#not really a fix it but i did very intentionally make it spring | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

duck-in-a-spaceship · 2 months

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Final chapter! Sorry for the wait on this one, I swear I just blinked and it was March all the sudden. Crazy how time works like that.

Anyway, this one was really fun to write! It's nice to bring all the poets back together for some good times. Hope you all enjoy as well.

Chapter text under the cut

+++

There were birds bickering on the tree branch outside. They pecked at the spring berries hanging from thin branches, ones that waved and danced as they played, that sent their wings fluttering as they fought to regain their balance. One of the birds grabbed onto the cluster of berries, taking to the skies in a flutter of speckled wings, sending flower petals raining down. The other bird followed, chirping as it flew- almost indignantly, Todd imagined.

Keating stood at the front of the class, and Todd watched him through his faded image in the reflection of the glass. He read aloud from a book of poetry, but his voice only served as background music, as a score for the scenes of nature Todd watched unfold outside. He could hardly bear to think about poetry; just sitting in Keating’s class made his stomach churn, made his palms sweaty.

There was going to be a Dead Poets meeting that night, a real one. One with Charlie and Cameron and Meeks and Pitts and Knox. One that Todd had decided he was ready for, had told Neil he would read for. One that he didn’t have a single poem in mind for.

The birds knew nothing of twisting stomachs, of secret societies, of poetry , and so Todd watched them.

Someone tapped on his shoulder.

He turned to see Cameron trying to secretly pass him a slip of paper, eyeing Keating the entire time. Todd took it from him, folding the note up in his hand so no one could see its contents. He smoothed it out on his desk to reveal Neil’s slanted handwriting.

Ready for the meeting tonight? :)

Todd turned to look at Neil, who caught his eye and waved, smiling softly.

“Mr. Perry, did you want to offer up your thoughts as to what ideas our dear friend Mr. Eliot was exploring here? Why the allusion to the great Michelangelo, maybe?”

“Oh! Uh, well…” Neil scrambled to find where they were in the poem the class had been discussing all period. Cameron raised his hand instead, but Keating waited for Neil to find his place, to try and come up with an answer.

Todd used the moment of distraction to flip over the paper and write out a response.

Not really. Still pretty nervous. And no poem ideas yet.

He caught Cameron’s eye, who had lowered his hand as Neil constructed an answer about legacy and importance, and motioned for him to hand the paper back. Cameron reached out to take it, sliding it onto Neil’s desk. A couple moments later, Cameron was handing it back.

“Last one,” he mouthed, pointedly eyeing Keating.

Todd followed his gaze to where Keating was still teaching the class, and for a moment they made eye contact, the new note grasped in Todd’s hand. Keating looked away in an instant, moving on to continue his lecture, flitting away like the birds on the trees outside. It was enough for Todd to know that they’d been caught, but were being given the gift of ignorance anyway.

He smoothed out the note on his desk, written on the same slip of paper. Neil had crammed a response in on the edge of the page, words pressed against the margin.

You’ll do great. Library after classes? Can look for poems

There was a heart next to the words, covering up part of Todd’s last message. It didn’t quite shake the nerves away from his chest, but he smiled anyway. Todd turned to look at Neil over his shoulder, to give him a nod in lieu of any more notes. Neil smiled in return, giving him a thumbs up.

Outside, the birds resettled on the branches of their tree. One of them puffed up its feathers in the face of the last wintery breezes, and the other leaned over to preen its companion.

At the front of the classroom, Keating closed his book with a resounding slam, and Todd jumped as he made his final point.

“Alright everybody. I’m sure many of your other teachers would insist we still have-” he paused to check his watch, making a show of pushing back his sleeve. “-30 seconds of class time. But I think we’ve gotten the most out of our time today. I’ll see you all tomorrow, and we can finish our discussion on Mr. Prufrock.”

The class sprung to life, grabbing their things and packing their bags, chairs and shoes scraping against the hardwood floors, all underscored by the sudden burst of chatter. Todd took his time collecting his own things, getting his notebook and pencils all back where they belonged. By the time him and Neil filed out of the classroom, they were the last ones left.

“Mr. Perry,” Keating called out as the bell rang.

Neil turned to look over his shoulder, stopping Todd with a hand on his wrist. “Yeah?”

“That poetry recommendation I gave you, did it work out for you?”

Neil’s face split into a grin, and he looked over at Todd for a moment before turning back to Keating. “Yes, captain!” he confirmed, and then Todd was pulling him out the door, blush already creeping up on his face.

It most certainly did.

+++

It almost felt strange, sometimes, to go back to the bustle of proper Dead Poets meetings after his and Neil’s time spent alone in the woods. He forgot how loud they all could be, as they took to the stairs together, sneaking through the hallways, whispering and shushing each other the entire way, Cameron’s finger pressed eternally against his lips. He usually followed them from behind, corralling them along while Neil or Charlie took the lead.

Charlie had decided it was his turn, that night. Or maybe Neil had, in the interest of staying with Todd so their hands could be clasped together, of not pulling him to the front before the time came. The scrap of paper tucked into his jacket pocket felt like it was burning a hole there. He’d copied a poem on it, one he found in the library, sitting across from Neil. It was good, he knew, Neil had told him as much. It was going to be really damn good.

The spring grass was springy under their feet, and it softened their footsteps all the way to the cave.

“Come on, who’s taking forever back there? Hurry up Pitts, you should be faster than any of us!”

“Charlie, would you quiet down?”

“Oh come on, we’re miles away from Welton by now!”

“Sorry we’re coming! We found a beetle!” Meeks pushed past Todd, rushing to catch up with everyone else. They all filed into the cave, still talking over each other, bickering over who got to sit where, who ended up smushed against who. Todd and Neil ended up sitting shoulder to shoulder, in an unspoken agreement that it seemed everyone had signed off on.

“Alright, alright, quiet down, we have business to conduct.” Charlie brought the meeting to order, kind of. Their relentless dialogue quieted to something more of a whisper, a waterfall winding down into the babbling brooke. “Thank you, thank you,” Charlie went on. He was standing in the middle of the cave, in that space where Todd knew he would be standing, soon.

Neil elbowed him in the side, nodding encouragingly. “Come on,” he said softly, the words only for Todd’s ears.

“I, uh, I have something.”

That got everyone to really, truly shut up. The babbling brooke froze over, somehow.

“Alright, Todd!” Someone cheered, Meeks maybe, and the rest of the voices soon joined in.

“Holy shit, yeah!”

“Go on then, get up there!”

The poets gave him some scattered applause while he took center stage, Neil clapping him on the back as he rose to his feet. The moonlight shone through the opening to the cave overhead, gleaming on Todd like an improvised spotlight. Ashes from one of their old fires smeared black on the bottom of his shoes, scratching the old burned wood over the stone like an artist’s charcoal. Todd realized he would no longer have to wonder if he was the type of person that could say things and make people listen; he was about to find out.

Then again, judging from his captive audience, all quiet, all eyes on him, maybe he already knew.

He pulled the folded scrap of paper from his pocket, carefully holding it up in front of him. The spotlight of the moon felt horribly revealing, but it lit his way as well, casting its glow on the words he’d copied down from an old book just hours ago.

Todd cleared his throat, aware he was taking too long. He didn’t know how Neil did it, how he stood under the beaming glare of real spotlights, in front of a theater packed with people, instead of just a cave. He could do it too, he could do something that was just a fraction of all that.

They’d rehearsed for it, afterall.

Todd looked up at Neil as he began, introducing his poem for those eyes only, even though they were the only ones that had already helped him pick it out.

“This is Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.”

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Todd’s voice rose as he came to the final lines of the poem, belting them out for the world to hear, yawping into the night.

“Do not go gentle into that good night!” he practically shouted. The rest of the poets started to rise to their feet around him, spurred on by Neil. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light!”

They formed a circle around him, and Todd felt congratulatory hands grip his shoulders, slap his back.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light!” Pitts shouted out, echoing the final words of the poem, like the cave bringing Todd’s voice back to him.

“Come on Todd, lead the way!” Neil gripped onto his shoulders, one set of hands among many. He pushed Todd forward slightly, urging him to the opening of the cave.

“Make way, come on, get out of the way,” Cameron urged, ushering the boys aside, elbowing Knox, waving away Charlie.

The forest sprawled out in front of Todd, the whole world his stage. The hands on his shoulders urged him to seize it, urged him to charge forwards and show it what he could be. He thrust his hand still clutching that scrap of paper into the air. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light!”

The poets echoed his words, and Todd led them out into the forest, flashlights blazing through the air like flames. “Rage, rage!” they cried, Todd urging them onward while they urged him forward. Rage against Welton, against their parents, against their teachers, against the whole goddamn world that had done everything it had done to them.

Neil’s hands gripped his shoulders tight, his laughter filling the space between words. Charlie jumped beside him, one arm wrapped around Cameron, whose grin was uncharacteristically wide. Knox had taken off his jacket and was waving it above his head like a war banner. Pitts was louder than any of them, hand in hand with Meeks as they stormed through the woods.

Todd didn’t know where they were going, where he was leading his troops. He knew, somewhat nonsensically, somewhat madly , that they were going to win.

The wind tore the paper from his grasp and took it to the treetops. It curled through the air, fluttering not down to the forest floor with the leaves but up, up, to join the stars. Todd watched it go, and wondered if he was going with it.

+++

“God that was amazing ,” Neil said. He fell down onto his bed, boots kicking up into the air. Todd waved goodbye to Meeks as he closed the door behind them. The vestiges of adrenaline still flowed through his veins, kicking around in his skull and warming his face.

“I mean really, Todd,” Neil went on, sitting up. He jumped to his feet as he did so, seemingly unable to sit still. Todd knew the feeling. “I think that was the best Dead Poets Society meeting we ever had. I think that was the best Dead Poets Society meeting there ever was .”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Todd protested, but it was weak. He spoke the words without belief, and gave them life through grinning teeth. “I mean there were a lot of Dead Poets meetings we never even saw. Who knew what Keating was up to in there?”

Neil laughed. “Come on, nothing as good as that.” He rose to his feet, still jittery with that same adrenaline that Todd could feel, warming their faces. He reached out and grabbed Todd’s hands, clasping them tightly. “Nothing as good as you. ”

Todd reached up to press their lips together in a short kiss, one that Neil tried to chase as he pulled away. “All thanks to you.”

And it was , Todd knew. Because he had never been that kind of person, who stood under moonshine spotlights and spoke words people listened to. He needed someone to drag that out of him, to shove him under that light and prop him upright and listen, really listen, to what he had to say.

He needed to find that Todd Anderson, and in order to do so, he found Neil Perry as well. The Neil Perry that looked at him with that wide smile and soft eyes, and said,

“It was my pleasure.”

#dead poets society #anderperry #todd anderson #neil perry #not really a fix it but i did very intentionally make it spring #also shout out to 'do not go gentle into that good night' for being an absolute banger of a poem #and shoutout to whoever recommended it to me on discord #im sorry i dont remember who you are

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veliseraptor · 1 year

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☕️ Golden core reveal and what it means for the two prides of Yunmeng

took a while to get to this because I needed to sit down and take a minute about it. been a bit since I got in my yunmeng shuangjie feelings but that just means it's a good time to get back in them eh

this is one of those things where I'm like...there are so many ways this could go from where it ends in canon, which is one of the things I find so fascinating about it, and why it's so interesting to pick at. because if we're talking about the side of it in canon, namely the fact that Wei Wuxian gave up his golden core for Jiang Cheng, then...that really does detonate a bomb in, particularly, Jiang Cheng's conception of a lot of things. it rearranges the way he has to perceive a whole lot of stuff from before Wei Wuxian died in a very painful way, changes the context of what he thought he understood, and specifically does that years after the fact at the point when he's had a long time to figure out how to come to terms with everything that went wrong.

in the face of tragedy, people like to make sense of it somehow, and Jiang Cheng I think spent a solid amount of time trying to make sense of what went wrong, and when, and where, and why, and came to his own conclusions about all of those things based on the information he had. and part of the way he decided to cope with it is, I think, deciding that his relationship with Wei Wuxian decayed because Wei Wuxian didn't care about him enough to stay; that ultimately Wei Wuxian cared more about the Wen, or himself, or demonic cultivation, than he did about Jiang Cheng (or Jiang Yanli). and he operates with that assumption when Wei Wuxian is dead, and he continues to operate with it when Wei Wuxian comes back.

and then he finds out that whoops! your brother loves you! so much so that he destroyed himself because he thought he had to in order to fix you! and that's, you know, a lot on its own, but it also forces a perspective shift on a tectonic level that rattles Jiang Cheng all the way to his core.

but I think he sort of comes to the conclusion, or at least somewhat the resignation, that it's too late now. things have gone too far and changed too much to mend what's broken, and I don't think he necessarily knows where to start; on the other side of things Wei Wuxian is tired and the reveal rips open some old wounds for him, too (though I think not quite as many; he's not dealing with the same perspective shift). I think he just wants to move on, not in the sense of "doesn't want a relationship anymore" but in the sense of "doesn't want to keep dwelling on the past," and he's in a position where that's easier to do, in some ways, than it is for Jiang Cheng.

I wrote in everyone else is spring bound:

“I told you,” Wei Wuxian said slowly. “It’s in the past, now. You don’t need to-”

“For you it is,” Jiang Cheng said. “For you it’s history, another life, whatever. For me it’s-” Inescapably present. There, inside me, under my heart, sustaining me. “-not.”

and that I think is part of the problem: the disjunction between a Wei Wuxian who wants to leave it behind and Jiang Cheng, who needs to process it.

none of this is to say - I hope obviously! - that there's no way for them to figure it out, or that they shouldn't, or don't want to, etc. etc. just that for all there's an idea sometimes that truth clears the air or whatever and makes it easier for them to approach each other...while that's not not true in this case I think it also in some ways presents its own new challenges.

as far as the other half of the golden core hot potato game...I go back and forth on whether it would help. I don't think Jiang Cheng would ever voluntarily or intentionally tell Wei Wuxian about his choice to sacrifice himself to the Wen; there are a lot of reasons for that but I think one of them is that to him it would feel pathetic and petty, like he was saying "see, I made my sacrifice too, so you should still love me" or something like that. if Wei Wuxian found out somehow...I don't know. I think it would be complicated and messy and painful and very fun for me to read about but I think in the long term it would depend on how Wei Wuxian reacted to that knowledge, and I can see a lot of different ways he might go with it.

wow this got long. well like I said been a while since I got in my yunmeng shuangjie feelings but I've still got em. guess I should go back to trying to finish that fic I was working on. once I can write again.

#conversating #shockingheaven #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #the sad queer cultivators show #aggressively headcanons #opinions meme #lise memes

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eleanorfenyxwrites · 3 years

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Hi y'all!

So I realized today that it's been about three months since I started cross-posting my stuff to ao3 (those of y'all who were here for After Each Midnight while it was still a wip will know that I've been writing for longer than that but anyway). With the latest fic I just posted, I now have 30 works published to ao3 within those three months! Which is wild to me!

Since that averages out to ten fics a month and I like round numbers, I decided to celebrate by listing my 10 favorite fics...of my own lol. Narcissistic? Maybe! But it's fun anyway!

This is a really long post as each rec includes a summary, an excerpt (or a few), and some personal notes/anecdotes about the writing process or what inspired me to write the fic, etc. so I'm putting it all under the break. If this doesn't sound like your cup of tea then of course please just skip over this one, but for anyone who wants to revisit some of my older works with me, or if you're curious about which fics I personally like the most, or if you want to talk about your favorite fics of mine in the replies or anything, then that's cool too! I just wanted to find a way to mark this down because it feels like something of an achievement ^_^

Thank you!

1. After Each Midnight Begins A New Day, (54,401 words, Rated E) Ship(s): 3zun, Wangxian Summary: When Lan Xichen wakes up the morning after the fifth anniversary of his life crumbling to rubble around him in Guanyin Temple, he's shocked to find both Nie Mingjue and Meng Yao in his bed, both whole and alive and...married to him?! (A time travel fix-it in which the time traveling and fixing of things has already been done by Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian, and Lan Xichen accidentally gets dragged along for the happily ever after.) Excerpt(s):

1. “Poor da-ge,” [Meng Yao] teases again, this time with a bit of an edge, and Lan Xichen cracks one eye open just enough to see him stripping first out of his shoes and socks, then his third layer of robes, then his second, until he’s dressed much as he had been the prior evening - in nothing but a black under-robe so sheer that it actually almost looks gray. It clings to all the petite, lithe curves of him and the sight makes Lan Xichen’s mouth practically water. “What if I want my turn with you now? What if I’m jealous that er-ge got to have you all to himself for hours , while your poor A-Yao had to go have a drink with Xian-didi just to pass the time.” “Oh gods you’re a beast too,” Nie Mingjue groans as Meng Yao slips on top of him gracefully to lean down and pepper kisses up and down his neck and shoulder. “Get off of me, foul creature. Go tempt our husband, I’m temporarily immune to your wiles.” “You’re never immune to my wiles, da-ge, and er-ge is meditating oh so diligently. He’s certainly not smiling and watching us through his lashes as if we’re not well aware of his tricks and what he likes to watch.” - 2. “It took years of practice, you with your painting and I with my answering, but when you were a teenager I finally decided on the best advice I could think to give you: Do not seek for every answer in this life all at once, Xichen,” he instructs with a smile as he returns to painting. “Let them come to you gently and in their season, and trust that all will be as it should in the end.” Lan Xichen takes another breath and returns to his painting with a slightly trembling hand - a trembling that ends up creating a lovely branch on the tree he is painting that, when he turns his head to look, is modeled almost exactly after the one growing in the garden behind the Gentian House, just beyond the window. “I don’t remember ever seeing this tree,” he whispers and Qingheng-Jun hums across from him in clear understanding. “And yet it flows from your brush all the same. Now we can all know that you have nothing to fear, your memories will also come to you in their season. Until then, allow yourself to rest, and remember that you have the support of your family whenever you need it.” “Yes, father,” he replies with a whisper and a tremulous smile, feeling lighter than he has in days. - 3. “I will go into seclusion.” The statement is a stone dropped into the gently rippling water of a spring-fed pool. The stone is jagged and pitted with all that the world has done to chip away at it, to make it rough and painful to the touch. It is sharp in his hands, heavy with all the hurts he still carries in his chest, all the grief he has no more room to hold. He feels lighter with it out of his grasp, the words settling into the ensuing silence with some bittersweet relief.

Notes: I know I've said it before but it bears repeating: this entire fic exists solely because of the smut scene in chapter 1. I thought of the smut first, and then the lead-in to it, and I intentionally left the end of chapter 1 ambiguous - it could have ended right there as an angsty one-shot with Lan Xichen believing that it was all a hallucination, and there's nothing really in the text to say that it's not because Lan Xichen is a very unreliable narrator in this fic. But then I wanted to write the backstory for the smut if, in fact, it wasn't a hallucination - and everything kind of...butterfly-effected out from there to become what it is now, along with all the extras in the series that's now roughly 120k long altogether and still not finished. Oops. Oh and also: this fic that started the ball rolling only exists because for some reason the servers for Omegle went down for months where I live, and prior to that I used to spend hours rp'ing. Without that creative outlet, I filled the vacuum with writing fic instead and now here we are. So if you're grateful for my fics then thank Omegle for sucking for a few months lol --//-- 2. Loving, Loud, Wild, and Theirs (7386 words, Rated T) Ship(s): Xuanli & Gen (kidfic), 3zun (briefly) - an extra for AEM Summary: A brief look at how in this kinder world, Jin Zixuan managed to find and legitimize his three siblings as well as a snapshot of the chaos of love and fun that is his family with his siblings, his beloved wife, and their seven children. Excerpt:

He had listened to [Madam Qin] and her handmaid, and he had believed them, and he had been unsurprised to find himself thinking quite uncharitably of his father following his promise to Madam Qin that he would do everything in his power to make it right, as much as he could. [Jin Zixuan and Meng Yao] return to Jinlintai the day after the next, once their business is concluded. He’s relieved when nothing needs his immediate attention as it means he’s free to retreat into his and Jiang Yanli’s quarters so he can tell her everything that’s weighing on his mind. “No more surprise siblings from now on,” he sighs into the comfort of Jiang Yanli's chest when he’s finished outlining what has happened and his plans to prepare a new suite of rooms in the family wing of the tower. For Qin Su. His sister. Jiang Yanli just laughs her tinkling laugh and kisses him, her hands gentle as she combs his hair back from his face with her fingertips. “You’ve got more siblings now than any of the rest of us,” she teases with a mischievous smile down at him that is a bit too reminiscent of, weirdly, both Wei Wuxian and Mo Xuanyu for comfort. “Two brothers, a sister, and of course we must keep Mianmian in her spot on the list. If you would like to count brothers-in-law as well you’ve also got A-Xian, A-Cheng, Huaisang, Wangji, Xichen, and Mingjue...” He groans and hides his face properly in the soft silk of her robes even as she laughs again over his head.

Notes: This fic is actually a request fill for someone and I had some trouble ending it because there's a lot more I want to write with this wild family, though I did eventually find what felt like a good place to cut it off with 3zun arriving in Jinlintai for the visit they leave for at the end of AEM. There is something of a follow-up floating around my wips that - if it ever gets written - is a direct sequel to AEM that continues where this extra leaves off, with 3zun getting to spend time with their hoard of niblings in Jinlintai. No promises about if/when that will get written though. --//-- 3. Performance Art (8106 words, Rated M) Ships: 3zun, Wangxian (briefly) Summary: A Modern AU inspired by the 'Hysterical Literature' performance art project. Lan Xichen, Nie Mingjue, and Meng Yao take turns doing their best to read aloud from chosen written works as they're filmed. The twist is that they're trying to do so as they're being pleasured with a vibrator controlled by one of their partners off-camera, each of their turns ending when the partner being filmed/played with has an orgasm. Excerpt(s):

1. “Engage people with what they expect; it is..- it…it is what they are able to discern and.. ngh.. confirms their projections. It settles.. ah settles them into predictable-“ He cuts off suddenly to set the book down flat and slap one hand down sharply on the tabletop. Meng Yao simply clicks another button and Nie Mingjue groans as his newly unoccupied hand twitches back to rest on the edge of the table closer to himself, as if about to drop down beneath it. Lan Xichen and Meng Yao both shift forward in their seats but Nie Mingjue catches himself before they have to intervene, returning his hand to the middle of the table and forcing a deep breath into his lungs so he can continue. “-Predictable patterns of..of response, occupying their minds while you w-wait for the ex- extra-“ he huffs out a sharp breath and curls his hand into a fist as he tilts forward and forces out the rest of the sentence in a rush. “Extraordinary moment — that whichtheycannotanticipate. FUCK!” - 2. It’s a few hours of quiet, peaceful work later when Lan Wangji shifts his weight in the way that means he wants Wei Wuxian’s actual attention and not his ‘ I’m sculpting so I’m periodically looking at you ’ sort of attention which he is, of course, quick to grant. He pauses in his muttering half to himself and half to Lan Wangji to say, “Hm? What’s up Zhanzhan?” “From Xiongzhang,” he says by way of explanation, holding his phone out for Wei Wuxian to squint at the screen. It takes him a moment to understand what he’s looking at, his eyes needing a second to adjust to the small black and white video that’s playing after having spent hours looking between Lan Zhan and the clay form taking shape under his hands. “What is this?” he asks as he leans in closer and squints a little harder. He blinks and his eyes go wide in the next moment as he realizes what’s happening on the screen as the woman’s tension climaxes ( literally ) - and then it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to figure out just why he’d been asked to create an eerily similar setup in his own studio the previous afternoon for three men he might as well consider his sort-of brothers at this point. His next exhale is a wheeze as his ears go hot and Lan Wangji is instantly shrugging into a robe to stand from his lounging position and approach, concern written all over his features. “Wei Ying?”

