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reidsmemory · 4 years

Text

Spiders

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Genre: Fluff and some angst I guess

Warnings: Bugs...duh and blood (brief and only mentioned once or twice!)

Challenge: Day 1 - Spiders

Quinn Speaks: If you didn’t already know, I am doing a Halloween writing challenge. Anyone is able to participate! I hope y’all have a fun time with this :))

not my gif!

Bugs. You absolutely hated them. Yes, yes, some of them were okay like lady bugs or butterflies, but some you couldn’t even look at without wanting to gauge your eyes out.

No one at the BAU knew of your fear of course. How silly would that be? A profiler, someone who catches some of the worst people in the world, is afraid of bugs? They wouldn’t let you hear the end of it.

On the occasion that there was a creepy crawly in your house, smacking it with a book was always your go to. When you saw one in the work place, speed walking away as you tried not shiver was what it had to come down to.

It was officially October. Spencer’s favorite month of the year.

He’d usually go all out with Garcia and decorate the bullpen in cobwebs and cute little pumpkins every year since you’d been there. Once he had a little bowl of candy corn that he would share with you, as your desks were right next to each other.

Walking in to the office, you spotted all the decorations immediately and a smile came to your face. You looked around for Spencer to see that he was already looking at you with a smile that you returned.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“It’s great, Doc,” you said as you touched some of the mini pumpkins, “These are my favorite.”

“I know,” he looked at you sheepishly, “you seem to gravitate towards them every year.” You blushed that the man had noticed this and quickly tried to compose yourself.

You liked Spencer and Spencer liked you. Everyone knew it, well except you two. You had always danced around each other, Spencer always giving you fun little facts and you giving them right back. The two of you were as compatible as can be and everyone was just waiting till the moment when one of you would grow up and spill your guts.

“Did Penny help you?”

“Yeah we stayed pretty late,” he said and then took a long sip of his coffee.

“Well only 5 more cups of that and you’ll be up and kicking in no time.” He smiled at your words and soon you began to retreat to your desk.

You set up your laptop and hooked it up to your monitor as well as getting out some files out of your bag that you had taken home and placing them on the desk. You spotted two tiny pumpkins at the edge of your desk and smiled widely, he was right, you really did like the mini pumpkins.

Derek Morgan and Emily Prentiss watched carefully from behind the break room. Sure Spencer had his fun when it came to decorating, but why couldn’t they cause a little mayhem?

“This is gonna be good,” Derek said as Emily snickered.

Spencer soon noticed to two giggling like school girls and made his way over. “What are you up to?” he asked as they whipped around a the sound of the younger man.

“Don’t sneak up on us like that, Kid,” Morgan said.

“Come here,” Emily beckoned as he complied and saw that they were looking right at you.

“What did you do?” he asked. Spencer could feel himself getting worried and even a bit mad at his co-workers all despite the fact that they hadn’t told him anything about their evil plan.

“Just watch, she should open it soon enough.” Spencer furrowed his brows and his heart rate began to race faster and not just because of the coffee. What the hell did they do?

You scanned you desk for the file Hotch had said he needed by this morning. Sifting though the other beige folders on your desk you pushed your chair back and opened the first drawer on your right.

“Damn it, she’s so close,” Emily said with a grin that was also plastered on Derek’s face. The pair looked like Cheshire cats while Spencer was very much like the worrisome rabbit.

You closed the drawer after not finding what you were looking for and then you turned your left and open the first drawer on that side. You swear to all things holy and sacred that you felt your life flash before your eyes. You sucked in a quick breath and widened you eyes at the sight in front of you.

Derek and Emily were already beginning to laugh, but it soon stopped as they saw your body lean forward and drop to the ground. It only took a few seconds for the trio to rush over to you as well as gaining the attention of everyone in the office that morning.

Spencer was practically fuming, but soon put away those emotions and started to care for you. Moving your limp body from being face down on the floor and now having your head in his lap as Derek now rushed to get JJ and Emily was leaning down on your chest, trying to see if your heart was beating.

It was but very fast.

“What the hell did you guys do?” JJ practically took the words right out of Spencer’s mouth.

“It was just suppose to be a stupid prank, but I guess it freaked her out too much,” Emily said in a panicked tone.

“Oh, yeah. I guess,” Spencer snapped as the three older agents widened their eyes a bit at his outburst.

JJ pushed back your hair and saw that you were bleeding and then looked at the drawer that was pulled out and sure enough it had blood coating the corner. “We might need to get her to the hospital if this doesn’t stop bleeding.”

“Oh my god,” Derek cursed under his breath.

“It’s okay, just get a towel,” JJ ordered as Derek rushed off.

Your eyelids fluttered open and were met with the sight of 3 motherly JJs, 3 worried Emilys, and 3 compassionate Spencers.

“It’s alright, honey,” JJ spoke in a caring tone, “just stay still.” You nodded and leaned back onto Spencer as well as noticing the steal tight grip he had on you hand.

JJ closed the drawer before you could see any off the contents inside again and soon enough Morgan had the towel. JJ pressed the wet side to your skin and began wiping the little streams of blood, then switching to the dry side and holding it to your head.

The blood stream had stopped and you sat upright on the floor, with support from Spencer as he held onto your hips and your back was still against his chest.

“JJ, I’m fine really-”

“You passed out and hit your head,” she reprimanded, “you’re lucky your not at the hospital right now.” You didn’t dare say anything else to the woman. After a few minutes of checking just about everything so let you go back to work.

Clutching Spencer’s hand as you stood up and sat in your chair. Emily had gotten you a cup of water that now sat on your desk and Morgan took your file to Hotch, both extremely sorry, but you waved them off.

“Seriously, Y/N we-”

“I know, I’ll just have to find a way to get you back,” you said with a grin as you winked at them and turned back to your work.

Derek and Emily retreating as he whispered to the woman, “I don’t like this.”

“Do you remember when when Spencer programmed her cell phone to go off whenever it was still?” Emily spoke in a hushed tone, “she didn’t talk to him for a week and then months later got him back when he didn’t even expect it!”

“Shit,” Derek cursed.

Spencer Reid watched you carefully from his desk, making sure there were not signs that this incident would cause any further panic. He didn’t even know what you saw as he was too concerned about your well being rather than what Emily and Derek had placed in your desk.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you said as Spencer snapped out of his trance and blushed a bit. “I know it’s dumb and stupid for me to be scared of those things, but I can’t help it, alright?”

“Actually,” Spencer started, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.

That’s a first, you thought to yourself before speaking, “shouldn’t you know what causes fears or whatever and how they stick through adult age?”

“Well in that sense, yes. What I meant is, I didn’t get to see what was in the drawer,” he told you as you met eyes, “I didn’t get to see what you were afraid of.”

“Oh,” you said softly. “Well you don’t have to know, I think it’s better that way.”

“What? That’s not fair!”

“Oh, but it is, Doc.”

“You know that I’m afraid of the dark and have been since I was a kid, now tell me yours!”

“No!”

“Why not?” Spencer pouted while you rolled you eyes at the man.

“Because it’s embarrassing,” you whispered.

“Well so is mine,” he whispered back. You said nothing to that and Spencer took the initiative and rolled his chair over to right besides you. You could feel the man looking at you as you tried to focus back on the work in front of you, but he didn’t let up.

Stomping on his shoe, he let out a pained cry and when to hold his foot and that when you kicked you leg up and tried to pushed his chair away. It didn’t move to far an he rolled back over to you and now was repeating the same words over and over again.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” he chanted quietly as you just rolled your eyes, a slight smile appearing on your face at his antics.

This could go on forever if you let it. “Fine!” He smiled widely at your words. “But you repeat this to nobody and we will never speak of this again, yes?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good,” you said. Spencer looked at you with a slight grin and you huffed as you started talking, “when I was a kid my family went camping this one time and I had wondered off and somehow found my way to a cave dwelling type thing. I started exploring a little bit because at the time I wanted to be an archaeologist.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said.

“Yeah well it was kind of sort lived,” you spoke with grimace, “I was digging around and some little rollie pollies started to come out of the ground and I played with them, letting them crawl on my hands.” A shiver went down your spine and Spencer noticed your discomfort, mentally hitting himself for pushing you into telling him about all this. “Something must have bit me and I freaked out and started to run out of their only for the biting to continue and as I was running I wasn’t really looking where I was going, henceforth tripping into a spiders web and it got tangled all over my face.

“My parents found me about an hour later covered in red bite marks and having spider webs wrapped around my face,” you told him, “we went to the E.R. and the doctors told us that I was very lucky to have come in so quickly because a certain type of spider had bitten me and it could’ve been deadly.”

“Y/N-”

“It’s fine, Doc,” you said talking his hand into yours, “it was years ago and I guess it scarred me or some shit. Look in the drawer.”

You turned you head as Spencer peaked in the drawer and saw handfuls of fake bugs that looked really realistic. He could definitely see why you had freaked out so much.

“Not a word, Spencer Reid!”

He zipped his mouth shut and rolled back over to his desk.

***

Part two will be released so time this month for my Halloween writings!! Stayed tuned :))

Remember to tag your pieces ‘QHC2020′ or ‘Q’s Halloween Challenge 2020′ if you are participating in this challenge!

Reblogs, notes, and comments are always appreciated!

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today-only-happens-once · 4 years

Text

(un)claimed

Title: unclaimed

Summary: Virgil is a demigod. The good news is that he is not alone. A Percy-Jackson!AU fic. Platonic/found-family DRLAMP dynamics.

Word Count: 4217

Warnings: some violence and weapons, Greek mythology, passing mention of curses, feelings of anxiety, some self-doubt and self-deprecation, parent issues (of course, it’s a pjo!AU), no Side is a bad guy but there’s some tension between Remus and Roman, I play a little loose with PJO timeline stuff woops, Janus has done some light antagonizing of the gods.

A/N: Honestly, it should surprise nobody that I wrote this. Heh. Just for fun to release the happy chemical in my brain. Not that deep or involved. Just a light little diddy. <3 Hope you enjoy! Edited by yours truly so all mistakes are mine. No tags because it’s a fandom-specific AU, not because I don’t love y’all. <3

///

“See that tree on the hill?”

Virgil quirks an eyebrow at the boy beside him, taking in his bright orange t-shirt and the three beads on his leather necklace. He has what Virgil would swear was snake scales across the left side of his face. Janus, he had said his name was. (Like the god? Virgil had asked. No relation. Not unless Athena has some explaining to do, the boy had told him with a wry smile as if that was somehow supposed to make sense.)

He’d met Janus four hours ago in New York in Central Park after a very weird encounter with a cyclops. Though if he’s being honest, the cyclops had only been the most recent run-in with vicious creatures out of his mother’s old Greek myth anthology. He’d been ducking and dodging and outrunning them for nearly a year at this point. Janus had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, sliced the cyclops with a dagger and it vanished in a puff of gold dust.

Then Janus told him he knew a safe place to go. Perhaps he was an idiot, but Virgil had followed without much objection. The idea of a place that was safe was nearly too good to be true, but Janus had just dusted a cyclops. And Virgil figured there was at least some power in numbers, if nothing else.

Virgil follows where the other boy is pointing and sees a tall pine tree at the top of the steep hill. He nods.

“Go there. You’ll see a camp in the valley. Chiron will explain.”

“Chiron?”

“Yes. Activities director. You can trust him.”

“You’re not coming too?” Virgil looks at the boy beside him again. Janus is looking in the opposite direction of the tree back the way they’d come and he yanks the dagger out of his belt.

Janus’s mouth twitches. “We’ve got company. I will hold them off. The border is protected. You’ll be safe once you cross the tree line.”

Alarmed, Virgil looks over his shoulder and sees a winged creature in the distance. It looks almost a like a bat, if a bat could be the size of a human person. “What is that?!”

Janus gives a slight shove to Virgil’s shoulder. “Run, Virgil!”

“I can’t leave you behind—”

Janus mutters something that sounds foreign, and yet Virgil understands it. A curse word in… was that ancient Greek? Virgil isn’t given time to process it before Janus grabs Virgil’s arm and takes off at a sprint up the hill. Virgil stumbles but he manages to keep his feet under him as he takes off at a run for the looming pine. As they get closer, Virgil chances a glance over his shoulder. The winged creature is maybe twenty yards away. It’ll be on them any second.

Janus whistles sharply. “Hey! We got incoming!”

Seemingly out of nowhere, three other kids appear from near the tree. One of them notches an arrow in an honest-to-gods bow. He aims, then releases. Virgil watches, stunned, as the blow strikes true and the winged creature vanishes in a puff of gold dust that gets caught in the breeze.

Virgil rests his hands on his knees as he catches his breath. Janus, beside him, is breathing hard as well but he nods to the kid with the bow and arrow.

“Nice shot,” Virgil tells him.

The kid looks to be maybe a year older than Virgil, and is wearing a t-shirt that matches Janus’s. He’s also got a necklace of beads, though his has five of them. Virgil realizes that some of them match Janus’s, plus a few more. He slings the bow across his back and flashes Virgil a bright grin.

“Thanks! I’m Sloane.” He extends his hand.

“Virgil.” He shakes the kid’s hand.

Sloane nods to the other two kids that had materializes near him. One of them is a girl that looks a little younger than Virgil, maybe 14, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. The other is a guy in a backwards baseball cap and a plaid shirt over the orange tee that looks about Sloane’s age. His necklace only has one bead on it.

“This is Valerie,” Sloane introduces. “She’s from Cabin 10. And this is Kai. He’s from Cabin 9.”

“Sloane,” Janus interrupts. “Where’s Chiron?”

Sloane jerks his head down the hill. “In the Big House with the lead counselors.”

Virgil watches Janus’s brow furrow. “Seems unusual. Did something happen?”

Valerie sighs. “Kind of. Dionysus gave one of his kids a quest. Counselors are meeting about the prophecy to see who is going.”

Janus’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Which one?”

“Jack. The prophecy mentions a death. That never bodes well, and kids aren’t exactly lining up to work for Mr. D.”

Janus hums thoughtfully, his eyes trailing over the crest of the hill. Virgil watches as he shoves the knife into his belt. Kai cocks his head slightly, studying Virgil closely. Then, he looks at Janus. “Has he been claimed?”

Virgil frowns. “Claimed?”

“No,” Janus tells Kai, then looks to Virgil. “Follow me. I’ll explain as we walk.”

Janus nods to the other three and Virgil follows him down to the valley below. From this vantage point, Virgil sees the cabins Janus has been talking about, forming something like a horseshoe shape. In front of it is a large building that Virgil assumes is the ‘Big House’ that Sloane had mentioned. He sees other buildings and structures, but decides to wait to ask about them.

People mill around, most of them wearing the orange t-shirt that has a winged horse and the words Camp Half-Blood printed on them. When they notice Virgil, most of them throw a curious glance to Janus. Janus doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Welcome to Camp Half-Blood,” Janus says as they walk. “It’s one of the few safe spaces left for demigods like us.”

“Wait,” Virgil says, certain that he heard Janus incorrectly. “Demigod?”

Janus glances at him. “Hm. I gather you really don’t know very much. Yes, demigod. Half-god, half-mortal.”

“And you think I’m one of these, uh, half-bloods?” Virgil shakes his head. “Listen, I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

Janus looks almost amused now, an eyebrow arching almost like a challenge. “You couldn’t have gotten across the border into camp if you weren’t. Let me guess… you have ADHD and dyslexia.”

“Wh—I mean, yes, but—”

“You were raised by either a single parent or no parent at all,” Janus continues.

“My mom, until—”

“You see things others either don’t see or don’t remember.”

“I—”

“Please. Do stop me if I’m wrong.”

Virgil falls silent, his chest a bit tight. He crosses his arms over his chest as they walk.

Janus waits for a beat before he elaborates, sounding like it’s a spiel he’s given a dozen times already. “The ADHD is the battle reflexes. Dyslexia is because your brain is wired for ancient Greek, not modern English.”

Virgil’s mind is reeling. “But—”

“The things you see are because you’re a demigod. You are able to see things as they are. Mortals—most mortals—get deceived by this thing called the Mist. Someday, with training, you’ll be able to manipulate it as well. It’s a useful skill.”

Virgil feels suddenly way too hot, and yet still has the sudden desire to pull the hood of his hoodie up over his hair. “Demigod,” he repeats, though saying it aloud doesn’t help it make sense. “Are… Are you telling me that my dad is a god? Like a Greek god? Zeus? Apollo? Those guys?”

Janus glances at him and looks, for a split second, almost apologetic. “I understand that it’s a lot to take in at once. This is why Chiron usually takes the initiation. He usually has a more, ah, sensitive means of broaching the subject. But since he’s meeting with the lead counselors, I’m afraid the responsibility falls to me.”

Virgil blinks. He can feel the pressure in his chest building and he forces himself to take a breath. It doesn’t help as much as he’d been hoping it would. “Which one?”

“Hm?”

“Which god is my dad?”

They’re passing in front of the Big House now. There’s two people standing on the front porch—a blonde girl holding a Yankees cap and a boy with a goatee leaning against the railing—seeming deep in conversation. The blonde girl offers Janus a small wave. Janus nods back.

“To your question, the answer is that we don’t know,” he says. “Since you haven’t been claimed yet, your guess is as good as ours. But you might be claimed any minute now, or never claimed at all. I was claimed three days after arriving at camp by Athena. But we have several campers who haven’t been claimed at all. Remy Short is one such example.”

“Athena. Goddess of wisdom and strategy,” Virgil remembers. He’d read that name in his mother’s library when he was younger. And he has a vague memory from sixth grade social studies.

“Indeed,” Janus replies. They circle around the house and Virgil realizes that Janus is leading him towards the semi-circle of cabins. “Since you haven’t been claimed yet, you’re designated to Cabin 11. Hermes’ cabin.”

“Janus!” A bright, cheerful voice calls from behind them. Janus stops and turns, and Virgil follows his gaze. A boy that looks about Virgil’s age, maybe a year older, is running towards them from the Big House. He’s got a flop of curly hair and big round glasses.

“Patton,” Janus greets as the boy slows to a stop near them. “Virgil, this is Patton. He’s the head of the Hermes cabin.”

Patton grins and holds out his hand. “Hi, Virgil. Welcome to Cabin 11. I’ll talk to Chiron about getting you some supplies—”

“I’ll talk to Chiron,” Janus interrupts as Virgil shakes Patton’s hand. “I need to ask him about some things anyway. Patton, could you—”

“For sure,” Patton agrees readily. “I’ll show Virgil around!”

Janus excuses himself and starts towards the Big House. Virgil rubs the back of his neck and offers Patton an awkward smile. Now that he’s closer, Virgil realizes that Patton is maybe an inch or so shorter than him. He’s got four beads on his necklace.

“How ya doing?” Patton asks him, startling him out of his thoughts. Virgil meets his eyes. Patton’s are a warm brown, and his smile is sympathetic. “I remember my first day at camp. It’s always overwhelming.”

Virgil huffs. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“You’ll love it here,” Patton says with a surprising amount of confidence.

Virgil arcs a skeptical eyebrow. “I’ve heard that before. I don’t seem to, ah, stay in one place very long.”

“Kicked out of school?” Patton guesses. He starts walking around the cabins and Virgil follows, slipping his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Yeah. Several times.”

“We all have,” Patton says, not unkindly. “That’s the best thing about camp. In the mortal world, we’re all labeled as weird or outcasts. But at camp? We’ve all been through it. Oh! This is Cabin 10. Aphrodite’s cabin.”

Patton walks Virgil around the semi-circle, explaining each cabin’s assigned deity. He adds that Cabins 1 through 3 are empty, though apparently there was a girl that used to be in Cabin 1—Zeus’s cabin—who joined the Hunters of Artemis and left camp. Cabin 2 was Hera’s, and since she didn’t have children, the cabin was mostly honorary. Cabin 3 usually had a kid in it, but he apparently was on some kind of recon mission and wouldn’t return for another day or two. Cabin 8—Aretmis’s cabin—is also, usually, empty except when the Hunters visit.

“Since you don’t know who your dad is, you get to bunk with us at the Hermes Cabin,” Patton explains. “We take all unclaimed kids, since Hermes is the god of travelers.”

“I thought he was the god of thieves,” Virgil says before he can think about it.

Patton smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, that too. If you’ve got anything important, maybe keep it with ya. Just in case. I try to dissuade stealing, but old habits die hard for some of these kiddos.”

