#Can you believe I came up with the name for 'second chance' as I wrote this?
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Crater City Detailed WIP Intro
=== ⋙ ᴄᴇɴꜱᴏʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ ɪɴ ᴛᴀɢꜱ ⋘ ===
genre: sci-fi, post-apocalyptic, comedy, action/adventure
features: blood and gore sprinkled with haha-segments, 1st person shifting, unreliable narrators, mental illness, chaos vs order, robots, discussion of free will, and cults
=== ⋙ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʀᴀɴꜱᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ... ⋘ ===
Welcome to Crater City, one of Neo-civilization's most prosperous capitals in the country! Known for its beautiful, shifting emerald skies, top-of-the-line healthcare, and advancements in robotics, it's no wonder why many Americans call this city their home.
Here in Crater City, we understand that each citizen is unique in their own circumstances. That is why we offer Second Chance: a procedure developed and patented under renowned robotics engineer Dr. Melony String. When the world isn’t forgiving, remember that you still deserve a Second Chance.
Remember to forward any anomalies to your nearest police station and to social distance from those you suspect are irradiated.
We bid you safe travels, Dear Consumer!
=== ⋙ ᴇɴᴅ ᴛʀᴀɴꜱᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ⋘ ===
Story Summary
In post-apocalyptic Crater City, Elijah is attacked by a group of military-grade bots one night, seemingly out of the blue. Once his best friend, Blair, finds out about the attack, he vows to do whatever it takes to avenge Elijah. Whatever it takes. Between the pair’s tumultuous relationship and the dark secrets that lurk around the city, it seems as though there is more to Elijah’s attack than everyone lets on.
Main Characters
Blair (he/him)
23, carjacker "uber" driver. Quit his job as a Computer Hardware Engineer because it was “too boring,” much to his boss’ dismay. Vows to do whatever it takes to avenge his best friend even if that involves getting his hands dirty. Impulsive, charismatic, wears his heart on his sleeve, can be quite vulgar, tends not to take things very seriously. Special ability: can talk someone’s ear off for hours at a time.
Quote: “Oh, so you're mad at me because I wanted to avenge my best friend? Excuse me for thinking my best friend’d wanna help me dispose of the body!”
Elijah (he/him)
24, employee at an arcade, electronics store, and a fast food restaurant. After being kicked out of his home at 18, Elijah struggles to make ends meets, and is ultimately threatened to become repurposed after falling into overwhelming debt. Overthinker, blushes easily, non-confrontational, very resourceful, dresses more intimidating than he actually is. Special ability: can drink up to 7 energy drinks in one day.
Quote: “Blair, you can't just tell a man—who's clearly out of it—to ‘suck it up’ because the world has already ended!”
Darcy (he/him)
40, mayor of Crater City. Notable for his schemes and cover-ups by media outlets; citizens either love him or hate him. Created specifically for the role to guide humanity out of a second dark age, Darcy will do whatever it takes to fulfill this role, stopping at nothing—or no one. Confident in his success, dramatic, pragmatic, highly intelligent, believes the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Special ability: very convincing.
Quote: “Oh, that struck a nerve? Once I take that toy away from you, I’ll scale you and gut you like a fish. Don’t test me, Blair.”
Frasier (he/him)
37, mayor’s receptionist & assistent. Has ties to very important people. Made an irresistible deal with Darcy that would allow Frasier a way to protect those he loves. Recruited due to his complicated ties to Darcy. Affable, chatty yet reserved, unpredictable, great bargainer, does not settle for less. Special ability: can draw out a lot of information from someone he just met.
Quote: “Since it’s so difficult for you to wrap your mind around, let me spell it out for you: our relationship is no more than a business transaction. And I’d like to keep it that way, Darcy.”
Melony (she/her)
39, robotics engineer, founder of Second Chance. Once a little girl captivated by the limitless (yet dangerous) possibilities the now-illegal gene-therapy offered, now a renowned scientists who continues her search for solutions for people like her to have a second chance in the ever-evolving, post-apocalyptic world. Determined, wears lab coats for “the aesthetic,” free spirit, has many clones of herself lying around, often forgets there’s a Board of Ethics. Special ability: has found a way to disable her nerves so that she can experiment on herself.
Quote: “You interrupted my breakfast this morning, so I’m going to interrupt your board meeting!”
Rose (she/her)
25, designer or perhaps marketing chief of Second Chance. Recruited due to her ties to Melony and her bold, daring ideas. Elijah’s childhood best friend. Spunky, very big personality, huge empath, competitive, risk-taker, has garnered a lot of respect. Special ability: can effectively translate Blair-isms into layman's terms.
Quote: “This is a ludicrous idea! Let’s do it.”
...
🚗 Want to rot your brain with each sporadic Crater City post? Join the taglist! Maybe I'll finish this wip someday, who knows! (ask to be added/removed):
@writeouswriter @lyra-brie @digitalsatyr23 @talesfromtheunknowable @joswriting @mysticstarlightduck @savvyminnow
...
And there may be more information to come in the future, so I will update this as I see fit!
#mentions of gore#I have been saving this Bad Boy for weeks#I just had to get around completing everyones profiles!#Am working on organizing my blog very soon!#Can you believe I came up with the name for 'second chance' as I wrote this?#crater city wip#my wip#my writing#wip intro#writing intro#writing community#introduction#scifi#post apocalyptic#writeblr community#i finally added the taglist bc i just remembered oops
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BEAUTIFUL BOY! — LUKE HUGHES
au masterlist
author’s note: i wrote this after waking up from my high nap LMAOO shh anyway listen to beautiful boy to enhance the experience ! this can be read as a stand alone but i recommend reading my au for context.
ynuser
liked by lhughes_06, jackhughes, kiellestapa and 462 others
ynuser my first baby. my entire world. rowden quintin hughes, you came into the world a 7 pound beautiful curly haired blonde baby. it felt like yesterday when i first held you close to me. thank you for making me a mother rowdy, happy 2nd birthday my beautiful boy.
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jackhughes please let me and quinny meet him!
↳ quinnhughes LITERALLY.
lhughes_06 happy birthday my special boy.
markestapa HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THEO’S BEST BUDDD
kiellestapa it seems like it was just yesterday when i saw you coming out the delivery room with rowdy. happy birthday rowden quintin hughes, you are so loved my boy.
↳ ynuser he loves his auntie so much 🥲🫶🫶
When it was Rowden’s second birthday, Luke decided he was finally going to let his brothers see his son. It was a mutual decision between him and his girlfriend, they knew how much Jack and Quinn wanted to see Rowdy.
Luke had regretted leaving Y/N that day back in London so he could pursue his hockey career at Umich. If he could travel back in time, he would’ve swallowed his dreams and stayed with her. But he couldn’t—so he was going to spend the rest of his life making it up to her and Rowden for being absent the first year of his life.
“Oh my god.” The voice of Jack breaks Luke out of his daze. He watches as his older brother picks up Rowden, who, despite being a very fussy kid when it came to strangers, smiled contently in his uncle’s hold. “Hi buddy!”
Luke could’ve sworn he saw tears in his brother’s eyes. Quinn, who was currently waiting his turn in the back, wiped his eyes with his sweater, not wanting to cry in front of his younger brothers.
“I cant believe you named him Rowden Quintin Hughes,” Quinn says, his face converted into a frown, only because he was on the verge of sobbing.
“Hey, don’t cry,” Y/N pats him on the back, giving him a comforting smile. “You and Jack have always been there for me back at Hogwarts. You two were like my older brothers. The least I could do is name Rowdy after you.”
“We love you Y/N,” Jack says, his lips wobbling. “Thank you for putting up with our brother.”
His words make the four of you laugh. Rowden, sensing your happiness, claps his hand, his smile ever so prominent. You give him a kiss on the cheek, glad your family was one again, and you knew Rowden would grow up very loved.
ynuser
liked by lhughes_06, quinnhughes and 770 others
ynuser also happy 1 year anniversary to my hot hockey boyfriend, lukey warren hughes. thank you for giving me a chance that day back at hogwarts when i asked you out after your quidditch game. we’ve been together for 4 years but you had to go pursue your dreams at umich, and i honestly couldn’t be more proud of where you’re at now. you’re one of the most stubborn, moody, and charming person i know. the best hockey and quidditch player, and most importantly, the best daddy to rowden. keep winning baby, go blue!! 💙
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lhughes_06 happy 1 year anniversary baby. i thank the gods everyday for sending you to me after my quidditch game. thank you for putting up with my mood swings and hotheaded self. love u and rowdy more than words can express.
↳ ynuser 🥹🥹
jackhughes okaaaay fine i admit you two are pretty cute..
kiellestapa MY OTP
quinnhughes
liked by jackhughes, lhughes_06, ynuser, and 2,432 others
quinnhughes uncle life is pretty cool.
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jackhughes pretty cool? SUPER cool.
jackhughes we love rowdy
↳ quinnhughes yes we do
ynuser rowdy loves his uncles!!
↳ lhughes_06 he likes me better.
lhughes_06
liked by ynuser, jackhughes, markestapa and 1,500 others
lhughes_06 the monster’s gone, he’s on the run, and your daddy’s here.
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ynuser beautiful boy.
markestapa best new dad
↳ lhughes_06 love ya buddy.
#slytherin!luke (ghostfacd version)#luke hughes#luke hughes imagine#luke hughes blurb#luke hughes x reader#luke hughes imagines#luke hughes fic#luke hughes x y/n#luke hughes fluff#luke hughes fanfic#luke hughes x you#luke hughes x oc#jack hughes#quinn hughes#nhl blurb#nhl fluff#nhl x y/n#nhl insta edit#umich fic#umich blurbs
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Hiya!!! I was wondering if I could request what would happen if Yuu accidentally ignited a Snow Ball War at NRC? It could be HCs or imagines with whoever you want!
Snowball War
Summary: Gn!reader
A/N: idk where you guys live, but for the last two weeks, I've lived IN THE FUCKING ARCTIC. Today it finally reached 30° after two weeks of 14° and lower, and snow storms, and freezing rain, so I wrote this to celebrate a liveable temperature where I could actually see road for once.
“I have an idea.”
“Ah shit, not that look. Y/N, whatever he is about to ask you, say no,” Ace warned.
You looked up from your lunch in confusion. Epel had just slid over, with a wicked look in his eye. A look that normally came from Ace. And if Ace was telling you it would be bad, then it would surely be bad.
“I've never done anything wrong in my life!”
In the seat next to you, Jack snorted, but didn't say anything.
“Listen, Y/N, my best friend, one who I'd do anything for,” he pleadingly took your hand, full charm on. “I never ask for anything.”
This time you snorted.
“I just want this one thing.”
“What is it, Epel?” You asked tiredly.
“Well, you know how it's snowing? I need you to pretend we are having a snowball fight, so that I can “accidentally” hit Vil with a snowball.”
You yanked your hand back, and went back to your lunch.
“Just listen! He's gonna be on his internship next year, so I'll never get another chance!”
“Ask Ace.”
“No way, I choose to live.”
“It has to be you!” Epel pleaded. “You're the only one who can do it and not get killed! He likes you!”
“He sure has a funny way of showing it…”
“Look, we just need to throw a couple snowballs at each other, then when Vil walks through the courtyard, I'll accidentally miss you, and hit him. Then while I'm giving a fake apology, you're gonna hit me in the face with a snowball, and he'll see I'm telling the truth.”
“First off, he'll kill me for enabling you, because that's such bullshit that he won't believe. Second off,” you threw your hands up in frustration, “my aim is not good enough to hit you in the face. But you know who's is?”
You stared pointedly at Ace, who vehemently shook his head. “Stop trying to drag me into this!”
“Y/N,” Epel pleaded, taking your hand again, and making the saddest expression you'd ever seen. “Please.”
Jack groaned next to you. “Oh sevens.”
And you knew why he groaned. Because there was no way you were going to say no to that face.
….
Your fingers were starting to go numb from throwing snow.
“Epel, are you sure he's coming?” You whined.
“He has to come this way for film club! He's just, probably delayed or something.”
You grumbled as you leaned down to make what felt like the 300th snowball.
You heard a not so subtle cough from Epel, and knew that the devil himself had arrived. You subtly nodded, and threw a snowball at him. As planned, Epel threw one that was way over your shoulder. You heard the disgusted “ugh” as Epel began his fake apology, then aimed at Epel's face.
Unfortunately, just like you warned him, your aim was not good. It sailed past him, and hit a certain suited someone square in the back. Azul, flanked by the twins, slowly turned towards you, a cold smile on his face.
“Take care of that, please,” he said, and you stumbled backwards as you watched the twins make their way towards you.
“Shit, Epel-” you called, but he was too busy getting lectured. You watched Floyd pick up an armful of snow, and start running towards you, Jade preparing to snipe you with snowballs after the initial attack.
You ran, but slipped on an ice patch, falling straight into a body, who was just as unfortunate as you. The both of you went down, just as Floyd dropped the snow pile on the both of you.
“What in Seven’s name-” Jamil shouted from under you, and the snow pile. Only to get hit square in the face with Jade's sniper snowball.
“I've always wanted to do this!” Kalim giggled, still on his feet, and untouched with snow. He made a snowball, and threw it at the next unfortunate passerby who walked through the doorway.
Poor Idia…
He squeaked and hid behind Ortho, whispering something into the cyborg's ear. Ortho 's eyes brightened in excitement, and you watched in horror as his arm turned into a gun of sorts, and started rocketing snowballs every which way. You snatched Jamil's and Floyd's wrists, and dragged them behind a bench.
….
It hadn't taken long for some teams to form. Any poor soul who wandered into the courtyard was forced to take cover as snowballs were rained down upon them. This might have ended hours ago. Except Ortho was trigger happy, to the extent that Idia was hiding with your team, and Floyd had betrayed five different teams already. The other reason this wasn't over, was each team got "lucky" enough to have at least one person who had a vendetta against someone else.
You got lucky enough to be stuck with Leona.
Your team consisted of Leona, Jack, Idia, Jamil, and Trey. An odd mix to be sure.
“Snowball,” Leona grunted, Jack quickly handing him the requested snowball. He threw it with astounding speed and accuracy, hitting Cater square in the chest, hard enough that he released an oomph that was audible across the courtyard. Poor Cater hadn't meant to hit Leona, he was aiming for-
“Please! I won't punish any of you! Just let me go back to my dorm!” Riddle pleaded, his arms in the air in show of peace. He was knocked over by a barrage of snowballs, from Ortho and various other participants.
“Snowball,” Leona grunted.
“Oomph! Leona, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hit you!” Cater sobbed from across the way.
“Snowball.”
“Oomph!”
You grabbed Idia and Trey by the collar, bringing them in closer to you.
“We gotta come up with a plan,” you said barely above a whisper. Your bench was crowded, and not very safe from snowballs. Then again, it was better than the tree that Ace's team was stuck behind.
“Like what?” Jamil grumbled.
“Damn it!” You heard an unrecognizable cry, as Floyd slid back behind your bench.
“I'm back on your team!” Floyd giggled happily. “What are we doing?”
“Plotting our escape,” Trey said with a tired laugh.
Floyd pursed his lips. Then threw a snowball straight at Trey's face, bursting into laughter and rushing to join a different team.
“Wonderful,” Trey muttered, wiping his glasses off on his shirt.
“We're gonna die here,” Idia whined, burying his head in his arms.
“We could use Shroud as a shield. His baby brother wouldn't dare hit him,” Jamil offered up.
Idia glared at Jamil. “Aren't you supposed to smart! If that was true, why would I be hiding behind a bench like you dweebs?”
“Fu fu fu, what do we have here?” Lilia's upside down face suddenly appeared in the middle of your group. You popped up in shock, and in that moment, were slammed in the back of your head by a snowball.
You turned to glare at the perpetrator. Of those who had a vendetta, Rook seemed to be out for you. He smiled pleasantly, as he aimed another one at you, before Jamil yanked you back down.
“Lilia, we need to get out of here. Can you use that big brain of yours to help us?” Idia cried, at the bargaining stage of the stages of grief.
“Hm…” Lilia tilted his head thoughtfully, then poofed out of sight in magenta smoke.
Moments later, Malleus and all of his attendants walked out into the courtyard.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” you muttered.
“Why? They're our back up, right?” Idia muttered.
“No. I very much doubt it,” you heaved out. You peaked up over the edge of the bench, where Malleus made eye contact, and gave a small smile. Lilia waved just as Malleus threw the snowball at you. You ducked at the last moment, and-
“Fuck you, lizard!” Leona leapt over the bench, threw a snowball at Malleus, then tackled him to the ground, the two of them wrestling in a snow pile. Lilia looked on as though this was the proudest moment of his life.
Floyd flopped back over to your group.
“‘m bored. I wanna break out with you guys.”
“That was fast,” Jack muttered, though you weren't sure if he was referring to Leona, or Floyd.
“Well, there's our distraction. You're from a dorm that's all about strategy, come up with something!” You snapped at Jamil.
He glared, and sighed tiredly. “Realistically, I can't leave before Kalim is done.”
The rest of you stared at him, unimpressed. He sighed.
“But if you still want a plan, then use Jack and Shroud as a shield.”
“I already told you, Ortho is gonna-”
“Did I say shield? I meant sacrifice.”
“Fine with me!” You jumped to your feet, yanking Idia up in front of you. Trey realized you were already moving, and quickly joined you as you pulled a shouting Idia along the courtyard. Behind you, you saw Floyd trying to wrestle Jack into being his shield. It was going badly. Not your problem anymore.
You made it halfway across the courtyard, when a hand grabbed your ankle. You looked down, to see Deuce staring up at you.
“Take me with you,” he croaked.
You reached out to grab his hand, but startled as Trey started moving you and your shield with even more fervor.
“Wait, Deuce!” you cried.
“Who?” Trey said, his face the picture of innocence, even as he fought to keep back a vicious smirk.
“Big brother!” Ortho giggled.
“Ortho, wait-” Idia cried, and you were all shocked as chunks of snow rose and fell above his shoulders from the quickly pulverized snowballs.
“Big brother! You're supposed to throw a snowball back!”
You finally reached the door, Trey reaching behind him and turning the knob. He pulled you in behind him, as Idia dove to the ground. Trey quickly slammed the door.
You were going to ask whether you should try to save Idia, but he looked at you in concern. He gently grabbed your hands in his own, rubbing them between his.
“Your hands are so cold. There's hot cocoa in my dorm.”
“Hot cocoa,” you muttered, as your fingers started to burn from the lingering frostbite.
“And I can make some warm bread…”
“Oh,” you whispered in awe, slowly following him as he walked backwards to the mirror chamber.
“The kitchen is very warm…”
“Yeah…”
You heard a snowball hit the door, and were nearly pulled out of the cozy hypnosis that Trey had put you under, but he whispered.
“Heartslaybul has very soft blankets.”
And then you were right back under.
Tag list- @eccedentesiast-sapphic @leoll
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Tony stark x reader
Reader is having anxiety after her crush won't message her all day til later Tony gets upset and the team has to tell reader he has feelings for her and he hates how she's being treated
Thor's Gossiping Mouth Helped This Time
Laying on the long couch in the Stark tower living room i had been staring at my phone for who knows how many hours. I had recently went on a date with my current crush and he said he would text me later...except it's been almost two weeks and I have gotten no response. I normally didn't get this worried about relationships since I was an Avenger and had really no time for one. But the waiting is killing me right now.
