#The Book of Oafish Might | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

toddycats · 2 years

Text

Hey uh,,,,, I wrote a deeply fucking personal essay? poem? just now and idk where to put it but if anyone wants to read it here u go. It's about being nb.

Knowing

I’m three. I know the alphabet in English and in French. I can read children’s books to my parents. My favorite color is green. I love horses. I watch science programs on TV with my dad every Wednesday. I don’t like my name because it is unusual. I want to change it to Ruby.

I’m four. I have a Cinderella dress that I wear everywhere. I love Disney princesses like every girl my age. I still love horses, and dinosaurs and stuffed animals and construction equipment and drawing with markers.

I’m six. All the girls in school say pink is their favorite color. I say that too. It’s still green.

I am nine or ten. I am playing MarioKart for the first time with my best friend. I choose to play as Peach, because she is the only girl character we have unlocked so far. I always play as Peach from then on, even when we have unlocked every character there is. I don’t like change.

I’m ten or eleven. I am about to leave for tennis camp. Well, it’s really just me and my friends being taught tennis by our parents’ co-worker and making up endless songs to the tune of “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.” My mom brings me a training bra and tells me that I have to wear it because I am starting to grow breasts. I remember crying. I don’t remember why.

I feel somehow oafish compared to the other girls my age. I wish I was delicate and pretty like them. Maybe then they would like me better. My hair is long, down to my hips. I don’t know how to make friends at school, just how to keep the ones I already have.

I have my first period. I try hiding it for all of five minutes but I’m too scared. I cry all day, to the point of hiccups. I feel like I’m becoming somebody I’m not. I really, really hate change.

I’m fourteen. I wake up one day feeling deeply unsettled. I put on my tightest sports bra and sit in the car on the road trip that my family is taking, watching the soaring canyons go by outside the window and lost in a fantasy wherein the character I am playing is a boy. This is a first for me.

I am at a friend’s house, in her basement. She tells me, as we are constructing a marble run, that a friend from school is using they/them pronouns. I don’t understand what this means in the slightest. I think later that if I was really who I claim to be, then this should have made sense to me instinctively, should have awoken some curiosity in me. All that happens is that this memory seems to crystallize in my mind, hard and solid but offering no clarity.

I have learned the word misogyny and use it liberally. I hungrily hunt down feminist memes on Pinterest.

I am lying in bed after a long day of taking college classes in high school. I admit to myself that I might be bisexual after all. I am crying. I remember promising to myself that I will never question my gender, because if I do, if I decide that I’m nonbinary, that’s how I’ll know I’m faking everything for attention. I cry myself all the way to sleep.

I tell my mom that I want to be Sherlock Holmes for Halloween: wouldn’t that be fun? (I love Sherlock Holmes) I tell her that the hardest part would be the hat but if I can find that I would be just fine for the rest of it probably and can I borrow that magnifying glass we have sitting by the phone. She looks at me blankly and asks, “Like a guy?” I go as a cartoon character who shares my name instead. She is a girl.

I’m in my prom dress, looking in the mirror. I should feel like a princess. I don’t remember how I do feel but it’s not like that.

I’m in real people college, and I’ve just taken a shower. That uneasiness starts to creep in again, like it has here and there over the years. I put on a sports bra and a sweatshirt, comb my short hair, and go to get lunch. The people passing me on the stairs give me looks. I smugly think that maybe they think that I’m not a girl. Which is ridiculous, but it feels good.

My RA says that they never really felt like a girl growing up. Never. And that’s why they knew they had to transition, that they were always nonbinary. We draw “genderbread” people. I put a tiny spot of blue in the mostly pink brain of mine because that feels right. I don’t show anyone.

I have a long-distance boyfriend, and when I’m at H&M I buy a lacy bra because I think maybe it would be nice for him to see me in it when we get back to school, in all my feminine glory. I’ve never bought a lacy bra before. I’ve long since stopped wearing skirts on a regular basis because they make me feel deeply uneasy somehow. The boyfriend ghosts me long before he ever gets to see the bra.

I’m in the dining hall, waiting for a scoop of mediocre food. The lovely older man who is serving that day always calls each of us “ma’am” or “sir” in a lighthearted way. He calls me “sir” then immediately corrects himself and I feel delight as I’ve never known in his confusion. I eat my food and listen to a worn-out musical playlist that serves as the only bulwark against the tide of anxiety that has been rising all year.

I’m in bed with the guy I consider then to be the love of my life. He jokes that my breasts are 20% of the reason that we are together. I feel sick.

I can’t get out of bed in the mornings. I hyperventilate every time I go to the grocery store.

I’m alone in my apartment. I am wearing two sports bras at once. Also a big black hoodie. I have tied my shoulder-length hair back because I can’t stand to look at it. I’m trying to remember what feeling like a girl feels like. I don’t know if I have a memory of it or not.

I have a panic attack at his cousin’s wedding. I’m wearing a dress for the first time in a long time and realizing that nobody will ever love me enough to marry me. My makeup is running.

I’m being broken up with. He has tears in his eyes and so do I. I remember screaming that I’m nonbinary and I want to use they/them pronouns and that’s the real truth, so do with that what you will. He is quiet a minute and then says that he doesn’t believe in that, but he’ll respect it because it’s me. I cry myself to sleep again.

I cut my hair in the bathroom mirror. I feel insane while I’m doing it, I feel relieved.

My friend (the one with the basement) gives me a binder that she got secondhand from the person who has used they/them pronouns all these years. She says I need it more than her, that she just wears it for fun anyways. I start to wear it every day and it is a bit fun, actually.

I graduate college. I walk in a button-up and the binder and yellow Vans and I feel alive.

My anxiety improves. I don’t know if it’s the Lexapro or not being with him anymore or coming out. I don’t know that I care.

One time, for a class in high school, I wrote an essay about grey areas. I don’t know where it went, I can’t find it anymore. I wrote it about the bisexual identity that I was questioning at the time, but a part of me wants to find it and read it through for some clue, any clue, that I might have been nonbinary even back then. Because that would change something, I think.

I’ve been told that people don’t just decide that they’re trans. That they must always have known. That the people around them must always have known. I don’t think I knew. I don’t think I was ever certain about anything. Does this make me a liar?

#salem speaks #my writing #not furry #not art #trans stuff #nonbinary

31 notes · View notes

cavalierious-whim · 2 years

Text

Gorou whines about his aging appearance and Itto reminds him just how much he loves it. Written for the Oni and The Shiba NSFW zine.

CW: Canon-Compliant, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, Body Worship, Praise Kink, Teasing, Begging, Bikcering Bantering, Oral Sex, Rimming, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Creampie, Snuggling and Cuddling

Read here on AO3 for better quality and full tags.

It is a quiet and lazy morning.

Gorou blinks awake, the room blurry as he yawns. Warmth surrounds him, his husband hot and heavy against his back. Gorou is a scrappy thing, even in these later years of his, but Itto is too sturdy to push off. Especially when he clings to Gorou like an octopus.

“Mhm, what time issit?” Itto’s words are muffled by Gorou’s neck.

“I don’t know. I can’t tell, you big oaf.”

“That’s big oni, to you. Get it right.”

Gorou snorts. Even in his sleep, Itto has so little on his mind. Gorou stretches, his joints creaking loudly in the quiet room.

Itto nuzzles the back of his neck, pulling him closer. “You thinking of going somewhere?”

“I… have some things to attend to?” Gorou hopes he doesn’t sound as unsure as he feels, but he’s never been good at coming up with things on the fly. “Trip to the barber, then I have to go get a new brush. I’m starting to—”

Gorou falls quiet, unsure how to express his displeasure with his appearance, as of late. He’s still handsome, but he’s getting older, sporting a few too many wrinkles and silver hairs for his taste. Ever since Guuji Yae cracked a joke about writing a smutty book about an aging Miss Hina, Gorou’s been hyper-aware of his years.

“Starting to what?” Itto sounds so honestly innocent.

“I’m… Itto, do you ever worry about how you’re aging?”

“Eh?” Itto shuffles about behind him. “I mean, well all do, don’t we?”

“No, I mean—” Gorou sighs, rubbing at the headache that’s already brewing. It’s too early to be concerned about his looks. “I just…lately I’ve felt as though my appeal is waning? My fur is losing its shine. I have wrinkles around my mouth. Soon I’ll be more silver than anything, and—”

“Does that bother you?” Itto sits up and looks at him seriously, none of his usual bravadoes anywhere to be found on his face.

Gorou wants to say no, but he can’t, tongue-tied as he tries to find his words. “I… worry about what you might think. What if I’m not desirable, or—”

Itto laughs, absurdly loud. “Oh, that’s—man, that’s funny. What a great joke, Gorou. You’ve got me cracked wide open like that coconut that Zhongli brought us from his last trip. Maybe a little too early in the morning to be busting a gut but I appreciate the funny all the same.”

Gorou’s face scrunches slightly. “It’s not a joke.”

Itto falters slightly then, his gaze slipping. He’s still a bit of an oafish bull when push comes to shove but he’s grown into himself with age, and he catches on quicker than most seem to assume. He reaches out to poke at Gorou’s nose. “Hey, are you actually being serious? You can’t be.”

“Isn’t it normal to worry about these things?”

“I…guess. But, like, you don’t need to worry about how I feel. And don’t tell me that you don’t know how handsome you are. I know that smug pup can still be found somewhere in there, preening. Remember how you used to wear the Miss Hina outfit?”

“Used to being the keywords there,” murmurs Gorou. “Time flies, things change, and now I’m sagging in places that no one wants to sag in—hey.”

Itto rolls Gorou onto his back with barely a touch. He leans over him, boxing him in, hair askew and wildly tangled. “Have you seen yourself?” asks Gorou, reaching up to brush his bangs back. “An absolute mess.”

“Have you seen yourself?” asks Itto. “Ah, probably not since you’re laying there, trying to convince yourself that you’re past your prime. Which you aren’t. You’re like a prime cut of steak, you only get better as you dry-age, right?”

“Isn’t dry-aged beef covered in a layer of mold?” Because that’s a revolting image that Gorou would rather not be compared to.

“It isn’t about the looks, it’s about the flavor, the taste!” Itto’s gaze turns suggestive then as he waggles his eyebrows. “Should I remind you? Should I take care of you?” Itto slides a hand down Gorou’s front, pulling open the collar of his linen shirt, fingers skittering across the newly revealed skin.

“I—that’s—” Well, Gorou should’ve expected his dick to take an immediate interest because it does.

“Just lay back, babe. Numero Uno Itto is on the prowl—”

“Please don’t.”

Itto huffs and falls quiet, leaning over to nuzzle at Gorou’s neck. “Alright, the bullshit’s laid at the foot of the bed. It’s only the two of us, now.”

Gorou hums at that. “Better.”

Itto drags a hand across his side, squeezing at his waist. Gorou is about to protest but Itto doesn’t let him. “I like it,” he says, leaning closer, pressing a kiss against his neck.

“If you say so,” says Gorou with a sigh.

“Hey, just listen to me. Let me do this, let me take care of you. Tell you why I love you so much, yeah?”

That’s all it takes for Gorou to melt, really, stupidly romantic at heart. “Alright, I’ll—oh.”

Itto wraps his fingers around Gorou’s cock, easily accessible since he sleeps pantsless half of the time. Gorou moans softly, his length already filling out with just a few jerks of Itto’s hand. “Eager,” says Itto with a laugh.

“Brute,” says Gorou. “As if you aren’t. You started this.”

“Hm, no, you did.” Itto nips at his neck, teeth digging in and dragging against Gorou’s skin with delicious friction. “That look on your face. I can’t have that. It’s gotta be wiped off with nothing but pure pleasure, babe—”

“Itto, please.” Gorou isn’t sure if he’s begging for him to shut up, or begging for him to get a move on.

Itto kisses his neck sweetly, nudging the underside of Gorou’s neck gently with his forehead and horns. Soft and subtle affection that makes Gorou’s heart crack in two. This insufferable idiot knows just how to pull him apart and put him back together.

Maybe it was dumb to think that Itto would care about how he looks.

“Always so responsive,” says Itto, thumbing across the tip of Gorou’s dick, spreading the leaking precome around.

Gorou is average enough, but Itto’s hand dwarfs his length as he pumps it. “Gods,” he moans, bucking into Itto’s grip, chasing the delicious friction of his palm. This early in the morning, he’s usually an early riser but this time around Gorou already feels the pleasure that pinches his gut tight.

He doesn’t think he’ll last long.

And Itto must realize it too, letting go of him. Gorou’s cock drops, slapping against his stomach, tacky at the tip. “That’s—” Gorou whines pathetically.

Itto ignores him, tugging at his shirt to pull it over his head. The moment Gorou’s chest is revealed, Itto presses his nose to his sternum, sighing against the skin there.

“No doubt you’d prefer breasts,” says Gorou ruefully, thinking of Miss Hina.

“I’ll always prefer you,” says Itto. “Besides—” He swirls his tongue around Gorou’s nipple, sucking at the bud until it stands stiff in the cool air. “These little guys work perfectly fine. I know that you like this.”

Gorou does, arching against his mouth as Itto laps at his pec, teasing his nipple until it’s cherry red and swollen.

Itto is a man who enjoys using his mouth, kissing his way across the length of Gorou’s body. Licking at his skin, nipping at the corners and creases. “I could eat you up,” he says, nuzzling the softness of Gorou’s waist, sighing softly as he kisses the skin there too.

“Please don’t.” Or do, depending on the type of eating he’s referencing. Gorou can’t help but think of Itto swallowing the entirety of his cock down, mouth wet and hot around him. He’s probably come right then and there, straight down Itto’s throat.

“I know what you’re thinking,” says Itto, slipping lower to bite at the crease of his groin.

“You can’t possibly.”

Itto smiles against him and Gorou can feel the curve of his mouth against his skin. He looks up and they lock eyes. “I know I can be dim, but I also know you like the back of my hand.” He smooths his thumb across the curve of Gorou’s hip. “You’re thinking about my mouth on you.”

Gorou huffs, cheeks pink. “Yes, well, how can I not?”

Itto noses at his cock next, his tongue slipping out to drag across the length of it. Gorou moans, reaching down to pull at his hair. Then, Itto pulls back. “Not today,” he says, pressing his hand flat against Gorou’s belly, just above the base of his dick. “I’d rather you come on my cock, I think. Here.” He taps the skin there, no doubt imagining the way that he carves his way into Gorou’s far more petite body.

“Gods, just—” Gorou lets out an annoyed hiss, wiggling his hips to move things along.

“I said that I wanted to take care of you, right? Lavish you with praise and tell you all the things I love about you?” Itto kisses the tip of his cock. “Obviously this guy.”

Gorou rolls his eyes. But then Itto presses his thighs to his chest, nuzzling at his balls next, licking down the seam of them. “Itto, oh, that’s—”

“These guys too. Soft, fun to play with. You know the drill.”

“I swear to the Shogun, stop calling my body parts guys— sh-shit.” Gorou’s curse comes out wavering as Itto licks across his hole before pulling back, spreading his ass cheeks with his hands.

He thumbs over his rim, testing the give of the furled muscle. “This guy tho—”

“Itto.”

Itto laughs, pressing a kiss to the back of Gorou’s thigh. “I’m only teasing,” he says. He licks across his hole again, the tip of his tongue probing deeper, slipping in easily.

Gorou moans, melting into the sheets. A slicked finger presses in alongside, and suddenly Gorou is a whining, keening mess. Just one finger is thick when compared to his slight stature—one and a tongue is enough to leave his toes curled in pleasure.

“Please,” he cries out, “Gods, just… please.”

Itto laughs against him as he leans back to slip a second finger in. He just watches, then, fucking his fingers in and out of Gorou’s ass. “If you could see what I see,” murmurs Itto. “That way you just swallow me up.”

“I get it,” says Gorou, his impatience winning out. “Fuck me already.”

Itto doesn’t. Instead, he drags his fingers in and out, spreading them to tug at his rim. Then he hooks them, angling a certain way that makes Gorou jerk and fire shoot down his spine. He moans, fucking against Itto’s hand, begging for his fingers to brush that spot again.

“See?” asks Itto, kissing the crook of Gorou’s knee as he drills his fingers into him. “You’re spending the morning worrying about whether or not I still find you attractive when we could’ve been doing this the entire time. I love this so much, watching how you beg for it.”

“I’m—” Gorou’s voice cracks and he lets out a soft little howl of protest. “I need you. Please, I need you—”

“Alright, calm down,” says Itto, pulling his fingers out and wiping them off. He slides up the length of Gorou, his hands warm against chilled skin. Itto takes a moment to shuffle out of his pants, not even bothering with his shirt because he knows that Gorou will protest the longer he takes.

