#I did my summary on my normal art blog and even though 2 of the pieces on it were from this blog I wanted to see what it'd look like to do

[daily-somethingorother]

This blog gets a summary of art!? I didn't expect it either..

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#I did my summary on my normal art blog and even though 2 of the pieces on it were from this blog I wanted to see what it'd look like to do #this summary #may: milly from trigun #june: cypher (oc) #july: rei from urusei yatsura #august: asmodeus from obey me #september: godling (oc) #october: hades from sleepy princess in the demon castle #november: tsuchigomori from toilet-bound hanako-kun #december: hajime kashimo from jujutsu kaisen #outer daily #summary of art #summary of art 2023

[bullshittierlists]

A few notes before I start: Sorry about the white backgrounds, that’s how they showed up and I didn’t know how to fix them. Also, these summaries are going to be a lot shorter than they have in my last few posts just since there are so many characters. Anyway, let’s begin.

Literally godly, this should be your regular outfit -

Rantaro Amami - I shouldn’t have to be the first person to point out to you that he’s hot. Not to mention that the pink bottoms work wonders with his hair.

Nagito Komaeda - Hhhhhhhh

Byakuya Togami - I will admit, I’m basing this position more off of his appearance in the promo art. I don’t know how much I like this look on his regular sprite, but he’s so hot in that promo art, you don’t even know.

Show me who picked this out for you so I can thank them -

Sayaka Maizono - SHE LOOKS SO CUTE OML. I’d go through each detail, but in short: everything.

Gundham Tanaka - Shirtless Gundham, what more can I say?

Ibuki Mioda - I absolutely adore how her swimsuit doesn’t just go with her hair, but matches it. Perfection.

Korekiyo Shinguji - When the trailer first dropped and I saw the screen with all of the released swimsuits, I immediately started scanning to see if they put Korekiyo in a wetsuit and by God, they did.

Shuichi Saihara - He looks more tired than usual, but I just have a gut feeling his other sprites will look better.

Mondo Owada - I probably should’ve put him in standard, but he looks so good without a shirt on, I couldn’t possibly.

Kaito Momota - Space shorts.

Sakura Ogami - She was actually going to be somewhere in the first tier originally, but I just can’t put her there because of the color. I probably should’ve put her down with the other people with this problem (Uhhh... okay... I guess) but I couldn’t bear to.

Cute!/Cool! -

Chihiro Fujisaki - a;lskdfh;adskfijshdkjc He’s so cute, someone help. I’m drowning in cute. He looks so excited to be wearing it, too. I think this was the best choice they could’ve gone with to not give him something too masculine or feminine, fantastic choice.

Leon Kuwata - This category was originally just going to be “Cute!” but his bottoms looked so cool, I had to put him up here.

Toko Fukawa - Not only does her swimsuit look good on her, but I love the way that they designed her and Genocide Jack to be wearing the same swimsuit in different styles. Super cool.

Tenko Chabashira - I think this was one of the only palette swaps that I actually liked. There are probably a few other swaps that I didn’t even notice, but I like this one specifically because of the color swap. She looks great in pink.

Kyoko Kirigiri - I think I would’ve normally put her in standard, but her gloves are just too cool.

Mukuro Ikusaba - Love the colors and love the pattern. Simple, yet great.

Mahiru Koizumi - Mahiru, your camera. You can’t take that in the water. Mahiru- MAHIRU

Akane Owari - This is actually the swimsuit she wore during chapter 2 in the original game and I thought she looked great both times.

Chiaki Nanami - Same as Akane, so there’s not really any reason for either one to be higher or lower than the other. Peko would be up here too, but it’s really basic.

Gonta Gokuhara - I just really like the pattern and also that he’s still carrying the thing over his shoulder. It’s really weird who got to keep accessories and who didn’t, but we’ll get there.

Masaru Daimon - He just looks so cool in his shorts, I’m sure he’s excited to have them.

Shirokuma - Despite how I may feel about Shirokuma, this is a very cute outfit for them.

Standard -

Kaede Akamatsu - Definitely the best-looking of the protagonists, even if Shuichi’s higher. He’s only higher because I have faith that his faults are because of the sprite choice. If I’m wrong, sue me.

Kirumi Tojo - This is another instance of getting to keep the accessories. She still has her headband on. Why?? It wasn’t crucial to her character or anything. I get that Kyoko has backstory reasons and Gonta and Mahiru’s personalities revolve around their items, but why Kirumi? She had other things that defined her better.

Peko Pekoyama - Like I said before, basic and kinda bland. She still looks good, though.

Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu - He actually gained an accessory. Why does he have a necklace now? His shorts are nice, though.

Hajime Hinata - O r a n g. Or maybe red.

Maki Harukawa - Basic swimsuit, no color change whatsoever. A nice swimsuit, but nothing special.

Genocide Jack - Everything I said before about Toko’s swimsuit still applies, Genocide Jack’s is just way more boring.

Aoi Asahina - A good color swap, but not good enough to make up for her basic swimsuit.

Monomi - I like that they put her in a one-piece. Very cute. Wish they would do that all the time...

Monaca Towa - I just noticed that she is the only character other than Monomi to wear a one-piece. Why??

Makoto Naegi - The most basic swimsuit imaginable combined with his regular color scheme and pattern.

Hiroko Hagakure - I think I like that she kept her jacket? Maybe? It’s a different jacket, but it still counts.

Nagisa Shingetsu - Black and white bottoms. Okay. You do you, buddy.

Imposter - It’s fine. It’s just fine.

Izuru - I like that they gave him a separate swimsuit from Hajime, but why is it so bland and boring?

I love you, so I’ll forgive it -

Sonia Nevermind - She actually looks great and is so cute. So cute that she’d be in the top tier if not for one crucial fact. If you’ll notice, I mentioned earlier that Peko, Chiaki, and Akane are all wearing the same swimsuit here that they had worn in the original second game. However, there’s another character that appears in the scene I’m talking about that is wearing a different outfit than they are here. That charcter is Sonia, who was seen in a wetsuit in the original game. It was thrown off as a joke, but I still can’t stop thinking about how pretty she looked in that wetsuit. It’s literally my profile picture for my main blog, that’s how pretty she is wearing it. I’m mad because they’re basically agreeing that she didn’t look pretty/sexy in the wetsuit when that couldn’t be more wrong.

Celestia Ludenberg - I literally just wish she was wearing a one-piece, it can be the same style and everything. Honestly a missed opportunity.

Kotoko Utsugi - It’s just a weird pattern. Love the colors, though.

K1-B0 - I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love the floaty, but he still deserves more respect.

Miu Iruma - The pattern is... fitting... but still bad.

Kiyotaka Ishimaru - Taka... sweetie... why...?

Uhhh... okay... I guess -

Angie Yonaga - I like the look, but it’s exactly what she usually wears just without the jacket. Does that mean that she’s always wearing a swimsuit? Why? Even Asahina didn’t wear a swimsuit as her regular outfit.

Kazuichi Soda - I definitely like this color better than the piss yellow he used to have, but it’s still not great. I like that he got to keep his little logo thing, but I’m confused as to why he gets to keep his hat. It’s just like Kirumi keeping her headpiece. I’m fine with it in this case, but why him and not...? Well, we’ll get there.

Komaru Naegi - A lot of the outfits in this tier are just because I like the look and not the color scheme, including Komaru. Yellow’s just an odd fit for the shade of green that her hair is.

Tsumugi Shirogane - The same as Komaru. Nice style, but the yellow and blue clash for me.

Hiyoko Saionji - Surprise surprise, it’s the same thing. I think the style really fits her, but I hate the yellow and green. Not into it.

Junko Enoshima - Ok, we’re out of the color scheme repetition. I don’t know why she’s wearing a tanktop. It just looks a little off, but I can’t place why. I don’t know why she isn’t just wearing the regular swimsuit like she was in the promo art. If she was, I’d probably put her in Standard.

Yasuhiro Hagakure - I’ll be honest, I didn’t notice the alien pattern on his shorts until after I had already downloaded the picture and closed out of the tier list tab. If I had noticed before, I’d probably put him in Cute!/Cool! but I still don’t really like the color scheme. Fitting, but not pleasing.

Kurokuma - The only reason he’s above Kokichi is because he has a water gun and I think that’s cute.

Kokichi Oma - Literally just gut instinct. I like that he kept his checkered pattern and purple color scheme. Something just told me he should be down here.

Monokuma - It just feels wrong, but I can’t place why, same as Kokichi.

Teruteru Hanamura - I probably would’ve liked his outfit better if his shirt was buttoned up at least a little bit. Now that I think about it, Mondo should’ve had one of these, too.

Who signed off on this? -

Usami - WHY IS SHE IN A BIKINI??? SHE’S A STUFFED RABBIT.

Nekomaru Nidai - I can absolutely see him picking this swimsuit to wear, but that doesn’t mean I like it.

Mikan Tsumiki - You know why she’s here.

God no. I hate it -

Ryoma Hoshi - So Mahiru gets to keep her camera, Kirumi gets to keep her headpiece, and Kazuichi gets to keep his hat.. but Ryoma doesn’t get anything? I genuinely had to take a second to figure out who this was the first time I saw him. He can’t even have a sunhat or anything? That would’ve been cute.

Himiko Yumeno - I can’t imagine a world in which she would choose this swimsuit for herself. The color is off, the style is off, I could much more easily see her wearing something similar to Monaca’s swimsuit. Basically, just let some of the girls wear one-pieces. They don’t all have to be in bikinis.

Jataro Kemuri - The pattern. I can’t even stand to look at it long enough to figure out what it is.

Hifumi Yamada - It did take me a second to figure out what his swimsuit was, but as soon as I did, he hit the bottom of the list. Again, it’s definitely fitting, but I still hate it.

#bullshittierlists #danganronpa #danganronpa s #I would put all of the characters but that's so many

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Summer Nights: Part 3

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Charlie Weasley x Overweight/Plus size Female identifying Reader

Series: Summer Nights

Warning: Fred’s death, the series will mention issues such as guilt, grief, etc. + Chapter specific warnings: guilt, self-blaming, trauma, scenes of magical healing, mentions of past childhood fatphobia/body shaming

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ (formerly imaginesofeveryfandom)​ aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long​

Summary/Request: You’d always had brief glimpses of Charlie Weasley throughout your life, but despite your closeness with the rest of the Weasley family and your friendship with the Weasley Twins, you had never officially met. Until Charlie Weasley decided to take the summer off from his work as a Dragon Keeper at the Romanian Reserve and come back home, to the Burrow, that is.

Notes: Gif is my own, using my art of Charlie Weasley which you can find on my art blog @artisticwarnug here. If you use please make sure you credit me and my art blog properly, that the ownership is clear as it is my own art and I would hate for it to be unclear that I made it <3 x

Prologue / Part 1 / Part 2

Dinner that night was a riotous affair. You, six Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione all crammed in around a table, reaching for the amazing food that Mrs Weasley always made. Shoulders bumped against each other, the volume reaching extraordinary heights, but as you sat there you couldn’t help but smile. This felt right. Being around all these people. So welcome. Watching the way Ginny looked up to Charlie and the way Ron and Harry joke around, while Hermione rolled her eyes at George. You’d often felt alone since Fred’s death, a distance seemed to exist in your mind between yourself and the Weasley’s, a gnawing guilt. While you lived with them there were very few moments like this, one’s where you felt like yourself again. 

As you look around the table with a smile, your eyes catch Charlie’s. A soft, small smile, shy, lifts at the corner of your mouth and you're delighted to say that Charlie smiles more with his eyes than anything else. 

When you go to bed that night you think perhaps it will be a night in which you will fall asleep easily, in which the memories won’t haunt you, in which the guilt that settles like a stone in your stomach will ease...that is a foolish belief you realise rather quickly. Your head rests against your pillow as you stare at the ceiling. 

You toss and you turn, twisting this way and that. You lie on your side for a moment, arm curled beneath your pillow, before flipping onto your back and then your front before going back to your back. You try sleeping with your head at the other end of the bed, maybe you’ll trick your brain that way. It doesn’t work. You try every trick possible, but you just can’t sleep. The frustration is clouded by other thoughts, intrusive ones, the ones you try not to dwell on because you can’t change the past and you can’t bring him back. You don’t have that kind of power, although sometimes you wished you had a time turner, you might go mad, but maybe, in the process you could bring one of your best friend’s back. Maybe you wouldn’t fail him this time. 

You lie there trying desperately to calm your mind, to silence your thoughts, to sleep, for what seems like hours. In truth it can’t have been more than an hour before you decide to just forgo all the tossing and turning and potter downstairs to make a warm cup of something and maybe nab a biscuit or two. 

The Burrow is eerily quiet at this time of night, the lights are out, the stairs creak as you pad down them, and a chill has you grabbing the knitted throw blanket from the living room on your way to the kitchen. There was never a shortage of blankets at the Burrow. Something you could thank Mrs Weasley endlessly for. 

You wrap yourself up as tightly as possible, the blanket a soothing weight across your shoulders, before putting the kettle on the stove. Despite magic being at your disposal, you always preferred to make hot drinks whether coffee, tea, hot chocolate or otherwise, the muggle way. Working with your hands, going through the motions of creating something whether food, drink, art or something else entirely, helped you calm down more often than not. You suppose it was very Hufflepuff of you, doing things the muggle way, doing things the homely way. 

You look up before he’s even at the entrance to the kitchen, you hear the footsteps softly pad down the stairs, the creek of an old floorboard, the quiet shuffling of clothes and a soft sigh of frustration. You didn’t know who you’d expected, Charlie, wasn’t it though. Perhaps Ginny or maybe Ron or even Mrs Weasley. 

The tattooed dragon that had previously been on his neck had moved, as magical tattoos are want to do. It was now laying across the other side of his neck, nearer to his shoulder, barely peeking from his sleep shirt, sleepy and annoyed looking. You wondered if it wanted to sleep but couldn’t because of Charlie’s alertness. You’d never given much thought to wizarding tattoos, but you suppose they must have some sort of personality or thought process or....something. Why else would they move? You supposed that they might work like wizarding portraits, perhaps the dragon had been a real one, its likeness etched into his skin.

His hair is out from the tie it had been in during the day, loose around his face and a sort of bird's nest that screamed ‘i’ve been tossing and turning for a while now’. During the day he’d looked so confident, put together, like everything was okay, but here, in the dark of the kitchen, with only a few little lights to provide a warm glow, he looked haggard. He looked how you felt. 

“Would you like something to drink?” You keep your voice soft. Partly knowing that the walls in the Burrow were thin, not wanting to wake the others, and partly because it didn’t seem right to speak loudly or even speak at your normal volume right now. 

He pauses for a moment, taking in the kettle on the stove that’s begun to whistle quietly, thanks to a well placed muffling charm, the blanket across your shoulders, the bags underneath your eyes. He blinks before nodding his head towards you in confirmation, a small upturn at the corner of his mouth, a polite smile not more and not less. It cannot compete with his earlier bright smile during the day. 

“Tea, please, love.” You grab a tea bag and another mug, making both your own preferred hot drink and his mug of tea. Only stopping to ask if he had sugar in his tea, for him to respond with 3, and you to not comment further despite knowing his mother would probably exclaim that 3 was 2 too many. 

You carefully hand him the mug, not wanting to spill a drop, fingers brushing against his. You note his hands are rougher than most wizards, years of hard work will do that. Most wizards and witches have soft hands, skin that only ever touched a wand. The Weasleys are some of the few you knew who relished in hard work and manual labour, some things magic helped with like chopping vegetables, but other things like collecting eggs or planting fruit in the garden seemed to them more suited to their hands. Like you they seemed to enjoy the calming nature of going through the steps, of grounding yourself with the world around you. 

You sip at your drink and study the grooves in the table, the different grains of wood, the stains and the marks. Some you know the story of. Like the burn that was caused by Ginny playing with Arthur’s wand at the age of 5. Others are the sorts of stains and marks that come from a family using it every day, from children playing and drawing and existing. 

Charlie clears his throat and you lift your eyes to his, he looks a little sheepish, “Sorry, if this is a bit...if you don’t want to talk, but can I ask why you’re not in bed?” 

The truth is that you’ve barely known Charlie a couple of days and perhaps normally you’d be reluctant to talk about anything personal, about nightmares or your guilt or your feelings. But, Charlie isn’t a complete stranger. He’s a Weasley and there has never been a Weasley you couldn’t talk to, even Percy who could be and had been an arse in the past. Even when he wasn’t around, the other’s talked about Charlie, their darling boy or their amazing brother. If you knew one Weasley you inevitably felt like you knew the rest even if you’d never met. Maybe it was that he was a Weasley, that he was Fred’s cool older brother, or maybe it was that you were lonely and fed up of hiding it all...that you knew him the least and it seemed easier to talk to someone who’d understand and yet didn’t know you well enough to push too far. Or maybe it was just that Charlie Weasley had one of those faces that made you want to talk. 

“I...I struggle to sleep these days. I’ve struggled to sleep since the battle to be honest...if it's not tossing and turning then it’s nightmares. When the lights go out the thoughts come out...”

“From what I heard you did alright. You helped people, you got a few death eaters along the way...” There was an unspoken question, ‘what do you have to be haunted about? What did you do? or what did you not do?’

“Yeah....I helped some people, used my healer training to my advantage and sure I got a few stunning spells in, but I....I couldn’t save the one person that really mattered. I couldn’t....” You breathe in a shaky breath and can already feel the tears welling in your eyes at the thought of him. A hand reaches across the table and covers your own. It’s a comforting gesture, it reminds you that you’re safe here.

“I couldn’t save Fred...I tried, y’know, I even tried muggle methods, I thought maybe if magic wouldn’t help, muggle medicine might...I thought if I could just get him breathing again he’d be okay. It would all be okay...I” You close your eyes hard, feeling the press of your lids together, the wetness welling at the corners, “It’s my fault...I don’t even know why your parents let me stay...how any of you can even look at me...if I had been a better healer, or better at defence, then Fred might still be here.”

“You can’t seriously believe that?”

You lift your eyes to his, his eyebrows are furrowed, twisted down, mouth set in a frown. “I should have been able to save him. I have helped so many people. I have stopped so many people from dying...but I couldn’t save him.” You avert your eyes, his stare feels too intense, too much.

“You’re not to blame, look at me,” He squeezes your hand, firmly, but still gentle. The other reaches forward, a finger underneath your chin to lift your face as he brings your gaze back to his and leans ever forward as if all he wants is for you to truly listen and truly believe. “You didn’t kill Fred. You didn’t cause his death. No one can bring someone back from the dead..there was nothing you or anyone else could do. Rookwood was to blame. Voldemort and his followers were to blame. Not you.” 

“Then why do I feel like I am? Like I should have done better?”

“Because we all do. Do you think Percy doesn’t blame himself? Like maybe if he’d not made a joke, not distracted Fred, he’d still be here? Do you think George doesn’t think he could have protected his own twin better? Me? I wish I'd bloody been right there, right next to him. I wish I did more and I feel the guilt of not doing more each day...We all feel like we failed him. You don’t feel guilty because you did something wrong, you feel guilty because he was your friend and you’re a good person. Good people always want to do better, even if it's not possible, love.”

“How do you do it? How do you keep going?” It feels impossible some days, the idea that you shouldn’t feel guilty or sad or angry or hurt. Some days you almost forget that he’s not here, you see George and go to ask after Fred, you think of a joke and think that you should go tell him...Some days simply getting out of bed seems impossible.

“I let it go. You can’t live in the past or else you’ll forget the present, and never look to the future. That’s what we were fighting for. That’s what Fred was fighting for, a better future. I chose to stop punishing myself for what I did or did not do because my brother would feed me a canary cream if he heard me blaming myself.”

You let out a sharp laugh, quick, unexpected even for you, and it's true. Fred wouldn’t stand for it, he wouldn’t stand for anyone blaming themselves, he’d tell you to buck up and crack a few jokes, stop hurting yourself. He was like that. Whenever he found you squirrelled away behind a tapestry, sad and crying, he always found a way to make you smile. His life’s work was getting people to smile.

“...Thank you. I know it’s not going to get better over night, but...maybe it’s time to try and stop dwelling in the past.” You stare into your empty mug for a second before rising to place it beside the sink. He’s still drinking his tea, and you, realise this whole time you hadn’t asked him why he wasn’t asleep.

“Why...why aren’t you asleep, Charlie?” You lean back against the counter to watch him, the blanket slipping off of your shoulders slightly. 

“I...I have a few old injuries that keep me up sometimes. Mostly my back, the scars I have ache a lot...but I...I sleep best on my back so...” 

It surprises that his lack of sleep was something that seemed so fixable to you, but you often had to remind yourself that most witches and wizards struggled with even basic healing charms and didn’t think in the same way that you did. Healing was a skill and knowing the right solution to a problem took both natural intuition and training.

“Do you...have you ever learnt lenio?” You move closer to him, throwing the blanket off of your shoulders and onto the back of your chair. Each step shows your healer nature as you itch to get closer and have a look at the problem, to solve it like you do every day of the week. 

“Uh, I’ve never heard of it?”

“Oh...I suppose you’re probably used to being given potions for pain, they usually last longer, don’t rely on the witch or wizard’s will power. It’s a...a pain relief spell, it works on a great deal. I...Hermione’s scar hurts a lot so I taught her it, but her scar’s easy for her access...you could always see me before you go to sleep each night and I can administer it. It’s considered outdated because of potions but I find that it’s most effective for scarring or pains that distract or make you unfocused and people don’t get as reliant.”

“Does...does it last awhile?”

“It varies on the caster’s strength of thought, I typically find when I cast it it lasts anywhere between 12 hours to a day, some people it can last minutes. Hermione manages to make it last around 8 hours. It’s why it fell out of fashion, not a lot of wizards or witches have the aptitude for it.” Potions had become easier. Easier to make. Easier to administer and more predictable when duration was involved. But, pain relief potions could be addictive and you always found yourself leaning towards charms and spells over potions, where possible. 

“Before you...before you go to bed could you cast it? I’d really like to get some sleep, love.”

Nod with a small smile, easing the tension in Charlie’s shoulders just that little bit. That famous bedside manner of yours pushing its way to the surface. 

“You said it was your back?” You ask as you reach for your wand in the waistband of your pyjama shorts. He nods at you, “First year on the reserve a Hungarian Horntail decided he didn’t like me very much...never told mum.” You let out a little laugh at that, the thought of Mrs Weasley’s reaction was rather comical in your mind. While she could be fearsome, she was also known for her over the top and sometimes melodramatic responses. 

You understand why he chose not to tell her. Mrs Weasley could be overbearing in her protectiveness and you’re sure she would never have let him work on the reserve again, no matter how much he loved it. “Could you...um, disrobe for me.” You ignore the nerves in your stomach and try to get into the healer mindset, you’ve seen plenty of patients wear even less and it was never a problem before. You weren’t going to let Charlie Weasley taking his shirt off get to you. You’d seen him without it early that day and surely he couldn’t affect you quite so much the second time.

Or that’s what you told yourself before you found yourself gazing at him a little too long. Truth was Charlie was an attractive man, even fully dressed and the beauty of his torso was not diminished by you having seen it previously. Up close you noticed things that you hadn’t earlier in the day. Scars of various types caught your eye, a few bite marks you recognised well as various types of dragon, scratches, burn marks, his body told the story of a dragon keeper who had known pain and yet still enjoyed his job. He was covered in freckles head to toe, or at least what you could see of his body, and red hair that criss crossed his arms and his chest. The dragon had moved from his shoulder and neck area, stalking its way across his left ribs, breathing little spouts of fire.

You cleared your throat and gestured for him to turn his back towards you. You could see it was covered in scars, a large portion was burn scarring, but there were claw marks too. You placed a hand gently on the top of his shoulder and gently pushed him forward so that you could get a better look. Your other hand softly trailed over the skin, examining the depths of the scars, making an assessment of what sort of scarring it was. “These were healed poorly, did you not go to the reserve healer?” You could tell they could have been healed better, they would have left a mark certainly, but with less pain you were sure. It was, in truth, a rather shoddy job. 

“Oh, I went...he’s just not very good.” You scoff, not very good was an understatement and you wrecked your brain for anyway you could fix the damage done. You’d never seen wounds healed so poorly or such extensive scarring caused by magical healing, you think that they might have healed better on their own.  

“This was about nine years ago, correct?” You watch the back of Charlie’s head move up and down in a nod, “He used a mending charm.” You scoff, irritation strong within you.

“Is that wrong?”

“They’re meant for objects not people, it’s why you have so much scarring, why it hurts...I just wonder...I wonder if...I know you just wanted me to do a quick lenio, Charlie...but I’d like to try something, I have absolutely no idea if any of the spells I know will work, but I might be able to permanently reduce the pain, and the damage.”

“You couldn’t do that with Hermione?”

“Her scar is the product of dark magic...that’s...we’re still trying to figure out how to undo that sort of injury, but this is normal in comparison. I could make it worse or I could make it better or it could do nothing...”

“Love,” he looks over his shoulder at you, eyes surprisingly full of mirth, “I doubt you could make it worse, give it your best shot.” 

You think through all the healing spells you know and you contemplate the nature of this. It isn’t an open wound or a broken bone, but it is damaged flesh, scar tissue so mangled it hurts and you think deep about your time at St Mungo’s, the many healer’s you’ve known and learnt from and you think of your own experience creating spells, melding your wants, desires, outcomes, into a single word, a single channel for your magic. You use his confidence in you and your desire to see his pain reduced or undone as a force behind the words that leave your mouth without even thinking and the almost natural movement of your wand. 

“Renovare” It’s not a spell you know and yet, as you speak the words and channel your magic through your wand, you know what it does and you know what it’s purpose is. Renew. To fix what isn’t wounded, but is damaged, to heal what has been healed poorly. You watch delicate streams of pearlescent light, flickering between white and pink and teal, fall over the scars and break them apart delicately before rehealing wounds. You hear Charlie hiss and squeeze his shoulder in reassurance that everything is working the way it should and that you’re sorry it hurts. The scars that are left behind are less angry, closer to the skin, and less like knotted damaged tissue. Perhaps had you been there when it happened, there would be no scars at all, but unmending and re-mending a wound is not so perfect or simple. You have the presence of mind to realise this is a new spell, of your own creation, and that you should write all of this down before you go to sleep tonight. This spell could be a breakthrough for wizarding medicine, at least where angry scars that cause pain are concerned. You’re so focused on fixing his pain that this realisation doesn’t bring you the pride it should, after all, not many witches or wizards could simply create a spell.

There’s something satisfying about watching the process, the breaking open of skin and the regrowth of new. The new scars looking as you’d want them to be, knowing that you have fixed the work of a poor healer and hopefully, in the process, stopped the pain that causes Charlie’s lack of sleep. 

