#verb tense | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mediumgayitalian · 2 months

Text

previous chapter

———

The sunlight disorients him.

Usually, he wakes to a blaring alarm. If he has no alarm set, nothing planned for the day, he wakes when he cannot physically stand the taste of his own breath anymore, stumbling out of bed and ambling like a zombie for the nearest toothbrush. (On rare, rare occasions, he wakes to humming – low, drawling, lilting, floating around his darkened room, brightening it. He dreams about those mornings.)

He cannot remember the last time he woke to gentle sun.

Stretching, he takes a minute to catalogue the space as he wakes up, noticing the light curtains over wide windows, small TV tucked in between two double beds, and a desk, larger than he would have expected, taking up the far right corner.

Will is nowhere to be found.

“Jogging, mebbe,” Nico mumbles to himself; tiny, forgotten accent slipping out before he can stop it. Gingerly, he peels off the blankets and pads to the bathroom. Will’s blue-capped toothbrush sits next to the sink, quelling Nico’s ridiculous anxiety that Will, actually, has never been here at all, and Nico dreamed this whole thing up. He smiles slightly at the dorky stickers plastered all over the handle, colour mostly worn away, and the watch forgotten next to the soap dispenser.

He hears a heavy door open and shut, pausing to make out quiet footsteps over the running water. Quickly rinsing the suds off his face, he towels off and steps back out into the hotel room, watching his friend.

Will has his back turned, hunched over the desk. He wears a hoodie, blue with big white clouds all over it – his favourite – and, of course, horrible cargo shorts. Nico counts seven pockets, and that’s just what he can see from the back. There is a book shoved in two of them, keys hanging out of a third, and an apple bulging from the pocket near his hip.

“Morning.”

Will jumps, whirling around.

“You scared the shit outta me!”

“Sorry,” Nico says, not sorry. He’s grinning. “Were you out for a run?”

“I was out for a run hours ago, yes. It’s, like, ten-thirty, dude. You’ve been sleeping for eight hundred years.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” They’ve had this argument more times than he can physically count, he refuses to have it again when he doesn’t have the upper hand. He’ll bring it up again when Will’s sleepy again at nine o’clock. “Where were you?”

Will steps to the side, revealing three separate heaping plates of food on the desk, piled high with eggs, toast, a muffin, bacon, and, of course, an entire plate devoted to fruit. Nico descends upon it like a swarm of seagulls upon a terrorized child’s ice cream cone – with fury, insatiable hunger, and endless hubris. He makes sure to ignore the fruit.

Five minutes later, he’s satiated enough to turn a percentage of his attention away from the food. He spins the desk chair halfway to face Will, instead, curled up on the bed with one knee pulled to his chest, watching him fondly.

“How many times did you almost drop this on the way up?” he asks around a mouthful of bacon.

Will’s smile drops, eyes narrowing. “Shut up.”

“Four floors, and there’s a good chance you took the stairs to keep the elevators for ‘someone who needs them more’, so –”

“I hate you.”

“– I’m guessing one time per flight of stairs? Oh, wait, there are three plates, definitely more –”

“I’m never doing anything nice for you ever again.”

“– and you have a new band-aid on your knee, so you definitely tripped and dropped it at least once.” He pops the last of the bacon in his mouth, smiling wickedly. “Twice? Three times? If you don’t tell me I’m going to assume six and move on.”

Will’s glare intensifies. He mumbles something.

“Hm?”

He mumbles again. Nico doesn’t even pretend not to be delighted. He knows the smile on his face is wide enough to make him look deranged, he simply doesn’t care. Opportunities to press Will’s buttons this beautiful do not show up every day. He must treasure them.

“Didn’t catch that.”

“Hadtogoback.”

“Gonna have to speak up, bud.”

“I had to go back!” Will explodes, hands thrown in the air. “I fuckin’ – I dropped the stupid plates, the first time, so I had to fuckin’ – clean it up and – two stupid trips, you jerk, you better appreciate this –”

Nico almost bites through his lip. “You dropped it?”

“I didn’t mean to!” Will says defensively. “I was concentrating really hard but –”

Nico loses it.

“– my shoe got caught on the last step and I didn’t have any hands to catch myself.” He scowls. “Three people saw.”

He can’t breathe. There are genuine, actual tears streaming down his face, burn in his eyes almost as bad as the burn in his lungs, the ache in his belly. He wraps his shaking arms around himself in an attempt to hold himself together, laughing so hard he feels like his muscles might actually rip themselves off his bones. Every time he tries to calm down, he pictures Will, in his dorky flip-flops, egg in his hair, half a muffin crushed on his cheek, bright red, sprawled on the ground, food everywhere. If he could think of literally anything else, he’d be worried about his heart straight-up failing.

“I hate you. Actually.”

“I’m – oh my God,” he wheezes. He manages, finally, to get an actual breath in, desperately trying to think of literally anything else to calm down. Fucking – bumper to bumper traffic. Bedbugs. His father’s frowning face. That always works. “Holy shit, Will.”

“I should’ve just woken your ungrateful ass up.”

“Probably.” He flicks a grape at him, smiling. Will catches it in his mouth, rolling his eyes but smiling back. “Glad you didn’t.”

“Whatever.”

Nico finishes the rest of his breakfast in relative peace, managing to turn away if his mouth threatens to betray the tentative truce they’ve negotiated. He even eats one entire peach when Will starts pelting him with tiny hotel soap bottles and listing side effects of cholesterol-induced heart disease.

