#they don’t seem the impolite sort at least like they do seem like they’re trying to curate their experiences online at least | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darkcircles4lyfe · 3 years ago

Text

retrospective & predictions

Since we're on a hiatus week (between 320 and 321) I feel like waxing poetic about the depth and growth of bkdk for a bit. Especially because it seems like we’re right on the edge of their biggest development yet, I’m getting the urge to lay all my perspectives and insights I’ve picked up from others out on the table. This is ultimately only my subjective interpretation of subtextual material in canon, though. If you’ve never quite understood what people see in their dynamic and you’re actually open to hearing me out, maybe from this you can at least see where we’re coming from. And if you don’t like my takes after all, well, we’ll see who’s right in the coming chapters, won’t we? What I have to say can be taken platonically or romantically; I appreciate both.

putting it under the cut, since it’ll be long:

At the risk of projecting, I want to start by examining a couple things based partly on personal experience.

From many different directions, I often hear people expressing that Deku’s persistent attachment and admiration for Bakugou is baffling at best. Despite the bullying, despite Bakugou’s loud, rude, and uncompromising personality, he still puts effort into their relationship and frequently describes him as amazing. It seems like Deku himself is aware of this as he’s said things along the lines of how he’s difficult, BUT... etc. Although I don’t think it’s exactly that Deku finds Bakugou’s personality hard to be around, but that he’s deliberately expressing patience for Bakugou’s emotional turmoil.

I have to say I know what this sort of patience is like, as I went through it with someone I love. I only chose to put up with their behavior because I decided the possibility of what our relationship could be was worth it. I wasn’t blind or submissive to how they treated me, and I wasn’t coerced. I simply expressed myself and established my boundaries while still allowing them the opportunity to join me in my world once they got over their own hangups. And guess what? It worked out in the end. That doesn’t mean there aren’t circumstances where it’s better to cut ties, but I want to stress that true reconciliation is possible sometimes. I used to worry that other people around me thought I was delusional for seeking it, but what really helped was my therapist reminding me that I’m smart and strong. So I think Deku deserves to feel the same. In a way this is his whole mission in life, his approach to being a hero as well as his personal relationships.

Let me also be clear though that I don’t mean Deku is only tolerating Bakugou’s personality, his mannerisms, the parts of him that will likely never change. I’m drawing a line between those things and his emotional state (they so rarely align anyway, but I’ll get to that later). In fact, I think Bakugou’s general attitude is part of what Deku admires. This is gonna be hard to explain without inserting personal experience too, sorry. As a writer myself I’ve noticed I’m drawn to writing characters that are brazen and bold and don't mind telling people off. Really it’s because I operate in the world in the polar opposite way. I try not to draw attention to myself, I’m quiet, and I’m a people-pleaser. People who project confidence, especially in an impolite sort of way, fascinate me. It’s good to take cultural context into account, too: I've heard people who’d know better than me that part of the reason Bakugou is the most popular character in the Japanese fandom is likely because he contradicts a lot of their social norms. His disregard is refreshing and cathartic. I can speculate that Deku has a similar point of view based on what he thinks but does not admit about Bakugou being his image of victory and how this sometimes makes him mimic Bakugou’s speech and mannerisms:

There’s also the bit in this fight where Deku realizes he's the only one able to receive Bakugou’s emotions. This is because he’s the most intimately familiar with him and his situation, but I think there’s another layer. Deku, as we know, has a self-sacrificing tendency, and in the current chapters we’re seeing the worst side of that. But let’s also not forget that to an extent, it can be a positive trait: resilience. When it comes to Bakugou, he has an almost comical ability to dodge the potential fallout of his outbursts. The example we all jump to (and fight about..) is how in ch1, apart from the initial shock of Bakugou suggesting he jump off the roof, the most he reacts is to criticize him for saying such a ridiculous thing. However, I think their interaction post- sludge villain is a lot more interesting:

Note two things: 1, in his head, Deku is practically making fun of how Bakugou’s acting as he stomps away without waiting for a reply. It doesn’t faze him. 2, Deku thinks, optimistically, that he can now focus on a different career choice. This is astonishing really. Up to this point, none of Bakugou’s attempts to put him down have worked; he just kept pursuing his dream. The only reason Deku concedes in this moment it because for the first time, he has been shown that he really couldn't do anything in a fight against a villain. All Might told him he couldn't be a hero (although he’s literally about to take that back in the next few pages lol) and the other heroes at the scene gave him a lecture about it too. It was those experiences, and not Bakugou’s words, that truly affected him. And when All Might tells Deku he can be a hero after all, it’s not thinking of Bakugou’s bullying that makes him sob and fall to his knees, it’s the memory of his own mom never telling him those words he so desperately needed to hear. Having spent most of their lives together, Deku must have been aware all this time that Baukgou was influenced by larger societal forces rather than a core judgement, so he didn’t take it personally. He separated the person from the action, and because he’s resilient and patient, he is thus equipped to handle Bakugou’s emotions. It’s a testament to his maturity and emotional intelligence, really.

But I can almost hear some of you saying, “that doesn’t mean Deku should have to be the bigger person here!” Correct! Just because Deku is perfectly alright bearing all of that, doesn’t mean atonement-era Bakugou sees it this way. We can track his awareness of Deku’s care and selflessness as follows-

The bridge scene, when they’re little kids: Bakugou conflates Deku’s heroism with pity, and subsequently thinks Deku is looking down on him because Bakugou’s own insecurity makes him defensive.

The Sludge Villain, and also Deku vs. Kacchan Part 1: Bakugou witnesses first-hand how easily Deku jumps to risk his own life, but still thinks he’s being looked down on.

The Sports Festival: Bakugou fights Uraraka and recognizes her endurance strategy and refusal to give up as very Deku-like. He’s half right. He thinks Deku advised her in the fight, when in reality she just mimicked Deku because she admired him. I want to draw attention to his very sober comment about her not being frail. It’s a great endearment of Uraraka’s character and Bakugou’s respect for her when others didn’t take “fighting a girl” seriously, but it also reflects on his opinion of Deku. Deku isn’t weak either. He never was.

Deku vs. Kacchan Part 2: Deku finally corrects him about the whole looking-down-on-him thing, and Bakugou is informed that Deku’s selflessness is in fact the reason All Might chose him. Since Bakugou had been in search of what he himself was “doing wrong” for All Might to favor Deku over him, he now has to reconcile the fact that selflessness is a heroic trait, and moreover something he lacks. This is also possibly the first time Bakugou is able to see his past actions toward Deku as bullying since he previously thought it was more mutual. Additionally, Bakugou can now link Deku’s selfless behavior to what he perceived as pity/contempt, and realize that Deku has been giving him A LOT of grace. Maybe too much. Maybe more than Bakugou deserves, and definitely more than Deku should have to. Holy heck- now Bakugou has to figure out how to live up to all the faith that’s been placed in him.

Subtextually, we can see Bakugou’s feelings about atonement reflected in the Todoroki family:

1, Shouto is another example of Deku growing a friendship using his selflessness (since their fight in the sports festival) and their relationship is being acknowledged here where it hasn’t been in Bakugou’s situation. Perhaps Bakugou is wishing it could be so simple for him, to be able to thank him for being his friend like that. Deku saying the pleasure is all his also probably calls to mind how a mere apology from Bakugou would probably be dismissed because that’s just the kind of accommodating person Deku is. Bakugou has to operate more quietly in order to actually make up for their past. I personally don’t interpret this scene as Bakugou being jealous of Deku and Shouto’s friendship, exactly, just the lack of emotional baggage. Side note, Deku and Fuyumi are kinda similar in their desire to repair relationships. I like that she’s the one to give him some credit.

2, With the common terminology, this can be interpreted as Bakugou receiving a model for atonement, one that is about action, and nothing to do with receiving favor or forgiveness. It’s a sense of duty.

Many of the above sentiments are repeated in the flashback conversation between All Might and Bakugou right before Bakugou’s sacrifice.

Bakugou acknowledges his bullying and that it happened because of his own insecurities, but aside from that, it’s interesting he neither confirms nor denies All Might’s suggestion that he’s trying to atone, or that Deku doesn’t see it that way. All Might is a bit of an unreliable mentor sometimes, but I don’t think he’s misreading here. Rather, Bakugou is displaying his tendency to hold back when talking about things that would make him really emotional. Besides, admitting to what he’s doing kind of defeats the purpose. He isn’t seeking acknowledgement. All Might has gotten to the crux of the issue here when pointing out that Deku doesn’t recognize the atonement, likely because Deku doesn't think Bakugou even needs to atone. Am I reading into it too much to say Bakugou looks wistful at this? It’s kinda frustrating sometimes trying to interpret Bakugou’s actions because he’s so paradoxical. Loud and in your face, but also extremely reserved. Sometimes I feel like I’m grasping at thin air, but hey, being hard to figure out is part of his intrigue as a character. The simplest way to look at him is to assume that unless he’s really showing vulnerability, he’s probably deflecting and hiding something.

Speaking of Bakugou’s tendency to to hold back emotional stuff, there’s his apparent lack of issue with Deku calling him Kacchan. Maybe to begin with, in his warped perception of things where he thought they hated each other, Bakugou saw it as Deku’s way of getting back at him for calling him “useless,” and didn't dare give any indication that it actually bothered him. However... consider how betrayed Bakugou has appeared when he was noticeably thinking Deku was looking down on him- the bridge scene, and the beginning of their first year at UA when he thought Deku was hiding a quirk all along. He looks shocked and hurt. That kind of emotion couldn’t be invoked by someone Bakugou didn’t actually care about his relationship with. “Kacchan” comes from a long time ago, before their relationship was strained, so it’s connotations are pure. Maybe somewhere deep down, Bakugou has always been hoping that Deku’s continued use of the nickname was not simply a matter of habit or teasing, but a vestige of friendship they’re both clinging to, and Bakugou himself was too afraid to admit to himself that he felt this way about it, so he mostly ignored it. (These are not original thoughts I am having here lol, this is a common interpretation. I’m just laying everything out like I said.)

And now we turn to the current situation. Personally, I’ve been looking frantically back and forth between them wondering who’s going to break down first (Deku vs. Kacchan Part 3, this time it’s just a fight to get the other person to cry? ha.) Both have looked like they’re approaching a breaking point for some time. Also, I’ve addressed this before, but I think it’s significant that Bakugou is no longer wearing his mask with his hero costume, in contrast to Deku recently donning his own. It feels symbolic of Bakugou about to be upfront about how he feels.

The question is, what is it going to take to get Deku to accept help? If you ask me, Deku has dug himself so deeply into the I’m-doing-this-for-everyone-else’s-safety-and-smiles hole, no common sense argument can possibly reach him. By the end of 320, Deku’s mask is off, and we can see how desperate he truly is. But he has not cried, yet. I predict we’re going to see a bit more of his defiance, this time on full display on his face as the remaining class members and his other friends take their turns. But then I think Bakugou has to be the one to break down so Deku can witness his actions having the opposite effect he intended. People have been pointing out that Deku is currently ignoring Bakugou, and oof, that’s gotta be intentional. Regardless of what Bakugou says, it’s going to be wrapped up not only in his understanding of Deku’s self-sacrifice, but also the betrayal Bakugou feels at being ignored/left behind that ironically echoes his previous perception of being looked down on, as well as a need to express how much he cares about Deku before it’s too late. He must show that the two of them are inseparable because they both act to save each other without thinking, and both feel like losing the other would be like dying themselves. All Might may have been right when he told them they could learn from each other after Deku vs. Kacchan Part 2, but he didn’t fully realize that idea by making sure they stuck by each other for support and balance.

I can’t wait to see what it’ll be like when they do finally get to that point, totally in synch and in tune with each other. They’ll be a powerful force no one is quite prepared for. Who knows when that will be, or even which chapter will be their big showdown, but I know the day is coming.

To speculate even further, I think the 2nd user is going to be really important really soon. And no I don’t mean to suggest that the 2nd user is Bakugou. But I do think their resemblance is key. Okay this is gonna be convoluted...

See how 2nd is the only one still standing? I think that’s symbolic of him withholding his quirk. Deku may not even know what it is at this point, let alone have unlocked it. Given that 2nd approves of Deku’s strategy at this point, it seems odd for him to withhold his quirk based on lack of faith. I think if his quirk was something that would help Deku in combat, he would have shown it to him already like the others did. So what if those gauntlets of his are support items that are meant to make up for his lack of a combat-oriented quirk, rather than to augment it? Mind you, I still have no idea what his mysterious power might be, but I’m dead set on it not being explosion-y. Regardless, I think 2nd looking like Bakugou is more about aiding some grand visual parallel, so! You know how 2nd and 3rd were probably intending to do away with Yoichi but 2nd changed his mind as soon as they made eye contact? This is really a long shot, but I wonder if 2nd’s quirk has something to do with that exchange. Maybe it’s something psychological, or some 6th sense about people he meets. So... in that way 2nd’s quirk could play a role in bkdk reaching a deeper understanding? Idk! But it could be significant at least that 2nd left Yoichi’s question about why he reached out to him unanswered.

One more thing- while I was gathering screenshots I found this. I think “you’re the last one I’m telling” might be foreshadowing for Bakugou revealing his hero name to Deku and it being a Big Deal:

As for other lingering threads in the overall plot right now, such as the UA traitor, Stain, whatever Tsuyu is apparently about to do, All Might’s car maybe in the background of the last page of 320... man I have no idea. All I know is there’s literally 320 chapters’ worth of build-up to this confrontation that can’t be interrupted.

See you next week <3

#phew that was a lot #I just wanted to show how things are aligning #I know a lot of this has been said #bnha manga spoilers #bnha 320 #bnha 321 #mha #bakudeku #bkdk #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #bnha meta #lin speaks

93 notes · View notes

thearvariblues · 4 years ago

Text

So, About The Pockets...

The third and final part of my little “Jaskier is obsessed with pants” series. I’m sorry to say that this part doesn’t really focus on the pants or Jaskiers, uhm... unorthodox fashion research. But it’s there, I promise.

You should definitely read part 1 and part 2 before this one.

Tagging @lottelorelei, @likecastle, @stinastar and @kalikatze, because you might want to read the last part, too. :D

“I’m feeling kind of nervous about meeting Jaskier this spring,” Geralt says to the man who’s walking with him through the streets of Oxenfurt.

“Finally grew some balls and decided to ask the bard to rearrange your insides?” his companion smirks. “I swear, Geralt, if you don’t offer your ass to him, I will have to sacrifice mine.”

“Lambert!” Geralt groans.

“What? Poor boy apparently didn’t fuck a Witcher last year.”

“Because I asked him not to. Well, not to fuck any Wolves, at least.”

“Jealous prick.”

“The worst thing is, he really didn’t! Or so it seems,” Geralt sighs.

“I can see the problem. He’s a fucking idiot.”

Geralt grunts.

“And what are you doing here, anyway? Sticking around just to annoy the shit out of me?”

“Meeting a friend,” Lambert smiles.

“A friend? You?” Geralt blinks, pausing. “Another?!”

“You make it sound like some sort of a miracle. I assure you, I’m fully capable of making friends.”

“Hm,” Geralt nods. “And this friend, he’s a… what? Another Witcher?”

“He’s a… bard.”

“A bard.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Lambert frowns.

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t believe a single word.”

“I don’t believe a single word,” Geralt smirks. “So what’s his name?”

“Aid… Fuck,” Lambert grunts.

“So, Aiden. Now tell me, Lambert, this wouldn’t happen to be the Aiden I helped you avenge last autumn, would it?”

“No. It’s a completely different Aiden.”

“Am I really supposed to believe that you found two friends, both named Aiden, and both willing to put up with your bullshit?”

“In my defense,” Lambert says, grumpily kicking a nearby stone, “I really thought he was dead when I asked you for help. Met him like… a week after you and I parted ways afterwards. Thought I finally managed to turn my brain into mush with all the drinking, but it turned out that Cats really do have nine lives. He lost an eye and tends to mess up his signs a lot, but nobody’s perfect, eh? And hey, turns out that Igni works against pretty much everything.”

“And you didn’t tell me for the whole winter because…”

“Because you’d probably kick me down from the balcony?”

“Damn right I would,” Geralt growls. “So where’s this Aiden of yours?”

“Don’t know. Somewhere here in the city.”

Geralt stops dead in his tracks, gaping at Lambert.

“Here? In Oxenfurt?!” he asks. “With Jaskier?!”

“Well, he needed a safe place to spend the winter, and you know Vesemir isn’t a fan of Cats,” Lambert shrugs. “Come on, it’s a big city. I’m sure they haven’t even met each other. The city’s still standing, after all.”

“You don’t understand. Jaskier–”

Geralt doesn’t even get to finish the sentence when he sees a young man leap from the window of a nearby building and land with a perfect roll that only comes with years and years of practice.

“Melitele’s tits,” he mutters under his breath while making sure his pants are properly fastened. “Nobody’s ever told you it’s impolite not to let a man finish?!”

“Hey, Geralt,” Lambert snorts. “Found your bard.”

Jaskier, hearing his words, turns his head and beams at the Witchers.

“Geralt! Lambert! So nice to see you! Would one of you mind Yrdening the fucking door for me?”

“I swear to Melitele, Jaskier, one day I am going to let you suffer the consequences of your actions,” Geralt smirks, stepping closer to the door and using the sign on them. “How was your winter?”

“Very amusing,” Jaskier smiles just as the doorknob rattles uselessly. “How about yours?”

“Drafty,” Lambert says. “Hey, you didn’t happen to see Aiden, did you?”

“Aiden?” Jaskier repeats, his eyes darting over to the door of a tavern on the other side of the road. “Well, that’s quite a funny story, actually…”

There is a loud crash from within the tavern, followed by a roared: “Cheating Witcher scum!”

The door open and a lean blond man with an eye patch over his right eye runs out, looking around frantically.

“Jaskier!” he yells when he spots the bard. “We need to go. Now!”

“Did you try to Axii your way out of cheating again, kitty?” Lambert smirks, takes a few steps forward and casts an Yrden on the door.

“Lambert!” Aiden yells and throws his arms around Lambert’s neck. “You’re here, puppy!”

“So what did you cast?” Lambert smirks, hugging him tightly.

“Aard. Not that bad.”

“It’s better than the Yrden last week,” Jaskier comments. “The guy really wasn’t happy about having to spend the night in his seat. And there was, of course, the tiny incident with Valdo Marx and Igni two days before that…”

“I’m sure they haven’t even met each other. The city’s still standing, after all. Well, what a fucking miracle,” Geralt snorts, turning to Lambert, only to realize that he is currently kissing Aiden passionately. “Oh, fuck. Jaskier?”

“Yes, dear?” Jaskier smiles.

“They’re not just friends, are they?”

“What gave you the clue?” the bard chuckles.

The shutters on a window of a house Jaskier was running away from crash open and an angry man starts to climb out, even though he can barely fit through.

“Uhm, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news…” Geralt starts, but then Jaskier grabs his hand and he promptly shuts up.

“Yes,” the bard nods. “We’d better fucking run.”

Jaskier puffs out his chest and frowns at the fat man in front of him – the man who, as Geralt realizes, was the one climbing out of the window of the house where Geralt met Jaskier about an hour ago, right before their hurried escape to Jaskier’s rooms in the university buildings.

“Are you suggesting, my dear sir,” Jaskier says in his best offended noble voice, “that I, a respectable professor at this university, have, as you said yourself, canoodled with your wife?”

“I saw you. With my own eyes!” the man growls.

“Impossible. I spent my afternoon here, with my dear friend Geralt of Rivia. Is that true, Geralt?”

“Hm,” Geralt nods solemnly, trying not to spit out his wine.

“But this… friend of yours was there, too!” the man tries.

Jaskier gasps for breath and places a hand on his chest dramatically.

“Did you…” he whispers. “Did you just dispute the words of Geralt of Rivia, the mighty White Wolf himself? My dear sir, this man is a Witcher! The legendary savior! Slayer of bruxas…”

“Bruxae,” Geralt murmurs.

“… strigas…”

“Didn’t actually kill the striga.”

“… ghouls…”

“There’s really nothing exciting about those.”

“… and… and nekkers…”

“Every respectable Witcher wants to be known as a slayer of fucking nekkers.”

“And drowners!” Jaskier yells after the man who’s already turned on his heel and left.

“I see you’re running our of monsters again,” Geralt chuckles when Jaskier slams the door shut.

“Oh, shut up,” Jaskier mutters, sits into his armchair and grabs his goblet of wine. “Did I get rid of him or not?”

“You annoyed him into leaving, yes,” Geralt nods. “That, or he realized that Witchers tend to have two very big and sharp swords.”

“And I have three Witchers,” Jaskier smiles just as they both hear Lambert’s high-pitched scream from the next room.

“Sweet Melitele. How much longer is it going to take them?”

“Come on, Geralt. They didn’t see each other for the whole winter.”

“I didn’t see you for the whole winter, and you don’t hear me moaning your name like a cheap whore.”

“Yes, and isn’t that a shame?”

Geralt nearly chokes on his wine.

“What?” he wheezes.

“Nothing, dear,” Jaskier says quickly and gets back to his feet to refill their goblets.

“Hm…” Geralt hums, cocking his head. “Are those new pants?”

“They are. Thank you for noticing.”

“What happened to the tighter ones?”

“An accident,” Jaskier sighs. “I keep saying it, yours are only held together by some sort of dark magic!”

“They aren’t.”

“Fine, is it Quen, then? Are you constantly Quenning your fucking pants?”

“I am definitely not Quenning my pants, no.”

“Then explain how it’s possible that your mighty ass doesn’t rip them in half!”

“I don’t know. I suppose you will have to take a look at them yourself.”

“Geralt, I’ve been looking at your pants ten times a day ever since I met you, I don’t think one more look will change… What are you doing?”

Geralt downs the rest of his wine and stands up.

“I was thinking about a… closer look,” he murmurs. “I mean… for research purposes, of course.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier says, his eyes going wide. “Are you seriously suggesting… what I think you’re suggesting?”

“That there is one Wolf Witcher you haven’t fucked yet, yes.” For someone who’s just a little taller than Jaskier, Geralt is sure good at towering above the bard. “So if you wanted…”

“For research purposes, yes?” Jaskier asks as he wraps his arms around Geralt’s waist. “I should warn you, though. I’m afraid it’s gonna have to be a very thorough research. Probably gonna take at least a year.”

Geralt smirks and brings their lips so close together that they almost – but only almost – touch.

“Works for me,” he murmurs right before Jaskier kisses him.

“Did you know Cat Witchers have pockets on their pants?” Jaskier asks much later, when they’re lying side by side in his bed, naked and satisfied.

“Mhm,” Geralt hums because he was just about to fall asleep. “That’s nice.”

“I mean, not for me, they would absolutely ruin my silhouette, obviously,” Jaskier continues. “But for you, they might be quite handy, right?”

“Did you… Did you have to research with Aiden to find out?”

“Well, yes. You see, winter nights tend to get boring,” Jaskier grins. “But fret not, dear heart, you won’t have to spend the rest of your life protecting me from your angry brother. They have quite an open relationship.”

“Bold of you to assume that I would protect you,” Geralt sighs, burying his face in Jaskier’s chest.

“I know you will always protect me, dear,” Jaskier smiles and presses a kiss in Geralt’s hair. “So, about the pockets...”

“Tomorrow. I want to sleep.”

“But you promised I could take a look at your pants.”

“Mhm, I didn’t specify when, though. So shut up and let me sleep.”

“Geralt...” Jaskier whines.

“Jaskier,” Geralt chuckles.

“Ugh, fine. But I like you a lot less now, I hope you’re aware of that.”

“I’ll make it up to you. In the morning. I might even be willing to go with you to that tailor of yours.”

“Really?”

“Really. But first I have to ask Aiden about the… pockets thing…”

Geralt falls asleep, snoring slightly, even though he’s assured Jaskier a million times that Witchers absolutely do not snore.

“Knew you were gonna like that idea,” Jaskier smiles and closes his eyes. “Good night, my dear Wolf.”

“Hmmm…”

The next morning, Jaskier grins at the tiny tailor who’s studying Geralt’s pants with interest while the Witcher just stands there with his ass barely covered by his shirt.

“Truly an excellent bottom.”

“I can see that,” the man grins back.

“You are so,” Geralt snarls, “so paying for this, bard.”

“Oh, my dear,” Jaskier laughs. “With pleasure.”

#witcher fanfiction #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #lambert #aiden #lambert x aiden #lambden #witchersexual!jaskier #my fics

219 notes · View notes

jacksjoke · 3 years ago

Text

Title: family matters Pairing: Lan Sizhui/Lan Jingyi Excerpt: “You’re almost like another son to him anyway,” Sizhui points out. “So you’re the favourite child while I get tossed to the wayside?” Ao3 link

Read below the cut.

The first time Jingyi meets Sizhui, they are each five. Zewu-Jun himself delivers the boy to lessons and asks that the children treat Sizhui with exceptional respect and consideration. That in itself isn’t anything new, as the Lans have written rules that explain why giving others kindness is one of the many keys to leading a decent life and acting as a role model to those in- and outside the sect. What was different, however, was the moment before Zewu-Jun took his leave from the students.

He gave a downturn of his chin to the boys and the teacher, but was unable to take more than two steps before little Sizhui had grappled to his robes, arms held fast around the Sect Leader’s left leg. Jingyi has never been known for necessarily obedient behaviour, but even he had never dared such an act toward Zewu-Jun, let alone in public. To the entire room’s astonishment, the man didn’t look put out in the very least. Rather than reprimand the child, Zewu-Jun put a gentle hand to his head and guided him out into the gardens. Jingyi knew he would be scolded were he to peek at them, and did it anyway when Laoshi’s back was turned.

Outside he saw Sizhui and Zewu-Jun, the Sect Leader in his immaculate robes bent to a knee as though they were in the cleanly confines of a hall rather than stood on a dusty path. Sizhui was staring at the ground, rubbing at his nose, and Zewu-Jun gave him a gentle chuck beneath the chin, murmuring words Jingyi couldn’t possibly hear. Sizhui’s nod prompted a smile from the Sect Leader that Jingyi, even at his young age, could tell held something more behind it.