Notes: I don't really have too much to say about this one except that it brought me so much joy and laughter to write and it honestly kind of surprises me that it's one of my less popular fics - it's nothing but a fun, sexy time! But I'm also terrible at guessing trends/what people will want to see so that might be on me haha. Oh! Also - a minor thing but something I'm very mildly proud of: the narrator voice is dependent on who's behind the camera! I wanted a way to make the person filming feel just as involved as the other two and I thought that was a fun way to do it since within the narrative it's technically going to be their perspective used for the video they're recording. Just to give y'all a little insight into my decision-making when it comes to my writing style for this one. --//-- 4. Anything For My Nie-Zongzhu (6411 words, Rated E) Ship: NieYao - pre-canon (just barely) Summary: Meng Yao is Nie Mingjue's trusted right hand, intelligent and valued by his Sect Leader, at least, who has learned lately to appreciate him a hell of a lot in private too - and for much more personal matters than the minutiae of running the Nie Sect. Seeing as Nie Mingjue trusts him so much, he finds it in himself to ask for something new - for Meng Yao to top him. [Technically an extra for AEM but can be read as a standalone] Excerpt:

“Am I to play into this boorish act you’re putting on tonight?” he teases instead as he steps closer until he’s near enough to feel the way the steam from the bath has turned the air sticky and humid. Nie Mingjue finally looks up at him and Meng Yao is internally crowing with triumph as he watches the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth fall away, his expression smoothing into quiet contentment. He did that. His presence alone is enough to help Nie Mingjue relax. It feels nearly as good as the day the man had angrily defended him to his own disciples and promoted him on the spot. “It’s not an act, I’m plenty boorish,” Nie Mingjue gruffs, returning his gaze to the letter, but this close Meng Yao can actually watch his eyes do nothing but try to glare a hole through the center of the page. “Of course you are, Zongzhu,” Meng Yao allows, his tone openly humoring - as is the smile tightening the corners of his mouth. “Therefore I can only suppose that you would prefer it if I returned to my walk and left you to continue your...correspondence in peace.”

Notes: Once again not really many notes on this one! I just love NieYao, I think their dynamic during Meng Yao's Nie Sect days has so much potential and I love exploring it every so often. --//--

5. Bite The Hands That Feed (1590 words, Rated E) Ship: XiYao Summary: After being forced out of the Nie Sect, Meng Yao has to come to grips with the hunger that's been chasing him his whole life, and he finds temporary satisfaction over and over in Lan Xichen, who is always so generous with his time and his body and is willing to help him feel less empty even just for a night. Excerpt:

He would never bite the hands that feed him, that stuff him full enough to make him believe for a moment that he’s no longer starving. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t inflict pains. He bites and he scratches and he plants himself in the bloody furrows until flowering moans reward his violent care, until pleasure bursts sun-warmed and sweet between them, berries ripe for the picking. He stains his mouth red with them, his fingers purple with the bruises he paints so delicately on his devotee’s body. If Meng Yao is being clawed to a slow torturous death from within, then it stands to reason that his other half will be ripped to shreds from without. He keeps his nails sharp and his teeth bared to tear into his flesh and drink sweetly of the vintage he offers - sweat, spend, blood, saliva when their mouths meet for crushing kisses. All of it is his to consume. He puts his mouth to the feast of Lan Xichen’s body and eats until the hunger pangs are satiated, drinks until he feels dizzy with it.

Notes: So I wrote this one when I was getting a little tired of the straight narration style of all my other fics and I wanted to try my hand at something looser, a little more prose-like but also a little darker than my usual fluff. I'm not sure how successful I was - this is actually one of my absolute least popular fics, number-wise! - but it's one of my favorites anyway. --//-- 6. A Figure, A Mouth (2788 words, Rated M) Ship: Wenzhou Summary: A quiet, intimate evening spent in the comfort of the Four Seasons Mountain Manor sometime between their arrival/fixing up of the place and the confrontation with Ye Baiyi. Excerpt:

After a while of warming each other up Wen Kexing urges him back up to push the bed under the window just as he’d said he would. Zhou Zishu takes the opportunity to blow out the candles before he rejoins Wen Kexing in their bed, the sudden darkness leaving them free to admire each other clothed in nothing but broad swathes of cool, sweet blue light bisected by deep black lattices of shadow from the trees out in the yard, the shadows from the contours of the wall and decorations around the window blocking and revealing them in turns. Lao Wen is, of course, as beautiful like this as he has been in every way Zhou Zishu has ever seen him, and he takes the time to savor it, to indulge in the decadence that Wen Kexing presents for each of his remaining senses. He’s a feast for the eyes, all hard muscle and skin glistening with glittering diamonds of sweat along his shoulders and the soft curve of his cheek. He’s a symphony for the ears, breathless desire and tender calls of his name that Zhou Zishu never lets go unanswered when they’re like this. By now Wen Kexing is an expert at drawing pleasure from him in every unlikely way there is to make sure that the effects of the nails don’t keep him from reaching his peak at least once, occasionally more in spite of his fading sense of touch.

Notes: Wenzhou makes me so soft and emotional, y'all. The next one on the list is also a Wenzhou fic and I just can't seem to stop writing them in fluffy/smutty situations because it's what they deserve. I really don't have anything more interesting to say about this fic, I just love them haha. --//-- 7. Tease Him Just Enough (2537 words, Rated M) Ship: Wenzhou Summary: A possible outcome if the conversation post-face reveal in episode 6 had gone differently - i.e. if Zhou Zishu had called Wen Kexing out on all his flirting and challenged him to do something about it - and then he does. Excerpt:

They don’t need words to communicate that at least right here in this particular moment there’s no one else they would rather have in their arms, pressed up against their bodies, no one else’s tongue who would find a new home in each other’s mouths or any other body their hands would rather explore. Wen Kexing has already known that they’re fated, but for the first time it feels like they’re agreeing to be so. Even if it’s just for a night. (Not that he thinks it will be just one night for them, but getting Zhou Xu to agree to anything remotely of the kind is like trying to drag a stray back-alley cat into a bath so he’ll take what he can get.)

Notes: My first fic for Word of Honor! The whole time I was watching the show (read: obsessively binge-watching) I was like 'Okay I like this show a lot but it's not nearly as compelling as The Untamed, idk if I'll be motivated to write anything for it'. Then I got to the end and I was like NEVERMIND YES I AM. I played myself. --//-- 8. You Need Tending (12,108 words, Rated T) Ship(s): Lan Wangji & Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji & Lan Xichen, Lan Qiren & The Jades & Wei Wuxian (this is a kidfic so nothing romantic!) Summary: Wei Wuxian is alone and homeless on the streets of Yunmeng, unaware of the presence of his parents' old friend so nearby. Lan Wangji is a child grieving for the loss of his mother in silence, overwhelmed by the world his uncle keeps dragging him out into. It takes their paths crossing more than once for Lan Qiren to realize just who Wei Wuxian is and that he needs their help, but he gets there eventually. Excerpt:

He watches on as the man comes to a stop next to the boys and squats down to check over the one who had been lost and suddenly he remembers lying on the ground and looking up at a stern-faced man with gentle hands and a ribbon across his forehead. The man who had given him medicine and bandages after a small boy had defended him from dogs, and an older boy had talked to him so kindly and helped him to sit up off the dirt. Wei Ying gasps as the memory hits and he scrambles back down off the roof, landing on the packed dirt of the space between the buildings with an oof, excitement bubbling in his chest. Along with the memory comes a name and it flies from his lips as he scrambles up off the ground to push his way into the crowd again. “Master Lan!” he shouts, his tiny voice lost in the din of the market. He tries to shove closer but the little family is already walking away, their backs to him as he strains against the flow of people much bigger and stronger than him. “Master Lan!” he tries again, desperation lending extra strength and emotion to his cry. Wei Ying stops struggling as he watches the two boys in white walk away, the pair of them flanking Master Lan in his sky blue robes as they move through the market, radiating serenity in the midst of the chaos. His vision blurs and he scrubs his forearm against his eyes angrily to dry them, trying to keep the three of them in his sight for as long as he can just in case they turn around and spot him. Just in case they remember him and maybe want to tell him to come with them.

Notes: Baby Wei Ying T-T He just hits me right in the heart, and so does baby Lan Zhan! And baby Lan Xichen. All the babies. This fic was actually completely inspired by an utterly adorable fanart of Lan Xichen giving a grumpy baby A-Zhan a piggyback ride! I'd been wanting to write a kidfic type fix-it for a while and that art was the spark I needed to come up with something workable. (Edit: here’s my reblog of the art I’m talking about!) --//--

9. Familial Circumstances (5393 words, Rated G)

Ship(s): Lan Qiren & Original Characters, Lan Qiren & Jin Zixuan, Lan Qiren & Qin Su, Lan Qiren & Mo Xuanyu - An extra for AEM

Summary: Another kidfic extra for the horde of children in Jinlintai, this time as seen through the lens of their beloved Great Uncle Lan. It's a simple relationship-study-type look at how all the children love their Great Uncle and how much he loves and treasures them in return.

Excerpt:

An unusual stillness accompanies [Jin Ruhai's] playing. Jin Lu stops fidgeting with her fingers, the twins slip into the perfect stillness of those who are utterly aware of themselves at all times - a trait [Lan Qiren has] noticed in every skilled fighter he’s ever come across - and even Jin Ye relaxes, slumping further and further backwards until she’s slouched down against his stomach, legs dangling over his crossed shins.

The piece isn’t a terribly long one, nor as complex as the next score Lan Qiren intends to teach the boy, but Jin Ruhai’s mastery of it is impressive. Again, Lan Qiren is forcefully reminded of Lan Wangji, always most at peace when behind his instrument to play with and/or for the people he loves.

There’s silence in the room until the last note fades with a shiver into the air and Jin Ruhai pulls his hands back from the instrument. The stillness lasts for one more moment before it’s interrupted by Jin Lu sneezing suddenly and her siblings laugh as the quiet breaks.

“I had to hold that in the whole time !!” Jin Lu laughs as she rubs her sleeve under her nose, one eye screwed shut as she giggles. “I didn’t want to mess up A-Zhuang’s song, it’s so pretty!”

Notes: I'm definitely biased because they're all my oc's except for Jin Ling, but I genuinely love all of the Jin children in the AEM AU. If anyone is ever interested in knowing more about their individual personalities and the like please don't hesitate to ask me, I've actually put quite a bit of thought into all 6 of the kids I created wholecloth and I have a lot of feelings about Jin Ling getting the chaotic siblings and loving parents he was robbed of.

--//--

10. Opportunities To Practice (5710 words, Rated M) (*WIP)

Ship: Xuanli - An extra for AEM

Summary: Jin Zixuan is nervous for his..marital activities with Jiang Yanli - after all, who could he possibly ask for advice? His father? No thank you. Thankfully Jiang Yanli is sweet and patient and knows her husband well - he just needs a bit of time and he'll get it figured out.

Excerpt:

She shivers with an interesting combination of want and intense vulnerability as she stands there, feeling bare in spite of her remaining layer. It’s of a material so sheer as to be practically nonexistent, nothing more than a delicate veil of a red so pale it’s nearly pink that sits on her body like a second skin. Until it falls gently away at the knee to flutter around her ankles, it clings to every curve, every contour, and as she watches Jin Zixuan doesn’t even bother to hang the robe he had just removed on the screen. He lets it drop into a soft pool around her bare feet, his gaze roaming her newly exposed figure - she would perhaps feel strange about it did he not look so devoted , so in awe of seeing her practically naked in front of him.

Yanli gasps softly as he suddenly drops to his knees at her feet and oh - that’s heady. Her body, which she hasn’t really thought of too much in the past beyond the occasional irritation that it’s weaker than she would prefer, has put the man she loves on his knees. He’s looking up at her now, his eyes wide and his hands reverent as he raises them to rest on her thighs, thumbs caressing her too-warm skin through the barely-there robe that bunches up softly under the pressure of his grip.

“You’re right,” he finally breathes, sounding slightly strained. “I’d like this to stay on. If that’s - are you alright?”

“I am,” she reassures.

Notes: This last fic is technically a wip, the only one in the list! However! - it's going to be a collection of one-shots centered around Xuanli and their sexual exploits that lead to their seven children, and possibly also the ones that are just for fun (horny Yanli rights forever). It's not currently high on my list of priorities or anything and the one chapter that's up so far can stand on its own so it's a wip but it's not? I just love Xuanli so much and I want to explore their relationship in my happy fix-it AU whenever the mood strikes, and whenever that happens this is where those one-shots will go.

--//--

And that's it! My personal top 10 favorite fics of my own as of right now. I thought about doing my top 10 according to statistics like hit counts or kudos, but I genuinely love some of these unpopular fics and I wanted to give them some love and attention even if it's just for me. I know there's a lot here to sift through but if any of y'all enjoyed the list or any of the specific fics on it let me know! I liked taking this little pause to take a look at what I've actually been producing these last few months.

Thanks for reading!

#the untamed fanfic #gonna tag the main romantic ships listed:#3zun #NieYao #XiYao #Wangxian #Xuanli #Wenzhou #y'all I legit spent hours formatting this and writing all this out #I also went looking for the fanart that inspired You Need Tending so I could link it and my page refreshed #which I suspected it would do so of course I hit Ctrl+A and copied it all -#only to find out that doing that doesn't extend past the readmore break which I had already put in #so I lost the whole introductory bit and had to rewrite it #T-T I didn't even find the fanart I'm gonna look for it again on mobile cuz it's easier #ANYWAY - literally no one asked for this and I don't even know if anyone was curious to begin with but I wanted to make this anyway soooo #It's also lowkey one of my goals to write something one day that becomes popular enough to end up on rec lists #So this is me kind of indulging that in a very 'tooting my own horn' kind of way that I refuse to apologize for #No shame in my game #Also if you see any typos or formatting weirdness No You Don't :) I've been doing this for 5+ hours and I'm hUNGRY

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papers4me · 3 years

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Hi, I have always read your furuba reviews and I'm very curious about which are your favorite characters and why?

HI!

Thank you for reading my posts<3. I know I've been slow lately, but I'm not in a right emotional place right now, but I'll be back to posting soon. Actually talking abt furuba & story-telling here in tumblr is such a peaceful outlet that I'm thankful for.

While I love 97% of furuba characters, my faves kept changing while I watched the anime. I decided to have 5 top characters as faves & number one kept changing as the anime progressed.

Since I'm all abt story-telling, I think I need to separate the anime from the manga cuz no way in the anime that tohru would be on my top 5, heck not even top 10! I really don't like how her character was reduced to yuki's mommy-tohru, then angel-tohru, then villain-fixer tohru. The real individual tohru with her own personal story is just two eps long, so meh~. Also, while yuki is in my top 5 in the anime, I don't like how he's too perfect & prince in the anime while his own theme is the imperfect non-prince. Kyo's, too in my top 5 but I dont like how his own story is intentionally messed up by the anime with the stupid "I forgot" that contradicts the anime's own canon plot...

So, I'll tell you my top 5 fave character in the manga so fat with no particular order.

Tohru, while I'm yet to uncover her own plot in the manga, so far she has way more character exploration & depth!! She really feels like a different character from the anime! I'm shocked! The facial expressions, the occasional doubtful self-talk, even the "fake-smile"mask she puts is so expressive. She is treated as a character with a personal plot , regardless of being the protagonist. Her own plot is not reliant on being yuki's mommy, or the sohma's shrink, or a fixer. Her own plot line is abt grief & being lonely. It's the most common struggle that we all share regardless of our gender, race, financial status. Death is the ultimate fact & we'll face loosing a loved one & feeling lonely is not related to social skills nor being loved. I'll forever hate the anime for passing on such unique universal theme in favor of emphasizing the most popular shonen-themed coming of age story ( a boy becoming a man) "yuki" or the over-exaggerated drama in "kyo's". Like I dont want them to pass any of the 3 characters plotlines, but the anime made a choice & forever cemented anime tohru as the most "fixer"character in anime history like 98765678 of other female protagonists.

Yuki has way more character & realness in the manga. He doesnt come off as narrator-y as he does in the anime simply cuz the anime only chose the parts where yuki narrates as a voice-over & told us how to feel & dropped all the parts where he's interacting & actually talking to other characters not just the audience. His own personal story is abt "observing, learning & having the guts to make a move & embracing his own imperfection". I love this! Anime yuki is not imperfect. no. he's the icon of perfect prince, he even initiates a set of fanclub girls into the world that they float! He's so perfect, he "heals" a girl simply by talking to her once. That's all it takes him to fall in love & find his soulmate. While in the manga, I'm starting to see yuki display signs of "kind jerk" in the making, that's refreshing!

I admit that I didn't include kyo into my top 5 until se02. Don't get me wrong, he's so endearing since ep1, but didnt seem to be complex nor refreshing as the others. but se02, ep 9 was the first glimpse into his own character depth & I got hooked! I'm so in love with the theme of "repeated mistakes & guilt". it's such a mature theme & speaks to a much wider audience. The more we repeat the same mistakes, the more we self-sabotage our lives. Also, I love the love isn't a magic healing element in his story. He's the most loved character by tohru, yet her love only hurt him more due to his guilt. Moreover, the romantic element itself wasnt a cliche "love at 1st sight, nor lovers since childhood, nor girl fixes a guy, nor guy protects the girl from danger". Not at all. It was "love blooming subtly, little by little by mundane daily life". I cant express how much I applaud Takaya-san for such complex writing. In the anime, kyo only comes when it's his ep, other than that, he's absent or characterless. I hated that. So far in the manga, kyo has an existence even in other plotlines & has different aspects of his character. Also, I'm shocked at how much inner dialogue he has! like no too much that it involves other character nor too little that you dont understand him. It's just the right amount.

Momiji. He's the most balanced character. He isnt fixed by tohru, but isnt perfectly fine either. He's the definition of the right amount of kindness. He doesn sell himself to make other happy like tohru or kureno, nor puts himself in danger to save others like haru. He does help others but also helps himself. He helped his mom forget him cuz honestly that wasnt even his choice. it's the dad's. He participated willingly tho in avoiding her, but he didnt dwell in self pity & locked himself emotionally. He let go of loving tohru & encouraged kyo, but while he genuinely loved kyo, he didnt just back off cuz he's kind & a sacrificial angel. He stood like a man & challenged kyo for tohru's heart, but let go when he realized the choice is tohru's. not them. They can love her aromatically, but she's the one who decides who to be with. I love the theme of "not competing for love". it's not a competition really. never was. Still, as love sick & heart-broken as he was, momiji didnt dwell in self-pity & after allowing himself to heal, he bounced back & smiled. Momiji is no foolish traveler.

The spot is reserved to a certain character that I want the manga to prove their worth. I dont want them to be as shallow as the anime made them to be. I want to see depth. I dont know if the manga writes them better, but once I finish the manga, I'll know.

I wanted to add shigure but no. Despite all the complexity & the unique roles he has & despite how much I love characters with big giant flaws & ugly characteristics, shigre fell from my top 5 long ago. Look, this seems petty but I can't get over the fact that he slept with akito's mom. ewwwww. It makes me wanna puke! so disgusting. yuck yuck yuck! I dont mind that he "cheated"or wanted to "hurt akito by sleeping with ANOTHER woman". As a matter of fact, such acts create drama, ugly feelings & emotional struggle. I love such things in fiction. but he did it with the mother. He actually laid with both mom & daughter in his life. ewwwwww! This level of eww is so revolting to me! Some ppl are disgusted by bugs & worms that they want to puke, me.. when ppl sleep with both parent/off spring, or both siblings. Yuck! & it's even more yuck that it didnt stop their "love" from being real/ happy/ perfect/ passionate! & that it worked in making akito "want him more & be a "woman" for him"... ew!

lol, so yeah~here's my super long answer to ur super short qs. but I dont be "papers"if I didnt write till my fingers hurt, now would I? XD. I enjoyed ur question so much! thanks<3.

Anon, Don't get offended ny my shigure-rant! XD. its petty, I know. if u read this, tell me who's ur fave?

#fruits basket #anime only #manga reviwes #asks #responding paper #anonymous friends

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vampiresuns · 3 years

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This Is How We Say Goodbye (Song To The Open Road) | Asra x Milenko

☽ THIS IS HOW WE SAY GOODBYE (SONG TO THE OPEN ROAD) ☽

1.9k words. Written for Asra Week, day 6: Promise. In which the Plague ravages Vesuvia, there’s an argument and Asra and Milenko part ways.

You can catch up with Milasra’s pre-game canon, ‘Like Thirst Holds Water’, here.

When Anatole and Milenko got involved, Asra and Amparo were already fighting.

Their relationship had always been peculiar. More than friends, they were sometimes mirrors, matchstick and friction, cause and reaction. While Milenko was the one Asra had fallen in love with, and Anatole the one who he rode and died for, Amparo tended to spring Asra into motion. Both of them did things in almost identical ways — Asra’s sun sign was Amparo’s moon sign, her rising sign, his moon. As such, they gave the idea of instant compenetration, of unspoken frequencies vibrating in the same way.

Amparo, the animancer, the actress, the dancer, the impersonator imbued in Asra something the others could not quite describe. That was Amparo’s charm, after all, that pizzaz that made her no one other than La Cassano.

In that way, they shouldn’t have been surprised they would butt heads this way. They shouldn’t have been surprised that nothing could deescalate the fight either. Everyone was tired, everyone was grieving. The City was ridden with the Plague, there were no answers and no solutions offered, and for the first time in the almost 20 years Lucio had ruled the inevitable had happened: the Council of Vesuvia wasn’t enough, and now it was too late for them to remove Lucio from power by declaring him unfit to rule. The mechanisms would not work, the tissue of the Court was almost entirely destroyed, and the people were ill and needed food, clean water and doctors.

Their families had decided to all ride this out together in the Palazzo, with the proper health regulations that they could adopt. The building could house them all without problem but more importantly, it would mean they would be together. Many things were said about them, like how nothing mortal could kill them, based on an old, old story of how the Consul’s office had become theirs. It was no less true that the Radošević-Cassano did not survive alone.

So they grouped, they went back home, and with their location inside the walls of the infamous Palazzo Cassano, they took in their closest friends. Their families had begun as friends, marrying between each other was recent, and only a kink of some very specific sets of family members. To them, family wasn’t blood, family was a choice.

They had asked Asra to move in with them, and with that, to relocate Muriel, no one had to know he was in the Palazzo with them, specially not the Count. Asra, however, wanted to leave, and he wanted to convince Amparo, Anatole and Milenko to go with him, so they all would take their stuff and go, and abandon Vesuvia — a City that had never done anything for any of them. There was no point in dying in it, let alone for it.

