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pontevoix · 15 days ago

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he’s glad to see eren. even if it’s like this. even if it’s in a childhood bedroom turned into a sickroom. even if eren has been cornered & turns to desperation. even if it’s like this, armin is glad to see him.

for someone so large & so loud at living, eren has made a talent of vanishing. once, eren vanished when he went to wage war. he wrote letters sometimes that felt like a joke of camaraderie & felt like trust dipped in acid. once, eren vanished when he waited for war to wage against him. he had let a god fester against his soul like an open wound, & that had ruined his voice. it had ruined his voice, & armin doesn’t remember the last time he had heard eren speak as himself in that first life.

— he remembers that day in the library. he remembers upset books & floorboards pressing bruises against him. he remembers feeling certain that he & eren had been kneeling together at the foot of an altar, that they were sacred, that they were hedonistic. he remembers eren saying things that didn’t make sense, things to which armin should have paid more attention.

he doesn’t know why he didn’t pay more attention. he thinks that maybe he didn’t think that it wasn’t his right — in his youth, he had a habit sometimes of thinking himself tertiary. even among those who had promised him that he was colossal, he thought himself tertiary.

he thinks that maybe he thought he already understood what eren felt. after all, they had prayed together. after all, eren had defined & remembered freedom by the variations of gospel that armin had preached when he was young & thought the sea was an impossibilitiy.

he should have paid more attention. but eren’s voice went ruined, & then it was lost. it was buried beneath that damned tree that armin didn’t visit enough, that he visited too often.

in this life, he stares at his own socked feet & presses his fingertips like gentle percussion to eren’s neck. he’s glad to see him. even like this. when eren’s voice is muted by catatonia. in this life, he can pay more attention. he can make his peace with weight always at the pit of his stomach & imagine that things don’t have to be the way that they were.

it terrifies him - to think that it could be the way that it was. eren had made a sickroom of a childhood bedroom, & it was the first time in this life that armin had seen how he could vanish.

eren is not who he was. in this life, he smiles even though he has been made to feel less. he names freedom in artistic expression & gets shy when he shows armin his tattoo designs. he likes the slow-pace of working at levi’s shop. he makes armin primary rather than secondary ( rather tertiary ), & it’s overwhelming sometimes to be loved so fiercely.

eren is not who he was, but there is so much of his heart that is the same. he has longstanding want for kindness, for security. he is gravity, & he feels so much that he cannot confine it.

armin is so glad to see him. he is glad to count the ways that eren is himself & the ways that he differs. he is glad to wonder, to mourn if maybe eren’s voice had been ruined the first time because armin had said too much, had been too free with his ideology, with making him feel as though freedom had to be treated as an ultimatum after trauma.

but he’s selfish, anyway. even if he should have paid more attention & even if he carries blame, he caves to gravity. he caves to company & loves eren more honestly than he had ever been allowed before. he’s selfish, & he really just likes to see eren when he smiles.

he doubts that eren has ever really understood how many people like his smile, like his gravity. it’s something worth preserving.

preservation is why carla had called him. when she opened the door for armin, he thinks melancholy softened the turn of her lips in a way that made him wonder if she remembered too. if she knew his face & knew that she had died too young.

even if she does remember, she doesn’t know the consequences. she doesn’t know that they had become child-soldiers, that they known carnage as a familiar friend, that eren had unraveled.

she doesn’t even know that armin had survived, so he supposes that she got lucky that she had contacted someone who did know the worst.

he meets her melancholy with a waorn smile. she hugs him as though they were familiar, & armin feels like crying.

but now he’s here, staring at the green of his socks & keeps playing his percussion, even if eren flinches & finds the gesture grotesque.

i can't really talk about it. not to you, not to anybody, eren said. a part of him wants to bite back at armin. & it’s still not enough to make armin leave.

eren must hate it, armin thinks & makes himself a fixture anyway. why are you here ? eren asks because armin can no longer be ignored. he sounds gutted, & armin is certain that eren must really hate all of this.

even if his voice cracks from disuse, his voice is not yet ruined.

armin bites his lip & finds himself holding his breath. he tries to measure his response, try to gauge how to say the right thing, how to tiptoe, how to handle this crisis —

but eren hates this. he hates himself. catatonia frays at the edge & ruptures & turns into frenzy. it disrupts the percussion that armin presses against his neck, & it demands that armin stop looking at socked feet & that he look at eren instead.

eren’s hands scratch upward. they tug at his hair. grief is the tension spasming across his back, & it’s the way that he is all hard angles of loss. grief is the sound that wretches from his throat & promises that his voice is still not ruined.

armin’s throat tightens & his vision blurs.

he doesn’t make a sound.

he doesn’t make a damn sound.

but he’s good in crisis. & he knows eren in crisis, even if he had done poorly before — even if he hadn’t paid enough attention. he shifts down. the pillow behind him tucks itself even more firmly into the space between the mattress & the wall. he ignores it & pulls eren against him instead.

he drapes a leg over him so that they are intertwined, the way that they always have been in this life. he coils his arm around him & doesn’t care if he could be ruined too.

it’s possible that they aren’t destined to do well regardless. no matter the life that they live.

armin presses his forehead to the back of eren’s neck. he closes his eyes & don’t look at the mark

‘ you’re really good at making me feel like i matter, you know ? ‘

he murmurs into their confessional. his breath kisses against the back of his neck, & this is another altar that they share — another prayer.

‘ always have been. ‘

the apartment is coated in red red red. it drips like the blood that it is, soaks into tile and is going to be an absolute nightmare to clean up after two weeks of just sitting there. it's broken bottles of vodka from soured lips, screams and a fist through the wall ––�� bruised, nearly broken knuckles from the force. it's coated in shreds of canvases, from his fist through them, from knives slashing, from the raw emotion of a life that he was never supposed to remember. a life that should've died with him the first time, a life that shouldn't burden him now. he isn't who he was then –– he is different now, is still troubled, is still trouble, but he is not that anymore.

he had slid to the floor, glass crunching underneath his boots as he shakily breathed until his lungs felt like they were going to explode, head dizzy from the lack of oxygen and the alcohol that runs through his system. another bottle is broken against the wall, careless as it splashes and reveals ugly pieces of him staring back. there's the urge to grab a shard, to dig in and never remember. but instead he stares down, through the glinting light of the moon coming through the window, and sees his reflection staring back at him, wide eyed, red eyed, doe eyed –– and that damn scar around his neck that none of them had understood.

had carla? had she known from the moment that her child was born that he was a demon that she had brought into the world? did she know that it would've been kinder to not have him at all? that who he was was stunted and ugly in the way that only monsters can be, that only aching fists and cramped fingers can feel.

he stumbles to her home at four in the morning and breaks out the back window on the door there because he can't find his key. shadis startles in the kitchen where he had been grabbing water and has a gun pointed in his face in seconds, assuming intruder. he's right –– he's a skinwalker, because he isn't eren. he's not the eren that he was. he can't look at himself and see that artist, the one who beamed and was finally, finally finding an upside. no, all he can see now is the ugly, horrendous monster that has looked back at him in the mirror, that grins and is dead inside and that causes so much death. what for? for selfish, horrendous moments –– for the horrendous thought that the world wasn't an open canvas to paint with freedom. it had been something horrible, ugly –– he had tipped to the side, threw up on the floor, and shadis had helped him up the stairs to bed, claiming that carla would deal with him in the morning.

his mother is kind, for what it's worth –– she brings him soup, moves his hair back from his face, tells him that she still loves him despite what has happened. that she knew one day he would remember, that she's been preparing for this day; that he doesn't have to got through it alone. he doesn't talk to her –– he sips the soup broth the first day, but then he stops trying. everything becomes hidden under covers and aching sobs until his chest is cracked open and he can't breathe. carla keeps trying. he keeps shutting her out.

he should've known that she would bring in the big guns if even she couldn't get through to him.

he knows it's armin in the room before his phone alerts him that it is –– it's in the way that he carefully steps, the way that he doesn't know which boards creak when you're trying to navigate in the dark, the way that he can smell his cologne and feel the presence that only armin can bring. it makes him sick, makes him want to scream, even though he's tangled in his own blankets and self loathing misery. even though he can't fight with his fists –– not like he once did, until armin's face was broken and bloody but would heal via the power of the titans.

armin speaks and he doesn't answer. maybe he'll get the hint if he's quiet, if he just curls in tighter and blocks him out. maybe he'll realize he's better off alone, that he's that same lost cause –– he wouldn't blame him if he did. it only aches more because him and armin have finally, finally been able to have something –– and even then he's not sure if it's a fabrication of time or if they're meant to actually be together. it's frustration. the memories are overwhelming and nauseating but he doesn't dry heave –– his body protests, wants to have an outlet, but he can't.

armin is fucking foolish and won't leave. he presses his fingers against that damn scar around his neck, the one that he always wrote off as a birth mark and thought was edgy, and now is revealed to be a cruel reminder of his other life right in front of his face, mocking him the entire time. he flinches away from the touch, bares his teeth on sheer instinct, but it's hidden in the depth of the dark. he's thankful for it –– he doesn't want armin to see him like this, doesn't want the monster to strike at him again.

the words are pointless, but they should be enough. armin doesn't budge. he makes himself more comfortable and eren can't stand it. he can't stand this cracked open ache inside of every inch of himself. his head is full and his heart aches and everything is wrong.

two weeks he's been in his own personal hell. two weeks he has tried to grab the will to get out of it, to embrace who he was and move past it. two weeks and all he's wanted was armin holding him, telling him to be steady, that it's okay, even when he doesn't deserve it.

eren pulls in a breath that rattles in his chest; finds that quiet craving somewhere deep down inside of him, the one that relies on the nicotine to stop the shakes in his hands when the anxiety takes over. it's the first time in weeks it's showed up.

"why are you here?" the words are out, miserable and flat –– it's an echo of who he was, vaguely remembers that tone of voice before, quiet and calm and devoid of life. it's haunting, the ghost of him skimming its fingers up his thighs, down his back, around his throat –– let me have my vessel back, you don't deserve to live you slimy prick.

his hands come up around his ears, fingers digging into his hair as he tugs in on himself deeper. it's not ymir, not exactly, but it's an echo. it's a reminder of lives clashing together and he can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe ––

it's too much. it's too much and not enough and before he knows to stop it, before he knows to bite at armin again to get him to leave, a sound escapes him that's not human, that runs along the lines of attack titan in the anguished wail that breaks free from his chest, loose and desperate.

"it's not fair! i'm not him. i don't deserve what i have here but it's fucking mine and it's not fair." eren knows he's hyperventilating, that the words are crashing and that he can't keep edging on alone like this. but the thought of reaching for armin, of tainting him, makes his stomach roil.

