#i took the english titles mostly cause they are localized now | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

a-simple-gaywitch · 3 years

Text

Nom de Plume

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Spencer’s new girlfriend is the best thing to ever happen to him. But he can’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something from him...

Warnings: None really, a little bit of angst, that’s about it

Word Count: 1609

Requested: Yes/No

“hiii, can i request a fic where reader is like a famous writer but writes like novels and then they and spencer meet at a library event and they start to go out and date but reader doesn't tell spencer about their publish books cause they think it wouldn't be interesting for him so spencer finds out one day when he goes alone and stars to walk around the library and he confronts reader for lying to him and he gets mad but then when they talk about their insecurity of it not being enough for him and he's like "are you kidding, I though it was awesome"

something aangs and fluffy 🥺🥺

sorry it's a long request, just so you now i love your blog so much!!” -anon request

“Everyone you meet has something to teach you.” -Anonymous

Spencer was visiting the local library on one of his rare days off. He seemed to be arriving at the tail-end of a book event. Once a month, the library sold the books that hadn’t been checked out in a while. It was mostly romance novels and historical fiction.

Spencer walked past the crowd and started climbing the stairs to the upper level of the library, where the research books were kept. He started browsing through the history section when he bumped into a woman holding a stack of books. The books toppled out of her arms.

“I’m so sorry,” Spencer said, bending to help the woman pick up the books.

“Oh, no, it’s my fault,” she said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Spencer picked up one of the books and handed it back to you. “I usually don’t see people up here,” he said. “Most people prefer reading fiction.”

She smiled at him as she took the book from him. “Sometimes reality is weirder than fiction.”

Spencer chuckled as he read the title of one of the books. “I think Darren Oldridge covers that pretty well.” He handed you the book on medieval history titled Strange Histories: The Trial of the Pig. “What are you reading these for?”

“Partially research, partially for fun,” she said. “I’m (Y/N).”

“Spencer.”

“So, you don’t read much fiction?” you asked him.

“Well, not much modern fiction. And not much in English.”

“Really?”

Spencer pushed his glasses up on his nose. His cheeks were flushed. He wasn’t used to a pretty woman being genuinely interested in him. “I, um, I like the challenge from the original copies of Dostoevsky’s work.”

“What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.”

Spencer’s eyes widened. “You’ve read The Brothers Karamazov?”

“Of course. It’s a classic.” You stacked all of the books. “Um, out of curiosity, why don’t you read modern fiction?”

“They’re too easy for me,” Spencer said. “I read through them too fast.”

You laughed. “I can relate to that. I read through the entirety of Sherlock Holmes in about a month.” Spencer was entranced by this woman in front of him. “Although, if you’re looking for a long read, Lord of the Rings is always my go-to. I think you would enjoy it.”

“Well, if I do that, I’d want to talk to you after,” he said.

You smiled and dug around in your purse. You handed him a business card. “That’s my office number for the university I work at. Call me when you finish the first book.”

Spencer did call you. You invited him to coffee to talk about the books. When you were getting ready to leave, Spencer knew he needed to see you again.

“Uh, (Y/N), would you want to, um, maybe, meet up again?”

“You mean like a date?”

“O-Only if you want to, it doesn’t have to be-”

“Spencer, I’d love to go on a date with you,” you said. Usually, you didn’t want to cut him off, but you could see his anxiety was spiraling.

Spencer smiled at you. His joy was short-lived as his phone went off. He sighed when he saw it was a message from Hotch. “I have to go,” he said, pulling his jacket on and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll call you!”

When Spencer got into the bullpen, the team noticed the change in his demeanor. He seemed more distracted, but in a good way. While the team sat around the Round Table, Derek and Elle noticed Spencer not paying attention to JJ. He seemed to be off in his own world.

When they got on the jet, Gideon noticed Spencer wasn’t paying attention to their chess game. Gideon was able to win in five moves.

“Okay. What’s going on with you?” he asked Spencer.

“What do you mean?”

“Reid, I stole your king in five moves. You’ve never been that bad at a game.” He looked over Spencer. “Who is she?”

Spencer looked down at the chess board, his cheeks turning red as he smiled. “Her name is (Y/N),” he said. “She’s amazing. She’s smart, and beautiful, and funny and-” Spencer stopped talking when he noticed the whole team was listening in. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, no, keep talking,” Morgan said. “Tell us more about this girl. How long have you known each other?”

Spencer shook his head. “Nope. I’m not telling you anything else. I don’t want Garcia digging into her life and invading her privacy.”

“Come on, kid. You know we only want to know because we care about you.”

“Not gonna happen, Morgan.” Spencer said, though he was still smiling as he thought about you.

You and Spencer started officially dating, and he quickly fell in love with you. Although, he couldn’t shake the feeling there was something you weren’t telling him.

You and Spencer started sleeping together after your fourth date. Everything with that was going great. Except, you only ever wanted to go to Spencer's apartment. When he suggested going back to yours, you were quick to deflect. And it was worrying Spencer.

Spencer was standing by the coffee maker, pouring sugar into his mug.

“You want a little coffee with that sugar?” Derek said, clapping Spencer's shoulder. Spencer rolled his eyes and picked up the wooden stirring stick. “What, no quip? No statistics on sugar or caffeine?”

“Sorry. I was up late.”

“Really? What keeps the great Dr. Spencer Reid up all night? Wait, don't tell me. Memorizing an obscure text. No, no, solving cold fusion. Oh, nope, I got it. Watching Star Trek and laughing at the physics mistakes.”

“You know, for being made so long ago, there aren't actually that many mistakes. Some illogical predictions, sure, but not many outright errors.”

“...Right.” Derek was about to walk away.

“I think my girlfriend is hiding something from me,” he blurted out.

Derek stopped and turned back around to Spencer. “What?”

“I-I can't shake the feeling. I don't know what it is, but she's hiding something. I was up all night running through scenarios.”

“Reid, you know that's dangerous. And you also know you have someone who can find out what she's hiding in seconds.”

“I don't know. Having Penelope look into her life seems like a major invasion of privacy.”

“But wouldn't you want to know if what she's hiding will end your relationship?”

“I guess you're right,” he conceded. Spencer followed Derek to Penelope’s office.

“Hello, my lovelies,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“Pretty Boy here is having some relationship issues.”

“Oh, no. Come sit. Tell me what’s going on.”

Spencer took the extra wheely chair in her office. “I think (Y/N) is hiding something from me.”

“We were hoping you could find out what it is,” Derek said.

“Of course I can. But you know for me to do this, I need her last name, too.” Spencer chewed on his lip before deciding he wanted to know too badly. Garcia started typing away. “Oh!”

“What? I was right, wasn’t I? She’s married. She’s married with kids and I’m the other man.”

“Oh, no. No, baby boy,” Penelope said. “Look. It’s nothing bad.”

Spencer read the information on her screen. “I… I have to go.”

As Spencer rushed from the office, Penelope and Derek shared a concerned look.

You were sitting at your desk, typing out your newest manuscript when someone started pounding on your door. You pushed your rolling chair back from the desk and walked over to the door. The pounding continued as you unlocked the deadbolt and undid the chain.

“Hold on, hold on,” you said to the impatient person on the other side. You figured it was probably the college kid down the hall who locked himself out and needed you to call the super. You opened up the door. “Spencer.”

“What the hell, (Y/N)? Why didn't you tell me you were a published author?” You could see the hurt and anger in Spencer’s eyes.

You sighed, opening your door wider. You gestured for Spencer to come in. “I didn’t mean to hide it from you,” you said. “It’s just- when we met, you said you found modern fiction boring. And I couldn’t handle you thinking my work was boring, too.” Your eyes were cast on your Converse-clad feet as you shifted your weight back and forth.

Spencer walked over to you and cupped your face in his hands, kissing you. He tried to convey just how much love he had for you in that kiss. When he pulled away, he kept your cheeks cupped in his hands.

“(Y/N), I think you’re an amazingly talented and creative person. Even before I found your books, I thought so. I fell for you the moment you quoted Dostoevsky to me. You don’t ever have to feel like you need to hide things from me. And I read all your books. I think they’re amazing. Like you.”

“You really think so?”

“I really do. You have so much talent and such a creative mind. It’s like your brain compliments mine perfectly.” You smiled shyly, unable to meet Spencer’s eyes. He gently tilted your head so you’d look at him. “I love you, (Y/N).”

You felt like all your breath was knocked out of you. That was the first time either of you had said it. At least, the first time it was said out loud.

“I love you too, Spencer.”

“But he, who does not grasp the thorn, should never crave the rose.” -Anne Bronte

#em's fics #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #x reader #criminal minds x reader

238 notes · View notes

snipsnsnailsnwerewolftales · 4 years

Text

Stay (Part 1)

A/N: This is something that came to mind with a playlist I have of random Ed Sheeran songs, I hope you guys like it.

Thank you to @jazziwritesthings, @xteenwolfwritingsx, @mymonandsymon, @weeabooper and @msmischief101 for looking it over for me.

I do not own Teen Wolf or it’s characters. Sadly.

(Nor do I own any of the songs in the playlist that inspired this story by Ed Sheeran. All credit where credit is due.)

Word Count: 2,200

Warnings: None that I know of. Mild swearing? It’s really just fluffy.

When Derek comes across a familiar scent at a diner late one night, it leads to the most unexpected revelation in his years in Beacon Hills: His mate. (Aka: Wherein I am a sucker for a good mates story and my brain decided to write one.)

Series Masterlist

Xxx

Sitting at the local diner, Derek focused on his hand as it clutched and unclutched his keys against the table top, occupying his time. To his right sat Scott, and his left, Stiles, and in the center, a large awkward silence between the three.

Smirking, Derek couldn’t help the grin when Stiles scrambled away from the table as their order number was called. He had only seen Stiles move that fast a few times, and it never failed to be amusing.

Clearing his throat, Derek shifted in his seat, sitting up taller, tugging his leather jacket collar for good measure. Scott mumbled something about drinks, and after a second of hesitation disappeared off to some unknown corner supposedly getting them all a glass of something.

Someone walked over to the ancient juke box on the opposite side of the restaurant, and Derek wanted to groan. He had been listening for footsteps going that way all night so that he could come up with some diversion to keep whoever it was from changing it off of his selection. He was sure Stiles and Scott probably thought he had some secret vendetta for all things music, and that was fine. So long as nobody messed with his choice of song.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t an awful choice, and when Derek turned to see who else in this God forsaken town seems to have a decent taste in music aside from himself, Stiles obstructed his view by sliding into his seat with three steaming hot plates, mumbling a “Hot, hot, hot! Very hot!” And Scott obscured him from getting a decent scent so he could at least maybe seek them out later when he plopped three milkshakes down on the table, the combo of food and drink masking any hope at a scent.

Pushing his chair back slightly, and leaning back away from the tsunami of smells, he felt everything go on high alert when one clear smell hit him like a tidal wave. “Vanilla….”

“Well, I was gonna take the vanilla, but fine, by all means, take it, just don’t go all sourwolf on me.”

Derek quickly shot Stiles a glare before turning back to the jukebox to see no one, but the overwhelming scent of fresh vanilla, like fresh cookies, took over all his senses. It made his burger taste like dirt.

Finally pushing away from the table, he followed the scent that definitely got stronger near the jukebox, and followed it in a loop, past an empty table, and finally back to his own table, noticing a new person standing and talking to Scott and Stiles.

A low growl rumbled out of his chest before he could catch it, but it didn’t seem to startle her a bit. Walking a little bit closer he asked a bit harshly, “Who are you?” Really, he just wanted to get close enough to see if she really was the source of the smell, but the scent was forgotten when he heard her speak.

“I’m Y/N, Scott and Stiles’ TA in English this year.”

No wonder the smell had seemed so familiar. He knew her. They grew up together.

She held out a hand for him to shake, and it took a minute for him to zone back in after her voice had caused him to go into some sort of trance.

Shaking his head gently to free the cobwebs, he offered his hand in return, and they both took a sharp inhale on the contact, sparks flying up and down their skin.

Realization dawned on him the same time she made wide eyes and seemed to put it together herself.

Eyes glowing red, Derek pulled her gently closer to him, faintly registering Stiles and Scott laughing nervously and flailing to stand up and block out people’s view of his very obviously not human eyes as they settled on her very obviously completely human eyes.

Until their yellow glow gave away her secret. Derek smirked. Years of time together played on warp speed in his mind.

Blinking the red away, he couldn’t help but smile as she stood there still doe eyed.

“Oh my God, I’m the mate of a freaking Alpha werewolf,” she let out quietly, almost under her breath.

“Holy shit,” Stiles mumbled, hand coming over his mouth as he plopped unceremoniously back into his chair, the momentum making it scrap against the tiles a few inches with an ugly sound.

“Just one. Can you please not date just one of our teachers, Derek? Is that too much to ask?” Scott was unabashedly announcing for the whole restaurant to hear. Granted it was mostly empty by now, and the song was coming to an end, leaving them in silence.

“That’s up to Y/N,” Derek said, still holding her hand. “If she agrees to go on a date, that’s not my fault. And if she agrees to be my mate, well then I am off the market after that.”

“For the love of God, please just say yes,” Stiles implored her. “Maybe he will finally be more tolerable when it’s all said and done.”

Derek reached out and whacked the back of Stiles’ head gently, before raising an eyebrow in question as she gave his hand a squeeze.

“Hey! You took my line!” She cried in protest with a small smile.

“What?” Stiles looked between the two of them before she lightly whacked the side of his arm. “Hey! Oh. I get it now. Ha ha. Actually, now, I hate this idea. I take it back. Release one another! It’s easy. See?” Stiles tried to pull their hands apart and it was quite comical to watch. After realizing nothing would change, he sat down with a huff, cradling his face in his hands and saying in a mock broken tone, “Why me?”

Xxx

Staring into the flashing jukebox in the corner of the dive restaurant that had haunted Beacon Hills longer than any monster, you smiled lightly at the selection to choose from.

It was probably your subconscious, remembering things long forgotten, hidden under song titles that concealed the memories, but you could have sworn you kept getting wafts of nutmeg and leather, something that was so intrinsically….. him.

You smiled a bit wider at memories that began to play for only you, seeming to change with the flashing of the lights on the machine, pulsing to your song selection.

Cut grass in the summer, and the smell it brought.

Soaking wet in the rain, darting into any alcove nearby and standing close together under his jacket he held high like an umbrella.

Tripping on the slick, freshly cut grass, and laughing till your sides hurt and grass stains painted your clothes and skin, like tattoos of proof from a summer day.

Him laughing at you as he stared down where you fell, and his wide eyes beside you when you took his hand outstretched to help and instead yanked him down to join you.

The bubble of laughter that soon left him despite himself, as your own giggle betrayed you, and soon you both were snickering on the grass, letting the rain paint your skin with tracks as it continued to fall lightly.

You’re brought out of your thoughts by a familiar voice, looking up from your seat back at your table to see Stiles at the counter balancing three trays loaded with food. You snickered at the little balancing act he pulled trying to keep the contents on the trays and not falling to the floor. Sitting up straight as the smell came your way again, it was so strong, it was as if he were just a few tables over.

Looking to the side, you didn’t see him, however you saw Stiles setting down the trays of food at a table across the restaurant, Scott coming from the opposite direction, arms laden with drinks, and whoever sat in the third seat at their table obscured from your view by Stiles’ body as he distributed the food, lightly bopping to the beat of the song, and making you smile.

Deciding to go over and say hi, you got up, walking around your table, walking past the counter and grabbing the bag of fries the waiter was trying to wave Stiles down for. You shook your head. How Stilinski forgot fries, you didn’t know. As you walked up to their table, it was just the two of them, their mysterious third party missing, but the smell you had noticed earlier strongest in the vacant seat. It couldn’t be who you thought, they hadn’t lived here in years, but you couldn’t ignore the scent as you stood talking to Scott and Stiles.

As Stiles thanked you for the fries, you felt a wave of the smell wash over you, causing you to turn and face the supposed source, and your breath caught in your throat at the sight of an older face, but those same eyes you had been thinking about not minutes before.

He didn’t seem to recognize you, and for some reason that amused you. He had a suspicious glint in his eyes, but that was the extent of it.

A low growl rumbled out of his chest before he could catch it, but it didn’t startle you a bit. In fact it surprised you at the deep stirring it caused in your gut.

Walking a little bit closer he asked a bit harshly, “Who are you?”

Despite his puffed up chest and seemingly harsh words, you noticed him take a deep breath through his nose, taking in your scent he used to always say smelled like cookies, vanilla and cinnamon, but the breath stopped abruptly when you answered him.

“I’m Y/N, Scott and Stiles’ TA in English this year.”

Realization seemed to hit him, the glint in his eyes sparking to life with memory, and he took an easy and free deep breath, finally recognizing the scent. If you blinked, you’d miss it, but the faintest of smiles was on his face.

You held out a hand for him to shake, and it took a minute for him to zone back in after seeming to go into some sort of trance.

Shaking his head gently to free the cobwebs, he offered his hand in return, and you both took a sharp inhale on the contact, sparks flying up and down your skin.

Realization dawned on him the same time you made wide eyes and seemed to put it together yourself.

Eyes glowing red, Derek pulled you gently closer to him, and you faintly registered Stiles and Scott laughing nervously and flailing to stand up and block out people’s view of his very obviously not human eyes as they settled on your supposedly very obviously completely human eyes.

Until their yellow glow gave away your secret. Derek smirked. Cut grass, rain, grass stains and mud, hiding out in secret places and sharing secrets over years and years, laughing until your sides hurt. All of it hit you at once, and it made something take flight in your stomach, beating its wings to get out.

Blinking the red away, he couldn’t help but smile as you stood there still doe eyed.

“Oh my God, I’m the mate of a freaking Alpha werewolf,” you let out quietly, almost under your breath.

“Holy shit,” Stiles mumbled, hand coming over his mouth as he plopped unceremoniously back into his chair, the momentum making it scrape against the tiles a few inches with an ugly sound.

“That’s up to Y/N,” Derek said, still holding your hand. “If she agrees to go on a date, that’s not my fault. And if she agrees to be my mate, well then I am off the market after that.” Something in what he said made you so indescribably happy, but also insanely mad at the thought of him ever being on the market. You swallowed the growl you felt building back down.

“For the love of God, please just say yes,” Stiles implored you. “Maybe he will finally be more tolerable when it’s all said and done.” Glancing at Stiles as he spoke, you looked back to Derek with a smirk.

Derek reached out and whacked the back of Stiles’ head gently, before raising an eyebrow in question as you gave his hand a squeeze.

“Hey! You took my line!” You cried in protest with a small smile.

“What?” Stiles looked between the two of you before you lightly whacked the side of his arm. “Hey! Oh. I get it now. Ha ha. Actually, now, I hate this idea. I take it back. Release one another! It’s easy. See?” Stiles tried to pull your hands apart and it was quite comical to watch. After realizing nothing would change, he sat down with a huff, cradling his face in his hands and saying in a mock broken tone, “Why me?”

Xxx

Tags: @mayahart02 @palaiasaurus64 @shydinosaurcandy @lucyqueenofthestars @c-breanne1999 @l4life @ethereallysimple What’s this?

104 notes · View notes

blackboar · 3 years

Text

Journey to Bosworth: Participants and their motives at Bosworth field: Henry Percy, the failed fence-sitter.

Hello! I wrote this piece as I had numerous sources on the War of the Roses at hand thanks to my master. I hope folks who enjoy reading about this period would like it!

At Bosworth Field, August 22th 1485, the last Plantagenet king was killed. Richard III died on a last, desperate charge against a rival whom little foresaw as a viable contender for the throne. With him died the longest ruling dynasty in England's history. Except for this symbolical conclusion, Bosworth field's importance was magnified by Tudor propaganda, as an ultimate fight between good and evil and the end of the Middle Ages. It forgets that the battle lasted at best for an afternoon and was quite ill-documented, to the point where the battlefield was inaccurately identified at first. It is thus fair to say that Bosworth mostly holds importance in retrospect. If Henry Tudor had been defeated or killed before he could uproot his new dynasty, Bosworth would have been seen as one of the many sterile struggles for the Crown in XVth century England.

Today, I would like to share some informations about one of the major participants of this battle. One whom, not by his actions but by his inactions, changed the outcome of this day.

The powerful Henry Percy, the fourth earl of Northumberland. Henry came from a family traditionally considered as one of the major power players in Northern England. The famous saying: ‘the North knew no Prince but a Percy’ was quite self-eloquent, even if exaggerated. During the 1400s, the Percies opposition to Henry IV almost led to the king's destruction at the battle of Shrewsbury. After their attainder, Henry Percy’s grandfather (another Henry) did reconcile with the House of Lancaster but lost many lands and prestige. Even after those losses, the Earl of Northumberland was one of the major supporters of the House of Lancaster in the War of the Roses, their current Earl dying at Towton against the newly crowned Edward IV.

Edward IV had counted on their rival: the junior line of the Nevilles, which was one of the mightiest Houses in English history. Through marriages, alliances, and shady maneuverings, the Kingmaker Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, and Salisbury hold the inheritance of houses Montagu, Beauchamp, Despencer, and also the bulk of the Neville inheritance in the North, against the senior line who retained the title of Earl of Westmoreland and less important holdings.

