#'We know when you write it the night before?' why did you laude me as an example of dedication put into an essay when i fucked around every
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Clockwork Angel & Clockwork Prince
I am low-key crying.
I should not have ranked my top 30 books of this year so early. But how was I supposed to know that I would love new books in the last week of December? I am literally 3 days away from 2024.
I mean, I knew all along that the Infernal Devices was Cassandra Clare's magnum opus, and I had high expectations of it. Even so, I was convinced I was currently in a reading slump and I wasn't keen on picking this up while in this state. But finally one night I pushed past the prologue to the first chapter and that was it. I got fucking hooked. Colour me shocked because I thought that nothing could take me out of my slump but something about the writing/plot in this book was SO interesting. The beginning where Tessa gets taken by the Dark Sisters and everything it led to had me in a vice.
I finished the first book in one sitting. Lmao. That night, I finished all 900 pages on my e-reader and I was like: Jesus. Was I ever really in a slump, or were the books I was reading before just not doing it for me? Because I've been reading Two Twisted Crowns (am about 30-40% in?) and I didn't find any fault in the plot, but I couldn't understand why I couldn't focus.
I need to make one thing straight, though, about this series: I loved it not for the reasons people loved it. I know people laud this series for Will Herondale. I… do not care about Will Herondale. The boy I care about is Jem Carstairs.
It's crazy because I'd read the Infernal Devices before as a teen and while I'd liked Jem more than Will even then, I never really gravitated much to either hero. But this time, I'm obsessed. Absolutely obsessed. He had me kicking my feet and squealing. He was so sweet compared to Will. Some of my favourite parts about him:
Will, Tessa thought, would have been angry if she’d said that to him, but Jem just looked at her intently (We stan a kind, patient and emotionally mature man)
“And you’ve never asked him (William) why?”
“If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me,” Jem said. “You asked why I think he tolerates me better than other people. I’d imagine it’s precisely because I’ve never asked him why.” He smiled at her, wryly.
And sooooooo many more scenes of him that I loved in the sequel:
(JEM YOU CAN FOOL TESSA BUT YOU CAN'T FOOL MY CHINESE ASS)
And then later:
He is such a gentleman, I AM CRYING.
Also, I told myself I would take my time to read the 2nd book because I didn't want to finish it so fast, but idiot that I am, I finished it again (almost) over one night. IT IS INSANE TO THINK I WAS IN A BOOK RUT AND NOW I HAVE TO ACTUALLY STOP MYSELF FROM READING TOO FAST.
Man, I feel so jealous of people who are able to easily enjoy most of their books the way I did this. I rarely enjoy books so much because I am so, so, so picky. And the WEIRDEST part? Ever since I finished Crooked Kingdom and the Stolen Heir (which are my favourites this year), the only books for the rest of 2023 that have made me feel a fraction of this engagement are by Cassandra Clare. I don't understand it. I never liked Cassie as a teen. Why am I enjoying her stuff so much now?
THAT SAID, I don't want to touch the last book in the Infernal Devices right now. T_T This is the angstiest book in the whole series, especially when it comes to Jem. I know his illness took a turn for the worse and he was presumed to have died at the end (though he didn't) but I can't. I can't bear to watch him suffer. I can't bear to watch his engagement with Tessa nose-dive.
I know this is nothing like my normal reviews because I'm just gushing about Jem and not about the rest of the book (which was GREAT. Do not get me wrong. I loved Charlotte, Henry and Sophie). But my brain is not screwed on straight right now and I… have no words. Nonetheless, I will try to get my thoughts in order. Just some mild complaints:
I think that Jessamine could have had a better arc than what she got. Given her backstory and the trauma she endured as a child, I had hopes for her besides playing the "unlikeable antagonist". Right now, as of the end of Book 2, that is still her primary role in the story.
I may love Jem and Tessa, but I need to say that the romance for EVERYONE was not very well-done. I found that both Will and Jem developed feelings for Tessa really early, and VERY STRONG ones, and I'm still confused how that even transpired. This was the same problem I had with the Mortal Instruments, but I had assumed it would have been better for this trilogy since it's Cassie's best work. Alas, the same issue occurred.
The twist about who the Magister was was a liiiiiiitle underwhelming. I was hoping for more.
I don't like or dislike Will. I do not care.
Am a little surprised that the ending of the 2nd book was pretty anticlimactic action-wise. The climax was really just about the romance, which… is interesting.
This is as much cogency as I'm giving this review. I need to recover from this series, thank you. 😣 While I'm too lazy to try to figure out how it fits in the top 30 (which will need adjusting), the books belong there for SURE.
- 29 Dec 2023
#book review#book blog#the infernal devices#the shadowhunter chronicles#cassandra clare#jem carstairs#will herondale#the mortal instruments
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“Carry On” and...Yikes.
Well clowns, looks like the clown calls were coming from inside the house this entire time.
I so desperately wish I wasn’t writing this right now. I so wish that I could be writing something better, something joyful, something happy about this fifteen year journey with these characters. It seems as though the show had other ideas, so in we go.
So...the dog was cool. Also interesting that Dean was back to his breakup/grieving coping mechanisms: not making his bed, messy room, beer all over the place, Sam making breakfast, etc.
So I guess I better just start off with how...off this episode felt in regards to Dean specifically. Idk why he suddenly wanted a dog and Sam had no real interest in one, since the opposite has been true for, idk, fifteen years, but whatever, I was willing to let it go.
I thought the pie thing was a sweet scene, it was funny and nice and a good button on Dean’s pie thing.
Weird to, you know, bring up Cas and not mention his tragic ass deal and why he got got, but whatever.
I cannot physically believe that this MOTW aspect was, quite literally, so much of the plot. Like...we figured that it was going to be an aspect, but for it to be SO MUCH? Bruh. I am such a fucking fool lmfao.
Again, cool to see Cas’ coat in the back. Too bad it wasn’t addressed.
Jenny. Bitch. Come on. Of ALL the villains in the FIFTEEN YEARS of Supernatural. Jenny. Who was in....one....episode. Ok.
I mean that line about the high school thing was funny, I did laugh at that moment. Fuck I love Dean Winchester.
I cannot believe I specced so much about the barn scene. Are y’all telling me that “The Night We Met” is being claimed by......Sam and Dean. Fuck off.
I mean, I thought Dean was going to die, and the scene actually did play out pretty similarly to how I thought. It was probably the most powerful moment in the episode. I am very glad that it was Dean’s choice, his choice and his peace to let go.
“Let me look at you. There he is. I am so proud of you, Sam.”
I do love this, I love this because Dean is able to look at his work, the man that he raised, and tell him these things. He was Sam’s parent, he raised Sam into the man he is today, and he should be damn proud of that.
I do love this most of scene, I really do, I love my boys, these brothers so damn much, and at least, at the very least, I have this scene of them.
Forehead touch was weird, I’m just gonna say it.
I feel like most of this episode was montages lol. I mean I always hate sad Sam but at this point I still fully felt like we were going to get closure and we just...didn’t.
The Austin number was a cool detail, I liked that bc I picked up on it right away (since, you know, my phone is a 512 number lmao).
What a lackluster goodbye to the Bunker. I had no clue that was going to be the last time we saw it ever.
FUCK AT LEAST I GOT MY DAMN HEAVEN BAR.
The scene with Bobby was nice, it was good to see him. We did get our remade Heaven, that’s also nice to know.
“It ain’t just Heaven, Dean. It’s the Heaven you deserve.”
He does deserve this. An open Heaven, the people he loves, finally some peace, he deserves that, and I am glad that he got it.
Our second Cas mention. Great. Thanks guys.
I mean thanks Jim and Jensen for the microexpressions I guess lmao.
So I am supposed to believe. That Dean. Whose entire arc has been speaking his truth, specifically speaking his truth to Cas. Where he has been stopped twice before this season. Is going to just drive around in circles for forty years until Sam gets there? Yeah, that’s gonna be a no from me, dawg.
And Sam gets married and has a kid that he names Dean, and the unspecified dark haired woman in the back of the ten minute montage is supposed to be enough for me to buy that it’s Eileen? Bruh.
Also it’s BACK TO BACK MONTAGES??? WITH TWO VERSIONS OF CARRY ON WAYWARD SON?
Sam’s age makeup???? Hello???? AT FIRST THEY DIDN’T EVEN AGE HIM THEY JUST PUT HIM IN A WIG?????
That cover of Wayward Son did slap but was it enough? No.
Even that bridge moment didn’t hit right because Sam didn’t cross it? He was just suddenly there.
It just fucking sucks. It sucks that their reunion doesn’t land right because they...didn’t do anything when they were apart. Sam had his kid sure but Dean literally just drove around. No mention of Cas or of Eileen. Nothing. So the last moment of this show I love feels tainted and hollow and just wrong.
It sucks. I’m not going to lie. But the worst thing about it? Is that it doesn’t make any sense. I have not spent two years of my life picking apart the writing rooms in Supernatural, lauding this current team for what they’ve accomplished for it to end like this. I know many of you will regard me as a complete tinhat freak right now, but this, to me, does not feel like an episode that Andrew Dabb wrote. Hell, it doesn’t feel like an episode of Supernatural.
None of the arcs were completed: Dean didn’t get to speak his truth to Cas, Sam never got to become the leader, the legacy hunter he was meant to. We don’t see them with Cas or Eileen, we don’t even hear about them.
Listen, there’s a lot that...simply doesn’t add up to me. First of all, the episode was SHORT, and most of it was montages. They had four montages AND the episode was only 38 minutes. The series finale of the show was shorter than any other episode and had four multiple minute montages. Okay. Make it make sense. Newsflash: it doesn’t, there is simply no way I can believe that there weren’t massive cuts and reworks done to this episode on an executive level.
I know there are people who will tell me that the writers are just bad and I need to accept that they gave me a shitty ending, but after all this time with this story, especially with Dabb’s arc, he just...doesn’t do shit like this. His arcs are always complete, always tied up well, always have a button. But this mess? This confusing episode that left everything hanging with a cover of Wayward Son hanging in the air? It just doesn’t add up to me.
This wasn’t the story they were telling, this hasn’t been the story they were telling all season, and I stand by that.
So, I sure do wish I could give you a better post. I wish that we had gotten something better. I still, after everything, love this show, and will still be here in the morning.
Thanks guys. Love y’all.
#my meta#supernatural#spn writers#spoilers#spn 15x20#spn#this was upsetting to write but hey i knew i had to
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You mentioned in Blind Faith that Matt and Tony had involuntarily met before, and now I’m curious 👀 Will we ever get to find out what happened there?
A Permanent Paycheck | m.m.
Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson
A False God drabble
In which Nelson and Murdock involuntarily meet Tony Stark
Authors Note: This isn’t the drabble I thought I’d post today but alas. The urge to write it was strong. It’s not a nearly as exciting story as you might think lol. But I’ll be posting something a little more…spicy later 👀
Series Masterlist | Talk to Me!
2015 —Two Months Prior to the Incident in Sokkovia
“Where did you say we were going?” Matt asked as Foggy lead him into hotel in downtown.
“We got invited to a very important party being hosted by Stark Industries,” Foggy explained. “Three steps coming up.”
Matt followed his directions, walking through the door that opened before the two. Security stopped and asked for their invitations, of which Foggy fumbled to present. When satisfied, the guard let them in. It smelled like champagne and expensive whiskey, an ominous reminder of the night he’d met Elektra. But he knew she wouldn’t be here; she hadn’t come back since that night at Sweeney’s.
“Why would we get invited to a party hosted by Stark Industries?” Matt asked, brow raised as the two fully entered the party.
The sounds were a bit overwhelming, but it was mostly talking. At least there wasn’t loud music to really overload his senses.
“Who cares? We don’t have any clients yet. This could be huge.”
“He’ll need to find anyone but us,” Matt pointed out as they walked to the bar. Foggy ordered a beer, Matt his whiskey neat. “Stark has so much blood on his hands. We can’t represent him; that’s not why we started Nelson and Murdock.”
Foggy sighed, knowing full well that Matt was right. That’s not why he agreed to leave Landman and Zack’s; if he wanted to be high profile, he would have stayed there. But the idea that Stark Industries wanted them for something was still enticing. They could, at the very least, entertain the thought for the evening.
Matt clapped Foggy on the shoulder, sipping his whiskey. Foggy spent most of the evening describing what was going on. Every pretty woman that walked by, every high up CEO he recognized. Matt appreciated the idea behind it, but he was listening in on conversations. Trying to determine why exactly the two lawyers were really invited. He was so focused that he didn’t actually hear the man of the hour approach.
“There’s the men of the hour,” Tony Stark announced. The bartender immediately handed him a drink, without the billionaire even asking. “Franklin Nelson and Matthew Murdock, right? I figured since you’re the only blind man here…”
“Foggy, sir,” he quickly corrected, extending his hand. Tony took it with a charismatic grin.
“Just Matt,” the other explained as Tony shook using his other free hand. “Was there a reason you invited us, Mr. Stark?”
Tony pulled his hands away, reaching for his glass once more. “I have a reason for just about everything I do,” he pointed out as he took a sip of his drink. “You boys are promising, you know. Murdock, especially. Summa cum laude. You rattled Landman and Zack’s by leaving.”
Matt felt a bit uneasy, hearing how much the hero knew about them. But Foggy seemed enamored by it all; Matt just gave a polite smile. “I didn’t realize you kept tabs on us.”
“I keep tabs on anyone I think is going to do a lot of good,” Tony explained. “And you boys —you’re going to do wonders. And I wanted to offer you a permanent paycheck.”
Foggy elbowed Matt, who glanced over his shoulder. Foggy is who spoke up though. “Doing what? Representing Stark Industries?”
“Oh no,” Tony quickly corrected. He set his glass back down. “I’m not in charge of the company anymore. Miss Potts is. No, the opportunity I’m presenting you is to represent the Avengers.”
The lawyers both let out a surprised sound. Matt couldn’t exactly say no to this; the Avengers did what he was doing, after all. Just on a bigger scale. But representing the Avengers was the complete opposite of what Matt truly wanted to do. He wanted to help the little guy; not the superheroes.
“Mr. Stark, while that’s enticing, we’re not interested,” Matt obliged. But Foggy grabbed his arm, just a little too hard.
“Can you excuse us for a moment, Mr. Stark? I think we need to discuss this privately.”
Tony put his hands up and stepped back into the crowd. Foggy turned to Matt and hit his arm.
“Dude. We’d be representing the heroes! The good guys!”
“But they’re not who need our help, Foggy,” Matt reminded him, frowning deeply. “Captain America doesn’t need a lawyer; neither does Iron Man. You know who does?”
Foggy groaned, but nodded some. “The single mom whose slumlord is trying to wrongfully evict her.”
“Or the family’s who lose their homes when the heroes save the world.”
The two stared each other down as Stark returned with Pepper Potts, who introduced herself politely.
“Don’t let him pressure you into anything,” she warned with a playful smile.
Matt nodded as he glanced back at Foggy. The other lawyer shook her hand with a smile.
“He couldn’t if he tried,” Foggy offered with a smile. “We appreciate the offer, Mr. Stark. But I think we’re needed somewhere else.”
“Where else would you be doing the most good?”
It was Matt who spoke up, stepping in front of Foggy. “In the neighborhoods where the Avengers do the most damage,” he explained, giving the hero a very faked, polite smile. “The families there need us more.”
Tony was thrown off by his sudden brashness but waved it off, not letting it affect him. Pepper sipped her champagne, holding back a laugh. As if she knew that Tony wasn’t going to get what he wanted. Matt wondered if she had tried to talk him out of it. But Tony shrugged, taking a glass of champagne from the waiter that walked by.
“Can’t say I didn’t try, right? Good luck the pro bono shit,” Tony waved the two off and walked away, as if he wasn’t just trying to pay them to defend the Avengers.
———
Series Masterlist
———
Taglist (CLOSED): @thebisexual-disaster @chims-kookies @ferxaniti @heybabyshae @notalxx @gothicxbarbie @dark-night-sky-99 @blacxk-moony @celestialissues @pinkybee926 @bex-tk1 @jasontoddthezombie @killthebutt4fly @softieekayy @user897sblog @cbloodmarch @ammiddlechild @venusriver @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @yikes-buddy @buckyspetal @baconlover001 @flimsysquid @reh-llik @messagesinthesky @dreamypanda @happyfern2 @svft-cas @andiforgetaboutyoulongenoughh @deafeningnightcollection-things @milf-murdock
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Breaking and Entering
Summary: Your cat gets you into trouble with your grumpy new neighbour
Pairing: Walter Marshall x Reader
>>> chapter 2
Masterlist
Warnings: Mentions of death, mentions of abuse; anxiety, angst, grumpy neighbour / Also: English is not my native language and this is my first and probably last attempt at writing. I do not even know why I tried. This is eventually a result of procrastinating from learning for my exam next week. I mixed up tenses.
Also not betad.
Words: 2.127
Here you were. New Job. New city. New apartment. Again. The past years have been a hassle of starting over.
When did your life take that turn? When your mother died? When you had to leave your grandfather to live with your father because you were underage? When instead going to study English literature like you always dreamed of your father made sure you’d get some fancy business master’s degree? Or when your ex-fiancé abused you and no one believed you because he was not just abusive but manipulative. Your life possibly finally took that turn when you ran. Head over heels. Leaving everything behind but your cat. You stopped counting the places you lived. Well rather visited for you never stayed long. Sometimes your ex would show up and you’d flee. Or you thought you had seen him in a crowd and flee. Or you were getting restless. High Functioning Flight Mode. All the damn time.
Moving days were a constant companion and those days smelled like freedom. It was just you, your SUV and your cat. The little fella would proudly ride shotgun while you sang along your old school rock playlist. Your whole life fit into a car.
This time it is Minneapolis. Large city. Anonymous, easy to vanish. You scored a job at a major financial player. Major as in Fortune 500 major. Thankfully, you worked project based for a while now, so no one ever really questioned your constant moving all over the nation. If they ever read that far in your resume that is. Summa cum laude in combination with a Harvard degree opened most doors for you.
The furnished apartment you found was in a half decent neighbourhood for a change. It was not the smallest you’d lived in and it faced the back of the building onto a yard hosting a huge oak tree.