"you should leave before i break you again. that's what i'm good at, isn't it? making you feel small, less? taking everything good and twisting it until it's ugly and disgusting and swimming in blood and murder?" the bitterness echoes on his tongue and fuck he needs a joint, a pill, something.

he needs to be him again. not whatever this fractured, broken thing is.

#100. c. arlert #chaoslulled #okay enjoy sfg #cw ideation

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aethherart · 5 years ago

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four years? i’ll do it in three.

#my fave boyyy!!!!#jim kirk #james t kirk #captain kirk #james tiberius kirk #why does he have so many damn name variations #star trek #kelvin timeline #star trek alternate original series #star trek aos #my art #chris pine

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lady-literature · 4 years ago

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Found Family

holy shit did this one get way out of hand. Don’t expect them all to be this long because hot damn this is a monster compared to literally everything else but it just wouldn’t stop

(should I have expected this? probably. we all know how I am about found family.)

anyway enjoy 4.5k words ig

based on this post | @maribatmarch-2k21 | find more here

***

When Marinette had been chosen to intern with Monsieur Wayne’s PA, she hadn’t been expecting anything special. Sure, the Waynes were an odd breed and generally considered strange, but Marinette hadn’t actually expected to have much contact with them—if any at all.

She was here to earn credit for her business degree.

Instead, she has… well. She thinks she’s been somehow inducted into the Wayne family, mostly on accident and kind of as a joke.

That is, until it very much wasn’t.

***

Her first mistake, she supposes, was being too good at her job.

Marinette is an old hand at keeping track of multiple moving parts and riding herd on stubborn people who’d otherwise be too distracted or goofing off. (She was the Court’s leader for more than just being the latest in a long line of Ladybugs, after all.)

After the first two days shadowing Selina—“please, darling. Ms Kyle is so formal”—and learning the broad strokes of the job, Marinette felt confident enough to dig her nails in and get to work. Selina spent most of her time dedicated to international tasks and arranging Monsieur Waynes’ private affairs—all of which was highly classified and not discussed with Marinette—so she turned her attention to inter-company affairs.

Her first order of business was personally meeting with as many people in managerial positions as she could get. Not a requirement for the job per se, but these were people she’d have to interact with often and Maman had always stressed the importance of building connections in the workplace.

“People,” she would say, “are far more willing to do what you want them to when you’ve endeared yourself to them.”

So Marinette takes that advice and spends her breaks and lunches charming employees and giving baked goods to security guards and learning the names of the cleaning crew. She doesn’t speak to the department heads, because Selina handles their correspondences, but everyone else is free game as far as she’s concerned.

She becomes a well-recognized face astoundingly quickly.

***

Marinette probably should’ve seen the rumors coming.

It’s common practice in not only the Wayne family, but in most business conglomerates, for the children to quickly rise through the ranks of their company—if not just handed a high position right off the bat.

It took barely a month before the eldest was all but running Human Resources, and the second was placed as Head of Security practically out of nowhere. Monsieur Drake is the youngest (and most terrifyingly calculated) CEO to ever hold Wayne Enterprises, even if he does share the title with his father.

The other three are still too young or have yet to express an interest in the company, but people say it’s only a matter of time.

The track record speaks for itself, even if Marinette wishes it didn’t.

As a girl who’d come mostly out of nowhere and found herself with far more divisive sway in the company than she had any right to, it’s no wonder everyone thinks she’s some sort of secret Wayne finally coming out of hiding.

Marinette had nearly choked on her coffee when Selina dropped the bomb of that particular tidbit of company gossip.

“Most think you’ve been unofficially adopted,” Selina tells her, looking far too amused for Marinette’s liking. “Seeing as you’re too old for official avenues now.”

Marinette looks up warily from the schedule she’s rearranging. Selina had all but shoved the thing at her a month ago when she started suggesting more efficient ways of managing the CEOs’ valuable time.

“Only most? Does that mean the rest have common sense?”

Selina’s grin widens even further, if that’s possible, and Marinette regrets her question even before the older woman starts speaking.

“Oh, of course not!” she laughs delightedly. “The rest are hoping to hear news of wedding bells. It’s high time someone swept a Wayne off the market, don’t you think?”

***

“So you’re the new little sister I keep hearing about.”

Marinette stares up through narrowed eyes at the brightly smiling Dick Grayson. In her stomach, there are already the beginnings of resignation starting to form.

“It’s nice to finally meet you!”

This man is going to bring her nothing but trouble. She can tell.

***

Dick takes a liking to her. And she, against her better judgment, finds herself doing the same to him.

It’s a little hard not to, if she’s being honest. He’s bright and bubbly and brings her bagels during his morning break without her ever having asked.

It takes practically no time at all before Marinette considers him a friend, relaxing when he’s near and laughing openly at his ridiculous jokes. Despite being the head of HR, he’s not great at the whole ‘professional’ thing and often employees will walk by to find him draped across a chair or balancing precariously on the edge of her desk while she tries and fails to get some work done while he’s around.

It really doesn't help all of the ‘Marinette is a Wayne’ rumors running around. Especially when Dick starts pointedly calling her every variation of ‘little sister’ that he can think of just to annoy her (and, she knows, because he thinks the entire situation hilarious).

***

Three weeks after befriending Dick, Selina all but shoves her into Monsieur Drake’s office and, in no uncertain words, says, “He’s your problem now.”

Marinette blinks at what she can describe as nothing other than a disaster area and just… sighs.

Tim blinks back at her.

The motion is somehow both completely blank and filled with an uncomfortable amount of knowing at the same time. There is also, she notices, a frankly ludicrous amount of concealer caked beneath his eyes and more coffee cups scattered on every flat surface than Marinette has ever seen in her life.

She knows his schedule like the back of her hand seeing as she spends hours of her day pouring over it to make sure everything runs smoothly. He has no prior engagements for the next three hours.

“You’re not going to take a nap just because I ask, are you?”

He snorts. “Absolutely not.”

She nods, having expected the answer; her phone was already at her ear before he even finished speaking. “Hey, Dick!” she greets, sounding brighter than she feels at the moment, and watches as Tim stiffens in front of her. “Yeah, no. I was just wondering if you’re busy right now.” She pauses. “Oh, good! Can you come up to Tim’s office for me? Yeah, I need you to knock him out so I can fix his dumpster fire of an office.”

Tim has since started waving his hands frantically at her, panic setting in behind his eyes.

Marinette stares at him, unmoved. “Thanks, Dick! You’re the best!”

The silence after she hangs up is deafening.

“I don’t know if I should be impressed by the ease you’re manipulating me or pissed off that you’re doing it in the first place.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Does your decision have any bearing on my future employment?”

His eyes squint. “…No.”

Marinette shrugs, mind already whirling with what she’ll need to get done first and calculating how long she’ll likely have to get it done. “Then I think you should skip right over both of those and land on resignation as quickly as possible, Monsieur, because you’re going to have to get used to it regardless.”

It’s silent for a long moment, and she worries for just a second that she’s severely crossed some sort of line. Then Tim bursts out laughing instead of, you know, firing her like he probably should have.

“Oh, yeah. You’re going to fit right in here.”

Marinette doesn’t ask where the ‘here’ is. She’s pretty sure she already knows.

***

It takes ten days for Marinette to wrangle Tim’s life into something resembling order. His office is clean and organized to his liking. She’s developed a system of filing so that all paperwork goes through her and is quickly sorted into ‘can be handled by Marinette’, ‘forge his signature and tell him about it later’, and ‘actually important enough to have Tim read through’.

His schedule is the most efficient it’s ever been and Marinette is quickly honing the skill of getting him properly dressed and out of his office in under thirty minutes. (Dick is, thankfully, a great teacher and has little to no qualms about giving her the key to all his little brother’s weaknesses.)

Selina stares at her when Marinette all but drags Tim from his office, a folder tucked neatly under his arm and the sugary monstrosity of a caffeinated beverage she’s bribed him with in her own, with a whole ten minutes to spare before his meeting with the Board.

“My dear,” she says solemnly, “you are positively magic.”

She doesn’t even look up from where she’s simultaneously wrangling Tim’s hair into submission and laying his tie down flat. “You have no idea.”

***

She knows Tim is capable of professionality. She’s seen the cool facade he pulls up in front of the Board members and the kind but impersonal smile he uses on the employees of Wayne Enterprises. (He is not the Ice Prince of the Wayne family, but Marinette believes he should have some equally ruthless sounding title.) He is aloof and sharp and every inch the businessman people praise him to be.

She’s seen it. And yet…

“Monsieur. Why are all the Lexcorp contracts I gave you done in crayon?”

Tim doesn’t stop messing with his Rubix cube or even look up at her when he says, “Cause deadbeat fathers don’t deserve the respect of a pen.”

Marinette is very tired. She does not have time for this. “What are you talking about?”

“Lex is a bitchass absentee dad and I live to inconvenience him.”

“What about inconveniencing me?” she all but whines. “I can’t hand him these!”

That does make Tim look up at her, eyes wide with false innocence and mouth pouting up at her. “But sister dearest, I’m your little brother. It’s my job to inconvenience you.”

Growling in frustration is probably an inappropriate reaction to the situation.

But, Marinette thinks, so is the fact that both of the Waynes she associates with regularly seem hellbent on convincing the world that she too, is a Wayne, so.

(Is this how Alya felt dealing with the twins? Cause if so, Marinette takes back every joke she ever made—little siblings are a bitch.)

***

She meets Damian without warning.

Honestly, she never really expected to meet him at all but, well.

She finds him in Monsieur Wayne’s office, sitting at his father’s desk and doing something that she thinks is vaguely illegal, but she’s not about to tell her Boss a dozen times over how to parent his children.

Damian is a near-perfect copy of his father with darker skin and calculating green eyes. There’s also a more potent aura of danger around the child than there is around his father, like Damian hasn’t yet learned how to hide behind his public persona as his father had.

Or, Marinette looks at the teen thoughtfully, perhaps he just chooses not to.

“Monsieur Wayne,” she greets. Children like to be treated like adults, she knows, and Marinette doesn’t think this one is any different. “Selina hadn’t told me you’d be in the office today.”

“I don’t run my schedule by her,” he says flatly. A response she expected considering Dick’s stories.

“Of course not,” she agrees.

He finally deigns to look up at her and something flits across his expression, too fast for her to pick up on it. “Are those for Father? Bring them here, I’ll deal with them in his absence.”

Marinette raises her eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s wise Monsieur.”

Damian scowls and sticks his hand out. “I’m perfectly capable of forging Father’s signature. Give them here.”

She does not move and, instead, lets her lips quirk up into the smile she’s been fighting since she stepped in here.

