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joshthewalkingtrainwreck · 13 days ago

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A step by step guide to making something with a niche application in Godot 4, as laid out like a cooking blog giving you a recipe (with art elements I've made for it)

A person has to have influences. Not just in who inspires them to create art, but who inspires them in their planning their avenues of attack, their planning, their sheer fuckin' gumption. the utter balls they have to even show up after that nonsense they pulled last week. Nobody has ever said that about me, but life has a way of beating every last ounce of shame out of a person to the point where they feel there is the chance that could happen.

In my case, there are the people i think those who know me would say i would pick: people in game shows, people for whom 'bastard' has been an exclamation of both high praise and low curse. People like Jay Wolpert, for being perhaps the most experimental producer in an especially commercial genre (Whew, Shopping Spree, for attempting to make Trivial Pursit somehow exciting to watch instead of just to play); Bob Stewart, for being the man in the right place at the right time (one of those times was hearing Monty Hall tell him that old man goodson was looking for people); Reg Grundy, the aussie tv producer who would go on research trips to new york, spending the entire week in a hotel room with a copy of tv guide, a pen, and a composition book with a masking tape label bearing the caution of "original game show ideas do not steal" —and i am totally not hating on Grundy for that; IANAL but I've observed enough of it to make the opinion that you can protect how a game looks, reads, and sounds, but games are processes, and the intellectual property system here in the US does not protect the processes of baking a cake/formulating a fragrance/giving away merchandise to members of the general public according to arbitrarily set metrics presented as competitions of skill.

There have been at least two or three court cases where somebody *tried* to sue one show for being "too much like" another game show, but those what weren't settled out of court (most recently Tokyo Broadcasting System vs Endemol over Wipeout being too much like Takeshi's Castle), were dismissed outright (e.g. Chuck Barris vs Haim Saban, over the defendant's I'm Telling being too much like The Newlywed Game. The judge said nobody had a claim on inane bullshit and told all parties involved to stop wasting the court's time). Hell, it's the reason why Words With Friends was left unscathed (and eventually bought out) by Hasbro while Scrabulous had to shut down– Scrabulous danced a little to close of the “reasonable person” argument, in that there were actual ways people *could* confuse Scrabulous for Scrabble in that they used a similar board layout, similar scoring, etc.

But my influences extend beyond game shows, like film director/producer william castle, probably the most successful boilermaker hollywood could ever offer out of postwar america; there was a talk he gave to a college class. even though you might be able to tell in the speech that he felt somewhat disrespected by a class who knew him just from the movies he directed, he gave advice that stuck with me, even if the exact quote has peeled off in a couple of places in my mind from age: 'a producer is someone who is willing to step into any role in a project to see it through to completion.’ and I would say that's not just useful for having an understanding of how it all works, but it is incredibly important for a producer to learn patience, especially for anybody a producer works with. By learning how to edit, learning how to direct, and so on, you have an appreciation for the skills you're only just dipping your toes in; these are people who committed to that particular role and they are no less worthy of the patience, respect, and money that you would want for yourself for this.

Which has been why I've been learning Godot 4. That, and I am both too fucking broke to pay anybody else. Also there's the ifetime of neurodivergent trauma has made hyperindependence A Thing for me. That self-reliance, the rural Appalachian definition of it at least, is a Key Sign of Adulthood, and that an inability to do everything on your own is a choice of slothfulness. I can't ask people for help when I am still trying to figure out what it is I need help with. And if I hate being asked to help with no ready instructions on what to do, why would I want to put anybody else through the same thing?

So I try to learn it all and do it all. It's why a man in his 40s is just starting out in a career that most everybody else in his peer group are developing midlife crises over. It's why a man who has worked what was available hasn't been able to work what he wants to do, and why he still weeps at the end of the day over the years where it turned out he wasn't lazy or flawed or worthless, but had to work even harder just to get the same level of normal everybody else had no trouble managing.

I've also got in the habit of writing the stuff I've learned down, so if anybody else is looking to do the same thing, maybe they will have more time and energy to get to places I've not been able to find because I've had to do this, first.

So, if anyone is inclined/interested in making their own quiz projects, or just having a goofy little graphical element to represent a value within a game they are building, here's the workflow I've found so far for making trilons (the old fashioned flippy boxes like you see on $25,000 Pyramid) in Godot4:

(1) Make a new 3d scene. Add a new MeshInstance3D node to it, Look in the Inspector for the mesh just created > look for Mesh in the first entry > click the dropdown box next to it > select New Prism Mesh. Set initial mesh dimensions 1:0.866:1-- whatever changes made after this will keep things conforming to these initial proportions.

(2) find center mass: adjust it along your pivot axis by half of the height ( 0.866*0.5, or 0.433; look for inspector > transform > position > y-axis), then take that result and subtract the height, divided by 3 (0.433 - (0.866/3), or 0.144 in the same field)

(3) make your initial positioning; depending on where and how you wanna put it, the info i need to display on this is a maximum of three lines of text with some graphical highlights added. A landscape orientation will be what I need here. to that end, i set the rotation on the y-axis field to 90, so that only one face is visible to the camera when seen from the front. The pivot for its initial/"home" position itself will be done later.

(4) size it to spec; because we set the initial dimensions in step one, we can use the scale fields to size it to the specifications and still keep things equilateral. In the layout I've designed, I will need three of these, the faces of which being 295x95 pixels. Each face will need to be able to fit these proportions, so the x axis needs to stay at 1, the y-axis needs to be requested height divided by 100 (95/100 or 0.95 inspector > transform > scale > y-axis), the z-axis needs to be the width done the same way (295/100 or 2.95, next field over)

(5) create the controller; create a new Node3D, set the MeshInstance3D as a child to it. this will be what will have the animations attached to it later on. I renamed mine to 'controller,' because I lack an imagination at three-thirty in the morning.

(6) Set its starting position; change focus from the MeshInstance3D to its adoptive parent, bringing its fields up in the inspector. The default state needs to have one face as the only one being visible. The easiest thing I have found to do, especially considering the animations I need to set for this, is setting inspector > transform > rotation > x-axis to -90 degrees, as the animation player gets a little screwy if it tries to go beyond 360, plus or minus. it's a thing, i don't sweat it.

(7) Create the animations. Add an AnimationPlayer node to bring up the Animations panel, then choose the controller node. This will move the entire mesh by the center pivot we set earlier.

You should notice a key icon in each heading of the transform section of the Inspector, that's for setting keyframes. Go to the Animation pane > click the "animation" button next to the greyed out dropdown box. In the menu that pops up, choose "new animation."

(7b) For this, since I've got 3 faces on this (and it's possible to use more, it's possible to just have one plane, double-sided. I just figured a trilon was as good a starting place as any), there needs to be 3 seperate stops: from the 1st face to the 2nd; 2nd to the 3rd; etc. that's 120 degrees between each stop. For the first animation, I click the key under 'transform' (and it may ask you to confirm that you're starting a new animation track, it's okay). There should be a checkbox with the word 'rotation' and a dot next to the border of the timeline.

(7c) Next, advance the animation shuttle (it's that blue stick that glides along the animation timeline whenever you hit the play button) to the other, accessable end of the timeline (it defaults to one second but you can change it), and then add 120 degrees to the x-axis rotation (should be showing 30 degrees). Click the key again to set the ending keyframe. Godot will now rotate the mesh from the position you gave it to start on to the position you gave it to end on.

Repeat that until you've made animations moving along all three stops. A reset animation will be really handy here, as the default state will be showing a 'blank' graphic I made for this, so any time I need to introduce a new category with it, it will snap back to the ready state.

(7d, optional) I went ahead and made duplicate animations to speed up the rotation to make it seem a little more dramatic as mood dictates-- I went through and selected each animation from the dropdown box, clicked the animation button, and chose 'duplicate.'

it will ask you to give this duplicate a name, and I just attached the word 'snap' to it. I changed the overall length to .3 seconds, and adjusted the position of the ending keyframe on the timeline by clicking on the appropriate dot on the timeline, and changing the value for 'time' in the inspector to the end of the animation (.3).

Will I need to snap-flip whenever an ordinary category is played? Probably not, but I will need that snap-flip to happen if a modifier comes attached to the category (e.g. offering free picks at the board or doubling the value of the pot on a successful contract). I'd sooner have something and not need it as need it and not have it.

(8) Save the scene.

As of right now, I admit this is only half-useful; I have the mechanics but no way of putting graphics on each individual face of this trilon. Trying to set a texture via the MeshInstance3D > Material > NewStandardMaterial3D > Albedo will just use that one graphic and stretch it across the entire mesh.

From what I understand, I will need to build a custom shader that will divide the face into three, and swap the individual graphics out as the state of play and game logic require.

When I figure out how to do that, I'll put up what I did to get there.

For now, have a couple pieces of my poor craftsmanship:

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midoridragonuus · 2 years ago

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comeuppance

< previous | compendium | next > From: [email protected] To: [email protected]

Attachment: restructuring58xx.pdf

Schwartz Industries // Memo 050820XX

Effective Immediately

We are excited to announce a restructuring effort that will affect various parts of our complex. All department heads are required to read the attached document and discuss it internally with every employee.

A new third shift schedule is attached, which may cause initial disruption to various functions. However, this is non-negotiable and a change in hours due to industry requirements is included in every standard employee contract. Those with medical needs or have children have had an additional document sent that includes employee accommodations.

Schwartz Industries is entering into a new era once again.

Let's welcome change, and the future!

"What the hell is this?" A thick hand slammed down a printed copy of the memo on a massive desk.

The sheer force of which the paper was placed caused the sitting woman's bangs to sway. She huffed in annoyance at the disturbance. "It's exactly what it says it is - a restructuring memo. Can you not read?"

Gabriel frowned, his hands moving from the memo to his hips as he leaned over Ellie's desk. "Stop playing cute. What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know what you mean," she shrugged as she ran thin fingers through her hair and returned to looking at another stack of papers.

"You don't know what I mean," Gabriel repeated. While most words from his lips were dripping with sarcasm or jest, this was laced with venom. He reached over, pulling the stack of papers from her hand and tossing them to the side. "You know damn well what I mean. What is this? All of this? This is the first I'm hearing about any restructuring."

"Good," she frowned. "Because it's the first we're talking about it."

"Who's this 'we'?" he shouted. "It sure as hell isn't the Board of Directors for this company! No one else I talked to knew about this. Which, for a fortune 500 company? Not a good look, kiddo."

Ellie sighed again. She locked fingers and leaned forward to look the man square in the face. "Who do you think? This is Schwartz Industries. She calls the shots. I send out the paperwork. When has it ever been different?"

The two locked eyes, causing Gabriel to mirror a frown. Ellie's eyes were different. Instead of the warm glow of fiery embers, they were dark. Cold. They lacked color, save for the faintest hints of what they once were. He tried to lean closer to observe them in more detail, but the woman pushed back from her desk and turned to face the city through the massive windows behind her.