Settling into Minneapolis was easier than it should have been. Your new co-workers were friendly. Too friendly. Not one lunch break you would get to spend on your own. Especially Marta from accounting was keen to talk to you. She was lovely. It was not her fault you never made friends. Because you never stayed. But still, that insistent woman and a couple of more people gave you a sense of familiarity you would never have expected from a huge company like that.
Most of the new neighbours greeted friendly too. Most, apart from one. When you were unloading your car, he stood right in your way, a bear of a man, shooting you a death glare. Mumbling something about not being allowed to park here and stomping off. You did not pay attention to his word, being intimidated by his sheer size. A broad beast, grumpy at that. You made a mental note to avoid him. Great plan.
Here ‘s the thing with your plans: they tend to simply not work. Three weeks after starting over, you come home to for once not being greeted by Jack. Your cat Jack. Named after an infamous pirate because of his funny face and weird way to walk. Not being greeted by Jack stirred panic. He was old but almost never failed to wait at the door for you. He did not today. Searching the whole place for him you came up empty. When you realised, you had left the bedroom window open in the morning you started to hyperventilate. He liked to sit outside on the fire escape while you got ready in the mornings. Looking outside he is not there either. By now you were freaking out, running downstairs, calling for Jack. Climbing up the roof. Nothing. By now you were crying. Starting to search the apartment one more time. And then once more. At some point you cried yourself to sleep until you are woken up by frantic knocking at your door. While still trying to figure out where you’re at, you glimpse the clock. It says 2 a.m.. Great. And what is this noise? Right. Knocking. On the door. Furious by now.
Opening your door, you find your grumpy neighbour. Even more grumpy. Scowling. „Is this thing yours? “ he asks, lifting Jack into your line of vision.
As relieved as you were to have your cat back. That was when things got out of hand. Thanks to that scare you frantically double checked every window every day before leaving for work. All is good for five days. When you get home on the sixth though – Jack is gone. Again. And the window you double checked the very same morning is open. You panic. Torn between hoping Jack broke into your grumpy neighbours’ place again hence being safe and him sitting on the roof calling out pigeons. You check the yard, the roof. No Jack. Hesitantly you knock at Mr. Grumpy’s door. No answer. Going onto midnight you hear the elevator and spy onto the floor. There he is. You brace yourself and head out. Looking apologetic. „um Hi, I am so sorry, but my cat escaped again. Would you mind checking if he did break into your place again? “. He does not answer. Unless grunts count as answers. He just raises an eyebrow at you and tilts his head in direction of his door. You avoid breathing and follow him into his apartment. Where you find your cat sits lounging on the couch like he owns the place. You cannot help but snort. That is what you get naming the little fella after a pirate. Breaking and entering seems to be his thing. It takes you a moment to realise Mr. Grumpy is staring at you, so you take a deep breath, apologize again and introduce yourself. „You really need to close your windows, you know? Not just from keeping that thing in your place but also to keep others out.“. Telling him, you double checked your windows just earns you a headshake. And there is that critical eyebrow again. Great. Then it dawns on you „if your so adamant on checking windows, how do you think Jack got in here? “. Now he looks puzzled. „Who is Jack? “ he asks and you fight hard to not snort again. “The cat, obviously” you answer. That earns you another grunt. ‘Great at communication that specimen’ you think and grab your cat. “Uhm, I am so sorry he, uhm…, we invaded your place again. So so sorry. Thanks for your patience. Good night, Mister?” “Marshall”. And that is the last thing he says. “Well good night Mister Marshall”. At that you hold on to your furry, purring companion and head back into your apartment. From now it will be triple checking the windows it seems.
Three times within the next you need to get your cat from his new favourite hideaway during the next week. The only new thing is Mr Grumpy telling you “it’s just Marshall”. Everything else is the same. Like being trapped in a fucking time lapse. Him scowling, telling you to “fucking check your windows” and giving you that critical eyebrow of doom. Each time though, you start to notice things. About his place. About him. He seems to live out of boxes. His shelves are empty. The only cosy thing seems to be the fluffy blanket Jack made his favourite place on the black leather couch. Also, he wears a gun. And a batch. You despise guns but guess this one comes with the job. And his accent is foreign. No, not foreign, it is English. A bit like a lost, grumpy Mr. Darcy. WHAT? Mr. Darcy? You’ve got to be kidding me. Are you finally going insane? Now take your cat and get out of here!
How do you reason with a cat? You surely tried but the next time you have not even noticed Jack vanishing. It’s a Saturday and you were just filling your coffee cup when there is knocking on your door again. You open the door to a sleepy looking Marshall, holding Jack. Shrugging. Something is different. Taking your cat out of his huge hands you are about to apologize again, when he beats you to speaking “did you just make coffee?”. You nod and he steps into your apartment. “Well, come in, why don’t you?” you mutter and find him standing in front of your kitchen island, scratching his head, looking kind of lost. With huge eyes and a suddenly small voice he says “sorry for barging in like that, your little fella here woke me up. Pretty sassy for such a small guy. Would you mind sharing a cup of coffee? I forgot to go grocery shopping and seem to run out of everything.”. For a moment you stare at him, stunned from the number of words he just threw at you and the lack of grunts. When you remember how to use your words, you tell him to take a seat, grab a cup and ask him how he prefers his coffee. Fixing both your cups and setting them on the table you finally get to apologize again for your little intruder, constantly breaking into his place. Marshall just shrugs at that and admits, that he has no idea how Jack opens the windows. He himself started to double and triple check his windows and it should not even be possible to open them from the outside. It is that moment you realise what is different. He looks sleepy but barely as tired as before and more important. He’s not grumpy. That’s new. And you do not know how to handle that. After silently drinking his coffee, he thanks you for the coffee and crouches down to pet Jack and tells him something that sounds like ‘see you mate’, then tells you goodbye and takes his leave.
It is the next Friday that you come home to a post-it on your door with “Jack is visiting” scribbled on it. Somehow you remember your cat not being overly fond with men, but he seems to have a soft spot for this one. Or his couch. Taking a deep breath, you turn and move over to knock at the next door. Heavy relaxed footsteps near and Marshall opens the door widely, motioning for you to come in. “We were just about to choose a movie and call for pizza. Why don’t you change into something more comfortable and join us?”. You look at the man as if he did just grow two more heads. Raising his eyebrow at you he adds “maybe choose pizza before you head over, so I can order already”. Shaking off the initial shock, you apologize. Before you can actually try to take a leave, he sternly asks “did you have dinner?”. When you shake your head, he repeats “come on, it’s just pizza and a movie. And maybe we should use the opportunity to discuss a shared custody arrangement for Jack.”. At that your stomach rumbles and when you see the glint in Marshalls eyes, you know this is a battle not worth fighting. And you are hungry. You tell him your pizza order and head over to shower and get changed. You wonder how you are not nervous about this. Since things went south with your ex you could hardly stand to be alone with one man. Let alone spend the evening at his place for dinner and movie.
Back at Marshalls place he offers you a bottle of water and his cosy looking armchair. While himself settling beside Jack on the couch. He suggests watching pirates of the Caribbean and you accept, telling him that you actually named the cat after Jack Sparrow to which he counters “It’s captain. Captain Jack Sparrow.”. The evening proceeds with you watching the movie, laughing and having pizza. You are taken aback to realise he actually ordered some extra tuna for Jack. From time to time, you catch yourself watching Marshall instead of the movie. He seems so much younger when relaxed. And handsome. How did you not realise what a beautiful face hides behind those curls and that beard?
After the movie you grab your snoring cat and thank Marshall for the evening when he pushes something cold into your free hand. You need a moment to realise, that he just handed you a key and give him a puzzled look. “I told you we’ll need a shared custody agreement, considering this little one keeps breaking and entering and claiming this apartment. I often work long hours and when shit hits the fan even spend the nights at the office. You might need it to retrieve the lodger.”. With that he winks - well tries to and fails – and opens the door for you, telling you goodnight.
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(Is this where you submit prompts? I really dont know ^^💧) Prompt for the renouncement au: I don’t know why i love when gossip is involved, so maybe something about people’s opinions on wangxian’s marriage and how it slowly changes to a better perspective to the point that anyone who doubts their feelings for each other gets immediately shut down. And you could add some juniors shenanigans to make wangxian have that good of a reputation because i miss them </3. Thank you for your time and effort! (And sorry if this is not the place for the prompts, i will submit it again if you say so ^^’ )
(author’s note: please please reblog if you can, since that’s how we get prompts for future chapters!)
Lan Siyong considers himself one of the more moderate elders among the Lan sect.
He has been close friends with Lan Qiren from childhood, and he saw Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji grow up into the fine, upstanding men they are today. When the two of them were boys, he even had fond thoughts of attending their weddings, and watching them take on the most sacred of duties with glad, willing hearts.
Learning that Xichen would never wed had been a disappointment, but Lan Siyong rallied again when Lan Qiren confided the reason why the boy rejected marriage—chastity in an upstanding cultivator was to be lauded, especially in an age where Jin Guangshan had once demanded such high respect, and there could still be children born to Lan Huan if he decided to cultivate them. And of course, Wangji was there, and Lan Siyong knew from the first that he would be the kind of youth to fall in love deeply, at first sight, and remain passionately devoted to his mingding zhiren until he drew his last breath.
But then Lan Siyong had Wangji’s own sword turned upon him at the Burial Mounds, because the one that his many-times distant nephew loved so dearly was none other than Wei Wuxian.
“Qiren,” he says hoarsely, when the lotus-scented wedding invitations arrive from Lotus Pier. “You cannot let this happen—an unrighteous cultivator, one who spurned orthodoxy without remorse and led Wangji down such a dangerous path—”
“What has been done has been done,” Lan Qiren replies. “We have sent the bridewealth, and the marriage was contracted between Xichen and Jiang-zongzhu. All their terms have been agreed upon, and the date set.”
And then, after a brief pause: “He makes Wangji happy.”
Lan Siyong nearly cries. He does not attend the wedding, for fear of shaming Wangji with the open despair that appears on his face whenever he sees Wei Wuxian, and sends the newlywed couple the most expensive gift he can afford in an effort to do something useful.
Wei Wuxian is the one who writes him a letter in thanks. Lan Siyong almost has a qi deviation.
__
“You know,” one of the other elders mutters after the second wedding ceremony: namely, the ceremony held in the Cloud Recesses, since Jiang-zongzhu demanded that his brother should be married at Lotus Pier first. “Wei Wuxian refused to have a blessing for children spoken at the an chuang ceremony.”
“Gossip is forbidden,” Lan Haiyang says tranquilly. He stopped caring about practically everything after his son’s wife gave birth to the whirlwind that calls himself Lan Jingyi, so Lan Siyong has long since given up relying on him to fix any kind of sect turmoil. “And they already have two children. I have not seen a finer Lan disciple than Lan Sizhui in all my days.”
Lan Siyong is forced to concede this last. Wangji has two good children, even if the Yiling Patriarch is perhaps the most unsuitable person alive to raise them with him, and a couple’s choice to expand their family is up to them, and no others.
“He should at least have let the blessing be spoken, though.”
Lan Siyong does not disagree with this. Traditions are traditions, and surely even Wei Wuxian should know to respect them once in a while.
__
“It’s worse than I thought,” Lan Siyong murmurs, on a summer afternoon about six weeks after Wangji’s wedding. He passed Haiyang’s grandson and his friends on his way to the refectory that morning, and heard them discussing how heartbroken Wangji had looked upon hearing that Wei Wuxian did not return his love. “I ought not to have eavesdropped, but—poor Wangji!”
“Poor Wangji what?” Lan Haiyang asks, as if their little Lan Zhan being in trouble was all in another day’s work to him. “What’s happened to him now?”
“Wei Wuxian disavows Wangji’s love at every opportunity,” he replies dismally, going over to the refreshment table to drown his woes in chestnut cake and tea. “I fear for him, Haiyang. To love for so long, and to wed his beloved, and have children with him, and still…”
Lan Haiyang snorts into his tea.
“What do you mean by that?” demands Lan Siyong, more than a little offended. “Wangji is in distress! We must do something!”
His friend does not reply. Honestly, it’s as if no one remembers what Wangji suffered for Wei Wuxian’s sake. Lan Siyong even tries raising the issue with Lan Qiren, and then with Xichen, but all he gets in return for his pains is a tray of fresh-baked red bean buns from the hanshi and another cryptic comment about Wangji’s supposed happiness from Qiren.
Yet again, he is forced to leave his worries for another day, and try his best to follow rule three thousand, one hundred and sixty-two: that the affairs of a married couple should not be discussed by outsiders, even if they happen to be close, concerned family.
Lan Siyong thinks his hair might be turning white by now.
__
And then, in early winter, Lan Siyong is roused from his bed one night and told that Wei Wuxian has gone missing. He joins the search party that Wangji leads, and follows him to a dark house in the woods with the Ghost General leading the way—and then he watches as Wangji kills at least a dozen men in an effort to reach his husband, whom they find unconscious in a cave beneath the house with corpse bites dotting every visible inch of his skin.
Lan Siyong nearly weeps as he hears Wangji’s desperate whispers to his beloved on the way back to Gusu, and watches him hold Wei Wuxian close while refusing help from anyone who offers.
Let him live, Lan Siyong prays silently, when Wei Wuxian is carried into the infirmary with Wangji at his side. Please, for Wangji’s sake, let Wei-gongzi live.
__
“Qiren?”
A few days after the news about Wangji’s soon-to-be-born daughter is made public (public being a subjective word, since ceremony preceding the birth of a third child is unnecessary, and Wei Wuxian had said that he would rather wait until the baby arrives to make a formal announcement) Lan Siyong discovers Lan Qiren in one of the common rooms, sitting at a writing desk with his head buried in his hands. It’s a strange thing to see his friend do, since Lan Qiren has not looked so distressed since those three dark years after Wangji’s sentencing, and he hardly even looks up when Lan Siyong lays a hand on his shoulder.
“It was just four weeks ago that Wei Ying was kidnapped and confined in that dungeon,” Lan Qiren says blankly, after he registers Lan Siyong’s presence and turns around to greet him. “If he—oh, heavens—”
Two weeks later, Lan Siyong requests a week’s leave from teaching to attend the trials of Wei Wuxian’s kidnappers, who are being held under Nie-zongzhu’s jurisdiction in the Unclean Realm. He has always believed himself to be a gentle man, but when the only sentences dealt are life imprisonment and execution, Lan Siyong’s heart is strangely devoid of any pity. All he can think of are the corpse bites he saw on Wei Wuxian’s face and throat, and a baby girl who nearly perished with her father before she had the chance to take her first breath.
On his way back to the Cloud Recesses, he purchases a bolt of thick cream-colored silk with fine sky-blue embroidery and brings it to Wangji as a gift after the next monthly sect meeting.
“Xinhua-jun will need wider-cut robes before long,” he says, when his nephew gives him a curious glance before bowing low in thanks. “Zewu-jun has told us all that he and the child are in good health, and that the little one is growing well. All of our good wishes go with them both, and we pray that you should not hesitate to rely on us in the months to come if it should be needed.”
Wangji’s eyes go soft. “Thank you, San-shushu. It is much appreciated.”
__
Lan Siyong gets his first chance to hold Wei Shuilan at the baby’s full-moon ceremony, while Wangji and Wei Wuxian are running back and forth through the banquet hall to greet the arriving guests, and seize the first trusted elder they can reach to watch little A-Lan for a moment. At first, Lan Siyong merely stands by her cradle to keep an eye on her, but then she seems to sense her parents’ absence, so he picks her up and jogs her up and down to keep her from crying; and then he begins to hum softly beside her tiny ear, soothing the baby back to sleep by the time Wei Wuxian returns.
“My good Lan-bao,” Wei Wuxian croons, cradling the child to his chest before rearranging her crumpled swaddling clothes. “Such a good baobei, to take your nap even with so much going on! Just like your A-Die, thank goodness, and not like your A-Niang.”
Curious, Lan Siyong clears his throat. “What do you mean, Wei-gongzi?”
Wei Wuxian laughs. “I never sleep properly at night, but Lan Zhan always falls asleep at hai shi, even if he isn’t in bed yet,” he says, with his voice so full of love for the newborn child in his arms and the husband who gave her to him that Lan Siyong feels strangely humbled. “A-Lan’s just like him that way.”
At that moment, Wangji appears with a plate of cut fruit and lotus cake before presenting it to Wei Wuxian. “Here, Wei Ying. Give A-Lan to me, and eat your lunch.”
“Lunch?” Wei Wuxian asks, confused. “But we’re having the banquet in just an hour.”
“You have been having your luncheon at this time for the past six months,” Wangji says stubbornly. “I will not have you going hungry even for a minute, xingan.”
“Lan Zhan, sweetheart…”
Thank heaven they found each other again, Lan Siyong thinks, slipping away to find Lan Qiren with a rising lump of tears in his throat. I do not think anyone else could have ever made Wangji so happy.
#wangxian#the untamed#mo dao zu shi#renouncement verse#wangxian arranged marriage au#my fic#god this was long#BUT THIS WAS SUCH A GOOD PROMPT ;_;#<3
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As Fate Would Have It
[1 / 5]
Ghost
The last time I saw him was July 16, 1392. It was also the day I died.
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➣ pairing/genre: idol!KTH x reader, past life au // feat. OT7 BTS
➣ word count: 1.3k (jus a lil bitty beginning)
➣ warnings/tags: this is gonna talk about death, but not in a super gruesome/direct way. we keep things pretty SFW over here
a/n: here we goooo! thank you guys for sticking around for this new series, I hope you enjoy it! as always, your comments, reblogs, and asks mean so much to me and really help more than you know to keep going. So please let me know how you feel about this new series! Enjoy! 💕 p.s. if you didn’t read the prologue I would recommend you do!
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series masterlist || join the taglist
--
“This is a major downgrade,” you sulk while shivering beside a crowded bus stop.
“Yeah, well,” Noa, your roommate gripes from your right, “at least you got to be royalty once. Quit complaining.”
“I heard that Kate Middleton is on her third life, and she’s been royalty all three times!” Daeun chimes in from your left. She’s also shivering, clinging to a flimsy umbrella that’s doing a poor job of keeping the three of you safe from the rain.
“Like what, born into royalty? Or did she manage to marry into it like this lifetime?”