He was quick to be facing the front of the room by the time Sizhui was led back into the class, much more collected and prepared to learn for the day. Jingyi understands, sort of; although he hadn’t wanted to begin lessons either, it’s just what is expected of children their age in the Cloud Recesses. He’d still stomped and whined, of course, but here he sits.

And he’s rather glad to have come once Laoshi dismisses them, because he gets to trot after Sizhui’s slow movements and say, “Hey!” He recalls in a split-second Zewu-Jun’s request that they show Sizhui respect, along with the rules, and adds quickly, “Welcome to Cloud Recesses. I haven’t seen you before.” Sizhui stares at him, uncertain. “Did you just come here? Where’d you move from?”

Sizhui gives a helpless shrug that is interrupted by the Sect Leader’s prompt appearance by his side. Jingyi immediately dips into a polite little bow that makes Zewu-Jun smile and he returns the gesture. Jingyi grins before he can bite it down and says, “Zewu-Jun, where’s Sizhui from?”

The Sect Leader hesitates a moment before his expression smooths into something less telling. “He is an orphan, A-Yi,” he says simply. “I trust that you will show him kindness.”

Jingyi looks at Sizhui with slightly widened eyes, nodding vigorously. “I will!” he promises the older man. To the boy, he says, “I’ll protect you. Don’t worry.”

For the first time, Sizhui’s lips quirk into the hint of a smile. “You don’t need to do that. I’m okay.”

“Too late,” Jingyi says firmly. “Tell me if anyone is mean to you and I’ll deal with them.” Zewu-Jun lowers his eyes to hide his amusement and Jingyi barrels on, “Better yet, I’ll stick by your side to save the trouble. Okay?”

Sizhui allows a little nod before Zewu-Jun murmurs that they should be heading home. The boy nods and Jingyi gives a wave, which Sizhui repays with a shy, squint-eyed smile. Jingyi beams. It may be Zewu-Jun’s request, but keeping Sizhui safe won’t be an arduous task at all, he thinks. Maybe they’ll even become good friends!

Jingyi finds Sizhui by the rabbits. It’s his friend’s favourite spot in the Cloud Recesses and if ever there’s a time when Jingyi can’t seem to find Sizhui in the main pavilion, he knows where he’ll be. Today is no exception.

Sizhui had disappeared just before he and Jingyi were meant to meet. They had each taken their meals as quickly as possible without appearing impolite to their families before the usual rendezvous by the rock garden’s bridge for a short break together, a daily update of all things Cloud Recesses. But when Jingyi arrived, Sizhui was nowhere to be seen and he’d known that something must have happened for his best friend to abandon him without warning.

Seeing Sizhui now, surrounded by soft rabbits, Jingyi hopes that he’d perhaps fallen into a brief mood as he sometimes does and all is in fact well, though he’d had to come here to get away from it all. He wouldn’t fault Sizhui that. However, when he calls out for him in approach, Sizhui wipes at his face like he’s been caught, and Jingyi begins to frown.

“A-Hui,” he says, coming to a stop beside him. Sizhui won’t look at him, gaze focused on the ground as he soothes a rabbit in his lap, and Jingyi can see that his eyes are red, cheeks tear-streaked. “A-Hui,” he repeats.

“I’m alright,” Sizhui says. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s been four years and you still think I care,” Jingyi replies, the slightest sarcasm in his words. “What happened?”

“It really isn’t a big deal.”

“So some non-issue made you come here and cry?” Jingyi deduces dryly.

“They…” Sizhui stops.

Jingyi sombers and can feel his frown deepening. “They who?”

“Mingyu. And Pengfei. Rumours about where I’m from.”

“Sizhui, what’d they do?”

“They said…” Sizhui’s hands shake only slightly where they hold the rabbit, but it still makes Jingyi’s stomach hurt. “Just that they think I’m from that old sect that was eradicated years ago for their evil ways, and how it’s strange I’m not dead like the rest of them. A-Fei said if I’m evil it’s their duty to — ” Sizhui doesn’t complete the sentence as his voice catches, but Jingyi is already on his feet. “A-Yi!” Sizhui’s hand reaches for Jingyi’s ankle, though he’s too far to catch. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Jingyi demands. “I’m going to challenge them to a duel and shame them in front of the gods and the Four Families. What else?”

“Jingyi, don’t,” Sizhui says tiredly.

“Why not?”

“We’ve only just begun sword-work, for one,” Sizhui quips, aiming for a joke. Jingyi crosses his arms over his chest and Sizhui sighs as he gently sets the rabbit aside to stand. “We’re barely 10,” he says. “You can’t fight another kid to the death, Jingyi.”

“I disagree,” he mumbles.

“Well, that’s allowed. I don’t expect us to agree on everything. But you’ll only get in trouble and I don’t want that.”

“They said horrible things to you!” Jingyi exclaims. “And I said I’d protect you. ‘Our word is our oath,’ remember? Never break a promise. If I don’t confront them, I’m betraying one of our rules. A punishable offense, you know.”

“Coming here to find me is enough,” Sizhui says, fond but immovable, per usual. “I’m not even crying anymore, thanks to you. I’d say you did your duty.” Jingyi grumbles his dissent, arms still crossed, but Sizhui just bumps their shoulders together as he stands by his side, twining an arm through Jingyi’s out of habit. “Let’s get back to class.”

“They’re lucky they didn’t say that stuff in front of me,” Jingyi says while they walk. “Those brats. Don’t think I won’t do it next time.”

“Yes, A-Yi.”

“Don’t ‘Yes, A-Yi’ me; I mean it!”

“Okay, A-Yi.”

“Sizhui!” comes the expected whine.

Because it is their shared space, another day finds the boys with the rabbits. Zewu-Jun had apparently shown it to Sizhui when he first arrived and was feeling lonely, and although Jingyi dislikes that Sizhui had felt sad, he’s happy that it had at least brought them a special hideaway that so few know about. There’s nothing like an afternoon of hideously dull lessons to remind Jingyi why he so prefers not being in class. As if he ever forgets.

“There’s no way Laoshi Qiren isn’t trying to kill us,” Jingyi deadpans. “I swear, leaving his class I’m always sapped of both energy and will to live. Not a coincidence.”

“You say this nearly every day.”

“And it’s true! A slow-burn murder.”

“I feel certain that if my Grand-Uncle was trying to kill me, there’d be more concern from my father and uncle.”

Jingyi makes a face and holds a rabbit up to meet her dark gaze. “What do you think? Who’s right, little one?”

Sizhui rolls his eyes, taking the rabbit gently from Jingyi so that he can return her to the grass with her family. “She can’t talk,” he says, “but if she could, she’d agree with me.”

“One of our numerous Sect rules is to reserve assumptions until proper evidence is drawn,” Jingyi recites, “yet here you are. What would your esteemed uncle say? Or your father, for that matter?”

“Zewu-Jun would say it’s worth it to tease you. Baba would say… I’m right,” Sizhui concludes proudly. “Because I’m his son.”

“Nepotism! Utter bias!”

“You’re almost like another son to him anyway,” Sizhui points out.

“So you’re the favourite child while I get tossed to the wayside?” Sizhui laughs at Jingyi’s affronted expression, and for that Jingyi takes his free hand where it rests across from him on the grass. “You know, that’s fine. If he already accepts me as a son, there won’t be any trouble when I request formal permission to court you.”

Sizhui turns red and pulls his hand back to pet the rabbit, glancing around as though someone might be watching all of a sudden. “You’re silly,” he says to Jingyi.

“We’re already going to be 15!” Jingyi pouts.

“Why are you so interested in discussing it today?”

Jingyi tugs a little at a few strands of grass. “Just the lesson earlier about cultivation partners.”

Sizhui’s cheeks haven’t lost their blush but he does look pleasantly surprised as he says, “You paid attention in class after all! A-Yi!”

“Only for today because it applied to me,” Jingyi insists. “To us, I guess.”

Sizhui seems to remember his shyness and ducks his head. “You want me to be your cultivation partner?” he asks.

“Don’t you want to be?”

“I never said I didn’t!” Sizhui says quickly, seeing that Jingyi appears disheartened. He carefully reaches for his hand despite his own red face and says, “Would I spend all my time with you if I didn’t want to?”

“Well, how should I know?” Jingyi asks, but he’s sitting up like he’s got less weight holding him down now. Back to his usual self, which is a good sign. “Some cultivation partners are platonic, you know.”

“Rarely.”

“A-Hui, are you questioning Laoshi Qiren?”

“I’d prefer to avoid lashing by oar if I can avoid it, thank you.”

“I thought you said you have nepotism on your side!”

Sizhui shakes his head and, somehow graceful even here, stands up from the ground. “We should head back, A-Yi,” he says, brushing invisible dust from his robes. “It’s getting late now.”

“Can’t we just stay here forever?” Jingyi asks dramatically, falling onto his back. At Sizhui’s look, he sighs and extends a hand upward for Sizhui to accept.

Instead of allowing him to help Jingyi to his feet, Jingyi tugs Sizhui down so that he tumbles back to the ground, half against Jingyi’s side. Jingyi laughs aloud in amused delight while Sizhui’s blush returns with a vengeance.

“Lan Jingyi!” he scolds, twisting away from him. “Shameless!”

“You sound like your father!” Jingyi laughs again.

Sizhui huffs and hurries to stand, putting distance between himself and Jingyi. “And if you don’t want him to give you the oar, you’d better just do as I say. Let’s go.”

“Bossy, bossy,” Jingyi says, though he’s following Sizhui obediently for the path. He sneaks a glance to his left and can’t help but grin at Sizhui’s flushed cheeks and the way his ears have gone pink at the tips. According to Sizhui, Hanguang-Jun’s ears do the same.

He gives a little poke to the skin of Sizhui’s ear, just to mess with him, and Sizhui huffs another breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Completely shameless!” before abandoning Jingyi altogether to hurry ahead of him.

If Wei Wuxian had been asked as a teenager whether he could ever envision making a life for himself in the Cloud Recesses, he’d have laughed in your face. He did, actually, when Jiang Cheng made the passing joke all those years ago, assuring his brother that this place would never feel like home to someone with Wei Wuxian’s habits. Now, what’s closer to two decades ago than Wei Wuxian would like to think about, he has to admit that his younger self hadn’t been nearly open-minded enough.

Circumstances that he couldn’t have foreseen changed his view of Cloud Reccesses, and he knows that he will be here for as long as he can be because being here means keeping his place beside his husband and son. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else these days and the certainty of that sometimes takes him by surprise, when he considers just how different things are now but in a way that feels right, like it’s what always was meant to be.

He feels himself smiling when he sees A-Yuan and A-Yi in the woods near the rabbits. He knows that Lan Xichen had brought A-Yuan years before when he’d been new here, sure that giving the child a piece of Lan Wangji would bring him comfort in his three-year absence. It’s still Wei Wuxian’s favourite place in the Cloud Recesses — except for the rooms he shares with Lan Zhan, of course, but that’s a given — and it makes him even happier that Lan Sizhui had found solace here as his fathers had done at his age.

He watches from afar with a fond smile as the boys stand to be on their way home, but Wei Wuxian’s smile freezes when he can tell even from here that Sizhui is smiling sweetly with a hand in Jingyi’s, and his smile decidedly disappears when he realises their faces are far too close together. Wei Wuxian trips backward, a twig or five snapping as he does, and it must alert the boys to an outside present for when he regains his footing against the tree, they’ve fled the scene. A hand to his chest, Wei Wuxian stands there in astonishment.

This lasts for only a moment before he is all but sprinting for the Library Pavilion where his husband is sure to be writing this early afternoon. He forces himself to slow down so as to not alarm Lan Wangji, though he comes to a sliding stop inside the doors anyhow with heaving breath.

“What’s happened?” Lan Wangji asks, not lifting his eyes from his work. When it’s obvious that Wei Wuxian is still having trouble speaking, he looks up at him. “Wei Ying?”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says. He goes to him across the room and drops onto the floor to clutch at his husband’s arm. He stares at Wei Wuxian with the slightest concern and Wei Wuxian says, “I don’t mean to be dramatic — ”

“Debatable,” Lan Wangji answers. “Say what you have to say.”

“Did you know A-Yuan is — that he and Jingyi are — ”

“They are what?”

“I’ve just seen them with the rabbits, which is ordinary, but afterwards, Lan Zhan — ”

“Baba? A-die?”

Both men look for the entrance where their son has appeared, hands folded in front of him and looking for all the world their dutiful, sweet boy. Wei Wuxian’s heart stops, a feeling he’s never enjoyed, and jumps to his feet.

“Sizhui!” he exclaims.

“I need to speak with you both. Is this a bad time?” he asks. He’s walked in on more than one longing glance between his fathers to know when he should make himself scarce, but Wei Wuxian waves his son’s worry away like a pesky gnat.

“Come here,” Lan Wangji invites him, and Sizhui does. He sits across from Lan Wangji, who looks up at his still-standing husband. Wei Wuxian hurriedly settles beside him and nods at Lan Sizhui in assurance.

“I wanted to tell you on my own, before anyone else, so that you would know I’m sure of my decision,” Sizhui begins. “With your formal permission, I… I will begin publicly courting Jingyi.” Sizhui’s ears have begun to redden but he doesn’t hesitate as he goes on, “We’d like to be married.”

The library is silent enough that a pin’s dropping would prove thunderous.

As calm as he normally is, Lan Wangji simply asks, “How long have you known?”

“A-die, you know he and I have been friends since almost the day I arrived here. He’s been there for me without my ever having to ask, and we… we’ve been certain of how we feel for over six years now.”

“Six years?” Wei Wuxian blurts aloud. Lan Wangji gives him a warning side-eye and Wei Wuxian tries to remain collected. “Sizhui, if it’s been so long, why haven’t you told us until today?”

Sizhui’s flush deepens but he forces himself to meet his father’s eyes. “Before all else, Jingyi and I are friends. We didn’t want the hassle of chaperones or rumours. I understand if our keeping this secret is upsetting, Baba.” He bows his head. “I… I’m soon to be 18, and I know we’re young. But I can’t help wanting to make the most of whatever time A-Yi and I have. You and A-die — ”

A pause. “From what I’ve been told of your story, it has kept in my mind that I shouldn’t live with this sort of hidden feeling any longer than necessary.” Sizhui looks up at them. “Jingyi loves me, and I love him. Will you allow our marriage?”

Wei Wuxian is crying, which he’d be embarrassed about if he cared, and he throws propriety to the wind in favour of opening his arms for his son, who gladly and in relief stands to accept the embrace. Lan Wangji is sort of smiling in a clear indication that he’s happy with these events, and Wei Wuxian leans to poke at his cheek just to tease him.

“I’m thrilled you’ve told us,” Wei Wuxian says to Sizhui. “I assume Jingyi is informing his parents?”

“Well, we wanted to wait until we had your blessing,” Sizhui admits. “It would be easier to tell them once we know Hanguang-Jun and the former Yiling Patriarch are on our side.”

“You little schemers!” Wei Wuxian says, giving Sizhui’s cheek a light pinch. “Go on, then. Tell Jingyi the good news.”

Sizhui beams and looks at Lan Wangji. His smile strengthens under his son’s eyes and he gives the slightest nod, which Sizhui knows to translate as wholehearted approval.

He bows to his fathers and disappears from the library. Wei Wuxian falls against Lan Wangji’s arm as soon as he’s gone.

“Ah, Lan Zhan. I rushed here to tell you about how I saw them kiss in the woods, but A-Hui beat me to it. I suppose they’d just decided at that moment to tell us, you think?”

“Mn.”

“If I didn’t already know Jingyi to be a good boy, I’d have to kill him.” Wei Wuxian sneaks a look at Lan Wangji, who doesn’t look amused. “No fun, Lan Zhan, no fun.” He taps a finger on the table and at Lan Wangji’s prompting expression says, “Well, I suppose they’ll be needing a chaperone now, eh? Can I volunteer to keep an eye on Jingyi? Break a leg or two?”

“Wei Ying.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan, I’m kidding,” Wei Wuxian says with a half-pout. “Huh. Maybe this is how Grand Master Qiren feels about me defiling the soul of his youngest nephew. I think I understand now.”

“You did not ‘defile’ anything,” Lan Wangji says without pause.

“My good husband.” Wei Wuxian presses a kiss to his cheek, followed by a gentle pat to the other. Although he’s smiling, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes and Lan Wangji covers Wei Wuxian’s hand carefully with his, wordlessly asking for Wei Wuxian to speak his mind.

“It’s nothing. Only what Sizhui mentioned about our past. I don’t want to marry away our son but I… I am grateful that they don’t have to endure… all we had to endure. No mortifyingly long wait to reach their happily ever after. I’m glad for it.”

Lan Wangji nods his agreement and brushes a kiss against his husband’s hand, making him blush. “A-Zhan!” he says with feigned astonishment. “Not in the library! Shameless.” Wei Wuxian knows he isn’t imagining the amused, pleased look on Wangji’s face, and he can’t hide his own smile at the sight. He still pulls out of Lan Wangji’s grip and says, “I don’t want to be responsible for any damage here, Gods forbid Qiren’s wrath finds me! Later?”

“Mn. Later.”

Wei Wuxian dimples at Lan Wangji, firing off a wink, before hightailing it for the Gods know where.

Lan Wangji returns to his writing, but pauses as he thinks about the hour’s events. His son will be married surely within a year, perhaps have children of his own. The thoughts of a new baby to hold and Sizhui being loved so dearly bring such an unexpected wave of warmth to Lan Wangji that he decides, for today, he can put work to the side. He goes off to find his family growing, or perhaps the ‘later’ he’d been promised.

#i love them to no end #also wanting to write nhs/wn but theyre such a rare pair lmaooo #honestly so are ljy/lsz so what am i saying dkjkfhdkj #my writing #zhuiyi #lan jingyi x lan sizhui #the untamed #ao3 #archive of our own #fics #mlm #c drama #cdrama

41 notes · View notes

bellatrixobsessed1 · 3 years ago

Text

The Rising Lady

Pair: Alcina/The Duke

Summary: Alcina, in the middle of her growth spurt, struggles to get used to her size and the gawking and commentary that comes with it. She finds common ground with The Duke who also seems to draw many stares. (AU Where Alcina knew the Duke before her mutation.)

AN: This is another experimental piece. Warning for fat shaming.

Sometimes she wishes that she could be more like The Duke. The way that he handles things with a jest and a hearty chuckle. He is hard to phase and words seem to roll right off of him. For it, he is a lucky man.

Perhaps it is that he is used to the remarks and the stares.

At best, Alcina finds them rude. At best she can offer them a scowl and comment on the impoliteness of their ogling. Mostly it makes her uncomfortable. Mostly she finds herself shifting and squirming in her chair. People never paid her much mind before, not after Miss D put down her microphone and retreated back into the shadows of her castle to endure her faulty genetics.

She is a quiet woman and was perfectly content to be an unremarkable one to boot. Sometimes she thinks that it was a mistake to trade disease for…

She stares down the extended length of her body…

For whatever this is.

She is a large woman and sometimes she still feels growing pains. Every now and then they shoot up and down her spine, along her arms and legs. Her chest and rear ache with it and on occasions, her belly. And on the worst of days she can feel the tingling sensation of the mutation in her face. On the most unbearable days it is an all over pain--on these days she grows most noticeably.

On these days she is on the floor screaming, tears streaming down her face as she begs her body to settle.

Sometimes she doesn’t think that she will stop growing. She doesn’t know what she will do when she is too tall to even duck under the doorways. She has to get new clothes, a new bed, new chairs…

And every time she does, she grows taller still. It isn’t becoming on her in the slightest. It is grotesque and sickening.

And to delicately salt a rapidly widening wound, stretchmarks have begun to decorate her chest, thighs, and tummy. Perhaps when she was some two decades younger, she thought herself attractive. She thinks that her beauty has waned since then, it was bound to…

But this? This is stealing from her the last fragments of her youth and an unhealthy portion of her confidence. And this time she is finding it difficult to put on a bolder facade. Truth be told she is terrified. She doesn’t know what she is becoming.

She is too big for her own skin. Her body is too big for the mind locked within it. And these days if feels like one very spacious prison.

She catches a glance of The Duke sitting on the other end of the ballroom. She wonders if the man had ever felt the same. She has known him for many years. She knew him when he was merely a boy. She knew him when he was much slimmer. Relatively speaking anyhow. She supposes that people always stared at him, have always had some comment to make about his size.

And maybe this is exactly why it bothers him none.

The village folk stare at him too. “How does that tiny cart hold up such a large man?” They ask.

“That’s no man, that’s a…” cow, hippo, elephant, bull--Alcina wonders which they will pick this time.

“I think even elephants ain’t that big.” Responds another man. “That thing could kill an elephant, I reckon.”

And somehow, Alcina finds herself furious on his behalf. Furious where he only chuckles and says, “Just give me a chance and good footwear and I can wrestle a rhino with my bare hands!”

Maybe this is why he is left well alone after the initial remark. Of she and her transformation they say more unpleasant things, crass and vile things. Things that she doesn’t like to repeat even privately to herself.

She no longer feels right in her body, if she had ever felt secure in it at all. And sometimes she feels like an object. They make her feel like an object between their open stares, their routy whistling, and their constant remarks.

Somewhere down the lines she stopped being Miss D. And then she stopped being Alcina Dimitrescu. She is now, ‘the big lady’, ‘the tall lady’.

Alcina burrows deeper into her coat, she tries to anyhow, only to find that she has grown even further. Alcina closes her eyes and very silently begs her coat to just fit, but she can’t seem to reach it across her bosom, much less get it to button up. Perhaps she is, in her dismay, only imagining it, but her shoes feel tighter and when she looks down she can swear that her legs are longer still. Hadn’t her coat reached past her knees only moments before?

She has gotten quite used to waking up to find herself less comfortable in her bed and night gown. But this? She hasn’t ever grown before her very eyes.

And she feels nothing at all.

She wishes that a soreness or a burning sensation would accompany her growth. At least then she would know for sure that her mind isn’t playing tricks on her. She hasn’t even that sort of reassurance.

She has reached eight feet now.

Eight dizzying, disorienting feet.

“Look at the big lady!” The girl can’t be older than twelve. “She’s even bigger now!” She doesn’t draw her brother’s attention but also the attention of nearly the entire market square. Everyone should like to take a gander at the strange, big lady.

At least now she knows that it isn’t her imagination.

Her clothes suddenly feel much too tight for her, much less breathable. She isn’t sure if it is a physical sensation or the product of anxiety that grows at a rate faster than her body. She hugs her arms around her chest. She was a fool to trust Mother Miranda.

Beautiful, youthful, and healthy Mother Miranda, who has swapped one of her torments for a new one.

At least a blood disease is rather common. At least it is expected of a Dimitrescu woman. This...she clutches herself tighter…is unnatural. This is...

“Good evening m’lady.” The Duke greets. She feels the bench dip under the weight of him and frets that it will splinter under their combined weight. “Having a dreary evening?”

Alcina nods, “I can’t leave my castle without getting stared at.”

“Aye...of course they are staring, you are a beautiful lady, Miss D.”

She clears her throat. “You are a charming man.” She notes. “But I don’t think that, that is why they’re staring at me.”

He offers a sympathetic chuckle. “Yes, perhaps not.” He shifts from side to side, it takes her a moment to realize that he is feeling for a lighter in his side pockets. Upon finding it, he plucks a cigar from his chest pocket. “Fancy a smoke?”

“A drink would be more helpful.” She confesses.

“You’ll make me waddle all the way back to my stall?”

“If you’ll be so kind, Duke.”

For only a moment, the time that it takes him to walk to his stall and back, attention is taken from her. Her heart aches for the man; he’s a strange one but a good natured one. Perhaps the only gentleman left in this damnable town. And they treat him with such disrespect and mockery. It isn’t enough to rudely gawk. No, they also have to mimic his wide gait and make attempts to shove him over.

By God, were she him she would shove them down and crush them. He could be quite a punishing force were he a cureler man. She wonders how long it will take before the villagers make a game of trying to topple her. She wonders how long it will take before she grows sick of them and tests her own strength. She can’t imagine that this body is just for show. It isn’t as frail an delicate as the one she’d had before.

“You gonna share with the lady or is that all for you?” She hears someone quip.

“If it was for me there’d be a lot more food than this!” He declares proudly. He comes back with a bottle of wine and a raspberry spongecake.

“You spoil me, Duke.” She takes the treat.

“You have been having a troubling week, Lady Dimitrescu. I thought that I would bake something special for you.” He takes a drag from his cigar.

She could very much use special. It is nice to feel special and sometimes the Duke makes her feel just that. “How do you do it?” She inquiries.

“Hmm?”

“How do you put up with all of the leering and commentary.”

“Truth be told, m’lady, I’ve been hearing it my entire life. Remarks lose their impact when you’ve heard the worst of them incessantly.”

Incessant. That is a good word for what the remarks are. “At least they aren’t constantly salivating over your chest, Duke.”

“You would be surprised, m’lady. They might fancy my chest more than yours.” He wiggles his brows.

“You disgusting oaf.” She grumbles.

He only laughs louder, it is the deep and booming sort. “I jest.” He says, wiping a tear from his eye. “Honest, I just.”

Alcina sighs, “you jest too much for you own good, I think.”

“Perhaps so.” He replies. His expression growing suddenly and uncharacteristically dim. “But if I didn’t jest, I don’t know that I’d be able to smile at all.”

“That’s how you do it.” She nods. “You make jokes so that they cannot.”

“It’s a learned skill.” He confirms. “You won’t need comedy, Miss D. You have sophistication and a pretty face.”

She thinks that her pretty face may be part of the problem. A double edged sword that brings her a last scrap of confidence at the same time as it seems to attract the most dull of men. “My face isn’t what troubles me, Duke.”

The man nods. “I can imagine. You have changed. And not slowly either. It must be difficult to adjust.”

“Yes.” She takes another dainty nibble of her cake and a less than refined swig of wine.

“Well those simpletons would do well to respect you. I mean look at you…” she tries not to do that. “You can break any one of them.”

“Why haven’t you? Crushed one of them I mean.”

“I could but then I’d be down a customer. They have a lot to say until I tell them that the shop’s closed and they’ll have to get their wears elsewhere. They’re all gentlefolk then. Hell, they’re even willing to pay double.”

“At least someone in this town has intellect.”

“And it’s all right here.” He chuckles with a sturdy pat to her knee.

