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feyofmay · 2 years ago

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The Oak Door

Laurie x March!Reader (aka "Ducky") Summary: At a gathering in london, hosted by Mister Laurence, Laurie gets drunk & the reader is forced to take care of him. While assisting him, Laurie attempts to propose, & the reader is everything but happy word count: 3.8k Warnings: ANGST, literally that's it just angst, also a lot of self doubt from reader

This story is a snippet from my longer Laurie x reader story, Foolish, Honest Love on ao3. If you want to know what happens next, you'll find out there ;P

Also, I am taking requests for Laurie x reader drabbles/minifics in my asks!!! :)

STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK

To say one’s heart & mind works separately is a lie because the heart is an organ that does not think, nor does it hold any greater understanding of what it is. It has no consciousness, yet is unrightfully given the capability to think & know. Nobody truly thinks with their heart or their throat or their liver or their pancreas. When someone says “thinking with their heart” or “thinking with their mind”, they mean thinking with their intuition or their rationality, or thinking with logic or emotion. They create a great divide in thought that, in all honesty, has & will never exist. A black & white. A right & wrong. A sky & sea. Existing between all of these concepts is a great trench, a lack of understanding, that was dug by the hands of men.

In thinking with her heart, the middle March finds it best to avoid Laurie, &, in thinking with her head, she agrees with her heart. All of this to say, for the past couple of days, she’s both missed & feared the sight of his face. It’s easy to grow distant from someone when there’s no possible way to close said distance, but, when you’re staying in the same residence per the request of his grandfather, it’s much harder to remain distant, both in a literal & metaphysical sense.

Within the lounge, where she resides now, Miss March distances herself from the greater commotion of the gathering, in the dining hall, without being fully disconnected, like a hand is to the torso. The walls are dressed in a tender maroon wallpaper with an eloquent & detailed moulding of marble & gold, replicating greek columns, which act as a trim that runs across the ceilings. She shares the chaise lounge with other guests as they squeeze next to each other, and their skirts overlap like incoming tides crossing over one another. She’s unsure if she's become overwhelmed by all the stimulus or simply unable to sense anything. The air doesn’t carry any distinct scent. Oddly, the space around her smells of the sound of bustling people & drinks swishing in crystalline glasses. Around her is noise & people, & all of her senses confirm that truth in a monotone wave. Nursing an empty glass, which she had thrown the contents of into a houseplant & plans to hold for the rest of the evening, she sits within conversation between several men & women, an intellectual hive of people that act more like displays for their attire then beings with bones & blood. For them, knowledge is a sport. It’s a trinket to place on your coffee table to try & impress your inlaws. It’s an accessory to tout & best acknowledge in thoughtful hums & inquisitive gasps.

A man in a matching set of birdseye patterned, taupe slacks & waist drones on about the recent unification of Germany. While Miss March does find the subject, itself, interesting, she can’t seem to hold intrigue in the conversation. Something about the smoke & the long days warping together in England has led her to misplace the inquisitiveness of the young girl who dreamed of moving to Europe & leaving behind the dreariness of subordinate domesticity. While, with age, she’s gained the emotional intellect necessary to process her emotions beyond simply scraping the shallow tide with her toes, she’s also gained the awareness that, oftentimes, the act of digesting her emotions is tiring. She’s learned that the energy used toward emotions is better spent producing something tangible & of worth.

Luckily for her, Laurie’s grandfather is a man in the know, which means he knew several associates with daughters of varying ages with varying tastes in clothes who were more than happy to lend a dress to a young lady. Over her crinoline skirt & bodice, a dress in a sweet champagne shade is draped across her. The lacy trim, not wanting to melt into the dress, itself, is a muted purple, almost a grey, that wraps around her puff sleeves & the edges of the champagne tier, with a silk white skirt with a lavender sheen peeks out from underneath. Nothing about the dress is loud. She feels much more at home in the fabric, especially after walking around in the daunting mauve dress like a living, breathing cake topper, a piece of decor for her employer to flaunt. For the first time since leaving New England & Meg & Hannah’s trusted fingers, she’d had her hair done by someone other than her family’s servant. The trusted maid of Mister Laurence had offered & promised to not pull too hard on the March’s hair. As the maid braided & pinned her hair, the middle March almost cried. However, it wasn’t due to any pain inflicted on her scalp, as the maid’s touch was tentative & gentle. It was the simple act of being touched & cared for, a touch Miss March had been subconsciously craving for since leaving her home. A touch she had forgotten until reuniting with Laurie in the crowded foyer.

Touching her shoulder, a soft hand brushes her & whispers a polite ask for her attention. She flutters her eyelashes, shaking off the weight of the dust that had collected on them, &, with the help of the welcomed touch, swims out of the mental fog she had sunk herself into. Her eyes flitter up & meet with the warm sight of Mister Laurence gazing back at her. Whether the strong scent of candle wax, lingering dust on velvet carpets, & forest breeze eminates from him or the memories of his manor in New England that she spent odd mornings & afternoons in, she’s unsure of. However, it’s another reminder of the young girl she tried to comfort & wish goodbye to before leaving for Lancashire.

“Pardon my forwardness, but, Miss March, I must ask you to join me for a brief moment. I do hate to take away from such wonderful company,” Mister Laurence requests, playing the role of the man wise beyond his years more gracefully than anyone Miss March has ever seen. With a curt nod, not even bothering to bid adieu to the people in the room, she lets curiosity lead her as she rises to her feet & wraps her arms around Mister Laurence’s. Ushering her out of the room at the exact speed that is swift without being suspicious, Mister Laurence guides the young lady to a hallway with no prying eyes or wandering ears. His gaze does not hold the anger of a great man who is weighed down by the hubris of those around him, but in his eyes is something deeply paternal & saddened. Around him, an umber waistcoat & slacks with a herringbone pattern remind her more of a bear then a man of business & wealth. However, her judgement may be heavily clouded from growing up under his watchful eye. While his hair used to be a soft salt & pepper, it has faded to a faint white & grey like the shadow of a tree painted on fresh snow during a cloudy evening. For most, with age comes wrinkles that hide within them their growing envy for the youth that’s being wasted on careless & stupid adolescents. Mister Laurence’s wrinkles are like the rings of a tree, lines that prove that he has lived & seen. They’re a promise that, if one is to ask, he will tell the story preserved in every smile line & crow’s foot. Bending down so his lips hover around her ear, she’s immediately washed in the same sincerity that soaks his demeanour.

“Y/N,” he calls her by her first name, a telltale sign of loyalty & unease from the man, “I do hate to put this upon your shoulders, but my grandson is acting aloof-”.

“In what sense?” she interrupts in the classic March fashion, &, used to this speech pattern, he continues speaking over her.

“And, while I don’t wish to make you pay for his poor decisions, I have an important associate that I do need to impress,” he explains to her as his hand returns to her shoulder, “And you and I are both well aware that no servant is paid well enough to have to deal with my grandson’s… ”

“Stubbornness?”

“...Tenacity.”

Both finish his sentence at the same time & share a gaze that communicates that neither are completely wrong with their wording. Nodding his head to agree with her, he looks away at the hall ahead. No paternal figure wants to admit their children’s faults. To say a truth is to make it known, but to admit a truth makes it tangible. She can feel the glass ball that rolls up & down his throat, ever so often bobbing at the opening to his stomach. Hiding beneath his heavy wool morning coat, his shoulders tense while trying to protect the rest of his body.

“A servant caught him with several other young women & clearly inebriated,” he reveals to her, & the edges of his lips quiver & twitch as they are tugged by invisible strings into a frown. His words dig a hole into her chest. All that remains is her skin, which caves in & sags where her sternum once was. It leaves a tingling sensation where her muscles & bones used to rest. She feels that Mister Laurence is speaking of a different grandson, which she has never met. What happened to the young boy who would treat her childish fears with utmost sincerity? What happened to the boy who made pinky promises seem like the most honourable pacts a man could make? What monster, what man had stolen the skin from him & now wears it as a costume?

“I’ll confess. I’m unsure of where I went wrong with him,” Mister Laurence slips out between hushed lips, telling his secret to the wind & Miss March. Pausing to swallow his words, she furrows her brows & purses her lips. Swimming in her mind, she can’t think of any words that can comfort him in this moment of vulnerability. So, rather than speaking, she wraps her arms around the older man & hugs him tightly. Surprise washes him over as she squeezes his ribcage tightly, &, for a moment, he freezes as his eyes dart around to try & catch leering gazes peaking around the corner. But they are hidden in the inky shadows of the hallway. With a long exhale, Mister Laurence allows his tension to escape, & he swallows her in his embrace..

“You worry about business, and I’ll worry about Laurie,” she comforts him while pulling away, pausing to fix his bowtie, “He’s very lucky to have a grandfather that’s as kind and loving as you.” Mister Laurence smiles at her reminder as the rosy glow on his cheeks alights the hallway for a moment. Each breath they take in the space that they share feels like it fills each corner of their lungs. Nodding to her, a silent show of gratitude, he leads her to an oak door which lays slightly ajar. Holding the nob, he turns back to her before speaking.

“Thank you for your assistance. He’s in here,” Mister Laurence informs her, & he slowly swings the door open. Immediately, the souring scent of wine hits her face, &, as an instinct, her nose scrunches up & a grimace stains her lips. Splayed out on a couch, dishevelled & basking in his own ruin, she sees more of a strange, unfamiliar man than the boy that she knew. She sees a man that will grow to be discontent with his wife, yet who stays for the kids. A man who never really loved his children but is patiently waiting for the fulfilment that comes from acting in the role that society has told him to. A man who will never be fulfilled. A man that has learned that he must settle for what he has, quietly & miserably. A miniscule part of Miss March relishes at the idea that he’d have to learn how cruel the impartial hand of life can be, but the rest of her is well aware that Laurie will never know “enough”. He’d love his wife, even if she loved another man. He’d work to provide for his kids, &, if the wife was never around, he’d raise them all on his own. He’d move mountains to try to find the better side of “enough”. Laurie will love & love because that is Laurie’s nature. He loves wine & women. He loves trekking through forests & acting a fool, even in public spaces. He loves to engage in conversation while in the company of the March sisters, where no sentence is ever finished & nothing is ever truly said but the quiet “I love you” that rattles around in the pauses between words for a quick draw of breath. Laurie loves Jo. Laurie will continue to love, & love will truly be the cause of his death. Yet, Laurie will find a way to love the silent & cold hand of what lies beyond in a way that no person has ever done before. Miss March cannot even entertain the idea of Laurie living a life that is just “enough” because, to her, his company is more than enough. It is good. It is plenty.

That same man has tossed away his vermillion silk tie & waistcoat, leaving him in a starch white shirt that’s a third of the way unbuttoned & hastily tucked into raven black slacks. Closing the door behind her, the click of the door knob alerts him to her presence. However, his verdant eyes don’t move to meet her as he stares through strands of his messy chocolate hair & up at the silver ring that he often displays on his pointer finger.

“Are you here to scold me, oh my dear mother?” He asks to the wind, acknowledging her existence. Miss March inhales deeply as the beating of her heart starts to drown out the sound of her breath. Clasping her hands together, she tentatively begins to make her way over to the cobalt ottoman that rests near the matching couch. The room is a demure periwinkle with small etchings of leaves adding a splash of muted emerald to the room.

“No, Laurie. Your grandfather asked me to keep you company,” she tries to ease his nerves as she inches closer.

“No, he told you to keep me away from the guests as I am his greatest failure,” Laurie shoots up at her words, sitting up far too fast for his drunken mind to handle. A warbling groan of pain slips out of his mouth as he rakes his fingers through his hair & clutches his throbbing head. At the sight of his agony, Miss March rushes to him &, readjusting his legs, sits on the edge of the couch cushion, right in front of him. With a tender touch, she gently wraps her fingers around his wrists & rubs small circles with her thumb.

“Oh, shush, you’re as much of a failure as I am a dancer,” She teases him with a sympathetic smile. At her words, a small & raspy chuckle escapes his lips &, tilting his head, his celadon eyes, in which the fields of Elysium hide, gaze up at her. Hiding beneath a smoke of anger, she’s able to see the young boy that she grew up with. The young boy that she once fell in love with. He’s scared & small & all the things a child is never allowed to be.

In this moment, as much as she despises it, she knows she must admit her faults to him & ask for forgiveness. She was cruel & unjust for bringing up Jo with the intent of spitting in his face. She hurt him with the intention of leaving a mark, & she succeeded in doing so. If he doesn’t ever forgive her, she’ll grow to understand. It won’t be an easy process, but loving Laurie has never been anything close to easy. Taking a deep breath, she shoves the racing thoughts out of her vision & looks him in the eyes.

“I apologise for what I said in the alley, concerning your feelings for Jo. I shouldn’t’ve ever used them to hurt you,” she apologises quickly, &, after speaking, immediately purses her lips together & stares at him. She waits for him to scream. To yell at her to get out. To say he hates her & never wants to see her again. To tell her he always hated her. That he only tolerated her for Jo. To say she’s stupid. She’s vile. She’s not worth Jo or Meg or Beth or Amy’s time. She waits for him to tell her the truth she’s been too scared to say to herself aloud. She waits & waits until, finally, his lips part, & he draws a quick breath.

“It’s alright. I was being mean too, and I, truly, do owe you many apologies, as well, ” he replies with a thin smile, replaying the events in his head. Ducky’s stomach squeezes as relief floods her system, & she sharply inhales while attempting to keep some kind of composure. A tight smile graces her features, slipping past her facade of propriety & decorum.

“I’ve been spending this past year, & some odd months, wallowing in my own melancholy, but,” Laurie pauses for a moment, slouching forward so his eyes are level with Ducky’s, “but I cannot waste away my life being miserable. If money is truly of the highest concern, then marry me.” His words grab her by the neck, shove their long, spindly fingers down her throat, wrench the breath from her lungs, & pry the air out of her. Her mouth falls agape as she struggles to comb through & fully understand what he’s said.

“Laurie, I refuse-”

“You won’t have to work, nor do you have to love me, & your family will be provided for: Beth, Amy, Marmee, everyone,” he prattles on, afraid of the nearing rejection that comes when he stops to breathe. Ducky can’t hear anything other than her own heartbeat & what, to her, sounds like the faint whisper of Laurie’s voice. She can’t even hear herself think.

“You’ll be happy, I promise. Everyday I will spend in honest devotion to your happiness,” he’s breathless as he finishes his speech, &, feeling the walls begin to collapse in on her, Ducky jumps to her feet. Rushing back & forth, in front of her very eyes, are countless memories of Jo & Laurie, of the way it’s always been. Jo loves her work. Laurie loves Jo. Ducky was left to love the footprints Laurie had left while chasing after Jo.

“Laurie, I, as a woman, must either enter a marriage for security or for love,” she whispers out as her arms wrap around her waist, squeezing her sides tightly, “while you can marry for any reason under the sun, and I will not be an accomplice in allowing you to waste that privilege.” The room grows smaller, the air between them thinner. It’s hard to breathe & her vision becomes a swirl of blues & greens with a spotty pillar of white & black wiggling around in the centre. Laurie stops, & Ducky stops. Neither move. Neither speak. Neither breathe. The walls stop moving, & everything around them fades into their shadows. They are a boy & a girl. A lady & a man, all grown up & yet the exact same as they were the day that they met. While his previous proclamations were loud & steady, the words he speaks next are a promise meant only for his lips & the spirits that hide in peoples’ breaths.

“But I can give you both, love and security, if you’d allow me. I’ll inherit my grandfather’s wealth, and we could be happy, all of us.”

Clear on his face is the same sincerity that he’s gifted to her in every moment of embarrassment & shame. His eyes stay glued to hers. After waiting for years for him to say these words to her, she can’t help but feel his admittance is fake. That maybe his words are meant for someone smarter, braver, older, & better then she is. His words are meant for Jo.

“No, no, you don’t get to, this isn’t right,” she bites back, walking backwards & grasping for the door knob yet only finding the air between her fingers, “Stop it, Laurie, please.”. He follows her, &, in his drunken state, collides with the furniture, sending his body awry.

“Yes, yes I can, and we both know it to be true,” he tries to correct her as he raises his hands to grip her forearms. Her shoulders immediately tense at his touch. His fingers crinkle the poofy champagne fabric that delicately floats around her skin.

“You’re acting a fool, Laurie-”

“I can, I swear on my life Y/N, I am able and I am willing and, and content to do so.”

“-I won’t allow it, I simply cannot,” she continues to ramble on, & her finger tips brush against the cool metal of the doorknob. Laurie opens his mouth to rebuke her statement, but, before he can, her palm flies up & presses against his lips. Covering his mouth with her hand, she shakes her head as her eyes gleam with tears.

“Please, stop. It hurts, Laurie. Please, Laurie, you’re hurting me,” she pleads to him as her fingers curl around the door knob, “I cannot do it. You broke my heart once already. Is that not enough for you?”

To watch the boy she admires fall in love with her sister, who she’s loved since the dawn of time, was a constant, real ache that left her sobbing into Beth’s chest as she begged Meg to help her & relieve her of the pain, which was an impossible task. After the middle March had left for Europe & caught word of Jo’s rejection in a letter from Beth, she had a heavy heart knowing that the two people who were connected at the hip for all of her adolescence had now grown cold & distant. It was as if she’d heard that the moon no longer followed the sun, leaving the night cold & bleak. All she has done her entire life is labour & hurt for those she loves without question or complaint. However, she cannot look Laurie in the eyes as he slurs out ideas that would’ve sent her younger self spinning & giggling with a maddening joy. She cannot withstand that pain for him. She doesn’t feel happy or sad. Nor is she angry or scared. All that she can feel is the heavy pounding of her heart & a dull ache emanating through her. The pain swallows her mind, &, while her body still remains, Ducky has clearly fled far from the room. She’s racing down the streets in her dress, seeing how far her legs will take her.

