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malachi-walker · 4 years

Note

Happy birthday, Mal! I love your fics, they evoke so much emotion in me and have made me cry many a time. I don't often reread fics, but i've reread multiple chapters of Rhythm and Blues because they're stuck with me so much. You capture the emotional pain of their trauma and the catharsis that comes with their growth so beautifully. You also write some brilliant meta and just consistently post some fantastic thoughts. Also your love for swords is very appreciated. <3 have a lovely day!

First of all, my apologies for not replying sooner. I was making my mind up about something that would definitely require the use of a read more and thus necessitate dragging myself to desktop (which I hate because my laptop predates the dinosaurs.)

But seriously. Thank you so much. This is honestly one of the sweetest comments I've ever gotten and definitely made my already pretty sweet bday even better.

So about that read more. In honor of you, @metalesbo, my friends @n7punk and @jem-jarrett and everyone else who sent me well wishes or just really loves my work... Here's the opening section of the next chapter of R&B. Enjoy. It's a long one.

Adora Eternia is about two months shy of her fourteenth birthday when she first realizes she's in love with her best friend.

Though--if asked--she would hasten to explain that it wasn't when she fell in love. But trying to pinpoint the exact moment is an exercise in catching mist: the more she tries to grasp it in her hands the more it spreads out and covers everything. It just is: pure and simple and very, very complicated.

It's the beginning of December and the whole town is covered in a thick blanket of snow. Winterfest will be here in a few weeks, so to help out the kids who want to get gifts for their friends the Right Zone administration has shuffled around the groups that usually take their monthly trips on the third and fourth Sundays of the month to double up with the other two. As part of group three, she and Catra got the first week (the other three members of their crew are week two folks anyway and thus outside the reorganization.)

It's still kinda weird to think that: their crew. For so long, it was just Catra and Adora. Adora and Catra. One unit bound together, just them against the world. But there's also something nice about being part of a small cluster, their "scrappy little lone wolf pack" as Catra had once put it with a wry grin before Lonnie shoved her over with an, "Excuse you, I'm a great people person when I'm not busy making sure you idiots haven't set yourselves on fire!"

They all got a good laugh out of that one.

But regardless, the holidays are coming up and this is the first year that any of their group has felt like actually doing anything for it, aside from wrangling together a sleepover and seeing if they can convince the kitchen staff to slip them some leftover eggnog.

They made each other promise not to go too extravagant and keep each person's gift to ten dollars or lower. Even though their quarterly stipend has increased from three hundred to four hundred to match with inflation over the past eight years, it still isn't a whole lot for three month's worth of expenses, especially when they also have to budget regularly for clothes to keep up with the seemingly endless growth spurts.

There's also the usual budgetary concern of keeping her and Catra's first aid kit well supplied...

Adora shakes her head to dislodge the intrusive thought and continues marching onward through the snow. This trip is a good thing. She won't let all the awful realities of their life taint it.

With so many kids running around and wanting to shop on their own to surprise their giftees, Right Zone had to negotiate with both the local police and whatever other civic authorities they could get ahold of to come out en masse and keep an eye on them all. The kids had still come with their usual teachers, of course, but doubling the load and also splitting up was a logistical nightmare. Which is just a convoluted way to say the town is positively crawling with uniformed officers, off duty members of the fire brigade, emergency personnel, and other such authority figures quietly keeping watch and making sure no one tries anything.

Adora knows that somewhere in the press of bodies, Grizzlor's busy wrangling two new "brats" (seven and nine, respectively, and definitely not friends.) Somewhere, a certain Magicat is probably grumbling over the indignity of being forced to wear shoes and kicking every snowpile she can, like she can send a direct message to whatever cosmic force is responsible for her current frustration.

On an ordinary month she and Catra--being old enough to be allowed a bit more freedom to do what they want--would buddy up to watch each other's backs while they did their shopping. But this isn't an ordinary month, so once they'd each gotten gifts for the other three they'd split up on opposite ends of Main Street with an agreement to move clockwise to avoid running into each other. Afterwards, the entire group would rendezvous at the small clock tower in the park a block over before heading back to Right Zone.

Ten dollars wasn't a lot to work with, but Adora had done her best: a new stress ball for Kyle, some moisturizing oil for Rogelio since the early winter shed had wiped out his supply and he'd been too busy to pick up some more, a twelve pound kettle weight for Lonnie now that their shared exercise routine was getting a bit too easy for her... Utilitarian choices, to be sure, but she's been paying attention and that has to count for something.

Catra's the difficult one, of course. Partly because Adora doesn't want to just get her something practical, but also because they share nearly everything between them already. About the only thing that is definitively off limits is Catra's guitar, and she's told Adora enough about her time with Tao over the years that Adora wouldn't even ask. Beyond that... Well, there's a reason why most of Adora's day off hoodies have small strands of orange fur stuck to them.

Still. I want to get her something that's hers. Something she'll like. Something she doesn't have to share with anyone, not even me.

In the end, she nearly walks past it. In one of the artisanal shops that dot small towns like liver spots, she finds a display of hand stamped necklace pendants, with a design sheet beside it. There are a lot of the usual nature designs and such, but the one that catches her eye is a treble clef with the five staff lines bleeding out from it. They ring the edge of the pendant in a half circle, and scattered haphazardly along the lines are the other music notes.

The lack of proper order would drive Adora insane. She understands that it's just meant to look pretty, not be an accurate representation of musical notation, but still... She knows her own (broken) brain well enough to know that.

It suits Catra, though.

"Hey," Mismatched eyes looked down at Adora as her head draped backwards over the back of their desk chair, the throbbing behind her left eye threatening to escalate into a migraine. "Guess I don't have to ask how the composing's going."

"It sucks," Adora groused back, sitting up and gesturing Catra over. She jabbed at two particular spots with the half chewed off eraser end of her pencil, two hard jabs each, like she was filing a complaint. "Most of it is just what I'm going for, but these two places here... They aren't sounding right. I've been going back and forth over structure all afternoon, but nothing I do helps."

"Hmmm..." Catra stroked her chin and nudged Adora over so she could sit on the arm of the chair (they'd never gotten around to requesting a second, mostly because Adora didn't want to risk Shadow Weaver suspecting they were getting too chummy.) "Got any scratch paper?"

Adora pointed to the pile of half crumpled notebook paper she used when making adjustments and Catra snorted. "Ok, dumb question. Just let me see here..."

Grabbing a pen, she quickly inked a fresh set of staff lines and copied the notes Adora had already put down, making sure to leave space to work. Glancing between the two, she drummed her fingers on the desk, playing along in her head.

"Hmm..." Catra murmured, worrying at her lower lip with a fang in a manner that was... Oddly distracting. "Ok, how 'bout this?"

Adora jolted, tearing her gaze from Catra's face to look at the sequence of notes scribbled onto the scratch paper. She paused, brow furrowing as she played them over in her mind's eye. It was a little unorthodox, veering away from the path she had carefully laid out... But also blending well with the next part. Almost like the notes took a quick detour and then lead the listener back to where she wanted them.

"Yeah..." Adora replied thoughtfully, the tension all over her body starting to smooth out. "Yeah, that could work."

"Awesome. Let's take a look at the next part."

They ultimately ended up spending several hours going over the entire piece, sussing out every place where Adora was having even the slightest niggle of unease. She didn't accept all of Catra's changes and Catra didn't push the matter, but the ones she did...

They felt right. More right than they had ever felt when it was just Adora running circles around herself.

When they finally finished up she looked over at Catra, tail waving sedately in that way it got when she was simultaneously engaged but relaxed, and asked, "Umm... Do you want to learn with me? I like doing this."

'I like making music with you.'

Catra paused, looking over at Adora searchingly, almost like she couldn't believe the question had come up. No matter how many years had passed between them, that look never really went away, and every time she saw it Adora's chest ached in a way that was hard for her to process.

"I'd like that."

Catra's composing style is very different from Adora's. More wild, more willing to bend and break the rules if it means maintaining audience engagement, but there's always an underlying order to the chaos. To her surprise and pleasure, Adora found herself learning just as much from Catra as Catra was learning from her. Their styles brought out the best in each other.

The jingle of a bell kicks her out of the memory. Mind made up even though it's nearly double her budget, Adora scans the stand of necklaces for the one with the treble clef pattern.

It isn't there. Adora swallows down the disappointment, though she can't help the sigh. Of course. The town was well aware of the large population of music students a short drive away and catered to them accordingly. But there are also dozens of kids out on the street tonight. It isn't that big of a surprise that the design sold out.

Not surprising, but disheartening nonetheless.

She's just begun to turn away when a voice calls from the back. "Hang on a sec there, little miss."

Adora jumps, but remains where she is as a large Taurian man with a massive snow white beard trundles out from a door behind the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. "Was there a particular design you were interested in?"

Adora points at the treble clef, hope rising. "This one. But it looks like it's already sold out."

"Hmm..." The man scratchs at his chin. "Well with Winterfest coming up, I'm out of blank pendants-"

Adora's shoulders slump.

"-But," The man continues with a smile. "I can double stamp it onto the back of another. Ordinarily I'd charge extra for that, but it's my fault for not ordering enough blanks. Rookie move. Besides, it's the holidays. Now would that be all right by you?"

Nodding frantically in case he changes his mind, Adora scans the other designs, quickly alighting on one in particular. "That one!"

"The claw marks? Bit of an odd combination, but the customer is always right," The old man winked as he reached out to take the necklace from her. "My jig and press is in the corner over here if you wanna watch."

Adora was glad he specified, because as nice as the man seemed there was no way in hell she was going into a back room with a stranger. But she stood next to the window beside a display of miscellaneous knick knacks and puzzles, watching him carefully place the pendant in a cushioned stand to avoid damaging the already printed side and tighten it into place before moving beside the machine.

"You're gonna want to cover your ears," He tells her, patting the machine with one massive hand. "Had to switch to a steam press when the arthritis caught up to me. Used to do it all by hammer. This boy's okay, but he gets loud."

Adora nods, glad for the warning when he bellows "Clear!" and the machine's hammer comes down once, twice, three times with a sound like the ringing of an enormous bell. Once the machine is stopped and carefully turned off, the old man removes the pendant from the press and hands it over to Adora for inspection. "What do you think? Does it pass muster?"

Adora runs her fingertips over the impressions in the metal, memorizing the feel of it, the leftover warmth of the impact. "Perfect."

"Good. Now let's get you rung up."

Counting the five dollars she attempted to surreptitiously slip into the tip jar (the old man winked as he turned back around, so stealth fail) Adora went very over budget, but the others would have to put a gun to her head for her to admit it.

Besides, it's Catra. They already know she's the sole exception to all of Adora's carefully maintained rules.

With everything finished, she continues trudging through the snow toward the park, breathing a sign of relief as she moves away from the shopping district and the people thin out; no one wanting to go to the park in the middle of such bleak weather. Angling around a clustered group of bare trees, she spots the small clock tower in the distance, as well as the figure already standing beside it. Grinning, Adora picks up the pace a bit until she can see Catra clearly and--

Her breath catches.

Since her only experience with this kind of thing has been through books, Adora always expected this moment would be more dramatic. Like back to back in the middle of a fight, or eyes locking from up on stage. Something spectacular, like fireworks, lime explosions, like the feeling of playing a song without a single mistake for the first time. It's always seemed like such a big deal in the stories, and in a way, it is.

Because there's Catra, lost in her own world as she gazes up at the streetlight that's just come on, her left hand extended to let the snowflakes fall into her palm and the light catches the orange of her fur just right to make a blaze of color against the black of her coat. She looks so small, standing in that space all alone on a cold winter's night, but Adora knows deep down that she could never be that small, not when she's Catra, not when she means so much...

Pretty much everything about the past hour--about her entire life since they met if she's being honest--snaps into crystal clear focus.

Oh. I get it now. I'm in love with you.

It's a bad idea. Adora knows that. Shadow Weaver is enough of a menace while believing Catra is simply her roommate, her sometime tool--and Catra had ended up being all too right about the torture not stopping, even after years of Adora trying to direct Weaver's attentions away from her. If the evil old bitch figures out Adora's feelings run deeper, so much deeper...

Her heart beats double time. This whole thing is an unmitigated disaster.

But it's still the best worst thing that's ever happened to her.

She must make a noise, because Catra's ear twitches in her direction, snapping her out of that distant contemplation. She turns her head and looks at Adora, lips curling in a lopsided grin. "Hey, Adora. Wow, you look like you've seen a ghost."

Adora blinks, coming back to herself and mumbling the first excuse that springs to mind. "... Just cold."

"Well no shit. C'mere."

When she closes the distance Catra glances around warily, making sure they're the only ones around, before reaching up and retying the scarf around Adora's neck, patting it once when she's done. "There. I know I make it look good, but you don't have the advantage of fur like me."

Adora looks down at the thin AC/DC t-shirt that Catra's wearing beneath her half open coat, the line of her collarbones and neck, and makes a snap decision. "Is it okay if I give you your present now?"

Catra blinks, a little thrown by the non sequitur. "I mean... Sure? Do you want me to give you yours?"

"I'm good with either," Adora shrugs, trying to ignore how fast her heart is beating, how much she wants to do this before this moment slips away. "I just want to."

There's a long moment of silence as they each examine the other, equally searching. What Catra's looking for, Adora doesn't know. She isn't sure she wants to know.

"Okay."

Breathing deep, Adora reaches into her pocket and pulls out the necklace on its leather cord. Careful to keep the pendant hidden in her hand, she passes it over, fingertips sparking as it's taken. Catra brings it close to her face, running her fingers over the four parallel slashes on the side facing her.

"Why the claw marks?"

Adora laughs, nervous butterflies positively rioting in her stomach. "Because you're a badass. Duh."

"True," Catra smirks, flipping it over and squinting at the other side. "And this?"

"Badass, loves music with all your heart. Not mutually exclusive concepts," Adora says, trying not to give away how much she thinks about this, how much she wants to take that hand in hers. She settles for a playful shoulder bump instead. "Plus we all know you're secretly a big softie."

"Excuse you, I am all sharp edges," Catra giggles, lightly elbowing her before transitioning into a soft little smile. "... Just not with everyone."

Oh God oh God oh God. That smile will absolutely be the death of her.

Swallowing past her horrible awareness of that softness, Adora asks, "So you like it?"

"I love it. Good luck ever getting me to take it off," Catra laughs, then frowns, flexing her fingers. "Hands have gone a little numb, though. Help me put it on?"

Adora.exe promptly crashes to desktop. But she still somehow manages to move, helping Catra hold back her mane so she can slip the leather cord over her head and tuck it beneath her hair. If she hesitates a moment too long in letting go, at least Catra only shoots her an amused glance. "How's it look?"

"Great," Adora manages to croak out, trying to swallow past the sudden dryness in her throat. "You look great. Umm... Happy early Winterfest, I guess?"

"Well, I'm gonna hold onto yours a little longer," Catra laughs, playfully sticking out her tongue before reaching out. "C'mere, you big dork."

Adora shuffles closer, mind and heart both screaming as Catra draws her into a hug, nuzzling her head against the side of her neck. A little whisper. "Thank you."

Adora swallows again, even harder. "You're welcome."

Between them, the necklace rests, the music side pressed right up against Catra's heart.

----------

Fun fact: the shopkeep is based off a cool old dude selling machine pressed necklaces I ran into at a Scottish festival when I was 13, and he made such an impression I never forgot him. Anyway, happy Valentine's! Have a Big Gay Realization!

#answers #rhythm & blues #the catradora rockstar au #featuring adora's big gay realization #and also fantasy christmas

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chatonne-rousse · 4 years

Text

Through a Different Lens

This incredible work of art by @lilianmorganart crossed my dash last week and has lived rent-free in my head since then. I made it my phone's wallpaper and found myself getting emotional every time I picked up the phone to use it (If that doesn't confirm my stratospheric level of unrepentant Adrienette trash, I don't know what does).

I told @tsuki-chibi about it and we discussed how Adrien would totally swoon over it, too, if it was the lock screen on his phone. And that's how this fic was born.

I hope you enjoy this little relationship study through Alya's eyes as she and Nino share life and love alongside their best friends.

Read it on Ao3 here.

*****

"Last set of the night, dudes and dudettes. We're about to be upstaged big time." Nino points out the bank of windows toward the already-glittering Eiffel Tower before needle meets vinyl and the music starts, soft and undeniably romantic. "Let's wind it down by slowing it down."

A blue balloon flutters to the floor beside Nino's feet as he hops from the DJ platform and winds through a sea of his classmates to his waiting girlfriend. Alya wastes no time wrapping him in her arms and pressing a kiss to his lips, turning the greeting into dancing with the sway of her hips that he matches after a few beats.

"How many songs did you line up?" she murmurs when they finally part.

He smiles and winks at her. "Four. It's about fifteen minutes till fireworks."

"Mmm. Nice."

The back of his shirt is sweaty under Alya's hands, but she doesn't care. The lovely chignon Marinette had pulled her hair into before the party has come a bit undone and she can feel the damp curls at the back of her neck. That's July in Paris for you; even the air conditioning in Le Grand Paris doesn't make much of a difference. Thank goodness for the ceiling fans that make the white and blue and red streamers rustle above their heads.

She hears Nino snort softly near her ear. "Are they magical or something? How do they still look perfect?"

Alya doesn't need to turn to know he's talking about their best friends, but she twists anyway, pressing the opposite cheek to Nino's shoulder instead.

And of course he's right.

She's spent the evening drinking punch and giggling with Marinette, shimmying and whooping with her in a happy little clump with Nino and Adrien, making the rounds of friends and food and fun over the past few hours. Marinette and Adrien have, too, but somehow the only sign that it's the end of the evening is that Adrien has loosened his tie.

Marinette's hair falls across her shoulders in the same soft cascade Alya styled it into hours ago. Her gauzy white dress drapes better on her figure than it did on the mannequin in her bedroom. Even the corsage Adrien had presented to her when the girls descended the stairs into Marinette's living room, a stunning red rose in full bloom, sits perfectly on her slim wrist, not a petal out of place. Her best friend really does look like she's limned in magic.

But perhaps that's because of the strong hand splayed at Marinette's waist, pressing her ever closer to her dance partner, or Adrien's cheek at her temple, his blond halo a perfect contrast to her deep raven hair. Maybe it's whatever he's just whispered in her ear that makes her smile up at him, a wide grin of exasperated fondness lighting her face before gentling after a moment into an expression of softest serenity.

Alya's first thought is that it's like the bright and beautiful partnership of the full moon reflecting the sun. But that isn't quite right, because her best friend glows from within, providing her own light to meet Adrien's, radiant and returned in equal measure.

Just how they got to this point remains as baffling to Alya now as it was a year ago when her friends finally put themselves and everyone around them out of their misery and started dating. The blushes continued and the occasional shy stammers never quite disappeared, but she'd watched them blossom together like a spring garden before her eyes, though what she'd been sure would be daffodils had bloomed into beautiful irises instead.

Suddenly Mr. Sunshine had gleamed brighter than ever, his giddy joy nearly uncontainable. So many puns. So much laughter. The former would be unbearable were it not for the latter, which always seemed to brighten Nino's eyes as well, a welcome side effect.

And oh, her best friend had come alive. It was more than having someone to love and love her in return. Alya knew from the day they met that love was second nature to Marinette. It practically shone from her pores.

But this was different - a touch more boldness, a blaze of fierce protectiveness in her eyes, an ability to read and respond to Adrien's emotions in just the way he needed, just when he needed it. How did she know to do that? How had this easy familiarity grown between them so quickly, not a tender new sapling but already an unshakeable oak?

She knows the truth is deeper than what she's been able to wrangle from Marinette, but Alya learned long ago that her best friend held those cards too close to ever let her get a peek. But she sure had tried at the beginning.

"You can tell me, girl! I'm so happy for you, but I don't get it! What happened?"

Alya wheedled, needled, begged.

Marinette just smiled and finished watering her roses before leaning against the railing of her terrace.

"I did tell you! Adrien and I talked. We were honest with each other. That's it." She shrugged one shoulder before her smile turned sly and she bumped her hip into her best friend's. "You know, we can't all find love by getting trapped in a panther cage by a superhero. Not every relationship has an epic origin story."

"Damn right! Seriously, though, I can tell there's more to this. There are deets you're not sharing, and your bestie needs those deets!"

"I don't know what to tell you, Als. I just...saw him. All of him."

Alya just barely resisted the urge to make the obvious joke.

"Mari. My love. My best friend in the world. What could you possibly see now that you haven't seen in the past two years of crushing, staring, memorizing, obsessing, and finally just getting over your fears and becoming real, actual friends with him?" She ticked off each point on her fingers, ending with a grip on her pinky and an imploring look she hoped would coax a detail or two from her all-too-cagey best friend. "If you can't throw a bone to your BFF, think of me as the coordinator of Operation Secret Garden and its many, many, many side missions. At least tell me one thing about Sunshine that I don't know, something you didn't know before, either."

Silence fell over them like a blanket. Just when it started to feel stifling and itchy, Marinette spoke.

"He's the bravest person I know," she said quietly, gaze straying across the rooftop horizon.

Alya thought of the myriad times she'd watched Adrien run away in the direction of his house as she herself had run toward danger in the name of journalism and morbid curiosity. He was sweet and exceedingly kind, but she'd never considered him a bastion of courage. Though of course there had to be lots of things she didn't know, details of life at home beyond the isolated loneliness they were all aware of, things that hadn't occurred to her that her best friend now saw through a lens of love and not just friendly compassion. If the reason they were already so close was because Adrien was able to share the difficult parts of his life that he didn't even share with Nino? Well, Alya could understand and respect that.

She reached out and covered Marinette's hand in hers. "His dad is kind of the worst, isn't he?"

"Oh my gosh, you have no idea. The absolute worst. The other day..."

Listening to Marinette that day, Alya had decided that if her friends were happy, she'd be happy right along with them. The details would come in time.

They'd taken silly selfies in Marinette's mirror as they got ready earlier this evening. They'd posed for portraits in the Dupain-Chengs' doorway as though this was a gala event and not a Quatorze Juillet party that Chloé insisted was fancy dress, and snapped shots of their BFF squad together all evening. So without thinking, Alya reaches for her phone - her dress is a Marinette original, of course it has pockets - to document exactly how besotted their preternaturally beautiful best friends are. She grabs three photos in quick succession, thankful for her state-of-the-art camera as she smiles at how it captures the play of light and shadow across their matching white.

"Paparazzi," Nino fake coughs in her hair.

Alya grabs his butt with her free hand in retaliation, and they both laugh.

Marinette and Adrien sway together in a loose approximation of a dance, eyes closed, just barely turning in place, lost in each other. When Adrien reaches for Marinette's hand on his shoulder, Alya has to let go of her boyfriend completely to set her camera to burst mode, but laid-back, ever-patient Nino just huffs a laugh and holds her waist tighter. It's all worth it when she's able to capture the moment Adrien brings Marinette's hand to his lips and presses a series of slow, reverent kisses to her knuckles. She snaps one more photo after he's tucked their clasped hands beneath his chin and settled her against his shoulder.

