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gossamer-sky · 3 years ago

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what can I say // to make me exist

I've never written anything for Reddie before, but basically they've ruined my life lmao. I wrote this entire thing while listening to the Euphoria soundtrack so here you are 🙃 Anyone else still reading this pairing in 2022??

AnywaY I'm so nervous to post but I can't look at this anymore; little rushed as I'm just heading out but wanted this up today, so let me know if any formatting is off and I'll edit later (but like, please nicely bc i am v sensitive thank u bless)! 💖

Eddie x Richie

Disclaimer: Characters aren’t mine, just the fic!

Word count: ~ 6000

Warnings: Sexual content, 18+ (also filthy language bc of who the characters are as people)

Chapter one of two (second chap is written & in edits)

On AO3 here

The dog days of summer have been unbearable for as long as Eddie can remember.

Endless days stretching into restless nights, the burning sun a looming threat overhead. He hates how easily he overheats, damp air curling his hair at his ears, skin sticky and grimy no matter how often he showers. It’s insufferable and his temper simmers close to the surface, even more so than normal.

This year it seems even worse than usual; oppressive heat boiling hotter and hotter as the week drags on, and the air conditioning at Eddie’s office has been broken for nearly the entire time. With each passing day the temperature has been steadily increasing. There is a shimmering cloud of steam that seems to rise from the pavement itself, humidity so thick that it’s nearly tangible. Before Eddie even sits down at his desk in the morning he’s already shifting unhappily in his suit, sweat beading at his brow, chest tight from the muggy air.

The city is aching for a good rain, the kind that seems to wash everything clean and fresh. Weather reporters have been predicting a summer storm for days now, but instead the sun continues to beat down, relentless, and Eddie can’t fucking breathe. He’s jittery, on edge, trying to focus on the work in front of him but only succeeding in staring at a blank document. As the afternoon comes to a close, he just can’t take it anymore, and makes his way down the hall to the washroom to splash some cold water on his face. On his way back he overhears Sharon on the phone at the front desk, catching enough of the broken conversation to suss out that there won’t be anyone available to come in to fix the a/c until Monday.

It’s currently Wednesday.

Eddie doesn’t know if the heat really is getting to him and frying his brain cells, but there’s something building in him with every degree that the thermometer ticks up. A seething, smoldering sensation, setting his teeth on edge; he yanks at his tie in frustration. There’s an itch he can’t scratch, right under the surface - a niggling at the back of his brain. An infuriating little voice that tells him that he’s missing something. That there is something important just beyond his reach, and Eddie’s not sure if the misery of late summer is to blame or perhaps something else entirely, but he just feels -

Reckless.

Reckless enough that when Myra calls him to confirm their date for that night, he pauses. The words leave his mouth without conscious thought, calmly telling her that he’s feeling a bit sick and would they be able to reschedule? He can’t even bring himself to feel ashamed that it’s only their third outing and he’s already making up excuses; a sigh of relief escapes when she wishes him a speedy recovery and hangs up. It’s not fair to her to lie, but Eddie truly can’t stomach the thought of sitting across from her, making polite conversation for an entire evening. He runs his fingers through his hair in a nervous tic, annoyed with himself only moments later when he realizes that he’s messed up the carefully gelled back style.

God. It’s so fucking warm.

Since he’s wasted nearly the entire day on the cusp of a breakdown, he’s determined to finish a proposal before leaving for the night; there is no reason to rush home anymore, and Eddie has squandered nearly the entire day consumed by his own distraction. He’s attempting to swallow down the pathetic excuse for a salad he bought for supper when a knock on his door startles him.

His boss, Andrew, pokes his head in. “Still here, champ?”

Champ. Jesus, what a moron.

“Yeah,” Eddie attempts to paste a smile on his face but it’s bland and half-hearted at best. “Just finishing up.”

“Don’t work too hard. Edward! You’ll make the rest of us look bad!” He throws his head back with a grating laugh and a throbbing headache blooms right between Eddie’s temples.

The remainder of his coworkers trickle out slowly as the clock ticks on. By the time he’s finished with the proposal, nearly starting a fistfight with the copier in the process, it’s well into the evening; city lights growing brighter outside his window.

It isn’t until he steps onto the sidewalk outside that he realizes he still doesn’t want to go home just yet. The sky is tinted gray and dark clouds brew in the distance. It seems that the predicted storm is finally on the horizon, the smell of rain heavy in his nose when he inhales. The hair on the back of his neck nearly stands on end at an ominous rumble from above. Wind whips at his cheeks, still warm, without the impending chill. Eddie takes a shuddering breath in, the heat still weighing solid on his shoulders. Agitated, he strips off his blazer, carelessly slinging it over his arm. The tie follows, yanking it off with such force that he gets an odd look from a passing lady who appears old enough to be his grandmother.

Anxious energy still rattles through him, knocking incessantly behind his ribs, so he starts walking in an effort to burn it out of his system. He walks and walks, until the neighborhood becomes less familiar around him, searching for something but he doesn’t know what; doesn’t know why it feels impossible for him to turn around. It’s as though there is something out there calling for him tonight, a siren in the distance, whirling enticingly just beyond his reach. The heat still hasn’t broken even as low thunder rolls again, and Eddie hastily shoves up his sleeves to the elbow, that shaky tension returning tenfold. Storms always reminded him of childhood, though he couldn’t say why.

Doesn’t fucking remember anyway.

His shirt is nearly plastered to him and he hates the sensation. God fuck, it’s hot and he can feel that energy is close to breaking (thought he can’t quite tell if it’s from the coming storm or the troubling thoughts inside him). There’s apprehension wound tight in the air, lightning ready to strike at any minute, static current crackling above. He’s out of control, knows it, even as he continues down the street. He just wants something, is waiting for something; for the other shoe to drop, for anything. He just can’t fucking breathe in the suffocating heat, can’t get the oxygen deep enough into his lungs. At this point he would give nearly anything for the cool rain on his skin, to experience some crumb of relief, but the sky has yet to open up and Eddie is spiraling into a panic attack; the setting sun pings off a sign directly into his eye. He stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk.

There is a bar in front of him, run down but inviting.

He shouldn’t.

Eddie really wants a fucking drink though.

It doesn’t look like much inside, the door thudding heavily behind him. Eddie starts when it swings shut. Cool air hits him in a rush, overwhelming in it’s reprieve. He stands in the entrance for a moment, frozen while he inhales deep before slowly making his way further in. The lighting is dim, giving an almost otherworldly ambiance to the place. It’s clearly not a new establishment, decor not modern by any means, but Eddie likes it. Something about it rings of sincerity and it seems clean enough for his standards, inspecting the area intently before sitting down at the far corner of the bar. There's a moment when he goes to order that the words get caught in his throat. It’s been so long since he’s been out just on his own, not suckered into sipping a glass of red wine while enduring painful conversations with his coworkers or over a stilted dinner date. He doesn’t really remember what he used to drink in college, despite only being graduated for a handful of years.

Most of college is a blur actually, the years passing as if they belonged to someone else.

He settles on a rum and coke, the sudden burn staggering. Eddie likes that too, savouring the sting, and once he’s halfway done with the glass he finds the racing thoughts of what this could be doing to his liver fizzle out (the nagging voice at the back of his head that sounds an awful lot like his late mother, may she rest in fucking peace). The room isn’t full, unsurprising considering it’s a weekday; most of the booths are occupied by clusters of two to three people quietly talking amongst themselves. There’s a handful of single patrons seated along the bar, but no one glances Eddie’s way, even the bartender focused elsewhere. Music plays overhead, barely legible; it’s strangely comforting to be alone with so many other people.

He can’t say what draws his gaze, but when the front door thuds shut he turns with the noise. The sky is still steadily darkening outside, wind picking up from the looks of it, but that’s not what has Eddie staring. A man is framed in the doorway, silhouette highlighted by the shitty lighting, and Eddie’s stomach drops so hard that he has to grip the edge of the counter to ground himself. Broad shoulders stretched wide under the most revolting button-up he’s ever seen, legs a mile long. He’s far enough away that Eddie can’t quite see the details of his face, but his eyes catch on a sharp jaw, dark curls just long enough to brush the back of his collar. His whole body lights up immediately just from a glance , and a shivery breath slides out of his mouth.

Eddie’s throat is dry from the sight of him.

He hastily tears his gaze away, hoping he wasn’t looking for too long. Jesus. He swallows a large mouthful of his drink, coughing slightly when it scorches his throat on the way down.

He’s ordering another drink before he’s quite finished with the first.

Eddie refuses to look up again, staring hard down into his glass, cheeks burning for no reason at all. There's a steady thrum under his skin now, and Eddie doesn’t quite know if it’s from the alcohol or something else entirely. Shifting in his seat, trying hard not to think of anything, keeping everything blank. Just wants his mind fucking quiet for once.

His focus is so intent on not thinking that he doesn’t notice the presence beside him, until there is a brush of fabric at his elbow. Eddie glances over sharply; a stranger is seated one stool over from him, leaning across the counter to speak to the bartender. It’s the same man from before, and Eddie attempts to appear unaffected, but he can’t keep his goddamn eyes away, drawn in like a moth to a flame. The fabric of his shirt is even more of an affront to his vision up close.

Eddie tries and fails not to notice their proximity, caught by the stretch of those (big, so fucking big) shoulders, close enough to touch. He crosses his ankles, searing all over with the need to reach out before he mercilessly tamps down on the desire.

The stranger turns to him then, drink in hand and the light bounces off his glasses. Eddie is thrown for a moment, sudden memories of echoing laughter, pedals under his feet, light filtered through trees, gone as quickly as they fill his head.

“Hey,” he leans in a bit. “Don’t I know you?”

Eddie blinks.

“No.” Tone sharp, matter-of-fact. He almost winces at the sound of it. I’d remember you, he doesn’t say. God, would I remember you.

He doesn’t falter at Eddie’s clear dismissal, smile widening at the reply. “You sure? You seem familiar.” His body slides further toward Eddie, who tries his best not to do anything ridiculous like flinch back (or even worse, meet him halfway). The man squints. “You weren’t the guy that offered me a room to rent and then stole my favorite ashtray, right?

“What the fuck? No! What is wrong with you?” It comes out in a rush, Eddie flustered and riled up immediately.

“So much!” He replies cheerfully before extending a hand. “Richie Tozier.”

Eddie looks down at his hand with disdain, that same tickle at the very back of his brain. He looks back up at Richie’s glasses and clearly exits his body for a moment, because he reaches out to grasp Richie’s hand. “Eddie.”

Richie’s palm is wide and a little damp from the condensation of his glass. A spark runs from the very top of his skull right down to Eddie’s toes, and they stare at each other for just a moment too long.

“No last name? That’s fine, I’ll just have to make one up for you.”

“I’m not giving a stranger my last name, are you fucking kidding me? How do I know you aren’t a stalker? I’m not getting murdered by some freak in a hideous shirt, go fuck yourself.” His response is a stream of consciousness, the way he usually avoids talking at work, or with Myra, or around anyone actually, but he just can’t help himself.

Richie just throws his head back and laughs, and Eddie can’t stop gawking at the curve of his throat. “Okay Eddie Spaghetti, have it your way.” He gestures to the empty booth in the corner. “Drink with me, and then we won't be strangers anymore.” He wiggles his eyebrows as he talks, incredibly pleased with himself.

Eddie really shouldn’t, he is going to say no any minute now, but Richie says it like a dare, and instead, what comes out of his mouth is “You’re buying.” Eddie takes a step closer once he hops off the barstool, momentarily dizzy when he looks up to meet those blue eyes. Fuck, they’re so blue, so fucking blue it almost makes him angry, bright enough to stand out even in the dim light.

“And don’t fucking call me a pasta dish.”

Read on AO3

#i know this has nothing to do w my usual content #so if any of you do end up reading this just know that i am v grateful for your continued support!#reddie #reddie fic #during the 27 years #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #richie x eddie #it 2019 #my fic

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yuta1forme · 4 years ago

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light & shadow pt. 1 | yuta

summary: standing in line for doyoung’s book signing, yuta wonders if he has ever acted normally around you

author’s note: i had no idea how else to split this story into a readable format so this will be a two (maybe three) part series! as always let me know if you would like to be tagged in the future parts!

taglist: @sweet-rintarou

prologue: [21:26]

genre: fluff, friends to lovers, college!au (this part)

pairing: yuta x reader

length: 1.7K

There are certain fundamental truths Yuta knows about the universe - the sun always rises in the east, milk goes before cereal and that Nakamoto Yuta does not blush.

“Nakamoto Yuta, do I have permission to flirt with you in Japanese?”, the translation app reads out in its robotic voice. He whips his head around to face you as if the words had left your mouth and not the phone held in your hand. And then he feels it. That unfamiliar heat rising to his neck and cheeks. One look at the amused grin on your face and he knows that you have noticed too. If there is one thing that has not changed in all eleven years of him knowing you, it’s that he should always expect the unexpected from himself when he is around you.

Even right now, hearing you gush about your attractive new coworker, Yuta feels an unfamiliar knot of form in the pit of his stomach. He suspects that it is the protectiveness he feels towards you that is making him feel so strangely antagonistic towards this man he has never met. But there is a niggling feeling at the back of his mind that tells him that that’s not the only reason why.

You always had a way of getting a reaction out of him that no one else could, always had him feeling emotions that he didn’t know he could feel. His relationship with you, while not better or worse than the relationship he had with any of his other friends, was certainly different. It always had been.

In freshman year, equipped with only a translation app on his phone, Yuta left his hometown of Osaka for Seoul. He had been offered a full-ride sports scholarship by Sooman University. He would play for the school’s soccer team and pursue, to his parents’ relief, a more “practical” degree in Business Management.

He would be playing with the team where some of his favourite soccer players had first gotten their start before moving to the Japanese league. It was a dream come true. Well, almost.

He had just never imagined it would be quite this...lonely.

Over his first month in the city, he could count the number of people he had spoken to on one hand. The first was his roommate with whom his conversations were limited to “hello” and “good morning”. The second and third were two middle-aged cafeteria ladies, who would coo over him and give him an additional helping whenever they saw that he was down. The younger of the two looked so much like his aunt, that it made his heart long for his family back in Osaka.

The fourth and final person was Mr. Jung Yunho, the Student Affairs Counsellor - an energetic man in his early thirties who had lived in Japan for most of his adult life. He had sense that something was amiss and had tried to pry into what was bothering Yuta right from their first meeting. After about three weeks of beating around the bush, Yuta had finally, begrudgingly, confided in him about his homesickness and his trouble communicating in Korean. Mr Jung had listened intently through it all, occasionally patting his shoulder to comfort him.

“You must feel very lonely, Yuta”, the older man had told him, resting one hand on his shoulder, eyes shining with sincerity.

It was lonely. He didn’t have a single person he could call a friend. Everyone he had met thus far seemed so busy, living a life far too fast paced to notice the quiet foreign student at the back of the lecture hall. He wondered if anyone in his classes would even notice if he stopped attending lectures. The only time he felt like he belonged somewhere was when he was playing soccer with the team, but even then he wondered whether he could call his teammates, his friends.

“Let’s start with helping you communicate first, shall we?”, Mr Jung had said, interrupting his self effacing train of thought.

“I’ll put you in touch with someone who can help tutor you in Korean. A Korean Literature student who’s been working with some other foreign students as well. I have a gut feeling you two will become great friends!”

That was how Yuta had come to know you. He clicked on your kakaotalk profile picture and zoomed in to your beaming face. You had one of those warm, welcoming faces. A face that one would trust immediately. Your face gave the impression that smiling was your resting face. The laugh lines on either side of your mouth and the crinkles beside your eyes were further proof of that.

Yuta had sent you a short, impersonal message introducing himself as the student Mr. Jung wanted you to tutor. He had not wanted to get his hopes up. Having been all by himself in a foreign country for the past month, being dependent on someone felt strange to him.

Still, before he went to bed that night he found himself refreshing his messages, hoping for a notification from you. As his luck would have it, you hadn’t replied even the following morning. Yuta had swallowed the lump forming in his throat, pushing any disappointment out of his mind.

You made the decision to move, all on your own, to this country far away from your friends and family, where you don’t even speak the native language. You have to face the consequences on your own too. Y/N is not obligated to help you. No one is. This is your own battle, for you to fight on your own.

With those thoughts in mind, he had busied himself with getting ready for the first match of the season against the neighbouring university.

At half-time, Sooman University was trailing behind Seoul University with a score of 3-1. With the centre forward benched because of a foul, things weren’t looking up for the team. Yuta had made several attempts to score a goal throughout the game but had been stopped by the right-back, Park Minsoo, on Seoul University’s team. He was much taller than Yuta and had a larger build, which he used to his advantage.