You run your hand over the new scars once you’re done, checking the thickness of the scar tissue, his dragon has moved to his back now, curiously dancing around your fingers, nipping as if it could catch them. You get the feeling that it is grateful for your work. “Does it hurt at all? or...at least is the pain lesser?”

“It’s...it’s sore, like i’ve just come off the quidditch pitch, but it doesn’t hurt. Not like it used to.”

“Mmm...,” you continue your observations for a while, asking more questions about how it feels as you go, “I suspect the soreness will go, I have just broken your scars open and re-healed them...they look better, proper healing work, none of that bollocks from before.” You find your patience for bad healers always to be quite small, healing was serious business, people’s lives, their feelings were at risk and bad healers, in your opinion, simply shouldn’t exist. 

“I...thank you for letting me try I...”

“I’ve never heard that spell before.”

“That’s because I just created it.” He looks at you as you expect, surprised and a little bit in awe. Most wizards and witches can’t just make their own spells, you know this, but your experience with Fred and George had taught you a few things. The two of them had always innately created their own charms and potions, and they taught you how it should feel, how to focus, how to think, how to tap into that part of yourself that was purely magic, that knew without words what it could and wanted to do. 

“That’s...impressive.”

“Your brothers’, they’re...they were...George and Fred have always...” You sigh in frustration, it is so hard to find the right tense now. George is here and Fred is not, but they're a pair, not individuals and it feels wrong to...to leave one out. He’s patient with you, soft eyes, a reassuring smile as a hand reaches for yours and gives a quick squeeze. “When we were in school, the twins just knew how to make their own spells...all their products are their own work and creation...they taught me how to...how to tap into that part of me, the part that knows what to do. I’ve not done it in years, I've not had need to...I just knew what I wanted to happen and I let myself guide me.” You smile at him softly, round cheeks pushing upwards with your smile. His eyes are darting curiously across your face as if seeking out the answer to some question only he knew. 

There’s a look of surprise behind the curiosity. You can see it, that he never fully realised just how brilliant his brothers’ were. Most of the people who meet...met the twins underestimated their abilities, but they were brilliant. Sometimes you just have to look past the laughter, the jokes and the ostentatious colours. 

“Thank you...thank you for this,” He gestures to his back, “and thank you for teaching me something about the twins that I...that I failed to realise myself. We’ve always undervalued them, I love them...loved...but, even I saw them as jokers and never...never realise the work they put in.”

“Brilliant, that’s how I describe them. Insane. Terribly immature at times. Quick to anger, like most Weasleys, but brilliant and kind...” You look off into the distance, eyes losing focus for a second, “have I told...has anyone told you how I became friends with the twins?”

“I always assumed they just wouldn’t leave you alone,” It’s a cheeky smile that makes you laugh, “that would be rather like them.” You lean against the table, thick thigh pressing lightly against the outside of his knee as you think back on how you met the twins. 

“In truth...it’s not a wholly happy story. But it’s not entirely sad either, meeting them was the best thing that ever happened to me. They gave me friendship, companionship, knowledge, protection, and family. They gave me a wizarding family that would always support me and I don’t think at the age of eleven I truly understood the importance that your family would play in my life. Now, I couldn’t live without them.” You turn your eyes on him with a soft smile. 

“We have a way about us...Weasley’s collect people, I think. We’re never happy alone, we like a full house, we like fighting over a bathroom in the morning and cramming around the table. Mum loves adding people to the family, and I'm sure the moment she met you she knew you’d be the newest addition.” You smile at that. You wonder if a Weasley could ever truly be happy alone. While Charlie lived away from his family, you were sure, judging by his little smile, that the distance was hard on him and that he probably surrounded himself with friends and colleagues to feel that familiarity. 

“It was my first year and I was crying…” You look up at the ceiling, the wood beams that cross it, the hanging pots and drying herbs. “I was behind the tapestry on the 5th floor...there’s this little room behind it and I found it by accident, I’m rather clumsy,” You laugh and look back at him. It startles you a little to realise you have his undivided attention, but it also pleases you, to know that he’s listening, that he values what you have to say even if it's just a silly little story. 

“I was bawling really, none of that quiet dainty crying. It was rather horrible actually...they must have heard, said I sounded like Moaning Myrtle which just upset me more...they sat beside and they asked ‘what’s happened? Who do we need to prank?’' It was ever so Fred and George even back when you were all just eleven. Their solution to a problem was often either pranking the person responsible or starting a fight with them. The latter was your least favourite of the two.

“Sounds like them, although I wouldn't have been surprised if they offered to throw a few punches...we have hot tempers.”

“You seem awfully mild mannered for a Weasley to me?” It was true, Charlie and Bill both seemed like two calm individuals, at least compared to Ginny or Ron or even Mrs Weasley. All of whom were known for their explosive, passionate tempers. 

“Well, love, you’ve never seen me nearly tear the Ravenclaw quidditch captain a new one after a blatant display of cobbing...Although, i’m definitely less fiery than Ginny. She scares me a little sometimes.”

“She is prone to bouts of violence,” You love it about her though, her quickness to defend others, her bravery. If there ever was a Gryffindor it certainly was Ginevra. “Either way, they offered pranking services rather than violence...good move on their part, I suspect I would have been terrified of them had they offered to break someone’s nose…”

“So who or what made you cry? Homesick?”

“No...I mean, I was homesick, but that wasn’t what had me crying behind that tapestry...it was boys actually. They’d been picking on me, all years, all ages, all houses, for the first few weeks of my life at Hogwarts. Sometimes it was my hair...and other times it was my teeth, sometimes it was the fact I was muggle born...but mostly, it was that I was fat,” You see he rearing up to say something at the word, but you stop him before he can speak, “I am fat. Charlie, that’s not an insult to me, I can be a million wonderful things, and fat is just a descriptor. I am fat and a hufflepuff and I am pretty and I am brave and I am terribly dedicated to my work. But back then...the way they used it. That was an insult. I was fat, I was a whale, a pig, or some other creature they could demean me with. They said I was ugly and unworthy and ‘who’d want to date you?’...I wasn’t even old enough to care about dating, but they made me feel like I was unlovable...and then your brothers came along.”

You smile at him, at the hand he’s placed on your knee in reassurance, the hand that doesn’t stay there too long out of respect for you. He’s listening now, truly, there is no desire to butt in, to interject, because he realises that you do not unjustly hate your body. You are simply telling a story. “After that they never let anyone say a bad word about me...they protected me and I protected them too...you’ve not seen a thing until you’ve seen a hufflepuff fly at Draco Malfoy with the intent to maim.” You quirk a lip thinking of all the times you’d nearly hurt the boy, he was better now, you could have a civil conversation, but Merlin, he’d been terrible in school.

“Should I worry for my personal safety?” Charlie laughs, leaning back away from you as if you might attack at any moment, but it is all play and it makes you chuckle. “I think you’re safe, dragon boy…”

There’s a comfortable silence in which your leg pressed against Charlie’s as you leant against the table, Charlie leaning back in his chair. It’s the sort of silence that feels like companionship, there is no pressure in your chest to speak, no feeling that the silence was wrong, no strange buzzing in your chest. 

“I’m glad they looked out for you...you deserve to have people who look after you the way you look after them.”

“You...you barely know me.” You look at him through your lashes, feeling shy, bashful at the kind words. He just gives you a stunningly soft smile, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“True, but in the short time I have known you you’ve been nothing but kind, caring, and you even invented a spell simply to help me. Love, that says more than anything else about you. You care about people...and people should care about you too.” The tenderness should scare you, intimidate you, instead it makes warmth blossom in your chest and happy tears well in your eyes because no one has ever said something so kind. Even when you doubt how useful you are, even with the guilt, it means so much to hear someone acknowledge the kindness you give, the care you provide, and not take it for granted. It is this that makes you realise how desperately you want to keep Charlie Weasley in your life, even simply as a friend because he cares so deeply about people and because he doesn’t feel ashamed or embarrassed to share those thoughts or feelings that would matter most to a person. 

It is with those words and thoughts in your head that the two of you say goodnight and you return to your bed, the blankets don’t feel irritating anymore, your head does not buzz with bad thoughts. While it is hard to go to sleep it is not out of guilt or anger or sadness, but a sort of giddiness that you haven’t felt in so long. You fall asleep with a smile.

#summer nights #reader insert #readerinsert #charlie weasley x reader #charlie weasleyxreader #charlie weasley/reader #charlie weasley / reader #harry potter #harry potter reader insert #plus size reader #overweight reader #female reader

[ivarthebadbitch]

Strange things can happen

Chapter 8 summary: Ivar fucks around and finds out.

Canon divergent, everybody lives, arranged marriage AU after 4x14. Read this chapter on Ao3.

Previous chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]

On Ao3: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]

Pairings: Ivar x OC, Ivar vs. basically everyone

Warnings: None

Word count: 3468 (big chapter this time!)

Tagged: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @nukyster-blog @bae-roman @adhdnightmare (let me know if you would like to be tagged)

CHAPTER 8: And lead us not into temptation

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.”

“Have your debts been forgiven, Father Wilfred?” the boy asked.

The priest looked up warily from his prayer book. He had been reluctant to teach Ivar again after their first lesson, but under pressure from Prince Aethelwulf and his daughter Aldreda, he had little choice but agree—on the condition that Ivar was not to touch any of his books ever again, let alone eat the pages. Everyone had felt that this was a reasonable request, and so lessons had resumed.

Father Wilfred cleared his throat and continued the prayer. “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.” He crossed himself and frowned at Ivar. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The boy raised his eyebrows. He reached out, grabbed at the priest’s sleeve, and poked his finger through a hole in the fabric just below his wrist. “I think you do,” he said slyly. “I heard you had a problem with your debts, Father Wilfred. As a matter of fact, I heard you stole from the church.” He clicked his tongue. “I can help you.”

Father Wilfred scoffed and pulled away. How in God’s name had the boy heard about that? “I doubt that very much. I sinned, but the king has been gracious.”

“Of course,” Ivar nodded. “And I am sure you have done nothing since then that would cause him to regret his decision to show you mercy.”

He dabbed at the small beads of sweat forming on his forehead. It was a bluff, surely. There was absolutely no way that this boy could know that, in a moment of weakness about a month ago, he had taken a small silver bowl that had been carelessly left out on the altar after mass. Although Ecbert had pardoned him before, he wasn’t the only individual to whom he still owed money, and those others were not so forgiving. But Ivar didn’t know about that. Or did he? 

He swallowed hard. “What do you want?”

Ivar leaned in close and lowered his voice. “I want you to help me escape this place and return home to Kattegat. I promise you that the reward will make it worthwhile.”

Father Wilfred stared at him. To meddle with the family of the king bordered on treason, and was a far worse crime than stealing or gambling. As the son of Ragnar Lothbrok, Ivar would no doubt be fine if they were caught conspiring, but Father Wilfred certainly could not plead for leniency on the basis of maintaining important diplomatic ties. His head would be on a stake in the courtyard in hours. 

His jaw twitched. “How much can you give me in return?” 

Ivar told him, and his eyes widened. With that amount, he could pay off his most demanding creditors and still have enough left over to leave Wessex and begin a new life somewhere else, far from Ecbert’s reach—assuming, of course, that Ivar could actually deliver what he was promising, which was no certain thing. It was reckless and risky. But it was a way out. Perhaps God had provided for him after all.

“Is it enough?” Ivar asked nervously. For a brief moment, Father Wilfred could see the desperation in his eyes. If he didn’t agree, then the boy had told him his conspiracy for nothing. And given their first encounter, it gave him some small amount of satisfaction to watch him sweat.

“It is,” he said at last, and watched Ivar breathe a small sigh of relief.

The boy stuck out his hand and after a moment and against his better judgment, Father Wilfred reached out and shook it. “So it’s agreed, then?”

God, he was absolutely going to regret this. “Agreed.”

                                                            ***

Ivar dedicated the next two weeks to reconnaissance while Father Wilfred arranged his transportation to the nearest port and secured his spot on a boat home. He worked out the schedule of the guards that were assigned to patrol the hallway during the night. He found a suitable location to meet the priest for when he made his escape. He discovered that the gates to the villa were usually closed at sunset, except for the nights before and after a feast for one of the many Christian saints. On those nights, it was normal for carts full of food and drink to arrive and depart at all hours, and the guards tended to be more lax in their inspections. Lucky for him, one such feast was fast approaching.

The Feasts of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, as Aldreda explained to him with probably more patience than he deserved, commemorated the martyrdom of the two apostles. The main thing he took away from the whole story was that Christians had some sort of unhealthy fixation on crucifixion. Aldreda gave him a little smack on the shoulder when he told her this, but she didn’t exactly deny it. 

Since their trip to Mercia, she had been more relaxed around him and wasn’t going out of her way to avoid him any longer. By the gods, she had even kissed him. To his profound relief, nothing had happened after that and she hadn’t pressed him on it. Not that he wasn’t interested—even though she didn’t look much like the usual type of woman he liked, he found her attractive enough in her own way—but the prospect of trying and failing with a woman once again terrified him. It wasn’t even important if nobody else ever found out. He would know and she would know for certain that he wasn’t really a man, not in the way that mattered.

At any rate, he would be gone soon and then it really wouldn’t matter. He just had to sit through an exceptionally long and boring mass first. He was too on edge to nod off to sleep as he usually did during these things, so he ended up fidgeting and shuffling around in his seat until Aldreda inevitably jabbed an elbow into his ribs. 

“Ow,” he whispered, pretending she had hurt him more than she actually had. She rolled her eyes and he grinned back.

Finally, after an eternity of listening to the archbishop blather on in Latin and watching everyone else in the room but him go up to the altar to eat the bread god, it was time for the actual feast. The guards carried him to the main hall, which had been fully transformed for the banquet. The first dishes had been brought out by the servants and the wine was already flowing by the time he settled into his usual place at Aldreda’s side at the highest table, which was reserved for Ecbert’s family. Ecbert stood up and clapped his hands, gave a mercifully short blessing, and the feast began in earnest.

Ivar cast his gaze around the hall in what he hoped was a casual manner, until he finally spotted Father Wilfred on the far side of the room. When he caught the priest’s eye, he gave him a cheerful little wave. Father Wilfred immediately looked away. As long as the miserable little priest wasn’t planning to betray him, that was fine. Now it was time to set the next part of his plan in motion.

A servant came by with a wine jug, and he held out his cup. After the girl had filled his cup, he gestured for her to fill Aldreda’s next. “To my wife,” he said, and clinked his cup against hers. Aldreda blushed and took a long sip.

He made sure to keep her cup full throughout the feast. Though she was not a particularly small woman, she was no match for him when it came to holding her liquor. She soon grew tipsy and then somewhat more than tipsy. By the point she nearly fell backwards out of her chair, he decided he had gone far enough. The banquet was winding down anyway; the hall was already half empty and the servants were busy carting empty platters back to the kitchen and mopping up spilled food and drink.

With a word to the ever-present guards, one man draped Ivar’s arm across his shoulder and levered him up while the other offered Aldreda a hand and steadied her when she stumbled. Ivar felt a sudden surge of frustration as he watched. He was her husband and that was supposed to be his job, if only...

“Ivar?” Aldreda asked him woozily. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he lied. “Let’s go to bed.”

They finally made their way back to their room, albeit more slowly than usual. Aldreda stumbled to the bed and sat down heavily beside him, hiccuping and then giggling at her own hiccups. She fumbled a little while undoing the buttons on the front of her dress, and Ivar waved away the servant who stepped forward to help her. “You can leave us,” he said. “I’ll take care of her.”

Once the servant was gone, he took over the task of helping her out of her dress, letting down her hair, and unclasping her necklace. “I don’t know why, but I think you wanted to get me drunk tonight,” she accused him, words slurring together. She giggled again and bunched the fabric of her shift between her fingers. “Are you trying to seduce me? Do you think that if you give a lady enough wine, you can get her to do whatever you want?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, unable to stop himself from blushing. He hoped he could hide her necklace before she noticed, but she stood up, crossed the room on unsteady feet, and dropped it on top of the dressing table where she usually kept it. Then she plopped back down on the bed and watched as he undressed. For the first time in weeks, he suddenly felt shy around her. 

“You could try, if you want,” she said. “To seduce me, I mean. I wouldn’t mind. We’re married, after all.”

“You’re drunk,” he told her bluntly as he set aside his shirt. He didn’t think she was mocking him, but he couldn’t quite believe she actually meant it either. At any rate, her timing couldn’t have been worse. “And you know I can’t do that.” 

His words came out more harshly than he had intended, and she winced. “I meant no offense,” she said.

He sighed. “I know you didn’t.”

They didn’t talk after that. Aldreda turned on her side, facing away from him. Before long, he heard her breathing grow slow and steady. He lay on his back, wide awake, and watched the shadows move across the ceiling. There was nothing he could do now except wait until Father Wilfred was ready for him, but his mind was already racing ahead to the next thing. By evening the next day, he would be on a boat headed home. He could already picture the approach to Kattegat and the curious crowd gathered on the dock, with his parents and brothers at the front waiting for him...

The bells rang. It was exactly one hour after midnight. With his heart thumping in his chest, Ivar slid out of bed as quietly as he could and started to get dressed. Usually, he would just scatter his clothes on the ground and let a servant pick them up for him later, but tonight, he had been careful to keep everything he needed in a neat pile so he wouldn’t waste time fumbling around. As he pulled on his boots and laced up the leather braces he wore around his legs, he listened to Aldreda snoring faintly on the bed. She was normally a heavy sleeper anyway, but with all the wine he had plied her with, he felt certain she would not wake.

Once he was fully dressed, he crawled over to the dressing table she had left her necklace on top of. Ivar suddenly realized that it was just out of his reach while he was on his hands and knees. He let out a quiet curse as he gripped the edges of the table and painstakingly pulled himself to his feet. 

Aldreda shifted in bed and he froze, his legs trembling underneath him as he tried to keep his balance. “Ivar?” she asked sleepily. 

“Go back to sleep,” he told her. He could feel the table starting to tip and he threw all his weight forward to prevent it—and himself—from crashing to the floor. He had prepared an excuse in case Aldreda woke while he was getting dressed or leaving, but it would be a little more difficult to explain to her that he had inadvertently knocked over her dressing table while trying to steal her mother’s necklace as a bribe for his escape attempt.

“Mm,” she answered. She rolled over and her breathing slowed once again, and Ivar let out a silent sigh of relief. He quickly snatched the necklace, lowered himself back down to the floor, and shoved it into his pocket before he could change his mind. It’s just a necklace, he lied to himself. Her father can get her another one.

He knew he couldn’t linger any longer. The guard that patrolled the hall outside their room would be changing soon, and he had to time it so that he left while the hallway was clear and before the next set of guards arrived. He crawled to the door and strained his ears, listening to the faint murmur of voices on the other side. An eternity passed before he finally heard them walking away.

Ivar exhaled slowly and waited another moment. He cast one final look back at Aldreda before reaching up to grab the handle and tentatively pushing the door open.

The hallway was empty. The next set of guards was late, no doubt caught up in the aftermath of the feast. He silently thanked the gods, dragged himself into the hall, and carefully shut the door behind him, checking again to make sure he hadn’t been seen. Then he made his way as quietly and as quickly as he could to the meeting place he had chosen with Father Wilfred. 

The priest was already waiting for him inside the rarely-used storage room down the hall, tapping his foot impatiently as Ivar crawled inside. “You’re late,” Father Wilfred snapped. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and he kept anxiously glancing over his shoulder even though it was just the two of them in the room. He held out his hand. “I want what you promised me.”

“Fine.” Ivar took the necklace out of his pocket and reluctantly handed it over. The priest held it in his hands for a moment as though weighing it, and then he stuffed it down his shirt. They both knew there would be no going back for either of them after this. 

“Cover yourself,” the priest ordered, tossing Ivar a large, dirty blanket in return. After Ivar wrapped himself in the blanket and covered his head, Father Wilfred picked him up with a grunt and slung him over his shoulder, staggering under his weight.

“Really?” Ivar groaned as Father Wilfred started walking. It would be extremely obvious to anybody they passed that the priest was carrying a body, blanket or no blanket. “This is the best disguise you could come up with? We’re going to get caught.”

“We will definitely get caught if you keep talking,” Father Wilfred whispered back. “And if you had a better idea for a disguise, you should’ve told me. You’re the most recognizable person in this entire palace!”

“That’s not my fault,” Ivar said, but he shut up after that. From inside the blanket, he had no clue which direction Father Wilfred was taking him, and for a moment, he wondered if he had horribly misjudged the man. The priest could be taking him straight to Aethelwulf to tell him everything. Then they’d toss him in the dungeon and leave him there for the rest of his life. He could call the man a liar, but it would be no use—after all, it was hard to come up with an innocent explanation for why he had just stolen Aldreda’s mother’s necklace and had himself wrapped in a blanket to get smuggled out of the palace.  

Fortunately for him, Father Wilfred did not take him to Aethelwulf. After a considerable amount of huffing and puffing and Ivar repeatedly banging his chin into the priest’s back as he went down some stairs, Father Wilfred finally paused, dumped Ivar on the ground, and pulled the blanket off his head. 

Ivar blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. They had ended up on the grounds just outside the kitchen, behind a cart full of wine barrels. Father Wilfred was saying a few words to a burly man that Ivar assumed was the owner of the cart. Then he turned back to Ivar and gestured to an empty barrel that was lying on its side. “In you go,” he said. “Everything has been arranged. My friend here will take you directly to the closest port and the boat to Kattegat.”

Ivar looked dubiously at the inside of the empty barrel. It seemed far too small. “You can’t be serious,” he complained, but after a moment he scooted inside and discovered that it was indeed a very tight fit. His joints protested as he tried to fold his legs in closer to his body in a hopeless attempt to get comfortable. The wood reeked of wine and it made him slightly nauseous. 

Once he was in, Father Wilfred and the other man turned the barrel upright and lifted it onto the cart. Ivar looked up to see the priest staring down at him with a thoroughly annoyed expression on his face. It occurred to him that he was unlikely to see Father Wilfred after this. He opened his mouth to speak.

“I hope I never see you again in my life,” Father Wilfred said before he could say anything. Then he jammed down the lid and left Ivar in almost complete darkness.

He waited there for what felt like years. Finally, the cart began to move. He gritted his teeth as they hit seemingly every pothole in the road and he attempted without success to find a better position for his cramped legs. With the lid on the barrel, the smell of stale alcohol was nearly overwhelming and he could hardly keep himself from retching. 

His adrenaline had kept him going all night, but as the cart rattled on through the darkness he finally felt himself growing sleepy. Despite the discomfort of being squeezed into a barrel, he ended up dozing intermittently and then jolting awake whenever the cart hit a rough patch. After the first few times this happened, he found himself longing for the soft sheets and down-filled pillows on Aldreda’s bed, and the gentle warmth of the sunlight hitting his face in the morning, and lying there half-awake until finally Aldreda yawned and nudged him to get up…

Gods, what was wrong with him? He had left all of that behind. He tried instead to think about home, and everything he was going to do when he made it back to Kattegat—assuming his mother ever let him out of her sight again. But he would wear her down eventually. He always did.

After a long while, he could hear the birds starting to chirp, and around the edges of the lid, there was the faintest hint of light. He inhaled deeply, trying in vain to pick up the smell of salty air over the stench of old wine. Father Wilfred had told him it would be a day’s journey to reach the port by cart, but perhaps he had overestimated it. They might be there sooner. 

The cart came to an abrupt halt. Ivar heard men talking and then the sound of somebody climbing onto the back of the cart. His heart beat faster. Perhaps the cart driver had decided they were far enough away from the royal villa and it was safe to let him out. Or maybe they had already arrived. Once he was on the boat, nothing—barring another storm or some other intervention of the gods—would keep him from making it home to Kattegat.

The top of the barrel was suddenly wrenched open. Ivar blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light only to find Aethelwulf glaring down at him. His father-in-law’s face was red with fury.

#vikings #ivar the boneless #fanfiction #fic: strange things can happen

[synthmusic91]

thoughts? kjfhlkjdfh asking bc i rb'd the original post from u a bit ago because i agreed w/ original poster but i just saw this rb of it and wanted to know what u thought. ciaran(.)tumblr(.)com /post/652413157345820673/there-is-a-genre-of-posts-thats-obsessed-with-the

well first of all i hope this isn't a bait ask. this reply really doesn't deserve the time and effort i put into refuting it, but there was a point in time when i was emotionally confused by these..."arguments", so whoever u are, anon, i hope this is helpful. i also recommend some distance - literally, "go outside and touch grass", which is a lot more difficult than it sounds, but it needs to be done. anyway, here's my "analysis":

for context, here's what the post in question said:

and the tags:

at a high level, we can see that what ciaran is saying doesn't really respond to what OP was talking about. for this reason, i'm not going to bring in much of what OP said, because it's uncontested in this context, and look at ciaran's reply. i'll try to break this up...

EDIT: i had a long-ass response here, but then i realized it was dumb because the source material is dumb. i cut out most of it, but here are the highlights.

"there is a genre of posts that’s obsessed with the notion that fandom is something much larger, more prevalent, and more able to affect the way media is processed and consumed, than it actually is in reality."

so, as we can all see on tiktok and, indeed, on the electronic lore olympus billboard that takes up a side of a literal skyscraper, fandom is no longer the niche thing that "fandom olds" make it out to be. also, we can't ignore how many (white) fandom players go on and work in the industry (cassandra clare, whoever wrote 50 shades, man idk much of anything so there's probably many more). so this comment is sort of myopic. and since this is what characterizes the rest of the reply, well...it's not great.

also don't look up lore olympus; it's basically a dd/////lg fanfic that happens to be one of the most popular series on the line webtoon app, which is rated for teens...and for $1 to the creator's patreon, you can view not sfw p*dophilic art, so. also obviously i didnt do that; there was a video essay about this. i can't find it though

"ironically but understandably, these posts are made by people who are so terminally fandom-poisoned that they ascribe phenomenal power to it, and think of it as some great evil that must be defeated (by making posts on tumblr, which is obviously a very influential thing to do)"

"fandom-poisoned" is such a nebulous term, especially since it appears to mean "has had some really significant, (in this context) bad experiences with fandom." this is, first of all, a huge assumption to make about a stranger, and second, not the own they think it is. i'm just going to link this post, and hopefully you can see how it relates.

anyway, the "making posts on tumblr is meaningless" is um...interesting, seeing as off the top of my head i can think of two very influential tumblr blogs that talk about really important issues, Gradient Lair and Red Light Politics. I don't know as much about Red Light Politics, but Gradient Lair is frequently cited by academics (not getting into academia nonsense now but... -_-). also, they sound more pissed that the original post did gain traction, but whatever. this paragraph doesn't really make sense, but nothing here does, because i wasn't given much to work with.

