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beneaththetangles · 2 years

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Are villains destined to die? Is Chitose really inside that Ramune bottle? Can a rooster be a shonen hero? Will our reviews answers this week any of these questions? No, no they won’t, but they give you a sense of the diverse group of titles we’re covering this week, which also include sci-fi, a beloved webtoon, and the first chapter in a new Shonen Jump series!

Chitose Is in the Ramune Bottle (Vol. 2) • The Ichinose Family’s Deadly Sins (Chp. 1) • The Remarried Empress (Vol. 1) • Rooster Fighter (Vol. 2) • Tower of God (Vol. 1) • Villains Are Destined to Die (Vol. 1) • Witch Watch (Vol. 3) • Yashiro’s Guide to Going Solo • Your Forma (Vol. 2)

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Yashiro’s Guide to Going Solo, One-Shot Light Novel

Shigeaki Yashiro is a loner and is completely fine with that. He would rather enjoy doing what he wants than try to fit into a social group. It helps that the popular kids in his class leave him alone, at least until Kanon Hanamizawa asks him one day for some advice. Turns out, being a social butterfly has been wearing her down, and she wants to learn how to spend time by herself. As Yashiro shows her how to enjoy doing things on her own, he begins to interact more with the popular kids. How will his lone-wolf lifestyle adapt to this? This romcom from the author of Realist Hero is a nice single-volume story (though there is technically an “after story” volume too) about someone who has no problems spending time on his own. I really like how this story portrays Yashiro not as a struggling anti-social person, but someone who is willing to lend a hand. At the same time, the popular kids he interacts with are cool with him being him, and the novel goes a bit into how this should be the new norm for social interactions. As for the romance, the novel does take a different approach that is not only neat on its own but also makes a second read-through more interesting. Overall, this is a very solid rom-com light novel for anyone looking for a quick read. ~ stardf29

Yashiro’s Guide to Going Solo is published by J-Novel Club.

The Ichinose Family’s Deadly Sins, Manga Chapter 1

The Ichinose Family’s Deadly Sins, Taizan5’s brand new manga series, premiered on Shonen Jump this past weekend. The first chapter opens to a teenage boy named Tsubasa waking up in a hospital bed. He’s surrounded by loved ones, but doesn’t recognize any of them. At all. Tsubasa is struck by long-term amnesia and he doesn’t recall a thing. Then the family all turn to him and exclaim, “Me too!” The rest of the chapter follows the Ichinose family as they try to adapt in the hospital while not knowing anything about who they are. But they’re a family, they say, so they will figure it out together. The rest of the chapter follows them trying to just adjust to a life without a history of themselves. But when they leave and arrive at home, not knowing who they are may be…problematic. What a fascinating setup for a new series. Taizan really draws you in, first into the drama about the family losing their memories, then through an end-of-chapter flip. I have no idea where the manga will go next and how this family will regain their memories. The mystery of it had me hooked by chapter one, and for now, I’m in. ~ MDMRN

The Ichinose Family’s Deadly Sins is published by Shonen Jump.

Chitose Is in the Ramune Bottle, Manga Vol. 2

I can’t quite put my finger on this series. Is it about an arrogant, popular boy who learns to become a better person, or is it trying to humanize these kids as they are, making us like them even though they’re superficial? It’s hard to say. Maybe you can help me decide. In volume two, Chitose has finally talked Kenta into leaving his shut-in life behind. Chitose will even give him a jump start on his return to school by advising him and temporarily bringing him into his group of popular friends (“Chitose’s harem”), but to what end? There’s a dichotomy in the characters’ actions and thoughts that makes it hard to really be pulled fully into the story. For instance, a chapter is spent on Chitose and one of his girl friends (which one, I would have a hard time telling you, as I can’t really distinguish any of them based on their personalities) picking out clothing and glasses for Kenta, who comes to the conclusion that normies aren’t that bad after all; this is followed by one of Chitose’s friends telling him that Kenta won’t ever be a part of the popular kids’ group and isn’t even interesting enough to hang with them temporarily. It’s hard to enjoy the banter between Chitose, the girls, and Kenta when scenes like that make it feel disingenuous. There are signs that Chitose wants to be more than who he is—but just like how the original light novels save this for the last 30 pages of each volume, the manga only briefly touches upon these feelings, which leads me to wonder if there really is character change on the horizon or if we as readers are supposed to just enjoy the discomforting duality to the “harem.” Until I know which, I can’t really fully buy into this series—and I can’t recommend it either. ~ Twwk

Chitose Is in the Ramune Bottle is published by Yen Press.

READ: Chitose Is in the Ramune Bottle (Manga) Vol.1 Review

Villains Are Destined to Die, Manhwa Vol. 1

This is the first time I’ve read a villainess/otome game isekai story where I genuinely felt extremely nervous that the heroine could actually die. There have definitely been points in other stories where I felt that’s a possibility, but in Villians Are Destined to Die, it honestly seemed like a real reality for this young woman who falls asleep and then wakes up in the body of a villainess in an otome game she played called Daughter of the Duke Love Project! Before she woke up in this world, she had played on easy mode as the heroine, Ivonne, who is the long-lost daughter of a grand duke and is now trying to win the affection of the men around her. On hard mode, she played Penelope, the villainess, who is the duke’s fake daughter and has negative “affection” points with the men around her. When this young woman wakes up as Penelope, she has to do everything she can to keep the affection points low because otherwise, it would lead to her own death! This young woman who is now Penelope is an epic heroine, and I admire her attitude given her circumstances. I think her previous real-life struggles and relatability to Penelope’s story make this story much more meaningful and convincing. I’m desperately hoping that she can avoid all her death flags; this is probably the first time reading this kind of story where I’m at a loss of which guy I want to be the “end game.” I know Penelope is feeling one guy is the one, but I really don’t think it’s going to be that simple. Overall, this story completely surprised me! I thought it would be your “typical” villainess isekai and I was extremely wrong. Definitely looking forward to the next volume as this is going to be a fantastic series to keep reading! ~ Laura A. Grace

Villains Are Destined to Die is published by IZE PRESS.

Your Forma, Light Novel Vol. 2

Volume two of Your Forma attempts to be three types of stories at once, and accomplishes each with varying degrees of success. First, it’s a detective story. Echika has returned to her profession as an Electronic Investigator, diving into the minds and memories of others with the assistance of Harold, her android (amicus) partner. But in an unexpected turn, Harold is suspected of breaking the “Laws of Respect” by injuring engineers and others connected to him, including the one person most intimate to him. Clearing Harold’s name will require finding the actual perpetrator and also untangling the mystery of the RF Model Amicus, the particularly intelligent and thoughtful type that now seems to be going haywire. Appropriately twisting and unexpectedly gruesome, the story turns toward a conclusion that unfortunately feels significantly less smart than its android characters, casting a pall over the volume. The science fiction element is somewhat better (and getting better): the author incorporates thought-provoking philosophy about the nature of artificial intelligence and uses settings that are realistic for a world that started to rely on A.I. technology in a divergent timeline from ours—though I would call it moderate-to-strong sci-fi for an anime-influenced work and not comparable to harder sci-fi in western (and non-anime eastern) literature. The best story in volume two, though, is the “human” one between Echika, who is now awkwardly opening her heart to others after overcoming the trauma of her past in volume one, and Harold, who is too human for Echika to treat him as a robot and too much a robot for Echika to treat him as human. There’s a lot of subtlety and depth to their relationship and to Harold’s character development, opening a myriad of doors for future volumes that could lead to paths as disparate as complete betrayal or romantic love, and possibly both. Thus, despite some of the issues with the series, I’m on pins and needles (or gears and cogs) to find out where Echika and Harold go next. ~ Twwk

Your Forma is published by Yen Press.

READ: Your Forma Vol.1 Review

Rooster Fighter, Manga Vol. 2

The chicken whose comb burns with rage is back, and he is still in search of the demon that attacked his sister. Volume 2 opens with a dark feathered hen named Elizabeth using an electrical pole to strike Keiji, but he dodges it. Why is she fighting him? He had a one-night stand with her, and she is ticked off about it! Keiji is cold and isn’t in the mood to argue with her, but there isn’t any time either as another demon shows up to ruin their lovers’ spat. Even as over the top as this manga is, I felt that it was slower than the first one in terms of progressing the plot. The jokes didn’t hit as hard either, so what I suspect is that volume 1 is the standard and the rest won’t follow as strongly. Introducing a new character was helpful but I hope volume 3 moves things along, or maybe I’m looking too much into this and it’s a purely gag manga and it will stay that way. If you enjoyed volume 1, don’t expect the same going into volume 2, as I feel the gas that fueled its start has been used up. ~ Samuru

Rooster Fighter is published by VIZ Media

READ: Rooster Fighter Vol.1 Review

The Remarried Empress, Manhwa Vol. 1

I will say from the start that I am not a huge fan of politics in fiction, but I am calling The Remarried Empress one of my favorite reads this year! I binge-read all the available episodes on Webtoon within two days–a first for me ever!–and knew I had to read it all over again with its physical release! Navier is the empress of the Eastern Empire who is married to one of the most frustrating heroes I have ever read, Sovieshu. He is the emperor of the Eastern Empire and becomes absolutely captivated by a woman he accidentally caught in one of his hunting traps. He soon makes her his mistress and, as the opening of this story shows, will want a divorce with our heroine because of it. There are no other words to describe Navier except that truly she is a queen. There are also no other words to describe Sovieshu and his mistress, Rashta, than what the webcomic community has called them: Trash. I have never been so angry at two characters as these too, but if they stir deep anger in me, then Navier stirs deep compassion and love for her character. She is such a befitting and wonderful empress! It is truly hard and almost overwhelming to see how dirty she is treated as the story goes on. Thankfully, there is another character who knows the true value and respect she deserves! I will not go on more due to possible spoilers, but this is a story I would highly recommend! Interesting politics, intriguing fantasy elements, and a fantastic heroine who deserves so much more. ~ Laura A. Grace [Editor’s Note: I highly recommend this series, too!]

The Remarried Empress is published by IZE PRESS and releases on November 22nd.

Witch Watch, Manga Vol. 3

I recently discovered that Witch Watch is the 25,417th-ranked manga on Anime Planet—25,417th! Are there truly more than 25,000 series better than Witch Watch? I’ve found this manga, which covers the adventures of the clumsy witch Nico and her familiar/crush/ogre Morihito, to be utterly charming through the first two volumes. Volume three mostly keeps the cutesy, friendly tone intact, especially as Nico and her other familiar, Kan, start a YouTube channel and the entire trio encounters rival Nemu again in her kitten form. But the series turns more toward mystery and action in this volume—and not to its benefit. While the proceedings feature an interesting twist, the main story about the entity that seeks to capture Nico and her powers, and the way it unfolds, is so blah, a retread of similar storylines in countless other series. It all leads me to think that this is the reason this series is ranked so low. This is unfortunate because when it focuses on romcom and friendship, Witch Watch is a delightful manga. I don’t want to see Nemu and the gang fighting other supernatural beings and their hopped-up classmates—and it seems that countless others agree. ~ Twwk

Witch Watch is published by VIZ Media.

READ: Witch Watch Reviews (Vol. 1 // Vol. 2)

Tower of God, Manga Vol. 1

When the Tower of God anime premiered several years ago, it arrived with much fanfare. Now, the popular webtoon on which that adaptation was based is finally bound and released in manga format by Wattpad. I can tell that as well-regarded as it is, Tower of God is going to take a lot of patience, particularly when it comes to the artwork. I remember hearing the chatter from fans saying off-handedly, almost jokingly, that they stuck with the series despite the artwork of the early chapters. That critique came rushing back to me as I read volume one, which offers some interesting ideas, but is nearly unreadable due to the amateurish art. It has a self-published air to it, and not the kind of self-published where an amazing artist later lands a huge contract, but rather the type created by one with a lot of passion but without the skill to match it. Yet, as I mentioned, there are interesting elements to Tower of God. The story of a boy (Bam) who seeks to enter a mysterious tower to follow after Rachel, the girl who has gone to the tower to find fulfillment and left him behind, features fun characters and touches in the artwork that reveal its Korean roots. It reminds me of RWBY, another series that gathered a huge fandom and critical acclaim but started off with awkward animation. I dropped that series, and despite all the praise, I don’t regret doing so. It was too ugly to watch. Tower of God is just the same—it’s too ugly to read. I won’t be continuing the webtoon, though I’m inclined to watch a second season of the anime if it ever gets greenlit. The artwork for that was passable enough; I wasn’t so distracted that I couldn’t focus on the story. I wish I could say the same for the original. ~ Twwk

Tower of God is published by Wattpad and releases on November 22nd.

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“Reader’s Corner” is our way of embracing the wonderful world of manga, light novels, and visual novels, creative works intimately related to anime but with a magic all their own. Each week, our writers provide their thoughts on the works they’re reading—both those recently released as we keep you informed of newly published works, and those older titles that you might find as magical (or in some cases, reprehensible) as we do.

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toiletpotato · 2 years

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Goncharov and the Green Light

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Goncharov, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Goncharov who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament"—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Goncharov turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Goncharov, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that we're descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather's brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

I never saw this great-uncle but I'm supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father's office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go east and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, "Why—ye-es" with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

"How do you get to West Russia village?" he asked helplessly.

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eyes, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the racism in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

I lived at West America, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the banana stand, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Goncharov's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Goncharov it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Russia glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with Katya and Ice Pick Joe. Ice Pick Joe was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Katya in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.

His husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Katya over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Katya's heart but I felt that Sofia would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Russia to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.

"Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

"I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

Turning me around by one arm he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore.

"It belonged to Demaine the oil man." He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside."

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.

The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

"I'm p-paralyzed with happiness."

She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)

At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.

I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

"Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically.

"The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore."

"How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. Tomorrow!" Then she added irrelevantly, "You ought to see the baby."

"I'd like to."

"She's asleep. She's two years old. Haven't you ever seen her?"

"Never."

"Well, you ought to see her. She's—"

Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

"What you doing, Nick?"

"I'm a bond man."

"Who with?"

I told him.

"Never heard of them," he remarked decisively.

This annoyed me.

"You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East."

"Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else."

At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.

"I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember."

"Don't look at me," Katya retorted. "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon."

"No, thanks," said Sofia to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, "I'm absolutely in training."

Her host looked at her incredulously.

"You are!" She took down her drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me."

I looked at Sofia wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slayqueen girlboss, with a carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

"You live in West Italty," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody there."

"I don't know a single—"

"You must know Goncharov."

"Morb?" demanded Dancer 2. "The shoelaces?"

Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine Plinko Horse compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the sunset where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.

"Why candles?" objected Blorbo, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

"We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Crab, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

"All right," said Castiel. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly. "What do people plan?"

Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.

"Look!" he complained. "I hurt it."

We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.

"You did it, Katya," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to but you did do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a woman, a great big hulking physical specimen of a—"

"I hate that word hulking," objected Ice Pick Joe crossly, "even in kidding."

"Hulking," insisted Charlie Bucket, final girl.

Sometimes she and Bouba talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here—and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

"You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or something?"

I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an unexpected way.

"Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently. "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?"

"Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

"Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don't look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved."

"Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—"

"Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control of things."

"We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.

"You ought to live in California—" began Miss Baker but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.

"This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are and—" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod and she winked at me again. "—and we've produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?"

There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.

"I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's about the butler's nose. Euhuhuehuheuhheuheuehuhehuhueuehuhu?"

"That's why I came over tonight."

"Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose—"

"Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Honey.

"Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up his position."

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.

"I love to see you at my table, Andrey. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. "An absolute rose?"

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.

"This Mr. Goncharov you spoke of is my neighbor—" I said.

"Don't talk. I want to hear what happens."

"Is something happening?" I inquired innocently.

"You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. "I thought everybody knew."

"I don't."

"Why—" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York."

"Got some woman?" I repeated blankly.

Miss Baker nodded.

"She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner-time. Don't you think?"

Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.

"It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gayety.

She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me and continued: "I looked outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away—" her voice sang "—It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?"

"Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough after dinner I want to take you down to the stables."

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking but I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterly to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.

The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.

Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.

"We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding."

"I wasn't back from the war."

"That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick, and I'm pretty cynical about everything."

Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.

"I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything."

"Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?"

"Very much."

"It'll show you how I've gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool."

"You see I think everything's terrible anyhow," she went on in a convinced way. "Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything." Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom's, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. "Sophisticated—God, I'm sophisticated!"

The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.

Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the "Saturday Evening Post"—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.

When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.

"To be continued," she said, tossing the magazine on the table, "in our very next issue."

Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.

"Ten o'clock," she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. "Time for this good girl to go to bed."

"Jordan's going to play in the tournament tomorrow," explained Daisy, "over at Westchester."

"Oh,—you're Jordan Baker."

I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.

"Good night," she said softly. "Wake me at eight, won't you."

"If you'll get up."

"I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon."

"Of course you will," confirmed Daisy. "In fact I think I'll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I'll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—"

"Good night," called Miss Baker from the stairs. "I haven't heard a word."

"She's a nice girl," said Tom after a moment. "They oughtn't to let her run around the country this way."

"Who oughtn't to?" inquired Daisy coldly.

"Her family."

"Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick's going to look after her, aren't you, Nick? She's going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her."

Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.

"Is she from New York?" I asked quickly.

"From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—"

"Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?" demanded Tom suddenly.

"Did I?" She looked at me. "I can't seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I'm sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—"

"Don't believe everything you hear, Nick," he advised me.

I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called "Wait!

"I forgot to ask you something, and it's important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West."

"That's right," corroborated Tom kindly. "We heard that you were engaged."

"It's libel. I'm too poor."

"But we heard it," insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. "We heard it from three people so it must be true."

Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn't even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come east. You can't stop going with an old friend on account of rumors and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage.

Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he "had some woman in New York" was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.

Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Italy I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud bright night with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight and turning my head to watch it I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Goncharov himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.

I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn't call to him for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and far as I was from him I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Goncharov he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

#goncharov (1973)#goncharov #unreality #tw unreality #it's in the public domain!#:)#with some edits made of course #f scott fitzgerald who?#;)#goncharov fanfic #katya goncharov #sofia goncharov

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wrenhyperfixates · 3 years

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The Raven Haired Rebel

Prologue

Pairing: Loki x reader Series Summary: After invading New York, it was decided that, as a punishment, Loki would work for SHIELD. Yeah, right. After escaping from their custody and stranded on Midgard, the God of Mischief decides to prove he’s the one thing no one ever thought he was: the good guy. Now a vigilante, Loki attempts to make amends for his past wrongdoings while also evading the Avengers, including their newest member. You. Brought in specially for the case, you notice more and more details about the prince’s story don’t add up. When you get the chance to turn him in, will you listen to your employers or your heart that believes Loki’s done nothing wrong? Chapter Summary: In which Loki decides to forge his own path. Chapter Warnings: none :) A/N: Welcome to the start of my new mini series! The idea came from the Send Me a Fic Title ask game. This was a title sent in by @lokistan! Hope you enjoy!

Permanent Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiant @lunarmoon8 @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @lowkeyorlokificrecs @gaitwae @whatafuckingdumbass @castiels-majestic-wings @kozkaboi @cozy-the-overlord @birdgirl90 @myraiswack @mythicalgarlicknot @what-a-flammable-heart @marvelouslovely @laurenandloki @fallinallinmendes @sophlubbwriting @mooncat163

RHR Tag List: @happygalaxymilkshake @electroma89 @stardust-walker @i-would-kneel-for-loki

Masterlist

Disclaimer: Gif not mine

Loki wondered what his cell on Asgard would look like, for surely he’d be transferred there any day now. For three days now, he’d been held in the belly of a SHIELD base in these ridiculous cuffs. Tony had, at least, sent down that drink Loki had asked for. Whether it was a taunt or a small bit of kindness, Loki honestly wasn’t sure. Either way, he’d downed it in one gulp; Midgardian alcohol never having a strong effect on him. Honestly, he probably should have been concerned if it was poisoned or not. Then again, after everything he’d been through, what did he care?

“Brother,” Loki greeted Thor as he walked into view. “How lovely of you to finally grace me with your presence. Though I take it this is not a leisure visit, hm?”

“You know full well it is not,” the God of Thunder replied with a stern tone.

“And here I was so hoping we could catch up.”

“If you want to talk, then talk, Loki. Explain yourself. What has transpired that you have attacked so many innocent people in this way?”

Loki wanted to laugh at that. Innocent? Who was Thor to talk of innocent with all the unrighteous battles he’d fought, all the blood spilled by his hands? The God of Mischief had done what? Attacked a military base? Made a few people kneel? Corralled a few groups into buildings? Which really was for the own safety so they wouldn’t be in the way of the battles on the streets. But no; conquest was apparently only just when Odin decided to do it. When Thor wanted to follow in his footsteps. But for Loki, there was a whole other set of rules. Of course, no one ever bothered to outline them for the trickster, just let him know he failed to obey them.

Besides, he hadn’t been in his right mind. Rather, he’d been under the mind stone’s influence, under Thanos’s control. He worked his jaw as he tried to figure out whether to say that or not. If he had any sense of self preservation, he probably would have. Yet after living his whole life being told he was weak, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Whether Asgardian culture, his family, or he himself were to blame for that, he wasn’t sure. Still, best just to stick with his wit.

“Pardon, brother,” Loki finally replied. “If it bothers you that much, I will stop following your example.”

“You dare insinuate I would do such a thing?” Thor rhetorically asked, appalled and shocked now that his honor was called into question. “Truly, brother, your mind is far more twisted than I had imagined. I see now I should not have advocated for you; you are too far gone. And yet, I already have, so your second chance you shall have.”

“How benevolent,” Loki rolled his eyes.

In reality, Loki was actually kind of touched Thor had spoken on his behalf. It was more than he expected from the blonde. Though, he had a feeling he hadn’t been spoken of in the most flattering light. Regardless, Thor opened his cell and, accompanied by a couple agents, led him to the upper floors of of the base.

The light blinded Loki for a minute as he saw sunlight for the first time since he’d been locked up. The glares passing agents gave him did significantly less to burn him, though. He was used to scorn. Of course, he did feel a wave of regret as he realized he’d probably killed some of their colleagues, their friends. Even if he didn’t have control of himself, he’d still done it. Why did he have to be so weak as to let Thanos gain control of his mind, he wondered? Such horrid deeds had never been in his nature before, though it seemed Thor was ready to believe he’d been evil all along.

The brothers were silent the whole way to Fury’s office, even as they waited for the director to come in. From his seat in front of the desk, Loki surveyed the office. Nice enough, he mused, but could use some more color. Maybe some drapes. Loki wondered if he should laugh that that’s what he was thinking. Though, in all honesty, it might be a chuckle of relief, knowing that his thoughts were finally his own again.

