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alexthemagicaldevil · 3 years

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Of Medea, Jason, and Other Tragedies

Some of you might remember a post I made a little while ago comparing how Quackity and Technoblade fit into the lore of the DSMP. Here are my thoughts via a 3k words of angst:

Read it on AO3

There was nothing left of L’Manburg.

It was something universally understood and known. Something that was never questioned. Something that everyone just accepted so that they could move on and not think about the nation that had too many traitors, too many broken promises, too many memories. It was something that everyone thought they believed so that they wouldn’t go looking for little pieces left behind, pieces that miraculously survived the desimation.

But Quackity knew the truth. Those little pieces could be found without looking too hard, whether it be in the fractured relationships of the SMP or the physical evidence that managed to not become ash at the bottom of a crater. And Quackity, well, he held both of those pieces in the palms of his hands.

In one hand, he held the souls of those fractured by L’Manburg’s memory. Fundy and his desperate need of a stable family, with a past scarred by a father that went mad and nightmares that haunt his waking actions. Sam and his futile attempts at control, gradually being poisoned as he pushes everyone away and tries to single handedly keep the server’s god locked in his own prison. Purpled and his lack of legacy, even in a place he so heavily influenced and his skills so valued yet so dismissed. Foolish and his beautiful builds and broken heart, running away from his destructive past and wanting peace despite the possibility of godhood sitting at his fingertips.

In the other hand, Quackity held a poster, one of the last remaining remnants of the place he had once fiercely declared home. He has no idea how it survived. Most of the physical pieces of L’Manburg that could be found were sections of buildings just far enough away from the explosions, items in random chests, or whatever was on the citizens at the time. Yet somehow, through all the fire and TNT, this poster had survived.

Technoblade. Wanted dead or alive.

Quackity had found it relatively soon after Doomsday, wandering around the crater where L’Manburg once stood. It was slightly singed on the edges and an entire corner was gone, but there it was, lying on the ground innocently, Technoblade’s mocking eyes staring at him with something like satisfaction.

He should have left the thing there. It would have eventually faded away like the rest of L’Manburg with enough time under the elements. Or maybe he should have burned it and forgot it was there in the first place. Whatever he should have done, picking it up, carefully folding it, and stuffing it into his back pocket was definitely not it. But he did. And it stayed with him for a long time.

At first, it was just there, a burning reminder in his back pocket of all he failed to do and what he promised to accomplish. It was there as he built Las Nevadas from the ground up, barely noticeable besides the constant nagging reminder in the back of his thoughts. It was there when he hired Purpled and Technoblade to take care of the Eggpire that had gone on for far too long, growing heavier and heavier each time the Blood God looked at him. It was there when he found out about Kinoko Kingdom for the first time, how the only three people he thought he could trust, the reasons he built Las Nevadas in the first place, left him behind without a second thought.

(The poster didn’t feel heavy then, but it did feel like it was laughing at him. Low and monotone, coming from deep within his memories.

The poster didn’t feel heavy then, but the two rings threaded through a chain around his neck did. They felt like shackles threatening to weigh him down and drown him.

Quackity removed the rings and hid them in a chest after that. Somehow, though, they still felt suffocating).

The poster was there for everything, tucked away in his back pocket, even when he began recruiting members for Las Nevadas. Through Foolish and Fundy, Purpled and Sam, and even through Slime. It knew everything, Quackity would find himself thinking. Of course, there was no way for a poster to know anything, but it didn’t stop the thought.

It wasn’t until after Wilbur visited him with Tommy after his revival (and so many memories of Pogtopia) that he finally took the poster out of his pocket. He was alone at the time (as he always is these days, it feels like, even surrounded by other beings) and in his unfinished casino. Sam had left nearly an hour ago to continue his duties as the Warden at the prison. The echoes of their conversation reverberated through Quackity’s mind.

Technoblade is going to the prison to see Dream tomorrow, he remembers saying. I trust you know what you have to do.

Of course, Sam had replied, the intense green of his eyes sparking in the dim lighting of the casino. You’ve done your part. Now I’ll do mine.

Quackity stared at the glass of whiskey in his hand. It had always Schlatt’s drink of choice, when he was still breathing. The smell reminded Quackity of the long nights he spent as Vice-President to a man barely sober enough to stand, let alone run a country. How many times had he put the smallest amount of poison in Schlatt’s drink, hoping that this time, it would be enough to end him for good? How many days had he spent hiding bruises and putting on fake smiles, wondering if it was all worth it? How many nightmares had he endured, thinking about everything Schlatt did and made him do?

He drank all the whiskey in one go. It burned his throat and pooled like fire in his stomach.

The glass made a satisfying thud on the counter as Quackity set it down. It was then that he finally reached for the poster in his back pocket, holding it almost gently in his scarred hands. He traced the edge of it with his finger, thinking deeply.

Quackity unfolded the poster, one fold at a time. The folds were deep from the sheer amount of time it’s spent in his pocket. It was honestly a miracle that it was still intact, given the state it was in when Quackity found it and the constant strain it’s been under since.

When Quackity finished unfolding the poster, he placed it against the wall and used his empty whiskey glass to hold it up. It looked just like he remembered, even back when the Butcher Army was first created. Sure it was faded and threatened to fold on itself at any moment, but it was still there. The reward, Technoblade’s face, the L’Manburgian flag.

Quackity stared into Technoblade’s red eyes. It was only a drawing, but whoever had done the picture nailed the resemblance to the Blood God. The scar over his eye and lip itched just looking at it.

“You know Technoblade,” Quackity found himself saying. “Before we met, I always had a healthy respect for you. Who didn’t? Everyone was in awe over the Blood God, the most terrifying fighter of our generation, rumored to never be able to die.” He sighed. “Of course, fighting was never my strong suit. You found that out first hand,” he added with some humor, though it felt flat. “Still, a part of me longed to do what you do. Words can only get you so far, get you so much respect.

“They say you should never meet your heroes. Something in that has to be true, because ever since I’ve known you, my life has been nothing but one bitter failure after another.” The poster didn’t reply, and Quackity understood with some absurdity that he was literally talking to a poster as if it were a real being. Still, he continued on.

“Well, maybe that’s giving you too much credit, but it sure feels like that. It’s just,” he trailed off slightly, moving his hands around, trying to figure out some way to articulate his point. Words were supposed to be his weapons, but here, vulnerable and trying to express something that’s been gnawing at him for so long, they scrambled in his throat. “Somehow you come out of every battle, every conflict without a single mark, yet I’m punished for every decision I’ve made since I came to this Primeforsaken SMP.”

And those words, Quackity realized, are when the floodgate inside his chest burst.

“No matter what you do, who you hurt, who you kill, what everyone wants or tries to accomplish, you have never paid for anything you’ve done to the people of this server. I remember when we took down Schlatt with Pogtopia, how you were so insistent that the government had to be taken down, all the while talking about how it was the people’s choice to live how they wanted to live. Well guess what, shithead? The people, L’Manburg, us, we decided that we wanted a government, one that listened to us and one that we could trust. And what did you do once the people made their choice? What did you do after we had called you our friend and said you didn’t have to live by our ways if you didn’t want to? You called us traitors. Said we used you, when all you ever wanted was an excuse to push your own anarchist bullshit down the throat of any server that would give you the time of day. You’re somehow the biggest hypocrite I’ve ever met, even in a world where Dream runs around as the Admin.

“But that’s not even the worst of your sins, isn’t it? I’ve watched you blow up countries with no remorse, execute a child on the whim of a dictator, corrupt and hurt every single person I’ve ever cared about, destroy what I put every ounce of my heart and soul into like it was nothing.”

There were tears aching behind his eyes now. Quackity took a shuddering breath, trying to calm his hurting heart. He thought about Schlatt and his time in Pogtopia, thought about Tubbo and Tommy and Niki and every other L’Manburgian face as they realized the nation they loved was gone at Technoblade and Wilbur’s hands. “And what were your consequences for all of this? What karma did the oh so powerful universe decide you deserved?

“Nothing. Not a single, goddamn thing. For all your violence and bloodshed, you get to live in a nice cottage in the Arctic, filled with friends that celebrate your birthday, and not a single regret.”

Quackity smiled blankly at the poster, raising his hands. By now he was full on pacing in front of it, his shoes making soft noises against the tile. All the while, Technoblade’s red eyes watched his every move.

“But what about me? Prime knows I’m the furthest thing from a saint this server has to offer, but at least I had good intentions. I went against Wilbur during the elections not because I wanted power, but because I saw what he was doing and no one else was going to call him out on his bullshit. I mean, come on! Running a single party election in a so-called democratic nation? Now, that doesn’t mean I didn’t do bad things. I should have left Schlatt the moment I realized just how bad he was. I shouldn’t have waited until after he ruined L’Manburg and executed Tubbo to join Pogtopia. It haunts me every waking moment.” Quackity stopped his pacing for a moment, lost in the memories. Tubbo screaming, the flash and bang of a firework. The explosion of color from the second firework immediately after, because the first one hadn’t been enough. The burning in his chest as he was hit with a firework of his own.

“And then, after you and Wilbur decided to blow it all to kingdom come, I did everything I thought was best for L’Manburg. I helped people. I rebuilt everything you destroyed and made it better. I wanted to hunt you down and make you pay for everything you did.” His scar began to itch again. “But I guess we both know how that turned out.

“And what were my consequences for this? For doing my best, realizing my mistakes, trying to fix them, trying to protect those around me? What karma did the oh so powerful universe decide I deserved?

“Everything. I was punished for everything. Every place I called home, every person I called a friend, every time I fell in love, anything I tried to protect, every time I tried to be happy, I was punished for it. Somehow in this fucked up version of the story, I’m the villain that needs to be punished for their actions, while you’re the blameless hero that gets a happily ever after!”

Quackity was near yelling at this point. It felt good to let out all of his emotions after so long, putting everything into the open even if no one else heard him. He forced himself to calm down slightly, running a hand through his hair.

“Have you ever heard the story of Medea and Jason?” he asked abruptly. The air of the casino seemed to shift uncomfortably with his sudden change of tone, lighter and lower than before. “You probably have, with your obsession with Greek Mythology and shit. You know something interesting about Medea, though? Even though she did horrible, and I mean horrible things, she never lost the favor of the gods. She abandoned her country for some random dude she fell in love with, plotted the murders of her brother and father, as well as murdered a princess with a poison so strong that it killed anyone she touched, and even killed her own children. Yet she doesn’t pay for any of it. Through all of the murder and sorcery, the kept her favor with the gods, and was allowed to have a happy ending. Hell!” Quackity let out a barking laugh. “She doesn’t even die as far as anyone knows! Greek mythology is known for its love of horrible and dramatic deaths, yet of all of the myths she shows up in, never once does it mention her eventually dying, even of old age! Sounds like someone else we know, doesn’t it?”

He paused for a moment, as if expecting a reply. Of course, there was none.

“Now Jason, Jason, on the other hand, we see something interesting. You see, he loses his favor with the gods, specifically his patron Hera, because he was trying to marry another woman even though he was already married to Medea and had two children with her. Can you imagine your patron goddess being the lord of marriage and family, and then you trying to marry another woman? The balls on that man, I’m telling you. The point is, none of his heroic deeds mattered in the end. He lost favor with the gods, lost his wife and children, and ended up dying alone, crushed under the weight of the Argo. The only thing left to immortalize his heroism ended up being the cause of his death.”

Quackity suddenly paused. His words echoed in the casino around him. No longer was he pacing. Instead, he stared long into the distance, as if he could see something through the thick walls. The weight around his neck was nearly unbearable. When he spoke again, it was just above a whisper.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is you are an awful lot like Medea. Doing horrible things left and right with the gods still choosing to favor you, still getting a happy ending despite all the pain and grief you’ve caused. But…” he trailed off, looking back at the poster. It may have been his imagination, but Technoblade’s eyes seemed less mocking, somehow.

“I have hope. Maybe you’re not Medea. Maybe, just maybe, you’re Jason. You’ll do something so terrible that you’ll lose your favor with the gods, lose everything that ever mattered, and you’ll be crushed under the weight of what once proved your worth.” Quackity walked forward, reaching out his hand. His fingertips stopped less than an inch from the surface of the poster, just hovering. Waiting. Contemplating.

“But I can’t wait for that to happen. I can’t wait for the universe to finally decide you’ve lost its favor.”

He dropped his hand. “You once said something, Technoblade. You said: treat others as they have treated you. That was your excuse for everything you’ve done. I tried to enact that saying once before, and I lost a life because of it. This time around…”

Quackity finally snatched the poster from the place on the wall, rattling the glass in the process. He refused to acknowledge that there was the finest tremble in his hands, making the poster shake.

“Well, the universe already made me the villain of this story. Might as well act like one.”

Quackity ripped the poster to shreds, piece by piece, one of the last remaining pieces of L’Manburg destroyed at his hands. Soon it was so shredded that it was unrecognizable, a pile of paper falling softly to his feet. When it was gone, it felt like pressure was relieved from Quackity’s shoulders. For the first time in a long while, he smiled genuinely.

He walked out of the casino, leaving the pile there for another day. He was sure Slime would clean it up without much fuss.

And if the weight around his neck grew to be nearly unbearable-- well, that was no one's knowledge but his own.

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mc-critical · 3 years

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Would you agree that it’s almost impossible for motherhood in the harem to not be toxic to some degree? Especially so in mother-daughter relationships, but still prominent in mother-son relationships as well. (Also I’m not making this observation about harem motherhood to say that harem fatherhood is a lesser evil or non-toxic. If anything it’s even more toxic and damaging..especially given that it was such a norm for fathers to kill their children and feel completely justified in doing so, but that’s a discussion for another day.) I’ve observed this in almost every mother in the series. With Hafsa and her daughters (remember Sah at Mihrimah’s wedding talking about how her mother forced her and all of her sister’s to marry, and based on what it sounded like, at an extremely young age against their will), with Halime and Dilruba (Halime was geniunely okay with the possibility that Dilruba might die after Kösem kidnapped her if it meant sparing Mustafa’s life), with Hürrem and Mihrimah (forcing her to marry Rüstem at 17 years of age and using manipulation for years to keep her daughter in an unhappy marriage). The list goes on and these are just a few examples but I can’t not see a pattern here. Even with their princes there was the constant forcing a love-interest for upon their sons (Mahidevran I believe forced Fatma on Mustafa if I remember correctly? My memory is spotty there so tell me if I’m wrong) or eliminating their sons love interests in often brutal ways if it was self-serving (Hürrem killing Beyezeid’s harem to cover up Huricihan’s murder.) I almost believe there is no way for motherhood/fatherhood to be completely healthy in an enviornment like the harem especially given the examples.

Yes, I definetly agree with you on this one. It's truly almost impossible for mothers to not be toxic in some way in the environment that is the harem, because so much of it is dedicated on perpetuating such toxic behavior in both the dynastic and non-dynastic sultanas.

The first and foremost thing a woman who has just entered in the harem has to think about is how to survive, how to lend in a more comfortable position. And the first step in doing that is going to a halvet and bearing a child from the sultan. But that's not so easy, since she both has to make a solid impression and fight so many rivals on the way. The harem encourages competitiveness, putting people against each other for a single goal and the ambition to climb yourself as high in the hierarchy as you can, all of which leads to constant stress, paranoia and opportunism. As we see with so many characters and their arcs throughout the series, the longer you get to be in the harem, the longer you adapt to the system (which is a central theme of the franchise for a reason), the longer you endure, you just get used to it and at many aspects, absorb it. It's only natural at this point this would transfer to the children of the mothers, as well, because they are not only children, they are, as sad and unfortunate as it is, the keys to both full survival and success in the harem that can turn into tools for their mothers to mould when it's necessary. Because these mothers perfectly acknowledge that they aren't alone. When you bear a child, you do get to have a sense of comfort, but that comfort is only temporary and by the realization that there are other mothers with other children that will turn into deadly rivals for your own child, it slowly transitions into the next phase of the game of life in the harem: the fight for the throne where you have to fight harder than ever, actually. The most difficult part of it all seems to be just beginning and you have to use your best virtues as a player in the harem to win the war the system put you into. And a healthy relationship with your children, as we know it, sadly isn't a part of that.

There is this one exact aspect of the toxicity of some mothers you referred to here that comes more due to the exertion of the "mother knows best" attitude. No matter how many allies and supporters their one prince, in example, has, the mother is the one who would always vouch for him and would never turn his back on him, if only they're their ticket to more piece or that they've truly come to love him as they should. The system demands of the mother to raise the prince the best way she knows how and gain as much political advantage as she can, that including all these infamous political marriages. The mothers have to at least give their children sound advice of all things and that's what they also become used to, more or less. And them having these obligations, in a way, to their children, along with having gone through what they have in the harem, all make them believe that their children don't know better. They're the ones that have gone through this and have to stay strong and act pragmatically, not these children that have yet to find out what is going on. And even when they grow older, there is this decent possibility they won't realize the stakes of the game. MCK Bayezid is the most notorious example, with him living a fairly comfy life under Kösem's care when it comes to this that only vanished after Gülbahar came to the castle and he became the favourized heir of the throne and yet, Gülbahar still had to constantly remind him for so long that "he's the center of the fire" and that "they're in a war". MC Mustafa often refused to make pragmatic decisions that would've basically spared his life. Hürrem literally tells Cihangir that he shouldn't meddle in these things, because she knows better and thinks he can't tell the difference from right and wrong. So the mothers usually consider themselves forced to make the hard decisions instead of them, trying to keep all aspects of their life in check. That's why they meddle so much in their love lives, as well, along with their personal opinion and bias for the women they chose to be with, of course. Mahidevran and Valide wanted to marry Mustafa and Aybige for both reasons - Mahidevran both doesn't like Efsun and found the upper hand in a marriage with Aybige. {though it is important to note that Mahidevran specifically monitors Mustafa's love life because of the fear of the possibility of the next Hürrem, too, whose arrival and tradition breaking in the castle are still very deep wounds for her. She got over that eventually with Rumeysa and Mihrunnisa, but it was there and it was really showing at first. She sent Fatma to a halvet in E50 with the intent to distract Efsun away from Mustafa, but when Efsun was already dead, Mahidevran was strictly against all her attempts to sabotage the other concubine Mahidevran was sending and win Mustafa over and even decided to not send her to Manisa exclusively for that, disguising it with that she currently needs her in the castle.} I'm taking about the princes, but it obviously applies to the daughters, too, of course, especially Mihrimah, who also had a long way to go until she figured out what is the game all about and even then that only worked when it was connected to the protection of the family and Hürrem knew it. And while the daughters are perceived to have "less value" than the princes, bound to become sultans, as seen with Halime's relationship with Dilruba, they still play a significant part in the game and help the princes gain yet more security and the mothers influence the matters much more through the vezier or pasha the daughter has married. And it's as important to find the proper candidate, which is why Hürrem was against Taşlicalı and she broke her promise to marry Mihrimah to the person she loved. Leave it to the mothers to make the opportunistic choices that their grown-up children sometimes won't be able to make.

The fight for survival also triggers severe amount of protectiveness that plays a part in the toxicity of the mothers. They always have to keep an eye on the children, because there is the possibility of someone trying to attack them or someone else to try taking advantage of them, which is why, as well as attempting to dictate their actions, they always want to track every single move the sons and/or daughters make in order to dictate their actions. There is this prominent fear of backstabbing, betrayal and murder attempts that just can't let these mothers think or act otherwise.

It's tricky because even though some of them get so engrained into this it becomes a personality trait of theirs or apply personal gained bias when they embrace their toxic motherhood traits, they try their best to maintain cordial relations with their children and show them their genuine affection. There are so many profound mother-son and mother-daughter relationships that are either incredibly interesting on their own, either have so many human interactions with their sons or daughters, in spite of the circumstances. And in the case of, say, Halime and Mustafa, but almost all these relationships qualify, the huge amount of such interactions creates a very fine line between the tender affection and the toxicity the system causes them to show, which is why maybe it could be missed to an extent, but the narrative still does its best to make it obvious enough. It's so sad and chilling that the life in the harem just won't let healthy dynamics in general and if one starts to think for a second that the children may be an exception because they are the closest link to their mothers and the ones most likely to reveal their humanity, it soon becomes clear that this is far from the case. The system leaves nothing and no one untouched.