Daeun and Noa continue chattering away, throwing off multiple theories and speculating about Kate Middleton’s past lives. Of course it’s all guesswork; the details of previous lives are usually meant to be kept secret. However it provides a temporary distraction from the bad weather, which is all you can really ask for right now. Hopefully it will prove enough of a distraction to sway you from your rampant thoughts of last night’s dream.
“Being born royal isn’t all that fun,” an elderly woman calls out as she ambles up from her seat to catch the approaching bus. It’s not the one you’re taking, that won’t be here for another couple of minutes. “My mistress saw a lot of sorrow in her day, and few remember her now. She deserved to be remembered, in my opinion. I owe her my first life.”
You tilt your head, squinting a little as the woman gives a wistful sigh. A memory nudges you from the catacombs of your mind.
“Who was your mistress?” The question falls from your lips before you can catch it.
The woman blinks, smiling softly. It’s almost as though the mere thought of her past mistress brings her peace. “Iseul, the final daughter of the Goryeo dynasty.”
The name carries a weight that comes crashing into you, both liberating and binding you to your memories. You’ve heard that name before, albeit centuries ago. And this woman…
“Ja-young.”
Two syllables, enormous power. The instant you utter them, the elderly woman gasps and drops her cane in shock. You rush forward, picking it up and placing it gently in her hands with a warm smile. There are tears in Ja-young’s eyes as you look at her, her old face creased with wrinkles and countless stories.
“My…my lady…” Ja-young attempts to bow, drawing the attention of several onlookers. You grasp her shoulders, stopping her.
“There’s no need to bow,” you reassure. “I’m just a girl now. I hold no power.”
Ja-young shakes her head. “No, my lady. I- I owe you my first life! What you did for me-”
“You would have done the same for me.”
“Oh, my Lady…” Ja-young’s bottom lip quivers as she clutches your forearm with surprising strength. “My wish has been granted. For so long I’ve been waiting to meet you again. You look just as you did, all those years ago…how did I not see it sooner? So vibrant – you haven’t changed at all.”
Noa and Daeun remain silent behind you, having experienced this before. It’s not your fault that nearly all your court from your first lifetime as the emperor’s daughter in the Goryeo dynasty have just so happened to be born within the same lifetime. Although, it does become a little odd when you cross paths with a gossipy maid or flirtatious errand boy in the produce aisle of your local grocery store.
Life is funny that way. You’re on top of the world one moment, and living off of a diet of Mac n Cheese the next.
“I’m happy to see you like this,” you smile. “You’ve lived a full life, it appears.”
Ja-young inclines her head. “As I did in my first lifetime, so long ago. My Lady-”
“I’m afraid that I’m just Hana now,” you gently correct. Despite the fact that you’re living in the 21st century, you still aren’t the most keen on the general public discovering your identity. Not when there’s potential danger still lurking out there.
“Oh, if that’s the case then I’m Ma-ri now,” Ja-young – now Ma-ri says. “Hana, I’ve been praying for the opportunity to see you again. I’m running out of time now.”
Time. It once seemed so infinite. And now it’s slipping through your fingertips faster than you can keep up.
“You’ve made it to your fourth…?”
Ma-ri nods solemnly. “And final lifetime. But I wanted to tell you, my Lady, that I kept my promise to you. I visited your grave often, I told my children stories of you. However, I wasn’t the only one who frequented the site.”
You jump as the bus driver lets out a shrill honk, clearly impatient. Ma-ri turns around, waving him on. With a shrug and an eye-roll, the bus driver closes the doors and continues on his way. Now the bus stop is empty save for your party of four.
“Who else visited me?” You ask, curious now at the gleam in Ma-ri’s eye. She had always been a feisty one, if you remember correctly.
An invisible shudder runs through Ma-ri’s body as she finally delivers the message she’s waited three lifetimes to deliver. Indeed, she can pass on to the unknown now that she’s finally laid eyes on her mistress once more.
“Sungho.”
--
“Kim Taehyung is not a murderer!” Noa defends, crossing her arms protectively as you clench your jaw.
“No, but Sungho was. And they’re one and the same, aren’t they?” You mirror her, also crossing your arms. “Aren’tthey?”
Your eyes flicker across the street, toward a billboard that lauds a BTS sponsorship for all to see. However, all you see is Sungho, smiling down at you with those same dark eyes from centuries ago.
Ma-ri left just a few minutes ago, catching a bus and leaving you with a scribbled address to visit anytime you wanted. You tucked it away safely into the pocket of your jeans before losing your mind.
“Hana, I don’t think you should be directing your anger at Taehyung,” Daeun quietly interjects, standing just off to the side. “He’s done a lot of good in this life-”
“You’ll understand when you’re older!” You grind out. Noa winces, but begrudgingly agrees.
“Yeah…sorry Daeun, but you’re a first-lifer. You’ll understand the next time around. It’s hard to separate people from what they were before.”
Daeun doesn’t argue, knowing it’s pointless. Living with seasoned lifers, as people who have lived multiple lives have been so lovingly dubbed, doesn’t allow much room for argument. Noa sports two past lives, enjoying her third. And you…
“Is this really how you wanna live this life?” Noa says, arching a brow. “Angry at some idol philanthropist just because of what happened in your first life? C’mon, Hana. That was three lifetimes ago.”
“You’re not suggesting that I get over it, are you?”
“Well…”
“Nuh-uh,” you take a step back, offended. “No way. Goryeo fell, I died, and he was there to watch everything burn to the ground. And I’m just supposed to let it go all because he’s some adored global icon?”
“YES!” Both Noa and Daeun shout, sending a few birds flying from a nearby bush.
You pause to think, staring daggers up at the billboard and Taehyung’s flawless features. Perhaps you would find him beautiful if it weren’t for the past marring your current viewpoint. You stare and stare, mind whirring with the possibilities of all that you could do instead of forgiving.
“It’s no use sitting here and sulking about the past, not when I can’t do anything about it…” you start, ignoring the relieved expressions on your roommates’ faces.
“Good, that’s good.”
“But…”
“No, back up. You were doing so well!”
The corners of your lips turn up into an evil grin. “…I have an idea.”
Daeun groans. “What’s the stupid idea now?”
You shake your head, stepping forward as the bus rounds the corner. “I’m not telling you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll try to stop me.”
Noa elbows you lightly. “At least tell us what your end goal is here.”
The bus pulls up, doors opening and a flurry of people pouring out onto the street. In the din and chaos of it all, you turn to your friends.
“If you can’t beat them…�� again, your eyes fall on the billboard, quickly finding Taehyung’s eyes among the rest. “Join ‘em.”
--
main masterlist
taglist: @baepsaetay @dreamcatcherjiah @kookie-vuitton @thecaffeinatedscribbles @moon-write @fangirl125reader @heishichoulevi @knjkitten @sacha-cff @vik7797 @eusticenatalie @hesmyphenominiall @miriamxsworld @kayahay @secretlycrazyhummingbird @marianeamine @hqtetsurou @protontippens @beginwithamin @limiworld @jeonyoongi-jimin @buttvi @yoontaethings @sunshinejunghoseokie @delacyrose224 @jiminiesmagicshop @hitsussi
#taehyung x reader#bts x reader#bts past life au#v x reader#bts angst#bts fluff#taehyung fluff#armywriterssupport#bts sfw#taehyung sfw
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Brain wont stop going feral over this but mc breaking down in front of farkas because shes tired of all this dragonborn and war shit and just wants some form of normalcy
Anon did you read my mind -- are we on the same wavelength right now cause I LOVE that type of thing. Characters who have almost a breakdown over the hero role they’ve been put into and want to stop but are so scared of stopping OOOOO yes I’m writing this
Anyhow, I am absolutely super excited and happy to write this and hope you have an amazing day !!
Trigger warning for angst and allusions to depression
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The dragon unhinged its jaws, you can even see the flames barreling out of the beast’s throat. The heat brushed against your skin and despite the faintest call in your head to move, your feet don’t lift from the ground.
How many times would this scenario repeat? How many times would you stand off against another monster of the old times? Each time they rear their horrible heads and each time they come crashing to the earth.
Or perhaps your enemy would be another person. Another war to be waged for supposedly a noble reason just to truly sate some internalized idea. How would humanity prove themselves not too different from the monsters yet again?
What a cycle you’d fallen into. A god among men -- worshipped and lauded and yet never truly able to experience what made humanity so... human.
You couldn’t remember the last time you sat in front of a fire, warming your palms. Or when you woke early one morning and didn’t have to scramble to your feet, just laying there and soaking in the world around you. When was the last time someone looked at you and didn’t see the Dragonborn?
When was the last time you got to be human?
“I’m tired.” You whispered, too quiet for anyone but yourself to hear. Your grip loosened from your weapon, and for just a moment you welcomed the flames unfurling. Perhaps the closest you could ever get to humanity was just pretending this was a simple fire you sat before on a cold, cold night.
But someone pushed you away just before those flames could touch you. Your back slammed into the snow and the air was snatched from your lungs. Through blurred vision, you could see him, Farkas. His eyes were wide and confused, almost horrified.
“What was that? Why didn’t you move?” He was yelling, but you could hear the fear and worry so deeply entrenched in his voice.
You tried to bring yourself back to reality, but all you could muster was a feigned attempt. “I’m sorry... I don’t know what came over me.”
Farkas wanted to believe you, but the glaze in your eyes told so clearly otherwise. He furrowed his brow and placed your weapon once again in your palm, his fingers lingering over your own for just a second longer than needed. He didn’t say anything else, just rose to his feet and helped you up to face the Dragon that still prowled after you like prey. It was scared though, you knew that.
It wasn’t a difficult fight, each and every possibility had become ingrained in your head -- each move the dragon could make existed like pinpoints upon a map for you. You knew just how to make it to the end and just how to perfectly execute it.
When the monster fell, you simply watched. The hollowness in your chest became that much more apparent when you absorbed the soul and felt only a further emptiness.
“Hey, we need to talk about what happened back there.” Farkas came up from behind you and grabbed your shoulder. And yet when he twisted you around he paused, stunned.
You hadn’t even realized you were crying. You hadn’t made a sound and you’d barely noticed when your sight muddled.
“What... what’s going on?” Farkas tensed, his hand sliding down to instead reach for your hand. His grip was light, almost as if he thought you might break at the slightest pressure.
You hesitated, but it inevitably spilled out. “How much longer... how much longer do we have to do this? How much longer do I have to be the Dragonborn?”
“Do you not want this?” Farkas frowned, confused. “I thought you like this -- liked the fighting and the glory.”
“This isn’t the Companions! I don’t get to stop! I don’t get to just not take the next job these are monsters! They will destroy everything if I don’t stop them!” You yelled, a sudden gnawing at your insides. Maybe it was guilt. Farkas didn’t deserve to be yelled at, but you didn't stop. “There is no glory in this! This is desperate, and I am desperate-”
You stopped. “Oh gods, I’m awful aren’t I?”
Farkas confusion only deepened. “No, you-”
“But I am! I am! I am the only person who can stop these dragons -- these things and I -- I don’t even want to.” You looked at Farkas like you’d stumbled upon the most horrible thing.
You would’ve writhed and rejected any amount of pity at any other point in time but the pity painting Farkas’s face at that moment caused you to shrink, to crumble only further beneath the weight of your truth.
“All I want to do is just live like a normal person. For once. That shouldn’t be such a big request so why do I feel so awful asking for it?” You tore at your hair in frustration. “Why do I feel so awful for just wanting to be happy?”
You could remember one dream you’d had where it was a wonderfully mundane day. You and Farkas had a home where the sun would pour in through the windows and wake you both up with weary, sleepy yawns. You could stay beneath the blankets for hours, there was nothing forcing you out. You chattered between one another pulled yourself out of bed to trudge drowsily together for breakfast. You didn’t do anything you didn’t want to do, by the end of the day you were sitting before the fire and falling asleep in his arms.
And then you woke up in that cold, damp camp. The sadness that overcame you then was tangible, palpable.
How could you move on from that? How could think of anything but the future that would forever be out of your grasp?
Farkas took a few steps forward, reaching out with wary hands that weren’t quite making contact, hovering over your arms. “If you aren’t happy like this, tell me how I can fix it -- make it better.”
You scrunched up your nose in frustration. “You can’t!”
Farkas finally set his palms against your arms, steadying you despite all the hurt rattling inside of you.
“I can try.”
Your chin quivered and then the crying became real. You felt it that time. You crashed against Farkas and sobbed into his chest. Usually, he wasn’t the best with comforting -- he did his best but wasn’t good with words. This time, he didn't need any. He just embraced you, holding on tight as the two of you slowly dropped to the snow-littered ground.
“I’m sorry -- I shouldn’t be doing this.”
Farkas shook his head. “No, I’m glad you told me. We can do something about it.”
He eased you back so he could wipe the tears still dribbling down your cheeks. His hands were rough and calloused but his touch then was so gentle. He offered a small smile. “We’ll take it slow. We can try something new, something normal, every day.”
“But... the dragons. We can’t... we can’t just stop.”
“If they show up, we know, and we stop them. But you don’t have to spend your life fixing the world’s problems. You shouldn’t have to.”
“But there’s so much. There’s so much I need to do-”
“You don’t have to do it now. No one can do everything in a day. But you can rest.”
A part of you still had that rejection tugging at your heart. You had to keep moving, you had to keep fighting and protecting. You were nothing if you weren’t the Dragonborn, weren’t you? What could you be otherwise?
“Whatever... I want.” The realization came to you. “We can be -- we can do -- whatever we want...!”
Farkas gave a low chuckle. “We can try.”
Both of you quietly laughed for a moment before Farkas asked a question, the world feeling just a bit softer.
“What’s the first thing you want to do?”
You snorted. “I want to find a fire, and sleep.”
That brought Farkas a crooked grin, helping you up and winding an arm around your waist as you began your trek from the battlefield.
“We can do that.”
#Farkas#Farkas Skyrim#tw depressing stuff#angst tw#depression tw#Farkas x Reader#Angst#Farkas x Dragonborn#Skyrim tes#tes#Skyrim#Skyrim Fanfic#Skyrim Fanfiction#x Reader#Farkas Fanfic#Farkas Fanfiction#Farkas x You#You x Farkas
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Shadows And Pills - 1
Summary: Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all. Alexa comes away with a shadow.
18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED
Warnings: RAPE, Torture, Abuse, Self Harm, Negative Images of Psychological Services/Mental Health Professionals, Hallucinations, Stalking, Supernatural Horror, Prescription Drug Use and Eventual Abuse, Mental Illness, PTSD, Flashbacks of Violence, Flashbacks of Tragedy, Starving Oneself, Isolation, Physical and Mental Exhaustion, Denial, Self Neglect, Gaslighting, Mental Spiraling, Mental and Emotional Abuse
18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED
Author’s Note: This is not a happy story in any sense, at any point. I could only write this at my lowest places, emotionally and mentally speaking, and I had a hard time coming back from it. This is dark, and it does not at any point get lighter. I relied heavily on my own experiences with mental struggles and took a few pieces here and there from my own experiences with mental health professionals. MY EXPERIENCES ARE MY OWN AND ARE NOT TYPICAL, NOT EVEN FOR ME. If you need mental help of any kind, please DO NOT HESITATE TO REACH OUT TO GET IT. This story was an exercise in mental exorcism, in a sense.
For all the Loki lovers out there, I do not shine him anything like a good or redeeming light here. He is evil incarnate, more or less. I love Loki, I love good Loki and redeemed Loki and misunderstood Loki and just about every incarnation thereof. I needed a villain, and he fit the story.
Above all, please be kind. This was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever written, and it took me years to work up the courage to post it. If you have any questions, please feel free to message me or send me an ask.
Thank you to @thoughtslikeaminefield and @glassjacket . I would not have made it through this story and would honestly not be here today with the two of you. I will never be able to tell you how much you mean to me.
18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED
Word Count: 1 - 3785; 2 - 3513; 3 - 1068
In Case You Missed It:
ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist
...
Shadows and Pills
1
Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all.
Alexa comes away with a shadow.
In the weeks following the disaster, the public equally lauds and decries the Avengers, but while their opinions are divided over the heroes, the villain is universally denounced as nothing short of Satan himself, and the city throws an actual celebration the day Thor takes Loki back to Asgard to face the justice of their people.
Alexa, having not turned on her television since the day she got home from the hospital, ignores the boisterous celebrants and goes about her shopping, earbuds firmly in place, frown lines now permanently etched between her eyes and around her pinched lips.
“Routine will help you through some of the worst days,” her therapist tells her during one session. “Something familiar and safe to retreat to when the flashbacks are the worst. Just give it a try,” he adds at her disbelieving grimace.
And so she sets a routine.
Morning Routine: wake up. Ignore alarm, lie in bed an extra thirty minutes or so. Shower. Pretend to eat breakfast. Take meds (this one she never skips or shirks). Find something to wear. Stare at it for another ten minutes. Eventually get dressed. Contemplate keys for another fifteen minutes. Leave the goddamned apartment already.
Her routine has varying results, although she does admit to her therapist that life is marginally more bearable with the routine than without.
“It’s nice to have something to look forward to for the next day.”
Her therapist can’t quite hide his grimace at her flat, deadened tone, but she’s not being sarcastic or rude. She finds that going to bed at night is a trifle easier when she knows what’s going to happen the next day.
“So, who are we up to today?” the doctor asks, switching the subject with awkward abruptness. It’s been six weeks since Hell came to New York, and during their twice-weekly meetings, her therapist suggests going through each of the people she saw die in front of her that day, to get closure...or say goodbye...or something.
Sometimes Alexa wonders whether he just wants to hear the details for his own perverse pleasure.
“Brenda.”
Alexa robotically begins to list the personal details she knows...knew...about her floor manager. Unlike the mail room intern she discussed at their last meeting, the list for Brenda goes on for a while. She’s worked with Brenda since she started at the company, learning most of what she knows about her current job from the woman.
Brenda was kind, sharply intelligent, and mothering to everyone under her supervision, and yet she did it in a way that didn’t make anyone uncomfortable. She balanced work and a family long and well enough to both receive regular promotions within the company and also, very recently, become a new grandmother.
The backs of Alexa’s eyes sting as she remembers the photo Brenda showed her not twenty minutes before part of the building collapsed on top of half the department. Her jaw locks as the scene plays before her eyes again, the explosions and shrieks of metal drowning out the shrieks of the people only five feet away.