Alya turns in the circle of Nino's arms and gleefully scrolls through the vast number of pictures she's just taken, pausing near the center of the burst shots and cooing with delight at the treasure she finds. "Oh my god, Nino, look." She shoves the phone under his nose and his eyes cross trying to focus on it.

"Damn. They're too pretty to be real."

She snorts. "Truth. Seriously, though. Have you ever seen two people more in love? I'd say it's gross, but I could also cry just looking at them."

Still smiling, Nino pulls their hips together again and sets them in a slow spin, punctuating the beat with his fingers at the small of her back. Alya pockets her phone and cuddles up to him, grinning into his chest when he speaks quietly for her ears only.

"You know I love you just as much, right? I'm not a model, and um, I'm not as...gooey. But—"

He's cut off when Alya presses her lips to his to stop him.

"You're just the right amount of gooey, mister, and I don't need a model when I've already snagged the hottest guy I've ever met." She delights in his blushing cheeks as she kisses him again. "And yes, I know you do...I love you, too. Thank god it's not a competition, or we'd be losing."

"Naaah," Nino drawls softly, hugging her close. "I've already won."

Alya just closes her eyes and hides her grin in his shoulder, letting him spin them again as the music swells.

*****

Packed on the balcony and ready for the fireworks to start, she and Marinette are giggling over the photos on her camera roll from the course of the evening.

"I don't want to think about how much you pay for cloud storage, Als. You know you have a problem, right?"

Nino can't help his surprised laugh, but has the good sense to bite his lip and look away. Alya nudges him in the side and rolls her eyes good-naturedly. Scrolling through toward the latest photos, she stops on one in particular and flips the screen toward her best friend.

"Bet you're glad I got this one, eh, Mademoiselle Judgy Pants?"

Alya knows she's scored a direct hit when Marinette's eyes widen and her cheeks pinken visibly even in the ambient light of the city. In the same moment, Adrien breathes an "ooooh" in reverent awe from over her shoulder as he stares at the glowing phone screen. Impossibly, the look on his face as he takes in the image is even more tender than it is in the photo itself.

Marinette turns to press her burning cheeks to his chest and he wraps her in his arms, props his chin on her head and mouths, "Send me that, please," to Alya, gesturing vaguely from her phone to his pocket.

Request received loud and clear, she grins and gives him a quick salute.

When fireworks finally fill the Parisian sky, Alya attempts a few action shots, though she's well aware that fireworks photos rarely turn out. Next, she grabs a great picture of Nino with the lights reflected in his glasses that immediately gets posted on Instagram.

And when Marinette stands on her tiptoes, wraps her arms around Adrien's shoulders, and kisses him breathless, well, Alya can't resist snapping one last photo of her friends. Adrien's hair positively gleams in the ephemeral glow of the bright red firework that bathes flushed cheeks and white fabric in a dreamy, perfect pink. This one is sent straight to her best friend; she looks forward to the keysmash text of embarrassed delight she'll receive from Marinette later.

Nino's hand slides around her waist to pull her close and she snuggles into his side, stowing her phone in her pocket and simply enjoying the moment.

*****

"Babe," Nino whispers under his breath, accompanied by a nudge of his knee against Alya's under the cafe table, "he's doing it again."

Sure enough, Adrien is gazing down at his phone. It's not even unlocked yet - he's just looking at his lock screen, waking it up each time it fades back to sleep.

"I know. That's why I'm looking up the movie time. We'd miss it completely if we left it to Sunshine."

"This is technically your fault. You do know that, right?"

Alya shrugs. "No regrets."

Marinette returns to the table, picking her purse off the back of her chair and lifting the strap over her head to settle in its perennial position across her torso. Instead of sitting down, she wraps her arms around Adrien's chest from behind and leans down to kiss his cheek. "Did you figure out if we can make it to the movie?"

The question is clearly directed at Adrien, who was supposed to be looking up the cinema schedule, but he's already pocketed his phone and turned his head to nuzzle into her hair.

Okay, Alya may have some regrets.

It's been months since she took the now-famous photo and sent it to him. To no one's surprise, it became his lock screen wallpaper immediately. It also became a distraction.

Because Adrien melts every time he looks at his phone.

No one can truly decide if it's exasperating or endearing, but there are classmates and friends in both camps.

Nino begged him to change it back to the picture of the two of them together, if only to shorten the time between sending his best friend a text and receiving one in return. Alya is nearly at her limit for heart eyes, but she's still the captain of Team Endearing. She did take the picture, after all.

Max programmed Markov to recognize each time Adrien reached for his phone and the time it took for him to unlock it and use it. Markov has perfected the algorithm over time and now has a saved log of each occurrence down to the millisecond. There's no real reason to track this data besides curiosity, but it does help Markov refine his processes, so Max has kept it up. It is vaguely fascinating, though he does feel that it's a terrible use of Adrien's limited free time.

Nathaniel illustrated a cartoon rendition of Adrien, phone in his hand and literal hearts in his eyes. Alya offered him €10 for it, but Adrien himself came in at €20 and now it sits on his desk at home.

Once, Adrien spent so much time gazing at the lock screen that he never did answer his ringing phone. Of course it was Nathalie calling, and of course his father grounded him when he got home.

(Neither Marinette nor Adrien seemed as bothered by those two weeks as everyone had anticipated. That mystery remains unsolved.)

When she thinks about it, Alya decides there are worse things than Adrien loving Marinette so much that he has an emotional reaction to seeing the evidence through a different lens.

Alya just slips her phone in her purse and corrals her boyfriend and their best friends. They have a movie to get to and they only have twenty-five minutes.

*****

In time, the picture has found a place on the wall in Marinette and Adrien's apartment - printed on premium photo paper, lovingly matted and framed. No one would have expected any less.

And it has always made Adrien smile, sometimes when nearly nothing else could.

*****

Several years, several revelations, and enough trauma to last a lifetime have led them all to this moment, on this day that shines with as much joy and light and love as they can muster. It's what a day like this deserves, after all.

With too much behind them to call it a beginning and too much hope for the future ahead to call it an ending, Alya decides she's just watched her best friends walk through a door they'd unlocked years ago and finally found the right time to step through together. The path hasn't changed, paved in hurt and heartache and the kind of helpless hope a person chooses when an abyss yawns below and there are no other ropes to grab. But it has always been lit by the glow of an almost unfathomable love, and that's where healing begins, grows, and flourishes.

So here they sit, surrounded by friends and family, in the same room where the four of them had danced all those years ago on a hot July evening. A towering croquembouche waits in the corner and a table full of photos and memories is on display along one wall; that heart-melting photo of the happy couple as lovestruck teenagers has pride of place in the center.

Clad again in radiant white, Marinette is the perfect picture of a blushing bride, and her groom has been unsurprisingly entranced all day. Alya isn't sure Adrien has stopped smiling since they first saw him this morning, and she and Nino are enjoying every moment of it.

Part of the brilliance shining in his grin is natural, springing from a heart so innately kind that it has countered evil and wielded destruction, yet still beats with compassion. But she and Nino know, better than anyone else, that the Adrien in front of them is a previously-shattered vase mended in gold, stronger and more beautiful in the broken places, and some of his gleam is reflected from those gilded seams.

When it's Alya's turn to toast, Nino helps her to her feet with a smile and hands her the mic before sitting back down beside her. She starts with a story only a best friend could get away with telling, bolstered by the laughter of the guests around her and the grins of the bride and groom. She has a toast carefully planned and memorized, but for all her preparedness, Alya also knows how to improvise. When her gaze sweeps across the picture gallery on the table and the faces of two of the people she loves most, she veers off course but finds her words with confidence.

"I've taken a lot of photos in my life - silly, scary, funny, serious, everything in between. Many of those photos have featured many of you here today. I know I caused my saint of a best friend here a lot of undeserved stress by taking a vast majority of my life's photos in places where I shouldn't have been."

She pauses when a laugh ripples through the room and Marinette shakes her head even as her watery eyes beam back at her. "But I was in just the right place when I took that one." She gestures toward the framed picture on the table, sparkling cider sloshing gently in her champagne flute. "Because the right place for both of us—" she reaches a hand back toward Nino blindly, finding and squeezing his shoulder, "has always been next to you, the most ludicrously attractive, kindest, bravest, best people we know."

Alya takes a deep breath that only shakes a little bit on the exhale. "I'm so—" she blinks and swallows around the lump in her throat. Damn hormones! "I'm so lucky to know you, to love you, and to have been part of your lives and your love story all these years. That's why I wish you nothing less than a lifetime of that kind of love," she inclines her head toward the photo on the table again, "that kind of tenderness and devotion. No one deserves it more than you two, and no one will be happier than Nino and I will to be right there beside you on the journey. So...cheers to the prettiest lovebirds I know, Marinette and Adrien!"

Champagne flutes clink amidst applause and hugs and sniffles.

Her best friends grin at her before turning the same soft gaze toward each other again, just like the picture she took all those years ago that turned Adrien to goo each time he looked at it.

Alya knows now, of course, what she didn't understand back then - that in the same way their wedding today was more than just a beginning, so were those early days of soft looks and fierce devotion that seemed to transcend the blush of new romance. Unbeknownst to their friends, they'd had an ironclad partnership and years of trust in place already. Open eyes and honesty allowed the confluence of several different kinds of love, and it only made sense that the resulting alloy stood stalwart and shone dazzling-bright.

Well, it didn't make sense then, but it certainly does now, even if the luster sparkles through a patina of nicks and dents. After all, even the strongest steel and the brightest gold are refined by fire.

Nino hands her a tissue and presses his palm to her back as she settles in her seat again.

When ever-romantic Adrien reaches for his bride's hand to press gentle kisses across the back of her fingers, Alya can't resist grabbing her phone from the table beside her bread plate. They're a little older but just as beautiful and even more in love, and the photo she snaps captures that perfectly. She smiles down at her phone, pleased, before locking the screen and twisting a little in her seat to place it back on the table, face down.

Alya gets comfortable, rests her head on her husband's shoulder, and simply enjoys the moment.

#adrienette through alya's eyes #alya loves her bff #dj wifi #adrienette #snapshot #miraculous ladybug #ml fanfiction #my writing #relationship study #this is so self indulgent #alya cesaire #nino lahiffe #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste

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girlfriendsofthegalaxy · 4 years

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tuesday again 1/12/21

sometimes, one must retreat into a big pile of fictional settings. i didn’t do that this week but it’s the thought that counts

don’t want to keep up with the rest of my bullshit/want to be alerted specifically for tuesdayposts? follow @tuesday-again , where i will reblog each week’s post Once to archive it.

also i forgot to drop the 2021 tuesday again no problem playlist last week so here it is now if you want to follow along throughout the year

listening exoflash, by fever the ghost feat lealani. this is some dreamy-surreal alt electronica? alt electropop? i have significant hearing loss (TM) and so i think i am missing out on some of the melodies in the base bc i have lost that frequency range. like i can feel my headphones pulse but i can’t hear anything

do i know what the song is about? not a fuckin clue. do i like the mouthfeel of the lyrics? yes! rhyming intonation/incantation off each other charms me, bc i am a simple woman with simple tastes. there’s a very deliberate, enunciated delivery that i enjoy, again bc of the hearing loss. i do think some of the lyrics on genius are wrong (i hear “crown your enemies” in the first line instead of “prawn your enemies” for example) but i can’t really. back that up with anything

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reading y2k is back babey- this popular mechanics article is a good quick read of why a common fix back in ye olde 1999 is failing again. everything is a teetering pile of precariously balanced quick fixes relying on legacy code. i myself worked in COBOL more times than i want to think about in my undergrad career, often alongside the octogenarian profs who had written it. pop mech’s oral history of y2k is also extremely good.

the thing i came here to talk about is this autostraddle article on making a go-bag. it is more of a personal essay than a list of practical tips, but it does not fearmonger. this is the point of mutual aid: it is important it is to make sure the people and community around you are more resilient. mutual aid is not just running a cool decentralized thrift store so you can declutter, although that can be very helpful in many communities. if you are all better prepared for various flavors of disasters, your neighborhood or community or circle will come out of it better.

i’ve lived in hurricane zones almost my entire life, and i’ve had a go bag my entire life. i can see mine right now from my bed, i think they’re important things to have, and i would be happy to answer questions privately via ask or dm. the infographic above from the city of seattle is pretty decent- yours will probably be region-specific. new year, new check on all your safety measures. make sure your smoke alarm batteries and carbon monoxide batteries and go-bag are all topped up. test your fire extinguisher while you’re at it.

watching i was going to watch the first few eps of the new arsene lupin show on netflix and write a charming little thing about my personal history with detective stories, and then i had a less than ideal weekend. so i am making less work for myself and linking a food crime. i hate layered pasta dishes with a burning passion but i want to taste this. just to see. their faces at the end are SO good. thank u ms el-waylly

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playing one of the most exciting arcs of early january is my dear acquaintance @believerindaydreams becoming a fallout blog. now that i am relegated to an underpowered laptop while i wrangle getting my desktop fixed, i am back in new vegas bc it’s a ten-year-old game, it runs on fuckin anything. i had a truly bizarre configuration of mods on this thing we’ll see how well it plays with (checks notes) ignoring whatever the fuck i was doing in the main storyline and fucking around in Big MT.

making ending big things makes me anxious. and i am really nowhere near finishing this! i still have a lot of time left with it! at least an hour weaving in all the thread ends i didn’t bother with the first time around, some unknown dozens of hours backstitching various details and outlining the blue frame, and then the whole washing/pressing/framing rigamarole that (counting drying time) will take up a full day. i started this last summer, put it aside for weeks at a time, and it’s been with me in a very real way through a lot of bullshit.

part of the bad adhd brain is having difficulty forming and maintaining new routines- when i no longer have this to fall back on as part of my crafting routine i uhhhhh don’t really know what i’ll do. i don’t really have another Big Project lined up.

unlike knitting, where i find the act soothing and i knit as more of a process thing as opposed to an end-product thing, embroidery is very much a “i want the end product very badly” thing. and i can only have so much cross stitch displayed in my home. besides the smaller glitch version of this sampler, which is literally almost done and needs perhaps another hour of finishing before it gets washed/pressed/framed, i don’t have anything really on the docket. i want my own version of the “wretched hive” star wars sampler i made my sister, and i have a small pillow in the fun chromatic aberration font planned, but both of those have fewer complicated color changes and shifts and should stitch up fairly quickly.

i dunno. might go back to traditional embroidery for a bit- there’s an old project where i need to rip out a bunch of satin stitch and redo it in long-and-short BUT i also need to buy a whole bunch of new thread for that. might sew some more patches on my jacket for if i ever go outside again. i’m trying to get through the backlog of half-finished projects with shit i already have rather than ordering a bunch of shiny new things bc uhhh money.

#tuesday again #tuesday again no problem

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galadrieljones · 4 years

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As You Were (Chapter 5)

Fandom: The Last of Us | Pairing: Joel x OC | Content: Fix-it | Rating: Mature

Masterpost

When Joel and Ellie take a wrong turn on their journey from Pittsburgh to Wyoming, they find themselves lost in, what feels like a time warp: a beautiful place with a dark and dangerous secret. While there, they meet Cici and Noah, a mother and son fighting tirelessly for survival, and who have recently endured a terrible tragedy on their family farm. Amidst their joint desire to find hope for the future, the two groups decide set out west together, changing the course of the story (as we know it), and the very course of their lives.

This is an AU, starting after the events of the Summer chapter in the first game, and extending into the timeline of the second game. Joel lives.

Chapter 5: Living Room Jam Session

"There are a million ways we should have died before today, and a million ways we can die before tomorrow. But we fight, for every second we get to spend with each other. Whether it's two minutes, or two days, we don't give that up. I don't wanna give that up."

That night, Cici went out to the circuit breaker next to the shed, and she switched on the electric fence. It worked after all.

“It’ll use up a lot of fuel,” she said to Joel. “But we can’t risk it.”

The farm was peaceful. Almost like nothing had ever happened. A couple cows had escaped, earlier that day. Joel had offered to help wrangle them, but Noah said don’t bother. “We can’t feed them anyway." He shrugged. He slaughtered a cow in the early evening. He showed Joel how to clean and butcher the meat, and how to salt and cure it for longer term use. They had steaks for dinner that night, prepared this time with a few potatoes, seasoned with dill from the garden, which was picked almost clean.

Joel was beginning to gather that their time on that farm was coming to a rapid conclusion. They couldn’t stay there, not much longer. If there were spores in the tributaries, that meant they could get into the water table, too. Cici and Noah knew this. They had been making four hour drives to the Fox River in Fon du Lac for several months now, bringing back water sourced from Green Bay. They said this was how they were able to trade for their fuel for the generators, from the Amish on the other side of the hill—making long drives to clean water. Even with the rain, they could no longer water their crops or sustain their livestock, and the Infected were becoming more of a threat every day. They had a lot of reserves, but it was only a matter of time before they ran out of food, or worse. Like Cici had said, him and Ellie showing up like they had, it was almost happenstance.

“I can get you your fuel tomorrow,” said Cici. They were still outside, leaning against a tree, looking at the circuit breaker. “You made good on your bargain. Thank you, Joel.”

Joel had got a big old cut on his forehead from the events down at the trench. She had patched it up for him with alcohol and gauze. Hadn’t made a fuss, just did it. “Cici, I know we ain’t known each other that long, but I ain’t leaving you and Noah here to deal with this all by yourselves.”

“You don’t owe us anything.”

“I know that,” said Joel. “And trust me, I been wrestling with it myself. But it don’t change anything.”

Cici straightened up off the tree and looked around. Her hair was down now, kind of tangly and windswept. Noah and Ellie were inside the house. “Noah said he told you about LaCrosse.”

Joel looked down at the grass as if to count the moonlit blades. “He didn’t go into a lot of detail,” he said. “But yes, he gave me the gist. Said your husband, he died in a fire. I’m sorry, Cici. I truly am.”

She just shrugged her shoulders. “We never got to find out, what’s been going on,” she said, blinking back tears. “We couldn’t stay, after it happened, and then we couldn’t go back.”

“Noah wants me to come with him,” said Joel. “Back. To LaCrosse. He asked me after dinner.”

“There’s no point,” she said. “There’s nothing we can do. Even if you find the source of the problem, the farm is too far gone to save.”

“I think it’s more about closure,” said Joel. “He didn’t say as much, but I get it. I told him I’d go. I hope I ain’t crossing any lines in doing so.”

She closed her eyes.

“Me and him are gonna head up tomorrow,” he went on. “I figure, the sooner the better. Shouldn’t take more than a couple days. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come with us, or if you'd be okay staying here, with Ellie. I don’t want to take her, because she’s just a kid, and she’s been through enough, and I don’t know what the hell we’re getting into up there, but I won’t leave her here alone.”

“It’s okay,” said Cici. She didn’t even try to argue. “I’ll stay. I don’t—I can’t go back there anyway.”

“Do y’all have anywhere to go?” said Joel. “I mean, aside from this farm? Noah mentioned family down in Moline. The I-80 runs right through there. I don’t know what we’ll find, but we could take you.”

Cici shook her head slowly, staring at the earth. “My sister-in-law was trying to get back there like six months ago. She said she’d come back for us, if it was all clear, but we never heard from her again.”

“I heard about some turf wars going on in the Quad Cities,” said Joel. “Just warning you. It was the kind of place too small for a QZ, but it was too big and too isolated to try and save. The military all but abandoned it. Now that was years ago. Things could have changed. Either way, it’s right on the Mississippi, so if your little problem extends into Illinois and Iowa, it probably ain’t gonna be pretty. But we can try.”

She took a deep breath, and she opened and closed her fists a couple times. She had little bones. She was small, but she wasn’t a weakling. “I wanna think about it.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s go inside,” she said, pulling herself together. She had this way of tucking her hair behind her ears. It was like hitting a reset button or something. Truth be told, he was a little confounded by Cici. Not in a bad way. He just found it very hard to predict her, despite her seeming steadfastness, as a woman. “Ellie and Noah are into the vinyls," she went on. "Who knows what they’ve got playing in there.”

“You guys got a ton of records,” said Joel as they headed back to the porch in the moonlit grass. “What is it with that? You just collectors or something?”

“My husband was,” she said. “William. He used to say that if the apocalypse ever came, at least we’d still be able to listen to music.”

“Well, he was right,” said Joel.

The seemed to comfort her. He saw her almost smile, out the corner of his eye.

“What’s this band called again?” said Ellie. She was sitting on her knees on the floor, in the middle of a big old pile of records. Noah was on the floor nearby, sifting through the pile one-by-one. It had been a long time since he’d really taken inventory, since before his dad died.

He picked up the vinyl, examined it front and back. “The Wallflowers.”

“The Wallflowers?” said Ellie. “Weird name, but I like it.”

“Do you know what a wallflower is?”

“Uh,” said Ellie, “like a flower that…grows out of the wall?”

Noah was amused. “It’s a metaphor. It’s like, somebody who stands on the sidelines. They don’t really get in on the action.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” said Ellie.

“The singer for this band is Bob Dylan’s son.”

“Neat,” said Ellie. “Who’s Bob Dylan again?”

Noah started going through a stack on his left, where he kept the sixties stuff. “This guy,” he said.

“Ah,” said Ellie. “The Blowing in the Wind guy. Very cool.”

“Did you guys ever listen to music in the QZ?”

“Yeah,” said Ellie, “but we didn’t have records. And everything I wanted, I had to steal or trade for with my ration cards. It was like, music or food sometimes. I had a walkman though, so I would just listen to tapes.”

“Do you still have it?”

“No,” said Ellie. “It broke like a thousand miles ago.”

“Bummer,” said Noah.

“Pretty much.”

They listened to the song. It was called “Josephine.” I know you’ve been sad. I know I’ve been bad. But if you’d let me, I’d make you ribbons from a paper bag.

“What do you think this song is about?” said Ellie.

Noah thought about it, looking up at the ceiling. “I think it’s like, the end of a relationship,” he said. “The guy messed up, but he doesn’t feel like he’s good enough for Josephine anyway. He’s apologizing, and he knows he can’t get her back, but he still loves her. That’s what I get from it, but it sounds dumb as hell when I say it out loud.”

Ellie examined the sleeve. It was just a whole bunch of yellow stars on a black background. “It’s not dumb,” she said. “It’s just really sad. Why doesn’t he think he’s good enough?”

“I don’t know,” said Noah. “Why does anyone think anything?”

Ellie thought this was kind of funny. “Good point.”

“Let’s try this one,” said Noah.

He took the Wallflowers record off the platter, put a new record on.

“What’s this?” said Ellie. “Lightning Bolt. Pearl Jam? I think I’ve actually heard of these guys.”

“This one’s got a story behind it. You want to hear?”

Ellie straightened right up. “Hell yeah.”