"Y/n, how long are you going to keep staring at that phone?' Lifting my head up I saw Tony enter the room in a stained work shirt since he had been down in his lab working on his suits.
Laying my phone in my lap I sniped at him. "I just thought he would have messaged me back already. I thought the date had went so well."
"I don’t see the need for that tiny magical device when you have someone in front of you that care for you, Lady Y/n." Thor came from the kitchen with a big sandwich in his hands.
Tony whipped his head around at the God. "Nobody asked you, Lord Shakespeare!"
"I am not this Shakespeare you speak of. My name is Thor and I didn't need your permission to speak when I can tell that you have feelings for Lady Y/n." Thor points his freehand in my direction on the couch.
I was only half paying attention to the bickering going on between the two grown adult men. Holding the phone in my hands I couldn’t stop the negative thoughts that were being to form in my mind. I had decided that it was time I tried my hand at getting a boyfriend. I loved being an Avenger but I wanted a life away from the superhero life even if it was only for a few hours. "Why weren't you text back, Dustin?" I mumbled under my breath seeing the time on my phone read 11:58pm, two minutes till midnight. Meaning I had been waiting by the phone all dang day and....absolutely nothing.
"Shakespeare wrote plays and poetry. Seriously what did they teach you on whatever planet you came from?" Tony covered his face with his hands.
Thor had nearly finished the whole footlong sub in a matter of seconds talking with his mouth full but Tony still heard what he had said. "If Shakespeare was this great writer. Maybe you should see if he can give you some tips to get over your fears and just tell Lady Y/n how madly in love with her you are."
"Frustrating god man." Tony stomped, brushing past him and left around the corner.
I locked my phone screen hearing the bedroom door slammed behind him. Getting to my feet I sat my phone on the table following after the billionaire and man who declared he was Iron Man to the whole world. Standing outside his bedroom door I paused before pushing it opened seeing him laying on the bed facing the window. Crossing the room I sit down touching his shoulder. "Tony, are you okay?"
"Thor needs to keep his mouth shut. He doesn't have the right to tell how I feel about you." He grumbled under his breath clearly annoyed.
I slowly pushed him onto his back so he was looking at me instead of the wall. "And how do you feel about me, Stark?" I needed to know what was going through his head. He normally just said whatever he was thinking but now he was holding back from me. Which I didn't care for...I thought we were closer than that. Unless my feelings towards him were wrong.
"It doesn’t matter Y/n. You're already dating that uh...Dustin guy. I've lost my chances." The billionaire covered his face with his hands trying to hide.
Removing his hands from his face I shook my head retracting what he believed. "Tony, I am not dating anyone. Dustin and I went on one date and clearly he doesn't feel the same way since he hasn't messaged me in over a week. So I say hell to him cause I only care about you...I always have."
"You're not joking, Y/n. Because if you are I will make Dum-E kick you out of my house right now." Tony sat up on the pillows behind his head hands in his lap.
Rather than answer him verbally I leaned forward pressing my lips onto his. He pauses briefly before he released what was happening and he kissed back. Tony wrapped his arms around my waist tugging me against his chest and my fingers threaded themselves into his black locks. O moaned into the kiss when one of his hands ran through my hair making it a mess until we needed air. "I think that proves I'm not joking quite good don’t you think?"
"I might need some more convincing just to be sure. You know preforming issues and all." He chuckled drawing me in for another deep kiss. Wrapping my arms around his neck we fell backwards onto the pillows. Rest assured Tony wasn't angry over Thor's big mouth anymore.
Comments really appreciated ❤️
#tony stark has a heart#tony stark x female reader#tony stark#tony stark fluff#tony stark imagine#tony stark masterlist#tony stark x fem!reader#tony stark x reader#tony stark x you#tony stark x y/n#tony stark x reader fluff#thor odinson#ask box is open for anything#comments really appreciated#robert downey junior#robert downey jr#marvel masterlist#marvel x reader#marvel x you
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Hello! Im the anon who asked if r1999 are open, can you do a scenario or a headcanons of click (with a fem reader) who finally meet his lover again?
They been together back then since 1940's when Click was alive. reader knows click 's death. But then when vertin asked reader to join her journey, reader finally see their lover.
Click // Back in the 40s with you
Note// fem! Reader. She is 19yo like Click. angst to fluff long oneshot,,, thank you for requesting 🥺
---
It was unexpected- really.
It was not even the right time, too.
You and Click were lovers before the world conflict became very notable... You were both happy together until you had to acknowledge that it's you guys' turn to serve for the country as well... help write the history and the legacy alongside the others. So you both started to barely see one another as you do your respective jobs.
You were one of the million women who worked as a factory worker in defence production during the 1940s, the years dominated by the war...
He was a photographer from the army who had to stay on the battlefield. You know very well how bad the war is as you have a friend who lost her husband by the war. So everyday you were always afraid, knowing how Click has to linger in places that obviously have slim chances of surviving...
Even sadder when this time, the photographer doesn't always live after, through these circumstances.
All you could do was pray and write letters to him as you contribute to the workforce...
The letters were sometimes not so long, it gets shorter as the days go by, and the war going through its climax and more problems happening on the way as well. Yet, knowing that each letter is safely delivered is enough for you to reassure you that Click is still alive.... Until one day.
By the time you came back to work- the manager suddenly motioned you to come talk with her, having a letter in her hand as they have... this look, the look of bad news.
You just... You just couldn't believe it.
As you both find themselves in the office from anyone's sight, you find yourself slowly shattering the seconds of reading the letter report given to you.
He died... Click died in action.
...You crumbled in your hands as your boss gave you small pats on your back.
.
.
.
.
'Back in the 40s...'
An old letter, the latest you wrote to Click, said,
'It was one of the happiest times of my life... Until I lost you to them."
That's what the letter started. There was more to say in that letter. Every single word carrying a huge meaning to Click.
Vertin handed it to him so he could read it. She happened to find it somewhere, noticing the letter addressed to his name abadoned in the middle of nowhere during the patrols.
"Y/N" was written as the sender's name.
'I'm not sure when I will see you again, but I'm just hoping that in our next life, we won't be as miserable as we were... And live together as much as we desire, my love.'
These words bring a familiar, tender feeling he haven't recalled for a while.
'I miss you, Click.... I always do.'
'I just hope you're out there and find this. Read this with your heart. Prove them that you're not dead.... Just as you promised me to come back home.'
He holds these words close to his soul... Even while he's not alive.
'I love you... and I'll find you if I can.
Still yours, Y/N.'
"My Rosie..."
That’s the first thing he muttered once he finished reading. His eyes dull but longing in spirit.
.
.
.
.
.
It's evening...
time to clean up.
You mentally note as you notice the items needed to be put away.
The war is over now, you were just about to pack your tools and head home by yourself.
Unfortunately, no one is going to welcome you at home. Because you already know he's gone... He did well. He was the most bravest man you have ever met and love.
Now you have to move on... How will you do that exactly?
That.. You'll have to ask that yourself later. First, you're going to need to walk back to the house safely before more accidents nay happen-
Strangely, the streets seem less crowded than usual... where are the people? Why aren't the cars moving? The sky seems to turn grey than normal - it looks like it's going to rain.
You heels quickly click on the cement floor as you hurry yourself, gripping on your purse and toolkit-
But suddenly, you notice someone from afar... A lady with light hair, wearing a suit.
I. Interesting...? It's rare to see a woman dressing this way these days.
You stopped in your steps once you start to clearly notice that she's now few steps away from, facing you, AND not seeming to intend to let you go around her.
However... she seems to not intend to harm anyone. She even has another girl beside her, ginger with sophistication, eccentric clothes that resemble an italian writer.
"Greetings," The lady says politely, fixing her calculative eyes on you, "Cloudy day, isn't it?"
By the sound of it, this lady seems to be from the UK... she must have been here for a visit.
"It is, indeed." You nod calmly, not sure what else to do other than thinking about just going home and mourning... Your eyes can notably tell they barely have any sleep, your hair tangled and unkempt from the long hours of work and questionable times to wake up and be called up for duty.
"I'm Vertin," She introduces as you both give each other a handshake, "this is Sonetto, my friend and assistant."
"Hello, Verti, Sonetto..." You lightly lift your eyebrow, wondering who are even these strangers exactly... they seem to need something from you. Noticing closer, they seem to have mature appearances of 16-yeard old girls. About 3 years younger than you.
"Good evening, miss..." Sonetto mindfully greets with a smile, "Excuse us for suddenly appearing... We need your help."
H. Help?
"Help? Oh, sweeties... What's the concern? Sadly, I really need some rest- work has been quite something." You half-heartedly apologize with a sorry smile. They seem to tell how your state doesn't seem to be in a good condition. You then remember you haven't told them your name. So you added along with a light smile at the ginger-haired girl.
"Please, call me Y/N."
That name.
That name seems to ring on Vertin once again.
Yes, this is the woman. The woman Vertin was looking.... The one Click was looking for.
The Timekeeper seem to have arrived at the right time.
"But miss Y/N- this is an emergency... I'm afraid something is going to happen--" Sonetto attempts to asks calmly, despite wearing this quite alarmed look that makes you feel almost worried... almost.
"Oh...? Right when the war have just ended...? What else are they going to do now..." You rub your chin gently as you look down at the pair in thought before your eyes morph into a horrified ones,
"...launch more missiles?"
"Ah- not exactly as we try to convey.." Sonetto shakes her head as seeming unsure of your statement, oh.
"An abnormal storm is going to arrive here anytime soon-" Vertin starts explaining, "Another war is going to happen between humans and arcanists- We need mechanics like you to help us with machinery."
"A... War? You got to be....- How do I know if you're telling the true?"
Sonetto suddenly then quietly gasps, grabbing on Vertin's hand and quickly pointing at what she's looking through your shoulder- You and Vertin followed her gaze only to see... creatures emerging one by one - Fluffly creatures???
Oh- and who are these people with strange helmets??? Are they even humans???
You seem hesitant about it, but noticing the strange anomalies in your surroundings. You seem to tell that these kids aren't really joking as they still have seious looks on their expressions--
A part of yourself wished to live in a more peaceful place, where you would have to sacrifice much just for the people that seem to be suffering the most... why can't you just live comfortably with everyone?
But then, if you decline on joining them- what if that means you have to go back to follow under these women roles this society has been putting you and the others on? Getting married.. get married, being a housekeeper and mother- you don't want to do that, not after you have lost your lover- and losing the reason to dream about a future with him...
You... you honestly don't want to leave your job as a riveter.
As if managing to read your mind, Vertin adds more, "...You'll get to live comfortably with us."
"...?"
"We have friends who have experienced losses as well, You'll get to do whatever you want and live peacefully as long as you get along with everyone."
'Whatever you want'...
...This is new.
It took you some minutes to think, before you eventually accepted Vertin's hand. Shaking it to seal the deal.
You'll get to have more freedom in what you do after that... while trying to move on from him.
.
.
.
Little did you know, it happened to be the contrary.
Just as you tried to start getting used to the suitcase's environment and the wide map of the Ark- there were also lots of people in it... some lingering around portraits, wearing familiar and unfamiliar clothes, people from different accents and places...
You have never thought this many people with such eccentricity would desire to seek shelter in here... but then, you admit, the domain is stylish and cozy for the warm/rainy days.
Vertin instructed you to just stay comfortable at your now new residence. So you comply, sitting on the couch after managing to find an appealing book from one of the shelves.
You were not sure why the young female pair seemed to start acting more suspicious by the time you three arrived - is there something they're hiding from you? What are their plans? Oh dear, there are so many questions you just want to ask today. Making it almost hard to read a book and concentrate on its context.
.
.
.
"Click, I need your time for a moment," Vertin calls out calmly to the ghost at the room he is in after knocking.
"...." He slowly turns back to Vertin in question before floating begrudgingly towards, wearing the same spooked look in his lifeless orbs.
"I have something to show you... someone who you would like to see." Vertin further explains as she starts to walk while the ghost follows her clueslessly.
"Someone...?" The photographer mutters a bit, puzzled by the sudden arrival of some new recruit- but then why is it him who has to be called to see them..? Would this person be willing to see him?
He doesn't think much before sighing, his camera in a slightly tight grip by the foreign feeling of being seen by someone new... He honestly hasn't moved on from his sweetheart... The person who is willing to see him.
He just doesn't want to, even if he's now a dead man, and you probably have already moved on - well, that's what he tends to believe.
Meanwhile, a kind girl dressed in a bunny outfit, "Bunny Bunny," appeared and served you a drink, which you hesitantly but kindly accepted it - meeting her was pleasantly unexpected... You were just trying out the cool drink - so far, it's pretty refreshing and flavorful.
Just as Bunny Bunny left with her tray, you kept sipping on your drink and take a look on the book... You slowly realize this book is a documentary with pictures...
Some of these pictures are familiar, like that one first picture of a tree with a cat...
You softly furrow your eyebrows before you search something from your pocket- a picture.
The picture Click took and sent you. It looks exactly like the one in the book.
You blink lightly before seeing more pictures as you flip on the pages, some familiar, and some seem to be newer ones.
The more pages of pictures you look, the more your thoughts are starting to connect-
You then immediately flip the book to the last page for any source.
'Pictures taken by Click'
Wait- this is not a typical book-! It's your boyfriend's portfolio report!
These... some of the recent pictures are dated but- the year is quite twitchy....
Your mind is going confused as you close the book carefully, looking at the cover, wondering if Click is missing.... or has been here.
...Is... he here?
Wow, the new design of the cover looks sharp nonetheless. You're so proud of him...
If only... If only he's still here with you.
...
Your silent thoughts were now no longer in your head once you thought that part. You smiled... but that smile seems to not reach your eyes, which seems to be on the verge of tearing up.
...
"Oh Click..." You trembly whispered with your late lover's name, slowly wiping your tears as you laugh quietly, "You really were serious about putting that picture of the tree cat;;;"
"...I was serious." A voice can be heard clearly. Quietly.
...Before the sound of a camera is heard from your right-
You suddenly jumped by the sudden noises before turning around to see who's beside you. The moment your eyes landed on the speaker, your eyes widened as tired, dull eyes staring back at you.
"...Y/N."
"...Click?" You replied back as your breath hitches.
Shocked, you slowly and unsteadily reached your hand out to his transparent face- which... notably seems to penetrate through his cheek, barely sensing something solid other than the chilliness of the room.
"Y/N..." Click seems to leaned down the moment your hand fails to make contact with him.
Nonetheless, he lightly hovered your hand with his as he closed his eyes, trying to imagine the familiar feeling of your soft hands as he sensed the warmth radiating out of you. "You're here."
"Click...,,," You teared up as you look up and down, your mind going crazy as you wonder why you can't even touch your lover-
"He's dead..." Vertin admits as she can be found appearing by the doorway, having a sorry look. "But he surprisingly remembers you ever since the time he came here."
You faced Vertin as she stated that your eyes showed multiple emotions before shifting them towards Click. Who is still busy nuzzling into your warmth. "How long have you been here?"
"A couple of months ago..." Click answered before finally looking up at you. His eyes are dead, but the same love they tend to hold when seeing you.
"Oh, baby.." You breath out, "What have they done to you."
"...A lot of things." Click simply answered as he fiddled with his cameras to look at the picture he took of you in your shocked expression from before, "I miss your pretty face..."
"Now now... - don't go all lovey dovey just yet,,,-" You sobbed softly but still lean your forehead on his lightly, staying closer to him. At least spiritually and visibly.
Your gaze on him softens more by the time you calm yourself, as your dear ghost lover wraps you in his arms loosely. You gently try to brush over Click's lower lip with a thumb despite being unable to feel it, looking at it silently before speaking your heart away.
"Keep loving me, I'll never stop loving you even if it means i can't kiss you now...-"
"...H...Honey..." Click quietly whispers to you, his face unfaltered, but his voice fails to not sound like he's on the verge of tearing up.
*sighs* "Lovebirds..." Vertin can be heard saying this with a hint of amusement.
"We gotta figure out how to make them kiss." Sonetto suggests.
"Good idea."
"G.Girls????"
#reverse 1999 click#r1999 click#click x reader#r1999 x reader#r1999#reverse: 1999 x reader#reverse: 1999#reverse 1999
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Okay so, I wrote the second thing from this post.
Also available in AO3 format.
~*~
It's not that Tech doesn't want to interact with anyone, it's that he's exhausted.
Being reunited with his siblings and finding all of them more or less in one piece (physically if not emotionally) is the only thing he's needed for some time. Now in possession of that, he's ready to sleep for at least ten rotations. Possibly longer. The quality of the surface is negotiable, so long as it's stable. He should eat, though, having not been able to very often since falling from the rail car. Or, so they all convince him. Afterwards he can sleep to his heart's content (and plans to).
Throughout dinner he's quiet, keeps himself present enough to respond if he hears his name or senses the conversation has paused in expectation of a comment. This alone is a struggle, uses up the last of his reserves. Once everyone is clearing off the table and leaving to sleep or otherwise he's ready to crawl into a cramped, uncomfortable rack on the Marauder and pass out.
He does help with cleanup, though, bringing in trays, putting away food. At some point a cup of water appears next to him and he drinks it, continues the chores on a sort of autopilot until Phee settles her hip on the counter and folds her arms.
"You look like you could use some sleep. Maybe, a month or so."
"That will be the minimum I expect," Tech admits. He finishes the water, sets the cup into the sink. A second later he realizes she must have been the one to put it next to him. "Thank you. For the water."
"You're welcome," she says, smiling, warm and tired. There's a strain in her expression he doesn't remember seeing before, isn't sure how to ask about. So he turns to survey the kitchen--hers, sparse and simple since she's on the island so infrequently. There's a bowl of items on the table: a large shell, a feather, a colorful rock, a piece of...
... damaged, tinted transparisteel in a scratched, circular frame...
Tech drifts towards the table, vaguely aware Phee is watching him. She must see what he's noticed, because she says, "Yeah. I...didn't want to get rid of them."
He reaches for the goggles with caution, like they might bite. Here they are, destroyed as he'd expected them to be, left lens smashed, right lens cracked. Dust from the mountainside still coats the band. It's impossible for her to have these. Unless she'd done the unthinkable and gone to Eriadu to look for him?
"Where did you find them," he asks, turning them over in his hands. Somehow the camera housing is still intact. Had they checked it for footage?
"I didn't," she admits, then sighs. "Believe me, I wanted to go to Eriadu, but Shep and Hunter wouldn't let me. Wrecker had them."
Rightfully so, he thinks but doesn't say, because Phee not endangering herself on his behalf is slightly less important than the source of the ugly new dread coalescing in his mind. "Wrecker had these."
"Yeah. They came back with them and--"
Something in her voice has changed. Something he should address. Except there's no time, so he interrupts her. "And where did they get them?"
She blinks, taken aback. "I'm...not sure. They didn't say."
Tech grips them tightly, makes for the door. "We need to talk to them, right now. And Shep."
She follows close on his heels. "Right now?"