She closes her eyes, but there’s no pause button to freeze the scene, no power button to shut the images off as she turns in her memory and runs, making it to the stairwell and slamming the door open, turning back and screaming for Brenda, straining her eyes through the smoke and dust and mountains of falling debris. Brenda is running, reaching for Alexa even though she seems miles away, and then one of the file cabinets is thrown over, propelled faster and harder than should be possible, and...and…
And then Brenda isn’t running anymore. Her outstretched hand, the only part of her that wasn't crushed by office furniture, spasms against the ruined carpet, as if it thinks it’s reached its destination and is grasping at its savior.
Alexa’s hand tingles, and her fingers lock into her palm, nails fitting easily into the little grooves she dug there weeks ago. No blood, she only dug that deep once, but the furrows remain as permanently etched there as the frown lines on her face.
Alexa struggles to take in a labored breath as her therapist watches her with the appropriate amount of professional, clinical sympathy and detachment.
“Do your counting,” he reminds her.
How could she forget? She counts to three once, letting a breath out at the end. She repeats the process twice more, ignoring her therapist’s brief flash of annoyance at her departure from his “system.” But, for once, he doesn’t ask her why she has to deviate from the standard one-to-ten method and just lets her do the goddamned counting in peace.
Small blessings.
“Have you had any flashbacks since our last session?”
She stares at him, letting her gaze rest heavy and disbelieving as she turns his question over. She’s been averaging about five flashbacks a day, triggered by everything from accidentally brushing a stranger on the sidewalk (Jim knocking past her to get down the stairs just as the door on the stairwell behind her explodes inward; more shrieking, then falling, then dark) to lifting a carton of cold milk from the shelf at the grocery (that impossibly cold hand grasping hers, pulling her up from the rubble, bringing her face to face with...something...something in the...shadows, it was so dark there, and…).
“Yeah. I’ve had some flashbacks since our last session.”
“What sort of coping strategies did you use?”
He’s not even meeting her eyes now, just getting notes down on that damned pad. The scratching of his pen grates into her bones, and Alexa grits her teeth as she glares.
One, two, three.
Breathe.
One, two, three.
Breathe.
One, two, three.
Breathe.
She slowly recites the list of strategies he suggested during a previous session, none of which have proven particularly effective at lessening the frequency of the episodes, but most of which she grudgingly admits provide some slight relief afterwards and allow her to refocus her mind on the present rather than dwelling in the memory.
“And the shadows?”
How can he get this wrong every time when he’s taking all those fucking notes?
“Still just the one.”
“Has it manifested in any other way? Asked you to do anything? Do you feel different in any way when you notice it?”
There’s a distasteful eagerness to his words that always turns Alexa’s stomach, and she has to physically bite into her tongue to keep from asking what kind of bonus he gets for each symptom she shows of different mental illnesses.
“It’s just there sometimes. I..” She hesitates, feeling vaguely nauseated from his questions, but she has to be honest, right? Because, ultimately, it’s his job to help her, and she’s never going to get through this by hiding symptoms. He can’t help fix her if he doesn’t know what’s broken, and he did suggest the routine, so, okay, he gets a pass for this one.
“I still mostly only see it before I’m falling asleep. I’ve started seeing it in the late afternoon, as well, not often, but sometimes. Always in shadows that are already there. It doesn’t talk or anything, doesn’t really have any face or form except for vaguely person-shaped, but it...it watches me. And it’s...denser than it was last week. More...it’s thicker than it was, like when you see wispy clouds kind of...gather and turn into storm clouds?”
He nods, his pen whizzing over the legal pad he records their session notes on. “So, you feel threatened by the shadow? Like it’s storm clouds gathering to...what? It feels menacing?”
But, like most of the questions Alexa fences in this office, this one isn’t easily answered.
“It feels like it’s watching me, waiting for something. I don’t know what. I don’t...I don’t know if it’s menacing, exactly. Like, it feels potentially dangerous, but I can’t tell if it’s for me. I don’t know. It’s just...darker and more there this week, but it doesn’t do anything, and I don’t feel different, and it doesn’t speak to me. I. Don’t. Hear. Voices.”
She clips off each word at the end of her rant separately and precisely, repeating her counting in her head, and she forces her breathing to even out. The doctor is just doing his job, he’s just trying to help, he’s supposed to ask these questions, it’s how he helps-
“Hmm. I’ll have to consider that between now and our next meeting. In the meantime, go ahead and move up to the next dosage step with your meds, keep it on the escalating schedule we set.”
You set, she thinks mutinously for a moment before internally shaking her head. She nods, biting her tongue once more. She’s going to have a permanent indentation there as well, at this rate.
“Any side effects? Itching, swelling, difficulty breathing? Any unreasonable lethargy or detachment?”
“I mean...I don’t really have anything to attach to at this point, so…”
He frowns at her again, and she wonders if he’s going to crank up her dosage two notches instead of one.
“Are you having what you feel are typical emotional responses to everyday stimuli? Have you laughed or smiled at anything yet? How long has it been since you emotionally felt anything besides the frustration and panic?”
And, somehow, this question is difficult, too. She struggles through, trying to find a balance between honesty and not making herself look like a complete failure who can't function in life. She doesn’t help her case when she admits she hasn’t followed many of his suggestions beyond establishing a routine.
“Not even exercising?” he asks, his disappointment palpable.
When she silently shakes her head, her lips pinched tight against his disapproval, he shakes his head with a sigh that sings of ultimate betrayal. Instead of berating her as usual, the doctor frowns and looks down at his notes, considering them silently. He clicks his tongue against his teeth for a moment before switching over to end-session mode, robotically delivering his closing remarks, his typical reminders to keep her meds on a strict schedule at the exact time every day, to avoid all alcohol and unprescribed drugs, to keep her diet as clean and unprocessed as possible, and to get plenty of exercise. Even this last bit is delivered with a sharply clinical detachment, as if she has driven him to the brink of her own psychoses by stubbornly refusing to accept his help.
There is a short, silent moment between them where they refuse to look at each other, the doctor perusing his notes once more while Alexa examines the wrinkles creased into her jeans from lack of folding. The doctor flips pages over in his legal pad and slaps the cover shut sharply, breaking the standoff with one last, dismissive comment.
“Routine, Alexa. Stick to the routine. If it’s what brings you comfort, if that's the one thing you’re taking away from these sessions that actually helps, then stick with it. I’ll see you Thursday afternoon.”
….
Her afternoons vary, according to her therapy schedule. Her sessions take roughly an hour and a half, so that’s one block of time she doesn’t have to try and fill. On the days she isn’t having her skull cracked open, she can sometimes force herself to work on the files her company sends her way. Grunt work, brainless stuff that any first-year intern could do, but it keeps her on the payroll and covered by health insurance until the doctor clears her to return to the office.
Not that there’s an office to return to yet.
Grocery shopping for food she’ll pretend to eat later, making excuses to stay out of the apartment a little longer each day, watching the shadows of the buildings grow darker and longer until the sunlight disappears from the streets.
And the other shadow, the darkest of all, thick and solid against the brick and stone, pacing her, keeping track as she wanders through the broken city blocks. Sometimes she walks a little faster, pretends to not notice the black spot. Sometimes she pretends it’s keeping her company. With the most conversation she’s had in weeks taking place in her therapy sessions, she occasionally finds the imaginary company of her shadow stalker to be more pleasant than menacing.
Occasionally.
Eventually, though, she and her chimerical companion head back to the silent, encroaching walls of her apartment to begin the night routine.
…
Night Routine: laundry. Pretend to eat dinner. Shower. Finish laundry. Clean already clean kitchen. Another shower (on the bad days, the ash and debris won’t wash off). Rearrange already arranged closet. Braid hair. Take meds, do not skip, no matter how much they screw up her sleep, because they help. They do. Settle into bed. Stare at the wall. Adjust pillows. Re-settle. Stare at the shadow. Start to drift off, slide into a flashback, scream back to full consciousness. Watch the shadow. Doze. Awaken from a fucked up nightmare she can only partially remember. Repeat ad nauseum.
Really, if Alexa could just skip the nights and go straight into morning, that’d be great. Mornings are tedious but tolerable. Afternoons are blurry and tense, especially therapy days, but nights…
Nights just won't shut down.
The drugs are partially responsible, the doctor has told her multiple times. The medicine can either make sleeping more difficult, or it can act like a sedative, dragging and holding her down. Honestly, she’s getting kind of mixed results. It’s difficult to stay awake, easy to slip under, but then she can’t stay asleep for very long, jerking back to consciousness in something close to full panic, unable to figure out if it’s the drugs or the dreams that’s pushing her to the edge.
Because the fucked up dreams...well, that’s all on her and her broken brain. She stopped bringing up the dreams in therapy after the first couple of weeks of sessions. The doctor seemed hell bent on steering Alexa towards the possibility that she was experiencing waking hallucinations, but there’s no way she could possibly be awake for all this shit. Maybe some of the flashbacks, but not…
Not…
Her brain isn’t that broken.
No. No, she can tell from the way she jerks to consciousness afterwards, she knows she’s asleep. Yeah, she’s unstable and has flashbacks, but she’s not delusional. They’re dreams.
Every night.
About…
Something.
Okay, sometimes she can remember. Sometimes the meds dull her down so much she forgets what day it is, but sometimes she can hold on to a detail or two. Cold, slender fingers, impossibly strong. A flash of bright blue that sends nausea racing through her entire body (who knew your toes could feel nauseated?) or a glimpse of bottle green that, conversely, thrills her to her soul. A smooth, velvet voice that penetrates every layer of her being, down to the deepest recesses. Darkness descending...a sense of dreadful awe…
And sometimes she can remember every unhinged detail with a terrifying clarity that she will never even consider mentioning to the therapist. Not if she likes her jacket sleeves to fit properly.
There’s honesty, and then there’s idiocy.
The shadow is larger tonight. Taller, a little broader, definitely denser. She would say looming, even, but it’s not quite that large.
Not quite.
She stares at it openly, no longer trying to avoid acknowledging its presence. What's the point? The doctor knows about it, and it’s not like she’s talking to it. She’s not that far gone yet. And she hasn't lied to the doctor, either. The shadow does watch her, like it’s waiting, gathering. Convalescing. But it hasn't ever talked to her.
She does not hear voices.
She yawns and rolls her shoulders, left then right, sliding a little lower in bed, searching for a cooler place between the sheets. Movement catches her eye, and she looks up as the shadow shifts, leaning left then right, and seems to…
Grow?
No, it’s never moved before. She’s pretty sure she’s never seen it move, but now it pulses and raises up, stretching-
No. No. Sourceless shadows don’t move. They don’t grow, they don’t shift, they don’t-
The shadow stretches upwards abruptly, definitely looming now, and Alexa hits the wall behind the bed, scrambling backwards in a blind panic as she realizes the shadow isn’t growing.
It’s coming closer.
Her breathing speeds up, but her limbs are heavy and dull with narcotic stupor. The foot of her bed darkens as the shadow creeps even closer, and she opens her mouth to protest, to scream, to say something, but her tongue is numb and stupid with the acrid, coppery tang of fear and pharmaceuticals, and she hates, hates this kind of dream where she can’t speak, can't move and she can barely breathe, and...and…
The shadow reaches out, stretches over her foot and slides up her calf in a clammy, viscous caress that tightens on her knee and pulls her several inches down the bed as her throat closes.
Do not shrink from Me. It is not your fear I crave, but your adoration. Come to Me, allow yourself to move past the fear and embrace what I wish to grant you.
Horror, deep and instinctual, floods her veins. Alexa feels the voice more than hears it, and it awakens an ancient fear that finally, though futilely, awakens her drugged limbs. She claws at her sheets uselessly as the shadow moves over her, a freezing oil slick that oozes against her skin as if her blankets and clothes weren’t even there, sending shivers to the very marrow of her bones as her gorge rises, and she chokes on the bile that singes the back of her throat. She can’t fight, can’t move against this intangible force, but neither will her terror let her sink past the fear to blissful unawareness.
Give over. Let go of your stubborn fear that tethers you to this useless reality. Allow Me entrance, and I will grant you the relief you seek. Release your grip on the world that cares nothing for you, and I shall bestow upon you the peace you so desperately crave.
Her skin raises in gooseflesh everywhere the shadow crosses, and her stomach turns as it squeezes its way up her torso, her chest, her throat, slipping over her lips in a sick parody of a lover’s caress. She opens her mouth - to scream, to breathe, to do something - and the shadow plunges inwards, invading her mouth, her throat, coating her inside and out with a thick, glutinous sensation that leaves her mouth hanging obscenely open, tongue thrashing, while her mind screams useless denials.
Submit to Me what you see I can easily take, give Me My due. Give over, drown in Me, and I will save you from this miserable existence.
And she is drowning, the air pressed from her lungs as a dark heaviness settles solidly over her. Her arms are forced over her head, and she is strung out on her twisted sheets, writhing under the weight of the shadow as it presses over every surface, against every entrance. No matter how she strains, her legs are gradually forced apart. The darkness’s lack of speed is affected, some barely functioning bit of her brain whispers to her; it could take her as swiftly as it cares to and is only moving slowly because it wants her to suffer, wants to taste her anguish. She has no chance against the shadow, she can’t even touch it, really she could just save herself the anxiety and fear and just-
NO.
She twists as hard as she can, but the shadow simply moves with her, flows over her, waits until she takes another breath, and then surges between her thighs, driving her torso off the bed with the force of its thrust. Every cell in her body locks, not in pain, but in complete revulsion. And then again, and again, cruel in the thoroughness of its violation, covering and saturating every crevice of her being, coating and tainting everything it touches.
Wrong, can't...stop, stop, stop, wrong, can’t...God, please…
You cannot rely on yourself, on your own mind for proper guidance. Let Me protect you. Let Me save you from yourself.
How long...minutes...hours...years...just stop, please…please-
The alarm clock shrieks right in her goddamned ear, and she can breathe and move and scream and goddammit, she fucking hates those dreams that send her careening onto the floor, scrambling for cover when she can’t even remember what she's running from.
Her morning routine is already in shambles. There’s no ignoring the alarm clock today. A morning shower maybe, to wash off the sticky aftermath of night sweats, definitely, but no lying about, staring at the walls in a sleep-daze. Definitely washing the sheets tonight, too.
She surveys what she can see of her bed from her crumpled position on the floor in front of the closet and sighs. Must’ve been a hell of a nightmare to tear up the covers that badly. She thinks for a moment of trying a little harder to remember, to recall some piece of the dream, but then her stomach flips over, and she summarily rejects that idea in favor of caffeination and medication.
She allows herself another few minutes on the floor, waiting until her respiratory and heart rates return to a less alarming pace before climbing to her quivering knees. The shadow darkens the far corner of the room, as innocuous as always. Though she doesn’t know why, she can’t help an involuntary flinch when she first sees it. It’s not normally present in the morning, at least, she doesn’t think so...well, she can't remember the shadow being so dark in the mornings, at least. But...
She clears her throat against the thickness that seems to coat it suddenly, and readjusts her plan to include a glass of water before she starts in on the coffee. She realizes after another long moment of staring that her hands are trembling along with her legs. Her jaw clenches, and she knows she’s being ridiculous. It’s a damned shadow. It just sits there. It’s a minor manifestation of a mild psychosis secondary to major psychological trauma. It’s just a damned dark spot; it doesn’t change, doesn't want her to do anything, and it definitely doesn’t fucking talk to her.
She. Does. Not. Hear. Voices.
…
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#mcu#mcu fic#loki#dark loki#rape#torture#abust#self harm#negative portrayal of psychological services#negative portrayal of mental health professional#hallucinations#stalking#supernatural horror#prescription drug use#prescription drug abuse#mental illness#ptsd#flashbacks of violence#gaslighting#physical and mental exhaustion#denial#self neglect#isolation#mental spiraling#mental abuse#emotional abuse#original chracter#original female character
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Too Late for Love
A/N: Oh God, it was a long one but finally I finished it. I know it took me a long time to write it but I DID! I tried putting all of my best in there. Though I think I could have made it better but it’s already long so I didn’t want to make it too long. I hope you like it <3 I love torturing James so much
REQUESTED BY @whyevenbotherrightsstuff : Hi can I have a request for James Potter that you and him are going back and for to each other like friends with benefits you are in love with him but you see that he still chases after Lily and you are tired of it and eventually end it and move on and he sees that you are with someone else and it just makes him jealous. Sorry that that's a long one you can decide the ending if you want.
XX
It was as if it was an addiction.
You knew it was bad. You knew it was toxic but still, the pleasure from it was more appealing than recovery.
It's like that heart and brain saying. Sometimes you have to listen to the heart, sometimes you have to listen to your brain. However, never listen to your wild hormones, sex parts, and a horny, Gryffindor teenager named James Potter.
He was leaning over you, eyes staring down- not staring, rather observing, watching you seductively.
"Last night..." he lifted your chin, placing his lips on yours gently. "... last night was perfect." he pulled away and you smiled.
"It was?"
"Yeah but we should really just-" he heard some footsteps and quickly backed away from you, leaning on the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. He cleared his throat and continued. "Just find someplace else- you know... I don't want people talking."
It felt he pulled a string through your heart and sliced it in half.
Your smile wanted to drop but you kept it all the same as none of his words affected you. "Yeah-" you backed on the wall as well, chewing your lower lip as you tried to think clearly.
He could watch you biting your lip and he just thought back- back into that night, that perfect night where your bodies just moved so perfectly together. In such sync, harmony even.
He never thought he would be one of those guys that would have someone just for sex. But you and he had so much chemistry. You and he had more than that. He could be comfortable with you, know all your sweet spots and be sure he won't fuck up. It was complicated at first because you and he took each other's virginity and both of you wanted it that way.
You didn't pressure him into dating you immediately and he had told you that he is in love with another girl; Lily Evans.
Yet he couldn't stop thinking about it because the first time was extremely awkward for both of you. It was clammy, hot, stiffed, sweaty, sticky and he didn't really know what to do.
But there was a look i. Your eyes that just told him that it's okay and to be honest, he didn't want to suck at sex, so he asked you for a "favor". Just to perfect the sex, learn, explore, and please, find what makes each other tick.
It turned into just playful fun later on. It wasn't even planned anymore. The two of you would be sitting on the sofa, talking and laughing, and the next thing you know both of you were naked.
It was pure fun.