“Okay,” said Noah, looking down at the sleeve. It was like this big, red eye, full of white lightning bolt decals. “So apparently like, this album was supposed to be released a few weeks after the day the outbreak officially hit in 2013. It got pushed back like everything else, and then the stores all closed and it just like, never happened. My dad had really been looking forward to it, so like six weeks after shit went dark, him and some guys went to a Best Buy up in Madison and looted all these unreleased vinyls from the warehouse.”

“Holy shit,” said Ellie. “That’s fucking awesome.”

“I know. He said he had to get by military guys and everything.”

“Dude, your dad was a total badass,” said Ellie. “You should be proud.”

At first Noah got quiet. Ellie hadn’t thought anything of it. She’d never had a dad, or a mom, or anyone to be proud of like that. She just thought it was so unbelievably rad that he had a story like this to tell other people, about his dad. Eventually, Noah smiled. She smiled along with him. He said, “There’s one song on here I like a lot.”

“Play it,” she said. “As long as it’s not about people breaking up. Because that shit sucks.”

“It’s not,” said Noah.

He set down the needle, and together, they listened.

The song was slow and beautiful, thought Ellie, but it grew. Piano—crisp and clean and rushing as the river—gave way to a man’s voice and the guitar, big as a boat. She sat without talking. She tucked her hands in her lap and looked down at her wrists. She closed her eyes and tried hard to let the music overwhelm her. It was hard for Ellie to let things overwhelm her. She wore heavy armor. She would make a joke. She would roll her eyes.

But this was different than the other song, thought Ellie. It was sad, maybe sentimental, but it was a good kind of sentimental. All the missing crooked hearts, they may die, but in us they live on. I believe. I believe 'cause I can see. Our future days. Days of you and me. It was strong, and it seemed to be about trying. Like, trying to be better, through the eyes of someone else. Loving, and being loved, even when it’s hard. You have to try. It put her back in time, almost to another universe, but she hammered it away. She liked this song much better than the last song. She wished to live inside the music.

When it ended, she looked at Noah, who was looking at the ceiling again, leaning back on his hands and listening, with intent. The song had filled the house with a purifying energy and brought it down, made it simple. The bad things that had happened that day, they were clean.

“That one was awesome,” said Ellie.

“Are you okay?” said Noah. He seemed like he was half-joking, but sort of earnest. It was enough joking to make her smile, but not too earnest to freak her out.

“Oh,” said Ellie, looking down at her shoe laces. “I’m fine. I just—these songs sort of remind me of someone I once knew. In another life I guess.”

Noah waited what seemed like a long time before he spoke again. He was mulling it over, with his elbows now resting on his knees. Then he said, “I get that.”

They played the song again. Then, they couldn’t take it anymore. They took it off and put on some emo shit by a band called Coldplay. It was kind of terrible, they agreed, but they listened anyway, as it was like a dream.

A little while later, Joel and Cici came back inside. Joel held the door for her and once they were in the living room, raised his eyebrows and made fun of the Coldplay.

“You guys okay in here?” he said. “Sounds like you made a wrong turn somewhere.”

“Oh, we’re great, Joel,” said Ellie. “You guys are seriously missing out on our jam session.”

“Ha,” said Cici.

Joel stretched and got real big, and then he leaned against the kitchen table. He seemed kind of faded, thought Ellie. He had that cut on his eye. He seemed very tired. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “I think I’m ready to head up. You wanna come Ellie, or you fixing to stay awake a while longer?”

Ellie got up and wiped her hands on her jeans. They’d gotten kind of dusty from handling all the vinyls. “I’ll come up,” she said. “I’m pretty wiped.”

“I’ll have breakfast ready early,” said Cici.

“Sounds fine,” said Joel.

“See you guys in the morning,” said Noah. He glanced up at Ellie then, as if thankful for something.

When they got upstairs, Ellie went to look in the mirror on the bureau and she took down her ponytail. Her hair felt like a rat’s nest. She started to brush it out, aggressively.

“Where’d you get that hair brush?” said Joel, taking his shoes off.

“Cici let me borrow it,” she said.

“Right,” said Joel. He put his face in his hands then, scrubbed them down his cheeks. “Ellie—"

She stopped mid-brush, turned around. “Noah told me about LaCrosse,” she said. “I wanna come.”

Joel took a deep breath, as this had caught him by surprise. “Ellie, no.”

“Well what the fuck?” she said. She set down the brush on the bureau, hard. “Why the hell not?”

He just took to staring at her. She wasn’t actually that mad, he thought, she just seemed genuine in her confusion. “Because,” he said. “I got no idea what we’re walking into up there.”

“Oh, but you did in Pittsburgh, when you drove us straight into a fucking trap?”

“That is beside the point.”

“How, Joel?” said Ellie. “Noah is only four years older than me. I can hold my own.”

“Those are four critical years, Ellie,” said Joel. He was trying not to raise his voice. “And honestly, it don’t matter whether you can hold your own, because this thing going on in, it ain’t about you. It ain’t about me neither. You understand? It’s about Noah atoning with his dad’s death. He needs help, and he asked me, and I am providing that for him.”

“I can help,” said Ellie.

“I know you two get along,” said Joel. “But you're helping most by staying put.”

“What about Cici? She doesn’t wanna go?”

Joel waved her off, started rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “No,” he said. “Cici’s made her peace. Or what’s left of it.”

“She doesn’t seem…at peace.”

“I didn’t say she was at peace. I just said she’s made her peace.” Ellie seemed to understand this, and now, he could tell she was just scared, of being left behind. “Look, Ellie,” he said, shaking his head. “You can’t come. That’s the end of this conversation. But we’ll only be gone a couple nights. You got Cici with you. She might seem quiet, but I think she's pretty hardcore, and you two got the electric fence. Me and Noah, we’ll be okay.”

“I know,” said Ellie, like she was defending herself. She had flipped open her switch blade, was studying the tip. “I know.”

“We good then?” said Joel.

She hesitated, but then she closed up the knife and flopped back onto the bed. “Fine,” she said.

He was relieved.

“But then you better fucking bring something back for me.”

This surprised him. He gave her a look. “Bring something back?” he said. “Like a souvenir?”

“Yeah,” she said. “A souvenir.”

“A souvenir from LaCrosse?”

“You heard me.”

Joel tugged the covers back, was getting ready to crawl beneath. The day had become a heavy weight, all of it resting right on his eye lids. He was glad it was all okay. “All right,” he said, yawning. “I’ll see what I can find.”

“Good,” she said.

“Now get some goddam sleep.”

“Ay ay, cap’n.”

A few minutes went by. Joel was about ready to get under the covers for good when Ellie said, “I gotta pee.”

He looked at her. “Now?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Just—just be quick.”

“You think I wanna take my time peeing in that thing? Outhouses are like the one bad thing about this place. Other than the whole, contaminated-water part, I guess.”

Joel took a breath, told her he would leave his lamp on. “Just hurry, and turn the lamp down when you get back.”

“I will,” she said.

Ellie went pee in the outhouse and did her best not to make any sounds. When she got out, she didn't feel tired, so she went over and stood by the river like a detour. She did not plan on staying long. She just looked at it, right down into it, and then it blinked back at her like the little bitch it was, bubbling deceptively in the moonlight. She suddenly hated that something so innocent could also be so deadly, and so fucking sad. The night was cooling down but it was still humid. She switched open her knife and wiped the sweat from her forehead on the back of her hand. She switched her knife closed again, then open again. She tried thinking about anything else, but that stupid Pearl Jam song had awakened something inside her.

“I haven’t seen you in…in I don’t know how long,” she said.

"Forty-five days?” said Riley. She was nervous. “Well, forty-six. Technically. Wanna know what I’ve been up to?”

The rain outside was like a drum. Ellie didn’t care. “All this time,” she said. “I thought you were dead.”

Riley felt everything, but just like everybody else in the whole wide world, she couldn’t show it. “Yeah,” she said. And she took off the dog tag. “Here. Look.”

“God fucking dammit,” said Ellie. She was on her knees now, overcome by something, and she stabbed the knife into the river bank. “Stupid fucking bullshit. Fuck you.” She stabbed it again, and then she felt like a complete dumbass, put it away. She thought about crying but she stared back at the river instead. “Go away,” she said.

“Ellie?” said someone. It was Cici, she was calling out to her from the porch. It must have been too long. “Ellie, you okay?”

“Shit,” said Ellie. "I'm okay." She got up, frantic, and her knees were all wet from the river bank. “I'm okay. I'm coming."

"Just checking," said Cici.

When she got back up to their room, Joel was under the covers. The lamp was dim. He lie very still, on his side, facing the wall, and she stood watching him for a second to see if he'd roll over and scold her or something. But he seemed like he was sleeping, and she was relieved. She didn't know why she cared, but she did. So she turned down the lamp right away and tried to be as quiet as she could so as not to disturb him. She took off her shoes and set them down silently, one by one. Then she took her jeans off, too, hung them over the bedpost to dry. She only had the one pair. She got under the covers and pulled them up to her chin, trying to sink into the mattress, forcing her brain to shut the fuck up. Please. For once, just shut the fuck up. But then,

“'Night, Ellie,” said Joel. He had not moved, by the dim light of the moon coming through the window.

She was near on startled. His voice was really deep and it always filled the room no matter how quiet. “Oh, shit,” she said. “Sorry, Joel."

"That's okay," he said.

"‘Night, Joel.”

Days of you and me.

***

On the record player: “Josephine” by The Wallflowers, “Future Days” by Pearl Jam, “The Scientist” by Coldplay

#the last of us #tlou #the last of us 2 #tlou2 #joel tlou #ellie tlou #as you were #cw: animal death mention

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dishonoredrpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, JEM! You’ve been accepted for the role of STRENGTH with the faceclaim of MICHIEL HUISMAN. I think you best stated it yourself -- Roland is kind and cruel in equal measure, willing to break the tenets of his own moral code for a little bit of kingdom. I found myself drawn to him in a way I wasn’t expecting, which is exactly what I wanted for a character like Strength; in spite of his constant contradictions and struggles with the work he’s doing and his willingness to acknowledge he might have been led astray by Septimus, he’s still real. Still fathomable on the larger scale. He has the potential to be a real power player with the Sons of Argos in his hands, and I’m more than excited to see how things play out with the plots you’ve provided and concepts you’ve so kindly shown here!

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC

NAME: Jem.

PRONOUNS: She/her.

AGE: 26.

TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: EST. I’d say my activity level is about a 6/10! My work schedule is a little wonky right now, but I always try to carve out some time for writing, and I’m usually able to crank out replies consistently throughout the week.

ANYTHING ELSE? Not a thing!

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: Strength.

NAME: Roland Alexander Bishop.

FACECLAIM: Michiel Huisman (1st preference) or Can Yaman (2nd preference).

AGE: 33.

DETAILS: I fell in love with about 10 different skeletons before it dawned on me that Strength is, in fact, my one an only!!!!!! I’m so completely fascinated with the dichotomy of Roland’s character. He’s somehow kind and cruel in equal measure, a man of conscience willing to break his moral code for the right price. With no parents to speak of, he raised himself by virtue of naught but teeth-bared survival, and he’s carried that instinct for perseverance with him well into his adulthood in a way that I think has perhaps blurred the lines of what he believes to be right and wrong, or at least blurred his willingness to cross those lines. I wouldn’t say he’s altogether without integrity, because his stomach yet turns when buries his dagger hilt-deep in the belly of the King’s enemies, but his moral compass certainly isn’t working the way it used to these days. He’s whip-smart, too (he must be to have assembled a legion of Tyrholm’s nastiest, most ruthless bastards and foster loyalty and obedience among them). By that same token, though, he’s prone to foolishness in the face of profit. A boy raised by the street urchins of Tyrholm knows better than to trust kings, and had he used his head to consider his contract with Septimus, and not his deep-running pockets, he surely would’ve seen all that gold for what it really was: a gilded cage. Not all that glitters is gold, and not all that’s gold glitters. Here we have him, then: a man kind and cruel, bound by integrity and bound by greed, moral and immoral, clever and foolish. A ruffian mercenary who’s now finds himself under the King’s thumb. An avaricious profiteer who will do almost anything for the right price, but a fair and just leader devoted to his men. A self-made king of Tyrholm’s rapscallions and reprobates, but a servant to a King with no principles to speak of. He’s a living, breathing paradox, always walking a fine line between two versions of self. But in Septimus’s Tyrholm, there’s no room for fair-weathered allies, and if Roland plans on terminating his contract with the King, it’ll be a bloody affair. He didn’t exactly read the contract’s fine print, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to honor a treaty with a King whose head in his a basket, right?

BACKGROUND:

He never knows his parents. His mother leaves him on the stoop of a small temple in Hightown when he’s a babe. An Emissary finds him, and for some time, he’s looked after by acolytes of the Undying. They’re kind, mostly, from what he can remember, but he never takes to faith the way they all hope he will, and as soon as he’s old enough to run, he does—he runs far, far away, straight into the underbelly of Lowtown.

The streets of Lowtown raise him, and later in life, when he’s asked about his heritage, he’ll say that Tyrholm is his mother, and she may well be, for the man he is today is due in full to her lessons.

The seaport town raises him brutally, with an iron fist. He’s a boy with only ten years of life on him, lean and fresh-faced, when he takes to the streets of Lowtown, and in his first months of independence, he’s so gaunt that you can see each divot of his ribs, and he counts them over and over again to pass the time. He’s a fast learner, a living, breathing study in survival, and he realizes in no time at all that he’ll have to earn his right to life.

He does just that. He watches the other street-dwellers, men and women of all ages and shapes and sizes, each hungrier than the last. Some fight for coin. Some beg. Some dance. Some sing arias. Some charm snakes. Some sell looted treasure, others sell their bodies. Roland watches them all, tries to map out a viable plan of action for himself. He tries his hand at magic tricks, but his sleights of hand are nowhere as advanced as the smoke and mirrors of the veteran illusionist that performs at high noon every day at the marketplace. He tries fighting, next, and he’s good at that, even at a young age, but he’s skinny, weak from hunger, and he spends what little coin he wins on herbs and medicines from the local botanist to patch himself back up. Theft is his next venture—he’s a natural. He has good, quick hands that dart in and out of pockets less intrusively than a dove’s feather carried on a springtime breeze, deft and steady. For a few years, this sustains him. He loots coin, jewels, and treasures of all sort straight from pockets and purses and holsters, and he never gets caught.

When he’s fourteen, he steals a dagger straight from the belt of a fisherman selling his catch at the docks. The hilt is carved from ivory, and the blade shines like molten moonlight beneath the dawning sun. It’ll sell well, he thinks, only… He likes it. It feels nice in the palm of his hand, lightweight enough for a fourteen-year-old to wield with no trouble at all, and he spends the next week twirling it between his fingers, sharpening it against sea-worn rocks, practicing parlor tricks. He finds he has otherworldly aim, and he hits every target, from sandbags to trees to peaches to peach pits. And so, like any man well-versed in the trade of survival, he takes his Undying-given talent and turns a profit from it. He begins performing in Lowtown’s streets, and word of the boy who can slice a pomegranate in half midair while blindfolded spreads like wildfire.

They say that idle hands are the devil’s playthings, and it isn’t long before the devils come crawling out of every corner of Lowtown in search of Roland’s hands, eager to lay claim to a boy who will no doubt make a fine weapon to be used at their discretion. A boy young enough to appear unassuming to targets and old enough to get his hands dirty. The first to find him is a headhunter named Argos, a surly bastard with scar that stretches from his left temple all the way down to the right corner of his mouth, ugly and red. The look of him makes Roland tremble, and years later, he’ll laugh at his boyish fear of a man beloved to him, a man kinder and with thrice more heart than any of the pretty-faced, rosy-cheeked nobles Roland had ever robbed.

By the grace of the Undying, Argos takes him under his wing before any of the other leeches can latch onto him. Roland isn’t a particularly religious man, but he thinks, sometimes, that maybe the Undying is real, and that maybe she does favor him, because he can think of no other reason why he was delivered into the hands of Argos, and not any of the other ghouls of Lowtown who would surely have preyed on his inexperience and whittled him into a fine weapon with an expiration date of five, maybe six more years. As it is, Argos teaches him to kill just the same as all the others would have, but he teaches him how to kill honorably, quickly. He teaches him to respect life and death in equal measure, and he warns him that what he takes from the world, he must give back to it twice over. He teaches him how to fight well and how to fight dirty. He teaches him how to fight with his hands bound, with his eyes blindfolded. He introduces him to the Warrior’s Guild, where Roland’s career as a mercenary begins.

He does as he was taught, and he gives twice over for every life he takes. In spite of the dirty work he does, humility and honor flourish impossibly within him like a garden of desert roses in dead, dry soil. He donates a portion of his coin to brothels, street performers, pickpockets—the lowliest of Lowtown, those without places and people to call home, those who can’t put a name to the feeling of love. He never forgets his roots, and though he earns his weight in gold, enough to leave Lowtown and never look back, enough to dress himself in the wares of a proper Hightowner, he never leaves. Lowtown, the Warrior’s Guild, the docks, the street urchins, the baker’s son who sneaks him scraps of burnt bread, Argos—these are all home.

He’s twenty when Argos dies on a job gone wrong, and as the underwolders of the Warrior’s Guild and Lowtown mourn the death of Argos, a night king in his own right, beloved by those who love naught, they turn to Roland with expectant eyes. Roland, the boy who Argos affectionately called “Bullseye.” Roland, the boy who Argos raised to kill well, and meaningfully. Roland, the man, now, who Argos preened to inherit his legacy, to lead the mischief-makers and nightmare-makers, to protect Tyrholm’s underworld. And so he does.

It’s no easy feat, to be sure, wrangling a group of soldiers of fortune, kingslayers, outcasts, thieves, killers. But Roland is stubborn in his determination, and he works tirelessly to weed out the evil; to foster trust between himself and the good; to create a legion of Lowtown’s meanest bastards and make something special of them. Leadership becomes him. His humility, a rare quality in Tyrholm, and his charisma inspire ironbound devotion from a breed of people who know nothing of loyalty. He’s fair and kind in equal measure, and the men and women of the Warrior’s Guild take to him like the drape of midnight sky takes to the north star. For all of Roland’s goodwill, his ruthlessness is never forgotten. A killer is a killer is a killer, and those who mistake his kindness for weakness learn well that his honor knows some bounds. He goes to great lengths to instill that same notion of honor in his host of mercenaries, and he teaches them the same lessons that were taught to him. He teaches them to kill quickly, cleanly, and honorably, and he teaches them to give the same way that Argos taught him to. They resist, in the beginning, as all creatures of habit do, but in the end, they become a fine brood of noble killers, if such a thing exists. They’re vicious bastards, all of them, but they learn to respect life and death in equal turn. In his mentor’s honor, he calls his troop of sellswords the Sons of Argos, and in no time at all, Roland and the Sons are notorious for the dirty work they do—and how well they do it.

Roland and the Sons of Argos become so notorious, in fact, that word of Tyrholm’s them reaches King Septimus himself, and he promptly offers Roland a deal that he ought to refuse. He doesn’t. Greed and the promise of prosperity for the future generations of the Sons blind him, and the moment the ink on the contract dries, dread washes over him, and he can nearly picture Argos rolling over in his grave, fixing him with that look of grim disappointment he used when he was displeased with Roland.

In the beginning, the King’s assignments aren’t so bad. Roland and the Sons are asked to tie up loose ends, eliminate political threats, clear out bandits. Easy. Roland obliges, and the dirty work he and the Sons do is immaculate. But the King’s orders grow bleaker as time passes, and soon enough, Roland can hardly sleep through the night without waking from nightmares of his own making: screams that could crack glass, the sound of weeping broken up by choppy sobs, enough blood on his hands to fill up the Sahrnian. You must give twice over what you take from this world, Argos had told him, and he’s beginning to feel the weight of a debt long overdue. He’s taken so much, lately, life after innocent life, and his moral compass whirs in protest every time he plunges his dagger into the belly of an enemy not his own.

PLOT IDEAS:

Roland breathes and bleeds for the Sons of Argos, and there’s little—no, there’s nothinghe won’t do to protect his legion, even if that means compromising his honor. The Sons of Argos is his legacy, his life’s making, and he’ll sell his soul to highest bidder to ensure the continued prosperity of his ragtag battalion. It’s why he signed the King’s contract, and it’s why he yet serves the insufferable oaf. The coin Septimus funnels into his pockets is enough to sustain the Sons for generations, and not even Roland’s stalwart honor could sway his resolve to preserve the Sons. But a life bought and owed is not a life worth living, and Roland has learned well the cost of servitude. He’s spent the last decade assembling a group of fine men and women, teaching monsters the rite of nobility, preaching the gospel of life, taking and giving it. Nothing in this world is as beloved to him as the Sons, and he’ll be damned if stands by idly and watches Septimus sic Roland’s lot of honor-bound sellswords on his enemies like a pack of rabid dogs. The Sons of Argos are a proud brood of beasts; they are not pawns to be used to wage and win the King’s infantile wars. Septimus thinks he’s bought the Sons’ loyalty, but he’d do well to remember that loyalty bought can be outbid. Loyalty earned, contrariwise, is everlasting, Roland has earned enough of the Sons’ loyalty to last lifetimes. The Sons of Argos may well serve Septimus, but it’s Roland they’ve sworn an oath to; it’s Roland they answer to, it’s Roland they kill for, and it’s Roland they bend a knee to. Should the benefits of revolting against Septimus ever outweigh the benefits of serving him, it will take only a look from Roland to rally his Sons of Argos against the King.

Do you know who’s good at rebellion? A man who’s spent years squashing the very notion of it. Since the beginning of his arrangement with Septimus, he and the Sons have been charged with eliminating uprisings of all sorts. Some fires have been more difficult to put out than others, some rebellions have been organized better than others, and some have been led by insurgents quicker and braver than others. Roland’s well-acquainted with the many shades of revolt in Tyrholm, and I’d say that makes him a damned good asset in the bid to overthrow Septimus, wouldn’t you? Roland and his Sons are a hell of wildcard if ever there was one, and as the revolters of Tyrholm begin to coalesce, they’d do well to entreat the Sons’ Captain. Let us not forget what happened to Agamemnon’s army when the King of Mycenae waged war without Achilles and his Myrmidons.

Roland, for all his vulgar mannerisms and bold-as-brass behavior, isn’t stupid. He knows he’s sitting on a small goldmine made up of The Hanged Man’s secrets—he just hasn’t decided what to do with that particular treasure trove just yet. Roland is uncannily good at playing his hand close to his chest, and he thinks he’ll wait this one out a little longer before he shows the head servant his royal flush. Perhaps he’ll reveal what he knows and use it to leverage The Hanged Man as a resource. Perhaps he’ll take the information he’s filed away and sell it to the highest bidder. He’s not sure yet, but for The Hanged Man’s sake, he hopes the poor bastard folds soon, because Roland doesn’t think they’re very good at playing this game.