It becomes even tougher when, knowing the law of Fatih, a mother has to choose between her princes in the inevitable scenario where only they are the only heirs of the throne left. There every possible ounce of a healthy dynamic leaves much faster than usual, because the mothers have to realize sooner or later that they do actually have to make a choice. They love them all with the bottom of their hearts, but there is only one more fit to rule. And there is never a guarantee that the "chosen" or the only surviving prince will never dare to think about executing the law. That choice seems ludicrous, because how would a mother choose from her own children? This conflict is icredibly exploited through Hürrem in S04. She undergoes a subtle arc that has her deal with this precise moral dilemma. It tore apart her belief that the fight would be over after Mustafa's death and all her flaws in terms of Selim and Bayezid's parenting came back to her, with her seeing the problems and inevitable power struggle between them in their fullest power. She couldn't bring things back now, for their conflict had already gone too far. So she goes through fairly lengthy denial of the choice at hand and tries her best to search for a peaceful solution, for both of them to be able to "coexist", but she eventually realizes that this wouldn't be possible and when she did, it was way. too. late. And Hürrem had her preferred candidate for the throne regardless, so when you face that struggle as a mother, it's impossible for your relationship with your children to not be toxic in a way. And I know many mothers out there would relate with Hürrem's internal conflict when it came to this, because no matter how much they've adapted to the circumstances, these are their children, aren't they? The children of their own blood they cared for their whole life up to that moment! How damaging would that be for a mother? Kösem as a mother faced an even more extreme display of this, because she had too many princes and a son on the throne; she not only had to choose between them, she had to eliminate them as a desparate, but apparently necessary measure - she had presumably won, but then she came to realize that her son couldn't rule the country and didn't listen to any advice. As I've said before, her whole S02 arc was her coming to terms that she had to eventually eliminate him, for he stands against not only the country, but her as a representation of said country. She infamously sealed the pact to kill Ibrahim also because he apparently wasn't fit for the country. That tore her apart, but she did it anyway. In her time period, I dare say it's even harder to not have some kind of toxicity present in the mother's relationship with her children, because of its more dynamic rhythm and the ways of ruling in it where women, which are naturally mothers, too, are at the peak of their power and are way more likely to do stuff for its sake alone than in Süleiman's time. So we could argue that it's not only impossible for mothers not to show toxicity in the harem, but that toxicity increased as the franchise progressed, cementing the core contrast between MC and MCK: power for the sake of personal motives vs. power for the sake of power. That obviously has to impact the mothers, for they truly are the main players in this whole game.

I can't lie that it's more probable for the dynastic sultanas (that are not daughters of the sultan) to not show toxicity to their children, since they don't really have that survival fight in front of them and they have to build their families, live in a castle with them and that's about it, but then another problem arises - they have grown in the harem, they have grown with this toxicity. They have been taught this their whole life. They and their children can't exactly have healthy relationships, because the established hierarchy in the harem and the positions of these mothers are stopping them. They are gonna live with the mindset that the son is more important than the daughter (we have Hatice wanting her first baby to be a son) and even if the child is a girl, they would be constantly reminded of their social standing, that they have the blood of the dynasty. Yes, this is way less toxic, but could still bring problems and can't be healthy in a literal sense. Not to mention that ambition within a member of the dynasty isn't a concept to be discarded - Şah Sultan is the perfect example of this, with her wanting to marry Esmahan to Bali Bey, not just because her daughter is okay with this, but also because that marriage would be useful to her goals. Esmahan being the one who proposed it in the first place (as far as I recall?) and her wanting to put it in motion a lot, was only sheer luck.

Motherhoods in the harem are indeed fascinating, but toxic in one way or another. There is a clear pattern in all these relationships that is bound to show itself at some point and the fight for survival may cause mothers to put their own needs above the ones of their children's. And that kept going on and on for the longest time. There's so much humanity in these relationships, but a considerable amount of toxicity, too, that I blame mostly on this gross system.

[Fatherhood in the harem is truly even more toxic, destructive and even dangerous in many areas. Most fathers we've seen in the franchise are sultans and the sultans are notorious with their relenting paranoia of betrayal that manages to go over their own heads. I can go on and on how the same paranoia screwed every single sign of a healthy dynamic between a father and a son especially, rendering it totally nonexistent in a while, but that's truly a post for another day.]

#magnificent century #magnificent century kösem #magnificent century kosem #magnificent century: kösem #ask #stuffandthangs

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sanjuno · 5 years

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how do you reckon things would change if Obito and Kakashi remembered their past lives as Izuna and Kanna? (And have you given a past incarnation of Rin in the Warring Era?)

… @deverickracoma you mean, like in canon? Huhhhh…

Well first off before Rin was Nohara Rin she was Senju Touka. Which makes this situation super fun because both Izuna and Kanna died before Hashirama strong armed Konoha into existence and Touka only went along with it because Her Stupid Little Cousins Need Some Common Sense. XP

In her lives as both as Touka and as Rin she holds the single (1) braincell for this Disaster Trio.

So Izuna dies via Tobirama’s sword. And then Kanna kinda… revenge rampages with Madara until the critical angst threshold is reached as Kanna just… explodes both theirself and the battlefield.

There’s a whole lot of background stuff behind the suicide run such as Kanna’s Hatake side suffering from mate-loss depression and their Uchiha side suffering from Makengyou Madness and also Really Bad post-partum depression compounding it and yeah. Unfortunately Madara is just as wrecked from Izuna’s death so he can’t really support Kanna and it all goes to shit because we all know canon is a shitshow.

But anyway Touka is there to see Izuna die and she is well aware that Tobirama has just made a horrible decision driven by unacknowledged jealously and overzealous paranoia. Then Touka barely manages to save Tobirama’s pasty ass from the screaming revenge demon that she later learns was Izuna’s wife. And then Touka stands witness as Hashirama forces peace at sword point.

So Touka is just there like, “Oh for fucks sake we’re all going to die horribly.”

And, of course, Touka was right everything is horrible and everything hurts.

Only now it’s plot-twist time and Touka, who was investigating certain questionable sources about the ongoing breakdown of social order in Konoha gets killed by Zetsu in order to cause even more tension against the Uchiha in Konoha and hey guess what? Yeah, that’s right Rin remembers the creepy plant-demon thing gloating about stealing Uchiha Madara (aka the only one vaguely strong enough to combat Kaguya at that time given he had naturally manifested the Rinnegan) for his own use before Zetsu killed her in a suspiciously ambiguous manner.

Shit.

Fuck.

Four year old Nohara Rin has a vendetta and the ability to kill a grown man.

So obviously given that the Plant Demon is trying to kill off the Uchiha using shadowy assassinations and rumour mongering the Plant Demon is afraid of the Uchiha. Ergo the Uchiha are a threat to the Plant Demon otherwise it would confront the Uchiha more openly.

So.

Rin therefore needs to make super-duper ride-or-die best friends forever with at least one (1) Uchiha. And then, on the first day at the Academy, Rin runs into an absolute dork wearing Madara’s face.

Ah. Says Rin, channelling canon!Madara. That One. That’s The One I Need For My Plan To Succeed.

Cue the Rin and Obito Bonding Moment ™ that will repeat as a flashback every time their history is at any point mentioned in the narrative.

As for Obito, well… when he was Izuna he loved his Clan but then when he was reborn he read the Clan Histories from after his death and the public history of Konoha and Obito knows his Clan are a bunch of fucking traitors who stabbed his big brother in the back and that’s why Obito is both disgusted by the Uchiha and overprotective of the Clan’s reputation because Madara still loved their Clan even after they turned on him.

I may include Obito unearthing Madara’s private journals from a hidden cubby in the Naka Shrine that only Izuna would have known to look for. Just for the sake of an extra knife and also so that Obito can find proof of Zetsu’s sabotaging his brother’s mental health.

Obito is more than a little weepy and sentimental over the fact that Madara honoured Izuna’s last request to the point Madara destroyed himself and his connection to the Clan. Obito can’t blame Madara for giving in when Hashirama forced peace to try and protect the few loyal Clan members who remained. Obito decides to protect Konoha and the Uchiha because he won’t let Madara’s last wish go unfulfilled but he’s going to become the fucking Hokage and tear out all the Senju-inflicted rot infecting his Big Brother’s Dream.

Obito is openly disdainful of the Clan Elders and the only people he even vaguely respects is the Head Family. Mostly because Mikoto is descended from Izuna’s daughter and even though Izayoi married “Tobirama’s student Kagami” she was still his baby girl and Mikoto is his great-grand daughter and he loves her because she’s his family.

Mikoto, Obito, and Shisui are all descendants of Kagami and Izayoi’s kids so they’re second-third cousins. Obito spends a lot of time pondering the overlap of self-care and I-love-my-grandbabies. It’s a fun little exercise in existentialism.

In the meantime Kakashi is still a little shit-disturber of the highest order. Kanna was taught all the fun Uchiha Clan Skills as Izuna’s wife and now Kakashi has learned all the fun Hatake Clan Skills from Sakumo and the little bastard is even more terrifying than canon. Kakashi is more gender-fluid than agender the way Kanna was though which is a fun new flavour of dysphoria-through-reincarnation that I’ll probably enjoy exploring.

Now, this does mean that Kakashi starts wearing his mask before Sakumo gets scapegoated which is a minor yet still significant change from Kakashi’s canon characterization-and-motivations.

So Kakashi blitzes their way through the Academy in like, 6 months because Kakashi has negative chill and an understandably paranoid focus on keeping their dad alive this time around. The only people Kakashi respects are the Military Police and their Dad everyone else can perish. Minato is A Constant Despair because he cannot control this sassy hell child Sakumo-sempai pls tell your son to l i s t e n t o m e.

Sakumo-sempai goes “LOL nope” because Sakumo is also a troll but is better at hiding it than Kakashi is.

So Rin and Obito are BFFs then Kakashi rips through their class like ground lightning and the sparring scene happens but the kickback of Uchiha-memories manifesting as body action means the spar is a familiar dance and so Obito is like “OMG K a n n a” and cue Obito stalking Kakashi like a schoolgirl with an obsessive crush and no concept of personal boundaries.

Enough shenanigans occur to 1. make Team Minato a cohesive and functional thing instead of a train wreck, and 2. keep Sakumo alive because Kakashi recognizes their Dad’s suicidal tendencies for what they are and so they set their ninken up as watchdogs to make sure Sakumo doesn’t do anything stupid. Because Kakashi’s biggest regret is leaving Madara and Izayoi to suffer grief without them and they refuse to let that sort of despair take away anyone they care about again.

So now Team Minato is bonding, and they are friends, and they are all slowly coming to the realization that they all remember their previous lives. So they start to share information and gradually piece together where Zetsu’s influence has been applied as they try to figure out what the Plant Demon’s endgame is.

Which means that Team Minato is 100% more paranoid about mission intelligence than they were in canon and also Rin more than ready to gut the Iwa-nin who tries to kidnap her during the Kannabi Bridge Mission so that’s fun. Team Minato has also made a point system for rooting out moles, spies, and traitors to hand over to T&I.

Sarutobi had a lovely headache when the knowledge that Sakumo’s mission had been sabotaged “accidentally” got leaked. (Kakashi had given the old man more than enough time to fix the rumour mill so it’s on Sarutobi’s own head that he didn’t take action before Kakashi did.)

Also Team Chaos Gremlins Minato manages to charm Orochimaru over to their camp via one of Obito’s rage fuelled rants about dismantling the hypocritical indoctrination of the institutionalized status quo. Specifically, the fact that the Hokage is supposed to be a public service position voted on by the people who only really has complete executive power during war time. Instead of a unilateral dictator chosen by the previous Hokage’s undisguised bias and favouritism.

Also because they’re all proof of the reincarnation cycle existing. Orochimaru is living his best life especially when Team Minato trash talks the other two Sannin.

Rin is the Most Offended by Tsunade fucking off and abandoning her responsibilities. Tsunade basically inherited all of Hashirama’s worst traits without any obvious redeeming qualities to balance it out. Because, let’s be honest, the only reason Hashirama got any level of respect is because he was Over Powered to the point of ridiculousness and because Tobirama plus Mito were in charge of his public image.

Kakashi and Obito are both hyper-loyal so having Jiraiya decide to just not come back during wartime and for Tsunade to abandon her responsibilities as a healer and Clan Head has destroyed any possible respect they might have had.

Obviously Orochimaru is the best Sannin so he’s the one they’re going to make friends with. Also they drag Orochimaru back to the Hatake Clan House to commiserate with Sakumo about being the target of a Village wide smear campaign. Which strengthens both Orochimaru and Sakumo’s spirits enough to resist their Bad Endings from canon.

All of this basically allows Team Minato to have the leverage to track down Zetsu’s creeper cave and they find Madara trapped and blinded and leashed to the Gedo Mezo, and Obito nearly has a world-destroying breakdown. Rin stands guard while Obito and Kakashi have a tearful reunion with Madara and there’s a lot of dramatic apologizing and sobbing.

They all know that they can’t leave Madara here with Zetsu, but detaching him means he’s going to die. Eventually Madara makes the decision himself to break the connection because he refuses to be used as a hostage against his little brother. So Madara tells Obito where his eyes are (which means that the Ame trio are going to get kidnapped by Team Minato eventually) plus a run-down of all the subversive plots Zetsu has had a hand in, and then Madara outright smashes the statue.

Normally nothing would be able to destroy the Gedo Mezo given that it’s basically the fossilized corpse of a god but Madara is currently part of it which means that the statue’s defences don’t realize Madara is a threat. So, statue goes boom, the cave starts to collapse, and Team Minato runs away with Madara’s body so they can give him a respectful burial.

Zetsu has approximately ten thousand aneurysms in the space of one (1) second.

From here the kickback really starts to pile up because Obito now makes a habit of dropping in on newborn Uchiha to check and see if Madara’s been reborn yet. Which means that Sasuke has a really invested older cousin hanging around to take Itachi’s place when Itachi make dumb decisions.

Rin is grumpy because basically every Clan who joined Konoha had a bunch of Senju marry into their Clan so finding Hashirama’s reincarnation is basically impossible. (And then, of course, Naruto is born and Rin faceplams 1000 times because of fucking course.)

Kakashi is laughing at both of them. Right up until they take command of Team 7 and notice a hated familiar chakra under the skin of a pink haired little girl. (All three members of Team Minato nearly die laughing because Tobirama is a pink haired little girly girl heeeeee~)

Anyway aside from all the family drama Team Minato also manages to dispose of Danzo and exposes his “plot against the Hokage”, boosting Sakumo’s public image to the point he gets named as the Fourth, fixing the stigma Orochimaru faced despite being the only loyal member of the Sannin, and basically terrorizing Konoha with Political Activism.

Zetsu probably goes a bit around the bend thanks the Team Minato destroying all his hopes and dreams plans. Also they keep putting the pressure on and exposing Zetsu’s schemes and eventually that gains enough momentum that the other Villages are taking a good hard look at shit that’s going down and hey wait w h a t t h e f u c k …

Obito eventually takes over as the Fifth Hokage and tears apart the corrupt government systems like a Tasmanian Devil going through a rotting carcass because Big Brother’s Dream Will Become A Reality B E L I E V E I T !

The End. XP

#Sanjuno talks back #the memory remains #Sanjuno metafic #reincarnation AUs

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chipper9906 · 3 years

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Heal The Cracks Within My Heart - Chapter 2: Rubble and Ruins

<- - - Previous Chapter

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR LOKI SEASON 1 EPISODE 6 ‘FOR ALL TIME. ALWAYS.’

Pairings: Loki/Sylvie

Rating: General Audiences

Chapter Word Count: 12,627

Overall Word Count: 24,700 (In Progress)

Status: Multi Chapter Fic - In Progress (2/?)

Chapter Preview:

“You know what would be nice? If we at least once got to kiss without either of us crying. Two for two’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

He had thrown the joke out there in some sort of an attempt to lighten the mood. That’s not to say that he wanted to divert from this conversation, but more because of the way he could see that Sylvie was sinking back into her memory of that day, and he knew that would lead to no good. Nothing but self-blame and a whole lot of regrets - as seemed usual for nearly every decision a Loki has made in their life.

But the attempt at a joke did not get a laugh out of Sylvie. Not even a smile. Instead, he felt his heart leap into his throat at the way her eyes - that were still boring deep into his soul - flickered down to his lips, lingering there for just a moment before returning back to his intense gaze.

“We’re not crying now.”

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Miiphus was one of the smaller planets that existed within the universe. At least, smaller than most other planets from its neighboring systems, to the point where the entire population of this one planet was probably equal to around the population size of one city on any other planet.

It had its charms, though. For one, those that were born and lived on this planet got to experience the whole ‘small town’ vibe that was lost to time to many civilizations as time went on and the population grew and grew. That kind of scenario where you personally knew everyone in the village, almost as well as you knew your own family. Hell, everyone practically was family. It was vital for this kind of small community for everyone to help each other, for everyone to treat one another like family. It was the only way to survive.

This… was not the impression the two of them received as they first stepped onto Miiphus, however. At least, certainly not for Loki. The very first moment he stepped out from that Time Door, he had to pause to take a moment and absorb the horror of what they'd walked into. Sylvie was striding on ahead, apparently with a destination in mind and, apparently, not being phased at all by what surrounded them.

It was… complete and utter destruction. There wasn’t a single step he could take without stepping on rubble, of whatever remained of a family’s home that once stood proud and tall, sheltering its occupants within. Whatever the city once was, was now reduced to nothing but smoldering debris, and — to his horror — the occasional charred body laying about, their clothes now pieces of blackened rags that clung to soot covered bones and whatever bits of burnt flesh that hadn’t completely succumbed to the heat. The white color of their bones stood out amongst the debris, shining in the dark night as the glow of the five moons over their heads shone down.

“What is this place?”

“Miiphus,” Sylvie answered dutifully from ahead of him. “Fourth planet in the Dioscuri System. This is -- was -- pretty much the only city it’s people had built.”

“Are you sure the Apocalypse event hasn’t happened already?” Loki called out to Sylvie, resuming his pace and chasing after her once he realized how far ahead she had gotten already.

“Certain,” Sylvie asserts, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was keeping up. “If you think this is bad… just wait.”

Loki didn’t know where to look. He didn’t even know if he wanted to look. There’s only so many tiny, child-sized corpses that were holding onto the remains of their parents — families frozen in that one moment of terror — that he can take before his violently turning stomach threatens to empty its contents.

Which, now he thinks about it, would probably be nothing more than bile. He couldn’t even remember the last time he ate…

Billows of ash were kicked up into the air with every step they took, careful not to tread upon a loose skull here and there. His lungs burned with every inhale, not just for the soot that was starting to cover them, but with the knowledge he was breathing in more than just soot. How much of this ash was compromised of the remenants of this planet's people? How much peeling skin, flakes of bone, and burnt organs were filling his lungs?

“Don’t think about it,” Sylvie’s voice, thankfully, snaps him out of his thoughts. He had seemingly come to a stop without realizing it, and Sylvie stood watching him with a knowing look. “It’s not worth dwelling on. There’s nothing we can do.”

Loki swallows thickly, his throat feeling tight and restricted. He tries his best to follow Sylvie’s advice, keeping his gaze from wandering over to his surroundings. He keeps his eyes focused on the back of Sylvie, following her lead as she guides them out of the ruined city. Despite his attempts not to let his eyes wander, he can’t help but take the occasional glance whenever they entered a new street. The consistent level of damage inflicted upon each building was almost impressive when he thought about it from a different viewpoint. Or, at least, the viewpoint he once had. Turns out, all it takes is to be imprisoned by an overwhelmingly powerful organization that dictates all of time and decides that you don’t have the right to exist in their universe for him to change his mind about the allure of control over others.

It’s of a great relief when he sees the buildings around them becoming sparser and sparser, appreciating the lungfuls of fresh air he was breathing in as the city landscape gradually changed to flattened farmlands. “Do we even need to hide in Apocalypses anymore?” Loki asks, jogging forward to reach Sylvie, walking side-by-side. “I mean, what with everything going on, I doubt us being in the wrong place is going to show up on their radar anymore.”

“Maybe not,” Sylvie agrees — or so Loki thinks. “Or maybe now that there’s an infinite amount of TVA’s out there, it might be best to assume they could know more than we do — especially if He Who Remains is in charge of them — and He himself could be doing all he could to hunt us down, and kill us; just like we’re trying to do to him.”

“Right…” Loki mumbled awkwardly, scratching at the back of his head. “Um... if that is the case, then… what if some of the TVA’s have already figured out that we’re hiding in Apocalypses? I’m sure if I could figure it out, then-,”

Sylvie came to a sudden stop with a tired-sounding sigh, holding out an arm to stop him mid-stride. He did so, looking around to see if she had spotted something he hadn’t noticed. “You could be right. Thing is, we really don’t know. We don’t know anything, it feels like. Everything that could happen, could happen; it’s already happened, or it’s about to happen, or… or…. or I don’t know. But what I do know is that hiding in Apocalypse’s has worked in keeping me alive for the past thousand years or so, so I’m going to keep doing that until it doesn’t.”

Sylvie didn’t even wait to hear his reaction, carrying on forward and leaving him standing there for a few seconds staring at the space she just was. Loki shakes his head, bringing himself back to reality and chasing after her once more.

“I’m going to apologize in advance for all the questions, because I know they’re annoying-,” Loki begins, and it at least gets a huffed exhale of laughter from Sylvie. “-And I don’t mean to sound like I doubt your navigational skills but… how do you know where we’re going?”

The mostly flat farmland had given way to more of a hilly, uneven terrain, spotted with the occasional stubby tree that probably provided hikers and nearby farmers with much-needed shade in the heat of the day.