He used you and you used him and neither of you cared. Right?
Wrong. What do you expect?
For you, James was your first and it hurt like hell at first but it was as if... You could see yourself with him. Not just in the physical way, not just sex. Sometimes, in moments, there was something between the two of you that wasn't just sex. It was intimacy. It was love- for what you thought and you knew that he knew it too.
He should, right?
Wrong again.
He was James Potter. He and the right way were really best friends.
---
It was neverending torture. It was. For you, for him, for you mostly.
He kept leaning over to her, touching her, whispering to her... Flirting. It cramped your heart, your stomach, your whole bloody body to just see them.
It didn't anger you. It saddened you because all you kept thinking was: So there was just sex? There was just pleasure? Just fun? No intimacy? No love?
And you could feel your throat squeeze like someone poured a sour lemon into it, causing you to look away.
It hurt. It hurt because you were in love and he wasn't.
The ring was your salvation. It was your biggest, purest salvation because you couldn't wait to just run away and cry. It sounded pathetic but it was as if you couldn't help it anymore.
You were so stupid to believe you two actually had something. You were naive and gullible to fall for his manipulative lies and deceiving eyes. You were so furious at yourself because you let him get close to you. You let yourself love him when even in the slightest of his body that you kissed and touch, wasn't a chance of him loving you back.
But when you call the devil, the devil comes.
You could feel his hand on your shoulder without even looking at who he was. Your teary eyes flickered to the moving figure and he didn't even care enough to look closely and notice.
"Tonight, ten?" he grinned, backing away and winking.
You stood there for a moment, looking yourself at the ground and just exploding. At first, it was soft. "No." your voice quivered but it was just enough laud for him to hear it.
"Exams can wait. Homework? Bleh!" he brushed his hand, standing still.
"No, James." you shook your head, feeling your heart squeeze at the sound of your own realization. You looked up, a tear falling down your cheek and catching his attention.
"Wait- (y/n), darling." he started speaking softly, approaching you as if he cared.
He didn't! Get it to your head, (y/n)! HE DOESN'T CARE!
He reached for your hands and at first, you wanted to hold his hands but you shouldn't and so you hid them away from him.
"Why are you crying?" he asked. He asked as if it wasn't clear.
"Why am I crying?" you repeated his question, more tears, one after the other and each of them without your permission. "I can't do this anymore. I can't have sex with you and thinking it doesn't mean something to me when it does!"
He watched, his eyes falling into concern, pity maybe?
You scoffed, letting out a fake laugh and running both of your hands through your hair. "I won't do this anymore."
"Why not?!" he snapped, furrowing his eyebrows and glaring in disbelief.
"Because you're in love with someone else meanwhile you're shagging me!"
That snapped something inside him. Hurt? - No. James couldn't be hurt.
"We said- we put the rules! You, me, and no strings attached!"
"Yes, exactly." you leaned back, lowering your tone. "No strings attached." you rolled your eyes but tears keep falling and your whole face was soaked in the. "So why is it so hard for you to just agree with me if everything was no strings attached?"
"Because I need to know why? Did I do something wrong last night?? What did I-"
"Merlin, James!" you groaned from frustration. "I fell in love with you! And I kept this going because I thought you might love me back and today I came to the realization that you don't. So I am stopping this before it gets complicated."
"It's not complicated!" he started to panic, unaware of the reactions in his body.
"It is for me." you said. "I don't want to be like some girl you bang until you get your perfect girl. I want to be loved more than just in private. I want to share that love with the world." you started smiling to yourself. "It's okay, James." you spoke gently, calming his nerves as you always seemed to do. "I get it and I won't make it complicated, I swear. I won't try and get between you and Lily- you won't even see me. It was fun while it lasted." you shrugged, digging your hands into your pockets and walking by him. "See you around."
And James stood there. He stood there unable to know what had just happened.
It seemed selfish from his side but that's who he was. He told you that... And instead of getting all fiery and furious at him, you told him you just don't want to.
I mean, if you really were in love with him, wouldn't you want to use all the time you had with him before he gets Lily?
... He shook his head, smiling to himself.
It's over. You and him are over. At least he wasn' the one to break it. It's easy and simple, you won't complicate it.
He 's happy. He is.
It's all for the best anyway. The sex was great but that's all it was. Sex. He can focus solely on Lily now.
---
And he did. He focused solely on her- on the girl he has been chasing for quite a while now. And although he didn’t want to admit it, and pretended as if it wasn’t there- he could feel you missing.
Before and during your interraction, it wasn’t always physical. The two of you talked- well, more just plain, traditional talk. It was much more deeper than that. He told you everything, even the things he wasn’t aware he thought or felt. He told you all of his dreams, felt like he could tell you everything- every thought in his mind and you wouldn’t judge him.
You wouldn’t. It was so simple. You would listen to him talk about everything in his life, sometimes leaving a comment, laughing to the funny stories and the horrible jokes he cracked. The two of you told each other how your days went, which professor pissed you off, judging other people, studying...
It really was more than sex.
His favorite thing about you and him was the infuriating, fast debates about the things both of you disagreed about. The expression on your face would be so adorable when you defended your side of the debate. Your lips pursed themselves together, your chin would tense up as your eyebrows would draw themselves together.
He smiled to himself but the smile dropped when he would see you on the other side of the class, Great Hall or corridor. You would look at him but look away as well.
The two of you could still be friends even if he was with Lily?
Wouldn’t that be much simpler than the tension both of you feel now?
---
And like always, you were correct.
He dated her now. He would sling his arm over her shoulder and whisper something in her ear as he used to do it with you. His lips that once kissed you wholly were now pressed on her skin, his body next to hers.
She had him... and you didn’t.
That hurt. That hurt like hell and it wasn’t until three months you started to realize that you need to move on. Three long months of healing, trying to piece yourself together again. He broke you and he didn’t even care. You told him you loved him and for you, that was something heavy on your heart but for him, it was like a sweep under the rug.
So, it was time you brushed those tears and move on. It took you a few tries, falling back down and getting back up thinking it won’t hurt anymore.
But it did and at times it felt like you won’t ever be able to get over him.
You did though. You haven’t realized it until you saw him kissing her and it didn’t affect you as much as it used to. It was as if you were used to it already. It was something normal, something you saw every day, something... someone just moving on with their life and you’ve come to a realization, you could be that too.
And you were.
There was this boy in Hufflepuff. He was always your partner in most classes, asking you if he could copy your notes or that if you could help him with homework. Whenever he needed something for school, you were his person and you thought that for a long, long time.
You didn’t mind helping him. You knew he wasn’t serious for school, he told you that too many times. He just wasn’t serious. He was calm and relaxed, pretty much let life take care of it by itself. Whenever you were with him, you felt just the same. He made your worries go away, your body just go back into a calm state.
He reminded you that you could over-worry yourself, overthink, overstress and he was there to take all of that away. Put you on firm ground and explain to you that life is just simple, it’s your perspective that’s changing it.
He started opening up. Like a clam that was forever shut. It took you by surprise when he became so loose around you. For a long time, you wondered what he wanted from you because usually he did but all he wanted was to talk and you seemed to realize that he really was not the person you thought he was.
You talked with him every day. He told you about his thoughts, his days, and everything that was going on. To be honest, you loved listening to him because his mind was so much more expandable. He was a maniac for art and music, that was why he hated school so much. It restricted his creativity.
He was an artist that was why his silence was so pleasant. He’d sent you a letter that he is coming to your house, you’d wait for him on the sofa by the fireplace and he would come in his sweatpants and a hoodie, two different socks and completely messy dark hair. He would just sit down, both laughing and talking at first and then he would pull out his sketchbook and pencil and draw you. His eyes were like tropical water. It would be coral blue and if you looked closely there was such a gorgeous green colour. It didn’t change. Not even at night when the two of you would just be sitting or lying by the fire, you could still find his eyes so mesmerizing.
It didn’t take him long to tell you he liked you. It took the two of you two weeks before he would just blurt it out.
He drew you for the third time by then and he would turn it around, grinning. “What do you think?”
“What I always do. You’re incredibly talented and I look too damn good.” you started to tease but he only let out a chuckle and moved closer.
“You do.” he was now beside you, looking at you so deep into your eyes. “And did I tell you that you look beautiful today?” he tilted his head to the side, eyes still stuck on yours as a blush crept on your cheeks.
“I- uhm.” you smiled, looking away and letting out a soft giggle.
“Why are you turning away?” he asked, clearly teasing you a bit.
“I don’t know.” you turned your head back and he was much closer than he was before.
His eyes flickered down to your lips and his tongue subconsciously licked both of his lips. “You don’t?” he started moving in as you nodded, smiling as his lips lazily approached yours. He licked your upper lip just to tease you at first, smiling as he pulled away and could see your lips pulling themselves in like a magnet. Your hands placed themselves under his jaw and behind his neck, kisses slow, lazy and a bit careless.
It drow you wild how slow he was and as he saw you rush in, he pulled away, grinning cheekily at you as he brushed his thumb over. “Why the rush?”
“Why the delay?” you quirked an eyebrow and he smirked, moving back in and kissing you much more deeply but still slow.
Though this time it didn’t drive you as wild as before when he only teased with his tongue, slipping in and out. Now kisses were full and whole, intimate and consuming. He would lay you down on your back and press his body against you, kissing your jawline with slow, gentle and wet kisses, leading down to your neck and causing you to let out heavy breaths. But his kisses were so addictive that those heavy breaths weren’t breaths anymore but moans and you weren’t patient enough. You wanted him. You tried to pull him back up, kiss him with all the fire he lit inside of you but when you did try, his eyes flickered with mischief and torment, making you realize you just got the devil. His one hand grabbed your hands and lifted them above you, another free one, unbuttoning your shirt and placing soft kisses on your bare skin.
One thing you did not expect was the Head Boy making his night rounds before bed. One, clear thing you did not expect was hazel eyes setting on the couple kissing and touching at the fireplace.
It was the way his hands touched your skin, gently at first and digging his fingers into you as if you were his. The quiet moans you let out weren’t meant to be for him- no not for the Hufflepuff.
All thoughts ran through his head like a train- a second only before the rage filled his body and he stormed over, tackling the boy off you.
It took you a while to realize what had happened but before you could, they were already fighting on the ground, one on top of the other and otherwise.
“THE HELL JAMES!!” you shouted, grabbing him by the arms with all your strength and pulling him off. “GET OFF HIM!” you shouted at him, trying to cover your bare breast with one hand as the other kept pushing him away from the Hufflepuff.
Luca, who was panting as much as the other boy was glaring but smirking as well as it seemed to provoke the Gryffindor. “Thought a Chaser would punch better than that.” he wiped the small amount of blood from his lips.
James wanted to go back at him but you pushed him yet again. “JAMES!” you glared at him. “What the hell?!”
“Yeah, (y/n)! What the hell?!!” he snapped at you as well, pointing his hand at the Hufflepuff. “Luca Oliveira?! Him?!”
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business?” you finally buttoned up the part that would cover your skin, taking a step back and closing to Luca.
You could feel his hand take a hold of you from behind and you gladly took it as he always did bring you comfort.
“This tosser?!”
“OI!” You felt Luca storm by you but you quickly pulled him back.
“Luca no!” you pulled him back, trying to calm him down and placing your hand on his chest, trying to catch his gaze. “Luca.” you put your hand on his cheek and brushed it lightly until his eyes looked at yours- from fire to admire. He smiled sweetly at you, putting his hand on top of yours. “Let me take care of him.”
“You won’t- I mean-” he started to panic but you quickly smiled and shook your head.
“Just go get a pack before it gets swollen.” you sent him away and barely left the room, shooting James an ugly glare.
When he left you turned back and tucked the ends of your shirts to your sides, making him scoff and roll eyes. “Oh, come on (y/n)! It’s not something I haven’t seen.”
“Yeah, well it’s something only me and Luca get to see from now on!”
“OH! Who do you think you are? Made of gold?”
“Might as well!”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just one of many girls. There are others with much better bodies than you!”
“Well, then you won’t mind me covering my skin, would you?” you continued to button the shirt until you saw Luca’s hoodie over the armrest and threw it over you, only goading the boy in front of you.
“Cute.” he glanced at the sweater, turning it into an eye roll.
“You jealous?” you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Jealous?! JEALOUS?!!” he continued to laugh in disbelief. “Why would I ever be jealous of him when I’m with Lily?!”
“I don’t know, James! Why would you ever attack Luca like that? Why would you tackle him on the ground and punch him?!” you started to get more furious, causing him to be silent as he contemplated. “You said it yourself. No strings attached-”
“Yeah well, you broke it first by falling in love!”
“And I told you I won’t complicate and stand between the amazing, hubba-bubba love you and Lily have. Did I attack Lily? No. Did it hurt? Yes but I sucked it up because that’s what maturity is! And when you clearly didn’t care half of shit for me I realized that I need to move on as you had clearly moved on with Lily!”
“Don’t say I didn’t care for you! I did!” he pointed his finger at you, growling and glaring at you.
“WHERE?!” you snapped, opening your arms and looking around. “Where did you care for me?! The sex part? That wasn’t caring- it was pleasure. What Luca gives me isn’t just pleasure, it’s love and I gotta say James I feel loved when I’m with him.”
“But do you love him?”
“I don’t know. Do you love Lily?” you stared at him and he stared back, the tension between the two of you building.
“I have to.”
“That’s not clear enough. Are you in love with her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Love isn’t an obligation, James.”
“WELL FINE! I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!” he blurted all of a sudden, just as he did with you and his feelings he wasn’t aware until they were said. He stared at you for a while as you stared back into his eyes, feeling your whole world turn upside down.
You started backing away. “No.” you said, your voice quivering.
“I guess I am in love with you.” he smiled to himself, finally feeling his heart function properly. “I am in love with you- I love you!” he beamed and ran to you, taking your hands into his. He wanted to kiss you but you just couldn’t do it.
“No, James!” you pushed him away again.
“What do you mean no? I love you. I finally know now-”
“NO!” you shouted, shaking your head and running your hands down your face. “You don’t get to realize it four months later and come running back to me as if I had waited for you. I moved on! I healed! I don’t want you anymore. You’re too late!”
And it felt like the heart that finally started beating died away.
“You can’t.”
“You’re with Lily.”
“I can break up with her.”
“I’m with Luca.”
“You can break up with him.”
“I’m not breaking up with him.” you watched him. “Don’t you get it, James. I’m moved on from you and I fell in love with another person. I fell in love with someone who isn’t afraid to show how much he loves me. He’s vocal about it, he holds my hand, he’s not afraid to tell me what he feels and I love that about him. He makes me feel amazing about myself and with you? With you, I felt like just someone there for you.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“Yes, it is! Because you were NEVER THERE FOR ME!” your voice cracked and your tears started to appear. “We talked about you! We did the whole sex deal to please you! We never once made a decision based on my needs! And I needed to be loved! I needed love. I needed support and someone to turn to.”
“You know you could always turn to me.”
“No.” you shook your head. “I don’t trust you anymore.”
“Please, (y/n).” he took your hands in his again. “Give me a second chance. I can prove it to you. I can love you. I can cherish you more than any man can. I can show you how much I love you-”
And to you, that felt like everything you wanted to hear from him... once. Once when you told him you were in love with him. Once when he looked at you but still chose to kiss her. Once in all those four months.
Not anymore.
“No.”
“I just realized! I didn’t know I loved-”
“No!” you shouted, ripping your hands away from him and crying. “You loved me?!” your voice continued to crack, barely letting out any sound. “Did you love me when you kissed her? Did you love me when you chose her over me? Did you love me when you saw me in the hall and decided to ignore me? Did you love me when you made love to her? When did you love me?”
“I DIDN’T KNOW!”
“Well, neither did I, James and that’s not my problem. Not anymore.” you started to pick up your stuff, turning him your back.
“You can’t do this? If you loved me, you wouldn’t turn your back on us so fast.”
“It took me months to get over you. Why would I want to get back to you when I have such an amazing guy waiting for me with a bruised lip?” you smiled as you thought of him. “Turning my back on us is the least thing I could do after what you did. You didn’t give us even a chance.”
“You don’t love him.” his voice quivered, his eyes tearing up. “Do you?” his voice was so weak by now that it sounded just like yours months ago.
You knew how much it hurt him but once you lose trust into someone, it’s hard to get back and you just couldn't’ go back when you’ve come this far.
“It’s too late, James. I just don’t want you anymore.” you shook your head and started backing away, seeing tears fall down his cheeks as you did.
It squeezed your heart to see him broken but you and James stopped existing a long time ago.
“Please.” you could hear his plea behind you, causing you to lose so much strength in your body, you could feel your legs go numb.
This was the hardest part, (y/n).
You looked over your shoulder to find him there standing in defeat and tears. “No.”
The hardest but finally the last.
#james potter imagine#james#james potter x reader#james potter#marauders fanfiction#marauder#marauders era#the marauders#marauders ima#Marauders imagine#Marauders imagines
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The Further Folklore of Supernatural
Here’s a little more folklore meta in light of how season 15 has been playing out if anyone is game. I genuinely thought that Moriah would be the end of the folklore stuff and tossed out “Folk the Author” as an “epilogue,” so this is probably less of an addendum than it is a waymarker as I try to continue to parse these themes into the last seven episodes.
Welp. *waves hands at everything* THIS is not how anyone expected 2020 to go. Things got a little bit big and I stopped thinking about Spn in light of needing that energy elsewhere. But I also don’t want this crapfest to ruin how I fan my favorite show, so here I go again. I will attempt a TL;DR, too!
If you’ve read my old “folklore” analysis here about how I think fairy tales and all their baggage fit into Supernatural season 14, you know that I believe Castiel has stepped into a Sleeping Beauty type story, and that coincidentally a few themes and symbolism from Snow White kept popping up around Dean. (I hold Sam to be a Protagonist in the modern “literary fiction” sense of the word, but emotionally, thematically, and narratively he’s always been a little inaccessible to me. I finally understood him when the death-of-the-author plot surfaced, and I’ll get to Sam eventually here. And Jack, there’s a little Jack in here, too.)
If you would rather have the TL;DR than read several thousands of words about how folklore and myth *might* be abstractly connected to an American genre show, all I can say is that I tried. The textual support is all in the folklore posts. This is as succinct a summary as I could fabricate. At least I’m not gonna talk about Sam and bricolage and freeplay! This is an almost completely theory-free post! If you don’t want to read or don’t need a refresher and just want to know how this has been working in 15, you can scroll down to “END OF TL;DR”.
