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writefasttalkevenfaster · 3 years

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Take My Hand (Part Seven)

Summary: from one proposal to another - you don’t know whose hand you want to take - until you do.

Pairings: Sonny Carisi x Reader, Rafael Barba x Reader

Word Count: 8,649

Song: I thought of you (all the things that will be lost now) / In the cracks of light (can we just get a pause?) / I dreamed of you (to be certain we'll be tall again) (evermore by taylor swift)

Warnings: T, swearing, SO MUCH ANGST, i’m so sorry, like seriously i’m sorry “sightless in a savage land” (22x04) is used as background (but i also f*cked with the timeline to make things easier for me), also the v*rus doesn’t exist b/c i don’t want to live in reality.

A/N: ok, the penultimate part - the last part before the two endings. it’s been a long journey, but we’re here! thank you to those who have stuck with the series and have reblogged and commented!! as always, thank you to @laneygthememequeen and @bucky-of-the-opera for being the best beta readers! i don’t know when i’ll get the endings out because school starts for me this week, but they will be out soon enough! :)

The rest of the juror selection process felt like white noise after that. An arduous several hour process only made more difficult by Rafael’s nitpicking, probing, and constant objections to jurors — it felt like a punishment.

But you could only guess for who.

One of twelve jurors picked.

Rafael hadn’t even looked at you since you left chambers, but the glowering he gave Sonny wasn’t something that you envied. The man who had a million comebacks for everything on any given day hadn’t spared you a word the entire process, even as you two worked to examine the jurors together — with you pointing out possible problems or points of issue with each one, he managed to take your advice without speaking a word to you.

And it was killing you.

Three of twelve jurors picked.

But it wasn’t the fact that he was ignoring you, it was the fact you deserved it. You were unprofessional, you were secretive, and you hurt him in the process — the cherry on top.

Why hadn’t you told him? His eyes were everywhere but you, his hands careful not to brush against yours, and his lips a thin line. He still oozes charm as he spoke to the jurors, his patented smile — the same smile that you would tease him about — his courtroom smile, no more than a painted smile on the clown made to elicit the response he wanted. And one that he could hide behind from you.

You could feel Sonny’s gaze prickling the back of your neck, and you knew that he knew — he knew you hadn’t told Rafael. It was obvious — you could see Rafael still — his head snapping to you, his slow realization, the shock, and the quiet resignation that sunk into a sinking silence between you two.

And you still hadn’t brought yourself to look at Sonny.

Six of twelve jurors picked.

As the judge adjourned you for lunch, Rafael nearly fled the courtroom, and you went after him, following him out of the double doors, and you heard Sonny call after you, but you couldn’t — not now.

You wanted to fix this — you needed to fix this.

How ironic, you thought, following him out the courtroom and down the corridor towards the stairwell, skipping the elevator altogether, you were doing the one thing he never did — following him when he left.

Well to his credit, he did — the stairwell door nearly shutting behind him, but you barely catch it with your hands — but it was too late.

But you hoped it wasn’t too late now, as the stairwell door swings shut behind you with a resounding thud.

“Rafael,” you call him, his steps echoing in the empty stairwell, along with your voice. But he doesn’t listen — he doesn’t want to listen, but you’re following him — and if he knows one thing is that you’re stubborn, and he knows that well.

“Rafael please, let me just explain—”

“Explain what?” he whirls on you, “what is there to explain?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you—”

“Sorry?” he repeats, his voice reverberating, “you’re sorry — for not disclosing to me that you’re in a relationship with Carisi?” His name comes out dismissively — the same way when he was nothing but a green detective shadowing you two — but he was so much more — so much more.

Your voice rises. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to make me look like a fool in front of your boyfriend in chambers,” he cuts you off, “is that why you were pushing the deal so much? Wanted Carisi to have a slam dunk?”

And now you’re angry, “Don’t you accuse me of impropriety—”

“You sure make a habit of it—”

You scoff, “And you don’t?” and the anger simmers a moment — the exhaustion from the proceedings and the day hitting you at once. You speak, your words tempered, “I did what I had to — I told our client about my relationship — I disclosed to him and the judge in a timely manner—”

“So, you told everyone but me,” he’s shaking his head, turning away, “As a professional courtesy,” his words are quiet, stony faced, fingers clenched into fists, “you could have told me that you were sleeping with our adversary in this case,” but the facade flickers, and you see the cracks in the veneer, “but more than that, after everything we’ve been through—”

Your anger wavers, “I wanted to tell you when I dropped off the files, it just—”

“Was the wrong time?” he chuckles bitterly, stepping away, “isn’t it always when it’s us?”

Your chest squeezes, “Rafael, I didn’t want to hurt you, it just happened and I’m sorry—”

“I don’t have time for this right now,” he continues to walk down the steps, and you follow, calling after him.

“What about the case?” and he pauses.

“Mr. Davis and Judge Harper have no issue, neither do I,” he’s rubbing at his temples, adding, “but I catch even a hint of impropriety—”

“You won’t,” and he turns, his gaze undeniably sad, his lips in a thin line.

“I better not,” But still, the guilt sits on your chest, and you say his name again, leaving your lips before you realize— and he shakes his head, “you left last time — and I didn’t stop you — for years,” he continues down the steps, “let me have thirty minutes at least.”

And the stairwell doors shut.

~~~

You hadn’t told him.

Sonny knew that.

It didn’t take a genius to figure it out — Rafael was a brilliant prosecutor, but his poker face often showed his hand. And here it did too — he had feelings for you.

He knew that too.

He knew it because he had been there. He had been the guy waiting in the wings before, he had been the guy sneaking glances, the guy who wished you looked at him — and was disappointed when you didn’t.

And that was the same look Rafael had — the same Sonny had when you had kissed him all those years ago, wishing he were Rafael.

But you didn’t see it, did you? And he glances at your empty seat after you had left after Rafael, even after he called after you, before picking up his briefcase and leaving the courtroom for lunch —

Or maybe you just didn't want to.

“Sonny,” and you find him by the elevators, as you head out from the stairwell, “can we talk?”

“What’s there to talk about?” he pushes the call button, “you didn’t tell Rafael, did you?”

And you’re twisting your lips, “No, when I went to tell him—” the elevator doors ding, and the two of you step in, “his mother was there—”

Sonny wrinkles his brow, “At his office?”

“Well, his mother’s moving to Florida, and so kind of is his office at the moment,” and he can tell you’re nervous, fidgeting in place as you tell him, “he asked me to drop off files — we got interrupted right as I was about to—”

“And you couldn’t have told him this weekend?” he licks his lips, as your gaze drops to the floor, “I’m just wondering...if there’s some other reason you don’t want to tell him.”

You blink, “What other reason would there be?” And he sighs, as the elevator doors ding and he steps through them, you’re still following him, your hand brushing his wrist. And he stops, as your eyes soften, “I don’t love Rafael — I love you.”

And he wants to ask — then why couldn’t you look at him in court? Why did you follow Rafael out? Why did he always feel like he was your second choice.

But he doesn’t ask. He asks something else —

“Then why won’t you move in with me?” and a voice is whispering that your hesitation is enough, that he shows he wasn’t enough, that you two together were never enough — but he doesn’t want to believe it.

Because he wants to believe that his love is enough.

“Sonny, I want to move in with you, I do—” and he knew enough to know a ‘but’ was coming, “but not yet,” and he can’t help but let his face crumble, “but soon. I promise. I just—”

“You need time,” and he didn’t push you — he couldn’t push you — because he didn’t want to lose you, “but I can’t wait forever, doll,” and he couldn’t — not when he wanted so much more, not when he wanted you for the rest of your lives, and he didn’t know if you wanted the same.

“I know, I would never do that to you,” but you were — even as you leaned up to kiss him, he wondered for the first time, how many more times would he get to do that?

After juror selection, you and Rafael had left to go prep for opening arguments, while he was left to stew in his office — spotting a text from you that you would be running late, as was per usual. It had become the norm — working late hours with Rafael Barba — and would he ever stop feeling caught under Barba’s shadow? Even now, a year into this job, when he was in front of his mentor, he still felt like the same greenhorn detective he was when first came in — brash, thoughtless, headstrong — but you had seen past that, hadn’t you?

His chest burning, he reached for the bottle of pepto-bismol tucked away in his desk. You saw his potential, and you still saw it now — but he couldn’t have you by his side now, he couldn’t ask for your support in this case — he downs far too much of the bottle — not when you were too busy standing by his.

And there’s a knock at his door, “How’d it go at voir dire?” Amanda stood in his doorway, as he swallowed, the medicine as disgustingly sweet as Rafael had been today.

“It was the Rafael Barba show, charming and cherry-picking jurors for straight hours,” he could remember his smarmy smile from today — he was in his element, as always. And despite having the skills and the experience, the one thing Sonny couldn’t quite master was his same kind of charm — and you were surely evidence of that, weren’t you?

“Yeah, he was always a dog with a bone,” Amanda sighs.

Sonny laughs, picking up the witness list he had been combing through, “Yeah. I'm looking at his witness list, and he tracked down Ajay's other foster kids, ACS employees, V.A. shrinks. How big of a staff does he have?”

He knew he had your firm’s investigators — but even this much, this was something more than investigators could do — this was police work — the kind of work someone did when they were close to the case.

And Amanda steps forward, sitting, pursing her lips, “I probably shouldn't tell you this…”

“About you and Fin helping him out?” she doesn’t have words, and he knew he was right, and he thinks of Fin on the witness list — “I don't want to know—”

“I am not helping him out,” Amanda clarifies defensively.

“It's fine,” he didn’t need her to draw a line in the sand — it was easier to justify it, it was easier than hearing an apology, it was easier than hearing that his team had chosen Barba over him, “Barba was here before me, Fin was your first partner—”

You knew Rafael first, you loved him before you loved him.

It was easy to explain it away. It was easier than hearing where their loyalties actually lie.

He would always be the odd man out, wouldn’t he? Passed around from precinct to precinct, until he found himself here, but even still, always overshadowed — by Amaro, by Rollins, by Barba. He would always be the newbie, instead of the experienced pro.

He would always be “Carisi,” not “Sonny.”

“That doesn't mean I'm more loyal to them than I am to you,” she pauses, before adding, “You should know that it wasn't Liv's intention to undercut you.”

“Oh, no?” Sonny raises an eyebrow, “Are you gonna tell me that Fin brought Barba in?” And Amanda only shifts in her seat, hand rubbing her neck, until Sonny sighs, “what’s done is done — but I had thought the team would have my back—”

“They do but—”

“There shouldn’t be a ‘but,’” he sighs, “Amanda, I’m having to fight a one person war over a man who shot another in broad daylight—”

“He was abusing her daughter—”

“We hadn’t proved it yet!” Sonny sighs, leaning back in his chair, “there’s a reason they say innocent until proven guilty — we can’t give people a license to kill. Especially not now.” The concept of a white man shooting and killing a person of color and getting off without jail time did not sit well with him. Either way, he wouldn’t be the one to hand people licenses to kill — not without a fight.

“I know that,” Amanda raises her hands, “I do —- but Liv and Fin just want to help Davis and they thought Barba was the best way to do that,” and she doesn’t miss how his brow furrows, “is something else going on?”

And he wants to tell her — tell her about you and Rafael, about how Liv’s stunt may cost him his relationship and his case, how he didn’t know how you felt anymore, and he didn’t know what to do.

But he doesn’t, he only sighs, “I just would like to feel like someone is on my side,”

And then Amanda asks about you, “Have you talked to—”

“We’re both working the case—” he shakes his head, “Client privilege and the code of professional responsibility makes it difficult to talk about this.”

“You can still talk about everything else,” and he almost gives a bitter chuckle — before pulling the ring box from his pocket and placing it on the desk.

“Not everything,” as Amanda stares at the ring box, mouth ajar, as he lifts his gaze to meet her’s, “I’ve wanted to ask — for months,”

Amanda’s blinking, clearing her throat, “What’s stopping you?”

And he could feel his heart crack with the truth of his answer, “I don’t know if it will be a yes.”

And after Amanda left, and he sat in the quiet of his office, he wondered if he would ever be good enough — good enough prosecutor, good enough advocate, good enough boyfriend —-

And your text comes through: Headed back to your place, bringing dinner! And then another: don’t worry I didn’t cook :) And he glances at the picture of the two of you on his desk, before rising to leave —

Good enough for you.

He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

If Rafael knew one thing well, it was disappointment — and it was so simple to be disappointed in others. Was that why he had become a prosecutor? To point out the flaws in a person, to pin them in place with their worst actions at the lowest point of their life and hold them accountable? His eyes flicker to you, it was easier than seeing the humanity in others — to look past their flaws for something more that was there — and then fight for it.

Because when you fought for it, there was always a chance you would be the one to get hurt.

Why did he let his mother get his hopes up?

When he first saw you at Rikers, he had resigned himself to being your friend, to being a colleague — because he didn’t think he deserved more, and he didn’t. And it was enough — until it wasn’t.

And he could think about all the things he did wrong — over and over, wishing for another chance, but that wouldn’t change the fact you were in love with someone else.

He snuck at a glance at you — you sat, legs crossed in your suit. Even in the late hours of the night, how had you managed to look so effortlessly good? Even after listening to him practice far too many versions of his opening argument, you sat pen pressed to your lips, lost in thought.

Even with his silent treatment, you had insisted on working on this — until you both got it right. You had mostly taken to shouting suggestions from the gallery — body language, wording — not that he had bothered to acknowledge you. He crossed out what he just wrote, before sighing and rising to his feet, and now he decided to take a completely different tact.

He faces the empty jury panel, beginning to speak.

“I consider myself a nice guy,” you snort, as Rafael’s head snaps to you raises an eyebrow at you, “what?”

“Is that we’re going with?” you hide your smirk behind your notepad, “didn’t know we could lie under a court of law.”

And he’s crossing his arms, “I do consider myself to be nice,” and you’re raising an eyebrow now, “you don’t?”

“You’re the one who told our first victim together that she wouldn’t like you after this,” you had started the Twenty Five Acts case almost as soon as Rafael did — pulled in from a different department to help with the case, but you ended up finding your home there — your gaze raises to meet Rafael — for a time, “and now you think you’re nice?”

And he’s huffing, “Are you sure you aren’t letting your personal experience color your opinion?”

“Well, it sure isn’t helping,” and his eyes narrow, before snapping back to his notes, “come on, Rafael, you won’t even hold a conversation with me — the only way you’re talking to me is if I get a rise out of you.”

“We’re lucky you’re so good at that,” and you scoff, setting your pad down in your lap, before fixing him in place with your narrowed eyes.

“Is this what it’s going to be like?” you echo his own words to you, “are you going to act like this throughout the rest of the trial?” and he doesn’t deign to reply to you, scribbling a note in his legal pad, “should I recuse myself from the case?”

“No,” he glances up, and you cross your arms.

“Then what?” and his lips are a tight line, “I get it, Rafael — I hurt you by not telling you about Sonny — and I’m sorry, but,” he sees you frown out of the corner of his eye, “did you not expect me to move on?”

“That isn’t what I’m upset about—”

How could he? How could he when you deserved so much more than him? And maybe that was the reason he wasted his chance with you — he was too busy pushing you away to see that.

Just like he was now.

You push yourself from the chair, the chair scraping against the floor, “Then what is it?”

And his gaze snaps to yours, and his anger deflates when he sees the hurt in your eyes, “I’m sorry,” he sighs, shaking his head, “I’m happy for you — I am—”

“You have a funny way of showing it,”

“I’m sorry, it just,” he can’t tell you how he feels — it’s not fair to you or to Carisi, “just caught me off guard. I just—” he purses his lips, “I don’t like when people hide things from me.” especially you.

But he doesn’t add that.

“I know, and I should have told you from the start — everything just happened so quickly,” you lean against the railing of the gallery, “It was just...really hard to tell you.”

And he’s stepping toward you, hands in his pockets, “Why?”

You give a terse chuckle, “Why do you think?”

Now he’s leaning next to you, “Well like you said, why wouldn’t I expect you to have moved on?” and your eyes can’t quite meet his, “afraid to rub salt in the wound?”

You roll your eyes, “If I can remind you, the wound was mostly your fault,”

“‘Mostly’ is a gift,” you laugh, and he bites back a smile, “do you think...it could have worked out between us?”

“Rafael—”

“I know you’re with Carisi,” the words sting as he says them, before he’s standing up — stupid question — “I just wanted to know, you don’t have to—”

“I loved you,” you admit, and he pauses, glancing back at you. You’re biting your lip, “I would have married you — if you asked me back then.”

He smiles sadly, “And by the time I did, it was—”

“Too late,” you both finish, your gazes dropping to the floor. And he allowed himself to wonder a moment — what if it had worked out? Where would they be now? Would they have a home? A family? A kid? Maybe he would be in private practice, like you — spending his weekends with you instead of an empty apartment. Maybe you both would be in New York, maybe you’d be in the suburbs. But you’d be together.

But you weren’t.

“When did you and Carisi start—” and you tilt your head.

“Is this appropriate—” you start, gesturing between the two of you, and he snorts.

“Is any of this appropriate?” and he didn’t know why he was asking — it would be better not to know, it would be easier not to know, “were you with him when I left New York?” but he still wanted to know.

“No,” your eyes are fixed to the floor, “I hadn’t even spoken to him in years,” and you add, “it was after he started at the D.A.’s office — a few months after. I had to settle a case in Manhattan and he was handling it.”

“So you’ve been together…?”

“It’s been about two years,” and he feels the pain leak into his chest — and now it would be him you would be coming home to, you that he would be walking down the aisle, you that he would be starting a family with.

But two years is a long time without an engagement.

You cross your arms — he notes the absence of an engagement ring on your finger — and he wonders if you were so in love, why weren’t you engaged by now? “We should get back to work,” you say, and he clicks his tongue, glancing at his watch.

“It’s late,” he tilts his head, “we should call it a night.”

“Shit, it is,” you sigh, grabbing your coat and your bag, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Raf.”

His lips upturns at the sound of his nickname on your lips, and he can’t help, but call after you — he needs to know, “You’re happy with him, right?”

Your lips curve into a smile, “I am, I really am.”

And he knows he really can’t tell you how he feels — so he smiles, “Good night.”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” you close the door behind you, tossing your keys and purse on the table, and kicking off your shoes, “Practicing openings ran late—” you cut yourself off, finding Sonny asleep on the couch, case file in hand.

His head lolled back against the couch, the file slipping down his side, and a half eaten dinner plate on his coffee table in front of him, the TV still on. You shut your mouth, smiling at the sight — before you pulled off your jacket, and hanging it up in the bedroom, before you found your way back to him.

“Sonny,” you murmur in his ear, pressing a kiss to his temple, “wake up,” And he’s mumbling your name in his sleep, eyes fluttering, “come on, let’s get you to bed.”

And after some coercion, he’s stumbling to his feet, warm fingers interlaced with yours as you lead him into bed, his eyes barely open, and he’s slipping into bed, under the covers, but his hand still won’t let you.

He mumbles something under his breath, “What did you say?”

“Don’t go,” he murmurs again, tugging you gently, until you’re sitting at his side, and he sighs, “don’t leave, sweetheart. Not yet.”

And your gaze softens, as his eyes flutter closed, running your fingers through his hair, “I won’t, Sonny.”

And he’s asleep, his quiet breaths filling your ears, and you get a text — phone vibrating in your pocket: Finally worked out the opening. I’ll show you tomorrow.

And Rafael adds: Unless you have a moment right now?

You glance at Sonny, asleep, before slipping your hand from his and switching the lamp off, closing the bedroom door behind you.

Yeah. I have a minute.

~~~

Sonny awakens at the sound of his alarm ringing. He groans quietly, blindly reaching for it, before shutting it off. And he turns, reaching for you, to find no one beside him. He blinks the sleep from his eyes to find only your pillow. He checks his phone — Had to head in early to speak to my client — I’ll be home for dinner at eight this time, I promise. Love you!

