#when the illusion snapped. But as every year comes and goes I manage to lose even more faith in this place that I've hated for 3years and 9 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blancheludis · 3 years

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@whumptober2021 Day 6: Bruises

Fandom: Batman Characters: Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth Tags: Hurt Tim, Injuries, Hiding Injuries, Self-Worth Issues, Protective Bruce, Lack of Communication, Bruce Tries To Be A Good Dad Words: 3.264

Summary: “Master Timothy, what is that?”

That is a bruise the size of Tim’s head spanning over the right side of his ribcage. A few ribs might be cracked but he can breathe fine when not training and it is good practice to avoid being hit in weak spots.

“I’m fine,” Tim says and wonders why anyone even bothers. In his parents’ house, being fine was a requirement and nobody had the time to keep asking about it

---

Pain blossoms through Tim’s chest as Bruce’s fist hits right where he bruised a rib the week before. Just barely, he manages to swallow a yelp and lets himself fall with the momentum, rolling over the floor to get back to his feet a safe distance away from Bruce.

Safety, of course, is an illusion with Batman after him, who has speed and strength and long years of experience on him. Bruce does not come, though, but stays where he is.

“Everything all right?” he asks, never letting his fists fall but looking at Tim with concern.

“Of course,” Tim replies with a grin he does not feel. It is hard enough to breathe. “Should have seen that one coming.”

Bruce nods and advances again. That is something Tim can rely on. He might not be used to people stopping to ask about his well-being, but the rules are the same wherever he goes. Be the best he can be at all times and appear perfect on the surface. The focus just shifted to include physical prowess as well as school work and social encounters.

Training is a gruesome affair. Tim needs every bit of it he can get but he has not had a chance to catch his breath in weeks.

Tim does not mind Bruce’s high expectations nearly as much as he sometimes did his parents. He is learning to be someone better than himself, after all, someone who can make a difference. Heroes do not stop just because they have some bruises.

He has still a long way to go until he can call himself a hero, but the lack of lectures makes him think he is being a passable Robin.

Rolling back on his feet, Tim makes sure his stance is steady as he raises his fists back up. He does not have to wait long for Bruce to come at him again.

This time, he makes sure to guard his right side more.

“I’m fine,” Tim says again when they are finished training for the day, and wonders why anyone even bothers. In his parents’ house, being fine was a requirement and nobody had the time to keep asking about it.

---

Tim flinches when he comes out of the bathroom and finds Alfred in the middle of his room, freshly laundered clothes in his hands.

It is too late to turn around and cover his bare torso. He has also learned by now that Alfred misses little, so Tim’s only chance is to be as casual as possible.

True enough, Alfred zeroes in on Tim the moment he notices his presence. “Master Timothy, what is that?”

One of these days he has to get good enough at fighting to stop being a liability. Until then, he will walk around with a few aches.

“Oh, that,” Tim says with all the cheer he can muster. “I tumbled off a roof.” And took several hits and kicks in the general region, too slow to properly defend himself. “I meant to ask for some bruise salve.” The lie falls easily from his lips, even though Alfred deserves better. It is just hard to forget that Alfred’s loyalty lies with Bruce and Tim really, really does not want to give anyone reason to complain about him.

Tim is not necessarily afraid of Bruce changing his mind about the adoption. He knows that is a definite possibility because Bruce does not have time for freeloaders, even though he never said so in as many words. It would suck, of course, because he is quickly getting used to Alfred’s warmth and proper meals and the way the house brightens when Dick comes to visit on the weekends. It is not the kind of family he has seen on tv, not even the kind he pretended to be with his parents during parties, but it is one he feels comfortable in.

No, what he fears is not being allowed to go out as Robin anymore. He already is nothing but a pretender, stretching to reach Jason’s level. He has looked up to Robin for so long he can hardly believe he has been let into this house and actually wore the suit.

Good things do not just happen. He has to work for them, has to constantly increase his efforts to stop anyone from noticing how inadequate he actually is. His parents prepared him for that, at least.

“Come,” Alfred says and gestures at the door. His stern look promises bandages and ice packs and a lot of questions that Tim does not want to answer. “I’ll help you with it.”

“Not necessary, promise,” Tim says and walks pointedly fluid, taking care not to show that his hip has been aching, too. “It barely hurts.”

He brings the bed between them, where he is further into the room’s shadows. Alfred notices too much, but Tim has learned to twist that, to put things in a light that better suits him. He does not actually like manipulating Alfred, who brings him hot chocolate and cooks his favourites on good and bad days, but if he gets benched he will not get better and then he is already halfway out of the door.

“It looks fresh,” Alfred says and stares at him rather than the discolouring. Too perceptive for his own good.

But Tim frowns and makes a show of prodding the bruise, breathing through the pain. “Must be the light. It’s only a little sore.”

He looks up just in time to see Alfred’s face smooth over from blatant concern to something far politer. “It’s all right to ask for help, Master Timothy.”

Is it, though? All the evidence Tim has gathered over the course of his life points to the opposite.

So, he grins and says, “I know. I’ll let you know if I lose a limb.” That is probably not even a lie because he has no idea how he would hide that. And, just because he desperately wants to stay Robin, he will not put others at risk just because he cannot let go of a pipe dream.

Alfred straightens, his lips pursed. “Don’t joke about that.” He puts the clothes down carefully on the bed. “Now, let me get the salve for you.”

Tim breathes out in relief once Alfred is done and hurries to put on a shirt. His blunder would not hold up a single second if Alfred had gotten any closer to him. Thanks to having been with Bruce for so long, he knows all about Bruce.

Then again, he knows all about lies, too. Perhaps Alfred thinks that Tim is doing well enough to deserve a second chance if he lets Tim’s lies pass. He knows better than to let his guard down, though.

---

This is the fourth time this night that Tim has stumbled over his own feet and now he almost fell off the rooftop, too. He really needs to get a grip on himself.

Tim pinches his hip, right where a new bruise sits. The pain wakes him up a little, but the blurriness in his vision does not vanish completely.

Bruce stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” His tone is low and a little restless, so Tim knows his patience is running out.

“Nothing,” he says with all the brightness he can muster, then winces inwardly. He is obviously messing things up, so he should not also pretend that he does not notice. The only thing worse than a fool is a fool who thinks he is helping. “I just stayed up late studying for a test.”

He should have studied. That would have been a better use of his time than thrashing around in his bed, wide awake while trying to sleep. But he passed out in English class the day before and while his teacher did not remark on it, he knows he is walking a thin line.

Bruce’s voice drops deeper still, which is never a good time. “You should have said something if you needed to stay home.”

“No, I didn’t,” Tim bursts out quickly. This is the last thing he needs. Staying home means not learning anything. Worse, Bruce might realize he is better off without this Robin and start looking for a replacement. “I’m just a bit tired.”

“You’re slow,” Bruce counters, shaking his head with what can only be disappointment. That is a definite strike. “That’s dangerous for both of us.”

Tim’s fingers dig deeper into the bruise. The words and pain together are enough to banish the sluggishness for now. Nothing but a reminder of one’s own uselessness to awaken the spirit.

“I’m sorry,” he says and makes sure the words are clear, even while he cannot quite meet Bruce’s eyes.

Bruce’s hand tightens briefly around Tim’s shoulder. It could almost feel like encouragement if not for him saying, “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

It is a good thing that Tim is a self-made insomniac. He is used to running on too little sleep. Usually, though, nobody was around to see him struggle. Now, he has to up his game because Bruce does not miss much. His parents, though, were good teachers in that regard. He will manage.

Stretching his limbs, Tim tries to ignore the heaviness weighing them down and does his best to be alert and helpful for the rest of patrol. Bruce does not complain again, so Tim guesses he does a good enough job.

---

As the ground rushes up to meet Tim, he follows instinct to curl up and brace himself for the fall. His arms protect his head and his ribs protest only mildly at the shock of impact. As he rolls, though, he hits something with his left knee, knocking what little breath he had left right out of him. He feels it bending the wrong way, the ligaments screaming for a long moment until everything snaps back into place and he comes to a standstill in some dank alley.

Tim lies there, just breathing, cataloguing the new bruises forming. The by now familiar pulsing in his ribs is joined by a more insistent stabbing sensation in his knee. That is the leg that was already messed up before. He thinks of all the things that might have gone wrong. Snapped ligaments, broken bones, luxated knee cap.

Unwilling to get up just yet, he just lies there. Once he moves, he has to deal with this, has to get up and put weight on his leg and decide how to hide this. Ribs are not essential and mere bruises are easy to ignore. Somebody is bound to notice, however, if he starts limping around.

With a sigh, Tim sits up and carefully pulls his left foot towards him. It hurts but not so much that he cannot manage. Nothing looks obviously broken, but it still feels wrong and Tim suspects he ruptured some ligaments. Which is unfortunate.

“Robin, where are you?” Batman’s voice comes to life in his ear. These days, he is always impatient, Tim has been that much of a disappointment.

He sighs, allowing himself another moment of weakness before he pulls himself together with ruthless efficiency. So much for having some time to collect himself. “I’m on my way.”

It is slow and painful, but Tim manages to get out of the alley and towards their rendezvous point. His movements are neither steady nor very fluid. Climbing the roof to meet Bruce is out of the question.

Before he can think about a way around it, Bruce speaks in his ear again, “What happened?”

Tim closes his eyes. Everything was going so well. He was managing things. If he had gotten a minute longer, he would have figured something out.

“I fell and – I hit my knee.” Admitting that alone makes the ache worse. He is not supposed to fall. Jason surely did not tumble off roofs left and right just because he was tired. “Nothing’s broken, probably, but –”

“Why didn’t you call?”

Tim knows how quickly Batman can move and still he flinches away when the dark shadow appears before him suddenly. Even if he were to fell, reality would probably rather bend than give Batman bruises. He barely catches the concerned look on Bruce’s face before he is kneeling down in front of Tim and prods his knee. Tim braces for pain that never comes for Bruce’s hands are more careful and gentler than he would have thought possible.

He does hear the small sigh Bruce lets out. “Let’s get you home so we can have a better look at it.”

Ice rolls down Tim’s back. He is here to be useful and, really, the one thing he really should avoid is being a liability. Robin exists to help, not to hinder Batman from doing his job.

“You don’t have to cut patrol short,” Tim says, desperation creeping into his tone, although he knows better than to show weakness like that. “I can get back on my own.”

Bruce stills, and Tim is so distracted by having done another thing wrong, that he barely hears Bruce saying, “You’re hurt.”

What does that have to do with anything other than Tim being a burden? “It’s not so bad,” he says. “Please?”

“T- Robin.” The almost slip has Tim’s heart missing a beat. Is this it? Is Bruce taking the suit away already? But then Bruce continues “Patrol can wait. You are more important.”

Now, that is a novel thing. Bruce even says it like he means it. Tim is aware that he is staring.

“I can manage,” he insists because he does not know what is happening and he hates when he is not prepared for something.

“I know,” Bruce says but it feels like they are talking about two very different things. “But you don’t have to.”

---

All of Tim’s failings are laid bare. He has a bandage around a cut on his arm he had forgotten about the moment he got it. His ribs are taped. The x-ray of his knee is open on the screen behind them. A small crack runs through his knee cap, although, once he was done with his examination, Bruce declared that the ligaments are probably intact.

Tim is a wreck and he is not even thinking about the plethora of hurts he has gathered. No, Bruce does that thing where he collects himself before a difficult conversation and Tim knows how that will end for him. His usefulness definitely does not outweigh his faults.

“You were hiding injuries from me,” Bruce finally says. His gaze is heavy on Tim, who finds he cannot meet it.

“I didn’t,” he protests, despite knowing that particular fight is lost. “You noticed the knee right away.”

A shadow flickers over Bruce’s face as he likely notices the implication that Tim would have definitely hidden it if he could have. And will try to do so again if he is given the chance.

“What about your cracked ribs?” Bruce’s voice is brimming with displeasure. “Or the extensive bruising?”

Well, the ribs have not really gotten better since Tim does not manage to let them rest. But the bruises have almost faded. And the new ones he has gotten are not quite as big.

“They aren’t bad,” he says because they are not. Bruises do not immobilize him or turn his brain to mush. He can still learn.

But Bruce leans slightly away from him as if to distance himself from Tim’s denial. “I did some of them.”

He almost sounds guilty, but Tim is quick to reassure him. “During training. I won’t learn if you hold back.”

Tim has problems ironing out his own faults, but he will not let Bruce blame himself for things Tim should have kept from happening.

“You won’t learn if you don’t take proper care of yourself,” Bruce argues with a quiet insistence that leaves Tim confused. This is not quite the lecture he was expecting. “If you’re too injured –”

“I’m fine,” he interrupts. And he is. There really is no other alternative.

Bruce sits back, realization dawning on his face. “So, every time you say that you mean the complete opposite?”

No, he does not. It means he is working on it. It means that he is doing his best no one else will find the cracks in his composure.

“Don’t throw me out,” Tim blurts out, sounding small and nervous and hating it. Robin has to be strong, an asset, not a scared kid. Nobody wants a child around.

“Tim.” Bruce inhales audibly and reaches out as if to pull him in but stops the motion just before he actually touches Tim. “I’m not going to throw you out. Even if you chose to stop coming out with me at night. You don’t have to meet any conditions to live here.”

That is a lie if Tim has ever heard one. Life is built on conditions, and who cannot do their part has to leave – or gets left behind. That is the first lesson he has ever learnt.

“But you need a Robin,” Tim says. With a tremble in his voice, he adds, “A capable one.” Deep down, he knows that is not him. But it is so hard to let go of this stupid dream.

Now, Bruce’s hand bridges the last inch between them. His skin is warm, a comfort Tim is not sure he deserves, but he leans into it anyway.

“I went for years without a Robin,” Bruce says without a hint of accusation. “And your well-being is so much more important than me having someone to chatter with on patrol.”

He sounds like he means it. Worse, Tim wants to believe him, perhaps more than he wants to keep wearing the suit. For years, he waited for his parents to come home for good or to take him with them at least. But he was never enough to keep them close. He just does not come first for anyone. He should not come before Gotham’s innocents.

And yet. That is the thing with dreaming. He has been offered a hand and now he wants to conquer the very heaven. Be helpful and cared for? Hope is a dangerous thing, but being unable to let it go might just be another failure of his.

“You don’t chatter,” Tim says because that is easier than to acknowledge what else Bruce said.

Bruce smiles and that is warmer even than his hand. “No, I don’t.” He quickly grows serious again, although the warmth stays. “You need to tell me when you’re hurt. And you need to take breaks.”

Tim nods. Anything to keep Bruce like this. Still, he says, “But I’m doing fine.”

Once again, Bruce sighs, but his expression never changes. “We’ll make sure you do,” he promises. “Now, let’s get you upstairs before Alfred has my head.”

He does not let go of Tim, helps him up the stairs, still so very gentle. And Tim, of course, vows to be better. But perhaps being better does not always mean hiding.

He has gotten a second chance, so perhaps he will try things Bruce’s way this time. Mostly. At least until his knee is all healed up. And then, he will see what happens.

#whumptober2021 #no.6 #bruises #batman #fanfiction #tim drake #bruce wayne #hiding injuries #self-esteem issues #my writing #ao3

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lov3nerdstuff · 3 years

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Voluptas Noctis Aeternae {Part 7.22}

*Severus Snape x OC*

Summary: It is the year 1983 when the ordinary life of Robin Mitchell takes a drastic turn: she is accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite the struggles of being a muggle-born in Slytherin, she soon discovers her passion for Potions, and even manages the impossible: gaining the favor of Severus Snape. Throughout the years, Robin finds that the not quite so ordinary Potions Professor goes from being a brooding stranger to being more than she had ever deemed possible. An ally, a mentor, a friend... and eventually, the person she loves the most. Through adventure, prophecies and the little struggles of daily life in a castle full of mysteries, Robin chooses a path for herself, an unlikely friendship blossoms into something more, and two people abandoned by the world can finally find a home.

General warnings: professor x student, blood, violence, trauma, neglectful families, bullying, cursing

Words: 4.7k

Read Part 1.1 here! All Parts can be found on the Masterlist!

______________________________

The two weeks that followed upon the dancing class were no different than Christmas time at Hogwarts always had been: it was snowy beyond reason, cold as hell, but the decorations that were put up actually brightened most people's mood and rendered everyone almost disgustingly cheerful. However, there were differences this year, and no matter how subtle they were, Robin still had no trouble pinpointing them with a striking accuracy.

One, both Cas and Jorien had chosen to stay at school over the holidays, mostly due to the fact that they were now in fourth year and thus officially allowed to attend the ball even without being someone's plus one. Besides that, they wanted to spend Robin's last ball at Hogwarts here with her, just once, all six of them together. Well, seven technically, but Robin still didn't know how she was supposed to get Snape into that equation.

Two, Robin spent significantly less time working for Sprout or Hagrid than she had during the last years (she did already work with them in the plenty during the school weeks at this point after all), and instead spent significantly more time with Snape, playing wizard's chess or reading during the days when the work was done, and drinking mulled wine, firewhisky or plain old coffee in his rooms at night.

And three, the two previous changes in addition to the revelations that had come up during lunch after the dancing class now made it near impossible for Robin to get the girls' words out of her head. Did Snape really look at her all that differently than at other people? Well, he certainly did, but that after all might merely be due to the fact that she was his best friend, just like he was hers. It didn't mean anything that his eyes followed her through the halls during meals, or that she slinked through the corridors on her way from his room to her own in an increasing frequency and like a bloody first year trying not to get caught after curfew. It didn't mean anything that he would sometimes just observe her with an expression that made her skin tingle while she rambled on about whatever had caught her attention now, and it most definitely didn't mean anything that he had gifted her that Japanese dictionary she had been trying to get her hands on for over a year now for Christmas. Without losing a word about it, of course, and in complete denial that it had anything to do with the holidays.

Put shortly, Robin couldn't help keeping her eyes open now that Jorien had so bluntly prompted her to. And every little thing she discovered made her want to sink back into deep denial indeed, and build a twenty feet brick wall around herself. Sometimes being the god of a universe of illusion is easier than being a peasant in the hell that is reality.

Honestly, she had never before actually considered that she might be scared to see the reality she found herself in, and found in herself. That she was scared to death not only of his true feelings, of being rejected, but also very much of her own emotions. It had been quite blissful to live in the easy fixed knowledge that she loved him, without actually paying attention to the reality of her feelings. And in reality, she felt something so intense and overwhelming that it terrified her to pieces. If only things were as easy as saying she loved him… Because if she was keeping her eyes open now, not only to her surroundings but also to herself, it was so much more than that. He was her best friend after all, her family and home, and after seven bloody years, there was no denying that he had also become a part of herself. Sure, she would be able to live without him, but what really mattered was that she would move heaven and hell to ensure she would never have to. Bloody hell, what a mess that would become once she left school in no more than half a year… And then, she could only hope that he would want to keep her in his life as well.

"Earth to Robin!" Jorien waved her hand in front of Robin's face, which was the first thing Robin noticed when she snapped out of her thoughts. "If you keep daydreaming like that, we'll be late to the ball!"

"We still have three hours until it's time to head up there." Robin huffed while rolling her eyes, but still shut the book in her lap she'd been failing to read for the last thirty minutes anyway. "I don't plan on sitting around in my dress until then."

"Are you sure that you want to wear the same one as last year?" Cas inquired in what sounded close to a whine. "I still stand by my offer to lend you one of mine!"

"Pff, yeah, Robin in a peach coloured glittery dress…" Jorien snorted, shaking her head at her friend. "You might be close to the same height, but your style is entirely different."

"I know that!"

"Obviously you don't. And Robin has a completely different body shape than you do, in addition to that."

"Hey, it's not my fault that I have muscles in my body!" Cas huffed with a glare at her friend. "Making the Quidditch team and staying on the team requires at least some level of physical fitness."

"Hey, I do have muscles!" Robin protested immediately, but she couldn't say that she felt offended by the girl's words. It was no secret that Cas definitely was the athletic type, whereas Robin's virtues were of a more academic nature.

"Yes, that, and I was actually referring to the fact that you are quite a bit more gifted in the upper regions than Robin." Jorien added with a pointed look at Cas, who crossed her arms over her chest with a blush and a pout.

"Guys, it doesn't matter, alright? I'm actually very much looking forward to wearing the same dress as last year." Robin tried to mend the field with diplomacy and an easy shrug. "The only reason I'm wearing a dress in the first place is so that I fit in a bit better."

"With Snape or with the crowd?" Cas returned with a smirk, all embarrassment forgotten. "Because while the former is quite the success with your dress, it logically eradicates the possibility for the latter to be too."

"That sounded way too Simon of you." Jorien snorted, then dodged the pillow that came flying her way. "What! It's not my fault that you guys are adopting each other's speech patterns more and more."

"So what's the plan for tonight?" Robin barged in before Cas could come up with a reply to get their bickering going again. There had been enough of that at breakfast. "Simon obviously is Cas' date, Gideon asked Lisa and Micheal's still trying to find someone. What about you, Jorien? Any prospects?"

"I asked Melissa." She shrugged casually in return, then started picking at her nails. "She'd rather go with a boy than with me. Better a date than a friend-date, and all that… Perhaps I should set her up with Michael, if both are so desperate to find someone to bring along. Quite pathetic, if you ask me. I'd rather go alone than be someone's last resort."

"Going alone is perfectly fine, I haven't ever had a date to the ball either." Robin shrugged with an encouraging smile. "You can be my date, if it means anything to you."

"You've been someone's unofficial date for all the past years, from what I was told, and I'm not getting in between that!" Jorien held up her hands in defense, and Robin rolled her eyes. "Upsetting Professor Snape wasn't on my agenda for tonight."

"Anyway…" Cas said after a few seconds of weird silence. "My plans for tonight include lots of dancing, hopefully some spiked drinks and of course some casual snogging."

"Cas!" Robin tried to sound scolding, but her laugh betrayed her exasperated tone. "That's nowhere near appropriate behaviour for a school dance!"

"Hey, I'm no saint and I never said I was!" The girl laughed in return, and the mischief that settled on her face should've been more disconcerting to Robin than it actually was. "Who knows, perhaps we'll visit the fifth floor hallway if things go well enough."

The mention of that make-out spot alone made Robin pull a face in distaste, and she couldn't help frowning deeply at her friend. "I would like to think that Simon has a bit more class than that."

"What, and I don't?"

"You just suggested going there, without a concern in the world. So please excuse me if I question your standards."

"She's got a point." Jorien added with a snicker and a shrug, and Robin gave her a high five with a smirk. Two against one; nobody was going to the fifth floor tonight.

"Fine…" Cas groaned and crossed her arms again. "But wherever else should we go, huh? Being classy while being a student isn't all that easy if you're not entirely immune to every boy's charme like Jorien or best friends with a bloody professor like Robin! How am I supposed to have fun, can you tell me that?"

"I'm not giving you pointers on how to snog your boyfriend, Cas. Or worse." Robin replied calmly, for she couldn't decide between being flustered and laughing at the girl's exasperation. "If you guys want to sneak around, you better do it without my knowledge. You know I can't lie, and chances are high that I would have to if I knew what you're up to."