“I don’t doubt it,” she tells him, and she doesn't. Forgery seems exactly like the kind of skill a child who broke into the CEO’s office of a multi-billion dollar company would have. “But you’ll find that all forging of signatures has been finished for the day and that these,” she shakes the sheaf of papers lightly, “actually require your father’s attention.”

He snorts disbelievingly and it says a lot about Marinette’s life up until now that the blatant display of disrespect doesn’t piss her off but instead reminds her of Chloé and of the fact that she still needs to reschedule their spa day. It's been too long since they spent time together in person.

“Well,” she pauses and eyes the papers thoughtfully. “‘Requires’ in the sense that its information needed to trounce the Board when they start spouting off greedy bullshit about cutting corners on our humanitarian efforts. I’m not sure how much of it is actually useful for anything besides that.” She shrugs. “But homework is homework, yes?”

That gets her a thoughtful once-over. His hand lowers and he then turns back to whatever he’s messing with on his father’s computers.

“Very well,” he concedes. “Father will be back in approximately thirteen minutes. You can leave the papers and I’ll inform him of their… importance.” He smirks, but it’s more like he’s letting her in on a joke than anything else.

Marinette smiles back as she sets the folder on the desk, feeling, oddly, like she’s passed some sort of test.

***

The day after, both Dick and Tim are waiting for her with what looks like an entire bakery laid out in her workspace.

“Uh,” she says eloquently, setting her purse down on her chair because there’s not a single open space on her desk not filled with some kind of pastry. “What’s all this?”

She looks up to find neither Dick nor Tim has stopped staring at her since she walked in. “We heard you met Damian yesterday,” Dick starts warily, like he’s scared of her reaction.

The response does not abate her confusion.

“Yes, I did,” she says slowly. “That does not explain all… this.” She waves a hand, trying to encompass them as well as the state her desk is in.

The two brothers share a look.

“It’s a bribe,” Tim tells her simply and Marinette is taken aback for all of a second before her eyes suddenly narrow.

Dick cuts in hastily before she can say anything. “It’s more of an apology, really. For Damian’s behavior.”

But Marinette is confused and frustrated and just a bit offended by the apparent not-bribe at this point. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, but it only does so much.

“Damain’s behavior was fine,” she tells them with measured neutrality. “You two, on the other hand, are being weird and it’s freaking me out.” She crosses her arms expectantly. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

Appearing from out of nowhere, Selina drapes herself along Marinette’s shoulders and snags a raspberry scone. “I do believe,” she says as if sharing a secret, “That they are trying to keep you from quitting, kitten.”

Marinette wrinkles her nose. “Why would I quit? I like this job.”

She also likes the Waynes (in general, if not right then) and she likes Selina. The woman was a good mentor who didn’t shy away from the dirtier parts of the job and taught Marinette all she knew. (Even the bits, she noticed, that had little to nothing to do with being a personal assistant and were more likely to be found in the repertoire of a thief.

But, Marinette is in possession of her own sticky fingers and knows how to not ask questions, so. You know—curiosity killed the cat and all.)

She doesn’t voice any of that, but Selina, at least, knows it anyway. Marinette isn’t quiet about her gratitude after all.

“First meetings with the youngest Wayne don’t often go well,” Selina tells her. “In fact, I think he has a habit of making the interns cry.”

Dick makes some kind of offended noise. “Hey! He hasn’t done that since he was twelve!”

Tim elbows him in the ribs and Marinette makes a vaguely skeptical face at all three of them before deciding it wasn’t worth it. She has actual work to get done today and pastries to get rid of before she can even start.

She pats affectionately at Selina’s hand before grabbing as many boxes as she can hold. “Come on you two,” she says to the brothers. “You’re going to help me hand these out to the rest of the company.”

Dick immediately starts doing as told but Tim hesitates, humming thoughtfully. “You know that’s not going to help your whole ‘I’m not actually a Wayne’ thing, right?”

She glares at him. It doesn’t stop Tim from grinning like the utterly unrepentant little shit he is.

***

Things are quiet after the Damian Incident for a whole two weeks. It’s the longest lull Marinette has had since she first started and became somehow involved with the Waynes.

It ends because Dick finds out about the crush Marinette has been nursing on the Head of Security for three months now.

The Head of Security who is Jason Todd: second eldest Wayne sibling and Dick’s brother.

He takes it better than expected.

(Almost, she thinks later, a little too well.)

***

Despite her friendship with Dick and Tim—or perhaps because of it?—Jason had never seemed very interested in her. At first, Marinette had shrugged and counted it as a win; there was one Wayne, at least, who neither found her situation funny nor used it to poke fun at her.

They were on friendly terms, she supposed. Security has always been one of her more regular stops in the building, so she’d spoken to him often enough. He liked complaining that she spoiled his team rotten with all her treats.

But she also noticed that he likes her cherry danishes, so.

And then she noticed how crooked his grin was when he smiled. And how he seemed to have an arsenal of nicknames for everyone he knew. And the small collection of classic romance novels filled with sticky notes he tries and fails to hide in his desk. And, and, and.

It was around the time she began unconsciously memorizing his schedule based on when he was and was not there for her pastry deliveries, that she realized she may have made a misstep somewhere.

Jason was stubborn and passionate and flipped between overly proper and crass light a damn light switch. He was also, as stated, very much not interested in her.

Not that she would’ve pursued him anyway. He was a coworker as well as her friends’ brother.

Now if only one of said brothers could understand that.

“You should ask him out,” Dick suggests not for the first time and Marinette sighs, also not for the first time.

She loves Dick—she truly does—but he has been an aggravating level of unhelpful since he found out about Marinette’s latest romantic disaster.

“I’m definitely not doing that.”

Dick groans, like she’s being the unreasonable one. “Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

“Because I don’t like embarrassing myself?” she asks rhetorically. “Not everyone can have a fairy tale romance like you and Wally.”

He throws his coffee stirrer at her. “We are not a fairy tale.”

She shoots him a flat look. She’s heard Dick talk about Wally and Tim’s told her all the stories and she was there when he and Wally finally got their shit together. Dick was unbearable for an entire week with his gooey, lovestruck new lease on life.

“You two are the definition of fairy tale. You two make fairy tales look like trashy romance novels.”

He opens his mouth to argue the point before forcibly cutting himself off. “No. Stop distracting me. We’re not talking about that; we’re talking about you and Jason.”

“There is no ‘me and Jason’,” she reminds him through her clenched teeth.

“Not yet,” he says optimistically. Like it’s a fact, like he knows something she doesn’t.

He makes her want to slam her face into a wall. Truly, he does.

***

Dick stops running his HR papers up to her office. Instead, he’s somehow convinced Jason to play errand boy for him even though he literally never looks happy about it. What used to be a flimsy excuse for Dick to slack off for a few minutes and gossip with her has now turned into awkward silence as Jason drops off the papers and leaves without even a ‘hello’.

During their shared breaks, Dick takes to orchestrating ‘chance encounters’ between her and Jason, all but shoving them into each other (and even actually shoving that one time). She catches Jason shooting dark looks at Dick every time he does it, and if she’d been holding any iota of hope at this point, it’s been smashed to dust. Jason obviously knows of his brother’s meddling and isn’t happy about it.

But Dick just can’t take the hint.

Every failed plan of his makes him steadily worse about it all—more frantic and frustrated and like he wants to strangle her for her stubbornness. (The last feeling being more than mutual.)

Dick’s meddling starts to make her and Jason’s previously friendly, if distant, relationship awkward and embarrassing. With every pointed comment, she gets closer to just punching Dick in the face. Or, maybe, she’ll just tell Wally who really ate all the chocolate strawberry macaroons she made; it’d certainly be more devastating.

***

It all comes to head on a Thursday, after most employees have left for the day.

They run into each other in a breakroom, and she watches as Jason suddenly goes stiff, eyes flicking over her shoulder to no doubt scan for Dick. That single action makes her expression sour and she slams her empty mug down with more force than was necessary.

For Kwamis sake, he looks like a cornered animal. An image not helped by the way he jumps a foot in the air and stares at her like he’s worried she’ll suddenly lunge at him.

“Can we agree this is ridiculous?” she says abruptly. “I don’t know what Dick is trying to accomplish with his wingman schtick, but we both know it’s not going to work. Can we just… agree that he’s an idiot?”

A complicated look crosses Jason’s face before he snorts wryly. “Yeah, we can agree on that. Dickie-boy has always been a few sandwiches short a picnic.”

“I know things have been awkward between us lately, and I’m sorry about that, but I hope we can keep being friends?” she says hopefully.

“What in the world do you have to be sorry about?” he asks before she can start catastrophizing about the bewildered expression he makes at her words. “It’s not your fault.”

The smile she shoots him is rueful and she shakes her hand in an ‘ehh’ type gesture. “Kinda is. And I understand if the-” she makes a vague gesture between them that she hopes properly conveys ‘my giant, stupid crush on you’, “you know, is too much for you. Just say the word I’ll try and keep out of your way.”

She’s trying to be comforting or understanding or something like that, but all her words seem to do is make him upset. “Absolutely not,” he insists. “Sunshine, you are not going to change your routine just to make me feel better.”

Marinette crosses her arms, frowning up at him. “Why shouldn’t I? If I’m making you uncomfortable-”

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Uncomfort- Marinette. ” She jolts a bit at the use of her name. She doesn’t think he’s used it since her second week at W.E. “I’m not sure who made you think otherwise—and if it was Dick just tell me cause I’ll kick his ass —but barring the fact that I still enjoy your friendship regardless of any… feelings-” Marinette concentrates very hard on not showing emotion when he says that, “-it’s not your responsibility to deal with it.”

Okay, but… that makes no sense. Of course her feelings were her responsibility, that’s the whole point of them being hers.

“If it’s not mine, then whose responsibility is it then?” she asks, wondering where the hell his train of thought is running.

“Mine, obviously.”

She gives him a look, complete with narrowed eyes and thinly veiled judgment. “What? Is this some kind of gentleman’s martyr complex? Is that what’s happening right now?”

Jason huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in the sound. “If me taking responsibility for my own damn feelings is a martyr complex then sure,” he snarks, not unkindly. More like he’s trying to protect himself by retreating behind a sour attitude.

Her mouth is halfway around a retort when his words catch up to her brain and she freezes.

“Your feelings?” she repeats. “Your feelings for… me?”

His voice is carefully neutral when he says, “Those would be the ones.”

Her mouth opens and closes and opens again. “You like me? Seriously?”

His face spasms at the question, starting at anger before he properly looks at her and the surprised expression on her face. He pales.

“You didn’t know?”

“No!” she squeaks, something she hasn’t done since she was fifteen. “Well Dick said but I didn’t believe him!”

And fuck, she thinks. This means Dick knew the whole damn time, didn’t he? Oh, she is so going to kill him the second she gets the chance.

