#i came into the fandom late so i missed most of the craze | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

onlyhereforangst · 3 years

Text

2020 IN WRITING

tagged by @indestinatus 💕

tagging whoever wants to go thru this journey with me & see their accomplishments in this terrible terrible year!

1. List of works published this year:

Oh god there’s a lot, like 70 total in just 2020. I’ll try to categorize them so this doesn’t get too long 😅but here’s a cut for aesthetic on your dash.

Sequels/Partner Fics: Risk It All (for @hellokaelyn), Finally Home (to Come Back), They Always Do & Could She?, Lucky Day & Completely Yours, Fiery Trance (Two Can Play series), Obsessed (Particular Taste), Soul (to Ignited)

Smut: My Turn (sequel to My Pleasure), Worth It, Maybe We Should, Make it a Double (also a fic request), Shall We (AU)

Fic Requests: Coffee Run, Hold Still, Typical, Deal, Needed It, I’m Home, For Science, Cry Me A River, From Your Dreams (AU), Crystal Clear, Tempt Me, Your Fault, Prove It, Silent Proclamation, A Hundred Suns (angst smut), Duly Noted

Stand Alones: No More, Never Let Her Go, Life is Fragile, Pandemics & Peach Drinks, To Need and Be Needed, Never Let Go, Coming Home, Priceless, Behind The Mask, Need a Hand?

Angst: My Daisy, Status Quo, Can I Stay, I Refuse, Deal

Series/Multi-chaptered: Back Off (Better Apart, Missed The Mark, Change Her Mind, But You Do, Layered Love), Electrified (Don’t Stop (Senorita)), Here By Faith, Forgive & Forget, Angstober ‘20 (Never Has & Never Will, Only In My Head, Long, Long Gone, Do Something, Take Care, Waiting to Burn, Survive the Hell, Find Her, Never Ended Well, At All Costs, One Thing Right, Stay Away, Echoed Back, Smart Man, Not Interested, Flake Again, Release, Slipping Away)

2. Work you are most proud of (and why):

Here By Faith mainly because of the topic. Pregnancy & Infant loss has been such a taboo topic for so long and something I have personal experience with so writing this was very therapeutic.

3. Work you are least proud of (and why):

Shall We and only because I truly wanted way more plot in this and it turned out to be essentially just straight smut with a tiny bit of plot. But it is what it is 🤷🏻‍♀️

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

Ok I had 70 fics to choose from not breaking down chapters so I’m sure I’m missing something, BUT I do love - omg typing this out I realized it’s from a fic in 2019 so I can’t use iiiiiit 😩 ok so here’s a couple excerpts. I loved typing out this stream of conscious partner fics (They Always Do & Could She?):

They Always Do:

Yet this time, this time she didn’t have the chance to rebuild. Like a Trojan horse, he waltzed right up to her and slowly dismantled her defense. Joke by joke, smirk by smirk—Nick took each brick down with care. The worst part? It was so subtle, so thoughtfully done, she didn’t even notice it was happening. Didn’t see her chest being pried open, beating heart on display for him to see, and take. Never realized her greatest defenses were missing until it was too late.

That love- precious, fragile, delicate love- had managed to grow again. In her desolate, cold heart, Nick managed to bring to life an emotion she had long given up on. An emotion she was too afraid to ever feel again. Because with it came agony.

They leave, and you’re abandoned- picking up the pieces of a shattered heart.

When you love, you lose. Always.

Could She?:

But-

Even if that was love, even if he loved Ellie with his whole heart, his entire being. Was that enough? Was Nick enough? Was he deserving?

A resounding no clanged around his skull like a church bell in a Southern town on Sunday morning. He wanted to silence it, stop the shrill metal sound that started any time he pictured forever. Any time he truly thought he might deserve to love, even after all he’d done. After all the unimaginable things he’d done, the horrors he’d seen, the pain he’d caused. That bell sounded, loud and clear.

How did he deserve love when he couldn’t bear to love himself?

[...]

Could she love him despite all his misgivings? Could she love him even when he didn’t love himself? Could she love him when there was a risk he’d be taken from her too soon?

Could she?

Please love me.

But please be sure.

There’s been a couple of other inner monologues that I have absolutely loved (I like to think it’s semi my speciality? But maybe that’s super arrogant of myself?) but that’s a different post for another time.

5. Share or describe a favorite review you received:

I said it recently but I *love* when people pick out specific line(s) from my fic and choose to comment on those. More often than not it’s a line I was so proud of either prose-wise or foreshadowing-wise or whatever and I get literally giddy with excitement that someone not only noticed it but also loved it enough to comment on it 🥰but truly any kind of comment is dopamine-inducing 😉

6. A time when writing was really, really hard:

As some people may have noticed (& maybe not because I did still semi-run the other main ellick blog despite it) I was somewhat absent for most of the summer/fall. I struggled for the first time in my life with mental health issues, borderline depression after being in a shit work environment, an essential worker with a company that claimed to “care” about us, a community that I once loved but showed their true colors in the midst of the pandemic & election, add in a rough pregnancy & it was a recipe for disaster. I didn’t want to even move from the couch most days let alone write.

7. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you:

I had a lot of fun writing short excerpts from different characters’ perspectives (Jimmy, Kasie, McGee & Gibbs) in my Angstober series & honestly wouldn’t mind doing that again!

8. How did you grow as a writer this year:

Honestly not sure, I think I’ve just generally grown as a writer - better descriptions & descriptors, better dialogue, better plots. But that could all be me seeing things 😂

9. How do you hope to grow next year:

I’d love to look into writing more seriously. My husband is convinced I could write an episode script or a novel, so I may look into trying my hand at that (even though I feel I’d be god-awful at it 😅)

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

Hmmmm I always appreciate the support I’ve gotten from the ellick fandom despite it being rough this year for us, wonderful people like @erinchristmaselvis, @thekeyboardninja, @hellokaelyn & @wanna-be-bold are always there to either hear me vent or cheer me on ☺️

11. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year:

Haaaaah yes. Lots of it (but I bet you can’t tell because I only add mini snippets so have fun finding those easter eggs 😏)

12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

Always, always, always write for YOU. Not for anyone else, the kudos, hits, comments, none of it. Write for YOU. And I say this as a reminder to myself as well, it’s so hard to get bogged down in that dopamine-induced craze we search for in recognition but it’s so important to not externally validate yourself rather internally validate yourself on baby steps of growth & accomplishment.

13. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

LOL how about all my WIPs? All of those stories I started forever ago that people call me out on not finishing months later when I swear they’ve forgotten about them 😬

14. If you could recommend only one work from yourself published this year:

Hmmmm lemme pick one from each category because I’m indecisive 😉

Sequel/Partner Fics: Lucky Day & Completely Yours (the aaaaangst)

Smut: a tie between Maybe We Should & Make it a Double

Fic Request: A Hundred Suns (because I love me some angst smut)

Stand Alones: Pandemics & Peach Drinks (hahahaha because this was in an Insider news article at the start of the pandemic hahaha so on brand #2020)

Angst: My Daisy (I looooooove this one, but also all of the angst category lol)

Series/Multi-chaptered: literally not one of these is finished and they’re all heavy angst so take your pick 😂

15. Year word count: 103,050 in 2020 which seems like so little 😅

Here’s to 2021 being the year I finish WIPs! she says knowing she’s lying

#about me #2020 in writing #fuuuuuuun #all the writing all the angst all the smut #what's new though #ellick #ncis

17 notes · View notes

ramblings-of-a-mad-cat · 3 years

Note

How long have you been in the HPHM fandom for?

I distinctly remember when I became aware of HPHM. It was a few months after the game was released. I was over at a friend's house, and she was playing it. So another friend looked it up on their phone and downloaded it to play, but when I tried to download it as well, I found that my phone was actually too old to run the game. So I just watched my friend play through the first chapter and I remember simply adoring Rowan even then. It wasn't until a couple of months later in late summer when I got a new phone that I remembered I could download HPHM (As well as Pokemon Go, as a side note. I missed the 2016 summer craze because I was behind on the tech, alas.)

I don't know when exactly I became active in the fandom, but I remember that it occurred to me to follow the tags on Tumblr. At which point I came across Charlie Weasley stan posts. So, so many of them. There was a time when the fandom was mighty thirsty for him and he was the most coveted character to date - this was back when we didn't know if dating was ever going to be a thing. The next thing I found were MissNightOwl's posts, and they hooked me. As did Akemi Stormborn's videos when I found them a bit later. That said, I didn't really start producing content of my own until late 2019, since that was when I wrote my HPHM fanfic for fictober. It was also around that point that the Asks started to come in. The rest is history I suppose.

#Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery #About myself #Fandom life

4 notes · View notes

fanficfeeling · 4 years

Text

Lovely Part 2 - Jaskier x Reader

A/N: Hey everyone! Wow! Part 1 received far more positive feedback than I thought it would! I'm super grateful to everyone who read part one, or left a comment, or was just very encouraging, you've really helped re-spark my love for writing <3 Boy, this took way too long to finish, but I just really wanted to make sure it held up the first part at least a little! I hope you enjoy this part as well, and I'm planning on writing at least one more part to this after this, so let me know if your interested in that/how much more of this story you're interested in seeing! Either way I'm planning on continuing to write for The Witcher, and on starting to post for other fandoms (of which I'll be posting a list soon!) so if you like my work please follow or just keep an eye out! Love you guys.

Summary: 3 times Jaskier has done his best to distract Y/N from the less enjoyable parts of her life.

Part 1

Warnings: Brief language warning.

Tagged: @failure-of-the-day (I might be assuming but I thought you might like to be tagged!) @ultracolorfulnerdcollection @blue-hoodies-for-life @athenaisalpha

Y/N found out rather quickly that spending time with Jaskier is a surefire way to bring a smile to her face. Her job can be depressing, Geralt is often silent at the most inopportune times, and travelling for such long distances can be boring, but Jaskier is none of those things, and often goes out of his way to grab her attention from that which brings down her mood.

For instance, moments like this one: Y/N has returned to this small town's inn after helping the townspeople for the day, feeling like the weight of the world is on her shoulders after the day she's had. Geralt hasn't returned from his monster slaying yet, so she seeks out Jaskier for company.

When she finds him in his room, he's laying on his bed, writing something down on a piece of paper haphazardly, using his propped-up knee as a work surface. As impractical as the position seems, he looks comfortable: laid back, his normal, fancier wear tossed aside for a simple white shirt and comfortable trousers, and a smile upon his face. It take Y/N all of a second to decide that the look does him great justice.

"Jaskier." Y/N starts, making him aware of her presence.

He looks up, briefly startled, but when his eyes come to rest on her, his smile widens, "Hello, Y/N."

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm back in for the evening."

"I'm glad! It was getting boring around here with no company. Please, come in, sit down." Y/N expects him to gesture to the chair against the wall in invitation, but he simply moves his feet and makes room on his bed for her. She means to be more proper about coming into his space, but as she approaches, she finds that she ends up throwing herself down onto the bed, her exhaustion weighing down her bones.

This seems to be the first time Jaskier notices her mood is off, "Hey, everything alright?"

Y/N looks at him sheepishly, "Just a long day is all. How was yours?"

Taking the hint that she wasn't up for talking about it, Jaskier indulges her, "I started writing a new song today, and I have to admit, it's taken up pretty much all of my time. It's-"

It's all Y/N can do to stay focused on his words for that long, as images of ill people, broken homes, and crying children fill her mind. This town is lucky to have an inn still standing, considering all the havoc beasts nearby have caused. Why must monsters even have to exist like this at all? Why must innocent people suffer for mindless, bloodthirsty crazes? Why does Y/N dedicate herself to cleaning up messes that aren't even hers?

"Y/N?" She looks up at Jaskier at the sound of his persistent voice, and it isn't until she attempts to speak that she realizes she's begun crying. She also finds that she can't find anything to say to him to make an excuse for her state.

He doesn't question any further though, and swiftly gives her a soft smile, before setting aside his papers and opening his arms, beckoning her towards him.

She doesn't even think about it as she crawls towards him and re-positions herself so that he can envelop her in a hug, as she lays her head against his chest. Just being there quickly quiets the tears, but Jaskier doesn't let go, and for that Y/N is grateful.

They sit in silence as Y/N calms herself, and eventually Jaskier leans down a little bit to kiss her forehead and whisper, "Whatever you've been through, please just remember that I'm here for you and that your soul is good, and deserves to be returned the help and goodness that you give."

Oh yeah, that's why she does it all. However hard it can be, it's the good she does that keeps her moving.

~~~

The next time Jaskier goes out of his way to lift Y/N's mood, Y/N and Geralt are sitting at a table in another tavern, completely silent. Normally Y/N has no issues with respecting their silence, she often enjoys it, but her work involved a lot of repairs today, and she barely had any human connection at all throughout the day. She fidgets, doing her best not to disturb Geralt as he seems to contemplate something—she knows he has his own demons swimming around in his mind—but she worries that if she doesn't do something stimulating soon, she very well might burst.

Jaskier descends from the rooms above the tavern space, looking to begin his own work for the night as an entertainer. He had gotten permission from the owner of this establishment earlier in the day to perform in the space, and as it got on into the evening, he knew that now was his prime time. He had cleaned himself up, decided on his song list, and was ready to go.

As he looked around the tavern sizing up his audience, his eyes came to rest upon his travelling companions. Geralt seems lost in thought, and Y/N... Y/N seems downright bored. Knowing that she's been having a rough go of it lately with her work, Jaskier quickly decides that he cannot let this stand.

He swiftly changes his course and makes his way towards their table, a plan only half formed in his mind, and when he stops in front of them he finds himself asking, "Y/N, could I ask a favor of you?"

She looks at him, curiosity in her eyes and a soft smile on her mouth—a goddess in the flesh, he thinks—and he continues, "I have some songs that I was planning on playing tonight, and I would like to see how they fare as duets. Would you join me?"

Jaskier doesn't know by what miracle she says yes, and neither does she, really, but soon the two fall into a groove that brings the attention, and coin, of the patrons. They stumble through the first few songs, rousing some laughs from their audience, until they get to "Toss A Coin To Your Witcher", and the audience joins in singing with them. The pair puts on a show as they sing and they dance, and the audience adores it.

After a rendition (or several) of Jaskier's hit song, many of their audience members start to fall away, so the bard takes that as a hint to start slowing things down.

"Y/N, how would you feel about rounding this performance off by performing "Her Sweet Kiss" with me?"

Y/N's heart skips a beat. She's heard the way he sings that song, and the emotion he puts into it is always enough to bring her near to tears.

"I would be honored."

He starts the beginning off himself, and cues her when to come in. "So tell me love, tell me love, how is that just?" Jaskier never breaks eye contact with Y/N as they sing, and she utters no complaints as it feels like he bears his soul to her while gazing deeply into hers.

"I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting. If this is the path I must trudge, I'll welcome my sentence, give to you my penance, garroter, jury, and judge."

When Y/N had wished for human interaction, this was not what she had expected, but fuck her if it wasn't far better.

As the song comes to a close, Y/N still can't find it in her to look away from his eyes, but luckily for her, it seems that neither can he. The applause of the crowd goes unnoticed by both until the moment passes on its own.

"Thank you, for doing this with me, Y/N."

"Thank you for asking, Jaskier."

~~~

While traveling is, of course, a luxury, just the act of getting somewhere new isn't always the most enjoyable of activities. Travelling may be an integral part of Y/N's job, but knowing that is rarely enough to make her feel better about her soreness from riding her horse, or the boredom she feels as they slowly move along on empty side roads, past endless fields. Yet, this is ultimately a part of her job, so she grins and bears it for the satisfaction of helping people and the coin it brings.

Jaskier, in all his many observations of this captivating do-gooder, begins to notice that she rarely has a good time between locations. He notices that she has no way to occupy herself, besides just listening to him ramble, and he notices that she doesn't seem to plan on doing anything to remedy that situation. So, he resolves to do so himself.

"Y/N," He begins as he sits on her horse behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist. "How would you like to play a game?"

"A game? Why?"

"Because I'm terribly bored and would like to hear your lovely voice. Are you in?"

"Oh, uh, I suppose I am, yes."

"Okay then. I spy, with my little eye-" Her laughter that follows is enough to make Jaskier's heart light. Making her laugh always makes him just a little bit happier.

He hears Geralt groan next to them on Roach, and watches in amusement as he begins to trot further up ahead of them.

"What a grumpy, grumpy man. Alright, hush now, or you'll miss the object. Anyways, I spy, with my little eye, something very long and brown."

"Oh, oh, is it the tree trunks?"

"Very close but not quite. Something dusty."

"The road!"

"Ding ding ding! You've got it!" She laughs once more at his enthusiasm.

"My turn then! I spy, with my little eye, something... big and blue."

Jaskier pretends to think for a moment, and then feigns surprise as he exclaims, "The sky!"

He thinks her joyful laughter is stopping his heart by now, but he's certain he might fall off the horse when she says, "I could preserve this round for a little longer and say 'It was actually your eyes', but that might be a little obvious, huh?"

He rests his head on her shoulder and attempts to look at her face. "That gives me an idea. I spy, with my little eye, something lovely."

A blush breaks out across her face immediately, but she tries not to make assumptions. "Oh, uh... those flowers on the side of the road?"

"Not quite. A bit closer to me." She swears she can feel his arms tighten around her just a fraction.

"Then... is it the horse? You two seem to get along quite well." He chuckle is deep, and she can feel the motion against her back.

"I do love Cinnamon dearly, but you're still a bit off. Try again."

Y/N's breath hitches in her throat, and she glances to the side to look at him, finding him closer than she expected. "Lovely? Is it, uh... me, then?" His smile is enough to make her think her heart will soon burst out of her chest.

"Very good. You're excellent at this. Fancy another round?"

It takes her several minutes to calm down, but she gets into their game again, and sure enough, before either of them even know it, they've reached their destination. They both find themselves a little sad when they have to let go and get off of Cinnamon, but the feeling of being so close doesn't leave either of them for hours.

Yes, Y/N reflects, everything really does get better with him around.

Yeah, Jaskier thinks, I wouldn't trade a second with her for anything.

#Jaskier x reader #Jaskier #jaskier fanfiction #The witcher #part 2 #series #Lovely #mine #Geralt of Rivia #geralt #fluff #cute #fanfic #reader x jaskier

235 notes · View notes

kmseokjins · 5 years

Text

Twisted Tails (Chapter 1)

Fandom: BTS Pairing: BTS x Reader / (Future) Poly!OT7 x Reader / Hybrid!BTS x Human!Female!Reader Warnings: angst (Jimin is upset) Words: 5.5k words (GOOD LORD.)

Summary: When you meet with your later sister’s lawyer, you’re not expecting to suddenly own two hybrids. Of course, things end up being a tad more complicated than that once you get to the shelter. Upset Jimin inbound.

Hybrids: GermanShepherd!Namjoon, BirmanCat!Jimin, more to come later!

Notes: Well, looks like I’m jumping on the Hybrid!BTS train. For now, this is mostly Jimin and Namjoon centered, but the other boys will be introduced down the line (feedback depending). I hope I didn’t make Jimin too clingy or anything. I’m so excited yet incredibly nervous to post this fic tbh. I hope y’all like it! Depending on the feedback I get, we shall see if there’s future chapters on the horizon! ;) Special shoutout to @mygsii for help with this fic title! <3

Archive Of Our Own || Next Chapter

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

“Your sister left her hybrids to you.”

“Wha-? I’m-I’m sorry, what?”

“Her two hybrids. She left them to you.”

“There has to be a mistake, I...I don’t know how to take care of a hybrid.”

“Her Will states it so, there is no mistake.”

You’re downright flabbergasted. When you had received the call from some lawyer’s office last week about your late sister’s estate, you hadn’t been expecting this. On top of the fact that you’d been shocked to hear that your sister had a Will; she was only four years older than you, for Pete’s sake! Leave it to your sister to give you grey hairs from beyond the grave. She’d left everything to you, including her two hybrids.

You knew about hybrids, of course. One would have to be living under a rock to not heard anything about them before. It had been a wild craze for decades now: “Own your own Hybrid! Companionship, pets, and more!” It made your stomach queasy just thinking about it. You heard the horror stories about hybrids being forced to participate in underground fighting (more often than not, to the death), subjected to hard labor, or used as sex slaves. You literally shuddered, and not in a good way.