He frowns, rubbing his eyes, how many times did it make it that week?

He sits up, stretching, he had barely seen you — between work at the firm and work on the Davis case, he hadn’t seen you in a solid week.

But you have seen Barba every day of the week now.

He didn’t think of himself as jealous — no, he knew his place and he trusted his partner. And he knew you would never cheat, at least, not physically.

But it wasn’t you he didn’t trust.

Barba was a friend, a mentor, but he was also your ex. The very same that had broken your heart, the very same you had fallen in love with, the very same that you probably would have married in a heartbeat.

So why not Sonny?

He knew Barba had made you afraid of commitment — tentative to get your heart broken again, hesitant to take that step off a cliff where you couldn’t see the bottom — but he would catch you, he would always catch you.

He stares at your messages, so why didn’t you?

Might run a little late — Rafael wants to prep a witness again.

And he locks his phone.

Maybe he already knew the answer.

“Yet another late night,” you groan, looking at the time, stretching out on your couch, “how does this keep happening?”

“We’re both workaholics and enablers,” Rafael replies, putting away some of the case materials, “plus I’m more productive working here than my mother’s kitchen table.”

More or less, his eyes found their way to you as they always did — at least the view was much better.

You snort, gesturing, “My office thanks you,” before you think, “you know I could get you an elevator fob, a temporary one, so you could work the case here.”

Rafael pauses, furrowing his brow, “And that’s okay with your partners?”

“Well they want a win, so,” you sit up, rising from the sofa, glancing over at him, “they’ll be fine,” and he’s raising an eyebrow, and you can’t help but slowly smile, as you walk across the office, “well, they told me all things go well — I may be making partner after all.”

“You’ll be a partner?” and you nod, as he beams, “congratulations,” he moves forward, but hesitates — instead offering you his hand, and you roll your eyes, taking his hand and pulling him into a hug. And he stiffens, but tentatively melts into — “I’m really proud of you — you deserve it.”

“Thank you,” you reply softly, your arms resting loosely around his shoulders,

And he pulls away, lips curved upwards, “Thank me? I should be thanking you for all the work you’ve put in—”

“No, no,” you bite your lip, “I meant for everything — you helped me become the attorney I am today — you guided me, and,” your eyes meet his gaze, “I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“In more than one way,” he gives a bitter chuckle, pulling away, stepping back. He had driven you from work — it was your choice, but what other choice did he leave you? It was either move on or spend days working with the man who broke your heart.

“Raf—” you start.

“I did apologize for what I did, but—”

“You did and—”

“But I don’t know how to make it up to you,” he presses his lips together, arms crossed over his chest, “in a way, I don’t think I ever can. I just—” he shakes his head,

“Raf,” you shrug, “I really wanted to hate you,” and a huff of a laugh escapes your lips, “you didn’t make it that hard,” a mournful smile on his lips, “but I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to,” you tilt your head, “I loved you — I couldn’t find it in me to hate you — even when I thought I did, even when I said no to you — I didn’t hate you — I couldn’t. You made mistakes and you apologized,” and you add with a sigh, “it’s also really hard to hate you.”

“Really?” a half smile on his lips.

“At least for me,” stepping forward, “must be something wrong with me — physically, psychologically, something,”

He scoffs, biting back a smile, “I hear Liv knows a good F.B.I. psychiatrist,”

“I’ll have to ask her about it,” you snort, “where’s this coming from anyway?”

“I treated you so terribly over Carisi,” he says softly, “when I treated you worse when we were together—” and you waver, “I just — I’m sorry — you deserve more than that,” you deserve more than me, he thinks, and you have it.

“We both made mistakes,” you tilt your head, “don’t you think it’s more important what comes after?”

“And what is that?”

You roll your eyes, “Friendship? Camaraderie? Maybe even a little honesty?”

“Well, you know lawyers love to lie,” he steps forward.

You raise an eyebrow, “Are you lying about something?”

Only my feelings — but what else was new? “Nothing important,” he smiles, grabbing his coat, and he bites his lip, glancing at the time — 9:37 PM, “do you have time for a celebratory drink for your promotion?” and you frown, “unless you have plans?”

And you glance at him and your phone and back, before nodding, “I got time.”

“Have you asked—”

“Not yet, Ma,” Sonny sighs, glancing at his casework, before leaning back in his chair, the stress crawling up his already stiff shoulders. And this phone call did little to alleviate his stress, “We’ve both been so busy with this case—”

“Too busy to talk about marriage?” it added to it, and he’s rubbing his temples, regretting ever asking for his grandmother’s ring to propose, “Dom, don’t let this one get away because you’re too afraid—”

And he’s covering his mouth, fingers squeezing his phone, “I know—”

He knows, but do you?

“You’re good for each other — we’ve seen it for ourselves,” he could hear his mother smile, “it’s so rare that you find someone that your sisters actually like, not to mention your father — that man—” his stomach is sinking, and cuts herself off, “what are you waiting for, Dominick?”

He was waiting for you to love him enough.

“Ma—”

“You love—” He’s always loved you more than enough.

“Of course I do, but—”

“But nothing!” she huffs, “you should propose tonight over dinner, I got the perfect recipe for you to cook, it will—”

“I can’t!” he finally snaps, frustration boiling over, “I can’t because I haven’t even gotten an answer about moving in—” and his anger simmers into sadness, voice breaking, “so how can I ask for marriage, when—” when he’s not even sure if you love him anymore?

“Dominick,” his mother’s voice would break his heart, if it already wasn’t broken, “if you’re unhappy, you have to say something, you can’t let it go on,” her words are soft, but firm, “you don’t deserve to have your heart wasted — you’re too good for that, my sweet son.”

He clears his throat, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, “I have to go, Ma,”

“Ok,” she says with reluctance, “call me later this week?”

“I will,” and then he adds, “and Ma? I love you.”

“I love you too,” and she hangs up, as he sets his phone down, seeing his lock screen — a picture of him kissing your cheek at lunch, a few days before the case. And he’s staring at your smile, your lips, the way you were looking at him instead of the camera — and he locks the screen.

He needed to tell you.

The door clicks shut — the fourth time in a row you had been late. Sonny sits, eyes forward on the T.V., arms crossed against his chest, not bothering to look over.

“Hey,” you begin, “sorry I’m late, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies tersely, and he doesn’t want to fight — he doesn’t — he’s too tired to fight, before clicking off the T.V., “I’m used to it.”

And you blink, “Sonny—”

“It’s what? The eighth time or ninth time?” he’s sighing, “if that’s not a pattern—”

“And this isn’t court,” you are walking towards him, setting down your things, “I’m sorry this case has been taking so much of my time— our time—” you correct yourself, “but it’s almost over — you know that, we’re working the same case.”

“Except I’m not the one who is constantly at the office,” he’s sipping at his drink.

“Because my side of the case is harder — you know the facts,” you cross your arms, “we have to be creative — we don’t have the government’s disposal at our fingertips—”

“That would be true, if Liv and Fin didn’t help Barba find and track down witnesses,” he raises his eyebrows at you, as you blink, “yeah I knew about that.”

“I didn’t know—”

“And it’s one thing to feel like your team is not on your side,” his chest squeezes, finally meeting your gaze, “but when it’s you—”

“Sonny, this is my case, it’s professional. It has nothing to do with us,” you find your way to his side, but he’s pulling away from you.

“It is when you’re using this case to push me away,” he says quietly, and he tries to see past your glassy eyes, “you’re never home, you’re always at the office, we never see each other—”

“It’s just—”

“It’s not work,” he almost laughed out of frustration, his heart no longer cracked but flooding, sinking beneath his own pain, and he could barely see the surface, “this has been happening even before.”

“What are—”

“Why won’t you move in with me?” he can’t afford to avoid it any longer — the question burning on his tongue so long that it had branded the words across his flesh. The one question he knew that could pull this whole thing apart, but he needed to ask because he needed to know whether it would.

And he’d fall with it, if he had to.

“Sonny,” you’re staring at him, “I—”

“We’ve been dating for two years,” each word scrapes against the lump in his throat — each syllable only pain and hurt, “I have tried to be a good boyfriend, patient and loving — I love you, I’ve loved you since I met you—”

“I know, Sonny,” your voice breaks.

“And I can’t wait any longer for your answer,” he’s risen to his feet now, “I need to know.”

“I’m just not ready—”

“Will you ever be ready?” and he knows the answer, and he’s known the answer — he just couldn’t bring himself to ask it, but your silence is the answer he needs. And he’s turning away from you, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Sonny—” And he’s grabbing his things — his coat and his bag, but you’re at his side, fingers brushing his arm, “please—”

And he turns, pulling your hand away from him, “Have you ever asked yourself why you can’t move in with me?” and you blink, “it’s because of him.”

And he doesn’t need to explain who that is, “It’s not—”

“I’m tired,” he cuts you off, turning away from you, “I’m tired of being your second choice, okay?” The words leave his lips and he’s almost as struck by them as you, and in a second, he’s pulling you aside into an empty conference room, the door clicking behind him, “I don’t want to live in his shadow anymore—”

“Sonny—”

“And not just with you,” he knew Fin, Rollins, and Liv were helping him — despite their orders, despite their loyalty to the state of New York, and despite their loyalty to him. And you — every late night, every glance in court, everything that existed between you two — he trusted you, he did, but he didn’t trust your feelings, “I can’t do it.”

You’re at his side again, fingers plying at his cheeks, trying to get him to look at you, “I want you to move in, please, I—”

“I don’t want to just move in anymore,” he sighs, it wasn’t enough — not anymore, “we’re past that, I’m past that.”

“I—” and he pulls the ring box from his pocket, and your head snaps to it.

“I want to marry you, sweetheart,” his voice softens, fingernails digging into the velvet, “I want to be with you forever — I want to have a family, children, a home—I want to give you everything,” and tears are slipping down your cheeks now, “but not if you can’t give me everything too.”

And he wanted your everything — more than anything — he wanted to share it with you, to know you like he knew himself. And maybe he never would — but he would spend a lifetime trying to — and wasn’t that what loving someone was?

And he knew you loved him — but was it enough?

“Sonny, I—” you can’t believe it — it’s written clear across your face, and he knows — his stomach sinking — you hadn’t thought about this, had you? Not like he did, “I—”

“I think we need some time,” and he’s stepping away, “I need some time—”

“Sonny, please I don’t—” and you’re taking steps in tandem, until he allows you to touch him — but it doesn’t bring him peace, only pain.

And he kisses you because he can’t help it, not when you’re crying and he’s the cause — you pull him in, a meteor that can’t pull out of your orbit, and his kiss is soft and hard — jaw clenched, even as he melts into your touch, until you break apart, only your brows brushing in quiet of your breaths.

Until he’s pulling away.

“Think about it, okay?” he tucks the ring box back into his pocket, “because I have, and I—” and he swallows, “I can’t anymore.”

“How long do you need?” you ask quietly, as he steps towards the door, his fingers brushing against the doorknob, as he looks over his shoulder at you, standing.

And he smiles sadly, “That’s up to you,” and as the door shuts behind him, he knows that you know what he means — he needs an answer, and he hopes you give the one he wants.

Otherwise — he rests his head on your shut door, eyes stinging with tears — he’s not coming back at all.

You can’t sleep. An understatement.

You hadn’t slept in two nights — you couldn’t. Each time you’d toss and turn until you gave up, turning on your side and scrolling mindlessly through whatever app you found amenable — anything to not think, anything to not see Sonny’s face staring at you looking for an answer you didn’t have, anything to not hate yourself for not having the answer.

You hated yourself. Another understatement.

You turned on your back, staring at the ceiling — how could you do this to Sonny? What was wrong with you? He was perfect — loving, caring, sweet — and all he wanted was a future with you.

The very thing you were afraid of.

But why? You squeeze your eyes shut, but the thought wriggles its way to the forefront of your mind — Why were you so afraid?

You sigh, glancing at the empty space next to you, rolling over to Sonny’s pillow — it still smelled like him, his shampoo, the unique scent that you couldn’t quite pin down, but that was him all the same. Tears sting at your eyes, and you throw off your covers, sitting up — you couldn’t stay here.

You pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a jacket — sparing one more glance at your bedroom — not right now.

You don’t know where to go — you don’t feel like eating, you don’t feel like sleeping, so where else do you go?

You go to work.

The office building is unlocked from the outside — relatively deserted, except for the security guard that sat at the desk, who nodded at you as you entered — bleary eyed. You slip into the elevator, scanning your elevator fob and hitting the right floor, a shaky breath as the doors shut behind you — but you can’t cry, not in the elevator of your workplace, not when you’re on camera, not when you don’t deserve to.

Not when it was you who had done the hurting this time.

The elevator dings, letting you off on your floor — and you step off to an empty floor. The lights have long ago dimmed, as you scan your fob and open the glass doors to the offices. You spare at the glance at the partners’ offices — the lights shut. And you sigh, you hadn’t even told Sonny about the potential offer — you were going to wait until it was confirmed.

And now, you arrived at your office opening the door, would you ever get the chance?

You jump when you hear your name, head whipping up, heart in your throat, when you spot Rafael sitting on your couch, “Hey,” he blinks, “sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” and you furrow your brow, “I was practicing my closing.”

“How—” and you remember the temporary key fob you had made for him— and you shake your head, “no I’m sorry too, I just needed—” you swallow the truth, “I just—” but you can’t bring yourself to lie, choking on your own words. And then he asks the one question that he shouldn’t —

“Are you okay?”

And you’re crying, tears slipping down your face, and you don’t know how but he’s holding you now, your tears staining his button up, buried in his shoulder, “I’m sorry— I—”

He shushes you gently, “It’s okay, don’t apologize,” and you both stand there for a few minutes, until your sobs finally quiet, an empty feeling in stirring in your chest, and he’s running tentative fingers through your hair, “I feel like I can count the number of times you’ve cried in front of me on my fingers,”

You give a watery chuckle, “I don’t like crying in front of other people,”

“Who does?” he replies drily, and you laugh, shaking your head, before resting your forehead against his shoulder a moment.

“This is such a mess,” you whisper, before you’re pulling away, “I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t say sorry,” he shakes his head, as you sniff, wiping your tears, before jerking his head towards the couch, the two of you sitting, and he’s handing you bottled water. You take a few mournful sips, before screwing the cap on, “what happened?”

“I really fucked things up with Sonny — I—” your voice broke, “you should have seen him — he was—”

“It’s okay, slow down,” he tells you softly, “What happened?” and you’re silent a moment, “unless you don’t want to—”

“Sonny — he proposed,” the last words come out a whisper, and Rafael blinks, “sort of, it was an argument.”

“Because you didn’t say yes?” and you’re shaking your head.

“Because he thought I never would,” you squeeze your eyes shut, covering your face, “I don’t know what to do,”

“I think the obvious question to ask is, do you want to marry him?” and you don’t know how to answer that.

“I’ve never married someone before,” a tear slips down your face and he’s handing a tissue, “how do you know?”

“It’s a feeling,” he shrugs, “it’s the same as love — you feel it,”

You blink away tears, meeting his gaze, the question leaves your lips before you could stop it, “How did you know?” and you shake your head again, cheeks burning with shame, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

“I knew too late,” his gaze dropping to his lap, “but I knew I wanted to marry you. I knew my days were happier with you, I know that I wanted to see you every day that you were gone, I know I thought about you almost every day, I know I regret every decision that drove you away,” and his eyes meet yours again — shining with something you knew all too well, “and I still do.”

More tears falling — but maybe for another reason now, “Raf—”

“I would kill for a second chance,” and then he gives a bitter chuckle, “no pun intended, or malicious intent for that matter,” he adds, making you huff, “but I would. I made so many mistakes with you because I was afraid — because I thought you would fall out of love with me when you saw me,”

“But I always saw you, Rafael,” your hand finds his, “I did.”

“I know,” he says softly, “but what’s stopping you? Is it fear? Or is it something else? Or…”

Or someone else.

The words were unspoken, but the implication hung between the two of you, and he whispered your name, but you’re shaking your head, “Rafael, I can’t—”

And you couldn’t — this wasn’t what you came for, this wasn’t supposed to happen. And you were supposed to say no, you were supposed to pull away, you were supposed to love Sonny — and you do, you do, but you can’t pull away.

Not when you have feelings for Rafael too.

“I know,” he whispers back, “but I can’t lie to you anymore — I can’t lie to myself,” he smiles sadly, “I love you,” the words echo in your fresh tears spill from your eyes. His fingers brushing a falling tear away, nearly just by the tips of his fingers, and your breath is shaky, as he smiles, “I don’t think I ever stopped.”

“Ever?” you repeat, and he laughs, a warm sound that lingers.

“Ever,” he sighs, “I didn’t want to hurt you or Carisi — I want the best for you, but I need you to know, if…”

If he was the one stopping you from saying yes.

“I know,” you whisper back — and you want to say more, but your words elude you. Your chest squeezes, and you wonder if he’s stolen your breath too, because he’s surely stolen your words— “but…”

“But,” he nods sadly, but you still didn’t know.

But the moment too eludes you when his phone rings, the two of you leaning away, blinking, as he reaches for his cellphone, as you wipe your tears away. He writes off whatever the message is, tucking his phone away, as you get to your feet, “I need time to think,”

“Of course,” he clears his throat, a beautiful blush across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, I know,” you shake your head, glancing at your phone, seeing Sonny’s face on your lockscreen, before you pocket it, “I just—”

“I know,” he says, tilting his head, “are you okay?”

And you shake your head, “No,” and you sigh, a weight sitting on your chest — the weight of a decision you didn’t know you would have to make, but you did, and you would, “but I will be.”