If there was one thing he absolutely hated, it was foul play. Yuta’s teammates had tried signalling to the referee that Park had been playing dirty, but the referee, infamous for being biased towards the Seoul University team, had brushed off their concern.

After having collided with him several times over the last half, Yuta was getting impatient. He knew this wouldn’t end well for him but he had let his anger get the best of him. After another foul-worthy tackle from Park, Yuta used his side to shove the man out of his way with all his energy. Perhaps it was the momentum with which Yuta had crashed into him or pure dramatics, Park landed on his back howling in anger.

The referee blew his whistle to signal a pause and the players from both teams began fighting amongst each either, trying to put the blame on the opposing team’s player. The situation with Park must have been grave because the Seoul team’s coach and manager hurried on to the pitch as well. Yuta’s team captain stepped forward to defend Yuta from the wrath of the other side. But ofcourse, being Japanese, Yuta barely understood a word being spoken. There was no way he would be able to dig himself out of this.

The thought of being benched for the rest of the semester crept into his mind. The fear of losing his scholarship made his legs tremble and he instantly regretted not heeding his older sister’s lifelong advice to him to be more gentle.

Then you appeared. Like an angel, only instead of white robes and a halo made of pure light, you wore a blinding neon green visor and an equally garish hot pink t-shirt bearing the Korean Literature Department’s logo. He saw you hop down the bleachers and squeeze through half a dozen sweaty soccer players, to thrust yourself in between Yuta and the opposing team’s coach. You explained somewhat emphatically to the referee that Yuta was a foreigner who barely spoke Korean and that any missteps on his part were purely a misunderstanding because of the language barrier. The man didn’t seem convinced, grumbling and gesturing animatedly at the two of you, egged on further by the other coach’s growing impatience.

Yuta wished he could understand what was being said. He tried to hang on to every word being spoken, but the adrenaline from the tackle and the heightened atmosphere made it even harder for him to concentrate. He picked up a few words here and there. A mention of a foul. Then someone yelling out the word suspension, which made him clench his fist so hard he thought he would pop a vein in his arm.

But he understood the last words to come out of your mouth, perfectly well.

“Please let my friend off the hook this one time? I apologise on his behalf”.

Friend. No, he definitely had not misheard that. You had called him your friend.

You had yanked Yuta forward by the arm, pushing his head down into a deep bow. Yuta took the hint and apologised, somewhat robotically, to Park and his coach. He was not bothered by the condescending smirk on Park’s face or the dirty looks that were thrown his way by the rest of the Seoul team as he allowed himself to be dragged off the field by you.

You dragged him quickly to the empty booths near the back of the stadium, sat him down and handed him a bottle of Gatorade.

“I saw your text. I’m really sorry I didn’t reply any earlier. But to be fair I had wished you good luck with your game but I doubt you saw my message considering you were down here getting shoved around by that asshole Park”, you had started rambling while Yuta chugged the drink.

Then he did something that he would cringe about for years to come. He should have known right then, on day one, that he could never act like his usual self around you.

He had shot up out of the seat, stepped forward and pulled you right into his arms, lifting you a couple of inches up in the air due to the sheer force. Through shaky breaths, he had whispered out a barely audible thank you to you. To his relief, you didn’t fight him off.

After a few seconds, you broke the silence and embrace.

“Hey, I know I just saved your ass but you’re kind of really stinky from the sweat”, you had said in between giggles.

He had dropped you back down and grinned somewhat apologetically at you in response.

After that day, he was no longer alone.

#yuta #nakamoto yuta #yuta fluff #yuta scenarios #yuta college au #nct #nct 127 #nct scenarios #nct fluff #nct friends to lovers #nct college au #yuta friends to lovers #moonrise

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oloreaa · 4 years ago

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Vencuyanir Ch.4 - The Jawas

vencuyanir [ven-COO-yah-neer]: sustain, keep alive, preserve

Summary: Negotiating with Jawas turns out to be easier than negotiating with a Mandalorian

Words: 5.2k

Notes: Thank you all for reading this and giving it a chance! I may or may not have made up stuff about Jawas and made them cute, Elana is being petty and Mando has had a very long day and is sick of it.

Warnings: canon-typical violence (gun violence), separation from children

▪ Previous ▪ Masterlist ▪ Vencuyanir ▪ Next ▪

……………

The four of them rode through the whole night, the storm thankfully letting up after a few hours and the rest of the night was spent under clear skies.

It was unbearably cold; the wet clothes stuck to Elana’s skin; her limbs were completely chilled through, she was constantly shivering, and goosebumps covered every inch of her body. Her fingers were almost blue, nails digging painfully into her palms but she could not bring herself to loosen them. Elana knew that if the Mandalorian had not given her his cape, the cold night of Arvala-7 would have finished her hours ago, the cold amplified by the damp clothes and the icy breeze.

She did everything to muffle the way her teeth were chattering, burying her face in her propped up knees, trying to preserve what little body warmth she still possessed. From what she could feel, Bean was soundly asleep even after the nasty shock he had received with the violent storm, and she tried to draw some of the fuzzy warm feelings over the bond, wrapping herself in a bubble of warmth. It was like a blanket placed around her, weighing her down and keeping the cold at bay. It felt like a warm rush through her entire body the more she drew on the bond, grasping it with shaky and unpractised fingers, trying not to grasp it too tightly so it would not slip between her fingers like sand. Maybe it was a placebo effect, maybe it truly helped, but Elana had a niggling feeling that without the bond she probably would not have survived the night.

When the sun finally rose after long hours of darkness, she could have cried in joy. The first rays of light were like a tender kiss, chasing the lingering cold away, and with every inch of the star in the Arvala system rising over the jagged mountain range on the horizon, Elana started to properly warm up, able to lessen her grip on the bond. It was not long, maybe a quarter of an hour before Kuiil cleared his throat, and spoke up.

"The Sandcrawler should not be far now, Mandalorian."

"Good," was the only thing he said, voice raspy from the night. Elana stared at what was in front of her, observing the reddish brown rocks bypassing them while chewing nervously at her lower lip. Was it childish of her to hope that the Jawas would not trade his parts back? To hope that they would deny the Mandalorian his request?

It probably would not help at all but she started praying to the Maker, unable to help her own pettiness. Please don't let him get his parts back, please don't let him get his parts back, please let the Jawas be little annoying hellions that refuse him, please, please, please.

Elana opened the pram with still frozen fingers, checking on the baby, who was still snoring, his blanket lying haphazardly across his body. She tucked them into his side to keep him warm, and he just let out a loud snore in response. Bean woke up some time later, cooing loudly as he opened his eyes and frowned at the daylight. Sitting up and peering over the edge, he made another displeased squeak and laid down. He tumbled around in his pod until he finally settled down, burying his face in his pillow. Elana watched in amusement as his ears twitched and his claws kneaded his blankets until he turned around again, sat up, and put on the face of the grumpiest baby in the parsec.

He evidently did not want to be awake and was making that very clear by whining loudly, stretching his arms out to her. Elana was over by his side in a second, and placed him in her lap as best as she could with the cuffs, and she maneuvered her arms so he would be engulfed by them, pulling him close to her. He leaned his head back against her chest, and after a short fussy period, started to watch the sunrise.

The whole sky appeared as if it was aflame, orange melting into gold, the few stray clouds reflecting the light beautifully, and she could understand why Bean was enraptured with the sight. He looked up at her, and pointed towards the sky with a excited coo, and a faint Pretty! was conveyed across the bond. She smiled at his reaction, and rested her cheek on top of his head, turning her face towards the Mandalorian.

Judging by the tilt of his helmet, he had been watching them, and she just looked back, face blank, studying his helmet.

It was so simple, she thought. Just plain, unadorned silver beskar with a black T-visor, and the characteristic Mandalorian curve of the helmet at where the cheeks would be. And yet it was terrifying in its simplicity, a warning of its own. It seemed to scream stay away, radiating an uncanny sense of danger that could be due to the beskar, maybe even due to the wearer underneath. Regardless of what it actually was, the fact remained that the bounty hunter was straight up terrifying.

How Bean was not scared of him, she would never know, because even she was scared of the Mandalorian.

Elana was ripped out of her musings as Kuiil spoke up. "The Sandcrawler is there," he said, pointing towards a tiny visible bit of the Sandcrawler that peeked out from behind some rock formations.

The Mandalorian sat up straight, and readjusted the rifle resting on his thighs, hand twisting around a piece, making a quiet click.

"The rifle is not something the Jawas will like to see," Kuiil warned, turning around with a frown.

The Mandalorian scoffed. "I don't care," was the only thing he said, and his hands tightened on the rifle.

It took about an hour more until they rounded the last corner, and the Sandcrawler came into sight once again. Elana had to swallow as she stared up at the huge structure, having been too far away to truly appreciate the absolute size of it. How did creatures as tiny as Jawas manage to build something like that? There had to have been a whole Jawa village hidden inside the structure, every nook and cranny filled with the creatures.

Kuiil started to wave, and spoke something in a language she assumed to be Jawa, but hearing it from a species with a lower register than theirs was jarring. The Jawas started to stir while yells filled the air, and they propped up their blasters directly at them, the hostility in the air weighing down the interaction. "They really don't like you for some reason," Kuiil said while he turned around on his blurrg, raising an eyebrow at the Mandalorian, who sighed.

"Well, I did disintegrate a few of them," the Mandalorian said wryly, and Elana huffed at the deadpan answer. That was the understatement of the century.

"You need to drop your rifle," the Ugnaught instructed.

"I'm a Mandalorian," he said, "Weapons are part of my religion."

Elana could not help but stare at him. Was having absolutely no sense in diplomacy also a part of his religion?, she snarked in her mind, rolling her eyes subtly. How did he expect to be able to get any of his parts back if he immediately went on the offensive? It was not that she actually wanted him to get his parts back. Elana couldn’t care less about the Mandalorian. It would actually benefit her and Bean if the negotiations failed, and she was glad for anything that would set him back a bit. And if he wanted to be aggressive towards the Jawas, fine.

The Mandalorian was not only severely outnumbered, but outgunned as well. And if they got involved in a shootout, the only one that could be of help was Kuiil, as she was cuffed and her first priority would have been to get Bean to safety.

"Then you're not getting your parts back," Kuiil said, tone dry as bones, agreeing with her thoughts.

The Mandalorian sighed deeply. "Fine," he said, and in that singular word he managed to perfectly convey the level of his annoyance.

The clamouring of the Jawas became louder, and they yelled at each other, crowing voices filling the air. Bean shrank back in her arms, overwhelmed with the sudden increase in noises. The Mandalorian put the rifle down as Kuiil dismounted the blurrg, and dropped down from the sledge, trailing after the Ugnaught. The Jawas raised their guns at them, and Kuiil sighed heavily.

"And the blaster," he spelled out, and with an annoyed grunt, the Mandalorian chucked the gun right in front of her on the sledge, making her flinch from the sudden motion. And it was probably on purpose too, that asshole. Glaring up at him, he had already turned around, the sunlight reflecting off the back of his beskar helmet. She watched as both of them sat down with the Jawas, Kuiil with grace, the Mandalorian begrudgingly.

The negotiations started.

Elana kept a careful eye on her companions, holding Bean close as some of the other Jawas started to advance, probably curious about the unlikely pair Bean and her made. She was aware that Jawas only stole parts and not creatures, thus she was not overly worried, but she still shielded Bean subtly, just in case one wanted to make a grab for her baby.

"They will trade all the parts for the beskar," she heard Kuiil say.

"I'm not gonna trade anything," the Mandalorian scoffed, venom dropping from his words, "These are my parts. They stole them from me." Then he started to stutter a phrase in Jawa, pointing accusingly at the little robed creatures.

They replied something back in a mocking tone, the only word she was able to catch was "Wookie". Elana inwardly winced, recognising an insult when it was spoken, and with how tense the Mandalorian suddenly became, she prepared herself for an incoming confrontation. But still, she did not expect for him to snarl: "You understand this?" and the blast of fire bursting from his vambrace right at the Jawas.

Even from the distance, she flinched back, suddenly glad that she had not talked back too much if that was the reaction he could have given. Mentally noting that she should shut her mouth in the future, Elana shifted Bean on her lap, who gave a concerned coo at her.

"No!" Kuiil yelled, and grabbed the Mandalorian's arm, "Whoa, easy, easy."

He started to talk in Jawa again, presumably apologising for the Mandalorian trying to roast them alive. The Jawas near her started to creep closer as the negotiations went on, the Mandalorian and Jawas having settled down, and she shrank back from the edge of the sled, slowly beginning to feel worried by the hungry gazes in the Jawa's shadowed faces.

"Get away from them!" The Mandalorian suddenly roared, and she gave a full body jerk at the rage in his voice, heart skipping a beat, the colour draining from her face. The Jawas scatter at the command, slinking away to mutter amongst them.

"There must be something else," she heard Kuiil say, voice relaxed, but she was too busy in calming her thundering heart after the scare the Mandalorian gave her. The Jawa turned around, starting to discuss amongst themselves, then turned back around. Had a solution been found?

The only word she could make out over the distance was "Suga". Elana frowned. What was that?

Kuiil groaned and let his face fall into his hand.

"The Egg? What Egg?" The Mandalorian asked, head whipping around, confusion in his voice.

The Jawas started to chant gleefully: "Suga! Suga, suga, suga!"

They were quick in ushering all of them up into the Sandcrawler, shouting and crowing as they went, the excitement in every Jawa palpable. The inside of the Sandcrawler was surprisingly clean, Elana thought, the parts that they had scavenged actually stacked carefully and sorted after size and use. Bean was sitting safe in his pram again and Elana kept a sharp eye on the floating pod while the Jawas were moving, parting like water around them.

The sled and the blurrg were also moved into the hull of the Sandcrawler, and as the ramp was lifted, dim orange lights inside flickered on, casting them all in soft, warm light. Shadows lingered in the corners of the structure, and every now and then glowing eyes stared back from the dark, making a shiver run down her back.

"Suga," a Jawa told her, whooping in joy as she hesitantly nodded, and waved his arms around, "Suga!"

Elana leaned over to the Mandalorian, seeing Bean wriggle in his pram. "What does suga mean?" Elana asked, looking up at the beskar helmet.< /> The bounty hunter sighed deeply. "An egg," he explained, "They say it's a Mudhorn egg."

"A Mudhorn?" Elana stared at him, before letting out an incredulous laugh, "Are you serious?"

He said nothing, just tilted his head at her, and she realised that yes, he was serious.

"You do know what a Mudhorn is, right?"

No response.

Ehe gawked at him, wide eyed, trying to understand what was happening behind that beskar, inside his head. "You know, huge, aggressive, territorial, and not to mention terrifying beasts?"

"What of it?" The Mandalorian asked, tone infuriatingly calm.

"Are you perhaps short of a marble?" Elana barely managed to get her voice under control so she would not outright screech at him, "You want to go steal a Mudhorn egg for them?"

"I want my parts back," he said, voice tense.

"You won't get them back if you're dead!" Elana hissed, her cuffed hands clenched into fists, and she did not know why she was even bothering with the senseless bounty hunter. If he had a death wish, so be it.

"I can handle it." He moved, and was suddenly towering above her, the air around him becoming dangerous.

Purposely ignoring the way he was fuming, she shouldered on, barely resisting the urge to poke him in the chestplate.

"You can handle it?" Elana asked, barely able to keep the mocking tone out of her voice, "Like you handled the Sandcrawler?"

"I lived, didn't I."

She scoffed incredulously, "You fell from a height like that and you want to take on a Mudhorn next? The horn alone is as tall as you are!"

"Cut it out, caretaker," the Mandalorian suddenly snarled, and she flinched away when he stepped into her personal space, oh, maybe she had gone too far, what was it about that flamethrower again?, his anger filled the air, "Don't you have better things to do, like look after the baby?"

Elana gaped at him, fury rising in her chest at his patronising tone. Her trepidation for the Mandalorian vaporized into thin air. "At least the baby has more common sense than you," she said, lifting her chin at him in a challenging manner.

He gave an angry grunt, and his body twitched towards her, which made her flinch back, the white hot anger in her being replaced by ice cold fear once again.

Bean gave a loud, worried coo, and it broke the tension between them. Quickly turning around to the baby in the pram, Elana used the opportunity to put some distance between them, backing away from the bounty hunter as far as she could, adrenaline pumping through her veins. For a moment she truly expected that he would smack her or silence her in some manner, her heart beating fast in her chest at the thought.

If I had not been this confrontational--

But it was too late, anyways, and the best thing she could do was to stay the hell out of his path. Stomping past her, the Mandalorian barked a sharp question at some Jawas, and they pointed him to another part of the ship.

