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wisteriagoesvroom · 6 months

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Prompt: Max being obsessed with Charles' lips, or hands, or hair. And cannot stop touching

traces lestappen rated M for slightly eMotionally fraught 2.5k words also readable on ao3

Charles’s palms are pressed against the wall. This close, Max is practically breathing into him, chest like a deflating balloon. If Charles turned his cheek, there would be nowhere else to go but for their mouths to meet.

In the silence, just the whir of the dying machinery, all worn out. They are in a garage, but it is the quiet hush of a gallery, with only yawning metal and flickering data feeds to bear them witness.

“Do you need something from me, then?” Charles asks, again. Tilting his head up, face open, neck bared to the bite.

Side notes: I ended up learning into the "obsession" and "physical touch" aspects of the prompt, so it is what it is, and I hope you enjoy nonetheless. Full story below the cut, or on ao3 <3

Away from the cameras, down the line of handshakes and congratulations, far from the confetti, Charles finally has a chance to breathe. He wills himself to, breath in, breath out. Paces and paces, not sure what to do with his hands, settling for flexing them in and out as if it would do anything to calm the buzz inside his ears

The celebrations are already starting, and he’d asked for a minute alone in the garage, just to gather his thoughts. This deep inside, there’s just the occasional pneumatic hiss of machinery elsewhere, and footsteps travelling past outside in search of better chatter. The air of a win feels good. He even fought all the way up from tenth to be here. First. The adrenalin is something else. It’s been so long since Scuderia had stood up there on the podium after a disastrous few seasons, the least they could do was grant him some quiet.

And what of the quiet? He doesn’t know what to do with the elation that crawls into his gut, so instead he fingers the bracelets that are wound around his wrists, a grounding sequence he’s been through over and over again to keep his mind on earth. Teeth sharp as he bites the heel of his hand. If he isn’t careful, he suspects he could leap into the air and fly like Hermes if he so wanted. Close enough to touch stratosphere, pierce the sky red. A messenger for victory, for once.

If only his father and Jules could see him now. He spends a lot of time trying not to think too hard about that.

“You looked good. Out there.”

The hollowed out baritone travels from the door of the garage. Oh, there it is, the telltale hammering of his heart in his chest. It’s only been a month since he and Max had last cornered each other, a few weeks since their fleeting physical touches became something more, took a shape that neither of them especially cared to define. The contours of their lives are so otherwise rigidly managed. Why put a label on a good thing?

Max corners him, quickly, backing Charles up against the wall with a pace that Charles should be frightened by, but really, he is no longer afraid.

The steel of the garage is cold against Charles’s back. They’re so close Charles can smell the sweat and engine oil emanating, siren-like, beneath the other man’s fireproofs. But Charles tells himself he’s already won today, so what is a little bit of making yourself willing bait? After all, he knows more than anyone the thrill of the chase. Of fighting for scraps. Crawling and pushing until you can spot weakness, draw blood.

Max’s gaze sweeps across Charles’s own face. Charles wonders what truths Max might find there - eyes dilated in fear. A readiness to accept the strange thread of fate that has tied them together for so long, and brought them both here. He is avidly aware of the effect Max has on him, desire already rolling like butter down his spine.

The other man’s chest rises and falls, a jagged rhythm against his own. Blue eyes blown wide, face brooding as a storm on the horizon. This is a type of altitude sickness, Charles realises, mind placid as a lake. Both of them pushing too high despite the warning signs. Though it had always been contained to the track, and now it’s spilled over, and hadn’t maman always told him ça ne sert à rien de pleurer à cause du lait renversé.

Max cages him in, and he doesn’t fight. He simply watches the other man’s apple bob as he swallows, breath serrated on the inhale. He is just as out of control in this as Charles himself is.

Je sais. Charles tells himself. This is how it is, allowing it to be hunted. It is fine. This is not the first time, and Charles knows how someone like Max, so concerned with always being in control, needs this to go. Charles knows, because if you stripped away the layers of superficial difference between them, the engine-heart within them beats much the same.

“Did you really want to talk about the race?”

“I could.”

Charles says, half close to a mad laugh, high and winded it could bubble out of him but he presses it down with great determination.

“I don’t think so, Max.” Instead he stares back and Max, his bright and hungry eyes, and asks:

“Have you come here to prove a point?”

“No.”

“Is there something important you wanted to say to me? So important that we would keep hundreds of people waiting?”

Max shakes his head, still no.

“Do you need something from me, then?” Charles asks, again. Tilting his head up, face open, neck bared to the bite.

In turn, Max’s eyes flutter shut, his hand curls into a fist. Charles knew that sometimes the boys would act this way, after races. Emotions all over the place, central nervous system unable to regulate the excess adrenalin. But it was all fun horseplay, never quite like this. Never as if he stood on a cliff, arms open for someone else to push him off.

What Max says to Charles, he says with his eyes still closed.

“You… you took something from me.”

“It’s just a race.”

They’re both lying. It’s never just a race. But it is deliberate, the denying of one idea, reducing it into something insubstantial so they don’t have to give it a name. Call it what you want - rivals, athletes, maybe even friends. But neither of them has to knock over this precarious thing they’ve so carefully cultivated over the years. They have taken a wildfire and kept it in a cage, for the time being. And now they stand at the gate, hands over the bars, perhaps ready to set it free.

Charles makes a decision. His fingers reach out of their own accord, brush the other man’s bristly chin.

“We have to stop this.” Max tries, pulling back.

“Why?”

“It’s not right.”

“Does this feel somehow not right to you?”

“No. It does not feel… bad, necessarily.”

Charles tilts his head, trying to understand these lines of reasoning, of the deceptions Max needs to make to himself to make this feel okay. You feel this need to trick yourself, so that you may trick others into disbelieving what we are, too.

“You’re worried what your father might say.”

Max scoffs. “I haven’t cared what he has thought in many years.”

“Nonetheless. People will probably find out.”

“Yes.”

“They like to talk. Does your side have a comms plan?”

“Of course. Does yours?”

“They’re Italian. They will deal with it as it comes.”

Max looks deadly serious now. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Time. Charles thinks, turning a new stone over in his head. Yes, isn’t time the essence of what they do on the track, how they live their lives? Schedules fixed to the minute, meals and tours and toilet breaks pre-planned to the hilt, teams working on strategy and every eventuality. And yet somehow, unspooling all the threads in his life wouldn’t have caused Charles to see this particular storyline playing out. It is time for Charles to take something here of his own. To ask time to wait, if just for a while.

Charles gathers Max’s hands. His calloused, careful hands, and presses them against the underside of his own jaw. Putting himself in the hands of the beast.

“Let’s not waste a minute, then.”

Then Max is a sandcastle, collapsing. Leaning in, folding forward to him, inevitable. Quick and sure as Max is on the track, he isn’t here. His hands tremble, thick fingers drawing broken lines between the tip of Charles’s brow, his cheek, the bow of his mouth. Max takes his time chasing the lines he draws with his mouth, breath warm on Charles cheek, gentle kisses telling Charles more in the silence that either of them could put in words.

“Charles,” comes the name, snarled low, but holy. “You don’t know, you’ll never know—”

But I do, I do. Charles thinks to himself. Lesser men have fought for this, lesser men have died for this. The world is vast and unknowable and terrifying, and yet you are here, and you are mine. This is the quieter murmur in Charles’s brain, a soft rattle in a back room that would yawn all monstrous if he gave it too much sun. They do not speak of their yearning, in case making it real means they lose this. So all Charles can do is nod, half lost to feeling, as Max kisses a revarant line along his jaw. To press his palms into Max’s strong shoulders and roll his head back to give Max more room, give him everything as Max’s own hands crawl further down, enclose his waist as if there is any remote chance that Charles would ever, could ever run for this.

Charles could be ten feet tall, a speck on the ground, subatomic. He could be anything Max asked, bend himself in particular shapes, if it meant being held by Max just for a while. The severity of this feeling, this affliction – it already frightens him. For it is the kind of passion that came from books and histories, the realm of the insane. He wonders if Max feels it too.

“We shouldn’t.” Max says, devotion bared in every movement, every pass of his mouth on Charles’s skin.

“We can’t.” Max says, again, fingertips deceiving him all the while, both of them knowing it’s a lie. How could they fight this?

In response, Charles only leans in and kisses him back. Kisses Max fully on the mouth, drags his tongue across the seam of his lips. Kisses like he races, arrogant, cunning, nothing like how he is off track because they are their truest when they’re moving fast and uninhibited towards the same finish line. Charles’s hands are sharp in Max’s hair now, nails scraping through skin, claiming what’s his. No longer content to play prey and follow the predetermined schedule. Charles licks hungrily, teeth scraping Max's bottom lip, and Max makes a noise, a rumble deep in his chest, dick hardening against Charles’s hip.

This is it, he thinks. What it’s like to take your place, instead of being second by, by default, each time.

This is it, Charles thinks. The cliff, both of us tumbling off.

Max’s body curves forward, giving away how much he has needed this. In response Charles splays his fingers wider on Max’s back, pulling him closer. Max likes this, shoving a knee between Charles’s legs with an assertiveness that makes Charles's head spin, makes Charles moan. Max drags his teeth along Charles’s neck with such hunger that it crawls into Charles’s gut, the voice in his head urgent now, insistent for more, beast begging to be fed. Each pass of their mouths against each other, each startled gasp, an uncontrolled demolition. This is how they are, always. Step for step. Leap for leap. Breath for breath.

“I want,” Max mumbles, into the side of his neck. His breath is hot there. This close, Max smells like musk and steel. “We should—”

A bleep in the distance, suddenly loud, then stopping just as abruptly. A preset alarm, it must have come from one of the screens. A technician will come and fix that soon, they both know. No driver can be alone in this terrarium of dreams for long.

Max presses his forehead, gentle as winter snow, on Charles’s for a moment.

When they finally break apart, they are both breathless. Max has colour high on his cheeks, his hair is a mess. Charles is sure he is not much better for wear, blood having rushed south, heart pumping at a rapidfire clip. The bright expression on Max’s face reminds Charles of when they were much younger, only that their lives are now infinitely messier, and somehow after all this year, still so intertwined.

“They’ll be waiting.” Charles says.

Max nods. “Take a minute.”

“Separately. That is probably wise.” Charles adds, conscious of his own arousal.

Max takes several steps back, smoothing down his own suit, and starts pulling the zips back together. Charles’s fingers itch to do the work for him, but he won’t. Not now, and not yet. He has already given up enough.

After taking some distance, putting the beast back in its cage, Max turns to go. Charles wonders, as he has done in the past several months, whether this thing between them could truly be tamed. What the world would say if they found out about this, whether they would survive it. An even worse voice asks whether Max truly returns his depth of feeling, or this is just a strange form of one-upmanship for him, a convenient plaything.

But then again, this has been an unprecedented day, and there may be more yet. Some questions are too big to deliberate with your rival in the sterile white lights of a garage.

“I’ll see you on the podium.” Max says. Running a hand through his hair, pulling his cap back on. Charles nods, and tries not to think about the blooming lovebites on his neck.

“They’ll talk, won’t they?” Charles asks, tentativeness creeping in. Max stares at him. Sends a funny feeling squiggling into his gut.

“So let them.”

The cameras will show them laughing. Patting each other on the back, champagne spray a golden rainbow above their heads.

The cameras catch everything. Almost. This is a secret they’re willing to hold to their chests.

But meanwhile, here? As they open the doors, turn to walk to the press conference?

Their fingers touch. They share a secretive smile. Hands, threaded fully into each others, squeezing just once.

Reality beckons. But in the walk over, as the silence is filled by something much bigger, louder – Charles figures it out.

That there is no word yet for what they are, but maybe he doesn’t need a word either, for what is yet to be.

#lestappen #prompt fill #f1 rpf #f1 fic #this became a kind of weirdly regency x Red Bull vibe #don’t ask me to explain it I’m already insane #f1 fanfic #lestappen fic #formula 1 fanfic #fanfiction #wisteriawritesstuff

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mollysunder · 8 months

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New Chembarons On the Way?

Isn't it interesting that Finn and Renni's symbols are straight-up excluded in this quick shot of the chembaron hall? Of all the chembaron symbols, Finn and Renni's are the least recognizable when you compare the promotional material to the show appearance.

From right to left I can find the Scrap Hackers run by Smeech, the big yordle, the Vyx, run by the blonde woman, and the Hush Company in the center run by the old man in the hat. The last two are supposed to be for the Sludgerunner and Slickjaw factions, which were led by Renni and Finn, respectively.

At first, I assumed that all the symbols were probably simplified to make them more readable on screen. But that didn't make sense because one, the first three chembaron symbols I mentioned still resemble their first iteration. And two, Finn's symbol has the simplest design, a capital letter 'F' that looks like a weapons holster. For Renni, if they wanted to simplify her symbol, you'd think they would keep the flame motif, but it's nowhere to be seen.

My next thought was that maybe the designers thought there were too many letter based symbols and tried to go for something different with Finn. I went through Finn's tattoos to see if maybe one was similar to the sigil on the far left. The best I could guess was that the knife and hammer that's on the back of his head MIGHT resemble it if you just focused on the outline of the tattoo creates.

But then I realized that didn't make sense eother because Finn's original faction symbol is still in the show! Finn had it engraved on his lighter and it was present when he tried to broker a deal with Sevika. Finn even had the lighter out during his failed assassination of Silco. So Finn's symbol still exists in the show, but just like Renni, it's not depicted with the rest of the chembarons.

My best guess is that these last symbols don't belong to either Renni or Finn, this is the show hinting at new chembarons for next season to take their place. If it's true, then that means that these symbols actually foreshadow the factions that will take their place. It makes sense, look at what's left after the finale. Finn's dead after a failed coup, either his own lieutenants will fight for power and change it in their image, or a smaller faction will seize the opportunity to absorb it. Renni's already going to be on Jinx's shitlist for trying to kill Silco, Jinx might not know now, but she always finds out. I can also see Renni trying to seek revenge against Jayce for her son's death in the immediate chaos of Jinx's rocket. There were witnesses there when Jayce raided the factory with Vi and the enforcers, and he's the chembaron with the highest visibility. Some workers could have escaped or even hid during it, and told her later who was responsible. Renni is more likely to end up getting killed by Jayce, Jinx, Viktor, or even Mel as tensions and paranoia soar, and leave her faction leaderless.

The one thing I confidently don't know is who those symbols actually belong to. I can't find any in-game or in-show reference for them so far, so maybe they're entirely new characters we get to see next season!

#zaun #chembarons #arcane #arcane chembaron #finn arcane #renni arcane #arcane season 2 speculation #unknown symbols one sort if looks a w #i had to triple check to make sure they weren't runes

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vanicanela18 · 1 year

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thoughts on Jamil Viper and self-respect

This is a bit of an introspective post/analysis/character study on Jamil, born out of some rambles I rained upon a friend last night after watching this video, where the author made a couple of comments that caught my attention on regards to Jamil (the video is non-twst related though). I believe they are things that have always been there, but I finally put a name to them and weaved my thoughts into words. Hopefully it will be readable, even if this still keeps a bit of the ramble-y nature of my original messages to my friend. One of the things mentioned in the video (regarding a character, the video is an essay on Spider-Man: No Way Home) that struck me were these lines:

You have to believe in yourself enough to know your capability and show off when required and use the best parts of you. Servitude requires, yes, humility, but it also requires your self-esteem.

(...)

If you don't recognise your own value, you can't offer your value. By hating yourself, you're doing a bad job of serving others.

I was a bit baffled to say the least. I paused the video, wrote the sentences and chewed them a little in my mind. I momentarily scrapped aside Jamil's own desire of seeing the world and his own dislike of it in order to reflect on the words.

Jamil has this thing where he's very prideful and egocentric, that’s just part of his character (and not entirely undeserved, as he’s indeed very smart and capable). He feeds his own ego by constantly reassuring himself of his value, his power, his intelligence, yet on the meantime he constantly craves for approval, praise and recognition from others. His perceived chains come from the way he was raised, in which his position is tied to the way he can show himself to the world. Jamil is not an insecure person per se but he ultimately wants to prove something. He wants to be praised and adored, and such things he has associated not to himself as a person but to his position in society, which is why he also craves a higher social standing (the entire master thing with the parrot for example, because master=power, and that means he has value enough to show off).

In essence, he doesn't value himself not because he doesn't believe he's capable but because he doesn't have enough self-respect to himself, his family, their job. Not only since it's something he doesn't like, but because he's been raised with the idea that he's inferior just because he has to bow down to someone else.

"Servitude requires humility, but it also requires your self-esteem". In other words, it’s knowing you're still capable and worthy of respect and praise. And the funny thing is that this idea that he matters less wasn't even hammered down by the Asims, it was just Jamil's parents trying to curb down their slightly-too-prideful son (in their perception) so they wouldn’t fall out of favour. They obviously did a horrendous job at it though, while also perpetuating in Jamil's mind that they're worth nothing because they're servants.

To be clear: I am not saying this is Jamil’s fault. This is a consequence of his environment and the society around him, added to his own personality which tunnel vissions on this (value=power). In the end, Jamil's insecurity is less about not believing in his capabilities and more of just believing himself unworthy because of his position, which is why he never tries his best at anything and bends under the pressure of underperforming. Yet he hungers for that praise and approval, of being in the spotlight, while simultaneously running away from it. It's heartbreaking but a self-made hell as well, because...

No one lights a lamp and hides it in a clay jar or puts it under a bed. Instead, they put it on a stand, so that those who come in can see the light.

(quoted from the video)

Jamil never realises that Kalim has always been aware of his capabilities. Since Kalim doesn't have Jamil's bias (his insecurity, let's call it, his perhaps surprising lack of self-respect), he always lifts him up and naturally praises him. He lights a lamp (Jamil) so others can see its light! But since it comes from Kalim himself, Jamil resents him as he only sees the social ladder and not Kalim as an individual. And of course, this is because of Jamil's deeply-rooted beliefs, his upbringing, the way it is obvious he lacks Kalim's privilege. But this impossibility of ridding himself of this insecurity is what holds him back in the first place, and what makes him hold Kalim back as well (by not letting him do things by himself).

(Slight Episode 6 spoilers ahead)

This is why Leona says, "at least try your best and struggle". The harsh truth is that by hating himself (the place he was born in, the value of his profession, his true goals) Jamil has never been able to do his best at anything. He has to believe in himself enough to show off when required and use the best parts of himself! And when learning this, he can do the same for others! He can step back and also recognise when he's not needed, to let go of that tight grasp he has in the urge of controlling everything, because it's the only thing that not only makes him feel like having some control of his life but the closest he can get to a position of power (in his eyes).

This also reflects in Jamil's Unique Magic, which by itself is a reflection of a mage's soul. Gratuitious Jafar reference aside, it says a lot about Jamil as well. (paraphrased) "Look into my eyes and tell me, who is your master?" Jamil's long-sought dream; the sad reality of it all is that being called "master", even being the "master", won't bring him any of the reassurance he so yearns for.

In the end, what was what Jamil wanted in Episode Four? Ultimately, he wanted the seat of dorm leader for himself, this power he so covets, what will make him great and finally let him spread his wings, a taste of freedom before it all comes crashing down once he graduates. But... he doesn't have to do that.

Jamil is valid to not want to take on the job of a servant, much less when he's a child himself, but he's not worth inherently less just because he has to bow down to someone else. And I think that's what Leona ends telling him in Episode 6, "you're not worth less if you know your limits and know when to step back. You're not worth less if you lack privileges when you are born. Struggle, fight with all your might: that's what shows that you are worth just as much as others." That's why Leona points out Ruggie, Azul and Riddle, who have all had their fair share of struggles, but have tried ways of making up for them, and ultimately either know their worth or are on their way there. Sebek is also a great Jamil foil: although they're both servants, Sebek takes a lot of pride on his position. He doesn't believe he is worth less for serving Malleus, but more. His actual struggle comes from him as an individual (being half-fae), not his status as a servant.

Ultimately, to keep walking forward and finally find his path, I think this is the conclusion he must learn: Jamil has value as himself. He has value as just Jamil. The servant boy. The one who doesn't want to continue the work of his family. The one who wants to travel the world, and live his life on his own terms. Power won't give him the self-respect and self-esteem he so longs for.

And I think this is the road he begins to walk by the end of his arc on Episode 6, little by little. Stepping back and recognising Leona’s superior magical prowess, but that there’s nothing wrong with weakness. Starting to see Kalim more as his own person, and letting him do things on his own (which will also kickstart Kalim’s own arc, but that’s worth another post). And at last, truly letting himself do his best, speaking out his desires and accept that there’s nothing inherently wrong with the work he and his parents do (as evidenced by his Broomquet Birthday PS), even if he doesn’t want his future to be like that.

In the end, there's no such thing as an useless oil lamp. Even if it's not flashy, not golden and incapable of granting wishes, it can always give you light.

#twisted wonderland #twst jamil #jamil viper #scarabia #twst analysis #character analysis #character study #twst

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estherdedlock · 2 years

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I don’t know why I keep walking into libraries and bookstores thinking I’m going to find something that gives me even a whisper of the feeling that I got from The Secret History. I mean, before I read TSH, it had been years since I read anything so bewitching. Why I think lightning is going to strike twice in less than a year is beyond me.

Anyway, the latest endeavor is Tara Isabella Burton’s The World Cannot Give.

You may stumble across this novel and read the interior flap and get excited:

“Brideshead Revisited meets Fight Club in this novel about a prestigious boarding school’s cultic chapel choir---and the obsessively ambitious, terrifyingly charismatic girl who rules over its members.”

Sounds good, right? I mean, obviously this is a Secret History-ish piece of deliberate dark academia, but hey, so what? Brideshead Revisited meets Fight Club? Why not?

That description is a fakeout. Early promos of the novel called it “The Girls meets Fight Club...” The Girls was a 2016 novel by Emily Cline, loosely based on Charles Manson’s cult, so that actually made a little more sense. I think they changed it to Brideshead Revisited because some marketing genius thought it would attract the dark academia types (like yours truly). I’ll bet they probably would have preferred to call out The Secret History, but decided not to after the author strenuously criticized TSH in a Gawker article two months before her book was published. More on that later. At any rate, The World Cannot Give is neither Brideshead Revisited nor Fight Club. If anything, it’s Pretty Little Liars meets a teensy bit of Dead Poets Society.

And of course, it’s The Secret History. Or wants to be. Laura Stearns is our Richard Papen, another hopeless wannabe from the tacky suburban West (Nevada, not California) who finds herself enthralled by the august atmosphere of an elite New England school, St. Dunstan’s Academy in Maine. Her longing for “beauty and meaning” is fueled by an obsession with someone named Sebastian Webster, who attended the same school in the 1930s. Dubbed “the prep school prophet,” Webster wrote one religiously-themed novel based on his years at St. Dunstan’s, then converted to Catholicism and ran off to Spain to fight FOR the fascists (!!!) during the Spanish Civil War, where he was killed at the romantic age of nineteen.

Instead of Julian’s class, the “secret society” of St. Dunstan’s is the six-member choir that sings evening prayer in the campus chapel every Friday night. Henry Winter’s role is taken by Virginia Strauss, the beautiful black-haired, blue-eyed choir leader who’s also infatuated with Sebastian Webster and his religious desire to reject the “sclerotic modern world” (a quote from Webster’s novel that is repeated ad nauseam) and become “World-Historical” (another oft-repeated quote from Webster).

It’s not a bad setup and it’s actually pretty readable. I didn’t want to throw it out the window, like A Little Life. It’s not categorized as YA, but, like If We Were Villains, it’s a very YA novel in tone, pace, and writing style. But I’d have to say IWWV is a better book because at least it’s fun. And it has Shakespeare. TWCG is not fun. It’s one of those books that has an obvious author’s agenda. That’s not my assumption: Burton admitted it herself. In a March 2022 essay that Burton wrote for LitHub, she says that her book is “an homage to and subversion of” the campus novel.

It’s not the homage that grates, but the “subversion.” Lest you find yourself, like Laura, beguiled by aesthetics and atmosphere, the book hammers you with warnings: The campus is calcified in meaningless tradition. Virginia and her clique adopt an actual fascist as their artistic and spiritual role model. The school’s faculty is so clueless that no one notices Virginia is literally--and rather extravagantly--losing her mind.

All this obvious messaging wouldn’t be so bad if we’d ever had a chance to feel beguiled in the first place. There’s little here to attract even those with “a morbid longing for the picturesque.” Virginia is an unappealing and creepy fanatic who dresses like a Dickensian widow and whose religious beliefs swing between punitive orthodoxy and sour, self-pitying disillusion. Laura is a colorless sadsack who practically disappears from huge portions of the novel. The rest of the characters don’t deserve mention because they are so undeveloped.

The explosive confluence of spiritual fervor and adolescent passion is rich territory to mine for fiction, but Burton never delves into it. Her characters idolize Sebastian Webster and his mediocre teenage writings, but all of them (even the supposedly brilliant and devout Virginia) seem to have little interest in actual Christian theology and philosophy, and not much real (or even performative) faith---no one even goes to church on Sunday! Burton herself has a doctorate in theology from Oxford and writes extensively about religion, so this must be a deliberate, “subversive” choice: making it glaringly obvious to readers that everything about the choir clique is superficial. They’re just dumb kids, self-importantly playing around with dangerous delusions and not thinking of the consequences. Just like the Greek class, get it??

After YA-style forays into romantic rivalries, cruel social media pranks, and a leaked sex tape, the consequences come...and they’re unbelievable, excessive, and unearned (while also leaning offensively into the old “kill your gays” cliché). The big calamity happens so close to the end of the novel that readers have no chance to process it, so to make it feel “meaningful,” Burton ends the book with several heavy-handed pages of Laura’s rambling reflections about what she’s supposedly learned from all this drama and death, such as:

...sometimes you can decide to say no to the world; maybe you can even affirm it, even if you don’t believe it, deep down, even if you are old and wise enough to know how wrong you are, and maybe, Laura thinks, that’s what strength is.