And you would be — as you stepped out of your office, rubbing your eyes — maybe once you slept on it.

~~~

And sleep you do, but it is one that is dreamless, but not thoughtless.

No, your thoughts swirl throughout your subconscious the entire night. You dream of Rafael, just as you dream of Sonny.

And as soon it seemed you fell asleep, you woke up to your cell phone going off — the verdict was in.

Even as you walk into the courtroom, you don’t know who to choose. You hadn’t spoken since that night at the office — to either of them. You arrive earlier than the others, Rafael and Sonny absent from their respective tables, and the officers choose then to bring in your client to your side.

“Mr. Davis—”

“Please call me Mickey,” he offers a weak smile, “I told you that from the start.”

“Sorry, Mickey,” you correct yourself, “I would ask how you’re feeling, but well—”

He huffed a laugh, “Nervous, for one, but,” his eyes fall back to the empty jury box, “I have to trust in the system don’t I? Same as everyone else.”

And you glance behind you, noticing the absence of anyone behind him, “Did you not ask anyone to come?”

And he sighs, “My daughter, but,” he glances sadly behind him, “she hadn’t come — not yet at least,” and he shakes his head, leaning back in his chair, “wife’s gone as you know — and well,” he pulls a picture of his daughter from his pocket, “who else would you want by your side at the worst moment of your life?”

The double doors behind you creak open, and Sonny enters, walking past you without a glance, And who would you want?

And only a few moments later, Rafael arrives too, finding his place beside you and Mickey, and you allow them to speak, his hand clapping to Mickey’s shoulder.

None of you really knew how the jury would rule on this one. And you wondered — who was it that you would want beside you at your worst moments? Who would you want behind you, whispering comforts in your ear, who would want to love you, even at the lowest point of your life?

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” and the jury rises, the foreman handing the verdict to the judge, before handing it back, “have you reached a decision?”

And you glance between Rafael and Sonny — you were on trial, whose hand would you want to hold?

“We have, Your Honor,” and you know what your answer is now, “we find the defendant—”

Guilty of Manslaughter Two — the same deal that you and Rafael had turned down at the start of this — ironic, you think, glancing at the two of them — back right where you started.

You pack up your things as Rafael slips out early, as you quietly discuss sentencing with Mickey, before setting up another meeting with him about the hearing. And Sonny’s leaving too — catching a glimpse of both of them leaving — and now you knew your answer, as you begin to walk towards them—

You knew whose hand you wanted to hold.

#rafael barba #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba x you #rafael barba imagines #sonny carisi x reader #sonny carisi #sonny carisi imagines #sonny carisi fanfiction #svu #svu imagines #svu fanfiction #law and order: svu

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teganberry · 4 years

Photo

Atlantis AU - Character Designs

This was waaaaaay too much fun! I guess there’s something about Kingdom Hearts characters that translates really well into the aesthetic of Atlantis. Story setup and character bio’s are below the cut!

In the year 1920 world renowned archaeologist Professor A. Wise discovers a book known as The Shepherd’s Journal, which he believes may hold the location of the Lost City of Atlantis. With the help of his two best students, Professor Wise makes sort work of decoding the ancient Atlantean language, unlocking the book’s long held secrets. He presents his findings to the famous adventure Yen Sid in hopes of receiving financial backing from him for an expedition to the Lost City. While Yen Sid himself is now much too old to venture out on such an arduous journey, he enthusiastically agrees to financially support the venture. All that remained was for Professor Wise to assemble the talented crew required to see the expedition through.

Kairi: Kairi is a University student studying history and linguistics. She is one of Professor Wise’s top students and helped him in the decoding The Shepherd’s Journal. When presented with the opportunity to join him on the Atlantis expedition she excitedly agrees the moment he asks her. On the outside Kairi appears to have a very positive outlook on life and a rather happy go lucky attitude. However, this persona is a mask Kairi uses to hide a deep pain she has carried all her life. Born out of wedlock to the disgrace of both her parents, Kairi has always been seen as an outcast in her family. Her wish to be educated at a University far away was only agreed to by her wealthy family so they may finally be rid of her for good. With the exception of her friend Roxas, Kairi feels she has never been truly loved by anyone. That all begins to change, however, when upon reaching the city of Atlantis she meet’s a mysterious Atlantean man with the most charming smile she’s ever seen.

Roxas: Roxas attends the same University as Kairi, studying history and archaeology. He and Kairi met in their first history class together and became fast friends. Upon learning of Kairi’s family and troubled past Roxas promised that he could be her new family, and that they would always be friends no matter what. He was the second student who helped Professor Wise decode The Shepherd’s Journal. Unlike Kairi, however, Roxas was less eager on the idea of actually travelling to the Lost City, fearing the journey there would be fraught with danger. Kairi comforts him and tells him that so long as he won’t regret it some day, then he shouldn’t force himself to go on the journey. After thinking on her words and knowing deep down that not seeing Atlantis would haunt him for the rest of his life, Roxas agrees to join the expedition. After all, who knows what sort of other worldly treasure he may find? Or perhaps whom he may find.

Terra: A commander who served in the first World War, Terra is recruited for the expedition along with a number of other ex-soldiers for their military know how and leadership skills. While cool and stoic on the outside, on the inside Terra has become a troubled man, scared by the horrors he faced during the War. Having seen hell with his own eyes, he is now desperate to see “the other world” wherever it may be.

Xion: Adoptive sister of Axel and mechanical engineering wiz kid! Xion, along with her older brother, were both personally recommended by Yen Sid for the expedition. There’s no engine she can’t fix. Xion makes no secret of the fact that she and her brother are only in this for the money so they can keep financially supporting their family. But despite that mentality she has a kind heart, and finds herself easily making friends with Kairi and Roxas.

Axel: Like his sister, explosive expert Axel is in this for the money, plain and simple. He was also recommended by Yen Sid, and has well over a decade of experience with explosives. Axel likes to make friends with everyone, whether they like it or not. Roxas and Kairi were doomed to be his new best friends from the start.

Sora: Growing up Sora always appreciated how lucky he was. Despite having no parents and no royal title to speak of he was somehow accepted as a ward of the Atlantean Emperor. He grew up within the palace walls and became best friends with the Prince. He had to be the luckiest orphan around! Sora thought that he had everything he could ever want, that was until he came across a mysterious girl with impossibly red hair on the outskirts of the city, who claimed to have come from the world above. Sora knew from the moment he met her that he was a goner. He just hoped the Prince wouldn’t be too mad…and why are all the rumours that Sora may actually posses Royal blood after all suddenly re-emerging?

Riku: The Prince and heir to the thrown of Atlantis. Riku understands his duty well, but that doesn’t mean he always sticks to the rules. Much the the distain of his head guard, more often then not Riku can be found sneaking out of the Palace with Sora to go hunting, or explore more of their mysterious home. The boys both know that once Riku becomes Emperor their time together will no longer be free. They swear to one another that until that day comes they will spend every moment they can together. It is during one of his many expeditions with Sora that they come across the party of explorers from the world above. Riku notices that Sora seems instantly taken by the girl with strange red hair, and even he must admit that there is something about her...

Aqua: The Prince’s head guard and and attempted voice of reason, Aqua is a woman who will do anything to protect her Prince even if that means protecting him from himself. While she does her best to maintain a stern exterior appropriate for her position in society, on the inside she has an incredibly warm and loving heart. She will just as soon scold Riku, Sora and Ven for their inappropriate actions, as she will offer them heartfelt advice and comfort whenever they need it. When the Explorers first appear Aqua does not trust them. While some of the newcomers seem friendly enough, others among the group appear to have darker motivations. And then there’s the tall man in the group, with brown hair and a haunted look in his eyes. There’s something about him Aqua can’t seem to figure out, but she determined to find the answer. For the sake of the Prince’s safety of course…

Namine: There was once a time in Namine’s life when everything was normal. Her days would pass and nothing strange or out of the ordinary would happen. She could read and draw to her heart’s content. Then one day, through no fault of her own, she somehow got mixed up in one the the Prince’s crazy adventures and by the end of the madness had seemingly become friends with the Prince and his best friend, Sora. Ever since then Namine’s life has become one ridiculous adventure after another, so it wasn’t really much of a surprise when Sora came crashing through her front door one day exclaiming that strange people from the world above had somehow appeared in Atlantis. What did take her by surprise was when she finally laid eyes on the Explorers she found that she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off one of them in particular. A young man with blond hair and a lyrical voice she just can’t get out of her head.

Ven: When Ven first signed up to be trained as a Royal Guard he had expected a tough training process that would teach him to be both strong and disciplined. What he had not expected was for the Prince and Sora to take such a strong liking to him that they would insist he join them on their expeditions at every opportunity. Caught between his duty of obeying the Prince’s request but also to follow Aqua’s commands, Ven often finds himself receiving an earful from the head guard. But once the lectures are done Aqua always admits that, while Ven shouldn’t leave his post, at least the Prince had taken some form of protection with him. When the Explorers arrive Ven is initially excited, but like Aqua he quickly becomes suspicious. There’s just something in particular about the Explorer with messy jet black black hair that sends an involuntary shiver down Ven’s spine.

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bthump · 3 years

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I've had a GriffGuts time travel fanfic living in my head for awhile now. Maybe I'll write it, maybe I won't. My question is, how do you think it would play out if Guts was transported to the day he left. And managed to catch Griffith right before he climbed up to Charlotte's room? Seeing Griffith in that much despair, would Guts forgive him? And would Griffith tell Guts how he feels, or continue on his self-destructive path?

I hope you do, honestly the way the Eclipse divides everything so harshly is perfect for a time travel fic imo, whether it's a fix-it or just a melancholy revisiting of the past or whatever.

Ok so my take is that Guts would like... well I don't think forgiveness is really applicable in this situation, from Guts' perspective. I think he draws a distinction between human Griffith and Femto/NeoGriffith and he's never really fully blamed human Griffith for anything. I think you can make an argument that he feels some betrayal because of the sacrifice, mainly based on how it was presented in the Black Swordsman arc, one single line at the Hill of Swords ("all those you betrayed"), and tbqh the fact that it just makes more narrative sense and would be a thematically tighter story that way lol, but everything else about Guts' behaviour and inner thoughts during and after the Eclipse say loud and clear to me that what he feels towards human Griffith isn't anything even approaching rage, it's regret and sadness and love.

And even if he does feel betrayal and rage due to human Griffith making the sacrifice, I still think that coming face to face with him in the past would instantly snuff it out. If NeoGriffith looking pretty made him forget his urge to kill, seeing actual human Griffith in the past would obliterate that urge imo.

So yeah I 100% think that if Guts time traveled back to the Golden Age his first instinct on seeing Griffith again wouldn't be to kill him or demand an apology like he did on the Hill of Swords lol, it would be to like, grab him and hold him and start sobbing into his hair or something like that.

And if he went back to the day he left then I totally think he'd rush back to Midland and try to stop Griffith from getting thrown in a torture chamber again. Also I think he would explain why he left, because at this point his inferiority issues and self-doubt wrt the whole equality speech are pretty much off the table imo, that’s old news and Guts would have learned from this mistake.

I could see Griffith telling Guts how he feels if Guts did it first in these circumstances. Especially with how vulnerable he is after the second duel I think you could justify a lot of potential emotional responses. Though I think what he’d say to Guts would depend on a) how self aware you think he is about his own feelings and b) what Guts says first. So like if post-Eclipse Guts lost it and sobbed out a love confession at him I could maybe see Griffith’s brain just blanking out and his mouth responding in kind without conscious input lol. But if Guts was a bit more restrained and explained that he left because he heard the speech and couldn’t stand the thought of Griffith looking down on him Griff’s response might be more like, I don’t look down on you, and it could be the start of a longer more arduous process of realizing why he doesn’t look down on him despite believing everything he said to Charlotte.

But yeah imo if Guts came back ready with an explanation and/or confession I definitely don’t think Griffith would keep trying to commit suicide by pussy lol.

The one exception would be maybe if Griffith was freaked out by how badly Guts leaving hurt him and decided immediately to try to keep Guts out of his life because he can’t handle that emotional attachment. In which case maybe he’d lose it at Guts if he came back, telling him to leave again - I was gonna say maybe even attacking him but he doesn’t have a sword here lol. But honestly, especially if Guts returned before Griffith landed in a torture chamber, I don’t really think Griffith would react that way, in part because imo he’s still in denial over just how truly fucked up he is by Guts leaving, and he won’t really acknowledge it until his chat with the King the next morning. Like I think you could justify it but it wouldn’t be what I’d default to.

And yk one interesting thing in a time travel fic could be the role of fate too, and whether Guts can actually avert the Eclipse or if things will still go downhill another way. (And holy shit that would be a hell of a groundhog day fic premise too now that I think about it lol). But even if he was told flat out that nothing he could do could change things for the better, I think Guts would still go ‘fuck you’ and try.

Anyway ty for the ask, this was fun to think about! I hope to eventually be able to read your take on the scenario, and if you like anything I came up with here pls take it.

#ask #a #b #headcanons #character thoughts #canon continuation #btw that last line goes for anything i ever write on this blog for everyone #publically shared ideas are free real estate as far as i'm concerned

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hankwritten · 3 years

Text

Hofstadter’s Law

Demoman/Soldier, 2k

Request for MinnesotaMedic821, Drunk

“You sure this best way in, Jane?” Demo muttered quietly as he gazed up at the looming concrete spires of BLU base.

“I am very sure!” Soldier said, not quietly at all. Practically yelling actually. Right in Demo’s ear too, what with his arm slung around the RED’s shoulders as the only thing keeping him upright.

“Shhh!” Demo hushed him. “You want me to go half-deaf as well as half-blind? ‘Sides, the last thing we need right now is the other BLUs hearing us.”

Soldier’s head, lolling like a pad of butter sliding around a hot pan, took a long and winding trip from one side to the other. “…Why?”

“…Because I’m a RED in the middle of a nest o’ BLU corn snakes?” Demo raised a brow. “Ach, you really did have a number done, didn’t you? Remind me not to let you near the Everclear again.”

“Okay! I will definitely remind you!”

Demo eyed him dubiously. “Remind me what, Jane?”

The grey shell of the helmet stared at him for several seconds. “…What?”

“Let’s just get you in, aye? We can do all sorts of filling in each other’s memories when your toesies are tucked safe under your covers.”

But in order get the Soldier safely in bed, they’d need to first traverse the minefield of potential termination that was the center of BLU operations. No problem at all really. It was late—even if some of the mercs had hit the town like Demo and Soldier had, they’d certainly be back by now, fast asleep, no chance at all of waking up and discovering a very difficult to explain situation in the form of an enemy merc carrying around their Soldier. As long as they were quiet, they’d be perfectly safe.

Demo guided Soldier towards the back doors, at which point they promptly ran into the enemy Demoman.

The BLU, spread out on a fabric lawn chair surrounded by dust, desert, and least a half-dozen bottles, blinked wide-eyed at the pair who’d just come around with the low-speed but high-inertia gait of a drunk couple. He shook his head slightly, as though to dispel the ‘ole three am fog and ascertain that yes, that truly was his teammate being helped along by the RED demolition’s man. Demo, for his part, froze like he’d been staked to the ground.

Soldier, as heavy things are want to do, kept going at his expected velocity. It nearly took them both over—Demo had to abandon the arm under his shoulders, lunging to haul Soldier up the waist and folding him in half like a Panini.

“Well,” the BLU in the lawn chair said, “you two look like you had fun.”

His face was a mish-mash of raised brow and, perplexingly enough, a smirk at the corner of his mouth as he bore witness to the two truants. Most shockingly of all, there wasn’t a trace of surprise on his face now, just those shades of smug amusement you put on when watching a particularly entertaining drunkard. The fact that Demo was used to having that expression leveled at him was neither here nor there.

“Er…” he said eloquently.

The flash of dread that’d shot through him when he’d caught sight of the BLU was the worse case scenario of course: reported on, fired, dead in a gravel pit somewhere, all rendered in gory detail by his mind’s eye. (His overactive imagination a bloody menace sometimes.) But as the BLU continued to sit there, not sounding the alarm, not even looking particularly worried, Demo’s fear for his own neck slowly morphed into confusion.

“I was just er-”

“Oh, hello Demoman!” Soldier chimed in. “We have been out. Drinking alcohol!”

“I’ve heard that’s a fun pastime,” his teammate commented mildly.

“Don’t tell him that,” Demo complained, hauling Soldier to an upright position. “Jesus, this er, isn’t what it looks like, honestly.”

“Sure it isn’t,” the BLU said, wearing what could now be identified unmistakably as a smirk. He gestured with his bottle. “Back entrance ‘s that-a-way.”

A little ball of defensiveness, not matter how unjustified, rolled around in Demo’s gut to the point he wanted to stop and give the other Demoman a piece of his mind. Which would probably involve lying. And then consequences to lying since Soldier had already given away this wasn’t a one time thing. He shut his gob and took the out.

Until the hum of the BLU’s resumed tune was far behind them, until the curving architecture of the base would keep them from being overheard, he didn’t dare start asking questions. Only when he was sure that the corner they’d rounded was at a significant distance away did he accusatorily hiss, “what was that about?”

“Hm?” Soldier asked pleasantly. He fixed a dopey smile on his friend, a second ago which had been the responsibility of a beetle crawling a tuft of bullheadidly tenacious grass.

“Your Demo, why’d you tell him where we were? And why didn’t he flip out?”

“You’re my Demo,” Soldier hummed unhelpfully.

“Ach,” Demo said, realizing he’d get nowhere with the security lights and a whole herd of horseflies bearing down on them. “Fine, lets get you inside first. But I’ve still got some bloody questions.”

They’d arrived at the unassuming little door cut into the base’s thick concrete, welded metal gushing haphazardly from its size as though its very addition had been an afterthought. Demo motioned at Soldier.

“Pass me your keycard, lad.”

“M’what?”

“Keycard.” Demo’s heart sank. “You keep it in your wallet or something, right?”

Soldier stared at the card reader. He stared at long and hard, so long and hard that Demo was starting to wonder if the question had made it through his ear canals at all when he concluded, “I forgot it.”

“You for- Oh for the love of Pete.” Demo took the hand that wasn’t supporting his mate and rubbed it long suffering across his face. “Well that’s great. Bloody great, risk my arse hauling a drunken fart back to his base cause he can’t hold his bloody liquor, and we can’t even get in to the fecking-”

The door hissed, layers of dust shaking loose like with a sci-fi swish as the vacuum seal was opened to the desert night. Demo gawked, watching it shake away grit like it was built into the surface of Mars instead of a dead-end town in the middle of New Mexico, and letting out a wash of air-conditioned oxygen.

When it was partially ajar, it unveiled the BLU Sniper, arms folded and leaning on the inner wall.

“How…what?” Demo asked. Soldier was too busy looking at the beetle again to be perplexed.

“Heard you guys arguing from the roof.” Sniper jerked his thumb upwards. “If you were sneaking ‘round, might want to think about keeping your voice down in the future. Probably could’ve heard you all the way at RED.”

“I wasn’t- We weren’t-”

Sniper waited. When no adequate explanation was forthcoming he said, “you comin’? Cold air’s getting out.”

Demo grimaced, and began the arduous processes of lugging the Soldier inside.

Chill ran up where his t-shirt had sweated to his neck, Soldier fairing no better since they’d spent the past half hour (every moment since Demo had realized Soldier would be going nowhere on his own) with their sides pressed together. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until the cold ai) brought the slightest suggestion of relief to his (admittedly also not terribly sober) body.

“If this is going to be a running thing for you two, maybe don’t get so munted next time, yeah?” Sniper offered. It was neither reprimanding nor conversational, like this was a totally normal exchange happening here with a RED in a BLU hallway.

“Who said anything about a ‘running thing’?” Demo demanded. “You didn’t overhear that!”

Sniper raised a brow. “Soldier said you were his new best mate. I assumed that meant you’d both be out and about more than once.”