The second he finishes the last bite, Will orders him to clear off the desk. Nico mutters about bossiness and how Will is most definitely not in charge of him, doing as he asks. When he comes back – took him a hot second to shove the paper plates into a small enough ball to fit in the garbage can – Will has dragged the desk over to the bed, sitting criss-cross next to it, examining one of the many papers he has covering it.

“So,” he says, gesturing next to him. Nico dutifully sits, peering at the various maps and markings. “We gotta plan part two.”

“Didn’t we already do this?” Nico asks. “Back at Dunkin’s?”

“Not this far. I wanted to Preserve the Spontaneous Road Trip Spirit.” Nico can hear the capitalization.

“So, planning, then.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Nico smiles. “Brief me, captain.”

Will jumps right in, pointing and gesturing and every once and a while catching Nico’s eye to ask, right? Sound good?

Nico just watches him.

The midday sun shines directly in his face, catching and reflecting on his pale eyelashes, making his eyes go squinty. His excitement is obvious, in his chattering, his waving hands, his bouncing curls; every part of him moving. Even his stupid cargo shorts look endearing, every other pocket bulging, filled absentmindedly with slips of paper or pens or bandaids or granola bars. Nico watches him and feels he might burst.

“You’re not listening,” Will accuses.

Nico jumps back into focus. “Yes I am.”

“What’d I just say?”

“‘You’re not listening’.”

WIll cracks a smile. “You’re not funny.”

“Run over that again,” Nico answers, and grins devilishly when Will does. Not funny his ass.

He listens, though, through Will’s second explanation. It’s not too hard – Will’s always been organised. The wide penciled circle around their location in Atlanta, outlining the area they can drive before their next fuel stop, is pretty wide. But the options are limited, in Nico’s opinion – while he’s sure there is indeed something to do in South Carolina, there’s nothing to do for him, specifically. He’s cool with skipping it.

“There is one place we can go,” Will says. His voice has gone oddly quiet, and after at minute he glances over at Nico, like he’s waiting for his permission.

“Your road trip, dude,” he murmurs, nudging their shoulders together. “I’ll even go to South Carolina if you want to, but no promises that I won’t complain about it.”

That, thankfully, draws a huff out of him, some of the tenseness fading from his frame.

“South Carolina is beautiful, you know.”

“Says the boy who is currently visiting his third state ever.”

“...Touché.” He taps his pencil on the map, pink eraser thunking somewhere in the Bermuda triangle. “I was thinking – we could try Nashville? Music Row, or Broadway?”

Nico groans. “Oh, of course you wanna go hang out with all the goddamn hillbillies, you fuckin’ country boy –”

“It’s good music!”

Nico groans louder. Secretly, though, he watches his friend out of the corner of his eye, watches as his shoulders slump, relieved, and he knows he’ll spend as long as he needs in lasso-slingin’ Tennessee, following Will in and out of – barns and ranches and cowboy boot shops, probably. Are saloons still a thing?

He has a feeling that there is more to Will’s hesitance than a fear about being judged for his Marty Robbins obsession. If Tennessee is where he’s gonna get answers – well. He’ll brave the goddamn sea of cowboy hats.

A knock at the door startles them both. A voice calls hesitantly through the door: “Mr. di Angelo?”

“Wrong door, probably,” Will whispers after a moment. He looks to Nico. “Right?”

There’s another knock. “Mr. di Angelo?”

“Yeah.” Nico rolls of the bed, landing on the floor with a grunt. “Another room with a Mr. di Angelo.”

He creeps towards the door, keeping low as if whoever’s outside can see him. After a moment, the bed creaks, and Will’s quiet footsteps pad behind him.

“You think it’s room service?” Will whispers, plastered to the opposite side of the door. Even ducking, his hair brushes the edge of the peephole.

Nico shoves his head down, pinching him when he squawks. “Be quiet, tall person, I need to see.”

“Get a stepstool then, jerk! Stop using my neck as a lever!”

“What part of be quiet are you missing! God!”

“Mr. di Angelo, please open the door.”

The voice on the other side of the door sounds amused. Face flaming, Nico shoves Will somewhere behind him, still bitching, and swings open the door.

“Good afternoon,” says the man in the hallway. He’s dressed very smartly in a tailored black suit, nametag reading Eric. “Are you Mr. di Angelo?”

Nico clears his throat, trying to stand taller. “That’s me.”

“Good. I’m with Hotel Administration. We received a fax for you this morning?” He hands Nico a manilla folder. “First page says confidential, so we put it in the envelope. We tried to call this morning but didn’t get any response.”

Vaguely, Nico remembers a ringing phone. He also remembers yanking the plug out of the wall in sleep-deprived rage.

Oops.

Ignoring Will’s snickering, Nico thanks the man, closing the door and sitting on the nearest bed. Will scooches over to make room for him, tossing and catching a pillow. Nico leans back against the headboard, crossing his leg over Will’s.

“What’s in the envelope?”

“Checking now.”

The envelope is the cheap kind you get in a box of fifty; speckled brown, thin, machine-cut. It’s not sealed and so Nico flips it open easily, sliding out a small stack of papers. The first is a huge CONFIDENTIAL, printed diagonally across otherwise blank paper. The second is a bank statement.

Nico shoots upright.