Hybrids were half human, exhibiting the physical traits of whatever species they were crossed with in the form of tails, ears, claws, and eyes. Usually hybrids displayed one or two of those traits, although it wasn’t uncommon for them to display all those traits. In addition, hybrids also displayed the instincts of said species, some more than others.

You were somewhat familiar with your sister’s hybrids; you had met Namjoon and Jimin several times. They were both sweet and docile, and despite the fact that you had never owned a hybrid before, you were certain you had lucked out with the two. At least you weren’t bringing home two hybrids that didn’t know you..

“Where are they?” You straightened from your thoughts as you realized you hadn’t seen the hybrids yet. You hadn’t thought to ask about them last week when you’d been asked questions by the police; you had been too upset, wallowing in the grief of losing your big sister. How could you have been so heartless in not inquiring about Namjoon and Jimin? They had surely been grieving just the same as you at the loss of your sister.

The lawyer sitting at the desk in front of you glanced up at you over his thinly rimmed glasses, eyebrows furrowing slightly before he relaxed when he seemed to know what you were questioning him about.

“They’re at the shelter downtown, the police too-,”

“What!?” You shot up from the chair you had been uncomfortably perched in, barely aware of the man jolting slightly at your sudden movement and your shout. They took them to the shelter? While most shelters weren’t bad, you could only imagine the stress Namjoon and Jimin were going through right now.

You were almost to the door when the lawyer stopped you, “Wait! You have to sign some things. I have documents and folders for you from your sister. Please, Miss L/N.”

Your shoulders slumped before you whirled around and hurried back to the desk, hoping this signing wouldn’t take long.

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

“It won’t take long, Miss. It’s only a few signatures and then you can be on your way.”

You grumbled sarcastically under your breath as you drove through downtown, fingers tapping impatiently on the wheel. What you thought would take ten minutes ended up taking twice that. The few documents and folders from your sister ended up being a box full. The said box, black and heavy, sat in the passenger seat of your SUV. The thin folder resting on top contained the papers for Namjoon and Jimin.

You wanted to look through the box, but you decided you could do that later after you got Namjoon and Jimin from the shelter. They didn’t need to be there any longer than they already were, it had been at least a week or so, according to the lawyer. God, what if someone had come in and adopted them!? Your sister would be rolling around in her grave if that were true. You’d seen how much she’d loved the two hybrids, if anything happened to them under your watch...she would come back to haunt your ass, you just knew it.

Your heart was fluttering in your chest as you pulled into the parking lot of the shelter and pulled into an empty parking spot, turning off your vehicle before taking a moment to survey the building. The parking lot had a few cars, which you assumed was mostly workers. The building was nice; a little too nice, if you really thought about it. The concrete walls were painted beige, the sign printed with the shelter name was big and neat, like it had just been put up to hang on the front of the building over the set of glass doors.

Taking a deep breath, you snag the folder on top of the box before sliding from your SUV and shutting the door, pressing the lock button as you made a beeline for the glass doors.

As soon as you stepped into the front lobby, you shivered slightly at the coolness. Someone apparently had the air cranked down. The lobby was a decent size with white walls, a few aesthetic paintings of flowers, and a row of chairs along one wall. The main desk was directly ahead, and you frowned at the sight of an empty chair. Clutching the folder in your hands, you approached and peered around.

“Hello?” You called out, wishing there was a bell or something you could ring. You jerked your attention towards the door behind the desk at several muffled shouts from behind it. Tilting your head curiously, you jerk back slightly when the door suddenly bursts open and a tall, blonde woman steps through.

“Oh! Hello!” She greets after a moment of silence, clearing her throat before she quickly takes a seat in the chair behind the desk. “I apologize if you’ve been waiting too long. Can I help you?” She flicks her dark eyes up to you expectantly for your answer.

“Oh, um, well,” You fumble to place the folder down on top of the desk as you also stumble for words, “I’m here to pick up two hybrids that the-,”

“You’re here for hybrids? Wonderful! Is there a certain species or gender you’re looking for? We have several prey hybrids and a few predator hybrids. We have deer, squirrels, wolves, cats, dogs…” She flips her hand around as she explains, “Most of our hybrids are males, but we have a few females if you would prefer them!”

You gape at her for several moments before you’re shaking your head, “No, no. The police brought in two hybrids last week, I think? Namjoon is a dog hybrid and Jimin is a cat hybrid. If I had known they were here sooner, I wouldn’t have let them stay so long…” You inch the folder towards her, “I have their papers right here.”

The woman tugs the folder from your grasp and flips it open, eyes scanning the documents within for a few moments before she glances up at you, “I know these two,” She offers you a look of sympathy, “They’ve had several interested parties, and they’re currently being visited by one of those parties now.”

“You can’t adopt them out, I have their papers and they belong to my sister-,” You choked on the words, clearing your throat, “I mean...I...they’re...they’re in my care now, and I have papers to prove it,” You gesture at the folder the woman still has clutched in her hands.

“We give owners 72 hours to claim their hybrids before we make them available for adoption, Miss,” She offers the folder back towards you, “If you leave your name and number, we can contact you if their adoption doesn’t go through..?”

You felt sick as soon as the words passed her lips. You couldn’t leave without Namjoon and Jimin. You didn’t know the first thing about taking care of hybrids, but you couldn’t let your sister down. She had trusted you with them. Not doing everything in your power to make things right didn’t settle well with you. You wouldn’t give up that easily.

Squaring your shoulders, you offered the secretary a beaming smile, “Actually, can I be shown some hybrids? I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” You grit the words out as sweetly and innocently as you can to the woman, who has her eyebrows raised slightly at your sudden shift in demeanor.

She must not dwell on it too long because she straightens after a moment with a smile, “Of course! Let me call Jackson and get you set up for a look around.”

You hoped you could lay eyes on Namjoon and Jimin during your tour. You wanted to make sure they were alright and that they were actually here. You didn’t want to disrespect your late sister’s wishes, but you knew that such matters could already be out of your hands. If worse came to worse, you suppose you could call your sister’s lawyer and get his help with this mess.

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

“Amanda said you weren’t sure what you wanted, is that right? We usually recommend a breed of dog or cat hybrids for first time owners….you are a first time owner, right? I’m assuming you’re not interested in our more exotic hybrids? We recommend more domestic hybrids to first timers.”

Jackson, it turned out, was a very happy and excitable person. He’d been rather enthusiastic ever since he’d come barreling through the doorway five minutes prior, a wide (and rather blinding) smile plastered on the tall brunette’s face. You’d been startled enough at his entrance to not put much effort into fighting him off when he’d rounded the desk and hugged you. You had tensed up immediately at the contact, eyes wide at how little he respected personal space. The hug, thankfully, was quick and brief before he’d offered out his hand to shake. You’d stared at his outstretched hand for several moments, perplexed that he hadn’t offered his hand in the first place. You would have preferred that.

You followed him through the door he had emerged from behind the secretary (Amanda apparently), folder tucked safely away (mostly) in your purse. “Yeah, first time owner,” You answered him, looking back and forth at the various doors that lined the brightly lit hallway. All the doors were shut, but a window in the doors offered you glimpses into the rooms beyond; the beds, desks, toys, and personal items you’d seen indicated they were the hybrid’s rooms.

“Most of them are out in the social area right now.” Jackson gestures to the door that you’ve both approached as he turns the handle and pushes it open, urging you through into the room, “I can introduce you to a few if you like?”

You had been expecting to enter a room that was entirely too small and lackluster to be the social area for hybrids. You’d seen the pictures before of poor environments of shelters and adoption centers, little to no care for the enrichment of the hybrids that stayed there. You were, for lack of a better word, quite speechless at the room you stepped into.

The room was huge and brightly lit, walls painted an off white. It was filled with several tables, beanbags, and benches throughout, along with several enrichment items (including platforms that resembled trees) and toys. Hybrids of all kinds dotted around the room, most playing, sitting, or lounging around. You caught sight of several cats perched in the tree platforms. At the sound of you and Jackson entering, a few hybrids glance your way curiously before resuming what they had been doing prior.

The surprise that filters over your face as you take it in causes the man beside you to laugh, “A lot of people have walked through that door with that same look on their face. Impressive, yes?”

“Very.” You agree, “I’ve heard so many horror stories over the years about how some shelters look and treat the hybrids there. It’s...nice to see something like this.” You continue honestly, catching the slight bob of his head in agreement with you.

Over the years, you had heard countless stories on hybrid shelters: poor living environments, sick and ill hybrids, very little enrichment tools afforded to the hybrids housed there. A poorly cared for and neglected hybrid without the proper tools to keep them happy often lead to hybrids falling ill, and some cases, even brought about their death. Unhappiness really could drag them down. Of course, hybrid shelters weren’t the only ones with a bad rap: the horror stories coming out of breeding centers were even worse.

“We try to keep the hybrids in our care as stress free as we can.” Jackson urges you further into the room, earning a few more curious looks from the hybrids in the social area. “Of course, it comes with challenges, especially when hybrids are brought back.” He sighs softly at the admission, “We are strict with the hybrids that have been returned more than three times, adopting them is much more rigorous than a hybrids that’s never been adopted or only returned once. We’re rigorous regardless, but you can never be too sure…”

You’re half listening to him as you look around, desperately trying to catch sight of Namjoon and Jimin, but your shoulders slump when you don’t find them. You’re disappointed, even if the shelter did appear to be great keeping hybrids happy. You glanced sideways at Jackson, wondering if you should ask about the two hybrids and let him know that they were, legally, yours. Then again, what if they were adopted by someone nice, who was much more qualified to take care of the two rather than you? What had your sister been thinking?

Apparently she hadn’t been thinking at all.

Turning slightly to face Jackson, you opened your mouth to question him about the two hybrids when a commotion from the doorway opposite the one you’d entered caught both of your attention. There’s a muffled commotion behind the door for several seconds before it’s hastily shoved open by a short, brunette woman who looks rather stressed before her eyes land on Jackson. She immediately seems relieved, mostly.

“Jackson! Thank god, can you spare a few minutes to help?” She glances behind her down the hallway, a shriek echoing behind her before she’s jerking her head back to Jackson. All the hybrids around you are tense and looking towards the woman and the commotion behind her. “Jimin is very upset, he-,”

At the mention of Jimin, you’re immediately perking up, tilting your head as you attempt to figure out what exactly is going on behind her. She could easily be talking about another Jimin, but your gut is quite certain she’s talking about the Jimin you know. A hand pats your shoulder, muffled words reaching your ears before you take note of Jackson hurriedly moving towards the woman. He moves quickly, but it's more of a fast walk, no doubt to avoid stressing or startling the hybrids in the room more than they are now.

“I don’t want to! I can’t! You can’t!” Your eyes grow wide at the familiar voice of the cat hybrid that you’d known for the two years that your sister had owned him. Why was he so stressed out? What was going on? Unable to stop yourself, you followed after Jackson, trying to keep your strides even, barely able to catch the door he and the woman disappeared behind before it could close behind them.

You knew that you probably weren’t permitted back here with permission or an escort, but damn the consequences. You had a soft heart and you had never heard the panic and fear in Jimin’s voice like that before. Surely they weren’t hurting him.

Slipping through the door, you let it close behind you as you stopped to survey the scene further down the hallway. In addition to Jackson and the woman, four others were present, including a young woman standing near the wall directly across from three males. One of the men was obviously staff, if the uniform similar to Jackson and the woman’s was any indication. He was halfway between the woman and the other two males, hands raised slightly in surrender as he murmured softly to the males. You couldn’t make out what he was saying to them and instead focused on the two hybrids.

You instantly recognized the two hybrids: Jimin and Namjoon. The black haired cat hybrid was practically wrapped around the back of the tall, brown-haired dog hybrid. You couldn’t even see Jimin’s dark ears, no doubt laid flat enough to blend in with his hair, and his fluffy dark tail was flicking back and forth in clear agitation with the situation. The male he was clinging to was just as tense, his larger ears straight and rigid. He had one hand gripping hold of the cat’s arms around his neck.

“Jaebum, what’s going on?” Jackson asks the question you’re trying to piece together, catching the attention of the four standing further down the hallway as he approaches.

Jaebum, the staff member standing between the two parties, looks away from the two hybrids towards Jackson as he lowers his hands and gently gestures in the direction of the woman against the wall, “Miss Yeri had an appointment to meet Namjoon and Jimin today. Everything was fine until she expressed that she only wanted to adopt Jimin,” He gestures towards Jimin now, who vehemently shakes his head, “I told her that I would have to check with you before we made a decision and Jimin just freaked out.”

“You can’t separate us, please,” Jimin whines, tightening his arms around Namjoon’s neck in the process. Namjoon grunts at the tighter hold that the Birman cat hybrid grips him with, sliding his attention towards Jackson as he nears.

“No one is going to separate you two,” Jackson soothes as he nears the two hybrids, apparently ignoring the young woman by the wall at her soft noise of protest. “I promise, Jimin, we don’t do that here, okay?” He stops advancing towards the two when Namjoon shifts slightly in place, nostrils flaring as he leans forwards slightly towards Jackson, sniffing at him. Jimin makes a soft noise by his ear at the action, but follows the dog hybrid in also sniffing.

It takes only seconds for a pair of blue eyes and brown eyes to meet yours. You can’t help the small and nervous smile you offer, hand raising nervously with a wave. The last time you’d seen the two hybrids had been at least three weeks ago. You gulp as the humans turn to see what’s caught the two males’ attention.

“Y/N-,” Jackson starts, but his voice is drowned out by the cat hybrid.

“Y/N-ah!” The lithe cat hybrid detaches himself from Namjoon, easily darting past Jackson and the short woman before they can stop him. He quickly closed the distance, practically bowling you over when he reaches you and attaches himself to you.

“Jimin-,” You squeak at his tighter-than-necessary hold as he buries his face against the crook of your neck, stumbling slightly at his weight, eyes wide as you look over his shoulder at the audience down the hall. You reach up to loosely clasp your arms around the hybrid, feeling a little awkward at doing so. The humans are all wearing dumbfounded looks, not making any effort to stop Namjoon from slipping past them to follow Jimin to you. He doesn’t move hurriedly, but his longer strides cover the distance almost as quickly.

“I knew you’d come, I kept telling Joonie!” Jimin pulls back slightly to search your face, “You’re here for us, right?” He doesn’t hesitate to bury his face against your shoulder, the ears atop his head no longer flattened like they’d been before. Noises of contentment rumble from his chest as his cheek rubs against your shoulder.

“Yes, I planned on it,” You tell him truthfully, glancing over at Namjoon as the German Shepherd pauses beside you both, “But I’m not sure how easy that’s going to be.” If there was already a claim on them, you weren’t sure how things would proceed if you tried to fight it. You were certain you had a good case, but according to Amanda, the ownership rights to the two were no longer in your hands.

You had doubted whether or not the two would want to even go home with you, despite your sister’s wishes. You’d visited them enough over the years for them to be familiar with you, but you had never really been subjected to such affection, especially from Jimin. The dark-haired male with his brilliant blue eyes was a sweetheart, but his affection had mostly been reserved for your sister and Namjoon. To be smothered against the cat right now was quite shocking. Was he really happy to see you because of you, or because you were the last connection he had to your sister?

Your eyes desperately searched for Namjoon, silently begging the dog hybrid to help you. Namjoon’s lips twitched slightly at your expression before he reached out to slip an arm around Jimin and peel the male away from you, much to the male’s protesting whines at Namjoon. Just when you thought you were free from suffocating from affection, something soft wrapped around your wrist and tugged. Unprepared for the tugging, you stumbled sideways slightly, bumping into the two hybrids.

You chose to ignore the cheshire-like grin on Jimin’s face as the three staff members approached, followed hesitantly by the young woman, Yeri. She didn’t look too happy, if the stormy look on her face that she sent you was anything to go by.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Jackson apologized immediately as he approached, eyebrows raised as he took note of Jimin’s tail wrapped around your wrist and your close proximity to the two; you could barely feel the brush of Namjoon’s chest at your back. “Jimin isn’t normally like this. He usually prefers to keep his affections to Namjoon,” Jackson indicated the German Shepherd behind you.

“It’s fine,” You assure him softly, meeting Jimin’s stare before quickly focusing back on Jackson, “Actually, I’m interested in Jimin and Namjoon,” It’s another nervous smile from you, a little uneasy with all the attention focused solely on you. Jimin’s tail tightens slightly on your wrist and you can feel Namjoon’s chest crowd slightly closer to your back. Obviously they can smell your distress with the situation. You do your best to relax and shove aside your nerves.

“What?” Jackson seems taken aback, “Are you sure? You’re a first time owner and handling two hybrids is a lot of work. You hadn’t had time to look at the other hybrids..”

“Yes, I’m sure. Actually, I have their paperwork right here with me.” You reach with your free hand to pull the folder with their papers from your purse and offer it towards Jackson, “Jimin and Namjoon belonged to my sister. She signed them over to me in the event of her death in her Will. I would have gotten them sooner, but the lawyer’s office didn’t contact me until recently.” You explained as quickly as you could as Jackson flipped open the folder to look over the papers within, “Your secretary, Amanda, told me that owners only have 72 hours to claim their hybrids when their brought to the shelter, but I wasn’t informed that I was their owner until literally an hour ago.”

Jackson hummed and nodded along as he listened, “The proper paperwork is here, but...we’ll have to discuss it with the Director and see how we proceed with this from here. The two have had several interested in them, including Miss Yeri.”

The mentioned woman straightens, “She can have the dog,” She says stiffly, sliding her attention from you to Jimin, who refuses to acknowledge her, head tucked under Namjoon’s chin, his ears camouflaged in his hair once more. “I’m only interested in the cat.”

You furrow your eyebrows at her balant disinterest in Namjoon, appalled that she thought she could separate the two. They’d been together since before your sister had adopted them, at least that’s what she told you, and despite the fact that cats and dogs were notorious for not getting along, the two surprisingly had very few spats. Jimin’s display of distress at the thought of being separated from Namjoon hadn’t seemed to make the woman change her mind; how many people had been interested in them, only to want one of them? Had Jimin or Namjoon been thrown into distress more than once since they’d been here?

Had your sister been here, you had no doubt she would be threatening to throw hands with Yeri. The mental image almost made you crack a smile. You, on the other hand, bit your tongue and said nothing. At least, for now. Where your sister was quick to anger, you had a much cooler head on your shoulders.

“Like I said before Miss Yeri, we don’t separate hybrids that are bonded.” Jackson repeats, not even looking towards the woman he’s speaking to, “Doing so causes untold stress on the hybrids and diminishes their quality of life.” He closes the folder and looks at you expectantly, “Let’s go to the director and get this sorted out, yeah? This is a bit too complicated for me to deal with.” He offers a smile before turning his attention to the two hybrids, “Namjoon, Jimin. Please let Jaebum return you to your room?”

“But-,” Jimin starts to protest, reaching out to loop through yours and tug you closer. You reach over to brush your fingers over his arm in an attempt to comfort him, frowning as he trembled against Namjoon.

“Jiminie,” Namjoon’s voice was low and soothing as he speaks for the first time since you’d come across the commotion, “It’s alright,” You glanced upwards to look at him, watching curiously as he rubbed his chin against the top of Jimin’s head, the cat still tucked against him. Namjoon reached out to gently disentangle Jimin’s arm from yours and carefully unwound the younger’s tail from your wrist. “C’mon, let’s go take a nap, okay?” Jimin whined at the loss of contact, but he slowly nodded, wrapping his arms and tail around Namjoon.

Jaebum took a step towards the two, but immediately froze at the rumbling growl from Namjoon. You didn’t have the heart to blame Namjoon; Jaebum hadn’t helped the situation earlier.

Namjoon gently pulled Jimin away from you, his tail brushing you as he passed, murmuring softly to the smaller male tucked against him as they moved slowly down the hallway, Jaebum cautiously following behind.

You watched them quietly before Jackson clearing his throat brought your attention to the three humans still standing in the hallway with you.

“Shall we?” Jackson asked, gesturing towards the door behind you that lead back to the social area. You nod slowly, stepping aside to let Jackson lead the way.

“I’m coming with as well,” You turn to look at Yeri with furrowed eyebrows as she immediately stomps past you to follow after Jackson. She’d been repeatedly denied her request, but apparently she was far from giving up. You had a feeling that she was more than willing to play dirty to get what she wanted.