Demo grit his teeth, the pieces clicking into place. “Did he now.” He leveled his best attempt at a glare from his blindspot at the disoriented Soldier who, unsurprisingly, was more interested in resting his head on Demo’s shoulder than being reprimanded. “Well that’s good to know. Any chance you can point me to his room?”

Sniper took one gloved hand and shoved a thumb over his shoulder.

“Thanks. Cheers.”

“Goodbye Sniper,” Soldier said belatedly, a good three minutes after he’d disappeared around a corner. “Oh hey! My room!”

“Jane, is there anyone you didn’t tell about us?” Demo demanded.

Soldier thought for a moment. “…I didn’t tell any REDs.”

“Jane,” Demo groaned. “This is supposed to be a secret. What if one of them tells the Administrator? You want that? Going to be hard ever meeting up again if we’re both six feet under.”

For the first time, a bit of shame managed to reach the Soldier through the woolen mesh of his inebriated state, and he looked at his shoes. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I just got really excited. Wanted everyone to know I was hanging out with you.”

Demo sighed heavily, not up bullying his friend when he was in such a pathetic sate already. “I know you were. Ach, it’s fine. We’ll talk ‘bout it later.”

Later being sometime after he’d managed to deposit Soldier onto a four-poster, though with the way the night was going it seemed like that moment would never arrive. His outlook wasn’t improved when he opened the door of Soldier’s room and found that not only was it Soldier’s room, but the occupancy of the entire Offense division.

“Whzzat?” Scout said, rolling to his elbow just in time to be bombarded by the hall light. “Ahg, dammit Sol. What the hell man?”

Demo didn’t bother freezing this time, successfully desensitized to literally every BLU on the planet stumbling across his ill-advised trip through the enemy base. Instead, he walked over, dropped Soldier on the bed, and began helping him unlace his boots.

“What the-?” Scout said when he finally lowered his arm. “Oh right. You. Jesus, how ‘bout a little consideration for the sleeping guy?”

“Mmrrhaunna,” came from the bundle in the corner.

“Yeah, what they said.”

“You don’t got the right to be begging consideration from anyone, jackrabbit,” Demo said hotly as he frees the military-grade combat boots from Soldier’s feet. He threw a blanket over the man’s form, who sighed appreciatively and said something about how this would earn Demo a medal. “‘Sides, don’t need to worry about me no more. I just came to drop of your sergeant and get out of here.”

To prove it, he backed out of the room with hands raised. Mission complete. Time to get out of here and bring this mortifying night to an end.

He might have gotten away with it too, if Pyro hadn’t shot straight up and pointed an accusing finger at him. “Mrrhaha! Hudda hah ha hoo.”

Demo reared back slightly from the Pyro who was still very much in their rubber suit, now with added nightcap. Whatever the hell they were saying, they were very impassioned about it. He looked to the Scout for help.

“They want you to tuck them in too,” he said, and the light flooding in from the single open door was good enough to see that he was smirking as he did so.

“Wha- I’m not bloody tucking anyone in,” Demo said hotly.

“Hudda ha. Mrra haa hur ha.”

“You tucked Soldier in,” Scout translated. “Only fair.”

“Gurrhaha.”

“…Otherwise they’ll tattle.”

“I cannae bloody believe this,” Demo groaned, rubbing his face.

Grudgingly, he made his way over the giggling pyrotechnician, absolutely giddy to have gotten their way. Thankfully boots weren’t part of the pajama equation, and Demo had only to tuck in the blanket’s edges ‘round a pair of socked feet and a squirming, suit-clad body. When he tried to leave it at that, a keening noise stopped him, and he was forced to repeat the process for Mayor Balloonicorn. All the while, he could feel the Scout staring smugly at the back of his head.

“D’awww, ain’t that adorable. Going to be hard to be scared of you now, though. Y’know, after you swung by to give us goodnight kisses and all that crap.”

“Just for that, I’m going to have a sticky trap with your name on it, boyo,” Demo pointed an accusing finger in Scout’s direction. He just shrugged.

“But uh,” Scout added, just as Demo was finally about to make his escape. “Glad you turned out to be cool though. He was really gung ho about tonight. Its nice he has good friends besides us.”

Demo cast his gaze to Soldier, who’d fallen fitfully in the short while it’d taken to get Pyro off his back.

“…That’s good. It was a fun time.”

“Oh yeah?” Scout wiggled his eyebrows. “How fun?”

Demo took one of the pillows he’d used to burry Pyro in and flung it at Scout’s face.

“Sticky trap. Your name.”

He could still hear Scout snickering all the way out into the hall.

#demosolly #tf2 fanfiction

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baoshan-sanren · 4 years

Text

Chapter 54

Emperor Wei WuXian And His Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday

It is past midday by the time the grand hall doors can be opened.

Wei Ying had intended to hold the meeting in the early morning, to spend the midday meal with A-Yuan, to perhaps have an evening alone with Lan Zhan. He had planned the day’s events with his old body in mind, counting on his old resilience and boundless energy. Instead, it had taken nearly two hours just to dress him, the majority of the work accomplished by A-Sang and shijie, while Wei Ying struggled with the simple task of remaining upright. It is astounding, how many mindless, day-to-day tasks, he had taken for granted in the past. Meaningless actions, such as putting on his own robes, securing his own belt, standing on a single foot to slide into his own shoes. Each one so straightforward and undemanding, each one suddenly transformed into an arduous undertaking, requiring many hands, frequent periods of rest, and more than one muttered curse by everyone involved in the process.

Running over the rooftops seems a distant dream. The act of walking, supported by both A-Sang and Lan Zhan, to the grand hall dais, settles a trembling ache into every one of his muscles. By the time he is seated on the throne, his robes adjusted, his sleeves pulled down to cover the splint on his wrist, he is tired enough to sleep the rest of the day away.

Patience has never been his strong suit, and the inability to force his body into obedience fills him with frustration that can find no outlet. Lan Zhan’s eyes settle on his broken wrist so often, that Wei Ying can practically hear the unspoken string of self-recriminations. In the wake of his earlier confession, A-Sang has been mostly silent and subdued. It is impossible to be angry with shijie, whose patience can rival the Immortal Mountain itself.

Jiang FengMian is admitted to the grand hall before any of the others, and Wei Ying, irritable and exhausted, snaps at the man without thinking. It does not lessen his discomfort, and the reproachful look he receives in response only sours his mood further.

At the root of this frustration, there is a fear he cannot voice. His body will recover. His current weakness will not last forever. But will he ever again belong to himself alone? Will he ever again be able to view his own anger as justified? Or will he be forced to forever question the root cause?

Any descendants that posses the affinity, Xue ChengMei had told A-Sang.

The words have replayed in Wei Ying’s mind countless times, invading every thought, tainting every past decision. He wonders if the boy knew the terror that his words would carve into Wei Ying’s bones. Is there another YanLing DaoRen waiting somewhere inside of Wei Ying? How deep does the affinity run? What will it take, to bring it out into the open?

If these were questions that Wei Ying had never considered before, he would find Xue ChengMei’s revelations easier to bear. But they are not new; somewhere, in the murky depths of Wei Ying’s belief that he had never truly been suited to the throne, these questions have reared their ugly head each time his confidence had faltered. He had never executed a man without wondering if YanLing DaoRen would have done the same, without wondering if his mother would have offered a pardon instead. Now, even his simple frustrations are no longer just his own, forever tainted by the blood that he shares.

Can he ever again trust any decisions he makes? Can he ever again be certain that they came from a righteous place?

Fingers brush his hand, mindful of the injured wrist. Lan Zhan’s gaze is focused on the entry of the hall, on the task ahead. His face is cool and collected, any emotion that is concealed beneath the surface impossible to read. But his fingers are a gentle reassurance, a promise and a pledge, spoken in a language Wei Ying is finally beginning to understand.

The touch does not take away the anxiety, but it muffles it into something bearable, something Wei Ying can push down, back into the dark recesses from which it came. If he cannot trust himself, he can trust Lan Zhan. He can trust A-Sang and shijie, Jiang Cheng and Wen Qing.

“They may enter,” he says.

It is immediately obvious that there have been some slight changes in the hierarchy. The Jiang and the Nie are the first to be admitted, as they always have been, but the place traditionally taken by the Jin is now filled by Lan XiChen and a small number of Lan disciples. The Jin Sect is next, but instead of MeiShan Yu, the Fan Sect follows immediately behind, Fan XiaoHu striding proudly at her father’s shoulder, and making no effort to conceal her contempt for Jin GuangShan. This arrangement has, of course, pushed some sects further to the back. Wei Ying notices Sect Leader Yao’s disgruntled gaze measuring the new distance between himself and the dais.

Any arrangement that keeps the man further away from Wei Ying is a good one, regardless of the circumstances. He thinks, if only he had known that nearly dying would have such an unexpected benefit, he may have risked his life sooner.

It takes some time, as it always does, for all to settle in their respective places, for the shuffling of the feet to cease, for the murmurs to grow silent. On Wei Ying’s left, Lan Zhan had refused the pillow, opting to stand. On his right, A-Sang had settled in his usual place, his easy posture concealing nerves that are just as brittle as Wei Ying’s own. The weight of the dragon crown is pushing down on Wei Ying’s neck, a dull pain radiating through his shoulders. His ribs ache, resentful of his stiff posture. His wrist, a minor pain compared to some of the others, is beginning to throb with greater frequency. He does not know how long he will be capable of keeping his spine fixed in a straight line, how long before his weakness becomes apparent to men who have always known exactly where to look.

He does not have the time for diplomacy. The thing he must do, which would have taken a great deal of finesse and caution in the past, must be done through crude and forceful tactics instead.

“There will be no war with the Wen,” he says, his words cutting through the murmurs.

Before any of the Sect Leaders can gather their thoughts to voice opposition, Wei Ying signals to Jiang Cheng.

A group of Jiang disciples carry forward an object wrapped in a red silk cloth, setting it down in front of the dais. Unwrapped, the parcel reveals a set of armor, the steel polished and shining, an intricate dragon with milky jade eyes depicted on the chest plate.

“This is the gift from Wen RuoHan,” Wei Ying says coldly, “The gift that was delivered by the Wen Sect disciples, and later replaced by a cursed object in time for the Gifting Ceremony.”

He does not mention the fact that the gift had come with a message, Wen RuoHan’s decisive hand easy to read in each ruthless stroke. Wei Ying had been right to assume that the man had been ready for war when the gift was sent. The note had offered the Emperor sincere congratulations on managing to reach the age of eighteen. It had also expressed a hope that this set of armor may actually make Wei Ying a worthy opponent in the upcoming war, as well as an offhanded assurance that, at the very least, the armor will guarantee a dignified appearance to his corpse.

The others, especially Lan Zhan, had been deeply offended on his behalf. Wei Ying, relieved to not be suiting up for battle, could muster up very little resentment. He had always found Wen RuoHan’s arrogance amusing, rather than disrespectful, but he is fairly certain that none of the others would understand his forbearance.

The note is currently tucked in his qiankun pouch, where it will remain, unread by both the General and the High Councilor.

“Your Majesty,” the High Councilor says, “Are you certain this is not some trick by Wen RuoHan?”

“The Royal Companion had inspected each gift the day before the Ceremony. Between the inspection and the Ceremony itself, the Wen Sect gift was replaced. Wen RuoHan may be untrustworthy, but the Royal Companion is beyond reproach.”

“I wonder why,” Jin GuangShan says carefully, “the Royal Companion did not set our minds at ease sooner? It certainly would have been a grave offense, to have attacked a blameless Sect due to a misunderstanding.”

“An attack?” Wei Ying says, his voice dangerously low, “How can there be an attack without a declaration of war? Who, other than the Divine Ruler, would dare declare war in His name? Surely, the Jin Sect Leader did not mean to use those words.”

“Certainly not, Your Majesty,” Jin GuangShan stutters, “Forgive me, I misspoke--”

“The Royal Companion,” Wei Ying interrupts, “has behaved in a manner befitting his position. Those who have overreached during my absence will find that my tolerance has limits. The Sect Leaders may prepare to extend their stay in the Immortal Mountain until these matters have been resolved to the Divine Ruler’s satisfaction.”

The silence that greets his words is thick and indignant.

Wei Ying believes he may have very little time left before his spine gives up on the tedious task of keeping him upright.

“You are dismissed,” he says.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #ficlet #m #wwx emperor au #the next chapter is written #just needs cleaning up #ily chickens

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soyouwinagain · 2 years

Note

lover to lover and or new romantics 👁️

lmao Fir you know exactly what it is for lover to lover :idonotseeit:

lover to lover:

not quite my usual writing process in the sense that I wrote this for a prompt — I had a very clear idea for what I wanted it to be from the moment I got the prompt, but did not quite realize what I had committed myself to until I was in the middle of it. as I say in the notes to this fic, that was the first time I'd written debauchery and then I somehow was dumb enough to make it three people. yeah idk.

now, on to specifics:

“Well, it’s not hard,” she says.

“I mean, clearly it is,” George quips and chuckles before he can stop himself.

for those who weren't witnessing my breakdown over this fic live, I came up with The Joke™️ about 500 words into writing the debauchery and then it took another solid 12 hours and 1500 words to actually work it into the text. that is very much typical for the way I usually write (or used to? idk man things have changed over the past few months): start more or less somewhere in the middle with something I know that's going to happen, then come up with bits and bobs that will happen after that, fill that out and bridge those gaps, and then eventually figure out some way to start. oh, and take notes on what sorts of pants who is wearing at what point and when they're taking them off. important!

this fic was very much a series of increasingly escalating horny thoughts while suffering through one writing sprint after the other. it was an arduous process but ultimately worth it, I think!

lastly, I've never been happy with the intro to lover to lover and I keep meaning to go back and fix it, but where's the time for that... I was in an (admittedly self-inflicted) intense time crunch and had to have something and I just could not make it work in a way I liked. that's on the long, long list of things to sort out in the future.

new romantics:

VERY different experience and process to lover to lover, lmao. the first scene was the big one! I wrote it on my phone on the train and through months of working on this fic, it never really changed. part of my struggle with this fic was that I wanted it to actually do justice to the concept, because I love it so much — Lando reading romance novels! and doing some self-discovery! so many fics have a great premise but don't really follow through, they're just 500 ultimately irrelevant words of whatever fun premise before it devolves into debauchery, and while that can be nice it felt lazy and not worth the idea I had, you know? so it took a while to pad it (in a way that felt meaningful and appropriate and shockingly like a plot, yeah I know I can't believe it either) and even longer to write the debauchery that would have to happen at the end.

for a while, I considered whether this should be a fic about Lando getting romance/sex tips from books, but I was never fully convinced by that so that part only found its way into the fic as a little joke, is that what they’re teaching you in those books of yours.

other bits I had really really early on that made it into the final cut:

“My mum reads those!” Max says, half in mock-outrage, half serious.

and of course, If he completely stops watching porn and instead perfects wanking one-handed with the other one holding up his Kindle and tapping to the next page at somewhat regular intervals, he really doesn’t want to talk about it. He’d also rather not think about the staggering number of times he’s had to wipe come off the Kindle’s screen.

if all of this makes it appear like I have a plan for my writing, rest assured I do not. it's vibes only plus whatever occurs to me in the heat of the moment.

#thamk for distraction <3 #juncosracing #fic things #as always if you somehow don't know my ao3 but are interested #dm me or send an ask or whatever #wow this got long i'm so sorry

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mihidecet · 3 years

Text

Sbi&co: D&D AU: It begins

I’m back from hiatus yall!!! Ever so sorry for the wait, and thank you all so very much for your patience and kindness <3 Updates should go back to the regular schedule now! Hope you’ll enjoy!!

Also! This is an early birthday present for the lovely Lando @whatimevendoinhere ! Without them this AU wouldn’t exist, so make sure to check out their STUNNING art and go wish them a happy birthday tomorrow!!

There's a rhythmic tapping coming from Scott's right as he looks through his spellbook for one last time.

His right hand man, the head of his guards - of the stationed ones, at least the only guards existing formally - huffs out fondly, rolling his eyes as Scott's hand gently shuts the tome closed. He sticks his tongue out at the shorter man, prompting a chuckle out of him; after all they both know he doesn't need to freshen up his memory regarding this spell, it is simply tradition.

Almost a century has passed since the first event, he's not going to stop now.

The opening ceremony has always been a big deal: it sets up the mood for the first few weeks of the tournament, and it involves him having to talk in front of a whole stadium of people, which is as fun as it is anxiety inducing.

It also involves introducing and showing off each participant, which is always entertaining; many crowd-favourites get chosen during these short moments, so it will be interesting to see what will come about. A handful of names jump to his mind, especially knowing what he’s discovered thanks to a cautious bit of espionage, but he’s still unsure of how much each contestant will try to focus on pleasing the people or on actually winning the games.

Scott doesn't mind crowds that much, but he is still glad that Jordan will be next to him; the seasoned human has always been a friend, and he knows he can rely on him no matter what - it wouldn't be the first time somebody tried something during the opening ceremony, but it would certainly be for the best if nothing were to happen.

According to his hidden right hand man, nothing out of the ordinary should be taking place, which is why Scott takes one last deep breath before exiting the soundless bubble they were standing in, stepping out on the balcony overlooking the main stadium and into the chaos of the roaring crowd beneath him.

Wilbur will never have enough of the cacophony of a crammed full stadium.

There is nothing quite like it, and ever since he got a taste the day before, during the opening ceremony for the tournament, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to live without it. As they walk into the sunlight, moving away from the shadows of the tunnel that they had to traverse in order to get to the main combat area, the cheers rise, louder and louder, edged on by the unnaturally loud voices of the mages that will present the participants.

A shadow shifts in his peripheral - Techno, advancing towards a good hiding spot behind one of the tall rocks that are scattered around the stadium - and he lets out a small chuckle, fixing his grip on his guitar as a bodiless voice calls out the fake names they had submitted in order to attract less attention.

Wil reaches the center of the stage in a series of quick determined steps, then stops and turns around with a flourish, strumming the chords of his instruments to cast a quick spell:

“Good evening, everyone! -” he calls out, tail swishing behind him as his voice booms, resounding magically in the whole stadium “- Are you ready for a show?”

The crowd erupts in cheers, adrenaline flowing through his blood like fire, and his lips stretch in an impossibly wide grin; a second later Tommy appears, shrouded in flames as he slides across the field towards him, looking almost as if he were flying.

“I didn’t quite hear you! I said… -” he repeats coily, his view of the world around him temporarily hidden as Tommy twirls around him, sending sparks in the air as the ground sizzles around them. The boy comes to an abrupt stop next to him, unleashing arcane flames higher and brighter for a split second that leave a burnt circle on the soil.

“Are you ready for a fucking show?!”

If he’d thought that the crowd had been at its loudest before, he would have definitely been proven wrong now, as the stadium seems to shake with the enthusiasm they’ve pumped into them - it is an arduous task, keeping the crowd energetic when they’re the last to perform for that day, after hours of fighting that must have left the people watching as exhausted as the people fighting, but somebody has to do it. When Wilbur turns towards Tommy the kid is glowing, and it’s not only due to the flames still surrounding his body. He pumps his fist up, towards the air, and lets out a gleeful whoop as the sound of Phil’s laughter reaches them.

The druid is twirling his own staff and, as the two of them start loudly cheering him on, he cackles and puts a bit more effort into it, letting it fly up in the air before smashing it down on the ground, where a spark of arcane energy bursts outwardly with bright green light. Iridescent glyphs appear on the staff, water bleeding out from the wood itself almost like sap and freezing instantly, while ice crackles and shifts as it forms a spiked clump around its top: Wilbur whoops even louder, letting go of his guitar to clap his hands together, resisting the urge to chant his friend’s name - they’re saving that for the future, no need to reveal their identities so soon.

Wilbur is in the process of reaching for his instrument again, possibly to start playing something while they wait for the gates to be lifted and their mysterious opponent to show up, when a long, drawn out lament fills the air around them. The tiefling feels his spine straighten on instinct, the chilling sound causing a sudden shift in the overall mood they had created as a wave of fear swoops over the whole stadium - Wilbur would be angry about it if it wasn’t for the fact that his knees feel a bit weak, hands tightening around his guitar as if it could help stop them from shaking.

Despite being frozen in place, in a mix of fear and surprise, he’s able to shake himself out of his stupor, looking up to the rest of his team with a tentative grin. But Phil isn’t looking at him anymore, he’s reaching out with a worried expression towards-