“What? Nico, what’s –”

“Mr. di Angelo, we regret to lose your business,’” Nico recites in a shaking voice, “‘but appreciate your time with us and wish you all the best with your future banking.’”

Frantically, he scans the document again. Successful cancellation. Expedited closure date. Transferred affairs to –

– parent account.

“–co? Nico? Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

The air pushes out of Nico’s lungs like a crushed balloon. “Fuck.”

“Nico.” Warm hands press on his bloodless cheeks, fingers sliding in his hair. “Nico, look at me.”

He gasps. Will squeezes gently, eyes dark and stern and kind, thumbs callus-rough and dragging across his cheekbones.

“Good. Again. There you go, you got it.”

Nico grabs his wrists when he tries to pull away. Will takes the hint, sliding his hands under Nico’s free one and knocking their shoulders together.

“What’s wrong, Nico?”

Instead of answering, Nico sets the papers on the bed between them. Will squints, and for a second Nico prays that he’s wrong, that he’s mixed up the words. That it doesn’t say what it knows it does.

Then Will inhales, quick and sharp, and the hope is dashed.

“Your card…”

“Next page,” Nico says softly.

Niccolò,

The papers rustle as Will flips them, and this one he takes much longer to read.

Vorrei sapere che ho fermato un caso di frode alla radice.

After a minute, he holds it out, shaking his head.

Un criminale ha rubato la tua carta di credito, e l’ha usata per comprare una stanza d’albergo in Georgia. Qualche spacciatore, non ci sono dubbi.

“It’s a little formal, I can’t –”

Ho disattivato la carta, naturalmente. Ti darò quella nuova appena ti vedrò.

Nico takes the scanned letter. Vaguely, he registers Will’s hands brushing up his arms as they move two wrap around his face again, this time forcing his jaw to unclench.

“Power play,” Nico snarls. His clenched fingers wrinkle the pulpy paper. “He knows exactly where I am. If he wanted to drag me home, he could drag me by the fucking –”

“But instead he’s forcing you to call him,” Will says softly. “Oh, Nico, I’m so sorry.”

The hands drop from his face again. It knocks the cloudiness right out of Nico’s head, and he snaps up, frowning at Will’s crooking fingers, the bitten lips. He won’t meet Nico’s eyes.

“Why are you sorry my father’s being a haughty jackass who suddenly cares what I do with my time?”

“And his money.” Will picks up the bank statement, reading over it again, and again, like it might change. Like Nico’s credit card will magically become un-cancelled, like they will suddenly become un-stranded. “This whole stupid thing is my fault. I never should have dragged you into it, Neeks, I’m so –”

“If you apologise again I’m going to push you off the bed.”

“– sorry.”

“Will.” Nico snatches back the statement, shaking his head. He waits until blue eyes meet his then smiles, as reassuringly as he can with such a pit in his stomach. “My father is –” He sighs. “It’s not about the money. You know he doesn’t care about the money.”

Will shrugs. It’s true – Nico has made dumber purchases. When he was twelve, he bought a trampoline, just to see if his father would say anything. Fifteen, marble statue. Sixteen, a car.

Then he stopped trying.

“How far can we go, on the gas we have? How many miles?”

Will shrugs. “Three and a half hours? Four, if we push it?”

“And on a full tank of gas?”

“Almost six.”

“And then we’re stuck.”

“And then we’re stuck, yeah. Unless you got Greyhound money hidden somewhere.”

Nico sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s what he wants, Will. He doesn’t care about the – about the stupid money. He wants me. He wants me to ask, rather, to pick up a phone and beg him to come get us ‘cause we have no other options. He wants me to admit I need his help.”

The first time he ran away, he’d had to avoid every cop car. He knew he was being looked for, he saw his own face plastered on news screens. It had only been a matter of time. The second attempt was – easier. Much easier. He’d hardly even had to hide his face. By the third time, he’d waited a week, waited almost a month, before he was cold and hungry and walked to the nearest social services building himself. The car ride home, the humiliation so potent he could taste the bitterness of it, had made the cold, rainy nights with nothing but the same ratty hoodie he’d worn when he left worth it. He swore he’d never subject himself to that again.

And yet here he is.

Out of options.

“You know what? No.” In a swift, unstoppable movement, Will snatches the stack of papers, ripping them into four pieces faster than Nico can reach an arm out to stop him. “We’re not doing this.”

“Will – what –”

He throws himself off the bed, stomping over to his backpack. A folded pair of socks goes flying over his shoulder, a book hits the ground with a heavy thunk. His muttering grows louder, cursing interspersed between every word.

“What are you –”

“We are not dealing with this right now.” With a frustrated finally, Will yanks a bag of something out of his backpack, stomping back towards the bed. He throws a Ziploc bag onto the duvet, and it bounces once, twice, three times before splitting open and spilling quarters everywhere.

“What the hell is –”

“You already payed for the room, right?”

Nico snaps his jaw shut. “Yes.”

“And it’s Saturday.”

“I – it is, yeah.”

“Not a business day.”

“No.”

“Well.” Will nods. “Bank’s closed. Hotel can’t process anything, and they have no reason to suspect your card, which worked just fine last night, is gonna bounce. We’ve got a day of breathing room, at least, and I don’t want to think about it.”

He holds up a hand when Nico starts to argue, grim set to his mouth giving way to something a little sharper, a little more dangerous.

