he was undeniably a lower priority. He clears his throat and tries to look less stunned.

“I’ll be alright, I promise. Go ahead.”

Basira watches him shrewdly, frowning as she considers her options. Eventually, her shoulders slump and she relents.

“If you’re sure. I won’t be gone long.”

“Careful moving her,” Jon says. “Sorry, that – probably goes without saying? But just – mind her left side. She has cracked ribs on both sides, but two on the left are broken.”

A flash of sympathetic pain and vicarious anger crosses Basira’s expression.

“Thanks for the heads up.” Her voice is clipped, but not unkind. She’s simply trying to keep a tight rein on her emotions: deal with the situation at hand first, break down later – in privacy – if at all. “As soon as I have her settled, I’ll come back and – and help you move.”

He nods tiredly.

“Jon.” Basira waits until he looks back up at her. “Thank you – for… I really thought I’d never – I…”

“Basira, it’s okay,” he says as she fumbles for words. “I understand.”

“You know, or you Know?”

“Oh, uh…” Jon grimaces. “Maybe both? I’m sorry –”

Basira snorts and begins to gently position Daisy to be moved. “I was teasing, Jon.”

“O-oh. Right.” He shifts awkwardly. “Still, though, I – I apologize. I realize the Knowing can be – invasive, and – I don’t have as much control over it as I would like, but I should –”

“Jon, it’s fine.” Basira says it with an air of finality, but she doesn’t sound angry. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Sure,” he says, not quite knowing what to do with her lenience. “Thank you. I’ll just – I’ll just wait here.”

“Yes, you will. You’ve met your self-sacrifice quota for the month. No more pocket dimensions. In fact –” She stands and swipes Jon’s phone off his desk where he left it, handing it down to him. “Call Georgie, let her know you’re home. Keep you occupied until I get back.”

As Basira leaves with Daisy, Jon does exactly that. Georgie picks up on the first ring.

“Jon? Jon, is that you?”

Jon closes his eyes and smiles at the sound of her voice.

“Yeah, Georgie. It’s me. I’m back.”

“You got your voice back?”

“Seems so,” he says tentatively. “For now, anyway.”

Something about the tone of Georgie’s sigh tells him that she’s rolling her eyes at him.

“Why are you such a pessimist?”

“I’m not, I’m a –”

“Don’t you dare say ‘realist.’” He keeps his mouth shut. “Does Basira know you’re back?”

“Yes –”

“Are you hurt?”

“No – well, I mean, yes, but – nothing too serious. Nothing unexpected. I’m alright.”

“Okay. Did you find Daisy?”

“Yes. She’s with Basira now.”

“Good.” Georgie breathes a sigh of relief. “I was worried, Jon. Do you know how long you were gone?”

“I –” Jon pauses as the knowledge comes to him. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m – I’m sorry, Georgie, I really didn’t expect it to take – and it’s impossible to tell time in there, so –”

“It’s – it’s alright, I’m just – glad you’re back. Did you let Martin know?”

“Not – not yet, I – I’m not sure how he would feel about me contacting him.” Jon bites his lip. “Do you think I should?”

“Don’t know. He doesn’t seem to know what he wants. But I’ve spoken to him a few times now, and he seems to be – I don’t know. Thawing, I guess? Seems less cold. Easier to get through to him than it was that first time. Or – easier to get a rise out of him, at least. He’s actually got some fire in his eyes now.”

Jon smiles to himself again.

“Georgie Barker, are you annoying him out of the Lonely?”

“I –” She pauses, considers, and then chuckles. “You know – maybe? In my defense, it’s not difficult to do. He’s very moody.”

“O-oh. That’s…”

“Not necessarily a bad thing, Jon. I mean, it can’t be comfortable for him, but – at least he’s feeling something, interacting with the world around him? It’s like – well, he sort of reminds me of…”

“What?”

“Me, at certain points in my life? I think I’ve told you before, but – the lowest low of a depressive episode for me has always been when nothing can reach me. Feeling nothing, wanting nothing, being unable to envision any sort of future at all and not even caring about it.”

“You did, yes. I – don’t think I fully understood then, but now, I – I think I have an idea.”

“Well, when I start to get better, it can look like I’m getting worse to other people, because they can see the hurt, where before it was – quiet, subdued. All the things I couldn’t feel before, they all come out at once, and it’s – overwhelming, after so much nothingness. But it’s part of the healing. At some point, you have to let yourself feel again, even if it hurts. I know it’s not a perfect analogy, but – this might not be a bad sign, is what I’m saying. Sometimes recovery is messy. It helps to have someone to lean on for support.”

“But if he’s determined to be alone –”

“The thing is, I don’t think he is. But that’s something he needs to figure out for himself. I’m not saying you can’t remind him from time to time that he isn’t alone, but…” She exhales heavily. “You can’t force someone to accept help. You reached out to him. Give him the space to reach back.”

“So… don’t contact him? Because – because I want to respect his boundaries, but –”

Georgie gives an exasperated but fond-sounding sigh.

“Jon, if you want a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer, I can’t help you there.”

“But – but what do you think –”

“I think it’s your call. He might not respond, but… he’s been worried, and I do think he would appreciate knowing you’re back.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise.

“Well, you think on it,” Georgie says. “Listen, I’m walking out the door now, okay? Be there soon.”

“Oh, uh – right. I’ll – see you then, I suppose.”

“You’d better.”

When the call ends, Jon stares fixedly at a speck on the wall, debating whether or not to… what, send an email? That seems too impersonal, but a phone call might be too much. He could always text, but…

Glancing at the screen, he notices that he has several missed text messages. His thumb hovers uncertainly over the icon. It’s unlikely that any of them are from Martin, but he has an irrational need to prolong the confirmation one way or another, to put off knowing as long as –

The Eye informs him that they’re all from Naomi, and Jon heaves an agitated sigh. Not at the knowledge itself – he enjoys his interactions with Naomi, however sparse his side of the conversation tends to be these days – but at having the option of knowing removed from him. When he starts to read her messages, though, his sour mood rapidly evaporates.

“There,” he says with a private little smile. “One for each day I was gone. To start with.”

Once he sends the reply, he sets the phone aside. His mouth is dry, the taste of dirt clinging to his tongue. Luckily, he thought ahead and stored some water bottles here for when he got back, knowing it would take some time before he was ready to drag himself to the breakroom for a drink. Unluckily, he’d been so preoccupied with all his other preparations in the half-hour prior to entering the Coffin that he hadn’t had the foresight to put them within easier reach. As it is, they’re still stored in the hollow under his desk.

He’s still sore and stiff and lethargic, but the prospect of washing the grit out of his mouth is enticing enough to get him moving. Gingerly, awkwardly, he shuffles around to the other side of the desk. It’s slow going; he practically has to drag himself, and he spares a moment to be glad that no one is here to watch him.

Well. Except the Eye, he supposes. And possibly Jonah.

A noticeable chill shivers through him and his breath catches in his throat. Jon shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. He really needs to stop giving Jonah Magnus real estate in his head.

Just as Jon gets a grip on one of the bottles, his phone dings from where he left it on the floor. He bumps his head on the underside of the desk when he starts – not as hard as he did in the Coffin, but enough to send a new wave of pain coursing through him from head to toe. The phone dings several times more in quick succession.

“Okay, alright, give me a minute, Naomi,” he grumbles, rubbing the sore spot at the top of his head. No blood, but there’s definitely a bump. It won’t be there for long. He should be glad for his healing abilities, he supposes, inhuman though they may be.

The text messages continue pouring in as he makes the return journey to his previous spot.

“Guess she really is sending a photo per emoji,” he says to himself. The alert goes off once more just as he reaches for it. “Or more than one.”

When he glances at the screen, it’s not Naomi’s name that he sees.

Martin is typing up the new rota that Peter requested when it happens.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a tape recorder drops onto his desk with a loud clack. Before he can think on its sudden appearance, another comes plummeting down, smashing two of his fingers against the keyboard.

“Ow! What the –”

Another collides with the top of his head, and on impulse he covers himself with both arms. Four more fall – one glancing his elbow, three clattering to the floor around him – and then there’s a lull. Cautiously, he brings his arms down and looks to the ceiling, half-expecting more to come raining down. When none do, he relaxes somewhat.

“Huh,” he says to himself, bewildered. “That’s new.”

He’s used to the tape recorders materializing, of course, but usually it’s only one or two at a time, and they don't drop from the ceiling. They just appear – sometimes within plain sight, but more often slightly hidden from view: under his chair, behind his computer, once in a potted plant in the breakroom. They always click and whir to announce their presence – as if they want to be found, as if to reassure him that they aren’t trying to spy unnoticed.

Martin rolls his eyes at himself. Why is he always anthropomorphizing them, assuming they have intentions?

In any case, being pelted with a tape recorder shower is unprecedented. He rubs his hand where the second recorder hit him, then his head. He’s bound to have bruises, and his fingers are already swelling up.

“What the hell, Jon?”

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he has his phone in his hand and he’s tapping out a text message.

He briefly contemplates taking shelter under his desk. When no more fall, he turns his attention back to his phone.

Martin leans back with a sigh, dragging one hand down his face. What is he doing? It’s not like Jon is waiting by the phone for him.

Maybe that’s exactly why he’s doing this. It certainly highlights the loneliness. He probably wouldn’t be texting Jon if there was any chance of him answering, would he?

In the span of a blink, that loneliness turns to frustration. For months, his emotions have been dulled, almost to the point of numbness. Things were quiet. It felt comfortable; it felt right; it almost felt safe, the fog blanketing the world and muffling all of its sharp edges, shielding him from all the things that used to leave him hurt and grieving and wanting.

Then Jon went and ripped that blanket off him, leaving him exposed all over again. Ever since, it's been nothing but sensory overload and raw emotion that doesn’t even have a name. All he knows is that it’s too much and it’s all at once and he has nowhere to put it, and it’s manifesting as irritability and mood swings and a pervasive, indistinct sense of hurt that he thought he’d left behind.

He feels everything after months of feeling next to nothing, as if all the things he wouldn’t allow himself to feel are being regurgitated all at once in a nebulous chaotic tangle, and he isn’t equipped to handle it –

“Alone,” he says aloud. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s too much to cope with on his own. He is alone, and for the first time in what feels like forever, that scares him.

Biting his lip until he tastes blood, he picks up his phone again.

He blinks back tears. It feels wrong, unloading all of this onto Jon, but he’ll never see it, so what does it matter? It has to go somewhere or Martin is going to shatter.

Martin stops mid-rant, mind going blank when the typing indicator pops up. For a seemingly interminable amount of time, he holds his breath, watching as it stops and starts and hesitates before finally –

And before Martin realizes it, there’s a tearful, slightly manic laugh bubbling up in his chest and out through his mouth and he’s crying, when did he start crying? He's giving himself whiplash with his own erratic mood swings, but it doesn't matter, because he can just picture how frantic Jon is right now, stumbling over his words, mussing up his hair and muttering to himself. Martin probably shouldn’t find it so endearing, but when has that ever stopped him?

Martin rubs furiously at the tears streaking down his cheeks, sniffling. He’s debating on responding to save Jon from his own self-consciousness when another few messages come through.

Martin can’t help it: he starts laughing again. Then immediately feels a bit bad about it. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it before the next message comes through.

“Jon,” Martin says, shaking his head in fond amusement.

This is a side of him that Martin has always adored: how easily he gets sidetracked and carried away with his rambling, his tendency to trip over his words when he’s excited, the informational diatribes he launches into at the drop of a hat.

And now Martin’s tearing up again.

“God, what’s wrong with me,” he sniffs, rubbing at his eyes with his sleeve again.

It’s the heart that does it. Martin doesn’t know why – it’s such a little thing – but that last ounce of doubt evaporates and his reticence crumbles, just like that. The transition is unexpectedly gentle: an easy slip from one state into another, like stepping into a well-worn shoe, a stark contrast to the dramatic, jarring shift he would have anticipated.

He begins typing out a response.

Martin smiles into his hand, pressed to his lips. He’s always found it cute, if a bit silly, how stilted Jon can be sometimes, even when speaking through such informal medium.

And the idea that an emoji is somehow more forward than an overt declaration of love is just…

Martin’s heart glitches at the reminder of what Jon must have just gone through. If he really is more receptive to help now, maybe he can be persuaded to actually rest and recover for once, but Martin doesn’t have his hopes up.

Martin can feel the flush creeping up his neck and onto his face.

“Wait,” Martin says, squinting down at his phone screen. “Is he still…”

“Unbelievable.” Martin huffs an incredulous laugh. “He is unbelievable.”

Martin groans when the three dots repeatedly disappear and reappear.

“That’s a lot of typing for just fixing a typo,” Martin says, tapping his foot impatiently. “Go on, Jon, spit it out.”

Martin rubs the back of his neck and tries to ignore the heat pooling in his cheeks, on his neck, along the tops of his ears. One good thing about the Lonely: it all but eliminated his embarrassing tendency to broadcast his emotions to the world with a blush. Or maybe it just made it so that there wasn’t much to broadcast in the first place.

“So much for that,” he mutters sheepishly.

By necessity, Martin has learned to be adaptable. If circumstances have changed this drastically, he needs to reconsider his trajectory. Steeped in some disorientating mixture of emotion – mortification, giddiness, fear, relief, regret, and so much else he still can’t put a name to – he watches the clock and quietly starts to review his options.

End Notes:

hhhhhh hopefully you’re all okay with a slow-moving plot bc I have a feeling I’m going to continue drawing out the character-focused stuff?? (I know where the story’s going but my outline is extremely loose, which means my pacing has a personality of its own.)

Citations for Jon’s Archive-speak: MAG 144; 054/020/083; 002; 060/019

re: Archive-speak – I do plan on explaining the newest development more, I just didn’t get to it in this chapter. But expect more original dialogue from Jon from here on out, with some Archive-speak mixed in.  

I used this lovely guide to help me puzzle through creating an AO3 workskin so I could format the text messages properly. (On which point, I hope the texting isn’t OOC. I admittedly had a bit too much fun with it. Especially Jon’s. He said ADHD!Jon rights and I agreed.)    

Fun fact: Naomi and Jon have a system wherein any cat emoji translates to “Duchess status update, please”. It’s good she takes a lot of photos, because Jon makes judicious use of the cat emoji. Having a bad time? 🐱 Can’t sleep? 🐱 Bored? 🐱 Just looking for something to distract himself from the mortifying ordeal of Knowing and being Known? 🐱 Of course, she sends a lot of photos unprompted, too, as any new Enthusiastic Cat Parent is wont to do.

[shnuggletea]

Alright, let’s try this again. Yesterday, I posted this then checked it an hour later and it looked NOTHING like the post I made?! So I deleted it. Thank you to those of you who liked and reblogged, @malditamigs and @master-ray5 are the ones I remember and I should have written the names down so I'm sorry if I'm snubbing you right now. It’s unintentional.

You all voted so here it it! The Shogun’s Daughter! Synopsis: Kagome’s father passed away when she was just a child but his Shogun status still makes her a valuable bride to a Lord of lands that border their village. She isn’t given much choice but still agrees to marry the stranger so those she cares and loves would be happy and safe, taking her village under his protection in return for her hand. Lord Inuyasha Tenoe is pushed by the council into marriage, assured his new bride was an excellent choice. He has his doubts but has no choice, agreeing to the match sight unseen. All their fears and anxiety are amplified when they meet. It’s an interesting coupling to say the least.

An extended teaser is now available and chapter one will be available Sep. 18th at 9 am on my Patreon! Ff and AO3 I'm afraid it won't be available there until November. I will still post teasers here for free so if you want in, TELL ME TO ADD YOU TO MY TAG WALL!!! Link to Patreon below after the teaser!!!

TAG WALL!!! Sorry for the tag/untag bull from yesterday!!!: @underwater0phelia @lavendertwilight89 @mamabearcat @nartista @nopenname22 @echobows @superpixie42 @smmahamazing @redflamesofpassion @jme-chan @cstorm86 @cicleydark-light @ruddcatha @lavaffair @kirrtash @sistasecbhere @inusgirl @obsessandfangirl @britonell @lordofthechips @mcornilliac @faolenwolf @classyhumanathletepalace @keichanz @phoenix-before-the-flame @artisticloveexpressitsall @lamuertadehambre @noyourenotreal @mitty-san @thenoammonster @little-deeluna @royaltrashpanda @sailorbabydoll92 @storyweaver2017 @malditamigs @adorabubblesblog @lilms-obsessed @petri808 @anniehcresta @fan-dumpp @itzatakahashi @utakuprincess @theschultinator @all-too-ale @little-inukag-obsessed @theseagullqueen @queenofthesquirps @inusgirl @jolinaaa00 @knowall7k @neutronstarchild @fawn-eyed-girl @eringobroke @sapphirestarxx @clearwillow​ @dangerouspompadour​ @alerialblu​

@lemonlushff Thank you again for all your help with setting this up! As well as all those in Book Club that encouraged me helped me find the confidence to do this! Most of you are tagged above but if I missed you, please come yell at me!

It was dark and hard to breathe, but he was alive. It was pure luck, the falling rocks landing in a manner that had him cocooned by them, a small space just for his vital organs. His left arm wasn’t so lucky, crushed and trapped under a few rocks, he had to get it free first. Careful not to pop the bubble he was in, he extracted his arm. The only thing that appeared broken was his wrist but it was hard to tell in the light he had and the fact that his shoulder was dislocated. It had gotten yanked out when the rocks fell and pulled his trapped limb. 

Now he had to figure out how to get out of his coffin, pushing slightly on the ones before him. He wouldn’t be so lucky that only a thin layer of rock was between him and freedom. Pulling one at a time, he was running out of space to put them. And he was hurt and tired. 