"Yes. Immediately."
Her demeanor shifts from uncertain worry to simple determination. "I'll go get Shep."
He registers this vaguely, mind working at a furious pace. Had they really gone back for him? They hadn't said so. But then how had they found the goggles? Chanced across them in a wrecking yard? That seemed unlikely. Bought them off a scavenger?
The Marauder's ramp is still down, the lights on. Omega sits in the entrance, toying with a tablet while their brothers mill around the external storage compartment. This suggests they're trying to sort out sleeping arrangements by putting whatever they can into the compartments. Shep had offered one of the little houses now that lower Pabu was repaired, but Hunter had demured. It's just as well; Tech suspects Crosshair and Omega won't be able to sleep anywhere but on the ship for some time, can't blame them either. It's fortunate either way, as it means they're all still awake.
Omega sees Tech on first, greets him with a tired smile and a wave. Noticing her movement, Wrecker turns, guffaws at Tech. "What, not gonna stay with Phee?"
Tech stops in front of them. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask, "Why would I do that?" but he doesn't have time. None of them do. Just like like when he was dangling from the rail car.
He holds up his broken goggles, which saps the general mood of relaxation from all of them in a moment: Crosshair stares, expression souring; Omega swallows, looks away; Hunter, Echo, and Wrecker all become somber. He'd be sorry if the circumstances were anything but what they are.
"How did you get these?" he asks, searching their faces.
Wrecker grimaces. "Hemlock. He was trying to use them to mess with us." He rubs the back of his neck, murmurs, "Worked pretty well."
The dread hovering in Tech's crystallizes, takes shape. He starts tearing apart the recording device.
Omega slowly stands, walks down the ramp. Hunter watches Tech yank off piece after piece of the device with growing concern. "Tech, what are you--"
"Hemlock," Tech says, interrupting him. He glances up, looks from Wrecker to Hunter for confirmation. "He gave you these."
Echo says, "Yeah." A second later he closes his eyes. "...shit."
"What," Crosshair says, voice gone hard. Omega moves to him, takes one of his hands. Tech hears people approaching; Phee and Shep, he suspects.
He finds it a second later, precisely where he'd expected it to be. It's smaller than the older models he's familiar with, though that's hardly a surprise. Hemlock would have access to the latest equipment.
Tech yanks out the tracking chip, holds it up, throws it to the ground and smashes it under the heel of his boot.
"Fuck," Crosshair says on a sigh.
Phee comes to stand next to Tech, eyes on the fragmented remains. "Tell me that's not what I think it is."
He wishes he could. "It is."
Hesitantly, Shep asks, "What is it?"
"A tracking device," Hunter says. Resignation and defeat darken his features, reminding Tech of leaving Kamino without Crosshair. (That's not happening. Not this time. Not ever again.)
No reactions from the rest of them, not even Shep, just stunned silence. Tech can't stand how no one is moving or speaking, so starts to. "We must evacuate everyone. Immediately."
Phee runs a hand over her face. "Brown Eyes how are we evacuating several hundred people on a moment's notice?" There's a note in her voice he's not heard before: fear, brittle and sharp. It makes him want to...
He's not sure. Do something to fix it, at a minimum. "We'll find a way. We always do."
Echo heads for the ramp. "Well for starters I'll contact Rex. He'll at least have a couple of ships we can load people onto."
"You're sure," Shep says. Tech turns: the despondency in Shep's features is painful to see.
"Yes. That was a low power tracker, but the chances they've not picked up the signal by now are minimal. We must assume they're on their way."
Phee exhales sharply. Just like that, her fear becomes resolve. "Alright. Let's get everyone ready to go. No packing, we just leave." She turns to Shep. "If it doesn't fit in their pockets it has to stay."
Shep sighs, nods. He and Phee take separate exits from the courtyard to round up the various leaders of the refugees for help in spreading the word.
Hunter stares down at the remains of the chip, unmoving. The others watch him with growing worry.
Omega's voice is quiet in the darkening courtyard. "Hunter?"
"What have we done," is all he says.
A sound from within the Marauder catches Tech's attention. One he'd know asleep or half dead, drilled into him via hours of simulator time and countless battles: enemy ships on approach.
Echo leans out of the ship. "They're here."
#star wars#the bad batch#spoilers#tbb tech#phee genoa#tbb hunter#tbb wrecker#tbb Omega#tbb echo#i mean but really spoilers but anyways#trailer speculation fic
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The True Story: An Epistolary Novelette
An intrusive fantasy story for @inklings-challenge
I. Christine Hendry to the proprietor of Wright and Co.
Sir or Madam:
I feel like such a fool for reaching out to you--a stranger whose business card happened to be tucked in the pages of an ancient book on my grandmother's shelf. I don't even know if your shop exists anymore; signs are against it, because I can't find so much as a phone number to contact you by. Nothing but an address and a name: Wright and Co.: Specialists in Rare, Antique, and Nonexistent Books.
That last category is the only reason I'm bothering to write at all. I'm looking for what seems to be a nonexistent book, so I may as well try writing to a shop that may or may not be real.
When I was a little girl, my grandmother read to me from a copy of Song of the Seafolk by Marjorie A. Penrose. It was an American children's fantasy from--I believe--the 1950s, all about a family getting mixed up with mermaids on a tiny Atlantic island. It had beautiful black-and-white illustrations, and language so lyrical that I still remember passages even though I haven't read it in nearly twenty years. My grandmother loved it to bits, and read it to me a dozen times after I came to live with her. I went off to college, and jobs, and travel, and I haven't much thought about that book--or, to be honest, my grandmother--since I left the house.
But now Grandma has a broken hip, and there's no one else to care for her, so I've come back. The moment I stepped back into that house, I found I wanted nothing more than to read that book. To her, if possible. I need to return the favor.
But the book is nowhere to be found. I've searched through all her bookshelves (extensive), closets (messy), and storage boxes (many and varied), to no avail. I resigned myself to the necessity of buying a new copy, but there are no new copies for sale. Or any old copies. None in any library. Not even a hint of its existence online. All my inquiries to cashiers and librarians have been met with blank stares. It seems like no one in the world has even heard of that book except my grandmother and me.
So I write to you from sheer desperation. A cry into the void. If your shop does exist, and you are a real person, is there any chance in the world that you have the book I want? Knowing now how rare the book apparently is, I shudder to think of the price you'd charge, but as long as I don't have to sell any limbs to pay for it, I find myself willing to pay almost any price. Of course, that's assuming you're a real person reading this, and you by some miracle have the book, and you haven't thrown this letter away while sneering at the lunatic who wrote it.
If all those things somehow manage to be true, please write back to me at this address, and I assume we'll be able to arrange some method of payment.
Yours, in desperation,
Christine Hendry
II. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Miss Hendry:
I am pleased to inform you that Wright and Co. does still exist, and it maintains its specialty of supplying books that can be found nowhere else. It is unsurprising that you were unable to locate a second copy of the book, because a glance through our sales records show that the book was purchased from this very shop in 1968 (which is likely why your grandmother was in possession of our business card), and comes from our specialized stock of books that exist nowhere else in the world.
These books tend to appear on our shelves at unpredictable times, and rarely in batches of more than one or two, so I feared I would be unable to grant your request. Yet I have sometimes found that these books appear in response to a need, so I searched the shelves, and to my delight, found the book tucked into a corner of our children's section.
The books from our special selection sometimes wander back to our store's shelves when they are no longer needed by their purchasers, and it appears that this is what happened in this case, because the book I found bears signs of ownership by a Mrs. Dorothy Hendry. Since I cannot charge you for your own book, I have taken the liberty of shipping the copy of Song of the Seafolk along with this letter.
I humbly beg your forgiveness for the suffering this has caused, and I sincerely hope Wright and Co. will be able to serve you in any future literary needs.
Faithfully yours,
Benjamin Wright
III. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Mr. Wright:
I'm glad you couldn't see how red my face got when I received your response. It's one thing to send a letter when there's a miniscule chance of a reply, but getting a reply and knowing that a real, living person read your words is a very different (mortifying) thing. I would never have written that letter the way I did if I had fully comprehended that it was going to be read by a complete stranger.
My only consolation is that my letter wasn't half as strange as your reply. What do you mean, the books appear on the shelves and wander back? How on Earth did you send me a copy of my own book??
Because you're right--it's the exact copy I remember from my childhood. The same purple clothbound cover with the mermaid and lighthouse stamped into it. The same jelly stain inside the back cover. Page 54 has a torn corner, and the mermaid on page 126 has a unibrow penciled onto her face. Even if my grandmother hadn't written her name in the cover, I'd have known it for the same book. Yet she would never have donated--or even sold--Song of the Seafolk, even after I moved away. She loved it too much.
Yet somehow you sent it to me. I'm so grateful that I won't even accuse you of sending a ring of book thieves to raid my grandmother's shelves.
I read the book to my grandmother this weekend, and it was like the years fell away, and we were back in the warm glow of my childhood bedroom, completely at ease with the world. The pain medication leaves Grandma foggy sometimes, but there were several points when she smiled, closed her eyes, and recited the book along with me word for word. I'd try to repay you in some way for facilitating that, but some things are priceless.
However you got the book, it seems to prove you're able to achieve the impossible, and because of that, I'm going to bother you with another request. Grandma loves fantasy, but her true love is mystery novels. She has a whole bookshelf devoted to them, mostly Golden Age paperbacks--country house novels, a smattering of noir. I feel like there's so little joy in her life right now, but the one thing I could provide would be a new mystery. Yet, looking at her shelves, I suspect that she's read every book of this type that exists. So I'm going to ask you to live up to that Nonexistent in your name and find me a Golden-Age-esque mystery that no one--not even Grandma--has read yet. If you can achieve that, I would be grateful for whatever you can send me.
Yours with gratitude,
Christine Hendry
IV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Miss Hendry:
I am afraid I can answer very few of your questions as to the workings of this shop, at least when it comes to our specialized stock. Among the shelves of Wright and Co., there will on occasion appear a book which no employee has ordered--books with unfamiliar titles by unfamiliar authors, which have the appearance of age and wear, but cannot be found in any other shop, and have no history of publication by any firm. Yet there is always a reader--sometimes several, if the shop staff takes to reading it--who finds that it perfectly satisfies their tastes and fills some unmet need, as if the book was dreamt up just for them. These books seem to come into existence just when needed, and sometimes wander away when they're not.
We have several theories about the origins of these books, very few of them sensible. Perhaps they come from other worlds, where history went just a bit differently from ours. Perhaps they are books that authors dreamed up but never wrote. Perhaps they are spontaneously created in response to a reader's desires. I have learned not to question it. I merely accept the books as a gift--and bestow them as gifts to those in need.
To that end, I have honored your request for a mystery. Though I've no doubt there are many more ordinary books that could fulfill your desire (any seller of used books could tell you that this genre is far more extensive than most individual readers suspect), there is a book that appeared on our shelves last autumn that I feel will exactly fit your grandmother's tastes. The Wings of Hermes by Elizabeth Tern casts Oxford don Joseph Quill in the role of amateur sleuth, as he is pulled into the intrigue surrounding a piece of ancient Greek statuary. Quill is a very literary detective, in the vein of Gamadge or Wimsey, though his story has a touch of noir and more than a tinge of melancholy. I feel the book will be satisfying to a woman who has been a patron of our shop, and I hope it will fulfill its intended role of aiding in her recovery.
Yours faithfully,
Benjamin Wright
V. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Darling Benjamin,
Do you think I'm stupid? Or are you just insane? Do you expect me to swallow all that rigamarole about magic teleporting books? If it's a joke, you tell it with an alarmingly straight face, and frankly, it seems in poor taste (and poor business practice) to dump it all onto unsuspecting customers. If you don't want to explain how you got my book, fine--I'm sure it's a boring story involving mistaken donations or something--but I wish you wouldn't insult my intelligence by making up some whimsical fairy tale.
But for all that, I can't fault your taste in books. The Wings of Hermes was stupidly good. Grandma LOVED it. I stayed up until nine at night reading it with her--which is practically the middle of the night by her standards--because she was so desperate to know the culprit. It's a cut above most of the books on her shelf, and it's taken a place of pride there.
You weren't kidding about the melancholy. Grandma didn't mind--she was too wrapped up in the mystery--but I'll admit it got a bit depressing for my taste in places. The world seems dark enough right now--Grandma's hip isn't healing as well as we'd like. I'm having trouble adjusting to the move, and balancing work with Grandma's care is getting a touch overwhelming. I don't need fictional darkness on top of that.
What I need is something to lift my spirits. I've searched Grandma's shelves, and though she has plenty of comedies, there's nothing that catches my attention for more than a few pages, or elicits more than a wan smile. I don't know if there's a book in the world that could cheer me at the moment, but if any shop could supply it, I suppose yours can. Do you have anything like that? If you could, please send it my way.
At least, if you're willing to send it to a sponge. It seems you forgot to bill me for my last book, so if I have to settle the debt first, please let me know the price and I'll pay up. But please spare me the fairy tales.
Yours in respect,
Christine Hendry
VI. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Miss Hendry:
Your skepticism about the origins of our shop's unique books is understandable. Yet I told you the honest truth in response to an honest question. Any of our shop's past or present employees, and many of our long-term customers, would be able to verify the truth of my account. I do not typically disclose the story to new patrons, but your long history with Song of the Seafolk led me to believe you were already among those who would value it, and perhaps the faceless nature of letter-writing prompted more than usual candor. I apologize for your confusion, but I do not retract so much as a syllable of what I've said. I have told you only the truth as I know it. You may believe or doubt as you desire, but I would ask that you fling no further insults toward my honesty or my sanity.
In light of the struggles weighing upon you, the staff of Wright and Co. have forgiven any insulting insinuations, and are only too glad to do what we can to ease your burden. We have honored your request for a comedy, and have sent you a slightly worn copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank by E.G. Delaford. It is worn because it has been read so many times by the members of our staff. It has often been stored behind the counter for staff to read in slow moments, and many of the quotes have become bywords with our little band. We sometimes read it aloud at the Christmas party. Yet by mutual consent, we have agreed that it is exactly the book you need (working here gives one a sense for these things--another Wright and Co. oddity), and gladly send it to you. If we have need of it after you've finished, we trust it will find its way back.
The book appears to have been written in (some version of) the early 20th-century, about a gentleman who takes to high-seas adventure despite his complete lack of sailing knowledge--a Don Quixote of the sea--and the woman he rescues from a shipwreck who tries in vain to set them on a sensible course. The humor is absurd, the characters memorable, and the story--I have forgotten myself. It's best for you to discover these things for yourself.
I have enclosed an invoice detailing the price of The Wings of Hermes. The price is modest compared to the extreme rarity of the book, and you may pay it if you wish to own the book outright. However, Wright and Co. also maintains a sort of library system for those who understand the unique nature of these one-of-a-kind books. For a nominal fee that covers the cost of shipping, patrons may keep one book at a time in their homes, and send it back to Wright and Co. when they wish to request another. If you wish to experience the widest variety of our unique selection--and keep these books in circulation for other readers--I recommend enrollment in this system.
I will not send an invoice for Mercator Must Walk the Plank, because we could not sell that book at any price. You may keep it for as long as it is of use to you, without interfering with your ability to borrow other books per our normal system. We consider this loan not a business arrangement, but an act of charity in your time of need.
Yours faithfully,
Benjamin Wright
VII. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine,
I hope you don't mind that I slipped a note inside Mercator before Ben sent it off. We've never let the book outside the shop before, so I just had to say hello, and welcome you to our little band of Mercator fans (because I know you're going to love it). Please don't worry about sending it back too quickly. I must have half the book memorized, and I can always recite the silliest bits if Heinrich gets too grouchy.
I am so glad you're going to get to read this book, but I have to say that I'm surprised Ben agreed to it, because I could tell some of the things you said your last letter made him upset. These books mean a lot to him, and he doesn't talk about them to just anyone, so I don't think he liked being called a liar.
Not that I blame you! I'd have trouble believing the story, too, if I hadn't seen it myself. But I have! Hundreds of times! We'll be stocking the shelves or dusting, and all of a sudden we'll see a new book there--you usually just know there's something different about it. It'll have all the stuff that a normal book does--cover and endpages and copyright stuff and publisher names, and sometimes even those order forms to buy other books from the publisher. But they're all about companies that don't exist. Or by people we can't even find on the internet. There are too many books in too many styles for them to be the work of some prankster--especially since it's been happening for years and years and years.
And sometimes the books come back to us. I can count at least a dozen times that I've sold a book to someone, and then a year or two later I'll come across the very same copy on our shelves again. It's weird, but after you've worked here long enough, you get used to it, and you forget how strange it all is to people who don't know.
So anyway, I know you're going through a lot with your grandmother (I'm so sorry! I hope she's getting better!), and I'm sure you must be a really lovely person if you loved Song of the Seafolk so much (I hope you don't mind that I read it before Ben sent it back. Delightful book!) which is why I don't mind at all sending Mercator to you, even if you think we're all crazy. But we're not, really. And I hope we can be friends.
Lots of love,
Penelope Brams
(You can call me Penny!)
VIII. Heinrich Gross to Christine Hendry
Madam,
You have the only existing copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank. I must ask you to use caution when handling it. It is beloved by many in the shop. Please do not consume food or drink while reading it. Do not dog-ear any more pages. Please be gentle when turning the pages that are coming loose.
This book is a gift we do not give lightly. Do not abuse our kindness.
Respectfully,
Heinrich Gross
IX. Christine Hendry to the staff of Wright and Co.
Everyone,
I'm overwhelmed. I had no idea this book--or the story behind it--meant so much to all of you. I feel like I've been sent a priceless family heirloom--and you know me from only three letters! I don't know what I've done to deserve so much trust, but I will care for this book as though it were a priceless work of art (which, from the sound of it, it basically is).
In the name of honesty, I have to say that I don't believe the story of your shop. Frankly, it all sounds like nonsense. But as I'm reading Mercator (we're on Chapter Nine!), I'm beginning to see more than a little bit of Katherina in my objections. Maybe you're all mad, maybe you're mistaken, but I'm not sure it matters much. There are worse things in life than a little nonsense. Especially when you're all so very kind.
I hope all of you (especially Ben) can forgive me for the snide remarks in my last letter. Grandma and I thank you for all the books--wherever they came from--and would be honored to consider you friends.
Yours,
Christine Hendry
P.S. How do I get enrolled in that lending program? I've sent back The Wings of Hermes.
X. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine,
Have you finished the book yet? What do you think?
When you're done with Mercator, I have so so so many books I want you to read. I'm making a list. I know you probably don't have as much time to read as we do here, but I'd hate to think of you missing out on any of my favorites.
I don't want to rush you, but I've never talked to anyone outside of Wright's who had the faintest idea what I was talking about when we referenced Mercator. I've enjoyed having it as our inside joke, but it's even better to have more people in on it.
Write back soon!
Penny
XI. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams
Penny,
Grandma and I finished Mercator Must Walk the Plank last night--and started it again this morning. I can see why you all love it so much. What a wonderfully absurd book. Exactly the type of comedy I was looking for. Your instincts were correct: it was just what we both needed to cheer us up. It's removed enough from our world both in time and plausibility to take our minds away from ordinary things, and there's nothing mean-spirited about any of the humor. So many good characters among that crew. And the plot! High comedy! It's been almost a week since I read Chapter 14, and I'm still giggling over the fishing scene.