Patton leads him around the camp, pointing out the strawberry fields, the armory, and the forge that mostly gets used by the Hephaestus kids. A few of them wave at Patton, who eagerly waves back and calls a few of them by name. He shows Virgil the arena, where two kids are sparring. Patton takes a seat and Virgil sits beside him, watching the two boys circle each other.

Both of them are wearing matching orange t-shirts—Patton had told him that he’d be getting one too—and some armor. One of them has dark hair and square glasses. He’s got two knives, one in each hand, and even from a bit of distance Virgil can sees the slight sheen of sweat to his forehead. The other one’s hair is a couple of shades lighter. His sleeves are rolled up and he wields a sword and a shield.

“The one with the glasses is Logan,” Patton explains. “He’s a child of Athena. The other one is Roman. He’s a child of Apollo. I met both of them in Seattle before we made our way to camp together thanks to some help from a satyr.”

“All three of you have been claimed?” Virgil asks, watching as Roman charges at Logan who rolls out of the way and then nimbly jumps back up to his feet. He slashes at Roman’s back but Roman parries the blow with a well-timed flick of the sword.

“Not immediately,” Patton says. “Logan was claimed as soon as we got to camp, but it was a month or so for me. And Roman was nearly a year before Apollo claimed him during a campfire song. It certainly surprised a lot of people.”

“Why?”

“His brother was claimed by Ares three months before him, so most people thought Roman was Ares’ kid too.”

Virgil glances at Patton. “Roman has a brother?”

Patton’s mouth presses into a thin line for a moment, and Virgil gets the sense that it’s a touchy subject. “Yeah. Remus. It’s unusual for two kids of the same family to both be demigods, and the fact that their father are two different gods led to some… tension. Roman and Remus don’t exactly get along.”

Virgil nods his understanding and turns his attention back to the sparring pair. Roman blocks a quick slash from Logan with his shield and swipes at him with the sword, but Logan parries the blow with the other knife in his hands. Then in a series of quick movements—Virgil isn’t sure how it happens, exactly—Roman is flat on his back and Logan is on his chest with the knife to his throat.

Roman says something that Virgil can’t make out, and Logan says something in kind before he climbs off Roman and helps him up. Roman flashes a grin and shoves Logan’s shoulder before he glances past his sparring match and sees Patton and Virgil sitting on one of the benches.

Roman waves. “Heya, Padre!”

Logan glances over his shoulder and quirks an eyebrow at Virgil but stores his daggers as Roman jogs over. Patton stands and Virgil follows him down to meet Roman halfway.

“Hey, Roman,” Patton replies. “I didn’t know you started using a sword!”

Roman grabs a towel off a nearby bench and mops the sweat off his forehead. “It’s new. I’m still trying to get used to it. I think the balance is off.”

“The balance is fine,” Logan quips, stepping up beside him. “You just need more practice.”

Roman rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “Either way, Specs. I’ll take archery any day over waving a sharp stick around.”

“You are definitely a son of Apollo,” Logan rejoins back without malice. “And it would be unwise to only be versed in ranged attack.”

“And you are definitely a son of Athena.”

“Correct.”

Virgil snorts, and then a part of him regrets it as Roman and Logan both look over at him. Virgil flushes slightly, uncomfortable with the sudden attention, but Patton seems to only perk up more.

“Oh! Sorry, this is Virgil. He’s a new camper. Janus ran into him on his way back and brought him along.”

“Which cabin?” Logan asks.

Virgil shrugs. “For now, Cabin 11, I guess.”

“Unclaimed, then.” Virgil listens for the judgement in Logan’s voice, but he doesn’t hear it. It sounds more like a flat statement of fact, as if reporting the weather. Logan nods once. “Very well.”

“I was just showing him around,” Patton supplies. “You guys wanna join?”

Logan starts shrugging out of the armor he’s wearing. “Regrettably, I said that I would assist Harley with some blueprints when I had finished sparring with Roman.”

Roman slides the sword into the scabbard at his side. “And I’m overdue for a Pegasus lesson. I can’t miss it again. The last thing I need is Mr. D giving me another earful.” Roman gives a quick two-finger salute and rushes out of the arena.

Virgil blinks at Patton. “Pegasus?”

Patton grins brightly. “Come on. I’ll show ya.”

…

Patton spends the rest of the afternoon showing Virgil around the camp. They go to the stables (where Roman offers to take Virgil for a ride but Virgil immediately declines because he’s never been a fan of flying). They swing by the beach on their way to the climbing wall. Virgil watches, amazed, as two kids climb with impressive speed and narrowly avoid the magma that starts to pour down it.

One of the kids has a Morningstar gripped between his teeth, a green bandana around his upper bicep and a matching one around his head. He’s fast, scaling the wall with a well-practiced ease. Virgil hears him laugh delightedly when his hand slips and he almost gets burned by the lava. It’s somehow both impressive and disconcerting.

“That would be Remus.”

“That’s Remus?” Virgil repeats, though when he looks a bit closer he sees the similarity in hair color and skin complexion. “I guess I see the resemblance.”

“Don’t tell Roman that,” Patton says lightly. “C’mon.”

They pass the amphitheater where, apparently, there would be a bonfire tonight. Patton shows him the volleyball court where four kids are playing one another. They wave at Patton as they pass.

“You seem popular,” Virgil supplies. He’s lost track of how many kids have waved at them as they walk around.

Patton lifts a shoulder modestly. “I dunno. Since Hermes is the catch-all cabin, a lot of camp knows me since they come to our cabin if they haven’t been claimed yet. Sometimes we get kids that get claimed right away, or kids that already have been claimed, but otherwise? I get to be their lead counselor for at least a little bit.”

“Sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

“I kind of like it,” Patton admits with a smile. “It’s like I’m everyone’s honorary camp dad.”

The conversation cuts out as dinner is called and they head to the mess hall. Patton explains the offering to the gods prior to the meal, and Virgil scrapes part of his plate into the fire. He doesn’t know what to ask for.

It’d be nice to have a family again, dad, he thinks, unsure of who he should even direct the comment to. Patton waves him over, offering a seat beside him.

Virgil chances a glance around the mess hall as they eat. The Hermes table is certainly the most crowded, though Virgil can’t say he finds that surprising. Athena’s table has several kids reading while eating. Two kids at the Ares table are in the middle of an arm-wrestling competition. One kid at the Hephaestus table is pouring over a blueprint, and Virgil wonders if that was the Harley kid that Logan had mentioned.

Towards the end of the meal, a few kids at the Apollo table starts singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” and it’s not long before most of their table is doing the entire song with harmony. Someone from the Demeter table tells them to ‘save it for the campfire’, but it does nothing to deter the Apollo kids. Virgil catches Roman laughing as he sings, one of his sibling’s arms slung around his shoulders.

Virgil glances over and sees Logan at the Athena table sitting next to Janus, watching the chaos unfold and the faintest quirk of his lips betray his amusement.

Virgil feels some of the tension in his chest relax just a little.

…

The bonfire starts around dusk. Virgil is making his way to the amphitheater from dropping supplies off at the cabin when Roman comes up from behind him and loops his arm through Virgil’s, chattering excitedly about how much he loved this part of camp. Virgil sees an ukulele case slung around his shoulder.

Logan appears a second later on the other side of Virgil, commenting dryly that the Apollo kids had done their vocal warm-ups during the dinner. This only served to lead Roman to do actual vocal warm-ups—trills and scales, specifically—as they walked. Patton and Janus were already sitting down, three rows back. Patton waves when he sees them file in. Remus is sitting beside Janus, seemingly trying to goad him into some kind of competition that he was having no interest in. The firelight glints of Janus’s scales.

“Hey,” Virgil says to Roman and Logan. “Can… I ask what happened to Janus?” He immediately regrets the question, cursing his lack of a filter, but neither of the other boys seem perturbed by the question.

“A curse from Aphrodite,” Logan answers. “Janus had gone on a quest for our mother, and it led to some… unsavory tension between himself and Aphrodite. From what he’s told me, he accused Ares of being a snake in the grass while in the presence of Aphrodite, and… well. The love goddess didn’t take kindly to that. But it’s purely cosmetic.”

Virgil arcs an eyebrow. “Remus seems chill with him.”

“I’m not sure that Remus is aware of the accusation Janus leveled at his father,” Logan muses. “And Janus is not one to hold the children accountable for the actions of their godly parent.”

“It doesn’t benefit him,” Roman adds in, using his free hand for air quotes. “Or something like that. Janus is all about himself and how he can improve his own standing.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Logan quips dryly.

Roman scoffs, but when Virgil looks at him, there’s a teasing glint to his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t going to say it, but you guys are half-brothers for a reason.”

Logan looks at Roman over the top of his glasses, but Roman just shoots him a cheeky smile as they approach the other three. Virgil slides into the seat beside Patton, followed by Logan and then Roman. There’s a few kids—Virgil isn’t sure what cabin they’re from—trying to lead a call-and-response chant as campers file in. Down the row, Remus enthusiastically calls out the responses at the top of his lungs.

“Roman!” A new voice calls out from the end of their row. A tall guy, a couple of years older than them, is holding a ukulele and jerking his head down towards the bonfire. “You ready to help me kick this thing off?”

Roman grins and jumps up. “Would be an honor, Thomas.” He rushes off and he and Thomas start playing a song together with practiced ease. He and the other Apollo kids start singing, and before long the vast majority of campers are joining in. A few of them, including Patton, sway a little. Virgil doesn’t sing, but he listens and tries to remember the words.

The sky grows dark. The Apollo kids eventually cede the floor to some Ares kids who start up another chant. More songs are sung, some snacks get passed around, and Virgil is starting to think that maybe, with time, he could get used to this.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Patton says beside him, as the next song starts. He drops something into Virgil’s lap. “I got this for ya.”

Virgil looks down. It’s two camp t-shirts. The black winged horse and the Camp Half-Blood print stares up at him. He looks over at Patton.

Patton just smiles. “Claimed or not, you’re one of us. We claim you.”

Virgil feels like maybe that’s good enough for him.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides au #platonic drlamp #virgil sanders #percy jackson au #pjo!au #fighting #weapons #violence #found family? in my fics? its more likely than you think #janus sanders #remus sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders

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tanzmajor · 3 years

Text

endzeit romantik

loosely based on 11x23, bad ending - amara wins and the world is dying.

fandom: supernatural

pairing: crowley/reader

summary: the world is ending - crowley and you share a moment together

warnings: talk of adult themes, end times (the world is literally ending so IDK), light angst, crowley (he's a warning for himself lol), pretty sfw, swear words!

notes: not sure why i wrote this, i was rewatching spn while i was sick and wanted to write some stuff for crowley again. just wanted to capture a moment i guess! im wondering if ppl actually still care about him lol (title means end time romance)

word count: 2.3

The world was ending again because of the entitlement of the Winchesters. Earth would finally pay the price for their stubborn refusal to let the other die.

And you hoped that this time it would end for good.

It wasn’t the comfortable quiet before the storm like the last few times. This time, it felt so real – the end was finally so close for all of you. It wasn’t like those other moments, where you prepared to fight some greater evil that you could actually defeat. Amara was harsh – making sure things would end slow and surely. She made sure, that God was dying for good.

You remembered the apocalypse to be more light-hearted than all of this – you remembered sitting at the table with Ellen and Jo, encouraging Castiel to drink along with you. Seeing how much it would take for Castiel to feel something close to being tipsy. Given the circumstances, it was one of the fonder memories you had of that time.

This time you were stuck in the bunker with an even weirder cast of faces, including but not reserved to God. You were unfamiliar with those surrounding you. Not even the uncomfortable smile that Castiel would throw into your direction when you looked at him could fix that discomfort.

And what the strangest thing about all of this was, was how numb you were towards it all.

You never had to truthfully answer the question of what you would do when the world was about to end. The answer to that had always been decided by others, you just went with the flow – you never spared a thought about calling your family or taking that once-in-a-lifetime risk. But now you were sitting there, not talking or drinking like the others around you. You were sulking in a chair off to the side with furrowed brows – really reconsidering the choices you had made that had led you down to this path.

You should’ve run far away when Sam had approached you back then. Telling him to fuck off and never contact you ever again – you assumed that if you had done that, you’d be spending the last few hours that you had on this pitiful planet with your actual family.

You quietly thought about texting your mother. But what would you say? If you’d text her that you loved her out of nowhere – she would call and be concerned. How does one even break to their mother that the world was going to end soon?

You rubbed your tired eyes briefly. Maybe you should finally finish the last few pages of the book on your nightstand. At least then you could pass knowing you accomplished something meaningful today.

“Care to share a drink with me?”

It was that familiar voice that had given you a heart attack so many times before. You looked up to meet the gaze of Crowley looking down at you, ignoring the others around him like he always seemed to do when he was interacting with you. Dean shot you two a heated glare, a subtle warning to either you or Crowley. You weren’t sure if Dean was trying to tell you to be careful, or if he was threatening the man in front of you. Not that it would matter anymore anyways. Crowley twisted the bottle of scotch in his hand ever so slightly, letting you know that it was what he was talking about.

Spending your last hours next to the supposed King of Hell. Fitting. If there had been a greater logic behind all of the things that had happened today, this would be the next step. You silently wished that things would stop getting weirder and stranger – the thickness in the air of it all was slowly but surely suffocating you. You decided however, that Crowley had different plans. He would take advantage of situations like these – like he always does.

“Ah – I don’t see why not.”

You shifted in your seat to find a comfortable position for your back. Your hair fell into your face, and you quickly brushed it behind your ear. Now was not the time to worry about your looks.

You watched Crowley grab a glass for you and fill it up with the promised, amber liquor. You weren’t a big fan of the taste of pure alcohol, but it wouldn’t matter anyways. You were struggling to feel anything other than despair, and getting a little bit tipsy too fast seemed like a welcome distraction right now.

You watched his hand push the glass closer to you. You had taken his usual spot in the library corner – a tinge of guilt mixed into your other feelings. But only briefly. You nodded towards Crowley as you took the glass into your hands. He smirked at you. You furrowed your brows.

“What?”

You took a sip and watched him push a chair for himself next to you. He sat down, his own glass firm in his grip. His gaze seemed fixed on you. Something was on his mind and you could see it in the way he was looking at you. You didn’t have enough time to properly take the King of Hell apart in your head though. Not that you could anyways, you assumed that it was a task that would take you forever. Eternity if not.

“You trying to make some last deals or something?”

You watched his eyes roll. No one in the room seemed to pay attention to the fact that he was talking to you – not that he could do anything to you anyways. It was like you two were hidden away, behind the corner to yourselves. You assumed that Dean had a tiny bit of his leftover concentration fixed on you. You were frustrated by how overly protective he was being. It felt like a testimony to Dean’s selfishness – that he had the right to decide for you. Crowley spoke, and tilted his head to the side like he usually did.

“Would you like to?”

You huffed a laugh and smiled into your drink. It was an honest laugh, finding it amusing that he decided that now, this moment, would be the right time to cozy up to you.

“I don’t think I have any last wishes.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind.”

With that, he returned to himself. Obviously reconsidering things as well – although you doubted that he was thinking about anything that could eat away at his conscience. He was a demon, so you weren’t really sure if there truly was anything that he regretted. Maybe he was thinking about his accomplishments, maybe Hell hadn’t been so easy on him after all.

You watched his features, and you could tell he was ignoring your hard gaze. There was tiredness surrounding him, like the centuries he had spent roaming this earth finally settling into his stolen bones. It was that expression he had when he thought that no one was watching. An expression only you ever seemed to really notice. You wondered if he ever got any rest. If he even had the need for a break.

You didn’t bother asking him any of that. You knew full well that even if the world was ending, there wasn’t any good reason to be growing soft on the King of the damned. Although, he did lose his shine in the past few years. He wasn’t as terrifying as he used to be. Maybe he didn’t want to scare you.

You told yourself that it was the desperation in you speaking. The end was so close you could feel it with your entire body – it was natural to struggle and yearn for something intimate. A soft moment between you and anyone, a love confession even. Something unexpected. Something to shake you to the core, to make you forget that it would soon all be gone. For a moment at least.

Maybe you should ask Crowley to come into your bedroom with you. To have fun while it lasts. He didn’t look too bad, and the prospect of doing something so wrong with him, would for sure change your mood for a while. You looked away from Crowley. You hoped that nobody was listening to your thoughts right now.

“I always liked you the best.”

You startled slightly when he spoke again, your eyes trailing from the hand on his glass up towards his face. You never had the chance to get such a close look at him. You weren’t sure what to do with the time at hand. You huffed.

“I’m flattered.”

You watched him take a sip of the liquor. He spoke again.

“You should be.”

Your eyes met his. There was something unspoken going on right now, as if he was trying to shift the conversation towards something specific. Maybe he had just taken pity in you. Maybe he had grown attached to you more than he would like to admit. He could also just be feeling gracious, trying to do something with the situation at hand.

You could hear Dean and Sam talk – both obviously trying to do the same as you and the others. Making something out of this. Enjoying the time while it lasts. But you also noted, that Dean seemed somewhat intoxicated. You knew that you all felt the same way – guilty. You had failed.

You downed the rest of the scotch – it burned in your throat. You shook your head slightly and scrunched up your nose. Something he noticed, but didn’t mention directly. You refilled your glass.

“You don’t drink often, do you?”

He asked, his gaze following your movements carefully. As if he would miss something if he didn’t.

“I try to not make it a habit.”

He squinted his eyes at you. You were quick to add something to your sentence.

“I’m not really a fan of the hard stuff.”

You shrugged your shoulders, sitting back down and leaning your head back to let it rest against the cushion of the seat. You looked at him with your tilted head. Your legs were stretched out. No matter what you did, the stress that wore at you wouldn’t release itself from your body. You weren’t sure if maybe you should get up and move around or do something else altogether.

“Can you blame me?”

“Oh, no not really. It’s not like you surround yourself with people of class.”

He said, rather amused. You knew he was talking about the Winchesters and their tendency to stick to what they knew. Cheap beer, cheap hotels and even cheaper food. You bit your lip, an amused smile now too on your face. Maybe this truly was his way of flirting with you without getting another demon-killing knife attached to his hand. He wanted something from you – what he wanted, you weren’t sure of. It’s not like it would be useful for him to make a deal with you. Both of you wouldn’t be sticking around for another 10 years anyways.

You couldn’t deny that your tendency to remain neutral towards him had always been something you despised yourself for. You weren’t sympathetic towards him – but he wasn’t someone you actively watched out for. You knew that the Winchesters were aware of this, so they usually tried to keep you away from him.

His manipulation tactics never worked on you, but it’s not like you really held your guard up around him. To you – he was like Castiel. Someone who faded in and out of your daily life. You didn’t even bother seeking him out when he had been stuck in the bunker with you, in the dungeon. You just knew that ever since he saw you and interacted with you while Sam couldn’t do the dungeon duties, he was drawn to you. As if something about the fact that the brothers tried to desperately keep him away from you was urging him to spend as much time with you as possible.

He couldn’t give less of a fuck about the Winchesters. But if a demon even thought about pointing a knife towards you?

You ignored those memories. You noted that Dean had put on some music. A song you didn’t recognize. You shifted in your seat to look around the corner to see Crowley’s mother, whose name you never seemed to remember, and Chuck sitting at the long table and talking about nothing particular at all. You assumed that Chuck himself would just ignore what was happening. Like always.

Sam caught your eyes and nodded at you. All of you were so fucking unsure of what to do, how to react or how to feel. You assumed that maybe only the non-human beings in the room with you were somewhat okay with all of this. That they in the slightest, maybe didn’t even particularly care about the situation at hand.

Crowley hadn’t really bothered to continue the conversation, more than contempt to just sit next to you and listen in to what Dean was now saying. Not that he was saying anything important of course, but at least he was doing something. You weren’t sure why he had asked you to drink with him anyways. Maybe he just didn’t want to be alone. You were one of the few people in the room who wouldn’t turn him down, and he knew that.

Maybe he wanted something much different from you, but wasn’t sure how to voice it without making anybody around you suspicious of his intentions.

“If you want something from me you can just say it. I’m not really in the mood to care about consequences anyways.”

You chuckled into your glass, the ridiculousness of the situation feeling light-hearted on you. Maybe the alcohol helped just a little bit as well - to loosen you up. He once again looked you in the eyes.

“And here I thought I was so good at being subtle.”

Your expression was teasing – something he wasn’t used to seeing from you. The world was ending and you were flirting with the King of Hell. You couldn’t make that shit up.

“You used to be better at it.”

