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kaizokuou-ni-naru · 3 years

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The Voyage So Far: Alabasta (Part Two)

east blue (1 | 2) || alabasta (1 | 2) || skypiea || water 7 || enies lobby || thriller bark || paramount war (1 | 2) || fishman island || punk hazard || dressrosa (1 | 2) || whole cake island || wano (1 | 2)

crocodile is one of my favorite villains in one piece for a number of reasons, and one of them is because he’s such a threat, the first real one faced in the grand line and one of the toughest in all of paradise. the villains from the arcs before this, like wapol or the agents from little garden, could barely even land a hit on luffy in actual combat. so crocodile is introduced here as an absolute force of nature, a complete contrast to recent villains and a very tangible threat.

it’s an impression he very much lives up to later in the arc by crushing luffy not once but twice, which only makes luffy’s ultimate hard-won triumph feel all the better. luffy closes a huge gap over the course of alabasta in order to be able to beat crocodile, and giving us a sense of just how strong he is from the very start gives luffy clawing his way up to that level a lot more weight.

the successive reveals of luffy’s family never fail to absolutely delight me, because in any other series they would almost certainly feel contrived, but knowing luffy, it is absolutely unsurprising he just never happened to mention his relatives. nobody asked! luffy’s unique brand of honesty is one of my favorite character quirks, because he’s very straightforward and in fact can’t lie for shit, but his priorities are so completely off the wall that he winds up omitting highly relevant information completely by accident.

ace’s scene in alabasta really does impress me. oda’s said in an sbs that he knew ace’s fate from his introduction, which i find absolutely unsurprising given the intricacy of his story planning. that means he needed ace’s introduction to make him both likable and memorable enough in the space of just a couple chapters that the audience would be engaged when he became the focus of the story a couple hundred chapters on despite barely appearing at all in the intervening time, and he really succeeded.

kohza is one of my favorite minor characters in the whole series, and i think he’s a big part of why alabasta’s civil war plotline works so well and feels so real. nobody on either side of the war actually wants to fight, but everyone has been driven to such desperation that they feel they have no other choice in order to save their country; and kohza exemplifies that. he's a good person who loves his country a lot, and who genuinely likes and cares about the royal family and vivi especially, and the only option he can see to save alabasta is terrible, but there’s nothing else he can do.

it’s just fun for me to think about the fact that if crocodile was literally anything other than a very skilled logia, vivi would have ended the whole entire arc right here.

i really like civil war storylines when they’re well-done, and i think alabasta is one of the best ones i’ve seen in media. most of it is down to what i mentioned earlier, about how nobody on either side actually wants to fight but feels like they have no choice but to. nobody here is actually in the wrong except for crocodile, and so until crocodile is defeated, nothing can be fixed- which is what luffy, of all people, is the one to realize.

sanji’s mr. prince gambit is probably my single favorite part of alabasta, and i think one of the reasons i like it so much is because he basically beats crocodile at his own game. crocodile is terrifying in battle, but before anything else he’s a manipulator. he’s always working from the shadows, always deceiving people doing what he wants, and sanji manages to turn the tables on him and do the exact same back to him, twice.

also sanji looks great in glasses

smoker and tashigi both get kind of unfortunately sidelined after this saga, but they’re both really great characters in alabasta. (tashigi especially; i’ll get to her later.) much like the rebel army, they’re good people trying to do the right thing in the tangled mess of tension and politics and resentment that is alabasta- and when that means working with pirates, they’ll buckle down and do it, despite how much it might contradict their worldviews.

i love when events align in one piece so that people who don’t particularly like the strawhats wind up working with them for some common goal (as seen most prominently in impel down), and smoker and tashigi in alabasta are the first and still one of the best examples of that.

the entirety of luffy versus crocodile round one is so well done. we’re a hundred and fifty chapters in, and although luffy has struggled in fights before now and then, we get the sense he hasn’t ever really been pushed to the brink, and he’s certainly never lost.

and then he does, completely and absolutely, without ever even landing a hit on his opponent, and it hits like a punch.

oda seems to be a fan of characters just barely missing each other- the similar panel of robin and olvia running past each other from robin’s flashback comes to mind.

i’ve always liked that of all the strawhats, it’s usopp who gets the first “luffy is going to be king of the pirates” moment. they’ve all said it by the current chapters in wano (with the sole exception of robin, i believe), but usopp said it first, and that feels significant to me. he’s always been the one who feels the least secure in his place on the crew, but even so, he has so much faith in luffy.

nami’s fight with miss doublefinger is pretty silly in places and i think it gets frequently (understandably, it must be said) overshadowed by zoro’s fight with mr. 1 directly afterwards, but i really like it nonetheless. it’s nami’s first real solo fight in the whole series, and once she finds her feet she kicks ass, and i really like that. it feels like a very satisfying development for her, to stand up and risk her life in direct combat for vivi’s sake.

we’re now almost a thousand chapters in and its my firm belief that zoro versus mr. 1 is still one of the best fights in the entire series. i definitely think it’s probably zoro’s best fight- only his match with kaku compares. the narrative build over the course of the fight, from zoro struggling just to match mr. 1 (and getting shredded to pieces in the process) to cutting him down in one final stroke, is incredibly cool and satisfying to watch. it feels like a very tangible step forward for zoro in terms of ability, like a massive obstacle has been surmounted and, as he himself says, he’s now stronger for it.

its also very cool that this is, i believe, the first appearance of what is probably observation haki, though it isn’t named or recognized as such. i’m always endlessly impressed by all the little moments of internal consistency that oda manages to sprinkle into his story.

there’s barely any dialogue on these entire two pages, from crocodile dropping vivi to luffy and pell swooping in- the story is briefly told entirely through visuals- and i love that. it gives the impression of a single tense, frozen moment as vivi falls, which is then broken in spectacular fashion when luffy catches her.

i really, really like the progression that runs through all three of luffy’s fights with crocodile. the gap between them goes from being impossible, with luffy unable to even land a hit and crocodile basically toying with him; to surmountable but still huge, with luffy able to land some hits but still outclassed; to finally putting them on basically even ground. and every inch of that growth on luffy’s part is hard-fought and hard-won and well-deserved.

crocodile’s confidence in his abilities isn’t misplaced- he genuinely is that powerful. but if there’s anything we know about luffy by now, it’s that he doesn’t ever give up. it’s very fun to watch crocodile’s dismissiveness turn into disbelief turn into rage and frustration when luffy just won’t die.

luffy is, additionally, pretty clearly a better brawler than crocodile (which makes sense, crocodile is clearly used to devastating long-range attacks with his powers while luffy grew up fighting giant wildlife with his bare hands), which means that by the time of their last fight, where they’re just whaling on each other in the catacombs and crocodile is starting to get sloppy and desperate and lose control, if anything it’s luffy who has the upper hand.

zoro and sanji’s dynamic is always a favorite of mine, and one of the things i like best about them is how perfectly in sync they always manage to be when it comes to things that actually matter, despite fighting like cats and dogs pretty much every other time. i’ll never understand people who think they genuinely aren’t friends.

tashigi is really good in alabasta, okay. she essentially has her own entire character growth arc. she goes from her stance in loguetown, where she isn’t even tolerant of (fully legal!) bounty hunters, to here, where she’s forced to confront that the world isn’t nearly as black and white as she’s always believed it to be, that sometimes pirates are good and allies of the government are bad, and ultimately makes the right choice to help the strawhats even though it clearly pains and frustrates her that she can’t do anything more herself.

i’ll be forever mad that her only really significant appearance after this in punk hazard didn’t really live up to what her character deserved.

i really like how the countdown sequence is done. the tension is ratcheting up and up and up as the clock ticks down in the final seconds, panels cutting all over the city to show all the different characters, everyone who’s caught up in this conflict and everyone who’ll die if the cannon fires-

and then the clock hits zero, and we get this panel that’s just... quiet, after all the madness, as we see how vivi stopped the detonation. i think oda is very good at setting up his pages so they have a flow to them, so no matter how quickly you actually read sometimes things feel like they’re going very fast and all happening at once and then it slows down and gives the reader a chance to breathe, if only to speed up again later. i think oda is really good at pacing in general, really, both on a micro level like this and on a larger scale.

luffy’s greatest strength isn’t really his strength. he’s strong, absolutely, but that’s not really why he wins the fights he shouldn’t win. he wins because he just doesn’t fucking stay down. his fight with katakuri is probably the best example of this, because katakuri has him beat in pretty much every category except sheer endurance, and there as here, it’s that endurance that winds up getting luffy the win in the end.

i do love that it’s the rain that ends the war. not the explosion and pell’s sacrifice, not vivi’s pleading, not even luffy kicking crocodile into the stratosphere, but the rain, the thing alabasta’s been missing for too long, the thing crocodile stole, the only thing all these people are fighting over.

it’s crocodile’s symbolic defeat- at the same moment his power is broken by luffy, the stranglehold of dehydration he’s been using to foment war and rebellion is all at once gone, and he’s left with nothing at all, and alabasta can finally find peace and start to heal again.

i always love the little moments that show, usually without words, just how much the strawhats love each other, and all of them unanimously waiting until vivi is out of sight to collapse so that she won’t worry, won’t see how ragged they ran themselves for their sake, is definitely one of them.

i adore vivi’s sendoff, because while its sad she has to go, the certainty that someday they’ll meet again and that even if not they’ll always be crew manages to make this scene endlessly hopeful instead (which, i think, is also a good summary of one piece’s tone as a whole, at least in its more serious moments). luffy never says goodbye, after all, and nobody ever really leaves the strawhat pirates.

i’m really looking forward to vivi’s re-entry to the story. i really, really want to see her reunion with the strawhats.

hey look, it’s the panel my profile picture is from!

the mystery surrounding robin and her past is built up in little ways long before enies lobby, from her harsh reaction when confronted with by tashigi to her aversion to being called by her given name to this flashback, of her talking to cobra about her dream. of them, the latter is my favorite, because i think it’s probably the most sincere she is until enies lobby- which makes sense, given she thinks she’s about to die.

like many things about robin in alabasta, this gets cast in a new light by her backstory. if she dies here, so too does the entire legacy of ohara- but she’s so beaten down and hopeless that she really doesn’t see any light ahead to strive for. there’s no hope left, for her, and the whole world against her.

and then there’s luffy, who creates hope everywhere he goes, who makes her live anyways.

this is a hell of a spread to hook us very effectively right into the sky island saga. it’s a perfect reminder of just how much we still don’t know about all the endless mysteries of the grand line, and just how many adventures are still yet to be had.

#the voyage so far #arc: alabasta #one piece #opmeta #not japanese #long post

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drivingsideways · 3 years

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For @the-ever-present-julie, based off this tumblr post.

Five times Dean and Cas kissed and never talked about it, and the one time they did and still won’t talk about it.

Five.

It's not like Dean hasn't thought about it before.

That first month after he crawled his way out of his grave? He'd never told Sam or Bobby, but that entire month, hell, more like three, he'd been convinced that it was all just one of Alastair's tricks. That Alastair had moved on from the crude, visceral pleasure of blood and guts and shredded flesh to this—letting him dream, and then, right when he'd let himself believe it, that the impossible had happened, Alastair would take it away.

The sick fuck.

But two could play that game, alright?

Dean- Dean was good at this. Dean knew Alastair, like calling to like in the putrid depths of hell. Dean would find a way to trip him up, it was like that time with the djinn. Find the thing that didn't fit, the thing that was impossible to explain, and then tug at that thread until it all unraveled.

Well, he didn't have to look too far.

Castiel, angel of the Lord, who made his ears bleed, and his stomach swoop—well— come the fuck on, there was no possible way his mind could have generated this. This was Alastair, through and through, Alastair who had put him on the rack and taken more pieces out of him than he'd known existed, who'd worked him over and over and over, and somewhere along the way learnt enough about Dean that he'd—

The handprint buzzed and ached and tingled and Castiel's blue, blue eyes had looked right through him, and said things like you don't think you deserve to be saved, and if I tell you something, will you keep it a secret, I'm not a hammer, and no, this would not be the thing he let himself believe, this would not be one more way that Alastair broke him. In the backseat of his car, Anna had fitted her palm onto the scar, her delicate, smooth palm too small for it, the whorls of her fingers caressing the edges, and it had been electric, and all wrong, because it wasn't her mark that Dean carried on his friggin' re-hymenated body (it wasn't her who had gripped him tight and raised him from perdition, and Dean's body knew it in a way that Dean wasn't going to think about, let alone—)

That sonuvabitch Alastair would not break him with a fairy tale that innocent people told their children, angels watch over you, but his mother had not been innocent in all of this, had she, she had sold Sammy to the Devil, and Castiel had laid a hand on his shoulder (but had not touched his mark, why hadn't—) and had looked at Dean with something like sorrow, and didn't seem to mind when Dean called him Cas, brought him down to his level, and fuck, here he was again, out of options, out of luck, out of fuel, and his brother was someone he didn't recognize.

The sickest thing was how that was the part that had felt real, felt painful in a way that Alastair could have never devised. Dean's soul was putting himself in the hands of a demon bitch, and there was fuck all that Dean could do about it. This was how he broke then, in the words of a prayer, the first he'd ever said, and he hadn't known whom he was praying to, but it had been Cas who showed up, eyes bluer than any summer sky Dean had ever seen, face striated by the colours of a vending machine, and said, faith is a good sign, Dean. What was it a sign of, Dean would have liked to know, and it wasn't faith, not by a long shot, but what could a creature like Castiel have known of desperation? Castiel who stood close, too close, but had touched him only twice, who'd said, it's not blame that rests on you, it's fate, and yeah, that was fucking Winchester Gospel for you, cursed from the start, the two of them, before they were in the womb, born under a bad sign.

But Cas had helped, and Dean had begun to think—but of course, Cas left, and there was only poor, stupid Jimmy Novak, and then Cas was back, but not really, Cas was a stranger, and Dean didn't know when he'd stopped thinking of Cas as a stranger, and just, strange—

Dean had laid one across Castiel's marble-face that didn't shatter, tried, because what else could he have done? This is real, this is the only thing that's worth it and even before the disappointment of having Cas leave could sink in, the handprint had buzzed and ached and tingled as Cas pressed him against a wall and pressed a palm against his lips and then bled on the floor, for Dean, (whom he didn't serve) and Cas had said, I'll hold them all off, go save him, but of course it had been too late, because that was the story of Dean's life, too late, too late.

Cas comes back, and oh look, Cas has learnt what desperation means, after all. There's something wild in his eyes, that he tries to hide but doesn't succeed when he says, we need God, it's not theological, it's strategic, and if Dean had a moment to take a breath, he would have wanted to sit Cas down, and say, listen man, I understand it, but this is a road to nowhere, you're only going to waste your time, you gotta stop loving what can't love you back, and yeah, that'd have been hypocritical of him, but so what, that was pretty low down on Dean's laundry list of sins.

But it's the Apocalypse, and as it happens Dean's got his own shit to deal with, and Cas isn't his responsibility, so what if he just died for Dean or whatever, alright, Dean owes him, but not like that.

And now it's the end of the world, their last night on earth, and Dean's not too late to make Cas smile at him, confused but fond, and Castiel's smile is nothing like Jimmy Novak's. Cas is nothing like Jimmy Novak who'd just been a naive man in an ugly suit, and well. He'd promised Cas a good time, and Dean's not got a lot to give Cas, by way of thanks or comfort or anything, and what had Cas said that time? Everything on earth is pain, but that's only cause he doesn't know, the good parts, the best parts, and before Dean can chicken out of it, he's pressing Cas up against the Impala, and Cas is letting him, goes willing, pliant, staring at him, eyes wide, and Dean sees the moment it happens, the small hitch of breath he takes, that Cas, who doesn't need to breathe makes, and his eyes dart to Dean's lips and flash up again, and Dean's kissing him, and it's—riding a comet—

Cas doesn't know how to kiss.

But that's fine, that's a-ok, because Dean does, and Dean can show him, and Cas is a quick learner, zero to six hundred in twenty seconds or less, and now it's Dean who can't breathe except in loud, panting gasps, Cas's warm, strong hand wrapped with his around their dicks, not enough slick, a little too rough, too painful, perfect, perfect, and Cas is eating his face, teeth sharp and painful on Dean's lips, eyes still wide open and unblinking, the freak, but his gaze is hot and ferocious, and Dean's eyes flutter shut again on a moan, because Dean's burning, has been burning all this time, he realizes, for this, for—

Cas rips his sleeve off, jacket and shirt, both gone, and then his hand is there, and Dean's coming, wet, thick and nasty all over an angel's hand, he should be going to hell for this, except Cas hadn't let him stay there, and hadn't thrown him back, and this was real, Dean shuddering, face hidden in the crook of Cas' neck, trembling, his knees giving way, but Cas' got him, the hand on his shoulder slipping lower, around his back to hold him up, holding him in place, and Dean should— he should—

Four.