“Because I’ve been here before,” Sylvie’s voice comes out breathy, the two of them slightly winded by the up and down climb of the land. She had come to a stop at the top of the hill, taking the time to catch her breath as she waits for Loki to reach her side. He reaches the top only a few moments after, bending over to place his hands on his thighs and take in deep lungfuls of air that his body was demanding, the cool night air freezing as he inhales sharply through his teeth.

The movement of her hand out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, glancing up to see her gesturing at the valley below them. Not that he needed for her to point it out; it was kind of hard to miss the multiple rows of tents that were nestled into the valley, stretching as far as the eye could see. Small campfires were dotted between the tents, and he could just about make out the sight of people milling about the place, evidently enjoying each other’s company despite the late hour.

“What am I looking at?” Loki asks, slowing straightening himself back up to a stand.

Sylvie turns her head to look at him, a sad smile on her lips at his question. “The last of this planet’s people.”

This was… this was it? All that he could see, to the ends of the horizon… an entire planet’s population reduced to numbers that could fit in a single area he could see from a few miles away. The quiet of the night had never seemed so eerie now, looking down to what he knew was likely the last night of an entire planet’s existence.

“Come on,” Sylvie says softly, the delicate touch of her fingers against his hands a welcoming comfort. She gives his hand a light pull, a request to keep moving, and he follows after her without much thought. He wasn’t too sure why, but the idea of going towards all these people and intermixing with them felt like… like they would be intruding. The TemPad wrapped around Sylvie’s hand was a guarantee that they’d get out of this, that they’d hop away to yet another world and leave this one far behind. But for these people, it was their very last night. It almost felt like… like they were mocking them.

They closed the distance far too quickly for Loki’s liking, the glow of the multiple campfires growing stronger and stronger as they approached. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Loki whispered lowly to Sylvie. “Won’t they notice us?”

“They won’t care,” Sylvie assured him. “They’ve already lost so many people; the idea of strangers doesn’t exist to them anymore. They’re just happy to see someone that's…”

“-Alive,” Loki finishes her sentence grimly, grimacing as he looks around to the last of the survivors.

Sure enough, as the two of them weave through the small gathered crowds of friends, families, neighbors, everyone, people barely bat an eyelid at them. There are a few occasional curious glances, accompanied by whispers of a language he does not know, but they soon turn back to the fires they were huddled around, absorbing the warmth the flickering flames provided.

Loki feels some of the tension building in his shoulders drop away as they manage to find a somewhat secluded spot at the other end of this refugee settlement, sitting just at the edge between the mass of makeshift tents and the seemingly infinite stretch of wilderness beyond. It seemed that whatever group that had been situated around this fire had retired for the night, the last of the flames flickering pathetically in the blackened pile of wood and ashes left behind. Loki gives a quick glance around to their surroundings, making sure no one was watching as he guides his magic towards the fire, encouraging its flames to become rekindled.

“Impressive,” Sylvie remarks at the sight of the newly born flames that roared to life, their color briefly a light shade of green as they’re created under the effects of his magic. It lasts for less than a second, though – not long enough for anyone lingering nearby to notice the strangely green-colored fire before it’s returned to its usual comforting orange glow.

“It’s a neat little party trick,” Loki comments with a sly smile, taking a seat on one of the logs that had been rolled over to the fire. It felt as uncomfortable as it looked. “I might have set fire to Thor’s cape a few times while I was learning it.”

Sylvie rolls her eyes at him, though the small smile pulling at the corner of her lips gave away her amusement. “And they were entirely accidents, I’m sure.”

Loki grins unashamedly at her as she drops down next to him with a tired-sounding huff, rolling her shoulders back in an attempt to alleviate some of the built-up tension. She grimaces at the soreness of her muscles –particularly in the stiffness of her neck – bending it left and right to try and work out some of those knots.

She nearly jumps to her feet at the feeling of hands on her shoulders, making the pain even worse as she whips her head around to see who was touching her. She supposed she shouldn’t be too surprised to see it had been Loki, who looked about as startled at her reaction as she had felt at his touch, already having removed his hands from her as if he had touched a boiling hot stove.

“Sorry,” He says, eyes wide as saucers as he holds his hands out in front of him in a clear message that he wasn’t going to touch her. “I… probably should have asked first.”

“What were you even trying to do?” Sylvie asks, placing a hand on the spot of her shoulders where his hands were moments ago.

“...Trying to give you a massage?” Loki states like it were obvious – which for most, it probably would be. “It’s just, you kind of looked like you needed it, and I thought maybe you’d…” Loki trails off awkwardly, clearing his throat as his gaze drops away from her inquisitive one. “Never mind. It was a stupid idea-,”

"No, don't apologize, it's..." Sylvie begins to explain. “Sometimes, it’s just… hard to switch off that paranoia. Nearly every close call I had running from the TVA was because I let myself relax too much — let my guard down in times I thought I was safe.”

Loki nods in understanding, but the guilt still had yet to leave his face. He held his hands in his lap like he wasn’t too sure what to do with them now, tapping his fingers against his arm in a nervous repetition.

Sylvie sighed quietly to herself, wondering how exactly it is that they managed to find a way to make every single quiet moment between them awkward in some kind of way. Then again, in their defense, this wasn’t exactly something they had done before. Flirting with strangers she had no intention of getting to know was something she had learned quickly as she grew older within apocalypse after apocalypse. Truthfully, it was easy. Turns out it doesn’t take much coercing to get someone into your bed when the world is crumbling apart around you. A few looks, a few suggestions here and there, the constant reiteration that this would be their last night on the planet, and BAM — yet another mark to add to the tally of her body count. The non-murder one, she means.

But… it wasn’t like that with Loki. She had no plans to seduce him, get her fill, and be gone before they even got the chance to know her name. What she had with Loki was... something she had never had before. Something didn’t know she had even wanted before. Whilst there was no denying that the most physical side of her attraction to him resulted in the same kind of, um… cravings that were just as prevalent as all her other romantic endeavors, she had never felt this… this more emotional attraction. He understood her like no one ever could — more than she understands herself, it sometimes felt like. And as much as she feels she too understands him, she’s overtaken by this desire to know more. She wants to know everything about the man sat by her side, down to the pointless stuff like what his favorite color is. She wants to know what it feels like to have his hands on her body, and for her to welcome it, not jump three feet in the air and have to fight back the urge to take a swing. She wants to know what it’s like to open her eyes every morning, and feel her heart race not from fear but from exhilaration and contentedness at the sight of him laying next to her, instead of yet another stranger.

She wanted… him. Every part of him, from the good to the ugly. Long ago, she had accepted that she would live her life with only herself for company. And now? Now, she found it next to impossible to envision a scenario where he wasn’t by her side.

Except now, it seemed that she had knocked any and all confidence that Loki might have once had, and the moment was fading from view before it had even gotten the chance to start. She bit down the frustrated groan she wanted to release, feeling like she had just kicked a puppy with how dejected Loki looked.

“Promise me this won’t stop you.”

Loki glances up in surprise at her words. “Promise you… what?”

“I know I’m not…” Sylvie’s face scrunched up as she tried to think of a way to put this. “I’m not the easiest person to get along with. And I know that it’s even harder when we’re…” She struggled to find the right word, opting instead to gesture between them with a flail of her hand.

Loki stared back at her with one rather judgemental-looking eyebrow raised. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a bit more concise than that-,”

“I’m trying to say that I don’t want you to stop trying,” Sylvie got out in a rush, the flush of heat to her cheeks a sensation she hadn’t felt in quite some time. “All of this is super new to me, and yeah, it might take me some time to get used to it. But I will. So long as you-,”

“-Keep trying,” Loki finished for her with the subtlest twitch at the corner of his lips. “I think I can do that.”

“Good,” Sylvie sniffled, trying not to act as awkward as she felt, playing off the redness that had spread across her face as heat rash from the fire. “Just so we’re on the same page.”

Loki couldn’t help but chuckle softly to himself at her failed attempts to act nonchalant, not withering In the slightest at her light-hearted glare. “So… do I try and give you a massage again, or…”

Her glare only strengthened. “You can be an incredibly infuriating man at times, I hope you know that.”

“Oh, I’m very aware,” Loki replied. “But I also feel it adds a bit to my charm, don’t you?”

“Hmm… I’ll have to get back to you on that one,” Sylvie said, stretching out her limbs in the direction of the fire, savoring the warmth that radiated from it. What she didn’t notice was that, as she stared into the beauty of the flickering flames and spitting golden embers, Loki’s eyes were still fixated on her, enjoying a different type of beauty — though one that was no less mesmerizing: the light from the fire bouncing off her face, casting shades of soft oranges and reds that battled with the shadows of night and the sharp bright light from the moons overhead.

“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re another version of me,” Loki wonders out loud, resting his chin in his hands as he continues to drink her in.

Sylvie cocks an eyebrow at him, regarding him out of the corner of her eye. “And why’s that?”

“Because you’re just so…” Loki paused, and the trailing end of his sentence was enough to arouse Sylvie’s suspicions - though she still waited patiently for him to finish his thoughts. As someone who prided himself on his choice of words and rather extensive vocabulary, he suddenly found himself devoid of words. Really, there was only one word echoing around in his head as he looked to her, and… and maybe he was overthinking all of this. Maybe the simpler option was the best.

“Because I’m…?” Sylvie tried to get him to continue his sentence, the playful smile on her face hinting that she was expecting Loki to say something insulting here in an attempt to rile her up.

“Beautiful,” Loki’s voice was soaked in a softness he didn’t even know he could reach. It was clear Sylvie wasn’t expecting this answer, the teasing smile on her face dropping away to a look of genuine shock. “Although, I’m sure you know that already, and I’m sure I’m not the first person to tell you that, but-,” And there he went, rambling away again. She just seemed to have that effect on him.

The touch of her hand on his knee was enough to bring his ramblings to a stuttering stop, effectively drying up any words he were to speak - or, at least, any words that actually made some sort of sense.

“It’s the first time I’ve heard it from someone that matters,” Sylvie tells him.

Loki smiles, placing his hand atop hers on his knee. “Then I’ll be sure to say it more often,” He says it like a promise — one he fully intends to keep.

There was that part of her, a part she’s sure will always be buried deep within, that was telling her to stop all of this. It was one of self-preservation, needing to be cruel to prevent the heartache later down the road. It was hard to shake off the years of saying goodbye to every person she’s ever crossed paths with, only getting to know people for the briefest of times before they’re obliterated from the universe. She learned fairly quickly that it was better to stay away and live a lonely life than one of single-day friendships and infinite, painful goodbyes.

Even now, after all that’s happened, it still remains there. It was all supposed to end with her sword plunged into the chest of whoever ran the TVA, and she had done that. And yet… here she was again, running from the TVA and creating yet another plan to take out their leader again. Oh, and there were multiple versions of him somewhere out there, most likely already out on a quest of conquest. There was even a chance that He already knew of them, from where some form of the TVA out there hot on their tails having reported these two stubborn variants in possession of TVA equipment to their all-powerful leader

Well… at least she didn’t have to go it alone this time. Even with that voice screaming at her to get away from Loki as fast as possible, to separate herself from him before those already messy, judgment-clouding feelings only grow all the more messier, and all the more stronger. No, this time, it was different. This time, she would not listen to that voice. She would allow herself to have these moments, of his touch on her, and she’d…. she’d let herself want this — because God’s help her, she does.

“Wait, hang on a minute,” Sylvie starts, narrowing her eyes at him in amusement. “What you just said… are you insinuating you don’t find yourself beautiful? You? You’re a Loki -- narcissism is what makes us!”

“Well, I’m not sure if beautiful is the word I’d use…” Loki said. “Perhaps ‘dashingly handsome’ or perhaps even ‘dapper’, or something along those lines. But… it’s also ‘beauty in the eye of the beholder' and all that, is it not?”

Sylvie somehow manages to pack a whole lot of sarcasm into her hum of agreement. “Kind of sounds like you’re just trying to fish for compliments now.”

“Is it working?”

“Afraid not.”

Loki ‘tsked’ with a click of his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “You should know better than to lie to someone who does it professionally, Sylvie.”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“I saw the way you looked at me back on Lamentis,” Loki said, getting a confused eyebrow raise from Sylvie. “In that little mining cabin? I couldn’t quite figure out if you were going to threaten me to get the TemPad, or seduce me.”

Sylvie’s snort of laughter chipped a tiny bit of his ego off. “I was trying to enchant you. Needed to find some way to get close enough to you without getting a knife in my throat.”

“And seduction was the best way to go about that?” Loki exclaimed.

Sylvie shrugged her shoulders. “Worked before.”

Loki wasn’t too sure why the thought of Sylvie looking at others in the way he had looked at her made him feel quite so bitter. Actually, that was a lie. He knew exactly why he was feeling like that. He just didn’t like to admit that the claws of jealousy had dug in quite so deep.

“Well, now I feel like I owe you a compliment, what with you looking so downcast,” Sylvie said, giving his shoulder a playful nudge with her own.

“Only if you mean it,” Loki grumbled, flicking out a hand to cast a bit more of his magic to revitalize the dying flames of the fire.

“You know, there’s a reason I kissed you back in the citadel-” Sylvie began, only for Loki to quickly interject.

“Oh, well I had assumed it was due to me pouring my heart out to you; unless me becoming a crying mess suddenly made me irresistible to you-”

“Would you at least let me finish what I was saying?” Sylvie shoved his shoulder perhaps a little bit harder than she should have, nearly sending Loki sprawling off the log. “Look, I could give you the usual compliments, with the -- what were the ones you used? Dashingly handsome and what not?”

“But… you won’t?”

“No, I won’t. But not because I don’t think them, but because… because whatever this is-” Sylvie gestured with a hand between them. “-It goes deeper than all that.”

“Ah…” Loki said quietly, looking away to the fire with a nod of his head. “You know, the whole ‘beauty is on the inside’ thing is what people say to ugly people.”

Sylvie did all she could to bury down the urge to shove him into the fire. “All right, you want the truth?”

Loki perked up at that, looking back over to Sylvie in anticipation.

“Have you ever heard the term ‘the eyes are the windows into the soul?’” Sylvie asked, getting a somewhat confused-looking nod in response. “You’re a very skilled man, Loki. Especially in the art of manipulation, and deceit. You somehow find a way to twist everything you say, to turn serious conversations into a game – one where somehow you always end up on top, knowing everything you set out to discover, without the other person even realizing they’ve lost. I’ve seen the sharp wit of your thoughts reflected in your eyes when we first met, and you were trying to play that very same game with me. I’ve seen the… cruel humor shining in them as you fight, the enjoyment you find in inflicting that kind of pain.”

Sylvie’s eyes were boring deep into his as she spoke, and Loki wondered what exactly his eyes were giving away in this very moment.

“But when we were in that citadel? When you were begging for me to stop, and I had my blade held to your throat? I saw none of that in your eyes. No ulterior motives, no trickery. Just… you. You, bearing the entire truth, and it didn’t even matter how much conviction your words held. I saw it all in your eyes, anyway. And that’s when I knew, I…” Sylvie huffed out a quiet laugh. “I was doomed. I couldn’t kill you. And I didn’t want to hurt you, either. But I knew that I was going to have to if it meant keeping you safe. Even from me.”

“And so you kissed me,” Loki said.

“And so I kissed you,” Sylvie echoed softly. “Because I knew I needed to say goodbye, and because… because it was the only way I knew how to say that I felt the same.”

Loki looked down to the ground, sliding his tongue across his upper lip unconsciously before he spoke. “You know what would be nice? If we at least once got to kiss without either of us crying. Two for two’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

But the attempt at a joke did not get a laugh out of Sylvie. Not even a smile. Instead, he felt his heart leap into his throat at the way her eyes — that were still boring deep into his soul — flickered down to his lips, lingering there for just a moment before returning back to his intense gaze.

“We’re not crying now.”

It was as clear an invitation as any. And yet, the thought of leaning in and closing the distance between them still filled his body with uncertainty and hesitation. Not because he didn’t want to — in fact, just how much he did want to was all kinds of terrifying with how much it overwhelmed him — but because… truth be told, he was scared of messing this all up. Both times they’ve kissed, he had let her take control. She had been the one to make that first step, to reach out to him and let their lips slide together. She had been the initiator, and he had been the eager and willing participant.

Now though, that didn’t seem to be the case. The tension was building between them with every passing second, and he knew full well that Sylvie was doing all she could to say ‘Kiss me, you idiot’ without actually saying anything out loud. And yet, that fear remained that he’ll step over the line, push her boundaries too much, and… that’d be it.

But he’d made a promise to her. He said he’d keep trying, no matter what.

So he kept his promise.

Loki leaned forward, pausing a hairs-breadth away, their lips barely brushing against each other. He gave her that opportunity, that moment where she could decide if she wanted to pull away. He gives it a beat, a single breath of anticipation against his mouth. He thinks she may start to say his name - most likely to call him an idiot - but then he swallows up her words with his lips. There was no rush to it. No in the moment, emotions on a knife’s edge, desperation to it like there had been the other times. It was just… them. She wasn’t kissing him because it was a goodbye, or a distraction, and he wasn’t kissing her in the fear that he may never see her again. It was simply because they wanted to, and because they can.

Loki’s hand drifted up to her face, caressing the side of her jaw and leaning deeper into the kiss. Heat seemed to burn through his veins, almost as if he was actually sitting in the roaring fire nearby instead of being sat next to it. It felt like his entire body wanted to sink into it, into their kiss, into her. And, judging by the way her hand had latched onto a patch of shirt by his chest, scrunching it up so hard that he could feel the scratch of her nails against his skin, she wanted it just as much as he did.

And… that’s when the cheering started.

They both startled apart, ripping their hands away from one another and instinctively reaching for their weapons. It appeared that a small group of the locals had wandered over, curious to know who the newcomers were, and had walked into quite the sight. Both Loki and Sylvie wore matching red faces at the sounds of their cheers and hollering, not understanding a word of what was being spoken but understanding the teasing in their tone nonetheless.

“Seems we’ve attracted quite the audience…” Loki murmurs to Sylvie, leaning his head towards her to keep his voice unheard from the locals.

“They… they didn’t do this last time,” Sylvie whispers back. “No one took notice, or came over to see who I was.”

“Well, it’s not like last time, is it?” Loki spoke to Sylvie, but his eyes were cautiously trained on one of the locals who had stepped away from the group, approaching the two with a big smile on his face and an object in hand that he couldn’t identify from here. “You weren’t with me.”

They both still kept a hand on their weapons as the man approached. The man didn’t seem to take notice — and if he did, he didn’t seem to care. Like the others of this planet, he was dressed in a long robe that cut off just after the ankles, it's likely once strikingly turquoise color now covered in a layer of dust, with various rips and tears slashed into the silky looking material. The smile had yet to wipe from his face as he arrived at their fire, babbling away in whatever language it was that these people spoke. Neither had any clue as to what the man was saying, but the friendliness of his tone seeped into his words, and whilst the two of them remained somewhat wary, it did help to relax some of the tension that had been building since the man arrived.

“I’m sorry, we… we don’t speak your language,” Loki tried speaking slowly and carefully, enunciating every syllable clearly.

The man did look slightly taken aback by the strange language they spoke, and for a moment, the two of them wondered if they were going to have to use their blades after all. There was a good chance they might be mistaken for these people's enemies, and trying to claim your innocence when both parties don’t speak the same language was going to be quite tricky…

Thankfully, however, it didn’t seem to be the case. The man seemed to brush by the issue of them speaking an entirely different language quite quickly, plastering the beaming smile straight back onto his face after he got over his initial shock.

“Yalti,” The man spoke one word, enunciating just as carefully as Loki had prior. He pointed a finger to himself as he spoke, prodding at his own chest. “Yalti,”

“Yalti?” Loki repeated the word, pointing at the man. It seemed to do the trick, the man’s smile somehow brightening even more.

“Yalti!” Yalti, apparently, proclaimed, jabbing himself in the chest with even more enthusiasm. Yalti then pointed his finger to Loki, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“I think he wants to know your name,” Sylvie craned her head towards Loki to speak quietly, as he had before.

“Oh, um,” Loki cleared his throat, mirroring the man’s previous actions and pointing a finger to himself. “Loki.”

“Loki?” Yalti spoke his name with great care, as if pronouncing his name wrong was of a great rudeness. “Loki!”

“Yes, Loki,” Loki repeated himself with a small chuckle, the man's enthusiasm rubbing off on him.

The two of them startled once more as Yalti shouted something to the group nearby, followed by the yell of Loki’s name. The sounds of the people’s cheers were something odd to hear, especially as they were then followed by a single word, yelled out to the night sky.

“ LOKI! LOKI! LOKI! ”

Loki could only turn his bemused gaze over to Sylvie, who looked just as flummoxed with what was going on as he felt.

“Perhaps they know me?” He offered, looking between all the people, that who were of a species he did not recognize. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing…”

As the cheers began to die down, Yalti started to speak to them once more. Of course, they still didn’t know what he was saying, and whilst Yalti looked a tiny bit frustrated at the lack of communication, he still seemed to be having fun with what was going on. He reached out a hand, this time pointing his finger towards Sylvie.