Her face flushes lightly, “it isn’t quite as lonely when you make your rounds, Duke.” She doesn’t feel quite so freakish when he is around. And maybe it is that they are very like each other. They are both big people. Perhaps the both of them have outgrown this loathsome village. If only fleetingly, she wonders what it would be like to escape it with him. To find a new place and live out the rest of her days in the man’s company. But then she comes back to herself and she knows that she cannot. She is an oddity in this village, a thing to marvel at in a place teeming with bizarre things and curiosities. To stray to another? Impossible.

A silence falls between them. He watches smoke lazily drift up to the sky and she, for what must be the hundredth time, studies and scrutinizes her body. Tries to make herself comfortable in a chair that is meant for people several feet shorter. Tries to make herself comfortable in skin and bones that have stretched well beyond what they were supposed to. At curves that are too new and too pronounced for her comfort.

She steals a glance at the Duke. He leans back, one hand holds the cigar in place and the other rests upon his stomach. He looks quite relaxed. He looks cozy and self-assured.

Perhaps in due time she will learn to appreciate her supple curves and accept what she has become.

Perhaps in due time she, like the Duke, will have a confidence to match with her size.

#Alcina Dimitrescu #Lady Dimitrescu #Alcina/The Duke #Resident Evil #Fanfiction

37 notes · View notes

itsclydebitches · 3 years ago

Note

Here's a quandary I've suddenly found myself in: where do you stand on writers deleting their own works, fanfiction or otherwise? I've had this happen to me on more than one occasion - I go to look for an old favorite and find it's since been deleted from whatever site I read it on.

On the one hand, I'm inclined to think that, "Sure. The author wrote it, it's their call. I don't own the work - I certainly didn't pay for it. It's their decision, even if it's disappointing."

But at the same time I can't help but consider the alternative - if I believe in death of the author (and I do), that an author's work fundamentally isn't solely theirs once it's been published, posted, etc., then it also seems wrong to have a work deleted. Stories aren't the sole property of their creator, after all.

But then I circle back. D'you think there are different obligations between authors and readers and the works being made in fandom space? I know if I had bought a book and the author decided they wanted it back, I would feel pretty comfortable telling them no, given I'd paid for it and whatnot. But that's a different world from fanfic and fandom space generally.

So. You're insightful Clyde, I'm curious as to what you'll have to say here (and to all y'all thinking about it, don't flame me. I haven't decided where I stand here yet - haven't heard a good nail-in-the-coffin argument for or against yet).

Val are you a mind reader now? I’ve been thinking about this exact conundrum the last few days!

(And yeah, as a general disclaimer: no flaming. Not allowed. Any asks of the sort will be deleted on sight and with great satisfaction.)

Honestly, I’m not sure there is a “nail-in-the-coffin argument” for this, just because—as you lay out—there are really good points for keeping works around and really good points for allowing authors to have control over their work, especially when fanworks have no payment/legal obligations attached. In mainstream entertainment, your stories reflect a collaborative effort (publisher, editor, cover artists, etc.) so even if it were possible to delete the physical books out of everyone’s home and library (and we're ignoring the censorship angle for the moment), that’s no longer solely the author’s call, even if they have done the lion’s share of the creative work. Though fanworks can also, obviously, be collaborative, they’re usually not collaborative in the same way (more “This fic idea came about from discord conversations, a couple tumblr posts, and that one headcanon on reddit”) and they certainly don’t have the same monetary, legal, and professional strings attached. I wrote this fic as a hobby in my free time. Don’t I have the right to delete it like I also have the right to tear apart the blankets I knit?

Well yes… but also no? I personally view fanworks as akin to gifts—the academic term for our communities is literally “gift economy”—so if we view it like that, suddenly that discomfort with getting rid of works is more pronounced. If I not only knit a blanket, but then gift it to a friend, it would indeed feel outside of my rights to randomly knock on their door one day and go, “I actually decided I hate that? Please give it back so I can tear it to shreds, thanks :)” That’s so rude! And any real friend would try to talk me out of it, explaining both why they love the blanket and, even if it’s not technically the best in terms of craftsmanship, it holds significant emotional value to them. Save it for that reason alone, at least. Fanworks carry that same meaning—“I don’t care if it’s full of typos, super cliché, and using some outdated, uncomfortable tropes. This story meant so much to me as a teenager and I’ll always love it”—but the difference in medium and relationships means it’s easier to ignore all that. I’m not going up to someone’s house and asking face-to-face to destroy something I gave them (which is awkward as hell. That alone deters us), I’m just pressing a button on my computer. I’m not asking this of a personal friend that is involved in my IRL experiences, I’m (mostly) doing this to online peers I know little, if anything, about. It’s easy to distance ourselves from both the impact of our creative work and the act of getting rid of it while online. On the flip-side though, it’s also easier to demean that work and forget that the author is a real person who put a lot of effort into this creation. If someone didn’t like my knitted blanket I gave them as a gift, they’re unlikely to tell me that. They recognize that it’s impolite and that the act of creating something for them is more important than the construction’s craftsmanship. For fanworks though, with everyone spread around the world and using made up identities, people have fewer filters, happily tearing authors to shreds in the comments, sending anon hate, and the like. The fact that we’re both prefacing this conversation with, “Please don’t flame” emphasizes that. So if I wrote a fic with some iffy tropes, “cringy” dialogue, numerous typos, whatever and enough people decided to drag me for it… I don’t know whether I’d resist the urge to just delete the fic, hopefully ending those interactions. There’s a reason why we’re constantly reminding others to express when they enjoy someone else’s work: the ratio of praise to criticism in fandom (or simply praise to seeming indifference because there was no public reaction at all), is horribly skewed.

So I personally can’t blame anyone for deleting. I’d like to hope that more people realize the importance of keeping fanworks around, that everything you put out there is loved by someone… but I’m well aware that the reality is far more complicated. It’s hard to keep that in mind. It’s hard to keep something around that you personally no longer like. Harder still to keep up a work you might be harassed over, that someone IRL discovered, that you’re disgusted with because you didn’t know better back then… there are lots of reasons why people delete and I ultimately can’t fault them for that. I think the reasons why people delete stem more from problems in fandom culture at large—trolling, legal issues, lack of positive feedback, cancel culture, etc.—than anything the author has or has not personally done, and since such work is meant to be a part of an enjoyable hobby… I can’t rightly tell anyone to shoulder those problems, problems they can’t solve themselves, just for the sake of mine or others’ enjoyment. The reason I’ve been thinking about this lately is because I was discussing Attack on Titan and how much I dislike the source material now, resulting in a very uncomfortable relationship with the fics I wrote a few years back. I’ve personally decided to keep them up and that’s largely because some have received fantastic feedback and I’m aware of how it will hurt those still in the fandom if I take them down. So if a positive experience is the cornerstone of me keeping fics up, I can only assume that negative experiences would likewise been the cornerstone of taking them down. And if getting rid of that fic helps your mental health, or solves a bullying problem, or just makes you happier… that, to me, is always more important than the fic itself.

But, of course, it’s still devastating for everyone who loses the work, which is why my compromise-y answer is to embrace options like AO3’s phenomenal orphaning policy. That’s a fantastic middle ground between saving fanworks and allowing authors to distances themselves from them. I’ve also gotten a lot more proactive about saving the works I want to have around in the future. Regardless of whether we agree with deleting works or not, the reality is we do live in a world where it happens, so best to take action on our own to save what we want to keep around. Though I respect an author’s right to delete, I also respect the reader’s right to maintain access to the work, once published, in whatever way they can. That's probably my real answer here: authors have their rights, but readers have their rights too, so if you decide to publish in the first place, be aware that these rights might, at some point, clash. I download all my favorite fics to Calibre and, when I’m earning more money (lol) I hope to print and bind many for my personal library. I’m also willing to re-share fic if others are looking for them, in order to celebrate the author’s work even if they no longer want anything to do with it. Not fanfiction in this case, but one of my fondest memories was being really into Phantom of the Opera as a kid and wanting, oh so desperately, to read Susan Kay’s Phantom. Problem was, it was out of print at the time, not available at my library, and this was before the age of popping online and finding a used copy. For all intents and purposes, based on my personal situation, this was a case of a book just disappearing from the world. So when an old fandom mom on the message boards I frequented offered to type her copy up chapter by chapter and share it with me, you can only imagine how overjoyed I was. Idk what her own situation was that something like scanning wouldn’t work, but the point is she spent months helping a fandom kid she barely knew simply because a story had resonated with her and she wanted to share it. That shit is powerful!

So if someone wants to delete—if that’s something they need right now—I believe that is, ultimately, their decision… but please try your hardest to remember that the art you put out into the world is having an impact and people will absolutely miss it when it’s gone. Often to the point of doing everything they can to put it back out into the world even if you decide to take it out. Hold onto that feeling. The love you have for your favorite fic, fanart, meta, whatever it is? Someone else has that for your work too. I guarantee it.

So take things down as needed, but for the love of everything keep copies for yourself. You may very well want to give it back to the world someday.

#fandom #fic things #mymetas #never any easy questions on this blog huh? lol

21 notes · View notes

symptoms-syndrome · 3 years ago

Text

Might delete this later but I'm feeling some sort of way and kinda wanna talk abt parts stuff. Rare occurrence. I don't wanna pin a list or anything. But listing at least some would make me feel a little. Better? Or something. Anyway. I feel like. Maybe people will think I'm weird or cringe but most of y'all don't even know who I am so. Who cares.

Anyway accepting asks about parts things today.

Little more rambling in somewhat more detail below about parts. Please be kind this is very sensitive information for me. Not all parts are listed. There are some parts on my personal parts map/list I don't recognize/know, so obviously I didn't include them.

-Hestia, adult, she/her | she's one I've been aware of the longest. I used to think she was the goddess and was talking to me. Complicated. I hesitate to call her any sort of introject because I'm fairly certain she's only Hestia because I thought she was, if that makes any sense. Like her identity as Hestia was applied after the fact. She doesn't feel particular attachment to the idea of being a goddess or anything. When I found out she was a part it didn't really distress her or anything. She's the way she's always been, kind and comforting and soft-spoken.

-Seba, young adult?, he/him | also one of the parts around the longest. He got really loud around middle school, and I thought I was hallucinating voices. He used to be kinda? Rude or mean, but in kind of a brotherly way. When I was kicked out I remember he took over really quick. He's very good at standing up for himself and is very confident. He helped a lot when I was homeless, because it was really scary for me and he was the one who pushed aside fear and got things done. He doesn't care a lot about respect that isn't earned, he only seems to respect people who respect him first. Strangely, but in a way I think is good, he used to appear as a white boy but now looks more Asian, like me.

-Mimi, young adult, she/her | Mimi is a part that I think has been around a while, but had little to no communication with the rest of us, by no fault of her own. She's peppy, she likes socializing and having fun, she likes to look pretty and has high self esteem. I once described her as sort of "nice drunk girl in the bathroom," which is somewhat accurate. She's incredibly kind, but doesn't always notice things. Very reliable despite her fun-loving attitude. Very loud and talkative.

-T (first initial, I don't like using his full name online), adult, he/him | T might be an introject, but similarly to Hestia I hesitate to label him that way because I don't know if the "source" he has was applied after the fact. I just know he's very attached to the identity of a character from a media I long since have disliked, despite it being a big interest in middle school. He knows he isn't that character, but I guess it's like he never took the costume off or something. He's not shy or quiet, but doesn't really do small talk and really mostly talks if he thinks it's important. He's a very hard worker, sometimes too much so. He can be incredibly awkward around people, but mostly because he's excessively polite. He holds a lot of sad memories and things, and can be overwhelmed by them sometimes. He's really bad at asking for help, so I try to be more attentive with him. He seems to have a lot of control over not sharing memories and such. He can self isolate, which is really hard sometimes.

Aslan, child, he/him | Aslan is very peppy, very happy and curious and loves to talk to people and learn things and see things. He usually fronts along with someone else, because I think he'd be lonely fronting alone. He likes play and jokes and is a joy to be around.

Max, unsure, they/them | Max is adventurous, not afraid of anything, and is a little bit of an adrenaline junkie. They like to explore new places, climb on things, feel wind and nature, and experience new things. They can be a little reckless, but is pretty good at only taking calculated risks.

TW for below, because I'm talking about parts that hold a lot of heavy stuff.

-Angel, I use they/them just to be safe | Angel I think holds a lot of trauma. They used to come out a lot more, but mostly during panic attacks and such. I think they genuinely believe themselves to be an angel, but it's hard to tell. They're very sad about not being one anymore. They can get really overwhelmed by religious trauma stuff. I think they're doing better than they used to, though. They've been around a bit more recently, but have calmed down from full blown panic to mostly just jitters and anxiety.

-Unnamed little girl, child, she/her | very obsessed with manners and being polite. It can be hard to talk to her because she's so excessively attuned into etiquette. Has a lot of anxiety about doing something wrong or impolite. I've been trying to show her it's okay to interact with people more casually.

-Runaway, teenager (15-ish?), She/her | Very distressed. Only noticed her recently. She's in a really rough spot right now and I've talked about her before. In the "inner world" she seems to be in a chain link fence sort of enclosure, and I'm not sure if she's trapped there or she feels safe in there. She really wants us to run away from home, she wants freedom, and seems really stuck in our past where home wasn't a safe place to be. A lot of dark thoughts. She's very good at Pinterest though, that's one way she's been able to communicate well.

#delete later #maybe #since somebody asked I'm Jay and I don't talk about myself much #and the usage of 'I' in this post is mostly collective #because I don't know which part discovered/logged about which part #I suppose I could ask #but most of us who frequently front currently don't remember much before ~18 #and those of us who do don't like to talk about it

14 notes · View notes

pellucidity-is-me · 3 years ago

Text

Remus Lupin Meets Newt Scamander

Summary: The year is 1971. Remus and his friends are invited to Slughorn’s annual Christmas party, and Remus is introduced to an unexpected guest.

Wordcount: 3086

"Remus Lupin!" bellowed Slughorn as Remus and his friends arrived at the party. Remus cringed. "Well, well, well! You ended up coming! Come in, come in. You boys are very well-dressed. Yes, yes. The festivities are in full swing!"

Remus could tell. It was so loud—louder and more chaotic than a Quidditch game, with shouts and screams and house-elfs running all around and the scents of tens of students and food and confetti and music—the music was so loud—and his skin was all clammy and the full moon was less than a week away... Heightened senses, to the non-werewolf individual, seemed to be a blessing. They were not.

Remus smiled at James, who was looking worried. "I'm fine."

"You're pale."

"I'm always pale."

"He's got a point," said Sirius, laughing. "Come on, James, let's go dance!"

"I'm not leaving Remus all alone. He's scared..."

"I'm not scared!"

"Boys, boys, boys," said Slughorn ambivalently. "I actually have someone that I want Remus to meet! Wonderful person. Very famous! I invited him here myself."

"I'll come," said James immediately.

"No, no!" chortled Slughorn. "You go dance! He'll be with me. He's okay! Right, Remus?"

Remus nodded. "You three have fun. I'll catch up later."

Sirius pulled James away, and James didn't protest. Peter followed them, his face alight with happiness.

And then Remus was alone. He wasn’t sure he liked being alone.

Wait, no. He wasn't alone. Unfortunately, Slughorn was standing right next to him... yes, Remus would have preferred solitude.

Slughorn put his hand on Remus' shoulder, and Remus jumped and shooed his hand away instinctively. "Calm down, my boy! I'm not going to hurt you! There, now, this way, then..." Slughorn was shouting over the music, and Remus' ears hurt. He let himself be guided away, trying not to inhale too deeply. He sort of wanted to go home.

Slughorn stopped in front of a man with a large gob of curly, greying hair and blue eyes. "Here, this is who I wanted you to meet! Have fun, you two!" Slughorn said something else that Remus couldn't quite make out before ambling away.

Remus, who now thoroughly regretted coming to the party, glanced at the man (out of the corner of his eyes, since it was impolite to stare). The man was tall. He was holding a glass of punch. He, like Remus, very much looked as if he wanted to be somewhere else. Remus stood there silently, unsure of what to do. "Well, this is awkward," said the man.

Remus tried to laugh. "Er... yeah."

"Yes," the man repeated, and then he lowered his voice a little. "Listen, I... well, I'm not a fan of parties. Too stuffy and loud. Slughorn's watching us, but if I create a distraction... we can slip out the back. Undetected. Sound all right to you?"

Remus nodded a little. He wasn't sure what the man meant by "distraction", but he reminded Remus a little of James. And James' ideas were sometimes stupid, but they usually worked out.

The man reached into a briefcase and pulled something out, clenching it tightly in his hands. "Here, watch carefully," he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. He opened his hand wide, and three pixies flew out. Remus gaped.

The pixies flew around the room—one landed right on top of Slughorn's balding head. Chaos promptly ensued. The man motioned for Remus to follow, and Remus did—sure enough, there was a door in the back of the office, and Remus managed to slip through without Slughorn noticing.

They ended up in the corridor, and Remus kept following the man. He guided Remus through another door. Now they were standing directly in front of...

"A broom cupboard?" Remus asked in disbelief.

"Shh!" said the man, pushing Remus into the cupboard. It was a very large cupboard, as cupboards went, and there was plenty of room for the both of them. Much better, at least, than the lavatory in which Remus had been trapped with James Potter earlier that day (it was a long story).

The man entered behind Remus and shut the door, lighting up his wand so that they could see. "This is the largest broom cupboard at Hogwarts," he explained. "I spent plenty of time in here when I was your age."

Remus was confused. Why would anybody spend that much time in a broom cupboard?

"No, no," said the man suddenly, looking at Remus' face. "Not... not snogging or anything... how old are you?"

"Eleven," Remus said.

"Oh. That's probably not what you were thinking, then. Er, I didn't have a lot of friends. Came here to be alone. I don't like people much. Honestly, I'm surprised: this cupboard is in exactly the same condition as it was when I left. Sorry to push you in here, I just thought that perhaps Slughorn would come and hunt us down. I'm... er, I'm quite famous, and he was pushing me to come for what seemed like hours. I didn't want to, but he's... persuasive. Well. Annoying."

Remus giggled a little. He was entirely overwhelmed.

"I'm not sure why he wanted us to meet. Not a big creature fan, are you?"

"No, sir," said Remus.

The man waved his hand. "No need to call me 'sir'. I never grew up to begin with." The man chuckled nervously, and Remus was amused in spite of himself.

"You said you're famous?"

"Yes. A little. I wrote one of the textbooks. And did a bit of field work, some research, you know. I'm currently writing a children's book. Did a few political things, too, though I'm not proud of all of them. Erm, don't tell anybody. I don't... I don't really like being famous? I know that sounds like such a privileged problem, but I'm not a fan of being stared at."

Remus could relate. "May I ask you your name?"

"Oh! Right. You must be so confused; how impolite of me." The man stuck out his hand. "Newt. Newt Scamander."

Remus stared at his hand in horror. Newt Scamander?

"Do you know who I am?" the man asked.

Remus knew exactly who he was. Of course he did. Every werewolf on earth knew who Newt Scamander was, and not for good reasons. This man—the polite man standing in front of Remus Lupin, who was a werewolf—had created the Werewolf Registry.

"N-Newt... Scamander? Er, I..."

"Are you okay? Are you ill?"

This man was the reason that Remus had to suffer every single January—was why he was questioned by people who hated him—was why the Ministry knew about his condition and hated him for it. Remus had read Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. It was one of the most famous books on earth, and it had been penned by Newt himself. Remus had memorized the paragraphs that Scamander had written on werewolves. It was all correct, of course, but was also very scholarly. Remus ran through the words in his head, and there was no indication as to whether Scamander hated werewolves or not. No bias whatsoever—not one way or another.

It didn't matter, though. It didn't matter! Even if Scamander didn't outright say that he hated werewolves, his actions had certainly proved that he did. How could someone who respected werewolves as people possibly think that they should be marked and listed like animals? It was humiliating, it was degrading, and it was the worst part of the year by far besides Remus' twelve annual transformations...

Remus hated Newt Scamander.

Did Scamander know, though? If he had created the Registry, did he keep up with it? Did he pop in every so often and check the lists? Had he met Remus before? And why on earth did Slughorn think that Remus would want to meet Newt Scamander? Of all people?

Scamander dropped his hand and leaned in a little closer. "Being a magical creatures expert, I can read body language fairly well. You don't like me, do you?"

"I... sir, I..." It was not flattering that Scamander had just compared Remus to a magical creature, though he probably hadn't meant anything by it. Remus thought he might be sick.

"What's wrong?"

"I... er, my friends are waiting for me. I think. I should go..." Remus tried to open the door, but Scamander had locked it. That was disturbing. "Sir! I really need to go..."

Scamander held his hands up. "I'm not going to hurt you; I just want to make sure you're okay. In my experience, frightened animals tend to do reckless things—and although you're not an animal yourself, I like to think of magical creatures as people."

Remus was confused. In essence, Scamander had just compared him to an animal again. But then he said that magical creatures were people. Scamander was tilting his head now, and Remus felt a little like some sort of specimen of which Scamander was trying to gain the trust. The thought did not improve matters.

"I'm not going to do anything reckless... I only want to find my friends..."

"Pixies," said Scamander, completely ignoring Remus' pleas. "The Cornish variety. Not sure what they're doing now, but that horrid man certainly deserves it. Er, don't tell him I said that. There are only three pixies in that room, of course, but three can wreak as much havoc as ten. Fortunately, any somewhat adept witch or wizard can get rid of them. I expect someone has it under control. Most every staff member probably knows that they belong to me, of course, and they’ll keep them safe until I return. Cornish pixies also recognize faces; they know that I'm the one who feeds them. I've set them on numerous people, and they've found their way back every time. Quite useful, don't you think?"

"You shouldn't use a magical creature," Remus said boldly. During Scamander's speech, his fear had well given way to anger. "For any means. They're not tools."

"Good point, good point," said Scamander, unfazed. "I always try to give them a choice. If they prefer, they can go back into my briefcase. But I find that pixies often like wreaking havoc. So it's more of a win-win situation. I know what they want, trust me."

"I don't," Remus mumbled.

"Know what they want? Well, taking Care of Magical Creatures in your third year might help with that. That was my favorite class, you know..."

"No, trust you. I don't trust you, sir, and I want to leave."

"Oh." Scamander still did not look hurt; more like thoughtful. "Well. I suppose humans need choices, too. I'm sorry for keeping you here, I thought that perhaps I could help you feel more comfortable. But I, er, often overestimate myself. Hope you're all right. You don't look well, you know."

Remus tried the doorknob, but Scamander was still rambling, and the door was still locked. "I don't know a thing about humans, to be honest," Scamander babbled. "My wife always wants me to stick around, even when she verbally asks me to go away. Confusing, if you ask me. Not all magical creatures are the same, but at least they don't get bogged down with words. Language is ever so confusing, don't you think? Creatures don't do things like sarcasm and lying."

This one does, Remus thought dryly, and jiggled the doorknob a little more loudly. Scamander was obviously lost in thought, however. "I can't think of why you wouldn't like me, though. Oh, well... that sounded pretentious. I mean, you seemed to like me all right before I told you my name. What have I done that merits such fear? I don't think I'm particularly terrifying. I mean, not everything I've done has been good. Never really been proud of the..." Scamander's voice trailed off and his eyes drifted to meet Remus'. There was silence.

This was it. Scamander was going to kill him. Turn him over to the Ministry. Tell everybody.

"Well, that makes sense," Scamander mumbled. "Er. This complicates things, doesn't it?"

Remus suddenly remembered that he was a wizard as well as a werewolf. He pulled his wand out of the pocket of James' robes and tapped the door. "Alohomora," he said, and then he fled down the corridor.

Remus never once imagined that he'd be escaping to a party instead of from it.

~~oOo~~

It had been a very long day for Newt Scamander.

Currently, he was trying to catch a Pixie who was swimming in the punch when Slughorn tapped him on the shoulder. Newt inwardly groaned. "Sorry, Horace," he said. "The Pixies must have gotten loose while I was..."

"No matter, no matter!" said Slughorn lightly. "Where's...?"

Newt held up a hand. He really didn't want to know the boy's name. That would only complicate things further, and he figured that the boy deserved as much privacy as he could get. Newt lowered his voice. "You wanted me to meet him because... of his condition?" Newt wasn't a hundred percent sure that Slughorn knew, so he was being intentional about stepping around the subject. Although he wasn't sure how the boy could attend Hogwarts without the staff knowing...

"Of course!" said Slughorn, absolutely jovial and not nearly quiet enough. "Seeing as you created the Werewolf Registry. I figured he knew who you were! Oh, and there's someone else I want to introduce you to... a boy in Slytherin, an absolute magical creatures whiz..."

"Please lower your voice; I assume you're sworn to secrecy and we're in a public place," said Newt sharply. Slughorn definitely knew... unfortunately for the boy. "Do you actually know what the Registry is?"

"Of course," Slughorn scoffed. "The sub-department in the Ministry that keeps the Werewolf Register. I know you're much cleverer than I am, but I do know some things!"

"It's not pleasant, the Registry," said Newt. "Not pleasant at all. Sort of like..." Newt hesitated. He wasn't sure how to word this. "Sort of like staying at St. Mungo's, but you feel fine and all the Healers hate you and treat you like a criminal."

"Hm," said Slughorn, not comprehending this at all. That was fine. It hadn't been a very good analogy, after all. "So, how did it go? I figured you two would get along. You have a lot in common, you know..."

"Werewolves don't like me, Horace," said Newt slowly. He couldn't fault Slughorn for failing to understand a complex topic that didn't concern him at all, but it was a bit annoying. "I made their lives twice as complicated. The Registry was a good idea in theory—it felt necessary during the war—but it's incredibly badly-kept. So all it does is alienate werewolves even more. If they're Registered, they're subjected to dealing with the horrid Ministry workers who keep it. And the only werewolves that really need to be monitored are the Unregistered ones. I am not very well-liked in the world of werewolves."

"Oh," said Slughorn, looking remorseful now. "But he's..."

Newt shushed him. "I do not want to hear his name, or any other information about him. Just..." Newt rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Leave him alone, would you? I'm sure he has enough to deal with. Now, where is this Slytherin student of yours?"