He wakes up alone in a motel room, and there is a tomorrow, and then the day after, but no Cas, and then there is two thousand fucking fourteen, and Cas is still there in the ruins that Sam and Dean made of the world , jesus fucking christ on a candy stick, Cas is still there.

Cas is broken, because Dean did that to him, and Cas kisses him, once, open mouthed and filthy, and then draws back and says, the day I decide to stay, make sure I don't, please, if you ever cared even a little, promise me, and then Cas goes off to die with even-more-of-an-asshole-future-him, because that's just how he rolls.

Three.

He shouldn't.

If that mook Zach's little thought experiment had taught him anything, it should have been this- that Cas was off limits.

That he shouldn't keeping finding ways to keep him close.

He shouldn't keep finding ways to kiss Cas, but that's exactly what he does.

The world's ending around them in slow motion and they are fucking.

They're fucking in dank, stinking alleys, blood running down Dean's chin, and Cas licking it up, and feeding it back to him, tongue practically molesting Dean's tonsils, fingers squeezing his neck, rubbing against each other fully clothed, until Dean's coming in his pants. They're fucking on stained bedsheets of grimy hotel rooms, lights flickering, crackling, every electronic instrument in a five mile radius gone haywire, the smell of ozone and jizz making Dean dizzier, as Cas pounds him through four successive orgasms, each more spectacular and painful than the last, Dean's body a limp rag after. They're fucking squeezed together in the backseat of the Impala, Dean hunched over Cas, occasionally knocking his head on the roof, but he can't stop, won't stop, nothing has felt this good, a thick fat dick inside him, filling up his empty places, and Cas slack-mouthed, and eyes closed under him, hands wrapped around Dean's biceps so tight that Dean's gotta wear long sleeves through the hottest summer in three centuries, so that Sammy won't ask.

Sam knows, of course he does.

Cas isn't subtle when he turns up, dishevelled, hair sticking out in five different directions, looking pissed off and tired; shrinking, somehow, but still with that crackling power about him, and not looking at anyone or anything except at Dean, like all the roads he's taken looking for God have only led him straight back to Dean. Sam's taken to clearing his throat awkwardly, and hot-footing it out of hearing range the moment Cas appears, and just as well, Dean doesn't have it in him anymore to be quiet, sprawled wide open on the bed, hands twisting in the sheets as Cas fucks him fuck, fuck, fuck, jesus fuck, if he hadn't already gone to hell, surely this would send him there, profaning this holy thing of god, whose tongue was made for songs of praise and worship, and is instead all the way up Dean's ass, dragging an orgasm out of him.

It's alright, he reasons, on the days Cas is gone, and Sam is there, but gone.

Cas and him, they're not so different after all. They're both the disappointing sons of deadbeat dads, and Cas is losing his wings and his faith at approximately the same speed that Dean's losing everything and everyone, and the world is going to hell in a handbasket, and there's no way to fix it, no way to undo it, and he's going to have to kill the love of his life, and if this is his consolation prize, he's going to take it.

(Dean loves taking it.)

Dean will take it and he doesn't want to talk about it, and hey, apparently, neither does Cas, so that's peachy, that's perfect, and Dean shouldn't, but he does, and Cas lets him, and he does, right until Sam gets thrown into the pit, and Dean doesn't.

Cas' grace knits him together, once more, and then he's gone, and so is Dean.

Two.

Cas comes back.

But he's more of a stranger than he'd ever been, even in that barn, what feels like a lifetime ago, and he won't talk, and sure as fuck won't listen, and his blue gaze when it meets Dean's is cool as lake water, as if Dean doesn't know what Cas sounds like, strung out of his mind with pleasure, from having Dean hold him down with a binding sigil and fuck him raw.

As if they'd never been friends, and perhaps they hadn't, that was just what it was like in the war, and the war was over, and so were they.

Cas is all impatience, and anger, and sullen resentment, brittle in a way that scares Dean if he really thinks about it, because it's Cas, and something's wrong, Dean can feel it deep in his bones, just like he knew with Sammy, but he—

Look, if Cas wants to reach him, he knows how to call.

But then it's too late (again) and there's a war (again, or it was never over, why is it never over), only this time it's Cas that Dean needs to kill, really kill, and fuck if he knows how, but in the end, all he can do is watch as Cas walks into the water, and all that's left of him is a stained, torn trenchcoat.

Dean keeps it.

He can't look at it, can't stand to, that entire year, but he keeps it.

And then Cas comes back (again), but then he's gone (again) and what had Dean expected, really?

And Dean's tired, ok, so tired, so tired and sick and done, and the war is still on—maybe he shouldn't have left Cas, maybe he should have tried harder, maybe he should have called, maybe it wouldn't have all gone to shit, if Dean hadn't screwed it up once again, hadn't failed—

"Cas" he says, squinting against the sun on his face, up at where Cas is perched on the roof of the Impala. "Why are you covered in bees?"

The air is filled with a humming that Dean's only 90% certain are the bees.

"They like me, Dean," says Cas, as though that were a reasonable explanation, and fuck knows, maybe it was, in that fucked up noodle of his. "They wanted me to stay with them."

Shit, fuck.

Dean rubs his hands over his eyes.

"You maybe want to come inside and talk?"

Crazy or not, they needed all the help they could—

Cas hops down from the car, and the bees rise up in an angry, buzzing cloud before settling back.

"Lose the bees first", says Dean, and then regrets it, when Cas stands before him naked as a new-born.

"Dude!" yelps Dean, "Come on! Where the fuck are your clothes?"

"I—", says Cas, sounding lost and forlorn as he stares down at himself. "I'm not sure. The bees didn't like them."

And fuck, like this, Dean can see that Cas is just skin and bone, pale skin stretched over prominent ribs, hip bones jutting out—

"Well, mojo them back from wherever you left them", Dean growls, "There's a sandwich in it for you."

Cas looks up, hopeful.

"Peanut butter?"

"Sure", says Dean and hopes to god the vending machine has something that resembles a sandwich. "But get some.." he waves his hands, not looking at Cas, because it hurts to see him like this.

There's nothing like a sandwich in the machine, so he ends up instructing Cas to wait for him in the room while he makes a quick run to the nearest store. He picks up some orange juice and bananas while he's at it, along with the bread, peanut butter and jam.

"This is very kind of you, Dean" says Cas, as he sits (fully clothed, in his hospital scrubs and trenchcoat), his hands in his lap.

"So, what, you need to eat these days?" Dean queries. "You look like you've just spent six months on a fad diet".

Cas looks away, up at the ceiling.

"The grace is more useful for other things" he says, "There's so much to do. So many creatures in pain. I forget to."

"Listen", starts Dean, because he can guess where this is coming from, hell, it isn't like—

"Is my sandwich ready?"

Dean slides it across the table, and watches as Cas wolfs it down.

There's a bit of jam that gets stuck to the corner of his mouth, and Dean gestures at it, and then, when Cas looks confused, reaches out to—

Cas flinches.

Dean freezes, hand stuck awkwardly in mid-air, throat closing up.

He leans back, withdrawing his hand.

"You've got some jam smeared at the corner of your mouth, like a goddamned three year old, Cas".

"Oh", says Cas, and it vanishes.

Dean swallows the guess you don’t mind wasting your mojo on that then, that sits on his tongue, and Cas finishes his sandwich, suddenly quiet, staring down at his sandwich, though it wasn't like he'd been saying anything before, but it's a different sort of quiet between them now, filled with all the things that Dean wants to scream at him, and can't.

Cas doesn't touch the bananas, but slurps the orange juice, loudly.

Dean watches as Cas licks his lips, tongue darting out to taste the last of it.

When he looks up, Cas is looking at him.

He feels his cheeks heat, caught out.

"You’re sweet", says Cas, suddenly. "Sweeter than all the honey in the world".

And before Dean can process it, he leans forward, brushing his lips against Dean's; a butterfly of a kiss, and then he's gone, in a quiet whoosh, and Dean's left alone, and when he wets his suddenly parched lips, he can taste the faint bitter-sour flavour of canned orange on them.

One

Well, Dean's not making the same mistake twice.

There's no way he's gonna leave Cas behind.

Where's the angel, he asks, as he hacks his way through Purgatory, where's the angel?

Cas, he prays, c'mon man. Don't do this to me.

Cas, please.

Once he gets slashed by something, some kind of hellbreed that seemed half werewolf, half vampire, and it's pretty bad, but somehow he manages to lose them, holed up high up in cave he'd discovered in some time ago. The view's spectacular from the ridge or would be, if the hills and valleys and forests weren't teeming with things that were out for his blood, and Cas'.

He manages the staunch the bleeding. The gash isn't too deep after all, but he's gonna have to stay put for a couple of days. But then the chills start, and he thinks, shit, shit. Starting a fire is a sure way to get killed, no way he's gonna be able to take on anything more dangerous than a field mouse right now, and fuck, he's exhausted, suddenly, and ok, this wasn't good, the ground seemed to be rushing up to meet his face—

He's warm.

Cocooned in the softest of embraces, safe, untouchable.

"Mom?" he whispers, "Is that you?"

A hand brushes over his forehead, light and gentle.

He struggles to open his eyes, which seem to be refusing to cooperate.

It's not mom.

"Cas" he rasps, bleary eyed, throat drier than a desert. "Cas?"

"Shh" says Cas, "You're safe now. Rest, Dean."

And it's true, Dean can feel it, cradled here in—Cas' wings, he thinks, sleepily, unable to hold on to the thought. Those are Cas' wings he can feel, sheltering, soft, warm.

"You found me", he mumbles, "I've been looking for you."

"Shhh", Cas rumbles, "Don't talk. It's alright."

"Cas."

A feather light press against his mouth, and then another, and then a third.

"I'm here", Cas whispers, "Dean. Rest now."

But when he wakes up, he's alone.

If it weren't for the healed gash, skin smooth and untouched, every aching muscle restored like he'd been checked into a fancy spa for a month, he'd have been certain he dreamt it.

Then they get topside, and he wishes it had only been a dream, and not one more thing he'd have to forget.

(Plus One)

Sam's here, finally.

Bobby had been right, time sure passed different around here.

Sam's here now, and it's perfect.

Almost.

Cas isn't around.

Or he's everywhere, but nowhere where Dean can see him, reach out and touch him.

When he asks around, he gets vague answers.

Ellen says, oh, I think Jack and Cas are in some other planetary system this week.

Two weeks later, by Dean's counting, Rufus says, you just missed him, boy, he was here helping fix my roof not half-hour ago.

Jack says, looking embarrassed, uh, I sent him on a mission, to, um, uh, Andromeda, and then, uh, I have to go, nice seeing you again, Dean, and vanishes before Dean can whup his ass for lying to his family.

Dean gets into the Impala; tells Sam he's got a supply run to make.

"You've got like a 100 cartons of beer, Dean", says Sam.

"Not beer, Sammy."

Sam gives him a long look.

Dean shrugs, look, it wasn't like Sam didn't know.

Sam nods, once, lips quirking a little.

"Good luck, then" he says.

Dean flips a finger at him.

"C'mon, Baby" he says, as he pulls onto the road, "Take me to him."

Baby's never let him down.

Of course, Cas has gone and set his feathery ass down somewhere on the highest mountain that Dean has ever seen, the top of it half hidden in a swirl of clouds. There's only a narrow trail, no way to take Baby up, so he parks her under the shade of a leafy tree of some species he's pretty sure isn't found on earth, and shrugs off his jacket, wrapping it around his waist.

Jesus, but Cas could be a real dick, and it wasn't like Dean didn't already know that, but, wow.

The trail is narrow, though not very steep, and the foliage dense for most parts, as he begins to climb. There's a river or a small waterfall somewhere, he can hear the sound of it, a muted roar. Up and up it goes, through plants and shrubs- or things that look like plants or shrubs, he can't be sure of anything here, he's realized. Occasionally, a small woodland creature of indeterminate origin will cross his path. Some of them stop and stare. One or two get experimentally close, while he stands as still as possible, and lets them acclimatize themselves to his scent. The foliage isn't dense enough to block out all sunlight, and every now and again the path will emerge onto an outcrop of rock and grass, probably intended as a rest-stop for the weary. Dean's only slightly out of breath, though the air gets cooler as he goes higher. But the sun is warm enough for a sheen of sweat to form, making his t shirt stick to his spine.

He sinks down onto a convenient grassy knoll and takes a few breaths. Clouds float lazily over the valley below, that stretches out farther than his eye can see. The river he's hearing winds through it, clear and blue, through acres and acres of green and violet, and brown and red. He turns his face up toward the sky.

Was it possible to get sunburn in Heaven?

Well, he was going to find out.

He turns his head a little.

He's about half way up the mountain, he estimates.

Given the position of the sun, he's been climbing about three hours.

Making me work for it, huh, buddy? Dick move, Cas, gotta tell you that.

Something rustles in the grass near him: a tiny grass snake, slim and green.

Snakes in paradise, wow, wasn't that theologically wrong or something?

But it gives him a beady eyed look and slithers over his outstretched palm and then away, unbothered, leaving behind a fleeting sense of dry leather.

Dean sighs.

"Cas?" he says, softly. "You're waiting for me, right?"

He doesn't know what he'll do if Cas isn't.

The thought makes his heart triphammer in his chest, fear gripping it.

What if he was too late, again?

But he's got to believe that he's right about this.

That he's here because Cas is ready, finally, to let Dean find him.

In those years after Purgatory, they'd never managed, somehow to make it work.

Every time Cas left—every time Cas came back—it got harder, somehow, to say, don't go, please, I need you, forgive me, stay.

Dean- he'd just become angrier and meaner, falling deeper and deeper and this was a grave that even Cas couldn't pull him out of. And then, when he'd been ready-almost—that second time in Purgatory, it had seemed like Cas wasn't ready, though surely, he knew, why else had he stopped Dean—

But the joke was on Dean, because Cas hadn't known, and then it had been too late. Cas was slipping through his fingers one more time, beatific in his joy, as he threw himself into the pit for Dean, and Dean had known, had known, that it was the last time.

When it was all over, he had waited.

Hope was a thing with feathers.

He had waited for Jack to bring Cas back to them, to Dean.

But Jack hadn't.

No way that Jack hadn't sprung Cas from the Empty, there was just no fucking way that would have happened, so that meant that Cas didn't want to see Dean.

And alright, maybe Dean deserved that, maybe that was his penance, and he would do it, gladly.

He wouldn't complain, and he'd go through the rest of his life with a piece of him missing, and it was what it was, there were things you couldn't undo, there were sorrows that had to be borne.

On the bad days, after a hunt that went wrong- there were, after all, still some of those—he'd lie in bed, every tendon and muscle and bone aching, and when he closed his eyes, he'd try to will himself back there, to that cave in Purgatory, the safety and comfort of Cas' shelter, and the sweet press of his lips against Dean's.

Sweeter than all the honey in the world.

He blinks awake.

Apparently he'd taken a nap, though given that the sun was still steadily beating down on his face—and yes, you could get sunburn in heaven, thanks for nothing Jack—it hadn't been too long.

It takes another two hours, and he's almost giving up hope, wondering whether he's going to end up just spending the night alone on this mountain after all, when he breaks through a particularly dense grove and finds himself in a middle of a garden.

The garden- in flagrant, dizzying bloom around a cobbled stone path that leads to a small wooden cabin nestled against the wall of the mountain- has an occupant.

Dean feels like his breath was punched out of him.

My true form is as tall as the Chrysler building, Cas had once said, the lying liar that he was, because he's probably twice as tall. He's all iridescent wings that span twenty feet either side, and a dozen wheels spinning in different directions and something that looks like blue flames trailing the edges of his wings, and Dean is—

Jesus.

Cas turns toward him at that, and Dean senses his-shock?- before the almost unbearable brightness dims slowly, coalescing into a familiar shape.

"Not quite", says Cas. "Hello, Dean."

Dean's feet seem locked to the ground, and Cas doesn't make a move toward him either.

"Hi", Dean breathes out, the air rushing out of his lungs with the word. "Cas."

Cas has switched out the trenchcoat and suit for comfortable looking pair of white linen pants and a loose short tunic of sky blue, that match his eyes, and there's what looks like a week's worth of stubble along his jaw.

"Heaven can't afford a razor?" is what Dean says next, like the idiot he is.

Cas' eyes crinkle. "I've been told it makes me more attractive".

What, who- no- fuck.

Dean's already up in Cas' space before he realizes it.

"Who told you that?" he rasps, and up close he can see the flecks of grey in the stubble, and at Cas' temples, and yes, it made him breathtakingly hot, but damned if Dean was going to— "They were lying, just so you know."

Cas is smiling at him.