A body collides with his own as Tommy, shaking like a leaf, eyes clouded and wide open, stumbles backwards, clutching at Wil’s shirt like a lifeline. It’s the unnatural murkiness of Tommy’s usually bright blue eyes that clues him in on the fact that this is a spell, not a natural reaction to a definitely frightening sound, so Wilbur steps between Tommy and whatever has taken hold of his mind, praying to Tymora that wherever Techno is he isn’t going through the same, and presses both of his hands over his friend’s shoulders. The kid clutches at his shirt, still muttering curses under his breath, and Wilbur struggles for a moment to catch his eyesight.

“Tommy- Tommy, calm.”

The human gasps in a breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he shakes his head and lets go of Wilbur to cling to himself.

“Fucking- go on, don’t- don’t mind me …” He hisses, muttering to himself about “definitely not acting like a little bitch”, and Wilbur turns, still shielding Tommy with his own body, and hopes that whatever his dear cousin is telling him, it’ll help shake him out of that enchantment.

Despite the fact that Wilbur has been able to overcome his initial magic-induced fear, it’s still a bit of a shock, seeing the aberration floating menacingly towards them: it looks like a dark blue cloak, larger than a chariot, with a long boney tail, light pink, almost white eyes and a lipless mouth filled with an impressive amount of teeth - it resembles vaguely one of the sea creatures they’d encountered during their travels by the sea, but it definitely isn’t the beautifully elegant animal they’d seen doing somersaults near their ship.

Phil steps up next to him with a dark look in his eyes, and Wilbur would chuckle at the protectiveness of the older elf if that wouldn’t make him feel terribly hypocritical.

“Let’s bring that thing down, see if it acts all high and mighty then.” He mutters, raising a hand towards the beast and then pushing down. It appears that the creature is not used to that particular feeling, because it lets out a high pitched trill and starts gliding towards the ground, decisively less able to resist Phil’s spell than the elf had initially expected. Not that he’s complaining.

But as the beast is descending, it lets out another whimpering groan, its form shifting and blurring, shadows solidifying into two other copies of the original; whether it was a momentary distraction or a voluntary effect, Phil curses under his breath as he’s unable to distinguish which one is the original.

He is able to clearly see, instead, the gleam of a dark dagger as it sails through the air and embeds itself straight into the back of that beast's head, carving through its flesh like butter and embedding itself into the ground a handful of feet to its left.

Then, it what would have otherwise been an extremely comical display, both the dagger and the beast disappear in a gust of smoke and darkness.

A loud and indignated "Eeh?!" comes from what Phil assumes to be Techno's hiding place - a moment later the rogue himself pokes his head out from behind the stone column, waving that very same dagger towards the two remaining aberrations.

"You're welcome, I guess?" He calls out, before disappearing into the shadows again, prompting Wilbur to burst out laughing.

It's at that point that the tiefling realises, his shoulders relaxing instantly, that Tommy is also chuckling lightly behind his back - he figures he either snapped out of it or the beast's spell has a short duration - so he steps forward, moving a bit closer to the two huge figures now squirming on the ground with a renewed spring in his step.

“Not that scary now, eh, you big sheet?!”

The two aberrations on the floor flinch back, writhing from the effects of his words as if insulted - although the tiefling isn’t sure that it’s actually able to comprehend them - just a split second before two beams of fire sail past him. One strikes true, hitting one of the two beasts right into the center of its forehead; but the figure only shifts, blurring for a moment before it melts into nothingness. The second sphere burns a scorching mark on the ground right where the apparently true aberration was just a moment before, having moved due to the bard’s spell.

“Ah, Wilby!” Protests Tommy; when he turns with a grin he can see - as expected - the young warlock staring angrily at him, hands still smouldering as he throws them into the air exasperatedly.

That is also the last thing he sees before the beast behind him lets out a shrill whimper and lurches forward, its wings wrapping around his body and completely obscuring his vision.

#sbi dnd au #now sbi&co #sbi&co dnd au #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #philza #technoblade #scott major #captainsparklez #just mentioned

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citylightsbooks · 3 years

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The Motor of the Essay: Rachel Kushner in Conversation

This is an excerpt of a free event we held in conjunction with Litquake for our virtual events series, City Lights LIVE. This event features Rachel Kushner in conversation with Dana Spiotta celebrating the launch of The Hard Crowd: Essays 2000-2020, published by Scribner. This event was originally broadcast live via Zoom and hosted by our events coordinator Peter Maravelis. You can listen to the entire event on our podcast. You can watch it in full as well on our Youtube channel.

*****

Dana Spiotta: I know that everyone's going to ask you these questions about writing fiction versus nonfiction. And I read somewhere that you said, with your novels, you begin with imagery more than an idea or a character. With the nonfiction, there is a range of pieces about writers and specific books to journalism--like the prison story and Palestine--and then there’s the ones that are personal essays, right, like the girl in a motorcycle. So I guess they might all have different origins. But where do you begin with that? And how is that different as a process from what you write in fiction?

Rachel Kushner: Yeah, so it is kind of a different process for me, although I sometimes feel guilty to try to make declarations about which is harder, or how one does one thing, because you know, for some people, the essay is what literature is.

For me, fiction is more difficult. And so in a certain way it's what I've signed on to do with my life, because the process can be so mysterious and fickle and unreliable. And I'm waiting to catch a wave, or get the drift and then try to figure out how to sustain it, and then how to change it in order to sustain it. Managing so many different things at once is a very curious hermeneutic, because you need to know where you're going.

But then you also need to let happenstance inform you. I think some of the ways that we are challenged, and how we learn in our lives and also as writers, are by having encounters that we did not anticipate or predict, and that happens in fiction. And then you're kind of in a "taking mode" and you know exactly what's for you and you go with it and you run.

Essays are a little different for me. I mean, obviously. Time is shorter. But usually the motor of the essay is a sprung sentence. I come up with one sentence that is doing something in the syntax and it's making something sort of declarative. And it's kind of a gambit. And it needs to be followed by another. And sometimes I'll have a whole paragraph like that. And those paragraphs will just be floating in the void of the potentiality of the essay that I haven't written yet. And I don't sweat, like, "How am I going to link this to that?" yet. Because I just know by instinct that they're both going in. And if I put them in the essay, then they are interrelated by virtue merely of their proximity to each other. Then I start to build links.

Some journalism is a very different process. Like you mentioned, for the piece that I wrote, originally for the New York Times Magazine, about prison abolition and the carceral geographer, Ruth Wilson Gilmore, they said it can be any length and made it long. So you know, it was like 20,000 words. And it was my version of that essay, and it probably was a pretty good essay. But I think the weakness in it was that I was not speaking to their audience. And they really--you have written for the New York Times Magazine--they want to be able to countenance everything you say, sentence by sentence. It's not like writing an op-ed, where you just say your thing and then people can fight it out in the comments. They want to be fully on board. And I wouldn't want to have to do that all the time.

It's extremely difficult, because you have to keep remembering how to bring in somebody who may have wildly different ideas about how society should be organized, and not seem polemical, not seem pushy. It's a kind of seduction I think that really benefits from collaboration with an editor. It's arduous, it takes time. That essay took two years to write, but because the subject matter was important to me, ultimately, I decided it was worth it.

Dana Spiotta: Yeah, it's such a great essay. And I learned so much from it.

Peter Maravelis: When you're writing about events and feelings from decades ago, how do you return to the experience? What takes you back?

Rachel Kushner: That's a really great question. So, you know, with some of these essays, like the first essay in the book called “Girl on a Motorcycle,” which is about the Cabo 1000--a no longer existent, illegal motorcycle road race where you span the Baja in the course of a day--was the first thing that I ever published and I wrote it 20 years ago. And after looking back over it, in order to put it in this book and to improve upon it, I opened it up; I wrote a new beginning and a new ending. There are so many details and scenes in that essay that I never, ever would have remembered had I not written them down when I was much closer to the meat of that experience.

But there are other essays like the title essay which I just wrote quite recently. I'd put the book together, and I knew it was going to be called “The Hard Crowd.” And then I just basically sat down and wrote this essay. And I think, you know, as maybe you're telling a story, or going through your life, sometimes things really do sort of trigger the release of a memory. And Proust has this conception of two different kinds of memory that he calls voluntary memory and involuntary memory. And voluntary memory is the kind of fixed story that you tell, you know, "Oh, he's telling that story again," meaning it's a kind of sclerotic, hardened account that, for Proust, doesn't really have any real artistic or intrinsic wealth to it. Whereas involuntary memory is maybe when you would smell a perfume that you haven't smelled in 30 years and it reminds you of this or that. And I think that writing itself can activate involuntary memory, because you start to see into spaces you haven't seen in a really long time.

Like when I was writing this essay, I somehow ended up talking about Terence McKenna, and remembered that I'd seen Terence McKenna give this lecture at the Palace of Fine Arts. And then I saw the Palace of Fine Arts and him on the stage and where I was sitting, and who was in the audience. And so then I mentioned in the essay that this noise musician who I don't know, but I knew who he was, was sitting right in front of me. And that was a funny thing because the New Yorker called him and asked, "Were you at a Terence McKenna lecture in 1991." “Yeah, I was.” I mean he probably thought like the FBI is after him or something. I can start to see things and details in pretty haunting detail, particularity once I'm starting to build the framework that will allow those kind of involuntary memories to come up to present themselves.

Peter Maravelis: Do you feel that maybe kids who grew up in a certain era share communal memories, like growing up in San Francisco in the 70s is full of shared moments and scenes?

Rachel Kushner: Yes, I do feel that, but I would maybe even particularize it to not just an era, but to kids who grew up in a certain world within San Francisco. And I'm going to just be blunt: it's the kids who went to public school in San Francisco in the 70s and 80s. We all traversed a world together, and the particularity of that world. I'm not saying that it's special or different. Everybody has a world that they traversed, and that stays inside of them as memory. And ours is ours. And those who experienced it do feel bonded, I think, for life, in a way. And it's something I've thought about a lot since that essay was published in the New Yorker because of the number of people who reached out to me and wanted to talk about their own memories of this same world that we shared.

Peter Maravelis: In the New York Times review, Dwight Garner mentioned the phrase: “At the party, she was kindness in the hard crowd," from the Cream song "White Room." Is that in fact where your title came from?

Rachel Kushner: It is. I mentioned that in the title essay, it all becomes clear, or at least somewhat clear where I heard that song, and why I made it the title of this book. It's a good line.

youtube

To see upcoming events at City Lights bookstore in San Francisco, check out our complete calendar.

#Rachel Kushner #Dana Spiotta #City Lights Books #City Lights Publishers #City Lights Podcast #LIVE! From City Lights #The Hard Crowd #Youtube

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agentfreckles · 3 years

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Operation Holidate | Part 1

Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

Rating: General

Word Count: 1,215

Pairing: Felix x Female!Detective (Eris Evergreen)

Summary: With Eris off planning Christmas parties at the station, baking enough peppermint cookies to give to every citizen in Wayhaven, and organizing toy drives for the less fortunate, Felix fears she may be too busy making the town’s Christmas dreams come true to take time to relax and enjoy the season’s splendors herself. With the help of his fellow Unit Bravo members, Felix is determined to surprise his girlfriend with the best holidate ever by bringing Christmas to the Warehouse in four easy steps.

Notes: Part one of a four part miniseries serving as a surprise holiday gift for the immensely talented @iristhemessenger. Felix and Eris are one of my absolute favorite UB x Detective pairings and I knew if I was going to even attempt to touch that beautiful pair, I had to come up with something big. Hope you enjoy and I wish you a very Happy Holiday and a healthy New Year!

Also a quick special shoutout to @not-sewell for giving me to the support and encouragement needed to finish this thing. Couldn’t have done it without you!

Tree hunting, as it turns out, is a far more arduous process than Felix had anticipated.

And sure, maybe it had been a bit naive to think he could just waltz into the forest surrounding the Warehouse with an axe in hand, happen across the perfect Christmas tree within the first five minutes of searching, chop it down, and have it sitting pretty in the living room by noon. But he wasn’t expecting it to be this difficult.

It’s not like there aren’t plenty of evergreens scattered around the forest. But they’re all too small or as tall as buildings or their branches are too sparse or they’re not green enough to make the cut. In the near ninety minutes since his tree search began the only things he has to show for his efforts are a couple of fallen pine cones he’d stuffed in his pockets to save for possible use later as a rustic addition to the planned decor for the living room.

Felix grumbles bitterly to himself as he trudges through the snow, glaring ahead at Adam’s back where the axe he’d set out with currently rests over the blonde’s broad shoulder. He’d made it two steps out the door before Adam stopped him and confiscated the thing (apparently axes are not on Adam’s list of approved objects for Felix to be carrying around -- who would’ve thought?). Leave it to Unit Bravo’s resident party pooper to dash his lumberjack dreams before they even began.

But, axe or no, Felix still needed a tree and since Adam wasn’t about to let him go all Paul Bunyan unsupervised, the Commanding Agent begrudgingly offered to come along and aid in the young vampire’s quest.

Unfortunately, Adam’s suggestions thus far have been...less than ideal.

“Seriously, Adam?”

“What’s the matter?”

Felix casts a judgmental eye on the fir in question. One glance at its skinny branches and dull green needles is all Felix needs to know there’s no way in hell he’s hauling that thing back to the Warehouse.

“Adam, that is not a Christmas tree. It’s a Christmas stick at best. And it’s even shorter than I am.”

“This is a perfectly acceptable tree,” Adam insists, studying his find with a far more approving gaze than Felix had a moment before. How this thing is managing to meet the man’s notoriously high standards is beyond him. “It’s sturdy, manageable. And it’ll likely require minimal decoration.”

“You've got to be kidding me." Felix rubs exasperatedly at his temples. Were he human, he’s sure he’d have a raging headache by now. "What’s Eris going to think when she walks into the living room and sees some little shrub instead of a proper Christmas tree?”

Adam raises a brow. “I’m sure the detective would be perfectly satisfied with any tree regardless of its stature.”

“Come on, Adam! Her last name is Evergreen. Christmas trees are practically in her blood. Getting a tiny tree would be an insult to her family name.”

He places a hand on Adam’s shoulder, gently guiding him away from the shimpy little fir as he continues. “Our Christmas tree’s got to be a real showstopper. The kind of tree that makes you want to sing carols and open gifts and throw a Santa hat on your head. It's gotta be bold, bright, big. Something like--"

Felix trails off, stumbling forward a step as his eyes widen in awe and disbelief. There, a handful of yards away from where he and Adam stand, he spots it.

The perfect tree.

Whereas Adam's pick bore a strong resemblance to that one sad little tree that always ends up left in the back of the Christmas tree lot at the end of the season after all the better trees have been purchased, this tree is the clear star of the show. It's tall -- even taller than Nate by the look of it -- with rich green pines that fan out wide and proud in a most glorious manner. The whole thing looks like it’s just begging to be adorned in ornaments, tinsel, and colorful lights and in his heart Felix knows that this is the one he's been searching for.

He races over to the tree in a blur of motion too fast for the human eye to capture. To his delight, it's even more gorgeous up close.

“Oh man. Eris is going to flip when she sees this!" Heavy footsteps sound behind him and Felix turns to beam widely at Adam as he approaches. "Isn't this the most amazing tree you've ever seen?"

Adam's expression displays little emotion as usual, though a hint of mild interest flashes in his eyes. "I will concede that it is quite aesthetically pleasing."

"Looks like it's settled then. Let's get chopping!" Felix makes it no more than a step before a hand juts out and stops him in his tracks.

"I'm afraid we can't pick this one."

"What? Why?" Felix cries. "You just said yourself it's aesthetically pleasing. Coming from you that's a rave review." He moves to step around Adam, but the Commanding Agent blocks his path, crossing his arms in disapproval.

“Need I remind you that we do not have the luxury of lofty ceilings in the Warehouse? There is no discernable way that tree will fit within the structural parameters of the living room.”

Felix waves his concern away. “Then we’ll make it fit. A little shortening of the trunk here, some careful slicing at the top there. It's easy."

Sensing that Adam remains annoyingly unconvinced, Felix decides to set aside his mental bag of tricks and just give it to the man straight. It's a bit of a risk, he knows. But he knows better than most that underneath that ice king exterior lies a big old softie who just wants him to be happy.

"Look, I know it's a lot to ask. Not just the tree, but the decorations, baking, the whole thing." Felix's gaze falls to the side, his fingers fiddling with the knit scarf draped around his neck. "It's just that this is mine and Eris’ first Christmas as a couple. The first of many to come, hopefully. I just want to make it as special as I can. And I really, really think this tree can help me do that."

A beat passes between them as Felix watches his Commanding Agent with bated breath. Finally, the stony expression he wears softens.

"You're certain this is the one?"

"Without a doubt."

With one last beleaguered sigh, Adam gives a resolute nod. "All right."

The young vampire's face instantly lights up in excitement. He flashes Adam a smile in thanks, one the blonde returns before he strides forward, retrieving the axe from over his shoulder.

"So..." Felix says casually, hands creeping forward in an attempt to make contact with the axe firmly held in Adam's strong grip. "I do the chopping, you do the heavy lifting then?"

Adam pulls the tool away from his reach, fixing him with a stern gaze to silence any impending protests. Despite the icy stare, Felix is pleasantly surprised to find a grin tugging at the edge of the Commanding Agent’s lips. “Don’t push your luck.”

Felix backs off, adopting a wide grin of his own. “Worth a shot.”

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #felix hauville #adam du mortain #twc detective #I hope you like it!#I know Eris isn't in this one and she's honestly not going to be in it for a while #but hopefully Felix's planning is getting you excited #I'll be posting the other three parts over the next three days #so yeah! happy holidays!#frecklesfic

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sparksflamesembersashes · 3 years

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Random musings on 10.18 Find Me

Other Carylers have spoken about the episode and their interpretations of it and what it means for Caryl and their future and I've been sharing those and don't have that much to add to what’s already been discussed. Others have written well thought out and detailed analyses and interpretations and said it way better than I ever could. Most of them have been writing about Caryl forever and I started less than a year ago. I do want to speak to some technical stuff and a few other things, since I never do know when to shut up. Spoilers for 10.18 below the cut.

Brief talk on techie stuff... Wow, the cinematography in the plus six are really taking it up a notch. 10.18 has some of the most gorgeous images in the history of the show. The colors, the framing, and Caryl; separated by a stretch of water that's a literal stand-in for the divide between them, in an episode stuffed with signs and symbols and parallels. "Find Me" has some of the most visually breathtaking shots in the history of TWD... and do you know why? Because the plus six were filmed on digital cameras, for the first time in the history of a show that has always been shot on 16 millimeter film. Turns out, the digital process not only has fewer "touch points" (thanks for nothing, COVID) but it's also cheaper, faster, and easier on the environment.

TWD almost switched to digital for Season 2, and while AK claims now that they can still give it that classic TWD look, in a 2019 interview posted on comicbook.com, she said they were committed to shooting on film to preserve it's look and feel (confirming that film and digital are noticeably not created equal, an opinion/truth they are apparently backing off of, now). If the new episodes look different, its because they are. I am torn between which style I prefer. The grainy, Kodak-y type images of TWD as shot on film are increasingly rare on any screen, simultaneously nostalgic and beautiful and born of toxicity. The gallons of chemicals used in developing standard film are not environmentally friendly and probably need to go the way of the dinosaur.