"The alcoves are said to be a pretty good spot for making out." Jorien shrugged, completely ignoring Robin's previous statement. Great… now Robin would have to actively not listen to both of them. "And there's always our room, if you wanna go all out. With some sixth year charms work, it shouldn't be too difficult to find some privacy in the dorms… And I'd planned to sleep over at Melissa's tonight anyway. To hear all about her conquests."

"I did not just hear that, nope, absolutely didn't." Robin sighed to herself under her breath and turned on her heels, deciding that it was due time to take a shower. She'd gotten through puberty without too many losses, if she'd even had one in the first place, but she would be damned if she got dragged into her friends' shenanigans now as a late payback for that. So she grabbed her things and fled the room, after triple checking that everything she needed was safely tucked under her arm. She would not be smelling like pineapple tonight.

… … …

Luckily, when she returned to her room an hour later, the conversation had moved on and the girls were now discussing Cas' options for the dress she was to wear tonight. That was a topic Robin could very well live with, could very well ignore, and so she went back to reading like she'd originally tried to do before her thoughts had strayed. With a content sigh, she stretched out on the bed and focused on the article in front of her, until a light tap on her shoulder drew her eyes up and away from the page.

"It's just ten minutes until we're leaving, so you might want to get ready now at least." Jorien said to her with an amused smile, which only broadened when Robin's jaw dropped.

"But I literally just started reading! It can't be that late!"

"Yeah, well, that was two hours ago." The girl chuckled, then turned around to Cas for her to close the zipper of her dress. Both of them were already done with their preparations, in full makeup and beautiful hairdos, just a smile away from ready to go… and Robin was still in her pajamas.

With a groan under her breath, she flipped the book shut before tossing it onto her nightstand, then she scrambled to her feet to dig out her dress from the trunk at the end of her bed. Ten minutes; ridiculous, impossible… Well, not if she screwed decency for now. Without wasting any of the precious time on contemplation, she just went with it and shed her Queen shirt first, then her flannels without a second thought. Should they see her in her knickers, who cared at this point. They'd known each other for years now. Still, what she hadn't considered was the very reason why both girls gasped now and stared at her even as she stepped into the heavy black fabric of her dress and pulled it up her body with one swift move.

Robin sighed under her breath; she could very well imagine why the girls looked at her like that. It was one of the reasons why she never changed in front of anyone, and even less let them see her in any state of undress. "It's just a scar, guys. No need to be weird about it." She stated before either of them could say anything that would make the situation even more uncomfortable. "I told you that I was stabbed last summer, it's no big deal. Not a pretty sight, I know, but it is what it is."

"Didn't that hurt?!" Cas was the first to blurt out her thoughts. "I know that you told us about it happening, but… somehow I never really thought about the implications of that."

Robin snorted at the question, while she moved her hair out of the way to let Jorien close the many tiny buttons of her dress now. "Obviously it hurt. I almost died from blood loss, that's not going to happen from just a scratch. But it healed well for what it is. The scar really is a small price for my life."

"It's so weird to think that you've gone through something like that! I mean… you're just Robin, a bookworm too smart for her own good. To think that all those adventures you told us about actually happened is like imagining Professor Sprout in a wrestling tournament." Cas gestured wildly as she spoke, and Jorien just snorted at her friend's dramatics.

Robin shrugged all of it off with a smile that was as apologetic as it was evasive, then straightened her dress and put on the one pair of more or less dressy shoes she owned; they'd be covered by the dress for the most part anyway. Then she twisted her hair up with her wand like she usually did, and that was about it. Makeup still wasn't getting anywhere near her face, or any other body part for that matter.

"Wow… You look amazing! Powerful and dark and… pretty damn hot." Jorien commented when she got a glimpse at the front of the dress as well. "Like you're the essence of night itself."

"Right! That's exactly what I said last year!" Cas grinned and nodded in agreement, while Robin simply tried not to blush. Compliments about her wit and brains were fine… compliments about her looks however were just unusual and therefore weirdly uncomfortable.

"Thanks guys, but I'm really just trying to fit in." She shrugged, and both girls frowned at her in an instant.

"Fitting in is actually the last thing this dress does for you, I think." Jorien smirked as she slung her small bag around her shoulders, seconds before all three girls made for the door. It was time they got going, after all, and thus they mostly hurried through the common room and out into the hallways. "If anything, you'll draw attention. Make an impression on some people. Seize a few hearts, and steal a soul."

Robin just snorted while rolling her eyes at the comment, but Cas caught straight on to it.

"YES! Absolutely! Robin, you've got to take advantage of those killer looks… Try to seduce the subject of your affections!" Cas beamed, in a way that spoke volumes of her excitement about meddling in foreign affairs. "Use your womanly charm and go for it! Make him fall for you!"

"I love you, Cas, but do shut up."

"She's right though!" Jorien obviously had to side with her friend, and Robin groaned under her breath upon having both girls plotting against her now. "If he doesn't find you delectable now, he's truly as undeserving of you as every other male in this castle."

"And who would you be talking about?" Snape's deep voice made all three girls jump all of a sudden, and they each spun around to stare at the dark figure in the middle of the hallway behind them. They hadn't even made it out of the dungeons yet; they should've known better than to talk this loudly.

"Professor!" Cas shrieked, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as if she'd been caught doing something terribly wrong. Robin sighed under her breath and resisted the temptation to roll her eyes; so much for getting the two sides in her life a little closer together tonight.

"Nobody!" Jorien was quick to reply, and even quicker to regain control of the situation. "We were just on our way to the ball, actually."

"Obviously." Snape and Robin replied at once, and Cas snorted in return. Oh, this was going great alright… more fuel to their flames.

"Yes, it is fairly obvious, isn't it? So we should return to doing just that, or we'll be late." Jorien flashed a quick smile, then turned on her heels and grabbed Cas by the arm to drag her along while looking back over her shoulder at Robin. "You go ahead, and we'll find the guys and meet you in the hall later, yes?" With that, the two girls disappeared down the hallway and around the next corner mere seconds later, leaving Robin frozen to her spot with a frown on her face.

"Is it me or are they being even weirder than usual?" Came Snape's dry remark from just behind her then, and Robin's eyes flew to meet his while an involuntary smile pulled at her lips.

"Oh, they're absolutely bonkers. Delusional, really, if they seriously believe that I am looking delectable to anyone tonight." She chuckled, in the honest hope that he hadn't heard more of the girls' pep talk than that. But then again, he knew how to take their ridiculous ideas and teenage delusions by now, so it really didn't matter all that much. "It would take a blind man to find that mess on my head attractive."

"If you say so." He quirked an eyebrow at her in amusement, then offered her his arm instead of the usual subtle hand on the small of her back. "Let's make an effort to make it to the ball before we miss the headmaster's great speech, shall we?"

Robin's smile brightened before she could help it, and she didn't even hesitate to accept. This was the closest thing to a date she would ever have. "We shall indeed."

They arrived in the great hall just seconds before Dumbledore rose to gain everyone's attention, and luckily therefore nobody paid them much mind. A few glances here and there, more likely than not accompanied by frowning faces that studied the sight of the two dark figures in the shadows by the doors, who looked almost indignantly bored. And boy, the headmaster could talk and talk forever if he fancied it, about courage and justice and kindness and all those nimble ideals Robin fancied a more practical approach to. But finally his words faded into applause, and the crowds began moving and talking again.

"Is it me or does the speech get more righteous every single year?" Asked Robin, while she let Snape lead her towards their usual table in the far corner, only to find a group of adults sitting there already. In immediate confusion, they halted in the middle of the room, and her eyes found his in a silent question. Good thing it had become almost a bit of a routine that whenever she failed to take notice of something that was going on around her, he would know exactly what she had missed and could fill her in.

"Dumbledore opened the ball to a larger public this year." He explained, with a quiet yet undoubtedly disdainful tone. "Parents, important families, retired professors, ministry officials and the like."

"Why on earth would he allow them at a school ball? I mean… isn't this technically supposed to be for the students' enjoyment?" Robin inquired, while they continued moving through the room in search of an empty table, but finding none.

"Remember what I told you about the reasons for bringing this ball into existence in the first place?" Snape mused, and his eyes continued scanning the room, but not for a table anymore. Robin wondered who he was searching for.

"Oh. Yes, I do remember that."

"Well, let me assure you that this decision on the headmaster's end has something to do with the very likes of it."

"Great…" Robin sighed under her breath, and finally they settled for just standing at the edge of the dancefloor like everyone else who hadn't yet put a claim on a sitting spot. Somehow, the entire thing didn't seem like a fun night with friends anymore, but the very thing that was prone to make her anxious. Too many people, too many strangers mostly, and no certain place to sit and endure it all from the ranks… this was going to be hell. Or maybe, not entirely.

"May I have the first dance?" Snape asked, just when the occasion was announced and the musicians got ready to lead the way through the night. He held a hand out to Robin, in an expression of calm neutrality rather than the usual scowl even though they were surrounded by hundreds of people. Robin's heart skipped a beat, and she had to remind herself not to grin like a fool while yet her lips parted in surprise. Had he actually just asked her to dance? With words, in public, and for the first dance out of all the possible ones tonight?

"Isn't the first dance just for important people and their dates?" She quirked an eyebrow at him in mild amusement at last, choosing humour over astonishment and tingles, which would border dangerously on allowing herself to hope again.

"It is also reserved for the professors and overall staff, and even if you rightly so keep ignoring that, this group also entails me. As it is, I do not dance with anyone but you, so they will have to bear with the two of us, or live with neither." He replied so smoothly that Robin had no time to doubt or question his words when she placed her hand in his and let him lead her onto the dancefloor. Bloody hell… now all eyes were on her indeed, and she actually couldn't care less for once.

They got into position as did the other couples around them, some of which Robin knew and some of which she hadn't seen before, but when the music started, the world faded in return and left only Robin and Snape and the music behind. This wasn't hell, she found, but rather a piece of heaven on earth. Just the two of them, moving through the open space while never once looking at anything but each other. And in the very spirit of two weeks prior, Robin yet again couldn't help the smile on her lips as she held his gaze. The only thing she missed was the warmth of his hand on her back, the almost scorching touch, as now the thick fabric of her dress dimmed it down quite a bit and left her to feel the comforting pressure of it more than the heat. How nice would it be to have his fingers dancing across her skin? To dwell in his warmth for a bit and let it burn out the cold winter within her? She could only dream.

"I believe we make quite the sight." His quiet voice broke through her haze of excited, calm ambivalence, and the world regained it's hard corners and outlines. Gone was the dream, delayed to haunt her in her sleep tonight.

"We simply know how to dance." She replied with a subtle smirk, and found that the world wasn't quite so bad either if it still entailed the two of them together. "They probably don't get to see that all too often."

"I was thinking more along the terms of our common choice of… unusual wardrobe, but yes, I agree with your assessment as well."

"What other than unusual would they have expected of the dungeon bat and the insane girl?"

"Is that how people think of us?"

"I believe so." Robin smiled, but it took everything she had not to show the true effect his words were having on her. Was she so far gone by now that all it took was an 'us' ghosting past his lips to unravel the walls that contained her emotions? It seemed so.

The music stopped then, fading off the last strings as their flowing moments came to a halt as well. Too bad it was over. But perhaps they could do this again, now that the first dance had officially proclaimed them as partners for the night. It was an official custom after all, right? Robin held onto that string of hope at least as they made their way off the dancefloor and straight towards the far corner where their usual table lay empty now. Too bad for whoever had vacated it; now it was Robin's to keep.

They sat down to face the hall as always, and while it was significantly more crowded this year than it had been in the years prior, that also gave them quite a few more victims to observe and comment on. They got exactly two hours to themselves before their social invisibility was broken by the still distant but determined appearance of Cas. In her tow the other six people, who looked a lot less eager than her to get anywhere near Snape tonight. Robin sighed to herself in mild disappointment before anyone even spoke up; she would have to make a choice between her friends and her best friend now, and she hated that beyond measure. Why did life have to be so unfair at times?

"I know what you're thinking." Snape said then, quietly even though the ground of people still had to come anywhere near the table. "And you shouldn't be concerned, I understand the problem fairly well. I will leave if they wish to spend time with you."

He was already up on his feet and ready to just walk away when Robin caught his hand, and held onto it so tightly that his eyebrows lifted up when he looked back down at her.

"Don't think it's a decision I want to make, okay?" She asked with a sadness she didn't bother to hide. "It's not a decision I can make, actually, and I simply would've told them to deal with it or be the ones to leave if they've got a problem with your company."

"I know. And since it isn't a decision you should have to make, I made it for you now, by offering to leave."

"I don't want to spend the evening without you…" The words spilled past Robin's lips without any restraint now, and she was glad for that. It made the corners of his lips curl upwards for a fleeting moment at least.

"In that case, I might have to come and rescue you from their fangs in two hours for another dance. Good solution?"

"Make that one hour instead and we have a good solution indeed." She smiled up at him, and only now realised that she was still clasping his hand like a lifeline. Reluctantly but necessarily she finally let go. "I can't have four teen girls and three boys around me for much longer than that."

"As you wish." He returned a knowing not-smirk for a second, then turned on his heels and disappeared in the crowds just when Cas reached the table.

______________________________

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beyscape · 4 years

Text

The Intern - 5

Andy Barber x Reader

Summary: Being Andy’s intern meant you got to spend more time by his side more than anyone. This was fine, however, until feelings got in the way and made things complicated

Word Count: 1700

Warnings: technically cheating, mentions of sex, teeny bit of sexual content

A/N Contains spoilers from episodes 1-7. Here’s a short little thing to keep you going until Friday. I wanna watch the last episode before writing more, I really like to stay close to the story with this fic.

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5

Leaving was never easy for Andy Barber. The warmth of your touch, the softness of your kisses, the hooded look of your eyes… These and some other moments he held dear in his heart came together and made a combination so sinfully sweet that he never managed to get enough of. Every little moment left him yearning for more, desperate for the next time he would get to feel you. The next time he would get to hold you.

He never expected this, never expected to fall so hard. The feelings he nurtured in the most private part of his chest were awakened fully, stronger than he ever felt them. They swirled and came alive in him, a buzz of emotions in his veins, constantly travelling him whole. So powerful, so overwhelming at times that Andy felt he would burst with this newfound affection. So unexpected, something he never knew he needed until after he found it. Your smile, the one that came out only in those intimate hours, flashed in hind, Andy’s heart thudded in response.

It wasn’t long before he found himself in front of the red door that seemed too bright, too glaring, and he was back at the house. Back to pretending and lying. It was a ticking bomb, with Jacob’s trial so close, and the inevitable conversation loomed over him in the forms of dark clouds.

He had to tell Laurie.

He was well aware of it, he precited what he would say and how he would say it. He was supposed to be good at delivering uncomfortable news and speeches, he was a lawyer for God’s sake, yet he couldn’t muster the courage. The words escaped him both times he tried, the conversation ended before it could even begin, and he was running out of time. He closed the door behind him, even the soft clicking sounding too loud in the silence of the morning.

“Where were you?” He stopped as the question hit his ears, asked by a soft but a firm voice, he turned. Laurie sat in the living room, stone-faced as she looked at her husband standing steps away from the stairs. Andy’s first instinct was to lie, like he had done many times before in the long years of his marriage, but he was tired of it. So, the time was now. He sat down across her.

“I…” He took a deep breath, not finding it in himself to look at her cold, accusing face. He no longer felt the kind of love he once thought he did, but that didn’t mean Andy didn’t care about her. Of course he did, she still was the person who spent so long by him. She still was the mother of his son. He wanted to be as gentle as he could. “I was with someone.” He looked up to her face then, the face that didn’t reveal a single thought crossing her mind.

“Who is she?” Her voice hoarse, barely audible as the question fell out of her mouth.

Andy gulped once. “Y/N.”

A bitter laugh escaped Laurie then, her eyes remaining icy. “I should have known.”

A silence fell over them, both wondering how they ended up being two strangers living in the same house. The clock ticked and ticked, the time they had before Jacob woke up slipping away. Andy sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. What could he say? What was there to explain?

Laurie broke the quiet. “How long?”

“Almost four months now.”

“So, since this whole thing started? Jesus, Andy, I can’t believe you. Out of all the times, you had to have an affair now.” She hissed, getting up from her seat.

“I know. But she… she means a lot to me.” He couldn’t help it, couldn’t sit there and play down what he had with you.

“I don’t care.” She scoffed; her arms wrapped around herself. “I don’t care what you feel or who you’re screwing, but if this hurts our son’s trial, Andy, I swear—”

“It won’t.” He stopped her. “It won’t. Neal can’t do shit about it.” Andy insisted.

“So, Neal knows?” Laurie threw her hand in the air, “You are unbelievable.” She walked away, into the kitchen, not wanting to look at him. Andy followed her quietly, leaning on the counter.

“What do we say to Jacob? I don’t want him to find out about it in court.” Laurie muttered after a second, brows furrowed in thought.

“The truth. He’s a smart kid, I’m sure he already knows things aren’t what they used to be.” That was what worried Andy the most, telling Jacob. All he could do was to hope that, in time, Jacob would understand. And maybe forgive him.

“Cause you know so much about telling the truth, right?”

Andy actually chuckled at her remark, he nodded. “I deserved that.”

The pair looked at each other, the distance between them feeling greater than the few feet it actually was. Laurie’s palms rested on the counter at the center of the room. The unspoken words floated between them, years of lies and pretending making up a mountain. She had always wanted to try, to change things and mend them, but in that moment, she knew they were at the point of no return. Laurie took a deep breath, let go of the illusion that things could have been different, and felt just a little bit lighter.

------------

The warmth of August was really setting in, leaving you a sticky mess had it not been for the fan you were positioned in front of. Your eyes desperately scanned over the e-mails that had cumulated in your inbox, very little of them were about Jacob’s trial and those were trivial. Too vague to let you know of real details. Neal kept his word, and did his best to keep you away from the case now that he knew of your relationship, he also kept his word on not telling anyone. You were sure Lynn would talk to you if she knew. The knock at the door finally made you look away from the screen of your laptop.

Seeing Andy in front of your door on a weekend afternoon was not at all usual, added with the expression on his face, you knew something was going on. You let him in quietly, he sat down on the spot you were occupying moments ago. A rueful smile appeared on his face as he noted the content on your laptop’s screen. You sat next to him, knees touching, your hand came to rest on top of his.

“Laurie knows. Jacob too.” He eventually said, there was a hint of air on his voice. Like he was happy to say those words after keeping them in for long. Your mouth fell open , you knew it would happen soon, given how the trial was approaching, but it almost felt too soon.

Andy took in your expression, his eyes intently searching your face, and he spoke again. “This morning, when I went back, she was up. We talked, honestly it went better than I thought it would.” He sighed. “We told Jacob too. He… didn’t say much. He needs time, but I think he already knew things weren’t as good as they seemed between us.” His shoulders slumped.

“So they know.” A selfish type of relief washed over you but you didn’t care, another step was over on the way of you and Andy finally stopping the whole sneaking around thing. Just a little bit more, and you would be free.

“Now the only thing left is the trial.” He looked back at you. His eyes were filled with many emotions, they swirled around in his beautiful blue eyes: relief, worry, affection, anxiety…

“Andy, Neal seems sure that he’ll win. Too sure.” Your eyebrows creased as you felt the worry Andy carried around in him. “Our relationship shouldn’t matter much in court, but everything else…” You groaned, “if only I knew what he was doing.”

“It’s alright,” his hand sneaked its way onto your knee, giving a reassuring squeeze, “he’s got nothing, the case will drop. And then, we will take a nice and long road trip.”

A smile curled at the corners of your lips. When he talked so confidently, despite his own fears, it was hard not to believe him. “I would like that very much.” Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, feeling his strong muscles underneath the thin shirt.

He pulled you on his lap, your legs on either side of his thighs, a soft moan escaped your lips as you felt him under you. You looked down at him, his eyes now hooded with lust, never getting enough of you. You kissed him, almost like it was the first time you ever felt his lips move on yours, yet the familiarity anchoring you. Safe, homely, but never losing the excitement.

“God, Y/N,” he grunted after a while as he pulled back to breathe, drinking you in, “what the hell are you doing to me?”

You kissed him once again, a slow smirk emerging, “I could ask you the same, Mr. Barber.” His head fell back at that, eyes closed. Your kisses trailed down his neck, sending him twitching in all the right places. Andy’s eyes snapped open as your weight lifted from on top of him, leaving a frustrating emptiness, but it quickly dissolved as he saw your next movement.

Sinking on your knees, feeling the soft carper under them, you looked up at Andy through your lashes. Your hands worked with ease, thanks to all the practice in the last couple of months.

“You are so tense,” your fingers ran over him, teasing, “would you like me to help you relieve some of that?” All he could do was nod. You smiled.

-------------

A/N: Friday can’t come quick enough! Still depends on the episode, but it is very likely next update will be the final (or at least the season finale!) of The Intern... we’ll see how it goes I guess.

CHRIS EVANS TAGLIST @marvelouspottering @kelbabyblue @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall @may-machin @little-dark-empress @retro-babez @patzammit @turtoix @rororo06 @thedevilinablackdress @evansgirl7

THE INTERN TAGLIST: @moonlightimagination @bellaireland1981 @buckysteveloki-me @peaceinourtime82 @shaddixlife @sodonutnutnut

#the intern #defending jacob #andy barber x reader #andy barber #andy barber x you #andy barber x y/n #andy barber fanfiction #chris evans x reader #Chris Evans #defending jacob fanfiction

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embyrinitalics · 3 years

Text

Calamiversary: Link’s POV II

Here’s some more scenes from Link’s POV—about 2.4k worth! (I rly hope this makes up a little bit for the fact that I haven’t updated in two months omg)

But you know how I said that reading through my old stuff makes me cringe? Yeah this is like, way worse. It’s all unedited, and I wrote these in December 2018, so it’s all old. It’s all embarrassing. 😬 But with that disclaimer, I’m going to put my personal feelings aside and let you guys read it if you want 😂

Also now that I’m looking at this I feel like they’re not in chronological order, like that scene with Revali stabbing him should have come after these ones with Mipha, but o h w e l l

Here u go!

Drowning

At first, all that registers is the pain, white and hot across my throat, and the numb realization that I’m going to die.

Of course, it’s not that simple for me.

The half of me that I’m always suppressing senses my weakness, slamming frantically against my defenses in the span of a heartbeat. I have to choose between saving myself and containing it. So I pour everything I am into holding him in, dragging him down with me in a white-knuckled grip. But he fights back.

The pain is agony, a thousand heated needles covering my entire body and then being driven down to the bone in nauseating synchrony. He thrashes in my hold, tendrils of his hate whipping out in places, and my vision blotches white. I feel the deathstroke across my throat heal; the earth quaking beneath my feet; the malice seeping out of me like blood oozing out of a wound.

I can hear myself screaming beyond the war, part agony and part fury. Part man and part beast. It’s slowly tearing me in two, ripping ligaments and shredding flesh as it claws deliriously towards escape. I grapple with him, desperately trying to hold on even as he starts pulling my limbs apart. But I know it’s only a matter of time.