It became clear to him, he was going to starve to death before he made it out.

He wasn’t giving up, just resting. That’s what he told himself as he sat on the ruble under him. Cradling his arm, he tried not to think about Kagome but it was impossible. If he had been focused, then maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess now. But there was nothing he could do about that now, so what harm was there in thinking about her?

A lot. A lot of harm as her smile came into his mind because he realized he would probably never see it again. 

No, he couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t think about her. It only distracted him and made him weak. 

Getting back to his feet, he got back to work. Endless and terrible, he made little headway when he started hearing voices. He must have hit his head a few times, it did sting a bit. Two voices now, they reminded him of Miroku and Myoga. Of course, his mind would make him hear their voices. Why couldn’t he hear Kagome’s? That would be nice, her voice in his head as the last thing he ‘heard’.

The sound of rocks falling started to make it over the voices, his bubble was caving in on him. That’s what he thought, but when he braced himself as best he could, nothing happened even though the sound continued. 

Light peeked through the rocks and he slowly got his wits about him to look through the small hole that appeared. “There you are, my Lord.”

Never had he been so happy to see Myoga’s round and wrinkled face. “Hey…”

“Step back, things might get a little...wild.”

He couldn’t see him, but he heard Miroku and stood back. For a thin guy, Miroku was surprisingly strong when he needed to be. This was something he had known for years but it never ceased to amaze him. Several minutes later, he was breathing in fresh air, and soft cold flakes fell on his skin. He had no clue how long he’d been in there but it felt like days and there was no light in the sky. 

“We have to get across the rockslide to get home.”

He groaned with Myoga’s information, not a word said otherwise as the two of them took a side. Nearly lifting him, the three of them began their journey in the dark with snow. A small slip could break bones or crack skulls so they were silent the entire time, focusing on their feet and the rock path beneath them.

Dawn was just breaking when they reached the other side, sliding down it from time to time thanks to exhaustion. When they reached more level and stable ground, they all fell to the ground, panting.

“Where are the rest of the men?”

The rocks covered a small portion of the pass, enough to bury several people and he had a feeling that’s where many of his men were. Only a few bodies littered the pass before them but he doubted all of them were under the rocks.

“Those that survived left already I suppose. With no proof of life and their lives on the line, they fled.”

“But you two stayed. Even with your injuries.”

Miroku was sporting a bad cut across his brow and a limp. Myoga had gashes on his back that ripped his coat and shirt, leaving him exposed to the elements. It was hard to believe the three of them would make it home as they were but they sure as hell would try.

Myoga took a few steps ahead of them and visibly stiffened. “What is it, old man?”

Ignoring his jab and attempt to lighten the mood, Myoga searched around the limited space. “I smell tar.”

He really must have hit his head because not only could he not smell anything, he couldn’t focus on his surroundings. The snow blurred together and made the shapes more like shadows. Shadows that moved.

Want more? Want to support me as a writer? Want to support the Fandom?? Become a Patreon! There is/will be Sailor Moon fanfiction on there as well as original content and you have a choice of Fandom, so no worries. Check it out!! Reblogs are very much appreciated!

[kitkatopinions]

Accidentally deleted my Tyrian and Watts asks while I was trying to fix a mistake so... Sorry about that, everyone! Here they are! Tyrian and Watts for the RWBY character asks!

Let’s do Tyrian first, because I have less to say about him, I feel like.

My top three ships for the character

Tyrian/Watts. Dysfunctional villainous romance of the century, no one knows how they’ve managed to make it to their tenth anniversary without killing each other, including them. Tyrian/Salem is my second top ship for him. Major Bellatrix/Voldy vibes with this one, but I could see it. Tyrian/Hazel is my third ship for lack of options. Does this one make sense? No. But I can at least see Tyrian being super flirty and Hazel being endlessly tired, but never really stopping it. (Also I hate Hazel so much lol.)

My three least favorite ships for the character

Tyrian/Qrow sucks for me. Like... I kinda feel like two people fighting each other just gets shippers, which is fine and totally understandable. But for me, Tyrian poisoning Qrow and almost killing him and calling his beloved niece a bitch and then killing Clover is a big no from me, dog. On that note! Tyrian/Clover is also one big no from me, since Clover murdered him. And Tyrian/Ozpin is another really big no from me. Tyrian and his crazy Salem worship can stay five hundred and fifty feet away from my son.

My biggest criticism for the character

They went a little too much on the crazy in the fourth and fifth season and it made him feel annoying. Like, I don’t mind the Bellatrix vibes, but I do mind the movie version Bellatrix vibes, sometimes. It just got kinda annoying. I wish his crazy was always more on the dangerous side and less on the kooky side, but that’s just personal opinions.

My favorite thing about the character

The way people are so uncomfortable around him. Whenever Tyrian talks to Emerald or Mercury, he’s honestly freaky. Like both me and the characters are waiting for him to snap. That’s a great quality in a villain that we’re meant to hate or love to hate. He has a real presence and it’s enjoyable.

A headcanon I have about them

Tyrian doesn’t often try to act normal, but he can, and he’s got a great ‘respectable, cool guy’ act that’s actually a little reminiscent of Qrow or Clover. He’s even passed himself as a Huntsman here and there.

What I would change about them if I was making a re-write

More involvement in volumes 4 and 5, and I’d treat him a bit more seriously and make him a bit more dangerous. Maybe I’d have him wound a member of Team RNJR in his attack as well as poison Qrow (maybe give Jaune a reason to unlock his semblance in season 4 and in response to the pain of a member of his team. Also, his ‘Tyrian purple’ color should be more than just the color of his eyes. Like, how come so many RWBY characters season 4 and onward have such boring colors? I’d give Tyrian some strong purple and pink.

What I I think of their character allusion and what (if anything) I would change about it

Tyrian alludes to the animal fable ‘the Scorpion and the Frog,’ and that’s... really in name only, I think. A part of me wants to give them some kind of points for having Qrow work with him against Clover, only for Tyrian to kill Clover, which lines up with his ‘its just my nature’ scorpion stinging the frog so that they’ll both drown and die. But they didn’t mean for Qrow to really be wrong! They didn’t mean for the lesson to be ‘Qrow shouldn’t have trusted the poisonous villain’ it was ‘wowza does Qrow’s semblance hurt him. :( Too bad Clover got himself killed.’ Which makes the whole allusion kind of suck.

Now for Watts, the single best villain in my opinion.

My top three ships for the character

Tyrian/Watts. See above. This ship would be a dysfunctional mess, but it’d be a wild ride. Watts/Villain!Ironwood. I kind of hate this ship when it’s ‘fallen hero turned villain’ Ironwood. But if he actually had been written as a secret villain or obviously headed that way from the start, I can see him and Watts also being a dysfunctional mess of a wild ride ship, only with way more ‘evil power couple’ vibes than Tyrian and Watts would have. Also my favorite version of this features Watts having been the one to build Penny (maybe by stealing the plans from Pietro) and him and Ironwood raising a still bright and cheerful, still innocent and trusting, villain Penny who will attack to kill with a smile on her face and a ‘it was nice meeting you!’ And this is very weird and niche but Watts/Evil Stepsister (specifically the one with the sharp bangs and highlights.) Someone sent me an ask saying the Evil Stepmother and stepsisters should’ve been connected to Salem and gotten Cinder involved and I totally agree with this. I then started envisioning a world where the step sisters competed with Cinder and all three of them were raised in Salem’s circle. In this version of things, I could totally picture one of the step sisters having a romantic tension driven connection with Watts and the two of them subtly flirting sometimes (and bonding over their mutual hatred of Cinder.) I picked the sister with bangs for no real reason except that I like her look more.

My three least favorite ships for the character

Watts/Cinder. Watts thinks of her like a bratty little girl, and Cinder kills him. Watts/Lionheart. Kinda really hate this one because of how clearly Lionheart was terrified of him. Just a bit uncomfortable for me to see that in a relationship. Watts/Hero!Ironwood or Watts/HeroTurnedVillain/Ironwood. Sorry, but Ironwood in canon got such a bad, bad portrayal in season 8 and the end of season 7, and I just can’t help but blame Watts for quite a bit of it. I only like them as a ship if Ironwood is an antagonist from the start.

My biggest criticism for the character

They shouldn’t have killed him! He was one of Salem’s best followers and one of the best villains and it was such a big mistake to kill literally one of the only actual loyal followers. It threw off any character development for Cinder and it was a big mistake. I really wanted the Cinder / Watts / Neo team up to keep going! I’m so disappointed it got thrown away.

My favorite thing about the character

Watts is an entitled, petty bastard, and I think that’s so good for a villain that isn’t meant to be social commentary (because tbh, RWBY never should’ve tried to be social commentary.) Watts isn’t sympathetic, he’s an Atlas born and raised guy in a three piece suit, he’s posh, he’s upset because he wasn’t given exactly what he wanted. Most of the villains in RWBY are either victims of abuse, systemic oppression, or poverty, and that’s... Not fun in a show that’s never handled social commentary well and is about magical girls destroying Voldemort/Satan with the power of friendship (Ruby literally never says anything about Faunus rights iirc.) Watts is refreshing because he’s exactly the type of villain that you can expect in a show like what RWBY should’ve been, and he flourishes as that. Why would we be sympathetic to Watts when he’s just doing this all because he wasn’t picked first for his tech? Why would we feel soured towards conflicts with Watts and Team RWBY? He’s just a petty bastard being evil because he was snubbed. Why would we be frustrated that incredibly significant problems are being shoved to the side with Watts? He’s a fun villain, he’s not meant to be more, he’s not meant to make you emotionally invested only to then be gutted for it. You can hate to love him without it feeling bad. Maybe that’s why he’s just my favorite non-kid villain (other than Roman.)

A headcanon I have about them

Watts has been trying to build his own AI robot like Penny, in his spare time. He wanted it to be done in time to become a Maiden, but it wasn’t, and Salem gave that slot to Cinder and got after Watts for not contributing enough. He of course thought this was deeply unfair (especially after being made to contribute a lot to Cinder’s Beacon success without getting any credit for it.) And this just fueled his hatred of Cinder, his hatred of Pietro and Ironwood, and by extension, his hatred of Penny.

What I would change about them if I was making a re-write

I would keep him freaking alive and keep up the pair up he had going on with Cinder and Neo! But also I’d increase his relationships with Emerald, Mercury, Tyrian, Hazel... Just some more Salem’s Inner Circle moments to flesh out their characters. Other than that, I wouldn’t change much. He’s a pretty good character.

What I I think of their character allusion and what (if anything) I would change about it

Okay, I’ve talked about his character allusion in a very long post awhile ago, but I’m not scrolling down that far to tag it. To sum it up... I hate his allusion. XD I loved the Sherlock Holmes books and read most of them, and I didn’t realize he was supposed to allude to John Watson until I read someone else’s post saying so, and I started freaking out about how awful it was. Watts has so little in common with Watson, he’s essentially the anti-Watson. Which basically means he’s Sherlock Holmes, the opposite of Watson in almost every way, up to and including freaking faking his death which is one of the most iconic Sherlock Holmes thing ever. Watts is everything Sherlock Holmes is on his worst days, arrogant, callous, consumed with his projects, petty, smug, over the top - as well as being hyper intelligent and a genius who often just gets passed over. He has rivalries with his colleagues like Holmes did. And like I said, he faked his death, only to reveal himself to an old friend later on the cusp of carrying out a scheme. He’s evil Holmes! He has nothing to do with John Watson - caring, humble, down to earth, not brilliant like his friend but content to be ordinary and special because of his emotional depth and devoted heart, medical former doctor who spends quite a lot of time chronicling the successes of someone else because he’s content to live in the background. Don’t get me wrong, a ‘Watson’ character who is evil could work - Watson himself indulged in crime for the sake of Holmes sometimes in the original works and if he worshipped Salem or one of her followers and did everything for her while still being a more humble, more friendly, not brilliant person he could be good - but Watts is not that person. Even the gimmicks Watts is given are stupid and don’t make it obvious he’s Watson. Boy’s got a moustache and a revolver and they thought that’d be enough. Idk why they thought 'we’ll make him Watson’ when he’s clearly a Holmes! Also, he’s supposed to be ‘Watson if he’d met Moriarty instead of Holmes,’ and to that I say boo! Watson wouldn’t turn into a super genius just because he meets a different mastermind!

...That’s summing up my feelings, yeah. Because I have so many feelings about his warped, weird character allusion. If I was changing it, I’d just make him Holmes like I think he was clearly supposed to be.

[juniperwindsong]

In Love & War (1/3)

Look. I could apologise for interrupting my WIP with an entirely too long, three-part Felix x Talbott x Reader Insert love triangle set post-Hogwarts (somewhere in HP Book 5) and featuring some minor adult situations (all Tumblr appropriate), but I’d be lying to all of us. I’m not sorry. This is literally the most fun I’ve had all quarantine. 

-

Part 1: Dépaysement 

   The sound of curtains being drawn wakes you. Light pierces the back of your eyelids and you squeeze them tight. Your dream was uneasy, but you aren't ready to leave it just yet. You were looking for someone, someone calling your name. The face dissolves in the last dregs of ebbing sleep. You're sure you know it from somewhere...the name is just on the tip of your tongue...

   "Good morning," murmurs a husky voice near your ear. Soft lips, curved in a smile, tickle your jawline, making you shiver. For a moment, the voice occupies the same space in reality as the face from the dream, a place for things familiar, but momentarily forgotten.

    You open your eyes. The eyes that stare back are a deep brown, almost black. The sharp, pale face behind them is so close the snub nose nearly touches yours. Your mind searches for identity through a drowsy haze. A name swims to the surface.

   "Felix?" you ask tentatively, voice hoarse with sleep.

   The brown eyes ignite in pleasure at hearing their name. The man - Felix, your mind reminds you - brushes hair away from your face. He leans closer, eyes on your lips, but you tilt your head away before he can reach you. You're not sure why. It's an instinct, not a decision.

   Felix freezes for a moment. Then he smirks, ever so slightly. It's a delicious expression on him, and you shiver again.

   "Why so shy this morning?" he asks, stroking your cheek with the back of his fingers. Your eyes flutter shut at the sweet sensation.

   Why does your head feel so strange? You try to recall where you are and why you're here...but the memories float just out of reach. When you re-open your eyes, Felix is watching you closely. There’s something like worry in his face.

   "I don’t know," you answer honestly. "My head feels...strange. I'm...not sure who I am this morning."

   It sounds like madness when said aloud. You tug your mouth into a grin, hoping to pass your odd remark off as a joke. You’re relieved when Felix’s smirk widens.

   "Champagne clearly does not agree with you."

    Felix leans forward again, and this time you stay put. You let his lips meet yours in a lazy, warm kiss that he deepens into something breathtaking. It does nothing to help your befuddled brain, but your body is certainly awake now. It, at least, seems to know exactly where it is. And what it wants. Felix drags his lips from yours to trail open kisses up your jaw toward your ear.

   “You're Y/N Rosier," he murmurs between kisses. "You’re my wife. You're in our home. And you're safe.”

   At these words, memories stir to life. You remember those same rich brown eyes standing in front of an altar, laying out in warm sand near lapping waves. Your wedding, your honeymoon in France. How could you have forgotten? The memories are there in your head, as real as print in a book, and yet they have a dream-like quality to them. Perhaps you are still dreaming, you think, as Felix’s fingers run through your hair. Or perhaps you simply drank too much last night.

   "Are you alright?” There’s definite concern in Felix's voice now.

   “Of course,” you assure him. You reach up to tuck stray hair back into place where it's fallen across his forehead. “Sometimes I just wake up with you and it feels like the very first time.”

   Felix’s shoulders relax, and a genuine smile graces his sharp features. His eyes glow with an almost childlike joy. A pleasant lurch in your stomach reminds you you’ve seen this face before. It’s the face you always want to inspire in him. The face you love.

   "Well, I suppose that's appropriate for our first morning here." Felix sits up, glancing around the sunlit room. "I do miss France but I must say, it's nice to finally wake up in our own home." He slips from the bed and disappears behind a nearby door.

   You push yourself up as well, taking in the enormous four poster bed, the walls covered in austere tapestries, the wide windows overlooking a gloomy English landscape.

   "Our own home," you echo. Nothing has ever looked less like home to you.

   Felix's voice carries from the adjoining room. "I know it wasn't exactly your first choice, but I still think it's the best place for us right now. It's closer to the Ministry, and its wards are ancient, very safe. And my mother is perfectly comfortable at the French estate. I know it's larger than what you're used to, but-"

   You let Felix's voice drift in one ear and out the other. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and test your feet against the ground. Your limbs don’t seem to be afflicted with the same wobbling uncertainty as your mind. They support you just fine as you slide to a floor as icy cold as it looks. The entire room is chilly you realise now you’ve left the warmth of the bed.

   You glance around for clothes. The floor is bare except for heavy rugs, and the chaise lounge by the empty fireplace does not look as if it's ever tolerated any such indignity as clothes being tossed across it. You notice a dress form standing nearby, an emerald dressing gown hanging neatly upon it. You pull it on and note how perfectly it fits. It must be yours, though the colour and material strike no familiar chords.

   Behind the dress form is another door, slightly ajar. When you push it open, you find a small chamber filled with a stunning assortment of robes; every-day robes in every conceivable colour and style, expensive dress-robes, even a small section of well-made muggle clothes. You can tell just by looking each item is tailored to your specifications. You wrack your muddled brain for memories of picking them out or purchasing them, but nothing comes to mind.

   "Y/N?"

   Felix’s voice is nearby once more, and you step back into the bedroom. Felix is waiting for you, dressed in immaculate black. You stare at him blankly, trying to remember what he was saying before you became distracted.