The sight is still good; Itto’s shirt is baggy on him, but Gorou can still see the sharp jut of his hipbone and the curve of his behind. He spreads his legs, leaning back, hooking an arm underneath his knee to make his want clear.

Itto is staring again, his mouth parted slightly. “Fuck, I love you. Like, I know that you’re feeling all sorts of down, but I love you as you are. That’s why I love you.”

Gorou’s chest hitches at that. “I’m… Itto, I know that,” he says softly, reaching up and pulling Itto close. Itto buries his nose in his neck, and Gorou sighs, petting through his thick hair. “It’s just hard, getting old, I think.”

Itto chuckles, kissing the juncture of his neck, dragging those dangerous fangs across his skin. He takes it slow as he presses his cock in. Itto uses way too much oil and is way too gentle. Gorou drags his nails down his back, urging him to move faster, wanting to feel that stinging pressure as he settles deep—but Itto keeps himself steady until he’s fully seated.

“Gods,” hisses Gorou, his nostrils flaring as he arches against his husband.

“Damn,” says Itto, moaning against his skin, inhaling deeply. “You always feel so good. So tight for me.”

“That’s—” Oh, that’s embarrassing. Gorou feels the way that his cheeks burn pink, and Itto laughs at him.

Itto moves then, pulling out until the tip of his cock is left. Gorou whines at the drag, and keens when he presses back in, legs tightening around Itto’s waist. “Finally, fuck—”

It is a delicious sort of drag that pulls at him as Itto fucks into Gorou with a measured and even pace. His thick cock pulls at his rim, and every thrust brushes right against his prostate. “Itto,” he whines, gripping at Itto’s bulging biceps, fingers digging in. “I’m—oh, Archons.”

“And to think you thought I still wouldn’t like this. You worried that I’d lose interest.” Itto leans back, reaching between them, pressing Gorou’s thigh back to watch as he fucks into him.

The angle changes and Gorou cries out. His fingers curl into the sheets and his toes curl. Itto’s cock feels almost too big, too deep in his guts, almost to the point of feeling it in his throat. Itto thumbs across his hole where it’s stretched to its limits around his dick.

Gorou clenches, whining as he melts into the sheets. Pleasure churns in his gut, every stroke of Itto’s cock stocking the fire more and more. “So big,” he murmurs, his voice punched, “Gods, you’re so—there, there, don’t stop.”

Itto hikes Gorou’s thighs higher, fucking into him deeper. “I know I say a lot of dumb shit—”

“Itto—”

“But, fuck, marrying you was the best choice. You’re as perfect as they come.”

“Itto.”

He said he’d take care of Gorou, show him just how much he loves him. Itto wraps a hand around Gorou’s cock, stroking it as he thrusts into him languidly. Gorou practically howls, unable to look away from Itto’s debauched, half-lidded gaze.

“Yeah, you’re—shit. I’m not going to—Looks like Numero Uno Itto is close to—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence and ruin the Celestia-damned mood.” Flimsy words for a man who’s about to come all over Itto’s cock. Gorou’s eyes slipped closed and he bites at his lip, moaning wantonly as Itto’s hips slap against his ass.

It’s filthy, the way that Itto’s cock bullies its way inside him. The drag of his dick as it pulls against his insides, and the way that Gorou can swear he sees his stomach bulge. As if he reads his mind, Itto presses his hand against the skin there, just underneath Gorou’s belly button, feeling the press of his cock with every slick glide in.

Gorou comes first, tumbling over the edge as that burning coil in his gut goes taut. He cries out Itto’s name, tensing and tightening around him. Itto fucks him through it, knowing that he likes the overstimulation. Tears prick at the corners of Gorou’s eyes. He bites at his lips, fangs nicking the skin there.

“Look at you,” says Itto. “More handsome than even the best beetle for—”

“Just shut up and don’t stop.”

Itto doesn’t shut up, practically shouting something equally dumb as he presses his cock in as deep as it can go, painting Gorou’s insides white as he comes. Gorou laughs at the absurdity of it, hiding his fond smile in the crook of his elbow.

The room is heady with the scent of sex. Gorou lays boneless in the bed, sighing in satisfaction. Itto pulls his cock out, staring at his fucked out rim, using his thumb to press his come back in. “Would you say that I’ve primed you for more compliments? That I should baste you with more praise—Ow.”

Gorou manages to find the strength to slap Itto with a pillow.

Itto flops against the back, cracking his spine. “Really, you should thank me for bending you over like that. You aren’t the only one getting old.”

Gorou props his chin up on a palm. “Whatever happened to just taking care of me? Wasn’t the point to remind me that I’m just as handsome as in our youth?”

Itto reaches out and boops his nose. “And you are. At the same time, I think that I overexerted myself and ye olde muscles are now protesting. My old bones might need a nap.”

“Idiot,” says Gorou affectionately, scooting closer and pressing into Itto’s side.

“Well, I can’t say no to some cuddling.” Itto presses a gentle kiss to Gorou’s forehead.

“Shut up and take your nap. I want my way with you again later.”

“Oh? Will you take care of me, then? Breathe some life into these dusty old guns?”

Gorou chuckles, nuzzling against Itto’s chest. “If you behave.”

Itto behaves, falling quiet as he settles into the sheets. It’s easy to drift off, Gorou’s thoughts hazy in the aftermath of their bliss. His husband might be an idiot, but at least it’s only half of the time.

#Genshin Impact #Itto/Gorou #IttoRou #Genshin Impact fanfiction #Genshin Impact fanfic #genshin impact smut #genshin smut

15 notes · View notes

leutjaneausten · 1 year

Text

The BFG Isn’t a BFD

I’ve read Roald Dahl’s books to little kids for years. Let me tell you how that goes.

Imogen West-KnightsFeb 23, 20233:18 PM

As it happens, I have spent quite a lot of time over the past decade reading Roald Dahl books with small children as part of a side hustle in tutoring English. Matilda, The BFG, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Twits: all of them. All these books have moments in them that are a little sticky for modern readers, and that you can contextualize for children, if you want to. I think, from experience, that even small children are capable of understanding something like “In the past, more people thought it was OK to be rude about people who were different from them, but now we don’t do that because it’s upsetting/unfair/wrong.” Dahl’s books are full of material that needs a little explaining to kids, but perhaps more importantly here, the world’s full of other children’s books. I choose to read these to kids because I feel comfortable helping kids through them. It is not required.

I mention all of this, obviously, because of a new episode in a doomed and stupid enterprise of our times: Yet again, adults are getting angry online about children’s books. It was announced earlier this week that the Roald Dahl Story Company, which controls the rights to the late author’s books, worked in conjunction with Puffin, the books’ publisher, and a collective who campaign to make children’s literature more inclusive, on what they call “small and carefully considered” changes to the texts, to ensure Dahl’s books “continue to be enjoyed by all children today.” These have apparently included changes to language regarding things like weight, mental health, gender, violent behavior, and race, and whole extra sentences added about topics such as why it’s OK for women to wear wigs, in The Witches.

What’s interesting about this unneeded controversy is that I haven’t so far seen anybody, anywhere on the political spectrum, who thinks this is a good idea. Loudmouths on the right think it’s “woke cancel culture” nonsense, and loudmouths on the left think it smacks of literary censorship. So why has this happened?

Listen: Roald Dahl was a shitbag. This is known. In an infamous 1983 interview, he said that “there is a trait in the Jewish character that does provoke animosity. Maybe it’s a kind of lack of generosity towards non-Jews. I mean, there’s always a reason why anti-anything crops up anywhere.” He was, by some accounts, a more general racist, a misogynist, a bully. I understand the publisher’s impulse to look at these works, which bear marks of the views of their author, and want to try to buff them to a higher shine under the gaze of the contemporary world. Generally, though, I don’t think it serves anybody very well if we scrub away everything that is troubling in this way.

Do we now need more detail on how the Oompa-Loompas are being compensated fairly for their work?

It’s uncomfortable that the world has changed, and that many cultural works of a time before now still exist and are enjoyable. Sometimes, it’s an obvious move to make small changes to a literary text to update it for modern audiences. Surely few would dispute, for example, that changing the name of Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None from what it used to be removed offensive language while preserving the value of the work.

But what’s happened here is more extensive, and much less obvious in its merit. What Puffin has actually done in this case is a mess. For instance, Augustus Gloop will be “enormous” rather than “fat.” This performs no sensitivity purpose, because the character is fat. Much of his strand of the plot revolves around this fact. And even taking the word “fat” out at all implies that fat is an insult in and of itself, rather than a descriptor of one possible body type. What has been achieved here?

This whole thing also seems like a misunderstanding about what is appealing about the world of Roald Dahl in the first place. Or not, in fact, a misunderstanding, but something closer to a cynical attempt to sanitize the I.P. before Netflix gets their hands on it to pump out a load of new Dahl adaptations, as they will be doing in the coming years after a deal with the Roald Dahl Story Company. Puffin can change lines like “so I shipped them all over here—every man, woman and child in the Oompa-Loompa tribe” to “so, they all agreed to come over—each and every Oompa Loompa.” Fine, but do we now need more detail on how the Oompa-Loompas are being compensated fairly for their work? Does any child in the world give a shit about that? I’m being facetious, but the point is that Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is a horrible little story in many ways. Changing specific phrases doesn’t change the shape of these books themselves. They are nasty books. Dahl was a nasty writer for adults as well: His short stories are some of the most memorable and twisted things I’ve read. The Twits is about a husband and a wife torturing each other for fun. In Matilda, a little boy is forced to eat an entire chocolate cake until he is almost sick as a punishment. In George’s Marvelous Medicine, George kills his grandmother by shrinking her out of existence. The nastiness is a feature, not a bug.

You can choose not to read these books to your children, should you wish, and you would have fair reasons. Or you can do a bit of course-correction while reading them. And it’s a course-correction that has to be done with children all the time, anyway. Recently, I was having a drawing contest with a 6-year-old. She picked the theme: princesses, because it’s almost always princesses. She started to draw hers, and when she drew the body, it came out round. “She looks a bit fat,” she said, wrinkling her nose. I said that was OK—the princess can be fat. And she thought about it, shrugged, and we carried on drawing. I don’t say this to go: hark at me, great woke savior and influencer of young minds. I just mean that it’s pretty easy to do, and would be just as easy to do while reading.

My problem with Rolled Oats is that he’s clumsy, ham fisted and oafish. Kids get subtly and wit, and they deserve someone who writes up to them. I think Rolled Oats is a clueless adult’s idea of what kids might like.

#neil gaiman got me thinking #rolled oats isnt that great

0 notes

plotvine · 2 years

Text

Alumina had been waiting on an important delivery when it happened. Her brand new Causal Amulet, a symbol of the near century she had spent working for her beloved mentor Sykarys, and her ticket to graduating the Astral Plane and moving into her new post as Guardian of the Crystal Temple in the shining city of Excelsior. Indeed, she had been using the rare downtime to sip a cup of roseroot tea and read an Unknown Tome of Healing. It had been the perfect midsized afternoon. Until, of course, it wasn’t.

The tingling in her feet had originally been dismissed as a surge of her own excitement. Looking back, those few seconds would be replayed in her head endlessly, as though the spell from the Earth Realm could have been stopped by then… it couldn’t. Before she knew it, the tingling had engulfed her whole body, and she was slipping through a crudely created portal and back into the dreaded Physical Plane she oh so despised with all her might. She could immediately tell where the portal had dumped her by the putrid smell. The smell of sweaty, oafish humans. She was surrounded by the stench in the pitch black.

Too elegant and well trained to scream, Alumina landed on her back with a painful thump and immediately opened her eyes, scanning what was now the starless ceiling of a dark, damp, cave. ‘In the name of the Maker,’ she fumed inwardly, ‘What is going on here?’. She took a moment to calm her nerves –deep breathing, raising barriers into her mind. Whoever had to guts and sense to summon her should be fully aware of her power, and her history with this dimension.

In an attempt to sit up she found that she was bound at her hands and feet. Odd, since most summoning spells didn’t involve such barbaric measures. A flame appeared in the gloom and revealed she was actually surrounded by dozens of armed figures. ‘Figures,’ she smirked to herself, whomever was responsible for grounding her had adequately prepared for the battle to come. No one interrupts a Grand Cleric’s teatime and survives.

The crowd of armed men parted to reveal a robed individual hurrying towards her. The figure seemed excited, but Alumina daren’t open her mind to probe his. In the few minutes of ailing in his sunken garbage heap of a dimension, she had noticed a few things. One, her mind felt, /tight/, as though it had been crammed into a much smaller space, two, her hands and feet were still tingling, but in an unfamiliar, earthly way. It vaguely reminded her of a time she had been bound by Kraken tentacles until her bloodflow had ceased to reach her fingertips. Resisting the blush that spread across her face, she sat up towards the approaching villain, and prepared a spell to free herself.

“Oh, by the Gods it is done! Lady Breakbrook will surely allow me into the Goldenfold after binding the great Sykarys!” The figure rejoiced; a male voice Alumina wagered by its tone. Stood 2 meters from where she sat, the figure pulled out an old book from their robes. “Michael, some light if you please.” A soldier stepped forward from the front row to illuminate the figure’s book.

The light revealed the hooded face of a jolly looking old man. Bright rosy cheeks met between a round nose and underneath, a thickly coiled mustache topped a grinning mouth. The mage was shorter than anticipated, perhaps a dwarf human halfling? An idiot mistaking her for her mentor. Though the thought should have flattered her, alumina’s thoughts were of raging indignance at the horror of being targeted by someone who had no clue of her beingness, her power, or even her name. To use her Guiding Bolt against such an assailant would be a mercy, if only she could get her hands on them.

“O’ Ancient one, Sykarys, Angel of the Mind, I, Belos Greyfeather hast bound thee in the host of your direct descendant, last of your line. Be still, and no harm shall come unto you. So decreed by My Lady Breakbrook, Right Hand to the King Fredrick of Valibur.”

This summoner was more stupid than she thought. Summon an angel into the body of it’s descendant? Summoning an Angel was a disastrous feat even in her time. It required heaps of energy and far more sacrifices than was worth the attempt. To bind one to the body of a mortal was, well… impossible. Angels were not of the earth, their souls simply incompatible with that of a human. Alumina on the other hand, was originally born Kalashtar, ascending to position of Immortal through her decades of pious service to her God and Its servant, Sykarys. The pieces slowly clicked together in her brain as she realized how she became the target of such idiocy. She wondered if her guiding bolt would work if she was indeed in the body of another. Eyeing a test target, Alumina steadied her emotions to focus herself.

CRACK! A burst of lightning sprouted from her seated form directly into the chest of torchbearer Michael, who screamed and dropped said torch directly onto the robes of Belos. His babbling now interrupted, a series of fearful shrieks erupted from him and the group of soldiers near him.

“Retreat! Retreat! Aye, I knew this would happen!” Greyfeather, now frantically patting at himself where the torch had set him ablaze, scurried back through the parted rows of… soldiers? The armed crowd seemed to descend into disarray faster than their supposed leader. Clamoring for an exit, they bumped into each other, casting a wide berth of Belos the Blithering and their injured comrade Michael.

Suddenly amused, Alumina decided to play nice. ‘Thaumaturgy,’ she willed a harmless earthquake to shake the cave. For the next minute, the wrath of the Angels seemed to descend upon the scores of lowly beings that had dared play with powers above them. Michael, still glimmering from her radiant attack, crawled on his hands and knees up the slop which led to the mouth of the cave. Belos and a few followers mobbed behind them. Within 60 seconds the crowd had dispersed, leaving fallen torches and weapons strewn carelessly upon the cave floor.

‘Hmm, so much for being prepared,’ uncertain the cave was empty, she refrained from speaking. The Grand Cleric was reluctant to discover what the voice of this new body she had been bound to would sound like, she had not needed to use a physical voice in quite some time.

Reaching out with her mind to perceive all nearby beings, Alumina was relieved to find that there were only insects left in the cave with her. Testing her crammed mind’s limits, she could pick up a few idle shrubs, and the trailing of slow humans fleeing the radius of her ability. ‘Impotent fools,’ she cursed quietly the mess they had caused for themselves. This body had either been sacrificed immediately before her entry, or the consciousness of this poor Kalashtar child was somewhere on the Astral Plane, perhaps in Alumina’s own home, unaware of what the Devil had happened to her.

What an accursed mess.

#swapped from earth #nano 2022 #nanowrimo #oc fiction #dungeons and dragons #creative writing #fiction #alumina #story writing #adding more tags stresses me out but i quite enjoyed writing this #1196 words

1 note · View note

cybernaght · 2 years

Text

The Oath of Love, known in my house as the Oafs of Love: a half-way review of sorts.