"Why are you acting so blasé about this?" Gabe straightened and crossed his arms in defiance. It was a half-hearted defense, as he didn't particularly want to pick a fight with Ellie. But this…? It was unacceptable and he was the only one willing to speak his mind while the others shrugged in resignation. "Are you even thinking about the other employees? Who's going to work at my bar?"

"Is that what this is about?" The chair squeaked as she turned - face marred by the most sour look. "You're worried about your bar in a time like this?"

He shook his head. "No. Kinda. …Bad example. It's not about the money, Elle. It's the people."

"And you're their martyr?" she scoffed. "Since when?"

"I'm sorry that I care about my employees. Their work at my bar is their second job. Now you're giving them a third. Where's the time to eat? Sleep? Shit?"

"Again…" The words sat on her lips like poison on the rim of a cauldron. "Since when are you their martyr? When's the last time you even talked to one of your employees outside of work?"

"Not the point," he growled.

"I think it is." Ellie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. At least that hadn't changed - when she was stressed, it'd build tension in her face and her nose would scrunch in pain. "You're here to start an argument you have no chance of winning, because you aren't fighting me, you're fighting a policy that's already in place. You have no backing, because if you haven't noticed, you're here alone. None of your employees are here. They don't care. No one cares. It's just life, Gabriel. It is what it is. I don't get what you're trying to accomplish."

The man paused, letting the words wash over him like a torrid rain. She wasn't wrong. Conceptually, anyway. He couldn't really argue against her points. because none of what she said was his real counter. She would have known that if she were herself. Ellie had a way of digging into him and unearthing his true motives better than anyone else. It's why he had fallen for her in the first place. But ever since she had re-appeared, something changed.

He had watched her walk through a field of shattered glass, suspended in the air. And just as quickly as he watched her take a step, she had vanished. Ellie was gone. The light imprints in the carpet from her boots halted midway - only the faint outline of her heel was left. He had reached out to stop her, fingers grasping at the lingering scent of her perfume. And then he passed out.

When he woke up, it was to two strangers. At least, that's what it seemed to be when Ellie magically re-appeared next to a man he'd never seen before. She insisted it was her brother, James. But Ellie didn't have a brother. He knew that. That was one of the first things he knew about her, and he remembered a small twinge of jealousy at her being an only child when he had four.

Faced with confusion, panic, and adrenaline built from his own injury, he bolted. It was a shameful habit, and one that bit him in the ass more than it helped. But that was his nature, and there was no arguing with instinct when fight or flight kicked in.

As if fate descended from the heavens and imparted itself on him, an e-mail urged him to meet with the mysterious Carlos Saavas. Of course, even that hadn't gone over well. He'd been cornered by two people who unnerved him to the core - Prophet and the sketchy doctor. Unfortunately, he had been in such a panic after losing sight of Ellie that he wasn't in the right state of mind to listen to whatever the others had to say. He pushed his way out of that room as well and had been actively avoiding them at every turn. Prophet's smile every time they even glanced his direction caused his stomach to flip. It teetered on anger.

In a moment of clarity, he had ran to security to pull tapes when he spotted the woman sitting in the cafeteria as if nothing even happened. He ran to confront her - ask if she was alright - ask what happened. She stared at him incredulously, eyebrows raised in concern. He could still hear her words rattling around in his head.

'I don't know what you're talking about. I've been in my office all day, except now. Obviously.'

Those words struck like a cold needle to his spine. He knew what he saw. And as much as he loathed both Prophet and Carlos, they confirmed his version of events. If two separate people he didn't trust agreed, then either he was being manipulated, they all were crazy, or he truly saw what he saw. He was willing to bet on the latter.

When he reviewed the security tapes, there was nothing spectacular. In fact, it seemed to support option two - there was nothing in the hall. No shards of glass. No Ellie. Just Gabriel himself having what looked like a panic attack. He took a copy to a friend who couldn't find anything unusual. There wasn't any evidence of tampering, editing, or magical interference. There was nothing, and the man was once again torn between insanity and a cover-up.

But now… Now there was no question. The Ellie sitting before him, arguing about whatever inane change to the complex's schedule wasn't the Ellie that disappeared. He refused to believe it. Ellie was short-tempered. Lively. She could be worked up easily and matched his passion. Normally, she'd be overwhelmed and stressed by the sheer amount of work on her desk. The Ellie he saw now seemed almost bored by it. There was no passion left. There was nothing that remained of the person he'd grown to care for.

"You're not Ellie," he stated, jabbing a finger at her. There was no hesitation in his voice.

"Oh my Gods," she sighed. "You can't be seri-"

"Deadly." The man cut her off mid-sentence and pushed a stack of papers onto the floor for a reaction. She looked… bemused. Surprised by his audacity, maybe. But of every emotion painted on her freckled face, none of it was anger.

"Gabe-"

The man turned on his heel and headed for the door. He paused before leaving. "And this? It isn't over. Not by a long shot." Because now she knew that he knew, and that was the first step in his plan.

Ellie sat back, dumbfounded at what had happened. She replayed the entire situation in her head twice, and still was no closer to a conclusion.

After several minutes of silence, interrupted only by the ticking of the clock, she reached for the phone and dialed a new extension.

There was no voice on the other end. The only clue she had was a click, followed by light breathing on the other end.

"He knows," she whispered.

#drabble #c:ellie #c:gabe #flight rising #comeuppance

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pashterlengkap · 1 year ago

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Art gallery removes lesbian founder’s nude drawings

The 78-year-old founder of a community gallery in Philadelphia is accusing the nonprofit’s board of directors of homophobia after members removed two of her drawings from public view while she was out of town. “The more I thought about it, the more I was upset,” Arleen Olshan, a cofounder of the Mt. Airy Art Garage (MAAG), told the Philadelphia Inquirer of the unauthorized removal. --- Related Stories Movie theater manager calls police on woman for taking autistic son into the women’s room He shouted that it was “not a transgender bathroom” at the mom and her son. --- Now she’s filed a complaint with the Pennsylvania Human Relations Commission, alleging harassment, wrongful pressure to leave the gallery, and random censorship of her artwork. Get the Daily Brief The news you care about, reported on by the people who care about you. “My responsibilities as executive director at MAAG have been usurped by the Board with no notification,” Olshan writes in the complaint. “I no longer feel this is a safe space for LGBTQ+ artists.” “The ongoing attacks against me,” Olshan states, “citing safety of children and family values are homophobic code words. I have begun moving out of my studio as of July 3, 2023.” The artist founded the nonprofit with her wife in 2009. After she was diagnosed with lung cancer last fall, Olshan took a sabbatical from her art practice in April. Before she left, she says she moved portable display walls around her studio and hung the two drawings there. One of the pencil drawings, titled Academy Days, depicts three nude women lounging on a couch and brings to mind a life-drawing class. The second drawing, Kissing in the Summer Sun, shows two women lying in the grass in an embrace. Neither artwork could be considered pornographic. Both date back to the 1970s. According to the complaint, filed on July 9, in Olshan’s absence three board members turned the walls in front of her studio around, removing the drawings from public view. On her return, Olshan complained to the board and was shocked by the response. “Who wants to see naked women?” asked the board’s director, Patricia Smith, according to Olshan. “When you hung your artwork of nude figures on the outside wall, three Board members felt they were not appropriate for children to see in a commonly used space,” a letter to Olshan from the board stated. “I don’t want my 5-year-old grandchild seeing this,” Smith said in a subsequent meeting. “Even gay people don’t want something like this right in their face,” another board member stated, according to the complaint. Olshan was despondent. “I’m very sad about all of it,” Olshan told the Inquirer. “These are labors of love — to just talk about them in such awful ways is really terrible.” She filed her complaint days later. “We’re going backward in a lot of states regarding our human rights, and I don’t want to see that happening. Certainly not in Mount Airy.” In a statement posted to the MAAG website, the board denied the allegations and claimed Olshan’s “communication contains misinformation, exaggerations, and several statements not based on facts.” “MAAG has always been intentionally inclusive and diverse,” the statement continues. “The Board values freedom of expression, diversity, and the inclusion of all voices, including the LGBTQ+ community.” “There has been an ongoing argument about my work — citing children and family values,” Olshan says in her complaint. “My work is also the only artwork focused on feminist and lesbian themes. Why now? No one’s work has ever been censored at MAAG.” “To me, this is homophobia,” Olshan writes, “cloaked in ‘protecting the children.’” http://dlvr.it/SsrGDJ

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robynthomsonnapierfilm · 2 years ago

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Moth! - cinematography research

Inspiration

A huge part of my research this semester was looking at both film stills/photography and scenes from films that centred around similar subject matter to scenes from Moth! (i.e., the note burning, kitchen argument, Sophia’s bedroom). It was good for me to see the way other people within my field tackled the subject matter – did they capture it from afar? Up close? Was the lighting moody and dark or bright and inviting? By looking at lots of different types of media and seeing what I was most drawn too, I got a feel for the way in which I would like to bring Moth! to life visually.

I put together a big mood board that I plan to keep adding to right up until I finalise my own ideas for the proper Moth! shoot, but until then, it has been a good way of showing the rest of the crew what I have in mind to make sure I am on the same page as our director Lilith. Lilith was happy with the mood boards – claiming it was as if I had “climbed inside her brain” – which is always high praise when first showing a writer/director how you visually perceive their work.

Here is an example of some images from the mood board:

The key elements I have been looking at for now are lighting and framing.

Cinematographers

I have also been looking at cinematographers who have worked on projects that are similar in tone or have similar characters/subject matter to moth!.

One person who’s work I really admire is Rina Yang. Much of her work revolves around lots of handheld and dolly work and has been described as “a subtle style that doesn’t require brash composition, nor does it force you to consider ‘The Cinematographer’”. One project of hers that I looked to most for inspiration both for the test shoot and the film as a whole, was Yang’s cinematography on ‘All Too Well: The Short Film’. A lot of the visual elements I want to include in the cinematography for Moth! have been used in this project – especially the handheld work. It was interesting for me to see how she had shot some of the longer scenes using handheld camera. It was interesting to see the blocking se used when holding the camera on each subject during an argument in a similar setting to one included in our own film’s script.

Another cinematographer who’s work I found to be a relevant source for inspiration was Oli Russell. While the work of his I looked at was for TV instead of film, it was still relevant. He worked as cinematographer for both Sex Education and Derry Girls – two shows which have a similar mix of comedy and drama to the script for Moth!, as well as having a cast of young characters going through strong teenage emotions like our main character Sophia. It was good for me to see his approach to bringing this type of story to life visually. While the cinematography for Derry Girls was more set in social-realism, Sex Education had a brighter approach. The colour grade had pops of saturated colour. This is something our director Lilith said she wanted in the grade for our film because, when watching teen films for inspiration when first writing the script, she noticed films like Mean Girls and Legally Blonde incorporated this look.