Okaaaay.

I’m inclined to be hard on The World Cannot Give because Burton’s essays on campus novels and The Secret History were published right before its release, and so they were part of the publicity campaign for her book. And that’s where things get interesting.

She criticizes TSH for characters that are not “likeable” and “little more than aesthetic tropes“ who “lack any sense of internal conflict” and are also devoid of “human specificity.” She accuses the book of what she calls “bleak nihilism” and a “disdain for the dignity of human life itself.” And finally, she complains that “we never actually see anyone transformed,” and that TSH treats its readers “with chilling contempt.”

To write such pointed criticism of The Secret History while you are promoting your own version of The Secret History, is some remarkable chutzpah, especially when The World Cannot Give is guilty of nearly everything of which Burton accuses TSH. Not to mention it’s considerably more juvenile, less interesting, and with none of Donna Tartt’s exquisite writing or talent for plot development. If this is “subversion,” then I’ll take the “nihilism” of The Secret History any day.

In that Gawker piece, Burton elaborates:

As The Secret History, and I, enter our fourth decade, I reread the book, curious whether my adolescent revulsion was a function of my own immaturity or some kind of literary envy (after all, who doesn't want to write a fabulously successful debut novel about Greek-reading teenagers?)...at 31 no less than at 17, I am enough of an idealist to think that the only proper response to that world remains the same revulsion I felt then.

If The World Cannot Give is Burton’s answer to The Secret History, then I’d say immaturity and literary envy are things she still needs to work on.

***********************

Links to the articles mentioned in this post:

LitHub: https://lithub.com/how-campus-novels-reveal-the-power-and-danger-of-pure-ideas/

Gawker: https://www.gawker.com/culture/tartt-for-tartts-sake-the-secret-history-at-30

#the world cannot give #tara isabella burton #the secret history #donna tartt #dark academia

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olivia-anderson-fanfic · 3 years

Text

A Miraculous TikTok Account

Part 4

First

Ya’ll I spent eight hours on this chapter just trying to make it somewhat readable and I still don’t know if I succeeded but if I stare at this any longer I can and will cry don’t test me --

Chat did not know how to chat, and he would appreciate it if people stopped trying to engage him in conversation.

(And by ‘people’ he really meant Rena. Everyone else in the house seemed perfectly happy to not talk to him.)

As much as he would love to sit down with someone and talk about things, he simply didn’t know how to do it.

He was terrible with people. He wanted to blame this on the cat miraculous, but that wasn’t fair to Plagg. He’d been bad at talking to others long before he’d been given the ring.

It wasn’t entirely his fault, he’d never really been given the chance to learn.

He’d been homeschooled his entire life, after all. Talking with people his age was not a skill he’d ever really developed --.

Actually, scratch that, talking with people just wasn’t a skill he’d developed.

His family had always been somewhat separated, rich families often are, but when his mother disappeared it had gotten even worse.

His father had been slightly less distant when he’d found out that he was Chat Noir (because of course he’d found out, they had security cameras all over the property), but only for a little while. Once he’d made it clear he wasn’t going to hand over the ring his father had gone from emotionally distant to outright absent.

By Chloe’s now infamous interview, Chat had only really had his bodyguard to talk to (and his bodyguard, unfortunately, wasn’t much for conversation).

So, yeah, he had very valid reasons for not being good with people.

And the rest of the miraculous holders were decidedly not the kind of people you start off with when you want to learn how to talk to others.

The other miraculous holders weren’t perfect, but they were as close as he’d ever seen.

What was he supposed to do? Just go up and talk to them?

According to Google, yes, but that was a lot harder than it seemed. He didn’t know much about them outside of work because of the whole ‘secret identities’ thing but he also didn’t want to just talk about work because he wanted more than a straight business relationship --.

He closed his computer with a snap and rested his hands over his eyes. He could feel Plagg nuzzling against his cheek, trying to calm him down…

Chat steadied his breathing. He couldn’t allow himself to be akumatized. The one time he had been akumatized had been awful, he wasn’t looking for a repeat.

He let his hands slide off his face when he had finally managed to relax himself.

Part of him was tempted to try and befriend someone in the house, it would make things a lot easier. Maybe he’d go for Rena or Carapace… they were both nice enough...

Nope. He was Parisian, and Parisians don’t deal with their emotions.

“Plagg, claws out.”

The kwami gave him a vaguely exasperated look as he disappeared into his ring.

He hesitated at the window, then doubled back to grab his phone. He should really start gathering footage for TikTok… but what should he do?

He didn’t really have a ‘thing’, not like the others did. Carapace was the nice one, Chloe would bully you into bettering yourself, Ladybug was perfect, Rena was knowledgeable about everything, and Chat was… first?

Sure, he’d had plenty of opportunity to grow into a persona. But he hadn’t wanted that for himself. He already had a public persona when he was a civilian, he didn’t need another one. No, this was his chance to be himself and he would take it.

But now he was kind of regretting it. What should he film? What was ‘in character’ when you didn’t have a character? He didn’t know.

He tipped his head from side to side as he considered his options and then shrugged to himself. He’d think about it on the way.

It was just outside that he got his idea, because the neighbor’s dog barked at him and nearly messed up his jump to the next rooftop. He scrambled for purchase, clawed hands scraping the tiles, and caught himself on the edge of the roof.

It took a little more effort than he’d like to admit, but he managed to pull himself up.

He slowly looked down at the dog that had nearly been the death of him (not really, it was a twenty foot drop, but let him be dramatic --).

Then his eyes lit up, because that is the cutest dog ever ohmykwamilookathisstupidlittleface --!

He pulled up the camera app and started recording. The world NEEDED to see this.

Turns out not talking to anyone sucks.

At least when he needed to talk he used to be able to vent to his bodyguard, but now…

He didn’t even really want to talk, now that he thought about it, he just wanted to be around people.

Should he go out in public? He could do that now… actually, no, he’d rather not be hounded by fans.

Or maybe he could contact Kagami, it had been a while… no, she was probably still not allowed out.

Actually, wait, he was supposed to be in Tibet. So, he couldn’t go out without his mask.

Then what could he do…?

Dang, he was going to have to talk to his housemates, huh?

Here were his options: 1) try and get Ladybug to not hate him 2) try and befriend Carapace 3) try and get Chloe to be nice to him 4) try and befriend Rena.

(Yes, the “try and” is a very important part of that list. He was very sure none of these would work.)

Three and four were right out, honestly. Chloe had only ever been nice to Sabrina, and Chat wasn’t willing to be the girl’s servant. As for Rena, she was… too friendly, he thought, he should probably get used to people first.

That left one and two…

He tipped his head to the side.

Or or OR, and hear him out here, he could go on patrols -- wait, no, Rena had called dibs for the night.

Fine.

He climbed the ladder to Ladybug’s room/the attic and pushed open the hatch.

Ladybug fell from the ceiling. She groaned and rolled onto her back, and almost instantly a hammer nailed the area where her head had just been. She didn’t seem all that concerned about the fact that she had nearly died, though, instead pushing herself to a sitting position and smiling at him in a way that made him wonder if he’d imagined the previous five seconds.

“Need something?”

Well, a near death experience was definitely not what he had in mind when he’d thought about making it up to her, even if she didn’t seem all that worried...

Now that he thought about it, though, could he even apologize if he didn’t know what she was mad at him for?

He met her increasingly annoyed gaze and then slowly disappeared back down the hatch.

He closed the trapdoor behind himself and then headed down into the kitchen. He’d slept through lunch and dinner was ages away but it turns out that the best thing about living alone is that you can choose when you eat and sleep. Take that, Natahalie...

To his surprise, he wasn’t the only one hungry at an odd hour.

He found Carapace in full costume. This wouldn’t have been weird if Chat didn’t know that Carapace was, in fact, not due for patrols for a few more days…

And then his eyes were drawn to a faint green light and his eyebrows raised. It seemed that Carapace was using his powers to make plates… to use as actual plates? Three glowing, green hexagons were currently piled high with food.

His eyes found their way to the sink and he suddenly understood. The house had come to a silent agreement that whoever uses the last plate must wash up (and whoever filled the trash to the top had to take it out). Apparently Carapace had been the one to get set for that, but instead he’d summoned something else to use so he wouldn’t have to clean.

“You gonna tell?”

Chat tipped his head from side to side as he considered this, then shrugged. “Can I have a plate?”

Carapace groaned a little but waved his hand and a plate appeared in Chat’s hand.

Chat beamed. “Thanks!”

“Mhmm.”

With that, Carapace went back to eating.

Chat started searching the freezer for chicken nuggets to heat up. It turns out that getting your food made for you for your entire life does not make you an expert cook.

He drummed his fingers on the counter as he waited for the food to warm.

Part of him, the annoying part, was enjoying reminding him that he had intended to try and 1) get Ladybug to not hate him or 2) befriend Carapace and, hey, look at that! He’d already messed up one and two was right there…

Carapace was reading a textbook. Probably trying to get an early start on one of his classes, if Chat had to guess.

Maybe he could help…?

Carapace looked over at him and raised an eyebrow under his mask.

Nope!