余生，请多指教 s is a long-awaited adaptation of the novel of the same title which details common-or-garden “boy meets girl” romance, in all its silliness and glory.

The trailer for it was shown as early as spring last year, when the leads won the King and Queen of Weibo night. A year later, the drama itself dropped without any fanfare on not one but two streaming services. Rakuten Viki shows original cut of forty-five to fifty minute episodes, and WeTV streams TV edition episodes about seven minutes shorter than that. While the content is largely the same (there might be micro differences in editing, but this is not the Untamed Special Edition situation), the cuts between episodes themselves differ. As usual, the VIP streaming is a few episodes ahead of the free release. If you want to shill out for just one of the platforms, WeTV, while being an inferior cut with no theme song, is slightly ahead of Viki; and also has an advantage of having insta-subs, while Viki takes a while with their community-sourced subtitles.

As an adaptation, it’s an interesting one, at least judging by what had been translated of the source material, which is the first 54 chapters of the novel. Seemingly, the producers decided to licence the book and then change everything about it. The novel is this sedate, glacial, cozy and almost cryptic in its narrative tale of fated love, written as a diary. The main characters meet, they like each other, the get together, the stay together. That's more or less it.

The drama, while keeping some dialogue from the novel (as in the gif above) is more of a Regency romance story wrapped in layers of contemporary rom-com tropes. There are a hundred misunderstandings per minute. There is an enemies to lovers relationship. There is a conniving romantic rival. There is a scheming BFF. There are no less than three sets of overbearing parents.

There is a child who ships the main couple. There is inherent romance of bandaging a head wound, followed by, in no particular order, by inherent romance of sharing a jacket, headphones and an umbrella. Basically, think of a single trope of the genre and I guarantee that it will be here.

Our heroes are Lin Zhixiao (Yang Zi), a music student who seems to do no course work but is hell bent on being the world’s greatest cellist. One day she bumps into Doctor Gu (Xiao Zhan), and then, due to her father’s illness, she keeps bumping into him again and again. The way he is introduced was best described by @supernovasimplicity as “Mr Darcy vibes”, which was right on the money.

In the B-plot we have Zhixiao’s best friend Sansan (Li Muchen): a foxy, fierce kind of a sidekick; and Gu Wei’s cousin Gu Xiao (Zhao Zilu), who is your typical rich oafish playboy with a heart of gold. The later have a very Stalking For Love kind of courtship, which would have been very yikes, if not for a sparkling chemistry between the actors and Zhao Zilu’s bountiful charisma.

The weirdest thing about this whole show is that, if you look at it on paper, it sounds kind of trashy. The main relationship is built entirely out of misunderstandings, and the secondary one entirely out of red flags. The world of the show, so to speak, has nothing to do with reality. This includes, but not limited to: really weird scheduling and lifestyle of the leads; all but cackling maniacally antagonist; hospital setting which has so little in common with the way hospitals actually operate that counting all the laws it breaks per episode makes a special kind of entertainment.

And yet, for all of that… this show is incredibly charming.

The characters are not always consistently written (love how out girl Zhixiao fluctuates between being a filial child that is a mistress of all housework to not knowing the first thing about basic chores), but they are a joy to watch. You end up rooting for all of those silly humans because they are just so gosh darn adorkable. All the cast members seem to have a lot of fun with the material and bounce off of each other beautifully. For all the overbearing parents tropes, the familial relationships are very well developed. A lot of the scenes have a wonderful detail in writing and directing that makes them feel real, operating largely on subtext. The show is decently shot and snappily paced. it’s saccharine, but not at all indulgent, and not afraid to poke fun at its own romantic notions. The comedic elements of the show are genuinely laugh-out-loud funny. It’s just plain fun to watch.

Is the Oath of Love the best drama known to mankind? Hell no. But it is, ultimately, a moreish, enjoyable, giggle-worthy romp. Sometimes, that’s more than enough.

#余生，请多指教 #the oath of love #review of sorts #cdrama #xiao zhan #now with gifs

27 notes · View notes

flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Text

Poems for the Poet (1/ 5)

Pairing: Eskel/Jaskier

Summary: Unbeknownst to Jaskier, he inspires Eskel to try his hand at writing poetry. Eskel posts his poems anonymously to notice boards, not thinking that anyone would read them. Until he hears Jaskier's songs unmistakably referencing Eskel's poetry. (Eskel’s pov of The Way to a Poet’s heart)

Word count: ~2k

AO3

Content warnings: self-consciousness, self-doubt

Eskel could have been many things. He could have been handsome. At least he remembered his mother calling him such when he had still been a boy with a wide and toothy grin that he didn’t need to hide. He could have become a mage – his hill-folk blood had practically guaranteed him a place at Ban-Ard.

And maybe, as slim a chance as there had been, he could have become a poet. He remembered his mother singing to him about hens. It had been a silly song, but when he had undergone the Trials of the Grasses, the verses had been the last thing on his lips before the melody had turned into cries as fire raced through his blood.

That day, all dreams disappeared and turned into could-have-been’s that twisted Eskel’s stomach if he ever thought about them.

They didn’t matter anymore. Eskel was a witcher. One exceptionally skilled in magic, but a witcher nonetheless.

Perhaps he had even been handsome for a little while longer, but now there was not a hint of attractiveness left on him. It didn’t bother him. Couldn’t bother him.

At the very least he still had his poetry. No, not his. He had never written a verse in his life. If he had gone to Oxenfurt instead of being dragged to Kaer Morhen, he might have learned about metre and clever word-play. Now, he didn’t dare put a pen to paper. Too certain was the chance that his words would only be yet another disappointment. He’d rather keep the wish to write a might-be instead of a dreaded could-have-been. As long as he didn’t try and fail, he could still imagine that he might be able to become a poet one day. Until then, he would study his poetry collection and listen to the bards he came across in taverns, praying that their songs wouldn’t break off once they laid eyes on him.

It happened more often than Eskel would like to admit. Many times, he found himself lingering outside a tavern, just to get the chance of listening to the songs a little longer before they inevitably faded in discomfort when the bards noticed the witcher staring at them through the windows.

He would have done so today as well, if it weren’t for the long gash in his leg. It didn’t hurt too badly and it was already close to being healed, but he yearned to sit down and close his eyes for a little while, to eat and maybe, if he was lucky, to listen to some songs.

Even from outside the tavern he could hear that the bard singing a soaring ballad was talented.

So he pulled his hood up and pushed the door open. As he shuffled to a table at the corner, he tried to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible.

He knew he should have kept his eyes cast down. He knew he should have kept to himself.

Yet there was something in the bard’s verses that made Eskel’s insides sing. He didn’t know the words for what he heard. Perhaps it was alliteration or anaphor? Whatever the bard had done to give his words life, it stirred something in Eskel.

He looked up before he could think better of it; before he could remember all the reasons why he shouldn’t do such a thing.

For a blessed heartbeat he was allowed to just look at the bard. There was no denying his beauty. Clearly, many people in this room looked at the bard’s blue eyes or long fingers with adoration.

Eskel noticed those things merely as an afterthought. He was too distracted by the almost wistful expression on the bard’s face, the way he subtly swayed with his music as if he was a part of it and the meaning he put into every word as it fell from his lips.

Eskel’s chest clenched at the sight. Without meaning to, he leaned forward to see better. It must have been that movement that caught the singer’s attention, for his eyes wandered over to Eskel.

And his voice broke. Blue eyes widened and fingers had to strain not to fumble.

Abruptly, Eskel looked away, pulling his hood deeper into his face to hide his eyes and turning his scarred side towards the wall for good measure.

It was already too late. All hope that the bard might not have realised exactly what Eskel was burst when the song came to an overly hurried end.

A handful of patrons muttered disapprovingly and one even gave a shout, demanding his coin back if the bard wasn’t going to play a full set.

Out of all the people, Eskel knew he was the one most disappointed in the abrupt yet not unexpected end of the performance. He would have loved to hear more of this bard’s art, to listen for long enough to figure out just how he crafted his verses.

Yet another could-have-been.

Eskel should probably leave. Maybe if he did, the bard would pick up his song again and Eskel would be able to listen to it while he put distance between himself and the tavern. His leg ached at the thought of having to get up already, but if it meant getting to hear a little more of the bard, it would have been worth it. Eskel was just about to stand up when someone pulled out the chair opposite of him and let themselves fall onto it with little grace, but palpable excitement.

Long fingers drummed onto the table as if the person’s energy couldn’t be contained. Or as if they were waiting impatiently for Eskel to leave.

“Apologies,” Eskel said, doing his best to make his voice sound smoother than it was. “I’ll leave the table to you.”

Unexpectedly, a hand shot out and grabbed Eskel’s wrist, lightly enough to make clear this person wasn’t out for a fight, but insistent enough to make Eskel tense.

“That would be defeating the purpose of me coming here, wouldn’t it?” That voice. It was the bard’s voice. Unwillingly, Eskel’s eyes snapped up and his breath hitched when they met blue. The bard’s easy smile didn’t leave him, even as he took in Eskel’s inhuman eyes and mangled face. “After all, I came here specifically to talk to you.”

“Oh.” Eskel relaxed slightly. This he could do. “Do you have a contract for me?”

The bard let out a pearling laugh that crinkled the skin around his eyes. Eskel’s chest clenched. It was rare a human laughed in his presence. No, that wasn’t quite true. People laughed constantly, though mostly at him. They would snicker blatantly when they saw his face or snort cruelly when he said something that had been meant to sound gentle and diplomatic but evidently came out as a pitiful attempt of an oafish mutant to fit in where there was no place for him.

But never before had someone other than his family laughed in a way that made him think that perhaps he wasn’t the one being laughed at.

“Well, no. Not exactly.” The bard leaned forward with an eagerness that almost made Eskel draw back. No one leaned towards a witcher. Least of all Eskel with his disfigured face and hulking frame. “I was wondering if you were willing to let a humble bard accompany you on a hunt?”

Eskel blinked at him. “I- no. I just come from a hunt.” Absentmindedly, he shifted his leg beneath the table. “And it would be too-“

“Oh, don’t tell me it would be too dangerous.” The bard let go of Eskel’s wrist and waved it through the air dismissively. “Geralt tells me that all the time and I’m not dead yet, am I?”

Eskel’s brows would have drawn together, if he hadn’t trained himself to keep frowns off his face to stop it from becoming even more fearsome.

For a heartbeat he could only stare at the bard, trying desperately to connect the few things Geralt had told him about his bard to the man sitting in front of him now. A lot of the details – annoyingly talkative, a petty menace, dangerously ready to fall in love with anyone he met – weren’t things Eskel could ascertain from such a short time of talking to the man. But what had was most important was the way Geralt had talked about his bard. There had been a fondness to even his most exasperated words. A fondness that Eskel could imagine only too well being directed at someone like this bard. In fact, as the bard’s smile grew wider with every second that Eskel studied him and something warm and fuzzy spread through Eskel’s insides, he found himself feeling some of that fondness already.

He swallowed and tried to clear his throat as inconspicuously as possible. “Are you Jaskier?”

Jaskier’s eyes lit up with delight. “Geralt mentioned me? Didn’t think he would.”

“He had little choice in the matter.” Eskel’s lips would have twitched if he hadn’t feared that would make Jaskier recoil. “Lambert and I kept teasing him about the fact that there was a song about him.”

As soon as the words left him, he froze. His eyes widened and he scrambled for words to fix his mistake. “I don’t mean that as a bad thing, of course. It’s an honour to have you sing about witchers and the way you weave stories is incredible.”

A hint of red crept into Jaskier’s face that must have been a trick of the light. “Thank you,” he said almost sheepishly, but then his face brightened into something radiant and beautiful. “Wait, you are Eskel!”

Jaskier practically bounced in his chair in his eagerness to drag it even closer to the table. “Geralt told me so much about you!”

Eskel felt his throat grow tight. Far too often had Geralt found him in the library, leaning over a book of poetry and songs written by the very same man that sat before him now. How many times had Eskel drunk a little too much White Gull and told Geralt that he admired his bard?

“He did?” He asked hoarsely.

“Of course!” Jaskier let out a carefree laugh. “He always jokes that one day he would hand me over to you because you are the only witcher that wouldn’t go insane if he had to listen to me sing all day.”

Eskel’s lips twitched, though he turned his head just quickly enough to hide his smile. “I can imagine worse things than listening to your songs.”

Jaskier tilted his head to the side and gave Eskel a look of unashamed curiosity. “Why, my dear Eskel, is that a compliment?”

Eskel shook his head and hunched his shoulders. Before he could stop himself, his hand came up to paw at his scars uncomfortably.

“It…It was supposed to be teasing. I don’t- I’m sorry, I’m not good with that.” His eyes darted away and then quickly back to Jaskier. Putting as much sincerity as he could into his voice, he added, “I would enjoy listening to you sing some more. You have a beautiful voice and your song made me feel like I could almost see the images you were conjuring up.”

For a moment Jaskier only gaped at him and Eskel cursed himself. Of course he had messed this up again already. He shouldn’t have tried to fix his own mistakes. By now he should know that nothing good would ever come out of that. A poet such as Jaskier didn’t want a witcher’s clumsy attempts at complimenting his art, not when he undoubtedly was used to scholars’ and nobles’ praises.

But then Jaskier’s expression shifted and his eyes lit up with something almost like awe.

“That was one of the kindest things I’ve heard about my singing in years.” He ducked his head almost shyly. “Most people tend to criticise me. Rather coldly, might I add.”

“Nothing to criticise as far as I could see.” Eskel shrugged sheepishly. “As I said, I would love to hear more of your art.”

Jaskier contemplated him for a moment that made the warm feeling in Eskel’s chest burn brighter. For some reason he didn’t mind the staring when it was Jaskier’s eyes he could feel on him.

“Does that mean you wouldn’t mind if I wrote a song about you?”

Coming from anyone else, Eskel would have thought that those were just empty words. Eskel wasn’t song-worthy.

And yet, when Jaskier eventually invited him to share the room with him to save some coin, the bard was already humming a melody to a new song.

Neither of them slept much that night. The both of them stayed up until almost the early hours of the morning, discussing rhyme schemes and talking about how writing poetry helped putting meaning into bad experiences and immortalising beautiful ones. Softly, they recited their favourite poetry to each other.

Eskel was embarrassed to admit that he had memorised some of Jaskier’s poetry but the confession made Jaskier smile brighter than any human should smile in the presence of a witcher. And when Jaskier lamented that most of his favourite lines of poetry were merely fragments lost to time, Eskel perked up and filled in the gaps for him, promising to show him his collection of ancient poetry at Kaer Morhen one day.

It wasn’t something to be taken seriously; merely a suggestion made in the spur of the moment, but Jaskier looked at him as if he had hung the stars and the moon for him and Eskel found himself hoping that maybe someday he would know Jaskier well enough to be allowed to give him such gifts.

Eskel fully expected Jaskier to be gone in the morning, and his heart skipped a beat when instead Jaskier announced that he would stick around at least until he would get to see Eskel fight.

When Jaskier finally went his own way to meet up with Geralt again two weeks later, he left Eskel with a strange yearning in his chest and verses that had been written for no one but him.

And beneath it all, Jaskier left him with an itch in his fingers that urged him to buy a quill and ink. He didn’t put anything to paper just yet. But the might-be that had haunted him for decades got just a little closer to a could-be. Perhaps Eskel could become what he had always wanted to be after all.

Perhaps next time he saw Jaskier, he would be able to share his own verses with the poet.

#jaskel #eskel/jaskier #jaskier/eskel #witcher fic #witcher #fic #fanfic #Multichapter #my writing #eskel #jaskier #pining #insecure eskel #self doubt #self consciousness #please tell me if you want to get tagged when I update

27 notes · View notes

mattzerella-sticks · 3 years

Text

“is scamming gay rights?” - Dean & Jack, DeanCas, Bi!Dean (ao3)

Jack tries teaching Dean about his latest obsession, TikTok, except a breakdown in communication teaches Dean that, sometimes, acronyms can mean more than one thing.

Dean didn’t understand exactly what Jack rambled on about, but he passed the point of no return a few minutes back and couldn’t interrupt without revealing he had no clue what the younger boy prattled on and on about. As it was Jack currently kept pushing his phone in Dean’s face, gesturing at it and shaking it every ten seconds or so. Dean glanced between Jack and it; each time he did there was a new video on screen and by the time he shifted his focus back to his son the lecture had moved elsewhere along a road he had trouble following. By then, he let himself sink into the comfortable numbing cadence of Jack’s speech, sipping at his beer, surfacing only when he recognized a word before diving back under.

His ears perked in familiarity as Jack used an acronym Dean recently learned, and so he tuned back in. Jack drew the phone closer to his side of the kitchen table, tapping on it. “There was this big problem with mlms actually, and even though I filtered my home page to avoid profiles like that, they kept popping up,” he said, “Luckily TikTok went ahead and basically blacklisted and deleted all mlm content. Now, I rarely see any of those kinds of content.”

