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erodasfishtacos · 3 years

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Not So Easy

prompt: Harry and Y/N have both had a rough week. Ivy is in the prime of her terrible twos. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

word count: 6.2k

warnings: swearing, smut, a little angst

AN: Fulfilling this request ***. This is part of the CEO!Harry verse. If you enjoy please like, reblog, and come chat with me about it x

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It was a gorgeous, cool Saturday evening and Y/N had been cooped up in the house all week due to nasty rainstorms that lasted the whole week. All of Y/N’s friends had canceled plans for one reason or another. Anne came down with flu and couldn’t visit like she was suppose to.

Harry had an extra awful week at work - which was saying something - and hadn’t been able to let it go. The frustration and irritation he usually was good at leaving at the office at the end of the workday hadn’t been happening.

Ivy was in the midst of her terrible twos and quite frankly it was disaster for all of them.

They decided on one of their favorite restaurants about an hour outside of London near the beautiful, green countryside. ***

It was a family-owned Italian establishment with outside seating on the patio. The tables were filled but Harry always managed to squeeze himself into a non-existent reservation with his charm (and wallet).

When they’re escorted onto the deck, Ivy had Harry hitched up on his hip and wriggles her into her wooden high-chair with little difficulty - she had just woken up from a nap and was in a seemingly okay mood.

Y/N notices a few pairs of eyes watching them from the table close to theirs but decided that she was just being paranoid. And if she brought it up to Harry she knows he’d immediately tell them to fuck off and mind their business.

They get Ivy settled with her favorite little sensory book and her plush baby doll ***, as they look at the menu, “I’m so hungry,” Y/N grumbles, unable to decide what she wants to eat, Ivy literally running her around all day with no time for refueling.

“Me too, y’didn’t let me finish my meal earlier,” Harry murmurs cheekily, looking at his wife over his menu with a raised eyebrow, “Guess I’ll just have to wait for dessert.”

“Baba’s asleep, she was out as soon as her head hit the pillow,” Harry tells his wife, trotting in their bedroom. He’s already stripping the shirt off his head and wriggling his running shorts down his narrow hips.

Y/N’s laying on the bed, too distracted by her romance novel to notice Harry’s actions - well until he yanks at her ankles until her bum skids towards the end of the bed, she lets out a surprise yelp at her husband’s strength.

He plucks the book from her hands and tosses it to the floor with a thump. His hands are hurriedly reaching to pull down her shorts and panties with impatience at having his wife bare before him.

“Someone’s a bit horny,” Y/N teases, raising her hips to let him slide them down before they join the book on the floor. He ducks down to bite at the soft skin of her hip bone, suckling a dark mark there in ownership.

“Have y’seen yourself, pet?” Harry replies lowly, unable to help himself as he dips down and swipes a long, languid lip up her center with no warning. It has her moaning and pushing herself into his mouth.

“We don’t have long, H. Need you in me,” His wife whines, pulling him up by his hair until he’s slipping his tongue right into her mouth, wasting no time to hike her hips up around his waist and pushing in with one strong, directive thrust.

Y/N blushes and darts her eyes back down to the menu, “If you’re good, maybe I’ll let you.”

Harry laughs, eyes wrinkling around the corners, “Y’know even when I’m not good, y’let me.”

It was very very true.

“Oops!” Ivy squeals when her doll falls to the ground. It was one of the new words she’s finally understood in context and it’s unbelievably cute to hear her high, little squeaky voice.

“S’alright, here you go bab,” Harry titters, reaching down to toss it back onto the table for his daughter. She looked so fucking adorable tonight in what Y/N had dressed her in a little Gucci jean jacket with matching jeans. ***

Ivy manages to keep herself pretty occupied until she needs a diaper change. The meals had just arrived, steaming hot and smelling like heaven, but Y/N slings their diaper bag over her shoulder and totes the baby off to the bathroom.

Harry watches them, like the protector he is until they make it to the bathroom safely. He can sense eyes on him (the same group Y/N thought was watching) but unlike his wife, Harry makes eye contact with the table who were staring directly at his wife and then him.

“Can I fuckin’ help you?” Harry asks bluntly, not hesitating to stare down every single person at the table. He didn't want anyone staring at them, staring at Y/N, staring at Ivy. He wanted to enjoy his dinner in peace with his family. He assumed they probably worked for him.

They avert their gaze from the intense man, acting nonchalantly and sipping at their glasses filled with wine as if they weren’t just staring at them. It makes Harry scoff loudly enough so that they can hear it.

When Y/N appears back with Ivy and attempts to plop her back into her seat, her limbs go wiggly and her eyebrow knits with refusal, letting out little kicks, “No mummy, no!”

“Baby, we’ve got to eat now. How ‘bout after we’re done?” Y/N hums in her daughter’s ear, attempting to steady the toddler’s legs to slide into the slots of the chair.

Y/N knew it was going to be a struggle since Y/N told Ivy she couldn’t have the big stuffed animal that was in the gift shop on the way to the bathroom.

“Mummy! Don’t wanna!” Ivy protests loudly, her face pinched with her terrible twos anger as she squirms and twists in her mother’s grip.

“S’okay, give her to me,” Harry tells his wife, taking Ivy in his lap. She smiles with deep dimples up at her father before going to reach her little fingers into his pasta. “No, Ivy. S’hot, it’s goin’ to burn you.”

Ivy pulls her brows together, decidedly not liking what her dad had to say, because she’s reaching out once again. “Ivy, daddy said ‘no’. Be a good girl and listen.”

“Mine.” Oh god, her favorite word at the moment.

“Ivy Elizabeth, s’not yours. S’daddy’s. Mummy ordered you chicken, which she very nicely cut up for you. You need to eat that, lovie,” Harry uses a bit of a firmer voice with the little girl, pulling her plate of cubed of food over.

“Here, bub,” Y/N takes a small piece, bringing it up to her daughter’s full lips. Only to be met with a hand batting it away until it’s being flung limply to the wood floor with a screech.

“No, want that,” Ivy huffs, once again reaching for her father’s steaming plate. She’s nearly close to getting her finger into the burning sauce so Harry has to scoot his chair out a bit so she can’t reach it anymore.

The parents give each other a knowing look because of what is surely about to come. The baby was struggling with being told ‘no’ as of late, as well as claiming nearly everything as ‘mine’. Tantrums were in their prime right now and they thought the pre-dinner nap would have helped.

Spoiler Alert: It doesn’t.

When Ivy realizes she’s no longer able to reach the food, she furrows her brow and pulls back her little fist, hitting at her father’s shoulder. It wasn’t often she tried to hit, likely because most times it landed her on the step for two minutes, but it’s like she knew they couldn’t do that here.

“Ivy,” Harry takes her small hands between his, “We do not hit, do you understand Daddy? S’not nice. If you can’t behave, you’re not getting ice cream before we go home.”

At that point, the little girl would normally calm down a bit and readjust because she really loved ice cream but it didn’t do anything to quell her anger tonight. She shakes her head, curly hair bouncing, before the tears start rolling.

“Should we just get this to go?” Y/N asks, knowing that the whole restaurant doesn’t want to hear the sobbing baby throwing a fit over not being able to dig her hands into her father’s dinner plate.

“Probably best,” Harry grunts when Ivy wriggles and twists in her father’s grip with a frustrated whine, “She’s not goin’ to settle.”

“Down, let me down!” Ivy demands against her father’s grip, like she’s the one running the show.

“Here, give her to me,” Y/N mutters, wrangling the toddler into a tight hold while Harry gets the waiter’s attention to get take away boxes and the check. He’s pulling out his wallet to slide out his black amex and put it on the table.

“Ivy, I’m going to put you down so I can get the diaper bag and your toys. Are you going to stay right next to mummy?” Y/N asks her daughter firmly, making sure her daughter’s little green eyes are meeting hers.

Ivy nods but as soon as her feet hit the solid ground, she lets out a giggle and dashes from beside her mother. She doesn’t get very far because she’s running straight into the legs of another patron and tumbling on her bum.

She’s not at all hurt but takes it as an advantage to throw herself onto the floor, screaming and tears - the whole dramatic show because she’s not getting her way and well....she’s a two year old - that’s all the reason she needs, right?

Harry’s in full dad mode now, “I’ll get her to the car. Y’got this, love?”

Y/N nods, sighing at the loss of their nice dinner as her daughter has all eyes directed on their family - the last thing she wanted to happen. But she just focuses on shoveling the still hot foot into the plastic containers to take home.

“S’enough of that, Ivy. This isn’t how we act, hmm?” Harry hums, pulling his daughter off the floor and into his arms - “What’s gotten into you, bug?”

Ivy sniffles, knuckling at her wet eyes, “Home, daddy.”

“We’re taking you home, don’t you worry,” Harry chuckles, smiling softly when she tucks her head into the crook of his neck, thumb finding her lips. His large palm came to rub at her back and bounce her lightly.

When Y/N finally gets everything together, one of the waitresses - an older woman, stops by the table, “How old is your daughter?”

Y/N smiles, “Just turned two a month ago.”

The grey lady has a kind, knowing grin on her face, “What an age, huh? She looks like a little replica of your husband.”

The girl laughs, they can’t go anywhere without hearing that from someone, “Oh, believe me. They have the same attitude too,” She jokes, slinging the bag over her shoulder.

“I wish you two luck. Two is a very hard age, I have five kids of my own. Just appreciate it, even though the tantrums are a pain in the arse,” She says, patting Y/N on the shoulder before heading back to a table who was waiting on her.

---

Both the parents were frustrated, more so than they usually are with Ivy’s tantrums. They thought she’d simmer down once they’d gotten home but it had just revved up again when she realized she really wasn’t getting any ice cream.

“Shouldn’t have even promised her ice cream in the first place,” Y/N mutters with frustration as they stand near the staircase. Ivy sat on the step for two minutes in timeout, kicking her little feet against the marble.

“Right, because I knew she’d decide to have tantrums all night,” Harry shoots back, matching his wife’s tone. The screaming was echoing through the house, high-pitched and it just made you want to cover your ears from it.

Y/N rolls his eyes at him, motioning towards their daughter, “Well, this is your doing because you reminded her that she wasn’t getting it. You deal with it, I’m going to shower.”

“You’re not doing much to help anyways,” Harry hisses, their voices both low so that their daughter doesn’t hear - not like she would over the screaming match she’s having with herself.

They rarely fought to be honest. This wasn’t even a fight - really. It was hard raising a two year old and they were learning as they went along. The couple was good at communication and working through their problems most of the time.

“I’m not doing much to help?” Y/N asks in disbelief, “Then if I’m no help at all, why don’t you put her down for bed? You don’t need me, obviously.”

Harry narrows his eyes at her, his hand gripping the railing with a hard grip, “Don’t go twistin’ my words, that’s not what I said. Now you’re just lookin’ for a fight.”

“Yeah, because on top of a fussy two year old - I want to deal with a childish husband. I’m surprised you're not on the stairs, cryin’ about ice cream too with how you’re acting,” Y/N laughs - the sound crawling under Harry’s skin with irritation at her fake carefree attitude when she’s just as annoyed as him.

“You’re being an even bigger brat than our daughter right now,” Harry tells her, trying to keep his voice at a low volume but it comes out louder than intended. He felt himself straighten up and kept direct eye contact with his wife.

Y/N’s lips form into a tight line before gritting out, “Do not raise your voice at me. We agreed that no matter how frustrated we got we wouldn’t do that in front of our daughter.”

“Then don’t act so immature, ever think of tha’?” Harry bites, hating the he hears his work voice being directed at his wife when he never wants that.

“How am I being immature? You promised her something that she didn’t get, then reminded her that she’s not getting it. I’m allowed to be frustrated with you!” Y/N whisper-shouts, Ivy is now distracted by taking her little shoes off and watching them tumble down the stairs.

“I have so many better things I could be doing right now than stand here and fight with you over our daughter having a stupid tantrum. I’ll be in my office,” Harry replies, because when he doesn’t know what to do and refuses to admit he’s wrong - he falls back to his best excuse, work.

And he automatically regrets it when he sees a flash of hurt cross his wife’s face. Harry wants to swallow back those words and wrap his wife up into a hug. Never wanting to make her feel like his work is worth more of his time.

Deep down, they both know she knows that it’s not the truth but in the midst of the fight it doesn’t sting any less. He opens his mouth to apologize, to tell her that he’d rather put their daughter to bed together any night than be in his office.

But he can tell she’s already past the point of being pissed when she replies calmly, “I’ll put our baby to bed. Go work on whatever is more important than us, Mr. Styles.”

Harry wants to reach out and grab at her arm, tug her into his chest, and murmur in her hair how much he loves her more than anything. He said that because he knows it’s hurtful and it’s his only way to win an argument with her.

However, she’s moving up the stairs, scooping the somewhat calmed down baby into her arms and trudging up without another look at her still brooding husband.

Harry hears Ivy shout back down the stairs, “Daddy, come on!”

He hears his wife tell his daughter, “Daddy’s too busy with work, Ivy. S’just mummy.”

But that has Harry absolutely fuming, storming up the stairs after then, “Do not make it seem like I’m ever too busy for my daughter. That’s completely uncalled for, Y/N.”

Y/N doesn’t turn back to face him, instead keeps walking, and says with a monotone voice, “Oh, but you just said you had better things to be doing than dealing with your family. So go take care of your work, hot shot. I’ll take care of our daughter.”

“Why are you making it seem like I put my work before Ivy? I’ve literally never let that happen and you know that. You’re blowing this whole thing out of proportion because Ivy’s been having tantrums and you can’t put on your big girl pants and deal with them.”

That’s when Y/N spins around on her heel, letting Ivy down and encouraging her to go play in her room for a little before bedtime. Her face is turning red - which rarely happens unless they’re really about to get in an argument.

“Big girl pants? Really, I’m at home dealing with her tantrums twenty-four seven. You get to come home from work and only deal with it half on the time. Do not act like you know how stressful it is to stay at home with a toddler in their terrible twos all day.”

“Do not act like it’s harder than running a multi-billion pound business,” Harry scoffs, his voice becoming lower with frustration with an argument that was going nowhere. He had a cocky lift to his voice that made her want to scream.

“Oh, because it’s so difficult half the time? Last week, you got to go on your private jet to Paris for three days for business aka dinner and golfing while I sat at home alone!” Y/N raises her voice, angry tears forming over her lids.

“Sat in our 35 million pound house with a pool, playground, plenty of shops in town, unlimited money doesn’t sound like a hardship, love,” Harry replies, jaw clenching but his fingers itching to brush the tears away.

“You know what? It’s Sunday tomorrow. I’m going out. You watch her for the whole fucking day and see how easy it is. For now, enjoy the guest room,” Y/N spits out, storming down the hall to Ivy’s room to get her ready for bed.

“With pleasure,” He tells her, retreating back into his office and slamming the door. He wasn’t a fucking inadequate father.

He never put work before his family. He knew it wasn’t easy being at home and as soon as he sat his arse in his leather chair - he realized what a douchebag he was being to his stressed out wife.

Harry didn’t want to sleep in the guest room, he wanted to be spooned up next to his wife, whispering apologies for letting the stress of the week get to him. Remind her what an amazing partner and mum she is to him. How lucky he is.

The issue was - Harry had pride issues. He wasn’t one to admit defeat even when he should. He thrived on challenges so he was eager to show his wife that he’d have no problem taking on his terrible twos daughter.

He sneaks into his daughter’s room after she’s fast asleep in her crib, checking on her to make sure she’s okay before hesitantly entering their bedroom where his wife is fast asleep but a pile of clean clothes for him on the floor tells him she was serious about him sleeping in the guest room.

It was torture, not being able to be in the same bed as his wife. The love of his life. He thought about it multiple times - going in and groveling but his stubborn brain wouldn’t allow it. After such a long week, he was looking forward to sleeping in and his head hit the pillow in no time.

“Rise and shine,” His wife's voice wakes him up, it wasn’t with her normally cheery tone but with the same irritation as the night before. She definitely hadn’t magically forgiven him yet - dammit. Her voice is nearly drowned out by a fussy curly-haired baby.

“Wha’s wrong?” Harry grunts, sitting up to see Ivy still in her pajamas with sheet wrinkles across her face. Skin pink and warm from her nice, peaceful sleep.

However, she decided to wake up today with a massive chip on her shoulder.

“Ivy’s upset because she can’t find her ballerina doll,” Y/N replies.

Harry notices she is already fully dressed *** and made up for the day. “Might want to get up and help her find it. I’m heading out like we agreed on.”

“Fine,” Harry replies with a tight lip, rubbing his eyes as he’s still half asleep. “Y’look pretty.”

“Thanks,” Y/N replies nonchalantly, leaning over to kiss Ivy on the forehead, “I’ll see you later bug, I love you.”

Ivy looks at her mother in betrayal as she leaves Harry to manage their little ball of fury. He tries to tug her in for a big, warm hug but she shrieks and screams at her father, “Ballerina!”

“Ssh, okay. We’ll go look for y’ballerina, dove. No need to yell, s’too early,” Harry grumbles, sitting up and automatically being pulled by the hand off the bed to search for this doll that could be anywhere in this thousands upon thousands of square foot home.

After extensive searches, Harry realizes that he’d left it on the roof of the car when he was tucking her into her carseat last night. The cute little plush doll is now mostly likely roadkill on the country stretch.

“Ivy, y’literally got a whole room dedicated to stuffed animals and dolls. Let’s go pick somethin’ from there, yes?” Harry tries, his daughter’s arms crossed and glaring at Harry like he had just killed her hopes and dreams.

“No! No!” The toddler absolutely wails, plopping her little diaper-clad bum on the ground before kicking her feet against the marble. She had herself worked up until her cheeks were cherry red and tears were staining her shirt.

Harry couldn’t lie - he’d only been watching her for about two hours and he was starting to feel anxiety creep up in his throat over what to do. It wasn’t that he couldn’t parent her, but it was a lot of crying and he hated seeing her upset.

“Why don’t we go eat some breakfast? Does that sound good, lovie?” Harry offers hopefully, having to contain a laugh at how much she looks like him when he’s angry. The little crease between her eyes, the green in her eyes sparkling a little darker than usual.

Her eyes peek up at her father, “Yes, Daddy.”

Harry sighs in relief, scrubbing at hand down his face, taking her into the kitchen, strapping her in the highchair before whipping up some cheesy eggs for her.

When he puts down the plate in front of her, he has to say she’s surprised when she slaps it off the tray and onto the floor, spilling everywhere. “No, want mummy’s breakfast.”

Her father looks at her with a comically bewildered expression before turning on his dad voice, “We do not throw things on the ground. Do you understand me, Ivy Elizabeth?”

Her full little lips are drawn into a tight pout as she tosses her baby fork on the ground to join the still warm eggs in a heap.

“Mummy’s breakfast.”

The scolding goes in one ear and out the other, she doesn’t acknowledge her father but continues on her demands.

He caves after trying to no avail to decipher what ‘mummy’s breakfast’ means.

Ivy threw her eggs on the ground. She’s demanding mummy’s breakfast.

She’s hated eggs for the past two weeks now. Vanilla yogurt with diced strawberries and blueberries in her red baby bowl.

He does as she says, arranges a nice little bowl of yogurt with the fruit. He couldn’t find the red bowl so he substituted for a blue one.

It results in the yogurt also being smacked to the ground.

She threw that on the ground too.

Did you put it in a red bowl?

I couldn’t find it, just put it in a blue bowl

She only wants to eat breakfast out of red bowls right now

Harry groans, he didn’t know his daughter was this difficult about breakfast time. He was usually gone by the time she’d woken up for the day. Y/N usually let him sleep in a bit on the weekends until ten or so.

After digging for the specific red bowl, doing up her breakfast again - Ivy happily begins eating until it drips down her sleep clothes, rubbed all over her cheeks, and it even manages up in her tangled locks.

“S’that just so yummy, Vee?” Harry hums after she’s finished. “Looks like it’s bath time.”

He really should have guessed at this point when she shakes her head and squeaks, “No!”

“Yes, s’bathtime,” Harry says sternly, traipsing upstairs with the wriggling toddler who is doing everything in her power to fight against her father’s hold.

“No, no, no. Ballerina,” Ivy brings it up again, making it a near impossible task for Harry to wrangle her out of her clothes and diaper.

While he’s running the bath, she darts from the bathroom and through the hallways, right towards the grand staircase where the baby gate isn’t closed. Harry really really didn’t want to yell at his daughter but she could seriously get hurt.

“Ivy Elizabeth Styles, if you don’t get your little bum over to Daddy right now, you’re going on the step and y’not having playtime at all,” Harry orders loudly, but breathing a sigh of relief when his daughter skids in her tracks to a halt.

The little girl turns on her heels, eyes wide in fright at her dad’s raised voice - which rarely ever happened unless she really wasn’t listening. She begins to cry but not in her now typical anger-induced haze but in a legitimate sad wail.

His heart aches as his daughter toddles obediently back over to him with her little head hung low in regret, “Daddy, hold me?”

Harry can’t deny her so he scoops her up into the crook of his arm, “M’sorry for yellin’, bug. But y’need to be good for Daddy? You could have gotten really hurt and that would have made Daddy sad, okay?”

Her eyes are watery as she looks up at him, her hand curling around his neck before burying her still yogurt-sticky face into his skin, hiccuping with sad whines, “Sad Daddy.”

“Mhm, now are you going to be nice and get a bath f’me? Y’dirty, bubby,” Harry smiles down at her to brighten back up her mood and it works because her dimples pop out of her cheeks and she flashes her small blocky baby teeth.

Ivy surprisingly does well in the bathtub, allowing her father to get her all cleaned up until she accidentally opens her eyes and gets baby soap in them, it’s another round of tears that cannot be controlled.

Harry totes the sobbing toddler into a cute little Moschino onesie and brings her into their bedroom. He’s so fucking exhausted and it was barely noon. His stress level was near a hundred as he couldn’t keep her from being pissed off for more than twenty minutes at a time.

Luckily, it seems like the screaming and crying for the last how many hours had taken a toll on her because as soon as she sprawled on her stomach on Harry’s chest, she’s out like a light. The cutest small snores coming from her as she smacks her lips together while she dreams.

He gives her a few minutes to fall into a deeper sleep before tiptoeing her into her nursery and laying her very carefully into her crib. She doesn’t wake, just whimpers softly and turns on her side, away from her father.

When he’s sure she’ll be okay, he goes back into their bedroom, and well...he just breathes. He didn’t realize how high his anxiety had been up to this point and his whole morning had been nothing but trying to get his daughter calm. He didn’t even have one moment to think about himself.

It really wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate Y/N being a stay at home mum - of course, he did. He already knew how bloody amazing and strong she was as a person, he didn’t need this to prove what he already knew. It was his stubbornness to not decline a challenge and they both knew that was the case.

Y/N really didn’t think that Harry doubted her abilities. He nearly spent most of his days telling her how proud he was of her and her abilities as a partner and mum. It doesn’t mean it didn’t sting when he brought up his job compared to hers.

Harry’s in his own world of thoughts that he doesn’t notice a figure leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom, “You got everything under control, H?”

His eyes darted up to meet his wife’s, “Not really. She’s a little terror,” He jokes (kind of).

“It’s easy compared to your job, right?” Y/N asks but it’s obviously rhetorical. She drops a few shopping bags on the floor before leaning down to unstrap her high heels, kicking them off along with throwing off the blazer to the floor.

“I never said your job was easy. Y’puttin’ words in my mouth,” Harry argues, sitting up straight and moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

“No, you’re right. It’s just not as hard as your job,” Y/N huffs, unbuttoning the tight jeans and shucking them off her thighs. She didn’t have any idea what she was doing to him right now, his mouth nearly watering when her thighs jiggle a bit.

“You’re right, it’s not as hard as my job,” Harry replies, studying his wife’s face when she looks up in surprise - that he was really going to take the fight that far.

“Wow, you re-”

“It’s not as hard as my job, it’s harder,” Harry murmurs, reaching out to pull his wife to stand between his legs, her looking down at him with her hands on his shoulders. “

What I’m doin’ is nothin’ compared to your job. Y’raising our little baby, shaping her into a good person, spending every moment of y’day with her, giving up a lot of who you are for her. That’s more difficult than what I do any day.”