She yanks the door open just before he can reply & heaves her body through, slamming the door shut after her. Leaning her weight against the slab of carved & varnished oak, a few tears trickle down her cheek as she chokes back a sob, not wanting to alert any guests nearby. In her mind, she’s already ran all the way back to New England. There, back in her home, she lies, hiding her tears in Beth’s dress, as her sisters practically cocoon her, protecting her & the fire from the harsh reality of the world that waits outside their loving embrace & on the other side of the oak door.

i told you it's literally & only just angst... sorry. please like & repost :)

#timothée chalamet #theodore laurence x reader #laurie x reader #little women 2019 #laurie laurence #laurie laurence x reader #louisa may alcott #little women #timothee chalamet fanfiction #little women fanfiction #laurie laurence fanfiction

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tirfpikachu · 4 months ago

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i have high empathy for transfems who face often horrific bigotry that i'll never face, and that only some post-transition ofab people have faced, even then only conditionally and not in the exact same way. i have seen someone i love face anti-transfem bigotry and it broke my heart. i want to give a voice to all victims of gncphobic violence and the transfems who actively face misogyny irl have my shoulder to cry on anytime. the transfem experience is complex.

but i have ZERO fucking tolerance for any transfem who believes in the "cotton ceiling" r-pe apologist, predator-enabling rhetoric. and it is hitting the ofab members of the lgbtq community the hardest.

if a fellow ofab/female person believes in that, i'll talk to them, try to reach them. often they end up confessing that they're ofab4ofab too but deeply ashamed, or they'll talk about a predatory encounter they had or how the rhetoric never fully sat right with them but they wanted to be good allies. but for transfems who benefit from shaming ofab people who don't want to fuck them, or sitting by while others like them do that shit, not speaking up, deeply benefiting from a class of people who will grit their teeth and date them despite their clear lack of attraction, or they'll at least feel deep shame and try to conversion therapize themselves into being into both ofab and omab people, hiding their homosexuality (in the og sense of the word) and never truly embracing their culture as homosexual gays, forever ashamed? fuck that. if you're into people regardless of their sex/agab, you don't fucking understand what it's like. if you're not ofab, you're not facing the blunt of the repercussions of this rhetoric. you NEED to use your voice as a transfem to call this shit out. please. and we as ofab people need to completely stop tolerating this behavior.

you can say all day til your face turns blue that no one is forcing anyone to date transfems, but you're still only accepting some forms of gayness and viewing others as close-minded. peer pressure isn't always someone saying "you're a piece of shit for not doing this." it very often is just "well it's okay in your case because xyz, but you should make sure to unlearn transmisogyny and heal your traumas if you have any, and then try to look at transfems while remembering they're real women, it'll help!" which is also a way to brainwash people into feeling deep awful guilt for their wonderfully natural sexuality that has been oppressed for many, many centuries. in this case, inaction is leading to great harm. greater than you think. the stories i have heard are fucking heartbreaking and unacceptable. if transfems speaking up against this can save even one more victim, it'll be incredibly worth it. and beyond that, it'll greatly lower the amount of anti-transfem sentiment in feminist circles (in case you only care if it affects transfem rights, as some have full-on admitted to my face in the past). we need to weed out this bullshit before things escalate into worse and worse situations. you might think it's no big deal. you might not be directly affected by it. you might think that up on your big high horse, you're doing better activism for not wasting your time with ofab people feeling pressured to date. but if you hate predators, if you hate bigotry, there's literally no way around it. this issue keeps worsening in pretty horrifying ways. everybody should be concerned. and it leads to people who feel unheard going down the blackpill route as well, losing all hope in the lgbtq movement. some even end up in rightwing spaces. if you care about gay people, you need to care about ALL gay people. if you care about victims, you need to care about ALL victims. your inaction now has a real body count. all gay sexualities are fantastic and worth celebrating! it doesn't mean trans women can't live as women and date ofab people, passing as a lesbian couple and having lesbian experiences. it just means that you cannot shame someone for having a gayness based on sex/agab. it means you need to learn that not all gay experiences include you, just like how not all transfem experiences include transfem-passing transmasc people. there's creeps around who are using this as an excuse. i have met many, and i have talked to many survivors. they may be a handful in a sea of transfems, but predators need to be fucking exterminated at all costs. you need to speak tf up. now.

#lay text #t4t #transfem #lgbtq #transmasc #ponderings #tirf #radblr

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confused-as-all-hell · 4 years ago

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"i know we broke up, i know we don't talk anymore, but I still miss you"

@wesper-week i'm sincerely sorry for this chaos

Jesper Fahey's trade was humor.

His clothes were the colour of too much attention, his laugh limned in shimmering gold. He drew gazes and wistful stares like a lighthouse beacon called for drifting ships. The lines of his body were sharp, elegant, sprawling. When the corners of his mouth lifted in a grin, stars gleamed in his eyes.

He was so achingly beautiful, all tousled dark hair and broad shoulders and warm hands.

Girls and boys fell over themselves for one kiss, one little smile, one whispered word in their ear. How could they not?

Jesper was young and handsome and heady as a cup of evening wine, clever with his graceful fingers, wicked with his soft lips. His GPA was polished, his manners immaculate.

They hung on to his words, the cadence of them, the amused lilt that drenched every sentence.

Jesper had fallen in love with so many, men with rough laughs and kind smiles, women with curling hair and bright eyes. He had taken them over the world, to parks and monuments and cafes, kissed them in the shadow of history.

For every one of his lovers, he bought a ring.

Amethyst for the young lady who carried the scent of lavender.

Gold for the pretty girl whose lips tasted of joy.

Sapphire for the boy who kissed like a fucking god.

Ruby for the trickster woman who loved to laugh.

Copper for the handsome man who had a smile like late summer.

Jesper had cared for each of them in turn. He gifted flowers and jewelry and handwritten letters in his untidy scrawl. He had told them stupid jokes and held their hands and read to them in his unmade bed.

But one by one, they left him, and soon all that was left of their love were those glinting rings.

"Is there something wrong with me?" he whispered once, face shining with tears, head thrown back against the wall.

Nina rested her head against his chest, wrapping her arms around him awkwardly. "Of course not, darling."

He patted her cheek clumsily. "Then why does everyone keep leaving, Nina? Why does nobody stay?"

"Wylan—" she began, but shut her mouth instantly.

"Wylan is different."

And he was.

Beautiful, quiet, sweet Wylan Van Eck with his slender hands and paint-splattered face. He was everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, sketching the stars as they lay intertwined in bed, smiling over his cup of morning tea, dressed in his oversized shirts and plaid trousers.

His kisses were soft and tentative and tasted of tea leaves. His grins were slow and mischievous and bright as the damned sun. When he sprinted along the rim of a fountain, laughing and arms aloft, Jesper thought love might kill him.

He still dreamt about that day, Wylan leaping across the broad rim, his face upturned, sunlight brightening his hair to flame and gold. Wylan, paint smudged across his lower lip, hands stained with red acrylic. Wylan, pretty blue eyes bright with mirth, his panicked yelp as he nearly toppled sideways.

Wylan, Wylan, Wylan.

Sometimes, when Jesper was laying on the floor of someone else's bathroom, watching the ceiling spin and spin, he could still hear Wylan whispering, "And if I said I am yours, and there is no greater honor, what then Jesper?"

They had been so fucking happy, happier than Jesper deserved, all sticky orange juice kisses and skinny dipping in the ocean and opulent restaurants of ivory and gold.

And then Wylan had mentioned the gambling.

They had argued for days and weeks and then months, furious and bitter. Jesper used to live for the clink of coins and soft rush of the wheel and the elation that flooded into his eyes, ears, mouth, fingers. He loved the hum and chaos of the nightclubs, the frenzy of congratulations and drunken kisses and the retreat into those shadowed alcoves.

The scent of alcohol, the sounds of triumph, the press of hands on his body, the pleasure and ecstasy and joy.

But on their hundredth argument, tears were running down Wylan's face, distorting his freckles and widening those fucking blue eyes. He'd whispered he wouldn't stand for it, and Jesper had woken alone the next morning.

His bed was too empty, his kitchen was too quiet, the room where Wylan painted was too fucking much. All that remained was the hole in Jesper's heart and a sketch of the water fountain Wylan had drawn so lovingly, each detail of the scene preserved forever within charcoal. The ice cream parlor. The sunlight. Wylan, laughing and trying to keep his balance, eyes bright bright bright. Jesper, staring at Wylan as if he had never seen another quite so magical.

The memory of those eyes haunted him, every damn day.

He found himself writing essays on Wylan's long, copper lashes. His eyes, the blue of tranquil oceans, of the clear winter sky, of salvation. The glints of silver shining within, a quiet intelligence that so few had glimpsed. The way he would shyly glance away whenever Jesper grinned at him.

How many times had he stared into those eyes, while the two of them lay bare and exhausted among his own silk sheets?

How many times had he looked up after a kiss to find Wylan smiling back at him?

How many times had he nearly drowned within Wylan's gaze, steady and thoughtful and really fucking hot?

But slowly, agonizingly, bitterly, he grew used to the silence.

He stopped texting Wylan in the middle of the day, face damp with tears, hands shaking with misery.

He stopped accidently brewing a second cup of coffee at breakfast.

He stopped glancing to his left, searching for a glint of red hair in crowded spaces.

He stopped seeing Wylan when another was beneath him.

But sometimes Jesper wondered if anything could make him stop loving the boy with pretty blue eyes and a heart of gold.

And if sometimes he glimpsed Wylan in the halls, or at a nightclub, or sketching with those fucking charcoal pencils, he could wave. Smile. Pretend he wasn't going to take another home just to ease the day's pain.

'Why won't you go back to him?" Kaz asked once, barely glancing up from his phone.

"He doesn't want me," Jesper said quietly.

He raised his eyebrows as if in disbelief. "Jes, I have it on good authority that Wylan Van Eck hasn't dated a single soul after your breakup."

"Who told you that?"

"Nobody," Kaz said airily.

"Nina?"

"Nina."

Jesper attempted a loose smile, but it drifted aside easily as a gauzy veil twitching in the wind.

Wylan Van Eck, kind and brave and good.

Wylan, with his inquisitive eyes and thoughtful conversation.

Wylan, lonely and miserable because one stupid fucking boy had broken his heart.

He could barely stand it.

In some hidden chamber of his mind, he had locked away Wylan’s laughter, the tide of his amusement, inexplicably bright and wondrous. It felt like gazing at one of his softest paintings, a lush blend of ivory and blue and gold, like glimpsing something raw and beautiful and secret.

A burning star.

A miracle, spinning through the galaxy, leaving nothing but light in its wake.

A memory, and no more.

Wylan had once laughed so freely, snickering over an amusing quip, or stifling his smile when Jesper read to him late at night.

That sound of joy and delight. . . it was the brightest damn thing in the world.

And Jesper wanted to know that somewhere, in some other softly lit room with a man looking up at Wy like he was the sun, that laugh was sounding again.

He wanted to know that even if Wylan didn’t shine for him, he shone nevertheless.

The next morning dawned piercing and cold, a bright jewel in the crown of winter. Jesper chose his clothes with unusual care, knotting the laces of his boots twice, cleaning his dozens of rings before slipping them on.

Once he had hoped Wylan would give him the last of the collection—the wedding ring.

Now, as he finished with the last of them, he left his fourth finger bare, a final shrine to the ghosts of their past.

The cafe where he had asked, begged, pleaded for Wylan to meet him was nearly empty, but for a handful of people. His gaze lingered on a young woman with curling brown hair who might have been Nina in a hat, and a man with his leg propped up that was almost certainly Kaz.

Even though he made a mental note to strangle them later, the gesture eased the pressure within his chest ever so slightly.

And there was Wylan, a cup of tea clutched between his slender hands, huddled in a soft brown sweater. He was staring out of the window, those damned blue eyes vague and empty.

Jesper slid soundlessly into the booth, holding his breath as if he could force the longing from his lungs. “Hello, Wylan,” he said softly.

When he glanced up, something in his gaze shifted.

A blossoming flower.

An easing rainfall.

Something wonderful and exquisite and otherworldly.

Hope, hope, hope.

“Jes,” he returned with a little smile.

And Jesper leaned forwards. He couldn’t help it, not when Wylan was there before him and his lips were curved so slightly and his fingers were wrapped around his mug like—

“Wy,” he said, clearing his throat, “I wanted to talk.”

He straightened slightly, that quiet peace dissolving. “Had I not wanted to talk to you, I wouldn’t have answered your text.”

They stared at each other silently, waiting; it felt like sitting in the living room together, huddled over a game of chess, Jesper grinning as he slid the first pawn two squares up.

But he was not nearly so confident about his play now.

“I’ve been talking to Kaz,” he began awkwardly, the words clumsy in his mouth. “He told me you haven’t been seeing anyone.”

“And I’ve been speaking with Inej,” returned Wylan, utterly refined and elegant in his simplicity. “She tells me you’ve been seeing everyone.”

Jesper felt like a child again, clutching a rifle in his inexperienced hands, brows drawn together in concentration as he replayed his mother’s instruction in his mind. His father was playing target again, brown eyes gentle with encouragement. He didn’t know what to do, he was going to shoot his father, he was going to harm harm harm.

The words in his hands, his throat, were constricted and awful and stumbling. He didn’t know how to shoot without hurting anyone he loved.

Wylan was still gazing at him, blue eyes dark, for the first time in memory. “Jes,” he said, “was I so easy to forget?”

“Forget?” Jesper croaked. “Like a stupid song or piece of information on the study guide? Like you didn’t shine brighter than the damned sun? Like there were days when I didn’t wish to capture the stars and give them to you?”

There was a strange, crackling rush in Jesper’s ears, as if the ocean had swelled too high and now he was drowning, drowning, drowned.

If Wylan wanted him back, if Wylan loved him still—

He could wake up every morning with soft limbs tangled in his own. He could kiss Wylan again, taste tea and sugar cookies and mint. He could marry him, live out a life with him, die on the bed beside his own, fingers interlocked tight.

The future was there, tangled and messy and uncertain, but there all the same.

But Wylan was shifting in his seat, almost anxiously. “Jes,” he said softly. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

His eyes, his lovely blue eyes, were beginning to shine. “I know that look,” he said, almost bitterly. “I know that look damn well.”

Jesper’s giddy excitement was beginning to wither, and he clung to it desperately, a final shield against the darkness. “What look?”

Wylan reached out, fingertips stained blue with paint, hands still slim and delicate, a work of art. “If you think I want to… to get back together, I don’t. You and I, it was so much fun, and sometimes I wonder if everything was more than a college romance.”

He retracted his shaking hands, and ran them through his copper hair. “I wonder if another Jesper, who loved himself as much as his friends love him, and another Wylan, who was just a little bit of a better boyfriend, might have had their future together.”

Jesper could only stare

Wylan whispered, “Don’t you see it, Jes? We were stupid fucking collage kids who fell in love, but it was never supposed to carry on. I told you, that night in the club, I just wanted sex.”

He remembered.

Just sex, do you understand? No more, Jes.

But then, I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you just once.

And it kept going, spiraling, until one morning they were laying in bed and Wylan was wearing Jesper’s shirt, and Jesper was stroking Wylan’s hair, and it was much more than just sex.

One date, Wy. Give me a chance.

I love you, I love you, I love you, dumbass.

I want you to move in with me. I want you in my bed, my kitchen, my clothes. I want to see you tired and angry and miserable and I want to tell you you’re still the best fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

Jesper had imagined their wedding, every so often, a blazing pillar of hope lighting the path to the future. He had dreamt tailored suits and blue eyes and the final ring. He had planned every detail of his speech, his vows, his oath to live and die with Wylan Van Eck.

“Just sex,” he said at last. “We fucked it up, didn’t we, Wy?”

Wylan extended his hand once more. “I loved you, Jes, I won’t pretend. But I’m with someone else now, and I care for him, and I promised I would sort out the ghosts of my past.”

Jesper slid his palm over his, reveling in the soft skin, the gentle touch he would never feel again. “You’re happy?” he said softly. “He makes you laugh?”

He smiled, a secret, lovely smile. “Yeah. Yeah, he makes me laugh.”

And the sudden truth of it, the fact Wylan was someone else’s now, and he was laughing in another’s arms, hit Jesper. It sent ice through his veins, his mind, the final shattered shard of his heart, tearing through memories.

Wylan, brave and wonderful, laying on his bed. His hands were aloft, describing a particularly clear night sky, the shapes he traced in the stars. He had named one for Jesper, and he said it was shaped like love.

Jesper, doubled up in laughter as he flipped a pancake, listening to yet another one of Wylan’s rambling stories. He never tired of them. Those recollections, the happy lilt to his voice, the giddy, “There’s more, though!” were treasured beyond gold.

Wylan, working on some assignment or another, sprawled on the grass of a dewy meadow. His head was pillowed on Jesper’s hoodie as he wrote, filling the page with his elegant script. Every so often, he would glance over and point out a butterfly or shaped cloud with a smile.

Jesper, watching as Wylan leapt across the fountain. His copper head was upturned, sunlight streaming down onto the angles of his face, joy etched in his brilliant grin. He looked like a god for that one moment, frozen forever in a snapshot of peace.

“I will love you if the entire fucking world tells me not to,” Jesper had whispered once. “I will love you if the entire fucking world tells me to. I will love you, because I am yours, and there has never been such an honor.”

When the years whiled past, when the bone-deep sorrow lightened at last, did Jesper still love him?

That was the question he asked himself every morning over a cup of bitter coffee.

Twenty-four years old, and Jesper still loved him.

Thirty-one years old, and Jesper still loved him.

Forty-five years old, and Jesper still loved him.

Fifty-seven years old, and Jesper still loved him.

An old man, dying in his bed, and the laugh ringing through his head belonged to a boy with pretty blue eyes and a heart of gold.

A dead man, and Jesper loved him from the grave.

Love bowed to no one, and least of all death.

A collage romance was theirs, but their love was not that of two foolish young men, out for a kiss and in for a good fuck. It was carefree, happy, bright as the sun. It was etched in the stars, and it was doomed from the start.

Love bowed to no one, but perhaps it inclined its head towards Jesper Fahey and Wylan Van Eck.