Then I see her. Her light cuts through the pain, through the fear and the hate, brilliant and pure as the sun. I can’t speak; I can only stare, imploring her with my eyes to end me quickly.

She takes my face in her hands and I suck a sudden breath. Her glowing touch is warm and soft, comforting, and not the violent end I had been expecting—the touch of a goddess, and for a moment I can breathe.

Then her light engulfs everything—the woods, my body, and soon my mind. The relief from the pain and the peace of it is so indescribably jarring that I don’t resist, falling headlong into it.

And then I’m drowning. Drowning in the sensation of her between my hands, of the softness of her lips under mine, of the closeness of her. Drowning in sensations that are brand new and millennia old at once. I’m drowning, burning from the inside out, and even though it aches I don’t want it to end.

I remember myself, haltingly, and muster the will to let her go. I drop my forehead against hers, grappling with how much I want her—and with how far I’ve let myself fall. There’s no amount of leniency on her part that could possibly excuse this. But I’m not concerned with the consequences for myself; only with how my lack of self-control must have affected her.

“Forgive me,” I breathe. “That was—”

But she silences me, her soft, delicate fingers brushing my mouth with a feather-light touch that sends another pang of want rippling through my middle. Her eyes pierce into me, unendingly blue and so powerful I can’t help but wonder if it’s her magic. Then she exhales, drifting closer, her eyes falling heavy-lidded to my mouth just before they close completely. And the feeling of her lips meeting mine, electric, breathless, so warm, sends me diving under the surge of sensation again.

I draw her close, losing myself in her. There’s nothing even close to this—her touch, her taste, the sound she makes when I angle her head to deepen the kiss.

And I don’t know why I’ve denied myself for so long. I’ve always wanted her. And now that I’ve tasted this, tasted her—even all the armies in Hyrule couldn’t keep me from her now.

I smile against her mouth. Slaughtering them would be easy.

Through the intoxicated cloud swirling in my brain, the thought snags unpleasantly, like a potent flicker of light in a comfortable darkness. It’s enough to slow me down, enough to make me think.

Enough to make me realize this can’t possibly be real.

I stop, pulling away slowly to search her eyes. So familiar. So beautiful it makes my heart ache.

But she’s been dead for 10,000 years.

I want to ignore it, dive headlong into the illusion of her. But I can’t unsee it. I murmur, breaking the spell, “This isn’t real.”

She blinks, and suddenly she’s different. Still familiar. Still beautiful. Still alive. And then the pieces are snapping into place, and the woman in my hands isn’t the one I loved so many millennia ago. It’s the Zelda of this era, the one who only knows me as I am—as the Calamity. And we’re reliving one of her memories—one of my memories—

And it’s agony. All at once the peace is gone, the gentle, tremulous bit of happiness the memory had lent me and I had been nursing in my heart like a single spark in an endless night, and the hatred is flooding in. The anger. Everything the illusion had been strong enough to veil.

And I remember what I am. I feel the evil pouring through my veins like a poison. I feel it making my heart pound stronger. I feel it coloring my vision and filling me with desires I must never obey.

And it’s agony.

I’m quaking on the inside, partly from fury and partly from shock. And then I erupt.

“What are you doing here?”

She looks as lost as I feel, green eyes glittering with shock and fright. “I—I don’t know—”

“Is this some kind of a joke to you? You think that just because you have her memories that they’re yours to do with as you please?”

“No! I didn’t mean to do this—”

Oh, I want to break her. I want to hold her down and force her to taste some of the pain I have. I want to hear her scream. But I push her away instead, unwilling to give the monster the edge.

“Well undo it!”

She stumbles into the mantel, turning back with that pretty face covered in tears. And the satisfaction and the guilt churning together in my stomach makes me feel sick.

“I don’t know how!” she tries to reason. “It was an accident!”

I turn away and try to breathe. That glimmer of humanity, after 10,000 years without—and then to have it just wrested away—

“This how you operate when you don’t get your way, then?” I bite out before I can rein it in. “Prick the Calamity, see if he bleeds?”

“I told you it was an accident,” she says again, more quietly.

She sounds so miserable. A very small part of me wants to comfort her. But I’m so furious I can hardly see straight. Forcing me to relive this moment—with her—

What was she thinking? What in the name of the gods made her think she had the right? Hadn’t I been through enough? Hadn’t I endured enough torture over the last eon? Did she really have to reach down into my most private, most intimate moments and drag them into the daylight, too? The last, precious fragments of who I was, that I hold onto so fiercely, lest I lose myself completely—

Why?

“Magic doesn’t just materialize out of nothing,” I growl, closing the distance again, propelled by a fresh wave of anger. “What did you want to know? If it would hurt me to relive this? If I could even tell the difference between you?”

She winces like my words had been a slap. “No!”

“Then what?” I grab ahold of her, desperate for this to be over. Desperate to just—just feel nothing. “Do you want me to admit that you remind me of her? That I’m in agony every time I look at you? Is that it?”

“I don’t want anything! Let me go!”

“Would it please you to know that I am?” I murmur, my voice dangerously quiet, and she goes still. “Every time.”

And now, I realize numbly, it will be worse.

Because now she doesn’t just remind me of what I had with my Zelda.

Now I’ve tasted her, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to again.

Frightening

“I’m sorry about what happened with the Champions,” she says quietly, catching me off guard. “I imagine it was… frightening, losing control like that.”

Yes. Yes, it was. I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid of anything in my life as I was in that moment, so close to rupturing, so close to tearing her apart with a thought, so close to losing myself completely and destroying everything I love in the aftermath. I want so badly to tell her, to unburden myself. I know she’s hoping I will. And that just… makes the temptation worse. She’s staring through me with unseeing eyes, full of the desire to understand, to heal even a little bit of the damage. I want to pull her closer, taste her again, thread my fingers in her hair and indulge in the warmth of her. I want to lose myself in her touch, in her lips, lose myself to her instead of to the monster working to claw its way out of me. I want to—

Gods!

“You were right,” I manage, finally. “They weren’t to know.”

“How have you been since?” she asks. So eager. So earnest. So gentle. It’s infuriating. “Any lingering effects? Urges to explode?”

“I always feel the urge to explode,” I scoff, grateful for the levity. “But no. The seal is as strong as it ever was.”

The Zora Princess

We stop to rest and I quietly remove myself. So I can breathe. So they can breathe.

The air tastes clearer once I put some distance between us, like grass and wind and the malice in my mouth instead of the honeyed flavor of their adrenaline. The pressure in the back of my mind eases somewhat without the constant temptation, but the hollow gnaw of the hunger is just as strong as it ever was. I lower myself into the prairie grass, beating back a groan.

The Gerudo and that bird creature are arguing about something. It makes Zelda laugh.

That’s good.

Then the wind shifts and the air tastes of sugar and salt, and I turn towards it slowly. It’s the Zora girl. She’s so short the grass is up to her knees, and her trident has become more of a walking stick than a weapon. She’s so quiet it’s easy to forget she’s there—but she’s one of the Champions, and royalty, if the headdress is any indication. I’m sure she’s stronger than she looks. The fact that she’s confronting me on her own is evidence enough.

I tilt my head at her as she draws close, feeling after that gentle spike in her heart rate as I fix her in my stare. It makes my spine burn.

“Princess,” I greet her quietly. “To what do I owe this honor?”

She leans on her staff, remarkably calm, and I can feel the tendrils of power wafting off her.

“You’re in a great deal of pain,” she says.

My lips move towards a frown as I draw the inevitable conclusion. Just my luck. “You’re a healer.”

“Yes.”

And her magic is a peculiar brand. Very strong, almost magnetized in the way it drifts towards injury. It’s what brought her to me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she could bring someone back from the brink of death.

I contemplate her usefulness for a moment; but I need to go much further than the brink, and that’s well beyond even her abilities.

Dreamcraft

I carry her up to the campsite, lay her near the fire and rouse it a bit so she isn’t freezing, and then grudgingly lift the sleepweb from the Zora girl. Her eyes open and then drift upwards, like she’s watching the spell float away.

Her eyes settle on me, finally, all golden and rippling, and she says, “You seem better.”

She’s a strange one. No demanding what I’d done, or where I’d gone, or what had happened. But she’s also sharp. Sharp enough that her bold-faced concern makes me feel manipulated. But she’s not wrong. I had been caught up in feeling terrified to notice, but the hunger had faded into background noise. Throbbing, like something swollen. I frown, trying to puzzle out how that had happened.

I finally admit, because it’s too easy to admit things when I’m with her, “We shared a dream.”

“And that helps?”

I can’t be sure if it’s the emotional implosion that follows one of her illusions merely drowning the hunger out, or an actual, measurable, residual effect of her dreamcraft. Either way, it’s worth studying. Which is horrifying.

“Maybe.”

We sit by the fire in silence for a while. That’s easy, too. Almost like we had been friends once, in another life. I’m watching the flames, and she’s watching Zelda, and then so am I.

“Could you enter her dreams now? While she sleeps?”

The idea of sauntering into her mind uninvited worms unpleasantly in whatever scrap of my conscience is left, vaguely reminiscent of guilt. But she’s plowed headlong into mine more than once, so it seems only fair. For some reason that reasoning doesn’t make the worming stop. I still haven’t answered, and her eyes glide to the side of my head. I call up the fire more, loosing a taut, tired sigh at her persistence.

“Possibly.”

It’s noncommittal and non-revealing, which I assume will grind her advance to a halt. But she slips around it like water in that infuriating way she does.

“You should try it sometime,” she says.

I tilt my head at her. “You don’t find the idea of trespassing on her mind morally objectionable?”

She shrugs. “Not as objectionable as you tearing a swathe of Hyrule up by the roots.”

And that’s logic I can hardly argue with. Her eyes say she knows. And suddenly I find the image of her pretty crimson skull smashed against the stone and its contents spattered everywhere very appealing.

“You need her,” she adds, too simply, too condemningly, and I have to swallow down fury and terror.

Because she’s right.

The night drags and drags and drags, dread and disgust whipping me into a tumble of disquiet and every quiet tremble of fear or pleasure from her tempting me into her head.

#Legend of Zelda #Zelink #Fanfic #Calamiversary #Calamitous #Link's POV #Calamity!Link #snippet

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writing-the-end · 4 years

Text

LoL Chapter 19- Exhaustion

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU and Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland )

On their way to lunch, the hermits are attacked. Jealousy rages within the guilds that are losing, but the hermits are unable to fight back. Will they even make it to the event in time?

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“We make a great team, that paper birdy didn’t even know what happened to it.” Tango laughs, grabbing Grian into a headlock and playfully nuzzling his fist into the golden locks. His body aches, and he feels weak, but prideful. The other hermits around them chatter excitedly, walking down the smooth, clean roads of the noble district. Even the canals of swampwater are tiled and cleaned of dirt and debris. Streets Mumbo knows well- he grew up here. So of course he took the chance to go to his favorite cafe.

“I’d say I’m happy with bronze, but I really wanted to beat that Mitch guy. Plus, pirates always love gold.” Cleo hums, looking at the medal around her neck. Of course, she’ll always take beating some 30 other guilds to get this medal, their moans and complaints of being beat in the wrestling challenge. She rubs her wrist, wincing. “Though I’ll admit, I haven’t felt this burnt out from magic in years. It’s like that one event sucked it all out of my body.”

“I feel that way every time I step into the ring.” Tango states, earning a nod from Grian as well. “After day one, I could hardly get out of bed. I felt like a dragon was sitting on my chest.” A few others murmur agreement, and the conversation stops. Not for long, thanks to Grian.

“Scar, Mumbo, are you two ready to show everyone your skills?” Grian grins, fluttering to the front of the group.

“I was born ready for the creative event. I’ve been dreamin’ about this since I was a boy.” Scar sighs, feeling giddy. He’s already got an idea in mind, building and creating within his own head.

“I...I’m not so sure. Can’t someone else step in for me? I don’t think I can get my magic to work well enough, much less to beat the others like you all have.” Mumbo’s terrified. He wishes he had the confidence that Scar just exudes. He has no clue what he’ll build. He’s not even sure if his magic will appear today.

“You’ve got it, man.” Doc appears beside him, patting his shoulder. “Don’t doubt yourself, otherwise I’ll take control and make you believe.” Mumbo freezes, smiling weakly. He’s not sure if he should be comforted or not by Doc’s offer.

He turns, eyes glimmering upon setting his gaze on the cafe. He came here all the time when he was younger, before he joined the hermits. He would come here to study, to relax, sometimes just to get his favorite tea from the shop. Being back here is strange, the nostalgia mixing with nerves. What would his friends think of this place? Are they out of the normal? Doc and Grian definitely are.

Mumbo reaches out, grabbing the door’s wrought iron handle. His hand goes right through the metal, iron warping and wiggling like air in the summer heat. “What in the…”

The ripples cascade out, across the air and townhouses. The mosaics shatter before reforming, and the entire street is empty. But the hermits aren’t alone. “You freaks think you own this place, don’t you? That you’re anything like us? That you can just waltz into the noble district because you’ve won the past two days?”

Doc immediately summons his magic, ready for a fight. More than a dozen other mages appear from the illusion. Torn shoulder pauldrons, glistening with gold spikes, announces them being from the Guild of Gedeon. A council guild. Behind Doc, he can hear other hermits drawing their circles, blues and yellows shimmering off the illusion they're trapped in. “Let us go, you’re messing with the wrong guild.”

“Ohoho, win a couple of events and suddenly you think you’re a guild? No, no.” A burly man with feral eyes stares down Doc, shoving him and Cleo towards Scar and Mumbo. “You’re messing up everything. I don’t know why Magistrate Dolios let scum mar such a prestigious event.”

“Maybe it’s because he realized ‘scum like us’ are better at magic than you. Didn’t want the crowd to get bored of the same old dopey outfits and subpar spells.” Cleo’s words have hardly crossed her lips before fists collide with them, sending her splayed across the ground. Doc needs no further initiative, activating his circle and taking control of the mage that struck his friend. His eyes close, and open again looking at himself. Ugh, this body smells. He turns around, meaty hands instead crashing into the Gedeon’s own guildmembers. Three fly out of the illusion, out of the bubble that traps them where no one can watch the fight. Beneath another, the ground opens up beneath her to reveal hellfire. The flames claw at her feet, dragging her into the open chasm. Swallowing her up.

Doc is thrown out of his puppet, head spinning and blood pooling from his own nose. Grian’s shout rings in his ear, making his head spin and splinter. He looks up, seeing the magical bludgeon disappear like a ghost from a Gedeon member. “You’re gonna regret messing with us. Messing with the order of things. You don’t belong here, none of you do.”

The illusioner stoops low, snapping his meaty fingers and nodding the gang forward. “And we’ll show you why you don’t mess with the Council. The wrath of the Guild of Gedeon is not something you walk away from.”

The fight is intense. Six hermits against about a dozen combatants. What’s worse, the Guild of Gedeon is an offensive group. When the arcane guard can’t do a job, when a strongarm is needed, the Gedeons are the first in line. Cleo holds her own, blood boiling under her dead green skin. Her sword doesn’t back down from a fight, and neither does the poltergeists she summons to aid in the attack. She’s exhausted, but that doesn’t stop her from being in the middle of the battle. Doc jumps from person to person, tapping into their magic and turning it back onto their own teammates. Scar does his best to protect Doc in the process, throwing up walls of rock only for them to be crushed by a volatile spell shot their way.

But they aren’t winning. Cleo and Doc’s attacks aren’t enough to stave off the fights and fragments of magic flown their way. Tango’s magic is all but gone, sapped from his body. Where did it all go? He had it all this morning, and the bird chase event couldn’t have been enough for him to lose it all! Even worse, Grian’s magic sputtered and died halfway through his attack. Mumbo peeks out from behind Scar’s barrier, hissing with pain as a bolt of hot rock is flung against his forehead. “Grian, what in the world is going on with your magic?”

“I...I don’t know, Mumbo!” He flicks his wrists, but nothing happens. His arms snap in a quick dance, and he does manage to summon his spell. The wind is hardly more than a summer breeze in his hair. “It’s not there, I’m drained of magic, of energy! But how, I hardly used anything!”

“It’s like you’re me!” The four hiding behind the wall are crushed as the rocks collapse. Trapped, unable to fight off the onslaught. Scar can only block the worst attacks, but bruises and cuts blossom across the hermits.

Until the bell of the capitol building tolls a single time. As quickly as the fight started, it stops. Scar lowers his walls and arm, brushing the blood from his cheek. Immediately, he searches for his friends. Doc struggles to his feet, ready to fight. But Cleo, Grian, and Tango look like they’ve been fighting for hours. They’re completely out of magic, skin pale and eyes glazed with weakness. Something is very wrong. Is there a suppressor mage here? No, that would affect everyone. Mumbo scrabbles backwards, wrist hanging limp. “Good luck getting to check in for the rest of the events, freaks. We’ll see who’s in the labyrinth event now.”

The illusion drops, and the busy street returns. Bustling crowds, horse-drawn carriages and carts passing by the hermits. As alone as when they first arrived at the cafe. People step around them, glancing at the battered group but never offering help. Scar gasps, wobbling to his feet. “The competition! Mumbo, we’re going to be late!” He pulls Mumbo to his feet.

“You guys go ahead.” Doc growls, sitting down on a pile of rubble. He rubs blood off of his cheek. “I don’t think the others can get up. They’re too weak.”

“What caused that? How could Grian not use his magic?” He’s an S-Class, he has ultimate control of his magic. But he acted like he was...well, Mumbo. And now? Now his friends are hurt. They lost the fight- no, they were thrashed. And he wasn’t even able to do anything.

“I don’t know, but I have a sneaking suspicion who the dark mage is now.” Doc waves the two off, before snarling. “Go! I’ve got the others!” And he’ll be sure Gedeon’s leader, that monster Sidero, gets a taste of what he just did to his friends. He must be the dark mage, trying to stop them.

But as Doc watches Mumbo and Scar flee, and he helps Grian, Tango, and Cleo to their feet, he’s only made them angrier.

_____________________________

“How am I...gah, how am I supposed to take a giant cat statue and make it move?” Mumbo hisses, looking up at the relief. Scar’s winning sculpture for the creative event was incredible. He could practically see every hair and whisker of Jellie, carved from stone using her owner’s terraforming magic. Even her wings are feathered, each barb as thin and interlocking as the real thing. It’s easy to see why Scar won the creative contest, hands down.

And here he is ruining it all with his own magic. The council really outdid themselves, pulling a twist like this. His magic falters, and the redstone dust collapses to the ground. Mumbo’s chest feels heavy, lungs pressed and heart clenching. His head feels dizzy, and his magic is nearly impossible to tap into. Surely this is all just nerves? But even Scar looked exhausted, like he was struggling to breathe, to stand after his magic. Exactly what Grian and Tango looked like.

What’s happening? He can’t help but look over his shoulder. Other guilds are working on the creations their teammates created. Whatever was before them, they had to automate. And from what Mumbo can see, most others are well ahead of him. Especially Ian, deep in the bowels of the contraption Sky had built. He can be heard swearing, the conductive gold making his machine move when he doesn’t want it to. At least Mumbo doesn’t have to worry about that.

But that doesn’t mean he can do it. The redstone dust falls apart, showering the ground beneath him. He’s going to disappoint everyone, he’s going to ruin Scar’s wonderful statue. He’s going to be the only wizard in this event that can’t even get the thing to move! He falls to his knees, the pressure mounting in his lungs. Making it hard to breathe, crushing in on him. And he’s exhausted, even though he’s barely used any of his magic. He can’t even get it to appear. Like always. All this work, all his hopes to win, will mean nothing if he can’t get his magic to summon. He’s a multi-mage, but he can never prove it. He can never show off his powers, and it’s exactly why he could never join any guild. Looking around, he can see all the guilds in the field he applied to. All of them said no, laughed in his face and ridiculed him when his magic failed to show itself. And now here he is, proving them all right. Making a laughing stock of the Order of Hermits.

“You can do it, Mumbo!” He picks his head up, looking around. He doesn’t recognize that voice. It takes him a moment to realize it’s not coming from any of the hermits. The voice is loud, echoing over the crowd’s low roar. It’s Ecto, one of the wanderers. Beside her, the other two teammates are cheering him on as well. Red’s practically bouncing in his seat, about to fall over the railing as he yells as loud as possible.

More voices join them. He can hear Iskall, shouting for him to breathe, to remember his training. He can hear some sort of soliloquy being written across the sky, intertwined with Joe’s voice. Zedaph and Impulse are holding up a sign, nearly knocking False and Wels with the board. Even the rest of Team Crafted was cheering for him. TFC is watching Mumbo, blue eyes gazing through silvery hair. He gives a small nod and a smile, his own way of showing his encouragement.

All of the hermits are his family, the family he never had. A family that would support him, help him, be with him no matter what. That never gave up on him. And TFC was like the father he never had, with a calm voice as smooth as obsidian and as strong as diamond. Someone he could go to with all his fears and faults, and know he wouldn’t be ridiculed or put down. That TFC would listen, and offer sound advice. Advice he can hear echoing in his head now. “It isn’t about the amount of times you fall down, Mumbo. It’s about how many times you get back up.”

So he gets back up again. He brushes the sand and dirt off the black fabric of his trousers, ignoring the physical pain in his chest and the unwieldy way his head spins. He closes his eyes, hand outstretched. In his mind, he can see his magic circle. The ninety degree turns ending in dots, the petal-like curls from the center. His hands move unconsciously, following the pattern of motions he created. It’s like ramming open a door, trying to find his magic. Trying to connect to it. But once he’s in, it washes all over his body.

He opens his eyes, his circle cast and the redstone moving to his bidding. Climbing up and ingraining in the pores of Scar’s stonework, following lines weathered through the rock. Lightning shoots through the circuits, from his fingertips and breathing energy into the cat. The haunches of the massive statue move, toe beans uprooting from the sand as Jellie comes to life. Redstone dances across her granite tail, flicking side to side. Mumbo can’t help but laugh, knocked over into the sand by a giant stone cat head rubbing into his chest. Scar’s incredible creation, brought to life with his redstone magic. Given energy through his lightning.

Statue Jellie opens it’s mouth to meow, but no sound comes out. She turns her head, gazing across the crowd surrounding her. Her eyes stop at the crown seat, where the Council sits in awe. Redstone turns on all across her body, his magic branching out onto each hair as it rises and her back arches. “Whoa, what’s all that about?”

Mumbo has never seen Jellie hiss at anyone, and even if this stone statue is just a version of her, his magic seems to have brought her to life. And her eyes are as thin as paper, ears turned back and hissing as she faces the Council. Mumbo runs over to the massive kitty, trying to calm her down. Lightning spreads across the redstone, forcing the stone statue to calm. For a second, Mumbo swears he can hear Magistrate Dolios’s voice, though his head is swimming from exhaustion. “Well done, boy. What i wouldn’t give for such...raw power. Soon.”