“We might not be old enough to gamble, but when you’re in Atlanta, you do as the Atlantians do.” He meets Nico’s eye, grinning. “You still any good Street Fighters?”

———

next chapter

81 notes · View notes

randomgirlyoudontknow · 17 days

Text

thinking about how nezha laments “oh. but history moves in such cruel circles” right before stabbing rin in the back at the end of the dragon republic and she later answers with “oh, but history moved in such vicious circles” before forcing nezha to stab her in the heart at the end of the burning god

#i have no further conclusions other than this #i just finished the trilogy and i am a new woman #putting tpw on my prelim exams so i can close read it #what do the changes in punctuation/verb tense/adjective mean???#the poppy war #rinezha #fang runin #yin nezha

69 notes · View notes

compacflt · 10 months

Note

can i just say that I'm haunted by the image of Ice wearing "one of Mavericks cheapest rolexes". One because of the mental immage of Maverick being the kind of men who not only owns multiple watches but also Rolex, which is absolutely delightful, because oh the quiet vanity of that. And two because of the implied and groundbreaking (to me) domesticity (and defiance of the not talking/acknowledging the thing between the 2 of them) of wearing another person watch. I'm screaming into the void about your brilliance. So I need to ask, do they do that on purpose (before the mission) in a sort if roundabout way of acknowledging each other presence in their life? What would Mav wear that belongs to Ice (apart from that USNA ring eheh)?

pilots/sailors/doctors etc who do high-level specialized work with their hands tend to really be Watch Guys. and “cheap” rolexes (sub $7k ish) are actually pretty affordable if you’re making >$150k a year and want to treat yourself every fifth christmas or something. source: know several sailors & doctors. ALSO the watch ice is wearing in his famous gay plane photoshoot is actually a rolex. So theres some evidence ice at least is (annoying, ostentatious, bad with money, and) a Watch Guy. Maverick’s also wearing a kickass chronograph in TGM so i think he’s also probably a Watch Guy. also… you know, status symbol, honor, et cetera et cetera…

they probably wear each other’s socks because in-regs socks all look the same and they’re both men so who cares. i also hc that they’ve always worn the same size in shirts so each other’s t-shirts are also free game. and was very confusing at the start of their relationship when trying to figure out whose shirt was whose after a midnight rendezvous. lots of accidental shirt mixups. and, yeah, each other’s watches, because most people only see the status and don’t see the detail, and most people aren’t around both ice and mav enough to recognize that “omg last month adm kazansky was wearing the same omega chronometer capt mitchell is wearing today!! theyre totally together!!!” so if ice buys a new watch and maverick salivates over it, sure he can borrow it, whatever. and i think there’s a scene in wwgattai when maverick wears ice’s pj pants hold up lemme find it

“in bare feet.” now wtf does that mean. that could use a rewrite.

ice also wears mavericks leather jacket when they’re on their baseball date in debriefing. at some point when you live with someone long enough your stuff becomes their stuff which was the point of this graf

thinking about it… trying to decide if they’d wear each other’s cologne. that seems like a little much. no i don’t think so.

#oooh! this is the first time ive read this section of debriefing since i posted it! and wow it’s really just okay!#ugggghhh the house. the house.. *shakes fist* all my narrative problems have to do with the house…#would ice and maverick really get free LockMart/mcdonnell shirts? no idea #ive been working my first aerospace & defense job for a month now and ive gotten Boeing fidget spinners and raytheon sunglasses and #LM t-shirts so it’s not out of the realm of possibilities #but i am also not a federal employee so idk.#thx for the ask anon. i appreciate your use of the word ‘haunted’#pete maverick mitchell #tom iceman kazansky #icemav #top gun #asks #man. i have such a problem with verb-tense agreement when it comes to ‘there is/there are’#in the second one it should be ‘there are all these…’ man. i can’t ever get there’s/there are right #oh wait you’re not anon #i am a Watch Guy but $20-$80 vintage novelty watches i find on eBay not Rolexes #i feel at some point i should change my blog header. it’s still my politics but #given that i am literally working in defense rn it feels a little hypocrit. ok. will change it.#alright as of this post my header has been changed to reflect the material conditions of my summer internship

159 notes · View notes

nikoisme · 1 month

Text

aughhh my favorite thing is that i can look at a text in latin and already know the translation and all the stuff this is so fun

#based on the stuff we learn. do not show me. i don't know a bible in latin or something.#i can tell you the verb tense though. and the clauses. and the words i recognize.#which is not all that bad.

24 notes · View notes

mostmagical · 3 months

Note

For the Drabble prompts….defenestration 😌 (or defenestrate…any version works ahaha)

this is such a funny word for a hundred word drabble dhvbbgk THANKS KAYLA

surely this has been done. but not by me.

Prompt: defenestration

Ladybug inched closer, her breath shallow as she realized what she was about to do.

Adrien’s fingers dug into her hip, encouraging her probably a little more than he should be.

Her yoyo string was still taut in her hand where it led out the open window, anchoring her as she finally swept forward. His breath blew across her lips like warm summertime.

“Adrien,” a wintry voice called from somewhere behind her.

Without any logical thinking behind it, Ladybug shoved Adrien forward, watching in horror as her own hands defenestrated him. The yoyo zipped.

“Oh, bad time?” Nathalie hummed, unbothered.