Here are some stills from Sex Education and Derry Girls:

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houseboatisland · 3 years ago

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Do you ship Molly with anyengine?

I think you should ;)

"Anyengine," I like that :3

Molly, as has been said many times for other reasons, is a complicated engine. I wouldn't necessarily call her aromantic, but she tries to snuff out any potential feelings she has for others out of a lack of confidence. "Why bother?" is her mindset in this regard. Per my headcanon, her self-esteem was blunted in her youth by the constant bullying of her sisters. They resented her as an engine comfortable with the commoners, and thus "common" in their eyes, so how dare a common engine shed with them and also be in reserve for Royal Trains? And that was drilled into her smokebox any time she was within earshot... for years.

Her sense of self-worth has grown by leaps and bounds since arriving on Sodor, and being allowed to blossom individually and separate from her sisters, (who are all now Hella Dead.) Still, her mind always stops abruptly at that invisible set of buffers between her and the idea of a significant other, habitually. There were SOME Sudrians she pondered. She eyed Henry from afar right after her arrival in '38, but then a certain diesel-hydraulic named for a hibernating forest animal came along, and that was that.

Now, if you want to hear some real gossip that'll make you pull a landline onto the bed, twirl the wire, and go "No. Way.," hear this:

Gordon fancied Molly once, but he once again hoisted himself by his own boiler sludge and could never bring himself to approach her after the fact.

Now, our headcanon goes that Molly arrived on Sodor in 1938 as a loan in anticipation of Gordon's upcoming rebuild. She would join him, James and Henry on the Express Rota, learn the ropes, and help cover for him until his return. Molly also came with the added benefit of not minding pulling trucks, and she was chomping at the bit to be transferred anywhere as long as it was away from her sisters. Sir Nigel Gresley hadn't forgotten dear old Gordon, (although his pet ducks ranked far higher,) and while the LNER's Board couldn't be convinced to send another Pacific over, Gresley interviewed all potential transfers personally, and decided Molly, out of dozens of candidates, was the best. No small praise coming from the man who was basically the LNER incarnate.

Her service record was virtually perfect, her discipline log was literally free of entries, and after several calculations, she was the fastest Claud Hamilton based on her accumulated train timings. And she never so much as bumped a teacup saucer all the while. Her sisters were, in a word... f u m i n g. And you know what? Molly smiled back at them, for the first time in one of these situations. She was living her best life in that moment, God friggin bless. It would later turn out to be the last moment she saw any of them, and honestly what a perfect note to end on.

The Fat Director, who had been putting off Gordon's rebuild for five years now, knew that Gordon would in modern terms, go postal if he found a way to convince himself that Molly was here to replace him and not just fill a temporary (temporary!!!) void, so great pains were taken with choreographing it all. But they needn't have. Timid Molly, it turned out, was Most Popular Girl in the Shed from the minute she showed up. The Sudrian engines up to this point had been through nigh twenty years of petty feuds, circular arguments, and enough trauma to warrant a therapist at Crovan's Gate if it were in the budget, so a new face who disliked confrontation as a rule was... everything they could have ever wanted.

*willie rushton voice* Gordon was fyeurrius.

Gordon was by this point worn out and paranoid, and the more worn out he got, the more paranoid he became. Despite everything to the contrary, he was sure the knives were out for him. He was a prototype who broke down increasingly frequently, and this new girl swans in acting humble and instantly being in everyone's good graces. He's humble!!! (He isn't.) The last straw of course was when Molly, accidentally, bested his fastest timing on the express to Barrow, and that was after she had started late. Gordon's Berserk Button was hit, let me tell you.

He was dragged to Crewe believing he'd be scrapped in an enemy territory workshop, cursing Molly's name and frankly making an ass of himself, you could cut through the theatrics with a saw. Like, it was embarrassing. Like, Gordon... dude. This naturally shook Molly to her core, and any new confidence she had just dissipated. The other engines would've written Gordon off then and there if he was around when she experienced this. Molly was their rock, and for a moment, Gordon was almost dispensable.

Then comes the war.

Archivists disagree on why, but for one reason or another, the LNER just... lets the NWR have Molly in the last minute it's still within their power to decide it. If you want my opinion, a dying Sir Nigel who still remembered Molly so fondly decided she should be allowed to stay on Sodor. No records exist, but in all likelihood he got Molly's difficulties with her sisters out of her, and acted on those as well as the praises Hatt sung her in his correspondences during the loan. So Molly becomes a Sudrian engine on paper, and this is later revealed to her in early 1940.

Gordon had by this time come back, and his time being rebuilt coupled with the national mood had sobered him up considerably. There was no time for fighting, that's what the Jerries want us to do, there's a war on, you know! As all the engines came to wear black and be worked to the frames, Gordon made his peace with Molly, who accepted it because again, she hates fighting. If she were a more combative engine, Molly probably would have torched Gordon a second tender for his behavior and wedged his apology in it. Gordon, for his part, was honestly contrite, but his uppity nature, history of rudeness and constant references to the war made this a bit hard to believe. The other engines forgave him in short order too, but not because they wanted to. So, even though Gordon was legitimately sorry for a change, it fell flat some.

The war drags on. Gordon is being put on goods work more and more, because passengers are suddenly second-rate, and all pretenses and class are out the window. Increasingly, he and Molly are double-heading the heaviest and fastest freight trains, like the iron ore and coal bound for the steelworks and shipbuilders in Barrow. These are stressful journeys lacking in light and made under risk of enemy bombardment. But it brought them together, as little as they may have talked.

And Gordon felt differently about Molly, very very different.

She had a knack for picking herself back up in the face of adversity, rising above the fray whenever others fought, something Gordon envies very much this day, she inspired confidence in you when it seemed she had so little, and she was beautiful. For the first time, the only time, Gordon saw a mixed-traffic workhorse covered in soot and grime and drab unlined black paint, and thought she was the most beautiful thing to ever grace two forever parallel silver ribbons of rail diving into a tunnel of night bombers blotting out the bloody moon. (Didn't account for Gordon being a poet, did you?)

The war ends, and there's a new deal for everyone. The welfare state is born, key industries are to be nationalized, Crovan's Gate and by extension the embryonic NW Region become critically powerful as the Attlee Government lets them keep all loaned materiel during the war, at no charge. (Sodor has consistently returned Labour MPs ever since.) The engines are returning to their old colors, and years of neglected maintenance are being seen to.

It's Molly's turn to be repainted. Rather than return to Apple Green and be like her sisters, Molly cuts her own path and chooses a slightly loud but altogether very becoming and gorgeous livery of yellow with red and gold stripes, and white wheel rims. Hatt would've allowed her to choose whatever she wanted, and you'd think this livery was a bit much for him, but no. He was enamored with the color scheme and even mused in his memoirs about making it a new postwar uniform livery. In the same line of course, he admits it would never happen, ("lest a Third World War begin on our railways on the heels of the Second!")

Gordon loved it, although he was incredibly subtle when it came to applauding it. This may have seemed cold, but he was ashamed of his earlier behavior. He had been so rude to Molly, and here she was, reaching new heights of popularity and success without so much as a hiccup. She's Ms. Perfect, and he's soiled his chances of bettering himself in her eyes forever.

It took him years, but Gordon managed to shove it all down... just. He still dreams of it, but he knows in his heart of hearts that they can never be together. Even if Molly truthfully forgave him, on top of her earlier wartime forgiveness made out of necessity and fear of disagreements, he wouldn't believe her. There would be no way, from his point of view, that she could say such and mean it. And why should she? He wouldn't deserve it.

And... Molly becomes the last engine Gordon has romantic feelings for. He's just... done.

Does Gordon ever tell anyone ANY of this? Not a chance. Who knew about it? Nobody KNEW, but Edward had a theory. It's Edward. He knows Gordon like a book. Does Edward ever voice his suspicions, even to Gordon alone and in the strongest confidence? No.

Did Molly know? No. Did she ever wonder? No, not even a little. It's Molly. No one could POSSIBLY go for her, could they? It's unrealistic. So, she'll just stuff that behind her tubeplate and get back to these trucks, that's what she'll do.

And there'll be no more of this nonsense.

#ttte #ttte shipping #ttte molly #ttte gordon #molly x gordon #ttte henry #ttte bear #henry x bear #ttte james #ttte the fat director #ttte: wwii #ttte edward

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miekasa · 3 years ago

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bestie this is completely unrelated except it sorta is bc doctorxdoctor is scrumptious except i cannot with med school so my go to is professors at the same uni who are married

i think you drabbled a bit about this before??? correct me if i'm wrong lol 😭

Oh that’s hot, too and I’m on board. I probably have 😭😭 but it’s a fantastic au, so I love it when ppl wanna talk about it. Some quick ideas for both that have been in my rotation lately

Some cocky new resident bursts through the doors to the office space where you, Levi, your residents, and a few co-workers typically reside, frantic, and demanding to speak to Dr. Ackerman. Levi only looks up from his notebook with a blank expression in his eyes to question, “Which one?” All of the kid’s confidence wavers, “Um... aren’t you Dr. Ackerman, sir?” Levi only shrugs, and points a weighted pen in the student’s direction, to an office door barely open wide enough to see a sliver of your profile as you type away on your computer, “Yes, I am, but so is she.”

You should have known better, or at least been a little more thorough—for someone completing their MD-PhD, you’d think you’d do a quick Google search on the guy you’re seeing at least once to see if anything important pops up—because Jaeger really isn’t that common of a last name. Because not only is your boyfriend of nearly a year the younger brother your least favorite TA/supervisor, he’s also the son of the medical director of the hospital you’ll be working at next semester; and word on the street is Dr. Carla Jaeger doesn’t take lightly to her baby getting hurt.

After taking residences in facilities nearly four thousand miles apart, Jean couldn’t care less about being a fully fledged doctor—the only thing on his mind is getting home to you, and never leaving. So, when he finally gets to your place, there’s not a single doubt in his mind when he drops his bags, cups your face between your hands, and asks you to move in with him.

Connie really needs to stop calling you down to his office for “urgent” matters concerning the x-rays and images of your patients, when his only urgent concern is that he misses you. And that the x-ray table was freshly sterilized, so if you wanna... relieve some stress, he knows a place.

Mikasa always had a soft spot for kids, and at one point considered pediatrics as a specialty. Even though she went down another route, she’s reminded of her love for children when Sasha asks for her to cover at her clinic for last few hours of the day. It reminds her that while doesn’t regret her speciality, but she does envy Sasha sometimes. So much so, that when she comes home to you later that evening, she can’t stop herself before she blurts out, “What do you think about adopting a kid?”