Conscience, thy name is Judgment. It’s strange, really, the way the Cleric amplifies all that goodness in Roland tenfold, in turn amplifying all the guilt that goodness births when compromised. His conscience has never been particularly content with the dirty work Septimus pays him and the Sons handsomely to do, but ever since he began attending Judgment’s sermons, his remorse has made a home in the marrow of his bones. He knows what he’s doing isn’t just or good, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s Judgment who makes him feel the truth of it all, every grain of it, and he finds himself growing sick with guilt these days. You wouldn’t think a Cleric has much pull in the dawn of a war on the horizon, but it’s Judgment who has Roland’s ear, and it’s Judgment who’s beginning to make Roland wonder if, perhaps, a revolution would make for a fine penance, coin and contract be damned.

There’s a reason the moon and sun never share the sky at the same time, and there’s a reason Roland and The Fool don’t often share a room at the same time. It’s not that Roland has no respect for the King’s Captain of the Guard, because he does, but cleaning up The Fool’s messes and tying up the loose ends of their army’s incompetence is getting old, quick. Still, the sun shines favorably on The Fool, paints them in the gold of heroism and leaves Roland and his Sons to bask in the muted silver of moonlight. The Sons of Argos are in this for gold, not glory, so he doesn’t terribly mind The Fool and their men acting as frontmen and taking undue credit for the dirty work Roland and the Sons do, but the bastard has the audacity to parade around Castle Tyrholm like they’re the Undying’s gift to man. It’s only a matter of time until the tension between the pair of captains comes to a head, and when it does, Roland is sure the fallout will be catastrophic, with far-reaching repercussions. A pity, really, because if The Fool could swallow their pride and Roland could swallow his prejudice, they could do great, terrible things together.

CHARACTER DEATH: Yes, absolutely!

WRITING SAMPLE

He dreams of his life’s small joys. He dreams of poppy fields in southern Tyrholm and figs stolen from the sweet shop next to the bakery in Lowtown. He dreams of the smell of sea salt, the sound of low tide crashing against black shale rock. He dreams of the baker’s boy, who used to sneak him scraps of burnt bread when he was naught but a half-starved child. He dreams of the boy’s kind smile, and his impossibly kinder eyes: one brown, one blue. He dreams of Argos, how the corners of his eyes would crinkle when he’d laugh at Roland, face warm with a rare fondness seen once, maybe twice in a lifetime. He dreams of the Sons, the lot of them gathered in this brothel or that tavern, heads thrown back as they all boom a chorus of boisterous laughter that draws more than one sidelong glance. He dreams of JUDGMENT, the way their voice rolls like the drip of warm honey, sounds something like absolution, atonement. He dreams of a time when he was proud of the man he was, of the work he did, even the dirtiest of it, because it was done meaningfully, with honor.

He wakes with a start, and the world returns to him in pieces, slowly. First light filters dimly into the barracks, and he huffs a quiet sigh as pushes himself up into a sitting position and swings his legs over the side of his cot. The Sons sleep soundly around him, and here, like this, they look nearly…peaceful. Roland catalogues the memory and stores it somewhere in his mind it won’t soon be forgotten. The rest of Castle Tyrholm, save for those of the King’s Guard working night patrol, won’t rise until sunup, at the earliest, but Roland’s always been a bit of a bastard when it comes to the Sons’ unforgiving schedule. They’re welcome to fight and fuck and drink their weight in ale until the moon sets, but come dawn, the day’s work begins. A fair trade-off, if you ask Roland (and one that inspires good behavior without Roland having to explicitly enforce it).

Soundlessly, Roland reaches over to the bunk next to his and gives Galen, his most trusted lieutenant bar none, a solid smack on the cheek. “Up.” The command is quiet, but it carries the weight of a king’s authority all the same. Brow pinches, Galen opens his eyes halfway and makes a vulgar gesture at Roland, who only laughs. “Fuck off,” Galen hisses as he turns half of his face back into the plush bedding of his cot, one eye closed and one trained on Roland. “Fuck off…?” Roland prompts, crooking his forefinger expectantly in a silent come on gesture. Galen rolls his one open eye. “Fuck off, Captain,” he amends. A low, throaty chuckle rumbles somewhere deep in Roland’s chest. “Better. Get dressed and gather the lot. His Grace has a job for us.” The way Roland says “His Grace” doesn’t sound particularly blasphemous, but Galen, who knows him so well, will surely have no trouble at all undressing the resentment that manifests in the way his lips curl hatefully around the King’s title. Galen passes him a long-suffering look, and Roland returns it empathetically, but they say no more on the subject. Roland dresses quickly and stands to leave, and Galen salutes him with his middle finger, but he nonetheless complies, and he, too, makes fast work of dressing.

The Dining Hall is… Well, it is as it always is. The Sons, loud and full of life even in the early hours of first light, earn more than one glare from other guests in the Hall. They’re outsiders, here, cawing ravens flying among a flock of singsong blackbirds, and the good people of Castle Tyrholm never let Roland or his Sons forget it. They don’t belong here, and as Roland catches dual sets of narrow eyes fixed on him, one belonging to THE HANGED MAN and the other belonging to THE FOOL, he wonders if they ever will. He doesn’t particularly care, so he tosses THE HANGED MAN a sly wink, and for THE FOOL, he presses his index and middle fingers against his lips and blows him a kiss. Neither seem particularly impressed with his flip, decidedly Lowtown behavior, but he cares not. Some things in this world are absolute. The sun rises each day, the sky is blue, and Roland Bishop will never balk in the face of judgment. He is as sure of the man he is as the Clerics are of the Undying. He will never waver from his spirit, his honor, his nature, and he will never know the shame of others. He is the legacy of Argos and Lowtown, a good man and a good city, in his estimation, and though he’s not always proud of the things he does, he is proud of the man he is, and he’s prouder yet of the legion he’s created. Wolves don’t lose sleep over the opinions of sheep, and the Sons of Argos don’t lose sleep over the opinions of a fucking cook and a Guard-Captain whose track record leaves something to be desired.

The meal is a quick one, and Roland thinks fortune might favor him today, because the Sons enter and exit the Dining Hall without brawling with any of the King’s Guard, and by the time the sun has fully risen, Roland and his men are well underfoot. They travel by horse to the northernmost point of the farmlands, where the King’s Spymaster has evidently caught wind of a budding rebellion. Roland stopped wondering long ago if there’s any truth to the Spymaster’s claims at all, or if THE DEVIL spoon-feeds the King lies just to keep the tyrant of their back.

Their journey is short, and so is the battle (if you can even call a massacre a battle) that ensues. It’s violent and bloody, but the Sons are trained for this brand of dirty work, and their victory is swift. At the end of it all, only one remains: the leader of what was a poorly organized coup that never stood a chance against the King and his cronies.

“He’s inside the barn,” Galen says as Roland kneels to push down the eyelids of a boy of no more than fifteen years. Roland doesn’t have to look up to know that Galen’s face is grim, and neither does he need a mirror to know that his own face is pale as driven snow. His gut knots and double-knots with throngs of unease, and guilt begins to gnaw in earnest at his well-meaning heart. Still, he yet goes through the motions: wipes the blood from his dagger, helps his men make a pyre of the bodies, closes the eyes of all the dead and prays that they’ll be better off in their next lives than they were in this one. When the dirty work is done, he joins the rest of the Sons in the estate’s small barn, where they wait with the self-crowned king of what was a novice mutiny at best and a botched rally at worst.

In the chaos of carnage, Roland hadn’t gotten a good look at the rebels’ fearless, foolish leader, and seeing him now, the knots in his stomach tighten tenfold. He’s on his knees with his head hung low, held at either of his arms by two Sons and stayed by a third, whose sword is pressed flush against his neck. He looks about the same age as Roland, maybe a few years his youth, with sun-soaked hair that looks reddish in places wet with blood. The Sons wait patiently for Roland’s command, the quiet of the room a stark foil to the noisy bustle of the Dining Hall earlier that morning.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice soft as a slip of cotton hung out to dry. The man doesn’t answer; he doesn’t even look up. Roland looses a quiet sigh. The King has instructed him, as he always does, to gather whatever information he can—by any means necessary. He and the Sons are meant to gut villagers bloody and cut out their tongues if they don’t divulge their secrets. They’re meant to exterminate the hope of revolution and send a message to neighboring revolters. They’re meant to be hounds that bite at the heels of a people who have everything to lose and risk it yet for naught but the meager chance of a Tyrholm free of Septimus’s plague of pride and greed. But the Sons of Argos are no dogs. Killers they may be, but they’re a proud brood, the lot of them, and they do their dirty work with as much honor as they can. If it’s gore and bloodletting Septimus wants, let the old prick get off his throne and terrorize wives and sons and husbands and daughters himself.

Roland was taught to kill honorably and quickly, to respect life and death in equal measure, and he pays homage the lessons of Argos daily. It’s clear that the rebel-king isn’t feeling particularly chatty, and if he won’t loosen his tongue, there’s not much to be done about it. There’s not much to be done at all, really, except to give the man a quick and honorable death. “You fought well,” Roland murmurs. He means it. Galen is sporting what Roland can only assume is a broken nose given to him by the man, and it had taken more than one Son to fully bring him down. Death, too, must be earned, and this man, with all his lionheart courage, has earned his. Distantly, Roland thinks that this very man could’ve perhaps toppled Septimus’s rule himself, if given the proper resources. He has the grit for rebellion, to be sure, and the spirit, too, but he lacks the wherewithal, the time, the training. A pity, he muses. He could’ve made history, the poor bastard.

Out of the corner of his eye, Roland catches Galen staring at him intently, curiously, like he knows exactly what he’s thinking, and maybe he does. Galen opens his mouth, maybe to ask something, maybe to say something, but Roland gives him a fractional shake of his head, and Galen presses his lips into a tight line, no doubt making a mental note to badger Roland about it later. Eyes full of mourning and mouth set in steel, Roland looks over to Myra, the Son with her sword pressed against the man’s neck, and gives her a curt nod. She returns the gesture, and after drawing a deep inhale, she rears the sword far back and up, ready to deliver the final blow. The man, surely sensing his impending death, at last lifts his head, and Roland lets out a swift, sharp whistle that cuts through the air like broken glass. It’s a command to stop, and Myra, knowing the sound of the pitch for what it is, obeys, lowering the sword non-threateningly as Roland stares at the face before him: a man roughly his age, with one brown eye, and one blue.

The baker’s son.

Dread washes Roland’s face a shade of white impossibly paler than before, and he makes a punched-out noise as he remembers hot summers and cold winters spent starving, the sickly feeling of tightness clenching a stomach unfed, the thick fatigue of near-death staved off by the baker’s son, who had been the first person in Tyrholm to teach Roland well-learned lessons of kindness, charity, compassion. The boy who, even in his youth, radiated the kind of warmth and generosity that Roland has never seen in men and women who have lived full lives. His first friend, if you can call breaking bread together and stealing water from Callia Lancaster’s well and playing card games and chasing each other around on the docks friendship.

Recognition spark’s in his once-maybe-friend’s eyes, and the sea-glass green of them shifts from hate, to grief, to nostalgia, and then, finally, to something that looks remarkably like…understanding. Understanding, even now, even on the brink of death. This, Roland thinks, is honor. This, Roland thinks, is what he has perhaps forgotten in his years in the King’s employ. Idly, he thinks JUDGMENT would like this man. His endless reservoir of kindness is something divine, something reminiscent of faith, something that JUDGMENT would take to with overwhelming fondness.

Roland draws forward and places his hand over Myra’s, which remains gripped tightly around the hilt of her sword, and pushes it down, a silent command to lay down her arms. It’s said that the one who passes the sentence should swing the sword, but in the business of sellswords, that’s hardly ever the case, and in Tyrholm, that’s never the case, for the King is far too cowardly to do his dirty work himself.

This, though… This responsibility belongs to Roland and Roland alone. It’s personal, not business, and he can feel the heavy weight of his duty in his pockets, where the King’s coin rests. Argos had always warned him of the looming dangers of this trade, the threat to one’s honor, one’s soul, one’s spirit. Are you worth your weight in gold? he’d often asked him. I will be, Roland had always answered, because he’d thought, then, that Argos had been asking him if he’d grossed a sum of gold equal to his weight. Now, he thinks, he at last understands the question: is it worth it? Have you earned your weight in gold? Is the man you are today worthy of that coin?

Gently, nearly tenderly, Roland cradles his hand against the side of the man’s face. The baker’s son doesn’t flinch. The irony isn’t lost on Roland: he must give back what he takes from this world twice over, and here he is, about to take the life of a man who gave him his. You should’ve let me starve, he wants to say. You should’ve let me die. He wants to apologize, he wants to explain himself, but he won’t do this good man the dishonor of wasting his last moments of life assuaging his own guilt, so he instead reaches into the pocket of his breeches and pulls out a pouch of gold. He tosses it to Galen, who catches it reflexively. “There’s a bakery in Lowtown south of the bay, with a red roof and green door. Bring it to them.” Galen raises an eyebrow in silent question, but he turns on his heel, exits the barn, and mounts his horse all the same. “You’re family will be looked after for generations,” he promises. He knows it won’t be enough to absolve the blood on his hands, not this time, but he hopes it’ll be enough to bring the man some peace of mind. He thinks maybe it does, because the baker’s son smiles. He dies smiling. Roland strikes quick and fast, drives his dagger straight through a heart of gold. It’s a quick, painless death that lasts the span of a few heartbeats, at most, and it stays with Roland for the remainder of all his years.

That night, when Roland lays his head down to sleep, he doesn’t dream.

EXTRAS

Pinterest. MBTI: ESTP. Astrology: Aries (April 19th). Moral Alignment: True Neutral. Enneagram Type: Type 8. Headcanons:

He isn’t best fighter in Tyrholm, but he may well be the most adaptive. In his boyhood, Argos taught him combat techniques that he’d observed in the east, and the west, and the north, and the south. Roland has killed men from all over the continent, from all walks of life, and though many balk at his nontraditional manner of bloodshed, he’s quick and efficient, and he and his Sons always get the job done. They say it’s uncouth, the way he fights, the weapons he uses, but The Fool’s etiquette (knighthood proper, that one) hasn’t exactly done them a whole lot of good, has it? Roland is as quick as lightning and twice as hot in a fight, and he’s been known to use exotic weapons when he’s doing his dirty work. Of all his tools, his favorites are his decade-old ivory dagger and a sickle-shaped pair of handheld scythes.

Roland doesn’t share the King’s low opinion of magic. Raised by Tyrholm’s streets, by whores and beggars magicians and street urchins and musicians and muses, Roland learned young to embrace all walks of life, and his schools of thought are all considerably flexible. His opinion of magi is no exception. People fear what they do not understand, and as a mercenary with a moral compass, a man who’s been misunderstand by the masses his entire life, he can empathize.

Because he was looked after by worshippers of the Undying in his boyhood, he’s considerably literate for a man of his…lifestyle, and he’s actually quite smart, despite appearances. He’s well-read and well-taught, but the true nature of his wherewithal is known only to Judgment and the Sons.

Roland and the Sons reside permanently in taverns in Lowtown, and impermanently in the barracks. Though the lot of them have more than enough coin to afford taverns in Hightown, Roland prefers to keep the company of Lowtowners, and he finds that he and his Sons fit in far better there than farther north. He supposes that the King is fond enough of him—or the work he does, at least—to allow Roland and the Sons to occupy Castle Tyrholm’s guest quarters, but Roland has never asked such a thing of Septimus, and he never will. When their services are needed, Roland and the Sons stay in the barracks alongside The Fool’s soldiers, partly because Roland wants the Sons to remember their humility, and partly because he wants to piss of The Fool. Whether in Lowtown taverns or the barracks, Roland sleeps right alongside his lieutenants and soldiers, intent on remembering his own humility, too.

Whistling. It’s how the Sons communicate without speaking, and it drives just about every resident of Castle Tyrholm mind-achingly mad. Their secret tongue was initially created as a way to signal one another for help, but since signing on to work for King Septimus, Roland will often whistle to deliver commands or messages to the Sons in order to keep confidential matters from reaching the ears of bystanders. Different pitches have different connotations, and more than one Castle Tyrholm has bellyached about the secret smiles and obnoxious laughter exchanged between the Sons when Roland lets out a low whistle after a meeting with the King or The Fool. Still, even the loudest critics of the Sons’ nonverbal lingo can’t deny the sheer impressiveness of the way the Sons fall in line with naught but a whistle rendered from their Captain.

Though looked after by Clerics and Emissaries for much of his early boyhood, Roland never quite took to faith the way his caretakers had hoped he might. But he’s taken to Judgment the way most people take to religion, like they’re something absolute, something worthy of his hard-won devotion, and he can’t help but feel like some of their lessons are beginning to rub off on him. He thinks the Emissary who took him in would faint if she could see him now, knelt quietly in the foremost pew of the Sanctum, hands clasped as he listens to Judgment’s sermon with a look on his face caught somewhere between reverence and admiration. Life comes full circle, he supposes, and he finds himself growing increasingly fascinated by the idea of the Undying, of goodness, of life’s purpose. He wants to learn more about it all, he thinks. Or maybe he just wants to learn more about Judgment.

#accepted #accepted: strength

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fanfic-scribbles · 5 years

Text

Lunch Buddy: Chapter Ten

Masterlist

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Overall Story Facts:

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Story Summary: Steve Rogers makes a friend. A prickly, generally people-averse friend, but they’ll both take what they can get.

Quick Facts: Friendship (/Eventual Romance) – Steve Rogers & Reader (leading to Steve Rogers/Reader) – Female Reader

Story Warnings: Reader-insert that verges on OFC, written in 1st person past tense

Chapter 10: Familiar Things

Chapter Summary: Maybe the real coffee shops were the ones we found along the way. Or…not.

Chapter Word Count: 3469

My new job was fine. The people were nice without being distracting, my boss gave guidance without being overbearing, and I did what I was supposed to do and got paid for it. So work was work in a satisfactory way.

Finding a new place to spend a lunch break was slightly more frustrating.

Steve: Don’t laugh at the name Steve: But the menu for this place looks good.

With only slight hesitation, I clicked on the link. And stared at the logo. And…stared some more.

Steve: You’re laughing, aren’t you Me: No Me: I’m

I couldn’t figure out how to finish that.

Me: Are you sure that’s a coffee shop and not a daycare? Steve: It says ‘coffee’ and has a menu!

I read it over, and yeah, it did, and yeah, the menu looked okay. But still.

Steve: Are you worried about your reputation?

I rolled my eyes.

Me: I’m some schlub that nobody cares about Me: The real question: would YOU be okay with someone recognizing you Me: And saying you must endorse ‘Whoa Doggy Coffee?’

His silence spoke volumes.

Me: Also Me: Who the fuck does a themed coffee shop named ‘Whoa Doggy’ Me: And DOESN’T make it western?! Steve: Why do I feel like Steve: if it was Steve: you would show up in a cowboy hat Me: *We Me: I know a shitty tourist stall that sells them Steve: Then this was a blessing in disguise Steve: But that mascot’s going to haunt my dreams Me: Same

I checked the clock. There wasn’t a whole lot of time before I took my break.

Me: There’s a crummy Starbucks a few blocks away Me: Drinks are meh but it’s surprisingly quiet Steve: That’ll work Steve: Give me cross streets and I’ll meet you there

The Starbucks That Corporate Forgot was fine for an ‘in the meantime,’ but I was really hoping for another place with nice people behind the counter and good stuff to drink and eat that also wasn’t far from my work. I had thought of coffee shops in New York as a dime a dozen, but I was pretty wrong, apparently. On some recommendations Steve had gotten we went to actual lunch a few times and it was nice. The food, at least, was fine, but all of it was a little pricey for me to want to make it a habit. And if we could find the right coffee shop, we could keep up a habit that I liked without hurting my wallet. I hoped.

The first place I picked out was a very generic coffee shop with a forgettable name. The drinks, though, were so bad that Steve and I took our respective sips and then spent the rest of our time together using my phone to find anywhere else but there.

Steve found a place that seemed fine but the guys behind the counter recognized him and were such assholes about it, it was like Steve had personally trampled their dicks in effort to destroy their oh-so-sturdy manhood. He kept it together pretty well while I felt like a static-charged cat, but when they started to turn their attention towards me I felt Steve stiffen up and I yanked him out of there before we could end up as a Jerry Springer special.

“It’s not that good,” Steve muttered into his cup after we had appropriated a table at a random food place.

“Tastes like bitter projection and manly, manly tears,” I said and sipped slowly. It made him laugh, at least, and his shoulders stopped looking so much like a straight line.

“I hear that much salt is bad for you though,” he said and winked at me.

I choked so hard he had to pat my back to help me breathe again.

I picked out a place I thought looked great. Unfortunately, the rest of the city apparently thought the same. The place was so busy Steve was easily lost in the crowd which, on one hand, great, good, wonderful, fantastic. On the other hand, the shop was small and hot and conversations dipped in and out, bleeding and merging into a cacophony that felt as oppressive as the bodies surrounding me.

I held out long enough to order and then, despite how fast the drinks were being made, looked outside for somewhere else to stand. I found it in a spot right near the window and gave Steve some excuse about how I would just be a second, and then made my escape.

I was catching my breath a few steps away from the glass, in some shade, when someone tapped my shoulder and I looked up just as Steve slid a cup into my hands. “Oh, I’m–” I closed my grip. “I’m sorry Steve.”

“It’s all right.” His hand was large and warm on my back, but I didn’t want to shrink away. “Let’s take a walk.”

It was better than scrounging for a broken table in a place I couldn’t even look at comfortably, so I nodded and we started walking. Steve acted as a buffer between me and the street and I waited to level out. The drink was really good. Too bad.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine.” I checked the time. We had plenty of it. “I’m sorry; I wasn’t trying to skip out, I just needed some air.”

“Was it someone in there?” he asked in a tone that suggested he would be doing an about-face if I said anything resembling ‘yes.’

“No, just…the amount of people. I couldn’t handle it,” I said.

He lost the ‘choose your fighter’ stance. “Really?”

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t go to clubs that often,” I said. “Sometimes I can handle ridiculous crowds and sometimes I can’t. I tend to avoid them in general; I don’t really like people that close if I can help it.”

“Oh,” he said and I knew what he was about to do, so I tugged his shirt just as he tried to step to the side.

“Don’t,” I said. “It’s strangers I don’t like; you’re fine.”

“Oh,” he said, and he sounded so pleased that I had to look.

His smile matched his tone and was so sweet that I smiled too. “What?” I asked him.

“Nothing,” he said. But he couldn’t help himself for long. “People say I’m imposing.”

“People who don’t know you’re just a giant dork.”

“Most people.”

“So only…” I did a quick estimate, “…Maybe ten people know what a dork you are?” Because there weren't that many Avengers, right?

“More like you, Sam, and Natasha.”

Okay, there were definitely more Avengers than that. “What about your other friends?” Or maybe that was the problem. “Co-workers?” Did Avengers get paid? “…Teammates?”