He pulled his still-cold chicken nuggets out of the microwave and booked it to his room.

~~~

Taglist

@nathleigh @mialuvscats @sassakitty @th1s-1s-my-aesthet1c @blueslushgueen

#a miraculous tiktok account #adrien agreste #chat noir #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #nino lahiffe #carapace #alya cesaire #rena rouge #chloe bourgeois #queen bee #miraculous fic #ml fic #rewriting miraculous #chloenette #chlonette #adrino

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anxiouslymalicious · 4 years

Text

Losers Club Plus One Part 8

A Richie Tozier x daughter!reader series

Read the previous part here or go here for the complete Masterlist!

A/N; Hello everyone, I’m sorry for the long wait, but I have been struggling with this one a lot and still don’t feel like it’s as good as it could be, but this is the happiest I have felt about any of the versions I have written for this chapter. Anyway, this is about 3.8k words. I hope you enjoy!

“What do you mean you don’t know? Weren’t you there when she was born?!” asked Ben, stressed out beyond belief over the whole situation. He, Bev And Richie had settled in his room while Eddie got cleaned up and Bill sat in front of Y/N’s and Richie’s room, trying to get her to open up to him. He had arrived not long after the situation escalated and had been sat before the room ever since he heard what happened. Well, after giving Richie shit for never bothering to find out. Richie wasn’t mad at Bill though. He was giving himself shit for never bothering to find out, for taking her with him, for being so careless.

“I mean that I never made a test. There was a birth certificate with her, the mother’s name wasn’t readable anymore, but it had my name on it. So, I assumed…” Richie drifted off, another painful sob racking through his body. His chest was aching more and more with every sob. He hid his face in his hands again, like he had countless times in the past half an hour. The shame was too much for him.

Richie felt the bed dip beside him as Bev sat down on his right, laying a hand on his back, her head resting against his shoulder. She was shaken up to say the least, not expecting anything like that. When she first encountered Y/N, she had thought about how little physical similarities there were between the girl and her father, but she never would have thought that there might be a bigger reason to that than genetic randomness.

Ben, meanwhile, was still pacing the room, not sure what to think of the whole situation.

“Do you want to get tested?” Beverly asked carefully. Her voice was soft and hesitant, eyes travelling from Richie to Ben and back to Richie as helplessness took over her. And not only her. None of the Losers knew what to think of anything that was going on.

Richie looked up a little, chin and mouth still covered by his hand that he never fully lifted from his face. Then, he shook his head vigorously.

“I’m scared.” He finally uttered, voice cracking and barely more than a whisper. The two Losers easily heard how rough his voice sounded, like his vocal cords had turned to sandpaper. Beverly sighed, along with Ben who ran his hand through his hair before settling his hands on his hips. He had stopped his nervous pacing and instead stepped closer to the two Losers on his bed.

“Listen, Trashmouth. You really fucked up. We all know that. But sitting here and wallowing in self-pity won’t make anything right again. You need to do something.” Ben said, kneeling down before his friend. Richie nodded as yet another sob escaped his lips.

“I’m just so scared. Did I just lose my little girl?” Richie asked, teary gaze moving from Bev to Ben. Both of them felt tears of their own stinging in their eyes. Beverly shook her head.

“I don’t think so.” She replied, trying to put as much confidence into her words as possible although she really wasn’t sure if she believed herself. Ben nodded a little, agreeing with her.

“You’re shit, Y/N knows that too. She’s hurt but I don’t think she hates you.” Ben rested one of his hands on Richie’s knee, hoping to provide some form of comfort as he looked up at the broken man. Each of the Losers had witnessed the others breaking down before. It was completely out of character for most of them, almost like an out-of-body-experience, but Ben and Beverly silently agreed that they had never before seen Richie that low.

It was hard on the other Losers too, though. It wasn’t only Richie whose heart was breaking.

Beverly was actually deeply worried for the girl. After all, Bev had never had a good relationship with her father. He had been abusive, good for nothing, but she still loved him. She still came back time and time again. And she saw herself in Y/N. She knew that Richie never meant to hurt her and wouldn’t ever dare to lay a finger on her, but if Y/N felt that being hurt by her loved ones was alright, would she find herself in a relationship like Beverly’s in the future?

Ben’s heart was aching for her. He knew what it was like to be the outcast. He knew what it was like to find people you adored dearly only to be ripped away from them again. He was sure Y/N felt that way now. Like her safe place, for both alike, the Losers Club, would be taken from her, but most importantly, the man she thought was her father, her only family, was in some ways taken away from her. It was cruel and Ben was scared that she would feel equally lost as he did when he had to move away as a kid. He never really recovered from the hurt his mother caused him back then.

Eddie was silently breaking down in his bathroom. To him, Y/N was such a little sunshine and she didn’t deserve any of this. She didn’t deserve a hurt relationship with her father like he had with his own mother growing up. Richie didn’t deserve that either, but Eddie knew just how much this loss of reality can affect someone. He himself had felt as though he had lost his grip on reality when he spent time in the hospital after breaking his arm. When he pushed his mother to her limits. When he too felt as though he was about to lose the only biological family he had left.

Lastly, Bill was desperate. He had pushed Georgie away and never got the chance to apologise. Time was ticking. What if she or Richie wouldn’t find back together? Bill couldn’t let that happen. His mind was set on saving them the eternal heartache of knowing that it was your fault that a loved one died, the heartache of knowing that the other died feeling unloved. He felt that this was his opportunity to make things right. To not give IT the satisfaction of tearing another family apart.

Which was why he was still, after half an hour, hammering against Y/N’s room door, trying to argue with the girl who mostly replied with hums and groans.

“Y/N p-p-please… This is n-not real. I p-p-promise you.” Bill tried, now growing desperate. Impatient. He felt like he was running out of time. His back was leaned against the door, teeth gnawing at his lips.

“How can you promise that?” Y/N sobbed. The hurt she felt was inexplicable. It was just too much. Her world had been torn apart, nothing made sense anymore and she felt like she just couldn’t go on.

“B-because I c-can.” Bill said, then sighed, knowing just how stupid he sounded. “W-what are we t-to you? W-w-what does the L-Losers Club mean to you?” That sounded better in his ears.

Silence. Then, “I appreciate you.”

“W-we do too. And t-the second R-R-Richie introduced you as h-his d-daughter, I d-d-decided that, to m-me, y-you are a part of this f-f-family.” Bill replied.

“I’m not Richie’s daughter though.” She said, followed by another heart-wrenching sob echoing through the door. Bill winced.

“W-What is a f-father to you?” Bill missed Stan terribly in this situation. He would have done a much better job. He had usually been able to clear everyone’s head out, bringing people closer together again, or at least he was able to talk some sense into them. A single tear managed to escape Bill’s eye, rolling down his cheek until he caught it, wiping it away with the back of his hand. He was mourning for his friend.

“I-I’m sorry, k-kiddo. Stan w-would have been much b-better at this. Sorry. I’m t-trying here, please b-bear with me.” A dry chuckle escaped Bill’s lips. “J-just… what does a p-p-person have to do t-to be a father?”

“I don’t know.” She replied. “I really don’t know. Be there for their kid, I guess. Be honest. Take good care of them. Love them and show them that they’re loved every day. Spend time with them… That stuff.”

Bill smiled a little. “D-Didn’t Richie do m-m-most of that? I mean b-besides the honesty-part.”

She sighed. “But it’ll change so much…”

“W-what exactly would it c-change?” Bill knew that he had finally cornered her. He knew that he had Y/N exactly where he wanted. Suddenly, he felt the door move, but he wasn’t quick enough to adjust his balance and fell flat on his back, met with Y/N’s tear-stained face peeking at him shyly from behind the door. Hastily, he got up as Y/N pulled the door a little further open to grant Big-Bill access to the room. He didn’t waste a second and embraced Y/N tightly, closing the door behind them.

It felt good to be held. Y/N whimpered and winced, broken sobs and shallow gasps racked pained her airways and throat, but she felt. And that was nice.

“Shhh… Y-you’re safe. E-everything will b-be alright.” Bill mumbled, hoping to calm her, but not only her. He, too, needed some support, he needed to hear those words, even if they were his own. Otherwise he knew he would go insane.

“Promise?” Y/N mumbled. She knew it would be a lie, but just for a moment, she wanted to embrace the naïve trust of the child in her. She wanted to blindly follow what the adults told her to do and what they told her would be the truth. She didn’t want to think and decide for herself, but rather go back home, to the safe distance that separated Derry from LA, that separated Derry from the rest of the world, really.

“I p-p-promise.” Bill replied. He looked at his best friend’s presumed daughter and felt utterly helpless. Could he really promise that? He wanted her to be alright, yes, but were lies the right way?

“Can you… uh…”

“Want m-me to call R-R-Richie over?”

Y/N nodded. Bill, feeling a little at ease, grinned and left the room only to reappear a few minutes later, a shaking Richie under his arm. Dried tear streaks besmirched his paler-than-usual cheeks. Richie looked tired. Mentally exhausted, yes, but it seemed almost as though he has aged about two decades in the past hour.

“I’m r-r-right outside if y-you n-need me.” Bill told the two before stepping out, closing the door behind him. Y/N remained quiet, just like Richie. He was slumped over, hands balled in the pockets of his jacket. Y/N could see how hard he was gritting his teeth, trying not to let more tears fall. Richie looked defeated.

Y/N, however, was ready to fight. Her body was rigid, tense, and Richie thought that not even that stupid bitch of a clown would survive a fight with his little girl. Not in that very moment. There was blood on her thumb, Richie assumed she had excessively bit down on it, accidentally tearing it. Richie saw the unshed tears in her eyes and dried tear streaks stained her angrily blushing cheeks.

“Y/N, I,” Richie started, but the words caught in his throat, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

She remained quiet.

“I just… Someone left you on my doorstep. They rang the bell and just took off. I had no chance of finding out who it was. But there was a letter. I still have it at home. Couldn’t throw that stupid piece of shit paper away.” A dry chuckle escaped Richie’s lips as he stepped closer to the bed, where Y/N was standing.

“It was from your mother. I can tell you what it said, or I can give you the letter once we get home. But something about it made me want to trust that unnamed person. And you were crying. So loudly and desperately, it made me cry too. I was so fucking scared. I mean, I still am, but back in the day, everything happened so suddenly and I was still living in my fucked up one-room apartment. Fuck, I still wrote my own shit.” Richie ran a hand over his face, up to his hair, then looked at Y/N. Her arms were crossed in a defensive manner in front of her chest.

“But you looked at me with those fucking huge eyes and it was like you told me that we could do this. And I trusted you. And when you grew older, you were so much like me. I never felt the need to do a paternity test. I’m so fucking sorry, Y/N.” Richie couldn’t hold his tears back any longer. His voice sounded shallow, pained, even. Y/N just sighed, but she could feel her own tears fall, shoulders relaxing in the slightest.

“If you want me to, I’ll take the test the second we get back home. But to me you are and will always be my daughter. Fucking biology can’t change that. Please, please forgive me, little one. Please. I’m so fucking sorry.” Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier was full-on pleading now. Pure fear had taken over his body, fear of losing the most important person in his life. The little girl he had taken care of, taken in, cared for and given all his love for the longest time of his life. He couldn’t lose her.

“It’s okay, Richie. I’d just like to know if you’re my biological father too on top of being my psychological dad.” Y/N muttered before finally letting loose, allowing her body to break down again. She knew that it wasn’t just okay. She, as much as Richie knew that it would take time to rebuild their trust, to get back to where they were. She knew that she couldn’t just forgive him for basically lying to her all her life, but he couldn’t help it. He had been blind with trust and now he would have to pay the price.

Richie hesitated for a moment, not knowing if she wanted distance between them to sort out her feelings or if she was craving the comfort from the man she considered her father throughout her whole life. Ultimately, he decided against his gut-feeling and shot up from the bed, wrapping his arms around her crumbling frame.

They cried. It was raw and real and painful, but it was just as relieving. Wet, desperate sounds of hurt and heartache crawled up their throats, echoing in the room. Struggling breaths and hurried gasps. Cries for help from above. Cries for the past.

Eddie, in his room, could hear the wailing sounds. They pained him. They made him want to cry as he cleaned himself up. Eddie didn’t want anything more than for the two to be alright. He wanted the man he loved to be alright and he wanted for that man’s daughter to be alright. Eddie’s creeping hopes of going home with them rather than going back to Myra felt as though they had been shattered. He felt guilty for not wanting to go back to her, but Eddie wanted to be happy. And he felt more than just happy when he was with the Tozier-Trashmouth-duo. He felt free and accepted and loved whereas with Myra, he felt oppressed and stuck in the same vicious circle every day of his life.

He appreciated her, he appreciated how she cared for him, how she reminded him of all the meds he had to take and how he could unwind a little with her after a long day at work. Eddie did have actual romantic feelings for that woman years and years ago, but now, he felt that all those feelings had faded and since arriving in Derry, the thought of going back to Myra made him feel uneasy more than anything.

He would much rather go home with the chaotic Toziers. Get to know how they live. He could help Richie manage his life. He could help Y/N whenever she was struggling in school. Maybe, just maybe, Eddie could stay at home, make sure that everything was cleaned and cared for, cook and plan out little weekend trips. Maybe he could pick up a small job to support the duo, or he could keep working at his job, it wasn’t something he couldn’t do elsewhere, and save whatever was left of his income for Y/N’s later education.

Eddie smiled, a blush on his cheeks, as he wet the cloth, trying to get the dirt off himself. Only seconds later, his happy daydreams were rudely interrupted by the most terrifying nightmare.

Ben had checked in with the Toziers as the cleansing cries ebbed off and were replaced with soft, uneven whimpers and whispers.

“We need you two right here with us.” He had told them, eyes moving from one tear-stained face to the other. Ben looked closely, examined their faces in the most detailed way, searching for similarities between the two and ending up a little satisfied as he found a few. Like the way their noses were curved. The fine lips, the gentle eyes. Ben found that they had more in common than they might have seen. He hoped that it wasn’t just mother nature and his own mind playing tricks on him.

“We’ll stay, don’t worry.” Richie replied as he watched Ben. Little did Ben know that neither Richie nor Y/N planned on staying in Derry. Ben had closed the door behind him, his steps outside growing quieter as he was on his way downstairs, unintentionally interrupting the kiss between Bev and Bill before proudly explaining to them how he managed to get Richie and Y/N to stay.

“Let’s leave.” Richie said hurriedly, back in the room. His heart was clenching in his chest at the thought of leaving his friends, most importantly Eddie, behind to fend for themselves, but fixing his family was more important to him. The blankness of Y/N face, the emptiness of her eyes, the lack of emotion in her facial features scared Richie more than IT ever could.

Y/N nodded. She was too exhausted to interact with Richie any longer. She felt empty, almost as though with all the tears she cried, she had cried out her heart and soul and every last emotion in her brain. She felt like something had been ripped away from her. Like she was incomplete. Although she knew that Richie wasn’t really gone. He was still there, still her father, but she still felt… Strange. Because everything she had believed as she grew up might have been a huge misunderstanding. And that was a lot to take in.

Richie smiled a little. Then, he gave her a gentle clap on the shoulder, the last non-frantic movement he would make for the next few minutes. What ensued was Richie, a constant stream of swear words leaving his lips, hastily searching the room for any items that might belong to them, carelessly throwing what was left in the room into the bags. He then grabbed both bags, gently pushing his daughter to the window where a fire escape led them outside, to the comfort of the expensive car.

Y/N climbed into the back, stretching her legs across the seats while Richie threw the bags in the trunk, slamming it close, then struggled to get in and start the car. The second the motor started, Richie seemed to be a little at ease, his shoulders relaxing further the more distance he put between his little family and the hotel of horror.

Richie had turned on the radio, a random rock song was playing, and he anxiously bopped his head along to the beat. The song sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t be bothered to strain his brain for the name.

Y/N had curled up against the backseats, legs spread out over the seats. She wasn’t comfortable, but it felt better than facing the world and sitting up. She felt too tired to do that. Instead, she looked out the window, simply watching as the world passed by.

The car came to an abrupt halt, shaking the girl halfway out of her trance. She sat up a little, confused as to where the pair might be. She spotted a synagogue and let her eyes travel to Richie who now seemed to be in a little trance himself. His vision blurred with tears and he suddenly looked back at his little girl.

“Uhm… Would you- do you mind if we-“ Richie sniffled a little, pointing at the synagogue just outside. Carefully, Y/N shook her head, silently telling the man that it would be alright. And so, Richie parked the car and climbed out, leading his daughter inside. He hadn’t been there in years. Not since the bar mitzvah. Not since Stanley’s speech.

His nose filled with the typical, slightly musty smell of the place. He knew that warm but kind of old smell from the time he supported Stan when no one else would.

Richie and Y/N sat down on one of the benches and Richie’s gaze wandered through the room. In his mind, he tried to think of how it had looked back in the day. He tried to remember the decorations, how he and his mother were dressed, what Stanley wore.

How he acted. Richie’s mother had felt embarrassed that Richie couldn’t keep his Trashmouth in check for once. But not only how Richie himself acted, admittedly quite tame compared to what his teachers usually heard from him. This was about Stanley.

How he acted up against what was expected from him. How we said that he was and would always be a Loser.

How Stanley reminded Richie of who he was and would always be. That he was alright just the way he was. That he didn’t need to be afraid of who he was.

How Stanley reminded Richie that his friends needed him.

And how much he needed his friends. ‘Because Losers stick together’.

“Thank you for showing up, Stanley.” Richie sniffled in the quietest voice he could muster

And with that, Richie grabbed Y/N’s hand and pulled her outside again, ready to go meet Mike at the library. Ready to stand by his friends. Ready to fuck the bitch up who dared to lay a finger on his little girl and tried to tear them apart. And, lastly, ready to face Eddie. Because Richie really needed Eddie to know how he felt about him.

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Taglist (if you want to be tagged in the next part, let me know! I apologise if your tag doesn’t work or if I forgot to tag you. Tumblr is weird sometimes and doesn’t show me all my notifications.)

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summeryewberry · 3 years

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I’ve just finished reading the first 10 books from M. J. Trow’s Marlowe Mystery Series. The books vary in quality, but all up I’ve absolutely enjoyed it.

It’s historical fiction, set in Elizabethan England, and revolving around the playwright Christopher Marlowe solving mysteries, working as a spy, and writing the plays he’s known for today.

The language isn’t completely period-accurate, but I assume that’s to make it more readable for a modern audience to immerse themselves in. Still, it’s solidly entertaining, with a fair amount of humour. It’s well researched, although obviously with some forgivable creative licenses taken.

The series starts off with Christopher Marlowe at 18/19, a student at Corpus Christi, Cambridge University, which was at the time a direct path to a career in the church, except that Marlowe's dream is to become a playwright in London. A modern equivalent of that would be someone who studies law or politics, gets their Master's degree, and then decides to become famous with a death metal band instead.

Marlowe starts off as a young scholar who spends most of his time doing what he likes (rather than what his teachers want from him), including getting drunk, fighting, and sneaking in and out of his college after dark. His fellow students call him “Machiavel,” and he's set up as a clever, cheeky troublemaker with a temper and impulse control issues. Luckily, trouble is a place in which he thrills at being; it excites him, and he has full confidence in his own abilities to handle anything.

But he's not without a heart, as much as some people around him might think so. He's a loyal friend and protective of the innocent. He has a sense of justice, and is willing to kill to put things right.

Marlowe is an atheist during a time when England was forcibly Protestant, at a time when churches still ruled daily life. As a result, the books mostly steer away from anything overly religious or supernatural, sticking with Marlowe's cynical, secular view.

Marlowe's homosexuality is hinted at, but there's no love interest in the first 10 books anyway (I haven’t read the 11th). Whether that's believable to you or not, you'll have to judge for yourself. The books choose to focus on the mysteries that drive them, and on the world around Marlowe, rather than on any emotional inner life.

As the series goes on, you get to know Marlowe as someone who picks up skills like a sponge, who only needs to hear something, see something, or try something once in order to remember it. He’s not always a reliable narrator, but he’s always sympathetic. While his relationships with the women around him are lovely, full of respect and empathy, partly because there's no kind of attraction there, and party because he grew up with five sisters, just as independent-minded as him.

There are plenty of historical figures who show up throughout the series, including William Shakespeare before he becomes famous. If you know your history that adds some nice little bonuses to the books, but it’s not really necessary to know who these people are before reading the books.

The books:

Book 1: Dark Entry - Set just as Marlowe is finishing his Bachelor degree at Cambridge, with a murder mystery among the students and teachers there. The book ends with Sir Francis Walsingham recruiting Marlowe for Her Majesty's Secret Service, and thus begins his career as a spy.

Book 2: Silent Court - Kit's first mission: head towards the Netherlands to protect the King. He does this by joining a caravan troupe of travellers where he learns tricks and sleight-of-hand, things that will serve him well later in his career as a spy. Very little of the book takes place in the Netherlands, and the plot does a whole lot of meandering before you figure out where it's all leading, and with a disappointing ending it's my least favourite book of the series. However...

Book 3: Witch Hammer - Builds directly on the last book, with Marlowe needing to rebuild his confidence, so that makes book 2 retroactively better. Marlowe joins a travelling theatre troupe and immediately has his first play stolen. We meet a young Will Shakespeare in Warwickshire and prove that witches are not real, but evil hearts and minds certainly are.

Book 4: Scorpion's Nest - Marlowe is sent to Catholic France to track down a fugitive. It's the last book set in an academic setting, and it's full of wonderful characters, and Marlowe always needing to stay one step ahead of the suspicious college authorities. One of my favourites.

Book 5: Crimson Rose - Marlowe has finally graduated with his Master's degree and made it to London, where his play, Tamburlaine, is starting to gain attention. London is a riot of personalities, actors, familiar faces, crime, betrayal, breaking Shakespeare out of gaol, harbouring him as a fugitive, and Marlowe then having to clear his own name on top of it all. It's loud and entertaining, and my personal favourite of the series.

Book 6: Traitor's Storm - Marlowe is sent to the Isle of Wight to find out what happened to a fellow agent, and discovers a whole series of murders. The book involves the Spanish Armada, pirates, and again, a bunch of wonderful personalities.

Book 7: Secret World - We get a glimpse of Marlowe's family, before he is once again swept up in a murder investigation that has something to do with Francis Drake, the English privateer. As Marlowe does his own investigating he meets a Jewish jeweller, gets briefly arrested for murder and inspired to write The Jew of Malta. There are seeds of Marlowe's eventual downfall by introducing Robert Poley, and ending with Marlowe having murder on the brain, but he’s never anything other than sympathetic.

Book 8: Eleventh Hour - After the death of Sir Francis Walsingham, Marlowe sets out to prove it was murder. We meet the School of Night, a group of thinkers, occultists, and early scientists, and Marlowe begins work on his most spectacular play, Doctor Faustus. It's a more sombre book than the others in the series.

Book 9: Queen's Progress - Sent ahead of the queen to scout out locations, Marlowe discovers a series of violent attacks that are a little too conveniently arranged. Along the way, he's joined by friends old and new, which leads to Henslowe's crew staging their greatest production so far: placing Queen Elizabeth herself centre stage.

Book 10: Black Death - The plague rages through London, but it's not the only killer stalking the streets. Marlowe just can't let a mystery lie, even when he hates the victim. The book introduces Bedlam, and comes full circle by Marlowe returning to Cambridge. The difference between the man he was when he left from who he is now is stark.

Book 11: The Reckoning, came out in 2020, and I haven’t read it yet, but with a title like that you know it’s going to be the last of the series. I’m not planning to read it yet either, because I’m still enjoying labouring under the delusion that if I don’t read it, it won’t end as badly as history says it will. I’m only half joking.

It’s not the greatest series ever, but I have thoroughly enjoyed the series as a whole. I’ve loved spending time with the characters and seeing their stories unfold. I almost wish there were more books in the middle there, with more historical characters and more adventures. I’m going to miss following this version of Kit Marlowe on his adventures.

Are the books meaningful or profound? Not really.

Are they historically accurate? Sometimes.

Are they entertaining? Oh, so much!

#m. j. trow #summer blogs #christopher marlowe

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aasfandoms · 3 years

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Hiya, I feel like I've asked this before but I'll ask again. I'd like a bit of writing advice if that's alright with you? Just, how do you write thousands of words without making your story feel like it has too much going on or without making it super purple and wordy? Your fics always strike such a lovely balance between long and not overly detailed. I just struggle to write 1000 words without accidently writing the entire plot in one chapter, even if I try padding it out a bit, it's still too short for my taste.

This is tough to answer because honestly most of it comes with practice, which isn't always fun but is necessary. I find that I can strike a decent balance by including descriptions of the scene or items/people in it (but don't OVER describe, or describe every little thing; you want to mainly give the general vibe/description, the reader's brain will fill in details), what the characters thinks about those things, and their physical or emotional reaction to anything that sticks out.

It also helps to just... add things. Add a tiny thing that happens here and there, doesn't have to be plot relevant, just a little thing that the characters notices then moves past, or a small detail that just expands your length a little. Or something a little bigger that better reveals the characters personality or thoughts.

Here are maybe some examples that might help (featuring BkDK A/B/O);

Instead of saying something like;

"He went to the club right after work and hurried inside. After paying the entrance fee he slipped through a crowd to get to the main stage, where he waited eagerly."

Try expanding and adding some little things;

"After work Katsuki rushed home to change into something nicer than his plain civilian clothes. He chose a plain black shirt with a purple button-up over it and black pants. There was an attempt to do something with his hair, but it did not work. Oh well. He brushed his teeth, hastily wrapped his gifts, and hurried out the door. Maybe, just maybe, he sped a little too.

It was 5:45 by the time he got to the club. He left the gifts in the car and hurried inside. “Has Zuzu danced yet?” He asked the lady behind the counter who took his cash and marked his hand.

“No, but he’s up next.”

“Thanks,” he scurried inside.

It was busier than two nights ago, but that made sense. It was Friday. Every pervert in the city was rushing to the strip clubs to spend their evening getting trashed and watching sexy dancers.

Technically, he was now part of that demographic, but he chose to ignore that fact.

The bar was busy but he didn’t give two shits about getting a drink or snack anyway. Instead, he pushed his way through the crowd to get to the main stage. A pretty female Omega was finishing up her dance, so he stood back until she was done. No sense taking up space that a paying customer could occupy. Wouldn't be fair to her at all. Once her song ended and she strutted off, he pushed forward and planted himself firmly against the stage.

His heart was racing. All he could think about was seeing Izuku again."

So we've added a detour to the house to change and get ready. We added a short conversation with the lady behind the counter. We've added his thoughts/observations about the club. We added a dancing lady that created more realism and lengthened our word count.

Additionally, by mentioning the counter lady and dancing lady, we've reminded the reader that there are other people in this world that effect it (instead of hyper-focusing on our two main characters) and we've shown how our character reacted to them and thereby gave him a little more depth.

We can tell he's eager and worried about being late by the convo with the counter lady. He was polite to wait and allow the dancing lady to make more tips instead of being rude and taking a spot from someone else, showing that even though he'd very focused/eager right now he still considers others and reacts to them, rather than ignoring them.

We also didn't over-describe the club. We know it's busy, we know there's a bar, we know there's a stage. Granted, this particular bar was described a little more in a previous chapter, but the general vibe was the same; we don't need details or the layout, just the important bits.

Here is an example of showing emotion through actions, not words;

Rather than saying;

"He finally received a text back. He stopped punching the bag to check his phone. He was eager to see what it said."

Let's do this;

"The text went unanswered for a few hours. Katsuki nearly forgot about it, so lost in showing this free-standing bag who was boss. He punched it hard enough to knock it over, then used his foot to force it back up. Just as he went for another swing he heard his phone chime. He nearly tripped over his own feet hurrying over to it."