I would be overjoyed to read anything else you might recommend. If any of them are half as good as Mercator, they're sure to become my favorites, too.
Yours,
Christine Hendry
P.S. Grandma's hip is doing much better. Still a long road to recovery, but maybe the reread will help. Laughter being the best medicine and all.
XII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Miss Hendry:
I've enclosed the forms for enrollment in Wright and Co.'s specialized lending program. If you will fill in the required information (though we obviously already have your address) and submit the proper payment, we will be able to begin sending books. The catalogue is yours to keep. I'm afraid the selection is rather outdated, and the summaries less than ideal at conveying the merits of each book. It was assembled by my predecessor, and I'm afraid that my uncle's genius for books did not translate to marketing skill. Amid the cares of business, I have not found the time to put together a modernized version, especially as I find that bespoke recommendations from our staff are far more likely to result in successful pairings of book and reader.
You will note there is a section on the third page where you can request a book. If I can offer a recommendation, I believe that the Alfred Quicke mystery series by Glorya M. Hayers, with its blend of comedy and mystery, would perfectly fit the tastes of your household. The mysteries solved by idle-rich amateur detective Alfred Quicke are always intriguing, but the cast of comedic types--and the farcical situations that arise in the course of the investigation--keep the stories lighthearted. The best way I can describe it is as if Wodehouse wrote a mystery series. The setting is much like that of his most famous stories, though with curious details that suggest it is set in an intriguing alternate world. With seventeen books in the series, you would find enough material to keep your grandmother in mysteries for a long time--though I suggest starting with the fourth book, The Counterfeit Candlestick, as the point where the series finds its voice.
I appreciate the handsome apology in your last letter and accept it wholeheartedly. However, I admit I had hoped for more than agnosticism toward our story. Despite your assertions, the truth does matter, whether we can discover it or not. Though the strange behavior of these books is outside our usual experience, it does not mean it is impossible (you will find a similar truth expressed by most of the great fictional detectives), and I had hoped your respect for us would open you to the possibility that there is more to this world than what we can understand. Perhaps it was too much to expect under the circumstances. But I hope we have garnered enough goodwill that you will not take offense at this expression of my honest opinion. If you do, I apologize, and will attempt to keep future letters focused purely on business.
Respectfully yours,
Benjamin Wright
XIII. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Mr. Wright,
I respect your opinion, though naturally I don't agree. I don't doubt you're sincere in believing what you do, but I can think of a dozen more mundane explanations of how these books mysteriously appear and disappear on your shelves (most of them involving poor record-keeping and less-than-stellar search engine skills). I suggest we drop the subject in the future, as neither of us is likely to convince the other, and my lack of belief about the mystical origin of these books doesn't keep me from fully enjoying the experience of reading them.
I hope you won't think it rude that I filled out your forms twice. Grandma and I do count as separate households, and if I'm going to keep Grandma in mysteries and experience some of the other books, I'm going to need two separate streams of supply. For now, though, I think books 3 and 4 of Alfred Quicke will suit our needs nicely.
Many thanks,
Christine Hendry
XIV. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine!!!
I'm so so glad you loved Mercator! I just knew you would, but it's always a little bit horrible when someone else reads one of your favorite books, because if they hate it, it crushes a piece of your heart, and I don't have that many pieces to spare.
But when they love it! Oh! I can love a book twice as much when I know someone else who loves it! I wouldn't think it was possible I could love Mercator more, but thinking of you and your Grandma laughing over it in her sickbed makes me so--this is going to sound strange, but I'm proud of it. As if we sent out a friend to do a good work, and he succeeded in working miracles. I hope you read it as many times as you want. Trust me, it gets better every time.
But I hope you'll find time to read some other books, too! I'm glad you got your own account along with your Grandma's. Alfred Quicke is lovely (I love his books almost as much as Mercator--please let me know what you think of Bright Folly when you read it), but one cannot live on mysteries alone. There are so many genres, so many moods, so many eras of literature to explore, and Wright's has wonderful examples of so many of them, so I'm so glad we'll get to send them to you.
I know Ben sent you that horrible little catalogue. Ignore it. It makes so many of the very best books sound so dull, and half my favorites aren't even in it. I can do a much better job of telling you what books to read. I've got pages and pages written up about the best ones, but I don't want to overwhelm you right away, so I'll just tell you about a few of the very best at a time. I've included a list of some of the ones I think you'll like best.
You can read what you like, of course, but I can't help thinking you should read The Autumn Queen's Promise by Rose Rennow just as soon as you possibly can. If you loved Song of the Seafolk, I'm sure you'll love this. It's another children's fantasy (a newer one--'90s, maybe?), with the same type of atmospheric historical setting, though this time, it's the most vivid autumnal woods you've ever read about in your life, which makes it perfect for this time of year.
The story's all about this fairy queen who stumbles into this little village in colonial America and can't get home. And she hates them all at first, of course--she's this horrible arrogant thing--but she comes to care for them and it's just lovely to read about. A little slow, but no slower than Seafolk. A nice, relaxing kind of slow. I'm sure you'll love it.
Whatever you pick next, I hope you'll keep me posted with reading updates. I so love talking with you about these books. It's so nice to have a pen pal!
Lots of love,
Penny
XV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Miss Hendry:
Your account has been opened and the requested books have been shipped. We at Wright and Co. are pleased to count you as one of our trusted patrons.
I am afraid I will find it difficult to honor your request to drop the subject of the origin of our specialized books. Perhaps it is a fault, but I have never been able to bring myself to "agree to disagree". It has always seemed to me the coward's way out of engaging with the search for truth. However, you are correct that endlessly rehashing the subject is unlikely to assist either of us in continuing that search, so I will refrain from mentioning it unless there is further evidence to discuss. If you would be so kind as to patronize our shop in person, I would be happy to offer you further proof of the phenomena that I describe, but further discussion via these letters is likely to remain futile.
Faithfully yours,
Benjamin Wright
XVI. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Mr. Wright:
My offer to "agree to disagree" was a courtesy to you. I'm sure you don't want to lose a customer over the issue, so I was giving you the chance to let it slide so it wouldn't interfere with our working relationship. You think that makes me a coward? How can you say I'm "refusing to engage with the search for truth" when you've admitted that you don't know what the truth is? You said yourself (I still have those first letters) that you don't know where the books come from. Just because you can find no record of them doesn't mean they just appeared out of thin air. And these supposed "returns" of books could come from donations or poor record-keeping. You say you have evidence, but from my point-of-view, you could just be a quirky small press that prints old-fashioned books and tells whimsical stories to draw in customers. With all the stress surrounding Grandma's health, there's no way on Earth that I could make a cross-state trip to see your supposed "proof" for myself.
Frankly, if it weren't for Grandma, I'd consider canceling my accounts with you. But she's been tearing through Alfred Quicke so fast and enjoying it so much that I don't dare to cut off her source of supply. And the books you've sent are wonderful--you've been so kind about Mercator, and you gave me back Song of the Seafolk, and The Autumn Queen's Promise is turning into a lovely story I wouldn't have been able to find anywhere else.
I can't wrap my head around you people. Every time I give you the chance to back away from this weird story, you double down, and frankly, it's freaking me out. Penny's so bubbly that it's easy to see how she could get caught up in it, but you write with such a serious professional voice, and you seem (in your bland professional way) personally offended at my refusal to just go along with your story of mysterious magical books. Why does this matter so much to you? Why can't the books just be wonderful, obscure stories instead of mystical teleporting tomes that respond to feelings or whatever? I can't understand you.
Maybe you'll burn this letter and cancel my accounts, but if you dare to engage, I would like to know what you have to say for yourself.
Yours,
Christine Hendry
XVII. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine,
What did you say to Ben? He's usually so nice and sensible and kind and ordinary--really a great boss--but every once in a while, he broods. And he's been brooding ever since he got your last letter. It's like he's walking around with this big old cloud over his head. He keeps wandering the shelves and then going into his office and glaring at his computer and staring at the wall.
It's got me worried. Is your Grandma okay? I guess he'd tell me if she wasn't. Or you would. I hope.
Are you dying? Maybe that would explain why you haven't written in so long.
Please don't die on me. I couldn't bear it.
Write back soon.
Penny
XVIII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams
Dear Penny,
No one's dying. Grandma gets more mobile every day, and I'm in as good of health as you can have when you're running mostly on caffeine and a couple of hours of sleep a night. I've just been so busy between work and Grandma's care and insurance (so many stupid phone calls) and trying to figure out our finances, and trying to find senior housing for Grandma (her house has way too many stairs), that I barely have time to eat, much less write you back. I'm sorry if I worried you.
As for Ben, well, long story short, I majorly overreacted to some minor thing he said, and wrote a sleep-deprived response that I never should have sent. I really don't want to get into it with you, because you'd probably side with him, and I'd like to keep our friendship intact, at least.
I did manage to read The Autumn Queen's Promise a few pages at a time, and it was just as lovely as you promised it would be. Exquisite fall reading. I almost hate to send it back--that lovely cover alone, with its painting of that beautiful queen in that autumnal woods, added so much atmosphere to the house just by being here. It'll never replace Song of the Seafolk in my heart, but it came closer than almost any other book to recapturing what it felt like to experience it for the first time. I send it back with warm thanks for the recommendation.
I'm also sending back your beloved copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank. I've held onto it far longer than I deserved to. You were so gracious to send it to me, and I can't take advantage of your kindness. (You can tell Heinrich that I haven't added a single scuff to the cover).
Since Ben seems to be in no mood for letters from me, can I send my book requests through you? Grandma would like Books 8 and 9 of Alfred Quicke (she can use my account for the second, because I don't have much time for reading at the moment.)
Thank you,
Christine
XIX. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Miss Hendry:
You say that you find us at Wright and Co. difficult to understand, but I find you equally baffling. In a single letter, you will thank us profusely for our friendship and the books we provide, while at the same time attacking that very thing which we hold most dear. In expressing my difficulty with the phrase "agree to disagree", I was not attacking your morals. You will note I was more than willing to honor your request to drop the subject. Yet in misconstruing my words, you have sounded the horn of war, and honor and duty--and, to be honest, personal inclination--demand that I engage.
You ask me why these books--and the phenomena surrounding their existence--matter so much to me. I can answer only by biography. Wright and Co. is a small, cluttered, dim, obscure shop--you could find a thousand used book stores like it anywhere in the world--but from a young age (the shop was owned by my uncle then) it seemed a place of unique enchantment. I would spend summer days racing among the stacks and losing myself in books. I grew more jaded and cynical as I aged--most teenagers do--but whenever I was in danger of becoming a disaffected youth, there was something about the shop that made me feel there was something more than the meaninglessness of everyday life.
Learning about the miracle of the books felt like getting the answer to a question I hadn't realized I was asking. Here was proof there was something beyond the mundane and predictable. Something too wonderful for the human mind to understand. Some wondrous power cared enough about the patrons of this shop to help them get the right story in their hands at the right time--even if that story had never been written. Other books have authors and publishers, but these books seemed like a gift from the author of imagination itself.
When I took over the shop, I became a steward of that gift. Caring for these books and matching them with readers makes the running of this shop, not just a banal business arrangement, but a calling. Stories have the power to shape our imagination, our outlook, our relationships with others--and these stories, coming as they do unwritten, unbought and unlooked for, seem to have more power than most. Caring for that power is a great responsibility, one that I take very seriously. I have seen its good effect again and again. You cannot deny you have experienced it yourself.
You are correct when you say that I do not know the exact origin of these books. But I am not intellectually lazy just because I am content with no answer. Making peace with mystery--knowing that some things are ever unknowable--is not the same as refusing to believe the truth that comes before your eyes.
You have closed yourself to even the possibility of an explanation that goes beyond the reality you can comprehend. I have spoken of evidence that proves there is no rational explanation for these books, and you call me an unreliable witness. You have seen hints of the wondrous that you dismissed out of hand. I understand that you do not have the same evidence that I have, and I have not been as gracious as I should have been in making allowance for that. But saying that my refusal to seek an exact explanation makes me intellectually lazy is inaccurate in the extreme.
I may not know how these books come into my shop, but I know from whom. I may not know the exact mechanisms of the miracle, but I firmly believe there is an author of all that has allowed my shop to be a source of minor--and yes, rather whimsical--wonders. I need not know more than that to do my duty well.
Perhaps that explanation will help you to understand my position. More likely you will think me crazier than ever. But since I have explained my inner self, perhaps I have some right to ask for an explanation in return.
Ever since your response to that first letter, when I hinted at the miracle surrounding these books, I detected not only disbelief from you, but disdain. I was troubled to see such disgust toward the concept, especially from one who has proven herself an enthusiastic fan of fantasy. Why do you seek wonders in your stories, but resist it so fiercely in your own existence? Would it be so terrible for these books to have a supernatural origin? Is there not some appeal in letting the wondrous into your life?
You need not respond to such prying questions if it makes you uncomfortable. But I ask that at least, if you do respond, that you deal gently with one who has made his inner self so vulnerable to your scrutiny.
Yours faithfully,
Benjamin Wright
XX. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Ben,
Wow.
When I asked for an explanation, I didn't expect that.
I don't know how I can possibly respond.
I definitely understand why it matters so much to you, but somehow, this conversation has shifted from magic to theology, and I'm even less equipped to engage in a conversation about that. Not to get into too much detail, but that's part of the reason I haven't seen my grandmother in so many years. Grandma's comfortable with that stuff. I prefer my fantasy to remain safely in stories.
If what you say is true, if there's some grand wonderful power--call it magic, call it God--that does things we can't understand, then we're completely powerless against it. Which is fine if the power is good, but if the good things are real, then the bad things can be, too. There are too many ordinary problems for me to want to live in a world where there's some grand plan I can mess up by doing the wrong thing, and greater powers are waging in a war for my soul.
Fantasy is great. I love stories of mermaids and magic and the wonders of life. But it's not reality. I learned that young, and every year I live only proves it more. I'm content to live in the ordinary world with its ordinary problems, and get my escape through literature--where none of the monsters on the page can hurt me.
I'm glad--I really, truly am--that you've been able to make yourself believe in some grander purpose behind these silly little stories we've been reading. But I can't believe in that. I've seen no proof to make me believe it. Maybe you have, but most people can barely trust their own eyes, so how can I trust yours? It's not that I think you're crazy or stupid. Your personality and experiences make you want to believe. Mine make me happy to doubt. It's nobody's fault, and neither of us can change it, and it's fine. I'll stop calling you a crackpot if you stop calling me a coward, and we'll leave it at that.
Wherever the books come from, we all agree that they're wonderful, and if you don't mind dealing with a dirty nonbeliever, I'd be honored if you'd let me continue doing business with you.
Yours,
Christine Hendry
XXI. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine,
Where is Mercator? We got your letter, and The Autumn Queen's Promise, and your most recent Alfred Quicke, but no sign is there of Mercator Must Walk the Plank.
Oh! Oh no! What if it got lost in the mail? Could we survive such a tragedy? Silly old John Quackenbush and fiery Katherina, and grumpy little Pegs and that whole lovable crew--gone forever! If the U.S. Postal Service is responsible for their destruction, I'll...we'll...we'll make them pay! This is a murder and there must be justice!
Don't worry, I don't blame you. But the next mailman to cross my path better watch out. We'll find that book if we have to tear through every mail box and bag and truck in the country!
I'll keep you posted about the search if I can find the time to write.
Frantically,
Penny
XXII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams
Dear Penny,
I'm so extremely sorry. When I sent you that last letter, I truly thought I had packaged and mailed Mercator Must Walk the Plank, but after receiving your reply, I discovered that the book was still on its usual shelf in my grandmother's house. I've been so sleep-deprived lately that I overlook things, but I didn't think I could possibly have overlooked something that.
Don't worry. I'll be sending it out as soon as I get another box to ship it in. And this time, I'll make 100% sure it's inside before I ship it.
Please forgive me.
Christine
XXIII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Dear Christine,
You've asked me not to call you a coward, but your wording leaves me almost no choice. Denying yourself the good and wondrous out of fear of evil and danger is the definition of cowardice. Staying within the narrow world of rationality makes for a bleak and colorless life--and you're none the safer for your denial. Good and evil exist whether you acknowledge them or not. Closing your eyes to them only makes you vulnerable to ambush should they come upon you unaware.
Can you not open yourself to the possibility that the good can overcome the evil? That it can offer strength to face the dangers? Great stories can do that by showing us how to act in such situations, to give us examples of victory over darkness, to open our minds to possibilities that we might not accept in our ordinary lives. You've experienced such stories. Is it so strange to think they might reflect the reality we live in? Is it so strange to think there might be some greater power offering us those stories to sustain us?
To you, I'm sure it seems impossible. But you know there are those who think otherwise. I only ask you to consider the implications of the choice.
Respectfully yours,
Ben
XXIV. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Ben,
I don't think you can call my position a choice. You're acting like I'm picking between favorite foods or something--picking one position because I don't like the other one. But as far as I can tell, my position is the only choice. I have no reason to believe any other option exists.
It would be wonderful if I could believe the way you do. It seems to have brought you a lot of peace. But I'm not built that way and I'll just have to struggle along. Your concern is touching, but I've been doing just fine so far.
If I ever see proof, I'd have reason to reconsider, but as it is, I have enough trouble in the world I can see to worry too much about one that I can't.
Respectfully,
Christine
XXV. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine,
Still no sign of Mercator. Did you forget to send it again, or do I have to lay siege to the post office?
Penny
P.S. Have you been reading any more of the books?
XXVI. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams
Penny,
I have tried to send off that package no fewer than three times, and every time the book somehow makes its way back to my shelf. Maybe I'm just so used to seeing it there that I keep putting it back. I am so sorry for the delay.
It makes me feel guilty that I'm still profiting by reading your other books. Now that winter is upon us, Grandma and I have started reading aloud from the longest of your fantasy suggestions--The Queens of Wintermoon. You're right that it's an odd book--Russian-flavored science fantasy, with all those complicated family ties and political intrigues--but it's just what we need right now. Grandma is unfortunately dealing with a bout of pneumonia at the moment, which means I'm spending a lot of time at the hospital, but a big, thick, lush and lyrical literary book with a huge cast of vividly-drawn characters is just what we need to take us away from the sterile white walls and the scent of disinfectant.
It's great to sink into that snowy world with its royal glamour and underground orchards and mystical machines. Grandma and I spend ages talking about the four sisters and their royal husbands--all their flaws and heartaches and complicated relationships. I'm most attached to Vitalia and her political intrigue plot, while Grandma most loves the storyline of Inessa and her mysterious woodcutter husband. I have my suspicions about both their secrets, but I'm more than willing to wait the 800-or-so pages they'll need to resolve everything. It's nice to have something to take my mind off of other worries.
But I will keep worrying about Mercator. I promise somehow or another, it will make its way back to you.