Watching him go, Elana let out a sigh of relief, and it was not long before Kuiil approached her and asked her to sit with him, clearly having witnessed the fight. But the old farmer did not reference it in any way, for which she was glad. Calming her racing heart down, she tried her best to forget about the interaction, figuring that what was done, was done. Sitting down on a crate, Bean in his pram next to them, she sighed deeply, and looked around when silence fell between the two of them.

Fiddling with the sleeves of her shirt, Elana figured that there would be a lot of waiting around with little to occupy her mind. Kuiil seemed to be content, standing up with a few Jawas after a while and conversing with them, his nodding animated as he told some tale.

One Jawa started to approach her, and Elana kept them in her sight. Sitting up even straighter, she folded her hands in her lap, trying to appear non-threatening, and smiled as best as she could.

The little creature was unnerving, the glowing eyes not revealing what they were thinking about. They kept coming closer, and then started to ask something, voice surprisingly hesitant.

Elana looked at them in surprise, eyes wide, and said: "I'm terribly sorry, I don't understand you."

Kuiil appeared next to her, huffing in amusement. The Jawa started to talk to him, and he replied in the universal Wait sign, one forefinger held up high. "She is asking what kind of baby the child is," Kuiil explained, and Elana startled, completely bewildered.

"To be entirely honest, I don't know either," she told Kuiil, and waited for the Ugnaught to translate.

The Jawa exclaimed, and then asked something different, head tilted almost shyly, hands shuffling together. Elana could not help her slightly nervous giggle at that, the sight adorable if still unnerving.

"She asks if she can play with him a bit," Kuiil said, nodding slightly, "She's very fond of little ones." Getting Bean out of the pram as best as she could and putting him on her lap, Elana gave the Jawa a smile, and the creature inched closer, holding out a pitch black hand towards Bean.

Bean cooed and tilted his head in a questioning manner before he reached out his own hand to the Jawa's. The Jawa giggled in response and it was honestly one of the cutest things Elana had ever witnessed, and she stared at the Jawa, completely delighted.

"I didn't know they would sound so sweet," she whispered to Kuiil, who gave her a smile in response.

"The Jawas are a fiercely protective species," Kuiil explained as the Jawa started to make encouraging sounds at Bean, "an insult to one of them means the fury of the entire tribe. They are closely knitted together and they dearly love each other."

Elana looked down at Bean and the Jawa and watched their interaction. The creature was playing peekaboo with the green child and Bean was laughing so hard he started to hiccup, making grabby hands at the Jawa.

"They raise their children in communities, and everyone cares for them in equal measures, even if they're not the parents."

"That sounds lovely, that they're all sticking together."

Kuiil nodded, patting her on the shoulder slightly, but before he could continue, the blurrg started to roar, something bothering it. As the old Ugnaught walked over to it, Elana had to think about what he just told her. The Jawa tickled Bean’s feet, and the child laughed brightly, his voice echoing loud and clear through the Sandcrawler, attracting the attention of the other inhabitants in there. With absolute delight Elana saw a few small Jawas peeking out behind their taller companions, looking at Bean in curiosity.

With some nudging from their parents, the small creatures in tiny brown robes made their way to Bean, and started squeaking up at him. Elana set Bean down on the floor, and he started to waddle towards the Jawa children, cooing loudly at them. They seemed to have come to some kind of agreement because they started to chase each other, stumbling over their short legs and clumsy limbs, screeching in delight.

The initial worry about them being too rough with her baby was quickly replaced with fondness as Elana watched them play. It was the first time that she had seen Bean with others his age, and the visible change from him timidly holding back at first to pure unrestrained joy warmed her heart. As she looked over her shoulder, opening her mouth to talk to Kuiil, she spotted the Mandalorian standing near the closed ramp of the Sandcrawler, helmet turned towards them. He was evidently watching Bean having fun. His hands were resting on his belt, and he actually looked relaxed for once. But as soon as his helmet tilted towards her and their gazes met, he tensed up and straightened again, striding over to her. The Jawa children saw him arriving, and scattered quickly, hiding behind their parents backs as they backed away from the Mandalorian.

"Caretaker," he said, not even looking at the retreating Jawas around them, "The kid will come with me when we arrive."

She squinted up at him, anger starting to rise in her again at the tone in his voice. "What the hell makes you think that?" Elana asked flatly, silently fuming.

"I won't leave the quarry on the Sandcrawler with the Jawas."

"Oh, but a Mudhorn is better?" Standing up quickly, she squared her shoulders, puffing herself up the best she could.

"You're not coming," he said, "I don't have time nor patience for your complaints."

Elana scoffed. "Well, too bad," she said sarcastically, "I would hate to miss out on the Mudhorn egg. I wonder how the Jawas figured out that it is a delicacy."

"You're staying here. He comes with me," the Mandalorian repeated, sounding annoyed.

"What do you mean, I'm staying while you take him?" Elana asked, all anger draining out of her as she realised his intent, and she stared at the Mandalorian in disbelief. The reality of what he was asking sank in, and she felt her heart drop at the prospect.

"Exactly what I said," the bounty hunter said, voice dry.

"You can't do that!" Elana exclaimed and shook her head violently, eyes wide, panic bubbling up in her. "He's too small!"

"He's quarry," was all the Mandalorian said, before he strapped the rifle onto his back, and pressed the button on the vambrace for the pram.

"Put him in," he ordered, pointing at Bean on the floor, who was staring up at them, his ears flattening as he picked up on the tension between them.

Elana picked him up to the best of her abilities and cradled him protectively, turning slightly away from him. "No, he is not going anywhere without me." She started to shake in fear as she realized that he was dead serious, and Elana knew that the Mandalorian could see it.

"You don't get a say in this, caretaker," the bounty hunter said, making an aborted motion to take Bean out from her arms.

Elana flinched back, stumbling over her feet as she backed away. "Don't touch him," she snapped at him, fear in her voice.

He squared his shoulders, tilting his head in annoyance.

"Don't make this difficult," he sighed, and reached out again. Elana blindly batted out, slapping his hands away.

"Touch my child and--"

"And what?" The Mandalorian snapped back, irritated now, "You're gonna fight me?"

Elana stared up at him, brows pulled together, bottom lip trembling. She knew the level of skill the Mandalorian had, had seen him fighting against the other bounty hunters, had seen his excellent marksmanship, and he had killed all of the Nikto guards. She clenched her jaw, knowing that it was futile to even try to fight against him.

"If that’s what it takes," she croaked out, clutching Bean so tightly it must hurt the little one, but he did not make a noise, looking between them in worry, ears hanging low.

"Don't be stupid. Give him to me," the Mandalorian sighed, and moved the pram right in front of her.

"No," she stood her ground, trying desperately to hold back her tears.

Kuiil appeared, frowning at the both of them. "If you want your bounty to cooperate, you need to adopt another technique," the Ugnaught said dryly, shaking his head at the Mandalorian.

"I don't need cooperation, I need to get that karkin' egg to get my parts back," the Mandalorian growled, "She's staying here, and it comes with me."

He turned to her again, and pointed at the pram, snarling, his entire body language threatening. "Put. Him. In."

"No."

Something in him seemed to snap, and before she could blink, he had a blaster drawn on her, clicking ominously. Elana's heart skipped a beat, and she clenched her jaw so tightly it hurt.

"Mandalorian," Kuiil started to say, but the bounty hunter just stepped closer, the blaster pointing right at her chest.

"I've had a shit few days, and I don't need you to add to it," the bounty hunter said, voice terrifyingly calm, "Put the quarry into the pram or I'll shoot you."

"Promise me he will be safe first," Elana said, jutting her jaw out, ignoring the way her heart was hammering against her chest and how faint from fear she felt.

He just tilted his helmet menacingly.

"Promise me," she pressed, trying to suppress her shaking.

"I'll swear on my Creed if I have to, put the damn baby into the pram," the Mandalorian commanded through gritted teeth.

Bean cooed, and patted her arm as if to say It's okay. She brought the little one up, and pressed his forehead against hers. "Listen to what he says, okay? Behave for him, and if the Mudhorn appears, play the hiding game," Elana told Bean quietly, staring into those huge dark eyes, her own watering and blurring the view, and Bean, that beautiful, smart baby, gave a nod and a reassuring coo. Then, she sat him down onto his blankets, blinking away furious tears, glaring at the ground, fists clenched tightly.

The Mandalorian put his blaster away, and she felt a shiver running down her back as he pressed the button on his vambrace so the pran floated to him. Inside, she was seething, cursing him in every language she knew and then some more. Outside she was pale, eyes fixed onto the little baby who smiled at her, ears raised high in his pram. "If you come back without him, I'll kill you," Elana said, voice tense.

"I'd like to see you try," was his only response as he turned around, facing the ramp of the Sandcrawler.

"You're a cruel man," she whispered, blinking furiously, feeling hot tears threatening to spill over.

The Mandalorian scoffed, half turning his head back to her. "Does that bother you?" It was the only thing he said before the ramp lowered, the sunlight from Arvala-7 streaming in. The Mandalorian left as soon as the ramp touched the ground, stalking across the rocky terrain of the desert, cutting an impressive figure with his rifle slung across the back and the glinting beskar helmet, the pram floating next to him.

Elana stared behind them until they disappeared behind a ledge, cut off from her view. Something did not sit right within her, and she did not know if it was a bad feeling only because of the Mandalorian, the Mudhorn, or everything together. Kuiil put a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched from the contact.

"Do not think that your rage is unjustified," he told her, a deep frown on his face. "He might be my guest, but that was below what I thought him capable of."

She just stared at him, eyes hard. "He threatened me while I was holding Bean," she spelled out, shoulders starting to shake in her fury, "He took my baby away for some fool's errand, to fetch a Mudhorn egg for Jawas!"

Elana straightened, fists clenched together, and she had to restrain herself from yelling at Kuiil.

The Ugnaught farmer had done nothing to deserve her ire, but it was hard, it was so hard to not just simply start screeching, to let out every frustration she had built up in the last few days. Elana was tired of being constantly scared, constantly dragged around, not even being sure that the Mandalorian would not hurt Bean. The only thing she knew for sure was that Bean was away from her, and probably in danger. There was no way that it would end well.

And she could do nothing against it. There was nothing she could do to help him if something happened. And something would happen, her gut told her. Every instinct in her was screaming that something was wrongwrongwrong, something bad would happen.

In the end, Elana did not know how much time had passed while she paced, bit her nails, fiddled with her hair, doing whatever kept her slightly busy until something flickered across the bond.

Fear.

She gave a start, and her head whipped around to where she suddenly knew Bean was. Some deep part in her reached across the bond, and felt him, sitting in his pram, whimpering to himself. There was an impression of the Mandalorian being hurt. Badly. Heart pounding, she debated over what to do, panic swelling up in her. She was too far away to help, and if it was the Mudhorn, something that could hurt a Mandalorian, she had no chance against it anyways.

Elana was close to ripping her own hair out when another impression from Bean appeared in front of her eyes. Her stomach dropped.

The Mudhorn.

"Bean," it escaped her, wide eyes staring at where Bean would be, miles away from her. Elana started to walk, her feet taking one step in front of another, slowly and stumbling at first, until she was running.

"Bean!" Elana yelled out, and in her mind she could see Bean turning his head, meeting her gaze. He shrunk into himself, very scared of what was happening. She tried to run, get to her baby, but she was too far away, and Elana would never reach him in time, no matter how hard she tried.

"Bean!"

He stared at something she could not see, lifted his hand, and started to hold.

It was like running into a wall, the breath knocked out of her. She dropped to her knees without realising it, gasping for air that would not fill her lungs.

Elana could hear her name being called, but her ears were ringing too loudly for her to identify who was currently rattling at her frame.

It felt as if every fibre inside her had started to swell with some power, blood rushing in her veins, an instant connection to, well, everything. It surrounded everything around her, everything that was was inside her, an energy field, and it came directly from Bean.

The power flooded each one of her senses, and she could feel Bean straining, shaking as he was holding something back, held an entire Mudhorn back, all by himself and his little mind expanding rapidly around his environment, forcing the Mudhorn to hover above the ground, stay in place for long enough so the Mandalorian could stab it.

Elana did not remember passing out.

……………

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it!

@mndalorians you're. You're just the literal best. I really don't know what I would do without you. You're is the magic that tells me if I have been writing in the wrong tense once again, if stuff sounds good, and you're constantly enabling me in my shenanigans. Ily❤

Tags: @binggrae-banana-milk @b0n-chann @pisss-offf-ghostt @chibi-liz05 @din-damn-djarin @soldade @yourexcellentboiiii @chaotic-noceur @ezrasarm @hdlynn @mndalorians @over300books @agirllovespasta @crookedmoonsaultpunk @teaofpeach @shadylightbearherring @mitchi-c @concussed-to-pieces @adikaofmandalore @buckythewhitewolfx

#the mandalorian #star wars #din djarin #din djarin x oc #pedro pascal #oloreaa writes #vencuyanir

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anisaanisa · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 8 is ALIVE 👩‍💻

Blurb below the cut:

The pain in his neck niggled, but not enough to rouse him entirely from the comfortable slumber Inuyasha had found himself in. The light snoring was interrupted by a cough, a clawed hand reaching up to scratch the ear that wouldn't chill the fuck out. Reaching for a cover, he grasped at air when he came up empty-handed, consciousness finally getting her hands on him. Golden eyes cracked open, and his forehead creased when he found himself staring at the underside of a table.

…the table that he had been sitting at last night.

His head shot up, a grunt leaving him as it cracked against the leg of the chair he'd also been sitting in last night. He rubbed at the sore spot, a hiss leaving him as his head fell back down to the floor with a resounding thud.

It looked like he hadn't made it the few feet to his bed after getting through the enormous file that had been given to him.

It wasn't surprising really, the sheer amount of information that these people had on Naraku – or Onigumo, whichever - was astounding. Inuyasha had drowned in names, dates, and figures; cross-referencing as much as he could. As a now-former data analyst, he could appreciate the effort they'd put into the numbers.

And there were a lot of them.

Read it on AO3 ▶

I had every intention of getting this up on time, but things happen. So, instead of going into boring detail, allow me to show you my week in gif format:

How I envisioned the final edit of chapter 8:

Life, having other plans for me:

Me:

Life:

The End

Trust me when I say the version before the one you see now was white hot garbage. I saved your precious eyes from being burned right out their sockets my bbs, ttyl <3

#2392 #inuyasha x kagome #inuyasha fanfiction #inuyasha #fanfiction #anisaanisaff

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ladylynse · 4 years ago

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Have you ever written scenes out of order? And if you have, how do you do go from having them out of order to having them in order? I always try to write scenes in order, but that might lead me to getting stuck.

I have written scenes out of order. I don’t do it often, admittedly. I tend to have a vague idea of where I want to go and then figure out the details as I write, which is a lot easier to do if I’m writing in order.

If I do write out of order, I don’t always manage to include everything I’ve written, at least not without considerable edits. I typically get around that by not writing a future scene in huge detail, since filling in the details later means I can adapt it in more easily when I get to it, unless I’m confident about how it will play out (fun fact, I have part of a climax scene for a Doctor Who/Psych crossover fic I’ve never finished writing, because I know exactly how this one specific moment would go down).

Alternatively, the other time I write out of order is when I’m not writing much more than a chapter or two ahead for where I think the scene will go in story, so it’s still at a point that I know everything that should happen in between where I left off in the story and where the scene will come. Meaning, I know where the characters will be and who will be in the scene and what mindset they’ll be in so I can write their actions/reactions appropriately. In those cases, I’m confident that I know enough to just write the entire scene and tweak it later as necessary, because it won’t be a major rewrite because one character is suddenly no longer present or circumstances similarly change.

If I am writing considerably farther ahead, where I’m not sure if I’ll actually be able to work a specific scene into the story but I like the idea of it, I’ll write out the bit of a detail of the scene that’s really niggling at me--a line or three of dialogue, say, and possibly a bit of what might happen around that, or a good chapter/scene cliffhanger (eg “Merlin’s eyes had burned gold.”)--and then just jot everything else down in idea form to be worked in once I have a better idea of what surrounds the scene. I might be fairly detailed, because I like the idea and don’t want to forget what I was thinking by the time I get to that scene, but most of it isn’t in fic format.

If I know where I’m going and I’m not sure how to get there or just can’t find the right words right now, then I’ll skip a scene and make a vague note of what happens, or if I’m not entirely sure what happens, at least what happens next. Which is how I wind up with things like ‘vines [erupted]’ in one of my current WIPs with some unfinished scenes. Then, I can skip ahead without forgetting what needs to happen to get there.