Dean’s features shuddered, mouth dropping slightly in fright. His ears echoed with the awful drumming of his heart, and a painful wheeze tickled his throat, demanding freedom. He released it on a sigh, slightly curling in on himself. “W-what?” he asked, “You… you didn’t like it?”

Jack shrugged, “I mean, it was kind of annoying, but I learned to ignore them. When I learned how harmful the content was, however, I was very glad to hear that TikTok went ahead and took some sort of action – Hey!”

On autopilot, Dean snatched the phone out of Jack’s hands. He slammed it, hard, on the table between them. Dean pointed a harsh finger towards Jack, snarling his next few words. “I don’t want to ever hear you talk like that again.”

“What?”

“Or!” he added, fist hammering Jack’s phone further into the wood, “use this, this damned app – if this is what it turns you into!” He huffed, hands retreating to steeple at his chin. “You think you’re raising a kid right… raising a kid to be accepting despite being so close to the Bible Belt… and one dumb app undoes all that hard work.”

Jack, frozen in his seat, stared at Dean with concern shining in his comically wide eyes. “What are you talking about, Dean?”

“Look,” Dean said instead, his finger extending once more to point at the younger boy. It was a less accusatory gesture, softened by the gentle tone Dean adopted. “I know I haven’t been the best role model with… with that kind of stuff. Hell of a lot better than my dad was, though… still not the best. But I’ve been getting better, especially after I…” His words bottlenecked on his tongue, and through great effort did Dean spit them out. “After I admitted my own attraction to… to men, especially one man in particular…” Dean’s head felt like it might erupt, magma-like blood swelling his brain to dangerous sizes. “Cas.”

“Yes, Dean,” Jack nodded, “I know that. I’m… I’m confused what any of that has to do with this?”

“What it has to do with…? Jack…” Dean pinched his brow, tense shoulders collapsing as the strain became too much, muscles snapping like bridge cables. “I might not be the most… the most out, or the most proud, okay? But I’m trying. Remember that bi flag pin I wore during that hunt one time? That was me… trying. And I’ll keep trying, because this isn’t something I’m ashamed of.” He reached for Jack, ensnaring his wrist to make sure his message was well received. “So you see, being gay isn’t – it’s not annoying. It shouldn’t be hidden, or… banned and it certainly isn’t harmful despite what some repressed shitheads might think.” Emboldened, Dean levelled a disappointing glare at Jack. His lower lip jutted out in fatherly disapproval. “And I’d rather be staked on some piece of rusty rebar than let a stupid app make you homophobic. No more… Ticking-tock. Period.”

While Jack might not appreciate Dean’s ultimatum now, he will later on in his life. Dean imagined a future where he and Jack, much older than they were in this moment, sat on a porch swing talking about how good a job Dean did raising him to be a decent human being, as Jack’s partner, whose features he couldn’t distinguish from such a distance in their front yard, played with their son, named for the man who set Jack on the right path, obviously. He was knocked out of this fantasy, unfortunately, by the lumbering footsteps of his oafish brother.

Sam entered the kitchen, Cas at his side with a tome held open in his hands. Their conversation withered as they took in the scene they walked in on. “Hey,” Sam said, shuffling his way to them, “what’s going on?”

Dean opened his mouth, about to explain that he was dishing some serious parental law and wisdom. Except Jack hurriedly interrupted, rushing to speak first. “I have no idea,” he told them, “I was explaining TikTok to Dean, and suddenly he starts ranting about how it’s a homophobic platform?”

“Because it is!” Dean argued. He grabbed Jack’s phone, waving it at the others. “Jack told me that they’ve gone full Russia – banning mlms and… and it was brainwashing him, making him hate gay people!”

“Dean! I don’t hate gay people –“

“Because I acted before any of the damage actually managed to take root,” he said, “If you used this any longer you would’ve had more harsh things to say about mlms than they’re annoying.”

Jack groaned, scrubbing his face with twitching fingers. “They are annoying!”

Dean gestured at Jack, asking with exaggerated brows and frown lines, what they should do about Jack’s denigration. Sam, for his part, seemed unbothered by Jack’s callous attitude. “I mean,” he shrugged, “Jack’s not wrong. Mlms are… pretty annoying.”

Betrayed, Dean staggered to his feet. He faltered visibly, enough that Cas rushed over, dropping the yellowed book he held, and offered a hand. Dean accepted it, leaning on his boyfriend’s shoulder. The touch on the small of his back renewed his strength. “Sam,” he muttered, voice cracking, “how could you say that?”

Sam mirrored the confusion noticeably present in Jack’s features. “Dean, why are you taking this so personally?”

“Because, apparently,” Dean shouted at him, “you find me annoying!”

“No more than I usually do,” Sam told Dean, “But that’s never bothered you before?”

“Well, it’s pretty hard staying fucking unbothered when you think my sexuality is annoying.”

“What?” Suddenly, something flashed behind Sam’s eyes, and the fog of bewilderment dissipated as pure rays of understanding shone from his smug expression and annoyingly struck Dean in the face. “Dean,” Sam sighed, “you… we’re not talking about gay people.”

Dean snorted, “Of course you are. I’m not stupid.” Sam’s bitchy expression disagreed. “I’m hip, Sam. I know the lingo – better than you would, anyway… ‘ally’. Mlm… men loving men… What else could it be?”

“Mlm is an acronym for multi-level marketing, Dean,” Sam explained, “that’s the kind of mlm we’ve been talking about this entire time.”

“What?” Dean’s gaze bounced around the room, from Sam to Jack, then Cas, finally returning to Sam. “No, but I… the Internet, mlm is… it stands for…”

“Things can have more than one meaning,” Cas supplied, appearing pained as he spoke, “especially acronyms.” He pressed a consolatory kiss upon Dean’s cheek, touch sparking a flame on his already burning skin. “It was nice to see how outspoken you’ve become, though.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “Like a modern-day Harvey Milk.”

Dean refused to comment on Sam’s teasing, sinking into his seat again while his mind processed this new information. Cas joined him, continually rubbing soothing circles into his back. Sam sat next to Jack, across from them. Jack, sullenly tracing the cracks Dean made in his phone screen, asked, “Does this mean I’m not banned from TikTok?”

“I just don’t get it,” Dean said, ignoring Jack’s question, “why would something that sounds boring like multi-level marketing even deserve its own acronym, let alone be banned from a whole app.”

“Because it’s bad, Dean,” Sam explained, “multi-level marketing is, like, an evolved pyramid scheme, made more prevalent because of how easily social media disseminates misinformation and reaches impressionable people. Companies like TikTok are doing what they can to try and curb all these kinds of scams because, well… they’re annoying.”

Adamant, Dean scowled and shook his head. “Mlm meaning that is what’s annoying.”

“Too bad, Dean,” Sam said, “that’s probably the universally accepted meaning for it.”

“No!” Dean said, “No, mlm is about gay people. It doesn’t have anything to do with scams.”

Cas scoffed at Dean’s side, mumbling, “But what if scamming people is gay rights?”

It was ridiculous, made in jest, and held no actual weight in a discussion, but Dean latched onto the throwaway line like it were the last life preserver on the Titanic. “You know what, Cas, you’re right!” he crowed, “Scamming is gay rights.”

“It is?”

“It should be,” Dean said, “I mean, do you know the number of times in my life I’ve scammed bigoted jerks for all they had? Scamming definitely feels like something that’s for gays only.”

Sam rubbed his temples, battling an incoming migraine. “I don’t know why, but that take feels homophobic.”

“Hush, Sam,” Cas told the other man, “I want to see where Dean goes with this.”

Jack nodded, camera eclipsing his features. “Just let me hit record first, Dean. This could go viral.”

Dean waited for the signal from Jack, a small thumbs up, and then he cleared his throat. “Okay, so here’s why scamming is a right for the gays and the gays alone…”

#supernatural #spn #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #sam winchester #jack kline #mlm in both meanings of the acronym #spn crack

28 notes · View notes

impalementation · 3 years

Note

Do you think the trio were good as villains? (As foils, as obstacles etc) I know people tend to dislike them in general

Anonymous asked:

Why do you think “the trio” make sense as the antagonist of season 6?

i’m combining these two asks together, since they’re both about the trio.

i love the trio as villains. they might even be my favorite villains in the whole show. angelus and glory are both classic, and easily my favorites after, but the trio just get under my skin—much like season six in general—in a way those classic villains don’t. adding a cut for length.

i think a lot of what i like about them was covered in these two excellent posts by @comradesummers, so i’ll probably end up repeating some of what she said. i’ve also talked about the trio before myself, so there’s a good chance i’m repeating my own past posts as well.

but to put things in my own, new words. the reason i love the trio is because of how many levels they operate on, and how interesting those levels are.

on one level, the mundane nature of the trio and their villainy parallels the depressing, irritating banality of adult, real-life problems that the season spends so much time exploring. it’s very deliberate that after a season in which buffy defeated a god, she finds herself antagonized by a cringey trio of boys her age. the writing emphasizes the lameness of the trio enough times that you know this choice was on purpose.

scenes like:

BUFFY: I'm just saying, all the things that have happened lately? Okay, the, the bank robbery, the jewelry heist... XANDER: The exploding lint. BUFFY: I-is it me, or do these things seem really- ANYA: Lame? BUFFY: (shrugs) Well, I was gonna go with unusual, but, yeah.

or:

DOCTOR: Buffy, you used to create these grand villains to battle against, and now what is it? Just ordinary students you went to high school with. No gods or monsters...just three pathetic little men...who like playing with toys.

the fact that buffy dismisses the trio, but eventually finds herself in danger of them, echoes the way that she struggles to “defeat” the problems of adulthood that she thinks she should be able to handle. as she says in “flooded”:

BUFFY: Okay, it's, it's bills, it's money. It's pieces of paper sent by bureaucrats that we've never even met. It's not like it's the end of the world. (she thinks about that for a moment) Which is too bad, you know, 'cause that, I'm really good at.

the fact that the trio is so “ordinary” and “lame” adds to that season six feeling of having been rudely brought to earth. of the magic of childhood being left behind, and having to deal with problems you can’t build a myth around. there’s just something so real and brilliant to me about how wrong it feels that these are buffy’s antagonists. because of how well it evokes that wrong feeling of: this is what adulthood is? these are the problems i have to deal with? it seems so easy, so why is it so hard?

the second level of the trio relates to the first level, in that they represent the mundane dangers of real-life misogyny. season six is all about making the metaphorical literal (ironically, as a metaphor for how the transition from childhood to adulthood can feel), and so there’s something very fitting that in a show that has spent a lot of time creating horror from metaphorical, supernatural misogyny—it suddenly becomes literal. no more swim team jocks becoming rapacious fish monsters, no more frat boys sacrificing girls to a snake demon, no more vampires cornering victims in dark alleys. and okay, the trio is still doing spells and such. but besides that, everything about them is so normal it becomes disturbing. they are simply boys who feel disempowered in their own lives, and think this entitles them to play with other people, particularly women, because they barely see those women as people in the first place.

there is also something crucial to the fact that the trio are the villains that are most like the writers, and who the writers probably conceived of as their audience. it’s on record that many of the nerd debates that the trio have were lifted directly from debates the writers would have amongst themselves. the writers were also on fan boards, and well aware of the fact that their show was popular with very nerdy people. which means that when they made nerdish avoidance and entitlement a villain in season six, it was another way of bringing the show to earth. by making the trio into some of the show’s mostly subtly, yet acutely, horrifying antagonists there is an implication that: misogyny and wrongdoing is not something that only oafish athletes and distant authorities are capable of. it is something that anyone can be complicit in.

which is also why the third level of the trio, the fact that they act as mirrors of all of the other characters, works so well. because season six is when the show makes some of its most beloved characters do very bad things. the protagonists become aware, just as the audience does, of their potential for complicity in evil. and i think this is a very very important aspect of becoming an adult for the show to capture. to me, becoming an adult means becoming responsible for yourself and your moral choices in a way you aren’t quite, when you’re younger. bad choices are a bit cuter when you’re younger, a bit more forgivable. you’re growing, right? but at a certain point that stops working, and you need to own your choices. and that means being able to recognize that you’re capable of being the villain, so that you can choose differently.

so over the course of season six, all of the characters get tempted by irresponsible and easy ways out. sometimes they give in, and sometimes they don’t. but no matter what, the trio is there to help frame the actions of the protagonists. so for example, while the trio robs banks and steals diamonds, buffy takes a difficult job, and doesn’t take advantage of the opportunity to blackmail the doublemeat palace. or the fact that buffy is giddy at being turned invisible in “gone” is framed as troubling in part because the trio are giddy at the idea of invisibility as well. and of course: willow, spike, and buffy, and how they behave in intimate relationships, all get paralleled with warren and the trio. what tara says to willow in “tabula rasa” for example, is much like what katrina says to the trio in “dead things.” (TARA: “violate my mind like that? how could you willow? how could you after what glory did to me?” WILLOW “violate you? i…i-i didn’t mean anything like that, i-i just wanted us to not fight anymore” / WARREN: “i just, i wanted us to be together” […] KATRINA: “well this is not some fantasy, it’s not a game you freaks! it’s rape” JONATHAN: “what?” ANDREW”: “no..we didn’t…”). or buffy’s “tell me you love me” exchange with spike in “as you were” is almost word for word what warren says to the mindwiped katrina in “dead things.” and of course, there’s the fact that spike and warren both assault the woman that they claim to care about in an attempt to get them back.

does this mean that all of our protagonists are irredeemably evil? of course not. the reason that warren ends the season flayed and burnt alive is because he repeatedly commits to doing the wrong thing. while the scoobies and spike don’t, because as flawed as they are, they still ultimately try to make better decisions. but it doesn’t mean that they’re not capable of harm. and specifically, the kind of harm that comes from not seeing oneself as truly capable of it. spike thinks he doesn’t hurt buffy, willow thinks she’s just trying to fix things, jonathan and andrew think they’re living out a comic book. this is why i also love how the season lulls you into a sense of complacency with the trio. you think the show might be playing their hijinks straight, and validating their less-than-savory plans as funny, until “dead things” pulls the rug out from under the season and shows what the writing has been doing with them all along. that wake-up slap of katrina saying “rape” is like the slap of willow’s breakdown in “wrecked” or xander leaving anya or warren shooting tara, or—and this takes us back to the central metaphor of the season—buffy being brought back from heaven. that slap of “childhood is over, it’s time to be responsible now, and it turns out you’re fucking up at it.”

this honestly is just the surface of what i could talk about with the trio, and it’s already long enough as is. and when a villain has that much thematic richness in it, i just can’t help but love it.

#s6 #the trio

61 notes · View notes

chronivore · 8 months

Text

The Book of Oafish Might - Silverthorne Games | DriveThruRPG

#The Book of Oafish Might #rpg

1 note · View note

dismuch47 · 3 years

Text

STARTING POINT

Length: Longer than a drabble, but a one shot with no intention of continuing.

Marvel AU in which Vision (I’m calling him Paul) is the illegitimate child of Howard Stark. There are tensions between half-brothers, and this is the first time that they actually talk about something other than the strange family situation. And it happens to be about... a girl. I hope you enjoy.

This has been moved over from my deactivated blog, so no, this is not stolen if you recognize it.

“’Sup, nerd?” Tony let the door slam itself shut after flinging it open in a grand flourish. He flung his bag of dirty laundry on the mahogany dining table, let his leather jacket fall to the immaculately clean floor in a heap, and then trotted over to the kitchen fridge to excavate.

Paul shifted out of his cross-legged, curved shoulder posture (his studying posture) and sat up in a rigid manner. He placed his book on the cushion beside him, his lips in a thin line.

“Hilarious...considering your field of study in Quantum Mechanics and Theory, Anthony.” Paul called out for the other youth to hear. It wasn’t in his nature to give jabs to other people... but ever since Mr. Stark... or rather Paul’s biological father... had acknowledged the existence of a bastard son in England and the illegitimate child had been included into the multi-billionaire’s home at Mrs. Stark’s request... Paul had tried to rise to the challenge in order to “bond” with the golden son, Tony Stark. Apparently he only responded to sarcasm, rather than sincere attempts of friendship that Paul preferred.

Tony peeked his face from around the kitchen door, tilting the aviator sunglasses down from his face. “I study it, I don’t wear it. What is that, an argyle sweater vest?” His face disappeared once more as he grabbed one of his father’s choice beers from the fridge, closing the door shut with his hip.