Sylvie gave the man a polite smile, pointing to herself as she answered his silent question. “Sylvie.”

“Sylvie!” Yalti gave her name the same treatment as Loki’s, passing on her name to the crowd. And, just like with Loki, they returned her name in a chorus of cheers that tugged at something within her heart. She hadn’t had many people to tell her name to. In fact, until meeting Loki, there hadn’t been that many times she had even heard it being spoken to her. And now here she was, listening to a group of survivors chant her name like she was their savior. Like she had done something good, just by being here.

“ Sylvie! Sylvie! Sylvie!”

“This is… surreal,” Loki said, unsure whether to keep his eyes trained on the — now clearly — inebriated crowd as their cheers slowly drifted off with them as they dispersed into the night, or on Sylvie, as she watched them leave with a look that somehow both made him want to smile, yet comfort her at the same time.

“That’s one word for it,” Sylvie utters gently.

Whilst the rest of the group had disappeared back to wherever it was they had come from, there was one lone figure who had chosen to remain. They both watched as Yalti dropped down onto one of the other logs grouped around the fire, taking a long swig from what Loki now recognized as a canteen. Yalti took deep gulps from it, appearing to savor every last drop. Loki almost made the joke to calm down; it wasn’t the end of the world. Except… it was, and the joke didn’t seem quite so funny anymore.

Yalti catches their stare, pulling the flask from his lips with a friendly smile. His hands go into the interior of his robes, pulling out another flask and offering it to them. Not one to pass on such a kind gesture, Loki reached out to take the flask from him, hoping the smile he gave in return showed his appreciation.

“Really hope this isn’t poison or something…” Loki half-jokes to Sylvie as he unscrews the lid, taking a precautionary whiff of its contents. Whatever it was, it smelt strong, strong enough that he could almost taste the bitterness of it just from its smell. It was accompanied by a musty, sweet kind of odor though, the two opposites clashing yet, oddly, complimenting one another.

Loki throws caution to the wind with a shrug of his shoulders, bringing the flask to his mouth and taking a tester sip. The beverage was, indeed, bitter overall in taste, burning as it slipped down his throat. But when he let it settle on his tongue for a moment, he could taste the hint of something sweet that he had smelt before, something almost like… honey? Something rich, with an earthy and kind of smokey taste. Some type of whiskey, perhaps? Or, the closest thing to whiskey that this planet had. Whilst he was more of a wine kind of guy, even he had to admit that the smooth flavor of the drink had its charms.

“You’re not going to get ‘very full’ again, are you?” Sylvie teases him.

“Only if you join me,” Loki challenges her, offering out the flask for her to take with a flash of teeth.

He hadn’t really been expecting for her to rise to his challenge, and so it filled him with a strange sort of delight when she took the flask from his hand, taking a deep drink from the flask herself. She caught his enthralled yet shocked face from the corner of her eye, handing the flask back to him with a shrug.

“Nothing happens until daybreak,” Sylvie tells him, enjoying the warmth of both the fire and the drink as it settled in her belly. “Can afford to have a bit of a rest until then.”

“Right…” Loki almost forgot that they were in the middle of an apocalypse. It seemed much too calm for it. “So... you’ve been here before?”

“Just the once,” Sylvie says, her mouth twisting into a grimace. “I try not to go back to an apocalypse I’ve already been in. Less chance of the TVA figuring things out that way, and…” Sylvie trails off, her grimace deepening even more. “I suppose it’s easier to watch strangers die, than faces you’ve seen before.”

“And… and what of home?” Loki asks timidly. “I don’t know if you knew, but um…”

“I know,” Sylvie’s voice came out as nothing more than a whisper. She brings the flask back up to her mouth to take another much-needed drink. “Ragnarok, right?”

Loki smiled sadly, giving a small nod of his head. “I… where — or when, I suppose — they took me from, it was before then. I only found out myself not too long ago, when I was searching through the TVA’s files on apocalypses to… well, to find you.”

“Then you probably know more than me,” Sylvie said.

“You never went there? I would have thought, of all the apocalypses you could go to-,”

“Loki, I already have to live with the knowledge that Asgard — my Asgard — is gone; wiped away from the timeline, and dumped into that dreary hole. All that were on my timeline: my people, my family? They’re… they’re gone. Probably devoured by Alioth,” Sylvie’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her obviously distraught voice catching the attention of even Yalti, who had mostly been politely ignoring their conversation that he didn’t even understand. “So yeah, funnily enough, I didn’t really fancy having to actually watch it be destroyed with my own eyes.”

“Okay... okay...” Loki said gently, the sight of her pain reflecting itself onto him. “I get it, okay? I just… I wasn’t really thinking about it that way. I was… I was just thinking of home, and… and how much I miss it.”

“ ‘Least you have more memories of home than I do,” Sylvie huffed miserably, holding out the flask for Loki to take. He does, and she crosses her arms across her stomach, leaning against them atop her legs. “Sometimes I wonder how much I remember of home are actual memories, or… dreams of what I think it was like.”

Loki swallowed down his mouthful of whiskey nervously, shuffling in place on the log. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but…. do you remember what happened when the TVA took you? Any idea what your Nexus Event was?”

Sylvie gave a slow shake of her head side to side. “Wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, really. I was just… existing. Playing with my toys, I think. I had this…” Sylvie paused for a moment, a genuine smile of nostalgia creeping onto her face as she lost herself in her memories. “-This beautiful hand-carved boat. I think father might have even crafted it himself, I’m… I’m not too sure.”

Loki found her smile infectious, feeling the corner of his lips tick up in response to the glazed, lost in thought look in her eyes. The smile didn’t last long, however. Not with the implication behind her words. Had she really been that young when the TVA took her? Just a child, playing with her toys, and that was enough for the TVA to deem her unsuitable for the timeline?

“That’s when the TVA came,” Sylvie said, the hardness returning to her eyes once again. “It was her: Judge Renslayer. She wasn’t a judge at the time, though. Still had to work her way up the rankings — no more than a hunter back then,” Sylvie let out a humorless laugh. “Think I might have delayed her promotion a bit when I escaped under her watch.”

“Ah… that’d explain why she seemed to have it out for you in particular,” Loki connected the dots, thinking back to the fog-filled chambers of the Time-Keepers, of the vicious look on Renslayer’s face as she prepared to wield her weapon against Sylvie.

“I hope Mobius got her,” Sylvie spat. “Stabbed her with her own damn pruning stick -- give her a taste of her own medicine.”

“She was his friend once,” Loki pointed out. “He might think twice about sending someone he cared about to the Void,”

“She didn’t think twice about pruning him.”

“I’m just saying,” Loki continued. “Mobius, he’s… he’s got a good heart. He trusted me, even when everything else told him not to. Maybe you’re right, and he went straight back to the TVA, walked into her office, and pruned her. Or… maybe he saw the face of someone who was a friend, and found he couldn’t do it — even when he knew she would turn against him if given the opportunity. Maybe put her in a time-loop-,”

“Alright, I get it,” Sylvie huffed in annoyance. “You’re comparing him and Renslayer to me and Mobius -- other Mobius. Are you trying to say that I should have killed the other Mobius?”

“What? No-! ” Loki spluttered. “I’m saying that there’s a chance that Renslayer might still be out there. Whether that be with her still in charge at the TVA, or one of their prisoners, or… I don’t know. I’m still not entirely sure what her role is in all of this.”

“She didn’t even know about the Time-Keepers,” Sylvie brought up. “She was in the dark as much as we were, and yet… she didn’t care. She still wanted to stop me --stop us -- and protect Him.”

“Are we sure she didn’t know about He Who Remains?” Loki asked. “It seems odd that she’d be so desperate to protect Him, when she doesn’t even know who he is.”

“Maybe she won’t be the only one to react that way to the truth of who their leader really is,” Sylvie said. “Maybe some, like Mobius, will want to tear it all down. But others like her? Maybe they just… can’t deal with the thought that all their work was for nothing. Maybe they cling onto the idea that they did something of importance, and that He Who Remains did what they did for a reason.”

Loki groaned softly, barely resisting the urge to bury his face into his hands. “It’s… it’s all going to be such a mess. I don’t know if Mobius will have taken over, or if the TVA broke out into civil war, or…” Loki shook his head, leaning his head back with a heavy sigh. “We need to find a way back, Sylvie. Mobius is going to need our help, and… as much as I hate to admit it, we’re going to need the TVA’s help with this, too.”

For a moment, Sylvie said nothing. Loki could only sit, waiting awkwardly for her reaction, wincing in preparation for the argument that’s about to come.

“I think you might be right.”

‘Well, that’s a first,’ Loki thought.

“Come again?”

“Don’t start,” Sylvie shot him a look of warning. “I was thinking about it earlier when I made the Time-Door to this place…” Sylvie held up her arm, the two of them watching the mesmerizing glow of the golden cracks streaking across the TemPad. “This TemPad, it’s… it’s nothing like the ones I’ve used before – the ones all TVA workers have. I’m still learning how to use it, but it’s… confusing, to say the least. I can just about select a place and-or a time with it, but… clearly I don’t know everything, since I accidentally sent you to the TVA in an entirely different timeline.”

“Is there any way to select a certain timeline?” Loki asked, glancing between Sylvie and the TemPad.

“I don’t know,” Sylvie said. “With the TVA’s Tempad, there… there wasn’t a need to jump between timelines, because there was only one available to them. They weren’t exactly jumping into different branches, rather… they were jumping to the time and place the branch originated from and pruning it out of existence before it could develop into a separate timeline.”

“But… that’s not a TVA TemPad,” Loki pointed out the obvious. “It’s ‘He Who Remain’s’ TemPad. He said it himself didn’t he, that his first variation in the thirty-first century discovered technology to open up Time-Doors between multiverses? Surely he then used that to jump between the different timelines and… prune them all until only his was left.”

“Maybe,” Sylvie says, dropping her hand back down to her lap. “There’s another problem, though.”

There was always a damn problem. “What is it?”

“I’ve got no idea how much charge is left in this thing,” Sylvie gestures lazily to the TemPad with a twitch of her hand. “Maybe ‘He Who Remains’ found a way to give it infinite charge -- or maybe it’s stuck with the same limitations the TVA’s TemPad’s have.”

“So… there’s every chance the next Time-Door we open could be the last?” Loki guessed.

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

Loki leaned back on the log, taking in a deep breath through his nose. “Then I suppose we better make every one count.”

Sylvie nodded her head in response, looking down to the TemPad as she dragged her fingers leisurely over its smooth surface. It responded to her touch, leaving a glowing trail along the golden cracks that followed wherever her finger went. It seemed almost… alive in the way it responded to her touch.

“What exactly happens here?” Loki brings her attention back to him. “What causes the apocalypse?”

“War,” Sylvie answers, her eyes trailing off to the ruined city that was now no more than a shadowy background displayed on the night sky. “Some other civilization in this solar system that had left these people alone, for the most part. Not too sure on the specifics, but… there was some sort of disagreement between the two planets. Whatever it is… let’s just say that the other planet is much more advanced than this one. These people… they stood no chance against the power they hold.”

“And so… what, they just decide to wipe out the entire planet to win the war?” Loki asks.

“Apparently so,” Sylvie answered. “At first light, the other civilization sends down a warning. One last offer for them to surrender, and save what remains of their people.”

Loki glances over to Yalti, who had been watching them converse in complete and utter silence. Despite not knowing what they were talking about, the look on Yalti’s face was that of a haunted man. Strangely still, whilst it was Loki that was looking to him, Yalti had his eyes fixated on Sylvie, who shuffled uncomfortably under his peering stare.

“I’m guessing they don’t take the offer?” Loki asks Sylvie, tearing his gaze away from Yalti to look to her.

“No,” Sylvie is unable to look away from Yalti as Loki did, feeling a strange bundle of nerves begin to rise at just how intensely he seemed to be observing her. “No, uh… they don’t.”

“Why not?” Loki asks, even though he knows Sylvie doesn’t have the answer. “Their city is destroyed, it seems like they barely have enough resources to survive, let alone to rebuild. What’s left here that they’re willing to die for?”

“Pride?” Sylvie guessed. “Stubbornness? An unwillingness to leave their home?”

Yalti slowly stood from his place on the log, the movement catching both Loki and Sylvie’s eye. They watch, ready to leap into defense at a single wrong move as Yalti somewhat stumbles towards them, having a difficult time walking in a straight line with all the alcohol that was running through his veins.

His hands go into his pockets once more, and Sylvie and Loki look to one another, waiting for the inevitable moment a weapon is pulled on them. Yalti’s hands slide back out of his pocket, now clutching a small, square-shaped device that appeared to be made of some sort of sleek and shiny metal, with a smoky glass screen sat on top. Yalti slurred out a few words in his native tongue, gesturing to the device as he does so. When they only blink blankly at him in response, Yalti gives a bit of an annoyed huff before running his fingers across the metal square. A dull light emits from the screen on top, and it’s only a few taps of his fingers across it later that a holographic image bursts to life above the device.

It was… a picture of a young girl. Maybe around eight, ten at most. It was more than just the glow of the screen that lit up Yalti’s face as he looked to the girl with a fond smile stretching across his face. He glanced over to Loki and Sylvie, and they both were somewhat startled to see the tears that had begun to build in his eyes. Yalti pointed to the little girl, then pointed his fingers back at himself, jabbing himself in the space above his heart multiple times to try and get his point across.

“It’s… his daughter,” Loki breathed in realization. “And she, um… Sylvie, she kind of looks like-,”

“-Me,” Sylvie finished Loki’s sentence for him. “She looks like me.”

Loki was starting to understand why Yalti had been staring at Sylvie as much as he had now. The image of the girl, whilst somewhat grainy and flickering, still showed a striking similarity to Sylvie — or, at least, how he could envision her to have looked when she was a young girl herself. Sure, there were a few minor differences here and there: such as the girl's eyes being a tiny bit wider, or her nose having a slight downward turn to it that Sylvie’s didn’t, but… for Sylvie, it still strangely felt like looking back in time at herself.

Yalti pressed atop the screen once again, and the image burst to life. What was once a still picture changed to a moving image, displaying the little girl out somewhere amidst this planet's countryside. The girl giggled with delight as she ran through the long grass of a meadow, being chased by Yalti, whose own booming laughter rang out into the cool night air around them. Yalti reached out a hand towards the holographic video, as if trying to reach for his daughter within. But of course, his hand only passed through the displayed images, and the smile slowly dropped away from his face.

The hologram flickers, sending the video into a mess of glitches, becoming almost recognizable as it struggled to continue playing. Then it flickers again, and again, and all three can only watch as the hologram disappears altogether, sucking away its bluish light until they’re left in nothing more than the orange and reds of the fire. Loki and Sylvie exchange looks as Yalti keeps his eyes fixated on the powered-down device. He closed his eyes, the movement squeezing out a single tear that sluggishly trailed down his face, leaving a clean line through the dust that had caked his skin.

When Yalti opened his eyes again, he seemed almost relieved to see them still sitting there. Perhaps, when you’re going through the end of the world, not many people are willing to listen or share in your individual grief, especially when they’re all going through grief of their own. Yalti caught their eye, raising a hand to point in the direction of where the image of his daughter once was, before pointing over his shoulder to the remains of the city. He then raised his hand into the air, whistling a long note that dropped in pitch as he lowered his hand down towards the ground. They hadn’t needed his mime-like explanations of what happened. There was only going to be one reason why the girl on his holographic device wasn’t with him.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvie says, hoping that the meaning of her words comes across in the gentleness of her tone.

Yalti gives her a shaky smile, taking a single step towards her — probably the most steady movement he’s made since he joined them by the fire. He lowers himself down onto his knees in front of her, raising one hand up to her face and tenderly cradling her cheek. Loki sat in silence, not wanting to interrupt such a moment, yet also wanting to step in, knowing that Sylvie would likely feel uncomfortable with a stranger touching her this way. And yet, Sylvie did not shove Yalti’s hands off of her, nor did she look all that disturbed by what was happening. Yalti speaks to her again, and the raw emotion packed into his voice as he got out those few trembling words was enough even for Loki’s chest to clench in sympathy. The two of them could only stare at one another – this poor, unfortunate man haunted by the vision of who his little girl never got the opportunity to grow up to be, whilst Sylvie was haunted with her own visions: the vision of the happy life, and the caring father she never got to experience.

Yalti’s hand dropped away from Sylvie’s face, bowing his head to her in what Loki could only assume was either some form of respect, or perhaps even their way of saying goodbye. He gets clumsily back up to his feet, clumsy enough that Loki briefly wonders what the chances were of him falling straight back into the fire was. Fortunately, they didn’t have to witness such a thing, as Yalti seems to get his feet under him.

“Sylvie,” Yalti says her name, one of the only pieces of their language he had learned from them. He then turns to Loki, repeating the same bow he had given to Sylvie. “Loki,”

Loki found himself mirroring the bowed movement without much of a thought, tipping his head towards the ground. “Yalti.”

Yalti shot them one last grateful smile, lifting his hand and giving them a kind wave — a gesture they at least recognized. Then, just like that, he had turned away from them, walking off in the direction of the tents and the welcoming town’s people within.

“You okay?” Loki made sure to ask Sylvie as soon as possible.

“-‘M fine,” Sylvie tried to brush his concerns off, but Loki could easily pick up on the little sniffle she made after saying this. “Bit of a shock, I guess. But I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Loki said, trying to catch Sylvie’s gaze as she stared blankly into the fire. “But if you do… I’m here to listen.”

Sylvie glanced over at him, managing to force out a somewhat strained-looking smile. “I will. Someday. Just… not today.”

‘I will’ was better than just a ‘no’, Loki supposed. Not that he could blame her for not wanting to talk about what had just gone down. He picked up the flask from his side, offering it out to Sylvie again. She looked down to it, looking moments away from reaching out for it. She seems to think better about it though, shaking her head in a ‘no’.

“Probably a good idea,” Loki said with a soft chuckle, tucking the half-drunken flask into his shirt pocket. Sylvie seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, eyes unfocused and glazed over as she played absentmindedly with her fingers in her lap. Loki watched her quietly, content to sit here in the comfortable silence they had found themselves in.

But the silence didn’t last long. They almost didn’t notice the gentle notes being sung from somewhere within this planet’s little make-shift town, being crowed out by what must have been a fairly decent-sized group. The beginnings of the song at least seemed to snap Sylvie out of whatever thoughts she was trapped in, the two of them perking their heads up simultaneously, listening out for the direction of the sound.

Then, another chorus of voices joined in. Whatever this song was, it seemed to be known by all of this planet’s inhabitants. And then another group joined in. And another. The voices just kept adding to the song, the soft undertones of the song growing louder and louder as more people add their voices to it.

It was… it was beautiful. They didn’t know the meaning behind the lyrics of the song, but they didn’t need to. The power behind it seemed to vibrate through their chests, chilling and somewhat haunting in sound, yet… undeniably beautiful to hear. It was not a song of hope, nor was it a song that was sung to inspire defiance in the face of almost certain death.

It was a goodbye.

“How do you do it?” Loki asks, his voice no more than a murmur amidst the chorus of voices that filled the air. “All those different apocalypses, so many civilizations you’ve watched be extinguished… How did you keep going?”

“Because I had to,” Sylvie answers woefully. “You know, every day, I would ask myself the same kind of thing: What’s the point anymore? What is there left to keep fighting for? Everything I ever knew was… gone. My life was nothing more than endless running, trying to keep one step ahead of an organization that knew everything that was ever going to happen. I would dream of the day I finally came face to face with the Time-Keepers, and I tried to grab hold of the feeling I imagined I’d experience as I sunk my sword into their chest.”

Sylvie frowned, almost as if she was annoyed with herself. “I could never imagine it, though. But I kept chasing for it, because… it’s all I had. I didn’t want to think about what came next, because once I earned my freedom… I didn’t know what to do with it. What would there be to keep me going?”

“A new chance at life?” Loki offered. “The opportunity to do whatever you wanted, and not have to worry about the TVA deciding you weren’t allowed it?”

“That’s what should have kept me going, yeah,” Sylvie said with a shrug. “But it wasn’t. Every time I opened up another Time-Door, and I watched the last moments of the world I had come to know for the shortest of times… I told myself that that was why I was doing this; because my mission wouldn’t just free me. If I ended it, then… I would end all of that misery. Their worlds wouldn’t have to be put through an apocalyptic event, just because some all-knowing dickhead wrote it into his story. People wouldn’t have to lose their daughters, their sons, their family, everyone they love, because one man thought they would need it to ‘be changed by the journey’. That’s how I did it, that’s why I forced myself to watch the ends of a thousand worlds. Because without that anger, that desire for revenge on other’s behalf? Then…”

Loki already knew what she was going to say, but in no way did he want to hear her say it.

“Then one of those days, I might not have bothered to open up that Time-Door.”