If you’re writing a longer fic that takes over a longer period of time, where you have characters referencing what happened yesterday, two days ago, last week, a month ago-- It’ll be worth writing yourself a timeline so you can do that accurately without having to comb through your fic to find every reference. (I would never have gotten through Shattered if I hadn’t done that, mostly because my fics tend to take place over 48 hours at most.) Then, if you do have a point in a future scene where you’re referencing what happened, you can do so easily.

#ladylynse #my writing #writing #asks #I don't know if this actually answers your 'how do you order them' question #i either know where it should fit #give or take a few interchangeable scenes for a chapter #or be vague enough to write it in once I get there #Anonymous

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misssophiachase · 4 years ago

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Here is it, part three! Unlike all my other stories each chapter is from dual points of view (divided into two parts) because I think this keeps the story moving faster and more fluidly. Let me know what you think of this format and the story so far : ) Read from the beginning at FF and AO3.

Synopsis: She skipped bail and he’s tasked to track her down. As a seasoned bounty hunter, it’s a fairly routine job on paper for Klaus Mikaelson but then he meets Caroline Forbes and has no idea what to do with her.

Thrill of the Chase - Part 3 - I Shot the Sheriff

Cumberland County, TN (Interstate 40)

Caroline

"Interesting song choice," Caroline offered, unable to help herself as the scenery rushed past her window. She decided to blame it on her friend called guilt that decided to rear its ugly head at the worst possible time.

"Why? You don't like Bob Marley?"

"Who doesn't like Bob Marley?" She countered, trying to ignore just how good he smelled from this close proximity. A mixture of soap, mint and something else enticing she couldn't quite identify.

She was actually a little thrown by the fact this very song was on her fugitive track list and the guy who picked her up on the side of the road just happened to be playing it.

Oh, and for the record, she didn't get in his car that easily, it took at least nine minutes. Even if every fibre of her being was ready to hop into his passenger seat as soon as he strolled over in all his blonde curls and black henley goodness. Caroline decided to blame it on distraction, pure and simple.

She'd managed to fumble through what she thought was fairly standard small talk followed by outlining her current dilemma. Given he had neither a spare tire or cell service, Caroline either had to trust him to call for help after leaving her by the road still stranded or go with him to the nearest town.

She figured the second option, albeit one her parents wouldn't endorse, was more expedient. She had places to be after all.

Yes, he could have been a serial killer, but she certainly wasn't squeaky clean herself. Plus, she was starving and had run out of snacks and really needed to use the restroom. She wasn't the pee in the bushes type of girl so Caroline had no other choice. Well, that's what she kept telling herself.

"So, do you think he did it?" She asked, probably against her best judgment.

"Did what?"

"Commit the crime. It's one thing to shoot the sheriff, because you know maybe he deserved it, but to be blamed for the deputy too? That's rough."

What he did next, she wasn't expecting. He let out a rich and throaty chuckle and Caroline didn't think it could sound any better than that sexy, English accent. But it did. It was so mesmerising that Caroline found herself laughing along.

"So, you're ready to throw the book at the poor guy?"

"No, I was just amused by your analogy. Here I thought the song was about corruption and injustice in general but you seem to take it almost personally." She cursed inwardly thinking that playing it cool was not her best trait.

Who was she kidding? She was woeful. Mainly because Caroline was a nosey person by nature but by posing questions she was just asking for them to be returned. She also didn't think they'd be analysing lyrics about committing crimes. Caroline might as well have stamped guilty all over her forehead.

"What can I say? I'm a sucker for the underdog."

"Nothing wrong with that, love."

"I have a name you realise?"

"Yes, but you didn't feel the need to share it when we first met even if I told you mine," he offered, his eyes not leaving the road. Even housed under those aviators, she didn't need to see them to know they were rolling.

"You could be a serial killer for all I know, Klaus," she said, emphasising his name. It was unexpected for sure but the more they talked, Caroline started to think it suited him. "Not that, you know, I'm, uh, giving you ideas or anything," she rambled, unable to stop the words tumbling from her mouth.

First, she was talking about shooting law enforcement and now mass murder. Yeah, Caroline was dealing just fine with her current situation.

"Thanks," he shot back. "You know, for not giving me any ideas. If I hadn't met you god knows how many people I could have killed today at least."

"You're hilarious," she drawled. "So, why did you stop? By the road I mean, not your killing spree."

"My conscience," he began. "It has this annoying way of niggling at me until I do the right thing. Plus, maybe if I do something good the universe will return the favour."

"I'm convinced that's an urban legend."

"Oh, like the killer in the backseat?" Caroline couldn't help herself and turned around to inspect it. "Gotcha."

Maybe the universe was more in tune than she first thought given it was playing tricks on her and not the good kind. Caroline had a mind to right all of her wrongs then and there but knew that would take a lot more energy and will than she currently possessed. She'd said as much to her friend Bonnie and that was only a couple of hours into her road trip.

"Your dad sent his favourite henchman to my apartment," she joked through the phone. "He could have at least sent one of the cute ones."

"I'm sorry, I'll be sure to tell him to send Tyler or Jesse next time," she drawled. "How is the lovely Alaric?"

"Urgh," she groaned. "I had to take a shower afterwards, he's that creepy."

"I'm sorry to put you in this position, Bon," she apologised. "When I made the decision to run I guess I didn't think about the ramifications. I should have realised that my parents know no bounds when it comes to harassing people, my friends included."

"Stop right there, Caroline Elizabeth Forbes," she chided. "I mean sure you didn't tell me you were actually going to run away in the first place but given the circumstances I can hardly blame you." Caroline winced knowing that it didn't sit well with one of her best friends.

"I didn't tell you because the less you knew the better," she reasoned, knowing she had good intentions at least. "I was always going to get in touch, I just needed to put some space between me and the city first."

"Well, now that he's gone can you please tell me why you've decided to go all Harrison Ford on me?"

"Clearly someone's been watching too many movies."

"And clearly someone is living one."

"I didn't kill my wife," she argued. "Not that Harrison Ford killed his wife either but you know what I mean."

"Please just tell me you have a plan and blasting NWA's choice thoughts about the police in your car doesn't count." Caroline muted her latest fugitive track, not realising just how loud it was playing.

"What makes you think I don't have a plan, Bonnie," she scoffed, feeling a little offended, even if she knew her friend was right. "I brought snacks and everything."

"Because that's the most important thing," she groaned. "I know things are strained with your parents and…"

"Don't say his name," she interrupted. "He, who shall not be named, doesn't deserve it."

"He called me."

"He what?" She squeaked, almost driving off the interstate as she said it. "I thought you would have had him blocked months ago."

"I kept his number so I knew if the idiot had the audacity to call, turns out he did," she explained. Caroline couldn't really argue given she'd done the same thing.

"When did he call?" Caroline asked curiously.

"About a half hour ago."

"Does he know that I…"

"No, I don't think so. I only answered to get him off your back and throw a few of those choice insults I'd stored up the past few months. But he said he's been trying to call you for a few days now, something you didn't feel the need to share obviously."

"Lucky me. Look, I didn't want to make you any madder than necessary given that hot temper," she continued before Bonnie could argue back. "I didn't answer and have no intention of listening to the string of pathetic voicemails he left either. Those are right up there with my parent's incessant pleas to get me to come home."

"He said he wants to talk."

"Well, too little too late," she muttered, thinking that nothing could salvage what was irreparably broken between them. Now, he was just messing with her and she didn't want to play. "But idiot aside, just know there's somewhere I need to be and I'll reevaluate things after that, I mean what's another week?"

Sure, she was living in a fantasy world but Caroline needed the time alone to put things into perspective. She figured her therapist Camille might even agree with that part.

"So, where is Kat these days?"

"Wow, I really suck at this 'on the run' thing."

"No, I just figured if anyone was going to play the Louise to your Thelma it would be her."

"Hey, I could be Louise!"

"You and I both know that's laughable," she joked. "And remember Thelma did get to do the nasty with Brad Pitt."

Instead of buoying her, the comment only made her feel pathetic that the last time she got laid was forever ago and the person was her poor excuse of an ex boyfriend.

"Well, what would a fugitive road trip be without bedding a cute cowboy in some skeezy motel," she quipped. There was only one guy she planned to see on this trip and things between them were purely platonic and uncomplicated. "Look, I should really get going, Bon, but I'll call you soon, okay?"

"Be safe," she murmured into the phone and Caroline felt like she was going to cry. It had only taken a few hours and she was already turning into a ball of emotional mush. Some hardened runaway she was.

"So, where are you going?" Caroline asked, determined to block out all other thoughts that might make her regret this little trip.

"Says the girl who won't tell me her name," he shot back, finally turning to face her, albeit briefly. Caroline shivered involuntarily, it seemed so much easier to converse when he wasn't looking straight at her, even in sunglasses. "Why? Where are you going?"

"Oh you know, here and there to visit some friends."

"How extremely specific," he joked. "I've been here and there and I have to say it's not too bad for the most part. You must have been a geography major, right?"

"You enjoy teasing me."

"What can I say? It's been a long drive so far, it's nice to have some company even if most of our conversation has centred around crime and punishment." Caroline felt her face warm, hoping that the blush creeping up her neck wasn't going to completely envelop her and give the game away.

She turned to look out her window, the scenery hadn't changed all that much since she climbed into his car but then she noticed a green sign ahead.

Welcome to Crab Orchard, Tennessee - Population 673

Looks like they'd arrived, to what and who Caroline wasn't quite sure.

Klaus

"Twizzler?" Klaus looked up distractedly to see his new, blonde friend waving a bunch of the red candy in his face.

"No, thanks," he offered. "I try not to eat anything…" he trailed off, subconsciously stroking his abdomen.

"Fun?" She inserted the word in his sentence, but didn't miss the way her eyes travelled to his abdomen and took in every stroke he made. Looks like Klaus wasn't the only one slightly distracted.

"Let's just say I practice this healthy regime and sugar is pretty much enemy number one."

"Like I said, no fun," she reiterated, her eyes finally meeting his and proceeding to bite onto one of the strands, her pink lips enclosing around it.

Klaus didn't think he'd ever seen something supposedly so innocent look anything but that. He watched in interest, unable to look away if he tried. When she started to moan happily from the taste, Klaus had to look away while trying to contain the thoughts he shouldn't be thinking in the first place.

She was a skip - his- after all. And apparently he was here to apprehend her, not entertain untoward thoughts. It seemed as if his professionalism had flown out the window the moment he clapped eyes on Caroline Forbes. He'd been inwardly arguing with himself for most of the drive. She was sitting in such close proximity to him completely unaware. The most unbelievable part? She was in his car without any need for coercion or handcuffs. Klaus couldn't remember the last time one of his felons had been this easy to capture.

Klaus figured it had something to do with her innocence and seemingly trusting nature. Something which intrigued him from the outset. If she was his friend or girlfriend he'd be absolutely affronted by her willingness to jump into a stranger's car but she wasn't. Although, if Klaus was being honest, he wasn't unwholly upset she was by his side at that moment.

At the same time, he couldn't help but think how good she smelled, a mixture of vanilla and roses - post rainstorm. She also had this adorable habit of scrunching up her nose when she spoke, a nose with a slight dusting of freckles he couldn't and didn't want to ignore.

Klaus shook his head, trying to concentrate. He really needed to apprehend her and he needed to do it now.

They were waiting for the mechanic in the sleepy, little town of Crab Orchard to tow her car back to the gas station and replace her busted tire. Klaus had offered just to purchase it and go back himself but the guy, who seemed way past retirement age, had insisted and refused to relinquish the tire otherwise. Klaus knew it was all a money making exercise but didn't argue. Given the size of the town they probably didn't get much business as it was.

So, here they were. Caroline moaning over twizzlers and him trying to ignore just how much it was affecting his resolve.

Crab Orchard was only a couple hours out of Nashville and it would have been so easy to keep driving and deliver her directly to Lucien's agent at the airport who would personally escort her back to New York. But something stopped him.

Yes, she was beautiful. He thought so when he saw her picture and then when he pulled up alongside her on the road but after talking to her, Klaus was incredibly intrigued. And he wanted to know everything about her.

He knew he had places to be, his siblings hadn't stopped reminding him as evidenced by numerous texts and his recent call while she was using the bathroom and buying a year's worth of snacks inside the tiny gas station.

"So, what do you think the Wicked Witch of the West wants?"

"Hello to you too, Kol."

"Don't tell me you're buying into Rebekah's drivel about the urgent need for this family reunion and down south of all places?"

"Of course, not," he shot back, thinking this was no doubt one of Rebekah's usual attempts to make herself the centre of the universe, not that she had to try all that hard. "You know I like to keep my family time to an absolute minimum."

"I'll pretend we're still talking about sister dear," he drawled sarcastically. "I don't know why I had to leave Chicago in such a hurry, we can't all have broomsticks to ferry us from place to place on a whim." Klaus had to fight the urge to laugh. Kol, albeit the epitome of an annoying, younger sibling, always had that keen ability to hit the nail right on its head.

"I suppose we'll find out in just under a week," he sighed, wondering how much longer Caroline would occupy his time before that. "Have you spoken to Elijah and Henrik?"

"You know how Elijah bores me, Niklaus," he replied knowingly. "Henrik is on his way from Florida with a girlfriend, Lizzie someone."

"Can't say I'm surprised that he's the only one with a girlfriend." Klaus and Kol liked to joke that Elijah should have been in the priesthood; his love life was that stagnant.

"And how about you?"

"How about me what?"

"How about your girlfriend, Hayley isn't it?"

"She's not my girlfriend, never was," he growled, probably a little too fiercely given his brother's response.

"Wow, message received," he laughed. "Although, does she know that? Because last time I visited she was being extremely girlfriend-like."

"I never asked her to be," he grumbled. "It was casual, nothing else, and for the record she knew that, well apparently." For some reason it was his bail skip that came to mind at that very moment and not his ex-girlfriend, or whatever she was. He didn't want to analyse why either.

"So, Lucien tells me he has you on assignment in Tennessee?" Klaus wanted to admonish his younger brother then and there for the job but for some reason he wasn't altogether upset anymore since meeting Caroline.

"Yeah, just have to apprehend this skip and send her back to the City," he murmured, thinking that wasn't what he wanted to do with her at all. "Piece of cake," he lied.

"Well, I'll let you get back to your bounty hunting," he teased. "Don't be too hard on the poor girl, whoever she is."

"I'll try," he muttered, disconnecting the call before she proceeded to tempt him with twizzlers.

"So, it looks like we don't have the right tire for this particular, vintage model," their great-grandfather of a mechanic explained.

"But, George, you said…"

"I said I'd look at it first before making any assessment," the geriatric swindler not dissimilar to one of his distant relatives interrupted. "I can have something first thing tomorrow."

Klaus stifled the urge to roll his eyes. It would be cheaper and much quicker for him to travel to Nashville and back with a new tire. But then Klaus realised that meant less time together and given he needed to gain her trust that wouldn't work.

"And where would we stay?" Caroline asked, impatiently tapping her heel on the ground. Clearly this was messing with her plans and Klaus wasn't altogether unhappy with the development, purely for bounty hunter purposes of course.

"My wife Eileen runs the cutest bed and breakfast just down the road, she'll give you a good deal." Given George's price gouging tactics, Klaus highly doubted that. "And my brother Jack runs the local bar, best beer and steak in three counties."

Of course he did but Klaus wasn't going to complain. As they made their way towards his car, Caroline nudged him playfully.

"Bed and Breakfast? How utterly quaint and romantic, just don't get any ideas, mister."

"I can't help that we are responsible for propping up the economy of this town and all of George's family."

"Well, I suppose with great power comes great responsibility," she joked. "And given we're stuck here together, the name is Caroline."

Even though he knew that from her file, Klaus had to admit her telling him felt nice. Klaus had no idea what she was doing to him but he wasn't complaining. Besides, what harm would one extra night do?

Lots as Klaus was about to find out.

#klaroline fanfiction #klaroline fanfic #klaroline #misssophiachase #my writing #thrill of the chase #i shot the sheriff

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hellzyeahwebwielingessays · 5 years ago

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The Not-So-Amazing Mary Jane Part 37: How did we get here?

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As of this writing (but not of this posting) I have finally caught up with this series. As such I’m doing something a little different for this installment.

I’m going to talk about why I think this series has been received the way it has been.

To one extent or another, Marvel comics have been treating Mary Jane like utter shit for the better part of 15 years. The ways are too numerous to list.

Simply put they have dragged her through the mud whilst insulting her. Sometimes this is done overtly, other times slyly and underhandedly.

Without doubt the singular greatest example of this is the travesty that is ‘One Moment in Time’. It is nothing short of four issues of outright character assassination.

This treatment has naturally rubbed most Spider-Man fans the wrong way. This is because Mary Jane since her full debut in 1966 has been a very popular character. Even if some fans simply disliked her, judged her unfairly or took the times she was badly written to heart, the majority of fans felt differently.