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gasp-iwrotesomething · 4 years

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Hey could I maybe request Helena stopping mc from losing her temper and turning to the dark side? If you know what I mean. Like Helena manages to calm her or do something to help mc regain control of her temper

I think I know what you mean, anon! Basically, MC has the Witch Queen’s powers and she almost loses control of her temper and wreaks havoc; do correct me if I’m wrong though lol! Thanks for your request and I hope you enjoy, lovely!

Side note: This was a lot of fun to write in terms of experimenting with pacing and tone. I got to explore on how to convey the panic and rage that MC felt as the Witch Queen attempts to convince her to join her; and it’s helped me a lot! Thanks for giving me that chance, anon!

Summary: After a battle with the Witch Queen’s henchmen goes awry, Helena is faced with the dangerous task of bring MC back to her senses... before it’s too late.

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It was all too much for MC. First the illusion and now the mental taunting by the Witch Queen herself... Birthing a fake vision of Helena dying in this battle was hard enough but to hear the Witch Queen jeer about how worthless Helena was, how she’d be much happier serving the Witch Queen again... It had blood vessels bulging from her neck out of sheer fury. She could feel a cold chill rise in her chest, hungry to devour, making her heart beat with the desire for carnage--desire to spill blood, to shed power, to just devour...

“MC!”

The Chicagoan didn’t hear her lover’s desperate cry--drowned out by the Witch Queen’s dark words that wove a crown around her head; thorns of power that stung and nettled MC beyond what pain her skin could perceive. She wanted to thrash, to lash out, to scream in the Witch Queen’s face until she could no more but she couldn’t do anything at all. Paralyzed and engrossed in magic--magic that kissed her fingers blue and singed the air swathing her hands. Compulsion to release it, to flood the world with her cold abilities and avenge the hollowness within her--the hollowness that has been cursed to her for years and years... MC could sense the Witch Queen slithering within her head, gifting her perceptions that weren’t her own--ones that quivered a tale of lifelong loneliness. Of revenge, stained the color of blood from thousands and thousands. Like a drooling wolf about to sink its teeth into its prey, MC was famished without the treat of revenge--the cold, cold, callous feeling that made her head spin with gratification born from the sickest of minds.

Soon, MC wanted to see the world in shambles, painted maroon to match the fury that pattered and pattered and pattered within her chest--a hardened organ, colder than the most freezing winters--!

MC had to escape. She had to break free--fight off the Witch Queen. Don’t give in.

“You and I together could ruin the world, MC. Consider all of the power you could have if you just gave in--give in to me.”

But the Witch Queen’s alluring purr infected every thought and every space of her mind, blotting out the world around her and the thoughts that begged her to move. Feelings never felt by MC unfurl in her and the desire to wreck--to kill--grows unavoidable. Her teeth grit as she struggles to withhold herself, struggling to restrain the tense ball of ability that writhed and screamed to be released. Her eyes stung as they glared into nothing but air, her eyelids unable to shut despite the frivolous cold that bit them. She felt like her jaw would snap at any second with all of the pressure she instilled into it, her gums beginning to ache with the harsh press of teeth against teeth. MC couldn’t see what surrounded her beyond the illusion of the Witch Queen’s throne and the wiseacre herself seated cockily on the very throne. The battle encircling her became white noise in the face of the Witch Queen’s voice; asserting thoughts of beauty and wisdom and eternal power that weren’t ones MC would ever think in a right state of mind. The Witch Queen had her collared--bound to her very hands like her most loyal of pets--and kept a vice grip on the leash that kept MC there, kneeling before a woman too vile to worship. MC wished she was actually in the throne room--so she could deflect these feelings and be the karma that would inevitably bite the Witch Queen where it hurt most; her nobility.

“Haven’t you ever wondered what it feels like to be feared by all? A simple glare would have the weakest falling to her feet, begging for forgiveness. You could be what they hide from--what they see in their nightmares and hope they’re asleep. Join me and you’ll never feel inferior again; you’ll be the one who makes everyone else inferior to you, MC.”

The Witch Queen taunts and MC cracks under her fierce ministrations--a splinter flutters away from her self-control and that’s the invitation that lures the Witch Queen in, her icy face of cruelty materializing in MC’s conscious-!

“MC! My love, please come back to me! Don’t listen to her--don’t let her fool you!”

Helena’s voice--a harp strung over the roars of a raging storm--fills MC’s ears and her hands--the softest remedy to harmonize MC’s skin--grip MC’s forearms desperately. Tears shimmer in her blue eyes as she shakes MC; first gently, then more aggressively as her fear amounts. “No! Come to me, MC, listen to me--your queen!” The Witch Queen shrieks as her grasp on MC begins to slip--the subservience of her prey chipping away into dominance and reign. MC felt her senses unravel and loosen, kissing away the numbness that plagued her body and the lost perception of the world around her is recovered. When her eyes lose their clouded shine, MC finds herself face to face with an ocean of sorrow, of empathy--of love that hurt to glare at. Helena’s ivory fingers were cupping MC’s face, her fingertips grazing the inches of skin just behind her ears. Her mouth--the color of bruises a day after infliction--is avidly moving, her teeth glimpses of white flashing that seemed to match the snow around them. Words fell on MC’s deaf ears as the Witch Queen shrieks once again, her presence an insect wandering around the depths of her head. MC shuddered as the Witch Queen, finally, withdrew and she crumpled; frail and bleak in comparison to Helena’s tall solidity. “MC, my love, are you-?!” Helena’s sentence doesn’t finish as her arms tighten around MC, dragging the sorceress down into the snow along with the weakened MC.

Her grey eyes had no shine; rather glimmered from the sun’s holy rays as snow soundly fell around them--gentle feathers falling to the ground. “MC, MC! Stay with me, darling, hold yourself to the sound of my voice!” The sorceress demands as a hand leaves her face to cup the back of her head, her pale fingers engrossed in strands of raven that were satiny and glossy like that of a raven’s plucked feather. Helena’s eyes glinted with tears and she clutched MC close like she was the antidote to a disease yet unknown--hugging her as if her warming presence was the sole barricade to isolate MC from the Witch Queen’s cruel grasp. Around them, the battle had ceased and no longer was the snow complimented with the icy blue armor of the Witch Queen’s soldiers. It was only Helena and MC, curled in with each other, allowing their clothes to soak up the snow’s moisture. Now that she can perceive the world around her, MC notices that her breathing is ragged and hoarse and heaves her chest each intake and exhale she did. She felt weak--defeated and seamless--only held together by the adhesive of Helena’s certain arms. “Can you hear me?” Helena croons, desperation clawing her voice, roughening the silk into rags. “MC, do you hear the sound of my voice? Has she taken you from me?” The skips of her heartbeat turn into scuffled hops, the metaphorical knees of each beat scratched raw with the emotion that paved the organ’s staccato.

Weakly, and with every ounce of energy MC could muster, MC whispers, “No one... can take me from you, Helena.”

Immediately, the sorceress’ channel of helpless sorrow purls into a charging river of rejoicing blue and she meticulously gathers MC against her chest in a solemn yet relieved embrace. MC’s arms limply sling around Helena’s back, sensing the hiccups that wrack her body as she cries--her depression harmonizing into intense joy. “Thank you, my love,” Helena murmurs into the wetting patch of fabric on MC’s shoulder, the words all pouring from her like a fountain of love all wished to life by a prayer, “my strong, strong, wonderful love.”

MC’s eyes sting and she grips Helena tighter, wishing the Witch Queen would fuck off for the rest of eternity so that she could stay enthralled in Helena’s arms, safe from harm...

Forever.

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Thank you again for your request! I really, really loved writing this for you and i hope you enjoy reading it!

If you want to request something, here’s the Prompt List, here are the Guidelines, here’s Who I Write For, and here is where you can Request me.

#helena klein #love and legends

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hjbender · 5 years

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Do you think Loki will cease to be Loki if he had lost his voice? For instance, post-IW Loki becoming mute after being held in the neck by Thanos? Would Thor feel better or worse to have his brother alive, but silent next to him?

I really like this scenario and would love to read about it happening in a fanfic. For Loki to lose his “silver tongue”, possibly forever, and be forced to communicate with Thor using sign language or writing or some other means would be a fascinating idea to explore.

I don’t think Loki would cease to be himself. Not ultimately. But it would be frustrating for him at first, I imagine, relearning how to communicate, and then trying to speak as effortlessly as he used to, which might be impossible. His hands probably can’t keep up with everything he wants to say, and this would understandably be the source of a lot of angst for him.

Thor might also be prone to talking over him before he learns to be more mindful of Loki’s disability, and realize that he does still have a voice—an inaudible one, but still a voice—that deserves to be heard. Perhaps this might make Thor more conscious of some of the inequalities that existed between him and Loki ever since they were children. A fault confessed is half redressed, as the saying goes.

I can see many single-voiced fights between them as they struggle not only with this matter, but also the matter of learning to live with each other again after so many years at odds in addition to rebuilding Asgard following the Snap, and eventually teaming up for the Time Heist. Loki’s skills would be very useful to the Avengers for this task, but his muteness might be a risk. Perhaps Scott and Tony could develop a special communicator for the quantum suits that doesn’t require speaking.

But I see Loki eventually getting the hang of being mute, using his words thoughtfully and effectively, and finding that they suddenly have more value and impact because of the nature of their delivery and the energy it takes to produce them. Thor becomes more attentive and quiet. He learns to be a better listener. Loki measures his words carefully. Gone are the thoughtless comments, the hurtful remarks, the useless retorts, and the wasted breath; what remains is a distilled, purified form of communication between him and Thor, open and honest, and they speak to one another now as they have never been able to speak before. Truthfully. Fervently. Meaningfully.

And once they reestablish this connection, it’s as if Loki’s voice was never really gone. He and Thor sign with one another comfortably and easily. They laugh together, bicker together, cry together, speak tenderly to each other. Thor learns the importance of nonverbal communication and is more conscious of his body language. Loki learns how to better express himself as time goes on. And in the end, nothing is lost between them.

Losing his voice changes Loki, but in many ways, it may be one of the best things that has ever happened to him. It’s brought him and Thor closer together. It’s helped him turn over a new leaf, make new friends and allies, and repair his tarnished image. And being mute is certainly better than being dead. Loki reminds himself of that every time he dissolves his illusion and studies the faint scars on his neck left by a mad titan’s glove.

How close he had come to dying that day. Thank the Norns that his journey hadn’t ended there, dangling lifelessly from Thanos’s fist.

And Thor, he still misses the sound of his brother’s voice: smooth and deep and velvety when he’s pleased, lilting and sweet when he’s playful, sharp and acidic when he’s angry. Perhaps he will always miss it. But having Loki with him now, alive and happy, finding his own peace and sense of purpose again—and still managing to be his cunning, mischievous self—is more precious to him than any voice in the universe.

#ask bender #mute loki #meta #hjbendergifs #thorki #post-iw #ragnarokedit #iwedit #thor ragnarok #infinity war #thorkiedit #thor and loki #odinsons #open communication is now this family's forte

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toartemis · 5 years

Text

Come on Love, Draw Your Swords - Part 3 & 4

For my own sanity I’ve chosen to combine these chapters on here.

Read on Ao3 here. More info and music recommendations can be found in the tags/chapter notes on there.

Part 1, Part 2.

Summary:

Sing to me, Moonlight For you, dear, are honey-tongued I dream just for you.

Or: The one where Jude finds out she's pregnant, and Cardan begins collecting a thousand plants.

Word Count: 6,675

Warnings: There is a depiction of a panic attack in this chapter. If you would like to skip it, stop reading at “But I never knew how to love,..." and continue at, "It's ages before she settles..."

Preview: She knows she should be thrilled. She is, deep below the surface. But her anxieties are almost overpowering, now, and she can’t keep shoving them away.

-------

Awareness comes to her slowly, the pull of sleep is heavy behind her eyes. The sun is just dipping behind the horizon, twilight lingering between the trees. Jude rolls to her back underneath a blanket of fur and her hands go to her belly without thought. She freezes, pangs of anxiety going through her. It always happens this way when she first wakes up; she has a few moments where she doesn’t remember. Of course, it’s hard to forget for long, now.

She started to show—really show—around a fortnight ago. It happened fast, like she could fit into all of her clothes until she woke up one day and couldn’t. That was when they announced her pregnancy.

Naturally, a large feast was held, one that neither she nor Cardan attended, opting to stay with each other in seclusion. It was a nice night.

Soon after she broke the news to Cardan, he got into the habit of pacing, which is still one of the strangest sights Jude has ever seen. It was short-lived, though, because it took him merely a week to fixate upon a new hobby that now takes up much of his free time.

To Jude’s absolute disbelief, Cardan began collecting plants. In the most non-magical, wholly mortal type of way. He disappeared once and came back hours later with an arm full of pots from the mortal world, as well as supplies Jude assumes are used to help them grow. She’s still stumped as to why he started it, but he has been faithful to them, shocking her and those closest to them.

It was ridiculous to her at first, and reminded her of Aleena. Back when she and Vivi first moved in together, their home was suddenly decorated top to bottom with greenery and has been that way ever since. Jude never cared for stuff like that, and she assumed Cardan didn’t either. When he first started, she was sure the plants wouldn’t survive, either because they weren’t meant to grow in Faerie or because Cardan couldn’t possibly keep them alive without magic, but she was very wrong. They’re healthy and decorate their bedroom and the windows throughout their apartments.

She still doesn’t know what happened to them over time, whether he enchanted them in some way or they just adapted, but they became magical, bit by bit, and now they’re lively little things with big tempers. Jude doesn’t question it, only keeps her distance so she doesn’t get poked or snapped at. When she finds Cardan pruning or re-potting them, a look of child-like concentration in his features, she marvels at how calm they are in his presence. The plants like him. She quietly leaves him to his tending whenever his schedule calls for it.

As endearing as his new pastime is, Jude wonders if it has gotten a bit out of hand. Now, as she slips out of bed, hand still on her stomach, and makes her way to the large, polished mirror across the room, she bumps into one of the newest additions to Cardan’s collection. It’s at the foot of their massive bed on top of a small, decorative chest. The plant almost tumbles to the ground, but Jude manages to catch it in time and sit it back upright. It’s a mystery, really, how she never sees him acquire any new ones, but they always appear in different spots.

She really needs to convince Cardan to put them all in an extra room somewhere else in the palace. Or a greenhouse, maybe.

Distraction taken care of, she glances at her husband to make sure he’s still asleep before continuing to her destination.

Mirrors frighten Judeas of late. She’s never been particularly interested in her appearance, per se, but now she tends to avoid them altogether. Her face looks the same as always, save for the rosy flush in her cheeks that seems to accompany her everywhere. Her eyes are tired, but her skin is clear and glowing even in the dim light.

It’s not her face that bothers her, but her body.

There’s no mistaking that she’s pregnant anymore. Her midriff doesn’t merely look like she’s put on weight. It’s obvious that she’s with child. The roundness of her belly turns all eyes to her form when she’s in public. It’s even more attention than she usually receives as Queen.

Cardan’s face brightens every time she’s in his sights, and when they’re alone he can’t keep his hands away from her stomach. Jude tries very hard not to let any of this bother her, but she can’t help it. It’s not that she doesn’t feel some sort of strange excitement deep within her at the thought of carrying and someday meeting her child, but she’s mostly just overrun with terror.

Jude is afraid and she can’t fix it.

The more time passes, the farther along she is, the more she can’t ignore what’s coming: she’s going to be a mother. And she’s scared.

She remembers what it was like to have a mom, misses her terribly, but she feels like after all she’s had to change about herself and adapt to that she’s lost the part of her that would be capable of raising a child in a healthy manner. Day and night, she’s plagued with visions of holding her baby and feeling nothing but cruel numbness. Or her child coming to her with some trivial problem, and Jude losing her temper. Compartmentalizing too much; dealing with them in the detached way she does everything else; neglecting them; not being able to show them the affection they need.

The list goes on. Jude’s anxiety grows. It always does in these private moments.

She loses track of the time she stands there, fingers caressing her stomach, but Cardan begins to stir at some point and she snaps out of her trance.

She says nothing of her fears and plants a small smile on her face. It’s not disingenuous, but it isn’t not a mask, either.

-------

She’s sitting on her throne when one of her personal guards approaches her. Cardan is late, probably off with his plants. Jude still doesn’t know what to make of that, but she’s grown used to his occasional disappearances at this point. She expects the message the guard gives her to be from him, not a request for an in-person and private meeting with her from Taryn.

The first thing she does is sigh. She’s allowed that much. Taryn, though Jude didn’t know it back when everything happened, could be as conniving as Jude is. Not as bold as Jude, never that, but cunning in her own way.

Jude almost tells the guard, Astor, to deny her. Instead, she agrees.

“The guest chambers in the Western hall, thirty minutes,” she commands quietly. Astor nods, disappearing into a hallway to her left. Jude folds her hands in her lap, trying to come up with what to say as to not start a fight or insult her sister. She barely sees her, now, and each time she does, Jude thinks that they look less and less alike. Or, maybe that’s just what she likes to tell herself.

Thirty minutes gives her enough time to make the decision to put on a more fanciful gown or dress down a bit. She does neither, opting to stay in her velvet dress the color of midnight blue. Gold beading is laid throughout it making it look like a shifting night sky from a distance. Jude likes this one. It pairs well with her crown.

She arrives at the last minute announced by the knights stationed at the door to the guest rooms. Jude strides in with her head held high. She always does. Taryn is already seated at the small, ornately carved table. A mountain of fruits and pastries stacked onto a three-tiered platter sits in front of her. She bows her head to Jude, not quite the standard that is to be expected for the High Queen, but both of them are under no illusions that Taryn cares much about showing respect to her.

The fireplace flickers, casting a lively glow into the room. Lanterns hang from the ceiling. The moonlight spilling in from the windows seems to bend and follow Jude’s form as she makes her way over to the table.

“Taryn,” Jude greets, voice neutral, and she sits.

“Jude,” she says back.

“How have you been? I haven’t seen you in some time.” Really, how long has it been since they’ve spoken like this? Two years? It seems like a lifetime.

“Yes, well, you do seem busy.” Taryn smiles sweetly. Jude says nothing.

Straight to thinly-veiled hostilities, then.

It’s been like this for years. They could never make up after everything. Jude is horribly stubborn, but so is her sister. They are twins, after all.

Silence fills the air. Jude refuses to fill it until Taryn does. She is not the one who summoned her sister here; she will wait. Eventually, Taryn’s carefully masked features soften slightly.

“How… is the pregnancy?” She asks. Jude’s defenses go up, she can’t help it.

“It’s fine. All going smoothly.”

More silence.

“How far along are you?”

“Eighteen weeks,” Jude says. Taryn looks at her. Really, really looks at her.

“I still have trouble believing it. I never thought you were one for children,” she says.

“Neither did I.”

Taryn lets out a hollow laugh. “It’s almost comical,” she says, sarcasm in her tone, “You never asked for any of this, yet you have it all.” She stares at Jude, jealousy rippling clearly across her face. “I wanted a place here in this world and I did what I had to do to get it. And I’ve always wanted children; a family, but no matter how much I plead, I can’t have it.”

Jude knows this. She knows Taryn wants children, but Locke doesn’t. Even if they fit together, Locke with his horrible schemes and Taryn with her love for watching them play out, they’re not very compatible in the ways that matter to Taryn. Eventually, she’ll get what she wants one way or another. Jude suspects it’ll be soon.

“Yet you got it all without trying, without wanting. It just fell into your lap,” Taryn grits out.

Jude is stunned. Taryn is never so plain with her; never so aggressive.

In the most indifferent manner she can muster, Jude says, “I beg your pardon?”

And Taryn lets loose. “I fought so hard to be where I am. I only ever wanted a place among the Court. I kept to myself, I never got in trouble, I found Locke, and you… You loved stirring it all, loved blowing it up in our faces, and you still ended up with everything, didn’t you? The most beautiful lover, a prince at that; the crown; the child.”

Jude takes it all in, and at first she’s furious. Taryn was always supposed to be the wiser of the two, and Jude is shocked at how twisted her point of view is from all of these years of tense silences and no communication. Back then, it was different. It was treachery and secrets, but that’s because it had to be, and Taryn had made her choice of which side of Jude’s she wanted to be on. Now, however… Jude is astounded as to how her sister came to that conclusion when she knew how much Jude wanted a place in the Court all those years ago, she knew Jude was lost and spiraling.

“You know nothing of my life, do you?” Jude asks calmly. And really, she is calm somehow. All traces of her anger have vanished, leaving only cool disbelief and an inkling of pity. “Nothing of it from the moment they pushed us into the river with the nixies… Or was it the mock war and tournament?”

“I know you were a spy for Prince Dain,” Taryn says, and there is a sweet distaste to her words.

“That’s right, I was I spy.”

“And you seduced Cardan.”

Jude barks a hideous laugh. Taryn glares at her, cheeks flushing.

“If I seduced Cardan, it wasn’t on purpose. How was I supposed to know he liked me threatening him? It was all with honest intentions of defiance, not seduction.”

Taryn looks puzzled and slightly scandalized. Perhaps it was the implications. Jude leans forward and says, “I didn’t seduce him. I never even liked him. We hated each other.”

“But the night of his crowning, you planned–”

“Yes, I did. I had a plan, one that I devised with my spy friends in our spy lair where I tied Cardan to a chair and pushed a knife against his throat.”

Taryn crosses her arms. This all seems like brand new information to her, and Jude is confused. She thought maybe that Madoc had told her more of Jude’s relationship with Cardan, or Locke knew some of the story, or… something.

“You really don’t know?” Jude asks. Taryn doesn’t reply, she just looks lost, even a little nervous. Jude is struck with a sudden sadness. She does not feel regret, no, because Taryn did things that were entirely her own fault, not Jude’s. But it is a deep hurt for the forfeited time between them.

There was a point where Taryn was her mirror, her best friend, her biggest confidant. The game of princes and crowns broke them apart. Jude can understand her sister’s motives back then. It’s much clearer now than it was.

So Jude decides now. She decides to try despite everything, despite the years of silence and awkwardness and her sister kneeling at her feet at the occasional revel. Jude will give it a chance. Her will has always been strong, but seven years is a long time to hold a grudge. Jude has forgiven betrayal before. She can do it again.

So she takes a deep breath and starts with, “Cardan had… some sort of feelings for me. I didn’t know. My honest thoughts of him were that it’d be better if he were dead and gone from my life. He was the bane of my existence.” It seems so funny now. Her hand goes to her stomach. Taryn looks bewildered at the fact that she’s even speaking.

Keep going, she tells herself. And she does.

Jude tells her sister of Prince Dain and his offer, his geas and the rules, her weeks of training and missions. She tells her of Valerian and his threats, his attempt at murdering her.

“I think I knew that part,” Taryn interrupts her, shoulders slowly relaxing then tensing again as if realizing what her words meant. Jude lets it go, trying not to dwell on them.

She recounts her side of the massacre, the Greenbriars falling one at a time, how terrifying it was for her future. She tells her of finding Cardan under the tables, escaping together, and taking him to the Court of Shadows.