Naturally, the proposal turned into an argument. Amparo especially would not leave her mother and parent, Amparo would not leave Anzano, their grandparent, as she knew they would not leave Vesuvia. Anzano was old, very old, but still fit for travel; however, they had once been the High Priest of the Sun and had trained the new one, just like their spouse Atilia Cassano, had been the High Priest of the Moon. They wouldn’t leave a City they felt a sense of responsibility towards, and Amparo herself would not desert her family when they needed her.

Milenko had a similar idea. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t leave when he could help, he couldn’t leave when his mothers would not go, when his grandfather would not go, when his cousins would not go. Unlike Amparo he had no will to argue with Asra, instead, with the help of Anatole they tried to calm it down, so Asra could see where they were coming from, and they could try and answer Asra’s concerns.

It didn’t work. Everyone was strung, stressed and grieving, so it was a matter of time before one of them said the wrong thing, at the wrong time, with whoever the comment had been directed at not wanting to be understanding about it. It was a matter of time before they were all arguing in the ground floor of the Moonstone and Jasmine, all of Asra’s things packed up as he said he was not staying to die in a City like Vesuvia and how anyone with half a mind would do the same.

Milenko saw the point of no return happen in slow motion: Asra’s words collided with nothing other than the behemoth that was the Cassano’s sense of pride. Whatever they had begun, it could not be stopped now.

A lot of accusations flew around. Amparo tried to tell Asra that he couldn’t just expect her to leave the City she had always lived in, the City that she hoped to die in at old age. Asra told her what did she know about losing homes, she who had been born in the Heart District with a silver spoon on her mouth, who had never had to struggle because she always had a roof above her head. Funnily enough, Amparo’s patience ran out when he told her that she couldn’t even cook for herself.

“Do whatever you want. I’m not leaving. If that’s all you think of me, then forget we were ever friends Asra.”

She disappeared into the upstairs of the shop, into its main living quarters.

“Asra, that’s not fair,” Milenko said. His tone was critical, but he still tried to stay as calm as possible. Maybe if Asra could see that he really would be safe—

Then Anatole spoke, his anger raw, yet cold and precise, like a well practiced fencing blow: “What the fuck is wrong with you. If we were a bunch of superior assholes who did everything for our own benefit—”

Asra snapped. “No, but you sure think you’ll save Vesuvia from Lucio just from existing, as if anyone in this city would ever care if you lived or died, Anatole. That’s what you do, don’t you? Pretend like you can fix his mistakes while everyone else suffers from them.”

The silence that fell between the three of them was abrupt, soon ringing in their ears, but when Asra tried to apologise, noticing he had said the wrong thing, it was too late.

Anatole looked like he had been slapped.

“Toly?” Milenko asked, moving closer to his cousin to squeeze his shoulder, wanting to make sure he was okay. Asra’s words had hit one of Anatole’s greatest fears: that no matter how hard he tried, it’d never be enough.

Before he could reach Anatole, his cousin’s face changed. As his features shifted with anger, Anatole spoke again.

Now he was truly and really angry. “You meant that.”

The issue with words was you couldn’t take them back once you said them. All you could do is hope the other person would forgive you and understand if you had misspoken. As Milenko was once again caught between Asra and Anatole arguing, he realised this was one thing Anatole might never forgive. He doubted it was his place to say, yet Milenko didn’t know if he could even advocate for Anatole forgiving Asra’s words, with time.

The issue wasn’t about who was right or wrong. There was no right or wrong, there was no miraculous answer in this unsalvageable situation. It was that Asra had meant it. Part of Anatole’s language magic was this: he was able to read feelings and intentions in spoken words. As a language manipulator, he could tell everything which people (intentionally or otherwise) imbued into words when they spoke, even if he couldn’t tell the why or the how.

Would he be able to carry on if he could feel that after years of showing honesty and vulnerability because you want the other person to know you, this was what they thought at their worst?

The argument didn’t last much longer. Anatole, not wanting to speak, went upstairs to check on Amparo, while Milenko and Asra stood alone on the ground floor of the shop.

The magician began taking his things, preparing himself to leave for real. Milenko followed him, standing outside of the backdoor as he looked at Asra adjusting his travelling coat. Amparo has gotten it for him. It was handmade, Amparo’s gift to Asra two birthdays ago.

“Aren’t you going to say farewell?”

Asra startled, not expecting Milenko standing there. “I thought there was nothing else to say.”

Once again they stood in silence. It felt like forever, even if it was probably just a couple of seconds. They were aware of every moment they lost to silence, looking at each other under the Vesuvian sunset. They felt far away, miles away.

It hurt to realise, more than Milenko was willing to admit, but Anatole had been right: he still remembered when they were arguing about Asra not asking for help about Muriel. They could be as open as they wanted with Asra, but Asra would never step in time with them, even if he wanted to.

Who better than Milenko to know this, and to know that sometimes, it was through no fault of his own.

Asra spoke first. “You think I’m making the wrong choice.”

Milenko pressed his lips together. “I don’t think there’s a right choice. There’s just the best we can do with the options we’re given.”

“You don’t think I could do better with mine?”

“I don’t know, beloved, could you?”

“Don’t— don’t call me that.”

“I’m sorry. Force of habit.”

“I forgive you,” Asra said, shifting his weight between his feet. He wanted to say something else, yet he said nothing.

“Asra. I’m not judging you. I already told you I am no one to judge.”

“How can you say that to me at a time like this?”

“What? It’s the truth. I don’t like that you’re leaving and I would never make the choices you are making, and I could give you a piece of my mind and point fingers at you. I am angry, I’m hurt, but nothing I accuse you of will make me feel better. Judging you will not make me feel better, so I won’t. I’ve never done.”

“Sometimes,” Asra said, dislodging his travel bag from his shoulder, “sometimes I wish you did. It would make leaving easier.”

To Milenko’s surprise, Asra crossed the distance between them. Milenko didn’t stop his hand from cupping Asra’s cheek. Asra leaned against it, even if he wished he hadn’t. Asra closed his eyes, tears coming through his closed eyelids.

“You know I won’t ask you to stay,” Milenko said, getting teary himself.

“Just like I know I won’t get you to leave.”

“Just promise me you’ll think about it, Asra. Promise me that at the very least, you’ll try to take good care of yourself.”

Asra opened his eyes, his vision blurred because of the tears. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, letting Faust slither into his arm to stretch herself all the way to say goodbye to Milenko.

Her tongue flicked against his nose, making Asra smile.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself too, please.”

Milenko nodded, Asra saying his farewells before turning around and walking away as fast as he could without breaking into a run. Milenko watched him go, until Ursula, his familiar, nudged him inside.

“May Allah keep you safe, Habibi,” he said to the empty street before closing the door behind him.

#the arcana #asraweek2021 #the arcana oc #milenko #asra alnazar #asra #milasra #like thirst holds water #amparo cassano #aelius anatole #my writing

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annabethisterrified · 3 years

Text

Book Review: RULE OF WOLVES by Leigh Bardugo

“Love was the destroyer. It made mourners, widows, left misery in its wake. Grief and love were one and the same. Grief was the shadow love left when it was gone.”

Official summary:

The Demon King. As Fjerda's massive army prepares to invade, Nikolai Lantsov will summon every bit of his ingenuity and charm—and even the monster within—to win this fight. But a dark threat looms that cannot be defeated by a young king's gift for the impossible. The Stormwitch. Zoya Nazyalensky has lost too much to war. She saw her mentor die and her worst enemy resurrected, and she refuses to bury another friend. Now duty demands she embrace her powers to become the weapon her country needs. No matter the cost. The Queen of Mourning. Deep undercover, Nina Zenik risks discovery and death as she wages war on Fjerda from inside its capital. But her desire for revenge may cost her country its chance at freedom and Nina the chance to heal her grieving heart. King. General. Spy. Together they must find a way to forge a future in the darkness. Or watch a nation fall.

---

Watch me gush/ramble about RoW on YATL Live: https://www.instagram.com/tv/CNlVL7Cj6DN/

NO SPOILERS TIL YOU GO BELOW THE CUT. (Or should I say the Fold?)

You know I’m in too deep when I start scheduling my own personal and professional deadlines around the release of a book. I literally organized my life in March 2021 with the single goal of making sure I would be untethered by responsibility and commitment when Rule of Wolves released.

This book, immediately followed by the release of Shadow & Bone on Netflix.... this spring has thrust me straight back into the Grishaverse mania of my younger years.

As a conclusion (...?) to the King of Scars duology, Rule of Wolves delivered on compelling politics, satisfying character actualization, and just deliciously exciting content all around. Bardugo has certainly created a mesmerizing world, and this story sharpened and expanded its details even more.

And if you’ve taken even a glancing look at my blog, you’ll know I might be a little TOO into Zoya Nazyalensky and Nikolai Lantsov. I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say this book was an extremely rewarding end to one of the most intriguing and tear-your-hair-out-in-a-good-way slow burns.

All in all, a hearty thumbs-up from me! If you’re cool with spoilers, follow me below....

Okay, let’s get into this a bit more.

Y’all!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Look, I can’t understate how invested I am in Zoya and Nikolai both as individual characters and as a couple. Like????!!!!! They are ENDLESSLY interesting and endearing and just off-the-charts incredible.

Like many readers of the original trilogy, I was NOT a fan of Zoya for a long time. She did some messed up stuff, and it wasn’t until we got to be IN her head that I realized the depth and intrigue of her character. Not to be like “Oh, well _____ went through trauma so that excuses and explains why they were mean!”. It’s more nuanced than that with Zoya, and her journey really made me consider (for the first time, maybe) that there are actual upsides to cutting through frivolity and niceties. That’s not to say anyone should intentionally be cruel, but especially seeing her articulate how certain veins of “niceness” can be useless and fake, and watching through Nikolai’s lens as he genuinely appreciates and relies upon her ruthless, straight-to-the-punch guidance, I came to realize how cool it is to see a female character who is good but not nice. There is a world of difference between those two traits, and especially for the now-queen of Ravka, the former is far more important to possess.

And Nikolai, this absolutely enchanting and determined and whip-smart and romantic and brutal guy... the MULTITUDES this man contains!!!! I adore him and his whole arc. Every decision he’s faced with is tremendously difficult, but his cleverness and growing maturity really came to a head in this installment. I loved watching him realize that the only thing he REALLY cares about is having the agency and ability to fix problems and take action. He can be with or without the throne; he cannot be without forward movement. (My favorite bit of the book might just be Alina remarking how Nikolai still technically manages to “keep” the throne even after giving it up, via Zoya’s hand.) So I don’t think we’ve seen the end of “king” Nikolai by any means, and it was enthralling to watch him take on the war in this book through so many angles: engineering, flight, diplomacy, disguise, weaponry, AH!

Of course, I’d be remiss not to bring up the stunningly gut-wrenching midpoint reversal of this book -- losing David. I’ll admit I got spoiled about his death before reading, but not the specifics. I imagined that it might be some emotional confrontation with the Darkling, or defending Genya, but in the end? His was a passive, random death. IF YOU MENTION THE JOURNAL I WILL CRY. And I think that’s exactly why it’s so doubly devastating. To lose such a pivotal character in such a seemingly senseless way really underscores the reality and consequence of a war of this scale and nature. I appreciated all the complicated, no-right-answer reckonings there were in this book about weapons and developing arms. Lots of difficult ethics there for sure, and it’s not a conversation I’ve encountered in many fantasy stories before.

Back to some more FUN stuff, it was of course wonderful to finallyyyyyy witness Zoya and Nikolai get together, and I love the way it was handled. The intimacy and comfort they’ve found in each other just makes me want to burst, and their scenes together (as always) were sharp and electric. God. Their dialogue is just so, so good. It’s a bit bittersweet to know that the road ahead for them will not necessarily be an easy one, given Zoya’s likely VERY long life versus Nikolai’s very human one. That raises lots of questions about the Nazyalensky dynasty’s heirs (?) and whatnot, so I do hope we get to see more of them in the future to see how some of these things are unpacked and discussed. Plus, it’d just be really great to see these two as a more established couple now that they’re “allowed” to be together. (”I WILL LOVE HER FROM MY GRAVE.” That’s cool, Nikolai Nazyalensky. I’m already sobbing.)

Side note: How amazing was Zoya’s reckoning throughout this whole book about resisting love in an attempt to protect herself? I loved how it tied in with unlocking her DRAGON POWERS, and her realization that “you’ll mourn anyway so you might as well love big” was so, SO poignant I’m crying again.

It was of course terrific and exciting to see more of Nina AKA Mila’s action. I thought the reveal about Joran was really difficult but ultimately hopefully something healing for her. I also thought that where we left Nina and her prince was very fitting and I’d love to see where their new lives “ruling” Fjerda take them.

Anyway, it was also really fun to see some Crow cameos, and I’m hopeful based on the way things ended in this book that we’ll get to see more of both the Ketterdam crew and the new/future rulers of Ravka and Fjerda. Crossing all the fingers!

#review #rule of wolves #leigh bardugo #zoyalai #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #king of scars #grishaverse

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sparklingpax · 3 years

Text

What It Costs

Love is sweet, love is loyalty, love is unwavering, love is....sacrifice. Sometimes, one does not remember the last part until it is simply....too late.

///

A/N:

-Angst. This is angst. If some of y’all don’t like that stuff and/or are bothered by it, click off or scroll by, please. Thanks.

-Hhhhh speaking of that, I’ll have you know I’m terrible at this kind of writing. I gave it my all, however. I hope I did passably, at least...^^’’

-Um......I am very sorry if I made any errors, be it a typo or misinformation about something/someone, etc. I wrote a lot of this very late at night or at ungodly hours of the morning.....so that might explain a little of it ^~^’’ I’ll read through it as many times as possible after posting so I can catch and fix as many of those mistakes as possible....

-I’ll make this quick; sorry again to anyone who saw this the first time ^^’’ But this time, I’ve posted it intentionally so I hope you enjoy!! :’D

-This is only one, long part so dw about cliffhangers or waiting 10 centuries a long time for me to finish it :3

-Set in the TFP universe! And obviously, my attempt at some official OptiRatch content! :)

The sky was a dull, bleak grey.

Icy rain pelted the earth, pouring from the stormy skies with a vengeance as harsh winds tossed them around with an ominous whistling.

Yet the real storm had materialized inside the rocks—in the simple silo base where the Autobots resided.

Today, the children had not been able to come to the base.

Miko was in detention, Jack was busy working overtime at his job, and Raf was studying for a exam.

It was just one of those days.

“Thank Primus for peace and quiet!” Ratchet would have remarked as he usually did on days such as this.

However, things were all but calm—even as a prickly silence filled the air.

///

“I…I cannot let you do that…” Optimus stammered at last. He bowed his head and shifted his gaze to the left, clearly uncomfortable. “It is only a mere relic, not worth the life—”

A fist pounded the wall, leaving a blackened scuff mark in the metal.

“DON’T YOU CARE?!” Ratchet practically screamed. Optimus’s eyes rounded with guilt as he turned his gaze back to the medic sharply.

“Of course I—”

“Then GET IT THROUGH YOUR HEAD, OPTIMUS—” he hit the wall next to him once again, with more force. “It’s not about you!!!”

He spat those words so coldly, so jarringly sharp, Optimus felt his spark twist.

Old friend…I do not think you understand my intent at all…please be patient with me…

The Prime opened his mouth to speak, but Ratchet flashed him an even harsher glare, silencing any further words. Optimus again cast his eyes momentarily to the floor.

Pushing past his leader, Ratchet raised his fist, not turning to face Optimus, and flipped up his middle finger.

Optimus would have given an amused laugh.

‘Did one of the children teach you that custom?’ he wanted to ask jokingly, teasingly.

Agent Fowler had done it enough times for Optimus to understand what it meant.

But all he could do was stare after his medic as the older mech stalked over to the groundbridge controls. All kinds of alarms were going off in Optimus’s head, and yet all he could do was…watch.

Perhaps he could take no more of Ratchet’s harsh attitude—the anger that emanated off his old friend.

Perhaps he really wasn’t making the right decision, but Ratchet was.

Or perhaps…

You’re a coward, Optimus. A big, strong, coward.

“I’ll find the relic myself,” Ratchet announced to the other bots. Up until then, they had, unmoving and tense, watched the argument which had preceded all this.

Don’t go, my Starlight…or at least…let me go with you…But the Prime stood immobile, watching the old bot speak.

“I’ll find it myself and win us the war,” he repeated, still trembling with rage from minutes before. He turned that sharply angered expression—now laced with disdain—at the Autobot leader. “And I don’t need any backup.”

A swirling portal of green, white, and purple roared to life when the medic shoved the lever downwards, his expression only grim now. Without saying anymore, he then turned and transformed. An ambulance raced through the portal and disappeared seconds later.

While the Prime lingered absentmindedly near the bridge, eyes focusing on no one thing as he stared around, deep in thought, Bumblebee carefully padded over and pulled the lever up. The swishing, humming noise quickly faded as the groundbridge portal did, and silence rested over them once again.

Except that silence was still not peaceful.

Optimus soon found himself speaking, not really thinking as he did.

“Woah—you sure, Optimus?” Bulkhead asked, eyes widened a bit nervously. “I mean, no offense but…Ratchet might rip you to shreds…”

‘He looked pretty mad,’ Bumblebee agreed quietly.

“If something were to happen to him, it would be my fault,” Optimus found himself saying. “For that reason, please reopen the groundbridge.”

You scared of the blame, Optimus?

You don’t want to be incriminated?

Are you making this about you?

Do you really care?

Optimus didn’t want to shake those questions away just yet. He was unsure of their answers. The Prime wished his mind was where his body was, yet as he transformed and drove through the bridge, his thoughts continued to wander.

They taunted him, echoing his medic’s scornful words.

Why don’t you go after the relic, the one thing that could save us? Who cares if Megatron is there with all his troops? What makes that different from any other of your confrontation with him?

A heavy feeling sat in the bottom of his stomach—a foreboding sense.

Often—they say—if your loved one is in danger, you can feel it.

Optimus pushed harder on the gas, thinking only of what was going to take place if he did not reach his friend quickly enough.

The day was dark, cold, and rainy.

///

Ratchet pressed his back against the side of a tall rock, not daring to peer again at the action taking place in the center of the clearing. He heard the footsteps of some vehicons heading his way. They drew their guns as they got closer.

Above him, the dead-looking gray skies has stilled, leaving the air feeling taut—like it was holding its breath and ready snap any second.

The storm from Jasper must be close by, considering I bridge to—

Ratchet gritted his teeth and snapped himself back to focusing on the current situation.

The medic felt his spark racing. His arms began to tremor uncontrollably as he drew them upwards to get into a fighting stance.

They saw you. They saw you and it hasn’t been more than 8 minutes you’ve been here. What a successful mission. It’s just you against Megatron and hundreds of vehicons. And—

He glanced down at his leg a little worriedly.

He’d jumped into action a week before and received a blow to the leg he was still healing from. At this very moment, in fact, he felt a faint aching start up again in his knee.

Ratchet let his head fall against the rock, eyes squeezed shut, swallowing hard and drawing out his own blades.

You idiot.

He counted the seconds before attack.

Optimus was right.

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! BRING HIM TO ME NOW!!” Megatron’s furiously growled order broke the tense silence.

Instantly the slow footsteps became sets of scrambling feet, quickly heading for the rock. A second later, Ratchet watched (and heard) a shot of crimson red blaster fire whiz past his helm. Instinctively, he let out a cry of shock and stumbled to the side—right out from behind the rock.

Before he could regain his footing to even turn around, the silence exploded into the deafening sound of hundreds of shots aimed for him. The medic turned and faced it, wincing and sucking in a sharp breath as one or two grazed his plating.

He charged, strangely feeling almost a little….detached from his own body. Like he was on autopilot.

“For Cybertron!!!” He heard a voice shout.

What….am I doing here?

“FOR VICTORY!!!”

Oh…it was his voice. Right.

The orange-white-plated mech swerved past the blaster fire, swinging his arms—now blades—back, forth, up, down….

Optimus, forgive me. I was a fool. I was a prideful fool.

He ducked a shot and kicked out, catching the vehicon by surprise and knocking him off his feet. Almost one motion, the old bot maintained his momentum and swung his blades at an oncoming opponent.

The con dodged smoothly. He raised his gun and fired.

Just as Ratchet thought to spring in the other direction, his knee gave out beneath him. Ratchet tripped over himself, grabbing his knee.

Right in the path of the vehicon’s shot.

A shot ripped through his shoulder, followed by another closer to his neck, tearing from the medic such an ugly, guttural cry that even the vehicon flinched. The medic crumpled to the floor in a writhing heap of short, agonized exclamations.

Meanwhile, the vehicon’s gun wavered a bit, drawing back a second. Ratchet’s pained noises faded from the air of the clearing, replaced only by the sound of his tremoring breath. Clearly struggling, the medic reached over and clasped his shoulder so hard his digits shook. A small flow of energon began to leak through, soiling his servos and the dirt surrounding his figure. Turning his face to the con, he let his eyes show off his anger.

In a smaller, quavering voice, he managed to say, “C-coward…hold y-your…w-w-weapon….straight why don’t you—” He spat out, wheezing a bit, then falling limp into the ground. Not unconscious, but simply out of strength.

Or…will to live.

The Vehicon shook its head and held the gun firmly upwards again. The weapon was trained directly on Ratchet’s helm.

Just at that moment, the skies snapped.

A bellowing rumble of thunder sounded, the clouds suddenly looking bigger, darker, greyer….

It’s pointless…we’ll just lose, won’t we? Like we always do. Megatron will have his way today, and he’ll have his way until he kills all of us and ends this fragging war….

Ratchet looked up, hearing a low, gravelly cackle.

Speak of the devil and he doth appear—is that not the phrase?

The medic let out a little moan, rolling over onto his side, still clasping a hand to his bleeding wound. His gaze, sharp with pain and yet dull with exhaustion, stared ahead to see the vehicon back away twitchily.

Megatron’s footsteps shook the ground a little as he stalked in Ratchet’s direction. The huge figure of the ex-gladiator soon towered over Ratchet. He smirked a little, slowly folding his hands behind his back and tilting his head.

“Ratchet….” he paused to chuckle. “Tell me, what ever did you think you were going to accomplish?”

“T….the relic—” he hissed tightly, breaking off abruptly to suppress a noise of pain as his shoulder burned with pain under his grip. His optics, trained on Megatron’s sneering face, spoke more than a thousand words of hate and fire.

Megatron laughed out loud.

“Oh, you must mean—” he turned and make a rough motion at the vehicons behind him. The one holding the escape pod immediately scurried across the clearing to them. “This trinket?” He asked, grabbing the object from his soldier.

The pod hadn’t been opened yet.

The pod hasn’t been opened yet. The weapon is still inside.

Ratchet let his mind fixate on that one thought.

There is time still….if I can just…..

Megatron started one of his small monologues, something Ratchet wasn’t listening to. He switched on his comm link as discreetly as he could. Pride was not of importance now, Ratchet told himself.

Optimus had been right, and he knew it. It would be entirely foolish not to try to—

“Ratchet?”

Megatron instantly stopped dead in his tracks. His head whipped around as he processed the voice. His eyes darkened when he registered.

“I see.” Was all he growled in a chillingly quiet voice.