The majority of Spider-Man fans (and in my experience particularly the female fans) like Mary Jane. They like her unto herself and they like her relationship with Spider-Man in particular.

This attitude is particularly prevalent for fans who grew up on Spider-Man between 1987-2007 when Spider-Man’s marriage to Mary Jane was part of the status quo and there was an increase in the number of Spider-Man media adaptations. Naturally this meant MJ was also featured a lot in wider media and was typically framed as Spider-Man’s primary (or only) love interest.

Whether due to nostalgia, the merits of the stories or both, this generation of fans generally took to MJ.

As such there has been an underlying displeasure throughout the Spider-Man comic book fandom over MJ’s treatment beginning with ‘One More Day’ in 2007 and continuing up until Nick Spencer’s ASM v5 #1 in 2018.

I firmly believe it is this displeasure combined with affection for Mary Jane that accounts for the reception of this series. Or at least those are the primary reasons, perhaps there is a social/political element too, but I’m not interested in discussing that.

Whilst the source is certainly biased, the letters pages in AMJ #6 are a prime example of some of the praise the series has garnered.

Whenever I’ve seen reviews or commentaries for this series they’ve overwhelmingly been positive, echoing sentiments from the above letters.

Whether it’s from Spider-man fan sites, general comic book sites, Comixology or more controversial outlets, there are very few bad words being said about this series.

This is mind boggling to me because as I just detailed for over 30 essays, it is in fact bad. It’s downright awful.

But the immense problems with the narrative have seemingly been ignored or unnoticed by fandom at large.

Why? Simple. Because the situation is not as bad as it was before.

When you are dying of thirst in the desert a drop of water can seem like an oasis.

Or to put it another way…

When a character you love has been maliciously dragged through the mud and insulted for 15 years, seeing them dragged through the mud without malice and celebrated can feel like they are being put on a pedestal.

Let me be clear as crystal.

I am not saying Marvel are working some kind of anti-Mary Jane agenda with Amazing Mary Jane, let alone Leah Williams herself.

On the contrary, I think 100% of everyone involved in the production of this comic book series has nothing but sincere love and adoration for Mary Jane. Leah Williams especially very obviously adores the character.

And that’s a big deal to Mary Jane fans because for far too long she was written by people who at best were indifferent to her and at worst actively disliked her

To have anyone genuinely like the character and write her feels like a win. To have that happen in a story putting her as THE lead feels like a win. To have that happen in a story that so often frames Mary Jane in a heroic, capable, awesome and generally positive light feels like a win. *

And that is especially true if fans go into a story actively looking for it to be good and when the story has enthusiasm bursting through the pages.

Make no mistake. Williams writing is energetic. It’s loaded with fizzle and fun. She’s obviously having a blast writing this title and that fun is transmitting itself through the pages. That can be hypnotic to readers at the best of times, but when they so deeply want the story to be good and so deeply want their beloved character to be done justice the combined result is people will see what they want to see.

Fuck, go read my first impression of AMJ #1. I was on the whole very positive. Like everyone else I wanted the story to be good. I wanted one of my favourite characters to be done justice.

I wanted this to be a win. So when I first read it, I saw a win.**

But it isn’t.

I’m not saying having an MJ solo story, a writer who likes her and a story that frames her positively is inherently a loss.

Rather, if all that is wrapped up in a mischaracterization, a lack of common sense, a broken moral compass, inconsistencies and just generally bad storytelling, then what might feel like a win in reality is a loss.

This story has creatively damaged Mary Jane to the point where nothing short of mind control or just ignoring the events of it can fix things.

I want this series to end as soon as possible. I want Nick Spencer, Jody Houser or anyone who doesn’t just understand some aspects of Mary Jane to write her again. Leah Williams’ affection and enthusiasm can never be questioned.

But her competency on this title? That’s a whole other story.

And I wish, from the absolute bottom of my Peter/MJ shipper heart that was not the case.

I really, really do.

Next time…well actually I am not sure.

At the time of this writing AMJ hasn’t released yet. And my ability to write this tome of an essay series was reliant upon me reading the issues immediately after one another. By doing that I was able to bear everything in mind and carry over points from one issue to the next. I fear waiting weeks or months between issues will hamper my ability to do this. I might forget critical points and be more harsh or more lenient when it is not warranted as I forget important context.

As such I am unsure if this essay series will continue beyond issue #6. I’m sure I will still cover AMJ in some way, but in this format? We will have to wait and see.

P.S. I think there is also something to be said for many Spider-Man fans not necessarily knowing the specifics of Mysterio’s history. By not knowing that I think a lot of fans view him as far less insidious than he really is. He is often dismissed as a B-lister at best, and a joke at that. But when you observe what he has actually done and what he is capable of you can see why Williams’ framing him the way she did is problematic.

*This is in fact not dissimilar to what happened when ‘Spider-Island’ was initially released.

I distinctly remember Spider-Man/Mary Jane fans lauding it because MJ teamed up with Spidey and there were romantic vibes between them.

However, I was one of the few people not convinced. I remembered how Dan Slott wrote Mary Jane during the Paper Doll storyline and during the early issues of his solo-run on ASM.

I knew the guy was a bad fit for the character. And I knew Marvel had done nothing but throw a bone to fans who by rights should have had the whole chicken and should never have had it taken from them in the first place.

Yet Mary Jane blogs and fans persisted. Spider-Island was a highlight for Mary Jane. Dan Slott was a good MJ writer. Spider-Island in fact was good specifically because it gave MJ fans the most meager of morsels to feed upon.

I’m not saying that Williams is merely throwing fans a bone. Rather, like Spider-Island she is being praised for delivering goods she never actually gave us. She and Spider-Island merely gave us something less bad than what we had before.

**Even when I first read it stuff in it was niggling at the back of my mind. And it grew, and grew, and grew until I was downright anxious for the second issue to address my concerns.

It didn’t. It made them worse. But even I couldn’t have predicted just how bad this series would get.

I loathe saying that. I truly do. I wish this series was better and I wish everyone else could see the flaws that exist with it as I do. But more than that, I’ve never wished harder that I could not see those flaws and enjoy the series like everyone else.

I do not enjoy being the lone voice on this subject.

But if I feel strongly something needs to be said I will say it. When Superior was going on that was the primary reason I began this blog. 99% of everyone lauded it. I saw it for the shit show it was and wanted to express that.

Seems history has circled back around. Sigh.

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#Leah Williams #Amazing Mary Jane #mjwatsonedit #mary jane watson #Mary Jane Watson Parker #MJ Watson #spider-man #Peter Parker #joe quesada #brand new day #One More Day #One Moment in Time #Dan Slott #nick spencer #Superior Spider-Man

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reddeadmort · 6 years ago

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Arthur Morgan x f!Reader | Placeholder

Here you go anon! Possibly not as angsty as you might have hoped, but I couldn’t write Arthur as being too horrible/disloyal to the reader. To me, that ain’t him! A lot of Mary and Arthur’s dialogue is lifted from the game, but re-arranged/edited slightly to suit the story.

Also, having re-read the request after I wrote the fic, I realise I completely ignored the first bit - in this, the reader and Arthur have been together for a while already. My bad lol!

As per usual, I use italics for emphasis. Unfortunately, tumblr mobile view appears to be completely ignoring my formatting now, so it only looks exactly how I intended on web. *sigh*. It’s on AO3 too, which is far more respecting of my formatting.

----

AO3 link

Guidance: Angst, but with a fluffy ending.

Words: 4.7k (there’s the reason this took so long, whoops)

---

“Mornin’ darlin.”

You were already half awake due to the sunlight streaming in through the window, but that familiar voice pulled you gently the rest of the way.

“Morning Arthur. Is that for me?” You nodded towards the cup of coffee in his hand.

“Of course.” Arthur smiled as he passed it to you. “I know there ain’t much chance of you movin’ before midday if you don’t have one.”

You gave a little chuckle as you took the cup. Arthur did know you well; though, to be fair, the horrendous suffocating heat here in Shady Belle didn’t allow you to sleep for particularly long anyway.

“I’m afraid I’m going to be away most of the day, Hosea’s asked me to ride up to Emerald ranch, apparently the fence up there might have somethin’ for us.” You could tell Arthur didn’t seem particularly happy about this; you assumed it was because he’d never been a big fan of the man.

“That’s okay Arthur” You smiled reassuringly at him. “I’ve got plenty of things to do helping out around here to keep me busy.”

Arthur stood up before leaning down to give you a kiss. You tried to pull him down onto the bed on top of you but he was ready, bracing himself against the wall.

“Nice try darlin’, but I best get goin'” he said, winking at you. You gave a mocked huff of annoyance before smiling and letting him go.

------

Later that day, as you were riding into Saint-Denis, you were thinking about that morning and what you planned on cheering Arthur up with later that night. You did feel a bit bad about lying to him; you two had been together for a few years now and you very rarely kept anything from him. But what you had said was half true; you had spent most of that day helping the girls and Pearson out around camp. You just left out the bit where you were planning on going to rob a store.

Ever since the mess in Rhodes Arthur had been getting more protective, making a fuss anytime you tried to go out on a job or chase down a lead. You kind of understood; you hadn’t witnessed Sean’s death, but you knew it had hit Arthur hard. Still, everyone had to contribute to the gang, and stealing was what you were good at. Thankfully, Trelawney had done some sniffing around in Saint-Denis for you and come up with a few potential marks.

You hitched your horse before heading into the area where the store was, glancing in as you casually walked past before taking up position across the square. You leant against the wall, pulled your hat down over your face and started to pretend to read the newspaper. It was pretty near closing, so you were sure you wouldn’t have to wait too long before the shop owner left to go to the bank. You always felt a little bit bad about robbing stores; store owners weren’t exactly the wealthiest people, and other folk depended on the shop being around for their livelihoods too. But after the way Trelawney had told you this man had treated a lovely young black couple that tried to go into his shop, you had no regrets. You were going to make sure he knew exactly why you’d chosen him too, and hopefully ensure he never behaved that way again.

You’d been in position for around half an hour when you heard a familiar deep voice coming up the alleyway next to you. Arthur hadn’t said he was going to be in Saint-Denis, but then again neither had you; perhaps the lead from the Emerald Ranch fence had led him here.

“Here, I got you your brooch back.”

You were about to lean around the corner, call out to him when you heard that he wasn’t alone.

“I won’t ask…” It was a woman’s voice… but not one of the camp girls. Maybe Arthur had found yet another unfortunate stranger to help? You smiled at the thought; your big, gruff, outlaw, always insisting he was a bad man, yet always willing to offer help to anyone that needed it.

“Probably best not Mary.” Mary. You froze, not daring to move. So that’s why he hadn’t mentioned Saint-Denis this morning. Because he knew how’d angry you be that once again, Mary was able to use him on a whim. You wished he didn’t go running whenever she called, but you’d tried to be understanding. They had history, and she didn’t have the easiest life what with her dad and being a widow. You trusted Arthur, but the idea of him seeing her without telling you made you nervous. As far as you were aware, he’d always been open about visiting her before…..

“Hey…. What are you doing now, right this moment?” Mary said.

“Why’d ya ask?”

“Well, I was wondering if you wanted to do something. Head to the theatre perhaps?”

You prayed Arthur said no. It was one thing, helping her out when her father or brother had got her or themselves into a mess, but seeing her for pleasure…. as much as you hated yourself for it, the thought of them enjoying time together made your chest hurt.

“Oh, Mary… I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“Sure, I understand. You’re still walking me to the trolley though?”

“Of course.”

Arthur, always the gentleman. They stepped out from the alleyway and you tipped your head down as far as you could, hiding under your hat, praying they went in the opposite direction. Luckily, they did, and after a brief moment you set off after them, all thoughts of shop robbery gone from your mind. You weren’t really sure why you were following them; you didn’t like Mary, but you trusted Arthur; so why was there this little niggle insisting you listen in on them…..

They walked in silence for a while, as you followed a little distance behind. It wasn’t long before they reached the tram stop. You edged around the building towards them and were so concentrating on straining your ears to hear anything they said that you didn’t notice the man walk in front of you out of the post office with the basket.

You knocked into the poor man, sending the contents flying. To your horror, Arthur started to turn to look at the commotion; your hat was pulled down low enough that he wouldn’t immediately be able to see your face, but surely he would recognise your clothes. Before he could do so, Mary grabbed at his arm, stopping him. Close enough to hear, you bent down and helped the man re-load his basket, apologising as quietly as possible.

“My life wasn’t supposed to….” Mary paused. “Is it too late for us Arthur?”

Those words made your blood run cold. How dare she. Though, you couldn’t be certain she even knew about you; Arthur had said he’d kept you out of his letters back to her, apparently in case they were intercepted by the Pinkertons, That was the reason he’d given you anyway; now you were starting to wonder if he had an ulterior motive. You stepped back into a doorway after you finished placating the man you’d knocked into.

“Mary…. I told ya, I ain’t a free man. I’m wanted now.” Your fury turned to shock at Arthur’s words.

Is that it? Is that the only reason Arthur had stayed with you? Because the Pinkertons were after him, the gang, all of you? While he was ‘wanted’ he was happy to shack up with you, but if he wasn’t… there was obviously a much better option available.

Mary sighed, and as you glanced up appeared to be wiping away a tear. “Run away, Arthur. Run away right now and don’t look back.” She said as she grabbed his hands, pulling him towards her.

“I want to…more than anything, I want to. But, like I said, I’ve got some people I need to take care of. Once they’re free, then I’m free, then I can disappear.”

You could hear your racing heartbeat thundering in your ears. You wanted to scream, to step out from the doorway, to run at the pair of them… but you couldn’t. The overwhelming urge to be sick washed over you and you lurched backwards, into the small station/post office building and out the other side. You just made it through the doors before hurling all over the pavement. As you finished, you began to cry, ignoring the tutting from the nearby men and women. Without looking back you started running off towards the saloon where you’d hitched your horse.

----

“Arthur…. I’ve really missed you, you know.” Mary grasped his hands in hers, pulling him towards her.

“I’ve missed you for a long time. But it’s done now.” Arthur pulled his hands away and patted Mary on the shoulder.

“Okay.” She looked down at the floor before once again gazing up into his face. “I wish somehow it weren’t”.

“Be well Mary” Arthur said before starting to walk away.

“I’ll write you” she called out after him.

Arthur stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“Sure” he replied before continuing to walk off.

----

You didn’t ride straight back to camp; you couldn’t face the idea of making mundane small talk with the other gang members with these thoughts racing through your head. Instead, you headed towards the edge of the river, where you found a small area not overlooked by the road in which you could be alone.

You didn’t bother hitching your horse, instead letting it graze on the grass along the edge of the little stony beach. You walked down to the beach, picking up a few pebbles before starting to hurl them one by one into the water.

After all you done together, Arthur still wanted to run away with her? You felt so stupid for thinking, hoping, that Arthur would be any different from the other men that had come before him. You were obviously not interesting enough, not refined enough…. not womanly enough. You were a convenient placeholder; a body to keep his bed warm, to provide entertainment until he could go off and have a real life with a proper woman.

As you stepped forward to throw the last pebble into the water you accidentally kicked a rock, causing you to swear and hop on one foot. The pain was the last straw, and you started to cry, collapsing on the ground in a heap.

You thought about all those times you and Arthur had spoken about a life away from the gang; maybe a little ranch, somewhere quiet, potentially even a kid or two if it wasn’t too late. You thought Arthur had been describing a life with you; but no, he’d just been talking about the life he wanted to have with Mary when he eventually managed to convince her to join him.

You gave a little start when you heard the little huff in your ear and the warm breath on the back of your neck. You’d been so wrapped up in your own thoughts you hadn’t noticed your horse trot up behind you. He nuzzled your hair as you reached up to stroke his face, leaning your head against his. He always seemed to know when you were upset; either that or he wanted a treat.

You wiped away your tears and stood up, patting your horse on the neck.

“Come on then boy, let’s go back. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be spending more time with you now.”

---

The sun had pretty much set by the time you rode into Shady Belle. You would have stayed away longer, except you had no food with you and you weren’t in the mood to be ambushed by some idiotic Lemoyne Raiders.

You hitched your horse, thankful to see that Arthur was deep in conversation with Hosea in the little gazebo thing; you should be able to grab some stew without him seeing. You took your bedroll from your horse, hoping that Sadie wouldn’t ask too many questions if you requested that you sleep in her tent tonight. You’d much rather sleep in the house, but the idea of sleeping in the same room as Arthur made you feel slightly sick.

You grabbed a bowl of stew and hurried off to one of the shacks behind the main house. You were still an absolute mess of emotions. You were angry at Arthur, but also cross at yourself; you were stupid to think a relationship with an outlaw would ever work. The signs were all there; all those times he ran off whenever Mary called, never mentioning you in any letters. It was pretty much your fault you got hurt, you thought; you should never have let yourself believe the relationship was more than a bit of company for the pair of you.