Jude acknowledges that she’s never told this to anyone. None of it, really, except some bits and pieces to Vivi. If anyone knew, they didn’t know it from her. It’s exhausting to be so open with someone, especially when trust is so scarce.

She hesitates before the next part of her story, but trudges on.

“I knew I had to come up with something. I had the most valuable thing in Faerie right in my grasp. He just happened to be horrible. That was the night I found out how he… felt.” Jude looks up from the spot on the table she has been staring at and fixes her eyes on the wall behind Taryn. She remembers the moment vividly, especially the kiss. “I never seduced him. I was never his creature. I tricked him. I tricked him into becoming king,” she says. She isn’t guilty, but she isn’t proud of herself.

“How?” Taryn asks. After a moment, Jude tells her.

“I persuaded him into swearing himself into my service for a year and a day and lied that I would let him have a life free of the Court,” she says simply, gaze shifting to her sister.

“He never wanted the Blood Crown.” A look of soft understanding spreads on Taryn’s face.

“No, he did not.” Jude says. There’s a moment where she breathes deeply, pressing one of her hands into her belly over an ache. Taryn’s eyes follow the movement. “The night he was crowned was the night I became the Shadow Queen.”

“The role of seneschal was a ruse, then.”

“Partially,” Jude admits. “I still performed those duties occasionally.”

“Any other duties?” It’s harmless, not even quite teasing, but Jude reacts anyway.

“I told you I was not his creature,” she says snappishly. Taryn raises her eyebrows. Her poster stays straight and stiff, a sharp difference from Jude, who leans over the table, fingers drawing swirls into the surface.

“But the clothes… The way you both acted around each other.”

Jude huffs. “Cardan is dramatic. We were fools.”

The silence returns, but it isn’t uncomfortable; only weighty. Jude waits, hoping Taryn will offer her something else.

“Then when did it happen?” Taryn sounds unsure of her question, but it’s the first time she’s spoken that reminds Jude of how they used to be. It’s curious and open. It sounds like it’s meant to be asked between sisters. Jude is not the High Queen in this moment. She hasn’t been since she started her tale.

“Us?” Jude asks. Taryn nods.

“Somewhere along the way,” Jude says, recalling the exact moment they snapped, pressing up against each other, breathing into each other’s mouths. Taryn watches her, a small smile on her lips. Jude hopes she isn’t projecting.

“Before or after the Undersea?”

Jude succeeds in holding back a flinch at the mention of it, her mind flashing to what she did down there to survive. That, she won’t tell her sister. That is for her and Cardan.

“Before,” Jude says, “But he asked me to marry him after.”

“So that was true? I didn’t know if you returned and were married or did it privately before your… time away.”

“My exile, you mean. Yes, I was the Queen before. I wasn’t lying when I was embarrassed in front of the entire Court. It happened the night before, right after I murdered Balekin.”

Taryn’s eyes are comically wide. Jude laughs.

“It sounds so dramatic when I put it like that.”

And Taryn laughs too. “It’s dramatic put in any way.”

They giggle together like they used to when they were younger. Jude’s heart feels light. Just for a moment their past is behind them both. When they stop, there is silence. Taryn stares while Jude continues her patterns on the table.

“I missed you,” whispers Taryn.

And it’s not as hard as Jude thought it would be to say, “I missed you too.”

It doesn’t fix everything; it doesn’t erase the last years and bad faith and hard feelings. But it’s a start.

Jude finishes the rest of what she feels is necessary to be told now that she’s gotten this far. Taryn tells her bits of her own life and the moments she’s been happy, along with the moments she hasn’t. It isn’t fully comfortable, nor easy, but Jude is glad. And if she has a moment where she wonders what her sister’s motives are, Jude tries to think of other things and let herself enjoy her time.

And she does. She really does.

When Taryn leaves, Jude reaches to squeeze her hand within hers.

----

The sound of strings carries throughout the hall. Leaves sprout on the ceiling and fall, raining softly on the crowd. The Folk dance and writhe and drink before two thrones. The smell of faerie fruits and spiced wine curls in the air, enticing.

The ball is a magnificent one, Jude can admit. She’s wearing a new gown just for the occasion, many layers soft lavender fabric with white smoke patterns, hugging her just so to accentuate her features but hide her stomach a bit. Even Jude thought she looked lovely in it; healthy and youthful. Her belly looks less shockingly round hidden beneath the waves spilling from beneath her breasts. Her shoulders are bare and her sleeves graze the floor.

Cardan looks obscene in his pitch black silk clothes, shiny chains made of small gems swooping around his shoulders, white cape contrasting beautifully. His collar reaches up his throat like a shadow, his jawline and cheeks contoured with a smokey silver. The kohl around his eyes looks iridescent at some angles.

After so many years, Jude thought she couldn’t blush at something as simple as his appearance, but she was very wrong.

Indeed, all eyes were on them when they entered through heavy double doors earlier that night, sometime after the festivities had started. Jude had not been out publicly for weeks at that point, so when the whispers started up as the Court caught sight of her, she was ready for them. She was very obviously nearing her due date. Cardan, unfazed as always, prowls his way to their matching thrones atop the dais, Jude’s arm hooked gently in his.

This is where she finds herself, feet tucked beneath her, Cardan beside her, the ball in full swing around them. At some point he leaves her to speak with who she remembers to be a high ranking war master from far off. The crowd swirls around him, simultaneously avoiding him but inevitably drawn in as well. That’s exactly what it’s like to be near Cardan; he’s like gravity, unfathomable and too beautiful to touch.

Jude touches, of course.

Looking at him now, he chuckles at something, a genuine smirk on his face as he sips his wine. Something changed over the years, perhaps it was simply the passing of time, but he’s become much more open and inviting during these public events. The aura of authority is there, and he still acts the same as he did years ago, but the difference is in his stance and the way he looks at who he’s talking to. His shoulders are relaxed and pulled back, he leans forward ever so slightly.

It’s nice, Jude thinks. She likes seeing him work, watching him, because he is hers to study.

She remembers when he first became High King, how he would lounge on his throne without a care, drowning in wine. She loved him then. She loves him more now.

Jude shifts under the gazes of the Folk, becoming increasingly unsettled. She knows she looks big, but up on her throne in front of so many people and with Cardan somewhere in the crowd, she feels like a mouse in a sea of wild, hungry cats. Sweat gathers on her brow. She places a hand on her midriff.

It’s mere seconds later that she feels a dull twitch beneath her ribs, causing her to gasp lightly. Her pulse quickens, heart fluttering as she moves her hand to press down on the spot. Nothing meets her touch, for a moment, then it feels as if her entire stomach tumbles briefly. Her gasp is much louder this time, both hands cradling her belly.

She startles at the sight of Cardan kneeling before her. She could have sworn he was just–

“Are you alright?” His voice is rushed and quiet, one hand covering hers where is lies on her middle. Jude sees there are many stares pointed at them, and realizes she must have caused a small commotion.

“I’m fine,” she says, and makes to stand, swinging her tingly legs out from beneath her. Cardan tenderly takes her hands to help her up. “It’s okay, just movements.”

His eyes brighten at this, a small, private grin on his face when he looks at her belly.

“I’m going to retire for the night,” she continues, glancing from the crowd and back to her husband, anxiety coming up her chest and into her throat. She tries to swallow it down and put on a neutral face. Cardan looks as if he is about to say he’ll accompany her, but she shuts him down before he starts. “Don’t worry about it. You stay here. I’m going to take a bath.”

His squeezes her hands just so, the gesture barely there but warming her heart just the same, then he flicks his wrist in the air and a group of his personal guards appear behind him. She loves it when he does that, it never works so smoothly for her.

He presses a kiss to her cheek, one that has her eyes fluttering closed, and he murmurs, “I’ll come find you when the night is over.” Jude nods, a smile tugging at her lips despite the nerves, and she makes her way off the dais, a crowd of armed guards surrounding her and parting the swarm of bodies.

She keeps her composure until she’s alone, the doors to their chambers sliding shut behind her. She rips her crown off and sets it on her desk in the main room, and begins shedding the pieces of her attire. She reaches for a knot of fabric on her side, but it’s in a weird spot she can’t reach across her stomach, and she needs both hands to undo it so that her gown can loosen where it’s cinched at her ribs and can fall right off. She huffs, tearing out her earrings instead and ripping the braids out of her hair. Again, in her and Cardan’s bedroom this time, she tries for the knot, but it won’t budge without any help, and suddenly she’s so worked up and frustrated that she feels tears forming.

Stupid. Crying like a child.

She decides to lift the dress off of her instead, but the damned thing is too heavy, and her stomach keeps getting in the way and her skin is pulling and she feels too large to even breathe.

The first sob comes quickly. Jude drops the fabric, face crumpling. Then she’s sitting on the end of her bed, her dress swamping her form and piling around her. It just makes her feel worse. She cries so easily now and it’s infuriating, she hates it so much that it only makes her tears come faster. She doesn’t have the control that she desperately needs, everything is spiraling, she’s going to have this baby soon and she’s so afraid she won’t be good enough.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

Her breath comes in short bursts. She’s lived most of her life dealing with things like they’re a job or a plan, but this… This is something she doesn’t know what to do with. Putting off the thought of it being real worked for the first few months, but now the day is getting closer and closer, and she’s going to be a mother.

I can’t do this. I can’t be what they need me to be.

Another sob breaks free, and she buries her face in her hands, willing herself to calm down.

She thinks of her mother’s voice, and tries all the breathing exercises she knows of. After a long moment, she shuts her mind off enough that they work.

She’s still sniffling when she feels another flutter in her belly. By this point, she’s so tired she could fall asleep where she sits, so she doesn’t mind the feeling. The whiplash of her emotional state is jarring, but she doesn’t want to think about it, or anything, at the moment, so she unclasps a heavily jeweled necklace from her throat, kicks off her leather slippers, and lies down on her side right where she is at the edge of the bed. She falls asleep as soon as she gathers the fabric of her gown in her arms and squeezes, tension sliding out of her body and sleep taking over.

When Cardan finds her like that a bit later, his eyes soften. Jude barely wakes up as he unties the knot at her side and gently maneuvers her around, slipping her arms from her sleeves and working the heavy gown off her body leisurely. She doesn’t stir when he lifts her farther up the bed and covers her with the fur blankets she likes. And when he kisses her forehead, his palm splayed on her side, fingers dancing over the soft skin where her stomach meets her ribs, she sleeps through it all.

-------

Twinkling water rushes over smooth stones, the sight lulling Jude into a trance. She sits on a stone pew by a small pond with multiple swirling pools, the smell of wet grass filling her senses. It’s high noon, but the sun seems soft behind the clouds. Many Folk are asleep, but Jude is too nervous to attempt to settle her mind.

The midwives came to see her before the moon set. They say she has six weeks left. As soon as they were out of sight, Jude left her chambers and Cardan behind and escaped to her private garden.

She knows she should be thrilled, she is, deep below the surface. But her anxieties are almost overpowering, now, and she can’t keep shoving them away. There’s no time left, the days are ticking by quickly. She’s run out of things to distract herself with. All there is is her swollen belly and her headaches that never leave. Her thighs tingle and she can’t even put on her own shoes. If not for the team of human girls—willing, of course, and happy to help—that help her dress throughout the day and for different events, she would be barefoot constantly.

Jude never developed much of a liking for idle chatting, but she participates even less than she ever has, too caught up in her thoughts and the fatigue that follows her every step. She gets dizzy when she stands, now. It all makes her feel weak, and she hates it. It’s not entirely bad, though. The few moments she’s able to push her nerves away, she truly is excited to meet the child she has been carrying. There have been times that she’s almost gone to the mortal world to set up an appointment and figure out the sex of the baby.

She never does. She likes it this way. And, maybe, she thinks it would become too real if she knew. Denial has her closest companion these last months.

Cardan is visibly ecstatic. Jude never thought she would see him this way. Her heart does flips when he kneels next to her before bed, splaying his hands across where their baby sits. He presses kisses to her temples and cheeks at random, fingers gliding along her neck. When she bathes, he sits behind her, nose pressed into her neck, thumbs digging into the aches she has in her lower back.

He’s doting on her like never before, and truthfully, Jude would find it annoying if he wasn’t so unbearably charming.

Though it’s unconventional for a High King of Elfhame to share his apartments with his newborn child, they’ve both turned one of their rooms into a nursery. Besides, Cardan and Jude aren’t like normal rulers, anyway. Obviously.

Cardan seems overjoyed about it, and even takes a few of his smaller, gentler plants from his greenhouse—because, yes, he did move those disastrous things eventually—and places them along the large window in the room. Faintly sweet-smelling flowers sway from vines on the ceiling, and the walls are enchanted to seem soft and bright. The atmosphere is warm, like a blanket. Jude’s heart aches when she enters it, so she stays away more often than not.

She spends a lot more of her time in her garden the closer it gets to the due date.

Cardan leaves her alone there most of the time. That’s why she’s here now, he had seen the panic written across her features when talking to the midwives and she knew he would ask about it. He’s tried to get her to open up lately, but she brushes him off, not wanting to ruin his joy.

It only makes her feel more alone. The dynamic is strange. All of Elfhame seems excited for the birth of their child, mostly because that means lots of festivities, but Jude doesn’t know how to handle what her life is about to become.

Butterflies erupt in her stomach, nerves panging beneath her skin, and Jude wants to cry thinking about Cardan’s face when she stormed out of their room—as stormy as she could manage with a waddle in her step—before dawn. She’s nearing her breaking point. It’s not that she’s unraveling, anymore, like a complicated knot being pulled at. No, she’s completely loose.

She pushes herself up from the stone bench, back cracking, feet hurting.

Why couldn’t I have an easy fucking pregnancy? Or is this an easy pregnancy?

She huffs and walks back into the palace, personal knights flanking her movements. Jude wants someone, anyone, to understand what’s going on in her head.

When she comes upon her chambers, she waves her attendants off when they try to open the doors for her, not once, but twice. She needs to do something by herself. Pushing the doors open does strain her, but she feels better when she steps in and they close behind her.

She makes her way into her bedroom, expecting to sleep the rest of the daylight away, but when she enters, Cardan is sitting upright at the edge of the bed. The sheets are strewn haphazardly around, his tail is swaying in the air, gold cuffs and jewelry dangling from it. If she listened closely enough, she knows she would be able to hear the small tinkling sounds coming from the metal. Her heartbeat quickens. He’s staring at her, hands clasped in his lap, the Blood Crown lying beside him.

“I’ve grown tired of listening to you lie to me, Jude dearest,” he says, exhaustion in his voice and no malice to his words. Jude swallows thickly. “Will you be candid with me? Please?”

She frowns. She doesn’t want to do this.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, holding his gaze. The sigh he gives is dramatic.

“We will discuss this, I won’t leave you alone with whatever is tormenting you any longer.”

Jude flinches, though she tries not to.

“You see?” He says, gesturing to her, “It’s in everything you do. I’ve been going mad trying to give you space, waiting for you to come to me.” He stands, now, hand wiping across his forehead. “I can’t keep going like this, I want to help.”

And, really, with how fragile she feels, Jude’s not surprised that her resolve crumbles immediately when she sees for the first time how this has been affecting him too.

Silence hangs between them for some time, the sound of their breathing fills the air.

“I’m scared,” she says.

He just looks at her, worry in his eyes.

“I know.”

Something flares in Jude’s chest, emotion choking her. She feels like she wants to scream, like she wants to burst out of her own skin, and it’s so sudden that her carefully placed mask falls from her features, desperation and anxiety showing through. Cardan takes a step toward her, but she backs up two.

“Jude.” And it’s soft, laced with pain, like a question.

“No,” she says, voice watery. “I’m not just scared, I’m terrified.” She stares into him, willing him to understand all that she means in that one word. When she sees that he doesn’t, the words that follow build up on her tongue like her muddled thoughts have since the day she first took those tests in the mortal world.

“I don’t know what to do, or what to say. I’m– I’m– I can’t do this! I can’t. I don’t even know how to handle myself, or even what to do when we argue. How am I supposed to handle another living thing, with a mind and a heart and–” she sucks in a breath, tears forming.

“You have me,” he says, brows furrowed. “We’ll do it together.”

“But I never knew how to love,” Jude says, voice frantic, “After Madoc took us––stole us away, I just… Shut it all out. I never wanted children because I know I’m not capable, I didn’t even know I could, I could–” and she can’t breathe.

She can’t breathe.

And she can hear her heart pounding in her ears. She turns away from Cardan only to catch her reflection in the mirror on the wall near her and all she sees is her stomach and she needs to sit down immediately or she knows she’ll fall over.

“I– I can’t–” and she sobs, collapsing to her knees, hand grasping at the small writing desk beside her, sitting back on her feet. Cardan is on the ground before her in the time it takes her to blink. He’s right there, hands cradling her face, thumbs stroking in soothing motions. He looks panicked, and Jude feels all the worse for it. He’s saying something to her, but Jude can’t understand what. She just cries and cries.

In time, Cardan gives up on calming her down. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her into his lap, holding her tightly and gently rocking back and forth. When one of his hands wraps around the back of her neck, she fists her hands in his loose shirt, trying to bury herself within his embrace.

It’s ages before she settles, first by regaining control of her breathing, then by ceasing her sobs. Silent tears flow, breath hitching in her chest like a stutter. Eventually, she only sniffles, exhaustion pulling at her eyelids.

And for some time, all is still, a hush over the room. Jude doesn’t even realize that she’s falling asleep.

When she opens her eyes, she blinks blearily, and it takes her a minute to adjust.The sun has set outside of the windows. Moonbeams caress the stone floors, bright enough that even she can see clearly. Her head is cradled beneath Cardan’s chin. They’re against the arched doorway to their bedroom, Cardan leaning against the frame. Her heart aches when she realizes he’s probably been sitting like this for hours and he hasn’t moved so as to not disturb her.

His tail is curled underneath her belly. Jude’s hair is out of it’s updo. She can feel Cardan’s fingers tracing the shape of her ear. The rise and fall of his chest almost soothes her back to sleep.

“Do you not know that I doubt myself as much as you?” His voice is not angry, nor accusing, just resigned. “Have you not considered?”

Truthfully, Jude hasn’t. Shame twists in her gut. Cardan continues.

“I knew nothing of love as a child. Only loneliness. Desperation–” Cardan takes a long breath. Jude hears his heartbeat beneath her ear, tracks of tears dry on her face. “Despair of the deepest incarnation. The type of sorrow that one would hide behind rancid grins and hollow laughs. That is all I knew,” he says, a shakiness to his voice. He pushes his nose into her hair and tightens his arms around her.

“Now, each time I wake up, I am haunted by the thought that I will become my father, or Balekin, to our child.”

Jude feels more tears fall at his words. An ache spreads through her chest. She grieves for him, for herself, too, for how life was cruel to both of them.

“We will do this together,” he murmurs, quiet, but every bit determined. “We can do it. You can. I’ll be with you, always. I’ll be there for our child, always.”

And Jude relaxes into him. He slips his arms underneath her and lifts her as he stands, walking them over to the bed. There, they fall asleep, wrapped around each other, limbs tangled, breathing in tandem.

-------

Thanks for reading!

#the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #the cruel prince fanfiction #tfota #tfota fanfiction #jurdan #judecardan #jurdan fanfiction #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #my work #my writing

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flipsideds · 4 years

Text

“ oh, haha... ” a default response to a very non-default situation –– a little post-show, barside rendez-vous with an older man who insists nour has been singing to directly to him the entire night. “ flirting ? i... ”

gentle eyes gloss over the banquet hall’s dimmed lights, bright smiles, flickering electric candles... “ . . . what’s that ? ” and then he’s off, gin and tonic in hand. three strides and it’s already half-drained. yikes.

or, alternatively : greetings loved ones!! my name is linc ( 21 / est / she/her ) and here is the ever so graceful, ever so unintentionally magnetic nour al-busiri! below the cut you’ll find a messy run-down. i am so excited to plot & write with all of you !!

( i’m scheduled for a tonsillectomy tomorrow so i’m gonna be so grateful for the distraction, y’all have no idea. )

if you want some great mood-setters for this beb’s backstory / insight into his soul, slap on some jacob collier, kevin garrett, or charlie burg ‘n let’s get cookin’ !

so this is all copy-pasted from a discord chat with devon bc i improvised nour’s entire life story over a span of... 10 minutes ?? bahaha pls enjoy i apologize in advance. ( i also put this in normal text size bc it is v long and i don’t want anyone hurting their eyes !! protect dem beautiful retinas <3 )

h i s t o r y .

his parents met in grade school in egypt, but then didn't reconnect until their masters studies crossed paths in london... immediately fell head over heels again ( had they been searching for one another in crowds since being 6-7 years old?? maybe... ). graduated top of their class, accepted job offers in london in the biopharmaceutical realm. but then. when nour was 3...

they were involved in a freak monorail accident on their way back from a science conference in amsterdam. the babysitter paid 80 quid to watch the kids for two nights became their sole protector in this world. british authorities had trouble contacting other kin, but managed to reach mr. al-busiri's mother, rashida, who was still living in dahab with her second husband, zaim.

the al-busiri's came from old money. so off nour goes ( and potentially his older bro if i decide he exists... potential wc with a rami malek fc tbh ) to live in the city which, unbeknownst to him, sparked his parents' storybook love.

so nour grows up in this like... picturesque seaside childhood. collects shells. bonds with his grandmother and her husband. they encourage him with school, etc. but he quickly shows that he excels at maths and... music? wow. that's unexpected. gets his first piano at 5. first guitar at 6. by 8 1/2, he's managed to hodge-podge together a little recording studio for himself in his bedroom, and he's constantly serenading his friends at school.

( death tw / illness tw ) then comes zaim's stroke. he lives for four months after, but he loses his ability to speak. his motor skills deteriorate. nour and his grandmother do their best to tend to him –– she's already about 40% down the macular degeneration path, but hasn't told him yet that her vision's going. so 10 y/o nour does what he does best: unconditional love and support, delivered through the gift of song. zaim dies after requesting his favorite song: 'blackbird' by the beatles, sung in verses alternating from english to arabic.

after, it's just nour and rashida against the world ( maybe his brother too bergorghre if i decide he's a thing ) . rashida's forced to come clean about her vision the day she can't for the life of her find the bloody pen she just put down so she can finish signing off on nour's choir trip permission slip. ( it's right next to her, to her left, just out of her closing field of vision. ) things progress more rapidly after that. by the time nour's 16, his grandmother is legally blind. it's not an uncommon sight to see him at the markets or strolling along the beach with her on his arm. she refuses canes as long as nour's around. ( “ don't rob me of my youth, nuri-nuri [ my light ] ” )

despite her growing dependency on him, she encourages him to apply to unis all over the globe. by the time college apps roll around, nour is somewhat of a local household name: he plays summer concerts, coffee shops, and is even asked to play at his teacher's wedding ceremony –– and his neighbor's cat funeral.

acceptances roll in. julliard. berkeley. chicago school of music. he chooses chicago, because there's someone there. someone he connected with online a few years back, a friend, but... could turn into something more. this hopeless romantic heedlessly ventures off to find out if this boy in chicago might... be someone. something more.

spoiler alert: he gets to chicago, starts music school. and each meet-up they set? gets pushed. sometimes it's traffic. a cold. transit trouble. can't get work off, sorry. things with ma are really tough. the excuses kept coming but... nour's naive. he believes every word. but in his second year of uni, things....... start getting suspicious. by chance, he spots this man in the window of a coffee shop downtown. overjoyed, he texts as much. but ... messages go read and unanswered. phone calls dwindle.

his music suffers. so does his muse. so much so that he's tempted to drop out, to throw in the towel, to just...... go back home. he speaks with his grandmother each day on the phone. she's doing well, stop worrying, nuri-nuri, your uncle is taking good care of me. nour goes on dates. thinks about chicago boy. thinks about him a lot.

he's 20 when it happens. sat on a stage in a little dive bar, tuning his acoustic guitar for an opening number, and there. those eyes. he knows them.

they talk after the show, in the alley. share a cigarette. and it's almost like... maybe things are finally clicking. maybe this is finally their shot.

except chicago boy ( neil ) says they have to stop talking. that he had to just... see nour for himself. see that he's real. hear him sing, and... move on. nour doesn't buy it. pushes back. asks why the hell neil'd come out now only to slink back to the shadows. things get heated. neil yells. and the men... the men who hear and come running ? they think nour is the cause of it all.