Steve flashed me a bemused smile. “Do your co-workers know what a dork you are?”

“More than I like,” I admitted. “But it’s always only ever a matter of time.”

“Well, we don’t…” He shrugged. “They’re all busy; they have jobs, partners; lives. We train sometimes, and Coulson wrangles us in sometimes for a group dinner.”

“So they’ve met you more than once and still don’t know you’re a dweeb?”

He shifted. “What time is it?”

“We’re already heading back.” I wrapped both of my arms around one of his. “You can walk me.”

“Are you trying to make sure you can charge me for the full hour?” he asked dryly but didn’t try to shake me off.

“There’s not enough money in the world to make me your therapist.” I gave his arm one good squeeze and let go. “We’re just two friends, shooting the shit. Or I guess we can talk shit, if you want, but I’ll have no idea who you’re talking about.”

He laughed a little. “No, I don’t– they’re all good people, and I wish I knew them better,” he admitted and we came to a stop. “But we’re different people, so it’s slow. But it’s fine.”

“Hm.”

He smiled at me and then nodded forward. At my building. “Have a nice day at work.”

I snorted. “Thanks, honey.” But that sounded so weird we both cracked up.

“How is the job, though? Is it good?” he asked.

“I do my job, I get paid.” I shrugged. “That’s all I really care about. So in that sense, yeah. It’s good.”

“Good. I’m glad it’s working out,” he said. There was a slight buzzing and I felt over my pocket, just in case, but he pulled out his phone and I caught a brief look at a vaguely familiar logo lit up on the screen. Steve sighed and looked at me like he was already tired. “This is probably something.”

I nodded and stepped back to give him some space. “Be safe. I’ll check out some places while you’re gone.”

“I can’t wait to try them out,” he said, saluted, and ran off.

Dork. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day, and eventually gave in and texted him.

Me: If you come back hurt I’m dragging you to that stupid doggy coffee shop. In a cowboy hat. Steve: Consider me bulletproof Steve: Going dark. See you soon

He had better, I thought, and went back to work with what little focus I could manage to scrounge up.

I tried a couple of places but neither of them were all that great and I had to admit to myself that my heart wasn’t in it. I checked the news but didn’t see anything Steve might have been involved with, and that just made me more anxious, so I did everything I could think of to distract myself. Steve was a loser but he had a good reputation for a reason, so I had to trust that Captain America would handle his shit so that my friend could come home.

About a week after he had run off, I was stretching at my desk in the mid-morning when I got a text.

Steve: Hi Steve: Back home

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Me: Good Me: Hale and hearty and healthy? Steve: Perfectly fine Steve: :) Steve: Find a new lunch place yet?

I sighed for an entirely different reason.

Me: Knocked some places out Me: There was a tea/coffee place that had promise Me: But I can never snag a fucking table Me: Also it’s so fluorescent it hurts my eyes. Steve: Okay Morticia

I smiled and sent him a line of thumbs up emojis. I looked nothing like, but as far as my overall personality and aesthetic, that felt like a nice compliment that required some thanks.

Steve: I have an idea

He then sent me an address, which I looked up, and…okay?

Me: A bookstore?

Not that I was complaining, but it looked like a small second-hand shop and showed no sign of having anything but books.

(I made a note to myself to check it out on the weekend, though.)

Steve: Trust me Me: Okay Me: Is 11 okay? Got meetings this afternoon Steve: Okay Steve: I’ll meet you there Me: :) Steve: ?! Steve: A smile?! Me: Shut up Me: B O O K S Steve: Okay Belle

I laughed. Jerk.

I got there about five minutes early and he still managed to be waiting. Despite being his usual self, he also managed to blend in well enough that when I first scanned the street I almost missed him. He was slouched against the wall, and when I did a double-take he pushed off the brick and walked towards me.

I couldn’t help but look him over. He looked good. Satisfied. “Do I pass inspection?” he asked jokingly.

“Meh,” I decided and looked around. The shop itself even blended into that same wall, a true hidden gem I couldn’t wait to get my sticky fingers all over.

“You still have to go back to work,” Steve reminded me as he opened the door.

“And I can’t buy books if I have no money,” I said and sighed. In the shop, though, small and crowded with books, inhaling brought in that familiar thick and slightly musty scent, but it wasn’t overwhelming, and was that a hint of new I smelled? Ah; there was a bargain bin of unsold Barnes and Noble refugees. Also…there was, in fact, coffee. Somewhere. I scanned what I could see but saw no sign of anything coffee-related, not even a cup at the cash register. I turned to Steve to ask, but he was covering the lower half of his face with both hands as his shoulders shook and his eyes gliste– was he crying?

Not quite, but close enough, and I put my hands on my hips while he calmed down, but even calmed down his smile was big and wide and made him look like a complete doofus. It was my new favorite expression. Not that I’d ever tell him. “What?”

“You, treating a bookstore like a sommelier treats wine,” he said, chuckling.

Oh. I had said that…out loud. I ducked my head, but it didn’t feel like he was making fun of me; he sounded fond, and that made it better when nudged me. “It was cute,” he said and started moving. “Come on.”

I followed behind, past piles of books and through shelves that almost reached the ceiling. We popped out of the aisle into a little corner pocket that hosted some arm chairs and side tables and the smallest coffee cart I had ever seen. It stuck out next to a wall and a curtain-covered opening, behind which there was a sound of clanking dishes. The people populating the seats were almost all elderly, aside from one balding businessman, and I smirked at Steve.

He rolled his eyes like I didn’t have to say it. Good, because it was quieter than a library and we piped down accordingly. He pointed to an empty set of cozy chairs and I followed the gesture to claim the seats while he went to the tiny counter. Nearby a couple of people argued in low voices. When I heard “writes like shit” I tried to eavesdrop, but Steve came back with two mismatched ceramic mugs filled with steaming hot coffee and sat down in the other chair, blocking them.

“Thanks.” The smell was great and I just sat with cup in hand, inhaling, for several seconds. Until I caught sight of Steve, staring at me and smiling like the Mona Lisa. I hid my mouth with the cup and took a sip. It was really good. I set it on the small table between us and said softly, “You look pretty pleased with yourself.”

“Do I?” he asked just as softly, his smile unwavering.

I looked around the room where all conversation had died in favor of reading. I held up my phone to Steve in warning and then started to text.

Me: Maybe not an everyday place Me: But a good option if we don’t feel chatty

He smiled wider at me. And stayed that way. I tilted my head in a silent ‘what?’ and he shook his head, but he texted back.

Steve: I like that it’s an option Steve: That we’re comfortable enough to sit quietly together Steve: It’s nice

It wasn’t like this was the first time we had ever sat in silence together, but he seemed to be having a good moment so I refrained from pointing that out.

Me: It is nice Me: But I think you just like getting me to shut up Steve: That’s just a bonus

And an angel emoji. The bastard.

Me: There has never been a more poorly matched emoji to person than that to you

He responded by sending three lines of them and I had to suffocate myself to keep from disturbing the peace.

Me: I hate you

He flashed me a brilliant smile. It had a dorky undertone though, so I knew it was genuine.

Steve: No you don’t

No, I didn’t. And shame on me for ever letting him know that. Still, he had done good with his find, and the coffee was excellent, so I let him be a self-satisfied little shit. For the moment.

I was running late.

Granted, it was my own lunch break and it wasn’t like I had to cut it short, but it was annoying. I was meeting Steve at the crummy Starbucks and he had mentioned having things to do that afternoon, and I hated being held up on my breaks. Especially by stupid people.

As soon as I stepped in I scanned the place for Steve. I didn’t see him at first but when I checked again I saw him in our usual corner. Talking to somebody else.

It didn’t look like when he was talking to a fan; it looked like he was having a meeting, with a woman in a nice suit, whose strawberry blonde hair was so perfectly brushed I ran my hand over my own head in reflex.

Steve lifted his head, saw me, smiled, and waved for me to come over. The woman turned her head to watch me approach, which I did. Slowly.

“Hi,” I said to him, trying not to glance at her and failing. “Should I…go somewhere else for now?”

“No, we’re just–” Steve stood up so fast he hit the table and made it jump. He caught it with both hands and set it down gently so his coffee didn’t spill. He smiled sheepishly at his tablemate. “Sorry Pepper.”

“It’s all right,” she replied with some amusement, travel container in hand. She set it back down and then extended her hand to me. “Pepper Potts.”

I introduced myself and shook her hand. Hopefully that was a good amount of pressure– I never knew if I was doing it right. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you too,” she said and let go. “Steve says good things.”

Steve talked about me? I shorted out for a second, wondering what he could possibly have to say, and he shifted. “We’re just finishing up,” he said. “I’ll tell you about it after.”

“Okay, I–” I stopped when I saw the raised eyebrow Pepper was aiming at Steve. “Not okay?”

“No, it’s okay.” Steve smiled reassuringly at Pepper. “She’s the one I told. First.”

“Oh.” Then Pepper aimed her look at me, both eyebrows raised.

I had no idea what to make of that. “I’ll just…go get something to drink?”

“Good luck,” Steve said and I rolled my eyes but I left them alone. I got a simple iced coffee, since the staff couldn’t be bothered to figure out how to properly use a fucking blender. At least this time my ice chunks would be expected.

When I got back, she was gone. I felt a little bad for how much that relaxed me. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said as I sat down.

“You weren't. Pepper and I were going to meet later but apparently something came up, so she tracked me down,” Steve said, fidgeting with his cup.

I looked around. No one. I turned back to Steve and scooted closer. “So you’re…gonna go for it?”

He bobbed his head. “We’re planning it now.” He sat back and tried to smile, but it was a nervous expression. “Whether I like it or not, it’s going to be a…thing. So we’re trying to make it less daunting.”

“That’s good. I’m glad you’ve got help,” I said.

“Yeah.” His smile grew more solid. “I’ve got good people around.”

“Good. That’s good,” I said. Steve kept staring at me though, with that smile. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're making fun of me, aren’t you?”

“No I’m not.” He took a swig of his plain hot coffee– about the only drink we were absolutely certain they could manage here– and nodded at my drink. “How was your roll of the dice today?”

I took a sip. It was actually perfect. That wasn’t too terribly surprising since I had added the cream myself, but pleasant all the same. “Nat 20.”

He frowned. I grinned. “Are you ready for the next reference you can drop to make your friend Tony’s head explode?”

Steve leaned in, eager and ready to learn.

The next time we got together, Steve proudly played me his new ringtone, which consisted of a man screeching “Where did you learn that?!” and a burst of laughter, loud but cut short by the end of the recording.

I held my face in my hands. I was still laughing. “You are such a jerk.”

“Thanks, your Highness.” I could hear the smile in his voice. I didn’t know whether to be proud of my creation, or terrified. Maybe both.

“…Play it again.”

He did so, happily.

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#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers & reader #captain america fanfic #avengers fanfic #reader insert #lunch buddy

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lostlonelylotus · 4 years

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Another Hiatus?

straight up thinking of taking another hiatus from Tumblr...I hate to, but I’m thinking maybe this place just isn’t good for me, even after such a long time away in the first place. More under the cut, if anyone wants to read it.

So, I struggle with a lot on a daily basis. Things that I don’t even tell what few people are around me in real life, because frankly, I don’t really have anyone to tell that I think would want to help. I’ve had to end a great deal of my friendships because they were unhealthy/toxic and others ended because I’m disabled and cannot keep up with more “social” or outgoing people (which unfortunately is usually interpreted as disinterest because of constant rescheduling or inability to go out).

No one even knows that I’ve started a particularly hard round of chemotherapy that involves painful injections, because I worry that people just get sick of hearing how I’m actually doing versus the image of me they think should be real. I lie and say that I’m fine, when I’m struggling mentally and physically. Very few people know that I’m in such severe constant pain that even with strong opiates, medical cannabis, benzodiazepines and constantly watching my diet, I’m spending 12+ hours a day in bed. I never get below a 6/10 anymore. I can’t remember what anything below that feels like. My body tortures me every waking minute.

I’m back to where I started when I began treatment in 2012 and my mental health has taken a nose dive because it all just feels so futile, you know? Treatment after treatment, surgery after surgery, fighting tooth and nail to have the bare bones of a life only to fail and wind up at square one is...Hell.

Add onto that, that I can’t get a FT job (so no PTO or good health insurance) despite having multiple degrees and that I had a position lined up before COVID that might now no longer even exist when this is all over + that the Part Time job I have that I love has completely changed now that I’m work from home and I HATE these new tasks and miss my coworkers + that I live with an actively abusive family member + that I have no friends beyond surface-level acquaintances despite so much effort to try and make and keep friends + that I’ve struggled my whole life with internalization of everything...and you’ve got a walking disaster of a human being who should probably nowhere near this site.

My therapist is through the school I graduated from, so I can’t even see them, and it wouldn’t matter because our relationship has progressed too far and they just treat my visits like a social hour and we never even talk about my real problems. It’s pretty damn pathetic when your needs don’t even matter to your therapist.

In real life, I’m a doormat to people’s needs. You need a house sitter? That’s me and they’ll pay me pennies to do it. You need someone to teach your children during COVID because we’re co-distancing? You need someone to drop everything and help you? That’s me. But when I need something, anything? A cup of tea or a genuinely asked “How are you?”? Forget it.

I miss fandom. I miss the escape. I miss the discourse. I miss the photosets and the freaking out over characters. I miss fandom buddies.

My experience of fandom since I last left Tumblr maybe 2-3 years ago has been very solitary. AO3 fics that I *do* comment on or discord servers where I’m one of dozens or more of people that no one can really remember because it’s hard to try to “compete” to be heard with 5 other people who are friends that are talking in depth about parts of fandom that you are new to...that and Google bloody Images have been my fandom for the past 2 years.

It’s fucking lonely out here. I feel like a fandom cowboy, alone on a prairie, occasionally passing by other cowboys and wrangling the livestock together for a moment before heading on with a half-hearted tip of our hats. It’s more than likely the reason why I haven’t published a fic in nearly 2 years, even though I’ve completed 1 or 2 little ones. I used to write all the time, all the time. Fics, ficlets, drabbles, headcanons. Screaming into the void is so much harder than just sitting there with your eyes closed and pretending there is no void.

I got into Classic Doctor Who and back into a few “older”/smaller fandoms, and when there’s no fic to be had...your only option really is Tumblr. I was writing again (am writing again?), and the photo/gif sets and the meta had me fucking inspired for the first time in...so long. I was addicted to writing again. Wrote more in the last two weeks than I have in years. Started writing a fic that’s already longer than any I’ve ever written before.

I thought I could handle it, Tumblr helped so much before in the Golden Days of Tumblr. I became part of a huge fandom friend group on Skype back then. I had friends. I had true fandom, not this bizarre one-person-imaginings experience of fandom.

I was able to see something triggering or an opinion I disagreed with or deal with bad anons or any of the bad parts of Tumblr. I was able to see just the good, overall.

But, now, I don’t know that I can? I’m too internalizing now? Someone replies to a post with a minor disagreement and it makes me hate myself. I get a slightly disgruntled anon and I cry. People don’t tag very triggering or super stressful political items anymore, so I can’t “unplug” when I need to avoid seeing things about riots and horrendous crimes against people and so I wind up with an additional panic attack because I can’t do anything about anything.

I don’t know if the vibe of this place has changed or if I’ve become one of the dreaded and dreadful “snowflakes” who just can’t handle shit. I think both, honestly.

And it fucking sucks, okay? Because I was starting to get back into the swing of liking this place. I was starting to branch out and reconnect with folks I knew from before that were/are wonderful or make new fandom acquaintances. I had the carrot of having a collection of true fandoms in front of me. Of feeling connected in this time of horrendous isolation (both for the world and me personally).

But the stick is so much bigger than I remember. So much larger and harder; a tree trunk log instead of a twig switch. I’m not taking little love taps or slightly stinging slaps, I’m being beaten with it. By it.

I don’t know what to do. I want to keep Tumbling. I want to keep building friendships and talking about dumb fandom things. I want to reblog old gifsets and have convos in the tags. I want to share fics/art back and forth. I live for the discussions that I’m starting to have again. I live for seeing 3 bloody notes on an original post I made. I live for knowing that someone, somewhere is seeing something I wrote or made or said and likes it.

I don’t want the internalization of disagreements, of a perceived inferiority to other users, of feeling bad about myself over things that aren’t even a big deal on Tumblr but are to me. I don’t want to feel even more ‘less than’ than I already do.

I don’t want to feel extreme anxiety over the insanity of the world that I can’t escape even on here because tagging is a thing of the past and it’s apparently a major faux pas to ask for tags on triggering content, even if I fully support the matters tagged. I live the insanity okay? I’m a queer, disabled, person of color, in the small-town Midwest living in poverty. I’m not some racist who just doesn’t want to see your protest content. I’m struggling to get by.

Maybe I’ll just stop producing content? Only reblog and like? Only comb through character tags or chat with some of the fantastic people that have offered? My inspiration is declining, along with my mood.

I’d honestly contemplate a permanent hiatus (just not a deletion) if all of the fandoms that I was in had discords, but they don’t. If they do, I don’t know about them. Though, honestly, discord is not the same, and I always feel even more insignificant there. Drowned out or unimportant.

Huh. Drowned out or unimportant, that could really be the title of this pity post. Possibly the title of an autobiography, if I was ever self-indulgent enough to write one.

If you’ve read this whole thing, then wow. Thank you, because you’ve just given more of a shit about me and my feelings than anyone in a long, long time.

This post probably won’t be up long, it was honestly meant to be a pity-party cathartic release of feelings and will, no doubt, make me feel more pathetic the longer I leave it up.

#fandom #personal #I'm contemplating leaving Tumblr again #I just don't know

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stylinbreeze60 · 5 years

Note

May I have a light hearted (aka no angst LOL) Drabble with Enno and Usuri?

Of course, I opened drabble requests right before the busiest week of the month sajsjajakaj. Sorry for the wait! I’m planning to do them in the order they were received. 4 more requests to go!

(This one also turned out too long to be considered a drabble. I hope you’re not “disappointed”) ;)

Word count: 938 words. Read below or follow the links: FFN AO3

Michiru Usuri lounged in a seat in the back row of chairs outside his flight’s gate at Sendai Airport, awaiting the return trip to Oita. Boarding would begin shortly. His new smartphone sat on the small table beside him, plugged into an outlet in a pillar abutting the table to charge.

He came to Miyagi that March to see relatives, but he couldn’t help feeling proud of his espionage mission yesterday. He dropped in to a local gymnasium where a practice game occurred between two strong local teams: Datekou and Karasuno. He used the scrimmage as a chance to observe them. The squads consisted only of second- and first-years, the third-years having retired. He paid attention to everyone on the team. Of note for not being of note, the mild-mannered future captain of Karasuno didn’t strike Michiru as anything special. Karasuno looked like they’d be a cake team next year if they made it to nationals.

“Mind if I plug my phone in here?” asked a stranger. Usuri looked up at the young man speaking and flinched.

Towering over him was Karasuno’s future captain, Chikara Ennoshita, a rolling suitcase beside him and a cell phone with charging cord in his hand.

“Oh, uh, yes,” Usuri said, trying to maintain his composure and hoping the Karasuno player didn’t recognize him.

Chikara plugged in his phone and took the unoccupied seat on the other side of the table. Usuri sat up tensely. Chikara fiddled with his smartphone for a couple of seconds and then placed the device facedown on the table. It looked almost identical to Usuri’s own phone.

“So, are you from Kyushu?” Chikara spontaneously asked.

“Oh, um, yeah,” Michiru hesitated, playing along for the sake of not seeming awkward. “I’ve got family in Miyagi.”

“I’m visiting family in Kyushu,” Ennoshita said. He then took a close look at Usuri. “Come to think of it, you seem familiar….”

Usuri noticeably jolted. “R-really?”

Ennoshita scanned the person, about his age, up and down. “You didn’t come to a volleyball game while you were here, did you?”

Usuri was stiff as a signpost. “Uh, yeah, I did actually. A…practice game.”

“We had a practice game!” Ennoshita exclaimed.

“With a team from Sendai, right?”

“Yeah!”

The relief washed through Usuri’s veins. It didn’t seem that Ennoshita was onto him. He was safe.

“Do you play volleyball?” Ennoshita asked.

As long as Chikara didn’t suspect anything, Michiru thought it was fine to talk.

“Yeah,” he declared. “I’m a setter!”

“Nice. How’s your team?”

“We’re pretty good,” he bragged, but he stifled the urge to boast of going to nationals. “We’re building up in prep for the new first-years. I’m gonna be captain next year.”

Unusually, Ennoshita didn’t take the chance to bond by affirming he would be captain next year too. “Did you lose a lot of third-years?”

“Some,” Usuri replied, reminded uncomfortably of the extinguished light that was Wakatsu Kiryuu. “But our libero’s got game, and our wing spiker Hondo has swell sense!”

“Nice, nice. That’s always good,” Ennoshita nodded genteelly. “What’s your team called?”

And at that, Usuri retreated into a shell.

If he said “Mujinazaka,” Ennoshita undoubtedly would recognize the name from Kiryuu’s legacy and realize that Usuri was scouting out Karasuno. He’d let his guard down and had to escape. He began pretending to feel his pockets as if looking for something.

“Oh! My bad! I left something at security. Gotta run!” He wrangled his suitcase and reached for his phone on the table; but in his haste, he grabbed Ennoshita’s phone instead. Chikara reached for the device urgently when Usuri flipped it over and saw the display.

To his surprise, the phone was in video mode.

And it was recording….

So that’s what Ennoshita was doing with his phone before they started talking: he started to record and then placed the device innocuously between them.

Why? To record the conversation?

…Which meant that Ennoshita knew who Usuri was all along….

He had figured out he was scouting the team at the gym, and asking to plug in the phone was a ruse to sit beside him and haplessly interrogate him for info on his own team. And Usuri had very much let his guard down.

For how benign he looked on the court, Chikara Ennoshita was actually a cunning nuisance.

“Do you actually have family in Kyushu?” Michiru questioned as he handed over the device.

Knowing he’d been caught, Ennoshita took it suspiciously and stopped recording. “Do you have family in Miyagi?” he replied.

“Yeah, I do,” retorted Usuri.

“And I have family in Kyushu,” said Ennoshita.

Their scouting attempts were purely opportunistic it seemed. Usuri plopped back in his seat.

“I had a free day, so I wanted to stop by and check out one of the teams that was at nationals,” Michiru confessed.

An announcement came over the loudspeaker at the gate, calling the first boarding group to line up.

“All right. That’s me,” Chikara said and stuffed his phone and cord into a pocket on the front of his carryon. “I look forward to seeing you at nationals,” he said with a smirk when he stood.

Usuri liked the kid’s spunk. “Deal,” he sneered.

Ennoshita shuffled away but paused again. “Oh, and by the way, when I drop in on one of Mujinazaka’s practice games”—he said to make it clear he knew which school Usuri belonged to all along—“I’ll do a better job disguising myself than you did.” He winked and continued on his way.