Send me one word, I’ll write you 100

#tumblr does not think this word can be a past tense verb but i disagree #hundred word drabbles #ladrien #my writing #miraculous #coffeebanana

27 notes · View notes

solipseismic · 5 months

Text

DOES ANYONE HERE KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT FINITE VS NON-FINITE VERBS IN WELSH

#optimally i would like a CHART but all anyone is giving me so far is ‘well sometimes the non-finite verbs are nouns but most generally #agree that they’re verbs’ can i get an EXAMPLE #either the non-finite or the finite is more restricted but i don’t KNOW ENOUGH WELSH to know WHICH FORMS #if non-finite the tense goes on the auxiliary preceding it??????????? or is that just in literary welsh??????????????#croidhe #linguistics #welsh #for the love of god #cymraeg #ON THE OFF CHANCE.

33 notes · View notes

happi-speech · 1 year

Text

The most silly name for what ASE speakers and learners would likely regard as a southern expression of time lol

#linguistics #PLOOOperfect like cmon JnfmskckJDKC #my speech #past perfect tense #tense #verb tense #grammar

1 note · View note

kradogsrats · 28 days

Text

oh hey out of nowhere it's 1500 words of Claudiangst, possibly some kind of spiritual sequel to that Viren one from pre-s5

—

Claudia sits on a stone beside the Sea of the Castout, and sharpens her knife.

It’s not quite dawn, and the coming morning promises to be bright and clear—she can almost imagine that it’s just another sunrise in Xadia, and the last few days were a terrible and confusing dream. Maybe even the whole month. The ruined stump below her knee, radiating the dull, persistent ache that was as far as she could reduce the pain with what she had in her satchel, destroys the shelter of that fantasy.

The repeated motion of the blade against stone helps a bit, like her calming mantra once did. There is no synonym for cinnamon, there is no synonym for cinnamon—every stroke a little sharper, a little clearer, a little more deliberate. The soft lapping of the waves against the shore might have done the same, once.

She’d almost drowned. Without the potion, her shifted form hadn’t lasted. She’d kicked desperately toward the surface with one leg while bitter seawater and blood rushed into her lungs. When she finally broke the surface, choking and exhausted, it took everything she had just to stay afloat. There was no way she could swim to shore—only drift, watching the sky slowly darken. At some point, the tears came, hot on her sea-chilled face. By the time she washed up on the rocky beach, she’d been incoherent with pain and grief.

The transformation was also the only thing that kept her from bleeding out—her pentapus limbs fusing back together as they returned to human form had mostly closed the wound. Terry had stripped her out of her soaked clothes and wrapped her in a blanket, her body shivering uncontrollably from cold and shock. He’d bound her leg where it was still oozing blood, and he and Sir Sparklepuff fretted over her late into the night as she alternated between chills and feverish delirium.

She holds the blade up to examine it in the pre-dawn gloom, tilting it to catch whatever light it can. It’s a good knife, slim and elegant and curved. It has always been, ever since she found it on the body of a Sunfire elf while picking through the abandoned battlefield. It's far from the least useful thing she's harvested from the dead.

Still, it's not sharp enough. For now.

Wracked with sorrow and fear and pain, she barely slept an hour. But she dreamed.

She'd been back at the center of the sea, standing above it as if it was no more than a puddle. The surface below her was smooth as glass, perfectly reflecting the sky overhead—so overflowing with stars that she couldn't tell if it was night or day. Blood seeped slowly from her leg and dripped into the dark water, lurid in the harsh light, ripples spreading out of sight.

Aaravos’s voice came to her, echoing from every direction. Soft as a whisper, but vibrating through her bones like thunder. We are all stardust, bound together only by love.

She spun, foolishly hoping to see him there. If she could just plead her case to him—she could do better. She would do better. She'd been foolish, thinking her old friends would understand her. Sentimental. She wouldn't make the same mistake again.

There was no one. She was alone between twin tapestries of stars, indistinguishable save for the red ripples that faintly disturbed the one below.

Someone once thought those words would comfort me. Do they comfort you?

“No,” she said. Her voice cracked. “They don’t.”

I thought not. Soft laughter, the kind of indulgent chuckle where it was impossible to tell if you were being laughed with or at—not cruel, but indisputably superior. They did not comfort me either, but I can give you something that might.

Her mouth trembled, eyes burning. She wanted so badly to be wrong, for him to have lied to her, for there to somehow be another chance. “You already said there's no way to bring him back a second time.”

All that could hold him here is cut loose. He is beyond your reach, now.

She couldn't stop her tears, but gulped in a breath and held it to keep from sobbing. It was her fault. She had failed. If she’d only—

If Ezran had just told her where the prison was—

If Callum hadn’t been so stubborn about bringing the baby Archdragon to Xadia—

If Soren had would have killed the elf back when she'd feigned sleep in that stupid, beautiful moonlit garden—if she'd made him, instead of indulging his stupid, childish sense of sportsmanship and honor—everything would be different. Everything would be fine.

She should have realized then that her brother wasn't on her side. Not really. Not like she'd been on his. Not like she'd always been on their family's side. She'd thought he loved her. She'd thought Callum had loved her, or at least liked her. Even Ezran had abandoned her, now. Everyone was gone. She only had Terry.

But I am not.

And Aaravos.

She breathed, shuddering inhales and exhales as she wiped at her face with her sleeve. "What do you want?"

I'm not the one you should be asking. Search your heart, child—there is still something you want very badly. Something that, with my help, lies within your grasp. If you are strong enough to take it.