#jesper fahey #wylan van eck #wesper au #wesper fic #wesper #six of crows #soc #crooked kingdom #ck #rule of wolves #row #my bestfriend loved this but shes biased as fuck #so here goes #im nervous ngl #please done hate this-#im so tired like excuse me

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wankingbank · 3 years ago

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Millionaire dating secrets: How to get a Wealthy man to Marry you

Everyone wants money, no matter what they tell you. More so for the ladies. It’s a big pain to date a broke man, unless you are making him your project, something you might regret very soon. I am a man and I know it, when you are broke your spirits are down and a woman is the last thing in your mind. A man’s most important thing is his mission, what he really feels like doing and seldom will that be a woman. It must be something greater than just mere companionship.

Getting a rich man when everybody is looking for one can be a bit difficult. There is no shortage of beautiful, good women looking for that knight in shining armor. To land the rich dude who live in the leafy suburbs and drives a Maybach might require some few skills on your part to make you stand out.

Be realistic, love is not money If all you are looking for in a guy is money, you are better off robbing him

If there is no love, no romance, no spark in the relationship, you are wasting your time. A man who has so many girls swooning over him for his assets can spot a gold digger a mile off. He might just play on, use and dump you. Be honest about your feelings otherwise work hard in school, get an MBA and make it big on yourself. Pamper him rotten Most rich men are used to being treated like royalty. Some actually crave it. If he can’t get good treatment from you, he will get it from someone else, it’s just a matter of time and more dates. Show respect for him and his property. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you work hard for it. You share it with people who deserve it, not conceited girls who think their cheap lipstick can buy their way into a millionaires mansion. Do not suck up to them either, just treat them plain good, not overdoing it, not stooping too low. Middle is the way!

Forget about commitment Men hate commitment, especially when it’s forced on us. All we do is to achieve freedom. If you are only interested in knowing where the relationship is going instead of paying attention to the relationship, being in the present always, you can’t win. Be indispensable to him and he will be the one going on one knee, the way it’s supposed to be. Have some respect for yourself Just because he is rich and you are not, doesn’t make you a doormat. Don’t make yourself one. It’s good to have a girl laughing at your jokes, if they are funny, if they are not, you just have low self esteem. If you are just kissing up to a rich dude it will show up. He won’t want you then. We only pursue that which retreats from us. It’s a universal law of attraction. Set high standards for yourself and stick to them. Learn some of the thing he loves doing Most rich men are highly intelligent, a good conversation would do and thats not about the latest episode of La Fuerza. Read topics that interest him widely so you don’t come off as blonde.

Be realistic, you might not just be made for the millionaires and their lifestyle Most women have a window period of around 15years when their sexuality is at it’s peak and they can land a great guy. After 35, chances are that you won’t be attractive as you were at 20. Don’t chase the elusive millionaires forever, you might end up old, bitter and all alone. Evaluate your looks, brains and personality to gauge whether you can really make it. If you can’t, don’t despair, we all have to tone down our ambitions at some point.

Hang out with the rich Hang out in areas where the rich usually frequent. It might burn a hole in your pocket, or just save a damsel in distress. All you have to do is try!

SMS hook up to +254784389794. Hook up charges apply. Serious people only.

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rucbarthatbowtiesarecooldw · 3 years ago

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Saturday Evening Women’s Session

Conducting: Jean B. Bingham

Let Zion in Her Beauty Rise

We Listen to a Prophets Voice

Dallin H. Oaks

Saturday sessions have a history of different purposes and different audiences

The gospel does not change

The way we meet may continue to change

Is a session of conference, not of any one organization

Concentrate on the concerns of LDS women

The doctrine, the policies that relate especially to women, and the organizations that include the women and girls of the church.

This is the work of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Invoked a blessing upon the leaders of these organizations and the women and girls who serve within the organizations

Susan H. Porter

How can the Lord direct thy path?

HF invites to come to the savior and learn

1 Our past and present circumstances do not determine our future

o No matter our circumstances our lives are sacred and have meaning and purpose

o Born with divinity in our souls

o We can choose to turn to the savior today for the strength and healing that will enable us to do all that we were sent here to do

2 the power is in us

3 out of small things proceedeth that which is great.

The savior invites us to use his power to be as salt, leaven, and light

Story of Naaman and the “little maid”

Every person who makes and keeps covenants has direct access to the power of God.

The Savior is the salt in our lives, inviting us to taste of His joy and love

Rebecca L. Craven

Effort, movement, and commitment

What mattered most? The ice cream or the person

Conversion won’t come while doing nothing – it comes by doing

How much we are loved and valued by our HF

Don’t waste your spiritual strength on things that do not matter

BOSS your brain – you are in control of your thoughts and in control of what you do. – for neurotypicals

Make being obedient the popular thing to do

What He urges, counsels, and pleads with us to do are the things that matter most

Proverbs 3:5-6 – how can I better trust the Lord?

Moving forward, believing He will guide us even when we don’t have all the answers

It’s not about doing more, it’s about doing what matters

If you want to know anything you have to do something

Keeping temple covenants is how we endure to the end

Come Ye Children of the Lord

Video about Camilla Kimball reading Spencer W. Kimball’s talk

You are the women he foresaw

The kingdom of god cannot be complete without women

The culminating act of all creation was the creation of women

Fulfill the measure of your creation

Prepare the world for the second coming of the Lord

https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/general-conference/2015/10/a-plea-to-my-sisters?lang=eng

Jean B. Bingham

We all have the promises of these privileges as we keep the covenants we have made

Keeping the covenants we make with God gives us strength from the Savior’s power

Our Redeemer is there to catch us when we fall, if we turn to Him

Our testimony of Jesus Christ and the covenants we make are our spiritual supports

He will not allow us to fall beyond His reach

Jesus Christ is our anchor and perfect partner. Choose to be anchored to the Savior “put on the harness”, bound to him by our covenants

Live the gospel in our interactions

Truly minister

Share the gospel

These are not just and occasional splurge, but are essential to our daily happiness and eternal joy

Repent, repair, and try again

Dale G. Renlund

1 you are a beloved daughter. Nothing you do can change that

God’s love is perfect, our ability to sense that love is not

Sin blocks our ability to sense the love of God – and so sometimes can physical and mental health challenges

2 we have heavenly parents, a father, and a mother

Seeking greater understanding is critical to our spiritual development

Reason cannot replace revelation

Demanding revelation from God is both arrogant and unproductive, instead we wait on the Lord’s timing

3 we have a divine nature

4 we have an eternal destiny

Such a destiny will not be forced on us – we will receive only that which we are willing to receive

Basically you will go where you are comfortable

Like the current bush we sometimes get trimmed back

We are free to choose but we cannot choose the consequences

We cannot deviate from Heavenly Father's course and then blame him for inferior outcomes

When the Lord speaks of weaknesses He always speaks in mercy

The Lord sees weaknesses differently than he sees rebellion

Center your life on Jesus Christ and remember the foundational truths in the young womens theme

The Holy Ghost can't be felt when we experience fear, anger, or hate

Oh, May My Soul Commune With Thee

#ldsconf #tumblrstake #general conference #genconf #the church of jesus christ of latter day saints #churchofjesuschristoflatterdaysaints

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shini--chan · 4 years ago

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OKAY IMAGINE THIS - by some mirracle, s/o get teleported back in time to the pirate era and suddenly just drops from the sky as Antonio and Arthur are battling! Everything comes to a halt because a friggin woman fell from literally nowhere - Arthur is quicker and he captures s/o first, DEMANDING to know where she is from, how did she get here. Poor s/o tries to tell him the truth but it just isn't working. How stupid do you think Arthur is, huh?! He's not buying what you're selling love! (1/?)

Oh blazes, my dear. You’re trying to seduce me into writing a novel for you, correct. Well, not today (sadly) so I’ll be going ahead with my usual mixture of headcanons and snippets. Also, to everybody out there: Requests are still being accepted – I just can’t bring myself to close my ask box.

Also, I wanted to write Arthur’s and Antonio’s lines in an older English, but then I remembered what it was like having to read books from the 19th century for school and decided not to inflict the torture upon you.

Yandere Love Triangle: England vs Spain (Historical Pirate AU!)

As mentioned in the ask, you would be minding your own business, more or less, when you would suddenly be granted two of the wishes many harbour in their hearts: to time travel and have an adventure. Unfortunately for you, that wouldn’t happen with a forewarning and you wouldn’t have any chance to blend in. I wouldn’t say the battle would completely stop – with all the smoke and gunpowder and bangs going on only those close by would have a chance noticing.

Antonio was having a wonderful day. Yes, extremely wonderful. Life on the ship had been very good as of late, supplies running high and spirits even higher. They were reaching their climax now, with Spain showing England the business ends of sword and cutlas and cannon. It was a fitting sort of revenge being able to rob the lilly-livered bastard after he had stolen so much Spanish silver and gold.

The runt in question was baring his teeth and snarling like a cornered dog while their blades were interlocked, when Antonio heard a loud crash from behind England. It was probably just part of the ruckus of a sea battle, yet something – his fantastic intuition most likely – advised him to take a look. Of course, making the other combatant to move just how he wanted proved to be tricky, because Arthur had always been an uncooperative like blight and liked to fight dirty.

Yet he wasn’t a famed duellist for nothing. The sight that caught his attention when he got the opportunity to see it nearly caused him to lose an arm due to inattention. Men of both sides had briefly abandoned the battle to crowd around a failing figure that was desperately trying to free itself from a tangle of nets and torn sails. The onlookers whispered amongst themselves. The chorus of voices only grew louder when a very confused woman.

He found himself remarking: “It seems like you’ve finally started to develop a good taste in bed mates. Say, when did that happen, fishy. I always thought that you’d have luck to get a starved old tramp to warm your bed.”

“Shut up, Anthony!”, came the immediate reply, proving that the island nation wasn’t aware about what he was playing at. “Let’s not get on about you. Or should I tell your precious monarch about what you do in the stables when all the servants are gone?”

Pathetic little weasel. Enraged, Antonio brought the hilt of his sword down on that pale, cruel face and busted a pair of thin lips. “You should guard yourself from spreading lies, English pigdog. Or else the Almighty himself will smite you.”

Naturally, being the cunning demon he was, England used the opening Spain had provided him to barrel into him and send him flying overboard and into the sea.

That action would be quick to turn the tides, especially with so many men coming to aid their captain and help him out of water. This would result in Arthur then discovering you on his ship, probably when his first mate would rush to him and explain that a very strange women in a strange get-up had just suddenly appeared on the ship.

England would go and investigate and discover you surrounded by his crew, each of them having different responses to your presence and hence causing quite a commotion. He too would find you utterly alien – in your attire, in your mannerisms, even in your speech. But Arthur would be ever the pragmatic and reason that there would have to be another explanation to your appearance, one that doesn’t include miracles. But because he wouldn’t have either the time or the head space to deal with you at the moment, he’d have to thrown in the brig with strict orders to leave you alone. That would also be a way for him to torture you and force you to wallow in your worries and terrors.

The brackish water of the brig had long since made your feet wet, cotton soaks completely soaked through and chilling you. The stench it all emitted, and Arthur’s relentless questioning only further enhanced your discomfort.

He was prowling in front of your cage-like cell, like a tiger in the zoo. Only that he didn’t want to break out, rather that he was being continuously tempted to drag you out of your cell and onto the deck to be flogged for your insolence.

“At every turn you say to me that you’re from the future and that you don’t know how you came here”, he rehearsed the main points of your conversation with him. There had been a snarl on his face the whole time throughout the interrogation, his anger only making his voice curl tightly around the vowels and roll the r’s harder until you had to strain to understand him.

Mutely you nodded – you yourself had come to the conclusion that he understood you better when you kept your words simply, underlay them with gestures and expressions and spoke slowly.

In return, England shook his head and spat: “I do not believe you. Going backwards in time is impossible, it only goes forward.”

In any other situation you would have been inclined to agree with him. But you were living proof that there were glaring exceptions to that rule. Having unexpectedly landed in a long-gone era, you had first found yourself desperately grappling with your new reality. You had pinched yourself and read the letters on crates and barrel and closed your eyes and read them again to see if anything had changed – everything to assure yourself that you were dreaming.

You weren’t, nor had you taken any psychedelics, so this was painfully, gruesomely real. A fact that Arthur wasn’t excepting even with evidence right past the tip of his nose.

“Then how do you explain the ripped sails then? How do you explain my strange clothes?”, you questioned him. Then, after a brief pause, you asked: “How do you explain that I know who and what you are?”

You knowing that he was a personification of a budding Empire was a sore spot for him and made him even more suspicious of you. Something that was now backfiring on you.

He waved your words off with evident irritation and countered: “There are more reasonable explanation for all of that. That you’re a spy from a foreign country for example.”

Arthur would never cease with side-eying you and constantly be on the look-out for more logical explanations for your otherness. He would find them as well. Yet there would always be a little voice in the forefront of his mind nagging him that you are telling the truth and that he was wasting the opportunity of the millennia by blowing your words in the wind.

Those doubts would be the main reason he would keep you alive, along with his quest to extract the “truth” from you. However, there would be times when he would be tempted to fetch those thumbscrews from his quarters to see if you’d crack under pressure. Yet he would still restrain himself.

That wouldn’t mean your stay on his ship would be pleasant. You’d constantly be wet and cold, with rats crawling around the brig and your meals being a near inedible gruel that would be set aside for you.

Therefore, it would be an absolute relief when Spain would swoop in to rescue you. It would be an even greater wonder when he would actually listen to you and take into consideration what you would say.

“Tell me if I’ve got this right: In the future, you don’t send letters anymore that take months to reach another country. Instead, you send messages from small machines which the other person can read only after a few seconds, no matter how far away they are”, Antonio summed up what you had just cautiously explained to him.

You had been so shy when he had taken you aboard his vessel, so afraid he would just maltreat you like Arthur had. It had taken its time for him to convey that he was different from that godless brute, that he was civilized and patient. He wouldn’t disregard miracles and let them slip through his fingers. It had taken its own sweet time to coax you into telling the truth, but now you were sitting across him in his quarters, nodding enthusiastically.

“More or less, yes. There is a lot more to that, but that is the start of it”, you affirmed his words. You were relieved that you finally had somebody to talk to in this time were you previously had nobody. The food being served helped you weigh yourself into safety – fresh fruit and other perishable treats, an absolute luxury onboard a ship with a sizable crew. Indeed, you were becoming so comfortable with your host, your lifeline at this point, that you were betraying things about your future that you otherwise wouldn’t have.

And wasn’t yet about detail concretely concerning him, but you would both get there eventually. Spain was sure of that.

Meanwhile you didn’t notice the hungry gleam in his eyes when he purred: “Fascinating, my dear. What else can these things do?”

Being a Catholic, Antonio would be far more inclined to believe you on the time-traveling thing. He would also add two and two together on your strange clothes and their material, not to mention your different attitudes and behaviours and realise that you would be telling the truth. He would treat you kindly as a way of getting you to talk to him, eventually becoming the only person you could trust.

He would guard you jealously and ensure that you would only speak to him – having knowledge of the future would be a right he would reserve for himself alone. It would also cause him to become obsessed with you, keeping you in his quarters or leading you onto the deck at night for short walk. Of course, he would paint the whole isolating thing as he keeping you safe, saying that Arthur was after you.

The argument with Arthur would have far more validity then Antonio would even imagine. The wisdom that you don’t know what you really have until you lose it would be especially true in his case. It would finally dawn upon him that you were telling the truth the whole time and that would lead Arthur to beat himself up over it. A pursuit to recapture you would ensue.

Not to mention that it would make his blood boil to think that Spain would be courting you, persuading you to tell him everything he could ever want to know about the future. Besides being a threat to his future existence and ongoing success, England would like to have all that knowledge himself and for himself only. Knowledge is power, after all.

Arthur would also miss you for your wit and endurance, fantasizing and dreaming of you to the point of obsession and never quitting his chase for you.

#yandere spain #yandere england #yandere hetalia x reader #yandere hetalia #x reader

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shadow-sovereign · 4 years ago

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I’ve got another Ashborn/Jin-Woo fic idea.

This one is an au world, though I’m still working out the exact details of the setting. I know that I want it to be a no electricity, everything’s run on magic world. No cars, internet, and phones.

The setting is a somewhat isolated town near the mountains and a forest with one dirt path leading to the next village, several miles away. It’s a town where the people have worshiped a death god (Ashborn) for as long as they can remember.

In return for sacrificing some animals and produce here and there, Ashborn keeps them safe from invaders. But unbeknownst to the townspeople, the temple priests in charge of the sacrifices have recently begun keeping the offerings for themselves, leaving them vulnerable.

Now, Ashborn isn’t being malicious about it, but without people actively praying/sacrificing to him, his attention begins to wander. Maybe it’s even harder for him to visit the mortal plane without the anchor of their worship. So, he doesn’t even notice when that town he used to protect is attacked.

The townspeople are able to fend off the invaders, but many are injured in the process. And they know that the retreating force were mostly just scouts, a bigger force to follow. Everyone’s frantic, wondering why Ashborn didn’t defend them.

Obviously, the temple priests aren’t willing to admit that they’ve been slacking on their duties, so they tell the people they’ll research the old texts to figure out what Ashborn wants from them. There, they find reference to what they perceive is a human sacrifice, made a couple thousand years ago. The texts say that the human woman gave ‘her mortal life and heart’ to Ashborn, and in return, he protected the town and helped them prosper.

The priests think this means a greater sacrifice gets greater reward. It also gives them an excuse to tell the townspeople, that the death god requires a human sacrifice every so often. They’d rather sacrifice a human than admit their mistake, knowing the townspeople would call for the missed sacrifices to come from their own wealth.

It takes them a while to convince the townspeople, but then it becomes a question of who to sacrifice. Not wanting a mob to form if they start fighting about who to sacrifice, the priests lie and say they’ll look for a volunteer. In reality, they look for someone who won’t be missed.

Thus, we have Jin-Woo’s family, living out in the woods. His father is a hunter, selling meat and furs in town. He’s often away in the forest, checking traps and hunting animals. His mother tends to their garden, along with Jin-Woo and Jin-Ah. No one in town would notice for a while if one of them went missing.