And for the professor/university side of things:

Hange can’t help but cackle in the corner of the classroom as Levi’s student finish their presentation—a fourty-four slide powerpoint defending their belief that you and him are 100% dating—because while they compiled some pretty convincing arguments, Hange thinks it’s hilarious because Levi’s only reply is, “We’re very close with each other, as roommates should be.”

You and Levi have a very special end-of-semester ritual. After all the exams and final papers and projects have been turned in, you like to sit on the touch with a glass of wine, and look through your course evaluations together; and they’re anonymous, but you two like to place bets on which students wrote which review. Most are positive, and you think it’s funny that 90% of Levi’s follow the general vibe of “Prof Ackerman is kind of cold-hearted on the outside and not an easy grader but he’s a good teacher.”

It’s only like the freshman think they have a chance with you—for one, you’re a senior, and secondly, you’re their lab TA and you can very easily fail them if they tick you off—but they have to admit to feeling a little crushed when they find out that not only are you not single, but you’re dating Armin, the other lab TA everyone has a crush on.

A rare au in which Levi does admit that he is married, but doesn’t disclose any information about you until the very last day of the semester. His students are practically bouncing off the walls on the last day of lecture before exams, ready for the big reveal. Imagine how dumb they feel when Levi finally tells them your name, and they realize that he’s been talking about you all the time, because your name is listed well over twelve times in the citations for the articles they’ve been reading all semester. (Eren has you sign his syllabus and his first midterm of the year, because you’re basically a celebrity at that point).

#anonymous #thinking..... thinkinng #80% of these are for levi and so what. i am a levi girlie first and foremost and i will stand my ground #not a teacher/teacher au but see also: zeke beinng the grad student TA for one of eren's classes #and forcing him to be your project partner when he finds out that eren has a crush on you LMFAOOOOO #minicanons #med au

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getvalentined · 1 year ago

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Something else that I think a lot of people in fandom need to remember—particularly my main fandom, particularly right now—is that every piece of popular media we enjoy is a product.

I'm talking very specifically about popular media here, mass media studio projects with marketing budgets and teams of hundreds or thousands of people, so put down your whataboutisms about indy projects and creating for the love of the craft and please meet me where I am actually standing.

Now, to be clear, good media is very rarely something that the creators see as nothing more than a profit endeavor. This is their work, and they want it to be good! That's why they started creating things in the first place!

However.

The development of popular media is inherently profit-driven, and the act of monetizing that media isn't inherently greedy or predatory. This applies all across the board, really; if you have a problem with the people who made an award-winning piece of media wanting to get paid for making it, you also have a problem with a tiny artist like me having a Patreon. By insisting that any creator trying to monetize their work has to be doing it strictly out of greed and must only have chosen to create because they wanted money is bullshit—in demanding that any creator do what they love to do exclusively because they love it and not because they need to eat and pay their bills, you're devaluing the entire concept of art.

There are legalities at play for some fields—fanfiction is a profitless endeavor because it's illegal to monetize, that doesn't mean those people don't deserve financial support—but that's a tangent we're not going to go off on right now. Again, meet me where I'm standing, not where you might think you found a "gotcha" to disprove my point.

I'm not saying "waaah think of the studios," I'm saying that insisting a work of popular media should be both accessible enough to build a big fandom where you can have a huge global community (hence the "popular" in "popular media") while also having absolutely no monetization in any capacity is absolutely ludicrous. It would be cool if that were possible, but it's not. Not at this scale, not in this way.

If you believe that the only way for creators to prove that they "respect" their own work (whatever the hell that means) is for your favorite piece of popular media to be entirely and permanently unmonetized, released globally and consistently maintained out of the goodness of the creators' hearts, you're on the wrong side of this argument.

At the end of the day, regardless of your feelings or your fandom, one fact continues to ring true:

Popular media is a product.

It always has been. Products need to be paid for, one way or another. Going on unhinged tirades about paying for a piece of popular media in your favorite series because you've decided that creators continuing to create new titles in one of their favorite series to work on means they have no respect for the original work they created is so far off the path of common sense it boggles the mind.

To get more specific to the fandom in question: you know this is a video game, right? The original was too! Whatever copy you played, however you played it, someone paid for it. It was monetized. The sequel film also cost money. So did every other game in the series. Every single title, all of which were developed with oversight from the same team and headed by the same people, the same writers and directors and artists, has been monetized. The only difference with the new one is that the monetization is shittier—but it's also entirely optional!

This game is important to you, I get it—it's important to me too! But as a creator, as an artist, I can't even fathom the mindset that putting multiple years and millions of dollars into the development of a product in one of the most popular IPs in the field and monetizing the result is "undeniable proof" that the team behind it are bloodsucking fiends with no love for their craft and no respect for their audience.

These are the same people that made the first one. The one that you're saying is the best thing ever created. They wrote that, they designed that, they directed that. If they want to keep playing around in the universe that they made, they're allowed, and we can't expect them to do it without seeing the result as a product because THE ORIGINAL WAS ALSO A PRODUCT.

And if you have a problem with any of that, guess what?

YOU DON'T HAVE TO PLAY IT.

Being nasty to the people who are interested, who are enjoying themselves, declaring that you are the true fan and they're all disrespectful idiots and infants with no sense because you don't like that popular media is always a product is, frankly, much more disrespectful and infantile behavior than someone sitting on the bus playing a fucking mobile game for fun.

Also the previous mobile title they did that lasted less than a year was killed because of actual real life financial fraud, not because of a lack of interest, downloads, or concurrent players. At the time that it got the axe, they were in the midst of approving a third wave of ambassadorships, they had active sponsorships running in the game, it was doing well—particularly for being the series' first foray into a new genre. But, to the shock and bewilderment of everyone in the entire world, we are in the timeline where the co-creator of Sonic the Hedgehog used his position in the development of a Final Fantasy VII battle royale mobile game to facilitate insider trading. Look it up.

#fandom vent #fandom bullshit

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hiraethenthusiast · 3 years ago

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The Hollandairé | t.h.

pairing: ceo!tom x ceo! reader

word count: 16k+

synopsis: exes cross paths on a big event. will they be able to forget each other's mistakes?

warnings: language, sexual innuendos, mentions of an anxiety attack (if you squint), talks about miscarriage, my favourite angst.

a/n: well, well, well im back from a very shitty writers block! look at me, writing angst with exes? oof. can you tell that i absolutely love angst and makeouts in the end? i was somehow inspired by 'idfc' by blackbear to write this fic lol. it took some time and ofcourse i went overboard with it, so hope you enjoy! don't forget to like and reblog! (i even made a moodboard kinda thing uwuwu)

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"Conan I won't hesitate to knee you in the crotch if you don't stop pulling me off this sofa right this second" You tell your roommate, who is desperately trying to get you to go to a gala with him. Being a CEO brings its pros and cons. Pros being, you have a private jet, you're your own boss and you can shout at people with a reason. Cons being, annoyingly nice roommates. You had just shifted to a penthouse in downtown London with your friend Conan, because you refused to stay alone in this bigass house. (You tried living alone once, you were bored to death)

"Conan leave me alone yoo!" You said whining and hunching back into the sofa.

"Get the fuck up and get ready for the launch dude you promised me you wouldn't leave me hanging" Conan shouts over the voice of the t.v. blaring in the background. You pull you hand away from his grip and reach for the remote to shut off the t.v., focusing back on this tall red-headed figure in front of you.

"You know I don't like fancy shit." You grumble.

"It's YOUR fancy shit, get up Y/N." He says and reaches for your arms now, finally making you stand.

"Call Laura, I really don't want to go." You say pulling your phone out from your back pocket and handing it to him.

"If you haven't realised, your manager is the one who forced me to force you to attend the introduction of your fashion line" He fights back.

"- and Y/N. Hey, look at me. You've dreamt of this for how long? Almost all your life. And if you miss the chance to see your empire expand, it's gonna be devastating. You'll obviously miss the fashion show who's got the actual Rudy Pankow walking on a ramp, you'll also miss the opportunity to see people happy with YOUR work. Now get your ass up and get ready." He says and leaves the room, to get ready himself.

It's not that you don't want to go, you really do. Afterall, all of it is your hardwork. But the reason you're not going is because of that asshole. That asshole with whom you used to go out with once, the one who's current goal is to bring you down. The one and only, Tom Holland. You two used to date at some point, the ones who were in love actually, but the rivalry you two have got going on now has lead to you two knowing too much about each other. More than you know about yourself, the other knows it all. Small arguments turned into big ones, that eventually lead to the two of you leaving each other alone. You don't want to go because whenever you meet him, it all turns up into a big mess and your night is typically ruined, and you weren't in the mood for that, atleast not today. He's just a narcissistic bitch who thinks of nothing but degrading you. And that's the reason you don't want to go. Because you know if you talk to him one more time, these banters will persuade you.

But you do realise that you have to go. You have to go because you haven't gone to the last two launches for your perfume and swim line as well, and if you don't go today, Laura will actually end you.

So you just chug all your tea, leaving the kitchen with a grunt to go get ready.

"Hey Marco, can you send in that pantsuit I got done the other day? Look over for modifications if possible, although it looks great in just the solid colour, and please get it drycleaned." You tell your designer over the phone, to which he agreed and you go into your room to get your hair and makeup done.

"Wear a dress to the launch of your fashion line when it gets famous, yeah?"

"Pantsuits all the way Holland, you know I hate dresses."

"I know you do."

You remember the faint memory from over two years ago, that dream actually coming true, just without the person you dreamt it with.

You put your hair in a low bun with a middle part, giving you a classy formal look, and you do a almost non existent makeup look, only your eyes bold to accent with your outfit. Marco drops off the forest green pantsuit at your house, you giving it a twist with wearing a lace corset beneath the blazer.

"I look hot." You told yourself.

You and Conan leave for the event, you fidgeting in between 15 minute durations, Conan reassuring you that he'll be with you until the night ends.

That didn't last long. You lost Conan as soon as you entered the venue, so you occupied yourself with having conversations with other company owners, hearing how they're doing in the industry, blah blah blah.

"Do I look like I care?" You say to yourself.

You move ahead, only to cross paths with the one and only. He was wearing a cherry coloured perfectly tailored suit, adding a hint of Tom with the glasses. He looked good.

"And what do I owe this pleasure, Ms. Y/N?" He says, twirling his champagne glass in his hands.

"Look Holland I really don't have time for this shit, please take a goodie bag on your way home" You say with a bit of sass and start to move away, only to get your arm held back, making you bump in his chest.

"I see you wore the pantsuit you always wanted to wear at your event, angel " He says, making you pull away from him.

"Don't ever call me that again, and this is a warning." You were about to continue further with your answer, but you were utterly shocked to see the person in front of you.

"Is that the Y/N Y/L/N, in person, the one who's way too busy to answer my phone calls?" He says, making you laugh a bit.

"Jaeden?" You say, laughing heartily.