So, to catch up, I’m not talking about the folklore and mythology that this show has always relied on for plot and MOTWs. I wasn’t drilling down into urban legends like Hook Man or world folk monsters like shtrigas or pishtacos. By “folklore” I mean the study of storytelling tropes and tale types that have been with us for ages. One of the many subtexts of the end of the series. I’ve been tracking this because I think it’s fun to see how fairy tale imagery and mythology might layer preconscious suggestions into the text of the show. I personally think it was loud enough to be seen easily, but more than likely viewers felt unsettled, felt cheered, or felt like they knew what was coming? I’m curious to know. Anyway.
When we found out that Kelly Kline was going to name her baby “Jack” waaaaay back in season 12, things started chiming. Jack and the Beanstalk. Jack the Giant Killer. Jack Tales. Jack is a powerful Western character, sort of a cross between a noble hero and a trickster, featuring in stories that often blur lines and boundaries. He is both the poor man’s youngest son and the equal to King Arthur’s heir. Jack is both everyman and extraordinary. Jack is so cool, I wish I had more time to parse that but his qualities are not subtle in the text/subtext, anyway.
But back to my half-crack reading of seasons 14 and 15.
Once upon a time in Supernatural, there were two fairy tales being told. Both fairy tales are found all over the world and in many forms, but they all can be grouped together because they all contain shared elements of the same basic plot or shared themes, and these two in particular are sister stories. So when I mention “Sleeping Beauty,” I’m talking about lots of different versions of the folk tale, and the same for “Snow White,” which can be found in one form or another in storytelling traditions all over the place. It is both helpful and irritating that these are both Disney movies, too.
Jack makes an allusion to Sleeping Beauty in 14x03 The Scar while talking to Castiel-- it’s the kind of subtextual flash that in and of itself means little and proves nothing, but then beginning with The Scar we got three stories in a row that dealt with “sleepers” of some sort-- Lora in 14x03 doomed to die because of a witch’s spell, Stuart in 14x04 Mint Condition in a coma because of a ghost attack, and Sasha’s father in 14x05 Nightmare Logic under the spell of a clever djinn. It’s powerful subtext, like a soft light that bathes these episodes in the color of fairy tale and makes Jack’s Dramatic Swoon at the end of Optimism all the more Dramatic-- subtext amplifying the plot. Jack goes to Heaven, but is eventually cornered by the Shadow, who wants him in the Empty where he will sleep forever-- the Shadow being an entity who has claimed the husks of dead angels since their inception and thus implies a “curse” laid on Jack from the moment he came into being-- but Castiel, who is ever a thief in oh so many ways, makes a bargain with the Shadow and essentially takes over the consequences of Jack’s Sleeping Beauty story (hence my rarely used but hilarious tag “Castiel Thief of Endings.”)
Now that we know from 14x20 Moriah that the Shadow and Billie the Reaper are, if not allies, at least working together when Jack is awakened in the Empty, does that mean that Castiel’s deal is still on the table, or has that fate been thwarted? *pounds table* Was Jack’s death and Chuck’s rise as a “greater threat” in 14x20 enough to shift Castiel’s ending? It’s the kind of subtextual question that lends tension to the narrative and it’s what I am here for.
Well, speaking of thwarted expectations, Dean’s arc was being shadowed by a Snow White tale type. We all know Snow White but why don’t I sum it up anyway, since Disney messed up the folktale ending lol. Snow White is cast out of her home by her jealous stepmother (and echoes of the stepmother’s magic mirror show up in 15x02 Gods and Monsters) who sends her huntsman to kill her; the dude can’t do it and turns the girl loose in the forest instead. Snow White joins a band of outsiders who live in the forest-- in the Disney movie and the Grimms’ tale they are dwarfs, in some versions she happens upon a band of robbers-- and they love her very much and we presume she’s safe for the rest of her life; Michael mysteriously turns Dean loose to join Sam’s gathering of hunters, however we know, like Stepmom, Michael is still out there. The stepmother finds out that Snow White is actually alive and contrives to kill her herself. Eventually succeeding, Snow White appears to die and is usually laid to rest in a crystal casket/glass coffin. Her stepmother’s machinations have _stolen her agency_ (further paralleling Dean’s possession by AU!Michael.) A Handsome Prince stumbles upon Snow White, is besmitten with her, and he asks her protectors if he can have her, as one does. Leaving the Disney adaptation aside, Snow White awakens when whatever item that has caused her death-like state is dislodged (piece of apple in her throat) or removed (magic corset) or withdrawn (poisoned hairpin) by her protectors. Snow White is a story about the community of the dwarves of band of robbers or adopted family caring deeply for her, and when Dean starts making his own crystal casket, the ma’lak box, in which he will ride out eternity in tormented symbiosis with Apocalypse Michael, he has to rely on his family to help him see the plan through. However, here’s where Jack-- who is as much a chaos engine as his surrogate father Castiel if not more so-- steps in and ruins the ending. Jack smites Michael. Dean Winchester is saved. Again. To put the final nail in the coffin, so to speak, Jack later destroys the ma’lek box entirely.
That was quite the surprise ending… for one of the stories.
Was the end of season 14 the end of the Sleeping Beauty theme, also?
END OF TL;DR
I quit writing about “folklore” for a while, but that doesn’t mean it stopped being a theme. It just stopped being fun to write about as the story got more and more dark, and when it transmuted into two parallel themes of “folklore” or storytelling by the people versus Death of the Author--or storytelling by a lauded authority-- and there was so much angst about the boundaries of Chuck’s powers, I just wanted to sit back and enjoy that. I did distill my thoughts about Sam’s new arc in the DotA plot, which I thought would subsume the folktale themes but hey, we still have folktales around, too. I mean, we have Sam and we have Dean, and we have two “literary” subtexts, or maybe rather two subjects about the nature of story, something that I thought was a little bit of a surprise.
Storytelling was a Feature of 15x07 Last Call, both in the sense that Lee and Dean swap new stories and tell old tales of their adventures together as they catch up, but also in the sense that we got additional “text”-- hints of a backstory where John and Dean hunted with Lee in that swampy long-ago “Stanford era,” and again we get storytelling when _Lee recounts how he ended up keeping a marid in his basement_. There is also an allusion to the Thousand and One Arabian Nights in that episode that I yelled about in a meta that I never put on the interwebs, but the “marid” is in a specific tale in many editions of that collection, and thus calls in not only a different folktale tradition but the concept of a framed/nested narrative, which I believe will be important to understanding the last episodes of the series, but that’s an aside. In 15x08 Our Father Who Aren’t In Heaven, Castiel _tells Michael the story_ of how everyone ended up where they are now to convince him to help. And Michael and Adam’s allyship, if not friendship, was probably the best subversion of any “storytelling” expectation we’ve ever had on this show. Belphagor set us up for “room full of crazy” or something, but, no. We got symbiosis.
That almost sums up how I’ve been viewing the last “era” of spn. This wasn’t in the master post, but I shouted a lot about underworlds before 15x09 Purgatory 2: Return to Purgatory, and then stopped shouting because I had to ferment for a while. Also, as has been mentioned, the world turned to crap. But talking to other meta writers during the ramp up to the resumption of the season helped me realize just why this reading of myth to folktales to literature feels so right.
Underworlds and Otherworlds…. Everybody has crossed into an “underworld” or three in Supernatural, it’s really nbd. It was actually surface-level plot in season 13. By the time 15x09 rolled around, our heroes are just, like, strolling in and out of “sealed off” Hell after doing a level one spell and chilling with Billie in the Empty and even that Purgatory trip didn’t have the same feeling of danger that, say, crossing into the AU did. But also, we’re at the point where subtext is leading us to a _satisfactory_ ending. Where before we had serial text, like a cumulative tale type-- “The House that Jack Built”-- which just kept adding more and more plot, we’re hurtling o’er the apex of Freytag’s pyramid now and things are getting loud.
But they’re also getting very shifty.
I wrote a little bit about Sam Winchester successfully reviving Eileen in 15x06 Golden Time and the “Orpheus and Eurydice” symbolism of him keeping his back to her. (I’m not linking it because it’s so, so rough.) But because Sam is not an underworld hero, not completely-- I see him as a modern Protagonist coming to terms in a psychoanalytical model with things like mortality, fallibility, and mastery-- maybe bildungsroman, even -- he was able to subvert the tragic ending of the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice because it is not “his” story. But if I were pressed to find a mythic or folk tale type to measure Sam against, I could. I would probably sideye “the sorcerer’s apprentice” trope (ATU 325-The Magician and his Pupil :D ) which began as a poem that entered European folklore on different fronts. (and weirdly, that story was also Disnified in Fantasia. That’s probably more my own limitation as a gen x american lol than anything coming from the writer’s room.)
Dean got his moment in Purgatory where he was able to finally come to grips with his anger and heal the rift between himself and Castiel because Purgatory is a different kind of underworld. Dean is a successful threshold-crosser, having crossed that boundary out of Purgatory before, but in 15x09, his prayer to Castiel is all a subtextual evocation of doing the emotional and mental work of therapy, which Sam, as a modern protagonist, is usually caught up in. The mythic hero also deals with mortality, failibilty, and mastery, but in different terms. I hope I’m doing an okay job peeling apart these nuances that I’m seeing.
Since Castiel accompanied Dean to Purgatory, and in the past made his own wildly successful incursion into and out of Hell with Dean’s soul, and was the one in The Trap who actually retrieved the Leviathan blossom, Castiel counts as an underworld hero, too, but you can pull the lever and send the tumblers spinning again and make him a fairy tale character in that he has made this Bargain with the Empty which is both in the “modern” tradition of subverting a fairy tale, and the tale type “deal with the devil.” Or he could be seen as a modern protagonist in that he’s lowkey grappling with questions of selfhood and identification. “I am an angel of the lord.” “I am no one.” “It’s Steve, now.” “You are nothing.” “I am an angel.”
We even got an episode that playfully explored the concept of “hero” by subverting our expectations (Sam and Dean were rescued by, of all people, an upgraded Garth.) It was called The Hero’s Journey, after the Joseph Campbell book about mythic heroes.... !!! Like, what??? !!!! I didn’t even have anything to say about that episode, it just rocked. The “meta” was just all out there in plot, like the olives and boiled eggs in a 1950’s gelatin recipe.
Some of this slipperiness in the subtext points right at the study of folklore and the (admittedly Eurocentric at first) efforts to transform a “soft science” into something approaching scientific rigor. The Aarne-Thompson-Uther folktale index is today a codifying or cataloguing tool, with which anthropologists and literature scholars can line up stories based on the motifs found within them-- it is useful for cataloguing tales, making comparative studies, and for trying to trace these stories back through human history to find the One First Story of that type, for instance the ur-story that led to Snow White. When did people first start telling that tale, where, how did it spread, and why are we still telling it today? The danger in using the ATU index is that by stripping a story down to it’s bones, we lose the story, if that makes sense. The beauty of using the ATU index is that you find many, many more interconnected stories. It’s sort of a paradox. Some scholars criticize the ATU, claiming that one could take a random selection of these motifs and shuffle them to create a story and, you sort of could? That’s the beauty of the system.
So that brings us to Jack. I feel like Jack, as in Jack of all Trades, is anything that the narrative needs him to be. As far as I can find, “Jack” is not a “tale type.” He shows up alongside any number of them-- sometimes as a trickster, sometimes as a hero, almost always as a kind of slippery character. In the first folklore post, I invested many words in exploring Dabb’s obsession with threes-- AU Michael asks three beings what they desire, asks his human victim to guess his name three times, then we follow three sleeper stories, and so on. The original TFW was three people. But Jack makes four.
What is Jack’s story going to be?
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
And speaking for a sec about the origins of myth and folklore-- what about ALL OF THE OTHER PEOPLE in the world? Are they lowkey churning the matrix of reality on their own and generating their own content, like Becky and her AO3 stories and mackettes?
*¯\_(ツ)_/¯ intensifies*
It all just feels so good at this point, even the peril that I feel surrounding Castiel.
I *think* this will be the last of the longform metas before the end of the series. I mean, I can only hope so. I’ll drop some stuff about individual episodes that might be applicable as I rewatch, and I might clean up my post about Last Call and drop it on here, but I just wanted to kind of hold this up as a mile marker before the Final Seven air.
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A/N: I'm officially obsessed with Wolf Bride and what does one do when she's obsessed with a certain book? She writes an AU about it! 😁 So, Talley Ho! *in my Sherlock Holmes voice*
Rated: Mature. | Contains sexual content and strong language. (You know? The usual from me. 😁) | Bolded and/or italicized words are conversations and thoughts of the characters. | Main Characters: Roman (LI) and Naia Evans (MC) | All Characters and names: (except MC and certain original characters, created by me) are property of Pixelberry.
Current Word Count: 1,240 words. (more or less. I stop counting after editing and re-editing. 🤷🏾♀️)
This series is rated Mature. It is NOT reading material that is safe for those under 18. Reader discretion is STRONGLY advised!
This series may contain spoilers. If you wish not see spoilers, please do not read any further.
Also this series is a slight deviation of the original story. In the original story, the werewolf hunter is a woman. But in this series the hunter is a man.
If you’d like to be added to my tag list. Just reblog or dm me and I will gladly add you. 😁😘
Tag List: @shewillreadyou @pixie88 @choiceslady @queenjilian @otherworldlypresents @texaskitten30 @glaimtruelovealways @aussieez @secretaryunpaid @txemrn @sfb123 @hopefulmoonobject @lucy-268 @choicesficwriterscreations
Chapter 3.) The Hunter.
The Knights Of Ossory are an ancient secret society of werewolf hunters dating back to 12th century Ireland. And much like his father, brothers and grandfather before him, Trent Moses IV was proud to be one of them. By day he’s an Ecologist studying the surrounding forests and by night, he hunts werewolves.
The Knights Of Ossory’s main mission is the eradication of werewolves. They’re considered monsters of the shadows and the Knights Of Ossory are defenders of humanity.
Even though he’s been blind since birth, he’s never let his disability be a hindrance. He grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia, and is the youngest of 5 boys. He has always had to fight his brothers for everything. But it never stopped him, it only fueled him to do and be better. He excelled all throughout school, from elementary to high school, he was always top of his class. He graduated Summa Cum Laude from Appalachian State with a degree in Ecology. He soon took a part time job as a Park Ranger and while being an Ecological Surveyor for Sayre Energy and Power in Hunt’s Peak WV.
He used his work as a cover for his true mission. Hunting werewolves in the area. But he wasn’t trying to kill them, he wanted to cure them. He calls it catch and release.
“No one would miss a few werewolves. After all, they aren’t human. They’re monsters. They must be stopped. ” He always thought to himself.
He and his team hunt them like they’re deers or rabbits. They shouldn’t be allowed to be free to roam and destroy. He’d capture them to study them. He did so in hopes that he could find a cure for whatever causes them to turn into werewolves then release them. So he’s focused on the Pack. Slowly picking off members of the Pack to study and catching the ire of Roman.
When Trent found out that Roman was the Alpha, he made it his personal mission to take him as the ultimate test subject. He’s always known that Alphas are the most dangerous of each werewolf Pack.
Whenever they clashed, Trent always remembered the oath he swore to as a member of the Knights Of Ossory.
“They are the monsters.
They are the blight.
We are the hunters.
We are the light.
They are the terror that haunts our sight.
They are the wrong that we will set right!”
He can’t waver from his mission. He had to find out why they are what they are. Especially when they go Primal. That is when they are truly powerful and nearly unstoppable. It only ever happens when there’s a full moon out and it is truly a sight to behold. They’re wild, animalistic, ravenous and act on uncontrollable impulses. Which is dangerous to and for humans.
So he hunts in order to keep them in check and at bay. And having occasional issues and battles with Roman. He uses his enhanced senses to make decisions when he hunts. He can feel, smell and hear better than anyone on his team. He could always sense when the wolves were near. So he knew when to strike, when to set traps and when to stay hidden.
For the times he did battle with Roman directly, Trent stayed at the ready. Roman was unlike any other Alpha he faced. Roman is the strongest Alpha that Trent had ever faced. Skilled and calculating, Roman has never backed down not that Trent wanted him to. He enjoyed the challenge.
So how does Naia fit into his life? Simple she didn’t. Not at first. To him she was a dream he had that slowly became real. He would have what’s called lucid dreams about a woman’s voice. She would be singing and he’d listen to her. It soothed him. It called to him. It comforted him. He wanted to know more but as soon as he woke up, the voice was gone. But that feeling of longing and of needing to hear it lingered.
He felt haunted every time he went to sleep and would dream of this voice. It would even call to him during the day. Especially when he was hunting or studying werewolves. He fell in love with this woman’s beautiful voice. He had to figure out where it was coming from. He had to know who this mystery woman is.
Was she a woman he’d met in the past? A girl from college? A singer he’d heard sing before? Who was she?
Whenever she sang, he could feel her near. He could smell her. He could almost taste her. But he could never figure out who she was.
One night in a certain dream he heard her sing a song. She was singing Thank You by Estelle.
Sometimes I wonder, do you.
Even recognize the woman that's standing in front of you.
Listen, sometimes I wonder, do you.
Even care or realize why I took care of you.
'Cause you're my heart.
You are my soul.
You're my other half without you I cannot be whole baby.
So far apart, I just don't know.
What drove us apart in the first place now I know baby, why.
These tears I cry sure won't be the last.
They will not be the last, no.
'Cause this pain inside never seems to pass.
It never seems to pass me by.
So I thank you.
Said I thank you.
Yes I thank you.
For making me a woman.
Sometimes I wonder could she be.
More of a woman to you than you are a man to me.
Listen, sometimes I wonder, why me.
I'm here miserable while you're out living your fantasies and didn't care.
'Cause you're my heart.
You are my soul.
You're my other half without you I cannot be whole baby.
So far apart.
I just don't know.
What drove us apart in the first place now I know baby, why.
These tears I cry sure won't be the last.
They will not be the last, no.
'Cause' this pain inside which never seems to pass.
It never seems to pass me by.
So I thank you.
Said I thank you.
Yes I thank you.
For making me a woman.
One thing I learned in life.