   "Look,” Felix sighs, coming to stand next to you and taking your shoulders. “If you truly detest it here, we can find something else soon. I just-"

   "No." You shake your head. "No, you're right. I'm sure I'll get used to it. It's just...new."

   You glance back at the dressing room.

   "Where did I buy all those robes, do you remember?” you ask as casually as possible. “I can’t quite recall."

   Felix raises his eyebrows. He places the back of one hand against your forehead.

   "Remind me to make a note of last night's vintage. It was clearly far too powerful for you."

   You roll your eyes and swat his arm playfully. Felix catches your hand and brings it to his lips. He kisses your fingers slowly, lips lingering exquisitely over each knuckle, as if he'd rather do nothing else all morning.  Another heady rush of sensation thrills you. Standing becomes as hard as thinking. You sway slightly, but Felix wraps an arm around your waist to draw you against him.

   "Are you sure you'll be alright for the day? Perhaps I should stay... I could send an owl to-"

   "Of course I'll be alright," you assure him quickly. "Where are you going?"

   "To meet the Dark Lord, of course. Then the office.”

   "What?"

   “You know I'd much rather be here, but I really ought not to leave it any longer. I haven’t sent an owl since we first arrived in France and I’m sure the department’s in shambles without me. ”

   “No, I mean... what do you mean about the Dark Lord?”

   For the first time this morning, it isn't confusion driving your question, but alarm. This is a name you have no trouble remembering. Events of the last year rise to the fore front of your mind. The return of the Dark Lord after the Tri-wizard tournament; the Ministry's refusal to acknowledge his return; Professor Dumbledore summoning you and others to a secret meeting of the Order of the Phoenix.

   "Our honeymoon is over and I swore I'd report in for instruction as soon as I was back in the country, which technically should have been last night, but..."

   "Felix... the Dark Lord...you can't seriously... you're not joining him?"

   Felix sighs, dropping your hand and rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration.

   "Y/N, please don't start this again. I know your concerns, but we've discussed this. He's coming to power, whether we like it or not, and this is the only way to ensure your safety.”

   “But...” You struggle to form a coherent argument around the fog in your brain. You can’t remember having such an important discussion before. How could Felix have talked you into supporting something like this?

   “What about the Order of the Phoenix? Why can’t we join them? Why haven’t we joined them?” you ask, wondering how this has never come up. You remember that meeting in Dumbledore's office...was it months ago? Or longer? The Weasley's had been there...you can see Bill's face clearly. Other faces lurk in the background of your memory, hidden in shadow.

   “Y/N, we’ve already been through this,” Felix says in mounting frustration. “They won’t permit me to join. My father was a Death Eater. They don’t trust me. And even if they were to make an exception, we would be more of a target for the Dark Lord then. He would never forgive a betrayal like that. The Death Eaters aren't a club you can just quit. My father was one, and that means I'm expected to be as well. If I refused, he would stop at nothing to find me, or find you first to punish me. I thought you understood.”

   Felix looks so pained, you stumble over your own further protests. You raise a hand to his face, stroking your thumb over his sharp cheek. Felix leans into your palm. His eyes are shut tightly against some inner battle you cannot see.

   “Felix. I just...don’t want you to get hurt.

   Felix takes a shuddering breath and meets your eyes again, his expression grim.

   “I don’t want you to be hurt. And as long as we’re on the winning side, we won’t be. I know you don’t like it, and it isn't what I would prefer, but it's not up to us. All we can do is stay safe until this war is over.” He leans down to kiss you, a gentle apology of a kiss. “I’m sorry it’s like this. But things will clear up soon. Once the Dark Lord has the Ministry, he'll have other things on his mind. We can go back to France, or anywhere you like. I promise."

   The sound of a clock chiming somewhere in the house makes Felix look up.

   “I have to go. I’ll get away as soon as I can.” He catches your chin in his hand, tilting it up to face him. His eyes burn with something that turns your bones to water. "I love you," he says. It's more than a platitude or a reminder. It’s almost an oath.

    "I...love you too," you say. You must. Why else would you be here?

-

   Once Felix is gone, you sit back on the bed, clutching your head in your hands. You rap your knuckles against your skull, trying to knock whatever's come loose back into place. What's wrong with you? Why is your memory all bits and pieces? Drink, you suppose, combined with a whirlwind few months. Maybe this happens to everyone just arrived from their honeymoon. Perhaps a solid course of action will help put you back together.

   The Rosier manor doesn't seem like the sort of house made for walking about in one’s bare feet, so you return to the dressing room and inspect your options. You choose the simplest robes you can find. They feel strange on you, in spite of the perfect fit. After washing and dressing, you stare at yourself in the full length mirror. It's you, and yet somehow, your own reflection looks unfamiliar. Well, you suppose, in many ways you are a new person. You're Mrs Rosier now. That thought inspires confidence in you. You stand up straighter and take a steadying breath. This is your home, and your first order of business should be to explore it.

   You spend the morning wandering the manor. You start to count the rooms, but lose track somewhere on the third floor. There's bedrooms and bathrooms, libraries and studies, and some rooms with no discernible purpose at all. You inspect the conservatory and the solarium, and briefly consider tackling the expansive grounds before your growling stomach urges you to find the kitchen. You discover it in a ground floor dining room, hidden behind a door almost indistinguishable from the surrounding wall.

    The kitchen is a bright, spacious room, full of high windows that allow more sunlight to drift in than in the rest of the house. The familiar sounds of pots and pans scrubbing themselves at a sink and a pot bubbling over the fire go a long way to cheering your uneasy spirit.

   "Madam is wanting something?"

   You look down to find a small, elderly house-elf dressed in an assortment of elaborately tied linen dinner napkins.

   "Oh! Yes, please. Breakfast would be lovely. Or lunch. I'm not sure of the time."

   '"Miam-Miam is making a luncheon for Madam, certainly. What is Madam wishing to eat?"

   "Oh, anything's fine. And, um, you can just call me Y/N. Madam sounds....a bit formal."

   The house-elf purses her tiny lips in obvious disapproval.

   "Is Madam wishing to be served in the breakfast room or the upstairs dining room?" she asks stiffly, managing to stress the word Madam just enough for you to notice.

   "Actually, could I just eat here, please?"

   You ask the question politely enough but don't bother to wait for a reply before seating yourself in a chair at the wooden butcher's table. The house-elf’s mouth works soundlessly. You can see her desire to maintain the house's strict traditions going to war with her need to defer to her masters.

   "I won't tell anyone, I promise," you say to the elf.

   Miam-Miam's face is pinched and unhappy, but in the end, she returns to the pot over the fire, murmuring under her breath in French.You feel a little guilty for putting the elf in this position, but something about the kitchen feels more inviting than any other part of the house, and you don’t want to leave it just yet. You wonder why this room is uninfected by the dream-like quality that’s pervaded the rest of your morning. Perhaps kitchens in general are just comforting, you think. You lay your forehead against the table and revel in its wonderful solidness.

   "Madam is feeling ill?"

   Miam-Miam is back. The narrow squint of her large round eyes is more suspicious than concerned.

   "I'm alright. Just can't seem to find my head this morning."

   The house-elf wrinkles her tomato-like nose. "Miam-Miam is not understanding. Is Madam having headache? Miam-Miam would be making a potion for headache, but Miam-Miam is not having the ingredients. If Madam is permitting Miam-Miam to visit Diagon Alley-"

   You lift your head, inspired.

   "That's a wonderful idea! I think I'll pop down to Diagon Alley for a bit."

   You expect some push back from the old-fashioned elf at the idea of Madam doing the servant's shopping, but you're surprised when her eyes widen in horror.    

   "No, Madam must not! The Master will not be liking it! Miam-Miam is going. Madam must stay in the house where it is safe."

   "What's unsafe about Diagon Alley?"

   Miam-Miam is unable to offer any specific dangers, only continues to shake her head and repeat: "Master will not be liking it."

   "Master will be fine," you say firmly. The decision made, you stand and glance toward the fireplace. Sure enough, there's a small glass jar on the mantle containing the household floo powder. You walk to the fire and use your wand to lift the hot, heavy pot out of the way. Miam-Miam hovers just behind you, protesting all the while.

   "Please, Madam, please. Master is not liking you to go!"

   You ignore the elf, and toss floo powder onto the fire. As you step into the flames, you turn to reassure the poor house-elf, now wringing her dinner napkin dress in distress.

   "Don't worry, Miam-Miam. I'll be back in a bit. Diagon Alley!"

-

   Wandering the streets you've known all your life does wonders for your sense of self. As you glance into stalls and shop windows, memories hail you like familiar friends: meeting Rowan for the first time; buying your first wand, and then your second; lurking in Flourish and Blotts whenever you could to search for messages from your brother. You even remember where to find the sneaky little niffler that lurks outside the bank. You used to drop him galleons whenever you passed just to see him creep out and snatch them when he thought no one was watching.

   You lean against the brick wall beside the niffler's hideaway and close your eyes. You breathe in the familiar air and let your mind put all the memories together in the right order, like puzzle pieces, until they begin to form a complete picture. You came here often with friends when you were at school, and even after. Scattered images of laughing and eating with people fit comfortably in your head, though the faces are still dim and shadowy. There’s Rowan for sure, you can picture her clearly, but who else? Felix? That seems right. You can picture Felix's face smiling at you outside Flourish and Blotts...you see him take your hand across a café table - where you met him again for the first time after graduating Hogwarts!

   You open your eyes, searching for the café to inspire the rest of the memory, when you catch sight of someone watching you from a doorway.

   At first, all you can see are his eyes. Behind the eyes, you're dimly aware of a face with a long, sharp nose, and dark skin with strangely layered hair. But it's the eyes that command your attention. They’re a hazel that's nearly yellow, flecked with gold, as piercing as a blade but with an ocean of depth beneath.

   You realise you're staring, and you blush. You look away, feigning interest in a stall of bats. It's a minute before you feel brave enough to look at the doorway again.

    The man is still there. And there can be no mistaking it this time: he's staring at you as well with those intense yellow-gold eyes, his mouth very slightly open. He must see you looking back at him, but he doesn't turn away. Doesn't move at all. He stands, alert and tense, like a bird of prey that's sighted a mouse. You suddenly remember Miam-Miam's warnings about Diagon Alley being unsafe.

   But you're Mrs Felix Rosier, you remind yourself proudly. And before that you were the Hogwarts Cursebreaker. You pull yourself up to full height and step into the street, walking confidently toward the strange eyes and the man behind them.

   "Can I help you?" you ask as soon as you're within hearing distance.

   The man continues to stare. He blinks once, his head cocked very slightly to the side. Then he says your name. It’s quiet, but his voice carries across to you easily, stopping you in your tracks. You know that voice...You can't place it, but you're so sure. It's just on the tip of your tongue...

    "Who -" you begin to ask, when someone else calls your name from behind. This one you recognise instantly. You turn to see Felix almost sprinting down the street toward you. He grabs your arms and pulls you against him, staring wildly about as if expecting a barrage of curses from every direction.

   "What are you doing here? Are you alright?" he asks in a low, fierce voice.

   "What? I'm fine."

   You turn back to look at the place where the man had been, but he's gone. You glance hurriedly around at the milling crowds of people, in the windows of nearby shops, down the alley's side streets. But those yellow-gold eyes are nowhere to be seen.

   "What is it?" asks Felix sharply.

   "There was someone there just a moment ago. He was watching me."

   "He?" Felix repeats, his voice heavy with panic. "Who? Who was it?"

    "I don't know. I thought I recongised him, but...I'm not sure."

   "Did he speak to you?" Felix's grip on your arm tightens until you're forced to yank it away.

   "No! Felix, what's wrong?"

   Felix's eyes sweep the street once more. He runs a hand across his hair distractedly, smoothing it flat and trying to regain some of his usual calm.

   "Nothing," he says. His voice is entirely unconvincing. "Come, let's get you home."

   Part of you wants to argue. You feel so much more comfortable here. You're not quite ready to go back to the manor and all it's strange surreality. But Felix's obvious alarm worries you, and you don't want to fight him when he's in this state.

   The two of you apparate together back to the Rosier property. Felix doesn't speak the entire walk to the manor house. You shoot occasional sideways glances at him, but he doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are agitated and far away. Once you’re safely inside, Felix stops in the front hall and faces you.

   "Why?" he asks simply.

   "Why what?"

   "Why did you leave? I came back and found you gone, do you have any idea how worried I was?"

   His voice is loud and strained, just short of yelling. Your own temper flares within you.

   "I'm sorry," you say, crossing your arms. "I didn't know a requirement of marriage was staying inside the house all day waiting for my husband."

   "It's a requirement of keeping you safe," Felix snaps back.

   "What am I in danger of?" you cry in exasperation. "You know I've survived dragons and curses and assassins, right? What in Merlin's name is lurking in Diagon Alley that's so much worse than all of that?”

   Instead of rising to a fight, Felix's anger fizzles out. His whole demeanor seems to crumple under your biting words, and he looks down at the floor in something like defeat. Guilt builds like bile in the back of your throat. It hurts you to see Felix so despondent. You close the distance between you and reach up to fix his wilting hair. There's no sarcasm in your apology this time.

   "I’m sorry. I wasn't trying to worry you. I just don't understand what you're so worried about."

   Felix's reply is to pull you closer, clutching you to his chest with desperate arms. You can feel his heart beating frantically. You take deep, slow breaths, hoping to infuse him with your own calm. When you look up, his eyes are swimming with some fragile emotion you don't understand.

   "Y/N, our world is impossibly dangerous right now. I know you've fought more than your share of battles, but this is different. Anyone... everyone you know...even your friends, could be out to hurt you now. Because of me." He strokes the shell of your ear with his thumb. "I'm so sorry. You’re married to a man with enemies. And there's no way for us to know who to trust. Please, for my sake, just stay here where it's safe."

   "For how long?”

   “I don't know," Felix sighs. "The Dark Lord does not confide his plans in anyone, but I doubt it will take long. And once he's in power, things will be different."

   This isn’t a answer to inspire much comfort in you, and you turn away. Your head is bursting with questions and fragments of memories, none of which make sense. Why would you ever have agreed to this? It doesn’t sound like you at all. Trapped inside this enormous house, unable to do anything useful, and somehow on the side of Death Eaters?

   You look back at Felix, an argument on your tongue. But before you can say anything, Felix’s lips find yours. It's a needy, starving kiss, as though it were years since your last instead of only this morning. His hands slide down your back, frame your waist, caress your hips, easing your body forward until you're flush against his. You can't help it. You melt against him, stroking the muscle of his chest through his robes. For the first time that day, you feel truly and perfectly alive.

    And you think, this must be why.

-

   Life in the Rosier manor takes some adjustment, but after a few days you settle into a routine. You breakfast late and spend a leisurely morning reading and relaxing on the upstairs terrace. Then there’s lunch, and a long walk about the grounds. The estate is massive, and you take your time exploring every inch of it. The elaborate hedge maze is a particular favourite. You spend three days attempting to map it before you realise it changes on its own at random intervals, making it impossible to solve.

   But by far the best part of your married life is your new husband.

   Felix escapes his ministry job to be with you as often as he can. Many mornings, he leaves for work late, having chosen a blissful lie-in with you instead. He sneaks home to lunch with you almost every day, and he's back at half-six each evening like clockwork. While home, he's never absent from your side.

   Felix takes pride in showing you the Rosier Manor’s many secret passages and hidden rooms. He instructs you in French, when you mention off-hand a desire to learn. And after discovering it was always a childhood wish of his, you teach him to play the old, dusty piano in the music room. Your evenings are filled with music and dance, and your nights are always long and sleepless. Even quiet afternoons spent reading in the library, you often catch Felix watching you subtly over the top of his book, as though worried you might disappear.

   It's moments like these in which you understand your decision to stay here, to marry a man in service to the most feared dark wizard in modern history. The thought that your husband is a Death Eater still churns your stomach, and you spend much of your alone time formulating careful arguments and plans of escape. But these always end with a wretched Felix, close to tears, terrified that flight will mean your death. No matter what you say, you're unable to convince him otherwise.

     Occasionally, you try plotting out the sequence of events that led to your marriage, but your memories continue to be elusive. You remember a good many dinners and outings with Felix. You think they took place before your French honeymoon, but it's hard to place them in time exactly. You wonder whether you ought to mention this to Felix. In the end, you decide against it. Madness is a reputation you’ve fought for so many years, and the stigma of it still haunts you. Felix is the last person you want to look at you with that mixture of pity and wariness you've seen from so many others.

   There's one memory, however, that refuses to fade: those yellow-gold eyes from Diagon Alley. For some reason, your dreams are constantly haunted by the image of this man and his simple utterance of your name. His eyes stir something to life inside you, a deep, slumbering something you don't understand or cannot remember. It isn't exactly a pleasant feeling, and when you wake from these dreams you snuggle closer to Felix, letting his warm, solid arms anchor you to reality. But you cannot keep from wondering who the man behind the yellow eyes is. You're sure you've seen him somewhere, though where continues to elude you.

   You're mulling this very question over in the garden one day when a noise from behind makes you jump. Animals are rare on the grounds, and Felix is never one to creep up behind you unawares. You draw your wand instinctively, turning to face the sound. You nearly drop it when you watch those same piercing eyes and the dark-skinned man who owns them step out from behind a willowy tree.

   For a moment, neither of you move. You know you ought to feel fear. This is obviously the danger Felix has warned you about. No one who's a friend sneaks onto one’s property unannounced. But even as you point your wand at the man’s face, you find yourself lost in his yellow-gold eyes. There's something almost frantic in them, like a person trapped behind glass screaming words you cannot hear.

    You lower your wand without thinking. In spite of Felix's warnings, you can’t bring yourself to feel afraid. Your mind may be confused, but every other part of you is convinced this man means you no harm.