Yours,
Christine
XXVII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams
Penny,
I don't understand it. This is the fifth time I've tried to send Mercator Must Walk the Plank back to you. This time I waited until I'd had a decent night of sleep so my mind was clear. I put it in the packaging (extra padding). I took a picture of it inside the box. I took a picture of the sealed and addressed box. I took a picture of the box when I took it to the post office and left it at the counter. And then I returned home to find the book sitting on the same shelf where I'd put it this morning.
Are the darn things breeding? Did you send me extra copies? There is no other explanation for what happened.
It's got my head spinning, and until I've got it figured out, unfortunately Mercator is going to stay right where it is.
Sorry!
Christine
XXVIII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Christine,
Penny has made me aware of your difficulties with Mercator Must Walk the Plank. It's clear to me (as I'm sure it will be to you) what has happened. If you wished for proof, you now have it. The Powers-That-Be have determined that you have more need of the book than we do.
Please don't distress yourself by (or waste postage upon) any further attempts to send the book back. We have plenty of other books to read, and if we ever have need of Mercator, I trust that the same powers will ensure it makes its way back to us.
Yours,
Ben
XXIX. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Ben,
It's the middle of the night and I can't sleep. I'm trying not to think of that book and I can't. It just doesn't make sense.
This can't be happening. But it is. And if this part of your story is true, then that means the other part of the story is true, which means your theories
This doesn't mean you've won. I'm sure there's some rational explanation that I've overlooked. I shouldn't even write to you because you'll just try to convince me that this is proof we live in a world of angels and fairies who bother themselves about the books we read. But it's not like there's anyone else I can talk to about this.
If you have nothing to say but, "I told you so," don't bother writing back at all. But if you've anything useful to say I'm all ears (or eyes, I guess--weird that I've never actually spoken to you. I don't even know what you look like. How old are you?)
I should sleep. But I'm going to go off and mail this letter like a moron because it's the closest I can come to a conversation.
Good night.
Christine
XXX. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Christine,
This is me not saying I told you so.
That doesn't leave me much else to say.
I'm 39.
Picture the word "man" in the dictionary. Imagine there's an illustration there. That's pretty close to what I look like.
If you want to hear my voice, you'll have to come to the shop and talk to me in person. Or I suppose we could call each other. We do live in the 21st century. But I admit I've enjoyed this 19th-century correspondence we've been keeping up.
I wish I had something more useful to say, but I doubt I can say any of it in a way you want to hear.
I hope you've been sleeping better.
Ben
XXXI. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine
CHRISTINE!!
I know you didn't order another book, but I was wandering through the shelves the other day when this book just about jumped out at me. It's like it had your name written in it. Like how your grandmother wrote in Song of the Seafolk.
Your name's not in it. I checked. But something about it still made it seem like yours. Like we were keeping it from you. Ben agreed (he's got a good sense for these things), so I started preparing the box to ship it. But I read a bit of the first chapter before I packaged the book, just to get an idea of what I was sending you. I didn't move from that spot until I'd read the whole thing. Ben just about locked me in the shop before he found me sitting in a daze in the back room.
Christine, you have to read this book. Now. It's the most beautiful...well, not fantasy. But it's not not fantasy. It's so real and yet so magical and you could maybe read it both ways. I haven't stopped thinking about it since I finished it.
But what's the book? If you've opened the package by now, I'm sure you know it's called Cardinal's Map by someone named Dorothy Cannes. It's from the eighties, it looks like, but it feels older. And newer. Does that make it timeless? I suppose all of the books in our "special" selection feel that way. Anyway, it's about this girl named Miranda, and she's this terrible grouch, and she goes to work for this old guy named Cardinal (that's where the title comes from) who needs help writing his book. And he's got the most beautiful map of all the countries in world of his fantasy book. Except the countries might be real? And just....ack, I don't have words! The book has a lot of them. Read those instead.
And then write to me because I need to know what you think about the ending!!
Lots of love,
Penny
XXXII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams
Penny,
You were right.
Thank you.
Christine
XXXIII. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Ben,
It's been three hours since I finished Cardinal's Map, and I haven't moved from my chair. Everything you said about the power of story is true. It's like this book reached into my soul and rearranged the furniture. Cleared out the clutter. And it did it by sweeping me along with the characters and the story and the beautiful prose so I didn't even know what was happening until it was already done.
Everything we've been fighting about for the last few weeks was in this book. It talked about all the things you were trying to tell me, but instead of just telling me, it showed me and made me think and feel and helped me make sense of it all. And I never felt like it was preaching. I'm not even sure it was trying to preach. It's just...a story, so I let my guard down and it got under my skin. Just like Cardinal's map got to Miranda.
I don't know if you've read the book or not, but the premise is that John Cardinal is writing this extensive fantasy work and Miranda's this jaded college kid hired as a secretary to help him arrange all his notes. And she's fascinated by the fictional map and gets swept up in the book, until she realizes that Cardinal is telling the story of his life. That this character who traveled to this other fantasy world is supposed to be him. And she's got to figure out if he's using this as a metaphor, or if he's crazy, or if this other world really is a real place.
And by the end of the book, we don't know. You could read it both ways--the world in the map is either a metaphor or a real country that he’s been to. But it doesn't really matter which one is true, because the bigger truth is that Miranda knows there's something beyond the rational world that we can see. And it's not terrifying. It's wonderful. It's not this place full of monsters waiting to pounce--it's this exciting, dangerous, beautiful place to explore.
If Penny wants to know what I think of the ending, I believe that Cardinal's world is real. And I believe your story is true. I've seen evidence. That terrified me, because that means the world no longer makes sense. But the truth doesn't have to be a terrifying destruction of the reality I know; it can be an expansion of it. I don't understand why any of this happens, or how, but maybe I don't have to know how. I just need to be thankful that it did.
You said that Mercator stayed with me because I needed it more than you guys did. Maybe what I needed was evidence of the miracles you told me about. Then I wondered why Song of the Seafolk wandered away, because I very much needed it here when it was at your shop. But maybe what I needed was to write to you. The correspondence we've shared, the books you've sent me, they've strengthened me through a lot of difficult weeks. They've given me and Grandma a lot of joy, brought us back together after so many year's apart. And they've helped me straighten out a lot of questions I didn't know I was wrestling with.
There was someone's hand in all this--an author arranging all the pieces of the story in a way I'd never have been able to achieve on my own. Maybe before that'd make me feel helpless, but now, I don’t know, I guess I feel cared for. Like someone’s watching out for me.
I feel like I should thank you, and I don't know how. This is too deep for words. Thank you for writing, even when I was horrible to you. Thank you for the books. Thanks for being a part of my story.
Grandma's doing better now. If she's up for it, I think it's time for a road trip.
If you're ever going to see Mercator or Cardinal's Map again, I might have to hand them to you in person.
Love to all of you,
Christine Hendry
XXXIV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Christine,
You may not believe me, but I did not read Cardinal's Map before sending it to you. I simply had the notion that it would be the ideal book for your circumstances--and I was as surprised as you were to find just how true that was. Another gift, I suppose.
I look forward to reading it, if you can ever spare it (I look upon the book as belonging to you now). I also greatly anticipate the opportunity to see and speak to you here in the shop. I hope you will not wait long to make good on your promise.
Yours faithfully,
Ben
XXXV. Christine Hendry to the staff at Wright and Co.
Everyone,
I can't say how wonderful it was to see you all in person. You all looked just like I pictured you. Your shop is too wonderful for words. I could have moved in. But alas, Grandma and I don't have the resources for a move right now.
We'll have to continue the friendship long-distance. Now that I have the shop's phone number (funny I never thought to request it before), and your personal numbers, I suppose we can call whenever we like. But if you don't mind, I'm going to keep corresponding by letter, too.
Love to you all,
Christine
#inklingschallenge#team chesterton#genre: intrusive fantasy#theme: visit the sick#story: complete#remind me to tell you the behind the scenes stuff sometimes#maybe it wouldn't be interesting to you but it was a wild ride
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Alkaline: Euronymous x Y/N Series CH 17
Tagging: @ophelialaufey@madamemaximoff06@forever-not-gonna-sink@ajmiila02@liquidsmoothdomme@shady-the-simp @auggiethecreator @tempt-ress @blacksoul-27
Oystein had finally settled into his new apartment and had just gotten off the phone with his dad about the last payment for the record shop. He had decided to step away from focusing on making the next record to follow another one of his passions. Helvete was his new baby and his record label would be working out of the shop to expand the Black Metal genre to as many people as he possibly could.
He sat at his typewriter and placed the photo Y/n had left him with the day they last spoke on the desk to the left. He kept the old photo of himself, Y/n and Pelle just next to that one. The day she slugged him and wrote him off, she probably would have been surprised to know that he kept that photo in the inside pocket of his jacket.
He stared at the photo for a few moments before putting a piece of paper into the type writer.
"Y/n,
Please read what I have to say before you toss this into the garbage. I know it's selfish of me to ask for anymore of your time but
you have to know that what we had, in the beginning, that was real. All of the moments we shared where I could be myself with you- if I could have lived in those moments again, I wouldn't change a thing. You were right though, we were always doomed to fail. Our paths are just too different. I want to apologize for how I treated you the night you came to the show. I know the first time I watched Dea-"
Oystein pulls a bit of white out from the drawer and covers the beginning of his name before resuming.
"I know the first time I watched Pelle cut his arms, it was fucked up. I had no idea what to do or how to respond to that. Honestly, I've never really experienced anything like that before Pelle. I knew I couldn't let him know that because I feared it would only make him retreat more. Your response to it was normal and I'm sorry I treated you like it wasn't. I also want to apologize for how I reacted to you in the bar that night. I can't pretend I wasn't caught off guard by the guy you walked in with but that is no excuse for how I came at you. In the time that I spent not hearing your voice or seeing your face, I tried to block out all the things you made me feel. I tried to chalk it up to us being too different or this life scaring you away but that day after Pelle killed himself...I know I fucked up Y/n. I regret everything I've ever said or done that has hurt you even for a second because the only hurt you ever caused me was my own fault."
Oystein sat back in the chair, reading over what he had already written and felt incredibly vulnerable. A part of him really hopes she just trashes the letter and doesn't even bother reading it.
"I've decided to take a step back to focus more on other passions. I have started my own record label and will be operating it out of that corner shop down from Hammed's shop. I know you probably think I've done this to torment you but I've had my eye on that store for years. I want to take the creation of Black Metal and show people what it can truly be. Not all that extra, commercialized bullshit that people think it is now. I've always wanted to do this but I want to show people what we worked so hard on, what Pelle and I worked so hard on."
Oystein looked at the photo again and wished Pelle could have been here for the birth of Helvete. He thinks that a safe haven where he would never be alone is something that could have saved him.
"I know I'm just saying a lot of things that don't really mean shit to you but you were a big part of what kept me believing in myself. I hope maybe you'll give it a second chance and stop by the shop. I would love for you to see what I've created and give you a new look at what I love so much instead of wishing for its demise. I know it will never be what it was before but I feel a piece of me will always be tethered to wanting what could have been between us."
Oystein hated everything he wrote almost immediately but he couldn't just keep starting over. He wanted to send this letter before the shop actually opened in case she decided to show up and put him on blast.
"I know you'll probably always hate me and I understand why you do. I just hope you'll find a small place for me in your heart to at least try and be a better person in your eyes. Please, give me a chance to prove to you that I'm not the heartless monster you think I am."
He read it one last time before pulling it from the typewriter and signing the bottom of it. He would never admit that he actually followed her home one night just to have her address to send her this letter. He would take that to the grave. He knew this was a bad idea but he desperately needed something to keep him grounded. The nightmares he had after Pelle were unbearable. He had never been afraid of dwelling in the darkness until Pelle killed himself. Now he was worried he would sink into the darkness never to be found again. He wanted Y/n to be the one who kept him from losing himself entirely.
yours,
Øystein
#R!Euronymous#R!Euronymous x Y/n#Film: Lords of Chaos#Alkaline#Alkaline Series#One Shot Series#Rory Culkin#Culkin Cult#this one is short but y/n gets her fire back in the next one#17/35
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Ties That Bind
Summary/Context: Do you ever wonder what happened when Théoden briefly imprisoned Éomer in Two Towers? Or about how Éomer felt about it, or how other members of the royal family felt when Wormtongue similarly manipulated Théoden against them, as we know he did? Me, too, so I wrote this. It’s meant to slot in with canon events like Éomer’s release from jail, Háma’s discovery of a bunch of stolen stuff in Wormtongue’s possession, etc., as well as with some of my own headcanon for Théodred (more of which is here).
Characters: Éomer, Eadlin (“princess”, Théodred’s fiancée and a real ride-or-die for him), Háma, mentions of Théoden, Théodred, and Wormtongue
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“Get your hands off of me!”
Éomer thrashed against the men on either side of him, trying to wrest his arms free from their iron grip. With his sword confiscated and his hands twisted uncomfortably behind his back, he had little chance of overpowering multiple guards. But he would sooner break an arm in the struggle than be led meekly into a prison cell like a child accepting a teacher’s correction.
The man on his right, a lieutenant of the king’s guards, grunted as he took a sharp elbow to the ribs. “Do not make this more difficult than it has to be, Marshal,” he said. “These are the orders of the king, and they will be carried out.”
“These are the orders of Wormtongue, only put into the king’s mouth,” Éomer seethed. He dug his heels into the stone threshold at the door, bracing his body against the lieutenant’s effort to propel him forward. The two strained against each other for several seconds, the opposing forces keeping them suspended motionless in the doorway, until another guard behind him sent a swift boot into the back of Éomer’s knee, buckling his leg and causing him to stumble forward into the cell. The door slammed closed behind him.
Immediately back on his feet, Éomer gripped the bars of the door and pulled with all his strength. The steel rattled back and forth in its casings but yielded no other result. As the guards retreated up the staircase, he roared with frustration and kicked a small wooden stool into the wall, where it splintered noisily against the thick stone.
He bent down to catch his breath, resting his hands on his knees, and glared out at his small enclosure from behind the long, golden hair that hung across his face.
“By all means, keep raging about. That is certain to help the situation.”
He whipped around in search of the source of this hoarse, flat voice, and his eyes landed on a small person bundled into a dark green cloak and sitting against the bars in the cell next to his. The stranger’s back was to him, and a hood obscured their face and hair.
“I do not recall asking for anyone’s opinion,” he spat out, turning all of his anger easily onto this new, available target.
“And yet you will receive it just the same,” the stranger answered. “If I can endure my pain and outrage quietly, surely you can do so also, Éomer.”
He froze at the sound of his own name, and the contents of his stomach heaved upward as he suddenly placed the voice. His fury was snuffed out in an instant.
“Eadlin?” Her name came out almost as a whisper.
She turned and cast back her hood, revealing the familiar face of the woman his late cousin had planned to marry. Her eyes and nose showed clearly that she had been crying, and the blue and yellow remnants of a fading bruise marred her cheek. But most striking was the bitterness in her expression as she glowered up at him from her place on the floor.
“For days now I have waited for someone from Théodred’s family to come to my aid,” she said. “And now the first of you to arrive is brought under guard himself. But it was foolish of me to have expected any help from the house of Théoden, since it is by his will that I am here.”
He rushed forward to the bars that separated them, and crouched down to look directly into her face. “You must believe me, Eadlin, had Éowyn or I known you were here, we would have done everything we could to get you out. None in our family would ever wish you any harm.”
“And yet here I sit. I would not call this a loving embrace, would you?”
The disdain in her voice shook him. Outside of this cell, she had been a close friend, clever and sharply funny but easy and warm with those she loved. And there was none she loved more than Théodred. She was fiercely loyal to him, extending her full affections to anyone who had his favor and withholding them completely from those who had friction with him. It had always pleased Éomer to know that Théodred had such a steadfast ally unfailingly at his back. But there was a cold steeliness about her now, a furious apathy, which Éomer did not recognize. She was clearly grieving, but her grief had curdled into something else, something harsh and unforgiving.
“Strange events are unfolding, and the king is not well,” he said quietly. “He has difficulty now discerning friend from foe.”
“He seemed quite confident about who was who when he accepted Wormtongue’s accusations against me.”
“Wormtongue!?” The fire of Éomer’s anger, briefly suppressed, was immediately rekindled by that hateful man’s name. “I should have guessed. There is hardly an ill deed in Rohan these days that Wormtongue seems not to have a hand in. What has he to do with your imprisonment?”
She drew her arms tightly around herself and sat for a moment in silence, as though playing out past events in her mind again. At last she spoke. “The day before Théodred died, I passed Wormtongue on the terrace. He expressed condolences for my loss, but I had experienced no loss at the time. When I asked him what he meant, he immediately reddened and stammered something about misspeaking. He is so often awkward and unpleasant that I attributed everything only to his peculiar nature and thought no more of it. It was not until the next day when Éowyn came to tell me–”.
She broke off as her voice began to quake. Closing her eyes, she exhaled slowly through gritted teeth. When she opened them again, her voice was clear and strong once more.
“When Éowyn came to tell me that Théodred had been killed overnight, I thought again of Wormtongue’s odious little face from the morning before, accidentally offering me his affected sympathy for a death that had not yet occurred. And then I knew that he was somehow in league with those who killed Théodred…that he had foreknowledge of Isengard’s attack and the relentless focus they would aim at Théodred alone. He knew that Théodred would die, and he erred only in the timing. He spoke too soon and, in doing so, he betrayed his own complicity. I could see it all, but I had no proof. So I waited until dark that night and went to the chambers where he keeps his office. I forced the lock to search for evidence of his treachery, but he discovered me there and had me dragged before Théoden as a thief and a traitor. He asked for my imprisonment, and Théoden agreed without hearing a word from me first.”
Her fingers trailed lightly over the blue smudges on her cheekbone. “I did not go quietly, but what is one woman against a company of guards? And I have been here ever since, rotting alone in the jail of the man who was to be my father.”
Éomer slumped back against the wall and rubbed a hand across his face. “Of all the charges I would lay at Gríma’s feet, never did I think he would reach so low as to aid in the death of the king’s son. Can it really be so?”
Her head snapped up. “Do you accuse me of lying?”
“Of course not.” He raised his palms in conciliation. ”I would take your word over Wormtongue’s in all things. There is no question.”
“Then you are one step ahead of your uncle.” Her lip trembled slightly but her gaze was direct and keen. Éomer looked away to escape the heat of it.
Of course he understood why she felt betrayed by Théoden. Was he not himself sitting in a cell because Théoden had accepted Wormtongue’s counsel? It stung, there was no denying. But something within him still felt a confidence that Théoden’s increasingly erratic behavior was not a true expression of his uncle’s will. The kind and generous man he had known all his life, who had taken him in and raised him as a son, was still there somewhere.
“Théoden is not himself of late,” he said. “I do not know how to explain it, but a person does not change so dramatically merely from old age and illness. I hope still that he will come back to himself before long.”
“You are more softhearted than I imagined, Éomer. Maybe you can forgive one who would cast you aside like so many kitchen scraps, but I cannot. Nor can I forgive the way he treated Théodred in the last weeks of his life. Accusing him of trying to usurp the throne. Of disloyalty. Did you know that your cousin went to his death with such words from his father in his ears? Why should I care whether they were Théoden’s own opinions or he merely repeated the accusations of Wormtongue? The effect was the same.”