Surely if what Jackson said was true, this Director would shut down her request to separate Namjoon and Jimin and send her on her way. You didn’t particularly feel comfortable with even the slightest possibility of Jimin going home with her. Perhaps she would be a better owner than she appeared to be, but could you really let Jimin go home with her if it came down to it?

No, you decided. Your sister would haunt your ass. Scratch that, she would become corporeal and kick your ass.

Straightening, you sent one last look down the hallway before turning and following after Jackson and Yeri.

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

You were ready to throw hands at Yeri fifteen minutes into the meeting with the Director.

Calm thoughts. Margaritas on the beach. Warm towels fresh out of the dryer. That carton of Rocky Road ice cream waiting for you at home.

“Suri will just love him, Jimin can bond with her.”

God, she was still talking. You closed your eyes, chin propped on your hand as you sighed deeply for the fifth time in the past ten minutes. After your first dramatic sigh, Yeri had taken to promptly ignoring you, focusing solely on the woman sitting behind the desk in front of you both.

Mrs. Choi, the Director, didn’t seem quite impressed with Yeri either, but she had yet to tell the woman to shut up and leave. She remained quiet, aside from the initial introductions and a soft, “Our policy states that we don’t separate bonded hybrids” directed at Yeri once the woman had started in.

Of course, Yeri was either too stubborn or too daft to even care. She started to talk about her other hybrid, a ragdoll named Suri, and how well taken care of and loved Jimin would be once she adopted him. She had everything ready for a new hybrid and you had sworn her eyes got all teary-eyed when she explained how taken she was with Jimin at first sight.

You wanted to punch her. She kept going and going and going, and even now, she hadn’t taken the hint to close her mouth.

“I’ve owned Suri for five years and she’s been my only ever since. Jimin would be so perfect for her and gosh, the cute little kittens they’d-,”

Jerking upwards in the chair, you slammed your hand on the arm rest, startling the woman beside you enough to actually make her look over at you in shock.

Satisfied you had her attention now, you fixed her with a glare, “You are not separating Jimin from Namjoon. You saw how distressed he was at the mere thought of it, but apparently you don’t care. Are you really that heartless?”

Your sister would be so proud right now. “My sister adopted them together and that’s how they’re going to stay.”

Yeri stared at you, mouth agape for almost a minute before she seemed to get over her shock on your outburst, “Well, where’s your sister? If she cared about them so much, why are they here in the first place?”

“Because she’s dead. Murdered.” You’re surprised you keep your voice steady, although you can feel the fresh burn of tears in your eyes. Tilting your chin up slightly, you force yourself not to let the tears fall, “You’re not separating them. I won’t let you or anyone else. They’ve had enough grief since losing my sister, and I sure as hell am not going to subject them to more.”

“Ms. Chae,” Mrs. Choi’s soft voice filters into the silence that falls over the room and Yeri slowly turns to look at her, “The two hybrids in question will not be separated. Either you are willing to adopt them together or not at all. That is final.”

Yeri opens her mouth and closes it several times before she huffs and abruptly stands before stomping dramatically from the room, slamming the door closed behind her.

Good riddance.

“Ms. L/N,” Turning sharply back to the woman behind the desk, you straighten in place, “There has been another party that has shown interested in both Namjoon and Jimin. They have filled out the necessary paperwork this morning to begin the adoption proceedings for the two.”

You deflate almost instantly at her words, sitting heavily back against the backrest of the chair. That was it then? You had been too late by mere hours. “I...I see.”

“However,” Mrs. Choi continued, and you glanced up at her curiously, “Since this is..a unique situation, along with the fact that you know the two hybrids in question, we’ve decided to make an exception.”

“Really!?” You perch at the edge of the chair at the prospect.

“If you fill out the adoption paperwork today, we would like for you to come back tomorrow for an interview.” She smiled ever so slightly, “In cases where more than one party is interested in a hybrid, we conduct an interview with the parties and then have them to meet with the hybrid in question and see how they interact.” Mrs. Choi paused to gauge your reaction before she continued, “Ultimately, the decision is up to the hybrid, but the interview and paperwork does help us weed out the...less-than-desirable applicants. Is that alright with you?” She prompts gently, leaning forward in her chair.

You’re nodding almost immediately in answer, “That...that would be great!” Were you really doing this? There wasn’t even a guarantee that it would work out in your favor.

“Where can I fill out the paperwork?”

TAGLIST: N/A

[ Want to be tagged when I release new chapters? Send me an ask or message and include what fics you would like to be tagged in! ]

#bts x reader #bts imagine #bts fan fic #bangtan sonyeondan #ot7 x reader #poly!bts x reader #hybrid!bts x reader #hybrid bts #*mine #my writing #twisted tails fic #i'm not crying over jimin's distress #it's just a twig in my eye #*DEEP BREATH* nervous as HECK

954 notes · View notes

snow--blanket · 4 years

Text

little soldier, smaller gods

word count: 4846

fandom: ikemen sengoku

characters: tokugawa ieyasu based off/inspired by leigh bardugo’s work from the language of thorns!! please read it i implore you ***

There is a place where the children knew not to go and where the adults would twist their arms when they tried to. The path there started from gravel, to wooden pickets pledged to the earth, and ends at a dirt path, where it wound like a crooked finger beckoning.

This cottage had the roof tilted unsightly, like an abused seesaw heavy on one side. the windows could only be called such – the aging moss and grime had kept it shut for years and years, and it resembled more like a foggy lens than transparent glass.

In this cottage lived a man. He was old, hunched-over back and his movements were like old machinery. His voice, at the very least, he was still proud of. It rang silver and regal, and whenever he spoke, the words were like breath commanded.

However, such was the cause that had driven away the people around him.

This man was old and lonely, and he lived alone in the shamble of a house he once called a castle. The vacancy in his home bred boredom, and so he chipped away at little crisps of the cracked wall and stole iron wires from a crow’s nest. He melted steel over the hearth of his humble kitchen and it bled into his hands as it did into the molds.

With his coal-ash fingers and his squinted eyes, the old man had created ingenious machinations – one, a clock that told the time by different twittering of different kinds of birds. Second, a mechanical wolf that howled and hunted cotton-like rabbits, and when gnawed on, had raspberry juice flow like blood. The third, gingerbread man that moved and danced on a tightrope, balancing things on its head. Fourth, a roulette wheel of different kinds of murders, and whichever the ball stopped at, it would happen in tandem the next day.

Once, the roulette wheel stopped, and the next day, you could hear the hounds howl silencing the screams of a man being ripped from stomach to crotch. His blood flowed like raspberry.

It seemed more than a little pathetic for an old man to tinker with toys, and still, still, his empty little heart desired company. Company, most of all, to admire his genius inventions, to awe at his skill. He wanted an audience.

And so the old man’s hunched back bent over once more, his baked hands and his sight – strained like lemon being juiced – he created a toy soldier, decorated with six buttons on his uniform and a medal crested onto his lapel.

Tokugawa Ieyasu, he said into the empty air, gazing at his creation. That is your name. You have been made to protect me, to serve me, and to bring me glory.

The green soldier started moving, it’s fabricated limbs now stretching like clay, and appeared before him was a soldier whose eyes would only observe green, and the hair dyed from the petals of a sunflower.

The old man sent the toy soldier to guard the front of his crooked house, as crooked houses attracted the crooked and the morbidly curious.

Ieyasu stood dutifully under the loom of the tilted roof as shade with his hand dutifully at his waist, a ready grip at the hilt of his sword.

When curious children came, he unsheathed his sword and swung in an arc, a warning. The children yelled and skittered away back into the village, and they would tell their mother and fathers about a little toy soldier with a sword in his hands.

The mothers would go, Oh yes, my dears, I’m sure it was, and roll their eyes at them. Now, would you like to tell me the real reason for the dirt on your knees and the scraped elbow?

The fathers would let them be, saying that a little adventure never hurt anyone. But still, late at night in the pubs, you could hear the exchanges between men regarding this fellow soldier with a sword, about the war that passed yet was still in the hesitance in their voices and the matchlock rifles hidden under the creaky floorboards, if only you stepped the right way. There are wolves, they’d say. Dangerous times for us all, and no wolf will eat my child. Still, they couldn’t help the lingering feeling that it was not so simple.

They were right.

Ieyasu reported back to his master, and he frowned. “It seems you’ve scared them away,” he’d said disapprovingly. Ieyasu did not understand. Was that not what he was made for?

The old man set foot in his room once more, engineering himself a painful brace to straighten his posture and screwed in teeth as glossy as steel into his bloody gums, his magnificence only slightly overwhelmed by the yells and rips of pain he’d vocalised, muffled only by an old, wooden door.

The next day, it was observed that the old man no longer looked old — his bearing was upright as to effect a soldier’s, and his teeth were gleaming and his hands were dusted in powder so as to rid the burnt charcoal and molten ire that had been engraved into them.

Ieyasu was ordered to venture forth into the forest, now. “Farther, into the forest, there is a beast of which can only be slain by the likes of you,” his master said, and crested upon his lapel another medal. It was only Ieyasu left. The gingerbread man had gone missing, and the roulette wheel went unspun a long time ago.

Ieyasu felt his lungs fill with pride and marched on forwards into the forest once more, the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart beating to the drums of war.

Time passed like this, and the mystery thickened around the crooked house with the old man whose posture was dignified and commanded respect, and the voice to charm them so. The deeper into the forest Ieyasu went, the more people took notice of a soldier in the forest, with his nimble fingers and white teeth.

Finally, a group of scampering adults said enough was enough, and decided to open the closet lay in the monster. They took upon the pitchforks — sharpened like fangs of some beast — and swished here and there, chancing upon the crooked house.

When they barged into the house, they were greeted by the smell of honey lemon tea brewing, the miraculous lights strung from both end of walls, even as there was no generator or power source anywhere in sight. The floorboards were shined like glazed cake in caramel, and the windows, more window-like, were open, letting the smell and sights waft out.

“I see we have an audience,” said the old man, who did not look old. His smile showed his polished, refined teeth, and the townspeople became all the more wary. “Sit down, why don’t you? The tea is almost done.” One might have thought it was a suggestion, had they not hear the voice that carried it.

This is the problem with lesser demons. They dress in tailcoats and emblazoned suits, are pleasant conversation partners, smiled when needed and laughed little, so as to captivate the young ladies and make older women clutch at their handkerchiefs in bashfulness. They do not show their horns until you are impaled in it.

Ieyasu, however, was still deep in the forest and rested under the shade, shifting his sword to a more comfortable position.

A beast, thought Ieyasu. A beast that can only be slain by the likes of me.

The likes of me. What exactly did that mean? He let his eyes rest on the sword by his side. Weaponised? A soldier? Perhaps both?

He didn’t notice the wind this time, did not hear the high laughter of an old friend bark at him.

He thought he heard the howl of a wolf somewhere, and the trees that once gave him shade lent to him darkness he found difficult to accept. “Who’s there?” he asked, his sword unsheathed in one swift movement.

The darkness answered, and a shape moved towards him. He felt the grip on his sword tense. An enemy! The first he’d slay.

He thought about the medal crested on his chest. A beast that can only be slain by the likes of you.

The shape moved, darkness peeling off its body like second skin. “I am not an enemy, sir. I come in peace.”

Peace? No enemy would be one with peace. “Lies! Unsheath your sword!”

“I do not possess such things,” said the shape. It moved closer and closer, out of the darkness, and into the light. Ieyasu’s hand trembled.

The shape was shaped like a human, at least like the humans children drew on sand with sticks. Except…. “I apologise,” said Ieyasu.

The gingerbread man smiled, his how-many-days frosting, which once smelled like vanilla pods, now a smudge on his face, like the crying cottage, leaking out from it’s corners. His arms were gone, the edges bitten out by some zig-zagged teeth, and whenever he walked, crumbs followed him like a second shadow.

“It is no bother. I have no need for these arms, anyway.” The gingerbread man’s eyes smiled, frosting eyes curved like a crescent moon inverted. He looked at the sword Ieyasu still held. “Though it seems you do.”

“Yes,” said Ieyasu, and his lungs filled with pride again, his jaw cut sharp like shrapnels. “I've come to slay the beast that terrorizes this forest.” His tone was somber, as if he wanted to give the gingerbread man his own sword – to protect himself. “And the one that inflicted on you pain.”

The gingerbread man’s eyes were pitying, two pricks of eyes of black that looked at him as if he was the one without arms. “It wasn’t the beast that made me so. It was myself.”

“What?”

“Have you ever wanted something, soldier?”

“I live to protect other people, and my master. It is my duty and my honour.” The words felt familiar and came easy.

”It started when i wanted something, you see. I was a mere gingerbread man, yet I was used as a toy placed on a string. He stacked books on my head and magical, glassy balls with it’s hook pierced into my hands. I wanted to be eaten, and I felt myself move. Then, I wanted to eat. so I used one of my hands and broke the brittle arm of the other, and I ate it.”

“You are crazed,” warned Ieyasu. “Return with me. My master will fix you anew.”

“Crazed I may be, I wanted it.” The gingerbread man looked at him. “Is there nothing you want, soldier?”

“I want to protect my master and my people.”

“And when he finds another soldier?” asked the gingerbread man. “If your people find another hero, and your sword will not be yours?”

“I—” A beast that can only be slain by the likes of you. He had said that. The likes of him. “That is impossible.” The likes of him. There was only one him, after all.

“Like a humble treat like myself might move?”

“You are—” The likes of you. “We are different from each other.” Ieyasu snarled, but he was not able to hide away his confusion. “I am loyal.”

“Maybe you are.” The gingerbread man nodded, and then tilted his head. “Perhaps instead of telling me to return, ask yourself why you remain.”

“You are supposed to be nothing but a juggling toy,” hissed Ieyasu.

“That is the will your master has exerted upon me. I danced on the line he tied, and I walked at his command. But at night, when he is not watching, I tore pages from the books that would be my burden, and in doing so I thought: why not another page? Why not another book? Why not shatter another glasspiece?”

“That is greed,” said Ieyasu. “I am not greedy.”

“And nor are you righteous.” He looked at him differently this time, like he was nothing but an innocent cookie nibbled by the cupboard rats. “Tell me your name, soldier.”

“Ieyasu. Tokugawa Ieyasu.”

“I see. What master do you serve?”

That was an obvious question. “Master—” But he couldn’t remember. Or had he known it at all? His master never called himself by anything but. Ieyasu remembered the moments where his master picked him up and laid him down somewhere high, and there he saw many people like his master enter the room. They hadn’t called him by any name either. “I don’t…know. but he is my king nonetheless.”

Speaking of which, a king of which kingdom? He hadn’t seen any other soldiers in the barracks, only he. But, well, given his master’s private disposition, it was only to be expected that he only trusted one soldier as his guard.

“I see,” said the gingerbread man. “And what of your medals? What was the first one for?”

Ieyasu looked at his lapel. “The first one—” the first medal that had been crested onto him, the first of everything. He’d slain the beast, he had killed a wolf once, one whose teeth shone like knives, and claws that tore at his arm, removing it from it’s sockets and two creatures howled in pain that night. And yet. Yet, his arm was here. Which wars had he won? What put the honour on his chest, this medal? “I do not recall,” said Ieyasu.

The gingerbread man looked at him softly, and Ieyasu imagined that look was the kind one might give to a child. “I live with ants now, can you believe it? It seems there’s use to my balancing act, after all.” the gingerbread man turned on his heel and started to disappear into the shadows of the trees. “I hope you can find yourself, little soldier.”

“I am not little!” yelled Ieyasu to the darkness. The wind howled then, a barking laughter that silenced the voice of a whining child.

He didn’t understand. He was Tokugawa Ieyasu. He remembered this. His master was….his master. His king. He used to slay beasts, vanquish the evil in the name of protecting his master. He remembers the pain of his arm being torn, the pain of being snapped in half like brittle candles. So why? Why couldn’t he answer? Why hadn’t he?

In the end, Tokugawa Ieyasu chose to slay the beast. Indeed, he was Tokugawa Ieyasu in the end, and who he served did not matter. He was a soldier, and he had a duty. He was to defeat the evil, protect the good, return to his master with another medal on his chest and the heart of the monster in his hands.

Ieyasu stepped into the darkness once more, in search of the beast. It did not take long. Once he stepped into the shadows, it felt like an overbearing something was pressing to his sides, and there was a heavy stone in his chest, weighing itself in the cavity of his lungs.

His feet brought him to the entrance of a cave, where it smelled like rotten flesh of a man whose insides were torn at and the scent of decay that followed suit. It was here. The beast was here.

Although he wanted to pinch his nose, it wasn’t very soldierly of him. Yes; this, too, was part of his hurdle, part of the challenge in loyalty. He had to remain unwavering. He gripped his sword tighter. “Beast!” he yelled, and the sound echoed, like the cave was whispering on his behalf as to silence the doubts in his mind. “I've come for your head!”

Instead of a powerful howl that shook the trees, what answered was a whimper. A dog came lumbering, dragging along its weight like a ball and chain. “You’re here again, boy.” said the dog, and Ieyasu flinched, reflex lost to instinctual fear at the sight that met him.

The dog had two heads, parted at the middle like a tree branching east and west. He returned to his stance once more, noticing the blood that stained it’s gums, it’s yellow teeth like bones hollowed and sharpened.

He pointed his sword onto the dog, a challenge. “What did you mean by ‘again’? Was there another soldier before me?” he pushed forth, courage bought by the blade. “Did you eat him alive as well?”

“It has never been more than one,” said the dog, both heads speaking, and their voices overlapped like the cave that echoed. Caves of caves, voices on top of voices. “What did he make you into this time, boy?” Both heads tilted, like the slanted roofs, like wilting plants.

“He made me into a soldier,” This, he said with confidence, for it was an irrefutable fact, no matter what anybody else said. “I see. Then a soldier you must be until a soldier you are no more.”

One head twisted, warped like kitchen towels rung out to dry, and the blood squeezed out of it and watered the ground, dripping, dripping, dripping, like an overfilled kettle bubbling with foam and overflowing. The tendons stretched like gum, stretched in an unsightly way Ieyasu knew could not be right.

Plop! One head of the dog fell to the earth, and it presented itself to Ieyasu like the silence of graves, like the smell of death masked by smoke. Something choked at his throat – a lump had made itself home there, and Ieyasu was no heavy eater, but he felt like he might throw up whatever he had for breakfast.

“Well?” asked the dog, eyes like blood moons. “You have my head. On you go, boy.” the dog retreated into the cave, and his voice echoed. “Be careful of the master you serve.” Voices on top of voices, doubts on top of doubts.

Ieyasu picked up the severed head of the dog, and its eyes stared back at him like it was truly alive. He turned his heel, remembering that it was nearing night, that his master was waiting.

All the way back to the house of his master, there was no satisfaction to be found. What happened to heroism, to conquering fear? His hand still shook like a creature of fear and his heart pounded like a jackrabbit caught in some wolf’s fangs. Even with the medal crested upon his lapel, he could not ignore the feeling that he did not deserve….whatever he got.

“I've returned with the beasts’ head.” These words, although sounded vain, were shame that stuck itself to the roof of his mouth, like moss to the ceiling.

His master smiled, and even that couldn’t soothe his heart rate. “Good work,” he said. His master took the head from him, and the act was disturbingly casual. He gently guided Ieyasu away, back into his room with his work table. “Rest,” he cooed. “You must be tired.”

Ieyasu found that he was tired, and stifled a yawn. “If you’ll excuse me.” The thrill of one whole day wore him down, and the beat of his heart followed the humming of his master’s.

Ieyasu sat down on the chair, and he closed his eyes. Drowsiness took him – but before it could do so, he heard the high voice of a child in his master’s room. Of course, he had not been there to protect his master, and now some child had wormed its way into his master’s castle!

Ieyasu leapt to his feet, and his unsheathed sword sliced the midnight air. With rickety, careful steps, he approached the opening of the door, the light cutting the darkness in one thin line. Ieyasu steadied his breath, tightened his grip, squared his shoulders.

“Your name,” The voice of his master sounded through the wooden doors, and Ieyasu halted. “Is Tokugawa Ieyasu.” Ieyasu felt the air leave his body, felt the blood drain him like he was one of the rabbits in the mechanical wolf’s jaws, makeshift blood spilling onto the grass. “You have been made to protect me, to serve me, and to give me glory.”

Ah, yes, this feeling. He remembers this feeling, remembers the stone in his lungs and breakfast threatening to exit his stomach the way it came. Ieyasu covered his mouth, a sourness taxing his tongue.