Usuri grinned impishly. He looked forward to leading his team to defeat someone as tricky as Chikara Ennoshita.

#haikyuu #haikyuufanfics #stylin' breeze fics #usuri drabbles #ennoshita chikara #usuri michiru

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notyourmotherscopingmechanisms · 5 years

Text

Water Bottles, Getting Rid of Stuff, and Social Media Goodbyes.

Hi, all.

This is it! Welcome to the first post on this experimental foray into talking about my brain, intentionally, and with a purpose in mind.

The post that led you here (from facebook, instagram, or twitter, if I got my shit together) mentioned that this post would be about the first few things I’ve done since the New Year to try and wrangle my life back into some sense of order, so I’m just gonna jump right into that.

1) I bought a planner.

A real, actual physical paper, honest-to-god planner.

This in and of itself is not much of a shock. I’ve bought a lot of planners in my lifetime, always excited to finally be one of those women—capable, powerful, every moment of their day accounted for in perfect handwriting—and reader, I am absolutely garbage at using them.

So I bought another one. Makes sense, right?

I’ll tell you why: I think I finally figured out why I’m bad at using them.

Every planner I’ve bought in the past has been one or both of these things: a month/week/day view, or an electronic planner (for my iPad.) These...did not work. The use cycle would usually go something like this: Overjoyed with my new beautiful book, I would spend an hour or two dutifully filling out the “month” views with absolutely everything I knew about at the time, and then I’d manage to use it for about a week before I realized I’d been forgetting to write in the “week” portion of the planner. This immediately triggers the guilt—I failed, I wasted part of such a nice book, what was the point, why did I even start....you get the idea. Of course, this is all ridiculous. The book never changed...but now it makes me sad to look at, and angry at myself every time I remember it. I can’t stand to use it anymore, because every time I pick it up, it’s a reminder that, according to me, I suck. So I put it away, and vow to never again buy a planner, or to do better next time. (I wouldn't.)

Then, I read a post a few months ago that my dad sent me (I’ll have to look up the link later and edit this post to add it) that boiled down to something along the lines of “stop trying to do your tasks the way “normal” people do their tasks.” If you have a hard time getting your laundry sorted out because the hamper’s hard to get to, take the lid off the hamper. If making a sandwich is too much work, just eat the parts, no sandwich required. Shit like that. I sat with myself for a few weeks and said to myself, brain, how can I remove obstacles that don’t even seem like obstacles in order to make things less hard?

And then I learned the secret.

Did you know they make planners that are ONLY a month view?

There’s another secret to this process, by the way—but it applies to a lot more than just planners. Through a bit of soul searching (and by a bit, I mean a lot of grumbling about what a materialistic, vain, optics-centered magpie I am at heart) I figured out that I’m at least 80% more likely to successfully use something if it’s pretty. If I love the way it looks, I am excited to be around it. I am delighted to use it. I am sad when it isn’t nearby. So, the month-view-only planner I bought is also covered in small flowers and made from beautiful low-tooth paper that feels good to write on. I also downloaded many, many, many beautiful habit trackers, goal planning pages, and other freebies from bloomplanners.com (they made my work calendar.) Highly recommend.

2) I bought a water bottle.

I am probably the most dehydrated person you know personally at basically all times. I’ve literally gone to the ER with medical issues that, while genuine, were all exacerbated by massive dehydration. It’s not just that I hate the taste of water (even though I do) but also that I just...straight up do not remember to drink. Ever. And when I do remember to drink, I never remember how much I’ve had, what’s left to go, any of that crap.

“But they make apps to remind you!”

“You can log every time you drink!”

YES, CORRECT, but also may I remind you of the above “remove obstacles from my brain” epiphany from three paragraphs ago: if there’s more than two steps (realistically, more than ONE step) to getting from “I drank water” to “I drank this much water, and now have this much left to go to not die”

I won’t do it.

So, I bought myself one of these bad boys. #notanad

The Hidrate Spark is a “smart” bottle that connects to my iPhone and my AppleWatch. Its connected app will remind me through the watch, as well as via pretty glowing lights on the bottle itself, numerous times a day that I need to drink. When I drink out of the bottle, a sensor will record how much I drank, and immediately log that info into my Health App on my phone. The app automatically uses the humidity and temperature at your location, your weight, your height, and real-time activity data from your watch or phone to update how much your water goal is in realtime.

Notice how nowhere in that description in there is there anything I have to do to track my intake and hit my goal besides fill out my info in the app once, fill up the bottle, and drink out of it? Yeah, me too.

I’ve avoided buying this bottle for over a year, because it’s a $60 water bottle, and I have twenty water bottles already, and it’s “techie” and “unnecessary” and “silly” and “excessive” and all those other things people say about smart tech, but goddamnit, and ER bill costs more than $60 and I’ve been there four fucking times for this problem. I talked to my fitness director (I work for a YMCA, so, health and fitness woo) a couple friends, and my doctor about it, and everyone agreed it was a good decision, so I did it. I can’t say if it’ll work or not yet because I don’t HAVE it yet, but I promise to keep everyone apprised.

Also, it’s pretty.

3) I deleted an ass ton of people off my social media.

I’ve never cared much about my numbers when it comes to social media, I’m not in it for those, but I have the same problem with my friends lists as I do with my real life: I add without thought and then people I never talk to, never see, never will see, and don’t have an effect on my life...take up space. I’m very happy for all of them, and I hope they have wonderful lives, but I don't need all of them front and center at all times. Plus, after the year I had last year, a lot of people needed to be let go from my life for my sanity and theirs.

So, on January 2nd, I deleted 160 people from my Facebook friends list, and blocked 7. I thought it would stress me out more—I’m not about the numbers, but I always worry someone will take offense, or be upset. But once I did it, I felt literally, physically, lighter. It hasn’t had any measurable impact yet besides that initial weight-is-lifted feeling, but I know it’s a step in the right direction for my eventual journey towards weaning off a lot of social media platforms. (Did you know facebook is the actual face of evil in the internet age, and we’re all trapped beyond belief?)

4) I cleaned, or cleaned out, everything (and I mean everything) in my house.

This is the biggie! This is it! The goodwill pile is literally taking up every inch of available space in my car!

(This is also one of those “Ooh, it’s embarrassing, I can’t talk about it” moments I mentioned in the original post. Whelp, here I am, talking about it! Cower in fear! Hide in your homes! Real Talk is coming!)

The Marie Kondo bug that bit all of us last year got me in tandem with a few months of violent living situation upheaval. As a result, I tried to go through my belongings with every moving day I went through, and use those hell experiences as motivation to just. Get. Rid. Of. My. Shit. I’d already started on this task a few years ago, but it’s difficult to describe how much....stuff I’d managed to collect in 18-19 years. It doesn’t take much past the first time you and one friend, or just you, have to move everything you own in a single day to go “oh my god I am never doing that again.” But, I know I’ll have to move again, and even if I didn’t...my stuff was stressing me out. The obvious solution was, and is, “have less stuff.”

I go through my wardrobe once a month now and try to get rid of at least three things. If you’ve known me since high school or just after, you might remember the absolutely astonishing size of my wardrobe. I mean, truly ridiculous. I achieved my goal early last summer of “all my clothing must fit inside a single closet” and began extending that to the rest of my life with a general rule of replacing the thought “I need more storage” with the thought “I need less stuff.” Obviously, there are some things that really do need better or different storage, and I’m recognizing that, but I can’t actually describe how much better I feel with...literally probably 70% less stuff than I used to own.

This is an ongoing process in every part of my life, and with the habits I’ve learned and the very particular anxieties that I have (I can’t get rid of this, I might need it one day/that person was so nice to give it to me/someone might get angry if I goodwill it) continuing towards a minimalist outlook will be a path I am on for literally the rest of my life. But it’s a good path—a worthy one—and I’m so absurdly relieved that I’m finally walking on it, regardless of how many stumbles, stops, and starts there might be.

The bonus part of having less stuff is that it’s suddenly way easier to clean your house; which is what I spent all of Saturday and part of Sunday (today) doing. My combined to-do lists* numbered around 72 items, all-told, and I accomplished almost all of them—everything from sweeping/mopping/vaccuming to moving all the appliances in my kitchen out of their spots and cleaning the sides of them. All the laundry got did. All the shelves got dusted. The tub got scrubbed. The fridge got cleared out. My closet got organized. Even my bed got a facelift in the form of a new duvet cover and some swanky king size pillows. We. Cleaned. Everything.

And damn does it feel good to have a clean space. It’s so. Much. Easier. To keep tidied up when I’m annoyed at myself for ruining the room with clutter, or setting something down and not putting it away.* When you have less stuff, everything suddenly has a place...and when it all starts out in that place, it’s way easier to put it back and keep that momentum going.

*/**There is a flip side of this feeling, which is my anxiety this summer beginning to express itself as certain tendencies towards OCD behaviors, but I won’t go into that here. It’ll come up soon enough, but it will need to be another post about that topic specifically and what I did/am doing to work through it. Another post will be about my “listing” and how it works/doesn’t work for me, because these are tandem issues.

I’m sure there’s more than these, but I’m going to stop here.

Mostly because one of my other goals for 2020 is to do better at setting, and sticking to, a routine. (Hey, another post!) That routine involves me being in bed by 11:30PM every day, and awake by 9:30...and it’s 10:44. So for now, goodnight, and I hope this didn’t bore anyone to absolute tears. Even if it did...that’s okay, because this is as much for me as it is for anyone else.

See ya!

#1/12/2020

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raybansandcoffee · 5 years

Text

Adventure of a Lifetime: Chapter Three

Find the Character Bios and first 2 chapters HERE.

*****

I woke up the next morning to sun coming in my bedroom window and the sound of the kids through the monitors I had in each of their rooms. Their sleep schedule versus mine had been one of the hardest adjustments of parenthood for me. I groaned before climbing out of bed, quickly using the bathroom and going into the nursery to grab Axel.

"Good morning, Axe Man. How's my favorite little guy?" He put his hands on my cheeks. He did this every morning. I was convinced it was his way of telling me he was fine and he loved me. I got his diaper changed before we headed into Ellie's room to get her. "Ellie Bellie, are you ready for breakfast?"

"Can we have waffles?" she asked.

"Of course we can have waffles." We got her into the bathroom before heading downstairs for breakfast. Once we were in the kitchen I got them in their seats at the island and started on the food. Luckily there were some frozen waffles in the house so I didn't have to make waffles from scratch but I did decide to make them some scrambled eggs.

"Where's Savy?" Ellie asked.

"She went to spend the day with some friends since we won't be home. What do you think if we skip your piano lesson today since she's gone?"

"OK! Can we play instead?"

"For a little while but remember we need to leave so we have time to get to Ava's house for our play date." By the end of breakfast, I had two tiny humans covered completely in syrup. I cleaned them both up and we went to the family room for some playtime. Seeing them interact, especially as Axel got older, warmed my heart. My sister was three years older than me and then my step-brother came during my Dad's second marriage. They were two people I couldn't do without and I loved that I got to watch these two build that with each other. Your siblings were the people who would be there to support you through anything and these two had been through more than most people could imagine. I snapped a quick photo of them as they laid on the floor laughing.

*****

To: Samantha Madigan-Fitzpatrick

From: Charlotte DeLuca

Subject: First Day of Summer!

Hey Samagator!

We miss you extra today. It's the first day of summer and the kids are so excited. We are having a playdate with Ellie's best friend from school, Ava, and going swimming at Ava's house. We are enjoying a little playtime at home before heading over there. Watching Axe and Ellie on the floor as they lay and have their conversations and giggles is one of the happiest feelings. I honestly can't describe it. I get it now. You always told me kids were different when they were yours. I fucking hate it when you're right.

I got through the first draft of the score I'm working on. I'm going to let it sit for a few days before I send it off to the powers at be to see what they think. It's my biggest project this year. You'd love it. The film is a small indie project, with an amazing cast and the perfect emotional storyline to put music too. Exactly the kind of project that is our sweet spot. I've spent so many hours at the piano this week that I honestly considered putting my hands into buckets of ice. A day away from work at the pool is going to be the perfect escape.

Alex would be pissed if I didn't mention Ava's Dad is ridiculously hot and I'm fairly certain is single. I'm trying to focus on the idea of maybe making an adult friend that isn't family, someone on the other end of a FaceTime, phone line or email, or well Savy since she's typically the only other "adult" I speak to on a regular basis. I tried, I really did, to make friends with the Mom's from Ellie's school but I just don't fit in there. I can't pinpoint exactly what it is but there's just a disconnect between me and the other women. I tried to find a local playgroup to take Axe to, I found one at the library and went and it was strange and mostly nannies. I did have lunch with your Mom this week, it was great to see her and nice to have an adult conversation where I didn't feel like I was parenting Savy or waiting for my WiFi connection in the basement to die.

Well, I better go. I've gotta get the kids bathing suits rounded up, pack a bag of crap for Axel and find a swimsuit that I don't look hideous in. We all miss you like crazy.

Love you forever and for always,

Charlie

*****

"Alright tiny humans. Let's go upstairs and get ourselves ready for a day of fun. If we are on our best behavior tonight we can have pizza for dinner."

"Peessa!!" Axel shouted back. He was really great at repeating words though most of the time it still sounded nothing like what he was trying to say. I picked him up off the floor before blowing raspberries on his tummy making him let out the perfect giggle. His giggle was my favorite sound in the entire world. It had gotten me through the worst year of my life. It was the best medicine ever created. I grabbed everything each child could possibly need for swimming, what felt like a million extra diapers, snacks, things that kept them from having complete and utter meltdowns, and finally got Ellie into a bathing suit with a cover-up dress over it. I drug them into my room and put them on my bed to watch cartoons as I tried to figure out what to wear.

"Why do I do this? Ugh. I hate trying to figure out if I look terrible with no one around," I was talking to myself while putting makeup on. I'd found a bathing suit that I didn't feel completely hideous in after spending far too much time standing in my closet trying on every bathing suit I owned. When I lived in LA I spent my summers living at the pool. Alex's house had the most amazing pool so most of our summers were spent enjoying the gorgeous weather, the company, and food. Sam also had a pretty great pool though significantly smaller and less of a kid's dream than Alex's. I had a pool at my condo and honestly spent time most days there when I needed a break from working. My phone vibrated on the granite counter. I glanced down to see Jeremy's name pop up.

Are we still on for today?

Yup! I have Ellie in a bathing suit (which was quite a task), grabbed one for Axel and have finally gotten the few minutes I needed to get myself out of my pajamas covered in the syrup from their breakfast. We should be leaving here in like 15ish minutes. I just need to grab Axel's little travel playpen, he will definitely need to nap while the girls hang out.

Don't worry about packing anything. I've still got some of Ava's stuff around that you can use. I'm the oldest of 7 and have a lot of nieces and nephews so every kid thing you could imagine needing is here. Just bring yourselves.

Are you sure? It's no big deal. My best friend got the coolest shit for this kid when he was born.

I've got you covered.

Okay then. We will be there in a little bit. I just have to get them wrangled into a car.

"You're gonna do great, Charlie. You are not a lunatic. You're a completely normal person. Today is going to be a good day."

"Today is going to be a great day!" Ellie replied. "It's going to be a great day because we are going to have a lot of fun and pizza for dinner because I promise I'm going to be on my best behavior."

"Ellie Bellie, have I told you yet this morning that I love you?" I asked as I picked her up and hugged her tightly. She had started to give me positive thoughts in the morning when we'd sit and get her ready for school. She heard me one day embracing my inner theater nerd. I'd been listening to the Dear Evan Hansen Original Broadway recording and had even gone so far as to say 'Dear Charlie De Luca, Today is going to be a good day and here's why...you have two wonderful kids who you love and who love you who are experts at putting a smile on your face. You're alive, you're breathing, and you're going to be okay.' Ever since then she'd tell me good things in the morning. She'd also started to dance with me to musicals in the mornings, it was some special girl time we had each day.

"I love you too." She buried her head in my neck hugging me. "You look really pretty in the swimsuit you picked." I'd ended up with a two-piece that had a black and white striped high waisted bottom and ruffled black top.

"Thank you, munchkin. Let's get me in a dress to cover this up and get in the car to go to Ava's." I threw a dress on over my bathing suit while also throwing clothes I could wear after time in the pool to at least drive home in. We got everything in the car, Ellie into her car seat, Axel into his and were on the road headed to Jeremy and Ava's house. My phone started to ring and the screen on the dash showed it was Alex calling. "Everyone say hi to Auntie Alex."

"Hi!" Ellie screamed from the backseat really excitedly. Her little brother let out his signature giggle instead of saying hi.

"Hey, kids. Are we all on our way to our playdate?" she asked.

"We are. We are pulling out of the driveway right now."

"And you managed to find a bathing suit without having a complete meltdown and calling me this morning panicking in your closet? I'm proud."

"I did. I went with the ruffly high waisted two pieces one from last summer."

"Oh, that one is cute and much more appropriate for a playdate with kids than the one I was going to suggest."

"Yeah, the super revealing bikini is not playdate appropriate. It was barely all-inclusive Mexican vacation appropriate."

"You looked hot in it."

"I definitely wouldn't now. A year of essentially eating like a child because of children has me not looking my best. I need to set up a gym in the house or start running through the mountains like a weirdo or something now that it's warm."

"Put a pool in. You used to swim laps in my pool every morning before anyone in the house was even awake to realize you'd snuck in." It was true. I didn't live far and often times my condo pool was filled with people early who were using it for a workout so I'd sneak over to Alex's house and do laps in her pool when we had decent weather instead of going to the gym.

"Yeah, because that is affordable and totally makes sense when I live in the mountains and had a period of time this winter where the snow was taller than I am."

"My 10-year-olds are taller than you. It's not hard to accomplish. You can afford to add a pool. Maybe put it on a wishlist for next summer. You know it will be nice for you and the kids."

"It would be but it's not a priority right now. My top priority is having my house ready for your entire family and my family to be out here soon."

"Did you finally hear from Frankie and Tony?" Alex asked.

"Yup. Tony called me yesterday morning. He's coming out to stay for a while though he won't give me any firm dates on anything. I'm sure Mandi is driving him crazy and he's not even been home a month yet."

"Oh, guaranteed." I loved my step-mom but she could be a bit much and my poor little brother was probably going insane living at home. He had just graduated from college and wasn't used to being home with the parents. He hadn't completely decided what was next though Dad was hoping law school and eventually becoming a partner at his firm. Tony's maternal grandparents were loaded and honestly, the kid would never need to work a day in his life because of his trust fund. He was brilliant and graduated with honors in both of his majors but he had spent his entire childhood focused on school and wasn't sure what he wanted to do next. He told my Dad he was going to take a year before deciding on if he wanted to go to law school, grad school for something none of us would be able to predict, or get his MBA and in the interim he was going to move out with me and help with some of the business aspects of my job that I hated most. I hadn't offered him a job but my brother knew he could convince me of anything because I loved him more than I loved most people because he knew when he shouldn't be providing commentary on my life. Our sister, Dad, his Mom and my Mom definitely did not.

"Frankie also called me yesterday after Dad told her that Tony was moving to Tahoe with me. Her whole clan is coming out. It will be good. One big celebration."

"Any of your parents coming?"

"No, Dad has a big trial coming up that he's working all hours of the day on, most of the time he calls me it's when he knows I'm not sleeping and he's on his way home from the office. Mandi, of course, wouldn't come without him. I truly don't understand her, she's been married to him for most of my life yet lately she will rarely do anything with me or Frankie without Tony or Dad and very rarely if it's just Tony. Mom is of course off on some lavish vacation with her current love interest. I think she called me from Amsterdam last weekend."

"Well, your brother and sister being there will be good. Plus the kids will all be together and you'll get to have some comic relief from Ryan and Tony."

"So true. They are the best at making me laugh." My brother-in-law was the perfect addition to our family. He took such great care of my sister and their kids while also being a decent role model for my brother. "It will also mean that Ryan will do his best to stop Frankie from grilling Tony and me about him moving here. Tony needs a break. All he's done his entire life is school. He needs to be an f-ing kid for a while."

"Just don't let him hit on my daughter."

"I'll do my best but she could do worse than T."

"I know she could but I need her to focus on school not the cute boy above the garage." My watch buzzed on my wrist signaling I needed to make my final turn into a driveway that was long enough I couldn't see the house from the road. I buzzed at the gate and the gate unlocked. Even though our gate had a camera I usually harassed anyone who buzzed it to goof off instead of just letting them in. "Okay. My dear friend Siri has informed me we've reached our final destination." The house came into view. "Holy shit."

"You said a swear word," Ellie said from the back.

"What is it?" Alex asked.

"His house is huge and gorgeous."

"Well have fun and report back later."

"I will. Talk to you tonight." I stopped the car as I saw the front door open. Jeremy came walking out as Ava ran in front of him towards the car. Ellie knew how to get herself out of the car so before I knew it she was running past Jeremy into the house with Ava.

"Hey slow down you two," he called. "Do you need help with anything?" He had walked over to me.

"I think I can get it all," I replied as I grabbed Axel from the backseat.

"Hey there, buddy." Jeremy's demeanor changed from being polite as he greeted us to the complete mush everyone turned into when they saw Axel.

"This is Axel."

"Hi, Axel." I watched as the little guy reached towards Jeremy. He rarely reached towards strangers like he wanted to be held but he didn't even remotely hesitate. Jeremy took him from my arms so I could close the door and grab the bag I had for me and the kids from the back. "He is so cute."

"Thanks. I think he's pretty great." I followed Jeremy into the house where we found the girls playing together. We went towards the kitchen where there was lunch set up for the kids.

"I didn't figure you'd want macaroni and cheese but it was Ava's request today."

"That's a good choice, Ava. I love macaroni and cheese." Jeremy must not have been kidding about having stuff for kids around because there was a high chair waiting for us so that I could help Axel eat. The girls happily chatted away as they ate quickly so they could start swimming. "Thank you for having us and letting me bring Axel with. Savannah was super excited about having a day off."

"No problem, he's a pretty cool kid." We were sitting by the pool watching the girls jump into the pool over and over again. "Ellie is a really great swimmer."

"So is Ava. I guess it pays to grow up in houses with pools."

"True. Do you also have one?" he asked.

"We don't but LA had a pool."

"Aha. Yeah, my house there has one too. I feel like not having a pool in LA is against some sort of city ordinance."

"So true. My condo in LA has one. I usually opted to use my friends' pools though. I mean I was at mine a lot but any chance to get out of my tiny condo was great. One bedroom seems so cramped when your friends all live in giant houses in the hills."

"You were in a one-bedroom with both of them?" He asked.

"Oh no, that would not have worked. I'd have lost my mind. I still have the condo for when I need to go back for work because it means I don't have to stay at my Dad's. Though at this point I'm fairly certain my younger brother has probably located the spare key and used it to escape his Mom." Jeremy laughed which made Axel laugh. "That's right Axe Man. Uncle Tony is silly and Nana Mandi makes all of us a little bonkers."