“You alright darlin’?” Arthur’s voice made you leap up from where you were sitting, almost dropping your (thankfully empty) bowl and spoon. “I saw you come back into camp then pretty much run off over here. Somethin’ happened?”

“I’m…. I’m fine.” You hated the words as soon as they came out of your mouth. You absolutely weren’t fine, and you couldn’t avoid speaking to Arthur forever, but you were so full of emotions you didn’t even know where to begin. You really didn’t want to deal with this now.

“Woman, I don’t believe ya. We’ve been over this before – I ain’t no mind reader. You’re goin’ to have to tell me what you’re thinkin’.” Arthur rested his hand on your shoulder and smiled down at you, his deep blue-green eyes making you melt, despite your overwhelming feelings of anger and betrayal.

“I don’t…..I can’t….. Oh for god’s sake.” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Arthur, I was in Saint-Denis earlier. I know I said I wasn’t going anywhere today, but that was cause I was going to rob a shop and I know you don’t like me doin’ it on my own. But I went anyway.” The words flooded out of you as quickly as you could make them leave your mouth; this wasn’t going to be pleasant, you wanted it over and done with.

“Yeh that don’t surprise me” Arthur chuckled. He obviously just thought you felt bad for not telling him you were on a job. His laughter cut through you like a knife, bringing your rage to the surface once again.

“This ain’t funny Arthur. I saw you. I saw who you were with.”

Arthur’s expression changed very suddenly, becoming cold.

“Y/N, don’t start.”

How dare he. “It ain’t me that started anything!” You snapped back.

“I know ya don’t like Mary but….”

“No, I don’t Arthur” you cut him off. “I hate how she uses you, and her goddamn hold on ya. But right now, it ain’t her I’m mad at.”

“I’m sorry darlin’, I know I should have said something about going to see her… I don’t know why I didn’t.”

How did he manage to make it so hard to stay angry with him? You almost forgive him right then and there until those words made an unwelcome intrusion back into your mind. ‘I want to’. You were about to unleash on him, rip him a new one, but as you looked up into his concerned face you almost burst into tears.

Arthur saw the change in your expression and moved his hand towards your face to try and comfort you.

“Come on sweetheart, talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it Arthur. Just leave me the hell alone.” You sighed and pushed past him, starting to walk away; maybe you’d be able to deal with this more easily with a good night’s sleep.

“Hey, darlin’, I promise ya, you’re my girl now. I feel nothin’ more than…….obligation to her.”

How dare he try and wriggle out of this, pretend he didn’t say that he wanted to be with her?! You tried to stay calm, to continue to walk away, but your surging rage got the better of you and you snapped back round to face him.

“Don’t lie to me Arthur, I heard you! I heard you tell her how if you weren’t a wanted man you’d run away with her. Is that all I am to you? The best option for the life you’ve got?” As you spoke, you stepped closer, practically spitting the words into Arthur’s face.

“Darlin’ that ain’t what I said.” Arthur’s face was still impassive; you couldn’t believe he was trying to wriggle out of this, to make you doubt yourself. Your anger was growing even further; even if he didn’t care about you, he could at least have the decency to tell you the truth.

“I ain’t stupid Arthur, I heard it with my own ears!”

Arthur was getting frustrated; your emotions were obviously too much of an inconvenience to him.

“Look, I know what I said and….” You didn’t let him finish his sentence before cutting him off. You had enough self-respect that you weren’t going to stand here and have him tell you that you were mistaken, it was your fault, you were being a silly over-reacting woman. It was the same thing you’d been told time and time again by men before, and did not want to hear it from him.

“I don’t want to hear another word Arthur! Now leave me alone before I kick you so hard you’ll be wearing your ass for a hat!”

As you stormed off Arthur threw his arms into the air in frustration, shouting after you.

“Well I guess that I don’t know what I know no more!”

----

Arthur was pissed off, but he wasn’t too sure if he was more annoyed with himself or you. Why the hell wouldn’t you let him explain? And why were you so angry with him? He knew that he definitely didn’t say he wanted to run away with Mary. He’d spent half the morning telling Mary all about you and was not happy when she’d tried to start sweet talking him again.

He knew he should have told you another letter from Mary had arrived, but he’d promised you that the next time Mary appeared he’d take you with him, and he’d needed to meet up with her without you. Arthur patted the little box in his pocket; he hadn’t wanted to ask Mary for the ring back, but it was worth a lot of money.

He was so glad when he’d arrived at the little jeweller's shop to discover that the ring he’d seen a few weeks ago was still there; he was even happier when the jeweller agreed to trade for the old one. Given how easily the man agreed, Arthur suspected that he’d probably not done well out the deal, but he hadn’t cared.

He’d had it all planned out; where he was going to take you, what he was going to say. But now…. well what the hell was he supposed to do? How could he explain if you wouldn’t even talk to him? And how the hell could he explain without telling you why he had been there? This wasn’t something he wanted to ask you while you were angry.

Arthur sighed and kicked at one of the posts of the shack. Maybe Hosea would know what to do.

--------

Arthur had, rather sensibly, left you alone that evening. You’d heard a few whispers when you walked off to Sadie’s tent to sleep, but gave them little thought; the camp was used to Abigail and John’s arguing, another couple having a row wasn’t that newsworthy. You’d struggled to get to sleep, the heat and humidity seeming even worse outside the house; the fact that your brain wouldn’t shut up didn’t really help either.

When you woke up and headed over to the cooking fire, you groaned when you saw Arthur there; it looked like he was waiting for you. You decided to forego your morning cup of coffee and took off, quickly, to the edge of camp; maybe if it looked like you had somewhere to be he would leave you alone.

Unfortunately, you had no such luck. You were near the water when Arthur caught up with you, cup of coffee in hand.

“Thought you might like your coffee, sweetheart. After, do ya think we could talk?”

You span round, surprised at the speed at which the rage overcame you, and knocked the cup out of Arthur’s hand and onto the ground.

“Arthur, I told ya, I don’t want to hear another word! I don’t want to be lied to.” You were so angry you practically spat the words at him.

“Darlin’, please, I’m begging ya!” Arthur looked like he was about to burst into tears. The sight quelled your rage slightly; you couldn’t stand to see him upset, even if he had hurt you.

“Arthur, what is there to talk about? Mary still wants you, and as soon as you can you will run away with her, disappear and have a normal life.” Arthur tried to interrupt but you held your hand up, shushing him. “I don’t blame you; we ain’t had a good time of it late, and Mary hasn’t been….tarnished…. by the things we do. I’m just disappointed that you dragged me along for these last couple of years, pretending you loved me, using me. I know I was an easy mark, what with my history with men and all, but it was cruel Arthur. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Arthur look devastated at your words and took a moment to reply. “Sweetheart…. I’m sorry if what I said came across like that, but I promise ya, it wasn’t what I meant.” He was holding his hands up towards you, almost begging.

“Go on then, I’ll indulge you” you sighed. “What did you mean?”

Arthur was so glad you’d given him permission to try and explain he rattled out the next few sentences at an alarming rate. “I’d spent most of the morning telling Mary about ya. I spoke about our – mine and yours – plans, how as soon as we know the rest of ‘em are okay we will go off and have that little shack, maybe a few animals, maybe more… I was surprised when she asked about her and me, I got a little flustered.”

Surprised? He was surprised that the woman who he’d pined after all those years, that could get him to perform like a monkey on a whim, wanted him back? You always thought he wasn’t stupid, but here he was, trying to prove you wrong.

“You said you were a wanted man, Arthur. That’s all that’s keeping you from her, that’s all that’s ever kept you apart.”

“I am….. wanted….. sweetheart. By you. And it ain’t her I want to run away with.”

Shit. That was smooth. Though maybe….maybe he’s not lying? He didn’t actually say that he wanted to leave with Mary, or say that it wasn’t too late…. maybe you are over-reacting? Reading more into it because of the lies that have been spun to you in the past? You shook your head, an attempt to dislodge the rising self-doubt. No. Not again. You wouldn’t let yourself be manipulated, tricked.

“Nice try Arthur, nice try. How long you been figuring that excuse out?”

“It ain’t a…..” Arthur sighed. “I should never have gone to see her darlin, I’m sorry. I should have told ya she was sniffin’ about again.”

“Well why did you?” You snapped at him, what good were feeble apologies now. “Why did you creep off behind my back to see her?”

“I can’t tell you darlin’….. not yet anyway.” Oh for god’s sake. Really? You were kind enough to give him an opportunity to explain, like he’d begged for, and he was flaking out?

“I’ve had enough. If you can’t tell me the whole truth now why the hell should I wait around for a time you deem fit? I’ve apparently been waiting and wasting the last few years so I ain’t doing that anymore.” You tried to move past Arthur back towards the camp but he moved in front of you.

“Please, sweetheart, just trust me, I don’t want to tell ya like this. I don’t think I could take it if I asked ya and it didn’t turn out like I’m hopin’.”

“What the hell are you on about?” You looked up into his face; he almost seemed panicky.

“I….Mary had….. I needed…..” Arthur stammered, leaving far too long between the words; he was obviously trying to think up another excuse, another lie.

“Oh for the love of god Arthur if it’s that damn difficult don’t bother.” You pushed past him and started to walk away.

“Ring. Mary still had the ring I gave her. I wanted….needed… it back.” You stopped in your tracks but didn’t turn around. “It is…it was…. worth quite a bit. I needed to sell it.” You spun around, angry again.

“Really, that’s what you couldn’t god damn tell me? That you needed money? We all need bloody money!”

“No darlin’, I needed money for a particular reason. For you.”

“I don’t need your money Arthur, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“I know sweetheart, I know…. that’s why I’ve been so afraid to ask ya. I would have done it months ago, but I was afraid of what would happen if you didn’t like the idea.”

What the ever loving fuck is this man on about? And why the fuck is he starting to kneel down?

“Darlin’…” Arthur stammered, reaching for his pocket. “Will ya….will you…. be my wife?”

For that one moment, the entire world seemed to completely freeze. If it weren’t the most ridiculous thing, you would swear that birds actually froze in mid-air. You were in complete shock, staring down at Arthur, who had a pleading expression on his face. Your whole body was in turmoil; on one hand, your brain was still whizzing around on a rollercoaster of emotion, flitting between sadness, anger and confusion. On the other hand, your heart was screaming at you, making your chest physically hurt; the man you loved, adored, was standing in front of you, saying that he wanted to be with you for the rest of your life.

Arthur started to panic as the seconds ticked by without even a movement from you.

“I’m sorry darlin��, I shouldn’t have asked, not like this, I’ve ruined everything” he stuttered, trying to push the ring back in his pocket, almost dropping it in the process.

“Yes”. Your voice was barely louder than a whisper, and you heard your answer at the same time Arthur did.

“Darlin’, did ya..”

“YES!” This time was much louder, and you launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face into his chest. Arthur threw his arms around you, squeezing you tight and slightly lifting you off the ground.

“God dammit darlin’ you had me worried there” he whispered into your ear as he set you back on the ground.

You pulled away slightly before hitting him on the chest, gently, but hard enough to release the last of the anger ebbing away.

“Well you shouldn’t have acted like such a damn fool!”

“Yeh, I know darlin’. You’ll have to get used to it though, ya stuck with me now” he grinned.

“We’ll be fools together sweetheart, like always.” Arthur smiled and kissed you, sliding his fingers into your hair, pulling you in by the back of your head. You felt all the stress of the last day melt away as your lips softly caressed his. Eventually, you broke apart again.

“I’m still pissed at you though Arthur” you said, looking up at him sternly.

“I know sweetheart, I know. I’ll er… I’ll make it up to you later” he winked, before smiling and pulling you back in for another hug.

It was in that moment, with you nestled in his chest, listening to his heartbeat, him stroking your hair, that it finally hit you. You were going to be Arthur Morgan’s wife. Today had turned out to be a much better day than you expected.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x f reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan angst #arthur morgan fluff #mary linton #arthur morgan and mary #arthur morgan fanfic #rdr2 #rdr2 spoilers #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fic #red dead fanfic #red dead redemption 2

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p-artsypants · 5 years ago

Text

Longest Night (16) Struggling

Marinette had thought Highschool had been hard. Right now, in this moment, she'd give anything to go back to those petty arguments and gossip fueled drama. But she couldn't. Instead, she and Adrien were trapped here, being punished, humiliated, tortured, for being heroes, all broadcasted for the world to see. At least she and her kitty were in this together. For now. Whump!Fic

Ao3 | FF.net

Note: This chapter has brief mentions of the previous two chapters. We are in the viewer’s perspective.

—

Hawkmoth. We need to talk. —Salo.

Alya stared at the sentence over and over, her breath hitching in her throat. How could this happen? It couldn’t! It just couldn’t!

“I have to remove this link!” Alya stated. “Max, can I get on your computer?”

“Of course,” he stated, taking out his laptop. “It’s pretty obvious how she posted that. You are using a public server through blogspot, after all.”

“Can you prevent her from doing it again?” She asked, logging into her account.

“Of course. No problem.”

Incorrect username.

Alya clenched her fists. “That bitch kicked me out!”

“Now now, hold on.” Max assured, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Let Markov try.”

“Of course, this will be easy. One moment please.” Markov plugged into the computer, and in a few seconds, the Ladyblog’s dashboard appeared.

“Wonderful! I’ll change my email and password too. After I delete this post!”

It was right up top, in the most plain and boring formatting. Just a white box with black text.

“Huh.” Alya said aloud, staring at it.

“What’s wrong, Al?” Asked Nino.

“There’s no trash icon. No comment section, no share icon, nothing. I can’t edit it or delete it.”

“Allow me,” stated Markov again.

A red triangle with an exclamation point came up on his face. “Whoopsies, we don’t have access to the post.”

“Whaddya mean we don’t have access!? This is my blog, isn’t it?”

“Yes and no.” Said Max. “Everything around this post is your blog. But this box itself is not.”

“Huh?”

“Think of it…as Salo cut a hole in your website and has this in the background, showing through.”

“You can do that?” Asked Nino.

“Not easily, by any means. It’s extremely complicated. I’ve never tried it myself. No need to.”

“So…what do we do?” Alya crossed her arms, looking anxious.

Max screwed up his lip in thought, turning the laptop towards himself. He typed away, a next window coming up. In a flash of textual garbage, too complexed for anyone else to understand, he had a diagnosis. “Okay…well, the post has a slightly different URL, that’s associated with the blog. But it’s being hosted on a private server, which I can’t access. At least not yet. I can try to take it down, but it will take me a few hours, at least.”

“But we don’t have a few hours! Hawkmoth could see this post at any second!”

“I understand. The other thing we could do, is delete the blog in its entirety. Then the post won’t have a URL to associate with and will be unviewable.”

Delete the Ladyblog.

Alya felt sick.

What was two years of hard work in exchange for her friend’s safety? She still had all the videos, all the pictures, she could make a new website, right? One that got Marinette’s approval before every posting.

“Okay—“

“Wait,” said Nino. “Shouldn’t we see where the link goes first? What if it helps the police find them?”

Alya gasped slightly. “I’m glad you thought of that!”

“Markov, initiate Backdraft operations.” Max said.

“Backdraft initiated.”

“What’s backdraft?” Asked Alya.

“It’s simply a protocol I use if I think my presence is being tracked, or I may be counter hacked. It’s basically a fancy firewall.”

“Oh, I see.”

With the class gathered around, Max clicked on the link.

Another window popped up, with a loading wheel. It spun for a moment, then a big red ‘X’ covered the screen and the window closed.

“Hmm…how very interesting.”

“What the heck was that?” Asked Kim, resting his chin on Max’s head like a pest.

“Believe it or not, that was a video chat. But it uses facial recognition to get in.”

“So it’s not going to be helpful to us at all. Huh?”

“I can try to track it. Though it may be difficult since the page closes so quickly.”

Nino whispered as quietly as possible. “Didn’t the detective say he wanted to use your blog to help with the investigation?”

Alya scrunched up her face. Now she had to make two decisions. Stop Hawkmoth, or take the chance and maybe get a lead on Salo.

Any normal person would have gone with the absolute, but Alya was desperate.

“Leave the blog up. Do you think you can track the link?”

“I’ll give it my best shot.” Said Max, honestly.

Alya gave a twitch of a smile.

Something about her conversation with Hawkmoth earlier niggled in her brain. He had addressed her by her name, not as an Akuma. And when she asked him to leave, he left.

Of course, there was no trusting the man, that was obvious, but as far as villains go, she was much more willing to deal with him than Salo.

Alya shook her head. That was an insane thought.