“Ratchet, what is going—”

The medic fumbled to switch it off again, internally kicking himself for so stupid a plan. Of course his idiot sparkmate would call out to him the instant his switched on his comm lines again!

He meant well, Ratchet. He loves you. He cares about you. Keep that in mind.

Ratchet let out a grunt of both pain and frustration.

Optimus, hurry! There isn’t anymore time!

Ratchet watched as Megatron dropped to his level and grabbed his chin. Mustering all his confidence, the medic stared with an unwavering gaze right back.

“You’re a fool, Autobot. Much more foolish than I remember you being,” he snarled.

Ratchet narrowed his eyes and fired back, “Not as much of a fool as you—and unlike you, I’m not a pile of—”

“SILENCE!!!!!!!”

Megatron’s roared command silenced the medic instantly. Ratchet was not afraid, just startled. Around him, all the vehicons nearby had flinched and taken steps back—even though they were as far away as they were. The Decepticon leader gave another growl, indignant and angered at his prisoner’s insolence.

He released Ratchet, cursing under his breath.

Now the Prime is coming. I can’t just leave.

The huge figure of Megatron paced around, his grey metal looking oddly shinier in the greyish lighting the skies were providing. He was formulating a course of action.

A plan.

His eyes lit up and he straightened again, looking once more as if he was in control.

Just at that moment, a terrible rumble that Ratchet felt all through his body sounded in the air.

The storm had arrived, and the great roll of thunder was its announcer.

Megatron looked around casually, then back at Ratchet. There was a dry amusement dancing in his optics.

“Today shall be the day another one of you dies,” he spoke with a terrifying finality.

The medic’s spark skipped a beat. He felt a cold fear run through his veins, and sit at the bottom of his stomach—like a rock. Yet it was not fear for his own life.

“How can you be so certain?” Ratchet fought to keep his tone level—steady.

Blinding white flashed through the air, accompanied by a tearing, cracking sound that rang in everyone’s audio receptors. However Megatron stood, and had not flinched. His eyes held a dangerous light of unbending desire.

“One of you will die by my hand,” Megatron repeated himself, turning away. “For it is as I will.”

Then, the ex-gladiator stalked back across the clearing. Vehicons immediately scurried to form a circle around Ratchet, two of them coming even closer to guard him, guns drawn and ready to fire.

Softly, gently, unrelentingly, drops of moisture began to fall from the sky.

Rain.

Ratchet closed his eyes, letting himself focus on the odd sensation of those thousands of drops of liquid created when they repeatedly hit his plating.

With a heavy, exhausted sigh, Ratchet let his head fall into his hands.

Optimus….my sweetspark…..forgive me…

He jolted as a vehicon reached over and slapped his helm harshly.

“Up.” He snapped, holding up stasis cuffs.

Ratchet sincerely hoped, with all his spark, that he would be the one.

///

“Ratchet? Please respond, Ratchet.” Optimus repeated himself once again, speeding down the empty road in alt-mode. He finally rolled to a halt, transforming and taking a look around.

Dark clouds poured rain, the rising winds causing the little droplets to mercilessly pelt his plating from all sides.

“Old Friend,” he tried his comm for what felt like the hundredth time. “Sweetspark, respond.”

Urgency laced his tone, concern burning clearly in his gaze.

Please, my love. Something happened, I am sure of it. But….what?

Static sounded in his audio receptors until, with a sigh, the Autobot leader switched his link off again.

I must find him on my own, then—

He perked up suddenly, hearing a faint noise of….blaster fire?

A cold, sick feeling twisted in his stomach. Dread weighed heavily on his chest.

Hang on, my Starlight….!

Without a second to spare, driving as if a fire chased his tailpipes, Optimus pushed his engines to the max. He sped closer, feeling that dread and despair sink further into him as he could more clearly make out the sounds of a fight.

All he wanted was for Ratchet to be okay.

All he wanted was for Ratchet to come home.

Maybe he was selfish for not wanting to attempt to steal that relic, but Optimus knew that he couldn’t go on if anything happened to his teammates over some weapon. The war was not worth anyone’s life.

If he could save yet just one more, he’d take that option first.

You will come home alive. No matter the cost. I will not fail you, old friend.

He pushed the brakes and skidded to a halt, catching sight of the commotion. There was a space between two towering canyons below his road. In that rocky clearing, Optimus saw an orange-white-plated mech darting from left to right, fending off as many of the oncoming vehicons as he could. Sure enough, Megatron was also there. At present, he simply stood by, watching.

Enough was enough. Ratchet needed help.

Optimus transformed and gripped the side of the mountain he’d been driving up, vaulting off the top and landing with a huge ‘THUMP!!’ on the road below.

He cared not for the huge crater that now lay in the road.

Optimus ran as fast as he could, drawing out both his guns and firing as soon as he was in range of the fight.

“STEP AWAY FROM RATCHET!!!” Optimus commanded, nailing two vehicon soldiers with two shots as he continued to cross the distance of the clearing. Some of them scrambled back, many others turned their fire on the Prime, charging at him with a strange confidence.

Optimus felt his blood boiling. The rain seemed to intensify as another bolt of lightning ripped through the sky with great ferocity. Almost like it had hit Optimus himself, he put away his guns and drew his swords, feeling electrified—powerful.

I am not afraid of you, Megatron. Nor of your legions of breakable troops which you care nothing for.

He saw the warlord, standing far across the clearing, arms folded.

“FACE ME, MEGATRON!!!!”

And with a powerful war cry, Optimus bolted forward, swords drawn. Vehicons poured in from all sides, shooting at him and trying to throw themselves in the Prime’s way.

He didn’t notice pain from shots that ripped through his armor, the blows that landed on his chest—before he grabbed his attackers and dismantled them one by one.

The Prime had but one target.

Optimus wanted Megatron, and he wanted the end of this selfish, futile war.

///

Megatron inspected the pod, wondering if he should open it now or wait until—

“Step away from Ratchet!!!” He heard the enraged command from across the clearing. Before his eyes met the scene, Megatron already knew who it was. He grinned, baring his teeth with excitement.

Ah, yes, Optimus. That’s right. Come closer. Let me finish you once and for all…

With an unchecked level of anger, he yelled for Megatron to face him, tossing away the corpse of yet another dead vehicon as he spoke. The Decepticon warlord stood, unmoving, gazing with a taunting amusement in his eyes as he watched Optimus fight his way through the vehicons, tearing them apart as they would approach him.

At last, no one dared to approach the Prime. The rest of the vehicons there had either fled or threw themselves behind rocks to hide. Optimus stood for a second, panting, energon spattered all over his body and swords. He looked around to find Ratchet passed out in a heap, far to Megatron’s right. No vehicons stood guard.

Of course, with Megatron there, guards were not a necessity.

You’re a fool, too, Optimus. You all are.

Thunder rumbled, louder than before.

“So, you’ve come to rescue your lapdog, have you?” Megatron asked, sneering through every word he said. Optimus seemed to vibrate with anger. He didn’t respond, eyes a sparking electric blue behind his battlemask.

“You can take him, Optimus,” as the Prime twitched to move, Megatron held up his arm—the one with the fusion canon—and added, “For a price.”

Optimus looked ready to rip his head off.

He had clearly seen Ratchet’s wounds, and the new ones from a….punishment. Minutes after the medic had tried to escape, Optimus had arrived.

It was almost like they were going to succeed!

However, the large grey-purple mech had also made absolutely sure Ratchet would not escape, no matter what.

Megatron thought he’d feed his ‘old friend’s’ anger.

Or perhaps…his guilt.

“While you were busy tearing vehicons to shreds, Ratchet was able to be successfully contained. We had to rough him up a little, as a result of his foolish actions…..but he’ll live…for now.”

He gave a little chuckle as Optimus made a quiet exclamation.

“You might have succeeded had you kept yourself focused on getting your friend out of here, Optimus!”

“You will let him go.” He growled, taking a fighting stance.

“Make me.”

“Very well then,” The Prime drew his sword and started towards Megatron. “I shall.”

Megatron dropped his canon. “Or…listen to my offer.”

Optimus stopped, dropping his arms a bit.

“Speak.” He let his gaze burn with a terrifying electricity. “Quickly.”

Megatron was of course, not even slightly fazed. “My terms are simple,” he paused to make a gesture to the clearing in which they stood. “Fight me now, unarmed. If you win, I’ll let you and the medic here return to your base. No one will harm you as you leave.”

It was a simple proposition.

It was a simple goal.

Ratchet would be safe.

You could fail…Optimus, you could fail and get Ratchet killed…

The rain poured from the skies ever harder, a storm unrelenting and harsh.

Megatron took a few steps until he stood right in front of Optimus.

The third stroke of lightning lit up the skies, flashing in the reflection of Optimus’s blue optics. Megatron grinned, tilting his head. He reached out his hand.

“So?”

Without a single hesitation, Optimus took it.

///

A cold, familiar ache in his shoulder.

Burning sensations of pain from fresh cuts and dents in his body.

Merciless rain battering his plating.

Ominous, loud whistles of wind sounding in his audio receptors.

Ratchet’s optics snapped open when he heard the resounding clang of metal on metal.

“IT IS FUTILE, PRIME—GIVE IT UP!!!”

“NEVER!!”

“MAYBE I SHOULD KILL BOTH OF YOU!!”

There was another sound of impact, punctuated with a short cry of pain. The voice was Optimus’s.

The medic sat up, looking around briefly to see that any remaining vehicons who hadn’t yet traveled back to the warship—hovering a short distance away—were cramming themselves behind rocks, flattening themselves to a corner. Others were presently trying to escape the scene.

Clearly, they wanted no part in any of this dispute.

But I do.

Ratchet hoisted himself up despite the way his wounds stung.

I must.

He watched Optimus and Megatron for a few moments. Neither one seemed to be using their weapons—it was simple combat.

Except there was energon splattered around the grounds where they fought.

Who said swords and guns were the only things that could kill?

“Well, then,” Megatron laughed a chilling, malicious laugh. “Do you surrender yet, Optimus?” He bent down and thrust his face into Optimus’s, while the Prime struggled to get up. Optimus retracted his battlemask, gritting his teeth with anger and in an attempt to stifle pained grunts of effort.

Energon stained the side of his face, dripping steadily from his mouth. He flinched back from the warlord and pushed himself to his feet, taking a fighting stance again.

Ratchet stood, mesmerized.

The sight that lay before him was nearly poetic, in a strange way.

Not the “good” kind of strange.

Rain poured from the heavens, the air was cold, and the winds raced noisily about. Smokey breath billowed from Optimus’s mouth as he panted, looking ragged and angry. His gaze fixated on Megatron.

“This ends today, you lunatic—” he forced out, gripping one of his newer wounds gently. “Even…even if it kills me….”

Megatron grinned. “Oh, it will,” he said slowly, deviously, not moving an inch as Optimus began to circle him. They eyed one another, anticipation hanging in the air as one silently dared the other to make the first move.

I will be the victor today, Optimus, and then I shall win this war!

Time seemed to slow, and suddenly Optimus couldn’t move—yet nothing held his limbs in place.

Instead, his eyes were trained on Megatron as the warlord had suddenly turned.

He chuckled lightly and aimed his fusion canon at Ratchet, who was standing frozen, watching them.

The medic seemed to snap out of his trance and flinched, taking a step back defensively. Optimus felt a new rage form in him. Something unseen tore another war cry from the Prime and he charged at an almost desperate-looking pace.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!!”

He threw himself at Megatron, knocking the huge mech to the ground. Megatron gave a short cry of surprise, then immediately locked his jaw, biting down on his tongue. Optimus’s eyes burned with such a ferocity that the ex-gladiator had not seen—not for a long time.

Not since he last fought a wild beast in the arena of Kaon.

Never from the soft eyes of Optimus.

“YOU….KILLED THEM,” Optimus snarled, pinning Megatron to the dirt. Rain pelted down, bouncing limply off Optimus’s frame. He glowered over Megatron, seething at him. “YOU DID ALL THIS, YOU MONSTER!!!”

Megatron looked surprised only for a moment, then narrowed his eyes belligerently.

He could only grin. A sick, twisted grin that said, ‘I don’t care.’

Limbs burning with exhaustion, Optimus began to pummel Megatron. He swung side to side, pounding his opponent with all he had. Wordless cries of anger poured from him as he punched…harder, harder….

“Optimus!”

His servos began to tear and feel numb. Streaks of faded blue and purple stained his plating.

“OPTIMUS!!!”

Distantly, a voice registered in his ears. What was it trying to say?

“OPTIMUS, WAIT!!”

All the Prime could see was a blaring, bright red. Steady clanging of metal on metal against the static rain sounded loudly in his optics.

“ORION, PLEASE!!! LISTEN TO ME—”

Optimus felt as if an electric shock had been passed through him. Hearing his name, he froze, panting, trembling, blood roaring in his head. Beneath him, he could feel Megatron tremoring. Yet the silver-purple mech still bore that scrap-eating grin.

He knew something.

Something he won’t tell me, the Autobot leader thought, feeling some of his frustration return. He glanced up again at Ratchet, who was still backing away. The air around them began to vibrate, waves of hot air joining with and drowning out the blustering, icy, rainy wind.

Something was definitely wrong.

Optimus narrowed his optics and raised a readied fist above Megatron’s face.

“What are you not telling me, Megatron?” Optimus gripped his rival by the neck. Nothing but a feeble-sounding laugh met his words. The red optics staring back at him squinted with fatigue and fell shut.

Optimus knew Megatron was still awake.

“I’m more than finished with all your little mind games, this war, your treacheries,” he spat. “What else are you trying to take from us all now?!” His voice rose with every word as Optimus began to work himself up again. Centuries of anger and sadness began to pile on his spark.

Waves of warm, stifling air drew closer. A reverberating hum sounded in Optimus’ skull. Something like….a ship.

All the same, sound faded out around him as he zeroed in on Megatron.

Finally, he was at his fingertips—his mercy. Finally, Optimus thought, he could bring a final peace to—

“You lose,” Megatron sneered, a new fire lighting his optics. Beneath him, the Decepticon leader tensed and felt as if he was about to make a move. Optimus gritted his teeth and held steady, tightening his grip on Megatron’s throat.

“OPTIMUS, YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE!!”

Ratchet sounded on the verge of tears, practically shrieking at his partner.

He realized in an instant what exactly Megatron had meant before.

///

Every wound made itself known, throbbing with pain. Megatron could barely move.

Yet victory buzzed through every cell in his body, giving him just enough strength to carry out the last step to complete his grand plan to end it all.

Farewell, Orion. Ironic that it was your uncontrolled emotions that led to your downfall.

Optimus, fist raised, opened his mouth to ask again. Megatron suddenly let loose a surge of strength, pushing up and thrusting his legs under his opponent’s torso and kicking outwards. Optimus’s blue optics widened with shock and he uttered a short cry as he was thrown a few feet across the clearing.

He landed and instantly got to his feet again, activating his battlemask.

The Prime stared for a moment at the odd scene before him.

Megatron stood—albeit shakily—and began to back away, pulling Ratchet with him. No vehicon stragglers were in sight, and even more odd…the rain had begun to let up just a little.

Soft rays of sunlight began to show through the clouds. His mind drifting, Optimus turned slowly to gaze up at the clouds. He was met with the huge mass of metal and a blast of air and sound.

It was the Nemesis. A huge canon under the ship readjusted itself with an audible whirring noise.

“NOW, SOUNDWAVE!!”

“OPTIMUS, RUN!!!!!!”

Ratchet….I’m sorry I failed you….

In the time of a split second, the world around Optimus lit up in a brilliant, blaring flash, and a deafening explosion filled the air.

Never before had murder seemed so ethereal.

///

“Ratchet?”

No response.

“Ratchet..?”

Nothing.

“RATCHET!!” Miko tried, her loud voice jolting the medic out of whatever trance he’d been in moments before. He turned slowly from staring at his screen, a dead-looking gaze meeting the children’s.

“Do you…need something, Miko? Rafael?”

“Oh—well, it’s uhm….it’s nothing….I’ll let you get back to work…” Raf mumbled, suddenly sounding nervous as he fumbled to hide the object he’d been holding. Miko rolled her eyes.

“After all the work I did to get his attention!” She followed her friend back to the lounge area. Ratchet watched them, not really processing what they were doing. He then turned back to his task.

What was I doing again?

“Hey, Ratchet,” Bulkhead greeted, coming from the hallway. “How’s your, uh…data surfing going?”

Right.

“Very well. I am nearly finished with three of the four sectors I was to organize today,” Ratchet heard his voice respond.

He looked up to see Bulkhead staring at him, eyes rounded with concern and worry. However the moment he raised his head to see him, he switched his expression to a normal, casual one.

It was fine if he did that, Ratchet thought to himself. Everyone had been doing it for the last two months now, anyway.

“Well…that sounds good! A-anyway, I’m gonna…go for a drive…” he responded, sounding awkward. Ratchet nodded an acknowledgement and turned back around. Feeling guilty, Bulkhead looked as if he wanted to say more.

But he knew better than to bring up what it was they were both still thinking about.

He turned and transformed, then left. Meanwhile, Ratchet tapped at the screen, barely thinking about what he was actually doing.

Some small part of him wished for a warm touch on his shoulder as he was finishing up.

A warm, baritone voice to calmly whisper, “Good work today, my love. Come, rest with me in my quarters.”

It’s not your fault…it’s not your fault….there was nothing you could do!

His mind repeated what the others had gently murmured over and over on that day and every day after.

But it was…

He heard the small voice protest. He clenched his fist and locked his jaw.

It’s not your fault, Ratchet. You didn’t kill him!

The medic felt a lump in his throat. With all his might, he swallowed it, controlling himself.

But I did…I killed him.

“Ratchet?”

Jack. It was Jack’s voice.

Ratchet felt his arm quivering, his gaze and body frozen in one place, as if someone had hit the pause button on him.

“Yes?” Everything felt distant now. He felt his arm drop and his head turn to stare at the small human teenager.

“So…how’s it going?”

“Fine.”

“Oh…well, it’s raining cats and dogs out there!” He joked, pointing at his shirt. “I got a little of it..”

“You did?”

“Yep. Might wanna tell Bulkhead to be careful on the roads, right?”

“Right.”

“Right…so, I guess I’ll leave you alone, then…” Jack backed away, saying something to Miko and Raf as he neared the couch and TV.

All of a sudden, Ratchet was aware of how cold his shoulder felt.

///

HNNNN THIS PIECE OF GARBAGE O///O’’ THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AT AA >///< Sorry, I know I’m not good at angst. But I wanted to write this anyway.....

If you like, listening to this for the last 2-3 parts of the story might....set the mood better..? Idk. For me, I heard that recording and instantly felt my heart twist. And had this idea. So.....^^’’ (yes, I know about this piece btw I just like the slowed version because,,,aesthetic,,,,jsjdsjsd)

Thanks for reading and I hope you have a lovely eveing/day/whatever time it is where you are!! <3

Feedback, likes, reblogs, and all that stuff is always welcome!! ^///^

// Kuni out :’3 //

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ao3gingerswag · 3 years

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cas hearing about the scallion thing and deciding to give a bunch to dean in an attempt of a Big Romantic Gesture. when he does dean of course is 🥰🥰🥰🥰😍😍😍😍☺️☺️☺️☺️🥺🥺 but sam is like 🤨🤨 and explains to cas that no scallions aren't actually seen as all that romantic, que a whole adventure of cas bringing random flowers and herbs to dean in hopes of one of them being romantic, and its actually really sleep because he spends hours going through the countryside finding different flowers, he just disappears for like an hour and turns up back in the inn with mushrooms or something, and bringing them to dean and having all these reasons that make sense in his brain like 'these are used for making *enter obscure reason* and so they make perfect sense for you!' and dean is stupidly in love because its such a sweet gesture and cas is also stupidly in love and sam is just watching this with a mix of amusement and disgust at how in love they are. when he and cas eventually have a conversation about all the stuff he's gathered cas is like 'I did good right!!' and sam is like '.... yeah cas, you did pretty good'

awwwww omg yes!!!! hahahaha he keeps bringing dean like "bouquets" of green beans and shit like that and is very shyly like. for you dean <3 if you want them <3 🥰🥰😖and he like presents them like flowers bc he doesnt really get what the difference is. acting like a 1950s schoolboy giving his crush a promise ring or some shit. and sam is like...dude. and dean is like :))) <3 😍 thank u cas. every time!!

omg im so soft...

i dont think cas would be intentionally after the most ~romantic~ thing explicitly, because the purpose behind all this is just very genuinely that he wants to make dean happy, not communicate romantic intent. it would just be so blatantly clear that cas is so in love with dean and that these things r all tokens of affection <3 they r just. not the most traditional tokens of affection. but he's truly just after what dean wants so he's like. sam do u think dean will like this random piece of moss i found. i touched it and it feels very nice. i think dean would like touching it. thoughts? and sam is like tfyhgjhkjcfgvhbj i guess???

but it does always work and make dean happy bc cas is not just bringing random crap, he's so genuinely thoughtful that 90% of the time it is something dean likes, even if its not exactly the most romantic of gifts (like the bouquet of spring onions hahaha) and the other 10% of the time cas is still so sweet and earnest that dean just falls in love with him more even when hes like. cas i dont really want to touch this random dead bug's exoskeloton. yes i see that it makes a cool noise when u rattle it but its kinda freaking me out. but he still just even more falls in love with cas bc hes so EARNEST and so THOUGHTFUL every time ;~; hes always very seriously like ok note to self dean does not like dead bugs even if they make a cool noise. and dean is like cas i love u so fucking much ;~; 😭😭🥺🥺🥺

and yessss cas bringing dean some random weird or boring shit like a bunch of iron nails and being like here dean for u <3 <3 i thought u would like these bc u like to fix things and get annoyed when u cant find the nails even tho they r always in the same place in the cellar like i have told u 27 times (he kept track) <3 <3 now u can keep these somewhere it will be easier for u to remember <3 <3 and dean is like 🥺🥺😖😖❤️❤️❤️ <3 <3 ;~; thanks cas. bc!! cas loves him so much!!!! and later cas being like i did good right sam!! dean liked his present!! :) and sam is like *long suffering sigh and amused smile* yeah cas u did good lol.

#ao3gingerswag #wander home #asks #prompts

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adultswim2021 · 3 years

Text

Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law #12: “Trio's Company” | April 18, 2004 - 11:30 PM | S02E02

I would say that Space Ghost's ending truly was the end of an era. I'm not sure how cognizant of it I was at the time, though. I can't remember if Space Ghost's season was plainly stated to be it's last or if it just felt that way or what. But if it did indeed seem like an ending at the time, then what a fucking insult giving us more Birdman to kick things off for phase 2. I mean, Jeuss Christ.

In “Trio's Company” we are treated to a barrage of empty zany jokes about Birdman trying and failing to get in GiGi's pants. She's a beautiful redhaired lady that is making out with every man in the office (and elsewhere) but him. She's based on Gravity Girl from the Galaxy Trio. Their relationship takes a turn when he asks her out and she agrees... to move in with him. Funny? I mean, it's not a bad concept, especially when she brings other dudes over with her (I think they're the dudes from the Galaxy Trio, but I'm so exhausted from looking up “Gravity Girl”, I simply can not bear it). But everything in Birdman's world has no gravity, which is pretty FUCKING ironic because [you get it already, I'll stop].