The likes of you. He remembers these words well. The likes of him. What did that mean? His master had created another toy. With the same name, with the same voice that had commanded his movements. Tokugawa Ieyasu, he called it.

Another soldier. Another one like him?

Ieyasu crept to the door, the glazed caramel floors now looking murky and like the rust of gears, as if showing their true colours in the night. Ieyasu had never stepped a foot outside at night before, but…. the likes of you. The likes of him. The words resounded in his head, and he needed answers.

He did not count his steps as he usually did, did not follow his legs to the beat of war drum in his heart, a memorised tune. He ran until his legs were weary, ran until all the breath in his body spilled to the cold air, ran like a thief under the watch of moonlight.

When he arrived at the cave, he yelled. “Beast!” the sound echoed, the night wind paying no heed to the haste in his voice. “Come out of your cave!”

The darkness answered with a howl, and Ieyasu unwittingly took a step back. Unpeeled by the moonlight, a shape resembling the dog moved forward. Once it revealed itself, Ieyasu felt that sensation again, his tight chest, his body a scale weighed by stones. “You are not the beast,” his thoughts could come up nothing braver than ones that had slipped forth.

The beast — now true to its name — howled heavenwards, as if answering the beck of some god that had come calling, answering to the moon that was their witness. “I am a beast by night,” the wolf snarled. “Your master made it so.”

That was impossible. But was it really? Ieyasu had remembered the gingerbread man, remembered his master’s voice calling another his own name. “I do not understand. My master— he has created another soldier. please–” Ieyasu was not beyond begging now, with his shaken core and his forested eyes like trembling leaves. “–please help me.”

“I told you, soldier. It has never been more than one.” The wolf looked at Ieyasu pitifully. “You are the same boy that has returned to me again and again, seeking my head on the orders of your master. Perhaps the soldier your master created is simply a toy.” The wolf tilted its head curiously, and it resembled the kind of curiosity he’d seen in children. “And perhaps you are one too.”

Ieyasu wanted to open his mouth to reject the words, but before he could the wolf had pounced on him, digging his fangs into his arm. Ieyasu screamed in pain, trying to shake the wolf off him, but it would not budge.

“Help!” he screamed, hoping the night would take his voice far. “Someone help me!” the wolf would not budge. My sword, he thought. Where is my sword? Ieyasu’s eyes scattered until he felt up the hilt of the sword nudging his ribs, and slowly, his right hand took hold of it.

Ieyasu swung the sword and the wolf, barely scratched his muzzle, a small slice comparable to a child’s papercut. Ieyasu swung blindly into the night; hoping that it would hit, somehow. He had little options, he thought uselessly.

In the perimeter of his eyes he saw the slight glint of ruby catching moonlight – like fragmented pieces of gems had come to his call for mercy. Thousands – thousands of ants had approached him, and they all came to swarm the wolf biting at his arm.

From the darkness, the ants were led by an armless gingerbread man, whose voice carried the weight of more souls than Ieyasu. It was incomprehensible, surely. Why? he wanted to ask. Why you? Why am I not the saviour? What have I done wrong?

It is no bother. I have no need for these arms anyways. He remembered the words of the gingerbread man, and realised why he had not needed swords. He had allies. An army. His blade was in pieces, and it remolded itself into blood steel when he needed them.

“Run!” yelled the gingerbread man. “Run, little soldier!”

So he did. And oh – what a disgusting feeling it was! He hoped that his legs would sag. He hoped his breaths would stop. He hoped for his heart to be squeezed out of his chest. How cowardly was he? A soldier in name, a coward at heart. He wished regret or justice made his body linger, but he ran like a coward until his sweat was condensation in the air.

When he arrived back home, his master had looked at him like he knew he was out the entire time. “You’re sweating. You must be tired.”

“Master, I—” Indeed, as if the air was purchased back into his lungs and the trembling in his arms stilled like dead wood, Ieyasu became all the more tired and drowsy by the second. Still, he had to find answers. He could not sleep until he got them. “Master. I did not slay the beast.”

His smile was as deceitful as the smiling moon. “Yes, I know.”

Ieyasu’s heart ached. “Then why did you…” Ieyasu gulped. “How did you know?”

His master tugged at his hand, leading him to a supply closet full of old, unused toys. There were several lines of nutcrackers, a dusty doll in disrepair with it’s eye gouged out. “Because I created it. I created you.”

Created. Not employed. He was not a soldier. He was a toy. “That is impossible,” said Ieyasu. “My heart beats. My hands shake. I bleed red.”

“You move as much as the gears in a clock do, and bleed like breaking dams of a river. You are as alive as either.”

“You are stolen,” his master said. “I kidnapped you from the village and fed you clay and ash, shaped your fingers that would perfectly fit a blade. You stand still when I do not wish for you to move, and you are tired when I say you are.”

“No. No!” But he felt his throat choke on sawdust, the ashen gunpowder coating the film of his mouth and his tongue tasting steel. His arms were harder to move, as if walking through mud.

“You are a hero,” he said finally, and Ieyasu felt that cowardice come forth again. “You return to me with the beast’s head everytime I tell you to, and another medal will be embedded into your chest.”

So it was simply smokes and mirrors, then. He was to dance for his master, to perform. He realised then that he was not a soldier, but an actor.

“You are nothing more than a toy,” his master whispered, and were his words not immortal? “And nothing more will you become when I do not think of you.”

Ieyasu didn’t know exactly when he’d felt hatred for his master fester. Perhaps it was the hard, lonely rock carved out of someone who had too much darkness with them.

Months passed and Ieyasu could only barely be conscious as the days blurred together. He reminded himself of what he wanted. He was Tokugawa Ieyasu. He was no soldier, but he was an actor, at the very least.

The villagers stopped coming by his master’s house. They heard rumours. The house is haunted, they say. There are corpses under the caramel floorboards, they whisper. But it was simply an excuse, for no one could tolerate his company and the way he spoke like royalty. Mysteriously, more and more kids went missing around the vicinity, so they chose not to risk it. The village patrols were much too frightened of the wolves at night to ever conduct a search of the toymaker’s house.

Eventually, the passing of time made the house as rotten as he, and the toymaker died in the hinges of a wolf’s fangs, the roulette wheel stopping: death by loss of blood.

With time, more villagers came to the house – the weeping mothers in mourning of their children, and the rowdy teenagers in search of a dare.

Ieyasu remembers each and every one of their wishes, whispered into the eerie air. He is an actor. He would perform for those who would watch. And so, he took upon those wishes and could barely muster a voice, not at all serene and all knowing, But a voice that had seen the many wandering souls and the secrets and bodies they’d buried.

Now, Ieyasu waits in hiding. He bides his time with every new morning, waiting for a prayer of some lovestruck fool or greedy, traitorous bastard waiting to stab his master in the back.

He never has to wait long.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikesen ieyasu #ikesen fanfic #ikesen writing

1 note · View note

teabooksandsweets · 5 years

Text

I just really hope that my posts regarding the CATS movie are interpreted as resent or even hate towards it, so I just want to make this clear: this is a CATS 2019 hate free zone. I love it already and I will defend it. Not to mention, the majority of people in the internet are complaining/making fun of it in entirely the wrong way. Like, seriously, I know its largely jokes and all that, but if you want to complain, do it right. Because this is the thing I’m obsessed with, and I can tell you that CATS has to be the way it is, and all those jokes about their size or boobs or whatever entirely miss the point. You don’t have to like CATS, I definitely see how it’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but CATS has to be CATS, in good and in bad. And complaints that basically point out aspects that are just the same in the stage show are equally annoying as people saying the aspects that were different were just like that. Two completely different ways of doing it wrong, yet here they are.

Yes, I know, I am an annoying fan who’s complaining that people are complaining the wrong way, but it’s my strange interest, and while I don’t have a monopoly on being right about it, I have a monopoly on being annoying. ‘Cause CATS fans don’t really have it easy anyway. Complains about CATS have always been wrong - it’s got no plot, it’s weird, and so on. It has a plot - though not everything needs one - and it has to be weird. Embrace it. Or don’t. Whatever you prefer. Hate it if you will. But then, hate it for what it is, and not for what you think or pretend it is.

And with the way all sorts of adaptations and whatnots have been all the craze lately - and all fandoms going really wild - it’s my turn on being a crazy, emotional fangirl.

At least, the movie seems to be getting exactly the same reception as the musical - and that’s the biggest hit there is. It will run well, I suppose.

I have a lot to say about it, and I have many feelings about it. Some of those are negative. There are some aspects that I personally dislike, and that is because these thing could have been easily done better. I don’t think they’re big flaws, and I wouldn’t mind if they were, but they are, so to speak, unnecessary flaws.

I love CATS more than any other musical, and the 1997 film version is my favourite movie. That version has gotten - back when it came out and even today - a great lot of hate by fans of the stage musical, and it’s also considered creepy and weird by non-fans. Not much has changed about the perception of CATS and it’s screen adaptations.

I don’t like every aspect of every stage production of CATS - there are cast members I don’t like, changes I don’t like, costumes I don’t like. Nobody can like everything! That’s okay! And it’s the same with this one. There are things I would have done differently, things that could have been done differently (and better) but that doesn’t mean I dislike it.

All in all, it’s a movie for my favourite musical. With very great cast members, incredible visuals, and - most importantly - a style and energy that’s absolutely on point for it. I am incredibly excited, but my excitement also makes me very focused on it, and my fixation makes me analize every detail, and the negative aspects have more material to explore. That’s odd, since I usually focus on the good and am very reluctant to pay too much attention to things I don’t like, but this time it’s about negative aspects of something I love, so I do talk more about it than I would otherwise.

Believe me, the fact that I am making negative posts at all means that I absolutely adore it, otherwise I would never, ever pay any attention to it at all. The fact that I torture myself with thinking about negative aspects at all is prove how much I love this wonderful mess. Not to mention, none of the positive things I have to say are in any way intelligible. I watch the trailer over and over and cry everytime, and most of those tears are happy.

But loving something doesn’t mean you can’t be critical. And having a new adaptation, a new version of something you love makes you overly critical. It would be foolish to reject it just because of the “good old times” - I myself am hyped because of the hype and because CATS is finally mainstream relevant again! But it’s like with a new movie adaptation of a beloved book - we all can, I suppose, relate to the experience of adoring that movie, and still watching out for all the mistakes, for all the changes, and point them out. However, not always in complaint. Sometimes simply in assessment. And we can all be very excited and scared at once - I think that’s the most natural thing.

I am, all in all, enthralled. Not uncritically enthralled, and yeah, a bit scared. And a lot of it bothers me about it. But all in all I am an emotional mess because my favourite musical is going to be shown on the great silver screen.

So if you see a post from me that talks negatively about the movie, please don’t think I dislike it! No matter if you dislike or like it - I am always fine with people agreeing and disagreeing with me, if only they know what my stance is. This might be weird, but is simply a thing I am, generally, sensitive about. I often have a great need to clarify things, and a fear of being misunderstood about irrelevant matters, for some odd reason.

#cats #cats the musical #cats the movie #cats 2019 #cats movie #musical theatre #personal

6 notes · View notes

courtorderedcake · 5 years

Text

Roses (A CS AU)

My late contribution to @csmarchmadness.

I haven't been able to or feeling up to writing lately, and struggled to push this through before I began having health difficulties. It is only with the support of @shireness-says, @ultraluckycatnd, and @doodlelolly0910 that even this is done, and I have the utmost gratitude.

Cat has practically rewritten it to not only make sense, but to read beautifully, and she has been unknowingly the shining light in many a dark day.

I don't know if I'll finish this, or the two other pieces in this anthology besides what I'm finally finished with for @cssns, but if I decide to let it die I will post everything I have as continued notes on here and eventually Ao3.

I believe that with these and the last few stragglers in my WIP folder, I am done with the Fandom and giving up writing in general, and thank the organizers of CSMM for the amazing experience.

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

Roses, A CS retelling of Tam Lin

By Courtorderedcake and ultraluckycatnd.

Rated M - - - - chapters 1/??

If there was one trope in fairytales that Emma hated, it was the lonely orphan who found parents and lived happily ever after in a beautiful castle. Her first problem with it was that while she hadn’t met any royalty, she doubted that most of them lost track of their children that often. Or, if they were separated, that a prince or princess would be placed in a crowded Boston orphanage. Her second problem was that there were only so many countries in the world, and even less with a missing monarch. Even diplomats and billionaires were few and far between in that category.

So, on a rainy April afternoon when she returned to her apartment, she did not expect to see a fresh faced courier waiting for her. Although she wasn’t old by any means at 28, the boy looked about 12 with his baby face as he asked her to sign for the letter. She gave a scribble, handed him a wadded bunch of bills from her bag, and stumbled inside to peel off the dress underneath her rain slicker.

Kicking off her heels, which were most likely ruined from the rain, she collapsed on her couch. With a wiggle, the skin tight red number was off and she basked in the freedom of being nude as she searched her floor for a clean t-shirt and a pair of lounge pants. Looking at the letter, she picked it up and placed it between her teeth, paused to put her hair in what she hoped would resemble a ponytail, and pulled to rip it open. Letting the envelope fall to the floor, she grabbed her thick rimmed glasses to read the small script.

Her roommate, Mary Margaret, came out of her room. “Emma? It’s 4 am, did you just get back?”

“Mmmmyar.” Emma replied, scanning the text. Her husband's family crest and name, long discarded after his death, was printed on top of the document. She shuddered at the golden medallions adorning a darkened shield, and the scaled, lizard like, dragon that curling around it.

“Well… OK, but do you want some coffee? David's here and we're getting up early to -”

“Holy. Fucking. Grilled cheese and onion rings.” Emma breathed heavily, staring wide eyed in shock at the papers in front of her.

“What are you swearing on such sacred foods for?” Mary Margaret quirked an eyebrow in amused concern.

“I've just inherited an estate valued at £800,000.” Emma flicked her eyes up, mouth a thin line. “Neal's family's fortune, home and grounds apparently. Things I never even knew about.”

“Well.” Mary Margaret sipped her coffee, looking completely nonplussed even if Emma knew on the inside she was bursting - it was how she had earned her nickname Snow Queen after all. “That would do it.”

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

The estate reading took place in Scotland through a crackling speaker box, Emma's eyes racing around the office the entire time. It was stunning, as were what seemed like all the buildings during her trip to gain the deed to her home. This office in particular was what Emma imagined when reading Peter Pan; a gentleman's study and den, complete with whiskey decanter and cigar box to her left as if she had gone back in time. The tall shelves were lined in books with gold leaf letters and rich leather bindings, the panels of dark wood mixed with verdant jade paint and damask almost making up for the unsettling stuffed deer heads.

Cringing, Emma turned back to the box. The voice on the other line was thickly accented with a rolling brogue which Graham assured her in his own was common, and had obviously been in a bad mood long enough for it to be a defining quality.

“Ye don't be wanting Carterhaugh, lass. T’place is cursed, hallow in the way tat echoes, not t’way of blessings.”

Her lawyer smirked, teeth white and extremely straight. Emma had liked Graham since she had met him, and this was insight into his character. Taste in wall decorations aside, he respected her agency enough to not let this man continue to try to stop the change in ownership. In her experience, lawyers were far too careless and rude.

“My client will determine its worth.” His tone was calm and well practiced, even through his own clear lilt, but Emma could hear the edge there just under the surface. He had the heart of a forest hunter; not a threat until prey was too well ensnared in a carefully laid trap. This man on the phone, a Mr. Seáìnns’, had been fighting tooth and nail to keep her from her inheritance, throwing obstacle after obstacle in her way for months now.

At first it was as simple as he refused to understand that Emma wanted to know the family that had abandoned her husband, wanted to feel the last connections she had with him or any family she could, but it quickly devolved into more. Emma was subject to constant harassment by calls and letters, envelopes filled with shredded paper or scribbled notes she could not read, all from this this crazy older man in the village that Carterhaugh laid in. This didn't do much more than annoy her, as well as the post office, customs, and the garbage disposal crew. It escalated to him crossing a line when he tried to prove she was not the proper heir, insinuating Neal was a bastard, and further when he tried to declare the estate a historical landmark.

Emma hadn't even seen the damn mansion or castle or whatever an estate was considered. It seemed to vary between every property she had compared what little information she had, the repeated ridiculous notion of having her own ballroom driving her and David giddy with excitement. Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, but David pulling her away to dance made a smile crack across her face. They'd discovered over beers that a ballroom didn't make a home a palace, a question neither David, her, or Mary Margaret had ever thought they'd be asking.

The sound of sputtering rage brought her back to the present.

“You bloody ridiculous ‘n hateful creatures! I know what you are doing, what you're playing at. You can try to find me, but I know your games, and I know this woman is either demon or worse! She'd kill ye before even looking, smile on ‘er face. Calling her client… Yer client doesn't know her ken folk have cursed me, an m’wife, and took -” The line crackled, an electronic whining mixed with metallic pops. A dial tone replaced the man's voice and Graham’s smile faded.

“Well. It seems like your new residence has eccentric neighbors, doesn't it?” Graham laughed, and Emma felt his hand slip into her own. She flinched, pulling away from him and he gave her a sad smile. “Sorry, I -”

“It's alright. I… I'm just not looking for anyone.” Rubbing her palms together to do something with her hands, she pushed away the feeling of wrong that came over her at someone's touch. “I don't think I'll be ready for some time.”

Graham nodded, gathering papers together from his desk. He waited a few long, drawn out, silent minutes before asking, “How long has it been since Mr. Gold's -”

Emma's tone was short, frustration defined in every syllable. “It could have happened yesterday, but it was 2 years ago. We got married fast, it was a blur. It's a difficult topic for me.”

“I'm so sorry I -”

“Can we please see the estate?” Pinching her brow as a migraine set in, Emma heard Graham clear his throat and stand.

“Absolutely. It's a few hours from here, if you'd like to get lunch and car pool -”

“I'll take my car. Lead the way.”

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

Driving through the small town of Carterhold, Emma could see why locals may be wary of change. The town was a sleepy and picturesque village, stone homes with thatched or moss covered rooftops that stood sparsely around a small town center. From there, through the foggy clouds that swirled through a dense forest, trees climbed up the slope of a massive hill, emerald fingers that reached for the plains leading up to Carterhaugh’s imposing presence, and its perch on the cliffs over the sea. The wind shifted, and it was gone, swallowed again by mist, but Graham was already making the slow ascent up a winding road.

Emma heard a thud, jerking the steering wheel as someone barreled into her bug, broad shoulders and crazed eyes under matted hair barely visible through her wet windows.

“What the -”

The words had barely left her mouth when an unmistakable voice was yelling at her, rambling incoherently as he pounded on her door.

“Ye kinnit go to Carterhaugh! Ye kinnit have it ye bloody witch or fairy demoness! ‘Tis on Hallowed and protected ground, guarded, an ye haven't a clue what I will do to protect it from you, ye - ” The face of Mr. Seáìnns was lit by lightning, thunder from his fists against the passenger door and the sky. Emma felt panic in her chest, heavy and leaden.

Slamming her foot on the accelerator, Emma let the bug lurch into its unused highest speeds as she flew up the road to Carterhaugh.

The driveway was curved elegantly behind an imposing metal and stone gate, mossy spheres capping the tall towering structure. The manor itself, even in its disuse, was stunning. A fountain stood before large wooden doors, framed by windows that traveled in neat rows up walls choked in ivy. Two wings on either side curved off from there, both facing the sea and woods, a domed roof on one side for a solarium, another for a ballroom. It was both imposing and impossibly inviting, a mystery that was decayed beyond unraveling.

And it was hers.

Graham helped her inside, the lights crackling in refusal to turn on in the storm as they stood in the atrium, dripping on the stone parquet.

“It's fine, I have a lighter,” Emma shrugged, pulling it out of her jacket pocket. “I always carry one. As a kid I was afraid of being alone in the dark. I somehow always seemed to end up there, either hiding or being forced somewhere, so it helped to make my own magic light to fight away shadows. Probably silly…”

“Not silly at all. It's a common fear based on instinct. Predators lurk in the dark, so your brain says that light is safe,” Graham said simply. “Smart to have it on you to start a fire too, or warm up in the wilderness.”

Emma's lips tightened as he continued on about the practicality of the lighter. She turned, expecting him to get the hint, but he followed her while continuing on about the merits of different wood to burn or oils to keep to sustain a good burn. Emma found herself wishing for a nice birch branch just to whack him with. As her annoyance peaked, the lights flickered on.