We all gotta be ready to sacrifice to survive.
I hope she's happy.
'Cause you're the chapter that I'll be closing hope you're happy.
'Cause once my door close it won't be open.
These tears I cry sure won't be the last.
It will not be the last, no.
This pain inside which never seems to pass.
It never seems to pass me by.
So I thank you.
Said I thank you.
Yes I thank you.
For making me a woman.
So I thank you.
Said I thank you.
Yes I thank you.
For making me a woman.”
Because of her, he became obsessed with the song he heard in his dream. He would sing it to himself as a way to feel closer to her. She became somewhat of a security blanket to him. He knew that whenever he dreamed she would be there. She was an angel to him even though they’d never met.
But little did he know that the girl of his dreams was indeed real. And he would meet her soon. But he will also learn that a war with Roman would come because of it.
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Prompt: Sleeping drugs are no match for your insomnia!
I was sitting in another sterile room with white fluorescent lights humming softly in the ceiling. I wasn't really listening to the lady in the white coat as she talked on and on about the importance of sleep to proper physical and cognitive development in teenagers. My mother listened earnestly, and I figured that was enough for both of us. Besides, I knew all of this already. It's not like I wanted to stay awake all night long, I just couldn't ever fall asleep. Even when I ran that half marathon a few months ago, I couldn't sleep that night either. It's not that I'm not tired. Sleep just doesn't come for me.
The doctor finished her monologue with "...so I'm writing a prescription for something that should solve the mental over-activity at bedtime. Simply take one of these each night before doing your nightly routine, and you should be plenty relaxed by the time your head hits the pillow."
Yeah. I'm sure this one would be different than all the rest.
My mother, angel among people, thanked the doctor profusely as we headed out. On the way home, she tried to encourage me, "Sara, I really think this new doctor knows her stuff. Didn't you hear all the studies she was citing back in there? I feel really good about this new medicine."
My silence was my response.
"I understand you are frustrated by the insomnia. I mean, when I was pregnant with you, I could hardly sleep for the last couple weeks, and I thought I was going to go crazy."
I shot a sharp glance at her.
"Sorry, honey, I didn't mean it like that. I just want you to know that I know how you feel, and I want you to feel better is all."
"Thanks, mom. I know." We drove the rest of the way home in silence.
The rest of the afternoon was pretty bland. I mean, everything is pretty gray when you are constantly running on minutes of sleep. I'm not even sure I can remember what a good night's rest feels like. Luckily, at dinner my brother mentioned something about a guy he had a crush on in one of his classes, so the eager attention of my mother was focused elsewhere. It was kind of nice fading to the back when I didn't have the energy to be in the spotlight. I finished eating and excused myself to begin my lengthy night time routine in an attempt to relax. In my room, I unwrapped the pill bottle with my new script. Eight hot pink pills. I popped one in my mouth and swallowed. When you've taken as many medications at 16 as I have, dry swallowing pills becomes no issue.
Now that was done it was time to relax. I lit some lavender incense, played my "Tranquil Beats" playlist, and sat on the floor. I closed my eyes and began counting my breaths. One... two.... three... four... It's funny that I was raised being told to count sheep to fall asleep, when meditation experts laud the benefits of counting your breaths. I guess people just really like numbers. Whoops, wait, six... or was it five? Ugh, start over. One... two... three...
I was just starting to get into the swing of it when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I couldn't believe someone would bother me when I'm trying to relax before bed! I turned around to shout at who I assumed was my brother only to face a mysterious woman with jet black hair down to her waist. "Hello, Sara," she cooed. Her voice felt like silk brushing across my skin, and I was immediately disarmed. "It's been a long time."
"Who are you? How do you know my name?"
"Don't fret, child, I mean you know harm. I'm Sleep. Dreams should be joining us soon. It's been so long, I can't wait to hold you in my embrace again," she said with a smile. Her presence was so gentle, like your parents tucking you into your favorite childhood blanket.
"You're Sleep? Why are you a woman? What is going on?"
"Shh, shh, child," she whispered reassuringly. "I visit everyone, from the nappers to the hibernators. You just happen to be able to see me now thanks to your new doctor's medication, and if I had to guess why you have this I would say it's because of him," she said, giving me a hard shove. As she pushed me, I felt a weight fall off me as a book off a shelf, and I heard a thump.
"Now wot the 'ell are you on about, eh?" an angry voice behind me yelled. "I found 'er first, an' she's mine! Now if you don't mind, get yer filthy mitts off the girl and PISS OFF!" I turned my head to look at the source of the voice, but my motions felt as if I was moving through molasses. When my eyes finally came around, I saw a squat man with messy hair shooting in every direction. He glanced at me, and I saw a flash in his wild eyes as his lips parted into a snarling grin. "Ain't that right, dearie?"
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Why, that's no way to greet an ol' pal!" he exclaimed in mocking exasperation. He sprang from the floor to the corner of my bed singing, "It is me, for I am he, the one who keeps you up. I'll always keep your mind from sleep, and surely you will find: there secrets deep past counting sheep, when Sleep don't make you blind. So come with me, and I'll go with ya. I am Insomnia!" He finished his poem by brandishing his hands as if shaking tambourines. I couldn't help but giggle in my entranced stupefaction.
"That is enough," the woman said, her countenance darkening. "You have tormented this girl for long enough, and tonight, she needs rest." As she said these words, a billowy figure of shadows drifted through the wall. When it solidified a little more, I realized it was an owl the size of a man. It looked at Sleep with eyes as deep as the Universe itself before affixing them on me. "Excellent timing. Sara, meet Dreams. Now if you don't mind," she said, turning towards Insomnia, "we will be taking care of Sara tonight."
At this, the light in Insomnia's eyes flared so intensely it seemed as if they were ablaze. "Oh, no, you DON'T!" he shouted as he leapt from the bed at Sleep. Though he was much shorter than she, he took her to the ground and they began to wrestle, rolling back and forth across the hardwood. One moment, he was on top of her, squeezing her throat. The next, she was on top of him, her hair wrapping around his entire head. During the struggle, Dreams faded back towards the wall, keeping his eyes fixed on me. I looked from Dreams back to the fray and back to Dreams. Did he seem hungry?
Eventually, Sleep's size and prehensile hair began to overcome Insomnia. He thrashed and wailed and choked as her hair not only wrapped around his neck but also began stuffing itself into his mouth and nose. As he writhed and wretched, she said through a snarl "She needs us. We will take care of her. We have no need for YOU!"
Insomnia, choking, locked eyes with me, "Sara, don't listen to her. She doesn't want you to sleep. She wants you to die. That's not Dreams, that's the Void." He stretched out a hand in desperation.
As he spoke, she looked over at me, a crazed look in her eyes. "Don't mind him child. A wild animal will say anything when he is backed into a corner." Her grip around his neck tightened until air was no longer escaping. A pit formed in my stomach as I watched him struggle for air. I reached to pull Sleep off him, but it felt as if my arm was moving through pitch. I had barely enough strength for my fingers to graze her hair. I grabbed as tightly as I could, when I could sense the owl opening his wings wide. The woman looked at me, as the writhing body beneath her lost its vigor. "Fear not, my child. In one way or another, Sleep comes for us all." With those words, the floor vanished from beneath me, and I plunged into a bottomless pit, falling deeper and deeper into utter relaxation.
#my writing#writing#short#short story#writing prompt#prompt#insomnia#sleep#dream#fiction#short fiction
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In Due Time Chapter 1: Witch AU
Hello and welcome to my entry for Marichat May 2020 - In Due Time! Figuring out an idea for this fic was an exhausting journey and I must've gone through nine or ten different ideas before inspiration struck and I ended up with this one. I've very excited to tell this story, and I hope you will like reading it just as much as I did writing it.
@marichatmay
Enjoy!
Summary: For eight years, Chat Noir and Red Beetle have been fighting to bring Hawkmoth to justice. But after so many years with no progress to show for their efforts, there are rumors that the Red Beetle has given up crime fighting.
Alone and without even a partner to rely on and all the while facing increasingly more dangerous akumas, Chat Noir has to find someone worthy of taking up the ladybug miraculous.
First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
Read on Ao3
Marinette stood in the bus with a handful of strangers, most of whom were sending her curious glances. That didn’t surprise her too much and she couldn’t blame them, even if it was making her a little self conscious. Paris might be a large, cosmopolitan city, but even so, someone dressed like a witch at sundown was sure to attract attention.
As she clenched her hands against her heavy skirt, Marinette was glad she’d at least designed her outfit to be practical. Having to endure all this scrutiny while freezing in the late October weather might have caused her to just head right back home before even reaching the party. And having to keep track of a purse while holding onto her prop broomstick would’ve been just awful. Another benefit to being a designer - she could add pockets to whatever she wanted.
It came as a huge relief when she got off the bus and started seeing more people in costume. At least she wasn’t sticking out in the crowd any more. Although now she was wondering just how many people were going to be showing up to Alya’s party. For all that talk about how Marinette went overboard with things, Alya could certainly keep up with the craziest that Marinete could pull and then some.
Maybe it was because of all the traffic the Cat Chat had been seeing. It had never really died down since those early years in lycee - the opposite, actually. The longer Hawkmoth’s war on Paris dragged on, the more that Chat Noir and Red Beetle were put into the spotlight and lauded. Or critiqued, Marinette admitted with a frown. That last article she had read had been scathing, but Alya had been quick to rip it to shreds on the Cat Chat.
As she stepped into the building after flashing her VIP ticket to the doorman, there was no doubt in her mind that the now infamous article was why there were so many people wearing costumes of Paris’s heroes today. Well - wearing costumes of Chat Noir, that is.
“Girl!”
Marinette looked around, clutching her broomstick tightly. She smiled when she saw Alya, wearing a female version of the Chat Noir costume, bulldoze her way through the crowded floor.
“Alya!” The two women kissed cheeks and hugged. “It’s been a few days, how have you been?”
“Crazy and frantic,” Alya said with a laugh. “But you know I wouldn’t have it any other way, girl.” She took a step back and walked around Marinette. “And look at you! You really went all out with this costume, huh?”
“What was I gonna do?” Marinette said with a smirk. “Not splurge for my bestie’s Halloween party?”
“I appreciate it, M. It helps the atmosphere.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Especially with how tacky some of these costumes are. But hey!” Her voice returned to her usual volume again. “I can’t expect everyone to have a snazzy outfit for the first annual Cat Chat Halloween party.”
“You’re obsessed.” Marinette giggled.
“Why shouldn’t we get to have some Halloween fun too? Trust me, this is the start of something great.” Alya glanced behind her and cursed. “Or at least it would if people would stop trashing things. Sorry for bailing, but foods over there,” she jerked a thumb over her shoulder as she started edging away from Marinette. “Have fun! Socialize!”
And just like that Marinette was alone again.
Now, Marinette wasn’t a shy wallflower by any stretch of the imagination. But this was a perfect storm of eroded confidence that she had emerged into. The lingering stares on the bus. The press of people all around her. The fact that she knew literally no one here except for Alya. Which was surprising, at least until she remembered that Nino was busy today with a gig on the other side of town. He may not understand his girlfriend’s obsession, but at least he was supportive.
Regardless, it all piled up on her until she found herself floating at the edges of the party, using the big buffet table and the wall at her back as a buffer against the giant throng of people.
“Pretty big turn out, isn’t it?”
Marinette just about jumped out of her skin when she heard a voice just behind her, causing her pointy black hat to fall over her eyes. As she fumbled her broomstick and drink to try and fix it, she felt it be lifted and placed carefully back on top of her head.
“Sorry about that, little witch,” came the voice again and now she could see vibrant green eyes like shining emeralds looking down at her. Down because the person they belonged to was so tall, even lounging against the wall like he was. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No sweat,” she replied mechanically, her designer eyes already at work sweeping over his outfit. It turned out to be the sixth Chat Noir costume of the night, but she could hardly complain. It was leaps and bounds better than the usual cheap stuff that she’d been seeing all night.
“See something you like?” There was a teasing lilt in his voice. Her eyes rose back to his and she saw the flirty smirk he was wearing.
“Sorry, I was just admiring your costume. It is definitely the most accurate one I’ve seen all night.”
“Are you something of a Chat Noir expert?” He asked, an amused glint in his eyes.
“Well, I’m a designer so I have an eye for those sorts of things. Everyone remembers the ears and tail, and most people remember the bell,” she flicked his, delighted that it had a pleasant metallic ring. “Getting the size of the bell, the leather-like quality of the ears and tail - those are common mistakes.”
“Well, if I’m going to be Chat Noir, I may as well go the full distance, right?” Again there was a playful look in his expression, like there was a joke he wasn’t sharing.
“Yeah, but most people don’t even realize that the super suits are made up of tiny hexagons,” she said, pointing at the miniscule figures making up his costume. “How do they even do that? Heck, how did you?”
Chuckling, he shook his head. “You must be a really big fan then, huh? Like you said, most people don’t know that trivia.”
“It helps that my best friend runs the Cat Chat,” she said with a smirk, expecting him to be impressed. Instead, he snorted.
“Yeah that makes sense. If you’re Alya’s closest friend, you probably get sent all the articles before they’re published.” He patted her shoulder. “My condolences. Even I can’t keep up with everything she puts out.”
“Which reminds me-”
“Witch reminds you?” He said, looking very pleased with his pun.
Marinette chuckled, shaking her head. “Sure. Anyway, you haven’t given me your name?”
His smile widened. “You can just call me Chat Noir.”
“You might have to be more specific there,” she said with a glance to a couple of Chat Noirs nearby.
“Ah, trying to rely on my good manners to figure out my true identity. Very clever, but no, you’ll have to make due with just Chat Noir.”
“You really are playing the part, aren’t you?” Marinette rolled her eyes. “That’s fine, I suppose. But seriously, what’s your costume made out of?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Well, I’ve always been curious about the real deal since I’m an up and coming designer-”
“In my experience,” Chat Noir interrupted with a grin. “‘Up and coming’ usually means ‘down and out at the moment.’”
She glares at him for a moment before turning away. Intending to get a refill of punch and some distance away from ‘Chat Noir’, she started walking away. He snagged her elbow - not tightly, but just enough to make her pause.
“Wait! Sorry, that was rude of me. This is the longest I’ve gone talking to a pretty lady for a while, please excuse me.” When she turned back around, he breathed a sigh of relief. “So, you’re a designer?”
“Yes,” she said, still feeling a little miffed but also feeling a boost to her ego from the pretty lady comment. “I actually made my costume for this party.”
“Really?” Chat said, surprised. “I thought it looked a cut above what everyone else was wearing. Do you mind if I take a look?” He smirked, but it lacked some of the cockiness from before. There was a slight shyness that was endearing. “I don’t want to just… oogle you without permission.”
She giggled. “Sure! I’d love for someone to actually appreciate the work that went into this.”
Setting down her drink, she held her broom and spun around slow enough that he could get a good look. When she was facing him again, he was wearing an impressed look.
“Its even better than I thought it was. Naturally, I realized it was excellent quality, but not many designers today would remember to balance comfort and practicality in addition to appearance. Plus,” he added as he ran a claw along a seam, “these stitches are expertly done. I bet you’ve been practicing sewing for a long time.”
“Since before lycee! I was making clothes and accessories even back then. In fact…”
Their conversation wore on for the next couple hours and it turned out ‘Chat Noir’ had more than just a cute face and a flirty tongue. He had a surprisingly good knowledge of fashion and the industry, even gave her a few tips for how to break into it.
As much as she tried to steer the conversation toward him and what he did, he always managed to expertly get her back into talking about her. It was almost as if he had plenty of practice doing it, but she was just glad to have someone new to talk to. All her work recently had left her without many friends to casually talk to. Which was no doubt another reason Alya had gone out of her way to give her a VIP invite.
Eventually, though, ‘Chat Noir’ left. It was only a few moments later that she realized she had forgotten to ask his name again, or at least ask for his number (he was a cutie after all). But by the time she turned around to look for him, he’d vanished without a trace.
Not that she had long to dwell on it. Just as she was frowning and searching the crowd, Alya stormed over to her. Her eyes were wide and she had that manic energy around her that Marinette had rightly learned to dread over the years.
“Girl! Do you know who you were just talking to?!”
“Some guy that wouldn’t give me his name and insisted I called him Chat Noir,” she said with a sigh. “Which sucks, but-”
“That’s because that was Chat Noir!”
“I get why you think that - it was a super impressive costume - but-”
“No, girl. Listen to me.” She put her hands on Marinette’s shoulders and stared her in the eye. “I’ve spent eight years running a blog with a cat pun in the name because of that furry. Eight years of studying Chat Noir and Red Beetle. I’ve interviewed him! If anyone can point out the real Chat Noir out of a bunch of lookalikes, its me.”
Alya shook Marinette in her excitement. “You just spent the evening flirting with Chat Noir, you amazing minx!”
Marinette smiled as Alya babbled excitedly, but in the comfort of her own mind she frowned. That wasn’t at all what she expected the bombastic, energetic hero she always saw on television to be like. With the party dying down, she headed back to Alya’s place to spend the night, still trying to merge the image of the larger-than-life hero of Paris and the shy boy asking her if she’d let him look at her costume.
There seemed to be more to Chat Noir than she had ever given him credit for.
#Miraculous Ladybug#MarichatMay2020#Marinette Dupain-Cheng#Alya Cesaire#Chat Noir#Marichat#Aged Up au#ml fanfiction#my writing#In Due Time
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Harmless convo with an old acquaintance?
I want to write about a conversation I had with someone I knew from a conference more than a decade back, which happened a couple of days ago. She texted me one day, asking to catch-up. Honestly, I had not expected her to reach out to me after all these years. For one, I barely knew her. Furthermore, I had not spoken to her much after the conference ended. I surprised myself by accepting her invitation to catch-up. After all, what could go wrong with a seemingly harmless conversation with an old acquaintance? And as I have mentioned before, I was always looking to expand my friend circle.
I had expected the conversation to be an informal sesh just chatting about what we’re doing and our current hobbies/interests. However, I was not prepared for what was to come. Before our online meeting, she sent me a news article about herself, which lauded her many accomplishments. I was thrown off completely because like seriously! Couldn’t she just have told me her accomplishments in our actual catch-up sesh instead of sending readings for me to complete?? And sending people a list of your accomplishments seemed like a really boastful thing to do. It’s as if she shouted “LOOK AT ME, I AM, LIKE, SO FREAKING AMAZING” in my face. But I thought nothing much about it and joking responded with a comment along the lines of not expecting reading assignments before our convo.