"In the flesh, tigeress." He says, doing grabby hands at you as an indication to pull you in a hug. You oblige and walk towards him and give him the biggest bear hug you've given anyone in two years. You pull back just to hit him on the chest once, playfully ofcourse.

"Tigeress. Oof haven't heard that in a while" You keep your conversation going on with Jaeden, while Tom is absolutely dumbfounded about whatever just happened in these past few seconds.

There's this hot guy named Jason or whatever, who calls you 'tigeress' and you aren't pestering him for calling you with a nickname but you definitely were ready to give Tom a piece of your mind when he called you 'angel'? Who is this guy?

Tom goes off to find Conan, who was situated at the bar downing a shot of tequila.

"Hey who's that guy Jason?" He asks him, pointing towards you and Jaeden in the middle of the hall.

"You mean Jaeden?" He says, biting onto a slice of lemon.

"Yeah whatever who is he?" Tom asks again, turning towards to bartender asking for a glass of whiskey.

"Why do you want to know?" Conan shoots back.

"Just curious. Can you just fucking tell me now?" Tom tries again, getting frustrated now.

"Chill dude. Jaeden used to work with Y/N a long time ago. He had this crush on her for like forever, but then Y/N went in for entrepreneurship and they were just not in contact with each other." He says.

"Crush huh?" Tom says, gripping onto his glass so tight that his knuckles almost turned white.

"Why do you look like you're about to murder someone?" Conan asks, getting concerned.

"Because I might." Tom says, grinding his teeth while forcing a smile.

The night goes by pretty smoothly, for you. You and Jaeden were clinged to each other almost the whole night, and then Tom watching you both from a distance, trying not to snap hard at people. He just took enough of it, he had to do something. He wasn't really sure why was he jealous, 'maybe because you love her' his heart said, but his mind crossing paths with a 'no you don't' in the middle. He was in a dilemma, but was mostly leaning towards his heart's side. He finally got up from his seat and walked towards you.

"Y/L/N." He says, keeping his composure.

"Yes?" You turn around to come face to face with him, laughing on something Jaeden had said.

"Board of Directors want to meet you on third floor. I was going that way only, wanted to inform you." He says.

"Oh okay. Jaeden I'll be back in a few. And tell me about that Mario Kart incident." You say, your laughter dying as you walk towards the elevator, motioning Tom to move as well. You both enter the elevator and you click the button for third floor.

"So Jaeden's a long lost friend, I assume?" He tries to small talk, failing miserably.

"Yeah, I used to work with him a long time back. Why do you ask?" You say, being the nicest you've been to Tom in two years.

"Just making small talk. So, exactly how long ago, you used to work with him?" He tries again.

"A really long time ago." You tell him.

"When we were dating?" He says, hesitating.

The elevator dings and you reach third floor, both of you moving into a very empty hallway.

"Why do you care Tom?" You say, making him frustrated even more.

"Because you're my fucking ex-girlfriend whom I'm worried about because that asshole has a mega crush on you" He says, making you jerk your head towards him.

"How many whiskeys have you had?" You ask him, because he was sounding oblivious that's for sure.

You turn around to open the meeting room to find it empty, making you glare at Tom once again.

"Why the fuck did you bring me up here Holland, where's the meeting?" You say, narrowing your eyes towards him.

"There is no meeting Y/N, the Board didn't show up this year, remember?" He says moving and fidgeting around the room.

"Then why did you bring me up here, dumbass?" That put him over the edge. He starts walking towards you making you take a few steps back, finally cornering you in the room.

"Because that guy is fucking flirting with you Y/N. That guy has been roaming around the whole night with my girl, touching and hugging my girl in front of me and you expect me to keep my calm? Huh? I don't fucking care okay? You're supposed to be mine and I was a jerk who let you go. I can't stand seeing you with other people. What the fuck is wrong with you Y/N, why did you leave me?!" He shouts at you, making your blood boil even more.

You push him back and stand in front of him, glaring as if you were going to rip his head off.

"No Tom, YOU left me, alright? I cried almost every night after that day when you left, and you didn't even have the empathy to give me a call. You, are too self-absorbed, and not me Tom. It was all you. I haven't been to even one of my launches just because I know you'll be there, you'll be there to put me down again. And why the fuck do you care about whom I talk to huh?" You shout at him.

"Why would I come to every single one of your launches Y/N?! To see you! To see the person who understood me more than I did, just to fucking see your face and calm my nerves!" He shouts back. He moves towards you and holds you chin to put your eyes at his eye level.

"Look at me Y/N. Look at me. Did we mean anything to you? Did I mean anything to you? Look at me in the eyes and tell me you never loved me. Tell me I meant nothing to you and I'll leave this second. Tell me that this was all a lie." He says, making your eyes water.

"You know I can't tell you that."

"Then why do you keep hurting me Y/N?! You hurt me so much! You left me when I needed you the most! I wanted you and you weren't there-" He shouts again.

"SHUT UP TOM, SHUT UP! Stop it! Stop! Please. Stop." You're crying hysterically now, hunching up in a corner trying to calm yourself down. Tom immediately sees it and runs towards you holding your hands and cradling them.

"Hey, hey Y/N. Look at me, look at me baby. It's Tom. Hey baby. I'm here, yeah? I'm here. Stop crying come on babe, please. Love, look at me. I'm here." He says, now running his hand over your cheeks wiping your tears.

"Go away. Go away from me." Is all you say, which makes his ears perk and brings water to his eyes.

He stands up and moves out of the room, closing the door just to hear you crying again. He sits down on the floor with his back on the door now, crying, waiting for you to say something.

"Please, open the door." He says, bursting into tears and hugging himself with his arms, wishing it was you.

Fifteen minutes pass by and you still haven't said anything. Tom misses you so much, and it was so fucked up of you to leave him like this. He was hurt, but he could never stop loving you. Ever.

"Losing you would be a nightmare that I'd beg to be awaken from everyday." You say opening the door, your eyes blood red, hair disheveled making Tom look at you, whose eyes were blood red too.

"What?"

"I was pregnant, Tom." You tell him, making his eyes widen and holding your hand for comfort.

"The day-" You clear your throat "The day we fought is when we lost the baby. I was going to tell you I was pregnant that day, but then that happened." You were crying a bit more now, but still held you composure so you can handle Tom from now.

"The argument gave me too much stress and, and it was affecting the baby so as soon as you left, um, my stomach started aching really badly and, and yeah we lost our baby then. That's why I left." You say, you were crying on his shoulder now, intentionally ignoring his reaction because you knew it would hurt him.

"We, we- lost our baby?" He says, a bit shocked but choking on his tears. You remain silent.

"Hey, hey. Listen. It's okay. It wasn't your fault. It was mine. I shouldn't have fought with you. You were already really worried and I just added onto your pressure. I'm so sorry baby I'm so so sorry." He was full-on crying now, he sniffled in your neck because he was too afraid to show his emotions.

"It wasn't your fault Tommy, it was ours." You say, running your hand in his curls. The way you missed his chestnut curls. It was all good again, well atleast you hoped.

Tommy. That always brought butterflies in his stomach.

You talked everything out in the bathroom, while washing your faces and cleaning up. You both understood that everything was going back to normal, just like the old times. One conversation lead to another, and you spent two hours on the bathroom floor just laughing and having gossip.

"It's been a while." You say laughing, looking at your watch.

"Yeah."

"Why did you say 'my girl' Tom?" You ask him directly.

"Hm?"

"You called me 'my girl' in the conference room. Why?" You tell him, and he instantly remembers that he did do that.

"You're in my head almost everyday Y/N. Even when you're not supposed to be. It shouldn't have been this hard letting go, but it was. I still love you, even if you don't." He says, taking some tissue paper off the counter.

"Who said I don't love you?" You say, making his eyes widen.

"Wha- wh- what are you implying here?" He stumbles upon his words, making you laugh.

"I still love you, you goof."

"Y/N you have to be serious you're making me want things I can't have." He says wholeheartedly.

You say nothing but grab him by his collar and kiss him with full force. After two years, you felt those soft lips on yours again, reminiscing every moment you had missed in these past years. They felt the same, soft and plump, just as if they were made for you. They fit in with yours like a puzzle, that was meant to be solved by these two hearts which were tangled, but now, in a right way. Tom kissed back almost immediately, feeling your lips was like a dream come true. A recurrent dream in his mind. You both pull back to see red and puffy lips and give out a light laugh. He doesn't stop, he keeps leaving peppery kisses all over your face mumbling sweet words again and again.

"I missed you so, so much angel." he says leaving a kiss on your nose.

"I missed you too bubba." you say leaving a small peck on his lips.

"Let's go now, we've been here for almost two hours." You start to move towards the door, but get pulled back by your waist.

"Tell Jaeden to maintain distance, yeah?" He says.

"Or what?" You say in a playful tone.

"Babygirl, I think you've forgotten what I'm capable of." He says, kissing your neck.

"I think I have. And stop kissing me I look shit." You say, laughing.

"I really don't care. You still look hot and I'm trying not to kiss you senseless right now." He says leaving another harsh suck on your skin, which can hopefully be covered by your blazer.

"Are you going to eyefuck me all night or are you going to do something about it?" You say, now kissing Tom's sweet spot.

"Finish this event in the next half an hour. I'll see you at my house babe." He says leaving one last peck on your lips.

You both reach downstairs after fixing your makeup and hair, you reach upto the stage and and hold onto the mic.

"Thankyou all for attending the event. We look forward to having more business with you! Don't forget to post something about our line 'The Hollandairé' on your social media platforms and don't forget to tag us! We are, The Y/L/N's thankyou have a good night!"

He listen to you and smirks to himself, because you do do what you say.

"I'm going to name my first fashion line 'The Hollandairé' " You say making a banner with your hands.

"And I'll be right with you then baby" He says, kissing your cheek.

Looks like he kept his promise too.

tagging some friends whom i think would like to read!:

@hollandslittlekoala @hollandsmushroom @leafy-holland @tomsoxytocin @scarletspideyy @t-lostinworlds

(pls do tell me if you don't want to be tagged further on!)

don't forget to reblog!

ilysmmmm. tpwk y'all!

#tom holland #tom holland and reader #tom holland fluff #tom holland gifs #tom holland smut #tom holland angst #tom holland x reader #raya writes #raya is a mohmaya #q #smut #angst #fluff #makeout #jealousy

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ladyvesuvia · 3 years ago

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It Was Love

PAIRING: Ron Weasley x GN!Squib!Reader

SUMMARY: At two in the morning, Ron receives a call from a hospital about three hours away about you who he hadn’t heard from for half a year. [loosely based on It Was Love by The Elected]

WORDS: 7.3k

WARNING(S): cursing, arguments, breakup, angst, financial problems, driving, hospitals, celebrating Christmas. [Y/S] means your size. this fic is told in switching timelines. Half-proofread! || SECOND PERSON

REFERENCE(S): Ness Point

A/N: i have a love hate relationship with this fic honestly djfhejwjw sorry if it’s messy istg if this flops- ANYWAY um i’ve been working for this for a longer time than i expected so uhsdjhrwiaka rushed the ending a bit mbad. please let me know via dms if there are any pronouns mentioned so i can fix it!