"Dean," he says, softly.

Dean reaches out to run a finger against his jaw, going against the grain, ends up with his fingers resting lightly against Cas' cheek, just under his ear.

"You’re a dick" he says, softly, "you know that?"

Cas nods.

"I've been" starts Dean, and then finds he's out of words, takes a shuddery breath instead, furiously trying to blink away the wetness in his eyes.

Cas's hands cup his face, warm and sure, and he draws Dean's forehead down to his.

"I know", Cas says, softly. "But I would do it again if it meant I saved you. I would do it all again."

"I should have told you," whispers Dean, "I'm sorry I wasn't brave enough."

"Dean", says Cas, softly, "You've always been enough."

Above them the sky starts turning a fiery orange as the first of the suns starts to set.

Cas' wings- which he hasn't tucked away- take on a metallic shine, but they feel warm, and safe, just like Dean remembers.

Dean kisses him, softly, once, then again, then again.

"Sweeter than all the honey in the world", he whispers, glad that there's nobody to hear this but Cas.

"You don't even like honey", says Cas, after a moment. "You never let Sam put any in your tea."

Dean draws back.

"You don’t remember", he accuses, genuinely horrified.

Cas' brows draw together in a frown.

"What?"

"You kissed me! And said—well you said what you said! Back in the day when you were all crazy!"

"Which time?"

Dean groans, thumping his head onto Cas' shoulder.

Cas buries his nose in Dean's hair and tucks him closer in his embrace.

"I remember" he confesses, quietly, after a moment. "But I thought you'd want to forget it."

"Cas", Dean, sighing, as he turns to nuzzle the soft, tender skin beneath Cas' ear, placing a small kiss there, as he presses closer. "Let's never talk about this again, ok?"

#spn #supernatural #destiel #dean x cas #gosh i hope this one makes you feel a bit better #<3 <3 <3

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yeeterparkersblog · 4 years

Text

Last Days | PART 1

Pairing: 6 Underground! Four/Billy x reader

Word Count: 6.1 k

Warnings: Stealing is bad, kids; Sugar baby/daddy jokes; Mentions of stripping

Summary: To everyone else, he was a suave young man in a gang of thieves, someone they would rather not get tangled up with. To you, he was a cheeky bastard who wouldn’t get out of your hair and most of all, a rival thief. But one day, Billy decides to reach out to you, proposing that you work together.

A/N: Right. Hello. This is my first fic for the Ben/Borhap fandom. If it sucks I sincerely apologize from the bottom of my cavity. So this story is not taking place during the events of 6 Underground, its more of a prequel to the movie. So basically there might be some foreshadowing, but there are no direct relationships to the movie. Also this fic time jumps a lot, so I hope you guys can keep track of it.

This fic is dedicated to @benhardyisdaddy . Faith, you are amazing! No more than a week after 6 underground came out, Must Be A Dream was up and posted. Imagine the amount of dedication and hard work that you give. Congrats on 3k, you deserve all of it.

The Pasteque Necklace. An emerald necklace worth almost 3 million, unveiled at the National Museum 2 months ago, and soon to be yours.

You’ve already knocked out the three guards making their rounds in the museum. Easy enough. And now comes the fun part. You rounded the corner into the large hallway that would lead you to your treasure. You wasted no time at all. You quickly made your way to the showcase room, careful to shoot out any security cameras with a silenced gun.

After the necklace had first been revealed on TV, you went straight into planning mode. Now you knew there was an electric field around the pedestal. It took you time to assemble the proper apparatus that could deactivate the filed. It hadn’t been cheap either. You’ve spent so much time and resources on this heist, and after two months, your hard work could finally bear its fruit.

You jogged towards the pedestal and you were prepared to take out the gadgets, but then as your neared it, you quickly realized you didn’t need it at all. The electric field had already gone, the velvet box had already been opened, and the necklace!? Well! It had already been taken away.

In its place, stuck neatly onto the smooth velvet box, was a small sticky note. Your lips snarled with annoyance. You had a feeling you knew who’d done this.

You snatched the note from the box, ready to get this over with. And sure enough…

“i told you i’d beat you to it -B”

—

“You absolute wanker!” you fumed, snatching away the bottle of beer he had been drinking. You slid into the booth opposite him and downed the rest of his drink. “Have you pawned it off already, you cunt?!”

He threw his hands up innocently. “Hello to you too,” He straightened up in his seat and beamed at you. Christ, he was enjoying this a bit too much. “Fancy seeing you here, then.”

“Please!” I spat. “You know I work here!”

“Yeah, shouldn’t it be your shift right about now?”

“Well I took the day off. Thought I wouldn’t need the extra money.” You leaned in, giving him a wicked scowl. “But of course you know all that, don’t you?”

“You seem like you’re in a bad mood” He pointed out. “Let’s have a drink. My treat! I’ve recently come into quite a bit of money.” And the fucker winked cheekily at me.

You groan exasperatedly. You fell against the seat and ran your hands through your hair, defeated. You probably invested a thousand pounds or so into this heist, thinking you’d get millions in return. But nah, all you get to do is to beg your manager for extra shifts.

Your hands were covering your face, slightly muffling your words.

“Out of all the heists that you could have hijacked-”

“Hey you were the one who challenged me.”

True. You really should know better than to wager your most important heist. The smug blonde had more experience than you had, with his little pack of trapeze thieves.

“Yeah?” You shot up straight. “You had help. That little gang of yours.”

“Oh no I did it alone. Like last time.” You didn’t think his face could get more pompous. You wanted to wipe that shit-eating smile off his face. “So this is on you, yeah?”

Ugh. ‘Last time’. It was what had started this whole thing in the first place.

—

3 MONTHS AGO

It was your first big heist. After years of petty theft, pickpocketing and larceny, you wanted something more challenging. A lot more challenging.

Go big or go home, you went for The Blasé. A diamond ring from 15th century Germany. The Blasé will set you up quite nicely.

Standing at the very end of the large hallway, you could see it from here already.

The Blasé, its large gem glittering in its glass case. The moonlight hit it through the glass ceiling overhead, and the diamond seemed to beckon you in with its shine.

Now you weren’t daft. You knew there were additional security measures set in the glass case. If you were to smash the glass and just snatch the ring away, that wouldn’t do. That would just set off the weight sensor below, and blaring alarms that would alert the police of your presence immediately after. You’d rather do this a bit more discreetly.

You chuckled, remembering how proudly the museum director had bragged about having attained the ring. “The Blasé is in very safe hands. Our security will make sure of it. No lowly thief would get their hands on the jewel,” he had said to the interviewer. “Hundred percent guarantee.”

You scoffed. Bet you wish you didn’t boast about the weight sensors now huh, Mister big shot Director?

You took out a small glass cutter, but before you could make a move, someone cleared his throat behind you. You whipped around and pointed the glass cutter at the man. But instead of a burly security guard whose knock-out gas had worn off, you were met with a fit young blond, who was staring at you intensely with the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen.

You froze in place, not really knowing how to act. How would you?

Now he was definitely good-looking. If this were anywhere else, say a café, you’d make a move. But no, you were trying to steal a 2-million-pound ring here. And how would you know that someone would be stealing the same thing you wanted to steal?! And on the very same date and time too?! And on your first big heist. What were the fucking chances?

“How cute.” The blond chuckled, pointing at the mask around your eyes. He took your mask off faster than you could react. “You know you don’t need this if you’ve already turned off the security feed?”

“Hey give it back…” It came out more of a plead than a command. You mentally cringed at how you sounded. But what’s more was that the man was acting so casual, as if this was a friendly conversation and not a crime taking place.

The man squinted his eyes and took a closer look at you, and you couldn’t help but divert your gaze. His eyes suddenly glinted with recognition.

“Hey you’re that girl from that pub!” he laughed. “When I saw the knocked-out guards up front, I knew someone was in here. But I didn’t know it was the waitress from Ritter’s Bar.”

You rolled your eyes. A chat wasn’t what you came for. You turned your attention back to the case, getting ready to slice it with your glass cutter. However, the man put a hand out to block you.

“There’s no need for that, love. I have a more efficient way.” He gave you a sweet smile.

In one swift move, he had smashed the glass case to pieces. The case shattered with a deafening clash and fell to the ground in tiny fragments. He had grabbed the ring and sure enough, the alarms came blaring.

“Shit! What did you do?!” You scolded. “We gotta go NOW!”

“I couldn’t agree more!” He grabbed your wrist and dragged you to wall, pointing up at the tiny window high above it. What the hell was he trying to pull?

And to your surprise, he put the ring on and started to climb up the wall like fuckin’ Spiderman. He got to the window and broke out.

“You arsehole! What am I supposed to do?!” I screamed at him. The front gate has definitely gone to lockdown and you were hearing sirens in the background. He was your only way out.

“I have a name, you know? It’s Billy.” He threw down a rope. “I didn’t quite catch yours?”

“Oh sod off!” You pulled yourself up the rope. “Give me back the ring!”

“Sorry no can do. If you’re gonna be like this, I’m going to have to let you go, literally.” He dared to wink at you. You were only halfway up the wall when the rope suddenly went loose. You grabbed yourself onto a ledge before you could fall back onto the ground. You looked up to the window to see him smiling at you.

“But if I ever change my mind about the ring, I’ll know where to find you.” And with that he ran away. All that stared back at you was the moon in the night sky.

Godammit.

You used the ledge to push yourself up to the window and got out. You looked around and saw that he did in fact give you back something. But of course it wasn’t the ring, it was your ‘cute’ mask.

“JESUS CHRIST, BILLY!” You groaned in frustration. You couldn’t do anything else after that, the cops had come at that second and you had to flee before your night could get any worse.

ONE MONTH AFTER THE RING HEIST

Ritter’s Bar. Not exactly the best job in the world. Not exactly in the best part of town either. No scratch that. Civilians would actively avoid this part of town. The only people here are your own. Like a twisted and tight-knit community of thieves.

“Let me guess, Meg.” You said to a regular sitting down at the bar. “Whiskey, neat.” She gave you a small smile and you poured out some liquor for her. Just as you were setting down the shot glass, a blur of blond passed by you.

Your eyes darted to the image. It was him! Billy! The man who stole your fucking ring!

You watched him as he headed for one of the booths at the very back. He turned back and gave you a little wave. A little smirk to indicate that he knew you were watching him. You involuntarily let out a low growl of anger.

“You can let go of my glass now.” You looked down to see that your hands had gripped tightly around Meg’s glass, knuckles white. You promptly apologized, giving her the drink. “But hey. Blondie, huh?”

“What?”

“You were looking at the blond.” She shrugged. “He’s easy on the eyes but I wouldn’t do anything about it. His trapeze friends are fucking feral. Don’t trust them one bit.”

‘I’m all ears.”

She told you a little bit more about Billy and his gang. You would listen to her, but you could feel Billy’s gaze prickling the side of your neck.

You knew he was here to talk to you. Every time you took a glance at him, he would be staring right back. But he wasn’t initiating the conversation. He was waiting for you to give in. You weren’t going to. But then your manager saw him there sitting for 30 minutes without ordering anything and he ushered you over there.

“Order something or get out.” You folded your arms. “Dipshit.”

Billy smiled at you. “I’ll order a beer if you sit down with me, love.”

“Get out.” You started to walk away but he held you back by your wrist.

“Okay alright.” He pursed his lips and gave you a twenty. “I’ll buy a beer. But I want to talk to you, alright? It’s about the ring.”

You glared daggers at him, trying to see if he was just playing if you. Maybe he’s finally come to his senses and has decided to give you ring.

“Fine.” You said. “Hold on.”

You came back with a warm bottle of beer and sat down, pocketing the change. It was the least he could do for you. You shoved the bottle towards him. “Well?”

He shot you a look before he started talking. “Look I’m very sorry to have left you behind like that. I’m glad you got out fine, yeah?”

“Good, thanks.” You mumbled. It was nice, but not quite what you wanted to hear. “So I’ll be taking the ring now.”

“W-What? No?!” Billy looked almost baffled. “I already pawned it off! Where do you think the money for this disgustingly warm beer came from? And the ring is rightfully mine, by the way.”

“Am I to believe you’re just here to apologize?”

“Um. Yeah?! I’m not giving you the bloody ring!”

You scoffed. “It should be mine. I was there first.”

“That’s exactly what a child AND a bad thief would say.”

“I’m not a bad thief.” You shot back. “YOU just happened to be there!”

“Oh so you admit I’m a better thief then?”

“Wha- NO!” You were fuming. Your face was probably as red as a tomato by now.

The chattering of the TV caught your attention. And there it was. The Pasteque. Just brought in from France, and unveiled at the National Museum right now. An idea popped into your head.

“I’ll prove it to you, then!” You shot up, slamming down on the table. “Two months from now, I’ll have stolen something worth even more than the stupid Blasé!”

“I’ll just beat you to it.” He said with an air of confidence.

“Oh please, you don’t even know what I’m stealing!”

You stormed off before Billy could get another word in. But little did you know, Billy had noticed you darting your eyes towards the TV, and connected the dots.

“I’ll see you in two months then.” He chuckled.

—

PRESENT DAY

“Wanker.” You muttered.

“I believe you’ve already said that.” Billy shrugged. “Now, care to admit who’s the better thief? We’ve got an obvious answer.”

“Yeah yeah. It’s you. I’d buy you a beer but you’ve possibly left me broke.” You looked up at him with tired eyes. You were slightly surprised when you were met with worried ones.

“Hey I’m really sorry. Honest.” He clasped one of your hands. You were startled but you didn’t pull away. Yet. “I can help you if you want. How much do you need?”

“Maybe this isn’t cut out for me.” You pulled away from his grasp. “A few things from the supermarket or wallets from pockets? Sure. Jewelry worth millions?” You gave Billy a shrug. “Perhaps not.”

You tried to take another sip from Billy’s bottle but then you remembered it was empty.

“There’s a strip club a few blocks away.” You continued. “Maybe I could get a job there when I don’t have shifts here. I’ve been told I have ‘nice tits’ by some of the customers. I’d bet some rich old white dudes wouldn’t mind throwing some money at them.”

Billy raised his brows, pausing a second before shaking his head frantically.

“As much as I would hate to disappoint rich old white dudes. I think I have a better solution.”

“Better than having strangers grope my arse?”

“(Y/N)… you could work with me.”

It took you a second. “I’m sorry?”

“Honest, (Y/N). I think we’ll work well together.”

You scoffed, waving your hands about. “I thought you had your theatre troupe.” He rolled his eyes. “And I thought I wAsN’t a GoOD EnOuGH ThiEF.”

“Right first of all, it’s not a theatre troupe. Second, I sometimes do work alone. Like the ring and necklace, as you should know.” Now you rolled your eyes. “Third. How about we do a test drive?”

You shot him a questioning look.

“We can try working together on one heist first. See how it works out. And if we pull it off and you think we’re good together,” He shrugged. “Maybe we can do it again.”

Your fingers fiddled nervously with the bottle. The offer did sound tempting. It’d be nice to have a partner in crime. And it would be nice if the things you wanted to steal didn’t get stolen first.

“Well how do I know I can trust you?” You glared at him.

“See I knew you would say that. That’s why I didn’t pawn off the entire necklace.”

…What?

He took out a small box from his pocket and slid it across the table to you. “Consider it a peace offering.”

You accepted the box warily and opened it. Oh…wow.

“These earrings are gorgeous.” You laughed. The earrings were a pair of studs, with beautiful little emeralds on them. “I’ll assume the emeralds are from the Pasteque?”

“The very same.” He gave you a contagious smiles. How cute. “It was the least I could do. You could even wear them to the test drive if you’d like. That is, if you agree to do it.”

You held the earrings up to eye level. “Why would I wear such bling to a heist? Wouldn’t want to draw attention.”

“This time it’s to blend in.” He explained. “There’s going to be a gala at a country club down south in a month. Snobby rich trophy wives will be waltzing around with millions around their necks.”

You held the earrings up to Billy’s eyes and you couldn’t help but notice they were the same brilliant green.

“I think they’ll notice if we steal it from right under their noses, Billy.”

“That’s not the entire idea. But, I won’t go into detail until you’ve agreed. And I understand you’ll need to time to think this through. If you agree, we’ll get right into it.” He stood up from his booth and brushed himself down. “I’ll be back tomorrow for your answer, yeah?”

He stuck out his hand. He looked at you expectantly, his own pair of emeralds looking back at you. You clasped his hand with both of yours, as he did moments ago and returned his smile.

“No need. I’m in.”

The corners of his lips hinted at a smile. “I’ll pick you up after your shift tomorrow.” He paused to give me a wink I knew so well. “Feel free to quit.”

—

THE NEXT DAY

“So what’s the plan?” You slammed the car door shut, fastening your seat belt. “Better have a 100 percent success rate if you had me quit my job.”