Richard Neville and his family were quite ambitious, and as the leading supporter of the burgeoning House of York, they were lavishly endowed by the new king. Richard’s brother took in 1464 all the lands of the House of Percy, with the title of Earl of Northumberland, thanks to his service in the North. However, for Henry Percy’s fortune, Edward IV and the Nevilles had a falling out, as it often happens between king and Kingmaker. Richard Neville opposed Edward IV’s marriage to Elizabeth Wydeville, from a modest, noble family, and his policies in favor of Burgundy. Likely worried about the rising star of the Nevilles in the North, Edward IV decided to clip their wings by giving back his titles and lands to Henry Percy, which would be formalized solemnly in the 1472 Parlement.

This decision was a disaster for Edward IV, as the loyal John Neville, unhappy with the compensations, decided to join his brother in his attempt to restore the House of Lancaster. As for the new grantee, he seemed to have become a cautious man, conscious of his predecessors' tragic end, and seemingly determined not to reproduce their mistakes. It can be seen in the events of 1470-1471. Henry Percy didn’t help the Lancastrians in their effort to resurrect their rule on England in 1470. He also didn’t try to stop Edward IV when he landed in Yorkshire the following year while he was on the first line.

After the Yorkist victories of Barnet and Tewkesbury, the civil war was over. The destruction of the lines of Lancaster and restored peace in England. Henry Percy, confirmed in his lands and titles despite his fence-sitting, was prepared to restore the House of Percy to its rightful place after a decade of unrest and absenteeism.

The conditions were seemingly favorable to prepare an extended Percy hegemony in the North. Hadn’t the Kingmaker died and his holdings taken back by the Crown? Wasn’t the Earl of Westmoreland mad and the Cliffords at odds with the king? Percy seemed in favorable conditions to fill a region partially poked power vacuums. It was without another newcomer: Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester. The twenty-year-old duke was originally granted extensive estates and offices in Wales, the Welsh Borders, and East Anglia. However, the Nevilles' demise gave Richard a unique opportunity to replace them. From 1471 onward, Richard secured from his brother the bulk of Neville’s northern estates. By his marriage to Anne Neville, the youngest daughter of the Kingmaker, he could pretend to be the heir of the deceased Earl and not someone put on by royal authority. Richard constantly tried to accrue his northern estates at the expense of other regions. By the demise of his brother Clarence in 1478, he trades with Edward IV several northern holdings, including the Honour of Richmond, for other estates he had in the south. By the many offices he was appointed and the leadership of the Council of the North, Gloucester was the natural hegemon in the North. Henry Percy became one of his retainers and obtained the preservation of his traditional hegemony in Northumberland. Was Henry Percy happy with the arrangement? He did follow the Duke of Gloucester in his main activities as local ruler of the North, especially the war against Scotland in the early 1480s. Henry Percy also supported Gloucester’s usurpation of the throne in 1483, although it’s quite possible that he wanted to get rid of his influence in the North for good. If so, he was sorely misplaced, as the Council of the North continued with his heir, the Prince of Wales and after the Earl of Lincoln. Worse, the Duke of Gloucester now had the full power of the Crown for his patronage. His brief reign was marked by extensive and heavy-handed trade in favor of northerners. The Earl of Northumberland did profit from this situation, as he was granted the reversal of the attainders of his ancestors during Henry IV’s reign and the lordship of Holderness.

But Richard III also started to infringe on Henry Percy’s indenture of retainers. He needed loyal service in times of treason, and the new king seemed to have placed enormous trust in northerners. Richard III began to employ and endow many Percy retainers. This was a threat for Percy’s base of power, as he couldn’t match a king’s patronage. Even the death of Anne Neville and his only son Edward of Middleham during his reign didn’t seem to waver northern loyalty toward Richard. His ‘good lordship’ and the lavish grants he gave to his retainers made him simply paramount in northern politics.

Henry Percy was threatened on the very basis of his power. His retainers were becoming broadly too loyal to Richard III to allow the Earl to join the Tudor cause, even if he willed so. His ‘good lordship’ necessitated him to represent his affinity, and his numerous retainers wanted to keep Richard III on the throne. Henry Percy was on the verge of becoming a non-entity, with no true autonomy as his servants would become Richard’s.

There is evidence that Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, tried to sabotage Richard III’s war effort. He showed up with only 3,000 men at Leicester for the confrontation with the rebels. It seems that the Earl deliberately forgot to recruit men in several key northern areas, even though Richard III had given him the commission of arrays to do so in Yorkshire. He notably didn’t try to recruit soldiers from York, who upon their own authorities would raise eighty men to join Richard III at Bosworth. They would arrive too late. Richard III knew Northumberland’s guile as he had received messengers from York. Perhaps Northumberland brought, as a justification, the fact that the city was enduring an epidemy of plague. Or maybe Richard III was overconfident upon his forces and eager to show by chivalric prowess his right to retain the Crown. Those petty moves didn’t interest him in front of the upcoming battle, which was God’s judgment. In any case, Richard III put him in charge of the rearguard, but close enough to the immediate action.

In the heat of the battle, Henry Percy refused to support Norfolk against the assaults of the Earl of Oxford. This decision had a fateful consequence, as it prompted Richard to led a personal charge against Henry Tudor in the hope he would slain him. After Richard’s demise, Henry Percy surrendered to the triumphant Tudor king. He was briefly jailed by Henry VII, who kept him as his lieutenant in the North in place of the Council. Northumberland wouldn’t be more loyal to him, as he didn’t genuinely commit force during Lambert Simmel’s rebellion in 1487. Neutrality, once again, might have been the best thing he has to offer to Henry VII, as the North was sympathetic to the yorkists and Richard III’s heirs. However, Northern hatred against his behavior was ostensibly shown in the uprising of 1488. Initially a popular revolt against taxes, the rebels would have Henry Percy as their sole victim. The Earl, who was murdered in front of his retainers during a meeting with the rebels. His retainers simply didn’t defended him. Thus ended the fourth earl of Northumberland, abandoned by his retainers the same way he forsake his sovereigns.

Sources:

Chris Given-Wilson, Paul Brand, Seymour Phillips, Mark Ormrod, Geoffrey Martin, Anne Curry and Rosemary Horrox. Parliament Rolls of Medieval England. Woodbridge, 2005. British History Online: http://www.british-history.ac.uk/no-series/parliament-rolls-medieval.

Great Britain. Public Record Office. (1891). Calendar of the patent rolls preserved in the Public record office. London: H.M.S.O.. HathiTrust: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/009029274.

Hicks, Michael. Bastard Feudalism. Longman Group, 1995.

Hicks, Michael. Edward IV. London; Oxford University Press, 2004.

Hicks, Michael. The Fithteenth Century, Volume II: Revolution and Consumption in Late Medieval England. The Boydell Press, 2001.

Hicks, Michael. Richard III and his rivals: Magnates and their motives in the War of the Roses. The Hambledon Press, 1991.

Hicks, Michael. The Political Culture in the Fifteenth Century. London, Routeldge, 2002.

Hicks, Michael. The War of the Roses. Yale University Press, 2010.

Lander, J.R. “Attainder and Forfeitures, 1453 to 1509”. The Historical Journal Vol. 4, No. 2 (1961), pp. 119-151.

Kendall, Paul Murray. Richard III. Traduction d’Eric Diacon. Fayard, 1979

Kendall, Paul Murray. Warwick, le Faiseur de Rois. Traduction d’Eric Diacon. Fayard, 1981.

Wolffe, Bertam Percy. The royal demesne in English History, Alden Press, Oxford, 1970.

#battle of bosworth #henry percy #fourth earl of Northumberland #suffering from success #richard iii #Journey to Bosworth

10 notes · View notes

rowankingsleyy · 4 years

Photo

Like this if you want to plot with Rowan and I’ll come ramble

NAME: ROWAN JESSAMINE KINGSLEY

NICKNAMES: Ro, Winnie (close friends only)

AGE: 28

PRONOUNS: She/Her

OCCUPATION: Published Author/Freelance Baker

HEIGHT: 5′1

BIRTHDAY: May 11th, 1992

ZODIAC SIGN: Taurus

PARENTS: Cassandra and Tony Kingsley

SIBLINGS: Damien Kingsley

ALIGNMENT: Neutral Good

MBTI: ISFJ

MORE UNDER THE READ MORE =)

TW: domestic violence, sexual assault, anxiety, eating disorders, mention of death, illness, drugs

SEQUENCE OF EVENTS

Rowan was born to Cassandra and Tony Kingsley in the early summer of 1992, at which point things were already strained between the two-some because of Tony’s alcohol problem and Cassie’s generally meek personality.

Rowan’s brother took a leading role in her care from a very young age, not just because her dad was useless, but also because their mother was so distracted by her need to please Tony that she dropped the ball often.

Both her brother and her saw things they certainly shouldn’t have, were told things that no children should be told, and occasionally went without for no reason other than Tony liking control, but he never hurt them physically. However, he did hurt their mother.

Less than a year after her brother turned 18 and moved out of the house, their mother died of an aneurysm suddenly and unexpectedly.

Despite how Rowan’s father treated her mother, the loss of her broke him and send him on a 3 month bender that only ended because he was booked with vehicular manslaughter and his 3rd DWI.

Luckily, Rowan only spent a few weeks in foster care before the court allowed her brother to assume custody over her.

From the moment her brother joined, the Valencia became her family. The women, wives and daughters of the organization were the people who taught her everything she knows about being a girl, doing make up, doing her hair, navigating boys. (This is probably why she went through a blue eyeshadow phase at 17)

Rowan is a textbook overachiever and perfectionist, she always had all As, was always in 6 clubs, and held officer positions in every single one including the dance team. While she did hold officer positions, she never really was one to take front and center--she prefers the positions of the people behind the scenes keeping things together. (secretary, treasurer, anything that has to do with organizational skills.

While over her high school years she wrote a lot, and even published one of her short stories in a local newspaper, she didn’t write her first full novel until she went away to college at 18. No one ever read that novel, it hit the trash during its 5th round of editing.

At 18 she received a full scholarship to the University of Nevada--Reno and left Red Ridge for the first time to go to school first time. She lived in the dorms all 4.5 years and graduated with a degree in English, minoring in Psychology.

If you ever ask Rowan what she’s afraid of, she’ll tell you losing control again. She notes two prominent times of completely losing control over her life, one fairly recent, and the other while she was away at college. While she was away, she went out fairly often with her friends and one night someone slipped something into her drink. Nothing happened, she made it home without incident, but the way it made her feel, the way she felt victimized or the potential of being so set her off. She had two drop three of her classes and extend her time in college an extra semester because of how hard she spun out, trying to control things that she wouldn’t typically even think about. She started her senior year 20 pounds lighter with 0% of the friends she had started her Junior year with.

While she was away at college her brother became a father, which meant frequent trips home to visit and help out with her niece who quickly meant enough to her to be her own.

She returned home from school at 23 and worked in a bakery until she could live off of her cookie business (at 25 her cookie business was self sufficient).

While she was growing her bakery cookie business, she began writing her first professional novel and completed it at 26. She sold it that very same year, and published it at 27.

While it changed her life or the better and got her foot in the door with the publishing world, publishing her book also led to the the single most traumatizing thing she has ever experienced.

While she was marketing her book, the marketing manager became very demanding of Rowan and her time, which often led to them being together very late at night. One night, while out of town for a book reading, he pushed himself on Rowan. This assault led to the second occurrence of Rowan losing complete control and her life suffering because of it.

After the assault, Rowan threatened to blow the whistle, and in return he threatened her career so she is still with that publishing company with him as her marketing manager.

As of now, Rowan is in the process of getting her second book published, filling in as mom as best she can for her niece, running her cookie business and holding cookie classes, and trying to make amends for the bonds she broke when she spun out last.

TENDENCIES

Because of how contentious Rowan’s early childhood was, she has a pretty anxious mind that is always running on 100. Her thoughts come a mile a minute and they can be pretty difficult to stop. Melatonin is her best friend.

When she loses control over things in her life (hELLO we meet again control-less childhood) she controls everything she can, and that manifests differently every time. Controlling what she eats to the point of malnourishment, controlling every single word of what she’s writing, putting herself on lockdown until whatever she’s working on is p e r f e c t.

She fixates on her mistakes, in high school if she answered to the wrong name during roll she would be thinking about it for the rest of the day.

She bakes in excess when she’s trying to think through something, the measurements and muscle memory movements help calm her brain into being able to process whatever is on her mind.

She’s always been a writer, from the very first time she had to write in her 4th grade ELA class. That only grew through Middle and High School creative writing classes. She’s always loved exploring the stories and that it was something that she could perfect through six or seven round of editing.

Sticky notes cover her bedroom walls because of how quickly her thoughts come and go, her ideas for books do NOT come in order and she can often be found starring at her walls with her little scribbles trying to figure out what order they should go in.

For someone who would be considered the ‘bright & shiny’ type, she has a thing for researching and watching shows about serial killers. She can rattle off facts like its her day job.

Because of how quiet she can be, sometimes folks assume she’s innocent or that she doesn’t know anything, but in reality the opposite is true. She’s spent so much time watching and analyzing everyone and everything that she knows much more that she lets on or that any civilian should.

She learned how to play guitar in college (not very well) and is a pretty damn good singer, but she’d never be the type to want to be front and center in front of a crowd. She mostly uses these talents as a means to an end in writing mini stories with lyrics. It appeases her in the in between period of having finished a book and being able to start a new one.

All floral, all the time. Enough said.

GENUINELY afraid of birds and giant frogs

I’ll probably add to this it’s 1am and I’m tired.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

**ex boyfriend, who she really fucked up with. message for more**

high school friends/enemies

someone who works in the bakery with her

women who influenced her growing up within Valencia

Valencia members who are like family

someone who mentored her in her baking

friends she lost when she spun out during college

literally anything

ESTABLISHED CONNECTIONS

wherever i go, you bring me home Damien Kingsley// her brother. her parent. rowan is extremely close to her brother, as kids they were all each other had. he’s done everything he could to give her a normal childhood, to make up for her parents’ lapses. she would do just about anything for him or his daughter.

can't stop staring, at those oceans eyes, burning cities, and napalm skies. fifteen flares inside those ocean eyes Lev Yegorov// no title. but he’s the only man who has ever quieted her brain long enough for her to both lose her breath and catch it. they’ve kissed a few times and have something comparable to a magnetic field between them, but lev broke it off out of respect for her brother.

i'll stand up with you forever, i'll be there for you through it all Natalie Cassadaga// her sister. they may not have grown up together, they bonded to an extent that would have been unfathomable had she not experienced it. barring childhood, they’re sisters, no buts.

i’m a mess, i’m a loser, i’m a hater, i’m a user Freddie Dawson// her confidant. this is the only person outside of nat who gets to see rowan admit to being a mess. freddie gets the 100% honest version of rowan, usually with a little bit of liquid courage.

you can leave me in the dark if that's all I get from you ??????? OPEN // her ex. they dated in secret for 8 months before her assault. when she spun out after the assault, she didn’t tell him and she pushed him away. she fucked up the relationship, but she’s a little bitter about how easily he gave up on her.

'cause they’re gonna tell you all the rules to break, to take away that light OPEN // her roommate. the boldness to rowan’s softness. how different they are makes them work, they bring balance to each other (and rationalize the one another when they go too far).

If you’ve made it this far, you deserve a baby Rowan picture, here.

#redridgeintro #about.#IM SO READY FOR THIS #COME LOVE HER #GIMME THAT EX BF

4 notes · View notes

krystalkoya · 4 years

Text

Paint Me Over | 01

Summary: Amateur writer Hoseok is in a slump. When his friend Taehyung drags him out to another one of his art shows, he can't help but be intrigued by a peculiar local artist he meets there...

Here’s something with Hoseok in the writer/english teacher role. The first chapter is titled 'Chicago Boy' after Ari Lennox's song (go check it out!). It describes the OC’s first impression of Hoseok, however this chapter is in his perspective (it makes sense if you read the lyrics, if it doesn’t oh well... enjoy!)

read on ao3!

pairing: writer!hoseok x reader

genre: fluff, future angst, future smut

rating: +18

word count: 4k

chapter warnings: none!

01 | 02

...

Chicago Boy

Hoseok’s starting to think he wasn’t cut out for this.

Granted, things haven’t been going great in his life lately, (they weren’t terrible, definitely not great) but for the life of him he couldn’t understand why he couldn’t put thoughts to words and type out the remainder of this scene.

He'd been staring at the computer screen for over an hour now, repeatedly starting a sentence only to delete it moments later because nothing. sounded. right.

An hour in and the most he’d accomplished was one measly paragraph - could three sentences even be considered a paragraph? As an English teacher he felt like he should know this. His grammar? Astounding. Word choice? Phenomenal. But It's a shame he'd written the same thing just in different words merely five sentences ago.

Hoseok sighed, leaning into the uncomfortable lumps of his sofa cushions and away from the laptop perched on his coffee table.

He was getting nowhere.

Running a hand over his face, he stared up at the dim lighting fixture on his ceiling. He really needed to replace that one blown-out bulb up there, maybe then he’d actually be able to see when he sat in the living room to grade papers. No use burning electricity when he didn’t even get any use out of it.

An incessant buzzing in his ears alerted him that his phone was ringing. It was inches away from vibrating right off the coffee table when he snatched it up and pressed to his ear.

He sighed into the receiver when he heard who it was.

“Hoseok, my man. You sound frustrated, why are you frustrated?”

Hoseok leaned into his couch cushions again, placing an arm behind his head to get comfortable, because there was no way he was getting back to work now that Taehyung was on the line. Not that he was making any progress before, but placing the blame his friend's incessant need to talk his ear off rather than his own lack of motivation to get anything done sounded nicer.

“I’d tell you, but I have a feeling you already know why.”

“Is it the book again? I told you to stop stressing. All that pent-up tension isn’t good for your creative flow. Relax—did you slow your breathing? Try meditation?”

“Have you been watching those spiritual healing DVDs again? You know that’s all just neatly packaged bullshit right?”

“Excuse me, the nice old woman at the holistic medicine shop said otherwise. Sure, the place was a little sketchy, I think she could’ve been a witch to be honest…" he trails off in thought. "But she said I could get a discount if I bought all three volumes! That’s a steal, I’d be an idiot if didn’t take it.”

“Right, not cause you okay…”

“Anyways, I was just calling to see if you wanted to come out with me tonight.”

“I’m not going to another one of your yoga sessions with you if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s not what I—although you could use it, no. I called to see if you wanted to come to an art show with me.”

Hoseok pursed his lips. Tae had offered to take him to a couple art shows before, some he participated in, others just to view. He’d gone to a few and honestly enjoyed the work all made by a few of the local artists in town. He had no idea such talent existed in this city before he went to one of Tae's shows. And he would never tell him this of course, but Taehyung was kind of endearing when he was geeking out over all the art he was surrounded by.

“Come on, when was the last time you’ve been out? I’m not even asking you to the strip club or anything! This is perfectly tame. Although, fair warning, a lot of artists aren’t adverse to nudity in their works so...”

Hoseok chuckles, “Yeah I know. I would've appreciated the warning the first time you took me to one of your shows but sure I'll go. I mean, why not?”

There was silence on the other end for a moment, and Hoseok knew from prior experience that this was just the time it took for Taehyung to process even slightly shocking information.

“Really, that easy? Okay great! The gala starts at 7. I’ll text you the address and you can meet me there.”

As Hoseok and Taehyung finished up their call, Hoseok elongated his limbs for a much needed stretch after being seated for so long.

He perched his elbows back on his knees, staring at the word document that was mostly filled with blank white space. Realizing that nothing was going to come to him tonight he shut his laptop down, not before hitting save of course—he learned that the hard way one night that resulted in him losing over twenty pages of text. He shuddered. Never again ,he thought as he made his way to the small kitchen of his studio apartment to make himself a quick bite to eat before the gala.

Apparently staring at his computer screen willing words to come out of his brain and onto paper wasn’t going to accomplish anything. That was fine, all writer's hit a wall sometimes, he’d just have to wait until this slump passed. Either that or who knows, maybe he’d get inspired tonight. Wasn't there a saying that looking at art makes you feel more artistic? Perhaps he could channel that inspiration into his own work. He could only hope, he thought as he took a bite of an unappetizing turkey sandwich.

Surprisingly, the gala did not disappoint. It was interesting, for sure. Not in a bad way, just interesting as in... well it was all over the place for one. Much like the few others he's been to with Taehyung, there was a collection of artwork displayed around the room made by local artists for the audience to view and ask questions about at their discretion. Taehyung carted him around the room, bouncing from piece to piece as he chatted with the artists about their inspiration for their works.

There was one he remembers vividly, a collection of paintings by one artist. The first was a painting of a sunset over a horizon of water, but in grays and cool blue undertones. After striking up a conversation with the artist, or rather, Taehyung did, Hoseok came to find out that the she intended to emote sadness in the viewer, almost as if all the life had been sucked out of the image. She had been open enough to share that it was painted during a very dark place in her life.

The next piece in the collection was the same sunset, but painted in vibrant pinks and oranges and blues. This one was made right after the birth of her first daughter. Hoseok even saw a flock of birds flying high in a portion of the sky that hadn't been present in the first painting.