“Mrs. Stark likes it...” Paul looked down placing a hand on the sweater vest. He didn’t dislike it... but he didn’t care for it. But anything was better then the second-hand clothing that was always too small for him back at the London shelter. And if it helped the mistress of this home approve of a bastard child more...

“Your mother will disapprove if she sees that rubbish on the dining table.” Paul warned his older half brother. He picked up his thick book and began reading again. “Why you insist on bringing that home when you can just-”

“Carmen. CARMEN will ‘disapprove’. I don’t think mother has done laundry or set a dinning table since her college days...” He slumped down in a white wing-backed chair across from the couch, separated by a glass coffee table. “Besides it’s all apart of the collegiate experience: announcing my arrival home with proof of my hard work and stank of my sheer brilliance.”

“Anthony, your father-”

“For the last time, it’s TONY.” He took off his sunglasses, his dark eyes like daggers at this blonde intruder of his home. He didn’t dislike Paul... he disliked how different Paul looked, sounded, and talked... forever reminding everyone in the household of his father’s infidelity. Of his mother’s pain... and tragic kindness for wanting this person to be part of the Stark family. The dark moment passed and Tony tossed his glasses carelessly to the glass table.

“...And dad can just deal with the mess.”

Paul’s blue eyes were cast downward, trying to resume his reading... recognizing the subtext of that wording, but Tony turned on the television to an outrageous volume, swallowed and sighed loudly over his beer.

“Tony-”

“Little brother, PLEASE.” Tony cut in. “Your bro is nursing a hangover at the moment.” He took another swig of beer. “Do you mind?”

There was no warmth in the word ‘brother’; it seemed more like a reminder that Paul was an outsider that Tony had to put up with. The lanky teenager began to slowly pack up his schoolwork, not feeling particularly welcome in the space...

Tony blinked darkly at the screen; images and colors barely managing to distract him from his mood... and guilt. He was mad at his father... not the accidental child resulting from unprotected sex. His brown eyes darted over to Paul, who was quietly collecting his things to leave.

“What are you reading?” Tony asked, monotone.

Paul blinked in surprise, then looked down at the book in his hand. “A Tale of Two Cities.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “This is why you are a nerd...”

“It is a school requirement.”

“Is it your first time reading it?” Tony raised a dark brow. “Or is it your 3rd or 4th time?”

Paul shut his mouth. It was his 5th. He couldn’t explain how it was that he was able to read so fast, or find a book so compelling upon a 5th or 6th reading. He traced his long fingers across the dog-eared pages.

“At the shelter, all I had was books. I...I like to revisit them...” He couldn’t meet the Stark’s brown eyes. “Like how Mrs. Stark likes to watch old movies over and over...she says they are ‘old friends’ that never change, but grow more enriching with each viewing.”

Tony looked down at the beer in his hand. That did sound like something his mother would say. He recalled her telling that to him. He also felt super awesome for reminding Paul about his life of poverty... which was still fresh. Tony turned off the tv.

“Fine. Books are the exception.” He finally looked over at Paul. “But you have GOT to get out of that gaming stuff if you ever want to get laid, Goggles.”

“Vision.”Paul corrected, a little too hastily. His hands held on to the book a little tighter. “It is live action role-play-”

“Oh my god, I can’t tell you how much I don’t care-”

“-And it is very therapeutic. It helps me get out the frustrations of being in a new home environment, learning American customs... feeling so different. According to Dr. Cho.” Paul defended, blossoming as he talked about this passion of his. “Vision is not just a character... he is an extension of my subconscious; trying to sort out and deal with my very average conflicts.”

“Yeah, that’s the ah...mutant...god... robot thing?” Tony asked, with a belch. Pretending to care was starting to give him a headache.

“Synthezoid.” Paul added.

“Right... with the magical jewel stone for... ultimate power?” Tony yawned

“Mind Stone.” Paul began realizing how stupid this all sounded. Tony had been present at the therapy session when Dr. Cho had explained how this experimental role play with peers might be good for Paul.

“Fascinating. I think I need to go whiz now.” Tony got up from his chair, setting the empty beer bottle, with out a coaster, on the glass table. “Well have fun with that sausage fest.”

“There are girls.” Paul blurted. “...A girl... there is one girl who does it too.”

Tony backed up, a bemused expression at Paul’s outburst. “I’m sure she’s a looker... geeking it up with the oily skinned, pimple-marked-”

“She is beautiful.” Paul’s tone took Tony aback; it sounded stoney firm and indisputable. And Tony couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit emasculated with his younger half brother now towering above him.

“Prove it.” Tony beckoned.

Paul narrowed his eyes down Tony Stark, feeling it trivial to prove his truth... as if his best friend was some prized stock animal to be appraised. Tony didn’t deserve to gaze upon real beauty... but Paul was a teenage boy. And he wanted to make this college tech jock drool.

He sat down, pulling out his phone and searching for a picture of her. Tony plopped down beside him and yanked the phone out of his younger half-brother’s hands. Paul protested, reaching with his long arms, but Tony was athletic and broad. He put Paul in a headlock after a brief struggle, and scrolled through the pictures on the flip phone.

Tony gave a sigh at all the larp pictures... they were in COSTUMES. “Is that face paint? Really, Vision??? Oh my god, you are going to die a virgin...” Then he came across a larper who was entirely too hot to be hanging out with such nerds. “Whoa... whoooaaaa. Is that her?” Tony showed the screen to Paul, who was still gasping for air before pulling out of Tony’s lessening grasp.

“...Yes...” Paul tried to push his hair back into place.

“Name?”

“Scarlet Witch-”

“Her real name, idiot.”

“Wanda. Wanda Maximoff.”

“Russian? Like Natasha... oh what’s her name. You know, she’s a senior this year...”

“Wanda is from Sokovia.”

“Same difference.” Tony shrugged.

“Actually-”

“Which means she probably has one of those dusky european accents.” Tony stood up, looking at more pictures. “Please tell me she has a dusky accent.”

“...Yes.”

“Oh god.” Tony looked at the screen for a beat. “You’re sure she’s only in high school?”

Paul firmly took his phone back.

“Fine... too young for me. And way out of your league.”

Paul looked down at the screen. He knew that was true, but it didn’t hurt less to hear someone say it. “She is just a friend. My only friend.” He held on to the phone for a beat, then closed it. He returned it to his pocket and picked up his book that he had discarded on the table. His shoulders sagged, and the words on the page were blurring together. Completely unreadable.

Tony damned himself when he saw the effect that his teasing had on Paul. The oh so sensitive, yet robotic Paul. “Okay. I’m taking this away.” He took the book out of his half-brother’s hands and sat on the glass table, directly across from the tall teen. “You’re tall, you have a pensively sweet British accent, and some girls like the peach-fuzz stubble look. You just need to stop slouching, and you’d be any girl’s dream boat.”

Paul looked up. “You have said that I’m oafish, awkward, and that my dialect is ‘annoying as hell’.”

“I lied. It’s hard to compete with. I cut you down to make myself feel bigger. Thank you Dr. Cho.” That didn’t seem to make Paul feel better; he seemed to slump even more in his seat, eyes downcast at the floor. “What... what is this? I basically called you pretty and you're being a pooper. What’s the problem?”

The blonde teen took a deep breath. “Steve Rogers.”

Tony blinked. “The star quarterback? The ruggedly handsome boy next door, class president, and so patriotic that he’s Captain America at all the Sunday Picnics? Sky-blue eyed, chiseled Adonis-bodied Steve Rogers? That Steve Rogers??”

Paul clenched his jaw and looked up at Tony.

“Oh man... good luck with that.” The Stark son gave Paul a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

Paul leaned back into the sofa, feeling defeated. He looked up at the ornate crown molding on the ceiling. “She does not talk about him all the time... but she stares at him constantly. She wants to take our roleplaying sessions out by the football field just so he can see her in her costume. She has even invited him to one... and he came. She only stayed by my side because she was too nervous to be alone with him. He smiles at her and I just... I...”

“Wait... so they haven’t hooked up?”

“...I do not believe so.”

“Has he told her he even likes her?”

“Yes... well... he told the group that he likes us and what we do. He’s actually really nice and great in battle, which is an absolute annoyance...”

Tony rolled his eyes. “And have you told her? How you feel about her?”

Paul looked down at Tony. He opened his mouth but closed it. He looked away, trying to find anything else to focus on, but Tony drumming his fingers against the glass table drew his attention.

“If I told her how I felt... and she did not feel the same...”

“Well Vision,” Tony said standing up with a stretch. “Don’t you at least agree it’s a good starting point?” He made his way to the kitchen to throw away his empty bottle.

Paul sat, thinking about all the scenarios in which he could get rejected by Miss Maximoff. But there was one hopeful scenario in which she, in her usual tender way, is caught off-guard. Her eyes would warm and a broad smile would light him on fire inside...as it always did.

“Perhaps.”

#ScarletVision #WandaVision #Vision #Tony Stark #Wanda Maximoff #au #fanfiction #FOR THE FANDOM

10 notes · View notes

alleiradayne · 4 years

Photo

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story…

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE

Long is our list of ghost stories laid to rest. But when the dark rider returns thirty years after his exorcism at the hands of the Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and I are faced with the possibility that we’ve been wrong about one thing.

Some urban legends never die.

Part IV - The Midnight Ride

Summary: The end of an era. Warnings/Tags: Some fluff, general elements of horror and fear, graveyards, brushes with death again... Characters/Pairings: First Person Female!Reader/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Word Count: 5,104

"You alright?"

Lost in thought, I had hardly heard Sam. But the warmth of his presence roused me from my stupor. I shook my head and rubbed the burn from my eyes as I spoke. "Yeah, I… I'm just exhausted. And this research isn't exactly entertaining."

Sam took a seat beside me at the small motel table and pulled his chair so close I might as well have sat in his lap. The warmth of one massive hand enveloped mine, and he set the other on my bouncing knee. That quake subsided beneath his touch, something no other person in my life had managed. But then a sudden awareness sent a shiver down my spine, and I scanned the motel room, searching. Sam, perceptive as ever, answered my unasked question. "Dean's in the shower. He'll be a while. We've got some time. To talk. Only if you—"

I didn't want to talk. At all. What I wanted betrayed every common sense I had. At that moment, I’d do whatever I could, use whatever magic at Sam’s disposal, make a deal with Rowena, anything to cleanse last night's stain of indelible memories from my mind. And yet, I knew those options were anything but. Between Sam’s apparent affection for me and Dean’s overprotective brotherly nature, neither would allow me to harm myself willingly just to get rid of a few nightmares.

But as I stared into Sam’s prismatic gaze, the desire to replace those memories, to shadow them with newer, happier moments, overpowered me.

No. I didn’t want to talk. So, instead, I kissed him.

Myriad descriptions, all vastly varied from one to the next, could never capture the feeling of Sam's lips on mine. I could regale you with comparison after comparison. But none of them would do him justice. Though the moment lasted but a breath, eons passed in that explosive connection where I knew and felt and lived a thousand lifetimes with him. I wanted to do nothing more in that breath than melt into him forever.

My tablet chirped, and the case loomed at the edge of my subconscious. All those imaginary lifetimes vanished as I parted from him, replaced by a cruel reality. Not that I'd squander a reality that consisted of Sam Winchester's love. Or his crooked grin and half-lidded gaze.

"Good talk."

Despite my sour mood, I laughed. "I'm glad we could come to an understanding."

His fingers slipped between mine as he spoke. "Thing is, I forgot… what I said about us last night. When I asked if you wanted to talk now, I meant about what happened to you."

"Oh." Well, shit.

I have never known a person wiser, more emotionally aware than Sam. And Dean often gave him a run for his money. But after all the years hunting together, Sam and I operated on an uncannily similar wavelength. The guy read me like an open book. And when I balked at recounting my harrowing journey beyond the veil, he understood without another word.

"Only if you want," he repeated with a reassuring squeeze of my thigh. "Otherwise, I wouldn't mind a little more of your…" he paused with a coy smirk as his eyes darted to my lips and back. "... preferred method of communication."

"I…" My tablet chirped once more, obliterating the one desire I'd felt in months. "Sam, I promise, we make it out of this case alive, I won't leave your bedroom for a week."

His smile widened as he said, "Only if we spend the following week in yours."

I kissed him again, a little harder, more insistent. Parted, I agreed. "Done."

My tablet chimed for the third time, and I turned to it at last. Sam pointed at the screen and said, "What's cockblocking me?"

Though I laughed, a furious sting prickled my cheeks at the thought of Sam's… I forced the imagery from my mind and decidedly focused on the tablet instead of his face. "I was emailing the curator at the museum. She just sent me some documents about Sleepy Hollow's history."

"Oh?" Sam mused. "Anything worthwhile?" He reached for his laptop, pulled it across the table, and flipped up the lid.

When I opened the attached documents, my heart sank. They merely verified much of what I'd already learned. "Sleepy Hollow was a part of the Tarrytown settlement, originally called North Tarrytown. Most of this information is just facts and history about the town. While the Ichabod Crane story is all rooted in it, the urban legends and folklore are only related so far as this jackass on a horse with no head."

"Not surprising," Sam stated.

"No,” I whined, “but it is a little disheartening that he has next to nothing to do with the town he haunts.”

Sam nodded, then said, “There might be more, though. Earlier this morning, I read that Washington Irving was born in Manhattan. He traveled for many years, but he eventually returned to New York and lived out the rest of his life in Sleepy Hollow. He's buried in that cemetery."

"I suppose," I replied, "but I was looking for something a little more concrete than the author lived and died here. Like actual people that Irving modeled his characters after. Or other legends. He traveled in Europe for quite some time. There's even a Scandanavian story, The Wild Hunt, that has the same throughline. A headless rider that lobs his head at people."

Sam piqued at that, eyes narrowed and head tilted. "But Ichabod Crane is the original telling of the story here. Right?"

I nodded. "Forgetting that it's a hodgepodge of cultural ghost stories, yes."

He laughed at that. "I haven’t read it since I was a kid.”

“Me neither,” I replied. “I only know bits and pieces.”

Dean burst from the bathroom at that, a towel wrapped around his head and one about his waist. “Ichabod Crane was a new school teacher in Sleepy Hollow. And he was hellbent on marrying a woman, Katrina, who was set to inherit her father's very wealthy farm estate.”

"Oh," I mused with a mocking smirk at Sam. "Sounds like we have an expert in our midst."

Dean waved me off as he dug through his bag at the end of the bed. "Sam knows it, too. Right?"

“Yeah," Sam started, "there was another suitor, though. Arthur Van Brunt. He went by Brom Bones Van Brunt.” He paused as he stood. “It’s kind of funny, really, this story reads like a high school drama. The lanky geeky nerd and the oafish jock fight over a girl. Except they never get into the physical altercation Brom wanted. He goaded Ichabod constantly, pulling pranks on him. But Ichabod never took the bait.”

I looked at my tablet, where a black and white photograph of a man stared back at me, then returned to them both. Dean withdrew a change of clothes from his bag, then headed back to the bathroom. Through the open door, he said, “So the story goes, Ichabod went to a party at the Van Tassel farm where he intended to woo and win over Katrina. Brom, instead, scares the living piss out of him with a bunch of ghost stories, one of which was the Headless Horseman.”

“Yeah, I remember that much,” I said. “And then he tried to propose to Katrina, but she shot him down.”

“Exactly,” Sam chimed. “I love how ambiguous the ending is here. Ichabod leaves the party all upset about Katrina. He gets on his horse, Gunpowder, who is very skittish, and heads home. But the Hessian shows up and chases him. Ichabod had just learned the legend, so he heads for the bridge near the Old Dutch Burying Ground. He knows the spirit can’t cross the bridge. Ichabod would have made a decent hunter.”

Dean’s laughter echoed from the bathroom, and he emerged dressed and hair coiffed. “I forgot how innocent this story is. He gets to the bridge and crosses it, but the Hessian hurls his freakin’ head at him before disappearing. The head domes Ichabod and knocks him off his horse. Nobody ever finds his body. Only his hat, Gunpowder’s wrecked saddle, and a randomly smashed pumpkin were found near the bridge.”

A thought bubbled up in the back of my mind and raced to my lips. “So that’s where the jack-o-lantern head comes from. What if… holy shit, what if it was just a prank gone wrong? What if Brom was playing another trick on him and accidentally killed Ichabod?”

Hesitation stalled them both as Sam and Dean regarded one another. Then Dean turned to me and asked, “That does not explain what the hell happened last night. No fucking way that was a prank.”

I hated it, but I knew he was right. “But then what the hell! I’m almost beginning to think it is a tulp—”

“It’s notta tulpa!” Sam shouted. Dean clamped a hand over his mouth, and his shoulders shook with uncontrollable laughter. Sam rounded on him and barked, “Shut up!”

“I can’t help it,” Dean managed through peeling laughter. “Your Arnold impression is improving.”