“There’s always a certain risk involved, (Y/N).” Billy put the car into the drive. “If we succeed, we’ll be living lavishly for quite a long time. If not, then I guess you’re left to fend for yourself then. I’m not doing charity work.”

Your head snapped towards him so quickly you swore you heard a crack. “You shithead!” You took a jab at his shoulder. “I don’t have a job anymore. And I can’t go back to Ritter’s.” You sunk down into your seat in embarrassment. “Certainly not after what I’d said. And I don’t have money now! Imagine unemployment.”

“Didn’t you mention that stripper job yesterday?” He chuckled as he swatted and dodged at your feeble attempts to jab him again. “But look on the bright side. The necklace we’re stealing is gonna be enough to free you of your troubles.”

“Easy for you to say. You have money from the Blasé ring to hold on to.” He gave you a sideway glance that you brushed off. “Wait. Necklace? As in singular?”

He nodded. “Just the one.” He paused to think. ‘Well, two necklaces. But we only get to keep the one.”

“A bit stingy, innit?”

“Hey trust me a bit here! Besides you said it yourself. They’re going to notice if we steal it from right under their noses.”

“I’m still not aware of the plan.”

“Patience, love. I said I’ll explain it at my place.”

“I wasn’t aware of that either.”

“Oh pipe down, we’re here!’

He pulled into a small driveway. You took a look at the house while you stepped out of the car. Not the prettiest house, but certainly better than your apartment. You still felt the need to insult him, though.

“You couldn’t get yourself a better crackhouse with all the money you got from the jewelry?” You sassed, crossing your arms.

“Christ! You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“You’re bloody right I’m not.”

“Oh just get in the house!”

—

“So basically the whole reason the gala is happening is because of one necklace.” Billy explained. On his laptop, he looked up the country club’s website, pulling up an article on said necklace. “One of the country club members recently got his hands on an artifact. Apparently the necklace used to belong to a Russian Czar. ‘S called The Ruza”

“I assume he wants to show it off to his snooty friends?”

“Like a little boy with a brand new toy train.”

With a little more digging and scrolling, Billy finally found a picture of the necklace.

“Oh I see why you’d gone for this one.” You pulled the laptop closer, squinting your eyes at the small picture. “It’s blurry. But I can definitely see the gold.”

“It’s probably blurry on purpose.” Billy said. “Rich fucks trying to get more hype for the reveal.”

“Right so I believe this is the necklace we’re keeping?” He nods. “What about the other one. What else are we stealing?”

“Oh any piece of jewelry, really. But it needs to be a piece whose absence will be noticed when it goes missing.” You look at him questioningly, trying to get him to elaborate. He catches your look and sighs.

“Fine. You’ve ever watched Ocean’s 8?”

You tried to fight back a grin by fiddling with your cup. You weren’t looking at him but you were sure he was slightly red. “Yeah, sure.”

“Oh don’t laugh. Helena Bonham Carter was brilliant in it.”

“Bloody brilliant.” You chuckled. “But I get understand the plan.”

“Recite it to me.”

“Get into the gala. Steal someone’s bling. There’s an evacuation. And when everyone’s out, you perform gymnastics and steal the Ruza.” You shrugged.

“Right. Let’s get to work.”

A/N: Okay so the next few scenes are like a montage. It is not taking place on the same day. It is taking place during the days leading up to the heist. So basically it’s happening over a month long period. I hope you understand what I just said lol. I’m not really good at explaining things? Oops

“What about the funding.” You asked. “I haven’t got any money. I’m pretty sure banks won’t lend us any either.”

“I’ll use the money I got from the Pasteque.”

“You’d really do that? That’s your money.”

“I’ll just consider it an investment.” He thought out loud. “For an even better necklace. And for your sake too.”

You smiled to yourself.

“We’ll have to dress the part, won’t we?” Billy asked. “Snobby gala and all.”

“Does that mean I get to take you shopping?” You smirked. “Probably get you some fancy shoes and all.”

“Oh I think I can choose for myself, thanks.” He’d interrupted before you could get anymore ideas. “And don’t you forget about the earrings.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Coffee break?” You asked, offering him a cup.

“Thanks.” He graciously accepted, sitting down next to you. “Hey can I ask. Why are you in so much debt?”

You sipped from your cup. “Went to uni so, student loans.”

“Ah, understandable.” He put down his cup. “But why were you working in a bar? You could have been working in something in your field.”

“I majored in accounting and graduated with good enough grades.” You said nonchalantly. “Really thought I’d get hired immediately. How naïve of me.” You scoffed.

“Doesn’t explain why you ended up being a bartender.”

“I was broke. Didn’t have any family to ask for money too.” You swirled the coffee in your cup. “Tried stealing food at a store but the owner had me fucking arrested. Then no firm wanted to hire me at all because of that little record.”

“I’m sorry.” He gave your shoulder a friendly tap. “Well sucks on them right? Now you get to be a millionaire.”

You let out a light-hearted laugh. “I’m not sad about it. I don’t regret at all, really. I’m glad I’m plotting a heist, and not working 9 to 5 for the rest of my life.”

“I’m glad too.”

“Hey what’s wrong?” You nudged his knee with your heel.

The two of you were on his couch with you taking up most of the space. You were laying down and had your legs sat on Billy’s lap who was sitting at the other end. Billy was staring at phone, troubled. Seconds ago, he had been fine before receiving a text.

“Oh get your feet out of my face!” He playfully swatted at them, putting on a smile.

You put away the floor plan you were observing and sat up next to him. “Don’t try to change the subject. What’s wrong?” He opened his mouth to object it but you interrupted him before he could. “I can see it on your face. It’s quite obvious.”

“Right.” He sighed and threw his phone into the couch. “Remember my ‘trapeze friends’?” You nodded. “Well they just completed a heist that I helped plan a few months back. And they said that I’m not getting my share because I didn’t actually do anything.”

He threw his hands up in a rage, standing abruptly from the couch. “Didn’t do anything?! I was the one who got the blueprints and shit! I came up with the heist too!” He massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to calm down.

“Why didn’t you go?” You asked. But you think you knew the answer.

“(Y/N), the two of us only had one month to plan this out. It demanded my full attention if we wanted it to succeed.”

“Oh, Billy.”

“But the other heist was done. The only thing left was the execution. They said they were fine without me. They said it’d be okay and I’d get a small share for helping out.” He crossed his arms, the veins in his head were prominent with anger. “Apparently not.”

“Billy I’m so sorry. If I had known about the other heist, I wouldn’t hav-”

“Hey it’s alright don’t apologize.” His face had softened up looking at you. “It’s not your fault. I just didn’t think they’d cut my share. Alright, look.”

He grabbed his phone. “I’m gonna talk to them. Make sure there’s no bad blood.” He headed for the kitchen to talk in private. “Don’t worry, alright?” You heard him call out.

His words had put you at ease for a while, but you couldn’t help but feel worried for him. The fact that his so called ‘team’ would cut him off so willingly was unnerving.

You grabbed the floor plan you had put down earlier and continued your study. Billy had already suffered a loss helping you, might as well make sure it’s worth it.

“I need money.” You nudged his shoulder.

“Who am I? Your sugar daddy?” He didn’t bother to peel his eyes from his phone. “If food’s what you want, I already bought lunch. It’s on the table right there.” He vaguely waved in the direction of the kitchen.

You rolled your eyes. Oh well, if he’s gonna be like this.

You propped yourself in front of him, pouting and giving him the biggest puppy eyes. “Yes, daddy. I need money for a new dress and shoes.” Oh dear Lord this was killing you on the inside. “So you can show me off at the gala. Please, daddy?” That caught his attention.

“W-What?” He finally looked up from his phone to you with widened eyes. “Are… are you? Is this actually happening?” To your amusement, his voice was choked up and he had gone red.

Your face did a 180 and you scoffed. “I need money, you horny cunt!” You doubled back with laughter and slapped him on his shoulder. “God! How long haven’t you been shagged?!” You gripped your stomach in pain from the laughter, ignoring his mumbled protests. He curled into a fetal position with his hands over his face. If it was possible, he was even redder.

“Let’s never talk about this.” He sighed. You watched as he shifted awkwardly into the couch, desperately trying to hide his front from you. Why would he- oh. OH!

“Bloody hell!” You stood up, your fit of laughter returning immediately. “Did I give you a bo-”

“I SAID DON’T TALK ABOUT IT!”

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing once more, dropping on the ground with hysterics. He pushed himself off the couch and marched himself to a room, coming back with a few wads of cash.

“Take it and go. I’ll even give you extra for your silence.” He shoved the money into your hands without looking at you. You giggled, despite your best efforts to hold it in. You settled for a cheeky grin when he shot you a dirty look. “Can you go already?”

“Right, fine.” You started to walk away. But, oh what the hell.

You couldn’t help but turn back with a smile, blowing a kiss in his direction.

“Thank you, da-.”

“OH, PISS OFF!”

Tomorrow would be the heist you had been preparing for. Everything was already prepared and gone over a billion times. You could recite every detail of the plan word-by-word without an error. And since everything was ready, Billy had given you the day off. A possible ‘last day’, he had said.

“The day before a heist, I’d do something I’ve always wanted to do but never did.” You remembered him saying. “I’d have that ‘last day’, you know, in case something goes wrong, or I get caught by the pigs the next day.”

It was your first day to yourself in weeks, you could do anything! You could have slept in. You could have gone out. You could have had that ‘last day’ Billy was talking about.

But instead you were where you’d been for the last month. You didn’t know what brought you here. You had no legitimate reason to be here. You stared at Billy’s front door, unsure whether you should knock or not.

“Christ.” You mumbled to yourself. “What am I doing?”

Just as you were about to turn and leave, the doorknob twisted open and out stepped Billy. The car keys in his hands jingled when he hastily put on his coat, still not noticing you standing there.

Oh well, too late now. You cleared your throat.

“Heading somewhere, then?”

Billy jumped and whipped his head to you. “(Y/N)!” He proceeded to stutter, the words coming out of his mouth barely intelligible. He looked like a deer in headlights, caught off guard. “What are you doing here? We uh… had the day off.”

I gave him a look that mirrored his own- deer in headlights. “Well I just … I um.” You adjusted the strip of your bag uncomfortably. You could feel his piercing green eyes on you.

“I had questions about the plan?” You looked up to see him confused. Yeah, you weren’t convinced yourself, either. “But I can see that you’re going out so I’ll just… go?”

“Wait no.” He gripped you by your wrist. “I was actually going to see…”

He trailed off when you looked at him. He put his hands back into his pockets awkwardly, clearing his throat. “I was going to see a movie. Do you want to come?”

“Oh I don’t really fancy a movie right now.” You mumbled. “Sorry.”

“Oh okay.” He caught his bottom lip between his teeth. “How about coffee? You said you had questions about the plan?”

“Oh I um. I just thought of the answer, so.” You cringed inwardly, unable to bring yourself to look at him. You never really had questions in the first place. “I’ll just go. Wouldn’t want to disrupt your ‘last day’, right?”

You had only made it to the sidewalk when he called out your name. You left out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“How about a ride back to your place then?”

You spun around and were met with a small smile. Billy fiddled with his car keys, expecting your answer.

“Alright.” You smiled back.

—

HEIST DAY (yay!)

You stared at yourself in the mirror, smoothing down any wrinkle in your dress, or any stray strand of hair.

The bright emerald dress was simple yet it had a dash of elegance to it. It had no lace or complicated designs. The silk dress hugged your torso and cascaded down smoothly. The plunging neckline and the slit along the dress brought a teasing element to it, leaving just a right amount to the imagination.

Your hair was tied up, showing off your neck and of course…

“How could I ever forget you?” You picked up the velvet box, admiring the emerald studs Billy gave you. To tell the truth, the only reason you chose this dress was because of the earrings. They matched perfectly.

You smirked as you put them on. It didn’t hurt that the dress matched Billy’s eyes too.

Just when you were finishing up on your makeup, there was a knock at your door. Right on time. As you made your way, you impulsively smoothed down your dress.

God, why were you such an anxious mess? This wasn’t senior year prom.

You shook off the oncoming jitters and opened the door.

“Hey.”

“HI!”

Your response came out a bit more enthusiastically than you had hope. But to good reason. You discreetly checked him out, head to toe. Impeccably dashing and smart, he pulled off that white tux effortlessly. His hair slightly slicked back and a lazy smile present on his face. You suppressed the butterflies that were fluttering about in your gut.

“You look g-”

“Ready to go, then?” He cut you off, pointing at his watch.

Your face fell. Why do you care what he thinks? You roll your eyes, grabbing your coat before stepping out and locking the door behind you. You don’t care. You don’t care. You don’t ca-

“You look beautiful, (Y/N).”

There it was.

A grin involuntarily made its place on your lips. “Thank you.” You hid your face, saying it nonchalantly as if it wasn’t bothering you for the past minute.

You suddenly hear him laugh. “Is that what you wanted to hear?” Your grin dropped. “Is that why you’re all moody? That I didn’t compliment you?”

You shoved him back, the blush on your face now of embarrassment. “Dickhead.” You muttered, walking hurriedly towards the elevator before he could make another comment.

“No hey (Y/N)-”

“Shh!” You pressed on the down button of the elevator, impatient. You hear him make his way towards you.

“(Y/N), I’m-”

“SHH!” You hushed him louder. You frantically pushed the down button. Come on come on come on.

Ding!

Christ, finally. You step into the elevator, now repeatedly pushing on the ‘close’ button while maintaining direct eye contact with him.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” You hear him mutter. He runs towards you, just barely making it in before the doors close. You lean against the banister and glared at him with crossed arms.

“Watch your mouth next time.”

“Sorry.” He mumbled out, scratching the back of his neck. He made his way beside you, leaning on the banister as well. You chose to stare at your shoes. The two of you stood in silence, only the occasional ding of the elevator cutting in.

It was times like this you wish you had rented a room on the lower levels.

“(Y/N).” You hesitantly turn your head to him, but he points at the elevator doors instead, a silent instruction to look at them.

You see both of your own reflections staring back. He had his head against the wall, but he was without a doubt, looking at your mirrored image.

“See all that?” He pointed at your reflection. “I’d be a fool to not notice how good those earrings look on you.”

You sputter out a laugh, finally filling out the awkward atmosphere. You manage to muster a grin and look into his eyes. “Thanks, my sugar daddy got them for me.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “He has nice taste.” You reply with a hearty laugh. “Suppose he paid for those too.” He gestured at your dress and shoes.

“I’d say it’s money well spent.” You mockingly give him a twirl, showing off the dress. “So generous of him.”

“He’s a lucky man.” A playful smile poked at his lips.

And the two of you shared a laugh, glad to diffuse the tension, even if it was just for a while.

But it was short-lived.

The elevator doors finally opened with a final ding! And it rang like a bell to bring you back down to earth. To remind you there was a necklace made out of £5,000,000 waiting for you.

The two of you regained your composure, stepping out of the elevator. Your heads turn towards the sleek BMW that Billy rented just fort the occasion.

Beside you, Billy takes out the car keys. “Well let’s get to it then.”

A/N: I hope that didn’t suck, for any of ya’ll who made it to the end. Also would anyone read a Bucky Barnes fic if I wrote one.

#ben hardy #6 underground #billy x reader #6u!four x reader #queen #6u!Billy x reader #ben!roger taylor #ben!roger x reader #Ben Jones #this is so bad I'm so sorry

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chickensarentcheap · 3 years

Text

I Found -Chapter 3

Once again, this is just being reposted as a sort of ‘celebration’ of first anniversary of both the film’s release, and the start of my series. Feel free to reblog or like or comment or DM me :)

Keep in mind, this is a year old and it’s rough and choppy, but instead of editing, I left it as is to show the difference between my stuff then, and my stuff now :)

Summary: Broken and bleeding. Weathered and in tatters. Two damaged and weary souls find one another when they least expect it. Wrong place, wrong time. Yet both powerless to stop it.

Tagging: @tragiclyhip

WARNINGS: some profanity

Link to this (and the rest of the series can be found there as well) on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23945782/chapters/57636502

The beach is his favourite place. The sounds and smell of the ocean. The way the sunlight glistens and dances on the rippling water. It is his ultimate escape; the sun's warm and relaxing rays, the texture of the powdery sand between his toes. He's blessed to have a place like this so close to home. A place that he can share with his two most favourite people in the world. It's where they have their best conversations. Where they both feel the most relaxed; calmed by the lapping of the ways and the laughter and chatter of passing families. He sits with his legs stretched out in front of him; sunglasses on, back resting against the cooler of snacks and drinks behind him. A bottle of Gatorade on one side of him and his wife and daughter on the other.