"...and then because these people have basically no imagination and unfailingly pick on others for their own faults, they project their own experiences on everyone they perceive as being more ‘in fandom’ than them,"

jesus christ. i'm going not say anything about the tone of this because i put too much effort into this for some rando to call me a cyberbully.

i think what they're thinking about is how there appear to be some "fandom critical" people who try to, holistically, "ruin everyone's good time" by "stirring up drama" about popular fandom artists/writers/whoever else idk. oftentimes these people will also make jokes about fandom whatever, seemingly picking on random people's interests.

however, if you look at the long history of fandom racism, fandom's normalization of p*dophilia, and even general fandom harassment, and then you look at fandom's visceral, unwarranted reaction to criticism regarding these things, you can quickly see that disillusionment towards fandom is entirely reasonable. as for the joking, well...this an oversimplification but not everyone needs to like what you like. it sounds like they just need to get over themself.

and go “You, a 27 year old queer blogger who is into [tv show/anime/movie] an embarrassing amount, are now going to be the face of Capitalism” with no self-reflection or critical thought given to how fucking cringe it is-"

so, i'm regretting putting so much effort into this because this is so fucking long and i have to analyze this nonsense...it feels like i'm back in my feminist thought class. nightmarish. but anyway, this seems to deal with- [CUT FOR LENGTH. nothing important was missed].

EDIT 2: actually here's a summary of what I had. it deserves better than to be a response to this nonsense, but first it detailed how this took 1. the op's post and 2. a comment that we don't even know if op agreed with and misinterpreted that, and threw quite a fit about this- and i hate to say this because this term is misused so often by redditors, but- strawman.

I then went on to discuss how, for example, PoC can uphold systems of white supremacy. while obviously no person of color is going to be the "face" of white supremacy, the discussion still needs to be had, especially within that group. similarly, while fandom constituents may not be the face of capitalism, there needs to be a discussion, within fandom, on how they support and are defined by capitalist (and other) systems.

it was really too good of a point to be making for this trash reply. I could go say more, but I'm still trying to stay on topic, unlike ciaran.

"to act like random people on the internet, end users with no influence over corporate decisions, are the ones personally responsible for the fact that late-stage capitalism has destroyed popular art and culture in an increasingly sordid attempt to make money."

we've been over the "no influence" bit - because in fact fans do have influence, especially since media creators are literally fans, etc etc. i'm tired of people acting like they have no power and using that as an excuse to support and perpetuate harmful, easily avoidable behavior.

also, to act like the nebulous system of late-stage capitalism is the only cause of bad media is ludicrous. first of all, someone has to make these so-called "corporate decisions", and the people making artistic decisions are, again, overwhelmingly members of "fandom." this comment is really trying to keep marvel trash and lore olympus-esque nonsense in the same atomic, indivisible category lest someone catches a whiff of nuance.

"the above post is a great example of this phenomenon because op admits freely that they only think fandom is destroying media because they have been spending more time in fandom and thus have an over-inflated sense of its importance in greater culture. posting your own Ls indeed."

i'm so tired. this person literally has 120 works on ao3 like...who is spending more time in fandom.

and the tags:

#i assure you that fandom has no bearing on my actual real life #and if it does on yours. then that is your problem #it's also a very funny problem to

now this is just egregiously tone deaf. you do not need to do more than a cursory google search to find a bottomless well of examples of fandom harassment, threats, doxxing, and violence, much of which is racially motivated. you can see why it would be bad to make fun of this. 

also the way that “fandom has no bearing on their actual real life“...120 fanfics on ao3. 120.

conclusion:

the reply clearly misinterprets of op's point, and as such, does not refute it. they responded to another issue altogether, which is that of the sanctity of their ~coping mechanism~ or whatever it is. their argument in this respect was, in my opinion, delusional and pathetic, especially given that they wrote it on someone else's unrelated post.

FINAL NOTE: i cut out lots of this because the reply went in so many different directions, so some stuff might not make sense. let me know if you have any questions.

#answered #anonymous #fandom #long post #q slur #s

[rovewritesit]

Angel Of My Dreams (Chapter 1) John Deacon x Reader Series

I’ve read so many fan fics in the past four months and I thought it was high time to try my hand at it. I’ve created this side blog so that I can 1) Express my love for Queen and 2) Not annoy the randos from high school and college who still follow my main. This’ll be a slow burn folks, so hold on to your hats.

Series summary: After reluctantly joining a band with your childhood best friends, you are thrust into oncoming stardom with no sea legs and an overwhelming sense of anxiety. But you just might find your way, thanks to some seasoned pros by your side. And the interest of one particular bassist.

This series is a work of fiction, and is loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

PART 2 - PART 3 - PART 4

Pairing: John Deacon x Reader (eventually)

Chapter Warnings: Lots o’ curses

Chapter Summary: This is basically just some set up for the series. No Deacy yet, but a meet-cute to happen very soon! I got the band name with the help of some random band name generator so be kind. I’m hoping to introduce in some songs readers may not have heard - I was thinking of “Heart of the Night” by Juice Newton while writing this, hence the single name and album.

Song/Title Inspiration: Angel - Fleetwood Mac

- - - - - - -

Days of Our Lives Documentary Shoot - 2010

(Brian May and Roger Taylor Joint Interview)

“The early 80s were huge for us, for sure. I believe we were at our biggest then, internationally speaking.” Brian states, glancing over to Roger.

“Yes, Another One Bites the Dust really set things a-flame I think. The traveling and playing were constant. The crowds getting bigger by the venue. Parties, hotels, girls, more parties. We were meeting just so many people.” Roger adds.

“And one of those being a certain American female rock singer.” The interviewer adds quietly from off-camera.

Roger glances over to him with a questioning look, but Brian catches on quick, like always.

“Ah yes, that particular rock goddess. We did meet her around then, I believe, yes. Maybe a few years after.” Brian says knowingly, still playing along.

Roger stares into space with a confused look on his face until the realization hits him. “Are we talking about Y/N?” Roger mutters to Brian. “Yes” Brian chuckles, patting his friend on the shoulder.

“Oh, what a spit-fire she is! Not back then though. Fred really worked some magic with that one. Almost inseparable those two were.” Roger laughs out, a wave of nostalgia washing over his face.

Brian raises his large eyebrows, “Deacy would beg to differ I think.”

Roger smirks, “Oh, well that’s a whole different story.”

- - - - - - -

1982 - MTV Studios, New York City

You run your hands up and down your thighs, trying to will your left knee to stop repeatedly bouncing up and down. The satin of your pants does nothing for the layer of sweat on your clammy hands. You fold them together in your lap and gaze around the studio instead, taking in the bustling of crew members as they ready for the pre-taped interview. The god-like VJ, Alan Hunter, sits in a chair off to the side as someone artfully pieces his blonde locks into place. He grins over at you with a small wave. You limply lift your hand in a greeting, pasting on a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

You catch your pained expression as you glimpse a monitor off-camera. A friendly woman backstage had painted your face to the point of being almost unrecognizable. Gone was the evidence under your eyes of the restless sleep you’d fought the previous night. They were wide and doed, rather than their normal crescent shape. Your lips full and vibrant, your hair bounced and fanned out around your face. And your skin seemed to be glowing, masking the spots that had popped up overnight from stress. You looked every bit the rock goddess the label hoped to paint you as, and the exact opposite of the nerves currently threatening to overtake your body.

“Y/N, I can feel you vibrating from here. Take a deep breath. It’s gonna be fine.” Rich commented from beside you. His legs were splayed out, his arms bent behind his head. Looking as relaxed as can be, as if he were on his couch at home catching a movie marathon, about to doze off.

“How can you be so calm right now?” You rush out. “Who knows how many people are going to see this interview. Do you know how many times a day I accidentally let the F word fly out of my mouth?”

Rich lets out a snort. “I happen to know exactly how much you curse, thank you. Yesterday you said fuck 3 times in one sentence. It was charming, my mom loved it.” He moves his right arm to squeeze around your shoulders. Usually, it would be a comforting display of friendship, but you shake it off.

“And look at those three. Already so at home, I see.” You nod to the three other members of the band. Steve is exuding energy like yourself, but it’s excitement that bubbles from him. His eyes flit around the room quickly as he taps out some unknown rhythm on his bent legs. A wide grin permanently fixed on his boyish features.

At the far end of the couch, Eddie and Lawrence are wrapped up in a not-so-silent game of knuckles.

“Son of a-- Will you take off those damn rings? It’s my turn and I’m still getting bruised.” Lawrence huffs. Eddie wiggles his long, skilled, silver-clad fingers in front of his face and raises his eyebrows. “It’s all about the look, baby. Gotta play the part of the guitar god.”

“Will you both knock it off.” You call over to them. “We need both those sets of hands in playing shape for tomorrow night.”

Eddie turns, probably to counter with some playful comment about how you mother them too much, but Alan approaches.

“Alright, guys. And girl.” He flashes his perfectly white teeth your way again. “We’re about 5 minutes out from going up. Anybody need anything? Water, vodka, beer…” He turns his gaze to Steve, who is still tapping lightly on his legs. “A Xanax, perhaps?”

“Waters all around would be great, thanks.” You offer. Alan nods to a twitchy PA waiting to his side and they hurry off.

“Oh wait up, a Bud Light too, if you have any!” Eddie calls after them. The other three boys echo the same as well.

“You can take the boys out of Long Island…” you mutter to yourself. Rich teasingly pokes your side. “And something stiff for the lady!” He shouts out.

“In all manner of ways” Steve giggles. You feign a shocked expression and reach over to place a gentle slap to the side of his head. He looks over with big apologetic eyes and you stifle a laugh.

In record time, the lanky PA rushes back over with a myriad of drinks, all threatening to topple over on the tray they were precariously balanced on. Another PA trails behind, handing you all water, which you’re in desperate need of. They hand the drinks out one by one and stop before you. “Your water, Miss. And I didn’t know what you liked so I have a jack and coke, a whiskey sour, and a gin and tonic.”

“The gin and tonic is great, thanks.” They hurriedly hand you the drink and go to turn away. “Love your hair by the way.” You tell them. “I’m absolute shit at styling mine. Guess I’ll have to learn now.” They smile back at you and run a hand through their short locks before disappearing amongst the rest of the crew.

“Okay, we’re ready to rock n’ roll!” Alan exclaims, getting the band’s attention as he sits down in a chair next to your side of the couch. “We’re going to start off with a few basics on the band. Your lower thirds will have your instruments labeled but feel free to explain how you guys started out, your influences, your process. I’ll prompt you in between and then we'll talk about the album and promote your upcoming tour towards the end. Should take 15 minutes tops, so keep your answers brief. But I won’t say no to any rowdy stories you want to throw in.” He finishes with a wink.

The band nods along as you gulp down a breath, your palms becoming even slicker. The stage manager’s high voice rings out around the studio. “Playback ready! Live to tape in 5.. 4...” Rich places a hand over your knee and gives a squeeze. “Light em’ up, Bun” he mutters in your ear.

“3.. 2..” She holds up a finger and then points it at Alan, a wide smile already set on his face. The camera light flicks red as the MTV open plays from speakers around the room. Alan beings as the song fades out.

“We’re here in the studio and boy, am I excited to get to know this next band. Over at MTV we’ve been watching the steady rise of their single “Heart of the Night” on the charts. And as an added surprise, they’re here to introduce their very first music video. I’m very pleased to welcome to the studio, Lo & The Limbs!”

You try to relax your face as a camera pans across the band and settles on a two-shot of you and Alan. You know your eyes are gleaming with anxiety so you glance down the couch, silently praying for one of the boys to take the lead.

“Thanks for having us Alan, it’s such a trip to be here.” Eddie says with ease, resting his forearms on his knees.

“So, I have to ask. Who is Lo? Is it you Lawerence?” Alan questions the piano player.

“Oh god, no.” Lawrence chuckles. “Our high school was affectionately called Lo High, for Long Island HighSchool of the Arts. So we sort of tacked that on while playing during those years to let people know where we were from. That and well, as you can see we’re all above 6 foot except for Y/N, so a lot of limbs going on here.”

Alan gives a short laugh. “You released your debut album, Quiet Lies, earlier this year to growing success. Why don’t you tell me how you all started out.”

“Well, the boys and I have been together for a few years. We’ve been friends since grade school and we always just used to jam about. As we got older we started playing local bars back on Long Island to mostly middle-aged crowds, trying to break in, but it wasn’t working. Then Rich had the idea to invite Y/N to join up and it’s all kind of all taken off from there.” Eddie explains.

“We needed a pretty face to balance out all these ugly mugs” Steve pipes up.

“It took a while for her to finally concede though. She was off being too studious for the likes of us.” Rich adds on with a smile and nudge to your side. Your eyes grow wide as you feel a question directed at you coming on.

“Is that true, Y/N?”

“I- I guess, I was at NYU studying documentary filmmaking.” You choke out, but continue on. “Love this lighting set up, by the way, it really hides all sins.” That gets a light chuckle out of the crew surrounding you.

“And these sins you’re hiding are…” Alan grins but quickly bounces to the next topic. “Certainly a good call, Rich. Heart of the Night is the only song off the album that Y/N is singing lead on and look how well it’s doing. How did that happen?”

“Most of our songs were already written from before when we finally got the money to record. We wanted Y/N to feel a part of it, so she went on and wrote Heart of the Night and we were all very pleasantly surprised that it’s become such a hit.” Steve explains. “She also directed the music video we’ll be debuting today. I can’t believe she let us do all the things we did in that… well, you’ll just have to see for yourselves. We can be a bit of a handful.” The boys all chuckle.

“That and she plays the weirdest collection of instruments. Rhythm guitar, any type of strings, the saxophone… She's a boss on the harmonica.” Eddie turns to you as he speaks. “You just need to get over those pesky little nerves about your singing, Bun!” He points in your direction.

You feel the heat rise behind your perfectly painted cheeks at the slip of your nickname. You cast your gaze down at your lap. Not liking how the conversation has turned directly onto you.

Alan quirks an eyebrow at you. “Bun?” He teases.

You have yet to lift your eyes when Rich answers for you. “Bunny, an affectionate nickname. It’s stuck around since grade school when she wandered into Lawrence's backyard in search of a rabbit she was chasing.”

“A rockstar called Bunny. There’s a first for everything.” Alan quips, but quickly notices your displeasure in the current topic. Sensing your growing panic, he addresses the rest of the group. “This has been quite the debut album, with more hits sure to come from it. Any bands you’ve taken inspiration from while writing and producing?”

Rich jumps at the question. “Fleetwood Mac would be a big one. The way they layer their sounds is just unmatchable. You catch something new with every listen of an album of theirs.”

“I can’t be a pianist from Long Island and not mention the granddaddy, Billy Joel.” Lawrence adds. “His songs take you on such a ride. They’re full stories, each one of them.”

“And you, Y/N?” Alan directs the next question. “Who will you be drawing inspiration from when you write your next hit single?”

You smile to yourself. “It’s gotta be Queen for me. I’ve loved every one of their albums. I mean, the way they’ve changed their sound just in the past few years alone. They’re always transcending. Never afraid to try out something new or weave a different genre into one of their songs. But you always know it’s a Queen song. I saw them 2 years ago when they played the Garden, and fu--” You catch yourself as you get more animated. “And they were all just so on. Perfectly in sync. There’s something so distinct about their sound, so practiced. I’d love to get to their level, to be able to experiment like that. To give joy in the way they’ve given it to me.” You finish. Realizing you’ve rambled for a bit, you turn your eyes downwards yet again.

“I think that’s the most I’ve heard you talk since you came into the studio!” Alan laughs. “Well, you heard it here first folks, Y/N L/N is a Queen fan, just like the rest of us. I’m sure you’re just as excited about their new album as well.” You nod quickly as Rich hides a smile. Knowing full well you’ll be first in line to purchase their new album, Hot Space when it drops.

“But before you get off to writing more hits, I believe you have a tour coming up!” Alan states, signaling that the interview is wrapping up.

“Yeah, we have a small American tour starting in February. But until then we’ll be opening up for Hall and Oates during their tour of the NorthEast next month.” Steve says excitedly, bouncing slightly in his seat.

“And with that, I think we’ll roll into the long-anticipated music video and directorial debut for the lovely Y/N L/N. Thank you all so much for coming in today and I can’t wait to see what’s next on the horizon for you. Here’s Lo & The Limbs with Heart of the Night!” Alan keeps his painted smile till the red light vanishes from above the lens on the large pedestal camera in front of him.

You breathe out the breath you’d been choking on as Rich puts an arm around your shoulders. He leans in and whispers lightly, “And only one hint of a fuck, ladies and gentlemen. She might just make it in this business after all.”

- - - - - - -

One Month Later - Veterans Memorial Coliseum - New Haven, Connecticut

The Limbs bound off the stage in full force, glistening with sweat and excitement. It was the largest crowd they’d played for by far. 10,000 people cheered from the audience as roadies and crew moved around them to set up for the main act, Hall and Oates. Rich spreads his long arms and huddles the rest of the group into a family hug, your skin sticking to one another, the smell of sweat filling your noses.

“I just want us to all remember this moment.” He speaks to the group, foreheads touching. “Even if nothing happens past this album. That was insane.”

“Absolutely bonkers, dude!” Steve says and he bounces up and down beside you. You all take a deep collective breath and squeeze.

“Alright, get off of me you fucks.” You laugh, untangling yourself from their vast expanse of limbs. “We all stink and I have to get out of all... this” You gesture to the skin-tight bodysuit your best friend, Dawn, had insisted you wear. Eddie presses a light kiss to your temple as he lets you into the dressing room first to change out of their view.

You close the door and sigh, glancing at yourself in the mirrors that line one wall of the room. Your eyes are bright, your hair is two times the size of when you went out on stage an hour before, and your makeup looks like you’d been in a fight. Grinning to yourself, you start to unlatch the halter top of the bodysuit, excited for the air to cool your skin.

Just as you are about to shimmy out of the rest of the ensemble, the door bursts open.

“Shit! Lawrence, what the hell?!” Scrambling to cover your top half.

Lawrence trains his eyes to the ceiling as he speaks. “Bunny, you gotta… just cover up and get your ass out here. You just... You gotta see, c’mon.”

Flustered, you hurry to redress your sticky body. After making sure everything is properly covered, you step out into the hallway backstage, already glaring at the boys. They’re all tight-lipped, staring at one another. “Okay, someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” You say loudly. “Shhhhh” Rich hisses as he gestures behind him with a shake of his head. You glance over his shoulder to see the backs of two men. John Hall and Daryl Oates.

“Yeah, okay... I don’t get it. We’ve hung out with them like 5 times. Why are we fangirling?”

Rich widens his eyes at you and you glance back at them again. This time they part and you can catch a glimpse of who they’ve been talking to.

The flash of a tight leather jacket, a mustache, and two front teeth shining while laughter erupts from behind them.

You gasp.

“Fucking, fuck. That’s Freddie fucking Mercury.” You say, a bit too loud.

The bold man in question locks eyes with you. Something mischievous dances behind them as he narrows his gaze. Daryl and John move to their roadies to get fixed up before heading out on stage and Freddie lets out a sharp burst of laughter as he makes his way over. Your stomach churns with embarrassment but you can’t tear your eyes from his.

“Quite the redundancy of expletives, my dear. All you had to do was say hello.” he grins at you, all teeth. You’re not one to get too clammy in front of other musicians, but your voice gets trapped in your throat. You pray to whatever gods are out there that your eyes don’t get any wider.

Eddie’s easy charm luckily saves you. “This beautiful songstress right here is Y/N L/N.” You barely lift your arms as Freddie pulls you in for a light hug and kiss on the cheek. “But you can call her Bunny.” Eddie grins. So much for easy charm you think as you stare daggers into the profile of his face.

“Ha! Bunny? Oh my, that is wonderful.” Freddie chuckles. “It sounds as if you’re a socialite... Or a stripper. I can’t tell.” He beams at you. You can’t help but beam right back.

“Come along. Let us watch the show and you can tell me which one it is.” He says with a wink. “And introduce me to these giants you call your band.” He grabs your arm and leads you off, the boys in tow. Bouncing with excitement for what’s to come.

#queen fic #queen fanfiction #queen fanfic #john deacon #john deacon fic #john deacon imagine #john deacon x reader #john deacon series #deaky fic #deacy fic #deaky x reader #deacy x reader #angelofmydreams

[prettywordsyouleft]

Through His Eyes - Part 12 [M]

Summary: Losing your sight after your accident was traumatic, and Jaebum’s guilt of knowing it should have been him instead creates an intricate bond between you both, as you overcome adversity and try to find your way in life again.

Genre: angst / romance

Characters: Im Jaebum x female reader

A/N: This story is emotional and raw compared to some of the content on my blog. It is in no way an attempt to glamourise or undervalue the lives of those who suffer from something similar. This story is purely fictional.

Warning: Today, we have a little bit of a smut scene in this, but it’s not full on (sorry lol).

Through His Eyes will be posted every Tuesday at 10am NZST.

Index: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 - FINAL

You sensed someone was there before the door even opened to the art studio. It was a skill you had adopted since losing your eyesight, the indescribable nature of being aware before you truly heard or smelt the change in your space.

So when the door opened, you angled your head, trying to decipher who would be here this late at night. You had promised your mother you would take a taxi home by ten and when you check your watch not long ago; you still had just under an hour left. Madam Cho had left early to head to a scheduled event she was hosting and none of the other regular students had booked timeslots tonight.

It didn’t take you long to recognise the all too familiar sounds of his footsteps, your breathing hitched in your throat. Were you imagining Jaebum turning up right now? It wasn’t uncommon for you to fantasise scenarios where he would re-enter your world. But as time passed by, each daydream seemed less vibrant, shrouded with the reality that he hadn’t actually appeared in front of you. So why would he now?

You were hesitant to believe the signals your brain was giving you when the smell of his cologne joined the sounds of footsteps but you couldn’t deny it when his arms wrapped around you from behind, the shaky breaths you had vaguely registered now heaving into your ear, the coolness of his drenched body burning against your warm.

You were stunned, why was he so frozen?

He began to cry then, you were certain of it, and it took every ounce of you to remain still. To not react, keeping your emotions within. You had cried too much over this man and experienced much anger toward him. And even more towards yourself for how you reacted back then.

Jaebum took a deep breath before he spoke and you felt the hairs on your neck prick up in anticipation. “I’m sorry I’m late to receive your confession, Y/N. Will you accept mine?”

You had thought this over so many times now. When you would finally meet with Jaebum again, you had wanted to thank him for always being at your side. You had craved to scold him for things that bothered you in your connection, and you wanted to cry over your denied feelings. Yet, not once had you expected him to say something as bold as that. You hadn’t allowed yourself to believe that Jaebum actually would feel as you did. Perhaps he still didn’t, and it made you perplexed the longer you processed all this, his arms around you overwhelming your senses, your body greedily lapping up his touch even if he was wet. Yet, your mind was still two steps behind and you didn’t know what to do for the first time in weeks.

Jaebum sensed your turmoil, his grip around you tightening, pleading for you to answer him with something. Shoot him down or accept him, he needed something from you.

Your hand raised towards where his chin was resting on your shoulder and you felt him shift towards it to meet your touch halfway, nuzzling into your hand affectionately. Your heart thumped noisily in your chest and a smile formed on your lips.

God, you had missed him.

“You are very late.”

“I know,” he murmured and you inwardly rejoiced when his lips pursed against your palm that he was still rubbing into as if he was part feline and craved your reassurance. Your smile grew into a grin as you gently ran your hand up the side of his jawline, threading into the ends of his hair lightly.

It was new.

All of this, you had craved. Sure, you had teased him during your friendship of how close he would get, his skinship towards you was natural. This wasn’t your first time ever touching him.

And yet it was as if you were learning more of him than you had over the past several months. You were allowed to touch him like this now.

You didn’t want to stop.

Spinning around on the stool you were seated on, you ran your other hand up his chest to his shoulder, anchoring yourself there. Jaebum chuckled. “You’re bolder than the last time I saw you.”

“I had to learn how to survive without you,” you told him, drumming your fingers against his shoulder, your other hand still content up in his soaked hair. “If I didn’t learn to advocate for myself, I knew I didn’t have you to fall back onto.”

He shifted closer, if that was even possible. You were growing dizzy within this vivid dreamlike state. “Will you fall upon me now that I’m here?”

You shook your head. You wouldn’t return to your feeble role in this budding connection. You had evolved from relying on him for your basic level of happiness. And yet, you knew you could blossom further with Jaebum being back in your life. You wouldn’t fall on him, but you would hold him, perch on him when you felt ready to take flight.

“What if I lean into you instead, can I do that?” he continued and you giggled.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?”

He nodded, burying himself into you. “I don’t want to let go.”

“You don’t have to.”

For an immeasurable time, you just remained like that. Holding one another. Reconnecting. Flourishing. You could tell without seeing him that Jaebum had suffered. You weren’t sure why, though his negative energy slowly dispelled within your embrace, opening doors he had hastily closed on himself.

He felt vulnerable under your touch and it was mind-blowing to be the person who held him up right now.

Eventually, he started to shiver. Your own body was damp from soaking up the rainwater from his clothing and Jaebum reluctantly stepped back with a sigh. “I better get you home so you can warm up.”

“Me? You’re the frozen one.”

You heard the little breath he let out as he smiled. “I’m thawing out well, thanks to you.”

The sentence was deeper than the reference to his current temperature and you smiled back at him, sliding off the stool and reaching for your bag. And then you took his hand in yours. “Jaebum, you need to be warmer than this.”

“I’ll go and shower as soon as I know you’re home safe.”

You didn’t know why this didn’t sit well with you. Was it because in the past, he always put himself second to you? Some of that was due to your physical limitations, yet he had selflessly always prioritised your needs first. You had been grateful every time, however now with clarity, you realised how little you had done for him.

You craved to meet his needs before your own first.

Shaking your head, your adamant answer confused him. “Y/N, you-”

“You need to shower first.”

“But, how… I mean, I don’t think your mother would-”

You squeezed his hand and you received a tremble back. Was he nervous at your insistence? His mind perhaps travelling down a path he hadn’t considered before? It made you fall in love with him further. How naïve was he, when it was once you who would blush at the slightest of change between you both. Now you coveted confidence around him that surprised him, and you hoped it would be reciprocated by him sooner rather than later.

“We can go to my apartment,” he offered slowly, swallowing loudly. His grip on your hand changed, taking the lead as he once used to, directing you out into the heavy din of the storm and dashing through the weather together until you reached his car.