“C’mon, guys, we need to figure this out,” I groaned.

Dean settled through a deep breath, although his face remained far too red. Sam slumped into his seat again, his stare glazing over, unseeing. When he remained silent, Dean said, “Alright, let’s say they’re spirits. And it’s still this mess of combined ancient myths, ghost stories, and cultural legends. We’re still on the same page there, right?”

Sam and I nodded slowly. “After what happened last night, there’s no way they’re anything else.”

“If they’re spirits that haven’t moved on, we have to burn the bodies,” I stated.

“Or destroy an object that might be keeping them topside,” Dean added.

Scrambled thoughts rattled through my mind as I ran down a list of objects. I soon found myself lost in a warren of possibilities, and as I stared ahead at my tablet, equally dazed as Sam. An answer picked at the edge of my subconscious, like a half-remembered dream. No matter how hard I tried to grasp it, the thought slipped through my hand like water.

“None of it is real.”

From the corner of my eye, I glared at Sam. He remained still, his glassy far-off stare yet unfocused as he spoke. "It's all stories. They're all stories that are too much of a mess for a tulpa. So none of it is real. Whatever these spirits have latched onto, it's nothing from those stories."

With his words, the image on my tablet clarified as my mind focused. Understanding crept along my skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. I stood then, spurred to my feet, and spoke. “The unmarked grave never mattered. It’s fake.”

Sam nodded. “There aren’t any bodies to burn because those bodies never existed to begin with.”

“It’s all fairy tales and make-believe bullshit,” Dean declared.

I looked first to Sam, then Dean, then back to my tablet, where an image of Washington Irving filled the screen. I turned the tablet to face them, and all at once, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Together, we spoke.

“Death of the author.”

Never in my entire life had I wished to be anywhere else more than at that very moment.

Three stark-white flashlights illuminated a grand headstone, memorialized by the town of Sleepy Hollow, for one Washington Irving. After so many years without care, overgrowth covered much of the base, and the stone desperately needed a washing. Beyond that, none of us made a single move to start the arduous process of digging five feet into the earth. We simply stood there, silent as the dead beneath our boots.

"Either of you uncomfortable with this?" Dean asked, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," Sam and I replied.

Dean started towards the headstone and said, "Good. Glad it's not just me. Something about this feels wrong."

"It's because we've never seen someone's spirit manifest as anything other than itself," Sam stated. "We're literally digging up a guy because his spirit might have transfigured into characters from his own story."

"Can spirits even do that?" I asked as I scanned the treeline of the graveyard. Though dense fog had choked the grounds last night, literal clouds suffocated the entire cemetery where we stood. "That seems like a lot of power for a single spirit."

Dean posted at the head of the grave. "Only one way to find out." He pocketed his flashlight and hefted his shovel. When he saw us still standing at the foot of the plot, he said, "I'm not digging this grave on my own."

Despite the need to end such a vengeful spirit, I had little motivation to help. Slower than necessary, I picked up my shovel and shuffled to the center of the plot. Sam stepped in behind me, shovel at the ready.

Dean raised his shovel to his waist. Before he moved further, a distant, indiscernible sound echoed through the woods. What was once visible of the nearby treeline no longer was. That thick fog filled the darkness, and I saw neither trees nor sky nor stars. I heard the sound again, too far to tell what it was, but not far enough to miss. My flashlight shook violently as I spun about, but I found nothing besides the Impala behind us.

I turned back to Dean just in time to watch as he plunged his shovel's blade into the dirt. Agonizingly slow, it descended each inch slower than the last. That distant sound echoed once more, ever so slightly closer. As though he conducted an orchestra, that sound crescendoed into an unbearable scream as Dean’ shovel descended until metal returned to the earth.

Earsplitting thunder exploded overhead, and instinct forced all three of us to our knees. That booming drum rolled, mutated until it rumbled through the ground. I knew that sound, too familiar with the feel reverberating through my feet. A fresh wave of icy dread coursed through my veins as those thundering hooves pounded the dirt.

Over the headstone, I pointed my flashlight as I stood. Terror incarnate barreled through the graveyard astride his deathly steed. Above his head, a readied missile sprouted flames as he raced towards us. Every instinct screamed to run. Fuck everything about the legend, the haunting, just get the hell out of there.

But I couldn't move. Frozen solid, I merely gripped my flashlight and shivered.

"Run!"

Dean's shove launched me into Sam's arms, kickstarting my senses. I sprinted for the Impala, desperate for her salvation. I reached it a beat behind Sam and Dean and dove into the backseat. The engine roared to life with a sharp snarl as Dean twisted the ignition. He wrenched down on the shifter, slammed on the gas, and I launched into the backrest as the car sped off in reverse.

"What are you doing?!" I screamed.

"What I should have done last night!" he barked.

I opened my mouth to demand a better answer but only managed to scream and gesticulate wildly. The Headless Horseman vaulted Washington Irving's headstone and, in one smooth motion, launched his flaming cannonball directly at the car.

The sickening crunch of iron on steel paled in comparison to Dean's wail of rage. He threw the wheel to the left, and I grasped onto the backrest as the car lurched, spinning about-face. The transmission groaned in protest as Dean threw the shifter into drive and slammed on the gas once more. With all her horses leaping down the road, the Impala raced into the night, and I flattened against the backseat.

"Mother fucking piece of shit ghost!" Dean bellowed. "Fucking hit my car with a god damned cannonball! I’ll kill you! Do you hear me?!"

“Dean, just watch where you’re going!” Sam shouted as he braced against the backrest and the frame of the car.

The speedometer slid past eighty, and I gripped the leather backrest, nails scoring the supple hide. Sweat coated my palms, and my heart railed against my chest. "Dean, what the hell are you doing! You're going to get us killed!"

The fork in the road appeared around the sharp corner, and Dean roared, "Just trust me!" as he took the paved road to the left.

One hundred. The blinding flash of a memory overpowered my senses. Nearly forgotten, the dull vision replayed in my mind, muted, as though it belonged to someone else. A car sped along a country road. A dog. Spinning, careening, crashing. I screamed as my seatbelt failed. Blood pooled in the cornstalks beneath a sky so blue.

"Try to follow me now, you son of a bitch!"

Dean's voice snapped me back to reality. Behind us, the Headless Horseman gained, and his whip gathered with a flick of his wrist. The vicious bones uncoiled, and another memory threatened to take me under once more. It seemed that death had its own wish for me and would not rest until it came true. Another flash of a fresh memory consumed my senses, dragged me down to my own personal hell. But then a light emerged amidst the darkness, warm and enveloping. I opened my eyes to find Sam holding my hand.

"Focus, Y/N. Stay with me, we're gonna get through this, I promise."

"There's the bridge!" Dean shouted as he pointed. The engine whined, straining under his insistent foot. He glared in his rearview mirror as he growled, "Let's race, motherfucker."

The Impala raced over the transition from asphalt to old stone and wood, rattling the car from nose to rear end. Sam’s fingers turned ghastly white in my grip, but he paid that no mind. His focus remained steady, wide eyes staring into mine. Though he tried to reassure me, the roar of the Impala swallowed his words, and they fell on deaf ears. Like a moth to the flame, I turned back to the Headless Horseman one last time.

The coiled whip unfurled laboriously, each bone rolling over the next and slower than the last. That crawl, that agonizingly painful creep blurred the liminal space between truth and myth’s fabrication until nothing but a swathe of gray smeared reality. My mind filled in that blank void, and I knew then that death had arrived to collect his escaped prisoner.

But the end never came. That infinite second ticked by, lost to the endless depths of space and time as the car breached the end of the bridge. I braced myself against Sam as he reached over the backrest for me. Dean stood both feet on the brake, and the car lurched forward as the tires seized, shredding on the asphalt. When the deafening roar of the Impala faded to its soothing idle, I eased my grip on Sam's arms, and he returned to his seat. Dean checked both of us before scrambling from the car, and we followed not a beat behind.

In the center of the bridge, the Headless Horseman and his nightmare steed hung in the air, suspended mid-gallop. A deep purple glow seeped through the grouted stone surrounding the horse, and beneath his hooves, the bricks quaked. Violent flashes of an eerie green mist lanced from the cracks in the centuries-old rock and lashed the rider’s raised arms to drag him from his horse. Wrenched free of the saddle, he crashed to the stone, his metal armor clattering with a sickening crunch. I winced, unsure of what I was witnessing, an unwitting and unwilling voyeur.

But I forced myself to keep looking. I had to. I had to see it through to the end, to know without a shadow of a doubt that we had indeed laid such a vengeful spirit to rest.

The Hessian launched into the air with a vicious twist of the mysterious green lashes. Gale winds swept over the bridge, filling my nose with burning brimstone, and then the horse burst into flames. He screamed his unholy cry, and I startled into Sam's arms. Though I continued to watch, I cowered into him, and he held me close without a word. The vile inferno consumed the horse in seconds, reducing him to a pile of ash.

The rider convulsed as though in pain, writhing and contorting so awkwardly to be free of his bonds. Metal twisted, grinding and scraping against itself in his bid for escape. I realized then that, in his death throes, the Headless Horseman would emit no other sound. He could not beg for forgiveness nor absolution. He could not plead for his continued existence nor one last moment on earth. No last words with a loved one. And for a minuscule second, I pitied him.

Lightning fractured the sky as the purple glow between the bricks focused in a circle encompassing the rider. As the edges brightened, the bricks inside slipped away into an endless darkness. I had seen nothing like it in all my years hunting. And as the green bonds lowered him towards the void, he thrashed, deeply aware of the end that approached.

A scream rent from my mouth as an arm of sinew and bone and rotted flesh burst from the black depths and grasped the rider's leg. Metal collapsed like tissue paper beneath the fierce grip, and bone crumpled to dust. Another arm lunged for his chest and cleaved his breastplate in two, embedding in his ribs. A third nearly ripped his arm from its socket, his forearm crushed, and a fourth pierced his thigh. Those horrifying limbs dragged the Headless Horseman to his doom, jailors imprisoning their captive.

Feet, legs, and torso succumbed to the darkness, and a defeated stillness settled his ruined body. At last, his arms and headless shoulders sank beneath the zenith, and The Headless Horseman was no more. Like so many grains of sand through an hourglass, the ashes of his steed followed him into the void.

A final flare of purple and green light surged as lightning illuminated the sky once more. Wind settled, and clouds parted to reveal a full, brilliant moon and a night sky full of glittering stars. At last, the void receded, and the bridge stood whole once more. The sounds of night creatures returned, and the clearing surrounding the bridge expanded as though it took a full, deep breath to hold, its first in thirty years.

Maybe, it knew. Just as I felt it in my bones, the trees, the stone, the tall grass, and the creek beneath the bridge all felt it down to their tiniest molecules. It was over. At long last, the Headless Horseman was no more.

For now.

A clattering of bones cut through the peaceful calm, and I flung my arms out ahead of Sam and Dean. Not that I would protect them from much of anything, what with nothing but my bare fists at the ready. Tension crept across my shoulders when I spotted the source of the sound, and the three of us scrambled backwards towards the car.

The bone whip rattled to a stop a few feet from us, perfectly coiled with its handle extended towards my boots. I regarded Sam first, then Dean, only to then turn back for the Impala's trunk with a scoff. A readied can of salt lay on top of the stockpile, and I grabbed it as I grumbled to myself.

"Unless something's keeping it topside.” I slammed the trunk shut. “Gimme a break. Of course, something was keeping it here," I continued to myself as I stomped back to Sam and Dean. I prodded the latter in the shoulder and asked, "How? How the hell did you know?"

Dean shook his head as he held his lighter in one hand and withdrew a motel matchbook from his pocket. "I didn't. I didn't know the bridge would work. And I didn't know the whip had anything to do with it. I just had a—"

"Remember the last time I had a hunch and convinced you to drive the Impala over a hundred?" Sam interjected.

Before Dean could respond, I spoke. "Speaking of which…" I paused as I finished pouring a generous amount of salt on the neat pile of bones and snapped the can shut. "Don't ever drive that fast again."

Dean’s brow shot to his hairline as his jaw dropped. He gestured to the bridge, looked to it, then turned to the pile of bones and gesticulated wildly at them. After he stuttered the beginning of a few statements, he blurted, "What was I supposed to do?!"

"Not one-oh-five, that's for damn sure!" I stated. "We could have died!"

"We would have if I hadn't—"

"Alright, that's enough!" Sam interjected. "I'm sorry I brought it up. Let's just put this son of a bitch away for good this time."

"Yes, sir," Dean agreed. "One salt and burn, coming right up."

The book of matches took the flame of Dean's lighter with a sharp hiss. A flick of his wrist sent the little ball of fire cascading to the ground, and in a single beat of my heart, red consumed the world in a crimson concussion.

The ring in my ears faded, and the blinding light dimmed, darkness settling around us once more. Flat on my back, I stared up at the shimmering night sky, beyond dazed. When I sat up, Sam’s hollow voice called from afar. But the moment his touch soothed my shoulders, a shock of clarity rushed through me, and I saw he knelt over me.

“Talk to me, Y/N,” he repeated. “You okay?”

I thought for a moment, taking inventory once again. No broken bones, no blood. Not even a hint of pain despite the lingering soreness from the previous night. “I… I think so. What happened?”

Dean strode into view, an ornately gilded box cradled in his hands. He set it on the ground at his feet, and then I spotted it. The whip lay intact where it had rolled to a stop earlier. Salt scorched black cowered beneath the pale white bones as though frightened of its failure to purify the whip. I pointed at it and repeated myself. “What the fuck just happened?!”

Sam spoke when Dean hesitated. “It looks like the whip is protected. Somehow. Whether the Headless Horseman did it or it’s part of his curse, I’m not sure. And it’s irrelevant anyway. We’ll have to find some other way to destroy it.”

“But then… What happened last time? With your dad?” I asked as I stood. Sam hopped to my side once more, his gentle strength lifting me to my feet.

Metal rasped on metal, and my attention snapped to Dean. His hand rested atop the box, the metal gears working with fine clicks and clanks. When he removed his hand, the lid lifted half an inch and hissed a violent release of pressure. Of its own accord, the lid then continued to rise, revealing rich black velvet. Darker than night, the fabric lined the entire box, and it absorbed the moonlight, much like the void that had taken the Headless Horseman. When Dean withdrew a similar thick velvet cloth from the box, he spoke. “John did put the Headless Horseman away thirty years ago.” He paused as he grasped the whip with the velvet. Gingerly, he eased it into the box, then spread the cloth over it. The heavy lid shut with a hollow thunk and the metal gears worked once more, sealing shut on its own. “But, he came back.”

“Because of the whip?” I asked.

Dean nodded as hefted the box and turned for the Impala. Sam and I followed, eager to be on our way. Given our cargo, I doubted Dean would want to stay another night in Sleepy Hollow. Resolved, I figured I’d at least steal a pillow for the ride back.

We followed as Sam said, “We’ll take it back to the Bunker and find another way to destroy it.”

“Otherwise…” My question drifted, lingering like an unwanted guest that had overstayed their welcome.

With a grunt, Dean shoved the box into the trunk. “Otherwise, the next unlucky bastard that touches this thing will become the Headless Horseman.”

The terrifying implication settled in the pit of my stomach. An indestructible weapon possessing unwitting people. And yet, I knew that dichotomy well. Old as time, that one. The immovable object, an inanimate manifestation of immortality, meets the unstoppable force, the perpetual stupidity of human curiosity.

“We need to get on the road,” Dean stated as he shut the trunk, then strode for the driver’s door. There, he cried a soft, short sob and spoke to the car. “Oh, Baby, look at you. We’ll get you home and cleaned up.” Then he ripped the cannonball free, wrenched the door open, and slid into the driver’s seat. The awkward crunch of ill-fitting metal joints damn near broke my heart. And not just for Dean, but for the Impala as well, for she had seen us through a most harrowing night yet again.

Sam leaned in beside me then and asked, “Mind if I sit with you?”

“I’d… I’d like that. Very much,” I replied as a sudden chill crept beneath my skin. “I don’t think I could handle the whole ride back by myself.”

He opened the door and gestured ahead. “I make a pretty good pillow.”

As he slid in beside me, I said, “I look forward to finding out.” The warmth of his entire body, so close to mine, pulled me in, a moon to her earth. His long arm draped over my shoulder, and I curled into him. For a brief moment, the case ceased to exist. Only my exhaustion reminded me that I had gone toe to toe with the Headless Horseman and, for the most part, won.

But then a familiar thought occurred to me, and my weary eyes snapped wide open. “It’s true, then.”

“What is?” Dean asked as he turned over the backrest.