He watches them out of the corner of his eye; the baby in the middle of the blanket enjoying some 'tummy time', clad in a white swimsuit dotted with bright rainbow fish, a tiny sunhat perched a top of her head. His wife in that simple yet sexy black one piece bathing suit, an Undearmour ball cap she'd snagged from his side of the room pulled low on her forehead, her legs folded crisscrossed and her eyes riveted on the book in her lap.

He reaches out and runs his fingers along her arm, and she casts a glance in his direction. Softly smiling as she entwines her fingers with his and places their joined hands on her thigh.

“Bloody hot today,” he says, as he runs his left hand over his face. The metal of the white gold wedding band he sports cool against his face. He takes a swig of the Gatorade and places the bottle between his thighs. Eyes closing as he leans his head back against the cooler.

He isn't sure how much time has passed when he hears her voice. Did he drift off? Did he manage to catch a half an hour of sleep? Or had it just been a few minutes? The position of the sun hasn't changed. But the baby is now on her back and Esme has abandoned the book in favour of dangling a plush singing koala over their daughter's head. The baby is starting to change; she's starting to focus more, her eyes responding to to their voices or activity going on around her. She smiles now; a smile that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle. His smile.

“There's trouble in Dhaka,” Esme says, her eyes never leaving the baby, the smile never fading. But he sees the tension in her shoulders. He hears it in her voice. She's tried to pass the comment off so smoothly and naturally. But he hears it. Loud and clear.

He sighs. “I know.”

“Apparently it is some cronies of Asif. I guess we really shouldn't be surprised. It was bound to happen. Guys like that have an army of rats behind him. I guess those rats have been hiding long enough. They're back out scurrying around and chewing shit up.”

“That's Dhaka's problem to worry about. Not ours.”

“It won't be long until it's on our doorstep. Nik will call soon. Don't be surprised.”

“She can call all the fuck she wants. There's nothing I can do to help. Best I can do is train some guys and give out advice and come up with plans. That's where I'm at these days.”

Hardly the role he played in the past. But at least it was something. He least he wasn't crippled up somewhere. Or dead. At least he could bring home some kind of pay check and provide for his family.

“You're a hundred times better than you were a year ago. And she knows that. She'll expect more from you.”

“Let her. I know my limits. I'm not the man I was a year ago. You think I'm close to it. I'm not. You have too much faith in me.”

“Well...” she sighs. “...someone has to have faith in you.”

And there it is. The honest to goodness truth. She's not saying it to be hurtful. He knows that. She's saying it because he needs to hear it.

“Why are we even talking about this?” Tyler inquires, trying not to let the aggravation seep from his voice.

“Just making conversation.”

“Bullshit. If you were just making conversation, you'd talk about the book you were reading. Or where we're going to go for lunch. Or how you wish the baby was old enough to learn how to swim and surf. That's the kind of stuff you usually talk about.”

She drags her teeth against her bottom lip. The smile is gone now. Those eyes have darkened.

“What's going on?” he presses. “You're usually the one asking me that but now it's my turn. What's wrong?”

“Ovi messaged me,” her hand tightens around his. She doesn't look at him. “While you were at the gym this morning.”

Usually he's the one that Ovi is contacting. Texts. Emails. Facetime. She and the kid are tight, but nowhere near as tight as he is with Tyler. They lived thousands of miles away but they kept the bond alive. Ovi had followed every step of his medical journey and his rehab and his struggle to get back on his feet. He'd come to their wedding. Met their daughter through a live feed. He even liked to call himself 'Uncle Ovi'. And Tyler had taken him under his wing once again. This time providing him with the guidance and the nurturing that only a father can do for their teenage son. And he was the closest thing that kid had to a father.

Ovi Sr was very much still alive. But might as well have been very much dead.

“Why? Why would he message you?”

“I guess he was worried to message you about it. I guess he was worried how you'd react. That maybe you'd get mad that he even brought it up.”

“Instead you bring it up so I can get mad at you.”

She frowns “That's is not why I brought it up. I didn't want this turning into a fight, Tyler. I wasn't trying to make you mad.”

“I'm not mad,” he assures her. “Annoyed as fuck, but not mad.”

Sighing, she finally looks at him. And he hates what he sees. That haunted look that registers on every inch of her face. And he hates himself for being that one that put it there. And out of reassurance, he lifts their joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

“He's worried,” she says. “He's been getting phone calls. Messages. Letters.”

“From who?”

“He doesn't know. He doesn't recognize the writing.”

“What do they say?”

“They're threats mostly. About watching his back. Needing eyes on the back of his head. How is big, bad bodyguard isn't around any more. I think they think you're dead.”

“Good. Let them think that.”

“He's worried, Tyler. He's scared. He's lost. He doesn't know what to do.”

“I'll call him later. I'll help him figure something out.”

“I told him that maybe he should come here, but he doesn't want to leave home. And he has friends and school and it wouldn't be fair to him to give all the up and come to Australia.”

“I said I'd figure something out. I always do.”

“I mean, he said he'd come here if he had to. But he doesn't want to be that far from his dad. Not like he has anything to do with his father, but still.”

“He already has guys watching him. I'll talk to Nik. Get a few more sent over there.”

“It won't matter how many she sends or how many are there. None of them are you.”

Fuck me, he thinks, and once more wishes for a drink. Something strong. Something powerful enough to wash down that uneasiness that sits in his throat. It settles in his chest; gnaws at his stomach.

“We're not talking about this,” he says. “Not here. Not now. Not ever.”

“He's in trouble, Tyler. You can't ignore that.”

“Didn't you hear me the first time? I said I'd get Nik to send more guys there. We're not going down this road. We're not talking about this.”

“You're the only one he trusts. That he fully trusts.”

“Is this really the hill you want to die on? I love you and I'd lay down my life for you. In a heartbeat. But you need to stop. Stop while you're ahead. Because this is a rabbit hole you do not want to fall down.”

“You can try and push this way. You can try and push me away. But this is happening. This is a real threat. Real trouble. And he trusts you, Tyler. He needs you.”

“And I love that kid like my own. You know that. But you know who also needs me? You know who needs me more than he does? My family. My wife. My child. They need me way more than he does. And I'm not fucking good to either of you when I'm thousands of miles away.”

“I didn't say you have to go alone.”

He gives an incredulous laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? Are you listening to yourself? Are you hearing what you're saying? This is fucking ridiculous,” he huffs, and yanking his hand out of hers, attempts to get to his feet. But she grabs him by the forearm with a surprising amount of strength and forces him to sit back down.

“We ARE having this conversation,” her voice is low. Eyes narrowed. “We ARE talking about this. Because it damn well needs to be talked about. Now. Not later. Because you damn well know that call is going to come. That Nik is going to call and she's going to say all the things I just said. And you'll listen to her. Because for some reason you seem to ignore me but listen to her.”

“Don't start that shit. She's your friend. Just because her and I had a thing a long time ago, doesn't mean fuck all now. That's the past. You're the present. The future. So don't be bringing petty, childish shit into this. Into our marriage. Don't play those fucking games with me. You've got the wrong guy for that shit.”

“She's going to call. And she's going to say everything I just did. And you know what, Tyler? She'll be right. Just like I am. You can try and ignore this. You can try and pretend that you don't care. But I know you. Better than you know yourself half the time. And if I didn't think this was serious...if I didn't think there was real trouble...I wouldn't bring this up at all. But Ovi needs you.”

“What can I do for him? Huh? What the fuck can I do? Look at me. I mean really look at me. Past that fucking vision you have of me that you can't seem to let go of. That man...that man you first met...he's dead. He's gone. I can't help him. I can barely help you. Or our daughter.”

“Now who is talking shit?” she retorts. “You need to stop this, Tyler. You need to stop beating yourself up like this. You're the bravest man I've ever known. The strongest I've ever met. Look how far you've come. Look at how well you're doing. If anyone can help, it's you. It's what you do. You help people.”

“When I'm not fucking people up and killing them, you mean?”

“You can't pretend that side of you never existed,” she argues. “You can't pretend that he isn't still inside of you. It's possible, you know. To be this Tyler and THAT Tyler.”

“I cross that line again, I might not be able to cross back. And then what? I become the old Tyler and this life is over. Could you really live with that guy? Be married to him? Have a family with him? Any normal future? Why the hell would you want to?”

“Maybe because I love you, you insufferable pain in the ass. Maybe because I knew the old Tyler. That's the Tyler I fell in love with. The Tyler that reeled me in. And this Tyler...the Tyler you are now...that's just a bonus. But I don't pretend that the other Tyler never existed. He isn't dead to me. He's very much alive. And you know he is. Why do you fight it?”

“Because that isn't who I want to be any more,” he snarls. “That isn't the man I want to be. I want to be a better man. For you.”

“And you are. But I need that old Tyler. And so does Ovi.”

“Jesus fucking Christ...” he mutters, and puts a hand to his forehead as he closes his eyes. He tries to calm himself. Long, slow, deep breaths that he exhales slowly. “I can not believe we are actually talking about this.”

“I figured it would be the best time do it. When you were relaxed and calm and...”

“Don't you think something should have told you that this was the wrong fucking place? The wrong fucking time?” he doesn't even try to bite back the vehemence on his tongue. “This couldn't wait? Until we were home? You had to do this here? Like what the fuck?”

Silence falls between them. He can't remember the last time that a silence was this uncomfortable between them. They rarely fought other than the stupid shit that couples quarrel over. And he very rarely raised his voice towards her. Normally he could walk away before it got that far. But now he felt helpless. Cornered. The last bit of control slipping through his fingers.

“This is bullshit,” he grumbles, and sips at the Gatorade He can't look at her. He just can't. The rage is too raw. And it absolutely disgusts him that he feels that way towards her. “Why would you do this?” his voice is low as his eyes survey the horizon. The sparkling blue water, the clouds that hang low in the sky, the people that frolic in the surf. “Why the hell would you bring this up? Not just here. But at all.”

“I wouldn't have brought it up if it wasn't serious,” she sounds like she's going to cry. Or strangle him. Maybe even both. “Tyler...please...please look at me...”

“I can't,” fuck he hates himself. He despises feeling this way. Especially towards her. “I just can't.”

“You have to. Please. Please look at me.”

He inhales a sharp breath and then exhales solely before turning to look at her. Keeping those sunglasses on so she can't see the tears that threaten. Tears of anger. Frustration. Regret. So many emotions that he detests.

“He needs you, Tyler. Ovi needs you.”

“I can't help him. You know that. What the hell do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you do what you need to do. You were a mercenary. You still are. That part is never going to disappear. No matter how hard you try. “

“I can't go down that road again. I can't. I have too much to lose.”

“You aren't going to lose us. I'm not going anywhere. She's not going anywhere. We're in this together. The three of us.”

“I'm not putting you in danger. Not again. Especially not now. We have a family. We have a baby. That needs us. That isn't a life she deserves to be dropped into it. She's just a baby.”

“And she trusts you. I trust you. With my life. With both of our lives. You have to do this Tyler. And I think you know that. And deep down I think you want to.”

“I can't lose you. I can't lose her. I just can't. I can't make those mistakes again.”

“I'm not your ex wife Tyler. And she isn't your son. You have to stop letting that eat you up. You can't change the past. You can't go back and change things. You just can't. And that guilt and that regret? It's only going to keep eating at you. Killing yourself isn't going to bring him back. And I know you'll never see yourself the way that I do. You're always going to think that I have too much faith in you. But I'm never going to hate you the way that you hate yourself. No matter how hard you try.”

He nods slowly, the words hitting home. It isn't the first time they'd had this conversation. But it's the first time she's been this brutally honest.

“Sometimes...” she draws in a shaky breath. “..sometimes I feel like I left you behind on that bridge. That you're here but I still lost you.”

“Well you didn't. And if you ask me, you're the one that's hanging onto this. You can't let it go. You just can't let it go, can you.” It's a statement more than a question.

“I don't know how you expect me to. I almost lost you. You almost died in my arms. How do I let that go?”

“You fucking remind yourself that I didn't die. That I'm here. You remind yourself until you're sick of hearing it. And then you remind yourself a million times more.”

“It's not that easy,” she shakes her head. “But I wish it was.”

He reaches for her. Yanking off her ball cap and tossing it to the ground, then laying a hand on the back of her head and pulling her into him. She nestles her face in the spot between his neck and his shoulder. That favourite little spot of hers that made her feel safe and warm. And he wraps both arms around slender body and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“Loving her doesn't mean any you don't love him anymore,” she says,

“How did we get back onto this? Quit going back and forth with things. You're confusing the shit out of me.”

“I know it's what you think. You think because she's here and you love her as much as you do, it means that you're going to forget him. That you're love for him will somewhat diminish. He'd want you to move on, Tyler. He'd want you to be happy. You have so much love to give. I know you don't see yourself that way. But I do. And I bet he did too.”

He doesn't want to talk about it. Not here. Not ever, to be honest. But she is the one person he CAN talk about these things with. The one person that won't judge him. Who won't make him feel like an enormous prick for making the decisions that he did.

“He would have made a really good big brother,” he muses. “He would have loved her. And she would have loved him. I'm sure of it.”

It's a comforting thought. But the reality of the situation was that if his son hadn't died, his daughter more than likely wouldn't be here. And neither would Esme. His first marriage may have worked out. And he definitely wouldn't have been hell bent on destroying himself. There'd be no Nik. No Ovi. And there would have been no G, or the rest of the team, or Gaspar.

So many things would be different. And despite the pain and mistakes of the past, he quite enjoys where his life is now. A wife, a child, possibly more in the future. And they wouldn't be sitting here on this beach if he hadn't had made the decision to go to Afghanistan while his son was dying .

It is truly amazing how one decision can change the entire course of your future.

“You're suffocating me,” she mutters against him. Completely unaware of how tight his hold on her had actually been.

“That's for all the times you made me drink kale smoothies and watch chick flicks,” he teases, dropping a kiss on the top of her head and tousling her hair.

“I only made you drink smoothies because that's how I hid the Viagra,” she playfully retorts.

“Of all the things you know would wound me, you pick the worst one?” he pinches her in the side; tickling her until she's giggling hysterically, out of breath and struggling to get away. “What a bitch move. Going right for the manhood. Right for the juggler.”

“I guess I learned from the best,” she says, and then shrieks and elbows him in the gut when he pinches the flesh at her hip. “Don't be such a dick,” she pouts dramatically.

“I'd make a comment about my dick but you'll accuse me of being a pig and apparently you think I need Viagra so you're never getting the dick ever again.”

“And you say I go for the juggler. That's harsh, Tyler. That is super fucking harsh.”

He gets her in that sensitive spot right behind the knee. Squeezing what little flesh there is until she's flat on her back and using her feet in his gut to try and push him away. Until they're both laughing and passerbys are shooting them curious glances; some shaking their heads at the silliness from grown adults, others smiling along with them. And when he brings on of her feet to her face and bites at one of her toes, she gives a yelp that's loud enough to startle the baby from her nap.

“Now look what you've done,” Esme huffs, as she straightens her bathing suit. “You've woken the beast.”

“She's fine. And don't you talk about my daughter like that. She's a princess. Daddy's princess.”

“A princess who will be able to kick some major ass when she's older.”

“That's the plan,” confirms, and then lays down on his stomach alongside of the baby, resting a hand on her stomach. “Don't listen to that mean old lady. Calling you a beast like that. When she's the one that is a total bitch half the time.”

“Takes one to know one,” his wife shoots back, then lies down on her side across from him. Their tiny daughter safe and secure between them. Esme's hand comes to rest on his; thumb stroking his wrist and the base of his fingers. “Tell me everything is going to be okay, Tyler. Tell me that WE'RE going to be okay.”

“We will,” he promises. “We'll be fine.”