#supernatural #spn fanfiction #fanfiction #reader insert #crowley #crowley spn #crowley/reader #ao3 #archive of our own #crowley x reader

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vivithefolle · 3 years

Note

Hi Vivi, can you share some thoughts on the "Hermione deserves to be/should have married to XYZ because she is way too good for Ron" mentality of this fandom??

I’m gonna copy-paste a Quora answer of mine, because recycling is important!

Claiming that Ron is “out of Hermione’s league” is a statement rooted in sexism, classism and probably a bunch of other -isms.

It might seem like I’m just throwing buzz-words around but let me explain.

First off, the sexism.

Oh, the sexism.

As I’ve pointed it out in yet another one of my answers (I’m so sorry for drowning you all in a plethora of links), Ron is very much a female-coded male character.

Ron is emotional, wears his heart on his sleeve, has anxieties and inadequacies, walks off in order to cool down, has a temper, puts other people before his needs, and pretty much adopts Harry when he rescues him in the second book. He’s the Heart of the Trio: he doesn’t rely on sole logic, he can believe something without proof, he is sensitive and thus is the easiest to hurt emotionally.

Whether you call it a “beta male”, a “wuss”, “defying gender roles” or a “soft boy” is your own business, but the core of it is that Ron doesn’t meet the standards for people’s vision of a “desirable” masculine figure.

The little things Ron quietly performs in the books - when he helps Harry into his pyjamas in Chamber of Secrets because Harry’s arm is bloop; when he’s worrying about Hermione’s whereabouts in Prisoner of Azkaban; when he helps Harry unwind after his visions in Goblet of Fire; when he puts food onto Harry’s plate and wakes him up from his nightmares in Order of the Phoenix; when he beams that Hermione was “perfect, obviously” when she passes her Apparition test - all those caring gestures don’t seem like much, but if you bother to think about it, they paint an enormous picture.

Who gets Hermione to stop overworking while making her feel good about her accomplishments? Who comforts Harry from his nightmares and cares for him in the dead of the night, when nobody is awake? Who makes sure his friends are healthy and happy? Who wards off the dark and depressing thoughts, be it with his fists or a joke?

It’s Ron.

When you think about it, “traditional masculinity” in Harry Potter is as much frowned upon as “traditional feminity” is - which sometimes bites Rowling in the butt when you remember how she obviously seems to consider that Hermione and Ginny are the only desirable kind of girls.

Vernon Dursley? The entrepreneur “king of the household” prejudiced suburbian middle-class Dad? Fits in the usual tropes of traditional masculinity.

Dudley Dursley? The typical “boys will be boys” spoiled middle-class only child who’s the apple of his parents’ eyes and even takes up boxing, as if he wasn’t traditionally masculine enough.

Draco Malfoy? See Dudley, but toss in “upper-class posh aristocrat bully who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty so he has henchmen do it for him because he’s too rich for this sh-t”, would remind you of a few Christian Greys or Gatsbys.

Dolores Umbridge? Oh no, cat pictures, decorative plates, talks to teens as if they’re babies and PINK, SO MUCH PINK!!! So disgustingly feminine!!

Rowling very much frowns upon traditional gender roles - with Molly Weasley being an exception because Rowling feels very strongly about being a mother, and relates to Molly a lot.

Right - so, being a beautiful mess of paradoxes and contradictions (a “soft boi” who also punches bullies in the face, a fussy mother-hen who swears like a sailor, a tall athlete with badass scars on his arms who’s nurturing and sweet; in short, a wonderfully human character), Ron is obviously going to be a polarizing character. You painfully relate to him and get defensive when he’s criticized, you feel his characterization hits a bit too close to home so you hate him, or you disregard him completely because you can’t see anything “special” about him…

Now, onto another very, very sexist point that is often made.

People say that Hermione “deserves better” than Ron, often claiming that they “aren’t intellectual equals”, then citing Harry (who is mistaken as being some sort of slumbering genius but honestly, the kid is really a bit daft) or Draco (since apparently, being rich must equal to being intelligent) or, god forbid, Snape (because he’s a teacher and teachers are meant to be clever).

Soooo, I could go the loooooong way and pull out all the receipts that prove that none of these characters are perfectly intellectually matched to Hermione…

Or I could go the long way and simply give you this: this obsession with finding an “intellectual equal” for Hermione reflects the mentality of “women are not allowed to be better at something than their husband”.

Yep.

A woman has to be all-around pretty good at everything, whereas a man has to be the absolute best in his area of greatest competence (surely better than any puny female!) with a help-meet there to compensate for his weaknesses. People are very, very uncomfortable when Ron and Hermione reverse this dynamic. Hermione is extremely intelligent and dedicated to intellectual pursuits, but is complete pants at things like self-care and people skills. Ron is bright enough to keep up with her and strong in her areas of weakness.

Even if Ron was as dumb as a sack of rocks (he’s not), his other virtues are more than enough to “justify” Hermione loving him. (Because she needs an excuse?) But no. A woman has to be with a man who outdoes her in her area of greatest strength. - credit to @lytefoot

People don’t want Hermione to be with a man who’s her “equal.” They want her to be with a man who can be The Man so she can know the contentment of being The Woman.

But, with this sexist line of thought, how do we justify how Ron is supposed to be such a bad match for Hermione? Because if it was just about mere sexism, Romione would surely be more popular. Imagine! Ron happily raising the children, being a house-husband and proud of it, while Hermione is out there fighting for justice in the wizarding world! What a power-couple, defying norms and gender roles and not being the least bit conscious of it, prime OTP material for sure! So why do people still want Hermione to put Harry, Draco, or god forbid², Snape in Ron’s place? Is this an irrational hatred of redheads? An Harmionian’s delirious wet dream? A failure to separate the actors from their characters?

It’s all this and, quite frankly, something more: the inherent classism that comes with Ron’s status as an explicitly working-class coded character.

I know, I know, “Vivian! Calm down with the buzzwords, you’re starting to sound like an online pretend-feminist magazine!”

Or “Come on, people who don’t ship Ron and Hermione together aren’t all sexist or classist!”

Of course, of course! I know that! I’m not implying that!

But some of the “reasons” why they claim that Ron and Hermione can’t work - are extremely classist in nature, that’s just it!

Come on, think about it! What are the Number Ones arguments people always pull against Ron? Or the most common Ron-bashing tropes (look at fanfics and watch the number of stories that use at least one of those)?

Ron is stupid/mediocre

Ron is lazy/useless

Ron resents his wife’s hard work/success

Ron is a homophobe

Ron is a drunkard

Ron (the big prude who at 16 had never kissed a girl and sees a first kiss as the prelude to a wedding) is massively oversexed and cheats on Hermione with anything that moves

Not only do these “reasons” completely ignore ALL OF RON’S CHARACTERIZATION - except for the “lazy” bit but come off it, all teenagers are lazy and Hermione’s the exception to the rule - but it matches perfectly with the negative stereotypes associated with working-class white men in fiction.

It’s also very funny to note how many (assumedly middle-class or financially secure) fans look down on Ron for being “whiny” or “greedy” when he expresses the desire to have money of his own, or blame his parents for “not knowing when to stop” or “being irresponsible”, or even look down on them for being “too proud to accept help”!! Also how shocked people are when Ron dares to stand up for himself when Hermione or Harry act badly towards him. How dare this country boy not listen to the wisdom of his social “betters”?

So, obviously, because our Heroine can’t go with a Nasty, Mediocre Working-Class Man, she must be paired off with someone of Proper Status: say, a Hero that was raised in a middle-class home and might be a bit psychologically damaged but it’s nothing all those gold coins in his vault can’t fix; or this Rich Posh Aristocrat who actively rooted for her death, he’s a little bit eccentric and has some exotic pet-names to call you, but I’m sure you’ll learn to love him and will unearth the gold coins in his bank account… I mean, the heart of gold that lies within the surface; oh, why not a Way Too Big An Age Difference Teacher if you’re looking for a “cultured man” who has zero things in common with you; we can also bring Convenient Plot Device Famous Rich Foreign Athlete if you want some diversity and you don’t feel original!

But we can’t - oh, we mustn’t let her be with this Terrible Working-Class Boy! His brothers are fine, they have money, they have jobs, so they’re obviously Not As Mediocre. But let our precious Hermione be with this Just-Got-Out-Of-School hooligan? She can’t possibly be in love with him! You’ll see darling, you’ll get bored eventually! He’s too mediocre for you, you deserve a man who outclasses you - I mean, who can provide for you! You’re a fragile little flower who scars people for life when she’s not happy with them, what makes you think that this boy can possibly handle you even though he’s done so for the past seven years?

You wanted it, you got it.

People are shallow, have misconceptions about Ron’s character that they are unwilling to correct or use classist and sexist arguments to try to make it so that either Ron is the Devil himself / Hermione is a higher kind of being that can only orgasm if sufficiently “intellectually stimulated” / what-have-you.

#vivi answers #ask #ron weasley #hermione granger #romione #ron weasley defense squad #ron weasley defence squad #sexism #classism #hp meta #fandumb #hp fandom

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cassiecasyl · 3 years

Text

bittersweet surrender (everything is better now)

My first contribution for @whumpay2021!!

fandom: mcu relationship: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes warnings: self-harm, nightmares/flashbacks add. tags: Bucky Barnes has PTSD, Alternate Universe - Angels, Angel Sam Wilson, Angel Bucky Barnes, Recovering Bucky Barnes, Alpine and Redwing as their pets

prompts: Day 9 - gentle/brutal + Day 10 - screaming/silence

note: this fic is based on a headcanon i have about angel wings which i’ve previously written about in this series. I have pasted some paragraphs at the start for better understanding, but I still highly encourage you to check out the original series!

Read on Ao3.

“What are those lights?” Dean eventually asked, wonder and admiration on his face, an expression he hadn’t worn since his childhood was stolen.

“The plumage of an angel possesses a glow specific to the angel,” Castiel explained. “Sometimes, when the angel is around someone they especially trust and care for, this glow manifests in those particles. Nobody really knows what they actually are.”

“They look like fireflies,” Dean stated, but his eyes spoke of a question he was too afraid to ask. Castiel chuckled and agreed before he whispered a little word in Enochian, increasing the expression on Dean’s face. “What was that?”

The angel repeated the word, louder this time. “That’s what they’re called,” he clarified. “It means sparks of emotion, which is contradictory since angels aren’t supposed to feel. With the absence of a soul comes the inability to feel, but somehow, emotions found a way into our beings. These fireflies, as you call them, especially respond to strong emotions, but somehow they don’t resonate with hate, which is one of the strongest emotions. Usually, they show when an angel is around someone they,” Castiel made a quick pause, almost unnoticeable to those who didn't know him, “... love. Those little traitors.”

- After the Flight (The Meaning of Home) by @cassiecasyl

~~~

The poison entered him from the veins in his left arm. It’s still bleeding from the impact, and Bucky thought he saw flashes of bone the few times he’s able to blink his eyes open. He groaned in pain, instictly flinching away from their hands, but his body lay still, obedient. It burned through his system, alighting his insides, flames infecting his body and soul.

Humans always thought of hell as a pit of fire you’re thrown into, or the stake they’d burned witches on. Bucky knew better. Hellfire devoured him from inside. The souls of future victims screamed a haunting melody as they burned.

He remembers being a comet. His wings caught fire in the wind, the Earth rapidly approached to greet him in a lethal hug. Feathers danced back towards the heavens, hopelessly holding out for a home lost.

The inferno inside reached them now, igniting them anew, as if they weren’t injured enough already. It blazed through his grace, touching the very essence of his being, triggering what should never be forced. Tiny blue orbs sprang from his plumage, fighting their artificial light, reflecting in the tears streaming down his face. No. They couldn’t.

A nasty smile echoes in his mind, darting around forever. His heart sinks as his love sings, but he doesn’t feel it. They jab into his arm, cutting something off. He is a machine, easily reconfigured. No. They fill him with foreign hate, and it burns what’s left of him. Blue turns inside out, ablazes in orange before glaring at him in red. Bucky screams.

He screams, but there’s no sound, so he tries again, and again, and again, to no avail. His body is no longer his own. They control the very air he breathes, control the function of his lungs. He could die, here and now, and his body would be none the wiser.

Blood fills his mind, darker than his corrupted sparks. It is splattered all over the place, all over his face and on his hands. He is shaking inside his stoic cage. A tainted feather falls onto the ground, further painting itself with blood. It is surpringly light, considering the state of his wings. They are darkened with ash and charcoal these days, and covered in the grey mud only snow produces.

Winter. That’s what they call him.

He comes when it’s most inconvenient, and leaves only coldness in his wake. Wherever he goes, suffering follows, and even the trees shake with fear. None of them hear him scream.

He tries and tries, screaming until he swears he can feel blood in his throat, and then some more. Louder. Nobody even flinched. Louder. Why didn’t his mouth move, why were his tears only an extension of hellfire? His eyes burn, but winter freezes him before a tear ever leaves his eyes. They are as trapped as he is. Bucky screams, because that’s all he could do anymore. He screams over the roaring flames and the souls haunting him. He screams, but it never passes the barrier of his skin.

Bucky screams.

He screams until another voice joins him. “Bucky!” It was familiar panic, or worry. Hands collide with his freezing skin, and it’s burning again, oh god, they’re burning him again. He doesn’t even remember what he did to deserve this. Bucky kicks and flails, blind because they control his eyes, but his body is his.

A scream thralls through his ears and he stops and opens his eyes, every nerve on high alert. The dark room seems familiar, but Bucky can’t quite place it. There are shadows playing with him, and the moon, ever the creep, smiles into the window. A night light burns on the nightstand on the other side of the bed.

Brown, worried eyes catch his. Bucky stills, breathing heavily. Sam. His wings are angled slightly in alarm, showing their light brown freckled underside. He relaxes as Bucky stares, the hellfire and ice slowly replaced with softer warmth.

Hazel fireflies surround Sam’s wings, standing out more now that he had closed them. On the upside, his wings are colorful; his primary feathers are black and white, covered by grey secondaries. In the middle, they meet his back in a golden brown, blending into his sepia skin. He is beautiful, hoping eyes a promise of home, sparks untainted by hate.

Bucky reaches out, daring to search for contact, for comfort, slowly enough to ask for consent. Silver light reflects on his metal arm, and he is back there, with them in his veins, no, cables, controlling, controlling, controlling. Bucky recoils, scared of what his hands will do when they meet Sam. He can’t hurt him.

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t—he already did. Red splotches obstruct his vision, much like the blood he shed when they first met. When the hate still fueled him, rage dancing in his bones, hellfire in his veins, so hot it’s freezing him. When his sparks were still tainted red, a supernatural beast scaring its next victim just for fun. Nowadays, they usually don't show at all. He’d lost them to the winter.

Though, he means to see their glowing eyes in the corner of his own. He shudders, unsure whether his body follows the motion. No. Bucky shakes his head as he fights against the ice in his lungs. He can’t hurt Sam. Not again. Blood fills his vision, or maybe the moon hides behind clouds, too scared of the monster he is. Too scared to witness a murder between lovers, because one can’t trust his mind. His mind that screams for blood.

Blood, blood, bloodbloodbloodblood—

Pain stabs through him and he stills. Bucky blinks, looking into worried eyes that break his heart. He’s so sorry. The air he sucks in is a weird mix of warm and cold, of dry heater and cold night. He stares again, and thinks that maybe a tear escapes his eyes. He’s still an angel, not a machine. Machines don’t cry.

His hand must’ve found his wings, because that’s where the pain pulses from, sharp and attentive. There’s blood on his hands, but it’s his own, so it’s okay. His fingers graze another feather, thumbling on it and pulling slightly. It was the only thing he could do. Tears run down his face, weirdly warm - everything he is, is frozen, so why aren’t they? - and dropping to his chest and he knows he can’t stop them.

His shaking fingers lose grip on his soft plumes tainted with blood, and he desperately tries to get it back, to get it under control again, to just feel what he deserves— A hand stops him, burning him with the contact. It’s not letting go, even as Bucky struggles against it, but carefully leads his hands forward, away from his wings. Bucky looks up at Sam, blinking through the tears and an apology on his tongue.

Sam wraps his arms around him and Bucky falls into him as he melts. “It’s alright, you’re gonna be alright,” he assures him, and Bucky latches onto it as he rides through another wave of tears. Sam’s warmth is so drastically different from the one he dreamed about— comforting, soothing, calm, safe. He nudges his head into the crook of Sam’s neck, breathing in his home and the sweet nothings Sam hadn’t stopped saying.

“Hey, remember when we were racing in the sky?” Sam asks as Bucky’s breathing steadies. He continues after a moment as it becomes clear that Bucky won’t answer—but the fallen angel doesn’t feel judgement coming from his lover. “And the sun kept hiding behind clouds, so you decided to be Icarus?”

Bucky chuckles. “And you almost flew into a bird,” he recalls.

“Almost,” Sam repeats, chidingly, but not without a smile in his voice. Bucky glances up at that. Before, he had been staring into nothing, too afraid to look the other angel in the eye, but now, all he could see was the homely beauty. The moon’s cold light clashed with Sam’s warm skin tone, darkening it like a sunset.

“Anyway, you flew past the clouds and you would’ve flown into the sun, if I hadn’t caught up to you in time.” Bucky grins up at him. He remembers that day. It was one of the the first time flying since he’d escaped, and the first time he’d made it that far up. By the time he was past the clouds he was positively basking in the sun’s glory and in happiness. And then Sam came, almost golden in the sun, and his luck had been complete.

“If you’re trying to use this story as a moral, it’s kinda working,” Bucky teases, reveling in Sam’s snort. Right when he wants to cuddle closer, they’re interrupted by an ear-shattering screech that’s trying to impale Bucky’s sensitive ears. Sam just sighs as the noise is followed by a cat hissing.

He rubs over Bucky’s right arm before he quietly stands up, and Bucky whines at the loss of contact, at the warmth leaving him. It’s cold without Sam, but he keeps the thoughts of winter at bay by ignoring the moon in favor of watching Sam open the door. He quickly ducks as Redwing shoots through the opening, and almost stumbles on Alpine in pursuit. The cat has his eyes keenly set on the bird, who is now circling the ceiling in panic, calling out again. Bucky chuckles.

He welcomes the cat as he jumps onto the bed and lies down next to his angel. Bucky’s hand automatically finds its way to the soft and fluffy body, petting him until purrs erupt. He laughs at Sam’s exasperated face as he tries to get his bird to land or just calm down in general.

“You really gotta teach your cat some manners, old man,” Sam tells him and he laughs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky grins innocently. Sam rolls his eyes in response, but the smile playing on his lips isn’t missed to Bucky. Redwing finally lands on Sam’s shoulder and the angel gently offers his hand to him. The bird nuzzles it, chasing the darkness it brings.

Bucky watches them. He’s staring again, he knows that he does it a lot - Sam keeps pointing it out - but he can’t help he lopsided grin his mouth morphs into at the sight of his family. Alpine had fallen asleep, his fur tickling Bucky’s belly. Right here, at this moment, he is happy. It is weird how fast his weird little family cheered him up.

Sam looks back at him, his dumbass bird on his shoulder, his eyes undecided between annoyance and love. He thinks his heart might burst with all the love it’s not used to holding. There’s a new light there, suddenly, blue and frazzling. Bucky blinks, trying to chase it from the edge of his vision. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him.

But then Sam’s whole face lights up. He moves forward slowly, as to not scare Redwing again, and sits down on the bed. Bucky quickly glances back to the side, and then does a double-take. There, caressing his damaged wings, are a few little blue orbs. He cries out in surprise, covering his mouth, tears returning to his eyes. This isn’t real, he tells himself. It couldn’t be. They’d turned them red, replacing all he had with their hate, but now his body is brimming with love instead of hell.

Bucky looks back at Sam, and sees understanding love reflected back at him. He reaches out, closing the distance between them until their lips meet in a kiss. The warmth is overwhelming, but Bucky doesn’t want it to end. He got his sparks back, he was no longer corrupted, broken. He was happy, sappy enough to cry joyous tears as he kisses the man who made all of this possible, who was the reason for all that was good in his life.

“Thank you,” he whispers in-between kisses, his heart jumping with every beat, dancing in love. Blinking blue mixes with soft hazel, creating a stylised night sky, completed by the colors of their wings. Bucky puts all the overflowing love into the kiss, his hands flailing to get Sam closer, and Sam returns the favor.

But then, Bucky moves the leg against which Alpine is resting. The cat wakes up instantly and voices his complaint in a confused meow. He breaks the kiss, softly chuckling into shared air before leaning back to take care of his fluffy child, leaving Sam to do the same with his feathery kind.