"Half brother?" He caught onto me saying 'his Mom' which meant he was observant.

"Yeah, Tony just graduated from college. He's the youngest of us. My sister Frankie is three years older than I am. Our Mom and Dad split when I was probably 8, Dad met Mandi, they got married and added Tony to the mix."

"I get that. My youngest sibling is the same age as the girls. He was born the same week as Ava."

"That has to be weird, right?"

"A little weird. But I get it. My Dad wanted more kids. I'd love more but I don't know if it's in my cards. What about you?"

"I never pictured myself having any kids. I was going to be the fun aunt that corrupted the children. Kids hadn't been in my cards at all. My best friend always told me they were different when they were yours which is a BS thing that everyone tells a woman who doesn't want to have kids. Turns out she was right. I hate it when she's right. So I guess someday maybe but for now, these two are all I can handle alone. Right Axe? You're just too much for just me to handle so we can't add another one." He giggled at me and I smiled.

"Is their Dad not in the picture?"

**********

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I love a good cliffhanger! Which I know makes me SUUUUUPER evil.

Diving more into Charlie and the kids has been fun. The way conversation flows between she and Jeremy easily. The fact that Axel IMMEDIATELY thought Jeremy was cool is also pretty telling. Kids and dogs smell fear, it's something I've learned over the years. I'm childless by choice and intend on remaining that way. Outside of my niece and nephew kids are a little intimidating for me during periods of their lives. And usually they either want to be around me to make me anxious or they start screaming at the top of their lungs when there's even a thought of me holding them.

I must admit "Dear Evan Hansen" is one of my absolute favorite musicals so for Charlie to use it as a motivator for her mornings is something I also try to do. "Dear Charlie DeLuca, today is going to be a good day and here's why ___" I can picture her saying that in the mirror every morning and filling in the blank with what she's going to focus on.

Jeremy is an interesting character for me to develop as well. Admittedly, I LOVE Jeremy Renner. He's an incredible actor, musician, and those eyes are too beautiful for words. While I am using Jeremy as the inspiration of the character I can't really say that I believe the way I write the character to be anything like Jeremy in real life as I do not know him personally and I respect that he does the best he can to keep his private life private. So this may or may not be a version of him that reflects reality or that suits everyone, though I hope people enjoy reading it.

xx. AM

@baker151910 @alicenwrites

#jeremy renner #jeremy renner fanfic #jeremy renner fan fic #jeremy renner fanfiction #jeremy renner fan fiction #fanfic #fanfiction #fan fic #fan fiction #lizzie olsen #elizabeth olsen

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sigritandtheelves · 6 years

Text

The I in Team

Part 5: Trust

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Rating: Mature Timeline: season 6 Tags: Angst-ish, but veering toward legit MSR Words: 2.2k (pt. 5)

A/N: Sorry it’s been a while! It was a tough week, and I got kinda sick on top of it. :( The format here is a little bit different than the other parts, but that’s because we’re rounding toward the end. I think maybe just one more part!?

_+_

A little after eight in the morning, he stood in front of her motel door, holding coffee and a bagged-breakfast, knocking gently with his boot. It took her a minute, but she appeared, wet-haired, in jeans and a black v-neck.

“Mulder,” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

He held up the coffee and brown paper bag in explanation, little smirk on his face, nervous. “The motel breakfast is pretty bad, so…” He scraped his boot on the concrete. “Can I come in?”

She gave him a look, squint-eyed, like what are you up to. She blinked, then stepped back. “Okay.”

In her room he set their breakfast on the table—her coffee done right, a strawberry croissant, her favorite. “This one’s yours,” he said.

The Florida sun was just warming the early day, grazing the window blinds to stripe the table where they sat. She sipped her coffee and it was good: two creams, no sugar.

“We’re gonna go to the thing today, okay? We’re gonna do it right.”

“We are?”

“Yeah.” He said, looking at her with all seriousness.

She eyed him, unsure. He was chewing his own croissant. “Why?” she asked. “You don’t really want to.”

He shrugged. “I don’t want to listen to some corporate smile-guy telling me to assess my strengths and weaknesses, telling us to align our synergy, or to learn how to build consensus, or any of that bullshit. But we’re off the clock here, pretty much. The world isn’t ending. We’re here together, the sky is blue, there are no monsters in sight, and there’s a nature hike later today. Let’s just… be people. Okay? See if we can?”

She pursed her lips, watched him try to wrangle that obsessive energy and turn it toward whatever this was, hovering between them. He was twitchy. Anxious, she saw, like he’d spent all night working up the courage for this.

“Okay,” she said after pause. But she kept wariness and suspicion in her back pocket. Like a child who’d been bitten by a dog, she was reluctant to stretch her fingers out toward it again.

He surprised her, then, by touching her hair, her cheek, by leaning forward. “I won’t lose you,” he said. “I won’t.”

She just nodded and kept her eyes on the table.

---

At some point, Mulder realized, his self-indulgent pity had become his last refuge and comfort. In his room he’d sat with the taste of her still on his lips, half-hard from the remembered feel of her pressed to him, and thought how he’d do just about anything to have a chance with her again. To have her trust him again. He’d hurt her, though he’d not known how much until tonight. Self-flagellation had felt good: fucking Diana out of anger and the narcissistic desire to hear someone, anyone, say I believe you in that way, holding Scully away from him in self-denial. Except that it wasn’t himself he was hurting anymore. Hadn’t ever been, really. He’d thought he was punishing himself for failing, for losing the X-Files again, for never ever having the right kind of proof... But the whole time, every minute of his selfish, senseless behavior, he’d really been hurting her. And for that… Christ, what a fucking piece of work he was.

The way he saw it, there were two ways forward. He could continue his unsuccessful campaign of denying, hating, and torturing himself over what an asshole he’d been… or he could do something about it and try loving someone for once in his miserable life, no matter how vulnerable it made him feel.

He’d looked at himself in the mirror. He’d actually stood in the motel bathroom and stared at his own pathetic mug and told himself to grow the fuck up right here and now because she wasn’t going to put up with any more of his bullshit. That stupid thing he’d written down this morning when he was being flip? That thoughtless answer he’d given to what he appreciated about her? Wrong. She doesn’t put up with it, and she won’t, and she shouldn’t have to. He looked himself in the eyes and thought, for whatever reason, she actually cares about you, and this is your last godforsaken chance at something good in this life and you are NOT going to fuck it up.

Then he forced himself to get six full hours of sleep, took a shower, and went to buy her breakfast.

---

When she’d finished her coffee, after sitting there without words, listening to her own breathing, she’d looked up at him and said “Okay,” a second time, and then, “Thank you for breakfast.” And there, on her scrubbed and freckled face, he saw the smallest trace of something that gave him hope.

Now they sat back-to-back on an ugly carpet with a bunch of other saps, doing something called a “blind-drawing exercise.” She was saying words that made little sense—directing him to draw shapes on a page that would add up to a picture, and he was fumbling to comply.

“Okay, now draw a triangle coming out from the midpoint of the long arc.”

“Like touching it?”

“Yeah, so the arc forms the shortest side and the farthest angle is acute.”

He bit his lip, concentrating. “Um, okay. I think I’ve got it.”

“Now a smaller arc that’s more of a circle, coming off the longer one at the left end, but make it kind of bulbus.”

“Scully, what the hell are you having me draw?”

She laughed, and her head fell back to touch his shoulder.

“No peeking,” he said.

“You either.”

And for the first time in what felt like months, they were both laughing, and yes, yes, she left her head there on his shoulder, and it made his heart pound and his hand shake. He could hear the smile in her voice as she told him things like “now a small black circle” or “another very small triangle, about a third the size of the bulb shape” and eventually, he had drawn something that almost made sense.

“Hey, is it a bird?”

“Mulder! Did you cheat?”

“No! Look!” and he turned around and showed her and she was laughing at his terrible bird, but he was right, he’d done it right, and it was a small but beautiful triumph.

“Now it’s my turn,” she said, still smiling. “Can I borrow your pencil?”

When she turned around again to draw, balancing her booklet on her knees, she let her back fall against his and kept it there, the heat of their bodies meeting at a single point. He tried to concentrate and describe the basic shape of a tractor (“A big circle and a little circle… some rectangles”), but couldn’t stop thinking that he was, maybe, for once, getting something kind of right.

There was a peace settling between them, a quiet presence like a low hum. Familiar. He recognized its gentle whir, remembered hearing it first rising in a damp motel room in Oregon, thought of its electric buzz at dozens of hospital bedsides, or its low-cycling resonance on late-night couches where they sat shoulder-to-shoulder. It was the sound of them, he thought. It was the sound of whatever this was that they’d forged together and almost lost. It was their trust, most of all.

---

In the woods again, no mothmen. No life-draining bugs. Just a compass for one and a map for the other.

“Hey, Indian Guide, which way is west?”

He held the compass flat: studied, turned, and pointed. They hiked.

A blue bandana held her hair back and dirt smudged her nose. He wanted to wipe it, kiss it off. Wanted to back her up against a tree and show her just how grateful he was for this second chance. He settled for supporting her arm as she scaled a tricky pass, for brushing his hand against her back while he held up a thin branch of prickles for her to pass under. She didn’t tell him no, didn’t glare. He tucked these moments away in his mind as small victories.

Then, on a steep slope, his foot slipped and he fell back against her, almost knocked her down, but she held him, held steady. “Whoa,” she said. “You okay?”

“I got it,” he said, grabbing a nearby branch for balance. He stilled—they both did, and her hand remained longer than it needed to, pressed warm to his chest. Her face was almost level with his on the incline, and they were suddenly just… looking. Lost in each other’s curious gaze, two people suddenly face-to-face with each other. His own hand, he realized, was on her hip, fingers curling at the waistband of her jeans. The air grew thick around and between them, but Florida humidity it was not. “Okay?” he asked, voiced pitched low, almost raspy, and she nodded, just a tiny dip of the head. His fingers tightened on her hip.

“Mulder,” she said.

His eyes fell closed and he clenched his jaw. “I know.”

“You trust me,” she said, a question in the form of a statement.

“You know I do.” Her fingers hadn’t moved, and his heart beat hard against her palm.

“I trust you with my life, Mulder. But not…” with my heart, she thought. Not yet. She watched his eyes and saw him understand.

“I can’t forgive myself, Scully. I won’t. And it’s so unfair for me to ask you to try.” His fingers again, their slightest movement at her waist—a thumb, just at the edge of her skin, like a match-head igniting her. “But I’m going to ask you to try. Let me show you that you can trust me.”

Emboldened with his words, two fingers joined his thumb at her hip. She let her palm slip in an almost-caress to wander past his collarbone, around the back of his neck. He was sweaty there, from the hike and the Florida warmth, and she was similarly damp, the weight of her pack pressing a line of sweat heavy to her shoulder. They were warmer here, of course, than they’d been in Antarctica, but no less alone in these woods, where the deep thrum of primal want began beating between them again. She yearned, suddenly, to lick the sweat clean from his jaw, to push him behind the thicket, into the rocks and dirt, and swallow him whole. She wanted to stamp him as hers and make him prove that he loved her. It was crazy. It was possessive madness, but she could tamp it down no less than she could her own blood beating.

“Scully.”

“Yeah,” she said, wondering how her voice got that way, so low, so heavy.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he said, and she couldn’t have stopped him if she’d wanted to because her body moved on its own, her traitorous hips driving toward his in the green green of that forest. His mouth came down on hers like a hot iron and she was already pulling it closer, opening her lips and begging him with her tongue. She couldn’t help it. God, she couldn’t help it. She wanted him so much.

His left hand let go of the branch to hold her face, to massage his love into her cheek. Believe me, it said. Believe me, I love you, while the other hand had abandoned the world of fabric for more patches of soft skin. They shifted to angle their bodies closer until they were falling into each other, into the needy press of this elemental substance that drummed up from the earth and into their veins, their hearts, their skins.

And then they were really falling. A rock unmoored from its earthy clutch, and their feet went out from under them, slipping, crashing through the underbrush and thicket, sliding down the hill and tumbling into the leaves and dirt. Mulder grasped her to him, sheltering her from prickles and thorns until they came to a stop, filthy and laughing, gasping on the woodland floor.

“Oh, Mulder,” she said. “Are you okay?” She touched his head first, his face, his neck, from her position splayed across his torso. She pulled a leaf from his hair, but it was his arms that were scraped, three lines of deep red along his forearms, where the sticker bush had nabbed him.

“I’m fine,” he said, still smiling. He cupped her face. “You?”

She nodded. “Fine,” and seemed to realize how they were positioned. She looked down at their bodies, at their rumpled clothes, at their legs entangled, and blushed. Before she could comment, could gather her composure and set them rational and right again, a voice called out from several yards away.

“You guys okay?” it asked. “Jeez, we saw that fall! Do you need first aid?”

Not so alone as they’d thought, it turned out. “We’re okay!” Mulder called, then quieter, to her, “Time to get up.” But before Scully could climb off him, he tugged her down, quick, for a kiss. It was no chaste thing, but wet and hot with relief and the adrenaline-thrill of their brief misadventure. “I’ll show you,” he whispered at her ear when he’d let her lips go. “I’ll show you how much I love you.”

And then he was helping her up, brushing off, reaching for the compass in his back pocket, hoping it hadn’t been cracked. “This way.” He nodded back toward the path.

Dumbstruck, a little wobbly, she followed.

(end part 5)

Go to Part 6: Reciprocation

#a thing i wrote #part 5 #msr #xf fanfic #season 6

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cr00kedt33th · 6 years

Text

"No" Helga said coldly.

The ice in her words chilled the air. All Arnold could muster was a weak and stumbling "W-What?"

Helga stepped forward, pushing aside Phoebe and Gerald, glaring daggers at him. He instinctively took a step back from her. Gulping nervously as he noticed her hands trembling in clenched fists. Her whole body shook with rage as it racked through her chest and rattled her lungs.

But the worst were the tears brimming in her eyes.

"I said no" It sounded more like a growl than a reply. Phoebe and her husband looked cautiously at each other. It had been a very long time since Helga got this angry...in fact...the last time she was this angry was about the same subject.

"I'm his dad! Don't you think I deserve to-"

"No you are not his dad, you are the sperm donner. And you definitely, absolutely, do not deserve anything remotely related to me or my sons time. The son I raised, by myself, without you ever in the picture. Because you wanted it that way!" She seethed. "I was the one who sacrificed everything for this kid. He is my son, not yours!" Tears slipped down her cheeks as her shoulders shook and it took everything in herself to not to deck him.

"But you didn't even tell him! You can't blame him for-" Gerald was cut off.

"She did" Arnold confessed. The room was met with silence that seemed like to last for hours when only was a few seconds "But I didn't believe her" It was barely louder than a whisper. But it was enough to drain the colour from Geralds face as he looked at his best friend in horror.

"You didn't believe her when she brought a football headed kid to your door?" Gerald folded his arms with a glare.

"She never came with the kid...She came and told me she was pregnant by a few weeks. I thought it was impossible and it was back in high school when-"

"When what?" Helga glared at him, she was holding herself now.

It was Arnolds turn to get angry. He was under attack from all sides, and he did deserve it, but he still couldn't keep in under control.

He straightened his back and narrowed his eyes at her "Back when you were obsessed with me" Venom dripped from his words.

Phoebe gasped quietly and covered her mouth. Geralds brows shot straight to his hair line as Helga's eyes widened and her fists tightened. "How dare-"

"Oh you are gonna deny it now? How about the poetry you scribbled in the back of your notebooks about me? Rich finding that when you lend me your notes then act like bitch when I gave it back. The way you stared at me all the time. The schemes to be my lab partner that never worked? The dates I had that you went to great lengths to ruin? The pictures you took when you thought I didn't notice. The locker shrine?" Arnold crossed his arms "And let's not forget what started this whole mess, waiting until I was wasted at Rhondas party and then I remember nothing! You probably convinced me to have sex with you and that started this mess. You could never wait to jump on me"

Helga fell silent as she stared at him incrediously. Blinking once, then blinking twice as her mouth was wide open. Arnold took it as a cue to continue.

"So imagine when my drunk mistake of a stalker comes knocking on door telling me she is pregnant, with no proof in hand at all. I think if you were in my shoes you would have a hard time believing it to. I almost did when you screamed at me so hard you were crying at my doorstep. But what made me steered me the wrong way you might ask?" He took a dangerous step close to Helga "When you never came back, you never tried to prove it again. You argued with me for 20 minutes on that stoop and didn't show me anything or tell me about this kid. I don't even know his birthday is Helga, I don't know my own son's birthday and thats because of you"

"It's March 24th" Phoebe elbowed Gerald hard for piping up.

"Thank you Gerald I-" Before he could finish Helga punched him in the jaw. Arnold fell backwards as Gerald grabbed Helga from underneath her arms. Holding her back as she screamed and kicked wildly. Thrashing around in his arms like a wild animal. Spewing profanity in every which way.

"You mother fucker. You shitty mother fucking asshole. How fucking dare you fucking bring up that shit ass argument and forget what you fucking said during that argument" Helga screamed out in rage. Gerald was having difficulty containing her.

"Phoebe grab her legs please" Gerald pleaded

"Grabbing" The petite woman tried her best to wrangle Helga vicious legs. Arnold sat up rubbing his jaw as he watched the two wrestle with the blonde woman. If Helga could spit fire, she would.

"Oh, Oh and fucking 'Convincing' your bitch ass that a load of fucking shit too-Gerald let me go!" She struggled harder ut with her legs captured by Phoebe it was becoming harder to resist their restraints. "You fucking dirtbag. You came to me at that stupid party. You and your stupid fucking face and stupid jokes and stupid flirting" Phoebe watched as her best friend weakly struggled as tears poured down her face as she sobbed. "I actually thought you liked me back at that stupid fucking shitty party" "Language" Phoebe chided softly.

"Shut up! You were the one who convinced me, telling me that I liked pretty and that you wanted to dance with me and you spent time with me. You were drunk and I was drunk and..." Helga tried to squirm again but couldn't "And you told me things that made my heart race...get your facts fucking straight. You convinced me"

Arnold could only stare at her with wide eyes as Phoebe slowly lowered her legs down tot he ground. Gerald released her slowly but eyed her in case she got violent again.

"Then, when I go and tell you about it. I get something along the lines of 'Even if you were pregnant I wouldn't raise a kid with you' Fucking jack ass. YOu were clear with how you felt about it" Helga wiped the running massacre off her cheeks as she controlled her sobs in shaky breathing. Guilt ran through his veins again and he felt he might as well drown in it. He would be better off that way right now.

"I didn't...I didn't mean it," Arnold said softly

"Mean what? The sweet things you said or for this whole thing to happen?" Helga stared him down. He felt small in her gaze.

"I didn't mean what I said on the stoop that night" Arnolds slowly up at her "I would've wanted to-"

"To what? Drop out of college, get a part time job and move in with your older sister for 3 years until you saved up enough money for a one bedroom apartment. Take online business courses while having two jobs and juggle babysitters and pay with with e-transfers? Spend one whole check on child care and the other on rent and bills while praying to non existing god that you will have enough tips to feed yourself. To give up on certain dreams because you had to be the responsible one? You were the one who wanted to go off on adventures with your parents. You had big dreams you would never-"

"I would've dropped absolutely anything for you and that baby" Arnold blurted out. He was almost afraid that Helga would hit him again but her stunned silence made him look up and swallow thickly "I don't remember anything from that party except that you said something that I wanted to hear when the time was right and it was too soon. I...I didn't-"

"Didn't what?"

"I didn't think you would just drop me out of your life like that. You said that...told me your pregnant and then never talked to me again" He couldn't keep the hurt from his expression now "You told me you loved me and just disappeared afterward"

#shhh dont tell

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zydrateacademy · 6 years

Text

Current Activities - Conan Exiles #4

So I just posted my latest story “Assassination at the Summit”, and while I am proud of its contents, it has some background information. Basically starting at "Her outside clanmates had been navigating..." was practically written in a blind fury. I’ve calmed down now but this is my blog and I feel like ranting. First off, the character depicted in that story, Dey Yin, is an actual player. She’s an excellent writer and I strive to reach to her level of para-posting, as they give excellent opportunities to reply and react and I want to offer the same to other players when they interact with me. Also, she loves the story.

I am happy with the results as there was some effort put into it. Even in my blind fury, the last few parts turned out well. I’ve also been trying to work on my verb tense. Either I missed that class in school or over a decade of roleplaying has completely rewritten how my brain perceives verb tense. You might notice that my tenses swap between past and present, sometimes within the same line. This is why writers have editors, people. Anyway it was mostly a background plot, like many of my stories are. Basically I like to lay some groundwork before I claim things. I do not simply want to claim to be a whiskey baroness, I want to actually show it. I want people to see, through a narrative, the effort put in importing a whiskey from the outside world. The server is too small for specific events to surround these kinds of things, so I compensate by writing short stories instead. Quick aside; I actually did host an RP event with my character announcing the existence of her clan. It went very well with around ~9 attendees.