This is when I officially gave up on Birdman. I might have said that during the write-up for the last episode, but it's technically truer to say so here. I did actively watch “Blackwatch Plaid”, but any and all moaning about “I'M NEVER WATCHING THIS SHOW AGAIN” is basically meaningless for me, a person who will emptily make this threat and then wind up seeing a bad show to it’s conclusion anyway. Me giving up on Birdman has to happen in practice, which it did here when I did not watch this episode on television. I did not actually see this episode until I started this project.

Birdman plays it's comedy with the precision of that brief bit in The Animaniacs where it shows the writers “flipped”. I don't know if this is going to mean anything to any of you, but I’ll try and explain. Literally almost every time when I think about Birdman-- okay, you know how sometimes when you hear about something, like an object or a concept or a person, etc, your brain will sorta identify that thing to you by showing you a brief image of it? Like a flashcard? Does anyone else experience this? Like, somebody says “fishing pole!” and your brain just shows you a very brief picture of a fishing pole to you, so you'll continuing knowing what fishing poles are?

Well, when people mention shows or movies to me sometimes more than a flash card pops up, but instead it'll be like an animated gif, and for me when I think of Birdman I actually think about that brief scene in The Animaniacs theme song under the lyric “the writers' flipped” and it's just two writers with re-re arms bouncing around while they make goofy faces and springs are coming out of their heads. I probably can't convince anyone here that I'm right about thinking Birdman is unfunnily zany in a detestable way by urging you to google the theme song for Animaniacs and look at that short little animation. But I wish I could.

I've explained this before. But some of you like when I repeat stuff incessantly, so this is for you: I attempted this blog one other time. I started a thread called something like ADULT SWIM IN REVIEW or ADULT SWIM: REVIEWED where I just decided to go through every episode of every Adult Swim show in chronological order. I did it up to 2004 or so, kinda around where I am now (yikes!). I dashed it off initially, cuz it was just a message board thread and I was basically just using it as a way to keep track of it for myself, so I'd say stupid pithy things that usually involved some message-board specific shorthand (example: “puppets? compn must hate this one” “Frylock produces a list that would rival Lim da Skit’s!” like, the most inane-sounding inside shit ever). I started over because it’d been so long that picking up where I left off felt weird, and also those early entries really didn’t hold up. Anyway, here's a previously-unpublished write-up for this episode that remarkably says different stuff:

Historically speaking, I gave up on Harvey Birdman around this time. This was the first Birdman show that I intentionally missed. All these Birdman episodes from here on our are exciting and new to me!

So anyway, this episode is really terrible. Like, spectacularly so. I hate every character, I hate every joke, I hate how the story moves... man, I just hate everything about this one.

So okay, Inch High PI is fired for being short. See, his shortness interferes with his surveillance-photo-taking abilities. That's funny, right? Meanwhile, Birdman deals with a comically promiscuous personal trainer who moves into Birdman's apartment after Birdman asks her out on one date. She uses his apartment to fuck dudes in, while never fucking Birdman. Birdman thinks that he has a thread of a shot of a chance getting his cloacae stroked, so he puts up with it. While this all happens, Inch High PI is shown running in at the end of every scene trying to get Birdman's attention (he's small! so it's tough!). Reducto goes crazy at the sight of him (because he's small! Reducto is obsessed with stuff like that!). You get the idea.

The most frustrating thing about this episode is that basically nobody actually has a conversation. That's one of the main things that irks me about Birdman: the characters are crazy joke machines and pairing any two characters in a scene almost never results in a functional verbal interaction. It's like watching bad improv or something. Except, you know, it's a cartoon, where there are multiple stages in production where you have an opportunity to fix that problem. It doesn't strike me as a creative choice as much as just bad writing.

This episode bites and I don't care who knows it. Go away!

EPHEMERA CORNER

The Popeye Show #9: "The Hyp-Nut-Tist/Child Psykolojiky/Cartoons Ain't Human" (April 19, 2004 - 1:30 AM)

At 1:30AM, Adult Swim started airing The Popeye Show. I’m not sure they even promoted it. I think they just needed to fill that half hour suddenly and just decided to plug The Popeye Show on there. I liked The Popeye Show. They showed three uncut Popeye shorts and included little bumpers discussing certain historically significant Popeye facts. It was clearly aimed at adult classic animation fans and not kids. Really cool, honestly. Anyway dipshits who don’t understand that Popeye is great complained, because they thought it was kids cartoons polluting their block. Relax shithead. Popeye is good. It’s a cartoon about a gross guy that kills people for fun. It fits right in to your precious Adult Swim block. It’s okay. They’re going to take it off the schedule soon, anyway.

Swimpedia notes that it was Popeye’s 75th anniversary around this time which I guess means Adult Swim actually was acknowledging our boy Popeye at some capacity. Unfortunately I don’t remember this! But then again, this is around the time I started drifting away from Adult Swim as a regular viewer.

#adult swim #adultswim2021 #harvey birdman attorney at law #sassy guy

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betheflame · 4 years

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Barely Even Friends, Then Somebody Bends

(Square: Only One Bed. Bonus Prompts: Enemies to Lovers, “Please tell me no one kissed me”, They were Roommates. 4 points)

For the @stevetonygames!

___

“So.”

Tony ran his hand through his hair and stared as his frenemy/crush/roommate, who grimaced back at him.

“I thought I was fixing it.”

“Sure, I can see that by how the bed is in pieces all over the floor.”

Steve - who, for the record, looked like the guy in the Gold’s Gym logo, much to Tony’s libido’s joy and simultaneous dismay - had the good grace to grimace. “I was using it as leverage for my tricep dips.”

“Steve,” Tony groaned. “This is particle board. It absolutely cannot sustain that kind of pressure when you don’t have counter balances. Do you really not understand simple physics?”

“No,” Steve snapped. “Please continue to talk to me like I’m a moron.”

Tony bit back a growl. “Did you really not have a box spring under that? You were on a mattress on slats?”

Steve nodded. “Didn’t seem important.”

“Good Lord, Steve,” Tony gasped. “Aren’t you this paragon of fitness or whatever? Do you not understand spine health? Don’t answer that. I have a King and while you take up an obscene amount of room, you can sleep in there until we get you a new bed.”

Steve gaped at him. “Why?”

Because I’m a masochist who is desperately attracted to you while also hating how fucking self righteous you are.

“Because I’m a good guy, Rogers. I know that’s escaped your notice.”

Steve didn’t say anything and gave a tight nod instead. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Don’t mention it.”

______

Steve Rogers was living in his literal worst nightmare. A: He was roommates with someone he loathed and yet wanted to fuck them desperately and could not square that circle. B: His bed - that he could barely afford in the first place, much less afford a replacement, broke literally out from underneath him while his roommate was home and therefore his roommate had to interfere which is what he did best and which is what drove Steve absolutely UP A WALL. C: He was now sharing a bed with the roommate - a glorious, soft yet firm, bed which placed lust object within grabable reach and…

Tony was so very, very grabable.

The bed Steve could afford was on back order - because OF COURSE IT WAS - and so he was on night four of sharing Tony’s bed and the problem with sharing a bed with someone was that it got harder and harder to hate them the harder and harder his dick got being around them.

Especially when, at 2am, Tony started shouting in his sleep.

“Tony,” Steve said tentatively, which Tony reacted to with a whimper.

“Tony,” Steve said again, and Tony shouted and started writhing in the bed, as though he was in pain.

“Anthony,” Steve said firmly, hoping the formal name would shake Tony out of the apparent nightmare.

“Stop. Dad. I swear, I’ll be good, just stop.” Tony started to mutter and Steve ignored every part of his brain that told him he didn’t like this man and went to gather Tony in his arms. It was clear the man needed comfort, even if it was just his subconscious.

“Tony, you’re safe, you’re your apartment and the only threat here is me since you hate me,” Steve murmured and noticed Tony had gotten quite sweaty in the process of the nightmare, and so he brushed Tony’s curls gently back from his forehead and took another moment to appreciate how beautiful his roommate was.

A narcissistic, entitled pain in the ass, but so fucking beautiful.

Who gave up his bed, which you know he’s picky about sleeping alone since he never brings dates home, to make you more comfortable, who lets you live here wellllll below asking rent because Bucky asked him to, who - Steve swatted his subconscious and focused back on Tony, who woke up with a start and scrambled himself out of Steve’s arms.

“Ah! Please tell me no one kissed me.”

“No,” Steve rolled his eyes. “You were having a nightmare and I was just trying to wake you up.”

“Oh,” Tony said, indignation deflating. “Well, thank you. I should have warned you.”

“It’s no problem.”

Tony didn’t respond, but got up out of the bed. “I always get a snack after one of these. You want one?”

Steve nodded. “Why not.”

_____

A year later, when they were celebrating their engagement, their mutual friend Bucky - who worked with Tony and had grown up with Steve - made the toast that they were basically Beauty and the Beast.

“Barely even friends,” Bucky sang, intentionally off-key, as everyone groaned. “Then somebody bends-”

“Like I bent over your cock that first time,” Tony muttered into Steve’s ear.

“Unexpectedly.”

“Definitely didn’t expect you to swallow the first time,” Steve murmured back.

A snack on that first night had turned into a conversation, which had turned into a charged moment, which had turned into resolving the charged moment with frustration-fueled sex, which had turned into some begrudging confessions, which had turned into…

Well, let’s just say Steve returned the bed to IKEA as soon as it eventually came.

#stony fanfiction #stevetony games: team fluff #flames fics

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bookandcover · 3 years

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The Home Place, subtitled “Memoirs of a Colored Man’s Love Affair with Nature,” takes an unique look at the experiences of working in environmental science, birding, farming, and otherwise existing in eco-spaces as a person of color. This book was my sister’s selection for our family’s ongoing Anti-Racism Book Club. As a graduate student in earth and environmental science, she thinks and talks a lot about race and gender within her field, mentors younger female students in the field, and teaches undergraduates. Like her, I expected this book to lean into the challenges of representation in the field and to comment on the (under-discussed) positive relationship between people of color and the natural world. And while these broader topics were discussed, this was, first and foremost, a deeply personal memoir. J. Drew Lanham starts his story where his life started, explaining his personal and familial connection with the land—The Home Place, a specific farmstead in Edgefield County, South Carolina, where he was born and grew up. This personal connection and narrative is essential—Lanham’s love for nature is shaped in his formative years by the close connection his family has with the land they live on and farm. His later academic connections to the land—from his graduate research to his volunteer work collecting bird identification data to his writing and communication about scientific topics—all these stem from that childhood passion that runs deeper than interest or fascination: J. Drew Lanham understands the land on an instinctual level. He sees himself as a natural being, in tune with the deer, wild turkeys, and monarch butterflies, with the possums, foxes, and eastern red cedars.

The structure of the book (moving roughly chronologically through Lanham’s birth, upbringing, growth, and independent life) is shaped by its foundational idea: Lanham’s conviction that he is a product of the land that raised him, as are his family members, his siblings, his parents, his grand-parents, and his ancestors before them. Therefore, looking at and observing The Home Place naturally leads to the work of observing his own family and how he came to be who he is in the world. The Home Place is exactly this, both physical landscape and the people that exist in harmony with it. Over and over again, in both small and large ways, Lanham reinforces this central thesis—from the chapter on the spring that fed and sustained the Home Place, which was maintained by his father and could not continue after Daddy’s death, to the chapter on digging into his family’s history (figuratively and literary) as he traces the Lanhams’ connections to the land. J. Drew Lanham acknowledges that this central thesis is not necessarily obvious nor free from controversy. Many Black Americans’ experiences with the land exist within the legacy of slavery and stories of immense suffering on land that never belonged to them. But, for Lanham and for other Black Americans who grew up close to the land, surviving off it and also existing with it could develop a new narrative around Black identity and the natural landscape.

When I think of subsistence farming, I often think of the many challenges and set backs of the hardscrabble life. And while Lanham is not shy about sharing that his parents occasionally “argued about whether to buy hay for cows or groceries for us,” his book as a whole focuses on the feeling of abundance and of spiritual wealth he experienced growing up living off the land. He emphasizes that land itself is a source of wealth, in all its forms, and that fostering a close relationship with the land is a way forward that he perceives for Black Americans. He says “But the land, in spite of its history, still holds hope for making good on the promise we thought it could, especially if we reconnect to it. The reparations lie not in what someone will give us, but in what we already own. The landscape can grow crops for us as well as it does for others.” I thought this was a very interesting perspective that strives to redefine the Black/natural world narrative. This was one of several moments in the book where I really felt that Lanham was writing for a Black audience specifically. He does have a perspective that puts the impetus on each person to choose their relationship with the land, to be a responsible steward of the natural world, to educate themselves, to lean into their connections with the land and trust it.

I was somewhat startled by this as it felt that Lanham prioritized talking about what Black people can do to achieve the “Normal Rockwell painting life” his family led when a huge part of systemic poverty and racism (from my perspective) could not be Black people themselves. Many systems—education and pay rates, land ownership and inheritance, access to banking loans and credit—are broken and rely on all of us to engage with fixing them. No matter how strong you are, you cannot climb alone from beneath a bolder that is pining you down, a boulder you inherit, a boulder you have to carry every single day and in every situation simply because of the color of your skin in America. Perhaps Lanham intends, intentionally, to focus on what Black people can do, in spite of these broken systems, as acts of empowerment and self-determinism? I was surprised how individualistic this book felt at times, with very little focus on how systems of oppression could be dismantled. For example, his primary suggestion for how birding while black can become safer is to normalize this experience by invading the natural sciences with more and more people of color. “Get more people of color ‘out there,’” he writes. In sharing this recommendation for progress, he doesn’t acknowledge very directly how dangerous this act is or how difficult his recommendations are to follow for each person who must be a pioneer in the field. Of course he understands the risks and challenges, as he’s been the “odd bird” so many times in his own life, but perhaps he could have spoken as well to the ways others in leadership positions (regardless of race) could provide support for young people entering the natural sciences (from mentorships and training, to financial scholarships, to diversity workshops and conversations that increase awareness and inclusivity within the field). Saying this, I feel strange criticizing his way of talking about these topics, even if the criticism is simply asking for more (more beyond an individual’s responsibilities, more beyond Black people making changes by stepping in and fighting for their spaces), as Lanham’s approach leans on his lived experiences as a Black man, which I cannot relate to in several ways.

I can, however, relate to his experiences growing up with a close relationship to the land. Unlike my sister, my experiences rambling through the Maine woods, raising sheep and chickens, and hiking, swimming, and spending nearly every moment of my youthful summers out of doors, did not translate into a career in environmental science. However this doesn’t mean that I don’t think of my relationship with nature as close nor my personal and emotional experiences with nature as deeply spiritual and transformative. As a writer, as a teacher, I draw all the time on my understanding of nature and my love for it in order to connect with other human beings, to bring the beauty of ecosystems to life for them, to find common ground (an apt metaphor). I noted the sections of The Home Place where Lanham talked about his graduate research and discussed how sometimes the monotony of the work cut into his love for the natural and his appreciation of all the experiences that brought him here. This was a very relatable moment—for anyone who chooses a career based on passion, that passion needs to withstand the least glamorous moments of that job. At its most slow, most boring, and most frustrating, do you still love this thing? Do you still see its worth even when you hate it? For me, the natural world can be relegated to a place of spiritual purity, simply experienced and enjoyed, because I don’t study it. Yet, Lanham reconciles scientific study and simple appreciation nicely, describing how his passion grows with his concrete and scientific understanding, and how the spiritual and scientific dimensions of his experiences with nature both shape his love and commitment.

I loved that Lanham described how his foray into writing brought a new third dimension to his personal relationship with nature—looking back in order to capture in words, he was able to trace the significance of The Home Place—and the act of literary examination changed him: he cried tears of release as he shared his story with his writing workshop, the first time he truly mourned the loss of his father after thirty years. In one of my favorite lines in the book, Lanham says of his experience first sharing his work with his peers in a writing workshop: “They’d unwittingly given me permission to be someone I’d never been.” For him, this was someone emotional, someone who sheds tears in moments of deeply-felt sorrow and transcendent joy. That joy, often, comes when facing the natural world as it is, and so he applies his pen to responding to nature. His descriptions of the natural world are interwoven beautifully throughout the book and are, so clearly, the creations of a close observer. I related so deeply to these moments, and felt transported, as I read: “Now, as back then, fall is the time when nature speaks most clearly to me…Breathing is suddenly easier and the soaking sweat evaporates. You want to inhale deeply enough to take in every molecule wafting on the wind. The tired smallness of September’s deep green fades then flames into October’s vermilion sumacs and scarlet maples, lemon-yellow poplars and golden hickories.” This is both accessible and accurate writing. J. Drew Lanham knows his science, but he describes the world visually, as he perceives it, not as he measures it.

For me, these writing moments were more effective than the structure of the chapters, which started to feel a bit formulaic as the book progressed. Lanham frequently uses the natural world as metaphors and many of these metaphor are born of quite astute and surprising observations—the ecology of a church’s location growing the mindset of the congregation and the Tuskegee Airmen as a metaphor for flight that takes Black people beyond the contexts others expect for them (the Wild West is another space examined along similar lines of thinking). But Lanham tends to set his big metaphors up in the same way: beginning a chapter with the central concept (in its most analytical, literal, or universal iteration), following this up with personal anecdotes, and ending the chapter (like its own short, contained essay) with deeper reflection on how this metaphor operates. This chapter structure, although predictable, didn’t lose the joy of any one of these observations. Lanham writes some truly profound individual sentences. And believe him. His depth is genuine.

I would be remiss in writing about my response to this book if I didn’t briefly address the chapter “Jawbone,” which troubled me deeply. For all of Lanham’s gentleness and nuanced appreciation of each living thing, he is still a hunter, and he describes a particular hunt—and the deer’s jawbone that he saves from this hunt—in this chapter. His interest in hunting is tied to a larger interest in land conservation and ecosystem management, as he explains it, and it seems that he tries to contrast his approach to hunting with those who hunt for trophies, or for the wrong reasons. But, the outcome is still the same. And he uses many of the tools—scents, blinds, and mating calls—that other hunters use to outwit their prey. He also tries to contrast his hunting with that of others’ by focusing on the deer’s jawbone he has collected. Rather than the trophy of a large set of antlers, he prizes the jawbone with evidence of the animal’s long lifespan and role in the ecosystem. The way he feels about this jawbone, however (elated, awed that this animal died at his hand and not someone else’s), seems to me not very different than the way trophy hunters feel about their prizes. Sure, he consumes the meat from the deer he kills, but it seems that hunting is not necessarily for his and his family’s survival, nor significant as an affordable food source available to them. I think I was most troubled by the concept of control and how that comes through in this chapter. It seems like hunting, for Lanham, seems to be rewarding in a kind of patriarchal, stewardship way in which the reward—while paired with thoughtful choices about which animals to kill and how to use the meat—is not sorrowful necessity, but some kind of pride (in the hunt, in the win, in the triumph). This chapter was all the more jarring following up on the youthful chapter where Lanham kills a sparrow with a bb gun and truly mourns the preciousness of a life lost. And while I also frown upon willful ignorance or dismissal of the source of one’s meat (or willful ignorance about the human and environmental impact from one’s vegetarian diet, as well!) I do think that the act of killing changes you as a person. Although I do not agree with Lanham on the topic of hunting, this is one section of the book, and human are complex, living contradictions. No one needs to hold perspectives and behave in ways that are perfectly consistent; no one ever does.

This book was a powerful testimony to how much we can—and, Lanham argues, we should—rely on nature. This book contains the particularity of the Black experience and seems to speak directly to a Black audience, as mentioned. But it also contains much that is universally applicable to our lives in the 21st Century, as we humans grow increasingly removed from nature and from the lifecycles of ecosystems and understanding how we are, inescapably, part of those. I love how Lanham observes at the very beginning of the book that, “to be wild is to be colorful, and in the claims of colorfulness there’s an embracing and a self-acceptance.” Through this book, he celebrates his specific identity and his experience as a person of color, but he also taps into our shared humanity when he illuminates the rewards of living a wild life. He thoughtfully reveals himself through describing his ecosystem, and, in this, invites us to see ourselves in the same way, with our own ecosystems, Home Places, and reasons to live a natural life.

#The Home Place #environmentalism #environmental justice #bipoc voices #J. Drew Lanham #nature writing #important reading #anti-racism reading

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yeaahishowedupatyourparty · 3 years

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THE PARENTHOOD INTERVIEW: Florence.

In all of these interviews, I’m obviously going to have to make things up about other people’s characters! Don’t take it too seriously if you feel like it’s not accurate, just how I picture things being :)

10 QUESTIONS NOT LINKED TO YOUR KID(S).

what is your current career now? “I’m currently a teacher at a dance school. I mainly teach ballet at the moment, but I’ve started moving in to more commercial and contemporary styles. Eventually, I’m hoping to open my own school, but life is hectic and always throwing new things our way, so we’ll see!”

are you enjoying it? “I love being a teacher, especially when I get to teacher the mini-classes. They’re about four and it’s been such a long time since I’ve had children that age around; I miss it!”

where do you currently live? “We currently live in the Springs, it was just convenient because that’s where the three of them went to school but we do make an effort to visit Italy a lot. That’s where Dom’s family are from, firstly, and it’s just always had significance.”

are you married? “Since I was 18! Younger than Daisy!”

what is one thing that’s stayed the same with you since st judes? “My connection with my family. I’m still really close to them all, especially Disney, Florence and Park.”

what’s the biggest change you’ve experienced? “I think I’ve become smarter. I hope? Helping with impossible maths homework for years changes a person. I now know all seven continents. Proud of me yet?”

now that you’re older and have had a successful career, what’s your biggest goal in life? “To make sure I’m present for my family, especially my children. I never want them to look back on their lives and think; well, where was my mother? It’s the reason I gave up work once Carter was born, too. I’ve never missed a sports game, a school show, a birthday, a parent’s evening...It’s not how everybody chooses to live, but it’s important to me that my children know that they can fall back on to me if they need to.”

would you still consider yourself famous? “Only by association, and that’s fine by me.”

what was the first thing you did after your graduation? “I went on tour, would you believe! I choreographed for Ruby’s tour, who was signed to my Dad’s label at the time.”

do you have any regrets about your time in st judes? “Not speaking my mind more often. I feel like there was an awful pressure on girl’s too be sweet and not come across as a bitch, which meant people could say what they liked and you’d have to grin and bear it if you wanted to be seen a certain way. I wish I stuck up for Dom more, and myself.”