My breath caught in my throat, unwilling to put into the universe my worst nightmare. But between Dean’s confident stare and Sam’s soft gaze, I’d never felt safer. Even in my darkest moments, the Winchesters would be there for me. I put my faith and confidence not only in them but in myself as well. No matter what happened next, I believed in us.

“What’s true, Y/N,” Sam asked.

I gave him my best smile and spoke.

“Some urban legends never die.”

Dean shook his head as he turned back to the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The Impala rattled as she started, exhausted as each of us. When she settled to idle, Dean looked at me in the rearview mirror and spoke.

“No. They live just long enough to meet us.”

REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE AWESOME. IF YOU WANT IN ON THE TAGS, SEND ME AN ASK OR A DM!

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

#alleiradayne writes #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fanfiction #sam winchester #sam winchester fanfic #sam winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction

31 notes · View notes

buirbaby · 3 years

Text

The Wardens: The First Trial

Rating : M + Mature content, language, and violence

Masterlist | First | Next

The only thing that had been instant in this world was her rebirth alongside Balerion. Otherwise, learning anything was an atrocious, long winded affair. Tabitha knew a few things, like how to tell differences between plants and combine them into salves, but there were a plethora of other flora that Fang warned her about, vegetation that didn't exist in her world. Additionally, given their sub-zero location within a mountain, there were little to no plants that grew amongst the permafrost. Thus, one of her skills was rendered nearly useless, paled in comparison to all that she didn't know, in addition to the fact that she'd lived a rather lofty life after leaving her job in the military. She'd been decent with a rifle, but there were no guns here and a bow could only get her so far. The weapon chosen for her was Fate, the Valyrian steel legacy sword of the Wardens.

Now, Tabitha wasn't out of shape. She climbed and hiked mountains for fun, her muscles honed from suspending herself on cliffaces, her tactile grip strength surpassing most humans. However, given that she now had a griffin, climbing wasn't particularly necessary unless she had to keep Balerion at a distance. Still, the fact she was athletic and tall for a woman did aid in the training that Fang billeted her with. She had to learn how to use the sword or she'd die with it in her inexperienced palm.

Never had she thought there'd be so much to surviving in a medieval world, taking for granted everything she had back home. From the gross pit she had to utilize to go to the bathroom-which froze her ass off when she did pull down her pants-to the fact that they didn't have food readily available, she had to relearn everything. How to hunt, how to track, how to map topography, how to tell the time by the position of the sun in the sky which was also dependent on where she was and what time of year it was. There was so much. Riding Balerion was no easy feat either. While her partner had a perfect nook to slide into to ride between his shoulder blades, the lack of a saddle meant that she rode bareback. Only, unlike a horse, a griffin was a much more perilous ride. By the end of their first ride, her legs were throbbing from being clenched so tightly, Fang bemused by her harrowed expression and near fainting from when Balerion had turned 90 degrees to sail up a current in the wind flanking the mountain.

The north was cold. There had been placed where Tabitha had been nearly frostbitten, but she'd never embarked on a journey into the tundra, which was basically what she'd compare the Frostfangs. Unironically, there was more territory to the North East that hadn't been officially mapped by men, but Tabitha knew what laid there: a desolate icescape with few living creatures roaming the white, featureless plains. She wondered if the Night King would come from there or further north, descending from the Thenn. Either way, she suspected she had time, but the wind continued to nip at her in a reminder that it could become much colder.

She remembered a rough quote about the place that had become her home, that there were giants, wargs, and worse things in the Frostfangs. That's what she was, wasn't it? Warden was a fancy title, but truthfully, she was a warg.

The abilities seemed complicated at first and she drew upon her knowledge from the books and chapters in Bran's perspective. Even with that as a guideline, she found her expectations were a mere shadow of what it truly meant to be bonded to an animal. She had known Balerion since he had been a kitten, raising him, taking him everywhere with her until their paths became this and he was no longer just feline in nature. There was an innate bond, the ability to sense each other's emotions without making much effort, their beings interlaced together like fingers holding one another. She always could sense how he felt, just as in turn, he could sense her disquiet or a ripple of emotion.

Sometimes, she would dream of his midnight hunts, viewing the world from above as he went in search of large game to sate his hunger. Under the cover of night, his dark feathers and fur made him a shadow against the sky, nearly impossible to see when the stars were blotted out by clouds.

Under Fang's guidance, there had been a few instances where she had forced the switch, taking control of Balerion. However, she found that she did not like the feeling, thrusting his own sentience to the side, when she trusted the griffin's judgement just as much as her own. While there would undoubtedly be benefits to this ability, she found no use in it now.

Days bled into one another, becoming weeks and months under the tutelage of Fang. Daily sword practice, bi-weekly hunts and trapping, lessons in the True Language and of the intricacies of the Others, Fang knew not where she would be needed first, but he wanted to be certain that she would not get herself killed and could survive even in the most inhospitable of environments.

"I've been to a lot of places," Tabitha told him, savoring the fresh venison from the successful hunt that morning. Dressing the beast had become second nature and the rest had been preserved, some being smoked now to turn to jerky. Thankfully, given the frigid temperatures, she could utilize it to save the meat for later. "Mountains, oceans, jungles, deserts. Of course, I had more supplies and equipment than I do here, but I did manage to survive out there."

"If you can survive in the two extremes the world has to throw at you, you're well off," Fang commented.

"Mm, but I'll need to go into cities, mingle with people..." It had been a long time since Tabitha had any company aside from just Fang and Balerion. The idea of trying not to stick out like a sore thumb in a major city made her heart flutter, stomach churning as she thought of high society and how ill prepared she was to face any sort of nobility or royalty. She had a callous mouth, cursed worse than a sailor, and knew that while she had a sharp enough tongue to elicit chuckles at her quips, that might as well get her killed for being impudent with the wrong person.

"That was always a possibility," Fang shrugged, wrapped in a thick shadowskin where he sat against the wall. "But at least you can carry that sword well enough now to fend for yourself. A couple of years ago?" He let her oafish swinging come back to the forefront.

"Hey, I didn't know how to use those muscles. I told you I'd never lifted a sword in my life," Tabitha snorted indignantly, jabbing a gloved finger in his direction. "And for as good as I 'might' be with it, I've yet to fight anyone other than you, pipsqueak. If I were to come face to face with someone like Jaime Lannister, I know I'm like to get myself killed. A few years of steadfast practice doesn't make a master."

"At least you're not arrogant enough to think so," Fang pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I'd like to not die," she huffed. Not die, again. With her luck, she'd go on the first task laid out before her and get murdered. She had a rather cynical outlook on life, given that her second chance was albeit shoddy, riddled with clauses, and was forcing her to play a role she'd rather neglect. Honestly, she could've flown out to Essos and found a city to explore and enjoy or other natural features she could witness with Balerion beside her, but somehow she knew that the magic that had brought her here wouldn't allow it. She was bound by it, a fiery contract that she had not willingly signed. She knew not the details of the contract, only that Fang insisted that she had to do what she was told to.

A good soldier could take orders, but Tabitha had left those years in the army behind her, and it wasn't as if she had great rapport with her commander--which she was beginning to suspect more and more was somehow tied with the Lord of Light.

A west wind blew, biting through the layers that she wore. Despite the thick bundles in which she was swaddled in, there were some chills she could not chase. Groaning, Tabitha drew her cloak in and continued to trudge through the snow. A new blanket had fallen, making it a bit more difficult to traverse through the woods to check her snares. Better to be overprepared with food in the case there was a dry spell of hunting, but she hated leaving the warmth of the forge behind. She hoped her first task was someplace south and warm, not amongst the ice and stone.

Throwing back her cloak as she dug through the snow to check the snare, she heard a soft scittering beneath the white blanket. Had a scavenger gotten to whatever had been frozen beneath? Sighing, she removed her dagger and began to peel away the layers. What she hadn't been expecting was the rabbit to still be alive.

No, it was not alive, but it continued to move. Lashing at the rope snare that had snapped its neck, the head cocked at an unnatural angle as it twisted around. The eyes were a piercing blue, burning around the edges of the fur as it set those blazing irises on her and tried to pounce on her. This was the first creature she'd seen that had been turned into a wight and the implications disturbed her. Didn't an Other need to be within a certain proximity for the wighting to happen? They were coming and still, she had yet to be given a task. What had already occurred in the books that she could have prevented?

She drew her sword, killing the undead rabbit a second time, aware that the steel would stop it from rising again. No longer would traps suffice if they'd just rise again and she wasn't keen on trying wight meat or discovering its side effects. There was enough meat back in the Roost for her to wait for another big hunt. With Balerion to take it back up into the mountain, she wouldn't need to worry about it coming back to life, especially if she finished it with her sword.

The Haunted Forest was a bit of a flight from the mountains where the Roost was situated, but it was the biggest range for food. The Frostfangs had more shadowcats than worthy game. Laden with snow and icicles, the trees were depressed beneath the weight of the world around them. Daylight was fading and she knew she ought to call Balerion to head back to the safety of their home. But she was drawn in by the winter wonderland around her, to include a white mist, her steaming breath more noticable behind the thick fold of her fabric of her scarf that helped keep her face warm.

A warning flag raised in her head, recalling Fang's warnings, in tandem with the rabbit she'd found. It was time to go. It was time to-

"Who goes there?" A gruff voice asked, the audible crunching of noise taking her aback.

She swung toward the nearest tree, pinning her back to it, fingers grazing the hilt of her sword. Straining, she could hear men nearby, but couldn't say if they were wildling or Crows, she hadn't seen them. Of course there might be rangers. Thus far she'd not crossed anyone, but nor had she been exceptionally careful aside from being wary of the Others. Regardless of who it was, they probably wouldn't care for her.

Two, three, four... five? No, there were more. Call Balerion and risk him getting hurt or make a dash for it?

"You!"

But the voice that called wasn't gesturing toward her, she saw the mangled furs bundling up a figure and wondered what a lone wildling was doing. From their lumbering gait, she didn't have to puzzle for long. Just as there had been an undead rabbit, the wildling was definitely not alive. Rooted to her spot, metal sang out of scabbards.

"They don't look right," a different voice commented.

"There's another over there."

"And there. What's with their eyes?"

Crows. They learn the hard way that these bastards wouldn't go down easy, but it was not her job to help them. Until this point, she'd not been given any guidance on what to do. Hopefully, they'd survive and escape back toward the Wall. Time to go. While they were distracted she could escape whence she had come and pretend this had never happened.

Yet, as Tabitha rounded, her stomach dropped and she noticed that there were many wights lumbering from out of the fog that had thickened to a dense wall that was nearly impenetrable. They cared naught if she was a brother of the Watch of a wildling. She was alive and thus, a target. Her movement caught their attention and she had no choice but to rip her own sword out from where she'd sheathed it.

"Fine, bout time I killed a few wights," Tabitha commented to no one in particular. Originally, she had thought they'd be slow, but the ice zombies were feral and quick if their limbs were intact. Despite the encumbering snow, they lurched forward like a pack of wild dogs and she raised Fate to cut down the first attacker. The vibrant blue eyes flickered like a light switch being turned on and off, before fading entirely. There was no time to admire the success of her blow as she turned the sword, taking a step back and rooting herself before parrying the next and hacking down upon the neck, severing the head clean off. "Fuck," there were too many. She was forced back, step by step, toward the Night's Watch men that she did not want to encounter.

If they cared who she was, they did not voice it, because she was another sword amongst the horde and her sword seemed to be putting them down. Tabitha suspected it had to do with how she was dressed, in midnight blue and grey, obviously not a wildling. Perhaps they even mistook her for one of their own, her face obscured so they could not see she was a woman. Given her lean, tall stature, she could have easily passed for a man if she did not speak.

"First Ranger, what do we do? There's no end to them-ERG!" Beside her, one of the Crows was staked through with a roughly hewn spear, the undead wildling twisting the stone deeper, blood frothing to the man's lips.

Tabitha hissed and darted forward, but it was no use. Even as she killed the wight, the man would die from the wound in his chest. The light was fading and she knew that he too would turn. Rather, she spared him a pitiful glance before taking her sword and driving it down to deliver him quick mercy.

"What are you doing?!" A hand gripped her bicep, tightening painfully, as she was forced to gaze up into slate grey eyes.

"He'll turn! He was dead anyways," she snarled, ripping her arm away and glancing amidst the crowd drawing in.

"A woman-"

She'd betrayed herself, but didn't care at that moment. Two of the seven Crows were dead, but the strangest bit was that the wights had paused, forming a semi-circle around them where they panted, steaming hot breath in front of them. With the pause in the slaughter, two of the men exchanged tremulous glances and before anyone had so much as lowered their weapons, they turned heel and ran, cutting through the small gap between the wights and plunging into the wilderness to abandon the other three of their brothers that had survived.

The man that he gripped her snarled, his brows furrowing in frustration, but he did not call after them, too preoccupied with what was going on.

"Why have they stopped?" The question hung open in the air and Tabitha had a very bad feeling, her stomach nearly in her toes as she licked her lips.

"They were commanded to," she answered, the only logical explanation as to why the mindless hive would relent their assault.

"By what?" Tension was high, a stodgier Crow snapping at her, his eyes wide with terror.

"What do you think, chuckle-fuck? What controls wights?" Tabitha snapped back.

"The Others," the ranger beside him was quiet, voice barely above a whisper as the four of them contemplated their options.

"We need to get out of here. We can't fight them," Tabitha told them, her hands shaking. The Others were expert swordsmen, where she was just a novice. Even with three years beneath her belt, she didn't think she was even close to a match for them. "They had the right idea. We need to run-"

But the horses they'd come with had fled and the gap that once existed had closed. Tabitha knew she could flee, but not without condemning these men. Despite owing them nothing, she couldn't help but think 'no soldier left behind'. She was not their friend, perhaps they would have simply killed her had the wights not interrupted, but in this moment they were temporary allies.

Before them, the wights parted and an ethereal figure stepped out. Tabitha was shocked, finding not the zombie-esc being depicted in the show, but a strangely elegant, alien creature. He was made entirely of ice, glistening in the low light of dusk from the greyed sky. Eyes brilliantly, devilishly blue, another flaming pair dancing amongst the crowd that followed him. Each step refracted off his armor, which picked up the images around it, appearing see through. Gripped fast in its hand was a pale, wicked sword of crystal that would shatter any steel aside from that forged by dragon fire.

There was no moment for her to warn them, to say not to attack, but all logic had been tossed out the window. The stout ranger roared and charged forward before she could open her mouth. If they killed the Other, then the wights would stop, wouldn't they? No, not unless this was the Night King. But he did not know this and Tabitha's words were lost amongst the screeching of the crystal sword as it collided effortlessly with the ranger's. Her ears balked, the high pitched wailing of crystal to steel sounding like an animal being tortured. Then it stopped, all time ceasing as the steel shattered into a rain of silver fragments and the ranger's eyes widened in astonishment.

All of them stared in horror as the Other spoke, no one could comprehend the noises, akin to the cracking of ice in a winter lake. Even Tabitha, who knew the True Tongue, had no idea what he said. Given the mocking tone of it, she suspected he was condemning them all to death or challenging them to be as foolish as the first.

"Will killing it save us?" the man who'd grabbed her earlier asked.

"If we can kill it? No, probably not," she conceded.

The moment the sinewy ranger heard this, his fingers tightened on his sword and he spun on his heel, cloak flapping like a bird's wing as he tried to run toward the largest gap he could find. But they had all closed, thus he tried to force his way through, hacking and slashing, until the wights stirred and fought back. The flurry of activity halted, the man falling to his knees as he was punched through the stomach with an axe, cold hands tearing him apart.

"What's your name?" the man asked her, expecting that these fleeting moments might very well be their last.

"Tabitha Flores," she answered, calling for Balerion, wondering if they could escape into the sky without him being injured.

"I wish I could say it's an honor to meet you, but at least it was an honor to fight beside you. I am Benjen Stark, First Ranger to Castle Black of the Night's Watch," he introduced, a sad, but whimsical edge to his tone.

"Hey, don't be counting the daisies you'll be pushing before you've stopped breathing," Tabitha muttered, realizing now what she'd ignored at first. First Ranger. This was where Benjen disappeared and never returned. He was supposed to die here. Or maybe he wasn't. "Who knows, maybe killing this fucker will solve our problems." Hopeful thinking, but she was the one with the Valyrian steel. She needed to at least distract him enough that Balerion could sweep in unimpeded.

Her body screamed against it, instinct telling her to turn tail and run, dash herself to death into the wights just as the other ranger had done. Instead, she leveled her sword and prepared herself. A few minutes. If she could survive just a few minutes.