~~~

taglist: (lemme know if you wanna be added or removed!) @starrynightdeancas @spookyscarykittycat @sherlock-who-mentalist @lost-lunar-wolf @aniridescentdreamer @aixabi

#sambucky #self-harm tw #nightmares #angst with happy ending #hurt/comfort #fluff #angel au #Whumpay2021 #my fic #tfatws

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narniaandplowmen · 4 years

Text

to say the truth (or lose his love)

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Also on AO3 2898 words.

Part 1 of the to say the truth (or lose his love) series

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply Complete

In order to fulfil his contract, Geralt has to either kiss his true love, or find the Faery Queen's lost son. He assumes the latter will be easiest.

Jaskier had been feeling antsy for almost the entire day now. He didn't exactly know when it started, but as he looked at the apple Geralt had handed him in lieu of lunch, he suddenly realised that his insides were shaking and he was not at all hungry.

“There's a town three hours north.” Geralt announced as Jaskier was contemplating the implications of his ever-growing anxiety.

"Ah! Lovely! An actual bed to sleep in tonight!” He tried to measure his voice, but he knew Geralt could hear the artificiality of it. He had never been a very good actor.

“Hm.”

As they travelled in uncharacteristic silence, Jaskier's antsy feelings only grew and grew. Instead of becoming louder, as he usually did when he was nervous, he turned almost as quiet as the stoic Witcher himself.

“You okay bard?”

“What? Oh! Just looking at these beautiful trees, and all those-” Jaskier’s voice broke as he suddenly realised that alongside the path grew "buttercups." Fuck.

“You sure you're okay?”

“I'm sure!" Jaskier was sure he was not okay, and he did not know who he was trying to get to believe otherwise.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Fae.” Geralt grumbled before the bard could even ask what the new contract was. "Been stealing the grain. Poisoning the cattle. The mayor's wife is about to give birth, they're fearing a changeling.”

“Aha.” Jaskier just replied. “Are you waiting till tomorrow?”

“Sun’s still up for another few hours. Might as well try to find them now.”

“Yes. Right. Well. I'll just. Wait here for you to come back. Don't step in any circles, okay?”

And off the bard went, waving his lute questioningly at the innkeeper. Geralt rose an eyebrow, surprised that Jaskier hadn't insisted on coming along, as he usually did. Not that he minded. When the little town's mayor had told him about the village’s problems, Geralt had dreaded the prospect convincing Jaskier to stay behind almost as much as he was dreading fulfilling the contract. Not that he was going to complain, dealing with those damned Fae would be enough of a bother without the ever-blabbering Jaskier digging himself into holes he would not be able to climb out of. Still, weird. The sharp smell of anxiety hadn’t left the bard since early that morning, and Geralt made a mental note to keep a closer eye on him. Just to make sure he stayed okay. Not because they were friends , but, well, Geralt couldn’t imagine that an anxious bard could earn a lot of coin. And winter was coming up, and Geralt wasn’t so heartless as to leave Jaskier for the winter without any sort of security that the man would be okay. Not that he spent his time in Kaer Morhen worrying about the bard. No, they weren’t even friends.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Fae were not hard to find. Geralt had stumbled upon the first circle less than half an hour after leaving the village, meaning they had been living there for longer than the mayor had insinuated. Which also, Geralt realised, meant it would be more difficult to make them leave. He grunted and grabbed one of the sugar cubes he usually reserved for Roach, tossing it into the grass in the middle of the circle of blooming dandelions. A voice like the softest bells immediately replied.

“Witcher! Our Queen has been expecting you!”

Their Queen. That explained the proximity to the village. If the Court was big enough that it was ruled by a Queen rather than a Lady, it was properly able to defend itself against angry, overconfident villagers.

“What an honour,” Geralt grunted sarcastically.

“She's straight ahead,” the little fairy, a tiny green thing, pointed. “Take a right at the Oak, she's waiting near the buttercups.”

The creature said the final word as if they were supposed to mean something to him. He supposed they did. The bard's clothes always had a buttercup pattern. Not that he had been staring at the bard, no. He had just noticed it whilst repairing one of Jaskier's doubles. Just to stop his whining, not because he cared. He was just a nuisance, making his life more difficult every step of the way.

Ignoring the fairy's pointed look and carefully manoeuvring around the circle, Geralt made his way to the promised Queen.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You're back early! I don't suppose the Fae were incredibly forthcoming and ready to move immediately?” There almost seemed to be hope in the bard's voice.

“No.” He sighed. “They want payment.”

“Of course they do. And surely they weren't as forthcoming as to actually tell you what they want?”

“They were.”

“Wait what?” the surprise in Jaskier's voice was genuine. “Since when does m- a Fae Queen clearly state what she wants? That makes it suspiciously easy.”

“How did you know there was a Queen?”

“What did she want? Honey? Fish? Coin?" Jaskier pointedly ignored the question.

“True love's kiss.”

“What.” Geralt almost wished he could have a painting made of the stunned look on the bard’s face. Just because it looked so funny, not because it made the bright blue eyes stand out gorgeously, not because it emphasised the beautiful curve of the young man’s eyebrows, not because- Geralt quickly shook his head.

“She wants me to kiss my true love. Or, alternatively, she wants me to deliver her son home.”

“Ah. So. Great, I'll- I'll go get my stuff. Leave you to- to find Yennefer.”

“Why would I try to find Yennefer?”

“You just said 'true love'?”

The Witcher rolled his eyes. “Yennefer is not my true anything. Now, did you see any suspicious adult men here during your performance?”

“Did I what now?”

Geralt started humming.

“Geralt! Are you singing?! And not even one of my songs?”

“Sh! I’m trying to remember...” And, to Jaskier’s flabbergasted surprise, the Witcher started to softly sing.

“Twenty years he’s come and gone, in winters lies he here.

But now, my child, the time is come, for him he holds so dear

to say the truth, or lose his love, the lute will let you see

my son, at last, should travel home with him he loves or me,

to him he loves or me. ”

Jaskier stared at him, eyes and mouth wide open. “You can sing.”

“That’s not the point, Jask-”

“You. Can. Sing!” The bard now truly sounded offended. “And you say that’s not the point? Geralt, How many times have I tried to get you to sing along with my songs? My ballads? And not even just in public! You refused to sing when we were sitting next to a campfire gods knows where-”

“Jaskier!”

“I have to say Geralt, if I knew it took a meeting with m- with a Fae to get you to sing I would have-”

“Your lute,” Geralt interrupted. “The lute should reveal the fairy prince. Did you see anyone strange whilst I was gone?”

“You can sing.”

“Anyone in the audience? Jaskier, please.”

“Nobody in the audience looked out of the ordinary, Geralt. And I doubt that the fairy prince would calmly stop to listen to music so near to his mother’s court.”

“The Queen said that she knew her son was in the village. We have to ask around, see if anyone here disappears during winters. That must be something people notice.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jaskier laughed, and Geralt couldn’t help but detect a bit of bitterness in the bard’s voice. “But if you’re so insistent, I’ve been asked to perform again when everyone has put their children to bed. So you can sit there and endlessly wait till your medallion starts vibrating or whatever, but I am pretty sure it won’t. There will be no fairy princes in the audience tonight.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There were no fairy princes in the audience that night. Instead of staying hidden in the shadows, Geralt had wandered through the inn during Jaskier’s performance, carefully observing the guests. He had spoken with the innkeeper, the mayor, a few women who were all too willing to gossip about the ins and outs of everyone in the village, but he had heard nothing that could help. He kept thinking about the words the Queen had sung. The time had come for someone to say the truth? Who? The person the prince held dear? The prince himself? And why would the prince lose that person if the truth wasn’t spoken? He stared blankly as Jaskier carefully wiped the lute down, inspecting it for any potential damages. The lute will let you see.

“Jaskier.”

“Oh, are you done brooding?”

“I need to borrow your lute.”

“Wait, are you telling me you cannot only sing, but also play? Twenty years we have been travelling together, twenty long years and-”

“Not to play. To see.”

“Listen Geralt, if you don’t know the difference between glasses and an instrument I don’t know what to-”

“The song, Jaskier. It says the lute will let me see the prince, so maybe I have to hold the lute.”

The bard looked at him doubtfully.

“I won’t let any harm befall it. I know how important it is for you, Jaskier. I promise I won’t damage it. I will protect it like- Like I protect Roach.”

“Fine. But if you-”

“If something happens to it, I will do everything in my power to repair or replace it. I swear.”

“Good.” Jaskier bit his lip. “And make sure you return it before dinner. This is a well-paying crowd.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Geralt felt like a fool, wandering through the village holding Jaskier’s lute. It didn’t help that the lute wasn’t helping. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, nobody knew of anyone disappearing during winters, and, as far as he could track, there were no secret lovers either. So he did the only thing he could think of, and, lute in hand, walked back into the forest.

This time it took even less to find the fairy Queen. She seemed to be waiting for him, unsurprised that he came alone.

“You brought the lute.”

Geralt nodded. “I am sorry, your highness, but I have been unable to find your son. If you could but tell me how he looks li-”

“Give it to me.”

“What?”

“The lute. Give it to me.”

“It is not mine to give.”

The Queen smiled and waved her hand. “Don’t worry, Witcher, I know how much it means to the one it belongs to. He will get it back.” Geralt just looked at her. “He will get it back, whole, undamaged, in the exact state as it is now, before sunset.” the Queen specified. “I mean no harm to your bard.”

“He’s not my-”

“The lute, Witcher.”

Geralt sighed and, carefully not to enter the circle, handed the lute to the brown-haired lady.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She did not break it. She did not enchant it, or cut its strings, or anything else. Instead, she played. One of Jaskier’s songs, Geralt recognised it. Not that he listened to the bard when he played, he tried to tune it out most of the time, but it wasn’t like he was completely able to avoid hearing the endless stream of music that joined him every place he went. After that song was done she played another, and another, and another. All of them written by Jaskier. She did not sing, though some of her servants would hum the occasional line or dance along.

It was getting late when Geralt spoke again. “You are a talented player, Lady, but I promised I would return this instrument to its owner before dinnertime. I could fetch you another lute from the village, if you want?” He knew from experience that even slightly antagonising a Fae court would make his task of getting them to leave exponentially more difficult.

“Ah, no, I think I like this lute better. It carries memories, you know,” she replied, continuing to play. Geralt was surprised at how suspiciously amiable this entire contract had gone. Any other Fae would have deviously tried to trick him by now, or forcibly dragged him into the circle. “Besides, the lute is not yours. I will return it to him who owns it.”

Fuck.

“You want me to fetch Jaskier.”

“Oh, there is no need for that. He is already on his way. He is pretty pissed, Witcher.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The moment the words left the Queen’s mouth, Geralt heard the distant footsteps of the bard. He indeed sounded angry, but, as Jaskier came closer, Geralt noticed he smelled more of fear than of fury. Geralt frowned. Jaskier was never afraid. Sure, he would be scared of husbands he cuckolded, or the monsters Geralt fought, but never scared like this.

“What the fuck, Geralt. I lend you my lute, you promised you would keep it safe, and you hand it over to someone else? A Fae Queen? Are you mad? Are you short of a few marbles? A few thousand marbles, perhaps?”

“Hello, Julian.” The Queen said, before Geralt could say anything in defence of his actions. “You know I won’t ever let any harm come to your instrument.”

“I know m- I know. But he didn’t!”

“I promised him I would not harm the instrument, and I promised that you would have it back by sunset. He had no reason not to give the lute to me.”

“He still should not have. Give it back.”

“Come and get it.”

“Why now? Why like this?”

“It’s been twenty years, Julian. It’s time. And since you refuse to do it, I am forcing your hand. He has to know. You’re being unfair to him by keeping silent. He will discover someday, anyway. You have to make a choice, either reveal it now, voluntarily, or I will force you.”

“Fine.” And before Geralt could say anything, before he could step forward, grab Jaskier and drag him away, Jaskier stepped headfirst into the fairy circle and grabbed his lute from the Queen's outstretched hand.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He didn’t die. Or faint. Or grow old rapidly. Jaskier just stood there, next to the Fae Queen, cradling his lute, and nothing changed. Geralt blinked. That was not true. Something did change. He became a little taller. His ears were a little bit more pointy. His smile a little wider, and everything about him became more regal than any king Geralt had ever seen.

“What. The. Fuck, Jaskier.”

“Geralt,” the bard said, with a mocking bow, “meet my mum. Mum, Geralt. Though you already knew that.” He stepped out of the circle, still firmly clutching his lute, and Jaskier became, well, Jaskier again. Not that he had ever not been Jaskier, but still.

Geralt just stared.

“I am sorry Geralt, I wanted to tell you, I really did, but I didn’t know you, and then Filavandrel gave me this lute, and- and I just sort of started following you, and- You never even admitted I was your friend! The only time we ever talked about Fae you just told me you thought all of them were cheating bastards!” Geralt winced. “Yennefer never told you? I am sure she knew. And- I mean, I never aged! We have been travelling for two decades and I still look as young as when we first met! Do you mean to tell me you never noticed?”

“I thought- Your salves and-”

“Those can’t completely stop someone from ageing! I-” Jaskier’s voice suddenly went from exasperated to really quiet. “I’m sorry. I’ll go grab my stuff from the inn. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure no Fae will ever harm you. I- I’ll see you in a bit, mum.” And with those words, Jaskier turned away and left.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“He did want to tell you, you know.” The Queen’s voice sounded from behind him. “He was just afraid of losing you. I hoped this would give you two a push in the right direction, but it seemed like I was wrong.”

“Jaskier’s a faery?”

“Jaskier is my son. He is High Prince of the Summer Court, and will inherit my throne in a couple of centuries.”

“Centuries? He is immortal?”

“As long as he doesn’t get himself into too much trouble, yes, he is.”

“Jaskier’s immortal. He won’t die.” Geralt stared in the direction the bard had disappeared in as his brain and heart rapidly embraced feelings had refused to acknowledge for the past twenty years.

“He has lived for over six hundred years, and he will live at least another ten times that.”

Geralt ran.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By the time he arrived at the inn, Jaskier had already packed his belongings and was saying goodbye to Roach. “Jaskier!”

“I’m sorry Geralt.”

“I love you.”

There was a loud twang as Jaskier’s prized lute hit the ground.

“I love you. And I didn’t tell you, and I didn’t tell myself, and- I thought you would die, Jaskier! I thought you would die, and leave me here, and it was easier just to pretend I didn’t like you than to admit it and see you grow old and leave-” Geralt’s words were cut off as the bard’s, his bard’s, lips hit his. The smell of flowers, the taste of honey, the soft touch of Jaskier’s hand on his cheek- It was beautiful and gorgeous and real.

“You don’t hate me? For keeping this secret so long?”

Geralt just shook his head and kissed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The village’s cattle were safe, in the end. So was the harvest, and the mayor’s child, or any other baby born, for that matter. The Witcher had fulfilled his contract and received his coin, and by the time a young Oxenfurt graduate passed through the village singing a song of a white-haired Witcher and his Faery love, the people had long forgotten about their own encounter with the White Wolf of Rivia. It was not like they could know that every winter, Kaer Morhen bloomed wild with tiny, yellow flowers. Or that, every summer solstice, the Fae Queen’s celebrations were attended by a witcher. Or that, for many, many, many years to come, a humble bard and a friend to humanity, with rings on their fingers, would travel the Continent, never leaving the other’s side.

#jaskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #geraskier #geraskier ff #the witcher ff #q #onceuponadisneyqueue #onceuponadisneypotter

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inactiive-shit · 4 years

Text

Burning

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Warnings: allusions to rough past

Pairing: platonic dukexiety

Words: 1,988

Summary: Virgil needs a goddamn hug.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Virgil came from a rough and tumble kind of place. There wasn’t much physical contact with each other and what there was usually wasn’t affectionate. Virgil was used to not being touched or being hurt with almost no in-between. Hugs were rarer than a blue moon and cuddling? It’s safe to say that was an entirely alien concept.

But Virgil’s twenty-six now. He’s had plenty of time to outgrow his aversion to touch, plenty of time to get over it, plenty of time to make friends that wouldn’t punch him before they patted his shoulder. And, well, he had. Sort of.

Enter Patton and Roman, who were soft and kind and the touchiest of touchy-feely people that Virgil had ever met. They were always trying to dispense hugs and pleased smiles and pats and gifts and, if Virgil were being honest, he could not even imagine either of them throwing a punch. Then, enter Logan. He wasn’t the same kind of overbearingly physical person. He rarely initiated hugs, although he equally rarely turned them down when they were offered. He was much more reserved than Virgil’s other friends, much more like Virgil, and Virgil could imagine Logan getting into a scrape or two.

But nobody touched Virgil. That was by Virgil’s own design, had nothing to do with any particular feelings he held about his three friends. Hugs were just...a lot. And especially for someone with as little experience with them as Virgil had. He’d tried to explain it once, tried to put into words the expectations he had whenever someone moved toward him. He tried to make them understand that it wasn’t them, it was just that Virgil was used to a different kind of living where hugs had never been the norm. But Patton had looked ready to cry and Roman was affronted and even Logan, Logan who wanted almost just as much alone time as Virgil, had looked horrified. How was it possible, they wanted to know, that Virgil had gone so long without being treated with care?

He hated to see those looks on the others’ faces, hated a fraction more the looks they sent at him after that were barely to the left of pitying, so he took it back as best he could. It really hadn’t been that bad, don’t worry about it, all the usual phrases and eventually he persuaded them to drop it. So they stopped trying to touch Virgil all that much, and Virgil convinced himself that he wasn’t jealous of the casual affection they threw around like confetti. Virgil did his best to pretend his feigned indifference was real, and that he didn’t want touch just as much as he loathed the thought of it.

And then, one day, he met someone new. This person was a lot like him, rough around the edges like a ripped newspaper, but soft enough that he wouldn’t cut your fingers. He showed affection by punching others’ shoulders or throwing himself full-body on top of them. He wore the most ridiculous outfits that Virgil had ever seen, and he never seemed to care that he was the weirdest person in the room.

His name was Remus. He was Roman’s twin brother, although the similarities between them were almost impossible to find. He had a white streak in his hair that he denied ever putting there himself and, truthfully, nobody had ever seen it happen. He had no qualms about treating Virgil just the same as he treated every other person he came into contact with, and that’s about the time Virgil really started to realize he had a problem.

His skin burned whenever anyone touched it and he could feel an imprint of them on him long after they had left. There was an ache in his chest when he thought about getting a hug and despite having as many good, caring friends as he had now, Virgil felt more lonely than ever.

Remus, despite Roman’s misgivings about his brother, ended becoming an integral part of their group, and he continued to unknowingly supply Virgil with physical contact at their every interaction. It was equally wanted and unwanted, equally loved and hated, and Virgil kept coming back for more. And as much as the ache in Virgil’s chest intensified, as much as the burning on his skin kept him awake at night, Virgil never said a word about it to anyone.

Touch starved. It didn’t sound real, like something that could actually affect people. More than that, though, it was embarrassing. How could he even broach the subject? Hey, guys. So there’s this thing I found out about called touch starvation and it turns out I have it. And I could really use some pats on the back right about now, I swear I’m not making this up for attention. Yeah, that would go over great. Instead, Virgil took whatever he got when he bumped against a stranger on accident and mind his own business.

It was working out for him as well as you’d expect when something he had never planned on happened. He’d been having a panic attack, an occurrence that had been more common than Virgil liked, and he’d been entirely content to suffer through on his own and pretend everything was fine after, but then Remus walked into the room like a wrecking ball, all loud noises and erratic movement, and Virgil flinched. He flinched and tried not to cry because crying was the best way to make someone mad at you and also maybe the best way to expose yourself.

Remus, though? He stopped being loud and bouncing and sat down slowly in front of Virgil. Virgil couldn’t seem him too clearly through the tears in his eyes, but Remus might have been concerned. There was some movement, like he might have been talking, but Virgil could hear the static in his head and nothing else, could hear impending doom and forever alone like a war drum coming at him, could feel the vibrations running through his hands and shaking his very bones.

Suddenly, clear as day, he could hear Remus’s voice like a bell ringing, “Can I hug you?” Virgil gasped and hesitated. A hug? Would a hug just make things worse? It always seemed to but maybe not, can things even get worse from here? He nodded and Remus’s arms wrapped around him and held him so securely it almost felt like there were eight limbs keeping him safe.