Éomer winced. He had been the target of similar remarks recently, part of a wave of paranoia and suspicion that seemed to be gripping Théoden ever tighter. And though Théodred had never mentioned it, Éomer was not surprised to hear that his cousin had experienced the same thing. But if Eadlin had seen Théodred hurting as a result, Éomer doubted he would ever be able to change her mind about Théoden again. She might forgive many things over time, but causing Théodred pain was not one of them. Not now that the pain could never be redressed.
He reached through the bars and put a gentle hand on her arm. She stiffened but did not move. “I promise you, if I can find a way out of this cell, I will get you out, too. I will not leave this prison without you. And together we can try to fix all of this. To restore things to the way they ought to be.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were a mistake. She tore her arm away from him and jumped to her feet. Her face flushed around the fading bruise, and her fists clenched at her sides.
“The way they ought to be? So you will bring my Théodred back from death, then? You will restore to me the best and kindest person either of us has ever known, the one person I loved above all else? Because that is what ought to be. And if that is not what you offer, then I am not interested. Now or ever.”
She strode to the opposite side of the cell, as far away from him as she could reach, and threw herself to the floor with her back to him once again. She made no further sound, though he could see from the ragged convulsing of her shoulders that she was sobbing.
He fought back the overwhelming urge to join her in her grief, to sit on the floor of his own cell and feel the full weight of his sorrow at the loss of his beloved cousin. But with so many disasters that had already befallen Rohan and others that might yet still occur while he was helplessly trapped here at the margin of greater events, his own pain would have to keep waiting. Instead, he reluctantly turned aside and began to pace back and forth across his cell, brooding on his situation and searching his mind for a plan of action. When the light failed and he could no longer see the bars on either side of him, he felt his way to the wall and sat back against it. He stared forward into the darkness, and in this way he passed a long, unhappy night.
When the morning sun at last began to filter in, he could once again see Eadlin sitting in her corner. Her back was still to him, and her knees were drawn up tightly under her chin. The sight of her in such misery was a jarring contrast to her smiling and animated presence in his memories. His heart ached for her, and for Théodred. How his cousin would have felt to see her like this he could not imagine.
He sat a while longer until the sound of footsteps on the stairs broke the silence. The hollow feeling in his stomach reminded him that no food had been brought since his arrival, and he stood in expectation of receiving some form of meal. To his surprise, however, the face that appeared in the doorway was not a guard bearing food but rather the friendly visage of Háma, captain of the king’s guard and doorwarden of Meduseld, bearing a large ring of keys.
Háma smiled broadly and shook the keys with a celebratory jangle. “I have orders for your release, Marshal. Straight from the king himself.”
“The king?” Éomer rushed to the cell door, anxiously watching as Háma tried one key after another in the lock. “He has changed his mind? How?”
“I could not say. I know only that the wizard Gandalf arrived this morning with several strangers in tow, and they had an audience with the king. What was said inside is not known to me, but some magic seems afoot. There was sudden darkness and lightning in the middle of an otherwise clear morning, and soon after the king emerged from the hall to stand and walk in the sunshine as a man twenty years younger than he was only yesterday.”
Éomer’s mouth fell open and for several seconds he was unable to speak as he tried to make sense of Háma’s words. “Gandalf? Alive after all? And Théoden seemingly restored to health? It feels too much to have hoped for. If this is a jest of some sort, Háma, I assure you that I will take it badly.”
Háma grinned as he inserted a final key, which turned with a satisfying clink. “May Béma hunt me down if I do not speak the truth!” He pulled open the door and stood aside to allow Éomer to walk out.
“Thank you, my friend,” said Éomer, grasping Háma’s forearm. “I do not fully understand the chain of events that you have related, but I know better than to question good fortune too closely. Do you know where my sword is?”
Háma smiled and nodded toward the stairs. “If you return to Meduseld, you will find Gandalf and his companions still with the king. Perhaps you can get more explanation from them while I fetch your sword for you.” He turned to lead the way out, but Éomer stood fast and maintained his grip on Háma’s arm.
“I cannot leave yet,” Éomer said. He looked over at Eadlin, who still sat silently in her corner. “I need you to release her as well. I made a promise that we would leave this jail together.”
Háma followed his eyes to the next cell and started at the sight of her. “Lady Eadlin in prison? How could this be possible?” He turned back to Éomer, his brows knit tightly together with concern. “But Marshal, I am sorry. I…I have no orders to release anyone but you.”
“Would you accept such an order from me? If so, I will gladly give it.”
Háma chewed on his lower lip. “I suppose now that you are released, you are returned to status as a marshal in good standing. It is not the usual way for marshals to command the king’s guard, but, then, many unusual things have happened today already. And it does not sit well in my heart to see your cousin’s intended bride mourning from a prison cell.”
Having thus made up his mind, he crossed to her door and unlocked it with the same key. She rose slowly and stepped out. “Thank you, Captain Háma,” she said quietly, and he bowed in acknowledgment. She then bowed in turn to Éomer. “And thank you, Éomer. You have honored your word. I am sure there is much now for you to do.”
His shoulders slumped a little. “Will you not come with me to Meduseld? Would you not witness Théoden restored and prepared once again to receive us as loyal members of his family?”
She laughed ruefully. “Us? What makes you think I am included in his change of disposition? He sent Háma here to retrieve you, not me. I have no reason to believe my position with him has changed, and his position with me has certainly not.”
“But surely once he sees you, once you can speak with him, all will be made clear. He loved you as a daughter, and I know that he still does. Return with me and reclaim your rightful place in his heart.”
She slowly shook her head. “Éomer, even if that were true, it would not be enough. There is no life for me in Edoras anymore. I have no reason to stay here, where precious memories of Théodred will lurk around every corner. Where every familiar place and situation will remind me of him and his absence. I cannot heal where the wound will always be open. And to stay only to seek revenge will turn me into someone I do not wish to be. I have glimpsed that person this week, and she is terrible to behold.”
Her voice was no longer angry but sorrowful, as though her bitterness had leached out of her overnight only to be replaced by a weary defeat. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
“Eadlin, you cannot give up. Would you leave Wormtongue to get away with what he did to you? With what he did to Théodred?”
He could see that the question hit its mark. Tears welled up in her large eyes, and she looked down for several long, anguished moments. When she looked up again, however, her eyes were dry and clear.
“There are others better able to deal with Wormtongue than I. You will find more capable allies in the visitors who arrived this morning, I am certain. But I will offer you this help.” She leaned forward. “When I was in Wormtongue’s office that night, I found a loose floorboard in the east corner. I had just pried it up when he came running in and had his guards drag me out. But I had time enough to see there was a locked chest stowed in that compartment. A man like Wormtongue does not make such an effort to hide things away unless he truly fears them coming to light. If you send Háma to retrieve the chest, I am certain you will find things inside that are proof enough of his wickedness even for Théoden.”
Éomer shot a look to Háma, who nodded his understanding. “Let me first fetch your sword, Marshal,” said Háma. “And then I will find a way into Wormtongue’s office if I have to break the door open myself.” He turned and ran up the stairs.
Alone once more, Éomer took Eadlin’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You can put your faith in Háma. There can still be justice for Théodred, and maybe that will help to ease your pain.”
She gave a small sigh and shrugged.
“What will you do now?” he asked.
“I am not sure yet. Perhaps I’ll ride to Aldburg and be with my own family again for a while. If I have to build a new life for myself, that seems a likely place to start.”
He nodded. “If you should ever change your mind, there will always be a home for you here. Éowyn and I will see to that. You are part of our family still, with or without Théodred.”
She reached up to press a kiss to his cheek and then stepped around him to the staircase. Just before disappearing around the corner, she looked back at him one last time. “He really loved you, Éomer. I hope you know that. If anyone had to take his place and fulfill the destiny that was to be his, he would have been glad to know it was you.” With that, she smiled sadly and walked out alone.
#eomer#fan fiction#lord of the rings#lotr fanfic#rohan#lotr fanfiction#eomer fanfiction#learning how to forgive#i love theoden too but i’d have been really pissed about this
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I wrote this at work on a slow day. Character death- MJ
"Amy, stop spacing out", the charge nurse snapped their fingers while they checked vitals.
"I'm sorry, but do you ever feel like something is watching you in this room?", Amy shivered, "it gives me the creeps."
"All of the time", the charge nurse sighed, "I try to ignore it, this poor soul needs us", they looked at the battered body.
It had been a full week since the detectives had located Caretaker's location and raided the building. Caretaker and two others had been held captive there. All three varied in how long they had been there.
Caretaker had been there three weeks, and even in that amount of time, the doctors felt it would be safest to put him into a coma to heal.
The second person had been a week there, they escaped with minor injuries.
The third, Whumpee, had been there for a year. They were badly broken by the time they were removed. It seemed they had fought to stay alive long enough to be found, they succumbed to their injuries in an officers arms. Dead by the time they felt the chill of the night air.
Caretaker had been heard yelling, asking about the two others. No one had the will to tell them Whumpee died.
Now, Caretaker lay in their hospital bed, a long road to recovery. Most was to be spent in the medically induced coma.
Most staff couldn't get over the spooky feeling of someone watching in Caretaker's room.
No one noticed Whumpee sitting on the floor beside Caretaker's bed. At least no one could see them there it seemed.
Whumpee often cried, they didn't want to be invisible. They wished to be acknowledged again, even if it meant going back to the torture. This was almost worse than anything their captors had done.
Whumpee stood up and gently poked Caretaker.
"Caretaker", they whispered, "please tell me what's going on."
Caretaker just layed there motionless.
Whumpee screamed, causing the lights to dim. The monitor beeped a few times before someone rushed in.
"That's the second time today", the charge nurse sighed, "whatever keeps doing that needs to stop, it's going to kill Caretaker."
Whumpee whimpered when they heard those words.
Another nurse came in.
"Everything okay?", they asked.
"Yes, Caretaker is stable", the nurse looked over the vital another time.
"Good. I was reading the chart for Caretaker. Did you know two others came out of that place. One hadn't been there too long, so they were fairly okay and were in a different part of the hospital. But one other named Whumpee died as they were being carried out", the nurse frowned, "it seemed Caretaker had been doing all they could to keep Whumpee alive, with promises that they would be rescued soon. Whumpee died as they left the building."
Whumpee listened, "I remember now, I didn't want to be forgotten in this world. Caretaker kept promising me that we would be found, just hold out a little longer. I remember now. I-I died."
Whumpee fell to the ground in front of the nurses.
"Not to be superstitious, but you don't suppose Whumpee could be here with us. They seemed pretty close to Caretaker", the nurse frowned.
Whumpee listened bewildered.
"I don't know, I have a hard time believing in ghost."
"You can admit though it's spooky in here", the other admitted.
They both left agreeing with each other.
Whumpee stood by Caretaker's bed now. They cried but tried to be careful with their emotions they didn't want to kill Caretaker or anyone for that matter.
Whumpee sat by the bed for the rest of the day thinking about what had happened. Wishing they knew more of what was going on. If only Caretaker were with them to tell them it was going to be okay.
"He probably wouldn't be able to see me anyways", Whumpee sighed.
The door opened again. The nurse from earlier came in carrying something.
"This is awkward, but is there by chance someone in here named Whumpee?", they looked around.
Whumpee stood up.
"If you are here, will you move this", the nurse held up a string with a needle hanging from it.
Whumpee went over to them, but stopped suddenly, "how am I supposed to move that", they waved their hands at it. Nothing.
"Come on, I can feel your energy. Just tell me I'm not crazy", the nurse pleaded.
Whumpee groaned, "I can't", they looked at the string and with all concentration they could muster tried to flick it."
"It moved", the nurse exclaimed excitedly.
Whumpee fell back suddenly feeling really weak.
"Okay wow", the nurse looked around excitedly.
Whumpee smiled, glad they had been noticed again.
Whumpee decided to tour around the hospital a few days later.
There was nothing else to do besides watch Caretaker's steady breathing and the machines thankfully keeping Caretaker alive.
Whumpee came back to the room in time to see the doctor come in.
"They are looking good", the doctor exclamined, "I may consider taking them out of the coma if it keeps up."
Whumpee sat on the couch across the room from them to listen.
The nurse who knew Whumpee was there. They looked around the room.
"You seem a little sidetracked", the doctor smiled.
"I'm sorry, um it's weird, but I feel like someone is watching", the nurse blushed.
"You mean like a ghost", the doctor smiled wider.
"Yes", the nurse looked down, "do you believe in ghost?"
"Well honestly I don't know, there are a lot of things we don't know about in this life", the doctor sighed, "but I don't doubt your senses. There was a death involved in this case."
"Yes, Whumpee", the nurse looked at Caretaker.
"Yes."
Whumpee stood by the light switch, they had learned a few tricks, and was working on their energy. They smiled as they flicked the switch off then on again.
"What the heck", the doctor looked around.
"They have a few pranks they like to pull", the nurse sighed.
"They?", the doctor looked at them wide-eyed.
"Whumpee, they've been with Caretaker this whole time watching over them", the nurse smirked, "I was able to make contact, and I think they've enjoyed being noticed again. The room seems lighter than it did before doesn't it."
"Y-yes", the doctor tried to catch their breath, "I uh, wasn't expecting that."
Whumpee laughed as they walked to the bed. They reached down and touched the doctor's hand.
The doctor jerked back.
"Cold hand touch yours?", the nurse grinned.
"Y-yes", the doctor looked at them shocked.
"They won't hurt you, I think they are learning how to do things, and are trying to be noticed more", the nurse sighed, "I wasn't ready when they poked me the other day."
"What do we do?", the doctor asked, "this is a new one for me."
"Just say hi, they don't want to cause any trouble", the nurse smiled, "they just want people to know they're here."
The doctor nodded, "Hello Whumpee, I promise Caretaker is in good hands."
Whumpee smiled finally someone else knew they existed still, they weren't forgotten.
A few more days passed, three weeks since Caretaker was hospitalized.
The doctor peaked in, "alright Whumpee, no spooks, I need to check on Caretaker."
Whumpee sat on the couch and watched the doctor and nurses working on Caretaker.
"I think we can take them out of the coma, they've healed remarkably", the doctor smiled happily, "better than I thought."
Whumpee did a happy dance, they could finally find out if Caretaker could see them. They ignored the thought of Caretaker not seeing them though.
Later the staff came in to start the process.
Whumpee stood at the bedside next to them.
They poked the nurse they had befriended.
"I know I'm excited to", the nurse whispered.
Everyone gave a weird look, only the doctor gave a knowing glance around the room.
The nurse quickly pointed out where Whumpee was.
The doctor nodded.
Whumpee watched as Caretaker struggled to wake up.
Caretaker gasped a couple times, "where am I?"
"You are in a hospital, just getting out of a medically induced coma", the doctor smiled, "you are safe now."
Caretaker closed their eyes, "okay, yep its coming back to me, how is, how is Whumpee and that other one? Are they okay?"
"How about we finish here, and we'll talk", the doctor sighed.
"No please I know Whumpee was in bad shape, and no one has told me anything. Are they ok....", Caretaker locked eyes with Whumpee, "oh they're right there, good. Whumpee, you look like your in better shape than me, oh that's good", Caretaker relaxed.
Whumpee almost cried.
The doctor locked eyes with the nurse, they both shivered.
Everyone else looked startled as well, Whumpee wasn't there. They figured he was still processing.
Once everyone had left except the doctor and the nurse. They both sat beside Caretaker's bed.
The doctor started, "Caretaker I am so happy you are awake, you've been an honor to take care of."
The nurse agreed.
"I have some news though, um, Whumpee died that night", the doctor sighed, "um the moment the officer got them outside they passed", the doctor wiped a stray tear.
"I'm looking at them right now", Caretaker pointed, almost pleadfully.
Whumpee wiped a tear away, they disappeared and reappeared closer to Caretaker.
"I'm dead Caretaker", they sighed.
"No, no please", Caretaker sobbed, "you were supposed to be free with me, and live and be remembered. And- and be reminded there is good in this world."
"There is good", Whumpee reached and grabbed Caretaker's arm, "this doctor, this nurse, you. There is so much good here.
Caretaker sobbed as they listened.
The doctor looked away, they eyed the nurse.
"I'm so sorry Caretaker", they replied, "we both believe Whumpee is here with you, they've been here this whole time watching over you, and playing pranks on us. I think you might be able to see them, I'm taking it as that."
Caretaker nodded.
"I'm sure you both have a lot to talk about so we are going to leave you now. Use this call bell if you need us", the doctor pulled down the alarms.
Caretaker wiped a tear as they watched them leave.
"The other person was rescued as well, they've already been cleared to go home, they couldn't see me, but I spent some time in their room before they left", Whumpee stood by the bed, "so far you've been the only one to see me. That nurse made contact with me first, then the doctor felt me."
"I yelled for you, no one told me. I'm so sorry", Caretaker sobbed.
"The only thing I would change from this is that I wish I could have known you on your side of life. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do now', Whumpee looked down, "the officer that carried me was very kind. When he saw I was dying, he stopped and hugged me as I died. I'm okay."
Caretaker shook as they listened.
"I promise, I'm okay. You were right, I was able to hold on a little longer, and be free, just in a different way. Hopefully, you will remember me if I ever do fade out of existence. I honestly have no idea what will happen to me now."
"I won't forget you Whumpee I promise", Caretaker smiled weakly, "until that happens will you stay with me, haunt me if you will. Maybe you can enjoy your freedom that way until you know what you are supposed to do."
"I'll enjoy that", Whumpee grinned, "it's been fun learning to be a ghost."
Caretaker nodded, "I'm sure."
Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all. @villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived @sacredwrath @porschethemermaid @monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz @bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13 @notpeppermint
#whump community#whump stuff#whump writing#whump ideas#whump#whumpee#whumper#whump scenario#caretaking#oc#ghost whumpee#caretaker#character death
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the happiest place on earth
Synopsis: In a turn of events, Tom gets to be the man in the Spider-Man suit at Disneyland. But what happens when he meets you and blows his cover?
Pairing: Tom Holland x reader
Word Count: 3.8k
Warnings: None
A/N: salut! I am back for a second! I wrote this months ago but I was too busy to post it :( anyways I hope you enjoy!
“Okay Tom, remember. You gotta speak in your Peter voice for the entirety of the meet and greet, and you shouldn’t try to do or say anything that would give you away.” The coordinator of the Avengers campus stated to Tom.
He had no idea that he would be putting on the suit today, and having photos taken of him in the suit, yet here he was.
He had come to Disneyland with his assistant and manager to check out the new Avengers campus since he had the day off. He didn’t attend the opening ceremony because he was in London working on a project, so he decided to check it out when he had a free chance in Los Angeles. He thought he was surprising the theme park by him coming by, but instead he got a surprise of his own.
“Our actor for Spider-Man came down ill, and we can’t get anyone into the suit quick enough for Spidey to make an appearance today.”
The coordinators and photographers all looked over at Tom while he stood there nervously. He knows the importance of being there for your job, and he didn’t want to leave Disney hanging. So he knew what the solution had to be.
“Put me in the suit. I can take photos with guests, and I have the accent down perfectly.”