   "Who are you?" you ask. "What do you want?"

   The man doesn't answer. He only stares. The intensity of his eyes is difficult to look at directly and you drop your gaze to his bony neck instead.

   "Are you here to kill me?"

   That shakes the man from his silence. The yellow-gold eyes widen a little before he answers, "Is that what he told you?"

   "Who?" you ask in confusion. "My husband?"

   The man's whole face twists momentarily in an expression of disgust. His features straighten quickly, inscrutable once more, except for the eyes which seem to be pleading with you for something.

   "You don't know me." It's a statement, not a question. But the more he talks, the more you're sure this can’t be true.

   "Should I?"

   "Yes."  

   There's a pause in which you wrack your brain desperately for a memory you’re sure is hidden somewhere, but you cannot find it. You're forced to shake your head apologetically. “I'm sorry. I don't."

   The man shuffles his feet as if uncomfortable with this answer. “We were...at school together,” he says.

   Armed with this bit of information, you cast your mind back to your school years. You search for those eyes in classes, Quidditch matches, cursed vaults. They’re nowhere to be found. But perhaps that’s not so unusual.

   "School was so long ago,” you say, “and so much has happened since then. I don't know how much you know about me, but school wasn't exactly the happiest time of my life. I guess I've tried to put all those memories behind me.”

   The man says nothing. He blinks those molten eyes and stares. His fingers twitch as if itching to wrap around something. You tighten your hold on your wand again, but he makes no other move. He seems to be trapped in indecision. And despite being an intruder in your home, there's some instinct urging you to soothe the man’s obvious distress.

   What's your name?" you ask gently.

   A look of deepest pain crosses the man’s face, as if he's bleeding from a wound you cannot see. It makes your heart ache for some reason.

   "Talbott Winger," he answers.

   There's a strange upset in your perception. The garden around you seems to shimmer as if it were really a backdrop you could rip away to reveal a more substantial world behind it. You can no longer feel the ground underneath your feet. You wonder if you're falling or floating. Your head swims with nausea. From far away, you hear someone call your name. You wonder where they are, where you are, and how you can get to them. 

   Then you feel hands on your face. They anchor your mind to your body once more. You're aware of your back lying against hard ground, and a throbbing pain in the side of your head. You realise your eyes are closed. You open them.

   Brown eyes stare back at you in fear, and you feel a quick pang of disappointment. For some reason, you expected them to be yellow-gold. But it's Felix. He lifts you gently until you're sitting upright. You're still in the garden, only the sky is darkening. You stare about you for the man - Talbott, your brain now promptly supplies - but see no one else.

   “Y/N!"

   You only realise Felix has been speaking when he calls your name again. His voice is trembling.

   "What's wrong?" you ask.

   "What’s wrong? That's what I'm asking you! How long have you been out here? What happened?"

   "I was...walking and... I don't know. My head hurt and I... I fell, I guess."

   For some reason, you think it's best not to mention Talbott Winger yet. You know how worried Felix will be, and there’s no reason to upset him until you discover what Talbott wants. You think - or perhaps, you hope - you’ll see those yellow-gold eyes again soon.

-.

   For several days, you’re disappointed. You now spend all your mornings and most of the afternoons out on the grounds. You return regularly to the tree in the garden where you saw him last. But Talbott Winger does not re-appear. Sometimes you worry the encounter was a dream, your grip on reality being so tenuous these days. Only, somehow, apart from Felix, those yellow-gold eyes are the closest thing you have to a solid, reliable memory.

   You're forced to wait a full week before you see them again. You’re in the kitchen one evening instructing Felix in the art of rolling an even pie crust. You’ve finally bullied Miam-Miam into relinquishing the dinner preparations just this once, and Felix, exceptionally amused, has agreed to be your sous-chef.

   “You’re sure I’m doing this properly?” he asks with a wry grin.

   The sight of your typically decorous husband, shirt sleeves tucked up to his elbows and flour dusting the tip of his nose, makes your heart soar. You live for these sweet moments; where the world contains only the two of you, with no thoughts to spare for the war raging outside. You smile, and lean across the table towards Felix. There’s just enough time for your lips to meet in the promise of a kiss when the sound of the front door bell reverberates through the house.

   Miam-Miam rises hastily from her little stool by the fire, but Felix stops her before she can reach the kitchen door.

   “No. Let me.” He wipes his hands quickly on a dish towel and strides past the sullenly-still elf. You follow him to the door, but Felix shakes his head.

   “Wait here,” he commands. Catching sight of your raised eyebrows, he adds, “Please. Let me see who it is.” Felix doesn’t wait for you to agree. He slips out the door and pulls it shut tightly behind him. You listen to his footsteps walking away. You count to ten, then follow anyway.        

     Miam-Miam’s echoing protests make it difficult to hear the conversation floating down the hall from the front door. You think you can make out two distinct voices. You walk through the dining room and approach the front hall as quietly as possible. Scattered words in Felix's most imperious tone reach your ear.

   "It's over...safe now...nothing you can do."

   You hesitate, uncertain whether to risk the hall where very little furniture exists to hide behind. Then the other voice speaks, loud enough to be clearly heard, "...don't care about her safety..." and your heart leaps in your chest as you recognise it.

   "Don't you dare!" Felix snarls. You've never heard him so furious before. You hesitate briefly, but your desire to see the visitor, to be sure it's who you think, is overpowering. Cautiously, you tiptoe into the hallway. The other voice is a low, venomous hiss now. You have to strain your ears to catch the words.

   "...away with this. I won't let you."

   "Is that a threat?" Felix asks.

   "It's a promise."

   Felix starts to push the heavy front door closed and you throw caution to the wind. You run the last few steps forward just in time to see yellow-gold eyes on fire with fury, before the door slams shut on them.

   Felix spins around quickly, startled by your sudden approach.

    "Who was that?" you ask before he can get a word out. You fully expect Felix to be frustrated, even angry with you for refusing to stay safely in the kitchen. Instead, he blushes brick red. He runs a quick hand across his hair, as though you've caught him doing something shameful.

   “No one.”

   You cross your arms, arch one eyebrow and say, "Felix," with all the skepticism such a ridiculous answer deserves. Felix has the decency to look abashed, but still refuses to speak. He looks so lost you can't help but sigh and come to his rescue. You take his hand and squeeze it in support.

    “Felix," you repeat more gently. "Tell me what’s going on. Who is that man? What does he want?”

   Felix presses your hand to his face, drawing strength from your touch. He keeps his eyes closed as he answers, “Just...someone from the ministry. An auror. He doesn’t...like me. But he shouldn’t have followed me home." Felix exhales forcefully, then opens his eyes. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again." He twines his fingers between yours and tries to lead you back down the hallway. "Whatever happened to dinner?" he asks, in a voice laden with false cheer.

   You're not remotely convinced that's all there is to it, and you're determined not to let the issue go. But you decide to wait until Felix is in better spirits before you demand answers. You return to the kitchen. Felix makes an attempt to recapture the light-hearted mood from before the unwelcome visitor. But his smile is more like a grimace. And more than once you catch him staring into space, lost in troubled thoughts he refuses to share.

   That night you take particular care with Felix. You trail delicate kisses down his jawline, tracing his throat, his jutting collarbone. Your every movement is slow and measured as you follow the thin path of dark hair leading you from his chest to his abdomen. You assure him of your love using your lips and your tongue and the heat of your mouth. When you're finished, you crawl back up his body and rest against his still heaving chest, waiting for his heart rate to settle.

   "Y/N," he pants.

   "Felix."

   "You know I love you?"  

   You smile against his skin. "So I've heard."

   Felix rolls to his side so you slide off his chest and into his arms. He cups your cheek. It's hard to make out his eyes in the dark, but his voice is pleading.

   "I know how hard all of this is for you. But you know it's because I want you to be safe. Because I love you. Our world is such a mess right now, and the thought of you caught up in it...running for your life, or hurt, or..." He swallows the next word. "I can't bear it."

   You stroke the back of his hand where it holds your face. His touch is light, as if he thinks you might crack under his fingers. Felix is always so careful with you. It touches the part of you burdened by years of fighting battles for others with so little help or thought for your well-being. But you're not as delicate as he thinks.

   "I understand," you assure him. "But you know, if you want me to trust you, you have to trust me. I'm not exactly incapable. I know it's a been a while, but I did manage to survive seven years worth of curses and monsters and Merula Snyde."

   Felix rests his forehead against yours with a quiet chuckle.

   "I know."

   "So trust me."

   "I do."

   You take a deep breath and steel yourself to ask your burning question.

   "Then...who is Talbott Winger?"

   "What?"

    Felix jerks away startled. Even in the darkness, you can see heat rising in his cheeks.

   "That man who keeps coming by here. I know that's his name. Who is he?"

    "Keeps coming by..." Felix repeats. He pushes himself up, and you follow, concerned at his change in demeanor. "Has he been here before? What did he say to you? Did he try to-to-"

   You cut off his increasingly hysterical questions with a hand to his shoulder. "It's alright. I was fine. He just - he was here last week, out on the grounds. He wouldn't say what he wanted. He mentioned that we went to school together, but I don't remember him at all. Though I feel as though I should."

   Felix's relief is palpable. His shoulders collapse in a slow, heavy exhalation. He pushes hair back from his forehead.

   "There's no reason for you to. You can't be expected to remember everyone you went to school with. You had so many friends, and he was never exactly popular."

   "So, you remember him?" you ask. Your own heart is now pounding with excitement; you're not sure why.

   "Yes," Felix admits. "He was one of those that never trusted Slytherins. He had quite a grudge against anyone with the remotest Death Eater affiliation. It's only become worse now he's an auror. He's sure I know something about the Dark Lord's return, he follows me constantly. I wouldn't put it past him to try to force information from you."

   "But I don't know anything -"

   "I know that. But he doesn't. He's not your friend, Y/N, no matter what he says. That's why it's so important for you to stay here."

   You bristle at the implication. "Do you need me to repeat my CV? I think I can handle one auror on my own just fine."

   For some reason this inspires a smile in Felix.

   "I don't doubt it."

   He falls back against the pillow, pulling you down with him into a kiss, long and comforting. You can feel Felix relax beneath your lips. You come up for air and he murmurs, "Promise me, if you see him again, you'll stun first and ask questions later."

   You hesitate for a moment, hovering over Felix's parted, eager mouth. You can't argue with his words, but you can't discount your instinct about Talbott either: that he wants something from you, and it isn't to hurt you. You know Felix won't understand this, so you make the only promise you know you can keep.

   "I promise....I'll be careful."

-

   You know your promise will be put to the test, but you still aren't prepared for Talbott to appear again only the following morning. You're sipping coffee on the terrace when a shadow blocks the sunlight briefly. You jump up in shock, coffee shaking in your hand, as an eagle lands hard on the railing. And when the bird abruptly transforms into the yellow-eyes and dark skin of Talbott Winger, you nearly drop the cup altogether.

   "Y/N," says Talbott. His voice is strained and urgent, but you're too preoccupied to consider why.

   "You're...a bird?" you ask with wide eyes. You're certainly surprised, but your mind doesn't seem about to collapse in on itself the way it had when he told you his name.

   "An animagus," Talbott explains. His eyes dart nervously. "Look, I haven't much time. We need to talk, but we can’t do it here. Can you get away if you need to?"

   "Excuse me?" You pull your dressing gown about you, trying to muster up a bit of dignity. "I don't think you're in a position to-"

   "Can you get away?" Talbott repeats, talking over you. "Or does he have you trapped here?"

   "I'm not trapped," you answer heatedly. "I'm here because it's safe. It's...dangerous right now." You echo Felix's words, trying to ignore how childish they sound.

   "Then meet me here." Talbott thrusts a scrap of parchment forward, keeping as much distance between you as he can. You have to stretch out your arm to reach it. "Make sure you're not followed."

   You gape at him. His nervous tension is so different from the still, silent Talbott you've been carrying about in your memory. It's almost harder to adjust to than the idea of him as a bird. You know you should be asking more questions, demanding answers, or simply stunning this blatant intruder. But the same strange feeling of familiarity that stopped your hand before prevents you taking any such action. You merely stare, waiting for your slow-working brain to catch up and explain to you why you're so sure about Talbott Winger.

   You expect him to fly off again at any second, but Talbott shuffles his feet awkwardly as if he'd rather not leave.

   "Y/N, are you...safe?"

   "Of course," you reply automatically.

    'I mean, he hasn't - he isn't -"

   But before Talbott can articulate his question, you hear a door slam open from inside the bedroom and Felix's voice calling for you. You jump violently for the second time that morning, coffee sloshing over the side of your cup. You can only think of one reason why Felix would be back so quickly, and you turn to tell Talbott to go. But he's nowhere to be seen. You hear a loud beating of wings from overhead, and look up to see the enormous eagle climbing steadily higher. He's already a dark spot on the horizon when Felix bursts onto the terrace, out of breath, sweat undoing his severely slicked hair. It's such an unusual state for Felix you don't have to pretend to be concerned.

   "What's wrong?" you ask quickly.

   "There was a breach," he pants. "In the border wards. Someone got in."

   "I didn't notice anything..." You swing your head about as if searching for potential intruders. You're careful to avoid eye contact with Felix, afraid it might give you away.

   'Are you sure?" Felix stumbles across the terrace to you. He inspects you up and down as if searching for injuries.

   "Of course," you find yourself saying for the second time in as many minutes. A quick trickle of guilt runs down the back of your throat. You know you ought to tell Felix of Talbott's attempt to lure you from the safety of your home. Instead, you close your hand about the scrap of parchment. You wrap your arms around Felix to hide your clenched palm. He holds you against him, head resting briefly on your shoulder while his breathing returns to normal.

   "I have to get back," he says finally. "Will you stay in the house? Please? Just for today. I'll set up new barrier spells tonight, but for today just...please," he begs you. "I won't be able to focus otherwise."

   Quickly, you think through your options. Merely keeping something from your husband is one thing, but you're reluctant to break any promise outright. So you choose your words carefully.

   "I suppose I could agree to that," you say, with an exasperated eye roll and a dramatic sigh. "Just for today."

   It works. Felix smiles in relief, and pulls you into a kiss full of unspoken gratitude. It’s as fiery and spine tingling as his kisses always are. But, knowing what you’re planning on doing as soon as he’s gone, you feel too guilty to fully appreciate it. 

-

Part 2 | Fanfiction Masterpost

[deepdisireslonging]

Standing Against the Past

A rumbling is spreading through the locker rooms. Should retired wrestlers continue to fight, or should they let the next generation have their chance to make history? The children of two legacies, Charlotte Flair and Randy Orton, seek to answer this by forming an alliance. 

Pairing: None

Warnings/Promises: wrestling violence, unusual formating

Word Count: 4220

Note: I would love to write out this whole thing. But I don’t have the time, nor the energy for it. So, I’m trying something a little different. I wrote out what is usually an outline for me, and that is what I’m going to post. Nor am I waiting till Friday to do so. Here and there are scenes that I really need to keep from bouncing around in my head. If this works, for the most part, I might keep doing things this way so I can continue to create content, and continue to be creative for creative sake. Let me know your thoughts about this with comments, reblogs, gif reactions, etc. Enjoy!

January - Monday 2/Week 1 “Recap”

“Natural Selection near the ropes. Could this put away Lacey Evans? Wait- what?”

Charlotte Flair twisted around, wondering why the three-count had not been completed. Ric Flair pointed at the bottom rope, and at the ankle he had just put there. She took in the sight of Lacey’s ankle not on the canvas, but on the rope. She slowly turned to look at her father. He backed away from the ring. The Nature Boy had never been a face, not really. But damn if he didn’t try to look innocent.  

The match continued for about another thirty seconds. If that long. With another interference from her father, Charlotte lost the match. 

Quickly, Ric backed further away from the ring, terrified of his daughter’s quiet rage fuming there. By the time Lacey was by his side, he was all smiles. 

*What the hell just happened?* Charlotte thought. 

***

Randy Orton glared across the canvas as Triple H hauled up his iconic sledgehammer. But it was wrong. Very wrong. Flames covered the hunk of metal at the top. Soon, that was the only light in the arena. When it went out, it took the Cerebral Assassin with it, replacing him with a purple hue and burned apprehension into Randy’s chest. 

Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder, spotting Alexa Bliss. 

Pain.

Within another thirty seconds, his eyes were burned by the firebolt that Little Miss Bliss shot at him. He rolled on the canvas, screaming in agony as the show came to a close. 

***

Even when he removed the icepack to his lap, he didn’t glance at her as she stepped into the shadows. “Legends are hard to get rid of, aren’t they?” He chuckled. “Thought you’d be enough for Lacey though.”

“And I thought for sure that you’d be enough for Alexa, but here we are.” Charlotte shuddered to control herself. “I hate that I have to ask, but how did you do it? When you wrestle, your Dad barely comes up at all besides the odd mention that you’re a third generation.” She grit her teeth. “I can’t seem to breathe without his legacy coming up.”

“I have the benefit that my Dad doesn’t come around the ring anymore. Yours can’t seem to stay away.” He made eye contact. “Despite your best efforts.”

Knuckles paling under the force, Charlotte held her fist to her lips. “There’s a way to fix that,” she whispered.

Now she had his full attention. Randy turned to face her. Under her calm complexion, he could see, and understand, the rage boiling in her blood. The blood of a Flair.

“For me to get rid of him-”

“Permanently away from the ring-”

“I would have to break his spirit. Wrestling has been his whole life.” Randy cocked his head to side. “Are you ready to accept the consequences?”