The priests find Jin-Woo when he’s in the woods and threaten his family to get him to come with them quietly. They make him write a note, saying that he’s willingly sacrificing himself to save everyone. Since Jin-Woo will be dead by the time anyone reads the note, they figure there won’t be a way to prove one way or the other whether his sacrifice was willing or coerced.

What they didn’t count on was Ashborn’s reaction.

Ashborn feels it the moment they kill someone in his temple, cutting out Jin-Woo’s heart and throwing it in one of the black flame torches next to the throne. He’s livid, the room growing dark as he appears inside.

His anger permeates the room, demanding to know what they’ve done, his rage only growing as they explain what and why. To have that ritual from so long ago twisted by their greed.

The woman that gave her ‘mortal life and heart’ to Ashborn was never a sacrifice, but his consort. He replaced her mortal heart with one of his own creation, the ‘black heart’, so that she’d live for a long time by his side. And as his consort, he naturally took care of the people of her hometown, wanting to make her happy.

But now the temple that was built to house them both has been defiled, a seventeen year old boy sacrificed in his name. Even though it’s not his fault, he still feels guilty that Jin-Woo’s life was cut short. And so, he offers Jin-Woo’s spirit a choice.

He doesn’t have the ability to heal Jin-Woo’s body as it is, but he can create a new black heart for him. Not telling him the original meaning of it, but that it will extend his lifespan if he accepts it.

Jin-Woo isn’t quite happy about the idea of living longer than a normal human lifespan, but he’s unwilling to move on and leave his family behind. He accepts the heart, then asks if Ashborn will help him defend his family from the invaders.

Ashborn agrees, but says that he wants Jin-Woo to move into the Temple. With that Black heart inside him, Jin-Woo is now able to command his shadow soldiers, and he wants to get to know the person who’s essentially become his second in command. (Again not mentioning that the heart originally had that power because it was meant for his consort.)

Jin-Woo moves into the Temple while the Shadow soldiers start patrolling around the village. His family slowly moves into the Temple, too, packing up their stuff, moving the garden. His father has to go around collecting his traps from the forest, as the Temple is on the other side of the village.

While this is all going on, everyone starts getting to know each other. Jin-Woo and his family have conversations with Ashborn and get introduced to some of his most trusted shadow soldiers. Igris and Bellion are made the family’s guards, but Jin-Woo also becomes close to Beru, Iron, and Tank.

Jin-Woo and Ashborn slowly develop a friendship and eventually, Jin-Woo asks about the story behind that woman who was said to give her ‘mortal life and heart’ to him. Ashborn is a bit reluctant to tell him, but doesn’t want to lie to him either. After revealing that she was his consort and what the black heart originally meant, he’s quick to reassure Jin-Woo that he doesn’t have any expectations of that from him, but that he couldn’t just let him die when he was killed in his name over such a misunderstanding.

Jin-Woo is a bit embarrassed by the revelation, but knows Ashborn enough by that point to trust he’s telling the truth about not expecting such things from him. But it does get him thinking later, seeing Ashborn in a new light. It hadn’t occurred to him before that a death god could fall in love with humans. He assumed a god would see humans in a more distant way, a species that’s so much weaker and dies in the blink of an eye.

It makes him curious, wanting to get to know Ashborn better. He finds that they both value loyalty and family, are ruthless in the pursuit of keeping their people safe, and both enjoy the simple things in life. Family meals, stargazing, the first bloom of flowers in the Spring, petting an animal as it purrs in your lap, and many other things like that.

Slowly, they start to fall in love.

For Ashborn, this presents a bit of a moral quandary. It’s already an awkward situation with Jin-Woo having the black heart inside him, even with his promise of having no romantic expectations. He’s not sure if Jin-Woo will react badly if he confesses his feelings.

There’s also the difference in their status. Some humans would feel pressured if a god admitted interest in them or worry about retaliation if they refused. He doesn’t want Jin-Woo to accept his feelings out of fear or obligation.

On Jin-Woo’s end, he wonders if Ashborn would even be interested in someone like him. He’s fairly young, seventeen when they met and eighteen by the time he realizes his feelings. But surely every human must seem young to someone so ancient.

And even if age isn’t an issue, he doesn’t know if he’s Ashborn’s type. What was his human consort like? Does Ashborn prefer women or does gender even matter to gods?

Jin-Woo would probably start by asking the shadow soldiers if any of them were around when Ashborn’s consort was alive. Asking them what she was like and how Ashborn treated her. They’d end up having a conversation about Jin-Woo’s feelings and maybe give advice. At least one of the summons would know that Ashborn liked to take his consort stargazing or that she sometimes cooked his favorite food. Things like that.

Ashborn, meanwhile, is thinking of ways to subtly get across his feelings. Courting Jin-Woo without being obvious about it. Starting with making sure Jin-Woo at least thinks of him as a friend, not as his patron god.

So, they’d both be thinking of activities to do together. Finding gifts that the other would like. Ashborn would also try to get closer to Jin-Woo’s family, so that they wouldn’t feel concerned if the two of them started dating.

It’d just be both of them trying to show that they can be a good partner, hoping that the other person will start seeing them in a romantic light as well. Eventually, they’d start to catch on, maybe the shadow soldiers and Jin-Woo’s family giving them hints that the other person likes them. Then someone will clue Jin-Woo in that he needs to be the one to confess first, as Ashborn is worried about their difference in status making things awkward if he expresses interest.

After confessing, they start going on actual dates and live happily ever after.

And Ashborn figures out a way to extend the lives of Jin-Woo’s family, too. A way that’s less traumatic than literally cutting out their heart and replacing it with one of his own creation. And thus, they all get to live long, happy lives together. The end.

#Solo Leveling #fic ideas #Sung Jin Woo #Ashborn #black heart temple au

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cocobutnochanel · 4 years ago

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A Dream Too

Genre: angst, drama, romance, flashbacks, exboyfriend!Baekhyun

Main Characters: Byun Baekhyun x Reader (oc: female)

Warnings: profanity, mature themes

Summary: Love or career, people always ask. When your ‘successful’ self crosses paths with the love of your life again, you’ll see another woman live your ‘dream’.

Word Count: 2.5k+ words

'How do you truly move on?'

You ask yourself for the nth time today while waiting for the 20 minutes to pass you by so you can finally go home. Back to that thought, it was really confusing for you. You had no idea if you had moved on or just forgot. Or maybe, those wounds were just buried and no longer to be seen but nonetheless, still there.

"How do you move on?" You ask Dr. Kim who just entered your office, his tiny head peeping from the door's tiny crack. "Before you drift to your throughts again, you have a patient waiting. Your shift ain't over yet." Minseok, your friend since college and now colleague, calls the patient inside.

You sit straighter and clear your throat. A woman your age walks in with a three year old girl in hand.

You smile brightly at the child and her mom. "Hi, doc." The familiar little girl in pigtails waves shyly at you. "Hi, babe." She blushes at your usual nickname for her. This was the third time you have her over and you find her so adorable. She's so shy.

The woman your age hands you the file for them that was forwarded by the nurse. "Sorry to disturb you, doc. Areum is here to see you again." She laughs nervously as her child only bows in shyness. You put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. "Don't worry about it, ma'am. She's my favorite." You smile at the shy mother too. Probably where the little girl inherited it from.

Scanning the file, the child is said to have fevers. You remember too that three weeks ago, Areum came because of a fever. You take a thermometer to measure the child's temperature. "Kindly face the side, sweetie." You coo at her and she obliges in a second.

You sanitize the tympanic thermometer before putting it in her ear. While it hasn't come back with results, you ask her mother about how the child is. This happens so naturally. It was basically a routine. This was your dream.

"So since when did she have this fever?" You ask Areum's mom who was rubbing her child's back while you hold the thermometer in her ear. "Two days ago. Her immune system is really weak." She sighs sadly, looking at her kid with pitiful eyes.

You take out the beeping thermometer. Your eyes skim over Areum's temp, 39.2°. "How are you feeling then, Reummie?" You ask her while sanitizing the thermometer before putting it back.

You pick up the stethoscope around your neck. "Come here, babe." You say softly to Areum who willingly follows. You listen to her heartbeat and everything was pretty normal. The fever was the only thing bothering the child.

“Is there anything bothering you right now?” You frown a little at the little girl’s tiny grimace.

"Headaches." She mutters under her breath. You nod at the kid's answer. "Do you have cough? Some other sickness?" You ask her again, a pen in hand to take note of what the child's answer could be.

She shakes her head at your question. "Just fever." Areum's mom smiled sadly when she answered.

"Since you've been getting on and off fevers ever since, we will just assume for now it's because of the weather. It’s been snowing hard, Areum needs to put more clothes on." You advice while jotting down the prescription for Areum after checking her heartbeat.

"Just take what I usually recommend. Also, her vitamins and diet should be more monitored, ma'am. Her water intake too." You say that without looking at her mom but you know she's nodding and listening.

Areum’s mom was exceptionally beautiful. She was an exact opposite of her but you admired her tremendously. You admired her strength and courage. It wasn’t easy to be a housewife and a very hands-on mom like her. God knows you would never do that for someone.

Speaking of that, you never truly did. Your passion for medicine and science was always greater. Well, you thought so.

Snapping out of your thoughts, you sign at the bottom and hand the paper to Areum's mother. "If she still has fever until the end of the week, bring her back so we can run some tests on her." You say as she nods at everything you say. You hand her the prescription and she happily takes it.

"Thank you so much, doc." She smiles at you gratefully as she stands up. "Let me walk you out." You stand up yourself too and pick up your belongings that were prepared beforehand.

You hold Areum's hand as you three walk out of your office. Passing by the nurses' table, you log yourself out of your shift and finally proceed walking with Areum to the parking lot.

You see her reserved demeanor even grow when people and patients were around. She was an exact opposite of you, you think again. You were independent, confident and hungry for your career ambitions while she bowed a little too low. Women could be insanely different but still, her choice astounded you. It takes a lot of strength to be gentle, you ponder.

"Where are you going after, doc?" Areum's mom inquired when you entered the elevator for the basement parking, stopping you from getting lost further in your thoughts. "Just home." You press Basement 1 with your free hand as Areum held the other.

"There's a boyfriend waiting then?" She asks you with a shy smile, trying to make conversation. "I don't even have time for sleep. I can't imagine having one." You laugh at her question.

Wildly, you wonder back to your earlier thought. Maybe if I didn't become a doctor, I'd be a mother like her too. But I chose my dream.

You snap out of your thoughts and ask her back. "How about you, ma'am?" The elevator pinged and opened. "My husband's just picking us up to go home." She smiles with content as if her husband was everything. You kind of wished you had that too.

Well actually, you had it. But you lost it too.

Before you could part ways with the shy kid and her even shyer mother, a black sedan pulls up in front of you.

A familiar man in a suit gets out, a face you know too well. "Appa!" You smile at Areum who was now running to the dapper man. Despite being sick, Areum was still excited to see her dad. Areum's mom walks over to the driver too and you finally look up.

You lost your breath the moment you recognized his face. It was him. The reason why you had asked such questions to Minseok. His face alone brought you the memory.

(flashback)

You wanted to bang your head against the desk as you skim over the Macleod's Clinical Examination for the nth time today. Nothing was going your way today. Med school was stressing you out, giving you a maximum of 9-hour sleep a week.

You hear some noise from your living room. You decide to take a study break and finally head out of your study. You haven't seen your boyfriend for a week despite living in the same apartment.

Despite his schedule being loose as a freelancer, your med studies were enough to stop the two of you from seeing one another.

You turn the doorknob and see a surprising scene in front of you. "W-What is this?" Your voice broke at the sight of Baekhyun and his luggage. His eyes were red and framed with dark circles. He looked sad and tired.

"I'm moving out." He states the obvious, sitting down on the sofa with a troubled face. "Why?" Your voice cracked again as it sounded so much like desperation and shock.

"You don't even have time for me." He mutters softly, obviously trying to stay calm. You were shocked at what he said. He loved you the most, he supported you the most. How could he not understand that this was your dream? How could he not understand that this isn’t forever? How could he demand so fucking much?

You fall to your knees weakly as tears in your eyes threatened to spill. "It's not your fault. I'm not even forcing you to choose me, Y/N. B-But, I can't live like this. Not anymore." He huffs out as if it was a burden he had carried ever since.

"I know it's not my fault, Baek! Hell, you're making me feel bad for chasing my dream!" You cry in hopelessness. "I'm sorry." He whispers, meters away from you.

Tears have finally made way to your face as internal pain enveloped your being. "It's just that- I can't be with someone who doesn't have time." He tries to say it again as if it's gonna make things better.

"Is it really going to be worth it? Us breaking up over this?" You didn't want to beg but God knows you've spent half your life with this man, dreaming of spending the rest of it with him. Was he really not for you? 7 years just going down the drain because you didn't have enough time?

"Am I not enough, Baekhyun?" You ask once again when he falls silent, his face in his hands. "Am I not a reason enough for you to stay?" You were disgusted at how you were on your knees, begging a man to stay.

His face was filled with sorrow as his eyes avoid meeting yours. You suddenly remember that he was the same boy who loved you unconditionally with endless patience seven years ago.

"Byun Baekhyun, I have loved you ever since I saw you that day when you laughed out loud in front of the class while introducing yourself in fifth grade." You recall an image of the boy you have loved ever since. "Tell me, don't I love you enough?" Your lips were trembling.

"I'm sorry." Baek mutters again, making you cringe at his words. "Stop apologizing, for fuck's sake, Baekhyun! I’m asking you! Am I not fucking enough?" You explode in anger, tears and pain.

"Seven years..." You whisper to the air. It felt like it was just yesterday when you two were in high-school and in love. How did it end like this? How did it end just because of time. How could he not understand? "Don't you want me to reach my dreams?" You ask him again, tears streaming down your face.

He closes his eyes shut as tears started racing down his face too. It was at that moment you realized that you weren't the only one in pain. He was too.

Like how you are breaking right now, he had suffered in silence too. He saw how consumed you were, thinking he was no longer important in your life. He saw how this relationship made it hard for you to concentrate too. He saw how he slowly faded in your ‘dream’.

But still, it broke you knowing that you hurt him this bad. It broke you knowing that the pain was too much, he had to disappear.

Your world crumbled in front of you as he stood there in pain, determined to leave. He was your first love. He was your everything. How could something so beautiful end like this?

"I'm not forcing you to choose me, Y/N." He says painstakingly, sorrow and loneliness in his voice. The aching pain in his heart was now double as he sees you on your knees.

"Will you be happy?" You ask the love of your life as he held his things in his arms. He only nodded with gritted teeth, knowing it’d be hard for him too.

That was it. The sign you needed. You were gonna let him go. You loved him too much, you couldn't imagine letting him suffer even more. You would always wish for his happiness. So you take a deep breath and nod back at him too.

For the last time, he speaks to you. "I'm not forcing you to choose me because I'm holding you back. So reach your dreams, Y/N. Reach it without me, doc." He stands up and finally departing for good, leaving you broken and your questions unanswered.

Today's Byun Baekhyun looked no day older than he did the moment he left the apartment you two shared. The supposed life you two were going to have.

"This is Dr. Y/L/N, she's Areum's doctor." Areum's mom happily links his arm with Baekhyun, snapping you out of your momentary flashback. A soft 'oh' falls from his lips as a lump forms in your throat in silence.

You couldn't breathe. Your world stops like it just did six years ago while you were on your knees and on the floor of the same shared apartment. You weren't over him at all. Moving on meant completely being fine. But despite six years flying out the window since he left, he still had that effect on you. He still left you breathless like he did in fifth grade with his hearty laugh.

"You made it, doc." He gives you the same smile he had way back when he confessed that he had a crush on you in seventh grade. Your lungs constrict at the nickname and you couldn't say a word.

His eyes shone with adoration and love that was once for you. "Yeobo, do you know her? She's a very good doctor." Areum's mother cheered, her daughter nodding in agreement too.

You see him pick Areum up in his arms. Now, the little kid resembled him a lot. It made sense, you know. He was now with a girl who could only see him in the future. He was with a woman who loved him enough to give up on her career. How could you not notice?

"Appa, I'm hungry." Areum murmured against her father's shoulders. Baekhyun rubs his daughter’s back as Areum’s mom places a chaste kiss on her husband’s lips. Tears pooled in your eyes as a familiar pain spreads in your chest.

"I-I better get going." You stammered, feeling abandoned all over again. You knew you were going to cry if you stayed one more second with them.

He had moved on. He had a family. While you, on the other hand, are still stuck over something that happened years ago.

"Do you know her? Is she okay?" You can hear Areum's mother pry to her husband once again. Husband, your heart ached at that thought.

Before you were out of earshot, you hear Baekhyun's answer to his wife's question that makes you want to run back home and cry. Everything finally made sense. You weren't happy despite reaching your dream. It wasn’t complete. You still pondered over moving on. You still wondered how he was. But right in this moment, you realize it.

"Just an old friend, yeobo." No, Baekhyun, you were my dream too.