~~oOo~~

Remus was hiding behind the curtains in the back of the room, drinking a glass of punch. It tasted a little odd so close to the full moon (the strawberries were over-ripe), but overall not bad. He wasn't exactly sure what to do.

On one hand, maybe Scamander wouldn't tell anyone. Then Remus could continue to stay at Hogwarts, even though he knew he was on borrowed time and his friends would find out at any moment. On the other hand, if Scamander did end up telling someone, he could be in serious danger. Logically, he should be in Dumbledore's office by now, all packed up and ready to go.

But he just couldn't bear to leave Hogwarts, even though it was loud and stressful and he was terrified out of his wits. Remus was a little odd like that. Perhaps, he thought with a smile, it was the Gryffindor in him: recklessly staying in a place that could turn on him at any moment. It was stupid, Remus knew, but maybe James and Sirius were rubbing off on him.

Or maybe it was just because he was all emotion-ed out today.

Suddenly, the curtain pulled back and Scamander was only a few feet away. Remus wasn't sure what to do, so he nodded at him and took another sip of punch. Maybe Scamander was going to curse him within an inch of his life. Or actually kill him. Or turn him over to the Ministry and come up with a false story about how he was an irredeemable monster.

Well, he was an irredeemable monster, technically. One night a month, at least. And there was nothing Remus could do about it now, was there? Remus figured that he really was emotion-ed out; he was usually much more expressive than this.

"Hey," said Scamander, a little breathlessly. "How are you?"

Remus looked at him and blinked. "Wonderful."

"I'm sure," said Scamander with an odd sort of laugh. "I'm not going to tell anyone. Thought you ought to know."

Remus nodded slowly. "Thank you." He wasn't sure what else to say.

"Well. Have a nice day." Scamander turned to leave, and then he paused and turned around again. "And... I'm sorry. Really." Then he gave Remus a small smile—still looking him in the eyes, to Remus' great surprise—and said, "Sorry. Leaving now."

Remus watched him go, entirely befuddled. Then he went to go join his friends, who were trying to teach a wayward house-elf how to dance. It was his last evening with them, after all, and what was a little noise and discomfort compared to what was going to happen next week?

~~oOo~~

Looking back, Newt was glad that he had gone with the simple apology. Because really, there were no words. Being famous and influential had more disadvantages than perks, but Newt had always been a responsible person.

Somewhat, he thought with a snigger as he remembered how he failed History of Magic for five years straight.

AN: This is a scene from my fanfic (link in blog description) and I totally forgot about it until I started editing it lol. Little bit of a Christmas special!

#newt scamander #remus lupin #harry potter fanfiction #marauders era #fantastic beasts #of marauders and monsters #pellucidity

8 notes · View notes

allsassnoclass · 3 years ago

Text

Hello everyone! Today is the one year anniversary of my favorite fic I’ve written (so far), Puzzle Pieces! I thought I’d give a full length director’s commentary to commemorate the occasion.

Spoilers for the fic below!

The idea for this fic stemmed from a few things. I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of a soulmate au where colors appear on your skin when you first touch your soulmate(s). I think I initially encountered this in a newsies fic that I’ve since lost track of that was heavily focused on platonic soulmates. I liked this convention because the possibilities for multiple soulmates are endless and I like the idea of colorful splotches on people. I also think that identifying soulmates via touch rather than the first sentence they say or some sort of other identifier gives a lot of opportunity for relationships to grow and develop before they know that they’re soulmates. I am always a little bothered when soulmate aus have people fall right into a relationship and kissing and intense emotions right away when the two people don’t know anything about each other. This seemed like a way to combat that a little, but I’ll speak more on that later.

The Beginnings

The first record I have of this fic is a message I sent to Helen on May 8, 2020. The fic was very much only in the idea stages then, as I took over three more months to write it and wrote Too Close to See during that time. A google doc for the fic wasn’t started until July 20, 2020, and it was titled “soulmate colors au.” My method for writing is going in order these days, and for this particular fic there wasn’t a specific scene that I started with in mind. I really was just going or it and making it up as I went, chugging along and seeing what happened.

The Colors

A pretty significant part of this fic is the colors. When I figured out that colors would appear on people when they touched, I knew that figuring out who had what color would be very important. Initially I was going to have each pairing have their own color (so for example cashton would both leave blue on each other but malum would both leave green on each other) but I quickly decided that I didn’t like that and that each individual should have a color that they leave, instead. I sent a message to Bella asking what colors she thought the boys would be, but I can’t find that message anymore and know that while it was similar it wasn’t quite right. Here’s some reasoning behind each of the boys’ colors:

Michael: I went with red not just because of the iconic red hair, but because it’s a pretty loud and brash color. Michael (especially when he was younger) doesn’t really filter things, wears a decent amount of his personality on his sleeve, and first reaction that said red to me

Calum: Calum has always been forest green. This is partially influenced by the empahty hoodie, even though it’s a bit brighter than the green in my mind for him here, but I also think green is a very dependable, stable color. (I used that color symbolism in one of my fall out boy fics years ago lol) It reminds me of pine trees, and I think Calum can give off that same sense of reliability in weathering the seasons. It’s a quieter color but can really pop next to another one. It also worked out nicely that Calum and Michael’s colors were compliments

Luke: Luke gets gold because he is a sunshine boy! Luke actually was the person I had the most trouble with, because I was flipping between gold, a lighter blue, or pink. Pink ultimately was too close to red to make me be able to visualize what the marks looked like on each boy to my satisfaction. It just looked ugly and clashing. I went with gold because there is a lot of outward brightness in Luke. He’s the kind of person where if he’s happy everyone else gets a bit happier, and gold also seemed fitting for the eventual shift into a rockstar and the amount of talent he has

Ashton: Ashton gets purple, but a deeper purple. Dynamic but still relatively stable, has a lot of depth. Purple is a secret color, but it’s still beautiful and it draws people in. When I visualize it it ends up being a really dark shade, but in reality he’s probably more of a royal purple than a plum purple. I feel bizarrely passionate about his color specifically. I don’t know why that is.

The colors didn’t have any sort of influence on the fic, but they were deliberately chosen.

The World of the Fic: Chosen Soulmates

So here’s the thing. I feel very strongly about love being a conscious decision that people make over and over. It takes work. It takes a deliberate commitment.

Soulmate aus kind of negate that.

So, how do you fix this? Well, I did that by having these marks not necessarily indicate soulmates. The way that the marks are described in the fic is that they indicate how easy it should be to love someone and how compatible two people are. It doesn’t automatically mean that you’ll adore them forever and never leave their side. You still need to put in the work. (Luke shows this early on when Michael asks if he loves Calum and he says “I don’t think I know him well enough for that yet. I know I will, because the colors say it should be easy and I want to, but not like you do.” He has made the decision to work toward loving Calum, but he knows that just having the colors doesn’t immediately make them love each other.) In that way, it almost isn’t a soulmate au, at least not in the traditional way. Things aren’t inevitable. There is still an element of choice.

This was also shown with Ashton. I don’t remember when I made the decision to give Ashton a Tragic Background with his dad, but I know it was relatively early because by the time I wrote his introduction I knew that would happen. I wanted to give a bit more of a reason for his hesitation to let them touch him, which I was already including because Ashton has always been the least touchy of the band, and I saw this as another opportunity to show that necessity of choice. It’s sweeter to me for the boys to choose each other rather than to just be stuck with each other, and if Ashton hadn’t actually been a soulmate of theirs then I wanted there to be the assurance that they could still love him just as much, because all love is chosen.

In the end, having a broken soulbond in Ashton’s past was a good way to accomplish all of that. It’s heartbreaking to not be chosen despite the fact that it should be easy, but once Ashton accepts that Michael, Calum, and Luke are vehemently choosing him with or without the soulmark, it makes his acceptance of their love very sweet to me. He’s saying that he trusts them to put in the work to love him. The scene where he talks to Michael in the car and the scene where he accepts their touches and soulmarks are probably my two favorite scenes in the fic.

The World of the Fic: Touch

In a world where the first skin-on-skin contact can indicate whether it’ll be extremely easy for you to love someone, how common would touch be? Would we greet people with handshakes still? Would gloves be more common fashion accessories? Would touching someone be a Big Deal?

Hence, the First Touch was born!

I figured that, with touch possibly being a lot more significant in this world, people would be a lot more careful about whether they make skin-on-skin contact. Kids would be taught that it’s impolite to try to touch someone, to a more extreme degree than they are now. Handshakes simply are not a greeting anymore. Instead, sometimes the first contact people make is considered a big deal, seeing as it can indicate whether two people are soulmates or not.

I figured that Luke especially would enjoy important first touches, because he’s a sentimental sweetie. Of course, his first touch with Michael ended up being special simply because it was with each other :)

This also let me really lean into Ashton being touch-adverse. Now on top of not liking touch, he also has another reason to avoid it, which makes every cuddle moment after the first touch even better, because he’s definitely touch starved. The band cuddles him so much once they share the colors.

The World of the Fic: Platonic Soulmates

Guys. GUYS. I love platonic soulmates. I love them a lot. I feel very passionately about them. Romantic love is not the pinnacle of human love, and as someone who cannot at this point see myself with a romantic partner I really wanted to ensure that platonic soulmates were a thing. Given that information, it’s a no-brainer that I included them in this fic. Part of the appeal of this type of soulmate au was that it gave opportunity for more than one soulmate and more than one type of soulmate. As such, platonic, familial, and romantic soulmates could all be indicated by the colors. I also really liked that there wasn’t any sort of differentiation between the types of soulmates. One type of love isn’t hailed over the others. It’s an even playing field here.

That was one of the things that immediately drew me to this type of prompt, actually. I wanted to write a fic about Michael parsing through his emotions and figuring out what he feels for Calum. The difference between platonic and romantic love has always been very interesting to me, because I find that the line can be pretty blurry personally. The best way to do that was to give him a set of soulmates who he cares about equally but in different ways.

The following excerpt really is the theme of the story to me: “Calum is an old, comfortable sweater, but Luke is like a favorite pair of shoes. They both fit him perfectly. He feels more at home when either of them are around, and although the love he has for Calum is different, he thinks he could love Luke just as much.” Each of us love everyone we meet a little differently, because everyone is a different person, but different doesn’t mean unequal.

While the fic is about Michael figuring himself out, it’s equally a love story between all four of them. The moments where Michael finds out he’s soulmates with Luke and Ashton were just as important to me as the moment he and Calum get together, and I really wanted to be sure that each relationship had it’s time in the limelight. That’s ultimately why the idea of puzzle pieces became a theme (that I added on editing). I like the idea of all of them coming together to create something bigger than themselves. They fit. They click. They are better for it. The first time someone referred to this as an ot4 fic it threw me off, because only malum is romantic in it, but I really like that classification for it, because it is.

Asexual Representation (Accidentally)

I didn’t know I was writing Michael as ace until about 4 days before I posted the fic.

Looking back, that’s a little bit ridiculous, because I was brainstorming this fic for three and a half months and actively writing it for two before I realized. I believe there was a conversation in the discord about ace rep in fics (Bella and I think Heath were part of it, I can’t remember any other participants), and I thought to myself “hey I’m ace and like ace rep, Michael in the soulmate colors au could probably be ace.” Lo and behold, he already was. All I had to do was add a few sentences and finish the fic (I hadn’t written the scenes in England yet).

My asexuality definitely influenced the way I had been writing Michael’s confusion over his feelings for Calum. Part of the reason I myself see the line between platonic and romantic as so blurry is because I’m ace and so much of romantic love in media is tied in with sexual attraction. When you don’t feel sexual attraction, that can get confusing, especially since most strong feelings of love are depicted to be romantic.

While Michael and I had very, very different paths to figuring out our sexualities, I drew on my own experiences of ace-ness to write him. This was a bit more apparent in the sequel scene Bedroom Activities, but it ended up becoming a core of the story. I genuinely don’t know how I didn’t realize that’s what I was writing.

As an ace person, ace rep means a lot to me, given how little of it is in popular media. I’m glad I explored it so early on in my 5sos fic career, and I’m proud of this one.

Miscellaneous Things

The process of writing this story was, as I stated before, pretty linear. I went from the start to the end without a lot of planning. I specifically had no clue what was happening at the Hot Chelle Rae afterparty until it was happening. The kiss came out of no where. However, I want to point out that initially I thought this fic would be 8k. It is now my third longest fic ever written. I have never learned to correctly estimate how long a fic I’m writing will be.

I have a few various favorite lines, but one repeated theme I love is Michael craving Calum’s touch. I say he’s touch-starved for him twice, once relatively early on and once at the end, and I love that Calum’s touch has been a constant for Michael. They had their first touch accidentally and became best friends immediately in the way that little kids do, so Michael has always had him as a constant, tactile presence in his life. That’s why losing him to Luke scared him so much and why then gaining Luke and Ashton as soulmates is so good for him.

I really like referring to Michael, Luke, and Calum as a triangle. I first did it in this fic, but it’s now my tag for the three of them. Idk I just like how equally distributed a triangle is, all sides touching, no one left out.

Branching off of this, one of my favorite lines is when Ashton and Michael do their first touch: “The dark purple reminds him of spilling grape juice on his clothes as a kid, and when he collapses into Ashton he feels like they could have known each other at that age, too.” There is something so charming about meeting someone later and feeling like you’ve known them your whole life, and that was significant here because Michael has known Calum and Luke since they were younger (although Luke did come in the picture when they were tweens/young teens instead of kids). I wanted to be sure that although Michael, Calum, and Luke are the triangle, Ashton is an equal part of their soulmate group. He doesn’t have the same history, but that doesn’t matter because it feels like he does.

Luke’s obsession with soulmate statistics is a convenient plot device and partially a result of his mom being a math teacher. Above all things, it’s a manifestation of his desire to be loved. The guy just wants to be loved!!! and he wants others to be loved, too!!!

This is by far my favorite fic that I’ve written. It’s not perfect (there are for sure two lines that I would change, and I think I could’ve done things differently with the very slight OCD I gave Michael that manifested in his hand washing), but I love it dearly. It’s the type of fic that I would’ve loved to read, and the response to it has been wonderful. Thank you to everyone who has read it and special shout out to everyone who has made it to the end of this very long director’s notes <3

#my writing #puzzle pieces #soulmate colors au #director's cut #y'all i love this fic i just really do idk what to say #i could've talked a little about the possibilities of a sequal #since i do have some ideas for one #but i don't have drive to write it right now #and idk if adding on would take away from the original #it wouldn't be michael's story anymore. i feel like puzzle pieces told that rather well #it would be ashton's story this time #anyway that's neither here nor there i have many other projects first

4 notes · View notes

queenofthefaces · 4 years ago

Note

God, thank you for politely telling people to fuck off under that "ahah people being assholes to ao3 #comedy gold" post. I didn't find it very funny either. Also fuck both op and the other person who just... basically straight up said enjoying reading m/m fics is gross akdjaisu Damn, sorry, Tumblr user @PANPHOBE, you sound like the kind of person whose opinions I should listen to. I'll be sure to read exclusively het smut from now on 👍 Penis in vagina, nothing else, as god intended. Anyway thank you again for writing that well thought out paragraph and sorry for ranting in your inbox akdjajsh

It’s np!! That post really bothered me bc it’s like....what are you trying to prove ?? (Context here)

I talked abt it a bit more w some friends and don’t worry abt ranting bc I’m gonna do it here!!

But like....ao3 doesn’t have a dedicated team of a thousand paid employees to handle this stuff as easily as a big company like Twitter does. To implement a change like tag limits would require for them to first hash out the TOS and rules, and see how this would affect future works posted or works cross-posted/imported, then they’d have to figure out what to do with fic that break this new rule—sure there’s tag spammers but there’s also people writing genuine fanfic and they think they’re doing the right thing. Do they delete these fic? Do they delete the tags? What if they delete an important tag? And they’d have to TELL these authors, too—seek out the countless hundreds of authors with lots of tags—bc random deleting or editing of works goes AGAINST what ao3 stands for (bc that’s what other sites like fanfic dot net did)

So they get the legal and rules-stuff sorted out. Then they have to actually implement the change. Contacting authors, finding fic. Ao3 is still in BETA. Who knows if they even have the tools to seek out the number of tags or how that would work—if that seems far fetched, well, you still can’t use the same search/filter features in personal bookmarks as you can in a general search, so there’s likely a lot going on under the hood

This would also require them to take attention away from other things they’re trying to fix and implement, like the aforementioned search features.

And it’s also like....ao3 runs on donations and volunteers. Doing smth like this would take a lot of resources and manhours and how many ppl are actually contributing? Are you donating? Are you volunteering? Are you emailing them about this to see if they’re working on it?

Additionally, just because you CAN abuse a system doesn’t mean that’s a deliberate oversight or flaw. You CAN post a hundred things in a row to tumblr to spam a tag, you CAN spam report people on Twitter or tiktok to get them banned, you CAN go out into the street and be rude to every person you see.

Just because you CAN doesn’t mean you SHOULD, bc we as the users and community have our own responsibility to be courteous. Someone can put false tags or no tags on a fic the same way they can do it on Twitter or tumblr or YouTube, but ppl using the site as intended won’t bc those things are impolite and make navigation more difficult for everyone. Just because you can bludgeon someone with a baseball bat doesn’t mean baseball should be banned or that the sport should use foam bats instead.

Ao3 is not an enemy. They’re not deliberately ignoring an issue for money (unlike Twitter who hasn’t banned n.azis for example) Spamming the site and the tags doesn’t do anything but punish the tag wranglers, volunteers, and users of the site (especially people who use screen readers. At least I, as a sighted person, can scroll past a spam fic when I see it). There is a legitimate peaceful solution to this—contact ao3, become a volunteer, donate money, use ao3 skins or extensions—but this “direct action” approach is just asinine.

And it also says a lot how the people who hate AO3, who hate fanfic, and who hate the queer content in fanfic are the ones SUPPORTING and CHEERING ON this “direct action” bc they know and can see how this spam, no matter its intentions, can RUIN the site.

End of rant 😤😤

#creo talks #long post #mere-mortifier

22 notes · View notes

apparitionism · 4 years ago

Text

Monday

I wrote the following brief scenes a while ago as part of a potential story that refused to coalesce. It may yet, someday, but for now this is merely a scrap of unfruited AU narrative; I’m posting only to prove to myself that I’m not completely incapable of doing writing-related things, even if it’s just tidying up generic, trope-y bits of dialogue. I intended Christina, about age seven, to be an important story lever in this, with this Myka and this single-mom Helena as coworkers of some sort (I was thinking insurance, possibly, because risk management has been on my mind). Such fuzziness was part of why the story as such never took off... in any event, it doesn’t matter. Here is what does matter: if you are a U.S. citizen who is able to vote, do it; choose Biden/Harris and every down-ballot Democrat. This HAS TO BE a landslide repudiation of that horrific, corrupt individual and the party that enables him.

Monday

Turning points arrive in their own time.

Myka and Helena were eating lunch together. That in itself was of course not unusual, for they were colleagues and friends. And as colleague-friends, they tended to eat lunch together.

“You seem upset,” Myka noted. Helena was picking at a salad, but differently than she usually picked at her salads. Usually she picked because she was picky and would eat only the most pleasing elements; today she was merely moving salad components from one region of the plate to another.

“I’m not upset.”

“But you seem upset.”

“Well... I have to break an engagement. It’s impolite.”

Being forced into incivility was indeed the kind of thing that would drive Helena to stab, lift, and re-place arugula. “Why do you have to break an engagement?”

“You know Mrs. Carter, the neighbor who usually sits with Christina. She was called out of town. An ill relative. This morning—but I had plans tonight.”

“Could your plans happen at your house instead? Without sitting?”

Helena wrinkled her brow. “It’s a first date. Far too soon to bring a new person into Christina’s life like that.”

A first date. The words punched Myka hard, leaving a queasy burning in their wake. Her analytical side leapt to make sense of this extreme response: It’s the first time you’ve heard Helena say anything about such a thing, so it surprised you. You’ve never liked surprises; ergo, you’re just reacting poorly to being surprised. Because of course Helena would go on a first date, because of course she would want to find someone, someone to be with, and Myka didn’t know why that hadn’t occurred to her before, but she and Helena hadn’t really talked much about relationships, so maybe Helena went on a lot of first and other dates that she hadn’t bothered mentioning to Myka, and maybe that meant their friendship wasn’t as close as Myka had thought, because maybe they really were more colleagues than friends, and... Okay, just stop. Whatever this is, stop. She breathed her way through the aftermath of the punch and said, “I’ll do it, then. Babysit.”

“You will?”

“You were planning to go out. You should go out.”

“You haven’t asked me with whom.”

“That’s probably not my business,” Myka said, because it wasn’t, despite her unexpected, inappropriate impulse to claim it as entirely her business. Just stop.

“Claudia’s new manager in platform development. Claudia described her to me as, and I quote, ‘absolute fire.’ Which I presume is good.”

“So you asked her out.”

“No, she asked me. And I said yes, because... well, is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

Was that intended as bait? But it couldn’t have been. Logicking it out again: Myka had never felt such a weird surge (no, a twitch, it was only a twitch) of possessiveness before; thus Helena couldn’t have identified it so quickly, and with such precision, that she would immediately challenge Myka on the point. Could she? “Of course not,” Myka said. “What time do you want me to show up?”

That evening, Myka kept her still-reeling gut at bay by concentrating on Christina, who was delighted to have Myka all to herself. “You and Mom talk about boring things,” she pronounced as soon as her mother left. “Tonight you don’t have to do that!”

No... all Myka had to do was imagine what sorts of non-boring things Helena was talking about with her date who was absolute fire. But she managed not to do too much of that imagining, at least while Christina was awake, while they were building with Legos and renaming her plastic and puffy animals and manipulating slime. This latter was a fad that had, according to Christina, faded some time ago, but she found the texture soothing; she asked Myka, very seriously—as if Myka’s verdict would be the final word on the subject—whether that meant it was okay not to give it up. Myka said that in her experience, truly calming things were few and far between, so she thought it was more than okay. Christina enjoyed the phrase “few and far between.”

Myka was tempted to let Christina stay up late, late and later, but she supposed it wasn’t fair to deprive a child of sleep just to rescue herself from herself.

She fell asleep on the sofa, and that was a blessing; she didn’t have to hear Absolute Fire’s car, didn’t have to think about anything that might be happening in that car. She awoke just as Helena was stepping inside and taking off her coat. Helena turned around and smiled, and Myka struggled to sit up and look alert, saying a sleep-hoarse “sorry” as she did.

“What for? Being asleep at ten at night? That seems reasonable. Ideally I’d have been asleep by now, if I’d been home.”

“It’s only ten?”

“Dinner was short. The fire may be absolute as far as Claudia is concerned, but there were no sparks that I could see. Or feel.”

Thank god, Myka thought, too fervently. Then, Just stop. Aloud, she tried for indifference: “Maybe Claudia should go out with her instead.”

“Maybe she should. Did my own small bit of fire behave herself?”

“She was great. I’m never going to fully appreciate the appeal of slime... but I can report that bath, story, and bed were peaceful. No conflagration.” This news would make Helena happy: meltdowns at bedtime were common. Christina was often fearful of some unspecified something that would happen overnight, and she was never clear on whether it would be a good something or a bad something, just something, of which she would be unaware.

Helena did, in fact, smile her relieved “Christina is fine for tonight” smile. “Did she wear you out completely? Or might you stay for a glass of wine?”

“Weird way for you to end your date. A drink with the babysitter?” Trying to sound normal. Like the friend she was.

“Better than the date. No, that’s too callous. It was fine. But it wasn’t anything.”

Myka had the drink. Just the one, slowly, as they sat and talked about what Christina would have deemed “boring things”... but Helena had two. And a half. She was eyeing the bottle like she might be inclined to head for it again, so Myka said, “I really should go.”

Helena said, “Should you?” Myka wanted (wanted so much) to make of that what she was pretending she didn’t want to make of it, but she determined instead to make nothing of it. No one should make anything of what anyone said when they’d had a couple of drinks at the end of a long week. And at the end of a failed date, she reminded herself, then cringed at the pleasure she took in knowing that it had failed. Whatever this is, stop.

Standing by the front door, Helena gave her a vaguely unsteady half-hug, a clasp of her left arm around Myka’s shoulders. Myka didn’t want to not reciprocate—trying now to act normal, like the friend she was—so she let herself move her own left arm fully around Helena’s waist, allowed herself to rest her hand for just the press of a second on Helena’s hip.

For that press of a second, Myka leaned close and inhaled against the sharp sweet angle of Helena’s cheekbone. For that press of a second, a slide to a kiss was a warm looming certainty; then the second passed, and it was a receding dream. Myka released Helena’s body and said, “I’ll see you Monday.”

NOTE: I’d say “TBC,” but since I don’t know whether this will ever function as part of a larger piece, I’ll leave it as a little misfit story-island. You know B&W will find their way to each other; they’re just not quite connecting, in that “this friendship means everything to me and I can’t stand the idea of blowing it” way, on both sides. Anyway I’m not sure who these characters really are, other than coworkers and friends (who clearly need to be something more); plus there’s a gaping hole where a plot should be. Why are these people here? What are they doing? Should any reader care? I have no idea. Again, here is what matters: vote vote vote for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris and Democratic Senate, House, and local candidates.

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Monday #AU week #I wish narrative made sense to me right now #but my wife has progressed to walking with a cane #and if you had told me that would be the best news of 2020 by a mile...#well really who is surprised by 2020 anymore?

57 notes · View notes

thefactsofthematter · 4 years ago

Note

“don’t you think you’ve done enough?” and “how do you sleep at night?” seem like a fun pair. you know what to do ma’am- serve me some javid in a fun au. ily >:) -fizz

@jack-kellys ohohohoho now these were some sinister prompts but i very much appreciate them. since apparently i’m no longer capable of writing concisely, this got a little long, but i don’t think that’s really a bad thing! here’s an ao3 link for anyone who would rather read it there :)

javid; 4.8k; historical au!! set in 1860s rural new york, where davey is obscenely wealthy and jack works for the jacobs family; cw: homophobia, (sort of) child abuse; slight nsfw themes for a bit; and a generally toxic relationship

1867.

"I could get lost in your eyes, David."

They're blue, but not a blue that Jack has ever seen in anyone else's eyes. They're not pale, like the sky on a cloud-free day— they're a deep blue, almost reminiscent of the bottom of the ocean. Jack supposes he could swim right into them and never return, lost in the depths of the unknown.