The last was the same image, in muted pastels, not as vibrant as the second, but still evoked feelings of warmth and content in his chest. The artist said this piece represented her now. She was at peace with herself and the direction her life had taken. A mother of two who was well on her way in life, glad she had been given a second chance to form a place for herself in this world. She said the goal of her collection was to show that even the most beautiful of sceneries could be distorted by your emotions at the time of viewing. If that wasn't inspiring, he doesn't know what was.

Hoseok was truly astounded by how much the artists were willing to share about themselves but he wasn't put off by it. He found the experience enriching, learning about people through the art they created.

There were others too. Artists whose messages centered around current events. One that caught his eye were cartoons of the current leaders of America, Russia, and North Korea. Except instead of having adult bodies their heads were attached to infants bodies, diapers and all. Try imagining a crying Donald because Vladimir stole his rattle, meanwhile baby Jong-Un played off to the side with toy 'rockets'. Fucking hilarious. Political satire, if it was done well, always got a chuckle or two out of Hoseok.

And that seemed to be just one in a series of political cartoons that Hoseok would've loved to stay by and read, if only Taehyung hadn't pulled him off to the next booth.

They were about halfway through the gallery when Taehyung stopped chattering away with strangers for a moment to ask him a question.

"So, what do you think?"

Hoseok could not for the life of him take him seriously with that painter's beret on. Why did Taehyung insist on dressing like a 1970s French erotica film star? Or you know, a millennial art hoe.

Hoseok tilts his head up in thought. "It's nice. There's a lot more variety than the last time I came with you. Significantly less nudity than I expected though."

"Yeah, I know. There was no theme this time. They kinda went for a... do whatever you want kind of vibe today. Why are you disappointed?" He asked with a smirk.

Hoseok plays along. "Absolutely. You know I can’t resist seeing all those sculpted men in their nude glory. One of my favorite pastimes is comparing one micropenis to the next. Some have bigger balls, others are girthier. Some made out of marble, others, stone.”

He laughs at his own joke when all Taehyung can muster is a shake of his head in amusement. trying, and failing to mask his boxy smile.

“So I take it you didn't want to participate this time around?" Hoseok asks him when they sober up.

"Nah. I wanted to, but I didn’t feel good about any of the photos I took lately. Glad I came to check things out though. These pieces are amazing."

They came to a stop in front of the next artist’s booth. Hoseok's eyes were drawn to a painting of what looked like a garden.

It was beautiful, simplistic, yet so realistic in the way it was painted that he was starting to wonder whether it was an actual photo instead.

But it wasn't. He could see the impressions of the brush strokes against canvas as he leaned in closer. The yellows and reds and purples of the flowers stood out against the forest greens of the bushes and grass that littered the page. There, off to the left, looked to be some children playing in the sun, smiling happily as they ran along. There were several tufts of flowers littered about the page but toward the right he noticed one lone sunflower resting under the shade of a tree. It was wilted, not as tall as the others, he assumed because of the lack of sunlight. A lone bird perched atop a high branch of the tree, almost as if it was surveying the land in search of something. For what, he didn't know.

"Wow, this is beautiful. What was the inspiration for it?" Hoseok looks up to see Taehyung observing the painting as well, that concentrated expression he always takes on when analyzing a new work of art on his face yet again.

But then his eyes are drawn in front of him when he hears a voice, presumably belonging to the artist. Come to think of it, you looked just like an older version of one of the little girls in the picture. You stand there, hands clasped behind your back as you peruse the two newcomers.

"No inspo. Just life I guess."

"Then wouldn't you say life is the inspiration?" Hoseok counters.

You shrug your shoulders.

Hoseok straightens up to view you better. "So... what's the meaning behind it?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "Meaning...?"

Hoseok is just a little put off by your behavior. What is he speaking a different language? Had he slipped into Korean unknowingly? No, Taehyung would have given him a weird look if he had (it's happened before, don't ask). He may be reading to much into things but it's almost as if you are bored with his conversation. And Hoseok prides himself on being a good conversationalist. What kind of English teacher would he be if he couldn't hold an intellectual conversation from time to time?

Hoseok explains hesitantly, "Yeah, the meaning. I mean, it can't just be a garden."

You relax back onto your heels. "Oh, that's exactly what it is. Just a garden." A loud pop of the gum in your mouth follows.

"It can't just be a garden." he deadpans.

"It certainly can be." You counter.

He scoffs, then looks at Taehyung who still looks deep in thought.

"I get it." Taehyung nods along, finally tearing his eyes away from the painting. "Yeah, I get it."

"See?" You point toward Taehyung, as if saying that 'if your friend gets it, you should too!'

"What do you get Tae?"

"Hey man, maybe it's just a garden."Hoseok looks at his friend incredulously, though he's not surprised he isn't taking his side. He shakes his head vehemently.

"It can't just be a garden. Look at it. There's too much to unpack here."

"What do you do?" The question catches him off guard.

Hoseok turns back to you. Something about you makes him feel like he shouldn't tell you anything. The way you are looking at him expectantly, with narrowed eyes as if you already know and are just waiting for him to prove you right gives him pause. But another voice in his head urges him to say it. At least just to see where this was all headed.

"Me? I'm an English teacher."

The twinkle in your eyes at as soon as the words leave his mouth lets him know that your suspicions were correct. And you were proud of that fact. "Figures." you laugh dryly.

Okay, ouch. Was he supposed to be offended? Yes, of course he was, you blatantly laughed in his face when he told you his profession.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, just you English majors always need to give everything a meaning. Everything isn't intentional. Sometimes a tree is just a tree."

"Again, you can't say nothing and then follow it up with something," is Hoseok’s only argument. A weak one, but it stopped you from getting the last word in nonetheless.

But to his dismay, you and Taehyung share a terribly stifled laugh over how riled up Hoseok seems to be over a silly painting.

Taehyung, who can barely control his laughter, places a hand on Hoseok's shoulder.

"Come on 'seok, we still haven't viewed the rest of the works yet."He pulls him along and you smile and wave off the pair while Hoseok, for some unknown reason, can't look away from your little booth or the mysterious woman who painted randomly with 'no message' in mind.

At the end of the gala Hoseok and Taehyung ended back at the front. Not too long after they arrived Taehyung wandered off to talk to some of his 'art buddies' which left Hoseok alone to wander around aimlessly. He walked around for a bit but to be honest he already saw all of the works here, and he did not feel like circling all the way through again. Luckily, near the entrance there was a refreshments table where Hoseok found himself gravitating towards the longer Taehyung was gone.

He grabbed one of the small plastic cups of punch off the table along with a one of those sugar cookies from the supermarket he liked so much, but never bought. After buying a tray and eating the whole of it by himself the first three nights he’d been too guilty to pick up another since.

"Jeez, they could've given us some bigger cups for this punch. Two sips in and I'm already done."

Your voice almost startles Hoseok enough to spill juice down the front of his shirt. Luckily, it wasn't a lot and he's glad he made the last minute decision to wear a black t-shirt instead of white under his jacket tonight.

He grabs a napkin and hastily dabs at the liquid before it can dry.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." You say sincerely, but the poorly hidden smile on your face makes him question your genuity.

"It's fine, it'll come out eventually. Where'd you even come from anyway?"

You eye him over the rim of your cup. "Over there...?” you point vaguely in the direction of your booth. “Relax, I just left for a bit to check out some of the other artist's work. I'll be back soon to tell anyone else who has a question that's it's literally just. a. garden."

Hoseok squints his eyes at you unamused. "Haha, very funny."

"Glad you think so," You laugh into your drink. "Come on, lighten up. It can mean whatever you want it to mean. Art is subjective."

"Sure, I guess," he rolls his eyes. "But hear me out. I'm no expert but artist's usually have a message in mind that they want to send to their audience, at least the ones that want to be taken seriously. I mean, that's the theme I picked up from literally everyone else here." He gestures to the room around him.

"Okay, well. I had a message- I wanted you to see my tree as, get this...a tree."

Hoseok shakes his head in annoyance that you aren't getting it, downing the rest of his drink in one go. Which wasn't hard. You weren't wrong about the cups.

You laugh again, airily and the sound is a nice one, he thinks.

You perch on the wall beside him. "What's your name?" you ask him, eyes alight with interest and Hoseok thinks not for the last time that he shouldn't tell you. But again, for some reason he wants to.

"Jung Hoseok, your local 6th grade English teacher with a stick up his ass, according you."

There's that laugh again, and Hoseok likes that he gets to hear it because of something he said and not because you were making fun of him again.

"Hey now, I didn't say all that! But if you want to go there..."

"My students like me the most, just you know. They say I'm their favorite teacher. What about that says uppity snob to you?" You smile as you bite into your unfinished cookie.

"There you go again, putting words in my mouth."

"You were thinking it, don't lie." But his tone is less accusing now, more playful. Would you look at that, he was warming up to you.

"I was thinking that those students of yours just wanted a passing grade and had no qualms about kissing up to you to get it. But hey, whatever helps you sleep at night! I'm ___ by the way." You hold out your unoccupied hand for a shake.

He takes it, saying, "___, beautiful artwork but I suggest taking on a project with more meaning to you next time. It can be quite fulfilling."

Your smug nod in agreement, like you actually value his opinion wouldn't fool anyone. "Noted," you say. "But if you don't mind me asking, what makes you such an expert? Are you an artist as well?"

He thinks about it for a moment before nodding slowly. "Of a sort."

You hum in response, and he can see the way your eyes peak with interest. So it doesn't come as a surprise when you ask him what he does.

"I may or may not dabble in writing," he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck hesitantly.

"Figures." You scoff.

Again with the scoffing. "There you go again. Clowning my profession, now my hobbies? How cold are you?"

You chuckle lightly but shake your head in denial. "Shut up, I'm not laughing at you. It's just... how typical, an English teacher who writes too? You should let me read some of your work sometime. Let me give you some pointers— so that way we'll be even."

"Maybe but you should know this, I don't let just anyone read my work."

You send a dazzlingly smirk his way as you say, "Is that so? Then I'll have to figure out a way to become 'not-just-anyone' now won't I?"

He's grinning down at you as you continue to stare him down with that same smug expression on your face.

If he wasn't mistaken, this was flirting right? He wasn't sure, he's been out of the game for so long now that he had to make sure before he said anything that would make himself look like a complete fool in front of you. But the way you quirk your head at him, as if anticipating his response in earnest has him thinking that yes... you were definitely flirting.

He's just finished formulating a response in his mind when he hears his name being called from across the room. He looks up to see Taehyung waving him over. He's surrounded by two other guys who are also looking his way, which can only mean that Tae is calling him over to meet some of his art friends.

You smile endearingly when you see Taehyung's exaggerated movements to get his attention. "It looks like your friend's summoning you," you giggle when Taehyung starts directing Hoseok like he's an airplane landing on a runway.

"I should get back to my booth anyway." you say. "Someone must be wondering why I decided to paint the grass green of all colors. See you around stick." You send him a smile and a wave goodbye. You're already walking away and he's left to wonder where the nickname 'stick' came from. He recalls his words from earlier and mentally face palms. He can only blame himself for that one.

When he gets home that night he still can't write. Not to say he wasn't inspired tonight. Seeing all those artists display a body of work they created themselves motivated him to finish his own.There was so much talent today that there was no way he didn't feel renewed enough to tackle the scene he couldn't seem to find the right words for earlier in the night.

So no, it wasn't that he didn't feel inspired. It was more-so the fact that his attention was completely elsewhere. For some unknown reason his mind was still stuck on a particular artist he met that night. Partly because he couldn't figure you out and your seemingly simplistic art that had no backstory, no motivation, no message behind the scene. He just knew there was something there. There always was.

Secondly, he really enjoyed his conversation with you at the end of the night. Which was shocking because after his first interaction with you, he wasn't so sure he could enjoy speaking to someone who literally lit his mind alight with a mix of confusion and frustration. But you were the first person to show interest in him since...since then. He didn't want to jump to conclusions now (because he did tend to do that) but your flirtatious smile cast in his direction had to have meant something, right? He'd never forgive Taehyung for dragging him away before he could see where your conversation was headed. Would he ever see you again? Probably not. It wasn't a big city, but it wasn't that small either.

He burrowed deeper into his blankets, trying and failing to get his mind off the puzzling woman from the gala. Well, he sighed, it was better this than falling asleep to all those sentences still left to write.

#hoseok x reader #jhope x reader #writer hoseok #english teacher hoseok #artist reader #kim taehyung #arthoe tae #future angst #future smut #hobi x reader #hobi x you

21 notes · View notes

johannesviii · 4 years

Text

Top 10 Personal Favorite Hit Songs from 2015

This is the last list that was kind of difficult to do and where some cuts had to be made. The next four ones weren’t very good years music-wise and generally speaking.

Also there’s something that embarrasses me even more than Blue (Eiffel 65) somewhere on this top ten. Oops.

Disclaimers:

Keep in mind I’m using both the year-end top 100 lists from the US and from France while making these top 10 things. There’s songs in English that charted in my country way higher than they did in their home countries, or even earlier or later, so that might get surprising at times.

Of course there will be stuff in French. We suck. I know. It’s my list. Deal with it.

My musical tastes have always been terrible and I’m not a critic, just a listener and an idiot.

I have sound to color synesthesia which justifies nothing but might explain why I have trouble describing some songs in other terms than visual ones.

2015 was a bit calmer, apart from the fact I moved out of the appartment and bought one instead of renting one. This is still where I’m living nowadays, it’s not big but having no landlord is a LOT less stressful even if it will take a long time to pay the loan (one time the lock broke and I couldn’t get out and the landlord refused to fix it OR pay for a new lock if I decided to call someone to fix it ; another time someone who had a spare key opened the door while I was wearing a bathrobe and was like “oh. You’re here” and I was like “...I mean..... yeah.... 'cause I live here”). I also made new friends online that year and felt less isolated.

Sidenote, my first “flat” mp3 player’s battery died today but after a quick emergency operation I was able to save the data on it. I used that mp3 player from roughly 2008 to 2013 so that’s a relief, it kinda has sentimental value and I was still using it to listen to DW audios nowadays from time to time.

As you can see in the first picture, my super old portable cd player, which still works fine, by the way, is judging this little amateur so hard right now.

So! This is the year Faithless dropped Faithless 2.0, 21 Pilots dropped Blurryface, Mylène Farmer dropped the surprisingly quite good (for this point in her career) Interstellaires, and Carly Rae Jepsen dropped E MO TION, which would have been my favorite album of the year... if Nightwish hadn’t made the absolutely jawdropping Endless Forms Most Beautiful. A symphonic metal concept album about Earth and evolution and the place of humanity in the universe?? Excuse me? Who’s read my christmas list? My favorite songs on it are Alpenglow, Shudder Before The Beautiful, the title track, Edema Ruh which has the best intro, and of course The Greatest Show On Earth, which is an incredibly ambitious, kinda bloated and quite pretentious (in a good way) song about the history of Earth, looking back from a future where mankind is extinct and concluding “we were here”, and holy shit I get emotional every time, and it’s 24 minutes long, and I still never get bored when I relisten to it. Just amazing.

As far as unelligible songs that piss me off go, it’s all Carly Rae Jepsen: I Really Like You, and especially Run Away With Me. If they had been elligible, that last one would be my #1, definitely.

Here’s some... uh, a lot of honorable mentions, actually.

Budapest (George Ezra) and Chandelier (Sia) - Still elligible, still not on the list.

Cheerleader (OMI) - I have no idea why people dislike this song.

Ex’s and Oh’s (Elle King) - This is one of these songs that would be higher on the list if I had better taste. I still like it a lot though.

FourFiveSeconds (Rihanna, Kanye West, Paul McCartney) - Ditto.

You Know You Like It (DJ Snake) - Great drop. The rest is meh.

Miracle (Julian Perretta) - The opposite of the previous one ; a fantastic song let down by its drop.

Uma Thurman (Fall Out Boy) - This song makes absolutely no sense but it’s a lot of fun nonetheless.

Lean On (Major Lazer) - Super overplayed but holy shit this is incredibly catchy. The bridge is especially great.

Want to want me (Jason Derulo) - If this guy had that kind of song in him why does he suck most of the time. What happened.

Hundred Miles (Yazz) - Nice earworm that never got annoying.

Are you with me (Lost frequencies) - Basically a less good version of Waves from the previous year. This is a compliment.

Ain’t Nobody (Felix Jaehn) - And this is the less good version of Rather Be from the previous year. This is also a compliment.

Laissez Passer (Maître Gims) - When I started to check French hit songs from years where I basically wasn’t listening to the general local radio anymore, some friends told me they were grabbing popcorn and waiting for me to start hating some specific acts. Maître Gims was one of them. To their disappointment, I love just about every non-love, non-breakup hit song he’s ever made. Oops.

Love Me Harder (Ariana Grande & The Weeknd) - It took me ages to like The Weeknd but this song helped a lot. This just sounds fantastic regardless of the content (just saying this because I have a tendency to dislike stuff like that). He isn’t even the best singer of the two on this track, wow.

Millionnaire (Soprano) - In a worse year, this would make the list without question. The lyrics aren’t that original but still very good (love the line “remplis-moi les poches d’espoir” (fill my pockets with hope)) and the melody is just beautiful.

On écrit sur les murs (Kids United) - If you recall I put the original version of this on my 1990 list because I liked the Kids United version a lot and also had nothing else to put at the 10th spot on the 1990 list. The fact that I don’t even have enough space for the better version on this list says a lot about how abysmal 1990 was, music-wise.

And now, the actual list!

10 - Centuries (Fall Out Boy)

US: #43 / FR: Not on the list

Why are these guys still on my lists.

No, seriously. Why. This is yet another song that would be better if it was faster. And the sample is badly used. So I have no idea why it works. One of these days I’ll have to reevaluate Fall Out Boy’s entire discography, take a good look at myself, and admit I possibly like this band and that I’ve been lying to myself for like 15 years... but today is not that day.

9 - Sapés Comme Jamais (Maître Gims)

US: Not on the list / FR: #10

Told you I liked Maître Gims!

Listen. It’s not my place to comment on the ethics of the whole La Sape movement (which can be summarised as “modern black dandies trying to get the most expensive & beautiful clothes possible”) but you have to admit it’s super cool to have a more energetic and fun version of Suit And Tie. God, that beat. And it’s a ton of fun to sing along with the chorus! And it’s such a convincing song when it’s combined with the music video, you kinda want to look as cool and confident as these guys.

Also quick shoutout to the Sapeuses. Absolute legends & queens, every last one of them.

8 - Style (Taylor Swift)

US: #29 / FR: Not on the list

That year my s.o went to a party I didn’t want to go to and came back home completely drunk & way too late, crashed on the couch and started to ramble about how “Style” by Taylor Swift had a better sound mixing than the entirety of Epica’s latest album at the time and how amazing it was. For like half an hour.

I completely agree, just to clarify.

7 - Cool For The Summer (Demi Lovato)

US: #53 / FR: Not on the list

In what is possibly the least controversial opinion on this entire list: I love Cool For The Summer, the melody is great, the lyrics are good, the singing is the best, and you all know that and you all love this song, so yeah. Moving on to-

Oh god here comes #6. Oh shit. Oh no.

Can’t we just skip it and pretend-

6 - Animals (Maroon 5)

US: #46 / FR: Not on the list

So. I.

Uuuuuuuuuuuuuh.

How can I justify this bullshit.

The truth is: I can’t. Not really. I’m not even entirely sure what happened here. I hate this band and have always hated them, from the start. The lyrics are painfully stupid. The singing is as atrocious as ever. The “AWOOOOO” bit on the bridge is absolutely ridiculous. None of Levine’s “oh look at me I’m so dangerous” act remotely works. There isn’t a single thing I find competent here apart from the melody. I mean it. I’m not saying any of this to look cool. If I wanted to look cool, this certainly wouldn’t be on the list.

But you know what, the sheer incompetence on display here may be exactly why I like it. If it was a credible serial killer song written like an upbeat pop song, it would be disturbing and unlistenable. But the way it’s made, it simply sounds stupid, so you keep imagining some sort of inoffensive nerd pretending he’s a horrible monster (and failing) whenever you hear it. And that, I think, is what pushes it squarely into the “so bad it’s f█cking fantastic” territory, where it joins Butterfly from my 2001 list.

That sounds about right.

5 - Adventure of a Lifetime (Coldplay)

US: Not on the list / FR: #29

I haven’t mentioned A Head Full of Dreams in that year’s albums, because it came out at the very end of 2015 so I mostly consider it to be a 2016 album. It’s not as good as Mylo Xyloto, and not as consistant as Ghost Stories, but it contains some real gems. Adventure of a Lifetime isn’t nearly my favorite song on it, and I still put it super high here. I love the lyrics in particular (”under this pressure, under this weight, we are diamonds taking shape” oh damn) but the song itself just makes you want to move. I literally can’t listen to it without at least moving my head in rhythm a little bit. It’s nearly as colorful as the album cover. And it’s a joy to sing along the “woooohooooo”s!

4 - Stolen Car (Mylène Farmer & Sting)

US: Not on the list / FR: #61

This is Stolen Car (Take Me Dancing), from Sting (2004), rewritten as a half English half French duet where it’s unclear if the female singer is the imaginary lover or the car in the story. You might want to re-read that sentence.