He might not have ever wanted to hear such words from her, but that wasn’t to say he didn’t understand. He glanced down at where the flask of whiskey was peeking out from his pocket, fighting back the temptation to take it out and drink from it once more.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but, um…” Loki began awkwardly, eyes darting between the ground and Sylvie’s waiting gaze. “I’m glad that you went through all that, if it meant that… you, uh… you chose to keep fighting.”

Sylvie huffed in disbelief at his words, lightly tapping her boot against his leg. “Yeah, I’m sure you're grateful that I stuck around long enough to single-handedly screw up every single timeline by creating an infinite amount of ‘He Who Remains’, whose only desire is to rule over them all.”

“We both fought to be stood in that office at the end of time, Sylvie,” Loki reminded her. “Don’t go and place all the blame on yourself.”

“You’re not the one that held that sword though, are you?” Sylvie countered. “I killed him, and I can’t share that blame with anyone else.”

“You did what you thought was right,” Loki tried his best to counter her self-sabotaging efforts. “And you’re here now, aren’t you? Trying to set it right?”

“Doesn’t mean I should have done what I did.”

“Maybe not. But what’s done is done. Yes, there’s… there’s an unfathomable danger that we’re now going to have to face. But just think about how many lives you changed with your decision. All those people who made one change in their life, perhaps one to try and better themselves, and they get to continue to live that life without one single ruler deciding that it doesn’t fit into the story he’s crafted.”

“I know, I just… I can’t stop thinking about Him. I don’t even know how much time we have left before he - whichever version of Him - makes his first move. Maybe he already has, and we just don’t know it yet. How long before the war he starts stretches out across every timeline I created by killing him?”

Sylvie brings her hands up to her face, rubbing her fingers across tired eyes. “All of this… because one man decided he should be the master of everyone’s destiny…”

“Well… at least he did one good thing,” Loki claimed, much to Sylvie’s confusion. She dropped her hands away from her face, looking to Loki with an almost wary frown as she waited for him to elaborate.

“And what’s that?”

“He weaved the strings of fate together that led me to you.”

“That was awfully sappy,” Sylvie lied straight to his face, pretending she didn’t feel the bubble of warmth that filled her chest and was trying to force an embarrassingly giddy smile onto her face - which still crept onto her face, despite her best efforts to contain it.

“Ah, you love it,” Loki said, and a part of Sylvie hated that it was entirely true. The sight of the abashed smile on her face brought out a tender one of his own, enjoying this brief moment of something good that they got to share; something he had a feeling came few and far between when living a life composed of the ends of others.

The songs of the people had long since died off, leaving them with nothing more than the sounds of nature around them, and the strangely pleasing sounding cracks and pops of the fire as it continued to burn away. The night was quiet, but not in an eerie way. It felt like the world was inviting them to rest: the blanket of warmth from the fire washing over them, combined nicely with the cooling breeze that brushed over their skin; the reassuring feel of the other pressed against them, sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, knowing that the person next to them would keep them safe.

The touch to Loki’s shoulder surprised him, glancing down to see that Sylvie was resting her head against his arm and using him as her own personal pillow. Which, he found, he did not mind in the slightest. She had closed her eyes, looking the most at peace he thinks he’s seen her be since… never, now that he thought about it. Even in the brief nap she got aboard the train on Lamentis, her sleep did not look particularly restful; almost like she was sleeping with one eye open, ready to defend herself if the need arises, never one to show a single ounce of vulnerability to anyone.

‘I can’t sleep around untrustworthy people’

The warmth of her skin bled through the thin cotton material of his TVA shirt — a sensation he’s not particularly used to. In fact… he’s fairly certain no one has ever used him as a pillow before. There certainly weren’t many people he would let rest against him, or even be as close to him as she was. It was insane when he thought of how much had changed in such a short amount of time. How much he had changed. His perspective had shifted entirely, becoming the kind of man he used to laugh at. Love was weakness. Love was giving someone else the opportunity to take advantage of you, distract you from what truly mattered. Love was something that turned you soft, that made you think twice before doing what needed to be done.

Oh, how he was wrong. Love was… power. Love was giving yourself to another person -- not relying on that other person to make you whole, but to better one another, to strengthen the weaknesses you thought were buried and hidden.

Love was… everything that she was.

For a while, Loki just… sat. It felt like his eyelids were being weighed down, and his entire body felt ready to sink into itself and fall into that deep, dark nothingness. But he knew that, even in a place like this where everyone seemed friendly, that it was important for at least one of them to keep on guard. Especially when said place is the location of a fast-approaching apocalypse. But as the minutes ticked by, and the effects of drowsiness seemed to dig its claws in, it didn’t take long before he found his head leaning to the side, resting against the top of Sylvie’s head where she had finally fallen into somewhat of a restful slumber as she laid against him.

The minutes that passed by seemed to last for hours, time slowed down as it mocked him in his efforts to stay awake. Even now, as he looked up at the impressive expanse of stars sprinkled within the night sky, it almost looked as if some of them were missing. Huge chunks of space where stars should be simply vanished, left with nothing but a blob of pitch black.

Actually… it looked more defined than a blob. There was… a certain shape to the missing spots, kind of thin-looking with large appendages sticking out from either side. And… and now that he looked at them… were they… were they moving?

“Sylvie…” Loki regretfully whispered to get her awake, not wanting to interrupt her much-needed rest. “Sylvie, the stars are gone.”

The strangeness of his statement roused Sylvie from her groggy state, blinking blearily up at him as he stared transfixed at the sky. “The stars are… what?”

“There’s so many of them,” Loki tore his eyes away for just a second to tell her, before they snapped back to the various different spots of emptiness. “It… it looks like someone punched out holes in the sky…”

It took a few moments for her blurry vision to focus onto what Loki was referring to, squinting up at what did in fact look like splotches of the sky that had been reduced to nothingness. It wasn’t until she saw smaller, almost impossible to see black blurs of movement that looked to be falling from the missing spots that the reality of what was happening crashed into her. Loki could feel her entire body go tense next to him, shooting up from the log with the most frantic and downright panic-stricken look he’s ever seen for her, frightened enough that his body seemed to instinctively react – jumping up from the log as adrenaline shoots through his system, looking wildly between the falling objects and Sylvie.

“What? What is it-,”

“They’re not holes in the sky,” Sylvie stated the obvious, fumbling for the TemPad. “They came early.”

“Who did?”

“The other civilization,” Sylvie answered, her fingers shaking as they swiped across the TemPad. “Those are space-crafts, Loki. And that’s not a warning. This is it; this is the end.”

It was only then that it sunk in for Loki. Other people nearby had also taken notice, a confused murmur rippling across the fields. People had begun to leave their tents, taking a look for themselves to see what was going on. It didn’t take long after that for the screams of terror to break out, erupting into chaos as these unfortunate souls scrambled for cover that did not exist.

That's when the bombs hit. Or, he assumed they were bombs. Not that he could hear the explosion. At least, not from here. Not yet. But he could certainly see it. He could certainly see the multiple waves of blistering fire as it erupted upon contact with the ground, watched as the wall of destruction was forced towards them. There was nothing he could do, no magic he could use that would shield them from the force of the blast that was about to hit them.

"Sylvie-,"

"I'm working on it!" Sylvie was still frantically tapping at the TemPad, and the reminder of their early conversation about how much charge might be left in the TemPad came rushing back.

This could very well be it. This could be their last moments, once again stood side by side, watching as the end of a world, the end of their time, approaches. Unstoppable. Inevitable.

They were met with the horrific sight of the night sky set aflame, watching as this tidal wave of death washed over the little town. It kind of reminded him of Alioth: of the time it barrelled towards them, intent on swallowing them up and reducing them to nothing. Loki could on watch on in horror, taking in the sight of these people’s little make-shift homes disintegrating from the intense heat, those sheltered within barely able to get out a scream of agony as they’re burnt to a crisp with it-

And then the ground under their feet turned into a rectangle of gold with a familiar-sounding blip, only able to meet Sylvie’s relieved eyes for a split second before he once again found himself falling, sinking down into the Time-Door manifested below them. His last view of this singular world — one he knows he will never forget, whilst being yet another average day for Sylvie — rushing by as he dropped.

He knew now why Sylvie did all she could not to get attached to anyone. For when he thinks of Yalti, he won’t think of the kind stranger that offered them a drink and shared his memories with them. He’ll think about how he knows what the smell of a person's skin boiling off their body is like, and the gurgled scream he gave as his body began to melt.

He could only hope that somewhere out there — whether that be in a separate timeline, or in some semblance of an afterlife — that Yalti will get to see his daughter again.

On the bright side… he now had more fuel to fan the flames burning deep in his stomach. He knew that finding a way to eradicate ‘He Who Remains’ from the timeline — from every timeline — is a task made from necessity. But after witnessing something like this? Knowing that he may have to watch many, many more?

He might just take pleasure in watching the light leave the last variation of ‘His’ eyes as they bring him to his end.

Next Chapter - - ->

#sylki #sylki fanfiction #sylki fanfic #pro sylki #loki/sylvie #lovedagger #enchantricks

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monaisme · 4 years

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Day 11: hallucinations

Tony paced.

He’d screwed the pooch... hard.

The look on the kid’s face as he’d disappeared into the night after the whole ferry thing? That had been rough.

But this?

Coney Island was the game changer.

How, in the name of all that is holy, did he think that this kid would step back?—Just because Tony Stark told him to? Tony knew his origin story—KNEW that Peter Parker was a boy seeking redemption for another man’s crime.

And so Tony made the decision, one he should’ve made from the start. He’d commit to training him, tutoring him... Tony would unlock the world for him.

Thank goodness the kid was smart!

There were so many directions they could go in!

Maybe they could build another suit together? Then he wondered if Pepper would do up some paperwork and maybe they could give the kid an actual internship?! Yeah! He’d seen that kid’s desk and all those scavenged components from who knew what. If he could make those web shooters out of nothing, Tony imagined what he could do with a fully outfitted lab—Geez- Tony hadn’t done a lab binge with anyone since Bruce had, well... But the idea of watching the kid build something incredible with nothing but his own hands, like Tony kept trying and trying and trying to do.

Tony paused that train of thought for a second.

Nope. There was too much potential for deep shit happening there, and so he stopped it right there.

He definitely had to make a plan.

First, he’d need Happy. Midtown was just far enough that he’d need to collect him after school. He was sure Happy wouldn’t mind. He could get to know the kid, and then no one would have to worry about a replay of that damned beach.

Tony shuddered as he remembered the beach.

But no! That wouldn’t happen again, because the kid would be there on Tuesdays and... Fridays! Yeah, that would work. Maybe? Well, maybe every second Friday so Pepper wouldn’t get upset about his availability for those awful fundraisers and galas. They’d just need to be flexible, right? And then Pepper would be fine.

His brain was on fire with so many thoughts and ideas—“FRIDAY!” He called out. “Jot this stuff down, and when we’re done, Cc it to Pepper and Happy for me, okay?”

“Of course, Boss.” The AI replied.

Tony moved over to the bar cart tucked into the corner of the lab and poured himself a few fingers of whiskey. “Title the list, S.P.A.A.M.” He snorted as he said it and then took a mouthful of his drink. “He’ll get a kick out of it. Yeah. ‘Supply Peter An Awesome Mentor!”

Tony listed off his ideas aloud, detailing items to be created and for purchase; like the new refrigerator he’d need for drink pouches, cheese strings and whatever other nasty stuff teenagers snacked on. This lab was going to be a geek’s paradise.

Tony couldn’t wait.

“Boss,” FRIDAY spoke, unprompted, “If I may, there are some tasks that require mentioning as you plan your list.”

He gulped down the last swallow of his drink and walked back to the cart. “Fire away, Baby Girl!” he called out. “I’m nothing, if not a collaborator!” His hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle.

“Sir, while limited, there are existing studies that show a direct correlation between lab accidents and substance use—which in all case studies, included: alcohol, marijuana, illegally procured and/or incorrectly used prescription medications, cocaine, heroin, metha—“

“Got it! Stop!” He put the bottle down with a clank. “Seriously? You got anything else you wanna throw at me, FRI?”

“Yes, Boss, in a 2018 Global status report commissioned by the WHO, studies showed that excessive consumption of alcohol in the presence of minors—“

“WHOA! WHOA! WHOA! We were doing so well! First, what do you mean by excessive?! And second—where in the ever living hell is this coming from?!”

“Boss, over the course of the last several months, I have observed a greater than average consumption of alcoholic beverages during times when the consumption itself is not considered socially acceptable.”

“But—“

FRIDAY continued over her creator, “This information, along with the concerns voiced by Ms. Potts, Mr. Hogan, and Colonel Rhodes over the course of several conversations, and the addition of a minor child to the lab environment, has led me to surmise that there is a need for adjustments to your S.P.A.A.M. protocol.”

Forgetting about the whiskey for a minute, Tony walked over to his lab table and dropped onto the stool. “What kind of conversations are we talking about, FRI? And why haven’t I heard about them before now?”

“All referenced conversations were done with your wellbeing in mind, Boss. As I have only been programmed to report malicious intent, there was no need to make you aware.” FRIDAY paused. “I believe that Colonel Rhodes’ exclamation of “I could kill him!” was not an actual declaration of intent as neither Ms. Potts or Mr. Hogan reacted in an alarmed fashion, but if I am mistaken and need to adjust any subroutines, please advise.”

Tony was suddenly exhausted. “No, no. You’re fine, FRI. I’m just... huh.”

He sat in silence for a few minutes, thinking.

“They’re worried?”

“They are, Boss.”

“Huh.”

He sat silent for a few minutes more, and then finally, “FRI? What are the suggested task additions for the list?”

“Mr. Stark, removal of all alcohol from the lab would be the first and easiest suggestion.”

Tony didn’t disagree. “And the second?”

“Mr. Stark, it would be advisable that you participate in an alcohol detoxification program while under medical supervision before implementing any aspect of S.P.A.A.M. that includes Mr. Parker in a lab setting.”

“Huh.”

It was barely a beat before Tony jumped up, decision made.

The kid was going to be the best of them, and Tony would do whatever it took to make sure of it.

“FRIDAY, please locate all alcohol in the lab and on the private floors. We’ve apparently got some cleaning to do!”

It took longer than he thought it would but eventually every drop of alcohol had been dumped—with the exception of a bottle of scotch Howard had gifted Tony when he was eighteen years old—ironic, Tony thought, but whatever. He wasn’t too concerned about it though. All he needed to do was let Rhodey know about it and he’d be set.

And then he was done. “All right now, my dear AI, that was enough distraction. Let’s get back to the list.”

“Boss,” FRIDAY interrupted him again, “before we continue, might I suggest that you gather some essentials in the event of a medical emergency?”

“Update the first aid kits! Good call, FRI! Add that to the list!”

“Addition noted, sir, but I was referring to the need to manage symptoms of your imminent alcohol withdrawal if you choose to ignore the medical supervision aspect of the suggestion.”

The “Denial Tony” that Pepper, Rhodey and Happy all knew and despised, emerged in that moment. “It’s gonna be fine, Baby Girl. I’m not that bad. I promise.” And Tony moved to a corner of the lab, intent on organizing it for his future intern.

Of course, Tony chose to disregard the headache, after all, it was just a headache and he’d only gotten in a few hours of actual work. It wasn’t his first, and it most certainly would not be his last—so he worked on.

The hands shaking started soon after that and he realized that he hadn’t really had much to drink since earlier in the day—and if he was getting up, he may as well grab some Tylenol, too.

The nausea kicked in within minutes of the water washing down the painkillers and Tony cursed himself for drinking all of that water too fast and taking the painkillers on an empty stomach.

What an idiot move on his part.

And then he cursed himself more as he lunged for the garbage can to empty the contents of his stomach.

Tony groaned.

“Mr. Stark, would you like me to contact the medical floor and ask for assistance?”

“no,” he grunted out. “m’fine,” and then continued to heave up every single thing he’d ever consumed in the entirety of his whole damned life.

“Mr. Stark, please be advised that in the event you refuse medical intervention during an extended period of compromised health, a subroutine installed by Colonel Rhodes will be initiated. This will allow me to override your directive and contact one of your personal emergency contacts. I am allowed to ask for a preference, but in this case, Happy Hogan is currently on-site. Because you are still conscious and not actively bleeding, you have fifteen minutes to exhibit signs of improvement.”

Tony spit into the garbage can, breathing heavy, then glared at the ceiling. “I keep forgetting the asshole went to MIT. shit.”

Being left with no choice, Tony stood up from the floor where he’d curled around the can. He only staggered a little as he made his way toward his nap couch, then sat. “What happens if I decide to take a nap?” He called out. “Are you still gonna narc on me?”

FRIDAY responded, “I will continue to monitor, Boss, and will make that determination as your vitals dictate.”

“Awesome,” he groaned and swung his legs up onto the couch before settling his head down on the throw pillow. “Let me know how it works out, FRI!”

Tony closed his eyes.

He didn’t know how long it was before he woke from his dose. Something must have been malfunctioning, though, ‘cuz he couldn’t take the unbearable heat anymore. “FRIDAY! You gotta lower the heat,” he called out. “I’s like a sauna in here.” He pulled off the hoodie he’d been sporting all day, hoping he’d cool off.

“Mr. Stark, it is currently 68F with humidity resting steady at 43%. Are you certain you would like me to adjust settings?”

Even in his muddled state, the scientist in Tony knew that those conditions were optimal. Any major fluctuations could mess with the sensitive equipment he used for his suits. “Never mind,” he replied, and decided to try and get back to sleep.

Tony wasn’t sure if it was his heart racing or FRIDAY’s announcement that Happy Hogan had been notified of Tony’s condition per Rhodey’s protocol and was on his way that woke him up this time, but he was up—

And he felt like death.

But it was okay. He was fine.

It was just that his heart hadn’t beat like this since Tennessee but then he and Pepper had gotten back together and everything was fine. He was fine.

He vomited again, this time on the floor.

He felt disgusting.

He was disgusting.

“Of course you are! Look at you!” Of course. Howard was always around to rub it in whenever Tony wasn’t peak Stark.

“Please don’t, Dad. I can’t deal with you right now.” Tony pulled the throw cushion over his face to block him out.

“Of course you’re gonna try to hide! Pure Tony! Always running away from the consequences of your actions. Well, maybe you’ll listen to your mother!”

“Howard, hush. Can’t you see that he’s not feeling well?”

Tony sat right up, “Mom?”

She smiled at him, looking as beautiful as always. “Sweetheart, why aren’t you in bed? I know how much you need your sleep when you’re sick.”

“I’m... I...” Tony couldn’t find the words.

A hand pressed to his forehead.

“Speak up, boy! I—I- just spit it out! For fuck’s sake! Stark men are made of iron! You know this!” Howard looked down at him, “You’re no Stark at all, are you?”

Tony tried to stand, but a hand on his shoulder kept him in place, so he continued, “Dad, I’m trying so hard! There’s a kid—he’s...”

“Of course there’s a kid.” Howard spit out in disgust. “ Perfect. Some bastard floating around out there, demanding power and prestige just because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.” Howard stepped forward, intimidating. “MIT was supposed to make you into a man, but you and your progeny are nothing.”

Visions of Peter on the ferry while pulling together tonnes of steel overlapped with burning sand and vulture wings. “No! Pete’s... Pete’s a good kid. I’m gonna... I’m...”

“Yeah, Boss, he is a good kid and you’re gonna do great by him. I know it.” Happy finished his thought as he kneeled on the floor in front of him.

Tony blinked back into reality. “Happy?” He looked around the lab, feeling more and more frantic as the minutes passed. “Mom? Mom?! Happy?” He grasped at Happy’s suit jacket. “Where is she?!”

“Hey, hey! Tony, you’re okay!” Happy called him back into the moment. “I’ll go looking for her in a minute, okay?”

“Happy! She was right here and...”

“I know, Tony. It’s okay. Shh-sh-sh-“ Happy cleaned his face with a damp cloth. “We’re gonna get you somewhere safe and then I’ll go look for her for you, alright?”

Tony was confused. She’d been right there—and Howard? But he trusted Happy and so, “Yeah, okay. Safe.”

Happy hauled him to the elevator. Literally. “suppos’d be made o’iron...” he kept mumbling, but then the elevator doors opened, revealing his mother once more.

Tony beamed. “Mom! You’re back!”

And she spoke, “You know, you may be a Stark, but you have Carbonell blood running through your veins, too, Anthony—and trust me, they weren’t made of iron.

“Not iron?”

She smiled at him so lovingly, “No, son. They were made of earth and wind and heat. They lived for muddy fingers and grape stained toes.”

“Fingers and toes?”

“Yes, son, fingers and toes. They were joy and sunshine and laughter... no iron in them at all. Just joy.”

He looked at her, feeling maybe hopeful, “So ‘m a Carbonell.”

A hand touched his cheek.

“Yes, son, you are my joy.”

And Tony began to weep.

Happy increased his speed after gathering up his friend in his arms. “FRIDAY, make sure Cho is ready to receive. I know you tracked his day, too. Make sure she’s got a timeline.”

“All information has been relayed.”