The drive to his apartment was electric. Jaebum hadn’t let go of your hand once, not that you would have allowed him to. His thumb ran circles over your skin, surges travelling throughout your body. You knew that you were moving through a realm of the unknown. Dating hadn’t been something you had ever put much thought into after losing your eyesight, not wishing to burden anyone with caring for you in a normal relationship.

Yet you couldn’t deny what your heart desired and now that Jaebum was back in front of you again, well, you weren’t going to remain juvenile about it. For one night, you were simply a woman who loved the man beside you. And you had spent too long apart to be separated because of finer details.

Jaebum led you up into his home and you were silent yet active. Your brain was rushing to record the steps it took, the feeling of the walls, the counting of the floors. You slipped into his home behind him, and he turned to you, his hands shifting to your waist as he kicked off his shoes. He laughed happily and you breathed in new air. “I thought you were eager to get me home?”

“Let me adjust first, I’m in a new space.”

Jaebum let you wander. Much like the time where he had taken you out to the park near your home, he hovered and pointed out things when you bumped into them. And then he left you to it, disappearing into his home as you navigated the small kitchen space.

He returned to wrap you up in a towel. “Please shower first.”

“You’re soaked more than I am,” you reminded, shunting him away. “I can wait.”

“You’re my guest tonight so you should wash up first. I’ve pulled out some clothes for you to put on when you’re done.”

“Will I remain just a guest when I’m at your home?” you wondered, taking the towel he offered and the question remained unanswered as Jaebum led you to his bathroom. You could tell he was affected as he explained the best way to navigate his shower and after turning it on for you, he left you to it.

Admittedly, you were grateful for the escape from your heady experience. As you warmed your soul, you contemplated if you were being too much for him. After all, Jaebum had been gone for so long and had only accepted he had feelings for you recently, from what you could tell. You didn’t know what his expectations were, hell, you weren’t even sure of your own. For a moment, you doubted your approach, overwhelmed in this new environment of his home and your inner thoughts.

You didn’t take long, knowing Jaebum was out there waiting to shower too. Reaching for the towel, you secured it around your chest, fumbling around for the clothing Jaebum had left for you. They seemed to have vanished and you yelped when your foot connected with the vanity.

“Are you alright?” he called from the other side of the door and you giggled. Had he waited out there the entire time in case you needed him?

You decided you would allow Jaebum to rescue you right now. “I need help.”

The door swung open and you turned towards the sound, trying to get your bearings back. Jaebum was quick to realise what you had been doing, thrusting clothing at you suddenly. “Here.”

His fingers brushed against your bare shoulder with the force he had thrown the clothes at you in his flustered state and it elicited another round of courage you had swept down the drain with the shower water. You failed to grab onto the clothing.

“Sorry.” You stepped closer. “Can you help me?”

Even without sight, you knew he was torn. If he felt even a fraction of what you did for him, Jaebum would be suffering. You decided to torment him further, raising your arms up lightly. “You put it on, please?”

You felt the fabric of the hoodie, Jaebum slowly slipping it over your arms and head, his breathing shallow as he did so. His hands travelled with the garment and inadvertently the cinch over your chest unravelled, the towel falling faster than the hoodie was. He let go, his gasp evidence that he had seen you.

It didn’t scare you.

The heat of your body soared and you realised his hands had grabbed onto the hoodie again, grounding him, supporting him through his desires. Without warning, his mouth found yours. The passion was immediate, arms encircling your body and pulling you towards his. You realised he had changed whilst you showered, but he was still cool to the touch. His mouth was avid, kissing you as if his life depended on it, tasting you, imprinting you, loving you.

And then just as swift as he had placed his mouth on yours, he yanked back, panting heavily. “What are you doing to me?”

“You kissed me; shouldn’t I be asking you that instead?”

He groaned loudly, his grip on you dangerously close to where the hoodie ended on the back of your thighs. He intentionally stretched out his hand, grazing against your skin again and you felt him shake his head. You slid your hands up his chest to link behind Jaebum’s neck, tilting your head up towards his. “Do you still need that shower?”

“Later,” he murmured and that was all you needed to hear to push your forearms against his broad shoulders, leaping up into his readying embrace. He carried you towards his bedroom, kisses melding one into the other until he gently angled you down to the bed, your grip unrelenting, pulling him down with you.

You expected commentary, you had believed he would voice how you were driving him insane. He had no words to give you though, his actions instead speaking volumes. His hands yearned for more, his breath unsteady, his lips now tasting more of you.

And you were thankful for the lack of talking. Whilst you were confident in getting yourself to this point, now you were entirely lost. In the darkness, you were left anticipating his actions, not able to tell what he would do next. Your own exploration of him grew stunted as you tried to handle how he roamed you. His hoodie was off though, which you had achieved with some effort. You wanted to feel every muscle that laid beneath his skin, to run your hands slowly over every inch. The lust enveloping you both didn’t allow for such a languid response, and you admitted defeat in doing so once you felt the exposed chill of the air when Jaebum rid you of the hoodie he had only just put you in.

Fisting the sheets beneath you to steady your anticipation, you reacted to his touch again. Each caress of his hands made your senses overload, your body seeking out more and still trying to keep up with what was happening. You relied on the feeling, your breathing staggered when he moved down your body to where you needed him the most.

You were certain you saw colours behind your eyelids when his mouth met your womanhood for the first time.

The night was spent searching for ecstasy repeatedly. You had painted the entire galaxy within your mind, your greyscale world now vibrant and rich. As the first rays of the sun brightened up Jaebum’s bedroom, you opened your eyes, accepting the harsh change of brightness as it felt dull in comparison to how heightened you had been mere hours ago.

Turning slowly in the loose way the man sleeping soundly beside you held you to his warm chest, you let your fingers delve into his skin, softly navigating their way over him. Without Jaebum’s constant unravelling of your mind and body, you could finally explore him as you pleased. He remained asleep initially, too deep within his dreams to notice your slow, methodical touch. You knew he had stirred when you were imprinting his shoulder blades into your mind, yet Jaebum allowed you to continue, laying there as you moved over every inch of his upper body. When you finally were gently taking in his facial details, his arm that was wrapped over your side tightened, drawing you into his body so you were flush against him.

You were giddy again.

“Are you certain you know every part to me now?”

You shook your head. “I have so much more to learn.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“Didn’t you get enough of me last night?” you wondered and Jaebum guided your face towards his, mere centimetres away from placing his lips on yours.

“I don’t think I ever could have enough of you.”

_________________

[Final Part]

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#im jaebum #jaebum #got7 #got7creators #kwritersworldnet #got7 imagines #got7 scenarios #got7 fiction #got7 fanfic #got7 romance #got7 smut #got7 suggestive #jaebum imagines #jaebum scenarios #jaebum fiction #jaebum fanfic #jaebum romance #jaebum suggestive #jaebum smut #pwyl; through his eyes #prettywordsyouleft writes #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop fiction #kpop fanfic #kpop romance #kpop smut #kpop suggestive

[ravenwolfie97]

2019 Art Summary

Once again, it is time for the annual art summary! I can’t believe this is the fifth year in a row I’ve done this, so I’m very proud about continuing to make art throughout the years and getting better at it every day. Anyways, let’s get into the good stuff!

I kicked off the year with a big inspiration from The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys comic series and made up my own original Killjoy just before the new year began. Their name is Violet Crime, and I had created an entire backstory with them being involved with the Ultra V’s, and even proposed running a roleplay blog with them and introducing story events such as meeting a pornodroid, but that never came to pass. Maybe next year I can try getting their story off the ground.

This month, I had suddenly gotten the idea for a TOME (2011) AU where the Forbidden Power slowly corrupted and altered Alpha’s model and mind, and I did a bunch of art of the different stages of corruption and drafted certain scenes that would play out if it happened in the show. I continued exploring this  a little more throughout the year, and I hope to flesh it out even more later on.

This batch has an interesting background - I was taking a Religions class in the winter quarter, and for my final project we had the option of creating our own religion based on principles from those we learned about. So, since I had already made up a religion in Legends: Children of the Dragons, I jumped on that opportunity and started expanding upon it! Because of that, I started thinking about Legends a lot, and got inspired to write and draw a bunch! I worked a lot on figuring out the story’s structure and plot, since for the longest time it’s been very disorganized, so that inspiration boost was really helpful.

I didn’t draw too much this month, but I did want to showcase two more detailed drawings in particular. The first is a climactic scene from my friend Mana’s story Empire Tale: Starlight Speedway, where Argento (the character shown) finds out his friend was in alliance with the heir of his empire’s rival nation. The second was drawn for Adam Tilford, creator of the book and webseries Shattered Heaven, as part of an opportunity to feature fan art of a certain character in part of the show. I did my best to emulate Adam’s art style in both lineart and coloring, but it still definitely looks like mine, which is totally cool. Still super honored to have contributed it!

The TOME fandom is still a huge part of my life, and this month in particular was chock full of RPG content to draw. First was my own idea based on the official fanart contest, where members of my TOME Discord server paired TOMERPG OCs and drew a picture with them interacting, and my OC Circutree was randomly matched with @scribblehooves​ and her OC Valentina! There was also a trend (I forget who started it) where we designed our own versions of the White Hat Hacker, and since my choice was the Animalistic one, I gave it some details that more resembled my personal TOME OC / overall persona. Lastly, I just... really love Phaxal from TVTOME Adventures, and I felt an overwhelming need to make him into a TOMERPG character. He’s obviously a lot different from his aughts’ counterpart, but he’s still got that dark snark goin’ on.

June was actually rather slow in terms of art, with me being more preoccupied with binging TV shows and video games, as well as going on adventures in the outside world. However, I did make a cute piece for Mana with Lux and her girlfriend/wife Nexus from ETSS as part of an art trade. In the middle of the month, I had had a dream with a super cool character in it, and immediately I went to go and draw him, and that’s who the other character is; he doesn’t have a name, but he’s supposed to be a secret agent type of guy. Definitely inspired by Azure Striker Gunvolt, which I got super obsessed with again during that time.

I worked more on developing Legends stuff, so I wrote and drew out some more scene ideas along with various sketches. My big pieces for this month, though, were very summery and all about the TOME RPG and me and my friends’ OCs having a fun time. Not much to say other than it was really weird drawing everyone in swimsuits instead of their normal designs.

My favorite piece this month, by far, is my entry into Adam Tilford’s Shattered Heaven fanart contest. I got to draw a mecha, for goodness sake - I NEVER draw stuff like that because it’s so complicated. I’m really proud of the lighting on the piece, too. In addition to that, me and @mew-cake​ did an art trade of our personas! And it was super cool and fun! Friendship! :D

So, the Steven Universe movie came out this month. And that made fall super hard back into the fandom. And now I can actually draw the characters decently, which I think is super cool. Also TOME stuff continues to be a thing, and I continue to try new perspectives and poses and lighting and everything because I need to GROW and LEARN.

I participated in the actual #Inktober prompt challenge this year, and did so for a lot longer than I thought I’d be able to. I made a lot of pieces I’m actually quite proud of, and even though I didn’t complete it, I’m happy I did it as long as I did.

November was a pretty experimental month in terms of art. I tasked myself with drawing in the Pokemon and Hazbin Hotel styles, and I randomly got inspired by a color palette to do a very minimalist digital painting. In addition to all of these personal drawings, I got to work really hard as a member of my university’s fledgling Queer Art Collective (QuAC for short), and our first big project was to decorate a canvas for Trans Day of Remembrance and Resilience, and I contributed five pieces to that: the trans flag with a human silhouette, the NB flag with a heart, the pastel genderfluid butterfly, the construction paper PROUD 2 B TRANS, and the lyrics to “Masquerade” by Tokio Hotel.

As the year closed, it’s been slow, with finals and holiday break and stuff. I can tell that I’m improving in my art, but there are still a lot of things I don’t know and things that I need to continue to improve upon. Hoping I can keep up the work in my last months of college and my transition into full-on adulthood.

See you all in the new year.

#my art stuff #art summary #tome #hazbin hotel #long post

[polaris-australis]

6 Horror Podcast Recommendations For Quarantine

I’m bored, you’re bored. If you’re interested in looking for new audio dramas to listen to (because I’m bad at the nonfiction ones, sorry), especially if you’re a fan of scaring the shit out of yourself like I somehow am, then I have a few I’ve been meaning to talk about. Note that I will either give warnings for each one or they can be found in the descriptions of the episodes themselves. These are all my opinions on them, though I will try to stick to basic summaries. I just think these are good content. 

I’m also willing to make a part 2 for this people are interested, because there are so many more and I haven’t even touched on most of the more popular ones (namely Magnus Archives which I’m not going to talk about because literally everyone is so it’s not hard to find a summary about it). 

2 Short Podcasts

1. The Hyacinth Disaster: This is the shortest show on this list, being only seven episodes long, each being about 20 minutes long, but it’s amazing and I love it. It centers around a group of asteroid miners trying to strike it rich on an asteroid in order to bargain for the life and safe return of their friend, who is being held hostage by a rival company who claims the ship was in their territory. However, it turns out the asteroid is kind of sentient, and over the course of the show, every single character dies. This isn’t really a spoiler, so I feel like I can say it. It’s masterfully done, being very character focused and emotional. I can’t think of any major warnings here besides death (which aren’t explicit or particularly gruesome), but there should be some in the episode descriptions as needed.

2. Limetown: We’re only counting season one of Limetown because season two is absolutely garbage and hardly anyone I have seen actually considers it canonical. This one is also one of the major ones on this list, as it was one of the early audio dramas that really showed what the medium could do and brought in new listeners the way WTNV did for many people (including me). It surrounds a journalist named Lia Haddock who is investigating the mystery behind Limetown, a fictional research town for the top scientists in the country where, within a single day it seems, every single resident vanished. When she begins her investigation, a survivors start to come out of their hiding places, revealing exactly what was going on and some of them dying in the process. It’s six episodes total with mini “announcements” in between that are part of the show, though are usually about 3-5 minutes. Episodes average out around 30 minutes, sometimes more or less. It’s interesting and in-depth and I did enjoy it - however there are major trigger warnings that I wish someone had given me. At the end of episode 2, there is a man who people refer to as “The Manic Man” who is very much unstable and frankly pretty ableist and gross, but I won’t get into that here. He basically bangs his head on Lia’s door screaming her name and that she needs to stop investigating Limetown. He appears again at the end of episode 3, having broken into her parents’ house and is ominously saying her name into the phone. He is not heard from for the rest of the season, nor in season two if you listen to that disaster. Episode 3 also involves animal death, and in “The 911 Call” there are gunshot noises. Again, it’s an enjoyable podcast, but please be careful is any of these things are triggering for you.

3 Medium-ish Podcasts

3. Academicasaurus : This one is a bit different from the others, but I’m considering it horror because a) someone is listening in to all the phone conversations, which is how we’re hearing them, b) it does end up surrounding the supernatural, and c) it just has a creepy vibe to it. This one surrounds two English literature professors and the head librarian, who help run Academicasaurus, the school arts journal that combines older aspects and elements of literature with modern pop culture. It begins when they begin getting wildly inaccurate articles dropped at their office doors, and then strange things begin happening around the school, including a fire in the library and a missing person case. In season 2, the supernatural aspect to the school starts to unveil. Episodes are about 12-20 minutes for season one, which is 7 episodes, then start hitting the 20-25 marks in season 2, which is 8 episodes. Season 3 is starting May 25, 2020, so I’m probably going to relisten before then. It’s fun content, and yes goes along with the grey academia aesthetic.

4. Janus Descending:  Listen. Listen. This was so close to being my jam. The twist just ended up screwing me over and I hate so much that it was ruined for me. It’s another space podcast where two xenoanthropologists head to an unknown planet where there were signs of an ancient civilization and things go terribly wrong. It’s told through alternating perspectives and audio logs, but the real kick is that Chel’s tapes go in normal chronological order and Peter’s go backwards. So you get the sheer whiplash of going from “everything is going to be amazing!” to “sobbing because one is dead and the other is about to die.” I personally just didn’t enjoy the main twist at the end but that was just me. Episodes are about 20-30 minutes, there are 13 total. The main warnings are for lots of paranoia, crying, and major character death/some violence. Not bad horror wise overall.

2 Longer Podcasts

5. What’s the Frequency?: This is a much weirder one that I have found is a hit or miss with most people. It’s set in 1950s LA and at first surrounds two private investigators searching for a missing typewriter, but then expands into a world descending into madness due to a strange radio show. It’s a bit gorey but there are trigger warnings, and the aesthetic is honestly terrifying. The audio effects are amazing, distorting and making it sound like an old radio. Episodes are around 20-30 minutes except for the finale I think which is longer. Only the first season is out for now but season two is supposed to be out soon, which is why this is going here instead of above. Regardless, this is a good time to listen.

6. The White Vault: This is a podcast I’ve referenced before on my main blog. It’s an isolation horror podcast about a team sent up to a research outpost in Svalbard to fix a transmission issue, but they become stranded by an unnaturally brutal snowstorm. They discover a vault (literally) in the bunker that leads into a cave system that isn’t as abandoned as they thought. This one is honestly terrifying, it’s just the anticipation and slow build up that then becomes actual horror as the monster hunts them down one by one. Three seasons are up right now, and the final season comes out in October, so this is a good time to catch up if you like. Episodes can be from thirty minutes to almost an hour, each being told through the “found footage” format with a separate narrator putting the pieces together. Each season has about 10 episodes. I adore it to bits.

Feel free to tell me if you try any of these shows and your thoughts on them! Again, I’m totally willing to make more posts like this touching on other horror podcasts or nonhorror ones, but I felt like making this one first. Hope you’re all having a good day, and, if not, that it gets better soon < 3

#lithoestudies #grey academia #audio dramas #i'm sleepy but i wanted to make this post lmao

[let-it-raines]

Rising from the Ashes (13/?)

Summary: When her husband died, Emma wasn’t sure that she could ever move on. He left her with a broken heart and a baby who was only three-months old. It’s enough to take most people down, to make them not want to keep going, but Emma Swan isn’t most people. She’s stronger than she has any right to be. And after years of heartache, she’s found ways to move on…one of those being in Neal’s best friend, Killian Jones. 

As she’s always known, however, things are more complicated than they ever seem to be.

Rating: Mature

A/N: Hey, hey, hey! I’m back in my regular timezone with access to my laptop and a bed that’s my own which means new chapters without funky formatting and wrong links! I hope everyone enjoyed those fluffy Christmas chapters! We’re kind of moving into the second half of the story now, so things will start happening soon! ❤️

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

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Tag list: @jamif @artistic-writer @cs-forlife @qualitycoffeethings @resident-of-storybrooke @captainsjedi @captswanis4vr @teamhook @ekr032-blog-blog @mayquita @bmbbcs4evr @wellhellotragic @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld @shady-swan-jones @snowbellewells @snow-into-ash @andiirivera @mariakov81 @thejollyroger-writer @shireness-says @kristi555 @facesiousbutton82 @superchocovian @jonirobinson64 

The New Year begins without much fanfare. The day after Christmas, Killian and Neal go back to work while Liam and Belle fly home to England in what has to be one of the most emotional goodbyes that she’s felt in all of her time in knowing them. The house definitely feels emptier after a week full of life, but it also gives her a few days to calm down and start preparing for her to officially go back to work and not just communicate with her students through email. She’s nervous for her first day back with students roaming the halls instead of teacher work days where the school feels empty, and it’s kind of weird. She’s been at Greely for three years, and even with the partial semester that she just took off that was a combination of maternity leave and “ex-husband coming back from the dead” leave, she’s always felt comfortable there. It’s a good public school, well-funded, and she likes most of the teachers and administrative staff.

She’s made some of her closest friends there, mostly Ruby, and she finds that her lunch breaks are often spent in the art room eating with Ruby instead of sitting in her office or the cafeteria. She’s missed Ruby over the last few months. Usually they keep in better touch, sometimes going out to dinner, but she’s dropped the ball. Ruby has understood and given her space, but for all the reasons she’s looking forward to going back to work, having a normal social life again is definitely still near the top of the list.

And getting to do things other than watching her children and cleaning the house or taking down Christmas decorations despite all of Henry’s protests. She doesn’t mind. This is her life, and she wants to take care of Henry and Ada. She’s their mom, and it’s something she’s always wanted. She simply wants more.

So naturally, she goes from taking care of her own kids to taking care of other people’s grown kids.

But she wants a schedule again, wants to get up and be productive, wants to have her paycheck again, wants to feel like she’s making a difference.

She wants every bit of normalcy that she’s been craving since that morning in September when she passed out on the kitchen floor because Henry told her that Neal was alive.

Talk about a morning.

Throughout her life, she’s never been one to believe in star signs or that a new calendar year means anything, but now, for the first time, a new year might mean a new beginning for her and for her family. She hopes that the new beginning is a good one because even though things are good now, she understands that with everything happening, it’s likely that things will get a bit complicated.

Okay, that’s a lie. Things are definitely  going to get more complicated, but she hopes that it’s a good kind of complicated and not one that’s going to bring her enough stress to age her a good five years when she was kind of hoping she could avoid some more wrinkles for a little bit more time. Or gray hairs. She’s not looking forward to those for her.

(Killian isn’t either, but that’s because she found one gray hair on his head. He was not at all happy about it. She thought it was kind of adorable. Or sexy. She told him it was sexy and not adorable. He’s a confident man, but sometimes she has to stroke his ego, amongst other things.)

But she thinks it’s going to happen, and it’s most likely going to be caused by the constant push and pull that is having Neal back in her life.

Neal has been offered a job in DC. Like, officially. She knew that it was a possibility, especially with the time that he’s been spending there still working with the Marines, but when he told her that he was offered a job at the State Department to work with arms control and regulation, she was surprised. He says that it’s not the position that he wants, that he might see if he can find something else with his connections he now has because of everything that’s happened, but that this is a good step in the door. She’s proud of him, proud that he’s going after what he wants in life, but like she thought before when they’d talked about this, it breaks her heart the slightest bit.

Why doesn’t he want to stay?

Why doesn’t he want to stay in town with Henry?

Shouldn’t he want that after missing so much of his life?

She and Neal are definitely forming a new kind of friendship that will make her miss him, but mostly, she’s worried about their son. It’s not a super short flight to DC, and she’s not sending her eight-year-old on a flight by himself, no matter what procedures there are for unaccompanied minors. That’s not happening. And it’s not like he can simply go see his dad on the weekends without there being a conflict with them or with Henry’s soccer games. She doesn’t know when Henry would see Neal, and she doesn’t care if it’s selfish, but Henry isn’t spending his summers or holidays away from her. She’s been with him for his entire life, and she’s not sure how she’s going to handle any of this, especially if things rapidly tumble down a hill into a nasty custody battle.

That’s not going to happen. Neal wouldn’t do that to her. She’s overreacting. He would never try to take Henry away from her. That much she knows, even if it takes constant reminding.

Besides, they’re making arrangements to all travel to DC in March during Henry’s spring break to show him around where they all used to live and to let him see where his dad might live now.

Making that one vacation with all of them going is complicated enough. Custody battles would be worse.

Custody battles aren’t happening, she reminds herself. This is her anxiety over more changes when she’s trying to get back to normal again talking to her.

She’s never been great with change. She thinks it’s a foster kid thing because of all of the uncertainty of how long she’d be in a house or if the parents would be nice. It’s…a lot. She doesn’t really like to think about it anymore.

It doesn’t help, or hopefully it will help, that she and Killian just found a therapist for Henry, a nice middle-aged man named Archie Hopper. He’s kind, accomplished, and during their test visit last week, Henry really seemed to like him. That’s important to her. If they’re going to have their kid talking to someone about his feelings, talking to someone who might help develop him and how he thinks, it needs to be someone Henry likes. Therapy needs to be a good thing for him and not something that causes him any stress or worries.

Therapy might be causing her some stress.

She needs to find herself a therapist. Maybe someone will give them a group rate for most of the family going.

That’s kind of a sadistic joke.

She makes those.

“Swan,” Killian calls as he steps into the bathroom, Ada squirming in his arms enough that she can see how tightly Killian is holding onto her to keep her from falling, “you guys have to leave in twenty minutes, and she’s hungry. Do you want to feed her or should I get the bottle?”

She hesitates, not entirely sure of her answer. She still needs to eat breakfast and finish putting on her mascara, but she also wants to spend a little more time with Ada. Only a little part of her denies that she’s sentimental, but she won’t deny how upset she is to have to leave Ada at a daycare today. Going back to work is most definitely a good thing, but it’s coming with its own challenges.

Leaving her baby…that’s one of them.

“I’ll feed her. Just grab me the chair from the bedroom and I’ll finish getting ready.”

“Are you sure, love? I can – ”

“I need the time,” she admits, glancing up at Killian’s eyes before walking over and taking Ada out of his arms. “And I can multitask or whatever.”

“Aye, wonder woman.”

“Just without the costume.”

He waggles his brows across his forehead, and she knows what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth. “That can be arranged.”

She snorts, actually snorts. “Go get me the chair and then make sure Henry has brushed his teeth, okay?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Her eyes roll a bit at that, and she leans down to kiss Ada’s head. “Your daddy is the most ridiculous man in the entire world.”

“I can hear you.”

“I know.”

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but she does get around to feeding Ada while also finishing getting ready for work. She really needs coffee, but she’ll have to get some once she’s at school. If she were to drink it right now, she’d basically be a livewire.

“You look pretty, Mom,” Henry tells her when she walks downstairs, the heels of her boots clicking against the wood.

“Thanks, kid. Did your daddy tell you to say that?”

“No.” She raises a brow at him, and his face immediately shifts from neutral to giddy, a giant grin forming on his lips. “Yes.”

“I did no such thing,” Killian scoffs, playfully elbowing Henry in the side. “How could this kid not want to compliment how pretty his mum is?”

“Because Henry doesn’t give many compliments before eight in the morning.” She takes the few steps over to Henry and leans down to kiss his forehead while Ada continues to pull at the threads of her sweater. “Thank you, baby. You look extra handsome for your first day back at school. Are you excited?”

“Kind of, but I don’t want to call Mary Margaret Mrs. Nolan again. That’s weird.”

“It’s only when she’s your teacher that you have to do that. When you’re out of the third grade, you can go back to calling her Mary Margaret.”

“I’m going to be in third grade forever.”

“I bloody well hope not,” Killian laughs, looking up at her and winking. “What would happen if you were still in third grade by the time your sister got there? You’d want to be in the same class as your sister?”

Henry shrugs and takes another bite of the apple Killian must have cut up for him. “I bet I could teach her a lot of things.”