What did I say on a previous list? Ah yes, “I see a duet between two singers I like and I die instantly”. This is also the last time Mylène Farmer is going to appear on one of my lists. I could say “self care”, but I genuinely don’t like any of her more recent hits, at all. Whatever. She’s been on these lists since the very first one (1988) anyway.

It’s been a wild ride, to say the least.

3 - Shut Up And Dance (Walk the Moon)

US: #6 / FR: Not on the list

And for the second least controversial opinion on this list: despite the massive overplay, I never EVER got tired of this, it’s colorful, energetic, super fun, and it’s still on my mp3 player to this day. Just a fantastic song. And a great band! I wish One Foot had been elligible for a future list, it’s super good. Aw.

2 - Ego (Willy Williams)

US: Not on the list / FR: #69

This is a song about a guy who imagines himself as this super cool elegant dude, but when he looks at himself in the mirror he hates everything he’s seeing.

I know this isn’t supposed to be a song about gender dysphoria but my god is this shit relatable.

To make things even better, it’s served by creepy music box sounds ala The Birthday Massacre and by an untouchable, strange beat. It’s a dark, weird song, but it’s all kinds of wonderful and catchy as hell, and apparently I’m not the only one to think that considering the mindboggling number of views on the youtube music video. Watch it if you haven’t seen it, it’s hypnotic and makes the song even better.

I only discovered this song last year but I’ve listened to it so much since then I really debated if this should be at the #1 spot. It’s just... so horribly relatable.

But you know what’s even more relatable?

Being broke and sad and still trying to have the time of your life.

1 - Downtown (Macklemore & Ryan Lewis)

US: #84 / FR: Not on the list

Some people call this Thriftshop 2.0 but I think it’s even better than Thriftshop, which was, if you recall one of my previous lists, already pretty damn good in my opinion.

As you probably already know, it’s a song about a guy buying a moped and bragging about him and his friends, and their mopeds, and how cool they look when they ride downtown on their mopeds. I never owned a moped in my life. But I have a super small & shitty car which I love very much and so it’s very relatable. Also I’ve never written the word ‘moped’ so often in a single paragraph before in my life.

I love every single person who sings on this track. I love the music video. I’ve been trying to match the flow of the second verse ever since it came out and I still can’t do it with my shitty accent. It’s full of weird and corny lines, but that’s also why I love it so much. The dialogue at the beginning! “Dope, my crew is ill, and all we need is two good wheels”! “Head into the dealership and drop a stack and cop a Kawasaki, I'm stunting on everybody, hella raw, pass the wasabi”! “My seat is leather, alright, I'm lying, it's pleather / But girl, we could still ride together / You don't need an Uber, you don't need a cab / F█ck a bus pass, you got a moped man”!! “Cut the bullshit / Get off my mullet / Stone washed, so raw / Moped like a bullet - NYAOOOOOO”!! “Running around the whole town / Neighbors yelling at me like, "You need to slow down." / Going thirty-eight, Dan, chill the f█ck out / Mow your damn lawn and sit the hell down”!!! Oh shit, I basically quoted one third of the song. I just. Ugh. I love it so much, okay?

Cringe culture is dead and we peed on its grave. We spend enough time in our lives feeling miserable. Like what you like. Even if it’s super ridiculous. No: especially if it’s super ridiculous. Live a little, damn it.

Next up: The Year Everything Went Wrong Except Pop Music

#Johannes’ bad not good pretty terrible music lists #music #long post #eye contact tw

11 notes · View notes

reddieorrnot · 5 years

Text

some benverly for you guys because it’s needed,, also this isn’t proof read so have fun with that!!

Beverly Marsh had a horrible taste when it came to guys, that was just a known fact.

No one understood though, why such a girl would always usher herself in the direction of such shitty boys. When asked, Beverly would always tell the questioner that she had no idea what they were talking about. That she didn’t have bad taste, and that most guys she dated were just coincidentally not all that great. She would use the term ‘most guys’, when it was really all guys.

When she was younger, her infatuation with Bill grew immensely. But it wasn’t long before she realized her attraction was more at the cause of Bill’s enchanting aura, and not so much emotions. Bill just had that impact on everyone, his charisma, and leader-like qualities. She liked the fact that someone so important thought she was great though, so she flirted for a little bit. Things felt a little weird after a while, and he soon got over her as well, both of them agreeing that dating would feel too weird. Luckily, there had been no awkwardness in the friend group after that. Beverly never told him that she had known for a while that she didn’t really like him, she didn’t find it too significant anyways.

Freshmen year, Beverly found herself giggling at every joke a brown-haired boy in her Biology class would tell her. They sat in the corner of the class, and he would make snarky remarks about the teacher every chance he got. Beverly didn’t actually dislike the teacher, but the jokes he’d make were just so funny. His name turned out to be Alexander, and he was even funnier out of class. Also, he liked Beverly. Gretta once commented that Alexander wouldn’t make any of his jokes in Biology if Beverly wasn’t there that day, and that gave her butterflies. One day in class, Alexander had scribbled something onto a piece of paper, and slowly slid it over to her side of the desk. She stared at it for a second, then unfolded it. It was a small note that stated, “Wanna be my girlfriend?” and had a box with “Yes” or “No”. It made her giggle, because there was also a smile smiley face in the corner of the note, right next to the box of acceptance. So of course, giddy with excitement, Beverly checked off the box next to the smiley face and slid the paper back to Alexander. She watched him unfold it and returned the smile he gave her. A boy liked her, and she liked him.

Everything was okay for a while. Sometimes Alexander would even join the losers at lunch, scooting in between Beverly and Ben. Though she never noticed it herself, later on, she’d learn that Ben never quite enjoyed Alexander’s presence, whether it was next to him at lunch or just in general. Beverly and he would laugh together in biology, and he would walk her partially home. But she should have caught on to the fact that Alexander appeared to like her even more when he saw her take out a cigarette for the first time, begging for her to give him one. Now, Beverly wasn’t some addict. She was fine with sharing a smoke and always did with Richie. But it started to feel peculiar when Alexander didn’t care what she had to say or if she wanted him to walk her home unless she had her pack of cigarettes with her. Those things weren’t easy to buy either, she had always settled on stealing them one way or another. Now she was getting used for them, by a boyfriend who barely even showed any interest in her anymore. She pulled herself together and dumped Alexander, telling him from that point on he could buy his own cigarettes.

The next day, all of her friends seemed quite pleased that the boy wouldn’t be joining them for lunch. Especially Ben.

Sophomore year, Beverly got herself wrapped up with a dark-eyed guy who she always caught looking at her when she walked to her third period. They would pass each other every day, as she turned the corner and made eye contact with him as he stood at his locker. It was like he was waiting for her, after a few weeks had gone by. Like he didn’t even need anything from his locker, but waited there to catch a glimpse of the beautiful redhead who walked by. One day, as she turned the familiar corner, he wasn’t there. Instead, he had been waiting at the door of her third period, her English class. He had asked her to ditch with him, so they could get to know each other. Beverly knew it was wrong, and she really liked English. She also wondered why he couldn’t just ask her out for lunch after school or something, but her curiosity consumed her like the wildfire burning in her hopeless, teenage heart. So she cut with him that day, and found out a couple things. Jake Glyder was a Junior, a year above her, and obviously was the opposite of the boy next door. He differed from her last boyfriend, who instead of begging her for cigarettes, kept a pack on him at all times. She considered it a relief, a point for Jake in that moment. They had snuck out the school's back door near the gym and took her to a nearby park. They had sat on the grass, where he told her about all about himself, barely pausing to get her intake. She knew something was off about that, but she ignored it and focused more so on bruises on his knuckles and the leather jacket he wore. Those attributes made her feel a surge of exhilaration.

That’s what Jake was all about, exhilaration. Asking Beverly to cut classes with him, sneak out on Friday nights, taking her to parties. Sometimes she’d lie in bed wondering if he ever ran out of energy because she sure did. She never wanted to let that show, though. All of Jake’s friends knew her as the girl to go along with anything, at any time. And although the title made her feel a little sick sometimes, when the guys would holler at her when she walked around with the older guy, she pushed it away.

Until the day Ben got to her before Jake the morning before school. He hastily grabbed her aside, taking her completely by surprise. Ben made his points quite quick and clear, Jake wasn’t good for her and she was being dragged down.

Beverly kind of chuckled out of nerves, even though she knew Ben wasn’t lying. She just really didn’t want to believe it.

“Bev, stop lying to yourself. You deserve better.” Ben then walked away, his back turned so Beverly couldn’t see the way his lip trembled.

She didn’t ever tell anyone, or talk to Ben why she did it, but that following afternoon she broke up with Jake. She was a little worried it wouldn’t go well, but then she realized he was barely at school anyways. There was a low chance she’d really ever even see him after they broke up.

The summer after Sophomore year, Beverly went to a Gretta Bowie’s party. While Gretta despised Beverly and had always bullied her, Gretta valued having a huge party more than some hatred. She knew that to have everyone talking about her, she needed to invite as many people as possible. So when Gretta came up to the losers club one day at the local diner, letting them all know about her party, they weren’t all that shocked. Everyone besides Eddie was actually excited, the small boy just being his usual nervous self. Beverly had gotten a ride from Stan and Mike, the other boys riding together. They all met up at the party, and Beverly gave Eddie a small hug of encouragement. Then, they all split up. Well, at least Beverly split up from them. She would pass by Ben or Richie occasionally, mostly Richie though. They danced together as Richie brought her a drink, Ben mostly just checked in with her. At some point throughout the night, Beverly found herself wanting a break from everything. The lights, voices, and music had just become too much all at once, and she needed some fresh air in her lungs. When she finally found the back door of the house, she slipped out into the backyard. The night air consumed her as she stood there just taking a few breaths. She nearly screamed out of surprise when a voice greeted her, spinning on her instantly. There stood a tall, lean, blond. He had hazel eyes and wore some band shirt Beverly couldn’t recognize. After apologizing for scaring her, and walking up next to Beverly, the blond gave himself the name Charlie. He was full of charisma, smirking at the girl by his side and asking her about her life. Beverly was surprised she went to school with Charlie had never even heard of him until now, he sure was a sweet talker. And that’s how she met her third boyfriend.

Charlie was essentially best described as always being present. Days where Beverly hung out with her male friends quickly become nonapparent, as Charlie always demanded to be there. It wasn’t obvious at first, stating he only wanted to get to know his girlfriend’s friends. Beverly took it as him wanting to be involved in her life, it seemed like a nice enough gesture. But soon it became more persistent, more constant. She never got to hang out and smoke with Richie anymore, she wasn’t allowed to do that. If she ever tried to vouch for herself, to beg for solitude away from Charlie, he’d make her feel bad. He would tell her that a girlfriend shouldn’t need time away from the most important person in her life. The time Beverly yelled back that her friends were the most important people to her, Charlie broke up with her. That was the first time she had gotten broken up with. But she didn’t feel the need to leave class running to the bathroom to cry over Charlie, or the need to watch sad romance movies while eating ice cream. She felt no sadness, just a sense of lifted weight. The first thing she did once Charlie left her, was knock on Richie’s door to ask him if he wanted to go for a smoke. The way Richie’s eyes lit up was something Beverly would always laugh at. They hadn’t had any one on one time in a while, at Charlie’s fault, and it felt good to return to how things used to be.

“I never liked him,” Richie confessed after a long drag of the cigarette between his fingers. He didn’t look at Beverly, just staring out into the abyss. Richie did that a lot when he was being honest, he didn’t look at you. Beverly assumed it was because if he felt the pressure of eye contact, he’d crumble into telling some jokes. She could find sense in that.

“I assumed,” She sighed. Then Richie did turn to look at her, and it was horrifying. His eyes were honest and truthful. There was no smile dancing upon his lips or snarky grin. He had no teasing slipping from his tongue or laughter erupting from his chest. He just stared at Beverly, his eyebrows scrunched.

“Why do you do that to yourself?”

His tone was achingly hushed, like he was asking to know some sort of secret.

“Do… do what?”

“Why do you let assholes date you?”

The question made Beverly swallow nervously, as she focused on each part of the phrase. She knew deep down why, she always did. She knew she was always getting involved with guys who were just going to hurt her in the end, fuck up her life. But how was she supposed to say that out loud? There was no way she could phrase her ideology without masking the overall stupidity of it.

“I don’t deserve much greater,” She finally mutters, flicking the cigarette in her hand.

Richie laughs, but it’s empty. There is no humor in it, but an obvious tint of disbelief. Richie has never gotten furious with Beverly, or at least there isn’t a time where she can remember. Sure, she’s told him to shut up a few times and he’s fired back, but that’s just them. He has never looked as mad as he goes right now with her, and it makes her feel a little disappointed in herself.

“Beverly, I can’t fucking believe you,” It’s the scoff he lets out that stabs at her side.

“What?”

“You’re incredible, and you don’t even see it. You’re probably the coolest chick in this run-down town, and you think you deserve those dicks. It’s honestly unbelievable.”

“I… I’m incredible?” She feels a lump in her throat because even though she hears the words, everything in her childhood has chalked Beverley up into believing she wasn’t worth anything.

“Ask anyone, you’re amazing,” Richie throws his cigarette into the ground and stomps it into the ground. He looks like he’s about to leave, before he starts speaking again, “You know who probably thinks you’re the most amazing person in the world?”

The question makes Beverly raise her eyebrows, “Who?”

Richie frowns and lets out a sigh, “Ben, he thinks you’re the greatest person there is. Always had, Bev. Always has.”

He doesn’t give her the chance to reply, because the second Richie is done talking, he turns and walks away. He’s probably going home, to what Beverly can assume, but she doesn’t stop him. She just lets his words sink in. Ben.

When Junior year starts, Beverly gets tired of asking her father for money. He’s overly intrusive with asking what she’s buying and it makes her uncomfortable. Without much thought needed, she applies to work at a nearby cafe. With her smile and friendly nature, the employers hire her. The job is fun, she likes greeting new people every day and she especially likes it when her friends show up at the shop to grab some coffee and just hang out with her. Stan likes to come in, order a black coffee, and just chat about his day. It’s mostly small talk, but it feels natural with Stan. Sometimes he’ll bring up something stupid Richie did, it always makes Beverly laugh. When Eddie comes around, he buys a pastry. Most often he is accompanied by Richie, who tries to take a bite out of whatever Eddie buys. Eddie is vocally reluctant, but Beverly never misses the way Eddie always slides over his food without a second thought. Bill and Mike like to come to the cafe to work on schoolwork, sometimes together but more often than not. They both work best with quiet anyways. Whenever Ben comes, which Beverly can’t lie is very often, he always asks Beverly about her day. At first, she doesn’t talk about it much, not finding importance within her daily events. But Ben dismisses any thought of that, claiming he would love to hear Beverly talk, even if it is just about how many coffees she had to make that day. That’s something that makes her blush, and she never gets that out of the back of her mind.

But that doesn’t mean anything to the redhead when one day, a nicely dressed young man walks into the cafe. He’s very undeniably attractive and has a deep voice that makes Beverly swoon. He looks about a year or two older than Beverly, making any attraction sort of risky. But she doesn’t make any consideration of that, as she flirts with him over the counter while taking his order. His name turns out to be Casey, and he makes a small comment about needing to work on something for his University class with a joke. He’s a freshman in college, marking him two years older than Beverly, which for some reason, she finds exciting. Any imbalance of power in a relationship with him doesn’t cross her mind, and she gives him a big smile while taking his money. When his coffee is finished, which she makes herself, he scribbles his number onto a piece of paper, winking at her as he leaves with his satchel and pristine blazer. Beverly is heavily interested.

Their first date is at some fancy restaurant, one Beverly had only ever associated with adults going to. That’s when she realizes that Casey is, in fact, an adult, which makes her uneasy in a sense. At the end of that night, he kisses Beverly in his car. There’s a taste of desire in his mouth, something that wants more than just a sweet kiss. Beverly does her best to pull away before she starts something she cannot finish.

When they start dating, Beverly realizes she cannot go out with Casey while wearing casual clothing, things such as t-shirts and jeans. He makes a disgusted face at her when she does this the first few times, even offering to buy her nicer clothes if needed. She starts to wonder how a college student has so much money to spare. The controlling doesn’t stop there, soon he’s telling her what she should wear her hair. Apparently, her face looks less feminine with her hair up in a ponytail, even though that gets it out of her face. Casey likes it when she comes off more feminine and when her clothes are tighter and her hair frames her face. It becomes her sole focus, what Casey wants. What she’s grateful for is the fact that Casey puts no restraints on her social life, as she doesn’t recognize that this shouldn’t be a plus, yet simply the norm. She’s happy that she still gets to hang out with her group of friends, and sometimes lets traits she built with Casey’s influence come out with them. When they all plan to go over to Bill’s house for movie night, Beverly doesn’t notice that she can just wear a t-shirt and some pajama pants. Instead, she grabs a long-sleeved top, that does a lot of showing. Casey always tells her those types of shirts make her look older, more like a woman. More like the Beverly he likes. And she pairs the long cut shirt with a skirt, showing off her legs. It completely slips her mind that she isn’t going on some date with Casey, that she can just be herself.

When she arrives at Bill’s, she gets a howl from Richie in a joking manner, which makes her realize how she looks. She also can’t miss the way Ben nearly trips over himself when he sees her.

“I didn’t know we were going formal tonight,” Eddie playfully says, gripping at his clothes, which include a shirt Beverly swears is Richie’s and a pair of shorts.

“I… I…” Beverly struggles to speak, the realization of what she has become hitting her. Everyone stares at her, with different expressions. Faces of confusion, humor, and shock cloud her conscious until she can’t handle it anymore. She quickly drops her bag for the night and runs past the boys, heading straight for where she knows is the Denbrough bathroom. She doesn’t mean to cause a scene, but she also doesn’t mean to start sobbing out of nowhere.

Locking herself in the bathroom, she sinks into the ground and clutches her legs to her chest. This wasn’t her, she had become some kind of arm candy for her boyfriend. Did she even like him? Did he even like her? He had fabricated her into someone she couldn’t recognize, someone who didn’t even dress like themselves. When she looked in the mirror, she didn’t know who was looking back at her. How had she managed to let a man erase her identity and replace it with someone she didn’t know?

There’s a knock at the door and she expects to hear Richie’s voice call out, or maybe even Eddie’s. She’s pushed into a state of shock when she hears Mike instead.

“Hey, Bev? Mind opening the door for me, please?”

“Um… yeah, yeah.”

Beverly lifts herself off the cold floor, which made her legs get goosebumps. She grabs the doorknob, unlocking it. Mike does the rest, opening the door and taking in the scene before him. Beverly's mascara is run, and her lipstick is smudged. Mike wants to ask why in the world she’d wear lipstick to movie night but holds back. That isn’t what his friend needs right now. He closes the door behind him and sits down next to Beverly’s previous position. She takes a seat and looks at Mike in silence. There isn’t a smidge of awkwardness in the air, communication flowing in the quietness. Mike is waiting for her to speak, for her to explain. And so she does.

She tells him all about Casey’s antics, about how she was the girl he wanted. She told him about how the age difference made her feel like she could never question him or his opinions. She told Mike that what he wanted leaked into her own values, infecting who she was and causing her to forget. There was something about Mike, something about his aura. It made Beverly feel like she wasn’t getting judged but merely understood. Like Mike wasn’t thinking anything negative about her, and he was just trying to understand the situation.

“Why?”

His question makes her nauseous, as she doesn’t need to ask for clarity like she did with Richie all that time ago.

“I- I don’t know Mike,” She starts to cry again, as Mike wraps an arm around her and brought her in. The embrace is comforting and large, as Beverly remembers how fit Mike is from years of farm work.

“It’s okay to not know, but it’s not okay to keep repeating the same mistakes. We all love you Beverly, and we all want the best for you. When you show up from time to time with a new problem in your life that can be minimized to just some guy, that isn’t you at your best. It isn’t you happy. And you just keep messing up that way.”

“Mike I know I keep fucking up, you don’t need to tell me,” Beverly sniffles pulling away.

“Then stop fucking up. I’m just saying, if you understand something’s wrong, fix it. Stop going for men who just hurt you, you don’t deserve that. You deserve so much better.”

Beverly pouts, she feels vulnerable and helpless. Mike stares at her as she takes out her phone and types up a simple yet direct text to Casey, breaking things off with him. He doesn’t reply as fast as she’ like him to, but she vows to herself she won’t see him in person again on her own terms. She sighs, resting her head on Mike’s shoulder as he rubs her back.

“Just… take a break. Look around you, just watch things for a while, don’t involve yourself in anything, okay? Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two, who knows. At least you won’t get hurt,” Mike whispers, and Beverly let his words engrave themselves in her brain. She thinks about them over and over again, as Mike gets up to grab some toilet paper. He sits across from Beverly, wiping her makeup off. It’s extremely personal, and a very connective moment. She’s glad it’s with Mike, someone she feels comfortable enough to share this moment with. She sits there in silence when she leaves the bathroom, coming back in a few minutes with clothes from Bill’s room. She chuckles taking the shirt and cloth pants from Mike. He shrugs at her in a joking way, then closes the bathroom door behind her. Beverly slips out of her tight restricting outfit and pulls on the comfortable oversized clothing. When she’s finished, she looks at herself in the mirror.