Digital is wonderful in its own ways, so minute in its details, and can easily capture images and light conditions otherwise incredibly difficult to duplicate on actual film... But digital doesn't look the same, it doesn't feel the same, in the way that CD's and vinyl records don't sound the same. Purists curl their lip at the new and improved version of the medium, but the truth is,most people don't notice the differences.

TWD has always used the sun and the moon to their best visual advantage and both the celestial backdrops show up in "Find Me." The sun filtering through the trees onto Daryl or in his general direction has made repeat appearances in S10. Is this a metaphor for his finally finding his enlightenment? (Or is it nothing deeper than AMC uses the light to make everything look as cool as possible?)

10.18 shows us more of Daryl's soul (in a single episode) than we've seen before. His character goes through all sorts of colors, screaming in the rainstorm, grimacing as puppy Dog licks his face, meeting and spending time with this strange, lonely, gruff, almost mirror reflection of himself, someone who is grieving and angry and alone. Fighting with Carol! A real fight, but an honest and not altogether unhealthy one. You gotta work through to acceptance and let go of the past before you can look forward to a future, and these two have enough trauma issues between them to fill a psychiatric journal. They’ve a long, arduous road ahead of them, but they WILL reach their destination. Together.

Daryl throwing the fish at Leah's door and Leah throwing the fish at Daryl are my favorite moments in the episode. I laughed out loud. I did not get the impression that they only encountered each other once every several months, I took it that the time jumps measured the progression of their relationship, i.e. that it took that long for them to warm up to each other. When Daryl did go to stay at Leah's, it was literally out of necessity, as he was getting frost bitten in the woods and probably would have lost at least a digit or two had he remained in his camp.

For the first time, I didn't really enjoy the Caryl banter? (Please don't hurt me.) There was a sadness, a tension, and a sense of loss there I just couldn't shake. Carol was trying to run away from the horrors of the Whisperer's aftermath, and Daryl knew it, and he was annoyed by it. Carol's attempts at lightheartedness seemed forced. I feel like Daryl is a man with a whole lot on his mind at this point, and that Carol is a woman who is habitually trying not to think about the real stuff if she can avoid it. She jokes and banters but she's almost too cheerful... or maybe it just seems that way because Daryl's so grim. Not grim as in we're-all-facing-our-end-of-days-doom grim, but not in a laughing mood where Carol's concerned. He thinks she's running again, and seeing Leah's cabin reminds him that Leah probably ran from him, too. He lost both his brothers, Rick and Merle. Daryl has abandonment issues and an overdeveloped sense of responsibility going back as far as we know. He loses people and can't find them again, no matter how much he searches.

Revisiting Leah's cabin, the devastation of Alexandria, and everything that's been building up over, about, and because of Carol has pressurized within Daryl till he finally takes a shot, and who can blame him? But he also shows his development and maturity by trying to express his disappointment with controlled words of frustration (compared to camp- or barn-rage Daryl in S2), telling Carol exactly what it is she does that's widening the chasm between them.

Carol to Daryl early in the episode "I don't want to lose you because you can't figure out when to stop," and Daryl to Carol "That's on you. 'Cause you don't know when to stop.") Daryl doesn't know when to stop searching for his lost brother and blaming himself for things, Carol didn't know when to stop her revenge-fueled pursuit of Alpha. Daryl also tells Carol "That's all that matters. You being right." (after she says she was right to go after and destroy Alpha to avenge her son.) At the end of the ep., Carol says it again: "I was right" (this time about their luck having run out), then she goes to fix the door.

So now Caryl know and have established what gets each other's goat. That could be a good thing, but tptb will undoubtedly attempt to convince us its a bad thing,, ya think? Neither of the characters knowing when to stop and their mutual annoyance over the fact could be something the show runners milk for a while.

Î wanted to know whether Daryl went back to the cabin after leaving his note, to see whether Leah had returned to it, or not. I want to know what Carol did with the note. Did she take it with her, or did she put it back? They never showed us. Daryl seemed anxious and tense about her finding it, and I did not miss the symbolism of Carol being the woman who eventually finds the note Daryl left behind years ago: "I belong with you. Find me." I mean, how perfect is that?

Contrary to spoilery bullshit stinking up the Twittersphere, Carol did not seem exactly “upset” at finding the note, though clearly she was sad. She knew exactly what the note was, so Daryl must’ve told her about it, that he left it. Maybe he didn't tell her exactly what it said or everything about Leah, but my impression was that she realized what it was and where they were, and it was all yesterday's news to her. Seeing the note seemed to make her sad for Daryl because she knows Daryl can't handle losing people, and that he punishes himself for failing to help or save people by pushing everybody away and isolating.

Leah didn't so much choose to be there in the cabin as she ran for her life from a dangerous situation and the cabin was just the place where she and her bitten son ended up.

So many yawning gaps in the Leah storyline. How often did they see each other? Did Daryl move in with her toward the end of their relationship? I felt like he did after the time she found him freezing in the woods, but that he'd leave for days to go look for Rick, or hunt, or who tf knows. Maybe he'd leave to see or meet Carol. Carol knew about Leah, but when? Before, or after it was happening? Why is that important? I just want to know when he told her. Really hoping they didn’t leave things purposely vague so they can fill in the gaps to screw with us later.

Timing is everything. Like, how much time passed between Leah telling Daryl to choose, and the time Carol told Daryl she couldn't keep visiting? Or did he leave Leah's cabin and return to it that same day? Which would imply Leah abandoned Daryl practically the instant he walked out the door following her ultimatum. It seems like Daryl was gone a while, it was dark when Leah told him to choose, and daylight in the scene with Carol at his camp and when he was walking in the woods. It could have been days. That makes a difference. Leah was obviously not Daryl's first choice, no matter that he ran back to her in the end.

The fact that Carol knew about Daryl's relationship with Leah is a crafty move on the show runner's part because we can't really be pissed at Daryl if Carol knew about it the whole time and was cool with it.... but we all know now that Daryl didn't tell her everything.

No one is talking about how Leah obviously abandoned Dog, she left him shut in the damn cabin for who knows how long after she left. And she DID leave. The cabin looked abandoned when Daryl left the note. He obviously went searching for her with Dog, but for how long?

Not to say there was nothing between them, but I never felt for an instant that Leah had Daryl's heart, or that he ever offered it up to her in the first place, but I am also 100% sure that’s because I’m ride-or-die for Caryl and can’t bear to entertain the thought. No matter what else they were, Daryl and Leah are isolated, damaged, traumatized people who wanted someone to hold on to. Someone to try and forget with. It's not like there were a lot of other people around to choose from.

So did Leah just leave Dog behind because the memories associated with him were too painful? (i.e. he was born on the day Leah's son died) Or did she feel that Daryl needed the companionship and gambled that Daryl would drop by soon and take him in? It really bothers me that she just split and left the dog locked in the cabin like that.

Grateful they didn't show us anything extra of Daryl seeming to genuinely give a shit, tbh. (Throwing a fish at someone's door, having sex with them, sleeping in their bed or eating their cooking doesn't necessarily constitute giving a shit in this world, just saying.) That was both refreshing (cuz u know, Caryl is endgame), and kind of tragic. I felt like Daryl was rather emotionally detached the entire time, but that Leah was maybe falling in love with him. Not in a good way, but in a possessive, demanding, all-or-nothing type of way.

How very very clever of AMC to leave us with all these ambiguities. So much room for interpretation, so many gaps to never be filled in. Bastards. On the bright side, all these holes in the story and missing material provide endless new opportunities for fanfic writers like me who can't break free of the bonds of canon. So, yay, I guess?

I am sad to give up the virgin Daryl trope, I was beginning to think that one was ours in canon to keep, but you know, it is what it is. It was a good, long run while it lasted, and I'm grateful we got to write inexperienced Daryl fics while we could still entertain the fantasy that Daryl was actually inexperienced. So, R.I.P. virgin Daryl. I'm not as upset about his getting laid as I thought I'd be (although it was incredibly underhanded, AMC, to pull this shit so very late in the game, there better be a good reason for it).

All the Leah thing means to me right now is that our man has probably picked up some skills during his time with her, and Carol's gonna be the ultimate beneficiary. Plus, Daryl's evolved over the years from throwing a fish at a woman's door to delivering her dinner on a tray with a flower, so...progress was made, even if he didn't start out with the woman we wish he had. (News Flash: The love of his life was unavailable and actually married to another man at the time, so there's that.)

There are a staggering number of Caryllels in this episode. Someone once said here that Kang loves her symbolism and they weren't wrong. No matter what's to come, we can be confident about where this road ends. At this point in TWD, to not eventually give us Caryl canon would be the absolute greatest trolling of a fandom in the history of trolling fandoms, and besides, we're getting a spin-off.

Another thing, the fact that Rick and Leah both basically disappeared on him shines a bright light on Daryl's determination to stick to Carol like glue in 10A and B. He was terrified that she was going to disappear on him, too.

What happened to the Caryl fandom following the spoilers wasn't worth it. How many times have we freaked out over spoilers? You think we'd learn. And you KNOW we are valued because AMC went so very far out of their way to provide the vaguest-ever depiction of a sexual encounter for Daryl. Remember the Eugene spying scene with Abe and Rosita, guys? Shane and Lori screwing on the ground in the woods? They could really have tortured us, and they chose to be kind.

I'm looking forward to "Diverged." Honestly, I could give a shit about most of the other characters, but they'll have to make do for us over the next couple of weeks. Just about the time 10.18's been dissected and interpreted to death, Caryl will reappear on our screens and mess with our hearts and minds some more. I can't wait.

Thank you for coming to my rant, and Caryl on!

#caryl rant #caryl spoilers

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voiceless-terror · 4 years

Text

Proficient in PowerPoint (The Magnus Archives)

Summary:

“Why are there so many animations?” Jon tapped his foot impatiently through the unnecessarily arduous process of getting to the next page. “I’m not a child. This is for Elias, not a primary school.”

“I thought they looked nice…” Martin said softly, shuffling his feet. “I can take them out, if you’d like-”

“They’re wonderful Martin, don’t listen to him."

Jon has to make a presentation for Elias. Sasha, Tim, and Martin help, with dubious results.

“It’s standard procedure, Jon. Every new department head does a presentation.” “But I-” Jon left off with a sigh. Being called up to his boss’s office at the beginning of the day to be informed that he would be making a presentation to all of his intimidating colleagues (and superiors, if he were being honest) was not the way Jon wanted to start his Monday. Besides, what was he going to say? How could he explain this mess of an Archive that was currently under his command? That he didn’t really know what an Archivist did, and that when he googled the position it didn’t seem anything like what Elias had described? He might as well get in front of the room, announce his resignation and go home. Somedays this felt like the best course of action.

He’d heard the whispers following the email announcing his promotion to Head Archivist. “Him?” was said more than once. A few scoffs, a few appraising eyes from the other department heads who were all at least a decade older than him. Even Sasha and Tim had given him a sort of silent treatment, only speaking to him in short sentences and one-word answers in the weeks that immediately followed.

Elias seemed to sense his unease. “It doesn’t have to be long. Just a rundown, a simple assessment of the Archives as they are and what you plan on implementing during your tenure. Perhaps a little about you and your team. Introduce yourself. Everyone’s eager to learn a bit more about you.” Jon very much doubted that.

“Well the Archives, in my “assessment,” are currently a mess.” His candor was not appreciated. Elias was not amused.

“A mess that you’re going to fix,” Elias gave him a withering glance. “I assumed you could handle this, but if that’s not the case-”

“No, I-” He sighed again, the only sound he was capable of making. “Al-Alright. You said it was this Friday, correct?”

“Yes!” Elias gave him a brief smile and ushered him out of the door with a hand on his shoulder, signaling the conversation was over. “Let me know if you have any issues. Not that you will, of course.” Of course.

The door shut behind him and Rosie gave him a sympathetic look from her seat. “You hang in there, alright? You’ll do just fine.” Either Jon looked that pathetic, or Rosie truly did eavesdrop on every conversation.

Perhaps a bit of both.

__________

It was Wednesday evening and Jon was staring at a blank screen.

Everyone else was packing up for the day while he sat in his chair, stewing over what words to write. He should be recording statements like Elias wanted, not putting together some bureaucratic nonsense so the others could ‘get to know him and his plans.’ He didn’t really have a plan for the Archives besides digitization, and even that was going disastrously. Should he even mention the tapes? He’d likely be met with scorn and laughter. Elias may find them promising, but anyone who took one look at their equipment said otherwise. Google told him that he should share fun facts about the team but that seemed highly unprofessional. Who cared that he liked to watch documentaries in what little spare time he had? Instead, he’d written a very bare-bones outline of what he’d like to say but for some reason typing it out was impossible. The only thing he’d managed to get was a layout and font in neutral, unobtrusive colors. This was very important to him.

“Still stuck on the presentation, Jon?”

Sasha was leaning against the doorway with a gentle smile on her face. She knew how hard it was for Jon to get his thoughts together sometimes and was always a sympathetic ear when it got particularly bad. She seemed to have finally settled into her role (whatever that may be) and was talking to him more and more. Though no one in the department had any experience in archiving, Sasha at least had more concrete ideas.

“Yes, I’m just-” he sighed, taking his glasses off and rubbing his temples to ward off the approaching headache. “I’ve got no idea what he wants. What is a ‘rundown’ and how can I have one with the Archives like...this?” He gestured to his mess of an office, currently drowning in paper and cardboard boxes.

“Well, what do you have so far?” Jon grimaced and handed over his notebook, filled with messy scribbles and half-finished ideas. Sasha skimmed it and made a few promising noises; Jon hated the part of himself that sought her approval. She finished and looked up with a grin. “How about you let me have a go at it? You know I love this sort of thing, and then you’ll have some time to record that statement tomorrow, hm?”

“I-really? Would that be okay? I don’t want you to have to- I mean, it’s my job.”

“I’m your assistant, Jon,” she interrupted with a placating hand. “So let me assist you!” Her offer seemed very genuine. Jon was loath to ask for help or admit to trouble even in the best of cases, but Sasha had a way of wearing him down with one well-placed smile. He decided to take the hand offered.

“Thank you, Sasha. Really.” He leaned back in his chair and gave her a grateful smile, glad for any progress made on the project.

“And it’s no problem. Really.” She tucked his notebook into her bag and gave a cheerful nod. “I’ll show you what we come up with!”

______

Jon yawned into his fist for the fourth time in an hour. The Amy Patel statement wouldn’t record on the computer so unfortunately he brought out the tape recorder. For some reason every time he recorded to tape he came away exhausted and anxious, unsettled by the words he spoke. Luckily he managed to get to the follow up recorded without too many interruptions- usually one of his assistants would come banging on the door and he’d be forced to start over for the sake of professionalism.

“Knock knock!”

Speak of the devil. Tim grinned at him from the doorway, Martin standing close behind him.

“Yes?” he asked shortly, straightening the files on his desk. “Do you need something?”

“Your presentation, as requested!” Tim bestowed upon him a flash drive with much pomp and circumstance. “You’re welcome.”

“Oh! Er, I thought I gave that to Sasha?” He looked in surprise at the device before him. He wasn’t expecting them to actually finish everything- he also wasn’t expecting anyone but Sasha to help him out. If Tim and Martin helped out as well... “I’ll uh, check it out in a few moments, thank you.

“But I want to show you now, boss!” Tim’s voice reached the whiny pitch that he knew Jon loathed. He sighed however, and plugged it in. After a few moments a window popped open, with a file labeled Jonny’s First Work Presentation. He rolled his eyes while Tim snickered. I’ll need to change that before the meeting…

The file looked...hellish, to say the least. Jon spied on the first few slides a strange and ugly gradient background that faded from bright green to black, along with garish rainbow WordArt. He was almost afraid to click on anything, lest it blind him or inspire a seizure.

“It’s really best viewed in slideshow mode,” Tim nudged Jon’s hand out of the way and made it so, the full screen now proudly showing the title page- Jonathan Sims’ New and Improved Archives!! Martin and Tim leaned in over his shoulder, the latter clearly excited to showcase his work. That’s never good.

“That’s far too many exclamation points, Tim.”

“There are never enough exclamation points, Jon.”

The next slide came in with a sort of shutter effect that did nothing to minimize the horrendous resizing done on the Magnus Institute logo, which had been stretched to fit almost the entire page and was unrecognizable due to pixilation. Jon gritted his teeth. “This is unnecessary.”

“Wow, everyone’s a critic,” Tim rolled his eyes.

“I-I can probably find a logo with better resolution,” Martin offered timidly. Jon had almost forgotten he was in the room.

The next pages were not much better- the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition of ‘archive,’ the audio pronunciation for it had a page to itself. There were several collages of books and artifacts (these looked handmade, as if someone had copy and pasted several finds from google images). Jon felt his anger grow with each laborious click. Was this someone’s idea of a joke? Where was Sasha? “Is there anything of actual substance in this?” he asked, huffing as the current slide disintegrated out of view in a dramatic fashion.

“God, so impatient! We’re building up to it.” A few more clicks. They got to a page covered with cartoon ghosts and nothing else. “Watch this!” With a click the ghosts all flew away, a clunky piece of animation that revealed Jonathan Sims’ Plan of ATTACK!!

“I did that one,” Martin announced in his ear with not a little pride.

The ‘plan of attack’ included bullet points (which were also little ghosts) regarding the new digitization and accessibility project in clear, cogent prose which must have been the work of Sasha. The rest, however- random paragraphs about ‘synergy’ and ‘dynamic team players’- was clearly unsalvageable and designed to make him the laughing stock of the institute.

“I can’t...this is unusable, Tim!”

“Keep reading! There’s good content there. God, there’s no accounting for taste these days, is there Martin?” Martin did not answer. What could Martin have said? Each page was worse than the last- the current slide had only a picture of what looked to be an ancient Egyptian scroll and nothing else.

“This is the definition of unusable.”

“No it’s not!” Tim argued though he was on the verge of laughter. He was smiling, clearly enjoying the entire scenario. “Look, I even put a ‘Meet the Team’ section-” He clicked through the slides, each piece of text gliding across the screen in an obnoxious star pattern.

“I thought they looked nice…” Martin said softly, shuffling his feet. “I can take them out, if you’d like-”

“They’re wonderful Martin, don’t listen to him,” Tim had finally reached the first slide of his ‘Meet the Team’ section. Instead of starting with Jon it began with an incredibly large photo of Tim, smiling and winking at the camera. Naturally.

“Tim Stoker: A Gentleman and a Scholar,” Jon read aloud. “I’m not saying that. And shouldn’t we be starting with me? I ask for one thing-”

“I saved the best for last, of course! Martin, you’ll love this,” Tim began frantically clicking through animations, taking a full minute to get to Jon’s slide. “Ta-da!”

Jonathan Sims: The Man, the Myth, the Legendary Archivist

It was a picture of Jon from a happy hour years ago, smiling broadly with half-lidded eyes and sprawled across the bar in a state of disarray. He had a vague memory of Sasha snapping the photo before he fell to the ground and vomited everything he drank. No no no no - he attempted to slam down the laptop screen before Martin could see but the damage was done. The man was red and stuttering, clearly embarrassed for Jon. He took a deep breath, attempting to calm down. He contemplated his options- double homicide or self-immolation. Both seemed equally appealing in the moment.

“Please leave,” he fumed, his own face a tomato red as he stared at the floor. “Now.”

“Aw boss, don’t be like that-”

“Now!” Two sets of footsteps scurried from the room as Jon threw his head into his hands.

He had quite a bit of work to do.

_____________

Of course he scrapped almost all of it, keeping only the informative parts that Sasha had written. This is why you should do things yourself. ‘Assist’ my ass.

Jon had kept the door closed for the rest of the afternoon, ignoring both the plaintive apologies from Tim and Martin and Sasha’s insistent knocking. He wanted to blame her for letting the other two get involved, wanted to yell and stamp and maybe throw a thing or two. But it was his job. He shouldn’t have left it all to them. Lazy, incompetent, his mind raged but the words were aimed at himself. Perhaps that’s why they sabotaged the slideshow, to tell him they weren’t going to do his dirty work. Hazing the new boss. Did they realize how important this was to him? Did they even care? He already looked like a fool- why not double down on it?

He took the ‘Meet the Team’ page down, his fingers angrily punched the ‘delete’ key for every picture and turned it into one slide with only their names and positions. That’s all they need to know, really. He managed to throw together a few slides on a new organizational system and something about research follow up, but it all rang false and hollow- any academic would see right through this bullshit attempt. Even the digitization slides seemed trite- why was this his first order of business? What the hell are you doing?