QUESTIONS ABOUT PARENTHOOD.

who are your children? list them in age order. “Carter, Peter and Daisy. My babies.”

if you gave birth, who was the easiest pregnancy? if you didn’t, which pregnancy did you feel most anxious about. “Carter was the easiest pregnancy. It was the first, so I didn’t know what to expect and probably took it for granted at the time, but I had no morning sickness. I got up every morning and went to this mother-to-be yoga class and had a ton of energy. I feel like I had the glow everyone speaks of? Being pregnant with Peter wasn’t the worse. I think it was more that I was pregnant and still had Carter to care for, so I was tired. Daisy’s birth definitely had the most complications and she was early. We knew from early on that things weren’t ‘normal’, so I guess that was the one with the most anxiety.”

did you have any baby showers or gender reveals? if yes, what did you do? “I can’t remember if I did gender reveals! I don’t think I did, honestly. I did have baby showers, though. It wasn’t anything major. Just gatherings with close friends and family. It was cute when Peter and Daisy were born because Carter was more involved in the pictures and stuff, and then of course Peter too during Daisy’s one.”

what kind of parent would your children describe you as, do you think? “God, I don’t think I want to know! I think if we’re being honest, they’d say I’m almost overbearing and they’d be right. I wouldn’t be offended. I just like knowing they’re okay...”

which stage was hardest: baby, toddler, child, teenager or young adult? “For Daisy, toddler-slash-child. She wasn’t very well and that was hard on all of us. I think Peter was the trickiest teenager...and for Carter, probably young adult, honestly! He’s coming into his own and it’s harder to get him to open up to me because, you know, he’s an adult! They’re all amazing though, so don’t think for a second any of that means they’ve caused me massive stress in any way.”

what has been your favourite memory with each child? “There are so many! One of my favourites that involves them all was the first year we went skiing with their cousins. Seeing the boys help Daisy out with the skiis...and then also ambush her with snowballs until she got stroppy and ran to Dom, was fun. Seeing them all get along like that never gets old and makes it all worth it.”

be honest, do you think you’ve had any failings as a parent? “Definitely. I constantly blame myself for Daisy being sick when she was little. I’ll forever wonder if I could’ve done anything differently while pregnant or if I did anything to contribute. For both of the boys, I sometimes worry that I didn’t sit with them enough when they were younger and help them talk things through. They’re both such ‘get on with it’ types of people and it’s admirable but I just wish I gave them more opportunities to vocalise their feelings. It gets harder the older they get.”

what do you think you do well as a parent? “I hope it’s being present! Again, that’s something that’s really important to me. If they all know that there’s no such thing as a mistake too big or a problem too bad to bring to me, then I’ve done my job. I don’t want any of them to ever think they have to suffer in silence about things in fear of being told off or yelled at.”

how much involvement do your own parents have in your child’s life? “Quite a bit! My parents used to take them on holiday a lot over the summer along with their cousins.”

as a parent, what is something you’re still learning? “That they grow up and they’re entitled to have thoughts and feelings they don’t share. I think I always have the urge to fix everything for them when in reality, they’re at the age where they’re figuring things out alone which is just as important.”

what’s the funniest memory from parenthood so far? “Carter takes this one. We were on a plane going to, somewhere. Daisy must have been tiny. Anyway, Peter was sat with Dom and Carter sat with me - Daisy on my lap with the baby seatbelt on...and suddenly, he just became overly excited. I’ve never seen him so happy. When I finally got his attention, he was like “Mummy, Santa’s on the plane!” and wouldn’t stop. Well, we looked down the aisle to see a person in a dress...A woman, mind you...And she had long white hair, which to be fair to a little child could have been seen as a beard. Anyway, after the embarrassment and a journey of death glares from her, it’s definitely one of my favourite things he’s done.”

when do you feel like you were needed the most? “Now! Life gets harder as you get older. But, I need to learn when they need me to back off too...I’ll get there.”

JUST FOR FUN, WHICH CHILD… if you have just one child, you can just say if they’d do the stuff or not.

which child is the most sensible? “Carter and Peter are two different types of sensible and they’re both important qualities, so I’m going to say those two. Sorry, Dais.”

which child is the most independent? “Peter. He always has been, too.”

which child did you always have suspicions about being famous one day? “They’re all so talented, typical Mum comment! Maybe Daisy, though. She’d stand in front of the boys while they were playing their video games and belt out Frozen. If that’s not star quality...and bravery, then I don’t know.”

which child was the hardest work as a child? “Daisy, only because of the complications with her health.”

which child have you cried/stressed over the most? “Daisy or Peter. It’s too close to call.”

which child has the tidiest room? “Carter. That’s the easiest one so far.”

which child do you think likes you the most? “I hope they all like me! I feel like Carter’s the one who’ll still pity me and laugh at my jokes or has the patience to show me how to set up crap on the computer too. So, we’ll say him. I know the other two love me too, but I tend to get a few more eye rolls!”

which child is most likely to forget your birthday? “Daisy! She’s been spoilt. The boys have always been nice enough to put her name on cards and organise it for her. Perks of being the youngest? I remember my siblings doing it for me too.”

which child is/was the most academic? “Carter, I think.”

which child is/was the most athletic? “Peter.”

which child tends to be the most annoying? “They all give it a good go, believe me. I think Daisy’s the most unintentionally annoying and again, it’s because we all spoil her. She went through a stage where she would not leave Peter alone and if the poor kid tried to do something by himself, she’d have a full blown tantrum. It got to the point where I had to start giving her time outs! If we’re talking about being intentionally annoying, then the whole family will agree on Peter. If he’s in that mood, he knows exactly how to wind you up...which is funny unless you’re the target!”

which child asks for money the most? “Daisy, but from Dom. That’s his problem to deal with!”

which child is most likely to move in back home? “Deep down, I don’t think any of them will and as much as it pains me, it also makes me really proud. I feel like it means we’ve given them everything they need for the next chapter.”

which child helps out around the house the most? “Either of the boys. Are you noticing a pattern?”

which child enjoyed disney the most growing up? “That’d be Daisy.”

BEING AN ACADEMY PARENT.

did you have a say in the academy(s) your child(ren) picked? “I didn’t! They all made their own decisions and I deliberately didn’t comment because I wanted them to have that.”

how did you feel when your child decided they wanted to go to an academy? “I felt hopeful! I know it can be intense but they all have what it takes and I’m so proud every single day.”

do any of your children study the same as what you did? are they less, equally or more successful than what you were? “Daisy studies dance and she’s miles ahead of where I was at her age. She’s a star.”

when your child(ren) were younger, what did you THINK they’d end up working as? “That’s a good question! I always thought Carter would maybe do something like, helpful? He’s quite social and so caring. I always saw him as maybe a firefighter or teacher, y’know? With Peter, it was obvious from when he was tiny that he wouldn’t be sat behind a desk or doing anything office-like. I did always have a feeling it’d be sports related, or something that lets him travel...Maybe with my brother out in the canary islands. I don’t know! Daisy was in dance from when she was tiny, so I always had the feeling she’d do dance...”

have you met any of your child’s friends or partners? “I’ve met Callie once, I think? And Aurora a few times, yes. Beautiful girls. I won’t say too much or I’ll get texts from my boys saying I’ve embarrassed them.”

what’s your biggest worry about your children being in an academy? “Their mental health. I don’t think anything can prepare you for people suddenly being so interested in your life and wanting a piece of you all of the time.”

what’s the one piece of advice you’d give your child as they start this journey that you wished you had? “That it’s okay to slip off of the radar, you’re allowed to decline that invite to the exclusive party everybody is buzzing about and if you decide it isn’t for you, you’re allowed to leave. If it’s not your thing, there’s a whole world out there and your thing is in it. I just hope they always see the big picture and don’t feel like they’re stuck if they’re unhappy.”

MEMORY LANE.

what tv programmes/films were on repeat as your children were growing up? “Paw Patrol when the boys were younger...Power Rangers was a thing at one stage. Daisy had a frightening obsession with Dora the Explorer. We’ve done it all!”

have you ever lost your child/had something happen that’s made you panic? “Holy shhh. Yes. I used to take all of the kids out a lot during holiday’s and stuff because like, Brody and Disney both worked. Park worked. Imogen worked. Even though they have their own businesses, it’s still work. I was unemployed from when Carter was born right up until when Daisy graduated, so I liked to get them all out and away from their parents for a bit. Anyway! I took them swimming one summer - all of them! - Jay, Daisy, Dixie, Fleur, Pippa, Peter, Carter, Emmett...I turned my back for one second to let one of the younger ones - maybe Pippa - into the pool, when I turned back Peter and Dixie had gone. We searched the changing rooms, the toilets, the sauna. I was on the brink of tears. Anyway, they were hiding under the slide in the main pool which we never went in because it was too deep for any of them at that point. Needless to say, we never went swimming again. It was play dates in our garden pool instead.”

what was the first holiday you went on as a whole family? “Italy, I believe!”

can you remember a time you’ve ever been called to the principals office? “I don’t remember the first time but, let’s just say the principal and I were on a first name basis.”

say one thing about your child that you think they’d like to hear, but wouldn’t expect you to say. “...Let’s see. For Daisy, I think it’d be that she’s so much more than pretty. She’s been complimented on her looks since she was little - including by me, I’m guilty! And it’s because she’s beautiful! But, I hope she knows we all see how smart and generous she is too. And funny, there’s so much more to her and we value it. For Peter, definitely that we’re proud of him. Out of the three of them, he’s hardest on himself and holds himself to a painfully high standard but he’s constantly surpassing any expectations I’ve ever have. He amazes me everytime I hear from him and I just want him to remember to be kind to himself. He’s so much more than he gives himself credit for. And, with Carter, it’s similar but not quite. It’s more that he’s perfect just as he is. I think he grew up as the sensible, and possibly softer sibling. Daisy and Peter are louder by nature and from my experience, I know it’s hard to not feel like you’re forgettable or have faded into the background if you’re not as bold with your personality. But, I can put my hand on my heart and say I couldn’t imagine a better older brother - he’s kind, thoughtful, intelligent...He’s been a great example to them and so selfless. He’s had to endure and put up with so much growing up and not once has he complained, or felt sorry for himself. He’s a blessing and I just hope he knows that he doesn’t need to be more like anyone else to make me proud of him. I love them all!”

#itsflorence #SHES DEFINITELY MY FAVE PARENT I THINK - SHES SO LOVING

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xxx-cat-xxx · 4 years

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A little broken

Over a year after defeating Thanos and almost losing Tony, Peter is still haunted by the final battle. In an attempt to outrun the memories, he starts college far from New York.

It takes a visit from his mentor and an ill-timed flu bug that brings them both to their knees until Peter realises that he doesn’t have to take on the whole world alone.

Some Irondad hurt/comfort for everyone who’s quarantining at home (and those of you who have to work. Stay safe!) This is my @marveltrumpshate fic for Heyriel. Great thanks to @whumphoarder for doing so much more than beta reading. I hope you enjoy.

______________________________

The first time they meet, Peter isn’t sure what to make of Tony Stark.

The man shows up unannounced to Peter’s apartment, chewing on May’s date loaf and walking around Peter’s room as if he owns the place—talking as if he owns the whole world. Peter is both awed and appalled, May’s occasional comments about greedy billionaires ringing in his ears. But then Peter starts talking about his motivation for doing what he does, and for a moment something in the older man’s face seems to break. That’s when Peter knows that there’s more to him than what makes the tabloids.

Germany is both a thrilling adventure and an unparalleled disaster. Peter watches the group of heroes he’s looked up to since childhood break apart before his very eyes. The fight is grueling, taking more out of Peter than he knew was possible. He is lying there on the ground, trying to catch his breath, when Tony bends over him. And for a moment, there it is again: the broken facade on his face—below it, pure panic. The way Tony looks at him with thinly masked worry reminds him of Ben’s expression whenever Peter was little and having an asthma attack, and it does something to his insides that he can’t really explain.

Then, a few months later, Peter inevitably screws up and slices a ferry in half. The two of them are standing high above the city when Tony takes his suit away, and Peter feels tears pricking at his eyes. He cries later in his room, alone, because it’s so much more than just the suit; he feels that by disappointing Tony he’s lost his chance at something so much bigger.

It’s a miracle he manages to fix this one.

After Siberia, Tony is darker and quieter and indisputably older—like he’s finally grown up. Peter is sad for him, but it’s not all bad either. This new Tony starts taking more of an interest in Peter’s training—starts acting like a real mentor to him. There are afternoons spent together in the lab, dinners at the tower with Tony and Mr. Rhodes, and even the occasional low-stakes mission. Slowly, Tony’s world starts to feel like a place where Peter might one day belong.

But then, the universe gets ripped in two and somewhere on a red and war-torn planet, Peter clings to Tony in desperation, feeling first his body, then his thoughts slip away from him.

When he wakes again, there’s another battle to fight, but this time there’s no thrill to it. It’s his personal horror film come true.

He can hear the moment when Tony’s heart stops. Peter cries openly this time.

In the end, Tony makes it through. He loses an arm and much of his physical strength, but he’s stubborn as hell and fights his way through recovery. But somehow the day of the battle never fades from Peter’s brain like memories should.

When he finishes school, May proposes NYU, Tony naturally wants MIT, but Peter chooses Culver University. It might be good for him to get out of New York, is what he says. It might be good for him not to be in a place that has Tony’s legacy lurking around every corner, is what he thinks. And maybe moving away will make things easier when he returns.

Three months into Peter’s first semester at Culver, Tony accepts a guest speaking gig at the university and decides to stay at a nearby hotel to spend the weekend with Peter.

And that’s when it all goes to hell.

“Hello? Earth to Peter.” Tony waves a hand in his face. “Who are you daydreaming about?”

“Huh?” Peter looks up at Tony, then down at his half-finished iced tea. “Nothing,” he evades. “Nobody, I mean. Sorry, I’m just—just tired. And I have a lot of work left this weekend.”

“Mh-hmm.” Tony looks as if he isn’t quite believing it. “You want more spring rolls?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll wait for the main dish.”

Peter hasn’t eaten much today, but he’s not quite hungry either. He’s nursing a headache and the tiredness is not just an excuse. As happy as Peter is to see his mentor, Tony’s timing in showing up the week before midterms really could’ve been better. Peter feels like he might fall asleep right here at the restaurant table, but he already knows that he’s going to have to stay up until late to finish his readings.

“You’re doing it again,” Tony points out. “You’re being awfully quiet, kid. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, seriously.” Peter manages to hold eye contact for a few seconds and then takes another sip of his iced tea. “So, you said we could fix the suit while you’re here?”

Tony takes the bait (or maybe just lets it drop intentionally) and the talk quickly turns technical.

After a few minutes, they’re interrupted by the waitress—a student Peter thinks he recognises from his Python lab—who stares at Tony for a moment, her gaze lingering on the scars decorating his right cheek and ear before dropping down to his bionic arm. Then she catches herself and asks for their order.

When their food arrives, Peter observes Tony take out a box of different coloured pills and swallow a couple of them dry.

“I know, not sexy,” Tony remarks, noticing his look, “but sort of necessary if I want to keep this baby ticking.” He taps his hand over his chest with a wan smile.

Peter grins half-heartedly in return, even while he can feel his insides clench. The comment reminds him of the time Tony’s heart actually did stop, of the battlefield with the dust of Thanos’ army still hanging in the air, of the utter helplessness he felt when Tony snapped, of―

“Uhm, excuse me?” It’s the waitress again, her voice shy, cheeks blushing. She extends a piece of paper toward Tony. “Could I, uhm, could you, maybe give me an autograph for my sister? She’s a big fan. I mean, we all are, of course, but she’s got her room decorated with posters of you and all that…”

Tony looks her up and down with a raised eyebrow and a smirk playing around his lips. “What’s your sister’s name?” he asks finally, making a show of producing an integrated pen from his bionic arm. The waitress is visibly impressed, and Peter resists the temptation to roll his eyes―it’s far from the first time he’s seen this trick. If Tony was famous before, it’s nothing compared to the status he earned since dusting Thanos and saving the universe.

Tony gives the waitress an easy smile along with the paper he passes back, and then turns back to Peter with a smirk. “Fangirls,” he whispers. “Gotta love ‘em. Did I tell you about the kid who offered me all of his allowance for a hoofprint from Gerald?”

Because Tony is Tony, it takes a long time before he has caught Peter up on anecdotes of Morgan, Happy, and Gerald’s newest misadventures, and by the time Peter gets back home, it is already late evening. His studio apartment is small and rather old, with walls that have turned grey over time and windows that don’t fully close anymore, but it’s got its own kitchen and bathroom, which is much better than a dorm room―especially since Peter wouldn’t know how to explain the odd hours he keeps or the regular blood stains in the shower to any of his fellow students.

Peter’s head has been throbbing painfully for the better part of an hour, and the lights from the screen when he pulls out his laptop don’t make it any better. All his body seems to want is sleep, but if he’s going to spend the next two days upgrading his suit with Tony’s help, he really needs to get these chemistry readings finished.

He tries for several hours, but the words don’t seem to want to stick in his mind and it takes longer than expected until he feels that he has understood the chapter. Peter drops into bed around 3:30 in the morning, too tired to even change out of his jeans, and falls asleep immediately.

Peter is woken up by someone knocking on his apartment door to the beat of “We Will Rock You”, and it’s all he can do to stifle a groan. He drags himself out of bed and over to the door.

“Finally,” Tony sighs when Peter lets him in, shoving a reusable thermal to-go cup in the kid’s face and causing him to flinch backwards. “I thought I’d have to actually start singing.” Then he gives Peter a once-over and his face falls. “What happened to you?”

“I think I’m sick,” Peter replies, realising it is true the same moment the words leave his mouth. His head is hurting even more than the night before and his throat feels raw and painful, but the worst is the utter weakness in his body and the chills running down his back that tell him he has a fever.

“What kind of sick?” Tony asks suspiciously. To Peter’s surprise, instead of turning on his heel and leaving the surely germ-infested apartment, Tony steps over the threshold and raises a hand to cup to Peter’s forehead.

“Dunno.” Peter shrugs. “Just feel like garbage. Flu was going around the school last week―it’s probably that.”

“Aw, kid,” Tony sighs, something like compassion in his voice. “Yeah, you feel really warm.”

“Sorry about the suit,” Peter says, moving back to sit down on his bed heavily. “I guess you can just go back to New York early then.”

“What? You think I’m coldhearted enough to leave my former intern alone on his deathbed somewhere in the Virginian wilderness?”

“Culver’s not that bad,” Peter defends. “And I’m not alone either.”

“So that means you have someone here to take care of you?” Tony raises a sceptical eyebrow.

Peter hesitates. “I… May’s a nurse,” he evades. “I can call her.”

Truth is, there actually isn’t anybody. He hasn’t really made friends yet―at least certainly not the kind he would consider asking to take care of him while he’s down with the flu. He calls May twice a week, skypes with Ned—and occasionally still with MJ—on the weekends, and he’s friendly enough with his classmates when they’re working together in classes. But his downtime is mostly spent studying on his own and patrolling the city at night.

“Yeah, no, that’s not happening.” Tony looks him over appraisingly, then seems to make a decision and presses the cup of hot chocolate into Peter’s hand. “Guess I’ll stick around for a bit. Here, drink that.”

“I don’t really feel like it.” Peter is definitely queasy, bordering on nauseous, and the thought of drinking something as rich as hot chocolate almost makes his stomach turn. He shifts on the bed so that he can lean against the headboard, feeling too tired to hold his body up without support.

“Well, you need to have something. Super metabolism and all that.” Tony strides over to the small, definitely not tidy kitchenette and starts opening cupboards, most of which are empty. He comes up with a few packets of shrimp-flavoured instant noodles and a box of Coco Puffs. “Really, kid?”

“I was gonna get groceries today,” Peter says defensively.

“Yeah, I’m gonna do that now,” Tony states. “What do you say to buttered noodles? That’s all Morgan ever wants when she’s sick.”

“Yeah, that’s...that’s fine,” Peter says, dumbfounded at the idea of Tony Stark going to the supermarket and making pasta for him.

“Good. Glad that you agree, since that’s about as far as my cooking skills go.” He zips up his jacket and grabs Peter’s keys from the table. “Don’t do anything stupid till I’m back.” With that, he’s out of the door.

Peter doesn’t feel like he’d be able to do anything stupid even if he wanted to. He can’t remember the last time he felt this bad, and with his Spider-Manning lifestyle, that really says something. He’s thirsty, but his throat hurts in a way that doesn’t make him want to swallow anything. There’s an ugly taste in his mouth and he really wants to brush his teeth, but the bathroom could just as well be a hundred miles away.

If May were here, she would have set him up on the sofa with Star Trek: TOS playing on the TV while changing his sheets and airing out the room, he thinks. And suddenly the homesickness hits him like a train. He misses May. He misses New York and his friends and even the busy schedule that high school provided him with, but mostly he misses coming home to an apartment that’s not empty, having someone to eat breakfast with in the mornings and share his day with in the evenings over burnt teriyaki chicken. Just the thought of May’s disastrous cooking skills almost brings tears to his eyes.

He stays like this for an indefinite amount of time, feeling miserable and blinking back tears, until Tony eventually returns. He sets down the shopping bag on the table and closes his eyes for a moment, rubbing the bridge between them with his fingers, the telltale sign that he has a headache.

“You okay?” Peter asks hoarsely.

“Yeah. You live in a village, kid. Took forever to find a parking spot and then everyone and their mother wanted an autograph. Basically fought my way out of there. Might have to give my lawyer a heads up, actually.”

Peter can’t even bring himself to force a laugh. A part of him wants to tell Tony to just go home already; the other part of him really, really doesn’t want to be alone right now. He sniffs hard and swallows to keep his nose from dripping.

“Hey,” Tony’s expression sobers as he sits down next to him on the mattress. “Did I miss something?”

“I just―” Peter rubs a sleeve over his watery eyes, feeling embarrassed. He thinks for an excuse and suddenly remembers the very real problems of college. “Ah, crap.”

“Huh?” Tony asks.

“I have two tests next week,” Peter admits miserably. “I haven’t done anything for them yet―I was going to study this weekend in the evenings―”

“That’s fine, kid, we can deal with that. We saved the universe, remember? Schoolwork is nothing compared to Thanos, trust me.”

“I know,” Peter sniffs. Then, before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “I‘m just missing home.”

“Ah,” Tony says. He lays his bionic hand on Peter’s shoulder and rubs it. “Yeah, that makes more sense.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter goes on, “I didn’t mean, I’m just―”

“You’re just sick and tired and emotional,” Tony assesses, but there’s no judgement in his voice. “Come on.” He gestures for Peter to lie down and pulls the blanket up to his neck. “Go to sleep, kid.” His tone is almost soft. “I’ll be here.”

Peter falls into a feverish, exhausted sleep. He’s dimly aware of an icy cold gripping him and chills wracking his body, and then of Tony putting an extra blanket on him. At some point Tony offers food, but Peter’s too tired to even fully open his eyes. He mumbles something that he hopes Tony understands and turns over to the other side.

The next time he fully surfaces, it’s from Tony gently shaking him awake. “Hey Pete, I know you’re tired, but you really need to eat something.”

“Don’ wanna,” he mutters, pulling the covers up to his chin.

“Peter. Come on, kid.”

He blinks himself awake. The apartment is dark now; it must be evening already. The faint smell of food lingers in the air. “D’ I sleep all day?” he asks, confused.

“Almost. You can still catch Saturday Night Live.”

“Hmm.” Peter sits up slowly. He feels woozy and weak and his head is still hurting, which is ridiculous considering how long he slept for.

“Just let me check your temperature.” Tony takes off his smartwatch and presses it against Peter’s neck, just under his chin. The cold metal sends shivers down his spine.

“102.6,” Tony reports. “Yeah, that’s not great. A pity that fever reducers don’t work on you.” Tony’s voice sounds rough. Peter squints up at him just as the man turns his head into his shoulder to cough. He looks tired—really tired—and, as far as Peter can make out in the dim light of the bedside lamp, his face is kind of flushed.