They get a little brighter when Davey smiles, and he does just that. They're laying on his bed, their faces so close together that Jack can feel every one of Davey's exhales on his lips. Jack wants to kiss him, but he'd like to savour this moment first.

"Stare a little harder, why don't you?" Davey laughs. His voice is gentle, and a bit deeper now that they're older, a rumble in his chest that Jack can nearly feel in his own when they're pressed together like this. "You ought to finally paint me, it might last longer."

Jack silently thanks the lord that his tan skin doesn't blush easily, especially now, when the heat of the summer over the past couple months has deepened his skin colour even further. He can feel a flush rise to his cheeks, but he's sure Davey won't see it, since they're only illuminated by moonlight through the window.

"Is it wrong to adore you?" Jack asks, raising a hand to stroke Davey's cheek. "I'd stare at you all day if I could."

"I already stare at you all day," Davey replies. "So I suppose we're square."

It's half-true— the study where Davey is tutored in the afternoons has several grand windows overlooking the main garden that Jack usually tends. He'll often look up to see Davey staring down at him, having abandoned whatever studies he was meant to be focusing on.

Davey abandoning his studies is how they met, in fact. They were twelve or so, and it was Jack's first week of work in the gardens of the Jacobs family's summer home— he was still apprenticing under Miss Medda, learning how to prune the flower bushes to perfection and care for each and every plant on the massive estate, when Davey all but ran right into him.

1862.

"Hello there."

Jack startles, looking up from where he's been meticulously trimming the bottom leaves of a rosebush, to see a boy his own age standing over him.

"Hello," Jack replies. Any of the other kids he's met here have been employees or children thereof— the Jacobs seem willing to provide work with decent wages for any poor child that needs it, which is awfully nice of them— so he extends his hand to shake without thinking much of it. "I'm Jack."

The boy smiles and shakes Jack's hand, with an oddly formal air to how he moves. His posture is upright and his handshake is firm, almost like a miniature adult.

"I'm David." He looks around, as if to be sure no one else is nearby, and then he crouches down next to Jack with a mischievous grin. "Do you mind if I hide here for a bit?"

Jack smiles right back, confused and amused.

"That's fine by me, but can I ask who's chasing you? Should I be running too?"

David laughs.

"Oh, don't worry, I promise I won't get you in trouble. I'm just... not where I'm supposed to be right now. No matter who finds me, I'm sure they'll give me heck, but I just couldn't stay inside any longer."

Jack isn't sure what to think of David, but he just shrugs and laughs along, turning back to the task that Medda had set him up with. He's sure she'll be proud of him if he gets it all done without getting too distracted and making silly mistakes.

"Alright then," he says, and he takes the tiny gardening shears to the leaves again, making sure the edges of the bush are completely even. "I'll try not to blow your cover."

They both giggle softly, and then there's a moment of quiet, during which Jack can feel that he's being watched rather closely. David finally breaks the silence.

"Do you work here?"

Jack snorts out a laugh before he can help it.

"Well, it'd be awfully strange of me to go around trimming the bushes if I didn't," he replies, which manages to fluster David, making him flush a little pink with embarrassment. "I only just started this week, so maybe that's why we haven't met. I've been busy— there's sure a lot of plants to take care of."

David's expression is unreadable for a moment, in a way that Jack can tell is well-trained. Someone must've taught him that wearing your thoughts on your face is impolite, because he's obviously making some sort of judgement, but it's a mystery as to what.

"Do you like working here?"

Jack, in the opposite of David's composed politeness, shoots him an inquisitive look as he shrugs.

"You ask a lot of questions," he says, before actually getting to his answer. "It's alright, I suppose. Work is work, and this is leagues better than a factory. I can't complain about a fair wage and somewhere safe to sleep."

David's face remains frustratingly neutral as he nods. He's still watching Jack closely, which is uncomfortable to say the least.

"You're awfully young to have a job," he finally says. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

Jack laughs, more confused than anything— this kid certainly asks odd questions.

"You're no older than I am," he retorts, not wanting to get into the long-winded story of how he ended up here— his father going off to fight with the Union army and leaving him in a children's home that was really just a rotten workhouse, running away from there, and eventually finding Medda, who offered to get him a solid job. "I could ask you the same thing."

"Ah— well, you see..." David's face falls into an awkward grimace. "That's what I'm hiding from. I'm on the run from my tutor— he's the most boring man I've ever met, and if he makes me read any longer, I think my eyes will go crossed. I was hoping that coming out to the summer home would mean I get to play outside, but I've been cooped up in the library every day!"

Suddenly, and sharply, it dawns on Jack— David doesn't work here, he lives here. He's one of the Jacobs! Jack had known they had children, but the only run-in he's had with any member of the family until now was briefly meeting Esther on his first day of work— he hadn't even known what her children would look like, nor did he know their names, so how could he have realized that David was one of them?

Before Jack can even say anything, they're interrupted by a shout from elsewhere in the garden.

"Davey! Mom's going to kill you!"

David's eyes go wide.

"Oh no, they've sent my sister after me," he whispers, in a rush. "I have to go. It was lovely to meet you, Jack."

And then he's off like a bullet, running out of the garden to hide somewhere else. Jack thinks about him for the rest of the day.

1867.

"What are you thinking about, mon cœur?"

They're still laying in bed together, still pressed up so close that Jack can feel Davey's words. Davey speaks so many languages that Jack has no clue what pet name he's just been called— all he knows is that it sounded pretty rolling off Davey's tongue.

"You," Jack replies. "How lovely you are, and how lucky I am to have known you for so long."

Davey's nose scrunches, embarrassed.

"You flatter me far too much, darling. I'm afraid you'll make my head so big it falls right off my shoulders."

Jack kisses him to shut him up. Davey hates compliments, but Jack loves to give them to him, so sometimes a distraction has to be employed to keep him from whining too much about it.

"Don't you think it's hot in here?" Jack asks once they pull away for breath, willing to acquiesce and change the topic if it means moving on to not talking at all. He slides his hands up Davey's shirt, fondling his lean torso and hinting for him to undress.

Davey laughs, tossing his head back against his pillows and rolling onto his back, pulling Jack along with him to sit on top and straddle his hips. His hands find their way to Jack's waist, pushing up the hem of his shirt just like Jack had been doing to him.

"Oh, I agree," Davey says, grinning up at Jack. "Terribly hot. You'll have to take this off, won't you?"

Jack is quick to oblige. He forsakes even unbuttoning it, simply pulling his shirt off over his head and tossing it aside. His clothes aren't nearly as nice as Davey's, most of them used and secondhand, so he's not too worried about being careful with them, especially not in a moment like this.

"It's only fair if yours comes off too," he says, leaning down to whisper it against Davey's mouth. "I'm not just here to give you a show."

Davey smiles and pulls Jack in for another kiss. It's hot and fervent, and it makes Jack think of how different things are from last summer. Last year was the first time they kissed, the first time they thought of being anything more than best friends— they were only fifteen, and everything was tentative. Call him naive, but Jack hadn't even realized that boys could kiss other boys until he saw Racetrack, who minds the horses, kissing a delivery boy behind the stables. Kissing Davey was entirely new and sort of terrifying, back then.

This summer, Davey had come back to the country home for the season several inches taller and having gained a broadness and muscularity reminiscent of a young man— Jack hasn't gotten quite as tall, but he supposes he must have filled out in a similar way. They're each more confident now, and it's translated into everything they do, especially into the way they've started to explore all the things their bodies can do together.

"Be a dear and help me with the buttons, why don't you?" Davey runs a hand through Jack's hair to mess it up, their faces still close together, and he smiles in that particularly charming way that he only does when they're in a heated moment like this.

"Too lazy to do it yourself, huh?" Jack teases, but he listens anyways and starts to unbutton Davey's shirt. He kisses down his jaw and neck as he does so, revelling in the little gasps of pleasure and hitches in Davey's breath that this coaxes out. They have to be quiet— as big as this house is, there's always a chance of someone walking by— but Jack adores the near-silent noises Davey makes for him. "Does that feel good, darling?"

"God, Jack..." Davey whispers, almost desperately. "You're so beautiful."

The shirt is fully unbuttoned, and Jack is slowly moving his attention further down Davey's torso. He's just about to start working on the button of his trousers, pausing first to move back up and kiss Davey's lips yet again, smiling into it, and—

"David? Are you awake?"

The bedroom door swings open, without so much as a knock.

Jack's stomach drops to his toes. It was supposed to be locked. Davey always locks it, so that if someone comes by Jack at least as time to hurry back out the window, the way he came in. He must have forgotten tonight.

"What the hell is going on here?"

It's Mayer. Oh god, it's Davey's father. They're fucked.

Jack pulls away from Davey immediately, and they lock eyes for a brief moment, utterly panicked. Without wasting any time, Jack fumbles to grab his shirt and then takes off, climbing out the window that they'd left propped open and following his familiar path down the side of the balcony to land on the dew-soaked grass below.

"David Isaac Jacobs!" Mayer shouts, from inside. Jack finds himself backing up against the wall of the house, directly under the balcony, so that he won't be spotted if Mayer looks out the window. He claps a hand over his mouth to try and keep his heavy breathing from giving him away. "What on God's green earth did I just walk in on!?"

"Dad," Davey's desperate, terrified voice hardly carries out the window for Jack to hear. "It was nothing, I swear. We were just... fighting! Um, he came onto me, and I didn't know what to do, I-"

"Bullshit!" Mayer snaps. "Don't you dare lie to me, young man. It was that no-good gardener boy that you're always spending so much time with, wasn't it? The pair of you are a couple of queers."

"No!" Davey shouts. "That's crazy! It's not— it's not like that at all!"

Davey has never been any good at lying. Mayer slaps him so hard that the crack of it echoes out the window, making Jack immediately feel sick with guilt. He's hiding out here like a coward while Davey is punished for what they did together. He could have stayed and defended him, taken the consequences like a man.

"Watch your attitude, boy."

"Please, Dad," Davey all but sobs. "I'm sorry-"

"You're sorry you got caught. Jesus, I don't even remember what I came in here for— it doesn't matter anyways. Go to sleep and I'll deal with you in the morning."

The quiet once he's stormed off is eery, and Jack waits beneath the balcony a moment longer to make sure he's actually in the clear. He considers climbing back up to see if Davey is alright, but then the window slams shut above him and the lock clicks into place.

It seems like he'll have to go sleep in his own bed for once.

Selfishly, Jack avoids working anywhere near the actual house throughout the next day.

He's a little worried that if he runs into Mayer he'll be fired on the spot, so he does his best to stay out of sight and out of mind— he works on the trees that surround the perimeter of the property, and then spends a good while bothering Race in the stables. He supposes that if Davey wants to see him, he'll come looking.

He doesn't come. In fact, for a couple of days, Davey is nowhere to be seen. Jack doesn't yet have the courage to return to his bedroom window at night, for fear of being caught, but he keeps an eye out for him around the grounds all day. Even as he's watering the main gardens, finally forced to go near the house again, he doesn't notice Davey in his usual spot by the library windows. He's practically dropped off the face of the earth.

The first of the Jacobs family that Jack actually speaks to is, surprisingly, Les.

"Jack!" The eight year-old is charging at him through the rows of carefully tended flowers, the same way a much younger Davey used to run from his governess and tutor. "There you are!"

Jack forces himself to smile as he sets down the watering can, giving his tired arms a much-needed break.

"Hey kiddo," he laughs, making a show of stumbling a few steps backwards with the force of Les' running hug. "Woah, you're awful strong. You'll knock me right over one of these days, if you're not careful."

Jack adores Les, he really does. The kid is fascinated by everything Jack says or does, which is entirely adorable, and he often comes seeking him out in the garden if he tires of playing by himself while his siblings are busy.

"I've been looking for you," Les sighs, dramatically. "You weren't in the garden yesterday, or even this morning! I'm not supposed to go running too far from the house, so I couldn't even go find you, wherever you were. I thought you were gone for good!"

"Aw, buddy," Jack chuckles, ruffling his hair. "I was just working on some of the big trees around the edges of the yard. They needed someone tall to go reach the high branches. I'm back to my usual job now, though."

Les frowns.

"You're not that tall. David is taller."

"I suppose you're right." Jack picks the watering can back up to keep working away while he chats with Les. "He could probably reach even higher branches than I could— maybe he should have come out and helped me."

Les huffs and folds his arms over his chest.

"He hasn't left his room in days. He won't even come to dinner— Mama just takes his food and leaves it outside his door. I knocked and he wouldn't even talk to me"

That's... unsettling. Either Davey is too upset to leave his room, or he's in so much trouble that he's not allowed to— Jack isn't sure which option is worse. He might have to risk paying a visit tonight.

"Well, isn't that odd," Jack replies, doing his best not to externalize how worried he is. "Maybe he's sick. Or, you know, teenagers just get moody sometimes— maybe he's upset about something. I wouldn't worry too much."

Les seems satisfied with this answer, so he nods and drops the subject, happy to follow Jack around and chatter about whatever comes to mind for the rest of the afternoon.

When he's absolutely sure that it's dark enough for no one to see him, Jack darts across the lawn towards the house.

He's done this a million times before, but tonight feels different. The run from the stables— where he typically shares the attic with Race, Albert and Crutchie as a bedroom of sorts— feels ridiculously long, and the twisting ball of nervousness in his stomach is nearly making him sick. He doesn't usually get scared while climbing the balcony, but tonight he's got a horrible inkling of dread telling him he might slip.

He makes it up, though, and he's face to face with Davey's closed window. It's dark, but he can see a hunched over figure sitting on the bed. He taps gently on the glass.

Davey glances up, and they make eye contact for a moment, but then he simply frowns and looks away. Jack isn't willing to give up that easy, though, so on a whim, he tries lifting the window open. To his surprise, it slides right up.

"Don't even think about it, Jack." Davey whips around immediately, looking angrier than Jack's ever seen him. "We can't do this. You have to leave."

Jack raises his hands in surrender, only leaning his top half into Davey's room, not climbing all the way through.

"I only want to talk," he says. "Les told me you were upset, so I thought I'd come see if there's anything I can do."

Davey scoffs, rolling his eyes like a petulant child.

"Don't you think you've done enough?"

Jack frowns, confused.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've done enough damage," Davey snaps. "My father hates me now. He won't even speak to me. He's locked me in my room, and now he's sending me to boarding school come autumn, and it's all because of you." There are tears welling in his eyes, but he huffs and wipes them away. "Go away, and don't come see me again. My life is ruined and it's your fault."

For a moment, Jack is speechless. What the hell? First of all, it's not as if Davey didn't invite him right into his bed in the first place— and he was the one who forgot to lock the door! Really, Jack is innocent here. The only one Davey ought to be mad at is Mayer. Secondly, he's simply astounded by how obnoxiously privileged Davey is. Now, Jack Kelly is slow to anger most of the time— he can't even recall a moment, at least since he's been employed by the Jacobs, that he's ever lost his temper. He certainly has a lot to be angry about, given the rotten hand he's been dealt in life, but it rarely ever gets to him.

In this moment, however... he feels as if he's about to snap.

"Ruined?" Jack asks, surprising himself by matching Davey's angry tone. "This is your idea of your life in ruins? Good lord, are you even hearing yourself?"

Davey's jaw drops.

"You can't speak to me like that! I told you to leave— go away right now."

His words feel like a punch to the stomach. It's a cruel reminder that even after everything they've shared, Jack is nothing more than a servant who ought to know his place. How dare he treat Davey as an equal, right?

If he knew what was good for him, he'd walk away, but Jack is so horribly furious that the words come rushing out before he can stop them, years of pent-up frustration finally spilling over.

"No, listen to me," he snaps. "Put yourself in my shoes for one god damn second, and think about what you just said. Your parents— which you have, by the way— are sending you to some fancy, expensive school, and that's the greatest hardship you've ever faced? Do you know how many people would kill for that chance!? You could write letters to tell me how horrible boarding school is, but I wouldn't even know how to fucking read them, because I've never even been to school! How do you expect me to feel sorry for you?"

"I don't!" Davey replies, all cross and defensive. "I don't care if you feel sorry for me or not, because you wouldn't understand! It's not my fault that you're poor. My family has been so good to you— in fact, you ought to be thanking me for convincing my father not to fire you, after what happened the other night. It'd do you well to be a little more grateful for-"

"Shut up!" Jack yells, losing his patience entirely. "You're so goddamn selfish, I owe you nothing! Everything you have is built on the backs of people like me, who don't have a choice but to work because we've got nothing else— how do you sleep at night!? You'd be nothing without us poor folk, and you're no better than me just 'cause you've got money and a family. You're a naive, spoiled brat, David, and I can't believe I ever fell for you."

Davey isn't so quick to respond this time. The silence that follows is horribly loud, hanging heavy between them with words that probably would've been better left unsaid. Davey's cold expression has crumpled into something hurt and vulnerable, and it almost makes Jack feel bad about being so harsh— his red-hot anger has rushed away like a receding tide, and now he simply feels stunned that he even lost his temper like that.

"I'm sorry," Jack finally says, once the silence has dragged on for too long. "I didn't mean to get so angry." He pauses. "I should go. I'll stay out of your way from now on."

Davey sniffles and wipes quickly at his eyes, as if he's trying to hide that he's tearing up. Jack's stomach sinks with guilt at the realization that he's made him cry.

"I promised my father I'd never talk to you again," he mumbles, his voice wet and choked up. "You have to leave before someone catches us."

Jack nods. He can see that it's not him that Davey is really angry with— it just makes it easier to push him away if he blames him for everything. It hurts, but he understands.

"Okay," he sighs, and he finds himself swallowing tears of his own. "I'll always love you, Davey. I mean that."

And then he can't bear to watch Davey cry any longer, so he leaves. He climbs down the balcony for the last time and runs back across the lawn to the stables, hoping the wind hitting his face will be a good enough excuse for the tears in his eyes.

1868.

It's Davey's first day back at the summer home, and he's been wandering the grounds by himself all day.

The new boarding school wasn't so bad, really, and he's honestly rather excited to go back for his senior year in the fall. It's a lot harder than his old school, a private academy near their other home in Manhattan that he'd attended with Sarah for years, but he sort of enjoys the challenge. He's even made some friends, which he was worried he wouldn't be able to do without his sister by his side.

He owes Jack an apology. He's grown a lot this year, and he can finally see that everything Jack said was true— he's been selfish and naive for too long, and he needed the rude awakening. He's ready to try again, and perhaps do a better job of keeping their secret rendezvous an actual secret, if only Jack will have him. He's got an open heart, and if Jack can forgive him, he'd love to let him back in.

The problem he's facing right now is that Jack is nowhere to be seen. He's walked in loops around the property and has yet to run into him— so he eventually finds himself wandering into the stables, hoping that maybe someone here might have a clue as to where Jack is at.

"Hey," he interrupts a boy about his own age who's shovelling straw into one of the stalls. "Have you seen Jack around at all today?"

The boy looks up with a confused frown.

"Jack Kelly?"

"That's the one. I need to talk to him— I've been looking all over."

The boy still looks confused, and lets out a nervous laugh.

"Oh, um... I'm sorry, sir, but Jack hasn't worked here for months. He quit in November and I haven't heard from him since."

Davey's heart sinks.

No. That's not how this was supposed to go. Davey was going to come back and Jack would be here, just like every summer. They were going to talk it out— Davey was ready to beg for forgiveness if he had to— and they'd be okay. They'd be in love, just like they were before. Jack wasn't supposed to leave— where would he even have gone?

"Do you know where he went?" Davey asks, desperate enough to startle the poor stable boy a bit. "Did he say, before he left?"

Maybe he can find him. Maybe he's not far, just working somewhere in the nearby town he'd grown up in.

"He took a train out west, as far as I know," the kid says, which only manages to crush Davey's heart even further. "He'd been wanting to go for ages, and I guess he finally had enough savings for a ticket. I figure he's probably in California or New Mexico these days."

Davey can hardly breathe. This can't be happening. He's not sure he's ever felt heartbreak before, but this is certainly as close as he's ever come. He's completely and utterly shattered.

"Oh... thank you for telling me," he says, forcing himself to keep his composure. "I'll get out of your way, then."

He doesn't wait for an answer, simply takes off back towards the house. He runs straight to his bedroom, ignoring Les's calls to come play with him and his mother shouting that he knows better than to run in the halls— he simply slams his door behind him and throws himself onto his bed. He grabs a pillow to hide his face, and he screams.

This isn't fair. He is selfish, just like Jack said, because all he wants is for that stupid boy that he loves so much to be here with him. Jack was supposed to stay and wait for him and forgive him— he had it all planned out in his head. They were going to be happy, but now Jack doesn't want him anymore and everything is ruined.

Seven months, Jack has been gone— Davey probably doesn't even cross his mind these days. He's probably brushed it all off as some failed teenage romance and found someone new to love instead. It's like he didn't even care that Davey would miss him.

He throws his pillow at the wall, and splays out on his back to stare at the ceiling.

"I hate you!" he shouts into the air, as if Jack can hear him, thousands of miles away. "I love you so much, Jack Kelly, and I hate you for it! I hope you never fall in love with anyone ever again!"

And then he throws his arms over his face and sobs, utterly broken. Everything he's read about first loves in stupid romance books must be true, because he's never, ever going to love anyone the way he's loved Jack.

#my writing #javid #jack kelly #davey jacobs #newsies fic #also!!!! theres an alternate ending that i didn't end up using but i am willing to share if there's interest!!!#it's even sadder lmao

32 notes · View notes

harrypotterthehufflepuff · 4 years ago

Text

Confusion

This was requested by: Anon !

Request: Hi Can you please made something with Cedric where the reader is from Ravenclaw and he’s in love with her but they don’t really talk and she’s best friend with the Weasley’s twins and Fred had a crush on her and is the Triwizard Tournament and the reader supporting and get worried to Cedric

Hello! Thank you for requesting !! This was very fun to write. I tried to make it visible that Fred likes the reader and the same goes with Cedric. I hope it’s evident enough to please you!

Note: I’m going away to Norway in two days, so I might be a bit slower at answering everyone’s requests ! I’ve got quite a few (eee) and I’m going to try and write them on my way there as it’s at least 6 hours away from where I live. But you’ll still be able to request, and I will of course answer them when I can and when I get home. So, to wrap it all up: I’ll try my best and write when I’m in Norway, but I’ll not be able to write as much as I usually am. And when I get home I’ll start like normal again !

Warnings : A bit of swearing.

Pairing: Cedric Diggory x reader x Fred Weasley.

Words: 1.9 (A longer one today ;)”

If you’d like to request something please head over to my other blog, https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ronaldandremuslover and I’ll try and fix it for you !

~ ~ ~ ~

When his name had come out of the golden goblet you had immediately stood up and clapped your hands. Hufflepuff didn't get much recognition, so when Cedric had been chosen to compete in the Triwizard Tournament all of the Hufflepuffs had gotten excited. And of course, he was immensely handsome.

But after Harry's name had appeared on the burnt piece of paper, everyone had gone silent again. It was like nobody dared to speak. And you could sense it now, as you walked down the corridor that the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors were not on the best of terms.

"It's not Harry's fault he got chosen. He didn't put his name in the bloody goblet, did he now?" George said, impolitely.

"You why they're bitter. For once Hufflepuff gets noticed and it's suddenly whisked away." You replied, ignoring his glare he shot your way.

It's true, it's not Harry's fault for what happened. But you could understand why they were sour. But even with Harry in the game, you still rooted for Cedric. You had only spoken with him a couple of times, but he was very polite. Being in different houses made it more difficult to get a chance to speak with each other. But getting grouped together for different assignments was always nice.

Everyone in Ravenclaw was passive around Harry, not knowing what to believe. It was a big scandal, basically.

"This is me, see ya." George said suddenly, turning to walk down the stairs leading down into the dark dungeons.

Since you had charms, you continued down the corridor. Students were passing you in a rush, heading towards their next class. It was when you reached the charm's classroom that you finally relaxed and enjoyed the comfortable silence. You took your usual seat next to your friend, Wilma.

After a couple of minutes, Professor Flitwick had entered and gotten the lesson rolling.

~ ~ ~ ~

"Right, everyone, the class is over." Squeaked Professor Flitwick. "For this next assignment, I want you to team up with a fellow classmate from the other house. You are to try and levitate an object of your choice made out of glass and put it in a box located thirty-five feet away from your position. Your goal is to not break the tender object, and if you are to succeed, you will be greatly rewarded."

He didn't say what the reward would be, but judging by his smile, it was probably something good. Although, Wilma looked unhappy.

"Something wrong?" You asked, picking up your backpack and flinging it over your shoulder.

She looked up at you, frowning. "I don't like working with people I don't know. It feels wrong."

Giving her a consoling smile, you headed for the door. It wasn't until next hour your next class would start, so you and Wilma decided to go to your common room. But you had only made it halfway before somebody called your name.

"Y/N! Wait, please."

Turning around, you saw Cedric Diggory. It seemed as if he had run to chase you down.

"Can I help you?"

He smiled awkwardly, "For the next charms assignment, I thought you and I could team up, perhaps? We've already worked before and that has always turned out rather okay."

You looked at Wilma, who was smiling broadly. She gestured with her hand for you to answer him. Although it was clear to you from the very beginning of what your answer would be.

"Yes, of course. That would be lovely." You expressed, returning a smile of your own.

He gave you a thumbs up and walked away, saying over his shoulder, "At 7 tonight, courtyard."

"Great!" You shouted to his retreating back.

"You're always so lucky." Wilma breathed, almost drooling.

You shook your head and grabbed her arm, pulling her with you. "Get a grip on yourself."

~ ~ ~ ~

After a class of Transfiguration and Divination, you had a long break. You sat under a tree that provided a great shadow. Fred and George sat on a blanket and played a strange board game they had made up themselves. You had your nose in your book and devoured every word.

"Shit! I always lose."

Looking over at the twins, Fred looked grouchy. His brother, on the other hand, looked thrilled.

"It's about momentum. And of course, cleverness, which you don't have an ounce of." George replied, arranging to set up the board game for another match.

Fred, however, scooted away to sit closer to you. "I'm taking a break. I don't really like it anyway."

You couldn't help but snort at his dry statement. His attention was suddenly all on you.