She would already have everything she wanted, if she hadn't—if Callum and Ezran and that elf hadn't gotten in the way. If the boys she'd once thought of as her best friends hadn't left her for dead, choking and and bleeding and alone in open water. She'd done a lot of things she wasn't proud of—but she would never do that. Not to someone she cared about. They should have known she wouldn't actually hurt Ez.

She still didn't want to hurt him. Not much.

Callum, though—Callum she wouldn't mind hurting. The elf she'd cheerfully tear apart with her bare hands.

The sky continues to lighten, and she holds up the knife again. It's sharp now, like new—it will cut swift and clean. Traveling Xadia for two years, she'd learned a lot. How sharp a blade had to be, the amount of strength it took to sink it deep enough, where and how to cut. Back in Katolis, it had once sickened her to put her hands around a fawn's fragile neck to save her brother. She'd cried with frustration and shame as she struggled, trying to ignore the creature's panicked bleats and thin, flailing legs. Now, she could cut its throat before it even realized what was happening. Ruthlessly. Mercifully.

It can still be better. She returns to the stone.

Fortunately, you already have something that can give you that strength.

Aaravos had told her what to do. Then she'd been plunged into the blood-red water below her, dragged down into the darkness. She'd fought, reaching toward the receding surface, but she was so deep she couldn't even see the light from the sky. As her strength and breath ran out, everything fading away into a soft, endless black, she thought she felt the brush of fingers against her own.

Sir Sparklepuff had been crouched beside her when she started awake, pawing at her as he stared down into her face from the dark. "Blood!" he croaked, scampering away when she sat up. "Blood, blood of child, bloodied child!"

The eastern sky was beginning to pale by the time she'd dragged herself into her clothes and mixed herself something to bring the pain of her leg down to bearable levels. She'd levered herself upright with her staff, hobble-hopping to a nearby rock. The rocky sand shifted under her with each step, only the staff and her own desperation keeping her from falling. If she went down, she wasn't sure if she'd be able to get up again.

She finally collapsed on the rock, chest heaving with effort from having crossed barely ten paces of beach. Aaravos was right—between exhaustion, pain, and blood loss, she wouldn't be going anywhere without a boost.

Her eyes fell on Terry, a little line of worry creased between his brows even as he slept, snoring lightly. He cared for her so much it made her heart hurt, but so had Callum and Ezran, once. Now she saw that he would only ever hold her back. If she still had those coins, Moonshadow elf would be in the palm of her hand. Even tossing them into the lava beneath Umber Tor, though a waste, might have broken her enough to disrupt whatever sway she held over the boys.

It will be best for both of them for her to leave him behind. Maybe he'll hurt for a while, but he won't see how cruel she can be. How cruel she will be, once she catches up with her prey. Let him remember loving a girl who still hesitated.

The first glimmers of sunlight peek over the horizon, and Sparklepuff is at her side. He gazes up at her adoringly, head resting against her good leg, the pale violet stretch of his throat exposed. The blade is heavy in her hand.

Claudia's knife won't get any sharper. She cuts swift and clean.

#kradogsfic #claudia #sorry this is completely incoherent in its verb tense it made sense at the time #(no it didn't but whatever i don't care)

18 notes · View notes

the80hbee · 1 year

Text

If a Ranger dies while their still-in-training apprentice survives, then that apprentice carries their Oakleaf until graduation around their wrist. When they graduate, they have a choice between getting their own Oakleaf or inheriting their Mentors.

No apprentice has ever chosen a new Oakleaf for themselves.

@brilliantinsultsgalore ‘s hc ^ (from a post of rangerthursday’s) has spawned this devastating idea in my head.

imagine an au where halt dies for will somewhere in the whole skandia plotline. and will does this. gilan taking will aside on the docks as crowley stood, frozen, unable to comprehend that halt was dead and gone, and tying the leather cord with shaking hands around will’s thin wrist. tears sliding down both their faces.

gilan probably took will on as his apprentice. their mentor-apprentice relationship was a little unique for its near-equal, older brother-younger brother dynamic — and part of that was very intentionally done by gilan because he wanted will to be sure that he wouldn’t ever try to take the place of halt in will’s life, but also partially because gilan was unsure of himself and felt he couldn’t teach will as well as halt would have.

crowley was hesitant at first to let gilan take will on since gilan was pretty inexperienced and rather young for an apprentice. but gilan was the one who welcomed will back from skandia and cared for him 24/7 through that initial week back filled with a constant onslaught of night terrors and flashbacks and panic attacks. not that they stopped then, but the healer they were working with had suggested they try going back to a gentler training schedule to put some normalcy and structure into will’s life. and when will had said that he really, really didn’t want to be apprenticed to anyone besides gilan, gilan had been determined to move heaven and earth to make it happen. so crowley resigned himself to the fact that halt passed on his stubborn, fierce protectiveness to gilan (and was secretly warmed to see the strength of love and family created between the two apprentices of his, uh, his lifelong best friend), and let gilan take will on, so long as gilan regularly kept in touch with crowley and another nearby senior ranger (in a neighboring fief), in case gilan ever had any questions or wanted advice.

and after the first months of gilan being will’s mentor went amazingly well (within the context of will continuing to work through the trauma of skandia — halt’s death as well as all the canon things)), crowley moved the two of them back to redmont. because honestly, they both know the fief very well from their time with halt, and the duo were proving very capable. and not that crowley said it in his reasoning, but redmont was closer to araluen than meric fief, and this way crowley could visit them much easier.