Initially, the conversation went alright. She was talking about her new role in her new company and I was mostly just listening to her speak, while at some moments sharing my thoughts about what she had said. Unfortunately, after the first hour, the convo took a weird turn. When I said that I lost my train of thought, she told me she was taking notes everything that I had said, and proceeded to repeat everything that I had said in the past hour. I was taken aback by this. It seems like an informal chat did not warrant the need to take notes - something that is usually done in the courtroom so that defendants, witnesses, and attorneys could be held accountable by the judge? In that moment, I felt like she was scrutinizing and silently judging every word that I had said.
The conversation got even weirder, when she brought up the topic of religion. Now, I typically don’t like talking about religion, unless the other person brings it up. And even so, I don’t typically discuss it because religion is such a sensitive issue that talking about it more often than not triggers conflict, especially among people of the same faith (something that I had learnt in my undergrad world religions class).
This acquaintance publicly expressed that she believes in the same religion as I did. She told me she had a problem with said religion because she found certain parts of the faith to be unfair. And she substantiated this claim by claiming that God required a return on investment (in the finance sense). I told her that I respectfully disagree based on the passage she was talking about and offered my own explanation (which was not finance-related). After which, informing her that it is best that she check with a religious leader and that we should discuss something else besides religion. And then, to my horror, she started to pick at my arguments using philosophical fallacies, which made little sense to me because I don’t know which fallacy she was referring to. I was also extremely hurt by this because, while I enjoy spirited debates as much as the next person, this is neither the right time (10 pm at night) nor the right context (informal catch-up) to be engaged in philosophical arguments about religion. I felt that she had been waiting throughout this entire convo to swoop in and pick at my flaws.
To add fuel to fire, she then told me that she found my point of view to be preachy and dismissive and that she had to mute her microphone while I was talking. I was horrified by by this and tried to salvage the situation so it would not end in an argument. I explained that that was not my intention to be preachy, and I was merely expressing my POV. I then pleaded with her again to change the topic. She was like, “I sense fear in you. Why are you so fearful?” Uhm, because you’re picking apart every word I said like a vulture in a graveyard and invalidating my entire person???? I responded that discussions about religions among friends often lead to negative consequences so I would rather not talk about it, and also, that since I am not a religious leader, I did not want to say incorrect things that might be misleading. And even so, she did not change the topic, insisting that we discuss this ‘fear’ and how I should not have this ‘fear’. I was hesitant to speak at this stage, just listening and nodding along to whatever she said.
After that, she started her 1-hour long lecture basically dismissing everything that I had said, since she said that my life was, apparently, completely shaped by my religion, and so, there were many fallacies and inconsistencies in my life that needed to be rectified. She told me, point-blank, that I needed to rethink my life, my religion, and acknowledge and work-on the flaws she has so kindly pointed out during our 3-hour convo, and that she was actually trying to help me grow as a person. Oh wow, I wonder who’s the preachy one now? She kept droning on and on and honestly, I wasn’t even listening at this point and was scrolling through my phone, and going “hmmm” here and there. She kept talking, till past midnight, while I was just waiting for a window to be like, okay sorry gotta go.
Thankfully, I was saved by my friend’s text about Biden/Harris winning the US elections. I was so stoked at this news, all nasty thoughts about this acquaintance flew out of the window as I jumped for joy. Then, I ended the convo right there and then, and proceeded to have a one-person party in my living room around half-past midnight. Thanks, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris.
Lessons learnt: If a person sends you a newspaper article of themselves before you meet that person, RUN. Because this is likely a very bad omen that the subsequent convo would end in disaster. Ironically enough, I think this is something our dear Donald would do, isn’t it?
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pre pa school recap: gre
With my GRE right around the corner (literally like in less than 24 hours) I just wanted to write a small reflection on where I am today, especially in regards to standardized testing.
For the last three months, I have been hounding down on math GRE practice to the point that I did over 1,000 Magoosh + ETS Math questions and no longer have anymore questions accessible to me. I focused so heavily on math concepts because when I first started, I could ,theoretically, not answer a single question. I would literally get 3/10 on multiple mini math quizzes and there was a point where I did not do GRE practice for weeks.
This is where my hatred for standardized testing stems from. I spent my whole college career focused on science based classes as well as health sociology classes. The hardest math I ever did were statistical analysis such as ANOVA test for a data analysis for health science majors. I had never had to do geometry once during my college years and I will probably never do it during PA school so why do I need to learn it now for a 4 to 6 hour exam? How is scoring 150+ on certain section going to determine how well I can diagnose and treat my possible future patients? Or be a better advocate for my future patients?
During my SAT years, when I took the PSAT I had garnered a fairly decent score. However, when it was time for the actual test, I fumbled. I scored a low score to the point where my college prep advisors were like you need to retake it in order to get into any private school. So I retook it and focused heavily on my weakest part: math. Fast forward and now I am planning on taking the grown up ( and still annoying) version of the SAT. Am I nervous that history will repeat itself and l may fumble on the GRE tomorrow? Yes. However, this time instead of beating myself up with whatever score I receive whether it be above or below 300, I will tell myself I am proud of myself. 16 year old me would die of nerves right now the night before the exam but I'm eerily calm about the whole process. I don't want to retake the GRE but I am also ok with just trying my best.
Could my calmness be due to the fact that my top choice school(s) have did away with using the GRE for PA school applications? Most likely. Could it be that only 4/12 of my schools I am applying to require the GRE? that is also plausible. Could it be that I literally only have 10 hours and I am about to spend 8 hours of them sleeping and dreaming about being the lead in my own drama movie and not stress about the multiple vocab and heinous math formulas that I don't know? Yeah 100%!
standardized testing should not define who we are and what kind of student we can be. I entered undergrad with as a student who struggled with their SAT and left university as Magna Cum Laude with plentiful and enriching volunteer and research experiences. So when I say fuck standardized testing, I mean it.
#if I score above 300? break out my favorite wine below 300? break out the Hennessy#still debating if I want to share my scores online but we will see after the exam#gre#pablr#gradblr#studyblr
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Shadow And Pills - Part 1 Preview
Summary: Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all. Alexa comes away with a shadow.
18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED
Warnings: RAPE, Torture, Abuse, Self Harm, Negative Images of Psychological Services/Mental Health Professionals, Hallucinations, Stalking, Supernatural Horror, Prescription Drug Use and Eventual Abuse, Mental Illness, PTSD, Flashbacks of Violence, Flashbacks of Tragedy, Starving Oneself, Isolation, Physical and Mental Exhaustion, Denial, Self Neglect, Gaslighting, Mental Spiraling, Mental and Emotional Abuse
18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED
Author’s Note: This is not a happy story in any sense, at any point. I could only write this at my lowest places, emotionally and mentally speaking, and I had a hard time coming back from it. This is dark, and it does not at any point get lighter. I relied heavily on my own experiences with mental struggles and took a few pieces here and there from my own experiences with mental health professionals. MY EXPERIENCES ARE MY OWN AND ARE NOT TYPICAL, NOT EVEN FOR ME.
Extra thanks to @glassjacket and @thoughtslikeaminefield for not only helping me through this story but also through those dark moments. I wouldn’t be here without both of you. Period. And thank you, @glassjacket for your guidance and textwork on the image. 💙
If you need mental help of any kind, please DO NOT HESITATE TO REACH OUT TO GET IT. This story was an exercise in mental exorcism, in a sense.
For all the Loki lovers out there, I do not shine him anything like a good or redeeming light here. He is evil incarnate, more or less. I love Loki, I love good Loki and redeemed Loki and misunderstood Loki and just about every incarnation thereof. I needed a villain, and he fit the story.
Above all, please be kind. This was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever written, and it took me years to work up the courage to post it.
18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED
Word Count: 1 - 3785; 2 - 3513; 3 - 1068
In Case You Missed It:
ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist
Shadows and Pills: Part 1 Preview
Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all.
Alexa comes away with a shadow.
In the weeks following the disaster, the public equally lauds and decries the Avengers, but while their opinions are divided over the heroes, the villain is universally denounced as nothing short of Satan himself, and the city throws an actual celebration the day Thor takes Loki back to Asgard to face the justice of their people.
Alexa, having not turned on her television since the day she got home from the hospital, ignores the boisterous celebrants and goes about her shopping, earbuds firmly in place, frown lines now permanently etched between her eyes and around her pinched lips.
“Routine will help you through some of the worst days,” her therapist tells her during one session. “Something familiar and safe to retreat to when the flashbacks are the worst. Just give it a try,” he adds at her disbelieving grimace.
And so she sets a routine.
Morning Routine: wake up. Ignore alarm, lie in bed an extra thirty minutes or so. Shower. Pretend to eat breakfast. Take meds (this one she never skips or shirks). Find something to wear. Stare at it for another ten minutes. Eventually get dressed. Contemplate keys for another fifteen minutes. Leave the goddamned apartment already.
Her routine has varying results, although she does admit to her therapist that life is marginally more bearable with the routine than without.
“It’s nice to have something to look forward to for the next day.”
Her therapist can’t quite hide his grimace at her flat, deadened tone, but she’s not being sarcastic or rude. She finds that going to bed at night is a trifle easier when she knows what’s going to happen the next day.
“So, who are we up to today?” the doctor asks, switching the subject with awkward abruptness. It’s been six weeks since Hell came to New York, and during their twice-weekly meetings, her therapist suggests going through each of the people she saw die in front of her that day, to get closure...or say goodbye...or something.
Sometimes Alexa wonders whether he just wants to hear the details for his own perverse pleasure.
“Brenda.”
Alexa robotically begins to list the personal details she knows...knew...about her floor manager. Unlike the mail room intern she discussed at their last meeting, the list for Brenda goes on for a while. She’s worked with Brenda since she started at the company, learning most of what she knows about her current job from the woman.
Brenda was kind, sharply intelligent, and mothering to everyone under her supervision, and yet she did it in a way that didn’t make anyone uncomfortable. She balanced work and a family long and well enough to both receive regular promotions within the company and also, very recently, become a new grandmother.
The backs of Alexa’s eyes sting as she remembers the photo Brenda showed her not twenty minutes before part of the building collapsed on top of half the department. Her jaw locks as the scene plays before her eyes again, the explosions and shrieks of metal drowning out the shrieks of the people only five feet away.
She closes her eyes, but there’s no pause button to freeze the scene, no power button to shut the images off as she turns in her memory and runs, making it to the stairwell and slamming the door open, turning back and screaming for Brenda, straining her eyes through the smoke and dust and mountains of falling debris. Brenda is running, reaching for Alexa even though she seems miles away, and then one of the file cabinets is thrown over, propelled faster and harder than should be possible, and...and…
And then Brenda isn’t running anymore. Her outstretched hand, the only part of her that wasn't crushed by office furniture, spasms against the ruined carpet, as if it thinks it’s reached its destination and is grasping at its savior.
Alexa’s hand tingles, and her fingers lock into her palm, nails fitting easily into the little grooves she dug there weeks ago. No blood, she only dug that deep once, but the furrows remain as permanently etched there as the frown lines on her face.
Alexa struggles to take in a labored breath as her therapist watches her with the appropriate amount of professional, clinical sympathy and detachment.
“Do your counting,” he reminds her.
How could she forget? She counts to three once, letting a breath out at the end. She repeats the process twice more, ignoring her therapist’s brief flash of annoyance at her departure from his “system.” But, for once, he doesn’t ask her why she has to deviate from the standard one-to-ten method and just lets her do the goddamned counting in peace.
Small blessings.
“Have you had any flashbacks since our last session?”
She stares at him, letting her gaze rest heavy and disbelieving as she turns his question over. She’s been averaging about five flashbacks a day, triggered by everything from accidentally brushing a stranger on the sidewalk (Jim knocking past her to get down the stairs just as the door on the stairwell behind her explodes inward; more shrieking, then falling, then dark) to lifting a carton of cold milk from the shelf at the grocery (that impossibly cold hand grasping hers, pulling her up from the rubble, bringing her face to face with...something...something in the...shadows, it was so dark there, and…).
“Yeah. I’ve had some flashbacks since our last session.”
“What sort of coping strategies did you use?”
He’s not even meeting her eyes now, just getting notes down on that damned pad. The scratching of his pen grates into her bones, and Alexa grits her teeth as she glares.
One, two, three.
Breathe.
One, two, three.
Breathe.
One, two, three.
Breathe.
She slowly recites the list of strategies he suggested during a previous session, none of which have proven particularly effective at lessening the frequency of the episodes, but most of which she grudgingly admits provide some slight relief afterwards and allow her to refocus her mind on the present rather than dwelling in the memory.
“And the shadows?”
How can he get this wrong every time when he’s taking all those fucking notes?
“Still just the one.”
“Has it manifested in any other way? Asked you to do anything? Do you feel different in any way when you notice it?”
There’s a distasteful eagerness to his words that always turns Alexa’s stomach, and she has to physically bite into her tongue to keep from asking what kind of bonus he gets for each symptom she shows of different mental illnesses.
“It’s just there sometimes. I..” She hesitates, feeling vaguely nauseated from his questions, but she has to be honest, right? Because, ultimately, it’s his job to help her, and she’s never going to get through this by hiding symptoms. He can’t help fix her if he doesn’t know what’s broken, and he did suggest the routine, so, okay, he gets a pass for this one.
“I still mostly only see it before I’m falling asleep. I’ve started seeing it in the late afternoon, as well, not often, but sometimes. Always in shadows that are already there. It doesn’t talk or anything, doesn’t really have any face or form except for vaguely person-shaped, but it...it watches me. And it’s...denser than it was last week. More...it’s thicker than it was, like when you see wispy clouds kind of...gather and turn into storm clouds?”
He nods, his pen whizzing over the legal pad he records their session notes on. “So, you feel threatened by the shadow? Like it’s storm clouds gathering to...what? It feels menacing?”
But, like most of the questions Alexa fences in this office, this one isn’t easily answered.
“It feels like it’s watching me, waiting for something. I don’t know what. I don’t...I don’t know if it’s menacing, exactly. Like, it feels potentially dangerous, but I can’t tell if it’s for me. I don’t know. It’s just...darker and more there this week, but it doesn’t do anything, and I don’t feel different, and it doesn’t speak to me. I. Don’t. Hear. Voices.”
She clips off each word at the end of her rant separately and precisely, repeating her counting in her head, and she forces her breathing to even out. The doctor is just doing his job, he’s just trying to help, he’s supposed to ask these questions, it’s how he helps-
“Hmm. I’ll have to consider that between now and our next meeting. In the meantime, go ahead and move up to the next dosage step with your meds, keep it on the escalating schedule we set.”
You set, she thinks mutinously for a moment before internally shaking her head. She nods, biting her tongue once more. She’s going to have a permanent indentation there as well, at this rate.
“Any side effects? Itching, swelling, difficulty breathing? Any unreasonable lethargy or detachment?”
“I mean...I don’t really have anything to attach to at this point, so…”
He frowns at her again, and she wonders if he’s going to crank up her dosage two notches instead of one.
“Are you having what you feel are typical emotional responses to everyday stimuli? Have you laughed or smiled at anything yet? How long has it been since you emotionally felt anything besides the frustration and panic?”
And, somehow, this question is difficult, too. She struggles through, trying to find a balance between honesty and not making herself look like a complete failure who can't function in life. She doesn’t help her case when she admits she hasn’t followed many of his suggestions beyond establishing a routine.
“Not even exercising?” he asks, his disappointment palpable.
When she silently shakes her head, her lips pinched tight against his disapproval, he shakes his head with a sigh that sings of ultimate betrayal. Instead of berating her as usual, the doctor frowns and looks down at his notes, considering them silently. He clicks his tongue against his teeth for a moment before switching over to end-session mode, robotically delivering his closing remarks, his typical reminders to keep her meds on a strict schedule at the exact time every day, to avoid all alcohol and unprescribed drugs, to keep her diet as clean and unprocessed as possible, and to get plenty of exercise. Even this last bit is delivered with a sharply clinical detachment, as if she has driven him to the brink of her own psychoses by stubbornly refusing to accept his help.
There is a short, silent moment between them where they refuse to look at each other, the doctor perusing his notes once more while Alexa examines the wrinkles creased into her jeans from lack of folding. The doctor flips pages over in his legal pad and slaps the cover shut sharply, breaking the standoff with one last, dismissive comment.
“Routine, Alexa. Stick to the routine. If it’s what brings you comfort, if that's the one thing you’re taking away from these sessions that actually helps, then stick with it. I’ll see you Thursday afternoon.”
….
Her afternoons vary, according to her therapy schedule. Her sessions take roughly an hour and a half, so that’s one block of time she doesn’t have to try and fill. On the days she isn’t having her skull cracked open, she can sometimes force herself to work on the files her company sends her way. Grunt work, brainless stuff that any first-year intern could do, but it keeps her on the payroll and covered by health insurance until the doctor clears her to return to the office.
Not that there’s an office to return to yet.
Grocery shopping for food she’ll pretend to eat later, making excuses to stay out of the apartment a little longer each day, watching the shadows of the buildings grow darker and longer until the sunlight disappears from the streets.
And the other shadow, the darkest of all, thick and solid against the brick and stone, pacing her, keeping track as she wanders through the broken city blocks. Sometimes she walks a little faster, pretends to not notice the black spot. Sometimes she pretends it’s keeping her company. With the most conversation she’s had in weeks taking place in her therapy sessions, she occasionally finds the imaginary company of her shadow stalker to be more pleasant than menacing.
Occasionally.
Eventually, though, she and her chimerical companion head back to the silent, encroaching walls of her apartment to begin the night routine.
........
The rest of Part 1 coming soon.
If you would like to be added to or removed from a tag list, please let me know.
#mcu#mcu loki#loki#original character#original female character#rape#torture#abuse#self harm#mental illness#mental instability#stalking#supernatural horror#prescription drugs#eventual prescription drug abuse#ptsd#flashback sof tragedy#starving oneself#isolation#physical exhaustion#mental exhaustion#mental spiraling#mental abuse#emotional abuse#gaslighting#flashbacks#denial#self neglect#negative depiction of mental health professionals#hallucinations
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