"Think it's funny to watch your poor friend lose?" Fred said, sarcastically.

"I think it's entertaining to watch you come up with flimsy justifications to not play a game which you're bad at." You replied, not looking up from your book.

George laughed. "See, Fred, even a chick can see through your lousy excuses."

"Even a chick?" You looked up from your book.

"Anyway," said Fred. "The Gryffindors are going to celebrate Harry tonight in our common room. If you want you can come up. Your friend, Loony Lovegood is going to be there too."

You ignored his remark on Luna, deciding you didn't want to start a brawl. "Sorry, I'm meeting up with Cedric later."

George raised his eyebrows but turned away from you and Fred, suddenly getting very interested in a yellow ladybug.

Fred frowned, twisting himself uncomfortably. "You what?"

"I'm meeting Cedric here after dinner."

Although he would never admit it, he looked genuinely hurt. So you clarified that it was not a date, that it was only necessary for an assignment Professor Flitwick had assigned you to do. But you couldn't help yourself to get a little annoyed with Fred. You were allowed to go on a date if you wanted to, he had no right to be upset with it. You weren't dating after all...

After you explained your reasoning to see Cedric, he seemed cool with it. But still, he looked slightly offended but tried hard not to show it. You shook your head at his antics; boys were very confusing.

~ ~ ~ ~

"Hey!"

Cedric was there before you, standing under the tree you had been sitting at with the twins. He had already put the box thirty-five feet away.

"Nice! already set it all up, I see. What did you bring as an object?"

He showed you a narrow vase with a golden string attached to its middle. It looked very elegant.

"Found this in the common room. Hope nobody's going to miss it." He said, shrugging but smiling.

"What, think you're going to break it?" You mused.

He grinned at you, taking his wand out of his pocket. "I was thinking of you actually.

"Oh, really! I'll show you..."

After a couple of attempts, either missing the box or by losing control over the glass vase, you finally put the vase in the box. You made a victory jiggy. You were the first one to make it.

He sighed in defeat and slid down the tree, taking a seat on the grass. "Well, you win."

Sitting down beside him, you said, "Do I get a prize?"

Cedric looked over the lake, thinking, hard. "Mmm, I'll buy you lunch this weekend. Is that good enough a prize for you, madame?"

You blushed, looking down at your hands in your lap. "That would be nice, but don't you have to get prepared for the first task? The first task of the tournament?"

"I'll take you out on Saturday and prepare on Sunday. I actually... sort of know what the first task is."

Shocked, you asked, "How?"

"How? How do I know? If you'll go to Hogsmeade with me I'll tell you."

He looked smug, smug in an adorable way. Was this meant as a date? Or was it just a friendly lunch? It's so confusing with boys! But after thinking, and seeing how he got more and more nervous, you agreed to go out with him on Saturday.

"Lovely." He said.

~ ~ ~ ~

Fred had been distant since you had told him and George about Cedric inviting you out. You wouldn't have told him if you knew that this was going to be his reaction. It felt terrible to be on bad terms with your friend.

Friend.

"He definitely meant it as a date, Y/N." Fred had remarked.

"What if I meant it as a date, too? Maybe I want it to be a date." You hadn't really thought about saying it, mostly because you didn't know if your words were true. Did you want it to be a date? Did Cedric even like you in that way? so many questions.

Fred looked awfully hurt by the comment and had since then not talked to you, which annoyed you greatly. He was for sure hiding something... right? It's hard to know what he truly feels when he doesn't want to talk to you. And the worst part is, George had looked you straight in the eyes and said,

"For the first time, I think you said something that wasn't very smart, Y/N."

It was all a mess at this point. Being without Fred was lonely, George was there, of course. But Fred was a missing piece to your puzzle.

~ ~ ~ ~

The lunch was amazing and Cedric was even nicer than you thought. He was easy to talk with and got the conversation going. He knew how to make you smile, laugh and downright guffaw. He's a nice bloke, you thought to yourself.

It was a pity he had to leave so early, he was having a meeting with his head of house and talking about the upcoming task. It was only then that you realized he hadn't told you how he had found out about it.

~ ~ ~ ~

"Can you stop being such a tosser, Fred?"

He sat in an armchair in the empty Gryffindor common room, reading a book about quidditch. Although he hadn't turned a page in at least ten minutes at this point.

"Does it bother you?" He asked, looking passive to your presence.

Rolling your eyes, you snatched his book out of his hands. "Look at me!"

"What do you want me to say?"

"To explain why you're being such a - such a -"

"Dick?"

"Yes!" You exclaimed, looking relieved he understood.

Fred sat up straighter and rubbed his hands over his face. "Y/N, I don't want you to get dragged into this whole tournament thing." You waited for him to continue, but he didn't.

"What?" You said, getting annoyed again.

"I mean, Cedric is in this game. It's going to be dangerous."

"For me?"

"If you get attached to him, sure. He might get hurt and I don't want to see you moping around and being all sad. I can't handle sad people, they tend to irritate me with all their emotions and shit ." He noted, looking you straight in the eyes.

Confused, you sat his book aside and took a seat on the red sofa. "He's my friend, of course, I'm worried about him. It's tough tasks he has to get through. But I still don't understand why you would get so upset about it."

Fred merely shrugged and sunk back into his usual position in the armchair. "You're my - my friend, too. I don't want you to get hurt."

You didn't know whether to believe him or not. Was this really the reason as to why he was acting this way? But you accepted it and smiled warmly at him.

"Well, thank you for worrying about me."

Fred smiled, too. And it brought you such happiness you were surprised by it yourself. "That's what friend do for each other, right?" He said.

"Right. And it's not like he's going to die, anyway."

#cedric diggory #fred weasley #cedric diggory x reader #fred weasley x reader #harry potter #cedric diggory imagine #fred weasley imagine #hogwarts #harry potter fanfiction #request #ask #:) <3

141 notes · View notes

luluwquidprocrow · 4 years ago

Text

and i’ve written pages upon pages trying to rid you from my bones

originally posted: august 25th, 2019

word count: 13,060 words

rated: not rated

beatrice/bertrand/lemony

heavy angst, canon compliant, with enough canon divergence that makes the canon compliance worse, epistolary

summary:

and if you don’t love me, let me go.

[a much less than 200 pages break up letter.]

opening notes:

title from the engine driver by the decemberists

By the time you read this

I guess an at least interesting description of us could be like ships passing in the night

I think now is

I think now might be the time for us to

First of all, I have canceled my subscription to the Daily Punctilio, which was just a good move on my part to begin with, and second of all, I couldn’t believe all that anyway, but third of all, do you know, Lemony

You’ll think me such a damn hypocrite, won’t you.

Why now? Why would I

Why would you do this now?

My Heart and I

ENOUGH ! we're tired, my heart and I.

We sit beside the headstone thus,

And wish that name were carved for us.

The moss reprints more tenderly

The hard types of the mason's knife,

As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life

With which we're tired, my heart and I.

II.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.

We dealt with books, we trusted men,

And in our own blood drenched the pen,

As if such colours could not fly.

We walked too straight for fortune's end,

We loved too true to keep a friend ;

At last we're tired, my heart and I.

III.

How tired we feel, my heart and I !

We seem of no use in the world ;

Our fancies hang grey and uncurled

About men's eyes indifferently ;

Our voice which thrilled you so, will let

You sleep; our tears are only wet :

What do we here, my heart and I ?

IV.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I !

It was not thus in that old time

When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime

To watch the sunset from the sky.

Dear love, you're looking tired,' he said;

I, smiling at him, shook my head :

'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I !

Though now none takes me on his arm

To fold me close and kiss me warm

Till each quick breath end in a sigh

Of happy languor. Now, alone,

We lean upon this graveyard stone,

Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

VI.

Tired out we are, my heart and I.

Suppose the world brought diadems

To tempt us, crusted with loose gems

Of powers and pleasures ? Let it try.

We scarcely care to look at even

A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,

We feel so tired, my heart and I.

VII.

Yet who complains ? My heart and I ?

In this abundant earth no doubt

Is little room for things worn out :

Disdain them, break them, throw them by

And if before the days grew rough

We once were loved, used, — well enough,

I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who knew what she was talking about

My Dearest Darling,

You call me a lot of things but, to be perfectly frank (not Ernest), Lemony, I think I’ve always liked that one the least. There was that summer where, among other things, Bertrand was trying to come up with nicknames for us in that charming way of his, and he came up with a real mess of awful nicknames and then I came up with the list we could Never Repeat In Public (capitals necessary) and then you said something very sweet to both of us, and anyway, we know what happened there, but the point of this is that you held us close and said, very seriously, that you would never ever ever ever ever (for the span of what I’d figure would be maybe two pages, short but evenly-spaced), no matter what happened, call Bertrand ‘Bert’ and that was damn good of you because Bertrand is not a Bert and never will be. We were right to veto Bertie, as well. He is a Bertrand, through and through. The other point was that you wound up calling us nicknames too but dearest darling was maybe the worst of all of them. Bea was my favorite. I liked the way you said it and I liked the way it sounded and I felt noble perfect unstoppable invincible worried fragile good when you said it. And that was good.

Speaking of, right now, Bertrand is with Kit, and don’t worry, they’re not talking about you (I know how you worry). They’re talking about boats and maps and cooking spices and Widdershins will probably come by later to give them both his version of A Stern Talking To (capitals debatable) about open water expeditions, which will probably be something like, ‘Fire this harpoon at anything suspicious! Aye! Shoot first and ask questions later! Aye!’ and it’s a real miracle that man doesn’t have a whole boatload of albatrosses hanging around somewhere. (Unless he does, and I just haven’t seen it.)

Bertrand and I—well, we’ve kept the house up. Even though he has that thing for natural light, you know what I mean. But we’ve managed to decorate it nicely. I got the Gothic Furniture (capitals required), he got his large windows, there is a last unopened root beer bottle in the fridge because every time we look at it both of us think about how you said it’s impolite to take the last one, and I thought, maybe I’d save it for when you came back but I don’t

The last thing I want is to

Bertrand and I, we’re going out to dinner tonight, because we’re still not all that comfortable with the kitchen yet. I mean, why did we get such a fancy kitchen? I’m sure one of these days I’ll come around to it and it’ll be fine but right now it’s, it seems a hassle, I guess. So we’re going out and I’ve already decided that I’m going to order this truly egregious amount of pasta and no one will stop me!

We don’t really have any plans for tomorrow. As it stands right now. We’ve both been sort of taking things as they come lately. Bertrand, Bertrand’s been very busy. Both of us have been busy, but I think he’s been trying to keep his mind occupied. A lot of us have. Even Hector looks more concerned than he usually does. I saw him the other day—not here, in town—and I didn’t think it was possible for Hector to look that harried. So much has been happening lately, I feel like even I haven’t had time to catch my breath, even in this part of the city. It’s like everything’s been going a mile a minute, taking me with it, and the moments where it stops, the moments where I have the time to think, are unbearably, agonizingly slow. But most of my life has been like that, you know.

And I know, I know you are too. Busy. And concerned.

I know.

When you

Did you

The last performance of our play was three days ago. Since the Daily Punctilio doesn’t have a theater section anymore, Bertrand and I haven’t been reading any rave reviews but we were rereading but, what can you do. Geraldine’s moved on to some other column now too, something about, I don’t even know, tax evasion? Shoes? I can never understand a single thing she writes. Even that ‘Secret Organizations You Should Know About’ thing didn’t even pan out, can you believe that? All she did was write about Esmé! All that trouble for

It looks like it’ll be the last play for a while. I know they wanted us to go on longer, but, well, that’s how it has to be. Don’t know what I’m going to do with myself without a script to lug around, but I’ll probably memorize something for kicks. Gilda Farrell’s lines, maybe, that’d be fun.

But it’d be better if you

This is really the first time I’ve had one of those unbearably slow moments in a while, and of course the first thing I think of is you. You and Bertrand have always filled those gaps for me, but now it’s different. It’s just

I saw Jacques the other day and he

Ramona’s the only one who hasn’t been so

I want to see you so much, Lemony. With everything I have, I want you with me, and I keep hoping that if I close my eyes, when I open them again, there you’ll be, alive and well and next to me and real. Or I’ll walk away from my desk and this letter and when I look back it’ll all have been a bad dream, the worst nightmare I keep stopping and hoping and when you’re not there and I’m still here I

I don’t know how to do this. I can’t

I didn’t want to do it like this.

I don’t want you to I’m, burying the lede, or doing any of this on purpose or anything, because by now you’ve definitely noticed how long this is (although, personally, I’m only at the beginning, but I have a feeling this is going to get long—I know I’ve said I could run laps around the city in the time it takes you to finish a single metaphor but between the two of us we both know I could go on for much longer and will), and you have a vague idea, or a concrete idea, or an idea you don’t want to think about, of where I’m going to go with this. If it was something simple it wouldn’t be like this. If I was just, telling you the news, I wouldn’t need so much time, and I need so much of it. I’m setting the stage trying to making sure I wanted to I can’t just

I am a weak woman, Lemony Snicket. And that is a complete lie, you and I know, but I am a weak woman and I don’t want to be but my hands are shaking.

You and I. You and I know so many things.

So why should we

We both know how to make Ramona laugh, and the right amount of sugar for Olivia’s tea, and where Jacques will be on Tuesdays even though he pretends he doesn’t keep a regular schedule, and where Monty has his keys stashed in his garden, and everything possible about Bertrand, including what book he’s reading right now even though you haven’t been home in two months (it’s still that cat book because he says he wants to see the look on your face when he reads it out loud after dinner) (it’s still that cat book), and what kind of records Kit wants for her birthday even though she never has the time to play them, and even what Esmé is going to eat tomorrow because would you believe that herring is still in, to her continued consternation. She can talk all she wants about how good herring is but I still see that look on her face when she eats it! Every meal, Lemony! I’m giggling as we speak and I wish you could see her because it is one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen in my LIFE

Maybe those things are superficial, but they’re things we know about people, about ourselves, and that counts, doesn’t it? And—and I know what you look like when you wake up and I know what you look like when you’re fixing your typewriter and I have to help and I know what you look like when you think I’m not looking at you, and there was a time where that meant you didn’t look like everyone you knew had just died. You know what I look like at my worst, the worst I ever let you see. You knew it anyway. You It was enough.

And Bertrand. I know I’ve said it before but, you and I were so lucky. Lots of good things came from of this, right? The three of us, you and me and Bertrand. Our apartment and that wallpaper we took down in Bertrand’s when he moved out of his, with those horrendous yellow stripes. The cat we pretended to have and the elaborate medical history we made for it so we’d all have an excuse to go home early. (That poor cat, though. I don’t think it would’ve been possible for it to really survive like that. We should be better to our imaginary pets next time in the future.) Watching Bertrand dance to my records, which was terrible because we hadn’t taught him to dance yet. Trying out those new recipes. Keeping the windows open in the summer. The diner down the street, the ice cream shop on the corner, that night it rained and we all stayed outside and got soaking wet because why not? Bertrand making that excessive amount of soup the next day. You telling us we were the only things that mattered. Bertrand would push your hair out of your face when you were sleeping and I wanted to watch that for the rest of my life. I wanted it to be the last thing I ever saw.

Those moments, every moment. Reading in the dark, losing my glasses, you stopped dead the first time we were out with Bertrand and he was under a streetlamp and you both looked so beautiful and you kissed him for the first time and you didn’t even remember to be nervous.

And those million citations Jacques didn’t give us for public indecency during that spring he was disguised as a police officer. (He was definitely kidding when he brought it up. There was no way he could’ve seen us.)

It makes me so happy, to think about all that. I love you and Bertrand so much. I

Oh Lemony. I don’t think I can do any of this.

-------

In other better happier general news, Gustav let Bertrand and me see the pictures from the wedding, and then he archived them, because we agreed that was for the best, and Bertrand figured you’d probably say the same. I look absolutely stunning, and Bertrand looks incredibly handsome even though he finally admitted he agrees with you, that hat was not his style, and you, Lemony, in that white suit that matched Bertrand’s with those peach-colored flowers because peach is a better color than I ever gave it credit for and it looked so good in the spring because it was the color the wall in the living room turned when the afternoon sun hit, you look

It was such a beautiful day. Still spring, and right after Bertrand’s birthday. Us, Kit, Jacques, Ramona, Olivia, Dewey, Hector. Jerome was invited—or he was supposed to be, who knows what happened there. We barely saw Gustav the whole time too, since he kept climbing up into trees for better angles. The smallest place we could find that would hold all of us and be so out of the way. The cake Kit made, against everyone’s expectations. Ramona cried, because of course she did. All those flowers, no one could move the whole time for walking into at least six bees, but no one minded. So much love. It was palpable, and my whole body was alive with it, with such a soft warmth I could barely breathe. I don’t think I ever stopped smiling, not while dancing or singing or kicking my shoes off because such mortal trappings cannot contain me, or when you and Bertrand danced and you cried, or when a crow flew overhead and we all stopped, just for a single second, before every one of us decided not to care. For a few hours one glorious afternoon.

You look happier than I’ve ever seen you before and now I don’t know if I’ll ever see you like that again or forever and I’m sorry, I was right, I can’t do this, I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this

-------

I’ve taken a few deep breaths and I’m ready to

Oh who am I KIDDING

Lemony I love you so much and I need you so much my heart is going to break with it

justice does not need eyes to see,

but truth built himself eyes

in the porcelain patterns of his world

and let them do the talking

in the skies he

so kindly

let them see,

with the eyes he gave them,

one after another

after another

i was something else

but i lived so close beside

that they could not accuse me

of being blind

but i could’ve seen everything

if i could see with every eye,

one after another

after another

after another,

every eye

a certainty,

every eye

the truth,

every eye

mine alone.

You told me when we were younger that I should give rhyming verse a try and, well, Lemony, not everything you said was good advice.

-------

I do, though. I love you a great deal. I think it confuses people. Besides the fact that some of them never understood our relationship with Bertrand (cowards), I get the impression some of our associates don’t know why I love you. Which is just stupid of them, and I don’t owe them anything, none of them are going to read this. It’s not their business why I love you, it’s ours. And I love you because

How can you explain why you love someone? Someone can say ‘they make me laugh’ as much as they want and sure it’s true but is that really why? Can you ever really say why? Isn’t it enough to love somebody, with everything you have? To say, that’s the one I want, for the rest of my life? Who could I possibly need to defend myself to?

I love you because I love you, because I look at you and think I love you, because I inhale and exhale that I love you, because every part of me only feels right with you.

I love you because you embarrassed me but I thought you were kind. I love you because I didn’t ever have to explain anything. I love you because you always came back to me. I love you because you made me happy. I love you because you didn’t let anything stop you from loving me. I love you because you loved me. I love you because when you took my hand I thought I could do anything with that love.

I love you because you were mine. I love you because you looked at me. And I love you because it was more than that, it always was.

I love you because of the records you played. I love you because of the time we taught Bertrand to make root beer floats. I love you because you’d rehearse our lines with us even though you can’t act. I love you because of the way you would stand in the kitchen and wonder what you should make for dinner. I love you because you said you’d plant strawberry bushes in the backyard. I love you because you could never stand Geraldine Julienne. I love you because we would all sit around the table in my apartment and critique the newspaper articles together. I love you because you’d never take the train. I love you because Bertrand and I found every shortcut in the city for you. I love you because you and Bertrand would knit me the ugliest sweaters on purpose. I love you because you would take care of the bats for me and you were terrible at it.

I love you because you were wonderful where it counted. I love you because we’d stay up late and watch movies. I love you because you would hold Bertrand like it was the most important thing in the world. I love you because you would furrow your brow when you read something you didn’t like. I love you because you’d take me to the beach when it was cold. I love you because we went on picnics in the summer. I love you because when I walked into our apartment and then when I walked into our house it always felt like home. I love you because we made up that cat. I love you because you’d sing with me. I love you because Bertrand would take us bird-watching and name the birds with us. I love you because you bought me flowers.

I love you because you told me what happened. I love you because we went back there with you. I love you because I went into the lighthouse. I love you because I wasn’t going to not go. I love you because no one else would’ve gone. I love you because we let you walk out the door there and I knew you would come back.

I love you because we used to make out in the back of the movie theater and we’d take turns with Bertrand and then try to piece together what even happened in the movie when we got home. I love you because you used to sit in dark rooms with me and pretend we were ghosts and scare the other volunteers. I love you because we could just read for hours and not say a word. I love you because you let me cry in the bathroom. I love you because you would make up songs on the accordion when I was upset. I love you because I would whistle along when you did songs I knew. I love you because you would go out of your way to buy crackers. I love you because you would say things like “when we first met, you were pretty, and I was lonely” and you let me laugh. I love you because you would write me notes during class. I love you because you looked the same way I did the first time we saw Bertrand—shocked, and then a little impressed, and then irritated, because who did he think he was? I love you because who did any of us think we were, really. I love you because we grew to not care. I love you because we became people I was proud of.

I love you because you would feed that cat in the back alley on your way home and I would watch you from the window. I love you because that cat followed us to our house and then we had a real live legitimate cat until someone across the street put out better cat food. I love you because of the way you would read out loud, because you couldn’t act but when you read it was like seeing the sunrise for the first time. I love you because the one thing you did that was better than Bertrand was make tea. I love you because you taught me all your cookie recipes. I love you because we got you to sleep in the middle so we could protect you. I love you because they couldn’t take that away from me.

I love you because I’m here in an otherwise empty house, some boxes still unpacked, letting the dust settle, pouring my heart out when I don’t want to, because I do love you with everything I have, every part of me, every bone and every sigh and every drop of blood, and that’s the end of that. That’s all there is, I love you. That’s what it comes down to, I love you. That’s the only thing I want to say, I love you.

I do, I do love you. Lemony, please believe me.

-------

I know Bertrand has his own thoughts, his own opinions. He doesn’t want to admit that he does, but he gets this, look, on his face. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, like he’s lost something special but it was there a moment ago, wasn’t it. He thinks I haven’t noticed. After all this time, he thinks he’s not supposed to be here, and you it hurts, is all.

And as much as Bertrand is a part of us, indelibly, forever, just as you are, both of you so a part of me that I ache with it, this letter is between you and me. Not because it was the two of us first. But because you know, for as much as I don’t want to, I’ll say the things Bertrand won’t.

That’s how this has to be.

-------

So.

Olaf’s started talking to me again, which I didn’t think would happen in a million years. Although maybe I shouldn’t call it talking? More like, he sort of shows up if he knows I’m at headquarters (which is far and few between anyway so, really, what the hell?) and lounges in doorways with these big smiles and says these dramatic things at me instead of to me, which he can’t possibly expect me to believe. How stupid does he think I am? Because I’m not. He keeps going, hey Beatrice, have you read the Daily Punctilio? And I don’t say anything to him, even though yes, I’ve read the Daily Punctilio, dammit.

You and I both know what’s in the Daily Punctilio, and for a while I thought, maybe you were writing those articles yourself, part of another fragmentary plot, and that you’d tell me about it later, and you’d explain it to me, even though I wouldn’t need it to be explained, not really. But you didn’t. Not that you didn’t explain, you just, you just didn’t tell me anything. And you were gone and I couldn’t even see you anyway and that was what really made it hard? It wasn’t like I doubted you. I didn’t. I didn’t doubt you. I knew you wouldn’t do any of those things.

But everyone looked at me and they looked so damn pitying, like, oh it happens to the best of us, only he’s not the best of us. Maybe you should’ve seen it coming, well you know what he’s like, as if nothing had ever happened? As if we hadn’t grown up together? As if we wouldn’t have followed you to the ends of the earth because we believed in you? It’s not everyone, but it’s enough. Like some of them don’t owe you their lives.

Bertrand says that people deal with things in different ways, and saying those things about you is probably just another way they’re dealing with everything. Don’t you think it’s harder, it’s gotten harder, as we’ve gotten older? But they don’t have to throw you under the bus to do it. They don’t have to vilify you to make themselves feel better. They don’t have to look me in the eye like that, like I’m some, some poor miserable thing, or like I have to be protected, or like I don’t know what I’m doing, or like they can’t even trust me.

But what does that make me?

And Olaf would grin at me and I would hold my head high and look him back and spit in his face. I wasn’t going to let it get to me. It had only been a month. How long is a month, in the grand scheme of things? What does a month matter, against the beginning of a lifetime? And when a month became two, what did that matter?

-------

I wouldn’t say that Hector and I were ever particularly close, but I’ve actually seen a lot of him lately. We meet up for tea because he keeps saying there’s something he wants to talk to me about but mostly he sits there and looks at his tea and I pretend I’m not super uncomfortable. And then he insists on paying the check, in exact change.

When I see Hector, I think about Haruki. I know how close they were. And Haruki respected you so much, more than anyone else. As in, he respected you more than he respected any of our other friends, but also more than maybe anyone else respected you, because that was how Haruki was. Loyal, the best of the best, and so fierce about it. I wanted him there at our wedding.

Haruki was really the first person we lost, I guess. And I hate how we’re never going to know how it happened, because they say no one else was there, and the one person we do know was there, he’s never going to say a damn thing about it, and we all know that for sure. But I remember everyone gathering around to write Haruki’s obituary and how little we had to say. Not because we didn’t know him. But because, what were we going to say? What did we have left to say, who did Haruki have left, besides us? And what were we?

Hector looks at me and I don’t know what to say to him. He doesn’t know what to say to me. I’m terrified he’s going to tell me I should’ve known better too because then I won’t be able to stand it. But he just looks at me and I try not to cry and I’m trying not to cry now because he’s feeling it too, this awful business of feeling like things are starting to break. Sometimes I feel Hector is going to disappear, too.

--------

I guess the question I started to think was, how long was I going to wait. Bertrand and I had waited for longer, and then there were times where we never waited, and hadn’t we reached a point where we weren’t supposed to, anymore? But then, when you’re married, aren’t you supposed to do whatever you have to?

But doesn’t it go both ways? One half can do their part but doesn’t the other half have to do something too and how much is it before you’re asking too much but how long is it before you’re not doing enough and when you’re married aren’t you supposed to know the answers to all the questions, the right and the wrong ones, you’re not supposed to care and you’re supposed to be there and it’s all is supposed to be okay, and

We never did do anything traditionally, though, did we?

-------

I saved the article. I didn’t save all of them, but I saved this one.