Jason runs a hand down his face, covering his mouth as he gathers his bearings. Suddenly, his eyes shoot back open and land on her. “Wait. If you didn't know, then what the hell were you talking about just now?”

She blushes to the tips of her ears and buries her face in her hands so she doesn’t have to look at him. It was easy when she thought he’d figured it out himself. It’s harder now that she has to tell him. “I- I was talking about my crush on you.”

He’s quiet for so long that she gets antsy and peeks out from behind her fingers to see his expression. He’s still looking at her, but now there’s a wide, crooked smile on his face. The expression softens something in her chest and she lowers her hands.

“Really?” he asks, leaning closer.

Marinette nods, feeling a small smile spread across her lips.

He jolts forward, hands reaching for her before suddenly stopping just shy of touching. She startles a bit at the motion but doesn’t move away.

Jason licks his lips, smile smaller but no less bright. “I- can I?”

She blinks. “Can you what?”

“Kiss you.”

The blush returns full force, but with it also comes a smile, giddy and bright. She nods and no sooner than she does, is he swooping down to pull her into a toe-curling kiss. His hands cup her face with a tenderness that makes her smile, makes her giddy, and it’s not long before they’re both smiling too wide to actually kiss and are forced to break apart.

His hands fall to her back, practically engulfing her, and his chin drops onto her head. It’s warm and cozy and she thinks she could so very easily get used to this.

Later, they’re going to have to deal with Dick and Tim and Selina and the teasing they’ll no doubt have to endure—not to mention how much worse the rumors are going to get—but right now? Right now Marinette pulls Jason back down for another kiss and very pointedly doesn’t think about it.

#maribatmarch2021 #maribat #mlb x dc #jasonette #my typewriter #platonic dickinette #platonic timari

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thelastspeecher · 2 years ago

Text

Whoops I wrote more for this variation of my Marriage of Convenience AU with transfemme Stan.

———————————————————————————————————–

Stana wandered around the tidy, if slightly cluttered, living room, trying to figure out what she could from the pictures on the walls. Orion and Iris were napping in the nursery, clearly tired out by Stana’s arrival.

“Why do you have so many framed photos of lizards?” Stana finally asked. Ford, who was in the adjacent kitchen making dinner, looked up.

“They aren’t lizards. They’re salamanders. Salamanders are amphibians, lizards are reptiles.”

“Okay, why do you have so many framed photos of salamanders?” Stana asked.

“Angie took them. She specializes in herpetology, the study of reptiles and amphibians, and does her research primarily on salamanders and other amphibians.”

“Huh.” Stana walked over to a particularly large photo. It looked professional, like it had been done in a studio rather than the woods. “They’re nice.”

“You’ll have to let her know. She’s particularly proud of her photography skills.”

“I’ll see what I think of her before I give her any compliments,” Stana said. Ford sighed.

“Stanl- Stana, please be nice.”

“To your beard.”

“My-” Ford grunted in frustration. Stana looked over at him, grinning. The grin quickly faded, however, when she saw Ford’s reddened face. He was genuinely upset. “She’s been my best friend for years now and is the mother of my children, so she’s much more than just my beard,” Ford spat. “Without Angie, I don’t know how I would have survived West Coast Tech. So yes, be nice to her. She- she means a lot to me.”

“All right, all right.” Stana held up her hands. “I’ll back off.” Ford nodded, visibly relieved. “Didn’t realize I was touching a nerve.”

“Well…” Ford looked away. “Angie’s sacrificed a lot for me. The least I can do is defend her.” Stana’s eyes widened. Everything clicked into place.

“You feel guilty about marrying her,” she said. Ford squirmed, but didn’t say anything. “I thought you said she was on board with everything.”

“She is. But I- she deserves more than I can give her,” Ford said softly. Stana sighed. The front door opened.

“Hello, hello!” a voice chirped. A young woman stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “How was yer day?” she asked in a distinct southern accent.

“Excellent, Angie,” Ford replied. “And, ah, we have a guest.”

“A guest?” Angie looked over at Ford, who nodded in Stana’s direction. Angie’s gaze turned to Stana. “I wish I’d known earlier, I would’ve cleaned.”

“Whattaya mean?” Stana asked. “This place is already clean.”

“Not to my standards,” Angie said firmly. She sighed. “Oh, well.” She walked up to Stana and held out a hand. “I’m Stanford’s wife, Angie.” Stana shook the offered hand.

“Stana.”

“Stana?” Angie smiled. “An odd, but lovely name.” When her sister-in-law smiled, Stana felt butterflies suddenly form in her stomach. Angie seemed to be the person the word “petite” had been made for; she was very short and slender, with caramel-colored hair just past chin-length. Her eyes, the same bright blue as Iris’s, twinkled happily. And she wore a pink cardigan and white dress, an outfit Stana was instantly jealous of.

Damn, I wish I could pull something like that off. Even after years of living as a woman, Stana had yet to wear dresses in public. I’d kill for legs like those. I’d kill to look half as cute as Ford’s wife.

“So, how are ya related to Stanford?” Angie asked. Stana blinked. “The two of ya look mighty similar, so I figure yer relatives. Cousins, perhaps? I’d assume siblin’s, but Stanford told me he don’t have any sisters.” Ford cleared his throat. Angie looked over at him.

“Stana is my twin,” Ford supplied. Angie frowned.

“You told me yer twin was named Stanley. And also yer brother.”

“Used to be,” Stana said quietly. Angie’s eyes shot back to Stana, intensely searching her face. A tense moment passed before Angie smiled again.

“It’s quite nice to meet my sister-in-law I didn’t even know I had,” she said diplomatically. Stana’s jaw dropped. “I’d best go drop things off in m’ room, then I can help ya with dinner, Stanford.”

“No worries, I’m almost finished,” Ford said. There was a beep. Ford opened the oven door, removed a tray from the oven, and then placed it on the counter. Angie walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you, darlin’.”

“It’s not a problem,” Ford said. He kissed the top of Angie’s head. Angie shot Stana another smile, wakening butterflies in Stana’s stomach again, before disappearing down the hallway. Stan went over to Ford.

“What the hell was that?” she hissed. Ford frowned as he closed the oven and turned it off.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, but-” Stana shook her head. “Why’d she handle all that so well?”

“I told you. One of her brothers is in a similar situation. Angie used to think she had two sisters, now she knows she only has one.” Ford shrugged. “And like I also told you, she’s southern, so she’s incredibly polite. Even when she’s rattled or thrown off by something, she does her best to hide it.”

“Still! It’s weird! No one’s ever handled it that well before,” Stana said firmly. Ford’s face fell.

“I’m…sorry to hear that,” he said softly. “Rest assured, however long you stay with us, you won’t have to deal with poor treatment.” Stana’s heart began to race.

Ford said his wife would be fine with me. I didn’t believe him. But he was right. Stana looked down the hallway that led to the two bedrooms and nursery. There aren’t a lot of places I can be me without someone spitting in my face. And that hot shower still sounds good…

Maybe I should stay for the night. Or two. Or however long they’ll let me.

#look transfemme Stan is SO GOOD. and Marriage of Convenience AU is SO GOOD.#so of course imo this variation is Excellent alkjdsnfnjkasd #Gravity Falls #Gravity Falls AU #Stanford Pines #Stana Pines #Angie McGucket #Marriage of Convenience AU #ficlet #my writing #my stuff #speecher speaks

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farmnap · 4 years ago

Text

Fluff Alphabet-Sapnap

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?)

He likes your humor. He likes your beauty. He loves everything about you. Mostly, though, he loves your kindness. You are just so nice to him. You hold him, whisper sweet things to him, and make him feel like its all alright.

B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why not?)

He definitely wants a family, obviously not anytime soon though. He believes that he’d be a good father and that you’d be a good parent as well. He doesn’t tell you this, but sometimes he dreams about having a child, their little hands and feet. He goes through baby fever like every two months.

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)

He prefers to hold you most of the time, it makes him feel like he’s protecting you. He will spoon you most nights or hold your head to his chest and wrap his other arm around your body. Sometimes tho he lets you lay on top of him and just sleep. He likes your weight on him, thin or not.

D = Dates (What are dates with them like?)

i assume they'd be chill or more just hangouts. Like going to an arcade or an escape room. If it was a special occasion, birthday or anniversary, he’d take you to a fancy restaurant. He’d hate getting dressed up and eating food that isn’t worth the money, but he’d do it forever if it meant he got to see you happy.

E = Everything (You are my ____ (e.g. my life, my world…))

My lifeline. You make his world turn and his heart keep beating. Everything he does is for you (In a non weird obsession way) he just wants you to be happy

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?)

He knew he was in love when you showed up at his house to hold him after he sounded upset on a call. that's it, no questions asked, you were just there.

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)

He’s so gentle it’s almost infuriating to you because sometimes he wont even touch you. Like when y’all first started dating, he wouldn't hold your hand because he didn’t want to squeeze to much. He wouldn’t cuddle you because he didn’t want to suffocate you. He treats you like a doll

H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?)

after he got over the hand holding fear stated previously, he holds your hand tightly, almost afraid to let go. He holds your hand whenever he can: in the store, in bed, on walks, in the car, on dates. He always has his hand in yours.

I = Impression (What was their first impression?)

His first impression of you was probably about your appearance. He’s only a 20 okay so he probably looked at your butt or chest first. Obviously when he actually talked to you, he would realize you were funny and nice. But yeah, purely physical at first.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?)

omfg yes. He gets so jealous. Sapnap’s not the kind of bf to get like toxic or rude when jealous tho. He just gets insecure and sad.

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?)

You kissed him first, he was way too nervous to make the first move. He kisses you softly and with his hands on your cheeks. He loves holding you when you kiss, holding you close. Once Y’all are more comfortable with each other he may even put his hand on your neck while kissing you. It makes him all giddy.

L = Love (Who says ‘I love you’ first?)

He would say it first, on accident. probably after being intimate and having you on his chest. Too lost in his mind, it just comes out.

“I love you”

“What?”

It scared both of you at first but then you smile and cuddled closer. It didn’t matter to him if you said it back right then or not, he knew you cared for him.

M = Memory (What’s their favourite memory together?)

When you guys stayed in on your 6 month anniversary. The plan was to go out and eat at this super fancy place but you guys missed the reservation. Instead of being sad, you guys stayed home and watched a bunch if princess movies and cuddled. It was sweet and the first time y’all actually just hung out.

N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?)

He doesn’t spoil you too much actually. He knows you can buy your own stuff and doesn’t try to take over if you don't ask him too. BUT on special occasions you are getting everything you even look at. he once dropped about 2,000 dollars on jewelry as a gift on your birthday.

O = Orange (What colour reminds them of their other half?)

Pastel yellow. Its a color of friendship and trust, which is what your relationship is built on.