Whiskey and fun were had by all. Anyway. I spoke of this plot in-character with others and another player on the server, someone I’ve been trying to arrange RP with for... years, I think, across a few MMO’s. We’ve met on an ERP gathering website (ya’ll know the one) but our interactions could never quite get sexual. They’re a good writer and roleplayer and they definitely value quality over fluff. I can respect that. We had some meetups in GW2 but maybe we just don’t make characters that gel well because we just couldn’t quite get to the fluffy stuff. Anyway she happens to follow me on CE. Fair enough. No prompting, she just saw that I was playing a lot and figured she’d hop on the ship. She’s doing well on the server, has a whole clan, etc. Good for her. But upon hearing about this plot of mine, her character offers some... assistance. Instead of being a simple assassination, she wants it to be poison. She insists, having an IC personal stake against Khitan generals. Fair enough, but then she hands Livia an actual quest. Get three specific items. The items in question are in fact part of the several artifacts you need to remove your bracelet and “win” the game (which deletes your save file by the way). Not the whole thing, just three of them. The scourgestone was probably the easiest, and I had some IC help from a guy. It was all great fun. Admittedly I was salty at first, adding extra steps to a straightforward plotline. Then I got to writing it out and I enjoyed the idea of dungeon delving being written into it. It started to feel like an actual epic on the likes of Beowulf, Clash of the Titans, and indeed, actual Conan books and lore. Sword and sorcery. I’m not claiming to write as well as any of those (though I’m pretty sure the Conan movies didn’t have any writers, holy shit), but it started to FEEL like an epic RPG story. I didn’t have it completely written out but it had about three full paragraphs worth. Might have eked out an extra two before... bullshit happens. The salt starts to come back when the player drags their feet about getting the last item for the poison crafting. They are focusing on their clan base and that looks fine and all, but a boss hunt only needed to be asked in global “anyone want to help?”, 3-4 people would have done fine and we had 3 at any given moment, each of us with powerful weapons and armor. We could have gotten it at any time. Again, fair on them to a certain extent. I’m sure they have a job and when they were online, she was likely wrangling her clanmates and building assignments. I get that, but... again, we could have had this wrapped up in 15 minutes at any given point. Eventually my character tries to meet with another newbie on the server (as she does) but finds them already at this person’s clan base. Figure it’d be a good time for Livia to check in on the poison and see when we can go hunting but... Well. Let me give you quick context on this person’s character. John Mulaney has a comedy set talking about his father and how straight-laced he tends to be. He recalls a story (true or not, who can tell?) where John himself and some siblings (I think? Other kids?) were screaming for McDonalds. The father pulls into the drive through, orders a single black coffee, and drives away. John states something to the effect of “in retrospect, that was the funniest thing I’ve seen in my entire life”. Well, this person’s character is basically that guy. But a woman. Livia already has stated that she’s got quite the stick up her ass. Anyway they’ve traded barbs as you might expect, Livia being more of a carefree roll-with-punches and make-money kind of woman. Livia drops an offhanded line about “Maybe I’ll just get my people to slit the general’s throat and save me a headache [in dealing with this character]”. All we get in response is “So be it” and are then soon banned from her stronghold. That’s when I lowkey lose it. I don’t explode, I don’t rant, I don’t PM them. In fact, there’s almost no OOC communication between me and this person and I think it worked against us. She never once asked me permission to force a poison subplot in my story. The character just “strongly insisted” and Livia was like “fine, let’s make the thing” and I went off to get two of the three items THAT DAY. A week goes by, then that bullshit happens. What a waste of my time. I keep thinking back to a roleplaying guide I posted on this server’s website. It’s the same one I’ve copied and pasted across many MMO’s I’ve roleplayed on. There’s a section in there that talks about IC drama having no affect on OOC, or it shouldn’t. I’ve spent many years separating IC and OOC, often times whispering people after an OOC argument of like “That was fun, thanks for the RP!” That kind of thing. Unfortunately, this whole thing did have OOC consequences. The entire plot and story was essentially a gift to the player for being active, friendly, fun to interact with and being a good writer. I wanted to give the player and character something they would appreciate, but instead was delayed by a player insisting on adding a step. And then never stepped forward. It wasted my time and theirs and got in the way of that RP. Thus, I feel like my anger while perhaps not entirely justified, still makes sense in this context. My time was wasted, and now I’m possibly barred from RP with that person and their clan, or at least by going to their base. Not a single word OOCly was spoken between us throughout this. I remember PMing them the paragraph that featured them, asking if there was anything that needed to be changed. They said no, it was fine for the context and remaining an enigma. Fair enough. That was it. She never asked me permission to bullrush into our plot, nor did I outwardly refuse it. I thought nothing of it, and indeed as I mentioned earlier I did have some fun writing out dungeon adventures and Livia’s general hatred of the jungle biome. There was fun stuff there, class adventuring that I don’t write nearly enough about. Then it was all just negated because the other character absolutely refused to meet mine halfway in terms of diplomacy. Livia tried. I tried. So starting from “Her outside clanmates had been navigating the unknown country...” in that story, it was actually a rush job in fuming rage, so much rage my chest actually hurt for a few minutes. I do think it turned out well but I do believe I could have padded more with describing the architecture, culture, the nuances of Livia’s clan navigating the cities, dodging police and bribing informants. There’s a lot I could have done there but the story could have been done a week ago and instead I was left hanging because one player bullrushed into my plot and didn’t want to go kill a boss. I’m angry. I’m annoyed. Heavy sigh. Now, I still have two more stories to write. I have asked and received a new patron item (you can get some cosmetics if you donate to the server), a glowing polearm.

It looks very badass, especially at night. Actually hurts if you look at it too long. It’s great. I have it named “Imbued Polearm” and I have no idea why or how Livia would be in possession of it. I just saw someone having glowing purple daggers and thought “...I still haven’t requested a weapon decal for my patron perks. I want that a lot.” Was thinking of a Ymir ritual but white and blue is his motif so I’m not sure that’d work. Derketo is the goddess of sex, not weapons, and would sooner imbue Livia was a penis to properly spread seed long before she’d give her followers a badass weapon. Next story will be a little easier to write. I discovered with some proper dying the reptile armor does not look half bad at all. The aforementioned guy friend says it looks better on females than males, and I believe it;

Not sure why Tumblr blows that way the fuck up but there you go. Due to quality loss, it does look decent in-game. Definitely a “demon dragon slayer” type story to be had there. Was brainstorming that an alpha got tired of some adventurer killing all their babies at the spawning grounds... Next time Livia goes hunting she’d be in for quite the surprise.

All that and I didn’t even get into my clan growing and even having someone build me a proper stronghold.

Currently can house 6 clanmates with a master bedroom for myself. I plan on adding another floor to make way for 4 more rooms as I tend to get members when Livia goes save newly exiled players from the river. It’s actually in that building the above party screenshot took place. (There’s currently two spare rooms, I believe. Hint hint, come join us.)

#Conan Exiles #Conan #Exiles #Conan the Barbarian #Gaming #PC Gaming

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normalrobot · 6 years

Text

Devlog 2018/06

We made it to 1000 follows! Yay! After a huge dip in traffic because of my own stupid format changes without checking how they were actually appearing on the site, things got back on track, and we made those last 100 at a comfortable pace. I'm so happy and so proud to have you all come aboard.

I hope to keep upping the ante on what you can find here and I've been working my hardest to get exactly that ready. Which is what this post is about. Big progress update! There's plenty teasing on what I've been working on and some announcements of things already in store! I'm super nervous and excite about all this. I hope you like

Growth Report

New

1000 followers! *Fanfare doots*

OBS.Presence - I can now project myself via OBS. Making live streams possible

Gimp.Presence

LayerLFO script - This is the script I used in order to automatically render the Valentines #26 episode of Normal Comic using 3 source layers

Transparency art script - Quite excited to have finished this one. A lot cooler than my first script. It wouldn't be too hard to adapt it to work for animations. Keep a careful eye open for examples of this one hidden away in upcoming episodes of Normal Comic

Presence.Audio

Presence.Audio.Voice

Presence.Avatar prototype

Presence.Ghost prototype

Coming Up

LayerLFO python script release - I've got to clean it up a bunch but then I'll release the script

Some study music

Normal Comic

New

Numerous quality improvements - Still not entirely happy with the font/text work, but after having tried a ton of alternatives this is probably going to stand as is until I can find the time to roll my own. I’ve tried to optimize a balance between accessibility and non-intrusiveness. Keeping things sleek and tight, whilst also enjoyable through a diverse interface. If you’re somebody with an opinion on the matter, no matter your walk of life, I’d love to know what you think of the current format. I try pretty hard to make the comic fun as text and not just graphic and I’d love to know if I’m hitting the mark or if there’s improvements I can make!

Weekly episodes! - Starting nooowww! Yep yep. It's been a long time getting ready for this but Normal Comic is moving to a weekly slot, as of the very next episode. There won't be an episode this week, and then weekly eps will begin in their now regular slot, Tuesday 12th @1pm. I'll make a separate post so this one is easier to see

Coming Up

All new sets!

v0.1 Arc stream

Necromancer

A Little About Necromancer. What is all this Necromancer business I've been teasing about any way?

The Necromancer Framework is a modular set of libraries designed at game developers and myself in support of long term, deep mechanic simulation spaces. This includes my own games, primarily among them Necromancer, a sci-fi cityscape simulator

This iteration transformed the codebase from a small collection of independent modules into a full featured modular game engine. Over time, I hope that this broader implementation style might evolve into a high level, trope based augmentation to existing developer environments. For now, new libraries have been added that cover a wide range of the boilerplate area and work is underway on the model modules that are at the heart of my prototypes for the coming iteration

New In This Iteration

Aether - Contains thread control tools. Schedulers, thread safety shields, multi-threading, timing

Permanence - File, data model definition and management

Apotheosis - Input, command line, UI, API

Focus - Utilities, generics, etc

I don't think I'm going to be releasing these for free use just yet. While that is my eventual intent, I don't think it makes the best sense at this time. Given that these libraries cover a lot of boilerplate ground that is more foundational than innovative. I don't think it'll offer much to other developers at this point and I'm thinking to wait for some of the more interesting things I have planned. I'll reconsider this at the tail of the next iteration. There are a few cool thing in each of these that I might talk about at a later date

Next Iteration

Lair - A module for sequential management models. Generic tools for running sequences, complex scripts, branching paths. Higher level implementation of level-by-level world management and a script executor for flow control

Altar - A module for volumetric world management

Ziggurat - Tools for making chains of synthesis and modulation and other common tasks in procedural generation. A version for this already exists so the work on it is mostly wrangling it into line with the new libraries. I'm hoping to use this iteration to add to the available generators. Whatever my current game prototypes require with stretch to a starter selection of noise machines and graph builders

Prototypes - Including two games based on Lair, and Necromancer which has Altar and Ziggurat at the heart of its world management

Couch Multiplayer Arena Brawl Game

Eccentric Tamagotchi Pet Toy Game

Necromancer

For some screencaps of the early models I've been prepping together for these, check the end of the post!

Stretch Goals

Anima - A script engine host asset. This is another that already exists and just needs pulling into line with all the new stuff. A big part at this point would be adding a graphical component I have in mind, somewhat inspired by Scratch and numerous hacker mini-games

Marionette - Inspired by games like Dwarf Fortress and Spore. If I can't get this library in this next iteration, it'll definitely be in the one after. It is a fully extensible body structuring model. Full support for covering and containing behaviors

Cat Simulator Project Prototype

Phew

That was a lot

Thank you again, so much, for tuning in!

-Normal

#normal robot #normal #necromancer #necromancer framework #software development #update

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redditnosleep · 7 years

Text

The Past Repeats

by Pippinacious

Sage had always been a very normal kid except for the stories. It wasn't that they were disturbing or horrific; they were just unusual. Sometimes they seemed exactly like the kind of thing you'd expect from a little girl, but other times, I'd have to look at her and wonder how she came up with such things.

It started when she was four, shortly after her deadbeat dad split, leaving the two of us on our own.

I had just finished reading her a bedtime story and was tucking her in with a goodnight kiss when she yawned, smiled sleepily, and asked, “You'll always be my mommy, right?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Good. I'd miss you if you weren't. You've been my mommy for a long time.”

“Yup, your whole life,” I replied, smoothing her hair back.

“All my lifes,” she murmured into her pillow.

Her eyes had fluttered shut, her breathing deepened, and she fell asleep while I sat next to her, thinking that kids really do say the darndest things.

I didn't dwell on it, though; it had just been an off-the-cuff remark by a child with a very active imagination. The same child who, a few weeks before, had told me that rainbows are unicorn slides and clouds are their trampolines. Sage didn't even seem to remember saying it the next morning, or at least she didn't mention it, which was pretty much the same thing as she had a tendency to say whatever popped into her head.

I had thought it was a one off thing until we were watching a show with princesses in poofy dresses.

“We used to dress like that,” Sage said casually.

“Oh yeah?” I asked with that indulgent parent tone used when a kid is about to tell a tall tale.

“Yup, yours was blue and mine was red and we wore them a lot.”

“We must have looked very pretty!”

“Yup, but I didn't like mine ‘cos it was hot and you didn't let me play in it,” she said. “You used to-used to be a lot meaner.”

“I was?” I played along and raised my brows in surprise.

“You didn't let me do a lot of stuff.”

“But I'm better now?”

“Yeah,” she giggled, “you're nicer now!”

“Well that's a relief!”

It was certainly an odd conversation, but one I attributed to the TV show that was on; “mean” mom with lots of rules, daughter who was getting into trouble for bending them, a lot of the stuff she was claiming we had done. It was kind of cute, really.

But then it started to become a more frequent occurrence.

She'd see something or hear something and it would “remind” her of something we'd done together in a previous life. Foods she'd never tried, places she'd never even heard of, pictures of clothing and items she had no way of knowing about; she claimed to have memories of them all. I made up excuses in my head for it, convincing myself she must have heard about it on TV or at daycare. It was the only thing that made sense.

“Honey,” I said with a laugh after she asked if I remembered teaching her to use chopsticks back when we had black hair and lived in the mountains, “where do you come up with this stuff?”

She shrugged, “I just remember.”

“You've got some imagination.”

“Imagination is for not real stuff, though,” Sage said with a frown, “right?”

“Yeah.”

After a moment of thought, she shook her head, “It's not imagination. I remember.”

She seemed a bit upset that I was doubting her, but I was starting to become unsure about encouraging her stories. I worried she might lose sight of the line between fact and fiction and start confusing herself. I also wondered if it was all some kind of coping mechanism to deal with her dad’s departure. While she had seemed fine when we first talked about it, maybe her stories were somehow a cry for attention or her attempt to make sense of things.

A few nights later, as we cuddled on the couch, I gently broached the subject and asked if she missed Daddy.

“No,” she said, “he never stays.”

“What?” I sat up a bit to glance at her face, which wore an impassive expression.

“Daddy always goes away, every time, and then it's just me and you. I like it when it's just me and you.”

“Every time?”

“In all the lifes, Mommy,” she said with an exasperated huff.

“Oh.”

I veered the topic away from all our previous “lifes” and we settled back down. Sage was soon absorbed in the movie we'd been watching again, but I was distracted and concerned. She seemed so convinced that these previous lives, which always mirrored our overall current one, just in different times and places, had actually happened. It didn't seem healthy.

After I put her to bed, I turned to the internet for answers. It was hard to know where to start; my kid thinks she remembers past lives, young daughter has false memories, is something wrong with my child? I tried them all and, eventually, found other situations like mine. Sage was far from the only kid to claim to have these kinds of memories and, in most cases, it seemed completely harmless.

They'll grow out of it, sites assured me. Children are just little sponges who soak up everything and process it in creative ways that adults don't.

That made me feel better. It also supported my theory that Sage was just constantly taking in information, things I obviously missed, and incorporating it into her “memories”. I breathed a sigh of relief and slept a bit easier that night.

Still, I didn't want to feed into such behaviors. It was my job to teach her what was real and what wasn't and I was feeling like I let her down. Her fifth birthday was coming up, so I decided we should focus on that instead of her stories and, every time she tried to bring one up, I'd redirect her back to the present and to planning her party.

It was frustrating for both of us; she felt shut down, I felt like I was crushing her creative spirit, and for the first time, Sage wasn't her normal, cheerful self.

The night before her birthday party, I was seated on the edge of her bed, trying to read her a story, but she was fussy and uninterested.

“What's wrong, Sage?” I asked at last.

She just rolled over, her covers pulled up all the way to her chin.

“What is it, baby girl?”

“I don't want a party,” she grumbled.

“Why not? I thought you were excited.”

“No.”

“Why not?” I asked again.

“You never believe me,” she whispered, and it was like an icy knife to my heart.

I rubbed her back in small circles and told her to try me.

She peeked over her shoulder, her little face creased with uncertainty. When I smiled encouragingly, she turned a bit more towards me.

“I don't wanna party ‘cos it's always my last.”

“Your last party?”

“My last birthday.”

Chills trickled down the back of my neck while I assured her that wouldn't be the case and that she would have lots more birthdays. She didn't seem convinced.

Her party the next day went off without a hitch. She and her little friends ran around, laughing and squealing, and I was glad to see that she had been able to relax enough to enjoy herself.

Admittedly, I was able to enjoy myself, too. One of the kids had been brought by their single, handsome uncle, Taylor, who stuck around so that we could chat. He was funny and charming and helped me keep the children wrangled. By the time the cake was rolled out and the presents opened, we'd exchanged numbers.

It was the first time I'd even looked at a guy since Sage’s dad left.

After all the guests had gone and I had cleaned up a bit, I found Sage sitting under the kitchen table, despondently dragging a comb through her new doll’s hair.

“What're you doing under there, birthday girl?” I crouched beside the table and grinned.

I was surprised to see tears in Sage’s eyes when she looked up at me.

“Nothing.”

“Hey, come here, what's the matter?” I gathered her up in my lap and snuggled her close. “Did something happen at the party?”

“You met him,” she said. There was a note of resignation in her voice that seemed far too old for her.

“Met who? Mimi’s uncle?” I immediately thought I knew what was wrong; she had seen me talking to Taylor, was missing her dad, and was now worried Taylor might replace him. Wasn't that every kid’s nightmare?

Sage just pulled away from me and stood up. “You never believe me,” she said sadly.

“You haven't even told me what's wrong.”

“I did, lots of times before, but you never listen.”

I watched her trudge off to her bedroom, more concerned than ever.

Sage remained distant and solemn for weeks. I tried talking to her, I tried taking her out to do fun things, I tried having meeting with her daycare providers, I was even careful to avoid talking about or to Taylor when she was around, but nothing seemed to lift her spirits.

“She just doesn't want Mommy moving on,” Taylor said dismissively. “Kids are selfish like that. She'll be fine.”

I wanted to believe him and tried to act like everything was normal with Sage, hoping she would perk up, but every time my phone went off, she'd glance at it with this resigned, knowing expression that unsettled me.

It was getting to the point that I thought I might have to consult with a child psychiatrist. I couldn't really afford it, but I would have to manage if it was what my baby needed.

Before we went that route, though, I decided I would try to get her to open up to me one more time.

I called Sage out of her room after dinner one evening and had her sit beside me on the couch. She stared down at her lap, vacant and uninterested.

“You have to talk to me, honey,” the plea came out more desperately than I had intended, but I couldn't stop it. “I can't make things better if you don't tell me what's wrong.”

“You never believe me,” she whispered.

“Stop it, Sage! Stop saying that! I'm here, I'm listening! Help me understand!”

Her lower lip quivered, but she looked at me from beneath her lashes.

“He's going to hurt us, Mommy. He always does.”

“Who?” I knelt on the floor in front of her and grabbed her hands between mine.

“Taylor,” she said.

“Baby, I barely know him! Right now, he's just a...a sort of friend. Why would he hurt us?”

“Because he always does.”

According to Sage, we had been mother and daughter for a long time, in a lot of lives, in a lot of places, as a lot of different people, but it always ended the same. Mommy met a man and he was bad and he hurt us.

“Once he put a knife in me, here,” she pointed at her heart, “and then he did it to you, too, but more times.”

She told me how he had held her under water in a wash tub until her chest burned and everything went dark, how he had thrown her off a mountainside and she had screamed and screamed until she hit the ground. She had had her throat slit, been shot, been hung. She had hurt and she had cried and she had died.

And, every time, I died, too.

“I tried to tell you,” she said, her voice wavering, “but you never listened.”

“You've got to know that those aren't real memories, Sage,” I said gently.

She just stared at me and there was such fear in her eyes, such sadness, that my breath caught in my throat.

“He's gonna hurt us, Mommy,” she said. There was no conviction in her voice, just defeat.

“I won't let him.”

“That's what you always say.”

I don't know if it was the weary, hollow expression or the weighted slump of her tiny shoulders, but as she slid off the couch to go back to her room, I found myself believing her. It was ridiculous and irrational and maybe even a little crazy, but I knew that, even if it made no sense, my daughter was telling me the truth.

When that stoney certainty in my gut didn't fade after an hour of sitting and thinking, I texted Taylor and told him I couldn't see him anymore.

I didn't expect the barrage of calls and texts that I received in return. At first, he was curious and pleading, but it quickly turned to anger, to fury. He started calling me a terrible names and saying that women like me were the problem and he knew I'd regret being such a tease. I didn't understand why he was lashing out so horribly, we hadn't even gone out on a proper date!

I told him he had issues and blocked his number.

It could have been coincidence, his sudden and violent turn in personality, but even if it was, Sage had still seen something in him, recognized a darkness I hadn't, and warned me against him. I was just grateful I'd listened.

I set my phone aside and curled up on the couch with a glass of wine. It had been a rough night to say the least and I needed some quiet time to process my thoughts and the strange, frightening things that Sage had told me about our past lives.

I let the sun fade completely, throwing the house into darkness, and didn't bother turning on any lights. I found it almost peaceful to sit there alone, no noise, no interruptions, just me, my drink, and my thoughts, and I leaned back, letting my eyes drift closed.

From the foyer, I heard the soft rattle of my door knob.

My eyes popped open and I slowly turned towards the noise. It rattled again, the cautious sound of someone checking the lock. I set my wine glass aside and crept across the living room to peek around the corner to the door.

The knob rattled again, followed by faint clicking noises. Someone was trying to pick the lock, I realized, and my heart leapt. Goosepimples rose up across every inch of my skin and I pressed myself against the wall, biting fiercely down on my lip to keep from crying out.

I didn't know how long the lock would hold, it was just an old junky thing my ex kept meaning to replace, and I doubted any of the doors in my house would do much to keep a determined prowler out of a room if he really wanted to get in.

For a split second, I thought about trying to make it back to my phone and calling the cops, and I had even half turned towards it, but then I thought of Sage. My little girl, scared, feeling alone, isolated, and convinced her fifth birthday was going to be her last.

Something awoke in my belly, a hot and furious and terrible creature that was far less afraid than it was angry. This person was trying to get into my house, they were threatening my baby?

Sage had told me that, in all my incarnations, I had never once listened to her. Well, I was listening now, and if a bad man, Taylor or otherwise, wanted to get to my child, they were going to have to get through me first. And I wasn't going to make it easy.

My ex hadn't been good for a lot of things; in fact, I think he only ever did two things right by me: Sage and the aluminum baseball bat he'd left in the front closet.

I don't know what Taylor was expecting when he finally managed to unlock the front door; maybe that we'd already have gone to bed, maybe that he'd find two sleeping, defenseless targets for the knife he'd brought with him.

What I do know is that he wasn't expecting me to be waiting for him just on the other side, bat raised above my head, and a complete willingness to use it.

Cops arrived to find him sprawled in a pool of his own blood in my foyer. He was still breathing, but barely, and he had to rushed to a nearby hospital. I let the officers take me outside for questioning while one of the policewomen sat with Sage, who had mercifully stayed in her room. I handed over the bat, gave my statement, and proceeded to vomit all over their shoes.

They were disgusted, but understanding.

I was advised to get a hotel for the rest of the night as the entryway to my house was now a crime scene. I didn't argue; now that the Mama Bear within had gone back into hibernation, all the blood on my floor was almost enough to have me throwing up again.

I took Sage out the back and we found a cheap motel a few minutes away.

“You ok, baby?” I asked her as I tucked her in beside me in the bed.

“Yeah,” she said, laying her head on my shoulder.

I inhaled deeply, still shaken, and held her tight.

“Mommy?” She asked quietly.

“Yeah, baby?”

“What happens now? I never got to this part before.”

I swallowed a tired sob that was half residual fear and half relief. “I don't know, but it's gonna be ok. We're gonna be ok.”

She nodded, but still seemed unsure. “You'll still always be my mommy, right?”

“Of course,” I said, kissing the top of her head and giving her a squeeze, “for all of your lives.”

#creepy #horror story #past lives #author: Pippinacious #mod favorite #mod note: this actually made me tear up at the end

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