“There you are,” She whispered to herself.

Over the course of the next few months, Beverly doesn’t pay much mind to any boys who flirt with her or she finds attractive. She lets herself find her own familiar surge of independence, being her own person.

But things shift for her in some way. She starts wanting more to be around Ben, she likes the way he makes her feel. And it isn’t some sort of superficial importance, or that he calls her pretty so often it makes her flattered. It’s how interested he is in her life, and what she has to say. How he listens to her babble for hours on end about how ignorant it is that her thoughts are often looked over at work because she’s a girl. She likes how Ben immediately agrees, and she can tell it isn’t just to agree with her. He tells her he likes how passionate she is about things, and how it’s important to find significance in things we believe in. Beverly likes how often Ben checks up on her, and how things are at home. He cares so much, more than anyone else ever has for her. When she gets so stressed she can’t stop crying, Ben is there to wipe away every tear that falls. His fingers making Beverly’s cheeks burn in an indescribable way. It doesn’t hurt, just burns. How she finds out she actually loves to listen to Ben talk about the books he reads and how fascinating they are.

“You’re fascinating,” She lets slip out one day while they in Ben’s room.

“What?” He stops talking about his latest read, turning to face her rapidly, back now turned to his bookcase. She’s perched on his bed, sitting cross-legged with a big smile.

“I said, you’re fascinating, Ben.”

“Why? I mean… sorry, that’s just greatly random.” She swears she can see his cheeks get pink.

“I just said what I was thinking. I like it when you talk, and when we hang out. I think you’re my favorite person.”

Beverly lightly taps the space next to her on the bed, inviting Ben to sit next to her. It’s a kind gesture, even though it is Ben’s bed.

He comes over, fiddling with his fingers as he sits next to her.

“Can I tell you something, Beverly?”

She softly smiles, scooting closer to him, “Go right ahead.”

“You’re my favorite person too.”

Beverly nearly tears up, because finally, after four years, she has come to where she belongs. As she sits on Ben Hanscom’s bed, at the start of their Senior year in High School, she now knows. As she looks at Ben’s light freckles, and his dirty blonde hair, and the way he stares at her like she put the moon in the sky, she knows.

This is what she deserves.

Ben deserves her and she deserves him.

#benverly #i NEEDED to write them #this is long overdue #it #ben hanscom #beverly marsh #ben x beverly #beverly x ben

46 notes · View notes

aelaer · 5 years

Note

So I have a request: A Stephen who, in the Canon compliant universe, returns to the Sanctum for the first time in 5 years, breaks down and is completely devastated and exhausted from everything that happened. And then a time skip, to Stephen now having moved on, in acceptance. He may still feel a little guilty, but is immensly thankful for intimately knowing the beautiful souls who sacrificed themselves and resolved to cherish and celebrate their lives with their friends and family.

So my goal for this was to keep it under 1500 words. I completely failed that goal.

But that is what I am going to attempt to do with my ask prompts (should I get any more in the future), mostly because I have three multi-chapter stories completely spiraling out of control (and a fourth that needs its last chapter completed) and I will never get my Stephen Strange bingo card done by November if I keep on writing these super long things for every square XD

I’m not terribly pleased with the ending but oh well. Nothing was coming for days and I figured I sat on this for long enough.

Fill for @stephenstrangebingo square ‘It’s not your fault’. Warning for canon compliance and my obsessive need to explain away plot-holes with magic-science for a few paragraphs before actually addressing the prompt :P

Title: Black TagRating: GenPairings: NoneWord count: About 3k

The sun was setting over a celebratory New York City when Stephen came again to the New York Sanctum after five years gone. The powers that surrounded the building muffled the cheers and shouts and crying out on Bleecker Street from all the locals, unaware that the man who had helped instigate all their suffering was within the neighborhood.

It had been well over thirty hours since he had come back with the rest of the Disappeared. He was done with giving his report to the other Masters of Kamar-Taj and done with his part in what immediate reorganization was needed for their order. They had finally let him go to rest; he was alone. Wong, for instance, was still settling things as one of those who had survived the Decimation, and still helping others come to terms with what had passed.

And now, now all Stephen could think of was bed. He had washed up a bit in Kamar-Taj, thankfully, for he did not know if he would have had the stamina to do it now. The Cloak more-or-less carried him to his room as his body trembled, complete exhaustion overwhelming his entire being. He fell asleep near instantly.

It wasn’t until twelve hours later, as the dawn broke through his (unnatural) window to an untarnished view of the eastern coastline, that his exhaustion had dimmed to weariness and his mind had time to sort through everything that had happened.

Stephen had not spent his five years gone idle; unlike most other souls that were caught within the Soul Stone due to Thanos, he had an awareness of consciousness due to his connection to the Mystic Arts that made him able to utilize his time, even if time was not something he could feel passing. In those five years he had drawn power from the Soul Stone, a continuous draw into his own spirit to prepare for what he had to do upon his return.

(He knew, of course, that the Stone’s housing was disintegrated into atoms back in 2018. However, its raw energy was not actually gone, just scattered like the rest of the Infinity Stones. The first rule of thermodynamics was something Thanos did not consider, or maybe he did not care so long as that power was not easily obtainable for some time to come. In the end, he supposed it really didn’t matter.)

When he came to on Titan once more, he spared a minute briefly explaining the situation to the others, then asked for complete silence as he got them back to Earth, and more; for he had taken his borrowed energy to send a mental message to all warriors across the universe that he had found within the Soul Stone: The one who sent you away for five years must be defeated. Prepare for battle.

And then he made portals. So many fucking portals, portals he had no business having the ability to create, portals connected to the locations of those warriors across the universe, portals created with the power of the Soul Stone accumulated over five years and fully spent over the course of five minutes.

It was a damned miracle he had anything left in him for battle, but the Soul Stone was unlike any power source he had ever used before, including the Time Stone. Channeling the energy of Infinity Stones was unique to the standard rules of magic already, but the Soul Stone’s power was— indescribable.

So he had been able to battle. To hold himself up. And to watch as people from all over the universe, both the newly resurrected and those that had lived in a broken world, were slaughtered by Thanos’s armies. Slaughtered and with no way to return, not this time; he had used the Time Stone once to reverse death, and he had paid the price with several (hundreds, thousands) of his own deaths.

But the fabric of reality surrounding the battlefield was already torn by the combined actions of both the Avengers and Thanos, and it would tear even further with the final sacrifice; to use the Stones again at that moment, even one, was to rip the threads of the universe to pieces.

And so the dead remained dead.

Even though Stephen knew this, knew the logic behind his actions, knew that in triage situations, some people got the black tag— it did not stop his stomach from twisting into a knot as he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling and weighed down by the consequences of his actions.

In the silence and loneliness of the Sanctum, even while logic echoed in his head, guilt settled in the depths of Stephen’s core and began to make a home there.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Despite pretending everything was okay and despite going through the motions of his duties, the guilt grew into a beast that swiftly consumed Stephen’s being. He felt little need to eat and his sleep was plagued with new nightmares that caused him to work himself into exhaustion (and thus dreamless nights).

By the time Tony’s funeral arrived, he had lost several pounds and the raccoon eyes were becoming more prominent. A small glamour spell helped conceal that, but still Wong looked at him with thinly-veiled concern.

“Are you sure that the invitation was not just for you?” Stephen asked as he found a suit, miraculously still intact after years (literally years) of no wear.

“Of course I’m sure,” Wong said slowly, his voice carefully even. “You were mentioned by name.”

“Ah.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be ready in time, then.”

Wong was still looking at him with that expressionless and yet all-knowing look, so Stephen turned away and went to the ensuite bathroom to avoid uncomfortable questions. They didn’t have time to prod into that right now.

After all, it would be rather rude of him to be late to the funeral of a man he had black tagged.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

His lack of regular meals and general lack of care for eating was a new thing for him in this post-Thanos world (but he just didn’t have time for such trivial pursuits as food, not when he had five years to catch up on and a very damaged border between realities to monitor, to attempt to repair). Stephen got away with not really eating anything substantial for two weeks after Tony’s funeral.

Apparently someone (probably Wong) noticed this and the trend came to an abrupt halt.

It started with the steward of the New York Sanctum. The steward’s role fulfilled the very real need of seeing to the general care and maintenance of the very magical and rather finicky building; it could only be fully overseen by a fully-trained disciple while its Master was dealing with the mystical threats in their part of the world. Stephen’s steward had been snapped into oblivion at the same time as he and was replaced with someone who spoke very little English. He remained at the post after the return of the Disappeared and generally avoided him, which was all well and good for Stephen. However, two weeks after the funeral, his steward was suddenly transferred to London (with no input asked from him either, the nerve) and the London steward came to New York.

His new steward was a woman: Italian, about sixty years old, five feet tall, and potentially the scariest woman he had ever met.

If anyone ever discovered his thoughts on the matter, they might wonder how that was possible when Stephen had been under the tutelage of the Ancient One. To him, she was the most powerful woman he had ever known, but he did not equivocate power with terror.

Ludovica Guerriero, on the other hand, was downright frightening. She seemed nice on first meeting; he learned she had come to be a part of the order a year after the Decimation, for all her children and grandchildren had been lost in that event (and with that story his guilt buried itself deeper into his soul). Unlike some of the new recruits who left for their families once they returned, Ludovica stayed on; she liked keeping busy and could ‘go visit the family whenever I want to, anyway’.

At first it was fine. Her first day there, she rearranged things her way while Stephen beat back some inter-dimensional boggarts and sealed a rip between dimensions in Guatemala. When he portaled back to the Sanctum, something that could only be called Italian was permeating the halls that led to the kitchen with a rich mix of smells. Unwittingly, his stomach growled.

He stepped towards the kitchen, then paused. He did not have time to sit down and eat if he wanted to finish his research before his body ultimately gave out on him. But as he started towards the stairs, Ludovica’s voice came to him with, “Doctor Strange? Is that you?”

Stephen sighed quietly and then called, “It’s me.” He took the few remaining steps towards the kitchen and halted at the doorway. “Smells good, Mrs Guerriero.”

“I’m glad you think so. I thought I’d do something special for my first night in New York for our dinner.”

Best to tell her immediately of his plans. “Actually, I—”

She continued on as if he hadn’t said a thing. “This was my nonna’s recipe. Parmigiana di melanzane with tomato, aubergine, the freshest mozzarella cheese; all ingredients picked up in my home town today.”

He blinked, momentarily sidetracked. “Sorry, uh, aubergine?”

Her brow furrowed. “Is that not the right word? It is melanzane, you know—” She cut herself off and pulled a stem with only part of the purple fruit remaining upon it. “This plant.”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, that’s an eggplant.”

“Eggplant? What a strange name.” She started dishing out the bake. “Would you mind setting the table, doctor?”

“I…” he started in protest, but the look she gave him was so sweet and imploring and kind. It reminded him of his grandmother from when he was young. He exhaled slowly; so much for his plans. “Sure.”

And that parmigiana di melanzane was really fucking delicious. It had no right to be that good.

About a week later, when he realized he had somehow been corralled to the dinner table every night since her arrival (and was a couple pounds heavier because of it), Stephen Strange realized that, underneath that sweet exterior, Ludovica Guerriero was an emotionally manipulative mastermind that knew exactly what to say to get him to do exactly what she wanted. This was absolutely terrifying.

Stephen was going to kill Wong.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Despite the terrible emotional manipulation being forced upon his person regarding (incredibly delicious) food, Stephen somehow maintained the status quo with his duties for five weeks after the funeral. He would work himself to utter exhaustion and only then find some rest (though even with this method the nightmares came on occasion, when he was just not exhausted enough, in his opinion).

(The part of his mind well-versed in psychology laughed incredulously at that line of thinking. He told that part of his mind to shut up and mind its own business, then threw himself in his work again.)

But eventually it all came crashing down. Of course it did; that was his life the last… however many years. Two or seven depending on how one counted.

The most embarrassing part was the situation that ended up being the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was stupid, completely irrelevant, and shouldn’t have even happened, but here he was.

It went like this:

Ludovica was out for the day with her family in Italy, Wong was over to discuss things, and they were both hungry. Neither of them felt like cooking, so.

“What do you want to eat?” Stephen asked as his glamour spell transformed his robes to something more normal for New York. “Pizza? Sandwiches? Thai? Something else?”

Wong thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say no to a tuna melt.”

Stephen stilled his steps; that sounded familiar. Why did that sound familiar? It was just a sandwich—

‘I’ll tell the guys at the deli. Maybe they’ll make you a metaphysical ham on rye.’

Stephen blinked and placed a hand against the wall to steady himself. He heard Wong say, “Stephen?” but it sounded muffled and distant.

‘A… buck and a half,’ Wong admitted.

He sighed. ‘What do you want?’

Wong clapped his hands together and followed him down the rest of the stairs. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a tuna melt.’

The crash of breaking glass and wood, emitting a sound loud enough to almost contest the car accident.

Bruce Banner. Tony Stark. Thanos is coming. Ebony Maw. We swore an oath to protect the Time Stone with our lives. Fourteen million, six hundred and five.

One.

“…en. Look at me, Stephen. You’re in the New York Sanctum Sanctorum. You’re safe. The cloak wants to reach out to you, Stephen, but I batted it away until you can look at me. You’re safe.”

Wong’s words managed to break through the cacophony of madness splitting his mind and he gasped as he focused his eyes on Wong. At some point he had ended up on the floor. His heart attempted to beat itself out of his chest.

When they made eye contact, Wong said without breaking it, “You can rest on him, but get back if his heart rate increases.” Then he continued, as the cloak gently settled itself on Stephen’s shoulders, “Copy my breathing, Stephen. Inhale… and exhale. Good, just like that. Again, inhale… and exhale. Again.”

His breathing evened out and his heart rate eventually slowed to something approaching normal, and Stephen was finally able to manage words. “Where— where did you— learn how to do— do that?”

Wong didn’t answer. Rather, he asked, “Can I help you off the floor?”

Still in a daze he nodded his acquiescence, and Wong took an elbow and forearm and hoisted him up with the assistance of the cloak. He led Stephen to one of the smaller, quieter parlours within the Sanctum and sat him down in a comfortable chair. “I’ll be right back.”

'Right back’ was certainly not immediate, but Stephen lost track of time and Wong seemed to return nearly instantly, this time with a couple fresh cups of tea. He did not attempt to give it to Stephen, but rather set it down beside him. Clearly he saw just how badly his hands were trembling.

Wong took a seat across from him and brought his own cup to his lips. He said nothing as Stephen further calmed his heart rate and the tremors in his hands became less prominent.

Several minutes of silence later, Stephen murmured, “Sorry.”

“I knew it would happen sooner or later,” was Wong’s answer. Stephen swallowed and said nothing. “You cannot continue going on like this.”

Stephen’s instinctive reaction was denial, but he could feel Wong’s eyes on him and his retort fell before it could even begin. “There’s too much to do,” he said instead.

“There always is,” was Wong’s reply.

The silence sat between them again when Wong did not expound further and Stephen battled against a myriad of emotions within his own mind. He tried to distract himself with tea, but the shaking in his hand was too prominent, too debilitating, so he withdrew it.

Another two minutes passed. “I have been given another chance in this world,” he tried instead. “All my efforts should go to protecting it.”

Wong eyed him expressionlessly. “Your efforts have gone above and beyond most. They have seen the resurrection of all life that was unjustly taken five years ago.”

“Those were not my efforts,” Stephen argued. “That was the Avengers.”

“And you set them on that path.”

The tremors increased. He swallowed heavily. “My efforts caused the entire universe to suffer for years. My efforts brought an intergalactic war to Earth’s soil. My efforts brought chaos and despair that led to so much death.” His voice broke on that last word and he turned his head away from Wong.

Wong permitted him a moment before speaking again. “I was told it was over fourteen million futures you saw.” A shudder ran through Stephen in reply. “At what point did you see this future?”

He swallowed. “Somewhere around four million.”

“And you searched another ten million after.”

His hands would not stop their violent shaking. He loosely gripped at the cloak and it curled around his hand. “I’m not— I’ve done triage before,” he started. “Battle of New York. We didn’t have the resources to— to save everyone. We had to pick our cases. Before the accident, it was one of the most difficult moments of my life.

“But this reality was— it was too much to ask. There were too many black tags. I knew there… there were hundreds of millions of permutations. Maybe billions. But I could not sustain the strength needed to search further. I was not… not strong enough.” And to his horror, he felt tears falling from his eyes. He could not look at Wong.

“Stephen. Stephen, look at me.” Reluctantly, after a brief moment, he turned his face towards him. Wong’s steadfast look was blurred by the unwanted tears. “You are the strongest man I have ever known. What you did no other human being could have accomplished.” Stephen’s gaze lowered. “And you must remember: you saw the paths of the future, but you did not control its course. Everyone had their own free will to make the choices they made; they knew death was a real possibility, but they chose to fight.”

Another shudder ran through his entire body and he felt the cloak increase its pressure against him ever so slightly. He placed his face in his trembling hands and just tried to get a grip.

He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Stephen,” Wong muttered.

His tenuous grasp on his emotions completely broke. Another full body shudder ran through him before an ugly sob broke past his lips. Once it started, it was as if a dam had been broken; all his grief and guilt released itself then, the all-encompassing pain overwhelming his entire being. Even as he wept and mourned everything that had been lost, the cloak carefully curled about him and Wong remained a silent, steadfast presence at his side. His hand never left his shoulder.

And with the brick wall he had put about his heart finally breaking down, Stephen began to take his first steps towards recovery.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

“Oh, Doctor, you have mail.”

Stephen looked up from the tome to stare at Ludovica. “Mail? As in… from the mailbox?”

“Where else does mail come from?” she answered with a soft tut. He took the envelope from her and she left the study.

He frowned at the address. Upstate New York. What was in upstate New York? He carefully opened the envelope and unfolded the letter.

Oh. They finished rebuilding the Avengers compound. And… a celebration. A memorial, for Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, and all those who gave their lives over a year ago.

And he, Wong, and any sorcerer who wished to attend were invited to celebrate their lives.

Stephen’s eyes grew distant for a moment as his mind went back to that day. The ache was still there, but it did not consume him anymore. It had joined the other poignant, bittersweet reminders of days past, of those gone but still within living memory.

He softly exhaled before standing to head down the hall to Kamar-Taj. He was sure there were many who would be interested in attending, and to remember those gone so that they would not be forgotten.

——

A/N: Someone with the dedicated duty of basically babysitting Sanctums while their Masters fight off things was lovingly borrowed from keshwyn on AO3. Her series of one-shots around this figure are super super super gorgeous, go read them. Wonderful character development (I’ll write a proper fic rec soon)

(had to save it as jpg because for some reason it’s not letting me save as a png on photoshop atm? ugh)(and formatting should be fixed double ugh)

#doctor strange fanfic #stephen strange #doctor strange #wong #avengers: endgame #avengers fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing #fanfic #ask #answered #long post #apparently the damn read more tag isnt working on the app #wtf tumblr #see reblog

42 notes · View notes

scripttorture · 5 years

Note

Your National Styles post is very helpful! I was wondering though if you could talk about what kinds of torture were common in pre-modern India? I don't have a specific time period in mind, I'm just after inspiration for a fantasy setting that's loosely inspired by India. Thanks.

This made me smile. Thank you Anon, any excuse to read more Indian history is a gift.

I don’t have good sources for the entire sub-continent. Most of what I have focuses on the north. I’m also not 100% sure what you mean by pre-modern so I’m going to try to describe as much as I can, adding rough areas and time periods. That way you can pick and choose things that suit what you’re going for in your story. :)

I’m not going to try with the Harappans. Partly because their writing system still hasn’t been deciphered but mostly because I intend to continue imagining they created an egalitarian utopia. Until such a time as some one finds proof of kingship or other crimes. We all have our stories we like to cling to.

I actually started out with Keay’s India: A History (imaginative title isn’t it?) because the local library had it. It actually turned out to be a pretty good sign post for other sources.

India has an incredibly rich history, but much of that history wasn’t written down until hundreds of years after the events took place. Which is something it has in common with most northern European countries, although most European countries have less thorough oral histories.

India is quite interesting as a case study in the depth and accuracy of oral history. The presence of separate oral records for the same events and separate strands of written records- well it builds up an interesting picture. Apart from pure historical interest it’s also interesting to see what people remember, attempts to change records and how (with the right systems in place) oral history can be remarkably resistant to change.

I digress.

The point is Arthashastra is available in full online here. It’s a kind of guide to the organisation of a state. We don’t have exact dates for it (it was probably written by several people complied over quite a long period) but it’s probably mostly from roughly 200 AD. It is focused on the Mauryan empire dated as beginning in roughly 320 BC.

It was pretty damned big. Conservative estimates have the empire stretching across the north of the Indian peninsula from ocean to ocean, from Pakistan, Punjab and Nepal all the way across into Bangladesh and south into Orissa and Maharashtra. Just looking at a global map, we’re talking conservatively of an area the size of France, Germany, Poland and Italy.