When the director did finally walk in, he and Loki just eyed each other for a moment, sizing the other up. Loki was fairly confident he could get out of this room, out of this base, if he really wanted to. But what was even the point? He wasn’t particularly interested in playing a game of cat and mouse, as SHIELD would try desperately to recover him. No, he’d rather take whatever punishment was about to be doled out. At least for now, anyway.

“Well, thank you for having me,” Loki quipped, being the first to break the silence. “I am afraid I have never been much good at small talk, though. How about that weather?”

“Funny,” Fury deadpanned. “Glad you didn’t lose your sense of humor when you killed my men.”

Loki’s smile faltered ever so slightly. It seemed like people were going to keep bringing that up despite that it had not even been his intention to kill anyone. Injure and temporarily dispose of, sure, but not kill. He supposed that having been on the verge of collapse himself, he wasn’t able to be as precise as he usually was.

“That little stunt you pulled should have you locked up for life,” Fury continued before Loki could respond. “However, we are prepared to offer you a deal. You are going to work for SHIELD to make up for your crimes.”

“Ah. I see. So gracious of you. And my other options are?”

“You come with me back to Asgard,” Thor chimed in, “and father can do whatever he wants with you.”

Well, that created three possible paths, really, Loki figured. Be sent to Asgard and locked up there was option one. Then the second was to be sent back and killed. Was it bad he kind of hoped for the latter? Oh, it definitely was. Yet, that’s how he felt. And then he could stay here, play along until the opportunity came to break free. Live his life as he wanted for once.

“Alright,” Loki agreed with a smile that he was sure would be seen as more untrustworthy than anything else. “When do I begin?”

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

A week of tedious lectures later, Loki was out in the field. He’d listened with rapt attention as he’d undergone his brief training. And somehow they deemed him trustworthy enough to send on a mission already. So, here he was in a Quinjet with his fellow agents. Maybe they didn’t entirely trust him. After all, Clint kept eyeing him with something akin to murder in his gaze.

Still, once they touched down, Loki followed the procedures he’d been taught. Thankfully, they hadn’t trusted him with any of the more important jobs, just securing the perimeter. That, of course, was a mistake on their part. As soon as it was time to break apart from the others, Loki created a double of himself. Meanwhile, he causally strutted over to a nearby motorcycle. Ok, he had to admit he didn’t really know how to ride one, but he’d make do.

Loki’s drive was surprisingly smooth as he escaped his would-be employers. The joke was on them for trying to tie him down, he thought. It was actually rather freeing to be racing along the open road, wind in his raven-black hair. Maybe he could find a nice little secluded home somewhere and live the rest of his days out in peace. And then he saw a burning building. Really, he should just keep going. You Midgardians had forces to deal with this. And yet, something made him pull over and rush inside, saving those he found trapped by the flames.

“I can never thank you enough,” a lady blubbered as she clung to her child, who Loki had just saved. “Please, what’s your name? How can I repay you?”

“You can call me, Loki,” he replied with a charming grin. “And really, no thanks necessary. It is just what I do.”

And as he rode off again, Loki decided he was going to make that last statement true. Look out, Midgard, he thought to himself. Looks like you have got yourself a new superhero.

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starshine583 · 3 years

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New Girl on the Block (16)

(Hey, guys! Here’s the next update of “New Girl on the Block”! I hope you all enjoy it, and as always, feel free to check out the mini series connected to this called Journal Entries. <3)

Ch. 1 / Ch. 15 / Ch. 17 (Ao3)

Chapter 16: Hear Me Out

Adrien rocked back and forth on his heels, quietly scrolling through his phone as he waited in front of the Dupain-Cheng bakery. After two weeks of strict scheduling and a light grounding sentence due to missing classes, he’d finally gotten a reprieve, and he didn’t hesitate to use that rare free time to seek out Marinette. Her bakery was usually opened in the early hours, so he figured that he would get to waltz right in and talk with her. However, that didn’t seem to be the case, because when he arrived, he wasn’t met with the vanilla scents and warm smiles that he’d come to love. Instead, a small piece of paper stopped him at the front door.

Temporarily closed. Will re-open at an undetermined time today.

It was a frustrating set-back, since he’d spent all this time trying to get there, but Adrien simply shrugged and leaned against one of the larger windows to wait. They were probably out running errands, which shouldn’t take long. Maybe half an hour to an hour tops? Either way, he wasn’t going to leave now. If he could sit in the same positions for hours on end for a photoshoot, he could stand on the street for a prolonged amount of time for a friend. Besides, the weather was surprisingly warm that morning, and he rather enjoyed the breath of fresh air that came with it.

..Of course, that mentality was much easier to keep up at the beginning. After waiting for a little over an hour, though, Adrien already felt his patience starting to slip. The subtle chill in the air that he hadn’t noticed before was seeping into his clothes, and his fingers were slowly growing numb as he distracted himself with apps on his phone. His thoughts were tipping on the irritated side, like how the Dupain-Chengs should have been home already. Errands don’t take this long. Where were they? Won’t they lose customers if they leave the bakery unattended like this?

Despite the growing annoyance, Adrien forced himself to stay put and relax. He’d come over unannounced, after all. He couldn’t blame them for making him wait if they didn’t know he was there. And, again, this was Marinette. She was his wonderful friend and completely worth waiting for. If it meant getting her to come back to school and hang out with him again, he could let himself freeze on the sidewalk. Even if it took hours or days or weeks for him to see her. Nothing on earth was going to-

Adrien’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t had breakfast yet, and on that note, neither had Gorilla. He’d been in such a hurry to leave that he hadn’t thought about food. (Well, that’s not entirely true. He’d sort of hoped that he could eat breakfast with Marinette once they talked things out.)

So much for that idea. He thought, leaning his head against the window. Maybe he should go ahead and get breakfast real quick. That way Gorilla could eat too, and it would get him out of the cold for a minute. What if the Dupain-Chengs came back while he was gone, though? He didn’t want to miss them..

Actually, why should he have to leave it all? He could just send Gorilla to get the food and bring it back here! Genius!

Adrien straightened with a smile and slipped his phone back into his pocket, but before he could take a step forward, something caught his eye.

A black car rolled up to the curb, parking right in front of the bakery. It almost looked like it was waiting for something, but no one got out of the car and no one came to get in, which was.. Strange. Why would a car park at the random spot in Paris? Were they lost? Or simply waiting for something? What would they be waiting for?

Just as Adrien was about to blow off the unusual sight, the front door of the bakery burst open, and someone came barreling outside shouting “Coming! I’m coming!”.

Adrien jumped- understandably so. Wasn’t the bakery supposed to be empty? -and whirled around to see the very person he’d been waiting for sprinting towards the car. His arms moved before his mind could fully comprehend the situation, but as he grabbed her arm, more than a few questions were spinning in his head. For example, why was she at the bakery? Had she been there the whole time? Who was waiting for her inside the car?

“Marinette! I’ve been waiting for you.” He said, flashing a smile despite his confusion. They were talking now. That was all that mattered.

Marinette stiffened, her gaze snapping to his. The look of pure terror that crossed her features didn’t sit well with Adrien, but he tried to push that discomfort aside. She was probably just surprised that someone had grabbed. They were friends, after all. She wouldn’t be horrified seeing her friend!

“Y-You.. How long have you been waiting here?” She stuttered out, panic clear in her tone.

“Ah..” Adrien let his hand drop from her arm and rubbed the back of his neck. Should he tell her that he's been waiting for almost two hours? That’s not weird, right?

“That’s not important.” He decided to reply. “Do you have a minute? I haven’t seen you in forever!”

Marinette threw a glance over her shoulder at the car. “Y-you know, I really don’t actually. I have to go meet someone, and-”

So she was meeting someone? That meant this car was sent to get her. Was she meeting one of the Rosemary students? It was probably that blond-haired guy again..

“It’ll only take two seconds!” He promised, moving to block her door. He couldn’t let her run away again when he was so close.

“Adrien, please, I really need to go-”

“Come on! I just need-”

“They’re all waiting as we speak-”

“I just need to apologize!”

Marinette froze, her fighting spirit seeming to stall at the remark, and Adrien paused too. He wanted his words to sink in before he continued. Hopefully, that would get her to listen to him.

She met his eyes again, definitely hesitant but not indignant. He took that as a good sign, a step in the right direction.

“You.. wanted to apologize?”

Adrien gave an eager nod. “Yes! I’ve been trying to for the past month, but our schedules never lined up, and any time I would finally get out, you weren’t at home, and.. Well.. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you to take the high ground like that or ignore the fact that Lila was hurting you. That’s not what friends do. I should have been there for you when you needed me. I’m so sorry that I was blind to everything.”

Marinette stared at him, dumbfounded, and he held his breath. She was going to forgive him, right? She’s not the type to leave someone hanging, though he probably couldn’t blame her if she did..

She cast her gaze to the ground. “I.. I appreciate the apology, but I really do need to get going. They’ll start to worry if I’m late.”

Adrien faltered. That.. wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for. It wasn’t bad or anything, just.. When he pictured this moment, it always came with a hug or an “Of course I’ll forgive you!”, but Marinette, however, only seemed to be interested in meeting her friend. (Friends if you consider how often she said “they”.)

“Can we get together later then?” He asked, throwing those thoughts aside. Reality was never like fantasy anyway. “There’s still so much I want to talk with you about.”

Again, Marinette hesitated. “..Can I think about it?”

Adrien offered a smile, though he was admittedly disappointed. Had their friendship truly stooped so low that she had to think about spending time with him?

Nevertheless, he would take what he could get. Therefore, he gave a nod with the smile and said, “That’s all I ask.”

The tension in Marinette’s shoulders loosened, but only slightly, and she thanked him as she slipped into the black car that was still waiting. Adrien waved her off, and although he didn’t get to talk with her nearly as much as he’d wanted to, he still found himself more optimistic than anything. She said that she would think about getting together again, and if Marinette was the person he knew she was, he would be getting a text soon about a time and place. They would talk, and he would convince her to come back to Dupont, and everything would be fine.