The static changed frequency, changed color, changed channels and instead of the cold, impersonal, overwhelming static in his head like before it turned warm and encompassing but not altogether bad. Virgil choked on a sob and buried his face in Remus’s shoulder, shuddering, trying to figure out why he wanted to keep burning like this.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Remus said. “I’ll skin whatever hurt you.” He kept a tight hold on Virgil, kept holding him until he stopped crying and pulled away. Virgil wiped his face off with a sleeve, thoroughly embarrassed. That was unnecessary and stupid and he really should be in better control of himself so that things like that didn’t happen.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sniffling.

“Nothing to be sorry for, Stormcloud. Are you hurt?” Virgil shook his head, unable to force himself to make eye contact with Remus after such an episode. Remus’s hand ghosted over Virgil’s cheek and he flinched away, feeling the streak of a burn where their skin had barely come into contact. Remus withdrew his hand quickly. Virgil was almost sad to see it go.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I just have panic attacks sometimes,” Virgil said, and that was true enough. In fact, he couldn’t even remember what the catalyst for this attack had been or if there was something he needed to go do now that he was back to functional. Virgil was totally spent and more than ready for a nap.

“Yikes,” said Remus. There was a few minutes of silence while Virgil swiped the last of the tears from his face and destroyed his eyeliner and steadied his breathing so that he wouldn’t be a total mess when he finally left whatever room his panic had holed him up in. What he wanted to do more than anything right then was gather himself, make his excuses, and go back to his own room where he could hold onto his body pillow and bury himself in enough blankets that it felt like another person was laying on top of him.

“Are you touch starved?” Remus asked, voice sudden and surprising and observational skills much better than Virgil had anticipated they would be. He jolted, glancing quickly to Remus’s face before looking away and fighting the urge to cower behind his hands. “You flinch whenever anybody reaches toward you and I’ve never seen anyone touch you and you’re freezing. Do you need another hug?”

“No,” Virgil said, shrinking away from the prospect. He was still burning like a star ready to implode but more than that no one was supposed to know because it was Virgil’s problem to figure out, Virgil’s issue to work out without having to involve other people like this.

“No to which?” Remus asked, but then he gently laid his hand on the ground between them, palm up, and hummed. “We can just hold hands if you want.” Hesitantly, Virgil reached out and took Remus’s hand. It was rough and warm and alive and human. Virgil felt a shiver run through his body at the contact but he forced himself to keep it. If Remus was offering, if Remus understood the situation, then as awkward as Virgil felt, this was okay. There was nothing wrong with this and Virgil...Virgil really didn’t think Remus was going to hurt him.

“How did you know?” Virgil whispered, voice cracking over the syllables. He might cry again if they weren’t careful.

“Been there, done that,” Remus said, squeezing Virgil’s hand. “Everything kinda sucks though, so I made myself start touching other people and then they started touching me back. Not great at it all the time, but,” he shrugged, “I’m not so cold anymore.” Virgil couldn’t look at him, couldn’t face whatever was happening right now, so he sat quietly and did his best to take it in. God knew when the next time he’d get something like this would be.

“If you want,” Remus said slowly, “I could help you. We could hold hands and slowly work up to bigger things like hugs until you’re not so skin-hungry anymore.” Virgil internally winced at the term, but externally he was finally looking at Remus, staring in total shock that he would offer something like that.

“Why?” Virgil blurted, confusion swirling and making him feel almost nauseous.

“Because you’re my friend,” Remus said, and he sounded just as confused as Virgil felt. “And I love you. And I may or may not have developed a squish on you. I want to help because I care.” He smiled slightly, and to Virgil it looked kind of sad but not in a way that made him feel bad.

“I...I…” Virgil didn’t know what to say, how to say yes to what Remus was offering or how to make sense of it all in his head.

“It’s okay,” Remus said, running his thumb over the back of Virgil’s hand and causing an involuntary shiver. “We can talk about it later. For now let’s just hang out. Do you want me to talk?” Virgil nodded, figuring that at least with some kind of non-touch stimulation he might be able to refocus. Remus started talking about something, Virgil couldn’t recall what later, and Virgil realized that maybe tackling this with Remus wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe he didn’t have to suffer through on his own like he thought.

Maybe, just maybe, Virgil could finally stop burning.

#sanders sides #ts virgil sanders #ts remus sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #ts virgil #ts remus #ts anxiety #ts the duke #fanfic #ts fanfiction #my writing #dukexiety #platonic dukexiety #burning

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clairecrive · 4 years

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“More” - Tommy Conlon x reader

Send me a character and a number and I’ll write something based on the song that comes on shuffle. Soo, this wasn’t supposed to be a full imagine and that’s also why it took me so long to post it. I have other requests and this was supposed to be something short and fun but it turned out to be long and fluffy and I’m not even mad about it. I know I’ve been kinda absent this week so I’ll try and double update today and post tomorrow as well.

Please be patient with me, I’m trying my best, I just need to find a new balance between this blog, online lessons and my life basically.

Tag list: @deaflikehawkeye @mollybegger-blog @br0ck-eddie @shadow-of-wonder @fandom--0verdose @innerpaperexpertcloud @evelynshelby (let me know if you wanna be added)

Song: "More" by 5sos

"And all the things that we dream about

They don't mean what they did before

I just wanna get back to us

'Cause we used to have more"

Tommy Conlon was sitting in front of you looking like a shell of himself but at the same time just like the guy you remembered. He had always been bulky and fit thanks to his strict regime both in the gym and in the kitchen. Being in prison for a while surely contributed to it seeing as there wasn't much you could do in the confinement of a cell or much you could eat for the unsavory food they gave him. If it was possible, his muscles were even bigger than the last time you had seen him and for a moment you wondered if he had his clothes especially made. However, knowing Tommy you immediately dismissed the thought.

If his appearance had only slightly changed, the thing that struck you the most was the look in his eyes. Ever the silent and reserved guy, Tommy had never been one of many words but he was always able to convey any message or emotion through his eyes. Because of his troubled past, his eyes were always troubled and unfocused on the matter at hand, too busy worrying about his family situation. Now, the look behind his eyes was steadier and more focused. You had the feeling that when he looked at you he didn't see the ghost of his mother or whatever was troubling him but he was finally seeing you. It didn't matter that you were just catching up talking about everything and anything, you could tell that he was taking in every word you were saying. He was here with you in this moment and that made you even happier than seeing him after such a long time. Because that meant that he had somehow tamed the demons of his past and was finally living his life a little lighter.

You and Tommy went way back. You were aware of his past, both with his family and the marines. You had always been by his side, trying to lighten his days and to share the baggage he had with him since childhood but to no avail. You understood that it was something deeply personal that he had to deal with himself and on his own terms but it didn't hurt any less the realization that what you did wasn't enough and that he had to leave. Your 12 years old self didn't understand that and took it too personally that she had to when it had nothing to do with you.

This wasn't the first time you had seen Tommy after your shared childhood and early teen years. Somehow, you were both at the same time and place once and the universe did the trick. It had been ten years since the last time you saw him and right then and there you didn't recognize him. He was a totally different person than from the young boy you knew. You, however, hadn't changed that much and Tommy immediately connected your face to one of the few people of his old life, he didn't despise. Since that day, you had pretty much been inseparable. Of course, you both had your schedules and routines by then but you both worked to get them to fit with one another and soon you were basically living together.

While you were studying during the day Tommy would spend his mornings at the gym. Afternoons were rarely spent together, you would be working and Tommy too. Evenings were your shared time. Without fail, you would meet and spend time together, be it sharing a meal or doing other activities. It was as if those ten years had never passed and you soon found that balance that had made your bond special. However, Tommy had his burden and no matter what you did, you couldn't help him. There were things that we have to deal with alone and Tommy wasn't there yet at that time. He was angry, at everything and everyone, and while that was great for it fuel him for his matches, it didn't help him deal with his everyday life in a peaceful way. There was nothing peaceful about him in those days. It wasn't as if he got you stuck with or he treated you badly. It's just that he fell into unhealthy and toxic routines and habits that of course, took their toll on you too. You had never really talked about your relationship, you didn't really label it but you cared about it. Hell, you even admitted to your self and him that you loved him. You did. But unfortunately for both of you, love wasn't enough to get him out of that dark circle.

So you left him. Even though it didn't happen in the best of circumstances and you certainly didn't keep in touch afterwards, you always associated Tommy with your happiest memories and you were certain that he didn't resent you for your decision either. As you couldn't blame him for what happened to him that screwed him over, he also couldn't fault you for deciding to call him out on his bullshit and take a step back when it all became too much to bear.

Then Sparta happened and your heart broke as well as Tommy's shoulder during the finale and even more so when you learned about what was going to happen to him after the competition was over. You tried to stay updated while he was on trial but after he was sentenced you kinda got lost in your everyday life. The thought of visiting him had once passed your mind, but why would you? I mean yes, you still loved him and cared about him but you hadn't spoken nor seen him in forever so how were you going to just pop up one day in prison? Who told you that he even wanted to see you?

No one did and so you didn't. Tommy had never really left your heart nor your mind but it was easy to push it back and focus on your career, immersing yourself in work had always proved to be successful in making you so tired that by the time you got home you didn't know how to do 2+2.

You could swear that not even a year had gone by after Tommy had been sentenced to prison but when he reached to you, one day out of the blue, you soon was met to the harsh reality that almost two years had gone by, marking almost four years since you broke up.

That was a lot of time and a lot of things had changed, but you'd be fooling nobody if you said that your eyes didn't sparkle as they used to, when they saw the familiar silhouette waiting for you at the bar you'd picked.

"It's so nice seeing you out and about, Tommy. You seem like you're doing fine." In those two years, Tommy had managed to deal not only with prison but also got himself into therapy when he got out. He had started a couple of months back and it really was showing. His gloomy appearance was a thing of the past and now there was only room for funny and carefree Tommy. Well, that was not to say that he put it all behind him but he certainly had it under control now and you couldn't help but admire him with pride and affection.

"I've put it off long enough. It's time." He modestly confessed with a little smile that you couldn't help but mirror. Neither of you added anything, just stared at one another. So much had happened between you that it seemed pointless now to indulge in trivial chit chat. While you took a sip of your lukewarm tea, he cleared his throat and reached for you the hand that wasn't holding the cup.

"I've been meaning to call you for a while actually, but I... couldn't find the courage." He timidly started.

"Is that so?" You curiously ask, tightening your hold on his hand.

"I thought that I was the last person you'd want to see after what happened. I was surprised actually that you said yes to this meeting."

"Oh Tommy," you said taking his other hand in yours too, " you know that I've never blamed for what happened. Maybe we were simply not meant to be." Grudgingly you admitted while forcing the sour tone away from your words.

"You know that I've never believed in that fate shit and now I'm ever more convinced that it's indeed a load of bullshit?" he asked shuffling on his chair, " Because I'm in a point in my life where I finally have it under control, you know? So I guess you could say that I have everything that I've ever wished for, right?" He waited just a moment to let his words sink in, "And you couldn't be more wrong. All I want is just to get back to us." He delivered the last blow as he slowly met your confused gaze.

God knows how many nights you had dreamed about this very moment. But you were confused. Was he really saying that he also harbored the same feelings you had for him after all this time? Wasn't it all doomed from the start? You had tried before and it didn't work out. Would you be willing to put yourself through the possibility of a heartbreak?

"I can see the wheels spinning behind your eyes. I know you too well, Y/N." He stopped your thoughts' route, "Don't do this, 'right?"

"Just tell me something: do you still feel something for me?"

"Of course I do, Tommy. But-"

"No, not buts y/n, please," he interrupted you mid-sentence, "I know that you have reservations, and rightly so. But please, trust me when I say that I'm not the one that I used to be. Things are going to be different, I swear to you." His promise paired with his earnest glaze was a lethal mix, one you couldn't resist.

Taking another look at him, you realized that he was right. He was going to therapy and he seemed to be doing alright already, you thought. There were two obvious possible endings for this: it could all to pieces again and at least you could always say that you'd tried or, if everything went well, you could be the happiest you've ever been. This last possibility was so appealing that it exceeded the other by a long way. You had your job cut out for you, really.

"Let's get out of here."

#tommy conlon #tommy riordan #tommy conlon x reader #tommy conlon imagine #tommy conlon imagines #tommy x reader #warrior #tommy conlon one shot #Tom Hardy #tom hardy imagines #tom hardy x reader

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artificial-daydream · 4 years

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Audacious

Rating: T Fandom: Bleach (Ichigo x Rukia) Summary: The way this orange-haired random guy smirked at each of her peculiar habits that definitely defeats the norms of college life shows it might be not so bad to actually agree with the date. Maybe.

Notes: Based on this otp prompt I saw but couldn’t find the post anywhere?? Please do tell me if you were the one who created this prompt or if anyone does know which blog was it so I can credit the person properly. Also posted this on my ao3.

When Byakuya insisted on buying her a unit on Seireitei Apartment rather than renting on the dormitory, Rukia had confidently claimed she preferred the latter. What was the point on trying to live normally if she was buying the most expensive residence in the whole district?

The first thing she thought on her eighteenth birthday was fucking finally. She had the opportunity to leave Kuchiki mansion and decide her own life for the very first time. Moreover, she had prepped herself so much about this. Rukia was very sure she had the common ethics of non-nobles memorized.

However, she soon realized the books covered barely nothing about college.

Her hair was tied into a messy bun; tangled strands were kept in bay with the ugliest scrunchie she kept for the last five years. Her eyebags were so palpable she could feel it weighing down below her eyes. The first week living on her own and she already had her seventh cups of coffee. It was barely Wednesday.

There were downsides on living as a normal college student, Rukia concludes. The most common things she could list were the rushed deadlines, the mountain-sized projects, and old professors rambling how youngsters have it easy these days while yet again, giving them more preps.

It didn’t bother her as much, surprisingly. She liked how she could stay all night working on her papers, it was better than learning etiquette on how to be a proper lady. Her professors were also far better off on their lectures compared to the elders back home. She definitely could get used to all of this. Slowly, but surely.

The first thing she most likely had to get used to was the room upstairs having very loud sex which leaves her hanging out for coffee in the kitchen every 2 AM.

Recalling the noise she heard barely twenty minutes ago, Rukia scrunches her face in disgust. She wouldn’t mind as much if they weren’t reciting every detail of their activities. By now, she had their routine memorized- no, stop. Bad brain.

Rukia groaned, she had another one hour and forty-five minutes to spend in the kitchen until the tenant upstairs finally remembered they were not wild animals supported with infinite stamina. Apparently, she has to follow their sleeping schedule if she wants to get any rest at all.

These past days, she would just bring all her papers and study to spend her time alone. However today, right the second she had finished all of them, her phone decided it was the best time to signal its low battery and die. With nothing left to do, she just entertains herself with caffeine and staring in a daze. She swears the floor starts to look like it’s inviting her to take a nap on it.

Her decision was put into an immediate halt, however, once she heard other footsteps coming along towards the kitchen. Huh, how strange. These past two days, she never encountered any other person. Everyone seemed able to stay calmly in their own rooms. She thought the weird one was her; that maybe she was just too used with the silence in Kuchiki mansion so she couldn’t stand the disturbing sound upstairs. Perhaps the person brings a phone charger that I can borrow.

Once the sounds of footsteps got even clearer, the first thing Rukia recognized was orange spikes. Then she darted her attention downwards and were met with furrowed eyebrows and half opened lidded eyes. The person was wearing the deepest scowl she had ever seen with his hand ruffling his hair in a look of annoyance. Looking at first glance, Rukia could only come up with one conclusion.

“They woke you up too, didn’t they?” Now don’t misunderstand her. Rukia is not the type to strike out conversations, especially with a total stranger. However, she was driving insane keeping herself awake and god forbids the floor looks so comfortable- she just had to distract her attention somewhere.

It took two good seconds before the uninvited guest blinked his eyes, as if still registering her words with his half-awake brain. “How long have you hung here?”

Rukia shrugs, “about twenty minutes.”

“Wow.”

The short talk ended uneventfully. The next thing Rukia knew, the random person just walked towards the fridge, opening it and scanning it as if looking for something, then frowning before closing it again without taking anything out. Rukia raised an eyebrow at his action, decided not to question it before sipping on her coffee and minding her own business. The peace ended shortly though, with the man suddenly sat across her and folded his arms, decided to create another conversation.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”

Rukia blinks, unsure of how to respond with his sudden conclusion. “How did you come up with that?”

He smirks, “Either that, or you just don’t give a fuck. Nobody hangs out here anymore after Senna raided the place to make out with different partners every week.”

Rukia scrunched her face in pure disgusts. “What is up with college students deciding to make out in every corner of the dorm?”

“So, you’re new then.” He affirmed. “Name’s Ichigo, by the way,” He offered his hand as he introduced himself, which Rukia gratefully accepted.

“Rukia,” she responded, “and why are you here if you knew about it?”

The man called Ichigo shrugs, “I left my coffee sachets here last Friday, but apparently it’s all gone,” he explained, palpably confused, “which is strange because I had seven packs of them; maybe somebody mistook it as theirs?”

Rukia blinks. The coffees were not from the dorms? Her heads turned to look at her cup of coffee before looking back at the orange haired man with a sheepish smile, “Is that coffee brand, by chance, Soul Society?”

Ichigo furrows his eyebrows, “How did you- hold up,” he paused as he looked at her cup, eyeing it suspiciously before staring back at her, “don’t tell me you were-?”

“Unintentionally,” she quickly defended, “I had no idea it was yours. I thought the dorm provided it for students’ late night's study sessions.”

“What kind of dorm supplies something like that?” Ichigo scoffed, eyes staring at her amusedly.

Rukia bit the inside of her mouth, attempting not to counter back as she embarrassedly cleared her throat. How the hell was she supposed to know? Hotels usually provide stuffs like that, right? So she just assumed it was public common sense. Albeit, this was her mistake to begin with. She shouldn’t have jumped into conclusions.

She took a deep breath. “I apologize, I will repay you immediately. Tomorrow, I promise.” She emphasized, not wanting to be labeled as a coffee thief the first week of her stay.

“Sure,” he coolly agreed, “pay me back tomorrow by Urahara’s at nine?”

Rukia stills, “Excuse me?”

“You’re buying coffee, right?”

“Well, yeah,” she deadpanned, “I was thinking somewhere along coffee packets. You know, one with similar brand and flavor preference.”

Ichigo snorts, “You’re repaying seven packs with one strike. Don’t I get to name the repayment?”

“Fair enough.” Rukia calculatedly stated, eyes still looking at him purposefully. She raises an eyebrow, “Just to make this clear; are you asking me out?”

“If you put it that way,” he answered with no hesitation, one hand hidden inside his pocket and for Chappy’s sake what is it with boys and their tendencies to hide their hands in their pockets? He shrugs, “Unless you don’t want it to be.”

“I don’t mind in particular,” Rukia wouldn’t lie, he is attractive. It was one date, which definitely won’t hurt anybody. And the way this orange haired random guy smirked at each of her peculiar habits that definitely defeats the norms of college life shows it maybe not so bad to actually agree with the casual agreement. “Can you make it to ten, though? I still have class by nine.”

“Deal.”

Maybe.

#ichiruki #ichiruki fanfiction #ichiruki fluff #ichiruki fanfic #bleach fanfiction #bleach fanfic #bleach fluff #ichiruki one-shot #anime #OTP Prompts #prompts #OTP AU #University AU #College AU #Dorm AU #IchiRuki AU

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cooloddball · 4 years

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DESTIEL AND COCKLES RANT

THIS IS A RANT ON ALL THINGS DESTIEL AND COCKLES

PS. I do not know how to make gifs and or use photos yet so feel free to add yours

I have said this before and I will say it again. I have been in this fandom for a month and I ship Destiel and Cockles anyone who has a problem with this then move along and/or if you are an anti and read this, keep your hateful comments to yourself.

That being said, I have read about almost all ships in the fandom but mostly Destiel, Cockles, Wincest, and J2. Through all the reading and discovery, I still have to say I ship Cockles and Destiel more than ever before. However, I have seen some things from the antis that did not sit well with me.

This is going to be a long post so brace yourself and it is mostly about the hate the antis (anti-cockles, anti-wives , and anti-Destiel Shippers spread). Also this is a rant so don’t mind me,

ON DESTIEL

The hate on Destiel is massive. Mostly this is from Bronlies who hate Cas like he is the anti-Christ, and the Wincest shippers.