“You could teach her more if you keep learning in school,” she prods, swiping an apple slice from his plate. “Speaking of that, are you ready to go?”

“Can I bring my book with me?”

“Yeah, but you’ve got to keep it with me in the car, okay?”

“You’re going to pick me up from school, right?”

“Mary Margaret is going to walk you over to my building like we used to do.”

Henry nods his head and goes back to eating his breakfast, stuffing it all in his face far too quickly, while she gets up off of her stool and hugs Ada as much as she can, smattering kisses all across her face. “Be good for Ashley at nursery today, bug,” she whispers, rocking her the slightest bit. “I love you so much, and I will be there to pick you up as soon as I can be.”

Ada babbles something back, her little brain not ready to say anything even though she’s definitely trying her hardest. God, she loves this kid a ridiculous amount. The apple-eating one too.

“Do you want to hand her off to me?” Killian asks gently, reaching over to her and tucking her hair behind her ear. “I promise I don’t bite unless otherwise asked.”

“You’re very cheeky this morning.”

“I had some fantastic adult time last night.”

“You’re the actual worst.”

“I would debate that.”

“Of course you would.”

“And I’d win.”

“Never.”

“Always.”

“Mom, I thought you said we had to go,” Henry whines, coming up to her with his coat and backpack already on, his notebook in his hands.

“We do, we do,” she promises, stepping closer to Killian and quickly brushing her lips over his, her boots only making her press up on her toes a little bit to reach him. “Bye, babe. I love you.”

“I love you too.” She moves to take a step away, and Killian’s hand stops her, keeping her right in front of him. “You have to give me Ada.”

“Really? Are you sure I can’t take her with me? I think she’d fit in well with all of those giant high schoolers.”

“Darling – ”

“I know,” she sighs, dipping her head down to kiss Ada’s hair again. “I love you, bug.”

“She loves you too,” Killian tells her, taking Ada out of her arms and holding her close to his chest. “You’re going to have a good day. Call me at lunch, okay?”

She nods her head and kisses his cheek once more before she’s grabbing her purse and ushering Henry out of the door. She hears the wails the moment the door is closed, and it breaks her heart that little bit more. It’ll stop soon. The separation anxiety will calm down, but then Ada is going to have to go through it all over again when Killian drops her off at her daycare on his way to taking he and Neal to work.

Sometimes all she wants is time by herself to be an adult and have conversations with other adults, but then something like this happens and all she wants is to spend her day with her kid.

“We’re going to be late if you stand there for too long.”

A laugh passes through her lips, and she takes a deep breath before stepping forward and leaning down to smother Henry with as many kisses as she can before he moves away from her. He’s much more difficult to be affectionate with than the kid who can’t even walk yet. “I love you even if you are far too much like your daddy with you telling me we’re going to be late like that.”

“You’re always telling me to hurry up so we can’t be late.”

“That’s true, kid. Let’s get us to school.”

-/-

“So,” Ruby starts as she comes into Emma’s office without knocking, plopping down in one of her extra chairs, “how’s life with baby daddy number one and baby daddy number two? That’s a lot of sexual energy in one house.”

“I cannot believe you educate kids.”

“I’m an art teacher, thank you very much,” she scoffs, holding up her paint covered hands. “I get to be eccentric. Besides, Mills doesn’t pay me any attention. I tell her that the red streaks in my hair are from a project in class.”

“And she believes that?”

“No. She just doesn’t care about me. Just like I don’t care about me. I need to know more about the baby daddy situation. My life is boring, and yours is full of intrigue.”

Her shoulders sag forward before she rolls them back, clicking save on one of her student’s files. She needs to talk to Felix about his late applications tomorrow.

“There’s not much to say,” she admits, and when Ruby’s eyebrows go up to her hairline, she continues, “anymore. I’m still with Killian. Neal is living in our house and working. He’s thinking about moving to DC, which is a whole other can of worms that I’m trying to get him to think through for at least another month or so.”

“You want him to stay? Isn’t that confusing? Like, emotionally?”

“Mostly for Henry. I don’t want his dad to leave him again. Remind me and you can come over for dinner because you have to see how much that kid loves Neal.”

“I mean, his dad is like this badass war hero. What more could an eight-year-old want? That’s about as close to a superhero as he can get.”

“True,” she laughs, reaching down to take a sip of her water while she lets all of that settle in. Technically both of his dads are badass war heroes, but Killian doesn’t like to talk about it too much. It’s all about personal preference, and Neal has decided being a public face of life after war is something that he wants to help others. It’s good for him. “But yeah, we’re all good. I’m happy to be back at work, to see you. Life hasn’t been the same without you.”

“Girl, let me tell you, it has been so boring without you. I’ve been switching around who I sit with at lunch, and the teachers here are definitely in cliques just like that kids.”

“Did you try sitting with the advanced math teachers?”

“Yes,” she groans, slapping her hands against her thighs. “They were so obnoxious.”

Ruby can only stay for ten more minutes before she has to go teach a class, and the rest of the day seems to fly by as she finishes catching up on the things she didn’t get to on the work days she had before the official start of school today. In the back of her mind she knows that it’s nearly time for school to be released, but it doesn’t keep her from jumping when she hears the bell. It also doesn’t keep her from being surprised when Mary Margaret shows up in her office with Leo and Henry trailing just behind her, their eyes wandering around the room like the high school is some kind of magical place.

Maybe it is when everyone is several feet taller than you.

“Hey, kid,” she greets, smiling at him from her desk, “how was school? Did you learn a bunch of cool stuff?”

Henry nods his head before scurrying over to her and cupping his hands against her ear. “It was boring, but I can’t say that with Mary Margaret right there.”

She laughs. She can’t help it. Henry should not be saying that, but it’s kind of delightful that he is.

“It was not boring,” Mary Margaret protests, sitting down in a chair.

“You’re kind of boring, Mom,” Leo adds in as he searches through her bowl of candy, holding up a peppermint in silent question to his mom. “Dad’s job is cooler.”

“Your dad spends his entire day sitting at a computer.”

“But he catches bad guys.”

“He makes a good point, Marg,” she laughs, handing Henry her water bottle since he’s been eyeing it. “I mean, I personally think we’re pretty cool, but David is a detective who solves mysteries.”

“And he’s only able to solve those mysteries because he had good teachers in school.”

“Did you have a good day, Leo?” she asks, trying to change the subject before Mary Margaret goes off on a tangent about how teaching is cool (it is) that turns the kids off of it for life. They’ll understand when they’re older. “I heard that you guys are doing obstacle courses in gym.”

“Oh my gosh,” he gasps, the excitement practically rolling off of him as he presses up on his toes and leans over the desk, nearly knocking things over. “It is so awesome. I get to climb a wall and then hang off of monkey bars. And Lawrence told me to imagine that the floor is like lava so we can’t let go.”

“Did you make it all the way across?”

“You bet I did.”

“Alright,” she laughs, holding up his hand and giving him a high five. “Did you get to do the obstacle course, Henry?”

“No,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “We don’t get to do it until Wednesday.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that’s only two days away from now.”

She lets Mary Margaret and Leo go so that Leo can go to his karate lesson (they kid may be playing every possible sport at the moment), and after she finishes up her last few things and grabs a folder of paperwork to shift through at home, she takes Henry to go pick Ada up from daycare. Whatever breath she’s been holding all day is released the moment her girl is back in her arms looking just as she did this morning. Ashley says that she did just great, even if she did cry for a long time when Killian left her, and while she doesn’t love that, it’s over for today.

But they’ll do it all over again tomorrow.

And they do.

Slowly but surely their routine settles back into how it used to be, even with the changes of the two new people in the house, and she gets used to being back at work after about a week and a half. The shiny newness has worn off, and even though she still loves it, around two she usually needs some coffee to help her make it through the rest of the afternoon. Coffee is pretty much her lifesaver.

On the last Wednesday of January, she’s sitting in the lobby of Dr. Hopper’s office with Ada in her car seat next to her when her phone buzzes with a text.

David: Mom, because she is apparently incapable of texting you herself, wants to know if you guys are still coming to dinner tonight.

Emma: We’re still coming! Neal is going to dinner with some of his coworkers. I think they go to a bar or something every Wednesday.

David: Okay! See you then.

David: Wednesdays are the nights most college kids go out. We get so many drunk and disorderly calls.

Emma: Why Wednesdays?

David: Oh come on, don’t you remember? Late classes on Thurdays usually, so everyone can show up hungover. You’re younger than me kid. You’re not supposed to have forgotten these things.

Emma: Forgive me for not being as wild in college as you were with your long hair.

David: I hate that Mom gave you those pictures when she was trying to make you feel at home.

Emma: I love them. You were a very handsome grungy 90’s man.

David: I will burn them all.

Emma: Arson, detective Nolan.

“Miss Swan,” Dr. Hopper says as he and Henry come out of his office, Henry trailing behind him with his hands stuffed in his coat pocket, “how are you today?”

“I’m good,” she promises, putting her phone in her back pocket and getting up to shake his hand since she didn’t get to when she dropped Henry off. “How are you?”

“Just wonderful. I’ll see you and Henry next week at five, right?”

“His dad might bring him to his session next week.”

“His father or – ”

“Killian,” she explains, knowing that it’s easier to say his name when talking to other people. It’s going to be even more confusing when he decides to that he’s too old to call Killian daddy anymore. He’s already switching back between ‘Mom’ and ‘Momma’ for her. “I’ve got to take the baby for a checkup.”

“Well I look forward to seeing him then. Henry, I’ll see you next week, okay?”

“Okay,” Henry smiles, reaching up to high five doctor Hopper. “Thanks for the candy.”

“No problem. Goodbye,” Dr. Hopper starts before she stops him, grabbing onto his arm. “Yes, Miss Swan?”

“Do you have the list of therapists that you were going to recommend for me?”

He smiles and nods his head up and down. “Ah, yes. Let me go get it from my office. Just a moment.”

“Why can’t you talk to Dr. Hopper like I do?” Henry questions, picking up Ada’s stuffed giraffe out of her seat. “He’s really nice.”

She squats down in front of Henry so that they’re eye level and reaches up to brush his hair out of his face. He needs to get it cut. “Dr. Hopper is really nice, but I have to talk to someone else like your dad does because Dr. Hopper is good at talking to kids like you.”

“Kind of like how you’re good with talking to the high schoolers?”

“Exactly like that.”

Dr. Hopper comes back in the room and hands her an envelope full of his recommendations, and she takes it. Neal had said she could always go to his therapist, especially since they’re all in the same building, but it doesn’t feel right to be going to the same person, even if that person would likely very intimately know all of the issues in their family. So she’ll try some of these people out.

Grabbing Ada’s car seat, she takes she and Henry out to the car, buckling them in and driving to West End to go to Ruth’s house for dinner. It’s always weird coming back here to the home that was her, well, first real home, and even though some of the rooms hold a hell of a lot of bad memories for her, they’ve been replaced with some good ones of Henry swinging on the playset and Killian meeting her mom for the first time.

-/-

-/-

“Your bedroom is very pink, Swan,” Killian teases her, running his hand over the floral bedspread while she is silently thankful that she was never too sentimental as a teenager and didn’t decorate her room with pictures of Justin Timberlake on the walls. Killian would literally never let that go.

“I did not decorate this place,” she insists, sitting down on her bed, the old springs creaking the slightest bit. “Ruth made it super bright and overly cheerly because she asked Mary Margaret for advice on how to make me more comfortable before I moved in.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

Killian clicks his tongue and reaches up to scratch behind his ear, his hair flopping over his forehead and curling at the ends. “Well, it seems to me that you sister-in-law, from the few times I’ve spoken to her, doesn’t exactly share the same tastes as you in things.”

“Some things overlap,” she admits, stretching out on the mattress and looking up at the ceiling. She used to count the patterns up there to fall asleep at night, and when that didn’t work, she’d sit on the window seat and look at the houses across the street. “And I do love her, even if it took some time for she and David to grow on me.”

“Please, don’t act like you and David weren’t always peas in a pod.”

“We weren’t,” she protests, propping herself up on her elbows and watching as Killian goes through the few books that are on the shelf. “David is, you know, up there closer to your age.” Killian doesn’t have to turn around for her know that he’s rolling his eyes. “And we didn’t really get along until I was seventeen and had snuck out of the house to meet with a guy who left me at a house party. I needed a ride home and was too scared to call Ruth.”

“So you called David, and he saved the day,” Killian finishes for her, stepping over to her and sitting on the edge of the mattress. “And thus started a friendship for the ages.”

“Pretty much,” she laughs.

Killian reaches back to tap at her stomach, nudging her and tickling her while she laughs. “That wasn’t very gentlemanly of that guy to leave you at a party.”

“He was seventeen. Most of them aren’t gentleman. I’m sure you weren’t.”

Killian huffs, the displeasure obvious in his voice, and before she can say something else he’s shifting on the bed and caging her in, their bodies tightly pressed together while their lips hover just over each other. She can feel the warmth of his breath and see the sparkle of mischief in his eyes.

“I am always a gentleman.”

“I know for a fact that’s not true. You’re pretty much a scoundrel.”

“A handsome one though.”

“Very,” she promises, reaching up to tangle her fingers through her hair while their lips slide over the other. He tastes a little bit like the tea he was drinking on the car ride over her, and even though she doesn’t like that tea, she doesn’t really care, especially because this makes her feel like a teenager…in all of the good ways.

“A handsome scoundrel and gentleman. That’s what I say on my business cards.”

“Shut up.” “Emma,” her mom calls, and she can practically feel his entire body tense over hers, “stop kissing your boyfriend and come eat your birthday dinner.” “I don’t know about you, Swan, but that made me feel rather young.”

It’s kind of like all of her worlds colliding sitting at a dinner table wither her mom, her brother, her sister-in-law, her son, and her boyfriend, but it’s nice. It’s nice that they all get along, that Killian feels comfortable to tease David and to compliment Ruth’s cooking and her stories about Emma and David when they were younger. He’s being the charming boyfriend that he always is, but she can tell that he’s a little nervous with the extra flattery and the tapping of his foot underneath the table. Killian isn’t really one to get nervous, so her heart kind of swells that he’s like this to meet her mom.

She was a mess when she met Liam, and they weren’t even dating then.

“Emma, will you come help me get your cake out of the fridge?”

“Sure,” she answers, sliding back in her chair, squeezing Killian’s shoulder. “Henry, you have to finish those green beans if you want this cake.”

“Really?”

“Really, they better be gone by the time that I get back.”

Henry groans, but she hears it stop as Killian says something to him, probably weaving some great tale to get Henry to eat his vegetables, and she can’t hide the smile that’s tugging up at the corner of her lips.

“He’s so handsome,” Ruth announces, and Emma practically jumps out of her skin.

“Holy crap,” she gasps, her heart beating a mile a minute in her chest. She has to press her hand over her heart while she tries to regulate her breathing. “Why’d you scare me like that?”

“I didn’t mean to, sweetie,” Ruth promises as she gets the cake out of the fridge all on her own. Why the hell did she think that her mom actually needed help getting the cake? That was obviously a bad excuse. “I was trying to talk to you about Killian. I love him.”

“I do too,” she admits, her heart beating quickly for an entirely different reason. “He’s nervous to meet you.” “Really? That man is nervous?”

She shrugs, her smile still on her lips. “I mean, yeah. He’s met David and Marg, but you’re the big fish.”

“And he’s also the first man you’ve brought home since Neal. Those are big shoes to fill.”

“Mom,” she starts, watching her place the candles in the cake, “that’s not what’s happening. He’s not…it’s different.”

“I know, I know. I didn’t mean it that way. It was difficult for me after David’s father died, but I was so much older. I wasn’t young like you with a baby. You were obviously going to date again. I didn’t mean – I didn’t mean that you were replacing Neal.”

“It’s fine,” she promises, reaching over to help light the candles to her birth cake, all twenty seven of them on there even if that’s far too many for one cake. “Let’s go see how much of this cake Henry is going to try to eat before we stop him.”

-/-

-/-

“Hello, my darlings,” Ruth sighs as they all walk into the door, hugging Henry before she hugs Emma. “I have missed you.”

“I saw you on Saturday, Grandma.”

“Well it doesn’t mean I haven’t missed you.”

“I missed you too. Can I go play with Wilby?”

“He’s in my bedroom.”

Henry runs through the back hallways, his coat flapping behind him, and she can do nothing more than shake her head back and forth at how much energy that kid has.

“Is Killian already here?” she asks Ruth, putting her purse down on the floor. “I know he said he was already on his way, but I haven’t checked my phone.” “He’s in the living room. We were sharing a cup of tea.”

“Of course you were,” she laughs, wrapping her arm around her mom’s waist as they walk through the halls to get to the living room. “How has your day been? How was that case going with the girl whose parents died?”

“My day was good, better now that my babies are here, but the case was hard. I think I’ve found a good foster home for her, though. You remember the Darlings?”

“Of course I do. They led me to you.”

Ruth doesn’t say anything else, just pats her on the back before taking Ada out of her arms and carrying her into the living room where Killian is messing with his phone. This place is covered with toys for infants and for ten-year-olds, and the moment Ruth puts Ada on the ground, she crawls over to a giant colorful keyboard that they also have at home. It’s been her favorite thing recently, and she’s not sure if she prefers the sound of it or the sound of Ada hitting pots and pans. She likes to really bang on them, and whenever there’s a particularly loud noise, her nose squishes into her face as it scrunches up while she laughs.

The little menace.

“Hey, handsome,” she gushes, dipping down to press her lips against his, lingering a little longer than she should. “Did you have a good day?”

“I had a day,” he chuckles awkwardly, kissing her again before she sits down on the couch next to him, their thighs pressing together. “Rob’s computer lost some data we had been working on, so I spent the day first trying to get IT to restore it and when that didn’t work, we had to try to replot all of our arguments.”

“Did you guys have a breach? Isn’t that a big deal?”

“Wasn’t a breach,” Killian sighs, reaching down to tickle Ada on the back while she pounds on the keys. “It was a computer failure. I’m sure Rob will have to undergo an investigation for it even though what we were doing was technically hypothetical, but as you know – ”

“- it’s never hypothetical,” she finishes for him.

“Pretty much. What about you?”

“Boring.”

“Yeah? No kids had a meltdown or forgot to turn in all of their applications?”

“Well that happens every day,” she laughs. It really does. It’s part of her life.

She likes it.

Ada slams down on a key, letting out a giggle, at the same time that David and Mary Margaret walk in the room.

“Woah, woah, woah,” David begins, reaching down and picking Ada up before blowing a giant raspberry on her stomach. “I didn’t know we had Mozart in the room. I would have worn my best suit.”

“I mean, I wasn’t going to say anything, but your suit is awful dingy, Dave.”

“Shut it, Jones. I’m talking to your child prodigy.”

“Well, she does have my genes so how could she not be one?” She rolls her eyes at him and pats his leg, but all he does is look at her with a satisfied smile. “Hello, Mary Margaret. Isn’t there a third Nolan somewhere?”

“He went to see Wilby,” she answers before leaning down to kiss Ruth.

“Wilby is the most important of all of us.”

“Except for Ada, of course,” Ruth adds in. “Now that everyone’s here, I say we eat.”

“It’s not like we came here for you, love.”

“Hey,” she scolds, reaching back to slap his chest even if she knows he’s teasing. He and Ruth have a fantastic relationship, so her mom is fine with all of it. But still. “You’re supposed to be a gentleman.”

Killian leans closer to her, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “I’m always a gentleman.”

“Good God, Jones,” David whines, “stop flirting with my sister.”

“I can’t help myself when she’s so damn pretty. Besides, I thought you yelled at me when I did stop flirting with her.”

The memories of that sting the slightest bit, but she knows that it’s over. Things between she and Killian still aren’t perfect, not that perfection is possible, and they spend a hell of a lot of time talking about it. But that’s a good thing. It’s helping for them to work on, well, them. And David has been such a supportive person for her ever since he helped her through her breakdown at Thanksgiving. Those few minutes still mean the world to her. She thinks that’s what’s helped keep her going through it.

“You’re right. You can keep flirting with her.”

“I plan to.”

#rising from the ashes #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic

[galadrieljones]

The Lily Farm (A Funeral) - Chapter 22

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 | Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth | Rating: Mature

Content: Existential Angst, Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Nature, Touch-Starved, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Marriage, Epiphanies, Backstory, Banter, Deep Emotions, Sharing a Bed, Swimming, Arthur to the Rescue, Forests, Abduction, Angst, Heavy Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Sexual Content, Sexual Themes, Adult Content, Canon Divergence, Found Families, Brotherhood, Fatherhood, pregnancy, Drug Use, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Protective Arthur, Minor John Marston/Abigail Roberts

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey to the north, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. They’ve been friends for a while now, but life, like the wilderness, is full of uncertainty and complications, and in their desperate search for meaning together, they endure a number of trials, some small, some big, all of which bring them closer to one another, as well as to their future. But they’ve fallen in love during hard times. With the gang tipping dangerously close to a breaking point in a changing world, Arthur must make a difficult choice. Can he escape the past, as well as the outlaw life and start over, building a family of his own? With Mary Beth by his side, one thing is certain: redemption and second chances finally seem within his grasp.

***For the rest of this story, you can visit the masterpost or AO3, both linked in the replies to this post and also at my blog.***

Chapter 22: The Gilded Cage, Pt. 2

Two days earlier, John and Abigail sat drinking big glasses of water out on the balcony of Shady Belle. It was the morning after the storm. The yard in front of Shady Belle was all full of puddles, some of them two inches deep. Jack was out there in his bare feet, splashing and running around with Cain the dog. They had a view of him from where they sat. At one point, Micah walked by and barked something incoherent at the boy. John flinched, but Arthur was standing nearby the commotion and casually grabbed Micah by the collar, yanking him hard and tossing him to the earth with an unforeseen force of derision. Micah laughed while Arthur walked away, but he didn’t fuck with the boy again. John sighed and took a drink of his water and then he looked at Abigail who seemed lost in a dream.

“Babe?” said John, trying to get her attention. “Hey, babe.”

She blinked a bunch of times, looked at him. “What is it?”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, smiling, smoothing her hands over her dress. “Why?”

“You just looked a little dreamy.”

“Oh, please,” she said, blushing. “I don’t get dreamy, John Marston. Now tell me about your fishing trip with Arthur.”

John sighed, looked down at his glass of water. It was rainwater and therefore very cool and delicious. Pearson was enterprising and had put out buckets the night before. “A lot happened, actually.”

“Nothing bad I hope. The two of you need to come to your senses already. You’re like brothers for Christ’s sake.”

“I know,” said John. “I know, Abigail. And we are, I think. It was good actually. We talked about…a lot of stuff.”

“Good,” she said, patting him on the knee. Then she looked back out over the balcony, watching Jack with the dog.

“You know, we discussed one thing in particular that I wanted to…talk to you about.”

“Yeah?” said Abigail. She smiled now in his direction. She was so pretty, in this very pure, natural way. She was like that glass of rainwater.

He took a drink. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s about him and Mary Beth.”

“The two of them fill my heart,” she said. She looked down at her clean, clear water. “It’s about time they found each other, if you ask me.”

“Sure,” said John. “It’s great. I couldn’t agree more.”

“And?”

“And,” he said, straightening up a little in his seat. He kind of leaned toward her. “And they’re leaving.”

She looked up, concerned. “Leaving?” she said. “Leaving where?”

“Leaving the gang.”

“What?”

“Leaving the gang, Abigail.”

“I heard you,” she said. She started to resituate her skirt. It was a long blue and white plaid, an elegant number she’d sewn herself. She was pioneering, Abigail. She knew how to rise perfectly even from one occasion to the next. “Why didn’t Mary Beth mention anything.”

“Well it ain’t in stone,” said John. “No definite plans as of yet. But they’re leaving.”

“Where they gonna go?”

“Up north,” said John. “Wisconsin.”

“Wisconsin?” said Abigail. “What’s up there? Cows?”

“I got no idea,” said John. “But, probably.”

Abigail’s face fell a little bit, but he could tell she was trying to be happy. “Well, that is a surprise.”

“Why you look so glum?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, John. You telling me two of our closest friends are about to up and leave. It kind of kills the conversation.”

“I wasn’t done yet,” said John.

She gave him a look. “Well then, finish,” she said.

He sighed, looking right at her. “Arthur said we should come with them.”

Abigail had been sipping her water. When he said this, she stopped abruptly, swallowed, and then set her water down on the floor. “Go with em? To Wisconsin?”

He nodded. “You, me, and Jack. I guess the dog, too. Though we didn’t discuss the dog.”

“John,” said Abigail. “Are you shitting me?”

“No,” he said. “Why?”

“You wanna go?”

“Maybe,” said John, taking on a defensive posture. They were still at odds in immediate ways. They still did not trust each other the way they should have. “Why not?”

“I ain’t got no reason why not,” said Abigail. “I just—have you thought it through?”

“Thought what through?”

She rolled her eyes. “What are you gonna do, John Marston? You and Arthur gonna rob trains up in Wisconsin?”

“Shit no,” said John. “This ain’t about robbing trains. Hell, I don’t even know if they got trains up in Wisconsin.”

“Of course they do,” said Abigail. “They got trains everywhere.”

“Whatever,” said John. “It ain’t about that. It’s about starting fresh. Who knows what we’ll do. But Arthur seems—he seems confident.”

“He does?”

“Yeah. He thinks we can do anything we want up there. We got a little money, between us. We could put it down on a piece of land, some livestock. Breed horses, herd sheep. You and Mary Beth is friends. It sounds—it sounds like it could work.”

“You’re serious,” said Abigail. A piece of hair had fallen from its rightful place atop her head. He leaned forward to tuck it away for her.

“I am,” he said. “For once, Abigail. I swear.”

She looked away, like she did not believe him.

“Look at me,” he said.

It took her a moment.

“Abbie. Look at me.”

So she did. He didn’t call her Abbie all that much. But when he did, she always seemed to respond. Her eyes were very crisp and very clear that day, like windows. “What?” she said.

“I know I done you wrong,” he said, earnest. “You and Jack. I know.”

“And?”

“And I thought I made it clear, after all that business with Bronte, I’m trying to change.”

“Can you?” she said.

He sighed. He still had his fingers lingering at her ear. She wasn’t pulling away. “Like I said. I’m trying,” he said.

She seemed to soften a little now, in her way. Somewhere, down below in the yard, Cain was barking, and Miss Grimshaw was telling him to shut the fuck up. “So you wanna leave the gang with Arthur and Mary Beth?”

“Maybe,” he said. “That depends on what you wanna do. Do you wanna stay? Keep believin in Dutch? Or do you wanna go? Make our own luck somewhere else? I’m listening, Abigail. Just tell me what you want.”