“Har-”

“M’sorry, lovie. Y’know I think you’re the most amazing mum and wife. You do everything for the baba and I. I shouldn’t have taken my anger from my week out on you yesterday and then said the things that I did,” Harry apologizes, his face sincere and open as he leans forward to nuzzle at his wife’s stomach.

When her hands come to run through his unruly locks, he knows he’s forgiven, “I appreciate how hard you work too. I really do, H. You’re the best husband and daddy to Ivy we could ask for. I’m sorry I took my frustration out on you as well.”

“Do you ever feel like I put work before you or Ivy?” Harry asks softly against her thin tank top, his hands come to massage at her full hips. There was a hint of insecurity in his tone that made Y/N’s heart sink a bit.

“No, I really don’t. I was just...I was just upset and I knew that would upset you. I’m sorry, baby,” Y/N murmurs softly, leaning down to kiss at the top of his head.

“Y’going to let me show you how sorry I am, how good of a wife and mum you are?” Harry drawls, his hands going to tug up the fabric of her top and humming appreciatively when she lifts her arms to let him do so.

“Yeah, remind why I married your crabby ass,” Y/N teases playfully, reaching behind herself to let her bra fall down to the crooks of her elbows before tossing it to the floor with everything else. As she’s doing that, Harry takes it upon himself to shimmy off her panties.

“Y’sayin’ you just married me ‘cause I fuck you good?” Harry grunts, standing up suddenly and pulling her up into his arms until her legs are wrapped around his waist and arms around his neck.

“Mmm, mostly. Also for your bank account was pretty good-looking too,” She lies blatantly but he still rewards her with a bruising kiss to her lips as he backs her against the wall so he can use one hand to tug down his running shorts.

“I’d still have married you, best decision I’ve ever made,” Harry says, sobering up from their playfulness. He slows down to be careful as he slides up into her warm heat, her head falling back with a thud against the wall.

“Harry,” She moans approvingly, heels of her feet digging into his backside to goad him into moving faster, “Right there.”

“So bloody in love with you. Please tell me y’know that baby, c’mon, tell me,” Harry begs, leaning down to smear kisses against her collarbone.

“I know, H. You’re so good to me, I love you,” Y/N whines and Harry knows that whine like the back of his hand, she needs more. He reaches down to rub tight, rough circles against her swollen bud until she’s tensing and coming.

“You feel so good, every single time. Don’t know how you do it, s’like you were made just for me,” Harry chokes out, stuttering and coming with his lips suckling a deep spot onto her breast as he rides it out.

After they redress and are cuddled on the bed, murmuring sweet little apologizes and affirmations of love, they interrupted by an angry squeak from the baby monitor - signaling their daughter’s woken up.

“Ballerina!”

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pagesoflauren · 4 years

Text

The Highest Bidder Ch. 3 (Ransom Drysdale x reader; sugar daddy!AU)

Summary: A graduate-level education is a costly pursuit. When you move out of state to study in Boston, expenses pile up, leading you to auction off what is apparently your most valuable asset: your virginity. It goes to the highest bidder…who happens to be Ransom Drysdale.

There are no major spoilers for Knives Out. Consider this as an alternate timeline. There will be references to the movie/its characters. This chapter contains some dynamics of the Thrombey family that are revealed in the movie, which--as someone who has seen the movies multiple times--I personally consider to be very minor spoilers. Please read at your own risk.

Warnings: loss of virginity, explicit sexual content/smut, angst, sugar daddy/baby arrangement, dark elements, dubcon, cliffhangers, minor spoilers for Knives Out, swearing, Ransom is an asshole (more to add and if you spot any that I’ve missed, please kindly let me know!)

A/N: Thanks for being super patient while I worked on this! This one’s mostly plot, so I promise the next one will be smutty 😏

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Ransom slams the door of his car as he sits in the driver’s seat.

His fucking family.

There was meant to be a “pleasant Sunday brunch-adjacent get-together” for the release party of Harlan’s newest book. His family is never pleasant no matter what day they gather, so Ransom should’ve known it would’ve turned into a shitshow.

Walt had been parading around boasting about how proud he was of “his and dad’s new book” to anyone outside of the family who would listen. Ransom’s father decided to pick a little fight with him, despite his mother’s urging not to.

“But they aren’t your books, are they Walt?” Richard taunted, “They’re Harlan’s books.”

Ransom had parked himself right at the refreshments table, nudging the platter of breakfast pastries closer to himself. He idly picked up a croissant and nibbled as he watched everything unfold. “Shit stirring prick,” Meg muttered as she grabbed a cup of coffee.

“This is all them, Meggy,” he said, his mouth full of soft, buttery croissant flakes. “I’m just getting a front row seat for the entertainment.”

Meg rolled her eyes and walked away. Walt had smiled simply before replying. “Of course, Richard. Just like how the real estate company is Linda’s, not yours.”

Linda then elbowed Richard, a hard signal to defend himself from her little brother’s jab like the “proud husband” he’s supposed to be.

“At least Linda was able to build something on her own.” Ransom rolled his eyes at that statement while his mother patted his father on the shoulder.

“Only because dad was generous enough to loan her a million dollars to build that company.”

Ransom dipped his croissant into his coffee and smirked as he chewed. When his father didn’t say anything, his mother blew her cap at both of them.

It started out relatively quiet before escalating into a full on spectacle. Across the room, Ransom saw Harlan exchange a look with Marta, his nurse, before completely ignoring the situation and returning to the conversation he was having with a guest.

“You can’t say shit, Richard, you’re getting nothing from his family!”

Ransom laughed loudly at the truth in that declaration. The three pairs of eyes turned and fingers pointed at him before insults were spewed his way.

Rolling his eyes, he let them at him, not caring what they were saying. It was all true. He was a little piece of shit, an entitled prick, he was all of it.

Because of them.

Leaving his half eaten croissant in his coffee cup, he placed it on the table and coolly sauntered across the room, slander following him all the way until it was directed back within the group.

Ransom had grabbed a copy of the book, given his granddad a nod of acknowledgement as a goodbye, then left. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the yelling all the way from the parking lot. Harlan looked a little disappointed as he left.

What did Harlan ever do for him anyway, besides give him a generous monthly allowance? What did his parents ever do for him? His mother spent her days running a real estate company while his father devoted his time to doing everything he could to get his hands on some of that money.

And where did Ransom fall in all of this?

Nobody actually cared about him. They shut him up with money and invited him to parties to make him feel like he was part of something. In reality, his family was nothing to be a part of. There wasn’t anything to them. Just a pile of mystery novels that turned words into money and fed it to hungry beasts. And Ransom was one of them.

That’s what he was, that’s what he was always meant to be. His mother never let him be a kid. When the grass was bright green after all the snow melted and Ransom rolled around, staining his crisp private school uniform with virescent splotches, she yelled at him. When she instructed her husband to continue the scolding, he gave a half-assed, “Don’t do it again.” The day was ruined after that.

And somehow, in the moment when he breathed in your perfume, he remembered one of the few moments where he was content: watching the world spin as the sky was down and the ground was up and the conifers looked like stalactites in a strange cave.

He loved remembering that. And it terrified him. The second he started remembering the brief golden moments of his childhood, he knew it was best to get himself off as soon as possible and take off. He’d hold on to memories of how you felt around his cock for when he couldn’t get between a girl’s legs.

He’ll never admit to anyone how often he thinks of you and the time he spent sharing a bed with you.

Shaking his head and starting the car, he pulled away from the party venue and drove through the city. At a stoplight, he picks up the hefty novel and flips it to the back cover.

He reads something about a statue and a dead art historian. Rolling his eyes, already disinterested, he throws the book back on the seat.

Passing through the university area, Ransom decides to grab a cup of coffee. He pulls into a parking spot, ignoring the blinking red light of the meter as he gets out to enter the cafe.

He does a double take when he sees you exiting with a man. You look completely different: your hair is in a messy ponytail and your makeup is more natural, focusing on accentuating your features instead of looking glamorous. You’re donning a sweater with the name of the university just across the street.

He’s rendered immobile at the sight of you. His thoughts come crashing down on him like an avalanche.

It’s been nearly two months since that night. He’s filled the days and weeks between now and then with various girls, all of whom were confident and sexy and unafraid to match his pace in bed. He could have any one of them at his doorstep with a snap of his fingers.

So why is he suddenly frozen, watching you and some guy walk down the street?

It was ridiculous, really, how much he had dreamt of your encounter, tried to recall your smell and the taste of your skin. He hates that he never got a sample from between your legs. He’d been so caught up in how you felt around his finger that it went straight to his cock and he just had to be inside you.

He’s never been so caught up on anyone before.

When he drinks whiskey, he sees you, turning in your dress and heels. He wonders if maybe he could see you again, maybe you’d be more confident, maybe more experienced…

Have you slept with anyone since July? Have you slept with the guy you’re with now?

His wonder causes him to mindlessly follow after you, sights set on the bright scrunchie that keeps your hair together as he imagines you underneath the guy you’re walking with, crying out as he thrusts into you…

Ransom doesn’t like the idea of that. He hates it, shakes his head to dispel it from his brain. Then he stops suddenly.

But what does it matter? You weren’t anyone to him, just some girl on a website who auctioned your virginity and he bought it. He didn’t buy you. You weren’t his to own.

He’d be lying if he said he felt he got his money’s worth though.

When he thinks about that night, besides all the erotic images of your face and how you felt wrapped so tightly around him, there was something underneath the heat and lust he felt. He saw curiosity come across your face multiple times that night and he felt the same.

He wanted to know what you’d look like on top. He wanted to know what you tasted like (he still hates himself for not taking the opportunity). He wanted to know what sounds you’d make when he went rough. He wanted to know how you sounded when you let yourself succumb to complete, unrestrained pleasure.

He knew you were holding back, he saw the terror that came across your face when you looked at his size. You barely even touched him. God, how would you touch him? How would your hands feel on him, running over his skin?

There were so many things he wanted to know about you, so many things he wanted to watch you do.

It terrified him to remember the brief blissful moments of his childhood while he was with you, and that’s why he left so quickly. But one night with you wasn’t enough.

The thought propels him forward, stepping after you again once he spies your scrunchie again.

You’re turning a corner; he needs to catch up. His pace quickens.

When has he ever chased a girl before?

As he rounds the corner, Ransom sees you stepping into a shop, appearing to playfully curtsey as the man holds the door open for you. He slows down a little, wanting it to appear as if he’s casually walking around. When he reaches the shop, he realizes it’s a used bookstore.

Maybe I can grab Harlan’s book and pretend I’m selling it.

He decides against it though. He doesn’t want to risk you getting away from him. He enters the shop and immediately goes for the taller shelves to conceal himself from plain view. Peeking between the tops of the books and the next shelf above it, he spots you. You’re near the back, looking at the large, brightly colored children’s books.

Shit, did he get you pregnant?!

Ransom shakes his head then smiles to himself; he remembers hearing you gasp when he rolled a condom onto himself. He feels his cock twitch at the memory.

“God, it’s so ridiculous that we have to buy our own books for clinicals,” he hears you gripe.

“Yeah, but it’s good practice for when we’re actually in the field,” the man nudges you with his elbow, “We’re gonna have to figure out which books will suit clients’ interest and all.”

“Yeah, I guess. I just wish I didn’t have to do this before work tonight.”

“Don’t you work at eight, though?”

Work? Why are you working when he gave you so much money?

“Yeah, but it’s less time preparing for seminar tomorrow. Not to mention the paper for fluency. Ugh, being a grad student is so hard, Toby,” you moan, leaning your forehead on his shoulder.

A hot puff of air shoots out from Ransom’s nose.

“Oh, stop it, you big baby. C’mon. It’s barely past one. We’re gonna get this done, then go back to my place and study a little. And remember why we’re doing this?” he asks, turning so his front is facing you. Your head sags for a moment, having leaned the weight of your skull on him before your neck straightens.

“To help kids become better communicators,” you say together, as if it’s a mantra.

“Exactly,” the man--Toby--smiles. “Besides, it’s Sunday. I’m pretty sure the diner won’t be super crowded like it was for me last night. If anything, it’s crowded with people trying to cure their hangovers right now. Then, when the diner’s empty, you can study. It’s just on the next block over, anyway. They know you’re a student, so I don’t think they’ll kick up a fuss if you crack open a notebook. It’s just you and the cook, too, right?”

You hum in affirmation as you pick up a book and tuck it under your arm.

“So, that just shows they know nobody’s gonna be there! You’re golden!”

You giggle as you swat his hand away when he makes to pinch you. Ransom leans forward into the bookcase in an attempt to get closer to you, enchanted by the sound.

What the hell has gotten into him?!

“Sir, can I help you find something?” a store associate startles him.

“What--no, no. Absolutely not,” Ransom spews, fumbling around with his hands trying to look inconspicuous. His leather jacket squeaks with his movements. The associate looks confused, tilting their head as they watch him.

“I’m just leaving,” he shakes his head, making his way to storm out the door.

He makes his way back to his car, taking note of the diner Toby was talking about. It really was on the next block over, hard to miss with a gaudy 50s-style neon green light-up sign and fluorescent pink lettering.

Ransom smiles to himself as he makes his way back to his car. He knows exactly what to do.

The lighting in the diner is harsh against Ransom’s eyes and he blinks a little as he gets out of his car. It’s just before midnight and the streets are empty, save for a few students who are walking into the coffeeshop and drugstores around the block. Stepping in, checkered black and light gray tiles lay on the floor, though he’s certain the gray tiles are supposed to be white. There’s a counter with a bunch of red cushioned stools and booths all around the wall.

“Evenin’ son,” the cook says as he peeks through the window on the wall beyond the counter. “You just take a seat right up here and our hostess will be right out.”

The man turns away and shouts your name.

Ransom smirks at the sound of your name, perching himself on a stool and immediately getting comfortable. The only thing that would make this better would be if the stools had backs so he could put his feet up. Instead, he rests his elbow on the counter and waits for you to come.

The kitchen door swings open.

“Sorry to keep you waiting--” your sentence stops short and he smiles deviously at you.

You’re in the same makeup and ponytail from earlier, though this time a pen is nestled where your hair is gathered, kept in place by the scrunchie you’ve been wearing. Instead of your university sweatshirt, you’re sporting a denim blue button up waitress dress, complete with a sewn on oval white patch with your name stitched into it. There’s a white apron tied around your waist.

His smirk deepens more. If anything, this is almost like the start to a bad porn film. One where he’d bend you over the counter and--

“Hi, Ransom,” you greet him, interrupting his almost fantasy.

“Hey,” he nods, so satisfied in your surprised expression.

You awkwardly place the menu in front of him and wring your hands a little.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee?”

Ransom hums, pink lips puckering before he answers, “Hot chocolate, actually.”

Your nod is a little perplexed. “Okay, right. I’ll go get that for you.”

You turn to the espresso machine behind you and Ransom likes the view of your ass he’s treated to as he opens the menu. Once he’s decided, he looks up, seeing your back still turned to him as you watch hot chocolate trickle into a mug. He knows it can’t be that interesting.

“Hey,” he calls, disrupting your focus.

You whirl around, ponytail whipping about with the movement of your head. “Huh?”

“I’m ready,” he says, holding up the menu.

“Oh,” you reach into the pocket of your apron and pull out a notepad before plucking the pen from your hair. “What’ll it be?”

He multitasks, reciting his order and watching you at the same time. You seem to be avoiding looking at him, even when you ask him to clarify what bread he wants for his toast. Your eyes briefly dart up from your notepad to his face when you repeat his order.

When he hums in affirmation that you got his order correct, your movements seem to buffer.

Got her, he thinks.

You rip the sheet from the pad and hand it to the cook.

“Man, Monte Cristo crepes? At this time of night?” the man whines.

Ransom gives an apathetic shrug.

“Well, alright then. You better tip our little miss here well so that she can split it with me.”

Ransom watches as you press your palm into your forehead, probably cringing at the idea of him tipping you after he paid you $50,000.

You turn back to the espresso machine and grab the mug, carefully carrying it to him.

“Whipped cream?” you offer, taking out the silver canister from the fridge underneath the counter.

“No,” he shakes his head, “I’d prefer having that in the bedroom.”

You seem to huff a laugh at that and you put the canister back where it belongs.

He takes a sip, then his face scrunches.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Is this imported?”

It appears you can’t help the bewildered smile that comes across your face. “Um, I don’t know where it’s from, but I don’t think it’s imported.”

“Oh.” He gives an experimental sip, holding the liquid in his mouth before he swallows.

“Is it okay?” you ask.

So you’re a people pleaser… or you’re just a waitress trying to make sure your customer’s satisfied.

“Yeah, it’s acceptable.”

“Oh, good,” you smile, relieved.

He only nods and turns his attention to the rest of the diner. It really is only the three of you there. Again, the idea of this situation being like a bad porno crosses Ransom’s mind.

When he looks at you again, you’re cleaning the coffee machine.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Cleaning the coffee machine.”

“No, what are you doing here?”

You turn to look at him. “I’m working…?”

“Well, I can see that, but I gave you fifty grand.”

Your head whips to look over at the cook. Ransom’s eyes follow, seeing he’s occupied at the stove. He didn’t appear to hear anything. “Fifty grand’s not nothing. Did they not send you the payment?”

“You know, I could ask you what you’re doing here, too. I didn’t pin you as someone who lived in the university area,” you say, changing the subject.

“I don’t live around here.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Your eyes narrow. He can see you’re strategizing.

“If I answer your questions, will you answer mine?”

“Sure,” Ransom relaxes as much as he can, though he has to be honest, the stool doesn’t give him that much lounging real estate.

“They sent me the payment.”

“So, why are you working?”

“I go to school across the street. The money you gave me is enough to pay for the tuition costs not covered by financial aid. But I need to pay for books and rent and groceries. And it’ll be four more semesters until I finish my degree, so I’ll need a little more than what you gave me to keep my head above water.”

So that’s why you thanked him. He helped pay for your education.

He nods, sipping his chocolate. As a plot forms in his head, he has to admit, for some cheap, unimported trash, it’s growing on him. Said plot would involve him getting what he wants from you and you no longer needing to work in this dump. He goes to open his mouth and you turn with a smile of your own.

“You said if I answer your questions, then you’d answer mine.”

“And if I don’t answer your question?” he challenges.

You smile. “Then this conversation is over.”

You raise your eyebrows expectantly at him and he shakes his head, giving a half-shrug.

“Just here to grab some Monte Cristo crepes and kill a craving,” he lies. Maybe the craving part is true, though.

You hum in acknowledgement, though he’s not sure you fully accept his answer. Taking the towels you used to clean the coffee machine, you disappear into the back. When you return, you’re holding a notebook.

“How long have you been working here?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just trying to make conversation,” he feigns innocence.

“You don’t strike me as the kind of man who does that.”

Ah, so suddenly you have the ability to get a read on people? What other things does he not know about you? Your encounter at the hotel made him think you were some naive young woman who was sheltered all her life. In the fifteen minutes he’s been here, you’re showing him you’re anything but.

What else is there to discover about you? he wonders.

“I’m just asking because I might be able to help you. Financially.”

“Ransom, I have nothing else left to offer,” you say.

So you think.

“And your payment was more than generous.”

The cook calls to you and places a plate on the kitchen window sill. You grab it and set Ransom’s order in front of him.

“Anything else I can get you?”

“Nothing...for now,” he remarks suggestively.

You nod once and open your notebook. As Ransom revels in the cheesy goodness of the crepes in front of him, he watches you quickly jot down things onto the paper and listens to you mutter to yourself.

As he scarfs down all the greasy morsels and chases each bite with hot chocolate, he considers badgering you more. But seeing how stressed you look, he decides to back off.

If you were his mother, on the other hand…

When he’s done, he snaps his fingers at you. You look unamused at the gesture but clear his plate anyway. You bring it back to the kitchen. He hears some chatter and the sink running before you return and stand at the register. He’s again treated to a view of your ass as you shift from one foot to another while processing the transaction.

“I’m taking fifteen,” the cook calls to you.

“Alright,” you shout back, tearing away his receipt and Ransom’s ready with a couple bills.

“Just keep the change,” he winks at you. “Well, maybe give some of it to your grumpy cook.”

He likes the way you laugh at his comment.

“Thanks,” you smile at him again. “See you...whenever, I guess.”

“Actually,” he begins, “about that help I can give you…”

You sigh. “I already told you, there’s nothing else I can offer you. You,” he watches as you pause and laugh humorlessly,” You paid for my virginity and you got it. Unless you have a kid who needs help with reading or writing, I don’t think--”

“I’m not paying you to tutor anyone.” Ransom bites the inside of his cheek as he smiles at himself.

Maybe you can help Walt with some comprehension issues.

“I was thinking...you and I can come to some sort of arrangement.”

“‘Arrangement’?” You lean against the counter with the espresso machine, arms folded across your chest as you face him.

“Yeah. You live with me, I cover whatever other living costs you need. And you,” he says, one corner of his mouth curls up wickedly as he leans his arms on the counter in an attempt to get closer to you, “You keep me entertained.”

The way your eyes widen slightly at the word “entertained” tells him you know exactly what he means.

“I don’t think so,” you scoff, shaking your head and walking to retrieve your notebook.

Well, that wasn’t the answer he was expecting.

“Excuse me?” he asks, appalled. His eyes follow your figure walking to the other side of the counter.

“I don’t think so,” you repeat plainly.

What even is this? He’s never been rejected by a woman before. They fell at his feet all the time. There were some that played hard to get, but they always came crawling to him in the end.

He has to admit, though, he does like this side of you.

“Why not?” he presses.

You look around as if to check if anyone’s around to hear you. “I didn’t even orgasm, Ransom,” you laugh. “I’d rather rough it and have a job here instead of entering an arrangement where I’m not going to get something out of it.”

“You’re getting something out of it,” Ransom says, standing up to follow you across the counter. “I told you, I’ll cover your living costs.”

“I mean something pleasurable, you doofus.”

You turn to go into the kitchen.

Normally, Ransom isn’t a man who begs. But he always gets what he wants. And hell, he wants you and all the memories you bring back to him. He wants to uncover you layer by layer until he reaches your very core and knows you inside and out.

God, what is this mushy stuff he’s thinking right now?

“Whoa, whoa, wait, wait, wait,” he says. “You didn’t…? And because of that you don’t wanna do this?”

“No.”

“Listen, I can make you cum,” he states firmly, index finger pressing into the countertop as if to make his point.

“You don’t need to get so worked up over this, Ransom,” he scowls when you laugh at him, “You’re a handsome guy. I’m sure there’s plenty of other girls who will gladly take you up on your offer.”

Somehow, you calling him handsome doesn’t stroke his ego. Rather, it feels insulting. This is you letting him down easy.

Fuck no.

“I don’t want the other girls.”

“Is that to suggest you want me?” you inquire.

“The arrangement isn’t going to benefit just me in bed,” he changes the subject.

“Oh, it wouldn’t?” you say, unimpressed again.

His smirk mirrors yours.

If it’s a game you want to play, game on.

“How about a deal?”

Your eyes narrow. “What kind of deal?”

He rests his forearms on the counter this time. “I make you cum, you enter this arrangement with me. If not, you never have to see me again.”

He can see the gears turning in your head.

“Three,” you say.

“Sorry, what?” he shakes his head, confused.

“I wanna cum three times,” you tell him.

He chuckles to himself. He likes that you’re not afraid to say what you want. Besides, another night with you would mean he gets his $50,000 worth.

“Easy.”

“Well, then, Ransom, you got yourself a deal.” You offer your hand for him to shake.

Taking your hand, he yanks you towards him so you’re right up against the counter. He leans forward, your faces less than an inch apart. That glint of nervousness flashes in your eyes again and again, he chuckles.

“No. I got you.”