Now I am not trying to rain on anyone’s parade but come on. Cas is Dean’s best friend. Whether you ship them romantically or not, it is canon that Cas Dean’s best friend. We have seen time and again how miserable Dean is every time Cas dies. Dea has also expressly stated that Cas is his best friend and even said they are better together; all three of them including Sam. He has called him his family. So why the hate? Chuck himself has said that he has rebuilt Cas more times than anyone.

Now, people who believe that it is better to ship Sam and Dean who are literally blood brother but it is not okay to ship Dean and Cas what is wrong with you? Is it okay for someone to fuck their brother and/or be in love with them? I mean come on.

Before I was even a shipper, I always looked forward to episodes that Cas was in. He brought a different dynamic to the show in a positive way. Yes, I love the brothers but Cas is just deifferent and all the sass he brings makes the show, at least to me 10 times better. Sue me.

People saying that JA would never be comfortable with Destine because he is a Christian. I mean, he can call Chuck a dick, call angels dicks, make deals with demons and all other unchristian things but kissing another man is where he draws the line? If he was such a Christian, why does he let another man straddle him on stage or want to kill God?

Someone once said that JA supports wincest. I saw the video and I get what he said is that whatever floats your boat or something like that. So why is it so hard for him when it comes to Destiel? I don’t understand this man. He is a paradox.

ON COCKLES

I have seen antis, mostly those who ship J2 throw shade at MC saying that JA doesn’t like him, he just tolerates him and everything they do is for PR. I have not once seen anyone say that JP doesn’t like MC. You know why? I believe they view MC as a threat to their J2 ship.

So I stumbledupon this antis blog who had a whole analysis (much like am doing here) on why JA cannot be a couple. Here are some that I remember from the top of my head:

1. That JA said that he thinks Matt Bomer is attractive.

2. That JA moved to Austin to be live next to JP.

3. That JA and MC have nothing in common being that JA plays golf and sings etc and that MC does woodwork, writes poetry and bicycle touring.

4. That JA is with JP hence no. 2.

5. That JA does not curse on stage but MC does.

6. That MC does not take acting seriously but JA does.

Now now now. This beats logic. All the above things I beg to differ with not because I am cockles shipper but it is just common sense.

Being with someone or rather being in love with someone does not mean any of the above things have to be true. Hear me out.

1. On finding Matt Bomer attractive. I have many celebrity crushes, there are also ordinary people that I find attractive. But then again, I have a boyfriend, who I am in love with; I have been with for six years. But he looks nothing like my celebrity crushes or the ordinary people I find attractive. Does that mean I am not in love with him? No. It means I have eyes and I can appreciate beauty and have a few fantasies but I chose to be with him because I love him. He also has other people he finds attractive that look nothing like me, does that mean he does not love me? I mean come on.

Oh the most hilarious thing is that the anti said you cannot compare Matt to MC since Matt is way attractive. I mean come on; they may not look alike but they both have dark hair, blue eyes. Seriously people! And MC is so handsome and adorable at the same time. Sometimes I feel like he looks better than JA and JP. Sue me.

2. On JA moving to Austin. Lol. This means that he went to live next to his best friend. I mean come on. I have moved to live next to my best friend (bff) who is married. Does that mean I am in love with her? Hell no! But I feel safer knowing that she is there for me.

Also people need to understand, MC and JA could be involved romantically or not (pick your poison) but you don’t need to be next to your lover to love them or be in a relationship with them. Lond distance relationships anyone? They have families and kids and other priorities. Just because you are in a relationship with someone does not necessarily mean you live together or evn in the same area. Distance makes the heart grow fonder and also they are where they are now because of other priorities in their lives. So, living together or in the same town doesn’t make you more or less in love.

3. On the issue of common interests. This made me laugh so hard. I mean comeon, People who are together do not need to share any interests. The diversity of their interests is probably what attracted them to each other. Also how can you say a poet and a singer have nothing in common? They are artists. MC can write poems that JA can sing. Oh also remember that video MC’s friend DM posted on Twitter where they did the whole bicycle touring in Germany? Uh huh? JA seemed to be interested in that a lot. So..

4. I could say a lot about JA being with Jp. This J2 being married and their wives being beards is the weirdest thing I have ever seen. Seriously, J2 tinhats have gone ahead to hate of D’s posts and call her names. Telling her to stop pretending that she is JA. It is laughable and not in a nice way, really. Can they just stop? Before I became a cockles shipper I watched J2 videos where they interact be it cons, red carpet moments or even gag reels. It is just different. All I see are two bros; one that is really playful like a little puppy and the other one trying to be the big brother. As for JA and MC, it is different, there are things that JA is comfortable when Mc does that he is not comfortable when JP does them. Neck kisses for a start.

Also most of the J2 tinhats evidence about J2 being real is rarely backed up by visual evidence and if there is any, it is usually from years ago. I am not hating on antis, just stating facts.

5. I mean, cursing on stage really? I curse all the time my bf doesn’t. Does that mean he doesn’t like me or love me? Hell to the Fucking No! Suck it!

6. On Mc not taking acting seriously. Yeah I can guess why he doesn’t. It is not his only priority unlike JA who has chosen it as a career path. From what I have seen, MC’s priorities include making the world a better place through charities, politics, and oh, he is also a writer. Oh so forgive him if he is not obsessed with acting. Besides JA says that he likes how he acts as Cas because it is not like anything he has seen from other guest stars that have come on the show. I mean not being serious about something does not mean that you are not good at it. Would he have lasted 11 seasons if he was not good at what he does?

There was also hate that JA is only around MC for PR and he actually hates him. There were some photos and gifs so the apparent hate. So, if he cannot stand him, why is there so much evidence of JA going to MC to give some love, Neck kisses, intimate IG posts, face caresses, ass smacks, calling him his baby dadfy, heart eyes, even when they don’t know that they are being filmed?

Also why is it during the Vegascon 2020 all JA did was bring up MC unnecessarily even when no one, absolutely nobody asked him to. Come on! stop the bs and admit that Cockles is the realest ship in the history of ships!!

ON THE WIVES

I swear bitches be crazy. How can you just hat someone for literally nothing? This is mostly from J2 tinhats at other J2 stans who do not ship J2 together romantically. I mean…comeon. You do not need to be a stan for the wives just because they are married to J2 but please stop with the madness.

I recently saw someone comment on various JA posts on IG asking why he is lying to the fans that he is with D when he is with JP. So many rude things have been said about the wives especially D that it breaks my heart.

Seiously? People have gone ahead even to say that she is with JA’s friend SC and that the twins are not JA’s they are SC’s since D and SC are ‘always’ hanging out together. My question is, so D is not supposed to hang out with their friends? And for Chuck’s sake, everyone can see that the twins especially the boy (idk their names, sorry) looks like JA’s twin. I mean come on people.

I believe that they hate D because she says how much she loves MC and that Cas is her favorite character and that they are also bitter that JA chose her and not them. Just my opinion, but what do I know. On JP and G. I don’t know much about them mostly because I do not follow either of them of IG or elsewhere but I have seen hate on G as well.

The antis have gone ahead to say that when JA said that he was hanging out with SC writing songs, that he was lying and that nothing was happening he was just trying to dampen the rumours. I wonder how they felt when the album by JA and Sc came out last year. Jokes on you haters. Bitches be crazy fr.

Oh, the antis also say that the same way JA looks at his wife is the same way he looks at MC. With contempt. I mean talk about hanging yourself with your own rope. What they are saying is, JA feels about his wife the same way he feels abouts MC. Aww! That is true love bitches.

If JA actually cannot stand MC, shouldn’t he have gotten him fired from the show or at least make sure he gets less screen time and that they don’t have any panels together being that JA is the star of the show and all. I mean Mark left and he was a major character to the plot so...

Also why would JA give and buy MC clothes if he hates him? Give him a ring, a bracelet? Huh? Explain it to me.

Oh, some anti also said that before every Cockles panel at JIBCON JA cries and has to be forced on stage by Daniella and JP has to give him a hug and that’s why he drinks a lot of apple juice. LOL. WTF? What do you say to such people. I cannot even..My question is, are we talking about the same Cockles panels that I have seen? Then JA deserves all the Oscars and Tony Awards for his impeccable acting skills when he is around MC. Must really hate him. *wink*

MY TWO CENTS ON COCKLES

I know JA gives off mixed actions about MC. But I think it is to confuse people like us, shippers. He does’t want to too out there so he tries so hard to be mean with his words. But his actions tell a different story. I mean, who gets a boner when their friend straddles them on stage and then goes ahead to post that chest to chest selfie on IG. That is the gayest thing I have ever seen.

Sharing clothes? I mean friends do share clothes but if it is like a daily thing. More than 20 articles of clothing exchanged between each other on various occasions even when they are apart does not make sense to me. And to make matters worse, JA does not deny it. One even had a tag on it. Lol. We are not children, we can see what is going on.

The 2014 DallasCon – Rob’s Birthday Party. WTF? Was all that between JA and MC? Why did he he swallow and react like that when he saw MC’s bare abdomen? Who does that? Also the looks when MC was leaving the stage. Come on.

Also what was up with the” I love you from the bottom of my heart” at the MTV top 10 in 2010.

The wife is my rock but I am glad to have some pebbles in my life.

Truth is, JA could post a video of him balls deep in MC and the antis could say that somehow MC manipulated JA to post it for PR.

People need to leave MC alone, he ie a human being who has made mistakes, JA and JP have too and I don’t see the antis hating on them. The double Standard s FOH.

I could write about this forever but the truth is JA loves MC, and D and V know that they love each other. All their friends know including JP and other castmates. I believe they know it is more than just friends and the antis can’t stand it because they also know it to be true.

JA LOVES MC. JP LOVES MC. J2M LOVE EACH OTHER. J2 LOVE THEIR WIVES. STOP THE HATE!!

I am not done but I am done for now. I could be here forever writing about this if I do not stop.

#destiel #cockles #cockles is real #cockles csi #stop the hate #antis are mean

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gaylotusthatexists · 4 years

Text

Tomorrow Will Come

CHAPTER ONE

fandom: black friday

pairings: ethan/lex

words: 1583

trigger warnings: swearing, abuse/neglectful household

All Lex wants is to get out of Hatchetfield, to get to California where she and her sister can start a new life. But navigating her current life in Hatchetfield is proving to be more difficult that it seems. However, returning to school after having taken a year off, she meets a boy who just might change that.

an: me? writing somethings other than sanders sides? yeah, never thought i'd see the day either. this is a prequal to black friday that i'm writing because ethan is making me sad and he (plus lex and hannah) deserved better. also i'm lowkey obsessed with black friday rn so like what are you expecting. anyway, hope y'all enjoy this?

next chapter | ao3

The morning sun warmed her skin as she walked down the street, wishing that she was anywhere else. California - that's where she wanted to be. Away from Hatchetfield, away from her mom, away from this life.

But she couldn't leave. Not yet. This was her first day back at school, the first day of her trying to get her shit back together. If she could just get through this year, pass her exams and get some sort of qualifications, she could get a job and save up and soon enough she would be out of here. Just her and Hannah, starting a brand new life.

"Okay, Banana, here we are," Lex said, spinning ninety degrees and letting go of her little sisters hand. "Just head on through that gate-"

"Don't leave."

Lex sighed and closed her eyes. "Hannah-"

"Don't leave."

She crouched down so that she was eye level with Hannah and attempted to smile, but she was afraid it came off as more passive aggressive. "You need to go to school, and so do I. So just head on through the gate, I'm sure your friends are waiting on the other side."

Hannah looked down.

"I'll be back later," Lex promised. "As soon as school has ended for you, I'll be standing right here to take you home, okay?"

Hannah kept her eyes fixed on the ground. "Right here?"

"Right here," Lex confirmed. "As soon as you leave the gate."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

Hannah's head tilted up, looking through the school gates. "What if it's bad?"

Lex shook her head. "It won't be bad. You'll have fun. You like school, remember?"

"I liked school," Hannah said.

"So what's different now?" Lex asked.

Hannah didn't respond.

"See? There's nothing to be afraid off." Lex rose back up, now looking down at Hannah who still wouldn't budge. "Hey, how about after school we go to the bakery? I'll get you one of those cakes that you love."

Hannah glanced up. "The yellow icing?"

Lex smiled. "The yellow icing. If you make it though the school day, I'll get you one. As a treat."

Hannah smiled back. "Okay."

"Then it's settled!" Lex stood back. "I'll see you after school, okay?"

"Right here?"

"Right here."

"Goodbye."

Hannah turned and walked through the gates, and Lex let out a sigh of relief. She stayed for a moment longer, watching Hannah until she entered the building, just to be sure that she got there alright. When Lex was certain that her sister was safe, she turned and continued on her journey to her own school, a couple streets over.

She silently cursed herself for promising to buy Hannah that cake, having no idea where she would get the money from. There wasn't really anyone at school who'd lend her a couple dollars, but theft wasn't really off the table...

Shut up, she told herself. Obviously theft is off the table. She couldn't get into too much trouble this year. Not after the trainwreck that last year was. She just needed to make her way through high school, secure a good enough job, and get out of this town.

She'd find the money somewhere. She must have had a few coins lying in the bottom of her backpack - she could check later at school. And if not, she could always cut back on lunch. She'd snatched a couple dollars off the table before she left the house, whilst her mom was still asleep, so that she'd have a little money to spend on lunch - she'd already used up the rest of their food for Hannah's lunch. It wasn't as if Lex needed to eat, though. She'd be fine.

But of course, if she was really desperate, maybe she'd be able to make the workers at the bakery pity her. She'd done that act a little more times than she probably should have, and it didn't always work but it wasn't as if she didn't have a shot. Maybe she'd get lucky and be served by an employee that didn't want to murder her.

Lex reached her own school far too soon for her liking. Part of her wanted to carry on walking around the back of the school for a cigarette before classes started, but she stopped herself, because this was the year that she'd be responsible. If not for her sake, then at least for Hannah's. Besides, she didn't have any on her - deliberately, as she'd known that it would be far too tempting if she did.

She walked through the gates and towards the building, eyes locked on the ground and hands in her pockets, trying her best not to draw any attention. People were probably wondering what she was doing back, what she was doing last year. Or maybe people had already forgotten about her, maybe nobody really cared about her presence at the school - that seemed to be the far more likely option, the more she thought about it.

Somebody shoved past her shoulders in the hallway, causing her to stumble to the side and almost fall over it. After regaining her balance, Lex glared at the culprit. "Hey, watch it, asshole!" she shouted.

The culprit turned around and looked at her, a mixture of concern, regret, and fear swirling in his eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Fuck off!" Lex turned around and began walked in the opposite direction, not really caring about what the guy had to say for himself. She didn't want to start a fight, not yet. Not so early in the school year.

Just make it past today, she told herself, turning a corner to head round the long way to class.

When she reached her classroom, she continued with her eyes locked on the ground, and found a seat at the back window. Slumping down in her chair, she looked out across the field, realising that she didn't miss this at all.

It's just this year, she kept reminding herself. Then California.

Somebody sat down next to her and she groaned. "Do I know you?"

Placing his bag under the table, the guy replied, "We just met."

She turned her head towards him, confused before she realised who it was. "Oh, God. Seriously?" It was that guy, the one who had quite literally bumped into her.

"I just wanted to apologise," he said. "Really, I didn't mean to push you."

Lex rolled her eyes. "Sure you didn't."

"I'm telling the truth." He drummed his fingers on the table. "I'm really sorry."

"Well." She closed her eyes. "Now that you've apologised or whatever, you can go and sit with your friends and leave me the fuck alone."

He blinked. "I was actually-"

"Okay, class, settle down," the teacher said, walking into the classroom. He began to take the register and teach his lesson, so the guy didn't budge.

Lex supposed that meant she was stuck with him for the rest of the school year. Perfect. Just perfect.

She spent the first lesson not really paying attention and instead stealing glances at him every now and again. He had dark brown, curled hair, shaven a little at the back, and wore a worn-down black leather jacket. He seemed to be concentrating very hard on the lesson, although every now and then he'd glance at Lex and she would quickly look away.

When the lesson ended, Lex stood up and grabbed her bag, attempting to exit the classroom before he could talk to her again. She wasn't planning on making any new friends this year. She didn't have time for that, not between desperately trying to pass her classes and taking care of her sister. For now, she kept her head down and ignored anyone who tried to slide into her life.

She didn't meet that guy again until last period, in Mr Houston's class. He approached her again and spent the whole lesson by her side, with Lex silently planning the best way to murder him.

"Why are you talking to me?" she finally asked him, when Mr Houston set them off on a task.

He frowned. "Why wouldn't I talk to you?"

"I don't know you," she said. "We don't know each other."

"Oh. Well-" He reached out a hand. "I'm Ethan Green."

She rolled her eyes. "Knowing your name doesn't mean that I know you."

"How are you supposed to get to know me if we don't talk, then?"

Lex groaned. "Is it so hard to understand that I don't really want to talk to anybody?"

Ethan hummed. "You weren't here last year, were you?"

She shook her head. "Obviously not."

"Did you just transfer here?" Ethan asked.

"No." She sighed. "Well, not really. I didn't come in last year, but I was here the year before that."

"Why?"

"You ask a lot of questions that really aren't any of your business."

"I'm just curious," he defended. "You seem like a nice enough person."

Lex laughed.

"What's funny about that?"

She sighed. "I think literally everybody else in here would disagree with that."

The bell rang.

Lex smirked. "Well, I'd say it's been nice, but it really hasn't." She grabbed her bag again and began to walk out, but Ethan still ran to catch up with her.

"Do I get a name yet?"

"Nope," she said, popping the 'p' and turning the corner. Ethan seemed to stop following her after that, and she let out a sigh of relief.

One day of school done. One day closer to California.

thank you for reading! imma try to get the next chapter out soon (maybe at the weekend? idk.) if you want to be tagged when that happens, let me know :)

#tomorrow will come #black friday #black friday starkid #black friday spoilers #black friday fanfic #starkid fanfic #ethan/lex #ethan green #lex foster #hannah foster #my fanfic #my writing

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fanficaficionado · 3 years

Text

okay, i know i said i would be starting with things i knew and loved. hell, i even had a fic from the fandom im currently ass-deep in all lined up!! but then i procrastinated, and i lost motivation, got distracted by my scheduled post-holiday shutdown, and something else finally kicked my ass into gear. so this blog's first true introduction to the world will not, in fact, be a post where i worship the very ground my favorite fic writers walk upon.

no, today we are talking about Ascent into Madness by cesium_sheep

((spoilers, obviously))

Now im going to preface this by saying that this criticism is subjective and based in my opinion. I did genuinely enjoy this story, and i did not at any point feel the urge to launch myself into the sun with nothing but the pure force of my rage, causing the sun to explode and consume planet earth in a scorching hell-blast and decimating all life on our tiny little space rock, which even some of my favorites are guilty of because in some stories characters just love to waffle about ((especially in my preferred reading material which puts romance at a very significant focus)). This story just isn't for me.

I'm going to explain why, and believe me when i say i am being as gentle as i physically can with this story because it is not objectively offensive to my very being, It's a good read and setting aside the problems i have with it i enjoyed it.

I keep repeating that i don't hate this story because i do not want to be accused of baseless hate, not because of reputation or anything but because being accused of something i know i didn't do sets off the same sensation that i get from rubbing my fingernails on egg cartons, the one of the back of my brain being assaulted by the mayonnaise-coated fingers of satan himself. Damn i should really get to the criticism before this just becomes an in depth description of my very soul's adverse reaction to the cream in queen anne chocolate cherries.

anyways.

The thing about this story is that, to me, it feels.. unfinished. Or at the very least like it wandered off its intended course. It leaves me with a feeling of mild dissatisfaction and the taste of confusion in my mouth. I think this problem is best summarized by the fact that, in the first chapter, it is set up that rose is in some sort of hospital, and that dave thinks she is in the grasp of some delusion, and the second chapter sets up the retroactive explanation for how it got to this point. See, what i expected was to be caught up to that point in the story, reach that point in time again, and then progress from there.

But that first chapter?? With the hospital, the delusions, the brick through the window with the radio attached?? Never brought up again, not even once. It is completely discarded and never even thought about. The story even stops trying to set up that scene after a certain point.

To put it in homestuck terms, because i'm a loser, a time player, and come on we're talking about a homestuck fic here you know i have to do this, it feels like we started a loop and then branched off the alpha timeline so completely we aren't even a part of the metaphorical timeline-tree anymore. It nags at my brain man, it's one of the main things that fuelled my motivation in writing this. It feels lost and wandering and it confuses me in a bone deep sorta way.