He only hopes he sounds more convincing to her ears than he does to his own

#Tyler Rake #Tyler Rake fan fiction #Extraction fan fiction #Chris Hemsworth #Chris Hemsworth Extraction #Chris Hemsworth Tyler Rake #Tyler Rake fan fic #Extraction fan fic #Tyler Rake x OFC #tyler and esme series

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daisyachain · 3 years

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hold up i’m having a coherent thought.

the development of technology and sharing networks over the 2000s-2010s has allowed media markets to spread across a spectrum from amateur-for-free and professional-commercial rather than sitting on a few discrete points.

in ye olde days you had options including:

independent work done for free but distributed through paid mail networks to cover the cost of distribution. limited to print forms due to the cost of other types of production (e.g. zines)

independent or collaborative work done without official pay but financed through some under-the-counter scheme or other, distributed physically in-person or by mail (e.g. bootleg films)

semi-independent or collaborative corporate work done with no up-front pay and sold legally to a firm to distribute (e.g. scripts or treatments, novels. limited to print forms due to the cost of other types of production)

collaborative corporate work financed by a firm or sponsor (e.g. most audio and video productions)

most of the non-financed options required a lot of time, money, and effort to distribute beyond a very narrow audience. Without access to radio/television/newspaper ad space ($$$), the best you could do was tape a poster up to a lamppost asking if anyone wanted to look at your unedited novella

in these new days, you have options including

independent or collaborative work done and distributed for free with no expectation or method of payment (e.g. anything posted to a no-advertising site like a*o3)

independent or collaborative work done and distributed for free with no expectation for payment, but with a method and hope for payment (e.g. anything posted with a link to ko-fi)

independent or collaborative work done and distributed for free with expectation/incentives for payment (e.g. anything with additional patreon content)

collaborative corporate work done and distributed for free with expectation/incentives for payment (e.g. anything with additional patreon content)

collaborative corporate work financed by a firm/sponsor distributed commercially for free with expectation/incentives for payment (e.g. some things with patreon or other ‘paid’ add-ons available)

independent or collaborative work sold commercially (e.g. some indie games)

collaborative corporate work financed by a firm or sponsor and sold commercially (e.g. most mainstream media)

pretty much all work is distributed via a combination of hosting and social media websites on the internet. the majority of distribution through conventional streams (DVDs, CDs, print books) is work financed by a firm with some capital and sold to make money.

the variety of working models and distribution channels opened up by the internet is vast. there is still somewhat of a divide between what i’m going to call internet native content and mainstream content. internet native content is largely independent, produced by digital natives (mostly under-40 or under-30), and financially untenable without the internet. mainstream content is largely corporate/commercial, produced by established firms whose employees may or may not be tapped into digital culture.

sometimes these areas overlap where firms hire/commission creators known for their independent work. mainstream firms are increasingly tilting their distribution towards the digital, muddying the water further. for the purposes of this irrelevant, nonsensical, and overlong post, anything produced commercially by a firm with capital is mainstream content, and anything produced independently by individuals or a small organization is internet native content.

there’s a sizeable and vocal chunk of the internet dedicated to media consumption and criticism, especially as relates to how fictional stories replicate and perpetuate real-life biases and oppression. given how serious and unavoidable the issue is in real life, it only makes sense that people want to be able to escape into content (fiction AND non-fiction) that eliminate, counteract, or criticize those forms of oppression.

given the ease of sharing information around on social media, there are some concepts/ideas/thoughts that act as baseline ‘rules’ for keeping your work clean. obviously there are a load of assholes who ignore these and take any explanation in bad faith, but these ‘rules’ are still extremely accessible by anyone plugged into internet culture (as boomer a phrase as that is). if you ask a 15-year-old on tumblr they can tell you to a) research the culture of any character who doesn’t share your background before writing, b) split screentime and focus evenly between men and women, c) look into the background and assumptions behind your tropes to see how they fit into historical structures of oppression.

this means that there’s an expectation among people i’ll call digital natives (who can access this endless stream of grassroots critical theory) that anyone older or less familiar with technology and fan culture won’t have access to this information. never mind that critical race theory, the concept of ‘fridging’, and trans people have existed for decades at least.

because of this, mainstream content is judged to be written, produced, edited, and executed by a group of people whose idea of revolutionary tv is a woman talking and a black character living past the first season. on the other hand, internet native content is made by people who know all the latest discourse and discussion. mainstream media gets a passing grade if it even expresses awareness that there exist people other than whites; internet native media is expected to follow the various rules.

this makes some sense. it’s a reasonable assumption that mainstream creators don’t and can’t know the rules, while internet native creators automatically do. the chance that a 56-year-old man who got his position at ABC because his father’s brother-in-law went to college with a guy who was an exec even thinks about social justice is marginally higher than zero.

however. all that is to say that these expectations don’t reflect the financial situation of mainstream vs digital native productions. mainstream content generally has enough financing to pull together a team of professionals paid up-front at market rate to create content. internet native content is generally made by a team of amateur friends and/or acquaintances for free or for well below minimum wage. a lot of fans expect a deeper level of rigour and research from people working on one ham sandwich per week than from the glitziest hbo production. even better, said fans will personally call out a minor slight from a solo endeavour and demand a retraction while at the same time they put up a mild and indirect complaint about some shit a film pulled.

that’s not to say that lack of resources are an excuse for writing total bullshit. what that is to say is that fan expectations don’t necessarily reflect project constraints. it’s going to hurt when your favourite webcomic or youtube series gets rid of the only woman in its cast, and it’s a tropey move that should be criticized as tired or misogynist storytelling. it’s also par for the course on the field of storytelling. there are ten thousand novels, a hundred comic issues, and ten network tv shows that are doing the exact same thing as we speak. if you’re going to take sloppy research from star wars fanfic as a personal offence, you may as well direct your energy into publically criticizing lucasfilm for the extreme racism their production crew show time and again. it’s frustrating to see the same people ripping apart indie content that is tasteless at worst and saying nothing about more real and more destructive stuff in mainstream content

#kelsey rambles #if you want a clean dashboard then unfollow me. only long bullshit posts here #anyway i'm sick to death of well-intentioned people slapping on their blinders and doing more harm than good #why don't we marshal the forces and put them to productive use.#yes criticize williams' and howard's writing but hickman's is a lot worse!#critrole has done a lot of tasteless and offputting shit but the time and effort people put into the discourse is not worth the results #even--and i'm reaching back into the archives here--the response to petals to the metal (take 1)#was a bury-your-gays a tired and demoralizing trope? yep. was it done more respectfully than every other show that does it? sure #and did it turn around with a single reasoned explanation in good faith? also yes

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incarnateirony · 5 years

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Omg

People need to stop using what they think are intellectual arguments to try to shade at shit while COMPLETELY MISUSING IT.

Example: There was a cross in the reunion episode!

Okay, great, let’s look at all the other uses of crosses. Oh look, episodes about faith, faith, faith, faith, faith, and faith. Right after not believing in anything, not backshadowing him with the cross, reuniting, and then having the cross, only to later confirm he now has faith.

Thing someone thinks is occam’s razor: It could mean anything any time and at any moment could mean something totally different without any regard to the base themes being employed literally every time. It could just mean resurrection like jesus!

What’s actually occam’s razor: The cross is tied to faith theme episodes. Like, I don’t know. The episode Faith.

Y’all stop. It’s like arguing from an angle of belligerently intentional ignorance.

And losing your patience with people who have no idea what they’re talking about downtalking at people who know what they’re talking about, after fucking up and making their own bed to begin with while they stomp around like a child and get other angry bitter people stomping with them to make a fuss -- getting annoyed, at any point, is in no way the sign of being the More Logical Person. Sometimes you’re so illogical you piss everybody around you that knows what’s up, off. See: Kelios.

If your only victory point is staying calm while you piss off people that know better, you’re not smarter. You’re just annoying. You know how there’s that “annoying stupid Republican” idea floating around out there where they just can’t say anything without being annoying or infuriating? It started somewhere. And it’s not because Someone Lost To Them. It’s because ain’t nobody got the time for their Headass.

PS: It’s not “stuck up” to cite your actual career, education, or whatever else after already being driven up a wall by a bunch of bitter fansplaining from people who can’t grasp concepts like the above. If someone’s talking on an elementary school level to a person who works in an industry, the person will first gently tell them how it works, and when the child starts kicking and huffing and throwing insults, will call a parent, but if no parent’s available, they get “you’ll understand when you grow up” and that’s essentially what’s happening here.

Being intentionally fucking numbskulled about things because someone wants to be bitter and act like they understand a business, when they literally do not understand the business, and have shown they do not know the business, and continue to insist to yell down at people that know about the business, eventually makes people who know the business go “You do know I’ve done this for a living and you’re totally on crack, right?”

If all of the people with Actual Experience are saying a thing, maybe you should stop trying to Fansplain or Hobbysplain shit to them and actually consider adjusting your perspective instead of acting entitled all the time.

Imagine trying to be a trainee in a workplace with this attitude.

Machinist: Okay, these are the lathe codes. Just use these, and avoid this one.

Trainee: What’ll happen if I enter this instead.

Machinist: Don’t, that jams up the machine for some reason.

Trainee: That doesn’t make any sense! You don’t know what you’re talking about.

Machinist: Look, kid. Just don’t. If anything goes wrong, hit this emergency stop button.

Trainee: I’ve read online that some of those buttons break the machine

Machinist: I... look. Hit emergency stop if anything goes wrong.

Trainee: Don’t tell me what to do.

Machinist: I been working here 30 years kid.

Trainee: That doesn’t matter, you’re just pulling the experience card, I’m skilled too.

Machinist: .....

[ 2 hours later Trainee punches in code he’s told not to and bores at a bad angle and burns out a multi-hundred-thousand-dollar machine because he didn’t use emergency stop, loses his job ]

Ask me how I know a story like this, while we’re at it.

Frankly, no. Alone, a degree doesn’t count for a whole lot. There’s an assload of educated idiots that manage a passing grade and then never see the profession in the real world. But when the people who have been out there, in the real world, dealing in an area, are telling you what they know, maybe you should give it some consideration. But when that degree is, say, a double degree lit professor, or that degree is someone in marketing that’s also run all levels of the actual industry for years on end, maybe they might know a little something about something that your basic lit course or bitterness aren’t taking into account.

Apologies to you, random blogger #89234 with an interest in a thing, but if the accumulated hobby information you’ve collected is outright in conflict (see machinist example) of How Things Actually Work, you cease being a supreme authority, and if you start acting like a little prick about it to people who actually know the ropes, well -- we can’t fire you from the internet (as appealing as that sounds at times), but we can deadass tell you “you have no idea what you’re talking about.” HOW DO U KNOW “BECAUSE I’VE DONE THIS FOR A LIVING.” HUrRruUrURRRr thAT donT meaN anyTHING

Yes, yes it does. It means I’ve been there, I’ve watched things be set up, be destroyed, transition, be debated over, been in the heart of it. It means I’ve watched friends lose their gigs and get sidelined and others take off so hard we barely maintain contact anymore. It means I’ve had to listen to marketing groups piss and moan over working titles because it’s not X enough for Y demographic (you want to know a pain in the ass? marketing test group runs for pagan mythology LGBT friendly content in a southern religious conservative region --and you know what, I can release that, because it’s mine and a discontinued project now; unlike, say, if one of us happened to land at a CW/SPN marketing test group somewhere and happened to have to sign an NDA about what they were polling about).

It means I watch when a TPTB family member posts in a private facebook group and it means I talk to the sound dev crews about how they make certain things -- not some one off room-mating or the occasional DM or whatever, because we can all talk actual shop and not fanbuzz; in fact, I’ve BEEN a roommate people tried to get stuff out of and they probably walked away thinking they were super in-the-know while there’s a thousand things I didn’t/couldn’t say but they’d never know; and it means I know which of my fandoms have shared PAs you guys never knew by name; it means they can actually break out about the kind of lenses and audio devices they used to perform a certain shot and the abstract methods they attained it and I can actually come back with a suggestion that doesn’t embarrass both of us to sit out there in the air; it means I know how to appeal to a shifting demographic and discuss the problems in limited circulation.

It means that I know how the gears of a machine work and don’t just sit from the outside going “well maybe it’s-” no, it’s this, this, and that. No, you don’t get to pontificate what you think Actually Is In It when I literally know What Is In It. That isn’t how reality works. Well you can, but the reality of it is that no, your opinion or Hot Take(TM) aren’t equal. I don’t care if you’ve gone to teaparties with them, I really don’t.

The quickest way to get someone from a creative team to disengage from actual content conversation and instead feeding you fluff is when you obviously have no idea of the machinations involved and are coming as a fan or hobbyist. You don’t think people can tell the difference. You think you sound like you’re exceptional. But when you open your mouth it takes about two seconds for us to know.

I can turn a regional studio owner’s ear in the middle of a freaking dollar general by saying a few things; or a major music producer; why? Because we’ve been there. And we’ve been there long enough when y’all try to come up talking like you know shit.

Reality: You don’t. I don’t care how many clickbait articles someone has written. I literally have 0% care for how much public facing PR you’re fed. Or anything you think is non-public facing that they were willing to give You, the general You, a fandomite or hobbyist or yes, reporter. Hell, the latter list of LOL tends to think X rando directing assistant or whatever will have All The Secrets at a business level. Thing is, when I was any kind of PA or adjacent, I sure as hell didn’t delude myself into knowing everything going on above my head, just what I needed to know. Do it long enough and yes, you learn the business mechanics themselves but no one person beyond the upper executives is gonna know everything. Each knows what their job specification is.

Frankly, again I say, if you want to really know what’s going on, you check out what marketing is polling, because that’s what Big Business is putting in discussion, and really, that’s that. Then again, if you get into the groups, enjoy that NDA, and not being able to tell anybody about anything about it, and just waving your arms emphatically about an idea that people try to lol about.

Am I talking SPN? Am I talking something else I worked on or attended or know about? In the end, does that really matter?

Not all topics come down specifically to experience and expertise within a subject, but some do, and if you’re out here acting like a twidiot over it, eventually, the people who work in it go, “look y’all bless your heart but we actually do this, so sit down?”

Nobody’s saying you CAN’T meta or lit crit without a degree or experience, but if you’re out there being a shady fuck towards people who literally know what they’re doing, with minimal to no actual substance to your shade, just convenience to those who want to believe you, then yes. The people who actually know what they’re doing > the people that don’t and are just ass speaking or throwing “what ifs” or “it could bes” on hunches regardless of the follower counts attached.

A lot of people do good meta or spec without a degree or experience, because they just have a good reading and, I don’t know, understand what shit like Occam’s Razor actually means. It’s not mandatory. But if you’re about to start swinging on someone, son, just because you’re piloted by bitterness and aren’t even thinking to 1+1 this charade, you should probably check your narcissism points if you’re butting off at-random against people who do have experience and a fairly synchronized understanding.

Or at least more than piss-poor long-disjointed sub-par disembodied and fractal arguments that sum to nothing, their captain wank planet forces combined.

There’s a pillar or two of meta and Destiel meta fandom I avoid like the plague because I can read it’s pure fluff and completely uncorroborated with an actual basic application of Occam’s Razor. That doesn’t mean I spend my time shading them or dragging their crap out or picking fights with them or just being a bitch about it on my blog.

A few people could learn from that.

#mildew #long post for ts

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jorrmungandr · 5 years

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Chapter 8: The Pulpit

Let us continue the Theology lessons, here in this, the most churchy run of chapters in Moby-Dick; or, the Whale.

This chapter contains some real meat in that particular vein, as well as appealing to a particular style of Christian aesthetic that I enjoy a great deal. After the doubts raised in The Chapel, it’s time to get a little more sincere, as the chaplain finally makes his appearance.

SUMMARY: Father Mapple, the chaplain, arrives. Having walked through the icy storm, his heartiness and humbleness cannot be doubted. He takes off his hat, coat, and overshoes, and ascends the pulpit to conduct the service.

It’s funny, sometimes, when I condense down what actually happens in a given chapter into a mere three sentences, and then have to go on for a thousand or two words about all the rest of it. Such is the way with novels! Especially the more twisty, philosophical ones like Moby Dick.

It seems to me that there is something of a tonal shift when Father Mapple arrives on the scene. Ishmael has a certain affection for the man, noting his humbleness, his robustness, his true, solemn devotion to his faith, all throughout this chapter and the next. We are assured that Mapple is himself a former seaman, and that he comes by his eccentricities honestly. Even the ropes of the pulpit are the genuine article, donated from a real ship.

Indeed, Ishmael is convinced that all of this is a part of some sort of clever Metaphor or Allegory being subtly employed by Father Mapple. When the chaplain pulls the rope ladder up into the pulpit, rung by rung, Ishmael waxes philosophic again:

I pondered some time without fully comprehending the reason for this. Father Mapple enjoyed such a wide reputation for sincerity and sanctity, that I could not suspect him of courting notoriety by any mere tricks of the stage. No, thought I, there must be some sober reason for this thing; furthermore, it must symbolize something unseen.

Around this time, he also makes a couple of stray references I thought I should chase down. First, the pulpit is Mapple’s own impregnable “little Quebec”. Quebec City is famously a walled town, and indeed is the only north american town that still retains its walls to this very day!

The other is that the pulpit is “ a lofty Ehrenbreitstein, with a perennial well of water within the walls”. Turns out, that’s just a enormous fortress in Germany, near what would at the time have been the border with France, right on the banks of the Rhine river. It was destroyed by the French during the Napoleonic wars, but then rebuilt even stronger afterwards. At the time of this writing, it would be a massive, impressive symbol of military might and safety. It, too, has survived to this very day, and you can go tour it in much the same form as it was in Melville’s day. As far as I can find, there are no legends about it having a replenishing well within its walls.

This is all in service of the Metaphor that Ishmael mentioned, that this heavenly retreat of Father Mapple signifies his withdrawal from petty physical concerns and turning his attention to the spiritual.