Permatag: @caffiend-queen @fckdeusername @lou-la-lou @bangtan-serendipity

Chris tag: @onetwo3000 @patzammit

Ransom tag: @jeremyrennermakesmesmile

Highest Bidder Taglist: @imanuglywombat @sapphirescrolls @just-another-wretched-egg @ladynightshade30 @angstsfordays @icanfeelastormbrewing @buckysteveloki-me @what-is-your-plan-today @iloganjade @twittytelly @xoxabs88xox @an-awkward-human-1 @fanfiction-trashpile @jtargaryen18 @donutloverxo @meaganottiz02 @princess-evans-addict @kianifan @asiaaisa77 @kelbabyblue @my-emotional-self @saiyanprincessswanie @random-things-i-love @captainchrisstan @daugtherofthenight117 @buchanansebba @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @andiebell2023 @avengerraven1023 @dahkness @thatonefangirl111 @sllooney @sheerfreesia007 @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @suzieqsez @farremoved @edge-ofparadise @bellaireland1981 @myoxisbroken @tinystudentfirepurse @opheliadawnwalker3 @starstruckghostmoneyduck @siggy85 @thatweirdwalangpake @captain-asthmatic @mery-be @isaxhorror @everythingisoverrated @imboredat2am @tsunderebae009 @arseofrivia @alexakeyloveloki @rayofdawnworld @heyarely16 @empower-bi-women @buckaro0 @readermia @bubbaduck33 @ssworldofsw @woah-kanda @itgetsdarksometimes35 @pinkshenanigan @sweetwaterprincess

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magicaththedemigod · 3 years

Text

an extensive analysis of “the song of achilles” by madeline miller

Or: things I noticed and couldn't keep to myself.

Because I just finished reading it and have many feelings about it, I've decided to compile all of them into a very lengthy Tumblr post.

This will be broken up into three parts:

1. Foreshadowing

2. Dramatic (and regular) Irony

3. Fatal Flaws

1. Foreshadowing

Miller does such a delightful job with foreshadowing. The number of quotes I could be spitting at you right now... but I digress. The main job of foreshadowing, especially in a tragedy like "The Song of Achilles," is to set the characters up for their tragedy.

What I like most about how Miller goes about it in this book is that she doesn't attempt to pull a shocking twist out of nowhere; instead, she takes an approach which allows the reader to fully marinate in their despair.

For example, this quote:

Achilles shook his head, impatiently. "But this was a greater punishment for her. It was not fair of them." "There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles," Chiron said. "And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?"

Let's take a moment and unpack some of this. For context, this is a conversation between Patroclus, Achilles, and their mentor Chiron. They're discussing the tale of Heracles, who's driven to madness and ends up killing his own wife and kids.

From reading the book, (SPOILER ALERT) you know that Achilles' own pride and honor end up forcing Patroclus to impersonate him in order to save the Greek army, and in doing so is killed by Hector. The fact that Chiron directs this question, "And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?" to Achilles, who is left behind after Patroclus' death is such delightful foreshadowing that I almost threw the book across the room when I first read it.

Achilles slumps into such a depression after Patroclus dies (really, after he kills Patroclus with his own fatal flaw), that he even loses the ability to care about his fame or honor anymore. He feels the greater grief, so to speak.

Even after he dies, Patroclus is left behind, unable to rest properly because they never put his name on the tomb. In that sense, Patroclus is then the one left behind, experiencing loneliness and grief.

The book is full of little hints like this, and that's part of why it's almost torture to read as someone who knows how the Iliad goes. As I said before: the foreshadowing in this book is meant to have the reader in pain from the beginning because you know nothing is going to work out in the end.

2. Dramatic (and regular) Irony

Yes, that's right. I'm about to rip into your soul.

Probably one of the biggest parts of classical Greek myths is dramatic irony (the audience knowing something the characters don't). In plays, the ending is almost always announced before the play begins. In fact, the audience most likely already knows the story from previous tellings or just general knowledge. It makes sense that it would be one of the biggest players in "The Song of Achilles."

As usual, let's start with a quote:

His eyes opened. "Name one hero who was happy." I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason's children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus' back. "You can't." He was sitting up now, leaning forward. "I can't." "I know. They never let you be famous and happy." He lifted an eyebrow. "I'll tell you a secret." "Tell me." I loved it when he was like this. "I'm going to be the first." He took my palm and held it to his. "Swear it." "Why me?" "Because you're the reason. Swear it." "I swear it," I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes. "I swear it," he echoed. We sat like that a moment, hands touching. He grinned. "I feel like I could eat the world raw."

First of all: cute. Second of all: wow, so much pain.

As you know, Achilles is the opposite of happy at the end of the book (well, maybe after they die, but we'll get to that later). Though he swears it here with Patroclus, the two of them make decisions that ultimately lead to their downfall: Achilles decides to abandon the Greeks after they slighted his honor, Patroclus decides to help them even if it means risking his life, and Achilles lets him do it.

So let's talk about dramatic irony. The irony here is that you know, maybe just from this exchange alone, that Achilles isn't going to be the first happy hero. You know there is a war coming, know that Achilles and his famous heel will get himself killed. You might also know at this point that Patroclus will die first and send Achilles spiraling into grief before that happens.

It's painful, truly. Achilles spends his last days in utter agony, wanting to die but unable to kill himself, and Patroclus can only watch on as a ghost (spirit?). Even when Achilles does die and his ashes are put into their urn (seriously, how did any scholar ever think they weren't lovers?), they still have to wait to be reunited.

But there's still more. Consider these lines:

Hector's eyes are wide, but he will run no longer. He says, "Grant me this. Give my body to my family, when you have killed me." Achilles makes a sound like choking. "There are no bargains between lions and men. I will kill you and eat you raw."

Sound familiar? That's right: "I will kill you and eat you raw" sounds an awful lot like "I feel like I could eat the world raw," doesn't it? Another parallel from Miller: one from a time of happiness, the other from a time of extreme grief. However painful it is, I really live for connections like that.

And I've got one more for you:

Achilles shook his head. "Never. He is brave and strong, but that is all. He would break against Hector like water on a rock. So. It is me, or no one." "You will not do it." I tried not to let it sound like begging. "No." He was quiet a moment. "But I can see it. That's the strange thing. Like in a dream. I can see myself throwing the spear, see him fall. I walk up to the body and stand over it." Dread rose in my chest. I took a breath, forced it away. "And then what?" "That's the strangest of all. I look down at his blood and know my death is coming. But in the dream I do not mind. What I feel, most of all, is relief." "Do you think it can be prophecy?" The questions seemed to make him self-conscious. He shook his head. "No. I think it is nothing at all. A daydream." I forced my voice to match his in lightness. "I'm sure you're right. After all, Hector hasn't done anything to you."

See where I'm going with this? I don't think I need to explain this one.

3. Fatal Flaws

That's right, one of the most essential pieces for a tragedy: hamartia. For those who might not know, hamartia is the fatal flaw that ultimately leads to the downfall of a tragic hero or heroine. In every single piece of classical greek writing, if the story is a tragedy, the main character will have a fatal flaw that makes it so.

Take Achilles:

I looked at the stone of his face, and despaired. “If you love me-”

“No!” His face was stiff with tension. “I cannot! If I yield, Agamemnon can dishonor me whenever he wishes. The kings will not respect me, nor the men!” He was breathless, as though he had run far. “Do you think I wish them all to die? But I cannot. I cannot! I will not let them take this from me!”

You probably already know what his fatal flaw is: pride. He needs the fame, needs the glorious memory of his deeds to live on forever, so badly that he is willing to sacrifice his life and what might’ve been a fulfilling and long life with Patroclus out of the limelight. His fatal flaw is what spurs each of his actions in the later half of the book, including the moment where he decides to leave the Greeks to their deaths for slandering him.

Even Patroclus has a fatal flaw: his love for Achilles.

That night I lay in bed beside Achilles. His face is innocent, sleep-smoothed and sweetly boyish. I love to see it. This is his truest self, earnest and guileless, full of mischief but without malice. He is lost in Agamemnon and Odysseus’ wily double meanings, their lies and games of power. They have confounded him, tied him to a stake and baited him. I stroke the soft skin of his forehead. I would untie him if I could. If he would let me.

Though riding into the center of the fighting, especially dressed as Achilles, will make Patroclus the prime target, he decides to do it anyway. And not out of fear for Achilles’s life; he knows how important his pride and reputation is to him, and out of desperation will do anything to keep Achilles from being devastated when it doesn’t work out for him.

(Honestly, this is the part where I start to hate Achilles for doing this to Patroclus... it’s like he doesn’t even consider Patroclus his equal and does everything without consulting him.)

Of course, Agamemnon has a fatal flaw as well. He is like the mirror image of Achilles, so proud and stubborn, righteous and arrogant. However, he is the darker image, the one that revels in taking things by force and, of course, raping women like Briseis. He serves as a poignant foil for Achilles, highlighting all the ways the traits they share can easily become corrupted. It’s part of why this novel works so well.

I hope you all enjoyed this book as much as I did. Truthfully, I did have a few problems with it, but I wanted to trying picking it apart anyway. And if you haven’t read the song of achilles... what are you doing reading these spoilers??

#why can you visibly see where i get tired #achilles #greek myth aesthetic #analysis #patroclus #song of achilles #greece #greek posts #not the language though #this is so long #effort #first time ive ever wanted to write an essay #dark academia #dark acadamia aesthetic #this took me three days #greek mythology #iliad #homer

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amindofstone · 3 years

Text

let me hold you for a bit

{

a/n: And here we have another scenario I made up in my head before going to sleep just to make myself sad over basically something none existing. GREATTTTT!!! Anyways, while writing this I honestly got hella mad over the word swordsman. I googled it and found out that this is a neutral word and can be used for the male but also female gender. It's just like the word mankind. Like the fck?! Why is language so patriarchal?! I'm going to have a looooooong discussion with my professor about that... Anyways have fun and enjoy this little work of mine. ;)

Genre: anime image?

Character(s): Eustass "captain" Kid × Serena (reader)

Words: 2295

Spoiler(s): none

Info: For better reading keep in mind that the words in italic are either Kid's or readers train of thoughts. It is both written in italic but it is understandable on who's thoughts it is (Hopefully).

Warning(s): a bit of cursing and swearing, I guess. But nothing to be worried of. (+ grammatical or spelling mistakes since English is my third language and I'm still improving in every aspect. (Please have mercy on that))

!!! Please do not steal my idea or work. Credit me if this is shared or published in any other platform or any other way. This took me a lot of time. So please respect me as the writer and my work. Picture is not mine. Credits to the rightful owner @nan50ku (on Twitter). !!!

}

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One and a half year ago he send his first mate to recruite her as a swordsman although some of his mates weren't really fond of his choice for a long time. So he took it upon himself to convince them to agree to his word. He might be the captain but he cherished his crew a lot although he never said nor really showed it because he is not the type of man who likes to openly show emotions since he considered it as weak.

So after a few days of long arguments between the stubborn captain and his first mate he was able to make him and his crew accept his decision to make the female fencer a part if their life and goal. Although the captain was really fond of her being the crew still took her presence on board with a lot of scepticism and caution since they barely knew anything about her. Not only took it the entire crew but also the woman itself a lot if time and patience to get used to their new environment. Lucky for her she was not the only female on board. There seemed to be another woman who was recruited by the pirates long ago. She however had nothing against her and welcomed her with open arms just like the captain who unlike her had more than just one reason to accept her with joy.

Days passed and she slowly started to open up more and socialise with the people on board more and more. Weeks passed and she laughed and fought side by side with them. Months passed and she shared memories of her childhood with the people off the Kid pirates and heared a few of theirs. But it was after a year with them when the woman Eustass Kid took in his crew with pure joy, told the people she grew fond of that her father was a important person at the revolutionary army and that she therefore was also a part of them. She thought that they might throw her out and get mad at her secrecy but nothing happened. In fact they were glad she told them something important as this. But most of all they were happy to see that the woman that kept quiet for so long opened up to them to this extent.

While they all thought nothing else of it and kept going as if nothing happened one person in particular seemed to grow angrier day by day. He locked himself up in his cabin or his workshop and only came out when it was necessary which got the crew worried more and more.

It was well known for his mates that their captain was a naturally reckless man but never over nothing. He was going mad at the most unnecessary and simple things. When they docked on islands Kid would usually celebrate, drink more and more. He wouldn't give a damn about anyone and would have a great time. But since he became quite temperamental and gloomy for no reason in particular he kept staying in his cabin. He would always give all of his crew mates a list of supplies and get back in his workshop and ignore his first mates question if he doesn't want to come out for a while. Even when he slammed the door shut behind him his first mate who was also his best friend would keep telling him that it was not okay for him to stop talking to his people. After all it was them that worked for him and respected him. But the only thing the blond man would get was a annoyed and angry "Fuck off!".

Now one and a half year later, after he recruited the female bold fencer, the crew would find him knocking on the door of her bedroom at least twice a week. And when she wouldn't be in her bedroom when he came he would simply enter and just wait for her inside, no matter how long it took her to come back to her room. Just like now.

Kid took a quick glance at the clock at the wall over her desk that was occupied by probably a dozen books for her researches. A smile spread over his red lips that turned into a small chuckle when he remembered how happy she got when he came back yesterday with a bunch of new books. When he told her that Killer included some novels to the already enormous pile of books they came back with her face light up. How can someone like reading that much. It's a waste of time when it's not informative. Kid who was sitting on her bed stood up and walked up to her desk and took a look at her notes of the task he gave her. With a little too much of a proud smile he leaned back and took her notebook in his hands and went through it to kill some time. Not long after, the door to the room he was sitting in was opened by its owner.

"Oh I'm sorry did you wait long?", a woman with two swords attached to her small waist entered with a genuine smile on her plum lips with the colour of a deep pink. "Not at all. I was going through your notes and I'm am surprised how much informations you found out in such a short period. It really was a good idea to get you to be a part of my crew.", said the red haired man without looking up from the book in his hands. He was taking his time reading because he didn't wanted to leave so soon. He wanted to have a reason to stay in her room with her without anyone else. He wanted her to himself all alone. But he never dared and will never dare to say it out loud.

He came to her again just like any other time since months now with the hope of her coming and sitting on his lap on her own. He wanted her to hold his face in her small and tender hands while caressing his cheeks in the painful slow pace she always did. He wanted to bury his face on her neck and breath in her scent that got him addicted. He felt small, he felt weak, he felt stupid when she was around. Because he knew that he was helplessly in love with a woman that was to good for him and would probably leave as soon as the no. 2 of the revolutionary army would order her over. The thought of a man that could get her to any place in the world got him angrier than necessary.

Kid pushed everything aside. All of his emotions and the need to hold her just to lean on her desk and take a pen and paper and work on her notes. Focus and ignore her you fool. He told himself off and tried his best to bury his need to take a look at her in the deepest corner of his heart. So it came that he was now working on her notes while every now and than asking her what she meant with a specific note or if the information that was given to her is trustworthy or not. A hour passed and Serena took a shower and changed into a pair of shorts and an oversized sweater she recently purchased. She was sitting in her bed and read a novel when she let out a quiet yawn. She put her book on her nightstand and got under her blanket just to realise that she wasn't alone. Her green orbs fell upon her captain that was silently doing her work. When was the last time he had eight hours of sleep? Can't he relax for a bit? Every time I see him he is either in his workshop or on sea. "Kid? Aren't to going to sleep or at least rest for a bit?"

A soft and gentle voice replaced the calm silence and made the red haired man's heart race while his body turned warm. He felt like he had a fever and was about to collapse when he heard the bed behind him shift. He didn't move a bit or said anything until he felt her soft hands on his shoulders. "You should go to bed. Rest a bit. You need a healthy dose of sleep and resting otherwise you won't be able to fight properly, you know?"

Kid said nothing. He didn't reply to her or move. "Kid? You alright?", and again he didn't gave a answer but closed his eyes and turned around just to sit her down on his lap. "Stay. Stay like that for a while. I know that you want me to leave and I will do so but for now just stay like that and let me hold you for a bit."

The usually loud and aggressive captain was holding onto the female fencer like a child while his face was buried between her shoulder and neck. The feared captain was slowly breathing in her scent and letting out a hardly audible whimper. But Serena heard it what made her shiver slightly out of shook. She carefully placed her hands on his face and made him look in her eyes but the stubborn man refused to do so. He kept his eyes closed and his jaw clenched out of anger towards himself. What the actual fuck am I doing?! What is wrong with me? Why is my fucking heart racing?! GOD, stop it!! The captains cheeks were softly caressed by the woman he sat on his lap. While doing so she waited for him to hopefully open his eyes and allow her a look into his onyx black eyes. She didn't want to push him to something he didn't wanted so she kept quiet and gave him time to relax. While doing so she place her forehead against his and hummed a soft melody that seemed familiar to the captain of the worst generation but he couldn't quite get why it was so familiar and comforting.

Still not opening his eyes Kid spoke in a low and quiet voice "Would you mind me sleeping next to you for tonight?", a smile grew on Serenas lips and made a chuckle follow. "How come you are able to speak so nice and so.. I don’t know... gentleman like? No, thats not it. Let's just say it was really really nice and respectfully said.", said the green eyed woman while leading him to her bed and tugging him in. "Don't make me regret my word choice. I can go back to cursing and insulting you in any minute, woman."

The laughter of Serena filled the comforting silence that lingered in the room. A laughter that made the heart of the man laying at the right of the bed jump in joy. "And there we have our rude captain back. I kinda missed your rudeness around me. It's kinda entertaining and funny. I mostly like to see you and Killer fight with him always stating facts and you just yelling around a bunch of angry - No's- like a child.", with a smile upon her lips she made a little fun of the man she loved to have close to her. She liked spending time with him. She loved it when he came to her to complain about a failed plan of his or that of his first mate. She really appreciated when he searched for her whenever he needed to calm down and get away form his responsibilities as the captain. And everytime she would drop anything and anyone just to give him all of her attention as long as she could help. But everytime she did so the tall and muscular man wondered why she acted that way towards him because he knew that he wasn't someone easy-going.

"You're really annoying. Everytime I come to see you, you make me regret it.", Kid rolled his eyes to show his annoyance to support his point while still wearing a tiny friendly smile on. Serena laid down and pulled her blanket up to her shoulder right before she placed a hand under her pillow and her other hand lovingly on her captains cheek. Kid closed his eyes and did exactly what he asked her for. Sleeping and laying next to her with the hope of being able to suppress his need to hold her tightly in his arms and to calm his racing heart. But sadly she only knew about his wish of just being allowed to sleep next to her. Carefully she went through his hair to help him sleep when he took her wrist and held her back from making any other move. "Woman, your annoying. Let me sleep in peace."

Serena was hurt and felt her heart aching more than any other day but she said nothing else beside apologising and taking her hand back. "Good night cap."

She slowly turned around with now her back facing the sleepy big figure of the man beside her. Out of all the men around the world her heart chose to love him. A reckless and unpredictable man. A man that does not hesitate to kill and destroy when he wanted or needed to. She, a woman with a loving and sweet personality. A woman who probably could marry a king or a Prince ended up loving a pirate, a criminal hated and feared by any person with a sense of sanity. I should have stayed with my father and never accepted this mission Sabo gave me. A tear fell down her cheek when she heard the man, who owned her heart and soul without even knowing, lightly snore.

And just like that another night passes for the two lovesick pirates without them knowing that their feelings were actually returned.

#anime imagines #anime scenarios #op imagine #one piece imagine #one piece x y/n #one piece x reader #eustasscaptainkid #eustass kid #eustass kid x reader #eustass kid imagine #kid pirates #captain trio #captain kid #one piece #anime x reader #eustass kid x you

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searchingwardrobes · 4 years

Text

This is a future fic from the universe of my self published novel What Hindered Love. It’s pretty much 4k words of fluff. Spoilers for my book, obviously.

Summary: They've come a long way, but sometimes Chloe Wren Barrett still forgets she isn't alone, and sometimes Micah Barrett forgets he's been redeemed. Thankfully, they have each other to remind them.

Tagging: @snowbellewells @teamhook @xhookswenchx @ekr032-blog-blog @sherlockianwhovian @superchocovian @thislassishooked @ohmakemeahercules @kday426 @onceuponaprincessworld @ilovemesomekillianjones @nikkiemms @kmomof4 @hollyethecurious @bethacaciakay @whimsicallyenchantedrose @welllpthisishappening @wellhellotragic @tiganasummertree @captainswanapproved

The microwave makes its dull whirring sound, and Luke Barrett spins around the room in tune to its rhythm. His brother Lincoln sits on top of the kitchen counter, peering into the large bowl next to him.

“Does the chocolate go in first, Daddy?” the four year old asks.

“No, Lincoln,” Luke corrects him in a bossy tone, “you have to pour the hot fudge all over it so it’s nice and chocolately, right Daddy?”

Micah chuckles, thinking how he sounds exactly like his mother. As if said woman can read his mind, Chloe calls out from her spot on the couch in the living room.

“You better not be letting Lincoln sit on the counter top, Micah Barrett!”

Micah exchanges a sheepish, guilty look with his two boys, then grins mischievously. He winks at them both as he answers his wife, “Of course not, sweetie.” Lincoln starts to giggle, then claps his pudgy hands over his mouth as his brown eyes widen.

“Riiight,” Chloe quips, but the snap is out of her voice. She’s nine months pregnant, and doesn’t see the point in fighting over all that much.

Micah opens the bag of pretzels and shakes them into the bowl just as the timer dings on the microwave. Luke bounces up to open the microwave, and Micah shakes his head, still finding it hard to believe the boy is tall enough now to reach it.

“It’ll be hot,” he warns his son.

Micah grabs the oven mitts and carefully removes the jar of hot fudge. He slowly pours it into the bowl of pretzels, using a spoon to stir it.

“Why ya gotta stir it?” Lincoln asks, leaning over the bowl.

“If you don’t,” Micah explains, “not all the pretzels get covered in the fudge.”

“Ohhhh,” Lincoln says, as if Micah has imparted vast knowledge.

He lets both boys stir a little until the mixture is, as Luke and his mother so eloquently put it, “chocolatey.” Lincoln hops down from the counter before Micah can stop him, and he winces when the boy’s head comes dangerously close to hitting the edge.

“Can I carry Mommy her treat?”

“Snack, Lincoln, not treat,” Luke corrects with a roll of his eyes, “she’s not a dog like Lightning.”

“He can call it a treat if he wants to,” Micah admonishes his older son as little Lincoln’s face falls. He remembers all too well what it was like to be the baby brother on the receiving end of constant bossy lectures. He loves Josiah, but he could be a self-righteous know-it-all at times, too. He sees it sometimes in Luke, and it bothers him. Chloe says it’s just an oldest sibling thing.

Micah gives Lincoln the bowl, but knowing well the lack of coordination in four year olds, he helps him grasp the sides, then stays close beside him as they walk to the couch. Chloe’s eyes brighten as Lincoln proudly gives her the “treat,” and Micah knows her reaction has more to do with the beaming little boy than the contents of the bowl.

“Thank you, Lincoln!” she enthuses. “You are so sweet!”

She leans over to give him a kiss, and then gives one to Luke as well when the seven year old pouts that he helped too. Micah then shoos them off to bed, eliciting more pouts.

“Your mother needs peace and quiet to relax,” he admonishes them, “and it’s past your bedtime anyway.”

Both boys frown in exaggerated fashion, but shuffle down the hall anyway. Micah waits to hear the sink running to ensure they are brushing their teeth. When both bedroom lights click off, he returns to the couch. He shoos Lightning, the golden retriever, off Chloe’s feet. The dog, who he swears now prefers Chloe over all others, slinks with disappointment to her dog bed in the corner. Micah settles in at the opposite end from Chloe, lifting her badly swollen feet and settling them in his lap.

“I warn you, they’re disgusting,” she tells him around a sticky mouthful. She swallows, then continues, “I feel like I could stick a pin in them and water would gush out.”

Micah struggles to mask a grimace as he begins to knead the pads of her feet. She isn’t exaggerating, they feel like water balloons. “Don’t be silly, Wren, they aren’t disgusting.”

Chloe laughs out loud. “Liar! Don’t forget; now that we’re married, I can read you pretty well.”

Micah smiles sheepishly and shrugs, “Okay, I admit. They aren’t . . . pleasant. But you’re on your feet all day at work, you need some relief.”