It's a little longer, has a bit more character, has a bit of humor, and we've displayed that he's so excited to receive that text that he nearly fell over to see it. I like to include small, almost silly details like that because it feels human and it tells us what kind of emotions that person is feeling without actually just stating the emotion.

Another thing I like to do is bleed the real world or certain actions with characters thoughts. Here's an example;

"Hideki was standing outside, but his attention was on the dancer. Katsuki probably could have slipped right in past him, but he opted to just lean against the wall nearby and wait. His erection had, thankfully, disappeared, and these few moments alone allowed him to ground himself a little more. Stop exuding horny pheromones, exude some neutral or pleasant ones instead, straighten his clothes, check his hair, make sure he didn’t actually have any droll on his face, look presentable goddamnit."

Katsuki is taking a moment to gather himself and make sure he looks okay and we can tell he's nervous about it by the last 3 words, in which his inner dialogue has bled into what was real-world description.

We can combine these two things as well! Example:

"His schedule was next. It was the same as usual. Patrol started at eight. Lunch from noon to one. Patrol done by five. Same shit different day-

His phone chimed and he nearly dropped his coffee in the scramble to get it out of his pocket.

“The heck? You okay?” Eijiro asked.

“Shut up,” came the venomless bite. A text. From Izuku. Exactly what he’d been hoping for. His heart hammered in his chest."

His inner thoughts were cut-off my real world events and he reacted in a mild panic. By using very short sentences we can also show that his thoughts are racing and he's anxious to see what the text says.

When it comes to writing there are a lot of little tricks you can use to both lengthen your work and make it more fun to read. These are the ones I use most. Hopefully, it was helpful, or at least readable. I'm always happy to expand on something too or offer critiques!

Don't beat yourself up about not being as good as you want to be right now either. Like I said, it takes practice. My writing style now is very different from ten years ago and significantly better, but I've written and LOT of fics since then, read a lot of fics since then, and taken in writing advice I've gotten from others. It takes time to improve but that's no reason to stress! Have fun with your writing, you created it from nothing!

#a lot of little advice adds up #i hope this helps you out #let me know if you want more details or clarification!

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kreweleaderbuuru · 4 years

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Part 3 baybeeee i realised that the babies I use more often these days werent included. Annoying elaboration that doesnt matter under the cut

Sex

Self explainitory

Gender:

Self explanatory

Build:

Singrid: The most in-shape member of her family. She’s very enthusiastic about honing her skills with her hammer, carving canoes with her bare hands, and punching sharks in the face.

Grunt: The grunt has been working on building muscle, but her years of starvation and abuse have left her permanently stunted.

Algor: Despite being absolutely fuckall massive, he’s not too interested in honing his physique. He’s got some scholarly chub on the way.

Poom: Actually more muscular than you’d give him credit for- though still malnourished and spindly. His baggy clothes are in part to hide a very embarrassing hourglass figure.

Height:

Singrid: Just a few inches shorter than her brother, much to her dismay

Grunt: Shorty due to malnutrition

Algor: Fuckall massive

Poom: Comes from a pretty tall family, but just so happens to me the shortest member of that family. He thinks he’s shorter than he actually is.

Handiness:

Self explanatory

Intelligence, Scholarly:

Singrid: While Singrid was offered the same education as her brother, she struggled with even the most basic concepts. At a certain point she decided her job was just to carry heavy equipment. Living proof of nature vs. nurture.

Grunt: Scouted by inquest recruiters as a child. The Grunt was subjected to the standard foot soldiers ‘education’ within the Inquest. It wasn’t all that great, but it wasn’t like she could leave.

Algor: Personally tutored by his adopted asuran father- surpassing the potential of even some asuran peers in Rata Sum. Living proof of nurture vs. nature.

Poom: Got along okay in school, enough to Graduate Dynamics with above average grades. His true passions lie in paranormal investigation, which isnt as revered in Rata Sum. People just assume he’s crazy.

Wisdom:

Singrid: Would look a grenade launcher down the barrel as she’s trying to figure out how to fire it.

Grunt: What the Grunt lacks in formal education, she makes up for in sheer experience. She’s worked on just about every Inquest base the Megakrewe allows such a low-ranking agent, and tangled with more bizarre magical creatures than most norn hunters will in their lifetime.

Algor: Algor began making supply runs in greater Tyria when he was sixteen, allowing him to come into his own as a traveller and genius.

Poom: Easily distracted and has a nasty habit of sharing his conspiracy theories to the members of the organisations he suspects. Common sense is not amongst his strengths.

Education:

Singrid: Technically a ‘drop out’, seeing as her father gave up on teaching her alongside her brother. However, the special attention Ruffik can give Singrid while Algor is away has convinced her to give his lessons another go.

Grunt: Didn’t so much as ‘graduate’ as she was drafted to punishment detail. Her propensity for disaster and mayhem did not make her school days enjoyable.

Algor: Greatly exceeded his father’s expectations.

Poom: A decent student, but easily distracted by his true passions.

Social Ability:

Singrid: Dreamed all her life of leaving the Far Marina Base to party all through Tyria, only to suffer from extreme social anxiety. She’s since found happiness on the peaceful ice caps, content with her few friends and family.

Grunt: Pretty amicable, if you can get over the whining and increased likelihood of the bar burning down.

Algor: Still relatively uncomfortable in his own skin, but growing out of it.

Poom: A highly contagious affliction and subsequent quarantine has given an already antisocial oddball agoraphobia. Poom has slowly been taking steps to be more comfortable with people, and can at the very least venture outside without a panic attack.

Perceptiveness:

Singrid: Sensitive, painfully sensitive, so sensitive she becomes overwhelmed in large gatherings. Is one of the few people who can really understand Ruffik’s emotions at any given time and could be mistaken for a mind reader when it comes to people she’s close to.

Grunt: Despite her attempt at an aloof bounty huntress persona, the Grunt is mostly in wilful denial. She knows whats going on, why it’s going on, and how things will probably end. She’s very bad at pretending not to care.

Algor: His time outside the Far Marina Base has taken him from clueless hermit to what is average teenage boy. He still doesnt understand girls, though.

Poom: Absolute dogshit at reading social signals, to the point of being near debilitating. His friends have to intervene to keep him from being beaten up half the time.

Readability:

Singrid: There are two Singrids: The one who is comfortable and knows the people in the room, and the Singrid who is in public and trying to keep from crying. You wouldnt expect the firey young norn from the FMB to wilt so easily in a crowd, and you’d be wrong.

Grunt: Any attempts to hide her emotions are humorously in vain. Its lucky her partner, krewemate, and totally-not-boyfriend is painfully dense.

Algor: Can put up a pretty convincing stoic front. It’s when he opens his mouth the youthful bravado comes spilling out.

Poom: His high anxiety and odd mannerisms make him an open book. An open book in a language you cant read, but nonetheless open.

Introvert/Extrovert:

Self explanatory

Sexuality:

Singrid: Straight

Grunt: Straight

Algor: Bisexual

Poom: Pansexual with a male preference

Romanticism:

Singrid: Straight, Monogamous

Grunt: Straight, Monogamous

Algor: Biromantic, Open to Polyamory

Poom: Panromantic with a male preference, Monogamous

Romantic:

Singrid: Has a massive crush on her childhood friend, but he’s painfully oblivious.

Grunt: Hopelessly in love with her partner, friend, and krewemate, Anakk. Even though they live together, work together, provide each other with emotional support, and sleep together exclusively, they insist they are not in a relationship.

Algor: Would do anything for a partner to share his intellect, but is still too insecure to ask anyone out. There’s also the size factor- none of the other apprentices so much as reach his knee. That ‘tragedy’ is a bit romantic in its own right- according to him.

Poom: Is oblivious to romance, and hasnt had the best track record. His last relationship ended in nothing short of catastrophe, he’s still too ashamed to face his ex to stay long in Rata Sum. This has kept him rather guarded when it comes to relationships.

Affection:

Singrid: Very touchy. Will shamelessly pick up and snuggle anyone she cares about.

Grunt: Has a pointed distaste for ‘mushy stuff’ and goes out of her way to avoid any intimacy that could be construed as romantic.

Algor: Mostly only hugs his sister. Was more cuddly as a kid, but since the growth spurt he worries about accidentally crushing people.

Poom: Has gone three years without touch due to his affliction. Avoids touch like the plague so as not to become overwhelmed.

Disposition, Outwardly:

Singrid: Whether she’s in full swing or shyly hugging the wall, Singrid comes across as a friendly, if not rough around the edges- young norn.

Grunt: Affable and friendly until things go wrong. They’re usually going wrong.

Algor: Knows how to be polite in public. Snarks on occasion.

Poom: Absolute bastard of a man. You know this. Why even ask.

Disposition, Inwardly:

Singrid: Pretty neutral on people as a whole. Gets irritated easily, and doesnt have any kind words for people who make her uncomfortable.

Grunt: Is far more effected by her past than she lets on. The grunt is generally distrustful to strangers and spiteful to those who hurt her- even a little.

Algor: Has a healthy dollop of teen angst.

Poom: One of the more kindly people you’ll meet, once you get past his eccentricities. Genuinely doesnt want to upset anyone, and is a die hard pacifist.

Petty:

Singrid, Grunt, Algor: All petty little drama queens.

Poom: Will put up with a lot of bullshit, so long as you dont press one of his triggers. Can only really muster the energy to hate one thing at a time. Usually tries to solve ‘misunderstandings’ when they come up.

Sanity:

Singrid: Crippling social anxiety

Grunt: PTSD

Algor: He’s fine, honestly.

Poom: Autism, PTSD, Depression, Social Anxiety, Agoraphobia, probably more.

Freindliness:

Singrid: She knows who she likes, and isnt particularly eager to make new friends.

Grunt: Finds it relatively easy to get along with people, especially if theres alcohol involved. She has a strange habit for attracting the affections of much larger and more powerful beings. Anakk, her skyscale Mr. Bastard, and the hulking inquest abomination Brukk, to name a few.

Algor: Able to chat up strangers so long as he’s not feeling too self-important. He’s growing out of that bit, though.

Poom: Absolutely desperate for validation. Can and will join a cult if he’s not claimed.

Stoicism:

Singrid: Will break pretty easily either from her anxiety or by getting too excited about a cool rock.

Grunt: Attempts are made at stoicism. They are laughable.

Algor: Is prone to teen melodrama. He’s growing out of it, though.

Poom: Will go home and cry for stepping on a bug.

Grace:

Singrid: Her training in the harsh Far Marina conditions have made her an adept warrior.

Grunt: Prone to disaster.

Algor: Is actually quite a talented dancer when no one’s watching. One of the ways he tries to stay in shape between studies.

Poom: If he’s not knocking something over, he’s putting his foot in his mouth.

Stubbornness:

Self explanatory

Bravery:

Singrid: Despite her issues with crowds, she’s run after icebrood twice her size with nothing but a dagger. Has wanted to cultivate an epic legend ever since she was a kid.

Grunt: Complete snivelling coward.

Algor: Will run from conflict as easily as he runs from a spider.

Poom: An almost destructive lack of self-preservation.

Loyalty:

Singrid: The few companions she has, she aims to keep.

Grunt: Wont die for the ship, but will save her favourite pirate.

Algor: Still has somewhat naive opinions on teamwork in a krewe. It’s almost a good thing he’ll likely never be in one.

Poom: Not a lot of people understand him, those that try are greatly appreciated. Even people who dont try, he’ll gladly meet half way. Even if you dont even like him at all he’s got your back. Even if you’ve just spit in his mouth he’ll-

Lawfulness:

Singrid: Does what she wants. If that means breaking some heads, she’ll do it. If it means drinking tea and brushing up on her knitting, thats her glitching right!

Grunt: Rules are for people who don’t regularly get hit by lightning.

Algor: Painfully naive.

Poom: The rules suck, but he gets in trouble enough as it is without provoking others.

Attitude:

They’re all edgy assholes lol

#singrid #algor #poom #the grunt #guild wars 2 #gw2 #norn #asura

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purgatoryandme · 4 years

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Hey! I can't seem to find the post you made with all the books references in Illuminate Me and the reason behind it? Is it deleted?

I know that there is an incomplete one floating around in my reply tag, and it should be in the Illuminate Me tag, but tumblr’s search features are so bad that I went back to the original word doc of the complete list, so prepare for that particular storm lol. Quoted/Referenced Reading List (In Order of Appearance) Shakespeare: Macbeth I opened on a Macbeth quote (‘When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lighting, or in rain’) because I wanted to start with something immediately relatable. Most readers were introduced to more ‘dramatic’ plays through Macbeth. Beyond that, they were introduced to the concept of pathetic fallacy, which I think plays nicely with Tony as a character (a man who is CONSTANTLY imparting emotion onto inanimate objects…and then actually giving them their own emotions) and with one of the core problems in IM, which is deciding the emotions of others for them. I was hoping to get the ‘feel’ of that without having to lean too far into the actual concept.

Bonus: I picked this quote in particular because of the importance of threes in Tony’s life (his core group of friends, iterations of the reactor, number of times reborn, his bot children VS his AI children, the number of lovers or almost lovers he has in the fic, etc). Milton: Paradise Lost ‘What is dark within me, illuminate!’ is a modernization of the original Milton quote ‘what is dark within me, illumine’ for readability. I actually feel a bit bad about changing this considering how many people think this is the original quote now. This wound up being a central (and title) quote somewhat by accident. I’m fond of it because of how much I liked a different one that I had originally wanted for Tony’s thoughts of the reactor: ‘yet from those flames, no light, but rather darkness visible’. I had originally wanted to start off on a sadder note, one that showed how much Tony hated losing his humanity, and so the flames of Hell and their physics-bending concept seemed thematically appropriate. I had always intended to eventually invert the imagery – instead of Extremis being (to Tony) flames capable of extinguishing light, the reactor would become a water-like blue light that couldn’t be choked or recreated by any of the shadows that pursued Tony in his life. I picked Milton SPECIFICALLY for the imagery of light and shadows.

But, man, listen. Darkness visible is a great concept, but it’s also tired. It has, as you’ve noted, been discussed to death. So as I was reading ‘Milton’s darkness visible and Aeneid 7’ to refamiliarize myself with some of the broader themes attached to that particular piece of imagery, I wound up thinking about how to invert the darkness itself instead of the overall concept. The flames of Hell extinguish light instead of having to exist away from it. It is a bad that cannot be penetrated by good.

Instead of chasing away shadows, which would be implied by shining a light ON them, the request Tony makes here is to actually invert the darkness - to have it illuminate in and of itself. It’s becoming something better instead of being removed or forgotten. On the flip side of that, the darkness within isn’t growing as light weakens, but rather under its own force. Two forces equal in nature and origin in a person. It’s a different take on lighting than the one most critics hammer home. Long ramble is long, but this was the basis for using that quote. It grew from there to have many different meanings, however the core has always remained. All in all I’m pleased with it.

EM Forster: A Room with a View Very forgiving even in its satirical takes on human nature. A lot of passages are very therapy-quotable in their urging to accept the inevitability of causing some harm in life. It plays on a lot of the same concepts with light being obvious metaphor for good and evil that Paradise Lost does, but softens them into more realistic shades of human existence. Isaac Asimov: Foundation Continuing on with themes of rigid morality vs the flexibility and romanticism of humanity, we have Asimov, master of machines and the three rules of robotics! There are lots of quotable epigrams in this beast. The quote pulled from this has two readings depending on what you assume of the man who has said it. If you see him as manipulative, there’s an insidious underpinning of killing off your own morals. If you see him as a kind man, then you could read it as foregoing morals in place of empathy. Tony’s therapist loves a very specific brand of double speak that lets Tony work through the conversation purely through interpretation. Tolstoy: Anna Karenina Tolstoy’s prose is lengthy...so so lengthy, but Anna Karenina is worth the read as long as you relate to at least one of its major characters. Frankly, I think you can choose to read a single character’s plot arc and leave it at that. It’s mostly a novel that is interesting, not because of its plot, but because of its study of relationship dynamics. Tolstoy was really invested in picking apart the idea of what makes a ‘family’ and, beyond that, what makes a class. It’s refreshing to see so much of the critique occurring within the lived experience of the characters instead of through a narrator or outside punishing moral forces. Baudelaire: Windows and Benediction I cannot recommend enough reading multiple translations of Baudelaire poems (fleursdumal.org has a wonderful array available). Benediction is a personal favourite. I love me some malevolence wrapped up in religion. Dante: The Divine Comedy There’s a lot of bleak humor in Dante if you look for it. Several interpretations insist of making each piece excessively grim dark, but faithful translations tend to have a hint of humor in them. It works well for engraving War Machine’s spine - a benediction and a mockery of human limitations. I try to pick quotes that not only fit the scene, but would still fit into the context of the grander themes from whence they came...unless I hate the author. Tennyson: The Lady of Shallot “I am sick of shadows” vs “I am half-sick of shadows”. Tony’s expressing more frustration here with being alone and his passive involvement in that loneliness. Another quote I feel vaguely bad about changing, haha. The Lady of Shallot is a very nice classical piece that I’m sad isn’t taught in schools alongside Hamlet. There are some nice Ophelia parallels here. I wanted a feminine influence on Tony’s loneliness and one that is somewhat youthful despite his age. Yeats: Vacillation I fucking hate Yeats as a person. That said, the man can write. The man can REALLY write. His pieces are almost always layered to the point of absurdity and he’s perfect to swiping quotes with multiple meanings. Definitely Tony’s kind of author. Goethe: Faust Speaks for itself and in the author’s notes on its reference. Dostoyevsky: The Brothers Karamasov IMO a book that deserves all the acclaim of Anna Karenina and then some. Very VERY Russian in its ethical debates of, as always, religious morality vs free will. Also dips into familial struggles and patricide, because it wouldn’t be a Russian classic if it didn’t contain some deeply buried bitter resentment towards paternalism. I’m going off-script here, but this is a fucking excellent book. I don’t really have words for how much I enjoy how Dostoyevsky explores the concepts that he does. Shakespeare: Julius Ceasar Shakespeare: Twelfth Night Twelfth Night deserves more credit for its development and maintenance of an enigma. Twelfth Night has charisma in spades both because of and in spite of the exceedingly petty actions of some of its characters. It is also a refreshingly simple take on love for the sake of it. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland Stephen King: Lisey’s Story I consider Lisey’s Story to be the best of King’s work. The man has his obvious writing ticks and his even more obvious issues as an author. Lisey’s Story contains many of them, but navigates them far better than any of his other work. The monster here is all in the mind and is too vast to truly see or understand. It’s perfectly representative of a creeping sense of inescapable horror. It was fun to flip it on its head with a reference here – Tony isn’t terrified of dying, but he is terrified of his inescapable enjoyment of Bucky’s company. Maria’s family saying is inspired by Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass Armitage: The Death of King Arthur A genuinely fantastic classic tale of heroism, filled with all the drama, tragedy, and sacrifice that you’d expect with strongly feminine undertones. I’m a sucker for this kind of thing. TS Eliot: The Wasteland Excellent piece of poetry with many layered meanings and dual interpretations. I can’t really articulate my thoughts on The Wasteland, but I reference an essay at the end of this list that does that for me. Oedipus Rex Rupert Brooke: Safety Not directly quoted but obscurely referenced through Bucky and Tony’s war conversations + Bucky’s conversation about, you got it, being ‘safe’ with his therapist. His poetry is about WWI and is, largely, idealistic. Safety is…not quite an exception to that. His other poetry contains a certain sense of honour and duty, whereas safety, maintaining a seemingly light tone, has nothing of the sort. It is safety in the soul – something untouchable by the horrors of war or death. It treats that as a ‘house’, which leant itself to the article Tony send Bucky. Armine Wodehouse: Before Ginchy Not directly quoted but obscurely referenced through Bucky and Tony’s war conversations + Bucky’s conversations with his therapist. This is also WWI poetry, though far darker than Brooke’s work. It discusses the parts of the heart and soul soldiers lose. It is an extremely good piece AND references Dante’s Inferno. I had to work it in somewhere even if I didn’t want to directly quote it. Meyer and Brysac: Tournament of Shadows Referenced several times over in discussion of war, the great game, and British military history. Beautifully self-aware account of Britain’s insistence on rewriting history after the fact and the tiny hilariously embarrassing moving pieces that shaped what is often considered the heyday of espionage. Murakami: Kafka on the Shore I love Murakami’s response to questions about understanding the novel as a whole. There are no solutions, only riddles presented, and through their interaction the possibility of a solution takes place. It’s a great lens through which to view the book and individual passages taken out of it. Reminds me of The Wasteland having to be read in totality before you can begin picking it apart, after which each individual piece can be read of its own. Kafka on the Shore, with its musings on the uncertainty of fate and redemption, was the perfect book to outline Tony’s horrifying realization, which he is desperately suppressing, that he might be coming to accept Bucky’s feelings. This quote in particular, while I would’ve used it anyway, is also a great callback to the first chapter and its storms. Chapter 29 is a turning point. Beyond it there are some intentional quote contrasts that are probably more easter eggs than they are anything else. Yeats: A Dialogue of Self and Soul Great contrast with Vacillation. Some parts of self and soul are used in that poem and thematically they are connected and contrasted - self and heart vs self and soul. The symbolism and imagery in Vacillation is really on point and layered, but Self and Soul is peak Yeats for its reversal of the typical ‘the soul is pure and bluntly honest and the body is tainted and bad’ in Christian works. Also Self and Soul’s broader context is scrumptious considering the debate poems history of relying on divine forgiveness and lack thereof instead of on forgiveness of the self.

It was fun to give this poem a double meaning in IM as both hugely ominous and ultimately pointing to the later forgiveness Tony receives from himself through the divine (if the soul stone can be called that) in the heavens (space!). There’s also another fun twist to ‘who can distinguish darkness from the soul’ in its contrast with ‘what is dark within me, illuminate’. To take that a step further, Vacillation was the beginning of the path of forgiveness for Bucky (understanding Tony’s heart…somewhat literally as he slowly gets closer and closer to the reactor itself), while Self and Soul is a final step (re: Bucky being presented the final hurdle of Tony deciding to move forward alone). Hermann Hesse: Siddhartha Hesse is wonderfully blunt at times. I gotta admit I love German takes on spiritual self-discovery because they always seem to tend towards much more straightforward answers than other countries. Hesse’s relationship with Buddhism in literature vs his lived experience is also really intriguing. Anyway, Siddhartha, in its humanizing of Gods, is wonderful contrast to the consistent imagery of the untouchable and unknowable forces of good and evil in previously quoted works. It has stopped bringing humanity to the divine and has started placing the divine within humanity. Emily Wilson’s translation of the Odyssey One of the ultimate poetic epics. Now that we are nearing the end, I’m going overtime with making the grander themes of this whole piece hit home. A lot of IM was built on a foundation of poetic epics, of heroism, and a bit of Greek tragedy. The Odyssey embodies all of those things beautifully. It also suited Thor too well to pass up. Yeats: An Irish Airman Forsees His Death Ah, Yeats. Very blatant foreshadowing here that is keeping with the foreshadowing from Self and Soul. Fate has, up till this point, been a bit of a question. It has been ‘when will it come to me’ and ‘how will I avoid or overcome it’. Now fate is a set point. It is knowable and present. ‘I know I shall meet my fate, somewhere among the clouds above’. This goes for the true onset of Infinity War and for Tony’s feelings towards Bucky – when he had no one, he allowed Bucky in after essentially promising himself he wouldn’t. If that’s not an accidental admittance of love, nothing is. Henley: Invictus Absolutely fantastic poem. Continuing with the heavy fate themes coming into this climax. Now that Tony knows his fate, truly knows it, he is choosing to take it on directly. Agamemnon (Anne Carson’s Traslation if you prefer a more modern language approach, Lattimore is you prefer a classic) Agamemnon is forgotten all too often in the world of poetic epics and it’s a damn shame. I cannot say enough good things about it. I always wanted to use lines from Agamemnon in a Tony fic because the Cassandra parallels were too perfect to resist. The chorus in this play was also a perfect narrative device for interacting with something of a hive mind. Yeats: The Wanderings of Oisin Another poetic epic. Nice contrast with The Odyssey, The Death of King Arthur, and Agamemnon. Here the dialogue is between an aged hero and a saint looking into the hero’s past. It has the kind of reflective and aged mood necessary for this stage of the story, but is actually a poem I sortof hate. The line ‘And a softness came from the starlight, and filled me full to the bone’ is absolutely gorgeous, though. Some final inspiration pieces:

The Penelopiad

The Iliad

House of Leaves (for surrealism in the final chapters)

Dante at Verona (used in an author’s note as an intentional jab at the dull uninspired nature of the this particular take on Dante. Repurposed quote, essentially)

a broke machine just blowin’ steam by themikeymonster (great character study of Bucky)

Frank Kermode’s essay “Eliot and the Shudder” (inspiration behind Tony’s entire interaction with literature)

#long post #reply #illuminate me #literature references

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lost-your-memory · 4 years

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okay but what about mechanic Kara and the small garage she owns in midvale. Cat lives just outside and her husband at the time is some big business man and really wants to buy the land that the garage is on. and cat one day she has real bad car trouble. so she meets kara and then she starts to fall in love with the mechanic with the massive grin and an oil smudge on her cheek. NC x

Alright, I’m not entirely satisfied with this because at first, I wanted something rated M or even E but in the end, it didn’t fit. So this is really soft.Also, I am NOT a mechanic so nothing here is accurate, merely the fruit of some research to avoid being too far off. Hope you like it!

—

A beautiful, golden morning greets Kara when the metal shutters of her garage opens.

The square across her shop is still half-plunged in the relative darkness of the end of the night but already, the first rays of a winter sunlight are hitting the buildings around it, highlighting the church tower. A few shop owners are opening, pulling up the metal shutters and adjusting their frontages, amicably waving at the few morning souls that are already up and heading to work.

The air is cold and crisp, with morning dew hanging from the trees and flowers that add a touch of color to the little village. Behind the heady smell of freshly baked goods coming from the bakery next to her garage, Kara can still discern the distinct scent of salt water that come from the ocean, carried around by a very light winter breeze.

“Morning Kara,” Lucy waves, walking up the street to come drop a kiss on Kara’s cheek. “Beautiful day isn’t it? I have your usual bear-claw and a hot cocoa for you.”

“You are just the best, Luce,” Kara beams, taking the styrofoam cup and the pastry from her friend’s hands. “Wanna come in for a moment?”

“Not this time, sorry! I’m already late as it is,” Lucy shakes her head and drops another kiss on her friend’s cheek before going away, back to the bakery. “See you tonight, don’t be late!”

“I’m never late for game night!” Kara protests, despite her mouth full of bear-claw.

Lucy only laughs and then disappears into her shop.

—

“Thank you so much Kara! I don’t understand why it keeps breaking down”, Winn whines, climbing on the passenger side of Kara’s tow truck.

“Winn …” Kara sighs, waiting for her friend to close the door before starting the truck. “Honestly, I’m kind of impressed that your car still starts when you turn on the contact. I would know, I’ve disassembled and reassembled your car at least five times and I still don’t get it. Old doesn’t even begins to cover it, Winn. Your car should be in a museum, not on the streets.”

“I know, I know but … It has a sentimental value. I’m not ready to let it go,” Winn whispers and Kara doesn’t insist. She knows how much the car means to her friend and so she keeps trying to fix it, even though it’s not possible.

“Alright, then back to the garage it is,” Kara smiles, turning on the volume of the radio.

They’re about to enter Midvale when a car pass over them at an alarmingly high speed.

“Now that’s a fine car, even though the driver is crazy …” Kara whistles, admiring the back of the car before it disappears. “ A Ford Mustang Shelby, GT500 … probably a 2019 but it could be a 2020, I didn’t get a great look.”

Winn throws her a weird look and Kara arches a brow.

“What? Why are you looking at me like this?”

“You’re telling me you never fixed that specific car?” Winn sounds incredulous but then a thoughtful look flashes in his eyes. “Well, that makes sense actually. It’s Cat Grant’s car.”

“Cat Grant?” Kara frowns. “The name doesn’t ring any bell …”

They’ve just arrived in front of her shop and so she carefully maneuvers her truck to be able to easily enter her friend’s car in the garage.

“Really? Cat Grant, CEO of CatCo, the media conglomerate? The company’s headquarters are in National City but she’s recently moved here, in Midvale, with her young son and her new husband …” Winn says before he exits the truck and follows Kara into her office, all the way at the back of the garage. “Whom you probably heard of, his name is Alaric Byron-Price.”

Kara freezes and grits her teeth.

“I see why you’d think it makes sense that I never fixed Miss Grant’s car, then,” Kara says, coolly. “Since her husband is trying everything he can to buy my garage, I imagine she won’t be using my service anytime soon.”

Winn is about to say something when a voice echoes in the garage.

“Kara, I need some help over her!”

“Coming Alex”, Kara replies instantly.