-------

UNIDENTIFIED BODY IDENTIFIED

The unidentified body recently pulled from the downtown river has been identified as local ex-theater critic and renowned person of interest, Lemony Snicket, who was last seen surveying the river and saying, “How deep do you think it really is?”

“For the record,” said the local police, who preferred to remain nameless and sent in their response by postcard from three towns over, “it was three feet.”

Mr. Snicket was identified by a source who was also unidentified, but proved their credentials by singing a variety of showtunes for the newspaper staff, to great applause.

“Yes, I suppose that’s him,” said the source, when asked to identify the photo of the river, which was presented to them while they were drinking a glass of water, because they were parched after the showtunes. When the glass of water spilled on the photograph, the source went on to say, “Oh, that’s definitely him.”

The body in question disappeared as soon as it was found, but the police have no reason to suspect foul play, as no livestock was found at the scene, the morgue, or the local bakery, and neither does our source.

“Can I leave now?” asked the source. “I need to go pick up my glasses.”

Mr. Snicket has recently been the suspect in a number of crimes, including arson, lockpicking, theft, and jaywalking without a license. He has been described as “that’s not what I would call a grey suit, it leaned closer to charcoal.” There is no planned funeral service at this time.

-------

Bertrand and I laughed a lot, because it was the most outrageous article we’d ever read, and we kept talking about what sort of bakery would even allow livestock inside, and of course we knew it was about you, but of course it wasn’t you, because we didn’t know where you were but we knew you were alive. You were alive, so no matter what we read or what anyone told us, no matter who wanted to believe what, we knew the truth.

And, again, Lemony, it wasn’t that I needed you to explain. It was that I wanted you to tell me. I wanted you to let me in on it. I wanted you to call or come by and tell us, your husband and your wife, hey no big deal but I’m gonna fake my death for the foreseeable future, is that okay? And instead I have to find out from Olaf waving it in my face? I have to find out from some absurd article I shouldn’t have even looked twice at? I have to find out from people I thought were my friends telling me I should have known better?

I sure don’t need to tell you, but, we just got married, Lemony! And we had a house and a life and plans and no matter what happened, no matter what else we had to do, because there was no way we were ever going to give this up and we knew that, we were going to stay together, we were going to do this, what we promised, not to other people but to ourselves, and each other, and

Sometimes I want to think that you planned it like that, that you sat down and thought to yourself about the best worst way to do it and you thought, leaving us alone like this and faking your death and not saying a single word was the greatest way to break our hearts, especially after marrying us, that would hurt the most, you wanted to do it so you did it and you got away from us for good like you always wanted because you were never going to stay and you knew it, because then I can hate you like I’m supposed to and stop thinking of the way you smile at me

I hate that you aren’t a cruel person, I hate that you didn’t do it on purpose, I hate that the real true human tradition is that people are human and nothing else

How am I supposed to do this?

a bird up in her chamber

eats love for breakfast lunch and dinner

and steadily gets thinner

sings songs she won’t forget,

in the darkness by the lamps

says the shapes of lonely words

said by lonely people

in lonely rooms

to feel better about

being

what is a life with this alone

what is a life

like this?

“when we grab you by the ankle, where your life is ours to take

you’ll soon be doing wicked things, they’ll keep you long awake

when your whole life is a secret then you’ll be a volunteer

and you’ll scream a long time later, for

the world was never quiet here.”

-------

Bertrand has been making lists. You know his tendency to organize, but the funny thing is he just keeps leaving them places. I’m sitting on like, three of them.

To Do

-Check maps

-Apologize to D

-Extra key

-Secure boat

-Study family trees

To Buy

-Thick, sturdy rope

-Do they make portable record players?

-Paintbrushes (for then and now, so get extra)

-White curtains? Will they match? Check ‘To Think’

-Extra wires, no candles!

To Think

-Ask Kit about Bernadette

-Examine garden for hiding spots

-Turtles or foxes?

-What if it turns out to be true?

-Or birds??

Definitely not birds.

-------

You know, I haven’t seen Jerome in a while. Maybe it’s also been two months, I’m not sure. I feel like, even before the wedding, we weren’t seeing much of him—although it wasn’t like Jacques paraded him around or anything in the first place—but since then, I don’t think Jacques has even talked about him.

This means Jacques’s Tuesdays are open now, although you’d never know it. He still only shows up when he wants to. And if he doesn’t want to, then you have as much luck finding him as finding a grammar rule Jo doesn’t know. It must run in the family. I hate to

I had Kit get ahold of him for me. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know what to say to Kit anymore, which is unsettling, but Kit acts like she always does. She comes over and makes herself at home and talks to both of us like this is average everyday Kit business for her. I don’t know if I admire her tenacity or if it’s going to be something else I can’t stand down the line. I don’t know yet. She hugged me when she left, though. That’s just how Kit is. And I don’t really want to lose that.

I wasn’t sure if Kit would know, the thing I wanted to ask Jacques. I guess it wouldn’t surprise me if she did, but when I saw her I thought, maybe she didn’t know. She didn’t talk about you at all. And it wasn’t the ‘I’m Kit Snicket and I’m Being Purposefully Vague For Reasons, Now Deal With It’ sort of silence, it was the ‘I’m Kit Snicket and I Refuse to Admit I Don’t Know This Piece of Information, So I’m Going to Rearrange Your Bookshelves’ sort of silence. Still don’t know where she put T.S. Eliot. I think she took it with her.

Jacques didn’t want to talk to me. He’s too polite to say it, but I could tell. He kept making excuses, and by the time we finally got him to come here, he was uncomfortable and I was on edge. He came right out and said he couldn’t stay long. He knew why I wanted to talk to him and he told me straightforward that he couldn’t tell me.

I’m not proud of what I said to him.

-------

If it was the last day, but it probably was but Lemony, I don’t I sure didn’t know.

I will remember every second until the day I die.

We waited until after the wedding to move into the house, especially because the only honeymoon we wanted was for the three of us to be there together, alone, for a little while. It was on the outskirts of the city, away from everything else, and we barely told anyone. We didn’t even tell everyone from the wedding.

I watched the sunrise, the soft shadows sliding along the sheets on the bed, catching on the suitcases we still hadn’t unpacked all the way, you and Bertrand warm beside me, and I didn’t want to get up. We put the best bed in the whole world in our room, and rightly so. High bed posts but no canopy because Bertrand was worried about dust. Crisp white sheets and I was so excited to look when we finally got up and see the wrinkles mashed down in them from where we slept because that meant it was ours for real. That rich wine comforter that it was too hot to use the first night so we still had it folded up at the foot of the bed, but you had this look in your eyes when we spread it out like you couldn’t wait for winter and when we’d be squished up against each other underneath it for warmth.

That morning, I just wanted to lay there and savor it. It wasn’t like we’d never been in the same bed before, or that we even needed to be married, but! To know I could hold it in my hands, that’s what it was.

And then Bertrand rolled over and got an elbow into my side somehow and you mumbled something about Wedding Pancakes (capitals implied) and then we had to eat breakfast.

I checked. The wrinkles were all there.

-------

Bertrand and I.

We haven’t

We’ve been

We’ve been angry at each other.

And you know Bertrand, he doesn’t get angry, really, he gets, more disappointed than anything, but he’s. He’s been angry. At me. I know.

I get scared, because I don’t know what to do, so I, I can’t hold a conversation without yelling at somebody, and it’s usually Bertrand, and I hate yelling at him and sometimes he starts to yell back.

We’re not. Okay. Right now.

We weren’t supposed to do this without you and I don’t want to find out that we can’t, Lemony. And I know we can but I know it’s also not a matter of doing it with or without you, because that’s awful, I just keep wondering what if you were what held us all together and if you’re not here how are Bertrand and I supposed to go on like this. Saying the wrong things, avoiding each other, not coming home. I guess that’s how we’re ‘dealing’ with it but that’s sure some sick way to do it.

I don’t want to lose anybody and fighting for them means that I want to keep screaming until everything stops.

-------

Jacques said you’d be back soon enough.

I told him I needed to know how soon was soon.

He said soon enough.

I said that wasn’t enough.

I never though of Jacques as one to yell. And he didn’t really yell, he mostly raised his voice, like I couldn’t hear him. I mean I was definitely talking over him but it was because I could hear him and I didn’t want to.

No one can tell me anything I don’t know. I know they think I haven’t felt the same worries as everyone else but that’s because I never wanted them to think that I did. And I did too good a job, apparently. I know we live hard lives, Jacques. I know it requires sacrifices, Jacques. I know there’s no guarantee, Jacques. I know there’s things you have to give up. I know you can’t be childish or selfish in this business. I know we knew what would happen. I know sometimes no matter how hard you try, you’re just going to fail.

He told me to wait for you.

-------

After breakfast, we organized the library, because we still had so many things in boxes but we agreed we had to get that done. We put everything in, every repeat copy and every notebook because we actually had room for everything instead of trying to cram it all into smaller bookshelves. The library was the biggest room in the house and had that beautiful windowseat. (It still does. We’re still in this house, after all, but this moment, this day, just isn’t right now.) I’ll admit I spent more time lounging on it than I did organizing books, but, you sat on that windowseat with me, you knew how comfortable it was. I loved those windows and how bright the sun was (really.) and how good I knew it was going to look when it was raining. And you agreed, and Bertrand rolled his eyes at us, and I told him, he got his natural light, what more did he want?

For two people to stop lazing around and figure out if we were going in alphabetical order or by genre or by which ones most recently made us cry over lunch, Bertrand said.

It was alphabetical, of course.

We forgot about lunch, because we put the record player in the library until we could find another place for it and started playing our favorites. Bertrand could dance by then, obviously, we wouldn’t have married him if he couldn’t. We were very good at dancing together, after practicing for so long. No one was ever going to do a better three-way tango and we all knew it.

We picked through the fridge and some of the wedding gifts, once we got hungry and tired of dancing. We found out Jerome somehow still sent us at least thirty coasters, and learned that he apparently wildly overestimates our social life, because there was no way we were going to be inviting thirty people at a time over anymore, or at least, not for a while. You and Bertrand stacked them in the dining room in a cabinet, and those you organized by color. Then we stood at the window there and looked out into the garden (the best view of it was from the dining room) and talked about the flowers we were going to plant, and how Ramona was going to send us (express) a clipping from one of the rosebushes in her garden, the ones we’d look at during her family’s masked balls.

We went to the corner store down the street and you and Bertrand pretended to fuss over tomatoes while I was looking at loaves of bread and when I turned around you were buying flowers for me, red and bright and beautiful. We put them in the kitchen while we all made dinner (salmon, with cherry tomatoes). Somehow I found the time to make sorbet for dessert and it was only then we realized how late it was and we laughed a lot that day and laughed a lot then because we didn’t need to care about things like that. Our house was barely put together and we tried to find a way to use every single coaster from Jerome and we hadn’t had words with the city about the electricity yet because there was so much we’d had to do beforehand that we had to use candles. We all had matches, and we weren’t naive enough to think we wouldn’t have them.

I can’t tell you how powerful I felt, lighting those candles, because I know you and Bertrand felt it too. This was our doing and ours alone. This space was ours. We looked at each other over the candles, the shadows on our faces, and we’d never looked clearer.

We could’ve lived forever, in that moment.

-------

I called your brother a coward and I told him that whatever happened to Jerome now that he wouldn’t protect him was his fault and his alone and if he could live with himself that’s fine but I couldn’t if I didn’t try to do this and if he didn’t tell me where you were I was going to kill him where he stood and he shouldn’t even think for one second that I wasn’t capable of doing what had to be done and if that meant I had to kill for what I wanted then I would.

-------

You kissed us in the morning. You smiled. You walked out the door and then came back because you forgot your hat and Bertrand and I were still laughing even as the door shut behind you.

And then you were gone.

-------

Kit came by again, after.

We sat in that silence.

She told me that it was the one thing they hadn’t told her. She hadn’t known, until I asked Jacques. We don’t have anywhere else to go, she said, in a moment of unprecedented candidness. So we always come back.

“I underestimated him,” she said.

I told her she could keep The Wasteland, since it was practically hers because it had been yours. Kit smiled. She didn’t say much else.

-------

Bertrand and I aren’t the only ones losing someone here and I forgot that.

Jacques and I looked at each other for a long time. I tried to apologize and he kept shaking his head. He told me where you were. He told me he didn’t know when you’d be back—or if you would at all. He told me he was the one writing the articles in the Daily Punctilio. He turned away from me. Then he gave me his handkerchief, and put his hand on mine, and got up and left.

-------

What it feels like, Lemony, is like you

It feels like you picked

It feels like we didn’t matter and

And it’s not like we could ever choose or have one or the other I know I know I know but

We’re never going to be without it but I thought that

WE GOT MARRIED, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, LEMONY SNICKET

You picked an idea of nobility that you spent the past ten years struggling with and denouncing and promising you’d never

It wasn’t like we ever set out to save you anyway I

At the end of the day, that’s it. You picked the organization over us. And I didn’t think we were going to have to draw lines like that. At least not now. At least not right now. Because that means I have to make a decision. Because it means I can’t only think about me. Because it means I can’t keep waiting. And even if I could, I wouldn’t want to.

-------

I found out the other day.

I had a feeling, though. You just, you either have the feeling or you don’t, right? And I did. And I keep thinking about what your reaction would be. What you’d say. I keep thinking about your eyes, bluer than blue. I keep thinking about the world we said we were going to make when we were kids, the people we said we’d be. We were tiny and young and idealistic and you’re really only that way once in your whole life and when you’re not anymore, you can’t go back.

-------

We can’t go on like this.

stripped off my dress like a skin,

peeled

so you could see everything

not only then,

but always.

didn’t know i was doing it,

guess i never really ran out of clothes.

you took off you shirt

and I was jealous.

you only needed to do it once and there you were.

I thought.

but now I keep finding shirts

in the places where I found you

and I can’t

find anything

that was mine

to put back on

I really can’t do anything

-------

Enclosed you’ll find the ring. I know it’s not just the ring I married you with, but the ring I married Bertrand with, but whenever we look at it we think of you and I’m the one who has to wear it all the time and I can’t.

But I don’t want to give it back because what if it’s the only thing I get to keep of you? But it wasn’t ever mine anyway, or yours, and who knows, maybe Ramona will marry Olivia with it someday, and maybe you’ll be there, only you wouldn’t be if you got the ring back, you’d never show your face again.

And that’s not what I want, I don’t want you out of my life, Lemony, but if I give it back then maybe I do. Maybe that is what I want. Maybe I never want to see you again like this.

-------

Okay, I have to ask. I have to, because Jacques kept his mouth shut about this.

The last time you saw us. Not the day, but the morning, walking out the front door. Did you know you weren’t coming back? You just left like you always did, to go to the newspaper, before Bertrand and I went to the theater, and as far as leaving someone for good goes that’s so

Did you meet up with Jacques, or Hector, or Jo, or even Kit, and did they tell you? Did headquarters address you personally? Did you take an assignment from someone else? Did someone corner you and were you trying to protect us? Was that the only way you could do it, going into hiding and faking your death? Who else was involved, besides Jacques? How long was it going to go on for? Did they expect you to do it by yourself? Did you have a plan, did any of them have a plan? What fragmentary plot was it even a part of? Did you know you weren’t coming back? Could you even come back? Did it even happen right away? Did it start out as some mediocre assignment you were going to tell us about later and then what happened so that I was reading the paper and there you were being accused of things I knew you’d never do? Why didn’t they ask me? Why didn’t they ask Bertrand? Why didn’t they ask us? You knew we’d do it together, we swore we’d do it together, why didn’t you tell us? What made it so that you couldn’t?

Or did you really decide for yourself that that was it?

I don’t want to believe that. I don’t, Lemony. I want to believe that it was one thing and then another but do you know why I can’t, why I keep asking? Do you understand why I need to know the truth? Why I need to be able to put it together? Why waiting and trusting isn’t enough anymore?

--------

No one could ever extinguish my love, Lemony, no one, nothing, not a single solitary thing ever, nothing could do it, but my trust is a different matter. Loving someone and trusting someone are two different things and I know you know that as much as I do. You. Knew. All. Of. This.

-------

You know. If it had ended at the article. I might’ve been okay with it. I might have. Not making any promises, because we both know better than that. But I might’ve. I could’ve.

It didn’t end with the article.

Olivia had a short-lived assignment working the telegrams recently. She gave Ramona a very specific telegram. Olivia was honestly surprised it had come through at all. That something like that would be sent over such an insecure line. And of course she showed Ramona. They didn’t show it to anyone else. Which was lucky, because you know Olivia. She wanted to do whatever she could.

Ramona sent it to me. Right away. I got it yesterday. She said she’d never felt worse in her entire life. She said she was sorry. She’s the only one who didn’t sound patronizing about it.

J.S.,

AS WELL AS CAN BE EXPECTED STOP GOING ON FULL STOP

M.K.

I never liked Monty Kensicle all that much as a name either.

-------

Lemony I can’t help but think that you’re sick of me, sick with me

It wasn’t like I ever—like I did it to be similar, I would NEVER, because both of us had our reasons for why we did what we did, you on that train, me and Bertrand at the opera. We knew what we were doing. Did we regret it? Enough for it to hurt, on the wrong days. Not enough for it to matter, in the long run. But enough for it to stop me every once in a while, in the way I know it stopped you.

But, but did you think, you couldn’t love someone who

Which would be, extraordinarily hypocritical of you, not to mention

I know you still think about it and I know how much it

I paid my price for what I did, Lemony, and so did you, and I didn’t

Is that how it works? Is that what happens? Is this what else I have to give up, for some shred of nobility, is my life going to be one mistake after another because I followed an order and I though they were right enough? Not even right, right enough, how stupid—is everything that happens to me going to be because of that? Am I losing you because it’s what I deserve?

Don’t I deserve good things? Don’t I still deserve happiness, and stability, and love, and a family, and all those things I worked so hard for? Because nobility wasn’t the end of it for me, this was what we wanted, something better, something for us, something we deserved, and this can’t be it, this can’t be the only thing we get for all of that, there has to be something else! And if I lose everyone close to me because of this organization Lemony I swear I don’t know what I’m going to do I feel like I’m going to lose my mind like this

--------

I think of you out there, alone, and probably cold because you never bring a damn jacket with you anywhere. It’s summer but I’m imagining you as being cold, but I think that’s just because it’s sort of what you do when anyone thinks of someone as being anywhere alone.

Or, I’m just—I’m thinking of you out there, alone, for sure. I’m doing that. I’m thinking. About you. Alone.

I’m

thinking.

I think of you. Out there. Letting Jacques know, letting Olivia know, because you had to know who was working the telegram, otherwise you wouldn’t have sent it, I think of you going out of your way to tell your brother and not me and Bertrand and maybe you thought they’d tell me anyway but I had to pull teeth to get it from Jacques and if it had been anyone else! No one but Olivia would have said! You got lucky! But not enough! Because you still didn’t tell us! You went out of your way to not!! You! I think of you! Doing that instead of having the nerve! The decency! To tell us first! You!

How could you

-------

I think of you, out there—hiding in the middle of nowhere with only the occasional newspaper for company, which, let me tell you, Lemony, is a very frustrating existence. You know what? I keep wanting to hope that you are dead because somehow that would make this easier, I can be angry at a dead man. But I can be angry at anyone, can’t I. Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter. I can be angry.

I want to hope that you never sleep comfortably again. I want to hope that every sea is too uneven and every desert is too hot and every mountain is too cold and everywhere you go it’s too much. I want to hope that you try and come back and see how good and happy Bertrand and I are without you and you have to realize, you really did mess up. I want to hope that your boat goes down in the middle of the ocean and I know for sure! I want to think that you’ll be so miserable without us and it’ll never have been worth it!!

You’re out there, without us. Without me.

I hope it was worth it.

-------

What am I going to do?

I’m not picking. It’s not—I’m not capable of that, picking between you two, and I know you both had this ridiculous fear that I was going to, but I wasn’t, and I’m still not. I am selfish and clingy and I know what I want and I love what I have, and I love both of you and Bertrand loves both of us and I was ready to stake my life on the fact that you loved both of us too.

And I hate that I have to say it! Because I do! Apparently I do have to, Lemony! If it comes down to, who would I rather do this with, who would I raise a family with, who would I trust more than anything, and you made me make this choice, I’m sorry it can’t be the man who ran away from me! And part of me keeps thinking I’m not even me for saying that, I’m not, I’m not the Beatrice that was going to tear a room apart with her bare hands to get what she wanted, who would scale walls and climb buildings and shoot a gun and could ski and fence by fourteen, I’m not, taking risks, I’m not doing whatever I have to, and that everyone who told me Bertrand was boring (because there were people!!!) and safe and uncomplicated was right and that I’m betraying some fundamental aspect of myself by not even trying, and that I’m hurting Bertrand especially for making him a damn pawn in what I think my life is

But it’s not like I never did! It’s not like I didn’t spend years and years of my life trying to be a good person, trying to create the life I wanted, all of this is me, every ugly thought and every bad decision and every unfinished book and every theater script I keep leaving around places and every single page of this as I try to figure out where I want to go from here! And it just comes back to one thing, Lemony, just one thing! That we can’t do this! That I can’t have you in my life like this! That I didn’t believe it would happen but here it is, it’s happening!! I can’t avoid it! You walked away from me and expected me to be okay with it! You expected me to wait! You expected me to do it! You expected EVERYTHING from me and I only have so much to give, I’m only so much, I CAN’T DO EVERYTHING

And do you know what I am? Do you know what I am, really, when I get right down to it?? I am this, this awful woman with blood on my hands asking you for something that even I could never give anybody, not you or Bertrand or myself and I’m so sick of everything, I’m so sick of myself, I hate everyone and myself most of all, for being like this, for turning into this person, I hate hate hate hate hate all of this and how we were raised and what our future is going to be and what I’ve done and what is it going to take, for things to be better, for me to be better, for—what is it going to take, Lemony, for you to walk back through that door again and not do it over and over and over and I can’t keep letting you do this, I can’t, not to me or to Bertrand, I can’t keep hoping you’ll be there when I wake up and I can’t keep dreaming we’re going to die and I can’t keep pretending that anything about us has ever been okay or ever will be okay! Nothing about this is okay and how am I only realizing it now? How long have we been fooling ourselves into thinking that we could do this? How long do I have to be kind about this? How long do I have to play nice about you and this?

I’m UPSET and I’m ALLOWED TO BE and I

don’t

know

can

forgive

you

I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if I can look at you anymore.

I don’t know.

Do you know how it was, Lemony? It was us first. You and me. From the second we saw each other in that green-walled room, it was you and me. Lemony and Beatrice. Root beer floats and being purposely mysterious to each other when we talked and being too clever. And I thought that meant we could do anything. We could die and I’d be happy because I was with you. As long as I had you.

And then there was Bertrand. And life felt different. Bertrand made it different, Bertrand made life different, he made it worth something else. And the bond that you and I had? Irreplaceable. And what we created with him only made it better. We had room in what we had for something so good. It really was Bertrand. I don’t know what would’ve become of us if it hadn’t been for him. And I saw that in you, too. You thought it too.

That was when I worried. When I started dreaming about terrible things happening to us. To you. I kept running from it because I didn’t know what else to do. I just didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want to lose.

I’m scared to do anything. I’m scared to be wrong. I’m scared to know anything else.

I’m scared to die.

I don’t think you are.

I’m not sorry.

-------

Here are some questions. Here are some facts. Here are some things.

1 – I’m tired.

2 – I can’t even wonder if we should have done things differently anymore, right after that moment we met. In that room, I never imagined any of this.

3 – Sometimes I do think you lied all along. And that’s not a reflection on our associates or anything but just, see question/statement 1.

4 – You had to have thought about what would happen.

5 – How could we have a family like this?

6 – Did you think you could run all your life? Did you think that would work out? That Bertrand and I would be satisfied with that?

7 – Did you want me like that?

8 – What am I supposed to do?

9 – How long did you think we could keep this up?

10 – Was I wrong?

11 – What did you want?

12 – I know you’d thought about what a family with us would look like and I didn’t think you’d let anything stand in the way of that and maybe that was where I was naive.

13 – What would you say if I asked you this in person?

-------

After all this, I—

Bertrand has asked me if I have any spare pens.

-------

Lemony—

A long time ago, I sat in the diner near your apartment. We’d all known each other for a while, and you and Bea were very much together, and I didn’t quite feel like a third wheel anymore but I also didn’t feel like I was a part of everything yet. We were still dancing around each other, and I was doing it truly, incredibly badly.

I was in the habit of meeting Jo on weekends, when we would go over our reports together because we worked in similar places. We’d meet in the diner. I would arrive early and take a seat near the door. It had the best view of your window. You never turned the lights on, but I would look at it and think about you and—I’m completely serious—write the worst poetry ever to exist. You and Bea have always been much better at it. Jo would take it upon herself to help and suddenly they were these grammar-specific poems, which meant I definitely was not going to send them. Jo is many things; Jo is just not particularly a writer of romance.

I never told you or Bea, because it didn’t seem noteworthy, once we were together. But, things happen in your life and you wish you’d been able to say so much more than you did. I wanted to tell you about the face Bea makes when you aren’t there. She bites her lip and frowns around the kitchen when there’s a lull in the conversation in the spots you would usually say something clever. I wanted to tell you how the bed doesn’t feel the same when you aren’t in it. Bea says the wrinkles don’t set the same, and I feel like it’s emptier without you. I wanted to tell you that the hottest summer days—and I feel like there have been an endless amount of them so far this summer, humid and muggy and not the least bit sultry—even they feel cold when we can’t see you. I wanted to tell you that every time I do the laundry, I remember how you can’t fold socks. I wanted to tell you that I’ve stopped folding socks altogether, which has become quite the problem. Bea and I have stacks of socks in the bedroom now, which is just silly. I wanted to tell you that I love watching you put your hat by the door when you come home, resting it on the table as gently as possible, giving such a small gesture has such a big importance.

I took those things for granted. So much of my life, I’ve thought that loving things so fiercely and so determinedly could be enough, and I’ve relied on that love to get me through what we had to do. Even when the three of us weren’t together, I think I would’ve been happy to stay that way, because I could still love both of you regardless, and just that would’ve been enough. Just to be able to love you, and have your companionship. I would have cherished that always.