Chloe relents, leaning her head back and sighing with pleasure. She pops a sticky pretzel in her mouth as she scrolls through Netflix, choosing a romantic comedy. Micah shifts so that his back is against the arm of the couch and his legs are stretched along Chloe’s. He continues to massage her feet, which are feeling slightly less like water balloons and slightly more like normal appendages. He isn’t looking at the TV, instead studying his wife’s face. She looks content, yet there’s fatigue around her eyes.

“I’m so glad I’m here,” he finally says.

Chloe turns from the TV with a confused expression, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m glad you don’t have to do all this alone this time around.”

The furrow in Chloe’s brow deepens, and she shakes her head, “But I wasn’t alone with Luke. You were there.”

Micah lets out a shaky breath. He’s left the past behind, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t still have regrets. The biggest being how deeply he hurt Chloe. “Not really, Wren. Remember all the appointments I missed? How I constantly let you down? How because of the drugs I was just one more burden for you to carry?”

Chloe’s face sets itself in firm lines as she clicks off the TV and sets the bowl on the floor by the couch. She reaches her hands out towards him. “Come here.”

Micah obeys, squeezing himself between his wife and the back of the couch, wrapping one arm around Chloe and resting the other across her swollen abdomen. Chloe cups his face with her hands and kisses him thoroughly. When she pulls back, she rubs her thumbs across his cheeks as she stumbles over her words.

“I usually speak with actions,” she chuckles, “hence the kiss.”

“I’m not complaining,” he tells her with a grin.

Chloe’s eyes narrow in intensity. “But hear this, Micah Barrett. If there’s one thing God has taught me in the last couple of years, it’s that the past doesn’t dictate our future. We made mistakes when we were young, we both did, but Jesus is all about fresh starts and second chances. Right?”

Micah turns his face to kiss Chloe’s palm, grasping her wrist in gentle fingers. He rubs his thumb over her pulse point, then leans down to press a light kiss to her lips. “Maybe you should preach next Sunday,” he chuckles.

Chloe’s eyes sparkle as she shrugs one shoulder, “Let your dad know he can take the day off.”

Their laughter turns to playful kisses, which turn to passionate ones. Micah runs his hands along the swell of Chloe’s breast, enjoying the moans he elicits from her. He rests his hand against her womb where their daughter is growing, and a sudden thump against his hand has them both gasping.

“You felt that?” Chloe exults as she catches his eye.

“I did,” Micah breathes in wonder. He presses his palm to the same spot and his rewarded with another firm kick. They both laugh as Chloe scoots to a seated position.

“I hope that means you’re ready to join the world, little one,” Chloe coos as she runs her hand over her belly.

Micah’s heart swells to the point that he thinks he might burst. He gently takes Chloe’s chin in his hand and turns her to face him. “I love you,” he tells her with all the emotion he can convey. It still doesn’t seem like enough.

But Chloe hears it; she knows. The look that crosses her face tells him that; the look he can’t describe, but knows so well. “I love you, too.”

****************************************************

The clock on the nightstand reads a quarter past two in the morning, and Micah blinks his eyes, wondering what has awakened him. He rolls over to find Chloe’s side of the bed empty, and understanding dawns. He throws back the covers, quickly pulls on a shirt, and heads down the hall. He finds Chloe pacing the living room, rubbing her belly. Lightning is keeping pace with her, whining under her breath as her claws make a click-clack sound on the hardwood floor.

“Is it time?” he asks with concern, frustrated with himself as he stifles a yawn.

Chloe shakes her head. “I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t think so. The contractions are strong, but they aren’t regular. I mean the last one was nine –“

Chloe’s breath catches and her words are cut off as she leans over suddenly. One arm cradles her belly while the other grasps the back of the couch. Micah rushes to her side, reminding her to breathe. She does, in and out, in and out. Finally, she straightens and brushes sweaty hair off her forehead.

“Whew, that was a strong one,” she tells him, attempting humor and a wobbly smile.

“I could tell,” he replies, his brow furrowed. “So what was that again about it not being time? Because it looks like time to me.”

Chloe bats his arm away from her side irritably as she resumes her pacing. “But they aren’t close enough apart yet; at least not all of them. Some have been five minutes apart, some three, but then others are nine or even ten minutes apart. And then I’ll have some that aren’t even that painful.”

Micah eyes his wife with concern as she waddles her way around the room (not that he would tell her that she was waddling). Chloe is not a huge pregnant woman (though she claims to be), and her stride is not normal for her. Her belly seems to have dropped, altering her stance. Not a good sign.

“Um, Chloe,” he says hesitantly, “I really think we need to go to the hospital.”

She shakes her head again stubbornly. “I can make it until the boys are up and head to school. My water hasn’t even broken yet.”

“But didn’t they have to break it at the hospital with Lincoln?”

Chloe waves him off again as if he’s a pesky fly. “Did you not hear me? The contractions aren’t regular. They’ll just send me home.”

Micah crosses his arms. “Chloe, why are you so adamant about not going to the hospital?”

Tears suddenly spring to Chloe’s eyes. “I don’t want to scare the boys. I wake them up, they worry. They get up in the morning, and I’m not here, they worry. And school . . . they have school tomorrow . . .”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Wren,” Micah says quickly, stepping in front of her to stop her pacing. He puts his hands on her shoulders and forces her to meet his gaze. “You are not alone this time, remember? We are not alone. Remember that list in the kitchen drawer? The list a mile long of the people who offered to come over and be with the boys when the baby comes?”

Chloe’s panic has abated somewhat, but concern still lights her eyes. “We can’t wake your parents up in the middle of the night. And Josiah and Kate can’t leave the kids.”

Micah is just about to remind her of the other dozen names on the list, when she suddenly clutches his arm in a death grip. She leans over, this time unable to suppress a groan from the pain of the contraction.

“That’s it,” Micah grumbles as he scoops Chloe up into his arms. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

********************************************************

Micah remembers Chloe saying she was a fan of epidurals, and Micah can see why. He’s a fan of them now, too (except for the long needle they had plunged up her back; that made him a little squeamish). Luke’s birth had been surrounded by so much chaos, it’s true, but he also clearly remembers Chloe’s excruciating pain. They had both been so young, and neither of them had a clue what they were doing. He knew full well the panic in Chloe’s eyes had only been mirrored in his own back then.

Maybe things would have been different if labor had happened more slowly with Luke, if there had been time for an epidural. Because here and now, Chloe is calm, smiling, laughing even. (Okay, so she’s laughing at a Friends rerun on the television, but still. Laughter had been the farthest thing on her mind the day Luke was born.)

“Knock, knock,” a bright voice says from the doorway. Micah turns to see his mother standing in the doorway, his father behind her. “Can we come in?”

Micah glances at Chloe, who smiles and waves them in. “Sure, of course. I’ve got my happy juice now.”

“Smart girl,” Elizabeth chuckles as she leans over to give her daughter-in-law a kiss on the cheek. “In my day, everyone was doing all-natural home births. Remember that, Tom?”

“Yes,” Tom says, eyes stormy, “I almost lost both you and Micah. Absolute foolishness.”

Chloe’s eyebrows raise, “That’s a story I haven’t heard.”

Elizabeth flashes Tom a look that clearly says not the time, then turns back to Chloe with a bright smile on her face. “For another day, dear. Is there anything the two of you need?”

“Micah hasn’t had breakfast yet,” Chloe says, giving her husband a pointed look.

“But I can’t eat in front of you when you can’t have anything,” he protests.

“Yes you can,” his mother argues. “Tom, go get the boy a sandwich.”

Tom chuckles as he steps for the door, slapping Micah on the back, “In situations like these, just do as the women say, son. Want to come down to the cafeteria with me?”

Micah shakes his head as he looks Chloe over. “No thank you. I don’t want to leave her.”

Tom nods in understanding, then steps out. As soon as he leaves, another family member walks through the door.

“Kate!” Chloe cries out, hugging her cousin tight when she reaches the bed. “How did you manage getting over here? What about Haley and Noah?”

Kate waves Chloe off as she straightens. “Josiah’s with them. And Hannah got your two off to school, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Chloe says, voice thick. She glances at Micah, and he knows he doesn’t have to say I told you so.

Kate looks Chloe up and down and frowns, “She’s not here yet? You’ve been in labor for eight hours already.”

“Make that ten,” Micah speaks up, “this stubborn woman here didn’t want to bother anybody and was in agony for two hours before we ever got here.”

“I wasn’t in agony,” Chloe corrects, rolling her eyes, “and what would be the point of getting here two hours earlier? Our little Clara is still staying stubbornly put.”

“Well,” a voice says from the doorway, “hopefully this can help speed things along.”

A nurse comes in with a syringe of Pitocin. It only takes the medicine half an hour to kick in, and then things really do speed along. Chloe starts feeling the contractions, even through the epidural, and she’s soon fully dilated and effaced. Then it isn’t long before the doctor is there, and Chloe is pushing. Micah is surprised when Chloe allows his parents and Kate to stay. He holds her right hand while Kate holds her left. His parents stand on the other side of the room, both laughing and crying as their granddaughter enters the world. Chloe has to push for a long time – turns out Clara is face up when she should be face down – but Micah is amazed at how calm and steady his wife is. When Clara crowns, Chloe reaches down to feel the top of her head, and smiles in wonder. The connection seems to spur her on, and as Chloe pushes one last time, laughter bubbles out of her. The laughter seems to be contagious, because soon everyone in the room, even the doctor is laughing.

Clara’s cry pierces the air, and the doctor shakes her head, laughter still spilling from her mouth. “She’s so beautiful,” the doctor tells them, beaming and shaking her head. “I’ve delivered hundreds of babies during my career, and never once has a birth made me laugh with joy.”

A nurse takes the wee girl from the doctor’s arms, and places her against Chloe’s chest. “Yes,” Chloe says, tears mixing with the laughter, “joy. Absolute joy.”

“That should be her middle name, don’t you think?” Micah asks, reaching out towards his new baby daughter, his heart turning over in his chest when her tiny fingers clasp his.

“Clara Joy,” Chloe whispers, then beams up at him. “Light and joy. It’s perfect.” Then she leans forward and kisses him soundly, despite the audience.

*****************************************************

Chloe awakens to Micah’s soft voice. She turns her head and smiles to see him leaning over the hospital bassinette, changing Clara’s diaper. His smile his adoring and his blue eyes sparkle with joy, even in the dim hospital room. Yes, her daughter’s name is perfect.

Micah still hasn’t noticed that Chloe is awake as he scoops his daughter up gently in his arms. Chloe is glad, for as she watches him pace the room, talking in a low voice to their daughter, she feels she’s getting a glimpse inside her husband’s very soul.

“You are the most beautiful thing I ever laid eyes on, baby girl. Don’t tell your mother, though. She’s gorgeous, but you?” Micah swallows thickly. “You, my dear? Words can’t describe this feeling. It’s different than with your brothers.” He brings little Clara closer to his face and whispers conspiratorially. “Another secret, okay?” He chuckles as if Clara has answered him somehow, and Chloe bites back a laugh of her own. “Not that I don’t love them just as much, but with you, my daughter? I don’t know . . . I’ve never felt this way. This urge to protect? I would die for your brothers, your mother, but for you . . . “ Micah shakes his head, and Chloe can clearly see he’s frustrated that he can’t find the proper words. “I feel like my heart is outside my chest.” He sighs and kisses Clara’s tiny head.

Chloe clutches a hand to her own chest and thinks that Micah has found the perfect words after all.

*****************************************************

Three months later, Chloe awakens again to Micah’s soft voice. But this time, it’s coming through the baby monitor. Clara has been a great sleeper from the get-go, but until now she had been sleeping in a Moses basket on the floor by her and Micah’s bed. Tonight is her first night in the nursery now that she’s outgrown the baby basket.

Chloe smiles against her pillow as she listens to Micah on the baby monitor. He doesn’t talk baby talk; oh no, he converses with their daughter as if she can carry on an adult conversation with him. A bittersweet feeling fills Chloe’s heart as she wonders if he spoke with baby Luke the same way. He probably did.

“Now Clara,” he says in mock sternness, “you are dry and your tummy is full. You stopped crying the minute I came in the room. What is this about, huh?”

Chloe adjusts the video monitor and watches as Clara slaps the crib mattress with both hands. Both feet, clad in footsie pajamas, kick as well. She can’t see on the grainy video feed, but she can imagine a bright, toothless grin on her daughter’s face.

“Oh, that’s what I thought,” Micah laughs. The back of his head appears on the video screen as he reaches down to gather Clara up in his arms. Then both move out of the video’s range, but the creaking sound lets Chloe know they have settled in the rocking chair.

“You just wanted to see me, was that it? Well, I don’t mind that at all, baby girl. Just this once. But don’t tell your mother; she already says you have me wrapped around your finger.” Chloe giggles as she hears Clara squeal. “Yes, yes, I know. As much as I protest, it’s probably true.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, and Chloe feels herself drifting off. But then her husband begins to talk again, and the thickness of his voice arrests her.

“I don’t like to admit this to your mother, but I’m holding on to these months as tight as I can. I missed them with your brother, you see.”

Chloe brushes a tear away at the anguish in her husband’s voice. Will he ever stop paying personal penance for his mistakes? She wishes he could forgive himself. Wishes he could see himself the way she does; the way all three of their children do. Even Lincoln, who isn’t even his flesh and blood.

It’s quiet again in the nursery, until Micah’s voice begins to sing. God, but she loves that man’s voice! She remembers the way she reacted to his singing when she first started coming to church. She chuckles to herself. It wasn’t exactly holy, that’s for sure.

Chloe fights sleep as her husband sings Clara a lullaby, but his voice is so soothing, that her eyelids flutter and soon Micah’s voice has lulled her to sleep.

*******************************************************

Chloe is awakened next by a painful fullness in her breasts. She groans as she eases up, glancing at the clock in surprise to see that Clara has slept past her early morning feeding. Bleary eyed, Chloe snatches up the baby monitor and panics for a moment when she sees the empty crib. But then she realizes Micah’s side of the bed is still empty. She smiles to herself as she pushes the sheets aside; she has a pretty good feeling about where she’ll find both father and daughter.

Chloe pads quietly down the hall, not wanting to awaken the boys. She stops in the doorway of the nursery, a smile filling her face at the sight before her.

Micah is in the rocking chair, Clara asleep against his chest. His head his lolled to one side, the top of Clara’s head resting against his chin. Clara’s mouth his open, and drool spreads across the shoulder of Micah’s shirt. Still, it’s the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen. She rubs at her chest, feeling a physical pain in her heart. She’s let go of the past, but still, Micah is right too. She never got to see him like this with Luke. And it still hurts to think of all they lost.

Chloe kneels beside the rocking chair and rubs gently at Micah’s shoulder. “Hey,” she whispers softly as he slowly awakens. He seems a little disconcerted at first, but then he glances down at the baby against his chest and smiles as he massages the back of his neck.

“I can’t believe I fell asleep,” he mutters, “and I have a bad feeling my neck and back are going to regret it later.” His jovial smile fades as he looks into Chloe’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Chloe smiles gently as she tenderly runs her hands up and down Micah’s strong arms. Tears pool in her eyes when she answers. “I just love you so much. You are such an amazing father. And I just wish – I wish you could see it, too.”

Micah blinks the moisture from his own eyes as he grasps Chloe’s hand in his and brings it to his lips. He simply nods at her in understanding.

And it’s enough.

*******************************************************

Later, it’s Micah listening through the baby monitor. He knows that Chloe would be embarrassed if she knew; she thinks she can’t sing, but her high, bright voice is a soothing balm as she sings to the baby. He can picture them in his mind: Chloe rocking gently as Clara contentedly nurses at her breast. The words spill over Micah’s soul, and his wife has no idea of the freedom that they bring. She isn’t singing a lullaby; she’s singing a worship song.

She’s singing her love to her savior, and there is no sweeter sound.

#my writing #what hindered love #my book #micah and chloe #future fluff #hot dad with a baby

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bubonickitten · 4 years

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Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: tumblr // AO3

Chapter 6 full text & content warnings under the cut:

CWs for Chapter 6: some ableism &internalized ableism (re: ADHD & anxiety); panic attacks; one (1) swear, because Jon is BORED and he CAN'T HANDLE IT and it is A MOOD. SPOILERS through S5.

Chapter 6: Rude Awakening

Jon is back in that blank vacuum, and time is doing that thing where every moment feels like an eternity. He suspects it might have just as much to do with his innate intolerance of boredom as it does with sensory deprivation. The lack of any sort of stimulation in this place is unbearable. He never has been able to sit still for long periods of time, and he can’t even fidget here, for fucks sake.

It’s like he’s a child again...

...seven years old and lying face-down on the kitchen floor, swinging his legs in the air, complaining loudly about how there’s nothing to do. Normally, his grandmother might snap at him to go outside and stop pestering her, but a vicious thunderstorm is passing through and she won’t let him play in it – and besides, he’s technically grounded.

Just two days ago, he had wandered off after being forbidden from leaving the yard. Again.

In his defense, there was a cat sunning itself just beyond the fence, and he wanted to say hello because he loves cats but his grandmother won’t let him have one, and then the cat stood up and yawned and trotted off, and obviously he had to follow it, and then – before he knew it, two officers were escorting him home. Again.

His grandmother had been shocked to find the police on her doorstep with her intractable grandson in tow – she hadn’t noticed he was missing – yet again.

After they left, she was furious with him for embarrassing her like that. Again and again and again.

So, now he’s under house arrest – a new term that he had picked up from the officers: “Your grandmother is going to put you under house arrest if you keep wandering off like this, kid.” The first couple times, they had found his meanderings and adventurous nature cute, albeit worrisome; by the third time, the charm had worn off and the weary indulgence vanished along with it; by the fourth time, he received a stern dressing down about safety and recklessness and making things difficult for his poor grandmother; and now, the fifth time, there had been a not-so-subtle warning about contacting social services to investigate neglect....

With each scolding, Jon would feel appropriately abashed in the moment, but it never took long for it to fade into the background, drowned out by a mind understimulated and screaming for some novel distraction. Somehow, courting negative attention was preferable to receiving no attention at all. When adults were being charitable, they called him precocious and clever. When he was testing their patience, though, he was a difficult child, a nuisance, a bother – and he had a tendency to exhaust even the most tolerant adult’s patience very, very quickly. He's always been... difficult.

God, why is he even thinking about this? Is he really so starved for something to occupy his attention that he’s digging into the annals of his childhood?

(Yes. Yes he is.)

He throws his head back with an aggravated sigh. Or he would, if he had a body here, but whenever there’s no dreamer around to witness him, he’s an incorporeal mind floating in nothingness.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to just jiggle his leg right now. Tap his fingers. Play with his hair – or better yet, Martin’s; his hair was always so soft and he would always lean into Jon’s touch like a cat. It will probably be awhile before Jon gets to touch him again. If ever. What if –

Stop, he tells himself. You’re only going to catastrophize, and then you’ll get depressed, and then you’ll be useless. Why are you always so difficult? You –

He throws the brakes so quickly he can almost feel the screeching halt. Crashing a train of thought like that is like ignoring an itch. Itch, itch, itch, the word echoes in his head – and now he wants to scratch at his worm scars.

Wait, no, don’t think about them – it’ll just make you itchy, and you don’t even have a body, which means you won’t be able to scratch, and – and, yes, now you’re itchy, and – damn it, can’t you just sit still and clear your mind for five sec–

“Um. Hello, Jon. Do you… mind if I call you Jon?”

Wait. Is that…

“I mean, you don’t actually know me. It’s just, well. ‘Archivist.’ It’s so formal, isn’t it?”

Oliver! Finally, Jon thinks with relief.

“Dreams are like that, you know. No matter how lucid you think they are, there’s always that part that just drags you along. Guess I don’t need to tell you that. At least, not right now.”

Oliver. Oliver, can you hear me?

Oliver sighs. “Wish I could tell you why I came here.”

Apparently not.

“Wish I knew why I came here.”

When in doubt, blame the Web.

“Sorry to go on, I – I don’t talk to many people these days. Putting my thoughts outside myself, it gets a bit, er, clumsy.”

Jon knows the feeling.

“Be easier if you could talk back, right? Ask me questions, have it tumble all out?”

Easier, sure. But far more unpleasant.

“But no. It’s – it’s just me. Wish there was a better way, but touching someone’s mind, it’s not as simple as that? Doesn’t always make things clearer, you know?”

Again, Jon does know.

“Still, I gave the old woman a statement, so maybe I owe you one as well. That’s how it works, right? Give your terror, give your dream?”

Unfortunately.

“It’s not like I don’t have them to spare.”

Preaching to a choir, Oliver.

“Let me tell you about how I tried to escape.”

No – let’s – can we just move things along?

“So. My name is Oliver Banks. In my other statements, I used the name Antonio Blake, but…”

Guess not.

This probably counts as a live statement, and Jon had been keen to avoid those this time around. He wishes he could cover his ears, shut his eyes, block it all out – but then again, even if he could, would he? That familiar single-minded fixation is settling over him like a heavy fog, and it’s as unnerving as ever – a craving that he doesn’t want to indulge, but once he has a taste, it feels right. The guilt never comes until after the need is satiated.

It’s nearly impossible to stop a statement once it starts. His mind starts to go fuzzy, restless, full of static and pressure. He’s always wondered: is this what compulsion feels like to the ones he turns it upon?

The static fades then, everything becoming sharp and clear and real, like a picture coming into focus. The Archivist is hungry, intent on every single word like a cat, motionless and unblinking, watching a moth beat itself senseless against a light.

And the Archive – the Archive is ravenous. Its presence looms in the background in a way that it hasn’t since before Jon passed through the rift, weighing heavily on the back of his mind.

He gives up on trying to reach out and touch Oliver’s mind for the time being, gives in to the need, and listens as the story twines itself around and through his thoughts.

When Oliver finishes his account several minutes later, Jon feels brighter, more alert, reinvigorated. The disgust and shame will creep up on him later, he’s sure, but for now, it feels right. He feels whole.

“Right,” Oliver says. “That’s, uh, it, I suppose. Maybe you heard me. Maybe you’ll dream.”

Oliver, Jon tries again. This time, for the briefest of moments, he thinks he can hear a subdued hum of static. Can you hear me?

“Then again, maybe I just wasted my breath – but I don’t think so. Honestly, I’m still not exactly sure why I’m here. But you know better than anyone how the spiders can get into your head.”

You don’t need to rub it in, Jon mutters to himself.

“Easier to just do what she asks.”

I beg to differ. The static picks up again, more of a persistent buzz this time. Oliver, listen –

“The thing is, Jon, right now you have a choice. You’ve put it off a long time, but it’s trapping you here. You’re not quite human enough to die, but still too human to survive.”

Yes, yes, I know. The buzz becomes a shrill whine. Oliver!

“You’re balanced on an edge where the End can’t touch you, but you can’t escape him. I made a choice. We all made choices. Now you have to –”

Oliver Banks.

“Um?”

Finally, Jon thinks, exasperated.

“Jon?” Oliver ventures. “Or, uh – Archivist?”

I prefer Jon.

“Huh.” Jon can pick up a soft squeaking noise, as if Oliver just leaned back in his chair. “I’ll be honest, I’m not sure how you’re even doing this.”

Neither do I, but I don’t exactly have time to contemplate that right now –

“I suppose it’s similar to Elias’ ability to broadcast knowledge into another person’s mind,” Oliver muses, almost to himself.

Oh. It… it is, isn’t it? That’s… not a comforting thought.

“I didn’t realize it was something the Archivist could do as well. I thought your job was more… acquiring knowledge, pulling answers out of people, not impressing it upon them.”

I’d… really rather not dwell on it, Jon says, tamping down the burst of fear that surges through him at the thought of comparing himself to Jonah. His mind has gotten trapped in that particular rut many times before, and it's never a good place to be.

Either Oliver respects Jon's wishes or simply doesn't care to waste energy pressing him on the matter, because he drops it and moves on to the main reason for his visit.

“Have you made your choice, Jon?”