Then the bell rang, and lunch was officially over. Alya and Nino found their seats, now feeling keenly aware that Adrien and Marinette were both absent from class.

“Oh,” said Nino, holding up a pink backpack. “She left it here. Adrien’s is here too.”

Alya smiled fondly. “We’ll carry them back with us.”

—

Miss Bustier was nothing if not understanding. None of the students had their homework done from yesterday, so she just cancelled the assignment. Alya and Nino weren’t given the missed work from this morning either.

She had a feeling they probably wouldn’t be doing it anyways.

Alya had her phone out all day, plugged into a portable charger.

She constantly refreshed the page, hoping for something different.

But no. For hours now, Adrien and Marinette has been hanging by the wrists from chains.

Near the end of the day, Alya looked over to see Marinette speaking to the camera.

She rewound, found the time stamp and raised her hand.

“Yes Alya?”

“Marinette’s saying something! She’s speaking to us!”

“Are you sure?” Miss Bustier asked.

Nino was already next to her, looking at the screen.

“She’s looking right at the camera. I don’t think she’s talking to Adrien.”

“Can I turn on the projector?” Asked Max.

“Well…” Miss Bustier saw the first broadcast. She had turned away the moment Marinette was demanded to strip. She hadn’t watched anything since, and didn’t know if it was safe to show the students.

But looking around, she saw that they were all worried, and eager to see what Marinette had to say.

And so she nodded at Max.

In a matter of seconds, the website was up, and Adrien and Marinette’s states were now visible to the room.

There was a round of gasps.

No one had watched the stream this morning.

“Is that…is that Adrien?” Chloe asked, with choking breath.

Regardless of the state of room, Alya hit play.

Marinette looked around, and then looked directly at the camera. She gave a tired little smile.

“Hey,” she spoke in an absolutely broken voice. “If you’re watching this, you…you’re probably feeling a little hopeless. I don’t blame you. I feel…pretty hopeless too. I mean, I’m…I’m stuck. I’m not sure how I’m going to get out of this. But…but Ladybug always saves the day, right?” She glanced away, choosing her words. “My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I’m 17 years old, and my favorite color is pink. I’m the daughter of the best bakers in Paris, though I might be a little bias.” She smiled slightly. “Before I became Ladybug, I was a normal girl, with a normal life. What made me extraordinary, was my willingness to help others, and my kindness. So Paris, I have a favor to ask:

“Be helpful and kind. Go out of your way do something nice for someone once a day. If you can do this for me, then I know Paris will be safe until we return.”

“I promise.” Alya heard Chloe whisper.

She glanced over to Adrien, then off screen, and then back at the camera. “Maman, Papa...I’m really really sorry I had to hide this from you. I didn’t want to, and some days I thought about how much easer it would be if I just told you. How I could explain the lateness and absences, and my bad grades. But I just had to let you think I was a bad kid. It was for your safety, after all...but despite my best efforts, this still happened, and now you’re in danger. Please get somewhere safe. Leave Paris if you have to. I love you so much. I promise I’ll be out soon.”

Her brow crinkled, as she hesitated. Then, “Alya, I’m sorry too. You…you probably feel kinda betrayed right now. But, like I said, it was for your own safety. You were put in peril so many times because of me. How many more would that have been if Hawkmoth thought you knew my identity? After everything, I hope you finally believe me now...sorry, that was harsh. I...I’ll forgive you, if you forgive me. Deal?”

Alya broke down sobbing. If there was anything else to be heard, she missed it. Of course she forgave Marinette! How could she not? Marinette picked her as Rena Rouge, time and time again!

And what did she do in return?

Stab her in the back.

Some best friend she was.

“Al…” Nino comforted. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not alright!” Alya shouted, startling everyone. She hated how much of a mess she was. She was supposed to be a superhero, damnit! But at this rate, Hawkmoth would try to akumatize her again.

“She’s right, you know.” Said Miss Bustier, rubbing a hand under her eye. “It’s not alright.” She cleared her throat and spoke to the class. “I know things seem bleak right now. And it’s okay to be upset. It’s okay to grieve and to hurt. But it’s never okay to hurt others to make yourself feel better. That’s exactly what Salo is doing. That’s what Hawkmoth has done for years. I know it hurts, and things seem hopeless. But we need to listen to Marinette, to Ladybug. Go out of your way to be kind to someone.”

Alya breathed a sigh. Miss Bustier always knew what to say to make things better.

“Alya, can you come stand with me please?”

She nodded, getting to her feet. Up front, Miss Bustier hugged her, and held her around the waist, as she beckoned each one of her students forward.

“Alya, you’re so smart.”

“You’ve got a wicked sense of humor!”

“You’re really perceptive, and notice things that others don’t!”

“You always put in that extra bit of work to make a project look amazing!”

On and on, each student complimented her, as was custom in Miss Bustier’s class. But all of them were genuine, not just going through the motions.

Except maybe Lila, but still, it was hard to tell. “You are really dedicated to your blog, and put everything on it, to make it just right.”

Alya swallowed. That comment fell flat in comparison to the others.

Chloe came up, a scowl directed in Lila’s direction, then she grabbed Alya by the upper arms. “You are fiercely protective to your friends. No matter who they are. If you feel friendly towards them, you protect them. And that’s something I’ve always admired about you.”

Alya wanted to cry again, but she spared Chloe the satisfaction. “You’re just trying to be nice.”

“Me? Nice? As if!” She scoffed, but they both knew it was true.

“The reason we do these activities,” explained Miss Bustier, “is so that when you see someone having hard time, you take the time to cheer them up. It should be an automatic response.”

“For Marinette and Adrien!” Cheered Kim in the back.

“For Marinette and Adrien!”

—

After school, Alya and Nino gathered their stuff from their lockers. It was time to head back to the Agreste Mansion, for their own safety. Though, the temptation to go out and patrol was strong. Yet the heat was still on, and it wasn’t smart to risk it just quite yet.

“Alya?” A soft voice asked.

It was Choe. And she looked shy. Sabrina was no where to be seen.

“Hey Chloe,” Alya said pleasantly. It felt better to just be nice, like Miss Bustier suggested.

“I…” Chloe started, then she turned away. It took a few tries, each time she started differently. Then, she finally managed out. “I don’t know what to do.”

“What?”

“I…I don’t know what to do. Normally, when I want something, daddy just buys it for me. He takes care of everything. I’ve never been in a situation where I couldn’t have what I wanted. But…but I can’t do that with this. I begged daddy to save them. Both of them. And he tried! He talked to the chief of police and they got in contact with Europol…but basically…there’s nothing they can do. So…I have to do it myself. I have to save them.”

Alya scoffed slightly. “You can’t save them yourself.”

“I have too.” Chloe said right back, her daily stubbornness shining through. “You don’t understand!”

“Chloe…”

“I found the Bee Miraculous. Marinette dropped it, and I found it. Despite all my mistakes, all my insults and my cruelty, Marinette…Marinette let me become Queen Bee. Several times. She threw a party for me, when I felt like no one liked me. She went out of her way to help me reconnect with my mother. And…” She started to sob.

Chloe, it’s me, Ladybug. You can trust me, you can tell me the truth.

You have a purpose.

“She spoke to me in a way no one else had before. She was so…so nice! And she meant it! Only Adrien ever treated me like that! But I was never mean to him!” She sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “That’s why I have to save them! She has to know how sorry I am! How much I appreciate her! And how much Ladybug still means to me!”

Alya was touched. “Why you telling me this?”

“Because you’re the Ladyblogger, duh! You’ve got to know something! Don’t you have a hint to who Rena Rouge are Carapace are? Any way to contact them? I want to help them! As Queen Bee!”

Alya screwed up her lip. “And you don’t care about the attention of being a superhero in the limelight again?”

“Puh-lease, if I cared about attention, I wouldn’t look like this!” She gestured to herself.

Nino snickered. “I didn’t even think you owned a track suit.”

“How do you think I stay in peak physical form? By Instagraming all day?!”

“Still…”

“Fine! It’s Givenchy! Give me a break!”

Alya and Nino shared a look of understanding. Now was the time to use all the help they could get. Alya reached into her bag and pulled out a little black box. “Chloe Bourgeois. This is the Miraculous of the Bee. You will use it for good. Until such a time that Ladybug and Chat Noir are safe, you will keep it safe and protect it.”

“And you won’t put it on your snap story!” Nino added, harshly.

Chloe took the box, reverently. “Are…are you sure?”

“The guardian gave it to us, and told us to give it to you when we felt it was safe.”

Chloe, smiling, opened the lid, and a glittering yellow light appeared.

“Hello my queen!” Pollen sang.

“Pollen!” She scooped her up and held her to her cheek. Then she looked back to Alya and Nino. “When do we start our patrol?”

Alya laughed, happy to see Chloe so eager. “Soon. But we have some catch up to play.”

—

It had never been this hard to akumatize someone.

Granted, Chloe Bourgeois had put up a great fight. But it was nothing like this.

Hawkmoth had assumed Alya would be the perfect candidate to become an Akuma. In all the times he had been around her, granted it was only a handful, she had been absolutely devastated.

Lady WiFi had been amazing, and given her powers of pausing, she would have been great.

But, she was not cooperative. Sure, maybe he could have pushed her a little more, put on the pressure. But it didn’t feel right.

Nothing about this felt right.

And that’s what made him so conflicted.

Because we was willing to do whatever it took to get Emilie back. Exploiting people who were having the worst day, who were in unbearable pain.

So why the hesitation now? This was Adrien, the light of his life. The only family he had left. He loved his son, although he often had a hard time showing it.

He reached out to Nino Lahiffe, who, admittedly, was not as visibly upset as Alya had been, but his hurt was still present. Nino was unbearably calm as he asked Hawkmoth to ‘kindly f—- off.’

Next was Chloe Bourgeois. Surely she would agree, right? She loved Adrien!

Oh but she was nearly feral trying to get rid of him. She yanked on her hair and screamed and cried.

He left quickly, feeling her pain as his own.

He looked at Tom and Sabine, but didn’t have the heart to even try. Ladybug’s parents, now that was cruel.

He was beginning to run out of victims. Gorilla? Nathalie? Himself?

Lila Rossi! She was always ready and willing to be akumatized!

But then, he remembered with growing horror that she hated Marinette Dupain-Cheng. She may try to save Adrien, but she’d leave Marinette all alone to suffer. And that was almost worse.

He dropped his transformation, a dropped to his knees.

“Master? Please don’t cry.”

“I disgust myself.” He whined in the back of his throat. “Why…why can’t I do it? What makes this so different? Am I not desperate enough? Do I not love Adrien enough?!"

Noroo swooped in and nuzzled against Gabriel’s cheek. “You love Adrien plenty. Don’t beat yourself up over having sympathy for others in pain.”

Gabriel swallowed, digesting the kwami’s words. “I suppose...that means there’s hope for me yet.”

The elevator rose, bringing Nathalie into the room. “Sir, Madame Cheng has something to show you on the stream.”

“She found something?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we’ll continue this later Noroo, let’s go.”

—

Sabine stood in the lobby, her phone in hand. Thankfully, the stream could be rewound to repeat anything that had happened. And so when Gabriel finally emerged from his office, she went to him, thrust the phone in his face, and pressed play.

“Notausgang.”

“Pardon?”

“Notausgang. Does that word sound familiar?”

“No...it sounds German though. Why?”

“It’s written on the wall behind you.”

“Like Graffiti?”

“No...it looks like it’s supposed to be there. Like a sign.”

“A German sign on the wall? You don’t think...we’re in Germany, do you?”

“I have no clue where we are, but...why else would there be German on the wall?”

“Well, maybe we’re still in France. Maybe not Paris, but Alsace-Lorraine or...”

“Notausgang is German for ‘Emergency Exit’. It’s everywhere in Germany.” Gabriel responded. “Not so much in Alsace-Lorraine. If there’s no French by it, it’s safe to assume they are in Germany.”

Sabine choked. “Oh no…no no no…”

Gabriel rested a calm hand on her arm. “Sabine, it’s alright. This is good. We know we’re looking in the wrong place, and we can tell the detective what we learned. Okay?”

She nodded, wiping her cheeks. “I just…they’re so far…I feel so helpless!”

“I feel the same.” He assured.

And he did. Not only did he have no clue where they were in Germany, but his akumas couldn’t reach farther than Paris. Even if he were to go to Germany, he’d have to spend days hopping around from city to city. And that wasn’t suspicious at all.

Still…if that’s what it took.

First, they’d talk to the detective. Then they’d plan the next move.

#miraculous ladybug #ml #fanfiction #chloe bourgeois #nino lahiffe #alya cesaire #hawkmoth #ladybug #chat noir #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #adrinette #adrienette #longest night

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sometimesrosy · 5 years ago

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I feel like I am always bothering now, but I’m a really indecisive person and your insight always helps me make up my mind, even if I end up doing something totally different. I’ve been trying to replot this story of mine that I’ve tried writing about... 3 or 4 times now. I always stop around the same part. But that’s not my problem now (dunno why). My problem is that I’m too stuck on my plot being too big. This first “book” is divided in 3 parts: the journey, the “staying”, and the war. +

+ I always stop at the “staying” part. My current issue is that the journey is always super long but I need my main characters to develop their relationship so that they can solidify it on the “staying” part. Means they have to be in love by then. I don’t want it to seem rushed & I don’t like making big time jumps. So journey gets too long & with a lot of fillers as I need to develop their relationship somehow and make them have deep and funny convos, etc. Am I worrying too much for a 1st draft?

+++

Well. Hm. I don’t think there is one way to get it done. You COULD plot it out and get all the important points out and manage the pacing and stick to a wordcount to keep it from stretching.

OR you could keep writing to discover the story and cut it down later for pacing.

OR you could decide that you LIKE the convos and relationship building and sacrifice an exciting story with lots of conflict for a more domestic kind of fluff.

I think you might want to think about that one, because in fanfiction you can get away with 60k of fluff, because the audience is often looking for that and it will meet their expectations, but in original fiction, in a book, the audience often demands that something be HAPPENING. They need more plot and obstacles. If you want to make the Staying section about building their relationship, then you might want to add conflict into it, so the plot is actually ABOUT their relationship, so the struggle would be, also. If you don’t give plot and obstacles and movement in the Staying section when people are expecting it, they might get bored.

If you always stop in the staying part, then it sounds like subconsciously you already know it’s not working. Whenever I get stuck while writing, I know I’ve gone off track and my under-brain is not happy. So it’s my job as the over-brain aka author, to go back and figure out where I went wrong.

You already have figured it out. You told me. It’s too long. It’s too much filler.

You WANT to develop your relationship. You DON’T want long time jumps or for it to feel rushed. Those are two conflicting needs, but they are not mutually exclusive. You can develop your relationship, keep it timely, well paced and without long time jumps, but it’s going to be tricky.

I think you have to choose WHICH moments of deep and funny convos are the most important to your story, and which you can cut. Too many deep and funny convos will start seeming tedious. You need to add tension, build tension, relieve tension. All deep, funny convos keep the pacing all on the same level. You’ll get farther with a believable, ENJOYABLE romantic development by alternating between deep funny convos, action, obstacles, etc.

This is the part where they tell you to cut your darlings. You may love the deep funny convos... but are they serving your needs? Needs being keeping the audience interested, moving the relationship and story forward, and keeping the pace lively. Keeping YOU satisfied.

Figure out what information or development you must have, and then see if you can cut some scenes and spread out the information in a more compelling way.

I once had to cut out, like three chapters, because it made the story drag. It was all backstory and chatting, a literal pause to the action. “let’s take a break, have a coffee, and explain.” Tedious. I ended up cutting it and slipping the info learned into other scenes, while they were running, when they first meet, in confrontations with other characters. And all of a sudden I stopped feeling that niggling doubt in my mind that the story was dull and that was filler.

Not all relationship scenes are filler. But removing us from the action gets to be kind of fillerish. Maybe the Staying portion has a lot more of the relationship scenes, and maybe that means you have to be even more rigorous about making sure the story is moving forward and you add conflict.

I have learned lessons from watching The 100. There is a LOT of action. The tension is actually way higher than I am used to writing or even feel comfortable with. That’s a style I think and not necessarily a bad thing, but the WAY they keep the tension going and the way they slip those relationship development moments into small scenes between the action and tension is rather masterful. They build relationships in the moments between, and so the while we get some relief to make the next drama more tense, we never feel safe. Which is important to the genre and story.

You have a structural pickle to resolve. Separating the story into three parts is a good solution for your large story (if you want to get published traditionally, please be aware of genre word count expectations.) But having very different feels to the pacing of each part might be a struggle. Or maybe you’re actually writing a trilogy, and each of those parts is actually a book, and rather than being too long, each section actually needs to be developed OUT into a book.