He could see her chest rising and falling, as she was breathing in a way that suggested she might burst into tears. She did not, however her eyes did glisten some. “I want…I want to get the fuck out of here. You know I do.”

“We could be a family,” said John. “No more of this weird fuckin bullshit, living in a broken down mansion in the middle of the fuck forsaken swamps, bunking with fifteen other people, half of whom are drunk for a living. It ain’t normal, Abbie. It ain’t good. Not for you, not for Jack.”

“What about Dutch?” she said. “What’s he gonna say? You think he’s gonna just let you boys traipse out of here like nothing at all? He’s got a hold on you, both of you.”

“I don’t know,” said John. “Truth be told, I don’t much care at this point. Dutch has gone batty. He’s starting to scare me.”

“But Arthur must care,” she said. “Nothing matters more to Arthur than loyalty.”

“We’re being loyal to what matters,” said John. “That’s just the better choice. Don’t you think?”

She was staring at him, searching, trying to find the lie, the thing that made him weak. She didn’t find it. “I do,” she said.

“Good,” said John. He was feeling assertive. He was feeling fine. He finished off his water and he looked out over the edge of the balcony into the eye of the swamps. “Arthur says they got lily farms up there.”

“Lily farms?” said Abigail, real starry. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Me neither,” said John.

It was like a dream.

Now.

Arthur and Mary Beth arrived fashionably late to the party at Mayor Lamieux’s house, just as Dutch had planned. In the coach on the way over, Mary Beth had had a shot of rye whiskey and Arthur had two. They were welcomed to the house and ushered through by a short sycophant with a thick French accent, and they arrived at their destination just in time to hear Dutch himself beginning his hand at small talk with skinny-legs Angelo Bronte. Bronte was outfitted in what looked like high society pajamas, and though he was very shiny and very fashionable, his distinctly Roman sense of style clashed considerably with the French bigness of the house in which he stood. Mary Beth could not help but notice all of the expensive artwork on the walls. The portraits were stark and seemed to judge her. The decorating in this house was not to her taste, a little too full of trends and arts décoratifs and seeming to scream with ostentation. Mary Beth liked simple objects in simple spaces that made her feel simple. She liked romantic details like patchwork quilts in primary colors and wooden animal menageries and heavy furniture that was judiciously worn. She liked big white bedspreads and pale blue curtains. She liked circle rugs with yellow fringe. She did not like fashion. She did not like pomp.

Even still, the house glittered furiously, she thought, though you couldn’t see where the glitter was coming from. It sort of just hung around suspiciously at the edges of your vision, making you woozy and unclear and full of a bad feeling like you had no business in this chilly palace of foreign dreams. She felt uncomfortable for many reasons. She trusted no one in her immediate view, not even the servants.

Together, they stood at the double doors leading out to the balcony, their feet on the very hard marble. She could smell cigar smoke. They listened to the conversation outside, just a little bit, as Bronte leaned over the railing with Dutch, passing judgment over each and every high status guest of the party at the mayor’s house. There was the mayor himself, there was a dictator, a newspaper man. All of them sounded like awful people, but none of them as awful as Bronte, who seemed to think he was above them all. There was contention between Bronte and Dutch, Mary Beth discerned. Bronte was insulting to the Native contingent, and to the construct of America on the whole, and she knew that this would bring Dutch to a higher temperature. She could see the annoyance grating at Dutch’s insides, fraying him around his fragile edges. She’d known him long enough, and she could see it in his eyes—the veiled but throat-slitting severity of his wrath. It was a sinister flash and very deep, but it was there.

She yanked on Arthur then, pulling him down to her level, wondering if perhaps she was drunk by mistake. “Maybe that shot of rye wasn’t such a good idea,” she said.

Arthur was cool as a cucumber. “You’ll be fine, Mrs. Kilgore.”

“I’m sweating like a goddam pig, and I don’t like it here.”

“Ain’t you got a fan hidden in your bustle or something?”

“Yes,” she said, “but it ain’t my plan to use it right up until the very end of the interaction. I can’t take it out now.”

“What happens at the end of the interaction?”

“Drama,” she said.

Amused, Arthur nodded. He said, “Well, I suppose we should go out.”

“I suppose,” said Mary Beth, studying Dutch still and all that worrisome circumstance happening out on the balcony. “This is a bad scene, Arthur.”

“Which part?”

“Bronte. I robbed fifty assholes like him in Kansas City.”

“I don’t know about that, Mary Beth.”

“What don’t you know?”

Arthur sighed. He looked at her.

“What is it, Arthur.”

“Just don’t underestimate him,” he said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Okay?”

“I ain’t.” She fawned a little, at his touch. He cleaned up real nice. He smelled good, and he had gone to the barber and got his hair combed, pomaded, trimmed. He still had some scruff on his cheeks. The tux pulled him together in golden ways. She’d never seen a man looking so good in her whole life. He made her feel better, just him being there. “Don’t worry.”

When they got outside, they could finally hear the verve and excitement brewing at the party below. Dutch wasted no time. His anger broke. He became gregarious again, and Mary Beth could see the shifting in his demeanor—could feel it. It was palpable.

“Tacitus!” he said, coming right up to them, shaking Arthur’s hand and then escorting him by the arm right out to Bronte. “It’s about time you got here, my boy.”

“This is who, now?” said Bronte.

Mary Beth hung back, a few steps behind, her head dipped, hiding beneath her avian hat. Dutch cleared his throat. “Signor Bronte, let me introduce you to my associate, Tacitus Kilgore. Whether that’s his real name or an alias, I’ll let you decide.” He laughed like a regular believable schmuck.

“Mr. Kilgore,” said Bronte. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“Oh you have no idea,” said Arthur, bowing, just a little. He could play a very good blowhard when the occasion called for it. “This is quite a…soiree going on here, if I do say so myself.”

“Yes well, the mayor, he is a glutton for popularity. What can I say.”

“Not much, I expect,” said Arthur.

“And who is this…?” said Bronte, eyeballing Mary Beth. “You brought a woman to our proceedings? Very brave indeed.”

She looked up from beneath the wide, blue brim of her hat. Bronte eyed her like a mystery.

Dutch interjected. “This is Mrs. Kilgore, Signor Bronte. Brand new wife of Tacitus here. She could not bear to be away from him. Not even for the night.”

This brought a great deal of joy and surprise to Bronte. “A wife?” said Bronte. “I was not aware that cowboys took wives.”

“They take a lot more than that,” said Mary Beth, batting her eyelashes. “If you catch my drift.”

“And we aren’t cowboys,” said Dutch, strained. “Though it’s a common misconception, we don’t actually herd cattle.”

Bronte was quiet for a moment, but then he exploded with laugher. Dutch did as well. Bronte found this to be hilarious. The whole exchange was like a circus sideshow, thought Mary Beth. Fuckin idiot men. Bronte looked around at his shifty-eyed entourage. “I like this man,” he said. “You like this man?”

They all nodded and laughed conspicuously.

A fastidious servant came around then, with three cigars laid in parallel on a silver platter. Arthur took one, as did Dutch, as did Bronte. Dutch proceeded with his introduction, waving his cigar about, as a prop. “Mrs. Kilgore here,” he said, “is an oil heiress from Galveston, Texas. Isn’t that right, my sweet?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mary Beth.

“Her daddy is an ex-outlaw turned oil tycoon. She is a relatively new addition to our family, joined us only two months ago.” Dutch held out his cigar for the servant, who lit it with prudence. He smoked, looking right at her. “A fine piece of work if you ask me.”

“An oil heiress?” said Bronte. “How…uniquely American.”

“Indeed,” said Arthur. He’d bit the cap straight off his cigar, spat it to the ground. Now the servant lit his, too. “Go on, Marie. Say hi to the nice man.”

Mary Beth smiled. She took a few steps forward, walking in a way that made her big skirt swing from side to side.

Bronte held out his hand. “Madame Kilgore,” he said, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “It is…a pleasure. You are married to the cowboy here?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, demurely.

“Tell me about the…eh…appeal in such dire atrocities.” He laughed.

Mary Beth just smiled. She did not laugh. Instead, she became big with her performance. She liked to use her hands a lot while talking, but this time, she was very composed. She approached him with confidence. She picked up one of his hands in her own. This took him by surprise, but he did not protest. “Well, Mr.—” She looked up at him, feigning confusion. “What was it again?”

Arthur almost choked on the smoke in his own lungs.

Bronte balked. “Eh, Bronte,” he said. “Angelo Bronte.”

“Right, right,” she said. “Mr. Bronte.” She really chewed the r. “You know, in my station,” she continued, focused, “it ain’t hard to come across carefully coiffed men with very soft, small, manicured…hands…and a big old barrel of money, ready to whisk me off my feet!” She studied his hands. “Of course, they’re all a bunch of sissies. When it comes down to it. You know what I mean. They’re afraid of getting dirty, of making a big noise. But a real woman knows that the only way to get her…skirts ruffled…if you will…is to find a man who ain’t afraid of using his hands. Who goes out into the physical world, roughs it up a little, and leaves it different than it was when he got there. Not a sissy, Mr. Bronte, and I’ll tell you money don’t make no man! I mean…a force. You ever seen a real man’s hands?”

Arthur was totally miffed. His cigar was burning but had not been smoked yet. He’d been watching her with relative awe.

“I—uh—” mumbled Bronte, “I suppose I have not.”

Mary Beth turned to Arthur. “Show em, Tacitus.”

He came to, surfacing, shook out his head, realized he was being called upon. He obliged. “My pleasure,” he said. He hitched the stogie to the corner of his mouth, took off one white glove. He held out his right hand. It was like a boulder in comparison to Bronte’s, truly it was. Bronte stood, looking, awkwardly. Then Arthur broke the moment by holding his bare hand out for a hearty shake. Bronte took it, firm at first, but hesitant.

Arthur smiled right at him, lowered his voice to improvise, took the cigar out of his mouth and ashed it directly onto the floor. “Forgive me, Signor Bronte,” he said. “My fair lady Marie is a bit of a firecracker. I can’t even predict her myself.”

Bronte laughed, finally, nervously. “Yes, I can see that, Mr. Kilgore,” he said. “Tell me, where did you say you found her again?”

“Galveston, Texas,” said Arthur, smirking. He withdrew his hand, replaced his glove. “I was robbing a bank. She was there. Came away with a lot more than stacks of cash that day, if you know what I mean.” He laughed. Dutch laughed.

Bronte became nervous, again, with the laughter.

Dutch slowly reentered the conversation then, asserting himself via the smoke from his cigar. Bronte said nothing more. “Well,” said Dutch, looking from Bronte to Arthur to Mary Beth, “now that you’ve made your…impression, Mrs. Kilgore—” He laughed. They all laughed. Except for Bronte, who seemed sweaty. “—Why don’t you and your rough-handed husband head down to the party, mingle a little. I’ll be down soon to…meet you for a drink.”

“Sounds good,” said Arthur, holding out his arm. His voice was warm and deep and it defused the moment all by itself.

Mary Beth took his arm, and then she flipped the fan from her skirts. Very dramatic. “Bye, Mr. Bronte,” she said, smiling. “Don’t forget what I said.”

Arthur patted Mary Beth’s arm and smiled. “Let’s go, darlin.”

“Mmm,” she said.

They left the balcony.

Bronte blinked, several times. He had not yet begun to smoke his cigar. “Who did you say she was again?” he said.

“Marie Kilgore,” said Dutch. “I would give you her maiden name, but in truth, I cannot recall what it was. They didn’t get married in no church, Signor Bronte.”

“I see,” said Bronte, halfway shaken. He leaned out over the balcony rail again, seeming to survey the scene. “An interesting woman.”

“That, she is,” said Dutch, smoking, eyeballing Arthur and Mary Beth who emerged from the long, twisting staircase, stepping into the garden of thieves below. “That, she is.”

When they got downstairs, slipping into the swaths of glamorous humans, Arthur was somewhat speechless. He crossed his arms over his chest. They stopped beneath the cover of a silvery tree.

Mary Beth noticed him staring. “What?” she said, putting away her fan. “Did I do okay?”

“That was very good, Miss Gaskill,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I can rightly say I didn’t know you had that in you.”

“Didn’t have what?” she said.

“Huge cowboy balls.”

She laughed. She laughed really hard.

“I’m serious,” he said, admiring. “You put that man off balance. I’m very impressed.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Kilgore,” she said, curtsying. Then she reached into the pocket of her skirt. “I stole his pocket watch, too.”

Arthur’s eyes got big. He grabbed the watch from her hand and looked around, making sure no one saw. “Jesus,” he said.

“It was right there,” she said. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Mrs. Kilgore, what are we gonna do with you?” A servant walked by with a tray of champagne. When he was looking away, Arthur dropped the watch into the bottom of one of the bubbling flutes.

“Arthur!” she laughed.

“Come on,” he said, hurried, taking her hand. “We must find a way to moderate your addiction to subterfuge. At least for the time being. Champagne perhaps? Or you wanna jump straight to gin.”

“I wonder what the mayor has in his pockets,” said Mary Beth, surveying the party. “Ain’t that him over there? By the fountain.”

Arthur followed after her gaze, squinting against the low, gold light of the garden. The entire affair was full of tasteful ruckus and women wearing huge hats that all looked just like Mary Beth’s, just like birds. “I reckon that is him,” said Arthur.

“That man standing with him looks familiar.”

“Which man?” said Arthur.

“The one with the mutton chops,” she said. “Well, other man with the mutton chops.”

“Familiar how?” He took a drink of his champagne. It was smooth and good and bright.

She studied him for a long time. Arthur watched, could sort of see the gears going on beneath the surface, a slow light emerging. Another servant happened by with another tray of champagne. Arthur took two flutes, one for him and one for Mary Beth. Mary Beth took the flute but did not drink at first. And after a moment, something came together, and she perked up, with wonder.

“It’s Evelyn Miller,” she said, squinting. “That’s right.”

“Evelyn Miller?” said Arthur. “The writer?”

“Yes,” said Mary Beth. “That’s him.”

“No shit,” he said, almost starstruck for a moment. “How do you know what Evelyn Miller looks like?”

“Dutch has read to me from his book—The American Inferno—dozens of times. He’s leant it to me more times than that. It ain’t my cup of tea, but there’s a picture of Evelyn Miller on the last page. That’s him.”

“Damn,” said Arthur. Then he sort of wondered at something. “Mary Beth,” he went on, “is Dutch still sweet on you? I mean I know I seen him hanging around, back at Clemens Point.”

Mary Beth shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, disinterested. “He’s made passes, sure. But trust me, Arthur, it’s nothing unique.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Dutch’s attention with women is fleeting. Just because he’s got his sights on you one day, that don’t mean it’s gonna last. Just ask Molly.”

Arthur sighed. He knew exactly what she meant, and how it had been true. He had a bad feeling. Molly wasn’t doing so good. He wondered why she continued to stick around, if she could truly love him that much. He looked at Evelyn Miller then, who was in some sort of rueful, serious conversation with the Natives. Then he looked back up to the balcony. Dutch was there, still, alone. Watching. He was looking out over the proceedings from beneath the dark brim of his hat. He didn’t see Arthur looking at him. He was leaning on the rail and thinking deeply, tightly wound with a threatening posture. He seemed to suck all the energy out of the affair and right into himself, an endless magnetic pit. Arthur shook out his head, looked back at Mary Beth. She was warm and beautiful in comparison. She seemed to radiate heat, light, energy. She was the opposite of Dutch in every way.

Arthur was not always the quickest man to the uptake. He was smart, but he didn’t trust himself, and that tended to leave him behind. Still, he knew Dutch had been soft for Mary Beth. It was obvious. She was pretty and book-learned. He imagined that she, of all the women in the camp, would be more skilled at entertaining his philosophies than anyone. Molly, she was smart, too, and she could read and write, but she wasn’t as young and quick to the smile as Mary Beth, and now that Mary Beth was no longer nineteen, Dutch had started catching her scent. Arthur wasn’t sure how to deal with this. He wasn’t even sure if it was true, but he knew that Mary Beth, she was canny, but she didn’t always attribute suspicion where suspicion was due. She was not innocent, but even with her father and her mother and her brother dead, she had been protected from true darkness for a long time—whether it be by pure luck or the benevolence of good people, like the madame in Kansas City who taught her pickpocketing rather than whoring. And like Dutch. His head was spinning heavily now as he began to wonder on a whole new level of uncertainty, and all the different ways he couldn’t trust Dutch no more. It was infinite. And it wasn’t even about Mary Beth—it was about so much more. Arthur wasn’t no boy. He didn’t get jealous or threatened by other men. He just wasn’t sure what was going to happen, and this all made him think about the bigger picture. How Dutch was just…he was always hiding something. There was always something going on, something beneath the surface, and this was such a foreign idea to Arthur. Arthur never had any ulterior motivations or secrets. He was not a duplicitous man. He didn’t know how that worked, so it was hard for him to figure out, even if he knew it was there.

He took another drink of his champagne. He glanced casually back to the balcony, and he was startled to notice that Dutch had shifted his attention and was now looking right at him. Dutch smiled. He gave a salute. Arthur saluted him back, and then Dutch spun on his heels and disappeared inside the mansion. Arthur took a deep breath.

“You reckon you can charm the mayor, Mary Beth?” he said, growing weary of the party all of a sudden. “Insinuate us into his presence a little bit?”

Mary Beth smiled, shrugged. She took a long drink. “I know a lot about Miller,” she said. “It should be enough to get us into the conversation.”

“Good,” said Arthur. He took her hand, kissed it, though it was gloved. They began moving through the crowd together. The night was long, and it was only just beginning.

Meanwhile, back at camp, Abigail stood in the very dark night, by the edge of the swampy river. It glistened. It was like a nightmare. The moonlight was cool and white though the swamp was viscous and gray. She was holding a glass of whiskey, sipping it judiciously, all alone. Jack was asleep, and John was still in St. Denis. Way out in the water, she could see a shadow moving, sleepily. It was something huge—a bullgator, she thought, looking for a meal, or for a female to breed with. At first, she had been afraid, but now she was just mesmerized, wondering if it would swim any closer, if it could smell her or sense her, if it was afraid, angry, or simply curious. She heard footsteps behind her then, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Micah. He was drunk. He didn’t address her. He stumbled to Strauss’s shack, took a piss on a tree stump and then tipped over into the weeds and passed out. Watching, she thought about how easy it would be. To roll him into the water, bait for the shadow in the river, gone for good. But then she looked away. It wasn’t worth it, she thought, drinking her whiskey. There was too much to lose now. And anyway, she wasn’t that kind of girl.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfiction #mary beth gaskill #mary-beth gaskill #arthur x mary beth #arthur morgan x mary beth gaskill #the lily farm #a funeral #john marston #abigail roberts #dutch van der linde #angelo bronte

[anglaland]

count the change, and keep my heart

Fandom: Hetalia Relationship: USUK Rating: Teen Word Count: 1530 Summary:

Written for the @usuknetwork​ Secret Santa event. Happy Holidays @love-and-libertea-writes​! I went with your prompt, “Omegaverse pregnant Arthur and his mate Alfred going Christmas shopping”

AO3/FFN links will be the most recent post on my blog if you prefer reading on those platforms.

Arthur turns to look pointedly at his mate. “I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”

Alfred smiles guilty, his scent betraying him. “I didn’t say anything,” he says, but Arthur lifts an eyebrow in challenge. “Maybe I am a little worried,” he admits. “But Dr. Oxenstierna said he was considering bed rest!”

“Yes, and then he said he would hold off on it,” Arthur replies. “I’m only six months along, love. You’ve got three more months to coddle me to your heart’s content.”

Alfred manages not to blurt out that he already has those months planned out. Instead, he pulls Arthur closer, wrapping his arm around the other to rest his hand against the side of Arthur’s swollen stomach.

The crowd around them is relentless, hundreds of others dashing to find gifts for their loved ones. Normally, Alfred & Arthur wouldn’t wait until the week before Christmas, Arthur preferring to carefully identify the best gifts for their friends and family, and Alfred tasked with finding the best deals for them (and Alfred was already planning to induct their unborn child into the art of extreme couponing). But between the toll the pregnancy had taken on Arthur and the last-minute project Alfred’s boss had assigned him to, they hadn’t had the chance.

Of all the years for this to happen…! Alfred cursed silently, before putting the thought away. For the last three months, the bond between him and Arthur had strengthened, the two of them almost frighteningly in sync. It had its benefits––Alfred was still living off the sweet sex the two of them had last week, when he had come home with the exact craving Arthur was thinking of. But other times, the two of them could sense even the slightest hint of discontentment the other had.

Or the baby could, even though Dr. Oxenstierna had said no one knew if that was true. Arthur could tease Alfred for being overdramatic all he wanted, but he wasn’t taking the chance with their first child.

“I can’t believe we had to park on the other side of this bloody mall,” Arthur grumbles, interrupting Alfred from his thoughts. “Doesn’t anyone shop in advance? Christmas is the same day every year!"

Alfred chuckles. “Not all of them have your finicky organizational skills, babe.” He discreetly elbows a beta who is getting a little too insistent at pushing their seven bag ensemble through his side. “Besides, we’ve never seen the mall look this Christmas-y!”

“Yes, we have. They put up these decorations before Thanksgiving this year,” Arthur says, without bothering to hide the disgust in his voice. “Honestly, it’s shameful...they get worse every year…”

“I’d play All I Want for Christmas is You from September if I could,” Alfred suggests with pure innocence. It’s worth the look of absolute horror that crosses Arthur’s face. In the next second, he’s regretting it, mind already jumping to the swaths of Facebook posts he’s read about “bad vibes” and “negative energy” or “my pregnant omega yelled at me once and my baby came out with no scent and the doctors won’t admit we’re right!”

Well, maybe not the latter. But there have been a lot of Facebook posts. Arthur called it all useless drivel, and Alfred always agreed...until it was 2 am and he was watching pregnant omega vlogs.

Too sharp for his own good, Arthur catches the thread of guilt immediately. “What are you worrying about now?” he sighs, curling closer to Alfred as they two of them make their way to their destined shop.

(Alfred was used to the translucency of his scent. Their first meeting wasn’t as smooth as he liked think––it went a little something more like: a younger him, star struck at the handsome omega sprawled across a classroom desk, the other snidely advising him to keep your scent low, or you’ll tell the whole school about how much you’d like to fuck me.)

“I just want to keep you safe,” he murmurs, almost shy to say it. No one around them cares, but Arthur looks at him with rapt attention––and some confusion.

“...Christmas music isn’t going to kill me,” Arthur says. A beat passes. “And neither will this pregnancy. I know you’re worried, but it’ll be okay.” Looking up at Alfred, Arthur grins wickedly, the look out of place in his unassuming maternity clothes. “I didn’t fight off all those omegas to die before giving you your first child.” His eyes flick over to Alfred’s mating mark, a mirror to the mark on his own neck. “I’m certain I get all my energy from imagining their sour looks once our child is born.”

Alfred bursts out laughing. “Our high school reunion is in six months too. I’ve totally got to RSVP yes."

“Hmmm...the look on Francis’ face would be perfect...and he said I wouldn’t be mated ‘til I was thirty!” Arthur’s eyes are bright, his pace quickening in excitement. The residual excitement infects Alfred and he follows, the two of them cackling over whatever petty work they’ll put into showing up.

In no time at all, they’ve arrived to the front of the woodworking store that holds the last gift on their list: an expensive feather board for Alfred’s brother, Matthew. Privately, Alfred wishes Mathew had stuck with hockey as primary hobby–– at least then he could understand what he was buying. He had no idea what this ‘feather board’ did, but he had it on good authority (and by that, he meant his coworker Ludwig had recommended it in a single sentence with no elaboration) that this was a premier (and expensive) item in the field.

He’d get a gift receipt just in case.

For such a niche shop, it is annoyingly busy. Alfred keeps Arthur close as they scan the shelves for the item.

“Is this it?” Arthur asks, gesturing to one board.

“No, the one in the picture is bigger,” Alfred replies. “What about this one?”

“Wrong shade of tan,” Arthur answers, already flicking his eyes back to the shelves. Alfred grumbles underneath his breath, putting the item away and crouching to check the names of the other boards on the price tags.

He doesn’t find it. Scowling, he stands up, already preparing to annoyingly hang around the cashier until some assistance could be rendered. As he turns, he catches a display off to the side behind Arthur––highlighting the exact item they need.

“Arthur!” Alfred exclaims, and the other man jumps at the shout in his ear. Alfred cringes, and lowers his voice. “I think it’s behind you!”

Arthur turns, and his eyes widen in recognition. “That’s it,” he confirms. “Only one left––we got lucky!”

As if a greater power conspires against them, they catch a pair of alphas also pointing at the table. In growing horror, one of them begins walking towards it.

“Arthur,” Alfred hisses. “You jinxed it!”

Arthur is already moving away from him. Just as the other alpha begins to reach for the feather board, Arthur body checks him, swiping the item from under the other’s nose. In one of the fakest looks of innocence Alfred has ever seen cross his mate’s face, Arthur says, “Oh, please excuse me.”

The alpha looks ready to snap, before catching the mark on Arthur’s neck and the swell of his stomach. Alfred comes up behind his mate, hand possessively placed in the small of the other’s back. “Is there a problem?” he asks, struggling to suppress his mirth.

Glaring, the alpha has no choice but to back down. “Keep your omega close,” he says, almost spitting the words out. Arthur looks at Alfred and smirks.

Alfred’s laughter is slipping through his teeth. “Why did I think pregnancy would make you calmer?“

Arthur raises his eyebrows, maintaining the picture of innocence. “Whatever do you mean? I’ve always been calm and proper.” He pauses for a second, struggling not to laugh as well. “Now if you’ll join me, we have a purchase to make.”

They walk out with their spoils of war. “Hope you paid close attention to that, poppet” Arthur says to his stomach, arms curving underneath.

“Oh god,” Alfred mutters. “If our child takes after you, we’ll be stuck in the principal’s office every single day.”

“I met you in detention,” Arthur reminds him. A few seconds later, “...maybe it’d be best if our first child was a little calmer.”

First child.

The words were almost impossible to comprehend. The two of them had been trying for so long, and Alfred had comforted his mate through too many sleepless nights, as Arthur confessed to feelings of inadequacy and self-blame. But they were here, at six months even with all the difficulty Arthur was having, and they were going to make it.

Alfred steals a glance at Arthur. The other man’s face is flush, and Alfred can detect the weariness seeping into his mate’s scent and body. But beyond that, a small yet triumphant grin coats his face, enthused at the conclusion to their Christmas shopping. Alfred ignores his worries, for once, not out of fear, but determination for the future, and kisses the head of the love of his life.