I made my choice months ago. I just couldn’t figure out how to – how to act on it. How to actually wake up.

“I confess, I’m surprised to hear you declare your choice with such confidence.” Jon hears fabric rustling – Oliver crossing his legs, maybe? “I was led to believe that you were… almost pathologically indecisive.”

I… usually am, Jon admits, though Oliver’s phrasing is too incisive for his comfort. But I made my choice, and I’d like to follow through on it now.

“Ah. Well.” Oliver sounds uncharacteristically perturbed. It almost reminds Jon of himself when he's unable to Know something. “Not sure why you couldn't before?”

Jon wonders if it has something to do with being newly well-fed. Or maybe he just needed direct contact from the End? Speaking of – he can feel Oliver’s eyes riveted on him, quietly observing and calculating as if trying to get an accurate estimate of the Archivist.

“But – but you definitely can now. The roots are...” Oliver falters, and Jon thinks he can feel him lean in closer. “There’s something… off about you. The roots, they look… sick. Wrong. And the threads are – are tangled.” Another pause. “Can you explain it?”

Not here. I don’t want Elias listening in.

“Doesn’t he have eyes everywhere?”

Almost everywhere. The tunnels under the Institute are… a blind spot, sort of.

“And you would discuss it there?”

Within reason, Jon says warily.

He doubts whether Oliver would ever be an ally – judging from the statement he gave during the apocalypse, he’s too fatalistic to intervene one way or the other – but he doesn’t feel like an enemy, either. Maybe he would be interested in sharing information, or even just letting Jon bounce strategies and theories off of him? It might be helpful, having a mostly-neutral Avatar to consult.

Also, there's just something… lonely about Oliver.

If nothing else, it would be a break from the monotony for you, Jon adds.

“I don’t know how I feel about visiting the Institute again. Not out of fear for my safety, mind. Just don’t like the feeling of being watched. Feels… I don’t know. Slimy.”

That’s one word for it.

“Apologies. I’m not a wordsmith, if you haven’t noticed.” Jon can hear Oliver shifting uneasily in his seat now. He really is awkward, isn’t he?

I don't know, I’m sure you could put together a decent sermon on… existentialist philosophy, or macroeconomics, or the inevitability of death and taxes, or – or something.

“I’m not exactly pleasant company.” He says it matter-of-fact, but Jon thinks he can detect a trace of melancholy underneath the customary impassiveness. “People tend to be… unsettled when they meet a walking, talking memento mori.”

No more unsettling than talking to an incarnation of paranoia and terrible knowledge, Jon says sardonically. Also, the vulnerability inherent to being seen. Maybe some of the more vexing aspects of academia as well.

Oliver chuckles at that, but cuts it short. It's almost like he didn't expect it. Jon thinks maybe he can understand. Go long enough without laughing, and when you finally do, it will come out sounding all wrong to your ears. Like an out-of-tune piano, Martin said once. You have a nice laugh, Jon. You just aren't used to hearing it, and right now it's a bit rusty from disuse.

“I don’t know that I was ever good company,” says Oliver after a moment.

Can’t be any worse than I am, Jon says lightly. Maybe you’re just out of practice.

“Perhaps,” Oliver says evasively.

Well, consider it an open invitation. Just... I don't know. Keep it in mind.

“Not like I can forget anything.”

Quite a curse, isn’t it?

“I’ve made my peace with it.”

I know, Jon replies. If he’s honest with himself, he can’t help but envy Oliver to an extent – how secure he is in his role, his tranquil embrace of his destiny.

Jon isn’t being fair, though, is he? Oliver went through hell to achieve his current level of humble acceptance, and regardless of either of their current perspectives on fate and free will, the fact remains that they were both forced into making impossible choices under duress. They’ve both become something they never expected or wanted or asked to be, and... it doesn't seem like Oliver deserved it. On his good days, Jon thinks maybe he didn't, either.

“I’ll… consider the offer.” Jon can detect just a hint of curiosity beneath the reticence.

Before Jon can reply, though, he hears the door open and close.

“Can I help you?” Georgie’s voice, slicing through the quiet like the crack of a whip.

“Oh, I – I’m a friend,” Oliver says quickly, clearly taken by surprise. “Of Jon’s.”

“Are you, now.” The hard edge to her tone turns icy, and Jon can’t help feeling sorry for Oliver, pinned under that uncompromising stare of hers.

“Uh, y-yes.”

“Right. Just haven’t seen you visiting before.”

“Um, I’ve… been out of town!”

If Jon had any control over his body, he would put his head in his hands right now. Apparently Oliver is just as bad at lying on the spot as Jon is, and unfortunately for him, Georgie happens to be a natural lie detector.

“Right,” Georgie replies flatly. “The nurse didn’t say anyone else was here.”

“Oh! Oh – oh, well. Sorry if I surprised you.”

“It’s fine.”

It’s not.

“I’m Antonio!” Oliver blurts out, and Jon cringes with secondhand embarrassment.

“Sure,” Georgie says, voice dripping with disdain. “I think you’re done here.”

“Oh. Uh, right…” Oliver’s chair scrapes against the floor as he stands up. “Have I upset you, miss –”

Bad move. Georgie hates being referred to as 'miss.'

“No, you just remind me of someone.”

“Ah. I’m sorry. Were they –”

“Evil. Yes.”

“Uh. Okay, then.” It’s almost funny, an Avatar of death itself shrinking under Georgie’s scrutiny. Then again, she would likely be a force to be reckoned with even if she hadn’t lost her ability to feel fear. “Well, I just – well, I guess I should just go.”

“I guess you should.”

“Um. Goodbye, Jon. I guess I –”

“Goodbye!” Georgie says, putting on a transparently false cheery tone, and Jon can make out Oliver’s harried footsteps as Georgie ushers him out.

Once the door clicks shut, Jon hears her approach him again.

“Sorry about that, Jon, but you really don’t need friends like tha– wait. Did…?” More footsteps; then the door opens again, and Jon hears Georgie’s voice echoing distantly down the corridor. “Hey! Hey, get back here! I need to talk to you!”

Jon wonders if Oliver's already gotten away.

Oh, Jon thinks suddenly, she’s… not going to be pleased if she finds out I tried to make friends with the grim reaper. Neither is Martin, come to think of it.

He feels a twinge of guilt and worry. He’s not yet woken up, and already he’s doing things that Georgie might see as careless and self-destructive. Still, though… he doesn’t think Oliver is evil, or even particularly threatening. If anything, Jon thinks he knows now how Naomi must have felt, watching some eldritch monster fumble a conversation like any other mundane human grappling with social anxiety.

Well, what’s done is done. Oliver might not even take Jon up on the offer. No use worrying about it at the moment.

He needs to focus on waking up.

Unfortunately, Oliver didn’t explain exactly how Jon should go about waking up.

His first instinct is to think of Martin. With practiced ease, he reaches out for a memory, and –

Jon has always had an unexpected sweet tooth. He never really mentioned it to any of his coworkers. It’s not that he’s self-conscious about it; it’s more that he just never thought to share unsolicited facts about himself. Most people would take one look at Jon and either assume he takes his tea black, or that he’d prefer to fix it himself – and the latter wasn’t an unfair assumption. Martin, though… somehow, he figured it out.

It took some trial-and-error, though at the time, Jon never noticed that Martin was deliberately trying to puzzle it out. Eventually he settled on the exact right formula, and Jon – well, by the time he realized, it felt like too much time had passed to remark on it. He was never very good at compliments anyway, giving or receiving. From that point forward, though, w henever Jon was having a particularly rough day – which, by their standards, was saying a lot – Martin would make Jon’s tea sweeter than usual. It was such a small gesture in the face of the horrors that permeated all of their lives, but in retrospect, it spoke volumes.

Jon took forever to notice all those little gestures. He still feels like an ass for how ungrateful he was back then, but it just never occurred to him that anyone would put that much time or effort into learning his preferences, especially something so mundane as how he takes his tea. Jon barely put any thought into his own comfort, let alone that of others.

But Martin isn’t like Jon.

Jon has long marveled at how kindness seems to come so naturally to Martin. As much as it might seem like he just preternaturally knows the exact right things to say and do when he sees someone hurting, though, it was never effortless: Martin cares deliberately, painstakingly, actively. He prides himself on that attention to detail, on all the little acts of kindness and consideration that, when put together, make him the most thoughtful person Jon has ever met.

Of course, Jon also feels a wrench in his heart every time he thinks about how and why Martin cultivated that caretaker skill set in the first place. They talked about a lot of things, after the Lonely, and the truth had come out little by little: Martin had never had anyone in his life who loved him unconditionally. From an early age, he tried desperately to curry favor with a mother who resented him for reasons he could not help and that she would never explain. It bled into all areas of his life. Every adult role model, every passing friendship, each of his few short-lived intimate relationships was a link in a long chain of giving and sacrificing and carefully policing himself to meet others’ expectations at the cost of his own vivid inner life – and never once did he receive anything meaningful in return. For too long, Jon was a link in that chain himself.

Martin had learned to measure his worth by whether and how he could be of use to others, and always found himself wanting. Jon could relate to that unhealthy preoccupation with making himself useful, but for him, it manifested as workaholic tendencies, harsh self-criticism, and a fear of letting anyone get so close that it would actually hurt when they inevitably grew tired of him – though at the time, he would have said he just had a preference for his own company. (Funny, in retrospect; he's never been good company for himself.) Martin sought to be noticed and loved; Jon ran headlong in the other direction, unable to tolerate the vulnerability of being known or the risk of being abandoned.

He suspects that Martin would be compassionate regardless, though. And it's admirable, it's beautiful, it's brave, and Jon loves that about him – but Martin shouldn't have had to go through hell in the process of nurturing that trait. Trauma didn't help him grow; it only twisted his definition of caring until it became an instrument of self-harm. As they navigated their relationship, Martin did get better at setting boundaries and communicating his needs. It never made him any less compassionate towards Jon or anyone else. He just learned that he deserved compassion as well - from others and from himself.

Jon will always be in awe of how after everything – how Jon treated him in the beginning, how Jon left him alone and grieving in the aftermath of the Unknowing, how thoroughly the Lonely pervaded his life – Martin never once lost that instinct. He admitted to Jon that by the time Peter threw him into the Lonely, caring didn’t feel natural anymore. He was too numb and isolated to really feel a connection to other people. His empathy had been drained away. But even in its absence, Martin still made the effort to care. He still believed that human connection was important, even if he believed that he couldn’t experience it himself.

And after the world ended, when Jon was deep in his grief and hopelessness, Martin stayed by his side. Jon told him that this was no longer a world where they could trust comfort – but Martin responded with patience and kindness. He put comfort into a world where it seemed like none could exist, and Jon will always be in awe of how Martin could just… do that, and with such confidence – stubbornness, almost.

Even after Jon lost him, the memories of these moments anchored him. To hope, to care, to try – it was worth it. Or, as Martin told him more than once: “The fog doesn’t go on forever, even if sometimes it seems like it.”

Martin will be okay. He has to be. Jon just has to find his way back to him. He’s done it before; he can do it again. He just has to wake up.

“–m trying – help – came to me.”

Lost in thought, Jon almost doesn’t register the voices. They’ve been there in the background for a few minutes now, he realizes belatedly – they just hadn’t penetrated his conscious awareness. It’s like listening through six feet of soil – he curses his brain for immediately reaching for that mental image – and he strains to translate the dampened noise into coherent words.

“I came to Melanie.”

Georgie!

“Well, sorry. Right now, I’m it.”

Distantly, Jon can hear the steady ticking of a clock, and he spares a moment to be thankful that he couldn’t hear it the entire time he was asleep. It would have made his restlessness even more intolerable, and – as his thoughts veer off track, the voices go muffled again. Damn it.

It takes him a few seconds to refocus his attention.

“– don’t know why this guy would have left a tape recorder?”

Basira.

“You’re the detective,” Georgie says.

“And you’re sure it was him who left it?”

Jon didn’t hear this part the first time around, but he can safely assume they’re talking about Oliver.

“I mean, the nurses said there were no others visitors, so…” Georgie takes a breath. “Unless it appeared by magic?” A pause; Jon can practically hear Basira’s eyebrows raise. “What, seriously?”

“I don’t know,” Basira sighs. “The whole tape thing is… I don’t know.”

To be honest, Jon doesn’t Know, either. That was always one of the things that the Beholding kept to itself, much to his chagrin.

“Right, well… I showed you like you asked, so –”

Breathe, Jon tells himself. Time to wake up.

“Shh,” Basira interrupts. Jon can hear movement nearby. “Down here.”

Come on. Inhale –

Jon can feel his lungs expand ever so slightly.

“I told you.”

Good. Exhale, now.

Jon’s lungs contract, and some of the feeling starts to come into his extremities. He experimentally tries to move his hands and one of his fingers twitches, brushing against the coarse hospital linens. At least it's something.

“This is the one?”

Wake up, Jon, he tells himself, attempting to overlay his thoughts with compulsion. He tries to wiggle his toes, but it doesn’t seem like they’ve gotten the memo just yet. Come on, this is the part where you woke up before. Just – just wake up –

“Sure.”

Jon feels a brief stab of panic – Why can’t I wake up? – and then he feels his heart stutter in his chest. A telltale pins-and-needles sensation begins to spread in his fingers and – this is probably the first time he’s been relieved to experience the precursors to a panic attack.

It’s a good sign, he tells himself. You’re connected to your body again, so just –

“You don’t sound very sure,” Basira says.

It isn’t working. Why isn’t it working?

Come on, open your eyes –

“I mean – I don’t know. It might be a different model, maybe? I thought it was plastic – but yeah.”

Just sit up, just – wake up, Jon.

Nothing.

Neither Basira nor Georgie speak.

The tick of the clock is deafening.

Wait, Jon thinks. What if…

“So what does it mean?” Georgie says eventually.

Open your eyes, Archivist.

His eyes fly open and he sits bolt upright with a gasp.

“Jon!” Georgie yelps, jolting backwards as Basira simultaneously breathes, “Jesus.”

Clutching his throat with one hand, Jon continues to struggle for air in deep, rasping gulps. Each breath comes with a sharp pang and an uncomfortable tightness in his chest, his lungs protesting after months of disuse and refusing to completely expand.

Eventually, although he can still only manage half-breaths, he looks up at Georgie and Basira. Intending to apologize for frightening them, he opens his mouth and –

The tape recorder under his bed clicks on with an earsplitting, static-leaden whine.

Both women startle again, and Jon’s posture goes rigid, his other hand coming up to rest against his throat.

Sorry, he tries to say again, but nothing comes out, and the tape recorder emits another blast of white noise.

Basira and Georgie are watching him closely now – Georgie with concern, Basira with suspicion. Jon looks back with terrified eyes, panic blanketing him with all the weight of the Buried.

No, Jon thinks to himself, not again –

As his vision starts to blur, both trembling hands leave his neck and reach up to cover his mouth.

“Jon,” Georgie says gently, approaching his bedside again, “what’s wrong?”

Jon’s eyes squeeze shut, sending two streaks of tears trickling down his cheeks, and he shakes his head frantically. He tries desperately to stifle the whimper building in his chest, but it’s creeping up on him anyway.

“Breathe, Jon.” When Georgie rests her hand gently on his shoulder, he flinches violently away. She pulls back, holding both hands up palms-out in a pacifying gesture. “Okay,” she says evenly, “okay. No touching.”

Jon has had these episodes for most of his life, and Georgie had witnessed more than a few while they were dating – though they were nowhere near as frequent then as they are now. It's been awhile, but Georgie easily slips into the same soothing tone she would always use.

His brain is already tuning her out, though.

I can’t – I can’t –

The Archive prowls forward and settles in just behind his eyes, an opportunistic vulture watching intently for its next meal. If he really needs to use his voice, the library is available for reference. He just has to –

No – please, no –

Who is he even talking to?

Jon draws his knees up and locks his arms around them, curling his shoulders in and hunching forward to hide his face. He takes a shuddering breath in. It comes out as a strangled sob.

What am I supposed to do now?

End Notes:

Shorter chapter than usual this time since it was originally part of the previous chapter, BUT that kind of felt like a good place to end it for now. I hope to have Chapter 7 ready to go by early next week. Now we REALLY get into some S4 canon divergence.

Oliver's dialogue (up until the point where he starts having an actual conversation with Jon) is from MAG 121; Georgie & Basira's dialogue (up until the point where Jon wakes up) is from MAG 122.

So! For those who like Archive-speak Jon: yes there will be more of that starting next chapter. For those who don't: there will still be original dialogue too. I like writing him both ways too much, so expect a mix from here on out. (Some chapters may have more or less depending on what state Jon's in at any given moment. I'm playing around with some concepts.)

I should probably note at this point that a lot of how I write Jon's ADHD, anxiety, and other mental health stuff is heavily based on my own experiences with neurodivergence. It doesn't mean everyone experiences these diagnoses/symptoms in the same way, though. c:

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #jonathan sims #oliver banks #and others #tma spoilers #long post

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my-love-peterp · 5 years

Text

Mistaken Chapter Seven

IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST DROP ME AN ASK

please like and rb/comment <3

Word Count: 4268

THERE ARE NO ENDGAME SPOILERS, THIS IS A DELAYED UPLOAD FROM AO3

Fic Summary: Peter Parker has been given the responsibility of bringing in a new recruit. Now, as an adult, he realizes that none of the trashy YA novels he read in high school could have prepared him for this. There was a storm on the horizon, and all they could do from the Tower is watch.

Chapter Summary: So this is definitely a chapter on my list of necessary revisions HOWEVER, I’m writing one from some other characters POV just to shed some extra light on the circumstances surrounding what happens in this chapter. I think for sure we’ll get some Tony vignettes and maybe Steve and Darcy as well, just assessing Kaida and Tony and their states of mind (fragile, not great) and get into some motivating factors. Also, I know it’s a long time in coming but the big bad is coming soon. It’s not just Kaida vs herself as the main conflict in this piece.

Warnings: drinking, smut, the like

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six

The next day, I was reading the next book on my to be read list when Peter came screeching into the common room. “Cranewood!!” He practically shrieked as he ran, hips first into the back of the couch I was lounging one. He miscalculated his own speed and toppled over the back, faceplanting right into my lap.

“Oh my god, oh my god I’m so sorry I didn’t-oh, Jesus, I’m so sorry I just totally invaded your personal space and literally put my face there and oh my god.” He cut his own self off and blushed so deep, the tips of his ears almost flowed red. Peter licked himself back up and adjusted his blue sweatshirt before running his hands through the hair on the back of his neck and refusing to make eye contact with me.

“Peter?”

“Y-yeah what’s up Kaida,” he managed to squeak out before coughing and clearing his throat, lowering his voice to compensate. I just stared back at him expectantly, dog-earring my page before slamming the book shut between my thighs. He blinked twice before shifting uncomfortably between feet. I swear, for an adult man, this boy sure acted like a gawky sophomore a lot.

“Oh. Oh yeah!!! We’ve met before. Cranewood School for Girls. Technically you and Spider-Man met but... I’m hurt that you were never even going to mention the first time I saved your life. What’s up with that? And also how did a Hydra ghost end up on Long Island at an elite prep school for upstanding young women and-“ I tuned him out unconsciously.

In truth, I had completely forgotten my run in with Spider-Man when I was 13. My sister and I were much too busy then still readjusting to a normal lifestyle we’d never had and covering our tracks while breaking enough laws to provide for ourselves, day in and day out.

Nadia had laundered enough money that We had more than enough for a down payment on a small apartment in the Long Island area and I was proficient enough in my mimicry and illusion work that we were able to enroll in school with a late start due to our “parents” and their extremely generous donations. It certainly helped that Nadia and I were both whip-smart.

I remembered the day Spidey was talking about. Some jack booted Hydra thug had stormed the grounds and held my class hostage, because his primary target, Anna, who was the daughter of a senator, was my classmate. Luckily, she sat about as far away from me as popular so the Agent was never able to see my face. I didn’t realize the whole upset was over until I had felt a large hand rubbing my back.

Of course, it was Spider-Man that came to my rescue. That day seemed to repeat itself over and over with no end sight. Of course, he was comforting me. His super hearing was the first power I’d ever assimilated by accident. We should test that more in the lab.

As I opened my mouth to finally suggest a battery of tests to Peter, FRIDAY started shouting instructions to be heard over the loud clang of the emergency bell.

Science could wait.

A few months later

The alarm cut through my concentration. It turned out to be just a bigger Code Green false alarm. We’d had two in the last week. I’m not blaming it on any specific individuals but there’s was something to be said in the 200% uptick in near Code Green’s since Dr. Jane Foster and Darcy Lewis, intern and mechanical engineer extraordinaire returned from Reykjavik. But who was I to complain? After the relocated to the Tower back in May, just three months ago, there were more Strawberry pop tarts in the pantries than I’d ever seen before in my life. And it was so relieving to have another ‘devil may care’ woman around the Tower.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Natasha for all that she is but she’s just a teacher to me. And Wanda read as more of a mom friend in my mind. Darcy is the kind of girl you make up desperate housewives drinking games with. We gravitated toward each other immediately, bonding over baking, needling Tony, and then bemoaning the lack of clubbing appropriate company. She also held no judgment for me about my past, which I couldn’t believe until I saw her and Bucky making googly eyes at each other from across the room, then it all clicked.

Darcy Lewis had become my best friend, big sister and closest confidant and just a week’s time. Now, a few months later, there were still no hydra threats and my probation was set to be lifted this evening. “The perfect time to go clubbing “ Darcy had declared it, before enlisting my strengths to remove, forcibly if necessary, the science squad from their labs. And then to force them out into the world of the living. The only member to straight up refuse was Tony, as was expected. We had been… Cordial to one another but never anything more. I am nearly positive he had Friday keep tabs on my location just so he could avoid me at all times. Inevitably, we would run into each other Coming and going from our quarters or as we made our way to and from our designated lab spaces. I still didn’t quite understand why Tony lived on the same floor as the rest of the Avengers when I knew damn well he had his own penthouse in the tower.

Anyways, my lab was certainly something to behold. The calling it my lab was a bit of a stretch considering I didn’t build anything really, I just tested my powers and checked my biological markers with gadgets that Tony, Bruce, and Dr. Helen Cho had come up with together. We were still waiting for a contact from a group called the guardians who would potential he be able to determine what part alien I am. But it was the world’s most high tech library/relaxation room/artist’s studio. All to make remaining in it all day for the sake of data aggregation tenable.

To say I was bored out of my mind at first was an understatement. But over time I began to have visitors. Darcy was a daily, and surprisingly, so was Pietro. Peter and Bucky also visited, if less frequently. And, oddly enough, Vision was there almost all the time. I asked him about it once and he shrugged (how does a former AI program shrug so effectively) and simply stated that my presence combed his mind. Whatever that meant.

In any case, I wasn’t as bored or lonely anymore. In fact, I could almost swear that something was developing between Pietro and I.

Earlier this week, as I was doing the Times word search and also project in my powers to deflect incoming projectiles, my hair was flipped up and into my face, causing my concentration to skip which led to a tennis ball smacking me right in the face. Above me, Pietro burst out laughing and DUM-E beeped apologetically.

“I don’t think I can forgive you for this,“ I deadpanned, reaching back to jab him in the kidney, which he promptly dodged, all the while still cackling. When his laughing fit finally subsided, he stood back up straight.

“I have an idea, “he announced proudly.

“Stop the presses everyone, and called the Vatican, Speedy here has an idea. It must be a miracle. First one in a decade. The world must be ending,” I replied, looking at him and trying not to smirk. I will give him props because the obscene shocked and hurt that filled his face moments later was almost convincing. He chuckled and moved to sit on the stool next to me. He said nothing, only staring at me.

“Okay Zippy, what was your big idea?”

“You haven’t tested your instinctual and biological responses enough. For example, the fight or flight instinct is recreated too imperfectly in simulated situations to be of any use to you. However, there is another way around that beyond throwing yourself into open combat.” I tilted my head, waiting for him to continue. He leaned forward placing his hands on my side and leaning closer. Hesitant but not opposed, my eyes fluttered chat. Instead of kissing me as I had assumed (hoped!) was his plan, I felt his lips brush against the shell of my ear. I shattered at the sensation, anticipating.