Charlotte hesitated. She licked her lips. “At a minimum, do enough to keep him away long enough for me to demolish Lacey.” Her breath stuttered. This was probably a mistake. Randy was too ready, too eager to destroy a life. To destroy a heritage. “If you go even an inch too far,” she snarled, “I will cut the head off the viper myself.”

He had to laugh. “That’s supposed to dissuade me? Maybe I like the idea of that challenge. Perhaps I can kill the Flair name for good.”

“Try, and I can promise you there will not be a fourth generation of Ortons to step into the ring.”

“Threatening my family-”

“Do not think to overstep our understanding. We were both bred for this business. Cross that line, and I will cross you further than you’d ever be willing to go. But this isn’t how I want to do things. I’m here to offer help with your little Bliss problem in return-”

“You’re here because you can’t do yourself,” he shot back. He stepped into her space. “Because you’re scared ‘daddy’ won’t love his little girl anymore.”

Unbothered, Charlotte tilted her head. Randy’s mind flashed with the memory of Alexa Bliss tilting her head in a similar fashion. And the danger it meant. “If our places were switched, and you were the one stifled under your own family name, would you be able to do it on your own?”

Randy leaned back, levelling his gaze. After a minute of consideration, he rumbled out an answer. “I would do whatever it took to stand on my own feet.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Do you have a time limit to this… request?”

“As soon as possible.” They nodded at one another. Before she left, Charlotte tossed back, “I won’t forget this, Randy.” She disappeared down the hall.

Randy grinned. “You won’t. I won’t let you.”

***

January - Monday 3/Week 2 “Beginnings”

Hunter is still missing. Commentary questions Randy’s next move, and the health of his eyes after last week’s attack.

Lacey vs Charlotte Part 2:

Ric is fully in Lacey’s corner

Halfway through the match, Randy RKO’s him onto the ringside mat before disappearing behind the Thunderdome screens.

Charlotte wins undeniably and brutally

Charlotte tells her post-match interviewer that, “Yes, Lacey was not the first nor the last person to flirt with my father. But she was the most satisfying to put down.”

By her side, Randy avoids questions about his “assist”

***

January - Monday 4/Week 3

Lacey talks nasty about Charlotte allowing Randy to RKO her own father. Claims they could have settled this “like women.”

Peyton walks up and points out she tried. It was Lacey who “threw the first punch” by kissing Ric’s cheek a few weeks ago.

They have to team against Nia Jax/Shayna Baszler

They lose because of squabbling

Randy’s eyes are more healed

The lights go out backstage, but they come back when Charlotte hurries to back him up. They both find that interesting

There’s a rush of people down the hall: Hunter has been found

A message is left on his body: a 1st-degree burn on his face of a handprint covering his mouth. He is taken away to a medical facility

Charlotte wonders what she’s gotten herself into

*** February - Monday 1/Week 4

Asuka and Charlotte are scheduled to defend

Asuka asks her if she trusts Randy

Charlotte doesn’t, not by a mile, but Lacey and Ric seemed to be handled. So she owes him a little help like she promised.

They face Nia and Shayna

Lacey interferes, but it counts as a disqualification and the Women’s Tag Titles are retained

Peyton claims nothing to do with it when Charlotte and Asuka glare at her

The Hurt Business challenges Randy because he’s “free, and the biggest threat on Monday Night Raw. Well, besides Bobby Lashley.”

"You need to be taught a lesson in how to respect 'your elders.'" "My elders? You haven't been paying attention."

In the background, a Rambling Rabbit with red cross-stitched eyes and patchwork fur pops up

Cedric Alexander interferes in the match, still snubbed that his contributions to the Hurt Business haven’t been appreciated

Randy launches at him for ruining his match, but before he can RKO Cedric for his trouble, the lights go out and Alexa Bliss shows up

Acting before she can shoot him again, he runs at her. The lights go out again, but this time when they come back up, she’s on the opposite side of the ring. He dodges the fireblast. Alexa continues to toy with him.

Charlotte appears on the apron, bringing a kendo stick down on Alexa’s head

Alexa disappears, leaving Randy and Charlotte to look at each other.

***

February - Monday 2/Week 5

Randy confronts Charlotte, asking her why she got involved like that. He didn’t ask her to attack Alexa

Charlotte claims she wanted them to be even, favour for favour

Randy says that was a mistake. Now Alexa, and Wyatt/the Fiend, will target her too

Charlotte: “I can handle myself.”

Abby the Witch puppet watches from aground a corner. Her vein is now red and her mouth hangs open, lopsided

Asuka/Charlotte vs Mandy/Dana

Alexa interferes, and the titles are lost

Asuka blames her. Charlotte fully understands and agrees.

Charlotte: “Now you’ll have time to defend the Raw Women’s Championship like you should. And you won’t have to look over your shoulder for me. I’m going to be a little busy.”

After Asuka leaves, Randy walks up. They don’t say anything, but share a nod. Time to get down to business.

***

February - Monday 3/Week 6

Charlotte demands that Alexa shows herself, Randy watches their backs

In a Firefly Funhouse episode, Alexa is putting the Funhouse back together.

Ducktape on the walls is covered over with strips of brightly-coloured Washi tape, there is more Alexa-esque pink in the room

The burning house portrait is bigger

Alexa only talks to Charlotte

“It’s long been said that you can pick your nose, and your friends, but not your friend’s nose… but Randy is one friend you should not have picked.”

Alexa compares her to a bird in her ring regalia and suggests she be careful not to catch her wings on fire

Randy: “I should have torched the place.”

Wyatt/the Fiend’s laugh ends the episode, covering up Alexa’s laugh

Charlotte is aghast. “What the hell was that?”

Randy: “Welcome to the Funhouse.” And, “If a voice starts asking you to ‘let Him in... “

Charlotte steels herself for war

Update about Hunter: he is physically recovered but hasn’t spoken much, suggesting psychological damage

***

February - Monday 4/Week 7

A package is delivered to Charlotte. It’s a puppet carticulture of herself. A match is announced between her and Alexa for later that night

Asuka offers her Green Mist, Charlotte declines

Randy vs Cedric Alexander

Randy: “I owe you an RKO.”

Randy keeps looking over his shoulder for Alexa/Wyatt/Fiend/any shenanigans

Cedric keeps a lookout for the Hurt Business

Ricochet surprisingly shows up for commentary

Wants to see what Cedric is like post-Hurt Business

Lights go out, but not for Randy. It’s Retribution for Ricochet

In the confusion, Randy catches Cedric with an RKO and wins

Charlotte vs Alexa Bliss

Charlotte wins, only because she started right off the bat with heel-ish short cuts

Alexa laughs with her loss

The Fiend makes an appearance, teleporting Alexa away before Randy can catch him

***

March - Monday 1/Week 8 + PPV

PPV: 2 on 1 with Randy/Charlotte vs Alexa Bliss

Alexa toys with both of them, riling them both up into making mistakes

Randy RKO’s her, and Charlotte ties her up in the Figure 4 for the win

Monday Night Raw

Randy and Charlotte discuss the match

Randy: “That’s not the end of it. There will never be an end.”

Charlotte: “Agreed.” She slips into thought. “It would be nice… to have a little backup.”

Mustafa Ali vs Ricochet vs Cedric

Mustafa wins with minimal assistance from Retribution

Charlotte shows up backstage to talk to Mustafa Ali

“Well, what can we do for you Ms Flair?”

Charlotte looked away from Mustafa Ali’s smug welcome. A tiny tilt of her head to the right, and then to the left, confirmed that she was surrounded. Retribution didn’t waste time. She could appreciate that, despite the imminent danger she was in. A Queen is not bothered by the movements of minions. “I was impressed by your little speech on Raw Talk, and your passion since then. Not many people are brave enough to call out the WWE for placing their heroes on unsteady pedestals.”

“Unsteady?”

As Reckoning stepped close enough to feel her breath on her skin, Charlotte rolled her shoulders back. “Yes. It’s very… easy for a legend to fall. Especially if they continue to come back into a world full of younger blood.” She bit back a snarl as Mustafa’s smile slid onto his face. “Very easy for them to… embarrass themselves.”

He didn’t beat around the bush. “Like your father with Lacey.”

She hissed a breath. “Yes. Like my father with Lacey.” Patiently she waited for him to ask what she wanted. What he could do for her.

Instead, he leaned against a crate and crossed his arms. “I want to hear you say it. I want you to admit it.”

Retribution chuckled around her.

“My father was long past his prime. He had no business being near a ring beyond token appearances for when the WWE Universe wanted to reminisce. And he had no business,” she hissed, pinching her fingers together, “getting involved in my matches. Especially not for that-”

“Be civil, Ms Flair.” Mustafa joked, “you are a queen after all. And must hold to higher standards-”

“Cut the bull shit.” She ignored the tittering laughter around her. “I may not agree with the methods you’ve used over the past several months to weaken the roster. But-” with a shallow breath she had to admit, “I agree with your… teachings.” Her eyebrows met in confusion. “If that’s what you’re calling them.”

Mustafa shrugged. “Close enough.” With a nod, Retribution abandoned haunting Charlotte and stood at his side. “That’s all well and good. Having your… backing.” He side-eyed Slap-Jack. “But we never needed your permission to attack your father. We could have eliminated him any time we wanted. Luckily for him, the Viper put him out of his misery first. None of this explains why-”

“We are the children of NXT. It is our job to pave the way so that the next generation can walk into their spotlight. The only weakness in your teachings is that people who listen to them do not abide by them. Ricochet still hasn’t joined your fold. And the Fiend is still wreaking havoc on our- your roster.”

The leader’s eyebrows shot up.

Charlotte swallowed away the dry taste in her mouth. “You could do great things in the WWE, Mr Ali. I want to assist you. Briefly.”

“Well now.” Mustafa walked slowly around her. “That is a promising opportunity.” He stopped by her shoulder. “I assume you’d want assistance in turn with Alexa Bliss.”

“Yes.”

He nodded at Reckoning. She ran off, disappearing into the hallway’s shadows. “We’ll look into it. Tonight. As for the Fiend…” Mustafa pursed his lips. “That will take time. Let’s talk.”

Like a hive moving as one, Retribution followed their leader further into the darkness of backstage. After a moment’s hesitation, so did Charlotte Flair. 

***

March - Monday 2/Week 9

Retribution vs. Hurt Business

Charlotte takes it to MVP on the mic, making him stutter and flustered

Randy teams with Slap-Jack against Lashley and Shelton and beats them

They all pose in the ring

Mustafa climbed into the ring as the Hurt Business rushed to escape it. As he took his position in the centre of the ring, Charlotte and Randy flanked him on either side. As he raised his arm to finish his pose, the rest of Retribution filed in, completing a pyramid that filled the ring. 

The collective of such a body of wrestlers was a loud message: there was no room in any ring for anyone who thought otherwise than them. Retribution, and the legacies of Charlotte and Randy, were going to take the wrestling universe by storm like never before.

Mustafa and Randy “chat”

Randy is updated with Mustafa’s cause, and made aware that the continuation of his career is dependant on Mustafa’s mercy. Randy has been wrestling for a long time, almost too long to be considered “this generation.” But… Charlotte, a fellow child of NXT, vouches for him. So they’re good. For now.

When asked about why she’s added teaming up with Retribution, Charlotte points out that her alliance with Randy Orton started because her father put his nose into business he shouldn’t have. It was just luck that she found Randy first. Both alliances would have gotten her to this moment, achieving exactly what she wanted to do: cementing her reign over the WWE Universe.

***

March-August: Week 10

Over the next several months, Retribution continues to convince the WWE Universe that the “Old Golden Age” of WWE is over. It’s been over for a long time, and now is the time for the new, fabulous talent that the McMahons and ‘powers that be’ have been hiding backstage to make their mark on history.

Mustafa confronts Drew McIntyre about facing Goldburg at the Royal Rumble when there were plenty of wrestlers he could have faced from his own generation.

McIntyre looks like he’s about to retaliate, but Charlotte and Randy walk out onto the stage, flanked by Retribution. McIntyre pauses enough for Mustafa to continue.

“Respect had nothing to do with it. He called you out because he wanted to be relevant again. Because he wanted a paycheck. If you’d done your job, you would have reminded him that by retaining your World Title, that he was no better than Brock Lesner for being a three-appearance-a-year wrestler.”

He gets slapped, and Claymore kicked for pointing it out. Randy and Retribution come to his aid, beating McIntyre down. They undermine his matches after that, even going so far as to take out Sheamus and Keith Lee, dragging them to the ring to prove a point to the Scotsman.

They do the same to Jeff Hardy, Bobby Lashley, Daniel Bryan, and any Legend-apologists.

Wrestlers start to choose sides. Most of them agree with Retribution’s influence.

Ricochet is the only one that remains truly neutral, and mostly because he knows Mustafa Ali best.

He doesn’t face him head-on; not in the ring. Mostly he confronts people with the opposites of their observations. If they are anti-Legends, he digs down as to why they believe that. If they are pro-Legends, he asks why they are so quick to disagree with their peers.

Charlotte and Randy both drop their last names, though Randy reluctantly.

***

Week 11 - September Week 2

McIntyre offers an open challenge, assuming Randy Orton will accept it

Mustafa answers instead and wins

McIntyre: “You won’t let him keep it. You’re not that kind of man, Randy.”

Asuka stands with McIntyre and the Legend Apologists

Charlotte tries to point out that Asuka was shoved into the shadow when she moved to the main roster from NXT. Her undefeated streak was broken.

Asuka: “Yes. By you!”

Asuka vs Mia Yim/Reckoning for the Women’s Raw Championship

It ends in a draw

Charlotte is ringside, but she never interferes

On Smackdown, Hunter meets with Roman Reigns

Hunter receives a cold reception

Seth Rollins won’t talk to him either

Roman and Seth don’t talk to one another or even look at each other’s matches, but they acknowledge each other’s presence backstage

***

Week 12 - September Week 3

McIntyre challenges Mustafa for the World Title back

Fails

Charlotte steps into the ring before he can rampage against Mustafa. They stare each other down.

McIntyre backs down claiming respect for her father. She slaps him.

Retribution and Randy step in front of her before he can retaliate.

McIntyre surrounded, Ricochet/Sheamus/Keith Lee/ other Legend Apologists come out t back him up

Asuka issues open challenge for the Raw Women’s Championship expecting Charlotte or Reckoning/Mia Yim to accept

Rhea Ripley answers the challenge, officially moving to Raw. She fights Asuka unaided and wins

***

Week 13: Confrontation - September Week 4

Hunter speaks to Randy again. Before it can break into a fight, Stephanie McMahon shows up with Charlotte and Mustafa quick on her heels.

Hunter has to look Mustafa in the eye while being blamed for not “upholding the promise you made.”

Mustafa calls him a future legend.

“You’re not in the way. You don’t fight unless provoked. That’s how a legend, how a legacy, should act. They need to stay out of this generation’s business until called upon.”

“Those that retire need to stay retired.”

***

Week 14 - October Week 1

Charlotte dares MVP to put Lashley’s USA title on the line. She pokes and goads him until he accepts, much to Lashey’s chagrin

Open Challenge: Cedric Alexander answers and wins with Retribution’s help, since Shelton and MVP kept involving themselves in the match.

The other Retribution champions come out, holding their titles high.

Mustafa Ali with his Heavyweight title, Rhea Ripley with the Raw Woman’s title, and Cedric with the USA title. Randy and Charlotte stand behind them, hovering.

That Friday on Smackdown:

Hunter visits Roman again, warning him about the impending Survivor Series show coming up.

Hunter: “They might come for your championship too.”

Roman: “Let them try.”

***

Week 15: Survivor Series Season/Hunting Season - October Week 2

On Raw, there is a video package from Retribution promising that the whole WWE Universe was going to see the world in a new light, one provided by Retribution

Smackdown: Retribution/Randy/Charlotte invade Smackdown, beating up Roman and Smackdown’s Leged Apologists, including Daniel Bryan and Sasha Banks

Sami Zayn, Shinsuke and Cesaro, and Baron Corbin help with the destruction of their peers, aligning themselves with the Raw visitors

***

Week 16 - October Week 3

Smackdown and NXT invade Raw at the same time

Io Sharai and Damian Priest stare down Charlotte and Randy

The Undisputed Era faces down Retribution. Mustafa is shocked. They should be on the same side, he thinks.

Candice and Johnny fight Rhea and Cedric

There is no sight of Seth Rollins

***

Week 17: Survivor Series - October Week 4 Part 1 (Sunday)

Roman/Sasha vs Charlotte/Randy vs Damian/Io

Karrion Kross and Scarlet Bordeaux try to interfere, but Alexa Bliss and the Fiend prevent them, officially coming back after missing and silent for weeks

Undisputed Era vs Retribution eight-man tag match

Candice/Johnny vs Rhea/Cedric

They discuss their matches and philosophies before the PPV

***

Week 18 - October Week 4 Part 2 (Monday)

With the Fiend and Alexa back, that means trouble for Randy and Charlotte

The Fiend and Alexa are not aligned with Hunter. Corey Graves brings up the handprint the Fiend left on Hunter’s face the last time they met.

A Firefly Funhouse episode happens while the Fiend is in the ring. Wyatt has come back fully split into two pieces of himself: Bray and the Fiend

Randy and Hunter face off again

It suggests a possible alliance, at least as far as defeating Wyatt

Stephanie disagrees with the alliance; Charlotte convinces her.

***

Week 19 - November Week 1

A pre-filmed cinematic match shows off the triple threat tag match

Charlotte/Randy vs Hunter/Stephanie vs Fiend/Alexa

Retribution tries to interfere by helping Charlotte and Randy. Most of them are beat down, though Mustafa fights through enough to stare down the Fiend.

Charlotte/Randy/Mustafa win the match

Wyatt: “The whole Universe is in your hands.”