( hate crime tw, violence tw ) how many kicks does it take to break to the center of a broken heart ? twelve. how many broken ribs does it take to immobilize a probably terrorist, dude ? four. shattered wrist. snapped ankle. broken arm. cracked skull. and neil scuttles off like nour's bad meat. bad blood. like he asked for this.

chicago school of music receives a call from weiss memorial three days later.

nour never gets his degree. he breaks his apartment lease. flies home after he heals, spends a year with his grandmother and uncle. just... creating. writing, playing, trying to fill that void with something. but then things with his uncle get heated. he wants to put his own mother in a home, sell the estate, pocket the cash. nour fights it, but he's got no legal bearing.

the nursing home concept never takes hold, though, because his grandmother's still sharp as shit and refuses to sign anything nour doesn't read first. eventually the uncle grows tired of fighting and stops trying, just... slinks back to his husband and keeps his mouth shut. nour's grandmother pressures him to go back to chicago, make that city wish he never left. take back his own story. together they work to find a live-in aide they trust. freshly 22, nour ventures back to the city that broke him.

he finds cheap housing, a gig. the malnati, seems legit. good money. good exposure. and then he meets @ryderxmms –– they form one night stand. when not scheduled for malnati banquets, you can find nour providing vocals ( and occasional keys ) in the dive bars / parties the band lands gigs at.

g e n e r a l .

nour creates like food and drink don’t exist, sunlight is an illusion, and all the human body needs for sustenance is sound. he can find his way around just about any instrument under the sun, but his main poisons are piano, acoustic guitar, and digital recording tools –– think jacob collier and you’re right on the money.

actually, i’m stealing a lot of jacob collier discography and pegging it as his creations. this kid’s got an experimental sound and loves it.

he grew up speaking english and arabic equally, but because he learned english in london and then continued in egypt, he does have a mild brit-arab accent. it’s v cute, i promise.

looks like he’d be a total lothario, yeah ?? but. he’s so shy ? so sweet ? get him on a stage and he’s shameless but plop him in a bar and eye him up and he’ll honestly just smile nervously and pretend you’re looking at someone else.

love languages : singing to his succulents and plants before his 5am morning runs. facetime calls at times least convenient for him, but most convenient for you. little notes written on napkins, smiley face doodles included. candy bars. lingering a little longer in doorways after saying hello, just to see you smile.

he’s got major water sign vibes. birthday comin’ up in march, woot woot !!

he often wears very simple statement pieces. he likes rings, crystal pendants, leather bracelets. soft tees layered with embroidered jackets, metallic blazers. somehow he pulls off mixed media and crazy prints that should never go together ? he just... is so easy breezy.

he often wears his hair wild ‘n curly, unless the gig he’s got mandates a more streamlined look.

falls in love.... 14 times a day ?? really.

has a scar across his left temple from the incident with neil. will probably write it off as a bike riding accident. ( he doesn’t know how to ride a bike. )

don’t let him cook ever, okay ?? unless you want him to literally do this.

pls come at me for all the plots ? i’m so open for all the things !!! y’all got me on discord, so feel free to slide on into my dms. i promise i will be so thrilled <3

#intro.#☼ –– gimme that afterglow ! inspo.

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crapitskizaru · 5 years

Text

Strawhats+ in College!AU

AU for the straw hats (plus law and kid) in Greek life?

Warning: long ass post + i can’t quite imagine luff in college

Zoro-ya (Police Officer)

🤯 “Just give me some booze and I’ll make it.”

🤯 seriously, this guy’s lost 99% of the time, whether talking figuratively or literally, both will be correct

🤯 he needs the first few months in college to create a certain routine for himself and all of his classes, as well as adjust his Nap Schedule - it’d be so irritating for him whenever he can’t get a grasp out of the situation or simply forgets which lecture he’s supposed to attend, but he shifts to a total-chill attitude halfway through the semester

🤯 which usually means showing up at a 9AM lecture with a mug of coffee in one hand and a sports magazine in the other - since he can’t focus on whatever the professor’s saying, even if he tries, he might as well do something productive with his time

🤯 contrary to his lectures, he has 100% attendance on every kind of party going around the campus and quickly earns himself a reputation of the guy who never blacks out

🤯 cares more about the nearest gym opening hours than his studying schedule, although he doesn’t neglect it completely

🤯 he studies best in his dormitory - that is, provided he doesn’t have loud roommates - or in a cafeteria, where it’s relatively quiet, but not quiet enough for him to fall asleep

🤯 ends up with a Criminal Justice degree and a major in Law Enforcement

Sanji (Beauty Salon Worker)

😱 “How can you help me? Push me down those stairs, please.”

😱 so overwhelmed, since he has to reconcile his job and lecture attendance

😱 due to his blood family giving zero shits about his education or future, he’s on his own - and he still somehow makes it, although not without having a mental breakdown every weekend

😱 (credit to the cute anon) Sanji was eligible for a scholarship but because he's officially a Vinsmoke, his biological family is too rich for him to get one, even though they don’t provide any support, let alone a financial one; he probably has a massive debt as well

😱 whenever he’s not at work and can’t even think about studying, he attends all those wild parties in order to create some bonds and find his drinking buddies

😱 has great time management skills, thanks to all of his struggles, and keeps up with his college budget - unfortunately, the most probable situation is that he’d be the only person he can actually rely on

😱 however, it wouldn’t stop him from putting himself out there whenever he’s got a chance; after all, the love of his life may be waiting for him just around the corner

😱 because he’s stressed out of his mind most of the time, he indulges in various addictions that may not be good for his health but at least provide the tiniest bit of calmness in his hectic schedule; whether it’s plain cigarette-smoking or excessive drinking, or even having sex with strangers just to get himself off and have an illusion of being cared about, he does it all without a blink, since that’s what keeps him going

😱 provided that he finally finds the time to study, he’s actually quite a fast learner - mostly in the silence of a library or in his own flat

😱 has a major in Cosmetics

Nami (Childcare Worker)

😈 “You’re already drunk? Good luck with that, pal.”

😈 just like Cersei, Nami’s not really into this whole sisterhood deal if she doesn’t know the people well - with the exception of Robin, who might be her one, true bestie, she doesn’t necessarily put much effort into strengthening any bonds

😈 she somehow has a great GPA, even though she attends more parties than lectures - but with her natural charms and wits, she’s able to convince pretty much anyone just how good of a student she is

😈 even though she likes to keep a safe distance from people, she enjoys partying and getting to know her colleagues; it’s always fun to prey on those who had the misfortune to black out as the first ones

😈 when she actually decides to show up to a lecture, her outfit needs to be on point, otherwise she wouldn’t feel comfortable at all

😈 regarding the time she dedicates for studying - it’s usually during the afternoon in the library, since she hates when someone disturbs her focus; her notes have to be highlighted and organized, that’s what gives her peace of mind

😈 ends up with a major in Psychology

bonus:

Usopp (Graphic Designer)

😱 “I have, like, three dollars for the entire week.”

😱 stressed out of his mind

😱 he knows the only person he can blame that on is no one other than himself, due to his advanced skills in procrastinating or simply not being able to focus on work when he needs to, thanks to his ADHD

😱 stays up late - not for assignments, which he manages to bullshit his way through 10 minutes before they’re due - but to watch old vines compilations, a guy who felled a tree with a chainsaw made of paper, detailed descriptions on how hydrogen bombs work or the entire playlist of Crash Course on world’s history

😱 at first may have a hard time bonding, but once everyone notices how good of a friend he is, he certainly won’t have any problems regarding social life or party invitations

😱 the boy’s on his phone almost all time - whether to keep up with his exploding social media or read a random article he accidentally clicked on; he’s also known for sending snaps in the middle of his lectures or tweeting about campus life and its most up-to-date gossip

😱 he studies most effectively when with a group of buddies - usually in the campus cafeteria; loves to keep his notes as colorful as possible, but he doesn’t really care for aesthetic

😱 naturally, majors in Graphic Design

Chopper (Elementary School Teacher)

😵 “Omg, I’m going to fail this exam.” *gets 92%*

😵 i don’t really agree with Oda on this whole teaching deal - I think it’s obvious he’d go to med school to become a doctor

😵 one of those students who study really hard and it pays off, but he still stresses out everyone around him

😵 has perfect lecture attendance, because he actually enjoys listening to the professor; also asks a lot of questions regarding topics he doesn’t understand at first

😵 quickly makes friends, due to the whole year coming to him for explanation regarding various fields in the syllabus, or to just simply study with him - somehow, his aura of pure focus and concentration beams down on those around him

😵 could get a slight coffee addiction, since he tends to study during the night

Robin-chwan (Cabin Attendant)

☕ takes surprisingly huge amount of joy in making up fake exam dates and then scaring her fellow colleagues with it

☕ what she’d prefer is simply studying on her own with piles of books stacking up all around her - she doesn’t need someone to explain a certain topic to her, she does it well enough on her own

☕ therefore, she’s not a huge fan of attending lectures, although she knows she has to; but usually just ends up reading the textbook ahead without paying much attention to the surroundings

☕ she studies best with scribbling notes on the margins of the book, maybe creating a few mind maps to link the historic events together, also uses only one highlighter since too many colors would be distracting

☕ regarding her social life; since she quite often reads around the campus, in various places, she gets a lot of chances to talk to people and is not afraid to start the conversation first

☕ shows up at parties and usually stays up till the morning - minding her own business and with a group of friends, she knows how to have fun and keep herself entertained

☕ pursues Archeology, that’s for sure

Franky (Pilot)

👻 “Ayyy, which paper is it today? Bring it on, losers.”

👻 even if he is a little bit overwhelmed, he doesn’t let it show - he just tries to have as much fun as possible while doing things that have to be done

👻 once he decides to study a topic, he’s not giving up on it or taking a break until he gets it; that may have something to do with the fact that the faster he’s done with studying, the more he can party and load himself with waterfalls of energy drinks that he so loves

👻 if the subject picks his interest, he likes to tune in to the lecture and listen to the professor - he may or may not try to reconstruct whatever project is discussed later on, in his own dorm and with his own safety rules

👻 he is quite popular around the campus, due to his outgoing nature and easiness in cracking jokes, as well as being always down to a makeout session or simple petting with anyone who he finds attractive

👻 goes with Aerospace Engineering

Brook (Detective)

👑 “I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know what day it is. And I don’t care.”

👑 what he mostly pursues is not a high GPA or his lecture hall but quick entertainment involving some sort of sexual acts or just innocent intimacy with another person - it gives him a rush and he has no problems in admitting in front of himself that he might be quite hooked on it

👑 studies when it’s an absolute must, whether with a group of friends or on his own, he just wants to get it over with and indulge in campus social life - if he makes notes, they’re usually on a plain sheet of paper written with black ink; that’s how he’s able to focus and regurgitate information

👑 loves the parties and gatherings where he’s usually in the center of attention - and people like him, because he’s not too cocky and conceited, he just wants to have a good time

👑 gets a degree in Criminal Justice

Jinbe

🧣 “Just don’t.”

🧣 he’s the one who makes it through college without any actual problems or breakdowns every other day; and he doesn’t have a lot of sympathy to those who complain too much

🧣 he’s just there, observing the huge amounts of alcohol being poured into certain individuals who most probably have an important exam the next day and he’s slowly losing his faith in humanity

🧣 he just needs some time to understand that different people have different ways of dealing with certain stages of life - some do that with a peace of mind, some need vodka and liquor to get through it, and that’s just how it is

🧣 would want to pursue a career of an FBI Agent or Fish and Game Warden, he’s not sure yet, but he’s getting there

🧣 has a rather simple recipe for a productive study session - in the comfort of his own flat, where all the textbooks are available and within reach

🧣 ends up with a degree in Criminal Justice

The Edge Lord (Doctor)

☃️ “No, I won’t have sex with you.”

☃️ so tired and fed up with the whole world - he just wants to focus on studying and getting through his exams, but people keep throwing distractions at him no matter how unwelcoming and obnoxious he gets

☃️ since there’s no one hotter than him on the campus, he draws quite a lot of attention; unnecessary attention which he’d rather pass to someone else

☃️ “Leave me alone, for Christ’s sake.”

☃️ he doesn’t attend the lectures only when he’s too tired - other than that, he prefers not to miss anything and he can always spend the time doing something productive

☃️ he studies most effectively with a textbook and a black pen, scribbling shortened notes on the margins and underlining important phrases

☃️ Traffy’s got few friends but he’d chop himself to tiniest pieces for them - and he knows they’d do the same for him as well

☃️ engages in various extracurricular activities for the sake of credit, or as a form of spending time when he’s got no particular plans for the afternoon

☃️ he’s constantly stressed - therefore, he likes to have a quick drink before the lectures or during the night, which turns into quite an addiction, but he knows he wouldn’t be able to get through it all without alcohol or other forms of stress-relief

The Spawn of Satan (Weapons Dealer)

🔥 “Aye, if you ever need someone to show you around or somethin’, just call me.”

🔥 no one knows how he gets through the exams - but he does, and would be capable of getting high scores, if only he decided to study more than the bare minimum

🔥 what he’s most interested in is being around people, throwing parties or attending them, drinking booze and having a damn good time with his friends - after all, he’s there to have fun and make memories

🔥 his method of studying the night before an exam is simple; he just reads the paragraphs and underlines the phrases that he thinks are important, and that’s all it takes for him to remember and understand the material

🔥 what he’d rather be doing is getting laid and making out with everyone, but also, surprisingly or not, working a part-time job - he needs the money to feel that he’s in control of his own life, to know that he’s got financial stability and is not dependent on anyone other than himself

🔥 would have a hard time figuring his life out and what he wants to do in the future, but, thankfully, he’s got that one friend that will stay by his side no matter what - so that Kiddo will never be alone in this mess

Mochi Mochii

🍩 “When is this going to end?”

🍩 he minds his own business - or, at least, tries to; due to the excessive amount of family reunions or casual barbecue invitations every other day, he gets so distracted from his studies

🍩 he knows what he went to college for and keeps his aspirations in mind at all times; despite his great time management skills, broad schedule and a bullet journal, he still far too often ends up cramming in the library the night before an exam - since he doesn’t want to let down his family and leave them hanging during all those gatherings that they always invite him to during weekday

🍩 Mochi doesn’t really get all this hype for getting hammered and carrying out make-out sessions with strangers whenever possible, so he just sits back and observes the shit going down around him at parties

🍩 he enjoys studying, but only the topics that he knows are useful or genuinely interest him - in a silent library or a bookstore, he highlights the most important information and sticks post-it notes all over the pages how cute is this?

🍩 would go for either Criminal Justice to become a security guard or training programs for tattoo artists

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chaosenticed-blog · 5 years

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greetings angels ! i’m steven, going by she/her pronouns and miserably lodged in the pst timezone, also currently known as the devil’s taint thanks to this heatwave ! super fun ! pls bear with me , i’ll be up everyone’s asses for plots with my lil dudebro shithead 𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖆𝖘 , he’s a new muse of mine i’ve conjured up bc ethan is just too good looking to not utilize ? i’ll keep this short so we can pull a queen carly rae and cut to the feeling ~

❛ chicago’s very own 𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖆𝖘 𝖉𝖎 𝖌𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖆𝖑𝖉𝖎 has been spotted in new york city in his jeep wrangler blackhawk , welcome ! your resemblance to ethan dolan is unreal. according to tmz, you just had your twentieth birthday bash. your chance of surviving new york is uncertain because you’re 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐑𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 , but being 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 might help you. i guess being a taurus explains that. three things that would paint a better picture of you would be 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐅𝐈𝐓𝐒, 𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃, 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃. & ( cismale & he / him / his )

aesthetic :

playing guitar barefooted in a hammock, sun kissed skin and a half-kept beard, knowing all the vegan options at the city’s boujiest restaurants, a crooked grin saved for whoever he can tell needs it most, overthinking his next move even if it seems completely organic, a boyish laugh at the most asinine pranks, c-’s littering his transcript ( except the a earned in environmental science, his elective of choice ), calling instead of texting because texting “ loses the humanity, ” casual nights spent oversized hoodies, yellow checkered vans, shorts with a 60-day chip in the left pocket, yelling out species of trees passing by over thumping bass beats on a road trip, sweat on designer-clothed skin like glitter, doing head counts of “the squad” over and over in the rear view mirror on the way home from a rager, random stupid tattoos done “ for the memory, ” intricate handshakes performed with ease. acting like you don’t care, but you do— god you do, sometimes so much it consumes you whole.

inspired by :

jim halpert from the office, jackson maine from a star is born, jim hawkins from treasure planet, jackson avery and owen hunt from grey’s anatomy.

history :

born to a major chicago councilman father and a ceo mother, the middle of three boys, silas found himself drawn outside until the sun came down, connecting to whatever the earth was able to give him in the inhospitable chicago weather . he’d wander aimlessly for hours, guiding his twin and their older brother through the trails he made himself . his home wherever he could make it — the branches of creaking trees at the park , the caverns of frosted caves , he learned to be content with the little things , humble and rooted firmly in his beliefs of morality and logic .

it was never exactly fun to play the role of the son in the limelight, eyes on his family whenever his parents where on a particularly tricky trip . his eldest brother, julien, was a parent’s dream and easily took up a political career without any complications . balancing in the shadow of his eldest brother and the push of his twin , silas kept his own hopes and dreams on the back burner , prioritizing a family name before his own desires ( and thus , the apparition begins. )

he knows the eyes are on him to carry on the family legacy , and does the bare minimum possible to keep his uptight parents off his back . he went to the private schools , played the big name sports , mingled with the a-listers . he fills the role to please his family and keep the peace , but once the light comes off him , he pushes off against the prim and proper upbringing and finds his own stride . though he takes the classes and attends the conferences to make his father think he’s prime for having his name in the news , silas could not be bothered to carry the illusion on into the rest of his life . nights are spent at raves , hiking canyons off the grid , indulging himself .

yet all this time spent trying to fit into a future he never asked for folded over on him , as one would readily expect . the beginning of his freshman year , it was exposed that his father had carried on with an affair nearly two decades ago and kept it secret until now , resulting in a half-sister close to his age and an onslaught of media attention on his once-pristine family . now , his father remaining in chicago and his mother moving to new york to helm her medical cosmetics business with a renewed vigor , silas chooses to make the jump to new york wit his mom . to his chagrin , she notes a political run in her future that puts silas on edge , forcing him to really come to terms with living the life his family will forever ask of him .

never one to particularly enjoy attention, the added pressure of trying to repair his family’s reputation ( and keep mum on the bitter divide caused within his family ) drove him to a point where anything he could use to escape would become a viable option . smiling for cameras and keeping up appearances in public led to binge drinking and benders galore in private , ultimately ending with his twin brother hauling him to the emergency room after a particularly brutal night . a stint in rehab this last summer ( explained as “ humanitarian work in the middle east ” ) led to silas’ newfound perspective on life— struggling every day to keep in mind who he is, and who he feels he has to be for the world .

personality :

silas’ upbringing has been rocky to say the LEAST, and despite half the shit he’s gone through he’s managed to keep a pretty solid head on his shoulders ?

i’ve been playing emo broody boys so often i wanted to switch it up and lowkey ? silas is a breath of fresh air okay . he’s your quintessential frat bro but with ~layers~ and none of the tragic manic pixie dream boy . he comes across as a reserved and non-talkative kind of guy, stoic at first meeting, but with time and comfort people find he’s really just a cool laid-back dude . he’s the dad friend of the group and spends as much time caring for others as he can possibly allow between his totally booked schedule of pretending to be a preppy boy and literally not giving a shit about most things.

he loves nature and hiking and being outside just as much as he loves a good party , which is where festivals and the rave scene come into play . he loves sharing good energy with the people around him and tries to keep the peace within his circles. silas has a genuinely kind and benevolent heart , one he doesn’t expose readily but also doesn’t ignore . he uses humor and quiet observations of others to keep himself ahead of the loop, even if his generally bro-ish personality leads people to believe he’s inattentive or ignorant . he’s responsible and mature and deeply intelligent, but most of all, has common sense and doesn’t let a decision be made without weighing the pros and cons .

( for the most part . )

silas has forever been recognized as inheriting his father’s impulsivity , a trait he absolutely fears after seeing the terror it wreaked on his family . he pushes himself to be smart and rational, trying to see the logic in all things , and tries to be as disciplined as he can manage . when other factors come into the equation though , he struggles to keep up his resolve and will easily lose himself in the moment . he has an addictive and ultimately reckless personality , which led to his addiction and consequential rehabilitation . he tries to minimize the time he spends with people that may lead him down a path he doesn’t want to go down , but obviously not everything goes as planned .

otherwise , silas is stubborn but considerate of others . he’s intelligent and creative but very poorly motivated , mostly doing things for the sake of his family and letting little else bother him . he’s loyal and ��sensitive to the emotions of others , but is the first to call out bullshit if it surrounds him . he’s almost painfully mellow and is notorious for not having buttons to press lmao . he just doesn’t let most people’s comments get to him . he has no issue in cutting out the things ( or people ) he has no interest in spending his time on and can come across as a bit forward in this regard . he can be hypocritical and overly complex , having conflicting feelings that he can’t explain or rationalize and lead to him snapping or breaking down . he’s deeply jealous and has a bad habit of overthinking and not letting others bear his burden with him .

as of now, silas isn’t sure where he wants to take his future . very few know about his stint in rehab, and he explains his lack of drugs or drinking as his preparation to be a walk-on for the wrestling team at NYU where he attends , as his mother has been encouraging him to pursue in order to build a fanbase base for his future political conquests . currently, he does modeling for a casual platform and represents certain brands he’s actually rather passionate about . he’d LITERALLY rather d*e than go into politics, and is eyeing a future in environmental advocacy or ambassador work , but knows this is not a future aligned with the di grimaldi legacy . for now , he remains at a crossroads , living half a life he doesn’t even recognize , just hoping it’ll manage itself on its own .

connections :

forbidden ( 0/2 ) — best friend’s gf ? his brother’s ex ? his sister’s best friend ? basically i want someone who silas wants but can’t have because of another relationship that could REALLY put them in a dangerous spot and potentially ruin what they have, but it’s all hidden glances and risky snapchats trying to gauge where the line is and where it can be crossed

exes ( 0/? ) — gimmie angst, gimmie chill, gimmie people who mutually broke up and are bros, give me people who had a messy split and it’s still touchy, give me people who are “ supposed to be over ” but end up in each other’s beds at the end of every other night, give me people who fucking hate each other, this is so versatile i’ll take anything.