NAVIGATION || MAIN MASTERLIST || HP MASTERLIST

I. TO THE THENS || 2010

Miles from a place you used to call home, you stood on the surface of what used to only be in your mind and on paper. A beaming crowd surrounded you, and it took all of what you had to reassure yourself that they were there to congratulate you and not strangle you to death.

Gulping, you forced yourself to snap out of your dazed state and slip back into reality just after the woman behind the podium at the platform called out your name, waiting for you to come up and cite your speech.

Although you were hesitant, the looks of your coworkers and all the unfamiliar faces whose names you did not know told you they were all anticipating for what it was you had to say. So within a few moments, you were behind the podium yourself, marveling at the grand view before you, scrambling for all the right words.

You made this. You made it.

You cleared your throat. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and people and strangers,” you started, throwing in a nervous laugh, already regretting how you began. To your relief, you earned polite applause among the audience. “First and foremost, I would like to thank. . .”

You proceeded to mention countless names such as the firm you work for, the board of directors, your co-workers, and everyone else who had helped you on your architectural project.

“I am beyond honored to be here today, able to spend this moment with all of you as we witness a grandeur I am proud to say is my creation.” You took a deep breath. “Now, I have more I want to express my gratitude for, and so I’d like to raise a glass to an engineer and an architect.

“This architect did not build a single building nor design one on paper. One thing this architect did, however, is turn me into the person that I am today.”

You had to stop yourself from cringing at your words, the same words that just a second ago sounded so moving but now it sounds so . . . fake. You raised your glass, to which the others followed suit. “To the glorious past, to the thens we failed to protect yet never prevailed to shape us.”

II. THEN || March 1997

His hand on yours as the world moved around the two of you is a truth you’re thankful to preserve. He turned on the air freshener in an attempt to cover something up, worried you’d find it foul.

This was not the case with you, for you only laughed it off and, well, so did he. It’s the beautiful nature of your romance; it’s home, it’s something you’d be honored to go home to when all is lost.

“Ron, there’s no elegant way to say this but I can still smell it,” you said, using a part of your sleeve to cover your nose as you giggled.

“And away goes my honor and in comes shame,” he said with mock agony.

“Aw, how does it feel to fart in front of me for the second time ev — RON, KEEP YOUR HANDS ON THE WHEEL!”

He composed himself, and you couldn’t help but grin at the sight of his ears turning crimson. “Sorry, second time? What are you — what do you mean?”

“Need I remind you the day I introduced you to my grandparents?”

“Yeah,” Ron started hesitantly as his shoulders tensed, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing. “What — what about it?”

“You totally farted and blamed it on the dog,” you admitted, and Ron jerked his hand off yours, looking thoroughly offended.

He scoffed. “I totally did not fart and blame it on the dog.”

“Nope, I distinctly remember you saying ‘Oh no, champ’s got a package’ and your ears were as red as they are right now.”

“No, I did not do that and my ears are not red right now,” said Ron, but you kept your eyes on him until he finally gave up and groaned. “Fine, I may have done that, but it doesn’t mean I’m proud of it.”

You snorted. “Sure you aren’t.”

“I’m really not.”

“Okay, mate.”

Silence.

“I swear, I—”

“Merlin, Ron, let it go!” you said with a laugh. “It’s alright. I don’t hate you yet, if that helps.”

“I would say it doesn’t, but it really does.”

You nodded slowly. “Mhm, and what do you say?”

“I don’t hate you, too.”

“Good, now put your hand on my lap.”

“I thought . . . road safety?”

“Road safety my ass, like you care about that.”

He didn’t, for he let go of himself and rested his free hand on your thigh all the while you played with his fingers.

II. NOW || June 2004

Mr. Hoiss always hated Ron’s necktie. The old man constantly said that neckties were an insult to his ancestry, and that bow-ties were far more elegant. You always begged to disagree, though, having always tied Ron’s necktie everyday on his way to the Ministry.

But today, you’re not there to fix him up. You hadn’t been there for almost half a year now, and Ron had been wearing the types of bow-ties that were easy to put on in contrast to the neckties he considered too complicated to learn.

“Great tie again, Weasley!” said Mr. Hoiss, tipping his hat in greeting as Ron prepared to make his leave. “Going home early, yeah?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. . . ”

“Any plans today, Weasley?”

“I — uh — got a date this afternoon.”

“You are the man of the hour, kid. To moving on!” said Mr. Hoiss with a laugh resembling a malfunctioning car engine. “Take care, yeah?”

The least he could do was grimace and hope that Mr. Hoiss thought it was wide enough to be excused as a polite smile. Harsh as it may be, he forced himself to look at the watch you had given him.

01:48, it said. It could just as easily be a bright afternoon, but it isn’t — he’d worked overtime today, and so he hurried down to the Atrium and into the fireplaces, back to his empty house.

As soon as he heard the distant sputtering of his neighbor’s garden sprinkler, he let himself sink into his couch. He ran his fingers over the peeling surface of the leather couch, the orange of it more visible than ever.

He hated you.

He wanted to see you just so he could scream; he wanted you to come in through the door right now just so he could rip off the leather that remained on the couch, just . . . wanted you to come back home.

So that you’d help him do his necktie again.

So that you’d bring him to the store and buy a cover for your couch, looking for a pattern you could both agree on.

So that you’d be there.

Ron tugged his necktie off his collar and tossed it onto the cluttered coffee table. He stared at it for a good five seconds before standing up and rushing to the empty bedroom with wrinkled shirts and belts that resembled snakes the only things occupying the bed.

He swung the messy wardrobe door open and pulled out one of his striped ties. Taking a deep breath, he tried to put it on himself.

After doing so, Ron walked over to the bathroom, unsatisfied with his own reflection and how weirdly unfamiliar he seemed even to himself.

His necktie was a disaster: The back was too long to tuck to the keeper loop and there were subtle hints of his beard growing again.

Ron cleared his throat and picked up his razor and began to shave the length of his jaw.

“Argh!” Ron jumped. He’d cut himself a bit on the side and so he began to wash his face, blood mixing in with the water. “Merlin’s toenail. . .”

Ron covered it up with a small bandage. He could easily cure it, sure, but as much as he hated to admit it, having them on reminded him of when you put one on his fingers the day he met your grandparents: He was trying to open a can of soda when he felt a pang of pain on one of his fingers.

His wand was nowhere in sight as you’d been trying to minimize his use of it so you had hurried to the bathroom to fetch him a bandage and as soon as you came back, you cut its sides and put it on the small wound on his finger.

He couldn’t help but smile even as he touched the bandage on his jaw now, silly as he may have looked.

No, he thought. Get out. Get out of my head. Just get—

Something buzzed. Ron froze, his hand holding his razor defensively.

He remained still, waiting for an intruder to come hurtling through the door.

Nothing happened, but Ron could hear something . . . ringing?

Gathering himself, he searched for the source of the sound, tense. It seemed to be coming from the drawer. He dropped the unplugged razor on the surface of the cabinet and began pulling all the drawer boxes off its places and rummaged, tossing everything in his way such as a black velvet box, a bulky white envelope, and a knitted scarf and more until he found a bulky gray block. It vibrated and a loud sound came from it. Ron realized with a start that it was actually the phone you’d given him.

He fumbled with it.

“This is a nokia phone,” you had told him last year. “Muggles use it for communication, so you could call me whenever you’re out!”

“But we have owls for that,” he’d said.

“Oh, I don’t think I’d want some of those swooping in while I’m out for work.”

Ron snapped himself back, looking at the ringing phone in anticipation. Were you by some miracle finally calling him?

“Which button again? Right!” Gulping, he clicked the green button and held the phone up hesitantly to his ear, and he heard muffled sounds of busy chatter in the background.

“Hello?” Ron inquired. “[Y/N]?”

He winced at your name.

Just saying your name alone felt like a punishment to his throat, but it was also sort of a relief.

“Hello, is this Mr. Ronald Weasley?” said an unfamiliar voice. Ron froze, trying to think back on what your voice sounded like. Is this you?

“Hello?” said the voice again.

“Oh, er — yeah, you’re speaking to him — Ron — Ronald Weasley. Who’s this?”

Then came the news he was not at all enthusiastic to hear.

Did he want to hear from you? Absolutely. Did he want to know if you’re still out there? Of course he did.

But as he ran to the garage with rusty car keys in hand, he couldn’t help but think if it’s really worth it because at two o’clock a.m., Ron Weasley got in the car, about to drive to a hospital three hours away. For you, he was ready to drive at any time of the day and wherever such as what he's doing as of the moment: Driving from Weybridge to Lowestoft.

III. THEN || August 2000

“It’s a nice house,” Ron commented, his arm draped over your shoulder as you scrutinized the porch with narrowed eyes. “We can work with it.”

“Yeah, we could make a few changes. We’ll have one of those weird garden sprinklers those people next door have,” you said, arms crossed in thought.

“Could we shower in those?” Ron asked.

“Heck, why not?” you chuckled.

As soon as the two of you stepped inside, however, silence fell. Safe to say that as of this moment, both of you could see a future here: New picture frames sitting on the fireplace’s mantelpiece as the years go by, a full dining table and chairs occupied by not just the two of you but what would be your children, a very comfortable couch and so much more.

But for now, all you’ve got is a beat green bean bag in the middle of it all and each other. None of you were complaining.

“Shotgun!” Ron yelled before diving to it just before you could even open your mouth to say the same thing. Dust emanated from the bean bag, and only then did you notice the tiny white beads rolling away.

“You busted it!” you exclaimed, wagging an accusatory finger his way.

“Oh, give it a break, you were about to do the same thing.”

“No I wasn’t.”

Ron turned his back on you and began to pick up the white beads. You peeked from his shoulder and asked, “What are you doing this time?”

And in a blink of an eye, Ron had made it snow, throwing countless soft beads over the two of you, the laughter and the raining of soft pellets on each other as if in a snow fight creating a picture one would find worthy of being in a romantic movie.

It’s love, is what it is. Sweat trickling down your necks? Love. Tackling each other to the ground in fits of laughter? Love.

The littlest thing like the unruly bandage he wore long before? Heck, it’s love.

Soon enough, you found your way in Ron’s arms long after you two had wrestled each other to the floor, the ripped bean bag and its contents tucked to the side and it was only you, Ron, and the carpeted floor of your brand new home while your backs were to the wallpaper you had decided you’ll replace one day.

IV. NOW || June 2004 4:44 AM

It’s four in the morning, and you couldn’t believe it: A familiar face stepped into the room looking disgruntled as if he hadn’t slept but even so, his presence was homely nonetheless. He looked like he’d just shaved, though you’d say it was poorly done for you could glimpse a light stubble from afar.