“Well. No candles I guess, but let's get you a fire started in the hearth, and then I'll be on my way.” Graham paused, and looked down, shuffling his shiny leather shoes. “Unless… I can stay if you like, until you get used to the place or have someone to stay with you, you know, because it's a big older house and -”

“I think I'll manage.” The words crept out more icily than she wanted, but he nodded with a sheepish wave of his hand.

“That's fine. Just call if you do find you need something. I'll get someone out here, and then be out myself in an hour or so. I don't want to see you get swallowed up by a house this big.” He smiled and Emma returned it genuinely, touched by his offer. If she didn't know how men dangled kindness in the face of women like her to get something in return, she would have taken him seriously. But Neal… Neal had ruined her.

The fire in the hearth was easy enough to start, even without special wood. Taking off her boots and coat, she gazed into the flame and planned out her course of action. Her sparse belongings were in the bug, and furniture would be delivered as soon as she took stock of what remained and measured for new pieces. Sighing and rubbing her temples, Emma rolled out her sleeping bag. She was asleep as soon as her eyes closed.

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

In the morning, light flitting through the windows and the chill of the fire's death woke her up far earlier than her usual time. Wandering out to the bug, she dragged her luggage inside, pulling on extra socks and layering her sweaters. The effect was comical, but warm. Her stomach growled, but the kitchen was a quick - and musty - find. Sticking to pop tarts instead of whatever the swamp like gloop in the sink was, Emma set to work making a written game plan.

Calling contractors would wait until reasonable hours, but she mapped out who she would need while taking stock of furniture, books, tapestries, busts, and paintings. To her surprise, much of the home was in decent condition, and she easily found a bedroom suite that overlooked the sea cliffs from a secure balcony, a fireplace with stone carved boats in its inlay, an almost modern bathroom, and to her absolute delight, had a storybook fairytale four poster bed. The linens were almost new, the pillows fluffy , and it smelled of sea salt, leather, spice, and rum. If she didn't know how alone she was, the room would seem almost home to someone.

As normal waking hours approached, Emma went outside to survey the gardens and landscape. Most of the plants were dead around the house itself, but the gardens and connected solarium were wild and overrun with blooms. Down the hill, wildflowers in rainbow spectrum danced in the wind, their colors like an eruption of the Crayola crayons Emma had to share in school.

Something moved out of the corner of her eye, and a dark shape made its way around to the front of the manor. Emma grabbed a rusted shovel from a garden bed, and crept towards where the intruder had gone. She found the man looking curiously at her bug. He was tall, dark hair blowing in the wind, scratching his neck in confusion. In his hand was a hook.

“Don't touch my car and I won't have to hurt you, buddy!” Emma yelled, wielding the shovel in her hands like a baseball bat. The man turned, surprised.

Blue. The first thing that Emma noticed was how blue his eyes were; how clear and beautiful the blue she saw in those eyes reflected the color of the sky above. The eyes that currently were gazing at her in confusion.

“Who are you?” he asked, raising his hands above his shoulders, as if she were police. In his left hand was not a hook, but a three pronged garden trowel. Some impression she made, thinking about urban legends this late in life.

“Better question, Alex Trebek, is who the hell are you?” Emma snarled.

“I’m the, er, gardener, madam.” He waved the garden trowel in the direction of a nearby wheelbarrow. There was something off in the way he spoke, the accent strange to her. “Killian. Killian Jones.”

“Gardener?” Emma would had refused staff had she known they existed, and had made sure that she was for the most part alone. He shouldn't be here, especially not with her. Anger boiled over to cover her fear. “You’ve done a great job of things.” Gesturing at the dead plant life around the dilapidated manor, she watched his eyes narrow. “You’re truly magic with landscaping.” This comment brought a dark smile to his face that left her feeling like he was in on the punch line of a joke she hadn’t heard.

“Well, if you’d contact the ruddy owner and let him know to add to the budget for gardening...” The Irish accent was evident in his voice now, the clear definition between Scottish and it what had been off to her ears as she watched his cheeks reddening. Emma gave him a wolfish grin.

“I think that can be arranged.” She extended a hand towards him which he appraised with lips curled back. “Emma Swan. Official new ‘ruddy owner’ of Carterhaugh.”

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

30 notes · View notes

flyswhumpcenter · 5 years

Text

Memento mori.

It's purposely short because it's an experiment and, frankly, I didn't see it any other way. I just wanted that maximum angst experience I usually don't even dare touching. I like change and variety more than I make it seem. It's also deeply inspired by managician's amazing story, it's a little cold in paradise tonight. This story has got nothing on theirs, it's beautifully written and shaken me to my core every time I've read it, and I wanted to pay it tribute, albeit the relationship I picked is most likely not the best to do so. It's not my best work, so I'm not sure if it's this good of a tribute. I love writing Ruri according to what I got of her personality or speculated about.

----

Arms of Morpheus

Summary: It’s like she’s holding a shadow. Or: Ruri holds her brother against her as they talk for the last time.

Content Warnings: Major Character Death

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Arc-V (canon divergence) Relationship: Ruri & Shun (siblings)

Wordcount: 1.2K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

------

Tears are running down a young girl’s cheeks, smoking as soon as they enter the cold air, clashing against the freezing zephyrs blowing through what reminds her of the ruins of what once was the paradise she lived in with friends and family.

Gone are the smiles and lights which used to dazzle in her eyes as she held onto her big brother’s hand, his smile shining the brightest to her child self, before they came and destroyed everything in their stead.

Her hands are now trembling with fear and warm, warm from attempting to start a fire, warm from digging for survivors, warm from scratching themselves on the ground, warm from the blood quickly drying on her fingers, red shifting to maroon as her focus is elsewhere.

She’s cold, they’re cold. The top of the tower is a mess of splatters and crackled stone, the setting of a disaster having broken loose and unleashed. The wind doesn’t let down, so do the whispers in her head whispering that it really is all her fault. How could she blame them? They’re right. She’s responsible for this.

There is nothing better for a hunter who has become the monster they swore to get rid off than to be put down, after all.

Yet, despite how monstrous she’s become, she has someone in her arms trying to reassure her. That doesn’t make a shred of sense, she knows it, but she can only see it unfold before her eyes: her brother, covered in his own blood, having the faintest smirk on his face and glassy eyes barely able to focus on hers.

It’s like she’s holding a shadow.

She wants to apologize, apologize over and over again, apologize for a thousand years and into the next life, apologize for everything she has ever done that has brought them to this day, this place, this situation. She doesn’t deserve forgiveness, but she apologizes in her mind anyway.

It overwhelms her to the extent that, in the end, she never verbally does what she’s supposed to do, and keeps her guilt on her heart like an armour smothering its knight.

Ruri, I’m glad we got to reunite.

She can tell he’s being honest, that he really does think that; but the meaning of his words doesn’t reach her heart already shattered. Everyone she’s known is gone: her parents are gone, her friends are gone, her brother is disappearing before her eyes. There is nothing she can do but weep, and even then she can’t do so with the circumstances.

I’m glad I got to see you too, big brother.

It’s not wrong, but the words don’t feel right nonetheless. Not when she’s the direct cause of their melancholic sentiment.

I wish you weren’t crying.

His eyes, despite their lack of focus and foggy irises, despite his complexion inexorably paling, seem to shine with all the life he has left. It aches, it hurts, and she can still tell he’s honest with her to the end. If only that wasn’t the end, if only they still had days to share together, doing silly sibling things, playing card games together, and she realizes she does miss his scolds and overbearing nature. Not for what they are at first glance, because they’re his.

They’re Shun’s, and soon, they’ll be gone like everything else she’s ever known that wasn’t war or desolation.

Ruri, stay strong. Don’t cry.

She sniffles and nods, almost dishonestly, betraying the sorrow in her heart for a bravado she won’t keep for more than a few moments. Better make his send-off a relief.

I’m sorry, big brother. I’m sorry for everything.

She still apologizes, and he tries to frown, but his strength has left him, and so is his warmth. He’s always been cold-blooded, closer to a lizard than a bird in that regard, and yet she’s frightened by how much warmer her skin feels when she cradles him as much as possible against her.

You weren’t yourself. It’s fine.

He puts his hand on her face, leaving some blood behind. The tears won’t stop flowing despite her best intent and efforts.

I’m relieved you’re safe and sound, Ruri. That’s all I wanted.

She knows that’s a lie. Shun wanted to see so much more than just her. He wanted to see their world be reborn, to reunite with their friends and celebrate their freedom coming back, to compete against Kaito and the other Clover Branch students, to see the bright lights and sparkles of Heartland again. It’s a lie, a filthy lie, a little white lie.

That’s wrong, isn’t it?

He puffs.

Doesn’t make me less happy to have saved you, at least.

His voice is low, slow, groggy and has trouble exiting his mouth when it keeps getting interrupted by coughing fits and blood coming out of his body through the wrong exits. Again, nothing she could ever do about it. It’s too late and she doesn’t know how to fix her mistakes, war hasn’t taught her how to bring people to life or from the brink of death.

Thank you, big brother. I’m sorry it had to end this way.

Her own voice is hesitant, filled with sobs she can’t retain. Her words barely reflect what she thinks, and as her arms wrap themselves around his chest because she can’t let his heart stop beating, she realizes how much his demise is unfitting and how bad she’s messed up. This shouldn’t have been the end for him.

Promise me you’ll continue fighting. Free Heartland for us.

She doesn’t know if she can swear an oath to this.

I promise.

She does it anyway.

Good. I’m proud of you, Ruri.

Why? How could he be proud of his own murderer? How could he be proud of someone who let herself get brainwashed and mind controlled as she broke him down, hit by hit, with a maniacal laugh and crazed eyes until he found the fatal flaw and payed for it with his life?

It doesn’t make sense, but her hands can’t clutch her head to clear her thoughts out, too busy cradling him so he goes to sleep decently.

Death is just going to bed for a much, much longer time than usual, after all, isn’t it?

His warmth is almost gone and his eyes close without fluttering back open. The smirk turns into a faint smile, giving her conflicting feelings. She should be relieved to see him so relaxed about meeting his end today, yet she can’t not note how wrong it seems to her, after seeing him killing the enemy if it meant surviving. How could he find his peace in such a sudden ending to all the efforts he’s ever done?

She can’t muster the strength to tell him not to leave her alone in this strange land she doesn’t remember arriving in, not to leave them when they all have a world to rebuild and a future to share in a better context.

She’s not ready when he whispers his last words.

Goodnight, Ruri.

She gives him what could very well be her last smile.

Goodnight, Shun.

He goes cold in her arms.

#bad things happen bingo #arc-v #ruri kurosaki #shun kurosaki #character death #angst #heavy angst #cw blood #cw character death #brotp: birds of black blossom

3 notes · View notes

jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets · 5 years

Text

Lost in Translation

Title: Lost in Translation

Fandom: Star Trek

Pairing: Mckirk

Rating: Lemon

Tags: minor character death, hurt, little bit of self destruction, stranded, possible smut down the line, FLUFF!!!

Summary:

“Attention citizens. This is the crew of the Enterprise asking for your aid. On Stardate 2264.78 a shuttle manned by our captain and fourteen cadets was ambushed by an unknown source and chased out of sight of our ship and into open space. Those cadets as well as our captain, James Tiberius Kirk, are still missing. We are asking anyone with any information on their whereabouts, or regarding the attack, to please contact the Enterprise immediately. Our family would appreciate any assistance you can give.”

AO3 Link

Masterlist

Special Thanks: wanted to give a huge shout out to my girl Katie, AKA @goingknowherewastaken for being a huge inspiration for this fic as well as for being a huge help (especially when it comes to putting up with my frantic ramblings lol) you're awesome boo <3

A/N: So this is a work in progress but it’s basically finished and I’ve been making great headway with this recently, so this will be the first fic I’ve ever finished! Woohoo!! And I'm thinking that I’ll probably stick to a Sunday post schedule.

Also a little note for y’all to keep in mind while reading. I have tagged this fic “possible eventual smut” and that’s because right now I don’t have any planned buuuuut… I'm going to leave that option up to you guys! Between the readers here and AO3, if you're still with me by the end of this fic, leave a comment and let me know if you would be interested in an epilogue or end scene with smut. I’ll post a reminder at the end, but keep it in mind while reading.

And if anyone is interested in being tagged for future posts for this fic or any others I may post, please let me know and I’ll add you to the list! Thanks for reading <3

AN: Sorry this is so late... I’ve had a shitty shitty weekend. But now it’s up and I cant wait to see what you guys think of this one!

SO MUCH FLUFF IN THIS CHAPTER! SO MUCH FLUFF!!

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

Chapter 6

“Damn it kid, look what you do to me.”

Leonard ran his thumb gently across the back of the hand he was still holding. He remembered waking up that day in the sickbay, he remembered his conversation with Uhora, remembered the feeling of acceptance that washed over him but also the fear of possibly never being able to admit that to the person who actually mattered.

He looked over to Jim still unconscious in the bed, as lifeless as he had been when he was being rushed through the sickbay after Spock had finally found him.

“Jim,” he began, nervously, “kid… you gotta wake up. You heard the log, I’ve got a lot of things to say and I want to be able to say them to your face. I don’t even care if you don’t… if you don’t feel the same, I just need to say it. I need you to know the truth. I don’t want another chance lost on us like this Jim, I-”

Tears clouded his vision and a lump filled his throat as he squeezed Jim's hand a little tighter. What were the words worth if Jim couldn’t even hear them?

The padd in his lap prompted him with a new log, this one belonging to Jim again, and a shaking finger touched the screen allowing Jim's voice to fill the room.