She gestures for Winn to follow and quickly crosses back her shop to join her sister in front of it.

“Alex? What the hell?” Kara asks, eyes widening at the sight of her sister’s car. “How did that even happen?”

The blue and white Ford Police Interceptor in front of her is showing various stage of destroyed.

The word “police” usually plastered on the right aisle is scratched beyond readable, with lacerations so deep it almost show the inside of the car in some spots. Both windows on this side of the car are exploded and almost non-existent, aside from some piece of glass still hanging around the corners, and the driver’s door seems to have been hammered with such force it’s now bending in the inside.

“Errr …” Alex starts, looking a little uncomfortable. “I got carried away while chasing this mobster we’ve been after for months and … I didn’t realise the street would be too narrow for the car.”

“On the bright side,” Susan smiles next to Alex. “We got the guy and he’s now going to pay for his crimes!”

Kara doesn’t even smile, looking at the car in utter horror.

“You can fix it, right?” Alex asks, sounding all too hopeful. “The boss says that as long as the car comes back in the shape in which it left, he’s not going to care. Otherwise, it’s …”

“Some disciplinary sentence,” Susan grimaces.

“I …” Kara starts, moving around to circle the car and study the damages. She winces and frowns a lot before coming back to stand in front of the two cops. “I’m going to try but it’s going to take some time.”

“You’re the best, Sis’,” Alex smiles widely, exchanging a relieved glance with Susan. “We’ll come help this weekend, it’s the least we can do.”

Kara nods and then gestures for everyone to follow her back to her office.

It’s going to be a busy couple of days, she thinks.

—

“Another try from Lord Byron-Price?” Alex asks, waving a piece of paper with a golden logo at its top.

“He’s relentless,” Kara replies from under Winn’s car.

“He’s offering more money than either of us can make in a lifetime,” Alex muses, sounding amused. “How many time have you said no, already?”

“This is his ninth attempt,” Kara grunts, struggling to remote a piece of metal that shouldn’t even belong to this specific zone. “I’ll pop some champagne for his tenth try.”

Alex laughs and then walks to her sister, standing on the side of the pit in which Kara’s working, the car above her head and her table of tools next to her.

“Susan’s on her way, she says she wants to stop by Luce to buy some donuts.”

“That’s a bright idea,” Kara says before throwing away the piece of metal she finally managed to remove. “I need some help down here.”

“Sure,” Alex nods. “Let me put on some work clothes, though.”

She steps away, removes her favorite leather jacket and jumps into some red overalls before joining her sister.

“Hellooo!” Winn’s voice echoes in the garage. “Anyone here?”

“Down here Winn, we’re working on your car until Susan gets there,” Kara explains, waving at her friend. “Then we’ll try to do something to fix that police car my sister managed to destroy …”

“Hey! I was only doing my job,” Alex protests, greeting Winn with a wave and a smile before handing over some tools to Kara. “I really didn’t know the street would be too narrow.”

Kara throws her an unamused look and then focuses back on the fuel tank deflectors.

—

She gets a call from an insurance dispatcher one day, asking her to go pick up a car and its owner a few miles away from Midvale. She doesn’t get much more intel, just that the car has broken down on the side of the road.

It’s one of those rainy spring day where the sky is low and grey, where the nature is bending down under the weight of the water and where a cold, bitter wind is adding to the apocalyptic atmosphere.

It’s only when she sees the car that she realises who she is here to pick up.

The blue Ford Mustang is messily parked on the side of the narrow campaign road and with the back of it still on the asphalt, it looks dangerous. The rain is thick and dense, falling on the world like a curtain.

Kara stops her truck ahead of the Mustang and climbs out, running to the car to knock on the driver’s window. She’s already drenched by the time a woman opens it, and the look in her eyes is distraught, slightly distant.

“Ma'am, are you alright?” Kara asks, noticing the shaking hands on the wheel. “Let’s get you out of here, you’ll be more comfortable in my truck while I handle your car.”

It takes a moment before the woman nods and lets go of the wheel. Kara guides her to the passenger side of her truck and leans over to crank up the heat.

“It’ll take ten or fifteen minutes, don’t worry,” Kara explains before closing the door.

It takes a little longer, because the rain has caused the car to get stuck in the mud. Kara struggles to drag the sport car onto her tow truck’s platform but eventually, it’s all set. She’s shivering when she climbs back in front of the wheel.

“Are you alright?” Kara asks again, glancing at the woman on the passenger’s seat.

She takes in the wet blond hair that barely reaches the woman’s shoulder and the hazel green eyes that still looks a bit distraught. Cat Grant, since it seems to be her, is wearing a navy-blue trench coat Kara recognises as a real Burberry, a pair of blue-jeans that are too well cut to be casual and high-heels of a daring red color. Idly, Kara wonders how it is possible to drive a car as capricious as the Ford Mustang with such impractical shoes.

“I’m … fine, thank you,” Cat replies with a quick hand gesture Kara doesn’t know how to interpret. “What’s wrong with my car?”

Kara throws her a disbelieving look. She didn’t exactly stay under the rain to have a look under the hood so Cat couldn’t possibly believe Kara would have an answer to that question.

“I don’t know, I have to take it back to the garage to analyse it,” she replies, slowly pulling away from the side of the road and driving them back to Midvale. The pouring rain makes the drive really tricky, with big puddles that catch her tires and slow them down.

“I don’t have time for that,” Cat states, sounding deeply annoyed.

Kara forces herself to stay calm and to mentally count until ten. She should have guessed Cat Grant would be nothing else than a spoiled rich white woman, given who her husband was.

“I have to … pick up my son,” Cat eventually adds, the shadow of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It’s brief but Kara notices it anyway.

“Oh,” Kara breathes, not having expected such a reasonable reason for Cat’s hurriedness. She quickly thinks and then asks “Hm … when do you need to pick him up?”

“In twenty minutes,” Cat replies after having checked her watch, looking a little surprised at the question.

Kara nods, going over her schedule in her head. She doesn’t have any plan, aside from Winn’s car and the police one. There’s a few repairs she needs to do on James’s bike but it can wait until later.

“If … I can always drop your car in my shop, drive you to the school and then home, if you’d like?”

Now Cat looks positively thrown off at the suggestion.

“I have a real car, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Kara adds with a chuckle, knowing her tow truck isn’t exactly classy. Cat’s clearly standing out in it, with her fancy clothes and expensive jewelry.

“No that’s not … I’m just … surprised, I guess?” Cat sounds a little hesitant, clearly out of her depths. “If it’s not too much trouble though, that would be really helpful. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Kara smiles and then focuses on the road.

—

“A real car, uh …” Cat muses, looking at the red Ford Boss 302 Mustang Kara just unveiled.

“I admit, I don’t drive around much with it, I usually take my bike or my tow truck …” Kara chuckles. She gets rids of her work overalls, washes her hand at the sink next to her locker and gathers her, still a little wet, hair in a high-ponytail. “Is that car alright with you?”

“It’s more than alright, it’s … an honor,” Cat breathes, letting her hand run across the hood of the car. “It’s an iconic car, you know?”

Kara laughs and walks around to open the door for Cat. “Oh I know! It’s a family heirloom of sort.”

Cat sits down and Kara hears her inhale the scent of used, clean leather.

“Not everyone can appreciate the car,” Kara points out as she slides behind the wheel.

“People nowadays, they don’t have any taste,” Cat retorts, with just a hint of disdain. “Do you need the address?”

“No, there’s only one school in this town,” Kara laughs and turns on the engine. She makes it roar just for Cat and the smiles on the woman’s lips is worth it. “I just hope your son doesn’t have Mrs Luthor as a teacher …”

Cat throws her a slightly impressed look. “He does, actually. I’ve heard good things about Lillian Luthor, why would you say something like that?”

Kara slowly exits her private garage and presses a button to close it behind her, before speeding up to reach the school in time.

“I went to school with her daughter Lena, we had her as our teacher and she was … extremely hard to please, let’s put it that way,” Kara explains, stopping at a crossroad and moving again after every cars drove by. “She’s got high standards, which is a good thing, but she doesn’t know how to handle children who are not made for the school system, like I was.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Cat says. Kara can’t help but to frown, wondering if it’s a hidden jab at the fact she’s now a mechanic. “Carter is doing well so far, let’s hope it lasts … his last school experience didn’t go too well.”

Kara hears the notes of regret and anger in Cat’s voice and she chooses not to push. Instead, she takes a few turns and then parks herself in one of the few free spots left in front of the school.

“Smooth driving,” Cat praises before glaring at Kara. “Please don’t do that when Carter’s in the car. He’s crazy about cars and speed, you’d only help his obsession of becoming a car racer.”

Kara laughs at that.

—

Carter’s his mother’s son.

Thirteen years old, not tall but not small either, with dark blond curls around his childish features, freckles over his nose and cheeks and deep blue eyes that sparkle with intelligence, he looks ecstatic when he sees the car.

He jumps and down on his spot, under the umbrella Kara gave his mother so she could go pick him up at the school’s gates.

“Whoa mom, I didn’t know you were going to buy a new car!”

Kara laughs from the driver’s seat. Cat shakes her head, open the backdoor and retorts “It’s not my car, Carter. It’s Kara’s, the mechanic. Say hello.”

“Hi Carter, I’m glad you like my car,” Kara greets him with a wink and a smile.

He looks surprised at first but then quickly recovers and returns the greeting.

“What happened to your car mom?” He asks once Cat’s back in the passenger’s seat.

“It broke down on my way back from National City. Kara was kind enough to offer me to drive me here so I could pick you up and bring you home,” Cat explains, before giving their address to Kara.

That’s when Kara realises she’s about to drive into her enemy’s land.

She doesn’t know if Cat’s aware of her husband’s deals and she doesn’t want to be the one bringing it up, so she simply nods and makes the engine roar, earning a giggle from Carter and another smile from Cat.

—

“You drove Cat Grant and her son back to their home, to the Byron-Price mansion?”

“I did,” Kara confirms, crouching in front of James’s bike while her sister paces the floor behind her.

“Do you realise you’re literally flirting with the enemy?” Alex insists, sounding more than a little alarmed.

“What?” Kara sputters, dropping her tool and stammering. “Who said anything about flirting? I’m not flirting!”

A heavy silence follows her little outburst and she knows she’s screwed.

“Oh my god …” Alex breathes. “You like her. You like Cat Grant.”

Kara retrieves her adjustable wrench and starts to use it on James’s bike, not turning around to avoid showing the blush that slowly creeps up her neck and colors her cheeks.

“I do not,” she tries to pass it off. “I mean, sure she seems nice enough and her son is a car aficionado but that’s pretty much it.”

“Kara Danvers, look at me,” Alex calls and Kara winces, because there’s no disobeying Alex when she uses that commanding voice.

Slowly, Kara stands up and faces her sister, who takes one glance at her and throws her hands in the air.

“I can’t believe it! Seriously!” Alex exclaims, pacing even harder now. “It’s bad enough that she is married, but she’s not even married to some random dude you know nothing about! She’s the wife of the man who’s been trying to buy off the garage for a year!”

Kara ducks her head and looks down at her feet, feeling a little bad. She knows it’s a disaster, she saw it coming the moment Cat smiled after she’d heard the car roar for the first time but she can’t help herself.

“Please, don’t do anything stupid?” Alex eventually asks, eyes intent on her baby sister. She looks resigned, if not a little worried still.

“I won’t. She’s Cat Grant anyway, CEO of a media empire and married to Lord Byron-Price, with a son, a mansion and I think I even saw a few horses in the domain. I’m just the mechanics, I’ll fix her car and that’s it,” Kara replies with another shrug, trying to hide the hurt and sadness in her tone.

Judging by Alex’s meaningful look, she didn’t succeed.

—

“Hello?”

Kara jerks at the unexpected voice, causing her arm to violently hurt her table of tools and making everything fall with a loud, metallic raucous.

“Kara? Are you alright down here?” Cat asks, sounding worried.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, sorry! You took me by surprise,” Kara explains, picking up her table and then gathering back her tools, fixing her work space before coming out of the pit.

“Hello again, Miss Grant,” Kara greets, taking a look at her dirty hands and choosing to wave instead of going for the usual handshake. She laughs and then teases “What’s a woman like you doing in a place like this?”

It makes Cat smile, amusement shining in her hazel green eyes. She’s wearing her navy-blue trench coat again, opened on a grey pull over that looks impossibly soft and a pair of black trousers that fits her legs in a very flattering way. She’s perched on heels again but not the red ones, Kara notices.

“I came to see you about my car,” Cat replies, gesturing toward the blue Mustang under which Kara had been working since she woke up.

“You do know I have a phone, right?” Kara tilts her head with an amused smile.

“Do you, now? I wondered, since you’re not answering …” Cat retorts, looking a little smug.

Kara moves to go pick up her cellphone and sees that she has indeed a lot of missed calls, including some from Lucy, Alex and Winn.

“Eh, my bad. I’ve been working on your car all morning,” Kara explains, walking up to her locker to wash her hands before coming back in front of Cat.

“Dedicated, I see,” Cat smiles, looking back and forth between her car and Kara’s face.

“I don’t often have the occasion of working on such cool cars, it’s pretty cool,” Kara shrugs and grabs back her phone to shoot a text to Alex.

“So what’s wrong with it?” Cat asks, walking toward the blue Mustang held in the air.

“I don’t know yet,” Kara explains, joining her a few seconds later. “I’ve changed a few things for the suspensions and the brakes, since you’ve been using those a lot more than a normal person should, but I didn’t find the issue yet.”

Cat looks a little sad and Kara asks “Don’t you have another car you can use in the meantime?”

“I’m using one of my husband’s but it’s not the same,” Cat explains and Kara closes off a little at the mention of Cat’s spouse. “It’s a regular Ford, nothing comparable to this little piece of art.”

Kara has to agree, because the Mustang is really well built, with a lot of nice options and it must be a dream to drive, despite its temperament.

“When can I expect it back?” Cat asks, focusing back on Kara. The hazel of her eyes is fascinating to watch, intense and sparkling.

“I don’t know, I’d say something like a week because I don’t have too much work for the moment, so I can focus on your car,” Kara thinks out loud, glancing back at the Mustang and then at the Police car.

“You have … something … on your cheek,” Cat says, bringing Kara’s attention back to her. Cat’s pointing at something on her right cheek so Kara uses the sleeve of her work overalls to try to wipe it.

It causes Cat to laugh.

“You’re only spreading it,” Cat explains and she pulls off a tissue from one of her pockets, approaching it from Kara with a question in her eyes.

Kara doesn’t know how to react so she only nods and lets Cat take care of it, whatever it is. Cat smells like spring, like the grass after the rain and with hints of lemon and spices. She looks concentrated as she conscientiously erases whatever it is that stains Kara’s face. It leaves Kara speechless and a little breathless.

“There you go,” Cat says, showing off the dirty trace on her tissue. She looks pleased.

“Uh … Thank you,” Kara manages to say, still dazzled.

“You’re welcome. Give me a call once my car is ready?” Cat asks, handing over her card. It has a blue and grey logo on it, that says CatCo. “My personal number is on the back.”

After that, she leaves without another word, the sound of her heels fading away.

—

“Miss Danvers, what a surprise!”

Kara freezes, recognizing the voice on the other end of the line. It’s not who she expected and she angrily stares at the CatCo card, already feeling betrayed.

“Lord Byron-Price. You’re not who I was calling,” Kara greets, coolly. “I’m simply calling to let your wife know her car is ready, she can come pick it up whenever she’s free.”

“Why thank you,” the man replies, sounding amused. “I’m surprised you agreed to handle Cat’s car.”

Kara greets her teeth and forces herself to stay calm before replying “It’s just business.”

“Is it, now?” Alaric asks, smugly. “I’ve been told you don’t have much work these days … Have you thought some more about my latest proposal?”

Kara recalls her last talk with Cat, how she said she could focus on the Mustang because she didn’t have much to do. The feeling of betrayal grows and settles, bringing with it the bitter taste of disappointment.

“I have, and my answer is still the same,” Kara replies. “Have a good evening, Lord Byron-Price.”

Kara hangs up before he could answer and sits down in her chair with a heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry, Kara,” Alex says, making Kara startle.

“I didn’t hear you come in … ” Kara arches a brow.

“You really should buy a new lock for your back door,” Alex replies, as matter-of-factly as she can sound. “Anyway. I’m sorry it turned out this way.”

Kara nods but doesn’t answer. Alex doesn’t push it, simply moving to go grab a couple of beers in the fridge, handing one over to her sister before sitting down in front of the desk.

“Business’s not going so good, uh?”

“That’s … an understatement,” Kara sighs, looking at the papers spread on her desk. “I might not even have a choice in a few months, I’d have to hand my garage over to him.”

Her phone goes off and Kara recognize the number she’s just called. Cat’s number. She ignores it and turns her phone face down against the desk.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Alex asks, settling in more comfortably in her chair.

“Nah. I’m tempted to ask Lena for an investment but I don’t feel comfortable with the idea and beside, it’d only serve to buy me some time,” Kara explains, finishing her beer in a few gulps. “I think the end’s unavoidable …”

Alex doesn’t say anything after that.

—

“You’re not answering my calls.”

Kara doesn’t startle this time, she’s hear the heels before Cat spoke. She’s bent over the hood of Winn’s car and trying to fix a tiny leak that causes the engine to drown, provoking the many breakdowns she’s been wondering about.

“I left a message with your husband,” Kara replies, not even bothering with facing Cat. Her own voice echoes around her head.

“So it seems, yes,” Cat replies, her voice short and slightly angry.

“I fixed the wrong contact in the wire that caused a short-circuit chain reaction, it’s as good as new. Keys are on the contact, you can leave with it,” Kara continues, blindly reaching to her side to grab another tool.

There’s a silence behind her, only troubled by her own grunts as she struggles to screw on a tiny bolt on the side of the engine.

“How much do I owe you?” Cat eventually asks and Kara sees red.

She stands back up and throws her tool on the table before turning around. She’s tied the upper part of her work overalls around her hips today and her tank top is drenched with sweat, oil and grease. She grabs a relatively clean cloth and uses it to wipe her hands on it as she stares at Cat.

“I don’t want your money, Miss Grant,” She calmly states, lifting her chin up. “Your husband has been trying to buy my garage for over a year now, I’m not accepting anything that might come from him.”

Cat looks utterly appalled, so much that Kara wonders if she knew about it. Then, anger flares in the hazel green eyes and Cat steps forward, coming to stand into Kara’s personal space.

“What year do you think this is? Who do you think I am, exactly?” Cat bites, looking furious and slightly hurt, if Kara really looks. “I don’t need a man to make money, Kara. I never needed a man for anything, I’ve been making it on my own since I’m 16 and I don’t like you implying that I’m some kind of trophy wife!”

Kara returns the heated glare and doesn’t back off, despite the fact she can smell Cat’s dizzying perfume and see the freckles of gold that swirl in the hazel green eyes.

“You didn’t even know, right?” Kara accuses, her voice low but clear. A hint of guilt gleams in Cat’s eyes. “You don’t know what your husband has done to my business, my reputation even. You might not be a trophy wife, but you’re just as oblivious as one.”

Cat steps even closer and now they’re standing just inches away from each other.

“You take that back, Miss Danvers. You don’t know me, you don’t know my husband” Cat threats, anger dancing in the hazel of her eyes.

“Do you? Know your husband, I mean,” Kara attacks right back and for a second, she thinks Cat is about to slap her.

Instead, Cat leans forward and crashes her lips on Kara’s.

It’s a bruising kiss, heavy with anger, resentment and so much passion. Kara’s hands drop the cloth she’s been holding and wrap around Cat’s body, pulling her closer. Their tongues dance and explore, collide. Cat reaches out and wrap one hand around Kara’s neck, the other one closing on Kara’s shoulder, fingernails already digging in the thin tank top.

It lasts and Kara finds herself leaning against the hood of Winn’s car, holding Cat and drowning in their kiss. Cat instinctively tilts her head and Kara takes advantage of it, leaving Cat’s lips to trail down to her jawline.

It’s only when one of Kara’s hand venture under the helm of Cat’s shirt that Cat pulls back, eyes wide and hooded, breath laboured and irregular.

“We can’t. It’s not … I’m …” Cat struggles to just breathe and Kara’s no better. Her head is spinning and the heady scent of lemon and spice screw with her focus.

“ … married,” Kara finishes, eventually regaining some form of composure.

Cat looks impossibly desperate at that, so lost and small that Kara just wants to hold her again, to kiss her until she’s smiling but she can’t. Cat’s married and this isn’t right.

“You should leave, Cat. Keys are on the contact,” Kara repeats and she turns around to hide the hot tears that are already gathering in her eyes.

She grabs back her adjusting wrench and bends over Winn’s car, making it clear she doesn’t want to talk about it.

It takes a while but eventually, Cat’s heels walk away.

—

“Cat? What are you–” Kara stops right in her track, taking in the sight of Cat in front of her.

Cat’s been crying, there’s a reddish glow around her eyes and her make-up’s all messed up. Her hair is damp from the rain that’s beating down the street and her clothes are soaked through, crumpled and even ripped in some place. The most alarming parts, though, are the already darkening bruise on her jawline, the impressive, bleeding cut on the side of her head and the split on her lips.

“What the fuck? Are you alright? Come on in,” Kara opens her door and gently grabs one of Cat’s wrist to pull her in. She immediately guides Cat through her apartment to the bathroom, making her sit on the edge of the bath tube. She helps her out of her Trench and drops the wet piece of cloth in the laundry basket near the washing machine.

“Don’t move,” Kara orders and she leaves for a few minutes. When she comes back, she hands over a glass of what smells like Bourbon to Cat and then opens a drawer, pulling out an impressive pharmacy box.

“I’m going to disinfect everything, it’s going to sting,” Kara announces and Cat simply nods, seemingly too out of it to react.

Kara’s careful and gentle but firm, she doesn’t let Cat pull away when it hurts. She takes care of all the injuries and fixes them as best as she can, before rummaging around to find some tiger balm.

“This is going to hurt, Cat,” Kara explains, digging two fingers in the small can of medicine before approaching them from Cat’s jawline. With her other hand, she gently holds Cat’s face in place while she massages the darkening skin. She’s slow and careful, tender even.

“What happened, Cat? Did Alaric do this to you?” Kara asks, ready to drive over there and beat the shit out of him.

“No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t dare raise his hand on me,” Cat retorts, a little of her usual fire returning to her. Kara doesn’t show it but she feels relieved at that. “I … we had an argument, about him wanting to buy your property.”

Kara freezes for a second but then returns to massaging Cat’s skin. The balm is penetrating the epidermis with difficulty, so she keeps at it.

“I’m … You didn’t have to …” Kara tries to say but Cat places a hand around her wrist, holding her in place.

“I wanted to know,” Cat whispers, looking a little forlorn. “I’ve been living in my own world for a long, long time Kara, I never paid enough attention to anything else.”

“I’m sorry,” Kara replies. “It must not have been easy.”

“It wasn’t, no. I realise he … did this to other people, not just you. He’s been slowly buying out the whole town, you’re just one of the very few people standing up to him. It made me realise that I didn’t know him, at all. You were right, you know? I didn’t know my husband, at all.”

Kara doesn’t even try to deny it. She simply stops touching Cat, observing the result with attention before deeming it satisfying. She pulls away to go wash her hands.

“We got into a massive argument, at the end of which I asked for a divorce,” Cat lets out a strangled, dry chuckle. “He didn’t take it too well, we yelled some more and eventually, I left. I drove too fast, it was raining, I didn’t even know where to go … I crashed against a tree, not too far from here. Hence the injuries.”

Kara turns back to glare at Cat, looking really annoyed.

“Again, I do have a phone you know?”

“Would you have picked up, seeing my name on it?” Cat defies, eyes gleaming.

Kara doesn’t reply right away, thinking back on it. Eventually, she shakes her head no because she’s been too hurt to deal with Cat, in any capacity.

“I figured so,” Cat replies, hurt audible in her tone.

“Where’s Carter?” Kara asks, a little concerned at the idea of the young boy being alone with Alaric.

“With his father, in Metropolis,” Cat explains. “Carter’s the result of my first marriage, I only married Alaric two years ago.”

Kara thinks it makes sense, especially since Carter doesn’t look like Alaric at all.

“Do you want another drink?” Kara asks, gesturing to Cat’s empty glass.

Cat nods and Kara makes a motion for Cat to follow her back to the kitchen. Cat sits down at the kitchen’s bar and waits until Kara places the whole bottle in front of her.

“You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need,” Kara offers, leaning back against her kitchen in front of Cat. “I’ll make up the guest room for you.”

“Thank you,” Cat replies, pouring herself another glass of alcohol.

Kara doesn’t linger and goes to prepare the guest room.

—

“Do you know how bad this looks?” Alex hisses through her greeted teeth.

“I know!” Kara groans, handing over the right car key to a customer, who thanked her with a big smile and a firm handshake.

“I don’t think you do! For the love of God Kara, she’s going through a divorce! She can’t live with you!” Alex stresses, starting to pace in front of Kara’s desk.

“It’s not like that!” Kara protests, trying not to blush. “She’s in the guest room and nothing ever happened, I swear!”

“That’s not even the point Kara,” Alex rolls her eyes, looking impatient. “How do you think this will look for the divorce attorneys? She’s got a lot to lose, you know?”

Kara pauses at that. She never thought about it, especially not since Cat seems to be so comfortable in Kara’s place. She didn’t think about the divorce attorneys or any kind of official procedures and Alex has a point, it could look bad.

“I’ll … talk to her about it,” Kara eventually sighs. She doesn’t want Cat to move out, it’s been surprisingly nice to have some company, even as prickly and impossible as Cat is. Still, it’s the right thing to do.

“Do that,” Alex nods and waves at her sister before leaving the office.

—

“You want me to move out?” Cat asks, looking as hurt as she sounds.

“I don’t want to, no, but I think you have to,” Kara sighs, pouring herself another glass of wine. “What about the divorce procedure? I’m guessing your husband has an army of divorce attorneys looking for flaws to ping on you so he can get the most out of it … How does you living at my place might look, to the outside world?”

Cat opens her mouth but nothing comes out and so she closes it, looking thoughtful. It takes a little while, during which Kara switches to a beer because Cat’s wine is all good and fancy but it’s not her type.

“You … might have a point,” Cat finally concedes and she looks a little sad.

“Don’t worry Cat, as soon as the divorce’s official, if you want to keep living here you can,” Kara says without thinking, instinctively reacting to the look in Cat’s eyes. It takes a second before she realises what she just did.

“I mean, you have a lot of money and a media empire in National City, you probably should buy something there but you know, in the meantime … I mean …” Kara stammers and blushes, cursing herself in her mind.

Cat looks terribly amused now, which is a step up from the sad look but Kara feels like a fool.

“Why thank you, Kara,” Cat smiles. “I’ll consider it.”

“Whatever,” Kara mumbles and busies herself with her beer to avoid looking into Cat’s amused eyes.

—

“Whoa, what’s happening?” Alex asks, staring at the line of people waiting outside of Kara’s office, at the back of the garage.

“Hey Alex,” Winn greets, emerging from the pit in a dark blue work overalls. “Apparently, the divorce didn’t go so well for Lord Byron-Price and to be able to stay afloat, he had to sell a lot of properties back to their rightful owners. People have been coming back for weeks now, tourism is starting up again and with it, businesses.”

“That’s nice,” Susan quips from her spot against the fixed police car. “I take it Kara’s been busy with work?”

Winn nods and then throws a knowing look at Alex.

“She’s been a little out of it though. Cat hasn’t been back to Midvale since she left, right after their talk about Cat living with Kara at the beginning of the divorce …”

“That bad, uh,” Susan says and Alex sighs.

“I’ll handle it tonight. We’re having game night at Luce’s, I’ll talk to her then.”

Winn nods and goes back into the pit while Alex and Susan climb back into their car.

—

“Hello Kara,” Cat greets the moment Kara opens her door.

“Miss Grant,” Kara replies, arching a surprised brow. “Long time no see … What brings you to this neighborhood?”

Cat smiles and waves at her blue Mustang parked behind her.

“Care to join me for a ride? I have something I want to show you.”

Kara blinks and then frowns. Cat’s looking expectant, there’s some trepidation in her hazel eyes and the smile on her lips is genuine, wide. She’s wearing a simple but very elegant green summer dress that exposes her arms and her legs, but no heels.

“Alright,” Kara eventually agrees, grabbing her keys, her phone and her wallet before she closes behind her.

The ride is quiet but comfortable and after a little while, Kara notices they’re driving toward the ocean.

After one last swerve, Cat turns to take a smaller path that leads toward a beautiful beach house, located atop a cliff that overlook the ocean.

“See, you asked what brings me to this neighborhood … Well. I live here now,” Cat says as she parks in front of the house.

Kara exits the car and takes a few steps toward the house before she gets almost tackled to the ground by a teenager with dark blond curls and sparkling blue eyes.

“Hey Kara! Welcome to our house!” Carter greets her, hugging her tightly. “Come on, come see the view from the back of the house, it’s amazing!”

“I bet it is, kid! Lead the way,” Kara laughs, glancing back at Cat before following the young boy.

The house is huge and decorated with taste. It’s obvious the people living in it have money but somehow, it’s simple and homey, cozy. Kara walks across big rooms with wooden floor and soft tones, wide glasses that let the sunlight in and allow a really beautiful view of the ocean, beyond the well maintained gardens.

Eventually, she steps out in the back and walks with Carter to the end of the gardens, almost at the edge of the cliff. The ocean is spreading in front of them, joining the horizon in the far beyond in a simple line defined by two different shades of blue.

“It’s amazing indeed,” Kara breathes, inhaling the distinct scent of salt water and sand. “You’re very lucky to live here!”

Carter beams at her and then runs away back into the house. It’s Cat who comes to stand next to Kara.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to come back,” Cat starts, sounding a little hesitant. “The divorce didn’t exactly go as planned, at first.”