“I have a question “, he whispered. I mumbled my acknowledgment and it took me a few seconds to process what he had said and by that time it was already too late. “ are you ticklish,” he had whisper gently. Now he was mercilessly attacking my side with one, extremely quick fingers, whenever I moved to try to escape, he was there.

I collapsed to the ground, giggling breathlessly before I cut myself and put on my grumpy face. Pietro smiled lazily and shifted so his knees were on either side of my thighs.

“ if you tickle me again, I’ll scream,” I warned him.

“ I bet I could have you screaming my name,” he replied cheesily.

“ I actually hate you right now. I’m considering making you my official arch nemesis. I might make T-shirts. And badges. Definitely badges.”

“Who’s making badges? Didn’t you know nemesis badges are so last season? This is why you should consult the great and powerful Darcy on all things,” came the snarky voice of my best friend from the lab door. I urgently pushed Pietro up and off of me. But as was the theme of the day, I was seconds too late, and Darcy saw us in a position that looked extremely compromising without context.

She raised her eyebrows at me, cheeks twitching as she managed, for once, to hold back whatever retort she thought of once she saw me beneath Pietro. Instead, she readjusted herself and offered me a hand to pick me up off of the slightly dusty floor. I made a mental note to give DUM-E the Swiffer tonight.

After I was back on my feet and thoroughly dusted off, Darcy approached the silver-haired man who was currently leaning against one of my shoulder high bookshelves, jabbing her finger into his sternum. “You hurt my sister and I know an Asgardian who can make your life a living hell. And no, I’m not talking about Thor. Plus, you should be scared of me, I’ve bested him in combat once before and I can certainly take you. So watch yourself Maximoff,” she growled before stomping away, grabbing me by the wrist and dragging me along behind her. “We’ve talked about this,” she hissed at me after her suite door slammed behind us. She’d been silent the entire elevator ride down to her floor. I loved Darcy but she was still a little paranoid about FRIDAY always being present and listening in.

“Darcy it wasn’t like that, he... tickled me?”

She snorted in disbelief. “Yeah, I bet he did. Looked like he wanted to do a lot more from where I was standing kid. I’m telling you he’s bad news. What do you see in him anyway?”

I scoffed at her insinuation that somehow, Pietro would be the rotten one between us. “Dee I was literally sleeping with Tony Stark a few months ago while I had intimate knowledge of his fiancés fate. Plus I’m not exactly innocent in literally any sense if the word...” I trailed off but she just glared at me, which was her way of telling me that we weren’t leaving until I answered all of her questions.

I sighed and plopped myself down on her cozy armchair, putting my feet up. “It’s just... he’s easy to be around Darcy. It’s not hard, I don’t have to think about anything twice, there’s no pressure. He’s funny, makes me smile, puts up with my shit. And he doesn’t want more from me than I’m willing to give. We’re as easy as breathing.” I blinked, shocked at the words that had just come out of my mouth. Sure, I would admit to having a crush on the guy, he was hot and snarky. I loved that. Wait, love? I really was losing my mind.

“You know what, forget anything I just said. Let’s go out clubbing like you suggested and find me a man to get under for the night. I have to blow off some steam. I’m delusional and sappy over here.”

Darcy shrugged, noncommittally. “What?!” I demanded, confused as all hell.

“If you really feel that way about him, you should tell him. He may not be pushing you to give more than you’re ready for, but is he going to be prepared to give you everything you want, or is he just here for the safe convenience of it Kaida? You two have been prancing around each other like orphaned fawns, afraid to let yourselves get hurt and calling it sacrifice for the other. Or maybe he just doesn’t care and wants to play dirty because you’re available and convenient. “

I was a little hurt at her words but I could see the truth behind them. It was time Pietro and I had a chat. But not before I went out and had fun with my best friend. I relayed that thought to Darcy who excitedly squealed as we plotted to get the Science Squad out and about with us.

That brings us to now. Several of us piling into the biggest limo I’d ever seen. Bruce, Jane, Nat, Clint, Thor, Wanda, Pietro, Sam, Helen, the super soldiers, and even Peter had elected to join Darcy and I out tonight. It was certainly going to be one for the history books.

Smushed as we were in the back of the vehicle, it was oddly calming. For the first time today I felt as though I had time to just think for myself. I brushed my hand along my inner left forearm and shivered as a chill climbed down my spine. The perfectly raised but horrifically off-kilter writing simply read ‘cereal?’ today. Not much to go on if I were actively looking for my soulmate. Not that I would.

Whatever being it was that decided that two halves, or sometimes thirds or fourths of the same soul, would be imprinted with the first and last words their counterparts said for that day, was a complete and total madman.

It wasn’t a whole lot to go off of. I knew they were older than me because I’d gotten the marking before I could speak and I was advanced for my age. I knew they were New Yorkers just by the way they’d mention certain places and things offhand.

But I wasn’t looking for them. It was fairly obvious to me, at that point, that becoming a fixture in my life was beneficial to absolutely no one. And, based on the blip of feeling or insight I’d get mentally from my soulmate bond, whoever they were had a strong sense of duty. Someone who felt duty bound to a person like me would only end up dead.

And yeah, maybe I was kidding myself and these were really just excuses to protect myself from losing more of the people I cared about but honestly who gave a fuck. There were millions of people in this city. What were the odds we’d even run into each other?

Too high. But there was nothing I could do about that.

And then, after what felt like hours, the car stopped and the group spilled out on to the sidewalk before scrambling to the door of the club, bypassing the line. It was one of the classier, more exclusive establishments in town but not too high brow to preclude any riff-raff.

Cue Darcy Lewis, the bane of all rationality. Darcy’s personality was that of an instigator. I, on the other hand, would never back down when challenged. That meant five tequila shots in five minutes in addition to getting three random numbers. Just for fun. A few shots later and Darcy hauled me on to the dance floor.

We writhed and twisted around each other, alternating between cackling at one another and concentrating on looking appealing and feeling sexy. Her hands roamed my body and rested on my hips as I playfully ground myself back into her.

I could see Natasha posted up in the corner, sipping a sea breeze and keeping her eyes open. Bruce stood a few feet away from her, nervously twitching but slugging back some whiskey. Clint was at the bar pounding back beers with Helen, Jane, Thor, and Sam. All seemed deeply invested in a manic take the Asgardian was telling, arms flailing and making weird shapes as he attempted to act out whichever feat of heroism was on tap for tonight. Wanda stood behind them but looked a little lost. That’s when I noticed that Pietro and Peter were both missing.

Peter was easy enough to find, he was perched next to the top of the stairs, keeping up surveillance of the entire place, the boy having no idea how to relax. I was about to mention Pietro’s absence to the brunette behind me when the wind rushed around me. Suddenly, I wasn’t on the dance floor with Darcy but back at the bar with Pietro.

“What the fuck dude,” I bit out, slapping his arm. “You can’t just speed someone without permission, it doesn’t work like that.” Pietro just shrugged and smiled lopsidedly. It was the kind of smile that got him off for everything. And now was no exception.

“But Kaida, you promised to show me what body shots were some day. I would like to do them now if that is okay. I still have not learned all of your silly American customs.”

I was just gone enough to nod eagerly while my body flushed hot. Body shot demonstrations were requested and so they would be done. We started simple, cleavage shots, I showed him with Darcy and then he practiced on me. His scruff scraped pleasantly against my overheated skin and I trembled. Then Darcy whispered salaciously in Pietro’s ear as I rested up against the bar. In a flash, Pietro‘s hands were squeezing around my hips and I was laying on top of the bar, shirt hiked up.

Tequila was poured and salt sprinkled around my Navel by Darcy freakin' Lewis, who, just hours earlier, had scolded both Pietro and I for our touching antics. But now, here she was, encouraging Pietro to haul me on to the bar. Before I could process that emotional whiplash, Pietro’s face was hovering over my stomach, a wicked smile filling his expression. I squirmed and he responded by dipping his head, using his tongue to swipe up the salt from my body before continuing down and sucking on my navel, slurping up all the tequila. My body was positively on fire. I opened my mouth in a breathless moan and nearly choked when my best friend shoved the rind of lime between my teeth. Her face was quickly replaced by Pietro’s. His eyes burned into mine, his pupils were blown, dark and hungry. He placed his mouth over mine, biting down surprisingly gently so lime juice with a hint of a taste that must be pure Pietro flooded my mouth. Icy fire burned through my veins as I completely forgot the discomfort of the hardwood bar pressing against my back. We were drawing closer and closer to each other as Pietro decisively removed the line from my mouth.

The trance was broken by a cough and a throat clearing. The Spiders Two, Peter and Natasha, were standing behind Pietro, arms crossed. Nat’s face was expressionless, but Peter‘s emotions were somewhat clear. He looked uncomfortable, annoyed and something else I couldn’t quite get a read on. My mouth fell open in a drunken grin, as I waved awkwardly to them, attempting to lift my head and slide off the bar and to my feet. Unfortunately, I was still more than a little boneless from the whole “Pietro‘s lips and tongue on my body“ situation, so, while I did manage to slide off the bar, landing on my feet and my high heels was a whole different story.

Long story short, I simply didn’t. Fortunately, when you’re friends with other enhanced people, their reflexes are typically pretty good. So I felt long, pale arms lock around my middle and stop me from falling. I grinned widely again at the feeling of thick ropey muscles encompassing me.

As I righted myself, the arms remained around me, hints of spicy cologne filling my nostrils when I slouched back into the warm body that stood behind me, closing my eyes and tilting my head back to nuzzle into Pietro’s neck. His breath caught and he let out a weirdly high pitched squeak in surprise.

“Oh shoot,” I stammered reflexively, looking down, “did I step on your foot or something? I know these heels can be a bitch.” It took me a minute to realize why what I was seeing felt so wrong. Instead of the tight black jeans Pietro had been wearing that night, my rescued had on dorky khakis and a blue button up. Peter.

“Fuck, Peter I didn’t know it was you, god damn I like almost assaulted you there. I’m so, so sorry. Jesus Christ, no more tequila for me ever.” I just kept rattling off apologies until he waved me away and Darcy took my arm to lead me out to a cab that was pulling up for us. It was time for me to go home, so Clint was being sent with me to supervise and make sure I made it back to the Tower in one piece and then he’d take one of Tony’s cars to drive back to his farmstead. “I’ve gotta take the kids to school tomorrow. Laura has a doctor’s appointment and I’m trying to be a good dad. You know, the whole nine yards. Or at least as good of a dad as a world-renowned assassin can be.” He ended up using the ride to babble on TL me about everything Nathaniel was getting up to at the moment and the big fiasco when he found out he was named after a girl and the killer meltdown when his parents rebuked him.

Clint deposited me in the elevator and hit my floor for me before he took off to the tunnel leading towards our parking garage. For the first fifth floors, everything was silent save for the occasional squeak of a gear or run of a pulley. Until the elevator stopped on one of the lab floors. I should have realized at that moment that all but one member of the Science Squad had been out that night, but it didn’t until I saw him step into the elevator beside me.

We stiffened simultaneously as Tony and I took the other in. Taking opposite corners, we studiously ignored each other as the elevator began moving. It was uncomfortable and deafeningly quiet, but that was probably more than I deserved. And then, as though whatever cosmic being had a direct line to my thoughts coupled with a sick sense of humor, the elevator froze, the lights went dark and an alarm started blaring, quickly followed by the emergency sprinkler system.

So to recap, I was trapped in a metal box, in the dark, being pelted with cold water, quite similar to what my parents used to do to Nadia and me.

It was at this moment that I had my worst panic attack to date. The sharp sense of panic cut down whatever buzz I had built up from the night before. Pure unadulterated terror flooded my chest as I collapsed to the floor, twitching. My chest heaved with silent sobs, my trauma reminding me that if I made a sound, Nadia would be punished and vice verse. Tears streamed down my cheeks and bile coated my throat. I could hear tony working frantically to desired the elevator panel and talking at me. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. It didn’t matter. I was too far gone.

Minutes, maybe hours passed. Before I could think clearly, I was entirely disassociated and then sleeping in a wet puddle on the floor of our stalled elevator.

When I woke up the next morning, I was in my own bed, drowning in an oversized hoody that I recognized as one I had stolen from Bucky weeks ago, that if I had to guess, he had originally stolen from Cap. It was royal blue number with a vintage style logo for the Brooklyn Dodgers, whose move was still a sore spot for Steve Rogers.

I sat up groggily, head pounding. As I finger combed my hair and stood to use my restroom, I heard gently snores coming from the plush sectional in my living room. Lo and behold, the Tony Stark was slumped over, not even under a blanket. The events of last night all came flooding back to me and I flushed a bright pink in embarrassment. I’d never shown just how deep that particular weakness ran for me. I turned back and tried to tiptoe out of the room and down to the communal floor for breakfast when Tony’s voice stopped me in my tracks.

“I think it’s time we had a talk.”

TAGLIST: @peeterparkr @private-bucky-barnes @laurfangirl424 @bucktitybarnes

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douxreviews · 5 years

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The Very Best of Supernatural

Supernatural was just renewed for a fifteenth season. Which is insane. Even more disturbing is the fact that I've been reviewing this show for fourteen years, and it just... won't... end. Looking back over my earliest reviews, it's funny that I kept fretting about cancellation. Who knew?

The 300th episode will air this Thursday, February 7. In observance of this major event, six Agents of Doux compiled lists of their favorite Supernatural episodes, and I tallied our choices and made a final top ten. Okay, eleven, because there was a tie in there, but it was really hard to bring it down to eleven, let me tell you. Our list of honorable mentions went from here and out the door.

So here they are. Please note that if you haven't seen all or most of the series, there will inevitably be spoilers.

11. "A Very Supernatural Christmas" (season 3, episode 8)

Christmas arrives smack dab in the middle of Dean’s last year on Earth, or so we believed at the time. Sam, knowing he will soon be left to carry on after his brother’s death, has no desire to celebrate which is at odds with Dean’s intention to collect as many happy memories as he can before the end.

This marks Supernatural’s first holiday episode with a marriage of gruesomeness, absurdity, and bittersweetness we'd already grown to love – from a blood-soaked Santa dragging a father up the chimney in front of his son, to bridge-playing pagan gods threatening Dean with the swear jar while preparing him and Sam for ritual sacrifice, all ending with the brother’s exchanging heartfelt gifts from a neighborhood Gas Mart as Baby looks on. The pièce de résistance – learning Dean’s amulet was a Christmas gift from a young Sam in unsaid acknowledgment that Dean was often more of a parent to Sam than John was. And no, I’m still not over Dean throwing it away. – Shari

10. "In the Beginning" (season 4, episode 3)

A remarkably funny but ultimately tragic tribute to Back to the Future, Dean is sent back in time by Castiel and interacts with his young parents. He discovers that his mother and grandparents were hunters, and that Mary essentially sold as-yet-unborn Sam's future to the Yellow-Eyed Demon in exchange for John's life.

"In the Beginning" is a perfect example of the attention the Supernatural writers pay to continuity and series mythology, since it explained Mary's actions in the pilot episode on the night that she died. Plus it features, in my opinion, one of the most touching moments in the entire series. It's when young Mary tells Dean, not knowing that he is her son, "You know the worst thing I can think of? The very worst thing? It's for my children to be raised into this, like I was." It choked me up when it first aired. It still does. – Billie Doux

9. "Baby" (season 11, episode 4)

The longevity of this series has allowed the writers to experiment and take chances, which often gives us exceptional episodes. This is one of them.

The Impala is home for the Winchesters, a legacy from their father. That car is not just in nearly every episode; it's also the setting of many of the most important brother scenes in the series. "Baby" gave us an entire episode from the car's point of view. I'm going to crib from my initial review: "This episode was such a love letter to the fans. It was the world of the Winchesters, but not what we usually see on the show. It was what happens in between and around what we usually see." The camera angles, the head in the cooler, the windshield wipers, the valet parking, Castiel on the cell phone, the brothers singing "Night Moves" together, it was different from all the others but a practically perfect episode. – Billie Doux

8. "Fan Fiction" (season 10, episode 5)

Supernatural's 100th episode ("Point of No Return") was good, but arc-plot heavy. Coming in the middle of a very serious storyline, it's dramatic and moves the plot along. But its 200th, "Fan Fiction," is a complete contrast and a sheer joy from start to finish. An episode centred around a girls' school putting on a musical they wrote themselves, based on the first five years of Supernatural, sounds like a terrible idea. And yet, writer Robbie Thompson makes it work. The episode also features great performances from the young actresses, but it's the numerous call backs in jokes and the way the episode revisits old favourites with a twist that make it one of the show's most re-watchable episodes. – Juliette

7. "Swan Song" (season 5, episode 22)

Endings are hard, as Chuck would say. You have to balance expectation with payoff, death and survival and a resolution that feels satisfying. For Supernatural, this was supposed to be it, the show's literal swan song, as planned out by Kripke. It was sad and painful. If this had been the ending, it would’ve left us with Dean trying to live on after losing his brother to spend eternity with the Devil in hell, and that’s pretty brutal. Of course, framing the story around Baby, and making the car one of the most important things in the universe, was perfect. The only reason we didn’t end with Sam in the box is because of season renewal, leaving us with more questions than answers. Including what happened to Chuck. – J.D. Balthazar

6. “Dark Side of the Moon” (season 5, episode 16)

This episode has always been a huge favorite of mine. The opening scene where Dean and younger Sam set off fireworks to "Knock Knock Knocking on Heaven's Door" was so gorgeous that it gave me goosebumps.

How many shows would dare to send their two main characters to Heaven? And show that Heaven as somewhat creepy? What I found poignant was that the brothers' choice of happy memories mostly don't include each other. I've often thought that a perfect end to the series would be the two of them in a Heaven that finally included each other, with everything that ever divided them fully resolved. – Billie Doux

5. "Wishful Thinking" (season 4, episode 8)

Absolutely one of their best comical episodes, from the "deep woods Duchovny" line to the suicidal teddy bear. Although, of course, what makes funny Supernatural episodes work is that there is always an element of underlying seriousness or tragedy. Here, it was the acknowledgement that using magic to make someone love you is evil. This was also the episode where Dean told Sam the truth about his experiences in Hell. – Billie Doux

4. "Don't Call Me Shurley" (season 11, episode 20)

Supernatural has a warm heart and it's often hilarious, but it's not often happy. Usually, the joy of watching Supernatural comes at least partly from knowing that whatever's going on in your own life, Sam and Dean surely have it worse. But "Don't Call Me Shurley" is different. The ending of "Don't Call Me Shurley" is miraculous – and we mean that literally. The rest of the episode is a delight anyway, offering a witty back and forth between God and His Voice – and finally confirming what "Swan Song" had only suggested. But that ending, when, temporarily at least, we get a real miracle and a moment of salvation, is what makes this episode really special – eleven years of storytelling reaching a thrilling moment of clarity. – Juliette

3. "The Monster at the End of This Book" (season 4, episode 18)

Oh, how I love this one. "Monster" is the introduction to the meta episodes where the Winchesters discover that they are main characters in a series of novels called "Supernatural," written by hack writer Chuck Shurley. As I said in my write-up of "Baby," it's taking radical chances with the narrative while continuing to stick closely to the show's mythology that makes Supernatural special.

And wow, this episode is special. Clever and funny and full of geeky in-jokes (especially the boys' disgusted discovery of the existence of Winchester slash), there is also that foundation of tragedy that makes it all work. The brothers cannot escape their fate. It's in the Winchester Gospels. – Billie Doux

2. "Changing Channels" (season 5, episode 8)

Take a beloved character, mix in playful jabs at some of the most popular TV shows while both expanding the narrative and laying the fate of the world on the interpersonal relationship of our favorite brothers. No wonder it’s one of the show’s creator, Eric Kripke’s favorite episodes. We discover the Trickster we’ve grown to know and love is none other than the Archangel Gabriel, little brother to Michael and Lucifer. Now that the Winchester’s have given Michael and Luci the Earth on which to wage their civil war, Gabriel is eager to see it end no matter the cost.

This doesn’t mean he can’t have fun doing it. Between the sitcom Supernatural’s opening credits, Dean fangirling over Dr. Sexy, Sam and the literal nutcracker, and the meta nod to Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s portrayal of a ghost on certain Seattle based medical show that shall remain nameless, we are treated to a host of laugh out loud moments. My personal favorite was Sam’s less than ecstatic performance in a genital herpes commercial. – Shari

"Nutcracker!!!!"

1. "Mystery Spot" (season 3, episode 11)

There’s something both twisted and poignant about watching Dean die again and again. Funny in a macabre way, for sure but also a touch tragic because in the Supernatural verse, those deaths were real. Well, real in that each was recorded, and each time he went to heaven briefly. No wonder Death finds Dean fascinating and frustrating.

Of course, it was really Sam’s episode, dealing with the pain of watching his brother die again and again, and the numbness that came with it was palpable. To this day, in season fourteen this episode has been referenced. Pretty good impact for a generally comedic episode. – J.D. Balthazar

Conclusion (by Billie Doux)

Putting this list together made me want to rewatch the entire series, although with so many seasons, that's turned into a major commitment. You know, we could probably put together lists of our top ten best comic episodes, the ten most tragic, ten scariest, ten best angel episodes, ten best ghost episodes, and so on because with so many seasons, there's so much to choose from.

It's interesting that the Groundhog Day episode "Mystery Spot" turned out to be our number one, simply because most of us put it on our list. Is it yours? Is your favorite even on this list? Post it in the comments!

Billie Doux has been reviewing Supernatural for so long that Dean and Sam Winchester feel like old friends. Courageous, adventurous, gorgeous old friends.

#Supernatural #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Castiel #Bobby Singer #Mary Wincchester #John Winchester #SPN #SPN300 #Doux Reviews

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hoodlessmads · 5 years

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I’m Caught Up With Bloom Into You

Gosh, where do I even begin with this series?

I watched the first episode, and by the end, honestly, I thought it was going to be pretty dumb. Cute! But dumb. And I do love me some dumb cute precious romance.

But W O W that’s not what Yagakimi is. It successfully pulls of an excellent bait-and-switch on the reader/viewer not just once but twice--the first is at the end of the first episode (the part where I assumed it was going to be kind of cheesy and dumb), and the second around halfway through the anime series. The first one is basically the premise of the story, so it doesn’t really count as a bait-and-switch unless you go in blind like I did. But the second one takes all of the reader/viewer’s expectations up to that point and turns it on its head. And even beyond that scene, the entire series is chock full of moments that demolish your expectations for what direction the story is taking and who the characters are. Every single chapter I felt like I was being thrown for a loop, and learning something unexpected and new about the characters. Even up to the most recent damn chapter I feel like I have no idea what Nakatani-sensei is going to throw at us. And all of this is me making a point that this manga is DEEP.

I could talk at length about how gorgeous the anime is, how well-directed certain scenes are, how incredible the Japanese voice acting was (didn’t see the dub, but if anyone can carry Touko’s emotional range it’s the fabulous Luci Christian so I’m sure it’s decent), or how much I stan Michiru Ooshima. It was a great adaptation and I sincerely can’t wait for Season 2. But I’m not going to talk much about that. Instead I just need to talk about the story (the manga).

(spoilers up through Chapter 39)

You know what one of the many great things about Yagakimi is? In spite of the fact that it deals with same-gender relationships and queer issues, and while it does periodically address those issues, they’re actually not the primary focus of the characters or their struggles. From day one, Yuu is much less concerned about Touko being a girl than she is about her own inability to feel anything towards her (supposedly). And that’s not to say that those issues are ignored, like they are in some anime of this particular genre. The characters don’t live in a paradisiacal vacuum where being gay in Japan isn’t a problem and everyone around them is magically super accepting. Yuu’s sister is incredibly sweet and accepting (I love her), but her dad makes casual homophobic comments. Even after Touko initially confesses to Yuu, Yuu brushes it off as something she “probably doesn’t have to worry about” because they’re both girls, and it’s weird. Riko Hakazaki has to hide from her students, coworkers, and workplace, that she’s living with her girlfriend, because it could cause legitimate problems for her if they knew. During Sayaka’s first lesbian relationship, when she is still figuring herself out, her own girlfriend tells her that it’s “just a phase” and that she’s sorry that she “made her” that way. Even much later, when Yuu is conflicted about how she should confess her feelings to Touko, her sister Rei immediately assumes (understandably so) that she’s conflicted because of the whole gay thing. Rei starts worrying about how the family will react, if they will be accepting and supportive of her sister. Little does she know, being gay is the least of Yuu’s problems at that point.