Is that a bandage? you thought to yourself as you squinted your eyes to try and get a better look at him.

He was frantically searching the crowd, and when he reached the reception, he raked his hand through his hair, his ears red. A smile formed on your lips until his eyes caught yours and fell to the blue sling posing as support on your arm. His shoulders slouched, and his nervous expression turned into one of something that could only either be hatred or revulsion; synonymous, but rightfully so.

“Hi,” you said lamely with a hoarse throat, “you can go home now.”

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he gestured for you to follow him outside. You complied.

“Seriously, you can go now. I’m staying with a friend just a few minutes from here, I can take the bus.”

The hospital buzzed with busy people, commands being yelled back and forth between everyone, and you were both caught in the middle of it all even when he walked ahead of you.

The parking lot, on the other hand, was just as busy, only that it looked much more better being away from the stench of cleansing agents and such.

He stopped in front of a familiar car you knew too well and leaned on the driver door.

“Get in,” he said, not daring to look you in the eye again. You didn’t move, just studying him for the first time in a long time. Clearing your head, you crestfallenly walked over to the rear door.

“What are you doing?”

“Er — getting in,” you answered, stopping just shy of opening the door.

“Get in the front seat, I’m not your chauffeur.” With a scowl, Ron got in the car, starting it before you could even set foot into it. “Where to?” he asked blankly.

“The nearest gas station,” you told him.

“The nearest gas— are you out of your mind?”

You didn't say anything.

His hand stayed on the steering wheel, yet the car did not move one bit. He’s stagnant, both in his place and his mind. You fidgeted with your fingers, and Ron just . . . sat there.

“Look—”

He turned on the car stereo.

Static.

“Ron, I—”

“Don’t say my name,” he said as he switched the station until it landed on one playing the chorus of an upbeat song.

“Kind of unfitting, don’t you think?” you said in an attempt to douse his anger.

But he only stepped on the gas and began driving. By that time, the best you could do was just lean back in your chair and look out at the window.

Merlin, he hated how familiar and at home he felt in your presence. It’s like any other day, and he loathed the idea that it only takes you being there to throw him back to the routine he’d grown shamefully accustomed to.

A while later, a gas station came into view and you took off your seatbelt with your good arm. “Just drop me off there.”

He didn’t stop.

“Ron, just drop me off there.” He didn’t. He kept going straight ahead, not even looking at you as he did so. “Ron, I said—”

“I heard what you said,” he said with spite. It felt like forever until the car in front stopped as did the others around you.

“Where are we even going?”

As the car stopped at the red signal light, Ron turned to you, his face contorted in disbelief; and you could see from the corner of your eye that his hair had grown longer. If this was like any other normal day like you wished, you’d go ahead and tie his hair up and tell him how much he resembled Bill a bit more now.

Here’s the catch: Today is grim, a day considered both a death sentence and a pleasant merit.

V. THEN || 2001

Money was tighter than it had ever been and you couldn’t stand watching the love of your life struggle to keep himself together as to not let you think he was weak.

You saw the brave smile he’d give you whenever he’d kiss you before sleeping in each other’s arms, sure, but you also saw the conflict in that same gesture. Heard it, even. You heard it in his sugarcoated words of farewell every time he left for work right after you fixed up his necktie he couldn’t ever master learning.

But he wanted to give you everything even when he had nothing just as you did. Merlin, how he loved you with everything he owned: His eyes always seemed to linger a moment longer on you whenever you were around a crowd of your wealthy friends or loaded acquaintances whose necks were donned with jewels one could only dream of — just whenever you were both surrounded by riches: In a mansion both of you could not at all afford even if you tried and much more.

And so when he happened to be out in the open surrounded by riches put on sale by arrogant jewelers, he had his eye set on a ring resting in a red cushion cradled by an elegant black velvet box.

“How much is this?” he asked the Muggle jeweler, who then only looked him up and down and snorted.

He came home defeated that night, but not without at least a couple of consolation gifts: A new white formal blazer from the discount store, a garment Ron considered the best he could find; a slice of your favorite cake, also the best he could get; and the best smile he could give.

“Sorry I’m late,” he told you, pressing a kiss against your temple as he lay down next to you. “Happy birthday, sunshine.”

You stirred in your sleep, only moaning in response. Ron simpered at the presence of your comfort before he laid down next to you, wrapping his arms around you out of habit and soon tapping his fingers lightly on your hand until he fell asleep.

You woke up earlier than him that morning, and you spent a good three minutes only watching his chest rise and fall as you got yourself out to brush your teeth.

By the time you had finished, you went over to the paper bag on the top of the drawer, its handle seemingly tired. You pulled out the blazer to try it on, looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror.

Goodness, when was the last time you felt like yourself? Something that tasted a lot like salt found its way into your lips, and you wiped away the tears from your eyes.

I love you, Ron! you thought as you made serious and formal poses, giddy at the thought of coming to the firm you were an intern for looking like a million bucks. You squealed in excitement and along came a vision: You could get married in this blazer. It was silly, but it could be your something old, even. One would think it was quite questionable to get married in a blazer, but who cares? You could see Ron standing in a make-do altar you and your closest friends had built all for the essence of an intimate wedding. Heck, it could also be in city hall for all you care but other than that, you could see yourself walking down the—

Something at the back itched. With a curious tug, you felt the price tag leaving a mark on your skin. Groaning, you took off the blazer and fumbled to find the price tag in it.

You gasped. He had spent too much. If Ron wanted to give you everything, you did so for him as well. You bit your fingers in conflict before deciding to brokenheartedly put it back in the bag and tell him later on before he went to work that the blazer doesn’t fit and that he should return it.

Which was wrong, you knew that, but money was too tight, right?: Paying for the house’s pricey mortgage, your weekly and monthly budget, funding Ron’s Auror training, funding your tuition for college. . .

“D’you like it?” he said as he stretched in bed, rubbing his eyes in the process of waking up. You were holding the blazer bunched up in your arms.

“Oh, yes, but it doesn’t fit,” you said with the lightest voice you could manage. In a time like this, you could only give or take.

And you chose to give.

“It doesn’t?” said Ron, hastily standing up to grab the blazer, checking the size. “But you’re size [Y/S], right? Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I’ll get it replaced later.”

“No, no, don’t do that, it’s okay. Besides, we’re saving up, remember?”

He didn’t listen. Instead, he came back after replacing the blazer with a necklace with a teddy bear for a pendant. You let it go this time because of that hopeful and expectant eyes of his that you’d like it. Stupid of him to assume that you didn’t love it. Laughing, you turned around after he put the necklace on you and pressed a kiss against his cheek.

But you wouldn’t let him spend his money on you again. He wouldn’t listen to you telling him you want him to have new clothes and not secondhand ones and that he should spend his money on himself, and so you resorted to what one may call tough love.

VI. NOW || June 2004 4:51 AM

He turned off the music and kept his eyes on the road. Cars were stopped just like yours while waiting for the light to turn green. It was still dark and the blinding white lights of the other cars overwhelmed you so.

There’s so much he wanted to tell you but all of this was contained in a furious face, hands gripping the steering wheel too tight, and unsteady breathing.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I was hoping you’d come home, and I hate hoping you still would.”

“Ron,” you said, treading lightly, “I can’t.”

“Right, because it’s so hard.”

“Ron, it’s not you.”

He scoffed. “Yeah? Because it’s you? It’s not me because it’s you, right? Because it always has to be about you.”

“No! If you’d just listen for—”

Ron gulped. “Where have you been, [Y/N]?”

You couldn’t find your voice. Explain, you willed yourself to say. Tell him what you want to say, it’s the least that you could do for him.

But try as you might, there were no words coming out.

“Go on,” said Ron, “explain.”

“I just — it’s for the best, alright?”

He took a deep breath, and you could tell right there and then that he was just furious.

“For the best? You — you left without even a word for half a year for what? For the best?”

“Ron, please,” you breathed, now looking at him for the first time again. You wanted to kiss his anger away, tell him how much you missed him, tell him you wanted to go home with him again, tell him it’s alright because you’re home now.

But such lies are only beautiful once carved on a headstone. You did want to go home with him but . . . nothing can be undone.

He gulped again, not looking at you as he angrily took a turn to the highway. “Oh, look! I took a right turn instead of going straight ahead because it’s for the best! Should I make U-turn in this one-way lane? Who knows? Oh, yeah, I’ll do it anyway because it’s for the best!”

You wanted to laugh. Even when he was angry there was that air about him that made you just want to pull him into a hug. Even this felt like home already. “Ronald, it would really help if you’d just listen to me—”

“Listen? No, you listen. You left on Christmas Eve, never called, never did anything for the past six months! Do you realize how stupid that made me? You think — you think I didn’t — that I don’t feel bloody shitty knowing that I think I’m doing my best when really it will never be enough for you?”

The sense of home was gone. “It is enough for me, what makes you think it’s not?” But your words were drowning in his and he isn’t even listening and so you sat there, taking this heavy blow you told yourself you deserved.

“Oh, yeah, now you’re asking me questions.”

“I’M A SQUIB, RON,” you cried, your chest heaving. “Do you know what a dirty word that is? And — and I know people look at you and think of you as the damned blood traitor boy who — who was going to marry a damned Squib!”

Silence. It was true; you knew you were going down and that you were dragging him down with you. You’d tried to keep the fact that you were a squib as hidden as hard as you can but it’s hard when you’re in love with someone from the very world that pushed you away.

Silence once more. He knew it, too. Your once epic romance would be the downfall of the both of you and it pains him that this is true.

“If it’s enough, then why’d you leave?” He turned to you, expectant, dismissive of what you just said. “If at least for once it was enough like you claim it to be, why’s it that the first time I heard from you in a long time was through a bloody call from a bloody hospital in bloody Lowestoft? Why’s it that the first time that I see you is you’ve got your arm broken — I’m not gonna ask — and why’s it that you keep on rejecting everything I give even until now?”

Because I love you. Because I want you to have what you want me to have, and you wouldn’t be able to give yourself everything if you give it all to me. “So you could stop rejecting everything you wanted for yourself.”

Even when you weren’t looking, you could tell he’d clenched his jaw tight. “What does that even mean?” muttered Ron.

You decided to take a gentler tone in talking to him to diffuse his mounting anger. “Take a turn and drop me off at Ness Point,” you said, expecting another full-blown speech.

Nothing happened.

After a couple seconds of silence, Ron obliged, defeatedly took a turn like you asked him to do.

The next few minutes went still, giving you time to busy yourself watching the stars above twinkle and as cars with overly blinding lights speed past just like that one night.

Exactly like that one night.

VII. THEN || November 2003 8:34 PM

Again, money was tight. You saw the way he came home crestfallen every time, how he always wore the same clothes in a routine. . .