Kara frowns “It clearly turned at your advantage though, because Lord Byron-Price had to sell back a lot of the town’s properties, people have been moving back in and our business has never been better …”

“We’ve turned the tables around, yes,” Cat smirks, looking a little smug. “Turns out, he had some terrible skeletons in his closet, I only had to press on it …”

“This is a fine house, in any case,” Kara smiles, turning her head to face Cat.

“It is, yes. I’m hoping you’d … consider moving in with us, one day.”

“That was fast,” Kara laughs. “You lived with me for a few weeks and it’s all it takes for you to ask me to move in with you? Damn, woman, you’re impossible.”

Kara steps forward and reaches a hand to lift Cat’s chin.

“How about we go on a real date first?.”

“Kara Danvers, are you asking me out?” Cat smiles, golden sparkles of happiness floating in the hazel of her eyes.

“Well, yes, it’s about time don’t you think?” Kara retorts, leaning in for a kiss.

It’s soft and tender but it’s also oddly familiar, for two people who only kissed once before.

It feels like coming home, Kara thinks as Cat’s lips open against her own

#Supercat #Kara x Cat #Sentences prompt #Supercat AU #I swear I don't do this on purpose #I just got inspired and it got out of hand #And I even had to tone back on my enthusiasm

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saiilorstars · 4 years

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The Fairy Tale Memoirs

Author’s Note: This is part of a one-shot/AU companion story to Stars Dance & Falling in Temptation that features Avalon Reynolds and the Doctor (from 9th-13th Doctor) along with other companions + Lena Reynolds.

// Current Masterlist //

taglist: @ocfairygodmother @anotherunreadblog

Ch. 3: Found

Summary: Avalon watches her daughter grow up into a teenager. She just doesn't realize that Aurora knows more than she leads on.

A/N: An AU based on the last chapter of Falling in Temptation.

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On Aurora's 100th birthday, her grandmother River brought her to Akhaten. She explained the importance of the planet as soon as they got there: Akhaten was the spot her father promised to bring her mother to. He never got the chance but it was only right that one Reynolds see it. River promised Aurora that the Doctor would want nothing more than to know that his daughter got to visit the planet.

Aurora was amazed by the different sight. She had never been off planet so she was very proud to know at least half of the species she saw. She was as fast as her father on her feet, leaving River out of breath several times. She wanted to see everything and try everything - she had inherited her father's knack for tasting everything and anything. Like Avalon, she had an attitude that put her in arguments with people several centuries older than her. River knew that she should've disapproved but the sight of seeing her little granddaughter - who was nothing more than a small child - argue the hell out of a grumpy old man was far too amusing. That was definitely all Avalon. There was one significant thing that River took great notice of in her granddaughter. What Aurora saw did not work, she talked about making it work. Whether it was a couple machines she noticed sparking or an intangible system like making lines for a shop, if it did not work then Aurora would talk about fixing it. It made River smile. That was uniquely Aurora.

"I like building things," the little girl would shrug and say each time River asked her that day why she was so focused on brainstorming ideas to fix whatever she saw wrong.

When the day finished and Aurora came home, she stayed up all night telling her mother everything she saw. Avalon let her talk throughoutthe night. The mother and daughter laid on one bed that night with Aurora rambling on and on about Akhaten. At 100, Aurora was more than aware that her lifespan would allow for centuries and centuries of potential adventures. She promised to bring her mother to Akhaten when she was older.

That brought Avalon to tears.

"I know that Daddy promised he would take you but if he doesn't ever come back, I'll take you," Aurora shifted on the bed to face her mother, a clear older version of herself.

Avalon smiled sadly. "Oh princess, that'd be nice but it's okay. I don't need to go anywhere. I'm good where I am."

"But I'm going to go one day," Aurora said with an impossibly big grin. "I'm going to go to all the places in the world! I'm going to see everything and fix whatever I can to help!"

Aurora would continue to excitedly announce the galaxies she would see one day, never knowing the fear it instilled in her mother. As much as she would love for Aurora to explore the world, Avalon couldn't let go of the fear that the Silence would capture Aurora in one of those adventures. She did not want to keep her daughter locked up but she didn't want any harm to come to her either. What would she do?

As Aurora continued to grow, she started making a list of possible places to see when she was a legitimate adult. Not even the continuous moves would affect her anymore. Avalon always put on her best supportive face whenever Aurora talked about a new place to visit. Even when River would take Aurora out somewhere completely safe, Avalon was a nervous wreck. She didn't want anything to happen to Aurora.

One hundred years turned into 200 and by that time, Aurora resembled the appearance of a young girl. From a human perspective, though, she was a teenager. Fourteen years old is what Aurora's brain scans said. She was at the beginning of her teenage-hood and while Avalon prepared herself for a troubled teenage-hood resembling her own, Aurora turned out to be the opposite.

Where Avalon was impulsive and a loud mouth, Aurora was quiet and sneaky. If she had a problem, she dealt with it discreetly. She was quick but learned quite well how to pretend to move like the other students. She learned the cues of social life and when she chose to follow them, she was a natural. Almost graceful. She was adept at pretending, something neither of her parents ever mastered. Although it pained her to think about it, Avalon felt sure that if something happened to her - if the Silence ever caught up to her and Aurora was left alone, Aurora would have enough skills to hide herself. This was Avalon's second backup plan. If the plan of River hiding Aurora fell through, Aurora could still fend for herself. It was a horrible way of thinking but it was a neccessary way too.

Aurora loved travelling so it only seemed right to believe that she would be able to handle things on her own if something happened to her mother. However, all of a sudden, Aurora seemed to drop the idea of travelling. Whether or not she still wanted to, she never said, but Avalon got the jist when Aurora started expressing a desire to go to a local university after she finished her schooling.

"I'm just saying if you would like to see a college maybe off-planet, then I would be just fine with that," Avalon would smile to her daughter as convincingly as possible.

Aurora would simply shake her head. "Nope, I'm good. I found out that there's a university with a really good engineering program in the next city. I don't need to go off planet. I can stay right here with you." She reached across the isle to grab her strawberry milkshake Avalon finished making. With no cherry on top she gladly drank from the straw.

Avalon drank from her own milkshake. "Well you still have time. Plenty of it."

Aurora shrugged. "Yeah, we'll see." She eyed the mess of papers on the edge of the isle and from a quick glance, she knew what they were. "Are you writing again?"

Avalon quickly set the papers in a neat stack. "Just the usual short stories."

"Right," Aurora kept the sour tone hidden very well. She knew the short stories were used to get them by and that the real stories her mother wrote, the full books, were never going to see the light of day.

The subtle sourness would turn into bitterness when Aurora turned 16 in human terms. By that point, she was aware of everything that went on around her. She was a competent, intelligent woman. She'd learned how to navigate on her own without her mother's knowledge.

She would make sure to come home on time even when things begged to be seen and explored. She owed her mother that much. She was a law abiding citizen and a stellar student, everything to not give her mother any worries.

Avalon was too busy looking over her shoulder to notice anything. She busied herself with keeping them hidden like always. While Aurora was at school, she would do quick trips for the groceries, trips to her job to drop off new short stories, any other miscellaneous errands and then be home long before Aurora was due home from school.

Today she was busying herself with a new short story. She had a cup of tea sitting beside her while she worked through the drafts. It was like any other day...until she heard a noise.

She rubbed her forehead, thinking it was just a trick her mind was playing. It wouldn't be the first time. She picked up her pen to keep writing but three words down and the sound wasn't going away. It was actually getting louder.

"Absolutely no way," she whispered with a hammering heart. She got out of her stool and sprinted towards the door, all the meanwhile her heart prepared to burst from her chest. "No, no, no, no, no—" She opened the door to find the Doctor on the other side.

He had the decency to be nervous. He was fidgety and since Avalon only stared at him, he had nothing else to go by.

And then suddenly, she slapped him. Hard.

"Yeah...I had that coming." The next time he met her gaze, she was blazing with fury. "Ava—"

She slapped him again. "I thought you were dead," her voice was trembling as was the rest of her body. "I thought...I didn't know what to think sometimes." The Doctor nodded silently, only listening to her for the first minutes. "I didn't know if you were still fighting the Silence or if they'd killed you...or if you'd just moved on."

"No," he spoke up as soon as she said that. "I would never be able to. I had to fight until every last Silent was gone."

Avalon stared at him with no readable expression. Her eyes were shiny but not one tear had fallen. Her frazzled brain was trying to make the connection she'd just heard. "They're gone?"

The Doctor nodded. "Yes. Every last one of them. It took me 200 years but I got them. They're not going to hurt you or your family ever again."

Avalon swallowed hard. They're gone. Her mind raced with thoughts and a whirlwind of feelings. They'regonethey'regone. Her legs buckled.

The Doctor reached forwards to catch her as she collapsed. She fell against his chest and instead of pushing him away, she retreated into him. Her eyes squeezed shut.

"They're gone, they're really gone?" She sniffed.

The Doctor wrapped his arms around her body. "Yes, I promise. I'm so sorry it took me this long. I know you must be angry with me."

Avalon pulled away suddenly, her eyes flickering to the TARDIS sitting in her front garden. She shook her head and pulled him inside. She had no idea what she was doing but for now, they needed to be inside. She made a conscious quick zip through the living room — there were pictures in there that she wasn't ready to explain — into the kitchen.

"How did you find me?" she asked. She let go of his arm once they were in the kitchen.

"There was a sudden read of vortex energy," the Doctor said distractedly. He was studying the kitchen and found it to be quite normal. He always pictured Avalon living extravagantly. There was a white isle in the middle of the room with a matching white counter behind. Odd mugs lined the wall on the left side of the sink. He eyed some strange princess plates in the dish dryer.

"Vortex energy?" Avalon frowned. "I...I think I would've noticed if I suddenly leaked Vortex energy."

"Uh, the energy signatures were clear. It was brief and spontaneous but high enough for the TARDIS to sense it. She was adamant we come here." His eyes eventually found the papers on the isle. "You're writing," he smiled and met her gaze. "Do you write books now?"

Avalon's shake of head was nervous. "N-no."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow at her. There was no reason to be nervous with him. If anything, she should be angry with him. That's what he prepared himself for when he caught the reading of the vortex. He knew it had to have been her so he gathered the courage to come find her. But she wasn't angry. She was just...like that.

"It's been nearly 250 years for me," she said quietly.

"I'm so sorry," he sighed. "I swear I didn't want anything like this to happen. I didn't want to leave you. I love you. I never wanted to hurt you."

Once more, instead of being reproached with anger, Avalon took it all with a few shaky nods. "I understand." Because she literally understood his reasoning. She'd done the same.

"Really?" The Doctor knew that he could take the easy win but something about Avalon's eerie calm attitude unsettled him. He took a few steps towards her until she was locked between him and the counter. He looked into her eyes, her sweet blue eyes that he'd missed so much, and searched for any clue of what she was hiding.

"Why did you come back?" she asked. She was aware of how close they were.

His hands moved to rest on either side of her on the counter. He leaned down enough so that when he answered, she would feel his breath. "Because you're my Ava." His words caused a ripple of warmth over her chest. "I had to at least try to win you back. Am I too late? Is there someone else?"

If she wasn't so shaken, she would've laughed in his face. How could there ever be someone else? "I've been on my own."

"No," he said suddenly, pulling away from her to head for the sink.

Avalon blinked. "What?"

"You said you've been on your own but that's not true." He started pointing at the line of mugs and then the dishes in the sink. "There's too much stuff around for just one person. Someone else lives here..." He met Avalon's gaze, her nervous gaze. "Don't they?"

~0~

Aurora walked down the street of her home. She was carrying a few books in her arms that she was trying to put away into her bookbag. She didn't need her mother finding out what she was doing. It would end with the grounding of a life time.

She was stuffing the last of her books into her bag when she came into her front garden and saw a bright blue box standing there. Her book fell to the ground.

She rushed up to the blue box and touched the police sign. "You wouldn't happen to be...?"

One of the doors creaked open. Aurora stepped back and watched as the other door opened for her. The soft orange glow slowly brought her in.

"O-oh..." She had stepped inside to see the console room. It was a bright orange, just like her mother had said. It was shiny with glass floors and those odd circles on the walls just like her mother had said.

Aurora swallowed down as she carefully made her way towards the console. Her hand gingerly brushed over the controls. "It's really you..." She breathed in.

Suddenly, a hum rose from the center. Aurora jumped back but after a few more hums she realized what it was.

"You're the TARDIS. You...you let me in," she glanced at the open doors. "Do you know who I am?" She remembered her mother saying the TARDIS could open and close her doors at her will. She chose who to let in, including the Doctor himself.

Oh my God, the Doctor.

Aurora's eyes widened. "He's here," she whispered. She heard another hum. "Listen, I'm...I'm Aurora. You're my..." she languidly pointed at the time rotor, "...my grandmother. And-and the Doctor...he's my..."

The TARDIS hummed rather sadly. Aurora was sure that it was a sad hum. She always asked her mother how she knew what type of hums the TARDIS gave. Avalon would simply say that she just knew. Aurora would snort. Turns out her mother was right.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a song started playing. It took her only a second to realize what it was. She laughed.

"Very funny." She folded her arms as Once Upon a Dream continued to play. "You should know that my favorite princess is Mulan." She smiled to herself as she started making a round on the console. "I too stood out." She stopped when she spotted a couple of things hanging out from a drawer underneath. She bent down and saw some miscellaneous things inside. A cellphone, a ball of yarn, a keychain, a magnifying glass and a stethoscope. She pulled out the stethoscope and played with it. "You wouldn't happen to know where he is, right?"

The TARDIS hummed dutifully.

Aurora smiled smugly. "Yeah, I ask questions even though I already know the answers. Does he do that too?" Yet another question she already knew the answer to.

~0~

He had no right to demand any answers from Avalon. He chose to leave which meant she had every right to move on. So why was he still standing in her kitchen when it was so clear that someone else lived with her now?

Avalon felt her tongue was literally twisted. She couldn't come out and say the truth even when he asked her directly...and more than once.

"Ava, if you want me to leave, I'll do it," the Doctor said, holding back his sigh. "I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted to keep you safe." He ducked his head and left the room.

"Doctor, wait!" Avalon hurried after him. "I-I don't know how to say it—" She abruptly crashed into his back.

He'd felt a buzz in his pocket and pulled out his sonic to see it whirring alive. "What the...?" He checked the readings and soon knew what it was. He spun around to face Avalon. "Someone's in my TARDIS." He saw a visible trace of fear in her eyes. She knew. "Who's in my TARDIS?"

Avalon's eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. She gulped.

The Doctor didn't wait for her to answer. He turned away and hurried for the door.

"Doctor!" Avalon once again chased after him.

The Doctor flung the door open to run out and catch whoever was trying to mess with his TARDIS. He found a young girl with long ginger hair. She was of average height and wore a simple dark blue button up shirt with a brown cardigan and black jeans. Though her hair was in neat, casual waves, there was something oddly familiar about it. Her eyes were a nice green shade. Familiar too.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow at the girl, warranting some explanation of her presence and much more about her intrusion in the TARDIS. Instead of seeming nervous or even scared, she simply held out his stethoscope to him.

"She just let me in...like she knew even before..." she said, still sounding like she was in awe. Her expression certainly said she was.

"Aurora," Avalon breathed in. Tears were shining in her eyes.

"It's okay Mum," Aurora studied the Doctor's immediate reaction to her word. "I'm okay." Her hearts may be threatening to stop beating altogether but she was fine. Since the Doctor was frozen to his spot, she had to nod at him to take the stethoscope from her. When he still did nothing, her lips curved into a smirk. "Scared?"

It was like he was seeing Avalon in front of him. A challenger. He looked back at Avalon who couldn't string two words together. She brought her hand up to her mouth and cried behind it.

"Mum, it's okay," Aurora reiterated, offering her mother a kind smile. "I'm not upset. None of it is your fault." Her eyes locked with the Doctor again. "I want to talk to him, if that's alright...?"

The Doctor had no choice but to nod. Avalon turned away and hurried into the house. Aurora truly didn't seem fazed by her mother's behavior. She had come to terms with the reality of their situation a long time ago which left her plenty of time to plan for this moment.

"You are...?" the Doctor started when Aurora forced the stethoscope into his hand. She pushed her hair behind her shoulders and motioned him to use the stethoscope on her.

"You need to do that first," she ordered.

The Doctor silently did that. He put on the stethoscope and readied it, all in the meanwhile of holding Aurora's stare. He gingerly pressed the end of the stethoscope to her chest and heard one heartbeat. Strong and healthy.

Just as he was about to pull it away, she spoke up. "Your left."

He gave her a look but her eyes left no room for such discussion to be made. He moved the diaphragm to her left and heard the second heartbeat. She almost laughed at his reaction.

"Hi Dad," she said calmly instead, if only to see how he would react to that too.

"You're...?" He was essentially left without air. He looked her over from head to toe until he rested on her eyes once again. His eyes.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You're late." Her mother's words right out of her lips.

The Doctor swallowed hard as he yanked the stethoscope out of his ears. "You're my...you're..."

Aurora raised a hand to shake with his. "Aurora Leigh Reynolds," she introduced herself with a much less playful tone. "Though to the people in this area, it's Aurora Smith."

With a trembling hand, the Doctor took Aurora's to shake. As soon as their hands connected, he felt a jolt kickstart his entire system. His daughter. "You're my daughter," he said, heaving a heavy sigh. "I...how could I not know...?"

"Because Mum did a very good job of hiding me from the Silence," Aurora's knowledge about the order froze the Doctor. Her eyes flickered past him to the open door behind them. "Mum doesn't know that I know, but I wouldn't be her daughter — and yours — if I didn't go searching for answers. She used to tell me that the reason we moved a lot was because she wanted to see cities. I believed her as a kid but then I started to realize that she didn't move because of her, she moved us because of me. I'm too much of a freak not to be noticed—"

That damn word continued to be a nuisance for the Ponds. It broke the Doctor's hearts on the spot to hear it come out of Aurora's lips to describe herself. Avalon used to do it all the time. "No, you're not. You're not a freak. You're..."

"Unique?" Aurora smiled sourly. "Yeah, I've heard that. Grandma River says that's what Mum and I are. But the point here is that it's because of me that Mum had to keep moving, had to always look over her shoulder to make sure nobody noticed me. She did a very good job, so much of a good job that she stopped living her life because of me."

The Doctor lowered his head. He knew exactly what Aurora meant. Avalon had prioritized Aurora — no doubt since the beginning — above anything else. That's why she wasn't upset with him...because what he has done for Avalon, she'd done the for Aurora. She made the sacrifices she needed in order to keep Aurora safe.

Aurora watched him process everything she'd said and for a moment, she felt pity for him. He had to accept the fact that not only had he missed out on her life but he had to learn what her mother had done for her sake. "C'mon," she grabbed his hand and led him inside the house. She couldn't ignore the warmth of his hand in hers. She had always wondered what it would be like to hold her father's hand and get a hug from him. She felt ridiculous now that she remembered that as a child she used to wonder what it would be like if he spun her around like a princess.

"Au...Aurora," the Doctor said once they were inside the living room. Aurora turned around and watched him test her name out in his lips. "Aurora Leigh...it's a beautiful name," he smiled at her.

Aurora didn't know what to do with herself in that moment. She folded her arms over her chest but it resembled more like she was trying to hug herself. "Aurora because of, you know...princess...but do you know what 'Leigh' means?"

"Uh, no, I don't..."

"In Celtic it means 'healer'..." Aurora lowered her gaze, "Healer as in...doctor. She named me after you."

Warmth blossomed in his chest. "No," he said suddenly, making her gaze rise again. "Your name is a blend of your mother and I. Aurora is for Avalon. It was the first story she told me of when she was a child. It was the story that brought us together when she was grown up. That story followed us to our last day together."

Something flickered across Aurora's eyes. It was almost like fascination, a deep awe that she just learned something new about her parents and it was her father who shared that knowledge. "I never thought of that. I just thought 'princess' and..." She shook her head and tucked some of her hair behind her ears. She took her book bag off and tossed it to the couch.

"Are you...?" The Doctor presumed. He wanted to know everything about her in that moment. How old was she? What did she like to eat? Did she like milkshakes like her mother? Did she hate pears like him? There were so many questions he had no idea where to begin.

"I'm glad you found me," she suddenly said, flashing him a smile when he blinked.

"What?"

"Time Vortex?" She raised her hand and allowed it to glow gold for a few seconds. "I've been trying to, um, make something. Mum said you always carried this little, um..."

The Doctor quickly pulled out his sonic screwdriver for her to see. As soon as she laid eyes on it, she beamed. His hearts warmed. "You were trying to make one?"

She nodded, almost looking mesmerized by the sonic. "Yeah, um...with some modifications. I like building things. I thought maybe I could make something similar to it but infuse it with my own energy. At the very least I could use it to draw you in...if you were still alive."

"Oh, Aurora, that could've been very dangerous."

"Which is exactly why I didn't tell Mum. I told you that I know everything and I had enough. I'm almost going to be an adult and it's time Mum got some of her life back."

"How old are you?"

"250."

The Doctor scoffed. "Hardly an adult. You're a teenager."

"I am an adult!" she stomped her foot. The Doctor smirked. She rolled her eyes. "It's not the point. I realized Mum gave up her life for me. She hasn't done anything except look after me and make sure that nobody realized I was here."

"Yeah, I can imagine she did," the Doctor nodded. "Because it's what I would've done too."

"But I don't want her to keep doing that. She doesn't have friends because of me. She doesn't go out and I know that she loved going out. Even her job...it's not what she wants. I know that she could write the best selling books out there but because it would draw attention to us, she doesn't do it. She doesn't visit Earth, she hardly sees my great grandparents. She doesn't travel at all. Dad..." She lowered her gaze almost fearfully, like she was waiting for the Doctor to scold her for the use of that word, "I need help. I need you."

The Doctor exhaled deeply. "I would do anything for you," the words fell out out of his mouth.

Aurora raised her gaze with shiny eyes. "Really?" Her voice shook. "You don't even know me."

"Your my daughter," he took a few steps towards her. "You're me, you're Avalon...you're ours. You don't understand how much I already love you." Aurora could barely swallow the lump in her throat. "And you have no idea how sorry I am for not being here with you."

Aurora felt like she was unraveling into her child self. Everything that could've been she was imagining. "I, uh, I used to wish that you were here so we could play. I loved playing princess."

The Doctor smiled softly. "Oh, I bet you did. Aurora?"

"Actually, I like Mulan. I like the swords," she bit her lip as a laugh threatened to slip out. "Plus, a cool talking dragon. I want one for a pet, actually."

The Doctor did laugh though. "That's more of your mother peeking out."

"Grandma Amy said the same thing." Aurora licked her lips nervously as she prepared to make her next question. "Are you...are you going to stay now? With Mum and I?" She searched his face for any clue of what his answer would be. "Please don't leave," she said quickly. "I-I don't want you to leave us, please!" She threw her arms around him and sniffled.

The Doctor wrapped his arms around her tightly. A fierce protectiveness flourished within him. Nothing would ever hurt her, not even him. He loved her to the moon and back. "Hey, hey, hey," he ran his hands through her hair. It really was like he was holding another version of Avalon. This was one was a young, more scared version but with stars in her eyes and an obvious glint of mischief. "I'm here, sweetheart. No matter what happens, I'm not leaving you again." He kissed the top of her head. "Your my princess."

Aurora's tear-stained face formed a smile. "Mum used to say that when I was a kid. She wasn't your princess anymore, I was."

The Doctor chuckled. "Yeah? I think she may have been right."

"Then I told her that she was your Queen instead."

"Above and beyond."

Aurora raised her head to meet her father's gaze. The same eyes stared at each other. "I love you, Dad. I've never been able to say that."

"I love you too, princess," he kissed her forehead. "Now I have to go speak with your Mum."

She nodded. "Yeah, okay." He let her go and headed for the hallway, only stopping when Aurora called after him. "If Mum says that she's okay, don't believe her. She's been by herself ever since you left."

The Doctor assured her that he wouldn't believe Avalon's lies. He continued on his way, stopping by the door that had quiet sniffles on the other side. He knocked gently against the door and opened it slightly.

Avalon was sitting on the side of her bed with her back to him. She obviously heard him come in but she didn't look back. "I was so scared when you left," she started. "I didn't know if the Silence was going to hurt you. But then I realized I was pregnant and I was terrified."

"I'm sorry, I should have...I should have talked to you about the possibilities..."

"I didn't know what I was going to do," she looked over her shoulder, revealing her reddened eyes. Her face shined with tears. "But then she was born," she whispered, "And suddenly I couldn't think of anything that wasn't her. I missed you and I loved you but I chose her in a heartbeat. I chose to forget about ever seeing you again to focus on keeping her safe."

"You did nothing wrong, Avalon," the Doctor walked over to her. "You did what a Mother always does. You cared for your child and you kept her safe. How could I blame you for that?"

Avalon turned her body around so that she could face him. "But I never forgot about you. Not a day passed by where I didn't wonder if you were alive. I never forgot about you, Fairy Tale Man."

"I always thought about you too, Ava," the Doctor smiled at her. "I'm so sorry for leaving you. I'm sorry for leaving you on your own with Aurora. If I had known about her—"

"How could you have?" she cut him off with a sad smile. "I did everything I could to keep her hidden. I didn't want the Silence coming after her."

"You protected her," he cupped her face and cleared as many tears as he could off her face. "I wish I could've been here though. I missed out on a lot by the looks of it."

"She's just like you," she chuckled through her tears.

"Yeah," he laughed with her. "I saw some of that."

"She invents things. She's been inventing things since she was a kid."

"Guilty as charged."

Avalon slid off the bed and moved towards the dresser against the wall. The Doctor followed her and watched her go through some of the picture frames sitting on top of the dresser. Finally, she picked one up and showed it to him.

Aurora was a child who couldn't seem to grin more than she already was. The Doctor laughed when he saw one of her teeth was missing. Her orange hair was in pigtails but some of it was sticking out like she'd been working on something. That 'something' had to be the small device in her hands that she was showing proudly to the camera.

"She was 6 right here and she somehow invented a weather predictor. Who needs weathermen when you have Aurora Leigh Reynolds?" Avalon mused. "She's built all types of things. I dare say she got a stronger bite of the inventing bug than you did."

The Doctor started looking at the rest of the frames. He was sure that they chronicled some of Aurora's best moments. There was one of Avalon and a younger Aurora, probably when she was around 4, at a lakeside.

"You hate camping," he remembered.

Avalon hummed. "But Aurora doesn't. She likes looking at the stars and with all the lights in the city it's impossible. We go camping once a year."

"Really?" The Doctor smiled warmly. "These all look amazing. You've done a good job with her."

Avalon carefully placed her frame back on the dresser. "But it's not enough anymore. There are some things I just can't figure out. She thinks like me but with your intelligence. She's a lot quicker than the other kids her age and sometimes it brings her unwanted attention. I know her. I know my daughter and I know that she doesn't want to live here anymore. She wants to go exploring. River takes her out sometimes."

"She sees things that others don't." The Doctor felt like he was visiting Avalon's file all over again. "The pace here isn't enough for her. There's not enough stimulation."

Avalon nodded. "She's talked about some university here but I know that the only reason she wants to go here is because she doesn't want to leave me. I've instilled the idea that we should always remain together and as much as I love that, knowing that the Silence is gone, I don't have keep her here anymore. She's free."

"As are you." The Doctor curled his hand around hers, watching her cautiously for any negative reaction she could give. He needed to test to what extent he was allowed to touch her. So far, he was only subjected to her long stare. "You've done an amazing with Aurora, she absolutely loves you, and she never wants to leave you alone. I don't want to leave you so—" he nervously licked his lips, "—if you still have any lingering feelings for me...I'd like to be with you." He heard Avalon's quiet gasp but he was unsure what type of gasp it was. Would she send him away? Tell him that he'd lost his chance? Or would she agree?

"Aurora..." She said first, making him smile. "She wants you in her life. She's always dreamt about meeting you and travelling with you..."

"I'd love nothing more than to do that with her," he nodded. "Regardless of your decision, I'd like to be a part of my daughter's life. If you decide that you don't want anything to do with me, it won't affect anything with Aurora. But if you decide that you do want me around..."