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redteabaron · 4 years ago

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Different anon… Here is the thing though, Drogo/Dany isn’t a parallel to sansan. People who make that comparison either lack severe reading comprehension, which is not surprising for this fandom, or they want to use it to validate sansan. (Tyrion was the older guy Sansa was forced to marry. Dany and Sansa have opposite journeys and their marriages are a part of that.) But sansan’s mirror is Jorah/Dany. Book!Jorah is an older guy who has a creepy obsession with a teenage girl. He dumps his trauma on her, he projects onto her. But he is also her advisor, her confidante early on, his protector. There are also the same BaTB elements sansans love to talk about. She even refers to him as her bear. But he was lusting after her ever since they met and then he assaulted her. He forced himself on her. She is uncomfortable with his actions, but she doesn’t possess the necessary language and she doesn’t understand consent (we know this because of how she frames her relationship with Drogo but also how she expected Lhazareen women to be ok, even be thankful for being married to their rapists, and her dubcon relationship with Irri) so she recontextualize what happened and chastise Jorah for kissing her not because she is a teenager and he shouldn't and she didn’t consent to but because she is his Queen. That's the language she has, so she expresses her discontent, disapproval, rejection with that. Sandor was verbally, psychologically, physically abusive to Sansa but he also occasionally protected her in King’s Landing. He lusted after her, made sexually inappropriate comments to an 11 year old child but he was also the only one in KL to have honest conversations with her. Then he assaulted her, held her at knife point. She was afraid of him kissing her, killing her, she had nightmare about the assault which she clearly registered as a sexual one despite what his fans claim his intentions were. Sansa has a habit of romanticizing/redefining these things. Sansa thinks Arys Oakheart was preferable, that he was kind because he beat her less hard than the other Kingsguard. She remembers Tyrion as someone who were kind to her, someone better than Joffrey even though he molested her and she had him in her nightmares too. She separates Littlefinger and Petyr in her mind because just like with the other men before him the thought of her sometimes-protector at the same time being her abuser is too much for her. Just like Dany she recontextualizes what the Hound did to her and turns the assault into a song to cope with it.

These two pairings has the same dynamic, the difference is fandom’s response to it. (The slight differences are that Dany had actual amiable feelings for Jorah -not romantic love or sexual feelings but friendly, sisterly love for him- and she as a Queen had a lot more agency than Sansa as a prisoner had. She isn't as powerless as Sansa, she could have easily banished him, punished him, even ordered his death.) But no one in fandom writes essay after essay why and how could and should Jorah and Dany end up together. It’s an outrageous suggestion. Dany is a main character, she is the heroine. She is a Queen. Why should she ever end up with someone as lowly as Jorah? Someone as old, as ugly as Jorah? But Sansa, meh she is not an important character. And she needs to be punished, first because she was a child making childish mistakes. Secondly, she is shallow, she refused to be raped by her older, ugly husband. So she needs to end up with an older ugly guy to humble her. Even when the author expressed his distaste of the trope of a noble girl running away with a lowly guy in medieval stories, nah that doesn’t matter here. Sansa being of high nobility, a princess won’t have any factor at all who she’s gonna end up with. They had to keep assuring themselves that she is not a main character so she could even end up with a villainous character, that she is not a Stark so she could end up with people who hurt/fight against her family. The hypocrisy of this fandom, and their selective reading is most clear when it comes to these two “couples”. Almost all sansans (whether it is the actual shippers or those who think it’ll happen because well it’s Sansa what else she’s gonna do besides being a reward bride for some hideous guy) hate Jorah/Dany (as they should) while trying to justify how and why Sansa should end up with the hound. Let's forget the abuse and pedophile, let's assume those never happened, even then it makes no sense. There is not a narratively satisfying way, a logical reason how Sansa could be with Sandor. But they ignore all that because it doesn't fit in with their vision, with their interpretation of the books and characters. Because admitting Sansa is a main character and more than a reward for their pedo fave has a ripple affect, it challenges all their theories, they all crumble. And they just can't let go of their 2 decades old theories, they just have to be right, they must be right. That's why they all took the show's ending as a personal offense, especially the QiTN Sansa. I just can't wait for the books!

Yeah, agreed. jorah and sandor are mirrors of each other. I mean I hope they both die without any glory or honor, personally. I don't really care if they have sacrificial deaths for the greater good - or whatever framing the show had intended - jorah and sandor were also whitewashed and made more pitiable/likeable.

Whenever dany x dr*go is used to validate literally ANY pairing, I am suspish. In particular when we acknowledge that dany absolutely couldn't consent - she was 13 iirc - and was sold off by her abusive brother to a man twice her age, but Sansa reimagining her trauma about Sandor's assault to something less traumatic is considered being hateful to Sandor because he's unattractive. (And I never really listen whenever ppl give me shit or deny it was assault; pertaining to my job, I'm pretty fucking aware what assault or intention-to-assault looks like, and I think most ppl do to, they just seem to lose awareness when it comes to their ships or certain characters).

I think it has to do with Sansa being the archetypal "Pretty Popular Girl" - the one who like feminine things, sort of fussy, likes feminine colors and just in general is feminine. She seems to remind people of the classic mean popular girl we saw popularized in 1990s-2000s high school movies - the one who gets her comeuppance in the end when the non-feminine girl somehow triumphs in whatever way, or she's the one who learns her lesson and stops being quite so feminine, or hooks up with a most-popular guy. The Mean/Pretty Popular girl has to be humbled in some fashion. Fans who don't like her, tend to view this as a way for her to pay for the error of her ways.

Like being a prisoner of war. Or not wanting to fuck tyrion. Or not wanting to run away with sandor.

I mean...all of asoiaf, beyond the politics and magic, is all about trauma and the human response to it - which is varied and depends on circumstances, personalities, and a lot of other things. One of the more vile things GOT did was whitewash jorah and tyrion the way they did imo. Jorah was a predator, circling Dany, regardless of whether she thought of him fondly, he just happened to not be violent towards her - she cries when he forces a kiss on her. Tyrion was a predator who molested her when he acknowledged she was a child "but he wanted her anyway". I've seen a lot of ppl react more sympathetically towards Dany. I haven't seen much recrimination against dany for refusing him the way we see sansa being hated for not wanting tyrion or sandor, hell, even petyr.

But - Sansa, imo, in the larger or at least circles of the fandom that have been around longer, is a more ideal whipping girl for the outlet a lot of ppl crave. See again the popular girl trope. She can't fight, she has no magical creatures, she is not a Chosen One of any kind. She has her wits and her ability to observe and adapt who has no choice but to navigate survival surrounded by people who have more agency and power than she does. That's it. I guess in a world of amazing abilities and magic and warfare, this is very boring, particularly when she doesn't weaponize her femininity or sexuality, where she's beautiful without being dangerous or magical or erotic. And I guess ppl feel that because of that, she needs to be punished for not being as extraordinary as she should be, OR, because she was the "Mean Popular Girl" (she wasn't) she must be humbled, and the ones to do it are the ones she refuses.

It's really delicious knowing they don't get "to have her" 🤢. Hopefully they just both fuck off to the ends of the world or die, idc they deserve zero thought.

#anti jorah #anti sandor #anti tyrion #anti Petyr #asoiaf #anti daenerys targaryen

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missjanjie · 4 years ago

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Better Than Revenge | (2/?)

Title: Better Than Revenge Summary: Karma Inc.’s business structure is simple - clients hire them when they’ve been grievously wronged and they send one of their revenge mercenaries to right them. As painstaking as their efforts to remain ethical may be, that may be tested when former detective, Rosé, enlists the squad to pick up where she couldn’t on a much higher scale, with potentially greater consequences. Word Count: ~2.6k (this chapter) | ~5.3k (total) Relationship(s): Rosnali (Rosé/Denali Foxx), Jankie (Jackie Cox/Jan Sport), Halldoll (Nicky Doll/Jaida Essence Hall), Gimone (Gigi Goode/Symone), Gottlux (Gottmik/Olivia Lux) Rating: T

TW for this chapter: implied domestic abuse, attempted sexual coercion of a minor, deadnaming/transphobia

Read on AO3 | Ko-Fi

Chapter Summary: Rosé learns Nicky, Jan, and Mik's revenge origin stories

Milwaukee, WI - 2007

“I think my parents are starting to get suspicious,” Jaida quietly confessed, her gaze downcast to the floor while Nicky sat behind her, braiding her hair.

Nicky frowned, her brows furrowed as she tied off the braid she’d put Jaida’s hair in with a hair elastic. “What is making you say that?” she asked, moving so she was facing the other girl and taking her hands into her own.

She shrugged, fumbling with the hem of her shirt until Nicky’s grasp stilled them. “Just feels like they’re snooping around more, suddenly real interested in my life. And you know they’re always acting weird whenever we’re at my house together. Last time they made us keep the door open, remember?”

“I had assumed that was an American thing,” she confessed. She had only moved to the states a couple of months ago, at the start of her and Jaida’s junior year of high school, and she was still learning how to differentiate cultural differences from people behaving unusually to her specifically.

“You think everything you don’t understand is an American thing,” Jaida rolled her eyes with a fond smile, “though I guess you’re right most of the time,” she conceded.

Nicky shrugged it off, redirecting back to the topic at hand. “But you’re worried they’re going to find out about us and poop will hit the ceiling.”

“Shit will hit the fan,” she corrected, then sighed. “I mean, think about it — my mom’s a Sunday school teacher and my dad’s the son of a preacher, they take ‘traditional family values’ very seriously. And I don’t know how things are in France but there’s nothing traditional about this,” she explained, gesturing between the two of them.

She frowned, her brows knitting together. “But we are happy together, surely once we graduate, we can—”

“It’s not that simple, Nicky!” Jaida tossed her head back and groaned. “I love you, but in a place like this, sometimes love just ain’t enough.”

And maybe it was denial, or maybe it was blind optimism, but Nicky had refused to take that answer lying down. She fought for Jaida and fought even harder to keep the relationship away from her disapproving parents. For a while, it seemed to be working, they had their beautiful, fleeting moments that let them believe that everything would be okay.

It was the first day back after spring break and Nicky immediately noticed a change in her girlfriend. It was like the life and light had been drained from her like she was only present physically. And despite the warm weather, she was dressed for late fall. She rushed towards her, taking her hand. “Ma chérie, what’s wrong? You look so unwell.”

Jaida hesitated before pulling her hand away. “I can’t hang around you anymore,” she replied. “Though I’m not gonna see anyone around here for a while starting real soon,” she mumbled.

“What do you mean?”

“My parents found out, Nicky,” she choked out, forcing back a sob, “and they were mad, I ain’t never seen them so mad. They’re sending me to military school… well, they gave me a choice between that and conversion therapy… seemed like the better option.”

Nicky bit down on her quivering lip. “But you can find me when you are done, right?” She reached out to her again, but Jaida backed away to step out of her grasp.

“I can’t. Besides, you won’t want me anyway, I won’t be the same person.”

She tried to grab for her once more, desperate to keep her, looking at her with watery, pleading eyes. “Jaida, I can’t—”

“Please,” she sniffled, “don’t make this harder than it’s already gonna be.”

And perhaps Nicky should have let it go, accepted losing her first love, and moving on with her life. Sure, she would eventually. She would move around for school, for work, meeting many beautiful women along the way, but none of that happened until she made sure Jaida’s parents experienced at least a fraction of the hurt they had caused the both of them.

Her plan had been elaborate and convoluted and would require a heavy amount of stealth work and computer literacy to pull off. But as it turned out, her plan of convincing the two parents that the other was cheating on them was quite easy when her snooping unearthed the fact that both of them already were. All she needed to do was bring it to light.

Present Day

“When you think about it,” Nicky mused, “I did them a favor. There are worse ways they could’ve found out than having an envelope full of proof dropped off at your workplace. At least no one made a scene… as far as I know, at least.”

“Does Jaida know?” Rosé asked. “Now that you guys have reconnected, have you caught her up to speed? Because it seems like something you should tell her.”

Nicky winced and looked away. “It… has not come up yet,” she murmured. “There is no easy way to inform someone that you were the catalyst in their parent’s divorce. Unless you have a way, in which case, feel free to share with the class.”

She shrugged, putting her hands up in surrender. “I got nothing, but my point remains. It’s gonna bite you in the ass badly if you wait too long to say anything.” When Nicky shrugged it off, she decided to move on. “What about you, Bubbles?” she asked, looking towards Jan, “what sort of scathing revenge does someone as bouncy as you come up with?”

Jan pressed her lips into a fine line, holding back what was either a smile or a grimace. “Well, this also happened in high school, an all-girl Catholic school, of course…”

Old Bridge, NJ - 2009

Jan was nothing if not brave. Coming out in tenth grade, especially considering the environment she was in, was a choice that couldn’t be taken lightly. While she had the support of her family and closest friends, the school environment had been a different story.

“Janice, could you stay back for a moment?” her math teacher, a conventionally attractive man in his early thirties, prompted as the final bell rang.

With math being her weakest subject, Jan was instantly concerned and nodded. “Of course, sir. Is something wrong?” she asked as she walked over to his desk.

“I think something is very wrong,” he replied as he got up. “Janice, I am highly concerned with your mental wellbeing.” He stopped in front of her, cupping her face with both hands. “You’re such a bright, beautiful girl. It would be such a shame for you to throw that away because you’ve chosen to shun God and live in sin.”

Jan felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach and her throat tighten. This was inevitable, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. She started shaking her head. “N-No, I’m… I’m not, I—”

“Shh…” he pressed his thumb to her lips to quiet her, then swiped it across her bottom lip. “Part of being a good Christian is overcoming temptation. And that’s what you want, isn’t it? Isn’t it what your parents want for you?” His hands move to her shoulders, squeezing them gently. “God gave you this body to lay with a man, you just need to be put in the right direction before it’s too late. I could help you, I could save you.”

Jan felt sick to her stomach. She hated every moment of the interaction; she hated the feeling of his hands on her, the way he was leering at her body, undressing her with his eyes. But at the same time, it was hard to lean into that hate, because he did pick on every insecurity she had in regards to her faith. But her sense of self won out and she was able to free herself of his grasp and run out of the room as fast as her legs would take her.

Any shame or guilt she might have felt was quickly replaced by anger and a desire to stop the man that tried to rob her of her innocence from harming anyone else. But she was still cautious, she knew there was a risk of retaliation if she spoke out alone, that was when her plan formed.

She created a fake Facebook account of a fifteen-year-old girl who was ‘planning on transferring to her school’. That was why she messaged the teacher, and after a few days of exchanging messages, ‘Samantha’ had agreed to meet up with him, the conversation in no uncertain terms making his intent clear.

Now, the obvious path from there would have been to go to the police, but that wasn’t good enough for Jan. Instead, she went to her godfather, who had promised he’d always help her ‘by any means necessary’. So, it was neither the police nor ‘Samantha’ that met the teacher at the park. Instead, it was two burly men who drove home a rough lesson that he was to turn himself in the next day, lest he face even worse consequences. He’d been given a flash drive with a copy of the whole exchange and was told he had exactly twenty-four hours and that the police would be expecting him.

Of course, those details weren’t in the subsequent news story of the teacher’s arrest. The conviction, however, was disappointing to Jan, as it was only two years and a thousand dollar fine, as well as losing his teaching license and having to register as an offender.

Present Day

“But rest assured, people are keeping an eye on him these days. You know, should he ever try and act up,” Jan explained with a shrug.

Rosé’s mouth was hanging open by the time Jan had finished her story. “So, you put a hit out on a pedo. I mean, shit, color me impressed,” she chuckled softly, then quickly followed up with, “I’m so sorry any of that happened to you, though. I’ve had people in my life try to weaponize religion against me after I came out. It’s never an easy pill to swallow.” She then looked at the group curiously. “Are you all…”

“Mik’s pan but yeah, the rest of us are gay,” Gigi confirmed with a nod. “At first, I thought that’d be the only thing we all have in common, but here we are now.”

“Chosen family is super important,” Mik agreed, “you never know who you can’t trust in your bloodline.”

Rosé quirked her brow. “That what happened to you?”

Scottsdale, AZ - 2015

Mik had been sitting across from his parents in dead silence for the past five minutes. There was no easy way to break it, let alone a correct one. On the coffee table in front of them were printed pictures of screenshots from his private Twitter account, where he presented himself as his true identity, but the precautions he took weren’t enough.

“Kady, sweetheart, I’m sure Uncle Joe brought this to our attention with your best interest at heart,” his mother said in as sweet of a voice as she could muster, which only served to sound fake to her son.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh please, don’t give me that. If it was ‘concern’ he would’ve told you privately. He sent it to the family group chat then told you that, and I quote, ‘your daughter thinks she’s a tranny’,” he struggled to keep his tone even, but he knew he needed to coddle his parents’ feelings if he wanted a chance of being taken seriously.

“I’m sure it just caught him by surprise,” his father offered.

Mik groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Even if he did, he wasn’t treating it like a fun piece of gossip, he hunted down my private account and outed me to humiliate me, and it would mean a lot if you guys had my back on this.”

This brought another wave of silence upon his parents. He couldn’t get a clear read on them, but they seemed stressed, confused, and most painfully, they seemed sad. His mother slowly picked her head back up. “Kady, I—”

“My name is Mik.”

“Listen, honey, you’re going to have to give us some time to adjust,” his dad tried to ease the tension, “you’re still our child, but this isn’t an easy thing to process, your mother especially is mourning the loss of her daughter.”

Mik felt his chest tighten in anger and hurt. “But I’m not—” he got up, shaking his head. “Right, fine,” he mumbled and escaped to the sanctuary of his bedroom. Left alone with his thoughts, the anger he had towards his parents dissipated and the rage shifted solely onto his uncle. After all, this was his fault. He was the one that robbed him of the opportunity to come out on his terms, and with the active intent to cause harm.

The anger didn’t go away over the following weeks. Instead, it built up, it festered inside of him as the summer after high school began. He had downloaded Grindr out of casual curiosity, and it was only a matter of minutes before a profile caught his eye. “No fucking way,” he grinned.

Of course, it was Joe, Mik realized how much of a cliche it was, but that didn’t change the fact that his bigoted uncle that tried to ruin his familial relationships was soliciting male escorts on a gay dating app. The opportunity for revenge essentially fell into his lap. He made a fake account and exchanged messages with him, just enough to get the evidence he needed.

The last step was simple, he dropped the screenshots into the same group text without any comment and removed himself from the group chat right after. He didn’t need to see the chaos unfold, Uncle Joe’s absence from the next family gathering was all he needed.

Present Day

“Just to be clear,” Mik added as he finished the story, “I’m against outing people, for the most part, obviously it should be something done on your terms. But shit, sometimes it’s gotta be an eye for an eye, you know?”

“Wait, I have a question,” Jan chimed in, “is he out now? Do y’all even talk to him anymore?”

He shook his head. “He moved to Alabama, I guess he wanted to go somewhere to double-down on the bigotry. No idea what happened after that. But, you know, good fucking riddance.”