The translation I’ve linked to has some issues that I can see from a casual read. For instance the references to ‘eunuchs’ were probably rendered in the original as a domination of tritiya-prakriti; literally ‘third kind’. The closest English translation is probably ‘queer’ as the term encompasses homosexual, bisexual, transgender, gender nonconforming and intersex people as well as people who can’t naturally conceive. Some of the subtleties in the original are probably lost in translation and there may well be references I’m missing.

Now like most historical cultures the Mauryans tortured and tried to impose legal limits on torture. We know from modern analysis that legal restrictions on torture don’t work: torturers will always ignore them.

So it’s highly unlikely that the tortures the Mauryans allowed by law were the only tortures that happened in the Mauryan empire. But we can be pretty confident that the tortures they listed as legal were used through their empire.

Arthashastra describes torture as a punishment and torture as an attempt to force a suspect to confess. At the same time the text acknowledges that torture can force false confessions and appears to cite a named legal case where this happened.

I feel it’s also worth stressing that the vast majority of punishments the text suggests are fines. Apparently in ancient India you could get fined for almost anything.

Arthashastra’s description of tortures starts with a list of people who can not legally be tortured. Now torturers will generally ignore this but I feel it’s worth including for some cultural context:

‘Ignoramuses, youngsters, the aged, the afflicted, persons under intoxication, lunatics, persons suffering from hunger, thirst, or fatigue from journey, persons who have just taken more than enough of meal, persons who have confessed of their own accord (átmakásitam), and persons who are very weak,--none of these shall be subjected to torture.’

‘Those whose guilt is believed to be true shall be subjected to torture (áptadosham karma kárayet). But not women who are carrying or who have not passed a month after delivery.

Torture of women shall be half of the prescribed standard. Or women with no exception may be subjected to the trial of cross-examination (vákyanuyogo vá).

Those of Bráhman caste and learned in the Vedas as well as asceties shall only be subjected to espionage.

Those who violate or cause to violate the above rules shall be punished with the first amercement. The same punishment shall be imposed in case of causing death to any one by torture.’

Now I know this is a little dense so in case that’s not clear the second passage is saying that women should be tortured less then men and pregnant women or women who recently gave birth shouldn’t be tortured at all.

The last paragraph states that the punishment for a torturer for violating the rules, or for killing someone while torturing them is a fine. And not a particularly steep one. (Based on modern research I’d say it’s unlikely these limits were enforced, consistently or at all).

The text describes whipping, beating with canes, suspension and ‘water-tube’.

It particularly talks about beating the thighs, palms of the hands, soles of the feet (I refer to this as falaka) and the knuckles.

It states there are two kinds of suspension but doesn’t describe them. Most suspension tortures involve hanging a person by their arms in some manner, but not all. I honestly can’t tell from the text what sort of suspensions were used.

‘Water tube’ could mean- well a lot of things. It could mean pumping, which is forcing someone to swallow liquid until their internal organs are painfully swollen (often causing vomiting and diarrhoea). It could mean waterboarding. It could mean the ‘Chinese water torture’ (incredibly misleading name), continual dripping of water on to someone’s eyes, which is actually a form of sleep deprivation.

There’s also this ‘the hands being joined so as to appear like a scorpion’ which sounds like a form of finger milking. That’s bindings around the hands or arms restricting circulation and causing the hands to swell painfully.

The last three things acknowledged as torture in the text are these ‘burning one of the joints of a finger after the accused has been made to drink rice gruel; heating his body for a day after be has been made to drink oil; causing him to lie on coarse green grass for a night in winter.’

I honestly haven’t a clue what the significance of the rice gruel might be in this context.

The combination of drinking oil and heat sounds like a strange combination of tortures. Drinking oils can uh- basically give someone diarrhoea. Oil can also be flammable but I don’t think this is implying immolation. I think it might be indicating a combination of pumping, dehydration, starvation and a temperature torture.

Because forcing a prisoner to drink something that would make them sick would quickly make them dehydrated. Subjecting them to extremely hot temperatures would then be even more painful and dangerous.

The final description seems to a straightforward form of exposure. It’s exposing a victim to cold winter temperatures. The implication is that this also involves sleep deprivation. The ‘grass’ may or may not be significant. There are plenty of plants you wouldn’t want to lie down on for a night but I’m unsure whether the ‘coarse’ description indicates something that could cause pain.

The text also describes beatings, branding the face (of Brahmans specifically) and amputation as punishments. It describes death by ‘torture’ but the particular torture is not specified. It describes capital punishment in general terms ie ‘those who commit this offence shall be put to death’. A few offences called for beheading specifically. It also describes the use of jails.

The amputations I could find listed were: a finger, a hand, a nose, a leg, ears, male genitalia. There’s also a description of blinding by the application of chemicals.

As a final note before we move on there’s an interesting passage on sudden death and signs to look for on a corpse that could indicate the cause of death. It’s pretty interesting as an example of how people conducted investigations into murders before we had forensic labs.

You can probably assume Ashoka is broadly covered by what I’ve described. His ethical pronouncements including prohibits on torture but nothing suggests a complete and enforced ban on the practice so it’s likely to have continued under his rule.

Now I tried to find some sources on the southern Indian empires, like the Chola but I couldn’t find anything I felt was a clear description of the criminal justice system. Similarly I didn’t find anything clear on the Sangam period.

I’m honestly not sure if this is because sources don’t exist or because there are less translations from Tamil.

There is a lot of Tamil poetry from the Sangam period that’s available in translation and touches on Tamil history and wars. These might well serve as a good source of inspiration but I don’t think they’re necessarily a good indication of common practice.

I am, admittedly, making assumptions based on epic poetry from other countries. My impression though is that these kinds of literary pieces tend to record unusual practices rather than common ones. When they mention common ones they don’t always give the full context of what terms mean. So for instance the Norse Eddas describe several unusual (for the culture) methods of execution and torture, but references to more common ones are usually a word or two without explanation. The Eddas mention blood eagles but don’t actually tell us what they were. This kind of description seems common in the epic poetry I’ve read and as a result I’m assuming the Tamil poetry will be similar.

The next thing I went to was a couple of Chinese sources recounting travels to India. These were from Buddhist pilgrims so remember that bias while readings their accounts.

Faxian (Fa Hian) wrote an account that’s available in translation here. I only had a quick flick through but from what I can see it’s more useful for establishing the wider historical context of the countries and the religious climate at the time then it is figuring out ideas about justice and torture.

The next thing that really stood out is the famous Record of Western Lands, the inspiration for The Journey West by a monk whose name is Romanised in about half a dozen different ways. Hsuan Tsang and Xuanzang seem to be the most popular renderings with the former used predominantly in Indian studies.

Now the first volume is relatively easy to find but I’ve had difficulty getting access to the other 11.

Hsuan Tsang periodically recounts stories of Indian history, some involving ideas of punishment, justice and torture. Now a lot of these probably don’t show common practice and some of them seem to have been misinterpreted by Hsuan Tsang (I think the account of voluntary castration is more likely to be describing a queer Indian identity then a punishment) but they’re useful nonetheless.

Generally Hsuan Tsang seems to be confirming that the practices described in the Arthashastra were still in use while he was travelling. As well as fines he describes imprisonment and social shunning of criminals which may amount to isolation/solitary confinement.

He describes amputations as punishment, of the nose, ear, hand or foot. He doesn’t describe castration as a punishment per say but it seems likely this continued even if it was rare.

Hsuan Tsang claims that torture wasn’t used to force confessions but then describes torture being used to force people to plead when they ‘refuse to admit their unlawful activities ashamed of their faults’. Which sounds to me like torture used to force confessions and/or something analogous to the historical English custom of being ‘pressed to plead’ (ie people who refused to plead guilty or innocent were tortured until they pleaded one way or the other).

The tortures described are a form of near (or likely actual) drowning by putting a person in a weighted sack and throwing them in a river. He also describes a burning torture using hot iron. The other descriptions in this section sound more like ways of divining a person’s alleged guilt and I’m going to ignore them.

He describes blinding as a punishment. And also a vampire story that I wasn’t expecting.

As we get into the 700s there’s increasing Arab contact, which at this point is mostly via traders and pirates. My initial notes include some questions about whether this is when falaka was introduced to India but going by the Arthashastra it seems likely falaka was in use long before the Arabs arrived. In fact the spread may have gone the other way.

It’s also possible that Ancient India and Ancient Egypt both hit upon similar practices separately due to the simple nature of torture. I digress-

Writings by Arab scholars and travellers about India start becoming more prominent from the 900s onwards. Most of these recount hostile encounters between Muslim forces and Hindu or Buddhist groups. The accounts are a lot less interested in the history and politics of the region then the Chinese travellers three or four hundred years earlier.

The most easily available one is probably Chach Nama which was written in the 1200s-1300s and claims to be a translation of an earlier work on Arab conquests of Pakistan and north western India during the 800s. However- it’s accuracy on several points is disputed. A lot of people don’t think it’s a translation but an original work combining and re-imagining earlier historical documents. Some of the older accounts, such as those of Al Baladhuri and Al Biruni, contradict it.

Personally I have slightly more faith in the accuracy of the Chinese accounts then the Chach Nama. I think it’s likely it was constructed to justify conflicts of the 1200s by creating a supposed historical basis for those conflicts. I think it also displays a vested interest in making conquered people appear uncivilised, a pattern that’s common in a lot of historical accounts of foreign countries by the people who conquered them.

In light of that- I think Al Biruni’s A Critical Study of What India Says, Whether Accepted by Reason or Refused, a better bet. Especially since he seems to have been more interested in Indian society then Indian rulers. (Though take into account my personal biases here; I think Al Biruni is a nice example of how Islamic scholars influenced scientific and historical thought. I think our modern philosophy of science owes a lot to the ideas of truthfulness (al-haqq) Al Biruni and people like him championed. I’m going to own my academic admiration.)

This looks like your best bet for an easily accessible copy.

I feel like I should stress, having recommended a bunch of foreign scholars as sources on Indian history, that throughout this period we’re pretty sure Indians were writing their own histories. However not many of them have survived. That’s thought to be because of a combination of the climate and the way things were commonly recorded. The theory I see repeated is that Indians were commonly recording things by carving on wood. This almost invariably rotted away. Similar things have occurred in other countries as well: much of England’s early history literally went up in flames during the Great Fire of London when one of the principal libraries burned and Alexandria’s destruction is generally cited as the reason we don’t have a lot of important classical Greek works, like first hand accounts of Alexander’s conquests or say more Sappho.

Aaaaand that was the point where my friends staged an intervention and the library demanded financial restitution for my kidnapping of their books.

Spoil sports. The rest of this is from my general knowledge.

European forces and settlements in India would probably have introduced more tortures. The Dutch regularly used waterboarding, but I can’t find any indication that this became common practice in India.

However the British army’s combination of stress positions and exposure did. A punishment the British called ‘crucifixion’ was used throughout India. It involved tying the victim standing with their arms outstretched in a T shape in full sun.

The stress position itself is incredibly painful, combined with the climate it was likely to cause dehydration and possibly heat stroke as well.

I couldn’t find any other instances where it seemed like part of a European National Style had been adopted by Indians.

I found historical references to murgha stress position in India, including an illustration from the early 1800s. I’m not sure how far back the usage goes but that could be because it was generally used against children. Punishments towards children are not generally recorded as torture historically and it can be difficult to trace their usage.

I couldn’t find any historical references to pepper (putting irritating substances such as pepper or chilli into mucous membranes, eyes, nose, genitals etc). That doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t practiced historically. Again, this is a form of torture that seems to have been associated with abuse of women and children in the home, rather than legislative punishments.

I think you could use both in a story set in historical India without it appearing out of place. It might not strictly be historically accurate but both would have been possible.

Judging by the Arthashastra falaka has been in India for a very long time indeed. I couldn’t find enough sources to confidently state it was in continuous from the late BC until today- but virtually every period I could find records of torture in India for included falaka. I think it’s likely that it was used continuously; I can’t prove it.

Blinding turns up continuously throughout India history as a punishment aimed at people of high social rank or power.

I’ve read some accounts of burning people alive as a punishment, but these are from later on in Indian history; the 1700s and 1800s. The particular account that springs to mind is Farzana’s ordering a group of arsonists to be burnt alive. The context for this is that they set fire to a group of buildings housing women who lived in purdah and that if the fire hadn’t been put out these women would have burnt alive rather then leave the building. Farzana’s punishment was interpreted as ‘an eye for an eye’.

I feel like I should probably also briefly mention ritual suicide. There are a lot of historical Indian accounts of people killing themselves rather then renouncing a particular principal. One of the things that shows up repeatedly is women killing themselves when their husbands die. Sometimes this appears to have been voluntary. In other cases it seems as though the women were given no reasonable choice.

I don’t think this fits the modern legal definition of torture, but it’s certainly an abuse of human rights aimed particularly at women. Starvation, burning on the husband’s funeral pyre and being thrown off tall buildings are the methods I see cited most commonly.

The position of women in India is- well it’s a couple of books worth of material in itself. And I’d like to stress going in to this that there are very few countries/cultures that treated women well historically. Keep in mind when I describe the position of women and Dalits that the position of women and slaves or ‘barbarians’ in Greece and Rome was not any better.

There’s a long history in India of confining women and limiting who they can interact with. The Arthashastra describes curfews inflicted on women and recommends barring women from leaving the home without an escort. It also legally limits the people women can invite to their homes.

In historical Indian society it seems as though- it looks to me as if it would have been very easy for family members to isolate individual women in conditions akin to solitary confinement. This would probably have been unusual but from what I can see of the law and custom it wouldn’t have been seen as illegal or immoral.

I’ve seen recent pieces claiming that the caste system is a recent invention. But I find this difficult to believe when the caste system is repeatedly cited in historical sources before European colonialism reached India. It’s cited by Al Biruni, Hsuan Tsang and in the Arthashastra.

Yes there are historical incidences of people taking up occupations that were associated with different castes. Indian farmers and merchants did become Kings. But showing there was some social mobility and that caste was more (or less) flexible at different periods of time isn’t the same as showing that people were in no way limited by their parentage.

Al Biruni describes the treatment of Dalits as ‘untouchable’ and describes different castes eating and washing separately as well as society relegating Dalits to work that was deemed dirty or unsafe.

The Arthashastra describes different punishments for different castes (analogous to Old English law ascribing different punishments to different social classes). Unsurprisingly the rulers and ‘pious’ men are usually let off with a fine, while the poorest and the Dalits are supposed to be maimed, tortured or killed for the same transgression.

It’s more then possible that living conditions and treatment of people at different levels of society was- perhaps not legally torture but certainly inhumane. I can’t find any clear indication that Dalits were made to live separately in the past. But if they were, judging by how the sources say they were treated by law, it seems likely their living conditions would have been worse. They may have had poor access to water, food and adequate shelter.

I feel it’s also worth noting that Rejali talks about law enforcement targeting these kinds of minority groups for torture as a punishment for social transgressions. Things like- homeless people daring to walk down the streets of a ‘good’ neighbourhood.

This sort of behaviour is typical of torturers, even when it’s not supported by the law. It occurs today, and I see no reason why it wouldn’t happen in a hierarchical historical society.

Slavery was present in India. I can’t say for certain that it was present throughout all of Indian history, and it certainly does not seem to be as prevalent as it was in Greece or Rome but it occurred. I’ve seen more accounts of it in the Mughal period then prior to that but this might be due to better record keeping.

Many of the Black Indian groups around today are descended from freed or escaped slaves brought to India by Arab traders. Beyond that I don’t know much about slavery in historical India. I’m unaware of any one particular industry slaves were funnelled into or of particular punishments (alla the bleeding Romans-).

If you’re thinking of using slavery in your story I’d suggest sticking to the most common global tortures used against enslaved people: starvation, exposure, lack of medical treatment, beatings, dehydration and over work.

From what I’ve read I’d say that India generally fits in with my pet theory about changing torture practices over time. I think that it’s only relatively recently that people have thought of torture as primarily a way to ‘get the truth’ (see here for why this idea is bullshit).

What I’m interpreting from these sources is that in India, like most of the world, torture was used as a punishment, people were sentenced to it. It was also used to force confessions. And although there was an idea that torture could be used to find the truth, this was not seen as it’s primary purpose.

And I think that’s probably where I’m going to have to leave this. At four thousand words it’s actually shorter/less detailed then I’d hoped. I blame my mates for insisting I have a social life.

I think it should be enough to get you started though. :)

Availableon Wordpress.

Disclaimer

#Anonymous #tw torture #tw sexism #tw caste violence #tw scars #tw castration #tw sectarianism #historical torture #historical fiction #India #National Styles #historical India

24 notes · View notes

redfoxwritesstuff · 5 years

Text

Clover and Lace- Chapter 5

Things get a bit hot and heavy toward the end. No other warnings. Please do let me know what you think. Prior chapters can be found on my masterlist by doing a quick search for ‘kit’s masterlist’

Chapter 5

“I had no idea we even had a movie theater.” Rosemary whispered as she leaned against Steve’s arm. They’d walked to the movie theater from her apartment and she was honestly very annoyed she had never noticed it in the past. Long ago had she stopped paying attention to what was around her in each little town she called home for a short time.

“You live here.” Steve laughed, looking down at the woman who’s arm he had wrapped around his. It felt right to have her on his arm. He tried to tell himself it was too soon to feel like that. Yet he couldn’t help the way it felt, the way she made him feel.

“I hardly ever leave the cafe.” She protested.

“Why is that?” Steve was honestly curious. “This is a great little town.”

“I just...” She knew she messed up. He shouldn’t be curious. She shouldn’t allow the door of curiosity to open. Yet it felt… nice to have someone want to know about her. “I just spend most of my time painting is all.”

“Well, now you know. Maybe we can explore more of this little town.” Holding the door open for her, they entered into the nearly empty theater. Steve loved how easily her small frame slipped around him. It made him feel good to be so much bigger than her.

“We?” She looked at him in question as she slipped passed him. He was so much bigger than her that she felt small whenever he was close. It felt nice, if she was honest.

The idea of them spending more time together, doing more things together made her heart beat faster. It was naive. She couldn’t allow it. It was too much of a risk. She knew better. Julian would kill her himself.

“Yeah, we. At least, I’d like to if you would like to...”

It was clear he was nervous when he looked down at her. It seemed he was always assuming things, assuming he would have the thing he wanted- more time with her. The words just seemed to leave his mouth before he could think through the sort of pressure he was putting on her with his assumptions. All he could do once the words were spoken however was either backpedal awkwardly or shut up and hope for the best. This time he was aiming for shutting up. His dignity couldn’t take anymore backpedaling.

“I’d like that too.”

The answer came suddenly and she even looked surprised when the words left her lips. That was for good reason, she intended to spit out some excuse about needing to go visit a long lost friend and be out of touch for a bit. Drop off his radar and be done with it. That wasn’t what came out however.

Steve purchased the tickets to the only movie starting anytime soon titled “Before Dawn” and refused to allow her to pay him back. A starving artist shouldn’t be spending money on a movie when it was his idea, he told her.

“Firstly, I’m pretty sure this was actually Mrs. Jones’ idea. Second, I’m not a starving artist, I could have gotten it and the popcorn.” That was a mistake. It opened the door to questions and she realized she slipped up as soon as the words were out. He just shut her brain off and she wanted nothing more than to be normal with him.

“What do you do, then? I assumed the painting was your career.” Steve asked but quickly added, “Not that you’re not good enough to provide for yourself- it’s just I know how hard artist can work and see little return for it. Not that I’m assuming you get little return for it. I should stop talking, shouldn’t I?”

Rosemary laughed and it felt good. She shouldn’t be laughing however, he asked the question she had dreaded. He wasn’t dumb and it seemed he really wanted to get to know her, to learn of her. It was sweet and made her heart flutter in her chest. It was no good.

“I do some data entry for a few small businesses. Accounting and stuff.” Sure, that sounded good. Why not? File that away mentally in the folder of ‘lies thought of on the spot that may or may not bite me in the ass later’. The answer seemed to satisfy him however and the talking returned to easier topics as they found their seats in the dark theater.

“Do you know what this is about?” Steve leaned over and whispered as the previews played on the large screen. The theater was mostly empty.

“Romantic comedy I think. Some cross cultural love story. Posh London city boy meets country cowgirl I think. Mrs. Jones was going on and on about it- some actor she has a crush on leads. Tom something or another.”

They watched the movie itself mostly in silence. It was good in that it gave Rosemary a way to spend time with him without opening the door to more questions. Yet as time passed, each time he would move his arm would brush up against hers. Finally, with a sly look in her direction, Steve draped his arm over the back of her chair.

He was so mindful in the action to avoid touching her more than a little. He didn’t pull her to him and he didn’t wrap his arm around her but she could feel the heat of him just the same. A while later, she found herself leaning into his side completely unsure when the armrest between the seats had been pushed up.

His arm no longer was draped around the chair but rather was wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her snugly in place. The warmth radiating off him was relaxing and she wondered for a moment what it would be like to fall asleep tucked into his side. She could feel his chest move with each breath and when he would laugh she could feel him move with it.

Never in her life had she been held like this. As she rested her head against him, she prayed she would have the strength to do what had to be done. This couldn’t be allowed to continue. She needed to stop it. But she could at least finish out their time together today first, right?