"Would you stay here with us?" she asked suddenly. "Would you stay here with us and live...here?" she made a weak gesture to the house.

"Without a doubt," he answered on the spot. He allowed her to search him for any trace of that doubt he swore didn't exist. She wouldn't find it.

"You would do that?" she asked in disbelief. She pulled her hand out of his and moved around the room. "You would do the house, the-the getting up early to take Aurora to school, the grocery shopping, the laundry, the—"

"I'd do it all, Avalon, if it meant I got to stay with you."

Avalon turned around and met his gaze. She swallowed hard. She'd forgotten the way his long gazes made her feel. She'd forgotten what it felt like to have someone want to be with her. Together. Her eyes ultimately looked away from the Doctor when a river streamed from them.

"Avalon..." the Doctor felt utterly helpless watching her slowly break into sobs.

"Please come hold me," she managed to say before the sobs took her over. "I-I—" The Doctor was already by her side before she could say more. He held her as tightly as possible but it paled in comparison to Avalon's death grip she had on him. "I don't want you to leave me again. I love you. Being with you and travelling together was my life — it was when I was the happiest. I want to come back and be with you. I want to visit places, get into trouble with you, run together."

"I want that too," he whispered.

She pulled herself away enough to look up at him. "Most importantly, I want to wake up and go to sleep at your side. I want to make milkshakes with you, bicker with you, read stories together..." Her hands found their way up to his face, fingers delicately stroking his skin. "I want to be your Ava again."

The Doctor lowered his head, his words coming out in a whisper, "I want to be your Fairy Tale Man again too."

She smiled at him through her tears. She watched him come closer until there was no space between them. Their lips reconnected for the first time in two centuries and yet it felt like no time had passed them by. They remembered every last detail about each other, from the way their fingers felt on each other's skin to the perfect angle they favored as they deepened their kiss. Everything stayed exactly the same.

Avalon parted slightly to speak, but when she did their lips would brush over each other's. "We shouldn't get carried away," she said specifically for the trailing fingers she felt under the hem of her blouse.

She felt the Doctor's smug smile against her lips. "Right," he pulled his fingers out from under her shirt to place them on her waist. "Wouldn't want to come up with a little sibling for Aurora right now."

Avalon instantly shoved him on the chest but he just laughed. "That's not funny," she said. "You know she knows about the Sapling? They've met and all and somehow they were convinced that one day, they'd have a little brother to be a trio."

"Oh," the Doctor grinned.

"Stop it!" she warned him before he said anything else. "You should also know that the only reason they planned that is to overpower us...in a heist."

The Doctor's face lit up at the word. "A heist? Against our own children? That's cold...and also strangely exciting."

"Aurora's always wanted to heist with you," Avalon sighed. "She's always had all this list of things she wished she could do with you."

"Well, I think it's about time I make some of those things happen. What do you say, Ava?"

Avalon suddenly grabbed his head and kissed him fervently. "Take me away," she managed to say in-between kisses.

The Doctor was quick to respond to such hungry kisses, but he also found time to slip out some words. "Where to?"

"Neverland."

The Doctor pulled away to meet her gaze, letting their breathless mouths fall into laughter.

~ 0 ~

Aurora was pacing back and forth in the living room when she heard her mother's bedroom door opening. Her wide eyes watched her parents emerge from the hallway and the first thing she noticed were their interlocked hands. Her hearts skipped a few beats.

Avalon met her eyes once they stood across from her. "We'll have to pack one more time."

The grin that spread across Aurora's face was from ear to ear. Aurora laughed and ran towards them. She was encased in a tight hug. "We're actually leaving? To the TARDIS?" She looked up to meet their gazes. "To-to be a family?"

"And to travel," the Doctor touched Aurora's cheek. "And learn. You're not done with school—"

Aurora rolled her eyes. "But I know more than everyone does!"

"See?" Avalon glanced at the Doctor while she gestured to Aurora. "Your daughter."

But all the Doctor did was smile proudly. "Yes she is." Aurora beamed at him. "And she's going to be phenomenal."

"Feed the ego," Avalon sighed. "That's also yours."

The Doctor did not care at all. He just held her and Aurora together, as tightly as possible, while he wondered where-oh-where he would bring his princess and queen first.

#ocappreciation #doctor who #dw imagine #dw fics #11th doctor #11th doctor imagine #doctor who fics #fic: fairy tale memoirs #oc: Avalon Reynolds #oc: Aurora Leigh Reynolds

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thatmalmal · 3 years

Text

what really happened: a memoir from the apocalypse: part 1

Chapter 1: A Turtle and a Gun

June 2013:

As we sat in the dark living room, the light that shone from the tv strained my eyes. I counted the bricks on the fireplace over and over again, going back to the first one whenever I finished. The oddly shaped ones, or the ones that were half-filled, frustrated me. I stroked my baby doll's curly blonde hair. Phoebe was silent as she stared at the tv. She held onto the dark green blanket that hugged her knees.

"Once again, you're tuning in to ABC 11 Eyewitness News. Brian let us know before the break that five-hundred-thousand people have gotten sick from the virus that is still being investigated. Numbers are increasing, but I'd like to assure you that the government will get this under control as soon as possible. However, it is crucial, for both you and your family's safety, to stay inside your houses unless absolutely necessary. This is a high-risk situation."

Phoebe sucked her tears back into her head. Mom held her hand against her back and reminded her to breathe.

"They're saying it's safe in DC. How are we going to get there?" I asked.

"We can't get there. We're staying here. Everything will be fine," Mom said.

Dad swung in the rocking chair and looked up from his phone. "We wouldn't get there even if we tried. Military vehicles are how people get to DC. One's not coming here."

"Can't we call some place to pick us up?" I asked.

"It's not a taxi. They're more concerned with their own city than anyplace else," he said.

My foot fiddled with the notebook on the coffee table. Inside of it were the pros and cons of each of my middle school options. Mom gave it to me, and acted like the choice was mine, even though it never was. As my toes flipped through the pages, it started to feel useless.

...................................................................

I've always hated Sunday mornings. The day was filled with its own type of sorrow, almost as if it was its own emotion. The sun shined through the ugly striped curtains in the kitchen. Mom made pancakes, which became our weekend ritual. I asked her to spread peanut butter on mine.

Dad stormed down the stairs. "North Carolina's a danger zone," he said.

Mom flipped the pancakes on the griddle. "We know that, Chris."

My fork clashed against my plate as I laid it down. "We really need to go to DC."

"We can't!" they yelled in unison, waving their hands.

"But we can't stay here! It's not safe!" I normally froze whenever they'd yell, but I stood my ground.

Phoebe whimpered like a dying kitten.

"I'm sorry for yelling. But with a seven-year-old and an eleven-year-old, we can't make it there," Dad said.

I rolled my eyes, annoyed that we were the ones made out to be the problem.

"Mama and Papa have generators. We'll go there at around 4:00," Mom said.

"How long are we going to stay there?" Phoebe asked in between her tears.

A moment of silence passed and my parents looked at the floor.

"Probably a while," Mom said.

...................................................................

I laid stomach-first on the pink flower comforter on my bed. I scrolled through Mom's IPad that she loaned to me and researched the virus. A part of me was afraid to look; but a bigger part of me wanted to make sure that there wasn't a scarier truth out there that our parents were hiding from us. That they weren't sugar-coating anything. I clicked on a website that ranked every state in the US from safest to least safest. They listed North Carolina as the twenty-third safest state. That was about half. It wasn't safe enough.

"Girls, lets go!" Mom yelled from outside my door.

...................................................................

We sat in the backseat of Mom's red Pontiac. Phoebe crouched under her purple, polka-dotted blanket, encasing herself from any outside force. I scrunched a piece of the dirty yellow blanket, and held it in the palm of my hand, pulling it close to my face.

Tens of cars were backed up, one behind another, in the middle of the neighborhood. It took us minutes to even pull out of the driveway. It was as if we were molasses moving through the road.

As we reached the end of the neighborhood, Mom gasped. Dad turned to her, and placed one of his hands on her shoulder. My heart raced. My legs shook, and my face turned clammy and cold. For the first time in my life, I saw one in person. It wore jogger clothes, like it was going for a run. It was lean and tall. But it wasn't human. Blood spewed from it. Its face was ripped apart into different pieces, unleashing the layers of its existence. A lady knelt on the ground and begged to it. It was her son. Other neighbors had their eyes glued to the scene; but none of them took action.

The major roads were empty. The construction workers cleared the dead from them, similar to how they dealt with snow and ice.

As we got closer to the house, it got worse. Two were in the driveways, leading up the hill in the middle of the woods. They slowly headed towards the road. Mom pressed on the gas, even though they were far enough away from us. I stared out my window, pressing my head on the glass, and looking as far down as I could. As we turned a corner, a body laid flat on the grass; but it wasn't dead yet. They looked like a normal person, with specks of blood on the corners of their face. They stared straight at the sky, in a state of shock.

...................................................................

Mom parked the car in front of the house and turned to the backseat. "Stay here for a minute. We'll be right back for you."

Phoebe kept herself under the blanket the whole time, and wouldn't release it from her face; not even for air. Mom and Dad entered through the garage door.

A minute passed. A high-pitched scream ensued, coming from Mom.

My heart dropped and my throat tightened, like I was going to suffocate. "Where are they?"

"Mallory, what if they're dead?" Phoebe asked in a loud whisper.

Mom and Dad walked through the door and stared at the ground. They had their arms wrapped around each other, and tears were painted on their eyes. I stared at Dad and waited for his expression to turn to something readable.

I banged on the glass in an attempt to grab their attention. "What happened?"

Phoebe's hysterical cry hurt my ears. Mom stood in front of Dad and talked to him. I could only make one thing out.

"We need to go back in there."

As an immediate response, I opened the car door.

"No!" Mom yelled.

I ran towards them. "I need to see it!"

I grabbed Mom's hands, and tears filled my eyes. My heart rate exhausted me.

"Mama! Papa!" Phoebe cried from inside the car.

Mom let go of my hands and walked towards the car. "I have to get the hammer."

Dad stared at the ground, irresponsive and silent. I stared at him, but he didn't make eye contact with me. Mom grabbed the hammer from the trunk and circled back through the garage. I followed her.

Mom ducked behind the side-view mirror of the white Mustang. I headed towards the house. I reached the fridge near the brick steps. I yelled and covered my head; and Mom jumped from the other side and attacked the growling shadow with her hammer. I blacked out.

...................................................................

When I regained consciousness, I was inside the house. My aunt sat on the floor in front of the kitchen table and held a gun in her lap. Mom stood behind the counter and hid her face in her hands.

My aunt looked up at me with her eyes half-open and smiled. "Hey, sweetie. Where's Phoebe and your dad?"

I walked over to her. Blood ran down her leg. "Where's Mama? What happened to your leg?"

"She's in her room," she said.

I headed towards the bedroom.

She grabbed my hand. "Don't go in there."

"Mimi, what happened to your leg?" I asked again.

"Sit and listen. Do you know how to use one of these?" She handed me the gun.

I crossed my legs on the floor. "No."

"You pull this part back when you need to use it." She demonstrated with her finger, leaving a far enough distance. "It's going to feel tough. Pull hard."

I stared at her intently. "What do I have to shoot?"

"You see how you and me both look like humans? That we look real? Well, whenever you see someone who doesn't look like that, who has an almost grey complexion, and who can't walk like a normal person can --"

"Like the people I saw in the street?" I interrupted her.

She smiled in relief. "Yeah. When you see someone like that, you have to shoot them. I know it's hard. I never wanted to kill people —"

I bowed my head to my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut as tears streamed out of them.

"But that's why I'm not going to make it. And that's okay. But you have to make it." She poked me, signaling me to look at her. "The people who look like that, they're dangerous. They'll hurt you, your mom and dad, and Phoebe. They'll try to kill you. And you can't let that happen. So you have to do what's hard, and you have to kill them."

My gaze went past her, towards the sun that shone through the window. "Is Papa dead?"

"Mallory, listen. Listen to me. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

I nodded.

"Ok, so show me." She scooted to the side. "Aim at that white railing outside the window and shoot it."

My hands shook as I held the gun. My finger hurt as I pulled the trigger back. A bullet shot out and a loud boom followed.

She smiled, almost laughing. "There you go. You're going to have to go out there, okay? It's not safe here. Take the gun. You give it to your parents to keep; but you know how to use it."

I looked at her through my blurry eyes. "You have to come with me."

"I can't. Listen, I know you can do this. Protect your sister, okay? Be careful. You're brave." She looked at Mom and smiled at her. "Right? Isn't she brave?"

Mom stared at her in shock, and her tears fell onto her hands.

Mimi grabbed my hand and opened it, and placed a small green turtle charm with silver markings inside of it. "Take this. It'll keep you safe. It's for good luck."

"Good luck?" I asked.

"Yeah. There has to be. You're the one in charge now. You're the only one who knows how to use a gun. You're going to need to show your sister. Show them how to survive."

I turned to Mom. "Can we get a doctor? Nothing's happened yet."

"No... this takes a while," Mimi said.

I stared at her leg. "Am I going to die too?"

"No. When I get to Heaven, with Mama and Papa, we're gonna be watching over you. Protecting you. Making sure you make it through this." She closed her eyes. "Be careful. Be kind, but be strong too. I love you."

Mom knelt beside me and held her hand on my back. "We've gotta get back home."

...................................................................

I laid on my bed and opened the Contacts app on the IPad. I searched for my aunt's number, my grandma's sister. She lived pretty close to us. I opened a new message.

"It's Mallory. Mama, Papa, and Mimi are all dead. They've become the sick things, or they will soon. We're stuck in our house and we don't know where else to go. I think we should go to DC, but Mom and Dad said we can't. But I want to go. If you're going, will you take me? Can you take all of us? It's the only safe thing. What if our house gets dangerous like theirs did?"

I hit send.

#the walking dead

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gigilberry-wips · 4 years

Text

Ch. 7. Hiccup’s POV: Mid September

Media: Fanfiction

Rating: General

Warnings: No Warnings Apply

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J.K Rowling, Rise of the Brave Tangled Dragons/The Big Four, How to Train Your Dragon (2010)

Characters: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, Snotlout (Mentioned), Gobber (Dreamworks), Stoik (Mentioned), Original Female Characters, Original Male Characters, Original Non-Human Characters

Tags: Hogwarts AU, kid!fic, Boarding School, Fantasy Elements, Angst, Family Angst, Strained Relationships, Found Family, Growing Pains, there are feels but it ends on a hopeful note

Word count: 5,288 words

Chapters:

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24

AO3 Link

Summary:

Hiccup’s first week at Hogwarts and the surprise that follows it.

.°○.◇.○°.

A/N:

On god this chapter was a pain to edit. Still not satisfied with it, but at least now it's readable. :^/

The song I found that reflects the feeling in this chapter is this one. Honestly it's so perfect for Hiccup's current mindset I'm half tempted to make it the running theme for Hiccup up until his book (Book 4), where events are set in motion and the bulk of his character arc begins.

.°○.◇.○°.

School life was…strange.

For one thing, Hiccup’s days were a lot more structured than he was used to. If he wasn’t holed up in his dorm room, he was attending classes. If he wasn’t in class, then he was probably eating, and after that he’d probably just go back to his dorm to read or nap. Great Hall, classes, Great Hall, dorm. Rinse, wash, repeat.

He might’ve read a few boarding school stories, but it was something else entirely to experience it. There was hardly any of the promised excitement.

But there was a lot of space. Too much of it. Big, open classrooms, wide, cavernous halls, grass and trees and hills that rolled on and on to rim of the world in varying shades of green.

The sky over Berk was clouded most of the year, blanketing the land—most of the time, literally. Here, if he climbed to the tallest tower, he was sure he’d go falling up into the open blue sky and never be seen again.

…Better to live within the walls. So he didn’t get lost to a place he didn’t belong in.

Another glaring difference was that it was all very…quiet. Muted. True, the castle was filled with many people, hundreds of them, more than he’d ever expected he’d see in his life.

But that couldn’t even come close to comparing to dragon raids. Fire and brimstone and deadly carnage, that’s what he knew. Of seeing homes rebuilt as fast as they collapsed. Of always waiting for the next threat, and always wondering, somewhere in the back of his mind, about survival.

Here, those needs were warped, like they were made both larger and smaller, somehow. Survival was less of a concern than homework. Food and shelter weren’t a concern at all. Instead, each day was carefully sectioned off into bite-sized routine, and each one held a sense of order and stability. Something that wasn’t made to teach how to fight or kill.

Just what exactly was such a life supposed to do for children, practically? What were the adults hoping for by making them learn this way? Because whatever it was went against every Viking survival instinct he’d ever had hammered into his skull.

There was, however, a short bout of bullying attempts in the first few days, to add a touch of flavor to Hiccup’s otherwise bland-as-porridge life.

His cousin Steinn Jorgenson—Snotlout for those who knew him—had been the one who’d put in the most effort to bully Hiccup back home. He’d been sorted into Slytherin, with the others going off to Gryffindor and Hufflepuff respectively.

Of all the miserable luck that made up Hiccup’s existence, they must have somehow been running short of it the day they decided the schedules because not only was Snotlout separated from his two lackies this side of the ocean but that year the first year Slytherins did not share a single class with the Hufflepuffs. If Snotlout wanted to get any decent bullying done, then at best he’d have to go hunting in the corridors.

He tried. Back in the village, with it being so small and all eyes on the Viking Reject, Hiccup would’ve either had to get really creative or else stop putting himself in the middle of things to get Snotlout off his tail.

Here there was a sea of strangers, endless hiding spaces, and Hiccup being very short and unnoticeable in general, and all he had to do was spark a minor distraction away from where he was and duck out of sight. Misdirection and subterfuge, the hard-earned tools of the Hiccup survival manual.

(They were hard-earned because half the time he didn’t follow his own good advice.)

And really, it wasn't as if anyone knew what Snotlout was on about when he went yelling, “HICCUP!” through the corridors. By then if someone were to point him out in a crowd most would've addressed him as “Haddock”, “him”, “the short one”, “the quiet one”—or, most popularly—“Who?”

It took only a few days of this before Snotlout grew bored. He didn't have any other Vikings to impress anyways, so what was the point?

Hiccup wasn't trying to get involved in the things he wasn't any good at. He wasn't there to mess things up for the rest of them anymore. And that's…really all he was good for.

Hiccup the utterly useless…finally living up to his title.

Whatever spark Hiccup had inside of him died the day he stepped into Hogwarts. The need to prove himself, the will to find out more about the world, figure out ways he could solve problems and help and do something—it was all gone.

What was the point when he'd failed at the one thing he was supposed to do? What else was there when his home didn't want him?

In an unfamiliar ocean, he was a boat without sails…

The days followed each other, blending into a strange, gauzy haze. He attended classes he didn’t pay attention to, brought back homework he didn’t do, and went through the motions of being alive.

Better than thinking too deep about the hollowness inside. Or the ebbing flow of homesickness that lapped at it. He didn't have the right to miss the place that'd rejected him.

Two weeks passed like this. Hiccup sat in the back of History class, slumped over his desk and thinking of nothing. The students around him talked loudly, kept raising their hands and clamoring over each other, so the professor must've been doing something interesting.

But these weren't things he noticed. Instead, he followed a fly.

Another thing to get used to was the larger presence of insects in his life. They didn’t like the cold he came from very much; from his view there were a lot of them.

Even if Hiccup had recently taken to channelling the thoughts of a particularly old and stupid sheep, he could at least admit, privately, that he was bored enough to dredge up a mild interested in them.

It was a curious thing, viewing them through the lens of magic. They were simple creatures. They made repetitive sounds. Yet when a group of them came together, they created a mesh of interlocking harmonies like the drip of steady rain from icicled roofs.

These observations usually led him down the road to other questions. What would seeing them in other ways be like? Heat, smell, touch, and so on—how would they differ from one to the next? What might that uncover about them? What else was there to learn from them?

…But those questions required more effort, and he didn’t want to give it. He’d been doing the listening version for long enough that he barely had to think about it, so long as he had a fixed target.

So he sat in class, his head in his arms, for all appearances asleep. Out in the corridor the fly bounced against the wall. Tap…tap-tap…tap…

Its tiny body created an erratic beat as it kept hitting itself against the wall, repeatedly, on the same spot, regardless of the window it aimed for being closed.

It wasn’t until two people came walking down the corridor that it changed course and threw itself at them—could’ve been the sound of their voices, or the smell of sweat, or something similar. Could be that it grew a consciousness and decided that death by wall wasn’t the way to go, for all he knew.

The fly made to loop around the larger of the two forms. The person batted it away. But the fly was determined. It tried for another go.

This time the person landed a solid hit. Hiccup could almost imagine that he heard the dull thud of the fly smacking into metal—…

…Wait.

Metal?

…Was that…it was metal…not flesh, certainly not hand-shaped…it was larger…curved somehow…a hook…?

Hiccup sat up, suddenly more awake than he had been in weeks.

One of the voices was a professor’s—he knew her from somewhere, not sure where. While the other, with the metal hand, he could almost swear it sounded just like—

Hiccup was out of his seat and barrelling into the corridor before he’d even finished the thought.

The two outside had almost rounded the corner when the commotion from behind made them turn. The professor was tall and thin, wearing the formal, pointed black hat of one of the school’s witches. The one beside her wore no hat, his half-bald head shining ruddy pink, his blonde moustache neat and combed and braided, despite the worn travel cloak wrapped around him.

Hiccup ran to them. Without pausing, he threw himself into the wide, burly arms of one of the only people in the world he could come close to calling a friend.

.°○.◇.○°.

The good news was that Thursdays were half days for Hufflepuffs because Hiccup would’ve refused point blank to return to classes. As it was, the one he’d been sitting in was the last class before lunch and had been drawing to a close when he’d taken off.

While the adults sorted themselves out, Hiccup stubbornly clung to Gobber’s robes—because it was Gobber, it was really him—and ignored everyone and everything.

His professor was kind, he’d found out later. He told them that Hiccup had been a quiet and overall decent student who’d never given him trouble outside of then. When Gobber explained the situation, that he was from the same village and a close family friend, the two had fallen over themselves to be accommodating, mistaking Hiccup’s stubborn clinginess as shyness.

So it was that Hiccup found himself before a small wooden cabin a few hours after lunch.

The cabin was located somewhere north, right along the edges of the Hogwarts forests. If Hiccup stood in the backyard, he’d see the school greenhouses all the way on the other end of the wide expanse of grass. At his feet was the start of a decent sized vegetable patch that would wind around the cabin, a wire chicken coop in a corner, and several brown and white speckled chickens pecking the ground in between.

Inside, the cabin was pandemonium.

It was as if all the furniture were trying to unpack in the span of a minute. Clothes, bed sheets, and other manner of upholstery were flung about between a trunk and a set of drawers that appeared to be having an argument over who got what, while a broom and mop tried to shuffle between them. Small items like cups and scrub brushes and spools of twine jumped along the wooden shelves hammered into the walls. On the rafters, copper pots and pans clanked together while ropes snatched them out of the air and hung them alongside dried meats and vegetables.

Gobber moved through the chaos with the ease of his forge. He busied himself with the huge stone fireplace and what he was making, while Yik-yik, his old mulch lizard (a different but similar breed to Nessi) crawled nearby, occasionally poking his nose into the pile of dust the broom tried to sweep away.

Hiccup did his best to get from door to table. Amazingly, he did it without injury. This had less to do with him suddenly growing reflexes and more because the furniture avoided him, aside from the table bench that was a little too eager getting him to sit and made him nearly faceplant the table.

“Sorry about the mess, lad. Wasn’t expecting visitors today—I’m happy to have you, of course! Very thrilled—can you believe I got most of these this morning? And right in Scotland, too. They have this street, you see, hidden in…what’s the blasted…edin something…Edenborough! That’s the one. The fella at the shop said something about a quick “tidy-up” spell to get things sorted, but if you ask me I honestly couldn’t tell you what he was trying to—Oi! Stop that!” Gobber smacked the drawer out a tug-of-war match over an old tunic. “So you see, I’ve made do.”

He turned and sent a wave of plates flying through the air to noiselessly land on the large wooden table. A flick of his arm made sparks of magic spiral up the metal and transfigure the hand implement into a hook. He shoved it into the fire and pulled out a large, slightly dented tea pot. On his flesh hand, he balanced a plate and brought them both to the table.

The minute he set the plate down, Hiccup groaned. “Oh, come on.”

The steaming pile of crumpets continued to steam.

In his time at school, Hiccup had been introduced to every manner of English food and by that point he was well and truly fed up of it.

Oh sure, a chunk of sugar biscuit or a bite of deep-fried sausage was fine every now and then. He’d gotten a taste of some of that back at the manor. But over there most of his meals had been what he was used to.

He hadn’t even realized just how badly prepared he was to deal with what they had to eat this far south. Why did all the food served in the school had to have so much sugar and fat and dairy in them? How people could stand to eat that every day? It was wasteful, and surely eating such rich foods all the time was enough to make a person sick.

There were…a few parts he could bear with, at least. Like some of the breakfast choices including beans, bread, hard-boiled egg, and the like. But much of the other options were either mostly sugar or mostly butter.

The rest of the mealtimes were just as bad. They literally had sweets after lunch, every lunch—they called it “pudding”, apparently—and supper. This was normal here. Hiccup watched, horrified, as one boy shovelled an entire thing of fluffy white cream and glazed fruits into his mouth for three days in a row. It was enough to make him clean up quick and leave before the sweets came around from then on.

And now Gobber had betrayed him and taken to it, too. Blergh.

The traitor barked a laugh, unrepentant at Hiccup’s despair. “What a face! Yeh look sad enough to drink the ocean. What? You think I’m a bad cook now? Expect my food to kill you?”

“…No.”

“Exactly. Didn’t have you and your ol’ father over at mine most evenings for you to be telling me otherwise.”

Gobber poured a tea so strong it was nearly red into their cups, a smaller one for Hiccup and a tankard-sized one for himself. He set the pot on a folded up newspaper turned tea-cosy and shooed away a curious Nessi. “Go on. Give it a try.”

Hiccup sulked. Gobber continued to look amused, down to his braided moustache. Hiccup groaned again and snatched up a crumpet. It was hot and springy to the touch…spongy, almost. Huh.

Ignoring the small pots of jams and lard entirely, he took the tiniest, most reluctant nibble.

…It…wasn’t bad. Even good, in a way. There was a bare hint of butter, but didn’t fill his mouth and nose with oily smells. When it went down, it didn’t sit like a rock in his stomach.

Gobber held out a broken off half to him. It had a thin, brown-ish shine coating it. “Not jam, before you turn your nose up. Trust me. Just try it.”

Hiccup eyed him, but did, and was entirely surprised when he tasted salt. There was even a hint of fish in there. He wordlessly accepted the other half while Gobber chuckled.

“They call that marmite over here. Heard all about it at the pub I broke fast in, even got the crumpet recipe from there, too. I’ve been meaning to make them all day. I could teach you to make it, if ever you’re interested.”

Hiccup shrugged, and Gobber knew well enough to consider that a yes. Taking a large swing of tea, he set down his mug and breathed out a whoosh of hot steam. “Ahh, that’s better. Nothing like sommen’ scalding to clear up the lungs. Were you paying attention when they mentioned what job I came here for? No? That’s fine, that’s fine. I’m the new groundskeeper.”

“Did they not have one before?”

“Yes and no. The professors took turns, although that Care of Magical Creatures witch you met back there was the one most involved, for obvious reasons—Ginna, her name was, if I remember it right. Been that way for a couple years now. They’d wanted to find someone who could work the job full time. So. Here I am.”

At the mention of Care of Magical Creatures, Hiccup nearly gulped his tea the wrong way. He had to cough and sniffle before he spoke again.

“…When you said Care of Magical Creatures, what do you…why would they…?”

“It’s not dragons, before you ask. I met them earlier.” Gobber nodded out the window. “They keep the beasts in a special enclosure just within the forest. When you’re older, you can choose to take classes that’ll teach you all about them and how to care for them…they value that, over here. Even the classes they’re teaching you now are more about learning to work with the environment, not fight it…” He turned to him. “…Strange to think about, innit?”

Hiccup immediately nodded. Very strange.

“You want me to take out there some time?”

“…Maybe.” Hiccup took another sip of tea. Something about the taste was reminiscent of fruit, though he couldn’t put a finger on what. “Wait—how long will you be here for? Because if it’s only a few weeks then could I ask you to—”