“ gucci shoes, boy i invented you ” ( 0/1 )— a fake gf he had for the clout, someone who really helped him live up to the image his family wanted for him, basically helped “ make him ” and in the process, she fell in love with him. did he feel the same way ? did he not realize it ? did he simply not reciprocate ? either way, they ended poorly and now she resents him and thinks he’s a cowardly piece of shit, since she’s seen the “ real him ” vs the him she helped conjure. lots of tension !

turn up team ( 0/4 ) — basically : whos gonna go rave with him ? he’s not gonna roll w them if drugs are involved but he’ll enjoy his adrenaline high with pleasure. these are people who aren’t close enough to him to pressure him into doing drugs again, so he feels okay with going out with them since there’s little to no risk he’ll relapse

squad ( 0/3-4 ) — i’m thinking a small group of people who he’s just always likely to be found with, these are the people who matter most to him and u can hella catch him fathering them almost to an ANNOYING extent. they get to see the best ( and sometimes the worst ) of him, but he’d do anything for his squad

devil on his shoulder ( 0/2 ) — this can be as intentionally or unintentionally toxic as u want, but i’m basically envisioning two people who really tempt silas to risk it all. maybe they want him to dive back into the hedonistic side he has ( he was wild and lots of people lowkey hyped him up for it ) and it’s gritty and sexy and dark. maybe this person doesn’t even realize they’re a trigger for him and unintentionally send him close to the edge.

sponsors / confidants ( 0/2 ) — i’m envisioning a team of 3 who have been THROUGH it with the substance abuse, maybe they stage “ improvised meetings ” whenever they need to, maybe these are just two people who want to make sure silas stays clean because they know how badly he needs it and how dangerous it would be for him to relapse

vlog squad ( ? ) — my idea is that silas and his twin brother are youtubers, and silas is a BIG paranormal shit guy. it’s like the perfect intersection of talking about nature and exploration without making him seem like a hippie tree-hugger and raise any objections from his parents, so maybe he has like a little group similar to the vlog squad where they share a channel and they have a small following?

i’m putting in a wc for his twin brother and his half-sister so peep THOSE

sibling-like friendship, booty calls, hookups, people he’s in a club on campus with, childhood friends, maybe a penpal he had after moving around from place to place ?

please literally give me anything that makes me smile or suffer ? and all in between . muah lov u all can’t wait to rp !

#wealthyhq:intro #this is a mess but i'll post my discord in a sec since i'm going mobile !

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otheroutlandertales · 5 years

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Anonymous said: Modern day au where Fergus and Marsali are members of opposing biker gangs.

Catch up on the first part of this story here. There will be one more chapter after this.

The Borders Between Us

by @wunderlichkind

Two

Fergus has felt the irritation crawl under his skin all day, like tiny little insects, hooking their hairy legs into every crevice, every artery, every synapse, laying their eggs on their quest to populate his every thought. He thought Marsali’s touch would make it better – her hands wrapped around his middle on the bike, her smooth skin under his hands and lips. But she hasn’t brought him any semblance of peace, not today.

Instead, she’s a sounding body to his vibrations, picking up the current of anger and frustration running through his veins and throwing it back at him, magnified and dangerous.

He isn’t gentle with her, and she spurs him on, as if challenging the fragile illusion of peace to implode and tumble to pieces, as if walking the edge excites her, and it isn’t lost on him that her behaviour in the face of his unrest says a lot about their relationship – the game they’ve been playing for too long, that she refuses to transform into something more real, more solid.

It’s only after – when they’re lying side by side in the wide bed, spent and heated, avoiding any more touch, that he realizes the crawling sensation has left him, his anger erupted in the heat of their joining. The silent emptiness it left behind is worse, still.

„Why do you continue to come?“ he asks, a bitter taste on his tongue – the taste of weakness. He’s not comfortable with this needy side of himself, this side that can’t stay away, this side that asks her to stay again and again.

„Ye’re a damn good fuck,“ she teases, but it’s half-hearted and they both know it. He sees the fire flicker behind her blue eyes when he turns to look at her and welcomes the bite of its flames reaching for him – anything to fill the void. He presses on.

„You refuse to quit the gang, you won’t let me quit either. You never answer my declarations or pleas, yet you always come back to me. Why?“

Marsali sits up abruptly, reaching for her shirt and swinging her pale legs over the edge of the bed. The set of her shoulders is tense and she doesn’t look at him when she snaps. „What do ye want me to say, Fergus?“

„I want you to admit you love me.“

It comes out a little too loud, a little too forceful, but he doesn’t care. This has been brewing inside him for weeks, a dark, bubbling mess long overdue to spill that he desperately needs out of his system. He wants clarity – all or nothing, to have her admit her feelings or provoke her until she finally walks out on him for good.

She’s on her feet now, moving through the room quickly, in jerky, angry motions, her body radiating stress, the stony expression of her face telling him she’s struggling to keep her walls up.

„Admit it!“ he says, even louder this time, crawling to the edge of the bed. He’s naked still, but he doesn’t make a move to get dressed. He wants to force her to be open and honest, to be naked with body and words.

„Admit it, or tell me you’re just coming back here because you need to get fucked so bad, because your shitshow of a gang doesn’t have one decent man who serves you as well as I do, because you’re a damned whore who doesn’t care one iota about who she’s hurting. Say it!“

He’s almost screaming at her now, the words purposely harsh blows, chosen to tear down her walls, chosen to make her react. It’s selfish of him, but he feels he might disintegrate, might lose himself completely if he stops.

„I do, okay?!“

It’s something between a sob and yell and he’s at her side in seconds when she drops to the floor crying.

„I do love ye,“ she admits, much quieter now, arms wrapped around herself, as if trying to protect her from falling apart now that the walls of protection have fallen.

„Are ye happy now?“ Her voice rises again, and she lifts her head to stare at him defiantly through a curtain of tears. He thinks about that – tries to pinpoint his feelings, to interpret the turmoil in his stomach, but she’s not finished.

„It doesn’t change anything, don’t ye get it?“ The look of despair on her face scares him, and he reaches for her arms, trying to become a part of the forlorn embrace she’s wrapped herself in.

„Ye dinna even know my last name.“

He wants to protest, wants to tell her he’ll happily learn every little detail about her life – how she drinks her coffee, how she ties her shoes, what colour her shower curtain and oven mitts and toothbrush are – but the words die on his tongue at her merciless stare, and her next words feel like a stab with a knife. Brutal, painful, inflicting an irreversible wound.

„My name is Marsali Fraser. My father is James Fraser, president of the Mongols’ Badlands charter. My mother is Laoghaire Mackenzie. She has early onset dementia. I moved back in with her a year ago, because she can’t live alone anymore.“

Fergus suddenly wishes he had dressed. He feels exposed, Marsali’s words a cold storm attacking him full force, her face a mask of pain he feels mirrored on his own.

„We’ll find a way,“ he says, a weak attempt at gaining some semblance of control over this chaos. He doesn’t believe it, and she doesn’t either.

„I canna leave, Fergus.“ Her voice is tender now, as she bends towards him and presses a soft kiss to his lips. It’s salty and wet from her tears, and he feels stranded, disoriented. „I’m sorry.“

And then she rises and leaves, but he can’t move. Glued down to the carpet he hates himself for being naive enough to believe that all or nothing was possible, for not seeing this coming. She loves him, but he will never have her. It’s all and nothing at the same time.

___________________________________________________________________

She’s picking out cereal when her phone rings, the melody of her favourite song echoing off the boxes stacked on the aisle. She curses under her breath at her treacherous mind, immediately flitting to Fergus. They danced to this song. Made love while it played in the background. He wouldn’t call though; he only ever texts. And he won’t text anymore, now that they stopped pretending. She swipes at her phone angrily, without checking to see who’s calling.

„Yes?“

„Marsali, good! Don’t freak out, okay?“ Claire’s voice sounds pretty close to freaking out herself, although it’s clear she’s making a conscious effort to stay calm. Marsali immediately goes into emergency mode, her feet carrying her towards the exit, the groceries in her cart abandoned.

„What happened? Did she hurt herself?“

The memory of the big blister on Laoghaire’s forearm from when she had turned her back to the hot stove for just a second makes Marsali feel nauseous and triggers more images – images of every possible danger in their house, every step you could fall, every corner you could hit your head on.

„She got out. I’m looking for her now, and Jamie is in your apartment in case she comes back. I’m really sorry, love, I swear, I was only in the bathroom for a minute...“

Marsali has to swallow around the lump in her throat before she can answer. „It’s not yer fault,“ she finally manages to say, already climbing into the car. „I’m on my way. Let’s split areas to look – where should I go?“

She finds Laoghaire at the corner café her mother used to work at, where she smiles at the customers and cleans the tables. Louie, the owner, who’s called her only ten minutes after she hung up on Claire, squeezes Marsali’s shoulder.

„It was really no trouble. She just went right to work.“

She forces herself to smile at him. „Thank ye, Louie. For not saying anything to her. And for calling me.“

„No biggie. Let me know if I can ever do anything to help.“

She gives him a grateful nod, her lips pressed together tightly to keep in the sob of exhaustion and relief she doesn’t want the world to hear. With a light touch to Louie’s arm, she turns and approaches her mother.

„Hi, Laoghaire. Let me take ye home.“

The soft tone is practiced, not even stumbling on her mother’s first name anymore – Marsali’s long since accepted the fact that addressing her with „Mam“ only agitates her, that her own mother can’t remember having a daughter.

„Is my shift already over?“ Laoghaire asks, looking over Marsali’s shoulder at Louie.

„Oh yes, dear, you go right on home and enjoy your night,“ Louie smiles at her, and Laoghaire’s face lights up, and she lets herself be led out the café and towards the car.

___________________________________________________________________

„I found the brochures,“ Jamie says, and passes her a hot cup of tea. She avoids his eyes, burying her nose in the steam rising from the cup and coughing at the strong alcoholic fumes.

„Ye put whisky in that,“ she states with half a smile that he mirrors back at her.

„Thought ye could use it.“ They settle into the couch, and his clear blue eyes - so like her own – rest sternly on her. „Marsali,“ he prompts and she shrugs her shoulders.

„I havena taken the test.“

„Ye should. I think it might be time we find a good home for Laoghaire. It’s too much for ye to take care of her all the time. Ye should be able to live yer life. And not be afraid.“ His warm palm on her knee grounds her and she sighs and lets herself be comforted by his strong presence, his warmth and solidness and safety.

„What if I have it, too?“ she whispers, not looking at him.

He wraps his strong arm around her shoulder and draws her into his chest, enveloping her into the familiar scent of worn leather and aftershave.

„I dinna ken,“ he admits, „but it’s better to know than to wonder and fret, don’t ye think? And I’ll be here. Whatever happens, I’ll be here.“

#outlander fanfiction #otheroutlandertales #mod wunder #pair: Fergus x Marsali #ch: fergus #ch: marsali #ch: jamie #ch: claire #ch: laoghaire #modern au #category: mf #angst #the borders between us #oot #*

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ghostmartyr · 5 years

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"and give her fucking themes a chance to actually fucking matter to the fucking plot you fucking fucked up story" thank you for being a constant voice of reason in this fucking fandom i'm never Not going to be mad about historia's story playing out beautifully and then having it all be undone. sometimes it feels like the CD skipped and reset all the progress in the story so we have to learn, AGAIN, that freedom is good and raising kids to serve you and your ideals is BAD, etc etc

Technically I left the fandom my home is the void.

(To no one’s surprise, this got angry. I should maybe consider shutting up about this, but as you can see by the number of times I use the word “fuck” in the quoted material, I have lost the self-control battle here many times.)

The part of it I always come back to when I’ve made the mistake of thinking about it and getting angry all over again is that if we learn that lesson again this arc, what we’ve really learned is that nothing that happens to these characters matters.

If their arcs can be undone by a time skip, there is zero reason to believe that any of what happens to them will stick. The entire Reiss cavern debacle is this exact thing, of Historia telling tradition to go fuck itself because it’s not a tradition worth keeping. That’s the watered down version, but for crying out loud, Historia’s whole damn arc leads to her changing the world.

Not because of any noble reason. Because she doesn’t want to die. She wants to stay herself, and for that she obliterates centuries of children eating each other. She’s her family’s bastard child who refuses to take part in what’s kept them broken for so long.

Yes, let’s have that character be shoved back into the cycle off-screen. Let’s have the girl who grows up unloved and unwanted, who breaks her family’s curse because she finally feels in her bones how wrong it is, go along with a plan to curse another child.

Historia being. fucking Historia enough to snap out a yes to cutting her life short if it saves the world does not bother me. The girl is a dumbass Gryffindor; it takes up until she’s taking her first step off the bridge to realize oh hey, maybe this is actually bad. She’s not an Idiot Hero, but try telling that to some of her decisions.

But her whole arc, as it is introduced and as Ymir’s soaks in, is about how if fate’s fucking you over this badly, maybe consider telling it to go fuck itself and use your own good qualities to carve out something better.

Nine seconds later we’re scrubbing that lesson off because the stakes have clearly changed.

Same story, only bigger. Now that it’s bigger the rules are different. Let’s have one page of Historia not looking miserable to remind everyone how the story’s shooting her directly back to being miserable.

There is no point to this. The one person who knows what it’s like to be seen as a curse and a tool, turning another child into a curse and a tool? After her entire character denouement is about picking up unwanted orphans and treating them as people?

Forget every single other part of this:

If things are as written, Historia has consented to selling away a child’s future. Several more generations, actually. She’s consented to passing on that feeling Frieda has when the weight of the world crushes her and she’s collapsed in tears in between a fence and her baby sister.

The torture that Frieda goes through is not the driving force of Historia’s resolution to give a damn about her life, but it’s something she knows just as keenly as her own pain, and it helps guide her speech to Eren. Her raison d'être comes from her entire family’s exploitation at their own hands.

There are ways to have characters become everything they hate. Those stories can even be interesting and very well done.

Interesting and well written ways do not include the literary equivalent of a character checking the Yes box on becoming everything their arc says they never want to be. Historia has like. Twenty pages where she’s drawn in between her arc’s conclusion and 107. Six of them have her saying anything, and four of those six are her reacting to Ymir’s letter and telling EMA she sure is golly chuffed to see how they aren’t permanently scarred.

Then 107 happens.

You can’t hit the undo button on a character’s arc that efficiently and still pretend like anything they go through has a lasting impact. Ymir’s choice to turn herself in is cut from the same contrived cloth, with every single new thing we find out about the world only making her decision somehow looking worse in addition to the character mutilation thing.

There’s a lot to what’s going on that skeeves the ever-loving fuck out of me. In the realm of squick, this is where my brain will never willingly live.

But it’s the complete bastardization of Historia’s arc that pisses me off.

Would the stupid kid agree to die in thirteen years five seconds after hearing that’s an option?

Yes, she’s a fucking idiot. All the growth in the world won’t ever undo that.

Would the stupid kid agree to have a child so its child, and its child after that, could eat their parent to become a tool of war?

…

“Everything That My Personal Arc Stands Against, I choose you!”

Thank you, I’m so glad we sat through all your parental and existential angst to have land you in a place that would come much closer to making sense if those pages had never been written. Brava.

-takes a very deep breath-

And that’s why I’m still clinging to hope that things aren’t as they seem. Because this story has always cared about character. When something doesn’t make sense, it’s because something is missing, not because the story didn’t care.

In theory.

Historia’s thing is the strongest test to that theory since Ymir’s thing, and as loud as I am about the latter, that hasn’t actually been resolved yet either.

Paradis agreeing to use children to fuel their survival is the kind of permanent marker stain that is hard to go back on, but it’s also nearly impossible to move forward with, because it would mean that Our Heroes’ one truly heroic trait is bunk.

They are the ones meant to break the damaging cycles, no matter the personal cost.

This is where they’ve chosen perpetuating them to escape personal cost.

Hence my growing opinion that they can all go ahead and die if this is where they’re at. If they’re growing more of these cycles, they’re just another villain, and I’d rather watch them all be wiped out while they’re still trying to be heroic and failing than what comes if they keep up with this.

So.

I’d like to think the story isn’t really doing this.

That it is threatening this, and driving itself deep into the muck, but will ultimately call out the illusion of this much darkness as an illusion.

I really don’t want to read a story where it goes, “our themes matter! …unless we don’t think the plot progresses the way we want when we let them matter.”

Character should determine story, or story should determine character. Pick one, but they shouldn’t ever be at war. If a character’s arc is about telling fate to go fuck itself, but fate fucks them, you can’t expect the audience to buy it when any other character fights fate��but for real this time!!1!

Hell this makes me so frustrated.

I really, really would like to believe it will turn out fine, because you legitimately could not write something that flew more in the face of everything Historia’s grown into, and despite this story’s eccentricities, its character work is some of the best I’ve ever seen.

Eren’s out murdering children and making Mikasa cry, and it’s a given that something more is behind it.

Historia’s pregnancy breaks essential themes of the entire story, but yeah, it is totally what it looks like.

(inb4 it’s not what it looks like but somehow manages to be even worse because that’s the kind of bloody trail it’s been)

I don’t mean to keep beating this horse, because I’m guessing most everyone is sick of me losing my temper about it by now, but it drives me up the wall. I obviously have a personal interest in Historia’s arc, but I like the manga, and part of the appeal of Historia’s arc is how it is singing directly to the beauty that’s to be found in the cruel world instead of bowing to that cruelty.

Now one of the voices of that appears to be on bended knee and just. pleeeeease be a ploy. Please don’t turn into one of those series where I have to get out MS Paint and draw a bad graph about where a really great story gave up on itself.

Honestly, one of my dearest hopes is that I’m going to feel like a massive idiot for getting this worked up over this because it’s all going to be fine.

Time will tell, I guess.

For the time being…

-twitch-

#1 #2 #3 #4 #5 #attack on asks #what is my tag for this #shingeki no no #?#hell I don't know but it needs one because I'm starting to feel really guilty for the amount I go off on this

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overthinkingkdrama · 6 years

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Violence and Dong Hoon: A My Mister Meta (Part 2)

What is his appeal? What is it about him? At first glance he appears to be a beacon of integrity and stability. The poster child for self-negating, guileless altruism. The archetypal hapless salaryman.

To the people around him, Dong Hoon is different. Dong Hoon isn’t like his brothers or his other loser friends. He’s got a good enough job to set his mom up in a house, his beautiful wife is a successful career woman in her own right, cut from a different cloth than her in-laws--a symbol of his “perfect” life. Dong Hoon is honorable. He’s filial. He’s dutiful. He’s responsible. He is everything that he, as a middle-aged Korean man, has been told he’s supposed to be.

But hear these things from his coworkers, friends, family, Dong Hoon doesn’t feel encouraged. He feels trapped. In fact, sometimes when he hears these things, he feels like he can’t breathe.

If they were to study him for more than a passing second they might realize that Dong Hoon is being slowly eaten away by the gnawing emptiness of his life, he’s terrified that at any moment the people around him will realize that his entire life is a sham.

Impostor Syndrome

It’s hard to say exactly when Dong Hoon took on the role of anchor and provider for his dysfunctional family and by extension his dysfunctional neighborhood. Token success story in a town full of losers. But it’s clear that he’s been managing his image for the people who depend on him for a long time now. It’s become second nature.

Dong Hoon feels like an impostor in his day to day life, and in some ways he is one. He senses how much people look up to him and depend on him, and so hangs on desperately to what he has for fear of disappointing them and exposing himself. We know that Dong Hoon’s internal life doesn’t line up with the image he projects from his own words. When his brother says that he knew that Dong Hoon wouldn’t get in trouble with Ji An because of how strong willed he is, Dong Hoon says he can’t know if that’s true because he’s never had any real temptations to resist.

Most of the people around him have forgotten, or perhaps never knew, what the real him looks like. Underneath his mask, Dong Hoon isn’t cool headed and humble. He’s a fighter. He’s a man of violent impulses, as we’ve seen time again when something presses his berserk button.

He isn’t a naturally docile person who finally got pushed too far and snapped. He’s always been this way, but he’s found ways to suppress it. The drama heavily implies that he uses his drinking to deal with these impulses, as well to numb his constant self loathing.

When he goes to confront Kwan Il he reveals a little bit about why he started drinking instead of fighting in his transition to adulthood. He realized that at a certain point if he didn’t put that part of himself in check that something serious might happen.

And we see after his fight with Kwang Il that it’s like something has been shaken loose in him. He even says that he feels more alive afterward, and declines drinking, because if he’s not having to constantly keep himself under that oppressive control he doesn’t need to medicate himself with alcohol.

I think if one thing is clear from the way he handled the revelation that his wife has been cheating on him with his enemy, it’s that Dong Hoon is as scared—perhaps more scared—of losing the illusion of stability in his life than he is of his marriage falling apart. If he has to get a divorce it will complete destroy the narrative he’s constructed around himself that he’s got his life even slightly together. That his marriage is perfect and his life is perfect and he knows what he’s doing. And he’s scared of what it will look like when he finally loses control of himself.

Take his interactions with Ji An and put them through this lens, and we see that while Ji An might interpret his need to push her away when she gets to close as repulsion at her feelings or as a reflection of her own sense of self worth, it’s really Dong Hoon’s fear of his own impulses and desires that compels him to run away from her.

He’s far less scared of her feelings than he is of his own.

The idea that someone knows what is really going on with him scares and depresses him.

So he has to keep himself locked up inside this prison he’s constructed. The same group of friends he grew up with. The same soul crushing job. The same failing marriage. Because if he shifts for even a second the weight of his weary life will crush him. Or worse--in his mind, maybe far worse--the real Dong Hoon will come out, and he’ll tear apart his stable life with his own hands. And then he might have to acknowledge that there is something outside of that prison. Maybe something better. Maybe even happiness.

Self Imposed Life Sentence

This problem of wearing a mask and hiding his real face has visible, quantifiable consequences for the people around him. It goes way beyond Dong Hoon and Yoon Hee and their disintegrating marriage. It’s a fundamental problem with the way Dong Hoon chooses to live his life.

For instance, very idea that he could continue indefinitely to play out the pretense that everything was okay between the two of them as long as she didn’t know that he knew about the infidelity demonstrates how twisted his view of reality has become. It never could have worked long term, it wasn’t even working short term. But he didn’t give up the notion until the very moment the whole thing exploded in his face. How does someone get to that point of self deception?