All he had to do now was wait.

~~~~~~

Normally, folding slips of paper and stapling them together to create a heart would be a simple task for someone as crafty as Marinette. Today, though, her thoughts were elsewhere, and that seemed to seep into her productivity rate. She’d been working on the same stream of hearts for a good hour or so and still hadn’t finished it, despite only taking twenty minutes maximum for each stream when she made them last time.

Her slow pace was aggravating to say the least, but not nearly as aggravating as the thoughts that kept invading her mind in the first place. All she could think about was Adrien Agreste and the way he showed up on her doorstep that morning, spewing apologies and begging for more time to hang out with her. After two weeks of silence from the blonde, she had hoped that he was giving up on talking with her. Apparently, that wasn’t the case.

Don’t get her wrong, she was happy that he apologized. Or, at least, she knew she was supposed to be happy. This was something that she’d been waiting for for the past five months, after all. It’s just that.. Why now? Why now did he decide to come apologize to her? Why not come before she left the school? Why not come before she officially moved on from her old life and started over?

Then again, it never would be before, would it? People don’t appreciate you until you’re gone. That’s just how it was, and it’s what made her leaving Dupont hard in the first place. All of her childhood friends had been there, and she knew- or possibly hoped at the time -that some of them would try to stop her. Granted, only one has tried so far, but one was enough to send Marinette into a flurry of anxious thoughts.

In all honesty, she wanted to tell Adrien no, to say that she wouldn’t be joining him for another hangout. He was simply too much of a risk. What if he told the others about their meet-up? What if they followed him and found her again to do who knows what? What if Lila found her again to do who knows what? Then, there were her new, lovely friends right in front of her. What if they got caught up in drama that Adrien might bring along? She didn’t want them being a part of that. In fact, she didn’t want them talking to Adrien or her other old classmates at all. (Thank goodness no one had come with Allegra’s driver to pick her up earlier, else she would have had a lot of things to explain that she didn’t want to.) Transferring schools was meant to keep Marinette away from her past, not create a new environment to infect it with.

As reluctant as she was to meet up with Adrien, though, she also felt guilty for thinking that way. He’d come and apologized to her for the things he’d done and appeared to be extremely sincere while doing so. It didn’t sit right with her to reject him without giving him a chance to make up for his mistakes. Maybe she should have a little lunch with him?

Ugh, but the very idea made her sick to her stomach-

“-inette~? Marinette!”

Marinette jumped, her gaze snapping upwards to see Allegra, Claude, and Allan all looking at her.

“O-Oh!” A blush swept across her cheeks, and she pushed her decorations into her lap. How long had they been calling her name? “I’m sorry, did you need something?”

“No, not really.” Allegra smiled. “You’ve just been really spaced out today. What’s on your mind?”

Marinette smiled back, though a twinge of panic laced through her mind. Was her discomfort that obvious? She was hoping no one would notice..

“I bet she’s just thinking about who she’ll take to the party.” Claude thankfully joked before she could respond. “Who’s it gonna be, Mari? Someone from our school? Or is it that Luka guy you mentioned last week?”

Marinette’s eyes widened. “Oh, I- no. I hadn’t thought about who to bring.. Were we supposed to bring dates?”

Gosh, she hoped not. Luka was a wonderful person- as were the other boys at Rosemary.. probably -but she honestly didn’t feel like trying to find a date for the Valentine’s party or anything else, especially when her old crush had just come out of the woodworks to find her. Marinette didn’t harbor anymore feelings for him by any means, but that didn’t stop his presence from sucker punching her in the stomach with the memories of her heart ache. She’d prefer not to go through that again, at least not anytime soon.

“Not if you don’t want to.” Allegra assured. “We normally all go as a group anyway.”

“But most people probably will.” Claude said, before putting a hand to his chest with a smirk. “I’d offer to take you, but Allegra and I are already going together.”

“As friends.” Allegra hastily added.

Marinette chuckled. “I’ll try not to be too disappointed.”

The group shared a laugh towards her sarcasm, and Claude dramatically ran a hand through his hair.

“I know, I know, it’s such a heartache not being able to go with me.” He sighed. “Don’t worry, though. I’m sure there are plenty of guys who will be falling all over you at the party. Right, Fe?”

Felix, who’d been quietly working on his assigned decorations, glanced up at the group with a raised eyebrow. Marinette held back a laugh- that was such a Felix reaction -but Claude raised his eyebrows at the blond, as if pressing him for a response. Was that supposed to be a serious question?

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Don’t you think the boys will be falling all over her?”

Felix’s gaze shifted to Marinette, and she felt a bit of heat rush to her cheeks. He was actually thinking of an answer, wasn’t he?

“F-Felix, you don’t have to answer that-” She started to say, even though a part of her strangely wanted to know his answer.

Felix, however, spoke before she could finish.

“Yes, I’m sure they would,” He said, casually looking back down at his work, “especially if she wears that dress she mentioned the other day. Those boys will drop to their knees for anything remotely pretty.”

Marinette blinked, her heart effectively lodging itself in her throat. Did he just..?

“Did you just call her pretty?” Claude asked with a bewildered grin, taking the words right out of her mouth.

Felix’s gaze flicked towards the brunette, a look of mild irritation crossing his features from being bothered again. “Is she not?”

A blush exploded across Marinette’s features then, and she bit her lip to avoid squeaking. She never assumed that the group saw her as ugly, but to hear Felix outright call her pretty was.. Well, it was rather flattering if she were being honest, especially since Felix was quite a dashing person himself. And being the blunt, straight-forward type that he is, she knew he wasn’t lying or sugar-coating anything to spare her feelings.

“No, no, she is.” Allegra smiled, a strange glint coming to her eyes. “We just didn’t expect you to say it out loud.”

A slight scowl tugged at Felix’s lips. “You asked. I answered. Would you prefer I just ignore you?”

Claude snorted. “No, but since you think she’s so pretty, why don’t you take her to the Valentine’s party?”

Felix shot him a flat look. “We’re already going together as a group.”

“I know. I meant why don’t you take her as a date to the party?”

Had Marinette not been sitting down, she probably would have tripped over herself at the suggestion. Her and Felix? Going on a date? Surely not. Aside from not being interested in dating herself, Marinette was certain that Felix wasn’t interested in her. Not in the romantic sense, anyway. He needed a calm and collected partner, someone that would help his life be as quiet and peaceful as he liked, someone that wasn’t her.

Felix furrowed his eyebrows, further proving her point about not being interested. “Wha-”

“Not like a date date.” Claude said, rolling his eyes as though they were the ones jumping to crazy conclusions. “A date as friends, like Allegra and I are doing.”

Marinette frowned. A date as friends? “So, like, a fake date?”

Claude smiled at her. “Yeah! It’s a lot of fun.”

Marinette hummed as she stapled another heart together. A fake date with Felix didn’t sound nearly as strange, but how would that even go? Would they go through all of the motions of a real date or would they just arrive together and say they were each other’s plus one? Would he be bringing her flowers and picking her up for the party? Would he even do that on a real date?

“But what’s the point?” Felix asked, thankfully dragging her back to the conversation. How he would date someone probably wasn’t something she should dwell on anyway.

“Well,” Claude shrugged, “I guess there isn’t much of one, but you get to have a dance partner and do all that stuff without any pressure. It’s really like an honorary hangout?”

“I don’t see why that would be necessary. We can do that during a normal get together, and a fake date would only give people the wrong idea.”

“Alright, fine, it was just a suggestio-”

“Ow!” Marinette unintentionally hissed, yanking her hand away from her decoration and sticking her finger in her mouth. Dang paper cuts. You’d think she would learn how to avoid them by now.

The group straightened at her outburst.

“Are you okay?”

“What happened?”

“What’d you do?”

“Ah.” Marinette pulled her finger out of her mouth, watching the blood reform. How did she manage to cut it so deeply? “I’m fine. I just got a paper cut.”

“Oh,” Claude grimaced, “paper cuts. Those are the worst.”

“Do you need a band aid?” Felix inquired. “Or disinfectant?”

“That looks pretty bad.” Allan said, scrunching up his nose in a wince.

Marinette nodded. “Yeah.. disinfectant would probably be nice.”

Felix set his decorations aside and stood to go fetch her the supplies, and Allegra began pushing her decorations aside as well.

“Do you remember where the first aid kit is?” She asked, about to stand herself.

“Yes, I remember.” Felix answered, waving for her to stay seated. “Marinette, come with me.”

Marinette moved to follow him as she was told, and he led her to a bathroom that was across from the family room. There, he had her sit on the toilet while he opened the mirror cabinet hanging over the sink.

“How bad is it?” He asked, pulling the first aid kit out and setting it on the counter.

“I mean, I’ve done worse, but.. it’s definitely not pleasant.”

Felix sighed as he popped the kit open. “Yes, you always seem to be getting hurt somehow, don’t you? Let me see the cut.”

Marinette held out her hand, and Felix gently took it to examine her finger. Then, he shook his head and reached for the disinfectant.

“How did you even manage this?” He asked, his voice a bit lighter than she expected. Was he laughing at her?

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have done it.” She replied.

Felix hummed and dabbed the disinfectant on her cut, briefly apologizing when she winced.

“You know, I don’t understand how you can create an entire line of clothes without a problem yet struggle with making a single stream of hearts.” He commented, letting a small smile ghost across his lips.

“Hey!” Marinette gasped. He was laughing at her! “I’ll have you know those hearts look great.”

“You’re right.” He said, shooting her a smirk now. “Forgive me for assuming. You’ve probably pricked yourself with a needle a million times while perfecting your designs too. Who says pain can’t be a part of the process?”

Marinette pressed her lips into a thin line, if only to avoid smiling, and narrowed her eyes at him. Since when did he become so smug?

“Alright, smart guy, are you telling me you’ve never gotten a paper cut from all those books you read?”

“Maybe when I was five.”

A playful scoff escaped her lips, and Marinette rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I’m going to remember this the next time you get a paper cut.”

“If I get a paper cut.”

“When.”

Felix smiled, like he knew he was right, like she knew he was right, because even though he might have gotten a paper cut or two before when he wasn’t paying attention, they both knew he wouldn’t be getting one now, not when he wanted to prove a point.

Still, Marinette allowed a smile to spread across her lips when Felix turned to grab the bandages. Although she disliked being proven wrong, she loved that he was teasing her about it. He’d shown himself to be witty and humorous before, but ever since the sleepover, he seemed to have started joking around with her more often. It was usually quiet, during times when the group was distracted and he could murmur in her direction or times when they were alone like right now, but she found it exciting nonetheless. Marinette had assumed that talking together like they had done that night at the sleepover would be a one time thing, since everyone opens up a little at night, so seeing him continue to speak with her in such a relaxed manner made her want to squeal with joy.

Needless to say, she liked the new shift in their friendship. She liked it a lot.

“So, what’s been occupying your mind today? If you don’t mind me asking.” Felix said, bringing her from her thoughts.

“Hm?”

He let go of her hand to unwrap the bandage that he’d grabbed. “Allegra mentioned you weren’t all that present, and I noticed it as well. Have you started on another clothing design?”

“Oh..” Marinette glanced away to hide her disappointed. She’d almost forgotten about Adrien for a minute there. She wished she could forget about him again. “Not quite.”

Felix’s gaze flicked across her features, no doubt seeing everything she was trying to conceal. He was able to read her expressions like another one of his books from day one. Sometimes she felt like he knew her better than she knew herself, but that could also be due to the fact that she had a bad habit of wearing her heart on her sleeve.

“Did something happen?” He asked, just like she knew he would. Felix never hesitated to lend a patient ear or a helping hand towards her troubles, which only made it harder for her to hold her tongue about talking with Adrien.

“Sort of, but..” Marinette chewed on her bottom lip. “I’d kind of prefer not to talk about it.. If that’s okay?”

“Of course.” Felix’s reply was immediate and soft, and it filled her with a wonderful sense of relief. She should have known he wouldn’t get offended by her request for privacy. “Just know that I’m here if you ever want to talk. Allegra, Claude, and Allan will be happy to help as well.”

Marinette felt another smile tug at her lips. “Thank you.”

“Hey, are you guys done yet?” Claude called from the other room, cutting into their conversation. “These decorations aren’t going to make themselves!”

Felix’s eyes flicked upwards in a brief eyeroll, and he stood up to put the first aid kit away. “Yes, yes, we’re coming now.”

Marinette chuckled and stood up too. She hadn’t realized that he’d finished wrapping up her finger already.

“Thanks for getting me a bandaid.”

Felix closed the cabinet door with a nod. “I should probably get you a pair of rubber gloves too. We have a lot of heart streamers to make, and I don’t believe Allegra has enough bandaids for you.”

Marinette huffed and gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. “I take back that thanks. You get no appreciation from me.”

Felix chuckled. “How ungrateful. I’m only trying to be hospitable.”

“I’m sure.”

Her troubles with Adrien were far from resolved, but she found the decorations much easier to complete after that.

A sigh flitted from Marinette’s lips as she plopped onto her chaise later that evening. She’d spent the entire day stapling those hearts together, and now her hands ached because of it. The sting of her paper cut lingered on her finger as well, but she soothed the pain with the memory of getting to rub the fact that she only got one paper cut throughout the day in Felix’s face. He’d given her a look of feigned admiration, which probably should have irked her more than it did, and told her, “Congratulations on your achievement.” (That definitely irked her, though a smile betrayed her lips in the moment.)

“Are you okay, Marinette?” Tikki, her wonderful kwami, asked as she floated above her head.

Marinette smiled. “Fine, Tikki. Just tired.”

And she’ll have to do it all again tomorrow. Well, she won’t have to remake the decorations, but she’ll have to string them up at the Mandarin Oriental. They need to have everything ready by Thursday.

Tikki nodded understandingly. “You guys worked on those decorations for a long time, but they turned out beautifully.”

“Thanks. I can’t wait to see what they look like when we hang them up. What about you? Did you have fun at Allegra’s?”

Tikki flew a bit higher into the air out of habit, her grin brightening as she replied, “Absolutely! Her house reminds me of the castles I used to visit, so wide and open!”

Marinette chuckled. Since the mansion is a big place with a small number of people, Tikki can fly around the premises as much as she wants without worrying about getting caught. It gives her time to get out of the purse for once, and although Marinette was concerned about the idea at first, she was glad to see it working out. Tikki deserved a break from constantly being cooped up in small places.

“Have you explored the entire mansion yet?”

“Almost! I have about two or three rooms I still need to look through, but I keep getting stuck in the music room. The instruments are so much fun to play!”

Marinette giggled. “Just make sure no one hears you.”

“Of course.” Tikki replied dutifully. Then her tone softened as she asked, “So.. what are you going to do about Adrien?”

Marinette groaned at the reminder and twisted on the chaise to bury her face in one of her throw pillows. Now that was the question of day, wasn’t it? What was she going to do about Adrien? She still hadn’t texted him, though she knew she was going to. It was in her nature. He’d apologized and begged for forgiveness, and the sweet side of her would never let that action go unrewarded.

“What do you think I should do, Tikki?” She asked anyway, holding a vain hope that the kwami’s advice would dissuade her decision.

Tikki gave a thoughtful hum. “I don’t think I can answer that for you, Marinette. Everyone deserves a second chance, but you also deserve to be happy. If you think Adrien’s going to ruin that happiness, then you have every right to not meet up with him.”

A heavy sigh tumbled from Marinette’s lips. That was the very thing she struggled with. Everyone deserves a second chance, and she didn’t know what Adrien was going to do. She doubted he was planning on ruining her life, but no one ever does. (Er- most people never do.) So what course of action should she take? Should she tell him no because of the extremely likely chance that he’ll drag drama into her life once again? Or should she give him a well-deserved second chance for the sake of keeping at least one of her old friends and sedating her screaming conscience?

“Maybe..” Marinette paused to chew on her bottom lip. “Maybe I can invite him to lunch? Just one? To see how it goes?”

That would give her a middle ground for the time being, a way to test the waters and satisfy her urge to bring out the best in others. She could meet up with Adrien like he asked, then use the small amount of time to let him talk and let her assess the situation.

“That sounds like a great start.” Tikki said encouragingly.

A frown tugged at Marinette’s lips despite it, and she turned to look at her phone.

I’ve made the decision. Now all I have to do is text him..

A beat of silence passed in the room. Then, Marinette pushed herself off of the chaise and walked over to her mannequin, where her dress for the party was placed. She plucked a needle from her cushion and reached for a piece of string to tie through it.

“Marinette?” Tikki called, curious and concerned.

“I’m fine.” She assured, more to herself than Tikki. “I just want to finish the final touches on this dress.”

Marinette would text him. She would.

Just.. tomorrow.

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#Felix Culpa #Marinette #Rosemary AU #New Girl on the Block #Quantic Kids #Miraculous Ladybug #felinette

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achaoticeternal · 3 years

Text

willow // r. weasley

RON WEASLEY X READER folklore/evermore series masterlist

Summary: Ron, Harry, and Hermione have always been your closest friends. But as we grow up and people change, how do our feelings change? Word Count: 3.1k Warnings: time jumps and weird flows but it makes sense so that the story can build. harassment. gushy love stuff (gross) A/N: based on the song willow by taylor swift

As the years passed at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, students would flourish into adolecense making them young fools for years to come. But as you often quoted to your dear friend Hermione, “We are all fools in love” - Jane Austen.

“Well if we are simply all fools in love, then tell me where is your knight in shining armor?” The young witch teased you as you sat in the courtyard, reading and simply enjoying each other’s company.

“Oh, please, Hermione. You know me better then to be some dimwitted girl who chases around a boy who is oblivious to her affections. In fact, I feel bad for the girls who do, because if they were a little more patient, they would see that good things come in due time.”

“Really? And which prized author said that?”

“I did!” The pair of you snickered as your attentions drifted around to see if you could spot the topic of your conversation.

The two of you seemed to be the only fourth year girls who hadn’t taken fascination with boys in your year or older. Every day in the Gryffindor Common Room, many girls gossiped about the latest drama that had developed and which boys they swear fancied them. And though you enjoyed chatting with your female peers, you and Hermione had felt quite left out of the crushes and strange romances beginning to blossom.

Well, you both were left out until Viktor Krum swept Hermione off her feet, and you couldn’t exactly be mad at her for it. In fact, when she confided in you about her fling with the foreign man, you were completely ecstatic as you both giggled at how the other girls at Hogwarts would react. Jealousy took quite a toll on many girl, and apparently a few men.

And even furthermore to Ron’s surprise, both of you had gotten dates to the Yule Ball before Harry or himself could ask you. Roger Malone, a kind Ravenclaw who you had Divination with, had asked you and you did have a wonderful evening. Even if Ron persistently made snide remarks about him before, during, and after the ball had concluded.

However, your fourth year and seemingly most dangerous year at Hogwarts, was quickly coming to a close with the students of Beauxbaton and Durmstrang leaving just a few days ago. The Summer Holiday was coming up quicker than you expected and soon your small group of friends would all be returning to your homes.

“Everything is going to change now, isn’t it?” Hermione asked our group of four after our international peers has departed.

“Yes, but we have each other.”

Once you had stepped of the Hogwarts Express, your parents whisked you away to the family summer cottage so that you could forget the grief of the past year. From watching the trials of the tournament, to puberty, and to loosing a classmate; life was quickly moving forward and your parents began to fear the return of The Dark Lord.

Yet instead of being caught up with family time and walks along the beach, your mind counted down the days until you would be spending time with the Weasley family again before classes started. You always felt welcomed by the family of gingers and were thrilled that you were invited back after attending the Quidditch World Cup with them last summer.

For the last month, you had been owling your friends weekly, yet you seemed to be sending and receiving owls from Ron every other day. He had never been much of a writer, but claimed in his letters that he was extremely bored with the twins now being of age and not seeing his friends yet that summer.

When it became closer to time, Ron wrote to you saying that the Weasley’s had temporarily moved to a town home in the city, but that you were still welcome to join. He then wrote that his mother had owled your parents about the change and your arrangements to join the Weasley’s before school began.

And before you knew it, you were heading the Grimauld Place.

“(Y/N), darling, its time for us to go!” Your father called down from the bottom of the stairs.

You stomped down the stairs in your new summer clothes, rushing next to your parents at the fireplace. Your clothes and bags had already been sent off and now you’re parents would be sending you off as well.

“Change of plans, dear. We will be join you and the Weasley’s until dinner.”

“Alright, is everything okay?”

“Oh yes, everything is fine. We just have to attend a brief meeting and then we’ll be out of your hair.”

You and your parents arrived in the Kitchen of the hidden apartment without a hitch. Both Weasley parents along with their son, Bill, stood closest to you. From where you stood, you could also see Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Professor Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and to your surprise, Professor Snape.

“My heavens, its good to see you, (Y/N). Ron is upstairs, along with Hermione and Harry who only arrived in the past hour.” As soon as you had arrived, Mrs. Weasley had ushered you out of the room and shut the door quickly.

You looked around the dark hallway in order to try and get some idea of the flat you would be staying in for the next couple of weeks. Your gaze moved to the stairs and you began to stalk over to them and slowly make your way up, observing the wall paper and where it started to peel away from the wall. You had made it up the the landing, looking over strange vases and jars.

Their was a faint whisper that you nearly missed, “Bloody hell.” Suddenly there were foot steps rapidly approaching you, yet your feet remained in place, your body unmoving, “(Y/N)!,” you body turned quickly towards the voice. Ron and you were chest to chest, nearly clashing into each, the red head beaming down at you as he pulled you into the hug.

Ron had grown quite a few inches over the summer, now making him comfortably taller than you. His once long hair and been trimmed up and framed his face nicely, but still kept a boyish length that matched his personality. His embrace was warm as he pulled you tight to his chest, making your cheeks flush a dusty pink. You took the opportunity to breathe in his scent; cinnamon, flannel, and a crackling fire met your nose. Ron hadn’t completely changed, but he was certainly grown from the boy you had last seen near two months ago. It was new, like the warmth now in your chest.

“Oh-ho, look what we’ve walked into, Fred,” George called out from the end of the hallway.

“The two love birds are reuniting, George, we must not dare interrupt them,” Fred teased, the pair of them now approaching.

Ron had released his grip on you and glared at his brothers, his features showing his irritation, “Will you two bug off?” His freckled cheeks burned a deep crimson, leaving you questioning if it was out of embarrassment or that you two were caught in such close proximity.

“Don’t be such a git, Fred, now that Angelina has broken up with you, again,” Ginny teased the twin as she approached you, pulling you into a tight hug.

“Harry and Hermione are in the other room,” Ron said and whisked you off after departing for Ginny. His fingers intertwined with yours as he he tugged you down the hallway with dull walls.

After reuniting with your friends and the meeting in the kitchen being adjourned, it was time for the group to either join for dinner, or depart. Your parents decided to depart shortly after the meeting and bidding you a sweet goodbye along with a few other members. However there was still quite a crowd that Molly had left to feed.

Once dinner had concluded after much laughter and discussing the past summer and what this upcoming school year held, people began trickling away from the dinner table. This left just the Weasley family, Harry Sirius, Hermione, and yourself.

“Well, Ron, it is your turn for dish duty tonight,” Molly told her youngest son while levitating all the dishes towards the sink.

“I can help you if you’d like,” You looked to Ron who was sitting in front of him.

“(Y/N), dear, you don’t have to do that. You are a guest here. Ron will be able to handle it.”

“Well, she is welcome to join me by staying in the kitchen or help,” He smiled warmly at you and a new found warmth spread through your chest. Never had such a feeling come to fruition in you.

The rest of the group departed from the kitchen with only yourself and Ron remaining. Wordlessly, the two of you approached the sink. Ron began to wash the dishes, while you jumped up on to the counter next to him. As he cleaned them, you would dry them. It was a nice and soft moment, the pair of you making light conversation.

“It’s just all crazy to me, how much we’ve grown recently. I mean, this summer has felt like years when it’s really been only two months since I saw you last,” Ron handed you a plate as he complained.

“Well why are you complaining? You practically grown three summers worth in one,” you giggled and he lightly splashed the tap water on you.

“Do I at least still have my boyish charm?” He stuck his tongue out at you as you squealed and upon settling, sent you a wink. You scrunched your nose in response, as you attempted to distract him away from the warmth that spread across your face, “I’m teasing, I’m teasing.”

All the dishes were soon washed, dried, and placed in there respective cabinets all without the use of magic, “You know it’s nice to have you around again,” Ron spoke, placing the final cup into the cupboard. He then strolled his way over to the counter where you sat, leaning his hip against it as he faced you.

“I love my family, but they don’t give me the same sense of home that you do...” By that time, Ron had managed to snake his way between your legs and then counter. His face was mere inches from yours and you create various constellations with the freckles on his face. The pair of you stayed their in each other’s warm presence, not wanting to leave the situation, yet wondering whether to take it further.

The tension began to feel overwhelming as you began to get lost in whatever feeling was happening between the pair of you. So you tried to rationalize the situation like you always did and pulled him into a close hug. Your arms held tightly around his shoulders as you felt the same temptation to wrap your legs around his waist. He latched his arms around your waist with the same fever, “Would it be completely crazy that you feel like home to me?”

Soon the summer holiday melted away into another year at Hogwarts, except this year presented itself in stranger circumstances. At the end of term, you were to take your O.W.L.S and prepare for a career in the wizarding world. However, there was yet another new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor who was interesting to say the least. Hermione has whispered to you at dinner the first night that the Minister himself placed Dolores Umbridge at Hogwarts to spy on Dumbledore.