It was late into the night when he finally finished, though the presentation was nowhere near what he wanted it to be. The clock informed him it was only ten though, so he still had some time before the last train. He was just going to rest his eyes for a minute and then he’d get up and go. Just a minute...

____________

And then it was tomorrow.

Fuck. Fuck!

Jon woke up with his head pillowed in his arms and his back almost completely immobile. He squinted at the clock- 7:00 AM. He tripped down the hallway and into the bathroom to freshen up, splashing cold water on his face and cursing under his breath. How embarrassing to be caught in yesterday’s clothes- if he switched out his sweater vest for a blazer, they might not notice. His wardrobe was nothing if not consistent and boring. His hair tamed into some semblance of neatness, Jon went on to his next stop, the break room for a cup of coffee and then finally, back to his office to survey the finished product and perhaps do a few run-throughs.

He settled in his seat and pressed the power button to coax his laptop out of sleep. The clock on the wall ticked a steady, droning rhythm that somewhat calmed his racing heart and he took a sip of coffee, savoring the bitter flavor. His eyes flickered down to the screen- still black. He pressed it again. Nothing. He looked to the side of the computer, noticing the lack of power cord. Oh, it’s not plugged in. That’ll do it. He solved that problem quickly and tried again.

Again, nothing. He pushed it harder, hurting his finger with the intensity behind it. The screen remained black.

It was then that Jonathan Sims screamed.

_____________

It was nine in the morning and he still had no idea what to do. No amount of coaxing, either through nice words or obscenities had managed to wake it up. He removed the battery and put it back in. He prayed to several gods, none of which he believed in. He kicked the desk and promptly fell to the ground, screaming in pain. IT didn’t come in until ten, and his meeting was at nine-thirty. He was well and truly fucked.

But then he heard footsteps coming down the hall and he dashed to meet them, hoping it was the person he needed. And it was.

“Sasha!” he panted, taking in heaving, gulping breaths. “Help!”

“Oh God Jon, is this one of your asthma attacks? Do you have your inhaler?” Her eyes widened and her hands fluttered nervously. ‘I’ve told you-”

“No,” he grabbed her by the shoulders, feeling more unhinged by the moment. “I-I lost it. The PowerPoint. My laptop won’t turn on, and-”

“Breathe, Jon! That’s no trouble at all. I can get into your drive, no worries!” she said, pushing him into a chair and booting up her laptop. Jon put a hand to his chest, attempting to follow her advice. See, it’s fine! “Where did you save it? On your ShareDrive or on the general Archives one? I’ll need your credentials if it’s the former.”

His heart dropped. No no no no. He’d done the one thing Sasha had always warned him against. “I-I saved it to the desktop…”

“Oh Jon.”

And that's when he spiraled. He was going to have to walk into that meeting, hands empty, and face the firing squad. Elias will know he should have never hired him and everyone there will nod and agree that the stupid boy who couldn’t do one simple task does not belong at the table with the rest of him and Jon will be sent on his way, back to research if he’s lucky or fired if he’s not and he can’t do one fucking thing right-

“Jon. Jon!” Sasha had a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding. “Fucking breathe. It’s fine, you’re fine! Here.” She slipped the flash drive from yesterday into his hand and he groaned, attempting to pass it back

“I can’t use that one, you know I can’t-”

“No, this one’s different, I promise,” She grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “I tried to tell you yesterday- I’m sorry about all of that. It wasn’t funny. We fixed it.” She seemed honest, sincere. But Jon was still hesitant, taking in shaking breaths.

“This isn’t a joke?”

“I swear. Here, use my laptop.” She passed it over and Jon paused, considering his options, which were few.

So Jon took the flash drive and laptop and left, ignoring Martin’s greetings as he brushed by him on his way up to the conference room. Here goes.

_____________

“Erm, h-hello,” Jon coughed, clearing his throat. “I’m Jonathan Sims, the new Head Archivist, as Elias...already said, I guess.” He let out a nervous laugh which no one returned. Elias nodded, urging him to go on.

Jon had made his way to the room with fifteen minutes to spare, giving him some time to boot up the computer and load the presentation. A quick, nervous glance let him know that it was much changed- at least the first few slides. He shook hands with each department head as they came in, trying to see which of their smiles and congratulations were sincere. The answer? Very few. This was not comforting.

His hands shook as he clicked his way to the first slide, his heart pounded in his chest to reveal-

Bringing the Archives into the 21st Century- A Plan for Updating and Digitizing the Institute's Statements

Well that’s not bad at all.

He began to speak, his voice gaining clarity and confidence with every sentence. The presentation was lovely- incorporating his preferred neutral color scheme, a great improvement on the nauseating colors of before. The animations were minimal and sleek, making the transitions meld seamlessly from slide to slide. There was a bit introducing Gertrude’s past work and a dig at her filing system that earned him a laugh. There were new slides regarding the preservation of documents, a new organizational structure, the introduction of a database. All ideas they’d briefly spoken about before committing themselves fully to the digitization process as Elias instructed. Everything was written in his favored academic tone- so natural that Jon found himself speaking extemporaneously on the slides he felt more comfortable with. It was all met with approving nods and a studious gaze from Elias that Jon couldn’t parse. There was also no mention of the tapes.

The dreaded ‘Meet the Team’ section had been heavily reworked- each one of them had the headshot from their IDs (poor Martin had his eyes closed) and a mention of which department they’d transferred from, along with their credentials. It was professional and informative, everything Jon had wanted it to be. Sasha had outdone herself. Sasha should be the one making this presentation.

He tried to ignore the guilt settling in his chest, even as he smiled back at the approval from the academics he so desperately craved. He clicked to the last slide, which had their contact information and- oh. It was a picture taken from his birthday a few weeks back, where they all looked fairly presentable and were smiling, no idea of the task ahead of them. Elias was there too; Rosie had taken the picture at Tim’s insistence. His audience tittered, though it seemed to be in good humor rather than mocking.

“Ah, yes. Th-Thank you for your time.” He quickly turned it off and stared at the ground, his face warm with both embarrassment and a creeping sense of belonging that he didn’t know what to do with. He was startled when a small round of applause began and he looked up with wide eyes to find a smiling audience. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elias nod and smile as well and he finally felt the sense of accomplishment he’d longed for since the start of his promotion.

The room cleared rather quickly (no one really wanted to be in a Friday meeting, after all) but Jon was stopped by a tall, smiling woman he had only seen in passing. “Sonya from Artefact Storage,” she reminded him, shaking his hand again and giving him a warm smile. “I’m looking forward to talking to you more about that database. I was always telling Gertrude she needed one, but of course she never listened to me. Stubborn to the end!” He could only stutter, too overwhelmed to formulate a proper response. A hand reached out to his shoulder.

“That was nicely done, Archivist.” For some reason the title made Jon feel odd, like he was having an honor bestowed that he had not yet earned. Elias wasn’t that much taller than him, but he always seemed to loom over Jon. “Quite the presentation. Lots of...ideas. But I must stress the importance of getting the statements-”

“On tape, yes, yes,” Jon said, quick to agree. “I just thought, er- I should let them know some of our other objectives, as well?” Seems like Sasha wanted to, at least.

“As long as you don’t forget yours,” A pointed glance. Jon gulped nervously, shoving a hand in his pocket. “Still, a good job all around. That Sasha of yours seems like a good asset. Enjoy your weekend.”

Jon froze in the doorway. Did he know? Of course not, don’t be silly. He shook his head and left the room. Well, at least that’s over with.

____________

“Did it go alright?” Sasha asked immediately upon his entrance. He managed a self-deprecating smile.

“Surprisingly, yes. That was- thank you, I guess.”

“No trouble at all,” Tim jumped out from the break room, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Always knew you had it in you. A consummate performer, I was telling our Martin-”

“Tim!” He scowled and tried in vain to shove him away, still irritated by his presence.

“Seriously, though. Sorry about all of that before. Just trying to lighten the mood, I swear we wouldn’t have actually left you with that-”

“It’s- It’s fine,” Jon sighed, reluctantly giving in to Tim’s insistent affection. “Well, not really, but it turned out alright in the end.” Sasha gave an encouraging grin.

“Did you like the photo?” Martin asked anxiously, hovering in the corner of the room. Jon paused. He considered telling him no, that he would have never put it in there himself and considered it rather unprofessional on the whole, but one look at Martin’s face told him that was the wrong move.

“Yes, Martin,” he said, summoning up the equivalent of a smile. “I liked the photo.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142390

#my writing #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #sasha james #tim stoker #martin blackwood #elias bouchard #just a bit of ridiculous fluff and nonsense #as advertised

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sourcherrybomb · 3 years

Text

The SoKai Denny’s AU:

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Grand Slam

Synopsis: After a long and arduous day at work, Sora brings Kairi to the local Denny's to unwind and have a pleasant meal. But of course, things go to shit.

Sneak Peek: “Kairi… You’re not thinking straight…” I said as I slowly raised my hands towards my girlfriend. “Please, I just want to talk. Just put down the-”

But my words landed on deaf ears as she quickly rushed at me, a syrup-drenched butter knife in hand.

Tags: Romance, Denny's, F/M, Food

Words: 2.5k+

Fanart / Graphic by: @blissfulnightrain @the-secret-place

[OCTOBER 31, 2020 - 9:09PM]

Please just give us the details on the incident right before we arrived.

“Kairi… You’re not thinking straight…” I said as I slowly raised my hands towards my girlfriend. “Please, I just want to talk. Just put down the-”

But my words landed on deaf ears as she quickly rushed at me, a syrup-drenched butter knife in hand. Before I could even process which way she swung her weapon, I jumped backwards. Grabbing the butter knife that Kairi had previously knocked out of my hand from the ground, I blocked her attack.

In Kairi’s eyes, I saw the rage of a thousand beasts. Wild, untamed, and out for blood.

Around the two of us, as the cool autumn winds blew past us, an onlooking crowd gasped. Whether it be in fear or amazement, I’ll never know. However, what I did understand is the confusion that they all share and the one question everyone asked:

Why the H-E-Double Hockey Sticks are these two people having a knife fight in a Denny’s parking lot?

[OCTOBER 31, 2020 - 6:27PM]

Care to explain to details as to how she broke into this rage?

Of course.

Kairi headed out to her job at the cafe hours ago, being called into work due to the Halloween rush. She was hesitant at first since it was her day off, but she reluctantly left anyways because she knew the extra pay would help out with rent later in the month.

As for me, I didn’t have work today, so I was home for most of the day doing my usual routine. This is usually made up of playing video games, doing housework, and bothering my friend, Riku. But today I had decided to surprise Kairi by cooking dinner for her when she got home!

Great plan, yeah? I thought so too, right up until I realized I had ruined the spaghetti I made by burning the sauce... and somehow also the pasta? Like I didn’t even know that was possible, but somehow I did it?

I swear, the smell was bad enough to make a rat gag.

By the time I realized I had messed up, I knew it’d be too late. In the middle of my mad scramble to clean up the kitchen and get rid of any evidence, Kairi walked into our apartment.

Now I may be an idiot, but I’m not stupid. I took one look at Kairi and could tell that she was not having any of it. Her work uniform was disheveled and covered in various stains and crumbs. Kairi’s thumbs were fidgeting with the hem of her work shirt. When I looked into her tired, glazed over eyes, I saw a seething flame within them.

It was like a ticking time bomb in the shape of my girlfriend.

“Sora…” Kairi said tiredly. “Were you trying to cook? Again?”

I laughed nervously, shamefully resting a sauce pan into the sink. “I knew you’d be tired from work, so I wanted to make sure you could at least eat something when you got home!” I dried my hands and signaled Kairi towards me. Following suit, she practically kicked the shoes off her feet as she walked towards me.

“Dude, I love you,” she said this as she slumped into my arms. “But please stop burning things in our kitchen.”

“Sorry…” Slumping further into my arms, it was like she was melting. I had to sort of prop her against our kitchen counter in order for me to keep on carrying her. “Listen, let me at least make it up to you.”

“How?” Kairi looked up at me, the fire in her tired eyes dying down a bit.

“I was thinking of bringing you out somewhere to eat while we let the apartment air out…”

“It does smell like a burnt down Pizza Hut in here.” Kairi sighs as she traded her flats for sneakers. “Where were you thinking of taking us?”

I opened up my phone and pulled up my bank account.

Available Balance: $365.13

“Let’s just say I’m looking for a place that’s budget-friendly”

“Oh thank god,” Kairi said. “I can wear sweatpants and not give a crap.”

“Exactly!” I let go of Kairi and started to dump the burnt mass of pasta into our trash bin. “You take a load off and dress into more comfy clothes while I get rid of… this.”

[OCTOBER 31, 2020 - 7:16PM]

You know, bad days at work don’t usually cause people to attempt a stabbing.

Trust me… If it was just the bad shift, I’d agree.

Normally when I bring my girlfriend to the local Denny’s, it’s surprisingly not a bad time. Our friend Olette works as the hostess there, so we can usually get our seats pretty quickly. I usually get a Grand Slam to get my fix on pancakes, eggs, bacon, and sausage. It’s a combo that always hits the spot when it’s 3AM, I’m hyper-aware of the world around me, and Riku is trying to find someone to take home on Sparklr. Kairi usually gets a Hammy & Cheese Omelette, mainly because she prefers the pancakes at IHOP. I always like to joke about giving her a Grand Slam once we get home.

Tonight was not the night to make those kinds of jokes. It was like the gods themselves had it out for my girl tonight.

7:45PM: Kairi and I arrived at Denny's and were told that Olette took the night off due to a cold. We were told that the wait would be close to half an hour.

8:02PM: Kairi’s left earbud died as the toddler next to us started bawling as she sang the ‘Baby Shark’ song. Mother of the child in question was too busy flirting with a busboy 20 years her junior to quiet her child.

8:07PM: Kairi dropped 27,000 Jewels in JHUX gacha trying to get a SN++ Illus. JH III Zola. All the medals obtained were ones that had been out of the meta for months.

8:17PM: Kairi and I were finally seated. Our table had sticky spots from syrup and crumbs on the seats. We asked our waitress, Asheleigh, if someone could come clean this up. The two of us were met with an unenthusiastic “Uhhh, sure?” as she called over a clearly stoned janitor. He sprayed the table once, wiped it once, and knocked the crumbs off the seats. Asheleigh took our orders with a sigh.

When I looked over at Kairi, I could tell the last half hour had done a number to her. An hour ago her anger was already near its boiling point, but now… It was like the seething fire within her eyes had evolved into a star about to burst into a supernova.

A beautiful sight indeed, but also one of pure destruction on a cosmic level.

“So Kai…” I nervously said. “Looking forward to the weekend?”

Her hands folded on the table, Kairi’s dead but fiery eyes staring out the window.

“...yes.”

C’mon man, think! I thought to myself. Anything to take her mind off this fustercluck of a situation!

“So I don’t know if you heard about this at work, but looks like JH: Master of Melodies is gonna have a preorder bonus!”

Silence.

“Y-Yeah, turns out if we get it over at Game Central Station, you get a couple bonus songs that would have been DLC! Isn’t that great?”

“...preorder exclusivity bonuses force game developers to split content amongst greedy retailers, alienating groups of consumers from experiencing the game at its 100% value.” Kairi says in a deadpan.

Crap, she’s being critical about video games... I thought to myself. Now I know I’m never gonna get through to her… Why can’t this food come any—

“Soooo I have your food.” Our waitress said, as she hastily put our plates on the table. “A Grand Slam for the spiky haired dude and a Hammy & Whatsits Omelette for his lady. Enjoy, or whatever.”

“Thank you…” I awkwardly said as I thanked whatever deity heard my prayers. “Well Kai, time to dig in!”

Silently, Kairi cut into her omelette and brought a piece over to her mouth. As if it were on cue, the food fell from the fork and onto her pants. She nonchalantly picked it off her pants and shoved it into her mouth, the look in her eyes somehow becoming even more dead.

I let out a deep exhale and started to stuff my pancakes in my face. I didn’t even notice that I held my breath in. I was honestly just quite relieved that Kairi didn’t explode then and there. We could finally just sit down, eat our food, and take a load off.

[OCTOBER 31, 2020 - 9:01PM]

Man, she really went through the ringer.

Honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t go feral sooner.

Luckily for the both of us, the incident with the fallen food was the only thing that got in the way of our meal. I was able to finish my Grand Slam and Kairi was able to scarf down her Hammy and Cheese Omelette. Looking at her face, I saw that some of the restrained rage in her eyes had been replaced with a much more tired aura.

“Hey Kai…” I softly put my hand on hers. “How ya doing?”

Sighing, she gently put my hand to her cheek. “I… I just want to get home, lie down, and forget today happened.”

After giving her a small peck on the cheek, I smiled. “That can be arranged! Now c’mon, let’s just hand this bill over and head out of here.”

But things are never simple as they seem to be.

Just as Kairi and I got out of our chairs, an ear-piercing “Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo,” came rushing down the aisle. Out of nowhere, Baby Shark Toddler bumped into Kairi, spilling the milkshake in her tiny hands all over Kairi’s legs.

“Oh sonova- Hey you!” Just steps away from the child, her mother called to us. She talked and walked with the cadence of a woman ready to chew out a teen part-timer at their first job. “Just what do you think you’re going to do about this?”

“Excuse me?” I asked in obvious confusion. “I’m pretty sure your daughter was the one who bumped into my-”

“Wasn’t talking to you, Spiky!” she snapped. “Listen up, Red, I want some recompense for my kid’s spilled drink! You think that cheap manager is gonna give me another one for free?”

“Hey now, names are uncalled for!” I retorted. “And not like it’s our fault your daughter ran into my- Kairi?”

A quiet but powerful groan escaped Kairi’s mouth, cutting me off. Her formerly clenched hands had started to crookedly flex open and contort. The tiredness in her eyes died away, being left with the energy of the ticking time bomb.

One that was seconds away from levelling a building.

“A…pologize,” Kairi said in a shaky voice. “Riiiiight. Now.”

“Apologize?” The woman mockingly laughed in her face. “Why woul-”

Before I or any of the onlookers realized, Kairi had the mother pinned down to the ground, a butter knife held to her throat. “APOLOGIZE! APOLOGIZE YOU-”

“KAIRI HOLY MOTHER OF-” As soon as my brain caught up with my eyes, I ripped Kairi off the mother and made space between them. When I turned around, I saw the woman crawling away in a frenzy, trying to escape like a dog walking with its tail between their legs.

“AaAAAaaaaaRrhrrhhgg…” A nearly inhuman growl came out of Kairi’s mouth, the grip on her butter knife tightening. When I looked into her eyes, I understood.

In removing the rude mother from the equation, I had become the focus of Kairi’s blinding rage.

“Kairi…” I slowly raised my hands towards her. “I know you’ve been through a lot today. The car is right outside. I can take you back right now, all you need to do is calm-”

“AAAAaAAaAAaaa!” Lunging at me like a mad dog, Kairi let out a guttural yell.

This is because I told her to calm down, isn’t it? I asked myself mid-dodge. Before a second thought could even pop into mind, Kairi spun into another attack from her lunge. I rolled backwards to dodge the attack, and picked up a butter knife off the table to defend myself with. After all, it was the best I could do right now. With how fast and unpredictably Kairi was moving, my only options were to dodge fast enough, or block if I was too slow.

It was like I was defending myself against a dancing blender with a knife.

Before I knew it, Kairi’s vicious attacks and my continuous defense brought us back to the entrance of the Denny’s.

And into the parking lot.

[OCTOBER 31, 2020 - 9:32PM]

“And right before your girlfriend was able to stab you with the butter knife, we arrived-”

“And tased her, yes.” I respond. “Officer Lockheart, I understand you were doing it for my safety, but I’m honestly still super concerned for Kairi.”

“And that is completely understandable,” she responds. “I can assure you that the officer that took her in exercised the most caution as effectively possible when using the taser.”

“Thank you. Is it possible to see her now?”

“The shock seemed to bring her back to her senses, so her questioning seemed to go by smoothly.” Officer Lockheart taps a pen on her chin. “I suppose it would be fine.”

After signalling one of the other officers to open the door, the two of us walked out of the interview room. Down the hall, I see Kairi wrapped in a blanket, drinking from a cup of coffee. As soon as she notices me, she puts down the mug and rushes into a hug.

“Sora, oh my god I’m so sorry!” Kairi says as she nuzzles into my chest. “I-I just really lost myself and-”

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” I chuckle. “Honestly you’d give Riku a run for his money in a sparring match if you fought against him one-on-one!”

“I’ll let you two comfort each other for a bit,” Officer Lockheart tells us. “For now just stay here, I’ll see what the higher ups have to say about the situation.”

“Thanks, ma’am!” Kairi says back. Smiling and nodding, Officer Lockheart walks away.

For a while, the two of us sort of just sit in quiet. People who enter the room pay us no attention, but occasionally an officer would come up to us and ask if we needed anything. Other than that, it was just the two of us enjoying each other’s comfort.

“God, I really needed this,” Kairi tells me.

“Cuddling in a police station?” I question. “Or getting arrested for attacking people in a Denny’s”