Happy shifted the man as he waited for the elevator to reach the med bay floor. “Tony,” he whispered to him, “You son of a bitch. You gotta tell the people who love you about shit like this so we can take care of you.” The doors opened and Happy rushed down the hall. “You’ll get through this buddy. We’ve got you.”

* * * * * *

It wasn’t the next Tuesday, or even the Tuesday after that. It was the third Tuesday after that fateful day at the beach when Peter finally arrived at the tower for his first official internship day.

Tony was waiting in the front lobby, looking pale and a little thinner than the last time Peter had seen him, but feeling more present than he had in a long time.

“Mr. Stark! Oh, m’gosh! I cannot believe I’ve got an actual internship! When I told Ned that I’d actually be in your labs he almost died! This is gonna be so awesome!” Peter bounded up to him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“It is going to be incredible, kid! Wait until you see what I’ve done to the lab! And you have to take pictures of the fridge to send to Ted when we get there. Did you have any idea how many different types of drink pouches there are? I know I’m a billionaire, but we’re gonna have to whittle that selection down a little.”

Peter laughed as Tony led him to the private elevator. “Mr. Stark, you have no idea—this is like, on the top of my bucket list, having any sort of anything at Stark Industries! Like, if I died right now, I’d be the happiest person to have ever died—not that I want to die, it’s just...” Peter seemed lost for words. “Just,” Peter made some primal sound that Tony figured spoke volumes more than everything else the boy could manage to articulate. “This was right above going to Italy with May—but don’t tell May that it was above, ‘cuz she’ll try to make me some pasta or something to convince me I was wrong and then I’ll really be dead.”

Tony’s heart warmed and he threw his arm around Peter’s shoulder. “Hey, speaking of Italy! I have recently been reminded that my family has a vineyard there...”

@febuwhump

#febuwhump #febuwhump2021 #fanfiction #alcoholism #detox #redemption

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smilerforyou · 4 years

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You Will Be King (Gale/Thom)

A/N: Well, here's the first non-Gadge piece. I don't know why but Thom and Gale's relationship has always interested me, and I've been imagining what they'd be like together for a while now. We get very little of Thom in the books (bummer!), but I always imagined the two of them as inseparable. Not a whole lot of Thom/Gale romance going on here, today, but if you're interested, I'd love to continue the piece!

This piece is inspired by Netflix's The King. I'm kind of OBSESSED with Timothée Chalamet and have been watching all his movies again recently. I just finished The King for a second time and it inspired me to write another royalty piece.

Gale paused outside of the throne room, his spine stiffening. The last time he entered this room he told his father he was gay and was engaged to a man. Their wedding would be at the end of the summer – to mark their second anniversary – and he would be moving out and abdicating his direct line to the throne immediately.

Now, after six months, his hands still sweat the way they did that day. He curls and uncurls his fists, trying to wick away the sweat bedding on the palms.

He doesn’t know why his father has summons him to the palace after all this time. It certainly couldn’t be for forgiveness. Gale’s own siblings haven’t even been allowed to communicate with him since the day he had left, and – despite being invited to his wedding – hadn’t been allowed to come. It had hurt Gale more than he wanted it too, finally sharing a union with someone he loved without the witness of his family. Their absence had felt wrong then, and still do now. So, standing in front of the be wooden doors with the family seal engraved into its center put an awkward weight on Gale’s chest. The pressure came from within, bubbling his fears and worries with it.

The guards patiently waited for approval to open to the door – something they didn’t have to do now that they held no loyalty to him anymore. But now that Gale is standing in front of the doors…he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready to face his father again, to see the disappointment his father’s eyes placed upon him every time they were in the same room. He has gravely disappointed his father, ripping away the long-sipped cocktail of monarchal succession. The old-fashioned recipe sweet to thy country’s tongue and thy country’s citizens, a taste so strong and recognizable that one unbalanced flavor would spark an outburst. Gale is the glass hitting the bar top, his father’s voice the disgruntled complaint for a remake, but Gale wasn’t remake-able.

Gale has known for years that he desired male attention and only male. He fumbled with it, became connected with it, in darkened alleys and sticky bathroom floors. Gale’s body always ended up the same: pushed against the alcohol covered wall with someone’s impossibly hot hands pressured firmly against his stomach and their lips confidently pressed to his throat. It only came out in places where the other residents wouldn’t remember seeing him there when they opened their eyes the next morning, too drunken to spill the tea to the media about a prince with unroyal desires.

Very few people knew about his internal desires. He displayed them only when appropriate, as desires should be. At palace galas and garden parties, he tucked his desires away and forced himself to only admire the well-fitting suits with his eyes instead of his lips. His desires is his own problem to control, not exert onto anyone, but outside, in the well past midnight moonlight, he unleashed his desires with any willing body.

When he came stumbling back home in the early mornings, his oldest sibling, Lucinda, would just shake her head and lock the underground tunnel door behind him. As they stumbled through the old musty tunnels, they whispered about the men they shared their beds with – or rather the men whose beds they lay in. Once they pushed open the hidden library door, no words of desired hands or sharp teeth or warm thighs would ever be spoken. They kept each other’s dick appointments between themselves, immunity granted through shared collateral.

For years, so many men let him into their warm beds, whispering how beautiful and delicate his petite body was, how his unmarred skin glistened in the glow of the moon. More often than not, the men would rave to him about being in bed with the prince, but Gale pretended it was role play, convincing himself that in those moments he was nothing but an ordinary man.

He was anything but ordinary then. He was indeed a Prince of Panem.

It wasn’t until he met Thomas Michael Grayland that he finally felt the freedom only ordinary men felt. Thom rarely mentioned anything about royalty, and definitely not while in bed. In the rare moments where royalty passed his lips, it was of criticism, mostly toward Gale’s father. Thom resented the King for his oppressive tactics he used on his children. He hated the way Gale was stifled and silenced all because he was the eldest male and would be destined to ascend the throne. Thom was the first person Gale had ever breathed the words abdication to, and he was the only man who pushed Gale to follow what Gale’s heart said was true. He never pressured Gale to make a choice or to choose him over the crown, but a part of that might have been that Gale wore his weathered heart on his sleeve. There was never a moment’s hesitation about abdicating. Gale had wanted it for years, since he could remember understanding what the line of succession meant for him. And despite his sweaty palms, Gale had rolled into the throne room that day confidently covered in the smell of Thom’s day-old cologne and mint Chapstick.

And he’d do it again, just this time with a little more sweat on his palms.

He nodded and the doors slowly began to open.

“Your Majesty, your son has arrived.”

…

“Gale,” King Marcus said coolly, his eyes desert dry of warmth upon landing on his son.

“Father,” Gale bites out. He doesn’t deserve that title after everything, but Gale bites his tongue.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I have called you here today.” He waits for his son to nod before continuing. He confidently shifts in this throne, the unnecessary crown placed lightly on his head. It seemed to float there, like it was meant to be there, although Gale’s own shoulder felt its weight from across the room. Gale had always noticed the ease in which his father took to ruling, to the fancy and expensive suits, the heavy crowns and robes always appearing to float weightlessly on his shoulders.

Gale could admit that his father is an excellent king, there was no doubt about that. The kingdom took great pride in plastering his face everywhere and worshipping the ground he walked on. On the other side of that very same coin, though, Gale could also say that his father is a shitty dad. In the younger years, when royalty and lines of succession and duties were far, far away, he can remember the good dad he had. The one who taught him guitar and piano and how to write a song, the dad who would run through the big rain puddle that turned their backyard into a lake, the dad who would bake cookies with them in the kitchen and eat half the cookie dough before it even reached the oven. But as Gale grew older, their relationship changed, and Marcus became more of a dictator than a father. He disguised his harsh punishments and disappointed stares as a father’s love, but Gale knew that Marcus hated the person Gale had become.

Marcus had always viewed Gale as weak. He constantly told him that he was “too romantic,” and “needed to stop wearing his heart on his sleeve,” but Gale didn’t know how too, nor did he think it would be very beneficial. Gale – who dealt through most things with tears – would be told to harden his exterior and only cry on the inside.

“A King is meant to be a powerful leader, not a crybaby,” his father would rant at him constantly.

But Gale didn’t feel like a king, he felt like a child whose feelings got hurt.

As Gale grew older, and his tears were shed in the quiet of his mother’s arms in his darkened bedroom, Gale watched his dad turn into his father, who would eventually turn into his king. Gale’s emotional state and desire to be loved would sever all familial ties between them. They became harsh master and unwilling student.

After a long pause, Marcus spoke again, and much like the last time they had spoken, the words are condemning.

“You will be king.”

The words echoed through the empty room, bouncing off the marble floors and the gallery seats and passing through the crystal beads of the high chandelier.

“No.” It came out harder than Gale expected his voice to allow, but he reveled in the reverence of answer, the clarity that rang through the single syllable.

The King’s chin rises only a fraction. “You will be king,” he repeats.

“I will not.”

“It is your destiny.”

“I have not soughtit,” Gale spits out, “I abdicated the throne. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember.” His father’s eyes grow harden, the gray turning to stone and his fist curling around the armrest with great tension. “I know you did, but you mustbeking.”

“I do not wantit.”

“I cannot have your sister on the throne. She are far too devoured by her own interests. And your brothers and younger sister are too young. Rory isn’t even 13 yet, let alone 16. It must be you, Gale.”

“I don’t wantit,” he repeats.

“It isn’t about want, Gale.”

“Everything is about want, father. You can’t force me to place a hideous crown on my head. I abdicated; I’ve made my choice. Parliament won’t change the decision now.”

Marcus sits back in his throne. A spark a fear spreads through Gale’s chest as his father’s face twists with satisfaction.

“Your mother and I have spoken to Parliament.” His full lips spread into a wicked grin. He knows how much Gale values his mother and her trust. For her to agree with his father on this means the years of preaching to him to be himself and only himself has to be lies. “It will not be a problem. They have already agreed to reverse your decision.”

“This is bullshit!” the words echo harshly in the room. “You didn’t agree with my decision to leave this fucked up family, despite the years of abuse at yours and Parliament’s hand. You wouldn’t even throw me a bone and allow me to be who I am. I abdicated for a reason, father–”

“So you could suck a cock.” It wasn’t even a question, just a statement.

“And many indeed I did, but I did that with a crown on my head. My loyalty lies with only one cock outside these walls.”

“You’ll grow out of it. Once that crown is on your head, you’ll find the pleasures of a woman. Of an heir.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?”

He knows the weight of that insinuation, of the repulsion that will rise in his father’s chest being associated with such a comment. He knows this, so he uses it.

“You disgustme!”

“My happiness — your own son’shappiness — disgusts you? This is the reason I left the family, Father. I gave up my title to be who I am. To be with him, to celebrate the beauty of who we are, of love. I never asked for this life, Father. I never wanted royalty or a crown or a title. I wanted simplicity and someone to love me.”

“England loves you.”

Gale spits on the floor for real this time, stamping his foot into it and smearing it into the floor.

“England has showed me time and time again it does not love me, and she will not love me,” he growls.

Marcus’ voice lightens for a mere second, “Gale, I wish this could be diff—“

“It canbe different, Father. You choosefor it to proceed this way.”

“We have to sacrifice our lives for our country. We are born to be dutiful, to love England.”

“But do youlove me?”

He father stills in his chair, his head shifting to one side, his eyes widen a fraction. “Of course I do.”

“Just the old me?” Gale volleys back.

“Yes, the old you. The only who isn’t drunk off satanic desires, yes.”

“It. Is. Not. Satanic.”

“Isn’t it? Nowhere in our church does it say to engage in such relations.”

“FUCK THE CHURCH! Fuck you, Dad.” He chest heaves with such weight. Gale likes to think of himself as a calm individual, a steadfast partner. The only man who can make Gale lose his shit is Marcus. “If you love me, leave me alone. Don’t call me back to palace to rip the life I’ve built from myself.”

His father’s face boils red. “You likeliving in poverty? You likethe disgusted looks? You likebe disgraced among your own people?”

Gale rolls his eyes. “Father, please, they were worse when I had a sparkling crown on my head.”

Marcus shifts in his seat again, crossing his ankle over his knee. It was the first time that Gale had noticed that his father is incomplete. His bare foot pokes out from under the heavy robe, his poke tattoo of a crown on the bottom of his foot is almost completely worn off now. Much like his reign over his kingdom.

But what bothered Gale the most was the fact that his father couldn’t even be bothered to dress for him, but had time to put on a crown. Gale was such a disgrace and afterthought that shoes weren’t even important enough to be worn in front of him.

“Of course you’ll have to marry again,” his father began. “We can move Thom somewhere no one will know him, make a deal with a neighboring nation. We can say he died, or you made a mistake – although that might cause a national scandal. Mmm…we’ll figure it out later. Margaret Undersee is still available to marry and we–“

“Father, stop.”

“Gale, there’s a lot—“

“To do? There is nothingto do, Father. I will not be king no matter how hard you try to ignore my answer. You’ll just have to remain king until Rory is of age or bend the rules to make him king at 14, like you’re clearly willing to bend the rules to break my abdication.”

“Gale, it is your—“

“No, no. I reject your offer.”

“You cannot do such a thing. I am the King.”

“I’m going to ask you again…Do you love me?”

“Of course I do, you’re my son.”

“Do you love me more than England?”

“Gale, please. This isn’t a discussion worth having.”

“Answer me, Dad.”

Marcus’ face softens are the mention of ‘dad.’ He sighs, looking across the room at his son. His pale, thin son stares back him. The clothing that once fit him now hangs off his shoulders and pools against his withering body. The shadows under his eyes were darker than night and his once smooth hands are now puckered with scars from broken guitar strings. Marcus could almost hear the sad melody playing off his son’s aura, the single violin playing a soft note of a sinking chord.

“Of course I love you,” he finally says.

A silence settles over them as Marcus waits for his son’s reply. He could see the tears well up in his son’s eyes. And despite the words of criticism being on the edge of his tongue, he lets his heart speak first. He lets his son drown in his emotions just this once. He watches a single tear run down his son’s cheek, the tips of fingers tingling to wipe it away.

“I wish you loved me as much as you love England.”

He had seen through. Gale had seen through the lie.

Gale turned on his heel and made way for the door. The guards raced to pull open the door in time for Gale to run through them, but Marcus stops their descent. Gale would have to push through his own door. He didn’t mind, his father always made things difficult.

His hands wrapped around the steel handle, the thick metal cold in his hands. He stopped, leaning his forehead against the door, wishing he could leave without the last comment, knowing he couldn’t.

“I hate you!” he cries out, his breath heaving in his chest.“I hate you.”

“Gale.” His voice was light, soften by the moment of emotion.

Gale turns around, peaking through heavy eyelids and tear stained lashes. His breath catching in his throat, choking him. He wails unapologetically into the open air, his hands the only thing keeping him from sinking to the floor.

“You must be king.”

He collapses.

_____________________

A/N: Should I continue?

_____________________

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wolfpawn · 4 years

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Life is a Game of Risks, Chapter 72 TW - Mentions of Past abuse

Chapter Summary - Alexianna is in France enjoying the time away but Dan has a few issues he needs to speak about.

TRIGGERS - Past domestic abuse, Past emotional abuse, Past sexual abuse.

Previous Chapter

Tags: @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1 @winterisakiller @theoneanna @wolfsmom1

Request if you wish to be tagged

NOTE This chapter contains references to past abuse

How TF has it been so long since I put up a chapter to this? I am so sorry, the world has gone to hell in a handbasket of late, hasn't it? Sadly, the long hours of sitting at home has done NOTHING for my writing, not helped by having my spawn in the house all day every day.

I'm so sorry, I hope to have more soon.

* So, we all know survivors of abuse deal with their suffering in a multitude of ways, there's no such thing as a set manner to deal with it. Lexi dealt with hers her way, Daniel suffered guilt over it all. Family of abuse victims suffer terrible guilt when they realise what they never noticed, Dan suffers slightly from it in this and references it.

Alexianna sat back and sighed contently on the balcony of the private house they were renting for their holiday.

“Are you okay?”

She looked at her brother and smiled. “You need to ask?” “You needed this, both of you did. Well, if we’re honest, Tom looked like he could do with it too but you and Lily needed to actually get away from everything.”

“Even him?” Alexianna looked at her brother. “You know I can hear that disapproval in your voice recently?”

“That is nothing to do with Tom himself, that is to do with the world he is in,” Daniel clarified. “Look, Al, I love Tom, he is the nicest most caring guy you could ever have found, I genuinely mean that. I am so grateful you and Lily have him and that you are attempting to live again because of him and with him. That you are having a second chance with him but I am not going to lie, the people taking photos of you and Lily, the lack of privacy for you both, for all of us, that is something I am not okay with.”

Alexianna sighed, she could only nod in agreement. Since they came to France, they had been noticed and though people tried to hide what they were doing when taking photographs, Anna, Daniel and Alexianna were not stupid. It was not as though there were too many pregnant women with blonde, curly-haired daughters who were seen often with Marvel actors so they stood out to those who knew what to look for. If she had been there without Lily, perhaps people would not have noticed her so quickly, but with her daughter, it was impossible to hide who she was. She got a small text from Tom on the matter, warning her that there were people purposely cutting Anna from the pictures and implying that Daniel and Alexianna were there together with Lily and not that in a manner that would suggest them to be brother and sister. It was entirely ridiculous so Alexianna and Anna laughed at it, Daniel was less amused than his sister and fiancée. “That’s understandable.” “How do you deal with it?” “I ignore it for the most part and remember that I work in the field of PR so I know that a lot of it is just to sell clicks or papers. I also know it’s utter lies. I have to separate what they say from us or else I lose him and then have to raise two children without their father for no good reason.”

“Do you feel you are stuck now with another child, having to stay with him because of the baby?” Daniel asked, slightly worried at what she would say.

“No.” Alexianna inhaled deeply, looking at Anna who was bringing Lily to get an ice-cream not too far away. “The day we found out, I asked Tom to give me some time to myself to think over my choices. I was so sure that I was not ready to do this again but he was so respectful of allowing me to choose and supporting my decision, I never had that before, I don’t think I had that in most of my life. College was not what I wanted, I wanted to do veterinary, I was forced into business. With Jonathan, nothing was my choice, my wedding dress was dictated to me for goodness sake, I was told we were having fruit cake, I could not have Madeira, my pregnancy...he...well.” She looked down at her hands in shame as she recalled how she came to be pregnant with Lily and how it was made clear she would be having the baby, her opinion on the matter not being considered. “Tom let me choose, he gave me that power and when I walked along the street, thinking to myself, the first thing I considered with if I kept it was what would happen if Tom and I did not stick together and I knew that would lead to me being in a similar though not identical position again. Tom would not leave his children to go without so I would have more security there, but I would be juggling raising two children with a man that would, of course, want to be part of their lives which is easier in many respects but so much harder too, not to mention when he would get someone new. I still think about these things, almost every single day but I also think of how I am happy with my choice, I chose this. I wanted this new baby, I was willing to go through it all again, single or otherwise. Making that decision...I can’t describe it, Dan.” She smiled at the thought. “I mean, I question my sanity, that goes without saying, but at the same time, I feel so sure because it’s my decision and mine alone. Tom being on the same page is great, knowing that this is not some act, that he’s not going to change to something different because of this, knowing I don’t need to be scared, it feels so good to know this.” She felt a sense of relief even saying it. “Tom gives me a choice, that was something I stopped even thinking I had. I feel like I have so much power now. I cannot decide what those who write those lies say, that hurts but I can choose how I react and I choose to focus on what really matters, me, Tom, Lily and Bump.”

Daniel looked at his sister, biting his lips together. He found it hard to listen to her speak about what she had endured before. He did not see her as much as he wanted to at that time. He worked a lot and when he was not working, he was being young and having fun with his college friends, drinking, going on holidays and such. When she had her accident, he had visited her in hospital, of course, but when she told him she was getting married, he was startled. He had not even met her boyfriend, so to hear the first time he would do so was on the week of their wedding was something he thought was odd.

Alexianna did not seem like a happy bride-to-be when she told him, in fact, she merely sent him a text having rarely even mentioned the man she would be marrying before that in their conversations. When he did meet Jonathon, something always felt off, he could not place it but put it down to the other man not really warming to him. When he got the message that he was to be an uncle, he sent his congratulations and a bouquet of flowers, he never received a reply from her. When she called him to say she had the baby, she cried down the phone and he urged her to tell him what was wrong. He was in Germany on a small weekend break, he grabbed his belongings and rushed back to England. There, he learnt almost everything Alexianna had hidden from him about her marriage and her life until that point or most everything at least. Some of it only became known later, she hid the darkest parts for so long. More than once he wanted to find Jonathan Rice and murder him for what he did to his sister and his niece, he wanted to make him suffer as Alexianna had suffered. Alexianna pointed out that Jonathan never hit her as though her situation could have been worse, Daniel did not have the heart to add to her stresses by telling her that of the things her husband could have done, physical abuse was something less scarring than his chosen abuses, bruises healed, what he did to her scarred her mind. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” He all but whispered.