P = Pet names (What pet names do they use?)

He uses the usual babe a lot, i cant see him using darling im sorry. He also 100% uses baby and sweetheart. Honey is also used. But mostly he would use variations of your name.

Q = Quaint (What is their favourite non-modern thing?)

He likes castles and royalty. Obviously there is still queens and stuff but he loves the whole castle fantasy. He thinks about being a knight in shining armor to save you.

R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?)

He uses this as an excuse to stay in bed and cuddle. Like that’s all he would want to do. No food, no responsibilities, just snuggling.

S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?)

When he was single he would just sleep or eat. We’ve all been there and there's nothing wrong with it. But now that he has you he would rant to you or cry. If you were upset he would listen to any and all problems you had without comment. He would just be there for what ever you needed.

T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?)

he talks about school, his family, his friends, and a shit ton of random Minecraft. Even if you got sick of it, you stick around bc he’s cute when passionate.

U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?)

in the most respectful way, he likes to have sex. it makes him happy and calms him down. Obviously if you weren’t feeling it, he wouldn’t make you and would go for just kisses and cuddles, also watching Moana bc he loves that movie.

V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)

he shows off his set up and shoes. He splurges on those things and will be damned if the whole world doesn't know.

W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?)

He wouldn't propose for a while and surely not until y’all are both out of college and stuff but when he does its a whole thing. He takes you to a beach saying something like, “I heard the boardwalk food is amazing” or something like that. He would probably invite dream along to record and also being there for the biggest moment of his life. Obviously, you say yes and its so cute.

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)

(I’m sorry about this one I’m not a big music person)

"I'm Gonna Love You Through It" by Martina McBride is what i picked bc he would always be there no matter what, he just loves so much

Y = Yikes (Do they ever mess up in the relationship?)

Sapnap has made many many mistakes. He can be rude sometimes without even realizing it, he can spend more time with George than you, he can ignore you for a week for something petty. Thankfully, he comes to his senses after a while and talks to you about it. He tries to be as good as he can and communicate to you but he’s not perfect.

Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?)

oml he would beg you for a dog everyday! he just wants a German Shepard named Bently is that too much to ask?

#sapnap #sapnap x reader #sapnap smut #dream mcyt #mcyt

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dreadwulf · 3 years ago

Text

1. It Was There That I Saw You

He hears it over the radio that first time.

“The Blue Angel is down.”

One of those crummy broadcasting setups that still run out of universities sometimes. Ancient amateur stations he picks up on the road while trying to plot out a route to the family compound around the Others. They announce sightings sometimes, rather like weather reports, or traffic updates. Undead on Highway 11, detour recommended.

The roads are clear that evening, and the drive is as quiet and peaceful as a biodiesel vehicle can manage, except for the news on the radio.

"The Blue Angel is down, and our world grows a little bit colder and darker," the radio man says.

Jaime switches off the receiver. He shakes his head slightly as he drives the ungainly armored car along the winding road, peering into the dusk without headlights. The radio man doesn’t know the Blue Angel. He’s some punk kid, was probably at uni when the Others first attacked and hasn’t ventured outside since. That’s who still broadcasts these days, old student outfits barricaded inside their campuses. This kid doesn’t know the Blue Angel’s name, probably doesn’t even know she's a woman. He will pay him no mind.

But he leaves the radio off for the rest of the journey.

At the Rock he pulls the car into the oversized garage and erects the usual gates and barriers behind him to keep the Others out. These precautions he can do in his sleep now, and he hardly has to think on them. He is more fortunate than most, now - living in a walled compound in a walled city offers a stability most people no longer have, one that would have been unheard of not very long ago. It gives him a more uneventful life, even some creature comforts. It's also, in his opinion, dreadfully boring. Which is why he never stays for long.

His thoughts pivot around the voice on the radio. The Blue Angel. He gave her that name, years ago, before anyone knew her at all. When it was just the two of them on the Kingsroad, and she was hardly more than a kid herself. Does the kid on the radio know that? No, he assuredly does not. The kid on the radio doesn’t know anything.

His brother Tyrion will have heard the news elsewhere. He doesn’t listen to radio, wouldn’t have any reason to since he never leaves the compound. But he has his own sources.

His brother is the second person to tell him, when Jaime walks into the front office loosening his tie. As expected, Tyrion’s still working - it would be either that or reading, even when the house goes dark. Their generator only runs a few hours a day, and his brother keeps right on working by lamplight when the time’s up.

Tyrion has taken over the family business, as well as the mansion and all its high walls. That happened after the rest of the family had been wiped out, while Jaime had been away. Ironic that he had survived them all, considering he had been essentially left to die when the Others came. Like many of the sick and disabled, there had not been much provision for his physical difficulties as a little person and he had been left to fend for himself. Anyone who couldn’t defend themselves was SOL in that first year. How he had even gotten himself home from uni is a bit of a mystery to Jaime. By the time Jaime managed to get himself there, his brother was already gone, and it had taken them a very long time to find one another again.

It had been his brother’s cleverness helped him survive, not his big brother, to both of their disappointment. Said cleverness certainly keeps them in business now.

Tyrion probably hasn’t looked up from his ledgers in hours, but he looks up when Jaime comes in, and keeps looking.

“Blue Angel’s down,” Tyrion mentions casually, but he is watching him closely.

“So they say.” Jaime whirls off his long coat and throws it over a chair. He has to sit right across from Tyrion to get within the circle of lamplight.

His brother’s mind works just a little bit faster than other people’s. The software he runs on is a little bit sharper, and before you can quite get a statement out, he is already replying. He gets bored of the formality of all these extra words and niceties. He doesn’t quite realize how obnoxious this is. As a result, Jaime never needs to say much. Tyrion will have most of the conversation without him.

“You don’t believe them,” Tyrion surmises, pushing his papers aside. An ill-fitting pair of glasses slides down the end of his scarred nose, and he has to catch them before they can fall off. Even Lannisters have troubles with eyewear these days. “I know you think she’s indestructible.”

“Near indestructible.” Insolently, Jaime puts his feet up on his brother’s nice mahogany desk, which used to be their father’s nice mahogany desk. Something about this room makes him act like a rebellious teenager. “It will take more than an amateur disk jockey passing on rumors to convince me.”

“True, rumors have been wrong before. I’ve heard that you were dead too, when you rode the Kingsroad.”

They don’t speak much of that time. Tyrion hated that Jaime abandoned the family to serve as a glorified mailman for five years, as he calls it. Escorting people and messages across the dangerous countryside in the early days of the Disaster might have made his name, and eventually added to the family’s renown, but this personal betrayal his brother has never forgiven. What he really hates, of course, is that Jaime left him alone with their father.

Jaime lets it pass, jokes with him. “I probably started that rumor myself, at least once.”

“Don’t let this distract you,” he says. Tyrion’s mismatched eyes go back to his ledgers meaningfully. “Running Lannisport is enough work, without you running off all the time. We’re trying to bring the Riverlands into the fold. I need you on task, not obsessing over a girl.”

Jaime snorts. Tyrion can hardly lecture him on distractions. Little he may be, he has no trouble acquiring female companionship. He seems to have a different lady on his arm every time Jaime comes around. Sometimes two.

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “Don’t start. My girls are different. I’m not mooning around after them years after they’re gone. When I lose one, I find another. You need another woman, Jaime.”

“With me running off all the time? Who’s going to tolerate that?” Jaime is bored of this conversation already. They’ve had it many times before.

“Romantics. That’s who. You’re off risking your life to join the old nation together again, you’re a dashing hero. Plus the whole Kingsroad adventure. Women love that. You could be swimming in girls if you spared them half a glance. It’s been five years, Jaime.”

“Four,” Jaime corrects him. Four years, three months, and eleven-or-so days.

Tyrion says this more solemnly, looking over his glasses, “If the rumor isn’t true this time, someday it will be.”

He looks very much like their father when he does that, which is unwelcome. Jaime snatches his feet off the desk and wanders away to find something to eat, the big Lannister mansion resounding emptily around him.

He manages to avoid his brother until he can head out again - he rarely passes more than a night at a time in this house. He checks for messages, refills his supplies, gets a proper shower, all of which he can do in a few hours. Such safety he finds oddly uncomfortable, if he lingers too long. He’ll be leaving the next day, and out the door before Tyrion is even out of his bed.

The traveling, on the other hand, takes an age. Not even he travels very fast these days. The armored car, which is more of a delivery truck, doesn’t get over 50kph, and shudders and lurches at the upper end. Real petrol might perk up his engine, but petrol is rare these days, and he can refuel the biodiesel at most settlements now. So he drives slowly and is on the road almost constantly, and stops at Casterly Rock as infrequently as he can manage.

Soon Jaime is hearing the same rumor everywhere, in snatches. He travels through the guarded and gated villages of the Riverlands on a regular circuit, drives through miles of nothing between aettlements, edging around clusters of Others that still live beyond the city lights. As he exchanges goods, messages, and information, he hears of the Blue Angel. Edges of conversation, news bulletins, idle conversation with gasoline sellers. His hosts at Pennytree gossip over it at dinner while passing around the green beans.

Did you hear about the Blue Angel? Damn shame.

Jaime always agrees wordlessly. People still like to feed him, remembering his own time guarding the Kingsroad in the beginning of the new era. He hasn’t been the Slayer in four years, has been a politician-cum-envoy for far longer than he ever battled the Others, but he is far better known still for the former. Arguing with his hosts would be pointless. He just finishes his meal, salvaged canned goods heated over a campfire out back. In those early days, this would have been a feast. It’s still pretty good now. Vegetables are more and more scarce.

No one seems to know exactly what happened. He hears a few variations on it; the tale is different each time. Turned by the Others, haunting the Kingsroad where once she had been its protector. Crushed in the fall of a skyscraper in the Eyrie. Slain in battle protecting a school full of orphans from robbers. The details are in debate, but there is a consistent center. The Blue Angel is dead. It's a rumor still, but one with all the authority of the old King’s Landing Times newspaper, of truth. Everyone is sure.

But they don’t know her. Not like Jaime did. If they knew her they would not believe it so easily. They would need evidence. They would need a body, a grave. Otherwise it's just not realistic that she could be gone. He is not worried. He’s not.

Tyrion passes on the same news the next time he’s at the house. No particulars, but the same word from his own channels of information. No one knows how, but the Blue Angel is dead.

Jaime has little patience for it now. Without any details, it’s still only a rumor. A remarkably consistent one, to be sure. But not enough to know for certain. He doesn’t even stop in the office, claiming exhaustion, avoiding conversation.

Tyrion finds him anyway.

“If you really wanted to know, you could ask The Spider.” His brother suggests late one night, startling him awake. “He could give you the whole story.”