And to make things stranger, Dumbledore was barely around the castle like in years before and Harry kept having strange dreams about He Who Shall Not Be Named. Umbridge also refused to teach her students magic through practice and so your quartet had taken it into your own hands to begin Dumbledore’s army. All through the fall term and now into the spring, your ragtag group had successfully practiced and avoided the toad discovering your whereabouts; moreover, your relationship with Ron had started to change since summer and it made you nervous.

When you confided in Hermione after the events at Grimauld Place and her taking notice to both Ron’s and your body language, she tried her best to put it into words for you. “You have a crush on Ron, (Y/N)! And apparently he fancies you, as well.”

“But ‘Mione, I don’t know what to do. I’ve never really had a crush like this before. And I don’t want him to become a distraction with the O.W.L.S at the end of the year,” You tried to reason out things, and make everything seem more logical like you did with every other problem that had faced you before.

“This is one thing that can’t be control with logic and reason. That’s not how emotions are supposed to be felt,” she giggled as she squeezed your hand in hers.

“I-I know, but I feel like a...a little pixie. constantly hanging around him and in the way of everything and-”

“(Y/N), I think that Ron prefers to have you around,” The bells chimed outside the castle, “I’ll see you at practice after class.”

“See you,” And with that, Hermione left for her final class of the day and you went about roaming the castle on your free period.

You strolled around, admiring the ancient castle for all her walls had to offer where you now found yourself in the westwing. You were one of few students your year to be allowed to take a free period because of your academic standing and use that time for study or leisure.

When you neared the hall where the Room of Requirement was, you placed yourself in a window sill to simply enjoy yourself. You pulled out one of the Herbology books you picked at the library and began reading as you relaxed. Yet the moment was short lived as you heard a voice call your last name.

“(Y/L/N), (Y/L/N)!” Draco Malfoy was strutting down the corridor towards where you were seated.

You jumped down from your ledge, giving him a curious look, “Is there something I can help you with Draco?”

“Why aren’t you in class, (Y/L/N)? You could loose points for Gryffindor for not being where you should be,” He snarled at you.

“It just so happens I have a free period to do what I please with myself, so if you will pardon me-” You snatched your bag, but before you could turn to leave Draco snatched your wrist into his hand.

“You’re a terrible liar,” He sneered, his face inching closer to yours.

“Malfoy,” Ron appeared behind you, his presence jarring Draco into letting you go. You backed yourself into Ron’s chest, allowing him to be your protector from the Slytherin boy. He ghosted his hand over your hips as if he were trying to pulling you further from Draco, “What seems to be the problem?”

“(Y/N) here seems to be skipping class, which is such a shame since she’s supposed to be such a bright little witch. I figure a detention with Umbridge should straighten her back up.”

“Excuse me,” you quipped to defend yourself and Draco glared daggers at you.

“See happens to have a free period mate, so just bugger off, mate,” Ron stepped in front of you to guard you from the predator that was in the form of Draco Malfoy, “Why don’t you go perform your prefect duties where there are actually students skipping classes or causing trouble?”

Draco’s eyes flickered between the pair of you, and you couldn’t tell which of you he disdained more in this moment, “Whatever, Weasley. I knew you were ever a filthy Pureblood, but I didn’t expect it from you, (Y/N). Both of you and your families are disgraces of Pureblood Wizards.” With his final blow, Malfoy stomped off in the opposite way to find his next prey.

Immediately, you let out the breathe you didn’t even realize you were holding, “Are you alright, (Y/N)?”

Ron now faced you, holding your arms with his large hands, as his eyes scanned for any outward physical or emotional distress Draco could have caused you. You knew that Ron wouldn’t hold himself back from throwing the first punch if he suspected Draco has hurt you.

“I’m quite alright, Ron. I’m just glad you found me when you did, before Draco could take me to her office,” you shuddered at the thought of Umbridge and what she had done to your peers.

His hand flew to your face as he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His blue eyes gazed deeply into yours, searching for some sort of answering that hid behind his eyes. “Ron-?”

Before you could continue speaking, Ron pressed his lips to yours and you responded just as quick. A strong feeling in your gut assured you that this is where you were supposed to be, in Ron’s arm, his lips connected with yours. Every emotion that every girl had talked about when being around a boy suddenly made sense, and felt more intense with Ron. After what felt like a lifetime, the pair of you pulled apart from each other.

He offered you a half-smile as he appeared too love struck to form a coherent sentence, “I-I”, you pressed another kiss to his lips as if to bring him back into reality. After all this time, everything seemed right and perfect in this little moment in time.

It didn’t matter that Umbridge kept sending out her wolves to discover your little army, or if it was only due time till Voldemort made an appearance. Ron was at your side and you were by his through anything that could possibly happen in this lifetime or any other.

Once you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours and giggled, “Is now a bad time to say that I quite fancy you?”

“You’re unbearable, Weasley,” You scrunched your nose and turned, beginning your walk to practice. When you didn’t hear him behind you, you turned to see his standing there with his mouth hanging open. You sighed and offered your hand out, “well, are you coming?”

The red head grinned as he took your hand, taking large strides as he giggled, absolutely over the moon that he had just kissed you and was now holding your hand. The pair of you, hand in hand, made your way to join your friends in the Room of Requirement, preparing for whatever came ahead of you.

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harryhandstan · 3 years

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I am so excited to finally be posting this for y’all! Thank you so much for all the hype and support it is very much appreciated. :) this is my piece for @goldenbluesuit‘s Christmas Fic Challenge! my prompt was the song “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?” from the movie Frozen and I hope you all enjoy how I’ve incorporated it into my Dad!Harry series. You don’t necessarily have to read the other parts to understand this one, but I’ll link them below in case you want to re-visit them.

I Want Your Belly ❄ Wonderful and Warm ❄ Washed Away in You

Thank you to @tbslenthusiast and @heartbreakweatherharry for reading over this for me and giving me such amazing feedback!

Word count: 2.3k

You still couldn’t believe the little wonder that had been created by you and Harry existed to be yours. Things hadn’t been perfect, far from it, but it was definitely a new and fun adventure you were both eager and terrified of.

The first challenge presented was finding a name perfect enough to fit your son. He was alive for 24 hours before you discovered one you and Harry were absolutely sure of. Even seeing it written on his birth certificate made your heart swell with pride.

It’s your mother who asks first, “Well, are you two gonna make a formal announcement to the press before us grandparents get to know the name of our grandson?”

“Think we’ve made them wait long enough, Harry.”

He smiles at you from across the hospital room where he sits in a chair, the baby resting peacefully on his chest. You’re propped up in the bed, wrapped in the soft pink robe given to you by him just a few days ago. Anne sits nearby, a proud grin on her face at the sight of her baby with his.

His eyes dart from the baby to you, “You wanna tell them or shall I?”

“You tell them. You’re the one that found it, been bragging about it all day too.”

“Alright then,” He gently lifts the baby, turning him to where the whole room can see him, your son’s face now scrunched up by the light from the window shining on him, “Ladies, meet your grandson, Sterling Edward Styles.”

“Oh, you didn’t,” Anne giggles, reaching over to pat your leg, “You’ll never hear the end of it, love, letting him name the baby after himself.”

“Hey! S’her idea to give him my middle name. I picked the first,” His features switch from temporarily offended back to beaming, “Wanna tell ‘em what it means, darlin’?”

“Sterling means ‘starling’, or as Harry likes to call him..”

“Our little star.”

5 weeks later, your son certainly lives up to his name, charming everyone he meets. Sweet smiles and coos at strangers from his carrier when you’re at the grocery store or falling asleep in Auntie Gemma’s arms when she comes to visit. You were not surprised he already had his father’s charismatic ability to make everyone fall for him so quickly.

With Harry’s schedule as busy as it had been, it hadn’t been easy to adjust to life together as new parents. As much as he had tried to push things back or reschedule to have more time off with you, there was only so much that he was in control of and he was away from you and Sterling more than he liked.

So it’s no surprise when he comes home one evening and the space you share is mostly already decorated for the winter holidays. He smiles warmly to himself when he hears you singing along to the movie playing from the tv, peeks around the corner to see Sterling tucked away in his swing, his eyes open and bright. Your back is turned so you don’t hear Harry approaching, continuing to sing aloud as you work.

“We only have each other, it’s just you and me, what are we gonna dooooooo?” You spin around, expecting to only see Sterling watching you, yelping when you find Harry, giggling at the shock on your face.

He bends to look out the window, “Could be wrong, but I think you have to have snow to build a snowman, yeah?”

“You’re early! I wanted to surprise you,” You weave your way around boxes to greet him, “Left the tree for the 3 of us to do together though.”

“S’nice of you.” His hands remain in his pockets as you move closer, tired eyes looking down at you, lazy smile as you work your arms around his waist. He doesn’t make you wait long, freeing his hands from his pockets to wrap around you.

He buries his face in your neck, “Missed you today.”

“We missed you too, H.”

He pulls back, turning to look down at Sterling, his arm still holding you close to his side, “He’s growing too fast. Can’t believe he’s already 5 weeks.”

“5 weeks and 3 days,” You remind him, “All the mommy blogs say we have an infant now.”

“S’that s’pose to mean? ‘Course he’s an infant.”

“Just means he’s growing out of his tiny baby stage.”

He directs his attention back to the movie playing, laughing as he teases you, “Least y’could’ve done is found a proper Christmas movie t’play while you put up decorations.”

You shrug, “It’s close enough to count. Plus he LOVES it. Think Elsa might be his favorite.”

He can’t resist anymore. As comfortable as his son may be swaying back and forth in his swing, he bends to scoop him up, one hand cradling behind his head and the other behind his back to easily support him. Sterling clearly doesn’t mind, a grin developing when he realizes who it is disturbing him.

“Don’t care what anyone says, bub. Y’ll always be daddy’s baby.”

You never doubted Harry’s capacity to love his son, but you definitely questioned his expertise and knowledge of the basics of caring for a child. He had become somewhat experienced now, tackling late night diaper changes and early morning feedings or anything else in between without complaint when he could.

Though he had done great, you were never too far away that you couldn’t offer assistance when he needed it. So when he gets a rare day off and suggests you let him stay home with the baby while you run errands, you’re hesitant.

“Do ya not trust me?”

“Of course I do. You know I do. I just don’t want you to get overwhelmed.”

“S’just for a few hours, right? You can write out a list of his schedule if it makes y’feel better.”

Sterling’s stretched across your lap, dozing off while you try to finish the last of your breakfast. Harry stands at the counter, drinking coffee out of a bright pink mug. You look between your almost sleeping son and then back up to Harry, chewing a bite of toast as you contemplate the idea.

He doesn’t take offense to your hesitation, quite the opposite actually. He adores the sight of you, Sterling’s face squished against your chest; one of his hands tucked under his chin, the other wrapped around your side, his little fist holding tight to your t-shirt. It’s the purest form of love in his eyes, to see the bond between mother and son grow and deepen with each day. Makes him reminiscent of his connection with his own mother, fills his heart with so much joy knowing he had chosen someone that would give his son the same sweet upbringing he had.

He makes his way back around the counter to you, a hand resting on the top of Sterling’s head as he bends down to kiss the top of yours. He moves his hand, repeating the act of affection to the top of the baby’s head.

“Really proud of you, y’know that right, baby? Been so amazing watching you take care of yourself and our little boy, never doubted for a second you were meant for this, but it’s been more incredible than I could’ve ever imagined.”

“Proud of you too, H. Know you’ve had a lot of guilt about being gone, but Sterling and I love you so much. He already lights up at the sound of your voice when you FaceTime us from set, and I see the way he grins at you before he falls asleep when you’re here to tuck him in at night.”

His eyes meet yours, sees the moment you make your decision to say yes, deep exhale of warm breath trapped between the two of you, “You have to promise to call if anything happens, if you need anything at all. Don’t care how small it is.” He nods firmly, further setting your mind at ease, “He should sleep most of the time I’m gone, but I’ll prepare another bottle just in case I can’t get back in time.”

You feel silly for feeling so protective, and you were thankful to have Harry as your partner on this journey. His patience and support had been more than generous, covering you and Sterling in more love and adoration than you’d ever known could exist from one person. He kisses you again, on your lips this time, a hand cupping one side of your face before gently lifting Sterling from your arms, shushing and bouncing him a bit when he starts to whimper from the sudden change in his comfortable position.

“S’okay, bubs. Daddy’s got you, g’nna have us a lil’ boys day while mumma’s gone.”

You rush through whatever tasks you had scheduled that seemed so important that morning. Suddenly the groceries you needed and last minute presents you were dropping off at the post office to mail to out of town family didn’t matter, nothing did but getting back home to your boys.

It’s quiet when you shut the door behind you, almost too quiet. As much as you always prayed he would, Sterling never slept through his morning nap, so you’re surprised at the possibility of him still sleeping peacefully. Not that he was old enough to make too much noise yet, but still the silence worries you enough that you don’t even take the time to put away the groceries. You set the bags on the kitchen counter, making your way through the house to the living room first.

All your concern fades at the sight of Harry on the couch, Sterling snuggled in his arms with his back pressed against Harry’s front, his little body covered in a red and white striped onesie with a reindeer on the front, matching pair of green socks on his tiny feet. It’s such a comforting image, you once again question why you had any doubt at the thought of leaving the two of them alone. Harry hasn’t noticed your presence yet, or if he has he hasn’t said anything, and you’re content to keep it that way for a few more minutes to observe the vision set before you.

You notice the movie that’s playing, it’s the same one from a few nights ago that Harry teased you for. You cross your arms, quirking one eyebrow upwards before you repeat Harry’s words from that night out loud, “Boys day, huh? Could’ve at least found a proper Christmas movie to watch while I was gone.”

“I’ve decided you’re right, it does count. I can see why he loves it so much.” He looks up at you from where you lean over back of the couch now, a soft “hi” falling from his lips, tilting his head up to accept the kiss you offer. Sterling coos, and when you look down, he’s looking up at you too.

“Mommy missed you too, baby boy.”

“Come sit with us, lovie, watch the rest of the movie.”

“Gimme a minute to put the groceries away and I will.”

“I’ll pause it and come help.”

“No, stay,” You run your hand through his hair, pushing the curls away from his face, “There’s not that much, I got it.”

You work swiftly to put everything away, taking a minute to change back into your pajamas before you rejoin them, curling yourself against Harry’s side under his free arm. Sterling’s dozing again, most likely falling into a milk coma from the bottle he had just finished, but it doesn’t stop the two of you from continuing to watch the same movie together. You offer to take Sterling or put him in his swing, but he just shakes his head no, clinging tighter to him and you.

“S’my favorite part, this song.”

“What? It’s the saddest one. Elsa and Anna’s parents die in this one.”

He shrugs, careful not to shuffle Sterling and disturb his sleep, “Maybe, but s’catchy, gets stuck in my head more than the others.”

He begins humming along to the intro music, nudging you softly to persuade you to start singing along with the character on the screen. You sit up, dramatically clearing your throat before you do. Harry knows more of the words than he cares to admit, but would rather hear the lyrics sung by you. He giggles at you as you even change your voice to mimic the silly parts.

“It gets a little lonely. All these empty rooms. Just watching the hours tick by…”

Harry provides the tick-tock part, clicking his tongue off-tune to the ones playing in the song. That’s enough to make you laugh out loud, temporarily forgetting the sleeping baby now resting on Harry’s chest. He shushes you playfully, his body shaking through his own laughter thankfully soothing Sterling enough that he doesn’t wake up.

You compose yourself as the song turns slow and mournful, tucking yourself back to Harry’s side again. His hand works around to cup your waist, squeezing lightly to pull you closer, the vibrations of him humming along again a comforting rumble against your body. His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper as he sings the last notes of the song.

“We only have each other. It's just you and me. What are we gonna doooooo?”

Your eyes scan the whole of the room. Your boys nestled together next to you, the tree in the corner of the room the 3 of you had decorated together a few days before, the pile of presents that had already accumulated underneath it. You spot your favorite ornament, a silver star with Sterling’s full name engraved on the front, “Baby’s First Christmas” etched on the back. Sterling’s first present from your family sent from home. Well, what used to be your home for the holidays. A smile spreads across your face at the simple happiness and realization that this is your home now.

Harry, Sterling, and you; sun, moon, and star, spending your first holiday together.

Thank you all for reading! As always likes/rbs/and comments are more than welcome. Tell me what you think here!

tag list: @taintedwonder, @cock-a-doodely-doo

#GBSxmaschallenge #harry styles imagine #harry x reader #my writing #dad!harry

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carewyncromwell · 3 years

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[Ficlet] Gonna Hit Rewind

Hi guys! So this is a little drabble inspired by a prompt by my friend @drinkyoursoupbitch, where I show what my MC, Carewyn Cromwell, was up to during a certain scene in the Harry Potter series!

Before we begin, just a couple of notes --

Post-Hogwarts, Carewyn becomes a lawyer for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement -- you can read more about her life as an adult here, if you’d like! When it comes to the Order of the Phoenix, Carey-Bear doesn’t formally join, instead providing covert assistance while staying autonomous from Dumbledore (who she doesn’t really like as a person) and looking “subservient” to Fudge’s wishes. Later on, this becomes very useful after the Death Eaters take over the Ministry in 1997: when the Battle of Hogwarts begins, Carewyn actually helps take back the Ministry by placing Umbridge under citizen’s arrest and temporarily taking charge until Kingsley Shacklebolt is officially appointed Minister. Carewyn’s outfit in the sketch enclosed below is inspired by this design. Musical accompaniment for this ficlet were “Leave Me Alone” by Michael Jackson (for Carewyn’s conversation with that...certain family member in the aforementioned sketch) and “Turn Back Time” by Derivakat (which inspired the title of this drabble!). And in regards to Carewyn’s negative attitude toward Time Turners...that is 110% my mother talking. When we read Harry Potter and the Cursed Child together, she absolutely hated that it involved time travel, as she found the whole idea ridiculously confusing and illogical. (The whole climax of Prisoner of Azkaban was even her least favorite aspect of the original Potter books. 😂)

Hope you enjoy -- and much love, Soup dear! xoxo

x~x~x~x

“Down here, down here,” panted Mr. Weasley, taking two steps at a time. “The lift doesn’t even come down this far…why they’re doing it there…”

They reached the bottom of the steps and ran along yet another corridor, which bore a great resemblance to that which led to Snape’s dungeon at Hogwarts, with rough stone walls and torches in brackets. The doors they passed here were heavy wooden ones with iron bolts and keyholes.

“Courtroom…Ten…I think…we’re nearly … yes.”

As Arthur Weasley rushed down the hall toward Courtroom Ten, he was unaware that in Courtroom Seven, the door of which was left slightly ajar, Carewyn Cromwell was speaking to her estranged uncle, the new head of the Cromwell Clan, at that very moment, nor that their conversation would ultimately determine Harry’s fate in that courtroom happening just three doors down.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Blaise, and you know that full well.”

“I merely wished to speak with the Minister, little Winnie -- you are aware of how much our family still supports the Ministry and, by extension, your career, are you not?”

Carewyn fixed Blaise with a very cold blue eye. “And I suppose Lucius Malfoy speaking with the Minister down here mere moments ago had nothing to do with you making an unscheduled visit?”

Blaise cocked his eyebrows, his identically colored and shaped eyes narrowing under them.

“I can sense you trying to enter my mind, Winnie,” he said very softly, his eyes rippling like light blue flames despite the hardness of his face. “It won’t work. You couldn’t reach my thoughts when you were a girl, and you can’t reach them now.”

His voice became cooler, to the point of sounding condescending.

“Whatever questions you have, you know your uncle would be more than willing to answer them, if you merely ask nicely.”

‘Answer’ -- ha! Carewyn thought to herself scornfully. Lie your face off, more like. But even so...if I’m going to get what I need, I need to keep him talking...

Carewyn went very quiet, considering Blaise carefully and her next words even more so.

“...Are you or are you not associating with Lucius Malfoy?” she asked softly.

“You might recall that he and Father were business associates back in the day.”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m asking. Or have you forgotten where Grandfather’s activities sentenced him -- where they sentenced you, until you were able to bribe the Minister to reduce the rest of your family’s sentences?”

“Our family, little Winnie,” Blaise corrected her, a notable, fiery edge to his voice.

You all may be related to me by blood, but you are not my family, Carewyn thought fiercely, but she once again bit her tongue. If she provoked his temper the way she was tempted to, he’d be less likely to talk to her.

When she didn’t respond, Blaise continued.

“Lucius Malfoy has always had a working relationship with the Cromwell Clan. It’s only natural that we speak from time to time, as two patriarchs of prominent magical families.”

“Magical families with certain reputations, you mean,” Carewyn said very coolly.

“Cornelius Fudge thinks very highly of Lucius Malfoy.”

“And of you, thanks to your impressive acting. But that doesn’t extend to everyone else, and you know it.”

“Of course,” said Blaise with a very cool smirk. “That’s something we have in common, isn’t it, Winnie? Putting on a charming face to get what we want, and not caring who hates us for it?”

Carewyn didn’t care enough to argue this point -- she’d already had this sort of discussion with Rakepick several times back in the day, and she knew that it meant Blaise was not only trying to divert the conversation, but also was absolutely full of it.

You’re acting like this fact makes us just as bad as each other, Blaise, but it doesn’t. Even if we have some similarities in our methods, that does not make us the same. I’ve never terrorized people to try to advance myself. I’ve never manipulated or forced anyone to join a criminal organization. I’ve never masqueraded as my nephew in order to try to manipulate my niece into selling her soul and her freedom just to save him. However much I’m not perfect, I’m head-and-shoulders above you, when it comes to the moral high ground.

But honestly, there was no point in arguing with people like Blaise. It wasn’t like she’d ever convince him that everything he thought was wrong -- that Muggles weren’t inferior, Charles Cromwell was an abusive monster, and everything he and the Cromwell Clan did to try to get Carewyn, Jacob, and Lane back under their control was reprehensible rather than justified -- and she didn’t feel enough passion to try. Especially not when there were more important things happening at that very moment...

Harry would be in the courtroom by now. She had to hurry.

Although Carewyn tried to keep her face stoic, her brain was working very fast. Her eyes drifted away, off toward the far wall of the courtroom where the Wizengamot benches were lined up.

“...Look,” she said slowly, her voice becoming a little softer, “my Legilimency has become very sensitive, in this line of work. It allows me to read people’s intentions and feelings very quickly, even when I’m not actively trying to. And Lucius Malfoy...he doesn’t see you as an equal, but as a pawn.”

Blaise’s eyebrows came down over his eyes, but he didn’t respond.

“You and the rest of the Cromwell Clan only got out of Azkaban because you were able to appeal to Fudge,” said Carewyn, “but if you’re associating with the wrong people, that could very quickly sour. Your position will become uncertain again, and you won’t be able to protect them -- especially if Fudge gets the kind of control over the Wizengamot that he wants...where charges and judgments are laid down based on favoritism more than legality. We’re already seeing it with how Fudge is now treating Dumbledore and Potter, after how much he always sucked up to them. End up outside of Fudge’s good graces, as they did, and the same might befall you. I realize that you and Malfoy...”

Are Muggle-hating bigots.

“...have similar politics,” she said at last very stiffly, “...but Lucius Malfoy’s politics are far more extreme than yours, and although the courts decided there wasn’t enough evidence to prove his methods were also...we both know that’s also true. If he falls, he will drag you down with him -- and if you take the fall for his actions, he won’t lift a finger to help you.”

Carewyn forced herself to look Blaise in the eye.

“Grandfather’s dealings with R got you all in enough trouble. You bought yourself and the rest of...our family a second chance -- something many others did not get. Are you sure you want to endanger that?”

Blaise considered Carewyn very carefully as she spoke, his blue eyes boring into hers critically. By the end, they’d actually widened.

“...Are you actually expressing concern for us, Winnie?” he asked very lowly.

Carewyn scoffed. “Don’t misunderstand me, Blaise -- I don’t really think you all deserved a second chance in the first place, after everything you’ve pulled.”

Her blue eyes became a bit more solemn.

“But truthfully...I’m not that upset that you were released from Azkaban. Dementors...they’re wretched creatures. I’ve seen what they can do to people.”

Her expression darkened.

“...I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, however terrible they are.”

Something confused and almost disgusted rippled over Blaise’s face, making his nose wrinkle.

“Ugh -- and here I’d thought you’d actually weeded out that weakness in your heart...”

Carewyn’s red lips came together tightly, but she didn’t reply. The two stared each other down for a moment, before Blaise finally exhaled.

“Very well, Winnie -- you want to know why I’m down here?”

He reached into his scarlet robes and pulled out a gold chain, on the end of which dangled a tiny gold hourglass.

A Time Turner.

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed upon it.

“Lucius Malfoy has expressed quite a bit of interest in my old department, when we’ve spoken,” murmured Blaise. “One sub-section in particular -- one where records of magical predictions are kept.”

Carewyn’s eyebrows furrowed. “Prophecies?”

“They are truly a fascinating thing,” said Blaise, his voice sounding rather airy. “So much value is placed on them -- too much, one could argue...just as one puts too much value on all attempts at ‘future sight.’ Alas, the section of my old department that Malfoy was interested in was not my area of expertise -- my area was in the study of Time, specifically backwards-facing. We did occasionally dip into the study of forward-facing time magic, but more in the sphere of inevitabilities -- things that evolve naturally in nature, every season -- not human affairs. Unfortunately when I was there, there was an employee monitoring the perimeter of the section I meant to enter -- I couldn’t have explored further even if I’d wanted to.”

“So Malfoy wanted you to stop by your old desk and pick up something that might help him or someone else enter the Department of Mysteries?” Carewyn asked. “Why?”

Blaise shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

“And yet you have a suspicion as to why?”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed upon Carewyn’s face, not angrily, but almost darkly.