“Amen to that,” Rosé agreed. “I don’t know how you guys have figured out that line of deciding what’s morally sound and what’s ethical enough. It seems to work, but it seems hard.”

“Jackie helped a lot with that,” Jan told her, her face lighting up and her smile broadening as she continued, “she has this pragmatic take on these things while still understanding that there’s so much ambiguity and morally gray areas. She’s honestly the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

Rosé nodded as she listened. “I’m glad you guys have someone like that on your team. How long have you two been dating?”

Jan turned bright red, worsened by the way the rest of the group laughed. “Oh, um, we’re not dating. She and I are… very close friends,” she explained.

“Ah,” the corners of her lips tugged into a smirk, “you’re just fucking, got it,” she observed, causing another eruption of laughter from the others, much to Jan’s chagrin. Once it died down, she redirected her attention to the half of the group that had yet to recall their stories. “Alright, who’s next?”

#halldoll #jankie #rpdr rpf

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markynaz · 4 years ago

Text

7/26

Belief / Dragons Written for @tes-summer-fest 2021 Wordcount: 3146 Content Warning: slight emotional abuse mentions, as appropriate when discussing Bastian Hallix's upbringing AO3 Mirror: here

“And who’s your favorite Divine?”

It was a common question for children in Daggerfall, usually asked in lieu of the small talk one would make with adults. It wasn't exactly proper to ask a child - no matter how well bred - about court gossip, or the price of bolts of Redguard cloth, or the war news that was on everyone else's lips. And it was unspeakably gauche to ask a child about their parents or family. A society as full of intrigue and gossip as the Bretons cultivated couldn’t stand for a child’s truth in any answer. No well-bred Breton of any variety would even think to put a child in the place of guarding family secrets.

So, inoffensive questions it was, and Bastian Hallix, ward of the influential Silvelles, had grown quite sick of them all by the time he was old enough to hide his annoyance.

The one about the Eight Divines was perhaps his least favorite. The easy answer was Julianos, protector of mages, but admitting it would mean admitting his magical aptitude - something the Silvelles were loathe to have Bastian say in company for reasons of their own. Barring that, it would have been easiest to make up a stock answer and stick with it, but lying never sat right with Bastian.

He was thinking about this instead of listening to the priest one Sundas afternoon. They sat - him, Quistley, and the Lord and Lady Silvelle - on the cushioned pews in King Emeric’s chapel, the sun glittering in through the stained glass windows and setting every piece of pristine silver or gold in the place glittering. Large statement jewelry was in fashion that summer. It was a fad from Cyrodil, according to Bastian’s tutors, and the concave silver brooch on Lady Silvelle’s breast was reflecting sunlight right into Bastian’s eye. He looked up to avoid the glare and examined the artful stained glass windows of the Divines while the priest started another prayer for the war effort.

Mara, goddess of love, was the first his eye fell on. Bastian stopped himself from making a face. He remembered, very faintly, thinking she was pretty at one time - remembered her being his favorite Divine when he was very, very young. Every artist put such an expression of goodness in her countenance that her face was always the first Bastian looked for. But… it was hard to believe in Mara, knowing what he knew of marriage from Lord and Lady Silvelle. Knowing what he knew of love from them, and from his brother, Quistley.

A priest had once told Bastian that Mara’s love was unconditional. Bastian didn’t think there was such a thing, but he supposed if there wasn't, Mara wouldn't still be watching over the world.

Her gentle face made him sad. He shifted his gaze.

Arkay, god of death and cycles. His sphere sounded more serious than the stained glass looked. He had one hand raised, and a kindly expression, so much that Bastian could almost forget or ignore the dead wolf at his feet and the graves filling the background of the picture.

When he'd been particularly angry with Quistley once - actually lost his temper on his foster brother, an incident that made his ears burn with shame to recall - he'd been quietly pulled aside, still fuming, by a priestess of Arkay who’d seen the whole of the confrontation. Quistley had run off to his parents, Bastian assumed to tell them how he'd behaved, and he was in no hurry to follow. Going with the priestess to calm down was by far the most agreeable option.

She'd had him hold the holy oil she was using to bless unmarked graves of paupers and disgraced women and men in the back alleys of Wayrest, talking softly to him in between murmuring prayers to her Divine. Cycles showed in life as well as death, she'd said. Bastian might have been angry with Quistley then, but one day Quistley would be angry with him, and he should always try to model the behavior he'd like shown to him in the next cycle. And - because she was a priestess of Arkay - she had added, one of them would very likely outlive the other. A life spent in cycles of rage was one the survivor was very likely to regret.

It had made sense to Bastian once he'd calmed enough to hear words. He'd returned to Lord and Lady Silvelle resigned to whatever punishment they'd assign him, and hoping to be a better brother and foster son going forward.

And then he'd found out, upon returning, that Quistley hadn't said a word to his parents, and was going to use Bastian’s fit of temper to blackmail him into doing favors for the next half year.

Bastian was fairly sure Arkay would never be his favorite Divine. Quistley shifted in his seat next to him, and in a burst of irritation, Bastian realized he was blatantly asleep in chapel.

He set his jaw and cast his gaze to the other row of stained glass.

Dibella, goddess of beauty. Her form was pleasing enough, but it held nothing for Bastian’s eyes. He could do little more than admire the artwork - for artists tended to be closer devoted to Dibella than any other Divine, and most would jump at the chance to depict her in their ideal of beauty.

Last year, Bastian had seen an artist depict Dibella in a male form for the first time in his recollection. He finally understood what had Quistley and his friends so enamored with the sculptures, stained glasses, and art pieces. He hadn't been able to tear his eyes away from the perfect musculature- the long hair flowing over defined back muscles - the chiseled features with just a hint of facial hair - the eyes, glimmering with intent behind his courtly Breton facade-

His ears were burning for a different reason, thinking about it.

The Silvelles hadn't cared one way or the other when his preferences were revealed. Bastian thought he even detected a hint of relief in Lady Silvelle’s voice, and thought - though it shamed him to think so meanly - it might be from the lowered likelihood of Bastian fathering children someday. It would mean fewer Hallixes for them to connect themselves with.

Not that he would force them to, if that ever came to pass. He knew his place.

Stendarr, god of justice and mercy. Bastian hadn't connected the cup on his altar to the object held in his hand for an embarrassing number of years. In his defense, the artist who’d rendered it in the Silvelles’ home chapel had either painted it very ill indeed, or it had been later ruined by some splash of ink.

The Redguard training master who’d been brought in to tutor Bastian and Quistley on the art of conflict swore to Stendarr sometimes, when he was mildly displeased. When he was really angry, he would revert to the Redguard pantheon. Bastian rarely heard that directed at him. More often, if he wasn't performing to standards, the wiry old man would heave a great sigh and say, “Young Bastian. One day, you'll either be delivering Stendarr’s justice, or begging his mercy at the other end of the sword. Which will it be today?”

He could almost hear it in the training master’s voice, really. Once Tutor Thierren told him about about Bastian’s aptitude for magic, he'd set to training him with a staff as well as a blade - setting up obstacle courses to get through with a weighted stave in hand, sessions where he'd give Bastian a staff with an iron core and come at him with a sword. It was always better to be on the correct side of Stendarr’s hand, and if his magicka was depleted, he needed to be able to survive and get away.

Bastian flattered himself that Thierren saw more in his future than court etiquette and uncomfortable questions answered by half-truths that made him burn inside. He was nearly seventeen now, almost a man grown. Lord Silvelle had been hinting recently that it might be time for Bastian to look after the family's interests without such a stern hand guiding him, and Bastian relished the thought.

Kynareth, goddess of the wilds and the winds. Bastian had named her as his favorite several times in response to the condescension of noble adults. Lord Silvelle’s comments that Bastian might start beginning to pay the Silvelles back for his excellent education and shelter by looking after their interests in other parts of High Rock were starting to seem more appealing the longer Bastian thought about it. Being blown about by Kynareth’s winds, seeing more of both civilization and the wilds…. It sent a little thrill through him. Being out from under the Silvelle’s roof was scarcely less exciting.

But if he kept daydreaming in that line, he knew he’d grow quite insensible to the speeches of the priest. That wouldn’t do if anyone asked him about it later. Reluctantly, he shifted his gaze.

The stained glass at the front of the chapel was the grandest of all. Akatosh, the One, head of the pantheon. Bastian could appreciate the artistry in the massive stained glass, tracing with his eye how every sliver fit so perfectly into the illusion of glittering dragon scales. Most recently he'd been reading about how Akatosh,, in some manner or another, appeared in almost every pantheon across Tamriel. He'd had an animated discussion with Quistley’s tutor about it, which saved him from the more awkward conversation on why he had been caught doing Quistley’s assignments.

But unlike some of the other stained glasses, Bastian felt nothing in his heart when he looked at the image of Akatosh. After a moment of consideration, the only thing coming up seemed to be a slick, greasy guilt at not feeling anything greater.

The other Divines had expressive human faces to feel things about, he tried to rationalize to himself. And usually, it was older Bretons who took amulets of Akatosh as their personal guide, kept close to the heart. Perhaps one day he'd feel what he ought to for such an important figure. For now, he averted his eyes almost as quickly as he had looked away from Mara.

Next to him, Quistley half-snored. Bastian quickly jabbed an elbow into his ribs to keep him quiet. Quistley shifted and jabbed him back, catching Bastian in the side with not just his elbow, but the sharp, hard bit of statement jewelry on his wrist down and catching Bastian’s hip.

Bastian bit his lip to stop any sound of pain.

The bubble of resentment that burst in his throat was startling in his vehemence. This wasn't fair. If Quistley was caught sleeping in chapel, Bastian would be scolded along with him - chastised for not keeping his foster brother attentive and polite. Even when Quistley got himself into deserved trouble, he always seemed to drag Bastian down with him until they were both flailing, covered in shame, neither looking good.

No. No. He was getting angry. He couldn't. Bastian took a deep breath, exhaled as quietly as he could through parted lips, and then, catching Lord Silvelle’s head begin to turn toward him, tucked his chin and closed his eyes as if in prayer. He stayed that way until he felt his face was under control.

When he lifted his gaze again, it fell on Zenithar. Bastian examined his wizened face, how the artist had used space between the glass pieces to give the impression of lines.

Zenithar, god of fair work and commerce. Maybe one day Quistley would get his just desserts, Bastian thought with sudden savageness, and just as quickly reeled in and tempered those thoughts. No. No, Quistley didn't deserve any such thing, and in any case, he would never be allowed to fail. Anyone with the Silvelle name couldn't be allowed to show proof of family weakness.

So, perhaps, one day he would step up and be the son his parents so wished him to be. That was a much more charitable thought fo fix on, and Bastian set himself on it with the same ferocity which a deer rubbing the velvet off his antlers might set himself on a tree.

Yes. It would be so much better if Quistley would stop grieving his parents. If he would pull his weight, step up to the responsibility of being the Silvelles’ heir. Divines knew there was enough to manage and look after, from what Bastian had been able to find out. There was certainly enough of an opportunity for Quistley to earn the life he seemed to want to live.

He didn't realize until several minutes had passed in this fashion that his hand had slipped into his pocket, seeking and finding the small medallion of Julianos that he wore on a chain connected to his belt whenever he could. His fingers had fallen into the familiar habit of tracing the sharp edges of the triangle, one, two, three, four, and then twice more in that fashion before the count matched up again with the point where he'd started. The counting, the rhythm, soothed him, even enough to ignore that Quistley had slipped back into even breathing and slumber in the pew beside him.

Still tracing the edges of his amulet, his eyes lifted to the stained glass of his own protector, Julianos.

~~|\|~~

Ten years later, in the same chapel, Bastian traced the now-worn edges of the medallion as he glanced over the stained glass windows.

This time, he wasn't in King Emeric’s chapel on the good will of the Silvelles. No; those days were long past, and Bastian was learning to look on their passing with more and more relief.

The windows weren't as grand as he'd remembered them in his childhood memory. He supposed after the better part of a decade spent traveling Tamriel, seeing the wonders of the continent, it was no surprise that fading pieces of art in a Breton king's chapel would carry less mysticism. Still, something in his heart throbbed at the loss. There was just a little less beauty in the world now that he saw the images for just images, and not stand-ins for his belief in the Divines.

And yet….

Still tracing the edges of Julianos’ symbol with the pad of his thumb, Bastian looked to his companion.

Arcturus Crane. Adopted son of noble merchant lord Earl Crane, and adopted in a sense of the word that had made Bastian nearly gasp with alarm the first time he'd heard them talk to each other with frankness bordering on insouciance. Arcturus Crane, who had helped him drag Quistley out of trouble twice without complaint, who was now speaking so casually with the priest of High King Emeric’s chapel in an effort to find out the date and particulars of a certain Clairene Auzin’s marriage.

Bastian kept his focus on Arcturus’ animated hands - he always gestured so much when he talked, a habit stopped only when one hand was curled around the heavy haft of a stave - and tried to keep his breathing steady. His pulse didn't sound steady in his ears. He pressed the tip of his index finger into a worn point of the triangle on his medallion with quickly increasing pressure until he could almost feel an edge.

It might be most natural for his eye to fall on Julianos, abusing the Divine’s symbol in nervousness as he was, but instead he found his gaze on Mara instead. Mara, who had never been a Divine he understood, flowing hair and expression of kindness and warmth.

Unconditional love.

In untangling what, exactly, he felt about things the Silvelles had told him to feel a certain way about - not least of all their own actions - Bastian was starting to think he might have misjudged Mara’s sphere. Unconditional love.

The Silvelles loved Quistley unconditionally, not that he could justify that. He'd spent decades trying. Lord Crane, in contrast, didn’t treat Arcturus like the Silvelles coddled Quistley. He seemed to hold something a great deal like respect for his adopted son. Perhaps not love - he didn't act like there was any sort of paternal feeling there, and Arcturus didn't bother to affect a child's adoration - but there was still…. Something. Something Bastian couldn’t quite put a name to.

And in Arcturus’ own behavior to him. The way he grinned when Bastian got excited over a scrying eye or a new bit of magic, his instant expression of chagrin when his twisting path of shadows caught an innocent mouse and Bastian couldn't bite back his disappointment in time. Bastian had lain awake several nights chastising himself over the outburst, but… now, thinking about it, Arcturus had been rather more careful about how he placed his traps and barriers and magical effects.

Unconditional love was Mara’s sphere. He’d never understood.

Perhaps, Bastian thought, it was less of love, and more of…. trust. A trust baseless enough to be belief, that the other person would do as you expected. And a fondness strong enough to stay steady even if that belief was proved wrong.

His sister. Bastian had no expectations of her, but in the few short weeks he'd known her to be alive… he’d begun to hope. Could she harbor the same feelings for him?

Could she believe in him like he wanted to believe in her?

Bastian released his medallion of Julianos, letting it drop at the end of its short chain back into his pocket as he stood straight. There was no way to find out except by finding out. Arcturus was turning from the priest, and from the look in his bright blue eyes, he didn't come away empty-handed.

The shock of fear that struck Bastian at the thought wasn't a surprise. Rather, he was surprised at how quickly it passed.

Why should I be scared? I won't be alone for this, he told himself, and the thought was quickly chased by, I trust him to stand by me through whatever happens.

Belief. Trust. He still shied away from the word ‘love,’ but….

Perhaps. Perhaps, in time. For now, as Arcturus strolled back to him and flashed a crooked smile (intended to put him at ease, he realized, when normally it was him scrambling to make others easy) and offered a sardonic comment in the way of letting Bastian know they had a lead, the belief in his good will was quite enough to stop the fear from freezing Bastian dead.

He walked out of High King Emeric’s chapel. He held the door for Arcturus, stepped into the bright midday sun, the sounds of Wayrest muted beyond the mage-protected castle wall. He stood there and waited for his eyes to adjust, and hoped - wished - believed, that the end of this road might finally be in sight.

#bastian hallix #tesfest21 #warlock arcturus crane #(mentioned as bastian's companion at the end)#longform #i'm not like 100% happy with it tbh but like. i gotta do a study abroad application and finish up an assignment so it's gonna have to stand #and I've been having feelings about Bastian lately anyway so lmao

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elizabeth-mitchells · 5 years ago

Link

would you have it any other way? | Andy x Quynh

The Old Guard Mini Bang 2020 | @theoldguardevents | Art created by @elenorasweet can be found here

Fandom: The Old Guard (Movie 2020) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Andy | Andromache the Scythian/Quynh | Noriko Words: 6773 Summary: If you put together the age of all the other immortals, it still wouldn't match the number of years that Andy and Quynh have loved each other. Their love, the oldest, the strongest, and the truest thing they both have ever known in their endless lives, might be about to go through the most challenging test yet. The entire team, the entire family, is going through one of its most difficult times so far, including the appearance of a new immortal. Meanwhile, Andy and Quynh have a secret within themselves that they also have to deal with, but, at least, they're happy to be dealing with all of it together, as they were always supposed to do.

aka basically just the exact same plot of the movie, but Quynh is there the entire time because canon is too cruel and i said no thank you

Golden light filled the streets of Morocco and two women walked there as confident as if they could command the very sunlight to their will.

Andy wore black from head to toe and nobody dared stare at her long enough to notice the details. The gun on the waist of her pants, the knife on the heel of her boots, the thin thread from which an ancient pendant hung from, the backpack filled with gifts for her family, and the dark dragon printed on her t-shirt. She looked ready to kill, but so heavily charged with emotional specifics that nothing she did could possibly be taken as meaningless. In conclusion, she looked like she had plenty of reasons, several people in fact, that she was more than ready to kill for. One of them, and pretty obviously judging by the way her otherwise stone-cold face lighted up with a smile every time their hands so much as brushed, was the woman right beside her.

The lightness of Quynh’s outfit, much more fashionable than Andy’s, didn’t exactly make her look any more approachable. She wore a fresh white shirt and stylish, cream-colored pants, but she knew how to hide a dagger in any kind of attire, and if her purse carried nothing but a gun, that was still a deliberate fashion choice. Both women wore dark sunglasses but, where Andy’s frown warned people she wouldn’t hesitate to begin or end any kind of trouble by whatever means necessary, Quynh’s little smile was more of a promise there would be trouble following her.