Yes, for replenished with the meat and wine of the word, to the faithful man of God, this pulpit, I see, is a self-containing stronghold

I love this kinda shit. I’m gonna be honest, this sort of... I’m not sure exactly how to describe it, early American naive Christianity. The kind of thing you get from puritans and other wild strands of the faith that were exiled first to Holland and then across the ocean to the New World.

It’s like... people discovering Christianity for the first time and trying to make sense of it on their own. Protestantism flows from the invention of the printing press, and the new availability of the actual text of the Bible to people other than Catholic priests and monks. What must they think of these strange stories, now thrown open for interpretation? Trying to discover the inerrant truths hidden within them, seeking a way of life in a book written thousands of years earlier, for a completely different audience.

It leads to things like Pilgrim’s Progress, a book massively popular in very early New England. Just directly telling people to be good, that greed is bad, and you just have to believe in Jesus. The burden of discovering the truth through the scripture is a heavy one, why not make a cheat sheet? Here’s all the important stuff, laid out in the most bald, easy-to-understand allegory that even the youngest of children or the busiest of farmers could understand it. When you tear down an old idol that was telling you how to run your life, you have to fill that void with something!

This kind of Christianity, with it’s very simple, direct messages trying to convince people not to be so horrible all the time, appeals to me on a deep level. It feels so damn honest compared to its modern American successors, I suppose. Just be good, and not bad, and believe in The Lord and it’ll all be okay.

Of course, the truth is that even back then this kind of ministry was rife with hypocrites and scandal. But that’s more Nathaniel Hawthorne’s territory, we’re reading a Melville book, and though they were close friends, they didn’t exactly speak about the same things all the time.

Speaking of the book that I’m supposed to be talking about, the metaphor is completed by Ishmael saying that the pulpit is like the prow of a ship, but for the whole of the Earth. It is the foremost part, sticking out bravely, leading the way for all the rest of us.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention one other thing: another enormous, portentous oil painting! This time hanging on the wall directly behind the pulpit, above the tragic tablets on the back wall. It depicts a ship in the midst of a storm, but with a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds above. And in that, an angelic figure beckoning the ship onwards, to safety.

And so the structure of these chapters has gone. First, we were plunged into grief and theological doubt by the tablets, then we climb out of that mire with Father Mapple, to the top of the high pulpit. And finally, next chapter, we shall ascend into hope and light when he finally begins his sermon.

You’ll never guess what book of the bible he’s talking about.

Whew, that one really went some places. I think part of my appreciation for that vein of Christianity comes from the church I grew up in, UCC, which a descendant of Congregationalists, which have their origins among the dissidents of England and the settlers of New England. Also the exceedingly lengthy, yet very good, series of books from Neal Stephenson called The Baroque Cycle, which I highly recommend.

As always, you can follow along for free with the full text of the book from Gutenberg dot org. Next chapter is gonna be realllllll long and even more Theological than this one, as we get into an actual got damb sermon, probably based on one that Melville actually heard at the real church that this scene is set in. We’ll see how it fits in, thematically, with the rest of the book.

Image Credits, in order:

A Sermon From The High Pulpit: The Chancel Behind (1827), Joesph Mallord William Turner.

Photo of Porte St. Louis, Parks Canada.

Festung Ehrenbreitstein viewed from Koblenz (2011), Holger Weinandt.

Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, With Over One Hundred Illustrations Designed by Frederick Barnard and Others, Engraved by Dalziel Borthers (The John C. Winston Company, Philadelphia, Chicago, and Toronto, 1894).

Ships in Distress in a Storm (1720-30), Peter Monamy.

#moby-dick; or the whale #moby dick #19th century literature #herman melvil #ishmael #father mapple #pilgrim's progress #protestantism #new england #philosophy #theology

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usashirtstoday · 3 years

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Best Dad Bod Ever Since 1965 Vintage Father T Shirt

Syndication service later onand Mr Jack Douglas who produced Johnand Yoko Ono’s current album double fantasy who was with Johnand Yoko shortly before his tragic death here in New York last night I would be right back to run the 1975 interview with John Lennon after these announcementsand I hope that you will stay with us we back in about two minutesand seconds John Lennon in a Best Dad Bod Ever Since 1965 Vintage Father T Shirt little bit later on in the program will talk about the possibility of us having to leave the United Statesand at that time his attorney Mr Leon Wilds will join us to make certain that John or I make no mistakes in the legalities but I welcome you hereand I’m glad that you’re here as I said at the outset the back in 1964 by after the cataclysmic arrival of the Beatles here in the United Statesand the great popularity had on the Ed Sullivan programand others there were many people who did not really understand what you were doingand and they thought then that your hair was longand that you looked might. They can escalated to a vaccine invention so is very important that we resist this mashup not only is truth on our side the Constitution and the law on our side but logic and common sense is on our side and a lot more people out there that are frustrated with this mask shipping you think they just don’t know the lawn he don’t have the intimate knowledge about what’s really being done to us like we do there pushing the coalition shut the schools down and the church is why because schools and churches aware boating happens if they can shut down a bolt of the polling places guess what happens mail in voting Horowitz study of our thousand hundred UK schools show very little evidence that the virus is transmitted in school you know why because everybody has tested positive is asymptomatic the CDC and the World Health Organization already said asymptomatic people do not get the do not. Like John Snow Amy’s motivation is drivenand the nonsense in the service of keeping him sympathetic relative to Dragon Lady bad we know what kind of a guy Jamie is based on his actions so for him to say even really giving us a why only serves as a cheap twist surprising but not unexpected isn’t it after all he’s explaining his motivation with wordsand motivations are explained with words that means a defect to make telling the audience the thing makes sense with your dialogue while not supporting the thing with the characters actions is kind of the trends in the last season game of thrones Thursday one of the greatest villains not just in TV history but arguably all of literature she she didn’t have much to do battyand there did she all of tearyand stupid mistakesand wildly out of characterand unmotivated sudden trust in his evil sister serve the purpose of keeping Circe in the game optional remember I chose to help promises or assurances which feels even more insulting given that Circe closed lowing up that faces no consequences nor has a secret evil plan beyond staring on a balconyand glowering over my domain with a glass of wine which I get it that’s my usual Friday night but all she in season eight is a scene of the thing was not to be the most in the show makes Circe sympathetic but it’s like in the most condescending way possible be characters somehow just go she just got he says come when the plot says so Circe’s armies instantly crumbleand she dies a weirdly sympathetic death in Jamie’s arms who is here for some reason in a rocks fall everyone dies situation that feels more on par would like a your Disney movie is in line with someone who once said how or how this is important to look at Circe for who she is presented as a monarchand what the show built her up to be before dinner is torched King’s Landing elements multivitamin will take off the big thing hereand I mean big scene as a defining actionand Circe’s rule is are effectively blowing up the in universe equivalent of the Vatican as a means to wipe out her enemiesand flex on how many foxy gives which is zero is the scene was awesomeand yes it feels like something someone as recklessand vengeful as Circe would do when pushed to the editor Brink but prior to season for most of the plot of game of thrones is centered around the direct consequences of one guy Ned start getting his head lopped offand what pretty much everyone who wasn’t a child who ordered it even Circe felt was a massive dick move meanwhile postseason six Circe not only blew up one of the largest buildings in West Rosen wiped out a decent chunk of the faithand its leader but also decimated one of the most powerful wealthyand well liked familiesand mistress with a lot of loyal Bannermanand apart from a few stray remarks from other characters you sister this major act of mass violence just kind we just move on it nobody cares there are no consequences for this she is crownedand life goes on the only person opposing her is Dragon lady who would have invaded no matter who is on the throne so let’s break this down why in God’s name when they set up Circe finally exacting revenge on the faceless masses that through literal feces on her during the walk of shameand weeding out religious extremism with impunity only to conveniently forget the internal logic of much smaller scale political issues like that starts execution causing massive upheaval dimension again wasting someone likely entities talent’s well here is why because of how season eightand this one act necessitates that yes Circe would be considered an unparalleled top tier Megatron grade tyrant she couldn’t have wiped out all of the faith militant or even most of them let alone the countless followers of the seven in West Rose who would feel understandably very pissedand personally attacked by this maneuver is also to say nothing of all people who saw her as 100 illegitimate or believe that her children were inbred pastors or who would want revenge on her for what she did the house Tyrell to the dumb dumb throated juicy situation which in theory could have led to some of the best acting from one of the most talented players but the problem here is that it would have revealed her as a tyrant leading to a situation where literally anyone with a claim to the throne would be looked upon by the people attend landing as a liberator which leads us to the person who at least far as everyone knows has the best claim to the throneand wouldn’t you know it has already defined herself as a liberator so Dragon lady shows up writing some dragons like okay hi I’m here to liberate y’all on the breaker of chains love me please it’s fair to say that DD created a situation where I actually does a pretty great for the small book of Kings Landingand the vast vast majority of the nobles who already support herand pretty much everyone who is in the iron Bank of bravos to whom the Lancers a lot of money can count on the back support our students to go should they wrote a situation where there’s no way Circe would be able to maintain power after her move with the septic without being a complete totalitarian who stomps out dissent before it even manifests she created a situation where she had no choiceand she is a personality to relish that sort of thing like oh God yes revenge please I live for thisand I remember the face of every peasant who flung shit at meand I will pull each of their fingernails out myselfand on a related note you really expect me to think alike Circe’s good I like be upset that the nurses murdering that the innocence of Kings Landing after what they did to her she should be like go girl so the only way to deal with the fallout of Circe’s actions while still barreling full steam ahead to this predetermined ending is to ignore them altogether the show must maintain that the people of Kings Landingand help greater West Rose are never affected by their monarchand that they don’t care that social trends do not apply to the rabble or the common folk even though that was a huge chunk of the Kings Landing plot for seasons six that yes the machinations of the powerful do have effectand politically savvy nobles like Marjorie Tyrell have sound methodsand this development in later seasons especially with Circe kill me because what set game of thrones apart for the first few seasons was how it was so conscious of the house that intrigues a magical or otherwise have realistic consequences that affect not only the lives of the major characters but also the culture of the world itself like in season seven during the latrine attack dinners recklessly burns all that food from the reach that surely should have some consequences right may be set up a touch of the old starvation but like the destruction of the set they wrote a situation that should have had consequences but didn’t that the existence of a gun create a situation where it makes perfect sense not only for the people of West rest to reject an heiress for her own sense of entitlement to make her descent into power up session makes sense only based on the situation but also based on the character that we know unfortunately that is not the situation at the Chapel Road facility with the nearest nurse came to power effectively from nothing not only because of an important nameand some dragons but because people believed in her once so it was like the service provider leaving with whom I know a lot of people problematic writing or no sacrifice a lot because they believed what she believed this isand then she went some more crimesand you didn’t even see it coming because she pretty don’t you feel stupid

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limpblotter · 7 years

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23/Jamilton

(Part 1, @midnigtartist I literally just finished it now LOL) “Madisonyou can’t be sick this is an incredibly important dinner party, I can’t show upalone!–Yes…yes a fever is bad…yes…I am aware that as my best friend youare not obligated to do everything me. Yes-Yes I know…fine…feel better.Tell Monroe I said hi.” Thomas closed his phone and placed it faced down on thetable. This was a huge business party, one that Thomas was hosting and he couldnot go without a ‘date’. James has been a constant choice, a best friend. WithJames by his side Thomas could weather any setting with his spiking socialanxiety. Now he was Madison-less…it was time to make up some excuse toWashington that the dinner was a no go. The day of… “Oh sweet tender lordgive me strength.”

Therewas a cackle beside Thomas’s desk, “Religion in the workplace? I didn’t youknow were a man who was so devote.” Alexander, the intern and Washington’sfavorite, stood there with his tenth cup of coffee.

“Don’tcome to me about devotion, the only devotion you’ve ever displayed is yourconstant pilgrimage to the coffee machine in the lounge, which you always leavedirty.”

“Do not”

“Hamilton–”Thomas sighed holding his head in his hands, “I don’t have time for thisbullshit right now.” His mind was throbbing, he did not want to disappoint onon his dinner but there was no way he could do it. Just the thought of beingalone in a sea of people who were respected and looking to Jefferson forhosting was enough to make him run home. “I have to cancel some plans.”

“Planslike Washington’s ritzy business mixer? You canceling that, aren’t you thehost?” Alex sounded almost in disbelief. Why wouldn’t he? He, like so manyothers, only knew Jefferson skin deep. They could never understand why therich, handsome, well-to-do Thomas Jefferson would ever be anxious around otherrich men. They wouldn’t understand all of his words were practiced and welledited for hours, which his opinions were backed with physical agree-ers. Outof all of them, Alex would know less.

Thomascouldn’t help the fire Alexander placed in his stomach when they started theirbanter. At first it was simply him barking back insults. Then came the fastarguments, the toe to toe throwing of wits and intelligence. It was a daily fixnow, a show boating of IQ. It was few moments he stood his own comfortably(most of the time). “Madison is out, which means I’ll be hosting alone. I’m notup for juggling more than I can handle” He spoke coolly between white lies and half-truthshoping Alexander would not pry.

“Youknow, I’ve been told I’m the life of a party.” Why was Thomas surprised that Alex wanted to do this? He shouldn’t be. Thegreedy gremlin wanted to get his paws on this party. In a moment of what Thomaswould call insanity, he considered it. Hamilton would walk in and beoverwhelmed. He was just an intern, and from what Thomas knew he wasn’t at allpart of this circle. Yes watching Hamilton stumble and flop, yes that would bedelightful. Put him in his place, toss him into the deep end and watch himdrown among the sharks. “If you can find a suit and a ride, sure justpretend to be my date” Thomas teased more in love with the idea of his failure than anything else.

“Thomasyou are aware that if Hamilton ruins this party having been invited by you,this will be on you when it all goes to shit.” James coughed over the Skypecall as Thomas went through his entire wardrobe.

Fuck. Jameswas right but it was far too late to call it off again. Thomas was filled withthe same dread as before. Not only did he have to tread around conversations onhis own, he now had to worry about Hamilton not ruining the entire party by…beinghim damn self. The skype call with James was nothing but Thomas desperatelybegging the fever ridden man to come to the party. With no avail, Monroeentered the room and with the largest smile imaginable he HUNG UP on Thomas.

Thedinner party was set at a penthouse space. Floor to ceiling windows that lookedout at the New York City skyline, chandeliers projected hundreds of thousandsof soft, glowy crystals. The old farts walked in like peacocks, sporting theirstatus and money on their suits. All potential interests to George if Thomascould make an impression, any impression would have been nice. Thomas sportedhis finest Italian suit, purple bowtie he bought in Paris years ago. His hairfluffed up, hopefully enough to make him look less approachable. His mask, on,snarky, snobbish and hopefully looking as though he was not up for just anyconversation.

Therewas a sweat pooling at the back of Thomas’s neck. Each time the music changed,his heart raced. Did he have to dance? No someone was looking at him was that apossible conversation? What would he say? What small talk was most friendly butalso most direct to end the chatter soon? Thomas downed his third drink doingnothing for the heat rising to his head giving him a dizzy spell when the musicdipped. Strange, the party was at full swing, servers were dealing food why thedip?

In thatbrief moment, Thomas heard very clearly the slimy cackle that belonged toAlexander. He knew it anywhere, it was smug and sultry. He whipped his head sofast his mind was now doing full 360s in his skull. He immediately startedmaking his way to Alexander; he had to stop him from making an utter ass of himselflike he usually did. Thomas could only handle one emotional mess at a time.

“…then Itold him, Jay, 9 documents is not going to cut it. Madison was sick and managedto get 29 to me. I mean I don’t expect everyone to have that certain éthique detravail comme moi” Alex got a crowd of tight belted old men to chuckle. Thomasblinked, not because of his lack luster accent when using French. But…hecleaned up nicer than he imagined. The suit was a dark green with black trim, athin black tie down the middle. He had his hair that looked like a greasy mopmost days, pulled back into a youthful but stylish bun at the back of his neck.“Ah Thomas” Alex beamed up at the dumbfounded Jefferson. “I was just about totell them about your merger last week.”

“M-My …merger?”He lost his ability to think momentarily as he struggled to make sense of hisreality.

“Fellas,I’ll tell you when I said I fought him on this deal I really did. Somehow hejust managed to hit it out of the park out of all the odds against –“

Thomasquickly found his footing, “You were the odds against it, importing commercedoes nothing for us. American materials is what we should be using.” Hegrumbled back, the fire slowly being poked as if they were in the office…he wasannoyed but not…anxious, not entirely when the flames of banter and rivalry cloudedhis mind.

“Thatmight be great for the economy but we’re talking about a 15th of theprice coming from half way around the world” Alex shrugged stepping up to theplate with easy as he motioned for a server to pass around the wine like he washosting this dinner. How dare he?