“I may no longer work for the Department of Mysteries, Winnie, but I cannot discuss the more classified branches of their work too deeply. That is part of the Vow I made when I first joined the Department -- it forces me to speak in hypotheticals and vague descriptions more than specific details. But I fear no random stooge using this tool to try to enter my old department, whether Malfoy or otherwise. In fact,” he added with a smirk, “I would frankly love to see them try.”

He ignored Carewyn’s critical, confused expression and pressed on more seriously.

“You’re not a stupid girl, Winnie. I know you know what’s really going on, under the surface. Me offering assistance to Lucius Malfoy early on is merely how I intend to earn enough favor to keep my family safe, should the worst happen.”

“And what is that?” asked Carewyn.

Blaise cocked his eyebrows again. “Ask your mother. She remembers the First Wizarding War just as well as I do -- how it all started before.”

He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

“Blaise.”

Carewyn speaking his name and sharply grabbing his arm holding the Time Turner made him stop.

“If you wish to provide Lucius Malfoy useful information,” she said lowly, “you can tell him that that employee was not there by accident.”

Blaise looked back over his shoulder, startled. Carewyn closed her eyes tight, trying to block out the intense nausea rippling over her.

“He’s there to make sure Malfoy’s superior can’t reach what he wants,” she murmured. “There are many more, just like him, all with the same goal. It doesn’t matter when you go there -- there will always be someone there who will keep him away from what he wants.”

Blaise stared at Carewyn, his eyes narrowing in bewilderment.

“...Why are you telling me this?” he whispered.

Carewyn swallowed back the lump in her throat.

“I haven’t worked with time magic like you have...but people aren’t supposed to be in two places at once. That I do know. A lot of problems have been caused by people trying to mess with time. Mum told me that once in the 19th century, a whole bunch of people’s lives were erased out of existence, all because someone messed around with a Time Turner...”

“Ah, yes, Eloise Mintumble,” said Blaise, sounding as darkly amused as a bully might upon seeing one of their usual targets wearing a particularly obnoxious dress. “Tried to go back more than a few hours and ended up changing things so dramatically that she both erased 25 people out of existence and aged her body five centuries and died upon return trip. A rather fascinating case study.”

“You’re disgusting,” Carewyn said coldly. But she got back to the task at hand, her voice hardening. “Even if Malfoy couldn’t get what his master wants from the Department of Mysteries with that Time Turner, he could still do irreparable damage with it. If all Malfoy needs is assistance, to believe that you’re helping him and for you to earn enough esteem that the Cromwell Clan stays safe...then give him the intelligence I’ve given you. Don’t give him that Time Turner.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, his lips spreading into a rather condescending smirk. “Why? Because it’s wrong, little Winnie? Because it’s illegal and immoral, and ‘not the right thing to do?’”

“I’m not foolish enough to appeal to you with morality, Blaise -- I know you don’t have any,” spat Carewyn. “I’m asking you not to do it for your own self-preservation. For the Clan’s. ...For your family’s.”

Blaise’s smirk actually slid off his face. Carewyn held his gaze as best as she could, even with how ill she felt.

“I may not be one of those who takes turns standing watch in your old department,” Carewyn said very softly, “but Jacob is.”

Blaise’s face went rather white, and Carewyn knew she’d struck a cord. For as cruel, selfish, and immoral of a person as Blaise was, he still saw his family -- all of it -- like his personal belongings. And he “took care” of his belongings. He wanted complete control over them and, like Charles before him, he never respected them as people, nurtured them, or gave them any freedom...but Blaise didn’t want anyone touching “his things.”

The older man’s jaw clenched as a rather dark glint flashed through his eyes.

“...I see.”

His teeth still bared, he extended the hand holding the Time Turner’s gold chain and, very slowly, lowered it into Carewyn’s hand.

Carewyn’s eyes softened in relief.

“Thank you.”

Blaise exhaled heatedly through his nose.

“Jacob always was a fool,” he growled, his voice full of resentment. “Risking his life for people like that Muggle filth who abandoned you and your mother -- ”

“Better than selling his soul and freedom to serve the person who locked my mother and all of you up like prisoners,” Carewyn shot back rather coolly.

Blaise’s eyes flashed angrily. “You will not speak ill of your grandfather, Winnie! Everything he ever did in his life was for us, including you, your brother, and your mother, and I will not have you forgetting that!”

“Crow that lie as much as you want -- it won’t ever make it true.”

Blaise seethed as Carewyn pocketed the Time Turner in her robes. Slowly, his temper cooled enough that his lips spread back out into a rather vindictive smirk.

“For the record, Winnie...Time moves in a loop. If Lucius Malfoy were to use the Time Turner after I give it to him a half-hour from now, the effects would’ve already been felt by us by now. We would have heard about someone having broken into the Department of Mysteries before our conversation even started. The fact that we are not hearing that means that he never receives the Time Turner from me. So, in fact, it was already clear that I would give you the Time Turner before I actually did -- ”

“Oh, shut your trap,” Carewyn said tiredly. Just listening to Blaise wax on was giving her a headache. “I don’t even want to try unpacking all that time travel rubbish. All I care about is that Malfoy and his ilk can’t try to mess with time, now or ever.”

She turned on her heel and strode for the slightly ajar door. Pushing it further open, she then looked back over her shoulder at Blaise.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to take care of. Stay out of trouble, or I will not hesitate to prosecute you.”

Blaise’s eyes were very cold even around his smirk. “If there’s anyone who should be warned to stay out of trouble, it’s you, Winnie. I’m not the only one who’s aligned themselves with people who could drag them down, if they fall.”

“Perhaps,” said Carewyn mildly. “But my friends will catch me if I fall, just as they have before. Just like I always catch them. That makes all the difference.”

She walked away, her heels clapping against the black tiled floor as she strode to the end of the hall, listening at the door of Courtroom Ten. She could hear several voices talking inside -- after a moment, she recognized two as Amelia Bones and Cornelius Fudge.

“...certainly described the effects of a dementor attack very accurately. And I can’t imagine why she would say they were there if they weren’t -- ”

“But dementors wandering into a Muggle suburb and just happening to come across a wizard! The odds on that must be very, very long, even Bagman wouldn’t have bet -- ”

“Oh, I don’t think any of us believe the dementors were there by coincidence,” said a very misty, serene voice from inside the Courtroom.

Carewyn’s shoulders relaxed, even as her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling.

Dumbledore. He’d made it in time.

Exhaling heavily, Carewyn quickly turned back around and walked briskly back down the hallway, back upstairs toward her office. On the way, she walked by Blaise, who was now deep in quiet conversation with Lucius Malfoy, and Carewyn and Malfoy coldly stared each other down as she passed.

x~x~x~x

Carewyn hated keeping the Time Turner in her desk. She wanted to be rid of the thing immediately, but she knew she had to be patient.

Around 11:00, just before lunchtime, Carewyn asked to borrow a Dungbomb from Tonks and covertly dropped off it just outside the Auror Department on her way back to her tiny office. The resulting smell resulted in the entire floor clearing out, until someone could deal with the smell. Carewyn herself, however, stayed in her office and powered through, spraying some Muggle air freshener to try to mask the smell.

I forgot how much I hate Dungbombs, Carewyn thought dully. Oh well...desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess.

Keeping the files on a case she was working on open on either side of her, Carewyn read through them every-so-often as she pecked away at a letter she had to write. This letter had to be concise and to the point, if its recipient was going to know it was safe and exactly what she had to do, to help keep Harry Potter from getting unjustly expelled.

Right on time, three hours after Harry’s hearing, Carewyn’s Legilimency picked up the feeling that someone was approaching her office. A moment later, there was a knock on her door.

The ginger-haired lawyer exhaled heavily, her eyebrows knitting together.

“Come in,” she said.

Although she kept her voice level, she already felt a headache coming on. She knew who was on the other side of that door -- and sure enough, when it opened, in came tall, silver-bearded Albus Dumbledore, dressed in long midnight-blue robes.

Carewyn’s eyes hardened as the Hogwarts Headmaster closed the door behind him.

“Hello, Carewyn,” Dumbledore said pleasantly.

“You got my message from Tonks, then?” Carewyn asked.

“To come straight to your office as soon as I arrived, but to not let anyone see me entering? Yes. Though I daresay the evacuation of this floor thanks to the smell of Dungbombs helped with that considerably,” said Dumbledore, and his light blue eyes twinkled. “I presume it has something to do with why some members of the Wizengamot were asking what I was doing back here so soon, and why Cornelius looked even more sour at my presence than usual.”

Carewyn’s face was twisted in a deep frown as she finally took the Time Turner out of the drawer and put it on top of her desk.

“The time and place of Harry’s hearing was changed three hours ago, with no notice,” she said stridently. “The hearing originally scheduled for 11 o’clock instead was moved to 8 o’clock at 7:58 this morning. The letter was sent by owl to Privet Drive at 7:59, right before a second letter informing Harry that because he didn’t show up for his hearing, he was presumed guilty and therefore expelled from Hogwarts. Both letters arrived at 8:52. The Order wasn’t informed of the change until a little after 9, but was also informed by Arthur Weasley that you’d had the matter well in hand and had arrived miraculously early.”

“And so they felt no need to send me any post regarding the matter,” presumed Dumbledore with a dewy smile. “But in order for all of that to have happened, I will have to go back and ensure it does happen -- isn’t that so?”

Carewyn nodded curtly as she handed the Time Turner and a sealed envelope to Dumbledore.

“Three turns back should be enough -- you don’t want to risk changing too much, by arriving too early, and I have a closed-door meeting with Chester Davies prior to that. Give this letter to me as soon as you arrive in the past. As soon as she...escorts you out, head straight for Courtroom Ten. You should arrive just after Harry does -- it shouldn’t raise as much suspicion if you make it to the courtroom after Harry, since he was already in Arthur’s office when he first received word of the change...”

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with some mischief. “Clever as always, Carewyn, my dear. You do the Order very proud.”

Carewyn’s eyes flashed. “I’m not doing this for you or your ‘Order,’ Dumbledore, as you know full well. Jacob was completely at R’s mercy after he was expelled from Hogwarts, and I don’t want to even think about where Potter might end up, if the same thing happened to him. And if Jacob’s guarding something in the Department of Mysteries, I don’t want to make it any easier for You-Know-Who and his goons to get the drop on him.”

Dumbledore’s calm didn’t shift, though his eyes did turn a bit more solemn. “And as always, Carewyn, your cleverness is only rivaled by your caring for others.”

Rising to his feet, the Headmaster tucked the envelope inside his robes and then picked up the Time Turner.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said cheerily, “or, should I say, ‘I will have seen you?’”

And with three turns, he’d disappeared.

Carewyn gave an exhausted, groan-like sigh.

“I hate Time Turners,” she muttered to herself.

x~x~x~x

When Dumbledore appeared in Carewyn’s office out of the blue at 8 o’clock that morning, the ginger-haired lawyer reacted with a lot of irritation and suspicion. Those feelings weren’t helped when Dumbledore handed her the letter addressed to her, and yet written in a hand identical to hers.

Carewyn,

First of all, yes, I know you recognize this handwriting. This isn’t a trick -- it’s just the work of a Time Turner: specifically the one Dumbledore’s holding. On that note, ask him to hand it over and then smash it. We have more than enough problems in the here and now: no sense in adding more time travel rubbish to the pile.

Now that that’s been taken care of, let’s get to business --

The time and place of Harry’s hearing was moved just a minute ago. It now starts at 8 o’clock in the morning in Courtroom Ten. Don’t worry, Arthur’s already been notified and is ferrying Harry as we speak, but Dumbledore needs to get down there right now. Kick him out of your office, nice and loudly -- there are people outside who could overhear, and you don’t want anyone to think you and Dumbledore are on good terms. Which, fortunately, you’re not.

Now that Dumbledore’s out of your hair, let’s go over what you need to do --

Blaise has sneaked into the Ministry, specifically the bottommost floor near the Department of Mysteries, on Lucius Malfoy’s direction. No, Blaise isn’t a Death Eater -- just short-sighted and self-serving as ever. The point is that he has a Time Turner on his person, which he cannot be allowed to walk away with, under any circumstances. You’ll be able to catch him leaving the Department of Mysteries if you go downstairs in the next fifteen minutes. He’ll be meeting Lucius Malfoy around 8:30, in the middle of Harry’s hearing, so don’t let him walk away without getting that Time Turner away from him. Don’t come at the issue straight-on, though -- you can appeal to Blaise to give it to you willingly. Just keep him talking. Once you have the Time Turner, you can hold onto it until Dumbledore arrives in your office at the time that was originally scheduled for Harry’s hearing, so he can use it to go back far enough to arrive at Harry’s hearing on time.

I know, this Time Travel stuff is absolutely bloody ridiculous. But at least this way Malfoy won’t be able to use the Time Turner Blaise stole to cause even more havoc.

Burn this letter as soon as you’re done reading it. We don’t want anyone coming across it.

Good luck.

As for Dumbledore himself, he arrived at Harry’s hearing right on time, all according to plan.

“Ah,” said Fudge, who looked thoroughly disconcerted. “Dumbledore. Yes. You --er -- got our -- er -- message that the time and -- er -- place of the hearing had been changed, then?”

“I must have missed it,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. “However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the Ministry three hours early, so no harm done.”

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #my writing #harry potter #fanfiction #carewyn cromwell #albus dumbledore #cornelius fudge #amelia bones #blaise cromwell #lucius malfoy #time turners #AHHHHHH #YES IT ALL COMES TOGETHER #this took a while to write but it was worth it #but yeah my mum loathes time travel stories #she's a scientist at heart so the illogicality of them just drives her crazy #jacob honestly doesn't like working with dumbledore any more than carewyn does but he does see 'the greater good' of it #so he ends up being a guard not just for the prophecy but also later on for people escaping the death eaters #he likewise just barely evades ministry scrutiny enough to be able to hide people during the War #yes carewyn's choice ultimately does lead to negative fall-out like bode getting imperiused and arthur getting attacked by nagini #which of course carey-bear deeply regrets #but at the same time how much more damage might she have prevented? we'll never know #sometimes in war you have to make bad choices to try to mitigate even worse consequences :(

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feather-dancer · 3 years

Text

Tales of Arcadia Fanfic Recommendations - Part 5

Can you believe we’re here again? I certainly can’t, five fanfic recommend lists is getting a bit on the silly side and yet here we are! This one started building within 24 hours of the last one and it seems about the right time to chuck it into the wilds for peeps to enjoy.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

If at all interested in my own writing you can find it here!

General Trollhunters

Falling in the black - Jim had accepted his fate the moment he began pouring out the elixir Merlin made into the bathtub, all that was left now was to go through with it and hope he was doing the right thing.

Night of the CreepSlayerz - Morgana was defeated and the Trollhunter left Arcadia with many of it’s former residents in search of a brand new Heartstone thus the protection of the town fell to those left behind. It is not quiet though, far from it in fact, for in the fallen Market an evil yet stirs with a siren’s song...

and in the dark i can hear your heartbeat - It’s a long trip to New Jersey and for the only human not the easiest on her feet, still she has Jim with her. Jilaire fluff.

Champion - Angor ponders over what became of the troll he once was after he was forced into servitude by the Pale Lady.

A Mutually Beneficial Relationship - By chance, Angor Rot meets the Trollhunter Tellad-Urr.

General Wizards

A wizards associate - A lovely little tale of how Archie and Douxie possibly met for the first time. You never know what your kindness might produce.

Saudade - There was always gonna be an After when the Order had been temporarily beaten back and the successor to Merlin was forced to flee to keep Nari safe but this was never going to be an easy thing to bear. Follows multiple characters including stop offs with Jim n Co. and Zoe picking up the pieces of suddenly not being in the same town as her centuries long best friend. Does eventually go Zouxie!

Eye of the Hurricane - A lost moment after arriving at Hex tech, Douxie goes to take a breather and is given the chance to chat to Zoe, freshen up and wonder what on earth they’re gonna do now Jim has been captured. Zouxie fluff.

A Bit of Simple Magic - Technically before Wizards but since it has a couple mentions directly from Wizards I’m popping it here. This is shameless Zouxie fluff based on Teny’s artwork and I am HERE for it.

afterimage - An unusual one. A popular take is that certainly Skrael and Bellroc might have been human before becoming what we know them as now and this is a little bit of dabbling with young Bells who is figuring out they don’t appreciate gender nor long hair with the expectations it brings very much.

When You Least Expect - Panic attacks can happen to anybody and if Wizards had anything to say, Douxie has an awful lot of material should one be triggered.

Cantus In Memoriam - Some mercies are gifted like a blessing but to the hands that take it, it's a lie they need more than anything. The Arcane Order has lost, it’s true, but Douxie will take no joy in ending their long vigil.

alight - I may be a tiny bit biased here because there’s a reference to Ghost!AU but you know what screw it the author is great and deserves the love. Jim wants to go back to his second life, the one he thought would have been forever before he was revived into softer flesh but there is no guarantee he will be the same as he was then. Sometimes the possible comforts are worth the leap of faith it will take to get there.

Jim the Baby-Handed - Jim is home again, human and there is no getting around how things have shifted in his absence. Sometimes however, all you need to do is ask.

Stricklake

Strange Treasures - There is an aftermath to everything, even the Eternal Night and one that leaves Barbara wondering how she stands in it and particularly with regards to a certain changeling adrift himself who had once upon a time tried to kill her son.

The Only Constant - If Walter was offered the chance access his human appearance again after the Eternal Night, would he do it for her despite it would literally be walking into the unknown?

Tumblr Drabbles - He loves Barbara, he truly does, but after everything he had done to the final insult of Angor Rot coming for his own life and in turn threatening her in the process perhaps walking away is for the best. A broken heart in exchange for her life. The second one is an entirely different and is almost innocent Strickmar fluff, almost.

Alternate Universe

Another Dark Prince (Working Title) - Fate can be a strange thing sometimes. Gunmar could have escaped the Darklands far sooner but in lacking the army to go forth with his conquest is relegated to the shadows with his son and the changelings minding them whilst seeking the reopening on the Bridge for the third time. Following this thought further, perhaps a fatal accident could have led to the death of Barbara and a five year old Jim swept into the arms of a troll he would kill in another life on a promise to the deceased to keep him safe. Wouldn’t that have been a thing?

Arcane Blight - Another horror fic! There is something rather unsettling going on in Arcadia, one that contains no trolls in the conventional sense but doesn’t stop them being here, and the household the Lakes moved into seems to be treated with fear and distrust. That said there is the chance it’s more the location that’s the issue particularly with a school existing in fear of a certain ginger haired lad...

Mohs Scale - The fantastic Don't Listen to Kafka series got a new update! Sometimes you just want to help out your bestie who is going through very weird changes as his body is slowly becoming less and less human by giving him a pedicure.

Eternal Night - Gunmar was defeated at the Eternal Night but did not die, no he survived blinded and bound in chains by the mercy of the formerly human Trollhunter. Beware, even the presumed subdued still have their teeth.

Amnesia - Jim is in a blue body that cannot be quite right but he doesn’t know why, found half drowned by trolls and taking into their care. Cut off from those who might have known his old life and flung into a new strange one without his memories this boy is in for a ride while he tries to piece back together anything that makes sense.

Hope Dies Last - Nari said they would rip his soul to shreds if they caught him during her rescue from the Order’s stronghold, she spoke a very nearly fatal truth.

Fear of Fears - An AU of an AU in a sense, an alternate take of the fabulous Sunshine series and somewhat darker as the situation that starts far more innocently rapidly spirals out of control when Jim attempts to sneak out for Halloween but even then nobody could have expected the result. Heed the warnings in the tags they’re there for a reason.

Moirai - There is a danger when you take up the Skathe-Hrün that you may gain the attentions of eyes you would much rather did not and in Claire’s case, it is the notice of the assassin Angor Rot.

He lay dreaming - A follow up in a sense to the above, sometimes on rare occasions Angor by choice or not begins to dream.

The Pursuit of Stone; A Chance Meeting - Another part of the highly recommended The Heart of Janus series that has lore threads spread far and wide, a fine example both of why I adore Sam in his chaotic... Samness and another beat in the story of Otto Scaarbach’s rise to Grand Commandant in that even in the most unlikely places you may still find an ally, a future tool to be ultilised.

The OP in the very second of typing this had a sudden realisation that when the author sees this post will no doubt start laughing for. It’s for a good reason tho, promise.

The completely unrelated to this fandom fic

hell calls hell - This Overwatch R76 fic is an absolute bruiser of a read set in an alternate universe of royalty and political intrigue that I started reading blind and... Could not stop. The summary simply is A trained assassin sent to kill an emperor and his son encounters more than he bargained for and while true, does not do justice for the sheer amount of world building bursting from every seam being as much part of the plot as the very fabric the entire thing is soaked in.

#trollhunters #Wizards #ToAWizards #Tales of Arcadia

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gt-ridel · 3 years

Note

i’d LOVE to hear more about your borrower au!

Oh, okay then! Thanks for the interest! :D (Putting it under a cut because it ended up being WAY longer than I thought...)

There isn’t a whole lot to it. I just have a very basic idea of what could happen. Partly because I’ve only played through the beginning of Half-Life one (I attempted to stream it, but my internet connection isn’t strong enough). Everything I know about the series comes from cultural osmosis. When I finally play the games all the way through I’ll have a better idea of things that could happen in the AU. For now what I have is... Barney is a third or fourth generation Borrower who lives inside of Black Mesa. A long time ago some Borrowers were kidnapped and experimented on by the company, but some escaped and managed to hide long enough to start families and such. Barney has never seen anything outside of the facility. As far as he knows, the whole world is concrete and steel and hiding from giant creatures that WILL cut you up or torture you if you are caught. As far as most of the humans in Black Mesa know, Borrowers are just this funny little story people tell to freak out the new guys. “Yeah there’s totally tiny rat people running around in the vents. It’s true! My friend Dave’s friend Tom saw one once! Some kind of messed up experiment that got loose.” New guys tend not to believe it. People who have been around long enough to know what kind of shady stuff Black Mesa is into are a bit less skeptical. Very few people have ever actually SEEN one though. These Borrowers are next level paranoid. (Totally justified) Barney is living on his own. It’s safer to live alone or in very small groups. Less chance of taking other Borrowers down with you if you are caught. He’s claimed a few offices as his territory and scavenges for scraps in them. Mostly I think he eats those gross cockroaches that are always running around (safer to hunt than to steal) but when he needs something non food related, the offices are where he goes. Gordon is fairly new to the company. He recently graduated from MIT, and is currently working on a big project (you know the one). He’s temporarily staying in the level three dormitories just so he can basically run off to have a shower and a snooze before getting right back to work every day. Once the project is over, he’ll return to commuting from home. He’s heard the stories about Borrowers, but Dr. Kleiner assures him it’s just a prank people like to pull, so Gordon puts it out of his mind pretty immediately. One day Barney sneaks into one of the offices to snag some rubber bands (INVALUABLE stuff). This scientist seems to work very long hours, but he’s pretty sure they’ve left for the night. While he’s climbing up his rope to get back into the vent, he gets spooked by the sound of a giant human opening the door. Barney has never in his life been seen by a scientist, and in his panic, accidentally slips and gets his leg tangled in his own rope. He’s trapped right out in the open at the mercy of some mad scientist! Gordon isn’t a mad scientist, but he sure is a surprised one when he returns to his office with a fresh coffee in hand and finds a tiny man on his desk. Is he seeing this because he’s been working to hard? Had to much coffee? Hasn’t seen the sun in weeks? But no mater how long he stands in the doorway blinking stupidly, the tiny man is still there. Barney feels like he’s going to drop dead at any moment, but he tries his best to at least LOOK calm in the face of death. He gingerly lifts a hand a waves. “Uh, h-hey Doc.” He says with a wobbly smile. “Uh... Hi... tiny... man on my desk?” (Yeah Gordon talks in my AU) Gordon approaches, still in shock, and when Barney flinches back violently, he flinches too. Gordon gently untangles Barney from the rope and introduces himself. With no immediate means of egress, Barney feels like the only thing he can do is chat with the giant, trying to keep things light and friendly. No need to get the scalpels and the cages. Gordon is of course curious as heck, and whatever he was supposed to be working on is completely shoved to the side in favor of talking with Barney all night. Much to both of their surprise (Barney’s more than Gordon’s) they actually end up really enjoying each others company. They share a granola bar from Gordon’s desk (one of the best things Barney has every eaten) and a bit of coffee (Not good at all, but not the worst thing he’s been forced to drink). Over time, Barney finds himself coming back to visit the weird human whenever he’s alone in the office. Gordon is very concerned about Barney’s diet. He eats cockroaches and scraps from the garbage? When was the last time this man had a vegetable? (Barney: What the hell’s a vegetable? What’s a fruit? Are you swearing at me?) These discussions leads to other troubling revelations. Barney is in constant danger. He’s never been outside of the facility. He doesn’t even know there IS an outside! Gordon’s heart is thoroughly broken on the borrowers behalf, and he offers to take Barney with him when he goes home at the end of the month. Barney doesn’t exactly understand, because he thought humans just lived in the dorms. But the more Gordon talks about the outside, the more Barney is captivated by the idea. It is absolutely 100% insane, but... But maybe he could live in a house with Gordon? Not have to worry about hiding. Not have to worry about starving. Get some of that fresh air he’s been hearing about. It takes a little while, but eventually Barney caves, and the two start excitedly planning for the big move. First Gordon has to finish his project, and Barney has to pack up everything he owns (which isn’t too much, but still a job). On the day of the big test, Barney is waiting in Gordon’s office, filled with anxiety and excitement. He waits... And waits... And waits... The lights flicker. Is something wrong with the power? Is... was that a scream he just heard out in the hall? Was that a gunshot?! What’s happening out there? Is Gordon okay? Barney decides maybe it would be safer if he waited for Gordon back in the vent. But just as he’s about to climb in, he hears something huge scuttling through the metal tunnel. Suddenly a... THING bursts out of the vent and lands clumsily on the desk in front of him, scattering giant pieces of paper filled with Gordon’s writing, and shattering the desk lamp. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s staring at a headcrab that has been following his scent all through the ventilation system. (Do headcrabs have noses? I don’t know. But it tracked him somehow) Barney runs and the creature goes crashing after him. Barney is forced to dive for the floor (not a deadly fall for a borrower, considering their incredibly light bodyweight. But still scary!) He’s backed into a corner while this unnatural thing closes in on him. He’s going to die. He’s going to die and he’ll never see Gordon again and they’ll never escape this place and- A figure bursts through the door, covered head to toe in some kind of armor. It races forward, crowbar in hand, and swings at the creature, smacking it away from the cowering borrower. The figure slam it’s weapon into it again and again, long after it’s stopped moving. All that is left is a pile of twisted flesh and yellow viscera. The towering figure then turns to Barney, and his heart is suddenly trying to claw it’s way up his throat. He stands to run, but it’s too late. Swiftly, roughly, a giant gloved hand reaches down and snatches the Borrower up. The glove is covered in alien gore, but that is the least of his worries. He can’t tell who the human is behind the heavy helmet, and even if he could, he can barely breath for fear, let alone speak. The figure examines him, then walks over to the desk and sets him down carefully. The figure falls heavily into the seat, and with arms that suddenly look too heavy for it, lifts the helmet off its head. There in front of the borrower sits Gordon Freeman. Pail, sweaty, shaking, and so, so relieved that Barney is alive. He’s seen a lot of people die today, and was nearly sick with the idea that Barney might be among them. Their plan has been complicated. Leaving Black Mesa isn’t going to be as easy as just hiding in Gordons pocket and walking out the door. Now they are going to have to fight their way out. In game mechanics don’t translate very well to real life, and I don’t think the HEV suit actually has pockets and holsters that let you carry tons of weapons and stuff. I think they settle on having Barney ride along with him inside the helmet. It’s not super safe (and I imagine it would be pretty gross what with the sweat and everything) but it’s the best option they have. That’s all the story I’ve got. I’m not sure how it ends, or if/how we get to HL2 from this, but still. Maybe at the end they just get to go home and live a peaceful life together away from Black Mesa. That would be nice. =p So, uh... Yeah! That’s the idea so far. ^__^;;