“No!” The coordinator exclaimed. “We can’t put you in the suit whatsoever. What happens if someone finds out?”
“No one will.” Tom assured him. “It’ll only be for an hour or so, and it’ll work out perfectly. I promise.”
Tom’s manager looked worryingly over at him, but Tom only nodded his head. “It’s only gonna be for an hour, I can handle it.”
Since the Spider-Man character at Disneyland was based off of Tom, the proportions of the suit were almost perfect. It was the correct height, and although it was a tad bit tight, it was manageable.
“Remember what I told you—don’t make any wrong choices.”
“I won’t, I’ve got this.” The photographers led Tom to the location that they were taking photos with Spider-Man at, which was near the front of Avengers Headquarters..
A queue had already formed when Tom walked over to the location, and taking a deep breath in, Tom walked out and mentally prepared himself for this.
A young kid with his twin sister and mom were the first in line, and Tom noticed that the little boy was wearing a Spider-Man suit of his own.
“Would you look at that.” Tom giddily said to the boy, “I can’t believe I’m looking at the real Spider-Man! Can I have your autograph?” Tom asked the kid, and knelt down to be at eye level. The boy’s face lit up, and he was grinning from ear to ear.
“I want your autograph too please.” Tom got two pieces of paper from the photographers and proceeded to sign one of the papers for the kid, and the boy (whom he found out was named Calum) wrote his name on the other and handed it to Tom.
After some photos, Tom wished the kids farewell and worked his way through the queue.
Tom was finding it fun to do this, and he enjoyed keeping the secret that it wasn’t just any actor pretending to be Spider-Man—it was the real deal.
The line had started to slow down after thirty minutes, and he counted about 25 people left. He was so busy counting the crowd that he didn’t notice you walking towards him.
The photographers led you to Tom, and when he noticed someone walking towards him, he gasped.
“She’s pretty, yeah?” One of the photographers whispered to Tom. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, and he nearly melted into a puddle when you looked at him. His breathing subconsciously became faster, and before he knew it he was about to start panicking.
For once in your life, be cool. He thought to himself. His heart was beating out of his chest, and he was sure he would have a panic attack. Yet all of his nerves dissipated when he saw your smile, and as a wave of calm washed over him, he lightly cleared his throat and prepared to speak in his American accent.
“Well hello there darling, how are you on this fine day?” He asked, and just as he finished his sentence, he began to mentally curse at himself. Who says that? He thought to himself, so much for being natural and suave
“I’m doing fantastic on this fine day, my good sir.” You replied with a beaming smile, and to top off the comment, you playfully bowed and did a curtsy. This earned a laugh from both you and Tom, and when he jokingly bowed back, you two were full on giggling now.
When he saw that the photographer was motioning to him that it was time for a photo op, Tom reached out his hand for you to grab. When you did so, he gently brought your hand to his face and gave it a kiss. He heard a click of the camera, and continued to play up his actions.
“You know how to make a girl melt, don’t you Peter?” You asked.
The mention of Peter brought him back to reality, and it made him realize that this was all pretend. He wasn’t Tom flirting with you, instead it was Peter, and Spider-Man. None of this was real, no matter how badly he wished it was.
“Yeah, I guess so.” He finally answered back, his tone turning downwards at the end of the sentence. Before he could say much else, the staff members that were watching gave him a look and pointed down at the watches, signaling that time was almost up.
“Would you like to pose for a picture with me?” He asked, and you nodded happily.
“I know you probably get this a lot, but can we do the famous Spider-Man squat pose?” You asked excitedly, “it just looks so cool when you do it.”
This comment made Tom smile, and he popped a squat to get into the position.
As he bent down, you sneaked a look of his behind, and let out a small gasp. Tom didn’t see you staring, but the photographers sure did, and they all stifled a laugh
“What’s so funny?” He asked, but when he looked at you your eyes were wide, and your expression embarrassed. “Did my suit rip or something?”
“I’m surprised it didn’t, since you’ve got a fat ass.” You blurted out without thinking. When you realised what you said, you covered your mouth and closed your eyes. “Oh no, I said that out loud, huh?”
“Oh you sure did honey.” Tom replied, “but I must admit I’m quite flattered by that.”
Since your comment caught him off guard, he replied in his regular British accent, and not as Peter Parker.
“Shit.” He uttered under his breath, and looked over at you who was staring at him with the widest eyes he’s ever seen.
You opened your mouth and said, “You’re-”
“Done.” The cast member frantically answered, and grabbed Tom’s arm. “I’m so sorry but Spider-Man has to leave…and um, save the world!” The cast member led Tom away from you, and the photographers quickly followed him.
With a quick turn of the head, Tom turned around to look at you one last time and waved at you, and yelled “sorry!”
You stood firmly in your tracks, and watched as they frantically whisked Tom away. As he was being led away from you, you saw him turn his head around repeatedly to see if you were still behind him, but less than a minute later, he lost you in the crowd, never to see you again.
Tom was led frantically by the cast member who was watching over Tom, and Tom knew that he was gonna be in trouble. It was an honest mishap, yet he knew his cast members and his assistant would not be happy with him,
“Are you crazy?!” The cast member retorted. “Now that girl knows it was you in the suit, and once she blabs about it, we’re going to have a fiasco on our hands.”
Tom watched as the member was becoming visibly angry, but in his defense, he didn’t think he would break character. He was fine all day, no problem at all. It wasn’t until you flustered him so much that he slipped a little bit, big deal.
“I don’t think she’ll-”
“How do you know, hm? She could go on social media and say something, or, or…” the cast member stammered, “well I don’t know what she’ll do with that information, but it could go badly for us.”
“Or maybe if she does say anything, no one will believe her.” Tom’s assistant spoke up. “She has no proof, and even if she did, it could be anyone in the costume.”
“True.” The cast member added. “It just could’ve gone terribly.”
Tom looked at his assistant and the cast member, and sighed. “She was really nice, so I doubt she’ll say anything. And even if she does, there’s no proof, which means that no one is in trouble.” He adjusted himself in his chair, and crossed his arms.
“Right,” his assistant responded, then picked up her belongings. “Are you ready to go Tom?” She looked over at him, and frowned when she saw the frown that was on his face. To be honest, all Tom wanted to do was rush into the park and find you, even if just for a second. You left such a wonderful impression on him, and he would do anything to see you one more time.
This thought gave him an idea--maybe not the best one, but an idea nevertheless.
Tom, not wanting to show his hand, feigned indifference. “Um, yeah. Let me just get out of the suit, grab my things and use the restroom.” When he got up from his chair and walked over to his bag, he noticed that the back door of the dressing room was barely propped open. The main door where they entered the dressing room was on the other side of the room, which gave Tom another idea. He walked back over to the chair where he was sitting, and placed his bag on the nearby table
His manager nodded, and Tom pulled out his clothes from earlier and set them down on the table.
“Would it be possible to get a bit of privacy?” He asked as nonchalantly as he could.
“Yeah, of course.” His manager replied, “we’ll be waiting for you outside the door.” She pointed towards the door they came in, and Tom nodded his head in agreement.
“Sounds great, see you in a bit.” He began to unzip himself from the suit and watched as the two left the room. Quickly he threw off the suit, and stuffed his clothes that he came in back in his bag. He rummaged through the bag, and let out a small squeak as he saw another shirt and pair of pants.
“Now they won’t be able to spot me in a crowd.” He said to himself, and quickly began to change into his new outfit. He got dressed in record time, and ran into the bathroom to fix his appearance.
Knowing that they were still expecting him to use the restroom, he flushed the toilet without using it, washed his hands and ran back towards the door where his manager was waiting for him.
“I’m almost done, just give me like 3 more minutes.” He exclaimed through the door.
“It’s okay, take your time.” His manager answered back.
“Thanks!” He replied, and quietly made his way to the other side of the dressing room, where the other door was. If he was correct, this door would lead him to the other end of the hallway, where he’d be able to slink into the park, no problem.
He quickly and carefully opened the door, and peeked his head out of the entryway. There was no one around, and so Tom sped walked out of the door and towards the main exit. As the tunnels made sharp turns, he made sure to look before he rounded the corner to make sure the coast was clear.
The doorway was in his sight, and was less than a minute away, as long as he kept up his brisk walk.
“Please let me be able to get out, please let me be able to get out.” He pleaded to himself as he swiftly approached the door. Extending his arm outwards towards the door handle, he pushed with force and he was met with the bright sun in his eyes. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the brightness, but it didn’t take long for him to realize where he was at—in Hollywood Land, which is right next to the Avengers campus.
“Oh thank god.” He sighed in relief, “but I still have to be careful. I have to make sure no one recognizes me at all, whatsoever.” Placing his sunglasses on and putting on a white golfing cap, he set out on his most important mission today—finding you in an endless sea of people.
—-
Amusement parks are great places to get lost in, due to the sheer amount of people around. It surprisingly allowed for him to have some anonymity, and because he was wandering around the park by himself, he got to cut the lines on many of the popular rides. Seeing children with smiles on their faces, couples walking around with intertwined hands, and happy families brought a lot of joy to Tom.
People weren’t lying, he thought to himself, this truly is the happiest place on earth.
Tom, of course, realized that people were still looking for him, and he just kept ignoring all of their pleading calls and texts. For once, he just wanted to feel like a real person, and not be micromanaged. And even though he was still having fun, he couldn’t stop searching the crowd for you. At first, it was exciting, but now, it feels borderline creepy.
After an hour, the insistent calls and texts ended, with the last text saying we won’t look for you, but when you’re done wandering around the park, let me know.
It’s been hours of him wandering through endless crowds of people, yet there was no sight of you anywhere. The previously warm California day had cooled down into a crisp winter night, and the cold was making the search for you less fun. Now all Tom felt was cold, tired, and hopeless.
This is just getting creepy now man, why have I spent over three hours looking for this girl? He pondered to himself. Now I’ve turned into an obsessed fan, yikes.
I have to give up. I have no other choice.
As he sat underneath the shade of the tree in New Orleans Square, he took a deep breath in, and mentally told himself to remember this feeling of happiness and solace. He knew that he would have to call his assistant back to tell her where he is, but he didn’t want this feeling of content to end so soon. As the cool winter breeze enveloped him, he smelled the delicious churro stand that was near the main walkway.
Dang that smells good, I’ve gotta get one. Or maybe two, or three…
Tom got up from his seat and walked over to the stand. The line was sparse, so it didn’t take long for him to move to the front of the line. He stood in the line and ordered two, because he couldn’t decide on an original or a s’mores churro.
“That’ll be $7.50.” The vendor said. Tom fumbled for his wallet, yet while doing so, he dropped it on the ground beside him.
“Well, that’s embarrassing.” He muttered under his breath. But before he could crouch down to pick it up, someone said—
“Here you go.”
“Cheers.” Tom held out his hand to retrieve his wallet, and looked to see who had handed it to him.
The sight of you standing there, holding his wallet, made him feel even more flustered.
“Oh, thank you.” He answered nervously, and handed the vendor a ten dollar bill. “Have a nice evening.”
“Excuse me sir, but you forgot to get your churros.” The vendor called out to him.
“Oh, that's right, huh.” He swiveled on his heels and grabbed the two churros from the vendor. “Mercy me.”
Stifling a small giggle, you clicked your tongue. “Who would’ve guessed that you would actually be like Peter.” Your eyes focused on his face turning beet red.
“Well, about that. I usually am more suave, darling.” He emphasized clearly. “But being around a pretty girl makes me nervous.”
You playfully placed your hand over your heart, and you knew that your face was getting warmer. “You’re awfully cute when you’re nervous. Now I’m nervous too, knowing that a pretty boy thinks I’m attractive.”
The both of you stood there, grinning at each other, in your own little world.
“Why did you buy two churros?” You inquired, which broke the silence between you two. “Were you planning on eating both?”
Tom glanced at you, and with a cheeky grin, he answered, “no love, I knew I was going to run into you, which is why I bought two.”
“Oh god.” You guffawed. “That was terrible acting. I’m surprised you still get gigs.” Extending your arm, you playfully tapped his shoulder. “You might want to look into a different profession.”
Tom gasped, rather dramatically. “Oi! That was incredibly rude.” He stated, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “I’m off the clock now.”
That comment earned a genuine laugh out of you, and Tom’s laughter mixed with yours, creating a wondrous sound. Hearing his laugh was something you knew you could never get tired of listening to. You wished you could stay in this memory forever.
“So, which churro would you like?” Tom asked, holding out both churros in front of him.
“The s’mores one please.”
You grabbed it from his hand, and your fingertips touched for a brief second. It was electrifying, but you moved away before it became awkward. You looked up at Tom, and noticed his face was pink, eyes wide with joy. It was cute seeing him so flustered and wide-eyed, and you couldn’t help but notice how his mannerisms really were like Peter’s. Or Peter’s were like his. Regardless, it didn’t stop you from thinking he was the cutest thing in the world.
A family hurriedly walked past you and Tom, which broke the bubble of your little world. Looking down at your shoes, you took a step sideways. “We should probably get out of everyone’s way.”
“Yeah.” He piped up, and led you back towards the center of the park. You wove through the large crowds of people, dodging people who were waking in the opposite direction. Someone nearby started speaking in a different language, and the curiosity in you made you turn your head to see who it was. Tom, who turned around to make sure you were still behind him, noticed your gaze astray, so without thinking, he reached and grabbed your hand.
Instinctively, you pulled your hand away before seeing who had grabbed it. Yet, when you saw Tom standing still, still holding his hand out, you reached out for it.
“Sorry, I didn’t know who’s hand I was holding.” You sheepishly answered.
“It’s good love, sorry for startling you.”
Instead of responding, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and off you two went. It didn’t take long to find a place to sit, right below the shady tree where Tom sat just a few minutes ago. Before you sat down, Tom dusted the cement block with his hand and motioned for you to sit.
What a gentleman, you thought. You sat down next to him just close enough for your knees to touch. You both sat in silence as you ate and took in the moment. Tom looked over at you with the same kind eyes that he’s looked at you all day with.
“You know,” he paused, “I just realized I didn’t get your name; how embarrassing.” Tom admitted while looking down at his shoes.
You told him your name, and Tom held out his hand for you to shake. You did so, and you noticed Tom didn’t pull his hand away. Reluctantly, you pulled your hand away and took another bite of your churro. Tom followed suit, and neither of you spoke for a minute. The silence between you was comfortable, and you both spent a few minutes just enjoying each other’s company.
“Do you mind if I say something?” Tom asked, breaking the silence.
“Of course, ask away.” You answered back. You looked at him with curious eyes, and watched as Tom carefully thought about what he was going to say.
“Well, I’m surprised you’re treating me so…regularly. You haven’t bombarded me with questions about being famous.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m not used to it, that’s all. I’m surprised you’re treating me so normally.”
Tom’s response made you feel a bit sad for him, knowing that he’s so used to people wanting something out of him. Fame, money, or bragging rights, but you didn’t want any of those things from him. He just seemed like a nice person, and you enjoyed your conversation that you had with him while he was portraying Peter. You took a minute before responding to make sure what you wanted to convey was worded properly.
“I know you’re famous, and that’s cool, but you’re also just a regular person. One who buys two churros because they can’t make up their mind--and one who eats and gets cinnamon sugar all over their face.”
You watched Tom’s eyes wide, and you giggled as he wiped his face with his sleeve. “All good?” He asked inquisitively, and you nodded your head yes.
“I am treating you like a real person, because you are.” You continued, and flashed Tom a soft smile. His face softened at your response, and he smiled back.
“Thank you.” He whispered, and turned his face away from you. You noticed he was blushing, but you didn’t want to say anything to embarrass him. Instead, you looked into the crowd of people and smiled once more.
“You know, people weren’t lying about this place.” You spoke up before you took another bite of the churro. You noticed Tom’s gaze came back to you, and his face was still slightly pink.
“Hmm? What do you mean?” He asked politely, waiting for your response.
“This really is the happiest place on earth.” You beamed, looking Tom in the eyes.
Without skipping a beat, Tom answered back.
“Undoubtedly.”
#tom holland#tom holland x you#tom holland x reader#tom holland one shot#tom holland one shots#tom holland and y/n#tom holland x y/n#tom holland x fem!reader#tom holland fluff#tom holland imagine#tom holland imagines#tom holland spiderman#spiderman x y/n
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Oh my god, your writing??? It's so good??? How come I only came across these gems today? Either way, I'm glad I ended up finding your blog.
If you have time, could I request something similar to the post where Venti finds his way to our world, but with either Ei or Zhongli, please?
A New and Foreign Arrangement
Ahhh thank you so much! I like your writing a lot too!!!
Decided to do good old Zhongli for this, also it occurred to me halfway through writing that you might have actually meant the headcanons and not the drabble, so if I wrote the wrong thing please let me know and I can totally do the other—
Warnings: general sagau, that's pretty much it he's pretty tame
-
Zhongli was patient.
He had to be, patience and precision were of the utmost importance when it came to his responsibilities.
So to find himself here, begging so sincerely, offering everything at his disposal for just one chance to see you...
Well, Albedo couldn't very well decline.
And now you were standing in your living room, sitting in complete silence with a quite nervous Zhongli, who had just walked into your house through a very fancy looking door, which appeared and then disappeared shortly after.
There was no mistaking it as him, the dark hair which faded into a soft amber, the same golden eyes which refused to give away anything he was thinking.
If you did somehow have the ability to read his thoughts however, you would find that they were only full of you, so desperately trying to mentally will you to say anything at all.
"So..." You finally spoke, trailing off into another muted silence as he looked directly at you, urging you to say more, pleading desperately with out saying a word.
You took a second to clear your throat before continuing, "You're... here then? Uh, if you don't mind my asking, how exactly?"
You felt something inside you die at the awkwardness in the room, but it was very difficult to even form coherent thoughts when a six thousand year old God was sitting right in front of you, looking no less nervous than someone applying for a job interview they didn't have the qualifications for.
Zhongli straightened himself, sitting up in a poised and proper manner that was all too expected.
"I'm sorry for the sudden intrusion, I just..."
He trailed off for a second, seemingly pondering what all exactly he wanted to reveal.
"You're needed in Teyvat. It would be cruel to deprive your world of your presence for much longer. So, I came to get you."
Deprive your world?
"I'm sorry," you started, shifting your weight as you tried to look away from his incredibly beautiful but serious eyes, "This is all very confusing, but I'm not sure you have the right person—"
"Nonsense." Zhongli cut you off, he was now sitting on the edge of his seat, seemingly holding himself back from standing.
He let out a breath as your eyes went wide, reeling himself back from the sudden intrusion and calming his voice a bit as he spoke his next words.
"You're the creator of Teyvat, the God above all Gods, there is no way I could mistake anybody else for you."
The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, as if he fully believed what he was saying.
"Zhongli..."
He perked up at his name, of course you knew it, but hearing you say it like that almost caused him to shiver.
"I can't... I'm not..." You couldn't finish what you were saying, feeling a weight tugging at your heartstrings at the thought of denying him what he was so dead set on believing.
This time Zhongli did stand.
He paced for a moment, resting his chin on his hand as he went back and forth in deep thought, seemingly pondering something important.