On his way to work, you had kept your eyes on your task of tying his tie, not wanting to look him in the eye in fear of being seen completely. You managed a small smile before going your way upstairs, not even bidding him goodbye as he prepared to step into the fireplace.

The night he drove you back home by car from your internship orientation was unbearable for you always saw those worried eyes of his everywhere: Whenever he pulled out his wallet, whenever he caught you looking at something pricey, just whenever your eyes met his.

It was silent, the AC and your breathing the only things you could hear as cars drove past.

“Do you want to go to a drive-thru?” he had asked you timidly.

You didn’t look at him. “No,” you grunted in response.

“Come on, you barely ate, you could at least use some food.”

“No, Ron, I don’t want to,” you told him, stern.

“It doesn’t have to be grand, just say what you want and—”

“I said I don’t want to! Is that so hard for you to understand?” He was looking at you as if you had just set yourself on fire. You shifted in your seat to face your window, eager not to show the tears streaming down your face. Calming yourself, you said in a lower voice, “Just keep driving.”

But it was for the best, wasn’t it? If he had gone in to buy you some food, he would’ve struggled even more to fund his Auror training, and it would’ve already been a major cut down on your mortgage and not to mention—

“Why are you like this?” Ron said, half-whispering. You didn’t answer, not that you didn’t want to.

It’s just that you hadn’t a clue, either.

——

On the night before Christmas, Ron came home later than usual. Clearly, this year’s Christmas already isn’t as lovely as the past few years had been; you could tell from how sloppily you’d put together the decor, the gifts only being wrapped in brown paper bags and lousy ribbons.

It was ten in the evening and you heard him come into the bedroom and put something on the drawer right before pressing a kiss on your shoulder. You waited for him to leave and go to the shower.

Hesitantly, you sat up and grabbed the small yet fine white bag sitting on the drawer. Inside it you found a tiny black velvet box, the sight of it causing you to call up a colossal nightmare and a lovely daydream: One moment you’re walking down the aisle and being the cause of your husband’s downfall the next.

Taking a deep breath, you opened the box from which you found a ring exactly the way you said you wanted it to be. At that moment, you knew you wouldn’t let your name take down his. You felt your eyes prickle with tears as you listened to him humming in the shower.

I love you, Ron, you thought to yourself once more as you pictured what the ring would look like on your finger. At that moment, you had made up your mind. You stood up and pulled out the two piggy banks from under the bed; one had ‘ARCHITECT’ written on it and ‘AUROR’ on the other.

You took a deep breath before pulling the cap off both of them. You carefully put more than half of the coins from the ‘ARCHITECT’ piggy to the ‘AUROR’ one as to not interrupt Ron.

You grabbed an envelope from one of the drawers and put some bills in it, soon placing it inside the same drawer, its bulky figure seemingly innocent.

From where you stood, you could still hear the faulty garden sprinklers of your neighbor. This is home, you thought, however flawed it may be.

“Oh, where’re you going?” said Ron while drying himself as he watched you pack your bags lousily. “I got us ice cream, it’s in the fridge, in case you were wondering. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just going out to get grocery,” you said hastily as you zipped up your purse.

“It’s snowing outside,” he said, confused. “Is everything alright?”

“No, Ron, everything’s not alright because you just spent loads on a damned ring!”

“How’d you—”

“It’s on the literal drawer!” You ran your palm down to your face, disbelieving what you were doing. At this point, you just weren’t sure anymore. “You know we’re saving up, right? What about your Auror training, my future in architecture, this house. . . We could barely afford our necessities! And — and you’d be marrying me, a Squib! What they would think — what they would all think. . .”

You were spiraling. With countless thoughts tugging at your mind, you swung the door of your bedroom and went down to the kitchen. Ron followed you while hurriedly putting clothes on.

He caught up to you, pulling up your hands to his as you tried hard as you can to not look him in the eye. “Didn’t I tell you that I don’t care about what they think? I — I want to marry you just because. [Y/N], we’ll work it out like we always do, I promise.”

You looked at him; his eyes a scene that assured you it would all be okay. All those memories with him yet you could not recall one where he spoke with such tenderness.

I want to marry you just because.

It was tempting to be blinded by a promise, but you had seen it all before and you knew better. “I can’t do this right now. Actually, no, I can’t do this anymore.” You let go of his hands.

After subtly wiping a tear away, you pulled out your house key from your purse and threw it on the kitchen counter where he now stood hunched, leaning against it with a disheartened expression on his face you hated to see.

He watched as you walked out the door, the snow falling down as if it were a lovely evening.

Ron worried for where you went. You had left your scarf and it was cold as ever.

That night, he waited for you to come back home because you always did. He stood outside or pacing in the front porch or up in your bedroom and looking out the window for any sign of your return. . .

But there was never a sign of a small camper van pulling into the driveway.

He wrote to you by owl, hoping you’d respond. For the first few days, he lay in bed restlessly, worried. Were you still out there? Would you come back home?

He looked for you constantly, going to every place you’d been to together, having even bothered to use the phone you’d given him to call you. You never responded so he tried to call your grandparents, two of which told him they hadn’t seen you since your birthday and asked if you were both okay unbeknownst to Ron that you’d been staying with them for a while since leaving.

On his return to the Ministry, he came to work with slumped shoulders. Mr. Hoiss asked what was wrong with him, who then only shook his head.

Ron didn’t know how but the very next day most of the people knew about it already, giving him words of encouragement.

“It’s alright, Weasley. Let that Squib—”

“Don’t talk about [Y/N] like that,” he had said silently yet still bringing a hushed silence among the workplace.

He hated that it was only now that he realized the gravity of what would become of your relationship. He now saw the way you saw it. All of a sudden, it was all clear: Ron was aware of what everyone not limited to this department would think of the two of you — a laughing stock.

He shook his head, keeping his mind clear as he continued to complete his tasks for the day.

VIII. NOW || June 2004 5:16 AM

Despite the steady length of the road promising a dark night until the end of an era, you knew full well the sun would rise soon in just a few minutes.

The car halted and Ron sat still in his seat. With one look your way, he sighed before swinging his door open.

Ness Point; the most easterly point in the UK. From where you sat, you could hear the crashing of the waves, its tune innocent, calming. You watched as Ron stepped out to the open yet empty road, stopping by in front of one of the railings.

You hesitantly stepped out as well, following him.

“Ron?” you called out.

He turned around, his face contorted in confusion and (surprisingly) hope. “Would you have said yes?”

“What?”

“If I had popped the question on a better night, would you have said yes?”

In that one question, numerous answers sprung up in front of you, each one heavier than the next.

And out of all those answers, you happened to come up with the worst ones: “I don’t know, maybe.”

Across the round and striped platform from below, you found warm streaks of sunlight laying where it always rested. Ron kept silent once more until you began to trudge down the slope, following the railing until you made it down.

After a moment of taking in the scenery of the brilliant landscape that is the Ness Point, you turned around to find Ron, standing just a respectable distance away from you, also marveling at the view.

“Ness Point,” you breathed. “We finally made it.”

“I guess so,” said Ron.

“You know, if someone had randomly tapped my shoulder years back and told me I’d eventually get to see the sunrise from here at Ness Point, I’d have jumped up from my seat and demanded to have it happen right at that moment.”

“What if that random person said it would only be after you left me?”

“Well, Ron, I’d have slapped that random person across the face!” you said with a smile. For the first time since you first saw him, he laughed.

Words couldn’t even define how at home you felt when you heard that sound you had longed for an awful long time.

“I missed you,” said Ron. “It’s a weird feeling, y’know.”

“I missed you, too,” you told him, “and I know.”

“So would you have said . . . yes?”

“In a perfect world, I would.”

“That’s a very miserable answer to a very miserable question,” said Ron, his voice plain and desolate at the same time.

“I don’t know, I think the question’s vividly blithe.”

Silence again.

But this time, it’s a happy kind.

“Why the broken arm?”

“It’s a long story,” you tell him in an attempt to divert the prospect of telling it at all. You’d been staying over at your friend’s after leaving your grandparents’ home and as soon as you left, the first thing you had in mind was clear your name off the mortgage. It did not go well. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Sorry for not taking your name off as emergency contact.

“Thank you for not.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you, either.” The sun was rising now, and just a few strangers were milling about, some taking pictures by the wind turbine. “But I still can’t come home.”

Defeated, he only nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. Your reassuring circles on his shoulder did the job of soothing him for just a bit, enough for you to reach out to his badly done necktie.

You untied it before putting it back on him again just like you did every single day before you left. He didn’t mention the money you’d left, the ring box you refused to accept, and the scarf you forgot to bring. He didn’t mention that he’d just decided to cancel his date this afternoon no matter how technically free he was now.

He was satisfied just letting you tie his necktie properly on him for possibly the last time ever.

“Don’t listen to Mr. Hoiss, you look dashing in a necktie.” You pressed a kiss against his forehead. Smiling, you pat his chest one last time, relishing the beauty and the harsh undertones of the moment. “Goodbye, Ron.”

With one last smile his way, you began walking away, leaving him watching you as you disappeared, his feet rooted to the ground.

So much he wanted to say was reduced to a nod and a longing look at the rising sun because no matter how hard he wept just as you did, you both loved.

IX. TO THE NOWS || 2010

You found yourself at one of the top floors, the tall windows looking out the countless lit buildings of New York, the idle and busy chatter supposedly trying to distract you not doing its job.

Beside you stood a young woman your age, and it took you a second to realize she was congratulating you.

“Oh! Well, yes, thank you,” you nodded, your mind elsewhere. “Er — may I excuse myself for a bit? I just need a second.”

Not a second. You needed a walk.

Wrong as it may sound to leave guests alone, you had to take a breather. You put your own not even half empty glass of champagne on one of the glass tables right before you slithered out of the crowd and into one of the elevators and into the dead of the night.

All you had was your phone and your wallet but you were pretty much lost. It took a long while for you to reach the sidewalk because of the parking lot but it was worth it as soon as you did.

Why?

Because a little ways down the road, a couple turns here and there stood a thrift store. It was closed, sure, but the windows gave you a jolly opportunity to window shop.

One garment stood out from the rest — a white blazer that almost resembled what you’d received years and years ago.

Maybe it was the champagne kicking in but within a few seconds, you had your phone out and the number of the phone you’d given your ex just a tap away.

Would he answer? It’s a long shot. . .

What would you even say? What would you even ask him, even?

You paced back and forth and back and forth until you finally decided on simply putting your phone away to walk back to your building.

Although it would be nice to tell him about the grand opening, your story’s perfect in itself already even when it had already met its grand ending.

You glanced at the white blazer one last time before turning away, leaving your sentiments alone from that very spot in front of the window.

No matter what the outcome had been, it was was love.

Or at least the closest you’ve come.

i probably should have lead with this

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