#hetalia #usuk #aph america #aph england #omegaverse #usuk fanfic #sorry for being so late ;A;

[thespacebetweenworlds]

idk if you’ll care about this but your thing about the whole “fiction is just fiction” and “fiction doesn’t affect reality” argument is actually not true at all because let’s just say for example: having lgbt, poc, disability rep in books or media isn’t all that important because it doesn’t affect reality.... when it does? it makes a HUGE impact on people. but yes I see where you’re coming from and as a person who hates incest with a passion, I don’t think u guys deserve these threats AT ALL.

Thank you for not thinking I should die a violent death. And thank you for this ask! I love being asked things. And to respond to your point, that fiction does affect reality, with the example of how representation is pretty awesome: that’s a freaking good point you have there, that I agree with - partially.

This Essay is titled: Fiction and Reality and How the everloving Fuck do they interact and what by nathan wesninski’s underpants does that have to do with fandom discourse?

So, beyond the read more you’ll have a compilation of my thoughts on it (that didn’t take several hours to write and edit). I’ll talk about:

1. Definition Of Fiction, Definition Of Reality

2. (How) Does Fiction Affect Reality?

3. Representation In Fiction

4. Who Judges Fanfic?

5. ”this content is problematic,” says you. ”please don’t mention power dynamics,” replies I

6. Censorship

7. A Brief History Of Why Fanfic Is Awesome

8. Links to stuff that might interest you

I’m just gonna. Quickly do that part in radioactive with the deep breath.

To start this, I want to clarify that in the response I made to transneiljosten’s post, I never explicitly said “fiction doesn’t affect reality” or “fiction is just fiction.”

What I did say is this: “Incest in fiction is just that: incest in fiction. It’s. not. real.” And: “I believe everyone should be allowed to write/create what they want - as long as it doesn’t hurt people in real life.”

But yes, the phrases “fiction is just fiction” and “fiction is not reality” have been used often when discussing freedom to write fanfic and when defending content another might call immoral. Not many people have elaborated beyond that, and to be fair - it’s a super big fucking field of study with so many subjective ways to look at it that it’s difficult to put into words.

But I’m gonna go and explain what people mean with those two phrases anyway.

Disclaimer: Remember how I called this a super big fucking field of study? I am no linguist and I have not studied literature. All my knowledge comes from years in fandom and internet research of the topics I personally found interesting. I may be wrong about things I say here, and I am always learning, so feel free to message me. I try my best to discuss controversial topics thoughtfully, respectfully, considerately and carefully, but I am only human and do not know everything. You are welcome to join the discussion.

1. Definition Of Fiction, Definition Of Reality

Going to https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/ to properly look this up:

Reality: The state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them.

Fiction: Literature in the form of prose, especially novels, that describes imaginary events and people.

So I say I don’t study literature (I really don’t) but just a few weeks ago I was in a lecture on the absolute basics of literature science, where I learned this dope sentence:

Die Wirklichkeit in der Kunst ist nur eine auf die außerkünstlerische Wirklichkeit verweisende Wirklichkeit.

Which is German, yes I know. Basically we have the starting point that literature is art, so it’s: "the reality in art is only a reality that refers to the reality outside of art" or, in other words, fiction is only ever fiction and not reality, no matter how close they may seem to be.

In summary, what we can say for sure: Fiction does not equal Reality. They are not the same. Fiction exists because Reality exists.

2. (How) Does Fiction Affect Reality?

Reality affects fiction. But does Fiction affect Reality?

Allow me to quote tumblr user shinelikethunder, who put it very nicely:

“Fiction affects people. And people affect reality.”

Tumblr user muchymozzarella made an important addition (and the blog is really pretty) so to read the post, klick on this link: https://muchymozzarella.tumblr.com/post/167137950299/fiction-is-not-responsible-for-reality

If you read the above post, further reading that might interest you are texts by Immanuel Kant and Arthur Schopenhauer on Free Will. But that wouldn’t be fandom anymore, so like, find philosophy books in your local library and talk to you friends about it.

3. Representation In Fiction

But let’s come back to your question, dear anon: “... the whole “fiction is just fiction” and “fiction doesn’t affect reality” argument is actually not true at all because let’s just say for example: having lgbt, poc, disability rep in books or media isn’t all that important because it doesn’t affect reality.... when it does? it makes a HUGE impact on people.”

You have a great point. Representation in books matters. (If you rec me some nice wlw books I’ll love you forever, there are not enough.)

I am, however, gonna quote my friend of mine, who says it better than I ever could:

“There is a difference between media affecting behaviour and representation in media. Like, violent video games don't actually make you violent. Watching gay cinema isn't going to turn you to the lgbt side unless there was already a disposition there.

People read and write immorality constantly, and even when it's shone in a good light it's usually expected that we as human beings know right from wrong, know fiction from reality. Humanity has explored the happy shiny purity of the universe and the horrific grittiness since... Well probably forever, for a variety of reasons. And in recent years the way we consume media has intensified drastically. Our consumption is interactive, our interaction is globally influenced and sometimes that is good, but we've also given ourselves the right to witch-hunt without a lot of information, or because things don't go as you planned. Real people are always more important than fictional people.

Stand up for representation. Stand up for good representation. But if you're smart enough to understand morality in reality, that isn't going to suddenly go away if you read some incest fics... And hey if you do suddenly want to kiss your brother, that's something for you to deal with and it isn't fan fiction's fault.”

Representation in books matters. Why does it matter? Because the real world is so much more diverse than popular media might make you think. Fight against the patriarchy, not against random people on the internet.

4. Who Judges Fanfic?

Fanfic is written by fans. It’s also written for fans, but more than that, it’s written by fans. I’m not gonna say only teenage girls write fanfiction, because that’s not true. Fans write fanfiction. And everyone can be a fan.

Ozhawkauthor said:

“You are not paying for fanworks content, and you have no rights to it other than to choose to consume it, or not consume it. If you do choose to consume it, do not then attack the creator if it wasn’t to your taste. That’s the height of bad manners.

Be courteous in fandom. It makes the whole experience better for all of us.”

So why are “antis” suddenly here, declaring this ship and those characters off limits and to be hated on?

Specifically, what the fuck are fans that attack or judge other fans on?

To quote shinelikethunder (again): “Fiction needn’t be educational and fiction doesn’t always have clear-cut endorsements of who’s in the right. But the discussion that happens around fiction can include both.”

But to answer the question above: Who Judges Fanfic? Not. You.

5. ”this content is problematic,” says you. ”please don’t mention power dynamics,” replies I

Hypothetical situation:

I write a fanfic. My protagonist is Riko Moriyama, who is, in canon, a sadistic asshole that is so morally black that his own brother, Ichirou, who is also morally black, kills him in the end. It doesn’t matter what I write, or who I ship him with, in this hypothetical situation.

You appear, you read the fic or you don’t read the fic. You say: “This content is problematic.”

I quiver. I know you don’t like Riko Moriyama. I know you don’t approve of my shipping choice. “Please don’t mention power dynamics,” I reply.

“This relationship is toxic,” you say. “There are unhealthy power dynamics at play.”

And like, fuck, I know? I wrote it.

Obviously. Obviously I could reply with that ancient, age old phrase “Don’t Like Don’t Read.”

But I already made a similar post about that.

6. Censorship

I’m writing this post to fight against censorship in fandom. (The day I am typing this up on was the day I went to a demonstration against articles 11 and 17, earlier 13, in the copyright reform in the EU, and to protest for a free internet.)

Censorship.

What does that even mean? The Oxford English Dictionary says:

Censorship: The suppression or prohibition of any parts of books, films, news, etc. that are considered obscene, politically unacceptable, or a threat to security.

Here’s the wikipedia article.

In my opinion, every person, regardless of whether or not they call themselves “anti” who tells someone else that their fanfic is disgusting and wrong and should be deleted, based on subjective ideas of moral, is trying to enforce censorship. So don’t. Don’t do that.

“But,” you might say. “Riko is not a good person.”

And you know what? You’re absolutely right. He’s not. Neither is any of the Foxes.

And this is why none of the antis make sense. In one post, they condemn Roland - a perfectly normal minor character, and in the next post they call Andrew Minyard their soft angel child. Y’all. Not to hate on Andrew Minyard, but he literally drugged Neil? Even though he’s so big on consent, he drugged Neil?

So by saying this and that are problematic and should not be written and the people who do write it should be blocked, you’re kinda hypocritical. Because the All For The Game trilogy is one fucked up piece of media by itself.

And have you ever read a book?

Most books have characters that aren’t completely morally white or morally black, events that aren’t always sunshine, butterflies and rainbows.

And you know what else? That’s a good thing. Because the world isn’t like that either. And more often than not literature addresses topics critically.

Remember The Hunger Games? Exactly.

7. A Brief History Of Why Fanfic Is Awesome

In the beginnings of fanfic and fandom as we know it, slash was illegal in the USA. Fanfiction.net was made in like 1998, and during the first few years when fanfic got more attention with the rise of the internet, restrictions were made.

Much like tumblr in december 2018, except worse, fanfiction.net purged explicit content. Livejournal, the journaling platform where lots of fandom stuff happened before tumblr, is known for strikethrough, a big, unannounced deletion of fannish content. Because of those purges and restrictions, ao3 was originally made. I’m not trying to paint ao3 as the heroes that saved fandom, well I kinda am, and they are doing great things so that fanfiction can exist and remain accessible.

I think fiction is not just fiction. But fiction is just fiction in the sense that it doesn’t have any direct influence on the real world. We are all allowed to write whatever we want.

Disclaimer: We are all allowed to write whatever we want, except when we call for violence towards others in real life. Further disclaimer: Calling for violence towards others is illegal. Hate speech is illegal. Violent threats are illegal. Promotion of self-harm is illegal. Death threats are illegal.

To come back to fandom: Shipping or not shipping something has nothing to do with morals. Hating on people who ship “unhealthy power dynamics/problematic ships” does not give you the moral high ground. It makes you an asshole. For the love of Riko’s stinky socks, use the blocking feature.

My friend iknowwhoyouaredamianos said: “Hating people irl, lashing out against them, that's the real cruelty. That's so much worse than writing about something fictional.”

If you hate on real people, there is no trigger warning. You can’t don’t-like-don’t-read hate. It will affect that person’s life negatively, whether you intend to do so or not. Don’t be assholes, dears.

Thank you to my friend, and to iknowwhoyouaredamianos for letting me quote you and joining the discussion; and to foxsoulcourt for so many reasons.

Who knew that writing over 2000 words on fandom would be fun?

Dear anon, I hope I answered your question.

I’m gonna conclude this post with the Three Laws of Fandom:

I. Don’t Like; Don’t Read.

II. Your Kink Is Not My Kink.

III. Ship And Let Ship.

8. Links To Stuff That Might Be Of Interest

If you read all of the above and still feel like you don’t understand, have this awesome post by destinationtoast: How to not like fictional things (and not be a dick about it)

Podcasts on fandom culture by fansplaining:

Episode 84: Purity Culture

Episode 85: Age and Fandom

Episode 86: The Money Question

Episode 87: What we discourse about when we discourse about the discourse

Fandom positivity posts I reblogged (because y’all need it):

short post on staying positive in fandom

when discourse gets too stressful

important advice especially for those of you younger than 15 (but also older)

Tumblr user freedom-of-fanfic is writing lots of essays on lots of fandom things, here are some those more or less directly relate to this:

On criticising: Free to write whatever, free to criticise whatever?

A post on Fiction & Reality that answers a question very similar to the one I answered,

and Why fanworks are such a convenient social scrapegoat (kinda a socioeconomical discussion of USA-centric fandom)

There is also a very extensive FAQ by freedom-of-fanfic, with lots of very important writings on fandom culture on tumblr.

Unrelated, but if you’re interested in more of fandom, fanfic, and statistics of both:

http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/stats

Interesting stuff on Fanlore: Purity Culture in Fandom, AO3 & Censorship, The Advantages of Fan Fiction as an Art Form.

An article on the free speech debate in fandom

Dreamwidth’s Diversity Statement, and Ao3’s Diversity Statement

A cool (and unrelated) thing: Femslash can save the world if we let it

Happy reading, and I hope you learned something.

[bucklesomeswashswan]

Once Upon a December (9/10)

Summary: Emma doesn’t remember much of her past, all she knows is she needs to get out of Misthaven. The mysterious group called the Industrialists continues to gain power and control since they overthrew the royal family over a decade ago. Out of options, Emma joins forces with a conman Killian and his partner Ruby in their plot to pass her off as the lost princess of Misthaven. But as they travel together and Killian and Ruby try to teach her how to be a princess, Emma begins to uncover hidden pieces of her past. When threats start closing in around them will she choose to escape to safety or risk everything to find her family and reveal a dangerous secret that could change history forever?

Rating:  M

Story content warning: some descriptions of violence, slow burn

Part of @captainswanbigbang 2018. Updates every Saturday!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 also read it on AO3

Thank you to @prongsie for the art for this story! Her artwork is amazing and was so perfect for this fic!! Check out her blog and be sure to give some love to her posts! Thank you to my beta reader @csobsessed-21!

I’m starting to get sad that this is almost over! Just one more chapter after this one. Thanks to everyone who has made it this far! And thank you to everyone who has been liking and reblogging! This chapter wasn’t in the first outline but as soon as it started flowing on the page I knew I loved it. Hope you enjoy it as well!!

Chapter 9 :  And a Song Someone Sings

Emma tried to organize the scattered pieces of her life back into something recognizable as she glanced around at the assembled crowd beaming and clapping and bowing to her, at the faces of her long lost parents, the King and Queen of Misthaven. It all fit with her memories, but still so much of this wasn’t familiar after years away from this life, this world. She stood on shaking legs as she faced it all. And again, as she had many times tonight, she felt as though she was falling with nothing to hold onto.

Scrambling for anything concrete she gripped the hand of her father, but it only brought the realization that his were not the hands the hands she wanted steadying her. There was someone else she wanted at her side. Someone who had already become a fixture in her life, slowly slipping past her walls until his absence left her strangely empty.

She looked around, searching the crowd, the sea of faces, but he was missing. She scanned the room again and again, worry creeping in, he had promised to stay.

She was pulled along as she was introduced to many of the guests, nobility, diplomats, others who had fled Misthaven after the revolution. They all shook her hand, curtsied, and blushed. But the worst was when they thanked her. She forced smile after smile, always glancing over shoulders and between people trying to catch a glimpse of dark hair, blue eyes, or the devilish tilt of his smile. Probably about to appear and goad her with a mocking bow, but still he remained absent.

The night passed, the minutes stretching into hours and still she had not seen a glimpse of Killian or Ruby. Emma could feel the strain of using her magic, her recovered memories, and being reunited with her family wearing her down. She longed for a quiet corner or soft bed to let it all sink in for a moment away from the curious eyes of the crowd.

She was startled by a gentle nudge from her father beside her.

“Emma?” he said looking at her with a knowing expression. “You want to get out of here?”

She let out a relieved breath. “Yes, please,” she said returning his smile.

The King turned placing a hand on the Queen’s arm. She looked up, her gaze moving from him to Emma and back seeming to understand without a word. She gave a small nod before turning back to the man beside her.

“Mister Ambassador, might I interest you in another drink?” she asked him taking his arm to lead away.

Emma and her father used that opening to their advantage and slipped between the remaining guests to a side corridor off the ballroom.

“We’re just going to leave her?” Emma asked.

He smiled. “Don’t worry she can handle herself. Believe it or not some state dinners have been more unpredictable.”

“You had a magical fight break out at a state dinner?” Emma asked almost impressed.

“Well, not exactly,” her father said with a chuckle, “although there were some I wished one would.”

“Your Majesty,” a pair of guards greeted them. “We have the carriage coming around.”

“That’s alright, Murtagh,” he said waving them off. “Keep the carriage for the Queen. We’ll walk.”

The guards exchanged a look that said they weren’t thrilled with this idea, and that it definitely wasn’t the first time the King had insisted on something they didn’t agree with.

“At least take Young with you,” Murtagh said indicating the other guard. “After the events of the night you’ll forgive me for taking precautions.”

The King nodded. “Of course. Thank you, Young.”

The guard seemed relieved the King had consented so easily. Emma was fascinated by their dynamic and each new facet she learned about her parents and their lives. The way the guards clearly cared deeply for them, the way her father obviously respected them, and still the almost playful, begrudging way they accepted each other.

Young passed the King his cloak which he took but after a moment’s hesitation and a glance at Emma he laid the heavy material over her shoulders.

“It’s not a far walk,” he told her. “But I’ll not be losing my daughter to a cold after I just got her back.”

Emma looked away a little sheepish, she wasn’t sure she would ever get used to that kind of affection, having someone look at her with such blatant love, having someone take care of her. Having a family again.

Young checked the small pistol in his belt before he turned and led the way down the hall to a smaller less ornate side door. Emma was glad to have her father’s cloak once the cool night air hit her. Small flakes of snow drifted lazily down around them swirling lightly across the cobblestones with each step they took.

“I’m sorry, again,” Emma said as they followed Young across the wide plaza she had arrived at hours ago in Gold’s carriage with Killian and Ruby. It seemed like ages ago.

“Sorry for what?” her father asked.

Emma shrugged before realizing the movement was lost in the plush velvet of the cloak. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene during the ball,” she told him.

Perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. She had come to the ball planning on murdering them both. That would have caused quite a scene, albeit a rather different one.

He laughed, the sound deep and rich. It brought back memories of hot cocoa and roaring fires in carved fireplaces. It felt a bit like home. “Honestly it was a nice change of pace from how those normally go.” He turned to her placing his hands on her shoulders before he continued. “And you never have to apologize for finding your way back to us.”

Emma blinked feeling the burn of tears behind her eyes.

“Besides,” he said with a smirk, “our family has a certain proclivity for making a rather dramatic entrance.”

Emma smiled. She liked him. The thought was such a welcome one. All those years dreaming of a distant, far off, unknown family. She had tried to imagine her parents, the type of people they would be, what they did, why they left her. But she had never really stopped to wonder if she would like them, if she would be proud of them.

And now with so many newly uncovered memories coming back to her she tried to reconcile this man walking beside her now with the father she had known as a small girl. Her younger self had admired and revered him, he had been her shining knight and her partner for late night mischief. She looked at him now with different eyes, through the lens of years spent alone in a harsh world, and still she could feel those emotions, their deep connection, as well as a newer affection.

Their stroll ended at a beautiful townhouse on a corner just across the plaza from where the ball had been held. Emma followed the others into the cozy entry. The townhouse was warm, not just from the fires crackling in the fireplaces, but from the comfortable furniture and personal touches. It wasn’t like the cold calculated ornate feel of Gold’s house, or the ransacked castle in Misthaven, or even the small houses she had stayed in as she grew up alone. This place was a home.

“I’m starving. Food at those things is never satisfying,” her father said helping her shrug off his cloak. “What do you say?”

“Sure,” Emma nodded. “I haven’t eaten.”

He waved at her to follow him as he made his way down the narrow hall to the back of the house. The kitchen was small, the walls lined by cabinets and wooden countertops with nicks and stains from many meals prepared over the years.

He hummed as he picked his way through the pantry weighing items in his hand, sometimes holding one up and glancing at her for approval. Eventually he brought over his haul and laid it out on the small butcher’s block in the center of the room.  A block of cheese, a few slices of sausage, a handful of sweet smelling fruits she didn’t recognize and a large blueberry pie with a couple slices already eaten from it.

They pulled over chairs settling in. Emma pushed her flowing skirts out of the way, the gown making her feel extremely overdressed in the small room. The shimmering fabric looked out of place here away from the sparkling chandeliers and full orchestra.

“Try the pie,” her father said already pushing a plate toward her with a large piece.

Emma picked up a fork and took a small bite. The tart berries and pastry melting on her tongue. She let out a small groan that made him laugh as he served himself.

“So this is what it’s like being a princess,” she murmured around another delicious bite.

A little sadness crept into his smile. Her words a reminder of everything they had missed. Something in his expression made her wonder if he too was trying to see the small girl he had known within the person she had become. This was an adjustment for him too.

They spent the next hours talking and joking and getting reacquainted. She told him about her adventure leaving Misthaven and traveling to find them, she told him about Ruby and Killian. And he told her a little about what had happened to them since the revolt, although neither of them strayed too far into the darker parts of their times spent apart. Most of the pie was gone when they finally slowed, both of them having long abandoned the plates to take bites straight from the pan with their forks.

Emma leaned back in her chair feeling more full than she could remember and relishing in the quiet calm that settled over her. It was more than the drowsy feeling of a large meal, it was like the relief at finally being able to rest after being awake too long.

“We don’t have to wait up for your mother,” her father said noticing her slumped posture and heavy eyelids. “She may be held up awhile longer.”

Emma felt a flurry of nerves rush through her. “Can I,” she paused, even after everything still afraid of being rejected, “can I stay here?”

“Of course, Emma,” he said reaching over to hold her hands between his. “You’re home now.”

Emma didn’t remember if she helped put away any leftover food. She didn’t remember being shown to a room upstairs. She didn’t remember taking off her gown. But she remembered falling into a bed softer than a cloud and snuggling into thick blankets. She remembered thinking it was the most comfortable bed she had ever been in, and still there was a small nagging part of her that yearned for something else. A different bed she had slept in days before, well perhaps not the bed but the feeling of someone sleeping beside her. She woke the next morning her arm stretched out to an empty side of the bed.

When she got up she found a dress in the large armoire in the room. It was much simpler than her dress from the ball, but still it was finer than what she was used to. She craned her neck trying to reach around to get it properly laced. It made her miss her simpler clothes that had been left in Gold’s mansion. Perhaps someone might be able to go get them for her.

She ran a brush through her hair and braided it over her shoulder before making her way downstairs. She paused when she heard voices in the dining room, one she recognized as her mother.

Emma peered around the doorframe a little nervous. The Queen was seated at the table with a man in a suit. They had a stack of papers between them that they were paying more attention to than the spread of food laid out beside them.

“Your Majesty, this isn’t something we can contain,” the man was telling her. “With all the witnesses it’s already in papers as far away as Arendelle.”

Her mother sighed tapping the pen in her hand against one of the papers. “Isn’t there anything we can do? This isn’t what I would have wanted. I didn’t know she would be at the ball.”

Emma froze realizing they were talking about her. And then the words started to sink in. This isn’t what I would have wanted. She felt her heart sink and crack. It wasn’t that she had expected a grand fanfair and parade or anything, but hearing her mother say she didn’t want her was worse than she would have thought possible. She had been cast off and left behind over and over, no one wanting to take responsibility for her. But this was different. This she hadn’t braced herself for. Usually she could tell when someone was going to leave or tell her to move on, there was a way they always pulled away before doing it. This time she hadn’t seen the warning signs. Her mother and father had seemed to happy to see her last night at the ball. The way they had hugged her, the love she could have sworn she had seen in their eyes. The hours she had spent with her father last night. What had changed? What had she done wrong?

“We just have to come up with a plan from here,” the man said pulling out another page from his stack.

The Queen pursed her lips before nodding. “I just don’t want Emma thrown into all this right away. We just got her back, I’ll be damned if any journalist, or Industrialist sympathizer, or anyone else runs her off again. I just would have wanted a chance to ease her into everything and let her decide how and if she wanted to be a part of this. I don’t want to scare her off when I just got her back. ”

Emma must have made a small noise because they both looked up and saw her in the doorway.

“Emma,” her mother said standing and almost running around the table to her. She reached up to Emma and pulled her into a tight hug.

Emma could feel the hot tears slipping down her cheeks as she clung to her mother. She wished she could say she hadn’t truly thought for a moment that her mother wouldn’t want her, but all she could manage in that moment was memorizing the feeling of her mother’s arms around her.

When they pulled apart the Queen was looking over her thoughtfully taking in every detail of her face.

“You’re so grown,” she said softly her fingers brushing her plaited hair. “When did you grow up?”

Emma gave her a small smile not sure what to say. She supposed there wasn’t anything to say. There was nothing now either of them could do to change the past.

Her mother gave her hand a squeeze before leading her over to the table. She shuffled the papers they had been attending to earlier aside.

“You hungry?” she asked waving to the dishes on the table.

Emma shrugged. “I ate a lot last night.”

Her mother smirked. “Yeah, I heard about that. I’m glad you liked my pie, I’ve been working on that recipe.”

“You made that pie?” Emma asked in surprise. “The Queen baking her own desserts?”

She waved off the comment her tone more somber when she answered. “We’ve made a lot of changes over the years.”

“I’m sorry I’ve caused a problem for you with my sudden reappearance,” Emma said looking between her mother and the man beside her.

Her mother shook her head, “You are not a problem, Emma. This is just to make sure we control the situation and we protect you.”

Emma grabbed a few grapes from the plate beside her popping one into her mouth. She tried to sound casual as she asked, “Has anyone come looking for me?”

She thought again of Killian, even Ruby. Where were they? Where they stayed last night? She wanted to talk to them.

The Queen reached out to squeeze her hand. “Don’t worry, Emma, we have taken security precautions to be sure none of the blackguards or Industrialists can get to you here.”

“We have an excellent staff, Your Highness,” the man at the table said also misunderstanding her question.

Emma simply nodded and tried to look adequately relieved. She decided to drop her inquiry, it was still early, perhaps they would come by that afternoon. She should have expected some fallout from last night, this wasn’t a sign something was wrong. Maybe she would try to send them a message later.

Emma was welcomed into the discussion about what statement to release to the public. It seemed every single word had to be chosen carefully, weighed, labored over. She found her attention wandering as they nitpicked over the phrasing.

“We need some sort of explanation about how Princess Emma got to the ball,” the man said jotting a few scribbles into the margins of his notes.

Emma glanced up at the mention of her name and found her mother looking at her expectantly.

She let out a sigh and a shrug. “I’m not sure you want to print the truth,” she told them. She wasn’t sure any amount of wordsmithing would smooth over the idea that she had come to the ball with Gold’s help to the murder the King and Queen. “Maybe just say I was given an invitation and I went in the hopes of meeting the King and Queen.”

“That’s good,” the man said writing furiously again. “We’ll focus on the family reunion.”

Her mother nodded. “We’ll stress just how pleased we are to have Emma with us again. After too many years our family is back together. It’s what we have all wanted for so long.”

Emma frowned unable to stop herself from asking the question that had been burning in her for so long. “Why didn’t you try to find me all those years?”

Any fine words they chose would not change the past. It would never fully heal the part of her that been broken for so long. All that time she had wanted her family but didn’t know where to start because she couldn’t remember them. She couldn’t silence the whisper in head that reminded her that they hadn’t lost their memories. They could have come, but they hadn’t.