But is being gay and the societal backlash that comes with it really that inconsequential to Yuu’s story? Yuu Koito struggles to develop romantic or sexual feelings for anyone. She exhibits clear signs of depression--intense apathy, emotional repression, struggles to find genuine joy in anything. A lot of people have posited even that she exhibits signs of sexual repression specifically. And this is one of the core conversations we can have about Yuu’s character. How much of her “inability to love” is because she is legitimately somewhere on the ace spectrum, perhaps demisexual (she develops feelings after getting to know someone, to put it simply)? And how much of it is her unconsciously repressing her own feelings (perhaps homosexual) for her entire life, resulting in a scenario where even she doesn’t know how to get them back? There isn’t a clear answer here. No one knows. Yuu doesn’t even know. And that’s the point!

The characters. Are so. Good. Yuu, Touko, and Sayaka are the obvious powerhouses here, all three of them multi-layered people that I can and will analyze at length. But Yagakimi doesn’t sleep on the minor characters either. Yuu and Touko don’t exist in a vacuum. From Yuu’s sister and her boyfriend to Maki, the juxtaposing aromantic and asexual friend and ally, to Yuu’s surprisingly likable best friends, to Hakozaki-sensei and her girlfriend Miyako, to even Dojima. Everyone matters. Everyone gets their own little storyline. I’m tempted to be reminded of Kimi ni Todoke and the brilliant way it handled its side characters here. Although Bloom Into You is much shorter than KnT, and therefore has a lot less time to develop those side characters and relationships, it still provides them with their own layers, their own problems, their own mini-spotlights. And it makes me care about every single one. Riko and Miyako’s cute ass and wholesome adult love story, Akari’s dumb doomed crush on basketball senpai, Koyomi’s dreams of becoming an author and her infatuation with a certain idol of hers, Maki’s experiences as a contented bystander. I adore and welcome it.

Let’s talk about Touko Nanami before this gets any longer than it needs to be. To be honest, I have a type when it comes to characters, and it’s the ones that are suicidal and hate themselves, probably because I relate to that stuff more than anything (though I also relate to Yuu’s apathetic brand of depression). This character. This character. One of the things I love most about her is how consistently the reader is lured into thinking they know her, and then consistently proven wrong. (I think we share this experience with Yuu.) It takes episodes, chapters, volumes to slowly chip away at the layers and layers of personality we’re given before we finally arrive at the truly heartbreaking core, which is a girl with a fractured identity and deep, deep self-loathing that defies all logic. And it’s because it defies all logic that it’s so scary. Because that kind of self-hatred doesn’t just go away. You can’t just fix it. It’s there to stay, and it’s not just your friendly neighborhood self-hatred--painful, but an otherwise harmless roommate. It’s actually dangerous, and it has the power to destroy Touko’s relationships with others and even destroy herself. (The scene in the anime where she stands in front of the railroad tracks and almost takes a step forward, thus nearly giving me a heart attack, comes to mind.) It defies logic, so there’s no logical way to beat it, either. And it’s not just the self-loathing that gets me and makes my heart hurt for her; it’s the loss of oneself, the lack of one’s identity as an individual. The loss of on’s own sense of self, especially at such a young and vulnerable age, is debilitating. Touko is really good at wearing that super serene smile, but when the chips are down, nothing is going to stand in the way of her and what essentially amounts to obliterating herself from existence. Not even Yuu. And then we come to her crippling fear of being loved by anyone, which is an aspect of self-hatred that probably doesn’t get enough acknowledgment. She hates herself to the point that the thought of someone loving her, which should make her happy, actually hurts. How fucked is that.

But I never gave Touko enough credit. To be honest, in chapter 34 when Yuu (finally) confesses, I was expecting her reaction to be really bad. Like, really bad. I was expecting a shitshow, a blowout of their relationship (temporarily of course). I was expecting basically what Yuu thinks that she got. And for that one page, I swear I felt my heart forcibly ripped from my chest. But then I read the next page and was surprised to see just how much she’s changed over the course of the series, how unexpectedly maturely she took the confession and examined her own feelings afterwards, how quickly (and once again, maturely) she deduced that she’d been making Yuu suffer. It makes me appreciate their relationship even more than I did before, and it makes me want to root for them. (Not that I wasn’t already.) The chapters just keep getting better and better from here on, I swear.

Sayaka deserves her own post, but the queen has her own novel series at least. Sayaka could SO EASILY have been that bitch. Nakatani could have created this rival love interest who treated Yuu like shit and was a possessive asshole and just stopped there. But instead, we got Sayaka, who ends up being one of the best and most well-developed characters. And in the many many times where I was calling Yuu and Touko “you dumb bitch,” Sayaka was there, the smartest and most honest of the three by far, which was refreshing. Her backstory is utterly heartbreaking, her love for Touko touching as hell, and her rise from the ashes, so to speak, is inspiring. Fuck that senpai. Sayaka isn’t even that mean to Yuu, on top of it all. I mean, she can be kind of snippy. And understandably so. But they actually end up surprisingly getting along? I am shook to my core. Sayaka’s growth is one of the greatest sights to behold in this series. Her friendship with Touko isn’t sidelined in favor of Touko’s relationship with Yuu--far from it. Sayaka provides her own unique support and sparks Touko’s development in a way that Yuu never could. Their friendship is crucial. By the time Sayaka FINALLY confesses, I was so god damn proud of her and her bravery, I swear I could have cried. While Yuu was busy being in practiced denial for 40 chapters, Sayaka was OUT THERE learning to be completely up front and honest with herself and others about her feelings. (Not to knock on Yuu, because she has her own arc to go through to get there.) That whole fucking scene where they’re both just sobbing about shit afterwards Got Me.

Ugh. It’s been an emotional few days. I’m really glad I decided to start watching that first episode, because this entire series has been a series of pleasant surprises. This is a good anime, ya’ll. It’s a good character study. It’s a good love story. It’s a good gay love story. It’s all of those things. You could literally talk forever about all the nuances of this story and characters and all the things that make it as good as it is. This long ass post just brushes the surface. For now, I’m anxiously (ANXIOUSLY) awaiting chapter 40. If you know, you know.

#bloom into you #yagate kimi ni naru #yagakimi #spoilers #im fucking screaming over this whole series and how it destroyed my emotions

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florbexter · 2 years

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Ohhh Kinn doesn‘t want to be attracted to Porsche not.one.bit. Is he a healthy gay man who can appreciate someone with the physique Porsche has? Sure. Is Porsche sometimes cute and endearing in his own way? Also true, but despite the fact that Porsche is apparantly Kinn‘s type? That man doesn‘t want to be attracted to him. It‘s so funny to see actually.

Because Porsche is of course not some new bodyguard that gets the proper training and then suddenly is just there and in the roster of bodyguards around Kinn. They have a special relationship and Kinn knows about Porsche, he isn‘t faceless and most likely the reminder why Kinn had loved his people in the past like Pete had mentioned, had looked over them, had protected them, he can‘t look away when Porsche is getting into trouble.

Porsche is the catalyst for Kinn finding back to this old self, this Kinn who loved his people. Can‘t wait to see that.

#kinnporsche the series #kinnporsche ep2 #florbexter watches kinnposche #IF YOU GIVE ME NOVEL SPOILERS I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL START THROWING THINGS

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plockd · 6 years

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SO. Before I begin, I’m going to come out and say (and this will be no surprise to anyone who’s read anything I’ve written) that I am in fact a huge Eve + Villanelle shipper, but I’ve found myself thinking about something tricky on several occasions, so here’s an attempt to put it into words. Oh, there are spoilers in here, so skip if you haven’t seen season 1.

A lot of people are wondering whether or not we’re actually going to get something canonically romantic with these two characters, and while I hope to God we do, here’s the issue: Villanelle is a psychopath. Yes, we all know this, and yes, I love her to bits, but no matter how funny she is, no matter how much I want to make her into a real cinnamon bun and just eat her up, she is a psychopath. Now, that’s an obvious issue for many reasons, but here are some things that sort of, at least I think, currently stop V + E from becoming anything on screen.

Villanelle’s personality: she’s a child at heart, a child that gets really mad when she doesn’t get what she wants. She says she wants normal things, wants “someone to watch movies with”, but if the person next to her doesn’t agree to share the popcorn, what will stop V from stabbing that person in the knee with a fork? Nothing, because she’s a psychopath. Her whole “how dare someone hurt me / disagree with me” shines through her character in the series. In episode 1, “Nice Face”, she kills Cesare Greco, and the look on her face is euphoric, like close to orgasmic (kudos to Jodie Comer’s incredible acting), and as Jennings has stated in the novel, Villanelle does get real physical satisfaction from killing. In the book, she nearly hacks off Simon’s head with a big knife with name starts with a c, can’t remember, a chukabongo or something, and she literally “feels something so intense, it nearly brings her to her knees”. Now, if someone can get something like that, something better than sex (again, Jennings, killing gives V something sex never can quite deliver), then why would that person give that up? Love? Ergo, Villanelle, based on what we have so far, will not stop killing. Now, what does that mean?

I think it means, if these two are going to become something, it’s Eve who’s going to have to adapt. She’s going to have to either face her own darkness, which I see as very problematic and complicated, because in episode 8, she did release her own inner demon, she did do exactly what she’d planned to do, and what did she realize? That she wasn’t cut out for it. She stabs Villanelle, feels victorious for a total of two seconds, and then bang, so many flashes of panic and regret on her face (kudos to Sandra Oh, she’s brilliant in this scene), because stabbing someone in reality turned out to be a lot different from stabbing someone in her mind, and at least to me, that tells that Eve’s fascinated with morbid things and the psychology behind the people who do these morbid things, but Eve herself is not a person who wants to be doing the morbid things.

Now, this same woman who went through this process of realizing her mistake, realizing who she isn’t, would have to adapt, would have to accept Villanelle’s violence and the physical satisfaction she gets from her kills, would have to throw her own rules of morality and justice and “what’s right or wrong” out the window. Villanelle is capable of her own version of love, but so far, her version of love was egoistical, self-centered, obsessive, and made her kill Anna’s husband just to get him out of the way. She no doubt knew killing Max would hurt Anna, but did she care? No, because it’s all about what Villanelle wants. She knew, without a doubt, that killing Bill would erect a huge barrier between her and Eve, but did she care? No, she could have got out of that club without being seen, easily, but she killed him anyway, because he upset her by grabbing her arm at the U-Bahn and stopping her from following Eve, plus her whole “you shouldn’t touch a person without their permission” (agreed, btw). If you ask me, her whole “he was following me!” excuse was complete bullshit. And now, there’s a freaking hole in her stomach, and Villanelle no doubt knows exactly why Eve did it, but will she care about her reasoning? No, because Villanelle “really liked her”, as in “how dare she do this to me when I liked her?” So, basically, Eve’s the one who’s going to have to do all the work because there’s nothing to indicate Villanelle hasn’t been like this since she was a kid, and can I see Eve doing it? I don’t know. It’s easy to dream, it’s easy to want things to happen, and I freaking hope the writers will give us what we want (because I swear, if they don’t and they end this show without even a kiss, I will be so mad I’ma freaking fly over there), but if they do, it’s going to take time, it’s going to take so much character development, I doubt we’ll be seeing it in season 2. I don’t see that much development happening inside of Eve over 8 episodes, but who knows, we might get more than 8? Yes, she changed so much during season 1, but to go from “hunting a psychopath who kills people for a living, including her best friend” to “I’m gonna go full on Clarice and hook up with this woman” is just, it would take too much, I think. So, there needs to be a season 3, or a really long season 2.

I don’t know if any of this made any sense, but it’s just something I’ve been thinking about while writing and it’s stopping me from writing all the lovely fluff I’d love to write for these two because they’re dorks. And for some reason, tonight, I had to get my fear of “we’re not going to get our ship in season 2″ into words.

#Killing Eve #thoughts #I do hope Im wrong #but Im scared Im not #ughh

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keishajay · 5 years

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I meant for this whole review to go in one post, but damn, I had a lot of complaints, way more than I thought once I started writing them down. Some are nitpicky; most are related to characters and writing choices. For the fans of this series, I did enjoy this series for what it is, but I’ll never defend it as great literature. It’s Sharknado levels of fun, and I live for stupid shit like that. For the haters, enjoy. Oh, and spoilers ahead.

Now, on to the cons, and hoo boy, are there a lot of them. First, I was shocked to see this was labeled book 7 and not 6. I had no interest in reading Tower of Dawn, as it was marketed as a side story novella. Kingdom of Ash expects you to have read it and spends little to no time explaining who all these new characters are. It’s not confusing, just annoying for those of us not invested in Chaol’s story enough to read the novella. If you like Chaol, more power to you. I just didn’t care enough about what was a sure outcome to waste my time reading a novella about him and only him. Nesryn goes with him as well, but she was barely a character in the fifth (fourth? I don’t know anymore) book, more a cool background piece than a real person. That’s not nearly enough for me to pick up an entire book.

Maas brings in four new “personalities” from Tower of Dawn that really just take up space and fawn over Aelin, just like everyone else. Hasar is just a crabbier version of Aelin; Sartaq loves Nesryn and that’s it; Yrene is Chaol’s wife who’s a healer and that’s it; and Borte likes arguing with her fiance. They might be more interesting in ToD, but here, they just read like cardboard cutouts. They’re unnecessary and boring.

And speaking of unnecessary, there are WAY too many POV characters in these books. What started with a handful of mostly essential characters has now become a library’s worth of them. Even Lysandra’s ward, Evangeline, gets a couple POV bits to herself. Why? They added nothing to the story aside from remind us that she was there and still alive. More POVs should only ever be added to further the story or themes. I kid you not, Elide and Lorchan are together for 90% of the last two books, and for some reason, they both have POV chapters. Elide was already established and should’ve been the only one necessary, but you know, Lorchan’s hot so we should hear him angst too. And that is all he does, by the way, angsts over Elide. Hell, by the end, I was a little surprised Abraxos didn’t have his own POV chapter.

Maas also adds nonsensical things in to ramp up the drama. The worst offender is the character Darrow. He and TWO other old men boss Aedion around throughout this entire book, because... reasons, I guess. They don’t recognize Aelin as queen, fine. But they’re three old dudes against Aedion, who literally commands their entire army and the fire-bringer all the people in their whole country rally to. If anyone can give me a logical reason why Aedion didn’t just ignore every order they attempted to give him, I’m all ears. Instead, he tiptoes around them constantly and outright steals his own army from under their noses to do what he wants anyway. Why? They all know damn well Aelin is the rightful queen and they wouldn’t even have an army without her and Aedion. She could crush them under her thumb, and they all know that too. Hell, Aedion’s treason would even be forgiven in moments when she took her throne back from... no one. Darrow isn’t even trying to be king of Terrasen. He just doesn’t like the idea of this bratty teenager being his queen, and who can blame him? Yeah, I know she wants her country to be different, but she can’t change anything from the sidelines when the old rules are the only things keeping those men in power over her. There is no good reason for Aedion to obey any of their orders. They can do nothing to stop him, and they all know it. They are literally only there so Aedion has someone besides Lysandra to be pissed off at.

Speaking of Aedion being pissed off at Lysandra. For the haters out there, yes, he has every right to be mad at her. She may not have been the one to come up with this insanity, sure, but she knew Aelin suspected it might be necessary. Telling the one person who foams at the mouth anytime someone gets within spitting distance of his cousin that maybe something terrible could happen to her, making this plan necessary, should be at the top of your to-do list. She knew damn well what she was doing and how he would react the entire time Aelin was teaching her to play pretend. He should be angry with her for not telling him what was going through Aelin’s head, not for following the orders of their queen. Yes, him throwing he naked out in the snow was a major dick move, and I’m glad that she didn’t let him forget it. What I don’t condone is his reaction to seeing Aelin again. He just hugs her like nothing ever happened. He’s an asshole to Lysandra for months, but he just forgives Aelin for everything as soon as he sees her. I’m sorry but no. I would’ve forgiven the entire conflict between him and Lysandra being tedious if he had just punched her in the face before he hugged her. God knows she deserves it for all the shit she’s pulled over the course of six books.

So, I hate Aelin Galathynius. Like straight up hate her. She went from being a brat in the first few books to being the worst case of Mary Sueitis I have ever seen outside of self-insert fanfiction. First, she’s a secret princess, a “twist” anyone with a brain could see coming. She’s also somehow the best at everything she does, even though she shows no evidence of any of it. How does the country’s best assassin get caught? On top of that, how does anyone even know who the country’s best assassin is? Shouldn’t hiding your identity be rule number one in the assassin handbook? This shit-licker could’ve been any happy-ass teenager with a knife pretending to be this famous assassin when they caught her. How would they know? Answer, they shouldn’t have any idea (that would’ve also made for a much more interesting story). So, not only is she the best at everything she tries for reasons, she’s also the only one in the whole damn world with fire magic, the only thing that can hurt the demons for a majority of the series. And she doesn’t just have regular old everyday fire magic. No, she has fire to rival fifteen suns going supernova at the same time. She’s also the prettiest and smartest and nicest and snarkiest and funniest girl in the world. She outsmarts someone thousands of years old who could’ve snapped her neck or dropped her in to a literal Hell with a flick of her wrist. But no, Princess Mary Sue wants her new boytoy free, so the villainess has to get tricked into letting him go. Now, let’s not forget she’s also the Chosen One who deus ex machinas her way out of sacrificing herself because no one can do anything without her there to save the day. Seriously, no one ever wins anything unless she’s there. It happens more than once in this book. Her boytoy and company show up to rescue her from aforementioned villainess just as she’s breaking herself out, and they can’t get her chains off until she somehow shows them how to unlock them. She then proceeds to get them out of the country through her magic of summoning deus ex machinas whenever she needs one, and they arrive just in time to rescue Chaol and Nesryn from certain doom. She stops a cascading river with fire because science, and when all hope is lost back home, she shows up on a magical white deer with the Rohir- oops, I mean her army. She also somehow holds off two of the most powerful creatures in the world with her assassin skills and barely any magic, because... villains have to lose, I guess. You know what Aelin loses by the end of the book? Her humanity, which she suddenly cares about ten pages before it’s gone. Aedion lost his father and at least half an army at his command. Manon lost the only people she really cared about in the whole world, and she could do nothing but watch them sacrifice themselves. And Aelin lost her humanity when she’s already been living as a fae since book 3. Oh God, how will she ever survive such a loss? She is actually the worst.

These books, this one in particular, are clearly written with a younger audience in mind (much younger than me at least, and I’m 30), and I strongly believe the target audience is girls. There is so much description of how beautiful the men in this series are that it almost borders on obscene. I do appreciate having a clear picture of what characters look like, but I do not need to know about all the rippling muscles and long fingers that all the men in this series seem to have. Even bookworm Dorian is described as being oh-so-sexy even though he doesn’t appear to have ever handled a weapon in his life. There is a lot of pandering to the female audience, especially with the sex scenes. In a YA novel, these are pretty inappropriate. She started with sex scenes being a fade-to-black kind of event, and now, almost every single one is described in disgusting detail. I like romance as much as the next girl, but if I wanted soft-core porn, I’d read romance novels. To top that shift off, she still insists on using “rutting” as a substitute for “fucking,” and I think that’s what bothers me the most about the whole change here. They are completely interchangeable in every context, to the point where I just read “rutting” as “fucking” every single time. This isn’t Brandon Sanderson’s silly but story-appropriate swearing. It’s just lazy writing. And detailed descriptions of sex are okay, but swearing? Someone call Takamata. We need to start the Inquisition. (History of the World reference for anyone confused.)

This story ends exactly as you should expect it to, with a happily ever after. None of the main characters die, and those with names go out as sacrifices, which is honestly consistent with the rest of the deaths in this series. The deaths we do get are mostly to make the main characters feel bad for no real reason. Aedion even flat-out states that Gavriel could’ve stayed inside the walls, and there is no argument, author or characters, as to why he had to go outside. At least the Thirteen’s sacrifice makes more sense. It was still pretty dumb to have them go out at all, but I don’t know if I could come up with a better way to destroy those witch towers. What they did was noble and understandable in context, though there were probably any number of ways it could’ve been avoided. I’ve seen Desolation of Smaug. Just drop a dragon/whale/elephant-Lysandra on top of the tower before they even get it fixed up to move again.

One last complaint that I have regarding the ending is largely the villains. There are three of them, and all three kind of go out like bitches. Erawan, the dickhead pulling the strings since book 1, gets tricked and healed to death. There are a lot of millennia-old creatures getting tricked into doing stupid things in these books. Manon’s grandmother (who never gets a name by the way) gets blown up by Asterin. Honestly, hers was probably the most satisfying end of the three because Asterin got the vengeance she deserved for her hunter and child. Maeve somehow became the biggest threat halfway through the series, and she meets her end in the most extravagant fashion, impaled by Fenrys and then decapitated by Aelin and burned to ash. What irritates me most about Maeve is she could’ve been great. If anyone has read the manga, Magi, you know what I’m talking about. Maeve is discount Gyokuen with half the threat and less than a quarter the sense. Where Gyokuen is highly capable, both as a fighter and a politician, Maeve is kind of a pushover who gets tricked by our “heroes” numerous times. She’s shown preparing for all sorts of unlikely eventualities, but she somehow can’t handle the plucky teenagers. Give me a break. From the moment you meet her, you know Gyokuen is going to be one of those bad guys that will require some clever thinking to defeat. I felt like Maeve could just be snuck up on and murdered by anyone who knew her schedule. Her last ditch effort against Aelin was clever, but other than that, she barely puts up a fight despite all the fear and hype she gets from almost every character in the book.

Now, like I said above, I did enjoy these books. I don’t feel like my time was wasted or that I was manipulated by them at all. I had fun with them the same way that I have fun with SyFy channel original movies. The characters and story had so much more potential than what this amounted to, but I don’t hate this series at all. Yes, the subplot with the gods was idiotic and unnecessary, but the valg were interesting as an enemy type. Yes, the romance shoved down my throat could be awful at times, but some of the relationships were genuinely sweet. Chaol and Dorian are the best bros, and I love Lysandra taking it upon herself to protect this little girl when she could’ve looked the other way. Manon’s relationship with Asterin was great as well. Do I wish it was better? Absolutely. Should it be boycotted by everyone? Of course not. Despite their problems, these books are fun, fluffy, popcorn movie fun, and sometimes, that’s just fine.

#kingdom of ash #throne of glass #spoilers #complaints #honest review

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kierongillen · 7 years

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Writer Notes: The Wicked + the Divine #27

Spoilers, obv.

In short, you do it to yourself, you do, and that’s what really hurts. But as Mark E Smith put it to the Inspirals, Nobody ever said it was gonna be easy. That was a pretty indie start to the notes. Also, incomprehensible to anyone outside of certain demographics. Well, we all have google now. We’ll be fine.

Normally hard issues are hard for everyone. Jamie and Matt go down with me. In this case, the brunt of the problem was mine and mine alone…

(Well, Jamie had to wrestle with the establishing shots in the space and Matt had to do 10 pages with about 2 issues’ worth of colour schemes (and try to solve a visual logic puzzle too) but for once I think this mainly fell on my neck.)

But we’ll get to that, as the results of a lot of heartache are only in a certain section. The rest is relatively easy. Relatively.

Jamie’s cover: we’ve smiled at this a little, in that the discussion of Baphomet’s hair is the closest WicDiv has come to the debate around Billy’s hair in Young Avengers.

I personally just like that he’s still rocking his big metal pole.