Still, when the annoying sounds of a bike got impossibly close and a man finally caught up with the women, stopping his bike right ahead of them, Andy and Quynh grinned with genuine affection.

“Booker,” they greeted him in unison.

“Ladies,” the frenchman playfully bowed his head, parked his bike, and then with easy familiarity wrapped his arms around both women, “You guys good? Did you travel?”

Andy fondly patted him in the back and when they all pulled back from the hug she answered, “We did. And I brought you something.”

While Booker admired his first edition copy of “A Hundred Years of Solitude,” Quynh chuckled and led them forward.

“Don’t be fooled, Sebastien, I got the gift for you, Andromache only carried it on her cute little bag,” Quynh looked back once, smirking at Andy, and reached out to brush her fingers to the other woman’s wrist, teasing.

When the doors of the hotel room opened, for an instant, time stopped. Time crashed, time got all tangled up on itself, turned over on its own head. Time was meaningless. Because, how many times had this exact scene played itself in the past thousand years? Andy embraced Nicky with all solemnity and all-encompassing care they felt for one another and the people around them. Quynh pretty much jumped into Joe’s arms, almost, but never completely, catching him off guard. He spun her around once and when he put her down she kissed his cheek with all the unmeasurable love that to this day still made him happily blush. The hugs continued, of course. Joe lifted Andy up in a bear hug that got a laugh from her unlike any other in the world. Then Quynh hugged Nicky, allowing herself a second of safety and warmth surrounded by his arms before playfully doing her best to lift him up. He laughed like only the people in that room had ever heard him.

Greetings, jokes, and gifts exchanged, Quynh let herself fall on one of the couches beside Andy. She had a feeling this moment of bliss wouldn’t last too long and that was the only reason she didn’t allow herself to truly get comfortable at least resting her legs on top of Andy’s. But, she was content for the time being, watching the love of her life get absolutely, almost inappropriately lost in a sweet piece of baklava.

It’s been centuries and this never gets old, Quynh thought, shaking her head fondly as she broke her own gifted baklava in imperfect halves. As always, she ate the smaller half. As always, she saved the rest of Andy.

All too soon the conversation shifted to the reason behind their reunion. It’s a job, we can do some good, this is what we do, we’re not helping, they said. Andy sighed and stood up, walked to the window, and addressed Quynh. “What do you think?” Andy asked her, even though she probably knew, even though it was always the same.

Quynh, who, at that point had twisted herself on the couch into a more comfortable, most probably improper position, thought about it for a second. All around her, her family had felt compelled at one point or another to aid humanity for all possible reasons. Duty, sheer goodness of the heart, guilt, nothing better to do. Personally, she was a restless person. She couldn’t stand being still in a place for long, let alone be useless for longer than to catch her breath and have some fun, her mind wouldn’t let her, her heart wouldn’t allow it. But she didn’t let the struggles of the world plague her every thought, not like Andy did.

“Let’s hear him out,” she said finally, unsurprisingly. If they had had to vote at the moment she wouldn’t have said yes. She would have agreed with Andy, it was too risky, and probably useless. But, every time, as soon as she heard the details of whatever horror humanity was currently inflicting on itself, she’d be the first one out of her seat, ready to right all the wrongs of the world.

Carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders for thousands of years, Andy got used to the feeling. But that didn’t mean it ever stopped being so fucking heavy. It got heavier each passing day and, just lately, Quynh was finding it increasingly difficult to soothe that burden on her lover’s back, to get her to share a little of the strain. She could see, like she didn’t ever remember seeing, Andy truly struggling with the weight of it all or, more specifically, with the conviction it was any worth it to keep holding on. Handling her part of the weight, plus her determination to help the love of her life, it was its own kind of burden on Quynh’s shoulders, but she wasn’t focusing on her own pain, physical, psychological, or of any kind, she didn’t want to.

Almost without Andy noticing, Quynh walked up behind her. The shorter woman wrapped her arms around Andy and kissed her shoulder. They stared out the window for a moment longer before Quynh stated, “This one’s special,” she murmured, fearless as always to put into words what the other woman felt to her core, “I am going with you.”

Usually, Andy would meet with their contacts alone or with Booker, they made a good team. And it was always useful to have a plan B, to make it seem like they had a trick under their sleeves, like they were more in numbers than anyone would ever know, to hold back laughter when poor devils that thought they could play smart with them had to face a meeting with Quynh and Nicky. So, that day, Andy, Quynh, and Booker, met with James Copley.

They accepted the job.

Even if Andy didn’t secretly hold the belief that her own heart continued to beat after countless deaths partially out of sheer desire to beat along with Quynh’s heart. Even if she wasn’t forever, eternally in love with the other woman. Even still, Andy would have been thankful to have her on her team, to travel with her, to fight alongside Quynh.

Nobody would question Quynh’s professionalism. She hadn’t selfishly or accidentally endangered her team or their missions too many times more than any of the others had throughout the centuries. She just had the strange little talent of knowing exactly when and where and how much she could push the boundaries of their professionalism in order to make the most out of their time on Earth.

In helicopters, she playfully disregarded security measures. In deserts, she walked with a spring on her step. Wearing a picture-perfect ponytail, dark sunglasses, and all-black clothes that somehow she had forced to fit into a greater fashion sense than any mercenary had ever been known for, she did every little thing only she could get away with. Starting with genuinely trying to distract Nicky when he was about to shoot two guards at once, as she had dared him to do, but just because she trusted him, because she’d taught him that move herself. Then, being the only one quick enough to shoot just once before the five of them died on that kill floor. Lastly, winking at Andy as they came back to life, with holes on their clothes and wounds still healing and just seconds away from tearing down a small army of men.

Quynh was a synonym for life, Andy thought, she is life, I am alive because she is life, and I will live as long as she is with me. Quynh lived her endless life in bold, bright strokes of a brush. And things, the best and worst of them would have probably been so much easier, simpler, if Quynh had been just that, excitement, energy, a mischievous smile. But of course, she was so much more

Quynh was gentleness in places that knew only hostility. She was capable of conjuring patience and calm in the blink of an eye. She was endless conversations and fantastic stories. She carried little kids when they saved them, she found ways to make women feel safe and men believe in peace. She washed Andy’s hair with all the care in the world, and she made sure none of the boys had any blood left in their beards after a battle. She held Andy’s hands because she could tell Andy needed her, but she held so tightly because she needed Andy. At times she was quiet. She was thoughtful. With really big events she took her time to process them instead of any relatively usual impulsiveness. A trait of hers that pained Andy because she knew, the longer Quynh thought about something, the longer she was hurting.

Quynh believed in revenge. She always had. Her heart could fit millions of good, selfless, benevolent feelings, but she still believed in revenge. If the stars aligned for her, she’d kill James Copley herself. But it was never so easy, was it? They had made mistakes too, that day. Could she get revenge on herself? Self-recrimination was one excruciating characteristic she shared with the love of her life. There was no use in pondering about it, if it was a coincidence or if they had picked it up after the other one. At least, one thing more powerful than that was the fierceness with which they’d protect the ones they loved, resulting in them perfectly protecting each other, even from themselves.

They were on a train somewhere away from their latest mistake. Booker had started to snore and Joe and Nicky had been perfectly still in each other’s arms for a while now. Andy’s thoughts were too loud to let her sleep, and Quynh’s thoughts too dangerous to keep herself awake for them. She was laying down, with her head comfortably resting on Andy’s lap, even if the rest of her body was unusually uncomfortable in the rough surface where they lay.

“Sleep,” Andy would tell her every few minutes, mindlessly slipping into the old habit of a dead language that only they could remember.

“I can’t, not without you. Sleep with me, my heart. Sleep,” Quynh replied, again and again, the ancient words coming out almost easier than modern English ever did.

“Sleep,” Andy insisted, soothingly running her fingers through her lover’s hair, even after Quynh fell asleep, just until she slept too.

It didn’t last long though… there was Nile.

“She’s beautiful,” Quynh said, somewhat sadly, a minute later as they all discussed what they saw of the new immortal in their dreams, “and smarter and braver than she knows what to do with.”

She exchanged a look with Andy, silent understanding of what it all meant. It wasn’t the most convenient of moments, but it had never been convenient at all, right? Together they had welcomed four other immortals, and it never got easier. Not when Lykon died. Not when having to explain to Joe and Nicky why they’d never win the war one of them had started. Not when watching Booker lose himself when he lost his family. And it certainly wouldn’t be easy to explain to the new kid how an endless life would mean the ending of the life she already had.

But Nile Freeman was beautiful, smart, and brave. Quynh could tell. Just as she once said Lykon was a hero unlike anybody else, and Joe and Nicky were naturally kind, and Booker was, well, he had been mostly just tired. Her favorite judgment, however, remained that one of a day thousands of years ago when she woke up from a dream, firmly convinced that she had just dreamt of the love of her life.

“Good. You’re awake,” Quynh smiled down at Nile.

While Andy was driving the car, Quynh had insisted on sitting in the back to keep company to the new kid. Nevermind the young woman was unconscious after Quynh had allowed Andy to go pick her up by herself.

“Who- What’s going on?” Nile mumbled. Her head hurt and she could barely make sense of the scene around her beyond being in a strange vehicle with an unknown woman gently smiling at her.

“I know you probably have a lot of questions- Ugh, fuck!” Quynh’s explanation was cut short when Nile’s knife pierced through her chest.

An instant later, the young woman had kicked open the trunk of the car and fallen off it.

“What the fuck?! Quynh are you okay?” Andy slammed the brakes of the car and quickly got out. She had been trying to be nonchalant about this whole thing, but a line had been crossed. “Did you just stab my wife?!” she yelled at the retreating figure of Nile, and pulled out her gun.

“Andromache, don’t!” Quynh reached her just in time to make it so that Andy shot only at the ground near Nile. The surprise made her stumble and fall, but it could’ve been worse.

“She stabbed you!” Andy protested, frowning and the blood that was tragically staining Quynh’s otherwise perfectly white t-shirt.

“And we kidnapped her,” Quynh gave her wife a pointed look and with a hand on her arm prompted her to walk forward to properly introduce themselves to the newcomer.

“Who are you?” Nile asked when they were close enough to talk. She was still on the ground, breathing heavily and trying to think of a way to get out of this situation. In front of her were standing two women, one with short brown hair, a black tank top, and a look in her eyes incredibly threatening. Beside her was another woman of long black hair, wearing a now blood-stained white t-shirt with rolled sleeves and looking a little too put together for the desert they were in, she was smiling, but she somehow didn’t seem much more friendly than the other one.

Before replying, Andy shared a look with Quynh, as if finding all necessary answers there. “Don’t worry,” she said at last, “You’re safe, you’re not in any danger. We are… we are people like you. I know you just figured out you can’t die, we can’t either. I know it might not look like it at the moment, but we are saving you from much worse situations. We don’t have all the answers, kid. But you don’t have to figure it out alone, okay?” There was a pause then where Andy and Quynh exchanged another look. It might have been reassuring or encouraging, teasing, or amused. It could have been an entire silent conversation in the span of a second. But the point was that Andy looked at Nile once more and with more relaxed features added, “Now, could you please get back in the car?”

Andy offered Nile her hand, and helped the young woman stand back up. When Andy started walking away, Quynh turned to look at Nile. “Her name is Andromache, you should probably call her Andy. And my name’s Quynh,” She offered her hand to Nile, smiled when she heard her name, and then immediately tightened her hold until it almost hurt. “If you stab me again, you’re going to regret it,” she winked, and she was smiling, and Nile was fascinated by the perfect balance of menacing and welcoming in that gesture. “Welcome to the team!” Quynh added in a sing-song, turning around and following Andy back to the car.

Throughout history, Quynh had to sleep in the strangest of places. It was just a part of their lives, warriors couldn’t be picky about a place to rest their heads for a few hours. Besides, with one of Andy’s arms draped over her waist, Quynh felt safe enough to fall asleep even in the sketchy plane of an even sketchier… businessman, of sorts. However, her sleep was interrupted after a while when, in a matter of seconds, she made a move to turn around, found herself restrained, her struggle woke up Andy, they realized they had their wrists chained to the seats of the plane, and the new kid was pointing a gun at the pilot of the plane.

“Oh, this will be fun,” Quynh mumbled through a yawn, getting comfortable in her place.

She smiled when the pilot played dead as instructed by Andy. “Yeah, I do not recommend it,” she said when Nile swore she wouldn’t jump off a plane. “Not me?” she playfully pouted when Nile freed Any first. And she grinned expectantly as she watched the two other women engage in a fight that she knew was necessary and more meaningful than any outsider would have guessed. She teased Andy, cheered Nile on, and threw her head back laughing when the young woman got two hits at Andy’s face.

After the fight was over, Andy took the keys from Nile and got Quynh out of her restraints. The newest immortal was still standing, looking a little lost and teary-eyed in the middle of the plane, when Quynh stood up and faced her. “My turn?” she playfully asked, and felt her heart swell with affection at the sight of the confusion and hint of irritation in the young woman’s face. “I’m kidding,” Quynh said softly and smiled genuinely this time. Then she opened her arms, a silent offer that she wouldn’t push and wouldn’t be offended if rejected but-

Nile stepped forward and lightly wrapped her arms around Quynh’s shoulders, accepting the hug. It was strange, it was completely unfamiliar, but so much had happened in the past day or so. She had died, for fucks sake, she deserved a hug. “I’m sorry for stabbing you,” Nile grumbled.

In response, Quynh chuckled, “It probably won’t be the last time. And you can thank me for the clothes, Andromache alone would have kept you in your bloody uniform.”

“You two are the oldest,” Nile stared seriously at the two women at the other side of the table.

Andy and Quynh exchanged a look. “Andromache is a little bit older,” Quynh said with a smile.

“How old?” Nile asked.

“It’s not our first millennium I can tell you that,” Quynh took a sip of wine and leaned back on her chair.

“How old?” Nile insisted.

“Too old,” Andy said with finality.

The night wasn’t quiet, it never was in that place though. They were all accustomed to the sounds of the planes, and Nile had been exhausted enough to fall asleep despite the noise. Still, Quynh was so in tune with her lover’s mind, that she felt Andy’s thoughts to be even louder than the planes above their heads. When everyone else had gone to sleep, she had stayed in one of the armchairs, talking with Andy about everything, and nothing, and their upcoming mission. At least, they had been talking about that, until Andy’s worries got the best of her and she was rendered silent, staring at her own hand as if it was the first time she saw it.

From her place curled up in the other chair, Quynh stared at her. She wouldn’t be surprised if she had figured it out before Andy herself. She could say with certainty she knew Andy’s body better than she knew her own. Their way of living had made it so that at times they went years without facing an actual mirror. In all her years Quynh had stared at Andy way more than at herself. Had loved her intensely, tenderly, carefully, hurriedly, in every way they had possibly thought of. She had held her in her arms as she died and came back to life more times than she could count. There was no language, in all languages humanity had ever come up with, for Quynh describe the intimate connection she shared with Andy. It would have been a deadly offense to her for anyone to think that she hadn’t noticed a change, in Andy’s eyes, in her hands, in her skin, in the very way she was breathing.

Andy had been lost in her thoughts until she noticed Quynh perching herself on the arm of the chair she was in.

“I’m sorry, my love, what were you saying?” Andy looked up at her, just realizing she had stopped listening and talking a while ago.

Quynh sighed and met Andy’s eyes, kicking through any and all walls the other woman could attempt to put up to hide her real thoughts. Andy’s eyes widened a little when she realized Quynh was already caught up with her train of thought, but she didn’t have anything to say, not yet.

“I was saying…” Quynh started to say, picking up Andy’s hand to kiss her knuckles and then hold on tightly, “That you look beautiful tonight, my heart,” She felt a knot on her throat and it only worsened when Andy smiled at her. It was a unique smile, amused, genuine, she was thankful, she wasn’t afraid, but there was an apology in there somewhere. “As beautiful as the first day I saw you,” Quynh added with all the conviction she could muster without breaking down.

Both women were still silent, staring at their intertwined hands when Nile woke up from a nightmare, gasping for air.

“His name was Lykon,” Andy said, trying to explain to Nile why she’d just had a nightmare of a warrior dying from a wound on his stomach. “He was the third immortal. Only Quynh and I got to know him. He died before the rest of you were born, way before.”

“He was dying,” Nile whispered, “He was… he was bleeding so much, and there was no way to stop it. He was calm, he felt… ready but, it hurt. It hurt too much, and I don’t think he wanted to die.”

Andy didn’t need to turn around to know that, behind her, Quynh was standing by the dining table, holding to its edge until her knuckles were white, and her eyes were burning a hole on the ground. Lykon’s death would never stop hurting them, not really. He was Quynh’s best friend in a way that nobody could ever match again. He was far from the first soldier Andy lost, but definitely the one loss that hurt her the most. Plus, only with his death, and after thousands of years of life, the two women had to face the reality that they weren’t completely immortal, and losing each other would forever be a possibility.

“He was the best warrior, and man, I’ve ever met,” Andy stated, her voice steady, unwavering, honoring him, even thousands of years later, “He was all full of courage, light, skill and… smiles.” She made a quick pause, allowing herself to remember one of the most painful days of her entire existence on this Earth. “We were fighting a small battle, nothing we hadn’t done a hundred times before. Everything was going according to plan, seamlessly. We got hurt, we stood back up. Until… he didn’t. He got hurt, and his wounds didn’t heal. Just like that. His time had come. Nothing we can do about it.”

Nile closed her eyes for a second. She still had an arm holding on to her own abdomen. “Why am I dreaming of him?” she asked, opening her eyes to glare at Andy.

“The dreams stop when we meet. Then they restart, when one of us dies. Those dreams, memories of them, they aren’t constant, but they don’t stop,” Andy explained, taking a quick look at the rest of her team, the three men that had dreamed of Lykon their entire lives without ever meeting him. “They won’t always be of his death, I promise,” Andy tried to explain, but a second later Nile was standing up and hurrying out the door.