As the movie played she relaxed without even noticing it. The warmth of him, the smell of him combined in the dark room to lull her into comfort. With a heavy sigh she decided she could indulge for the next hour or so. His hand rubbed against her arm, drawing her somehow closer still.

On the screen they watched a posh English man bumble his way through small town life in the country while setting up a local branch of a global company. With a fierce and sassy cow girl pushing him to do more, try more and learn to see more than what he knew the Englishman slowly fell in love with a woman who was nothing like what he was taught to expect. Their love story unfolded on the screen in a make believe world where all important conversations took place at sunset or dawn and the weather was always perfect for a romantic horseback ride.

At some point she had moved to be completely cuddled up to his side, his arm was heavy and warm around her. She could feel the tips of his fingers resting on her hip while her own legs were drawn up, knees resting against his thick thighs. One hand rested in her lap and the other was relaxed against his abdomen.

She could feel every breath he took, every soft chuckle. Nothing made it passed her. Yet she was surprised when she felt his nose nestle against the top of her head while the characters on the screen proclaimed their love for each other. His breath was warm against the top of her head and she could feel his mouth pressed against her head. Was it a kiss in the dark? She had no way to know.

Closing her eyes, Rosemary pushed back the tears as she realized she could easily fall in love with Steve. Without trying to, without meaning to she could give her heart to him. It felt so good to be with him and he was everything she wanted when they would talk. He was everything she could want and she couldn’t have it.

Taking a deep breath, she made her choice. This would be the end. There would be no more talking to Steve. Never again would she open the door to him. She wouldn’t take his calls. In time, he would forget about her. She was unremarkable.

“Everything okay?” Steve’s hushed whisper made her realize a tear slipped down her face, dripping onto his shirt and her breath was not as even as it should have been. Silently, she nodded her head and prayed he would assume it was happy tears from watching the love story unfold.

When he held her just a little closer she whispered back, “I’m fine.” and he hummed in acknowledgment as the movie played on. On the screen in front of her, the couple kissed and held each other close in a way Rosemary realized she would probably never experience. This was all she would get. This would be all she could get.

With a deep breath she told herself she would enjoy the time she had. It was only maybe another hour that she could have this sweet warmth that he gave her. The credits began to roll as she took a deep breath to steady herself for a walk home.

Steve glanced down at her as they walked. The conversation seemed to flow freely enough between them but it was as if there was some sort of wall between them that wasn’t there when they sat down in the theater. It confused him in that things seemed to have been going so well.

Even as he walked chatting lightly with her, he could remember the warmth of her body pressed into his side. As he thought back to the dark theater it was like the smell of her fruity shampoo was stuck in his memory. He analyzed everything he did during the movie but she seemed fine with everything. Not once did she pull away or did he pick up on any discomfort.

“Come up for a drink?” The timid way she asked made him smile. It warmed his heart how naive she seemed to be. It wasn’t often he ran into women that reminded him of another time, of his time.

True, the dresses she wore were lower cut or higher hemmed than would ever be considered appropriate. They also clung to her curves in a way that the fabrics of his time and financial means at the time would never have allowed. Her hair flowed down in loose waves and curls of red that mesmerized him.

She mesmerized him, plain and simple. Yet apparently he had done something to cause upset in this sensitive unnamed thing that they had. What even was it that they had? Things worked so differently now, did he get to call her his girl yet?

“I’d love to.” The smile she gave him was sweet but looked almost pained.

Crossing the cafe toward the steps to her apartment it took everything Rosemary had to not look at Mrs. Jones. The old woman was still working the cafe counter and to anyone else, it would look like she just decided to stay open a bit latter into the afternoon than was normal.

Rosemary knew however Mrs. Jones was staying to get the pleasure of wiggling her eyebrows at them as they crossed the floor and disappeared up the stairs. Surely, just as soon as Steve left the old woman would be up the stairs somehow free of pain and asking twenty questions with a slice of pie in hand to buy answers.

Once inside her apartment she made quick work of opening the bottle of wine and pouring two glasses. After a few deep breaths she turned to face Steve, handing him his glass.

“It’s not nearly as nice as the one you brought for the picnic but...”

“It’s fine- I didn’t even pick that, Tony did.” Rosemary knew Tony was a friend and coworker of Steve’s. Silence stretched on as they both stood awkwardly in the small space between the living and dining areas of her small apartment. They where standing an arms length away and her body was tense with nerves.

“Look, Sara.” This time she cringed when he called her name. She hated that name. “I don’t want you to think I’m ever going to make you do anything. I-” She cut him off.

“I can’t do this. We-” She motioned between them. “can’t do this.”

“Do what?” Steve ran his hand through his hair, turning to look out the window for a moment before facing her. “Talk? Watch movies? Drink wine?”

“Be together.” Rosemary pressed, not stepping away when he took a step toward her. She downed her glass of wine and turned to fill it again.

“Be together?” Steve parroted back, making Rosemary worry that she had misread the situation all together. “Are we together?” Steve asked softly.

“I don’t know.” Rosemary admitted. “I’ve never done this before. I’ve never been on a date before you. I’ve never held someone’s hand. I’ve never...” Rather than finishing where her rant was going she decided to finish the glass of wine.

“You’ve never?” Steve stepped closer to her and took the bottle from her. Two glasses of wine in ten minutes was impressive.

“We can’t do this.” She pleaded.

“I’m not going to do anything unless you want me to.” Steve tried to reassure, thinking she was worried he was after more than just her time today.

“I can’t be with you.” She pressed, looking at him with tears in her eyes.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“It’s dangerous. You have to stop coming. You have to stop calling. We’ve got to stop.” Closing her eyes she tried to tell herself to tell him that she just didn’t want him. She should yell, scream and push him away but her heart was hurting too much.

“I’m not worried about dangerous.” Steve reached out and ran his hand up and down her arm as a tear slipped down her face. “Are you in trouble? Did you do something?” She laughed and looked away.

“I can’t talk about it.” She answered honestly.

“Are you hurting people?” Steve asked and she shook her head ‘no’ though it wasn’t the whole truth. She avoided hurting people when at all possible and tried to balance the evil things she sometimes helped happen with good deeds. “Not really. I try not to.”

“Is someone after you?” Steve asked stepping closer and setting his wine glass down on the counter behind her.

“A lot of people are after me.” She admitted and blamed the wine. “I can’t talk about it. I can’t tell you about it. But we can’t do this. It’s not safe for you. It’s not safe for me.”

“Do you not like me?” Steve asked sadly.

“No- that’s the thing. I like you, Steve. I like you a lot. That’s why we can’t-”

She couldn’t finish what she was saying. He reached out for her so suddenly that she had no way to process what was about to happen. With one arm wrapped around her waist and his other hand softly around the back of her neck, his lips were on hers in the blink of an eye.

Her hands reached up and braced themselves against his chest but she did not push him away. It was over as soon as it began. Steve pulled away just as she relaxed, allowing her eyes to slide closed. Each breath fanned over her as he held her close.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. That was out of line.” She cut his rambling off.

“Do it again.” Taking a deep breath, she repeated herself. “Do it again if you’re really okay with me having my secrets, if you understand that I’m scared and have never done this before. Do it again?” She was practically begging him as a few tears escaped her eyes.

Steve knew he should walk away, secrets were never the way to start a relationship but didn’t he have his own? She had no idea who he was and what he did for work. Just security- the idea would have made him laugh if not for the tears running down her face.

“Please?” The word was more a whimper than anything as she looked up to him, clutching his shirt.

She desperately wanted him to kiss her again and make her mind stop working for a while. She wouldn't be surprised however if he walked out. Why would he stay? She told him she had people potentially after her and that she wouldn’t be able to tell him more. It was better if he didn’t kiss her. If this is what scared him away that would be a good thing. The risk of opening herself up, of allowing him to get closer when he could never know the truth was too great. One day no matter how much she cared for him and he for her, he would wake up in the morning and all trace of her would be gone.

His kiss was softer this time however she clung to him just the same. Without experience to guide her, she let him lead and followed instinct. His lips felt amazing against hers. Slowly, he walked them backwards and she trusted him not to run them into anything.

His tongue swept across her lower lip and she sighed. It wasn’t a feeling she had expected to like but in reality she did. The slick muscle slipped between her lips and she was lost as to what she should do so she copied him. Their tongues twisted and rubbed against one another.

A strong arm reached down and pulled her legs out from under her. Still, he kept kissing her as he sat down on the couch, her legs stretched across his lap. Her hands ran up his chest, enjoying the feel of the strong muscle under the shirt to warp around his shoulder and tangle in his hair.

“I want to be here for you.” Steve whispered as his lips finally left hers only to begin kissing along her jaw. “I will be here for you, if you let me.”

“I can’t ask you too.” She sighed as she tried to hold herself closer to him.

“You don’t have to ask.” Steve sucked her earlobe between his lips and gave it a soft nibble, enjoying the way a shudder ran down her back. Leaning to the side, he guided her down to rest on her back as he kissed and nibbled his way down her neck to her shoulder.

“Trust me.” Steve breathed the words against the hollow of her throat. “You don’t have to tell me all your secrets right now but in time, try to trust me.”

“Okay.”

She couldn’t even think right as he began to work his way up her neck again. Their lips met again as Steve nestled his weight over her. The heat from his body was radiating down at her and she wouldn’t have it any other way. He was pressed into her hip and thighs but she didn’t mind at all.

He shifted and rocked against her as he deeply kissed her and she could feel him against her. It was something she’d never thought she would feel but he was stiff and firm in his jeans. She moaned as he rocked against her again. Desire she didn’t understand flooded her. It was terrifying and addicting all at the same time.

“You’ll give me a chance?” Steve whispered as he pulled away, hovering just an inch above her. She leaned up and kissed him, pulling him to her but he resisted the urge to delve into her kiss again. “Will you not push me away?”

Finally she nodded. With that settled, Steve needed to settle down himself. He slipped his arm under the small of her back and up between her shoulders. When he sat up, he took her with him. She was straddling his lap with her knees on either side of his hips when his back rested against the couch.

“I won’t ask the things you don’t want me to right now. I won’t ask them next week or even next month. Eventually I hope you’ll trust me enough to tell me. Eventually I’ll need to know but now isn’t the time. Okay?”

More tears slipped down her face as she meekly nodded. It would never be the right time to tell him. She would never be able to trust him enough. But for now, he wouldn’t ask. As she nestled herself onto his chest and allowed him to hold her, a small voice in the back of her mind spoke hopeful what-if’s.

What if she could trust him enough in time? What if she could tell him in a few months? What if he could come with her next time she had to disappear? What if he fell in love with her? What if she fell in love with him? What if?

Tag List: @theoneanna, @sweetbeary713, @0-0-0-0-0-0-0-7, @alexakeyloveloki, @winterisakiller, @j-u-s-t-4, @dangertoozmanykids101, @missaphrodite23, @bambamwolf87, @princess76179, @fairlightswiftly

Want in on the tag list? Just drop me a word!

#steve x ofc #steve x oc #steve rogers x ofc #steve rogers x oc #steve x original character

7 notes · View notes

tiny-winter-cupcake · 6 years

Text

I long to hear you sing (beneath the clear blue skies)

Summary: “Don’t.”

Phil lowered his hand almost automatically, the voice like melted honey, soft and smooth. He had never heard anything like it, a voice that made him want to fall to his knees and grovel. Phil wanted to worship this creature, worship its voice. It spoke again.

“Come.”

There it was again. That sweet voice. And who was Phil to deny such a sweet request.

Word Count: 7k

Rating: Teen (theres like a bit of unspecified voilence and like, thats it?)

A/N:My @phandombigbang fic, FINALLY. listen i’m super proud of this, and i never thought that I would be able to do this whole thing! a huge shout out to my lovely beta @phinalphantasy7 for putting up all my shit, and to @luisaloveshoney who did the wonderful art HERE. the title is from Marc Anthony’s You Sang To Me. and as always please like and reblog! thank y’all so much!!

Philip Lester, the youngest water witch of the Lester clan, had been living with his family for his whole 31 years of life, and frankly, their old familial home in South Manchester was far too crowded. So naturally, he decided to move out. His family owned a rather nice summer home in Dorset, in a little town called Seaport, named for the large number of water witches that ended up there in the summertime. Much like Phil’s family, all who possessed the kind of abilities associated with the water. Phil could remember taking many family holidays down there, stopping after he went to Uni. Since then, the house had sat unused, and rather than let it go to waste, or worse, be sold, Phil was following his water witch instincts and moving out there. It was strange to leave his parents, but he found that he was oddly happy to move out.

The car ride down to the cottage was long, and by the time Phil reached there, it was well past dinner time, despite leaving after an early brunch. He pulled into the driveway of the cottage and looked at it. Even though it had sat unused for the better part of ten years, the walls were still as white as Phil could remember. The inside, though dusty and filled with cobweb-covered corners, still had its beachy, summer home feel that had made younger Phil and his family feel at ease. It was just as he remembered. He smiled, putting his suitcase down and flopping down into the couch. Looking over at the wood burner, Phil pointed and whispered, “Ignis.” And just like that, a fire started, warming the room almost immediately. Magical fires did that. Phil settled down, before remembering that there were beds upstairs, ones that were probably much more comfortable than this couch. What a pity. The couch seemed heaven compared to the car seat he had been in for the last six hours. The supposed four and a half hours to Seaport took an hour and a half longer than expected, which meant an extra hour and a half in the stupid car more than he had planned for. Phil sighed and closed his eyes. He was just about to drift off when his stomach made an appearance, startling him awake with the echo it made. With a grumble, he got up and trudged to the kitchen.

Thankfully there was no stale food in the kitchen, his family having enough sense to throw away all the perishable foods. There wasn’t much he could eat though, so getting food became his number one priority for tomorrow. For now, Phil would have to settle for the slightly soggy half eaten sandwich he’d gotten at a stop about three hours ago. It tasted like disappointment, but nevertheless, Phil ate it before he went upstairs. He was about to go into his old room when he stopped. He was living here now. He could sleep in what used to be his parents’ room, with their ensuite and all. Phil decided that he wanted to sleep in a big bed, and made his way down the hall to the bedroom. It looked the same as he remembered, with different bedding. He sat down on it with a smile as the memories of sleeping in here when there was a thunderstorm, or when he had watched a scary movie with Martyn, came flooding back. Phil bit his lip, and got up to use the bathroom. Once showered, he made his way over to unpack his suitcase, and fell into bed, utterly exhausted. Needless to say, he slept very well that night.

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

The next morning, Phil was reminded of why his family came here for centuries. The sun streamed in through the windows, golden sunshine that lit up the rooms. It made the bedroom warm, and Phil almost didn’t want to get up. But the rumble in his stomach made him. Yawning, he got out of bed and smiled. For once, he was awoken by his own natural needs instead of people shouting or the neighbors’ babies crying through the walls of the house. Phil got out of bed, stretching as he walked into his bathroom. (He had to keep reminding himself it was his and not his family’s. It was his house now.) A quick shower later, and Phil pulled on a pair of shorts and a teal button up shirt. Perfect. He slipped a pair of shoes on, grabbed his phone and his keys, and headed out.

Standing in the light of day, Phil could really appreciate the house. Thatched roof and all. It was really pretty in the daytime, just around the corner from the high street and right on the beach. A nice village, that had grown a little in Phil’s absence. Small, but pretty. Latching the gate, he tucked his keys into his pocket and walked down the high street.

The village was mostly still familiar. There was the diner, Andersons American, that did the best American style pancakes in the whole of England. Some of the elder residents sat outside, sipping cold waters under the shade of the umbrellas. Across the street, the grocer was outside setting up his fresh produce in the sun. The peacefulness of the main street was disturbed only by the occasional car driving past and the laughter of children floating by as they rushed to the beaches. Police station next to the fire station and the officers gave Phil a nod as he strolled by. There was a kid selling lemonade on the corner of the high street and Beach Road, something Phil remembered doing with his friends so they could buy an ice cream later. Of course, Phil bought a glass, the drink refreshing, cutting the edge off the warm summer air.

There were a few restaurants further down Beach Road, a seafood place Phil remembered from his childhood. As he walked closer to the center of the village, he saw the farmers market surrounded the fountain in the shape of a fish spitting water. People tossed pennies into the fountain, making wishes. There had to be some kind of magic behind it because every wish Phil made in his youth came true. He had had his first kiss on the edge of the fountain, with a local girl named Annie. Annie and her brother, PJ, along with a few other locals and summertime regulars, made up Phil’s friend group during most of his childhood summers.

He walked through the market, seeing some people he used to know and smiling to himself. He had changed quite a lot since he had last been here. But it meant he could more or less fade into the background. He purchased some cheese, bread, and a few different jams from some of the stalls before continuing up the street.

Phil smiled at the memories as they came to him as he passed the church, with the pub (ironically) attached. He had spent many happy hours hanging out upstairs at that pub in the kids’ space with its sofas, pool table, and tv with games consoles. He turned around at the end of the street to walk back down to Beach Road, all the way to the beach itself which was just as pretty as the pictures Phil had kept. The view of the English Channel was stunning, its green-blue waters lapping gently against the shore, leaving smooth pebbles and seashells in its wake.

Phil stood for a moment and admired the long expanse of golden sand before heading back to the grocers to buy food. He walked out fifty pounds poorer, and fifty pounds heavier, it seemed. Thankfully the walk back home was short.

Once in the house, putting things away was quick, and Phil also made quick work of cleaning the house (using magic of course: a simple cleaning spell go rid of the dust and cobwebs and made everything so much nicer) and putting his clothes away. He had a quick bit of toast for breakfast, although it was nearer to lunch now anyway, before he was heading back out to get milk and juice. The shop owner seemed a little surprised to see Phil again, and he smiled sheepishly as he explained he had just moved back to town in his family's house and he needed food and drink quite desperately. The man smiled, saying something about how he remembered that family, and he seemed to recognize Phil, but didn’t say anything if he did. On his way out, however, Phil ran into an old face. Quite literally. The two full-on smacked into each other, causing both to let out a few choice words that made the old lady walking by tut.

“Oh fuck, mate, I’m so sorry,” Phil apologized, rubbing his chin where it had hit the other person’s face. He looked down at the man he had collided with, before asking, “PJ?” PJ was more than startled.

“How do yo-Phil? Phil Lester?” PJ’s face cracked into a smile, and he pulled his old friend into a hug, which was hard on Phil’s end to reciprocate since he was holding a gallon jug of milk and a bag with apple and orange juice cartons inside. PJ didn’t seem to care, he instantly grabbed the milk from Phil and started walking towards his house. Phil laughed, and shook his head, following him.

“What are you doing back here, Phil?” PJ asked once they were settled on Phil’s deck, glasses of apple juice between them. He hadn’t changed much, still tall and lanky. His hair was shorter now, a mop of curls that fell over his kind green eyes. He was still as kind as ever.

“I moved. The family home was getting too crowded, and I wanted a change of scenery. You know my family, loud and rambunctious as ever,” Phil smiled, taking a sip. He really did love his family, but now that his aunt was living with them after her husband’s death, and Martyn was engaged to his girlfriend Cornelia as of last month, not to mention the twins his sister was having, the house was simply too crowded. And that was saying a lot because the family home in Manchester was a seven bedroom, seven and a half bathroom building. But Phil had a few older siblings, and one younger sister, all of whom seemed to be moving back in, rather than leaving like most children did. And Phil just couldn’t stay anymore, not because he didn’t love his family, but because he did need his own space, and it was bad enough he had to give Martyn his room because his fiancee was moving in and Phil’s room was bigger. Here, he was free, and he had his own reputation to make, now that he was all grown up.

“Oh, yeah, I get that. I saw Martyn got engaged, you’ll have to tell him congrats from me and Annie. She got married a few months ago, to Chris of all people. No one saw them falling in love ever happening. They wanted to invite you, but we couldn't find your address. Say, I’ll tell her you’re back, and we can get dinner, get the old gang back together!” PJ grinned, a smile so infectious that Phil started to smile too. He nodded.

“Alright, sounds like a plan. Wish I’d made the move earlier, if it meant coming to the wedding. But I’m glad they put the past behind them,” Phil smiled, and PJ was showing him pictures of the wedding. Of course, he was best man. Chris was like Phil, in more than one way. One, he was a summertime regular, and Phil assumed Chris and Annie were living in his family’s summer house on the other side of town. Two, Chris was a witch, an earthy type, like his mum. As PJ showed Phil the pictures, Phil smiled at how happy they looked, his two childhood best friends. Annie was very much like PJ, long, curly brown hair, an infectious smile, and a glint in those Liguori green eyes. She looked really pretty in the pictures, Phil had to admit. And Chris looked good too, very much in love with his wife. Phil could remember how he teased her, pulled her hair and stuff that little boys did because they were idiots. As they grew up, Chris stopped being such an ass, and one could see the beginnings of a crush when he looked at Annie.

They talked for what seemed like hours, and soon enough PJ was heading out. He was going out to dinner with his family, but promised to text Phil with a date and time for a dinner. Phil smiled, waving him off with a smile. Once gone, he sighed, looking at the dirty cups. With a flick of his wrist, the water turned on and the dishes started to wash themselves. It was honestly his favorite spell, and one that he had learned quite early on to make his chores easier. The dishes even put themselves away, a modification that Phil had added himself. With everything put away, including his clothes, Phil put his shoes back on, and decided to walk to the beach and get dinner, maybe even an ice cream.