Do you follow the three act or five act story structure? That might help you figure out the pacing. There’s a format that might actually help clarify for you why it feels too long and slow. Because even if we’re not consciously aware of that traditional story structure, subconsciously our brains are expecting a story to fit along that pacing.

Honestly, I’m not sure my advice will help you. I’ve given you a lot of options to look through to figure out your story. I guess I can’t figure it out for you, but I do suggest you trust your instincts that tell you it’s too long.

OH. One possibility. If you want to avoid a long time jump but keep development from feeling rushed, you might add in a montage or two. A montage, like that part in a movie where we watch a makeover or a warrior’s training, can give us little vignettes as time passes, so there’s no jump, but we also don’t bog down in smaller bits of development that add up to a major change.

Don’t worry about bothering me for writing questions. I like answering writing questions. I love teaching writing and helping people with their creative process or narrative issues.

Sometimes It takes me a bit to answer the questions because I want to make sure my brain is working and I give good answers.

(also posting this to my writing blog @rosy-writes )

#writing advice #pacing #story structure #getting stuck

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raendown · 5 years ago

Link

Plot bunny bit me so I popped out a second story for yesterday’s prompts. @madatobiweek Day 2 prompt: Blind Tobirama

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 1835 Rated: G Summary: Madara helps Tobirama try something new and the results aren't at all what either of them expected.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Love At A Glance

“Are you ready?”

“Is it possible for one to ready oneself for such an experience?”

He could feel Madara glaring at him just as the man always did and it added a flavor of normalcy that immediately calmed him, loosening the muscles he hadn’t realized were tensed in his shoulders. Surprisingly gentle hands brushed under the sides of his jaw and traced the edges of his tattoos where they disappeared under his collar.

“Don’t be snarky,” Madara scolded him. “I’m being very nice to you right now.”

“Noted. I suppose I shall be appropriately grateful afterwards – if you make a good showing of yourself.”

“Are you disparaging my skills?”

Tobirama snorted. “Let me experience them first; I’ll disparage them afterwards.”

He grinned at the sound of teeth grinding together in frustration. Even after several years together there was no better fun to be had than winding his husband up and listening to the many varied expressions of irritation. Madara was far and away the most expressive person he’d ever met other than his own brother. It was the freedom of those emotions that drew Tobirama to him initially, the way his outside perfectly reflected his inside where chakra always told the truth.

Most people thought it must be easy to lie to a blind man. Those people always seemed to forget Tobirama’s deep connection to the chakra networks running through every living thing, the way he could listen as no one else could because he didn’t have whole other source of input to confuse his idea of the truth. He loved his partner first for never trying to conceal his own emotions and second for the sheer beauty of how well he resonated with his own chakra. Lies will wear on a person, Tobirama had found, and after years and decades of lying as all shinobi do he found there were very few who maintained harmony with their own chakra as time marched on.

His husband would be a powerful man long after everyone else’s chakra began failing them, a symptom widely attributed to old age.

“Are you paying attention to me?” Madara demanded.

“No,” he admitted blandly. “I’m distracting myself with disgustingly sappy thoughts and a little bit of chakra theory.”

“Of course you are. Well stop. I need you to hear me.”

“Yes dear.”

Madara huffed but his fingers remained gentle in their hold. “It’s important that you don’t move because a single shift in the wrong direction could break the flow and I want the transition in and out to be as seamless as possible. What I’m giving you is no more than a memory so you won’t be able to interact or change anything. There will be movement but if you focus in the center–”

“You,” Tobirama interrupted him.

“Indeed, me. I will be in the center.”

Nodding slowly, Tobirama took a deep breath. “Anything else?”

“I think we’ve covered everything else a hundred times but if you forget everything else just remember that I can still hear you and I can stop anytime you want me to.”

“Okay.” The fingers cupping his jaw stroked him one more time and he smiled warmly.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

It felt like an invasion, albeit a gentle and welcome one. By the descriptions he’d heard from many people he thought it might be compared to the sensation of having a genjutsu cast when you know it’s coming. Madara’s chakra poured out from where he knew the man’s eyes were, the Mangekyo Sharingan formation spinning wildly, and Tobirama experienced it only through his internal senses as waves of his husband’s presence sank in to his own ocular nerves and then-

And then.

He was going to be seasick. Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut tight but it made no difference, as Madara had promised it wouldn’t, for the vision around him did not stop moving. Nothing made sense. The world was a mix and all too much and he wasn’t sure whether the movement was the problem but he wanted it to stop.

More than that, though, he wanted it never to end. He understood so little but Tobirama forced his poor confused mind to focus and to memorize in a way he’d never had to before, as many details as possible filed away to keep as precious treasures from this day forward. This was a gift he could never possibly repay. Surely nothing he could ever dream of would mean as much as what Madara had offered so freely, an offhand idea over dinner one night now made glorious and terrible reality.

They had agreed beforehand on something short but a handful of seconds felt like forever in both the best and worst ways before finally Madara's voice whispered soothingly that it was all going away. Relief swept through him when the vision faded and his world returned to the same darkness he had lived in for more than thirty years, something bittersweet clinging to the edges of him as he fought to recall the details he didn’t even understand. Fingers combed through his hair and touched his face and he realized he was crying.

“Are you alright?” Madara asked. He nodded. “What was it like?”

“Terrifying,” he admitted.

Not the answer his partner was expecting, judging by the startled hum. “It wasn’t anything bad.”

“I didn’t understand it. My mind didn’t…doesn’t know how to process any of that. You know I was born blind so I’ve never seen color and I’ve never seen movement and I know–” Tobirama stopped the flow of words when he realized it wasn’t only his words that had begun to shake. His body was trembling like a leaf.

“Come here.” Madara gathered him close and continued to comb through his hair, waiting patiently until he was able to continue speaking.

“I know that it was you but I don’t…know…what that means. The shapes meant nothing because I’ve never seen a human with my eyes before. And it’s so bright! How do you concentrate when the world is so bright? With so many colors!” Tobirama forced himself to draw another breath. “Is that color? How many colors were there? W-what ones? Your hair…is…black?” He thought he could remember someone mentioning that once, something not many people would describe out loud when most could tell with a single glance.

A rustle and a brief kiss were his answer. “Yes, my hair is black. Can you guess what you were seeing or would you like me to tell you? I gave you a few hints when I decided on the memory but…”

“No, I wanted to guess. There was a lot of the same color I think. And it was moving. Another color through it? And I know that was you in the center so all of that color was…hair. Your hair. Were you brushing your hair?”

“Yes.” Only one word but it sounded like a floodgate. Madara's chakra wavered and suddenly Tobirama was aware that he wasn’t the only one overwhelmed with emotion.

Unsure of what else to say, he said the truth. “You’re beautiful.”

“How can you say that when you just said you didn’t even really understand? You don’t have any comparisons!”

“I don’t need to understand.” And coming from him that was saying a lot. Tobirama reached up to brush at the hair he had just seen for the first time, the beloved face he’d never known until today. “It was you. That’s all I need. I don’t…I don’t think I want to do this again. If the only thing these eyes ever see is your face then I’m fine with that. Vision is a little terrifying when I’ve gone so long without it. It’s just not a part of my world.”

“Well there’s no need to be so sappy about it,” Madara grumbled and he gave a shaky laugh.

Out of all the many possible outcomes to having his husband’s unique Mangekyo pattern grant him a brief moment of sight in the form of a shared memory, he never would have expected to find himself so viscerally terrified. Now that he was taking a few moments to calm down he thought it was probably an instinctive reaction to his brain being inundated with so much information that it simply wasn’t trained or even equipped to process. He’d meant what he said, he didn’t think he would ever want to repeat this, but he was glad that they’d done it. Knowing Madara's face was an experience he could never regret.

And more than that it was something that would have stayed in the back of his mind for the rest of his days, a small niggling wonder forever pulling at his curiosity. What was it like to see? From the moment Madara mentioned that he thought his own Mangekyo could help Tobirama experience what the rest of the world lived with every day he was helpless to do anything but accept that gilded offer lest his own imagination spiral out of control.

“Thank you,” he said after a few minutes of simply holding each other.

“Don’t thank me for scaring you,” Madara grunted.

“Would you prefer I be angry?”

“It would feel a bit more normal,” His husband admitted.

Tobirama couldn’t stop himself from chuckling. “Ah, right then. How dare you be the most important part of my life and make every day together a gift? I demand recompense.”

Listening to Madara splutter indignantly and shout at him for ‘doing anger wrong’ Tobirama breathed out the last of the tension in his body. In his mind he brought up the confusing image that had been granted to him for such a brief time and tried his best to recall the details. Not much about it made sense to him even if he did know intellectually which parts corresponded with his knowledge of human anatomy. He still tried his best because that was his husband. For the first time in his life he had a face for the name, so to speak, and Madara's face was the only one he had ever seen. Would ever see. That was special in ways he couldn’t hope to put in to words.

Doing his best to hold that image in his mind as he lifted his face more towards his partner’s, Tobirama decided that the room was indeed getting a little too sappy and, of course, the best way to break the tension would always be to get Madara riled up again. He’d known the man long enough to know how to do it with two simple sentences.

“I’m glad you didn’t insist on showing me my own face. I’d have gone doubly blind, I’m sure.”

Madara's enraged shrieking that he was beautiful and perfect and not allowed to saying anything against that was music to his ears. As long as he had his hearing and his sensing, able to feel the sincerity of his husband’s emotions, Tobirama was just fine with his lot in life.

#rae writes #madatobi #madatobiweek2019 #madara #tobirama #fanfiction

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hecallsmehischild · 5 years ago

Text

Burned

“Why can’t I just move on?”

I must have asked this question dozens of times last year from the depths of depression, regret, and the constricting cycle of questions I have that will never be answered. Almost a full year ago, I ended a ten year friendship that had, perhaps, never actually been a friendship to begin with. Her absence left a hole ripped straight through me. I knew that would happen, I’d told her as much myself, though it was not for the reasons I’d always thought. I had to accept that this relationship had caused a great deal of damage in both my head and heart, and that I would never get solid answers to some of my questions.

And yet I would still get sucked into the questions. How could she have done {specific incident}? Was {incident} real or pretense? Did she ever care? When is the other shoe going to drop? I have to understand everything that happened so it never happens again. If I put every piece where it’s supposed to go, it will stop hurting. If I know what was real and what wasn’t, I’ll be able to forgive myself for the things that were my fault and let go of the things that weren’t. I could probably write an essay on all the magical thinking I was doing that perpetuated my need to find solid answers.

For a time, I feared running into her. Completely irrational, given the amount of states between us. And yet I’ve already decided I never want to go to the city I know she lives in again, and may avoid the state altogether if I can help it. In my head, I played out endless scenarios where we somehow ended up face to face, and I made the arguments go well for me this time. Usually this only cemented some poisonous sense of self-righteousness and deepened my bitterness. It was a futile, fruitless exercise that brought me no relief or healing.

I divested myself of almost everything having to do with her in the immediate aftermath of going “no contact.” But I made exceptions. Things that, I rationalized, didn’t have quite as much of her fingerprint on them that I liked, or things I’d sunk large amounts of time into.

“Why can’t I just move on?”

As months went by, I kept finding pieces I’d overlooked, digital or physical, and removing them from my life. But I kept a few. It made no sense that they could hold any sway over me.

“Why can’t I just move on?”

Many months ago, I finally released the last couple items that had she had given to me. But I kept the children’s books. Between the two of us, we created two children’s books, fully illustrated. She wrote the stories, I illustrated them in ArtRage and formatted them for BookBaby. The first one took me about 9 months because I was unfamiliar with what I needed to do and ran into issues that I would not carry over into the second book. The second book took me about 6 months.

I’ve never been an amazing digital artist and I haven’t the inclination to become incredible, but that much practice sharpened my skills a bit and taught me the ins and outs of ArtRage. I even researched, re-purchasing some of my favorite childhood books to look at how they laid out their text and illustrations. And though the team at BookBaby probably thinks I’m a bloody idiot at this point, I finally got through my head what needed doing in order to correctly produce a printed copy. To date I have created four distinct books (and some copies) through Bookbaby for various projects.

But, you see, these books were mine. Mine. As much as they were hers, they were mine, and I was not willing to concede this ground when I had already lost so much. I asked my husband to take the books and put them out of my sight, though, because seeing them on the bookshelf every day hurt too much for me to handle. I harbored hopes that I would be able to page through them fondly in the future.

“Why can’t I just move on?”

From time to time I would get this niggling little notion that maybe I ought to let go of the books. I promptly shoved those thoughts aside. These are the only printed books with my name on them, even if it is as illustrator instead of writer. I signed these copies to myself, like I always wanted to do. I also asked her to sign them the last time we saw each other, and I knew each bore a lengthy message I had yet to look at. I would have to look at it someday, if I kept the books. But I didn’t have to think about it yet.

“Why? WHY?!”

I had begun, in the last three or so months, to realize that most of the time period during which I found this person as a friend was not one I really wanted to hold onto. There is precious little about that time period, or the city I was in, that was good. Why hold onto these things, still? I began slow, deleting photos I’d held onto because they were of a birthday that had meant a lot to me. She had been there celebrating with us, her birthday soon after mine. The whole folder of photos went.

Seeing an older friend on facebook was working through her own, similar issue, I asked her how you forgive. I understand forgiveness to be much more about my own health than the other person’s. I don’t want the anger and poison that come with long-term bitterness, but forgiveness is such an intangible concept that it is difficult for me to figure it out in practical implementation. I asked this friend how she managed, and she mentioned that every time the person who hurt her came to mind, she would pray for God to work in their life and bless them, even if she didn’t feel anything good or positive when she prayed. Pray for your enemies, huh? Suddenly that part made a lot more sense, and I started doing that even when I didn’t feel like it. It was another step, but sometimes I still got sucked into the futile mental argument scenarios.

I had to reformat my computer recently, and as I scrambled to save the files that I wanted, I intentionally left behind the digital files for the children’s books. I would never, I realized, be able to publish them anyway, since that would require an agreement between me and her. Anyone I’d wanted to give copies to already had them. I’d sent her the digital files from the start, so she already had them if she wanted to make her own copies, but I didn’t want any more copies. So I “lost” the files.

A few days ago, I went through my facebook contacts and trimmed about seventy duplicates, deleted profiles, and people I simply didn’t contact anymore or had accepted as “friends” because I felt I had to. I DON’T have to, and while it disheartened me how many of these I had allowed access to my circle, within a day I felt lighter for having narrowed my list down closer to reality. There are still some contacts I probably should release, but am not ready to accept that. It’s okay, it takes time. I will be ready eventually.

Yesterday I wrote up a description of one of the instances with her that bothers me the most in terms of unanswered questions and brought it to a private group, hoping to find some answers. Writing it up brought everything to the surface again, and it hurt. Once again, I flailed at why I couldn’t let go. Why did I have to keep asking? Why couldn’t I just get a damn answer about all this? Why couldn’t I drop it and never look at it again? I needed to forgive her, and I was already trying to do this by offering a quick prayer whenever she came to mind, but the hurt was always there. Just waiting for a good opportunity to come out roaring, claws extended, screaming, “WHY?!”

The books have to go. I don’t know whether to attribute this realization to God gently leading me toward this understanding all year a step at a time, or my own thoughts. Make of it what you will, but I don’t tend toward letting go. I want to, but I don’t actually do it. I have hoarded painful incidents, using them as fuel, as inspiration, as defense. I have, however, asked God to lead and guide and mold me into the person He means me to be. I often fail or misunderstand, but I have asked for Him to help.

I realized I was okay with letting the books go. It wasn’t a waste. I had gained valuable skills in the process of making these books. So, last night, I asked my husband to bring the books down. In a fireplace, we built up a small stack of flat, cardboard boxes and packing paper, set the books on top, and lit the pile. In retrospect, we definitely could have restructured that pile to burn better. As it was, we had to prod and bank and flip pieces over for it to catch right, but in the end it was all a cold pile of ashes. I chose not to read the inscriptions.

Afterward, I laughed my head off at the irony. I don’t hold truck with book burnings. I think it’s a lousy way to express what you think of the book at best and censorship at worst. I never thought I’d end up doing a book burning myself, let alone burn books with my name on the cover. My husband teased I was following in the “proud Christian tradition of book burning” and I just lost it. It is so good to laugh in a situation that has been saturated with tears.

I know this particular book burning was the right thing. I don’t know if I’ll still find myself asking, “But why can’t I let go?”, but I’ve done all I can think to do for now. I have let go of that part of my past in every tangible way I can, keeping no digital or physical remnants to mull over. I’ve taken another step out from under this shadow, and I’ll keep taking steps whenever they become obvious to me.

#rlchild #psychological abuse #emotional abuse #forgiveness #letting go #wrestling with God

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