“Are you okay?” Peter croaks.

“Uhm...” For a moment it looks like Tony wants to lie, but then he falters. “Not really. Guess I caught the same bug you did.”

“Shit,” Peter says. This sucks big time.

“I already texted May—she’ll probably be up here tomorrow. As soon as you’d had something to eat and drink, I’ll go back to the hotel and get out of your hair. You don’t need an old sick man around.”

“What? No!” Peter blurts before he can stop himself. He feels his breath speeding up, horrified at both the idea of Tony leaving him here alone, and of Tony being on his own in some hotel room feeling as miserable as Peter does now. “Please don’t go.”

Tony looks taken aback. “Pete, I don’t think I’m going to be much help soon.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just…” Peter feels himself blushing. “It’s nice not to be alone,” he admits in a small voice.

Tony gives him a long look. “Okay, fine,” he agrees eventually. “But that means you have to listen to me. And the first rule is: eat your dinner, kid.”

They eat quietly. Tony is visibly making an effort not to let on just how bad he’s feeling, but Peter has learned to read the signs during his mentor’s long period of recovery from the snap. Tony is rubbing his shoulder whenever he thinks that Peter isn’t looking, which means that his prosthesis is hurting him. His shoulders are slumped, showing how tired he is, he’s nursing a headache, and then there is the fairly obvious sign of him hardly having eaten anything except for two spoons of pasta and his medication.

After dinner, Tony calls Pepper while Peter calls May. She gives him a run-down of the usual flu advice―“Stay hydrated, try and rest, and for god’s sake, don’t pile every blanket you own on yourself like that time you had strep, Peter—keep the curtains on the windows”—and promises to drive up tomorrow if she can get her shift covered. Then she asks to talk to Tony. Meanwhile, Peter uses the bathroom, brushes his teeth and changes into pyjamas. Observing himself in the mirror, he realises just how run-down he looks. He splashes some water on his face, which does nothing except make him shiver.

“She asked whether you built that Lego ship she got you for your birthday,” Tony announces when Peter returns.

“Oh.” Peter hasn’t, of course. He’s neither had the time nor the motivation to do so without Ned.

Tony makes a show of looking around the room. “This place is less personal than an airbnb. I told her there’s not even a poster on your wall.”

“So what?” Peter sighs. He feels the need to defend himself, but he’s too sick to come up with anything.

Tony doesn’t press it, luckily. He borrows a pair of sweatpants, which end up being a bit short around his ankles and make it look like he’s outgrown them. It almost makes Peter smile. They pull out the sofa-sleeper that May insisted on him getting, but which he’s had no opportunity to use until now. When everything is set up, Peter is almost dizzy from being on his feet for so long. He’s both sweating and shivering and very glad to lie back down under the covers.

Tony turns on the TV, but neither of them is really paying attention. Peter is half asleep a few minutes into the news and Tony seems visibly uncomfortable, shifting around every few minutes on the couch.

“Do you want to switch to the bed?” Peter asks him, secretly hoping for the answer to be no―he really doesn’t want to get up again. Tony shakes his head, lips pressed tightly together. Then he gets to his feet faster than Peter would have thought possible for someone in his condition and bolts to the bathroom.

Peter hears nothing for a while. Then there’s a few weak coughs, followed by a retch and the sound of splashing. Peter cringes, his own stomach twisting in sympathy. The small size of the apartment and his enhanced hearing make it impossible to tune out the sounds as Tony continues to be sick into the toilet for the next ten minutes. When the retching tapers off, Peter shakily gets to his feet and fills a glass of water from the kitchenette.

He knocks on the bathroom door, then leans heavily against the frame. “I got you some water,” he calls, hearing Tony’s ragged breathing inside. “Can I come in?”

“Just go to sleep, kid,” Tony croaks.

“Yeah, sure,” Peter mumbles under his breath. After a few moments, he hears the sound of the flush and then the door opens. Tony is covered in sweat and looking about as bad as Peter feels, plus there’s a greenish tinge to his face. The smell of vomit wafts out and hits Peter’s nostrils, turning his own stomach.

“Thanks, Pete,” Tony croaks says hoarsely and takes the water from his hand. His metal fingers feel cold against Peter’s burning skin when they brush the back of his hand. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

“‘S okay,” Peter mumbles. He suddenly has a hard time focusing on Tony. His head feels so heavy that he has to rest it against the doorframe as well.

“Jeez, kid,” Tony comments. Then his face drains even more of colour and he presses his knuckles against his lips, swallowing thickly. “Go lie down, okay? I’ll be out in a bit.” With that, he turns and disappears back into the bathroom.

For once, Peter listens to him, unsure whether he will be able to keep standing much longer anyway. After a moment of consideration, he curls up on the couch, leaving the softer bed for the older man. He drifts there for a while, trying to tune out the sounds of sickness coming from the bathroom.

Eventually, he is dimly aware of someone entering the room and switching off the lights. There’s cold metal touching his neck as someone takes his temperature and tsks, then softly brushes back his hair and lays a cold washcloth on his forehead. It feels amazing against Peter’s burning skin.

“Thanks, May,” he mumbles.

Waking up feels like resurfacing after diving into a deep pool of water. Peter’s eyelids are sticky with sleep and his brain feels like it’s been through a potato masher. He’s disoriented, so it takes a bit until he realises that it was Tony’s voice that woke him. “Pete,” he hears him calling again weakly. Something about it shakes him out of his half-awake state.

“Tony?” he asks, sitting up. There’s a rustling sound and a thump from the bathroom, confirming his worry. A quick glance at his phone on the bedside table tells him that it’s just after 4am. Definitely not the time to take a shower.

Peter’s head swims when he gets up from the couch. He takes a few unsteady steps towards the bathroom and then stops to lean against the wall until his vision clears and he can open the door.

Tony is on the ground next to the toilet, wrenched in between the bowl and the shower, looking about ten times worse than earlier. His face is almost grey except for the scars on his right cheek, which are flushed in an angry red. His dark eyes are glassy and deeply exhausted. Sweat sticks to his hair and t-shirt, the prosthesis off and one sleeve dangling empty. The smell of vomit hangs thickly in the air, much stronger than before.

Tony slowly lifts his head when Peter steps in. “Hey,” he croaks, attempting a smile and giving up somewhere halfway. “Sorry for waking you. ‘S just that I could use some help.”

“With what exactly?”

“Getting up?” Tony asks sheepishly. “I tried and almost took down your shower curtain.”

Peter blinks. “Well, shit.”

“You said it, kid.”

Peter extends a hand and Tony grabs it gratefully, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Peter closes the toilet lid and Tony sits down on it with a heavy sigh. He shudders convulsively, then closes his eyes and swallows rapidly a few times, as if trying to stop himself from being sick again.

“How long have you been in here?” Peter asks while checking Tony’s temperature on his smart watch. He finds it to be at a worrying 103.6.

“Uhm,” Tony makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Midnight, maybe? Kinda lost track of time.” Peter frowns. “Sorry for waking you up, kid,” Tony says again, taking his expression the wrong way. “That’s kind of why I didn’t want to stay.”

“You should have called me earlier.” Peter fills a glass of water from the tap. “And yeah, really reassuring to think of you spending the night on the bathroom floor of your hotel because you can’t get up on your own.”

Tony mumbles something that sounds a lot like, “Not like I haven’t done that before.” When Peter hands him the glass, the man’s hands are trembling so much that half of the water spills out onto his shirt.

“Shit,” Tony mutters. “All my spares are at the hotel.”

“I can give you one of mine,” Peter offers.

“Yeah, that... that would be great,” Tony says earnestly. Peter wonders whether he’s maybe a bit delirious. “This shit didn’t use to happen before the snap, you know.”

“Don’t worry,” Peter says, surprised at the admission. He fetches a clean sweatshirt from the dresser and hands it to the older man. His mentor’s whole body is shaking violently with chills. While Tony changes, Peter notices that the scar pattern around his shoulder stump is an angry red. It looks painful, but Tony doesn’t seem to care too much.

Something twists within Peter. It reminds him too much of the time just after the snap when he saw Tony in the hospital, weak with fever from the infected limb.

“Ready for bed?” Peter asks, shaking the thoughts from his head.

“Yeah,” Tony says, although he doesn’t look too sure. Peter pulls him upright and almost staggers under the man’s weight and his own weakness. Tony doesn’t comment, and when Peter turns towards him, he sees that he is biting his lips, eyes largely unfocused.

“This really hit you hard, huh?” Peter asks when they have made it to the bed, sitting down next to Tony. His mentor is bending forward, head in his hands, panting and shaking like he just finished a mission in the suit. That’s not the only thing, though. With his advanced hearing, Peter can pick up Tony’s heartbeat, which is slightly arrhythmic.

“Tony?” he asks suspiciously. “What’s wrong with your heart?”

“Yeah, about that…” The other man raises his head, but avoids Peter’s gaze.

“What?” Peter can feel his own heart rate speeding up in worry.

“I, uh...remember my heart medication?” Tony says casually. “I threw up the last dose. It’s not dangerous, don’t worry,” he adds when Peter stares at him, alarmed, “Or, well, at least not yet. Just sort of increases the nausea and dizziness.”

“Can’t you take another dose?” he asks.

“I don’t think I can keep anything down right now,” Tony admits. “But I’ll try in the morning.”

“Hmm.” This doesn’t really do anything to make Peter feel better.

“Don’ worry, kid” Tony adds with a tired slur to his words, which only achieves the opposite. With a lot of effort, he pulls his legs up to the bed and then lies down under the blankets. “Let’s both sleep for a bit and things will look brighter in the morning.”

Peter gets himself a glass of water and then curls back up on the couch. He hears Tony’s breaths turn heavy and even out before long, but although he feels exhausted, he has a hard time going back to sleep. The sofa feels like rocks under his achy body, and he keeps turning around, unable to find a comfortable position. His head doesn’t fare any better. With his brain cloudy from fever, it’s even harder than usual to stave off the memories from the battlefield.

His eyes finally fall shut and back he goes, right into the middle of dust and blood and death looming around every corner. He knows that there should be screams and shouts everywhere, but it’s silent, dead silent, except for the underlying thump-thump-thump of Tony’s heartbeat, becoming ever quieter.

Peter rounds a heap of rubble and almost stumbles over Tony, who is lying on the ground, half his body eaten away by the radiation. The beating gets weaker even as Peter falls onto his knees and tears stream down his cheeks. He’s been here a hundred times, unable to save the man who saved him, and he knows exactly how this is going to end.

A beat, almost indiscernible. A breath leaves Tony’s lips for the last time.

Silence.

He wakes to the feeling that everything in the world that possibly could be wrong, is wrong. His whole body is hot and he feels nauseous, almost as if he will throw up. Sick, he remembers. He’s sick. Tony’s―

Peter forces himself to take a deep breath that comes out more like a choked sob. He sits up dizzily, and is surprised by the light streaming through the windows. His eyes immediately wander to Tony’s still form on the bed, covered by blankets. Peter can make out his slightly ragged breathing, but he’s way past the point where he would feel calmed by this.

Unsteadily, he makes his way over to the bed and sits down on the floor next to it, shivering uncontrollably from the coldness of the tile, but not wanting to wake Tony up. He tries to calm himself, but his heart won’t stop racing. Everything feels kind of surreal and he can’t shake the image of Tony’s body on the ground, so still and lifeless. There are tears burning in his eyes. He shoves his knuckles in his mouth to keep himself from sobbing loudly.

“Kid?” Tony’s groggy voice asks. “What ‘appened?”

“S-Sorry,” Peter manages. “G-Go back to sleep.”

“Hey.” Tony rubs his eyes and tries to push himself up, only partially succeeding. Looking at Peter, his face takes on an alarmed expression. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Peter whispers, feeling infinitely stupid. “J-Just had a nightmare.” He bites his lip, but with the admission, a dam seems to break. He can feel his eyes overflowing.

“Hey, kid, hey,” Tony says softly. “It’s alright.”

Peter just shakes his head, tears dripping down his cheeks onto the floor. Tony extends a trembling hand to wipe them away. “Do these nightmares happen often?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” Peter evades. He wonders why he doesn’t just tell the truth. That there’s rarely a night when he doesn’t go back to the battle against Thanos, or the dust on Titan, or even the Vulture in flames―an enemy that seems ridiculous now compared to the ones they’ve fought since, but sometimes still makes it into Peter’s dreams.

“It’s gotten worse again, hasn’t it?” Tony asks. “Since you moved here.” His hand drops down to Peter’s shoulder and squeezes it lightly.

“‘S okay,” he lies. “I’m fine. Jus’... just the fever.”

“Mmh-hmm, sure. Come here.” Tony nods his head towards himself, weakly lifting an arm, and Peter lets himself get pulled into the hug. “Woah, kid. You’re on fire.”

“Hmm,” Peter mumbles. “You too.”

It’s true; Tony’s body feels even hotter than his. The sweatshirt Peter had given him is already damp with sweat. And, most concerningly, his heart is still beating out of rhythm. It reminds Peter way too much of his dream for him to ignore it.

“You need to have some water,” Tony says, ignorant to Peter’s thoughts. “And eat something. It’s been a while.”

Peter’s queasiness increases at the thought. “Stomach’s not feeling great,” he admits. “How are you doing?” he asks then, into the older man’s chest. “And don’t lie.”

He feels Tony grimacing. “Like a clock someone forgot to wind up.” His remaining arm lets go of Peter as he brings it to his chest to massage the area around his heart. “But hey, don’t worry. I’m gonna try my pills and some water and then I’ll be back on my bullshit before you know it.”

But he isn’t. Half an hour later, Peter has to support Tony to the toilet to once again throw up the medication and the few sips of water he’s just managed to get down. He stops trying to reassure Peter after the second bout of painful dry heaves wrack his body and doesn’t even resist when Peter wipes down his grey face with a wet cloth. On their way back, halfway across the bedroom, they almost lose balance when Tony’s legs suddenly give out. Peter just manages to stabilise him before they can faceplant all the way.

“That’s it. You need to go to the ER,” Peter decides after all-but carrying Tony back to the bed and sitting him down. Peter’s own body feels heavy with exhaustion. Tony weakly shakes his head and opens his mouth to object. “Please, Tony.”

There must have been something in his voice that gave away his desperation because Tony shuts up mid-inhale. He gives Peter a deep look and then nods shakily. ”But only if you eat something first.”

“Okay.” He checks Tony’s temperature, which has climbed even higher, to 103.8. Peter’s own is hardly any better at 103.2, but at least he can still stand―kind of, he realises when he has to sit down to be able to concentrate on his phone screen long enough to call a cab.

The walk to the kitchen feels like it’s a mile long. Peter surveys the meagre food choices and decides that cold pasta with salt looks like the best option. After the first few bites, his queasiness abides a bit and he manages to finish his small plate, suddenly realising how hungry he was. He drinks two glasses of water with it and finally feels a little less lightheaded. Then he goes to the bathroom and, on a whim, swallows a small handful of painkillers from the bottle of Advil Tony has sitting beside his pill box. They will hardly do anything for him, but hopefully they’ll keep him upright until they reach the hospital.

When Peter comes back, he expects Tony to be lying where he left him and is already wondering how he’s going to maneuver him down the stairs from the second floor with the man's balance shot and his own legs feeling like noodles. But Tony is sitting up and in the process of putting on his shoes. His determination, however, falters a bit when it comes to actually standing up.

“Just go slow,” Peter directs, supporting Tony to the door and taking on most of the man’s weight. “One step at a time.”

They make it down the first staircase before Tony holds up a hand. “Just need a minute,” he exhales, sitting down with a sigh and leaning against the wall, his eyelids fluttering shut. His breathing is ragged. Peter looks at him worriedly, the unsteady thump of the man’s heartbeat loud in his ears. Tony, as if feeling the gaze, opens one eye to squint at him. “Not dead yet, kid. Come on, let’s get downstairs.”

Maybe it’s the fact that the painkillers are wearing off faster than expected or that Peter’s anxiety is finally getting the better of him, but the cab ride is kind of a blur. He just remembers Tony sitting with his head tipped back and his eyes closed, looking deathly exhausted, and at some point grabbing the older man’s hand and holding on.

Peter only lets go of it when he has to fill in the forms once they reach the hospital. The ER nurse takes one look at Tony’s scarred face and missing arm and then directs them to a private room. Peter’s hand is shaking so hard that Tony’s name on the form looks like a child’s scrawl. Behind him, his mentor is already being connected to a heart monitor, while another nurse is bringing an IV stand.

He hands the form to the elderly nurse and then has to steady himself against the wall when he stumbles a bit.

Her brow furrows. “Are you alright?” she asks.

“Y-Yes,” Peter answers quickly.

“Bullshit. He’s got the flu too,” Tony mutters from the bed behind them.

“I’m fine,” Peter insists, feeling his heart rate spike. They’ve done a great deal to keep his secret identity, well, secret while he’s at Culver, and he’s not about to let his powers be discovered just because of a flu bug. “Really, I’m okay. Not a big deal.”

“Honey, you can’t be here as a visitor if you’re sick,” the nurse says, her tone kind, but firm. “You’ll risk infecting the other patients.”

Peter looks up, taking a moment to understand the implications. “What? No, please don’t make me go!”

The nurse eyes him critically, then sighs and relents. “If you’re going to stay, you’ll have to be inside this room at all times. I can’t have you walking around spreading germs.”

“That’s okay,” Peter agrees immediately. It’s not like he was planning to walk the halls anyway; his legs feel like they might go on strike any moment. When the nurse turns around to start working on Tony, Peter wobbles over to an uncomfortable chair in the corner and collapses into it.

He feels like the next time he takes an actual breath is once Tony is hooked up to painkillers, antiemetics, and something for his heart, the fluids dripping steadily into his arm through an IV and the heart monitor finally—finally—reverts back to a steady rhythm of beeps. Tony isn’t conscious anymore to notice; after spending the better part of the last 24 hours on Peter’s bathroom floor, his exhaustion has finally gotten the upper hand. He drifts off as soon as the meds start kicking in.

Once the nurses leave, Peter drags his chair over next to the bed. Tony looks—there is no other way to describe it—frail. Like he might fall apart any minute if Peter stops watching. His fever is still much too high at 103.3 and he is sleeping fitfully, as if the dreams are haunting him as well. Peter can still see images from the nightmare in his mind. Not clear, but looming, like he might find himself on the battlefield any time he turns around.

He doesn’t want to fall asleep, but he’s dead tired. Now with the adrenaline fading, it feels like his body weighs a thousand pounds. He suddenly doesn’t even feel able to keep his head up, and instead lets himself slump forward, crossing his arms and resting his head on top. His cold hands are a sharp contrast to his burning face.

His mind feels oddly detached from his body, like he’s floating, and he has no idea how much time has passed when suddenly the nurse shakes him awake from where he’s slidden down onto the edge of Tony’s mattress. “Can you just move for a second, hon?” she asks gently. “I need to hook up some more fluids."

"Oh yeah, sure, of course..." Peter nods groggily and goes to stand up a little too quickly. The moment he is on his feet, he can practically feel the blood rushing away from his head, and a wave of darkness rolls over him. Peter grabs for something to hold on to but comes up empty. He feels himself sway into the nurse, who grabs his shoulders and just about manages to keep him from face planting on the hospital floor.

“You’re really warm, dear,” she observes after helping him sit back down on the chair. "You really can't be here if you're not a patient. Let me call someone to get you a bed."

“But I—” Peter feels panic swelling in his chest. He doesn’t want to leave Tony alone, especially when he can’t be sure that the man’s heart won’t stop again, but he can’t let anyone find out about Spider-Man either―

"Peter, it's fine,” he hears a thin voice. Tony, just woken up, is shifting wearily under the blanket, turning his head towards them. “They'll sign NDAs and no one will know. Just do what she says and get in the bed, alright?"

So Peter does. The nurse calls her colleague, who sets up a bed next to Tony’s and takes Peter’s vitals. After Peter groggily explains that fever reducers won’t do anything to bring down his 103.5 degree temperature, the nurse hooks him up to fluids to counteract the dehydration.

The world goes blurry again and he is half asleep when he sees Tony slip something into the elderly nurse’s hand on her way out the door.

When she’s gone, Peter gives Tony a confused look. “You bribed her to let me stay in the room?”

“What are you talking about?” Tony scoffs lightly. “I just asked nicely and told her you took part in saving the world―that was more than enough.” He shrugs a bit. “And I might’ve signed an autograph for her son.”

Peter would have rolled his eyes if his head wasn’t hurting so much. “Still a bribe,” he mumbles.

“Go to sleep, kid,” Tony says warmly.

He closes his eyes but then opens them again to see Tony watching him. “You’ll be okay, right?” Peter asks.

“Of course,” Tony replies. “I’m always okay.”

When Peter wakes up again in the early evening, it’s to May lightly stroking his curls out of his face. A tension he didn’t even know he was holding seems to fall off his shoulders.

“Hey, baby,” she says softly when he hugs her. “Rough weekend, huh?”

It is decided that neither of them has to spend the night at the hospital―Tony has to fight to be discharged, but they eventually let him go after making him promise to rest, take his medicine, and tell May if his heart acts up again. In turn, Tony collects each of the staff members’ contact details to have his lawyers send NDAs later.

The drive back to the flat is quiet. Tony attempts small talk for the first five minutes, but is still too out of it from the combined force of illness and drugs, and quickly gives up again. Peter is just relieved that May is there.

Once they’re home, May makes both of them eat some toast and then ushers them off to bed. Peter feels like he hasn’t slept since he moved to Virginia, and maybe that’s true in a way. But now with Tony and May both there, he finally feels like it’s safe to let himself go.

He wakes up to May opening the windows to let in the chilly morning air.

“C’n I have some water?” he mumbles.

May hands him the glass. “Your fever has come down a bit overnight. Feeling any better?” she asks.

“Hmm.” He’s still weary and headachey, but the chills are gone and the world seems much less frightening now. “How’s Tony?” he asks.

“Still asleep. We talked a little last night—he didn’t get much rest, I’m afraid. But you should wake him up and tell him it’s time for food and medicine.”

Peter sits up and is rewarded with a lack of dizziness. He goes to the toilet and washes his face before trudging over to the bed and sitting down carefully on the mattress next to his mentor’s sleeping form. Tony’s eyes are moving rapidly behind his closed eyelids as if he’s in the middle of a dream. His hair is a greasy mess, the scars as red and angry as before and his cheeks still flushed with fever, but the rest of his face isn’t as pale as it was the previous day, and, when he listens carefully, Peter can make out his regular heartbeat.

“Tony?” Peter whispers, gently touching his flesh shoulder.

Tony grunts and rolls himself over. “Pep?” he asks in a muffled voice.

“Not exactly.” Tony blinks awake and squints up at Peter. “How are you feeling?”

“Ugh…I want my hospital drugs back,” Tony half-jokes. “But not on the verge of cardiac failure anymore, so that’s a plus.”

“Hmm.” Peter reaches for his hand to check the smart watch. “Your temperature’s down.” Tony’s is at 101.5, whereas Peter’s is at 100.7. Tony gives first the numbers and then Peter a critical once-over before closing his eyes again.