Jaime had been dozing in an armchair in his own study, unwilling to go to bed and too tired to stay awake. He rubs at his left eye and yawns. “What time is it? You’re the only person I know who still wears a wristwatch.”

Tyrion looks worried. He stands there a long time waiting for him to answer.

“I don’t want to know,” Jaime mumbles sleepily. “Really I don’t.”

“Try to get some sleep, Jaime.”

In the bathroom mirror he has a few more gray hairs than before, visible even in candlelight. Before long there will be more gray than blond. He pulls them out one at a time.

It’s too bad he can’t pluck the laugh lines away from his eyes the same way. He hasn’t laughed in a long time now. They feel unearned.

Everywhere he goes for a week solid, it's a funeral. Holly branches along the road, and stray, somehow-preserved flowers. Bars full of black coated mourners, drinking morosely.

It irritates him. Makes him grind his teeth. He shouldn’t resent these people. He knows it’s irrational to feel this way. But what do they know? How dare they mourn? What have they lost? A legend, a leader, a hero? They don’t know the woman behind the stories. She is so much more than that.

For some reason it is the graffiti that finally gets to him. Seeing it written gives it permanence. Someone felt the need to document this, on a building, for all to see. First in an alley in Riverrun - written in an electric blue that seems to float over the dull brick of the building. “Blue Angel RIP,” it says, and it sears into Jaime’s vision. He sees it every time he closes his eyes.

Before long the makeshift walls around Raventree are covered in mismatched sprays of blue, the neat and professional swoops of seasoned graffiti artists alongside the amateur efforts of random passers by, all offering their tributes. At the center of them all is a portrait, as detailed as an oil painting rendered in spray paint, of the Blue Angel’s long cloaked form standing over smaller figures in protection. She’s holding her favorite weapon, a solid titanium baseball bat.

He stares at this portrait for a long time. It’s very good. She must have passed this way at some point. You can’t see her face, but she mostly keeps it covered anyway. This artist captures the way she stands, the gesture of her long, elegant fingers. This artist saw her, at least once, for certain.

It’s so strange. All of these people feel like they know her, that she belongs to them. And it’s true in a way. The Blue Angel belongs to everyone, she really does. But Brienne... Brienne belongs to a very few, if anyone, and if anyone then he is certainly one of them. And he knows she cannot possibly be dead. He knows it.

He stares at the graffiti portrait until his vision blurs and he can’t see anything anymore.

Jaime cuts off the rest of his circuit after that. Drives back to the Rock, as slowly and deliberately as ever, always watching for Others that he could be leading to the compound. In the house he stays only an hour. Packs a small bag and leaves the keys to the car on Tyrion’s desk, along with all his dossiers on the Riverlands, and his appointment book.

Then he takes out his motorbike and drives it across the Riverlands, wastes precious petrol cruising the old highways dodging the snarls of abandoned cars. Tries to outrun the news. The wind blasts through him like a cold knife. He uses up one of his few remaining chargeables to get an mp3 player playing again, painfully loud, the heaviest music he can find. Hailstorms of guitar riffs assaulting him through the earpiece. He rides until his face is numb from wind and his nerves are rattled and brittle.

The Spider’s lair moves between rest stops these days. King’s Landing is still too dangerous, overrun with Others, and he likes to be off the map. Jaime checks a dozen highway offramps before he comes across the black RVs he is looking for.

He leaves the bike some distance away, as is the custom. The sound of a motorbike will bring Others running from miles away, and it’s impolite to lead zombies to people’s front door. Jaime walks the last mile in darkness, quiet as he can. He should have brought more weapons than a single pistol. He didn’t really think this through. But if the Others came to investigate the bike, he does not encounter them walking south, and before long the pavement opens out into a runaway truck ramp and a parking lot, and he can feel eyes on him from the line of trees beyond.

The Spider’s gang greets him with guns cocking, friendly as always. Black leather gargoyles. When they emerge from the shadows into the moonlight, Jaime puts his hands up and drops down to his knees. He waits for them to decide whether he can approach or if he has to move on and try again another night. He doesn’t hear them talking, but they communicate somehow, silently. He’s determined, over the years, that they use some kind of hand signals, but he’s never caught them doing it.

The mobile home is painted black, and it’s almost invisible in the night. The Spider doesn’t take visitors in the daytime. The gun at his back pokes him directly up to the door.

On the inside, the trailer is flooded with fluorescent lighting of the kind rarely seen anymore. After years of lanterns and lamps, it looks otherworldly. Dreamlike. The Spider, in his silk robe, seems to gleam in the artificial light, reclining on his cushion-covered couch.

“Slayer,” he says mildly, gestures for Jaime to sit in a chair opposite him. “It’s been some time. What brings you to--”

“If you know anything,” Jaime tells him flatly, staying where he is just inside the door, “you know why I am here.”

Varys looks at him with cool, calculating assessment. His bald head shines thoughtfully.

“I do. But do sit down, you’re upsetting my birds.” In their cages all around the room, crows shudder and caw. Their black eyes stare unblinkingly at the intruder. The bald little man gestures again to a cushioned seat welded into the trailer.

Jaime acquiesces only enough to take a few steps further into the trailer, standing over the Spider’s chaise lounge. Varys shrugs him off, not remotely threatened. He smiles up from his comfortable position as though it’s a deck chair at a beach, and Jaime is there to take his drinks order.

“That is a fine prosthetic you have there. I would never have known, if I didn’t know everything. The color is perfect, just perfect. Which one is it, right or left?"

The Spider doesn’t really expect him to answer. He knows that Jaime has kept a tight lid on that detail, so far. There are certainly people out there in the world who know for certain, and he will surely find out eventually, but the Spider has not gotten any of them to talk just yet. He will fish for the information just the same. It’s a reflex, at this point.

"Where in the world did you get it? I didn’t think they made things like this anymore, not to custom. But you’re a wealthy man again, aren’t you? Even after Armageddon, Lannisters stay rich.” The spider shows a sliver of teeth. “You would think that money and influence would mean nothing in the new world, but it isn’t so. We simply deal in different currencies now. Your brother realized that faster than most. Clever man.”

Jaime remains standing.

The Spider’s fingers drum his seat warily. “I, of course, recall how you helped me to escape King’s Landing. Have you come to call in this debt?”

“Is she dead?” He spits out the words like he will not taste their poison if he is rid of them quickly enough.

Varys hesitates. Just for a moment, but it is enough to make Jaime blanch well ahead of his answer.

“Yes. Without a doubt.”

Jaime’s throat tightens around the word. “How?”

“How else? The Others.”

Jaime takes one more breath, and chokes on it. He can’t get any more words out.

He turns and slaps his palms against the door of the trailer so that it bangs open and he is out into the freezing night again, running, past the blurry borders of the rest-stop and into proper forest, and when he cannot run anymore he drops to his hands and knees in the mud and opens his mouth and wails until he has no voice left.

His fists beat into the earth as though he can make it give her back.

When there’s nothing left inside him he gets up. Stumbles unseeing back through the forest. Raw and shaking, he pushes through Varys’ honor guard of former bikers, back into the Spider’s Lair.

Varys has not moved since he left him. He watches Jaime drop down into the chair opposite him as though it were only moments since he gave his terrible answer.

“Would you like to ask for your boon now?” the Spider asks.

“Yes.” Jaime leans forward. “I need weapons.”

***

Let me hold you in my arms dear

And let me melt in the heat of your gaze

And let the clock strike one,

Time and mind go marching on

Let our sense of selves decay

It was there that I saw you

In the heat of a summer's embrace

But as time went on

I wondered what went wrong

I wondered what became of you

“It Was There That I Saw You”, ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead

#And You Will Know Them By the Trail of Dead #dreadwulf fic #braime #jaime x brienne

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gohyuck · 4 years ago

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all that glitters (mark lee) teaser

pairing: rich!mark lee x rich!reader

genre: angst to fluff

warnings (in teaser): rich people, neglectful parents, mention of deceased pet and said deceased pet’s grave, descriptions of a panic attack

teaser length: 988

fic length: 5-6k

commissioned: yes

When Mark had been younger, he’d always wanted a pet.

His aunt had raised his cousins alongside a beautiful chocolate lab named Fudge, a sweet, playful dog that had taken to Mark just as much as she’d taken to her own masters. Many of the times Fudge had gently nuzzled a toddler Mark, making the young boy squeal, or the moments where Fudge had patiently nudged Mark off of her as the human menace had unknowingly pulled her ears or tail had all been recorded for posterity on VHS camcorders. The tapes themselves are currently collecting dust in a shoebox under Mark’s bed.

At age 7, when a shy Mark had gone to Donghyuck and Jeno’s house from school, his own house locked as his parents worked and him being too afraid to play with the other kids his age, he’d played catch with Fudge and his little cousins for hours on end. At age 10, when Mark’s grandmother had unexpectedly passed away, Fudge’s fur had soaked his tears in, night in and night out. At age 12, when he’d been petsitting for his cousins, Fudge had run into the pretty neighbor girl’s yard, forcing Mark to finally talk to you for once rather than stare at you from across your gardens.

Fudge had died three weeks after Mark’s 15th birthday. This time, it’d been your shirt that had taken in all of his tears, your hand gently running through his hair as he bawled his eyes - and heart - out into your chest. It’d been you that’d suggested burying Fudge in the woods near the cliff that overlooked your city, and it’d been you that’d managed the impossible and convinced Mark’s parents to let him skip a flute lesson to help bury the dog he so truly and deeply loved.

Mark’s parents had never gotten him a pet, going so far as to cite his devastation over Fudge as reason enough for him not to get a dog after her passing. What they had gotten him, though, at age 16, was a Suzuki AEM Carbon Fiber Hayabusa and the okay to get a motorcycle license instead of a standard driver’s license. Mark had taken one look at the price tag - a clean $200,000, deal made via private dealer - and decided then and there that he’d never ask his parents for anything again.

To be fair, he hadn’t necessarily wanted the bike, either. It’d simply been a happy surprise. What he’d actually asked for - and had never gotten - was to be able to spend his birthday with both of his parents. They’d both sent regretful texts to him at the same time, two hours after he’d asked them each individually: two different variations of ‘I’ve got work, love, I’m sorry but I swear I’ll make it up to you!’

They were both high up enough in their respective jobs to be able to choose when to take days off. Mark had always suspected where he lay in terms of priority. His parents had just confirmed it that day.

Therein, Mark supposes as he stares down at Fudge’s makeshift grave, hammered-together cross as a gravemarker and all, is the true reason he hasn’t asked either of them for jackshit since he turned 16. He’s currently looking at the grave of the only entity that’d ever lived that truly gave a damn about him.

This is a lie. He knows it the moment it surfaces in his mind. He has his cousins, his aunt and uncle, his friends both from late childhood and college. His parents have love for him too, he’s sure, even if they’re damn awful at showing it. The real issue, at least at hand, is the question of you and how much you care about him.