He backs off

***

Week 20 - November Week 2

The stage crackled and popped with bursts of lighted fire. By the ring, Michael Cole and Corey Graves caught the home viewers on last week’s recent events. The trio of Charlotte Flair, Randy Orton, and Mustafa Ali had triumphed. 

“What do you think the Fiend meant,” Corey asked, “when he said that the Universe was in their hands?” He shuddered. “I don’t think it’s in the Fiend’s nature to give up on a potential… I hate to say it, but a potential Funhouse friend?”

Michael Cole winced. “I’m more concerned that the Fiend was able to say something more than ‘let me in.’ I hope it doesn’t mean he’s getting stronger. Either way, it means that the strange alliance of Charlotte, Randy, and Mustafa Ali has proven their point. And it means their path is clear for… whatever next step. What will it be?”

“Whatever they want it to be, I guess.”

In the ring, the said trio was prepared to announce such a plan. Standing at each of the turnbuckles were the members of Retribution and the other champions. 

Charlotte stepped forward. Her smile glowed with assurance. “We did everything we set out to do.” Looking at Randy she said, “we defended the WWE Universe against the Fiend and Alexa Bliss.” Looking at Mustafa, she added, “even more, we have freed the Universe from being held back by the dead weight of so-called Legends. From here on out, anyone… absolutely anyone can earn their place in this ring by fighting on their own.” Sinking into herself, she thought of the arguments against them. Against her. “As for those with a legacy behind them. The steps they take to get here, to get to this ring… as long as they use their own skill to build up their own name, they will be welcome competitors here.”

To one side, Mustafa nodded. Charlotte had come a long way. Even further than her NXT days when she first fought against her father’s legacy. To the other side, Randy Orton crossed his arms. His face was a practiced mask. He eyed Mustafa warily. 

The stage lit up again. It startled the group in the ring as “Burn it Down” played overhead. 

Seth Rollins had returned to Raw. 

The group in the ring rushed to the ropes as he was joined by two more people. 

To his left, Austin Theory stepped out. To his right, Becky Lynch stepped out. 

Charlotte stood a little straighter, seeing her old friend there. At the sight of his constant rival, Randy gripped the ropes so tight, his knuckles ached. Mustafa Ali simply smiled. 

The more things changed in wrestling, the more they stayed the same.

***

***

Masterlist 

Forever Tags: @blondekel77​​ @brianaraydean​​ @chwehansol98​​ @fireflyfunhousetrash​​ @laochbaineann @ramblingsofabourbondrinker​​ @savmontreal @shieldgirl18 @tinyelfperson​​ @writtingrose​​ @xladyxfatex​​ @gold--gucciempress​​

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[lizzybeth1986]

Quick Thoughts on The Royal Retcon Book 1 Chapter 11

• You've gotta admit, guys. This series spends more time retconning various aspects of their original story than they do on the actual premise.

• The food fight was wild and chaotic, the background history is always welcome, seeing Jess and Blake was nice and the moonlit hot springs scene was a nice change from everything...but my head is spinning from the constant shifts, okay?

• To avoid seeing my QTs in your dash, blacklist the following tags: #trh quick thoughts, #trh qts, #trh qt reblogs, #long post.

• Screenshots:

Hana: The Abhirio YouTube channel

Maxwell: @thethots-plicken and @itsbrindleybinch

Drake: The HIMEME YouTube channel

• Title: The Prodigal Father

Alternative: Most Parents in TRR Shouldn't Have Even Been Parents To Begin With

• The last chapter ended with a surprise twist: the return of Barthelemy Beaumont, father of Bertrand and Maxwell Beaumont. We had a lot of questions. Did Bertrand know he wasn't dead? Did Maxwell not know he wasn't dead? What the hell was he doing all these years and why had he left his sons in such a horrible position?

• Turns out the writers may have taken a leaf out from a Hindi serial or something coz - drumrolls - he was in a coma!

• Why do we never hear much about this so-called illness or even have a name put to it. What mysterious illness caused Barthelemy to deteriorate so much that he was trying out miracle cures from quacks and that he ended up in a coma for years? Why were his next of kin not informed when he came out of it or while he was rehabilitating? Why the heck wasn't Maxwell telling his wife this, or Bertrand his girlfriend? There is so much about this plot that doesn't even make sense.

• How does Barthelemy remember Drake from the court days but not Savannah ("Liam and Drake, you're so grown up now! Miss Savannah, you're lovelier than your reputation..."). Somehow he knows what's been said about Savannah and about Hana's accomplishments - wait if he'd been mostly getting his body back in order, how would he know this stuff? Who is telling him this? (Godfrey?? Is that why he's so faux-patriotic around us now??? Is that his real reason for visiting Cordonia only once a year or something?)

•

In Liam and Drake's cases, Barthelemy says the same thing about how Maxwell outdid himself by bringing the MC to the House, and that she has brought prestige to the Beaumonts. It's in Hana's and Maxwell's cases that the dialogue is different. In Maxwell's it's obviously as his daughter-in-law that he greets you, and in Hana's he speaks of now having two "daughters" in his house.

• Barthelemy then gets to the more serious part of his departure - the fact that Bertrand had to shoulder the responsibilities of being Duke earlier because of Barthelemy's condition, and that now Bertrand can relax while his father takes care of things at the estate. Is that care for his son talking...or his desire for control? I'm leaning towards the second.

• I'm pretty sure Bertrand is leaning towards the second because he's looking pretty resistant about this sudden change. His bride-to-be, Savannah, in the meantime, is super happy to meet her father-in-law and son's namesake. Hah. That'll change.

• Maxwell is nervous. Because he wants his father to see how different he is now, and how responsible he has become, but doesn't know what his old man will think. Don't worry, Esther says, plan this smartly and you'll get a new Pictagram follower!

• In any case, Maxwell's friends promise to help him get through this and support him, except for Drake who thinks he can impose limits (like "no singing"), because, yknow. The universe has to revolve around his comfort zone. Must be a Walker trait.

• More Jess and Blake nuggets! You get an option to ask them how they met, and they tell you about the cruise they first worked in (and presumably where Jess' sister met Liam's brother and (optionally) married him) and how they used to butt heads often. Nice RoE nugget, too bad the writers have so far barely even remembered Liam's brother who is from that series!

•

Yeah yeah I know that Kiara is probably back in Castelserraillian like the other courtly ladies (or chilling in a hotel somewhere in Texas), but if they're all supposed to be there for the wedding Savannah might as well have included her. Not only is Savannah a stinky fiancée and a stinky person in general (not a surprise considering her family), she is also a stinky friend.

• I repeat: my MC Esther has done practically nothing for Savannah. Nor has Hana. Why are we such a huge part of her ceremony again when she already had a long-time friend from court who had actually helped her and actually cared?? Only because we're the ones on an extended holiday in her ranch? Then say that - why do you need to make such a long speech about friendship while snubbing the one woman who made a damned effort to help you? (oh...right. I keep forgetting. Kiara is only remembered when people want to use her 😒).

• At the start of the rehearsals, Savannah tells Jess about the horse-riding-to-the-altar tradition, complete with a saddle that's been a family heirloom. Bianca and Leona, apologetically, inform Savannah that they had to sell it. Savannah tries to mask her disappointment, but fails. Barthelemy in the meantime, jumps in, in what he assumes would be "saving the day" (it's not, Bartie Sr. It really isn't)

Bartie...dude...you just got here. You can't already know what'll make your daughter-in-law happy when you've only spoken to her for all of five seconds. Plant your ass at the back of the congregation where it belongs!

• The girl really really wanted that saddle, okay Bartie Sr? Allow her to grieve that lost dream ffs.

• This scene I guess is helpful because while it still places Bartie Sr rather awkwardly in the "father trying to make amends and be caring" category, it gives you an inkling of why that persona doesn't sit so well on him. Bartie Sr may assume that this is something a caring parent does, except that what he's really doing is taking over, making all the attention revolve around him, believing he knows best and not listening to anyone. Even when he's being "nice".

• That saddle is going to come back some way or other, and it's probably going to be a diamond option, for which the free option is Savannah walking down the aisle with Bartie Sr. Eh. She threw a tantrum at my reception so her boyfriend could marry her, I'm not about to get her her dilapidated saddle. She can make do with her crusty father-in-law.

(The other possibility is that [at the end of the chapter] Bertrand left the house to get it or something idk, and it might be free after all. Is it too late to ask for the entire WEDDING to be a diamond option?)

• So this exchange leads us all to the Beaumont brothers remembering their childhood. Maxwell views it all through rose-coloured spectacles, Bertrand has very different memories of that time. Which is such a change from the previous series! I mean, wasn't Bertrand the one who kept going "my father's legacy, my father's legacy", while Maxwell was the one who didn't have very good memories of that time?

I can always imagine that Bertrand's views on his father must have changed when he started taking on the responsibilities of a father himself (thus making him view his childhood as 'not normal'). And Maxwell may well have come to appreciate Bartie Sr once he began taking House responsibilities. But guess who is breaking their heads to make these "connections". Us. Not the writers. Not the team in charge of this story.

• There are two PoVs to this scene: Maxwell's and Bertrand's. Maxwell's is the one that is lighter, funnier, showing us a wilder side of his brother, Bertrand is given the meatier one, with intrigue and a hint of plot.

- We're taken back to when Bertrand's motorbike was just purchased, and the boys choose to take it for a test ride. The Bertrand shown here is kinda similar to the one in the 6-years-ago flashback in Book 1, just...younger and cuter. Apparently in the time that Bertrand was living alone in a house with Maxwell, he aged like an avocado.

- What's with using this team and using the Waverley kids' faces for the Beaumont brothers??

- Young Bertrand and Maxwell don't mind living on the wild side - taking the Cavilieri Novanta 9S on a test drive through different areas in the estate, planning how they'll debut this beauty at the Beaumont Bash and generally making a racket. Bartie Sr scolds them from the window of his office, then asks them to come up and see him there. Bertrand opts to protect little Maxwell from his father's ire by going there alone, and then telling his brother that their father is "very proud" of them. Maxwell doesn't question this (the writers have forgotten that Young Maxwell was perceptive even as a little boy, so I'm not quite buying that he simply accepted what Bertrand said at face value), and jumps instead into planning a logo for their biker jackets (he suggests a kraken and a tiger). They can also opt to have a special kraken-related handshake.

- Bertrand, however, fills in the blanks, speaking to us about what he witnessed at the office, and what actually transpired.

-

This conversation is the point of the whole scene, and is connected to the Young! Drake scene in the sense that Bartie Sr and Godfrey are from the Great Houses that Constantine mentions are opposing the alliance with Auvernal. While they don't tell us what has disappointed these two so much, we do get the idea that they are displeased esp with the Queen because she has somehow convinced Constantine to not agree with what the two are planning so quickly. It's very possible that their frustration with Eleanor might have gotten them involved in some way with her death, but it's also possible that there are other players involved.

- Bertrand does not focus much on this bit because Bertrand is young and his priorities are different. The interesting thing about using these childhood flashbacks for the characters is that we will always get an incomplete picture, if only because the kids' priorities are different, and for them these side discussions will always count as "adult stuff". Big, scary, too complicated to understand.

- We do get a mention of Maxwell's weight (finally!). The writers frame it as Maxwell losing his weight after his mother's death and getting his regular exercise with his brother. This we get to know by Bartie Sr's fat-shaming comment about not wanted to see Maxwell get back to his "wide suits" (Seriously. Fuck this guy).

• Hypocrite alert! Godfrey who treats his perfectionist daughter as a failure just for existing and being a girl, now thinks he can yap about "being too hard" on one's children. Go fuck yourself Godfrey Not Gao (this nickname was brought to you by @callmetippytumbles).

• The bit that's most important to Bertrand is that he tries to pass an overdue bill to his dad, and his father ignores it to concentrate on "bigger" things. Which kinda leads you to believe that the problem existed waaaaay before Bartie Sr started believing in miracle cures for his mysterious illness. In fact I'm pretty sure both those things might be fabricated.

• So that's what Bertrand is trying to tell us. That Bartie Sr expected his sons to understand responsibility when he was not exactly ready to live up to that example himself. It still doesn't make sense though, considering every time Bertrand spoke about Bartie Sr it was as if he had to uphold the same legacy, and everytime Maxwell spoke about him it was to highlight what a disappointment he was to his father...and funny enough they've now switched roles.

• Anyway, Maxwell is now more inclined to believe Bartie Sr has turned a new leaf, while Bertrand is wary. He is not wrong about the controlling aspect though, even when his dad is trying to be nice he's being a controlling ass.

• Hana comes in and comforts Bertrand, in a scene I found pretty touching. She knows plenty about controlling, overbearing parents who expect plenty from her but fail to measure up to the little that she asks of them. I love how she makes the point that, having support or company of any form, works to lessen the pain of that kind of upbringing...and she knows this because she never had it.

• The bonding that takes place between Hana and Bertrand is lovely, although it's marred by the fact that were we going by the original idea of the Beaumont brothers' lives, Maxwell would be the one she'd be comforting.

• Two bits that stood out to me were where Bertrand offered to make up for all those years of disappointment and pain that Hana suffered, by being a sort of stand-in older brother now - and Hana's response to the whole idea of mending bridges:

I love the fact that she says this even as she still maintains her complicated relationship with her mother. It's small but a lot more than she was allowed to say earlier. In Book 3, a lot of what they had Hana say to Lorelai was more for Lorelai's benefit than her own (constantly educating her and telling the family that the most important thing was that they be happy together). Her responses were centered around Lorelai's comfort, not Hana's conflict. At least here, she gets to state (while safely away from her parents) how complicated her relationship with her parents is. I just hope this is not the last time we hear about it.

• It's now time for the rehearsal dinner! Everyone's seated at a pop-up restaurant Blake and Jess have made for the wedding, and includes the courses for the special day. It's bruschetta, a quiche and the wedding cake for dessert.

•

Auntie Bitch I hope you realize that the biggest freeloaders in this house are your own nephew and niece! Drake doesn't have a job until his wedding is over (unless one counts moaning and griping while enjoying shit that his BFF has paid for, his job (oh...wait...maybe that's why "Constantly Complaining Freeloader" was listed as a job description in his Italian Restaurant scene lmao)). The other biggest freeloader is your niece, who didn't mind accepting money from Maxwell and then turned around and acted towards Bertrand like she didn't need his damn money that she was already using.

• Also for the amount of complaining Leona has been doing for her own niece's wedding she might as well have not hosted them at all. You took the responsibility, you made all the guests you were hosting do work for you and spent all your time mocking them for not having the kind of specific skillsets you grew up with. If you wanted to stay alone with your sister in this crusty dilapidated ranch where you probably don't even pay people fairly, you could have told Savannah to go somewhere else. Like Applewood. Or Ramsford idk. You couldn't even save the saddle your niece would have wanted for the wedding, and if that's not a pointer to what a failure you are, Leona, IDK what is. So maybe stop acting like you're better than the nobles and keep quiet.

• Bianca states that she has never depended on the Crown yet somehow left behind both her children whose well-being was largely being maintained from the Crown coffers???

• But also given the response to Liam I have a feeling we might have a flashback from her next chapter. While she doesn't appear as angry as her sister, there is definitely an underlying bitterness there that I think the narrative might explore before we leave Texas. Idk.

• Bartie Sr focuses his attention on us again, insisting that he is like a father figure to us. You can either firmly refuse (my favourite option), express pride in House Beaumont (which pleases Bartie Sr no end) or be polite (in which case Liam lets out a cryptic "how generous of you" aimed at Bartie Sr it one point, showing us that he's not very impressed. Hmm. Hmm.)

• Bartie Sr is being controlling again, complaining that the quiche is not an elegant main course and insisting to Savannah that she try whatever he is demanding for the wedding. He keeps saying "trust me Savannah, you'll love it!" as if he knows her tastes better than she herself does.

• Chuck tries to offer cake, and Bartie Sr in his eagerness to refuse accidentally tosses it over on Leona's clothes.

• That's kiiind of a breaking point with Leona, and to sum it all up, THIS happens:

Jess has seen and participated in utter chaos, okay. So for her to appear all flummoxed and say "it was...a lot", it really, really has to be a lot.

• My favourite parts have to be Hana and Liam thoroughly enjoying the food fight and finding it cathartic, because they're the two who most need to channel their repressed energies into that kind of catharsis. Drake and Maxwell don't feel this need as much as they do because they already have ways and opportunities to channel it.

• The fight allows both the nobles and the Walkers to meet on common ground - common enough ground that Bertrand can (if we choose) finally tell his father that he and Savannah can manage their own wedding, thank you very much.

• Funny how Bertrand is expected to stand up to his father and ensure that what Savannah wants is not ignored, yet Savannah herself never makes even a quarter of the effort that he does, in making Bertrand comfortable in her home. Why does Bertrand have to do all the work in this relationship? Why do I only see Savannah complaining when Bertrand is not doing things exactly as she wants them to be done, yet not even lifting a finger when he's the one who needs the help and reassurance? Perhaps the best option is if he becomes runaway groom.

• We get to give one (1) solitary fuck about the country we're leading when we're back in the bedroom after this whole skirmish has gone down.

• LI diamond scene! At a moonlit hot spring nearby. The scenes mostly include the mandatory admiration for the lingerie, awe at the scenery and once the sex is done, an exploration into family and children from the would-be parents.

Liam: Calls the MC a "twilight goddess fit for worship" as soon as he sees her with her lacy lingerie in the moonlight. If you've done those scenes, there's a mention of the Forgotten Falls and the Blue Grotto and how Liam has a penchant for whisking the MC away to secluded watery places. (Liam also mentions finding a matching pearl to the first one they got at the Blue Grotto, even though the writers have practically forgotten what has happened to that first one 🙄).