at some point, will takes to rubbing at halt’s oakleaf on his wrist as a sort of comfort/nervous fidget, and some of the scuffing on its surface left by halt’s everyday wear starts to fade, polished away by time and will’s rough fingertips. will panics when he first realizes this because he feels like he’s erasing the evidence of halt from it, and gilan finds him on the edge of a panic attack one day, going back and forth between saying it’s a stupid worry then sobbing that he had failed halt — which was really about will’s survivor’s guilt, his deep fear that he hadn’t done enough and it was his fault, that he should have saved halt or halt shouldn’t have had to save him in the first place. gilan knows that deeper issue isn’t something he can solve right then, but he could sit with him and help will at least see that no matter how the oakleaf changed, it was and always would be halt’s oakleaf — and one day, also will’s, because there was never any doubt about that. and gilan and also is like. well maybe rub the back and edges more since most of the scratches and dings and stuff are on the front right? and will is like. oh. right. yes. (and then gilan jokingly affects a stern look, reminding will of what they’d just said about how, whatever he does, will is not erasing halt from the oakleaf either way — gilan’s way of gently and humorously making sure will got the point of their talk, which he did).

and later, halt’s oakleaf turns into a sort of anchor point of halt’s memory for will and he starts staring at it as he has the whole ‘hearing the voice of someone you know very well in your head randomly popping in to give you advice or respond to something’, and then also when he thinks ‘what would halt do?’. (though he often stares more at his wrist and sleeve since he keeps the oakleaf tucked away a fair amount of the time so it isn’t dangling about and getting in the way of everything he did). then will starts more directly engaging with his mental!halt and uses the oakleaf as a conduit for that, eventually sometimes even talking out loud to the pendant and lowkey processing a lot of his grief by talking to halt via the oakleaf.

gilan finds will doing this one day and will is rather horrified and embarrassed until gilan pulls back his sleeve and shows will a bronze oakleaf around his wrist — gilan’s old apprentice necklace. gilan quietly explains how he wears it as a tribute to his mentor and father-figure, as a way of saying halt will always be gilan’s mentor and gilan always his apprentice, to hold close his memories of him time spent with halt (much of it happening when it was that necklace around his neck), and as a way of taking halt with him wherever he goes. and gilan says the oakleaf has come to represent halt for him too and that, sometimes, he also talks to halt through it, holding the pendant in both his hands and closing his eyes. gilan then reaches and takes will’s hand to lead him back to the cabin. their clasped hands are the ones each chose to wear the oakleaf on (will’s right and gilan’s left), and the bronze and silver metal gently bump against each other with a light ting! as they walk back together.

will almost doesn’t make it through his own graduation. gilan and crowley decided to keep to just the three of them, guessing that will wouldn’t want to have to deal with a big party. it would be hard enough already with halt’s painfully obvious absence at what was one of the most important events in will’s life, one where halt should have been present more than anyone else. will is eternally grateful to them for it. he decides to celebrate with his friends with a night out a few days later, and it doesn’t hurt as badly then.

after his graduation, with the familiar weight of halt’s silver oakleaf now pressed over his heart, will’s wrist felt oddly bare and untethered, so at gilan’s suggestion, he also begins wearing his old apprentice oakleaf on his wrist.

crowley smiled when he saw this. all those years ago, pritchard had fashioned a rough sort of bronze oakleaf for halt at the one year mark of halt’s unofficial apprenticeship. one night after duncan et. al. had chased morgarath back to the mountains of rain and night post-hackham heath, crowley and halt were alone back at castle araluen and with a night to themselves. halt quietly told crowley the story behind that oakleaf and then gave it to crowley, telling him he wanted crowley to have it. and crowley gives halt his apprentice oakleaf in return. crowley saw gilan with his apprentice oakleaf tied around his wrist when gilan and will had stopped by castle araluen on the way to redmont from meric, and when they left, he took halt’s apprentice oakleaf from where he had kept it in a little box and tied it gently around his own wrist.

halt’s death changed them all, forever. crowley would never again love like he had loved halt with his entire being and then more. will would never feel the love of a father, see someone like his father as he had in halt. gilan would never again trust so wholly, in unfettered totality, like he had trusted halt.

but it would be okay.

on the first anniversary of halt’s death, crowley had ridden quietly to halt’s old cabin and spent the night with gilan and will. at first, they just sat together in silence, alone together around the crackling fire. then, crowley pulled back his sleeve, showed will and gilan the rough little oakleaf dangling there, and told them its story. they spent that night crying and laughing with each other in turn, telling stories about halt, remembering the mentor and father and love of a lif-uh, best friend, that he had been to them. and so, they found they had created their own little family in one other. they were gathered at the start by the almost magnetic quality of halt’s presence that drew them all in. they were bound together by their love for halt and their grief at his death. and now, they saw their love for each other was beginning to grow and fill in the cracks. in time, it would become enough to glue them back together into something new. not quite whole. not quite broken. but okay. loved.

family.