God, he’s fucked up. He tells Fudge so.

“God, I’ve fucked up,” Mark murmurs, voice hoarse from not having spoken in hours. He’d been driving around for hours, only stopping to fuel - and think - after his discussion with you about 10 minutes out from Fudge’s grave. It’d been then that he’d realized how disheveled he must look - Mark had only thrown his black leather jacket over what he’d been wearing at home, not sparing you a second glance as he’d gotten out of a situation he could not stand to stay in any longer. The few minutes spent fueling had felt like an hour then, weighing down harder and harder on Mark’s shoulders the longer time passed.

Now as the wind whips at his face - his helmet is slung over the handlebar, and his bike is parked a few meters back so it’s at a safe enough distance away from the steep drop of the cliff - he wishes he’d at least thought to grab a scarf, or something. The Brunello Cucinelli suit he’s got on may look warm, but it isn’t. He is not dressed in a way that’s suited for the weather.

Still, he has to be here. He has to tell someone how he feels, why he does what he does and says what he says. He has to be understood... But he thought you understood him? You had understood him once, right? What’s changed? Why don’t you -

It’s sudden in the way these things are. Mark’s breath gets punched out of him, and it’s as if his tears have an agenda of their own. He’s gasping for air before he realizes he’s doing so, and the water that drips down his cheeks is flung back towards him before he gains the presence of mind to turn away from the wind. It’s as if his lungs are too small and his chest is too big, and for a moment, Mark fears that it’ll always be like this. That this is his life now. He doubles over, staying there for a moment before letting out the kind of groan that could wake the dead and sinking to his knees.

let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

#first #five #tags #don’t #mark lee fluff #work #mark lee #mark lee angst #mark lee scenarios #mark lee scenario

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ignitification · 4 years ago

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Shigaraki Yoichi

Finally, habemus name! After dilly dallying around it for 300+ chapters, the first OfA user and AfO's little brother's name has been revealed to be Yoichi. Now, I already talked so many times about the Numerology of OfA (and you can find here Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3) (and after my theory of the 1st user to be called Ichigo has been debunked) - but I will take a little time to analyse this.

Clearly, the name Yoichi has in it the same character which figure in the diction of number 1 in Japanese (いち (ichi)). As there isn't a lot to say on the number itself, I preferred concentrating on the name. However, surprisingly, Yoichi is a very uncommon name (and please correct me if you know more about it!) - and the most common meaning of it is 'First Son'. I would guess that this refers to Yoichi being the First User of OfA, and being its bearer (an AfO's creation), more than to the actual son because as we know, Yoichi is AfO's little brother (unless...), so he cannot technically be a 'first son' in this literal meaning. The variation (as I am not sure on how Horikoshi puts it in the panel, I will add it as soon as the chapter is officially out) can stand for 'Good' or for 'Generation' (which is the one I am actually hoping for) (with one in the end). It would make sense for Yoichi to be the First Generation of OfA, formally claiming the beginning of an era (which culminates with All Might).

What I found funny, is that in Numerology, the name Yoichi is tied to Number 6, formerly. I am sure it has nothing to do with En and Yoichi, but at the same time I cannot refrain myself from asking why are still in the dark when it comes to the 6th user name? We have his face, and his Quirk - he even talked to Izuku. Is there a reason why?

I wanted to make a separate posts for this, but I'll just add a small paragraph about my few general OfA considerations:

Is it a requirement for OfA Users to be stunning? (kidding, but at the same time, why are Ni-Sama and Shinomori so damn cute why they are all dead?)

Is it just a coincidence that Nana is the only female OfA User? And does this have any relevance for the fact that she is Tenko's grandmothers?

Is the relationship of Yoichi and Ni-Sama a foreshadowing for Bakugou and Midoriya, or better, for Shigaraki and Izuku? (I am going to elaborate on this later, because the parallels between Yoichi and Tomura are a lot, and being imprisoned by AfO in an enclosed space and just a lot of similarities)

I know that Horikoshi said previous users were not 'chosen ones', but this makes me think, why exactly did they chose each other?

If the 2nd user if the one who actually started the chain of OfA, why was he so adamant on not recognising Izuku before? Or is it because of Izuku that he he did not want to acknowledge it? (and bak-u-go to those parallels).

And final one, and I know this is absolutely insane, but as I was thinking - AfO is the one who technically gave birth to OfA's power, so might his name be tied to the Numerology of OfA, too? Having maybe, the number 1 or maybe number 0 in it?

Much to think about, and thank you for reading.

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turtle-steverogers · 3 years ago

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she is very long so. enjoy😌

- Steve n Bucky going to the bodega down the street from their apartment. it’s open till like 4am and they go at all hours. sometimes they’ll go separately but they always go together when they go in between 12-4 am and no one who works there questions why

- they get a cat that they treat her like their child. it’s Alpine ofc😌 steve loves her so much but he knows it’s Bucky’s Cat and he’s fine with it

- you know how some siblings or partners or friends can communicate with their eyes and basically have telepathy? they totally have that and it annoys the shit out of every single person they meetjdksndks. someone will be talking to them and they will just make eye contact with each other bc it reminded them of an earlier convo they had or they both got annoyed by the other person or it reminds them of an inside joke or something and it just irritates EVERYONE. no one is able to intercept it and it’s just a thing that no matter what - even though they don’t mean to - you’ll feel a little left out when you’re with steveandbucky. it just comes with the gig. i like to imagine that depending on if it’s an au or not, its either really obvious or not. like in an au then yes it’s obvious they can have non verbal conversations, but if it’s not an au then it’s not entirely obvious bc they’re enhanced humans and they know how to hide their secret conversations. but everyone they talk to is essentially an enhanced human or has special abilities so it’s obvious to them and they catch them in the act LOL. if they’re interacting with regular people then it’s not very obvious though

- DATE NIGHT!!! yes they’re old yes they have date night. when they go out it’s usually to places in their neighborhood, but a lot of the time they like to stay in bc. they’re old men <3 steve is better at cooking and bucky is better at baking bc you can get creative with cooking and steve likes that more. he enjoys baking a lot too but he thinks bucky’s stuff tastes better. whenever they stay home though there’s ALWAYS a movie. always. they alternate choosing but there is always a movie to watch. bucky usually falls asleep nearing the end and steve plays with his hair😌 he rolls his eyes cause it happens every time but he actually likes when it happens bc he can braid strands of hair together

- pet names oh my god. so many pet names. every single one. mainly from bucky. steve uses them but maybe like two. he favors sweetie and buck and that’s it really. sometimes he uses hon. bucky though oh my god. every single pet name under the sun. so many variations of doll you wouldn’t believe - baby doll ofc, dolly, stevie doll. sweetheart. sweetness. blondie. pretty boy. hot stuff. stevie. baby. hon. honey. sunshine. angel. it’s just so many. and it’s like very sickening insane twisted etc but hot at the same time. most people are like jeez barnes do you ever shut up… but most of these people secretly think it’s a little hot theyre thinking damn where is that affection for me…. i need me a bucky barnes :| steve is the only smitten kitten outwardly even if he huffs and puffs sometimes but it’s obvious he enjoys it. like they are so annoyingjdkssn for real they aren’t a pda couple really but the petnames….. so many. so so so many it’s sickeningly sweet but bucky dgaf! steve is his sweetheart his dolly his baby his angel so he’s going to call him these things!

- steve knows his body is what is considered “perfect” but he still is insecure about it around most people and bucky knows this so when steve lounges at home in bucky’s boxer briefs and his own tee shirt or he kicks off his pants when he’s too hot at night in bed bucky is reminded of just how much steve loves him and feels comfortable around him which is something he always strives for - to make steve comfortable. not baby him because steve bitches at anyone that does that to him but to make him feel comfortable

- and on the subject of feeling comfortable i imagine that they always check in with one another but it’s very subconscious they hardly realize they do it. like steve will bitch at bucky to pick up his shoes from their doorway or to clean his hair from the shower drain but the next second he will ask him if his back still hurts from being kicked by sam and from where steve AND alpine scratched him (in very different ways)

- steve is the sweater husband and bucky is the sweatshirt husband. they trade off a lot but that’s just how their closets look

- steve takes a liking to crop tops 😌 but ONLY around the house bc again he’s really truly only comfortable around bucky. he wears em with boxer briefs or sweatpants but you can guarantee that the briefs and sweats usually just end up on the floor 9 out of 10 times

- hair ties everywhere. they can be found on the floor in the laundry in their bed in the couch on top of the fridge on their fire escape. they are literally everywhere. steve just picks them up and puts them in the bathroom but they always make their way back. he doesn’t say anything to bucky until he finds alpine chewing one and she ends up smacking herself in the face with the hairtie

- their fridge is always full with leftovers and food from sam or clint’s or whoever’s house or takeout. they always eat it all but they get and make a lot of food so the fridge is always full

- subconsciously bucky always has a hand on the back of steve’s neck. like it’s not ENTIRELY a possessive thing but he used to do it a lot when steve was small because it was easy and it was comfortable. for him and just for him and steve. it was like swinging an arm around steve’s shoulders or putting a hand on his shoulder. it was just natural and easy so he did it. a part of him back then prewar did it possessively too, but he always tampered that down bc steve wasn’t his. now he does it without shame

- steve really likes tofu and vegan meat, non dairy milk like almond and soy, and overall a lot of non dairy vegan foods, and a lot of fruits. he gets made fun of for a lot specifically about the vegan stuff but his reasoning is that there’s so much food accessible for people with allergies in the future that he wished existed a hundred years ago so he’s going to try it and stick with it if he likes it. people shut up after that

- he also tips a little more than he needs to everywhere he goes. everywhere. like it’s cool when steve rogers walks in to a restaurant bc he’s a superhero or whatever but its REALLY cool because he leaves a generous tip and that’s what really makes peoples day

- before they get legally married they are still very much married. like “i packed you lunch, meet me at the restaurant instead of me going to pick you up bc it’ll take longer, i got takeout let’s bitch together while we watch shitty reality tv, let’s bitch at EACH OTHER through the phone in public, let’s send each other ugly pictures of each other or funny texts while we’re right next to each other, i’m out with a group and you’re not there and i say multiple times ‘i miss steve/bucky’, let’s yell at each other from opposite ends of the apartment instead of getting up to see each other, steve i’m going to fuck you on the couch bc our room is too far, etc.” they are just very much married without the documents and legalities and it’s very obvious

okay all of these were ABSOLUTELY wonderful and im really going to restrain my urge to respond to each and every one but that might be futile

-okay YES they definitely go to that bodega at all hours, and usually it's for normal things when they go separately: milk, cereal, toilet paper. but when they go in the middle of the night, they almost always purchase some like odd assortment of candies and deli meat. also, they're always in their pajamas. like bucky's in plaid pj pants and a star wars sweatshirt, and steve is in like 5" shorts and a huge crewneck and they're both in slides and they definitely only speak russian to each other when they're in there after hours

-yes alpine! they also have a dog, that is more steve than bucky's!! his name is norman in my headcanon (and a couple of my fics) and he is best boy

-okay i need more of this in my general stucky life: steve and bucky being like,,, best friends as well as lovers and being so seamlessly close. like yeah, they definitely talk with their eyes, or just one glance, or half-sentences ("hey, did you ever get to--" "yup, on the way home. it was so--" "yeah, good. glad to hear") and they know exactly what the other is saying.