“Oh, Emma, we did,” her mother said. “They had to drag me away that awful night. I wanted to stay to find you, but your father was injured and it was getting more dangerous by the minute on the docks. I didn’t waste a second when we landed in Camelot, we sent out anyone who was left to get word to Misthaven to try to find you. We never heard back from any of them, I can only imagine what happened. And with each day of silence I thought I was going to lose my mind. I wanted to go myself and march straight back there. I was sure if I went I could find you because you were my daughter and if anyone could find you it would be me, it should have been me. But they wouldn’t let me and your father needed me. It turns out Queens cannot do whatever they want, and I learned quickly I wasn’t a Queen anymore, I had no home, no people, no daughter. I was alone in a foreign place suddenly powerless, hunted, and in danger.”

Emma watched as she took a shaking breath.

“Within a few months the borders were closed and then no news came from Misthaven at all. We bribed the merchants and ship crews for any information. And with each shipment came more distressing news, the regulations and new laws, the purges of everyone we had known, everyone we left behind when we ran. Each report made me feel more guilty. But still there was never any news of you. No one had heard even a rumor of what might have happened to you. And then we started to hear that they were rounding up and executing anyone with magic. I started to panic, I thought they would find you. I had watched for years as your magic grew and matured within you. I was sure the way the Industrialists were demonizing magic and hunting down anyone one possessing it was an attempt to find you. If they couldn’t get anyone to turn you over to them then they would use your magic to capture you. And I hoped in some dark place within me that it meant they thought you were still out there, still alive.

“When your father was healed we left Camelot. It was clear they were not willing to risk a war to help us. We secretly moved from kingdom to kingdom. Always treated as honored guests, but with every passing day I felt our welcome wear and with each denied request from every country for help to find you, to help free Misthaven from the Industrialists I started to lose hope. Finally after all these years we found a foothold here in Glowerhaven. With a measure of security here we spread the news that we were alive and that we would pay handsomely for any information about you. At first reports rained in, suddenly people had seen you everywhere. We even had a few girls come to us claiming to be you. Apparently they had been coached on what to say to try to convince us. It was ridiculous.”

Emma looked down at her hands twisting in her lap and tried not to look guilty.

“Emma,” her mother said, waiting until she looked up. “I would have never stopped looking for you. I’m so sorry we didn’t find you sooner. I want you to know we never gave up and we never meant to leave you. I have always loved you more than anything.”

Emma suddenly remembered something. “Wait here,” she said getting up and hurrying from the dining room back to where her things were in her bedroom.

She knelt down beside where her gown from last night was draped over a chair and dug beneath the voluminous skirt until she found her small clutch. She flipped it over and dumped the ring inside into her palm.

When she made it back her mother was still seated in her chair seeming mildly concerned at the way Emma had run off. She sat back beside her and laid the ring softly on the table.

“This is yours,” Emma said.

Her mother drew in a sharp breath her hand reaching out slowly, as if afraid if she moved too quickly the ring would disappear. Her fingertips brushed the smooth metal of the band and carefully lifted it weighing it in her palm. Her eyes slipped closed as she pushed the ring onto her finger.

There were fresh tears in her eyes when she opened them to meet Emma’s gaze. “Thank you, Emma. I thought this was lost.”

Emma shook her head. “Killian found it, he gave it back to me before the ball. You told me it would lead me back home.”

Her mother let out a small laugh. “I did. I hadn’t meant for it to be so hard. I’m just glad you’re here now, that we have you back. We are a family again.”

Emma swallowed thickly trying to hold back her own tears. It was what she had wanted for so long.  “I missed you, even when I couldn’t remember you,” she said.

Her mother just pulled her into another hug.

Next few days passed in a blur. Her time was no longer her own, a dizzying dance of new expectations and tasks. Suddenly there were people helping her with everything, things she used to do just fine on her own. There was a maid to help her dress. Someone else to bring her food whenever she wanted any. Another would wash all the dishes and all of her clothes. There was always someone there asking if she needed anything. And that wasn’t even counting the people who came on official business. She learned that the man who had been a breakfast with her mother that first morning was a Head of Relations or some similar title.

There were meetings with dignitaries from other lands. She was also introduced to people who had helped and been friends to her parents. Each time it was a struggle to remember when to shake hands or when a bow was more appropriate, when she should speak up and when she was expected to be present but not participate. The etiquette was a nightmare. And most of the people she met, hell, most of the people she had contact with all day long just gawked at her. As if trying to measure her up to the girl she had been, to her parents, or to some wild expectation they had for her.

She was starting to understand the realities of being a member of a royal family. And a displaced royal family at that. She had asked several times if there were any plans to return to Misthaven and help the people there, especially now that Gold was in custody. Each time she was met with sad almost patronizing looks as if she wouldn’t understand. And she wanted to scream that she had been in Misthaven all the years they all had been lying low in safe kingdoms. She knew the Industrialists were dangerous and would only become more so now that they were destabilized and leaderless. But over and over she was told that things had to be done carefully, diplomatically. It seemed above all being a royal meant following protocol set down by generations long ago, and protocol didn’t involve running back to Misthaven.

It wasn’t back breaking work like hauling nets of fish or clearing plots of land, but every night she was exhausted from the energy of so remembering many new faces, the smiles and small talk, trying to keep up with talks about politics, and trying to remember to curtsy the way Ruby had taught her.

As happy as she was to be with her family and surrounded by a love she hadn’t thought possible, she found in the quiet moments she kept turning to look for support from someone who was not there.

It was just over a week before she saw a familiar face. She was summoned to the front parlor of the townhouse. Emma had been expecting to meet some exiled Duke or prominent merchant, but her forced smile crumbled as she entered the room and saw Ruby standing there.

“Ruby!” she gasped running to her and pulling her into a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I ought to pay my respects to the royal family,” she said pulling back and looking Emma over.

Emma watched her take in the new clothes, the jeweled earrings someone had laid out for her to wear that morning.

“I’m glad you found what you were looking for, Princess,” Ruby said.

Emma worked to keep from frowning, there was something in her words and tone that sounded to Emma’s ears almost like a lie. Some subtle edge to them. It wasn’t like Ruby to be duplicitous, she had shown herself time and again to be someone who had no trouble speaking her mind.

But before she could ask Ruby if something was wrong she saw her eyes shift over Emma’s shoulder. Emma turned to see the Queen joining them.

“Ruby,” her mother said walking over to clasp her hand and place a kiss on Ruby’s cheek. “I was so pleased to hear you were here and well. And then to hear you helped Emma, I’m not sure how to thank you.”

Ruby shook her head. “There’s no need to thank me.”

“Your grandmother was one of my closest and dearest friends,” the Queen said. “I hope our families will continue to be close.”

Ruby glanced at Emma before she nodded. “I’d like that too, Your Majesty.”

The Queen followed the glance and seemed to sense something unresolved between them. “I’ll just get the reward together,” she said excusing herself.

Emma waited until her mother left the room to speak. “Do you know where Killian is?”

Ruby’s lips pressed into a thin line. Emma knew she would know exactly where he was, and again Emma got the sense that Ruby was hiding something from her. Emma couldn’t understand her hesitation. Had she done something to upset Killian? Was that why he hadn’t attempted to see her?

Emma decided she wasn’t above begging. “I haven’t seen him since the ball. Please, I just want to know he’s alright.”

Ruby seemed to gauge her expression, passing some silent judgement.

“He’s left for the coast,” she said at last.

“He left?” Emma breathed, the words tasting wrong on her lips. She didn’t want them to be true.

“He’s shipping out with one of the merchant galleon crews,” Ruby told her.

A panic clawed at Emma’s heart. She hadn’t realized until the words fell like weights in her stomach that she had been assuming that Killian would be around when she was ready, when her mangled heart was ready to explore whatever they might be. Had she waited too long?

“He must be waiting to get the reward money,” Emma said gesturing at the doorway her mother had disappeared through.

Ruby gave a small shake of her head. “He leaves tomorrow.”

“But he wouldn’t leave you,” Emma said her tone a little desperate.

“We did everything we set out to do,” Ruby said. “Our old life is gone now. All we can do now is start over, try something new. Your mother offered to give me a position, but Killian, he wanted something else.”

“He could stay too,” Emma said at once. “We would find something for him. Any position he wants.”

Ruby leveled her with a look. “Come on, Emma. You know he wouldn’t do well confined by the constraints of royal court.”

Emma opened her mouth to protest but shut it with a soft click, the muscle in her jaw feathering. Ruby was right. These last few days she had thought multiple times that things had been easier when she had been operating outside the law. When she had been in control of her actions and decisions. The time she had spent with Killian and Ruby had been freeing in a way she hadn’t experienced before, in a way she was starting to realize she missed. Ruby was right, Killian would hate the slow pace of diplomacy, the ironic powerless feeling of being a leader.

The realization made her new life feel suddenly constricting. Like she was trapped all over again.

“You’re right,” Emma said softly. “I have to let him go.”

Ruby reached out her hand gripping Emma’s arm. “That wasn’t-”

“Here you are,” the Queen said returning and cutting Ruby off. They both turned to her as she laid a small chest on the desk. “It’s all here.”

Ruby avoided Emma’s eye as she moved to the desk and took the chest. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

“You have our deepest gratitude. I’ll be in touch with you soon.”

Ruby nodded. She reached for the chest before pausing and picking up a pen and slip of paper from the desk. She wrote a quick note and pressed it into Emma’s hand before giving her a hug.

“So you know,” she said nodding to the paper. And then she picked up the chest and left.

Emma watched her go before she slowly opened her hand and read the note in Ruby’s looping handwriting. The Swan and Anchor Boarding House. Capetown.

Emma could feel her mother’s eyes on her as she refolded the note and closed it into her fist.

“That for your young man?” her mother asked.

Emma glanced up feeling a small blush heat her cheeks. “What?”

“The handsome one from the ball. He fought beside you.”

Emma considered lying for a moment before she slowly nodded. “He’s leaving,” she said holding up the note for her to see.

Her mother was silent for a moment her fingers moving to worry at the ring on her finger. The green stone winked in the sunlight. Emma watched as her mother slowly slipped the ring from her finger and for a second time held it out to her.

“This ring,” she said, “all those years ago I told you it would lead you home.”

Emma nodded, she could remember it clearly now. That conversation in the tunnels before they had run to the docks. The fear that had gripped her then, the way her mother had bent down to her level and the steady way she had spoken to her.

“It has protected my family and brought my daughter home, and for that I will be forever thankful,” she continued. “But that isn’t all I said that night. This ring also brings together true love. It has for generations of this family. It has a way of pointing us in the right direction even when we don’t see it, and our family can be quite stubborn.”

Emma watched in surprise as her mother passed the ring to her as she had all those years ago.

“This ring brought me to your father. It has been a symbol of our love for a long time. But I think it’s time it lived a new chapter. I think perhaps it has already brought you to someone special.”

“Mom,” Emma said the word choked on a sob.

“Go,” she said with a smile. “Go find him.”

“I can’t just leave,” Emma protested.

Her mother placed her hands on her shoulders. “This,” she gestured around. “Your father and I, it will all be here whenever you get back. And no matter what you decide about your role, your future, whatever part you want to play, that is a decision that doesn’t have to be made now. But that young man, if I heard correctly, he’s leaving tomorrow so you can’t waste time. You never know when you’ll have to wait over a decade to see someone again.”

Emma slid the ring on, staring at way it sat perfectly on her finger.

She gave her mother a hug. “Thank you.”

Her mother gave her a loving smile before shooing her. Emma grabbed her coat in the hall tucking the piece of paper into the pocket before rushing out the door and saddling one of the horses in the stables.

#csbb #captain swan #captain swan big bang #cs ff #cs au ff #anastasia au #steampunk au #my writing

[himluv]

Bloggos,

I hope you had a wonderful weekend! The husband and I have been binge-watching Letterkenny on Hulu and laughing way too hard because of it. That show has no business being as good as it is, and I cannot get enough of it.

Yes, that’s a grown man imitating a baby to illustrate how dumb they are. You seriously need to watch Letterkenny.

Aside from an unusual uptick in my television time, I also had a change in my schedule this week. After years of having Sundays off, I have now switched to Saturdays off and working Sundays at the library. I think it was a really good change for me, and it actually helped me achieve a better work/life balance. Such as it is. I look forward to adjusting to a little extra me time.

Last Week

Publish two blog posts

Write 3k on Tavi

Work on something Santa Sarita related

How’d I do?

Publish two blog posts

Yarp! Including my… article(?) on genre.

Write 3k on Tavi

Holy smokes yes! More on this in a bit.

Work on something Santa Sarita related

Yes! More than I anticipated, really.

Weekly Word Count: 7,693

Holy crow. That was a lot of writing last week. I don’t even necessarily feel like it either. I just sat down and did a couple sprints, and the words just kept coming, especially in the case of my novel. I crossed the 30k word mark on the manuscript and I’m still so excited about the project. It’s the first novel I’ve ever written that I truly felt led by the characters. Normally I have some vague idea or conceptualization fo the plot when I write a book or short story, but this time Tavi has control and I just go where she does.

For instance, last night she careened headfirst into feelings I didn’t think she was ready to handle, and we had a good cry about it. So that was fun, and I’m not being sarcastic. I love it when a project runs away with me. It’s exhilarating!

I also wrote a Santa Sarita related tumblr prompt, made a new playlist for the longfic I”m working on, and wrote over one thousand words on the newest chapter of Sanctuary.  It was a wildly successful writing week and I feel amazing because of it!

Amy Santiago is my spirit animal.

I’m also awarding myself bonus points because I finished reading Zen in the Art of Writing. I’ll admit now that I wasn’t blown away by it. I enjoy Bradbury as much as the next guy, and maybe even a little bit more, but ultimately didn’t find too many revelations in the pages of this book. Either that means I’m learning my craft well and the nuggets of gold information are fewer and farther between, or it just wasn’t that great of a book. Guess I’ll find out with the next writing book on my docket: The Business of Being a Writer by Jane Friedman.

I have unintentionally set up a lot of nonfiction books in my TBR pile for January. It wasn’t my goal to read/listen to a lot of writing and science books, but here we are. I’m still making slow progress on Tyson’s Astrophysics for People in a Hurry, and even though it’s written with the layman in mind, I am still woefully unprepared to understand this book. But, I’m trying. And Neil DeGrasse Tyson’s voice makes the audiobook bearable.

I also sent off an application for a scholarship to a writing conference this summer, and was notified that they received my app. I won’t hear back until late May, but at least that’s another thing done.

So, What’s Next?

Publish two blog posts

Write 3,500 words on Tavi

Work on Santa Sarita

Last week was such a success, I’m hesitant to change the formula. I plan on finishing the Tyson audiobook this week, and hopefully will make a dent on Knight’s Shadow as well, though with such writing productivity it only tracks that the reading slows down. I’ve got a lot of writing books queued up the first part of the year, with a few standout novels sprinkled in.

I’m on track to meet my writing goal for the month, which feels great. I just have to keep this momentum going. Which isn’t always an easy thing, especially with some very long-awaited video game releases on the horizon.

Submissions continue to continue. I’m being patient. I repeat to myself, endlessly. I think I have a new short story in the wings, but it isn’t ready to write just yet. The nonfiction I’ve been listening to is actually related to this story idea I had last year, but I didn’t choose to read them as research or anything, it’s just where my interests led me. Which means this story is percolating and slowly forming into something like clay I can form into something like a story. But not right now. Tavi comes first, at least until the rough draft is done.

Which, let’s be honest, is probably how much time this story will need to climb out of the muck of my mind and proclaim itself writeable. Funny how these things work themselves out.

So, that’s the week. Write, write some more, and when I can’t write anymore, read about writing. Or maybe science. Whichever calls the loudest.

Until later Blogland,

  BZ

Goals Summary 2019 – Wk #2 Bloggos, I hope you had a wonderful weekend! The husband and I have been binge-watching Letterkenny on Hulu and laughing way too hard because of it.

#Books #Fanfiction #Fiction #goals #letterkenny #publishing #Reading #Short Stories #Submissions #urban fantasy #workworkwork #Writing

[prettywordsyouleft]

Through His Eyes - Part 8

Summary: Losing your sight after your accident was traumatic, and Jaebum’s guilt of knowing it should have been him instead creates an intricate bond between you both, as you overcome adversity and try to find your way in life again.

Genre: angst / romance

Characters: Im Jaebum x female reader

A/N: This story is emotional and raw compared to some of the content on my blog. It is in no way an attempt to glamourise or undervalue the lives of those who suffer from something similar. This story is purely fictional.

Through His Eyes will be posted every Tuesday at 10am NZST.

Index: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 [M] | 13 - FINAL

“I’m home,” you called out after successfully unlocking the door to your apartment within the first three attempts and stepped inside. You turned and bowed to your new minder, Suzie, and fare-welled her before closing the door.

“You’re home much earlier than I anticipated.”

You sighed heavily, stepping into your slippers and following the ramp up into the living area. You were now used to calculating your steps in the back of your mind as you did other tasks, and placed your bag down on the table before heading to the refrigerator. Feeling in the door for a bottle of water, you pulled one out and took it over to a chair at the table. “Don’t ask.”

“You seem unhappy, was your day bad?” You heard another chair pull out and your mother sat down, reaching for your hand gently. You frustrations eased with her touch, and you forgot all about your initial barrier of continuing the conversation.

“I have to do a group project.”

“On what?”

“We’re reading a classic novel called Jane Eyre at the moment and instead of doing an essay on it, which I would have much preferred, our lecturer has assigned us into groups of four to come up with a presentation on a topic within the novel. And of course, none of my partners are happy they got stuck with me.”

“I’m sure they aren’t that put-”

You placed your bottle down with more force than needed and shifted your head towards her direction. “They must think blind people are deaf as well, because they didn’t seem to realise I was nearby when they started to complain about having a disadvantage!”

“Oh.” Your Mum shifted uncomfortably in her seat, no doubt feeling angry hearing of another incident of you being singled out. You felt sorry for her having a daughter that faced so many woes within her education, when in the past you had never caused her any need to be concerned about your academics.

“And to top it off, others were very happy to not have me in their team. Do they think I can’t do the project because I’m blind?!”

“You work even harder than the average student to make sure you don’t fall behind. I’m sure when they realise that, they’ll be more accommodating towards you.”

You shook your head. “It shouldn’t be that I have to prove to them that I’m good enough though. They have no idea who I am, and how many offers I used to get from artists and galleries for my work in the past.”

“But that isn’t who you are now, Y/N,” she reminded gently, and you snapped your head towards her again, anger rising within your chest. She seemed to sense it and reached for your hand once more, which you shook off immediately. “It’s hard I-”

“IT’S ALWAYS HARD, ISN’T IT?!”

Getting up in a rush, you stumbled towards your bedroom and then slammed the door shut, panting heavily with your outburst. Soon the tears came and you sank to the ground, wrapping your arms around you for comfort. Ignoring the knocking and the calls on the other side of the door, you felt ashamed for taking your mood out on her. You hated that even when you were hurting the most, you still felt guilty towards how much she did for you every day and the sacrifices she had taken to help you.

“But for one day, I wish she would just allow me to complain without giving me the known answer,” you mumbled aloud before burying your head into your arms.

Two days went by and your mood had darkened further with the lack of faith from your fellow partners with the presentation. Since it was the weekend, your mother went to help your Aunt run her vegetable store, which you welcomed greatly.

You didn’t intend to move from bed for the entire day.

Around mid-morning, your stomach had other ideas however, so you relinquished to the hunger and went out to make some breakfast. Once fed, you stood within the middle of the living room, wrestling with your options. Bed had been your original safety zone, but now that you were up, it was tempting to go on your computer and waste your day listening to Youtube videos, catching up with online friends in the blind community, and peruse some trivial websites. After grabbing a bottle of water, you headed back into your room and opened the curtains, wincing at the same time as rejoicing in the bright light invading the room. It was an odd experience, you hated the intensity of the light at times, yet it made you feel as close to normal in your greyscale world as you could be.

“Let’s check my emails first,” you said to yourself as you set about the computer, mimicking the sounds the accessibility settings did as you navigated your way around the device. You opened your emails one after the other, listening through the message the robotic voice delivered and then discarded or replied to them as necessary. You were onto the last email when you froze, listening to the message as a cold sweat rushed over you.

“Y/N is invited to the opening of Lee Jaemin’s debut art exhibition, by the title of Expressive. The event-”

The computer started making incomprehensible sounds as you banged on the keyboard to make it stop talking, your breathing becoming erratic. You held your hands to your heaving chest as the sentence repeated over and over in your head, your body shaking at the idea of the girl opening her own exhibition. She had been your biggest competition throughout the years and had always come second to you in major events. Now with you out of the competition, not only had she been able to take your places within the local art scene, but was also offered what you had been working towards earlier this year.

For the first time since the accident, you hated Im Jaebum. For those first few moments, as you digested the information, you cursed your love of GOT7, of kpop, of even knowing the seven men existed. As your body shook all over with anger, you wanted nothing more than to return to the day you had won the exclusive pass and decline the opportunity.

You wanted your career back.

Yet, just as fast as it came, your mind travelled to that fateful moment, your once seeing eyes widening as you noticed the faulty beam first. Your instant reaction to save him, and the weight of the beam hitting you before it all went black. As the tears fell rapidly, your thoughts stopped on every gesture Jaebum had done for you since your world had turned upside down. The anger subdued for a bit, as you coped with the intense grief and guilt you suffered from wishing the beam onto him briefly instead. You rocked back and forth in the chair, unable to cope with the rapid directions your emotions were taking you, hoping your thoughts would ease off.

Instead, your needs narrowed onto one thing and you eventually stood up, heading out of your room as you roughly wiped the tears aside, as if the removal of them would assist in your blind search through the apartment for what you required. Feeling yourself around the walls, you found the storage closet and began using your hands and other senses to locate what you knew your mother hadn’t thrown out like you had insisted her to. It didn’t take long, your fingers falling upon the well-known texture of canvas, shifting along to find four others beside it. You yanked them all out from their hiding spot, tapping around on the ground for any of your tools. You found a bag and pulled that out as well, stopping when you banged into something as you moved the bag. You took that out too and then dragged your discoveries out around you, dropping in between it all and taking a steady breath.

You felt irrationally calm in that moment, and not because you were finally surrounded by what your life had consisted of. The need to feel each object in a slow, methodical examination outweighed anything else, letting your fingers run over every inch of each item. You became familiar all over again with how your tools felt, brushes and sculpting tools all being recognised by your hands. You soon realised the item next to the bag was the prized vase you had made earlier in the year, the ribbons awarded to it still attached. Your attention soon turned to the canvases, the bumps and textures making you think of all the Braille lessons so far, except the words were spoken in an art form, with no distinct answer as to what each piece was. For an immeasurable time, you attempted to guess what was which piece you had created. Every time you thought you had an answer, the next bump of paint would throw you off, frustrating you further. By the fifth canvas inspection, you were rigid, unable to understand anything you were touching.

The pent up emotions built until you could no longer suppress them and you got up, throwing the canvas down with a heavy thud. The sound it made seemed to provoke some kind of release in you and so you bent down, fumbling to find something else to throw, becoming fully invested in destroying everything you had just spent intricate effort in deciphering. The more noise, the more vigorous your actions became until the sound of the shattering clay hit you as if you were shattering your own heart. You crouched down in exhaustion from your emotions, crying consistently until you heard the keypad signal go off.

You didn’t have any energy to move to greet your mother, or to do anything about cleaning your mess either. You waited for her scolding to begin but the rushed feet towards you sounded too heavy to be her. You were confused and for a moment, you guarded yourself, not knowing what to expect.

“What…” You heard Jaebum utter and this was enough to make your legs give out, a cry leaving your lips as you landed on the shards of clay. “Y/N what are you doing?!”

“How did you know the passcode?” you asked tiredly, not giving him any help in lifting you away from the destruction scene. All the same, he attempted to pick you up again, your body trying to fight but had no energy left to leave any effect. He placed you down on the couch and you glared at what you hoped to be his direction. “Im Jaebum!”

“Your mother called me,” he explained, his hands ceasing in their examination of injuries. He shifted back, concerned at how you had spoken. “She told me you were having a hard time and so I said I would come and see you today in between my schedules. I was outside banging and pressing the doorbell, but you didn’t hear me at all. So I used the code I’ve seen you put in.”

You didn’t answer, unable to decide if you were angry with him for interrupting or thankful for his presence.

“Why were you doing that?” he questioned softly, his hands slowly returning to your legs. “Y/N, you’re bleeding.”

“I don’t care.” You looked away from him and tried to push his hands away. He grabbed your hand instead, his gentle nature having an effect on easing your frustrations. Even so, you attempted to hold onto the agitated emotion for as long as you could. “You should just go.”

“I’m not leaving you like this, you should see this place!”

“I wish I could!” you blurted out, and his grip on your hand eased off. You got up shakily from where he had put you and walked back down to where you had been. He grabbed you before you stepped on anything and you pointed to it desperately. “This is me, this is my world. Do you see how shattered this all is now? That is me!”

“Is it really?”

You nodded fervently. “You told me to express how I feel so I am! I’m sick of becoming something new. I am not an English Lit major, but an Art and Design student! I created all of this myself! Now… now I can’t even paint a single line across a piece of paper! Whilst people who I had worked hard to impress for years are now giving Lee Jaemin all the opportunities I was aiming for, I’m here in sweatpants and a tee with no hope of looking good to anyone, let alone impress them that I am someone to invest in. I’m here unable to do anything I want to because, because-”

“Because of me,” Jaebum concluded from behind you, lowering his head to your shoulder and his body began to shake with his own emotions. You moved around in his arms and hugged him tightly, both crying until you could no longer.

For some time you didn’t speak, not having any words to share with each other. And then you felt Jaebum move away from your side, his hands reaching for something on the ground. “This is beautiful.”

“What is?”

“This sunrise over a building top,” he mentioned and your mind went towards the artwork you had created after watching their You Are music video. “It’s captured beautifully.”

“It was inspired by you.” “It was?” You nodded and felt Jaebum move back to your side again, his hand reaching for yours and passing you the canvas. You felt the weight within your hand and sighed.

“I painted it after the You Are MV.”

“Ahh.” He was silent again, but moved back to the mess upon the floor. From his examination, three of the canvases were salvageable, whilst two remained helpless on the floor with the ceramic vase.

“I guess there is a lot of mess to clean up,” you said sadly, lowering your head and holding onto the sunrise canvas more preciously than you had all day.

“But we can clean it up and heal from it together,” he replied firmly, referring to more than the physical mess you had made.

You smiled, nodding your head. “I like the sound of that.”

_________________

[Part 9]

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