Alison Sampson’s cover: Alison is one of those creative force of nature sorts. There are artists who can just be givenn a “Draw this character” instruction but Alison isn’t one of them. She really needs to know everything, so we talked a bunch, and ended up with something distinctly oblique, about confusion. If anything about this issue says that we’re not making it easy, this would be it.

While we’re talking, Alison’s collaboration with Steve Niles, Winnebago Graveyard has just been solicited, and you should order the living shit out of it.

Page 1

The idea for this scene occurred to me – marking your death day – and was so instantly upsetting that I obviously had to write it. Generally speaking, that’s our magnetic north.

Yeah, a WicDiv calendar does seem like an obvious Merch thing to do for Christmas. We’re trying to sort it out.

Having Amaterasu on the page torn out was Jamie’s choice, and an obviously good one given Minerva/Amaterasu’s enmity.

On a craft level, you’ll see how absolutely basic this is – establishing shot with dialogue to link it to internal scene (with dialogue individual enough for readers to know who’s saying it.) Five panels. Two characters. I wanted it simple, if only for contrast – but also a suspicion that the middle section would be harder than it was, and Jamie needed to save his energies.

As a writer in comics, you’re always spending resources. They’re not always money.

Page 2-4

August 9th would be the week after the Ragnarock we saw in issue 6. Putting that whole sequence at the cusp of the world being upended is clearly a thing.

Man, I love Minerva’s hair.

I suspect I was thinking IT with the darkness coming up the sink. IT is the King book which sticks with me, shall we say.

This is an unusual comics “thing” we have to consider – Image ask us what pages we want to send out as previews, and we generally speaking cut it as tight as we can. We’d like to keep as much fun stuff for when people read the issue. It’s a teaser taste, not a first course. So cutting on page 3 would be the place to go… which we didn’t, because that would leave whether Minerva in peril unresolved, which would imply that’s what the rest of the issue about. That’s not what the issue is about in any way, and we’d loathe to give that impression as i) it’s not true and ii) that would be boring impression to give.

Page 4 has some great panels – the pummelling by Baal with Minerva curled behind him. Minerva shell-shocked. Baal’s big-brother glance back. Nice.

Page 5

Enigmatic!

Six panel grid grounds it, obviously.

Page 6

Once more, a return to the five panel. Robust comics. If you're writing a comic, and you don't know the artist, defaulting to a five panel is rarely a bad move. Study Garth Ennis comics. It's not the flashiest of choice, but it's dependable and gives the artist a lot of freedom.

(There's sparser panel selections you can use, but they're a big risk to take if you're not sure you're going to get it back in the art.)

The thing I think of here is Jamie being very annoyed that I’d settled on May 1st, as that meant the panel had to be that wide to fit the calendar design bits in.

Page 7

“Phased” probably says it all.

Page 8-9

Okay. I suspect this is the bit that anyone other than the regulars will be reading this for.

Let’s get the basics out of the way first – each story is delineated by the colour block behind it. Read from left to right in any individual sub-story.

So on this first spread, the top 4 panels of the spread (signified by that big red block behind them all and the outlines) first, then the six bottom panels on the left (orange), the six bottom panels of the right (green), etc.

Obviously we were worried about this for comixology (It’s almost impossible to read in a PDF, obv) so we talked to them about the guided view, which actually walks you through each of the sub-stories perfectly. Yay comixology

It’s printed a little less bright than we’d hoped, so we’ve considered garishing it up a bit for the trade. That said, we’ve had far less “huh”S than we were perhaps expecting.

(In practise, being lost in a whirl of time and space was part of the intent – as the title says, PHASED. You can absolutely read it like you're looking at snowflakes.)

What’s it about? Well, bar the aesthetic effect of decentralising the narrative (and other things) there was the problem of 27 and 28 having a lot of work to do. I had… a lot of solutions. At one point I was thinking that ALL of 27 and 28 would be like the Phased section, just to do everything I wanted them to do, with issue 27 just ending with a page which read <CONT.>

(The one idea which made me smile was playing with doing the whole issue like Ray Fawkes' magnificent graphic novels The People Inside and One Soul. The chapter title would have been BUY THE PEOPLE INSIDE, IT’S REALLY GOOD.)

In the end, I started writing without thinking about how I was going to present it, and generated a bunch of scenes. Far more than was required. After doing all that, I stepped back, and everything tilted a little, and I saw the way through the maze. A lot of the material could just be excised and (after I’d killed a darling) moved to in Imperial Phase Part II. As such, it was a case of arranging what we had into something that felt like a meaningful sequence.

And it ended up actually fitting into 10 pages. I’d budgeted 12, which meant I had 2 spare pages which I used in the final scene for added mood. PHEW!

Oh – the other general thing to say before actually talking about the specifics is that I’ve always wanted to do a comic that runs at the pace of the PREVIOUSLY ON bits of TV shows, and this is the closest we got to that.

On a craft point, it’s worth noting how we tried to introduce various ideas to it. The first 4-page sub-story with Sakhmet/Persephone is the first thing you see and stretches across the spread, with the two other stories as simple blocks. Plus you can read those first two panels as their own things. The coming back to that scene at the start of the page would hopefully make you realise they form a line, and have another look at the colour blocks. The more challenging layouts come later, after the ground-rules have been introduced.

Or so’s the theory.

Anyway! Content! Obviously a lot of closing off stuff people would be wondering about given the last few issues. If WicDiv isn’t doing that story here. Or, at least yet. I know I would be wondering about what London made of a multi-story monster appearing to attack the shard.

(That the first baal scene is commented upon by the second baal/norns scene is another hand-hold to get people through it.)

Man, I still love Baal’s beard.

Page 10-11

More attempt at hand-holding – the top of both pages being six panel stories, and the second story running across the bottom page, and able to be read by itself.

I suspect the actual hardest thing is the phone messages – partially as the natural order of phone messages confuses the reading of a panel (as in, the new messages are at the bottom) and partially as it turns the Baphomet/Persephone sequences in story in a story. As in, we are now in the present day with Persephone texting Baphomet while thinking about what happened at Christmas.

Not easy. But – y’know – Phased.

Cass continues to go for most sweary character of 2017. I occasionally read people don’t like WicDiv saying that all the characters swear too much. I can imagine Cass leaning into their face and screaming “I SWEAR TOO FUCKING MUCH! MOST OF THE REST JUST SWEAR A LOT. PAY SOME ATTENTION, FUCKNOSE!”

Yes, “someone creates apparitions of your dead family so you can have Christmas dinner with them” may have been one of those “Yeah, that’s really upsetting. Let’s do that” ideas.

We had to work on the colouring here to get the desired effect. In the first pass it was much brighter, which left it too cheery. A “they may be in heaven” sort of vibe. We ended up with something much more sickly.

Persephone’s expression though. :(

Page 12-13

Now we start just going across the page to pummel that in.

If this sequence has a backbone, it’s the Norns, of course. All other stuff is fragmentary – there’s a throughline with Cass.

The nomenclature ShinTwo(tm) only came to me as writing, and made me basically bang my head against the table. I’ve had quite a few people ask if I’m referencing one random star or another. No. This is just the sort of thing a certain sort of pop-star does.

Sticking TM at the end of a sentence and fucking with the punctuation is a joke I first fell in love with circa-Amiga Power. Never forget how ludicrous a corporation’s attempt to own language is. Give them the respect they deserve.

Cass’ body language throughout the dance sequences is just a joy. The first panel on the previous page too. I’m a dancer – by which I mean, I throw myself onto the floor with joy and little care of how bad I look… but god knows I’ve got enough friends who find the whole thing hard. I’ve played Dionysus here IRL enough.

The Cass/Dio conversation here is something I was worried about, and pleased it seem to have gone down well.

Page turn, to show change of direction, obv…

Page 14-15

…and into Cass experiencing another god’s power. I can imagine her end of year list updating.

And this spread is where we start tearing at the morings, and doing a horizontally aligned six panel grid across the middle of the page. Yes, writing this issue was very much like solving a puzzle – as I said, I’d written far more stuff just in terms of raw dialogue and ideas, and working out what could be arranged artistically was the thing.

The middle block also creates a time gap between the opening scene and the latter one.

That the backbone to all of this is a rave sequence draws a lime to where we’ve done similar things – namely, issue 8. However, where it’s 8 panel was about beat and flow, this is about confusion.

Page 16-17

Yeah, another mix up. Shifting sands are shifting and another set of moments.

The Sakhmet panel is bleakly amazing. Nice work, guys.

Man, this spread is a world of awesome. I’m glad I ended it with a joke of the BEEP.

Er… it’s been an odd arc for me. I was writing it with an idea what I wanted it to be, and was annoyed with myself that it wasn’t for what I felt was too long. Drugs, decadence, self-destruction, sex, awfulness… and it was mainly tying up necessary business from Rising Action. I wanted it more awful, and I was frustrated as I couldn’t get it there.

That’s no longer a problem. I think the themes of the arc are undeniable, both in form and content. I should have relaxed a little – the point of these two arcs was always the slow burn. For better or worse, it really is what we wanted.

Page 18

The Cassandra Project was a game mod I wrote for in the early 00s. I did say everything I've done gets worked into this fucker.

(Lead character Charlotte Williams is certainly a early example of a Gillen character – a self-described Sylvia Plath With A Sniper Rifle. Even if you can get it working with whatever current Deus Ex is, I wouldn’t recommend it for my writing. It’s an exciting mess of my influences. It may as well have been called THE CASSANDRA PROJECT: KIERON HAS JUST READ PLANETARY AND STILL REALLY LIKES THE INVISIBLES.)

Page 19

Jamie added the insert panel to show David Blake, as it’s been a while since we’ve actually crossed paths. This led to a somewhat intricate series of questions over how to actually letter the fucker to get the exchange between Blake and Cass to work. We ended with the ellipsis speech balloon, which is always a sweetie.

(For those who are following craft, I wanted the big panel on the machine to reintroduce it as a larger thing. The whole issue has been so cramped and it needs to breathe. Or rather, loom.)

As an aside, “Loom” is a word I over-use in my panel descriptions.

Page 20-21

Yeah, those spare pages I had were really useful at this point.

I played with cleverer grids, but a straight STATEMENT/JUXTAPOSED IMAGE six-panel seemed to do the trick.

Lots of set up for the specials here, most obviously the “rumours about 455.” Also, at the half-way point of the whole two-part thing, we get the meaning of the title. Imperial phase.

I suspect this sequence was strongly influenced by the research for 455, generally. It’s easy writing Blake when you’ve been wallowing in research.

The bathing-in-blood is a nod towards the ever-popular Countess Bathory, who actually invented the bath. True fact.

Madness is a loaded word, and I wish Blake didn’t throw it around so casually – hell, Cass too. It’s much more about obsession and addiction and excess. Still: we’ll try to walk this line.

Lots of lovely Imagery from Jamie here. The Dark Knight Returns Baal/Minerva is the one which makes me smile most, and Dionysus’ is the one which breaks my heart.

Page 22-23

And we finally mention a question that’s been asked ever since the Norns appeared in the book.

Man, Skuld and Verðandi are getting chatty.

Page 24

Man, getting to end an issue with a splash image for dramatic effect. This must be what BKV feels like ALL THE TIME.

Seriously, Matt and Jamie do some wonderful things here. Getting the level of oppressive looming darkness is absolutely what the issue is about, and it’s a testament to that.

Page 25

Comrade Rossignol, my old partner in crime, game developer and co-writer on The Ludocrats, and I have a line we tend to quote to one another. It’s a paraphrase of a quote from Ballard: “My advice to anyone in any field is to be faithful to your obsessions. Identify them and be faithful to them, let them guide you like a sleepwalker.”

We quote it as: “stay true to your obsessions and your obsessions will be true to you.”

It’s basically been our respective careers’ magnetic north, but there’s certainly times when I wonder how good it's proved for us as human beings.

Next issue is the end of Imperial Phase Part 1, which – thanks to all the hyper-compression of this one – actually lets to linger with space. But we'll get to that soon enough.

Anyway – thanks for reading. See you next month.

#WicDiv #the wicked and the divine #Writer Notes

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sunfalldown · 7 years

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December 26th

I’m reaaally late... as per usual. I’m sorry for the delayal, I ended up needing an extention because of some difficulties while writing this, but at least I finished it!!!

Anyway! This is my @voltron-ss gift for @hells-will-88 who asked for something shippy and for an AU. And they like Polydins. I’ll write Polydins if I’m given the chance. Hope you enjoy it!

I won’t ask for forgiveness for my Portal reference. Keep that in mind.

Title: December 26th Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Pairing: Keith/Lance/Shiro Rating: G Word Count: 2425 Brief tags: Domestic AU, Christmas Fluff, Going on a Date, Aged-up Characters

Summary: Shiro went out with Lance to get some groceries but he realizes he forgot to pick up a cake. But there's no problem, Keith and Lance are willing to help. Spoiler alert: The cake is a lie.

Read this under the cut or in AO3!

There was a mug of coffee on the nightstand and a book in his hands. Keith had been like this for some good two hours and only the need for more coffee had interrupted his session. Yesterday Keith had received this novel as a christmas gift and thought he was all over sci-fi, it wasn't a bad idea to give it a try. And god did Keith love this novel. From the very beginning with dorky kids swimming in a community pool to this current part where the protagonists were meeting again after a year of being away, it had been delightful. It had been a while since he wanted to cry with a novel.

He was exactly in the second-to-last page of it when he heard the rustle of keys and the apartment's door flew open and thought Keith knew it was a bit rude not to go and say hello, he had to finish it before he was dragged into some kind of Lance antic.

“We're home,” said Shiro.

“And we brought brownies!” Lance announced.

'Brownies' Keith thought, a bit tempted. But, no, he had dedicated some good hours of his life to this novel and for all that was sacred in this world he was going to finish it.

It was a scene at the desert. Both kids were stargazing in the middle of the desert and one of them had said that he had had enough of all of this, of their friendship, because he couldn't hold back his emotions anymore and it was becoming more and more painful for him, and the main character/narrator was almost watching his entire life flow in front of his eyes as he considered how horrible it would be to not have the other boy in his life, and the moment Keith thought he was finally going to say something...

“Keeeeeeeith!!!” Lance came into the bedroom. “The brownieeeeeees!!!”

“Shut up Lance I'm in the middle of heavy drama.”

“But they're going to get cold!” Lance insisted as he came forward to drag Keith by the arm.

Keith made a gesture towards his mug and looked at Lance right into his eyes. “I swear to god Lance, I'll throw you hot coffee in the face if you don't let me finish.”

Lance backed up in the moment and raised his hands in a gesture of resignation.

“Fine, fine, finish your book. But don't blame me if I eat all of your brownies!”

The moment that Lance was out of the room, Keith focused back on the book. The scene, effectively, had a bit of dialogue and a kiss. And another kiss. And they laughed and resolved their tension. Keith had awaited for a while for a kiss but, at that moment, he couldn't feel the excitement he, at first, had portrayed he would feel. Reading it felt a bit bland.

“Goddamnit Lance, you ruined the moment!” Keith yelled as he stood up, threw the book on the bed and went to the kitchen.

Shiro and Lance were sitting at the small table they used to eat dinner, Keith's seat still free, with a couple of cups with milk and a plate with brownies on the center of the table. There were a fair amount of pieces, just enough for it to be impossible for Lance to eat them all in the time Keith decided to finish his book.

“Oh, goodness gracious, we're blessed with a strange visitor!” Lance laughs.

“Shut up, you ruined the mood of the end of my book,” Keith said, sitting down and picking a brownie from the center.

“Did you like it?” Shiro asked.

“Yeah, I loved it. Thanks for the gift.”

“Aw c'mon! Now you're going to say that you didn't like my gift,” Lance pouted.

Shiro, Keith and Lance had spent christmas with Lance's family. They had had dinner, a couple of drinks, they played a bit with the youngest kids and they had exchanged gifts. Keith had received the novel from Shiro, a nice christmas sweater from Lance's grandma, a spaceship lego model from one of Lance's siblings that loved Keith and, from Lance, Keith had received a framed photograph of Lance, Shiro and himself together. Keith couldn't even remember when Lance took that photo.

But it had been nice. It was a cute photo of them, sitting on their sofa, just smiling and cuddling. It's not like Keith had disliked it, not at all. But it also wasn't like he was about to admit that in Lance's face.

“I'm not not going to say that I didn't not like your gift,” Keith declared instead, laughing internally as Lance's facial expression shifted in confusion.

“Okay, that's enough,” Shiro cut them off. “Lance, remind me again, did we buy everything we needed?”

“Yep! Everything.” Lance raised his hand and started counting with his fingers. “We got some steak, rice, onions, garlic, eggs, salt and pepper for tomorrow's lunch. We also bought the sponge and the dish soap, the toiler paper and a new mug for you. Oh, and these brownies.”

“And the cake?” Shiro asked.

“The cake?” Lance seemed a bit shocked. “You didn't list a cake.”

“I... did not?” Shiro looked inside of his pocket and took out a piece of paper. There was a list of goodies written on it. “Fuck.”

“What's the matter?” Keith asked.

“I... I asked a patisserie to bake a special cake for my cousin, and I should have gone there today to get it, but I forgot. Fuck.”

“Hey, it's okay,” Lance reassured Shiro. “Keith can go with you to get the cake and there'll be no problem!”

“Why are you offering me?” Keith asked.

“Because I already went out and you know I don't like the cold, so you'll go with Shiro.”

“You can both come with me,” Shiro suggested. “We go outside for dinner, we walk through the city to the patisserie, we get the cake and then we come back here. I'll pay, since I'm the one who's dragging you guys around.”

Keith and Lance looked at each other for a second before nodding to each other. It sounded like a nice plan. Keith liked the idea of going out for dinner and Lance could resist the cold for a bit more. It wasn't like it was snowing outside.

It was, in fact, snowing outside when they went out of their apartment and Lance stood crooked with a lot of coats and sweaters over him, cursing the winter for its cold temperatures and any deity out there that thought that snow was an enjoyable thing. Lance hated the cold weather. He wasn't going to go back into the apartment because Keith was there, and Lance could resist anything better than Keith could, but that didn't mean he would ignore his spite and stand straight, or get his hands out of his pockets.

They all walked through the streets covered in a thin blanket of snow, Shiro and Keith shielding each of Lance's sides from the cold breeze, as Keith periodically reminded Shiro the fact that they were going out for dinner and for a cake, and that, ideally, nothing else should be done. Lance also asked from time to time if there was anything else that Shiro could have possibly forgotten, but Shiro kept saying that there wasn't anything else to do.

Shiro had a lot of issues with memory. He could be reliable, trustworthy and a great leader, but he usually needed people around him that could help him remind important stuff because he, by himself, was unable to. Everyone that knew Shiro well enough also knew that it wasn't his fault. His brain had endured a lot, from a couple of childhood traumas to an actual car accident, so he was physically unable to remember key stuff by himself. Keith and Lance knew that too, so they would always lend a hand when Shiro needed to run an errand, so Shiro wouldn't forget what his intention was.

That's what any good boyfriend would do, right? They didn't mind helping Shiro.

As they walked, Keith and Lance noticed that they had already passed the burgers place that they usually ate at, or the chinese restaurant that was where they went when they felt a bit fancier than hamburgers. And, now that they thought about it, had Shiro specified where he wanted to go?

“Shiro,” Keith asked. “Do you remember where are we going?”

“Oh yeah,” Shiro said.

“Are you sure?” Lance asked. “We don't even know where we're going.”

“Don't worry guys, it's a nice place.”

Keith and Lance were a bit doubtful, but... Shiro seemed confident enough, so, they decided on trusting him. Either way, if he forgot what place he wanted to go, they could always go for chinese food.

And before they noticed, they were in front of “The Veil,” a restaurant so fancy that neither Keith or Lance had ever considered even laying their eyes upon it.

“Uhm, Shiro...” Lance started. “We're... not, going to eat here, right?”

“Is there a problem?” Shiro asked, a bit of concern growing on his expression.

“Uhh, well...” Keith started. “For instance, we're not dressed up for the occasion?”

“I asked for a private room for us three, so you don't have to worry about people judging our clothes or anything.”

“But,” Lance continued. “Don't you need a reservation?”

“Yes you do. And I have one.”

“What about the money? This place must cost a fortune.”

“I've been saving up to treat you guys a dinner here.”

Keith was gaping. Lance still couldn't believe what was happening right in front of him.

“Can we get in already?” Shiro asked. “Or would you prefer going somewhere else?”

Of course Keith and Lance wanted to go in! Shiro evidently had done a lot, and all by himself, to bring them there. They were not going to turn it down!

They entered the main hall of the restaurant, which was gigantic, and there were many people sitting down, chatting and enjoying their meals, all of them dressed in shirt, cloth pants, dresses and shoes that could cost a whole kidney. Keith felt really out of place; he was wearing cargo boots and a simple red sweater under his poofy jacket. Lance wasn't that better either; he was wearing a blue shirt with matching sweater, which was a plus, but the jeans killed the entire vibe.

Shiro spoke to a man with a book in front of him, probably the one in charge of reservations, and after confirming that Shiro, effectively, had made his own, the three of them were guided to one of the private rooms. It was a room with carved wood decorating the walls, a small window that allowed you to see the outside, a small table in the center and three seats ready to go.

These rooms were a bit harder to get, since most people wanted a private dinner, so, to get one, you had to make a reservation at least with one month of anticipation.

“Just how much did you go through to get this room?” Keith asked.

“Not too much, actually,” Shiro laughed. “I called this place last christmas and they said the room was available for today, so I took it.”

“You reserved this place a year ago?!” Both Keith and Lance felt their jaws falling to the floor.

Shiro... Shiro remembered a reservation he had made a year ago? How did he manage to remember it? It was true that Shiro would write things down in papers for him to remember, like making a list for the supermarket or pointing out in an agenda that he had to go to a meeting a certain day, but, the fact that he had remembered something that Keith and Lance themselves would have forgotten easily was just so... amazing...

Without saying anything else, the three of them sat down, the waiter brought the menus for everyone and, after asking for something to drink, they were left alone. Keith and Lance started reading the menu and while Lance was trying to pick one of the many fancy things this place offered, Keith was trying really hard to imagine what all these things could look and taste like. Some of these things sounded like spaghetti, but what was the “al pesto” sauce?

“You know, guys,” Shiro started, and both Keith and Lance lowered their menus. “I don't know if I've ever told you this but, when I was little, I never celebrated christmas the way I do with you two.”

Keith and Lance looked at each other, and Keith said “I don't recall you telling us how you celebrated christmas before.”

“Really?” Shiro seemed both surprised and relieved. “Well, it's like that. Christmas, for me, wasn't a family day as a child. It was a romantic day for my parents to celebrate. Dad would usually take mom on a fancy dinner like this.”

Lance tried to portray small Shiro with his parents as they had a romantic night while Shiro watched movies at home. Lance couldn't quite portray himself in that kind of tradition. He loved to spend time with his family exchanging gifts and making the youngest kids believe in Santa. But Shiro didn't seem to be sad about remembering that. So, did he...

“So, you wanted to share christmas with us in that way?” Lance asked, his face starting to heat up.

“That was my dream. At least once, to have a date with you guys on christmas.”

Shiro smiled. It was a tender smile, so loving and endearing it made Lance feel warmth in the pit of his belly even though he had been freezing just a while ago, and it made Keith feel like he wanted to hide somewhere because the emotions were too much to handle.

Lance reached out with his hand to hold Shiro's, pulled it towards himself and planted a kiss on the dorso. Similarly, Keith stood up for a second to plant a kiss on Shiro's cheek. Shiro could feel all his body warming up just as his partners did.

“That may be the sweetest thing I've ever heard you say, you know?” Lance said with his teasing voice.

“Sometimes you're so embarrassing,” Keith teased Shiro too.

“Hey guys,” Shiro's face was as red as a cherry. “C'mon, I worked hard on not forgetting this!”

“We know,” Keith reassured.

“And we love you so much for it,” Lance finished the idea.

Shiro felt like his face couldn't ever feel hotter.

#voltronss2k16 #shklance #shiro #keith #lance #Voltron legendary defender #voltron #fanfiction #one-shot #fluff #christmas fluff #going on a date #domestic au #alternate universe #aged-up characters

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