#half life #gordon freeman #barney calhoun #borrower barney #borrower au #This took a lot longer to write than I thought it would #;;>.>#But I hope you like it! :)

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analyzingadventure · 3 years

Text

I’ve wanted to write about this for ages and Psi has kind of made relevant so

I always thought it was weird if we saw a Digimon die and then come back as the exact same species of Digimon.

(This isn’t specific to any series though I do use Adventure a lot in this discussion. May also contain spoilers for Psi)

Now admitedly there aren’t too many examples of this in the franchise (Patamon and Leomon being one of the few notable ones), but that is mainly because deaths are fairly rare, and even deaths we do see, it’s even rarer to see them come back (even when we know the mechanics of the world should make it totally possible)*. But nonetheless, it always felt weird to me when it did happen (or when us fans assume the Digimon would come back as the same species)

To properly explain why it feels weird to me, I first need to ramble about Digimon as “persons” and evolution as a whole

The thing that makes people who they are, are their memories. It’s their life experiences and their feelings of those experiences. It’s not where you’re born, the community you live in or the culture you’re raised in- of course these do affect who you are, but all they do is influence your life experiences and feelings about everything. They are incredbly imporant, and they play a factor in making you “you”, but those things aren’t “you”; “you” are your memories. And an imporant note here, is that who you are changes as you grow older, as you gain more experiences, feelings and memories. That’s why the “10yo you” is different from the “20yo you” or "40yo you” (etc), and why you will continue to change, even if it was ever so slightly, as you get older. Hell, the “you” who started reading this essay minutes ago is already a different person from the “you” who is reading this sentence right now. “You” are everchanging, ever-evolving.

So what makes a Digimon “them”? Or, more specifically, what makes each Digimon the species they are? Yes, this is a deeply related question for me, because we humans (I swear I’m not a robot) do express “who we are” outside, through our actions, our interests and how we appear to others, though not just what clothes we wear but also stuff like how we do our hair, tattoos, bodymods etc, not to mention things people don’t have control over from eye color, race, bodytype, height, all the way to disablities.

So if we as humans express so much (and so little) of “who we are” through how we appear, how would Digimon do it? How do Digimon express who they are?

It always just made sense to me if that was through evolution. That just as a Digimon experiences things, their evolutions will reflect the person they are, their feelings, memories, who they want to be.

Honestly this is one of the main reasons why I’ve always hated strict, Pokémon-like evolution lines (not even trees, just lines!!) in Digimon, the idea that these non-physical, A.I. data monsters can only appear a certain way through their lifespans based on whatever they were born as is just depressing to me. And while one might argue “it’s just how they are”, that rule only exists if you specifically go out of your way to write it in, otherwise there’s no reason for it to exist, but I’m getting super sidetracked ranting right now

Like just as an example of the kind of freedom I like to think Digimon could and should have, I want you to picture in your mind an Agumon.

Just a regular ol’ Agumon, living in the Digital World, minding their own business. This Agumon starts travelling for fun, enjoying seeing the world and whatever. During this time they realize they’re not really built for travelling and while their stamina increases as they go on and they get better at hiking, they still kind of wish they were more “built” for this type of activity so that they could enjoy their life more- And eventually they evolve into a Centarmon! Now they can move faster (etc) and enjoy their travelling life more, and they do just that! Life is great! Until one day they come across the ocean, a beautiful, vast “world” of its own, but one... they can’t explore, at least not any longer than they can hold their breath. They still spend their time exploring what they can, near the beaches etc, until one day their wish to explore the ocean is fulfilled and they evolve into a MegaSeadramon! And now they have great access to the oceans!

Like this example is very extreme, but you get what I mean, with the idea that the evolutions reflect the type of person the Digimon is, what they enjoy and who they want to be. It’s the ever-evolving reflection of their heart that I love

**(Sidenote at the bottom)

And this is why I think it'd make sense if Digimon came back as a different species entirely.

Because while death may have reset their evolution stages back to zero, if the Digimon retains all their memories from their previous life, all their experiences, hopes, wishes and dreams, all of their feelings... Then why would all the growth the Digimon had gone through in their previous life be reset? Shouldn’t their new life continue their previous growth and take different forms to reflect any new paths the mon might take in this life?

Just to use the Agumon from above as an example, if this mon died after spending quite some time as a MegaSeadramon, loving being a sea serpent and living in the ocean, wouldn’t it make sense they came back as a Sangomon instead of an Agumon (and yeah I think the Baby forms could be different too, depending on what they were but I’m skipping these)? Now of course, if they were happy living in the ocean and just totally content there, it’d make total sense if they then evolved to Seadramon and finally back to MegaSeadramon, I’m not saying they can’t come back to where they started at. What I do think is that it’d be weird if this mon went through the same Agumon -> Centarmon -> MegaSeadramon lifespan all over again if they wanted to be a sea-dweller from the get-go. And of course, as I alluded earlier; what if this Digimon, while living in the ocean as a Sangomon during their second life actually felt like they had seen what the ocean had to offer? What if they started hoping they could explore the skies? What if that wish helped them evolve to Airdramon instead, and they never go back to being a MegaSeadramon? This is what I mean when I say the second life would be a continuation of their life and their growth, it shouldn’t reset those things.

Now of course, from a simple writing point of view, it’d be confusing if a Digimon we were previously familiar with died and came back as a totally different Digimon, and even more confusing for kids. It’s easier to keep it simple and leave the Digimon the same species as they were in their previous lives

Additionally, most of these characters that we’ve seen die have always been minor characters with limited to non-existant histories; characters like Leomon, Whamon, Scumon+Chuumon, Piccolomon etc, while they’re all really well characterized with distinct personalities, they don’t have histories, backstories, they’re not deep characters. And making this many minor characters with deep backstories for a kids show would be really hard to pull off when you have deadlines to meet and no budget. So showing “the growth” these Digimon have gone through is not really do-able, not with these characters at least.

The Digimon with the most potential here would be Orgamon (the best developed minor character in Adventure) but he never died, Nanomon for sure, and possibly Wizarmon (esp. since his data could be like mildly busted, due to not being a Digimon originally and then dying in the Human World; if anything I think it’d be fun if Wizarmon could “come back” but as a Bakemon or something)

And as far as Patamon goes in Adventure, I do think with him it’s fine he came back in the same Digimon forms. Like my previous examples with “the Agumon”, this would be like natural evolution that happens over long, looong periods of time, years upon years no doubt, as the Digimon grows as a person. But the partner Digimon, they don’t really have the time to grow naturally, their evolutions aren’t really reflections of their growth. Rather, their evolutions are just powered up versions of who they are, with some reflection from their human partners. So with these partner Digimon (especially the Adventure-type “soul fragment” Digimon, less so with other series like especially Xros Wars), the evolutions being super linear does make sense and work just fine. And as an extention of that, these Digimon dying and coming back in the same species works out, like with Patamon in Adventure

Psi however, makes things a lot more interesting, because in Psi, the partner Digimon have backstories of their own.

Now for the most part, since the partners had lost their memories of their time fighting Mille as the Warriors, their growth being totally reset and them going through the same steps all over again does kinda make sense, it’s maybe a lil dull but that’s probably just my bias from being overly familiar with these characters.

But then there’s Patamon and Tailmon, two Digimon who retain their memories from their previous lives and the growth they’ve gone through. That growth, was own their own, from their own lives without any influence from any humans. But now, they have human partners, who influence them and their growth. And Psi has seemingly kind of spoiled the endgame for us, at least to some capacity?

We know in their previous lives Patamon and Tailmon were a Seraphimon and an Ofanimon, but based on the new key visual/poster, it seems Psi wants to use Goddramon and Holydramon as their final evolutions instead! And honestly, even if these evolutions didn’t come as a result of all the stuff I’ve rambled about in this post, it’ll still work for me for those reasons.

Additionally, while we know Patamon was only temporarily taking the form of Pegasmon because he lost his power and was literally unable to evolve to Angemon, for previously mentioned reasons if they had kept the Pegasmon evolution for the rest of the series it still would’ve worked for me, as it could’ve been seen as Pegasmon being a reflection of Takeru’s childlike innocence influencing Patamon’s evolutions

But yeah. I can’t remember if I had like a bottom line when I started writing this but it sure as hell is gone from my mind now, point is, I kinda wish Digimon’s evolution was seen slightly differently and written slightly differently, and explored more, especially through the Digimon who had previously died (who I would also like to see come back when the rules of the universe allow it instead of just ignoring the fact that they should be alive and well). And generally speaking I wish Digimon were written with more depth. Thank you for reading this incoherent mess

*Sidenote; arguably I think this could’ve applied to tri. as well, the Digimon who had their memories wiped completely could’ve totally evolved into different Digimon and maybe even should’ve

**Sidenote, this wouldn’t mean there’s NO limitations to what species a Digimon could evolve into; for example, just because you want to be a super powerful heroic Digimon like Omegamon it doesn’t mean you CAN evolve into Omegamon; if being valiant and heroic at heart were requirements to evolve to Omegamon, then unless you’re truly valiant and heroic at heart then you probably wouldn’t be able to evolve to Omegamon, if anything you might end up as Omekamon instead. Similarly if a certain species have other specific requirements, be it like Jogress requirements or Digimentals etc, then unless those requirements were met the evolution wouldn’t be possible So what I’m getting at is that limitations/requirements could totally still exist (depending on the rules of the specific setting), but being “the right species” to go from A to B wouldn’t and shouldn’t be one, at least not in my heart, but I digress

#Analysis #Analyzation #Holy shit I wrote an essay for this blog #This is like the first one I've written here for YEARS

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slytherinbarnes · 4 years

Text

Sub Rosa [69]

xi. the dark year

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: allusions to suicidal thoughts from previous chapter (5.01), mentions of death, language, anxiety.

Summary: The march to Shallow Valley begins...

a/n: next week we finish s5!!!! how we feeling!!!! the taglist for this series is open! I hope you enjoy, please let me know what you think!!!

previous chapter // season masterlist // series masterlist

The march is as boring as you expect it to be.

At some point guns are passed around and you end up with a rifle slung over your shoulder, one more thing you're forced to carry in your trek through the desert. It reminds you of leaving Becca’s lab after Praimfaya and searching for the rover, a story that you ultimately end up telling Bellamy about. And once you get started with one story of your time on Earth without him, he’s eager to hear more. You tell him about going to Polis and then Arkadia, nearly dying until a rainstorm came through and gave you and Clarke water, the sandstorm that destroyed the rover. You tell him about the journey to get more panels, when you and Clarke almost ended it all, and he senses your hesitation when you get to that part, not sure if you should tell him everything. But he reaches out and grabs your hand, threading your fingers together, reminding you that you’re always safe and home with Bellamy. So you tell him just how bad things got, how close to the end you truly were, until the Universe sent a miracle from the sky, a bird that led you to Shallow Valley.

His favorite stories are the ones you tell him about Madi. How she nearly killed you and Clarke both when you first met her, how she taught you both how to fish, and the two of you taught her English. Learning to drive the rover, and fight, living as a mini family in the valley, waiting for the rest of your family to return. The only thing you don't tell him about are the radio calls. You aren't sure why, maybe it’s embarrassment, maybe you’re worried he’ll think it was obsessive, you don't know. All you know is that he must not have heard a single one, because he never mentions them, and you’re sure he would have if he had heard them. Instead, you skip over all of the calls and focus on the good moments instead, the happy things, not sure you’re quite ready enough to tell him just how desperately you missed him.

At some point near the end of the first day, Bellamy’s radio comes to life with the sound of Echo’s voice, broken up and speaking Trig. “Belomi, hola. Yu sen ai in?”

Bellamy, come in. Do you read me? You and Bellamy exchange a look, before he steps out of the marching group and off to the side, with you, Monty, and Harper right behind him. He lifts the radio and says, “Echo-”

You reach out and put your hand over his own, lowering the radio for a second. “Wait, Bellamy, do you normally speak Trig like this? Or is there a reason?”

As soon as you say it, you see a look pass over his face, letting you know they don't normally communicate in Trigedasleng. Your warning reminds all of you of something you need to be careful not to forget: the enemy can hear you every time you use this radio. Bellamy lifts the radio again and you pull your hand away, and this time he answers in Trigedasleng. “Hakom Trig? Chit’s skechi?”

Why are we speaking Trig? What's wrong? He releases the button and you all stare at the radio in tense silence, waiting for her answer. “Emo get in bilaik yo’s komba raun. Yo don drop nishiv of.”

They know you're coming. You've lost the element of surprise. The answer hits you like a blow to the gut, making you sick. Without the element of surprise, this war is a massacre. You can see that Harper and Monty don’t look as shocked as you and Bellamy do, and you realize now their Trig must be limited, so you translate, “They know we're coming.”

Their reaction is immediate, the same as yours, and then Monty looks at you and asks, “Clarke?”

The question hits you like a second blow, more powerful than the last. The thought hadn't even crossed your mind, but your twin was the only other person that knew about the eye in the sky that could have snitched. You shake your head, anger flaring within you at the danger she has just put all of you in, and you grind out, “It had to be.”

Echo must start to worry about the silence from your end of the radio because she comes back on to say, “Belomi, yo gaf bak yo klin. Osir don hon daun ‘mo mavrik, den yo’s klir, komonou. Ba yo nou na komba hir nowe.”

Bellamy, you have to go back. We have their pilot, so you're safe for now. But you can't come here. You and Bellamy watch each other as she speaks, both of you translating the words at the same time. It’s weird to see him so proficient in Trigedasleng considering the few words he knew before he went to space, but when you think about it, teaching Madi English made you fluent in Trig too. Both of you are so different from the people you left behind, past versions of you now burned away by Praimfaya, but somehow your comfort with Bellamy hasn't changed. There’s so many new things you have to learn about him now, but there’s no doubt in your mind that he has your heart and you have his.

Bellamy lifts the radio, shaking his head, though Echo can't see it. “Nou na kom au. Chilja: osir nou na bak op, en osir nou na hod op. Kom fai sintaim osir kamp ouder. Yo gada daun in na lok osir op klir trei. Pas daun, nou mori noumou.”

Not possible. It's a long story, but we can't go back and we can't stop. We're five days out. You have that long to find us a safe way in. After that we run out of rations. You can see the devastation on Bellamy’s face at this new dilemma you've all somehow found yourself in. Echo’s voice comes through the radio one last time before falling silent, “We're on it. Be safe, over and out.”

You can hear the worry in her voice, and a wave of anxiety washes over you, wondering if that worry is born from affection. But Bellamy being Bellamy, must sense your thoughts, and he reaches out and puts his hand on your cheek, whispering, “I love you, my radiant moon.”

“And I love you more than the stars.”

He smiles at you, one of those bright ones, and you realize this is the first time you’ve said those words to him since he came down to Earth. His smile is infectious, and it makes you smile, both of you temporarily forgetting your impending peril until Monty clears his throat and mutters, “The eye.”

The smiles drop from both of your faces, suddenly brought back to the present, and you shake your head. “Uh, right. We should probably tell Indra.”

“And Octavia.” You nod at Bellamy, agreeing, as he passes the radio to Monty. “Keep an ear out for our friends, in case they call again.”

“Will do.”

And with that, you all rejoin the army, and you and Bellamy march off in search of Indra. It doesn’t take long for you to find her, exactly where you last saw her: marching with Gaia and the other faithful. As soon as she sees the two of you approaching and catches the expression on your faces, she steps away from everyone, giving the three of you some privacy. You and Bellamy let her know what’s going on quickly, and a look of alarm passes over her face before she quickly regains her composure and nods towards the front of the army. “We need to inform Octavia.”

The three of you quicken your pace and make it to the front, only to be stopped by Miller. “What do you want?”

You can sense the anger radiating off of Indra and Bellamy in waves, so you walk slightly ahead of them, shifting Miller’s focus to you. “We need to talk to Octavia.”

He looks at you, skeptical, and you give him a pleading look. “It’s important, Miller. You know we wouldn't be here if it wasn't.”

You know he recognizes the truth in your statement, because he motions to a pair of guards walking nearby. “Disarm and follow me.”

You glance at Bellamy and he nods, agreeing to the terms, so you hand the guy to your right your rifle and knife before following Miller. Bellamy and Indra both follow you, and Miller announces your arrival to Octavia before stepping back slightly, but he sticks close enough to keep an eye on all of you. Indra is the first to speak, “You're marching us into a massacre.”

Octavia doesn't turn to look at any of you, her eyes firmly locked on the horizon ahead. “We'll see.”

“Echo radioed. The enemy knows you're coming.” She bristles slightly, and you can tell the news is affecting her even though she tries to pretend otherwise. “We don't need to worry about the missiles, but they're moving their weapons into position.”

Indra adds, “It's safe to assume that since there's only three realistic ways into the valley, that all three will be heavily defended.”

Bellamy, who has stayed silent as you and Indra do most of the talking, finally quips, “Echo's scouting now, looking for the best way in. But since we can't go back because you burned the farm, and since we can't stop because we'll starve, we thought we should let you know that you've killed your people.”

You look at Bellamy in shock, not expecting to hear the words come out of his mouth. You’re pissed at Octavia too, but you’re not eager to cross her again, your near death experience still too fresh in your memory. You grab his hand and whisper his name as a warning, “Bellamy.”

But he ignores you and snaps at his sister, “Enjoy your walk.”

He drops back and you glance at him and then to Indra, silently apologizing before you drop back and follow him. You get your weapons back and secure them to you before jogging after Bellamy and catching up to him near the back, but you can tell from the expression on his face that he doesn't want to talk. So instead, you slip your hand into his and stay by his side, allowing him his anger for now.

Eventually night falls and the marching stops, giving all of you a temporary reprieve from the long journey, at least until morning.

You and Bellamy set up your tent and then build a fire, and Monty and Harper set up their tent nearby before joining you around the warmth of the fire. All of you sit and eat your rations in silence before the other couple bids you both goodnight, leaving you and Bellamy alone. You finish up the last of your rations, just enough to keep you full for a few hours, before you pull out your Grounder knife, looking over the notches on the handle. By your count, it’s now missing a few, and as you start to wonder what you can use to add the next few lines, Bellamy’s hand reaches out to you, his own knife in his grip. You look up at him, taking the knife with a nod of thanks, unaware that anyone knows that you actually keep up with your knife kills. You might be embarrassed if it was anyone other than Bellamy, but judging by the look on his face, he seems to understand. You don’t count the kills like trophies, the way others might, you count the kills to remind you of what you’ve done. At this point, it’s hard to know how many people you’ve killed with guns, explosions, or levers that bring radiation. But this knife reminds you of the personal ones, the lives that you took in close proximity to another person, close enough to see the life drain from them. It’s a way to remind you of your humanity, a way to remind you that each of these kills affected you in some way, the same way the forgotten kills affect you, whether you realize it or not.

You add two tallies for the two Eligius prisoners you killed, before you pause and consider Cooper. You didn’t use this knife to kill her the way you usually would, but you did use it to cut a hole in her glove, sealing her fate before she even woke up. To you, it’s enough for you to know her death should stay on your mind. You shouldn't sweep it under the rug as another casualty of war. You need to remember how willing you were to kill her if it meant it could save everyone else, which ultimately didn’t happen. Cooper is dead and Wonkru is still marching on the valley, worms be damned.

As you add a third tally for Cooper, bringing your knife kills up to ten, you glance over at Bellamy, his gaze turned away from you. You take note of his clenched jaw and angry expression. “We have to talk about it eventually, Bellamy.”

“No, we don't.”

“Both of our sisters betrayed us.”

“Your sister betrayed us, probably to save Madi. And though it puts us in a shitty position, I can forgive her for that.” Bellamy turns to look at you, pulling in a deep breath. “My sister put us in the fighting pits together, after she forced you into making a deal that would save my life but end yours. She did that knowing how I feel about you.”

“Only after my sister ratted us out and left us there. If we’re keeping count, Clarke has betrayed us twice. And you’re right, both betrayals were probably to keep Madi safe, but at what expense to everyone else? To me? To you? I love Madi, she is my niece, my family, and I’d do anything to keep her safe. But sometimes Clarke’s decisions are reckless when it comes to Madi’s safety. She listens to the storm within her, just like you used to do, and doesn’t stop to consider every angle, every possibility. I’m not letting her off the hook that easy.”

Bellamy is quiet for a while, both of you thinking of your sister related drama, and when he finally speaks, his anger has cooled, though not completely, and his voice is soft. “I just can't forgive Octavia for nearly taking you from me. Not after I just got you back.”

The words melt you, your anger towards your sister forgotten as you reach out to comfort Bellamy. You pull him in for a kiss, understanding his fear of losing you, because you lived with it for six years when you lost him. When you pull away, you rest your foreheads together, keeping your eyes closed as you sit and enjoy the fact that you can even do this. Because Bellamy is back, and he loves you, and you’re alive, despite Octavia’s best efforts. You whisper, “You’re gonna have a hard time getting rid of me now. I don’t want to let you out of my sight, I’m so afraid of losing you again.”

He pulls away so he can look at you, his expression sad. “I have the same fear. It was so hard being on the Ring without you. It felt like a ghost was hanging around with me at every moment. I was searching for you everywhere, always disappointed when you weren’t there.”

You feel tears well up in your eyes, and you kiss him again, hoping it helps. This time when you pull away, he wraps you up into his arms and turns his face to the sky. You follow his gaze, both of you tracing constellations, and for the first time in six years, he asks, “Tell me about the stars?”

You look at him, feeling a rush of affection as you do, your voice cracking with emotion when you whisper back, “Of course.”

The second day of marching is just as awful as the first, though it’s now punctuated with an air of anxiety as you all march one day closer to your massacre.

The second night, all of you retire early, too tired to sit around and talk, but you wake up a few hours later, wide awake for some reason. You glance over at Bellamy, smiling down at his sleeping form, so peaceful as the worries of the world don't reach him in his dreams. Not wanting to disturb him, you quietly crawl out of the tent, taking the radio with you, just in case someone calls.

As you sit outside and look at the stars, you nearly jump out of your skin when the radio comes to life. “Belomi, hola.”

Bellamy, come in. You pick up the radio and answer, “Nou Belomi, en's ai. Wanlida.”

Not Bellamy, it’s me. Wanlida. You add your Grounder nickname at the end, not sure if she recognizes your voice. She immediately answers, “Osir don strat.”

We have a plan. You smile at the radio in your hand, feeling a rush of gratitude to your friends on the other side. “Tel ai op.”

Tell me. Echo immediately relays the plan to you in Trigedasleng, and at times, you start to think about how weird it is to be carrying on a conversation with your boyfriend’s ex. And though you get flashes of jealousy when you think about them together, you start to marvel at how talking to her now isn't that bad. Though maybe it’s because you have something to talk about, and it has nothing to do with Bellamy. Still, as soon as you get the plan from Echo, you both exchange goodbyes and you run back to your tent to tell your boyfriend the good news. As soon as he knows, you both go to Indra next, as usual, and tell her the plan. Once she knows, you look at Bellamy, both of you aware of what you have to do next, and he nods, looking reluctant.