#consistent tense who?#tense what tense #it's a hc and I take that as lawful permission to absolutely screw over verb tenses of this strange language called english #ranger's apprentice #ra #ra fic #will treaty #gilan davidson #crowley meratyn #halt o'carrick #ra headcannon #cralt #found family #I'm sorry #y'all can blame @brilliantinsultsgalore it was her hc that started this all #major character death #oops I messed up the tag the first time my b

210 notes · View notes

indie-summer · 3 months

Text

twisted

for @cycleprompttuesday

prompt: color

—

It was all João Almeida’s fault.

Or at least that is what Jonas thinks when he finds himself standing on a Twister mat, right next to Tadej Pogačar.

Despite Jonas’ objections, João insisted that, of course, five could play this game. Then he took the role of referee, safely away from all the messy contortions that were bound to happen, and made the other four take places on the mat.

Now, Jonas has his right foot on a yellow circle, left foot on the green one. Tadej is on his right, Cian and Juan stand on the opposite side. Then João starts bossing them around.

“Right foot, blue.”

Actually, this was Juan Ayuso’s fault.

Had Juan not started to mess around with the (mostly abandoned) hotel game room, he wouldn’t have found all those board games. The Twister box looks as old as Jonas, and that is saying something—he is the eldest of the men playing the game. Twister is for kids, and for the life of him, Jonas can’t remember why he accepted to take any part in it.

Now, Jonas and Tadej try to go for the same blue spot. Tadej places his right foot there first. He grins at Jonas, who has to think fast and drag his foot to the nearest vacant blue circle. Jonas tells himself the rush of adrenaline comes from his weird competitiveness, and not from the touch of their bare feet.

He doesn’t even acknowledge what Cian and Juan are doing on the other side of the mat, when João says, “Right hand, yellow.”

After giving it some thought, it was all Cian Uijtdebroeks’ fault.

Because Cian was so young—therefore, so full of energy on this second rest day of the Tour. Cian also longed for having friends in the peloton, and Jonas took him under his wing. Much like Jonas, Cian felt most comfortable around his own team. But unlike Jonas, he looked for acceptance elsewhere, too. Juan was a nice kid, so when he invited Cian over for game night at the UAE hotel, Jonas said to his younger teammate, sure, you should go, it’ll be fun. And when Cian confessed that the idea of going alone made him feel a little embarrassed and too self-conscious, Jonas said, fine, I’ll go with you, I’ll stay just for a little bit.

Now, he deeply regrets this.

He easily lowers his hand to the yellow circle next to his foot. Then realizes that Tadej took the spot available… well, right between Jonas’ legs.

Jonas is familiar with that hand, from the lines and freckles to the long fingers and short nails. He can’t see it, but knows there’s a wound on the palm, from that minor crash last week. He remembers the feeling of the scabs against his skin.

Right now, Jonas really can’t reflect on that hand between his legs, so he looks around to see what the others are doing. Juan seems to be in a comfortable position, his hand right next to Jonas’, a boyish smile on his face. Cian is all contorted on the mat, his face out of sight, but hopefully having fun.

“Left hand, green,” João says.

Ultimately, this was all Jan Tratnik’s fault.

After all, Cian wouldn’t even be in France with the team had Jan not fallen ill a week before the grand départ. It was a minor cold—not serious enough to get anyone worried, but just that he had to give away his spot in the Tour squad.

Jan was really frustrated at that outcome, but surely not as much as Jonas is at the moment, when he has to stay on all fours before Tadej.

He immediately lowers his left hand to claim the nearest green circle. He feels more than sees when Tadej reaches for the one right next to it, his arm stretching between Jonas’ legs. Tadej laughs at their awkward positions, then laughs even harder when Juan falls to the floor.

Jonas is still recovering from the sound of Tadej’s laughter when Juan gets pulled out of the game by João, who loses no time before spinning the needle again.

“Right hand, red.”

To be honest, it was Tadej’s fault.

None of this would be awkward at all, if only Tadej hadn’t knocked on Jonas’ door a week earlier, on the eve of the first rest day.

That night, Jonas could not even feign surprise at the sight of Tadej at his doorstep. Tadej didn’t need to voice what he wanted; the desire in his eyes said it all.

Today, Jonas tries his hardest to reach for any red circle, but his balance is compromised. He slips to the side, collapsing on the mat, right on top of Tadej’s arm. He accidentally takes Tadej to the floor with him, and Cian wins the game.

Cian throws his fists into the air and celebrates as if he had won a race. João ceremonially claps his hands, but the mockery is friendly. Jonas knows that Cian’s bright smile is not about the victory—it’s about the sense of belonging.

Jonas feels it, too, when he quickly exchanges glances with Tadej.

Jonas calls it a night, but encourages Cian to stay. Cian agrees and promises it’ll be just for a little longer. Juan takes the spinner from João’s hand and announces that, this time, he will be the referee. João pouts, but takes his place on the mat. Tadej tells them that, if Jonas is going to have an early night, so should he, too. The others protest, but Tadej still follows Jonas out of the game room.

As soon as the door closes behind them, they openly stare at each other for a beat. Tadej doesn’t need to voice what he wants; the softness in his eyes says it all.

Jonas takes Tadej’s hand and lets him guide him to his room.

Really, Jonas has no one but himself to blame for any of this.

And he’s not sorry at all.

#cycling rpf #pogagaard #tadejonas #cycle prompt tuesday #prompt: color #not beta read #i wasn’t going to ask someone to beta my flash fic so all mistakes are my own #non native english speaker here #so be gentle please #wtf is a preposition #wtf are verb tenses

22 notes · View notes