The chilling laughter of the Other ripped through her, clenching her heart, as he entertained her. Until this point, she'd not traded blades with anyone other than Fang. The wights were clumsy and unskilled, despite how fast they could be. But the Other was fluid, graceful, and did not strike without fully intending on killing. The first blow jarred her shoulder, her nerves twinging as she wondered if her sword would break beneath the crystal, but it held true. The Other noticed this, gaunt face drawing pensively, as her muscles quivered from holding the parry.

He shoved off, sending her a few feet back. Catching her balance, Tabitha raised her sword in the nick of time, struggling to keep up with the relentless hail of blows. Until she couldn't. Her slowing down had left an opening, the crystal blade cutting as true as any steel would, slicing into the meat of her left hand. She jerked back, her spasming hand tossing the sword behind her and into the snow, droplets of crimson splattering in the white to create a blooming of tiny bloody buds. He raised the sword, intending on spearing her through, but she had enough energy to roll out of the way, panting as she clutched her injured hand.

The sword had plunged into the earth where she had once been, her eyes widening as she scrambled back trying to find her feet and the only sword that would protect them against the Other. Rounding on her again, Tabitha still scrambled, unable to get back up as she pressed her palm to her chest and tried to stand. Again, he aimed for her and this time she knew she had nowhere to roll, lest she wanted to tuck right into a throng of wights.

Her eyes scrunched shut, but there was no pain, only the high pitched wailing of steel against crystal. When she peeked from out of her narrowed eyes, she saw that Benjen stood above her with Fate in his hands, holding back the swing that should have killed her. He forced the Other back, the harkening of Balerion above the trees reminding her that they needed to flee. Her hand was throbbing, blood staining her doublet as she managed to finally get up and whip her head towards the sky. Her eyes came back down and she saw Benjen continue to fight the Other, his own skill with the sword out matching her own as he was a more formidable match for the creature.

But it would not be an easy victory. The Valyrian steel bit against the Other's arm, hissing as it marred the brittle flesh. For that, he snaked past Benjen's defenses and caught him hard along his left side before he could turn the blade.

" No !" Tabitha knew that it had cut deep, even if the black fabric betrayed nothing.

He still stood, parrying the next and staggering back as he clutched at his flank. The Other was smug in his supposed victory, snatched only when Balerion bellowed again and nose dived between the branches, seeping from the night sky like a shadowed hellion. Talons outstretched, he caught the Other by its armor and flung it across the field and into a tree. It was not dead, but stunned, leaving them with a few fleeting seconds as Benjen crumpled to his knees, leaning upon the pommel of Fate as he panted.

Tabitha ran, the griffin encircling them and expressing his dismay loudly and with reproach, as if to challenge her. Why hadn't she called him sooner? "Get up, we need to go," Tabitha told Benjen, uncertain if Balerion could fly the entire distance back to the Roost with the both of them. She had to hope that he could. Her own injury seemed trivial in light of the Stark's, her hand flying to the gash to apply additional pressure.

Balerion knelt as she helped her charge onto his back, mounting behind him and keeping her arm pressed into his wound. No words needed to be spoken between them, onyx wings beating as he launched them off the forest floor and into the sky. He was dead weight, sagging slightly in front of her, threatening to slide right off. Balerion steadied himself, trying to keep as even as possible as Tabitha fought to keep him up.

"Stay awake. Stark!"

#game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #a song of ice and fire fanfic #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf fanfic #reincarnation insert #added lore #freeform #the ability to change the future but with a twist #romance is not the main theme #BAMF female OC #benjen stark #buirbaby writes #the wardens

5 notes · View notes

chuchiotaku · 4 years

Text

The Root of It

So many Ron bashers I’ve had the displeasure of encountering always point out how unlikable and immature Ron is based of his insecurities, his “petty” jealousy and his “oafish and lazy” nature. Never mind the fact that as the series goes on, he learns to accept and overcome these flaws, one of the best evidence being his “It’s me. I’m extremely famous,” line at the end of Book 7.

But those insecurities and flaws did not come out of nowhere.

This ties in with my previous post on how Rowling tells one thing, yet shows another, in that I can understand how Ron can think so little of himself, the least loved, when Rowling claims that his family loves him very much.

Insecurities, I think, is the same as arrogance: they are products of someone’s environment. If someone grew up being told that they are above others, that their whims are more important than the needs of the many, that they are the elite compared to a certain race or class, they grow up thinking and believing that. Draco Malfoy is a primary example of this, and is the product of not only his parents spoiling him but also of the Pureblood supremacy ideology he is surrounded by.

Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, on the other hand, can be said to be the product of the opposite: an environment where they are not told that they are special and that they are loved.

In Harry’s case, it’s blatantly out there. The Dursleys have made their disdain for him very clear, leading Harry to be abused physically, mentally and emotionally in varying degrees. This, I think, is why he has difficulty managing anger healthily, because he has had to repress it for most of his life. It’s also why he’s kind of a pessimist and tends to see authority figures in a black-or-white view until near end of seventh year.

Ron’s case, however, is not as obvious, but the signs are present for those who bother to look. Bashers will say that Ron complains too much and does not appreciate what he has (a loving family, roof over his head, the like), and to some level, I agree. However, while basic needs are important, they do not fill the hole created by the lack of what fulfills the need for love, belonging and acceptance.

Parents with many children can claim that they love all their children equally, and all things considered, that might be true. But from my experience with big families, there will always be that one (or a select few) who is the obvious favorite because they are more compatible with either the father or mother in terms of personality and/or interests. There’s also the fact that time and attention are finite resources, and with seven kids and only two parents, it’s a (very) huge stretch to adequately spend both on all of them equally.

(This doesn’t even take into account how much of a terror the twins may have been growing up)

This is not to bash Arthur and Molly, mind you. I do think they loved all their children, and did do their best considering what they’ve got. But again, insecurities don’t come out of nowhere, and the fact that Ron has plenty means that something went wrong somewhere down the road. Something that was not addressed and let fester.

As I have once said, it is the culmination of all the little things: never remembering what Ron likes, the borderline cruel pranks, that embarrassing Howler in second year (I never found it funny, because if that happened to me, I would be downright traumatized), those fugly dress robes, the disbelief over Ron being made Prefect, rubbing in the fact that Ron had never snogged anybody (which is a strike below the belt, IMO).

In addition to the fact that his best friends just happen to be the Boy-Who-Lived and the Smartest Witch of her Generation.

The fact that Ron puts up with a lot of thigns that can batter anyone’s self esteem to the ground yet still be the cheerful, friendly, boy next door bloke that he is? It amazes me, honestly.

It amazes me that he doesn’t have an outward showing of bitterness and resentment towards his family, and obviously loves them very deeply. It amazes me that he still tries his best to be a good friend to Harry and Hermione despite the fact that they don’t often appreciate him as much as they should (at least, outright. Readers, who are privy to Harry’s thoughts, know that he values Ron a whole lot).

And it irritates and saddens me how there are Harry Potter fans out there who can think of Malfoy and Snape, who have been petty, angry bullies throughout most of the books, as misunderstood and redeemable, yet see Ron, who has been a loyal, caring and supportive friend all throughout the same books, as immature and selfish oaf, to the point of being the worst character in the series.

If anything, the fact that readers were shown Ron’s flaws, him facing the consequences of having said flaws, and him eventually overcoming them makes him the one of the most developed characters in the series, the one who benefited the most out of the whole journey among the Golden Trio. It made him feel real.

No matter what the haters and the naysayers claim.

Weasley is my King!

#harry potter #ron weasley #ron weasley defense squad #ron weasley deserved better #ron weasley love #ron weasley in depth

38 notes · View notes

unicornsandphoenix · 4 years

Text

Hey fam 💕

I know it has been forever since I actually posted something....but here is something?

Shout out to @spinnersendslytherin for throwing some really sweet fics my way when I was having a bad day. I promised you a drabble that you could prompt, and I am so so sorry it took me literally two entire (3 entire?) months to come back to you with this, but I really hope you enjoy my first jump back into the fandom!

Paring: Drarry

Tropes: Oblivious Harry

Word Count: ~1700

October

Harry squinted, and rubbed at a smudge on the window.

“Mate, don’t tell me you’re looking at Malfoy again.”

Harry jumped a little and sheepishly adjusted his glasses. “I don’t know what it is, Ron, I just feel as if I need to keep an eye out for him. He’s always alone, and he hates the forbidden forest, why is he even going in there?”

Ron flipped a page of the comic book Harry had brought for him at the beginning of term. The fact that the main character could fly on demand without a broom psyched him out a little, but he seemed like a good enough bloke, and the drawings held his interest.

“Why don’t you walk with him then?”

Harry glanced back. “We aren’t friends. Besides, maybe he wants to be alone.”

Ron snorted, but didn’t look up from a particularly nice looking drawing of the superhero in some tight latex. “Yeah, sure, mate. Maybe he really wants to just be left alone. In the forbidden forest. The worst place on Earth.”

---

November

Harry was frantically scrabbling to swing his robes on without dropping his bag or tripping over the moving stairs when his wand conveniently dropped out of his pocket and rolled down the steps and off of the staircase in mid-swing.

“Fuck!” He swore, and glanced over the bannister, only to see his wand flying back up to him and smack him in the face.

“Ow,” Harry said, fumbling with the wand until he caught it between his two palms. “What,” he continued, staring straight at it.

“You should keep a better eye on your possessions, Potter,” A voice said from somewhere above him. Not that it was a mystery voice. Oh no. Harry was all too familiar with this lazy cadence and posh accent. “You never know what could happen.”

Harry glanced up, but couldn’t see against the light coming from above.

“You’re going to miss your staircase if you don’t get moving, Potter.”

“Malfoy, I--” Harry started.

“Don’t mention it, Potter.”

It didn’t occur to him at the time that this had meant that Malfoy had Harry’s schedule memorized. But then again, Harry was oblivious to quite a lot.

---

December

Something wet hit Harry’s cheek.

“Harry! Pay attention to us! We’re neeeeedy!”

Harry rubbed the potato off of his cheek and pushed Seamus’ shoulder. “Sorry, mate, what were you saying?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Listen, Harry, I know I’m one to talk but how long is it gonna take you to realize?”

“Realize what?” Harry asked, but he was already preoccupied with looking back over to the Slytherin table, and a small pile of wrapping paper starting to build up on the floor. “He’s smiling,” Harry said to himself.

Dean raised his eyebrows at Seamus. Seamus rolled his eyes and readied a spoonful of potatoes.

---

January

Hermione poked Harry’s thigh. They were all sitting in a circle, and she was laying down with her head in Pansy’s lap as Blaise, Ron, and Draco argued over the origin of some ridiculous pure blooded tradition of putting a dragon scale in your drink at New Year’s for good luck. Hermione, interested in how red Ron’s face could turn and how fast Blaise’s leg could bounce, thought she would keep the origins of the dragon’s scale (or should she say, mermaid’s scale) to herself.

“You’re staring again,” she whispered. She felt Pansy tug at her hair playfully, and looked to see a small smirk on her face.

“I don’t stare.” Harry was pouting. Hermione turned her attention back on him.

“Why don’t you just go for it? I’m sure it would end well. I have insider information, you know.” She wiggled down further into Pansy’s lap.

Harry shot her a confused look. “Hermione, really, you aren’t good at being cryptic. What are you on about?”

“Oh, I think it’s fairly obvious what she’s talking about, Harry,” Luna breezed, sitting down next to Harry in a puff of yellow and lilac skirts.

“Luna? What--”

“You like him, Harry.” Luna said, looking over to the arguing boys. Draco was gaining an interesting color to his face, Hermione noted, and he seemed to be refusing to glance in their direction.

“What! Sh! What are you--I-I would--what are you trying to imply here?” Harry said, running his hands over his jeans and through his hair.

Luna just looked at him. “I think, Harry, if you didn’t already know and it wasn’t true, you wouldn’t be getting so worked up over it.”

Harry slumped, dumbfounded. “Oh,” he said, and stared straight ahead. Hermione giggled.

---

February

“You’ve been acting weird.”

Harry dropped his broom cleaning supplies all over the floor. “I--what--no, I haven't!” He sputtered, bending down to pick up Miraculous Marcle’s Polishing Potion from the floor. That is, until a black leather shoe, shined to perfection stepped on it first. Harry gulped, face turning red, and looked up at Draco.

Draco took his foot of the bottle, and shuffled a little, in a very uncharacteristically Draco move. “Look, Harry, it’s not as if I don’t appreciate you letting me be a part of your friend group, and if you feel like you’ve done enough, I understand, but--”

“No!” Harry burst out, and Draco looked up startled. “No, I mean I don’t feel that way! I like hanging out with you, I do! I just felt...maybe I was getting a little bit clingy,” Harry ended weakly with a hand on the back of his neck, and eyes focused anywhere but on Draco.

Draco swatted him.

“Ow!” Harry said, looking up and rubbing his arm.

“Idiot!” Draco said, and straightened his robes. “We are friends, now, Potter. Stop ignoring me. It won’t do. I have grown too accustomed to your oafishness to have you distance yourself now.” With that, he turned on his heel and was off.

Harry’s eyes drifted a little lower. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe I am fucked.”

---

Valentine’s Day

Everything was going wrong for Harry today.

His alarm hadn’t woken him up in time for him to set up for that evening, let alone eat breakfast, and the outfit he had laid out last night (and had started planning a full bloody week ago), he found under a pile of cat hair, with pulled yarn from the hems.

To make matters worse, he had absolutely made a fool out of himself when he spilled pumpkin juice over himself seeing how good Draco was looking that day during lunch. And then, and then, Draco had used the anonymous letter in the shape of a heart Harry had sent to him to mop him up. Laughing. When Harry had asked him if he had read the note first, Draco had had a strained smile and said it didn’t matter, that it was probably just someone setting up to prank him.

Fuck.

Harry had skipped dinner to finish preparations, and he wasn’t even sure how he was going to get Draco to follow him to the Herbology greenhouses if he thought someone who hated him was going to be there.

Sighing, Harry lit the last orb and sent it floating into the center of the room, and started the treck back up to the eighth year dorms.

On his way, and in his hurry, Harry crashed into someone. Someone who smelled very nice. Someone who looked very nice. Someone who Harry thought was very nice. Fuck.

“Draco! Shit! I’m so sorry!”

Draco straightened with a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Harry! I--you weren’t at dinner.”

“No, I, er, needed to do something,” Harry said, fumbling.

“Oh,” Draco seemed to retreat a little, and took his hand off of Harry’s shoulder. “Are you going to be like the rest of our friends on dates and leave me alone on Valentine’s day, too?” His chuckle seemed forced, and he seemed to only hear what he had said after it had already come out of his mouth. He winced.

“Um, no, actually,” Harry said, taking a deep breath. “I was actually hoping you might was to follow me somewhere?”

Draco glanced up, surprised. “Me? I--Sure. Where are we going?”

Harry’s lips turned up in the corner in a half smile, and he shrugged a little. “I was thinking it could be a surprise?”

Draco was smiling hesitantly, and Harry’s heart spun a little. Maybe not quite everything was going wrong today.

Harry paused with his hand on the door handle, and stole a peak at Draco out of the corner of his eye.

Draco seemed nervous. He was fiddling with the buttons of his shirt, and kept glancing behind him, as if he was expecting someone to pop up and scare them.

Harry almost palmed his forehead.

“Harry, maybe we should--” Harry cut Draco off before he could continue.

“Sorry, sorry. I should have said, I--that it. Um.” Harry released the door handle and scratched his head. “It was--it was me.”

Draco shot him a look, one eye brow raised.

“I, uh, I sent you the letter today,” Harry mumbled.

Draco’s brows rose, and his mouth formed an O. “You! But, you, I?” Draco ended hopelessly.

Harry gave him a sheepish smile. “Here, just....” Harry swung the door open and watched as Draco’s tension melted off his body and a smile appeared on his face.

“Oh, Harry,” He said. The greenhouse was decked in golden orbs floating at different heights, gently rocking off of each other and shedding light on a small picnic blanket bedecked with a couple of loose flowers and some chocolates.

Harry’s hands were shaking, and he looked down again. “I know it’s, well, yeah. And I know you might not, but Hermione said--” Harry was cut off with a gentle squeeze of his hands in Draco’s, and it gave him just enough courage to look into grey eyes.

“I’ve been waiting for you to catch up, Harry,” Draco said, leaning in. “I was almost afraid I had gotten it all wrong.”

“No,” Harry said, drawn into Draco like he had his own gravitational field. “I’m just a little slow.”

But slow was good, he thought, as lips met his. Slow was very good.

#hahaha this is so late this isn't even funny #but it's here!#I'm kinda back!#Thank you so so much spinnersendslytherin #For real #drarry #drarry squad #Phia writes #Phia speaks #oblivious!harry #kinda like several one shots leading to a happy ending?#multiple pov wow maybe I should look over this again #whelp #here goes nothing!

127 notes · View notes