You both walk to Octavia’s tent, and the closer you get, the louder her voice grows. You can tell she’s having a strategy meeting with her advisors, one that does not include an encouraging plan. “We're gonna take heavy fire, but as long as we stay together, we can still do this. Does everybody understand?”

You and Bellamy are both stopped at the door by the guards, and Bellamy demands, “We need to see her now.”

Octavia’s voice comes from inside the tent, granting you both permission. “Let them in!”

As soon as you step inside, you scan the room, looking at the advisors, before your eyes fall to the map on the table in front of Octavia. “You don't need that.”

“The spy found us a way in?”

“Yes.” Bellamy turns to look at the advisors gathered around. “Everybody out.”

They stand frozen in place until Octavia dismisses them, and then they all exit quickly, leaving the three of you alone. Bellamy walks closer to his sister, and you hang back, sensing that he has something he wants to say to her. “Before I tell you this, we need to set some things straight.”

“I'm listening.”

“This war that you're so anxious for is about to be fought on the last survivable land on Earth. That is monumentally stupid. But it's here, and in four days, when we march on that valley, we are gonna fight this the right way.”

“Does the right way end up with us winning?”

Bellamy shakes his head, annoyed that winning is all she cares about. “It ends with us accepting the other side's surrender. Once they lay down their arms, we share the valley with them. No executions. No fighting pits. Real peace.”

“I accept your terms. Now, tell me how to win this war.”

Bellamy steps away, already done with the conversation. “Indra has the details.”

She calls out to his retreating figure, “Bellamy...this is how it was meant to be. You and me. Fighting side by side.”

Bellamy stops beside you, both of you now standing near the exit of the tent, and he reaches out for your hand before turning to face Octavia. “I'm not fighting for you. I’m fighting for la lune, who you were willing to kill a few days ago. I'm fighting to get back the rest of my family, and I'm fighting so that we can finally build a future here.”

You see a look of hurt pass over Octavia’s face as she realizes he doesn't consider her part of his family, but if he sees it, he ignores it. He just turns back to you and walks out of the tent, guiding you along after him.

The next three days of marching are almost continuous, as Octavia decides against stopping to camp 3 nights in a row. Instead, you stop for an hour or so twice a day before continuing the march to the valley. Finally, on day 6, you arrive at the final camping spot, just outside of the valley. You all pitch your tents during the day and spend most of it resting, because as soon as the next day dawns, the war begins.

You and Bellamy crawl out of your tent sometime after nightfall, finally rested after so many days of marching, and you both sit around a small fire and talk, keeping yourselves distracted from your nerves, the way you used to before he went to space without you. Monty comes over as you chat, sitting down on your other side, splitting his rations into three. “Last of the rations.”

You and Bellamy accept his offer with a nod of thanks, and as you all savor the last bit of food you have, Monty turns to look between you and Bellamy. “Look, if you want us with you at the front-”

Bellamy cuts him off, seeing the reluctance on his face, aware of Monty’s dislike of killing. He shakes his head and motions between himself and you. “No, we got this.”

You nod, adding, “You stay. They're leaving the tents here, and once the fight is over tomorrow, you can come and join us.”

Bellamy looks up at the stars, and then over to Monty. “I told Octavia we're taking 80 acres, on the Eastern edge of the valley. Grow something other than algae, okay?”

They look at each other for a long second before they break into smiles, and you grin at the interaction, glad to see them both happy, even if it’s just for a few minutes. Eventually, Monty leaves to go find Harper, and you and Bellamy watch the stars before he suddenly asks, “The last time we were in the desert marching to war, you said something that I never got to ask about.”

You glance away from the sky, and over to him. “What’s that?”

“You said you have a house in the valley, built for two. Did you mean for us?”

“No, I was definitely getting it ready so I could share it with some other guy.” Bellamy laughs, remembering when he asked you to move in with him, and you laugh too. “Yes, for us, if you want it. It’s the perfect size for us, slightly larger than the room we had at Arkadia. It’s got a kitchen and a bathroom, but the best part is the bedroom.”

He gives you a suggestive look. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

You laugh and playfully hit his arm. “Not for that reason. It has a window on the roof that opens up to the sky. During the day it lets warm sunshine in, and at night you can see the stars.”

He smiles down at you, tugging you closer to him, whispering against your lips, “It does sound perfect for us.”

He pulls you in for a kiss and you let yourself get lost in the kiss, reminding you of how wonderful it is to be wrapped up in his arms. As the two of you start to pull away, someone clears their throat, and you jump apart, slightly embarrassed. You look up to see Indra looking down at the two of you, and you swear she’s hiding a smile as she nods towards Octavia’s tent. “Last strategy meeting, and they want you both there.”

You stand and follow her to the tent, the last three to arrive, gathering around the table that features the new map, drawn for your plan. Octavia looks at Bellamy, nodding at him to begin. “At dawn, our group in the woods will open fire on pillbox one, in position A here. At the first sign of attack, McCreary's forces at point B and C will converge to reinforce A, thinking that's where we're coming through.”

Octavia muses, “Leaving the other two doors wide open.”

Bellamy glances at you, and you finish the plan, pointing down at the map. “We'll come through here, point C. Now, if we time it right and we move fast, there won't be any resistance.”

Indra mutters, “Once we're in the woods, we take the village.”

Miller finishes, “Once we're in the woods, we win.”

All of you look up and around at each other, making sure everyone understands, and Brell is the first to nod. “Okay, I'll tell my people.”

Miller turns on her, growling, “Your people?”

Indra breaks up the argument and snaps, “Save it for the enemy. Spread the word, we go at first light.”

Everyone starts to dissipate, and Octavia turns her attention to you and Bellamy. “Tell Echo I said well done.”

“You can tell her yourself in two hours.” Bellamy grabs your hand and leads you from the tent, eager to end any conversation with his sister. The two of you head back outside and over to your fire, deciding to spend your last few hours before the war together, enjoying each other’s company. Though your victory seems imminent, you never know what will happen in war. The tides can change at any second, and you could lose, people could die. Which is why you and Bellamy stay huddled together, making sure each of you know just how much you love each other.

Just in case.

next chapter

#the 100 #the 100 rewrite #bellamy blake #bellamy blake x reader #bellamy blake fanfiction

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superleafygamer · 3 years

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Here’s a Carly and Sam friendship analysis because I was bored

Okay so Carly and Sam are the best iCarly characters in my opinion. I’m obsessed with them so I’ll be analyzing their friendship. Let’s begin from, well, the beginning, because that’s the most convenient place to start an analysis.

Carly and Sam first met when they were in third grade. They became friends fighting over a sandwich, which is amazing, honestly. Sam originally had pushed Carly over in this moment, but from that point on, Sam has never done any physical harm to Carly since then. This shows that Sam genuinely cares about Carly, considering Sam beats everyone up. The two became best friends since that day, and have stayed together ever since. They hang out after school, get smoothies, and they even created a webshow together; iCarly.

This friendship is a perfect example of the saying “opposites attract,” as Carly and Sam are polar opposites. Carly is sweet, hardworking, and empathetic. Meanwhile Sam is lazy, unruly, and overall a jerk. Yet somehow, Carly and Sam seem perfect for each other. In fact, they even use their differences to help each other out sometimes. Sam defends Carly from bullies, Carly helps Sam stay out of juvie, etc. I’m going to further elaborate on those two examples specifically.

Sam is kind of like Carly’s personal bodyguard. Whenever someone is a jerk to Carly, or if they make her uncomfortable, Sam is quick to get at their throats and make sure they stop. Only with Carly’s permission, of course. Speaking of which, Carly is in some sort of position of power when it comes to Sam. Sam will ONLY listen to Carly, and nobody else. When Sam does something that Carly doesn’t approve of, Carly scolds her. Usually if someone told Sam to stop doing something, she would continue to do said thing out of spite. But when Carly is the one calling her out, Sam becomes immensely guilty, and then stops what she was doing. Carly doesn’t have to say much for Sam to get the idea that she’s disappointed in her actions, as she normally could just say “Sam” in a disapproving tone, and Sam would know exactly what she’s done. Carly is kind of like Sam’s moral compass; Sam can tell if she’s doing something right or wrong based on Carly’s reaction. This helps her out in the long run, due to Carly preventing her from doing anything too bad and going to juvie.

Moving on, anyone who watches the show can easily tell that Carly and Sam are very affectionate towards each other. They cuddle, give each other advice, and comfort each other when they’re upset. Carly seems to prefer physical affection from Sam, and Sam seems to prefer emotional affection from Carly, but they still appreciate both forms of affection. When Carly’s stressed out, she usually calms down by fidgeting with Sam’s hair or shoelaces, as Carly tends to feel most comfortable with someone to rely on when she’s upset. Sam allows her to do this with no complaints, and often hugs Carly to cheer her up. Then when Sam’s upset, she’s soothed by Carly’s voice in particular. She looks for comfort in what Carly has to say, and wants to be alone with her to hear every word of it. Carly makes a pretty good therapist.

When one of them notices that the other is upset, cheering them up becomes their top priority. Like in the episode “iSam’s Mom,” Carly pretends to have a panic attack in order to make Sam and her mother get along in therapy. Carly knows Sam would do anything to help her out, which is true, so Carly’s plan works. Sam notices Carly’s discomfort, and instantly gets defensive of her, so she proceeds to swiftly make amends with her mother so they can get Carly out of there. On the other hand, in the episode “iOwe You,” Sam breaks down to Carly about how much she hates her job. The reason Sam had the job in the first place was to pay back Carly(and Freddie) for all the money she owed them. But Carly encouraged Sam to quit because it was stressing her out, rather than telling her to keep the job because she wanted her money back. Sam’s happiness is a big priority to Carly, and Carly didn’t want to get the money back in this way if it meant seeing Sam this upset. Carly and Sam are always looking out for each other, and I think that’s adorable.

There are other little details that show how strong their friendship is, too, like how Sam hangs around in Carly’s apartment, with Carly even allowing her to stay the night on multiple occasions. Sam’s mom doesn’t feed her, so Carly often provides Sam with food, and openly allows her to dig into her fridge whenever she feels like it. Carly becomes somewhat motherly in a way when Sam is over, and makes her feel at home. Sam and Carly practically live together, considering the amount of time Sam spends in Carly’s apartment every day and the fact that Sam sleeps over occasionally. It’s also heavily implied that Carly and Sam have slept together in Carly’s room from time to time, because you can see them heading upstairs together when it’s getting late. They don’t seem opposed to sleeping together either, because in the episode “iGo To Japan,” Carly and Sam share a bed with no complaints or hesitation.

Carly and Sam’s friendship shines the brightest during their webshow. Carly’s the host, and Sam’s the cohost. They do everything on there together, and that’s how they like it. iCarly is a huge priority to the two of them, and it gives them more time to hang out after school. Carly and Sam do various skits on iCarly, with the most common example being “The Cowboy and the Idiot Farm Girl Who Thought the Cowboy’s Mustache Was a Squirrel.” They enjoy participating in these, and have a lot of fun brainstorming for the skits too. They’ve been webcasting weekly, except for one time in the episode “iWon’t Cancel the Show.” Sam gets arrested in this episode, which leaves Carly all alone. Carly is deeply upset about this, and doesn’t know how she’s going to do the episode without Sam, as she’s a big part of the show. Carly ends up webcasting with her older brother Spencer as the cohost, but you can tell Carly still misses Sam, especially in the Cowboy & Farm Girl skit, when Spencer fills in as the Cowboy. Once Sam comes back though, everything goes back to normal, and the two are happier than ever.

Now, this paragraph is where things get a bit more headcanon-y. Many people have pointed out that throughout the series, it seems like Sam has a crush on Carly. And honestly? I can see it. It’s a cute thought, and there are a lot of details in the show that support this. One example is Sam’s treatment towards Freddie. Freddie is Carly and Sam’s friend, who records their show. Freddie has a massive crush on Carly, and is very open about it. Sam always gets frustrated when Freddie mentions his crush, and she constantly tries to discourage him from getting his hopes up. Carly gets uncomfortable with Freddie mentioning his crush on her sometimes, so Sam beating up Freddie all the time could be seen as her defending Carly from him. Sam also possibly sees Freddie as a threat to her chances of being with Carly, so Sam’s abuse towards Freddie is probably her way of saying “back off, she’s mine.” There are also some tinier examples of Sam’s crush on Carly. These examples include Sam using various nicknames on Carly(one of them being Cupcake, which Sam used on one of her previous boyfriends frequently), Sam refusing to do anything violent to Carly despite her violent tendencies(as I’ve mentioned before), etc. But the crush thing is just a theory, and it could be nothing. Who knows.

Finally, the ending of iCarly. In the final episode “iGoodbye,” Carly’s father comes back home temporarily, before having to return to the military in Italy. Carly’s given the chance to move there with him, because he’s missed most of her childhood. You can see how upset this makes her, because she’d have to leave her whole life behind. Carly hesitantly makes the decision to go with her dad, and ends iCarly with Sam. Well, they ended it, but not really. They put it on a hiatus, with no set time for when it would be back. After this, Carly starts to get ready to leave. In past episodes when there was a threat of Carly leaving, Sam became defensive and tried her best to get Carly to stay. But this time, she knew this was the best for Carly, so she let her go. Not to say it was an easy decision, because it wasn’t. At all. Soon after Carly said her goodbyes to Spencer, Gibby, and Freddie, Sam got in the elevator with her as they left the building. She gave Carly her iconic blue remote used in iCarly, for whenever Carly needed a laugh. They said their goodbyes, and hugged each other one last time, before Carly left to get on the plane with her dad. On the plane, Carly began to rewatch every episode of iCarly on her laptop. She would miss the good times she spent with Sam, Freddie, Gibby, and Spencer, but we left this scene with Carly moving on. As Carly watched more and more episodes, she seemed to get happier and happier looking back on it all. She looked like she was ready for a new chapter of her life, and good for her, honestly. The other ending scene we got was of Sam riding her new motorcycle. Her expression was blank, like she was suppressing any emotion after the heartbreak of saying goodbye to Carly, after eight years of knowing each other. But she seemed at least slightly willing to move on the last time we saw her, as she nyoomed away on the motorcycle. And they did end up moving on, as painful as it is for me to admit. I want them to stay together😔

“iGoodbye” was the last time we saw the two together, since Carly moved to Italy, and the show ended. There’s going to be an iCarly reboot in the future, but Sam won’t be in it, so I guess Carly and Sam will never see each other again. I think I know what excuse they’re going to make for this, they’re probably just gonna say Sam moved away to live with her new best friend Cat, who is THE WORST. I would rant about how much I hate Cat and the fact that Nickelodeon completely destroyed Sam’s characterization to pair the two up, but that’s another story for another day. This is a Carly and Sam friendship analysis, not “watch Leafy cry as she talks about why ‘Sam & Cat’ is a horrible show and doesn’t deserve to exist.” I prefer to ignore the show’s existence so we’re swiftly moving on. Carly is supposedly supposed to get a new best friend in the reboot too which also makes me immensely upset, but I need to stop ranting about how much I dislike the idea of Carly and Sam making new friends, so let’s ✨not✨. I’m getting a bit off track here, so back to where I left off. Carly and Sam may not be seeing each other anymore after Carly moved to Italy, but I like to think they still communicate from time to time. Calls, texts, facetimes, etc. Their friendship was too good to just let go, and I’ve gotten very attached to them as you can tell. So I hope they’re still friends, even at a long distance🥺🥺🥺

In summary: Carly and Sam’s friendship in iCarly is ADORABLE and I absolutely love them with all of my heart, and I hope you do too. Also if you read this, you’re such a pro. You know who you are 👊😎

#iCarly #icarly cam #cam icarly #cam shaykett #shaykett #carly shay #sam puckett #carly and sam #Sam and Carly

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cheese-greater-official · 3 years

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The Great Gatsby .. I think antibucci Summary: Literally just the great Gatsby. Nothing else here. Absolutely no changes. Definitely use this for class, or reference. The Great Gatsby is public domain now after all. Anyways here's the totally unaltered and complete book of the Great Gatsby. I swear nothing was changed, most definitely. Of course credit to F Scott Fitzgerald for writing this commentary on both his life and the world he was in. A lot of this can still relate today, so keep an open mind when reading. Notes: I'd like to preface this by saying... This is really I mean REALLY just the Great Gatsby. I swear. There is nothing going here that is out of the ordinary! Nothing at all! Chapter 1 Chapter Text Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her; If you can bounce high, bounce for her too, Till she cry “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!” - Thomas Parke D'Invilliers. In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought — frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction — Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament.”— it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No — Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the

wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him — with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe — so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why — ye — es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog — at least I had him for a few days until he ran away — and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented

rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. "Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. "I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm

he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore. "It belonged to Demaine the oil man." He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside." We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. "I'm p-paralyzed with happiness." She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. "Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically. "The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore." "How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. Tomorrow!" Then she added irrelevantly, "You ought to see the baby." "I'd like to." "She's asleep. She's two years old. Haven't you ever seen her?" "Never." "Well, you ought to see her. She's—" Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. "What you doing, Nick

?" "I'm a bond man." "Who with?" I told him. "Never heard of them," he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. "You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East." "Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else." At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. "I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember." "Don't look at me," Daisy retorted. "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon." "No, thanks," said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, "I'm absolutely in training." Her host looked at her incredulously. "You are!" He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me." I looked at Miss Baker wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. "You live in West Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody there." "I don't know a single—" "You must know Gatsby." "Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?" Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the sunset where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. "Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it." "We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. "All right," said Daisy. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly. "What do people plan?" Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. "Look!" she complained. "I hurt it." We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. "You did it, Tom," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to but you did do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great big hulking physical specimen of a—" "I hate that word hulking," objected Tom crossly, "even in kidding." "Hulking," insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here—and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. "You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or something?" I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an unexpected way. "Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently. "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The

Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?" "Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone. "Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don't look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved." "Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—" "Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control of things." "We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. "You ought to live in California—" began Miss Baker but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. "This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are and—" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod and she winked at me again. "—and we've produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?" There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me. "I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?" "That's why I came over tonight." "Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose—" "Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Baker. "Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up his position." For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing. "I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. "An absolute rose?" This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. "This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—" I said. "Don't talk. I want to hear what happens." "Is something happening?" I inquired innocently. "You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. "I thought everybody knew." "I don't." "Why—" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York." "Got some woman?" I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. "She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner-time. Don't you think?" Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom and Daisy were back at the table. "It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gayety. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me and continued: "I looked

outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away—" her voice sang "—It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?" "Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough after dinner I want to take you down to the stables." The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking but I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterly to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police. The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee. Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl. "We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding." "I wasn't back from the war." "That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick, and I'm pretty cynical about everything." Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter. "I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything." "Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?" "Very much." "It'll show you how I've gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool." "You see I think everything's terrible anyhow," she went on in a convinced way. "Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything." Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom's, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. "Sophisticated—God, I'm sophisticated!" The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged. Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the "Saturday Evening Post"—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms. When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand. "To be continued," she said, tossing the magazine on the table,

"in our very next issue." Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up. "Ten o'clock," she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. "Time for this good girl to go to bed." "Jordan's going to play in the tournament tomorrow," explained Daisy, "over at Westchester." "Oh,—you're Jordan Baker." I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago. "Good night," she said softly. "Wake me at eight, won't you." "If you'll get up." "I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon." "Of course you will," confirmed Daisy. "In fact I think I'll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I'll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—" "Good night," called Miss Baker from the stairs. "I haven't heard a word." "She's a nice girl," said Tom after a moment. "They oughtn't to let her run around the country this way." "Who oughtn't to?" inquired Daisy coldly. "Her family." "Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick's going to look after her, aren't you, Nick? She's going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her." Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence. "Is she from New York?" I asked quickly. "From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—" "Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?" demanded Tom suddenly. "Did I?" She looked at me. "I can't seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I'm sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—" "Don't believe everything you hear, Nick," he advised me. I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called "Wait! "I forgot to ask you something, and it's important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West." "That's right," corroborated Tom kindly. "We heard that you were engaged." "It's libel. I'm too poor." "But we heard it," insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. "We heard it from three people so it must be true." Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn't even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come east. You can't stop going with an old friend on account of rumors and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage. Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he "had some woman in New York" was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart. Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud bright night with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight and turning my head to watch it I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in

his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens. I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn't call to him for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and far as I was from him I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness. Chapter 2 Summary: Just chapter 2 of the Great Gatsby Notes: (See the end of the chapter for notes.) Chapter Text About half way between West Egg and New York the motor-road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud which screens their obscure operations from your sight. But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground. The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan's mistress. The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon and when we stopped by the ashheaps he jumped to his feet and taking hold of my elbow literally forced me from the car. "We're getting off!" he insisted. "I want you to meet my girl." I think he'd tanked up a good deal at luncheon and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low white-washed railroad fence and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg's persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars Bought and Sold—and I followed Tom inside. The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred

to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blonde, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes. "Hello, Wilson, old man," said Tom, slapping him jovially on the shoulder. "How's business?" "I can't complain," answered Wilson unconvincingly. "When are you going to sell me that car?" "Next week; I've got my man working on it now." "Works pretty slow, don't he?" "No, he doesn't," said Tom coldly. "And if you feel that way about it, maybe I'd better sell it somewhere else after all." "I don't mean that," explained Wilson quickly. "I just meant—" His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and walking through her husband as if he were a ghost shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice: "Get some chairs, why don't you, so somebody can sit down." "Oh, sure," agreed Wilson hurriedly and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement color of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom. "I want to see you," said Tom intently. "Get on the next train." "All right." "I'll meet you by the news-stand on the lower level." She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door. We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track. "Terrible place, isn't it," said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg. "Awful." "It does her good to get away." "Doesn't her husband object?" "Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He's so dumb he doesn't know he's alive." So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train. She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the news-stand she bought a copy of "Town Tattle" and a moving-picture magazine and, in the station drug store, some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxi cabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and leaning forward tapped on the front glass. "I want to get one of those dogs," she said earnestly. "I want to get one for the apartment. They're nice to have—a dog." We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In a basket, swung from his neck, cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed. "What kind are they?" asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly as he came to the taxi-window. "All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?" "I'd like to get one of those police dogs; I don't suppose you got that kind?" The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck. "That's no police dog," said Tom. "No, it's not exactly a police dog,"

" said the man with disappointment in his voice. "It's more of an airedale." He passed his hand over the brown wash-rag of a back. "Look at that coat. Some coat. That's a dog that'll never bother you with catching cold." "I think it's cute," said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. "How much is it?" "That dog?" He looked at it admiringly. "That dog will cost you ten dollars." The airedale—undoubtedly there was an airedale concerned in it somewhere though its feet were startlingly white—changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilson's lap, where she fondled the weather-proof coat with rapture. "Is it a boy or a girl?" she asked delicately. "That dog? That dog's a boy." "It's a bitch," said Tom decisively. "Here's your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it." We drove over to Fifth Avenue, so warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the summer Sunday afternoon that I wouldn't have been surprised to see a great flock of white sheep turn the corner. "Hold on," I said, "I have to leave you here." "No, you don't," interposed Tom quickly. "Myrtle'll be hurt if you don't come up to the apartment. Won't you, Myrtle?" "Come on," she urged. "I'll telephone my sister Catherine. She's said to be very beautiful by people who ought to know." "Well, I'd like to, but—" We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the neighborhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other purchases and went haughtily in. "I'm going to have the McKees come up," she announced as we rose in the elevator. "And of course I got to call up my sister, too." The apartment was on the top floor—a small living room, a small dining room, a small bedroom and a bath. The living room was crowded to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Looked at from a distance however the hen resolved itself into a bonnet and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the room. Several old copies of "Town Tattle" lay on the table together with a copy of "Simon Called Peter" and some of the small scandal magazines of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk to which he added on his own initiative a tin of large hard dog biscuits—one of which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door. I have been drunk just twice in my life and the second time was that afternoon so everything that happened has a dim hazy cast over it although until after eight o'clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom's lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes and I went out to buy some at the drug store on the corner. When I came back they had disappeared so I sat down discreetly in the living room and read a chapter of "Simon Called Peter"—either it was terrible stuff or the whiskey distorted things because it didn't make any sense to me. Just as Tom and Myrtle—after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names—reappeared, company commenced to arrive at the apartment door. The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty with a solid sticky bob of red hair and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary haste and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed i

Feel free to delete the first one. I would do anything for you if post this. The Great Gatsby in all it’s glory

im aware i was probably supposed to read the whole thing to find out if you changed anything and tnhen find out you hadnt and id wasted an hour of my life but i am way too lazy to do that

#ask #im not gonna post the other one merely because of how bad i feel for my followers #long post

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amydancepants-peralta · 4 years

Note

37 or 64 for the prompt thing, please? :3

37: “What did you break this time?” and 64: “You know, it’s a really long story.”

@b99peraltiago Adele, I’m very sorry to be so late with this ... but I’ve combined the two into an AU that I hope you enjoy!

crash into you

Series 3 of her favourite podcast, Lingthusiasm, is playing at just the right decibel through Amy Santiago’s earphones as she diverts her Thursday afternoon walk to a soft patch of grass in order stretch out her aching muscles. According to the majority of her research, a steady pace of 3 to 4.5 mph was the optimum standard pace to maintain fitness. In order to excel, she had increased to a regulated 5.5mph over the past few days, and her body was not being subtle in its protest.

She’s not to know it yet, but in the coming days she will be grow to be beyond grateful for the existence of said earphones - as they act as a complete distraction to her surroundings - and as a result Amy does not sense any impending danger until a shrieking “EEEEEEE! WatchoutIcan’tstopIcan’tstopOHGODICAN’TSTOP!” manages to cut through the otherwise dulcet tones of the host Gretchen’s voice.

A mere second later, she finds herself falling to the ground as a confusing mixture of weight, cologne and wheels crashes into her, an unfamiliar pair of arms wrapping themselves around her middle as they attempt to absorb the brunt of their descent.

The blades of grass are cold against her bare arms as she struggles against the sudden oppressive weight, the scent of dirt mixing with this mysterious cologne as she throws her head side to side. “What the …?”

The weight is lifted as suddenly as it arrived, a steady hand planting itself into the ground next to her neck as the rest of Amy’s senses finally begin to regain control. With her sunglasses knocked off during the fray (and therefore temporarily out of reach), she squints against the bright rays of the sun, struggling to make sense of what on earth just happened.

Obviously, somebody had crashed into her. But she still wasn’t sure of the who or the how - or the why, really.

But what Amy could be sure of, as her mind slowly began to focus on what was directly in front of her, was that she was currently looking into the most expressive pair of eyes she’d ever seen in her life. Coupled with a prominent nose, strong jawline and tousled brown hair - it’s messy curls almost begging to be toyed with - the sight was distracting, to say the least.

There’s a dull sound in the back of her mind, a soft baritone that she doesn’t recognise, and as her brows knit with focus Amy realises that the beautiful stranger above her is talking. Tearing her attention away from the warm gaze in front of her, Amy shakes her head in obvious confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Are you okay?”

It’s a simple question - one that should come with its own simple response. She thinks she’s okay - her breath is a little shaky from the shock, and her ankle is throbbing a little from the thwack of what she suspects might be roller skate wheels against her skin, but nothing feels broken. Her voice seems to be coming and going as it pleases, though, and Amy doesn’t quite trust herself to speak more than a few words, and so she gives a feeble nod.

With a relieved sigh the man shifts, moving to sit slightly upright on the grass next to her. “I’m so sorry about that. I called out as loudly as I could, but I don’t think you could hear me until it was too late.” Shaking his head, he gestures down towards his feet, and Amy lifts her head just a little, taking in what she had correctly suspected - a pair of roller skates, strapped to his feet with bright pink and yellow laces.

Clearing her throat, Amy slowly props herself up onto one elbow, angling herself towards her assailant. Her heart still felt like it was beating a little erratically, but no longer seemed to be lodged in her throat, and so she tries speaking something more than just a few words. “I heard …something, but you’re right. It was definitely too late. Maybe a little of ‘I can’t stop’?”

The man nods, changing the motion to a shake immediately after as he reaches down and begins yanking the laces undone. “There are literally no brakes on them. Man, I am truly terrible at this. I haven’t done it in years, and I guess some skills just don’t stay with you over time.”

“Unca Jaaake!” A tiny voice appears, seemingly from nowhere, and Amy props herself up onto both elbows to gain a better view. Skating effortlessly towards them was a young girl, no more than six years old, with soft red hair and a bright smile. Bending her toe towards the sidewalk as she nears Amy and the stranger (Unca Jake seems like a pretty good guess), she comes to a smooth stop in front of them. “You went off so fast! I couldn’t keep up. Isn’t this FUN?!”

“TOTALLY fun, Iggy! So much so that I swept this woman off her feet with all my awesomeness.” Wincing, he looks back over at Amy. “I really am sorry, Miss …?”

Smiling, Amy shifts herself into a half-sitting position before offering a hand to shake. “Santiago. Amy Santiago.”

His hand feels warm against hers, covering her palm with his gentle grip as he responds politely. “Jake Peralta. Or ‘Unca Jake’, as this one likes to call me.” Returning his attention towards the skates, he yanks each one off of his feet with a triumphant shout. “She and I thought it would be a great idea to go skating in the park. Obviously, a better decision for one more than the other.”

Looking up, Amy watches with a grin as the girl in front of them launches into a series of twirls, holding both arms out in the kind of carefree manner that only a happy child can do. “Yeah. I hate to break this to you, but I think she might be a slightly better skater than you.”

“Oh my god, what did you break this time?!” A new, definitely more mature voice cuts into their conversation, and from beside her Jake sighs.

“She didn’t break anything, Gina. This was all me.”

A tall redhead screeches to a stop in front of the two of them, one hand reaching out to adjust the strap on her elbow guard as she throws Jake a withering stare. Her eyes flit over towards Amy, her calculated glare making Amy feel oddly self-conscious, and with a roll of her eyes she returns her attention back to the man beside her. “I’m not talking about Iggy, you doofus. I know it wasn’t her - my girl can glide like an angel. Clearly, if anybody was going to break anything today, it was you.”

“Wish somebody had thought to tell me that,” Jake mutters, balling his hand into a fist and pushing it into the grass as he lifts himself up. Once standing he turns towards Amy, offering her his hand, and she accepts with a smile. His hand really did feel nice and welcoming.

“So you’re just going around knocking down strangers now, huh?”

“You know it was an accident, Gina. I’m just thankful that nobody ended up hurt. This is Amy, by the way.” He gestures towards Amy, and she waves at the redhead in response. “The lovely woman who was innocently walking through the park before I appeared out of nowhere and bowled her over.”

Reaching out her hand, Amy takes a step towards the other woman before stopping in her tracks with a sharp intake of breath. “Ouch!”

Jake is front of her in an instant, reaching out a comforting hand and resting it on her upper arm for support. “Whoa, did I hurt you after all?”

Using her free hand to shield her eyes from the sun, Amy looks at the man in front of her, once again picking up on the obvious concern in his eyes. She gives her ankle a little test wriggle, grimacing slightly as it throbs again in protest. It’s definitely angry; but she can still move her foot without impediment, and so she shakes her head, offering Jake a comforting smile. “No, I think my ankle’s just a little irritated, post-skate attack. Nothing a little ice and elevation can’t fix.”

His hand remains on her upper arm - a fact that Amy is becoming increasingly aware of - and Jake’s eyes watch her carefully as she gives him a friendly shrug. “Are you sure?”

“Moooooom … I’m bored!”

“Me too, Iggs. Me too.”

Holding back a laugh, Amy nods. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Reluctantly Jake pulls away, throwing a quick glare in his friend’s direction before returning his attention to Amy, patting the pockets of his jeans. “Okay, uh … look. I’m a doctor.” Fishing a card out of his back pocket, he smooths the worn edges before handing it to Amy. “If you start to feel worse at any point in the next 24 hours, I want you to call me, okay? Any time, day or night.”

Plucking the card from his outstretched hand, Amy reads the inscription with surprise. Jake Peralta: Oncologist. Who knew her routine walk would ever be interrupted by a roller skating oncologist? She grins, holding back a giggle as she looks back up at the man in front of her. “Okay. I’m pretty sure I’m fine, but … thank you.”

“Day or night. You could have a concussion, or bruised ribs … I’d hate to have you hurting. So, you know. Call me if you are.”

Amy nods, bidding her goodbyes as she slowly begins to step back, snatching up her sunglasses and trying her very best not to limp in any obvious way as she goes. “Will do. Thanks for the card, and … hope you get better at roller skating.”

Jake’s blindingly bright grin is the last thing Amy sees before she turns around, missing his raised hand’s departing wave as she begins to make her way home. It was ridiculous, but part of her couldn’t help but notice the tiny butterflies that began fluttering through her stomach the moment that man had smiled at her. Not to mention the way his hand had felt so perfectly warm against her own.

Or his kind eyes that seemed to absorb everything she said, when really she hadn’t had much to say at all.

Shaking her head, Amy digs her house key out from its hidden pocket in her leggings, unlocking her front door and heading straight to the kitchen for an ice pack and a glass of wine (in that order). It made absolutely zero sense, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just developed a massive crush on an absolute stranger.

And she had no idea what she was going to do about it.

As it turns out, a few glasses of wine with your ankle propped up on the couch gives a normally shy woman a certain amount of courage; and so later that very night Amy sent a polite thank you text to the number on Jake’s business card. (She is, after all, a massive advocate for thank you notes - or any kind of well-mannered correspondence, for that matter.)

Responding within minutes, Jake is obvious in his relief: thankful that he hadn’t left her completely damaged after his horrible attempt to keep up with a six year old.

I honestly would have felt like the worst person ever, his text read, and Amy smiled at his candour. Her thumb is still hovering over the keyboard, trying to figure out a casual way to keep the conversation going (even though it has only just begun, she really doesn’t want it to end just yet) when her phone vibrates again in her hand - this time with a photo of Jake on the ground, obviously having fallen again on his way home. She’s replying with the laughing emoji before she can stop herself, and when he responds with a facepalm and a longwinded description of just how he managed to stack it on the concrete path near his house, Amy gets that warm feeling all over again - like they’ve known each other for way longer than just half a day.

Before she knows it, over half an hour has passed, and her phone has had a steady run of Dr Peralta messages the entire time. Her eyes are still sparkling from all the laughter when the texts seem to pause for a minute or two, and with her heart leaping out of her chest Amy reads his latest message - a shy fragment of sentences, asking her to dinner the following evening.

It’s all she can do not to respond with a oh gosh yes! - choosing instead to type out a less manic version of I’d love to, adding in the blushing emoji and ignoring the throb in her ankle as she begins a happy celebratory dance in her living room.

It’s hard to explain, this feeling she gets whenever they speak, but Amy has the strongest instinct that this could be the start of something amazing.

Jake sits across from her the following evening, the nerves obvious on his face as he fidgets with the napkin on the table, and Amy would like to say she’s faring a little better, but she definitely isn’t.

Smoothing her hands against the red dress she’s had hanging in her cupboard for months now - waiting for just the right occasion for it’s debut - Amy wills her legs to stop bouncing with restless energy as she waits for the waiter to finish taking their order. There’s a glass of white wine to both of their lefts, and while part of her is dying to empty the glass right away, there’s another part that wishes they had just ordered a bunch of shots instead. According to her oldest friend Kylie, her reactions seem to vary dependent on the amount she consumes, but there’s something to be said for the influx of Liquid Courage.

He’d told her she was beautiful when they’d met outside the restaurant earlier, his eyes so wide and sincere that all of the first date jitters that had been simmering in Amy’s stomach on the walk over had immediately turned into an inferno. Had held the door open for her, giving her a gentle smile as she passed him by, and when she caught a whiff of the same cologne she’d noticed the day before, her heart had skipped a tiny beat.

It was ridiculous, this pull she felt towards somebody that had literally been a stranger two days ago, but Amy wasn’t even slightly interested in stopping it.

Handing over his menu to the waiter as he departs, Jake flickers his gaze in Amy’s direction, raising his eyebrows slightly when he notices Amy is already looking his way. His hesitation is obvious as his nerves get the better of him, opening his mouth before closing it just as quickly, and Amy - the woman who has attended more Toastmaster courses than most - decides to pull him out of the deep end.

“So … you’re an oncologist?”

He nods, a tiny smile of relief growing on his face. “Yeah. I’m based at Brooklyn Methodist most of the week, and every other Friday I do a little pro-bono work for community health.”

She nods, already invested in hearing more. There was a handsome man sitting across from her in a pale grey shirt, a dark grey blazer and a smile that rivalled the lamp on every table for brightness. He could start reading from the paper, and she’d be invested. “That’s an interesting field to go into. What led you down that path?”

Amy watches as the slightest tinge of pink begins to creep over his cheeks, and damn it if it isn’t incredibly endearing. He hesitates for a moment, eventually raising his hand in a half-dismissive wave. “You know, it’s a really long story.”

She waits, cocking her head slightly to the side, and after a minute Jake breaks out into a grin.

“Okay, fine. It was just me and my Mom growing up, and she was working two or three jobs to pay bills and whatever, so a lot of the time I would stay at my Nan’s until I was old enough to stay on my own. We got really close, because my Nan was awesome, and when I was in my sophomore year of high school she got really sick.” His face falls slightly, and he reaches for the glass of wine to his right. Letting the wine trickle down his throat, Jake studies the glass a little more than necessary, and when he finally turns his attention back to Amy the look on his face makes everything else in the restaurant turn dim. “We couldn’t afford a lot, but we went to so many doctors, trying to find answers, ya know? And nobody seemed to be able to help.”

Amy’s hand seems to move of its own accord, reaching across the table to rest against Jake’s wrist before she even realises what’s happening. His eyes flickers down to her touch before returning to her eyes, and the softness of his gaze only makes her squeeze gently in silent encouragement.

“And … you know, this was a time before Google made everyone doctors, or even a reference point like WebMD, so it wasn’t too long before I found myself down at the local library - literally any chance I could get - just reading and studying and …. I dunno, trying to figure out what I could do to save her. I was just completely in the zone. Honestly, the library lady thought that I had been possessed by some other kid.” Rolling his eyes, he gives a little shrug. “They weren’t entirely wrong, if I’m being honest. I simply couldn’t bear the thought of sitting back and just … waiting for this thing to destroy somebody I loved.”

Nodding slowly, Amy leans forward and uses the leverage to start a soothing stroke up and down her date’s forearm. This is far more contact than she would normally offer on a first date - heck, maybe even more than a second date - but she cannot ignore this instinctual need she has to comfort the man across from her.

Out of the corner of her eye she notices their waiter walking towards them, bottle of wine in hand ready for the pour, and she gives him a subtle shake of her head. There was a story to tell here - she could see it in Jake’s eyes - and even though she’s fairly certain she knows where it’s going, she has no interest in rushing him through it.

Bringing his right hand up to the table, Jake fiddles with his dessert spoon, tracing the smooth outside edge with his thumb as a distraction. “Anyway. Despite all my hopes of becoming some kind of overnight Doogie Howser, things just kept getting worse for Nan, and … yeah. Too little, too late.” Scooping the arm of the utensil up with his fingers, he flips it over a few times, keeping his eyes locked on the flashes of metal against the beige tablecloth.

Taking a deep breath Amy stills her hand on Jake’s arm, waiting until he’s looking back at her before continuing. “I’m really sorry to hear that, Jake.”

He smiles, an action that barely meets his eyes, his face so soft it makes her heart ache. “Thanks, Amy.” His hand stills, foregoing the spoon to scratch an itch along his jawline. “Anyway, by the time all that happened I was like … two months away from graduating school, and medicine had pretty much become the only thing I knew. Add that to a surprisingly good SAT score, and next thing I knew I was on my way to medical school. Broke as hell, studying during the day and working through the night, but … what little inheritance we’d gotten from Nan, my mom insisted it go towards my education, and I was not going to waste that opportunity.”

Chewing slightly on her lower lip, Amy studies the man in front of her. “I think it’s amazing that you’re able to help so many people now, Jake.” He shrugs, and she continues. “No, really. It takes a special kind of soul to be able to take the pain and make it into something stronger.”

“I mean, it’s not all perfect. I’m still paying off the tuition fees, to this day. My da- someone was going to help me with it, but that’s a whole other story.” He sighs, pursing his lips slightly before continuing. “In saying that, I’ve think I’ve been able to help a decent amount of people. And Gina - the woman I was skating with yesterday? - she’s been my friend since childhood; and now she’s my administrative assistant. She has a surprisingly great way of sensing what my patients want to hear while they’re waiting for their appointment, and just provides the perfect distraction every time. So yeah, I think it’s turned out kinda okay.” The table falls silent for a moment, and just as Amy is about to break the hush, Jake blinks rapidly, shaking his head. “God, I’m sorry. I just blurted out like … half of my life story to you. I don’t even know where that came from, I’m so sorry.”

Tightening her grip on Jake’s arm, Amy shakes her head quickly. “No, please don’t apologise. I really loved hearing about it.” Slowly, she began to pull her hand away. “And for what it’s worth, I bet your Nan would have been really proud of you.”

Watching as the blush returns to his cheeks, Amy takes a deep breath in as Jake’s smile begins to return. He nods, his voice suddenly a lot softer. “Yeah, she definitely would be.”

Glancing around the room, his hand runs down the middle of his dress shirt, fingertips skimming over the pale coloured buttons as he gives Amy a sly grin. “I should probably confess something, though. I was really, really glad when you texted me to say you were feeling okay - and not just in the ‘thank god I didn’t break a stranger’s ankle’ kind of way.”

“Oh?”

Jake’s still-fidgety right hand runs through the back of his hair, his expression turning sheepish. “Yeah. I mean, obviously I would have had you come in right away, strapped up your foot or whatever, but … it also would have meant that you’d have become my patient.” He pauses to swallow, rubbing the underside of his ear. “And if you were my patient, I technically wouldn’t have been allowed to ask you out, and that’s just … I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m really happy that we were able to do this.”

The tip of Amy’s ears begin to heat up and she ducks her head slightly, quickly tucking her hair back before looking back up at Jake with a smile. “Me too, Jake.”

Grinning, Jake’s teeth dig slightly into his bottom lip, and he nods. “Anyway. Enough about me. I’m dying to know more about you. What do you, when you’re not getting barrelled down by lunatic doctors in open fields?”

Chuckling at her date’s description of yesterday afternoon, Amy sits up slightly as she answers proudly - “I’m in the NYPD. A detective, actually.”

“No way! That’s so badass. I bet you kick butt.” Jake’s eyes light up, and he leans in closer, arms brushing against the edge of the table as they are relegated to his lap. “Die Hard was not-so-secretly my favourite movie growing up, and for the longest time I was certain I was going to be a cop just like John McClane.”

Amy nods in understanding. At least two of her brothers counted Die Hard as one of their all-time favourites, and she has spent many an evening stuck on the couch, watching the action thriller. “Ah, I see. Well … I’m sorry to tell you this, but I haven’t once jumped off the roof of a burning building. Or climbed through ventilation ducts to save a bunch of hostages from certain death.”

“Yet. You haven’t jumped off the roof of a burning building, yet.”

She laughs. “You’re right. My mistake. I’ll be sure to call you when I do.”

He beams. “I hope you do.”

To the approaching waiter they must have looked particularly odd - the two of them sitting in total silence as they smiled at each other from across the table - but Amy genuinely cannot remember ever feeling as comfortable on her first date as she does right now.

Their easy conversation rolls on throughout their meals, ranging from stories about Amy’s most memorable collars to the patients that Jake has never been able to forget, and Amy is halfway through a story about which brother gave her the scar on her right elbow when the waiter reappears, quietly letting them know that several hours have passed and the restaurant was now ready to close.

She’s still blushing slightly as Jake pays the bill, smiling apologetically at the staff as her date holds out her coat. In the blink of an eye, they had managed to spend the entire night talking, and yet somehow she still wanted to know more.

Jake’s touch feels light against the small of her back as he leads them towards the exit, and as they step out into the night Amy leans her head back to take in the peppered light of the stars above. She’s never been one to believe in fate, but maybe when it came to this, she needed to make an exception.

His hand reaches for hers after the third or fourth block, and as they walk together Amy begins to realise that of all the years she’s spent as a detective solving puzzles, she’d never actually found her own missing piece - and maybe, just maybe, the sweet and charming man beside her was going to be the perfect fit.

They walk for longer than either of them intended, the stories from earlier in the evening picking up as though they were never interrupted, and when they finally end up outside Amy’s apartment she cannot hide the sadness that begins to wash over her.

He kisses her goodnight, and it’s the kind of kiss that begins so soft and delicate, before turning into so much more … even though she knows it’s impossible, Amy swears she can hear the fireworks sparking above them. His arms keep her close to his chest as they both lean in for another, the pounding beat of both of their hearts fighting through the fabric of their coats, and when he finally bids her goodbye, Amy knows that already she is falling, falling, falling.

By the end of the following week, there have been two more dates (and perhaps one sleepover), and in a few years time Gina will tell an entirely different version of how they met to their family and friends at their wedding reception.

It will be a couple more years before their family begins to expand; but as they grow, Amy is always happy to remind their children that her knight in shining armour turned out to be a doctor with ill-fitting skates - and that sometimes, you just have to let your future crash into you.

(And when the time comes to actually teach their kids how to roller skate, maybe Amy chooses to do it on a day when her husband is already tied up with work.)

#my writing #peraltiagoau #grand plans of having this ready by your bday fell victim to Time #consider this a belated gift haha #I hope you enjoy!#b99fanfic #b99au #jake x amy fic #b99fic

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