“I didn’t want to admit to myself how bad it was.” Daniel’s face showed his lack of ability to comprehend what she had said. “I felt that if I said anything, it made it more real.” “What is more real than being in the situation, Al?”

“Pretending it was not as bad as it was. I used to use the time he was not home to tidy, listen to the radio and act as though it was not too bad. The house was big enough, I didn’t need for anything obvious, I was told more than once how lucky I was that he could afford to keep me and the house with his job, I let myself listen to that and I allowed myself to pretend it was true.” Daniel swallowed. “I should never have let it go that far, I had so many warnings but I was so scared of being alone, I learnt after that being alone is not a bad thing.” “But...Tom…” “Tom adds to my life, Jonathan took from it, there is the difference. When Tom says or does something I am not too happy about, it is not done with the want to hurt me or an utter lack of caring for my opinion but because it is honest. Like when he said he can’t wait for the New York show, it was never that he can’t wait to be away from me and the kids, but because he always wanted to do Broadway. I felt a little sad at first but he clarified and apologised for feeling excited for such when it’s understandable why he would feel it.” “You really are growing back to you, aren’t you?” Daniel smiled. “I got scared we would never see you again. This you, the real one. I will never stop being grateful to Tom for that.” “Hey, I had a bit to play in it too. I went and got the help I needed, Tom just gave me the incentive.” “He didn’t tell you to see if you could get help?”

“No, he threatened to call time on us when I got up my own ass for him buying Lily some cheap toys because I kept moving the boundaries because of my own issues, stemming from Oliver and he didn’t think it was fair, which is a fair statement for him to make, I would think.”

Daniel knew Lily would be back in a moment and that his chance to speak with Alexianna would be cut short. “I really feel like I haven’t been as good a brother to you since he came along.”

“We both have someone now but we’re still close, not as close as then but that’s okay.” She took his hand in hers. “Dan, you took care of me and Lily so much for so long, you deserve to be able to have your life, it’s not your job to be looking after me. I’m a big girl, I need to have accountability for my actions sooner or later.”

“So, you’re not mad with me about running off to Scotland?” “No, I am not mad at you for organically meeting the woman that is perfect for you and wanting to have a life with her. Are you insane?” Alexianna scoffed hitting him playfully with the cushion beside her. “What has you worrying about this recently?” “I read a book not too long ago, about how to best look at your life and better everything in it but to do that, you need to look at what you are doing wrong. You came to mind. I went from being there for you to running off and not talking to you for long periods of time because I wanted to spend time with Anna.”

“But that’s not a bad thing, Dan.” “But it felt like it to me.” Alexianna did not argue any further with him. She knew from her own therapy sessions that something that felt real to her were non-issues for others but that never stopped them feeling real to her, others could very well feel the same. “I’m sorry. I am sorry I left you in London, not making sure you were okay there with Tom and I am so sorry I never protected you from that bastard.”

Alexianna felt herself become emotional whenever it came to her brother at the best of times, but seeing his eyes well up as he fought back his own tears added to her pregnancy hormones and the topic involved, she began to well up too. “I love you, you silly sausage, you know that and I could not have asked for a better brother, now, stop being such a twat before my daughter sees us sobbing.” She hugged him tightly.

“Sorry.” He pulled her to him. “I just want you to be happy, Al.” “I am. Don’t think otherwise. I am the happiest I have been in my adult life at the moment. If I could get a better job, I would be happier, but I love my work, I love my daughter, my brother and his fiancée, my baby and my partner. I am so happy, please don’t think otherwise. I wish Scotland was closer to London, but it’s still only a few hours up the road.”

“You keep saying you are coming up.” “I keep planning to, but weather, weather, you taking a few days extra offshore and an unplanned pregnancy all conspired against us.”

They heard the door open.

“Mummy?” Lily bounded through the house to the balcony where her mother and uncle were talking. “Yes?” “Can I ring Daddy?” “He is doing a matinée show for another half an hour, Sweetheart, you need to wait.”

“But he’s finished.” She pointed to the clock on the wall.

“We’re an hour ahead, Princess,” Daniel explained. Lily stared at her uncle with bewilderment. “Different parts of the world are at different times of the day, so it’s nearly three here but only coming up to two o’clock in London.” “Uncle Dan, why are you crying?” Lily wiped a small tear off her uncle’s face. “Did Mummy give out to you for not eating all your vegetables?”

Daniel kissed his niece’s head. “No, Sweetheart. I am just so happy.” “Happy?” “Yes, I am so happy to be here with you, your Mum and Anna.” “And Pip,” Lily informed him. “Who is Pip?” Her mother asked.

“Pip is my name for the baby.” “Pip? Lil’s we have no idea if it is a girl or a boy.” Her mother looked at her in shock.

“But Daddy and I said we need to give the baby a name and he said Pip was a good name.”

“That’s going to stick, I just know it,” Alexianna sighed. “I will send Daddy a text and when he is available, he will ring, does that sound good?”

“Perfect. I am going to eat my crème glacée.” Lily was proud of her correct pronunciation while holding up her ice-cream.

“You do that, Princess.” Daniel urged her into the other room as Anna came over giving him a concerned look which he dismissed while Alexianna did as she stated she would and texted Tom.

“Hello, Darling. How are you?”

“I am good, everyone is good, Dan, Anna, Lily and apparently Pip.”

Tom hissed slightly. “I forgot to mention that to you.” “Yes, you did. Tom, I swear, if this is a boy, I am not calling him Phillip, I really don’t like that name.” “We haven’t even started thinking of names.” Tom pointed out. “We probably should.” “We still have another three months to consider names,” Alexianna stated.

“But no, Phillip Hiddleston doesn’t sound good,” Tom agreed

“Hiddleston, is it?” Alexianna scoffed. They had discussed that very briefly after dinner with Tom’s father and him saying something about the baby being a Hiddleston legally. At the times, Tom was worried Alexianna would be upset or annoyed with his father’s comment but she was okay with the child having his surname and though they did not formally agree to it being Hiddleston, she did make a comment that would suggest so. “We could have Thomas William Hiddleston Jr?” “God, don’t do that to the poor lad,” Tom laughed. “How are you?”

“Tired, but loving the sun. How is work?” “Work is good, the play is going as great as ever. I had a few fans today wishing us luck with the baby, actually saying both of us and our daughter, those words, so that made my day.” “That’s good. I’m sorry I am cheating on you.” Tom laughed. “You went very Targaryen it seems.” “I did. God, do they ever stop?” “They are idiots, nothing more.” Tom sat back in his dressing room chair. “How are Dan and Anna about it?” “Weirded out, obviously, but Dan was worried.” “How so? He knows it’s rubbish.”

“Just about Lily and I, he admitted to feeling a little bad about recent strains between us so we had a chat while Lily was getting the ice-cream she needed to take about forty pictures of and ring you about.”

Tom did not know what to say about that. He could sense the tension with Dan before the holiday. He hoped with that aired, everything would be okay going forward. “As long as everyone is happy.”

Alexianna laughed at his political answer. “I think there was just too much tension that needed releasing.” She sighed. “I wish you were here.” “When I am done in New York, when you are recovered and the baby is a little older, we will take them on a holiday, just the four of us.”

“What about Loki?” “He won’t last forever.” Tom groaned, stretching himself, tired from not sleeping properly while Alexianna was away. “Then it will be us and our children and a little holiday.” “That sounds fun.”

“So, you better let Lily inform me of her ice-cream since it seems so important as to learn about time-zones for.” “Fine, since I am boring you.” “Nothing of the sort, how is the baby?” “Slight flutters, but no real movements yet. Making me tired. It’s annoying really because I am trying to sort a CV for this place that I found online that is looking for people. I know I would have to admit about the pregnancy but it specifically states it has childcare and how it is more focused on loyal workers so who knows.”

“The worst they can say is no, right?” Tom smiled at her enthusiasm.

“Exactly. One moment. Lily?” She called for her daughter. “I heard of them before, they are fairly large in size, so who knows.” There was another voice on Alexianna’s side of the call. “It’s your Dad. Well, you asked to speak with him, not me.” She put the phone to her ear again. “I will talk to you later and let you speak to our loon of a daughter. I love you and I will talk to you later. I just want to sort this out for Insight.” “Insight?” Tom frowned.

“Yes, the company that I am applying to, it’s one in London called Insight.”

Tom swallowed as the name and why it resonated with him came to mind as he remembered the unwanted car ride with her father when Oliver told him to have her apply to Insight. He had never mentioned that to her as he knew she would never accept a hand-out, especially from Oliver. He did not know if he should mention it now.

#Life is a Game of Risks #Chapter 72 #Tom Hiddlestom #Tom Hiddleston Fic #wolfpawn #TW Past abuse #Trigger Warning #Mentions of Past abuse

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askaceattorney · 5 years

Text

(Pictures in Letter)

Dear Trearoos,

Co-Mod: My preferred method is to group Mod letters together and post them when there’s a large enough number of them (or when it’s been a long time since they were posted), while posting letters to characters from the queue, which takes roughly a month. You can let us know if you’d rather have us answer either kind of letter at a specific time, of course.

Dear Anonymous,

Co-Mod: It depends -- if we’re talking about the ones who committed murder, I’d go with Ini Miney. Her motive -- keeping the illusion that she was her deceased sister going -- was one of the most tragic ones I can imagine. However, if we’re just talking about those involved in crimes, I’d definitely go with Tahrust Inmee. Sympathizing with someone who was willing to frame Maya for murder (who’s already been through that three times) isn’t easy, but he saw it as the only way to protect his wife and unborn child, even sacrificing his own life in the process. I doubt if I’d have made the same decision if I were in his situation (and hopefully I’ll never find out), but I do have to admire that level of commitment to one’s family.

Mod Kristoph: Probably Geiru from Spirit of Justice. Simply because of her traumatic problems. Plus, it’s sad to see a cute person like her fall from grace.

Dear skibot99,

Co-Mod: That gag was started here on the blog, with this letter. Like Phoenix said, American euphemisms go way over her head.

Dear Anonymous,

Co-Mod: I’m with you there. I’m sure she can take it, but she’s a human being like the rest of us, so let’s treat her with some respect, shall we?

Plus I’m running out of witty retorts for her.

(Previous Letter)

Dear Anonymous,

Co-Mod: Mostly because Mod Maya used them, and she hasn’t been on the blog for a while. I prefer to stick with the regular-sized 3D sprites.

(Previous Post)

Dear M.,

Co-Mod: What can I say? Love’s a strange thing, and Ace Attorney’s full of strange people.

Mod Kristoph: You know what they say.

Dear skibot99 again,

Co-Mod: Thanks for your concern, but what’s so horrible about getting the lore wrong every now and then? When that happens, we just make some quick fixes, then let it go and move on. No big deal.

Dear Starry,

Co-Mod: Thanks a bunch, and right back at you!

I loved Turnabout Revolution myself, for a number of reasons: it introduced us to Apollo’s father (and his biological father, for a few brief moments), it gave us one of the most clever plot twists in the series (Dhurke being dead and channeled by Maya from the episode’s beginning), and it gave Apollo a chance to become a hero who brings down a cartoonishly evil dictator and serve up some justice, Apollo-style. Not to mention it pitted two of the series’ most iconic characters against each other in a court of law.

Speaking of which, while I enjoyed seeing the first civil trial in an Ace Attorney game, I felt like it did the same thing as The Stolen Turnabout in T&T -- it starts out being about something other than murder, buuuuut somebody ends up getting killed anyway. And in this case, it was all because of a selfish politician who didn’t get what he wanted. I mean, seriously?

I also couldn’t help but wonder how Phoenix got roped into to doing things against his will just to protect Maya again. True, he’d just rescued her from being convicted of murder, but could he not at least be honest with his most trusted subordinate instead of facing him in court without an explanation? I might be overthinking it, but it seemed a little far-fetched to me.

The second case was also enjoyable because of how much hinged on it -- the Defiant Dragons’ cause, Dhurke’s reputation, Rayfa’s self-confidence, Nahyuta’s conscience, the fate of a whole nation, etc. And how could it get any better than an exposing a monarch for the delusional dictator she is?

Not to mention it was the first time Apollo and Phoenix had to do their jobs at gunpoint. Even after playing through every other game before SoJ, I still wasn’t prepared to see that happen.

But in any case (no pun intended), I thoroughly enjoyed how Turnabout Revolution progressed, and how it brought Apollo’s unofficial trilogy to a satisfying conclusion.

Apart from him being separated from the WAA, that is. That was just too sad.

And finally, as you may have guessed if you know anything about my thoughts toward Athena, I’m with you all the way on having a little more story for her in a future game. I understand her playing a smaller part in a game that centers on Apollo’s growth as a lawyer, but the girl’s got some serious potential.

Dear Christianthepupbot,

Co-Mod: You know, that’s a great idea. Generally speaking, your best bet is to send holiday-themed letters at least 2 months in advance of the holiday. I wish I could be more specific, but that should guarantee your letter being answered in time for the holiday. Also, as mentioned above, you can always request that your letter be answered on a specific day, and we’ll try to squeeze it in on that day.

Hey, that means it’s a great time to send Easter-themed letters, doesn’t it?

Dear Vera Long,

Co-Mod: Thanks for letting us know! It’s a big help knowing which letter is being referenced instead of having to guess. And thank you for contributing with your letters to the Ace Attorney crew!

Dear Ali S. Fakenamington,

Co-Mod: Nah, that’s a legitimate complaint. I just decided to answer them all in a row since it’s pretty rare that someone sends that many at once (plus I have to admit I’m kind of partial to those comics). I’ll spread them out a little next time so we can have some more variety within a single day. Thanks for asking!

-The Mods

#Trearoos #Anonymous #skibot99 #M. Artin #doveofthedawn #Christianthepupbot #Vera Long #Ali S. Fakenamington #Mod Post #Co Mod #Mod Kristoph

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britishassistant · 5 years

Text

Mr. Hale’s Art 301

August— Introduction to Line and Shading

The adolescents file in, a few chattering to each other, but most with their heads down and stomachs rumbling, backpacks rustling with the sheafs of paper they’ve accumulated over the course of the day.

Even the peppier ones look tired as they choose their seats, and Peter can’t honestly say he blames them.

He’s in the back room again, observing how his students behave when they think they’re not being observed.

They’re terribly predictable. No one will sit in the front row of tables, a learned self-preservation instinct to keep distance between themselves and an unfamiliar, hostile adult.

Those that know each other will take seats near each other at the tables, their familiarity relative to how close they’re willing to sit to each other. Those that know no one will take seats as far away from everyone else as possible, or if they came in late, be forced into the seats that their classmates left purposefully unoccupied.

The bursts of petty ire towards those unfortunates who violate the buffer zones have Peter rolling his eyes. Really, the pretense that humans are anything but a particularly weak and underdeveloped sort of animal is laughable for all their veneer of “civilization”.

The beagle-girl and another girl barely make it inside before the tinny wail of what’s supposed to pass for a bell.

Beagle-girl plops behind the front table by the door, too focused on trying to rub an incriminating dark smear from the side of her hand to notice how she’s isolated herself.

The other girl scans the room, makes a face at the empty front tables, glances between them and the beagle-girl, before reluctantly seating herself next to a suddenly sour-faced young man at the end of the table that’s diagonally behind her compatriot.

So he finally has a face to put to the second intruder.

Well, isn’t it only fair that he return the favor?

Peter waits until his students begin to look around, and then opens the back-room door, feeling a measure of satisfaction when every single one of the thirteen heads whip to stare at him.

Beagle-girl shuts her mouth and tries to covertly lower her hand like she wasn’t about to try licking the stained side of it.

“Good afternoon.” Peter says pleasantly. “My name is Mr. Hale. I’ll be your art teacher for this year.”

He turns around to chalk his name at the top of the board, rolling his eyes where his students can’t see at the bursts of arousal coloring several scents behind him.

Teenagers, honestly.

He sets the chalk down and scoops up the papers on his desk in one hand, taking a moment to separate the syllabi from the rest. He circles around his desk, still smiling.

Beagle-girl doesn’t smell like arousal. She smells like fear and nerves, eyes wide and pulse racing when he stops in front of her table and proffers the syllabi.

“Would you mind passing these out while I call roll, dear?” Peter asks, smile broad and toothy.

She nods rabbit-quick, reaching out to take them with the stained left hand. She only realizes her mistake once the papers are in her grasp, face paling rapidly.

Peter’s grin broadens.

He turns and strolls back to his desk. “Now, if you have any name you would prefer to go by, please let me know and I will note it down on the attendance record, understood?”

There’s a chorus of nods and “yes”es from the class, save for beagle-girl and those who are clearly wondering why she’s decided to walk around the room to hand the syllabi out instead of passing them from her chair like a normal person.

Peter’s not entirely sure himself, but he digresses.

“Mark Spieler.”

“Right here.” A boy in the center table of the third row raises his hand with an unusual amount of self-assurance. His hair stinks of gel despite its untidy look and he’s lounging in his chair like it’s a throne, shooting conspiratorial grins to the girl and boy on either side of him.

His scent is shot through with a strange smell, something that Peter can’t quite identify but raises his hackles all the same. He’ll keep an eye on that one.

“Polly Russo.”

“Here!” The girl closest to the window in the second row raises her hand, appearing only moments from waving. She’s one of the peppier ones, with a braid covered in brightly-colored sporadically-spaced elastics, her irritation with the boy seated in the previously-unoccupied seat beside her lasting only moments.

Her scent right now is telling of mild confusion, presumably at Peter’s decision to start at the end of the roster instead of at the beginning as convention dictated.

“Alicia Reyes.”

“...Here.” A gloomy young woman seated at the far end of the central table of back row half-lifts a limp hand. Her clothes were dark and seemed haphazard somehow. Peter tilted his head, imagined a couple of years on her, and suddenly realized why he felt like her scent and features were vaguely familiar.

Well. This made things awkward.

“...Evelyn Mahealani.”

“Evie’s fine.” The smiling girl closest to the window at the back lifts the textbook she is in the process of tucking away into her backpack in lieu of raising her hand. Peter catches a glimpse of a boggled rainforest frog before the textbook goes down and away.

She at least appears to have a modicum of fashion sense, even with all the new-age jewelry littering her arms. She’ll soon learn how impractical those can be when they move into paints.

“Jordan Harlowe.”

“Here.” A young man with dreadlocks at the far table in the second row raises his hand, looking disinterested. He’d been one of the later ones in, and appeared wholly unconcerned with incurring the ire of his classmate by taking the “buffer” seat.

His eyes were flickering over his classmates in a vaguely judging manner, silently assessing in a way that reminded Peter of that useless lump Deaton and the charming Ms. Morrell.

“Adam Johnson.”

“Here!” A boy with enough acne to strike a match on at the central table of the second row raises his hand. Despite his irritation with his new table-mate, his overall demeanor seems to be eager to please, his clothes too neat to be anything that he’d chosen himself.

Peter recognizes him from the photos on his new boss’s desk, the nervously-smiling child standing next to his mother who probably had all of his teachers monitoring his behavior.

“Fate Evander.”

“Huh? Oh, here!” The young woman at the end of the window-table in the third row turns away from her hushed conversation with her table-mate to wave a hand. She pushes her glasses up her nose and turns to grin ruefully at her conversation partner at being caught distracted.

Peter would be surprised at the sight of a leather jacket in August, were he not intimately familiar with his nephew’s fascination with them that resulted in the item of clothing becoming a semi-mandatory pack uniform.

“Jean-Paul Durand.”

“J.P.” Peter has to blink at the curt person sitting next to the window in the third row, who stares at him moodily for a moment before turning back towards Fate. He’s...relatively certain that Stilinski doesn’t have any siblings, but the resemblance is scarily uncanny.

The buzzed hair is ginger, the accent is French, the features are (somehow) a little more feminine, and the scent is telling of a life spent outdoors. But Peter’s going to poke around some of his sources, just in case.

“Timothy Coffret.”

“Right here!” The boy at one end of the center table in the third row throws up his hand, nearly clocking the self-assured boy next to him in the nose. The lanky boy freezes, face comically horrified before asking if his friend is okay with near-hysterical giggles.

Mark reaches over and begins attempting to noogie his dark brown hair while a girl on the other side of the table begins shaking her head and giggling along with them.

“Thomasina Coffret.”

“Tina, and that one’s Tim.” The young woman points at herself and then at the boy squawking in the noogie’s grip. Even if the same last names and familiarity weren’t a dead giveaway, the similar brunette hair, coloration, and scents marked those two as close siblings.

The way they were bracketing the strange-smelling boy was interesting though. Almost as though he were their alpha, despite the fact that none of them were werewolves from what Peter could tell.

“Jessica Berzynas.”

“Here~” The second intruder carelessly raises her hand with a look on her face that makes Peter want to roll his eyes again. She leans further onto the edge of the center table in the second row, her mooning expression only outmatched by the moon on her shirt that’s surrounded by airbrushed howling wolves.

And she’s wearing a dog collar too. An honest-to-god red fabric dog collar that still carries the canine scent of its previous owner. Peter closes his eyes briefly and silently asks for patience.