“Ah, yesbecause quality control overseas is so easy. You know how many good industrieswe have here?”

“Youknow how much American industries cut corners? There is a reason nearly no onetrades with us.” Alex shot back.

“Thereason is pricing and a couple of bad deals but I have faith in an Americanbased future.” Thomas sneered as a server came by with full glasses of wine. Hewatched Hamilton pluck two and hand one to Thomas with a smile that was free ofhis usual cocky smirk or coy attitude.

“And Irespect that, which is why…I told Washington it wasn’t half bad seeing as longas we source it from certain places.” Alex took a long sip of his drink. “Honestly,the man is a genius playing for the wrong team.” Alex’s eyes slid up to Thomas,whose face was unmistakably shocked. Of course he meant it EXACTLY how Thomasthought it. “Real shame, gentleman but I think Thomas has more people to makerounds with. Don’t be strangers, make sure you take a business card on the wayout, try the wine it is divine.” Alex turned placing a hand on Thomas’s arm,leading him away.

“What…wasthat?”

“That ishow you do business, Jefferson.” He turned Thomas around to a new crowd. Thefire that masked his anxiousness and fanned his face with a flush now subsided.“Look alive, Thomas.”

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portectorisms-a · 7 years

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Okay but, in all realness, the Ark had a radio, we saw Jaha use it before he fell to space, right? Which is basically what Clarke had been trying to contact for the last 2,199 days, right? Imagine Bellamy going into the control room every day since the first day they arrived on the Ark using that radio and trying, knowing that it’s probably useless and stupid, but still trying, every day to radio Clarke and Octavia on a bent ray of hope that somehow, some way, they’d get his messages and they’d connect. Just: (They’re under the cut cause this shit go long as fuck.)

It’s day 9 since we’ve first arrived back on the Ark. Things have been rocky, to say the least. Everything’s stored and rations are working. Murphy could make me puke with the love between him and Emori. -pauses for a small chuckle- Though, it’s showed me that people can change and that sometimes all it takes is a person to bring that out in them. It’s day 20 and I think I’ve found some old stuff I thought I’d never see again. Old ration tokens mom had stashed that I had stolen years ago. An old red ribbon that I gave you on your sixth birthday. I found some of our old clothing and it’s weird to wear them again. I even found some of Clarke’s old things. Stuff her parents left behind too. Man, I forgot how much I loved movies and my mythology books. It’s officially day 30 and I think I’m going crazy. Raven thinks it’s strange that i come in here every day to talk to a radio that might not even have signal to the ground but it’s my way of staying sane. -a laugh- Guess it’s also my way of keeping my hope alive that you’re down there. That you’re surviving and living. That you’ve made it this far. I have to remember that. We’ve hit day 50 and I know I’m going crazy. In ten days it’ll be 100 and I won’t know what to do anymore. The plants are thriving and we’ve mixed them in with our rations. Monty and Harper discovered more things we had all thought were lost. Emori is still excited about being in space. I don’t think that’ll wear off. At least someone can find happiness in these walls still. To me, they hold memories. Some that I don’t want to remember. Day 70. What am I still doing? Maybe Raven’s right. I should stop. Maybe this is my last transmission. Please be alive still. Please still be leading. Please...wait for me. We’ll meet again soon. Day 90. I guess my last wasn’t that at all. I can’t stay away and probably for sanity’s sake. Each breath has gotten a little lighter. Space is still never changing but the stars are still bright. They remind me of you. Though, I still don’t know what to wish for when I see one shooting by. Maybe I should wish for you. Maybe I should wish to stop this. Maybe this is my new normal. Day 110. We’re back again. We’ve officially reached 100 days. Things are great. A lot better than I originally thought they would be. Emori and Echo have been a huge help, surprisingly. Every morning though, you can still catch them staring out the windows down to Earth. Hell, I still stare down to Earth. I don’t know why. Do I miss it? I never thought I would. Do I miss you? Every day that I’m here. Every moment that I’m awake. Day 130. This might be short. I’m still waiting for the days to become easier. I’m still waiting for the pain to pass but it hasn’t come yet. Lead with your head, I know but my head has been somewhere else and my heart only wants to give up. I’m sorry. Day 150. We’re half way to 200 days of being apart. I don’t think I’ve ever been away from you for this long, O. I miss you, more than anything. I love you. I always will. I know you’re being a great leader, far better than I could ever be. You make me so proud, even when I’m not there to see. I know you’re doing good. I have faith in you. I love you and I’m sorry I never said that every day that we were together. I’m sorry for my mistakes. We’ll meet again, I promise. Day 170. Why do I still try on this damn thing? Day 190. How many more? How long is left? I lose track so easily. It took time, getting used to space again. I think we’re finally adjusted. Still strange without the sun though. I don’t think that’ll ever change. It’s nice to have my old bed back, even if I still struggle to sleep. Day 210. Two hundred and ten. That’s how many days it’s been since the death wave. I’m breaking. I can’t do this anymore. I really am going crazy. I’m losing hope again. I need you. I need you by my side again. I told Echo before we left that this would test us, that we’d go through things we might not want to face her. I’m there. I’m at that time. I’m so sorry I failed you. Day 230 -sent Raven that day for transmission- Day 250. Sorry I missed last time. We’re almost to three hundred and we’re all still alive. I used my head the day we left. I listened to what it said. Emori asked to wait longer and even Raven asked if I was okay with. I had to be. You would have done the same thing if it was me. I told you to hurry. I should’ve made you promised. Day 270. I forgot to tell you, I watched the doors close that day when we were in the rocket. I watched them until I had to go inside. Everything inside me wanted you to burst through the doors and get here but you never came and now I’m stuck thinking you’re dead. Damnit, Clarke. We lead together and now I feel alone. Day 280. I quit. These are useless. Day 300. We’re almost to a year. We can come home soon. It’s strange saying that. The Ark was only my home until you were born, O but Earth has better memories. Day 310. I hope you’re still alive. Day 330. I’m not sure who I’m talking to anymore. Maybe it’s just space. Maybe the stars are all that can hear this transmission. Hold on to hope. That’s all we have left. Day 365. It’s officially been a year since we’ve arrived. A year since I’ve last seen you and every day, well, I wish I could say every day gets a little easier, but it doesn’t. Every day that same pain lingers. Every day, I wake up and am reminded that you’re not here beside me. I feel like I’m talking to myself and maybe I am. Maybe this is my way of holding on to your memories. Of telling myself there’s still hope. Sorry I missed the last transmission. Day 395. These have spaced out. i should apologize but most days I find myself in this room, sitting in the chair and watching the monitors. I watch the radio too. I try to will you to speak back. I’m waiting. Day 400. Four hundred days. Do I need to say more? We’ve only lasted a year. How am I going to survive four more? Day 455. I’m still waiting. Day 490. I’ve worked on myself every single day that we’ve been here. It’s been a change. I’m not sure if it’s good yet. Every day I have to remind myself that war isn’t looming in the horizon. I’ve had to face my demons, some that I never thought I’d see again. Some that I’d rather forget. It’s good though. Closure still hasn’t been found for me yet, but I think you’d be proud. I think you’d say it’s a step in the right direction. Day 500. The days have yet to get easier and maybe they never will. Maybe this pain will never leave me. Slay your demons, right? What if they’re stronger than you? Day 550. How long has it been? The days mash together now. I sparred with Murphy today. It was a weird feeling but I think we’re alright now. He’s not who had been in the beginning, even if I wanna punch that cocky smile sometimes. You made the right choice in letting him back in, Clarke. Day 595. We’re still talking. Space and I. I’m pretty sure that’s all that listening. Raven said she heard something from the radio but the time we got to it, there was nothing. If I missed you, keep trying. Day 600. Six hundred days on the ring. I never thought I’d come back to these walls again, now I wonder if I’ll ever leave them. God, I hope so. Day 660. These are getting shorter and spaced out longer. I’m sorry. I miss your voice. I miss your hugs. I miss hearing you tell me that I’m not a monster. Day 695. Do I keep going or just stop? I still hope you can hear me. Day 700. We’re reached seven hundred days. I’m still searching though. For what? I don’t think I know. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe how to live with myself without fighting a battle or saving the world. Maybe a way to remember how to live without you. I don’t know anymore. Day 770. I’ve stared out of these windows for so long. I never realized how large the Ark was in comparison to just the main Ring. I watched the Earth’s surface go from dark clouds and red to brown and blue skies once more. Is it safe? Can we come home yet? Has it been 5 years? Monty says no. We still have time. Day 790. Time. Everything is time. Time takes place between these comms. Time takes place each day, each second. Time happens in space and on Earth. Time is dealt in survival and just living. I don’t know how to just live anymore. Will I ever? Will we know how to live again on Earth? Maybe I’m thinking too damn much. Day 800. Eight hundred days. I trashed my loft yesterday. I cried all night. I found an old picture of us, O. You, mom and I. We were happy. We were smiling. I miss your smile. I miss seeing you happy. I can’t let you become a memory but I can’t get down there to help you yet. Just hang on. Hang on just a little longer. Day 880. I needed time. I’m sorry. We’re almost to nine hundred days. Day 900. What can I say anymore? Day 990. Please still out there. Please still have hope. I’m still alive. We’re still breathing. We’re still living. Day 1,000. Welcome to day one thousand. According to Monty, we’ve only got a couple hundred days left until it’s been five years. What can I say? I’ve had a few birthdays. It’s nice that the others have remembered them. We drank until we passed out. It was a nice way to forget. Never thought I’d get older again on the Ark. It’s not the same. It will never be the same. Day 1,100. I found that blue mask I gave you, O. Remember it? Probably has some bad memories attached but I like to think of your smile that day. The way you looked at me the first time you saw the Earth. I bet you never thought you’d be living on it. That you’d become such a great leader. I love you. Day 1,200. I had a dream we went back. I saw how much the world had changed. Everything was dead. There was nothing. No trees, no oceans. I know differently. I can see the Earth slowly coming back. Time. I wish I could shoot that word with a bullet. Day 1,300. Today I read about Promethus. I read all the stories that he was in. I read each line twice. You are still Promethus, O. You have this and even if people are struggling to believe in you right now, just remember that your big brother up in space does. I will always believe in you. Day 1,400. We have eight hundred and twenty-five days left. I’ve done so much. I’ve lied awake at night for weeks, unable to sleep. I lost myself and I think I’m finally finding myself again. I feel broken, but that hasn’t changed since we left Earth. Every day is suppose to get a little easier, right? Then why am I still waiting? Day 1,450. Murphy called this a diary. I had half the mind to punch him in the jaw but maybe it’s gotten to that point. It’s been almost five years and we’ve heard nothing from the ground. The others seem happier now though. Like they’ve all realized it’s okay. It’s like they’re able to live again. Even Echo has been smiling more. I guess they’re just waiting on me. The leader has to be happy, right? Who am I kidding. Day 1,500. I cried last night. I’m still crying today. I had to make it here without being caught. We don’t ration anymore. Our food supply has gotten large. There were days some of us didn’t want to eat. There were days when all we could think about was what happened to us on Earth. I still miss those days. I wish I had the chance to go back to the dropship and give our people one last goodbye. I wish I saw Arkadia one last time. Day 1,550. I realized the other day, after talking to Echo, that we need to say how we feel in the moment or else it’ll be too late. She’s right. To this day, I still regret not saying things. I regret not telling you I love you every day, O. I regret not going to that tower with you, Clarke. I should’ve gone. I should’ve been the one who got left behind. I’ve done so much wrong that I don’t remember what it’s like to not make those choices, even almost five years later. Day 1,600. A few months left. Raven said that soon we should start prepping again to leave. This time she doesn’t want to be rushed with an hour to do everything. I can’t blame her. I’m going stir crazy. I miss the smell of the Earth. I miss the rain. I miss the wind. I miss all of it. Day 1,700. I think I just do this now to have an outlet for my emotions. I think I do it cause it’s a stupid way to hold on to hope. Day 1,750. We’re in the home stretch. It’s almost time to go home. I hope you’re waiting. I’ll see you soon. Day 1,800. Monty said we’ve got twenty-five days left. Twenty-five days left to finish prepping. Twenty-five days left to make sure we’ll survive that fall once again. I never thought I’d feel that again. Then again, I never thought I’d be back here again. I’ll see you soon. - 25 days left Day 1,850. Twenty-five days. Five years and twenty-five days and we haven’t left the Ring. Raven’s working to figure out the problem. She’s getting restless. I think we all are. We all miss the ground, especially Echo. We can see from here that patches are returning. The Earth doesn’t look dead. Day 1,900. How many days have past since we were suppose to leave? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there when you came out of the bunker. I should’ve been there when you took your first breath of fresh air like I was when the dropship fell. I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re doing well. We will meet again. Day 2,000. Two thousand days. I’m back to losing my mind. The force of losing Clarke hit me all over again. I tried....I tired to make myself believe that she was alive. I tried....to make myself think that there was some stupid amount of hope that show found shelter, that she the night blood worked for her. I...I failed her that day. I let her die. I left without her. I should’ve stayed behind. I should’ve waited. Day 2,100. Jaha once asked me ‘how many people do you need to save before you start forgiving yourself?’ I never answered. I never said anything because at the time I didn’t have that number. I didn’t have an answer for him. I was the cause of so many deaths. I still carry that guilt but today I realized something, I only needed to save two people before I could forgive myself. I only needed to save you, O.You and Clarke. I failed one of you. Day 2,150. Two thousand one hundred and fifty days. Raven says we need more fuel. Monty’s working on gathering what he can to supply it. I still look out the windows and feel my heart break. I know now that I might not ever be able to forgive myself for what I’ve done but I’ve also learned that that’s okay. I know hat you forgave me. I know that she forgave me. Day 2,160. Maybe there’s still hope. Day 2,170. May we meet again, O. Day 2,199. It’s been exactly six years and seven days since we’ve first arrived at the Ring. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come home but today we’re leaving. Today we’re going back to Earth and I hope you’re there waiting, O. I hope you’re ready for me to never let you go again. And Clarke, if you did survive, if you are out there, somewhere, listening to this comm or even just looking up at the blue sky, I want you to know I’m sorry I didn’t wait. I’m sorry I didn’t save you. I miss you, Clarke. I’ll be there soon.

#Out Of Whatever We Want (OOC)#the 100 spoilers #i'm stuck inside a nightmare that someone else imagined. (headcanon)#i'll repost this again later without the spoiler tag.#have some pain. =]

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

I Found

Chapter 4

Warnings: profanity

This is also being posted on Ao3 and I will post a link when it is!

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @alievans007 @hemmyworthy

He watches them out of the corner of his eye; the baby in the middle of the blanket enjoying some 'tummy time', clad in a white swimsuit dotted with bright rainbow fish, a tiny sunhat perched a top of her head. His wife in that simple yet sexy black one piece bathing suit, an undearmour ball cap she'd snagged from his side of the room pulled low on her forehead, her legs folded crisscrossed and her eyes riveted on the book in her lap.

He reaches out and runs his fingers along his arm, and she casts a glance in his direction. Softly smiling as she entwines her fingers with his and places their joined hands on her thigh.

He sighs. “I know.”

“That's Dhaka's problem to worry about. Not ours.”

“It won't be long until it's on our doorstep. Nik will call soon. Don't be surprised.”

“She can call all the fuck she wants. There's nothing I can do to help. Best I can do is train some guys and give out advice and come up with plans. That's where I'm at these days.”

“You're a hundred times better than you were a year ago. And she knows that. She'll expect more from you.”

“Let her. I know my limits. I'm not the man I was a year ago. You think I'm close to it. I'm not. You have too much faith in me.”

“Well...” she sighs. “...someone has to have faith in you.”

And there it is. The honest to goodness truth. She's not saying it to be hurtful. He knows that. She's saying it because he needs to hear it.

“Why are we even talking about this?” Tyler inquires, trying not to let the aggravation seep from his voice.

“Just making conversation.”

She drags her teeth against her bottom lip. The smile is gone now. Those eyes have darkened.

“What's going on?” he presses. “You're usually the one asking me that but now it's my turn. What's wrong?”

“Ovi messaged me,” her hand tightens around his. She doesn't look at him. “While you were at the gym this morning.”

Usually he's the one that Ovi is contacting. Texts. Emails. Facetime. She and the kid are tight, but nowhere near as tight as he is with Tyler. They lived thousands of miles away but they kept the bond alive. Ovi had followed every step of his medical journey and his rehab and his struggle to get back on his feet. He'd come to their wedding. Met their daughter through a live feed. He even liked to call himself 'Uncle Ovi'. And Tyler had taken him under his wing once again. This time providing him with the guidance and the nurturing that only a father can do for their teenage soon And he was the closest thing that kid had to a father.