The MC can choose to either go fast or slow in the love scene, and afterwards, Liam wonders aloud whether all families are complicated. The MC can counter this, by telling Liam they can ensure their child never gets to the point that Bertrand or Hana have by ensuring the child has their space to be open about how they feel.

Caption: Spring Fling

Hana: The two women mostly admire each other in silence (Hana tells the MC she would simply like to look at her as the MC gives a twirl) and the MC suggests expanding the "sample size" of Hana's lingerie because Hana in the moonlight is a vision. Hana offers to massage the MC's shoulders, and speaks about wanting to get away from the chaos and check in on her. Hana wants to take as much of their alone time as possible to check if the MC is doing okay, which IMO is her way of maintaining a relationship - by giving her partner space to talk about how they feel, something she rarely had the opportunity to do. She also admits to how exhilarating the food fight was. Hana is playful and teasing in her love scene, and brings the MC to the point where she will beg for more.

Once they are done, the two speak about how being in this place is like being in a fairytale, and there's a particularly lovely line nestled in this bit:

I wished for storybooks with scenes just like this as a kid. Not ones where the princess got rescued by the prince or the knight...but where she found love and happiness on her own...and the freedom to embrace them.

It's...it's so beautiful 😭

Caption: Woodland Nymphs

Maxwell: Now obviously Maxwell has the most personal experience among the four this time, since it's his father that returned home, and it's his family that is now dealing with some tough, complicated questions. Some of that shows in this scene. It begins with Maxwell seeing the MC in her lingerie and confession he almost forgot she had them...which is a good thing otherwise he would never be able to concentrate on anything else. He speaks to her about all the things he loves about her and about their relationship - especially how much they make each other laugh. Underwater, the two let go of their restraint and make love with abandon.

The conversation that follows is the most important, exploring Maxwell's feelings about his father's return. He doesn't have a lot of memories of his father - most of it was from when he was very young, or from Bertrand's eyes. Maxwell is very happy that Bartie Sr has returned, and wants him to see how happy he is with the MC. He speaks of wanting to tell him about the social season, about marrying the MC, about his bestseller book. There is a cute bit where the MC asks whether he would tell Bartie Sr about the hippo tattoo and Maxwell seems almost terrified by that option. But overall, there is nervousness in his scene, and also hope. He definitely is invested in making his old man proud. Proving himself has always been a theme with Maxwell, and that need possibly will increase with the arrival of his father.

Caption: Blue Lagoon

Drake: Calls the MC in her lingerie in the moonlight, "art that should be in a museum". The two admire each other in their new lingerie, and then admire the scenery. Drake has brought the MC to the hot spring mostly because it was rumoured to be called "Makeout Point", and he's always been curious to see what the big deal was. The MC can point out the beauty and romantic potential of the area, mentioning that she can imagine a sixteen year old swooning if her high school sweetheart brought her there, "or a duchess, if her marshmallow brought her here". During the love scene, Drake likens her to a siren, the sex can either be rough or gentle and the MC can either take control or allow him to.

Towards the end, the two talk wonder how their child might be, who they would resemble. There's a bit of banter back and forth about how the world is not ready for their collective sass 😄 I think because Drake is the most comfortable with his own family now, that his conversations with the MC about family focus largely on his memories of good times, and on what their child will be like.

Caption: Spring Fever

• Why the hell are you guys ruining all that nice lingerie in water!!!

• After a few days, and presumably on the day of the wedding, Savannah comes to us, shocked and worried, telling us that Bertrand is gone. This could be either a fakeout leading to him trying to get something nice and romantic done for her, or his insecurities cropping up IDK.

• General Thoughts:

- As much as I'd LOVE for the twist to be that Bertrand has realized this marriage will never work and has called it all off, I know for a fact they won't let that happen. Either his insecurities have come to a head with Bartholemy's return and he needs time to clear his head, or he's gone all heroic and tried to get Savannah's saddle for her, which we then have to pay diamonds to retrieve.

- Some way or the other that saddle is going to feature.

- They'll have Bertrand do something heroic I guess so that Leona will FINALLY stop being a whiny asshole. And Savannah as usual? Will not even lift her little finger.

- I'm more worried about what Bartie Sr will be upto once he's back at Ramsford estate! Esp given that his controlling has already begun at an event as innocuous as a wedding. ALSO given that this man will be back in Cordonia!!

- We're obviously going to get more hints about our pregnancy in the coming chapter, that I'm sure we'll ignore coz we don't want to jump into conclusions like the last time.

- Hana's bonding scene with Bertrand reminds me a little of a scene in Book 2, where she speaks of how Bertrand reminds her a little of her father...in, like, a good way.

- If it turns out that Godfrey and Barthelemy were indeed involved in Eleanor's death, it will be the ultimate irony. It would mean that the present occupants of the duchies that were once undermining the Crown...are now their stanchest allies. Lucretia and Olivia's parents vs Olivia, Godfrey vs Madeleine, and Bartie Sr vs Bertrand and Maxwell. It would be a nice contrast.

- Istg if they try and make HAKIM AND JOELLE suspicious too I will literally throw hands 😡

- Jesus, the amount of retconning going on in this book. That scene would have lost nothing by making Bertrand the guy who was desperate to prove himself to his father and Maxwell the one who had mixed feelings. Having both of them overhear that conversation rather than one would have been fine too. But this is one in a looooooong list of things that the team is shifting around, believing no one will notice. Maybe I should just call this series The Royal Retcon from now on because there is more of that happening than actual babymaking!!

- I'm pretty intrigued by Liam's lukewarm reaction to Bartie Sr personally. What does he know. Why doesn't Liam tell me and why doesn't the MC ask!!

- Bartie Sr spends surprisingly little time with his own namesake, but perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised since Junior's own parents are hardly seen with him either.

- Next chapter is the wedding (if we can find the groom, that is), Savannah getting her dream entry (possibly if we pay the diamonds) and hints that we may be pregnant that will culminate in the big reveal at the end. Yay?

- I know I haven't gotten out a QT for Book 1 in two weeks but those past two weeks have been filled with lots of IRL stuff. Hopefully I'll get back to that soon.

- Until next week, folks!

[brin-guivera]

(via Ten Favourite Characters from The Untamed)

ten favourite characters from the untamed

It’s been a while since I did one of these type of posts (outside of Top Ten Tuesday anyway) and as a small celebration for hitting my 1000th post on the blog (this very one, as a matter of fact!) I have decided to do a post based on my most recent obsession The Untamed!

I have already talked at length about this series in various posts (and did a review of the series here) but I thought it might be fun to share with you my favourite characters. This is based on the live action televised drama – not the web-novel / donghua series or other platforms where it has appeared.

I do like a lot of characters in this series (even some I’m not supposed to like – hey, they are great characters even if they are not good people!) but there are some that are my extra-special favourites.

10. lan jingyi

I love all of the juniors really, but Lan Jingyi made it into the 10th spot because he is the “most un-Lan Lan to ever Lan in the history of Lan”  – thus spake the fanbase! Most of the Gusu Lan Sect and calm and peaceful, serene and tranquil. Lan Jingyi is snarky and impatient, with a short fuse and temper. However, he also has a kind heart and is extremely loyal.

I like him a lot because although he does share the Lan clan’s beliefs he goes about it in a completely different way! He is definitely an individual and we need more of those!

9. lan xichen

Lan Wangji’s elder brother and one of the Twin Jades of Lan. Lan Xichen is a gentle and kind-hearted soul who is very trusting, almost to a fault. He is also extremely protective of his younger brother and does his best to help the aloof and distant Lan Wangji make friends. Lan Xichen has a keen ear for music and is known for being able to diffuse tense situations.

Lan Xichen is the perfect older brother – caring and supportive. Although he can be a little bit naive, he is kind at heart and a genuinely good person.

8. wen qing

The best doctor the Wen Clan has, she is a strong and capable woman, slow to trust but quick to help where she can. Wen Qing is forced to serve the power-hungry Wen Ruohan who has a hold over her through her younger brother Wen Ning. She is aloof, cold, and above all extremely intelligent. Initially, she distrusts Wei Wuxian but gradually warms up to him because of his kind and helpful nature.

Wen Qing is a great character – she is capable and powerful and not necessarily warm but cares about others in her own way. Once you have her loyalty you never lose it.

7. wen ning

The shy, gentle, and timid younger brother of Wen Qing, who suffers from a strange illness due to being exposed to the Ying Iron as a young child. He is fiercely loyal especially to Wei Wuxian who was one of the few people to show him any kindness outside of his sister. When the Wen clan falls from power, he is turned into The Ghost General, and becomes Wei Wuxian’s right hand man (as his powers of demonic cultivation are able to control Wen Ning’s powers when they emerge).

Wen Ning is a total sweetheart – he has this horrible reputation yet is the purest soul to ever live. I just love him to bits!

6. lan sizhui

A disciple of Lan sect who is raised by Lan Wangji when his family is taken from him. He is a calm and gentle person who is very mature for his young age and is able to wield his abilities carefully and with great skill. Lan Sizhui’s past is a mystery to him but he feels an undeniable connection to Wei Wuxian and Wen Ning when the former is returned to life.

Lan Sizhui is a total dear – he really is the bestest boy! Genuinely warm-hearted and giving, he also is very capable and has everything it takes to be a powerful cultivator.

5. jiang cheng

Opinionated and hot-headed, Jiang Cheng has been raised with his siblings Jiang Yanli and Wei Wuxian (who was adopted into the Jiang clan after the death of his parents). Jiang Cheng cares very deeply for his loved ones but he is not great at showing it. He has a bad temper and often lashes out at those he cares about (who ultimately recognise that this is just how he shows affection). He dotes upon his nephew Jin Ling even though he often appears strict and sharp-tongued with him.

Jiang Cheng is probably the most misunderstood character. The breakdown of his relationship with Wei Wuxian, and his inability to see how his own actions (or inactions) also led to the tragic events that he hates his brother for, sours his character for a lot of people. Personally, I like him, warts and all, though I do get why many of his critics dislike him. He isn’t an easy character to like but I do like him all the same. 😉

4. nie huaisang

Nie Huisang is initially a contemporary of Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng in their school days at the Gusu Lan clan’s annual seminar. Seen as weak and unskilled, he is well-known for his supposed incompetence. Nicknamed the ‘head shaker’ and referred to as ‘know nothing’, he doesn’t have the best reputation. After the death of his brother Nie Mingjue, he becomes the leader of the Nie Sect.

Nie Huisang is a very intriguing character. Although depicted as being incapable (he carries a fan instead of a sword) there is more to him than meets the eye. Showing rare moments of cleverness and keen intuition, he nonetheless crumbles (and usually faints!) when things get tough. But is it all an act? It is hinted that there is more to him than there first appears – this is then further confirmed in the spin-off Fatal Journey. I really like him as a character, even just the hints you get in the main series. He is definitely one of my very favourites.

3. jiang yanli

Jiang Cheng’s elder sister (by blood) and Wei Wuxian’s adoptive elder sister, Jiang Yanli is a kind and caring person who does everything she can to protect her two brothers. She is the emotional heart of the trio and cares for them deeply, often providing support and cooking for them their favourite meals when they need cheering up. She has strong feelings for her arranged match Jin Zixuan and is devastated when he repeatedly snubs her. Eventually, he comes to care for her and they marry and have a child Jin Ling. Losing Yanli is what tears apart Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng, she really appears to be the glue holding the triad together.

Yanli is such an amazing character and did not deserve her fate whatsoever. Her story is tragic and could have been preventable. Alas, it was not meant to be…

2. wei wuxian

Wei Wuxian is the main protagonist of the story. He is a disciple of the Jiang sect and has been raised as a sibling to Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli. He is irrepressibly cheerful and mischievous as a youth, yet also very clever and deeply loyal. He cares deeply for his siblings and comes to view Lan Wangji as his soulmate and life-long confidante.

Due to the Wen clan’s machinations, he ends up pursuing demonic cultivation – a fact that puts him at odds with all of the other clans. He is also the only one to show the remnants of the Wen clan any kindness after their fall from grace and this too puts him in opposition of the other clans, including his own family. When he is defeated, he is mourned by no one; except Lan Wangji who feels remorse for not standing by his soulmate.

Wei Wuxian (or Wei Ying but it feels to personal to call him by his given name – only Lan Zhan can call him that!) is a character that is easy to root for. The television show smooths out some of his more problematic actions so he really is a victim and did not deserve to be vilified the way he was. His return after sixteen years reunites him with his Lan Zhan, who is no longer afraid to stick by him, no matter the consequence. Wei Wuxian is such a relatable main character – you cannot help but feel for him and want him to get his due, finally.

1. lan wangji

Lan Wangji (birth name Lan Zhan) is the second young master of the Lan sect. He is viewed as cold, strict, and distant. Considered difficult to get along with, a real ‘fuddy-duddy’ according to young Wei Wuxian. However, his aloof front hides a good heart and an ever-prevailing sense of justice. Due to his actions in taking down the Wen clan, he is granted the title of Hanguang Jun (roughly translated to Light Bearing Lord). His abilities cannot be faulted and he is considered a cultivator without equal.

Although they could not be more different, he becomes close with Wei Wuxian and recognises him as his soulmate. However, he is torn by his regard for the demonic cultivator and the rules of his peers. Unable to help him, he is devastated when Wei Wuxian is killed and carries that guilt for sixteen years. When they are reunited, it is clear that Lan Wangji will stand by Wei Wuxian, not matter the cost.

Lan Wangji, oh Lan Wangji, how I love you so… I did not foresee him becoming my favourite character when I started watching the series (the live action was actually my first introduction to this world). I was prepared to be a Wei Wuxian fangirl through and through (I kind of am though Lan Wangji is still my number one). There is just something about Lan Wangji though. He isn’t an easy character to get to know. He is very aloof and closed-off. However, when you peel that back you see the layers of sadness and how solitude has really cut him off from everyone else. This is like catnip to me as I love the tortured characters. Wei Wuxian, for all the external crap he goes through, is still underneath a positive and upbeat person (no matter how many times it gets beaten out of him). Lan Wangji… there is just something so lonely about him. I cannot help but love him.

***************

And that there is my top ten characters from The Untamed! I didn’t include Jin Guangyao on this list (even though he is a great character – I more love to hate him than love him!) Hope you have enjoyed me rambling on about them. I love this series so much and I am probably boring everyone to pieces but I just can’t help but talk about it!

**I haven’t mentioned a few of my other favourites such as Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen but I didn’t want to spoil their story, I may do a separate post about the Yi City arc at some point…**

[nathanneedsausername]

Most Overlooked Movies in Oscar History

Well guys, its official, Green Book was awarded the highest honour a single film can be given. Best Picture. If you spent any time on Twitter the day after the 91st Academy Awards you will have noticed that film nerds were not exactly thrilled by the decision, film Twitter immediately erupted into a discussion about all the films that didn’t receive the nomination that may have been more worthy winners than Green Book. Films like Eighth Grade, The Miseducation of Cameron Post and If Beale Street Could Talk appear to have benefited far more in regard to free publicity than any of the actual nominees. Of course, this isn’t the first time that the academy has failed to acknowledge the real best of the year and it certainly won’t be the last. So, in the spirit of being mad at the Academy let’s take a look at some of the worst historical snubs of all time.Well guys, its official, Green Book was awarded the highest honour a single film can be given. Best Picture. If you spent any time on Twitter the day after the 91st Academy Awards you will have noticed that film nerds were not exactly thrilled by the decision, film Twitter immediately erupted into a discussion about all the films that didn’t receive the nomination that may have been more worthy winners than Green Book. Films like Eighth Grade, The Miseducation of Cameron Post and If Beale Street Could Talk appear to have benefited far more in regard to free publicity than any of the actual nominees. Of course, this isn’t the first time that the academy has failed to acknowledge the real best of the year and it certainly won’t be the last. So, in the spirit of being mad at the Academy let’s take a look at some of the worst historical snubs of all time.

The Avengers (2012)

Actual nominations: Argo, Amour, Beasts of the Southern Wild, Django Unchained, Les Misérables, Life of Pi, Lincoln, Silver Linings Playbook, Zero Dark Thirty.

The Academy has historically looked down on superhero films with no comic book adaptation receiving a Best Picture nod before Black Panther earlier this year. While The Avengers may not have been the most artistic or dramatic film of 2012 it is hard to deny it’s impact. When future generations look back on the films of the 2010s The Avengers will likely stand out as one of the most important releases. With the Marvel Cinematic Universe feeling like a part of everyday life it can be hard to remember just how big a risk this movie was at the time. Think pieces were all over the internet about how the film would ultimately end up as an unwatchable, convoluted mess of ideas that would end Joss Wheadon’s career. How wrong they were.

If the Best Picture award is supposed to honour the greatest and most important achievements in modern cinema then The Avengers absolutely deserved to end up on the ballot, but we don’t live in the universe where The Academy does cool stuff like that.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)

Actual nominations: Million Dollar Baby, The Aviator, Finding Neverland, Ray, Sideways.

How on earth did this happen? It truly amazes me that more members of the academy felt that Finding Neverland deserved more acclaim than Eternal Sunshine. Going of the assumption that the ‘best picture’ should be the film with all its filmmaking elements working perfectly together then Eternal Sunshine should win every year. Charlie Kaufman won the award for original screenplay and Kate Winslet received the only other nomination for lead actress, this film didn’t even receive a nomination in any of the technical categories. The treatment of Michel Gondry’s masterpiece by the Academy should be seen as a permanent black spot on the ceremony’s reputation.

Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988)

Actual Nominations: Rain Man, The Accidental Tourist, Dangerous Liaisons, Mississippi Burning, Working Girl

Hear me out on this one. Roger Rabbit is one of my all-time favourite movies and for that, I’ll admit, I’m a little bias. That being said I truly believe that this is one of the finest achievements in cinema history from a purely technical level. The nominees for the 61st Acadamy Awards are solid (for the most part wtf is going with The Accidental Tourist?) but none of these films are as impressive as what Robert Zemeckis and his team were able to achieve by mixing live action film with 2D animation. Roger Rabbit is more than just a gimmick however, this a very entertaining and genuinely compelling detective story at its core. Once again, the term ‘Best Picture’ feels perfectly defined while discussing this film, a film that wasn’t even considered for the award.

Donnie Darko (2001)

Actual Nominees: A Beautiful Mind, Gosford Park, In the Bedroom, Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, Moulin Rouge

Excuse my language but Donnie Darko is a fucking great movie. Here is another year where the nominees were pretty solid but come on you can’t tell me that Donnie Darko was too weird and abstract when you nominated Moulin bloody Rouge! Donnie Darko is the sort of film that is still being discussed to this day with so many incredibly well thought out details both in the direction and the screenplay. When you ask a film lover what is so special about the medium it is films like this that they will point to, with an excellent score, great performances, hypnotically simple editing and masterful direction it doesn’t put a foot wrong. Do I really have to spell out what the words ‘Best Picture’ mean again?

WALL.E (2008)

Actual Nominees: Slumdog Millionaire, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Frost/Nixon, Milk, The Reader

Let’s talk about animation for a bit. Only three animated films have ever been nominated for top prize (Beauty and the Beast, Up and Toy Story 3) considering the amount for excellent animated film are not those three I had a lot to choose from. With the likes of My Neighbour Totoro, Toy Story, Aladdin, The Little Mermaid, The Lion King, Princess Mononoke and The Nightmare Before Christmas going completely unnoticed the academy has found a way to further segregate the medium of animation from live-action film by introducing the ‘best animated feature’ award at the 2002 ceremony. This addition has led to films like Spirited Away, Finding Nemo, The Incredibles, Ratatouille, Frozen, Inside Out and most recently Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse receiving an award without having to let them compete with live action films. There are no academy rules that state animation cannot be considered for Best Picture it just doesn’t happen. I have singled out WALL.E because I think it showcases exactly what modern animation has achieved. WALL.E is a largely silent film with gorgeous visuals and a strong environmental message that is still accessible to general audiences, including children. Surly one of Pixar’s finest achievements deserves to be held in just as high regard as David Fancher’s 8th best film.

 Ps. You will notice a distinct lack of The Dark Knight in the 2008 nominations as well.

Psycho (1960)

Actual Nominees: The Apartment, The Alamo, Elmer Gantry, Sons and Lovers, The Sundowners

Another genre historically left out of the running is horror. Only 6 horror films have ever been up for the award (The Exorcist, Jaws, The Silence of the lambs, The Sixth Sense, Black Swan and Get Out). Horror is a genre that is often looked down upon in the film community for being ‘low-brow’ and not as artistic, a similar struggled as the one faced by the superhero genre. With important releases such as: Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Suspiria, Halloween, Alien, The Shining, Let he Right One In, Night of the Living Dead and perhaps most surprising, Psycho going unnoticed by the academy it is clear to see that there is a bias against the genre somewhere in Hollywood. Psycho is also emblematic of another problem with historic best picture nominations. What on earth is the academy’s issue with Alfred Hitchcock? Psycho is not the only of Hitchcock’s classic films not to receive the nomination, in fact North by Northwest, Vertigo, Rear Window and Dial M for Murder were all snubbed.

On a related note despite being nominated 5 times Hitchcock never received the Oscar for best director putting him in the prestigious company of: David Lynch, Terry Gilliam, Ridley Scott, Wes Anderson Quentin Tarantino, David Fincher, Edgar Wright, Spike Lee, Charlie Chaplin, Orson Wells and Stanley Kubrick. So, I guess you could say that it isn’t just the Best Picture category that doesn’t make sense.

 These were 6 examples I felt I could make a point out of, it is important to remember that many more examples are out there of revolutionary masterworks that went unrecognised come awards season. People don’t take into consideration what happens behind the scenes at the Oscars. The ceremony needs good ratings, The Academy needs to honour films with progressive messages that are easily digestible, and everyone has an agenda and wants to see their friends win. The Oscars are a lot of fun, it gives people like as a chance to talk about the films we loved that year hopefully see our favourites given some well-deserved recognition but let’s not take it more seriously than we should. Next year when the Academy inevitably choses to honour mediocrity remind yourself that The Third Man wasn’t nominated in 1950 or you could remind yourself that Singin’ in the Rain wasn’t nominated in 1953, alternatively mention that 2001: A Space Odyssey was snubbed in 1969, The Matrix in 2000, Back to the Future in 1986, Pan’s Labyrinth in 2007, Cool Hand Luke in 1968. Or if you want your could run into the street and shout about how, Duck Soup, Modern Times, His Girl Friday, Night of the Living Dead, The Shining, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, Oldboy, Reservoir Dogs and The Big Lebowski all weren’t nominated for god dammed thing.

Nathan Needs A Username’s Must See Movies: https://letterboxd.com/nathan_r_l/list/nathan-needs-a-usernames-must-see-movies/

Nathan Needs A Username’s Avoid At All Cost Movies: https://letterboxd.com/nathan_r_l/list/nathan-needs-a-usernames-avoid-at-all-cost/

[blah-blah-stranger-things]

Re: the El/Max/Mike dynamic

Spoilery thoughts/frustrations about Season 3 below about which I’m interested to hear other perspectives.

Let me just say first that I did enjoy ST3 and thought there were a lot of things it did well. Unfortunately I’m not going to talk about those things at the moment ‘cause I’m feeling peeved. 

So. Mike gets intimidated by Hopper (was hoping they wouldn’t lean too heavily into this, but they did, oh well) and lies to El because he thinks if he doesn’t they won’t get to see each other as often. Not a great move, but an understandable one. Max blows the lie out of proportion and recommends an action based both on her own relationship experience and (as I interpret it) some lingering resentment toward Mike - also not a great move, also an understandable one. El breaks up with Mike as a result (not great, understandable). Mike attempts to apologize and explain but is snubbed because of frustrations he privately expressed with Lucas (not particularly fair, but understandable). Mike and Max clash throughout the season over all of this.

This is a little subtle, but my problem isn’t with any of the characters’ actions themselves - put another way I don’t mind the writers’ choices as to what the characters did. They’re young teenagers. They do (said with affection) stupid impulsive things. My problem is with how the show appears to judge those actions. 

Most shows have a perspective that they impose on events. Some shows attempt to limit the visibility of this perspective, for better or worse, but Stranger Things generally doesn’t. This is a show where it’s pretty clear what the show thinks is good and what the show thinks is bad. Which is fine - I’m glad it has a perspective on how women are degraded in the workplace, for instance, and (also for instance) I don’t mind that it pushes the perspective that Hopper is ultimately a good person, despite being like 8 kinds of jackass this season. 

But the tonal signifiers that surround the El/Max/Mike conflict read to me as the show judging Mike to be the most in the wrong. He is the one who ultimately has to apologize - to my recollection neither El nor Max makes any statements or gestures taking ownership for their role in the conflict - and furthermore that apology is framed as Mike admitting he was wrong to keep El from hanging out with Max.

Did I... Did I miss the part where Mike was keeping El from hanging out with Max?

Like, I’m totally glad El did find the space to grow as an individual, and Max deserves credit for facilitating that. And I understand that Mike was monopolizing El’s time... but also vice-versa. It wasn’t like El said, “hey I want to go do something else” and Mike was like “nooo stay with meee” - she wanted to spend time with him. Again, I readily admit that may not have been the best thing for either of them and that both of them could benefit from some of those boundaries Joyce recommended. But it wasn’t Mike who made them spend all their time together, it was both of them, as the kind of gross way-too-into-each-other couple we’ve all met and rolled our eyes at and probably been at some point. 

Like I’ve seen enough posts complaining that Mike comes off as needy and controlling that I’m legitimately wondering if I missed a scene or something. Because to me, it seems like all three of them made dumb but understandable decisions of equal weight as it relates to this conflict, yet the show seems to only hold Mike responsible. 

(I could probably incorporate the scene where Max asks Nancy about whether Mike’s being too controlling into this discussion, too - everyone kind of gangs up on Mike there, which reads a little as a judgment by the show - but I think we’re supposed to understand Mike isn’t actually in the wrong there, especially given what happens to El’s powers as a result. Still I’m iffy enough on the show’s perspective around that moment to omit it from this rant. Except, apparently, as a closing parenthetical.)

Really curious to hear other people’s take on this.

[dakotacrisis]

Just A Friend (Not) Pt 3

Adrien is flustered, Marinette wants to help, and Plagg knows more than expected. (Happy belated birthday @wild-mare-of-prosecution!)

“Good evening, my lady,” Chat Noir landed on the roof, “I didn’t think you were coming out on patrol tonight.”

Marinette turned to her partner with a big smile. “I wasn’t but I finished all my work earlier.” She was also full of unbridled nervous energy that needed burned off.

“Far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth. You know I’m always happy to have you along.”

“I do.” they took off across the rooftops keeping an eye out for any trouble. Marinette was leaping by so fast that it felt like she was walking on air. It took her a minute to realize she had left her partner in the dust as a result.

She stopped and waited for him to catch up. “Tired tonight, chaton?”

“I’m afraid I’m not in the right mindset for patrolling tonight. Some stuff happened earlier today and it’s gotten me a tad confused.”

“Anything I can help with?”

He looked at her with those big sad kitten eyes and her heart started to melt. What could have possibly happened to her pun spewing partner that he was this out of it?

“Don’t worry yourself with it. I’ll figure it out later.” Chat assured her. Before she could call him on his bluff he changed the subject. “You on the other hand seem to have enough energy for the both of us. Something good happen or was finishing your work that motivating?”

Marinette blushed slightly thinking back on her day with Adrien. “I had a good day. Nothing you’d be interested in though.”

“What makes you think that? I’m interested in anything that makes my lady so happy.”

Marinette sighed as she gazed at her partner. She could lie to him. Tell him it was just a good day for vague happy reasons and not because she had went to lunch then had a study date with her crush that ended with a kiss. Then again if she was actually making headway with Adrien and it went somewhere then the next time Chat flirted with her she’d have to reject him again. Seeing as how he got all pouty on her anytime she snubbed his affections that didn’t seem a good idea. It was better to clear the air now.

“You remember that boy I said I’m in love with?” she said quietly.

Immediately Chat deflated. “Yeah?”

This isn’t fair! He needs to stop with the sad kitten eyes! Oh boy this was a mistake.

“Well...we pretty much spent the entire afternoon together and we have plans to hang out again tomorrow.”

“That...That’s great.”

“I told you you weren’t going to be interested.”

He was quiet for a long time. It went from normal processing silence to extremely awkward why-did-I-say-anything-in-the-first-place kind of silence. He definitely should have said something by now. Should she say something? He’s been staring off into the distance for a good five minutes straight. Did she break her partner? Please don’t be broken.

“Chat Noir?” she poked his shoulder.

That must have been the restart button because he snapped back into awareness and looked at her earnestly. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not upset about the whole other boy thing are you?”

“No.” Something changed in him. She couldn’t say what but he was calmer, more grounded.

“Excuse me for not believing that wholesale. You spaced out on me for a good while after I told you I was going on dates.”

“Apologies. I started thinking about something and let my thoughts run wild.” he sat down on the edge of the roof. Marinette went to join him as they stared out over the city. “I’m not upset about you going on dates with your crush. A part of me is actually kinda relieved to hear that you’re starting something.”

“Why is that?”

“Because there’s this girl that I have a huge crush on that I didn’t even realize I was crushing on her until this afternoon. I was so confused about how I could like two people at once and trying to figure out if one feeling trumped the other. Now, hearing you talk about the boy you like, well, it feels like the excuse I needed to let go and move on.”

“Let go?” Marinette couldn’t help the sad ache in her heart. Though she would never admit it she had always harbored a special place for Chat Noir in her heart. He isn’t just her partner but her friend and while he could irk her something fierce she never once wished he wasn’t around. A part of her always knew that under Adrien-free circumstances things between them may have been different. But this was not an Adrien-free world (thank goodness) and so while Chat had a spot in her heart the rest was completely Adrien’s.

“I’ll always love you as a friend, as a crush, and as my partner.” Chat laid a hand on top of hers. “But I know now that I can’t force you to feel something you don’t and I can’t keep pushing away how I obviously feel for someone else. I only hope that this doesn’t change anything between us.”

Marinette’s heart swelled with pride for her chaton. He was maturing. Being happy for her and understanding her side of things instead of giving her the cold shoulder and guilt tripping her. She was also glad to hear that he had someone of his own that he liked outside of her. Chat’s a great guy and he needed and deserved some proper attention and affection. If this girl hurts him though heads would roll.

She looked at him, her partner, and smiled. “Of course this doesn’t change anything. I’m happy for you. I hope for your sake that this girl you like can stomach all those puns, chaton.”

“Well I hope this boy you’re in love with can handle your painful attempts at pun making.”

“Painful?!” she gaped at him. “Excuse you but my puns are clever and hilarious.”

“You’re good at a great many things Ladybug but your puns are--how do I put this delicately--kinda obvious and not that humorous.”

Do not throw your partner across Paris. Do NOT throw your partner across Paris.

“You decide to let go of your crush on me and your immediate line of thought led you to insult my pun ability?”

“I say it because I care. You need to get punnier if this friendship is going to last.”

“You need to get faster if you leaving patrol with your tail attached is going to last.”

Slowly he started to inch away. “I sense I struck a nerve.”

“Insulting a girl’s pun prowess is no joking matter.”

“Ooh, you see, now that was a good one. Keep that up and you’ll catch up to me one day.”

“You are the biggest dork I have ever known and I have to live with myself.”

“And you’re never getting rid of me.”

“I would never want to.” she gave him a little scratch under his chin. They laughed for a moment before taking off over the roofs again. Marinette made as many puns as she could think of and Chat gave her scores out of ten for how good he thought they were. She never made it pass a six which seemed unfair but then again she was spouting off pretty cliche wordplay.

They wrapped up patrol and with a bow from Chat and another dumb but admittedly brilliant pun he leapt off into the night and Marinette returned home. She was glad things with her and Chat Noir had evened themselves out. Now that they had cleared the air she only had to worry about Nino’s party tomorrow and not making a fool of herself in front of Adrien.

Adrien landed back in his house and de-transformed. Plagg zipped off for his cheese while Adrien headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth before going to bed. This evening had not gone as he had expected. He was looking forward to having some time by himself to clear his head and think his whole Ladybug and Marinette feelings thing through but that went out the window when he saw his partner waiting at their usual meet up point.

Not that he wasn’t happy to see her. He was always happy to spend time with her but did curse that he seemed to keep getting his alone time pulled out from under him.

It turned out to be for the better in the long run. They talked and Adrien came to the conclusion that Ladybug was in love with someone else and he needed to accept that. This wasn’t a waiting game. He needed to do what was healthy and would guarantee that his friendship with both Ladybug and Marinette stayed intact. As hard as it was he let his Lady go. She was obviously immensely happy with this mystery boy and Adrien was growing more attached to Marinette with every bat of those baby blue eyes of hers.

He changed into his pajamas and nestled into bed. His mind was speeding by taking his sleep with it. After tossing and turning unable to turn his brain off for a full half hour he sighed in defeat and swung out of bed and turned on his computer. The multiple screens lit up with images from the Ladyblog.

He closed them all and pulled up his Instagram instead. There was a new post from surprise surprise: Marinette. It was a picture of an alarm clock flashing the late hour. ‘Dumb brain. I have stuff to do tomorrow! #letmesleep!’

Adrien liked the photo and scrolled through the other posts on her profile. A lot of them were candid shots of her with friends or family. Others were of designs she was working on or delicious arrangements of the sweets in her parents’ bakery. He paused on a picture of her sitting on her rooftop terrace with the rising sun shining bright but not nearly as radiant as her smile.

Why did he have to have a crush on someone so freaking cute? It just wasn’t fair. How was he expected to function normally when she looked like that? How was he supposed to compare to her? She’s easily the most popular girl in school, she’s insanely talented, and rivals the courage of Ladybug herself. She is fourteen and has connections to Jagged Stone, Clara Nightingale, Nadja Chamack, her world famous chef uncle. She was publicly recognized and praised by Adrien’s hard to please father as well as Chloe’s even harder to please mother! She designs half the clothes she wears and they look professionally made. She was stylish and cute and no doubt she was going to wear something amazing to Nino’s party tomorrow. It would probably be pink. She looks great in pink. This is so bad! He’s gonna look like a complete idiot tomorrow. Not to mention that he promised her a dance. What if he stepped on her feet? What if he got all sweaty? No one wants to dance with a clumsy idiot with sweaty hands that can’t look a girl in the eye because everytime he does he forgets how to speak properly.

Why did Alya and Nino have to make him confront his feelings? This would be so much easier if he had been allowed to stay oblivious.

“You okay, kid?” Plagg asked when he noticed his holder spiraling deeper into his anxiety.

“She’s so great, Plagg. How am I supposed to do anything?” Adrien muttered.

“You’re both a mess so I don’t think she’ll notice you floundering.”

“Shockingly, that doesn’t help me any.”

“What do you want me to say? You’re the one in love with a girl that already has a huge crush on you and is freaking out over whether you’re gonna screw it up before anything’s begun. Get some sleep and stop worrying about it.”

“You’re right.” Adrien slipped back under the covers of his bed, “I shouldn’t be--wait what?! Marinette has a crush on me? Plagg? How do you know that? Plagg! I know you’re not asleep! Plagg! PLAGG!”

---

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