“Slow, slow, calm down. I’ll be here for longer than that…probably a few years, give or take. I can even stay long enough to see you graduate, if you like, and after that I can leave whenever I wish. No need to fret.”

“…Okay.”

While Hiccup took turns between drinking tea and finishing his crumpets, Gobber methodically smeared lard on his, balanced on the flat, spatula-like implement his limb had turned into. He transfigured it again into a small hook when he went to pour himself more tea, and studiously ignored Hiccup slow reach for one of the jars.

The activity in the hut had calmed down. The drawers and trunk kept to their corners, done with clothes to squabble over, while the mop and broom had nestled under the settled shelves. Nessi had finished saying hello to Yik-yik by then, and had left him to lie in the middle of the floor to return to Hiccup.

As she climbed up, Hiccup absently petted her. A thought slowly took root in his head.

Gobber had said he’d stay long enough to see Hiccup graduate, if he wanted…but he wouldn’t be the only one graduating.

“…Did they send you here to keep an eye on us?”

Of the many things that could be said of Vikings, there were two that stood out: Vikings were loyal to each other and suspicious of everyone else.

The village already had so few children in it. For the adults to send theirs to a foreign country…even if they’d travelled there with them, it would take more than just the word of their chief to convince them to do it.

Gobber didn’t even spare him a glance. “Is that even a question, Hiccup? I believe you already know the answer.”

He didn’t need to say that he’d likely be sending regular reports to his father, too.

Kicked out of the village, but still under its watch. Disappointed his father, but still under his judgement.

There was nothing Hiccup liked about this.

“Ooch look at that face. Am I really such a terrible sight?” Gobber chuckled. It fell flat. Eventually he leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “What’s on your mind, lad?”

The problem with that question was that there was no good way to answer it. Nothing clean or short. Nothing that wouldn’t open the can of emotions Hiccup had soldered a lid on.

But no one seemed to care about what he wanted. Not Gobber, who could, who would, wait with unerring patience to get an answer out of him, one way or another. Because Gobber had the annoying knack of it. Had more than enough to get to know Hiccup just a touch better than his own father.

“I heard it, you know.” Hiccup blurted, surprising himself. His heart rate picked up. Out of the corner of his eye, he felt more than saw Nessi become keenly aware of him. “I know why my father sent us here. I…I don’t belong on Berk, do I?”

“Of course you belong on Berk! What made you think—?”

“Then why am I here and not there? Why send me all the way out here when I could be training to fight over there?”

The can of emotions cracked. Fumes spilled out.

“You know, don’t you? You know why we’re here. You’ve seen what the other kids are like—Snotlout, Astrid, the twins, even Fishlegs—all of them. Any one of them would make a better chief and better leader than me. It must be so embarrassing, fir the chief of Berk to have me as an heir. Maybe he thought it would be easier for everyone if he got me out of the way. Maybe he thought it would be better for other people to deal with me—for them to, to babysit me. And the only reason the rest of them are here too is to make it less obvious that their chief is so ashamed of me and that maybe staying somewhere else would be enough to change me…to make me better…so that…so I’m not…”

He swallowed. His hands shook. They trembled as he held on to Nessi, while she pressed her snout to the hollow of his neck, over his heartbeat.

“…I just…I don’t know what he wants from me anymore. Or if he expects anything from me now…I don’t know what I can do here.”

Hiccup didn’t cry. He didn’t like to. But Nessi’s steady chirring, her glands pressed to his skin and giving it their residue, began to slow his heart. He didn’t like that either. He wanted to stay upset, had every right to be upset. He didn’t want to calm down yet.

And if the way Gobber fumbled was anything to go by, then he was right.

“…You know…this school is a new place. New place, new people, all of it new. And you know what that means?”

He didn’t get an answer. Gobber pushed on. “It means new opportunities, things that could…could lead to other things! Options. Yes, you see, there’re many o’ those, and they’ll each give you different futures. Back on Berk, there would’ve only been so much for you—”

“Stay in your forge forever,” interrupted Hiccup, cutting short whatever planned explanation his father may or may not have fed him.

“—Well, there was that. I also meant being the chief’s heir, or—”

“Which I wouldn’t be because I’ve already failed.”

“—You haven’t failed, Hiccup—”

“Oh, really? Does this look like chief training to you?” Hiccup bit out. Gobber’s spine snapped upright. He narrowed his eyes.

This is wrong. He shouldn’t have said that. He had no right to take that tone, especially not with an elder.

But if Gobber wanted to parrot his father’s empty, meaningless excuses back at him—or, even better—wanted to cover up just how little his father cared by pretending there was any greater purpose to this, then he might as well also fulfil the parental duty of clipping Hiccup over the ear for giving that much attitude.

Instead, Gobber proved once again that he wasn’t Hiccup’s father, or that he’d spent years dealing with his chief’s stubborn hide to get done in by a mouthy child.

Gobber leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. Any awkwardness from before was long gone. “Very well, then, Mister Hiccup. I see how it is. You’re so smart now, are ye? So wise and old enough to know what’s to become of you, is it? Then clearly you’re old enough to make your own decisions now. You’ve been played a hand you don’t want. You’re part of a business deal you don’t like. So why not we make our own deal?”

Of all the directions this conversation could’ve gone, he hadn’t expected this.

“…A deal.”

“A deal. You want to do what a chieftain would do, and what does a chieftain do? Protect his people. Is what we’re doing now—with fighting the dragons and all—do you think it’s working?”

Hiccup hesitated.

“Well? Speak up!”

“…No, it isn’t.”

“Correct. We’ve been fighting them and fighting them and what’s it done? Improve our food stores? Build more families? No. It hasn’t done that. And I don’t know if you know this but—many years ago, it wasn’t like this. The kind of fighting you children have grown up with…it wasn’t always this bad. Maybe during the off-season when things became desperate…but not like what we have now. Someday we will run out—of food, of weapons, of fighters—and our best will not help us. If we don’t want that to happen, then something needs ta change. What we need…is something different.”

Here he looked meaningfully at Hiccup. Hiccup hiked his shoulders up, frown deepening.

“…you need different?”

“We need you. Think about it—what is the one thing you have that no one else does?” Hiccup opened his mouth, which was a sure sign that nothing good would come out, so Gobber pushed on. “Your brains! Your mind. You were always filling your head with knowledge, always going off to read books or learn something new or find another way to do things—”

“Which usually didn’t work and made everything worse,” he pointed out.

“—Yes, but that’s not the point. The point is that you are a thinker. You’re smart, and no one can doubt you on that. All your life you’ve been hungering for books, haven’t you? Well here you are in a place full of books! There are books here and professors here and so many other things that will give you the knowledge and talents and strengths that you cannot find on Berk or anywhere else in the world. There’s bound to be something that’ll help our village in all this, and if anyone can find it I know it’s you. No doubt about that.”

Gobber nodded, looking extremely satisfied with himself. “There! You wanted a purpose. Now you have it. What you do with it is your choice.”

His choice, he said. In all of this, he said that Hiccup had a choice.

But Hiccup hadn’t had any say in being born to a chief, or of accepting the responsibilities that came with it.

A part of Hiccup considered himself too smart (and too annoyed and bitter) to fall for the grand, hopeful speech laid out to him. If they were going to beat him down that hard then who were they to be surprised when he didn’t get up again?

And yet…the more he wondered about Gobber’s words, the more they lodged in his head. They stayed there long after he’d returned to the dorms.

The Hufflepuff dorms were underground, in a very warm and well-lit network of tunnels that hugged the mysterious, cavernous spaces said to be where the kitchens were. Aside from the yellow of House colours, one of the prevalent themes of the dorms was circles.

The entrance, located behind a wall of barrels, was a wide circle. The chairs, tables, cushions, and rungs were also circles. Round lamps hung from the high ceiling, in-between which were every manner of circular clay pots filled with plants that either spilled down over their rims or else climbed up the chains that suspended them.

Even the dorms themselves each had circular, wooden doors that opened inwards to show four wide, fluffy circles for beds, arranged in the circular room like the cardinal directions on the face of a compass.

When Hiccup returned, it was to find his dorm room empty. It was too early for supper. Chances were his roommates were in the common room, the library, or, most likely, enjoying what good weather they could outside—none of which Hiccup bothered to do.

His roommates were…okay. They seemed nice enough. Mostly, they left him alone. On the off chance that they did talk, mostly one or two sentences in passing, they seemed happy enough to speak with him, in an offhand, friendly strangers kind of way. That…was not something he was used to.

Regardless, he was glad they weren’t around. His thoughts and emotions were already hard enough to sort through. He preferred to do it privately.

Hiccup sat on a carpet, his nightstand (also circular) to his left and his bed at his back, the canopy drapes brushing his shoulders. Before him lay the magically expanded pouch from his shopping street misadventure. The books he’d already read he’d shuffled to the side, while the ones he hadn’t—the “misbehaving” books—he’d placed before him.

Ever since he’d started school, he hadn’t touched any of the books, not even the ones he’d only just started reading. But now he had a choice to make.

He didn’t know if Gobber was right in calling him “smart”, exactly—there were many, many bright ideas in his past that had resulted in one too many bridges burnt along the way. Very literally. But in the hours since then he’d figured out a few things.

What Gobber had said about helping their village through reading hadn’t just been about reading. To really find what he was looking for, first he had to learn. He could try reading every book he could get his hands on, but what was the point when he didn’t even know what he was looking for? What was the point when he hardly knew anything yet?

Even if he did find something promising, there was no guarantee he had the skills to use it, or that someone else would either. He’d have to learn those skills himself.

He’d need to learn the skills to use the knowledge, and he had learning to do to find the right knowledge. But more than that, he needed to strengthen his magic.

Because Berk focused on battle magic and healing magic. They were practical, the bare essentials of survival. But Hiccup wouldn’t find his answers in the “bare essentials”. He’d have to find more ways to use his magic, figure out how to grow it and change it and harness it in all the ways it can be harnessed, and then find a way to make that useful for whatever he might need it to be useful for.

Now was not the time to be clever, now he needed to listen and learn. He needed to keep his eyes and ears open and search for the ways that others would miss.

And once he found them…that’s when he needed to act.

Or he could not do that.

He could waste away the rest of his years. Show his father and his village what happened to those they threw away. No one was stopping him. It was his choice, after all.

…But what would happen if he did do it? What would the future look like then?

Only one way to find out.

Hiccup took one of the unread books and opened it to the first page.

.°○.◇.○°.

A/N:

- One of the bright spots in creating this chapter was that it let me shine a light (badum-tish) on Hiccup's placement in Hufflepuff and how that's reflected in him.

Because of the House he's sorted into in this universe, I chose his defining traits to be: diligence, loyalty, and compassion

You can see how that's coming into play here. As of now Hiccup is loyal to his family and his people. He wants to help them and do right by them, and what causes him to lose his purpose is when he feels they no longer want or need him. Being from such a small, close-knit village means that community plays a very big role in his upbringing, and it's when Gobber gives him a way to reclaim a place in his community that Hiccup finally finds the will to actively participate in his life again.

Sounds contradictory for what happens later, I know. But trust me...there's a method to my madness. You'll see what I mean once the cards fall into place.

And speaking of cards and their ominous premonitions, there's some foreshadowing here I mean at this point you can assume that every chapter has foreshadowing in it. This entire fic is really just one big web of foreshadow lmao What does that mean? You'll see about that, too. (✿◠‿◠)

- On behalf of the previous version of this chapter, I need to apologize to the entirety of Scotland. I am so sorry for the cringe dialogue I wrote into this world; even if I’ve deleted now that doesn’t mean it was okay. I’ll keep trying to learn and do better.

#how to train your dragon #hiccup httyd #hogwarts au #fanfiction #my writing #fluff #kid fic #rotbtd #b1: tfy #rotbtd hogwarts au

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mollymauk-teafleak · 5 years

Text

the one who blooms in the bitter snow (final part)

Oh my god have I dragged this out. Sincerest apologies on how long this happy ending took to get here

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Caduceus often talked to things that couldn’t talk back. He talked to his plants, encouraging them through the winter and complimenting them on their leaves and shoots. He talked to the army of mismatched mugs he used in his cafe, admonishing any who spilled things or who strayed from their intended arrangement on the shelves that made sense only to Caduceus. He talked to the clouds in the sky, thanking them for much needed rain. He talked to the insects that visited his cemetery, any worms found on the path that he would gently pick up and promise to see safely back to the soil, any bees that roamed the flowering plants, even any lizards he found sunning themselves in the rockery.

He didn’t say anything wrong with talking to things that could give no reply. It wasn’t as if such a minor detail meant such things couldn’t listen. Often, in fact, he thought it made them much better listeners than anything with a voice box.

However, one thing he hadn’t ever really found himself doing was talking to the dead.

It would have made sense, as much as talking to rotting corpses beneath the ground could ever make sense. Caduceus was surrounded by them every day, after all, a patchwork family of people all united only by the fact that the Blooming Grove had become their final resting place. He tended them, wreathed them in wilderness, watched over their loved ones in his cafe whenever they would come to visit them. Keeping them safe was the calling he’d chosen. But he never spoke to them.

Perhaps he’d just come to the quiet conclusion that the dead were past caring about his words. They’d left the cares of the living world behind them and nattering on to them about it would spoil the reverence they deserved, interrupt the sleep they’d earned.

They were the Wildmother’s now, after all.

But now Caduceus found himself with a pressing need to cross that line he’d set for himself. He needed to talk to one of his residents, whether they replied or not.

And he got the feeling they would want to hear from him just as desperately.

Caduceus had to smile weakly at the surname, however nervous he was.

Tealeaf. How appropriate.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and sat cross legged at the foot of the grave. It had been there long enough for the grass to grow back over the turned earth, as lush and tall as everything that surrounded it but it was still clearly one of the newer ones. The stone wasn’t yet weathered by time, perfectly readable, still cool grey marble that shone faintly in the morning light.

Mollymauk Tealeaf. Beloved husband and father.

No date. That was passing strange. Though maybe seeing the scant handful of decades Molly had been allowed when he should have had so much more time to be a father, time to be a husband, would just be too painful.

The insignia of the Moonweaver was artfully carved below the short epitaph, a sign that was rarely seen in the graveyard. Of course, godly symbols were on nearly every headstone but it was always the more common, more acceptable gods. The All Hammer, the Raven Queen, the Dawnfather; dependable, parental gods that people wanted to guard them through their lives and walk with their loved ones into the next realm.

The Moonweaver was light, love, laughter, frivolity. Did she feel lost in a place like this?

Caduceus cleared his throat, unsure how to start. He had the depressing realisation that even in a conversation with a dead man, he was still on the back foot in terms of social skills.

“I...I’m not sure how you feel about me, Mr Tealeaf,” he eventually sighed, “I don’t think I could blame you for hating me. Resenting me, at least. You know the kind of thoughts I’ve had about Caleb.”

Habit made him pause, though he knew he’d get no reply. So he just sat silently with his guilt for a heartbeat.

“But...I think you’d agree he wasn’t coping well before I met him. I know that must break your heart. Same as it breaks mine.”

The wind picked up a little, a mournful sound through the trees up above.

“I can’t lie and say I don’t have feelings for him. But the last thing I want to do is hurt him more or… or push him into something he isn’t ready for. And… if I thought my loving him would do that, I would have stopped immediately. But something tells me he...he could...I mean we could…” Caduceus spluttered to a stop, giving up with a heavy sigh, “But after last night… I don’t know anymore. Maybe I’m just sitting here talking to the wind, telling myself what I want to hear.”

He felt tears sting his eyes and blinked quickly to try and clear them, “I don’t want to feel wrong for loving someone. He’s yours, Molly, he will always be yours but couldn’t I just… look after him? Until he goes to join you? Just a turn…”

His voice choked off and he had to swallow hard to get the next words out.

“Am I wrong to want that?”

The wind died down and Caduceus was left with next to silence. He felt a tiredness crash over him, so deep and heavy, that for a long moment he felt certain he was just going to curl up on the ground and cry for a little while.

What distracted him was a bird call. It was shrill and sudden, like nothing normally heard in the gardens and Caduceus knew the names of every bird who visited the Blooming Grove throughout the year. He tried to place it but it only rang out the once. There was something almost exotic about it, something unusual. Caduceus thought for a moment, considering all the birds he knew. It was almost like a cockatiel or a parrot or maybe even a peacock.

He frowned. What on earth would a peacock be doing in his graveyard?

He stood up, brushing himself off. He knew he should do a round, just in case someone’s exotic pet bird had escaped and needed to be brought back home.

Anyway, it was clear Mollymauk Tealeaf had nothing to say to him.

Caduceus rarely wore any kind of coat, his fur kept him plenty warm, but the weather had grown so cold recently that he’d dug out the fleece lined, faded, patched coat he kept in reserve for the days when the city froze solid and there was ice on the pavements.

Despite the closed sign on the door, it was warm inside the cafe. Caduceus felt ever so slightly better once the cold leached out of the tips of his ears and the very end of his nose, replaced by the gentle music, the warmth, the scents of caffeine and sugar that he knew so well. It wouldn’t fix things, he knew that, but it gave him the sense that he’d entered somewhere safe.

Sighing softly, Caduceus shrugged out of his coat and made to hang it on the hooks by the door, all of them charmingly mismatched as everything was in here. The hooks that should be empty, seeing as he’d had no customers since the day before yesterday.

But it wasn’t.

Caleb’s scarf was hanging on the furthermost hook, looking sad and bedraggled after being soaked through in yesterday afternoon’s rain and drying out in the air.

It must have been hung up there as Caleb had stripped down, set aside from the rest of his clothes, forgotten in his hurried flight from the cafe.

Caduceus let out a long, tired exhale, trying to accept this new information without bitterness or resentment, without exasperation or anger at something he couldn’t change.

But gods above, it was hard.

He was nowhere near ready to face him again. Since everything that had happened, less than twenty four hours ago, he wasn’t even sure Caleb would want to see him ever again, he certainly didn’t look the type to face up to an awkward situation, more the bolting and hiding like a frightened animal type. And he had no clue what he himself wanted.

All he knew right now was that the thought of Caleb without his scarf, without the thing he clung onto tightly when he couldn’t cling onto the person he’d lost, broke his heart. And he had to fix it.

Above all else, Caduceus was a fixer. Even when it meant risking his own feelings.

“Are we gonna go to the cafe today?”

Caleb looked up from stroking his neck sadly, feeling the horrible, gnawing absence of his scarf, and tried to focus on his son, sat on the carpet with a picture book.

“No, liebling, I don’t think so. It’s...it’s so cold out,” he said awkwardly, tripping over the lie.

Trinket frowned, plucking at the pages of his book, “But we go on Fridays. We go after school.”

His little boy was fiercely attached to patterns and routine, just like Caleb himself.

“I know, Trinket,” Caleb struggled to muster the energy to mollify him, curled up tightly on the sofa, feeling lost and disconnected, “Papa’s just not really feeling it today, okay?”

Trinket paused at that, looking at him with familiar, wide red eyes that would never fail to shake his papa to the core when he saw them. Leaving his picture book behind, he pattered up and hugged Caleb’s leg tightly, the one that was dangling listlessly over the edge of the sofa.

“It’s okay, papa,” he said, voice muffled by Caleb’s pant leg, “Its okay to have a sad day.”

Caleb often thought his son was magic. Not in the way his papa was- not yet- but magic in his own way where he could make the world seem like it wasn’t ending.

Trying not to cry because then the floodgates would open and he’d truly be in trouble, Caleb ruffled those purple curls and smiled shakily, “I love you, Trinket. You know that, right?”

He smiled brightly, “Sure! I know! I’m gonna go play with my legos, papa, okay?”

Caleb nodded fondly, his son had been obsessed with building things and quickly destroying them for a good few weeks now, “Sure. Call me when you’re done and I’ll help you clear them away.”

Happy with that, Trinket scampered off, probably already imagining himself crashing through newly constructed towers like a lavender godzilla. Caleb watched him go, a tender smile on his face until he disappeared from view, when it slid off his face.

He felt like all he did these days was wait for 3pm. Like as soon as he waved goodbye to Trinket at the school gate everything froze and went into stasis, everything straining towards that hour where he could go back and have Trinket by his side again. He knew he adored school, he knew he was safe there.

He knew he was crazy to feel this way.

But it didn’t stop the feelings.

Caleb told himself every morning at a quarter to nine that he shouldn’t be doing this. It was far too much to put onto his young son, it was unhealthy, it was unfair. He deserved a life of his own, Trinket needed him to have it too.

But every time Caleb thought it, he thought it in Caduceus’ voice. And, since he’d messed up so badly yesterday, that was a problem.

He had messed up. He’d messed up more spectacularly than he’d ever messed up before which was really saying something for Caleb. He’d hurt the first person in years who’d made him even begin to think that he could be loved again in that kind of way.

He’d always suspected that Molly was a chance in a million, some high level miracle. Actually finding someone so wonderful, someone who could see some good in him. But then it had actually happened again, when he needed it most.

And both times he’d completely ruined it.

He’d lost Molly. He’d lost Caduceus. He’d lost his scarf which, he knew was silly, but it felt like the first loss all over again. Though maybe it was a fitting sacrifice for what he’d done.

How many precious things could he lose before he was just deemed too careless to live? How long until whatever curse he had infected Trinket?

Caleb could almost feel all the progress he’d made in the last few weeks unravelling like a trailing thread he’d worried far too much falling into nothing. He sat there and rocked gently, trying to take in deep breaths and stay in the room but it was getting increasingly difficult.

Especially when a knock came at the door.

Trinket didn’t hear it, he was behind his bedroom door, singing loudly to himself, a happy little nonsense song he’d clearly just made up to amuse himself. So Caleb forced himself to stand and go to the door, mentally slapping himself, telling himself to get a grip.

All that went out of the window when he opened the door and saw Caduceus.

“You’re...you’re here,” Caleb said dumbly, throat feeling numb like he’d just swallowed a mouthful of ice water.

“I’m here,” Caduceus returned awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot.

There were snowflakes melting in his hair. When had it started to snow?

“I didn’t think…I mean, I didn’t expect you to ever…” the starts of sentences crowded in Caleb’s mouth, none of them accompanied by ends. He didn’t want to sound whiney, he didn’t want to sound like Caduceus was wrong to be mad at him.

“You didn’t think I’d want to see you again?” Caduceus finished it for him, tilting his head to one side.

“Yeah,” Caleb bit his lip, feeling his cheeks burn despite the cold air sweeping into the apartment alongside Cad.

“Of course you did,” the firbolg said quietly, “You’re you.”

Caleb didn’t know what to say to that, he just kind of took hold of it like a present he hadn’t been expecting.

“I brought your scarf back,” he produced it from one pocket, carefully folded and clearly having just come through the dryer, back to full fluffiness, “You must have left it yesterday.”

Caleb felt a rush of relief, a compulsion to gather it into his arms and clutch it to his chest, inhale the scent of vanilla and anise that wasn’t there anymore but he could imagine it was.

And then he felt guilty.

Was he going to spend the rest of his life chasing after things he could only half remember rather than seeing what was in front of him?

“Thank you, Caduceus,” he murmured, “I really, really appreciate it.”

That brought a smile from the firbolg, even if it was a little strained at the edges, “Yeah… I guess I also came over because I was hoping we could talk?”

Caleb nodded, thinking anxiously of Trinket but he could explain to him that Caduceus was here for a visit. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been here before, dropping off homemade baked goods or little gifts like the scent bags that had soothed his anxiety so well and helped Trinket with his bad dreams. Trinket had always been happy to see him before, showing him whatever he’d built that day, showing him the art project he’d made at school from the leaves they’d gathered together at the Blooming Grove.

Caduceus was always so soft and gentle with Trinket. He always seemed to know just what to say, to answer his million a minute questions, to soothe him when he stumbled into some uncertainty, to make him giggle so hard he had to sit down. Caduceus was exactly the kind of caregiver Caleb wanted to be. He was exactly who Trinket deserved.

“Can I get you a drink?” Caleb asked as Caduceus sat on the sofa, holding himself a little stiffly like he wasn’t sure where to put his gangly limbs.

“Um…sure?”

Caleb let himself sink into a kind of automation as he got cups, boiled water, found teabags from the collection that had been growing ever since Caduceus had come into his life. But then there were soft billows of scented steam to breathe in and he woke up again, reminding himself to be present. Caduceus deserved better than that. And maybe he did too.

“Here,” he passed one mug to Caduceus, slightly regretting that it was patterned with badly faded cartoon characters but their selection wasn’t great, “I, um, I used the cinnamon tea you gave me yesterday. You were just out in the snow and I don’t want you to get sick.”

The smile was more genuine this time, warmer, like the starting embers of a fire, “Thank you, Caleb. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

He nodded, sitting down beside him, hands curled around his own cup to stop them shaking. There was a long moment of silence, as they both sat and remembered another evening much like this one. Eventually Caleb opened his mouth but Caduceus got there first, spilling his words out like he couldn’t bear to hold them inside himself any more.

“Caleb, I…if I made you feel pressured yesterday or…or I pushed you into kissing me in any way, I’m so sorry…”

Caleb blinked for a second and then found himself laughing, “And you were so sure I’d be torturing myself…”

Caduceus’ ears flattened and he chuckled uncertainly which Caleb took to be the fur covered individual’s way of blushing, “Well, we can both be as bad as each other.”

“I kissed you, Caduceus,” Caleb shook his head, “It was my choice. And… I know how it ended and I wouldn’t blame you for not trusting me but it really was you I wanted to kiss. I promise.”

“Really?” Caduceus fixed him with dark, wet eyes. The doubt stung a little but of course, he knew he deserved it.

“Really,” he nodded firmly, “You’ve been so good to me, to Trinket. You’ve made one of the hardest times in my life feel… bearable.”

Caduceus only nodded, a crease of concern appearing between his eyes. He simply waited for Caleb to say more.

Caleb looked down into his drink, “I thought time was supposed to heal me, I thought it was supposed to make it easier. But the further away I get from losing him, the more part of me holds on. It’s like I don’t want the pain to go because then… then I really will have nothing left of him.”

“When you’ve felt a certain way for so long, it’s hard to let go of it,” Caduceus said slowly, thoughtfully, “Because then you don’t know what would be left if you took that part of yourself away.”

Caleb nodded, “Exactly. And… and it was the same when I started having feelings for you. That would mean letting go of at least some of my grief and stepping into uncertainty. And the idea terrifies me.”

Caduceus gave a soft sigh, “I would never ask you to abandon your grief, Caleb. It’s important that you always mourn Mollymauk. All I want is for you to have something happy alongside that.”

Caleb felt his lower lip wobbling dangerously, “I want that. I really want that, Cad.”

The words made an old, angry guilt twist inside him but it was a relief as well. And as the seconds went by, as he realised the truth of what he’d just said, the guilt lost its fury. It lost its anger. It shrank a little, the slightest, smallest amount into something that couldn’t be ignored but could at least be carried.

“We can go as slow as you need to, Caleb,” Caduceus’ voice was tender and he leant forward, looking like he was itching to hold him and press him close.

But he didn’t close the gap between them. And he never would, not until he knew Caleb was completely okay. Years could and would pass between them and Caduceus would never lose that respect for him.

So Caleb took the front of his moss green shirt and pulled him in for a kiss. And he would, time and time again.

Though, a hair’s breadth after their lips met there came the sound of a muffled but still loud crash from Trinket’s bedroom, followed by a loud excited whooping from the young boy.

“Oh dear…” Caleb murmured anxiously, eyes on the door. Though whether he meant the crash and the inevitable mess it had led to or the realisation that he would have to explain to Trinket why Caduceus was here and why he was kissing him, he wasn’t sure.

Caduceus seemed to read his mind, those dark eyes always seeing more than what was in front of them, “Caleb, if you’re happy, I’m sure he won’t mind. He’s a smart kid. After all, he’s yours.”

Caleb had to laugh softly at that, blushing a little. It was true, he could compliment his son to the stars and often miss the fact that most of the things he was praising were inherited from him. But the depths of kindness he almost couldn’t fathom, the understanding and gentleness that was going to make him delighted that his papa had found someone new to love, that was all Mollymauk.

And as long as Caleb had Trinket, Molly would never be gone.

#clayleb #modern au #widower caleb #oc baby #fluff #hurt/comfort #please leave a comment!

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