“Walter Boyd.”

“Here.” A nervous young man at the other end of the center table in the end row raises a hand, glances at Peter, and quickly away, dropping his hand as he does so. He adjusts his glasses, fiddling with his phone under the table, scent stinking of pungent self-loathing.

Jesus, what are the odds? Peter almost wishes there was a way to express his condolences to the two in the back without exposing his connection to their...older siblings? Cousins?

There should be “sorry the supernatural killed your loved ones” cards. It would make things so much easier. Peter himself could’ve done with one of those years ago.

His eyes flick back down to the roster.

The small smirk returns at the sight of the dark blot at the top of the page and the rounded handwriting that’s doing it’s best to mimic the typeface under it.

“Nana Assis.”

Beagle-girl continues handing out syllabi, shuffling the remaining papers and looking around to check her classmates all had one, beginning to start her circuit again once she realized she couldn’t tell from her position at the back of the class.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Nana Assis.”

The second intruder turns around and hisses “Nana!”

Beagle-girl’s head whips up to stare questioningly at her blonde cohort, before she catches sight of Peter (and the rest of the class) staring at her.

“Oh, um, present!” She squeaks, sticking a hand in the air.

Peter raises an eyebrow until she lowers it again. “Thank you for handing those out, Miss Assis. If you could return the extras to me?”

She tentatively approaches him, heartbeat still rabbit quick. She hands all the papers back to Peter, ignorant of the fact she’s forgotten to leave one for herself.

“If I could ask another favor of you, Miss Assis?” The girl pales again, but nods resolutely. “Would you mind drawing something small, on the corner of the board there? Anything you’d like.”

She follows where Peter’s pointing, and hesitantly walks over and picks up the white chalk. She draws a rectangle, then a slightly wonky cross within the rectangle, quickly shading the four areas outside the cross in white.

“It’s, um. The English flag. Because I come from a small village north of London, originally.” She explains haltingly, British accent thick in her voice as she gestures to her creation.

Peter nods. “Thank you for this, Miss Assis. You can sit down now.”

Nana Assis gratefully flees back to her one person table in front of the door, only looking mildly confused by the syllabus that’s magically appeared there in her absence.

“Now, could anyone tell me what Miss Assis’ drawing is made up of?” Peter looks out over the class. “Mr. Harlowe?”

“Failed attempts at straight lines.” Jordan Harlowe deadpans, uncaring of the nervous titters around him, or the way that Miss Assis goes red and tries to sink down into her chair.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Well Mr. Harlowe, if all lines were straight, life would be much more boring, now wouldn’t it?”

That garners a few giggles and Jordan Harlowe’s grudging nod, as though Peter’s passed some kind of test or won a round of something.

“Chalk.” Evie Mahealani calls out.

Peter nods to her. “That is indeed the correct material Miss Mahealani. But to go back to Mr. Harlowe’s insistence on boring convention, how would you define a line?”

There’s a silence as his students contemplate this, before Tim Coffret pipes up with, “A mark!”

“Hey!” Mark Spieler shoves his friend good-naturedly. “You callin’ me a line?”

“Yeah, a pick-up one.” Tina Coffret teases, grinning at the resulting groans from the people around her.

“A point following a dot!” Fate Evander volunteers.

“Well done, Mr. Coffret, Miss Evander. Broadly speaking, both of your definitions are correct. Lines are one of the most fundamental elements of 2D art, dating back to when cavemen discovered that mixing certain dusts with urine allowed them to paint on walls.” Peter takes a moment to enjoy the expressions of disgust and morbid interest on the faces of his students.

“A set of closed lines, like the ones Miss Assis has so thoughtfully provided for us, divide the surface we are drawing on into positive and negative space. Can anyone tell me what the difference between those is? Yes, Mr. Durand?”

J.P. Durand’s face goes stormy all of a sudden. “I’m not a Mr.”

“Ah, forgive me.” Peter says smoothly, “Would it be better if I address you using Miss or Mx.? And are there any pronouns you would prefer I use?”

The furious expression disperses somewhat. “...Mx. is fine I guess. And I use they/them.”

Miss Evander squeezes their shoulder, smiling hesitantly as they valiantly ignore their classmates’ curious stares.

“If you’d like to continue, Mx. Durand?” Peter prompts.

J.P. Durand bridles, a small sort of happiness infusing their scent as they say, “Positive space is within a shape, negative space is outside of it.”

“Very good.” Peter nods. “And, as well as forming shapes and denoting positive and negative space, lines can be used to show different colors and values of light, as Miss Assis has demonstrated with her shading here.”

Peter points to the white areas to emphasize his point, noting that the embarrassment and shame is gradually fading out of Miss Assis’ scent in favor of a small, happy sort of pride.

“In this class, we will be covering the practical aspects of art creation, with a small emphasis on the theory and history behind the techniques we will be using.” Peter continues, directing his class to begin to examine their syllabi. “We will not have tests as you are all used to them, with rote memorization that fails to actually teach you anything. However, that does not mean that your grades will not be judged based on the quality of your work. While some of you may try to argue all art is subjective, trust me when I say that there is a difference between art that has real passion behind it, and art that you think is passable for a blow-off class.”

Peter grins, teeth bared and ever so slightly lengthened beyond an ordinary human’s. “And I will know the difference, I promise you that.”

There is a collective shiver among the adolescents that makes Peter feel a lot more satisfied than he probably should, but he’s got to have his fun where he can, doesn’t he?

“This does not mean I expect you all to excel at every method I teach you. That will only stifle your talents and lead to irritation and boredom on both your and my behalf. In fact, I wish to encourage each of you to find a métier you are most comfortable with and see how you can produce something innovative with the unique skills you will develop. That is why, if you feel you have found a medium that “clicks” with you, I will permit you to continue to use it in conjunction with other methods if you let me know ahead of time. For some of you that will mean you may only discover your medium much later in the year, but that is unfortunately the nature of time and the world, which are both chronically unfair as you all have no doubt realized.”

That earns a few snickers, but some still look afraid.

“Again, I do not expect excellence in every area. That bores me, and as you will come to know, I loathe boredom. Give me effort, genuine effort, and try to find some of that innovation that the education system has tried so hard to stamp out of you, and you will do just fine in this class. In other classes, you will be filling out worksheets and textbooks and exams that will ultimately mean nothing once you all move up in the world. Here is the only place where you can create something, where you can mold the world into the vision you believe or wish it to be, rather than try to fit the molds it has arbitrarily decided to assign you.”

Peter looks out over the faces of the young minds he’s supposed to “enlighten”. What garbage. He’s not going to be putting anything there that there aren’t seeds of already.

“Yes.” He says, grinning wide. “I think we will all make something very interesting together.”

The shrill whine that’s supposed to pass for a bell rings, and his new students pack away his syllabi and stream out of the door to fill their rumbling bellies.

#my writing #teen wolf #art 301 #peter hale #teen wolf oc #art teacher peter hale #middle school #art class #vernon boyd #erica reyes #danny mahealani #stiles stilinski #wkm oc #nanbaka oc #wkm mark #ocs #nonbinary #aromatic #adhd inattentive

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fredricsk · 5 years

Text

❝ I remember all the things i thought i wanted to be. ❞ JUSTICE SMITH? No, that’s actually FRED WEASLEY II. Only TWENTY TWO years old, this GRYFFINDOR alumni works as an APPARITION INSTRUCTOR & PORTKEY OFFICE SECRETARY and is sided with THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX. HE identifies as CIS-MALE and is a HALFBLOOD who is known to be CALLOW, OVERWHELMED, and ACERBIC but also AFFECTIONATE, INCISIVE, and DUTIFUL. { CAMI, 19, GMT, SHE/HER }

BEFORE

TW MISCARRIAGE

george weasley, entrepreneur legendary, and angelina weasley, quidditch superstar, turned wales national team trainer. the couple was a shining example of success and happiness, and that only grew at the news that they’d soon have their first child. correction, CHILDREN. they might have been a bit late to some of their relatives, who already had a few toddlers, but they would bring weasley twins into the world, so the terrifying chaos coming up would make up for it. fred and george, they’d decided to call them, in honour of the most recent set of twins in the family. however, things didn’t exactly go according to plan, and just a few days after discovering that they were carrying twin boys, one didn’t make it.

a feeling of grief consumed the family. suddenly, angelina was at risk, as was the surviving fetus, but they let nothing but optimism into their loving house. frederick llyr weasley ii was born strong and loud, and into the arms of those who had far too much love to give, pouring it all onto that one baby. he joined a few other babies in the family, already vast in size but growing by the day. grandma molly made him a blanket, angelina’s father brought him a toy broom he had no use for, family dinners came and went as he thrived filled with joy and laughter. a few years later, after recovering from the shock of the dangerous pregnancy, roxanne was born, and little fred threw himself into the role of older brother, attempting to help out as much as their parents would allow - even if it was to simply hold her hand for a while.

as a way to connect them to the muggle part of their heritage, angelina made sure her children got as much of a non-magical education as they could before they headed off to hogwarts. with two hard-working parents, it was also the most practical solution. thus, fred’s days were constant tastes of both sides, and that was simply his reality: in the morning he’d be walked to school, just a few streets away. they’d play and learn the alphabet and talk about their favourite cartoons. in the afternoon he’d sit with grandpa arthur, who seemed to ask lots of questions about rather normal things, or he’d “help” dad and uncle fred at the store, which mostly meant passing coins from customers to the cashier (a rather important task). george and angelina worried about the potential signs of magic fred should one day show, and how they might ostracize him, but they soon learned they had little to fear.

when fred was still rather young, his family showed concern about his lack of complex speech, which soon developed into a very clear stammer. caring as they were, the couple tried all methods, magical and muggle, to help their young son - after lots of trial and error, they settled on a london speech therapist, who stuck by fred for most of his early life in constant sessions. the little kids who copied his stuttering with mockery in the playground soon became a foggy memory and at age twelve he had his very last session. his speech was fluent. “cured”, he’d thought.

fred took a little longer to begin showing clear signs of magic. long enough to bring around some speculation of him being a squib, but it turned out that his magic, regardless of his lack of control or the height of his emotions, was simply subtle - flowers bloomed a little more, a mirror fogged up, a loose thread on a shirt for pulled a few more centimeters. besides, most emotional reactions, which lead magical children to show uncontrollable magic, were conveyed through his stammer. if fred was nervous or angry, it intensified, or his voice was simply blocked. it took close attention for anyone to notice all of this, and his subtle works of magic, and to this day that is how it works for fred. his spells are subtle, almost dimmed. he has an eye for the small touches and delicate work, but can’t make a single thing explode.

then, it came the time to pick a side. there wasn’t much choice, given how it’d always been expected that the year he turned eleven, fred would move to hogwarts and leave the muggle world behind, so he didn’t say a word. however, there was real anguish in saying goodbye to his school friends and realising that the following year there’d be no way back. he was a wizard, who’d lead a wizard’s life. he BELONGED somewhere else. doing what was expected of him, the boy said a tearful goodbye to his parents, after confessing once again his fear of living away from them; held his little sister for as long as possible; put a smile on when uncle fred tried to cheer him up and took his cousin victoire’s hand, joining her in the whole new era.

HOGWARTS

GRYFFINDOR ! fred had no preferences, so he was silent as the hat pondered for a few seconds. at first, the decision made sense - his family had a longstanding reputation in the roaring house, so why not? the doubts took a few months to hit him. shy and simple, his housemates at times overwhelmed him, but a true sense of displacement came after winter break. he’d returned home, to his family and his house, and to his muggle friends. his routine went back to normal and january was too harsh of a reality check - on the second day back, he drafted a letter to his mother, asking her to let him go home. but he never sent it. instead, he made the best he could with the little tools he had. fred made few but intense friendships, mostly with kids from other houses. he accepted the narrative that he was not brave, or noble, or the hero type, but instead a gryffindor legacy and thus placed in the high expectations house. he focused on his grades, his dream job changing from doctor to healer - sleepless nights and migraines to achieve the one goal he had in mind, even if he’d stopped feeling the pull towards it by third year.

fred was a responsible young man, with a bright future in front of him. he was driven and hardworking. he was cracking under the self-imposed pressure every single day.

from the very start, fred’s relationship with his magic was complicated. he enjoyed it, surely, and was able to perform it, but his biggest aptitude was for the theory of it all. essays, understanding the mechanics, homework. at times, it felt like not much about him would have been different, had fred stayed in the muggle world. sometimes, he even revisited that thought of leaving it all behind - but he never did. after all, he was a driven young man, he couldn’t QUIT.

PRESENT

graduated with the soul-crushing requirements for healer training, fred had a ten year plan drawn and step one was taken care of. it was beyond competitive, everyone trying to climb higher, get the best shot - a shock to his system. fred would fall asleep over books, the work consuming him even at home, and yet it wasn’t enough. ‘your heart isn’t in it’ an older healer said to him once, after yet another failure, but it made no sense. on paper, he was the perfect candidate: kind, caring, smart, very good grades, lots of drive to learn and ambition. hands on? he froze, he had no time to erase his mistakes and write over them, anything but perfection consumed him, corroding.

he was deteriorating under the pressure, and for once he wasn’t the only person holding him accountable - his patients, the other healers. one year finished, a celebration at home, little fred was one year closer to becoming the next great healer! the following day he didn’t come straight home after the hospital, but rather to the shop, sitting in his father’s office until chance dictated he’d walk in. george weasley understood quitting to follow a bigger passion, he knew, but what would happen if fred didn’t have one? what was he quitting for? the imagined disappointment consumed him even as his father held him close, a crying mess begging for help.

fred had hit a breaking point and for once he made it glaringly obvious. fred, the quitter. fred, the lost. fred, with no plan and no future. fred, surrounded by a kind family, giving him space and time to figure out the next steps.

after a few weeks, he decided to go help out at his father’s store, somewhere known and temporary where he could feel useful and a little less lost. however, it didn’t last for long - after some search and the help of a few connections, fred was assured a job in the ministry, something a bit more lonely and calm - perhaps he’d follow a career like his grandfather arthur’s? or perhaps it’d be temporary too. fred had decided to give himself a gap year of no plans, no overarching ambitions. the little desk in a corner of the portkey office was his, nameplate and all. it was work he could leave there, over that small table, never in his heart and mind at home, and there were no real life-or-death stakes to it. all the learning was mostly optional, driven by his own ambition and curiosity, and a few months in he was doing some shifts on the neighbouring office as well, giving some apparition classes at hogwarts.

then everything changed. just as he was settling and life was gaining some balance, just as he’d at last left his parent’s house and began envisioning what the rest of his life might look like, news shook the world and brought him to his knees. uncle harry was DEAD. the minister and headmistress as well. pillars of the world and his life were gone, his uncle making his heart bleed especially. it wasn’t a coincidence, and they all knew it. a week later, loved ones restituted a group he’d only ever heard stories of, and there were no questions in his mind. fred worked deep within the enemies’ den, and he had access to information and skills that could prove useful, so why stay idle? every semblance of a plan he’d been drafting was done with the old world, so it was time to start anew.

bravery can come in subtle ways. it doesn’t need to be a showy explosion of dauntlessness, but rather a willingness to remain somewhere terrifying, and to give name, body and soul to something worthwhile. fred sees it now, at times. his search for an overarching goal in life is on hold for now, because he has found one, the order of the phoenix and the USEFUL work he can do for it. fred has been working out logistics. his role is very much behind the scenes, and he feels the weight of that responsibility in his bones every single day: one mishap from him, and an entire operation could crumble from within. one misstep and he’s caught, using his little forgotten department of the ministry to move around people and objects under the radar, erasing records when needed, reworking portkeys and bringing the soldiers on his side to where they need to be, helping victims leave towards safety. the floo network is his ongoing project, much harder to hack into then the rest, much farther from his expertise - his goal is to create an entire underground network within it, separated from the rest and away from any record keeping. his mission for the next few months? be accepted for another year of apparition training at hogwarts, to be one of the connections between the school and the the outside world for a few weeks.

the last few months have been an internal mess, but fred’s sticking through. his stammer has in great part returned, especially during moments of stress, which he’s been constantly under. his all-nighters have a greater purpose now, full of heart, but they still take a toll on him. his role in the world is a hidden one for now, and he fears that simply isn’t enough, that HE isn’t enough and that his impact isn’t as far-reaching as he wishes it’d be. fred wants to measure up, but that simple goal requires too much of him, and he can’t stop himself from giving and giving, until he has very little of himself left. his laughter has grown sharper and shorter, like a cough. his eyes are tired, his bones are heavy, he’s quieter. and there’s so much to walk still.

EXTRA HEADCANONS

fred was always a big fan of video games, ever since he was a tiny kid. he’s not even a brilliant gamer or what not but he’s a big nerd. does he have a rather large corner of his bedroom dedicated only to video games? yes. does he spend most of his paycheck into new games and better computers and shit? yes. do i hate it? def

“tell the truth and then run” is the most fred thing i’ve ever read. his bravery comes out in subtle ways, or in angry bursts that he immediately regrets. he usually doesn’t do much FIELD work for the order, rather backstage stuff, but sometimes he jumps in, especially if they’re handling big transportations and portkeys, and you bet he throws a curse and then just RUNS. yells for backup and RUNS the fuck away. martyr complexes and being the big best hero is not his thing.

uncle fred is one of his favourite people ever and i’ll fight everyone on this, brign fred you cowards

he literally only wears sweaters and t-shirts with a basic comfy jacket over. formal wear? fake. his office is all robes and professional shirts, and then there’s fred in the desk in the corner.

he’s a big cynical? fred can get very annoying

legit loves the muggle world. it’s where he feels the most at home.

there’s this big fear of fucking up within him, and not so much fuck up in the eyes of others, but nto live up to his own stupid high standards. he wants a bigger role in things, a bigger purpose, a better job, more friends, make an impact? he wants to never fade away, especially in the middle of such a BIG family with so many accomplishments amongst them. so fred tries to trick his mind, insist that he isn’t afraid to fail, that he’s fine with quitting healer training and with where he is right now, which is a big lie. his wand’s wood, black walnut, doesn’t do great with lying to oneself - so on top of his subtle magic, it’s also just purely glitching, mimicking his internal confusion oops

nothing makes fred happier than showing muggle technology to grandpa arthur

started wearing glasses when he was ten and is a danger to himself and others without them

was prefect during 6th year and headboy in 7th

never did anythign quidditch related but learned to fly and play very young, obviously. follows all the professional games religiously but not with intense passion, more a need to stay informed

a VERY easy crier who replies to all of his own tears with ‘such nonsense’ :/

SOME STATS YALL

name: FREDERICK ( named after his uncle to mimic the george and fred duo. meaning ‘peaceful ruler’. ) LLYR ( meaning ‘the sea’. ) WEASLEY II

age: twenty two

date of birth: 6th of july, 2001

hometown: muggle london

current location: WC, SOMEONE SHARE A HOUSE OR FLAT WITH THIS MAN, HE’S TOO BROKE TO LIVE ALONE

gender: cis-male

pronouns: he/him

orientation: so gay

blood status: halfblood

hogwarts house: gryffindor

spoken languages: english and some french, can read ancient runes.

occupation: apparition instructor & secretary at the potkey office, within the department of magical transportation

sun sign: cancer

mbti: :/

moral alignment: lawful good

four temperaments: :/

element: water

father: george weasley ( b. 1978 )

mother: angelina weasley née johnson ( b. 1977 )

siblings: roxanne weasley ( b. 2004 )

pets: a dog named lando and a snowy owl named hugh.

wand: black walnut, phoenix feather, twelve inches, reasonably supple.

patronus: elephant

electives: arithmancy & study of ancient runes

NEWTs: arithmancy (A), transfiguration (O), potions (E), herbology (E), charms (O), DADA (E)

hogwarts extracurriculars: prefect, debate club, briefly in the charms club during 4th year

favourite subject: transfiguration

least favourite subject: astronomy

I’M ALMOST DONE I SWEAR

didn’t really write up wanted connections but basically: hogwarts friends (few, very close), order affiliated people who must put up with obsession-fred right now, ministry friends who too are trying to go under the DE radar right now, relatives (especially OLDER weasleys and affiliates), someone please share a house and help him pay rent, someone who did healer training with him??, someone (mostly ministry or hogwarts, because of the apparition classes) who doesn’t trust this weasley boy with his ministry jobs and acess to things, someone who tris to fight him because he’ll cry and then do the magical equivalent of slashing ur tires and cancel your acess to the floo network of ger your apparition license revoked :/

AND some character parallels: john mulaney (yes), alice quinn (the magicians), bill denbrough (it), chidi anagonye (the good place), matthew murdock (marvel), alex wilder (marvel), randall pearson (this is us), “doom days” by bastille (yes, the whole album. don’t ask me why.), soon more i guess stay tuNNED

also here’s a barely done pinterest board love him

#miscarriage tw #this is too long wiehbgr #iidyintro #❛ v . | every step i take i’m falling but my feet won’t touch the ground ; headcanons .

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