The second thing that gets to me is the complete lack of information presented about what, exactly, the fuck is going on. I have no idea how we got from point A to point B, not just because it completely disconnects from point A not even halfway through, but also because there's a lot of plot threads thrown in haphazardly and then never extended upon. There's a mention of jake and john's respective guardians knowing something about the story's big bad and all the mystical bullshit that follows along behind him, but that is never followed up on even a little. No one questions why they know, despite this information being so rare that literally only two families and a single group of aliens seem to have access to it. It just is a thing and then whoops, hand musta slipped because that bad boy is out the window and is facing the combined nonexistent mercy of gravity and this ten story drop.

The main plot has this same problem, in feeling like you get just enough info to keep it going forward. There's a sword in rose's umbrella basket or whatever the hell it's called, and it's implied a future dave put it there for his past self, but do we get confirmation that it was him?? Do we see that loop completed?? No, it is just used as a driving force for rose to try and push the fact that dave's got Timey powers. It feels like i'm being pulled by the hand through this story because it only gives just barely enough information to keep this crazy train rolling and then goes so far as to leave fucking time loops hanging there incomplete which okay i might be getting a little peeved about that but can you blame me?? Can you really blame me at all??

Maybe i am judging the plot too harshly, after all i was forewarned not to read for the plot in the summary because it's pretty slow and wandering. So let's get into something else then, yes?? Let's hop to the relationships.

The relationships, too, fall prey to this complete lack of any meaningful focus on any piece of information ever. I'd swear the writer was allergic if that didn't seem too harsh a description. It's a whole lot of telling without any showing, a cardinal sin in writing. We get a conversation with kanaya that doesn't suffer the disconnect from all things that the rest of the story seems haunted by. It's actually really a neat little conversation and i find it kind of wholesome how kanaya talks about rose and i personally think this interaction to be entirely too short. Then kanaya mentions karkat and apparently there's some of davekat's standard romantic tension happening off-screen because dave starts to get flustered and ponders what that means. And once again a plot thread is thrown to the winds because we never get another whiff of it.

Actually on the topic of davekat, dave just naturally gravitates to karkat and then they're stuck together like glue, so stuck in fact that dave dies for karkat because dave apparently forgets the golden rule of "If you have time to jump in front of someone then you have time to push them out of the way" and then ignores the added bit i spitefully wrote on the ancient stone tablet of Things That Make Sense in neon orange sharpie that says "Especially if you have time to have a discussion about your choices with an ambiguously-dead girl. Pull your thumb out of your ass, dave, nobody has to die here, magic option number three was not the one you picked."

Of course, this is a fanfiction, these are characters i already know. I know how these characters would interact, i know how their relationship develops in-canon and i know that given the chance these fuckers become goddamn inseparable. But that doesn't excuse the fact that it is all tell and no show, we dont see how it gets from "You're one of the only familiar faces in a group of strangers and i am not about to start interacting with new people unless i have to" to "Here let me die heroically for you and then be revived for no explainable reason besides Because The Wizard Of God Says So." I have no reason to be invested in this or even give a half-ounce shit despite it literally becoming something that the climax hinges on. And then rose and kanaya are just inexplicably,, together?? Right at the end?? And while i am happy that the lesbians get to be in love everything is off screen and nothing is ever explained, not even like one time, and god it's just so confusing. I am so confused.

But again, maybe i'm being unfair, once again the very tags of this fic are telling me that the relationships are not the focus and only really tagged so people can filter it out. I suppose i should judge the characters, then.

From what i remember there are sixteen characters, excluding ((who i believe to be, as it is once again not explained or explicitly stated to be)) caliborn at the end, with speaking roles. Five of those characters retain any narrative relevance for more than a nanosecond. A good chunk of the trolls arent even mentioned by name, with eridan and i think sollux being mentioned, and who i think to be sollux speaks when rose and dave are first brought to the trolls' apartment but again, the fog of uncertainty clouds all things and i don't have my handy dandy leafblower on me to airblast that shit out of my way. Of the five characters with any focus on them, two are relegated to the role of supporting character, with karkat joining that number more often than not. That leaves us with dave and rose, who are ultimately as a whole unaffected by their experiences. They do not learn anything, they do not grow or change. Sure rose freaks out about her perception of reality, but that falls flat because it's more tell and no show again. Dave freaks out, as he rightfully should in this situation, but there is no arc. There is no significant change in anything but moving toward the boss fight with the big baddie.

There aren't any particularly interesting interactions between these characters, either, i cannot recall one time in which i laughed, or felt much of anything really. They all fall into a state of Existing while also feeling like they aren't doing a whole lot. It's more noticeable in retrospect but these characters just Do Not feel alive, they seem incredibly flat at times and it's hard to notice while you're reading but looking back it stands out so painfully and it makes me very sad.

If i'm not supposed to read for the plot, and i'm not supposed to read for the relationships, and i can't read for the characters, then what is this story meant to be read for?? The only other thing i can think of is the mystery and sorry pal, but that's a plot, which we have already established doesn't really have a whole lot going for it because while your mystery sure is there it is currently stinking up that rug you shoved half the answers under because those mysteries aren't the ones you want to focus on.

Is it simply meant to pass the time?? Is there no deeper purpose besides keeping yourself entertained as the hours tick by?? Because if so, it at least accomplished that. Despite its faults, it kept my attention for the entire fifty one chapters, and it passed my time.

There are other nitpicks i have, but that's more based around the writing style on a more technical level. The chapters are too short for my personal taste, and there are far too many cliffhangers, these things i will not condemn as the writer gave a good reason for the latter and obviously no writer is obligated to churn out 2,500 words per chapter unless they damn well want to.

Ultimately, this story is neither good nor bad. It is straightforward in that it burns any other plot threads besides the main one on the sacrificial alter of The Writer Does What The Writer Wants, it's a bit too ambiguous and under-explained for my tastes, but there is nothing egregiously offensive in it. It is a story that exists. I wouldn't read it again, but i wouldn't not read it again, and i don't even come close to regretting the time i spent reading it ((outside of the fact that it is currently almost nine am and i haven't slept but that one is my own fault)).

I scrolled passed this story in its beginnings, assuming it would not be particularly mindblowing, and now that i've read it i know that i was entirely correct. Read it if you want, or don't, just don't go in expecting something life changing. I suggest picking out a spot on your schedule where you have nothing to do and will no doubt be bored out of your mind. I sincerely doubt you'll regret it.

#homestuck #homestuck fanfic #fanfiction #god what else do i even tag this as. fuckin..#fanfiction critique #????#i feel like a child #i am but a little boy lost in the deep dark woods and i have no idea where i am going #there is no map for this shit #also as i write this tag it is now 9:52 am #a whole hour after i finished writing this monstrosity #because editing this stuff to make it somewhat coherent is a task and a half #i ramble worse than any homestuck character and i have proof too. go ahead. challenge me. i dare you. i know im right #i don't know why or how i got to the bit about queen anne chocolate cherries but i think its funny so fuck it its staying in #again if the author of this fic somehow comes across this and doesn't want this shit on my blog or wants to be tagged like let me know plea #i am trying desperately to not step on any toes or hearts here but i was not Raised so if i fuck up please just tell me #i dont wanna be publicly hung via tumblr anon attacks and callout posts that are poorly made at best and wildly inaccurate at worst #anyways thanks for reading i guess i have no idea how to tie this shit off and it Shows lol #hope i did okay #fuck it im not rereading this anymore im sending it out into the world #off you go little timmy suck it up and face the judgement of strangers

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galactic-academia · 4 years

Text

I Need Somebody, Help

@korea-fashion-xx I’m sorry it took me so long, but here it is, I hope you will enjoy it and thanks for your request <3

Rating: G

Category: F/M

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Relationship: Jim Moriarty/Female Reader

Tags: Fluff, Light Angst, Getting Together, Moriarty Is Cute, Sherlock Is A Good Bro.

Words: 1930

Summary: Previously on “Help”: “You were saying we’re not enemies anymore because your crazy sister forced me to be a monster.” “Exact. So, Y/N, Moriarty isn’t really the monster, you see? I have to help him.” “And how will you do that?” “With your help.” Y/N, at the behest of Sherlock, had reluctantly helped Moriarty to escape from Saint-Bart’ rooftop. Then, she had – still reluctantly – agreed to keep him company...

Notes: This is a sequel to “Help”, reading the summary above is enough to understand the story, but I hope reading the full sotry is more enjoyable by just a few lines about it... ;-) I’m not a native, please, forgive my mistakes. Picture is not mine. I hope you’ll enjoy it <3

Masterpost | Ask | Guidelines | Sherlock (BBC) masterlist | Because I need someone, Help Masterlist

Y/N was staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, lips pursed. She had fucked up and she knew it. She knew it very well now. That night, however…

When Y/N had agreed to help Moriarty escaping from Saint-Bart, she didn’t know what was waiting for her. She didn’t know she would have to babysit the former Sherlock’s Nemesis. But she had had to; before leaving for challenging the laws of gravity, the Detective had made Moriarty swear to not leave the house until he tells him to. How he was supposed to eat and to live decently without any money and without going out for grocery shopping hadn’t made part of the plan. Well, even geniuses couldn’t think about everything while put under big pressure, what can I say?

So Y/N had been forced to visit the former criminal-or-not at least twice a week to feed him and keep the man from going insane. At first, she had been the one threatening of going insane: she had a lot of other things to do than taking care of and illustrious and dangerous stranger! She had a job, she had friends, she had a guinea pig which she already had to take care of, thank you very much! But the more time passed, the more Y/N was starting to like the visits she paid to Jim. The man was funny, quite kind, very clever and always so happy to see her… Twice a week became every other day, Y/N was having tea with Jim, they talked about the news, about what facts around the world may or may not be Sherlock’s activity, about the movie BBC had aired earlier this week… Then every other day became every day, Jim started cooking for Y/N from time to time, inviting her to spend the evening with him, and Y/N started to bring DVD to Jim. They ended up watching them together, when they didn’t just make fun of the actors, their actor plays or the plot itself, and even the three at once. Y/N even showed some pictures of Hilary, her guinea pig, to Jim, no need to say he just fell in love with the little animal as soon as his eyes had been on it. It had been very difficult to believe Y/N once had had to take him out of a mortuary bag, two years ago…

And then, the big day was here. Y/N was used to receive messages from Jim several times a day, at random; she was currently cleaning Hilary’s cage when she heard her phone going crazy. She hastily but carefully put the guinea pig back in her nest before looking for what had made her phone hysterical.

Y/N! He just came! - JM

I’m free! - JM

Actually, no, I’m far from free, but I can go out without risking my life! - JM

You have to come over! - JM

I’m taking you out to the restaurant, it’s my threat! - JM

*treat, not threat…- JM

I hope you’re not driving. Oops. -JM

Y/N beamed to the screen; she was so relieved! Sherlock was alive and had come to free Jim, that meant he soon would be able to start a new life and that was wonderful. And he wanted to take her to the restaurant to celebrate! Yes, that would hardly be the first time Y/N would have a meal with Jim, but this time was special. This time was official. This time was in another context. And Y/N couldn’t help blushing madly while picturing the lovely genius in a tux instead of the worn jeans he had had to wear these past two years. But nobody had talked about a tux or a fancy restaurant. Nope.

But, after picking Jim up and arguing during almost half an hour because he wanted to drive – he knew the address and Y/N didn’t that’s it, it would be easier to just drive himself than indicating her the way! Give him these goddamn keys Y/N! – they indeed arrived at a fancy restaurant after agreeing to take a cab, so no one would drive. And… Oh, what a night! Jim just seemed to want to give Y/N the Full Monty; pulling and pushing her chair, classy wine, flowers, glowing smiles, light chattering, little touches to her hand now and there… Of course, he did pay the bill. Of course, Y/N did want to argue about that, but she had been warned, it was his treat. Of course, Jim asked to their second cab of the night to drop Y/N first and, of course, he went out of the cab – after paying the driver and starting another argument with Y/N about this – to wish her a good night. They kissed. At first, just a little peck on the lips because they were quite tipsy and a little high on happiness; then some more chaste little kisses because, well, why not? That was fun. That felt right. And, finally, losing their patience, good night kisses became a real make out session in front of Y/N’s door. Did it lead to something more? It could have, but, as for the rest of the evening, Jim had been a real gentleman and, after one (some) last kiss (kisses) he just left, wishing Y/N to make sweet dreams.

It had been a wonderful, gorgeous, absolutely perfect night. Then it had been a hell of a morning. Y/N was remembering everything. Every sweet word, every little smile, every light touch, every tiny peck and every heated kiss. And she recognized this feeling making her ribcage a little too tight, making her stomach fluttering each time she was thinking about him. This was love. F*ck… This couldn’t happen. Jim was a criminal, a damn charming and lovely one, but still a criminal! And his life would start to become a real mess now that Sherlock was back, even if he was willing to help Jim in every way he would be able to. It would be courts, maybe prison or evasion again and it already made Y/N ill; not because she wasn’t willing to follow and help him in every deep shit he would be involve, but because she knew he didn’t deserve this, even if he was a criminal. She didn’t know the murderer; she knew the man who was cooing over pictures of a guinea pig. He made big, bad mistakes, ok, but his information had allowed Sherlock to tear the biggest European criminal network down, that should count for something, right? Worse than all these ethical considerations, Y/N was afraid to lose Jim’s friendship. She was afraid of taking him away with unrequited feelings. After this perfect night, after the whole dining and wining thing, after the making out session. Women can be quite thick sometimes, believe me, I’m one.

Since Jim was free to, at least, go for his grocery shopping by himself without putting his life in danger while waiting for a penal hell to fall on him, Y/N decided she was not needed anymore: she stopped coming to Jim’s altogether. She was far too afraid of his potential reactions to last night. When he asked if Y/N was coming, she just answered that she couldn’t, sorry. A few days later, without any news about Y/N, Jim tried to phone her and, after having been dropped on his voice mail, sent a text asking if everything was alright. The answer came a few hours later: “Yes, thx”. Y/N never picked her phone up and stopped answering his texts after that. So much for not losing Jim’s friendship...

After a month of silence, this is how Y/N found herself staring at the ceiling og her bedroom, lips pursed and certain to have fucked everything up. She would have liked to be able to say she regretted that evening with Jim and the few kisses they have exchanged, it would have been far simpler, but she didn’t. She absolutely didn’t. What she regretted, on the other hand, was how she had handeled the situation afterwards. She should have gone to Jim’s and aksed him to talk about their relationship; maybe he would have asked Y/N out? He would; Y/N was sure he would. What had she done?

The doorbell made her emerge out of her regrets; Y/N dragged herself to the door and peek by the peephole. A very pissed off Sherlock was waiting on her mat.

“Open, please, Y/N, I know you’re here.”

Crap. She obeyed and, as soon as the door was open, Sherlock made a step to the side to reveal Jim, who was hiding behind him. Jim, who was handcuffed and freshly out of a police car which was waiting for him.

“Y/N! Give me a minute, please!”

“I... But... I...”

“I would let him talk, if I were you, I won’t be able to hold the policemen back for ver long” Sherlock said, before taking a few steps towards said policemen who already looked quite annoyed.

“Listen to me, please, Y/N...”

“Ok, yes, what...” Y/N was about to say what do you want but it seemed a very harsh thing to say to somebody who did nothing wrong... Well... In the context... “What can I do for you?”

Jim went from pleading to angry in a matter of seconds, it would have been scary if Y/N didn’t know better. He was hurt.

“What you can... Oh my GOD! You can’t keep pretending it didn’t happen, cause guess what?! It did! I kissed you, on this very mat, in front of this very door. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen, ok? If you never want to see me again, it’s alright, I’ll go and you’ll never hear about me again, I swear, but, at least, I’ll be able to remember these kisses. What do you want? Do you want me to disappear?”

“I... No! I didn’t - I didn’t want to destroy our friendship...”

“Our friendship? Our friendship?! We’re not just friends and you f*cking know it!”

“What?!”

“I don’t want to be your friend! For Gad sake, Y/N, I love you!”

“I’m really sorry to interrupt, guys, but you need to worry...” Sherlock was, indeed, starting to run out of ideas to entertain the cops. The fact that Y/N was looking at Jim cross eyed and mouth open didn’t help the matter at all.

“Y/N... As you can see, I’m quite on a rush right now”, to underline the urgency, he made the chain of his handcuff jiggle, “so hum... I have to make it cheesy and to the point: will you go on a real date with me when all this mess will be over? Will you be my girlfriend?”

Y/N was astounded, but she had understood the main theme: date, girlfriend, cheesy and to the point. So, as an answer, she kissed Jim, deeply. When she pulled apart to breath, he smiled soflty at her “That must mean yes.”

If you would have said to Sherlock that, one day, he would promise to Moriarty’s girlfriend that he would bring him back to her as soon as possible, he wouldn’t have believed it. But that’s what he did, not only he did promise, but he also delivered said promise. Don’t worry about Y/N and Jim Moriarty, they have all the help they might need.

***

Thanks for reading <3

#sherlock #sherlock imagine #Jim Moriarty #jim moriarty x reader #jim moriarty x you #andrew scott

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apparitionism · 4 years

Text

Hark

A merry early Gift Exchange to @kla1991, whose not-so-secret Santa I am this year. This is the first part of a story set somewhat in-universe: there’s no season 5 (what could that even be?), and only the first ep of season 4—basically, time wound back to right before the Warehouse exploded in Stand, which aired on Oct. 3, so the Christmas during which this story is set is happening less than three months after that momentous occurrence. I’m postulating that Helena became an agent again, and there was no Artie/Father Data business. (Oh, and Steve didn’t die, so no metronome. I refuse to force Helena through witnessing anyone being brought back non-nefariously from the dead.) I’ll do my best to post the concluding part(s) by New Year’s Day—no promises on that, but I’ll finish as soon as apparitionally possible. Anyway, happy holidays to everyone. Continuing to participate with you all in this wondrous exercise in fandom is a blessing in every tradition, and I’m profoundly grateful.

Hark

“Your upstart nation stole ‘God Save the Queen’!” Helena seethed at Myka.

For whom “upstart nation” was really too much. “Nobody owns that melody!” she fumed, reciprocally, at Helena. “You can’t steal something nobody owns, our version is perfectly valid, and anyway I’m pretty sure other countries stole it too. Look it up!”

“I’m not in other countries. You look it up.”

“I’m driving! Since when are you such a fan of the monarchy anyway?”

“Stop questioning my patriotism!”

“I couldn’t care less about your patriotism!”

“You brought up citizenship!”

“Because you don’t have any!” Myka had genuinely thought they would be having an intellectual conversation, one about documentation and—

“I did at birth!” Helena raged, and then she scowl-sang, “God save our gra-cious Queen.”

This gave Myka pause. She reflected that she had actually never heard Helena sing before. She then concluded that she never wanted to hear Helena sing again... because Helena could not sing.

However: “My country ’tis of thee,” Myka sang back, frustrated. It was the only reason she herself would ever have sung, because—

“You can’t sing,” Helena informed her, in the tone of a doctor trying to conceal joy at having to report that the patient would not recover.

“Neither can you,” Myka informed back, aiming for straightforward “snide.”

“And I never want to hear you sing again,” Helena continued.

All Myka could come up with in response to that was an inadequate “Ditto.”

Helena sniffed. “You just wanted the last word.”

Myka pointedly let Helena have that last word. To make her stew in it. In the ensuing silence, she continued to drive. On this last leg home from a retrieval, late on Christmas Eve—their very first Christmas Eve—the air between them was frostier than the South Dakota winter outside the car could ever dream of matching.

She was under no illusion that Helena cared at all about anybody saving the Queen, and she herself, while reasonably patriotic on the American side of things, hadn’t sung her way through that song since her childhood. She knew this dispute was ridiculous, and she suspected Helena knew it too. She suspected also that they both understood they were developing a pattern: A period of calm—a deepening of accord—that would sooner or later, particularly in the adrenalin-ebb aftermath of a dangerous retrieval, dissipate into some minimally motivated squabble, the respective sides of which they entrenched themselves into with such commitment that it seemed there could never be an unentrenching.

An early instance: Myka had threatened to storm out of their shared hotel room because Helena had mulishly refused to concede that it had been foolish to open a bottle of mini-bar water for which they would be charged five dollars.

“Go right ahead,” Helena had “suggested,” so Myka did.

In the lobby, she’d run into Pete, who wasn’t storming anywhere, just looking for free snacks. “See?” Myka demanded of him. “Like a normal person.”

“If you were normal, you wouldn’t be out here with me. ’Cause you’ve got a hot girl in a hotel room, and I know things got a little uh-oh chasing that guy today, but you’re both still in one piece.”