"This won't do, to bring you back when you don't believe your own status, to subject your people to that type of uncertainty from their own God..."
You almost felt the need to apologize, as if it was your fault that you didn't meet his expectations.
He looked over at you for a second, seemingly sensing exactly what you were thinking and he waved his head a moment, as if clearing his thoughts.
"None of that is your fault of course, it would be quite unfair of me to put that responsibility on you, so allow me to shoulder it myself."
You paused for a moment, trying to understand exactly what he was implying. Did that mean that he would be leaving you here and take on what he considered to be 'your' responsibilities himself?
"If you'll allow it, it seems I must simply have to stay here and convince you."
You froze, there was a soft smile playing on his lips at the statement, as if it wasn't as much something that he was resigning himself to, but actively seeking out, wanting even.
"Are you asking if you can stay in my house?"
The confidence that was present on his face only a moment ago seemed to falter slightly.
Was that not something you wanted? Was he overstepping his boundaries by even asking?
"Ah, well, when you put it like that—"
"Ok."
You could barely register what you had just said.
Did you just agree to let a multi-thousand year old video game character Archon stay at your house, for who knows how long, while he tries to convince you that, you too, are a God?
It seemed as though that was exactly what you agreed to because Zhongli immediately grabbed your hand into his and thanked you.
"I won't make you regret it, I promise not to cause you any trouble."
His voice was incredibly calm, but you could feel his hands shaking slightly as they held yours.
He felt the urge to thank you properly, to kneel down and fully convey exactly how happy he was, to provide you with luxurious the average person could only dream of ever laying eyes upon. But the fact of the matter was, he was alone in a strangers house with not a penny to his name, in this world at least.
Of course, as he never really thought about currency as is, so the latter part of that statement would evade him for a bit longer.
"Would you allow me to treat you to dinner?"
You didn't particularly want to tell him that if he went out looking the way that he did, he would be recognized rather quickly as 'Zhongli the Geo Archon' from the widely popular game Genshin Impact, so you instead evaded the question.
"Oh, well, I already ate, but we should probably talk about how this arrangement is going to work."
Arrangement? Similar to a contract, right? He could do contracts, and whatever you wanted he would happily give.
"For starters, I don't have a spare bed."
He would be perfectly happy sleeping on the floor, is that all you wanted of him?
"So all I can offer the couch until I figure out something else."
Oh. Yeah, that made a bit more sense.
He could feel that the reality of what you had agreed to was starting to dawn on you, and he felt need to assure you that he wouldn't be anything close to a burden.
"No need to trouble yourself. Anything I need I will happily buy myself, or reimburse you with the appropriate amount of mora, naturally."
"Oh, right, mora..."
You had almost forgotten that his form of currency had absolutely no standing in your world, it looked as though you would have to pay for him after all, at least for the time being, which really wasn't that much different from when you were playing the game-
"So, our currency here isn't actually mora."
You noticed his look of confusion and backtracked, "Well, there is more than one currency, but mora isn't one of them."
More than one currency? Mora not being a currency?? Maybe this universe was more detached from his than he had previously thought, and that did leave the problem of reimbursement...
He let out a hum in understanding.
"I see the problem. Well, it seems I'll just have to earn my stay another way."
The way he said it threw you off, so formal, so detached, as if it was simply a given that he would have to repay you at some point.
You supposed you shouldn't have expected any less from the God of contracts though.
This entire situation had exhausted you, and it was already rather late. Plus, if you saw any more Archons today, you very well might passed out from shock.
"Well, I think I'm going to bed now, so feel free to make yourself comfortable, and I'll see you in the morning."
Maybe when you awoke you would realize that you hallucinated this entire thing, and you really were absolutely losing it.
Zhongli just gave you a patient smile and a small nod, wishing you a good night in turn, and watched as you walked to your room.
You just laid in bed, staring at the ceiling for about fifteen minutes straight, tossing and turning, not able to get your brain to shut itself off.
Of course you were still tired, no matter how much you simply wanted to run over every detail of what had just happened in your head, over and over until it was committed to memory.
So within another five minutes you had fallen into a rather restless sleep, slightly concerned about what you would wake to find in the morning, but also secretly worried about what it was possible you wouldn't find.
After about thirty minutes and a reasonable amount of self debate, when Zhongli was relatively certain that you had fallen asleep, he chose to quietly open your door.
It was only for a look, just to make sure you were doing well, surely all of this would have stressed anyone out.
His eyes softened as they fell upon your sleeping form, you looking just so divine like that.
This was the right decision. Or, at the very least, it was a decision he would stand behind.
Staying away from Teyvat for a long period of time would certainly be a bit stressful, but as soon as he convinced you of your rightful status, you would join him there.
This was his responsibility now, to convince you of what he and hundreds of others already knew, to return you to your rightful place.
He wouldn't go back, not until he was doing it with you.
#genshin impact#sagau#genshin x reader#yandere genshin au#yandere genshin x reader#genshin zhongli#zhongli x reader
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(took a ten-minute nap and had a harrowing dream :O )
tw // mentions of vampirism, murder and violence
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ☽ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
here's a short offering, @saffirez, @yearninginblue, @hyperfixationcentralsvoid, @holyvirgilscriptures, @catboy-cabin (i hope it's okei to tag, since this is long enough to be considered a ficlet but not a proper thing still x.x )
byler royal au (perhaps medieval, perhaps a little after) where will is a ruthless monarch. feared by many, revered by most; he is known for his beauty just as much as he is known for his iron fist and there is no one who dares oppose him for they know it's a death wish. what's more, rumours of vampirism and human sacrifice surround his name and there's a lot to support these claims but ultimately, they are just rumours no one can prove.
except... well, mike can prove them. a knight of the highest order who served will's father until his death, mike has been granted permission (and earned the right) to live in the castle's grounds and as such, he's witnessed two sides of will no one else has seen (and lived to tell the tale):
on the one side, will is actually rather sweet and gentle, his stony demeanour nothing but a facade to make up for his youth and, therefore, his perceived lack of experience (which could lead to someone trying to overthrow him). he treats everyone with kindness and respect and never raises his voice within the castle, not even in the war room.
on the other hand, however... all the rumours about him are true, as far as mike can tell. young people enter will's quarters and never come back out, the stench of blood and viscera plaguing the air as soon as the moon rises in the sky, and mike has personally witnessed suspicious-looking remains be stuffed in sacks by fearful servants, sacks that are then thrown to the pig dens shortly before dawn, evidence of the horrors disappearing in a matter of minutes.
night after night, screams of agony and misery haunt the castle's hallways and, as the people's champion, mike knows it's his duty to do something about it. tell someone about it. his words hold weight and a simple accusation on his part could be enough to get the ball rolling when it comes to ridding the kingdom of such a treacherous being.
but he can't. not when will is so full of life and joy and smiles so beautifully at him. not when will's life has been a series of mishaps he's only now getting the chance to heal from.
surely, mike's got it wrong. there's no way someone like will is responsible for what the rumours claim, right? no way he can be a cannibal or vampire or whatever else the people love to whisper about in dark taverns and empty alleyways... right? in fact, he's going to prove it! he's going to sneak into will's quarters at night and he'll find a totally reasonable explanation for everything, and then he'll be able to dispel the murmurs with a first-hand account of the truth!
and if he finds that everything that was told, everything he himself had observed, was real, then it's not his job to tell anyone.
and if he discovers that will is genuinely this monstrous being that everyone sings about to scare children at night, then it's not his fault everyone believes it to be a folk tale.
and if he suddenly finds himself being looked down at by these very dark eyes, hungry eyes, and he's suddenly forced to choose between what's right and what he wants, then it's not his fault when he follows the pull —not unlike gravity— that's urging him closer, deeper into an insanity he's now a part of purely by his own volition, the likes of which he finds unable to feel guilty about the second will shoots him a smile.
- the end -
(there are perhaps two bylers in the entirety of this hellsite who will get the reference (me being one of them), but if anyone's heard "cruelty and the beast" by cradle of filth,,, you know what vibes i'm going for ~ also, as i wrote this i suddenly came to the realisation that i essentially cleradin'd @foodiewithdahoodie's forbidden fruit au so yeah, my brain remains entirely unoriginal x.x)
#🎼#✨#🧸#byler#byler fanfic#byler fanfiction#byler ficlet#will byers#mike wheeler#cleradin#w // murder#w // graphic depictions of violence#w // vampirism#w // sacrifice#dark byler agenda
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the sticky tab series | sticky tab one: 6B
× minors/ageless/empty blogs dni. you will be blocked. ×
× series masterlist × main masterlist ×
× <- previous × next -> ×
seventeen (ot13) x gn!reader
genre: mystery, thriller, drama
warnings: journalist!reader, former journalist!jun, explicit language, smoking, written as a journal entry in the first person, discussions about journalism, dates given in dd/mm/yyyy
word count: 748
taglist: @hipsdofangirl × @strawberri-uyu × @asyre × @minhui896
name: wen junhui
date of birth: 10/06/1996
date moved in: 12/02/2018
When I stepped into his apartment, the first thing I caught was the scent of tobacco mixed with a dried out reed diffuser. I couldn't possibly say what the scent was, but something tells me it was earthy.
Speaking of tobacco, one of the first things I learned is that Junhui is a smoker. I'm not, so I declined his offer. He wasn't rude about it - he spared me a 'suit yourself' and just sat down on his leather three-seater.
I sat on the matching two-seater. Comfortable, but judging by the wear it was likely a few years old. The dried diffuser was on a side table pressed against the wall on the other side of the room. The kitchen was to my left and there was a pair of double doors that opened out to a balcony.
Junhui apologised to me for what the man from 4B wrote in his letter, though he admitted while he knew a note had been mentioned, he didn't believe the man actually went through with writing and leaving it. The second he heard me mention his apartment name, it twigged in an instant. "I should've known that bastard would actually do it. Like I said he's got a propensity for pissing me off."
He asked me why I came to the building, informing me that he saw me arrive from his apartment window, pointing to the set of double doors. I explained my reasoning and he seemed surprised.
"No one ever comes to Drawbridge. People just snap pictures from afar then run off to write bullshit about it." It didn't surprise me that the residents here knew of the reputation. He took more hits from his cigarette as he continued. "And you told me you were ready to turn and leave when you realised people lived here, but you picked up the phone."
He caught me with that. It is true that I had picked up the phone. I fell silent for a while as he studied my expression.
"I get why you did," he said, "you're a journalist at the end of the day. Like I said, I share your experience. I was a freelance journalist at one point. No matter what, we'll take any chance to get a story."
I couldn't believe I was sitting here, having this conversation. I did not expect to turn up to find out there were thirteen residents. I also didn't know at the time what was to come..
I told him, "I am not here to, as you said, 'drill holes in your walls'. In fact, I will be ready to leave after this conversation."
Junhui stared at me then. "I appreciate you not wanting to do that. Though I must admit, it might quell some rumours about this place.."
I raised an eyebrow. "And what of you trying to keep your solitude?"
"I can wish for solitude while wishing the reputation didn't exist."
That struck a chord. I wondered how many other residents here felt the same way. At the time, I considered I wouldn't be getting those perspectives.
"I suppose.. as long as you don't go ahead and make this whole situation public in the way only a journalist would-" He gave me a knowing look; I held back from rolling my eyes. "..Then I suppose I can tell you a little something, former journalist to current journalist."
I didn't know how to respond. Initially, I wasn't going to take him up on his offer, but I already felt that I'd made a vow.
I pulled out my journal, to which he smiled. It was rather frustrating in its smugness but.. it was clearly the smile of understanding.
'I share your experience.'
Details of note from our discussion:
junhui was the fifth person to move in
junhui took 6B as he felt it had the nicest kitchen
project drawbridge almost didn't go through
several investors were sceptical of its tenancy power
junhui doesn't know who lived in 7B
7A is the only person who knows about it (and he hasn't shared that info)
junhui doesn't get on well with 6A
junhui stopped being a journalist in 2021
3A doesn't talk to him because of his experience in journalism
people have made small efforts to remove the 'silent dweller' name from searches after learning what the project name is
3B was the last person to move in
× yoo-jeongneon ×
#seventeen scenarios#seventeen imagines#seventeen au#seventeen fanfic#seventeen x reader#jun x reader#⚡yoo jeongneon⚡#the sticky tab series📑
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WIP Wednesday Game
tagged by @sharpbutsoft <3 thankies <3
here’s how it works:
In a reblog (or new post w/ rules attached), post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.
Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to post!
After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can't share from (for example, an event fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.
My WIPs:
EXHALE (big bang)
dragon age au
sleeping with a ghoul
dating show au
what remains (future event fic, if you choose this, choose a second one for me to post! :))
Snippet from EXHALE:
Eddie didn’t have a chance to be disappointed for too long, because the next performer that came up on stage several minutes later could be likened to a goddess, if Eddie was foolish enough to name one to compare her to. Eddie felt his mouth go dry as he watched her sit on the provided stool, smiling crookedly at the crowd, who had cheered as she got into place. Eddie couldn’t bring himself to look away for a few moments as she tuned the guitar, unable to keep himself from trailing his eyes over her entire figure.
She was wearing a pink sleeveless turtle neck, with a heart cut out on the chest, revealing a hairy chest that had Eddie practically drooling. His gaze followed the natural flow of her figure, lingering on where the holes in the jeans were showing off a pair of fishnets. Eddie’s brain promptly turned into mush, a dialtone taking up most of his thoughts before he shook himself and turned away from the stage. He couldn’t keep looking at the angel of a person on the stage, and didn’t want to come off as creepy to anyone, let alone the beautiful Queen on the stage, so he instead flagged down the bartender.
If Eddie was just a little more delusional, he would have believed that the Queen’s next words were for him specifically, but he knew better.
“I see a few new faces,” she spoke, voice deeper than Eddie had been honestly anticipating, “let’s make sure they have a warm welcome.”
and now the tags!! :) no pressure ofc!
@sailing-through-hawkins @cuips-not-cute @just-my-latest-hyperfixation @apomaro-mellow @anzelsilver @goingsteddi3
#gs3 i tagged you bc you need to write#i miss your stories#i contemplated adding the stonathan timeloop prompt i’m writing rn#but decided against it because i’m working on it slowly#and it’s a prompt fill for the 500 celebration#so idk if it counts as a wip in the sense that the others listed are wips#anyway#unsteddie wip wednesday#steddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#steve x eddie
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Best SAO Abridged Lines As RP Starters Pt.1
"I am going to burn this fucker to the ground."
"I have a feeling you get beat up a lot."
“Fuck you, man, that’s like the pig from Hell!”
“The legacy of the pebble lives on.”
“Well, thanks for the quick tutorial on pig slaying, and the not-so-quick tutorial on... rocks.”
"Come on, I can't alt+F4 this shit!"
“...And the sky is bleeding.”
“Well Ballsy, I believe the locals call it a... hex...a...gon? Not sure if I’m pronouncing that right I’ll have to get back to you.”
"Man, they're really working for that M rating."
"Much like the World of Warcraft, you're not here by choice anymore. Unlike WoW however, you're being held here by me, not by the need to escape your empty fucking life."
"Sometimes things are born. They live... and then they stop. Forever."
"Yeah I'm just gonna keep that tabbed."
"As... tempting as that sounds, I really should stick with my friends back there. They're about as skilled as I am so I figure we have a better chance of surviving if we stick together."
"Well, monkeys and typewriters..."
"You might be the most unbearable asshole I've ever met, but you are really good at this. We could use you in our group, what do you say?"
"So many poor souls came to an abrupt and tragic end... some, by bad luck, others by sheer stupidity. I mean really, why would you just stand in fire?"
"Oh wow, what brilliant insight. That's so deep it loops right back around to being stupid."
"Its all bullshit metaphors with you."
"He cried... not knowing the difference between a simile and a metaphor."
"The tininess of his brain dwarfed only by the tininess of his di--"
"You can silence me but you can't silence the truth!"
"Oh jeez I am just making things worse."
"Pssht. Evidence... I don't need no evidence. Isn't that right _____?"
"Its pronounced ______, and... I don't know you."
"______, huh? That's a... pretty masculine name."
"Shouldn't be. Its a woman's name."
"...'kay, I dunno how to talk to you."
"Good, then you can shut up and listen."
"Good rule of thumb: if someone asks for money two seconds after meeting you, front lines. If they hijack conversations to rant about their political views, front lines. If they ask women to see pics of their boobs, front lines."
"Jesus, who wrote this thing?"
"Okay, so the guide's a bust, but it'll be fine! I'll come up with a great plan for us!"
"Well, we could--.... uhh... I'm open to suggestions!"
"We could group up, and hit it til it dies!"
"Fuck it, group up."
“What, a whole month? How have you survived this long?”
"HOW DO I EAT YOU?"
“It’s been...a challenge.”
"Oh I have lots of reasons for not grouping up. Mostly because they're a bunch of mouth-breathing neck-beards who think L M A O is how french people laugh."
“You sure have a way of... eh... speaking from the heart?”
"Funny, I thought I was speaking from my mouth, but shows what I know about biology."
"No one else wanted you in their group, did they?"
"Shut up, it was mutual!"
"Fine, we leave at the crack of... 2:30... I guess."
"Okay, so... apparently there were a few more stairs than we realized."
"Jesus... why don't you just take a cheetos and mountain dew break and we'll reconvene in an hour."
"Damn it I was kidding! You weren't actually supposed to actually take an hour!"
"Stop attacking from the front! Do you even know what 'Flank' means?!"
"For fuck's sake, stop playing Bejeweled!"
"Alright, this last part's going to take careful coordination... which is why I'm just gonna do it myself!"
"While both are primarily slashing weapons, a Talwar was favored by cavalrymen, as opposed to an Odachi which was mainly used for dick measuring."
"And why couldn't you say that first?"
"I like to think of myself as a teacher."
"Our best player is a girl who thinks DPS is some kind of sex thing."
"I've been doing this a long time, and if there's one thing I learned, its that lions do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep. Just take that little voice in the back of your head that tells you to be tactful and understanding, and shoot it. Shoot it in the god damn face."
"Here's what we'll do. One counters his blows to knock him off balance, and the other switches in to attack. Rinse, repeat, victory."
"You came up with that but you can't open a menu..."
"Congratulations! That was even more impressive than that cat that learned to play."
"Oh my god, you guys can see it too?! So I'm not crazy!
“Isn't that right _____?"
"That's right ______! Now... kill them all."
"As you command my lord."
"We have traveled far, and up many stairs to get to this point, fighting side by side, noobs and elites alike. I'd like to take a moment to say I couldn't have done it without the help of each and every one of you... of course I'm not a liar, so I'm not gonna say any of that."
"I mean to be honest I could have done this whole thing myself, BUT, to be fair, I guess you DID absorb a bit of damage for me, which was nice."
"You were an adequate meat shield, and no one can ever take that away from you."
"Fuck... fuck! Shut up! Shut up!"
"Shoot for the stars! It'll make it more fun for me when I kick you back into the dirt."
"You're not better than us!"
"My sweet ass coat begs to differ."
"No, its not fabric I can cut, its a bunch of 1's and 0's."
"Fine, then give me the 1's."
"Fuck you I want the 1's."
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