“Kirk’s log, stardate 2264.97. I buried them today Bones, all of them. I buried fourteen rookie cadets, kids, in the sand, on a planet we don’t even know, a planet that’s not even federation! Kids, Bones, they were all kids!” Leonard heard a muffled sound through the padd, he was sure it was a sob Jim was trying to cover, “I couldn’t just leave them lying there like that, it didn’t feel right. So… so I took a piece of metal from the wreckage and used it yesterday to dig out fourteen graves. The metal tore up my hands pretty bad but… a small price to pay for the indefinite price those cadets paid. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be found, but at least this way, whatever happens, I know I did my best to make sure those kids have some kind of peace. And if you do find me, Bones, or if somehow this comm makes its way back to you, will you let their parents know that I tried. I tried my best to keep them alive long enough but I just… I couldn’t do it. Not with the supplies I had, I just… god, Bones. Kids, they were all just kids…”

~~~~~~~~~~~

After a full day of digging fourteen graves, Jim laid down for one last sleep in his battered shelter, surrounded by his fallen crew members. The next morning he woke with the sun and began finally laying his cadets to rest.

He started with the first fallen, Trever, their pilot. Then moved on to the second, VooHook, then Amanda, and Kent. One by one he pulled their lifeless bodies into their far too early graves, with ripped apart hands and still limping on his injured knee, until all fourteen graves were filled. And one by one he filled in each and every one of them.

When he was finished it was mid day and Jim stood panting before the graves in the blazing hot sun. He stared down at them, the fourteen bumps of freshly turned ground at his feet, and fell to his knees in a crying lump. “I'm sorry,” he choked out around the uncontrollable sobs, “I let you all down and I'm so sorry. I’ll never be able to forgive myself for this. You all deserved better then me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

After Jim had said his goodbyes and cried until he couldn’t cry anymore, he gathered what little he could from the shelter, shoving it into the now empty medkit, and started making his way towards the lonely mountain.

As he was walking he pulled out his comm and began talking, trying to keep his mind off of how far the mountain really was. “Kirks log, stardate 2264.97. I’ve started walking, Bones. I'm making my way towards the only other thing I can see besides desert, the single mountain. It’s definitely going to take me much longer then I was hoping with my injured knee, but I'm trying not to think about that so much.”

Jim paused, continuing to limp towards the mountain as he thought back to better times. To his times in the academy after Pike had finally set him straight, and to think on it now Jim realized he had a lot more then his captaincy to thank his mentor for. He thought back on meeting Bones on that shuttle in Riverside, to the first time he laid eyes on that grumpy old doctor who seemed to worm his way right into his closed off little heart in the blink of an eye. To the ship, his ship, and the crew that came with it, his family. To the good times and the bad times, and the times he managed to drag Bones’s argumentative ass along on away missions, just so he could hear the doctors ever present negative outlook on whatever crazed idea Jim had come up with. In fact, now that he really thought about it, a lot of his memories involved Bones.

“Hey, Bones,” he chimed, glossy eyed as he sunk back into the memory, “remember when we first met? You were hiding in the bathroom on the shuttle in Riverside. I was bruised and covered in blood after Pike just pulled my ass out of an epic whooping, and you were drunk off your ass and fighting with the attendant on the shuttle, rambling on about your aviophobia.” He scoffed as he continued, “You know, I’ll never get over the fact that a man as terrified of flying as you ever joined Starfleet to begin with… but I'm damn glad you did. And on the bright side, you never did throw up on me.”

He chuckled at the thought. The entire flight to the academy was spent listening to the man beside him ramble on and on about everything and anything that could go wrong in space, sharing the flask the man had hidden in his jacket pocket, and praying that he wouldn’t end up with a lap full of the mans lunch by the end of it. But regardless of the fact that he was the most down trod man Jim had ever met besides himself, he couldn’t help but feel right away that they fit together better then any two beings in the entire universe. And he missed him so much right now.

“Remember,” He laughed trying to remember the exact words, “remember what you said to me that day, Bones, how you described space. You said, “space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence,”” he did his best to imitate the mans gruffy southern accent and looked around him at the vast amount of nothing before him, “ain’t that the truth. But no matter how this ends, Bones, I want you to know that I am thankful for you. I'm thankful for everything that brought us together in the end. For your ex wife who took the whole damn planet in your divorce, for the flight attendant who forced you to sit next to me on the shuttle, for the rooming snafu that ignored your request for a single room and landed you with me as a roommate instead, for being suspended and having my pouty ass hypoed and snuck onto the Enterprise by you. I feel like every being in the universe was always trying to bring us together, Bones, and by some god damn miracle we finally managed it after all those years. I just hope… I hope it doesn’t end on this sour note. I hope we pull off another miracle and I can find my way back to you. We’ve got a lot to talk about that’s for sure.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, Bones.” It had only been a few hours since his last log, but his injured knee was starting to ache even more with the walking and Jim needed some kind of distraction, “Remember first year, it was second term, and you were all riled up about passing the shuttle exam? And you killed me in the shuttle crash?! I know I never let you live it down but you have to admit it was pretty damn funny.” He trailed off, laughing at the memory of it. “It was when we were just starting to become really close, closer then we already were at the time. And despite the fact that you crashed our shuttle a bunch of times it’s a really great memory for me. When we were in that shuttle together, alone, just the two of us, it was the first time we really touched, we… we held hands for the first time. And when we were in there together, I thought for sure… Bones, I thought you were going to say something, I thought you were going to tell me that-” he sighed, still not quite able to say it yet, “but you didn’t. Anyways, I uh, I was just thinking about that memory. I hope you remember it, Bones.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Just ease the shuttle out of the port, Bones.”

Jim sat beside Len, the two of them in their casual grey academy sweats and matching oversized hoodies, just the two of them after class hours. Len was in the pilots seat, hand wrapped around the control stick in a white knuckled grip as he did as Jim said, and tried to ease the shuttle out of the port. Jim gripped the arm of his chair as the shuttle stuttered out of port, past the few docked shuttles around them, and into open space.

“Good,” he nodded, “a little shaky, but good. Now, accelerate forwards at a nice pace and head for the planet’s surface.”

Len nodded without taking his eyes off the view screen, focused on his task while trying not to have a mental break down mid flight, like he had while his instructor was in the passenger seat a few days prior.

The shuttle continued at its slow and not so steady pace, and Jim was sure the planet was actually getting further away from them instead of closer. “Speed up a bit grandma or else we’ll die of old age before we even get there.”

Len's fingers gripped tighter around the control stick as he ground out around clenched teeth, “Jim, this is stressful enough as it is!

“Easy there, Bones” Jim chuckled, “but you do need to go a little faster, we’re in open space, and stop shaking so much, everything’s fine.

Len tried to take a steadying breath but what came out was more like a stutter. He chanced a glance down at his hand still clenched tightly around the control stick and noticed just how much he was shaking.

He closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. “You know I hate flying, kid. It’s not as easy as you make it sound to just relax while I'm holding not only my life in my hands, but now yours as well.”

Jim let go a small smile as his eyes travelled over to Len’s still shaking hands. Before he could stop himself he stretched his arm across and let his fingers trail gently down Len's arm, starting at his elbow and stopping at his wrist. He let his fingers linger on the back of Len's hand for a moment, tracing small circles on the skin there, before wrapping his hand around Len's and running his thumb soothingly over Len's and pushing the stick forwards into a slightly faster speed.

Without looking up he spoke to Len again, in an almost whisper, “You know I willingly give you my life, right, Bones.”

Len scoffed, “As a doctor, yes, but as a pilot you shouldn’t.”

“It wouldn’t matter the situation, Bones, I would trust you with my life regardless.”

“Kid,” Len shook his head again, “I'm the worst pilot the academy’s got. You’d be better off never getting into a shuttle with me, it’d probably be a hell of a lot safer.”

“You're not a bad pilot,” he continued to ease Len's hand forwards bit by bit as he continued, “you're just a little too high strung at times and over worrisome. You’ve just got to learn to let things go, whatever’s going to happen will happen, and as long as it happens with you and I together, then I'm ok with it.”

For the first time since they entered the shuttle Len took his eyes off the view screen to look at Jim. He didn’t know exactly what to say…well that was actually a lie. He did know what to say, but what he struggled with was how to say it. “Jim…”

Jim still refused eye contact, eyes focused on their hands as he whispered barely audible, “Yeah, Bones.”

“Jim, I-” before he could get it out the shuttle rocked violently to the side. Len's eyes widened in panic and Jim sat straight up in his chair. He removed his hand from Len's and kept his eyes fixed on the view screen. “Jim, what was that?!”

“You’re the pilot, you tell me.”

“I thought you were supposed to be helping me!” Len was in full panic mode. His hands flew across the controls, trying desperately to locate the source of the hit, and stop the deafening alarms from going off around them.

“I am helping you, Bones,” Jim’s voice remained calm and collected, and it flustered Len even more, “this is a great time for a lesson.”

“It sure as hell is not!”

“It sure as hell is!” Jim shot back full of enthusiasm, “Now tell me what's happening, and quick before we’re hit again.”

Len's hands continued to move across the controls before he sat back, face pale and eyes wide, “We’re in an asteroid field!”

“Yes we are!” Jim sat back and crossed one leg over the other, turning slightly towards Len, “Now what do you do?”

Len turned to Jim, annoyed at the very collected and undisturbed kid beside him and growled, “How are you so calm?!”

Jim merely ignored the question and asked the same one again, “What do you do, Bones? I know you know the answer.”

He huffed a breath and searched his memory, thinking back to class and what his instructor had told him before stuttering out, “I… I pull up a view screen of the field to help navigate through it and then… land on the nearest safe surface until I can get aid.”

With out so much more than a nod Jim said, “Then do it.”

Len turned back to the controls and brought up the view of the asteroid field on the screen, and quickly tried to navigate a path through the debris towards the planet he was originally headed for. His frantic movements caught Jim's eye and he reached over and placed a firm hand on Len's shoulder.

“Relax, Bones.”

“Kid…” Len was sure that if he gripped the control stick any tighter with his right hand it would mould to his skin, but he just couldn’t bring himself to the calm level that was Jim Kirk.

Jim gave his shoulder a light squeeze, “You wanna get through this asteroid field then you have to have a calm steady hand and a clear mind. Just breathe.”

“Kid…” Len could feel every muscle in his body tensing despite Jim's words, “We’re gunna hit that huge asteroid!”

“Reverse thrusters, Bones, you can get through this field easily.”

Len found himself completely frozen as the asteroid was coming closer and closer. He couldn’t move any part of his body no matter how hard he tried, no matter how loud his brain yelled at his hand to reach across and activate the reverse thrusters, nothing was working. All he could do was stare straight ahead and think about the inevitable.

“Kid…” was all he could manage to choke out.

Jim gave Len's shoulder another squeeze, leaning closer to him, “You know how to do this, Bones, reverse thrusters.”

“Jim!”

With Len completely locked up, the shuttle crashed hard with the large asteroid, shaking the entire shuttle as the view screen went black. The shuttle around them filled with a deep red hue and the alarms were replaced with a robotic female voice.

“Away mission to class M planet, Maldova, failed. Shuttle destroyed on impact, all life forms aboard perished. Simulation end.”

The red hue was then replaced with the normal glow of artificial light as Len slumped back into his chair with a huff, rubbing at his eyes with both hands.

Jim shook Len's shoulder where his hand still held him tightly, as he breathed with a smile, “It’s ok, Bones.”

“No, no it’s not, Jim!” He threw his hands up in frustration, “I have another simulator test coming up in two weeks, and if I don’t pass this one I won’t be allowed to move into the next semester with you. I’ll be held back until I can pass this god forsaken test! Not to mention if this was a real life situation I would have killed you!” he sighed, “I'm a doctor damn it, not a pilot! Why do I have to learn how to fly?!”

“Every member of a ship has to know how to fly, no matter what their position is, everyone has to be certified. It’s Starfleet regulation. If something happened and every crew member was unable to fly except you, then we would all look to you to pilot.”

Len groaned, not even wanting to think about such a mess, “I'm never going to pass this test. I'm going to be held back and you’ll move on without me.”

Jim shook his head, “Not a chance, Bones.”

“Jim,” Len began in a firm voice, “you are not halting your education or dream of captaincy because this old man can’t pass a damn simulation test. It just means we won’t graduate together.”

“I'm not walking that stage without you.”

“Kid-”

Jim stopped him, looking Len directly in the eyes as he spoke his next words with sincerity, “Bones, I meant what I said before. No matter what the situation, I willingly lay my life in your hands.” Len could only stare at him in awe as he continued, “I would never give that trust to anyone else, only you. And I can’t do that if I'm in space and you're still grounded. No one else on any ship, or anywhere in the universe, would be worthy enough of that trust, and I don’t want anyone else, I only want you. And if that means that I have to stay here with you for another year and wait while you pass the test, or two years, or ten years, even if we never leave earth, I will wait right here beside you, Bones. I am not going into space without you, do you understand?”

Len didn’t know what to say. All he could do was stare and nod to let Jim know that he did understand, but what he wanted to say was how much Jim's words had meant to him. After a hardened childhood and a shitty marriage followed by an equally shitty divorce, Len was starting to think he would never know compassion again. But sure enough, Jim Kirk had some how managed to flip his entire life view around and flutter his heart like a love sick teenager, despite the hard exterior he worked so hard on.

“Good,” Jim smiled, leaning away from Len, “but I'm not going to let you fail. We are going to work on this until you feel comfortable with it.”

While Len continued to stare at Jim, he turned away and started rebooting the simulator to play a random mission. While his hands worked the controls Len reached forwards and caught Jim's hand in his, holding it firmly, linking their fingers together and giving them a squeeze. Jim stopped all movements and looked to Len, waiting for him to say something.

“I...” He began, “Thanks, Jim, for sticking with me, it means a lot.”

Jim returned the squeeze and smile, and when Len let go they both found their hands feeling very empty. A want to pull back and never let go washing over the both of them, but neither knowing how to go about that. So Jim decided instead to turn back to his work and busy himself with rebooting the simulator, and less then a minute later they found themselves looking through the view screen at the now very familiar port.

“Ok, Bones,” Jim settled back into the chair once again and explained Len's new mission, “this time you're rescuing a stranded four man crew stalled in open space. You’ve got to locate them, bring your shuttle to rest beside them without jostling them further into space, and engage the boarding tube so they can safely leave their ship and board ours. Got it?”

“Got it,” he confirmed with a nod.

“Great.” A smirk quickly found its way onto Jim's face as he turned to face Len, “And this time don’t forget to watch out for oncoming debris or danger, don’t get distracted while ogling my fine self again.”

Len just reached over and gave Jim's shoulder a shove. Jim burst out laughing, and as much and Len tried to give the kid his signature scowl he just couldn’t, and ended up laughing along with him. He spared him one last glance, Jim's face bright with laughter and Len couldn’t help but think how much he loved that smile on Jim kirks face, what he wouldn’t give to have it always there and only for him.

As the shuttle pulled further out of the port he returned his eyes reluctantly to the view screen. Taking the shuttle out into open space, this time with more confidence and less of a shake to his hands, as Jim's laughter beside him filled the shuttle.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Len ran his thumbs over Jim's fingers, his hand still tightly held in his while Jim still lay unconscious beside him. “How could I forget, kid,” and how could he.

He remembered that day perfectly, as if it were yesterday. The day Jim had not only sent a whirlwind of shivers through his body with his touch, and held his hand, but it was also the day that Jim had given his whole self to Len. After knowing Jim for close to a year at the time, Len knew that Jim was not one to trust others easily if even at all, and for Jim to openly and completely give that trust to Leonard was a feeling he could not explain. Jim's declaration of trust meant more to him then the universe itself.

Looking at the padd revealed yet another one of Leonard's logs. He pulled Jim's hand into his lap, still not letting go, and opened the next file.

“CMO’s log. Stardate 2264. 98. Its been two days now since lieutenant Uhura found me in a heap in my room. One day since I woke up in the medbay an absolute mess. I will admit that… that Jim's disappearance has taken a huge toll on me. I’ve never been this long without the kid and once we get him back, and we will get him back, I will do everything in my power to personally make sure Jim never leaves my side again. Protocol be damned! But after yet another hard day with news of another planet coming up empty, it was the lieutenant’s words that helped me get through the night without another incident. Uhora was right, we can’t help Jim if we can’t even help ourselves.”

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

A/N: I warned you... FLUFF!!! ok, getting into some flashbacks now as Jim’s journey across the empty planet begins... more good times to come XD

Let me know what Y’all think <3 Love you guys!!

Tags: @goingknowherewastaken @weresilver-in-space @medicatemedrmccoy @bi-e-ne @flaminglupine @resistance-is-futile81 @0dannyphantom0 @haveyouseenmymind @jimboy-mccoy

If anyone wants to be tagged let me know <3

7 notes · View notes

kalico-to-the-letter · 5 years

Text

REVIEW // RWBY | 6.2 | “UNCOVERED”

AKA the moment when all the slashfic writers remember that these girls are still only in their mid-to-late teens. Awkward.

Welcome in to my review of Volume 6, Chapter 2, entitled “Uncovered”.

In this episode: Confirmation for the great sages of the fandom who’ve seen promotional material, Why the magic lamp is a magic lamp, and A stupid new character.

Ah, this was fun. See, if this were my show, I would be digging deep into the “female who is mostly attracted to women” bag to write a scene like this. But it holds up on its own, I think.

SOME BIG THINGS BEING UNCOVERED, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN … SORRY

When was the last time any singular episode of RWBY posed so many questions of its primary narrative without a whole lot happening? Maybe at some point in Volume 4, but the show now is in a very different place compared to those days.

I would have to estimate that about eighty percent of this episode is spent on providing exposition for the heroes’ story, whether it be on what our crew of protagonists are attempting to do by taking the Relic (of Knowledge) to Atlas, what the Relic (of Knowledge) even does, or why everyone agrees this is a good idea. My initial thought is: “Gee, it would have been nice to have had this information earlier, and delivered in a smoother way than just heaping it on my plate”.

It’s not a negative though, not entirely. Yes, the delivery of information in this episode could have been better, but everything makes sense, for the most part. And even though, as always, it hinges on “let’s do this because Oz says we should”, this episode progresses in a way which cements Oz as the self-righteous, holier-than-thou dick I personally have come to see him as, ever since he inhabited the body of Oscar.

Not even a year ago, this show was constantly excusing Oz’s mystery and complete lack of transparency as just being a necessary thing – part of the deal. That way when he did engage and share with us, it made him seem like he wasn’t just navel-gazing, but actually digging deep. So it makes me satisfied to see that the show – and Team RWBY – are finally having enough of his bullshit. Bonus points to Ruby, for planting her flag and being decisive in this situation as well.

It is through this continued attachment and dedication to character that RWBY gets away with quite a lot, in fact. Exposition is far more interesting when it is tied to potentially conflicting character dynamics, and setting Team RWBY against bullshitting allies like Oz, who claim that they know what is best without actually contributing the depth of that knowledge, is an underrated way to define the collective personality and identity of the newly-reunited team.

The other twenty percent of this episode is spent on Cinder.

Yes, I know we saw her silhouette in the season poster, and we’ve seen her traipsing around streets as a mysterious, unidentified figure in the opening, but understand that there are so many ways to handle the non-death and return of a fairly major character. And the fact of the matter is that while yes, it was fairly obvious to everyone that has seen the promotional material, this is – for the most part – one of the better ways to bring her back into the fold.

What would you rather have? Her showing up as a complete anticlimax twist near the endgame of the season all of a sudden? Or would you rather have an actual story?

If your answer is a story, then this is one way you do it: bring her back early.

And consider this: Rooster Teeth know that we would have seen through the silhouettes and the hooded cloaks – it is the easiest thing to connect that mystery to Cinder, and it’s one they would have thought about. Otherwise, why even put the silhouette in the poster, or the mystery figure in the opening? They didn’t have to do any of that, and who knows? We might have asked the question if Cinder could come back, but none of us “figured it out” until we saw these promo materials, and then people started acting like they knew for certain, all along. But Rooster Teeth did make those choices, and it’s worth thinking about what that could mean. Why put her in shadow? Why have her walking around in a cloak?

Easy answer: Because (hopefully) it’s not the same old Cinder.

If you’re a long-time reader of these reviews (and bless you if you are), then you know that for the longest time, I was on Cinder Will Turn Good Island. I finally set sail from that island toward the end of last season, when she revealed her lovely Grimm-infused arm. I figured that was it for my idea, and I didn’t really consider it again until this episode.

And I’m not going back to that idea of a Zuko-esque hero turn, necessarily. At the core of their respective characters, the parallel doesn’t fit. But I am considering going back to the crux of that idea, which was of Cinder’s potential as a general wildcard. What if she split from Salem, and not to join the heroes, but to walk a new road as an anomalous, morally grey character?

That idea on its own is kind of what I had hoped for Raven last season, until she turned out to be the most blah and boring “important” character in the show’s history.

But with Cinder, someone who we’ve seen since Day One, I still think it has legs. During that time, she has become more and more of an antagonist, more crazed and sinking – until she literally was sunk. And this episode doesn’t cast her off the bat as anyone different than what we remember. She still (presumably) kills an innocent woman for her clothes, and still seems to be on the hunt for Starship Hero.

But like I said. You bring her back early, and you get the chance to see her story in full. I have great interest in how they handle this.

OBSERVATIONS:

I’ve seen her referred to as Steampunk Granny, but she now has a name: Maria. Let’s see if this character is any good or not.