-yes to the date nights!!! and when they stay in to watch movies, they make Tons of popcorn. and they Have to make separate batches, because steve will Only eat his with like half a bottle of that powdered white cheddar on his

-YES we share the same fucking headcanon for petnames on god

Steve: love you, buck:)

Bucky: love you, pumpkin

-Steve definitely has body dysmorphia, probably even post serum (I have lots of thoughts on this, that might be a different post) and yeah, Bucky definitely knows its Big that he feels comfortable enough to be exposed around him (and he's even more honored that steve lets him be intimate with him, because that's really hard for steve, too)

-yeah! and easy check ins like "ur stomach still bothering you from last night?" "oh, no it was just a little bug turns out" or like "my head hurts:(" "i have meds in my bag. you want?" "yeah, just two" or like subtly checking on injuries, yeah

-yeah the sweater versus sweatshirt tracks tbh i picture steve in a lot of crewnecks so yeah

-STEVE IN CROP TOPS STEVE IN CROP TOPS and i raise you they're often ones he's cropped himself and he's also painted on! or bleach painted!! and theyre so cool and bucky never wants to make a big deal out of it, but he's so proud of steve for expressing himself like that

-ALPINE SMACKING HERSELF ALKFJALSDKFJA also steve always has a hairtie on HIS wrist in case bucky forgets one for himself

-they also always have Steve Staple Foods cuz i headcanon steve as a picky eater (adhd!steve + serum enhancements, it's down to a formula) so they have a lot of Kraft mac and cheese and easy heat up meals and lunch meats around for when he's having bad food days

-OMG and steve absolutely MELTS i raise you, too, bucky will especially hold the back of his neck when he needs to get steve to Chill Out. so like if he sees him stressing he'll put his hand on the back of his neck and squeeze and literally feel the tension drain from him or like if steve is having a panic attack, he'll hold the back of his neck while they breathe together

-yes and also any time that steve is Choosing food for himself and feeling motivated to eat it, it's a win, so people learn to back off there, too

-yes! he tips generously, but never awkwardly or offensively. he's also super kind and patient to food service workers!

-this last point is so perfect i cant. like yeah, back to steve and bucky just being,,,, the best of friends. ugly selfies galore, shoving their feet in each other's face, flicking each others ears. and yes, all the fucking gossiping. on the phone gossip, venting, fun gossip from around work. they talk about it all. and it's so great for them

thank you again for stopping by! your thoughts are impeccable!

#steve rogers #bucky barnes #stucky #stucky headcanons #long post #domestic anon

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song-of-oots · 3 years ago

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Fuchsia Groan: my (un)exceptional fave

A while ago a friend of mine was asking for people to name their favourite examples of strong female characters, and my mind immediately leapt to Gormenghast’s Fuchsia Groan because it always does whenever the words “favourite” and “female character” come up in the same sentence. In fact scratch that, if I had to pick only one character to be my official favourite (female or otherwise) it would probably be Fuchsia. There are not sufficient words in the English language to accurately describe how much I love this character.

The issue was that I’m not sure Fuchsia Groan can accurately be described as “strong”, and until my friend asked the question, it hadn’t even occurred to me to analyse her in those terms…

Actually this isn’t completely true; Mervyn Peake does describe Fuchsia as strong in terms of her physical strength on multiple occasions. But in terms of her mental strength things are less clear cut. She’s certainly not a total pushover, and anyone would probably find it tough-going to cope with the neglect, tragedy and misuse she suffers through. In fact, this is something Mervyn Peake mentions himself – whilst also pointing out that Fuchsia is not the most resilient of people:

“There were many causes [to her depression], any one of which might have been alone sufficient to undermine the will of tougher natures than Fuchsia’s.”

Anyway, this has gotten me thinking about Fuchsia’s other traits and my reasons for loving her, going through a typical sort of list of reasons people often give for holding up a character as someone to admire:

So, is Fuchsia particularly talented?

No.

Is she clever, witty?

She’s definitely not completely stupid, and her insights occasionally take other characters by surprise, but she’s not really that smart either.

Does she have any significant achievements? Overcome great adversity?

Not really, no.

Is she kind?

Yes. Fuchsia is a very loving person and sometimes displays an incredible sensitivity and compassion for others. But… she can also be self-absorbed, highly strung, and does occasionally lash out at other people (especially in her younger years).

So why do I love Fuchsia so much?

Well, I’ll start be reiterating that I don’t really have the vocabulary to adequately put it into words, but I will try to get the gist across. So:

“What Fuchsia wanted from a picture was something unexpected. It was as though she enjoyed the artist telling her something quite fresh and new. Something she had never thought of before.”

This statement summarises not only Fuchsia but also the way I feel about her (and for that matter the Gormenghast novels in general). Fuchsia is something I’ve never really seen before. On the surface, she fits the model of the somewhat spoiled but neglected princess, and yet at the same time she cannot be so neatly pigeon-holed. It’s not just that her situation and the themes of the story make things more complex (though that is a factor); Fuchsia herself is so unique and vividly detailed that she manages to be more than her archetype. She feels like a real person and, like all real people, she is not so easy to label.

Fuchsia is also delightfully strange in a way that feels very authentic to her and the setting in general (which is particularly refreshing because it can all too often feel as though female characters are only allowed to be strange in a kooky, sexy way - yet Fuchsia defies this trend).

She’s a Lady, but she’s not ladylike. She’s messy. She slouches, mooches, stomps and stands in awkward positions. Her drawing technique is “vicious” and “uncompromising”. She chews grass. She removes her shoes “without untying the laces by treading on the heels and then working her foot loose”. She’s multi-faceted and psychologically complex. Intense and self-absorbed, sometimes irrational and ruled by her emotions more than is wise, but also capable of insight and good sense that takes others by surprise. She is extremely loving and affectionate, and yet so tragically lonely. Simultaneously very feminine and also not. Her character development from immature teenager to adult woman is both subtle and believable. She has integrity and decency – she doesn’t need to be super clever or articulate to know how to care for others or stand up for herself.

Fuchsia is honest. She knows her own flaws, but you never catch her trying to put on airs or make herself out to be anything other than what she is. She always expresses her feelings honestly.

She’s not sexualised at all. I don’t mean by this that she has no sexuality – though that’s something Peake only vaguely touches on – but I don’t really feel like I’m looking at a character who was written to pander to the male gaze (though her creator is male, I get the vibe he views her more as a beloved daughter than a sexual object).

Finally, I find her highly relatable. I am different to Fuchsia in many ways, but we do have several things in common that I have never seen so vividly expressed in any other character. This was incredibly important to me when I was a teenager struggling through the worst period of depression I ever experienced – because she was someone who I could relate to and love in a way I was incapable of loving myself. Her ability to be herself meant a lot to me as someone struggling with my own identity and sense of inadequacy. It didn’t cure my depression, but it helped me survive it.

What am I trying to say with all this?

I love Fuchsia on multiple levels. I love her as a person and also as a character and a remarkable piece of writing. I mention some of the mundane details Peake uses to flesh out her character firstly because I enjoy them, but also because it’s part of the point. Her story amazes me because it treats a female character and her psychological and emotional life with an intense amount of interest regardless of any special talents or achievements she happens to exhibit. She doesn’t fit the model of a modern heroine but neither does she need to – she’s still worth spending time with and caring about.* To me the most important things about Fuchsia are how different and interesting and relatable she is – and how real she feels.

* To be honest, this is part of the point of the Gormenghast novels in general. The story is meant to illustrate the damage that society – and in particular rigid social structures and customs – can do to individuals with its callous indifference to genuine human need. Fuchsia is one of many examples of this throughout the novels. These characters don’t need to be exceptionally heroic in order to matter – they just need to exist as believable people. And despite how strange they all are, they often do manage to be fundamentally relatable.

Why am I talking about female characters in particular here?

The focus on “strong” female characters and the critique against that is pretty widely acknowledged. Growing up, I definitely noticed the lack of female characters in popular media and the ensuing pressure this then places on the ones that do exist to be positive representations of womankind – someone girls can look up to. It’s very understandable that we want to see more examples of admirable female protagonists, given that women were traditionally left to play support roles and tired stereotypes. The problem is that the appetite for more proactive female heroines can sometimes lead to characters who are role models first and realistic human beings second (characters who I mentally refer to as Tick-All-The-Boxes Heroines). It’s not a problem with “strong” proactive heroines per se, but rather lack of variation and genuine psychological depth (not to mention a sometimes too-narrow concept of what it even means to be strong).

Male characters tend not to have this particular problem because they are much better represented across the whole range of roles within a story. You get your fair share of boring worn out archetypes. You get characters who are meant to represent a positive version of heroic masculinity (and now that I come to think of it, having a very narrow and unvarying presentation of what positive masculinity looks like is its own separate problem, but outside the scope of this particular ramble). We don’t usually spend time obsessing over whether a piece of fiction has enough examples of “strong” male characters though, because we’re generally so used to seeing it that we automatically move on into analysing the work and the characters on other terms. And because there are often more male characters than female, they don’t all bear the burden of having to be a positive representative of all men everywhere. They exist to fulfill their roles, and often exhibit more variety, nuance and psychological depth. They are also often allowed to be weird, flawed and unattractive in ways that women usually aren’t (which is a damn shame because I’ve spent my whole life feeling like a weird outsider and yet this perspective is so often told primarily through a male lens).

Tl:dr; Fuchsia Groan is a character who feels like an answer to so many of those frustrations that I felt growing up without even truly understanding why. A large part of why I love her is simply because of how much I relate to her on a personal level. I admire her emotional honesty and her loving nature… But there’s also a part of me that was just so relieved to find a female character who exists outside of the usual formulae we seem to cram women into. She is unique, weird and wonderful (but non-sexualised). Psychologically nuanced and vividly written. She isn’t exceptionally heroic or talented or a high achiever – but she does feel like a real person.

Female characters don’t need to tick all the right boxes in order to be interesting or worth our time any more than the male ones do.

#fuchsia groan #gormenghast #mervyn peake #female characters #mental health #depression #long

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