“Maybe not for long.”

“You volunteered for this.”

“No I didn’t. Artie said ‘Pete, Myka, Helena, get on a plane for Montgomery, Alabama,’ and so we—”

“You know that isn’t the ‘this’ I meant.”

Myka did. But she hadn’t volunteered for that “this” either. Nothing about her response to Helena was voluntary. Nothing about it had ever been voluntary.

“Fights and all,” Pete added. “After the thing”—he always called the barely averted explosion of the Warehouse “the thing,” and so did Claudia—“you could’ve let her leave. You could’ve made her leave. She would have done anything you said.”

“Not anything,” Myka said, to be contrary.

“Maybe you don’t remember how she’d hardly even sit in a chair without your say-so. Oh, but wait, I think I know somebody who remembers everything, some tall lady with a lot of hair, name rhymes with Opelika... hey, that’s you!”

“Shut up. It wasn’t... that simple.”

“It is now.”

She crossed her arms at him.

He sighed. “Lemme show you: ‘Sorry, baby,’” he said in his “Myka” voice, which was terrible. “Me too, darling,” he then said in his “Helena” voice, which was even worse. As himself, he finished, “It’s like you’ve never been in a relationship.”

In a conversation in which Pete had said several annoyingly true things, that one was the most annoyingly true. But: “It’s like,” she conceded, and he slapped the side of her head, very gently.

“Hot girl hotel room,” he said.

When Myka went back to that hotel room, the hot girl said, “I’m sorry,” as if she’d received the same instructions from Pete. “I was precipitately thirsty.”

“I’m sorry too,” Myka told her. “I was precipitately miserly.”

Myka kissed the hot girl, the hot girl kissed back, and they fumbled their way to fine.

Until the next trivial-yet-entrenched tiff... because apparently, peace was for normal people.

Normal people. When Myka and Helena finally made it back to the B&B, Leena, Claudia, and Steve were doing reasonably convincing “normal” impressions: drinking hot chocolate, eating cookies, and playing board games. They seemed to be playing all the board games; Leena was replacing the lid on Monopoly, which she set aside, reaching for the next box in a towering stack. “Chef’s-kiss timing,” Claudia told them. “I just bankrupted these two pathetic poser slumlords, and we’re about to start Sorry. It’s funner with four, so siddown, and you two can be a team.”

“Or not,” Myka said, glancing at Helena, who glanced back and gave a definitely not yet inhale-exhale. “Why isn’t Pete playing?”

“We’re supposed to tell you it’s because he’s doing some last-minute Christmas shopping,” Steve said.

Myka was about to ask, “This late at night?” but Claudia supplied, “Except it’s really that he goofed off today and didn’t finish inventory and thought he’d get away with it but then Artie called and yelled at him.”

“And you left him alone to keep working on it? It’s the night before Christmas, and—”

Claudia waved her hands. “And all through the Warehouse, not a creature was stirring, I swear.”

“Besides,” Leena added, “he’s a grown man.”

“Who always ruins Christmas!” said Myka.

“Always almost ruins Christmas,” Claudia corrected.

Myka demanded, “Is there anything about me that says ‘I like a close call’?”

All eyes turned to Helena, then back to Myka.

Of course Helena had been part of the closest of calls, and Myka hadn’t liked it at all: nothing but the outcome. The Warehouse, the saving of it, yes, the thing—but the real outcome had been the aftermath at the B&B.

That outcome was real, but it was also a dream, one that Myka had dreamed more often than she would ever have confessed to pondering in her heart, this dream of being alone with a present Helena, no disastrous endpoint looming. The dream-logic of it: I can touch her? And Myka put a hand to Helena’s elbow. Reached and did that. Helena looked at the hand, the elbow. She looked in Myka’s eyes then and said, “Don’t spare my feelings.”

Feelings? Are you really you in your skin, Myka wanted to ask. Is this your elbow. Instead, because she needed to know, she murmured, “What do you want.”

Helena didn’t say words, but she made a noise that evolution had found fit to preserve from a deep, animal past, a guttural push of sound through the throat-column: it told Myka everything. Told Myka: “Everything.”

No speaking then but by bodies, a language of desperation and culmination. Helena had a mouth that could be met by Myka’s own, clothes that could be removed to reveal a palpable body, with every response of that body real under Myka’s hands. Myka held her eyes closed for much of that night, lest sight confuse her about presence and its proof, lest she fail to attend to what her eyes could never offer: The fleshy heaviness of a tongue in response to her own. The soft give of a thigh interior under her insistent thumb. The steady pressure of a body that pushed back. No empty air, no absence; only presence.

No question marks intruded on their immediate intimacy, their immeasurable, embodied relief. Two days prior, Helena had been a sacrificeable hologram, but all at once she was Myka’s living, breathing, at-last lover. All destined... like meeting at gunpoint.

That night precipitated a fast fall into full couplehood, with seemingly little conscious choice on either of their parts. As inevitable as the gunpoint meetings, the wrenching betrayals, even the miraculous redemption.

But nothing good can possibly be so simple, Myka told herself. Or so inevitable.

“Is that what you believe?” Myka imagined Helena asking this, Socratically. She’d had so many internal conversations with Helena that she found the habit—probably a bad one—difficult to break.

“I’m tired of belief,” Myka told her beautiful, imaginary Socrates. “Sometimes I want to go back to my regular non-Warehouse life, where belief didn’t matter.”

Helena said, still in Myka’s head, still Socratic, “Or did you merely act as if it didn’t matter? Artifacts were born. Religions carried on as they do. Your ignoring belief had no effect on any of it.”

“My not ignoring it has no effect on any of it.”

“So you yourself, regardless of attitude adopted, cannot affect belief.” Socrates paused. Smiled. “Or that which is inevitable.”

Myka did, in such moments, briefly wonder why she needed the real Helena around, if the one in her head was such a reasonable facsimile. A hologram could have done that job just as well.

But the answers, the “here’s why,” came fast and thick, and Myka rejoiced that they could. The real Helena could make Myka laugh an easy laugh, because circumstances were not as they had been with that hologram, when laughter was an impossibility. The real Helena could touch Myka’s neck—not wonderingly, as Myka had known that elbow—but instead quick and hot, in that way that said “we have been intimate recently and will soon again be.” The real Helena could fall asleep and in relaxation display a face so devastating in its symmetry that Myka was inclined to regret not being Michelangelo, so as to recreate it in appropriately tributary marble.

Strange, though, or probably just ridiculous, to feel that your romantic relationship had made more sense when one of you was a hologram.

Myka should have expected Christmas, also a fraught inevitability, to loom as an existential test—yet another existential test—of that relationship.

She should have expected also that when this new existential test was administered, Pete would be the one helping to shove answer sheets and no. 2 pencils into their hands.

“Might be a close call or two in Sorry. Sorry!” Claudia cackled. “Anyway, go put your stuff away so we can get our Sorry on. Also our merry. We might even sing.”

“Or not,” Myka said again, and this time she got an eyeroll in response rather than meaningful breathing. An improvement? Hard to tell.

“Nobody’s required to sing anyth—” Leena began, but then she sat up very straight and cocked her head. “Do you hear that sound? Or I guess I mean, do you feel that sound? It’s not singing.”

Helena moved her head too, and not in a way Myka recognized. “I do feel that sound. In fact I believe I know that sound.”

“I do too,” Leena said.

Steve squinted. “Feels like... a weird earthquake? Is it happening all over Univille?”

Claudia said, “This is the kind of thing they blame on us even when it isn’t us. It’s why they look at us weird at the supermarket.”

“I can’t feel anything,” Myka said. “What is it?” She looked first to Helena, who was shaking her head—not at Myka, not with anger, but as if she might be able to find the right shake to rid her ears of the sound, or the feeling, or whatever it was.

“Agitated artifacts,” Leena said, performing a very similar shake. “They... rumble.”

“Agitated artifacts,” Myka repeated. “Pete’s alone at the Warehouse, it’s Christmas, and artifacts are agitated. Okay.”

Naturally, Pete chose that moment to march in, proclaiming, “I hope everybody’s ready to apologize to me.”

Steve asked, “Why should we apologize?” Now he was shaking his head too.

“Because everybody always says I ruin Christmas.”

Helena said, “As I understand the situation, the salient fact is not that they say you ruin Christmas. The salient fact is that you do ruin Christmas.”

“Almost,” Claudia corrected again. She canted her head, righted it. Canted it again.

“But this time I saved it.”

“By agitating artifacts?” Myka said, but of course he would think that. Probably encouraged them to have a party...

“More so by the minute, from the sound of things,” Leena told him.

“What? No! That isn’t what I did!”

“The artifacts are telling a different story,” Helena noted.

Claudia offered, “It’s more that they’re humming it real low. Like some geologic event that worked its way into a Björk track. Or vice versa.”

Myka—very calmly, she believed, under the circumstances—said, “What. Did. You. Touch.”

“Nothing, Mom,” he said, and his tone caused Myka to spare some sympathy for Jane Lattimer. He then said, as if it were some magnanimous confession, “Okay. Fine. I did, but I gloved up.”

“What did you touch after you gloved up?” Leena asked. “And why?”

“It was like it tapped me on the shoulder...” he began.

Still canting her head, Claudia muttered, “Sallah flashback, Sallah flashback...”

“And said ‘hey big guy’...”

Steve said, “This is already a longer story than I feel like it should be.”

“And told me it had to go the Christmas aisle...”

Myka had had enough. “If you don’t spit it out right now, I personally will Heimlich it out of you. Joyfully. WHAT had to go to the Christmas aisle?”

He turned to her and gave a palms-up shrug. “You know I don’t know anything about classical music.”

She reached to the table for the nearest board game, to throw it at him, but Helena preempted that move by saying, “Judging from Myka’s face, now is not the time for non sequiturs.”

She probably couldn’t have done much damage with a travel-size Aggravation anyway, but travel and aggravation made her think, in Helena’s direction, Oh, now you can read my face. An hour ago in the car, not so much. Then she sighed internally. Or maybe, an hour ago in the car, too well.

Pete was continuing, “But the Messiah had strong feelings.”

“Oh no,” Leena said, and Myka knew that Leena saying “oh no” in that particular way meant she knew something, and the something she knew wasn’t good, but Pete kept on, still enthusiastically proud of himself: “So I gloved up, took it where it wanted to be, and then came home. Because it isn’t Christmas till I’ve won the Trivial Pursuit Star Wars Classic Trilogy Collectors’ Edition!”

“Do I seriously have to remind you I’m the reigning champ?” Claudia demanded. “What you’re saying is, it’s never gonna be Christmas.”

“Not for a while yet,” Leena said, “because we’re going back to the Warehouse. Because I’m pretty sure I know what’s happening.”

“Why do I have to go if I can’t hear whatever it is?” Pete whined.

Myka told him, “I can’t hear it either, and it’s your fault.”

“Your ears are your own problem.”

“I might Heimlich you just for the fun of it.”

Steve said, with concern, “I’ve heard that ribs tend to break.”

Myka nodded. “Exactly.”

“Santa would not approve of that attitude, young lady,” Pete chided.

“All I do is lug around stockings full of coal,” she said. “Do your worst, Santa.”

She made the mistake of glancing at Helena, whose face betrayed a responsive ripple of disquiet. Exactly the wrong sentiment for ending a fight, even a foolish one, Myka realized: imply that nothing you carry with you is what you want. “I didn’t mean...” she began, but Claudia was demanding of Leena, “How do you know what’s happening? And what is happening?”

“He put the Messiah sheet music in the Christmas aisle,” Leena said, with what Myka considered enviable patience.

“You say that like it means something!”

“It does mean something,” Leena said. “You’ll see. More importantly, you’ll hear.”

At the Warehouse, when they reached the floor, they were greeted by... “Curtains?” Steve tried, because that was what they were. Tall, cream-colored damask curtains with a green floral pattern. Freestanding, blocking their path. Insistently blocking their path.

“For all of us!” Pete tried back. “Dun-dun-DUN!”

“No...” Leena said. She regarded the curtains. “I know who you are,” she said, and Myka found herself unsurprised to see the curtains rustle at that, as if in appreciation. Leena then said, “And now I know exactly what’s happening.”

“A play is beginning?” Helena suggested.

“Not quite, but you’re in the neighborhood. Surely somebody other than me knows who these curtains are really for.”

Pete leaned close to the curtains, then jumped back like they’d bit him. “Oh my god. Now that I look close—the von Trapp kids!”

“Good boy,” Leena said.

“I thought we were calling him a grown man,” groused Myka.

“Leena is providing positive reinforcement,” Helena said. Pedantic, as if Myka had never heard of such a thing.

“I know she’s providing—” But she shut herself up, sighed in frustration instead.

Leena made sure everyone was wearing gloves, then said, “Claudia, keep your goo gun in your pocket; we might find more of them taking their frustrations for a walk.”

“So do we just put things back where they belong?” Steve asked. “And they calm down and the rumble-chatter stops?”

“Any that got themselves where they aren’t supposed to be, we take them back. But here’s what else we have to do.” She paused. “Sing.”

“No,” Myka said, and “no,” she repeated. She chanced a glance at Helena, but she had closed her eyes and seemed to be pre-massaging a headache out of her temples.

Leena appeared not to have heard Myka, for she went on, “We’ll deal with the curtains first. Next, the Messiah goes back where it’s supposed to be—because that’s what started it all. After that, I think Claudia should tell us what we need to do.”

“Oh god,” Claudia said, sounding just about as dread-filled as Myka felt. “This is Caretaker practice, isn’t it?”

“What if it is?” Leena asked.

“Ugh. Thanks, Pete.”

He said, “Maybe it tapped my shoulder because it thought you needed Caretaker practice.”

Myka snorted. “Maybe it tapped your shoulder because it could tell you’re an easy mark.”

“Hey!” he protested.

“Particularly at Christmas.”

“Hey!”

Leena said, “I think the Messiah might have sensed you’d be an easy mark... mostly because you want to make everybody happy. Particularly at Christmas.”

“See? Leena understands,” he taunted Myka.

Myka once again considered the Heimlich.

They escorted the curtains back to the musicals section, passing by Ginger Rogers’s dancing shoes, and Myka was unnervingly tempted to put them on and bleed her way backwards and in high heels out of the entire situation as Leena explained, “People repurpose ‘My Favorite Things’ as a Christmas song. The curtains find that... troubling.”

Pete scratched his head. “I guess I don’t really get that. Isn’t it kinda great?”

“Wait,” Claudia said, “and this might not even be practice: I think I do get it. How they feel. So let’s say you’re you.”

“I’m me,” he said. “Gotcha. Awesome. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Exactly. But what if some holiday thingy came along and made like it was changing you into something else? They’re afraid we’ll put ’em in the Christmas aisle, and they don’t want to be there. Unlike the Messiah, I guess. Am I wrong, Leena?”

“You’re not wrong,” Leena told her, smiling.

“I feel that too,” Steve agreed. “They’re... afraid? Afraid it’ll diminish them. They’ll be about Christmas and that’s all. That’s why they’re so agitated.”

And so the curtains were serenaded with words about raindrops, kittens, kettles, mittens, and all the rest.

“Are they happier now?” Pete asked. “Do they not feel so bad?”

Leena, Claudia, Steve, and Helena all nodded, if not entirely vigorously. Helena said, “Marginally happier. Not knowing the song, I of course couldn’t participate. I hope they aren’t offended.”

But she hadn’t seemed apologetic at all while the singing took place. In fact she’d smirked. So Myka murmured, “Thrilled, more likely.”

Helena pretended to ignore her but also bared her teeth, minimally, in Myka’s direction, as she said, “Popular culture, alas, remains a largely undiscovered country.”

“It’s just one song,” Claudia said. “You’re getting your head around more stuff all the time! Take the Muppets.”

“Last week’s Christmas special,” Helena said, and Claudia nodded. Myka knew they’d been going one per week, because that was as much as Helena could take, whereas Claudia would have set up a holly-jolly IV drip if she could. Helena continued, “The one you called a ‘crash course’ in several shows’ worth of puppets?”

Claudia nodded again, even more enthusiastically. “Muppet Family Christmas! And now you’re up to speed, so for example when I say ‘Oscar,’ you say...”

“I still fail to understand how the large bird, which seems more accurately a costume than a puppet, qualifies.”

“The answer we were looking for was ‘the Grouch,’ so maybe we’re not quite as far along as I thought. I’m not going to bother with when I say ‘Fraggle,’ you say.”

“Consumer of the structures built by the devoted little workers who wear hats.”

“Aaaand that’s why not. Although your essay answer isn’t wrong.”

“Thank you,” Helena said, performing her funny little bow that struck Myka anew, each time she saw it, as a Victorian tell.

In fact, Myka had come home from the Warehouse just as that “crash course” was ending: Helena, as always after such a lesson, looked bemused but relieved, while Claudia was fidgeting with post-lecture satisfaction and, most likely, disappointment that she’d have to wait an entire week till the next one. Myka had asked, “Why does Helena need to know about the Muppets?”

Claudia responded with a puzzled, “Why doesn’t she?”

“Bert, Ernie, and the distinctions therebetween,” Helena said to Myka. “Would that I were you and could retain it all.” She smiled a small “but here we are” smile, and Myka leaned over the back of the sofa and kissed that smile. Because she wanted to; because she could. The smile then widened, and Myka tried not to make the mistake of wondering why every moment wasn’t like this one.

“You two can be pretty soft when you want to be,” Claudia remarked.

Myka had thought, No, we’re not this way when we want to be. It was when they weren’t actively wanting it—or needing it—that this ease stole upon them. But here it was... so Myka kissed Helena again, then asked, “What’s for dinner?”

The asking of that question, in the softness of that moment, had seemed an ideal step forward, one not about destiny or fraught inevitability, but balance and consistency. And then Myka did make the mistake: Why couldn’t every moment be like that? What was it that disturbed all the other moments?

Now, as they all headed for the Christmas aisle, Pete pulled on Myka’s arm and held her back a bit from the rest. “You mouthed the words,” he accused, very quietly.

“So what if I did? You know I can’t sing.”

“Maybe it makes a difference. H.G. said the drapes were only marginally better.”

“She didn’t sing either, by the way,” Myka pointed out.

Apparently her feelings about that were clear, for Pete said, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I meant you and H.G. Incidentally, you walk a little bit like Big Bird.”

“We’re fine. Incidentally, if you got a chicken bone stuck in your throat I wouldn’t be at all upset about what could happen while I was saving your stupid life.”

“I sort of feel like if she choked on a chicken bone, right now, you wouldn’t want to let anybody else do the rib-breaking.”

Myka almost said a dark “you bet I wouldn’t,” but then she realized: “I think that’s always going to be true.”

Pete nodded. “Kiss her, kill her. I get it.”

Unless he was talking about vibes, he didn’t get it, not fully—Myka herself didn’t get it fully, and in everybody’s defense there was a lot to be got—but it was Christmas-sweet that he got as much as he did. She said a mollified, “Look, just don’t make me sing, okay?” Because if there was anything Myka was sure she and Helena definitely did not need right now, it was a replay of “you can’t sing” and “neither can you.”

“No promises, partner. When Leena says ‘jump’ I say ‘my knees are shot.’ You, on the other hand, when she says ‘sing’? Better say ‘how high.’”

“This is kind of a ‘my knees are shot’ situation,” Myka observed.

“What’s the matter with your knees?”

“Never mind.”

And then they reached the Christmas aisle. About which Myka felt, and felt she had a right to feel, a certain amount of post-traumatic stress.

“If you touch anything,” she told Pete, “I will turn your ribs into chicken bones.”

“That makes no sense.”

“And yet you understand me perfectly.”

He took a step away from her. “In a very mobbed-up way, yes I do.”

Helena, Claudia, Leena, and Steve had ringed themselves around a shelf, and Myka peeked over Helena’s shoulder. Only in the Warehouse, she figured, could a piece of music manage to project the idea that it was pleased with itself.

“It’s gloating at me,” Pete complained.

“It did make you do what it wanted,” Steve pointed out.

Claudia said, “It’s like it knew we’d show up right at this moment.”

“I’m pretty sure it did,” Leena said.

Myka, still at Helena’s shoulder, felt a tension in the body that was not quite touching hers. She felt a tension, too, in words that were not quite meant for her to hear as Helena murmured at the music, “What else do you know...”

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #B&W Holiday Gift Exchange #kla1991 #Hark #second part coming sooner rather than later #(I hope so anyway)

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