Hey, remember that blonde lady from the new opening? Yep, hello, Salem. Just from how this ending came together, you know that Oz is going to get it in very short order. And hopefully that drives him to be better, because he is still important to the cause.

A mystical entity springing from a Magical Lamp has the name of “Jinn”? This show is the opposite of slick with some of these names.

I cannot be the only one who thinks “Lil’ Miss Malachite” is already a terrible character. For one thing, she already comes off as such a blatant rip-off of Game of Thrones’s Varys that it’s laughable. Spiders, really?

Beyond the mismanagement of Cinder herself, this element could threaten all the good stuff I wrote about above. When you put a character like Cinder in this position, separating her from her past tethers, you don’t need to introduce artificial stakes to make her story interesting – it becomes interesting on its own. It’s what’s called a “burgeoning subjectivity”, and it’s essentially when the focal character puts herself in positions to reflect and grow as a result of how she interacts with others and the world around her. Organic, reflexive development. But this Malachite woman already has all the red flags of being a hammy, cartoonish chess master with hammy, cartoonish goons, brought in just so that Cinder has some kind of foil to go up against. I know that a writer thought this direction would be a good idea, but that’s just what this character comes off as: a writer’s C-grade, clumsily-written pawn, here to threaten something that could be really good for Cinder’s development. If it ends up that I’m jumping out the window on this, then I’ll hold my hands up. But I’ve seen (and done) enough bad, bald-faced writing to know when it’s rearing its head. Consider yourself warned.

It’s weird, isn’t it, to actually see the Team RWBY girls confronted with such a … figure … as Jinn. And I know, part of their shock comes from seeing such a magic entity appear before them … but these girls in the show are old enough to understand what Jinn, just visually, represents. And if you don’t believe me, then just look at how that scene is cut together – close-ups of big-blue body parts cut against their reaction faces … mm-hm. You don’t have to be a film student to see the connotations in practice.

GRADE: C+

“Uncovered” is the heaviest episode of RWBY – in terms of delivering exposition and driving the overarching plot – in quite some time. But if last week’s premiere was “all-killer, no-filler”, this is very much the other side of the spectrum, as we learned a fair amount, but didn’t really go anywhere. Still, there are a number of bright spots, such as Oz being exposed in the eyes of Team RWBY, and the return and potential solo storyline of Cinder. All in all, there are enough character hooks to stay intrigued, but right now the bones and mechanics of the writing are too visible to be entirely comfortable. – KALLIE

#rwby spoilers #rwby reviews #rwby6 #rwby volume 6 #rwby

7 notes · View notes

poorquentyn · 6 years

Text

Remember Your Name, Part 2: Always Smiling

“You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves.”

--1984

At first, I did not understand whose chapter I was reading.

“The rat squealed when he bit into it...” Wait, Reek? Didn’t he turn out to be dead after all? That was the big reveal at the end of Theon’s A Clash of Kings arc: Reek had died in Ramsay’s place, and the man we knew as “Reek” was actually Ramsay all along. So who...

...no.

Oh, oh no.

It can’t be.

It is.

George RR Martin did not exactly hide his intention to bring Theon Greyjoy back to the forefront in A Dance with Dragons, after two books and thirteen years offstage. This opening chapter had already been released as a teaser in 2008, three years prior to the book’s release, and the author had repeatedly hinted at Theon’s return on his Notablog. But I wasn’t paying attention to any of that at the time. I wasn’t plugged into the fandom in 2011; this was just a new book I was eager to read. I was ready to see how Jon and Stannis interacted after the former was named Lord Commander. I was ready to see how Dany handled her enemies in Slaver’s Bay. I was ready to see what really happened to Davos, after Cersei was told in AFFC that Wyman Manderly had him executed (I didn’t believe it for a second). What I was not remotely ready to see was that name blazing across the top of the book’s unlucky thirteenth chapter: REEK.

And I would argue, in retrospect, that this was the most appropriate context in which to first experience Reek I ADWD. You should be immediately confused about who you “are” within the chapter, because our POV is as well. You are dropped into the dark corner of a Dreadfort dungeon with no explanation, your mouth filled with rat and your ears with squeals; you have to reassemble the world along with him. You are not permitted to stand at a distance, shaking your head and clucking your tongue at this pitiful creature, as so many people do in-universe. You are there, in a world that feels far more like horror than high fantasy, remembering his name as he does.

In that fateful first trip through this sawtoothed gauntlet of a chapter, it was only when our POV flashed back to the fate of poor Kyra did I remember the name Theon Greyjoy.

He had run before. Years ago, it seemed, when he still had some strength in him, when he had still been defiant. That time it had been Kyra with the keys. She told him she had stolen them, that she knew a postern gate that was never guarded. “Take me back to Winterfell, m’lord,” she begged, palefaced and trembling. “I don’t know the way. I can’t escape alone. Come with me, please.”

And so he had. The gaoler was dead drunk in a puddle of wine, with his breeches down around his ankles. The dungeon door was open and the postern gate had been unguarded, just as she had said. They waited for the moon to go behind a cloud, then slipped from the castle and splashed across the Weeping Water, stumbling over stones, half-frozen by the icy stream. On the far side, he had kissed her. “You’ve saved us,” he said. Fool. Fool.

It had all been a trap, a game, a jape. Lord Ramsay loved the chase and preferred to hunt two-legged prey. All night they ran through the darkling wood, but as the sun came up the sound of a distant horn came faintly through the trees, and they heard the baying of a pack of hounds. “We should split up,” he told Kyra as the dogs drew closer. “They cannot track us both.” The girl was crazed with fear, though, and refused to leave his side, even when he swore that he would raise a host of Ironborn and come back for her if she should be the one they followed.

Within the hour, they were taken. One dog knocked him to the ground, and a second bit Kyra on the leg as she scrambled up a hillside. The rest surrounded them, baying and snarling, snapping at them every time they moved, holding them there until Ramsay Snow rode up with his huntsmen. He was still a bastard then, not yet a Bolton. “There you are,” he said, smiling down at them from the saddle. “You wound me, wandering off like this. Have you grown tired of my hospitality so soon?” That was when Kyra seized a stone and threw it at his head. It missed by a good foot, and Ramsay smiled. “You must be punished.”

That, too, is appropriate, because this passage is designed to ground the reader in this disorienting environment. It reminds us of Ramsay’s nigh-peerless cruelty and sadism, how much of a bastard he is in the pejorative sense. We’d only heard about his Most Dangerous Game hunts before, and now we’re dropped into one from the prey’s POV. It’s a hideously ironic twist of fate for the accomplished hunter Theon Greyjoy, a significant moment in Ramsay’s deconstruction and near-destruction of his identity. After all, Ramsay was there--as Reek, no less--for Theon’s own (considerably less successful) human-hunt at Winterfell. There’s a further irony in that Kyra and Theon escape due to a drunk horny guard, which is in part how Osha helped Bran and his companions escape Theon in ACOK. These distorted, inverted echoes of his previous POV arc become even more pronounced when he actually returns to Winterfell; it lends his journey back to Theon an appropriate sense of the uncanny, as if he’s being drawn into his past before being spat out into his future. The flashback further blows the dust off of our memories of Theon’s ACOK storyline by bringing back Kyra, a woman he treated at the time as a prize to be abused on a whim. That power imbalance is now ash and dust, broken like Winterfell by the Bastard of Bolton. On the whole, this passage does a tremendous job of measuring the gap between our POV’s past and present (something he himself is having difficulties doing, as I’ll get into below and in my essay on Reek II). The man who ran still thought of himself as Theon. The man eating the rat thinks of himself as Reek, when he thinks of himself at all.

Upon reread, though, what struck me most about this sequence is how the author foreshadows the end of Theon’s ADWD arc right here in its opening pages. Theon thinks of this attempted escape as exemplifying the point at which “he still had some strength in him, when he had still been defiant,” but it also exemplifies the self-absorption that was his defining character trait in ACOK. Let’s be honest: when he promised Kyra that he would raise an Ironborn host and come back for her, he was lying through his as-yet-unbroken teeth. Not only because there’s no way in hell said Ironborn would follow the man they nigh-universally disdain on a suicide mission to save a greenland woman, but also because the Theon we knew in ACOK wouldn’t actually have asked them to do so, had he made it back safely. He would have breathed a sigh of relief and forgotten about Kyra, as he’d forgotten about the captain’s daughter. What was she to him, Theon Greyjoy, Prince of the Iron Islands and also (maybe, kind of, not really) Winterfell? Naught but a symbol of his eternally bifurcated identity, and Theon doesn’t exactly lack for reminders of that. When he told her that they should split up, it’s because he was hoping Ramsay would find her and not him. That is the person he was.

And yet, at the end of his ADWD storyline, our POV will once again find himself alone with a fellow victim of Ramsay, another woman from his past life begging him not to leave her, the Bastard hard on their heels...and this time, he will not attempt to abandon her. This decision takes place in the final words of a chapter entitled (at last, at last!) THEON. It is in this moment, with this moment, that Theon restores himself, and it’s ironically by doing something that the Theon we knew would never do. He recovers himself by improving himself; he returns to Theon by changing what it means to be Theon.

That’s how this storyline ends. But the name “Reek” is how it begins. So: why Reek? Why did Ramsay give Theon his dead servant’s name, and by extension, why did the author choose this name as his opening salvo in this storyline?

“Reek” is a cage. It is a name designed to enslave. Ramsay uses it to instill worthlessness, servility, and above all shame. It literally refers to the undoubtedly appalling smell coming off Theon after months in the dungeons of the Dreadfort, but more than that, it tells Theon that this smell is his fault. That reek is you. It represents who you are. You stink, from the inside out. You are unworthy, inhuman, an object more than a person. Ramsay, posing as Reek, enabled Theon’s heinous actions in A Clash of Kings, and now he has turned around and forcibly imprinted that identity and the crimes that go with it onto Theon. The most insidious element of this process is that the Bastard has forced Theon to take part in his own torture.

Reek had been whipped and racked and cut, but there was no pain half so excruciating as the pain that followed flaying. It was the sort of pain that drove men mad, and it could not be endured for long. Soon or late the victim would scream, “Please, no more, no more, stop it hurting, cut it off,” and Lord Ramsay would oblige. It was a game they played.

And that “game” supports the narrative that Ramsay has kindled and fed like a flame burning in our POV’s mind: you deserve what is being done to you. You know you do, or you wouldn’t be asking me to cut off your fingers and toes. I was there, whispering in your ear like a devil on your shoulder, when you committed that unspeakable crime at that mill near Winterfell. I know who you are, more than anyone, and who you are reeks. This is right. This is justice. This is the fate you have earned.

But...it’s not, actually. Not because the Theon Greyjoy we knew in ACOK was a good person--he was loathsome by any reasonable standard--but because nobody deserves this. No one should be flayed. No one should be racked. No one should undergo mutilation and starvation and solitary confinement. The conflation of torture with justice is one of the most vile cultural artifacts of our species, and George RR Martin is very clearly making that argument throughout this storyline. What has happened to Theon has rendered him all but unable to come to terms with what he’s done. He is far less able to do, be, and get better because of what Ramsay has inflicted upon him. The critique is aimed not only at the Bastard of Bolton, but at us. Every time someone posted on a forum that Theon deserved what he was getting: this is what it looks like. This is what you were rooting for. How does it taste? Does it taste like justice? Or does it taste like a sudden mouthful of raw rat, all fur and skin and squealing?

That name change has to stand in for everything that’s happened to Theon, because the author chooses not to directly depict the torture. For GRRM, what happened to Theon is unfathomable. It defies description, elides elucidation, exposes the limits of language. It is beyond writing.

Now, I’m not making a general statement here. There’s certainly nothing wrong with going for a blunt, direct depiction. Yet there is also a real power in focusing instead on the aftermath, with the violence itself serving as a structuring absence festering in the back of our minds. What Martin is interested in conveying, more than what was done to Theon, is the state in which it has left him.

That state is one in which Reek does not want to be Theon again. For him, Ramsay has become a figure conjured out of and in response to his sins; the Bastard of Bolton is both tempting devil and avenging angel, destroyer of Theon, creator of Reek. In Theon’s mind, Ramsay stands in front of all the doors, holding all the keys, and what Theon wants most is to keep those doors shut. If they open, the past comes rushing in all red and screaming, and at this point, Theon would rather be Reek forever than face that.

Reek turned away from the torch with tears glimmering in his eyes. What does he want of me this time? he thought, despairing. Why won’t he just leave me be? I did no wrong, not this time, why won’t they just leave me in the dark? He’d had a rat, a fat one, warm and wriggling…

I am done. I am dead. Theon is gone, forget me, leave me in the dark. I am so sorry, not only for what I’ve done, but for existing, at all. I will try not to. I beg you, author-father-god: write about me no more.

George RR Martin refused. Instead, in an act of both cruelty and compassion, he shone the spotlight on Theon once more, insisting that his story was not yet done despite all evidence to the contrary. The show must go on. Do you remember your lines? Do you remember your motivation? Do you remember your name?

Some wait alone, some share their invisible rooms with others. Invisible, yes, what do the furnishings matter, at this stage of things? Underfoot crunches the oldest of city dirt, last crystallizations of all the city had denied, threatened, lied to its children. Each has been hearing a voice, one he thought was talking only to him, say, "You didn't really believe you'd be saved. Come, we all know who we are by now. No one was ever going to take the trouble to save you, old fellow...." There is no way out. Lie and wait, lie still and be quiet. Screaming holds across the sky. When it comes, will it come in darkness, or will it bring its own light? Will the light come before or after? But it is already light. How long has it been light?

--Gravity’s Rainbow

image by Marc Fishman

As I said in the introduction to this series, part of what makes Theon’s ADWD arc work so well is how it functions as a hall of mirrors in which everyone he encounters reflects his identity crisis back at him. That begins here, with the boys who call him back from the wings, back into the light.

The sound of the lock turning was the most terrible of all. When the light hit him full in the face, he let out a shriek. He had to cover his eyes with his hands. He would have clawed them out if he’d dared, his head was pounding so. “Take it away, do it in the dark, please, oh please.”

“That’s not him,” said a boy’s voice. “Look at him. We’ve got the wrong cell.”

“Last cell on the left,” another boy replied. “This is the last cell on the left, isn’t it?”

“Aye.” A pause. “What’s he saying?”

“I don’t think he likes the light.”

“Would you, if you looked like that?” The boy hawked and spat. “And the stench of him. I’m like to choke.”

“He’s been eating rats,” said the second boy. “Look.”

The first boy laughed. “He has. That’s funny.”

I had to. The rats bit him when he slept, gnawing at his fingers and his toes, even at his face, so when he got his hands on one he did not hesitate. Eat or be eaten, those were the only choices. “I did it,” he mumbled, “I did, I did, I ate him, they do the same to me, please …”

The sound of the lock turning, the scream of a rusted iron hinge...

Little Walder is Ramsay the Second, described by Theon as the Bastard’s “best boy” who “grew more like him every day.” Big Walder is something else entirely: George RR Martin’s Enfant Terrible, a tiny adorable squeaky-voiced child who is, nevertheless, one of the smartest and most dangerous people in the entire story. I’ll delve much more into his character when we get to Reek III (he’s a favorite of mine), but for my purposes in this chapter, what matters most is that it’s Big Walder who first poses The Question...

“Talk to me,” said one of them. He was the smaller of the two, a thin boy, but clever. “Do you remember who you are?”

The fear came bubbling up inside him, and he moaned.

“Talk to me. Tell me your name.”

My name. A scream caught in his throat. They had taught him his name, they had, they had, but it had been so long that he’d forgotten. If I say it wrong, he’ll take another finger, or worse, he’ll … he’ll … He would not think about that, he could not think about that. There were needles in his jaw, in his eyes. His head was pounding. “Please,” he squeaked, his voice thin and weak. He sounded a hundred years old. Perhaps he was. How long have I been in here? “Go,” he mumbled, through broken teeth and broken fingers, his eyes closed tight against the terrible bright light. “Please, you can have the rat, don’t hurt me …”

...and it’s Little Walder, the mini-Ramsay, who first gives The Answer.

“Reek,” said the larger of the boys. “Your name is Reek. Remember?” He was the one with the torch. The smaller boy had the ring of iron keys.

Reek? Tears ran down his cheeks. “I remember. I do.” His mouth opened and closed. “My name is Reek. It rhymes with leek.” In the dark he did not need a name, so it was easy to forget. Reek, Reek, my name is Reek. He had not been born with that name. In another life he had been someone else, but here and now, his name was Reek. He remembered.

It’s fitting that the Frey boys are the ones who kick off this struggle. The Walders themselves are constantly conflated and confused for one another, not only because they share a birth name, but because their nicknames upend expectations: “Little” Walder is the lumbering domineering bully, “Big” Walder the pint-sized silver-tongued backstabber. Moreover, they too were there for his rise and fall in ACOK; they remember Theon Greyjoy, the prideful Prince of Winterfell. That’s why they can’t believe at first that the shaking, stammering ghost begging them to leave him in the dark is him. They are his past, come for him at last.

“I know you,” he whispered, through cracked lips. “I know your names.”

Beyond that, the Walders and their question force Theon to start interrogating rather than merely accepting his environment, looking at both the world and himself with new eyes.

The air was cold and damp and full of half-forgotten smells. The world, Reek told himself, this is what the world smells like. He did not know how long he had been down there in the dungeons, but it had to have been half a year at least. That long, or longer. What if it has been five years, or ten, or twenty? Would I even know? What if I went mad down there, and half my life is gone?

When he raised a hand, he was shocked to see how white it was, how fleshless. Skin and bones, he thought. I have an old man’s hands. Could he have been wrong about the boys? What if they were not Little Walder and Big Walder after all, but the sons of the boys he’d known?

Billy Pilgrim Theon Greyjoy has come unstuck in time. He’s trying to reassemble a self that keeps re-fragmenting in front of him. It’s a painful, punishing process, but it’s also a necessary first step forward from the annihilating void of Reek and the dungeon in which he was (re?)born. Again, that void itself is not what Theon fears most right now. The questions he’s asking himself above, and their answers--that’s what he fears most right now, the pain and confusion and self-loathing that goes with remembering his name. Big Walder asking him to “tell me your name” opened up the Pandora’s Box inside Theon’s head and heart, and Little Walder answering “Reek” shut it for him. That’s what Ramsay set out to do: enslave Theon by rendering the void an attractive alternative to being himself.

His lord was merciful and kind. He might have flayed his face off for some of the things Reek had said, before he’d learned his true name and proper place.

The author’s strategic use of secondary characters to spur Theon’s identity arc continues when the squires bring our POV before the Bastard.

At the high table the Bastard of Bolton sat in his lord father’s seat, drinking from his father’s cup. Two old men shared the high table with him, and Reek knew at a glance that both were lords. One was gaunt, with flinty eyes, a long white beard, and a face as hard as a winter frost. His jerkin was a ragged bearskin, worn and greasy. Underneath he wore a ringmail byrnie, even at table. The second lord was thin as well, but twisted where the first was straight. One of his shoulders was much higher than the other, and he stooped over his trencher like a vulture over carrion. His eyes were grey and greedy, his teeth yellow, his forked beard a tangle of snow and silver. Only a few wisps of white hair still clung to his spotted skull, but the cloak he wore was soft and fine, grey wool trimmed with black sable and fastened at the shoulder with a starburst wrought in beaten silver.

GRRM chooses not to tell us directly who Ramsay’s dinner companions are. Only with context provided in other chapters (from Jon and Davos as well as Theon) can we fill in the gaps and realize that the one with “grey and greedy” eyes is Arnolf Karstark and the one described as “gaunt, with flinty eyes, a long white beard, and a face as hard as a winter frost” is Hother “Whoresbane” Umber. Names and identities cannot simply be assumed. They must be earned.

But again, even the most minor of supporting characters in Theon’s ADWD storyline has layers that reflect his arc. Arnolf and Whoresbane are inverses in terms of where their loyalties lie. The castellan of Karhold is publicly feigning loyalty to Stannis, while secretly planning to betray the king to the Boltons. The castellan of Last Hearth, by contrast, appears to be feigning loyalty to the Boltons, while his heart remains with the Starks (and his brother fights for Stannis). As such, Arnolf represents Reek, he who has given himself over to Ramsay, and Whoresbane represents Theon, with the best part of him--the part that loved a Stark like a brother--still intact down deep.

Beyond this subtext, though, these two characters directly engage with the question of Theon’s identity.

“There he is. My sour old friend.” To the men beside him he said, “Reek has been with me since I was a boy. My lord father gave him to me as a token of his love.”

The two lords exchanged a look. “I had heard your serving man was dead,” said the one with the stooped shoulder. “Slain by the Starks, they said.”

Lord Ramsay chuckled. “The ironmen will tell you that what is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger. Like Reek. He smells of the grave, though, I grant you that.”

“He smells of nightsoil and stale vomit.” The stoop-shouldered old lord tossed aside the bone that he’d been gnawing on and wiped his fingers on the tablecloth. “Is there some reason you must needs inflict him upon us whilst we’re eating?”

The second lord, the straight-backed old man in the mail byrnie, studied Reek with flinty eyes. “Look again,” he urged the other lord. “His hair’s gone white and he is three stone thinner, aye, but this is no serving man. Have you forgotten?”

The crookback lord looked again and gave a sudden snort. “Him? Can it be? Stark’s ward. Smiling, always smiling.”

Smiling. Always smiling, because what was there in life that would not swoon before Theon Greyjoy’s smile? Women, battle, the realization that there’s an invisible noose around your neck, the growing panic that you have no home and no family and will never be welcome anywhere--just smile, and laugh, and kick Gared’s head away as the blood gushes forth. What, me worry? It might be cynical and childish, but it worked...

...until it didn’t.

The last thing Theon Greyjoy saw was Smiler, kicking free of the burning stables with his mane ablaze, screaming, rearing...

Ramsay did not wipe that smile off Theon’s face, he broke it. He did not teach Theon a lesson, he took a hammer to Theon’s ability to learn, and think, and move, and eat. He did not bring this proud wicked man to justice. What he did was methodically cut away at Theon’s defense mechanisms until he found the quivering child they dragged from his room on Pyke, and then resumed cutting. We are left to catch up with the results, and “smiling, always smiling” is GRRM’s most poignant measuring of the gap between what was and what is.