He keeps telling himself the same lie.

That this is okay. That this is normal. That he isn’t miserable because of his own choices. He’s just miserable because life is miserable, and there’s nothing he can do to change it. He just has to grit his teeth and muscle through the best he can.

Ji An wonderfully and eloquently calls him on this garbage:

As I stated in the first part of this meta, the violence that characterizes these people’s lives is of both the external and internal varieties. What Dong Hoon has not expressed outwardly, he is forced to direct in at himself. There’s a real emotional cost associated with that for him. It comes in the form of his obvious untreated depression and suicidal ideation that the drama has made a point of showing us not just once, but several times.

From spending her days listening to the dismal minutia of Dong Hoon’s life, or perhaps from her own experience with these sorts of thoughts, Ji An several times senses a change in Dong Hoon’s breathing patterns and runs to him. She watches him where he walks and won’t leave him alone until she’s certain the dangerous thoughts have passed.

The lie Dong Hoon has been telling himself, that he is living well, like the lie that his marriage is salvageable just so long as he shuts his eyes and refuses to acknowledge its fundamental brokenness can lead to only one place if left unchecked: a complete self-destruct.

Words of Affirmation

I don’t want to make it seem like all I see in My Mister is doom and gloom. I find the story very uplifting in many ways and hugely gratifying to watch. Rarely have I found character drama that is so unflinchingly realistic and yet so emotionally satisfying. But I’m also a big believer in the idea that you have to know just how dark the darkness can get in order to really appreciate the light.

My Mister isn’t just an exploration of the every day violence in the lives of ordinary people. It’s also a story about growth and redemption and finding your way out of a self-destructive cycle. With 4 episodes left, we’re far from being out of the woods, but episodes 11 and 12 finally gave us what I see as a small ray of hope.

Sometimes what you need in order to find your way out of a vicious false narrative is a good verbal kick in the ass, like the one Dong Hoon got from his monk friend.

And sometimes what you need is someone to hang on to you and tell you that it’s going to be okay.

Because another huge theme of the drama is this: If you never let anyone know what you’re going through, then you can’t be comforted either.

Dong Hoon needs a lot of things, but chief among them is a heaping helping of honesty with both himself and others. Communication. Human empathy. Healing words of affirmation. He’s tried to give these things to Ji An, though he seems incapable of asking for them himself. And he can’t get them, not if he continues to refuse to open up about his needs and his wounds.

Yes, Ji An had to spy on Dong Hoon’s every waking moment to gain the insight she has into him. And I don’t want to downplay the huge invasion of privacy that is, but Dong Hoon has made it impossible for anyone else around him to understand what he’s going through without employing literal stalker tactics. This unbridled (admittedly non-consensual) honesty has created more intimacy between these two characters than Dong Hoon has with his wife of 20 years, even if he doesn’t fully realize it or know the reason for it.

And as true as it is that betrayal and disregard from the person who is supposed to care for you the most is, in Dong Hoon’s words, like being “declared dead...worthless” the opposite can also be true. Words of encouragement spoken out of sincerity can make all the difference. They can pour life back into you. Just like how being declared dead doesn’t kill you, being declared worthless doesn’t strip you of your worth. But that doesn’t make hearing the words like “you are worthy”, “you are decent”, “you are good” (not merely as a hollow acknowledgement of the mask you wear, but as a recognition and appreciate of your true self) can make all the difference when you’re living in a very dark place.

#my mister #my ajusshi #IU #lee ji eun #lee sun kyun #meta #commentary #this got so long #but I still feel like I didn't say everything #spoilers #tw: sucide mention #again #I can't stress enough just how freaking good this drama is #if you're not watching it #well...#you probably shouldn't read this #because it's spoiler city #but if you're reading this anyway #then by all means go watch the show

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madasthesea · 6 years

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please let me get what I want (lord knows it would be the first time)

Infinity War spoilers ahead! An Irondad fix-it/Avengers 4 speculation

(AO3)

They manage to get the gauntlet off Thanos. It falls to the unfamiliar terrain of the alien planet with an anticlimactic thud.

Thanos is bleeding and roaring in anger and pain. He’s batting away attacks from Avengers like they’re gnats. Steve and Thor’s combined strengths are barely holding him back.

Tony is closest to the gauntlet, where he’s leaning against a boulder and trying not to vomit as his concussion makes itself known. His suit is in shambles around him and blood is dripping steadily down onto the soil.

He takes a staggering step forward. His head spins so terribly he almost loses which way is up. He blinks the black vignette away and focuses again on the glove. Thanos lets out a guttural scream and flings Steve across the battlefield. The super-soldier goes down in a heap and doesn’t get back up.

Tony is mere feet away.

“Tony, what are you doing?” Rhodey yells.

Tony’s knees give out and he falls, stretching his hand out. His fingers brush the metal. He crawls another foot, gasping as rocks tear at his wound. Rhodey shouts at him again.

He grabs the gauntlet. He can hear fighting behind him, someone nearby screaming his name.

For Peter.

He shoves his hand in the golden glove.

He’s at home. At the Compound. The huge windows look out over forests buried under snow drifts. Flurries of flakes fall gently, the multi-colored lights hanging outside illuminating them as they settle along the sills.

Tony takes a few staggering steps forward. He can hear voices and… music? Laughter, certainly, though the sound is almost foreign to his ears. He thinks he might hear Thor’s booming voice. He walks faster.

As he approaches the source of light, and flooding warmth that tickles his chilled skin, he hears an explosion. A scream. Tony whirls in the dark hallway, peering behind him. There’s nothing there. No one. Just ghosts.

He stands for a long moment, his heart pounding. He jumps again when he hears rapid footfalls coming toward him the other direction.

“Daddy!” a little voice cries, and Tony doesn’t even have time to wonder who the child’s talking to when suddenly there’s a kid running up to him and flinging short arms around his legs. Tony stares down at the little girl, her dark hair in twin braids. He’s frozen in shock for a moment before he stiffly kneels down so they’re eye level.

She has Pepper’s eyes.

“Daddy, did you see all the snow? Uncle Rhodey said he’d build a snowman with us tomorrow!” The girl lisps, her wide smile showing a missing front tooth.

Tony brushes shaking fingers against her cheek. She’s solid. Warm. Real. Heedless of Tony’s panic, the toddler climbs into his lap. He holds her without thinking about it.

“Hi, baby,” he breathes. She smiles up at him, and then her attention is pulled away by Pepper appearing.

“Mommy,” the girl chirps, hopping out of his arms and skipping towards her mother. Tony watches her go, reeling. Pepper lifts the girl like it’s second nature, walking towards Tony and kissing him gently.

“What are you doing loitering in the hallway?” Pepper asks. “Come on, nearly everyone’s here.”

She takes his hand with the one not holding on to the kid and pulls him along. He follows, unresisting, until he hears the front door open.

“Peter!” he hears someone greet. Tony jerks his head up so fast it makes him dizzy. Peter? But Peter’s… He isn’t even aware of moving or the faint sounds of Pepper calling to him. He walks, and when that isn’t fast enough, he runs, skidding into the entryway so fast he nearly crashes into the wall.

Peter’s there. Peter’s there, shedding a thick coat, brushing snow flakes out of his hair. He’s older, old enough that his cheeks have lost any last trace of baby fat, the barest hint of stubble along his jaw. He’s wearing an MIT hoodie, a new one, not Tony’s old sweater that’s falling apart at the seams.

Peter looks up at him, those same dark eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Merry Christmas, Tony,” Peter says, like he wasn’t dead two minutes ago, like he hadn’t died at sixteen in Tony’s arms.

Tony’s body works on autopilot, striding forward on numb legs and hugging Peter like if he holds on tight enough Peter will be real. He’s almost as tall as Tony, now that he’s had time to finish growing.

Whatever Peter look-alike this is responds so instinctually it makes Tony think they’ve done this a hundred times before.

Oh, lord, he can feel Peter’s heart beating. His eyes burn with tears.

“Tony, you’re shaking,” Peter murmurs, tightening his hold. “What’s wrong?” He tries to pull back, but Tony holds on for dear life. If he can’t feel Peter’s pulse anymore, who’s to say he won’t just disappear?

“I love you,” he coughs out, too desperate to be embarrassed. “I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t say it.”

Peter forces Tony away, holding him by the elbows. “What are you talking about? You say it all the time.”

Tony opens his mouth to answer, though he isn’t sure what he could possibly say to explain this, but he hears Rhodes call out to him.

“Tony, where have you disappeared to, man?” He rounds the corner, and Tony is so distracted watching Rhodey walk without leg braces or crutches of any kind that he barely hears the “Pete! Congrats on grad school, kid!”

Peter pulls away from Tony, not noticing his aborted attempt to stop him. “Hey, Uncle Rhodey,” Peter says, letting himself be pulled into another hug, Rhodey ruffling his hair affectionately.

They both turn towards the party. “Come on, Tones, everyone’s wondering about you,” Rhodey says. Tony follows like he’s being pulled on a string, refusing to let Peter out of his sight.

The light hits him first. A wall of soft, buttery light coming from dozens of strings of Christmas lights adorning every inch of available space. No less than three Christmas trees ornament the huge space, but they’re overshadowed by the sheer volume of people milling about.

In his periphery, Tony sees Peter veer off and be wrapped up in an exuberant hug from May, but he doesn’t look over because in front of him is Steve, smiling like Tony’s never seen. And he’s talking to Natasha, and her eyes aren’t flitting across the room and Tony doesn’t see the familiar outline of a gun in the back of her jeans. Thor is there, like Tony had thought, and Clint, his kids chasing each other around the room. Bruce is on the couch to Tony’s left. And more, dozens more. Even the ones that had disappeared with the Snap.

Everyone Tony has ever fought alongside with. Every ally, here and safe and happy.

Tony takes a stumbling step forward. Steve grabs his arm, his worried expression so familiar Tony lets out an hysterical laugh at the sight of it.

“Tony, are you alright?” Steve asks. Natasha touches his sleeve, her eyes concerned.

“Fine,” Tony hiccups, and somehow he believes himself. Everything feels so present, so real. What does it matter that it’s all an illusion?

“Hey, Tony,” he hears, and he whirls, every new surprise making his heartbeat spike in fear. He stops short and blinks.

“Harley?” He asks, disbelieving. He hasn’t seen Harley in… well, over a year his time. But the last they’d met up Harley hadn’t even been eighteen, and the young man in front of him is easily twenty-four. Tony almost hadn’t recognized him.

“Don’t act so surprised,” Harley laughs while stepping forward and falling into a hug Tony hadn’t realized he was offering. “You’re the one that sent your private plane for Pete and me.”

“You’re at MIT, too?”

Harley snorts, his brows furrowed. “You feeling alright, Tony? I’m getting my PhD there, with Peter. You know that.”

Tony flounders for a minute. “Uh, right. Of course. Senior moment,” he stutters, flashing an unconvincing smile.

“Never thought I’d hear you admit to that,” a voice says from behind him. Tony flinches again, each surprise feeling as violent as a hit on the battlefield.

It’s just Peter, and Tony reminds himself to breathe, to savor the simple fact that Peter’s whole and well in front of him, that his team is around him, that they all are inexplicably healthy and happy. He blinks away flashes of explosions and focuses on watching Peter hug Harley.

“Hey ya, Pete,” Harley says, grinning while he ruffles the younger’s hair. Peter scowls and reaches up to fix his curls. As he does, his sleeve rides up, exposing his bare wrists. Tony feels as if the room screeches to a halt, the air getting suddenly harder to breathe.

Peter sees the blood drain from his face. “Tony? You’re really starting to worry me.”

“You’re not wearing your webshooters,” Tony says, the words feeling damning in his mouth, like this one small inaccuracy will shatter the illusion. Peter always wears his webshooters. But Peter just looks at him oddly, a confused smile tugging up one corner of his mouth.

“Of course not. I haven’t in years.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t need them, Tony,” Peter says, once again looking concerned as he puts a hand on Tony’s arm. “I haven’t been Spider-Man since high school. You know that.”

“You just… you just stopped?” Tony’s legs feel weak, like he’s going to fall over any moment. A sudden stab of agony flashes through Tony’s temples. Concussion, he thinks distantly.

“Well there’s not much point being a vigilante when there’s no crime to stop.”

“What?” Tony gasps, his head spinning.

Hot white pain shoots down his left arm and Tony reaches for it, gasping. When he looks up, Peter is looking at Tony’s arm with a sort of resigned sorrow.

“That’s the gauntlet,” he says.

“What?” Tony asks again, the room spinning around him. Everyone in the room is watching, looking so concerned, like any second they’re going to rush forward and help him, but no one moves.

“You need to let it go now, Tony,” Peter instructs, eyes serious. Tony knows that ‘it’ means the gauntlet, but he hears ‘us’. He needs to let go of this fantasy, the thought that he could ever be happy. Pepper watches with tears in her eyes, holding their daughter.

“No,” he whimpers.

“Mr. Stark, drop the gauntlet. It’s killing you.”

“Peter,” he pleads, his legs giving out. Peter catches him, lowers him to his knees in a sick echo of his own death. “No, please, Peter.” Peter’s watching him, sympathy in his gaze. “You die. You die and I can’t save you.”

“I know,” Peter says. “But it’s ok.”

Ok? How could it possibly be ok? Half the universe is dead. Peter is dead. Tony will never be ok again.

“Drop the gauntlet, Mr. Stark.”

Tony clutches at Peter’s shirt. His arm feels like it’s on fire, but he forces his trembling fingers to hold on.

“I have to save you,” he nearly sobs. He buries his face against Peter’s neck, feels the warmth of him. He looks around the two of them, at everyone he’s ever considered family and knows that he’ll never see this sight again. The one’s that aren’t ash are so traumatized and damaged, they’ll never recover. “I… I have to save everyone.”

Peter hugs him close. “You did, Mr. Stark. Now let go. Please.”

Tony pulls back to look at Peter’s face one more time.

Peter’s eyes are the last thing he sees before his vision blacks out.

Tony feels before he hears. His head is throbbing, each beat of his heart bringing on a new wave of pain, but it is nothing compared to the agony that his left arm is in. He honestly thinks, in a hazy, offhand sort of way, that he’d rather chew it off than live with the pain any longer.

Someone is holding onto him. Who—

He takes a breath, and the ensuing anguish is enough to scatter any remaining thoughts. He’s tipping over into unconsciousness again, but before the darkness overtakes him completely, he hears a familiar voice.

“Mr. Stark? Can you hear me? Mr. Stark!”

Ecstatic relief washes over him, but he passes out before he can put together why.

Someone is snoring.

It’s a weird thing to wake up to, especially when Tony is fairly certain he shouldn’t be waking up at all. He should be dead. Right? He’d felt like he was going to die. He remembers feeling every atom screaming out at him, every inch of him being undone. Is that what Peter had felt before…

Someone is snoring, which is even more disconcerting considering Pepper doesn’t snore. Snoring, and moving now, right next to him. He can feel the mattress shifting, gets a bony knee to the thigh.

Thoroughly annoyed at this bizarre afterlife, Tony opens his eyes. He’s in a small, metal room with dim blueish lights illuminating some foreign looking machines. Tony stiffly rolls his head to the side, trying to find the person who was snoring, feeling an almost desperate need to see whoever it is.

Peter Parker is stretched haphazardly in the space between Tony and the edge of mattress, perched so precariously Tony is certain only his spider powers are actually keeping him from falling. He snores again.

Tony is suddenly lightheaded, realizes he isn’t breathing. He inhales only enough oxygen to breathe out a tiny, shaky “Peter.”

Tony isn’t sure if Peter hears him, but the kid’s eyelids flutter open slowly, those familiar brown eyes flicking quickly around him and then up at Tony. Seeing him awake, Peter sits up abruptly, spinning around to face Tony.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark! There aren’t enough beds on the ship so everyone’s sort of sharing and I wasn’t going to leave you anyway but I got really tired and we didn’t—”

“Stop talking,” Tony croaks, staring at Peter like if he blinks the kid will disappear. Peter dutifully snaps his jaw shut. He gives a small, sad smile at whatever expression is on Tony’s face.

“Hi,” Peter says. Tony can’t even manage a disbelieving laugh, just continues to look at Peter, Peter biting his bottom lip, Peter with a film of tears in his eyes, Peter fidgeting under Tony’s gaze.

Tony’s left arm is strapped firmly to his side, so he uses his right hand to reach out and cup the back of Peter’s head and pull him into Tony’s shoulder.

Peter carefully resituates himself next to Tony, lets Tony bury his face in Peter’s curls. Tony’s breaths are shaky, closer to sobs than he wants to admit.

“Are you real?” he whispers, because the Peter in the gauntlet vision had felt just as solid, just as alive, and had disappeared again.

“Yeah, Tony. I’m real.”

Tony doesn’t speak again, knows that there isn’t a single word in the English language that would begin to describe the whirlwind of emotion he’s feeling—the relief and fear and grief and overwhelming love are things only a parent could understand, he is sure of that now. He just tangles his fingers in Peter’s hair and holds him against his chest, presses his lips to the crown of Peter’s head, and doesn’t let go. Not even when whatever medication he’s on makes his eyes close against his will, makes his limbs feel heavy and disconnected; he still holds on.

He wakes up alone. The immediate panicked desolation that sinks into his bones is enough to make him feel like he’s going to throw up. Peter isn’t here. It had been a dream or an aftershock of the vision or something. Peter isn’t here. Peter’s still dead. Oh lord, he’s still dead and Tony had failed to keep the one promise that mattered more than any other.

“Tony?” he hears, the fog of his anxiety making the voice sound distant and distorted. He can make out broad shoulders and blond hair through the tunnel vision.

“Steve,” he coughs out, clutching at his chest with his good hand. He can’t tell if he’s having a heart attack or if this is just what it feels like when your heart breaks. “Steve, he’s—it was a dream, I thought—I thought he was here, next to me, I could touch him, but he’s—”

“Tony, calm down,” Steve is ordering over Tony’s frantic babbling, “breathe, everything is fine.”

“No, Peter’s gone, it was—I dreamt he was here,” Tony continues. He is vaguely aware of tears pooling in his eyes, of them dripping down his cheeks; tears he hadn’t shed when he’d held Peter, like his body had known it was a lie.

Steve is pushing at Tony’s shoulder, trying to keep him laying down. He looks back at the doorway and shouts for Gamora. If Tony was more with it he’d see the problem with that sentence, because Gamora being dead was a surprisingly important detail in their fight against Thanos.

A woman with green skin comes hurtling around the door and hurries to Tony’s side. Tony’s still talking, still telling them why nothing could possibly be ok, because despite whatever cruel trick his mind had played on him Peter is dead.

Another smaller figure appears in the doorway and Tony’s stammering stops, his brain screeches to a halt. He’s not sure if Steve and Gamora stop too, but it seems to Tony like the whole world freezes in its tracks. Peter is standing at the door. His eyes are wide and his face pale, watching Tony with an expression like pain on his face.

It takes Tony two tries to say Peter’s name, but once he does, the kid springs forward, explanations spilling out of him.

“Tony, I’m sorry, I just left for a minute to get something to eat, I didn’t even think about what you’d think when you woke up, but I’m here now, I’m here, Mr. Stark.”

Now that Peter’s in his view, Tony’s panic vanishes faster than it came, and his thoughts start to make sense again. He’s suddenly embarrassed for his tantrum. Tony swallows and forces a small smile.

“It’s—it’s fine, Pete. I just—anyway, I’m glad you got some food,” Tony said breathlessly. Steve and Gamora quietly slipped out of the room as Peter sat on the edge of Tony’s bed and took his hand.

“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, voice quiet as he looks down at their hands. Tony hangs on his every word, his every breath. “I did the same thing. I thought my dream was real, and when I woke up I thought this was the lie.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony whispers, because it was terrifying and horrible and devastating and he didn’t want Peter to ever experience anything like it.

Peter laughs softly. “Mr. Stark, after what you did for me you never have to apologize for anything ever again.”

There’s a lot of things to address in that statement, and Tony doesn’t want to talk about any of it. Instead, he does what he does best—deflect.

“What do aliens eat, anyway?” Tony asks. Peter blinks at the abrupt change of subject, then laughs.

“Exactly what you think they would,” Peter says, then launches into a description of the fruit that he ate that was apparently phosphorescent blue. Tony listens intently, savoring Peter’s voice.

It takes over a week for things to even begin to settle down after they arrive back on earth. Everything is still in chaos, but arrangements have been made, immediate disasters taken care of. For the first time in what feels like years Tony has a moment to breathe.

The compound has been bursting at the seams since the battle. The Guardians are recuperating on Earth for a few days, and all the Avengers have left Wakanda. T’Challa is still there, but Shuri and Nakia are in New York participating in talks at the UN. Peter has been staying there, too, with May. Neither Peter nor Tony wanted to admit it, but they were reluctant to be away from each other.

One evening after a day packed with conference calls and interviews and a dozen other things that left Tony exhausted, he wanders over to the living quarters, only to find the living area full with heroes, relaxing and eating together. There’s still trauma and injuries, but the atmosphere seems peaceful, hopeful even. Laughter isn’t as rare as it was a week ago, and people are keeping to themselves less. It’s progress.

People greet Tony as he enters the room. Steve shoves a plate of food in his hands, and Bruce claps him on his shoulder as he passes. Natasha is sitting on the couch with Clint’s youngest child in her lap. Pepper and May are looking conspiratorial as they talk, probably about wedding plans.

It strikes Tony, suddenly, how similar this is to his vision. He’s dreamt of it every night, and always wakes up with an ache of longing in his chest, one that he can never quite banish. It’s an impossible dream. And yet, here are his friends and allies, gathered together. Nothing Tony can do will ever banish the fear, the memories, will ever heal all the aches and pains they’ve accumulated. He can never bring back those they’ve lost.

But they’re here. And it’s closer to his gauntlet dream than Tony ever thought could happen, especially after that first disastrous battle.

Peter sees Tony and separates himself from Shuri and Wanda, coming over to where he’s leaning against the kitchen island. He tucks himself into Tony’s side without hesitation.

He thinks of his dream. How he’d told Peter he loved him and Peter had assured him that he knew.

Maybe it isn’t as impossible as he’d thought.

He puts his arm around Peter’s shoulder and hugs him close. Peter looks up at him and smiles, the fear that lives behind his eyes farther away than Tony’s seen in a long time.

“I’m glad you’re here, kid,” Tony says.

“Me too,” Peter murmurs. They both watch the people in front of them, their family. May laughs across the room and Peter smiles.

Tony ducks his head and kisses Peter on the temple. “I love you.”

Peter smiles again, nods. “I know.”

It takes Tony half a second to catch it, then he throws his head back and laughs. “Did you just Han me?”

“Would it better if I had Leia’d you?” Peter asks, the cheeky punk.

“No,” Tony assures him, still laughing.

It’s an impossible dream. Tony will work to make it as real as he can.

#fic #my writing #Infinity War spoilers #Tony Stark #Peter Parker #MCU #brotp: speaking of loyalty

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