I’m the one who’s been so lucky, Lemony. When we all got together, I felt like my life began. I felt like you and Bea pulled me along into something beautiful and breathtaking and nothing would ever compare. I felt like it would always be there, for the rest of my life.

And I’m—

I don’t hate you. I could never. You need to know, that no matter what happens, I will never hate you. I can’t promise to not be upset with you, because I am, and a little angry, and a little disappointed, and a lot sad. But I don’t hate you.

You and Bea have such beautiful ways to say things, and I’ve always been so jealous of the way you two write. You told me that both of you were jealous of my tendency to be a little more forthright, at least when I got down to it, because let’s not forget, I did spend two months coming up with nicknames for all of us instead of just telling you how much you meant to me. But I don’t have lengthy or passionate ways to say certain things, is what it is. Actions, definitely. But when I have to say it, it comes out.

I love you.

And I wish you were here.

I never wanted to think about it, I guess. I’ve done a very good job of not thinking of things I didn’t want to think about. We do difficult things and live difficult lives. It takes its toll, and I’ve watched it happen. I thought if I held on tight enough—to you, to Bea, to myself—that we could escape some of it, no matter what we’ve done. And we’ve done a lot. We’ve been kept up in turn by sleepless nights and bad dreams and wondering too much. We’re not going to leave—not for good, and each of us know that—but it could be more manageable, together. We would figure it out, when we needed to. Perhaps I was a bit too optimistic about how well I could do it.

I hate to think it was something we did, or something we didn’t see. I hate to think that you gave up on yourself or on us. I hate to think I didn’t do enough. I know it’s not necessarily anyone’s fault. I know Bea keeps telling me I’m too kind for my own good, and I think it’s because I’m afraid to really feel anything. Feeling it makes it too real, something I have to actually contend with, and I don’t want to. I really don’t.

I want to say—I don’t want to tell you, I just want to say it—that I’m more hurt than I’ve ever been, and I don’t feel like I belong here without you, and that I think, you didn’t want to do it, but you knew what you were doing, and you did it because some things just sound easier, or hurt more but hurt less than others, and that I despise the people that we’ve become. I despise the things that we’ve been made into, and I don’t know how much of it we did to ourselves. I don’t know how much I can change.

I won’t lie, Lemony, because I’ve never been much of a liar. It’s been hard without you. Bea and I haven’t been talking very much, and we get into arguments when we do. We’ve been avoiding each other. It’s hard to avoid someone you live with, for a lot of reasons. But we’ve been managing to do it. I’ve been hiding at the Denouement. Absolutely, definitely hiding. Dewey’s not pleased but he doesn’t say no to the help organizing the archives. Bea’s been going to the theater, even though she’s technically off-duty for the next seven months (it was self-imposed off-duty, which I’ll admit was surprising). When we do talk to each other, Bea has a tendency to raise her voice, which I don’t mind, necessarily, because I understand why she keeps doing it. I have a tendency of late to do the same, which I’m not proud of. Taking it out on each other isn’t good or responsible of us, but it’s where we are right now. It is a miserable place to be.

Bea assumes I’m upset with her, but I’m not. I’m upset with myself, mostly. I keep thinking that none of this would have happened if I wasn’t here, that I made things worse. If you and Bea had just gone on by yourselves, maybe there would be so much less unhappiness. Maybe I was what made it hard for you to stay. Maybe I pressured you, maybe I pressured myself. Maybe this is my lot in life. They’re awful things to think, but I’m thinking them. That’s what people do, when upsetting things happen. We try to figure out where we went wrong. We don’t come up with any answers, but it’s better than sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves, which we do enough of too. I know eventually we’ll stop hurting each other, Bea and I. It just feels a long way away right now. A lot of things feel that way. You, myself, my friends, anything I thought I knew or had.

I’m being very unkind, to myself. That’s not your fault. It’s just something I’m realizing now. I’ve spent a lot of my life being unkind to myself. I don’t know how not to be. There are many things I don’t believe that I deserve, a sentiment I know you understand. It’s hard to feel like we deserve anything, even what we love. The more I think about it, the more I think, maybe that was why. And that breaks my heart and scares me so much, Lemony, that we—you—are capable of feeling such sadness.

Honestly, part of me wants to keep waiting. The part of me that is a fairly patient person is probably willing to do so. But the other part of me that is less patient and a husband to both of you is the part that hurts, and the part that reminds me that I am allowed to say that there is only so much I can take. I want you here more than anything, but I know for sure none of this is ever going to be that simple again.

But going forward from this, I want to feel like I deserve things. There’s only so much time I can spend regretting, or hating myself, or wishing that I had done something different. It’s easy to get caught up in all of that, and I think I still will be, for a while. I think I’m going to keep thinking miserable things for some time to come. But on the other side of that is something else. Not necessarily a happiness, or a satisfaction, but a certain kind of existence. Or, I guess, a kindness.

I love you very much, Lemony, and I can’t imagine doing this without you. I still don’t want to.

But if you have to—Bea and I aren’t going anywhere. We’ll still be here. I can’t promise in what way, but we’ll be here, if or when or anything at all. I hope you can meet us in that something else one day.

Until then, with all my love,

I wish you bluebirds in the spring,

to give your heart a song to sing,

and then a kiss, but more than this,

I wish you love.

And in July, a lemonade

to cool you in some leafy glade,

I wish you health,

and more than wealth,

I wish you love.

My breaking heart and I agree

that you and I could never be,

so with my best,

my very best,

I set you free.

I wish you shelter from the storm,

a cozy fire to keep you warm,

but most of all,

when snowflakes fall,

I wish you love.

Bertrand

face the sun

in the night,

find it in the night

in the pieces,

dig for it,

dig it out with my hands alone.

yes.

what I left –

fragments,

every last eye,

unwelcome.

piling it back in.

new sunlight.

-------

So—the sad truth is that the truth is sad. The real truth is that I never wanted to believe you were right about that. I thought I could get by on good looks and sheer force and well-hidden optimism and believing I was right. I was wrong. We were all wrong, some of us more wrong than others.

Where you went wrong is thinking that we—that I—would be okay with this. And that was where I went wrong too, I admit. The blame could be with all of us.

What I do know is that we can’t be together like this. Not like this. This is where it ends.

I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. I don’t know what Bertrand and I will do. And the two of us—Bertrand and I—can figure that out. In whatever way that is. Whatever you’re doing, I leave you to it.

You will—always, always, always—be (somewhere) in my mind, and (deep) in my heart, and wherever (wherever.) (parenthetical required.) you are. Be it a boat, or a cave, or the city, or a grave, true or false. That’s the way you want it. That’s the way I will accept it. Good luck.

Beatrice

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events

25 notes · View notes

undeadimmortality · 4 years ago

Text

Unexpected

This was supposed to be a short story but after getting lost in my writing all day, I guess it will be a multi chapter!

Castiel x Reade

I was always a Crowley girl, but for some reason this past run through of Supernatural took me by surprise and Castiel caught my attention! He has successfully taken over my life. He can grip me tight and raise me from perdition any day!

Wanrings: Violence, Fluff, Idk, Smut maybe (I love to read smut, I'm very bad at writing it) Maybe other warnings, read with discretion.

The night air was calm and crisp, your breathing visible as you walked back to your room at the run-down motel you were hiding in. You gripped your coat tighter, piled your snacks in one arm, and reached in your pocket for the room key. As you jammed the key into the lock and swung the door open, you froze. The room was now dark, and you were sure you left the nightstand lamp on. The smell of sulfur filled your nostrils. It took two seconds for you to react as you dropped your snacks, and turned heel to bolt, but the hand that now gripped your elbow was faster and about to pull in back into the room. This was not the first time you were found by the demons, and you’d been fighting to survive your whole life. Reacting swiftly, you grabbed your knife that was attached to your hip and swung it up and straight through the demon’s throat with all the strength you could muster. Turning heel, you made a break for your car, and successfully peeled out on to the highway before seeing three more demons run out into the road watching as you sped off. That was a close one, you thought, you must either be getting sloppy, or Lucifer is recruiting more than his little demon squad to hunt you down. You’ve been dodging the devil for months now, so he must be getting desperate, which meant you needed to get smarter about hiding. You huffed in annoyance as your stomach grumbled, realizing that dinner would have to be put on the back burner for the night. And now your hands and clothes were soaked in blood and getting all over your car! Just fucking great, you thought, as you sped off through the night.

Castiel POV

“Cain has a child, Cas, your kidding! Why are we finding out about this ‘bastard child’ now?” Sam whined, in his normal sulky tone.

“The child is on heavens radar now, I never knew of him until Heaven gained intel that Lucifer has been searching for the child for months, and we need to find him before Lucifer does. This is our top priority as of now. If Lucifer gets his hands on the child of Cain, it could mean second Armageddon. Lucifer is seeking the child’s power, and this child is not an ordinary demon spawn, their power could rival that of any Archangel’s. Lucifer would be undefeatable.” Castiel explains.

“Alright then, let’s gank the kid, where do we start?” Dean says, his famous cockiness shining through.

“Whoah, let’s think about this for a second. Why haven’t we picked up on his powers yet if the kid’s so dangerous? We’re just going to off an kid without any knowledge of who they are?” Sam asks

“Yes, that part remains unknown, I’m guessing his powers haven’t manifested yet, but the child is far from innocent, and we can’t risk their powers manifesting and Lucifer getting ahold of said powers. The child dying before anything can be set into action is the only option.” Castiel explains further.

YOUR POV

A few weeks went by, and Lucifer’s search was getting harder to hide from. Another pack of demons had caught up to you in some rural town in North Dakota, forcing you to flee South. With the demons hot on your tail you stupidly missed the group of three boys that had caught up to you in a town you stopped at for the night; and little did you know you’re life what about to change.

It was mid-November, you’re favorite time of year. The air was crisp and cold. The snow laid a blanket of beauty over the dead trees. Even in times like this, it was hard to not stop and appreciate the beauty of nature. It’d been about three days of non-stop travel and sleeping in the back seat of your car, so stopping for a day or so was necessary. You had figured the demons couldn’t catch up in a day, so stopping in a small town for some R&R was far too appealing. After picking a hotel, and some dinner at a local dinner, you headed back to your room for a much-needed shower and some rest. You washed up and you hopped in to bed about to flick on the TV, but froze when you heard a knock come from the door. Not just a knock, more like an impolite pound. You groaned in annoyance and started stuffing your bag with your belongings. A day was all you needed, just a god damned day! At least you had gotten a shower in before the stupid demons decided to show up and ruin your night, you thought. As quickly and quietly as you could, you slipped out of the bathroom window, jumping to the ground, and turning to make a run for it.

But before you could react, you let out a gasp as you collided with man’s chest and backed away to get a good look at him. The feeling of terror ran through your spine before the man had placed two fingers on your forhead and darkness took over your thoughts. You didn’t see black eyes staring back at you, this time they were blue. The angels had found you.

Castiel POV

Normally Castiel was quick to react, but when the small girl climbed out through the window, unaware of Castiel’s presence, he was surprise to say the least. On their hunt for Cain’s child, they didn’t know who to expect, but a 20 something girl who looked the furthest thing from evil, was not who they expected to find. If it weren’t for the faint birth mark on her right forearm, he would have thought they caught the wrong person.

YOUR POV

“Ughhhh” you groaned, a bright light blurring your vision as your eye’s fluttered open. You lifted your arm to shield your eyes, only to have they stop from the shackles on your wrist. Panic took over and your breathing shallowed. You lifted you head, and frantically took in your surroundings. Your body was painfully shackled to a chair. The room was windowless, and empty aside form a few pieces of furniture, you, and three men muttering to themselves by the entrance. The angel was the first to notice you stir and got the others attention. When you got a good look at the boys, you recognized them almost immediately. The Winchester name was not new to you, and you had actually seen them in person a few times when they caught up to demons that were after you. You were lucky to stay under their and their stupid angels pet’s radar for years now until now.

“You got to joking!” You groaned, wrenching on your chains.

“Oh, far from it sweetheart! You’ve been dodging us for weeks now, it was only a matter of time before we caught you.” Dean started.

“Don’t falter yourself, sweatheart.” You sneered. “I was dodging-someone else.” You finished, not wanting to give up to much info, god knows what these buffoons already knew.

“You know who we are?” Sam asked, cautious and curious, but not rude like his stupid brother.

“Of course, I know who the famous Winchester brothers are! And they’re pet angel” You sneered. “You boys have actually done me quite a few favors by getting rid of some of those demons that have been on my tail in the past. I’d say thanks, but…” You smiled, putting as much sass in your words as possible.

“Enough of this!” Castiel lunged forward, bringing an angel blade up to your throat, his face inches from yours causing your breath to hitch.

With him this close you got a good look at the angel, not the vessel, but that shiny blue grace in his irises. He knew it too. “I see you, angel” you sneered. “Holding up your reputation well I see, shoot first and ask questions later! Just DO IT!” You spat. His only reaction was to push the angel blade harder on your skin causing skin to break and blood to trickle down your chest. You winced at the pain but held eye contact. No way were you going to show weakness, and certainly not to this self-righteous dick. You noticed a small crack in the angel’s exterior for a split second and you swear you caught a glimpse of confusion, remorse maybe?

“Cass..” Sam said, putting a hand on the shoulder.

Cass pulled back, and the three mean exited the room, locking it up behind you. You scoffed. Stupid Winchesters, you thought. If they weren’t going to kill you, you were a sitting duck in here for Lucifer to happily collect. Not to mention completely chained down. The chains hurt, and the slice on your neck burned.

Castiel POV

“I was all for ganking the bitch, but I don’t know Cass, I’m with Sammy on this one. That girl doesn’t seem dangerous. Could you sense her powers at all? Dean said.

“She’s got a big attitude, but she seems harmless, plus who knows how many times we’ve actually come close to finding her out in the past with what she said. If that holds true why hasn’t she tried to kill us?” Sam put in.

“Yes, she isn’t what I expected to find…” Castiel paced back and forth in deep thought.

“A hot chick!” Dean gave Sammy a wink and clicked his tongue. Both Sam and Castiel glared back, not amused.

“I can sense her powers, but it’s like they’re lying dormant. Like they’re deeply buried almost asleep. She-“ He started, pausing to look at the brothers. “She seemed scared. It was small, but I saw the fear in her eyes when she thought I was going to kill her. Not like killing a monster sort of fear. Her fear was innocent.” He started to pace again. “You’re right Sam, this feels wrong. We’ll need more information before her blood is on our hands. We need to keep this a secret for now. If the angels find out we caught the Child of Cain, it would mean her imminent death.” Castiel continued to pace.

“I can see why she’s blended in so well for years, with no powers, she seems like a normal girl” Sam finished.

Trying to sleep while chained to a hard chair only made your sour mood towards your captures turn to borderline hatred. Without any windows you couldn’t tell what time it was, but it had to be close to morning. Your whole body was achy and stiff, and your skin started to break under the cuffs.

You wiggled and wrenched, trying to get some semblance of comfort only to cause your joints more pain.

“Hello!!!” You yelled, your temper getting the best of you. “Hello!!! I have to pee and I’m starving!!” you wiggled around some more, getting more pissed by the second. It only took three more times of screaming as loud as possible, before you heard the lock unlatch and Castiel come in to view.

“Not very gentlemanly to keep a lady locked up all night now is it?” You scoffed. Before you could react the cuffs magically replaced the chairs wrist chains; and Castiel grabbed your arm and started dragging you towards the door.

Your feet hadn’t caught up to the movement and were about to fall face first into the ground before the angel caught you and stood you up straight.

“What’s your problem?” You groaned towards the angels back, who continued to drag you out of the bunker and only stopping when he reached a bathroom. After shutting the door behind the both of you, both eyes on each other.

“You get off on watching or what?” You said.

Apparently, he got the hint and turned around. You don’t know why you expected him to stay outside, but-well you didn’t know what to expect.

After you washed you washed up, finally able to wash some of the blood off your neck, the angel wasted no time to return you your cell.

“Why are you doing this?” You pleaded, panic starting to rise. Being locked up for another day was already painful to think about.

“You know why.” Castiel started walking towards the door after chaining you back up.

“This isn’t fair. If you’re going to kill me, just do it! I’m a sitting duck in here for Lucifer and you know it! Why even keep me locked up if you gonna ki-“ You started to ramble, but the Angel had heard enough, and the door shut, leaving you alone.

“Please, you can’t leave me here! I’m innocent! Castiel!!” You screamed to the empty room. You weren’t the type for begging, but at this point you were starving, your body was ached, and you hadn’t slept in over 24 hours. Getting desperate wasn’t beneath you in this stage.

It’d been well over 24 hours before you saw the 3 boys again. With nothing to do but sit in the darkness, you started to think you might actually go insane. The panic attacks would come, you’d fight and wrench on the chains, then cry, and then calm down, only to do it over and over again. On the third day, it was Sam this time, he’d taken you to the bathroom, letting you enter alone, thank god. He even brought you a sandwich and some water. The 4th day it was Dean this time, same routine, except he didn’t bring you any food. What a prick, you thought. If they wanted to starve you to death, they were succeeding. It went on this way for another couple weeks, and after the first, you’d manage to find a position where you could get some semblance of sleep at times.

You were startled awake by the door opening, and sat up to see Sam walk over to you. Sam held a glass of water up to your lips, but you whipped your head to the side, full on planning to give him the silent treatment. Being chained up for a month was starting to take it’s toll. You were weak and in a lot of pain. You were done playing their games.

“Please drink. I know for a fact Dean forgot to bring you food again yesterday.” Sam pleaded.

You didn’t say anything, but you couldn’t help the tears that threatened to spill over.

“My name” You croaked.

“What” Sam asked, confused.

“None of you even bothered to ask my name, do you know what it is? Or do you sadists prefer “Bastard Child of Cain?” You sneered, anger rising up your throat.

“No-Now that you mention it, no I don’t know your name.” Sam confessed.

“Get out.” You said, you’d had enough, either they kill you or you starve, you’d made your decision.

“What is your-“ Sam started.

“GET OUT!!!” You screamed, tears successfully spilling over, causing Sam to immediately vacate the dungeon. Okay I’ve officially gone insane, you thought.

A few more days went by, but you had officially gone off the rails. The skin under the chains held permanent open wounds, but the pain didn’t hurt as much anymore. It was more of a reminder that you were still the Winchesters prisoner. The boys, even Castiel attempted to get you to eat, but only succeeding with some sips of water, which you cursed your self for drinking. You’d been on a no food or drink streak for a couple days, but your dehydration got the better of you.

To your surprise, you watched Castiel walk into the room.

“Ahh! Finally grew some big boy balls to actually kill me, did you?” You croaked, cursing your dry throat for sounding weak!

To your surprise he released the chains and helped you stand. He led you out by your arm, but not as hostile as he’d been before. This time, he led you down a different hallway, walking with you rather than dragging you. As you slowly limped along, your back permanently ached from being chained up for a month. He stopped at a different bathroom, this one with a shower, and on the counter was your backpack, along with a towel.

Bringing you attention back to Castiel, he unlocked the cuffs, and placed his hand over your chest. You winced as a sharp pain rippled through you and then nothing. Looking down you saw your wrists were healed, and your body felt normal. Wiggling your legs, you couldn’t help the smile that crept along your lips.

“Why?” You asked, looking back up to the angel. Guilt was plastered all over his face, which only furthered your confusion. As far as you knew he wanted to end your life the day they caught you, but you assumed the Winchesters had more devious plans and they were who kept you alive.

“Take as long as you need, I’ll be waiting.”

The shower was literally heaven. Even with you healed, the hot water helped soothe your achey muscles. Along with fresh clothes, and bring able to brush your hair and teeth!? You felt like a new person! When you walked out, Castiel was waiting like he said he’d be, but your hope was short-lived when you heard the click of a lock and felt the familiar cold steal against your wrists. Glancing at the cuffs and back at Castiel, he saw hope leave your eyes.

“It’s just a pre-caution.” He said, motioning for you to walk forward. The hallway led into the kitchen, and then lead in to a library/dining room area where both Winchesters sat at a table. When they heard you enter, they stood up, and Sam pulled out a chair at the end of table and gestured for you to take a seat, which you cautiously took, and Castiel took the seat between you and Dean.

“What is this?” You asked, eyeing up both boys.

“We havn’t actually been introduced.” Sam started. “I’m Sam, this is my brother Dean, and this is Castiel.” He paused looking to you to answer.

Being the snarky person you were, you scoffed and gave him an “are you serious?” look.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Same ran to the kitchen, and brought back a glass of water, and a to-go box of what looked to be pancakes, eggs, and bacon. You mouth watered since you were on technically still on strike.

Immediately reaching for the fork he placed down, the handcuffs broke the silence as they dragged against the edge of the table.

“These too” You stated, holding up your wrists.

“No way in hell” Dean started, but without argument Castiel snapped his fingers and the handcuffs disappeared. You smiled in glee and wiggled in your seat at the new found pleasure of not being chained up. Placing the first bite of pancake n your mouth, you moaned as the sweet syrupy bread lit up your taste buds. Even if the food was a little cold, it tasted amazing compared to their half-ass put together sandwiches they’ve been feeding you. A couple more bites, and a whole glass of water later, you were content enough to play along.

“(y/n)” You said through a mouthful of eggs.

“(y/n).” Sam smiled.

“Not that I don’t enjoy this newfound hospitality after being chained up for over a month, but why?” You threw your hands in the air. Looking around and getting a good observation of your surroundings. You knew exactly where you were, or were guessing at least. Looking at the research that covered youe table and the others, you knew this had something to do with those bone headed Men of Letters you’d heard about through the monster grape vine.

All three men started a different explanation at once, when l a light bulb went off!

“Ah!” Your eyebrows raise looking between them. “There’s no lore on the “Bastard child of Cain” is there?! So, you butter me up and expect me to spill all my deepest darkest secrets??” You laugh and stuff another piece of pancake in your mouth.

“Well, she’s quick, I’ll give her that.” Dean says, taking a swig of beer.

“Listen (y/n), we want to prove that we’re not the bad guys here and you weren’t exactly what we-. “Sam started.

“Hah” You scoff, throwing your fork on the table. “You know, I spend my entire life running and hiding from a world where everything wants me dead. And I get caught by the “good guys”, who chain me up for a month.”

“(y/n) we’r- Sam tried to cut in.

“Stop.” You start, staring Sam down. “Truth is, your cowards.” The anger tasted like bile in you throat, but you stopped there, seeing the guilt written all over Sams face was payment enough and you didn’t want to piss them off to the point where they lock you up again.

“You’re right” Castiel broke the silence “About everything. We are cowards. When the rumors spread, I knew my mission was to find you before Lucifer did and extinguish your power. Even after meeting you, I was willing to kill you if it meant we got an upper hand in this fight. I am truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, and realize now that if your only sin was being born then you deserve to live and we’re on your side, but we need to know we can trust you and right now, aside from rumors we have no idea what or who you are.”

Sighing, you leaned back in your chair, and bit down on your bottom lip in contemplation. “Alight.” You say. “What do you want to know, but I get one of those.” You stated, pointing towards Dean’s beer.

Dean started to argue, but unwillingly grabbed you a fresh beer after some glares from the other men. He grumbled something of the sort about being demanding and having an attitude as he brough back your beer.

Sam jumped at the offer, getting a notebook out and started the interrogation. Apparently, the Men of Letters were thorough, and questions were getting personal.

“It’s rude to ask a girl her weight! What’s next my bra size?” You sassed back to Sam.

“I mean yeah, couldn’t hurt right, it’s research!” Dean piped up, earning a round of scoffs from the table.

You chuckled. “I don’t know Sam, I didn’t have time to by a scale and weigh myself while on the run from the Devil. But, for another beer, I’ll step on one if you got it here.” Giving Dean a sly smile.

Little did you know that second beer was a huge mistake because after getting on the scale, Sam and his stupid puppy dog eyes convinced you to also give up a blood sample, and other personal exams that you would have knocked someone out for asking, but you figured if you played by their rules, they wouldn’t lock you up again.

After a few more hours of poking and prodding, the boys were hitting the hey, and Castiel led you back to the cell. The feeling of dread hit your core, until you walked in and saw that at some point a bed had been placed in the cell, along with a few others things, and some books.

“It’s not that we don’t trust you, but-“Castiel started.

It’s fine Castiel, honestly anything better than being chained to a chair.” The buzz of the beers was wearing off, and sleepiness was creeping through.

“If you need anything I’ll be right outside. Goodnight (y/n)” And with that Castiel left and the lock to the door was the last sound you heard.

The weeks went by pretty fast after that. Castiel guarding your every move, the boys asking questions, and trying to gain more intel not only on you, but on your power and how to keep you alive while defeating Lucifer. They let you eat with them, research, and drink. You had learned that the bunker was warded up and down, and even though you were technically a prisoner, being here was the safest place in the world for you, and honestly it felt great to let your guard down a bit and relax. You too had questions, about yourself, about your father. The boys were helping you gain some answers, so you were content for the time being. The boys were being won over by cooking and cleaning that kept you busy when you weren’t researching. Takeout was getting old so you forced Sam to make grocery runs, and happily cooked some decent meals for the three of you. Not to mention the dirty laundry and surfaces that seemed to never stay clean, no matter how much you tried. You were even winning the Angel over after a while and were surprised to hear him pipe up when you fought for an actual room, rather than the dungeon.

“Why not??” You whined, stomping your foot a bit to prove your agitation.

“Is she seriously asking this? Dean turned to Sam, then turned to you. “Are you seriously asking this??

“What am I gonna do try to escape?? Kill you in your sleep?? You mocked In the best Dean voice you could muster. “Cass guards the cell, why can’t he guard a bedroom? This is unfair! I can’t gain your trust if you don’t give me more opportunities!” You yelled back, placing your hands on you hips for good measure.

Cass had defended you and deemed you his personal responsibility, and the boys finally agreed. So, with a squeal you launched your arms over the angels shoulder, earning a pleasantly surprised grunt from Cass, and ran off to gather your things.

“Stay out of my room!” Dean yelled after you. “She’s gonna be the death of us.” He grunted and Sam chuckled as you yelled back that you found the room you wanted and were in the process of throwing Deans underwear in the hall.

#castiel x reader #dean and sam #supernatural #fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #castiel fanfiction

27 notes · View notes