Speaking of our host for the evening...if Theon sees Ramsay as a divine terrible force sent to punish him for his sins, Ramsay sees Theon as a vessel to work through his own identity crisis: the character-defining struggle to claim the name of Bolton rather than Snow.

If he’d had a tail, he would have tucked it down between his legs.

If I had a tail, the Bastard would have cut it off. The thought came unbidden, a vile thought, dangerous. His lordship was not a bastard anymore. Bolton, not Snow. The boy king on the Iron Throne had made Lord Ramsay legitimate, giving him the right to use his lord father’s name. Calling him Snow reminded him of his bastardy and sent him into a black rage. Reek must remember that. And his name, he must remember his name. For half a heartbeat it eluded him, and that frightened him so badly that he tripped on the steep dungeon steps and tore his breeches open on the stone, drawing blood. Little Walder had to shove the torch at him to get him back on his feet and moving again.

And for the moment, it’s working. The word “Theon” never appears once in this chapter, and at its end, Ramsay Bolton né Snow declares his war upon the world.

Ramsay Bolton smiled. “I ride to war, Reek. And you will be coming with me, to help me fetch home my virgin bride.”

The locked-in hell of the Dreadfort will be set loose from its cage, writ in red across the North once more...the inside will become out. Yet he also inadvertently kicks off Theon’s arc in this book, because the focus of Ramsay’s war is the most important supporting character in Theon’s ADWD storyline, more even than Ramsay himself: Jeyne Poole. It is her, more than anyone else, who helps Reek return to Theon. Of course, I’ll get much more into that in later chapters, but in this first chapter, the author grants us a brief glimpse of where he’s going with this:

“I remember her. Arya.”

“She shall be the Lady of Winterfell, and me her lord.”

She is only a girl.

Jeyne both reminds Reek of his life as Theon (connected as she is to Winterfell and the Starks) and offers the most poignant of the many mirrors he encounters in ADWD. She, too, is Ramsay’s victim, forced to bear a name that isn’t hers, and “she is only a girl” is but the first stirring of Theon’s conscience in response. The defiance is all internal for the moment, but it’s there, a choice beyond “eat or be eaten.”

I must not let him drive me mad. He can take my fingers and my toes, he can put out my eyes and slice my ears off, but he cannot take my wits unless I let him.

Again, you can see the end in chrysalis here at the beginning, and that’s what I call strong characterization and great writing. (Remind me why ADWD is bad?)

And so stage is set. As you may have noticed, there are no actual plot points of note in this chapter, because it’s designed to establish this singular mood and explore what happened to our POV offstage (it’s very much like “The Merchant’s Man” in that regard). The seeds for his later victory are sown, but that’s to add another layer upon rereads. First time through, the unmistakable takeaway is that Reek or Theon or whatever you want to call him is at rock bottom:

Even if he had wanted to resist, he did not have the strength. It had been scourged from him, starved from him, flayed from him.

But hey, as anyone who ever started on the long painful road to recovery told themselves over and over and over: there’s nowhere to go from rock bottom but up.

#theon greyjoy #theon in adwd #a dance with dragons #a clash of kings #asoiaf meta #ramsay bolton #kyra #big walder frey #little walder frey #arnolf karstark #whoresbane umber #jeyne poole

327 notes · View notes

daretomarvel · 6 years

Text

Apparently I write gryles drabbles now: part 6

Work: mauritius Fandoms: One Direction, BBC Radio 1 RPF Pairing: Nick Grimshaw/Harry Styles Tags: Canon Compliant, Angst, Self-Reflection, (of a sort), Author Makes Everything Sad, We're All Shocked It would be easier, Harry thought, if he could just stop watching.

Drabble is on ao3 or alternatively right here ♡

For all that he loved a dramatic moment, even Harry had to admit that he was sat on his sofa watching a 15 second video of water dripping onto a fern.

Truly, it just couldn’t be that deep.

The massively unsteady boat cruise videos hadn’t been either, and he may or may not have screen-grabbed that one picture of Nick and Alexa covered in mud after their apparent ATV adventures, but that was irrelevant. This was instagram, not snapchat. No screenshot notifications, no rules.

There was a part of him desperately trying not to think about how a few years ago, he wouldn’t have even dreamed of caring about a screenshot notification.

That part succeeded, on the whole. What good ever came of dwelling?

(A few years ago, he wouldn’t have had to take a screenshot at all. Nick would have sent him the photo himself, unwilling to take the chance that Harry might miss seeing it.)

It wasn’t even that he wanted to be there, exactly.

For one thing, it would have been chaos. Nick’s New Years bash would have suddenly been a media circus, the karaoke night he’d seen everyone post about less of a cheer on the legends that were Alexa and Pixie and cajole Fifi into getting up there despite her obvious terror and hope that Ducky was singing loud enough to drown out Nick missing all his notes event, and more of a crazed free-for-all requiring security to help Harry slip away to the sanctity of his room.

Mallorca and Hawaii had been fine, but they hadn’t been the trip that he was watching unfold on his screen.

It occurred to Harry that Nick and everyone were going to see his name on the list of people watching their stories. He entertained the possibility that Nick wouldn’t check, wouldn’t bother to scroll through what was undoubtedly a very long list.

Entertained, and discarded.

This was Nick, after all.

He wondered what Nick thought of him watching, whether it even occurred to him to think anything at all, whether there was anything to think.

He could ask. Just pull up their conversation and send a quick message, ask how the trip was, say it was looking fun. Acknowledge it, to clear out this half-formed feeling of tension that Harry wasn’t particularly fond of, even if it only existed inside his head.

He didn’t.

He was self-aware enough to see the pattern. To see himself making the same little decisions, letting thoughts of Nick (and of Niall, and Liam, and Louis. Of Gemma. (Of Zayn.)) flit away without actually bringing himself to send anything. Aware enough to connect those choices with the distance he felt from all these people that he wanted to be closest to.

He tried not to dwell.

(What good ever came of dwelling?)

He didn’t even really want to be there, at the @shangrilamauritius as everyone’s instagram kept reminding him. But there was something that rankled about knowing it would have been weird, if he had wanted to. Weird, to hang around with Alexa and Pix and George and Fifi and Emily. Weird to be around Nick when Nick was with his friends—friends that used to be Harry’s friends too, at one point the people he saw most often after the boys.

Used to be, but weren’t anymore.

None of the rest of the clique changed numbers half as frequently as he did. Harry still had them all saved, and he’d never fallen out with any of them. Drifted, sure, but they’d all probably be happy to hear from him if he wanted to get in touch.

(He could just pull up their conversation and send a quick message.)

(He didn’t.)

How could it be, that it would have been weird? He almost couldn’t reconcile it, the truth, that he would have felt like an interloper. With the group. With Nick. That it would have been weird, for Harry Styles to have gone on holidays with Nicholas Grimshaw. How the fuck had he got to the point where it would have been weird to go on holidays with Nick?

He’d had such plans, such fantasies about it, in the last couple years of the band. All the things they’d get to do once he wasn’t quite so bogged down, when he had more freedom with his schedule, when he wasn’t touring so often, when people didn’t care so much about who he was seen with. Early twenties and early thirties had always seemed so much easier than late teens and late twenties, in his mind. Which, ta-da. Here they were.

And he didn’t want to be in Mauritius. There were palm trees and beaches aplenty in LA.

But he was taking screenshots.

He didn’t want to be in Mauritius, but it would have been weird, if he’d wanted to go.

Nick wasn’t texting him pictures of the beach or his drinks or his sunburns or the footprints he left in the sand or of him and Alexa laughing whilst speckled in mud.

(He could just pull up their—)

And how the fuck had it gotten to the point where it would have been weird for Harry Styles to go on holidays with Nick Grimshaw?

He tried not to dwell.

(What good ever came of dwelling?)

#my fic #gryles #gryles drabbles #gryles fic #harry styles #nick grimshaw #the clique #mauritius

22 notes · View notes

supertimewizard · 7 years

Text

Jacksepticeye Creepypasta {Gone in a flash} (Trigger warning for suicide at the end.)

@taneikaanne @pan0ramic-fyre

-x-

There just seem to be some things that defy reason. The day he went from seeing color to seeing black and white and the day that he left rhymes behind. There are just some things that don't make sense but just are. Perhaps it was a Tulpa. Everyone else's belief that made it come into being. If that was the case then it shouldn't have been a surprise to him. Almost everyone had a dark alter-ego of themselves. If they weren't created for them, people made their own.

The only people that Jack hadn't seen with "Anti's" of themselves were some of the depressed crowd. They didn't always need that. They just became it. When you become a demon and your own worst enemy then why would you need to create your own? Not to say everyone who was depressed was like this; but Jack had seen a few around.

Rather, Jack felt a different kind of excitement. It wasn't the usual giddy excitement that made him feel like jumping on the walls and sent smiles to millions; it was... darker.

It was the kind of excitement that sent people on rampages and made him want to grab a knife and bleed something- the kind of excitement that made Jack's mind go numb in a calm understanding of the world. It helped when Robing started editing "Anti" in the videos but there were some changes going on in Jack's home. No, there were no psychical changes. Only unseen metal changes. Well, mostly unseen. Everyone could sense Jack's change in attitude. Especially when he started with a slightly darker sense of humor. Nothing to call him on but it was off putting to almost everyone at this point but it was too late.

That night Jack felt a crazed excitement like no other. He tore at the walls and smashed glass. Yelling all his thoughts into the open until his voice crackled and broke entirely. Going a decibel or so lower.

'I tried to break out. The shock had sent me back to my senses, but for how long?'

He stared at the wreckage around him as his stomach sank. He had done this, but more importantly he had totally lost it. Was this him?

'Yes.'

Which brought the only other question Jack could think of before the shock and all self control faded, 'Am I a psychopath and sociopath? Born or made?' unfortunately he didn't get the answer he so desperately wanted before he broke into mad laughter.

" G̜̣̥̺̬̼̃̿̈͒͋ͮ͌o̳͊ͥ̈́d̠̲̦̪̼̊̈́̍̒͗d͙͙͕̞͖͙͠a͑̔ͪm͊́̀̾̓ňͩ̄̌̃̐͐͏̺ ̍̾̏ͥŕ̪̞ͣͯ̿̐į͖̖̼̙̦̠ͦͦ̎g̘̬͕͗ͨ̃̌̋ͧ̚h͙͚̖̰̖̒̑͐ͯ͛̐̚t̢̲͚͓̳̺̞̠͛̂ͣͧ̒,̬̠̲̲̪̎ ̧̻̯̳͚̥ͤ̂y͍̲̘̔ͮͪ͡o̢̺̠͕͎͇̙̣͌̃͂ͪ̚u̢̺̘̲̞̜̳̽ͨ ̧̠̱͇̣̲̲ͮͦ̔s̩ͭ͐̆ͬ͌͑͐h̖͍̱͎͕͖̺͂͜ǒ̈́̃ͮ̋̐͌́ų̹l̢̅ͭ̍͑̊̔d̺̺̬ ̵̞̑͊̀͂̓͒b̶̳͈̉̍͐̈ͣe͚̝͖̳̲̳ ̧̬͕̙̼̐ͭͧͨ̇͂̈́s͓̠̣̘͍̒̔̓̽͐̕c̹͍͆͋̆ͮa̸͇̻͑r͚̣̣̳̜͎̕e̱͇ͧ̚d̽ͦ̒ͩ͏͎̞͓̬͚̞ ͚̰̄̀o̽̚f̛̮͖ͫͭ͌͛͑ͧ ̸͓͇̗̘̠͉͛̉͐̈́ṁ̞̹̅̓ͨͥe͖̫̰.̴̫̦͆̔̓̚ ." He said his voice cracking as he drew a knife, stabbing the wooden table near him as he dissolved into shakes.

"You better believe I was born with you."

-x-

He wanted to see how fast he could destroy everything and set as much of the world into a panic as he could. Isolation and planning where the first thing. No need to be hasty about this. Besides, the previous fandom was enjoying his new attitude and there was simply no reason to stop- to ever stop. He was almost a glitch in Jack's nice, normal, neurotypical personality.

Something to take things to the next level as he began manipulating the fans. Making them question themselves and going after one or two of them while keeping the fandom healthy but dwindling. There was no end goal to his plan and there was nothing holding him here. So when people started calling him on his actions and the deaths he caused- Anti left.

He did decide to pull one last dick move. He left a wonderful video for the fans of Mr. Jacksepticeye, detailing everything in one of the most impressive displays of truth known in this decade. And like all great displays of truth, no one believed it. Anti had left Jack to pick up the painful shards of his life, friendships, and career. It was the single most painful thing Jack was left with.

He had nothing in support of friends or fans as he had caused the death of two. There was no way to repay Anti's wrongdoings so late at night, three months after the incident, he went though with a pot of coffee and a cup next to him as he watched his own videos, out of order and saving important ones for later, but going though his accounts and deleting everything. One by one as the emotional pain continued to hit him as he deleted everything but the main and most painful three markers of his life. Twitter, Tumblr, and Youtube.

Some of his Youtube was already down as he went though and deleted his twitter. Saying goodbye to an empty room as he said goodbye to his friends. To everyone- so many names and so many memories. Years in the making and his entire life and being- gone. He was getting a Skype call but he couldn't be bothered to actually pay attention to who was on the other side. Tears were pouring down his face as he drowned the last bit of coffee he had with shaking hands as he started going though Tumblr and deleting everything- before logging in one last time. His Tumblr was gone. His community was gone. He had failed everything.

Jack sighed getting up. He had a few bottles of alcohol that didn't seem to matter. It didn't matter that his vision was blurring together because he simply didn't notice. No amount of alcohol could numb just how upset and desperate he was. He was getting several Skype calls now but as he tried to ignore everything, downing every liquid in his possession he watched the Undertale series.

Deleting them as he went along and ignoring his need for sleep- ignoring the eventual passing out that would result soon. He was so tired- he deleted everything. Save for a few vlogs he wanted to watch one last time and now, the final video. His first Youtube video. He watched it on repeat for an hour until he devolved into gross sobbing. He didn't want to let it go- he couldn't, he just couldn't as he pressed the second to last button as all his videos were gone. Most of them turning unwatched, even by him as he took a deep shaky breath and make the most painful action of his entire life.

He pressed the delete button on his Youtube. His email following soon after before he passed out from so many things and just hoping it was all a bad dream or a story. Unfortunately he woke up to a pounding headache and several missed Skype calls and one currant one.

For lack of forethought he pressed accept just to make the cursed noise stop. He didn't even recognize the voice as he pressed a hand to the webcam mumbling "Stop it." before accidentally disconnecting the line as he went to do a few last things with his life before starting over in the next life. Anti had left him asunder and either he wanted him back permanently or some release.

Nothing was easy though and Anti never came back, and neither did Jack. His legacy as the most constantly energetic Youtube gamer was remembered by all but him as there was a permanent problem with only one permanent solution.

Jacksepticeye, Sean William McLoughlin, was gone. He was never real.

#trigger tw #suicide #jacksepticeye creepypasta #antisepticeye creepypasta #stw posts #gone in a flash creepypasta #i suck at titles

5 notes · View notes

coneygoil · 7 years

Text

“Hostile Takeover”, part 4

Fandom: Wreck-It Ralph

Summary: The world is a dangerous place. With his power to control cy-bugs, King Candy reigns supreme, and his biggest target is capturing Vanellope. Her only hope is a small group of rebels hidden in the wastelands of Hero’s Duty that are aiming to take out the tyrant king.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Writer’s note: *wipes forehead* Pheeeeew, it’s done! This chapter like to have kicked my butt. I started it nearly a month ago, and finally finished it on Sunday. But after sitting on it for a day then rereading it, I rewrote some of it and add more so I guess the delay was beneficial! Cal and Felix are the front runners in this part, so you HC shippers enjoy XD

“Listen up, ladies!” Sergeant Calhoun barked, pacing the span of the line of soldiers, “Thanks to our friend, Wreck-It, who caused a ruckus the size of the Jupiter, our plan to takedown King Candy-bug will be 100 times harder.”

Her boots tapped solidly on the metal ground as she made her way to the end of the row. She glared daggers at the two men who were murmuring to one another.

“Hey Jake,” Ralph called under his breath.

“Yeah?” Markowski said out of the side of his mouth.

“Have you noticed lately that Sarge has been angrier than usual?”

Markowski chuckled to himself. “When is Sarge not angry?”

“Watch yourself, boys,” Kohut warned, nodding his chin to the oncoming reprimand.

“Wreck-It! Markowski!” Calhoun yelled, and the two men jumped to attention. “Want to share your little discussion with the class?”

“No, Sarge,” Markowski answered, looking far too prepared for a blow to the face.

Calhoun offered mercy to the soldier…this time, and focused her eagle eyes on Ralph. “Wreck-It, if you can’t take this threat seriously, then you can get the hell out of Wasteland.”

“I do take this seriously. I want King Candy gone as much as any of you, probably more than anyone here!”

Calhoun grabbed the neck of his armor, Ralph’s rebuttal falling at her feet. “Then prove it to me!” Black fuzz invaded the sergeant’s vision. She closed her eyes, holding her head as her whole body swayed. Her knees gave out from under her, and the last thing Calhoun heard was Kohut calling name.

The faint hint of light edged the opening of her eyelids as Calhoun became aware of the surroundings. She rolled to her side, the fatigued state of her muscles angering her. Weak was not an option, especially for someone in her position.

“Stay down, soldier,” a gruff voice ordered. Who the hell would give her an order?

“I’m your superior officer, Kohut.” Calhoun tried to push into a sitting position, but a firm hand gently pressed her shoulder against the examine table.

“You may be my superior officer, but you’re also my friend. You need to stay put while the doctor checks you over.”

Calhoun glared at him, but complied. The doctor had barely begun to take her vitals when there was a clamber outside the room, and a frantic Felix appeared at her side.

“Tammy! Are you okay? Ralph told me you’d passed out and were taken to the medic.” He grabbed up her hand, holding it as if she’d fall into the oblivion if he let go. “Does the doctor know what’s wrong?”

“Fix-It.” Calhoun pinned Felix with the sharpest look she could in her weakened state. Even though she knew he was probably worried out of his mind, his overwhelming concern would only agitate her. “The doctor was about to run an exam. Scoot back and let the man do his job.”

Felix held her gaze before kissing the back of her palm and stepped out the way. Calhoun tried her best to smile softly to show her gratitude for him backing off. Kohut excused himself now that he was no longer needed, reminding Calhoun to fill him in later.

The doctor proceeded with the exam. Calhoun felt the awkward silence dragged on for hours as her small husband watched, wringing his gloved hands. When the doctor asked her if anything out of the ordinary had been happening to her lately, Calhoun fessed up, “I’ve had several bouts of vomiting, along with fatigue.”

“Tamora Jean!” Felix gasped. “You were sick more than once?” He was at her bedside again, fixing her with a stern eye. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because of this,” Calhoun gestured toward him, scowling. “You get so worked up over me.”

“I am your husband, and I am concerned for you.” Felix crossed arms over his chest, pouting.

Calhoun groaned, rubbing the heels of her hands down her face. “See anything out of the ordinary, doc?”

The doctor suggested running a blood test; Calhoun served up her arm for the needle. Rest was ordered, though Calhoun knew her body would have to be lying cold dead on the side of a road before she got any rest. She also knew Felix wouldn’t leave her side until results from the blood test were in.

Calhoun ordered Ralph to keep the handyman busy during training and strategy hours. It was a cruel plan and Felix would have a fit over her avoidance, but it had to be done to keep her sanity. Concentrating on the ongoing war was more important than wondering over her health, especially when there was no answer.

Two days passed before the blood test results were concluded. Sitting alone in the doctor’s office, Tamora heard her whole world collapse into a heap of mangled plans.

She trudged back to her quarters, her mind a mess of questions and uncertainty. She found Felix waiting her as he had the last couple of days since her fainting incident.

The instant he saw her, he knew. “You got your results?”

Tamora walked passed him, and plopped down heavily on their bed. Felix joined her, touching her arm; the bulky armor she wore for training removed before seeing the doctor.

“Tammy, talk to me, please.”

She looked his way, though her face was obscured by her long bangs. There were many ways to explain, but only one simple answer was needed, “I’m pregnant.”

The look of shock that froze Felix in place quickly melted into pure joy. He clutched her arm, pushing up onto his knees to face her better. “We’re having a baby?”

“That’s usually what happened when someone is pregnant,” Tamora quipped, though the humor was missing from her voice.

“It’s a miracle!” Felix flung his arms around her, planting several kisses to the crown of her head. “I didn’t think it was possible. We’re from two different worlds; we weren’t supposed to be able to have children.”

“Looks like we kicked the odd’s ass.”

Felix swept the curtain of bangs behind her ear, his hand lingering on her cheek. “Tammy, this is wonderful.” The smile that lit his face brighter than the sun clinched Tamora’s heart. All Felix could see was blue skies and sunshine, but reality was a cold-blooded monster, content to swallow any ounce of joy.

She got to her feet, and began pacing the floor. Someone had to lay down the harsh facts, and she was the most qualified, whether she liked it or not.

“This isn’t wonderful, Fix-It.” Tamora kept her gaze to the wall, floor, anywhere she couldn’t catch a glimpse of the heartbreak she was about to deliver. “It’s possibly the worst thing that can happen!”

She felt the lightness in the room suddenly go dim like a blanket thrown over a lamp. Felix stood up on the bed, trying to catch her eye, but Tamora avoided him.

“How can you say that?” She didn’t need to look at him; the disappointment was painfully evident in his voice. “I know we’d given up on the idea of having children, but I thought somewhere deep down you still wished we could.”

“I did, but the point is not what me or you want.” Tamora finally turned to him, gesturing towards the door where the outside world waited. “We’re at war, Felix. There’s a crazed lunatic out there who mercilessly kills; whose prime target is a little girl who has done nothing to him.”

She slabbed a thumb to her chest, driving the point, “I command the army that heavens willing will take the bastard down one day. I’m needed on the frontline; I don’t have time to worry about the well-being of a person growing inside me. I’m okay if I die in battle, but a child – our child-“

Tamora pressed her tightly curled fists to her eyes, taking two deep breathes. The silence surrendering them was maddening. Her mind felt on fire, crackling and burning every good thought, leaving an ash heap.

“How can we bring a baby into this warped world, Felix?” Her hands fell limply to her sides.

Felix stayed planted on the bed for several beats, his crushed expression digging into the already bleeding wound in Tamora’s chest. He reached his hand out for her to come to him, and Tamora didn’t hesitate to enter his embrace. His name was Fix-It, but his special ability wasn’t the reason Tamora felt unbroken in his hold.

“I don’t know, Tammy,” Felix murmured against her ear. “It may be tomorrow we get the best on King Candy, or it may be 10 years from now. I promise I’ll protect both of you, even if I must be on alarm 24/7.”

Tamora squeezed her eyes closed tightly, knowing he would keep his word. If there was one thing to say about Felix, he was unwittingly brave when it came to what mattered most. Just him alone wouldn’t be able to keep the gnawing shadows from their threshold, but what chose did they have?

A baby was forming inside her; a part of her and a part of Felix. Tamora had to accept it whether the timing was convenient or not, and the devastating idea of losing the baby while engaged in battle was a risk she had to take.

“I hate this,” Tamora murmured, her whole body drudged down under the weight of disquietude. She lied on the bed, draping an arm over her view. “I hate this war, I hate living in hiding, and I hate that psycho–bug-hybrid.”

She felt the bed shift beside her, and Tamora slid her arm away from her face. “I hate it too, Tammy. Everything about our situation makes me so cross! I miss our home; our adventures; being able to simply bake in our kitchen.” The anger dropped from Felix’s voice, and the feel of his touch on her stomach caught the breath in her throat. “But we have to make the best of what we have right now, and if all we have is each other, then that’s gonna have to be enough.”

Tamora slid her arm away from her face, resting it alongside Felix’s hand on her tummy. Blue skies and sunshine, but she needed his tiny ray of sunshine because sometimes that’s the only thing that kept her going.

#hero's cuties #wir fanfiction #fix-it felix #sergeant calhoun #wreck-it ralph #hostile takeover

11 notes · View notes