After another meaningful look to the other half of her family, Andy grabbed a gun out of habit, and followed the young woman outside.

“I’m going with you,” Quynh said, as Andy passed beside her, “I need some air.” And the group was split in half, for longer than any of them could have expected.

“Wait for my signal,” Andy said to Nile before turning around, accepting the sword Quynh was holding out for her. Then the two of them confidently moved toward the abandoned church, to wait for a group of soldiers that during their last seconds of life would deeply regret ever taking that job.

“I could have done this by myself, you know?” Andy smiled at Quynh from their hiding place among the shadows.

“You could, doesn’t mean you have to,” Quynh replied, making an effort to not even hint at the fact that for the first time ever Andy’s mortality wasn’t as certain as it had always been. Instead, Quynh put on the playful smile that she knew Andy needed to see in her. “My heart, it’s been an eternity already, please accept that for as long as I’m here, you’ll never have to do anything alone.”

Quynh kissed Andy’s cheek and a second later she urged her lover to get out and dive, almost literally, into the fight waiting for them. Quynh let her go first, Andy always went first, and usually, Quynh didn’t complain. She loved looking at her wife conquer a battle fearlessly, almost effortlessly, it was a sight worth all the treasures in the world. But then, of course, as soon as one of the men showed even the remote intention of pulling a knife from behind Andy, Quynh was already there, making sure he didn’t live enough to even picture Andy hurt because of him.

It went on and on, almost too easily. Andy and Quynh fighting side by side, picking up guns and swinging their swords and not letting their enemies even a chance to think about the goddesses of war that had stepped in their paths. It was over as quickly as it started. The whole place catching fire, Joe and Nicky already too far away, Nile and Booker in the backseat of the car.

Quynh had been there to guard Andy’s back, and keep her from any serious injury, and maybe she was the only one looking for confirmation of her greatest fears, but the fact remained that she could hardly tear her eyes away from Andy’s bruised knuckles holding the steering wheel. Insignificant little bruises, but they were there, not healing as they should.

Quynh had to take a step back when Nile explained to Andy why she couldn’t go along with them. That experience was hurting Quynh more than anyone realized. She felt physical pain in a way she couldn’t explain. She had accepted Nile as a member of their family, she already felt protective, and charmed by the young woman. It hurt to watch her go, it hurt to watch her pick a different side when they needed her.

Andy seemed to understand though, of course she did. Andy had been a leader for pretty much as long as she had been alive, which was… a lot. Andy could make sense of why everybody did what they did, in and out of battle it seemed, and she always explained it to Quynh in a way that was too forgiving of the others. It hurt Quynh to watch Andy understand what was the right thing to do, it hurt because there was no one and there would never be anyone like Andy. It hurt Quynh because she could never do what Andy does, be like Andy, and she didn’t ever want to take over that role, didn’t even want to picture it, and now she might have to.

So, it was only Andy, Quynh, and Booker stepping into Copley’s office. It felt wrong, Quynh couldn’t explain why but it did. What kind of man is so calm when three immortal warriors are pointing at him with guns?

Well, the explanation lies with the third immortal, Booker, who wasn’t aiming at Copley at all. He was shaking, making the most difficult decision of his life, even if it was just a small part of the worst decision that he had already taken a while ago. He was thinking about how long they take to heal. He was thinking about who would react the quickest, and who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him in the head for shooting her wife. So, he shot Quynh in the heart, killing her instantly, and buying himself enough time to shoot Andy near the stomach. Andy had enough time to shoot him in the leg, but her gun fell off her grip, and she fell to her knees.

By the time Quynh came back to her senses, there were tears streaming down Andy’s face, and there was a wound on her stomach that wouldn’t stop bleeding. Quynh gritted her teeth and accepted the pain, forced herself to accept Andy’s mortality, Booker’s betrayal, her own rage, and her even greater heartache. She wanted to reach out to Andy, she wanted to kill Booker a thousand times over this, she wanted to just lie there and hope for it all to be a nightmare. She didn’t have a chance to do any of that before she was restrained by a group of strange men taking her and her broken family away.

“Fuck! Let me go,” Quynh groaned as she was being securely tied down to one of the beds in Merrick’s lab. She was the only one fighting it. “Let me kill him just once and I’ll gladly settle down after. Fucking-”

Andy was staring at her while the doctor sedated Quynh for the third time already. If she had had the strength, maybe Andy would have smiled. It was the natural reaction, to smile when she watched Quynh fight, smile when Quynh was bold, when she was playful, when she loved Andy in every way possible, and beyond. It didn’t feel right then, to look at the love of her life and feel only the need to start crying. From her point of view, this was the end for Andy. The weight of the world had finally become too much for her to bear. The world had finally crumbled down around her, taking her family down with it, turning Booker against her, rendering Joe and Nicky helpless, and Quynh… Quynh would lose her any moment now. Was this where all their promises would break?

Their time in Merrick’s lab was anything but boring. Quynh had been angry enough, had been quick enough, to knock out one of the doctors and free one of her hands on one occasion. That was as far as she got. She was sedated two times more. Each time she woke up was more frightening for her than the last. Andy’s name was the first thing coming out of her lips, and the first thing she heard was her lover’s reassuring “I’m here. Still here, Quynh, still here.” But it could only be so reassuring when “here” was one of the worst places they had ever been.

Two memories had made its way to the forefront of Quynh’s mind. One, the first time Andy and her died after Lykon’s definitive death. She had never felt as scared as she was during the seconds it took Andy to come back, and she had never been as desperate to come back to life, back to Andy, as she did that time. The second memory, the witches’ trials, the iron coffin, the feeling of being trapped, entirely hopeless. Andy had escaped just in time to follow in a different ship, but she couldn’t stop them from throwing Quynh to the ocean. She jumped right after her, but it still took hours to free Quynh from her prison. Some nights she still had nightmares where they didn’t manage it at all. This couldn’t be it. Not again. Quynh knew she had to fight with everything she had but, what if it wasn’t enough?

Andy wasn’t putting up a fight. Her hopelessness pained Quynh more than she could put into words, but it also inspired her to fight harder, to get all of them out of there. But it was difficult. It couldn’t be impossible, but it was difficult. She couldn’t even hear herself think. There was Joe fighting Booker, and Quynh related to that anger, but she had new priorities. There was Nicky trying to calm Joe down, and Quynh understood his silent rage, but she didn’t have time to listen to all their words. Least of all, she couldn’t stand the noise of Booker trying to defend himself. Loudest of all, however, was Andy’s silence, and Quynh’s own heart, breaking in her chest.

Nile’s arrival had been the closest thing to a miracle the four immortals had seen in their long, long lives. Quynh grinned as soon as she saw her, because it wasn’t a miracle, it was the most, if not only reasonable thing she’d seen in days. She had known, maybe since the moment that Nile had stabbed her, that the young woman had the potential to be everything the world needed, and more. At least, at the moment, she was everything the group needed, and that much was clear. Nile was hope, and just the sight of her was enough to send the five warriors up to their feet and ready to fight.

Andy convinced Booker to stand up, and convinced Joe to postpone the arguing. However, nobody, except for Booker, flinched at all at the moment Quynh confidently and calmly walked up to him just to punch him in the face strong enough for him to require a few seconds to recover. It was enough, for the moment. They had bigger problems waiting for them on the other side of the doors.

The fight was equal parts exciting and terrifying. It wasn’t the most difficult thing they’d done, but it was the first time they did it while one of them was mortal. It wasn’t easy, trusting their backs to Booker during the fight, but it came naturally enough. It was their priority, but it was undeniably difficult, to think of protecting Andy. Andy, who always moved first, Andy who regularly died for them, Andy who barely adjusted her fighting to be a little more defensive than usual, but not enough. Quynh and Nile found a common ground there, fighting anything and everyone, including Andy herself, to make sure the newly-mortal woman remained safe enough. If Andy slipped away from them at one moment, well, that much was inevitable.

There was one moment, right before the worst of the fight.

“Are you going to let her do this?!” Nile asked Quynh, talking about Andy refusing to wear any protection and insisting on entering the fight first.

Quynh was resting her back against the wall, eyes closed and breathing heavily. She had never felt this exhausted for as long as she could remember. Her body was screaming, her mind was beyond overwhelmed, and her heart couldn’t exactly handle the emotional stakes of the situation. There would be pain in seeing Andy risk her life, the only life she had. There would be pain in seeing Andy be careful, in seeing the love of her life, who Quynh had associated with invincibility for all of her life, act anything but unbreakable. Quynh could ask, she could very seriously ask and she could probably get Andy to take a step back for once in her life.

“I can’t stop her,” Quynh replied finally. But not in the way Nile thought right then. She couldn’t stop her, because Quynh knew and understood her wife and so she knew that to ask this of Andy at that moment, it would be an offense she wouldn’t be able to take back. Andy needed this moment, even if it was the last one, especially if it was the last one. They would walk into this battle as they always had and if it was up to them, they would also walk away from it as they always had.

Finally, it was all over. The boys were chasing the elevator down to catch Merrick, Andy and Nile were standing by the window, talking. Quynh was just rounding a corner, walking toward them with a smile, when something hit her in the head hard enough to knock her down to the ground.

Quynh fought with everything she had to stay conscious. She opened her eyes, and Merrick was pointing his gun at Andy. She closed her eyes and heard gunshots. She opened her eyes, and only Andy was standing there, looking proud as ever.

“Is it over?” Quynh asked Andy with a smile while the taller woman offered her a hand to get her up to her feet.

“Which part?” Andy laughed.

They were both a little unsteady on their feet but, holding on to each other, they walked over to the elevator and started their descent. It was the first quiet moment they had to themselves in days. They could finally breathe, they could finally take a good look at each other and let the reality of their situation settle in around them.

“How do you feel?” Quynh asked.

“How do you feel?” Andy turned the question around on her. She smiled when she noticed the confusion on Quynh’s face. “You’re bleeding, my love,” she explained, her voice breaking just slightly. Andy moved a hand to Quynh’s face and one of her fingers just lightly grazed the small wound where Merrick had hit her with the handle of Andy’s labrys. Quynh hissed in pain. She had felt it for a short while already, and the confirmation wasn’t as startling as it should have been. She wasn’t healing either. “But you were out there, risking yourself for me,” it was just a statement on Andy’s part, not really a question, but not completely a reprimand either.

“Well, obviously,” Quynh replied, smiling as genuinely as ever, smiling in that particular way that Andy loved more than ever, brighter than any star, more meaningful than any combination of words could dream of being.

“We will figure this out together,” Andy said, taking Quynh’s bruised hand and interlocking their blood-stained fingers with all the tenderness they had accumulated through three thousand years of love for each other and the world around them. “Just you and me,” she promised.

Quynh looked at her, her best friend, the love of her life, the person she admired the most, the person she’d die a thousand times and come back for, her favorite endless source of happiness and passion, purpose and strength. They had first made this promise back when they didn’t know an “end” was even possible for them. This time would be the most difficult occasion when Quynh would have to say the words, but also the most important. “Until the end,” she swore, meaning the words more than ever before.

The doors of the elevator opened, and Andy and Quynh walked out, hand in hand, facing the beginning of their end bravely, happily, ready, as long as they were together.

#ToGMiniBang2020 #the old guard #andy x quynh #andromaquynh #immortal wives #andromache the scythian #quynh #tog #the old guard fanfiction #my fic #i said no to canon #here it is!!!

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quintessenceofdust73 · 4 years ago

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Julance 2021 Prompt: Home/Family. Lance invites Pidge to spend time with him and his family in Cuba in this romantic Plance fic. 💚💙 In this excerpt, Pidge and Lance’s parents have a very important conversation which leads to a beautiful bonding moment between Pidge and Lance’s mother. Pidge realizes that Lance’s mother understands him better than anyone else, even Lance himself.

She heard Mr. and Mrs. McClain’s voices from the screened porch where Maria kept her pet birds.

“Katie? We are having our coffee out here. Why don’t you join us, dear?”

When Pidge stepped onto the porch with her pastry and mug, she was greeted by a chorus of chirps and whistles from the parakeets. The African Grey parrot greeted her with the cry of “Hey, pretty lady!”

“Did Lance teach him to say that?” Pidge asked with a giggle. Lance’s parents laughed.

“No, I did,” Lance’s father admitted. “I taught Wingman to talk when little Lancito was just learning to talk himself. I think he may have learned how to flirt from the bird, which may be why he is so bad at it.”

Maria and Pidge chuckled. “Now I know where Lance gets his sense of humor,” Pidge observed, and they laughed again.

“Well if my boy is a shameless ladies’ man, that is my fault. If he is a gentleman, that is all Maria’s doing.”

“He takes after both of you, then,” Pidge replied. Pop Pop thought this was very funny.

“More Maria than me,” he argued. “He is a good boy. We are glad he found a nice girl like you, Katie.”

“You are the answer to a mother’s prayer, my dear,” said Maria kindly.

Pidge blushed. “Thank you.” She smiled at both of Lance’s parents. “And thank you for welcoming me into your home. I have had the time of my life these last few days. It will be difficult to return to life at the Garrison after spending time in such a beautiful place.”

“We were so proud when our boy made it into your escuela de astronautas,” Pop Pop said. “When he went missing it was very difficult for us, especially Maria.” He squeezed his wife’s shoulders.

“I wept every day and prayed every night for his safe return. I prayed for his friend Hunk and you as well, though we did not know each other then. We knew that Hunk Garrett was his best friend since they started at the academia together. Lance wrote to us about what a bright and kind young man he is.”

Pidge nodded in agreement. “Hunk really is a terrific guy.”

“We learned about you from the television,” Pop Pop continued. “We knew of the disappearance of Shirogane, your father, and your brother from the news.”

“An investigation revealed that there was no such person as the boy Pidge Gunderson who disappeared along with our son and his friend,” Maria continued. “When we found out about the conspiracy theories—“

“They said Commander Holt had a little daughter as brilliant as he is. They said she hacked into the government’s computers to find out what happened to her missing father and brother,” her husband added. “They said she cut her hair and disguised herself as a boy and went to space to find them. At first I thought this little girl must be mad, or a genius, or she must love her father and brother so much that she would risk her life to attempt what is not possible. As it turned out, you are all three!”

Pidge laughed. “No argument there.”

“You gave us hope, Katie,” Maria said tearfully. “If your family was still alive, then maybe our son and his friend might be alive a well.”

“Veronica did some investigating of her own,” Mr. McClain continued. “She might have been facing a court martial if they ever found out how many of the rules she broke while trying to find out what happened to her baby brother. She told us what she could, and what she learned helped us to believe that our son might be coming home one day.”

“One of the happiest days of our lives is when the Paladins returned to Earth and we saw our son alive and well.” Maria was crying silently as she spoke. “And we saw for ourselves that the rumors were true about you and your wonderful family. We are honored to have you as a guest in our home.”

“It would be an even greater honor to have you as a member of our family,” said Pop Pop.

Crying happy tears, Pidge got up from her chair and hugged them both.

“Brave girl,” said Wingman. “Smart girl.”

The blue parakeet wolf whistled.

“Pretty lady,” Wingman agreed.

“I think I had best wake our heathen son,” said Pop Pop with a sniffle. “If Marco doesn’t want to go to church, then he can get up and make himself useful around here.”

Pidge knew that this was just an excuse for Lance’s father to leave. He was embarrassed to have cried in front of the women. Maria hugged Pidge again.

“I broke the code before the new year,” Pidge confessed.

Maria smiled, “I told everyone you would.”

“Clever girl,” agreed Wingman.

“It didn’t take long for Lance to figure out what I did. We aren’t very good at keeping secrets from each other.”

“But you are letting him have his fun for twelve days, aren’t you?”

The cockatiel heard “twelve days” and began to whistle the familiar Christmas carol.

“Of course. We agreed that even though I know what he plans to do, I don’t know how he plans to do it. The waiting...the anticipation makes it even more exciting, like when little children count down the days until they get to open their Christmas presents.”

“My Lance cannot keep secrets from his mother either,” Maria said with a gentle smile. “I know that you are the right girl for my son. I know because he has waited so long for you.”

“It’s been a year since we started dating—“ Pidge began.

“Far longer than a year, my dear. He has loved you for many years.”

“Oh, no, he loved Allura before—“

“A school boy’s crush. She is beautiful and brave and kind and as magical as any fairy tale princess. He was under her spell, but that was not love.”

Pidge shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Did you know that they were practically forced to go on a date together by their friends? Lance later confessed to me that he didn’t even want to go out with her because he knew even then that he had developed feelings for you. He said it felt like betrayal. The guilt he felt afterwards drove him into a deep depression. He knew he had acted foolishly and almost lost you because of it.”

Pidge’s lips parted and her jaw fell open in surprise. She shook her head. No.

Maria continued, “He was attracted to Allura’s beauty but it was with the raging hormones of a teenage boy who has read too many fantasy stories. He always liked to imagine himself the honorable knight in shining armor who would slay the dragon and marry the princess. That is why he asked her to marry him on the first date. He is a good boy, my Lancito. He knows that sex is a sacred thing between husband and wife. He was trying to honor your princess while satisfying his lust for her.”

Pidge continued to listen in open-mouthed shock.

“I know your princess had her heart broken by that horrible man, Lotor. My son’s kindness to her was a great comfort to her, but she did not love him as more than a friend or as a brother. That is why she let him go, not to break his heart, but to set him free.”

Pidge’s cheeks were tear-streaked as she sat in stunned silence.

“From the moment he returned to us, my son told us of his adventures and of his friends. He admires Shirogane’s leadership and Coran’s kindness. He speaks highly of Keith’s skill as a warrior and as a pilot, and you already know that Hunk is as dear as a brother to him. “

Pidge nodded, still unable to speak, then pressed her lips together.

“He spoke more of you than any other Paladin. He told me of your great courage and determination. He told me of your love of your family and your loyalty to your friends. He told me of your sense of humor and your love of so many of the things that he also enjoys. Most of all he spoke of your intelligence, your sweetness, and your innocence. It took him years to work up the courage to ask you to go on a proper date, and when he finally made you his, he treated you respectfully, didn’t he?”