“Jerk.” Kairi giggles as she flicks my forehead. “Nah, I mean just this! Me and you wrapped in a blanket.”

“Honestly I wish we could have done it back at the apartment. Luckily, by the time we get out of here, it should stop smelling like a I blew up a pizzeria.”

“That would have been nice in the moment, but when we get home I think I’d want something else.”

“Oh? What would that be?”

“Weeelll…” Kairi checks her surroundings, then leans towards my ear. “You never did make that Grand Slam joke of yours back at the Denny’s. Does that mean I won’t get one once we get back home?”

The whisper of her voice is enough to send a shiver down my back. I look into her eyes and instead of the rage or tiredness I saw before, I saw something much more… Carnal.

I give Kairi a peck on the lips and flash a mischievous smile.

Destiny Island Denny’s, we might never be allowed on your establishment ever again, which I understand.

But thank you for possibly the best Grand Slam of my life.

#sokai #kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts fanfiction #fanfiction #sora #kairi #oneshot #f/m #romance #tw: food #sourcherrybomb #denny's

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morri-mclelland · 3 years

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Chapters 2 are (nearly) complete!!

So, I currently have chapters 2 done for both my Doctor Who and my Harry Potter fanfictions. Not currently updated, but I am hoping to go through them later this weekend (when I'm not stuck cleaning the house at least) and clean them up and format them for the various sites that I have. I'm also thinking about updating Before It All's "prologue" and fixing that with the ideas that I just came up with.

Anyway, sorry for the long, rambling post, but I'm just really happy that I finally got out of my own way long enough to get something written. ToE's chapter was finished about 3 days or so ago, and BiA's was just finished. Now on to the arduous process of editing, formatting and posting... though not tonight....

Story descriptions below the cut

Before It All - Harry Potter Fanfiction is currently only hosted on FFnet but I will be X-posting it to my AO3 account as I am liking that format a little bit better. The prologue is the only bit released currently, but I just finished the second installment about 15 minutes ago.

Hermione, now an Unspeakable, finds an old spell and uses it to go back to where it all went wrong. A Fremione story through and through, I have recently rediscovered my love of my OTPs.

It all went wrong, now one girl gives up the life she fought so hard for, in hopes of giving so many others the chance to live a life they were robbed of.

[Summary from FFnet]

Turn of Eternity - A long, drawn out Rose x Doctor story. It's plodding along, but it decided to go a completely different way than I originally intended, so my plans have been tweaked a lot. The episode that has been already released is The Parting of the Ways, and I have been stuck on The Christmas Invasion for months. I am hoping that after this episode, when I do an interlude, that I will be able to branch off more, even if I follow the story lines of some of the episodes. Everything is very wibbly-wobbly right now, but I am determined not to give up on it like most of my other stories wound up being. You can find this story on my FFnet, AO3 and my Teaspoon accounts (all under the same name).

The Tardis meddled more during the incident on Game Station than anyone was aware. However, when another need to protect the Doctor arises, the changes become more pronounced to those who choose to look. When that change fully alters the way of life for the Stuff of Legends on the Tardis, will the Doctor embrace the choices and changes, or will he give in to his urge to run?

[Summary from FFnet]

#fanfiction #hp fanfic #dw fanfic #next chapter

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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 3 years

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The Guardian’s Oath, Part Fifteen

I seem to be all over the place with the lengths of these posts. Hope that’s not a deterrent!

If this is the first you’re seeing of TGO, you’ll probably want to check out some of the earlier parts which are linked in the Master List.

The story is set in 19th century Ireland and tells of a young woman sent to work as the governess for two precocious children in the home of Reverend Feargal Devitt, a young widower. While there, she finds herself drawn to her employer and to the story of his troubled first marriage, and to the supernatural tales of the Demon Finn Balor, whose spectre seems to hang over the family.

Thank you so much to those who have followed along thus far!

Pairing: Feargal Devitt/ Finn Balor x OFC

Word count: 3,703

Content advisory: Nothing, although if the subject of childbirth makes you uncomfortable, you’re not going to enjoy it

Nothing had prepared me for how difficult the birthing process could be and although I had been warned to expect pain, no warning could have made me understand how much pain and how long it would continue. On top of the pain was the fear that gripped me from the moment I realized that something was wrong. I was terrified of dying. I was terrified that my baby was dying. The doctor was efficient but did nothing to soothe my mind or my body and so I was left to my own devices to pull myself through the many hours that followed.

I never understood the precise nature of the problem and I can’t be sure that anyone else did. I was bleeding and therefore too weak to push the baby out. Every time someone, the doctor or his assistant, who was also his wife, tried to ease the child from me, it felt like they were tearing my stomach out. It felt like what they were doing was wrong and dangerous for me. I did my best to try to help them but no matter how hard I tried, I could not muster the strength.

Several times, I asked for Feargal, to no avail. He would be summoned when the baby was out, not sooner.

I know that I was in and out of consciousness for much of the time, sometimes because of the drugs that the doctor gave me and sometimes because the pain and the pressure in my abdomen was too much. I told them frequently to leave me and that I wasn’t capable of giving birth, that I couldn’t bear trying any longer, but they insisted in no gentle way that I did not have a choice. I had no idea how long this had been going on when I felt a slight change in the pain, that it became sharper but at the same time it felt like my body was making some progress. I heard the doctor’s voice as if it came from some distance, as if there was a vat of water boiling next to my ears that distorted everything else.

“I can see it,” he yelped and his assistant nodded her confirmation.

From that moment, I pushed desperately, although it still wasn’t enough to get the job done. When the doctor brandished his forceps, I fully believed that he meant to tear the baby out of me in pieces and struggled, screaming, to get free. In the end, he was able to use his tools and brute strength to accomplish what I couldn’t. We were all covered in blood, my blood, as we waited for the infant to show some sign of life. I heard it, a strange, high-pitched scree like a seagull but again, it seemed to come from far away.

“Is it alright?” I gasped. “Is it alive?”

There was a shuffle of bodies before the doctor answered me. “He’s fine, Mrs. Devitt. You need to rest now.”

“It’s a boy? I want to see him! Let me hold him!”

I could hear the baby crying more clearly now, crying for me.

“Give him to me!” I tried to shout, but I wasn’t strong enough and my voice flagged at the second word, falling to just a harsh whisper.

“Take the boy to his father,” I heard the doctor grumble. “I’ll tend to her.”

His wife walked away, my baby snug in her arms and I was pushed back onto the bed, hard. The doctor rested his hand on my shoulder as he produced a large needle and jammed it into the side of my hip. I could sense the change immediately as my legs felt numb and tingling. He stood over me, pushing my legs apart and frowning as if I was disobeying him. Although many of the details of that time were lost for me, I knew right away that I would hold that image with me always: this gray-haired man with an angry expression, splattered with my blood as he stared at the most intimate parts of my anatomy.

The next time I awoke, even opening my eyes felt arduous. There was little pain, in fact there was little feeling in my body at all, but I had never imagined I could be so weak. It was quite dark in the room but I could make out a shadowy figure sitting near the bed.

“Feargal?” I squeaked.

There was no answer, but I saw the person shift a little at the sound of my voice.

“Is the baby ok?”

Still nothing, save the sound of breathing.

I felt like it was my husband in the room with me but at the same time, the presence was making me nervous.

“Say something!” I hissed.

But there was no sound. The form moved a little in its seat once again. I tried to keep my eyes trained in case the danger I sensed was real but I quickly felt myself getting towed under into sleep again.

When I opened my eyes again, there was some light in the room. I was slick head to foot in sweat and there was a scent in the room that made me feel sick to my stomach but just seeing the light made things a little better.

“Are you awake, Mrs. Devitt?”

I recognized the voice of the doctor’s wife and nodded, feeling too drained to speak.

“Well there’s someone here who’s been eager to meet you.”

She leaned down and placed what at first looked like just a pile of blankets. Then she peeled back some of the fabric and nestled within it was a tiny, wrinkled face, red but not feverish. Its eyes seemed even heavier than mine, barely open at all and fluttering just a little when I pressed my fingers against its little chest.

“I need to feed him.”

“He’s fine, ma’am. We’ve had a nursemaid to tend to him. You’ve been out the better part of two days.”

“Two days?” I looked up at her, trying to read her hard expression.

“Lay with him for a while but don’t worry about anything else. It’ll be taken care of.”

Although I knew the practice was common enough, I hated the idea that another woman had been feeding my baby. My brother had required a nursemaid because my mother was dead but I was very much alive. Wasn’t I?

“Is everything alright?” I asked her.

“The baby is fine. He’s small but he seems hardy. You were the one we were worried about but it looks like you’re through the worst of it.”

I raised myself a little- as much as I could- and looked into the tiny face of my son. I ran my hand over him, marveling at the impossible softness of his skin. He stirred a little but did not cry and eventually the weight and warmth of my hand seemed to ease him to sleep. In my state a puppy could have easily overpowered me. How could I protect something so completely vulnerable as him? Or the children, who I’d promised to keep safe? As long as I was in this state, we were all in danger from whatever it was that stalked the house.

“I’m going to get stronger again, as fast as I can,” I whispered to my son. “You shall have nothing to be afraid of while I live.”

Neither the doctor nor his wife approved of the fact that I insisted on taking over the feeding of my son and that I refused to take the drugs for the pain except when it truly became unbearable. I didn’t back down, though. The longer I stayed in bed half-asleep, the longer my family was vulnerable. I knew enough not to say exactly that but I could tell they still thought I was a little mad.

“You have to keep an eye on her,” the doctor told Feargal when he thought I was asleep. “Having a child takes a great toll on a woman and sometimes they can become hysterical.”

I hated to think what effect those words would have on Feargal and it was at that moment that I decided I didn’t like the doctor. I knew that what I was thinking seemed crazy but I also knew that I had seen things since I had arrived at this place that defied explanation. Sophia had some inkling of it. Even William did. Feargal wouldn’t speak of it but it was possible that he was infected by it, that he needed saving more than any of us. The first Mrs. Devitt had tried to resist and had been overwhelmed. I would not allow that to happen, I told myself. I had been sent here because I was strong enough to break this curse.

So I nursed my son and fought through the pain, telling myself that I needed toughening up. Feargal hated the idea that I was suffering but he also seemed relieved that I had the strength to be so obstinate. It was by watching his reactions to me that I realized that I had come very close to death. If I gave any sign that I was in pain, any little grunt or twitch, he would immediately go through a series of questions to determine what was wrong and refused to dismiss anything as unworthy of attention. If he was near me, he was almost always touching me and if he wasn’t, his eyes were always fixed on me.

His behavior certainly made me feel loved but there were moments when I felt I was under scrutiny, or that myself and the baby were under scrutiny. This was never more true than when the other children were around. It felt like months since I’d seen them since they’d been kept out of the bedroom while I was recovering. And although they had met the baby, it wasn’t until they saw him with me that they got to touch him and look at him up close.

“Can I hold him?” Sophia asked the first time she and William were allowed in to see us.

“No, dear. Babies are fragile when they’re born and he’s heavy.”

“I’m a strong girl,” she insisted.

“I know, but it’s always best to be careful. You’ll get to hold him soon.”

“But then won’t he be even heavier?”

“Yes, but his bones will be stronger.” I shuffled the infant in my arms a little and took hold of Sophia’s fingers. “Here, press just a little.”

I guided her fingers to his head. The facility where I had been raised by the church had on several occasions been used to shelter unwed mothers and I had been pressed into service on several occasions when help was needed with the babies. I was happily surprised at how the knowledge I had picked up during that time had come flooding back into my mind now that I was a mother myself. I cautiously guided Sophia’s hand over the soft spot in her brother’s head, smiling when she shuddered because I remembered that I had had the same reaction the first time someone had shown this to me.

“That feels awful!” she exclaimed.

“We all start out like that. Don’t worry, in a little while his head will be as hard as yours.”

William crawled up on the sofa and leaned on me, trying to get a better look at his brother’s face.

“Why haven’t you given him a name yet?” he asked.

I laughed a little as he squirmed against me. “What’s the rush?” I giggled. “It’s not like he minds.”

The truth was that Feargal and I hadn’t even discussed it. We had talked about the rough nature of the birth and how frightening it had been. We had taken turns reassuring one another that the baby looked fine and was eating well. But the fact was that both of us were spooked and were hesitant to give the child a name until we felt certain that we weren’t going to lose him. So eight days after his birth, we still just called him “the baby”.

William pressed harder into my side and I realized that he wanted me to wrap my arm around him. This required moving the baby from one side of my body to the other, which was nearly impossible with William moving and I was trying to figure out a delicate way to tell him to stop when a sharp voice cut in.

“William, go take a seat over there.” Feargal pointed at the small chair near the window. I could see that the boy wanted to argue because this would take him away from both the baby and me, but his father’s frosty blue eyes flashed with warning. Dejectedly, William slunk over and took his place in the corner.

“The boy does have a point, though,” Feargal mused. “The baby needs a name. So let’s come up with one.”

“William and I have names from your family,” Sophia opined, “so why shouldn’t he have one as well?”

I looked at her nervously, waiting for her to suggest ‘Colin’ but she remained quiet, looking from her father to me as if challenging us to come up with a better suggestion.

“Well I’ve already had the chance to name a child for my favorite aunt and my elder brother, may god rest their souls,” Feargal answered. “Perhaps Helen would like to name her first born for her father?”

“No,” I answered quickly.

“Or your brother?” Sophia suggested.

I shook my head again.

“We should name him Jesus!” William cried, his admonition forgotten.

Feargal and I both laughed and were rescued by Sophia.

“You can’t name a baby Jesus,” she chided. “That’s the name God chose and that means no one else gets to have it.”

It was Feargal who finally suggested that we name the baby Michael, after Reverend Potter, the man who had been responsible for getting me my post as governess to begin with. Since all of us liked the name, we settled on that quite quickly.

“When will he be baptized?” Sophia asked.

“That will have to wait until I’m able to get around a little more.”

“He has to be baptized so that God will protect him,” the girl scolded me.

“You’ve learned well,” her father answered, “but most babies aren’t baptized until they’re a couple of months old.”

“I just want to know that he’s safe,” she added softly, fixing me with her peculiarly mature stare.

Was that the secret? I wondered. Was she trying to tell me that the baby was in danger only as long as he was unbaptized? I couldn’t imagine how Sophia would know this but I also had to admit that she seemed to know many things beyond her years and experience. Perhaps she was making a guess, in which case it wasn’t entirely farfetched.

“I shall write to Reverend Devlin about it so that we can arrange it as soon as possible,” I promised her.

“I’ll speak to him,” Feargal said sharply.

I looked up, a little surprised at his tone and saw that his eyes appeared even lighter and chillier than usual. Was this a flash of jealousy because he remembered that night months earlier when the young Reverend had seemed flirtatious? Or was he resisting the idea of rushing the baptism? I couldn't tell and didn’t dare mention either possibility, so I smiled meekly and nodded at him.

My recovery went slower than I anticipated. It seemed like every time I tried to move around, it reopened the internal wounds I had sustained and I would be sent back to bed until the pain and bleeding subsided. By the time I was able to go outside again, the weather was starting to turn cold. Because of the issues I had had, Feargal insisted that I be accompanied by either Kate or Susan whenever I left the house, lest I take a weak turn. However, on one particularly glorious autumn day, I did end up going out by myself.

Feargal was gone for a few days with the children: William had been accepted into school but his start had been delayed so that he could be at home with us when the baby arrived, but his father had wanted to take him to see the school and to meet his teachers before he started officially. Sophia was still dejected that her brother would be going to school and she wouldn’t and so she had been invited along in order to keep her from feeling left out. Of course, no sooner had they left when Kate’s sister fell and broke her arm.

I insisted that our poor cook spend as much time as she needed with her sister’s family, pointing out that I was capable of feeding myself for a couple of days and that I had Susan to help me. Indeed, it was quiet but not unpleasant with just the baby and the young servant.

It was the day that Feargal and the children were due back and I had just gotten Michael down for his afternoon nap when I found Susan muttering in frustration as she went through the pantry shelves.

“Is there a problem?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I just noticed that we don’t have any more eggs and I need two for the bread. I’ll head up to the market to pick some up.”

“I’ll go.” She looked surprised at my offer but I was eager to get outside, especially since I knew the cold weather would soon have me housebound for months. “I’d like the walk and the fresh air.”

“You aren’t supposed to go walking, especially not alone.”

“I’ll be fine. I have to start doing things for myself eventually. You have work to do here. It’s only fair that I should take care of this.”

She acquiesced and I headed out, walking slowly and deliberately but relishing the feeling of the glorious autumn air. It was late for the farmers’ market but I managed to secure a few eggs. I was turning to head home when I heard my name called.

“How lovely to see you up and about, although I’m afraid my wife will be upset that you beat me to the last eggs.”

Revered Devlin gave me a broad smile and a slight bow.

“I don’t think we need all of these today, so I could give you a couple,” I told him.

“You’re too kind. It’s not an emergency, though. We can make it until tomorrow and it’ll be a lesson to me to get my errands done earlier in the day.”

“It’s no trouble, I insist. I know how much work you have.” I reached into my bag but he shook his head. “Actually, as long as I have you here, I might as well ask you about work as well. Now that I’m able to get around, I’d like to set a date to have our son baptized.”

“Of course you would. I’m so sorry that I haven’t been around to speak to you and Reverend Devitt to arrange it. What is the baby’s name?”

I felt a little tremor go through me. “Oh, I thought that Feargal had been in touch with you. We’ve named the baby Michael.”

Reverend Devlin shook his head. “No, I’m sure he meant to, but he didn’t speak to me. But it’s no problem, I’m afraid that there’s been two funeral services I’ve had to arrange in the last couple of weeks so it will be a pleasure to attend to something joyous.”

The young man insisted on walking me home, despite my assurances that I was fully recovered. In fact, I was getting twinges of pain the longer I was on my feet and I was happy to have his arm to lean on. It was also nice for me to speak to someone new, even though the way he looked at me made me blush. He was pleasant company and the walk passed quickly. As we reached my home, I was visibly limping and he insisted on helping me to the door, one arm around my waist to steady me.

I was startled when the door flew open to meet us, and my sudden movement caused him to tighten his hold on me.

“Reverend,” Feargal greeted him with a tight smile, “how good to see you again.”

My husband reached out and wrapped an arm around me, pulling me across the threshold without moving his eyes from the other man. They exchanged pleasantries as I took my leave and rushed to the kitchen to hand over the eggs. Susan looked nervous and thanked me more than necessary. I wanted to ask her what the matter was but she scurried away saying that she needed to get the bread started.

I made my way up to the bedroom and was surprised to see that Feargal was already there, holding Michael up as if he were inspecting him. He stood in front of the window, the light behind him making him appear dark and shadowy in form, the expression on his face inscrutable even as I approached him.

“Here comes your mama,” he cooed to the baby, turning his piercing eyes on me. “Where has she been?”

I held out my arms for him to hand Michael to me but he stayed still, even pulling back a little.

“Feargal,” I whispered, “let me have him.”

He gave an unkind-looking smile but placed the baby in my outstretched arms. I cradled him, avoiding my husband’s stare for a few minutes until I returned the tiny figure to his crib next to the bed. Feargal crowded close to me, his breath condensing against my neck as I watched Michael drifting back to sleep.

“Where are the children?” I stammered, feeling his hand close around my arm.

“Fast asleep, would you believe? I had to wake them to come from the coach and they went to bed as soon as they went inside.”

He placed a kiss on my temple and pressed against me so that I was trapped between his body and the wall.

#wwe fanfiction #wwe imagine #wrestling imagine #nxt fanfiction #nxt imagine #finn balor imagine #finn balor fanfic #wayward wrestle writing

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