After a comforting dinner of fish and chips, Phil walked down the beach with an ice cream in hand, humming softly to himself. He had walked so far down that he was by the caves, an old childhood haunt of his. He was almost done with his ice cream when he heard something. It was faint, and carried a melodic tune. Someone was singing, he realised after a moment. Someone was in the caves, singing. Singing beautifully. Phil felt like he was under some spell, as he got closer. The song was sad, almost eerily so. But Phil kept walking toward it, unable to stop even if he wanted too. He had to find who was singing this song. He was near the entrance of the caves when he was tackled to the ground by something large and very wet. He opened his eyes, having closed them when he was falling, feeling fur under his hands. A dog, a large sheepdog to be specific, was licking at his face. Phil laughed, trying to push him off. At that moment, a wave crashed into them, saltwater going in Phil's mouth and up his nose, making him cough and splutter. Someone pulled the dog off him, and Phil scrambled to his feet, wiping his eyes. He groaned, spitting on the ground as the dog's owner apologised profusely. He waved them off, smiling a little. He needed to change, and wash these clothes before they got stiff. Phil glanced back to the caves, and he swore he saw something move in the darkness. Something ducked behind a rock, and if he hadn’t been covered in grimy, salty water he would have gone to explore, to find out if this was the same person who had been singing.

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

Phil couldn’t sleep that night, his mind thinking about the song, and how beautiful it was. Who, or what, was singing it? And why were they in the caves? There were so many questions he needed answers to, and he resolved to find out in the morning. That thought helped to lull him to a semi-comatose state, half asleep, half awake, for the rest of the night. He ended up not going back to the beach that day, sleeping and shopping for most of the day instead. In fact, he didn’t end up back at the beach for another few days. After all, the boxes weren’t going to unpack themselves. (Actually they were but they wouldn’t be put away by themselves. That unfortunately was a job that Phil had to do by hand, by himself. It almost made him pack up and leave. Almost, but not quite.)

It was raining by the time Phil did end up back at the beach, this time determined to find out what it was that had been singing such a haunting, beautiful song. After speaking to the locals, all who proved to be little to no help, apart from one old lady at the cafe this very morning, Phil decided it would be better to just go explore for himself. The lady this morning had told him that the thing in the caves was territorial, and a savage. But apart from that, she didn't have any answers to what it was. With this in mind, Phil was walking towards where he had seen something move that first time. As he got closer, the song started to form in his ears, quieter but still just as powerful. Phil felt his heart clench, and he once again felt under a spell. He couldn’t stop walking even if he wanted. It was like his legs were locked, forcing him forward towards the mouth of the cave. The song got louder, and Phil realized that he didn’t actually understand it, although he thought he recognized the language. It was an ancient language, one that he probably should have learned from his parents. As the song carried him into the cave, he saw a fire in the distance, and a figure huddled behind it. A very human-like figure. Phil stopped himself just before the fire, the song dying in his ears as the...creature looked up at him, the fire illuminating round, rather brown eyes. The reflection of the fire in them made them seem almost golden. Or maybe Phil was just seeing things, because how could eyes be golden? The rest of the figure was shrouded in shadows; Phil could only see human-like arms hugging human-like legs that were pulled into a chest. He couldn’t see the face, or anything for that matter. He raised his hand to cast a spell to light the cavern they were in, when the person (?) spoke.

“Don’t.”

“Come.”

There it was again. That sweet voice. And who was Phil to deny such a sweet request. His legs carried him across the room. He fell to his knees in front of this creature, having never felt so calm in his life. The creature reached out and touched Phil's cheek with a surprisingly warm hand. A human hand. Phil leaned his head into its palm, smiling a little.

“Will you help me?” The voice was tentative, and Phil nodded slowly. The creature moved its hand, and the room seemed to get brighter, like millions of tiny candles had been lit. And Phil couldn’t contain his gasp as finally, he saw what was in front of him. His hand came up to cover his mouth, and he scrambled backward.

Sitting in front of Phil was arguably the most gorgeous creature that he had ever seen with his two eyes. The creature had long, slender legs, which were pulled up into its chest. Its skin was a light copper, and its eyes were golden brown. It had brown hair, curls that tumbled down to the base of its neck, and Phil had an urge to bury his face in them. Gold feather tattoos covered its legs from mid-calf to foot, and the same on its arms, ending just below the elbow. But what was even more spectacular than the rather heavenly creature in front of him were the wings of gold and black feathers spread out behind this being. Phil was stunned. He had never seen such a beautiful being. A siren, his mind supplied helpfully. The creature in front of him was a siren. The most feared sea creature, luring sailors and pirates alike to their watery graves. Phil was speechless, so much so that he almost didn’t notice the problem. A wing was broken. No wonder the siren was singing so sadly, it was lonely, and hurt.

“Help me,” the siren whispered, in that sweet voice that made Phil melt. He nodded, dumbfounded, and shuffled closer to the siren, who tensed up, then relaxed when it realised Phil meant no harm. Carefully, Phil raised a hand, and set to work fixing the siren.

The whole process took about two hours. Phil had to take regular breaks, and he was still exhausted by the time the siren took off into the air of the cavern with joy. Phil smiled, leaning back on the rocks of the cave, watching. He started to think of what he knew about sirens. Vicious, generally travelled in packs, or flocks. Very territorial. Cast magic with their voices, manipulating others to do what they wanted. They--wait, what? Phil’s smile fell, eyes widening as he realized what this siren was doing. It was using Phil! He looked up at it, chirping happily as it flew around the cavern. Phil scooted towards the exit. Just as he thought he was going to be able to escape, the siren called out.

“Please don’t leave me.”

Phil froze, stopping of his own free will. “Please,” he whispered, begged even. “Please don’t eat me.” He braced himself for the siren to somehow kill him. That didn’t happen, and the siren reached out to him, placing a hand on Phil’s cheek. “I won’t….Just please don’t leave me…” Phil found himself nodding meekly. This wasn’t how he wanted to go out, death by siren was hardly respectable. The siren chirped, and Phil looked up at it. The large wings were gone, instead replaced by a tattoo spanning the entirety of its back. For the first time, Phil took in what the siren was wearing. A short tunic, in an olive green, tied in place by a gold rope. As the siren turned, Phil saw its back, the large tattoo of its wings, the open back of its tunic. He bit his lip.

Phil couldn’t do much else than follow the siren to what he presumed was a nest of sorts. It was filled with shiny objects, and plush blankets that had quite obviously been stolen. It wasn’t small, by any means. Sirens attracted mates with large nests filled with shiny, soft objects. Phil remembered from a book he had read that sirens mated for life, and were extremely possessive of their mates. They also never let anyone else in their nests but said mates. The nest in which Phil was currently sitting, letting the siren play with his hair. He frowned at that. Maybe this siren’s mate didn’t mind. But if this siren had a mate, where was it?

“Daniel.” The siren had chirped with a smile as they sat down. At first, Phil thought he was calling to his mate, maybe that he had found them dinner, but he eventually realized that the siren was telling him his name. Daniel. It suited the creature. Phil smiled a bit, and leaned back into the siren-Dan’s hands combing through his hair. If he was going to be a prisoner, at least he could be one in semi-comfort. He smiled a little. “Where’s your mate?” He asked softly, but regretted it as he felt sharp claws dig into his scalp. “Ow! What the hell!” He scrambled away from Dan, turning to look at him with a glare.

“Don’t mention them.” Dan growled, his eyes dark, murderous even. Murder Birds, Phil’s mind supplied. Sirens had that nickname for a reason. Either way, any protests had died in Phil’s throat as soon as they’d started. It was so strange, how a siren could have that much of an effect on him. Wasn’t he supposed to be some great and powerful witch? Regardless, Dan seemed to settle down, preening himself lightly as he did so. Phil bit his lip, staying on his side of the nest. No thank you, Phil did not want to get on Dan’s side and be ruthlessly murdered. He stayed on his side, holding his knees to his chest and sighing, letting his eyes slip closed.

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

Phil looked so peaceful sleeping. It would almost be a pity to kill him. Almost, Dan decided. Besides, he needed to eat one way or another, and he really didn’t want to have to steal another dog when such a beautiful treat had wandered right in. Dan had wanted to eat him as soon as his wing had been fixed, so he could take him and go and find his mate again. But the way in which Phil had begged for his life had been so cute, Dan had decided to play with him a little. Now, he was unguarded. And he looked delicious. Dan licked his lips, settling closer to Phil and preparing for the blow to kill the human, when Phil sneezed. Dan frowned, tilting his head curiously. That was strange. He’d never seen a human do that before. Was it broken? Dan was about to look up Phils nose when it happened again, and he scrambled back, having been sprayed with something clear and wet. Ew. He sat cross legged and observed the human. He’d never seen one this up close before, never regarded them with much thought. To him, humans were simply stupid creatures, who didn’t deserve to be alive. Dan bit his lip, taking a blanket and covering the human. He was strange, and kind. But scared. Dan could sense the fear that came off this man, and he didn’t like it. He looked towards the cave entrance, remembering how Phil had tried to leave. He was selfish keeping this human here with him. He had to let Phil go, despite his appetite-now-turned-curiosity. Phil would forget about him, anyway.

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

When Phil woke up, his first thought was wondering where on Earth he was. Then he remembered. The siren. Dan. He got up, looking around for any sign of the creature, then slowly made his way to the exit. He expected to be pounced on as soon as he was at the exit, some sick joke of cat and mouse. But no, Phil made it to the exit and outside relatively unscathed. He hurried home, desperately in need of a shower, and a nap. He was somehow convinced that most of this was a dream. After all, why would there be a siren in Seaport? They were native to warmer waters. However, Phil couldn’t seem to get the beautiful face out of his mind. It plagued him when he closed his eyes, the honey-sweet voice singing softly in his ears. Fuck. Phil was trapped under a siren’s spell. And he loved it. It was intoxicating. Realistically Phil knew that he shouldn’t be head over heels with a creature that basically gets off on killing humans, but it was hard not to be. This ethereal creature was the center of his fantasies.

That night, PJ invited him over for dinner, with Chris and Annie. The house was the same as he remembered, and Phil smiled a little when he saw his friends. Annie was practically radiating when she saw Phil, giving him the biggest hug he’d ever had from her. Chris hugged him, too, which was comforting because Chris rarely gave out hugs. “What brings you down here?” Chris asked as he poured Phil a glass of wine, while PJ and Annie were out on the back porch, setting the table.

“The house was getting a little small, and there’s, like, three babies on the way. I wanted to live by myself for a little,” Phil explained, taking the offered glass and sipping.

“Well, it’s good to have another one of our kind around,” Chris smiled. “Oh, and Annie and PJ know I’m one, so you don’t have to hide it. I know you really came down here because you want to be by water. It’s only natural for a water kind to be drawn down here.” Phil smiled at that.

“You got me.” He laughed, holding his hands up in mock defense. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know about a siren being here, would you?”

“A siren? In Seaport? Well if there is, I should think it must be crazy. I wouldn’t imagine why it would be here. Unless it was abandoned by its family on a migration?” Chris smiled a little. “I have a book on sirens you might find useful. If you want it?” Phil nodded, and Chris went to get it. It wasn’t huge, and Phil thanked Chris as he put the book in his coat pocket.

Dinner was fabulous. Annie made pasta with some kind of amazing seafood sauce, and Phil practically melted when he tried it, begging her for the recipe. Dan would like it, he thought to himself. Surprisingly, even though Phil had left, he wanted to go back to Dan, to help him. If Chris was right, he had lost his family, or his family had left him. Either way, his heart felt for the siren. Phil helped with the dishes, and the four friends sat on the porch and talked.

“Do you miss your family, Phil? I know your brother just got married, and isn’t your sister expecting? Aren’t you lonely?” Annie asked while Chris and PJ went to refill the drinks. Phil smiled.

“I suppose. But I knew that I was going to be at least a little alone when I came here. I’m not really that alone, y’know? I’ve got you guys, and I’m starting to enjoy just relaxing. Maybe I’ll get a proper job. Or I could just keep leeching off my parents. Who knows?” He laughed, and poked her in the side. “Maybe I could babysit, once you and Chris start your little family.”

“That would be lovely Phil. Thank you,” Annie said softly, looking over at him. “You seem off, if you don’t mind. Almost like you’ve met someone.” Phil laughed a little at that.

Chris and PJ came back out with the drinks, and Annie smiled, touching his arm gently. That same featherlight tough that Dan had touched him with while he had painfully worked to fix his wing. He blinked, the look of sheer joy on his siren’s face making him smile. His siren? Oh god. Abruptly, Phil stood up. “Listen, this has been wonderful, really. But I have to go. I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything later!” He smiled as he rushed out of the house, stopping only to make sure he had the book from Chris. Phil could only hope, as he sprinted towards the same cave he had been glad to see the back of earlier, that Dan was still in there. He burst in, startling the siren as he was chewing on something-oh god was that sheep?-and causing his feathers to shoot out of his arms and legs, as he jumped into attack mode, honey golden eyes flashing red.

“Dan!” Phil panted, hands on his knees. “Dan, I’m not leaving you.”

The siren frowned, before lunging at Phil and silently pinning him against a wall, finger flying frantically across Phil’s chest. It took Phil a minute to understand that Dan was drawing letters to make words. He caught some phrases, like “What are you doing?” and “How do you remember me?” It was strange, trying to piece together the messily written words, but eventually he grabbed Dan’s flying finger and held it in his hands. “Slow down, slow down. It’s okay, I have plenty of time. Just, slow down.” Dan led him back into the nest, sitting down across from Phil, knees touching, with Phil’s palm facing up.

‘How can you remember me?’ Dan traced onto Phil’s palm. Phil smiled.

“I’m a water witch. Surprise…!” He smiled a little nervously. Dan had to assume that Phil was a witch, otherwise how did Phil fix his wing? But the look on Dan’s face was adorable when he realized that water witches weren’t affected by most water creature spells. And sirens were inherently water creatures. Dan placed his finger on Phil’s palm again.

‘Why are you here?’

“Because I want to be.”

‘Go away.’

“No.” Phil laughed softly, shaking his head fondly. They sat like that for a while while Dan asked questions, and Phil dutifully answered them. It didn’t occur to Phil until later, while he gently combed through Dan's hair, the siren fast asleep with his head in Phil’s lap, that he hadn’t asked Dan any questions about his past, yet had somehow agreed to let Dan stay in his house. This would certainly be odd. Good thing he had that book.

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

Phil didn’t think his life could really get any weirder, then he tried smuggling an angry siren into his house. Dan was not only grumpy because he was awake early, but Phil had forced him into a coat, something that irritated his wings. Apparently he could still feel them, even though they weren’t there, something Dan had written onto his palm as Phil had struggled him into the coat. In retaliation for wearing something so irritating, he nipped at Phils bare skin all the way home. To say Dan was uncooperative was an understatement. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice the pair as Phil was unceremoniously shoving Dan into his house. Dan practically tore Phil’s coat in half to get out of it, and as soon as the garment was on the floor he was spreading his wings and preening himself. Phil was still amazed by those beautiful wings. Black and gold feathers, lush and full, spread out before Phil. Without thinking, Phil reached out to touch, gently stroking the softness before him. Dan looked mildly annoyed, but that soon melted away and he was grinning and making a noise almost like purring as he let Phil run his hands through his feathers.

Adjusting to life with this creature was odd. Firstly, Dan didn’t talk, he mainly wrote his replies or scribbled them into Phil’s skin. Dan didn’t want to trap Phil back under his spell, and Phil almost thought Dan might be growing fond of him. And secondly, Dan had taken over Phil’s bed, piling it high with pillows and soft covers, as well as hiding some of Phil’s shiny trinkets in amongst the softness. It was like his nest back in his lonely cave, and he insisted that Phil sleep in the nest with him. And finally, Dan was used to eating raw fish, or whatever other raw meats that he could find. It took Phil a while to condition him into eating cooked meat, even if it was only just barely cooked. Despite all this, Phil still couldn’t think of anything else apart from his Dan. His siren. It was odd, really, that he could be…in love with such a creature, yet here he was, silently smitten with Dan.

The next few months passed by, with no surprises. Phil became extremely well educated on sirens. However, it was too perfect, for too long, and his little bubble of bliss was broken one stormy day. They had been out on the cliff-top at Dan’s insistence for fresh air when all of a sudden he froze, as if sensing something. He motioned for Phil to stop, and walked a little further. He stopped, and for the first time in months, Phil heard his siren singing again. Well, not literally singing. But he was talking. And that alone was enough to make Phils knees buckle, and he fell to the ground. Because another voice had joined the mix. Another silky smooth, buttery sweet voice, adding to the harmony.

“I’ve been looking for you, and this is where I find you? In a human village, with a human. Daniel, you should know better.” At another thought, the second voice wasn’t like Dan’s at all. It was sickly sweet and unkind, where Dan’s was soft and kind. It was mocking, and left a bitter taste in Phils mouth.

“Go away. You know I left for a reason. I will not go back with you!” Dan’s voice cut through the air, followed by laughter, condescending laughter.

“You and I both know that’s not true, Daniel. You’re my mate. We’re meant to be together. It’s how it works.” Phil gasped at that, biting his lip. Dan’s mate. He was here. But why? Phil always assumed that Dan’s mate was dead, and he was merely seeking comfort with Phil. Never did he think that Dan would be with him instead of his mate. That thought was absurd, because after all, why would a siren pick a human as a mate? Phil shook his head, looking back over at Dan, where he stood, a whole head shorter than his mate. Phil got to his feet, dusting himself off and rubbing his eyes. It was hard to make out the conversation over the whirling of the wind, but Dan stood tall, and Phil smiled at that. Dan had courage, and Phil felt something in his stomach, a gut feeling to do something.

“Dan!” he yelled, starling both sirens out of their stances.

“No! Phil, stay where you are, it isn’t safe!” Dan yelled back, and for once, the command given didn’t seem to hold any meaning. His mind stayed remarkably clear, while his body remained frozen. He frowned, shaking his head to clear it and ran to Dan, grabbing his face and kissing him squarely on the lips. At that point, the heavens seemed to open and Phil had to pull away to laugh at the irony. A water creature, and a water witch, kissing in the rain.

“I thought I told you to stay?” Dan asked, smiling just as wide, leaning back in when all of a sudden Phil was shoved away, and oh shit a very angry siren was marching towards him. Dan’s mate was tall, and his wings were fully spread, and the teal feathers on his arms and legs were at full attention. Phil had never seen a siren like this, his eyes flashing a deep red, readying to attack and oh god this was it, and Phil hadn’t even told his mum that he loved her. He hadn’t even told Dan that he was loved. But that final blow that he was waiting for never came. Instead, there came a squawking, and Phil opened his eyes.

Dan was fighting. He was attacking his mate, using claws, teeth, feathers, everything. And his mate was fighting back, but clearly caught off guard by Dan’s sudden attack. And while physically his mate may have been stronger, Dan fought with a passion that Phil had never seen before. Almost like he wanted to protect Phil. They ended up in the air, a skirmish of feathers and growls. Phil heard something snap, followed by a screech and he prayed that it wasn’t Dan. But Dan was flying back to Phil, bruised and bloodied, scooping him up into the air and kissing him again, while Phil clung on for dear life.

“I told you to stay put!” Dan scolded lightly, swooping lower with Phil and making him scream. He laughed and held onto Dan tight, his legs wrapped around his waist and arms clinging around Dan’s shoulders.

“Water witches are immune to water creatures spells, goof,” Phil smiled, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to tell you but you could’ve been talking this whole time.”

“I hate you.”

“I love you too.”

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

Halfway between Tunisia and Sicily, there is a little island called Pantelleria, part of the Italian province of Trapani. Along the coast, away from the small towns that dot the island, there is a house only accessible by a dirt driveway, so inconspicuous that you would never notice it at a first glance. Down this driveway is a modest villa that has housed many great witch families over the years. Now, it belongs to an older witch, in his fifties. Sometimes people see him on his beach while sailing by, and more often than not, they are invited to have some wine and a light snack. If you get close enough, you hear his accent, British. If you have the chance to ask him why he is here, he will simply say “I followed my heart and it led me here”. People believe that he lost his wife, others simply say he is an artist. But often, you will see him glance up to the sunny sky, and if you are lucky, you will see a shape pass over the sun. A great winged creature, soaring high. No one knows what this creature is. All people know is that sometimes this strange man is seen sitting on the cliffs next to another man, who is clad in a tunic. Many locals say he is an angel, for they claim that he has giant gold wings that transform into a tattoo impression on his back. But you can tell this man these rumors, and he will simply shrug, and walk back up to his house. For how are the people to know whether a siren chose a human as a mate, all those years ago? Sometimes fate makes pairs in the sky that are simply meant to be. Sometimes a siren’s order simply cannot hold back the tide of love. And sometimes, just sometimes, it all turns out to be just right.

#ppb2018 #phanfiction #dan and phil #siren!dan au #witch!phil au #my fic #7k #phan #daniel howell #phil lester

25 notes · View notes

rowankingsleyy · 4 years

Photo