“Don’t go back to sleep,” Peter warns. “May said you need to take your medicine and eat something.”

Tony groans audibly. “Nurses never let you have any fun...”

The first time they met, Peter wasn’t sure what to make of Tony Stark.

Times have changed, Peter thinks, as he surveys the scene in his apartment.

After a painfully slow shuffle to the bathroom and back, Tony decides that he doesn’t feel up to walking around just yet, so they all eat breakfast in bed, assembled on various pillows and blankets, while Star Trek plays on the TV in the background. With his appetite returning and worries temporarily lifted, Peter devours two pieces of toast with chocolate spread and a glass of orange juice while Tony sticks to saltines, tea, and the pills he swallows under May’s watchful eye.

When they’re done, May announces that she’s heading out for groceries. “No crime-fighting until I’m back,” she orders with a smile. “And I want each of you to finish the water bottles on the table.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Tony salutes sarcastically. The moment May shuts the door, he sets down his half-finished cup of tea and slumps visibly into his pillows.

“You alright?” Peter asks immediately.

“Jeez, kid, you’re worse than Morgan,” Tony comments, not without affection. “I know last night was scary for you, but honestly, this is not even in my top 20 for life-threatening events I’ve experienced in the last few decades.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Peter retorts. “Because it really doesn’t.”

He must have come across less playful than intended, because Tony’s expression sobers. He regards Peter with the deep look that always gives him the feeling of being x-rayed.

“I know,” Tony says. “But that’s kind of the point. I’ve been through so much shit in my life that I know pretty much exactly how you feel.”

He drags himself a bit more upright and lays a warm hand on Peter’s forearm. “I know how it is when your thoughts circle back to the same moment over and over again and the nightmares won’t let you rest. I know how easy it is to isolate yourself because the memories are eating you up and you feel like nobody can help you.”

He pauses for a moment and rubs a hand over his forehead. Peter remembers the darkness on Tony’s face the first time they met and wonders whether that’s what Tony sees on his now.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Tony continues, “you don’t have to pretend to be fine if you’re not. At least not in front of me or May.”

The irony of it almost makes Peter smile, despite the lump forming in his throat. Tony just spent the last 36 hours trying to downplay the pain he was in. “You are one to talk,” he remarks.

Tony chuckles quietly. “Still learning, kid.” He picks up his tea cup and takes another sip before continuing in a softer voice. “Just trust me, it‘s okay to be a little broken, even when you’re not sick. And you don’t have to hide it. I know what loneliness looks like. I’ve been through all of it and it took me years to understand that the only thing that can help is to let other people in―the right kind of people.”

The thoughts are running a marathon in Peter’s head and he’s dimly aware that he’s trembling. He swallows hard before speaking. “It’s just… sometimes I don’t even want to remember. It’s just so hard to start talking. About”―he takes a deep breath―“the battle. And the dreams. And everything else.”

“Yeah, it is. I never said it would be easy.” Tony seems to hesitate for a moment, but then he pulls Peter toward him one-handedly so that they can lie side by side. He covers both of them with his blanket. Peter turns his head into Tony’s shoulder and closes his eyes, taking deep breaths. “And we don’t have to start today. But I’ll be there whenever you’re ready.”

________________

If you liked this, you might also enjoy my other post-Endgame fic (in which Tony is obviously still alive): What We Lose in the Fire We Gain in the Flood

All my fics

Taglist: @toomuchtoread33 @yepokokfine

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likecastle · 4 years

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Witcher Noir AU, pt 16

More Witcher noir AU! Previous parts here. The song Jaskier is singing here is this, and if you haven’t had the pleasure of watching a Busby Berkeley number before, you should do yourself a favor and check it out.

CW for discussion of suicidal ideation (not graphic, not acute), and self-destructive behavior.

When the doctor has come and gone, Yennefer appears in the open doorway with a pile of clean clothes in her arms. Jaskier, who sat through the doctor’s examination in nervous silence, now springs to his feet as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“These should just about fit you,” Yennefer says, setting the pile of clothes on top of the dresser. “What’s the prognosis?”

“You’re not rid of me yet.” Yennefer arches an eyebrow, evidently waiting for a more comprehensive answer. “Just a few bumps and bruises.”

“He forgot to mention the possible concussion,” Jaskier cuts in.

“I don’t have a concussion,” Geralt snaps.

“You don’t know that!” Jaskier’s voice is tense, bordering on panicked. “You’re not a medical expert.”

“I’m an expert at getting the shit kicked out of me,” Geralt says. “I’m fine.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Oh, all right, I’ll just take your word for it, then, and ignore the advice of that very respectable looking doctor who just examined you. He had a beard and little glasses, so he’s clearly much cleverer than you are. To say nothing of the fact that Yennefer probably paid a small fortune for his services. But I suppose you don’t care about wasting her money, because you know better than everyone else, don’t you?”

Yennefer glances between the two of them, looking perversely amused in a way that makes Geralt want to leave his body immediately.

He settles for glaring at them both. “Jaskier, would you go get me a drink?”

“Even if I knew where to find the bar in this place, I’m not going to let you drink when you have a—”

“Go get yourself one, then,” Geralt says, at the same time as Yennefer says, “First room to the right as you come down the stairs.”

Jaskier’s smart enough to see he’s being dismissed, but he obviously isn’t happy about it. He hovers for a moment longer, his fingers flexing nervously, before he marches out of the room with as much dignity as he can muster.

“He seems very . . . loyal,” Yennefer says, her tone deceptively mild.

Geralt tries to find some way to explain how the circumstances of the past few days have conspired to bring the two of them together, but he can’t find any words that convey something greater than the sum of its parts. Two days ago, Jaskier was just a witness Geralt needed to question, and now—well, he’s not really sure what to call this thing between them, but it’s more than he could have ever anticipated. All he can offer is, “It’s been an odd couple of days.”

Despite Geralt’s evasion, the look Yennefer gives him is knowing. “Does he care about you enough to stop you from sacrificing yourself?”

Geralt lets out a frustrated growl. “I’m not—”

“Aren’t you?” Yennefer interrupts. Her smile is more of a sneer. “I saw how you were treating your injuries on your own, Geralt. I suppose intentionally running headlong into danger to save Cirilla is preferable to drinking yourself to death, but I won’t watch you kill yourself out of sheer bloody-minded stubbornness.”

“Would you stop calling it that?” he snaps.

“What would you call it, then? Because it certainly looks to me like you don’t care whether you live or die.”

“It’s not . . .” Geralt breathes out a sharp breath, longing to look anywhere but at Yennefer, but she won’t let him off the hook even if he did. “If I can’t do this—if I can’t help her now, when she really needs me—then what good am I? What’s the point of any of it, if she’s not—” But he can’t go on, can’t even entertain the possibility of failing Cirilla again. He doesn’t know if he’d survive it. He doesn’t think he’d want to.

Yennefer’s expression softens, marginally. “You always were an idiot,” she says, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him. “Cirilla needs you, that’s true enough. But she doesn’t just need you right now.” Her hand comes to rest on Geralt’s thigh, her weight barely even a pressure as she leans forward to look him in the eye. Her violet eyes are brighter than he remembered, clear like stained glass and just as cutting. “She’s going to be needing you for a long time to come, so you can’t burn yourself out in the here-and-now. You’ve got to be playing the long game, from now on—for her.”

“Yen, I . . .” Geralt doesn’t know how to tell her how badly that prospect terrifies him—how he can’t convince himself that’s something he’s even capable of, let along figure out how to do it. And isn’t that the hell of this whole mess? Can’t live with himself if he fails, can’t see how he’ll ever manage to succeed. Instead of trying to tell her, he leans forward and kisses her, the springtime scent of her perfume a reminder of a time when he thought he knew what he was for. She melts against him for a moment, before her hand comes up and she pushes him away.

“Don’t do that,” she says, and there’s a note of regret in her voice that makes him ache. The hand on his chest pushes him further from her, until he’s lying back against the pillows. “You need to rest. One day. Tomorrow, I’ll let you go and you can pursue whatever hare-brained scheme you’re cooking up to find Cirilla.”

Just then, Jaskier returns, and it’s Geralt’s turn to freeze up like a kid caught misbehaving. Jaskier, however, just holds up two glasses and a bottle of whiskey and says, blithely, “He hasn’t shared the particulars of his plan with me yet, but I can almost guarantee it’s exceedingly reckless.”

Yennefer glances over at Geralt as Jaskier pours out the golden liquor into one of the glasses for her. “You do know Geralt, then.”

Geralt finds he wants Jaskier to look at him in that moment, but Jaskier’s gaze is fixed on his own glass as he says, “I think I’m starting to.”

“Well, if your plans are as foolhardy as Jaskier seems to think, that’s all the more reason for you to rest today.” Yennefer downs her drink in one swallow and Geralt’s throat burns in envy. She sets the glass down on the nightstand and turns to Jaskier. “You’ll watch over him tonight?”

Jaskier nods, still not looking up at them. This more subdued side of Jaskier troubles Geralt, and yet he doesn’t dare ask what the matter is.

“In that case, I’m turning in for the night.” She stands, smoothing down her skirt, though it falls flawlessly around her hips. “You two can make your plans for Cirilla’s safe rescue without me. But you know that if there’s anything I can do—”

“I know,” Geralt assures her. “I will.”

Yennefer nods and leaves them, shutting the door behind her. The silence that remains seems to fill every corner of the room. Jaskier sits back down in the same chair from which he watched Geralt’s examination—as if he wants to be at a safe remove.

After a while, Jaskier takes a fortifying sip of whiskey and says, “Well, you may be a terrible patient, but you’d better believe I’ll be an even worse nursemaid.” He flashes Geralt a wicked little smile that’s only a shadow of his usual grin.

“Will you sit with me, at least?” Geralt asks.

“I shouldn’t,” Jaskier says, in a tone that says he would very much like to. “You need to rest, Geralt.”

“There’s plenty of room.”

Jaskier considers him seriously for a moment, but can’t seem to resist the invitation. “You’ll shove me off if I jostle you too much?”

Geralt absolutely will not. “Hmm,” he says, and Jaskier must take this for agreement, because he toes off his shoes and climbs onto the other side of the bed. He stretches out on top of the coverlet, which is disappointing, because Geralt thinks he’d rather like to lie tangled up in Jaskier’s limbs again.

“So, should I sing you a lullaby, or something?”

Geralt is pretty sure Jaskier’s kidding, but it doesn’t seem wise to encourage him. Besides, he’s hardly going to need any help getting to sleep. With Jaskier’s warm weight beside him, he can feel the tension beginning to seep out of him, and sleep closes around him with surprising ease. The last thing he’s aware of as he drifts off is Jaskier humming quietly, a dreamy rendition of an insipid number from one of those musical extravaganza pictures from a few years back—which is, Geralt realizes with a drowsy smile, technically a lullaby.

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lillaskiten · 4 years

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Ok so fantasy high is definitely a new obsession because i even wrote fanfic about it. First time posting any of my writing so like, be gentle. anyway this happened because i think The Ball is a stupid nickname but the potential for drama is delicious. Also fabriz is good. The “The Ball” Thing Summary: Riz stands up for himself after it’s all over. Not everyone is thrilled. Important conversations get interjected with important shenanigans.

Despite everything, The Bad Kids were in good spirits when they stepped out of Principal Agueforts office. It had been a harrowing spring break. Between evil shadow clones, demons and beings of pure nightmare it was sure to leave its mark. Jawbone really had his work cut out for him. Adaine still wasn’t over dying for the first time. Fig also died for the first time. She’s good though.

But now they were back in Elmville, heroes once again despite multiple murders, thefts and property damages. It’s familiar and invigorating.

Gorgug took Zelda on a date as soon as they got back. It wasn’t gonna heal over night, but they were working it out. Fig planned an actual vacation for her and Gilear who, gods know how, actually made it back. Adaine, Kristen and Tracker held a celebratory welcome home party at Mordred manor to actually try to get acquainted with their new home. Riz and Fabian immediately met up with their respective mothers to barrage them with the tales of their adventure.

It was good. They were home.

Walking out of the school they couldn’t help but notice Riz walking especially upright. He smiled like he did when on the verge of a breakthrough. Stepping out into the school parking lot he stopped them with certainty that was almost certainly unfounded.

“I would like all of you to follow me to my office,” he said with a glint in his eyes.

“Uh, sure... Why?” Adaine was first to question.

“Please just come along, I happen to have an announcement!” the triumph in his voice was unmistakable.

“That you can’t tell us in the parking lot?” Kristen said.

“Of course not!” though everyone could see how he barely held whatever it was in. “It needs to be official.”

Well, it was Riz. Whatever it was it was probably important. They all shrugged and followed him down to the old office building. Wondering quietly, and in Fabian and Fig’s case; very loudly, what this announcement was about.

The office was cleaned and rearranged from the scuffle at the beginning of their adventure. The four who had been subjected to said scuffle walked in carefully. Fabian especially. He shuddered just thinking about nightmare-Riz.

Boggy croaked happily and Fabian felt a little better.

Real-life-Riz must’ve come here as soon as they got back. The space was impeccably clean and so clearly lived in at the same time. It looked like an IKEA display room for deranged detectives. The conspiracy board already had a new case starting to form on it and beside an old coffee cup on the desk lay the Nightmare King file, now with a big red CLOSED scribbled on top.

The Bad Kids tumbled in and filled the space in both spirit and person. At Riz’s indication they all got situated on the floor, each seemingly trying to out-weird the others in their sitting position. Well, Adaine sat prim and proper with boggy in her lap, silently confused over her friends antics. Riz stood, king of his castle, behind the desk. He filled them each a cup of black sludge that was almost coffee. Everyone but Kristen pulled a face when handed their cup.

“The Ball, will this put hair on my chest or make it fall out?” Fabian grimaced.

“Uhh, Both?” Riz waved him off. “But! That does bring me to my announcement…”

Everyone leaned forward in mild anticipation. Was it a new case? Whatever was happening on the conspiracy board? Was he and Sklonda moving? Was he an honorary detective? Was his father actually alive and in hiding and now needed their help on his most dangerous mission yet? (That last one was Figs suggestion.)

“I…” He took a deep breath.

“Wait is he like… coming out?” Kristen whispered to Adaine.

“Didn’t he already? And you think every announcement is someone coming out!” Adaine whispered back.

“Well, she’s right like 50% of the time you know?” Fig squeezed in and plopped a piece of popcorn in her mouth. at least it wasn’t a clove.

Riz paused.

“Did you bring snacks to my heartfelt moment of vulnerability?”

“Oh shit it’s gonna be heartfelt?” Fig exclaimed. “Dang, we are seriously unprepared.”

She quickly conjured a bowl of popcorn for the whole room. They descended on it like a pack of wolves.

After Adaine had broken up the coming fight and divvied the popcorn so that everyone got exactly as many as they wanted in comparison to the others (with any excess given to Boggy) Riz stood there with popcorn in his hand and a little less triumph in his voice.

“So what I was trying to say was…” He paused and looked around the room for any possible interjection. Fig looked like she still had something on her mind but a look shot her down. He coughed and tried to regain that triumphant feeling he’d been carrying all day.

This was his moment. Time to bring his character development to a head!

Boggy croaked happily. Yes, he could absolutely do this!

“I hereby relinquish my status as The Ball,” He said with grandeur, looking each of his friends in the eyes (or eye in Fabians case). “I formerly ask you all to stop calling me by that name.”

“Of course,” Gorgug and Kristen said in unison.

“That’s it?” Adaine said.

“Oh I never really liked The Ball either,” Fig said, chewing popcorn.

“WHAT?” Fabian was aghast. He had stood up and slammed his hands on the desk. “But. You. Are. The Ball.”

“Yeah well I never actually liked that nickname,” Riz said. He looked at the others behind Fabian. “I thought now, with all we’ve been through, I could tell you and still keep you as friends.”

“Of course you’re still our friend, you really thought something like that could get rid of us?” Adaine smiled softly like only she does. “It’s a stupid name anyway, the only one who actually cares is Fabian and maybe Ragh.”

“We should tell Ragh right?” Gorgug said, already on his chrystal. “I’m gonna tell Ragh.”

“Hey shh! I think we’re getting to the good part!” Fig elbowed him, pointing out Fabians red face. Then she shoved a fistful of popcorn into her mouth.

It seemed that Fig was conjuring more and more popcorn for every passing second.

Fabian was sputtering before he finally got the words out:

“But… but it’s our thing! We’re Fabian Aramais Seacaster, son of Bill Seacaster and captain of the bloodrush team, and The Ball!” he gestured wildly at himelf, then at Riz, then himself again. “What? Is the captain of the bloodrush team supposed to be best friends with some… just… not The Ball?”

The rest of the Bad Kids had quieted down, all impressed at Riz for actually hearing Fabian call him his best friend without crying. It was the fifteenth time by the way. Not that they kept count.

“Can’t our thing just be that we’re... Riz and Fabian?” Riz answered. Mostly weirded out by this harsh response.

“NO!”

“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

“Because… well…” Fabians mouth tried desperately to form any words to his own liking.

“What?”

And Fabian did something the others had barely ever seen before. He was quiet and thought out his next words.

For a while no one said a thing.

“Hey Fabian did Riz tell you he’s gay?” Kristen interjected into the silence.

“What?” (Fabian)

“WHAT!?” (Riz)

Riz threw daggers at her. Like a literal dagger. It struck the floorboards just short of her.

Boggy croaked happily and her heartrate lowered.

Adaine turned and elbowed her.

“What did we say about outing people for drama, Kristen?” she hissed.

“Even though it is fun it’s still very uncool,” she sighed. “But you know, this is a safe space. And like, I have a plan.”

Adaine rolled her eyes and held Boggy closer. Kristen was lovely but sometimes her impulsiveness really got the better of her. By the desk Fabian was staring at Riz, then back at Kristen, then back at Riz.

“You told Kristen but not me?” he looked actually, genuinely hurt. Which for Fabian still looked a tad like an overreaction.

He could see Riz look away. Everyone else turned awkwardly and drank their almost-coffee. The only one who seemed somewhat comfortable was Gorgug.

“Oh, uh… He told all of us actually,” Gorgug said, thinking he helped clarify the situation.

Four sets of eyes turned to glare at him with various levels of “stop talking.”

“Oh don’t you remember?” he pointed at Kristen. “You me and Adaine were talking about Asexuality, and then Fig came in and you” he pointed at Riz, whose ears were turning red under the green skin, “told us, just super casually, that you were gay and then told us to… to not… tell… uh… uh…… Traacker?” He realized his mistake too late.

Everyone looked at Fabian in horror.

“While I don’t really get why you wouldn’t want Tracker to know,” Thankfully Fabian was still thick when it counted. “I’m still hurt you didn’t tell me, I’m your Best Friend!”

“Well to be completely fair” Riz said. “I told Ragh before I told anyone here.”

Fabian looked almost as wounded as Kristen.

“He is actually very sensitive.”

Fabian looked around the room. A place of traitors. Even Ragh was a traitor and he wasn’t even here. He didn’t feel so bad about not wanting to stop calling The Ball “The Ball” though. That was nothing important compared to this revelation.

“I’m sensitive, The Ball…” Fabian smiled. “I’m the most sensitive.”

“Ok…” Riz fixed him with a glare. “Then be sensitive to my feelings and call me Riz! It’s not that hard, you’ve done it before.”

“Well, not intentionally! And… just… you know what!” He turned dramatically. “Kristen, WHY did you decide to out my Best Friend in the middle of this, frankly inconsequential, conversation?”

Kristen almost choked on the coffee.

“Mm… You see it’s all part of my Master Plan!” She had a smug smile plastered on her face. “Our adventure is done, over, and through it, all of us have sort of grown and had revelations and just MAJOR character development. Just look at Riz! He realized he was gay and got comfortable enough to stop chasing our approval all the time…”

“I didn’t chase after your app-“

“You did.” Kristen said matter of factly. “Now he’s finally decided he’s not The Ball, he’s an adult! A man! and it’s not just him. I’m secure in Yes? now, Adaine is stepping into her role as the elven oracle and like everyone has had a sexuality and gender chat with me except you. And I want to have one really bad because I think there’s a lot that might be going on here.”

Fig paused her popcorn massacre to play the bassline for Fig and the Sig Figs newest hit “F*ck The Man And Also Being A Man Or A Woman”. It was massively popular.

“And with you…” Kristen hesitated. “Well basically you just got rejected by Aelwynn and after that got progressively sadder?”

“Wait, so your master plan is to get Fabian to talk about his feelings?” Adaine raised an eyebrow.

Kristen shrugged.

“OK!” Fabian decided to put a stop to this. “Why is THAT something we’re working through? Right. Now?”

“Because I am so sure it has something to do with the The Ball thing,” Kristen said, looking a little too excited.

“Ok, oookay,” Fabian said again. “There is no ‘ The Ball thing’.”

Which made everyone around murmur that Yes, there was clearly a “The Ball thing” and it was very weird. Fabian looked around for any ally in the room.

Boggy croaked happily.

“Why do you insist on calling me The Ball, Fabian?” Riz was done playing games. He stared down Fabian who almost shrunk under the force of it.

Fig shoved in another fistful of popcorn.

“Well maybe…” Fabian said, mentally unhinging his jaw to let it say whatever it was going to say. “Maybe it’s true that it’s our thing! And maybe I like that, and thought you liked it too. Maybe it represents our friendship? Maybe it feels like you’re taking away our whole dynamic, you know? Maybe… Maybe I can’t handle Riz?... Maybe Riz is just too close?”

Riz stood dumfounded. Everyone else shoved more popcorn in their mouths.

“Maybe I love you Riz!” He concluded, like he just figured it out himself. “Maybe I’m in love with you, maybe that’s it.”

There was a painful few seconds when Riz just stood quiet. Fabian stood still. A man who was unarmed and naked against a man with every knife sharper than his last.

Then Riz leaned in and kissed him. A quick peck on the lips while their audience erupted into giggles and celebratory shouts.

“Fabian,” Riz looked into his eyes and laughed. “I cry when you call me your best friend. Of course I’m in love with you! I’ve had a weird, sad crush on you since freshman year!”

“I can’t believe not one of the Bad Kids is cishet!” Kristen laughed. Then she shouted: “IS THIS WHAT TRUE BELONGING FEELS LIKE?”

Boggy croaked happily.

Adaine patted Riz on the back while Gorgug quietly started giving Fabian tips for their first date (which, of course, everyone else was going to hijack). Fig was already writing up lyrics for a song about them. Was “The Pirates Ball” a good title? She’d have to workshop it. Kristen felt like it was only right to commemorate this LGBT miracle by once again kissing every other Bad Kid on the mouth.

“Ok that’s it! Out! Everyone out!” Fabian started shoving the rest of them towards the door. Kristen first.

“Hey what gives this is great news!” Fig protested. “Also I’m gonna need the whole story of pining and realization and stuff to make this song really POP!”

“Nope, you’re going out!” He dragged her out by the bass.

“But whyyyy?” Fig groaned while holding on to the doorframe.

Fabian smiled like he hadn’t in weeks.

“I’m gonna get my kisses in.”

#been debating whether or not to put this up for two weeks so here it is #fantasy high #fabriz #fantasy high fic #that's it those are the tags #also idfk how people format the fics they post so this is what is looks like!

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